Buch lesen: «Marriage On Command»
Damien watched her for a long, intent moment.
“There is one way to hold on to Plover Park.”
“What’s that?” Lee asked without too much hope.
“We could get married.”
I’ve died and gone to heaven. Lee’s lips parted incredulously as the thought shot across her mind. Then sanity prevailed.
“Not a real marriage, I take it?”
“Would you like it to be?”
Marriage on Command
Lindsay Armstrong
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
DAMIEN MOORE was tall, dark and unimpressed, Lee Westwood decided as he raised an enigmatic eyebrow after scanning her thoroughly.
True, she acknowledged inwardly as she sat in the chair he had waved a negligent hand towards, she was not as formally dressed as those who worked in the hushed and hallowed legal offices of Moore & Moore. But her newest pair of jeans, although not that new, were sharply pressed, her short brown boots were shining and her green blouse had been carefully chosen to match her eyes. In fact she couldn’t remember taking as much care to co-ordinate her appearance for quite some time. Her shoulder-length auburn hair shone, as it always did, and was tied back neatly.
The one slightly jarring note was her old string bag, which she looped over the arm of the chair—she’d forgotten to change it for something more chic and, as usual, it bulged.
True, too, she reflected, that she had expected the senior partner of Moore & Moore to be older. This man was in his middle thirties at the most, she judged. Nor had it entered her expectations that he would be quite as devastatingly attractive, with lean lines, broad shoulders, clever dark eyes set in an intelligent face and a definite air of command. Well, perhaps that was to be expected, she amended her thoughts as he sat down behind a hugely impressive desk.
However, she wasn’t going to allow this extremely good-looking but superior lawyer to intimidate her for any reason. And she said coolly, ‘I need some legal advice, Mr Moore.’
He sat back in his exquisitely tailored charcoal suit and made a steeple of his fingers. ‘So you informed my secretary on many an occasion, I gather,’ he replied dryly.
‘It’s not easy to get an appointment with you,’ Lee shot back. ‘It’s obvious you value yourself very highly, Mr Moore,’ she added tartly.
A stray glint of amusement lit his fine dark eyes for a moment. ‘My fees certainly don’t come cheap,’ he said, ‘but if that’s a problem for you I’m not sure why you persevered to the extent of driving my secretary up the wall, Miss…uh—’ he consulted the file in front of him ‘—Westwood?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you, Mr—uh—Moore,’ Lee parodied, ‘I did some research and it seems to me that you are the best in the business. It’s that simple.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders, as if to say it was incomprehensible to her at the moment, but she would go along with it anyway, and added, ‘I’ve got the strong feeling that’s what I need, you see. On the subject of your fees, incidentally, I have a nest egg that should take care of them.’
Damien Moore resisted the urge to smile as he studied the snippy redhead seated opposite him. She had driven his secretary mad—no mean feat—and he got the strange feeling his wisest course would be to pack her off before she drove him mad. But really, he mused, how could a thin, young—twenty-three?—redhead, who appeared to have all her possessions packed into a bulging string bag, do that?
He sat up abruptly. ‘All right, Miss Westwood, tell me what kind of trouble you’ve got yourself into.’
Lee looked pained. ‘I haven’t got myself into any trouble at all—I’m extremely law abiding!’
‘So why are you here?’ he asked impatiently.
‘My grandparents…’ She paused to collect her thoughts. ‘They were persuaded to invest their life savings into a dubious investment scheme. Not only did they get no return for their money, but the principal has disappeared into thin air—the scheme was a scam right from the start,’ she said intensely.
Damien Moore twirled a silver pen in his fingers and looked sceptical. ‘Firstly, why am I not dealing with your grandparents?’
‘They…’ Lee hesitated. ‘They’re the salt of the earth—they brought me up when my parents died in a car accident when I was six—but…well, they’re rather unworldly. I guess,’ she said awkwardly, ‘that’s why they fell for it in the first place.’ Her expression hardened. ‘But I intend to get back every penny they lost!’
‘I see. That’s where I come in, I presume?’
‘To be honest—’ Lee looked wry for a moment ‘—I was hoping to be able to achieve it on my own. I didn’t succeed.’
‘I hesitate to ask this, but what means have you already undertaken to get back your grandparents’ life savings?’ he enquired.
