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  Feeling dismissed, Silke headed towards the door. If she were honest—and she wished she needn't be! — she had to stop herself from breaking into a run, so anxious was she to get away from Lyon Buchanan.

  'Silke.'

  Softly spoken in that way, her name on Lyon Buchanan's lips nevertheless carried a wealth of auth­ority. An authority Silke would have loved to ignore— and yet knew that she couldn't, not with the other man present. She turned as she reached the door, her hand already on the handle, straightening even more defensively as she saw Lyon's gaze fall mockingly on the movement. She returned his gaze enquiringly, the silence stretching awkwardly between them as he kept her waiting for his next statement.

  'I'll be in touch,' he finally told her quietly.

  She didn't doubt it—but he would have to find her first. She didn't actually work for her mother's agency, only filled in if her mother was desperate, like today, and once she had spoken to her mother—if she could find her! —she would make sure her mother didn't give this man her address. This time she had no intention of ever seeing this hateful man, with his nasty sus­picious mind, ever again!

  She nodded distantly. 'My mother will be pleased to take your call.' Although if her mother's reaction to Henry Winter was anything to go by, Silke doubted her mother would be any more thrilled to hear from a member of this family than she would!

  Dark brows rose over grey eyes. 'Your mother?'

  Silke could have kicked herself; he obviously hadn't made the connection—despite her name—between herself and the owner of Jordan's Miracles.

  'Your business is with her agency,' Silke supplied coldly. 'She'll be happy to deal with you,' she lied, sure that once her mother learned of Henry Winter's connection to Buchanan's she would sever the con­tract with them, no matter how important she had considered it earlier this morning.

  Lyon Buchanan's mouth tightened ominously. 'Your mother owns the agency, and yet she sent you out this morning looking like a-----'

  'I believe an apology has already been made for that particular mistake,' Silke snapped abruptly, very aware of Peter Carruthers' silent interest in their con­versation—and she didn't want the whole world to know of her involvement over the fiasco of her bunny girl outfit. 'I'll call later to check on Mr Winter,' she told the consultant now, determined to make good her escape this time.

  'You haven't heard the last of me, Silke,' Lyon Buchanan told her harshly.

  This time Silke left without even acknowledging his remark. He was obviously a man who wanted—and was accustomed to having!—the last word. Let him have it, if he needed it that badly; she just wanted to leave.

  She was trembling by the time she emerged from the clinic, realising she was more shaken by their con­versation than she wanted to admit. But, she con­soled herself, she doubted she would be the first person—or indeed the last!—to find him so intimi­dating. It just irked her that he had had that effect on her. After James she had sworn no man would ever unsettle her, or her life, ever again. Lyon Buchanan more than unsettled her; he angered her to the point of making her want to scream!

  She wasn't in the least surprised to find the office locked, and neither Jackie, her mother's secretary, nor her mother actually present when Silke finally got back to the agency just after five o'clock. In fact, she doubted her mother had returned at all today; Jackie had probably been the one to lock up before going home herself. Silke would be surprised if she actually found her mother at her elegant apartment either; from her childhood memories of her mother, when she wanted to leave, she just went.

  Silke's heart sank—and she felt like leaving herself when she emerged from the building that housed her mother's agency to find an all too familiar silver Mercedes screeching to a halt beside the pavement, a furious-looking Lyon Buchanan climbing jerkily out from behind the wheel, the violent slamming of the car door behind him evidence that his mood hadn't improved from earlier—in fact, from the glittering fury in his eyes as he spotted her, it had got worse! What on earth had she done now? Silke wondered warily.

  He towered over her ominously as he came to an abrupt halt in front of her, a nerve pulsing in his cheek the only sign that he wasn't as in control as he usually appeared to be.

  'You're a fast worker, I'll give you that,' he ground out between clenched teeth, the nerve in his cheek pulsing even more erratically.

  Silke blinked up at him frowningly. 'Sorry?'

  'Not as sorry as you're going to be,' he assured her hardly, the lean fingers of one hand tightly grasping the top or her arm as he began to march her towards his car.

