Act of Possession Page 3

  Learning that the man she had been so arbitrarily crossing swords with was really Celia’s fiancé had been a shock. Not that she had any interest in him personally, she assured herself, but his attitude towards her had not been that of a man desperately in love with his fiancée. At least, not in her experience it hadn’t. Perhaps their sort of people behaved differently. Perhaps, even in this day and age, it was to be a marriage engineered for convenience. But then, remembering the way Celia had clung to her fiancé’s arm and the adoring looks she had cast in his direction, Antonia felt convinced that for her part, Celia cared madly for her handsome Irishman. And probably he did, too, she reflected cynically, refusing to admit that initially she, too, had been disarmed. Whatever his feelings, she was unlikely to discover them, though she had the distinct suspicion he was not as careless and superficial as he would have had her believe. And when he had taken hold of her wrist …

  Shaking her head to dislodge the irritating recollection of the cool strength of Reed’s fingers against her skin, Antonia endeavoured to apply herself to the application forms in front of her. The institute was always oversubscribed on all their courses, and it was to be part of her duties to consider each application on its merit, and winnow them down to a more manageable thirty-five or forty from which Mr Fenwick could make his final choice. New trainees were admitted in September, and interviews were apparently held in May and June to reduce the eventual intake to approximately twenty in each department. It promised to be an interesting part of her work, particularly as Mr Fenwick had informed her that in his opinion aptitude for a particular occupation was worth more than any number of academic qualifications.

  This morning, however, Antonia’s brain refused to function, and by eleven o’clock she was still studying the second form. When Martin Fenwick appeared to ask her to come into his office, she abandoned her task with a feeling of relief, following him into his room with an enthusiasm untempered by her usual impatience to get on with her own job.

  Blowing his nose before taking his seat, her boss regarded her rather speculatively. ‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs Sheldon?’ he asked, gesturing her to a chair on the other side of his desk. ‘You’re looking rather tired. Did you go home at the weekend?’

  Not entirely relishing his probably well-meant enquiry, Antonia shook her head. ‘If you mean to Newcastle—then, no,’ she answered politely, wondering if she had bags under her eyes. ‘I … er … didn’t sleep very well last night.’

  Martin Fenwick nodded. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well myself,’ he confessed, sinking down into his chair. ‘Lumbago’s the devil of a thing. Wakes you up, every time you turn over.’

  ‘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 ba
dly, 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 flatly. ‘And by not telling you who I was.’

  Antonia’s nostrils flared, ever so slightly. ‘It’s not important …’

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘Why?’ Her fingers tightened on the metal handle. ‘We are hardly likely to meet again, are we?’

  ‘Why not?’ The long straight lashes narrowed his eyes. ‘Cee likes you. She told me.’ He paused, and when she made no response, he added: ‘Well—I guess that’s all I came to say.’

  Antonia drew an unsteady breath. ‘Is it?’ she murmured, her long fingers fidgeting with the collar of her coat. Suddenly, she was disappointed. ‘I—is your fiancée at home?’

  Reed glanced carelessly up the stairs. ‘I doubt it,’ he responded, pulling one hand out of his pocket and combing his fingers through the dark vitality of his hair. ‘The shop doesn’t close until six, and it’s barely that now. But don’t worry about it,’ he finished with some irony. ‘I have a key.’

  Antonia hesitated. ‘I—I was just going to make some tea,’ she offered, regretting the words almost as soon as they were uttered. Whatever had possessed her to offer him her hospitality? she asked herself impatiently. Did she want him carrying tales upstairs of the straightened circumstances in which she lived? ‘I mean,’ she added awkwardly, ‘I don’t suppose you—drink tea.’

  ‘Well, I don’t survive on honeydew and nectar,’ he responded, his grey eyes gently teasing. ‘Thank you, Miss Sheldon. I’d love a cup of tea.’

  She had to step aside then, and treading silently on suede-booted feet, Reed entered the flat. Unlike the apartment occupied by Celia and her friend, there was no entrance hall. One stepped directly into Antonia’s living room, and her colour deepened embarrassingly as Reed looked about him with evident interest.

  With the door closed behind him, Antonia did not linger to correct his assumption of her status. Shedding her coat on to a chair as she passed, she walked through the living room into the kitchen, leaving him to make what he liked of the flat. She simply wasn’t interested, she told herself, filling the kettle at the tap and pushing in the electric plug. The sooner he had his tea and departed, the better. And after all, Celia might not approve of his making a detour, when he was evidently on his way to visit her.

