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'Liza, this is my uncle,' Bruno said. 'G. K., this is Liza.'
Liza considered the extended hand without warmth; for a second she almost didn't take it but at the last instant her nerve failed because she did not want to have any sort of scene. If she told Bruno that his uncle had been the man at her cottage the other night there would undoubtedly be a scene, so she held out her fingers and let his hand grip them, but pulled them away almost at once.
'How do you do, Mr Gifford?'
'Call me Keir,' he said, eyes teasing.
'That's what the K stands for?' she said bitingly.
'That's right. Didn't Bruno tell you?'
T didn't ask,' she lied, implying that she hadn't been interested enough, but she had asked Bruno once and couldn't remember what he had said. If he had told her, the name hadn't rung any bells, but then why would it? She hadn't been expecting to find his uncle parked outside her co
ttage in that mist, and a frown pleated her brows as she remembered the way he had looked, the shabby old car he had been driving.
Her eyes ran over him now with angry irony. He looked very different. He had changed out of his polo gear and was elegantly casual in a smoothly tailored summer suit, a silk shirt, a silk tie. He wore them with panache but Liza had liked him better in the old cord trousers and sweater, in his tweed jacket, driving that broken-down old estate car.
'Sit down and have some tea,' Bruno urged and Keir Gifford dropped into a chair, his lean body very relaxed. Bruno tried to signal the waitress, but she had stopped to gossip and ignored him.
'I'll get some fresh tea,' Bruno said, getting up and darting over to get her attention.
Liza was looking down at the trampled grass; it looked mournful and ill-treated and she knew how it felt!
'You're very quiet,' Keir said, and she lifted her head then to eye him with glacial dislike.
'Are you surprised ? Don't you dare even to talk to me!'
He still looked amused, as though the fury in her voice hadn't had any effect on him, and she broke out again, in a low, shaky whisper, because she didn't want to attract any attention from the tables around them.
' I ought to slap your face! What did you think you were doing? What a charade—the old clothes, the broken-down old car? All the lies you told me! The stuff about being a trained psychologist!'
'I am! That wasn't a lie. I took a degree in psychology.' He had linked his hands behind his gleaming black head and was watching her with narrowed blue eyes, a smile lurking in them, as if she was giving him a lot of entertainment, and Liza bristled from head to toe.
'Oh, I see, that's how bankers train these days? Forget the economics and the business course, the modern way is to study psychology! I suppose the idea is to find out how to talk people into handing their money over!'
'Something like that, but I read economics, too.'
'Did you take a degree in detective work? I'm surprised you didn't put on a false beard—after all, I might have recognised you if I'd seen a photograph in the papers!' She took a deep breath, then suddenly caught
Bruno's eye and stopped, dragging a false smile on to her face. He gave her a thumbs up and grinned encouragingly, apparently under the impression that she and his uncle were getting on like a house on fire. There were flames, all right, but Bruno couldn't be more wrong, otherwise. Keir turned his head to follow the direction of her gaze and Bruno gave him a smile, too, then dived away towards the table where his mother was talking to her friend.
The waitress came over and Keir ordered some more tea and sandwiches. There were plenty of cakes left. Liza sat demurely in silence until the waitress had vanished again; her face ached from the strain of having to smile when she wanted to scream.
'You look very cool and elegant in that dress—I suppose I should say chic, that's the word, isn't it?' Keir said softly and she flashed him a hostile glance through her lashes.
'Funny what a difference clothes make,' she bit out. 'You looked like a scarecrow in the shabby old coat and cords—where on earth did you get them? And the car?'
'You don't think I dress like this when I'm out fishing or shooting?' he asked lazily, watching the waitress laying out the fresh pot of tea, the milk jug, the plate of tiny, bite-sized sandwiches. The woman smiled and Keir smiled back, charm glimmering in those blue eyes. Liza watched bitterly; she had seen that smile, he had turned it on her, and you couldn't trust it. He was a very deceptive man.
When the waitress had gone, he considered Liza again, the glint lingering in his eyes. 'I've had the estate car on my farm for years. It's very handy when I'm driving across country and taking fishing-rods and guns and dogs. Nobody drives a Rolls in muddy boots, you know.'
Liza was not to be coaxed into submission. She snarled at him, 'You lied to me!' 'I'm guilty of a little omission!' 'You lied, Mr Keir Zachary!'
'They're both my names—I was given the names George Keir Zachary Gifford, to be precise. As I said, I just omitted a few things. I do have a family farm, for instance.'
'Hartwell!'
'Exactly,' he said, watching Bruno talking to his mother now.
