went to pour himself a third. Then, turning, he surveyed her with bitter eyes. ‘Why should I help you now? You’ve never wanted my help before.’
Maggie expelled her breath. ‘No.’
Neil’s jaw compressed. ‘Why didn’t you bring her with you?’
Maggie shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t have come.’
‘She wouldn’t have come?’ Neil stared at her. ‘Why didn’t you make her? How the hell am I supposed to talk some sense into her if she’s in London and I’m here?’
‘You could go—’
To London?’ Neil shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘Then I’m wasting my time,’ said Maggie flatly. ‘Because you’ll never get her to come to Haversham. Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? She thinks she’s in love with Mike Reynolds, and he’s the only person who can get through to her these days.’
‘The hell he is.’
Maggie started towards the door. ‘I’ll say goodnight,’ she said, making no attempt to repudiate his statement, but Neil muttered a savage oath before stepping deliberately into her path.
‘Like hell you will,’ he snarled. ‘We haven’t finished—not by a long way. Don’t think you can walk out of here after dropping that bombshell and expect me to forget all about it!’
‘I thought that was what you wanted to do.’
Maggie was forced to look up at him now—either that or appear afraid to do so. But it wasn’t easy facing him, when he was so close she could feel the heat of his body, so near she could smell the scent of what she could now recognise as brandy on his breath.
‘I never said that,’ he retorted harshly, and her eyes dropped to the shadow of his beard already darkening his jaw. To his mouth, which at present expressed all his frustration, and which she had once known as intimately as her own.
A quiver went through her, and she forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘You’re going to help me?’
‘We’ll see.’ Neil set his empty glass on a table, and flexed his fingers against his thighs. ‘Why don’t you come back and sit down and we’ll talk about it?’
Maggie held up her head. ‘If this is some sort of game...’
‘It’s not.’
Maggie hesitated, and with a muffled groan Neil turned her back into the room. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said grimly, prodding her towards the sofa. ‘I’ve no intention of wasting my time—or yours.’
NOT for the first time since she’d arrived at Haversham, Maggie wished she had something different to wear. Her skirt was creased, and the skinny-rib sweater had a wine stain, she noticed unhappily.
Still, she had no choice but to wear it—and the skirt, she conceded ruefully. This wasn’t some fairy tale where, when she opened the wardrobes in her dressing room, she was suddenly confronted with a magical choice of clothes. Her cupboards were disappointingly empty. There wasn’t even a change of shoes.
Not that she had expected any. When she and Neil had separated, someone had taken intense pleasure in packing up all her belongings and forwarding them to her London house. They’d even sent the half-empty shampoo bottles she’d left in the bathroom. As if ensuring that she never attempted to visit Neil again.
Neil.
Still dressed in only her slip and pantihose, Maggie sank down onto the stool before the mirrored dressing table and regarded her reflection without liking. Hazel eyes stared back at her, green in some lights, and presently full of scorn for herself, and for the reason why she had come here. She’d known, before she left London, that, whatever resentment she might still hold towards her ex-husband, what she was going to ask him was outrageous. She’d known he’d never agree to it, not after all these years of sequestration. It wasn’t his problem. She’d made it hers when she’d accepted custody of their daughter. She couldn’t expect him to feel the same responsibility for Lindsey that she did. He was right. He owed Lindsey nothing. Certainly not the curtailment of his freedom, of the privacy he’d sought so long to maintain.
Yet when he’d insisted on her postponing her going to bed the night before she had known a brief spurt of expectation. She couldn’t think of any other reason why he might want to delay her and, for all her feelings of guilt and culpability, she had returned to her seat on the sofa, with the first shreds of hope she’d felt in a long time.
She should have known better. She should have realised that Lindsey’s involvement with a man old enough to be her father, and Neil’s estranged agent to boot, was unlikely to stir any but the most primitive feelings of resentment. Oh, sure, Neil didn’t like it, but throwing away his future for it was something else. He might find some other way to get back at Mike Reynolds for trying to blackmail him, but as far as he was concerned she was to blame.
Maggie’s lips trembled for a moment and, seeing it, she pressed an impatient hand against her mouth. You fool! she berated herself. You stupid fool! Did you have to lose what little dignity you possessed? Did you have to let him see how weak you were?
She sought blindly for her make-up case which was lying on the glass tray in front of her. Pulling out a jar of moist- urising foundation, she began to smooth it onto her face. Her skin was still supple, but she could only see the incipient wrinkles. Why was it that men aged so much slower? It wasn’t fair that women should bear that as well as everything else.
The first inkling she had had that Neil had more than a simple discussion in mind had come when, after getting them both a brandy, he’d chosen to sit beside her on the same sofa. Instead of removing himself to the comparative distance of the other sofa, he’d chosen to stretch his length beside her, his heels propped carelessly on the edge of the polished table, his thigh depressing the cushion by her hip.
‘So, tell me,’ he said, supporting his head with his hands linked at his nape, ‘how did Lindsey meet a rat like Mike Reynolds?’
Maggie endeavoured to appear unmoved by his proximity. ‘He—I—he already knew her.’
‘As a baby,’ he amended drily. ‘Lindsey was only ten when Reynolds and I parted company.’
‘I know that.’
‘So?’
‘So, all right.’ Maggie sighed. ‘She met him at a party given by the fashion wholesalers. They thought it would be fun, having some celebrities present.’
Neil looked at her out of the sides of his eyes. ‘Mike Reynolds is a celebrity?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘Since when?’
‘He has some celebrity clients,’ said Maggie uncomfortably, far too aware of the intensity of his gaze. ‘Not least yourself—at least, when you were working.’
Neil’s mouth turned down. ‘I haven’t stopped working.’
‘You know what I mean,’ declared Maggie, sighing.
