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  Kirby’s face tightened. ‘Compliments, Damian? I think it’s a little late in the day for that.’

  ‘The simple truth,’ he corrected her. ‘There isn’t a line on your face, yet so much about you has changed. Become maturer. Colder.’

  ‘Colder?’

  ‘That’s an essential component of beauty, don’t you think? Mere prettiness is warm. True beauty is always cold.’ They had reached a little wooden gate, where they stopped. Kirby glanced at him warily.

  Damian’s eyes were penetrating. ‘You’re also filled with bitterness, Kirby. Has widowhood done that to you? Or was it marriage?’

  ‘Maybe it was you,’ she snapped back at him. ‘You’ve changed, too. You didn’t use to ask such obnoxious questions.’

  He smiled slightly. ‘You’re almost not the same woman any more.’

  ‘What did you expect?’ she asked ironically, her brown eyes meeting his. ‘Did you think I’d still be sobbing in that summer-house after six years?’

  ‘I don’t just mean that you’ve grown up. That’s natural.’ His sensual, authoritative mouth curved into that heart-melting smile. ‘Or that you’ve grown from prettiness into beauty. That, too, was on the cards. I mean that you’ve become hard, bitter. That surprises me.’

  ‘Does it really?’ she rasped drily, unable to believe his lack of understanding. ‘After what you did to me?’

  ‘You’ve had six long years to get over that,’ he reminded her. ‘Are you saying you still haven’t done so?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Just that you haven’t forgiven me?’

  Her smile was twisted. ‘I wouldn’t have thought forgiveness meant very much to a man in the pay of the devil. You’ve changed too, Damian. When 1worked for you in Braythorpe, you were a high-flier with integrity. You had principles, and things mattered to you. Things other than success and money, I mean.’

  ‘And now?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Now, from what 1hear and read, you’ve become obsessed with success. At all costs.’ She shortened her reins.

  ‘It isn’t just a case of a few dead fish, either, is it? People suffer, too. And when they want compensation, you’re there to fob them off. The price of your success was turning your back on what you knew was right and just.’

  The way his face had hardened told her that she’d struck home. ‘I see you’ve been following my career,’ he said in a flat voice.

  ‘They have a way of making the news,’ she shrugged. ‘You’ve made quite a career out of exploiting people.’

  He was sitting very still on his mount, his eyes darkening almost to black. ‘That’s not quite the way 1would put it,’ he said in a deceptively quiet voice.

  ‘Oh?’ She didn’t bother to hide her scorn. ‘And how would you put it?’

  ‘It’s unfortunate that the publicity machine loves cliches more than the truth.’

  ‘A good answer,’ she taunted. ‘I remember a case, not so long ago, when a light aircraft belonging to a company you owned had crashed, and people had died. They claimed compensation. But you managed to keep the costs well down.’ Her eyes glittered at him. ‘At the expense of the victims’ families.’

  Now his eyes were as formidably cold as an arctic sea.

  ‘You know nothing about that case, Kirby.’

  ‘Tell me about it, then,’ she invited drily.

  ‘I never discuss my business affairs,’ he said in a harsh voice.

  ‘How convenient,’ Kirby fluted, enjoying twisting the knife.

  Wendy and Caroline were approaching now, and they could hear Wendy’s clear, rather metallic voice saying, ‘Daddy has an excellent relationship with darling Damian. After we get married, the two firms will probably merge into one really big company, with international affiliations. Daddy and darling Damian will be in charge, of course … ‘

  ‘You’re not being very fair, Kirby,’ Damian said in a tight, low voice.

  ‘Well, I’m not a very fair person, darling Damian,’ she replied thinly, turning away. ‘Anyway, why should you care? I’m nothing to you any more.’

  ‘Whatever happens, you’ll always be something to me, Kirby,’ he said softly.

  His words seemed to plunge a dagger into her vulnerable heart. ‘Damn you, Damian,’ she whispered bitterly. ‘Don’t treat me like―oh!’

