Serena shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Well, not obviously so. She’s just—beautiful. Slim and dark and gorgeous. Just like her mother, as I say.’
Dominic couldn’t suppress a grin. ‘No wonder you didn’t like her,’ he teased and a rueful smile tugged at his aunt’s mouth.
‘Well, she was arrogant,’ she said defensively. ‘Like she was doing me a favour by speaking to me at all.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Dominic was amused. ‘But let’s face it, you are a complete stranger to her. She was probably suspicious of your motives.’
Serena considered. ‘She really believes the Novaks were her parents, you know.’
‘Well, I suppose they were.’ Dominic shrugged. ‘The only parents she’s known, anyway. For the past twenty-odd years, she’s believed she had no other relatives.’
‘Twenty-two years,’ said Serena pedantically. ‘I guess you were about seven or eight when she was born.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘But didn’t she ever have any doubts?’ Serena frowned.
‘Children tend to believe what their parents tell them,’ said Dominic reasonably. ‘Unless they find them out in a lie. And it can’t have been easy for the Novaks either.’
‘They weren’t poor,’ said Serena pointedly. ‘According to Dad, Robert paid them a small fortune to take the baby to England and pass it off as their own.’
‘There are other problems besides financial ones,’ Dominic remarked drily, but Serena wasn’t listening to him.
‘They’d already made arrangements to emigrate,’ she said. ‘And the money must have been a real bonus.’ She grimaced. ‘I suppose the fact that Celeste had died in childbirth made it easier for Robert to escape the consequences of his actions.’
Dominic decided not to pursue the subject. Serena was never going to agree that neither her brother nor the Novaks had had it all their own way.
He doubted his father had found it easy to turn away his own child—his own flesh and blood—even for the sake of his marriage. He must have regretted it sometimes, however much he’d loved his wife.
‘Well, it’s in your hands now, darling,’ declared Serena half maliciously. ‘I’ve done my best and it obviously wasn’t good enough. Let’s hope you have more success.’
CLEO buttoned the neckline of her leather jacket and wrapped a blue and green striped scarf around her collar.
There was no point in pretending she wasn’t going to be frozen sitting watching a rugby football match. Despite Eric’s promise that they’d be protected by the roof of the stands, there wouldn’t be any heating at all.
Why had she agreed to go with him? she wondered. It wasn’t as if she wanted him to get the wrong impression about their relationship. He was a good friend; a good neighbour. But that was all.
The truth was that since Serena Montoya’s visit, she’d spent every evening on edge, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Although it was three days now since that encounter at the supermarket, she couldn’t believe the woman wouldn’t try to see her again. An evening out, even at a rugby match with Eric Morgan, was better than staying in on her own.
Norah had a date. She wouldn’t be home until much later, whereas Cleo’s job as an infant-school teacher meant she was home most afternoons by five o’clock.
After stepping into short sheepskin-lined boots, she considered the beanie lying on the table beside her. What the woollen hat lacked in style, it more than made up for in warmth and comfort.
But, on the other hand, she didn’t want Eric to think she was a wimp. And wearing a woolly hat was strictly for the birds. All the same…
With a muffled exclamation, she picked up the beanie and jammed it onto her head. She could always say she’d worn it to keep her hair tidy, she thought, viewing her reflection in the mirror without satisfaction. It wasn’t easy to keep the tumbled mass of silky dark hair in check. It was long enough to wear in a braid, but she’d caught it up in a ponytail this evening.
At least no one could say she looked beautiful at present. Quite the contrary, she’d decided firmly. But then she grimaced. She’d told herself she wouldn’t think about what the Montoya woman had said, so where had that come from?
When the doorbell rang at half-past six, she felt none of the apprehension she’d experienced in recent days when anyone came to the apartment. It just meant Eric was a few minutes early, and, as he only lived in the apartment upstairs, he didn’t have far to come.
‘Hang on,’ she called, snatching up her purse and her mobile phone and stuffing them into her pockets. Then, pulling the door open, she carolled, ‘See! I am rea—’
But it wasn’t Eric.
In fact it wasn’t anyone she knew and she felt a moment’s panic. Strange men just didn’t come calling this late in the day. Particularly not tall, dark men, with deep-set eyes and hollow cheek bones, and the kind of dangerous good looks that seldom went with a caring disposition.
He wasn’t a particularly handsome man. His features were too harsh, too masculine, to be described in such modest terms. Nevertheless, he was disturbingly attractive. He disturbed her in a way she recognised as being wholly sexual. And that was not good.
‘Um…’ Her voice failed her for a moment and she saw his eyes—green eyes, she observed—narrow perceptively. Then, clearing her throat, she continued tightly, ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so.’
His voice was as smooth as molasses and twice as sensual. Cleo’s stomach plunged alarmingly. She wasn’t used to having this kind of reaction to a man and she struggled to compose herself.
He had to be looking for Norah, she thought, though her friend had never mentioned meeting anyone like him. One thing was for sure: she’d never seen him before.
‘You must be Cleopatra,’ he went on, supporting himself with one hand raised against the jamb, and she stiffened.
His action had caused the sides of his dark cashmere overcoat to fall open to reveal an Italian-made suit that had probably cost more than Cleo made in a year at her job. A matching waistcoat was buttoned over a dark blue shirt that looked as if it was made of silk, dark trousers cut lovingly to reveal muscled thighs and long, powerful legs.
Even without the name he’d used causing her a shiver of apprehension, his appearance alone sent a frisson of awareness feathering down her spine.
No one she knew called her Cleopatra. No one except Serena Montoya, of course. Dear heaven, this man must be something to do with her.
‘Who—who are you?’ she got out uneasily, suddenly conscious of her less than glamorous appearance. Snatching off the beanie, she thrust it into her pocket. ‘I—I was just going out.’
