Книга - A Guilty Affair

A Guilty Affair
Diana Hamilton


FORBIDDEN! He belonged to another woman! Even as the champagne flowed at her engagement party, Bess realized that she was promising herself to the wrong man… Her fiance was kind, loving. Bess had even looked forward to becoming the perfect wife. Until Luke Vaccari walked into the party, mesmerizing her with his raw, shameless sex appeal.The intensity of her attraction was almost frightening … . It was also forbidden. Luke was about to marry her sister, and her feelings for Luke would have to remain a guilty secret. If only Luke hadn't confessed to mutual illicit desires!When passion knows no reason … FORBIDDEN!







The temptation to wake him was enormous (#u39838394-8edf-52ba-a296-c83a3510dbef)About the Author (#uae8c77ad-4025-54af-9440-1b588da13918)Title Page (#u1ed7f72a-1e75-54f2-b8a4-14ef7186c291)CHAPTER ONE (#u9790546c-9c55-5aa2-9dcd-4bc56c25323c)CHAPTER TWO (#u549a999f-0997-5c23-b418-4eb406b391b7)CHAPTER THREE (#u2bb82584-7893-5b70-9f9a-f8709534bc9c)CHAPTER FOUR (#u1c41f5df-5766-554b-9ff5-a538786c5f56)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


The temptation to wake him was enormous

Bess resisted. He was so beautiful. But, more than that, Luke’s passion had been tempered with a gentle consideration and he had said thickly, making her feel special, “Luca. It is my birth name. To you I am Luca.”

And now she asked herself if he had also invited Helen to use that name. The question slammed into her, a physical blow. The awful, inescapable, uncontainable shock of guilt.

She had spent the night with her sister’s future husband. It was the ultimate betrayal, and she didn’t know how she was going to live with herself.

Unless he had fallen in love with her as catastrophically as she had with him....


DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic at heart and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often chaotic life-style, ever since she learned to read and write Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.


A Guilty Affair

Diana Hamilton






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

THE way the dark stranger kept staring at her was completely and strangely disconcerting. There were times when Bess felt so uncomfortable that she didn’t know where to put herself.

That too constant tarnished-silver gaze, sometimes oddly speculative, sometimes quite embarrassingly assessing, was making her a mixed-up mess of edginess, arousing a weird kind of insecurity that made her feel dismayingly like a turtle who’d lost its shell.

A shell-less turtle with a tummy bug, she amended as her stomach churned sickeningly around.

And she shouldn’t be feeling like this—so hatefully and inescapably aware of a stranger—especially not at her own engagement party. She told herself that very firmly, adding that she wouldn’t allow him to have any effect on her at all, and she was working up a comfortable mood of defiant control as Tom whispered in her ear, ‘It’s time we circulated, pet. There are dozens of late arrivals we haven’t greeted yet.’

He was already releasing his hold on her and she went into a mild state of panic, clutching his shoulders, the ring he had put on her finger earlier glittering in the brilliantly lit, crowded room. ‘Must we?’

She knew she sounded childish and the censor in her brain told her that her deep reluctance to leave the dance-floor, to mingle and inevitably be formally introduced to the dark stranger who had appeared as her sister’s guest was totally irrational.

But knowing a fear was irrational didn’t make it go away.

‘Of course we must.’ Tom’s smile was wry as he undamped her hands from his shoulders. ‘We’re public property tonight. No need to be shy.’ But he didn’t sound impatient; he never did with her.

She had known him for most of her twenty-four years. and for all of that time he’d been protective of her, gently teasing her for what he liked to classify as shyness. So much so that she sometimes thought that even if she’d been the most extrovert soul on two legs he would have brainwashed her into believing she was the original shrinking violet!

But it wasn’t as simple as that, as uncomplicated as being shy and retiring by nature. She had learned, early in life, never to thrust herself forward or try to muscle in on the limelight that had shone down on her sister all of her life. It simply didn’t pay.

Two years older, the same age as Tom, Helen had always been the beautiful one, the witty one, the one who could charm and dazzle herself out of any scrape and into a position totally advantageous to herself, while Bess was the ordinary one, unnoticed when Helen was around, getting on with her life in her own quiet way, making no waves.

She exhaled on an unconscious sigh and Tom slid an arm around her tiny waist.

‘Did I tell you how pretty you look tonight?’

Bess smiled at that. He sounded more dutiful than genuinely impressed. But then she decided that she did deserve the compliment, after all, because she had carefully dressed to please him.

When she’d chosen the understated beige silk dress to wear for their engagement party she’d known it would be exactly to his taste. He liked to see her looking neat and tidy, her curling copper hair tastefully subdued in a head-hugging pleat, only a token amount of make-up and nothing startling in the way of jewellery—just the simple gold chain he had given her at Christmas around her fragile neck.

He hated and distrusted flamboyance in any form. Which was probably why he had never approved of Helen, or her lifestyle.

And that, in turn, was why Helen’s escort had been watching her almost from the moment she’d seen them arrive. He wouldn’t be able to believe she was in any way related to the dazzlingly glamorous blonde creature at his side, she decided sickly.

But it wasn’t important. It couldn’t be. Wasn’t she used to such reactions? Tom liked her just the way she was, and that was all that mattered, she told herself as she pinned on a smile and accepted the congratulations of those guests who’d arrived after she and Tom had taken to the dance-floor in the elegant conference-cum-hospitality suite of the area’s most prestigious hotel.

‘Some time within the next twelve months, but most probably this time next year. We’ve more or less decided on an Easter wedding. We have to find a suitable house first, of course—’

She was still smiling as Tom answered the inevitable questions about the wedding date, but her face froze as Helen bore down on them. The gold tissue she was wearing looked as if it had been painted on and the sheer dazzle of her smile would have put a firework display to shame.

‘I’m glad you could make it,’ Bess said dutifully, not at all sure whether she really meant it, and reluctant to look up at the tall, commanding figure at her sister’s side because for some utterly insane reason he made her blood boil in her veins, firing her with a surge of adrenalin that was making her want to slap him!

And that wasn’t like her at all!

Weeks ago, in a dismissive phone conversation, Helen had said that she didn’t think she’d be able to make time to come home for the traditional family get-together at Easter. Modelling assignments kept her busy all over the world. Pity about the engagement party, she’d told Bess, but it couldn’t be helped. She’d sounded bored.

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for a king’s ransom—the first high spot in my baby sister’s life!’

She wasn’t bored now, Bess thought, stoically refusing to react to the unsubtle put-down. Helen was sparkling, the almost frenetic trill in her voice making Bess wonder if she’d been hitting the bottle.

But Helen didn’t touch alcohol; she lived on bottled spring water, salads and fruit. She was careful about what she put into that fantastic body. That and her classically beautiful face were the only assets she had, so it was little wonder she looked after them so carefully.

