On the other hand, for reasons he was not prepared to investigate too closely, it brought him a certain sense of relief to know that he had found her out as a liar and therefore not to be trusted. And he certainly wasn’t going to be taken in by that pseudo-concern she had expressed for a mother who sounded as though she was more than a match for any number of protective daughters and their husbands.
Not, of course, that Art’s daughters were exactly your run-of-the-mill average daughters. Silas had learned all about them when he had done his initial search on their father. They had learned their politics and their financial know-how at their father’s knee, and while they adopted a Southern Belle manner in public, in private they were not just steel magnolias but steel magnolias with chariot spikes attached to their wheels.
More than one person had been eager to relate to him some of the urban mythology surrounding the family, about the way Art’s daughters had targeted their husbands-to-be: disposing of a couple of fiancés, and at least one illegitimate child, plus a handful of quashed drink-driving and drug charges on their way to the altar.
If one thing was certain it was that they would not tolerate their father marrying a woman they themselves had not sourced and checked out.
‘Okay, so your mother is afraid that her potential stepdaughters might persuade their father not to go ahead with the wedding. But I still don’t understand how you turning up with a fiancé can have any effect on that.’
‘Neither can I, really, but my mother was getting herself in such a state it just seemed easier to give in and go along with what she wanted.’
‘Easier, but surely not entirely advisable? I should have thought a calm, analytical discussion—’
‘You don’t know my mother. She doesn’t do calm or analytical,’ Tilly said, before adding protectively, ‘I’m making her sound like a drama queen, but she isn’t. She’s just a person who lives in and on her emotions. My guess is that she simply got carried away with trying to compete with Art in the perfect daughter stakes. I’ve told her that I’ve managed to find someone to pose as my supposed fiancé, but I haven’t told her about using the agency,’ she warned. ‘She’ll probably assume that I already knew you.’
‘Or that we’re past lovers?’
Tilly was aghast. She shook her heed vehemently. ‘No, she won’t think that. She knows that I—’
‘That you what? Took a vow of chastity?’
For some reason the drawling cynicism in his voice hurt. ‘She knows that I don’t have any intention of ever getting married.’
‘Because you don’t believe in marriage?’
Tilly gave him a level look and replied coolly, ‘No, because I don’t believe in divorce.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Not really. I daresay any number of children with divorced parents feel the same way. Why are you asking me so many questions? You sound more like a…a barrister than an actor. I thought actors liked talking about themselves, not asking questions.’
‘I can assure you that I am most definitely not a barrister. And surely actors need to study others in order to play their roles effectively?’
Not a barrister. But she was astute enough to have recognised his instinctive need to probe and cross-question, Silas recognised.
What was it about the quality of a certain kind of silence that made a person feel so acutely uncomfortable? Tilly wondered as she hunted feverishly for a safer topic of conversation. Or in this instance was it the man himself who was making her feel so acutely conscious of things about herself and her attitude to life? Things she didn’t really want to think about.
‘I was a bit worried that the agency wouldn’t be able to find someone suitable who was prepared to work over Christmas,’ she offered, holding out a conversational olive branch as brightly as she could in an attempt to establish the proper kind of employer—her—and employee—him—relations. Not that it was true, of course. The truth was that she would have been delighted if Sally’s plan to provide her with a fiancé had proved impossible to carry through.
‘If that’s a supposedly subtle attempt to find out if I have a partner, the answer is no, I don’t. And as for working over Christmas, any number of people do it.’
Tilly had to swallow the hot ball of outrage that had lodged in her throat. She could almost visualise the small smouldering pile of charcoal that had been her olive branch.
‘I was not asking if you had a partner. I was simply trying to make polite conversation,’ she told him.
‘More champers?’
Tilly smiled up at Jason in relief, welcoming his interruption of a conversation that was leading deeper and deeper into far too personal and dangerous territory. Far too personal and dangerous for her, that was.
‘We’ll be landing in ten minutes,’ Jason warned them. ‘There’ll be a car and driver waiting for you, of course.’
Tilly smiled, but less warmly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Silas asked her.
‘Nothing. Well, not really.’ She gave a small shrug as Jason moved out of earshot. ‘I know I should be enjoying this luxury, and of course in a way I am, but it still makes me feel guilty when I think about how many people there are struggling just to feed themselves.’
‘A banker who wants to save the world?’ Silas mocked her.
Immediately Tilly tensed. ‘How did you know that? About me being a banker?’
Silently Silas cursed himself for his small slip. ‘I don’t know. The agency must have told me, I suppose,’ he said dismissively.
‘Sometimes it’s easier to change things from the inside than from the outside,’ Tilly explained after a slight pause.
‘Indeed. But something tells me that it would take one hell of a lot of inner change to get the City types to think about saving the planet. Or were you thinking of some kind of inducement to help them? A new Porsche, perhaps?’
‘Toys for boys goes with the territory, but they grow out of them—usually about the same time as their first child is born,’ Tilly told him lightly.
The jet had started its descent, and Jason’s return to the cabin brought their conversation to an end.
CHAPTER THREE
SNOW in Spain. Who knew? She supposed she ought to have done, Tilly admitted, as she huddled deeper into her coat, grateful for the warmth inside the large four-wheel drive that had been waiting at the airport to transport them up to the castle.
Silas had fired some rapid words in Spanish to their driver at the start of their journey, but had made no attempt to engage her in conversation, and the long, muscular arm he had stretched out across the back of the seat they were sharing was hardly likely to give anyone the impression that they were besotted with one another.
The castle was up in the mountains, beyond the ancient town of Segovia.
