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Whatever, he’d leap at the opportunity of earning himself a lump of cash. Wouldn’t he?
She really had no option but to ask. She’d arrived back in Shrewsbury late last night, but not late enough, because Laura had still been up, watching an old movie on TV, so she’d had to explain what had been said when she’d visited Fabian’s solicitor. ‘Word for word,’ her mother had demanded.
She hadn’t wanted to mention it until she’d got it sorted, or given up on the project. But she couldn’t lie to her mother; she could only lie to solicitors!
The look of stunned happiness on the older woman’s face when she’d heard that her late brother-in-law had left Studley Manor to her daughter had pained Allie even more than the resigned defeat in the blue eyes when she’d explained about the condition.
‘That’s that, then,’ Laura had sighed. ‘He always had a cruel streak.’
Allie had hugged her, more determined than ever to get her mother what she wanted: the lovely home she’d been pining for all these years. ‘Don’t say anything to anyone, and don’t be surprised by anything that happens. I think I know a way to get Studley back.’
Easy enough to say when in the grip of powerful emotions, but a different thing entirely in the cold light of day.
She had no option but to try. He could only say no. Straightening her body, she tucked a tendril of hair that had escaped from her no-nonsense ponytail behind her ear.
The door opened almost before she’d taken her finger from the bell, and his grandmother said, ‘It’s Miss Brannan, isn’t it? Do come in.’
There was something very reassuring about the starchiness of the white apron that covered the plump body, the stern expression on the lined face which was belied by twinkling eyes. His grandmother was someone a girl could rely on, Allie thought, clutching at straws, buying extra time, and gabbled, ‘I don’t want to intrude. Perhaps you could give Jethro a message for me?’
‘Why not give it to him yourself?’ She stood aside, defying Allie to do anything other.
Trying to stamp down on the million butterflies that had been let loose in her stomach, Allie crossed the threshold because she had no choice. The old lady plainly had no time for ditherers, and could, she guessed from the firm set of her mouth, become quite alarming when crossed.
‘Through here.’ A door leading off the minuscule hallway was pushed open decisively. ‘Speak your mind and put the poor boy out of his misery one way or another. No shilly-shallying.’
A firm hand propelled her into a small living room furnished with ponderous Victorian pieces. She heard the door close behind her and found herself staring at Jethro Cole’s broad-shouldered back.
He appeared to be engrossed in the view from the window, but what he could actually see through the thick net drapes she couldn’t imagine. And what on earth his grandmother had meant by putting him out of his misery was beyond her. And if she tried to puzzle it out she would get even more flustered than she already was.
Her heart thumping, she tentatively cleared her throat and watched him very slowly turn to face her. It was, she thought sinkingly, like looking at a stranger. Gone was the casually charming sexy male with the hazy golden eyes that had always seemed to be stripping her naked, and in his place was a man whose features had hardened into something approaching arrogance, whose eyes held a cold yellow indifference.
Dressed, as usual, in old jeans, faded T-shirt and beat-up trainers, he managed to wear an aura of power, of control. He was, she realised, her eyes widening, far more alarming than his indomitable grandmother.
Jethro hooded his eyes. The smile she was trying out was wobbling round the edges, and anxiety positively shrieked from those wide dark blue eyes. For the first time she looked vulnerable, the calm, cool poise he associated with her wiped away by some trouble or other.
She put a hand up to her mouth, as if to hide the embryo smile that had somehow turned into a shaky grimace, the movement totally at odds with her usual grace, clumsy almost.
He stamped on the urge to fold her in his arms, to tell her to stop worrying about whatever it was that was troubling her because, whatever it was, he’d sort it. She wasn’t for him and never could be; she leaned in a different direction entirely.
Because someone, some time, had to say something, he leaned back on his heels and asked flatly, ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ Then he made a minor production of looking at his watch, as if counting out the seconds he could spare her.
Allie made a huge effort to drag herself together. For heaven’s sake, he was only a man, and no man up to now had had the power to intimidate her. This one was no different from the rest. That bleak, tough expression was probably down to nothing more scary than peevishness. He was looking sniffy because she’d consistently turned down his offers of a date.
Well, she could offer him something of far more use to him than a few miserable dates. Money. Lots of it.
She squared her shoulders beneath the cotton shirt she was wearing tucked into baggy green trousers that had been through the wash a couple of dozen times too many—nothing remotely sexy to give him funny ideas—sucked some air into her cramped lungs and managed to say coolly, ‘I need a favour, and I’m willing to pay handsomely for it.’
Naming the sum at her disposal, she watched closely for a change in his expression. Nothing, not even the merest flicker of interest. She had been so sure that he would jump at the opportunity of getting his hands on what must seem to him to be a small fortune, and ask questions about the favour he was to do to earn it after, she felt the disappointment hit her like a blow to the pit of her stomach. To be replaced immediately by the sting of irritation.
She was having a hard time getting through to this looming hulk! And for all she knew his dear old granny probably had her ear pinned to the other side of the door. Frustration edged her voice as she enunciated clearly, ‘I suggest we go somewhere to talk about it on neutral ground. But before we do, I must tell you that the sum I mentioned can’t be increased.’ This was in case he was using that poker-player’s face in the hope of upping the ante.
The only response to that was the slight, upward drift of one straight sable brow. It incensed her. Why didn’t he just say, No thanks, go away, and be done with it?
‘If you’re not interested, then please say so, and I won’t waste any more of your valuable time!’
In a moment she would swing on her heels and storm out in an almighty temper; he knew that. He also knew that he should let her. Seeing her, the only woman he had actively pursued, the one woman who would never give him a second glance, wasn’t doing much for his own mood either. The feeling of being an utter jerk was new to him, and he didn’t like it.
Just as he’d predicted, she swung round on her heels, angry impatience keeping her shoulders rigid, and he said, ‘I’m interested,’ then cursed himself for the instinctive words, for not letting her go, getting her out of his sight, out of his head. He qualified his statement when he saw the wash of relief on her face as she turned back to him. ‘I’m curious to know what favour you’re willing to pay so highly for. Shall we go?’
