had known he was. And, just as she had known she would, she went crimson.
He came further into the kitchen, but did not comment on her embarrassed colour; there wasn’t so much as a hint of embarrassment about him, she noticed. But then, he was probably used to seeing the female form unclad, she fumed sniffily. Though before she could tell him that now that he was dressed she was throwing him out, he demanded, ‘What’s your name?’
As if it had anything to do with him! ‘Varnie Sutton,’ she answered snappily, and watched to see if her name meant anything to him. Clearly it didn’t, so obviously Johnny had not thought to mention her. Not that he should in the ordinary run of things, but, dammit, this was her house! Realising that she was getting quite proprietorial about a house she would have to sell, Varnie decided it was high time she sent this man on his way. ‘And you’re Leon Beaumont,’ she began stiffly. ‘You—’
‘You know who I am?’ Beaumont demanded.
‘Ever think you’ve wandered into someone else’s nightmare?’ she retorted.
He ignored that. ‘How do you know who I am?’ he barked curtly. ‘Metcalfe had strict instructions that I wanted him to find me somewhere isolated where I wouldn’t have to put up with—unwanted intrusions.’
Unwanted intrusions! By that did he mean he thought that she might come on to him? Varnie was on the instant up in arms. She was off men in general, and him in particular. ‘For your information, I wouldn’t touch you with a disinfected line-prop ten feet long!’ she hissed. He favoured her with a searing look of scepticism. ‘For your further information—’ she went on.
‘That’s why you walked naked into my room, was it? Because you’re not interested?’ he cut in. ‘Had I shown the smallest inclination you’d have been in that bed with me like a shot.’
Varnie stared at him in utter disbelief; the whole of her skin felt aflame. Somehow, though, she recovered, to tell him in no uncertain fashion, ‘I’d sooner swallow prussic acid!’ And, building up a fine head of steam, ‘Your eyes were so busily engaged elsewhere…’ She wished she hadn’t said that. Her skin flamed anew as she again recalled his eyes going over her naked figure. ‘…otherwise you might have noticed I was carrying a towel. My only purpose in coming to that room was to take a shower. I didn’t even know you were here.’
‘What’s wrong with the shower in your room?’
‘My room?’
‘I checked. You slept here last night.’
The cheeky swine! ‘My shower needs fixing, there’s hardly any pressure and the shower’s better in your room.’ Why was she bothering to explain? Good…
‘You obviously know the house?’
‘This isn’t my first visit.’
Leon Beaumont stared at her, suspicion rife. ‘From the size of your suitcase, you appear to have some notion of staying for a while?’
Did she have news for him. ‘That’s the general idea,’ she replied. But before she could go on to tell him that she was staying and that he wasn’t, he cut her short.
‘You obviously know John Metcalfe.’ Varnie was about to agree that she did, and that Johnny was her brother. But what Leon Beaumont said next brought her up very short, and caused her to hesitate. ‘Obviously, too, you’re also very well acquainted with my inefficient, new and soon to be short-lived assistant,’ he rapped.
Varnie felt stumped. In an instant she recalled just how keen Johnny had been to work for this sharp and disgruntled-looking man. To work as Leon Beaumont’s assistant, not deskbound but travelling all over—smoothing his path, so to speak, to leave him to deal with bigger, more important issues had been everything Johnny wanted! She gave an inner sigh—protecting Johnny, for all he was three years older than her, had over the years become second nature.
And that was when suddenly, albeit reluctantly, but without having to think about it, Varnie knew she was going to have to change her tune. If she did not, then by the look of it when Johnny came home from Australia, he would not have a job to come home to!
So, okay, she would stick up for Johnny, but no way was she going to crawl to this tall, dark-haired, grey-eyed man who had now come up close to her and was looking toughly, icily at her, through hard, cold and unfeeling grey eyes. ‘Your assistant is extremely efficient,’ she retorted.
‘You know this?’ he questioned, his hard gaze fixed on her sea-green eyes.
‘I do,’ she said, her mind racing to strive to think up something brilliant that Johnny had done.
‘Surprise me?’ Leon Beaumont’s tone had turned to mockery.
‘I—er—know for a fact that—that he tried to get some domestic help to cover while you’re here,’ she brought out triumphantly. Thank goodness she had read that letter.
‘Mrs Lloyd?’
Rats! He already knew that. ‘I arrived late last night,’ Varnie answered, which was pertinent to nothing. She knew she was struggling. But, truth be told, she was more than a tiny bit fed up with this man’s questions.
‘I know that!’ he clipped. ‘I was late getting here myself.’
Oh, grief, he was growing narky again! For herself, she didn’t give a button. But for Johnny…Even if she did feel like wringing her brother’s neck for what he had done, she knew she would not let him down.
‘The fog was dreadful, wasn’t it?’ she commented pleasantly. Deaf ears. Leon Beaumont ignored her pleasant comment. ‘Actually, I somehow didn’t expect you to be here until today—er—the fog and everything,’ she added lamely. ‘Um, you must have put your car away in the garage.’ She came to an end to see that he had clearly heard quite enough of her rambling on.
‘Just what are you doing here?’ he challenged aggressively. ‘And how the hell did you get in?’
Tell him, urged her true self. And she knew she would derive a great deal of satisfaction from doing just that. But—Johnny…Somehow, just to tell this man that his assistant was her brother seemed like letting Johnny down. ‘Oh—sorry,’ she apologised, racking her brains. ‘Didn’t I say?’ What? What? What? ‘There’s a spare key hidden in the pyracantha bush by the tool shed. Er—Mrs Lloyd can’t come after all—’ Varnie broke off, her brain racing. ‘I’m here as her replacement.’ Had she actually just said that? She hadn’t—had she?
Looking at Leon Beaumont, Varnie saw that he didn’t appear to believe it either. He cast an eye over her trim figure, in her casual but obviously good clothes, and bluntly, scepticism rife again, questioned, ‘You’re here to do domestic work?’
Varnie, used as she was to looking out for her brother, couldn’t see what other choice she had. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed.
His answer was to take hold of both her delicate hands. She immediately wanted to snatch her hands back, but by effort of will managed to stay still. She did not often have a manicure, but she had been going to go on holiday, for goodness’ sake, with someone she had up until yesterday thought of as someone a bit special. So why wouldn’t she go the whole hog and have her hands and nails professionally attended to?
‘These hands have never known hard work,’ he stated, tossing them disgustedly away from him.
‘Yes, they have!’ she argued.
‘You’ve skivvied?’ So absurd did the notion seem to appear to be to him, he looked as though he might burst out laughing. He didn’t.
‘I have!’
‘It looks like it.’
‘I was in the hotel trade!’ she defended, while hardly knowing why she was bothering. ‘I’ve worked all areas when required—chambermaid, cleaner, chef, secretary, accountant,’ she enumerated.
‘You