Portreath in a designer suit might.
A stainless-steel plaque set between two of the lifts listed the names of the departments and the floor on which each was situated. She hovered for a moment or two, unsure as to which department she should be making for, then realised that it could only be on the top floor, because high-powered executives liked to keep their minions firmly beneath them.
As she should know, having been there once upon a long time ago. She’d played the worshipping minion to a superior ego and had learned the hard way what it was like be walked all over. It wasn’t the best memory she could have picked to take with her into the lift, Melanie realised as her heart began to pump unevenly. Pressing the top-floor button, she barely felt the lift move it was so efficient, so nerves were putting that sinking feeling in her stomach, she determined. Nerves and just the teeniest hint of excitement about what she was about to do.
Face the truth, an eight-year-old truth, a dark and potentially dangerous truth. The lift doors opened, her knees began to shake as she stepped out into yet another foyer; this one was much smaller and bore the refined trappings of luxury in the soft carpet covering the floor. A steel-framed desk stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling stretch of glass covered by vertical blinds. A dark-haired woman sat working at the desk. She glanced up at Melanie’s approach, came to her feet and smiled.
‘Mrs Portreath? How nice to meet you.’ Her voice, like her smile, was warm and pleasant, the slight accent falling in with her dark and gentle Arabian looks. Coming out from behind her workstation, she presented Melanie with a hand. ‘My name is Nadia,’ she announced. ‘I am Mr Al-Qadim’s secretary. I am afraid Mr Al-Qadim is running a little late this morning,’ she went on apologetically. ‘And the information your lawyer sent ahead of you arrived on my desk only five minutes ago. Please…’ she indicated towards several soft-leather chairs ‘…make yourself comfortable while I check if Mr Al-Qadim is ready for you.’
Not for me, he isn’t, Melanie thought as she watched Nadia walk towards another giant pair of doors, made of solid wood this time. The secretary paused, seeming to need a moment to gather herself before she knocked rather tentatively on the door, opened it, stepped through and closed it behind her.
That small hesitation left Melanie standing there having to deal with the next rush of uncertainty that attacked her resolve. Rafiq was on the other side of that door, and if his secretary had to steel herself to go anywhere near him then what chance did she have of meeting a sane and sensible man?
Arrogance; she was suddenly remembering the hardened arrogance that could add such cold condemnation to his lean face. He was a man who could freeze out the world by just standing in silence, a man who could shatter a person with just two small words: ‘Get out.’
Her stomach muscles collapsed on the crippling memory. In the space of six short weeks he had wooed her into loving him. He had asked her to marry him and promised her the earth. He had told her that no one could ever love her as much as he did, then he had taken her to bed and wooed her of her innocence. Then, on the evidence of one cleverly constructed scene, he had simply turned his back on her with those now immortal words, ‘Get out,’ and had never looked at her again.
Did she really want to subject herself to that kind of humiliation again? she asked herself. Was she crazy to risk exposing Robbie to the same?
The urge to change her mind and just walk away while she still had the chance rose up to grab at her again; panic of the sort she hadn’t experienced in a long time actually set her feet swivelling towards escape.
The door behind her opened. ‘Mrs Portreath?’ his secretary’s smooth voice prompted.
Melanie froze—utterly. She couldn’t move, not a muscle; she couldn’t even bring herself to draw in breath. It was awful. For a horrible moment she wondered if she was going to faint.
‘Mrs Portreath…?’
Remember why you are doing this, she tried telling herself. Think of Robbie. He loves you and he’s suffering right now, feeling the vulnerability of his own mortality and, more significantly, yours. Rafiq does not know what he turned his back on eight years ago. He deserves this chance to know about Robbie, just as Robbie deserves this chance to know him.
But she was scared of what it was going to mean to all of them. Rafiq was from a different race and culture. He viewed things through different eyes than she did. He might not want to know about Robbie. He might fling this chance right back at her and…
‘Mrs Portreath? Mr Al-Qadim will see you now.’
Mr Al-Qadim will see you, she repeated anxiously. Did it matter if he did toss Robbie aside? It would be his loss if he did. Robbie never needed to know about this visit, but if you’d asked him outright, he would say it was worth any risk. So do this one small thing for him and you might start to sleep nights.
Small. She almost laughed, because this was no small thing. It was huge, colossal, as big and unpredictable as the big man himself.
‘Get out’ her head echoed. What did those two cold words do but expose a man who was unwilling to face up to his responsibilities? Let him use them again, she decided as her chin lifted. She could take the rejection for Robbie. She had done it before, after all. Her conscience could be cleared and she could then walk away to get on with the rest of her life, and more importantly Robbie’s life, knowing she had at least tried.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she heard herself murmur, and by the time she turned to face Rafiq’s secretary she was back in control again, with her eyes clear and her slender shoulders set into a determined line. One of the doors to the office stood open. Nadia stood to one side of it, waiting for Melanie to step by. With only the smallest increase in her pulse-rate she walked towards that open doorway and through it, with her smile fixed and ready to meet fate full-on.
The room was just another play on steel and marble. It was huge, with high ceilings and wall-to-wall glass that framed a desk built of marble and steel. In front of the desk and standing slightly side-on stood Rafiq Al-Qadim. He was wearing a dark grey suit and was leaning over slightly with one big hand braced on the desk while he read the set of papers in front of him.
Her papers, Melanie recognised. Her requirements. Her nerves began to flutter. Had he seen? Did he know yet? A clammy sweat broke out on her skin as she stood just inside the door and waited for him to lift and turn his dark head so she could make that first stunning impact on eyes that, even after eight long years, still visited her in her dreams.
Rafiq was being deliberately slow in straightening to acknowledge Mrs Portreath. He was wishing he hadn’t agreed to this meeting. The woman might have inherited the Portreath fortune, but even her healthy millions were small fry to an investment bank like this. Randal Soames, the executor of the Portreath estate, had talked him into this interview. He was doing it as a favour to Randal because the woman herself was being so stubborn about wanting to use the services of the bank and, more significantly, she had insisted on seeing Rafiq. In his mind, if she’d managed to get the hard-edged Randal Soames to go against his own better judgement it made her one very manipulative woman.
He despised that kind of woman. Was learning to despise the whole female sex with each betrayal they hung upon him. If he had a choice he would have them all locked up in harems to use only when necessary. They called them the weaker sex, the vulnerable sex, when really they were stronger and more dangerous than a whole army of men.
‘Mrs Portreath to see you, sir,’ Nadia prompted. It was a brave thing to do when his secretary was already aware that his mood was about as volatile as an active volcano.
But it
