This Man's Magic

by Stephanie Wyatt

  Her voice trailed away as she saw her father shift uneasily in his chair. 'But why Amoroso? They're top of the market with their own design team. I doubt Luc Amory ever takes work from outsiders.'

  'Well, at least take a look at them yourself.' Hastily she undid the ties on her portfolio and tipped the contents out on the desk. 'If you say they're not good enough to make my name as a designer…'

  She held her breath, watching for clues in her father's expression as he slowly examined one sheet after another, her heart sinking as the level brows, so much like her own, drew together in a frown.

  Felix Valentine's frowning gaze slid over the tall, slender girl sitting so tensely on the other side of the desk. Russet hair, slightly more red than his own had once been, wide mouth and strongly marked brows that put him in mind of his own mother in her heyday. Similar look about the sherry-brown eyes too, except his mother's eyes had never looked at him with quite such cynical fatalism as his daughter's did now.

  His daughter… It had hit him between the eyes when she had walked into his office with the bearing of a young queen. God, but it wasn't right that they should be strangers! A surge of unaccustomed guilt and regret made his hand clench. She was a daughter any man might be proud of, beautiful, spirited, and—his gaze raked over her remarkable designs —very talented. He had really had no idea… And that was another indictment of his performance as a father. But there was Marcia…

  'You say Mr Amory doesn't take work from outside designers, but what about Simon Smylik?' Sorrel demanded when the silence went on and on. 'Amoroso took him up and made his name. And that's just the boost I need, if I'm going to get anywhere in my career.'

  Her father spoke at last. 'You have ambition, then?'

  It was the first remotely personal question she could ever remember him asking, and its slightly accusing tone made her flush defensively and rush into ill-considered speech. 'Of course. I've never been any good at personal relationships, so what else do I have but my work?' The hard, searching gaze he subjected her to put her even more on the defensive. 'You don't think Amoroso would be interested in these designs, then?' she said flatly.

  'On the contrary.' The words seemed to be forced out reluctantly. 'I think Luc might well be very interested indeed.'

  His surprising admission made her heart leap, only to plunge again when he went on, 'Unfortunately your request puts me in an awkward position.'

  'I don't see why…' Sorrel persisted. Having wrung that admission out of him she was reluctant to let the advantage go.

  'Because Luc Amory is a family friend, not only my friend but Marcia's too. It could be… complicated.'

  'You mean your wife wouldn't like to have me introduced as your daughter to a friend who has never heard of my existence.' Sorrel enlarged on his inference.

  From her father's pained expression she gathered that he didn't care to hear the truth voiced so unequivocably. 'You mustn't blame her, Sorrel. I hurt her very badly.' As if impelled by an inner force he pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window to stare blindly into the street. 'Did your mother never tell you? How we came to marry, I mean?'

  Sorrel shook her head. 'She rarely, if ever, mentions you.' It struck her that for the first time in her life, she and her father were actually talking to each other.

  'But she must have spoken to you about her family background?' he began remotely.

  Sorrel cleared the huskiness blocking her throat. 'Er… no.' And then because the bald denial seemed to need some explanation, 'You see, she's always been so wrapped up in her new family and we've never… talked.'

  It was a bleak little admission that left so much unsaid, but even so it destroyed the comfortable illusions of the man standing at the window. He had always assumed the daughter he had abandoned on his divorce had found a secure niche in her mother's new family. 'Sir Charles—your stepfather—he was unkind to you?'

  'Oh, no.' Sorrel shook her head. 'There were times when he was quite sympathetic. But you must know I lived with Ellie for three years after you and Mother split up. I was nine by the time I met Sir Charles, and they had Julia by then. They were a family and I didn't… belong.'

  Regrets, guilt Felix had buried for nearly half a lifetime suddenly surfaced. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, between the wife he loved and the daughter he had wronged. He hated the idea of exposing himself, but if he told Sorrel the truth, maybe she would understand why he couldn't…

  'Your mother's parents were… aristocrats,' he began slowly, keeping his back turned because what he was about to reveal couldn't be done under the cynical contempt of his daughter's gaze. 'Not titled, but definitely out of the top drawer, and poor as church mice. The house had been in the family for generations, an abbey, no less, and about as comfortable, falling about their ears. Certainly no money for the upkeep of the property or to pay staff. Which was why they attempted to clean out the lake themselves.