  This man was far too fond of frog-marching and bullying her into going places she didn't want to go, and quite frankly Silke had had enough of it. More than enough!

  She wrenched out of his grasp, wincing at the pain this caused to exactly the same bruised spot where he had grasped her earlier. She was going to be very badly bruised by the time he had finished with her. Or she had finished with him, which she was just about to do!

  'I don't know what your problem is now, Mr Buchanan,' she told him heatedly. 'And, quite frankly, I have no wish to know either! Just as I have no wish to be manhandled by you again-----'

  'Think yourself lucky it's only your arm I've hurt,' he rasped as she rubbed the bruised spot. 'What I would really like to do is wring your damned neck!' He glared down at her.

  Considering they were standing in the middle of a busy street, off ice workers pouring out of the building on either side of them, pushing past the two of them in their rush to get home, it might be a little difficult for him to actually carry out that particular threat at the moment. Although, knowing him as she did, Silke wasn't so sure of that...

  What on earth had she done now?

  'My uncle,' he bit out viciously, 'has just informed me that he's met the woman he intends making his wife!'

  Silke looked up at him blankly. But, as Lyon con­tinued to glare down at her, realisation began to dawn!

  'Don't look so innocent, Silke,' Lyon rasped sav­agely. 'You know damn well I'm talking about you. Henry has just informed me that he intends marrying you as soon as he can persuade you to say yes!' His coldly contemptuous gaze raked over her. 'Which I'm sure won't take him too long!'

  Silke couldn't speak, couldn't have uttered a word if she had tried. What was the man talking about?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lyon Buchanan's mouth twisted derisively as Silke continued to gape up at him. 'Don't try and tell me the news has come as a surprise to you,' he snapped contemptuously. 'You must have done something to encourage Henry to think along those lines.'

  She shook her head dazedly. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'No?' Lyon said scathingly. 'Henry has lived for sixty-seven years without contemplating marriage to any woman, and yet after meeting you this morning he suddenly decides to take the plunge; forgive me, Silke, if I find your shock a little hard to believe!'

  She was starting to come out of the shock now, and as she did, she knew that Lyon had made an error of some sort. Most unusual for him, she was sure! But she had seen the way Henry looked at her mother earlier, her mother's reaction to seeing him, knew that there had once been—possibly still was, if her mother's flight at the mere sight of Henry was any­thing to go by!—some very strong emotion between the older couple. In fact...

  'What exactly did your uncle say?' she prompted guardedly.

  Lyon's nostrils flared angrily. 'I told you-----'

  'I said exactly,' Silke reminded him quietly, her mind racing.

  He drew in a harsh breath. 'Henry was slightly groggy by the time I managed to talk to him; Peter had given him something to help him relax. But Henry made a point of telling me he was going to marry you as soon as he's out of hospital,' his voice rose angrily again over the last.

  'Not me,' Silke told him firmly, frowning, positive now Henry hadn't been talking about her. Just what sort of relationship had Henry and her mother had in the past for Henry to have made
such a statement to his nephew?

  'Of course it was you, damn it!' Lyon looked as if he were about to explode. 'You-----'

  'Satin,' Silke said with certainty, preoccupied with thoughts of her mother and Henry. 'I'm sure Henry told you he was going to marry Satin.' She looked at him enquiringly.

  'Silke, Satin, it's the same thing; I told you, he was groggy when I spoke to him,' Lyon dismissed impatiently.

  Not too groggy to know exactly who he was talking about—and what he wanted! My God, her mother had some explaining to do!

  'You're wrong, Mr Buchanan,' Silke shook her head ruefully. 'It isn't the same thing at all. And I'm sure when your uncle feels less—groggy he'll tell you that himself.'

  'And I'm telling you that I have no intention of letting a little gold-digger like you marry my uncle!' he bit out contemptuously.

