It was the first time she had heard him speak and his voice had caught her off balance. It was measured, quiet...the voice of a man who didn’t need to shout. The kind of voice that came from knowing everyone was on tenterhooks, waiting to do your bidding.
Aware that her reaction to him was probably written all over her face, she felt a sudden flicker of irritation at his unspoken assumption that she was included in that group.
‘Oh, I can probably survive,’ she said lightly, wanting him to know that she wasn’t intimidated by him.
He didn’t reply, just stood watching her, waiting until the door had closed behind Mr Muir before sitting down in one of the armchairs. She was still standing, and he gestured towards the sofa.
‘Please, take a seat.’
She sat down again, her heart thudding as his dark eyes rested on her face, wanting to cross her arms protectively in front of her body but not wanting him to know that she cared what he thought.
‘I’m going to have some coffee,’ she said abruptly. ‘Would you like a cup?’
His expression didn’t change.
‘I don’t drink coffee. In any case, I’d prefer to get down to business. I have another meeting to get to.’
Her eyes narrowed a fraction at his dismissive tone, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why, then, had he arranged to meet with her this morning? But, really, what did it matter to her? What did he matter to her? Anyway, her father was the one paying for his time.
‘But surely it’s not as important as this one. With me,’ she added crisply.
His mouth tightened imperceptibly, and she felt it again. That flashbulb moment of recognition. She knew it must be her mind playing tricks on her. And yet...
‘I’m sorry,’ she said slowly. ‘But have we ever met before? It’s just you seem really familiar.’
For a moment he continued to stare at her impassively, studying her face, considering her question, considering his answer, and she felt another bite of irritation. Seconds ago he’d told her he had another meeting, but now he apparently had all the time in the world.
‘That’s probably because I look like my brother,’ he said finally.
She felt it first in her stomach—a creeping, icy unease that spread outwards through her limbs and down her spine.
Her chest squeezed tight and she shook her head, wanting to look away. Except she couldn’t. She was trapped—caught in his steady, unblinking gaze. ‘I don’t think I know your brother.’
‘Oh, but you do,’ he said softly, and now he smiled—except it was the kind of calm, controlled smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You know him very well.’ He paused. ‘Your nephew, Archie, is my brother. Half-brother, to be precise.’
The room swam. Her heart stopped beating. Her blood felt as though it had turned to ice. She stared at him, words of denial stuck in her throat, her mouth open in shock.
But of course. Now she knew she could see it. In the shape of his mouth and that flash of anger. It was Archie. He looked like Archie—Della’s Archie.
Her Archie.
A knot formed in her stomach. Head spinning, she took a breath, tried to focus her brain, replaying fragments of conversation, things Della had said.
Archie’s father, Lao Dan, had other children—older children—daughters from previous marriages and a son. Charlie.
She swallowed around the lump swelling in her throat.
So that meant Charlie’s mother had been Lao Dan’s wife when Della had been his mistress. Now, at least, she understood Charlie’s disapproval. She still didn’t understand why he was here in this room, though. With her.
‘You’re not a lawyer,’ she said flatly.
He shook his head.
She glared at him. ‘And you lied about your surname too.’
‘I didn’t lie. You assumed I was a lawyer. And adopting an English surname is fairly common practice. It stops any awkward mispronunciation.’
An icy heat shivered down her back. ‘So what do you want?’