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Etta peeped through the spyhole and blinked. Blinked again in case of hallucination. But Gabriel Derwent remained in her line of vision. Casually dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt, he still exuded an energy that sent her pulse-rate up a notch. Be that as it may, she couldn’t leave him standing on Steph’s doorstep.
She pulled the door open and bit back a protest as he stepped forward and closed the door behind him.
‘What...?’
‘Apologies for the unannounced visit. There’s been a development.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Etta said, as foreboding prickled her skin. Surely things couldn’t get any worse. Could they? ‘What sort of a development?’
CHAPTER FOUR
GABRIEL HALTED, ALL thoughts of developments scrambled in his brain as he gazed at Etta. This was a completely different Etta from the previous night, and somehow even more full of allure in jeans and a short knitted cream jumper that emphasised the length of her legs. Shower-damp chestnut hair emitted a tantalising waft of strawberry, and fell in a glossy swathe around her unmade-up face. Her skin glowed and a smattering of freckles down the bridge of her nose was now revealed. For an absurd second his hands tingled with the urge to reach out and run his finger down the line. As for her lips—
Hurriedly he tore his gaze away and realised that they weren’t alone.
A girl stepped closer to Etta and eyed him with a speculative gaze. There could be no doubt the two were related, despite the girl’s long curtain of dark hair; her eyes were the same amber-flecked brown. Sisters? Or...
Etta stepped forward. ‘Gabriel, this is my daughter, Cathy. Cathy, this is Gabriel—the man who kindly drove me home last night.’
Her chin tilted upwards as she met his gaze in an unspoken challenge, and he blinked away the surprise he knew had surfaced in his eyes. There was no point in pretence—he was surprised. In his mind Cathy had been considerably younger, and his brain whirred to adjust the parameters of the idea he intended to present to Etta.
‘Good to meet you,’ he said, and he held out a hand to Cathy, who surveyed him, her dark head tilted to one side.
‘Are you... Gabriel Derwent?’
‘The one and only.’
They were words he wished unsaid as he flinched inwardly at their bleak truth. One day he could be the one and only Duke of Fairfax—the last of the line. Yet he forced his lips to tilt upwards and could only hope the smile factor outweighed the grimace.
A small frown etched Etta’s forehead. ‘Cathy, could you go and get ready, please? Once Gabriel has left we need to get home and pick up our cases.’
Cathy heaved a sigh. ‘I told you, Mum. It’s not necessary. We don’t need to go.’ The muttered words held defiance underlain with resignation, but she headed for the staircase.
‘Cathy. We’ll discuss this later, but the bottom line is we are going.’
Once the teenager had trailed up the stairs Etta turned to Gabe. Her lips parted as if to speak but instead she just stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide.
Then she stepped back and gave her head a small shake. ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I haven’t got a lot of time. The cruise leaves tonight. What’s happened?’
This would be a tricky conversation, and he’d be damned if he would conduct it in a hallway. ‘I appreciate that you’re busy, but we do need to talk. Properly. With you focused on what I have to say. I promise I will be succinct.’
A hesitation, and then she nodded. ‘OK. Come through to the kitchen. I’ll make coffee. It sounds like I’ll need it.’
Gabe followed Etta into a spacious, airy kitchen with cheerful daffodil-yellow walls adorned with corkboards holding pinned artwork and photos. He seated himself at a big wooden table as she filled the old-fashioned kettle.
‘OK. Hit me with it.’
Easy does it, Gabe. Instinct told him Etta wouldn’t appreciate his next words, however he spun them.
‘The press clocked our departure from the ball last night, found out about our moonlit stroll on the terrace and discovered my ploy with the seating plan. They have decided you and I are an item. I thought I’d better give you the heads-up as there may be reporters outside your house.’
For a second she stood as if frozen, her lips formed in a circle of astonishment, her head tilted, waiting for the punchline. Then, when she realised none was forthcoming, she banged the kettle down onto the hob and sheer outrage etched her cheekbones with a flush of anger.
‘You and me? The press thinks we are an item?’
Hmm... A hint of chagrin touched him at the sheer horror that laced her voice. ‘I’m afraid so.’
Jeez, was it that bad?
