Luke Dennison.’ The idea was laughable.
The private investigator had given her a sharp look, but he hadn’t asked the question that was so clearly hovering on his tongue. Instead, he’d grunted and said pessimistically, ‘Then he’ll be waiting at the door with a battery of high-powered solicitors waving writs and a couple of policemen.’
‘I’ll take that chance.’
Now, looking at the perfectly proportioned house, after all these years still intimidated by its air of formal classicism, she wondered whether Frank had been right. Perhaps she should have simply arrived unannounced.
Sheer, cold willpower got her across to the path, and between low box hedges to the panelled front door with its graceful fanlights. Licking parched lips, she rang the doorbell.
To her astonishment Luke Dennison himself opened the door. Her great, gold-speckled green eyes skidded across his face, recreating the countenance of the man who had haunted her for the last eleven years, ever since that last visit to Pigeon Hill.
Four inches taller than Perdita, lean and lithe, perfectly proportioned, his rangy frame was made impressive by the hard muscles of physical labour. He blocked the doorway, watching her with a predator’s frightening, disciplined concentration. Neither the eyes that searched her face, eyes the colour and consistency of aquamarines, nor a beautifully cut mouth, softened the angles of his striking, unhandsome face. A straight blade of a nose gave him an air of patrician arrogance.
Dennisons had lived in this place for over a hundred years, lords of all they surveyed, and it showed.
‘Hello, Luke,’ Perdita said, her tone remote and rigidly controlled.
‘Perdita.’ Deep and textured to the edge of roughness, he had the kind of voice that could stroke indolently through a woman’s defences. However, there was no note of lazy sensuality in it now. Like hers, it was totally lacking in expression, as invulnerable as the compellingly hewn bone-structure of his face, as devoid of emotion as the icy, crystalline eyes. ‘Come in.’
Comprehension hit her like a blow as soon as she stepped through the door. The house was empty.
The mixture of fear and anticipation that had boosted her for the last five months drained away, leaving her limp with sour reaction, but unsurprised. After all, she hadn’t expected it to be easy. Long lashes veiled her eyes, giving her a sultry, enigmatic look.
‘The office, I think,’ he said, standing back so that she could precede him down the passage and into an expansive room where the latest in computer technology blended in odd harmony with kauri bookshelves and the rich colours, muted by time, of a Persian carpet.
Just inside the door Perdita stopped, regarding the man in front of her with relentless eyes. ‘Where are they?’ she said with sudden, betraying anxiety.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked, walking across to a cabinet. Instead of the careful gait of most big men he moved with an economical, animal grace that was peculiarly his.
‘No, thank you. Where are they?’ In spite of herself her voice trembled.
‘Sit down.’
She lowered herself into the wing chair, the last traces of nervousness replaced by a resentment that heated her skin and eyes. Although she expected him to loom over her, try to intimidate her with height and the blunt threat of his male strength and power, he too sat down, his pale eyes fixed on her face in a scrutiny that was controlled and ironic.
‘I’ve seen your photograph hundreds of times,’ he remarked, an undernote of sarcasm permeating the words, ‘and imagined that it was all done with make-up, but I was wrong. You are exquisitely beautiful.’
‘My looks are not important,’ she said, her voice held level by willpower. He was trying to make her angry— and succeeding only too well. But a fit of temper would compromise her self-command, and he’d take advantage of any weakness. She met his gaze with her own. ‘Where are the children?’
His hands were clasped on the desk in the traditional attitude of power. ‘Did you really believe they’d be here?’ he asked deliberately. ‘You must think I’m extraordinarily trusting.’
‘It seems that I’m the trusting one.’ As she spoke she got to her feet and headed for the door.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Where does it look as though I’m going? I’m leaving,’ she said, relieved that she could sound so unemotional. ‘I don’t want to socialise. The only reason I’m here was to see the children.’
‘Come back and sit down,’ he ordered.
Shoulders stiff, she turned reluctantly. ‘Why?’
‘Because we need to talk.’ When she didn’t move he leaned back in the chair, narrowed eyes holding hers. ‘Common sense should tell you that I’m not going to let you just burst into their life.’
He was right. They did need to talk. She nodded slowly, and walked to the chair, sitting down with a guarded expression that gave, she hoped, nothing away.
‘First of all,’ he said without inflection, ‘why did you suddenly decide after all this time that you want to meet them?’
‘It was no sudden decision.’ She hid a swift flare of anger with precisely chosen words. Did he think she’d come back on a whim? ‘I’ve always wanted to know how they are, but until a few months ago I couldn’t find out who had adopted them.’ She smiled humourlessly, repressing memories of the outrage she had experienced then, the pain and the strange, weakening exultation. ‘Now that I know, I want to see them.’
‘If you can convince me that you won’t upset them,’ he said collectedly, ‘then you may see them.’
Her green glance mocked him. ‘Really? You’ll excuse the faint note of disbelief, I’m sure. Somehow I got the distinct impression that you’d have been more than happy if your children’s birth mother had never turned up. You certainly covered your tracks well. In spite of the new laws, it’s taken me five years to find out who adopted my daughters. You have a lot of power, Luke.’
‘And I’ll use it,’ he said with a soft menace that dragged the hairs on her skin upright in a primitive, involuntary reaction, ‘to stop anyone from hurting my children.’
‘I don’t want to hurt them.’ If she wanted to hurt anyone it was him. ‘I just need to see that they’re happy.’
Dark brows snapped together. ‘Why shouldn’t they be happy?’ he demanded. ‘They’re loved and cared for.’
‘I need to be sure of that.’ She closed her eyes for a second. ‘They are my daughters as well as yours. I didn’t abandon them, you know. I’d have kept them if I could.’
He didn’t move, didn’t react in any way, yet somehow she sensed that her frank plea had struck home. She leaned forward. ‘It doesn’t have to be here,’ she said quietly. ‘We could meet somewhere in a park. I just want to talk to them. I won’t tell them who I am.’
‘And if you think they’re unhappy?’ he asked with disbelieving curtness. ‘What will you do then?’
‘I
