Touch the flame, p.1
Touch the Flame, page 1
v1.5
June 12, 2008
Touch the Flame
Helen Bianchin
Chelsea froze, her face an expressionless mask
The sound of Raf's deep voice drained all the color from her face. A hundred conflicting thoughts fought for supremacy as she battled to retain a semblance of calm. Then she slowly turned to face him.
He appeared taller than she remembered, she noticed dimly. His broad frame was sheathed in expensive suiting, and his features were every bit as forceful as they had ever been.
Rafael Hamilton. Son of a Texas oil millionaire whose wife held legitimate claim to an honored branch of the Spanish nobility.
A man who was many things—financial entrepreneur, undisputed head of Houghton-Hamilton. He was also her husband.
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contents
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#1240
Harlequin Presents first edition February 1990 ISBN 0-373-11240-8
Original hardcover edition published in 1989 by Mills & Boon Limited
Copyright © 1989 by Helen Bianchin. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
Printed in U.S.A.
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CHAPTER ONE
^ »
Chelsea slid in behind the wheel of her silver Porsche, fired the engine, then eased the powerful sports car down the driveway towards ornately scrolled iron gates guarding the entrance to the elegant-storeyed Tudor-style home she occupied in the exclusive Sydney suburb of Castlecrag.
A home, she mused idly as she activated the remote-control unit to allow her exit, that was much too large for one person. It would be infinitely more practical if she opted for a stylish apartment in any one of the number of expensive high-rise buildings that dotted the foreshore of the inner city. Except that every time she gave the idea serious thought, there was an intrinsic pull to negate it.
Besides, she wasn't alone. Hannah and Will Somerfield looked after the house and grounds, tending both with loving care, and there was a small menagerie of animals. Two darling shih-tzu dogs, an Alsatian of doubtful breeding who displayed the quintessence of affection to those of whom he approved, but who became totally ferocious with itinerant strangers, a Himalayan Persian cat with an impeccable background and papers to prove it, and a pink-plumed galah parrot who whiled away his captive hours in one of the most well-equipped aviaries in southern Australasia; not one of whom she could bear to part with.
The gates closed behind her, their faint, well-oiled clunk sounding simultaneously with the refined purr from the engine as she headed the car down the tree-studded avenue that connected with an expressway leading into the city.
It was a glorious morning, the sky a clear, brilliant blue, cloudless apart from a fairy-floss drift of delicate cirrus-like cloud, and the sun's warmth already held promise of sweltering summer heat mixed with high humidity.
She should have made an earlier start, Chelsea reflected with wry resignation a short while later as she eased the Porsche to a snail-like pace in heavy city-bound traffic. At this rate it would be another twenty minutes before she reached the office building in which she worked.
Impatience would do no good at all. Perhaps if she hadn't stayed out so late, and the hours between two and seven had been spent sleeping instead of restlessly tossing and turning, she wouldn't now feel tired and more than a little jaded.
Without conscious thought, she slid a tape into the cassette recorder, and within seconds the soothing voice of Lionel Richie filtered through the speakers, blocking out all other intrusive sound.
Listening to the velvet-smooth tones of the popular singer stirred to life a disturbing memory, one she'd fought hard to ignore for more than two years. And been relatively successful, she thought with a touch of self-mockery, until recently.
Perhaps it was the festive season which was to blame—Christmas trees and carols, anticipation and joy, gifts and giving.
Maybe if… A faint sigh whispered from Chelsea's lips. There were too many ifs for it ever to have worked. Her father's unsuccessful battle with cancer necessitating her return to Australia from the States two years ago could not be blamed, nor could—
A harsh horn-blast penetrated the interior of the car, and with a faint flush she shifted gear and sent the Porsche moving, glad that she couldn't hear what the motorist behind her had angrily mouthed in her direction.
Damn! It didn't pay to indulge in senseless reverie while driving, she thought with a self-deprecatory grimace. Especially in the midst of peak hour city traffic.
At last the tall concrete edifice housing her workplace loomed into sight and, depressing the indicator, Chelsea swung in behind a queue of vehicles heading down into the underground car park.
The elevator was almost filled to capacity, and she nodded to a colleague, a pleasant smile fixed in place as she stood silent; a slim, elegantly dressed young woman who bore the unmistakable air of inbred sophistication. Her make-up was understated, but cleverly effective, highlighting flawless skin, wide-spaced green eyes and a generous mouth. Ash-blonde hair fell to her shoulders, its thick, tapering length brushed into a simple style that made her look much younger than her twenty-five years.
The elevator paused several times before Chelsea was able to alight at the thirty-first level, where she moved swiftly across the marble-tiled lobby, past reception, the executive lounge, to the suite she shared with her secretary in the sought-after southeastern corner of the building.
