something wrong, Miss James?” he enquired, his voice as soft as velvet with an underlying thread of steel.
Helen shook her head, looking almost desperately about the lamplit room. It was a most attractive room, she had to admit, and not at all the sort of surroundings to inspire unease. It had a masculine austerity, an absence of anything frivolous, but that was only to be expected. There were hunting trophies on the panelled walls, swords in their scabbards and antique guns, and several pieces of ornamental design which Helen recognised as being valuable. The room gave an impression of quiet quality and distinction, and although some of the appointments bore the marks of well-use, they did not detract from its air of comfortable elegance. Whoever he was, he was not a poor man, but why he should choose to live as he did was beyond her comprehension. Was he a painter, a sculptor, an artist of some sort? Who else desired such a solitary existence?
And then a framed photograph on the wall behind the bureau caught her eye. She couldn’t distinguish every detail from where she was sitting, particularly in this shadowy light, but what she could see was enough to realise that it was the blown-up picture of a car smash, a violent pile-up of men and machinery that churned up the road and threw fragments of metal into the dust-choked air. It was not a coloured photograph, but its perception was such that the ugliness and savagery of the crash were brutally unmistakable.
Her shocked gaze shifted to the man who was now standing so stiffly beside the couch. The tawny eyes were hard and narrowed and she knew he had intercepted her revealing concentration on the photograph. She also knew why he was suddenly so aloof. He had guessed that her earlier suspicions regarding his identity were suspicions no longer. He had been one of the drivers involved in that ghastly crash. But it had been no ordinary pile-up. It had taken place about six years ago, on the Nurburgring in Germany …
“I know who you are,” she said, slowly, wonderingly. She got to her feet. “You’re – Dominic Lyall, the racing driver!”
The stiffness went out of his lean body and he leant against the back of the couch, supporting himself with his palms on the braided tapestry cushions. “I am Dominic Lyall, yes,” he conceded wryly. “But I’m no longer a racing driver.”
“But you were.” Helen stared at him. “I remember my father talking about you. He admired you tremendously before – before –”
“Before the crash?” His tone was bitter. “I know.”
“But he thought – I mean –” She broke off, her brows drawn together in perplexity. “It was generally assumed – well, you disappeared. My father said – lots of people said –” She moved her shoulders uncomfortably, leaving the words unsaid.
“It was thought that I was dead?” He was ironic. “Oh, yes, I’m quite aware of that rumour. My injuries were extensive, and it suited me to foster such a belief. There’s nothing more pathetic than a fallen idol who still tries to hog the limelight.”
“But it wasn’t like that,” Helen protested. “The crash was a terrible accident. No one was to blame. The publicity –”
“Did I say I blamed myself?” he interrupted her, his voice cool and cynical.
“No. No, but –” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “My father was such a fan of yours. He still has some pictures of you in his study. And there were thousands of others like him. Do you think it was fair to allow them to assume that you were dead?”
Dominic Lyall straightened, one long brown hand massaging his hip. “Do you think I’m not entitled to any privacy simply because for a time I lived in the public eye, Miss James?”
Helen didn’t know how to answer him. “I wouldn’t presume to make judgements, Mr. Lyall. All I’m saying is that it seems a pity that a talent such as yours should be denied to other aspiring drivers.”
His lips twisted. “So much and no more.” He ran his fingers over the light hair at the nape of his neck. “You wouldn’t begin to understand, Miss James.”
Helen held up her head. “You underestimate me, Mr. Lyall.”
His smile held a kind of self-mockery. “Perhaps I do, at that. However …” He drew a deep breath. “However, it’s unfortunate that your memory serves you so well. I should have thought a child of sixteen would have been more interested in popular music and its idols.”
“I’ve told you – my father went to racing events. Sometimes I went with him.”
“Oh, yes, your father.” His eyes narrowed broodingly. “A curious anomaly.”
“What do you mean?” His words troubled her a little.
Dominic Lyall moved his powerful shoulders in a deprecative gesture. “I should have thought it would have been obvious, Miss James.”
“What would have been obvious?”
He regarded her with that denegrating unblinking stare. “Why, your recognising me, Miss James. A most – unfortunate occurrence. I’m afraid it means that you will not be leaving here in the morning, after all.”
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