she was looking for ways out, but for her parents’ sake she had to go on.
She showered and dressed, agonising over what to wear to create the best impression, to show him how much she had grown and matured.
In the end she plumped for an elegant black jersey wool dress. It had been expensive and looked it, she admitted ruefully, as she zipped it up. It had been a ‘thank you’ present from someone for whom she had done some interior decoration schemes some months ago. She had enjoyed the challenge of the unexpected task and had flatly refused to take any money. The dress had been a surprise present, and one she had not had the heart to give back. It suited her, showing off her lean, narrow, feminine waist and the soft curves of her body.
Over it she wore a loose silk-effect coat with huge silver buttons and odd lace appliqués. It was the handiwork of a fellow art college friend, and against the rich darkness of her red hair she knew the black looked good.
For once her curls had obeyed the dictates of her brush, and lay smooth and controlled. Too nervous to eat, she made herself a cup of coffee, estimating how long it would take her to get to Bath.
The van they used for company business was her only means of transport, as her mother had their one and only car. The van was old but reliable, and she was used to driving it.
The threatened snow started to fall just before she reached the outskirts of Bath, reminding her that the brakes on the van needed checking. Grimacing faintly at the thought of the additional expense, she found somewhere to park.
There was just time for a calming cup of tea before she bearded the lion in his den. She headed for a favourite tea shop with a Dickensian ambience that surrounded its customers like a comforting favourite blanket.
The waitress recognised her, and gave her a beaming smile. Most of the customers seemed to be tourists, mainly Americans, Heather judged from their accents.
She poured her tea and drank it piping hot, trying to suppress the ever-increasing weight of memories.
When Kyle had been accepted at Oxford she had taunted him with the fact that his London accent would make him a laughing stock. It made her shudder to realise what a bitch she had been, but she had still been a child, and children did not fight by the rules. In point of fact, by that time he had had little trace of the very shrill Cockney accent he had had on first coming to them. Kyle, giving as good as he got, had said nothing at the time but, during their evening meal that night, in full earshot of her parents, he had mimicked her own voice, complete with the soft Dorset burr she had picked up at school. Of course, she had been bitterly humiliated, just as he had intended. She had still had to learn in those days that Kyle could outmatch her in almost every skill there was.
She realised her cup was empty and gave a faint sigh. It couldn’t be put off any longer. Resolutely she got up and paid her bill.
Outside, it was still snowing. Her coat wasn’t really designed as a protection against winter weather, and she shivered a little as she hurried in the direction of Kyle’s offices.
She knew roughly where they were and, given that she was familiar with the nature of his work from the many newspaper articles published on him, she shouldn’t have been surprised by the carefully restored Georgian façade of the building, nor the discretion of the small brass plate outside, announcing that within were the offices of Bennett Enterprises Limited.
Even in his choice of name for his company Kyle had to be different, she thought wryly. Any other young man starting out as a speculative builder and developer would have chosen something like Bennett Builders Limited, but not Kyle; even then he had seen his building company only as a cornerstone on which to build and expand.
Now his company was known as one of the most forward-thinking and responsible building firms around. His architects were called in whenever important restoration work was required, his expertise sought when the planners were at their wits’ end on how to appease both the conservationists and the needs of an ever-growing population.
Recently he had branched out into sheltered accommodation for retired people, and by all accounts was proving as successful in that field as he had been in so many others.
At twenty-nine, he had a reputation for being one of the country’s shrewdest and richest entrepreneurs.
For almost a moment Heather dithered, longing to turn tail and run, and yet held there by a stubborn desire to do what she knew was the right thing. This was her chance to make amends. To show that finally she had grown up and that the lessons learned from the months of counselling she had undergone after her attempted suicide had brought some return. That finally she had come to accept that love could be shared; that Kyle never had and never could be a threat to her own place in her parents’ hearts.
In the end, it was the cold that drove her inside the building; that and the fact that she was attracting curious looks from busy passers-by.
Inside, her heels tapped noisily on the black and white marble-tiled floor; so noisily, in fact, that she was rather surprised that every one of the five doors leading off the rectangular entrance hall did not immediately open.
On either side of the hallway, between the two sets of doors, stood elegant console tables with matching mirrors hung over them. The Georgian period had always been a favourite of hers, and Heather recognised the value of the antique mirrors almost at a glance.
Attractive dried floral displays, in keeping with the winter season, decorated the tables, but it was only when she headed rather nervously for the stairs that one of the doors actually opened.
She must, she realised, as a uniformed commissionaire politely enquired her business, having triggered off some sort of silent alarm.
She told him rather hesitantly that she had come to see Kyle Bennett, and then felt ridiculously foolish when she was forced to admit she was here without making an appointment. Plainly, that was simply not the sort of thing one did when approaching the head of Bennett Enterprises, and she felt a tiny surge of well-remembered resentment start up inside her.
She almost turned to go, but then remembered why she had come here in the first place. Almost in desperation, she said hurriedly, ‘Look, if I could write a note, could it be sent up to Ky—to Mr Bennett?’
That small slip in almost using Kyle’s Christian name was making the commissionaire eye her even more suspiciously, and she stiffened when she realised that the man suspected that she was one of Kyle’s cast-off girlfriends.
Even as a teenager he’d seemed to have had a fatal fascination that attracted members of her sex, and since he had become successful the gossip columns had regularly mentioned his name, connecting it with a variety of pretty socialites and would-be models-cum-actresses.
Surely one glance at her had been enough to inform the commissionaire that she was scarcely the type to attract the great Kyle Bennett, Heather thought bitterly.
‘Mr Bennett knows my … parents,’ she told him coldly. ‘If I could just write that note …’
‘In here, miss.’
The commissionaire obviously believed her, because his manner relaxed slightly as he showed her into one of the empty downstairs rooms.
Obviously a waiting-room of sorts, it was decorated with watered-silk wall hangings, the Georgian panels painted in a chinoiserie design of birds and branches. Two deep-cushioned settees were covered in the same pastel watered
