it was strong and vital to the touch.
All these things were evident to her in those first few seconds when her blood ran cold in her veins and burned like a banner in her cheeks. Jordan Kyle. Coming to see her after all this time. The last she had heard about him, he had been spending several weeks with his father who had lately retired to live in the West Indies, and his tan which looked so unusual against the lightness of his hair was further evidence that the English winter had meant little to him.
‘Hello, Emma,’ he said now, closing the door behind him with a little click. His words attracted Gilda’s attention, and for a brief moment they, too, exchanged glances, then her customer demanded attention and Jordan transferred all his attention to her assistant.
Clearing her throat, Emma managed not to let her smile disappear completely. It was four years since she had actually spoken to Jordan, and then only in passing at a charity ball organised by David’s mother. He had been with someone else then, a girl she couldn’t even remember. All she could remember was going to the ladies’ room and spending fifteen minutes in the toilet gaining control of herself again.
‘Hello, Jordan,’ she responded now, folding her duster meticulously between her fingers. Tightening her lips, she added, in what she hoped was a casual tone: ‘I didn’t know you were interested in antiques.’
‘I’m not.’ Jordan glanced round the cluttered shop with faint contempt. Then he looked at Emma again. ‘You know why I’m here. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘This is the showroom,’ replied Emma tautly. ‘Whatever you have to say, it can be said here.’
‘No, it can’t,’ he contradicted, looking beyond her to the door leading into the tiny office at the back of the shop. ‘Can we go in there?’ He gestured towards the office. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone.’
‘How mysterious!’ Emma tried to be facetious, but it didn’t quite come off. Looking doubtfully at Gilda, she murmured in a low voice: ‘Was it necessary to come to the shop? Why couldn’t you have told me over the telephone?’
Jordan’s sigh was irritable. ‘Look, Emma, I don’t have all day. Are you going to speak to me or aren’t you?’
She licked her dry lips. ‘And if I say no?’
‘I’ll leave,’ he stated grimly, and she knew he would.
‘But what can you have to say that—that’s so important?’ she exclaimed. Then, viewing his uncompromising features, she capitulated. ‘Oh, very well. Come in here.’
Ignoring Gilda’s speculative stare, she led the way into the tiny office at the back which was as cluttered in its way as the shop. Jordan looked about him impatiently as he closed the door, and in the small office his presence was that much more disturbing.
‘My God,’ he said, as she moved round the desk to put it as a physical barrier between them. ‘How do you find anything in this place?’
‘I imagine we manage,’ she replied, gripping the edge of the desk tightly for support. ‘Now, do you mind telling me why you’re here?’
‘Well, as you refused to eat a meal with me, I had no other alternative,’ he responded, and his dark eyes which were such a contrast to the lightness of his hair were suddenly compelling. ‘I wanted to talk to you—to ask your assistance—and I couldn’t do that over a telephone.’
‘To—ask my assistance!’ Emma sat down rather suddenly, as her legs gave out on her. ‘You want my assistance?’ She shook her head. ‘How can I help you?’
Jordan came to the desk and leant upon it, his long-fingered hands, the only artistic thing about him, spread squarely on the polished surface. His nails were always clean, she thought inconsequently, mesmerised by his closeness, by the clean male smell of him emanating from the opened buttons of his black leather car coat. But she dared not look up at him, and her eyes became glued somewhere between the waistband of his pants and the swinging pendulum of his tie.
‘My father is dying,’ he said, without preamble. ‘He wants to see you. He wants to see us—reconciled, for want of a better word.’
EMMA was glad she was sitting down. His words delivered in that curt uncompromising manner were completely emotionless, but that didn’t prevent them from shocking her to the core of her being. Andrew Kyle was dying! The man who had once been like a second father to her had only a limited time to live. She found it impossible to accept.
‘But—what’s—–’
‘Cancer,’ retorted Jordan coldly. ‘It’s terminal. The doctors gave him approximately six months.’
‘Does—does he know?’
‘I believe so.’ He straightened. ‘He’s not a fool. He knows the score. I imagine that’s why he wants to—put his affairs in order.’
‘But—but why me?’ Emma gazed up at him with troubled eyes. ‘I—he hasn’t seen me for—oh, seven or eight years. Not since—not since you took over the company, in fact.’
‘I know that.’ Jordan thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. ‘But now he wants to see you, and I’m here to find out how you feel about it.’
‘How I feel about it.’
Emma shook her head. How did she feel about it? Naturally, she pitied anyone served that kind of death sentence, but how could she be expected to feel any kind of personal involvement for so long she had forced herself not to think about the Kyles, father and son? And why should he want to see her anyway? He had shown no obvious distress when she and Jordan went their separate ways, and to receive this summons now was like opening up an old wound.
‘Well?’
Jordan was regarding her intently and she shifted awkwardly beneath that penetrating gaze. What was he thinking? she wondered. Did he resent having to come here and ask her for anything? Or was he perhaps comparing her to the woman he had known, and finding her wanting? Certainly, her straight rope of glossy dark hair could not compare to the champagne brilliance of Stacey Albert’s silken curls, and apart from her eyes, which were a mixture of violet and blue and set between long curling lashes, her features were quite ordinary. She was tall, of course, which was an advantage, but not willowy enough by today’s yardsticks. Her breasts were far too prominent, and although her legs were slim, her hips were not.
Now she rose to her feet again, and feeling at less of a disadvantage said: ‘Tell me where your father is, and I’ll go and see him.’
‘You will?’ Jordan’s features relaxed somewhat. ‘Thank you.’
‘That’s all right.’ Emma held up her head. ‘Uncle—that is, your father—was always very kind to me. And I know—I know Daddy would want me to do as you ask, despite—despite everything.’
Jordan bent his head thoughtfully, and as the silence between them stretched, Emma spoke again.
‘How—how is your mother taking this?’
‘My
