‘I really have no idea.’
‘No idea?’ she countered, green eyes feverishly bright. ‘This really is most irregular, Mr Lane. Is he upstairs? Can’t you give him a call? I—’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ he cut in quietly, his black eyes suddenly locked into hers, the suspicion of a smile curling his lips. ‘Greg is not at home.’ There was a certain amount of satisfaction in his voice.
Abby looked at him sharply and suspiciously. ‘You didn’t tell him about our appointment, did you? You deliberately let me come here, knowing that your son would be out.’ Anger, fierce and swift, flooded her and she cursed herself for being so foolish. She should have known that she could not trust him.
Hallam Lane lifted his broad shoulders in acknowledgement, not in the least disconcerted. ‘I can answer your questions myself.’
‘You know exactly what happened on the night in question?’ she asked, chin lifted, eyes blazing. Lord, what an idiot she had been.
‘I know what my son told me.’
‘Which need not necessarily be the whole truth,’ she pointed out coolly.
Hallam Lane frowned. ‘Why would he lie?’
‘I’m not saying he’s lied,’ she retorted, ‘but he could have quite easily held something back. Your son respects you, Mr Lane; I don’t know whether you realise that. He wouldn’t want to hurt you more than necessary.’
She recalled her younger brother—now married and living in the USA—getting into trouble on several occasions, but he’d never told his father every single detail, for the simple reason that he had not wanted to upset his father unduly—or incur further wrath!
Hallam shook his head, as though denying that this could be the case. ‘I don’t believe for one moment that my son would be so foolish.’ And with an abrupt change of subject he added, ‘I think it’s time we ate.’
Abby stiffened, her finely shaped brows drawing together into a disbelieving frown.
‘I did invite you for dinner,’ he reminded her drily, a faint quirk to his lips.
‘And I distinctly remember refusing,’ she riposted. ‘And since Greg is not at home then I see no point in staying.’ She headed towards the door.
His voice stopped her. ‘It’s all ready; it would be uncivil of you to waste good food. And—there’s always the chance that Greg will be back before we’ve finished,’ he added softly.
He must have known that this would persuade her. She heaved a sigh and finally turned, to discover uneasily that he had moved away from the fireplace and was only a pace behind her. She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. ‘I guess I am hungry,’ she said reluctantly—actually she had eaten nothing since breakfast. ‘But the instant we’ve finished—if Greg isn’t here—I shall go.’
He smiled and, taking her elbow, led her out of the room. At his touch her stomach tied itself into knots, every pulse raced, and Abby wished that she had not been so quick to agree.
If Hallam Lane did not approve of her as his son’s solicitor then why did he bother to entertain her? She wished she knew what thoughts were going through his mind, and she wished to goodness that she had spoken to Greg himself when he’d visited her office, so that this mix-up would not have happened.
The dining-room was next door, still overlooking the fine grounds. The rosewood table was laid with a cream damask cloth and cream napkins with a wine-coloured embroidered border. The candles were of the same deep red, as was the central single rose. There were two place settings only! Abby was furious. ‘You had this arranged all along,’ she declared, her voice shrill with accusation.
‘What pretty girl doesn’t like to be wined and dined?’ he asked, a look of smug satisfaction on his handsome face—a look that told her everything was going according to plan—his plan!
She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. ‘It looks set for a seduction scene to me, Mr Lane, and I can assure you I want no part of it. I refuse to sit here and eat with you and pretend that we like each other.’
‘I’m not asking that you like me, Sommers.’ There was a sudden crisp edge to his tone. ‘I simply believe that it would be to our mutual advantage to spend a little time discussing my son.’ A minute ago he had said he wanted to talk about her! ‘That’s an excuse and you know it,’ she cried, her eyes flashing her hostility, and she turned to head out of the room.
Hallam Lane’s fingers closed about her arm. ‘You’re not running out on me now,’ he growled, twisting her round to face him.
‘If you think that you can force me into staying you’re making a big mistake,’ Abby gritted, struggling in vain to free herself. ‘I should have known you had an ulterior motive.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ he told her firmly. ‘And I have no intention of forcing you.’ His black eyes met and held her luminous green ones. ‘But there are certain events relating to my son’s earlier years that I think are distinctly relevant to the trouble he’s in now. I’d like to tell you about them.’
Again Abby was left with no choice. But why the devil couldn’t he have told her all this in the office instead of using it as an excuse to entertain her in his own home? She eyed him warily, making it perfectly clear that she did not approve. ‘Very well,’ she said with a great show of reluctance.
‘Good.’ He let go her arm with a satisfied smile. ‘Let me take your jacket.’
Unhappily Abby allowed him to slide it from her shoulders. She would have preferred to take it off herself but he had already made the move and she was compelled to endure the proximity of his hard-muscled body.
It shouldn’t have disturbed her—she ought not to have allowed it to—but somehow it sent a tremor down her spine. And when he held out a chair for her his hands touched her shoulders; it was just a light brush, but nevertheless a further uneasy quiver ran through her.
Was this an omen of what was to come? Had she made a dangerous mistake? Ought she to get out now before anything further happened to upset her peace of mind?
FACING the window, Abby had an excellent view of the garden, but Hallam himself sat with his back to it, throwing his face into shadow. It put her at a definite disadvantage, she decided; it would have been much better if they had both sat sideways on to the window. Had he done it deliberately?
She looked beyond him. ‘You have a nice garden, Mr Lane.’ Mundane words, but she needed to say something—anything—to dispel her inner tension. She could accept that maybe he did want to talk about Greg but there had to be something more. Otherwise why the candles and the exquisite china? Why go to all this trouble?
It could be that he was trying to find out exactly what sort of a person she was. Perhaps he thought she expected this wine-and-roses treatment. Perhaps he thought all women expected it.
She recalled her unfortunate response to his kiss that first time he’d come to her office—could she have given him the wrong impression?