  'By some freak accident they were both drowned, leaving Elizabeth at eighteen with a barn of a house and a mountain of debts. The only family assets were some rather fabulous jewels, rubies, which rumour had it were a gift to a Forrester ancestor from an Indian prince. The setting was entirely unsuitable as a piece of jewellery for an upper crust English lady, but the rubies were flawless. They had to be sold—along with the abbey—to pay off the debts, and I was sent down there for a preliminary viewing.'

  Sorrel was listening, enthralled. These were her grandparents he was talking about, these… aristocrats who had met such an unlikely end. She found herself curious about this ancestral home, this abbey: where it was, who owned it now. And for the first time she realised why her mother had settled so easily into her life at Thorley after the divorce. For the first six years of Sorrel's life they had lived in London, and she had taken it for granted her mother was a Londoner. Now with this new knowledge came the realisation that her mother had merely returned to the kind of life she had been bred for.

  'She was very pretty at eighteen, your mother.' Her father's voice had lost that chilling remoteness. 'Grief-stricken of course, fair and fragile and totally unfitted for the burdens she was carrying. I wasn't much older myself. She needed a strong man to depend on, and I saw myself as that man. What began as an attempt to comfort her led to… greater intimacy. For a few weeks she made me feel ten feet tall. I suppose I was flattered that such an upper-crust young woman should turn to me. Oh, the Valentines had money, but not a fraction of the pedigree.

  'She was so damned helpless!' There was a note of anger in his voice now. And then he sighed. 'It was all too easy to mistake compassion for something deeper… more lasting. It wasn't until she told me she was pregnant that I began to come to my senses.'

  He turned back to the room then, one hand held out towards Sorrel in an unconscious plea. 'My world, my life, my work was in London, while all Elizabeth knew were country pursuits; riding—oh yes, the roof might be leaking but there were always horses in the stables—gardening, looking after the tenants on what was left of the estate… My infatuation ended in seconds, but my responsibility for the results had only just begun.' He strode across the room and opened a section of panelling to reveal a well stocked drinks cupboard. Pouring a generous shot of whisky into a glass he took a long swallow.

  'So you married her,' Sorrel said softly.

  He turned back to her, traces of an old despair showing in his face. 'What else could I do? What had begun as a clumsy attempt to lighten Elizabeth's burdens had only added to them. I couldn't abandon her, however much my father ranted and my mother wept. And Marcia… God, when I remember what it was like, telling the girl I loved—and who loved me—that I was marrying someone else!'

  Being of a compassionate nature herself, Sorrel could easily imagine his dilemma, and found herself not only feeling closer to her remote father than she had ever thought possible, but almost liking him. 'Yes, it's little wonder that Marcia couldn't stand the sight of me.'

  Her father sighed heavily. 'Yo
u and Marcia were the innocent victims of the situation, but you both got hurt most of all.'

  'And all for a marriage that had little chance of succeeding anyway,' Sorrel said wryly. 'Why didn't you just… pay Mother off?'

  Felix swallowed the rest of his drink. 'My father wanted to do just that. But even with money it would have been like casting a child adrift. Elizabeth was so… dependent. And for a few months—until after you were born—it seemed to be working well enough,' he went on, staring down into his glass. 'She was busy decorating the house, preparing a nursery. And I saw nothing of Marcia. She was hurt, angry, proud, and she was avoiding me. But after the novelty of having a baby wore off, Elizabeth began to get bored, holed up in London. She missed not being able to ride. My mother had always been able to amuse herself shopping and socialising, but the people we knew… Elizabeth complained she had nothing in common with them. As of course, she didn't. The chasm of different life-styles, different cultures just got wider, and when there was no love to bridge it… And then Marcia couldn't avoid me for ever, not when her father and mine were partners.'

  'I didn't know that!' Sorrel put in.

