‘So what now?’ she asked.
‘Lee, there’s only one thing we can do now—hand it over to the police.’
‘I tried that,’ she said barely audibly. ‘I told you.’
‘Yes, but we’ve now established that even if the contract was watertight someone was masquerading under a false name, which could nullify it.’
Her shoulders slumped.
‘I’ll do it for you,’ he said.
She looked at him and smiled painfully as a beam of late-afternoon sunlight came through a high window and formed an aureole of light around her auburn head. She was still pale, he noted, which caused her freckles to be more noticeable. Then she straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you. But the truth is I can’t afford you any longer, Mr Moore, so I’ll do it myself.’
‘Damien,’ he responded. ‘And I won’t charge you.’
‘I couldn’t accept charity,’ Lee said with another painful little smile, ‘but thank you for the offer.’
‘There’s nothing you can do to stop me.’
Her eyes widened on him, seated across the small round table from her. At three in the afternoon the bar was empty except for themselves. So apart from the barman, who was energetically polishing glasses, there was no one to witness her reaction to the high-handed statement Damien Moore had just made.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked carefully.
He twirled a cardboard coaster between his long fingers. ‘Every citizen has a duty to report a felony. That’s what I’ll do.’ He shrugged, as if to say ‘simple’, but there was something in his eyes that indicated he wouldn’t take no for an answer anyway. ‘So there’s no need to feel beholden to me in any way, Lee.’
She opened her mouth to argue this, but he grinned suddenly with so much humour that she literally felt herself going weak all over beneath the sheer attractiveness of it—and couldn’t think of a thing to say.
‘Well, that’s sorted, then.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If you’re feeling better now, I’ll take you back to your car.’ He paused and studied her intently for a moment. ‘All is not lost yet, Lee. Hold on to that.’
She found her voice at last. ‘Are you doing this because Cyril told you to take care of me? And why would he say that anyway?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Who knows? I’d say he admired your pluck and felt for your grandparents’ plight.’ He hesitated, then, ‘That’s all.’
He stood up and Lee followed suit, looking dazed.
It was as he took her arm to usher her out of the bar that Damien Moore examined his slight hesitation and realised he was not at all sure that what he’d said was the whole truth. True, most people would admire this girl’s pluck, even a sick old man. But he’d sensed something more behind Cyril’s parting remarks; he’d almost sensed a judgement being made, on himself and on Lee, but what the hell it could have been he had no idea.
Unless… He posed a question to himself. Unless Cyril had divined that a slightly protective feeling had wormed its way into his relations with this client?
Out on the pavement, he stopped briefly and studied his client in the bright sunlight. She was obviously more composed now, although still pale, but he wondered how long she would remain so unnaturally quiet. He didn’t have long to wait.
‘Thank you very much for all you’ve done, Mr Moore,’ Lee started to say. ‘I really—’
‘It’s Damien, Lee.’
A fleeting tinge of exasperation clouded her gaze. ‘I really appreciate your help and everything,’ she continued stubbornly, ‘but—’
‘Just hop in, Lee,’ he advised, and opened the door of the Porsche for her. ‘I’m running late.’
‘But I need to—’
‘You don’t need to say a thing. Go back to your gardens and leave this to me.’ He patted the top of her head.
Lee bit her lip, now not only exasperated but all mixed up.
She took his advice and five minutes later she’d been returned to her car and he was about to drive off.
‘I’ll be in touch!’ were his last words before he drove off, leaving her prey to a cauldron of emotions.
He was as good as his word.
Over the next few weeks he rang her several times, and invited her to have breakfast with him at his apartment once, to update her on the progress he was making. Then he took her to lunch to explain that it was going to be a long process, because whoever had masqueraded as Cyril Delaney had covered their tracks most efficiently.
During these meetings Lee was able to hide the ambivalence of her feelings towards him. She even felt she’d managed to revert to the snippy redhead who shot from the hip rather than the confused unhappy girl of the day of Cyril’s interview. The girl who had, in the same breath, been both entirely exasperated by his high-handedness and then suffered a vision of how heavenly it would be to have Damien Moore looking after her…
A month later she read that Cyril Delaney had died after a long illness. She felt touched by sadness. But three days afterwards, when Damien rang her to tell that they featured jointly in Cyril’s will, her emotions defied description as he explained the extraordinary bequest that was to change her life for ever.
CHAPTER TWO
DAMIEN MOORE looked at his watch, then glanced around the colourful pavement café impatiently. He had another appointment at two o’clock, now only fifty minutes away, and Lee Westwood was late.
He reached for the menu. She might eat like a rabbit but he didn’t, and he had no intention of bolting down his lunch. So he signalled the waitress and ordered a steak for himself, a Caesar salad for his guest, and a pot of coffee.
‘She’ll be here shortly, I assume,’ he told the waitress, ‘and she always orders rabbit food so I can’t go wrong with a salad.’ He smiled at the girl but felt his teeth set on edge at being on the receiving end of a coy, simpering smile in return. Which prompted the thought that Lee Westwood might be highly exasperating at times, but at least she never simpered over him or batted her eyelashes at him.
Then he saw her approaching from way down the block. Her long auburn hair was flying, and so was the green scarf she had round her neck, as she loped along the pavement with her trademark stride in a pair of short leather boots worn with faded jeans, a large cyclamen T-shirt and a bulging string bag hanging from her shoulder.
Sartorially a disaster, Damien Moore mused, as so often—although he supposed he should count himself fortunate she wasn’t wearing the black crocheted hat she often favoured, crammed onto her head.
OK, it was a pavement café, he told himself, but it was an extremely chic one, with its striped awnings and potted trees—which she would have known. And so was the clientele chic. Most of the women here
