Life With Riley

For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. “Right. I should.”

He opened the briefcase and hauled out a folder filled with papers, flipping through it and making notes on the pages with a pencil.

“What do you actually do?” she asked after a while, unable to stem her curiosity completely. “I mean, what does your firm do?”

“Telecommunications and electronics, mainly,” he answered, not looking up from the papers on his knee.

“We import parts, and design and build custom-made systems.”

“Computers?”

“Industrial computers and communication systems. Not personal computers.” He made another note on the page before him.

“And you’re the executive director. Impressive.”

He gave a crack of laughter. “When you own the company you can give yourself any impressive title you like.”

Riley slowed for an intersection, then accelerated smoothly. “Is it a family business?”

He looked a little grim for a second. “You could say that—except I’m the only family I have.”

“Did you inherit it?”

“No. I started from scratch.”

He must have had a family once. Maybe he’d inherited capital. But maybe not. Despite the civilized suits and the expensive car and house, there was an edge to him, a toughness that showed through now and then and that she suspected he hadn’t got from a cushioned life and a cultured education. “So how did you get to where you are today?”

He laughed again. “Hard work, low cunning and a certain amount of luck. But mainly it’s a matter of setting goals and remaining focused. I knew what I wanted and how to get it, and didn’t allow myself to be distracted by side issues.”

Or let anything stand in his way, she guessed, a little chilled. “What did you want?”

“To be a millionaire before I was thirty,” he said calmly.

He couldn’t be much more than that now. He must have been driven, and she wondered where such single-minded, naked ambition came from. “When did you decide that?”

“I was eighteen.”

Riley shook her head in wonder. “When I was eighteen I had no idea what I wanted.” Except her independence from a loving but sometimes annoyingly protective family who had spent years trying to instill caution into her impulsive spirit. Eager to try her wings, see the world and pay her own way, she’d been restless, never settling, not knowing what she was searching for until she landed in New Zealand and knew she’d found her natural home. Or rather, rediscovered it.

“What about now?” Benedict asked.

“I’m studying to teach English as a second language.” She had finally settled on a career path that excited her and promised a sense of purpose and usefulness, and the stimulation of interacting with people from many cultures.

“You didn’t say you were a student when I asked if you had a job.”

“You didn’t ask.” He’d seemed more interested in whether she was earning enough to repay him for the damage to his car.

“You must have a busy life. Study and part-time work, as well as—”

He was interrupted by a low burring sound close by that made Riley jump.

Benedict pulled a cell phone from his briefcase. “Falkner here,” he said into the receiver.

Riley tried not to listen, but she could hear an excited voice on the other end and Benedict’s replies. “Good God! When?…Where is she?…Tell her she’s not to think of that, and if you need anything…Give me your number, I’ll be in touch.” He scribbled on the margin of the paper he’d been reading. “And your address? Thank you for contacting me.”

Frowning, he pressed a button on the phone before putting it away.

“Trouble?” Riley asked.

“My housekeeper’s had an accident. That was her daughter.”

“Is she badly hurt?” Riley asked in concern.

“Cut her head on a piece of furniture. She’s been stitched up, but they suspect she may have had a small stroke and that’s why she fell.”

“Oh, poor thing. If you want to go to the hospital I’ll drive you.”

“No. She’s sleeping, apparently. I’ll phone the daughter tomorrow.” He rubbed at his chin, grimacing, and muttered something she didn’t catch. “Excuse me.” He consulted his watch, then looked up a number in the notebook and dialed it. From the brief conversation that followed she gathered he was ordering flowers for the housekeeper.

“Are you fond of her?” Riley asked when he’d finished. “Has she been with you a long time?”

“Nearly four years, and we get along. She’s excellent at her job and a great cook—dammit.”

“Dammit?”

“I’m expecting guests for a dinner Mrs. Hardy was apparently preparing when she fell. I’ll have to find a caterer at short notice or book a table in a restaurant.”

“What will happen to the food your housekeeper was going to serve?”

“If it can’t be frozen or something, I’ll throw it out, I suppose.” He sounded as if that was the least of his worries.

“That’s a terrible waste! How many people are you expecting?”

“Seven.” He held the pencil in two fingers, absently drumming it on the papers.

“I suppose you don’t cook.” She tried not to sound critical.

“Not well enough for this.” He closed the folder and stretched his legs out over the briefcase, then lapsed into silence.

When she pulled up at his house he turned to her. “If any of that food’s any use to you, you’re welcome to it.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“I don’t like waste, either.”

She followed him along a broad path between immaculately mown lawns and onto the tiled front porch that was almost a carriageway. He pressed a button on his key tag, inserted a key into a polished brass lock and pushed open the huge paneled door.

Benedict parked his briefcase under a telephone table standing on a pale marble floor. “The kitchen’s through here,” he said, leading her along a red-and-black carpet runner that looked sumptuous against the gold-flecked marble.