A Very Private Revenge. HELEN BROOKS

that is. I never let my heart rule my head, Miss McKinley.’

      ‘No?’ She knew that only too well, but she kept her voice light when she said, ‘You must miss a lot of fun that way, Mr Cannon.’

      ‘Possibly,’ he agreed coolly. ‘Although that would probably depend on one’s definition of the word “fun”.’

      She couldn’t be drawn into anything of this nature—not now, it was too soon—and so Tamar shrugged gracefully, dropping her eyes from his as she closed the file on her lap and murmured demurely, ‘You may well be right.’

      ‘As in “the customer is always...”?’ he drawled drily.

      ‘What?’ She was too taken aback to be polite.

      ‘Forgive me, Miss McKinley, but I feel your response was more of the head than the...heart?’

      The pause before the word ‘heart’ was intentionally provocative, and Tamar could have kicked herself a moment later when she shot back with, ‘You’re right, as always, Mr Cannon.’

      ‘Ah...’ It was speculative. ‘I see my reputation has gone before me.’

      ‘Your reputation?’ Her voice was too defensive. She realised just a second too late that he had been speaking generally when she saw the narrowed eyes sharpen, and she said hastily, ‘Oh, yes, your reputation... Well, you are quite well known in the City—’

      ‘Too late.’ It was very dry. ‘I gather whatever you’ve heard was not complimentary, but I won’t embarrass you further by asking for gory details.’ His tone stated quite clearly that it was more the fact that he couldn’t care less than her tender feelings which had prompted the magnanimity.

      ‘So...’ He paused, levering his powerful frame off the desk before offering her his hand to shake. ‘You are sure you can fix viewing for this afternoon on that first property?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ Tamar said firmly.

      ‘And you will ring me later this morning to confirm?’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Ask for me personally, okay?’

      He was still holding her hand, Tamar realised a little desperately as she looked up—a considerable way up—into the dark, male face.

      She was wearing her one and only original designer suit—which had been bought at a fraction of the price second-hand, but still looked like a million dollars—and her hair and make-up was immaculate, so why, why was he reducing her to the consistency of a melted jelly? she asked herself helplessly. And why did she feel so gauche?

      It probably wasn’t very clever to snatch her hand away so abruptly. In fact it definitely wasn’t, she acknowledged exasperatedly as she watched the cool grey eyes freeze to silver ice, but she knew—as she further compounded the gesture by stepping back a pace and pushing her hair away from her hot cheeks in order to give her hands something to do—that she couldn’t have left her fingers enclosed by his warm, male flesh for one more moment.

      ‘I’ll ... I’ll be in touch, Mr Cannon,’ she said shakily, after swallowing hard. ‘Later this morning, as arranged.’ Oh, don’t stammer, girl, she told herself disgustedly—this is Jed Cannon for goodness’ sake. He isn’t worthy to lick your boots, and you owe it to Gaby to carry this off without any hiccups. Jed Cannon was going to regret the day he ever heard the name of Tamar McKinley ... ‘Fine.’

      He was looking at her as though she were slightly mad, Tamar thought with a sudden faint touch of hysteria, and she really couldn’t blame him. And she had planned to be so cool, so very contained and in control! Oh, she hoped she hadn’t blown it.

      It appeared she hadn’t.

      ‘What are you doing for lunch?’ he asked suddenly, with unnerving directness.

      She almost said, Lunch? before she choked back the gormless reply and said instead, her voice as cool as she could make it in the circumstances, ‘Oh, I’ve appointments all day, but no doubt I shall manage a sandwich between engagements.’

      ‘All day?’ He frowned, and it was formidable. ‘Then how are you going to set up a visit to Greenacres for this afternoon?’

      She had wanted to drop this little nugget into the proceedings over the telephone when she rang him later, but she would have to do it now, Tamar decided quickly.

      ‘I have a number of colleagues who would be only too pleased to show you the property, Mr Cannon,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Our Mr Richard is a partner in the business, and he can—’

      ‘Your Mr Richard could be the man in the moon,’ Jed Cannon bit back tightly, ‘but he won’t do. I want you to do it.’

      ‘I really can’t—’

      ‘I insist on dependability, Miss McKinley—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Hell, I can’t keep saying that mouthful. You have got another name, I take it?’ he asked irritably.

      Her stomach was turning over, but she managed to sound both polite and unconcerned as she nodded briskly and said, ‘Tamar.’

      ‘Tamar?’ His mouth lingered over the name, the deep, husky voice bringing it alive in a way she had never heard before. ‘Unusual.’

      She smiled, but said nothing. He was going to have to dig for every little bit of information he got from her on a personal level. He was used to women relating their life history at one lift of those sardonic eyebrows, but this was one female who wasn’t going to fall at his feet in humble adoration. No way, no how.

      ‘The McKinley is Scottish, I take it?’ he asked quietly, when the silence began to stretch.

      ‘My father was Scots, yes.’

      Her tone wasn’t conducive to further questions, but she wasn’t unduly surprised when he persisted softly, ‘And your mother?’

      ‘My mother was French,’ she said, a little stiffly now.

      ‘And it would have been your mother who chose the name Tamar,’ he said thoughtfully.

      ‘What makes you say that?’ He was right, as it happened, but she wasn’t going to tell him so.

      ‘The French like beautiful, exotic-sounding names; the Scots are a little more conservative,’ he said with sweeping generalisation.

      She thought of Gabrielle and Olivia, and couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘I disagree. My cousins have very lovely names, for example, and both of their parents are Scots.’

      ‘Oh, yes?’ His voice was easy, and it was clearly an invitation to elaborate, but she had no intention of doing anything Jed Cannon expected of her.

      She willed herself to stand firm, a polite, social smile on her mouth as she faced him, and again the silence stretched and twanged, but this time he made no effort to break it. How long they would have stood there, locked in a strange battle of wills, Tamar didn’t know, but she gave a silent sigh of relief when the telephone buzzed after a long thirty seconds or so and defused the almost unbearable tension.

      ‘Yes?’ He had snatched up the receiver without taking his eyes off her, his voice curt as he snapped into the phone. After listening in silence for a moment, he said, ‘Put the call through in a moment, Teresa. Miss McKinley is just leaving.’

      Cue exit.

      Tamar nodded briefly, her smile fading, and turned to leave. She had almost reached the door when his voice stopped her as it said coldly, ‘You will make the necessary arrangements so that you can accompany me to Greenacres this afternoon, Tamar, and I would also like to see the other two properties tomorrow. Any time after...’ he flicked over a large diary on his desk and finished ‘...midday, so please plan your day accordingly.’

      It was an order, not a request, and everything in her rebelled. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cannon, but I really can’t—’

      ‘The name is Jed, and, yes, you can,’