Bess was shocked by her own descent into cattiness but swiftly exonerated herself when Helen moved closer to her silent escort, her body wriggling seductively beneath the gold tissue, her voice huskily amused now as she imparted, ‘We’ve been waiting for ever for good old Tom to make an honest woman of her. They’ve been at it for years, can you believe? The parents all thought it was sweet but I used to shudder to think of what must have been going on behind the school bike sheds! Hilarious, isn’t it, darling?’

‘There has never been anything improper...’ Tom began stuffily, and Bess felt her face go red with rare temper. For some extremely dubious reason she wanted the dark stranger to believe that she and Tom weren’t as staid and boring as they looked.

But Tom had never liked Helen and his sense of humour was non-existent, so he wasn’t about to let her comments go uncorrected, and Bess knew he was about to describe their chastity with cringemaking pomposity, when the stranger slotted in smoothly, ‘It seems I must introduce myself. Luke Vaccari.’ His voice was a dark, lazy drawl and it made all the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. She felt, she thought dizzily, as if she’d been rubbed all over with rough hot velvet. ‘Congratulations on your engagement, Clayton.’

Unwillingly mesmerised, she watched the strong, tanned hand clasp Tom’s much paler, smoother fingers and savagely tussled with the clamouring instinct to slide away and hide. But she stood her ground. What did it matter if the stranger with the Italian-sounding surname was about to turn his attention to her? She had endured the dissection of his eyes all evening, so she could endure a few meaningless well wishes without going into a decline.

‘You’re a solicitor, Helen tells me.’ He was still talking to Tom and Bess couldn’t help looking at him more attentively. She surely didn’t want to, but her eyes insisted on gluing themselves to his face.

Close to, he was far more incredibly good to look at than her earlier embarrassed and harried observations had prepared her for. Expertly cut, silky dark hair made the perfect foil for features that had been hewn with confidence and authority. He had an intelligent face, and it looked lived-in, too, which saved it from the banal unreality of complete perfection.

And his body, her waywardly devouring eyes informed her, was something else; tall, lean and lithe and packed with power. He looked, Bess thought on a wave of shock, like every woman’s fantasy lover. His very being was a palpable assault on the senses.

‘Tom’s father is Daddy’s partner—the firm’s been around for a million years.’ Helen couldn’t bear to be left out of any conversation. ‘So this has to be more a cosy merger than a wildly romantic marriage. Think it out: when the oldies are tottering around in Zimmer frames dear little Bess will have done her duty and produced the next generation of Braylington solicitors. I’ve tried to persuade her to stick her head above the parapet and find out what living’s all about, but she simply won’t listen.’

Which was an out-and-out lie, Bess thought, her soft lips compressing. Helen had never shown the slightest interest in her unremarkable kid sister. About to make her excuses and drag Tom back onto the dance-floor, she was paralysed by the rich velvet warmth of Vaccari’s voice, pinned to the spot by the gleam of interest in those tarnished-silver eyes.

‘So Bess is a homebody. There’s nothing wrong with that.’ An odd smile flickered at the corners of his wide, sensual mouth and then he addressed her directly, the hateful entrapment deepening until she was sure there were goose-bumps standing to attention all down her spine. ‘From what I’ve seen of it, Braylington seems to be the archetypal English market town; I’m not surprised you prefer to stay put. I’m looking forward to seeing more of the area myself.’

‘Actually, I live and work in London,’ Bess managed to push out. She would not be patronised by him or anyone else. And she wasn’t going to come clean and admit that her job as assistant to the manager of the South Kensington branch of a chain of travel agencies wasn’t in the least bit glamorous or high-powered. So, before Helen could leap in and do it for her, she literally dragged Tom away.

Not that he needed much urging. He ran a finger round the inside of his shirt collar and muttered, ‘How did she latch onto him? I don’t know what they see in her. And he looks far too astute to be taken in by all that glitz.’

‘Does it matter?’ To be seen with Helen Ryland, supermodel, a man had to be a millionaire at the very least. Looks didn’t mean a thing—or hadn’t in the past, anyway. Helen went for the prestige of being seen with money—preferably old money—and the more of it the better. As well as no doubt possessing the mandatory millions, this new guy looked spectacular enough to take any woman’s breath away, so no wonder she’d lowered herself to attend her kid sister’s party. She had probably decided to upstage her.

Luke Vaccari was the first man-friend she’d ever introduced to her family.

And Bess wasn’t the only one to have taken this on board, she discovered as her mother, still striking despite her fifty-odd years, bore down on them, closely followed by Barbara Clayton.

‘Time to eat, you two. Barb reserved a table and the partners are filling plates at the buffet. I’d nab Helen and Luke too, but they’re so wrapped up in each other it would be a pity to intrude.’ She tucked her arm through Bess’s and hauled her away in the direction of the room set aside for the buffet and bar while Barbara Clayton brushed imaginary lint from her son’s dinner jacket, forcing him to lag behind, then promptly despatched him to help the two older men at the buffet.

Jessica Ryland lowered her voice and confided, ‘If you and Tom had delayed your engagement a little while it could have been a double celebration.’

‘It’s serious, is it?’

Barbara’s pale blue eyes, so like her son’s, fastened intently on her old friend’s complacent features and Jessica nodded.

‘A mother knows these things. He’s a wonderful catch. A highly respected financier, and although his father was Italian his mother was one of the Gloucestershire Dermots.’ She leaned further over the white-covered table. ‘Mother’s instinct apart, just ask yourself when Helen has ever brought one of her man-friends home—let alone invited one to stay for a family long-weekend gathering!’

So that was what he’d meant when he’d said he was looking forward to seeing more of the area. Bess’s heart plummeted to the soles of her feet. He made her uneasy just by being here tonight—spending the Easter break with him underfoot would be intolerable! And the thought of him married to Helen filled her with sudden, unreasonable panic.

‘She’s so lovely, she can have her pick,’ Barbara was saying, the wistful note in her voice a reminder that, for a long time, Helen would have been the wife she would have hand-picked for her only son.

Wondering if her future mother-in-law still regretted her son’s choice, Bess heard her own mother boast, ‘She takes after me in looks, while little Bess here is an exact replica of her father.’

‘I wondered why I have to shave twice a day,’ Bess put in drily, not taking offence because she was used to put-downs and knew, in her mother’s case, they weren’t intentionally hurtful. Just thoughtless. Whereas in Helen’s case...

Thankfully, the menfolk arrived with loaded plates, one of the white-coated waiters following with the obligatory champagne. Bess didn’t think she could eat or drink a thing. For some crazy reason the whole evening seemed ruined.

Catching her troubled green eyes, Arnold Ryland asked, ‘Enjoying yourself, Bessie?’

She nodded—what else could she do?—making herself smile as Tom slid into the seat beside her, and lied, ‘Very much, Dad. You’ve done us proud.’

