that personal gratification was all that mattered.
But it wasn’t. Not for her. She had not married Henry Gantry to embrace his philosophy. Her motives might have been thwarted at every turn, but she was still determined not to give in. Her mother was dead. She could no longer help her. But she could help the one person Henry had least desired to benefit from his fortune: his son!
Her feet sank into the rich pile of the hall carpet as she walked towards the library. Mrs Winters would know where to find her; the library had become her retreat from Henry’s world. Opening the door, she found the lamps still burning and the fire replenished. Its visible warmth was comforting, and she closed the door wearily, leaning back against it, and closing her eyes.
When she opened them again, the first thing she saw was a pair of booted feet set apart on the hearthrug; and as her eyes moved unsteadily upward, they quickly covered long denim-clad legs and thighs, a loose fitting jersey over an open-necked denim shirt, and a lean tanned face below a straight slick of ash-streaked hair. The man was leanly built, but his chest was broad, and the vee of his shirt revealed a gold medallion glinting among the fine whorls of body hair. His arms were strong and his legs looked powerful, and Olivia could not help but notice the bulging muscles of his thighs. But she did not know him. She had never seen him before in her life. And her initial reaction was that he must be an intruder, who had known he would find her alone.
However, before her undisciplined fears could take verbal form, he spoke, and when he did so, she suddenly realised his identity.
‘Hello, Olivia,’ he greeted her sardonically. ‘How delightful to meet you at last. I’ll say one thing for old Henry, he certainly had good taste!’
‘Alex!’
The man inclined his head. ‘How did you guess?’
Olivia straightened away from the door. ‘How—how did you get in? Did Mrs Winters——’
‘I let myself in,’ he responded laconically, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out a key, allowing it to hang from its silver chain like some kind of hypnotic device. ‘Do I need an invitation? To Henry Gantry’s house?’
Olivia struggled for composure. ‘No. No, of course not.’
‘Of course not,’ he mocked, putting the key back into his pocket and indicating the leather armchairs set at either side of the fire. ‘Won’t you sit down—Mother? You look as if you need some support.’
Olivia looked at him uneasily, moistening her lips with a nervous tongue. This was a contingency she had not prepared herself for, and in spite of her half-formed intentions to try and find Henry’s son, she was shaken to the core of her being by his unheralded appearance.
‘When did you arrive?’ she ventured. ‘When did you get here? Do—do you know——’
‘—that Henry’s dead?’ he finished flatly. ‘Yes, I know. Cosgrove informed me.’
‘Adam Cosgrove?’ Olivia gazed at him, then shook her head. Of course. Adam had asked her if she had heard from Alex. He had obviously been aware of his whereabouts and informed him accordingly.
She stepped across the Persian carpet now, and determinedly held out her hand. Whatever her impressions, she had to conduct this first interview calmly, even if his expression did not encourage a closer liaison.
‘Hello, Alex,’ she said now, and after a moment’s consideration he shook her hand. ‘I’m sorry you had to learn about your father’s death so abruptly. He’d been ill for some time, and it was not unexpected.’
‘So I believe.’
Alex held on to her hand rather longer than was necessary, and Olivia had to pull it away before crossing to the desk and seating herself beside it. She felt more sure of herself sitting down, less vulnerable somehow; and she needed that space between them, to recover her sensibilities.
‘You’ve been living in Africa, I believe,’ she remarked, trying to keep her tone light. ‘As we didn’t know your address, we—I—had no way of contacting you.’
‘Cosgrove knew where I was,’ he pointed out dryly.
‘Yes, obviously. But unfortunately he didn’t tell me.’
Alex shrugged, pulling out a crumpled pack of cheroots. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, and after gaining her permission, he added: ‘I’ve been living in Tsaba for the past eight years. Do you know it? My—partner and I set up a mining company. Some of these central African republics are rich in mineral wealth.’
Olivia nodded. She was quite prepared to believe he had lived in rougher circumstances than these. There was a roughness about him, a hard virility, that seemed out of place in this elegant room. He looked as if he would feel more at home in the raw civilisation of a mining community, although she had to admit he did not seem at all concerned that his appearance did not match his surroundings.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he offered, and she noticed the empty glass standing on the curve of the fender. He must have been sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire when she entered the room, she thought incredulously, but she had been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she had not noticed him.
‘Thank you, no,’ she said now, realising as she did so that it was she who should have made that remark. Summoning her most cordial tone, she said; ‘Tell me, where are you staying? If I’d known you were coming——’
‘—you’d have had the welcome mat out, I’m sure,’ Alex cut in mockingly, his eyes, which were amazingly dark in his tanned face, narrowed and insolent. ‘You surprise me, Olivia. I never expected such civility. I’d have thought you’d have kicked me out by now.’
Olivia’s pale face gained colour. ‘Then you’re wrong, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’ He studied her intently. ‘I guess you knew how old Henry felt about his son.’
Olivia expelled her breath cautiously. ‘Yes, I knew.’
He sneered. ‘But you’re prepared to be generous.’
‘Henry’s dead——’
‘Too right.’
‘—and I see no reason why we should not behave like civilised human beings——’
‘The hell you don’t!’ Alex’s lips curled.
‘As—as I was saying,’ Olivia continued determinedly, ‘we can hardly be enemies when we don’t even know one another.’
‘Can’t we?’
He was not making it easy for her, and Olivia wished she was more prepared for this interview. She should have had her speech written, her arguments marshalled; as it was, she was stumbling and faltering like a schoolgirl up before the head.
‘I see no point in prolonging past grievances,’ she declared steadily. ‘Your father’s dead. I don’t know what happened between you
