get this call to Grant over?’ she snapped. ‘I'd like to start calling some of the less than major hotels to see if Lesli is staying at one of them. You did realise there were other hotels in London besides the Savoy, the Hilton, the Dorchester—–'
‘Cut the damned sarcasm, Brenna,’ he rasped. ‘It isn't achieving anything.'
It wasn't even giving her that much satisfaction; arguing with Nathan never had. Even when she was sure she had emerged the victor from one of their heated exchanges she always felt the loser!
She briskly put the call through to Grant, slightly disconcerted when the receiver was picked up the other end after only the second ring. ‘Grant?’ she began.
‘Lesli?’ he returned sharply. ‘God, Lesli, where are you?'
‘It's Brenna, Grant,’ she interrupted gently, her fears as to Grant's worry for his wife's safety firmly put to rest; he sounded like a desperately unhappy man.
‘Oh.’ He bit back his disappointment. ‘Sorry. Your voices have always sounded the same over the telephone.'
‘She hasn't come home?’ she prompted softly.
‘No,’ he rasped. ‘God, how I wish I hadn't let Nathan talk me into letting him be the one to go to London; I'm going insane just sitting here waiting for news,’ he groaned. ‘Is Nathan with you now?'
She glanced over to where Nathan sat stiffly forward in his chair. ‘Yes, he's here,’ she confirmed abruptly. ‘Grant, Lesli hasn't contacted me at all,’ she told him as gently as she could.
‘Where can she be?’ he groaned.
‘Grant, what did the two of you argue about to make her do something like this?'
‘I think that's between Lesli and me,’ he answered hardly.
‘I realise that. But—–'
‘Can I talk to Nathan?’ he cut in tersely.
She gave a frustrated sigh. ‘Of course,’ she snapped, holding out the receiver to Nathan. ‘He wants to talk to his big brother.’ She still felt stung by Grant's refusal to confide in her.
Nathan looked at her contemptuously. ‘Maybe instead of trying to make you feel welcome ten years ago we should have put you over our knees a few times,’ he bit out harshly. ‘Come to think of it, it's still not too late to do that.'
She knew the undue haste in which she handed him the receiver and moved to the other side of the room smacked of running away from him, but over the years Nathan had proved to be a man who carried out his threats.
Where could Lesli be? Nathan's taunt about her and Lesli sticking together was a true one. She and Lesli had always been close, even more so after they were uprooted and taken to Canada; she couldn't believe her sister wouldn't come to her or contact her soon.
‘—and I'm staying on here with Brenna until she hears from Lesli,’ she came back in on Nathan's telephone conversation to hear him assure his younger brother.
Earlier she had reluctantly agreed to let him stay here with her until they heard from Lesli, but now she wondered just how long that was going to be. Lesli had left the ranch three days ago, and she hadn't contacted any of them yet. And Nathan couldn't stay here at the flat with her indefinitely.
‘Keep in touch,’ Nathan added abruptly before ringing off, turning to Brenna with cold eyes. ‘Your sister seems as adept at disappearing as you are,’ he bit out.
Her mouth firmed as she realised he was referring to the way she had moved out of the flat she had shared a year ago, making it impossible for him to find her even if he had wanted to. She had never found out if he had wanted to.
She looked at Nathan with dislike. ‘I'm sure both of us had good reason for disappearing; I know I did,’ she bit out tautly.
His eyes narrowed. ‘I'd be interested to hear it.'
‘Surely it's obvious?’ she challenged contemptuously. ‘The thought of marrying you is enough for any woman to want to make herself scarce!'
‘You didn't feel that way the night you spent in my bed!’ he grated.
Her cheeks were deathly pale. ‘It was my bed,’ she clarified that he was the one who had come to her. ‘And surely it's obvious I mean to imply that I must have been slightly deranged that night?'
Nathan looked at her coldly in that still way of his that had always unnerved her, and to her chagrin Brenna was the first to look away. She hadn't been deranged that night, she had been slightly intoxicated, but she had a feeling they both knew she wasn't intoxicated enough not to have known what she was doing when she invited Nathan to her room.
‘I'll go and make up the bed in the studio for you,’ she mumbled.
He nodded abruptly. ‘And I'll go out and buy those pyjamas,’ he jeered.
Brenna sat down heavily once he had left, not sure who had won that last argument. If anyone had! There was really no point in arguing about the fact that she had decided against marrying him; she had never said that she would, and they both knew that too! For a while, for the space of a single night, she had allowed herself the luxury of dropping the guard of bitterness she felt towards all the Wade family, for the space of that one night she and Nathan had seduced each other into believing they actually cared about each other. At least, she had allowed herself to be seduced; despite what Nathan had said to the contrary his motives had been much more basic.
His mention of marriage had unnerved her into agreeing to consider the possibility once she had finished college in the summer. And if her father hadn't re-instilled some of the Jordan pride in her she just might have done that. She was grateful for her lucky escape.
The cot-bed was made and a snack dinner partly prepared by the time Nathan knocked on the door just over an hour later. Brenna answered it, her denims and T-shirt replaced with a purple lounge dress.
‘Are we dressing or undressing for dinner?’ Nathan drawled as he walked past her.
Brenna paused at the door, willing her temper to remain under control. She should be used to Nathan's caustic tongue by now, she had been listening to it long enough! Besides, the dress was perfectly respectable, even if the softness of the material did more than flatter her curves. She always changed into something loose and comfortable during her evenings at home, and she wasn't about to change her routine for this man.
He had thrown his paper-bag-wrapped parcel into a chair, had taken off his jacket and was loosening the buttons on his shirt by the time she joined him. Her senses baulked at the sight of his tanned, hair-roughened, muscular chest, knowing there was a slight scar just below his left nipple, from a childhood accident. She willed her expression to remain bland as she remembered caressing that scar, and above it, the night in his arms.
‘What are we having for dinner?’ he drawled. ‘Bean sprouts and carrot fritters?'
He certainly wasn't making it easy to be polite to him! ‘We're having omelettes—cheese or mushroom, whichever you prefer, with salad and baked potato. And there's fruit to follow. It's all I could get together at such short notice.'
‘Sounds good. Better
