Книга - Vampire Lover

Vampire Lover
CHARLOTTE LAMB


The Kiss of Death? Clare had thought that Denzil Black was intent on seducing her sister - after her best friend had already fallen prey to his charms. It was almost as if the film director were a vampire lover, moving from one woman to another, and leaving them drained and helpless.Then Clare began to suspect that she was next on Denzil's list of conquests - but not if she could help it… . This time, Denzil Black would know what it was like to be the victim of love!









Vampire Lover

Charlotte Lamb





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




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#ud42c9ba2-06ab-50f1-8cc2-fa3eeef62ceb)

CHAPTER TWO (#uc7306b8a-0bbe-5fbb-919e-417f1c322fcc)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


CLARE met Denzil Black the day he first arrived in town. It was autumn, the leaves turning brown, crimson and russet on the trees, the skies a deep purply blue as a storm blew up out of the west.

The wind rattled the agency window, and the lights flickered. Clare frowned, her blue eyes anxious, hoping they were not going to have a power cut; they often did during stormy weather, when power lines blew down. Well, it was closing time, anyway; she might as well go home. She got up from her desk and began putting on her coat, brushing her blonde hair out of the way.

The door from the street opened and the wind blew into the office. Clare looked round, beginning to apologise politely.

‘I’m sorry, we’re just closing. Could you come back tomorrow?’

She had already turned off the main lights; the room was rather dim. She couldn’t see much of the man standing just inside the door, except that he was very tall, with black hair, and wore a long, dark coat which was flapping around him in the wind.

‘I saw your board outside a house at the top of Hunter’s Hill,’ a deep voice said. ‘A large Victorian house, set back from the road—is it still for sale?’

‘Dark Tarn,’ Clare said slowly, trying to make out his features in the shadows. All she could see was the glitter of his eyes staring back at her. ‘Yes, it’s still for sale,’ she said, suppressing an odd shudder that ran down her back. It must be the wind that made her suddenly so cold.

Nobody wanted to buy the old house on the edge of the town. It was far too big for the average family. It could be turned into a small hotel or a nursing home but was in bad repair and would need a great deal of renovation before anyone could move into it. It had been on the house agency’s books for two years now; her father would be thrilled if she could sell or even rent it.

‘Well, can you show me round the place?’ the stranger asked.

‘Yes, certainly, would tomorrow morning suit you? At, say...eleven?’ Clare casually picked up her desk diary and a pen, hiding her eagerness to make this sale. That was easy for her; she was an ice blonde, pale-skinned, even her eyes a light blue, very cool.

‘I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow,’ the dark man said. ‘How about now?’

A warning bell rang in Clare’s brain. Coldly polite, she said, ‘I’m sorry, that isn’t possible.’

Her father had impressed it on her years ago that it was not safe for her to accompany a strange man to view an empty house. They always made careful arrangements so that she had someone else with her on these occasions; usually her brother, Robin, these days, now that her father was semi-retired. Robin was just nineteen, a student at the local technical college, taking a course in business management, but he was large and muscular, he played rugby for the college and was a keen gymnast. Clare always felt very safe with Robin around.

‘What do you mean, isn’t possible?’

The curt question made her stiffen. ‘We operate from nine until five-thirty, Mr...?’

‘Black,’ he said in that deep yet smoky voice. ‘Denzil Black. Is the manager here?’

‘I am the manager!’ She felt his disbelief and added coldly, ‘This is my agency.’

‘The sign over the door says the agency is run by a George Summer!’

‘That’s my father, but he has retired, and I run the agency now!’

‘I see.’ She felt him staring at her, his eyes glittering in the semi-darkness. ‘Well, Miss Summer...or are you married?’

She hesitated, feeling an odd, inexplicable, almost atavistic reluctance to tell him her name. Something about him had begun to bother her; she suddenly wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. ‘I’m Clare Summer,’ she said shortly.

‘Not married, then?’

‘No,’ she almost snapped. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mr Black, but I really can’t spare the time to show you the house tonight.’

