go on,’ he said silkily. ‘What do I seem to have been?’
‘Unfortunate in your experience of women.’
The instant the fatal sentence was spoken, she could have bitten her tongue. He looked absolutely livid.
As though the words echoed inside her head, she could hear Alan saying, ‘All you have to do is take care not to get on the wrong side of him.’
Her heart like lead, she realized that though they had only been here a matter of hours she’d managed to do just that.
After a moment or two, his anger under control, his hard face devoid of expression, he asked brusquely, ‘So what exactly have you heard?’
‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’ She was genuinely at a loss.
His eyes holding hers, he said slowly, ‘I could almost believe that.’
‘You can believe it, Mr Dalton. It’s the truth.’
‘Do you mean there isn’t any gossip going the rounds? Or you don’t listen to it?’
‘If you mean gossip about you, so far as I know there isn’t any.’
‘That’s surprising. Though at this end every effort was made to curb it, it’s almost impossible to stamp it out altogether. You’d heard the old rumour that my PA was afraid of me…’
Not knowing what to say, Cassandra stayed silent.
‘And your remark just now suggested you’d heard…other things.’
Shaking her head, she chose her words with care. ‘I said what I did because I thought you sounded…somewhat disillusioned… Obviously I got the wrong impression.’
Then, in a rush, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re angry with me, but please don’t hold it against Alan.’
Lang’s dark blue gaze narrowed on her face. Mockingly, he said, ‘I could almost believe you do love him.’
Watching her bite her lip, he smiled thinly.
Afraid to speak in case she put her foot in it again, she twisted her hands together in her lap and prayed that someone would come and break up this most uncomfortable tête-à-tête.
CHAPTER TWO
HER prayer was answered.
‘So there you are, Cass…’
The familiar voice sent a flood of relief surging through her, and she looked up eagerly to see Alan crossing the terrace.
Freshly showered and shaved, his evening jacket immaculate, his dark hair expertly styled, he looked every inch the rising young executive.
Sounding more than a little put out, he added, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Come and join us,’ Lang Dalton invited blandly, his air now that of a civil host. ‘What will you have to drink?’
‘Sweet vermouth, please, with ice and lemon.’
Rising to his feet, Lang queried, ‘Would you like a refill, Cassandra?’
Catching Alan’s flicker of surprise at the use of her Christian name, she answered awkwardly, ‘No, thank you. As a rule I don’t drink at all.’
When the tall figure had crossed to the bar, Alan came and sat down opposite her. His good-looking face aggrieved, he complained, ‘I hung about for what seemed an age… In the end I was forced to ask the houseboy where your room was.’
Seeing his dignity had been wounded, she began, ‘I’m sorry, I—’
But he was going on, ‘When I found it was empty, and there was no sign of you, I began to wonder where the devil you’d got to.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘but I—’
She broke off as, having passed Alan his vermouth, Lang Dalton came and sat down again beside her.
‘There’s no need for Cassandra to apologize,’ he said coolly, obviously having overheard the low-toned conversation. ‘The fault was mine. I asked her to have a private drink with me…’
Alan looked startled.
‘I wanted to sound her out about something before I spoke to you. In the event I didn’t get round to it.’
His brown eyes holding a hint of anxiety, Alan asked, ‘What did you want to speak to me about?’
‘As we’ll be dining shortly, I’d prefer to leave any business discussions until later,’ Lang Dalton told him. He continued decidedly, ‘I make it a rule never to talk shop at the table—whether or not there are other guests present.’
As though picking up a cue, Alan remarked, ‘I haven’t seen any of the other guests around… But perhaps they’re not arriving until tomorrow?’
‘On this occasion there are no other guests. I decided to dispense with the social side and concentrate on the business in hand.’
As he finished speaking, Manuel appeared and announced that dinner was served.
‘Shall we go in?’ Lang got to his feet and waited courteously for Cassandra to lead the way.
The long, polished dining table looked a picture, with fine napkins, cut glass, and a centre-piece of fresh flowers.
It was set for three.
As their host moved to the head of the table and seated Cassandra on his right, Alan queried politely, ‘Your wife isn’t dining with us?’
Lang glanced at him and, the muscles in his jaw tightening, made no reply.
Obviously nonplussed by the other man’s silence, Alan pursued, ‘Perhaps we’ll have the pleasure of meeting her tomorrow?’
‘That isn’t likely.’ His expression a mixture of cold fury and naked pain, Lang added curtly, ‘My wife died nearly six months ago. Surely you knew that?’
Thrown into confusion, Alan stammered, ‘N-no… I— I’m sorry… I had no idea.’
Sitting still and silent, Cassandra could only feel bitterly sorry for him, and angry that Lang Dalton had allowed him to make such a blunder.
A black-coated butler appeared and began to serve melon boats with a compote of chilled summer fruits.
In a strained silence, and never having felt less like eating, she picked up her spoon and began to eat. After a while, glancing up unwarily, she encountered her host’s intent gaze.
Cassandra’s eyes instantly dropped, but not before he’d read in them anger and resentment and an unspoken accusation.
Speaking expressly to her, as though