Lee threaded her fingers together and took her time about replying. ‘I went to the police, but they seemed to think if there was any problem it was a civil matter. The contract contained the fine print to safeguard the proposer of the scheme, so I…’ she grimaced ‘…I camped out on his doorstep with a placard a couple of times.’
Don’t laugh, Damien Moore warned himself. ‘On the doorstep of the man who allegedly conned your grandparents?’
Lee nodded.
‘What did the placard say?’
Lee looked away. ‘Basically, it was very uncomplimentary towards his integrity.’
‘What did he do?’
Lee looked back at Damien Moore, contriving, he reflected, to be embarrassed but a picture of youthful dignity at the same time. ‘He—that is to say, a member of his staff—threatened me with a restraining order.’
This time he had to laugh. ‘I’m not surprised! I thought you were so law abiding, Miss Westwood—don’t you know you can’t go about impeaching people’s integrity at will?’
‘I happen to know,’ Lee said stiffly, ‘that he’s a con man and a thief! How would you feel if your grandparents were in the same position?’ she asked burningly.
‘All right.’ Damien sobered and made a few notes on the pad in front of him. ‘Who is this man?’
‘Cyril Delaney.’
The silver pen dropped from his fingers and he blinked at her. ‘You’re joking!’
‘No, I’m not,’ Lee denied.
‘Miss Westwood, Cyril Delaney is a respected property developer with a long-standing and impressive record. It is highly unlikely that he would be going around pulling scams on defenceless old age pensioners.’
‘I have a document signed by a C. Delaney, I have my grandparents’ word that the man they dealt with gave his name as Cyril Delaney, and I have their explanation that it was Cyril Delaney’s “impressive record”, Lee said with irony, ‘that got them in. What do you make of that, Mr Moore?’
‘That it was very likely someone masquerading as Cyril Delaney,’ he replied promptly.
‘Then he has a double,’ Lee retorted.
A frown grew in Damien Moore’s eyes. ‘Are you serious—really serious, Miss Westwood?’
Lee looked heavenwards briefly. ‘Do you honestly think I’d have gone to the amount of trouble I have on a deluded whim, Mr Moore? I’ve spent a fortune on phone calls alone, trying to get this appointment with you. You’re only lucky,’ she said, ‘that your secretary gave in—otherwise I might have camped out on this doorstep!’
‘Heaven forbid.’ He looked at her coolly.
Lee grimaced. ‘I can be determined and stubborn,’ she conceded.
He studied her in silence for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘I believe you. So you never got to meet Cyril?’
‘No. I was fobbed off all the time. And then—well, I’ve told you that bit.’
‘Have you put your claims down in writing to him?’
‘That too, but I’ve received no reply. But he wouldn’t reply, would he, if he was guilty?’
Damien Moore tapped his pen thoughtfully on his desk. ‘It may have been interpreted as a crank claim.’ He seemed to come to a decision. ‘All right—show me your document.’
Lee delved eagerly into her string bag and produced it. ‘What do you think?’ she asked anxiously when he’d read it.
‘That ninety-nine per cent of the population always fail to read the fine print,’ he said witheringly. ‘However, it would appear to me that some scam has been perpetrated, so I will write to Cyril Delaney and apprise of him of this document’s existence—as well as the failure of the scheme.’
‘And?’
He looked amused. ‘That’s all I can do at the moment.’
‘What if he ignores you the way he ignored me?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt that will happen, Miss Westwood.’
Lee failed to look reassured. ‘I really want to face him and have this out with him,’ she said passionately.
‘Yes, well, Miss Fire-eater, I don’t know why that doesn’t surprise me, but you’ll have to practise some patience. We’ll do this one step at a time—unless you’d like to find yourself another lawyer. May I have some details—where we can get in touch with you, et cetera?’
Lee subsided—until it became obvious that he required virtually her life history. ‘I am not going to skip town without paying your fees,’ she said proudly.
‘Perish the thought,’ he murmured, and threw her a keen, dark look. ‘So you’re a horticulturist? In what way?’
‘I work as a landscape gardener, but my dream is to have my own business one day. I’ve always been passionate about gardens.’ She looked wry. ‘I’ve even dreamt about becoming as well known as Capability Brown was.’
