Master Of Maramba. Margaret Way
And it stiffened her backbone.
His brilliant eyes—how could black eyes be filled with such light?—continued to sweep her, missing absolutely nothing including the tiny heart-shaped beauty spot above the swell of her right breast.
“I had the decided impression you thought you were about to be run over?”
“What, on the basis of a raised eyebrow?” she parried.
“Actually you appeared to crumple. You couldn’t really have been frightened. Were you?”
“Of course not.” She tasted a faint bitterness at the back of her throat.
“I’m glad,” he answered. “You were in absolutely no danger. Perhaps you have a thing about male drivers.” He answered mildly, she considered. For him. “Pretty much all of us can park better than our womenfolk. Your left rear tyre is rammed into the gutter by the way.”
Carrie didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning to look. “I’m not one of the world’s greatest parkers I admit.” She made it sound as if one only needed to be if one drove an armoured truck.
“That’s perfectly clear,” the vibrant voice lightly mocked. “Be assured I’m not sore at you.”
“I didn’t imagine you were.”
“Then confess. Why so nervous? I’m almost positive you’re nervous. Why? It’s broad daylight. I don’t normally make women uneasy.”
“Are you sure?” He couldn’t fail to hear the astonished irony in her tone.
“It’s obvious you don’t know me.” The jet-black eyes glinted over her as though no one but no one spoke to him this way. “Look there’s no traffic,” he pointed out in an unexpectedly gentle voice, glancing up and down the street. “Would you like me to escort you to the other side?”
And let him touch her? This dominating man. She didn’t dare. She held up her two palms, then dropped them in one graceful gesture.
“Surely you jest?” She spoke sweetly when she could cheerfully have pushed him over. An enormous not to say impossible job.
“I jest not.” His mouth was handsome, sensual in cut, but very firmly held. “You on the other hand seem to be kneading the hem of your skirt.”
She glanced down. She was, too. Another nervous habit. “All right, if you must know I thought you came much too close to me.”
“You should talk to somebody about it.”
“About what?” Colour whipped into her cheeks, antagonism into her tone.
“I suppose the best word would be phobia.” He looked squarely at her.
It was a big mistake to have spoken to him at all. “You’re saying I have a phobia?” She gave him what she thought of as her dagger look. “That’s a bit much for a complete stranger?”
He seemed mightily unimpressed, shrugging a nonchalant broad shoulder. “Seems very much like it to me.”
That was the final straw. To be caught out. So easily. By a stranger. Carrie turned away so tempestuously her thick silky amber hair whipped around her like a pennant in a sea breeze. “Have a nice day,” she clipped off.
“You, too.” He sketched a brief salute, watching her stalk away, on her beautiful long legs. Sort of angry. And it showed. She was muttering something to herself as she went.
Then abruptly she turned, like a woman determined on having the last word. Point of honour. He almost laughed aloud.
“I hope you’re not planning on parking there too long?” she threw at him with that rather tantalising hauteur. “An inspector might just wander by. It’s not actually a parking space, you know. I should warn you. I might be forced to back into you in order to get out. You’ve virtually jammed me in.”
“Not at all.”
He moved with dark energy to double-check, giving her a sudden smile that did strange things to her. Formidable in height and demeanour—his employees probably addressed him staring at his feet—that smile was extraordinary, making nerves twitch all over her skin.
“Anyway I’m not worried,” he pronounced casually. “Just leave your name and address under the wiper should anything go wrong.”
“I’ll try very hard to see it doesn’t.”
How could he be enjoying this? he thought. He almost never got into conversations with strange young women. And this one was not only hostile, but intriguingly familiar. A firehead to match her rare colouring. Hair like a good sherry with the light glinting through it. Beautiful clear skin with an apricot blush. Golden-brown eyes, almost a topaz. Her hadn’t seen a woman with such clarity for years. And she was just a kid. She carried the beautiful scent of youth with her. Probably ten or more years his junior. He would be thirty-two his next birthday. A thirty-two-year-old divorcee with a child, Regina. He cared about her deeply. But the devastating fact was Regina wasn’t his child. She was the result of one of Sharon’s affairs. Funny the young woman who was stalking away from him had put all thought of Sharon out of his mind.
“Take care!” he called after her. “You city girls are so damned aggressive.”
Carrie despite her avowed intention found herself stopping. Wasn’t that strange. City girls. “So where do you hail from?” she challenged, wondering what imp of mischief had taken possession of her. He was Someone. She was sure of it.
“A long way from here,” he drawled.
“And here was I thinking you’re the sort of man who always knows what to expect.”
“Careful,” he said. “I might be still here when you get back.”
Carrie waved a backward hand as though everything he said was of no real importance. She supposed she was being very rude but crossing swords with that man had helped to bring a little pleasure into her blighted young life. She’d never had an experience quite like that. But then as far as she knew, he hadn’t, either. Maybe he would be there when she returned. The little flurry of excitement made her furious at herself.
James Halliday’s secretary announced her arrival like an aide might announce a candidate for a court investiture, Carrie thought. She’d known Ms. Galbally since she was a little girl but the secretary had never once veered from the very formal. As a child and adolescent she’d always been Catrina, not Carrie. Once she turned eighteen she became Miss Russell. Ms. Galbally was a middle-aged saturine woman of handsome appearance and Carrie knew other people found her intimidating, but according to her uncle she was just about “perfect.” So much for appearances, Carrie thought trying but not succeeding in looking honoured.
“Carrie, sweetheart!” Her uncle himself opened the door, handsome, genial, charming, fifty and looking nothing like it, four years older than her late mother but very much like her in appearance which was to say like herself, ushering her into an office as big as Central station but cosy as a den. It had a great view over the river; the walls were mahogany-panelled, lined with deep antique bookcases holding leather-bound legal tomes, a series of excellent quite valuable architectural drawings took up the rest of the wall space along with a few striking oil paintings, seascapes in gilt frames. James Halliday was a well-known yachtsman.
A magnificent Persian rug, all wonderful dark blues and rich rubies adorned the discreetly carpeted floor. Glass display cabinets set off a few choice pieces of James Halliday’s collection of Ming dynasty Chinese porcelain, heralding the fact James Halliday was a collector, as well. An enormous partner’s desk held centre court with a splendid high-backed chair ranged behind it. It was abundantly clear her uncle was doing very well. But not as well as her father who owned a large city electrical firm.
The two men did not get on. Different personalities; different interests; different callings. Carrie loved both of them but from her mother’s side of the family she had inherited a great love of the “arts,” a sphere that