His tone was incisive. ‘Miss Summer, either you want to sell Dark Tarn or you don’t. I am going abroad for several months, tomorrow. Tonight is the only time I could view the house. Either show it to me now or we’ll forget it.’

She hesitated, biting at her lower lip. Neither her father nor her brother would be at home yet. They had both gone to watch a rugby game in the next town and wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours. She could ask her sister, Lucy, to drive to Dark Tarn to meet them, of course. Lucy would be home from work by now; she taught at the local primary school and was always home by five o’clock.

‘Make up your mind,’ Denzil Black said impatiently. ‘I have my lawyer in the car; Helen Sherrard, I expect you know her—I wanted her to see the house too, but I don’t want to keep her waiting out there much longer.’

Clare gave a faint sigh of relief. ‘Oh, Helen! Yes, of course I know her. Very well, Mr Black, I’ll take you over to Dark Tarn now, but I have another appointment at seven, and I can’t be late for that. We’ll have to make this a rapid viewing.’ She turned to the filing cabinet, quickly flicked through the files until she found the one on Dark Tarn, took a set of keys from a locked box on the wall and locked up both the cabinet and the key safe again. Before she left she glanced at herself in a mirror hanging on the wall while she buttoned her dark red winter coat, which had a shawl collar and fell to mid-calf.

‘Your coat is almost Victorian,’ drawled Denzil Black, watching her. ‘It suits you.’

It was a backhanded compliment; she gave him a dry look. ‘Thank you.’ So, he thought she was old-fashioned, did he? No doubt he thought he was insulting her, but he was wrong. Clare didn’t object to the description at all, especially from a man like him.

Oh, he was attractive: her body had felt the magnetic pull of his attraction as soon as he’d walked in here. But Clare had learnt long ago not to trust men, especially attractive men. Life had always spoilt them; you were a fool if you got involved, you were asking to get hurt. You had to keep them at a distance, freeze them off. Clare was an expert at that by now.

She checked that her desk drawers were all locked, collected her bag and an umbrella, and walked towards Denzil Black. His face still in shadow, he opened the door into the street for her.

‘I have to set the burglar alarm and lock up,’ Clare said.

‘I’ll wait by my car.’

Clare took in the sleek grace and power of the black machine. She wasn’t a car fanatic, so she couldn’t guess the make of it but she didn’t have to know much about cars to realise that this was an expensive luxury item. If Denzil Black could afford this car, he could afford to buy Dark Tarn, which answered one of her secret doubts about him.

When she had finished setting the alarm and locking the shop, she walked over to join him. He watched her, his stare flicking from her short, smooth blonde hair to her long, slender legs and elegant feet. Clare dressed timelessly, in simple, classy clothes which wouldn’t go out of fashion in a few months. She didn’t dress for men, she dressed to look cool, calm and capable, but that was not how she felt under his amused, mocking stare.

Having Denzil Black watch her like that, especially as she slid her long legs into his car, made the back of her neck prickle. She had the feeling that this man was real trouble.

Helen turned from the front passenger seat and gave her a polite smile. ‘Hello, Clare.’

Clare would have liked to ask her some questions about her client, but Denzil Black walked round the car too fast. Before Clare got a word out he was getting into the driver’s seat, so she smiled in a friendly way and said, ‘Hello, Helen. How are you?’

‘Fine,’ Helen said, but Clare thought she looked rather pale. She was a woman in her early thirties with a warm, full figure, rich auburn hair and vivid green eyes. Her skin was usually creamy and flushed, but tonight she had very little colour and her eyes had a languid, almost drowsy look, as if...well, as if she had been making love, Clare thought, startled by her own guesswork.

She quickly looked away, wondering: Was Helen having an affair with her client?