It struck Damien Moore then that Lee Westwood’s green eyes were little short of stunning. Long-lashed and a clear jade-green, they were extremely expressive and—captivating. He also noticed for the first time that she was faintly freckled, and that her auburn hair shone with vitality. ‘Uh…’ he said, drawing his mind from her physical attributes. ‘Have you seen any of his landscaping?’
A glint of mischief lit those eyes—a complete give-away—although she said demurely, ‘Yes. I backpacked my way around the UK and Europe a couple of years ago. Have you?’
‘No.’ He didn’t look put in his place, only amused. ‘But my mother is a very keen gardener. She has books on him.’
‘Are you interested in gardening, Mr Moore?’
‘Not in the slightest, Miss Westwood. But…’ He paused, and then surprised himself. ‘If the way you’re pursuing this matter is anything to go by, it seems likely your dreams will come true—I hope they do.’ He stood up. ‘In the meantime, leave this with me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have a response.’
Lee stood up but did not shake his proffered hand. ‘Is that all?’
He raised a dark eyebrow and his mouth quirked. ‘What more did you have in mind?’
For a moment Lee mistook his meaning. She even opened her mouth to say that surely they had enough evidence to do more than write to Cyril Delaney. Then she realised abruptly that his gaze had flicked up and down her body in a brief but unmistakable way—put plainly, in the way of a man asking an age-old question of a woman. Was she subtly suggesting she was ripe for the taking?
Her mouth fell open as comprehension came to her. Colour flooded into her cheeks and a burning sense of injustice possessed her. How dared this man think her capable of double entendres, or that she had any personal interest in him at all?
‘You’ve got the wrong girl, Mr Moore,’ she said arctically, ‘if you mean what I think you mean.’
He looked faintly amused. ‘It has been known to happen, Miss Westwood. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch date.’ He pressed a button on his desk and right on cue his secretary opened the door and came forward to usher Lee out.
Lee’s bedsitter was small but comfortable. Her couch doubled as her bed, and her compact kitchen resembled a ship’s galley. But it was furnished brightly and attractively to match a glorious reproduction of Van Gogh’s Irises that dominated one wall.
Normally her home soothed her, but that evening she was still unsettled by her encounter with Damien Moore as she ate her dinner: salad and an omelette. Not, she mused as she ate, that it was entirely surprising to imagine him being subjected to double entendres from women with more than business on their minds. Those dark good looks, the fact that he was obviously a man of considerable substance and his physique all added up to a dangerously attractive man.
What was more, he knew it—and not only that, he was perfectly capable of summing you up. And in her case, she thought a little gloomily, discarding you on a scale of one to ten of female attractiveness—to him anyway.
Then she had to grimace, because she couldn’t believe this nettled her somewhat. Yet she was forced to acknowledge it did.
She offered herself some internal advice. If I were you, I would put Damien Moore as a man right out of your calculations, Lee. And if he doesn’t come up with something soon—well, he’ll hear from you, won’t he?
She pushed her plate away and sighed. The nest egg she’d spoken of was small, and lawyer’s fees would eat it away like a plague of locusts, she had no doubt. But she adored her grandparents, and the prospect of seeing them forced out of the home they’d lived in ever since she could remember was more than she could bear. It was also that home, in a country village three hours south of Brisbane, that had seen her green fingers come to light. Her grandmother was a passionate gardener and Lee had followed in her footsteps.
After leaving school she’d done a course in horticulture at the Southern Cross University in Lismore, not far from home, but then she’d had to move to Brisbane to find work. Her present job was with the city council’s parks department, and she enjoyed it, but there was always at the back of her mind the prospect of owning her own business. As an adjunct to landscape gardening she was also interested in interior decorating; she’d done several night school courses in it. Her grandmother claimed that Lee was artistic, and could turn her hand to anything in that line.
Now, however, she thought a little sadly, until she got her grandparents out of this mess her dreams were receding a bit—unless Damien Moore fulfilled her expectations of being the cleverest lawyer in town. But, she reflected, even if he was, had she succeeded in getting him to take her seriously?
She got up to wash the dishes and decided she would give him a week.
Two weeks later, Damien Moore got out of his metallic blue Porsche at his favourite lunchtime restaurant to find his way barred by a slim girl wearing khaki overalls and with her hair crammed into a black crocheted hat. It was only when she took off the hat and a cloud of auburn hair settled to her shoulders that he recognised Lee Westwood.
