Catherine O'Connor - Mandate For Marriage

‘My pleasure. I hate to see good Scotch go to waste.’ He laughed again. Laughter came so easily to him and Fiona found herself responding—it seemed so long since she had smiled. With the worry of Grandfather’s health, the responsibility of the distillery, her doubts about Andrew and the still hidden pain of Mark’s betrayal, laughter had somehow faded from her life. She swallowed a little nervously as she began her wellrehearsed speech and, though she tried to talk to everyone, her eyes constantly strayed in Grant’s direction and fixed on the generous curve of his sensual mouth. She answered all his questions, thinking he was just interested. She should have known then, despite his halo of blond hair and the innocent blueness of his eyes, that he was no angel; now of course she knew him better. She realised he resembled the very devil himself! His interest had been far more than that of a passing tourist.

‘Fiona!’ Grant’s crisp voice barked, shattering all thoughts and making her jump. Her cup rattled in its saucer as her eyes shot open. ‘Are you all right?’ His voice had changed and for a moment she thought there was a note of concern there, but his grim expression soon shattered that illusion.

‘Yes,’ she snapped back, already on the defensive, too aware of him ever to be completely immune. The brand of sexuality he wore was far too lethal. She knew she could never forget him, or forgive him for what he had done. His eyebrows rose and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at her prompt reply, but it faded fast as she passed a hand to her forehead, rubbing at the returned throbbing pain of tension.

‘Headache?’ he asked, getting to his feet with alarming alacrity. Fiona gently nodded her head and then moaned at the movement. ‘Here?’ he questioned, feeling expertly across her neck, fixing on the tip of her spine and beginning a firm but gentle massage. Fiona wanted to object, to pull her body away from his as her shoulders fell comfortably against his chest. His hands moved with rhythmic ease across them, easing the tension of her headache away but arousing her more base instincts.

That’s fine, really,’ she muttered, stiffening against his persuasive touch and moving away. A lazy grin spread across his face at her objection, but he said nothing, returning to the desk with an expressive shrug of his broad shoulders.

‘I’ve been looking over the company records; some seem—’ he paused as if carefully weighing up his next words ‘—some are incomplete.’

‘Incomplete?’ she echoed, not fully understanding what he was saying, but feeling a frisson of alarm rushing down her spine. First fire then ice ran through her body. Grant leant across the table and picked up a buff-coloured file.

‘The last twelve months’ figures just don’t seem to tally,’ he explained, opening the file and running a cursory glance down a bank of figures. Fiona jumped to her feet, indignation rising within her like a huge tidal wave.

‘My God, you’re back on that track, are you?’ she demanded, her face growing pink with anger as she marched over to the desk. She saw his body stiffen, his shoulders straighten at her attack, but she was undaunted. ‘Give it here,’ she said in a clipped tone, snatching the file from his hands. She flicked open the file, her mind working overtime as she surveyed the figures. She was painfully aware he was watching her. The clean scent of him filled her senses, and she struggled to make sense of the mass of numbers.

‘These aren’t our figures,’ she retorted, pushing the file back at Grant in a gesture of contempt. He nodded slowly in agreement, his hair momentarily falling softly on to his face before he swept it back in a gesture of frustration. He rested his head on his fingers and rubbed at his forehead, as he whistled lowly, shaking his head. He sighed audibly before raising his head to meet the frozen look in her eyes.

‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ he asked. ‘Those are my accountants’ figures, achieved by simple mathematics; less creative perhaps than Andrew Farr’s, but I assure you far more accurate,’ he concluded grimly.

‘You’re pathetic,’ stormed Fiona. ‘You’ve had it in for Andrew all along. It’s jealousy, sheer jealousy,’ she bit out, before an iron grip wrapped around her wrist forcing her to be silent. Grant leant across the table, his strength unrelenting. He fixed his icy-blue gaze on her face, as if searching for the truth.

‘I’ve no reason to be jealous of Andrew Farr,’ he asked almost warily, ‘have I?’ He effortlessly pulled her towards him until she was close cnough to catch the familiar scent of sandalwood aftershave.

‘No, no reason,’ she admitted nervously, hating her weakness and despising his strength. Once again he had forced her to reconsider Andrew’s motivation. He released her immediately and she moved away, keeping a safe distance between them. Her breathing was fast and erratic and she wondered if there could be a safe distance from Grant once his formidable temper was aroused. The silence that followed was tangible and the tension between them seemed to rise up like a huge, impenetrable wall.

‘Look; Fee,’ began Grant, reopening the file. ‘Please just look, judge for yourself.’ He tried to sound conciliatory, but there was a firmness in his voice that she instantly recognised and her eyes darted to his face in an attempt to read his poker expression. ‘It’s all here, Fee. My suspicions were correct,’ he added almost impatiently, as she stood rooted to the spot, not attempting to move or show any interest in the file. ‘For God’s sake, Fee!’ he finally snapped, leaping to his feet and slamming his fist down noisily on top of the file. ‘Look at it, will you?’

Fiona raised her eyes to look at him instead. She had half expected this. She had hoped that perhaps he wouldn’t resort to such low tactics, but Andy had warned her he would. For some reason she was disappointed; she had wanted to believe in Grant, somewhere deep within her very being. Despite all the facts to the contrary, she still was holding on to that glimmer of hope.

‘I was expecting this,’ she informed him, trying to keep the pain from her voice and failing. ‘I had been warned you would attempt this sort of tactic—’ she sighed before being interrupted.

‘Tactic?’ Grant echoed as he flicked her a probing glance. ‘What are you talking about? The facts speak for themselves.’

She didn’t reply and, after a short pause that was filled with tension and hostility, he said, ‘All the figures are here.’ His voice was sharp and heavy with sarcasm. He raised his hand in frustration, raking his strong fingers through his golden hair. ‘Why won’t you listen?’ he demanded impatiently.

‘I have listened,’ Fiona returned tartly.

Grant’s brow frowned with displeasure at her tone and his eyes flickered over her thoughtfully.

‘Let me guess,’ he taunted, ‘Andrew Farr suggested I would say the figures were wrong.’

A rush of heat to Fiona’s cheeks caused her to blush and she knew it was pointless to deny his statement. Instead she raised her head and confronted his anger with barely concealed contempt. Her usually soft brown eyes were hard, and sparks of indignation flared within them.

‘Yes, it was Andrew, and he was right, you have questioned the accounts.’ The accusation in her voice was cutting, but Grant’s equilibrium was not shaken in the least. He strode over to the window, allowing the crisp morning air to wash over him, as if losing his temper was a gamble he was not prepared to take. He sank his hands deep into his pockets and gazed out, his eyes seemingly following the natural rise and fall of the surrounding hills.

Finally he spoke, his voice calm and deep. ‘I’ve checked the accounts myself and there are discrepancies—’