Anne Mather - Captive Destiny

Jordan’s sigh was irritable. ‘Look, Emma, I don’t have all day. Are you going to speak to me or aren’t you?’

She licked her dry lips. ‘And if I say no?’

‘I’ll leave,’ he stated grimly, and she knew he would.

‘But what can you have to say that—that’s so important?’ she exclaimed. Then, viewing his uncompromising features, she capitulated. ‘Oh, very well. Come in here.’

Ignoring Gilda’s speculative stare, she led the way into the tiny office at the back which was as cluttered in its way as the shop. Jordan looked about him impatiently as he closed the door, and in the small office his presence was that much more disturbing.

‘My God,’ he said, as she moved round the desk to put it as a physical barrier between them. ‘How do you find anything in this place?’

‘I imagine we manage,’ she replied, gripping the edge of the desk tightly for support. ‘Now, do you mind telling me why you’re here?’

‘Well, as you refused to eat a meal with me, I had no other alternative,’ he responded, and his dark eyes which were such a contrast to the lightness of his hair were suddenly compelling. ‘I wanted to talk to you—to ask your assistance—and I couldn’t do that over a telephone.’

‘To—ask my assistance!’ Emma sat down rather suddenly, as her legs gave out on her. ‘You want my assistance?’ She shook her head. ‘How can I help you?’

Jordan came to the desk and leant upon it, his long-fingered hands, the only artistic thing about him, spread squarely on the polished surface. His nails were always clean, she thought inconsequently, mesmerised by his closeness, by the clean male smell of him emanating from the opened buttons of his black leather car coat. But she dared not look up at him, and her eyes became glued somewhere between the waistband of his pants and the swinging pendulum of his tie.

‘My father is dying,’ he said, without preamble. ‘He wants to see you. He wants to see us —reconciled, for want of a better word.’

EMMA was glad she was sitting down. His words delivered in that curt uncompromising manner were completely emotionless, but that didn’t prevent them from shocking her to the core of her being. Andrew Kyle was dying! The man who had once been like a second father to her had only a limited time to live. She found it impossible to accept.

‘But—what’s—–’

‘Cancer,’ retorted Jordan coldly. ‘It’s terminal. The doctors gave him approximately six months.’

‘Does—does he know?’

‘I believe so.’ He straightened. ‘He’s not a fool. He knows the score. I imagine that’s why he wants to—put his affairs in order.’

‘But—but why me?’ Emma gazed up at him with troubled eyes. ‘I—he hasn’t seen me for—oh, seven or eight years. Not since—not since you took over the company, in fact.’

‘I know that.’ Jordan thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. ‘But now he wants to see you, and I’m here to find out how you feel about it.’

‘How I feel about it.’

Emma shook her head. How did she feel about it? Naturally, she pitied anyone served that kind of death sentence, but how could she be expected to feel any kind of personal involvement for so long she had forced herself not to think about the Kyles, father and son? And why should he want to see her anyway? He had shown no obvious distress when she and Jordan went their separate ways, and to receive this summons now was like opening up an old wound.

‘Well?’

Jordan was regarding her intently and she shifted awkwardly beneath that penetrating gaze. What was he thinking? she wondered. Did he resent having to come here and ask her for anything? Or was he perhaps comparing her to the woman he had known, and finding her wanting? Certainly, her straight rope of glossy dark hair could not compare to the champagne brilliance of Stacey Albert’s silken curls, and apart from her eyes, which were a mixture of violet and blue and set between long curling lashes, her features were quite ordinary. She was tall, of course, which was an advantage, but not willowy enough by today’s yardsticks. Her breasts were far too prominent, and although her legs were slim, her hips were not.

Now she rose to her feet again, and feeling at less of a disadvantage said: ‘Tell me where your father is, and I’ll go and see him.’

‘You will?’ Jordan’s features relaxed somewhat. ‘Thank you.’

‘That’s all right.’ Emma held up her head. ‘Uncle—that is, your father—was always very kind to me. And I know—I know Daddy would want me to do as you ask, despite—despite everything.’

Jordan bent his head thoughtfully, and as the silence between them stretched, Emma spoke again.

‘How—how is your mother taking this?’

‘My mother?’ Jordan looked up in surprise. ‘Didn’t you know? My mother is dead. She died eighteen months ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Emma was aghast at her mistake. ‘I—I didn’t know. No one ever said …’

‘Why should they?’ Jordan seemed unmoved, and she flinched from his hard indifference. ‘It was a long way away, and the press are really only interested if they can get an angle on a story. If there’s something unusual or scandalous to write about. My mother’s death would make dull reading.’

Emma pressed her lips together and looked down at the desk. Then she said quietly: ‘Just tell me where your father is staying, and I’ll make arrangements to see him as soon as possible.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Jordan’s mocking tone brought her head up again. ‘Well, that’s where we run into a slight problem.’

‘A slight problem? What do you mean?’ Emma frowned.

‘My father lives on an island in the Caribbean. Didn’t you know that either?’

Emma gasped. ‘Well, yes—yes, I knew that. But I naturally assumed …’

‘What did you assume? That he’d come to England to die?’ Jordan shook his head. ‘Oh, no. Nothing would persuade my father to come back to this country now, particularly not in the middle of winter. No, Valentia is his home, and that’s where he’ll die.’

‘But—but what about his treatment?’

‘What treatment? He’s had two operations, and various radiation therapy. He knows there’s nothing more anyone can do for him, except prevent him from suffering any more pain than is absolutely necessary.’

‘Oh, Jordan!’

The helpless words fell from her lips, and for a brief moment she saw the spasm of pain that crossed his face. But then it was gone again, and she was left with the impression that perhaps she had imagined it.

‘So …’ He flexed his shoulder muscles. ‘Does this make a difference to the situation?’

‘You must know it does.’ Emma shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other. ‘I mean—how can I go out to the West Indies? I have a home—and a husband.’ She avoided his eyes as she said this. ‘I can’t just abandon them without thought or consideration.’