He stopped and sighed. ‘What are you? A one-woman SWAT team?’
‘If you’re referring to my clothes,’ Lee said with dignity, ‘they’re my working clothes—I’m a gardener, remember? If you’re referring to my presence here—’ she looked around the Milton precinct, a trendy inner suburb of Brisbane ‘—I cannot get to you on the phone so I decided to do a bit of research. I knew you were coming here today.’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
She smiled. ‘Simple. On the phone I masqueraded as a legal secretary from another firm, desirous of getting in touch with you urgently on behalf of my boss. Your receptionist told me your movements just in case you’d switched off your mobile phone.’
Damien Moore swore. ‘The reason you couldn’t get hold of me was because I have no news for you. As my secretary would have informed you.’
‘It’s been two weeks!’ Lee protested. ‘If he was going to reply he’d have replied by now, surely?’
‘Look—’
‘No, you look, Mr Moore,’ she interrupted, ‘my grandparents had to take out a mortgage on their home to augment their pension and they’re having trouble keeping up the repayments. If I don’t get something done soon they’ll lose their home as well—while you lunch out at expensive restaurants on my fees with not a care in the world!’
‘Hardly,’ he said, with a mixture of impatience and reluctant amusement. He seemed to come to a sudden decision. ‘All right. Come and have lunch with me.’
Lee glanced behind her at the scarlet door beneath a straw-coloured awning flanked by tubs of flowering pelargoniums. It simply shouted luxury and expense. ‘In there?’ she queried cautiously.
‘In there,’ he agreed. ‘I have a booking.’
‘But I don’t think I’m suitably dressed—there’s a fast-food restaurant down the road—’
‘Not on your life, Miss Westwood. Either in there or not at all.’
Lee chewed her lip. This time Damien Moore’s exquisitely tailored suit was pale grey, and he wore a white and blue striped shirt with it, and a navy tie. His black shoes shone—handmade, no doubt—there was a navy linen handkerchief in his breast pocket and his thick dark hair was neat. There was also, she divined, the hint of a challenge in his clever dark eyes…
‘OK.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘On one condition. That I pay for my lunch.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t wish to be beholden to you in any way, Mr Moore.’
He grinned. ‘We’ll see.’
Lee hesitated, but got the strong impression she might be left standing on the pavement if she crossed swords with him any further. So with a muttered, ‘You’re a hard man to deal with!’ she took a deep breath and preceded him through the scarlet door.
Five minutes later she had a glass of wine in front of her and had ordered a slice of quiche Lorraine with salad—the cheapest item she could find on the menu.
‘Are you sure?’ he’d asked. ‘You don’t have to starve—’
‘Quite sure,’ she’d told him firmly. ‘I happen to like quiche, and I adore salad.’
He’d shrugged and ordered the roast pork.
‘This is very nice,’ Lee remarked now, looking round. And I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m with you, but no one seems to have taken exception to my overalls.’
He looked wry. ‘I’m a fairly frequent customer.’
‘So if I’d come in on my own it might have been a different matter.’ She looked amused.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Damien Moore commented, ‘you came in like the Queen of Sheba. It was quite an impressive performance.’
Lee laughed. ‘Not the Queen of Sheba. A movie star.’
‘Really?’ He studied her quizzically. ‘You were imagining yourself like that?’
‘Yes.’ Lee looked rueful. ‘I don’t usually have that problem, but you’ve got to admit I’m at a disadvantage today for this kind of place.’ She glanced down at herself. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ she continued. ‘Do you always lunch in such solitary splendour?’
He sipped his wine and she took the first sip of hers and found it delicious. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Often it’s a sandwich at my desk. I do work extremely hard, contrary to your thoughts on the subject, but I was supposed to meet someone today who had to cancel at the last minute. I decided to come anyway for a bit of peace and quiet. And the roast pork. Does that redeem me in your eyes at all?’
Lee looked momentarily guilty. ‘Yes. Sorry about that! Who…? No,’ she mumbled going faintly pink, unable to believe she’d been about to ask him who his lunch date was. ‘None of my business.’
His lips twitched. ‘It wasn’t a woman.’
Lee could find absolutely nothing to say to this, and could only thank heaven that her lunch arrived at that point. Further deliverance came to her in the form of Damien Moore who proved himself to be, suddenly, a charming companion. As they ate, he drew her out skilfully on the subject so close to her heart: horticulture. And he told her about the little gem of a botanic garden he’d come upon in Cooktown, Far North Queensland, of all places.