She would have much preferred a smaller gathering back at home, or best of all, a comfortable evening for two—just her and Tom quietly celebrating their engagement over a simple meal in a country pub. But her objections to this opulent thrash had been blithely dismissed. When her mother decided she knew best nothing could make her change course. Jessica Ryland sailed through life making everything go her way.

‘Room for two more?’ Helen’s assertive, highpitched voice made Bess flinch. She didn’t know what was wrong with her this evening. She was used to her glamorous sister’s need to be the centre of attention; she had lived with it all her life and it had never bothered her before.

But tonight things were different, and she didn’t know why.

‘Luke’s finding me something to eat. The darling knows what I like.’ Her slanting blue eyes swept round the table, not seeing anyone, simply lapping up the reaction to her golden presence, until Tom muttered, ‘Two lettuce leaves and an inch of celery shouldn’t tax him,’ and then the fabulous lashes closed, the lancet glimmer between turning to frosty black ice, making Tom go red to the roots of his hair.

Bess muttered hastily, ‘Let’s go back and dance.’ Anything to get away, stop the fight that was inevitable when those two spent more than half a second in each other’s company.

And that suave, velvety voice said right behind her, ‘It would be my pleasure.’

Bess froze, her heart thudding stupidly. She watched Vaccari’s strong, elegantly boned hand place the tiny salad on a gold-rimmed china plate in front of Helen, saw her sister’s brows peak with incredulity, and knew that unless Tom came to her rescue and claimed her there was no way she could get out of this.

But Tom had his head down, his face still flushed as he forked up cubes of lemon chicken. She could expect no help from that quarter, she thought wildly as Vaccari put a lean hand round her tiny waist and urged her to her feet.

There was an awful inevitability about all this, she thought numbly, her heart pounding so heavily that she felt light-headed. Helen’s face was stony and Barbara Clayton said something to her son, but he huffed a low reply and continued eating and the partners were discussing golf handicaps—and Vaccari was sweeping her onto the dance-floor and there was nothing she could do about it.

The music was slow and smoochy, the lights dimmer now, the dance-floor empty apart from a couple who were wrapped together like cling film, most of the guests having taken off for the lavish refreshments, just a few of them still sitting at tables round the edge of the floor screened by the riot of hothouse flowers that proclaimed that when Jessica Ryland did something she did it in style.

His lean hand tightened around her waist and all at once, like the rush of a riptide, anger replaced that feeble compliance to the inevitable.

There was no law that said she had to do anything she didn’t want to do. She hadn’t wanted this ostentatious celebration but for her mother’s sake she’d given in. But no one could make her dance with this man. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but the thought of having him touch her, hold her against that elegantly clothed, painfully masculine body, made her feel frenzied.

‘I don’t want to dance,’ she told him bluntly, her mouth mutinous, and he dipped his head slightly, his silvery eyes making a slow and deliberate appraisal of her features. His sensually crafted mouth barely moving, he told her, ‘Of course you do,’ and enfolded her within his strong arms, the sheer arrogance of his attitude making her stiff and unyielding. ‘Relax. There’s no need to be frightened.’

Frightened? The word hit her like a blow. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said rigidly. ‘And I don’t think you do either.’ Instinctively, she bunched her fists and pushed them ineffectually against his chest, feeling the beginnings of panic now because the heat of his body was getting through to her, making her legs go weak. Her voice was croaky as she demanded, ‘Why on earth should I be frightened?’

‘You tell me.’

He was moving to the slow, seductive beat of the music, just slight body movements, but every sway and thrust of muscle and sinew and bone burned into her flesh.

The sensation was unbearable. Shocking.

She tried to move away but a dictatorial hand fastened on the lower region of her back, forcing her closer still, his head dipping down as he murmured against her ear, ‘When a woman displays a mixture of antagonism and fear towards a lone male, there can only be one reason. Work it out for yourself.’

She shuddered uncontrollably. Work it out? It was so humiliating, she thought hysterically. He had picked up on the instinctive flashes of fear, of definite antagonism, and had come up with an answer she would never fathom.

And he wasn’t a lone male. He was with Helen, part of a couple, and she couldn’t think straight. Her brain was wallowing in fog because her body had unwittingly melted into his. They were close enough now to be one entity.

One of his hands slid to the back of her head. Her eyes languidly closed, and she felt the weight of her silky hair fall down to her shoulders as long, deft fingers removed the pins. And when he murmured, ‘That’s better. You have glorious hair, you shouldn’t hide it,’ she felt, just for a moment, an upsurge of unadulterated femininity; she almost felt abandoned, free...

Until she felt the heat of his mouth stroke the pulse-point at the base of her throat. She drew in a whimpering breath and opened hazy eyes on the dim and dreamy seclusion of a stand of potted palms—and the fear came surging back.

Fear of what he could make her feel. Something raw and primitive was calling from the depths of her being, singing out to him, to the man who was out of bounds for two very good reasons, and, on a choking gasp of panic, she opened her mouth on a defensive demand that they join the others.

Instead, however, she found herself welcoming the destruction of his lips as he ravaged her senses, sending her into a whirlpool of dark desires where nothing existed but the primitive beat of blood, pulses of sheer wickedness that burned out her brain, stripped her of every ounce of will-power, of decent behaviour, igniting her.

She had never dreamed that such sensations existed. How could she have known? Nothing about Tom’s kisses had—

Sobbing with self-disgust, she found the strength to twist her head away.

‘Don’t! Oh, how could you?’ Panic and shame roughened her voice, and she stared frenziedly into the silver gleam of his eyes and hated him.

His Italian genes would be responsible for his outrageous behaviour, she told herself, making him believe he could make it with any passable female under forty—even if he was a guest at her engagement party.

But what part of her was responsible for what she had done? She couldn’t think about that. The thought of it twisted her brain into knots.

She was in agony as he whispered his reply. ‘Easily. With great pleasure.’ A dark and sinful smile played around the corners of his passionate mouth. ‘And your response was...’ One black brow drifted upwards consideringly as he chose his word carefully. ‘Promising.’ He touched her trembling mouth with a soothing finger. ‘Put that fact together with the statement I made earlier and you might learn something to your advantage.’

Bess dragged in a sharp, painful breath. She didn’t know what he was talking about. She didn’t want to know what he was talking about.

Dragging her shaking fingers through the riot of her hair, hopelessly trying to restore some order, she walked away.

She would never forgive him. Never.


CHAPTER TWO

‘NOW, you’re sure you don’t mind missing church?’ Jessica Ryland asked as she pulled on her gloves.

Bess stated, ‘No, I don’t mind staying to see to lunch.’ Which was what this was about, after all. ‘Tom will be here straight after the service, so you and Dad can have sherry with the vicar and discuss your committee work with a clear conscience.’

‘Sweet of you, darling.’ Jessica straightened her hat in front of the hall mirror as her husband sounded the car horn outside. ‘Don’t let Helen sleep too late. Her eyes get puffy when she does. She wouldn’t thank you for that, not with that lovely man of hers around.’