  'No, I don't suppose you did,' he sighed. 'Well, seeing Marcia again only brought home to me just what I'd thrown away. And I have to admit she deliberately needled and upset your mother. Perhaps if she hadn't, Elizabeth would have agreed to a divorce much sooner. But she was jealous of Marcia. Unhappy herself, I suppose she didn't see why Marcia should be happy at her expense. Anyway, we were stuck with it, and my God, it was a cat and dog life! I don't suppose you remember…'

  'Oh yes, I remember.' Little more than a baby and mostly in the charge of a nanny, she could still remember the bitter quarrels, the even more bitter silences.

  'And then Elizabeth went to stay with some old friends in the country, and met Berisford-Reid, and after only a few weeks was not only willing but eager for a divorce.' Twenty years later the relief was evident.

  'So you both married much more suitable partners, and neither had room in your lives for me.' Sorrel's matter-of-fact statement disguised that though she could now understand why, the knowledge still had power to hurt.

  'I'm sorry.' Her father's usually pale cheeks carried two discs of colour. 'I thought you'd be happier with your mother. You were only six, after all.'

  The cool mockery in her eyes seemed to remind him that Elizabeth hadn't wanted her either. 'I did intend having you to stay with us in your school holidays, but Marcia…' His expression was almost sheepish. 'She might have forgiven me my lapse but she could never quite forget. I had betrayed her after all, made us both suffer six years of misery through my juvenile infatuation, and you were a visible reminder.'

  He twirled his glass between his long fingers, not looking at her. 'And still are,' he added in a voice that pleaded for her understanding. 'If I do as you ask…'

  'She's going to have to acknowledge publicly that you have a child who has a claim on you equal to her sons,' Sorrel finished for him heavily. 'So I'm not to get my introduction to Lucas Amory.' She stood up and began to gather up her designs. The disappointment was acute, not just that he was denying her the chance to boost her career, but that she, his only daughter, was still such a negligible consideration.

  'I'm sorry, Sorrel.' A hand covered one of hers. 'Believe me, I'd be proud to proclaim you as my daughter, but you must see I can't do that to Marcia against her wishes.'

  Tears pricked behind her eyes and she looked down to blink them away, her gaze falling on her father's hand still resting on her own. Funny, but she couldn't remember him touching her before.

  'Yes. Thank you for telling me,' she said when she felt she could trust her voice. But she had allowed her facade of amused tolerance to slip and the pain was there in her eyes for her father to see.

  'I'd still like to help you,' he said impulsively. 'It would have been some time, anyway, before I could have arranged a meeting with Luc. Marcia and I are off on holiday to Barbados tomorrow. But what if I wrote you a letter of introduction?'

  Sorrel's spirits began cautiously to rise. 'You'd do that?'

  Her father crossed to the drinks cabinet again, poured a shot of brandy into an empty glass, and without asking if she wanted it, thrust in into her hands. 'I'll go and see my secretary. Drink that while you wait.'

  Sorrel thought over the things her father had told her. His account had carried the ring of truth: two people, very young, making all too human mistakes until they were caught up in events they couldn't control. He had been right, though, the two innocent victims—herself and Marcia—were the ones to suffer most.

  She was surprised to find her glass was empty by the time her father came back from the outer office. He was carrying a letter in an unsealed envelope which he took out and handed to her.

  It was quite brief, introducing her to his friend as someone whose work would be of great interest to him. Just one line riveted her attention. She lifted her eyes, wide and vulnerable, to her father's face. 'You—you've acknowledged me as your daughter,' she whispered. 'I didn't expect…'

  His mouth twisted wryly and there was a ghost of a smile in his eyes, making them appear warmer. 'I think I can rely on Luc to be discreet.'

  'Thank you.' For an awful moment Sorrel was afraid she would burst into tears. Instead she impulsively kissed her father's cheek, and was rewarded with an awkward pat on the shoulder. 'If you like,' she offered huskily, 'when I see Mr Amory, I'll ask him to be sure he never mentions my name in Marcia's hearing.'

  Her father nodded, the twist of his mouth even more wry. 'And Sorrel, when you come here to buy stones in the future, have them tell me. I find myself, belatedly, wanting to get to know my daughter.'

  Sorrel fought the lump in her throat. 'And I you,' she whispered.

  When she reached the street she was still clutching the letter in her hand as if it was something precious. As it was, because written there for the recipient to see was 'My daughter, Sorrel Valentine'.

