Tiger, Tiger. Robyn DonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
His expression didn’t alter but she knew she’d hit a nerve. ‘They died just before I turned six.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He drank some water, then set the glass down and said in a coolly dismissive tone that didn’t ring quite true, ‘It happened nearly thirty years ago. I can barely remember them.’
‘That would be about the same time my father died.’
‘The same year. His accident and its aftermath must have been damned tough on your mother.’
‘She doesn’t talk about it much, but yes, I think she suffered as much as he did. Still, she managed.’ Lecia looked up and met his eyes, her unruly heart-rate accelerating as she admitted, ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing here.’
‘Curiosity,’ he told her, his narrow smile not free from self-derision. ‘For both of us. However hard reason tries to convince me that we’re strangers, we wear our shared pedigree in our faces. Architecture is an unusual profession for a woman, surely?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that unusual, although there aren’t many of us yet—I think about four per cent of architects are women. Lots more are coming through university now. I love it.’
‘Do you design houses or commercial buildings?’
With something close to a snap, she said, ‘Surely your dossier tells you all that?’
‘I’m asking you,’ he said coolly, those perceptive eyes noting her defensiveness.
I’d hate to lie to him, she thought, saying aloud, ‘I’ve worked on several commercial developments, but I do enjoy houses. And shopping centres.’ She gave him a set little smile. ‘All very feminine.’
‘Do you have a problem with that?’
‘You sound,’ she said evenly, ‘like a psychologist.’
Although his brows rose, he said nothing, just sat there surveying her with cool self-assurance.
Lecia sighed. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit sensitive, I suppose. Some men—and women too—think that designing domestic buildings is an easy option.’
‘I was in one of your houses yesterday,’ he said. ‘It is charming and serene, and the owner loves it, says she’s never going to move and won’t have a thing changed.’
Her eyes lit up and she smiled. ‘What a lovely compliment!’
‘Especially as the house wasn’t designed for her. My great-aunt has just moved into it.’ He told her the address.
‘I remember it.’ Her expression sobered, because the woman she’d designed the house for had died six months before. ‘I hope your aunt enjoys living there,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you could go and find out,’ he said levelly. ‘She likes visitors.’
Lecia froze. It seemed to her that the invitation was significant, as though he’d decided to accept her into his family, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. After all she had a perfectly good family of her own.
She looked up. Keane Paget was watching her with eyes the colour of the sea beneath a summer cloud. Very steady, those eyes, hard and dispassionate and enigmatic—as unreadable as the rest of his face.
Mesmerised, Lecia listened as he went on, ‘She’s also the family historian. If anyone can fathom out the connection between us, Aunt Sophie can. Furthermore, she’ll love doing it. She has the finer instincts of a bloodhound. I can’t begin to tell you the number of skeletons she’s dragged out into the full light of day and displayed with a relish that’s definitely mischievous. Her motto is: The only good secret is an exposed secret.’
Captivated, Lecia laughed. ‘She sounds like one of the blood-thirstier genealogists.’
‘She likes to do things well. When she first became interested in hunting down ancestors she researched every method of organising information before deciding that the only way to do it properly was on a computer. So she bought the latest laptop.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Almost ninety. The Pagets either die young or live forever.’
‘Is she enjoying her computer?’
‘She’s an expert.’
His wryly affectionate smile slipped through Lecia’ s defences, reaching some inner part of her that had never been touched before. Uncertainly, she said, ‘She sounds fascinating.’
‘She’s certainly an identity. I’ll organise a time for you to meet her.’ He spoke confidently, as though it didn’t occur to him that his aunt might not want a strange young woman introduced to her.
Lecia said, ‘Oh—but—’ then stopped, realising she’d been outmanoeuvred by an expert.
‘But?’
‘Nothing,’ she said lamely.
And was assailed by a sensation of having walked through a forbidden door, one that had closed smoothly yet inexorably behind her.
You weren’t going to do this, her conscience—backed by the big guns of common sense—wailed. Remember—no further steps down that slippery road to obsession? He’s dangerous, and you’re behaving like the idiot you were when you first met Anthony.
The waiter arrived with their lunch—scallops in white wine for her, rare beef salad for him—and over it Keane asked, ‘Where did you get your pretty name?’
‘I think it’s come down through the family. At least I didn’t get lumbered with the name in all its medieval glory—Laetitia! Or worse, Lettice.’
‘It’s from the Latin, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It means gladness.’
He picked up his water glass. Lecia’s gaze followed the lean, strong hand—long-fingered, tanned and confident. Sensation shivered the length of her spine.
‘And are you glad?’ he asked quietly.
No, terrified.
And even worse, excited.
She managed to produce a shrug. ‘I’m reasonably optimistic—quite even-tempered,’ she said. ‘It probably does describe me.’
‘No highs, no lows, just a pleasant state of wellbeing?’
‘Mostly.’
And she’d fought to achieve that state, had spent years struggling towards it. However intriguing this situation—and this man—she refused to risk her contentment.
Gripped by the uncomfortable feeling that she was admitting things, giving herself away, Lecia embarked on another round of silent warnings. Keane himself was no threat to her. What she had to fear was her helpless, headlong response to the forceful masculinity that prowled behind the bars of his will.
‘How about you?’ she asked, ignoring the secret messages from her body, trying desperately to sound relaxed and calm and only idly curious about this distant cousin. ‘Are you a typical tycoon, working all day and into the night?’ She glanced at the leather briefcase at his feet.
His smile should be banned, she thought; it was challenging and utterly compelling and a threat to womankind. Humour lurked in it, and danger spiced the hint of arrogance that illuminated his angular features with a special magnetism.
‘It sounds as though you’ve been doing a little research of your own,’ he said blandly.
Lecia ate another scallop, appreciating the rich, delicate flavour with less than her usual enjoyment. ‘The friend I was with at the opera in the park gave me an article about you from one of the business magazines.’ Andrea had tracked it down and faxed it through the day before. Lecia had no intention of telling him she’d read it then thrown it in