How had he come to be in Cooktown? she asked.
On his way to Lizard Island, he told her, for some R & R. Did she know anything about the pink orchid that was the emblem of that small, remote but famous Queensland town?
It so happened she did but she was fascinated to hear about the botanic gardens, with their links straight back to Captain Cook and Joseph Banks, as well as the Chinese gardeners who had planted fruit, vegetables and flowers among the native trees and shrubs named by Banks during the boom times of Cooktown in the last century.
It was his mobile phone beeping discreetly that interrupted this discussion. He looked annoyed, but took the call. When he’d finished he looked at her enigmatically and said, ‘It’s your lucky day today, Miss Westwood.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been in court all morning so I’ve had no opportunity to see my mail. But Cyril Delaney has agreed to a meeting.’
The effect on Lee was electric. She sat up, her eyes sparkled with excitement and she said, ‘Now we’re getting somewhere! When? Where?’
Before he responded Damien Moore found himself once again intrigued by those green eyes. In fact, he conceded, there was a lot more to this thin redhead than he had first imagined. Stubborn and persistent, yes, but a plain nuisance was not exactly how he would describe her now, he thought, and narrowed his eyes. No, there was too much vitality. There was a hint of humour, and at times a rather touching dignity. Not that it meant anything to him other than in a lawyer-client context, he reflected. Or did it? No…
‘In two days’ time, at his home. He is not well, apparently, hence his delay in replying. He has also…’ Damien paused and looked at the last of his roast pork thoughtfully ‘…requested your presence at this meeting.’
Lee pushed her plate away. ‘Why do you sound disapproving?’ she enquired with a frown.
His dark eyes were amused as they met hers. ‘You do have a history of…inflammatory behaviour towards Cyril Delaney, so if I’m expressing any reservations it’s to do with how you will handle yourself at this meeting, Miss Westwood.’
‘Mr Moore,’ Lee said, ‘that will depend on how Cyril Delaney conducts himself.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ he said humorously. ‘But histrionics only serve to put you in a more…vulnerable position.’
‘You mean,’ she said with a wicked little grin, ‘they make people think you’re all hot air and no substance? I would agree,’ she added judiciously, ‘most of the time. But there comes a stage when plain speaking is called for. So, while I won’t set out to be discourteous I will certainly be honest.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ Damien murmured, and finished his lunch.
Their plates were removed, coffee was poured and a platter of exquisite petits fours was presented. Lee took a miniature chocolate eclair and ate it with relish. Then she patted her stomach and sighed with pleasure. ‘Definitely an improvement on the kind of lunch I had in mind, but sadly I have to leave you now, Mr Moore.’ She consulted her watch. ‘My lunchtime is just about to run out. Could you ask for separate bills?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘But didn’t we agree—?’
‘We agreed to nothing,’ he said.
‘Look, I would really like to pay for my lunch!’
‘You might want to,’ he said, ‘but consider my reputation for a moment.’
Lee blinked at him. ‘I don’t understand. What has that got to do with it?’
‘I’m not in the habit of allowing my guests to pay for themselves. Particularly not women.’ His expression was grave but his eyes were another matter. They were full of secret amusement.
Lee gave it some thought before replying. ‘Firstly, I don’t think I fall into the category of a “guest”.’
‘I did invite you.’
She waved a hand. ‘I didn’t give you much choice.’
‘Now that’s an admission I didn’t expect you to make.’
‘Let me finish,’ she ordered. ‘Secondly, I’m not—’
‘Not a woman?’ he suggested, looking at her lazily.
Lee ground her teeth. ‘Of course—but I’m not a date—and even dates can go Dutch anyway. But…look,’ she said disjointedly, ‘I resent being patronised like this!’
‘On the contrary,’ Damien Moore drawled, ‘I’ve enjoyed my lunch today much more than I expected to—thanks to you, Miss Westwood. So I feel the least I can do is pay for yours.’
Lee stared at him wordlessly with confusion etched clearly in her green eyes. ‘You have?’ she said at length.
‘I give you my word.’
‘Why?’ Lee asked.
He shrugged. ‘You’re full of surprises.’
‘Like a circus act?’ she suggested with some bitterness.