  Kirby broke off on a gasp. Her anger and nerves had somehow communicated themselves to her horse, which shied suddenly, snorting. Kirby wrestled for control as the animal wheeled. Her mount’s rump slammed into the approaching Wendy. The blonde, lacking Kirby’s instinctive control, was unable to keep herself in the saddle.

  She slid off her tottering horse, clutching vainly at the reins. There was a short scream and a muffled thump as she landed in the heather.

  The three of them dismounted in concern. Wendy wasn’t seriously hurt-the fragrant heather had cushioned her fall-but she was pale and angry, and liberally decorated with bits of leaf. She shook off Kirby’s helping hand and apologetic words, her green eyes flashing.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said tightly. ‘It isn’t the first time I’ve been knocked off a horse.’ Damian’s quiet amusement obviously wasn’t helping her temper. ‘Help me to remount, please, Damian,’ she said shortly.

  They passed through the gate, Damian and Wendy pairing up this time, leaving Kirby and Caroline to pick up the rear.

  The exhilaration had quite gone from the afternoon.

  ‘Damn,’ Kirby muttered under her breath. ‘I wish that hadn’t happened. She looks as though she thinks it was my fault.’

  ‘I should think she’s fit to bust.’ To her surprise, Kirby saw that Caroline was shaking with silent laughter. ‘Can you blame her? First you go racing off with her fiance, and then you knock her flying like some medieval knight at a joust. Good job she’s well-built in the undercarriage department. Anyway,’ Caroline pointed out, recovering herself, ‘those beautiful fawn breeches needed breaking in. All right, Wendy?’ she called aloud.

  ‘Perfectly all right,’ Wendy said, turning. But her eyes flashed a beam of pure dislike at Kirby.

  And, though Caroline continued to snort with suppressed laughter for some time, Kirby couldn’t find anything funny in the situation at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  KIRBY eased the Jaguar through the gates of the Lodge, tyres crunching on gravel. The big, chocolate-brown limousine moved with luxurious smoothness and silence.

  With its power-assisted steering and automatic gearbox, it was certainly no effort to drive, not even for a woman as petite as Kirby Waterford.

  But as she drove up the drive, she was thinking absently that she would definitely get rid of the car next week. She would ask Beeches Garage to sell it for her, and would arrange to buy something much smaller from them.

  It was a relief to be getting back home. The impact of seeing Damian Holt again, after all these years, had shaken her. And being in such close proximity to him had been an ordeal she could have well done without, in her present fragile state. I’m not going to even think about him, she told herself firmly.

  The crunching of gravel was muted by a carpet of autumn leaves as Kirby drove up to the house through the avenue of trees. Victorian red brick, the Lodge wasn’t grand enough to justify its name. It wasn’t even particularly beautiful, just a functional family home with a hard facade softened by streaks of ivy.

  But the Lodge achieved stateliness by its position. Sited on a rise of land, backed by woods, it gazed magisterially down the valley towards the town of Braythorpe, North Yorkshire, where once upon a time the cotton magnate who had built this house could have contemplated the smoky mill town spinning prosperously six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year.

  Now, a hundred and twenty years later, all but one of the mills had gone; and that one, tarted up with shutters and Virginia creeper, served as the Braythorpe Hotel.

  The hotel was usually full, even in autumn. Cotton was no longer king in Braythorpe, but other masters had come to the
town, bringing employment to the townsfolk: iron and clay, glass and plastic, and, in this later age, the miniaturised components of all-powerful computers.

  The skilled workforce of this town had turned their hands and -brains to whatever the tides of history and technology brought their way.

  Getting out of the Jaguar in her mauve wool suit, Kirby turned automatically to look down at Braythorpe.

