style="font-size:15px;"> She’d thanked him awkwardly for lunch and agreed to meet him in two days’ time, but it had been as if all the spontaneity and fluidity had drained from her—to be replaced by a keen awareness of the man beside her. The fact that his height caused a flutter along her nerve-ends, for example. The fact that she had enjoyed her lunch and his company much more than she’d expected to because he’d gone out of his way to make it enjoyable.
The fact, she thought hollowly, that he’d escorted her to her car as if he were escorting a movie star to her limousine rather than Lee Westwood in her work overalls to her second-hand yellow Toyota with its several dents.
But, she cautioned herself, with a sense of déjà vu, was it so surprising that at least a little flutter of attraction should cross her nerve-ends? How many other girls wouldn’t have felt the same beneath the spell of a tall, good-looking man at his charming best?
And there lies the rub, she thought ruefully. She was only one of a long line, she had no doubt. She heaved a sigh and decided the last thing she should ever do was give Damien Moore any indication that he’d been right about her that first day in his office. And she made a mental note that this was the second time she’d issued a warning of this nature to herself.
They met outside Cyril Delaney’s Balmain home on the appointed day.
Lee had taken the afternoon off work and wore neat beige linen trousers with a white shirt and a russet waistcoat. Her hair was loose but her trademark string bag remained the same. She showed no tendency to want to linger on the pavement, which Damien Moore noted, and he concluded from her severe expression that it held embarrassing memories for her.
He was tempted to ask her if that was so, but restrained himself. He had no real expectations of this interview solving anything for Lee Westwood’s grandparents, and it had caused him a few minutes’ internal interrogation to establish why that should concern him—minutely, but none the less it concerned him. The answer he came up with was that this feisty girl intrigued him. Not a good footing for lawyer-client relations, however, he reminded himself. Don’t get personally involved, in other words…
A housekeeper showed them into a sun room at the rear of the large, luxurious house, and introduced them to a frail-looking old man in a wheelchair—Cyril Delaney. They all shook hands and Lee and Damien seated themselves side by side on a cane settee.
‘So,’ Cyril said, ‘you’re the young lady my staff had to threaten with a restraining order while I was in hospital?’
Lee moistened her lips but took her time. In his prime, Cyril would have been tall and angular, she decided, whereas now he was stooped. His features were narrow and his teeth prominent. A few strands of silver hair were carefully combed over his head. But his eyes were bright blue and shrewd.
‘I am,’ she said quietly, ‘but I didn’t realise you were in hospital.’
‘Does that mean you would have picketed the hospital?’ he enquired.
Lee coloured faintly. ‘No. But I just couldn’t find any other way to bring this to your attention, Mr Delaney, and I feel I am quite within my rights to at least get a hearing.’
‘Hmm. So you’ve hired yourself a hotshot lawyer now?’ He turned those shrewd eyes on Damien. ‘Knew your father and I’ve always been an admirer of your mother, Damien Moore.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Damien replied, and let a few moments elapse. ‘Concerning Miss Westwood’s claims on behalf of her grandparents—’
‘Let the girl speak for herself,’ Cyril Delaney broke in.
Damien turned to Lee with a clear warning in his eyes—no hot air!
Lee swallowed. Then she began to outline her grandparents’ plight, coolly and simply. She concluded by saying, ‘It was your reputation that got them in, Mr Delaney.’
Cyril Delaney lay back in his wheelchair. ‘Piffle,’ he remarked.
‘Now look here—’ Lee began, but Damien put his hand over hers.
Cyril noted this, as well as noting how Lee Westwood looked up at Damien Moore with a stubborn light in her green eyes, and how, when she transferred that stubborn green gaze back to himself, and repeated herself, Damien Moore’s expression became tinged with a sort of wry affection rather than exasperation. All of which caused him to make a mental note concerning Evelyn Moore’s good-looking son who as yet, he believed, had not been snared and taken to the altar.
Then he closed his eyes and overrode what Lee was saying so hotly.
‘Young lady, tell me a bit about yourself.’
Lee stopped, open-mouthed. ‘Why?’ she got out at last.
‘You interest me, that’s all. And since I’ve been confined to this accursed wheelchair a lot of interest has gone out of life for me, I can assure you.’
This time Lee responded to Damien’s pressure on her hand. ‘Well…’ she said a little confusedly, but didn’t seem to know how to go on.
‘Miss Westwood was brought up by her grandparents after her parents were killed,’ Damien put in.
‘Where?’
Lee told him, and received a suddenly acute look from the old man. ‘Is that a fact?’ he said slowly. ‘And what do you do with yourself?’
Lee told him.
‘You could be looking at the next Capability Brown,’ Damien put in at the end of Lee’s recital. ‘Her tenacity is little short of amazing.’
‘Don’t tell me she camped out on your doorstep too?’ Cyril hazarded.
‘I did not,’ Lee intervened, and pulled her hand out from Damien’s. ‘I would also appreciate it if you two would stop talking over me as if I didn’t exist.’
Damien shrugged and looked down at her with a faint smile. ‘There’s little likelihood of that.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Cyril contributed, but in a curiously meaningful way that caused Damien to suddenly eye him curiously.
But Cyril seemed to tire abruptly. ‘When’s this damn document dated?’ he asked testily.
Damien told him.
‘I was in hospital. Someone was using my name and forging my signature. It’s the only explanation, Miss Westwood. I’m sorry, but…’ He paused, and frowned, then said almost to himself, ‘No. Uh, I can certainly prove I was in hospital at the time, but you’re welcome to inspect my bank accounts, Damien Moore.’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ Damien said.
‘Just a minute,’ Lee said desperately. ‘I’m sorry, sir—I can see you don’t feel well—but the man they described to me looked a lot like you!’
There was a sudden silence. And for a moment Cyril’s gaze was electric blue on Lee. Then it became hooded and he said to Damien, ‘Take her away, my boy, and look after her. And call the nurse on the way out.’
‘Feeling better?’
