Separate Rooms. Diana Hamilton
behind her breastbone. Then she asked with a sharp sidelong glance, ‘Why so interested?’
‘I’m not—particularly.’ His elegant shrug was indicative of indifference. And then he qualified, ‘At least, only in as much as I’m interested in people—what motivates them, why they act as they do in different circumstances.’
‘Oh?’ Her interest caught, Honey took another sip of the warming spirit and bestowed a slight smile. ‘Why? What are you—a social worker, a writer, maybe?’
‘Much duller.’ He returned her smile with a trace of wryness. ‘I’m Claremont Electronics. Much the same line as BallanTrent. Boring stuff, as I’m sure you’d be the first to agree.’
Blandly said, but Honey’s fine brows drew together. Had Sonia told him of the running battle between herself, her mother and Henry Trent, her deceased father’s partner? Could be. Which would explain his comment about boredom. But she’d heard of Claremont Electronics. And maybe that company and BallanTrent could be classed in the same breath, but only just. Claremont was world-wide, huge, and specialised in futuristic stuff, designing and manufacturing electronics for the space industry. A different and far classier kettle of fish... And if he was the Claremont, then, by all accounts, he was a near-genius...
‘So you’re not in love with young Trent and you have no intention of marrying him, am I right?’ The rich, comforting voice startled her out of her thoughts and she wrinkled her neat nose.
‘Got it in one. Only you try convincing him. I can’t. Ever since my mother and his father decided that their sole offspring should marry for the good of the company—all one happy family kind of stuff—he’s been driving me crazy. The trouble is,’ she confided on a gusty sigh, ‘he’s so old-fashioned and conventional. The business comes first. It must be secured because it provides not only a sizeable income but social standing, respect, if you like. And if Henry, his father, tells him that our marriage would be the best thing for the dratted business then that, as far as Graham is concerned, is that. Regardless.’
Honey swallowed the last of her drink and crashed the glass back on the table, her movements edgy again. Her temper, always volatile, was in danger of exploding from the pressure she’d been under just lately, from both Graham and her mother, and her mouth curled with derision when Ben put in equably, ‘Maybe he’s in love with you. Couldn’t you put his persistence down to that?’
‘Love!’ Honey’s voice rose several decibels, her magnificent eyes narrowing with scorn. ‘Graham loves BallanTrent, his self-image, and golf. In that order!’
‘Are you quite sure?’ The relaxed voice was smoky, amusement curling through it as the vivid blue eyes roamed from the unrestrained corkscrew twists of her fiery hair to the tips of her elegantly shod feet, taking in every point of interest in between. ‘Your mind is alert and bright, your face could be your fortune, and your body is quite definitely of the come-to-bed variety. And don’t get me wrong,’ he inserted at her suddenly suspicious, withering glare, his tone not altering in the slightest, ‘I’m speaking entirely as a non-involved observer.’
‘Oh.’ The frown between her eyes eased away. Just for a moment she had felt hot and bothered by the lazy sweep of his eyes, the tone of his voice, the things he had said. ‘Come-to-bed body’ sounded like things she had heard a score of times before and had taken the greatest exception to. But he had shown, all along, his impartiality, described his interest in the situation as merely academic. And even though his arm was stretched casually out along the back of the banquette, his fingers a mere twitch away from the naked, creamy skin of her shoulder, he hadn’t once tried to touch.
And his impartiality was back in force when he stated, ‘So you are not in love with young Trent and have no intention of marrying him to keep BallanTrent in the family, so to speak. You have repeatedly told him this, to no avail. I take it there is no one else?’ And, receiving the quick shake of her head with a tiny smile, he advised, ‘You’d better leave the area if you want to get him off your back.’
And Honey fumed, ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it!’
‘But not seriously.’
How astute. He seemed to know her a little too well for her liking. She got unhurriedly to her feet, smoothing the silky fabric over her curvaceous hips before reaching for her matching evening bag.
‘No, not seriously. Why should I? I’m happy here, my business is doing well. Why should I let myself be hounded out of town?’ A small, cool smile. ‘It’s been nice talking to you, but I think it’s time I left. Would you make my excuses to Sonia and Colin when you rejoin the party?’ No mention of Graham; he deserved no excuses. He would only see them as a type of apology for the way she had goaded, snarled and snapped at him earlier.
She had perhaps revealed too much to this stranger, this man with the clever, incredible eyes. She had always been too ready to trust people, to confide, rarely keeping her own counsel and never bottling her feelings up inside her where they could fester and do damage. A healthy attitude, maybe, but one that had sometimes led her into difficulties.
But not this time, she recognised as he accepted his dismissal with suave grace, walking with her into the foyer and asking, ‘Can I order you a cab?’
Relief that he had not, as many another might, insisted on seeing her home flooded her with unreasoning warmth. She gave him a generous unguarded smile, telling him, ‘Thanks, but there’s no need. I live over the shop, barely a stone’s throw away.’ She extended a fine-boned hand and felt his own close over it, his fingers warm and hard, the brief contact completely polite, no unnecessary and unwanted lingerings, prompting her to add, ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay with Colin and Sonia,’ and then, not knowing why she wanted to know, why there was this sudden reluctance to end the conversation, ‘Where is your home? I can’t quite place your accent. Canada? America?’
‘No place in particular.’ His shrug was barely noticeable. ‘I was born in England but since I finished my education—in the States—I’ve lived out of suitcases. There’s always been some place else to be.’
He looked and sounded bored. With her? Probably. So what? Time she left. One last small and, this time, controlled smile and then she turned on her spiky heels and walked through the revolving doors on to the Cop and made her way up the hill, breathing in the warm spring night air, pushing Ben Claremont right to the back of her mind as she turned into Stony Shut, her heels tapping on the cobbles, her heart lifting as it always did as her shop came into view, the light from the single street-lamp reflecting in the dozens of tiny glass panes of the frontage.
There were dozens of Shuts, or shoots, in old Shrewsbury town, narrow cobbled alleyways leading from one street to another, enabling the pedestrian who was familiar with the passages that riddled the town to get from one end of it to the other in record time. And Honey considered Stony Shut by far the prettiest, the tall, gabled and half-timbered buildings almost meeting overhead; and, apart from the addition of the street-lamp, it must look now as it had looked in medieval times.
Extracting her key from her bag, she let herself in and checked on the security system before threading her way through the overstocked shop. The amber security light gleamed softly against polished oak and rosewood and drew warm glints from her prized display of early pewter.
As always, she was tempted to linger, to gloat over all her lovely things, the things that were hers for such a short time. She always felt a pang when something was sold, which, she acknowledged with a small, self-deprecating smile, was a stupid attitude for a dealer to have. Or a shopkeeper, as her mother called her in that awful, denigrating tone she had taken to using of late.
Honey stopped smiling, checked the bolts on the door to the workroom at the rear of the premises and mounted the narrow, twisty staircase to her living quarters. Tomorrow was Sunday, the day she invariably spent with her mother. She wasn’t looking forward to it.
* * *
She was woken from a dream which featured a tall, dark man with speedwell-blue sleepy eyes by the insistent shriek of the telephone by her bed.