Act Of Possession. Anne Mather
‘I’m sorry.’ Antonia summoned a small smile. ‘But you’re feeling better now.’
‘Well—it’s bearable,’ he essayed heavily, shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘I suppose at my age I have to expect something. Be thankful yours is not a chronic condition.’
‘Yes.’
Antonia conceded his point, although lying awake in the early hours it had felt very much as though it was. She had blamed the fact that on Sunday she had done nothing but laze around the flat, but that wasn’t entirely true either. What she was really doing was coming to terms with the rather unpalatable realisation that in spite of her unfortunate experience with Simon, she was still not immune to sexual attraction.
‘So—shall we get down to business?’ suggested Mr Fenwick now, smoothing one hand over his bald pate as he read through the report she had prepared for him. ‘This is good, very good. Very comprehensive.’ His slightly rheumy eyes twinkled as he looked up at her. ‘I knew you were the woman for the job, as soon as I set eyes on you.’
Antonia was grateful for his confidence, and she did her best to satisfy all his enquiries, and learn how to deal with problems in his absence in the process. The failure of the hydraulic lift in the motor repair workshop had caused her some difficulties, she confessed, and the trainee joiner who had cut his hand badly on an electric saw deserved a reprimand she had not felt able to give him. Nevertheless, on the whole, there had been no insurmountable set-backs, and she knew by the end of their discussion that Mr Fenwick felt his belief in her abilities had been justified.
The afternoon proved rather less traumatic. After a snack lunch in the dining hall with Heather Jakes, Mr Fenwick’s secretary, Antonia returned to her desk to find her concentration was much improved. Determining not to waste any more time weighing the pros and cons of her attendance at the party, she put all thoughts of Celia Lytton-Smythe and her fiancé aside, and applied herself instead to the relative merits of a certificate in woodwork and an ability to type.
It was nearing six o’clock when Antonia reached the stone gate-posts that marked the boundary of Eaton Lodge. She had been grateful to find there was a short drive leading up to the house. Her rooms, being on the ground floor, would have adjoined the street otherwise, and she was still not accustomed to the sound of traffic at all hours of the day and night. Her mother’s house, in a suburb of Newcastle, was situated in a quiet cul-de-sac, and it had not been easy for her to make the transition.
Even so, she was glad that she did not have expensive train fares to add to her living expenses. The flat, in Clifton Gate, was only a bus ride from the institute in the Edgware Road, and on summer days she planned to walk to and from work. The exercise would do her good, and the resultant savings might enable her to pay more frequent visits to Newcastle—and Susie.
As she walked up the short path to the house, the black Lamborghini overtook her, and for the first time she saw Reed Gallagher at the wheel. It was early for him, she thought, aware of an unwelcome tightening of her stomach muscles. She couldn’t remember seeing the car in the drive much before seven-thirty or eight o’clock in the past, though she had to admit that until Celia pointed it out, she had paid little attention to their visitors. Now, however, she was all too aware of its occupant, and it took a certain amount of stamina to continue up the drive as if nothing untoward had happened.
By the time she reached the entrance, Reed had parked the powerful sports car, crossed the forecourt, and was waiting for her. In a dark blue three-piece business suit and a white shirt, he looked little different from the less formally dressed individual she had met at the party. With a conservative tie narrowly concealing the buttons of his shirt, and his hands pushed carelessly into the pockets of his jacket, he appeared relaxed and self-assured, confident in his cool male arrogance—and Antonia resented his somehow insolent supposition that she might be pleased to exchange a few words with him.
‘Hi,’ he said, as she came up the steps, his lean frame successfully blocking her passage. ‘How are you?’
Antonia held up her head and without looking at him, made her intentions evident. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Gallagher,’ she responded stiffly, edging towards the door. ‘Do you mind?’
Reed regarded her steadily for a few moments—she could almost feel those disturbing grey eyes probing her averted lids—then he politely stepped aside. ‘My pleasure,’ he assured her, allowing her to precede him into the gloomy entrance hall. ‘It’s cold out tonight, isn’t it? Very chilly!’
Pressing her lips together to suppress the immature retort that sprang into her mind, Antonia rummaged in her handbag for her key. If only she’d thought to do this before she came inside, she thought frustratedly. It was difficult to see what she was doing without the benefit of a light.
Aware that Reed had not continued on upstairs as she had expected, her fingers were all thumbs, and when she eventually found the key, it slithered annoyingly out of her grasp. With a little ping, it landed on the floor at Reed’s feet, and with a feeling of helplessness, she watched him bend and rescue it for her with a lithe graceful movement.
‘Let me,’ he said, avoiding her outstretched hand, and she stood stiffly by as he inserted the key in the lock and deftly turned the handle. ‘No problem,’ he added, dropping the key into her palm, and knowing she was behaving badly, but unable to do anything about it, Antonia gave him a curt nod before scurrying into the flat.
She was still leaning back against the closed door, her heart beating rather faster than was normal, when she heard the brisk tattoo on the panels behind her. Realising it could be no one else but him, she was tempted to pretend she hadn’t heard his knock, but she knew that would be childish. There was no likelihood that she might not have heard his summons, and by not answering her door she would look as if she was afraid to do so.
Taking a deep breath, she gathered together the two sides of her camel-hair jacket, which she had just unbuttoned, and turned. With carefully schooled features, she swung open the door again, holding on to the handle, as if there was any chance that he might try to force himself inside.
Reed was leaning against the wall to one side of the door, but when she looked out he straightened, and turned to face her. ‘Yes?’ she said tersely, unable to keep the hostility out of her voice, and his dark features took on a rueful aspect.
‘Can I come in?’
Antonia could not have been more surprised, and it showed. ‘I beg your pardon …’
‘I said, can I come in?’ he repeated levelly, glancing over her shoulder into the small apartment. ‘I want to talk to you, and I’d prefer not to do so in Mrs Francis’s hearing.’
‘Mrs Francis?’ Antonia’s tongue circled her lips, and Reed nodded.
‘Any minute now, her door is going to open—just a crack,’ he confided drily. ‘So?’
Antonia cast a half-glance behind her, suddenly conscious of the enormous contrast between her modest apartment and the luxurious rooms occupied by his fiancée. And she realised she didn’t want him to see where she lived. She didn’t want him coming into her flat, comparing her shabby furnishings with the designer fabrics upstairs. This was her home, such as it was, and she didn’t want his disruptive influence invading its sanctuary.
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ she said now, endeavouring to maintain a politely indifferent tone. ‘I can’t think of anything we have to say to one another, Mr Gallagher. If Celia’s not at home, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you can’t wait here.’
Reed expelled his breath noisily. ‘I don’t know if Cee’s at home or not,’ he retorted, his lean face losing its humorous expression. ‘Look—I’m not about to ravage you or anything. I simply wanted to apologise if you think I was indiscreet.’
Antonia looked at him unwillingly, her diffident gaze drawn to the clean-cut lines of his face. ‘Indiscreet?’
‘By telling you what Cee had said,’ he inserted