  Silke frowned up at him. He really was the most insulting-----! 'And just exactly what right do you think you have to tell anyone who they should or shouldn't marry?' she scorned. 'From the little I've seen of you, you wouldn't know love if it jumped up and bit you on the nose!' She was breathing hard in her agitation. What right did he have to call her a gold-digger? He didn't even know her. Or her mother. Which, if she wasn't mistaken, was going to be more to the point—because she was sure it was her mother Henry had decided he was going to marry. And she was no more a gold-digger than Silke was.

  Lyon's face might have been carved out of granite, his mouth a thin, angry line. 'You aren't trying to tell me you love my uncle?' he derided harshly.

  'Not yet,' she answered vaguely. But if what she suspected were to become fact, she had a feeling she was going to be put in a position where she could possibly learn to love him as a stepfather. If Henry ever persuaded her mother to stop running. And Silke was positive he was going to have a damn good try at doing exactly that!

  'But you might be able to force yourself,' Lyon rasped with contempt. 'Taking into account his bank balance—and his obvious ill-health. After all, the chances are, with his heart complaint, that you wouldn't have to be married to him for too long before he-----'

  Silke had never hit anyone in her life before. Until that moment. And there was no thought behind it now either, just an instinctive response to the insult Lyon was making to both her and Henry. Just who did this man think he was? How dared he say those things about her after knowing her for so brief a time?

  But if she thought she was angry then, her emotions were mild in comparison with his; his face was deathly white, a nerve pulsing in one rigidly clenched cheek, the red marks where her fingers had made contact standing out lividly against that abnormal paleness.

  But as usual it was his eyes that were most expressive, glittering dangerously, almost silver in their intensity.

  Silke stared up at him wordlessly, shocked by her own actions as much as by his reaction to it.

  'You're going to regret you ever did that,' he finally ground out between clenched, perfectly even white teeth.

  She didn't doubt it, had realised that the moment her hand made contact with that hard cheek! But there was no way she was going to stand by and let this man insult her—and his uncle!—in the way he had been doing.

  'Goodbye, Mr Buchanan,' she told him with as much dignity as she could muster, turning away to join the milling crowd, people that had only been mo­mentarily diverted in their hurry to get home by the scene taking place on the pavement between the tall, autocratic man and the slender, blonde-haired young woman.

  As she walked away, Silke half expected those steely fingers to grasp her once again. But as she took each step further away from Lyon Buchanan and it didn't happen, she began to breathe again, resisting the im­pulse to turn and look back at him to see exactly what he had done after she walked away, whether he had gone back to his car or was still standing on the pavement where she had left him. No doubt he had roared off in the other direction in his powerful car, thoughts of revenge already forming in his calculating mind!

  Silke realised she was trembling with reaction. God, that man was—well, he just was! She had never met anyone like him before. And she hoped she never did again!

  * * *

  Her mother hadn't, as it turned out, run very far. Silke knew, by the lights blazing in her mother's apartment as she approached the prestigious building, that her mother was definitely at home. It was some­thing, at least.

  The fact that her mother was in the kitchen baking bread wasn't a good sign; it was her mother's other escape. All through her haphazard childhood Silke could remember the smell of baking bread whenever her mother had hit another disaster in her life—and there had been many!

  It was obvious, from the slightly red-rimmed green eyes as their gazes met across the kitchen, that her mother had been crying. A lot, from her make-up-less cheeks; her mother was always perfectly groomed and made-up.

  She abruptly broke off her fierce pummelling of the dough to frown at the distress clearly written on Silke's pale face. 'What happened?' she asked heavily.

  Too much for her to be able to tell it all! She couldn't believe it was only just over eight hours since she had gone, under protest, to take up her position in the confectionery department of Buchanan's; it seemed as if a lifetime had passed since Lyon Buchanan had verbally ripped into her before dragging her up to his office.

  But Lyon Buchanan wouldn't be where her mother's interest lay...

  'Henry Winter collapsed after you ran out of the office this after—steady!' Silke warned concernedly as her mother swayed slightly, her face going even paler.