Bess didn’t want to be reminded. She still felt bewildered and desperately guilty over what had happened last night.

According to her mother, Vaccari had gone walking. Bess hoped he’d disappear into a hole in the ground.

As soon as the heavy front door closed behind Jessica, Bess thrust all thoughts of Helen’s man out of her head, went into the airy sitting room and lit the fire. Although the Old Rectory was centrally heated the early spring day was chilly, and a real fire was always cheerful. When Tom arrived they could have coffee in here and discuss her new job opportunity in comfort and peace.

She had meant to tell him about it last night. But when she’d returned after her encounter with the disgraceful Italian he and Helen had been having one of their vitriolic spats. They’d both looked as if they could slaughter each other.

The way she must have been looking, with burning cheeks and her hair all over the place, must have been the final straw, because Tom hadn’t exchanged more than half a dozen words with her during the remainder of the evening, and every last one of them had been grumpy.

Watching the fire take hold, she heaved an exasperated sigh. She and Tom never fell out; everyone said how compatible they were. But he had seen the Italian sweep her onto the dance-floor; he had seen how she’d looked when she’d eventually returned. Had he guessed what had been happening? If he could have seen the way she’d responded to that devil’s kiss he would have been disgusted. Ashamed of her. And she wouldn’t have blamed him.

Thoroughly ashamed of herself, and not quite knowing how it had happened, she went to the kitchen. Lunch for six. Roast beef and all the trimmings with apple pie to follow. A suitable penance, she reflected as she covered her serviceable grey skirt and neat cream blouse with one of Jessica’s aprons, since cooking was one of her least favourite occupations.

Half an hour later, making pastry, she could happily have hurled the rolling pin at Luke Vaccari’s head when he sauntered through the door. Instead, she controlled herself and said in tones of deceptive docility, ‘Helen’s not up yet. Why don’t you go and wake her?’

She wasn’t going to stoop to her sister’s level and bring up the subject of puffy eyes. And if he did as she’d suggested he’d be doing everyone a favour. He was looking throat-clenchingly virile this morning, in a soft black sweatshirt topping wickedly tight-fitting stone-coloured jeans. So Helen would welcome him into her bedroom with open arms. And his subsequent absence would mean that she and Tom could mend fences in peace and discuss her job offer.

‘Let her sleep. She works hard enough.’ Annoyingly, he refused the bait. He took a slice of prepared apple and crunched it between perfect white teeth. ‘Something smells good. Beef? Is this what you’re best at—finding your way to a man’s heart through his stomach? Is this how you snared Tom?’

He’d said it as if she were incapable of finding a man any other way. And the derisory gleam in his eyes as they wandered over her small, neat person was a back-up statement if ever she’d seen one.

She slapped the pastry topping over the apples and trimmed it with rough, savage sweeps of the knife, a betraying flare of colour on her face as she snapped out, ‘Did no one ever teach you manners? If you’re as rude to Helen as you are to me it’s a wonder she lets you anywhere near her!’

‘I thought the dulcet tones were a put-on.’ His smile was all sinister satisfaction. ‘The antagonism’s still all there.’ He moved closer. ‘What about the fear?’ And closer still, until she was backed against the table, her eyes spitting green fire. His face was all menacing hard lines until he suddenly smiled. ‘It’s there. No need to repeat last night’s lesson.’ And then his tone altered, became gentler, softer. ‘I behave impeccable around Helen. She doesn’t need a bomb under her. But you do.’

Bess didn’t know what he meant. He talked in riddles and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking for answers.

All she wanted was for him to go away. She hated it when he was in the same room, hated it more when he was this close.

She had no way of understanding the untypical violence of her reaction to him but she did know that he robbed her of self-control. He had a shattering effect on her, and before she fully knew what she was doing she was pummelling his chest with floury hands, her head spinning as she ground out, ‘Just leave me alone—you’re insufferable!’

‘Yes, I know.’ He captured both her hands, making no real effort, his lazy eyes laughing into hers as he perched on the edge of the table, drawing her between his parted thighs. ‘Fun, isn’t it?’

Fun? Being forcefully held in such a wickedly intimate position was not her idea of fun. Frustration glared from her eyes as he disregarded her squirming efforts to pull away, his mouth curling with silky amusement as he chided, ‘You haven’t felt this fired up for years. If ever. Admit it. Be honest for once; say what you feel, not what you think other people expect you to feel.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she denied, regretting her inability to iron the quaver out of her voice. ‘Why don’t you back off and leave me alone? You’re Helen’s guest, not mine. I don’t know what you’re trying to do—what you want,’ she finished desperately.

‘I don’t want anything I’m not entitled to try to take,’ he countered enigmatically, his hard thighs tightening on either side of her taut, slender body. ‘I’d be doing you a favour if I forgot my manners and took before I was offered.’

Heat was building up inside her. She couldn’t cope with it. Or him. And if Tom were to walk in now—or Helen—what would they think, seeing them like this?

Panic and guilt pushed her heart up into her throat and forced out a frenzied whimper, and he slid his hands behind her shoulderblades, the pressure inescapable as he pulled her body into his.

‘Relax, Bess.’ His voice was unforgivably soothing, the touch of his hands, the imprisoning, sexy strength of his thighs making her unthinkingly respond to his gentling command as easily as if he’d touched a control button. ‘I’m trying to open your eyes a little, that’s all. I’m not aiming to hurt you, ravage you on the kitchen floor. Because, so far as any of us know, we only have one life to live. I hate waste, and you’re wasting yours.’

‘You know nothing about me,’ she objected, and wondered why her voice was so submissive, why her head was burrowing into the drugging warmth of his impressive shoulders, why the thought of Tom’s imminent arrival meant nothing to her now.

And she felt her entire body lose every scrap of resistance as his lean hand cradled her head as if he liked the way it felt against his body, and he contradicted softly, ‘I knew all about you before I saw you. More from what Helen left out than from what she said. She’s a beautiful, vital woman and as far as she’s concerned you’re not merely her pale shadow, you barely exist. And she’s made sure that’s the way everyone else sees you too. Am I right?’

Bess didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He had made her mind spin off into orbit. This wonderful, shocking intimacy had blanked out her brain, leaving only sensation.

‘It’s a criminal waste,’ he continued in the same husky, hypnotic voice, as if he had expected no reply, not even the smallest effort at self-defence. ‘You have far more potential than you realise, or have been allowed to realise. Tom’s a nice enough guy, but he’s not for you. You deserve more than the safe predictability of life with him. Go out and look for what you’ve never had. Break away—find the passion and drama of living—find yourself.’

The sudden surge of emotion that stormed through her was too intense to be borne and she pushed herself backwards within the confines of his arms. They were both mad. He for spouting such nonsense, she for listening—even for a second. He knew nothing about her; why should he say such things?

