Broken Open. Lauren Dane

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ knew Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook. She supposed she could go and ask her about something to eat.

      The decision made, she walked quickly across the empty lounge again, emerging into the hall just as a man was about to enter. They almost collided, and his hands grasped her upper arms to steady her, cool and hard against her warm skin.

      “I'm sorry –” she was beginning with an apologetic smile, when she realised who he was.

      “I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going,” he assured her quietly, his voice deep and masculine, his breath warm on her face. His hands fell to his sides.

      “You're Mr. Hardy, aren't you?” Ruth interjected, her eyes on his lean dark face. “I saw you last night with Julie's father.”

      Patrick Hardy frowned. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss – Miss –?”

      “Farrell. Ruth Farrell. I'm a friend of Julie's. She invited me for the weekend.”

      “I see.” His smile was faintly mocking. “Well, how do you do, Miss Farrell? I'm sorry, but I don't know any of Julie's friends these days. When I went abroad she was still at school.”

      “Yes. You work in Venezuela, don't you?” Ruth held his gaze. “Something to do with oil. It sounds very interesting.”

      Patrick Hardy's eyes narrowed. “Not for the layman, I can assure you.”

      “No, but what you do – I mean, I expect it's very technical, isn't it?”

      “Somewhat.” His tone was dry.

      “Are you going back there?”

      “Indeed, yes. In a few weeks.” He took a step to one side as though to pass her.

      “I've never been to South America. Is it very hot?”

      “Where I work – very,” he conceded. “And now, if you will excuse me …”

      “Oh, yes, of course.”

      Ruth stepped reluctantly aside. For the moment she couldn't think of anything else to say. He nodded politely and passed her to cross the lounge to the windows as she had done, and stood staring out at the frozen expanse of countryside. It must be vastly different from what he's used to, thought Ruth inconsequently, picturing the steaming rain forests of Central America. Didn't he feel the cold? January was never the most attractive of months.

      In dark trousers and waistcoat and a navy blue shirt, his dark brown hair just brushing his collar, he looked lean and muscular, and Ruth found a certain kind of enjoyment in just looking at him.

      Then she moved her shoulders impatiently. She was becoming fanciful. Just because he had not shown an immediate interest in her, she was mentally endowing him with attributes he did not possess. Why should she care one way or the other?

      Turning on her heel, she walked towards the stairs, intending to go in search of Julie, when the maid she had seen earlier reappeared.

      “Oh, Miss Farrell. I've spoken to Cook and she says would you like breakfast serving in the morning room? The other members of the household, those who take breakfast, that is, usually eat in their rooms on Sunday mornings.”

      “I see.” Ruth paused at the foot of the stairs. “Did you know Mr. Hardy is in the lounge?”

      “No, miss.” The maid looked surprised. “Perhaps I'd better ask him, too.”

      “Yes, you do that.” Ruth half smiled, leaning back against the banister.

      The maid disappeared into the lounge and emerged a few moments later nodding her head. “Mr. Hardy does want breakfast, miss. Would that be for two?”

      “Why not?”

      Ruth was amused. If Julie came upon them now, she would imagine Ruth had engineered the whole thing.

      The maid went to tell the cook of the arrangements and Ruth decided to wait in the morning room. Picking up one of the morning papers off the hall table, she opened a cream panelled door and entered a sun-filled dining room. This was the morning room where the family usually ate breakfast and lunch, and the table was already laid with a pristine white cloth.

      Seating herself at the end nearest the windows, she scanned the headlines desultorily, unconsciously waiting for Patrick Hardy to join her. When he eventually appeared, she pretended not to notice him, assuming an intense interest in the article she was reading.

      “May I join you?” he enquired, before seating himself opposite her, and she looked up in feigned surprise.

      “Oh! Oh, yes, please do.” She nodded and returned to her newspaper, unaware that a slight smile touched the corners of his mouth as he sat down.

      The maid returned to ascertain their individual requirements, but Ruth only wanted fruit juice and toast. Patrick Hardy, however, agreed upon porridge followed by ham and eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ruth, to whom a fried breakfast was slightly abhorrent, sat in silence as he waded through the enormous meal, thinly buttering her toast and drinking several cups of coffee. She was amazed at his capacity, wondering how he could remain so lean and muscular when her father, who really ate very little, sported the thickening waistline of so many of his colleagues.

      By the time he had reached the toast and marmalade stage, Ruth was finished, but she remained at the table studying the dregs of coffee left in the bottom of her cup.

      “I can't say I care for Marion's choice of coffee,” he remarked unexpectedly, wiping his mouth on a table napkin. “That's one commodity which is not in short supply where I come from. And excellent it is, too.”

      Ruth looked up. “There are coffee plantations in Venezuela?”

      “Some, yes. But Brazil is virtually on our doorstep, and it's the largest producer of coffee in the world.”

      “Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Have you been to Brazil?”

      “Several times.” He drew a case of cheroots out of his pocket. “Do you mind? I'm afraid I can't offer you a cigaette.”

      “I don't smoke,” replied Ruth, relaxing. “But I don't mind at all. I like the smell of good tobacco.”

      He placed one of the long thin cigars between his teeth and lit it with a narrow gold lighter. Then he inhaled deeply, half turning in his seat to rest his elbow on the back of the chair. His eyes, Ruth saw now, were not brown as she had thought, but grey, and his lashes were long and thick. They were disturbingly intent eyes when they chose to be, and she rushed into speech, half afraid of their penetration.

      “I suppose you've seen a lot of South America,” she suggested nervously.

      “Quite a lot,” he agreed. “But there's still a lot I haven't seen and would like to. There have been so many civilisations – so many cultures. I find the whole history of the area absolutely fascinating.”

      “But your work isn't concerned with history, is it?”

      He smiled wryly. “Oh, no. My work is very much a contemporary thing. A product of the twentieth century in every sense of the word. But that doesn't stop me from СКАЧАТЬ