  Silke hurried to pull out a chair from the kitchen table, sitting her mother down in it before moving to sit in the chair opposite, looking across at her worriedly; there could be no doubting her mother's distress at the news.

  Her mother moistened dry lips. 'Is he—is he-----?'

  'He's in a private clinic,' Silke reassured gently. She had never seen her mother shaken like this; there must have been something very special between her mother and Henry Winter for her to be reacting like this. 'I'm going to telephone later to see if he's-----'

  'Just tell me where it is.' Her mother stood up ab­ruptly, already taking off her apron before moving to wash her flour-covered hands.

  Silke frowned at her. 'But a short time ago you ran away from the man-----'

  'Just tell me, Silke,' her mother repeated sharply, her face more pale and strained than ever. 'Today wasn't the first time I ran away from Hal,' she added stiltedly. 'I think, this time—in the circumstances—I owe him an explanation.' She looked pained at the thought.

  Silke had guessed some of what might have oc­curred between the older couple in the past, and 'in the circumstances' maybe it would be fairer to Henry Winter not to tell her mother he wasn't in any im­mediate danger; she knew too well herself how far and how ably her mother could run when she set her mind to it. Henry would never find her!

  So instead she told her mother exactly where the clinic was, assuring her she would clear away the mess she had been making when Silke arrived.

  'But if you run into the nephew—beware!' she thought it prudent to advise her mother as she left, remembering all too clearly her own run-ins with Lyon Buchanan. 'He's very protective of his uncle,' she added by way of explanation—although she knew that wasn't strictly the truth; Lyon Buchanan had an ar­rogant disdain about him that owed nothing to family loyalty.

  'So he damn well should be,' her mother replied scathingly. 'I'll call you if I'm going to be late,' she added dismissively.

  Silke looked after her mother frowningly; just what had she meant by that parting comment concerning Lyon Buchanan? No doubt her mother would tell her soon enough, and in her own time, if she chose to, as she always had.

  One thing Silke did know—Lyon Buchanan wasn't going to like it that a member of her family—Satin, no less!—was visiting his uncle...!

  It was a long evening for Silke, sitting alone in the flat, wondering exactly what her mother was doing at the cli
nic all this time. Obviously the older couple had found a lot to talk about, but, even so, she wouldn't have thought Henry was in any condition to discuss anything too emotional.

  When her mother still hadn't returned by the next morning Silke went into the agency and opened up for the day, leaving the secretary to deal with things while she went to the clinic herself, her curiosity getting the better of her now. And if anything had happened to Henry, from her mother's reaction to seeing him again after all these years, Silke didn't like to think what condition her mother was going to be in.

  'Your mother is in Mr Winter's room, Miss Jordan,' the receptionist told her in answer to her query. 'Down the corridor, first door on the left,' she directed with a smile.

  Silke had only to step into the room, see the truckle-bed set up in one corner as close as possible to the hospital bed where Henry lay, to know exactly where her mother had spent the night. In fact, her mother now sat in a chair beside Henry's bed, her hand firmly clasped in the elderly man's, a look of such utter con­tentment on both their faces as they gazed at each other that it told its own story; whatever differences this couple had had in the past, they were now very definitely behind them. Lyon Buchanan was going to be incensed all over again. If he had ever calmed down!

  'Silke!' Her mother turned to her with a glowing smile. 'Darling, I'm sorry I didn't ring you last night, but-----'

  'It's perfectly all right, Mother,' she assured her with a smile of her own. 'From the look of you, you had other things on your mind. Hello, Henry.' She turned to the relaxed man lying in the bed, relieved to see how much better he looked. 'How are you?'

  'As soon as they discharge me from here, well on my way to becoming your stepfather,' he told her wryly, that twinkle back in his eyes.

  'Hal!' her mother gasped, a becoming blush heating her cheeks as she looked awkwardly across at Silke.

  'We agreed that we've already wasted enough years,' her fiance told her sternly. 'I want you to make all the arrangements so that the ceremony can take place as soon as I leave here. How do you feel about that, Silke?'