met my niece. Darcy, this is Werner Langton’s new managing director, Joel Castille.’
She was prepared to bluff it out. To take the only option—shake hands and turn away. But he was not.
He said softly, ‘Actually, Miss Langton and I have met before, but only briefly. It was two years ago, around the time of Harry Metcalfe’s wedding. I’m sure she remembers.’
‘No,’ Darcy returned with total and chilling clarity. ‘I do not.’
‘Are you sure it was the Metcalfe wedding?’ Aunt Freddie was wrinkling her brow. ‘Because none of us actually attended it. We were invited as neighbours, of course, but only out of politeness, I’m sure. And Darcy was in London, staying with friends.’ She turned to the unsmiling statue beside her. ‘You were ill there, weren’t you, darling? A severe migraine, if I recall. Such a shame.’
‘A shame, indeed,’ Joel Castille said gravely. There were twin devils dancing in the cold blue eyes. ‘Do you suffer much from migraines, Miss Langton?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I feel as if I might be developing one right now.’
‘And we didn’t meet at the wedding itself,’ he added, turning to her aunt. ‘But at one of the parties beforehand. Isn’t that right, Miss Langton?’
‘Your memory is clearly better than mine,’ she said icily. ‘I have no recollection of you at all, Mr Castille.’
‘What a pity,’ he said lightly. ‘Now, I found our encounter electrifying—quite unforgettable.’ His eyes went over her with that same sensual male appraisal that she’d never quite been able to erase from her mind. The look that suggested she was standing in front of him, unclothed. His loaded smile seemed to leave a bruise. ‘And I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.’
As he moved away, Aunt Freddie said in quiet reproach, ‘Darcy, what were you thinking of? You were almost rude to Mr Castille.’
Rude? thought Darcy, shock now battling with fury inside her. I’m only sorry I didn’t kick him where it hurts, and throw up all over his shoes.
She said shortly, ‘I didn’t find him quite as irresistible as he clearly does himself.’ She shrugged. ‘But, what the hell? Hopefully, we won’t have to meet again.’ Please God. Please God.
The evening became like some weird game of hide-and-seek, she thought afterwards. She tried to be totally unobtrusive. He let her know, without coming near her, that he knew exactly where she was at any given moment. And she flinched under that knowledge.
At the same time, he could work a room, she acknowledged without pleasure. She could actually notice a thaw in the atmosphere. Realised that some tight-lipped expressions had relaxed. That people were approaching him, gathering round him, wanting to talk. And that he was listening.
She saw her father smiling expansively, not even bothering to conceal his triumph that the first hurdle, at least, had been cleared with consummate ease.
But she found her own heart sinking.
It was ludicrous to hope that her desperate prayer would be answered, and that Joel Castille could simply be—dismissed from her life, as if he’d never existed. He was only too real. And letting her know it, too.
She heard some sally from her father and the quieter response, followed by an appreciative roar of laughter, and winced. Langton and Castille, she thought, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing tray. The new double act.
I’ll be lucky if my father doesn’t offer to adopt him.
Oh, God, if I could just get out of here. If I didn’t have to stay until the bitter end.
Instinct told her that she hadn’t heard the last of him. That he would seek her out again before the night was over. But at least this time she would be slightly more prepared.
She’d just said goodnight to the personnel director and his wife when Joel Castille eventually came up to her. She took an instinctive step backwards, which was a mistake because it took her into a corner, and she found herself blocked there, her only escape route to push right past him.
She stood her ground and waited.
He said softly, ‘You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this evening.’
‘Of course.’ She didn’t even pretend to smile. Her expression was stone, and to hell with what people thought. ‘You’ve just landed one of the top jobs in the industry. Congratulations. Now leave me alone.’
‘I really didn’t know you were Gavin’s daughter,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Until I saw that photograph of you adorning the grand piano in the drawing room at Kings Whitnall. You looked younger, of course, and more innocent, but quite unmistakable.’
His gaze roamed over her, slowly and comprehensively. ‘And tonight you’re wearing black again. But then it’s your colour. Gives that lovely skin of yours the sheen of ivory. I recollect thinking that at our last encounter. Besides, white would hardly be appropriate, would it?’
‘If you say so.’
Black, she thought, was a non-colour. It was darkness—it was mourning. It was a vast hole in the middle of the universe, filled with nothing.
He’d paused, deliberately building up the tension that already vibrated between them. ‘Of course, Harry said you were a neighbour’s daughter, and I knew whereabouts he lived, so I should have put two and two together.’
‘And made five, no doubt,’ she said. ‘Like last time.’
‘Listen, darling,’ he said. ‘Pretty blondes who turn up at stag nights are asking to be misunderstood. Anyway, I wasn’t so far off the mark,’ he added sardonically. ‘You might not have been a stripper, but you were still trouble. One look at Harry’s face told me that.’
Harry’s face. Oh, God, Harry’s face…
She rallied. ‘And what gave you the right to interfere?’
‘His wife is my cousin, Emma.’ His tone hardened. ‘I’ve known her since she was a tot, and I care very deeply about her happiness. Harry Metcalfe wouldn’t have been my choice for her, but she—loves him. So, I wasn’t going to have her wedding ruined by a spoiled, man-hungry little bitch like you.’
She was white to the lips. ‘How dare you? You know nothing—nothing about me.’
He said grimly, ‘The bridegroom told me all I needed to know—after some persuasion. He said that you’d had a crush on him for years, and you’d always been hanging around him, trying to attract his attention. Do you deny it?’
‘No.’ Her voice was almost inaudible.
I was a child. And he was like a god to me—gorgeous, glamorous Harry. I’d had hopes—dreams. Who wouldn’t? And, of course, I wanted to be noticed by him—but not like that. Not ever like that…
‘Eventually, against his better judgement, you had a brief fling together,’ the hard voice went on. ‘He admitted that. Also that he knew he’d made
