She had not come to the party to be propositioned, and she was not used to finding herself the centre of attraction. Besides, if she was honest she would admit that the awareness of Reed Gallagher in the background, watching her embarrassed attempts to break free of her admirers, had coloured her attitude towards them, and what might have been an amusing situation turned into a trial of nerves.
Learning that the man she had been so arbitrarily crossing swords with was really Celia’s fiancé had been a shock. Not that she had any interest in him personally, she assured herself, but his attitude towards her had not been that of a man desperately in love with his fiancée. At least, not in her experience it hadn’t. Perhaps their sort of people behaved differently. Perhaps, even in this day and age, it was to be a marriage engineered for convenience. But then, remembering the way Celia had clung to her fiancé’s arm and the adoring looks she had cast in his direction, Antonia felt convinced that for her part, Celia cared madly for her handsome Irishman. And probably he did, too, she reflected cynically, refusing to admit that initially she, too, had been disarmed. Whatever his feelings, she was unlikely to discover them, though she had the distinct suspicion he was not as careless and superficial as he would have had her believe. And when he had taken hold of her wrist …
Shaking her head to dislodge the irritating recollection of the cool strength of Reed’s fingers against her skin, Antonia endeavoured to apply herself to the application forms in front of her. The institute was always oversubscribed on all their courses, and it was to be part of her duties to consider each application on its merit, and winnow them down to a more manageable thirty-five or forty from which Mr Fenwick could make his final choice. New trainees were admitted in September, and interviews were apparently held in May and June to reduce the eventual intake to approximately twenty in each department. It promised to be an interesting part of her work, particularly as Mr Fenwick had informed her that in his opinion aptitude for a particular occupation was worth more than any number of academic qualifications.
This morning, however, Antonia’s brain refused to function, and by eleven o’clock she was still studying the second form. When Martin Fenwick appeared to ask her to come into his office, she abandoned her task with a feeling of relief, following him into his room with an enthusiasm untempered by her usual impatience to get on with her own job.
Blowing his nose before taking his seat, her boss regarded her rather speculatively. ‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs Sheldon?’ he asked, gesturing her to a chair on the other side of his desk. ‘You’re looking rather tired. Did you go home at the weekend?’
Not entirely relishing his probably well-meant enquiry, Antonia shook her head. ‘If you mean to Newcastle—then, no,’ she answered politely, wondering if she had bags under her eyes. ‘I … er … didn’t sleep very well last night.’
Martin Fenwick nodded. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well myself,’ he confessed, sinking down into his chair. ‘Lumbago’s the devil of a thing. Wakes you up, every time you turn over.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Antonia summoned a small smile. ‘But you’re feeling better now.’
‘Well—it’s bearable,’ he essayed heavily, shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘I suppose at my age I have to expect something. Be thankful yours is not a chronic condition.’
‘Yes.’
Antonia conceded his point, although lying awake in the early hours it had felt very much as though it was. She had blamed the fact that on Sunday she had done nothing but laze around the flat, but that wasn’t entirely true either. What she was really doing was coming to terms with the rather unpalatable realisation that in spite of her unfortunate experience with Simon, she was still not immune to sexual attraction.
‘So—shall we get down to business?’ suggested Mr Fenwick now, smoothing one hand over his bald pate as he read through the report she had prepared for him. ‘This is good, very good. Very comprehensive.’ His slightly rheumy eyes twinkled as he looked up at her. ‘I knew you were the woman for the job, as soon as I set eyes on you.’
Antonia was grateful for his confidence, and she did her best to satisfy all his enquiries, and learn how to deal with problems in his absence in the process. The failure of the hydraulic lift in the motor repair workshop had caused her some difficulties, she confessed, and the trainee joiner who had cut his hand badly on an electric saw deserved a reprimand she had not felt able to give him. Nevertheless, on the whole, there had been no insurmountable set-backs, and she knew by the end of their discussion that Mr Fenwick felt his belief in her abilities had been justified.
The afternoon proved rather less traumatic. After a snack lunch in the dining hall with Heather Jakes, Mr Fenwick’s secretary, Antonia returned to her desk to find her concentration was much improved. Determining not to waste any more time weighing the pros and cons of her attendance at the party, she put all thoughts of Celia Lytton-Smythe and her fiancé aside, and applied herself instead to the relative merits of a certificate in woodwork and an ability to type.
It was nearing six o’clock when Antonia reached the stone gate-posts that marked the boundary of Eaton Lodge. She had been grateful to find there was a short drive leading up to the house. Her rooms, being on the ground floor, would have adjoined the street otherwise, and she was still not accustomed to the sound of traffic at all hours of the day and night. Her mother’s house, in a suburb of Newcastle, was situated in a quiet cul-de-sac, and it had not been easy for her to make the transition.
Even so, she was glad that she did not have expensive train fares to add to her living expenses. The flat, in Clifton Gate, was only a bus ride from the institute in the Edgware Road, and on summer days she planned to walk to and from work. The exercise would do her good, and the resultant savings might enable her to pay more frequent visits to Newcastle—and Susie.
As she walked up the short path to the house, the black Lamborghini overtook her, and for the first time she saw Reed Gallagher at the wheel. It was early for him, she thought, aware of an unwelcome tightening of her stomach muscles. She couldn’t remember seeing the car in the drive much before seven-thirty or eight o’clock in the past, though she had to admit that until Celia pointed it out, she had paid little attention to their visitors. Now, however, she was all too aware of its occupant, and it took a certain amount of stamina to continue up the drive as if nothing untoward had happened.
By the time she reached the entrance, Reed had parked the powerful sports car, crossed the forecourt, and was waiting for her. In a dark blue three-piece business suit and a white shirt, he looked little different from the less formally dressed individual she had met at the party. With a conservative tie narrowly concealing the buttons of his shirt, and his hands pushed carelessly into the pockets of his jacket, he appeared relaxed and self-assured, confident in his cool male arrogance—and Antonia resented his somehow insolent supposition that she might be pleased to exchange a few words with him.
‘Hi,’ he said, as she came up the steps, his lean frame successfully blocking her passage. ‘How are you?’
Antonia held up her head and without looking at him, made her intentions evident. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Gallagher,’ she responded stiffly, edging towards the door. ‘Do you mind?’
Reed regarded her steadily for a few moments—she could almost feel those disturbing grey eyes probing her averted lids—then he politely stepped aside. ‘My pleasure,’ he assured her, allowing her to precede him into the gloomy entrance hall. ‘It’s cold out tonight, isn’t it? Very chilly!’
Pressing her lips together to suppress the immature retort that sprang into her mind, Antonia rummaged in her handbag for her key. If only she’d thought to do this before she came inside, she thought frustratedly. It was difficult to see what she was
