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‘Is everything all right?’ she asked suddenly. ‘I mean at the bank.’
Tom’s grey eyes shifted away. ‘Just the general economic downturn, that’s all. It’s hitting everyone.’
Not Diego Saez, she thought acidly. The man had just bid a record sum for a Dutch still-life at auction. It had left everyone gasping.
But she wasn’t going to think about Diego Saez any more than she had to.
‘Well, don’t work too hard anyway,’ she told her brother. ‘Do you want me to invite Felicity to stay for a while? She’d cheer you up! You know, you really ought to get on with things and fix a wedding date. What on earth’s keeping you?’
Tom’s expression changed. ‘There’s no rush, you know. And anyway…’ He paused, then went on, ‘Maybe we’re not right for each other.’
Portia stared. ‘Not right? I’ve never seen two people more right for each other! Felicity’s crazy about you—and I should know, it’s me she confides in whenever I’m down at Salton.’ She frowned suddenly. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve gone off her, Tom?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m…very fond…of Fliss, but—well, she could probably do a lot better than marry me, you know! Rupert Bellingham would marry her like a shot!’
‘Yes, but she’s not in love with Rupert Bellingham—she’s in love with you!’
‘She’d be a lot better off marrying him,’ Tom said doggedly. ‘And he’s got a handle!’
‘Felicity doesn’t want to be Lady Bellingham—she wants to be Mrs Lanchester. So I simply don’t see why you don’t agree a wedding date and get on with it!’
Tom looked hunted suddenly. ‘For God’s sake, stop nagging me!’ he bit out.
She stared, both astonished and shocked. Tom never lost his temper at her, or indeed anyone. He saw her expression and looked apologetic.
‘I’m sorry—it’s just that—well, like I said, there’s a lot on my plate at the moment at the bank.’
She was immediately sympathetic—and indignant. ‘You really ought to get Uncle Martin to pull his weight more. He is still the chairman after all—and he makes such a point of it. He shouldn’t leave everything to you.’
Tom made no reply, just looked tireder. Not wanting to plague him any longer, let alone about the inertia of their late father’s friend and partner Martin Loring, she simply bade him goodnight and went off up to her own flat.
The trip to Geneva proved to be a waste of time. The painting was, indeed, nothing more than a work from Teller’s studio.
Her mood when she returned was not good, and what she wanted to do was stay in that evening, have a long bath and an early night. But she had promised Hugh Mackerras she would go with him to a select reception to launch a new exhibition at one of the prestigious private London art galleries, and, knowing that he valued her for her social contacts, she felt obliged not to let him down.
Would Diego Saez be there that evening? she wondered. Surely to God he ought to be leaving London by now, instead of tormenting her!
But in case he hadn’t, in case he was still haunting London and the art world, she dressed with particular care that evening. She did not make the mistake of wearing that over-concealing outfit again, but she did, all the same, select her attire deliberately. This time she wore a heather-coloured cocktail dress that she had realised was a mistake the moment she’d got it home. It had languished in a corner of her wardrobe ever since. The colour made her look washed out, and the cap sleeves cut her upper arm at just the wrong point.
But it made her feel safe.
Hearing her cab at the door, she set off.
The gallery was in a large, double-fronted Georgian mansion a street or so back from Piccadilly, and the rooms where the reception was being held were already crowded with familiar faces. Portia’s progress towards Hugh on the far side of the room was inevitably slow as she was caught up in greeting and being greeted along the way. Her eyes rapidly scanned the space for the man she did not wish to see there, and to her relief she caught no sight of his tall, broad-shouldered, olive-skinned frame. She started to relax, paused to engage in some social chit-chat with a female acquaintance, smiled politely after the requisite length of time, and turned to continue on towards Hugh.
And realised that Diego Saez was standing right beside him.
Immediately, without her volition, she felt that wire tugging through her, felt that jittery, panicky feeling jump inside her. She could feel her heart-rate increasing, her lungs tightening.
Desperately she fought to regain control of her reactions, subdue them, force them down below the cool, composed surface she liked to present to the world.
It was so obvious that she’d been heading for Hugh that she could hardly change course now. As for latching on to someone else to talk to until the danger was over and Diego Saez had moved on—suddenly there was no one else within chatting distance. With a fateful feeling of helplessness, she bowed to the inevitable and continued to head towards Hugh.
Deliberately she did not look at the man with him.
But she had to fight herself to stop herself doing so. Something inside her made her want to look, made her want to let her eyes go to him, see those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, that strong nose, the high-cut cheekbones and that sensual mouth that so disturbed her…
Her feet reached Hugh. He greeted her in his customary fashion and then immediately said, ‘Mr Saez was expressing an interest in Regency portraiture. I told him you were something of a specialist.’
