Treacherous Longings. Anne Mather

‘So—do you know what happened?’

      ‘No.’ Quinn managed to sound casual about it. ‘I think my mother wrote to her a couple of times, but she didn’t get any reply. We don’t even know if she got the letters.’

      ‘Goodness.’ Susan put down her glass and rubbed her gloved hands together. ‘Quite a mystery.’

      ‘Quite a mystery,’ echoed Quinn evenly. Then, with determination, he asked, ‘What would you like to eat?’ He glanced at the menu card at the end of the bar. ‘Pizza? Lasagne? Or just a sandwich?’

      ‘Just a sandwich, please,’ said Susan, evidently deciding it was warm enough to pull off her gloves. ‘So—where did you say she is now?’

      Quinn hadn’t said, other than mentioning the fairly vague area of the Caribbean. Besides, he had hoped that they could shelve Julia Harvey for the time being. It was bad enough that Hector was talking about his leaving within the next few days. He had no wish to spend the time rehashing all he knew about her.

      ‘Somewhere off the Caymans,’ he said repressively, his tone indicating his unwillingness to continue with this discussion. ‘I’ll have a sandwich too. Which do you prefer? Egg mayonnaise or beef?’

      ‘Beef, please,’ replied Susan in a small voice, and Quinn hoped she was not going to get huffy over his impatience. For God’s sake, she’d never shown much interest in his work before. Susan was first and foremost a pleasure person. She’d never been able to understand why Quinn worked so hard when he didn’t have to. Until today it had been the one sour note in their relationship.

      ‘So,’ he said, after the sandwiches were ordered, ‘let’s find a table, shall we?’ He tucked the bulging file beneath his arm and picked up her glass as well as his own. ‘There’s one over there.’ He slid smoothly off the stool. ‘Need any help?’

      Susan shook her head, and although her legs were considerably shorter than his own she climbed down rather elegantly. Then, preceding him, she led the way to the corner table he had indicated, choosing to sit opposite him instead of sharing his banquette.

      ‘And what have you been doing this morning?’ Quinn asked after they were seated, refusing to be daunted by her sulky face. He could guess, of course. She’d probably been shopping. A lazy saunter through Harrods, and coffee with one of her girlfriends.

      Susan shrugged. ‘Not a lot.’

      ‘Shopping?’

      ‘I don’t just go shopping,’ she flared, and Quinn’s lips twitched at the transparency of her defence.

      ‘OK,’ he said softly. ‘So what have you been doing? Of course. I’d forgotten. It’s Tuesday. You visit the health club on Tuesdays. No wonder your cheeks are so pink.’

      ‘If my cheeks are pink, it’s because I’m cross with you,’ retorted Susan shortly. ‘You’re always saying I show no interest in your work, and now, just because I have, you’re acting as if I was asking you to divulge state secrets or something.’

      ‘Suse—’

      ‘Who cares about Julia Harvey anyway?’

      ‘Hector’s hoping everybody will,’ put in Quinn drily.

      ‘Well, I don’t.’ Susan sniffed. ‘She’s just another old film actress, as far as I’m concerned. I doubt if they’re exactly thin on the ground.’

      ‘She was quite unique,’ murmured Quinn reluctantly, aware that he wasn’t doing himself any favours by defending her, and Susan gave him a scathing look.

      ‘Is that your opinion? I thought you were too young to notice.’

      Quinn sighed. ‘Don’t be bitchy, Suse. It doesn’t suit you.’

      ‘Well...’ Susan shook her head. ‘I don’t see anything clever in acting in movies. I’ve heard they only film about a minute at a time. They don’t even have to remember lines. Daddy says it’s money for jam.’

      And he would know, thought Quinn with uncharacteristic malevolence. He was not often in tune with the views of Maxwell Aitken, one of the most influential businessmen in the country. He was the head of Corporate Foods, with a chain of successful supermarkets behind him. If anyone knew anything about jam, he did, but that didn’t make him an expert on making films.

      But, ‘Really?’ Quinn responded now, in no mood to pursue this discussion. ‘Well, he’s probably right,’ he added. ‘And I’m sorry if you think I was rude.’

      Susan was easily mollified. ‘Well, you weren’t rude. Not really,’ she said, stretching her hand across the table and capturing his fingers. She smiled. ‘You just seem sort of—grumpy, that’s all. Is it because you don’t want to go and see this woman? Is Pickard putting the pressure on because he knows your mother knew her?’

      Quinn stifled a groan. ‘Something like that,’ he agreed pleasantly. ‘Now, can we talk about something else? I’ve only got about half an hour. We’re taping the last segment of that prison documentary this afternoon.’

      Susan pulled a face. ‘At Wormwood Scrubs?’ she asked, shivering delicately, and Quinn pulled a wry face.

      ‘No. In the studio,’ he corrected her drily. ‘We’ve got Patrick George coming in to conduct a discussion between members of the public and the society that protects the rights of prisoners. It should be interesting. He’s quite right-wing, I believe.’

      Susan grimaced. ‘I don’t know how you can bear to be involved in that kind of debate!’ she exclaimed. ‘I positively cringed last week when you said you’d visited that prison. I’m sure your mother and father would rather you were involved in estate matters. I mean, who’s going to look after Courtlands when your father decides to retire?’

      Quinn eased his legs beneath the narrow table. ‘Believe it or not, but that doesn’t keep me awake nights,’ he drawled, his eyes, which in the subdued light looked more black than grey, glinting mockingly. ‘If you want to be lady of the manor, Suse, I think you’d better set your sights on Matthew. I fear you’re going to be disappointed if you think I’ll ever change.’

      Susan pursed her lips. ‘But you’re the eldest son!’ She shook her head. ‘It’s expected of you.’

      ‘Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed,’ remarked Quinn drily, and Susan sighed.

      ‘Who said that?’

      ‘I think I just did.’

      Susan gave him a reproving stare. ‘You know what I mean.’

      ‘Oh—Pope, I think. Yes, it was. Alexander Pope: 1688-1744, poet and scholar.’

      Susan looked as if she would have liked to make some cutting comment in response, but the arrival of their sandwiches prevented any unladylike burst of venom. Instead she contented herself with saying, ‘You’re so clever, aren’t you? I really don’t know what you see in a scatterbrain like me.’

      ‘Don’t you?’

      Across the table, Quinn’s eyes glowed with a most unholy light, and Susan chuckled happily as she bit into her sandwich. ‘Well, maybe,’ she conceded, tucking a shred of beef into the corner of her mouth and blushing quite disarmingly. ‘Oh, Quinn, stop looking at me like that. You’re supposed to be eating your lunch.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      ELIZABETH screamed, and Harold shot almost two feet into the air. Heroines weren’t supposed to do that, thought Harold crossly, but even he had been startled by the sudden appearance of the dragon. It was all very well telling himself that the dragon was friendly, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. It was so big and white and scaly. How could he persuade Elizabeth there