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‘Photos of what?’
‘You on a bearskin rug, probably,’ chimed in Dylan. ‘You know, the ones showing those cute dimples on your—’
‘Dylan, shut up,’ growled Ethan for the second time that day.
‘Of people. Family. You know, just old photos…’ Emily trailed off, looking at Peter out of the corner of her eye, but he was lying limply back against the cushions, making the most of his indisposition. They had left the photographs on the table when she had leapt up to Peter, suddenly realising what his watering eyes and soundless gagging meant. Would Ethan notice that one, anonymous photo amongst many or see the resemblance that Emily had yet to convince Peter was only coincidental?
If Emily had been the ethereal type she could have put a hand to her forehead and feigned a swoon, but she was regrettably solid and didn’t think Ethan would buy it for a moment.
‘And what did you say you were talking about?’ He followed her sneaking glance and frowned. ‘Was he upset about something? Were you having some kind of an argument that set him off?’
Emily felt the invisible elephant’s hot breath on the back of her neck. ‘We weren’t arguing…’ But her equivocation cost her dearly, for he squared off in front of her, his shoulders blocking out everything but himself and the focused intensity of his gaze.
‘But you were having a disagreement about something, weren’t you?’ he rapped out. ‘What was it?’
Faced with a direct question, Emily quailed, unable to bring herself to utter an outright lie. She had thought she was done with damaging secrets. If she started lying to him now, she would lose all the ground she had gained with him this morning, and more…She would be tangling herself ever deeper in a family problem where she had no right to be.
Her hesitation stretched for an eternity, although it was probably only a few seconds. Suddenly she felt Peter’s icy fingers groping for her hand and squeezing it lightly, and shifted to see the open plea in his brown eyes. He was begging her not to expose his shameful secret to his family before he was ready to do so, not to humiliate him in front of Ethan and his lovely, sharp-eyed guest. He had only told Emily his story in the belief that she was his granddaughter. She had no right to betray knowledge gained through a false confidence.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ she said quietly, squeezing Peter’s cold hand back in silent reassurance before tucking it under the folds of the lap blanket. ‘It’s something private, between Peter and I.’
Ethan had watched the brief clasp of hands with baffled annoyance; now he wrapped his fingers around Emily’s elbow.
‘Will you all please excuse us for a few minutes?’ he demanded pleasantly, whisking her out of the room and across the hall into the games room, where he backed her up against the side of the billiard table.
‘All right—what’s really going on?’
She looked at him in disbelief, her hands gripping the polished edge of the table behind her. ‘I just told you—I can’t talk about it.’
His dark brows drew down over his eyes, his granite jaw jutting as he moved closer, almost blinding her with the dazzling white of his broad shirt-front. ‘He can’t hear you from here,’ he said in a lowered voice, tacitly inviting her to lean on his strong shoulder. ‘Whatever you tell me, I won’t let it get back to him—’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ she said staunchly, seeing his tactic for what it was, an attempt to suborn her allegiance. She still couldn’t get her head around the disturbing set of coincidences and longed for an unbiased view, but she wouldn’t get that from Ethan. ‘It’s no good badgering me, I’m not going to tell you.’ Let Peter have that painful duty himself.
She made the mistake of looking straight up into the icy blue eyes and her foolish heart softened at the storming conflict she saw there. How could she condemn him for loving his uncle and caring deeply for his health and welfare? She knew all too well what it was like to be held at arm’s length by an old man’s pride. ‘He’s not gravely ill or dying, Ethan, if that’s what you’re worried about. He just has some…’ she hesitated ‘…some issues—about the past.’ she straightened her shoulders. ‘And that’s as much as you’ll get from me. If you have any more questions, you’ll have to address them to your uncle. But if I were you I’d let him do it in his own time.’
‘Oh, I see—you’re the family expert now, are you?’
She flinched and turned her head away, but he brought it back, his hand firm on her chin, tilting it so she couldn’t avoid his arrested look.
‘What? What did I say?’
‘Nothing.’ The chill that had invaded her when she’d thought Peter was having a heart attack had been replaced by a pervasive heat. Her heart quickened. She was supposed to be resisting him with every fibre of her being, she reminded herself, not aching to turn her cheek against his controlling hand.
He shook his head, chiding her for the blushing untruth. ‘Oh, Emily, you’re so—’
‘So what?’ she said, bracing for another attack.
‘Damned stubborn,’ he said, but it wasn’t an insult. His hand fell away but he still stood disturbingly close. ‘And loyal. To a fault. First your grandfather, now Uncle Peter.’ If only he knew the irony of his words. ‘When do I get my turn?’
His sudden gentleness was even more dangerous to her defences than his sharp perception. Her fingers dug into the wood behind her back. As he said, trust worked two ways.
‘Hadn’t we better be getting back to the others? Carly must be getting impatient—’
‘Carly can look after herself,’ he said, not budging.
‘That’s not very gallant,’ she said, trying to sound reproachful.
‘She’s not dating me for my gallantry.’