From this height, the view through tinted plate glass was nothing short of spectacular in every direction: the sparkling waters of Port Jackson with its plethora of moving sea-craft, the unique architecture of the Opera House vying for supremacy with the steel expanse of the famed Harbour Bridge.
Usually Chelsea delighted in the panoramic vista, but this morning she crossed to her desk, opened her briefcase, removed a sheaf of papers, then depressed the intercom switch.
'Susan, bring me the file on Hamilton Holdings.' Chelsea paused fractionally, and made a concentrated effort to dispel the faint weariness that had settled behind her eyes and held promise of burgeoning into a full-blown headache. 'And coffee, please. Black, strong, with two sugars. Jonathan Prendergaast is very insistent I see him at eleven this morning.'
She released the intercom switch and ran a swift red-lacquered fingernail down the list of appointments pencilled in her diary for the day. One, possibly two, could be postponed until tomorrow. She tapped the book absently, a faint frown creasing her brow.
As an accountant, Jonathan was both skilled and highly qualified, his promotion into the firm coinciding with the amalgamation of Houghton-Hamilton. The reason for his telephone call just prior to her leaving home this morning was unprecedented and therefore perplexing, she decided pensively as she glanced round the room.
The office bore all the trappings of success, she thought idly. The furnishings were selected to impress, their designer elegance a signature of refined simplicity.
The vague ache behind her eyes began to intensify, and combined with a feeling of general lassitude that surely had to be related to a series of pre-Christmas drinks and social functions that were a pre-requisite in the run-down to the year's end.
A discreet tap on the outer door preceded Susan's entrance into the room, and Chelsea proffered the slim brunette a grateful smile.
'Thanks, Susan.' She took the coffee from her secretary's hand and set it on the desk. The aromatic steam activated the digestive juices inside her stomach, making her increasingly aware that she'd overslept and skipped breakfast.
'Would you contact Rosemount and Jenkins, and diplomatically reshuffle their appointments to this afternoon?' She lifted the cup to her lips and took an appreciative sip, reflecting that if this morning's meeting with Jonathan dragged on she'd probably miss out on lunch as well.
'Of course, I'll attend to it immediately,' Susan responded briskly. For a moment she let the mask of alert efficiency slip as her clear blue eyes clouded with concern. 'You look pale. Are you feeling all right?'
'Tired,' Chelsea admitted with the semblance of a smile. 'Animated social chit-chat combined with lack of oxygen and too much cigarette smoke isn't my idea of a fun evening.' Her expression assumed unaccustomed cynicism. 'And I'm prepared to go on oath that someone spiked the fruit punch.'
'Doubtless you dined on caviar, crackers, and assorted gourmet nibbles.'
'Dare I confess?' she owned ruefully, aware that Susan, her senior by some fifteen years, had faithfully paid her dues at Houghton-Hamilton, rising from the typing pool to become Sam Houghton's secretary in the days when there was no Hamilton tagged on to Houghton and Chelsea was a leggy schoolgirl.
'I'll send out for sandwiches,' Susan declared firmly, 'which you will eat before attending the meeting. Fainting on the job is hardly in keeping with your image.'
'True,' Chelsea agreed
Chelsea glanced pensively at the ivory manila folder resting on her desk, then slid it forward and flipped open the cover. As a résumé, it was impressive, with cross-references to every acquisition since the incorporation of both companies; an amalgamation which three years ago had caused a considerable stir in the business sector. Hamilton had its roots in the States, an established firm which had plodded a path of mediocrity for years until the eldest son of the foundation member had taken over the reins and brought Hamilton into the forefront, gaining well-earned kudos among a number of peers who had reluctantly made room in their upper echelons for a man whose very name had soon become synonymous with tenacity and power.
Property, snares; an enviable and streamlined composite of blue-chip investment with some calculated 'wildcat' ventures. Most had escalated more than favourably to show excellent returns, while others had been sold off before they could establish a loss.
A very shrewd portfolio, Chelsea determined idly as she ran a practised eye over the latest gains. Although one appeared a sleeper, and she made a mental note to query its purchase at the meeting, which, she noted with a quick glance at her watch, was due to begin in thirty minutes.
A slight frown furrowed her brow. Consultations with Jonathan were an integral part of business and essential to ensure maximum efficiency, but the reason for today's last-minute scheduling eluded her. For some unknown reason she felt vaguely uneasy, almost as if some sixth sense was attempting to give an advance warning.
As her secretary came back into the room, Chelsea's mouth widened into an appreciative smile.
'Whatever would I do without you?' she smiled as Susan placed a tray down on to the desk, dispensed steaming liquid into a fresh cup and set about removing plastic cling-wrap from a plate of delectable-looking, wafer-thin sandwiches.
'Manage admirably, I imagine,' Susan responded with an irrepressible grin.
Chelsea wrinkled her nose slightly, and her green eyes assumed a humorous sparkle. 'Behind every successful executive is an efficient secretary. You're one of the best.'