‘Let me go,’ she commanded tightly, her face going white when she saw his taunting smile.

The colour flooded shamefully back when he countered, ‘You wanted it. When a woman uses physical force on a man she usually expects a physical response.’ His arms dragged her back into the curve of his body. ‘You asked for this, and you got it. So stop complaining.’ The wicked gleam of his eyes was hidden by the sweep of dark lashes. ‘Or isn’t this enough? Are you asking for more? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Don’t be afraid to admit what you feel.’

‘No!’ Appalled, she pushed the denial out, and to her shame felt her eyes swim with tears of humiliation and shame. Had he been right? It didn’t bear thinking about, but she had never used her fists on anyone before. Had she unconsciously sought physical contact, using the small violence of her fists to provoke a response, taking it for granted that he wouldn’t punch her right back but use a far more devastatingly effective method of responding?

She shook her head to clear it of the awful selfknowledge and the tears brimmed and fell. And that was her salvation, because he put her gently aside, brushing the floury deposits from his shirt, his voice blank as he said, ‘I’ll make coffee. We could both use a cup.’

Bess scrubbed her wet eyes with her apron, too emotionally distraught to say a thing, and turned to the sink, trying to block out the rattle of china, the chink of a teaspoon, to shut down all her senses as far as he was concerned because she didn’t want to know what he was doing. She didn’t want to know he existed at all.

She shot out of the way as he came to her side to fill the kettle—right over to the other end of the room—just as Tom came through the door, rubbing his hands and wrinkling his nose appreciatively.

‘Jessica said you’d offered to make lunch. Smells good.’

His smile was so safe, so uncomplicated. Bess could have hugged him. But she wouldn’t display any emotion in front of Vaccari. She’d done too much of that already—to her everlasting bewilderment and shame. Instead, she said quickly, ‘You’ve timed it right. We’re just about to take a coffee-break.’ Which hadn’t been the right way to put it, she decided wearily as Tom’s face turned sullen, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he watched the elegantly casual Italian take down an extra cup and saucer from the dresser.

‘Break from what?’

Bess swallowed a sigh. Tom would be remembering her hectic appearance after she’d danced with Vaccari last night. She could have said, He’s been manhandling me again. Do something about it. But she said no such thing. She knew, no matter how unjust it was, that the Italian would regard whatever outraged ferocity Tom was able to dredge up with no more trepidation than he would a bluebottle buzzing inside an upturned jar.

So she forced a smile, removing her apron as she walked over to the dresser.

‘A break from cooking. Luke’s just come in from a walk.’ She felt sneaky, and vilely guilty. Vaccari would know now that she was capable of lying to her finance, if only by omission. She took another cup from the dresser. ‘Take coffee up to Helen, would you?’ she asked the enigmatically smiling brute. ‘Tom and I will have ours in the sitting room.’

Thank heaven she sounded cool enough. And if her face was flushed then Tom would put it down to the heat of the kitchen.

But her attempt at appeasement hadn’t worked, she realised as Tom followed her through with the tray of coffee. He sounded peevish as he muttered, ‘Having Vaccari around is spoiling the whole weekend. I can’t think why your mother invited him to stay.’ He slumped down on the sofa, accepting the cup Bess handed him, stirring it irritably.

‘She didn’t. Helen brought him, remember? He’s her latest,’ she stressed. ‘Everyone thinks it’s serious because she’s never introduced one of her menfriends before.’ Colour touched her cheeks. She knew exactly why she’d made a point of mentioning that—forcefully reminding herself that Vaccari was Helen’s man. Though she shouldn’t need the emphasis, should she? She was happily engaged to Tom.

She made an impatient gesture with her hands, brushing the subject aside. She wanted to spend this time discussing her job offer. And for that she needed Tom in receptive mood, and enough time at their disposal to go into the pros and cons very thoroughly.

But the reminder that it had been Helen who had foisted the Italian on them seemed to have added to his displeasure. Bess couldn’t understand it. On the surface, Vaccari was pleasant enough. Tom couldn’t know what he’d said and done to her. And he couldn’t possibly care who Helen got serious about. He couldn’t stand her.

‘What were you thinking of, sending him to wake her?’ Tom grumbled, his face going red. ‘It’s like giving him an invitation to—well—’ He went redder. ‘It’s hardly proper.’ He lifted his cup and gulped at his coffee, as if he needed something to hide behind. Bess swallowed a smile.

Proper! He didn’t know how unintentionally funny he could be. He would hate it if he thought she was laughing at him. But his old-fashioned attitudes, his rock-like steadiness, were the attributes which had drawn her to him. He was comfortable, safe and utterly reliable.

‘Does it matter?’ She perched on the sofa, close to him. ‘Helen can take care of herself.’ The thought that taking care of herself would be the last thing on her sister’s mind right now made her breath snag in her throat and something painful claw at her midriff.

Hating her stupid reaction, she twisted her hands together in her lap, wondering why everything seemed to be going so wrong, and shook her head despairingly when Tom muttered dourly, ‘I just bet she can.’

‘I wish you could find some good in her,’ she sighed. Helen had her faults, but she had her good points too. But Tom would go to his grave believing that everything about her was suspect. ‘She’s my sister, after all. Family. And if you’re going to be at each other’s throats every time you meet it won’t be very comfortable for the rest of us.’

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, but when he took her hand and squeezed it, making her ring dig painfully into her finger, she guessed it was an apology and suggested, ‘Let’s go for a walk after lunch. Just the two of us. There’s something I need to discuss with you.’ And there wasn’t time now, she realised. Not if she had to have lunch ready by the time her parents returned.

‘And that is?’ He carried his cup over to refill it from the coffee-pot on the tray and Bess wondered why he was distancing himself from her. He had never been demonstrative, yet on the all too rare occasions when they’d been alone together he’d always taken the opportunity to cuddle her, his tender kisses making her feel that she counted, was secure.

Could it possibly be that now they were officially engaged he had decided he had no more need to bother with physical assurances of his love and caring? She knew he wasn’t highly sexed, but—

Swallowing an unhelpful spurt of anger, she explained mildly, ‘I’ve had the offer of another job. It would be exciting and challenging, but there would be disadvantages. There’s not time to discuss it now, not with lunch to see to. That’s why I suggested a walk. I’m going back to town tomorrow afternoon and I have to give an answer on Tuesday.’

‘You have a job,’ he pointed out unnecessarily. He took his cup and stood with his back to the fire. ‘It isn’t as if you have a career, as such. You won’t be working at all once we have a family. Why bother to change, especially if there are disadvantages? Why put yourself through the hassle of having to adapt to a new employer?’

‘I won’t have to adapt—’ She bit off her explanation and stood up. She’d known she would have to discuss every detail, pick the subject over endlessly before he would feel able to give a considered opinion. But he appeared to be discounting it entirely without hearing the full story, and she hadn’t known he could be like that.

