Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford

up off the sofa and brought the bottle. He filled the Waterford flutes, and then eyed the empty bottle, shaking it. ‘Well, this one’s a dead soldier. I’d better put another one on ice. We’ll need it when Victor gets here.’ As he reached the door, he swung around and said, ‘If he ever turns up, that is, which I seriously doubt now. Back in a jiffy, my sweet one.’

      Katharine nodded, not trusting herself to respond coherently. Kim had voiced the one fear nagging at her. She turned and rested her hand on the mantelpiece and gazed down into the fire miserably. She had been in control of her own destiny since the age of twelve. She had never relied on anyone for anything, for mistrust was paramount in her nature, and especially so when it came to men. Yet she had broken her own stringent rule and trusted Victor Mason. Damn, damn, damn, she muttered under her breath.

      Francesca came in carrying a large silver tray. ‘I hope you’ll try a little of this, Katharine,’ she said. ‘I think I will.’

      ‘I’m not really hungry, thank you,’ Katharine answered and returned to her place on the sofa.

      Francesca seated herself in the chair, and picked up a pearl-handled silver knife. She plunged it into the mound of sturgeon’s roe, so glistening and moist in the crystal dish, spread a portion on a piece of Melba toast and squeezed lemon over it. Smiling, she offered it to Katharine, who shook her head, and then handed it to Kim, who had joined them again.

      ‘I say, this is superb!’ Kim exclaimed, after devouring it. ‘You don’t have to bother with the cottage pie. This will do just nicely for me.’

      Francesca said, ‘Try the pâté too. It’s – ‘ The shrilling of the door bell caused her to stop. She glanced from Kim to Katharine, arching her blonde brows. ‘Could that be our missing guest at long last?’

      Katharine rose with unusual swiftness. ‘Perhaps I’d better answer the door, Kim. After all, you’ve never met Victor.’

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Katharine hissed, her eyes blazing as she confronted Victor Mason on the door step.

      ‘Charming welcome,’ he said, adding with a huge grin, ‘am I allowed in, or shall I be on my merry way?’

      ‘Of course you’re allowed in,’ Katharine cried, and fearing he was about to depart she quickly snatched at the sleeve of the trenchcoat thrown casually over his shoulders, and drew him towards her possessively.

      Victor turned to his driver, who hovered on the step next to him, holding a large black umbrella over them both. ‘I guess I’ll be a couple of hours or so, Gus. That is if I don’t get thrown out on my rear end before then. You can mosey off for a while. I’ll see you later. Have fun.’ His mouth twitched. ‘But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

      ‘Right you are, Mr Mason,’ Gus responded, and retreated to the car as Victor stepped inside the house.

      ‘Well, at least he’s stopped calling you Guv, thank heavens,’ Katharine remarked.

      Victor threw her a swift, amused look, chuckled softly and said, ‘Only in front of people. When we’re alone he still calls me Guvnor. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it.’ He thrust a package at her, winked theatrically and declared ‘Beware of Italians bearing dubious gifts.’

      Katharine accepted the package in grudging silence. She was not so easily placated and the tension was still flaring within her. In consequence, she was a little on edge and her patience had worn thin. There was a cold silence, during which she continued to glare at him, and then she said, ‘I thought you weren’t coming. You’re very late. Abominably late. You’ve heard of the telephone haven’t you? It’s a small instrument that enables you to communicate between two points – ‘

      He cut in with a throaty laugh, ‘Save me the sarcasm, honey.’ Shrugging off the trenchcoat he glanced around. “Where shall I put this?’

      Katharine nodded in the direction of the hall cupboard. ‘In there.’ She looked down at the package she was holding. ‘What is this, anyway?’

      ‘A peace offering. Champagne. Pink champagne.’

      ‘Pink! Now I know what you mean by dubious,’ she retorted.

      ‘My, my, we are being gracious tonight,’ Victor said. But he did not seem in the least put out by her scathing words or her frosty manner. In fact, he appeared sanguine, and his voice was even as he said, ‘Look, honey, I’m sorry, I really am. The delay was unavoidable. I had to wait for a call from the Coast. An important business call. Come on, Katharine, give a guy a break.’

      His smile was so sincere, and he sounded so genuinely apologetic that Katharine found herself smiling back at him. She was also shrewdly aware that it would be foolish to antagonize Victor, and by so doing put her assiduously-made plans into certain jeopardy. Need her he well might, but his goodwill was absolutely crucial to her, and since he had finally made an appearance her troubling doubts about him were subsiding, were replaced by the optimistic belief that he had not reneged on his promise to her. And so she softened her manner and her chameleon-like ability to present a different visage went into immediate play. The smile became infinitely more luminous and beguiling and the turquoise eyes were instantaneously veiled with affectionate fights.

      ‘I’m sorry too,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but the English are very peculiar about time and the proper form and all that, as I’ve mentioned to you before.’ She returned the package to him. ‘And it was very sweet of you to bring this. Truly. But I think it would be more appropriate if you gave it to your hostess. I know she’ll appreciate your thoughtfulness. Now, come on, my darling, we’re wasting time. Let’s go in.’

      Victor tucked the bottle under his arm with a jaunty flourish, glanced at himself in the Georgian mirror, adjusted his de, and said, ‘I’m all yours, honey. Lead the way.’

      Kim and Francesca stopped talking when Victor and Katharine walked into the drawing room, and Victor saw two pairs of eyes focused on him intently and with enormous interest. Considering he was a world-famous film star, and had been for a number of years, he was not unaccustomed to this kind of fixed and curious scrutiny, for everyone had their own vision of him, which was not always compatible with the man he truly was.

      But what brought him up short and filled him with amazement was his consciousness of the girl in grey, seated near the fireplace, who was now slowly rising. Like a brilliant lodestar she drew him magnetically towards her, and he felt a need, indeed a compulsion, to rush over to her, was filled with an urgency not only to meet her, but to know every facet of her. He had no desire to appear foolish, even immature, and he realized, too, that this kind of behaviour would be incorrect and a rank display of that ‘bad form’ the British, and Katharine, were always muttering about. Nor did he have any intention of giving Katharine the opportunity to lecture him about his manners. Before he could take another step, the young man next to her, obviously Katharine’s boyfriend, Kim, was hurrying forward, smiling broadly.

      Kim grasped Victor’s hand. ‘I’m Kim Cunningham. Delighted you could come.’

      ‘So am I,’ Victor replied, shaking Kim’s hand vigorously. And he apologized and again explained his reason for being late.

      ‘Oh, please don’t give it another thought,’ Kim exclaimed. He grinned. ‘We’ve been very cosy here, guzzling champagne and chatting. Now, do come and meet my sister, and then I’ll get you a drink. What do you prefer? Champagne, or something else, perhaps?’

      ‘I’d like Scotch-on-the-rocks with a splash of soda, please.’

      Kim took hold of Victor’s arm and propelled him across the room to the fireplace. ‘This is Francesca,’ he said, and, after bestowing a bright smile on them, he disappeared in the direction of the drinks chest to pour a Scotch for Victor.

      ‘How nice to