Robyn Donald - Indiscretions

At last the head of the Japanese mission rose; his interpreter, a slim, bespectacled man, stood to one side. Mariel settled herself to listen intently and professionally.

He was good, but the New Zealand interpreter who followed was not. Technically, she thought objectively, he had the words, but he was missing the nuances. Once she exchanged a glance with the Japanese interpreter, a splitsecond communication in which neither face moved a muscle, but both understood perfectly.

When she looked away her gaze was captured and held by Nicholas Leigh’s half-closed eyes. Carefully she gave him a small, meaningless smile and returned her attention to the speaker, but that hard, searching, far-too-perceptive glance set her heart thudding disconcertingly against her ribs.

At eleven o’clock the dinner broke up to mutual expressions of immense esteem. Mariel waited until everyone had gone before sliding out of her chair. One of the least enjoyable aspects of occasions such as this was watching others eat delicious meals, but because she never knew when she’d be called on, she preferred to eat offstage, so to speak. The sandwich she’d eaten before coming down had been enough to satisfy her, but she could, she thought with anticipation, enjoy a good cup of tea right then.

The door of the dining room closed behind her; she relaxed and had begun to head off for the staff cafeteria when a voice from behind said, “Ms. Browning.”

Not now, she thought, forcing her features into a mask of composure before turning. “Mr. Leigh?”

“I’d like to buy you a drink, if I may.”

This was definitely not a part of her job description. Sedately she responded, “I’m afraid I’m not encouraged to socialize with guests, sir.”

A spark of temper lit his eyes to pure, flaming gold, but was instantly curbed. “I need your professional opinion, and I need it tonight.” When she still hesitated he said levelly, “We can do it like this, or I can insist on a formal meeting.”

He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. An implacable note in the even tones made itself more than obvious. Involuntarily Mariel looked across the foyer to where Mr. McCabe, the New Zealand trade minister, was standing with a small group of men. As if summoned, he glanced their way, his shrewd eyes going from her face to Nicholas’s. The minister’s gaze returned to her countenance, and he nodded with an air of authority.

“Very well,” she said, surprising herself with her acquiescence, and in case he got the wrong impression, added a fraction of a second too late, “sir.”

Heavy lids hooded his eyes. He said quietly, “Thank you, Ms. Browning.”

HE TOOK HER to Desmond’s bar, seated her in one of the wing chairs and ordered the mineral water she asked for, deciding on another weak whiskey and soda for himself.

While the waitress went off to get the drinks, he asked unexpectedly, “What’s your first name?”

She bristled, but told him in a level voice.

Black brows climbed. “Where does it come from?”

“It’s a derivative of Mary,” she said. “A family name. My m-mother used to say it came from a princess a long way back in the family tree who was born in what is now Bavaria. Apparently she was a bit of a handful, so her longsuffering family married her off to a Viking. Eventually some of their descendants took the name with them to England.”

“I’m almost certain Mariel is a place in Cuba. I wondered whether it had sentimental associations for your parents,” he said blandly, “but it’s unlikely any Westerners would have been there when you were conceived.”

Her heart slammed to a halt. Before she could stop herself she shot a glance at him, her pulse kicking into overdrive when she met the elongated slivers of pure light that were his eyes.

“Yes,” she said huskily, trying not to swallow.

Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug, but she knew he’d noticed her response. However, his voice was almost indolent, as he said, “You’re the right build and height to be of German descent. Although your coloring looks more Norse.”

Of course he wasn’t so crude as to scrutinize her tall, longlimbed body. Nevertheless, although his dark lashes hid his eyes, she felt exposed to the naked force of his interest, and to her horror her skin pulled tight and an unfamiliar sensation prickled in her breasts. Appalled, she wondered how the mere sound of a man’s—a stranger’s—voice could produce such a violent and unwanted physical response.

“It was,” she returned dismissively, “just a family story, and almost certainly untrue. Families get the weirdest ideas about their antecedents.”

“Ah, all those ancestors who were supposed to be descendants of kings and turn out to have worked as swineherds on the royal estates,” he said, a note of irony coloring the deep voice. “It’s a natural human instinct, I suppose, to put the best gloss on one’s circumstances.”

Once more her eyelids flew up. She met a gaze that was cool and glinting, a face that was a subtle challenge. He must know, she thought dazedly.

No, he couldn’t!

Dry-mouthed, she grabbed for equanimity. “I suppose it is. What did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Leigh?”

He waited until the waitress had departed, then said, “What is wrong with the New Zealand interpreter? And please call me Nicholas, as I fully intend to call you Mariel from now on.”

She drank some mineral water, grateful for its cold fizz and soothing passage down her raw throat. “What made you think there was something wrong?” she countered, unsure of the correct way to deal with this.

“Your face and my own instinct. If I hadn’t been sure of it, that swift glance you exchanged with your Japanese counterpart would have convinced me.”

Dismayed, she said, “You can’t have seen anything in my expression!”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure no one else did. As I said, I happened to be wondering already, and your face was too still. You looked as though you were urging him on, mentally helping him.”

She blinked. This man was dangerously observant, and astute enough to understand what those keen eyes saw. Choosing her words with caution, she said, “There’s nothing wrong with his work. He’s a perfectly competent—”

“At this level,” he interrupted ruthlessly, “competence is not good enough, as you are well aware.”

Of course she was.

“Very well,” she said steadily. “He’s missing nuances.”

“Right. I’ll tell the minister.”

That inconvenient curiosity drove her to ask, “Where do you fit into this?”

His wide, sensuously molded mouth moved in a smile that curled her toes. “I’m a diplomat,” he said, the words almost a taunt.

“Your letter didn’t sound as though—” She stopped and drew in a startled breath. God, how could she have said that? But he didn’t seem like the diplomats she’d known. He stood out, elemental and untamed as a wolf amongst wellfed, domesticated lapdogs. She began again. “I thought you were a businessman.”

His lashes were long and thick and dark, darker even than hers. They drooped for a second, then rose to reveal a cool, unreadable stare. “I have an interest—purely advisory—in a trust that deals with venture capital for ideas, some of which are exported.”

She met the challenge of his glance with a glinting, blue-eyed one of her own. “What will happen to the interpreter? Will he be sacked?”

Unhurriedly he drank some of the whiskey, his expression guarded but assured. In his dinner jacket he was the epitome of elegance, perfectly at home in this luxurious place. “I doubt it very much,” he said with an indifference that came close to being insulting. “He’ll just get extra training. However, that’s not the point. This is an important meeting, and we need the best. You can take his place.”