Moreover, he was looking at her as if he disliked her, and she didn’t understand what was happening. This should have been such a happy weekend but it had turned topsy-turvy, like a bad dream.

She began to stalk out of the room. She really couldn’t bring herself to continue the discussion. She didn’t want to have to talk to him at all. And that horrified her so much that she turned back, dismayed.

‘Let’s talk it through this afternoon. You haven’t heard the details.’

She hadn’t meant to sound antagonistic but hadn’t been able to keep the edge out of her voice, and Tom snapped back, ‘I don’t need to. You’re settled where you are, so why change things? It’s not as if—’

‘I’m a high-flyer,’ she inserted crossly. Part of her brain was seething because he’d written the subject off, as if he couldn’t be bothered to summon an interest. The other part was amazed that they were having their first quarrel.

‘One career woman in the family’s one too many. And no, you’re not a high-flyer, thank the Lord. Stick with what you know, and just be yourself. That’s good enough for me.’

Bess sucked in a painful breath. She felt as if he’d slapped her face. And she felt even worsemortified—when Vaccari’s cool drawl sliced through the heated, ragged atmosphere.

‘Squabbling, my children? We can’t have that, can we?’ His silver eyes mocked her as he sauntered across the room, dropping with boneless grace onto the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of him as he purred, looking deeply, devastatingly, into her wide green eyes, ‘Anything I can do to make things better?’


CHAPTER THREE

‘I SUPPOSE he thought he was being funny,’ Tom muttered, following Bess out to the kitchen.

‘I suppose so,’ she shrugged, tight-lipped. She hadn’t bothered to dignify Vaccari’s remark by making a reply. She’d be a much happier woman if she knew she would never have to speak to him again.

Then, swept by a wave of contrition, she turned and wound her arms around Tom’s waist. ‘I’m sorry I was snappy.’

‘Me too.’ His arms enfolded her briefly. ‘There’s a funny atmosphere this weekend; it’s getting to both of us.’

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and Bess thought, We both know who’s to blame for that, don’t we? and held onto him with quiet desperation until he untangled her arms and offered placatingly, ‘Tell me about your job offer after lunch. But I warn you, I don’t think you should give it any real consideration—’

‘Fine, we’ll just talk about it.’ Miffed, Bess swung briskly away, cutting him off before he could repeat his opinion that she was not, and never would be, high-flyer material.

He was probably right, and she shouldn’t feel hurt because he’d voiced his opinion. This time yesterday she would have agreed with him and possibly even felt a little bit smug about being the sensible sort of woman who knew her limitations and was perfectly content with what she had.

So why was she feeling hurt and undervalued for no reason? No good reason, she amended swiftly, pushing the things Vaccari had said to the bottom of her mind. She couldn’t imagine why. And wasn’t even going to try to work it out.

She became quite cynical when, over lunch, Helen said with sugary surprise, ‘This is perfectly cooked. Well done, little sister. You should have woken me; I could have helped. This is supposed to be your weekend—and Tom’s, of course.’

She was toying with a small slice of beef and looking spectacularly golden in a daffodil-yellow sweater, and her belated offer of help had to be for the Italian’s benefit. Any reply Bess might have made was swamped by Jessica’s, ‘Bess needs the practice. Twelve months from now she’ll have to give Tom three good meals a day. And you need your rest. You told me how tiring your assignment in the Bahamas was—you have to look after yourself. Don’t you agree, Luke?’

‘How awful for you.’ Bess didn’t want to hear gooey, solicitous sentiments from Vaccari, especially not if they were directed at her got-it-all sister. She helped herself to another roast potato. ‘Personally, I’d love the opportunity to tire myself out in the Bahamas.’

And, so saying, she effectively silenced the lot of them.

The afternoon walk with Tom hadn’t been a success either, Bess ruminated as she drove herself back to London on Bank Holiday Monday afternoon.

As soon as they’d set out she’d explained it all. How Mark Jenson, her former boss at the agency, had set up on his own six months ago, renting elegant premises in Knightsbridge, working hard to establish the kind of travel agency that specialised in holidays for the discerning, seriously wealthy traveller.

‘He’s offering off-the-beaten-track unadulterated luxury to people who are willing to pay top whack to be pampered,’ she’d explained. ‘It’s really taking off, and now he needs an assistant to seek out and vet new venues in the more exotic parts of the world to make sure everything meets his high standards. And do you know what? He thought of me! The job’s mine if I want it, but he needs to know by Tuesday.’ Her face had lit up. A little squirm of excitement had built up inside her. It was there whenever she thought about the offer.

But she’d said honestly, ‘The only downside is the newness of the venture. He’s got more prospective clients than suitable places to send them—so he needs new venues and more employees. But to get them he needs more capital, and if he can’t get it the agency will stagnate and probably sink.’ She’d tucked her arm through Tom’s and reassured him happily, ‘But he’s a fighter. He’ll raise the capital somehow.’

‘You must be mad.’ He’d walked steadily on, staring straight ahead. ‘You’re secure where you are. Where will you be if you join him and the whole thing fails? Because fail it will. You’ll be unemployed. Safe jobs aren’t easy to come by. We’ve decided you’ll work for two years after we’re married. Or had you forgotten? We’ve agreed to invest your earnings to create a nest egg before we start trying for a family.’

He’d given her a scathing look, shaken her hand from his arm and turned to go back to the house. ‘You can’t seriously consider jeopardising your chance to contribute to our future comfort and security? In any case, from the job description, you’d have to be out of the country looking for places to send people who probably wouldn’t want to go there anyway. We’d see even less of each other than we do now.’

She’d had the definite impression that this last had been a complete afterthought. That the investment nest egg was of far greater importance.

Still aggrieved, she parked her car outside Brenda Mayhew’s terraced house in Battersea, reached her luggage from the back seat and rummaged in her handbag for the doorkey.

If he’d said, Go ahead and take the job if you want to try your wings, but I’ll hate having to see even less of you than I do now, she wouldn’t have given Mark’s job offer another thought. As things stood, though, she had the strongest urge to phone him right now and ask when she could start!

Sighing over her contrariness, she unlocked the door and walked inside. Brenda shot out of her sitting room, all middle-aged, grey disapproval, and stated the obvious.

‘Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you back yet. You’ll have to go out for supper. Wasn’t expecting you; I haven’t catered.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Supper each Monday was fish fingers and mash. Bess wouldn’t pine over missing it. And not for the first time she regretted having agreed to board here during the week.

When she’d first announced her intention of looking for a bedsit in the sprawling suburbs of the capital to avoid the daily drive into work and back, Barbara Clayton had come up with the perfect solution.

A local woman, Brenda Brown, as was, had been her domestic help until she’d married and moved to Battersea. They’d kept in touch—just a short letter tucked in with a card each Christmas. And it was just as well, Barbara had declared, because since she’d been widowed Brenda had taken in a lodger from time to time to help make ends meet. It would be ideal for Bess—a sort of home from home, someone to keep an eye on her, look after her...

