Potent As Poison. Sharon Kendrick

worse, she saw the corner of his mouth lift as he acknowledged it without surprise.

      He had, she decided sadly, lost nothing of the almost tangible sex-appeal which had swept her off her feet as an eighteen-year-old. There was not a sound in the room as they stared at one another, puzzled interest in his eyes as the tension grew.

      The years had been kind to him, thought Elizabeth. Very kind. She knew from his file that he was thirty-four now, and he carried himself with all the authority of a rich and powerful man.

      His looks were unique—she had never seen another man like him. Perhaps it was the combination of those amazingly light eyes, so at odds when fringed by lashes and brows of the same deep ebony as his hair. Eyes so light that they looked startlingly luminous, set in the pale olive complexion which she recalled him telling her he owed to an Italian mother. The nose, naturally enough, was Roman—curved and carved into a haughtily aristocratic profile. And yet the body, and the accent—they were all-American. Solid, honed muscular perfection, with a deep, drawling movie-star voice. He was—he always had been—one hell of a package.

      She leaned forward. ‘Listen to me. I can’t work for you. I can recommend other accountants——’

      ‘No.’ The voice was quietly decisive. ‘I want you to look after my business.’

      She had never done anything like this in her life, not risked her job by refusing to take on such a valuable client. She prayed that Paul would never find just why she was doing it. ‘I don’t think you understand——’

      ‘No, Mrs Carson,’ he interrupted, and his voice rang out in the tone of a man who was used to calling the shots. ‘I don’t think that you understand. I was given your name because you happen to have a specialty—you handle the accounts of law firms, and that’s my line of business. I was told that you are the best, and that’s why I want you to represent me. I feel I should warn you——’ and here his gaze was mocking ‘—that I always get what I want.’

      I know you do, she thought. She had one last try. ‘Mr Masterton, let me recommend you the names of some other accountancy firms.’

      He leaned towards her, so that their faces were mere inches away from each other. ‘But I want this accountancy firm, Mrs Carson. And, more importantly—I want you. I don’t care if you don’t like me—for whatever reason. Your hang-ups about men are of no concern to me. I’m asking you to keep my books, not marry me.’

      Elizabeth blanched at the unwitting irony of his words.

      His eyes were piercing her with that blue-green light. ‘I have legal contacts and friends in England who have used you and been extremely pleased with the work you’ve put in. What they failed to mention was that you seem to have some problem with communication skills. Not that that matters—an accountant needs to be good with figures, not words.’ The slanting eyes narrowed still further. ‘What I do find intriguing, though, is your obvious reluctance to have my account. Tell me, is Paul Meredith aware that one of his senior accountants does her best to turn away lucrative offers of work?’

      She heard the underlying threat spoken with silky menace, and it drew her up short, so that she started as she realised that she was in danger of jeopardising the career she had worked so hard for. Here was a man used to getting what he wanted, after all—and she suddenly recognised that a man like this, to whom everything in life had come so easily, would look on her reluctance to be hired by him as some kind of challenge. Why not just surrender gracefully to the inevitable? She looked at him steadily. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You, as the client, obviously know best, and I shall of course endeavour to do my best for you.’

      ‘Oh, for sure,’ he agreed softly, and then his eyes narrowed in intense concentration, just for a second, as if something was puzzling him. Elizabeth held her breath, certain again that he was about to remember her, but the moment passed.

      She cleared her throat, pulling a portfolio towards her, and, picking up her fountain pen with a hand which was, amazingly, quite steady, she looked up at him expectantly.

      ‘Mr Masterton——’

      ‘Rick.’

      She wondered briefly why he now used the American diminutive of his Italian name before shaking her head. ‘That may be the American way, but I’m afraid it’s not ours. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep things on a formal footing.’

      But he obviously did mind, because as he looked at her, that perfect mouth twisted with derision. ‘God, but you’re uptight,’ he observed.

      Pen poised, she looked at him as politely as if he had not just insulted her. ‘Shall we get on?’ she enquired frostily, and she saw him give a terse if somewhat reluctant nod. ‘Now then, about your business. What kind of business do you intend setting up?’

      ‘Why, a law firm, of course,’ he stated. ‘What else?’

      ‘But you qualified in the States. And as an American barrister——’

      ‘Attorney,’ he corrected.

      ‘Attorney, then. Surely you aren’t allowed to practise over here without taking extra exams?’

      ‘I’m not planning to. I’m leaving that to some very able English colleagues. I’m just here to set it all up. As soon as the chambers are established, then I’m back off to the States.’

      She couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. ‘That means that you’re only here temporarily?’

      His mouth twisted. ‘Yes, Mrs Carson. A few months at most.’

      Thank God. ‘And do you intend for your law firm to be general—I mean tackling company law, fraud, divorce ...?’

      He gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head as if acknowledging that now—at least—she was beginning to speak some sense! ‘Oh, no, Mrs Carson. Like you, I have a specialty.’

      She got the strangest feeling of foreboding. ‘Which is?’

      ‘In America we call it “palimony”. I specialise in establishing the nature of common-law relationships, and negotiating a corresponding financial settlement. That’s one thing I do. My main interest, though, lies in the welfare of children.’

      Some protective instinct deep within her stirred, powerful enough to keep her face poker blank. ‘Children?’ she echoed.

      ‘Yes, indeed. You see—I specialise in child custody cases.’

      With an effort, Elizabeth only just prevented her mouth from falling open in sheer, disbelieving horror. ‘Child custody cases?’ she queried, and for one wild moment terror invaded her. He knows, she thought desperately. He wants Peter.

      ‘Sure.’ He shrugged big, powerful shoulders. ‘I’ve represented a lot of fathers contesting cases in the States. We’ve managed to break a lot of new ground.’

      She swallowed, twirling the gold pen between her fingers like a drum majorette, so he wouldn’t see that her hands were shaking. ‘Oh? How’s that?’ She saw his big frame relax as he warmed to the subject.

      ‘Society’s changing. Women no longer have the right to assume that they are the child’s best custodian.’

      Elizabeth felt slightly sick, her vision a little blurred, and her hand reached up so that she could rub her finger inside the rim of her shirt collar, the cool air to her neck making her vision thankfully clear again. ‘But a mother surely has a much stronger right than the man,’ she argued, her voice a hoarse whisper. ‘A biological right—given to them by nature, by the fact that they were the one who carried the child, gave birth to it, cared for it——’

      He stared at her. ‘Nature over nurture?’ he queried. ‘But nature is often indiscriminate, is it not? A child’s future shouldn’t be governed by something as haphazard as the laws of nature.’

      ‘So you discriminate against women, do you, Mr