He laughed. ‘No. Like a snippy redhead who shoots from the hip. It’s rather refreshing.’ His expression changed for a moment, as if he was viewing a phenomenon new to him. Then he said lightly, ‘So let’s have no more argument on the subject of who pays for this lunch.’ He stood up.
But it took Lee a moment or two to follow suit, because something struck her as she stared up at the tall figure of Damien Moore—something rather stunning and almost enough to take her breath away. Could you fall in love with a man over lunch?
At two o’clock the next morning Lee gave up trying to sleep on her convertible couch and made herself a cup of tea.
She was still stunned and uncomprehending at the thought that had crossed her mind just before she’d left the restaurant with her lawyer. Where had it come from? What had prompted it? How could something like that leap into her mind on only the second occasion she’d met a man?
But even if she were able to answer those questions what difference would it make? she wondered. Nothing could change the fact that her articulacy had deserted her as they’d walked out into the sunlight and he’d asked where she was parked. She’d pointed to her car and he’d escorted her to it.
She’d thanked him awkwardly for lunch and agreed to meet him in two days’ time, but it had been as if all the spontaneity and fluidity had drained from her—to be replaced by a keen awareness of the man beside her. The fact that his height caused a flutter along her nerve-ends, for example. The fact that she had enjoyed her lunch and his company much more than she’d expected to because he’d gone out of his way to make it enjoyable.
The fact, she thought hollowly, that he’d escorted her to her car as if he were escorting a movie star to her limousine rather than Lee Westwood in her work overalls to her second-hand yellow Toyota with its several dents.
But, she cautioned herself, with a sense of déjà vu, was it so surprising that at least a little flutter of attraction should cross her nerve-ends? How many other girls wouldn’t have felt the same beneath the spell of a tall, good-looking man at his charming best?
And there lies the rub, she thought ruefully. She was only one of a long line, she had no doubt. She heaved a sigh and decided the last thing she should ever do was give Damien Moore any indication that he’d been right about her that first day in his office. And she made a mental note that this was the second time she’d issued a warning of this nature to herself.
They met outside Cyril Delaney’s Balmain home on the appointed day.
Lee had taken the afternoon off work and wore neat beige linen trousers with a white shirt and a russet waistcoat. Her hair was loose but her trademark string bag remained the same. She showed no tendency to want to linger on the pavement, which Damien Moore noted, and he concluded from her severe expression that it held embarrassing memories for her.
He was tempted to ask her if that was so, but restrained himself. He had no real expectations of this interview solving anything for Lee Westwood’s grandparents, and it had caused him a few minutes’ internal interrogation to establish why that should concern him—minutely, but none the less it concerned him. The answer he came up with was that this feisty girl intrigued him. Not a good footing for lawyer-client relations, however, he reminded himself. Don’t get personally involved, in other words…
A housekeeper showed them into a sun room at the rear of the large, luxurious house, and introduced them to a frail-looking old man in a wheelchair—Cyril Delaney. They all shook hands and Lee and Damien seated themselves side by side on a cane settee.
‘So,’ Cyril said, ‘you’re the young lady my staff had to threaten with a restraining order while I was in hospital?’
Lee moistened her lips but took her time. In his prime, Cyril would have been tall and angular, she decided, whereas now he was stooped. His features were narrow and his teeth prominent. A few strands of silver hair were carefully combed over his head. But his eyes were bright blue and shrewd.
‘I am,’ she said quietly, ‘but I didn’t realise you were in hospital.’
‘Does that mean you would have picketed the hospital?’ he enquired.
Lee coloured faintly. ‘No. But I just couldn’t find any other way to bring this to your attention, Mr Delaney, and I feel I am quite within my rights to at least get a hearing.’
‘Hmm. So you’ve hired yourself a hotshot lawyer now?’ He turned those shrewd eyes on Damien. ‘Knew your father and I’ve always been an admirer of your mother, Damien Moore.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Damien replied, and let a few moments elapse. ‘Concerning Miss Westwood’s claims on behalf of her grandparents—’
‘Let the girl speak for herself,’ Cyril Delaney broke in.
Damien turned to Lee with a clear warning in his eyes—no hot air!
Lee swallowed. Then she began to outline her grandparents’ plight, coolly and simply. She concluded by saying, ‘It was your reputation that got them in, Mr Delaney.’
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