'Ah—a compliment!'
'Sincerely meant, I assure you.'
Susan's expression softened. 'I know. Thank you.' She became a model of brisk competence. 'Now eat, please.'
'Yes, ma'am.' Chelsea reached out and selected a salmon and lettuce-filled triangle, then followed it with another. It surprised her to discover just how hungry she was, and after a second cup of coffee she felt a surge of renewed energy, sufficient to dictate instructions regarding data she required and the calls she wanted to make prior to midday. If the meeting didn't drag on too long.
Without further thought she extracted a make-up pouch from her bag and crossed to the small alcove adjacent to her office. Touching up her mouth with lipstick, she added a clear gloss, then smoothed her hair before giving her watch a final glance. Two minutes to eleven. Punctuality was something she aimed for at all times, forming part of a careful strategy she'd painstakingly created.
The boardroom was situated opposite her office, and she walked into the large room to find only one occupant seated at the long mahogany table.
'Good morning,' Chelsea greeted him as she took the chair Jonathan Prendergaast held out for her. 'Thank you,' she murmured, her expression composed as she waited until he was seated before meeting his enigmatic gaze.
'Calling this meeting was your idea,' she began smoothly. 'Perhaps you'd care to elaborate?'
He shifted in his chair, easing his lanky frame into a more comfortable position as he picked up a pen and tapped it absently against the folder lying in front of him. 'Certain rumours have begun to circulate of which I think you should be aware.'
'What rumours?' She schooled her features to remain bland, although there was a strange prickling sensation at her nape.
'In connection with a proposed takeover.'
'Of Houghton-Hamilton? Don't be absurd!' she countered with conviction. 'If it was true, I would be one of the first to hear.'
He considered her carefully for several seconds. 'Not if the rumour originated in America.'
Something clenched inside Chelsea's stomach, and she steeled herself to respond with cool deliberation. 'I trust you've attempted to confirm this with Raf?'
'Of course.'
Yes, she breathed wearily. Jonathan Prendergaast maintained weekly contact with Raf Hamilton —wherever the dynamic head of Houghton-Hamilton happened to be in the world. His residences alone numbered three in the States, from a condominium in Florida to a palatial home in Los Angeles. In New York his apartment was high on Fifth Avenue with a fantastic view over Central Park. Then there was a terraced flat in London's fashionable Docklands. He travelled so extensively, he commanded his own private jet.
'He denied the rumours?' Chelsea voice was controlled but she felt as if her features had assumed a mask-like expression. Suddenly she was aware of her own vulnerability, as well as being the focus of a pair of observant, all-assessing eyes.
'He would only confirm that he had knowledge of them.'
Chelsea managed to meet his concerted gaze unblinkingly, aware just how much effort it cost to present a calm, unruffled façade.
'I see.' She leaned back in her chair as she marshalled her thoughts. 'One assumes he intends to inform us if they hold any substance? And what steps he intends to take?'
'Of course,' Jonathan agreed. 'In the meantime, he insists the information be regarded with the strictest confidence.'
'In that case, we can do little else but await further news.'
The accountant inclined his head in silent acquiescence, and she looked at him with careful circumspection, aware of the possibility that he might be deliberately withholding information. It was no secret that Jonathan Prendergaast was Raf Hamilton's right-hand man, despite her position. A fact she had learnt to cope with and accept.
'That's it?' Chelsea queried, wanting the meeting to end. Jonathan's character was too close to that of his American-based employer; even the man's height and dark good looks held a clone-like resemblance. It was something she found vaguely disturbing whenever they were alone together, despite their relationship never intruding beyond a strictly professional level.
'Not quite.'
'You mean there's more?' If she took notice of her immediate instinct, she could almost imagine he was stalling.
'I'd like access to the file on Hamilton Holdings. When you've finished with it, of course?'
'I'll leave it with Susan,' Chelsea concurred. 'Will midday suit? I have a few more items I'd like to check.'
'This afternoon will be fine.'
She stood to her feet, aware of a need to be in control and not merely a participant in a game involving power-play. 'Thank you, Jonathan, for ensuring that I heard the rumour first-hand.' She could afford to be generous. Technically, by virtue of her inheritance, she held a thirty-five-per-cent stake in Hamilton-Houghton.
'How professionally diplomatic!' a deep voice drawled from behind her.
Chelsea froze, her features momentarily locked into an expressionless mask as she felt the colour drain from her face. A hundred conflicting thoughts fought for supremacy as she battled to retain a semblance of calm, aware that every second she remained immobile amounted to a victory against her.
Assembling a polite façade took tremendous effort, but she managed it, and her movements were mechancially automatic as she slowly turned to face her aggressor, her eyes dilating slightly as the visual image of the man she'd endeavoured to push to the back of her mind manifested itself into reality.
