to the top table.
Concealing her disturbed state as best she could, she asked, ‘Would you mind very much if we left now?’
Stephen, who had been waiting for her to resume her seat, said with his usual good-natured compliance, ‘Not if you want to go.’ All the same, he looked disappointed.
Feeling guilty because she knew he was human enough to want to bask in the coveted glory of being singled out by the big boss, she explained, ‘I’ve got a nasty headache.’
He peered at her. ‘You do look rather pale.’ Putting an arm around her waist—his clumsy concern in direct contrast to that other light but sure touch—he shepherded her towards the door. ‘I’ll fetch the car round while you get your coat.’
Though she refused to look in his direction, Annis felt Zan Power’s predatory green-gold eyes fixed on her and an uncontrollable shudder ran through her slender frame.
As they left the sumptuous Piccadilly hotel and drove towards Belgravia, still on a high, Stephen marvelled, ‘Fancy Mr Power remembering me! He’s only seen me a couple of times, quite briefly. Of course he has a reputation for being a remarkable man…
‘You’d never think it, to meet him now and hear him speak, but he came originally from the back streets of Piraeus, with a Greek mother and an English father.’
So he was half Greek… That accounted not only for Zan Power’s looks but also for the almost imperceptible foreignness that lent such dark sorcery to his low-pitched voice.
But Stephen was going on, ‘His mother died when he was about eleven and his father returned to England with the five children of the marriage. When he was barely eighteen his father was killed in an accident. The Social Services were going to split the family up, but he fought like a demon to keep them together.
‘His brothers and sisters were all younger than him, but somehow he managed to support and educate them while he clawed his way to the top.’
Disturbed and agitated, unwilling to hear anything good about a man she detested, and aggravated by the open admiration, almost reverence, in Stephen’s voice, Annis said sharply, ‘If you’ve only met him twice, and briefly, I’m surprised he had time to tell you all that.’
Startled by her unusual irritability, Stephen explained sheepishly, ‘He didn’t tell me. One of the papers got hold of his life story. Zena Talgarth, the journalist who wrote it, described him as “a man’s man but a woman’s darling”.’
She was probably in bed with him at the time, Annis thought acidly. Aloud, she remarked, ‘I suppose cheap publicity and women fawning over him gives someone like Zan Power a kick… I feel sorry for his poor wife.’
Stephen shook his shaggy head. ‘He’s not married and never has been…’
Not married… Annis’s silky brows, several shades darker than her hair, drew together in a frown. She could have sworn that Maya, in one of her last incoherent ramblings, had talked about a wife and family…
‘…And according to the grapevine,’ Stephen went on, ‘he was furious about that newspaper article. He’s a man who guards and values his privacy.’ With a puzzled frown he added, ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’
‘My, aren’t you quick?’ she said sarcastically.
Seeing Stephen’s hurt expression, she was ashamed of herself. ‘I’m sorry, please forgive me.’ Then with magnificent understatement, ‘No, I don’t like him much.’
‘You must have been the only woman at that party who wouldn’t have willingly sacrificed her eye-teeth to dance with him.’
‘If that’s so, it’s a pity he gave me the privilege.’ Her tone was caustic.
‘What don’t you like about him?’
Unused to searching questions from Stephen, she hesitated before saying lamely, ‘He isn’t my type.’
‘I should have thought he was any woman’s type.’ Stephen sounded envious.
She shook her head decidedly. ‘He’s too good-looking, too sure of himself. Far too brash for my taste.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘I hate the Don Juan type who—’
‘He doesn’t have that kind of image.’ Looking a bit surprised by her vehemence, Stephen rushed to defend his hero. ‘Matt Gilvary, his right-hand man, does, or rather did, before he became Mr Power’s brother-in-law. They say he’s steadied down since he was married… But though Zan Power’s no saint,’ doggedly Stephen returned to the point he was making, ‘he’s certainly no Don Juan…’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake can we stop talking about the man?’ Annis burst out.
‘I’m sorry…’
Instantly contrite, she said, ‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight.’
Then, wanting to make up for blighting her companion’s happy mood, his pleasure in the evening, she added impulsively, ‘It’s just that I much prefer someone sweet and kind, like you.’
Thrilled at being compared favourably with a man of Zan Power’s ilk, Stephen was still preening himself when, a few minutes later, they stopped in front of Fairfield Court, the three-storey brick building that housed Annis’s ground-floor flat.
Knowing it gave him a kick, made him feel manly to cosset her, she unfastened her safety belt and waited until he opened her door and helped her alight.
As she stepped out on to the pavement a stylish silver BMW, which had been cruising a couple of cars behind them, drew up in a patch of shadow outside the block opposite.
Having crossed Fairfield’s narrow, open frontage with its pair of leafless weeping willows, she opened the door while Stephen hovered by her elbow, his burgundy silk evening scarf hanging loosely around his neck.
Politeness forcing her, she asked, ‘Would you like a quick coffee?’
‘Love one,’ he accepted cheerfully.
Ashamed, because she’d been hoping he would refuse, she switched on the light and led the way into a pastel-walled living-room which held the minimum of modern furniture.
In no mood for him to linger, she made a single mug of instant coffee, strong and milky and sweet, just how he liked it, and carried it through.
He looked surprised. ‘Aren’t you having one?’
‘When I’m headachy, coffee only makes it worse. I’ll have some cocoa when I go to bed.’ And please let it be soon, she prayed silently.
Patting the empty place beside him, he invited, ‘Why don’t you come and sit by me and relax for a while? It isn’t eleven yet.’
Carefully, she said, ‘I know it’s not late, but I’m feeling rotten…’
‘I’m sorry… I wasn’t thinking.’ He downed his coffee in a few gulps and, scrambling hurriedly to his feet, made for the door. ‘I’m nothing but a stupid oaf.’
‘You’re
