with the neckline plunging between her full breasts.
They had had an affair briefly, two years ago. Ambrose had been attracted, even fascinated, for a brief time but had soon realised that he didn’t like what he found under the come-hither smile and the desirable body. Sophie was ambitious and hard-edged; there was no emotion in their lovemaking, apart from lust, and Ambrose wanted far more than that from the woman in his life.
He had discreetly backed off, gradually stopped ringing her, asking her out, and Sophie had accepted it without a word. He was grateful to her for that. He’d been afraid she might make a scene, try to hold on to him. He was convinced she cared no more for him than he did for her, but he also suspected she had been hoping to marry him. He had money and social cachet, and Sophie wanted both. But she hadn’t fought for him. She had behaved impeccably. He had promoted her a few months later, not a reward for good behaviour, simply that her tact and discretion had proved to him how valuable she could be to the bank.
‘How’s Gavin doing on the Rendell project?’ she asked, when they were in the hot greenhouse looking at the massed orchids. He had been collecting them for some years, but lately he no longer found them exciting, and was considering selling them to the friend who had talked him into having his own orchid-house.
‘Everything’s set for the board-meeting on Thursday.’
‘Good,’ Sophie said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I know I don’t usually sit in on board-meetings, but could I come along on Thursday?’
Ambrose frowned. Sophie was the executive responsible for dealing with the Rendell account, admittedly. In fact, looking back, he seemed to recall it had been Sophie who first suggested that they should get someone else in to run the company.
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, do you? Aren’t you related to the Rendell family, Sophie?’
She gave him another of her cat-like smiles. ‘My mother is old George’s cousin, but our side of the family have no money. We see very little of the mill people; we aren’t good enough for them.’ She gazed at the rich patina on a purple orchid. ‘Gorgeous thing,’ she said in a soft, creamy voice. ‘What a pity they don’t have any scent.’
What was she thinking about? Not the orchid, Ambrose decided, watching her. Whatever it was, that smile made him uneasy. It made no difference to him whether or not she liked her Rendell relatives—his decision had been based purely on financial grounds—but maybe he shouldn’t have given that account to her to manage. He hadn’t realised at the time that she had any connection with the Rendells; George himself had mentioned that to Ambrose some months back.
The heat in the greenhouse was beginning to make his shirt stick to his back and sweat was trickling down his neck.
‘We had better go back to the party,’ he said, making for the door into the house.
People started leaving once he reappeared. Ambrose stood by the front door, shaking hands with departing guests; when Sophie said goodnight he lightly kissed her cheek, and she gave him a tilted, cat-like smile.
‘Lovely party, Ambrose. You made us all feel so welcome—you’re good at that.’
He heard the sting under the sweetness; he smiled back at her without warmth.
‘Thank you. Goodnight, Sophie.’
Sholto had left much earlier; he had said goodnight without meeting his host’s eyes and rushed off, alone. Presumably the girl had gone home already, Ambrose had decided, but a few minutes later Emilie Madelin came along the panelled hall towards him, her hand threaded through someone’s arm in an intimate, confiding way.
Who was she with now? Ambrose glanced at the man quickly, and did a double-take, stiffening as he saw the grizzled hair, the lined face and pale blue eyes of George Rendell.
George Rendell? Why was the girl with him?
The old man smiled cheerfully at him. ‘A very enjoyable evening, Ambrose, as usual. Good of you to invite me. I’m sorry not to have had a chance to talk to you, but with so many people here it was hard to get anywhere near you! Anyway, we enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we, Emilie?’ He paused as Ambrose stared at the girl. ‘Of course, you weren’t around when we arrived. I haven’t had a chance to introduce her—this is my granddaughter, Emilie.’
Granddaughter. Ambrose turned his stare to Emilie Madelin’s gentle face, feeling a strange sickness inside his stomach. There’s something wrong with me, he thought. I’ve been feeling weird all evening. Have I picked up some bug? There was a viral infection going through the staff at the bank at the moment. Maybe that’s it, he thought irritably. I haven’t got time to be ill!
The girl gave him her grave smile, her blue eyes serious.
Automatically, Ambrose held out his hand. ‘I hope you enjoyed the party, Emilie.’
Her hand was small and cool; his swallowed it.
‘Very much, thank you, Mr Kerr,’ she said in that soft, grave voice. ‘You have a beautiful home.’
‘You must have dinner with us soon, Ambrose,’ George Rendell said.
Ambrose detached his stare from her face. He smiled at the old man. ‘I’d like that, thank you,’ he said, but his mind was in confusion. She was George Rendell’s granddaughter?
Why hadn’t he picked up on the name when she spelt it out for him? It was unusual enough, God knew.
He must have the name on file somewhere. He knew that her mother, Rendell’s only child, had married a Frenchman and gone to live in France, had had, in her turn, only one daughter, and had then died of cancer at a tragically early age.
The father had been a flamboyant journalist in Paris; he had remarried rather soon afterwards, his new wife had had other children, and this girl had been sent to a French boarding-school. Ambrose hadn’t realised that she was now living in England with her grandfather; he had assumed she still lived in France. Why hadn’t Gavin found that out? Or had he? But if he had, why wouldn’t he have mentioned the fact?
Ambrose knew all about her, on paper; he had even seen a photo of her, he suddenly realised, but it must have been taken some years ago. She had been a schoolgirl in a very neat green and gold uniform. Her large-brimmed hat had half hidden her face, but he had a feeling she had been rather plump and had worn her hair in two long braids tied with green ribbon and hanging right down to her waist.
She looked very different now.
‘We’re having a dinner party next Tuesday—just a few friends, you’ll know most of them, I expect. Short notice, I know. I don’t suppose you’re free, but if you are…’ George Rendell paused expectantly, smiling, clearly expecting a polite refusal.
‘I think I am,’ said Ambrose. He thought he had another dinner engagement, with visiting clients, but that was easy to rearrange; someone else could stand in for him.
But why am I accepting? he asked himself silently. This is crazy. Aloud, though, he said, ‘I’d be delighted to have dinner, George, thank you.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful. Look forward to seeing you then—I don’t think we’ve had you at the house before, have we? Should have thought of it a long time ago, but I haven’t entertained much in recent years. Gave all that up after my wife died;