  A fine mist was descending from the hills, blurring the edges, softening the contours of the town hall, the two churches, the mill and the factories, the eternal cornerstones of Braythorpe. In this light, it looked almost pretty. Kirby smiled slightly, wondering whether anyone not brought up here could ever learn to love this sight.

  Did Damian still feel his roots in this town? Did he still have any love for it left in his heart? She doubted that. He had shaken the provincial dust off his feet a long time ago, and the way his conversation showed an easy familiarity with cities such as New York, Milan, or Paris was an indication of just how far from his origins he had come.

  Kirby turned and glanced at the other car parked in front of the Lodge. It was a dark red Rover, and her heart sank a little as she recognised it. It belonged to Roderick Braithwaite, the manager of Keith’s factory―her factory, she corrected herself, getting her weekend bag out of the boot. Braithwaite was also one of the most powerful and troublesome members of the board of directors. She did not like the man.

  Wondering why he was here, Kirby locked the Jaguar, and walked up the stairs to the house.

  Mrs Carstairs, her housekeeper, was waiting at the front door. She reached out to help Kirby with her bag.

  ‘Mr Braithwaite’s here, ma’am,’ she said. ‘He arrived about ten minutes ago, wanting to see you.’

  ‘Did he say what it was in connection with?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Mrs Carstairs attended to the folds of her linen coat. ‘I offered him a cup of tea, but he said he’d rather have a brandy.’

  ‘Mr. Braithwaite is a law unto himself, Mrs Carstairs,’ Kirby replied, amused at the disapproval in the housekeeper’s voice.

  ‘Aye. He thinks he is, at any rate.’

  Kirby checked herself in one of the big matching mirrors in the hall. ‘If that offer of tea still stands, I’m a candidate. I’ll just freshen myself up first. Tell Mr. Braithwaite I won’t keep him long.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The housekeeper folded Kirby’s coat over her arm, and marched down the corridor.

  Ten minutes later, refreshed and feeling better prepared to face Roderick Braithwaite, Kirby came downstairs, and went straight to the yellow drawingroom.

  Her short, straight nose wrinkled quickly at the pungent smell of cigar-smoke that wreathed the air. And her feeling of distaste remained as she noted that Roderick was sitting in the high-backed leather armchair that had always been Keith’s. Roderick was the only man she knew who would have sat in her dead husband’s chair.

  Roderick Braithwaite was conventionally handsome, yet there was something about him that always somehow reminded her of some predatory animal, ‘Kirby,’ he said, rising. ‘You look ravishing. As ever.’

  She submitted to Roderick’s kiss, which was placed just off the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Hello, Roderick. Nice to see you at the Lodge.’

  Sharp teeth were showing in a smile. ‘Well, if the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, Mahomet must come to the mountain, eh? Invitations to the Lodge are all too few these days.’ He waved the hand that held both the brandy glass and the cigar. ‘Hope you don’t mind, by the way?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  His eyes were travelling up and down her figure. ‘That colour suits you; Kirby. You’re a beautiful woman, and you look best in delicate colours. Mourning didn’t become you. It was so Victorian. So … unfeminine. But let me get you a drink.’

  ‘Mrs Carstairs will be bringing some tea for me in a short while. But you go ahead, by all means.’ She moved to the mantelpiece, where a wood fire was waiting to be lit, and watched Roderick as he replenished his brandy glass.

  He was, she knew, well over forty, a year or two older than Keith had been. A hard-headed Yorkshire businessman with ambition and drive. Not as clever as Keith, but far more ruthless.

  ‘Good brandy, this,’ Roderick commented. He strolled over to take a commanding place before the fire. ‘Keith was a good judge of liquor.’ His teeth glinted in a smile. ‘And of other things. The old housekeeper tells me you spent the weekend at Caroline Langton’s farm. You certainly move in the best circles these days.’

  ‘Well, we’re both widows, and we’re close friends now. Did you want to speak to me about something in particular? '

  ‘As it happens, I did.’ He sat down again in Keith’s chair, and crossed his legs. ‘I’ll get to the point. It’s very simple. I’ve been offered the chairmanship of another company.’

