he saw the pose she struck, and her hand fell to her side.
Now why had she been caught looking as though she was preening herself—something she never normally did? Why, he probably thought that all she was concerned about was feminine vanity—even at a dreadful time like this.
She blinked as she looked at him.
Angel had quite forgotten how he could simply seem to fill a room with his presence. She wondered, had he been born with that indefinable something which immediately drew the eye and the interest without any effort on his part? Some characteristic which planted itself so indelibly on your memory that he seemed to still be in the room minutes after he had left it.
Or had he learnt that from his job? As an advocate, he dominated courtrooms with his presence and his eloquence, representing the rights of the underdog. She remembered Chad’s derisive expression, unable to understand why his big brother would pass up the opportunity to earn riches beyond most people’s dreams. Instead, he fought cases for the poor and underprivileged—those who would normally be unable to afford a lawyer of his undoubted calibre.
And in that he could not have been more different from his brother, for Chad had chased every money-making prospect which came his way.
Rory Mandelson was a big man, and a tall man, too—with the same kind of dark, rugged good looks as his younger brother. And yet he had none of Chad’s wildness. Or his unpredictability—you could tell that simply by looking at him. Rory emanated strength and stability, thought Angel, like a great oak tree rooted deeply into the earth.
He stared very hard at her, his mouth flattening into an implacable line, which was understandable, given the circumstances of his visit. But it gave absolutely no hint as to how he might be feeling inside.
There was something very disciplined about Rory Mandelson, Angel realised suddenly. You wouldn’t really have a clue what was going on behind those deep blue eyes of his, with the lush black lashes which curled around them so sinfully.
His black jeans were his only concession to mourning, otherwise—with a sweater as green as the Wicklow Mountains, which rose in verdant splendour outside the window—he looked just as casual as any other tourist. Not that there had been many tourists just lately, Angel acknowledged. It had been an unusually cruel and bleak January in this part of Ireland, with no signs of a change in sight.
‘Hello, Angel,’ he said softly. His navy eyes searched her face, and for the briefest second Angel had the oddest sensation of that blue gaze searing through all her defences, able to read her soul itself.
‘H-hello, Rory,’ she replied shakily. She got up from the sofa slowly, with the exaggerated care of an old woman, and crossed the room until she was standing right in front of him. And only then could she sense the immense sadness which surrounded him like an aura, his grief almost tangible in the brittle silence. His deep blue eyes were dulled with the pain, his features strained with the effort of keeping his face rigidly controlled.
Angel acted on instinct.
Rising up on tiptoe, she put her arms tightly around him in the traditional gesture of condolence, and let her head fall helplessly to his shoulder, expecting him to enfold her in his arms in an answering gesture of comfort.
She would have done the same whoever it had been—man, woman or child. It was an intuitive action, and one prompted by the haunted expression in his blue eyes, but Angel felt his muscular frame stiffen and shift rejectingly beneath her fingertips, and she immediately dropped her hands to her sides, where they hung awkwardly, as if they were not part of her body but someone else’s.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said woodenly as she glimpsed his shuttered expression. He was English, after all. Perhaps the widow of his brother should not have been flinging her arms around his neck with so much familiarity. Perhaps it was not the ‘done thing’.
‘Yes, I know,’ he responded flatly. ‘Everyone is sorry. He was too young—much too young to die.’
Had he deliberately misunderstood her? Angel wondered. Been unwilling to dwell on her action because he was embarrassed by it? Or appalled by it?
Vowing to make amends, and to act as appropriately as the circumstances demanded, she gestured to a chair. ‘Would you like to sit down, Rory?’ she asked him formally. ‘You’ve had a long journey.’
He looked at the chair she had indicated, as if doubtful that it would accommodate his long-legged frame, and shook his head. ‘No. I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. I’ve been sitting in the car for hours.’
‘A drink, then?’
‘No. Not yet.’
Their eyes met.
‘Then are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ asked Angel quietly. ‘Why you came?’
His dark head shook emphatically. ‘Not yet,’ he said again, and Angel decided that she had never met a man who could carry off evasiveness with so much aplomb.
His eyes were distracted by something, and he reached to the side-table and picked up the wedding photograph she had been studying before he arrived. Rory’s mouth twisted as he stared down at the differing expressions of the participants, frozen in time in a group combination which could now never be repeated. ‘So, you were reliving happier times, were you?’ he queried, his voice hard and mocking.
‘Is that so very wrong, then?’ She knew she sounded stung, almost defensive. Was this what he did to witnesses on the stand—backed them into a corner until he had them lashing out, saying things they probably hadn’t meant to say? ‘It’s one of the few photos I have of your brother.’
He shrugged. ‘Forgive me if I sound cynical,’ he observed coolly. ‘But, as you know, I never thought that the wedding should go ahead in the first place—’
‘Oh, yes, I know that!’ she whispered back, with a bleak laugh which was the closest Angel ever got to feeling bitter about the whole affair. ‘You made that quite clear at the time!’
‘And circumstances bore out my initial assessment of the relationship,’ he mused.
She stared at him in horror. ‘You stone-hearted beast!’
He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I would therefore be an out and out hypocrite if I now professed to approve of the marriage simply because Chad is dead.’
Angel drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he clipped out that cold, final word. ‘Must you put it quite so callously?’ she demanded, wondering whether he had a sympathetic bone in his body.
His lips flattened. ‘How else would you like me to put it? Do you want me to use euphemisms for what was essentially a horrible and violent end to Chad’s young life? He hasn’t “passed on” or “fallen asleep”, you know. He’s dead, Angel—and we both have to accept that.’
‘Are you deliberately being brutal?’ she asked him weakly.
‘Yes,’ he admitted, watching a pulse beat frantically at her throat. ‘But sometimes brutal is best if it makes you face up to facts.’
Facts.
Angel sank down onto the edge of a chair without thinking as she asked the question whose answer she had little desire to hear. ‘So
