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‘He had a heart attack, but they’ve decided it’s not his heart that’s really the problem—so now they’ve scheduled him for a triple by-pass.’ An age-spotted hand worried with her pearls. ‘The surgeon says it’s very straightforward nowadays…’
‘I’m sure your husband’s in the very best of hands,’ reassured Rachel firmly. ‘Is your family visiting with you?’ she asked, beginning to hand over the thick wad of cards and letters she had picked up, waiting patiently as the woman sorted them to fit them in her grasp.
‘Well, my son was supposed to meet me here,’ the woman confided. ‘But he probably arrived early in order to interrogate the doctors to within an inch of their lives and order them not to upset his sweet little old mum by going into too much gruesome detail—never mind that I’d prefer to know everything there is to know. He’s a lovely boy, really, but he can be so very managing…’
Her irritation showed and Rachel grinned. ‘I know the type.’
‘But you’re so wonderfully tall,’ admired the older woman, making herself an instant friend for life. ‘I wish I was like you. I always get a crick in my neck when I have to argue with my husband or my son. It must be lovely to be able to stand up to bossy men and look them straight in the eye.’
‘Or, better still, look down on them,’ grinned Rachel.
She found herself on the receiving end of an assessing look as the grey head cocked to one side, soft curls framing the still-pretty face. ‘You might be taller than my boy, but not by much…’
Rachel answered the silent question. ‘I’m a hair off six foot.’
‘Ahh. So you’d have almost a whole inch with which to lord it over my son. He doesn’t seem to have cottoned onto the fact that we?
?re really the superior sex. Mind you, that’s partly my fault—he was a late baby, you see, and an only child, so he was doubly spoiled. I wasn’t in the best of health for a while, so that probably encouraged him to regard women as generally rather fragile beings. Then his father insisted he be sent off to boarding school to toughen him up and acquire the correct degree of polish.’ She sighed. ‘Unfortunately I think it succeeded too well. He was a passionate, sensitive little boy who became a rather introverted adult. He had one or two bad experiences with women—he married once, when he was twenty, but it came to a wretched end—so now he seems to reserve all his passion for his work…’
Rachel was getting a very bad feeling. Her eyes fell to the last envelope she was in the act of passing over—a thin foolscap rectangle whose neatly typed address jumped out and hit her in the face.
Her fingers unconsciously tightened on the envelope, preventing it from leaving her hold as she blurted, ‘You’re Mrs Riordan. Mrs Kevin Riordan?’
‘Why, yes—I’m Dorothy…do you know my husband?’
Of all the ghastly coincidences!
‘Only slightly. My firm has quoted for some business with him. When I heard yesterday that he was ill I rang the hospital to see how he was but all they would tell me was that he was in a stable condition.’ Rachel heard herself babbling while her brain screamed at her to get out of there as fast as she could!
‘And now you’ve come down to make a personal enquiry?’ Dorothy Riordan’s small face lit from within. ‘That is kind of you. Kevin’s not having visitors yet, but I’ll tell him you called, Miss…?’
As Rachel dithered over whether to lie a cool voice denied her the chance.
‘Blair. Rachel Theodora Blair.’ A grey-clad arm reached between them and plucked the envelope out of her white-knuckled hand. ‘Thank you, Rachel, I’ll take that!’
Rachel spun around to stare in guilty horror at the man who had prowled silently up behind her. There was a muted fury in the chocolate-brown eyes as he looked from the envelope in his hand to her stricken face.
‘Oh, Matt, there you are!’ said his mother happily. ‘Do you know Miss Blair, too?’
Matthew showed his teeth. ‘Intimately.’
His mother looked startled at the throaty purr, and Rachel flushed, edging back as he deliberately invaded her personal space.
‘She was just telling me she’s come to see how your dad is…’
‘Was she?’ Matthew’s cynical murmur made Rachel scramble to correct Mrs Riordan’s flattering misconception.
‘Actually, I’m—I was—’
‘Making a special delivery?’ Matthew suggested, saluting her with a taunting flick of the envelope now in his possession. In the austere grey suit and plain blue shirt and tie he presented a picture of civilised menace that made her nerves twitch.
‘Just passing…’ she finished lamely, casting Mrs Riordan an unconsciously pleading look.
‘I’ve brought all the morning mail from home, Matt.’ His mother showed him the rest of the collection in her hand. ‘I thought it might give your dad a nice boost to see some of the cards and letters that people have sent, wishing him well.’
‘Is that what this is, Rachel?’ asked Matthew silkily, turning over the envelope in his manicured hands. ‘Greetings from a fond well-wisher?’
‘I have no idea,’ she said, grateful for his mother’s restraining presence.