Home from home it wasn’t. But Bess hadn’t felt uncomfortable enough to move out. She wouldn’t find anywhere cheaper, and if the suppers Brenda provided were unusually dreary at least she was saved the chore of having to cook for herself.

She lifted her case and began to walk up to her dismal room, and Brenda called, making it sound like an accusation, ‘A Nicola something or other phoned. If you call her back, work out the cost and leave the money on the table. And don’t leave it too late. You know I don’t like being disturbed after I’ve settled down to watch telly.’

Bess knew the older woman hated to miss a moment of her evening’s viewing. She’d paid her licence fee and meant to get her money’s worth. And when Bess used the phone she couldn’t resist turning down the sound, ungluing her eyes from the moving images and applying her ear to the opened door...

Smiling wryly, Bess carried on up, looking forward to talking to Nicola. They’d been at school together before Niccy’s father had made his millions and spirited his adored only child away to some select boarding-school. But they’d kept in contact—closer contact since Niccy had been promoted to assistant producer on one of the more popular TV soaps and her father, in celebration, had bought her a long lease on a sumptuous apartment near Belgrave Square which she currently shared with a chronically out-of-work actress with the improbable name of Dearie.

A nice long natter with her friend would help to cheer her up, she decided, tossing her case onto the narrow bed. She hated this new and unexpected feeling of being at odds with herself and Tom. It was as if the official engagement had unleashed a pack of demons neither of them had known were there, lurking in the background, waiting to pounce.

On her way back downstairs, she wondered if Helen and Vaccari had left Braylington yet. They’d been closeted with her father all morning—with her mother bustling in and out—and when they’d emerged for lunch Helen had looked radiant. She had no idea what the Italian’s expression had been. She hadn’t looked at him.

Annoyed with herself, she caught the thought and buried it deeply. He had no place in her head. Dialling her friend’s number, she heard the sittingroom door creak open. She ground her teeth, swung round and said coolly, ‘I’m timing the call, Brenda. You needn’t trouble to check. I don’t cheat.’ And she sucked her lower lip between her teeth as the door closed again with a thunderous clunk.

She had never voiced her annoyance over the lack of this particular privacy before, enduring it grimly because her phone conversations were always innocuous. She didn’t know what had come over her. And put it out of her mind as she heard Niccy’s voice.

‘Well, was it all wonderful—the engagement party? What did you wear? What’s the ring like?’

Her spirits lifted immediately. Niccy was fun. And because she didn’t want to sound like a misery she refused to say that the weekend had been far from wonderful, that her dress had looked dowdy against Helen’s glitter, that her sister had produced a fantastic man who had made her think and do things that were totally alien. So she concentrated on the ring.

‘A diamond cluster,’ she said, automatically holding out her left hand. But the ring wasn’t there and she went cold all over. Had she lost it already? Oh, how could she have done? Tom would be livid! Then she went limp with relief because she remembered now that she’d put it on the drainer when washing up after lunch. Jessica would find it and keep it safe. She would phone her later, just to make sure.

‘And?’ Niccy prompted. ‘A central stone?’

‘Just a cluster,’ Bess answered quickly, recovering from the shock of thinking she’d lost it and squashing the disloyal thought that the diamonds were few and very tiny. Tom wasn’t mean, she reminded herself. He simply disliked ostentation in any form—witness his disapproval of Helen. How often had he scathingly said that she looked like a Christmas tree with all the lights switched on?

‘Really?’ Niccy snorted. ‘If I’d been Tom I’d have given you a whacking great emerald to match your eyes! Some men don’t have a clue, do they? Listen, you must stop hiding him out in the sticks; get him up to town one of these weekends. We could have fun. I’ll have to meet him some time, won’t I?

‘And talking of fun—which is why I called you in the first place—Dearie’s moving out. She’s met this guy—fabulous to look at, all teeth, muscles and long blond hair. But he obviously keeps his brains in his pants—it will all end in tears, I told her. But she’s besotted—won’t listen. The point of this being, will you move in?’

Bess’s fingers tightened round the receiver. It was very tempting. Niccy’s huge apartment was sumptuous yet homely, the atmosphere wonderfully relaxing. But...

‘Thanks for offering, but I couldn’t afford it. I’m saving to get married, remember. Sorry.’

She was sorry, too. The apartment, never mind being a world away from Brenda Mayhew’s linoleum-covered floors and ugly furniture, was so much nearer her workplace and, far more importantly, Niccy was so much nicer to be around than her present landlady.

‘Of course you could afford it,’ her friend argued lightly. ‘Peanuts. Just half-shares of the service bills. I like company—Daddy knows that; he doesn’t expect me to ask my friends for rent money. If Dearie could find her share of the bills on her meagre income, you could! Think about it. Promise?’

‘Yes. Promise.’ The only thing stopping her jumping at the opportunity there and then was the certain knowledge that Tom would disapprove. He liked to think that Brenda was looking after her and had once said, only half-jokingly, she now suspected, that her landlady would soon let his mother know if she was leading a double life—kicking over the traces while she was out of his sight.

Ending the conversation after a few more minutes of light-hearted chat, Bess went up to fetch her purse to pay for the call, plus the one she intended to put through to check on her ring. But, the ring forgotten, she found herself sitting on the hard narrow bed pondering Niccy’s offer.

Tom didn’t own her. He couldn’t dictate where she should live during the week. He was happy enough while she was under Brenda’s watchful eye, but she knew he would feel uneasy if she moved in with the bubbly, fun-loving Niccy because she, Bess, might find herself having a wonderful time. Without him.

So she couldn’t decide if moving in with her friend for the next twelve months would be worth all the aggro. And it was strange, she thought, her teeth worrying at her lower lip, how Tom and Vaccari had both told her to be herself. Yet their concepts of that were wildly different.

‘Just be yourself,’ Tom had said. ‘That’s good enough for me.’ Thrifty and sensible Bess, thankful for what she had and was, making no waves, never yearning for the impossible or trying to make it happen. Excellent, dutiful, undemanding type wife material.

Vaccari had put it differently, telling her to break away, find herself, realise her full potential. In other words, forget Tom.

She made a sad little snuffling sound, feeling miserable. She had been so contented until this weekend—settled in her job, enduring her weekday lodgings because they weren’t worth making a fuss about, looking forward to her future with Tom. She asked herself why things had changed and angrily pushed away the thought that Vaccari had a lot to do with it.

Utter nonsense. For some reason the wretch got his kicks out of tormenting ordinary, decent people. Throwing a spanner in the works was probably his idea of a fun thing to do. She could safely dismiss him and his troublemaking taunts from her mind. She would pretend he didn’t exist. And if and when he ever married Helen, well, she’d—well, cope with having him as an in-law somehow.

