Sophie Weston - The Latin Affair

But when Anne put the call through it was the lieutenant again.

‘Hello?’ She did her best to sound composed but Esteban was used to reading the smallest nuance in his opponents’ voices and he recognised nerves. It was a lovely voice, Esteban noted, warm with an underlying hint of laughter. Currently, of course, the laughter was almost extinguished. Good, he thought.

‘What is your name?’ he demanded softly.

He did not have to say anything else. The tone alone intimidated opponents. Esteban knew it and used it effectively in court. If it could silence Francesca Moran, a judge’s daughter, it would make this obstructive girl crumble.

But, to his astonishment, it did not. There was a little pause, in which he could almost hear her pull herself together.

Then, ‘Piper,’ she said coolly. ‘Nicola Piper.’ She spelled it for him.

It disconcerted him. Esteban was not used to hostile witnesses spelling out their names and then asking kindly if he had got it all down. Where had she got that kind of confidence? Did he know her? Surely he would not have forgotten that golden sunshine voice?

‘Have we met?’ he asked slowly.

Nicky had remembered his visit as soon as Caroline had mentioned Hallam Hall. She had just come in from dealing with another client. And she had noticed him all right: a tall, dark man in the doorway of Martin’s office, watching her with lazy appreciation.

‘You could say that. In passing,’ she said frostily.

That startled him too. And intrigued him. ‘Where did we pass?’

‘At the office. We weren’t introduced.’

There was a thoughtful pause.

‘You’re the blonde,’ Esteban said on a long note of discovery.

He remembered now. She had shot in from somewhere, silk skirts flying, laughing. Her briefcase had bulged with papers and she’d been clutching it under one arm with decreasing effectiveness. He would have gone to rescue it, but Martin had detained him with some remark and one of her colleagues had got there first.

This picture was still vivid, though. Summer evening sun had lit her hair to gold. It had clearly started the day confined in a neat bow at her nape but by now it was springing free into wild curls about her shoulders. And her figure—Esteban found his mouth curving in appreciation at the memory. She had a figure to rival one of Patrick’s Renaissance goddesses at Hallam, lounging in naked voluptuousness among their sunlit olive groves. Add to that perfect legs, creamy skin—and, when she’d caught his eyes on her—a glare like a stiletto.

‘I remember,’ he said.

Alone in her office, Nicky winced. It was not the first time a man had called her a ‘blonde’ in that tone of voice. Or looked at her in blatant appreciation, as she now remembered all too clearly. It still stabbed where she was most vulnerable. Particularly this morning.

She hid her hurt under icy distance. ‘The name, ’ she said with emphasis, ‘is Piper.’

‘Is it, indeed?’

Nicky could hear his amusement. She set her teeth and tried to remember that he was a customer.

He went on, ‘Well, Piper, you can tell Martin de Vries that I paid for a working kitchen and that’s what I expect to get’

Nicky was bewildered. In spite of what Caroline had said, the file had been clear. Admittedly, there had been complaint after complaint but they all seemed to have been dealt with. Moreover, the complainant was not Mr Tremain. The name on the telephoned demands was a Ms Francesca Moran.

In response, machinery had been tested and tested again, cabinets resited, floor tiling replaced. A month ago, Tremain had threatened legal action. But as far as Nicky could see all the disputed work on the Cornish mansion had been completed ten days before.

‘Do you have another complaint?’ she said warily.

‘Complaint!’ His derisive bark of laughter made her eardrums ring.

Nicky held the phone away from her head until he had finished.

‘Would you like to be more specific?’ she suggested sweetly, when she thought he might be able to hear her again.

‘Gladly.’ He launched into a list.

Nicky listened in gathering disbelief.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said when he finished. ‘That would mean every single appliance had gone wrong.’

‘Precisely,’ said Esteban Tremain.

In her astonishment Nicky forgot she had decided she loathed the man.

‘But they can’t have done. They’ve been checked. And they’re new.’

‘I certainly paid for new machines,’ he agreed suavely.

Nicky took a moment to assimilate that. ‘Are you suggesting-—?’

He interrupted again. ‘My dear girl, I am suggesting nothing.’

Of course, he was a lawyer, Nicky remembered with dislike. He knew exactly how to hint without actually accusing her or Springdown Kitchens of anything precise enough to be actionable.

Her voice shaking with fury, she said, ‘I object to the implication.’

‘Implication?’ His voice was smooth as cream. ‘What implication was that?’

‘Springdown Kitchens honour their contracts,’ Nicky said hotly. ‘If we charge you for new appliances, you get new appliances. You’re accusing us of installing substandard machines—’

‘Stop right there.’ It sliced across her tumbling speech like an ice axe. ‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything. Yet.’

Just that single word brought Nicky to a halt. She looked at her hand, gripping the telephone convulsively, and saw that she was shaking. Justified indignation, she assured herself.

But it did not feel like justified indignation. It felt as if she was a schoolgirl in a tantrum, not a serious professional dealing with an awkward client. Nicky breathed deeply.

She said, ‘You’d better take this up with Mr de Vries.’

‘As you may recall,’ Esteban Tremain said blandly, ‘that was exactly what I wanted to do in the first place.’

Nicky could not take any more. ‘I’ll tell him to call you as soon as I can catch him,’ she said curtly.

And flung the phone down before she screamed.

This time he did not call back.

It had made her late, of course. She had promised Ben she would be there at twelve-fifteen at the latest, before the little bistro filled up with the lunchtime trade. Ben hated to be crowded. Just as he hated to wait. Impatience ran in the family. Nicky gathered up her coat and bag with clumsy fingers. Caroline, having seen the phone call and its effect, wandered in.

‘Tremain again, I take it. That man thinks he only has to crook his little finger.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Have lunch,’ said Nicky, scribbling furiously on Martin’s notepad, just in case he came back during the lunch break.

Caroline was intrigued. ‘A date?’

Nicky tore off the note she had penned and stuck it over the top of Martin’s phone where he could not miss it, no matter how hard he tried. She looked up.

‘What price respect for personal privacy?’ she asked resignedly.

‘Never heard of it,’ Caroline said with a grin. Nicky bared her teeth and dived past her.

‘What will I do if Martin calls?’ Caroline yelled after her.

‘Tell him everything,’ Nicky called back. ‘It’s all in the note. Tell him I’ll deal with it if he wants. But not before lunch.’

She flung herself at the showroom door. Caroline followed her, grinning.

‘And what if the frustrated client turns up in person?’

A wicked light invaded Nicky’s eyes.

‘Tell Mr Tremain he’ll have to wait. I’m lunching with a man who won’t.’

HER brother was waiting outside the bistro, lost in thought Nicky broke into a run, calling his name. Ben looked up. He surged towards her, cleaving his way through the lunchtime crowd, and flung his arms wide.