the final nail in the coffin of her love for him with, ‘He must have seen me come up here—he knows your father’s out I was getting ready to have a shower before changing. He just walked in and started on about the way he’d always fancied me. He said we could have fun—adult fun. He was sick of playing with a child, only the child, as it happened, would one day come into a fortune. He meant you, my poor sweet! And then...heaven help me...I told him to pack his bags and get off Farthings Hall property. I said if he was still around when your father got back he’d regret it.’
‘I was told to expect the late Mr Hallam’s heir,’ she said now, her voice stiff with remembered outrage and pain. Then added insultingly, ‘Not the tea boy.’
His smile was wintry. ‘And I always thought you had such lovely manners.’ He turned, walked away, moving over the huge, raftered hall back towards the library. ‘Harold Hallam was my mother’s brother. He didn’t marry and, as far as anyone knows, he had no issue. I inherited his holding in the Group. Perhaps now we might begin our discussions, provided you’re satisfied with my credentials. Unless, of course, you’re no longer interested in any offer my company might be prepared to come up with.’
Disorientated, Claudia stared at his retreating back. Such wide, spare shoulders tapering down to that narrow, flat waist, such long, long legs, and all of him so elegantly packaged in a suit so beautifully cut it could only have come from Savile Row.
‘So you finally fell on your feet.’ She truly hadn’t realised she’d spoken the thought aloud until he turned at the door to the library, grey eyes chilling, that utterly sensual, boldly defined mouth contemptuous.
‘So it would seem.’
She tilted her chin in challenging defiance, her blue eyes cool. After what he’d done to her, did he really expect to make her feel ashamed of her lack of manners? Did he seriously expect her to apologise?
It would give her enormous satisfaction to ask him to leave.
But he’d disappeared into the library—as if he already owned the place—and she pulled in a deep breath, drew back her shoulders and followed.
She found Amy practically on her heels, the delicate china coffee cups rattling companionably on the tray she carried.
Claudia stepped aside at the doorway to allow the housekeeper passage, wincing as the older woman put the tray down on the long, polished table, a huge smile splitting her rosy face as she marvelled, ‘Well, and isn’t this a turn up for the books, young Adam? Who’d have thought—?’
‘Thank you, Amy,’ Claudia interrupted smoothly. Amy had had a soft spot for the young Adam Weston all those years ago, making sure he was lavishly supplied from the kitchens, that the old caravan he was living in was packed with creature comforts. He’d had the useful ability to charm just about anyone who could do him any good!
Pointedly, she began to pour coffee, both cups black and sugarless because that was the way she liked it and he could do what the heck he wanted with his. Amy suggested, ‘Should I put a match to the fire? It’s a bit nippy, don’t you think?’
She was already bustling towards the wide stone hearth, but Adam’s smile stopped her. His smile, Claudia remembered, could stop a runaway train. No problem. ‘We’re fine, Amy. Truly. Besides, after we’ve had coffee, Mrs Favel and I will be going to find a quiet pub for lunch, but thank you for the offer.’
This man had acquired authority, Claudia decided acidly as Amy melted away. Lashings of it. But nothing would induce her to have lunch with him. As soon as Amy had closed the door she said, ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but I’ve decided not to do business with your company after all.’
‘Cutting your nose off to spite your face?’ The slight smile he gave her as he picked up his coffee was a patronising insult. Claudia felt her entire body seizing up, every bone, every muscle going rigid with tension.
Over the past six years she’d really believed she had come to terms with what he had done, with his wickedly cruel betrayal. If anyone had told her that seeing him again would affect her like this—as if he still had the power to give her pain, to make her go weak and boneless with one look from those smoke-grey eyes—then she would have laughed until her ribs cracked.
He drained his cup, his eyes assessing her over the rim. ‘I’ve had a shock, too, Claudia. You were the last person I expected to see this morning.’ He put the cup back on its saucer with a tiny click and suggested, ‘So why don’t we both take a deep breath, put on our business hats, and start again?’ He made a small gesture with one lean, strong-boned hand. ‘Won’t you, perhaps, sit down?’
She ignored the seamless way he was taking over, her brows frowning above her thickly lashed eyes as she picked up her cup and carried it over to one of the deeply recessed window embrasures—because her legs felt distinctly shaky, and for no other reason at all. Sitting down on the padded cushion, she tilted one interrogative brow.
‘Who else would you expect to see? Widow Twanky? You can’t have forgotten who owns Farthings Hall.’
‘Six years ago Guy Sullivan, your father, owned the property. I hadn’t given the place a thought until the impending sale was brought to my attention. The name Favel meant nothing to me. Your father...’ For the first time he looked unsure of himself, as if he had only just realised that the change of ownership might mean Guy Sullivan was no longer living. ‘Your father always treated me fairly,’ be said quietly.
Sarcastic swine! He’d been long gone, on that rattletrap old motorbike of his, well before her father had returned that day, so he had no way of knowing what Guy Sullivan would have said and done had he been told—as Helen had threatened—what had been happening in his absence.
He’d got the treatment he deserved from her and from Helen. Had it given him pleasure to hammer home the fact that he hadn’t given her a moment’s thought in six long years?
But she put him out of his misery in one respect. ‘Dad’s visiting a friend for the day.’ She saw the slight tension drain from his face and knew with a small shock of surprise that he was actually relieved.
‘But you are the present owner?’ He was leaning back against the table, half sitting, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes narrowed as if he was weighing up everything she said.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t have to tell him any more.
‘Sole owner?’
She dipped her head in acknowledgement and he drawled, as if the prospect didn’t much appeal, ‘Then you and I do business. At this stage, there’s no need for me to view the property; I remember as much as I need to right now.’
Claudia forced herself not to flinch at that callously casual reminder. He might have been able to wipe her from his memory banks with no trouble at all but during his time here he’d surveyed every inch of the property, so no, he wouldn’t have forgotten what he’d seen, and decided to have.
They’d roamed every inch of the acreage together, the formal gardens, the paddocks, the headlands and the lovely unspoilt valley that led down to the cove, following the well-trodden path meandering beside the clear, sparkly waters of the stream, hand in hand, blissfully happy. Or so she’d thought.
And he’d obviously known enough about the interior of the house to go straight to Helen’s bedroom the moment a suitable opportunity arose. He had never troubled himself to find out where her, Claudia’s, room was.