  She was examining the contents of the biscuit tin when his shadow fell across her. ‘A watched pot never boils, isn’t that what they say?’ he remarked drily, surveying the pristine neatness of the kitchen. ‘Come and sit down. You must be tired.’

  ‘Do I look tired?’

  After what Mr Fenwick had said earlier, Antonia’s tone was unnecessarily tense, and Reed regarded her with rueful tolerance. ‘I guess I always seem to say the wrong thing, don’t I?’ he averred, running a lazy hand around the back of his neck. ‘Now, how can I redeem myself? By telling you I was only being polite, or by assuring you that you look pretty good to me?’

  Antonia bent her head. ‘Neither. It doesn’t matter I—you go and sit down. I’ll join you presently.’

  ‘Okay.’

  With a careless shrug he left her, and Antonia took cups out of the cupboard above the drainer, and set them on their saucers. By the time she had put milk into a jug and set it, along with the sugar bowl, on a tray, the kettle had boiled. Filling the teapot, she put it on the tray, too, and then after checking she had everything, she carried it through to the living room.

  Reed was lounging on the sofa, flicking through the pages of a self-help magazine she had bought to learn how to do minor repairs. In her absence, he had loosened the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled his tie a couple of inches below his collar, and the slightly dishevelled appearance suited him. But then, anything would, thought Antonia woodenly, refusing to respond to his lazy smile. He was vibrant; magnetic; the kind of man one could not help but be aware of, his unconscious sexuality a challenge in itself.

  Conscious of this, she seated herself on the armchair opposite him, and made a play of pouring the tea. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she enquired, the jug poised just above the cup, but he shook his head, and responded lightly: ‘As it is.’

  Belatedly, she guessed he was used to taking it with lemon, but in any case, she didn’t have any. And besides, her tea was not Lapsang or Orange Pekoe. It was just common-or-garden quick-brew that she bought at the supermarket.

  Still, he seemed to enjoy it, resting his ankle across his knee, emptying his cup and accepting a second. She should have known he would feel at ease anywhere, she thought, going to cross her legs and then thinking better of it. Like a chameleon, he adapted to his surroundings, totally indifferent to anyone’s feelings but his own. He was making her feel a stranger in her own apartment, and she resented his easy manner almost as much as his sex appeal.

  ‘Why don’t you like me, Miss Sheldon?’ he asked suddenly, setting his cup back on the tray while Antonia’s clattered noisily in its saucer. ‘Do I frighten you? Is that it? Are you afraid of men, perhaps? I’d be interested to know what I’ve done to provoke such a reaction.’

  Antonia replaced her cup on the table with rather more care than she had picked it up. ‘I think you’re imagining things, Mr Gallagher.’

  ‘Am I?’ His eyes were shrewdly assessing. ‘We may not know one another very well—which I’m sure is your next line of defence—but I can sense hostility when I feel it, Miss Sheldon.’

  ‘It’s not—Miss Sheldon,’ she corrected him abrupt
ly. ‘It’s Mrs I am—I was—married.’

  ‘Ah!’

  His long-drawn sigh infuriated her, and abandoning any further attempt at politeness, she sprang to her feet. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking, Mr Gallagher,’ she declared hotly, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. ‘I’m not afraid of the opposite sex. I don’t hate all men, or anything like that. I simply—I simply don’t care for … for men of your type, that’s all!’

  ‘My type?’ he prompted softly, and she felt the instinctive thrill of knowing she was getting into deep water without any means of saving herself. ‘Men like your ex-husband perhaps?’

  Like Simon! Antonia knew an hysterical desire to laugh. No one less like Simon could she imagine. Oh, Simon himself might have seen himself as being attractive to women, as knowing all the answers, but compared to Reed Gallagher, he had only been an amateur. And she had probably been at least partly responsible for the high opinion Simon had had of himself. Although it had meant giving up her degree at university, she had been flattered that the local heart-throb should have chosen her as his girlfriend, and she had fallen for his good looks without ever questioning what might lie beneath the surface. Until it was too late.

  ‘You’re nothing like my husband!’ she retorted now, suddenly losing enthusiasm for the argument. The reason she resented Reed Gallagher had nothing to do with Simon’s defection, and she felt ridiculously gauche for having lost her temper. ‘I—I shouldn’t have implied that you were.’

  Aware of her discomfort, Reed got resignedly to his feet and tightened the knot of his tie once again. ‘I think I’d better go,’ he remarked, stepping sideways round the low table on which she had set the tray. ‘Thanks for the tea. It was—delicious.’