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His voice ran over Marianne’s overstretched nerves like icy water. It was deep, cold and liquid-smooth although the timbre was as hard as polished steel.
Mesmerised more by the coolness of his manner than his height and rugged good looks, Marianne said hesitantly, ‘Thank you.’
She could not recall her father or mother speaking of anyone called Steed. Why had this old friend who lived on the other side of the ocean sent his son to represent him after all this time? It seemed strange. ‘My father and yours were friends?’ she said carefully. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t remember the name.’
‘No reason why you should.’ The big powerful body appeared relaxed but this did not detract from the energy and force it projected. ‘My father and yours grew up together but my father left for America when he was in his early twenties.’
His accent was the type of lazy American drawl that was so attractive on the silver screen and even the lack of warmth couldn’t negate its appeal. Marianne wondered why this stranger disliked her, because he did. It was in his manner, the set of his face and, most of all, his cold, cold eyes.
‘I see.’ She didn’t but it didn’t matter as the weight of her loss pressed down on her again. ‘Please thank your father for me, won’t you. I hope he is well soon.’
‘My father is dying, Miss Carr, but slowly.’
The very sharply defined planes and angles of the masculine face showed no emotion as Marianne stared at him. She was completely taken aback but, before she could bring her mind to bear, Tom Blackthorn said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Rafe. You didn’t say before. We had some good times when we were younger—your father, Annie’s and myself. The Three Musketeers.’
There was a small silence when Marianne wondered if Rafe Steed was going to ignore the man at his side, his eyes still intent on her face. Then, to her relief, the rapier gaze moved and he turned to Tom.
His smile wintry, he said, ‘So I understand.’
What an objectionable individual. Marianne couldn’t believe anyone would come to a funeral and then be so covertly rude to the bereaved. Drawing herself up to her full height of five feet six inches, which unfortunately was still almost a foot below the son of her father’s old friend which, she felt, put her at something of a disadvantage, she said as coldly as he had spoken, ‘Please excuse me, Mr Steed, but I have other people to talk to.’ Nice people, normal people. ‘I’ll see you later, Uncle Tom.’
It had always been Uncle Tom and Aunt Gillian since she was a child although they weren’t related. Her mother and father had both been only children and so it had been Tom’s two sons and two daughters she had looked on as cousins and, having no brothers and sisters herself, their friendship had been precious. It still was, although all but the youngest son had moved to other parts of the country.
As she made her way around the room, talking to one group of folk and then others, Marianne was uncomfortably aware of a pair of blue eyes watching her every move. Most people had plates of Crystal’s delicious buffet in their hands by now but, although Tom had wandered off into the dining room, she knew Rafe Steed had not budged from his stance by the door.
‘Who’s the Heathcliff type Dad’s been talking to?’ As Marianne joined the group consisting of Tom’s children and their partners and his wife, it was Victoria—Tom and Gillian’s youngest daughter and the only child still unattached and fancy-free—who spoke. ‘He’s new round here, isn’t he?’
‘Victoria.’
As her mother shushed her, Victoria said, ‘What? You know you want to know as well.’ Turning to Marianne, she added, ‘Dad just said he’s an old friend but Mum doesn’t know him and she thought she knew all of Dad’s friends.’
Marianne smiled. Victoria was the maneater of the Blackthorn sisters. A confirmed bachelor girl with a fantastic career in central government, she had announced early in life that marriage and children weren’t for her; neither were permanent relationships it would seem. It was common knowledge she ate men up and spat them out and, being a tall redhead with curves in all the right places and come-to-bed blue eyes, they queued up for the privilege of having their hearts broken. And Victoria had obviously set her sights on Rafe Steed. She was so welcome.
Keeping her voice light and easy, Marianne said, ‘His father was an old friend, not him. Apparently your father and mine grew up with his. His name’s Steed. Rafe Steed.’
‘Steed?’ Gillian was a Cornish lass, unlike Marianne’s mother who had moved to the district from the north of England with her family when she was a young woman. ‘He must be Andrew Steed’s son. Yes, I can see it now although he’s a head taller than his father was, but Andrew was very good-looking, too. They’ve got the same black hair and blue eyes. It was a combination that used to send the girls in a tizzwazz. With your father being so fair, Annie, and Andrew being so dark they used to have the girls throwing themselves at them.’
‘What about Dad?’ Victoria interjected a little defensively.
‘Oh, your father was always mine,’ Gillian said comfortably. ‘Everyone knew that.’
Victoria’s gaze was on Rafe Steed again. ‘He’s barely taken his eyes off you, Annie. And he’s got a very sexy mouth,’ she added, almost to herself. ‘In fact he’s “very” everything.’
‘Victoria.’
This time her mother really meant it and Victoria recognised the tone. ‘Sorry,’ she said quickly to Marianne. ‘I wasn’t being flippant regarding your mum and dad, Annie. You know how much I thought of them.’
‘It’s fine.’ It was. In fact, she preferred Victoria’s naturalness to the awkwardness with which most people were treating her today. ‘Why don’t you go across and introduce yourself?’ she suggested, knowing Victoria was longing to. ‘You’ve got the excuse he’s an old friend of your father’s and, furthermore, he doesn’t know anyone. You’ll be taking pity on him.’
‘That’s just what I thought.’ Delighted, Victoria was off.
‘That girl.’ Gillian shook her head while her two sons and eldest daughter and their respective spouses smiled indulgently. ‘I don’t know what it is about her but she attracts the men like bees to a honeypot. He’ll be taking her out for dinner tonight, you mark my words.’
Marianne said something non-committal and moved on. She didn’t care if Rafe Steed took half of Cornwall out for dinner tonight; she thought he was the rudest man she had ever met. If she saw him again in the whole of her life after today it would be too soon. Victoria was utterly welcome and, thinking about it, if anyone could bring such a man to heel, Victoria could.
She purposely didn’t look over the other side of the room for some time, but when she did it was to see that Rafe Steed and Victoria had been joined by the rest of Tom’s family and they were all chatting and smiling. Ridiculously, Marianne felt betrayed. The feeling disappeared almost as soon as it had come but it left her with stinging eyes and a trembling mouth. Suddenly she wanted her mother so much it hurt.
Don’t be stupid, she told herself silently, walking across to the french windows and gazing out over the rolling grounds which stretched down to the high stone wall separating their property from the cliff path. She was a grown woman of twenty-seven and she had lived in London for the last five years since qualifying as an occupational therapist. She had a responsible job with a top London hospital and she had long since taken charge of her life. She was grown up, not a child.
