he derided harshly.
‘Not yet,’ she answered vaguely. But if what she suspected were to become fact, she had a feeling she was going to be put in a position where she could possibly learn to love him as a stepfather. If Henry ever persuaded her mother to stop running. And Silke was positive he was going to have a damn good try at doing exactly that!
‘But you might be able to force yourself,’ Lyon rasped with contempt. ‘Taking into account his bank balance—and his obvious ill-health. After all, the chances are, with his heart complaint, that you wouldn’t have to be married to him for too long before he—’
Silke had never hit anyone in her life before. Until that moment. And there was no thought behind it now either, just an instinctive response to the insult Lyon was making to both her and Henry. Just who did this man think he was? How dared he say those things about her after knowing her for so brief a time?
But if she thought she was angry then, her emotions were mild in comparison with his; his face was deathly white, a nerve pulsing in one rigidly clenched cheek, the red marks where her fingers had made contact standing out lividly against that abnormal paleness. But as usual it was his eyes that were most expressive, glittering dangerously, almost silver in their intensity.
Silke stared up at him wordlessly, shocked by her own actions as much as by his reaction to it.
‘You’re going to regret you ever did that,’ he finally ground out between clenched, perfectly even white teeth.
She didn’t doubt it, had realised that the moment her hand made contact with that hard cheek! But there was no way she was going to stand by and let this man insult her—and his uncle!—in the way he had been doing.
‘Goodbye, Mr Buchanan,’ she told him with as much dignity as she could muster, turning away to join the milling crowd, people that had only been momentarily diverted in their hurry to get home by the scene taking place on the pavement between the tall, autocratic man and the slender, blonde-haired young woman.
As she walked away, Silke half expected those steely fingers to grasp her once again. But as she took each step further away from Lyon Buchanan and it didn’t happen, she began to breathe again, resisting the impulse to turn and look back at him to see exactly what he had done after she walked away, whether he had gone back to his car or was still standing on the pavement where she had left him. No doubt he had roared off in the other direction in his powerful car, thoughts of revenge already forming in his calculating mind!
Silke realised she was trembling with reaction. God, that man was—well, he just was! She had never met anyone like him before. And she hoped she never did again!
* * *
Her mother hadn’t, as it turned out, run very far. Silke knew, by the lights blazing in her mother’s apartment as she approached the prestigious building, that her mother was definitely at home. It was something, at least.
The fact that her mother was in the kitchen baking bread wasn’t a good sign; it was her mother’s other escape. All through her haphazard childhood Silke could remember the smell of baking bread whenever her mother had hit another disaster in her life—and there had been many!
It was obvious, from the slightly red-rimmed green eyes as their gazes met across the kitchen, that her mother had been crying. A lot, from her make-up-less cheeks; her mother was always perfectly groomed and made-up.
She abruptly broke off her fierce pummelling of the dough to frown at the distress clearly written on Silke’s pale face. ‘What happened?’ she asked heavily.
Too much for her to be able to tell it all! She couldn’t believe it was only just over eight hours since she had gone, under protest, to take up her position in the confectionery department of Buchanan’s; it seemed as if a lifetime had passed since Lyon Buchanan had verbally ripped into her before dragging her up to his office.
But Lyon Buchanan wouldn’t be where her mother’s interest lay...
‘Henry Winter collapsed after you ran out of the office this after—steady!’ Silke warned concernedly as her mother swayed slightly, her face going even paler.
Silke hurried to pull out a chair from the kitchen table, sitting her mother down in it before moving to sit in the chair opposite, looking across at her worriedly; there could be no doubting her mother’s distress at the news.
Her mother moistened dry lips. ‘Is he—is he—?’
‘He’s in a private clinic,’ Silke reassured gently. She had never seen her mother shaken like this; there must have been something very special between her mother and Henry Winter for her to be reacting like this. ‘I’m going to telephone later to see if he’s—’
‘Just tell me where it is.’ Her mother stood up abruptly, already taking off her apron before moving to wash her flour-covered hands.
Silke frowned at her. ‘But a short time ago you ran away from the man—’
‘Just tell me, Silke,’ her mother repeated sharply, her face more pale and strained than ever. ‘Today wasn’t the first time I ran away from Hal,’ she added stiltedly. ‘I think, this time—in the circumstances—I owe him an explanation.’ She looked pained at the thought.
Silke had guessed some of what might have occurred between the older couple in the past, and ‘in the circumstances’ maybe it would be fairer to Henry Winter not to tell her mother he wasn’t in any immediate danger; she knew too well herself how far and how ably her mother could run when she set her mind to it. Henry would never find her!
So instead she told her mother exactly where the clinic was, assuring her she would clear away the mess she had been making when Silke arrived.
‘But if you run into the nephew—beware!’ she thought it prudent to advise her mother as she left, remembering all too clearly her own run-ins with Lyon Buchanan. ‘He’s very protective of his uncle,’ she added by way of explanation—although she knew that wasn’t strictly the truth; Lyon Buchanan had an arrogant disdain about him that owed nothing to family loyalty.
‘So he damn well should be,’ her mother replied scathingly. ‘I’ll call you if I’m going to be late,’ she added dismissively.
Silke looked after her mother frowningly; just what had she meant by that parting comment concerning Lyon Buchanan? No doubt her mother would tell her soon enough, and in her own time, if she chose to, as she always had.
One thing Silke did know—Lyon Buchanan wasn’t going to like it that a member of her family—Satin, no less!—was visiting his uncle...!
* * *
It was a long evening for Silke, sitting alone in the flat, wondering exactly what her mother was doing at the clinic all this time. Obviously the older couple had found a lot to talk about, but, even so, she wouldn’t have thought Henry was in any condition to discuss anything too emotional.
When her mother still hadn’t returned by the next morning Silke went into the agency and opened up for the day, leaving the secretary to deal with things while she went to the clinic herself, her curiosity getting the better of her now. And if anything had happened to Henry, from her mother’s reaction to seeing him again after all these years, Silke didn’t like to think what condition her mother was going to be in.
‘Your
