WHEN Alex Fabian was displeased, his annoyance invariably radiated from him like static electricity, alerting the wary to keep their distance.
Tonight, entering his grandmotherâs Holland Park house, he was crackling like an approaching storm, although he managed a brief smile for the elderly manservant who admitted him, and whoâd known him since childhood.
âBarneyâyouâre well? And Mrs Barnes?â
âBoth fighting fit, thank you, Mr Alex.â Barnes paused. âHer ladyship hasnât come downstairs yet, but youâll find Mr Fabian in the drawing room.â
âMy father?â Alexâs brows snapped together. âI thought they werenât speaking to each other.â
âThere has been a rapprochement, sir.â Barnesâ tone was sedate. âLast week.â
âI see.â Alex shrugged off his overcoat, and cast a fleeting but critical glance at his reflection in the big gilt-framed mirror before crossing the wide hall to the double doors which led into the drawing room.
He supposed he should have fitted in a visit to the barber, he thought, raking an irritable hand through the tawny hair which brushed his collar.
But the charcoal suit he was wearing, set off by a silk waistcoat in a paler shade of grey, the pristine white shirt, and discreetly striped tie acknowledged that this was a formal visit.
That heâd been sent for.
And his tight-lipped expression and smouldering green eyes indicated that he suspected what was behind the summons.
He found George Fabian seated on one of the sofas that flanked the fireplace, glancing through a newspaper.
He said, without looking up, âGood evening, Alex. We have been instructed to help ourselves to a drink.â
âThank you, sir, but itâs a little early for me.â Alex glanced pointedly at his watch. âI wasnât sure whether I was being invited for dinner, or nursery tea.â
âI suggest you ask your grandmother that,â his father advised curtly. âThis little family gathering was her idea, not mine.â
âAnd its purpose?â Alex walked to the hearth and gave the logs that burned there an impatient kick with a well-shod foot.
âI understand to discuss the arrangements for her birthday party.â George Fabian paused. âAmong other things.â
âIndeed?â Alexâs brows rose sardonically. âAnd am I permitted to speculate what those âother thingsâ might be?â
His father gave him a dry look. âI imagine your position as chairman in waiting at Perrins Bank might come up for discussion.â
There was a silence, then Alex said, with a touch of hauteur, âAre you implying that it could be in some doubt? I wasnât aware that my ability to run the bank was being called into question.â
âIt isnât, as far as I know.â George Fabian folded the paper, and tossed it aside. âItâs more a matter of image.â He pursed his lips meditatively. âToo many pictures in the wrong sort of paper. Too many pieces in the gossip columns. And too many girls,â he added flatly.
âI wasnât aware that I required a vow of celibacy to work at Perrins.â Alex kept his tone light, but his fingers beat a restless tattoo on the edge of the mantelpiece. The fact that heâd been expecting this made it no less unwelcome, he thought, his edginess increasing.
âThen think again,â his father said brusquely. âPerrins is an old-fashioned bank, run by conservative people, and they donât like the kind of adverse publicity youâve been attracting.â
He shook his head. âThe customers want to know that thereâs someone solid and reliable at the top, whom they can trust. Not a playboy.â He paused. âYouâre a high-flyer, Alex, but youâre getting perilously close to the sun. Take care you donât come crashing down.â
âThank you,â Alex said with dangerous politeness. âHave you been asked to pass on these words of wisdom, or was it all your own work?â