that case I’ll get your coat.’
Though he returned quite quickly with it over his arm, to Elizabeth it seemed a long time before she’d slipped it on and they were making their way across the foyer.
They were nearing the door when a man with crisp, peat-dark hair, easily topping six feet, and looking even bigger because of the breadth of his shoulders, appeared from behind a pillar.
As if he’d been lying in wait to intercept them, he moved purposefully to block their way.
Elizabeth’s heart lurched and began to race with suffocating speed. Face to face with this man she had hoped never to see again, she tried to stay calm, to convince herself that no matter what happened he could no longer hurt her.
But she was unable to do either. She felt sick with fear and remembered pain.
Sparing her barely a glance, the newcomer held out his hand to Richard. ‘Ah, Beaumont… You put up a good fight.’ The words only just escaped being patronizing.
Hiding his antagonism, Richard shook the proffered hand and remarked, ‘I fancy this makes us even?’
‘I hardly think so,’ Quinn disagreed smoothly.
There was a brief pause. When he showed no sign of moving away, impelled by good manners, Richard began the necessary introduction.
‘Elizabeth, may I present Mr Quinn Durville…?’
A kind of despairing pride kept her head high while she looked into that lean, autocratic face, with its high-bridged nose and chiselled mouth, and waited for Quinn to say they knew each other very well.
Feeling the tension already crackling between the two men, she was well aware that Richard would find the news unwelcome, to say the least.
It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she’d confessed to knowing Quinn when he’d asked her… But, by denying it, she had effectively involved herself in a deception.
‘Durville, my fiancée, Miss Cavendish.’
Quinn took her hand and said a perfunctory, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Cavendish.’ His glance was cool and impersonal and, to her amazement, the greeting held nothing but conventional courtesy.
She drew a deep, unsteady breath, hardly daring to believe he hadn’t recognized her.
Of course he wouldn’t know the name Cavendish, and, having been christened Josian Elizabeth, she had been known from childhood as Jo…
Added to that she had altered a great deal in the time they’d been apart. Then, her fine bones had been smudged beneath a layer of puppy fat, her thick, silky eyebrows unshaped, her hair short and curly.
But perhaps the biggest change lay in her manner. Gone was the curvaceous, casually dressed girl, with a smiling mouth and laughing eyes, who had been as naïve and friendly as a Labrador puppy.
In her place was a slender, elegantly dressed woman, poised and sophisticated, her grey eyes guarded, her mouth vulnerable.
Oh, yes, she’d altered. Enough, it seemed, to save the stress and trauma that would surely have followed if Quinn had identified her.
As his warm clasp closed around her cold fingers, she felt her legs start to tremble and every nerve-ending in her body tighten in response to his touch.
He had always possessed a potent physical attraction that had been able to draw her like a magnet and hold her even against her will.
Panic-stricken, she reminded herself that she was a mature woman now, no longer young and susceptible, and no longer on her own. She had Richard. If the need arose, he would be a rock she could cling to.
Though surely it wouldn’t arise? Judging by Quinn’s distant civility, he’d forgotten her entirely, so she was safe, thank God.
Or was she? Could he be playing some deep dark game? Well, if he was, she had little option but to go along with it.
Somehow, she managed a husky, ‘How do you do?’ before withdrawing her hand.
‘Have you been engaged long, Miss Cavendish?’
The question startled her, and as she gaped at him stupidly Quinn added, ‘Only I notice you’re not wearing a ring.’
Turning to a thin-lipped Richard, he smiled a shade tauntingly. ‘It made me wonder if perhaps you had a special reason for wanting the Van Hamel diamond?’
Quinn had always had a brain as sharp as a razor, she thought with reluctant admiration.
Pointedly ignoring the question, Richard said curtly, ‘Will you excuse us?’ He took Elizabeth’s elbow. ‘If we don’t get moving we’ll have a job to find a taxi.’
Continuing to block their way, Quinn enquired, ‘Where are you heading?’
‘Park Lane.’ Obviously Richard was finding it an effort to remain civil.
‘As it happens, I’m going that way myself…’
Sensing what was to come, and desperate to get away, she froze.
‘I have a car, so I’ll be happy to drop you.’
Tension making her hold her breath, she glanced at Richard’s face, and was cheered to see that he was about to refuse.
Before he could speak, however, Quinn went on urbanely, ‘If you’re still interested in owning the Van Hamel, maybe we could talk about it on the way?’
By her side, Elizabeth felt Richard tense. He badly wanted the diamond. Would he be willing to sink his pride and negotiate?
But why should Quinn be disposed to?
If it was true that he’d come over from the States specially to get the Van Hamel, why should he be prepared to part with it to a rival?
There was something disturbing about the offer, something that put her in mind of, “‘Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly…’
She repressed a shiver, and with every ounce of her concentration willed Richard to reject it.
But, after an endless few seconds, to her consternation, he agreed, ‘Very well.’
Her stomach churning, she moved to rejoin the straggle of people still discussing the evening’s events.
As they headed for the main exit, she noticed two women pause in their conversation to glance covertly at Quinn. Without being conventionally handsome, he had the kind of tough, dynamic good looks that attracted and held the attention of most females.
Outside the fog had thickened. On the apron, car doors slammed and engines purred into life as they accompanied Quinn to a silver-grey Mercedes parked nearby.
He produced a key and opened the doors. Before Elizabeth could form any kind of protest she found herself being helped into the front passenger seat, while Richard, looking anything but pleased, was forced to climb into the back alone.
A moment later Quinn had slid behind the wheel and was querying, ‘Quite comfortable, Miss Cavendish?’
In the light from the dashboard his green eyes met and held hers. Just for an instant she fancied both his question and his glance held derision, as if he was well aware of how very uncomfortable she was. But then it was gone, leaving just a polite enquiry from a stranger.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered flatly.
Their headlights like searching antennae in the foggy air, they joined a stream of vehicles following each other through the gates and into Belham Place.
Beyond the quiet square the streets were busy, and as they negotiated the Friday-night traffic Quinn asked, ‘What do you do for a living, Miss Cavendish? Or perhaps you don’t need to actually work?’
Disliking both the question and the way it had been phrased, she hesitated before responding stiffly,