he’d seen had been remotely suitable. Damn it, he needed someone capable and reliable to help him out as soon as possible or he’d be fit to be tied! His situation had already begun making him feel unbearably imprisoned, and for a man who was used to being so active—living life at ‘breakneck speed’, as his sister so often observed with concern—the experience was bordering on torture...
Giving the redhead a long, assessing glance, he said, ‘Follow me into the living room and we can talk about this some more.’ Hal’s tone rang with the innate command that came only too easily to him. Would his potential home help be able to handle an often belligerent and exacting male who made no apology for it?
‘You mean you want the interview to continue?’
‘Well, I’m not inviting you into my living room to get your opinion on the decor, Ms Blessington.’ Even as he uttered the droll reply Hal registered that it was the first time he’d seen so much as a flicker of doubt in the woman’s bright blue eyes—as if she’d momentarily feared her forthright manner might have talked her out of the job. As he turned away to steer the wheelchair further down the hall towards the living room he couldn’t help mentally storing the information in case he ever had occasion to draw upon it. In his profession he’d long ago learned the wisdom of knowing his advantages when it came to relationships—professional or otherwise. And neither was he above using them...
Following behind the wheelchair, Kit used the time to further examine the man tagged as ‘Lucky Henry’ in the music business. Apparently, according to people in the know, he had the enviable gift of discovering potentially lucrative talent and backing it financially, expanding that talent even more, and obviously making himself even richer and more successful in the process as the artists he sponsored made platinum sales on their records and became the ‘next big thing’ in the pop industry.
Even though she didn’t have the slightest desire to experience how the other half lived in that shallow, materialistic world—a world that in her opinion could only breed disappointment and unhappiness when an artist’s star began to wane and they were no longer ‘flavour of the month’—Kit couldn’t deny she had often been intrigued as to what happened to the budding stars who didn’t make it.
And, more than that, she was indisputably interested as to the motivation behind Henry Treverne’s decision to become an impresario in such a dog-eat-dog profession. Having been a temporary home help to many celebrity clients, she’d done her research and learned that ‘Lucky Henry’ came from landed gentry and had grown up with every possible material advantage. Was money and success the only thing that inspired him because he’d already experienced being raised with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth? Surely the man must be a more complex character than his public persona suggested?
Not only had he enjoyed every material advantage growing up, he was also blessed with an extraordinary physique and arresting good looks to boot. As Kit’s gaze settled on broad, athletic shoulders in a cream cashmere sweater and thick dark hair curling somewhat rebelliously over the neckline she couldn’t help wondering that if he should offer her the job, and if she accepted it, perhaps this time she really would be biting off more than she could chew. She might have deliberately given Henry Treverne the impression that she wasn’t particularly concerned about whether he gave her the job or not because she’d already lined up another interview in Edinburgh, but the truth was it did matter to Kit—because the agency was paying the highest possible rate for this position and, as well as looking good on her résumé, it would really help boost her savings—savings she was eager to add to so that she might at long last buy the little bolthole she’d always yearned for.
‘What’s Kit short for?’
The question was fired at her as they reached the living room. Not answering immediately, Kit glanced round to get her bearings. The first thing that hit her was the bold oil painting of a man scaling what looked to be the sheer face of a glacier. Something about the tilt of the head, along with the colour of his hair and the breadth of his shoulders, made Kit realise that the daredevil mountaineer was Henry. Transfixed, it was hard for her to look away.
‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ she said.
His tight-lipped expression told her the question unsettled him.
‘It is.’
Ignoring the opportunity to comment further—unlike most men, who notoriously loved to brag about their daring exploits—he remained stubbornly uncommunicative, so she returned her attention to the living room. She’d guessed his taste would veer towards the contemporary and she was right. The high-quality monochrome furniture that predominated was ultra-chic, with smooth clean lines, and it was arranged almost like a display of elite sculptures at an exhibition. Even though it had probably cost and arm and a leg to furnish, it was hardly the most inviting living room Kit had ever been in... However, the three streamlined ebony leather couches that took centre stage were strewn with brightly coloured Moroccan-style silk cushions that made her think he must have surrendered to a rogue impulse to inject some warmth into the arrangement.
‘Kit is short for Katherine, and Katherine is spelt with a K.’ Breaking off her reverie, she returned to his question regarding her name.
Her answer was the one she usually gave when quizzed about it. Her mother had been very particular about the spelling...it was the one decision in her life she’d appeared to have made with ease. It was a far from a normal occurrence. When it came to making informed decisions for herself and her daughter Elizabeth Blessington reacted to the task like a billiard ball run amok—decisions were random and precarious. How could they not be when they were invariably emotionally driven rather than made using reason and common sense? That was why Kit had found herself taking charge from such a ridiculously young age. While her friends had been playing with dolls or games Kit had usually been sitting in her mother’s kitchen, trying to help find some practical solution to her latest dramatic dilemma—or if not that then consoling her because some unsuitable man she’d become infatuated with had once again let her down.
Elizabeth Blessington’s choice of men had been disastrous, and the self-destructive pattern had begun with Kit’s father. Ralph Cottonwood had been a genuine Romany gypsy who had selfishly abandoned Elizabeth when she’d become pregnant. In her mother’s wistful words, ‘He couldn’t be tied down to a conventional married life when the allure of the open road would always call to him.’
Although Kit had missed not having a steady male influence in her life, she’d long ago decided that her itinerant father had probably done her and her mother a favour by not sticking around. One totally impractical parent with her head in the clouds had been quite enough to cope with...
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
Moving his wheelchair into the centre of the room, Henry vaguely waved his hand towards the couches.
‘Okay.’ As she settled herself Kit rested her hands together in her lap and patiently waited for him to continue. A sudden realisation struck her. She’d thought his eyes were green, but in the beam of gold sunlight that streamed through the windows she saw that they were a chameleon-like hazel, and fringed with enviably lustrous long black lashes. She’d have to be made of stone not to admire such a compelling visage...
‘So tell me, Katherine with a K, what impulse led you into doing this kind of work?’
‘I decided to do it because I like helping people.’
‘And what qualifications do you have?’
The question didn’t faze her, even though she’d often regretted her lack of opportunity to study for a profession. But with a mother who was often in