  Kirby raised slender eyebrows, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Oh? Which company?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,’ Roderick said smoothly. ‘Shall we say that they’re not so big nor so prestigious as Waterford Electronics, but that they have a great deal of potential. With the right leadership, they have a long, long way to go.’ He paused with a fine sense of timing. ‘They’re in the same line of business as Waterford Electronics.’

  ‘You’re talking about Integrated Circuits,’ Kirby said, so flatly that it was not a question.

  ‘Now, now, I didn’t say that.’ His eyes gleamed as he enjoyed her evident discomposure. ‘There are lots of new companies in our field, all trying to take our business away from us.’

  ‘Whoever they are, you want to go over to the opposition.’

  Mrs Carstairs opened the door to let a maid in with a tray of tea. The housekeeper froze momentarily as she caught sight of Roderick Braithwaite in the master’s old chair, and her face tightened. She turned to Kirby.

  ‘I’ll light the fire, shall I, Mrs Waterford? That will clear the air.’

  Kirby nodded, wondering how big a fire it would take to really clear the air between herself and Roderick Braithwaite.

  There was no questioning the man’s ability, of course. He had been Keith’s virtual lieutenant for years. But there were many who’d questioned Keith’s judgement when, as much out of recognition of Roderick Braithwaite’s ambitious force of character as out of a desire to reward faithful service, he had allowed Roderick to use an inheritance to buy enough voting stock to earn a seat on the board.

  That had been about the time Keith and Kirby were getting married. Considering the strength of Roderick’s character, and the way he’d managed to bully the weaker members since Keith Waterford’s death, it was indeed hard to remember a time when Roderick Braithwaite had not been on the board.

  She accepted a bone-china cup of fragrant tea from the maid. The fire started to crackle into yellow life, brightening the room.

  When they were alone again, Kirby met Roderick’s eyes. ‘And are you going to accept this offer, Roderick?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, now. I can’t deny that the offer has certain merits. I’m ready for a chairmanship. I know how to lead a business.’ He gave her a brief, cunning glance. ‘Of course, I’m very loyal to Waterford Electronics. I wouldn’t give this offer a further thought if … well, if I had a clearer idea of my future at Waterford.’

  ‘Your future at Waterford?” she repeated quietly.

  ‘Aye. And the company’s own future in the marketplace, come to that.’

  ‘You sound as though you don’t have confidence in the company’s prospects.’

  ‘Oh, I do. Up to a point. I’ve just had a look at the rough audit. Profits are going to be up again this quarter. That’s thanks largely to me, I might add.’

  Kirby laced her slim fingers, one elbow on the cool serpentine mantel. ‘You and one or two others,’ she said drily. ‘You’re an asset. But you don’t run the show singlehanded.’

  ‘No. You do that, don’t you?’

  Colour ros
e to Kirby’s high cheekbones at the deliberately pointed gibe. ‘I’m not a financial genius,’ she replied, fully aware of the implication of his words. ‘I don’t pretend to run Waterford Electronics. 1just make sure that majority decisions of the board are passed without fuss. The board is doing an excellent job so far, and I have no complaints.’

  ‘Aye. You’re determined to keep Waterford Electronics squarely in the middle of the road, aren’t you?’ he said, with a dry note in his voice.

  ‘Where else should it be?’

  He rocked in front of the fire, exuding such a smug air of being in command, almost of being the owner here, that Kirby had to bite back her anger. ‘Let me be blunt. Waterford Electronics needs someone at the helm, Kirby. There are big challenges ahead of us. We need to be able to make decisive responses and quick decisions. And we can’t keep pouring our money away in benefits to the community. When the competition gets fiercer― and believe me, Kirby, it will get fiercer very soon―Waterford Electronics is going to need more than a caretaker. It’s going to need a leader.’