What she had to do was examine her relationship with Tom, reinforce it in her mind, concentrate on his good points, forget the silly pique his remark about her not being high-flyer material had conjured up and get back to being sensible and reasonable again.

And she would never again give Vaccari room in her head.

But that wasn’t going to be easy.

An irritated rapping on the bedroom door heralded her landlady’s formidable presence.

‘There’s someone to see you. He’s waiting downstairs. See what he wants and get rid of him. You know I said no visitors unless by arrangement. Answering doors and running up and down stairs isn’t my idea of a peaceful evening.’

Waiting downstairs he wasn’t. When Bess saw the Italian looming behind Brenda something intensely primeval lurched deep inside her, and her heart flipped over in her chest then dropped like a stone. Wearing an impeccably tailored business suit now, he was enough to stun anyone, and she gaped at him stupidly as he said to Brenda, ‘My apologies, signora. My business here will take moments only.’

The smooth voice was warm enough to melt frost, the purring quality making Bess’s skin curl. And it had an obvious effect on the other woman too, because her, ‘I don’t allow callers, especially not upstairs,’ had lost a hefty dose of vitriol.

‘I congratulate you on your good sense.’ His white smile seemed to light up the gloomy landing, and Bess couldn’t be sure but she thought she saw her landlady simper. She would have found it highly amusing if she hadn’t been desperately wondering why she reacted to him the way she did, and trying to work out why he was here, knowing that, whatever the reason, it wouldn’t be good. Not for her.

Vaccari said, as if he was sure there could be no objections, ‘As I said, my business won’t take long. And please don’t put yourself to the inconvenience of waiting. I’ll see myself out.’ And he smoothly inserted his magnificent body into the room, gently but firmly closing the door behind him.

Bess shot to her feet, her heart beating erratically, watching him with wide green eyes as he weighed up the room: the clumsy furniture, the narrow bed.

‘A suitable hole for a mouse.’ He finished his minute examination and turned tarnished-silver eyes on her, the flickering gleam showing cool amusement. ‘Complete with a dragon to make sure the little mouse doesn’t stray.’

She made herself ignore that. ‘Why are you here?’ Her throat felt tight. ‘Is Helen with you?’ She was probably waiting in his car. Her glamorous sister wouldn’t be seen dead in such dull surroundings.

‘She’s still in Braylington.’ His white teeth gleamed. ‘She and your mother are deep in portfolios of wedding-dress designs. I don’t think either of them will come up for air for at least a fortnight.’

‘Oh.’ That was all she was able to say. She was drained-suddenly and totally drained. For no good reason. Except that what she had feared had come true.

This man was about to become part of her family. This morning’s session with her father made sense now. They had been formally announcing their intention to marry, making plans, setting dates.

She wondered acidly if he would be faithful to Helen. Or would he still go around kissing and manhandling all and sundry when the mood took him?

Probably.

Marriage didn’t make people change.

‘Congratulations,’ she forced out, her tongue feeling thick and heavy in her mouth. ‘I hope things work out for you both.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say, I hope you’ll be wonderfully happy; she didn’t know why, she only knew the words would choke her.

He gave her an odd look then shrugged, as if he thought her stupid. Which, privately, she thought she probably was.

‘I wouldn’t have agreed to sign the contract if I hadn’t been sure,’ he said drily. ‘Unlike most women, Helen is intelligent, totally trustworthy and single-mindedly dedicated to making a success of the coming change in her life. And so, yes, it will work out. For both of us.’

Suddenly, and for the first time in her life, she felt sorry for Helen. This man would be easy to fall obsessively in love with—provided you didn’t look too far beneath the surface, she reminded herself quickly. Did her sister know he regarded their marriage as a contract? That he had only decided to commit himself because he could trust her to devote herself to making him the perfect wife—properly dedicated and single-minded about it?

‘Helen apart, you seem to have a very cynical attitude to women,’ she told him gruffly, wondering waywardly if he regarded her, along with the rest of the female sex, as stupid, false and vacillating. Wondering why it should hurt.

She saw something hard and sharp in his eyes as he looked at her. ‘I have reason to, believe me.’ Then he shrugged slightly, as if the subject bored him—or she did—and pushed a hand into his jacket pocket and produced her missing ring.

‘Jessica found it in a pile of dirty dishes.’ He took her nerveless hand in one of his and dropped the ring into her palm. ‘Now, I’d call that a Freudian slip, wouldn’t you? Think about it. And think about the things I’ve said to you. Or not. It’s your life.’

He swung gracefully round on the balls of his feet and left, and whether it was because he’d looked as if he was bored silly or because she wanted to call him back and slap him for calling her a mouse she wasn’t sure, but she was agitated enough to want to scream the walls down.

Instead, after counting to fifty, forcing herself to calm down a notch or two, she stamped down the stairs and made two decisive phone calls.


CHAPTER FOUR

‘SURE you won’t come?’ Niccy asked. ‘I’ll wait while you change.’ She was dressed for partying, her beanpole figure looking sensational in scarlet silk leggings topped by a black glittery tunic, and Bess grinned at her, pushing a hand through her rumpled copper hair as she settled more comfortably into the squashy brocade-covered sofa.

‘Thanks, but, as I told you, I need a clear head in the morning.’ Besides, she had nothing festive to change into.

‘If that’s really how you feel,’ Niccy said thoughtfully. ‘But don’t get uptight—it’s only a new job, remember.’

‘I’m not in the least uptight!’ Her wide smile backed up her words. ‘But we’re lunching with some hot-shot financier. Mark’s ninety per cent sure he can persuade him to back us. I wouldn’t want to wreck his chances by falling asleep!’

The phone buzzed then, and Niccy held out the receiver. ‘It’s for you. I’ll be off if I can’t change your mind. Don’t wait up.’

Somehow Bess knew it was Tom, and her face flushed a rosy pink as her hunch was confirmed. She felt apprehensive. He’d been so angry when she’d phoned to tell him that she’d decided to take the job and was moving in with Niccy.

‘I thought we’d discussed it and decided you’d turn the wretched job down. Tell him you’ve changed your mind. Let him find some other idiot who’s prepared to be made redundant in a couple of months. As for moving from Brenda’s—I’ve never heard anything so stupid. You won’t find living with your flashy friend anything like as economical.’

Bess had ignored that. Until they were married she could live where she chose. And she’d reminded him, surprised by the cool steadiness of her voice, ‘You decided I’d turn down the job. I thought it over and decided I’d like the challenge.’ Which wasn’t exactly true. She hadn’t reasoned it out at all, but had acted on impulse, goaded by the way that supercilious Italian had looked at her room and pronounced it a fitting hole for a mouse. ‘I’ve accepted the job and I don’t go back on my word. And I don’t know why you’re so against it.’

‘Then you have less common sense than I gave you credit for,’ he’d snapped right back. ‘And don’t bother coming home on my account this weekend. I’ll be too busy to see you.’





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