Marriage On Trial. Lee Wilkinson

with barely masked annoyance, he said, ‘You indicated that you were prepared to talk about the diamond?’

      ‘Ah, yes, the diamond…’ Quinn mimicked the other man’s cut-glass accent. ‘For a stone of its size it aroused a fair bit of interest.’

      ‘I heard you came over specially for the sale?’ Apparently Richard also had doubts.

      ‘Did you?’ Quinn, it seemed, was giving nothing away. Slipping neatly between a bus and a taxi, he added conversationally, ‘In the event, I almost missed it. Due to some last-minute technical fault, our landing was delayed. I only just managed to change, pick up a hire car, and get to Belham House in time.’

      If only he hadn’t, Elizabeth thought with a sigh.

      Sounding distinctly sour, Richard remarked, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bid by phone.’

      A slight smile tugging at his lips, Quinn responded trenchantly, ‘Bidding by phone tends to be rather tame, don’t you think? I get more of a buzz from actually being there. Especially when there’s some action.

      ‘I must admit I was expecting rather more excitement in regard to some of the earlier lots…’

      Elizabeth knew well that Quinn wasn’t a man for small talk, and, staring straight ahead, listening to his low-pitched, slightly husky voice analyzing the sale, she wondered what he was up to.

      It was a little while before it dawned on her that rather than actually getting down to discussing the diamond he was employing delaying tactics.

      But why?

      When they reached Park Lane, with a glance in the rear-view mirror at his back-seat passenger, he broke off what he was saying to enquire, ‘The Linchbeck, isn’t it?’

      Without waiting for an answer, he turned into the fore-court and drew to a stop outside the entrance to the quiet, exclusive hotel.

      Aware that just by knowing the exact address Quinn had gained a subtle advantage, Elizabeth bit her lip as he came round to open her door.

      Richard climbed out, and, his face expressing his annoyance, asked shortly, ‘Perhaps we could make an appointment to talk about the Van Hamel? Would any particular time and place suit you?’

      ‘There’s no time like the present,’ Quinn suggested, his voice bland.

      Elizabeth felt sure that in the circumstances, and after the evening’s debacle, Richard would choose to wait until he’d fully regained his cool.

      But to her surprise he agreed. ‘Then perhaps you’ll join us in the bar for a drink?’

      ‘Your suite would be preferable,’ Quinn said smoothly. ‘Rather more private.’

      So there was the answer to her question, Elizabeth thought uneasily. For some reason of his own, Quinn wanted to see the other man’s apartment.

      Convinced now that Richard was being manipulated, she found herself praying that he would tell his tormentor to go to the devil.

      But before he could speak the doorman said a cheerful, ‘Nasty evening,’ and held open the heavy glass door.

      Richard nodded abruptly and, his jaw tight, led the way inside and across the luxuriously carpeted foyer to the lift.

      Elizabeth was five foot seven, fairly tall for a woman, but sandwiched between two men who both easily topped six feet she felt dwarfed, loomed over.

      When they left the lift at the top floor, she took care to keep Richard between herself and Quinn until they reached the apartment.

      The sitting room, with its plum-coloured curtains and carpet, its leather suite and sporting prints, was handsome, comfortable, and undoubtedly masculine.

      After slipping her coat from her shoulders and hanging it in a recessed cupboard, Richard moved towards a small but well-stocked bar. ‘What would you like to drink, darling?’

      She half shook her head. ‘I’d prefer a coffee later, thank you.’

      Motioning his unwelcome guest to take a seat, Richard picked up the whisky decanter and queried, ‘Durville?’

      ‘I’m driving, so I’ll stick with coffee.’

      Clearly in need of a drink, Richard poured himself a stiff whisky and swallowed a mouthful.

      As he turned towards the kitchen, Quinn asked casually, ‘Mind if I take a look around? At one time I had a service flat in the Brenton Building, but I gave it up…’

      Recalling her own brief stay there, Elizabeth shuddered. What should have been the happiest night of her life had turned into a nightmare.

      ‘Now I’m considering having a pied-à-terre here, for the times I’m in London,’ Quinn was going on, ‘rather than staying at hotels.’

      His interest open, undisguised, with cool effrontery he began to prowl, peering first into a small study and then into a good-sized bedroom and bathroom.

      Tense and ill at ease, Elizabeth perched on the edge of a chair and watched him warily. Oh, why had he come back into her life just when she was about to make a new commitment?

      She had found it impossible to forget him, but she had almost succeeded in leaving the past behind, in convincing herself he no longer mattered.

      But the past had suddenly caught up with her, and he did matter. Even though she feared and resented his presence, just the sight of him took her breath away and left her full of the bitter-sweet longing he had always effortlessly aroused in her.

      Glancing in her direction, Quinn met her eyes.

      Terrified of what he might read in them, she looked hurriedly away. It seemed he had blotted out both her and the past, and the last thing she wanted to do was remind him.

      He came and sat down opposite, his ease mocking her lack of it. After a thoughtful scrutiny, one dark brow raised, he observed, ‘I take it you don’t live here, Miss Cavendish?’

      Wanting to consolidate her position as Richard’s fiancée, she was loath to admit it. ‘What makes you think that?’ She strove to sound dismissive, even slightly amused.

      ‘There are no signs of female occupancy, and if you had lived here I’m fairly sure you would have made the coffee.’

      ‘A male chauvinist, I see,’ she said sweetly.

      ‘Not at all.’

      ‘But you consider a woman’s place is in the kitchen?’

      His smile mocking, he said, ‘I can think of a better place for a woman to be.’

      Her colour rising, she looked anywhere but at him.

      ‘So where do you live, Miss Cavendish?’

      Her impulse was to say sharply that it was none of his business. Common sense warning that overreacting might make him suspicious, she stayed purposely vague. ‘At the moment I’m living in a small cottage.’

      ‘A mews cottage?’ It was as though he could read her mind.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘In the West End?’

      Whatever his motives for wanting to know, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be put off.

      ‘Hawks Lane,’ she said, hoping against hope that he hadn’t the faintest idea where that was. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she added coldly, ‘I’ll see if Richard needs any help.’

      At that precise moment their host reappeared, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee.

      When they had each been handed a cup, a slightly belligerent look on his face, Richard swallowed the rest of his whisky and, still standing, turned to the other man. ‘I was hoping to have an early night, so if we can discuss the diamond without further delay?’

      ‘Of