  She was not to know the trouble that recognition was to cause her, nor the direction from which that trouble was to come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was no time like the present, Sorrel told herself. It was already Friday afternoon and if she waited until she got home to telephone for an appointment, it would probably be well into next week before she would get to see Lucas Amory. Her feet hardly feeling the ground beneath her feet, she walked the two hundred yards down Hatton Garden to the Amoroso building.

  It took persistence to get past the stolid doorman but, if the highly decorative blonde secretary was everything she had expected of a man with Lucas Amory's reputation with the ladies, at least she tried to be helpful.

  'I'm afraid Mr Amory won't be in again today,' she revealed when Sorrel had stated her name and business. 'But as it's a design matter, perhaps you should see Miss Killingley first. She's the head of our design team.'

  It wasn't what she wanted, but Sorrel felt she could hardly refuse, and allowed the secretary to take her along the corridor to another office and introduce her.

  If Lucas Amory had chosen his secretary for her looks rather than her ability, that couldn't have been the case with Miss Killingley, a thin, overstrained little woman in her forties. Before Sorrel could open her mouth she was saying wearily, 'Oh, not another one! Miss Valentine, Amoroso never buys outside designers' work.'

  As she had done with her father, Sorrel questioned, 'Never, Miss Killingley? What about Simon Smylik?' only to be rewarded by a further tightening of the rat-trap mouth.

  'And ever since, we've been inundated with hopefuls like you, trying to find an easy way to the top.'

  Sorrel decided she didn't like the obstructive woman one bit, but held on to her temper. 'Never easy, surely,' she returned. 'And I do come well recommended.' She indicated the letter of introduction lying on the desk between them. 'I really think you should at least give Mr Amory the chance of reading that and making up his own mind.'

  The woman reached out a di
sdainful hand and a moment later was slitting open the envelope. Conscious of the confidential nature of what the letter revealed, Sorrel protested, 'Hey! That's addressed to Mr Amory!' only to be ignored.

  But at least what she read brought Miss Killingley to a more conciliatory attitude. After a searching glance at Sorrel she said grudgingly, 'OK, I suppose it won't do any harm for me to take a look.' Without asking permission she opened the portfolio and started thumbing through the pages, betraying nothing of her reaction beyond a worrying of her bottom lip with her teeth. When she had studied the last one, she again picked up the letter of introduction and re-read it.

  'All right, Miss Valentine,' she said at last. 'If you'll leave all this with me, I'll bring them to Mr Amory's notice.'

  'Oh, but—' For some reason Sorrel didn't feel happy about this proposal. 'I will be able to see him? I can make an appointment?'

  Miss Killingley's thin mouth curled contemptuously and Sorrel could almost see her thinking that here was yet another female hoping to catch the roving eye of her employer. 'If he thinks it necessary, Miss Valentine.'

  An angry flush stained Sorrel's cheeks, but she could hardly insist that she wouldn't have the slightest interest in meeting Lucas Amory had it not been for the possibility of Amoroso using her designs. She cast another glance at them lying on the desk and rose reluctantly to her feet. 'Very well, Miss Killingley, but hadn't you better write down my telephone number?'

  More than once over that long, anticlimactic weekend, Sorrel wondered if the sour-faced Miss Killingley would succeed in blocking her approach to Lucas Amory as Sorrel suspected she would like to, but at half past ten on the Monday morning, as she was repairing a bracelet in her workshop, the phone rang.

  'Miss Valentine? This is Mr Amory's secretary. Mr Amory would like to see you this afternoon at two-thirty, if that's convenient.'

  'Yes. Yes, that's fine. Thank you very much.' Sorrel put the phone down, her heart banging against her ribs, palms suddenly slippery with perspiration. Wiping them against her stained jeans, she knew they would never be steady enough to carry on with the intricate work she had been engaged in when the phone call had interrupted, and anyway, she had to tell someone. Charlie was out on one of his perpetual sorties of London with his sketch-book, but Tammy should be in her workshop. Dropping the bracelet into a velvet-lined box and locking it into a drawer, she carefully returned her tools to the rack before hurrying across to her friend's unit.