The Marriage Takeover. Lee Wilkinson

      She got the distinct impression that he was applauding her performance more than the sentiments.

      His glance moved from her face to the tumble of silky hair, and, lifting his hand, he picked up a loose tendril and straightened it before letting it spring back. ‘Naturally curly?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said in a stifled voice.

      Alan had made no mention of Lang Dalton being a philanderer, so perhaps his intention had merely been to tip her off balance once more.

      If so, he’d succeeded.

      Head tilted a little to one side, he studied her. ‘With your hair down, you look delightfully young and innocent.’

      Though the words were flattering, she felt oddly convinced that no compliment had been intended. In fact his appraisal bordered on the critical, and, wondering if he found her appearance too casual for his liking, she began a shade defensively, ‘Well, I usually take it up, but I…’

      ‘But you didn’t have enough time…’ He ran the tips of his fingers lightly down one cheek, making her shiver. ‘And you’re not wearing any make-up. Dear me, in spite of your tactful denial, I must have rushed you.’

      It was a moment or two before she managed to say jerkily, ‘In this kind of heat I prefer not to wear any make-up.’

      ‘Truth, or discretion?’ he queried, his smile openly mocking.

      ‘Truth.’ With well-marked brows and lashes, and a flawless skin, she didn’t really need make-up.

      ‘Sit down, Miss Vallance.’ He indicated a chair next to his own. ‘Or may I call you Cassandra?’

      ‘Please do,’ she agreed with distant civility, and sat down with the greatest reluctance. Oh, why wasn’t his wife here?

      ‘What would you like to drink, Cassandra?’

      ‘Something long and cold and not too alcoholic, please.’

      Seeing him lift a blond brow, she added, ‘I still feel a little dehydrated from the flight.’

      ‘Then we’ll make it a very weak margarita.’ Crossing to the bar, he rimmed two glasses with salt and poured crushed ice into a cocktail shaker, before asking, ‘Do you like flying?’

      Wondering where on earth Alan had got to, she answered abstractedly, ‘I haven’t done a great deal.’

      ‘How much have you done?’

      Lang Dalton, it seemed, didn’t care for any kind of evasion.

      ‘Just one trip to Paris,’ she said evenly. ‘This is the first time I’ve flown long-haul.’

      ‘And you didn’t like it?’

      ‘Yes, I liked it.’

      ‘But you didn’t want to come to California?’

      Startled, she asked, ‘What makes you think that?’

      ‘It’s quite obvious.’

      ‘Really, you’re mistaken,’ she protested.

      ‘Don’t lie to me,’ he said shortly, and wondered, Had she any idea who he was? ‘Why didn’t you want to come?’

      She racked her brains to find some diplomatic excuse that would sound feasible, but her mind stayed a blank, and finally she admitted, ‘I—I don’t know. There was no real reason.’

      Aware that what he saw as her refusal to answer had vexed him, she added helplessly, ‘I just had a strange feeling that things weren’t going to go smoothly, and…’ The words tailed off.

      Careful not to look in his direction, she heard the rhythmic shush of the cocktail shaker, then the sound of its contents being poured.

      A moment or two later he put a tall, chilled glass into her hand and, taking his seat beside her, prompted, ‘And?’

      ‘And they didn’t… You and I got off on the wrong foot.’

      ‘Correction,’ he said softly. ‘You got off on the wrong foot.’

      She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry about that.’

      He made no comment, and after a moment she looked away uncomfortably.

      While they sipped their drinks, she was aware that his gaze never left her face. Flustered by that relentless scrutiny, she tried to think of something to say, while the silence stretched unbearably.

      At length, in desperation, she blurted out, ‘I can’t imagine where Alan’s got to.’

      ‘If I’d wanted Brent here, I would have sent for him,’ Lang informed her crisply. ‘It was you I wanted to talk to. You have a lovely voice, so use it. Tell me about yourself.’

      Strangely unwilling, as though telling this man about herself would somehow make her vulnerable, she began, ‘Well, I came to work for Dalton International when—’

      ‘I’m not asking about the business side,’ he broke in with a touch of impatience. ‘It’s you I want to know about. How old are you?’

      Reminding herself that he was her boss as well as Alan’s, she replied stiffly, ‘Twenty-two.’

      ‘Where do you live?’

      ‘In Bayswater.’

      ‘Alone?’

      ‘I share a flat.’

      ‘With Brent?’

      ‘With a girlfriend.’

      ‘Where were you born?’

      ‘Oxford.’

      ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

      ‘No, I was an only child.’ She was answering each question with studied politeness, but making very little effort to elaborate.

      His annoyance barely masked, he said peremptorily, ‘I would prefer you to tell me in your own words rather than make it into an interrogation.’

      Allowing a few seconds for that to sink in, he added, ‘Suppose you start with your home background—parents, schooling, that kind of thing.’

      ‘My father was a historian, an academic who lived in Chaucer’s time rather than in the real world. My mother was a career woman, and ran a successful secretarial agency. They were both in their late thirties and set in their ways before I was born.’

      Making no comment, his eyes on her face, he waited.

      Flatly, dispassionately, she went on, ‘Because neither of them wanted, or had any time for, a child, they hired a nanny until I was old enough to be sent away to boarding-school.’

      An expression she couldn’t decipher crossed his face, before he asked, ‘Were you happy there?’

      ‘Most of the time.’ Except when holidays came round. Then, because it wasn’t ‘convenient’ to have her home, her parents had farmed her out to various distant relatives, until she’d been old enough to make her own plans.

      ‘And when you left school?’

      ‘I went to college.’

      In response to his little frown of irritation, she continued, ‘When I graduated last year, I was offered a job at Dalton International, and I’ve been Alan’s secretary and personal assistant for the past five months.’

      Her left hand was lightly gripping the arm of her chair, and, noticing Lang Dalton’s glance linger on her engagement ring, she found herself wondering whether he questioned Alan’s motives for giving her the job.

      Lifting her chin, she asked, ‘But perhaps you think I wasn’t experienced enough to have been offered such a post?’

      ‘I