Carole Mortimer - Witchchild

‘That was over a week ago!’

Leonie shrugged. ‘To tell you the truth, Hal and I haven’t really spoken a great deal.’

Hawk drew in a harshly angry breath, towering over her threateningly, his hands at his sides now, clenching and unclenching. ‘Do you get some cheap thrill out of telling me you’re too busy sleeping with my son to bother with conversation?’ A nerve pulsed at his jaw.

‘I realise you’re having trouble accepting Hal’s maturity because it makes you feel old, but—–’

‘The only thing I feel when I think of the two of you together is angry!’ he grated.

‘Because knowing your son is involved in an intimate relationship forces you to acknowledge that he’s grown-up—–’

‘When did you qualify as a psychiatrist?’ Hawk Sinclair demanded viciously.

Leonie relaxed back in her chair, lifting her feet up to rest on the cushion beneath her, her arms wrapped about her knees. ‘I didn’t,’ she said without rancour. ‘However, I am an observer of life.’

‘Well, I wish you’d do your observing a thousand miles away from my son!’ He glared at her.

She observed him curiously. ‘Did you know you have the most expressive eyebrows? They define your every mood. They’d make a fascinating characteristic for one of the people in our books—–’

‘If I ever recognise anyone even remotely like myself in one of your books you’ll live to regret it!’ he warned savagely.

Leonie sat forward eagerly, her chin resting on her knees. ‘Have you ever read any of our books?’ she asked.

‘Fourth-rate detective novels aren’t my favourite choice of literature,’ he said with contempt. ‘They obviously aren’t making you a fortune either, otherwise you wouldn’t need to take advantage of Hal’s youthful naïveté in this way.’

‘Hal was never naïve, not even in the cradle,’ she dismissed reprovingly. ‘He’s too much like you.’

‘Thanks—I think,’ drawled Hawk Sinclair dryly.

‘And our books aren’t fourth-rate,’ she defended indignantly. ‘Leonaura Brandon is very popular.’

‘You may well be,’ he dismissed with impatience. ‘Personally I can’t stand books where everyone ends up getting murdered and the butler did it!’

Leonie shook her head. ‘No one ever gets murdered in our books.’

‘Then how the hell can they be murder books?’

‘They aren’t,’ she shrugged. ‘Not every detective investigates murders.’

He gave an irritated sigh. ‘Miss Brandon, I asked you how much you want to get out of—–Why the hell do you keep saying our books?’ He gave a dark scowl at the realisation that his curiosity about her had once again diverted him from his purpose of buying her out of Hal’s life.

‘My sister and I co-author them,’ she explained lightly. ‘Leonie and Laura—Leon-aura,’ she provided.

‘Let’s leave your sister out of this—–’

‘Oh, I don’t think we can do that,’ she told him thoughtfully. ‘You see, I’m Leonie.’

Angry disbelief claimed the hard contours of his face, his eyes were silver slits. ‘You mean you aren’t—you’re not—–’

Leonie realised she was probably witnessing history being made, seriously doubting that Hawk Sinclair had ever before been rendered speechless. ‘I mean you’ve been trying to buy off the wrong sister,’ she confirmed ruefully. ‘Laura is the one who’s been dating Hal, as I’m sure you know.’

‘You—I—–’

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she offered as angry colour darkened his cheeks. ‘Your blood-pressure—–’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my blood-pressure!’ he finally managed to burst out.

‘Except that it’s rising,’ Leonie told him calmly. ‘You really should learn to relax—–’

‘Relax!’ he repeated harshly. ‘I’ve been trying to reason with a child when I meant to bargain with a mercenary, and you tell me to relax !’

‘Laura and I are twins,’ she chided his reference to her age, bending to stroke Pop as he left the kitchen after eating his lunch.

Hawk became suddenly still and, if anything, more dangerous. ‘You mean there’s another one just like you running around loose somewhere?’

Her mouth quirked. ‘Not quite.’

‘How “not quite"?’ He was eyeing her now as if he thought he might need to make an escape at any moment.

He really did look worried, poor man! ‘Laura and I are identical. But only in looks,’ Leonie added consolingly as he gave a pained groan. ‘I’m the only kooky one,’ she added mischievously.

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I was angry when I said that.’

‘And you aren’t angry now?’ she teased.

‘Bloody furious, as you English would say,’ he scowled. ‘If your sister isn’t here where is she?’

‘Out. With Hal,’ she revealed without guilt. ‘They left early this morning.’

‘Why didn’t you say so when—–Oh, what the hell!’ He raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘I’ll talk to her some other time.’ He turned to leave. ‘When my blood-pressure is back to normal,’ he muttered grimly.

‘A nice cup of tea will help with that.’ Leonie sprang to her feet. ‘I’ll go and make one and we can drink it while we finish talking.’

‘I thought we had finished…’ He was starting to look slightly dazed now.

Leonie had seen the same confused expression on the faces of most of the people she met. It usually faded once they had known her for a while, but Hawk Sinclair seemed determined this would be a brief acquaintance. A very brief acquaintance! Maybe he would change his mind once she had told him about Laura.

‘I don’t think so,’ she smiled. ‘We haven’t really talked about my sister yet. I’m relieved the two of us met first,’ she continued chattily. ‘It means that most of your anger will have dispersed by the time you do meet Laura.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it!’ He sank down weakly into an armchair, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Leonie moved happily about the kitchen, preparing the promised tea, confident she would be able to reason with Hawk Sinclair once he had calmed down enough to listen.

A kook, he thought. A one hundred per cent, fourteen-carat kook! And he had been trying to reason with it—her.

It had all seemed so straightforward when he had left the hotel this morning, enjoying the drive out into the country to this big rambling house that stood completely on its own on the outskirts of a small village. But that was before he had met Leonie Brandon!

Twenty-five. She didn’t look anywhere near twenty-five. And what was all that rubbish about his age? Damn it, thirty-nine—well, almost forty—wasn’t old. He certainly wasn’t going through any crisis because of it. Hell, he was trying to justify his age to himself now! he realised with an inward groan.

God, if Laura Brandon was anything like her peculiar sister this was going to be more difficult than he could ever have imagined; Leonie seemed incapable of even taking an insult seriously!

When he had left New York yesterday he had been looking forward to being with Hal, and he had been shocked to the roots of his being when shortly after meeting him at the airport Hal had told him that he had met the woman he intended to marry. God, the woman was six years older than him, wrote flaky detective novels for a living—with her kooky sister; it was obvious she was more interested in what the Sinclair heir could give her than in Hal himself.

That surmise had been easy to make after Hal had told him all about Laura Brandon last night, just as it had been a simple thing to decide he would pay her off as she had obviously intended he should.

Fifteen minutes with Leonie Brandon and he wasn’t even sure what he was doing here any more!