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There was scorn in her voice, and she didn’t bother to hide it.
Leon’s reply was hard. ‘You are fortunate, then, that you only had to be born your father’s daughter to enjoy his wealth.’
At least she had the grace to look discomfited, he saw. His gaze studied her face. Just what was Flavia Lassiter’s character? On the plus side she seemed unimpressed by his wealth, disdaining to fawn on him, yet she enjoyed the fruits of Alistair Lassiter’s largesse and admitted she made no attempt to earn any money for herself, or even busy herself with charity work, which so many women of her type did. And she was perfectly willing to be shamelessly rude to him—was that truly only because she was trying to deny what was so obviously flaring between them?
A dark thought shadowed his mind yet again. Or was it because she saw no necessity to be polite to him because he did not come from the well-bred world she moved in so effortlessly. Because he had started life half a world away in a South American shanty town and come penniless to this country, nothing more than yet another indigent immigrant—someone to look down on and resent, to look through as if he simply did not exist …?
Again he felt the familiar sting of anger inside him, fuelled by an old, old memory of a time when few had seen any need to show him politeness.
He thrust the reflection aside. He would not be haunted by it … by memories of his past …
There was a swirl of glittering purple skirts and Lassiter’s mistress, closely followed by Lassiter himself, was approaching the table once more. Anita’s face was animated as she hailed Leon.
‘There you are! I wondered where you’d got to. Do come and dance! Alistair says he’s too tired to go on.’
She pouted flirtatiously at Leon and moved to take his hand, but he raised it in negation, giving a slight but definite shake of his head.
‘I never dance with another man’s woman,’ he said.
Anita’s pout turned into a displeased moue. Leon could immediately see she was peeved to be thought of as Lassiter’s ‘woman’, but at the same time she clearly wanted to dance with Leon himself. He could understand why. Alistair Lassiter was not looking his best right now. His face was red and puffed, and there was a line of sweat around his collar. As he sat down heavily he looked his age, and he was running to fat.
Anita perched herself petulantly on the vacant chair next to Leon, then busied herself spending the next ten minutes making up to him shamelessly. Leon could see Lassiter—not liking it, but at the same time he was obviously not keen on objecting to it. Cynically, Leon found himself once again considering whether Lassiter would actually go so far in ingratiating himself with him by not objecting if he took matters even further with his mistress.
Or his daughter …
His eyes slid past Anita’s over-made-up face to where Flavia Lassiter was still sitting stiffly, taking small, repetitive sips from her coffee cup, clearly in an attempt to avoid all further conversation. She was pretending she was occupied in staring out across the ballroom, though it was obvious she was paying her surroundings no attention at all.
Except to him. Flavia Lassiter, whatever his uncertainty or speculation as to her disdain for men of lowly foreign origins, was, Leon knew with complete a
ssurance, radiating a totally female awareness of him on all frequencies—she was bristling with it. Once more a grim sense of satisfaction permeated him. She could snub him all she liked, claim whatever that she didn’t think of him at all—but she was lying. Lying all the way down her beautiful slender body …
Making some anodyne reply to whatever it was Anita had just said to him, he turned full face to Flavia.
‘If events such as this one tonight are not to your taste, what do you care to do with your evenings? Parties? Clubbing?’ Deliberately he suggested two things that he’d bet she’d loathe.
He could see her start and stiffen visibly as he addressed her. Presumably she’d thought he’d turned his unwanted attentions to Anita and she was off his unwelcome hook.
As if all too aware of his daughter’s intransigence, Alistair Lassiter answered for her. ‘Oh, Flavia’s a real culture-vulture,’ he effused heartily. ‘Offer her a Shakespeare play and she’s perfectly happy.’
Leon lifted an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? And have you seen the current West End production of Hamlet?’ He directed his question at Flavia.
‘No.’ The answer was forced from her.
‘Then I would be delighted to take you,’ came Leon’s smooth reply.
‘I don’t like the lead actor,’ Flavia riposted shortly.
‘The National has Twelfth Night running,’ countered Leon.
She looked straight at him. ‘I’ve seen it too often,’ she replied, sounding bored.
No way, no way was she going to get cornered into going to the theatre with Leon Maranz. Anyway, she reminded herself with relief, this time tomorrow she’d be back home in Dorset.
‘The National’s production is highly innovative,’ Leon came back.
‘I prefer traditional interpretations,’ Flavia returned dismissively.
She knew she was being ungracious and rude, and hated herself for it, but she had to do whatever was necessary to get Leon Maranz’s attention off her. It was like being caught in a searchlight, pinning her down, trying to disarm her to get past her guard, her desperate defences.