Helen had acquired a reputation for being a flirt lately, ever since her divorce from Paul Sherrard, a well-known local hotelier. As soon as she had been on her own, men queued up to get her attention. You only had to date more than one man a year in this little backwater of a town to get yourself talked about, and ever since she and Paul had split up Helen had been seen around with a succession of other men. None of her relationships had lasted or seemed serious. Maybe she believed that there was safety in numbers. Or maybe she was simply in a wild, reckless mood after her divorce. She and her husband had been mad about each other once, but gossip had it that Paul had had some sort of passing fling with a guest in their hotel, and Helen could never forgive him.

The car started smoothly and shot away from the kerb. Denzil Black clearly knew the way, so Clare didn’t have to give him directions. She sat back, watching his hands on the wheel. There was a faint scattering of black hairs across the back of them; they were long-fingered, deft and powerful. On one wrist she saw a gold watch glint, and he wore a heavy gold signet ring, stamped with what looked like a coat of arms.

She still hadn’t seen his face, but she saw his thick, glossy black hair shine in the light every time they passed a street-lamp. His black coat had an expensive look; cashmere, she suspected, very smoothly tailored. Yes, he definitely had money.

Helen was murmuring to him in a low voice; Clare couldn’t hear most of what she said, but then Helen asked in a husky, almost angry tone, ‘How long are you going to be in the States?’

Denzil Black shrugged. ‘A month, maybe two.’

‘That long?’ Helen sounded desolate. Clare frowned, sorry for her. Clare remembered a time when one man could make her feel like that; it wasn’t an experience she ever intended to repeat. She had not found pain habit-forming.

Denzil Black pulled up at traffic-lights a second later, shot a backwards glance at Clare. ‘If I do buy this property, Helen will act for me while I’m away.’

‘I see,’ Clare said. ‘Do you live in Greenhowe at the moment, Mr Black?’

‘No, but I’ve been staying just outside town, with Helen’s brother and his wife, at their lovely home.’

‘That’s how we met,’ explained Helen huskily.

Clare didn’t know her all that well—they often met on business, to discuss the affairs of clients, but they didn’t meet socially. Clare wasn’t part of the social set, the way Helen undoubtedly was! Her family had always had money and, even more importantly, land. Jimmy Storr had inherited an old Queen Anne farmhouse with several hundred acres of good arable land a mile outside Greenhowe; he farmed while his wife ran a country-house hotel whose small restaurant had a county-wide reputation for excellent cuisine. Laura Storr was a wonderful cook, using fresh ingredients mostly produced on their own farm. They both worked hard, but they played hard, too, led a busy social life, and were very popular.

Clare’s family were not in the same social sphere, which didn’t bother her at all. She didn’t enjoy noisy parties, or belonging to the country club; she didn’t play team sports or give dinner parties. She walked and swam, read a good deal, went to the theatre, or the cinema, saw a lot of her family, and a few close friends. She and Helen Sherrard were miles apart in every way, but Clare had always liked the other woman, just as she liked Helen’s brother and sister-in-law.

She had been sorry for Helen lately, too. After her divorce Helen had been so unhappy, and unable to hide it. I hope she hasn’t been stupid enough to fall in love with someone she hardly knows! thought Clare, and then, in the mirror above his head, suddenly caught the glitter of Denzil Black’s grey eyes. They had very large jet-black pupils which made his eyes seem dark, and heavy lids which were thick-lashed.

Even as Clare looked into the strange eyes, the lids drooped, hiding their expression from her, and he turned his head away, his reflection vanishing abruptly from the mirror.

Clare gave a start, wishing she had had more of a chance to examine his features. She couldn’t help being curious about him. How did he really feel about Helen? Was he taking her to see Dark Tarn as his lawyer, or because of a more personal relationship? Was he hoping that the house might one day be their future home? Clare couldn’t begin to guess at any answers to all those questions.

By now, they were out of town, in the green countryside, rapidly going up Hunter’s Hill, the ancient boundary of Greenhowe. On one side of them lay the grey, wintry sea, far down below steep cliffs, and barely visible in a twilight which was fast becoming night. On the other ran pastures, grazed by sheep, the low-lying land dissected by dry-stone walls, in the distance the dark swell of the moors and hills like a crouching animal stretched out on the horizon.

Dark Tarn could be seen from a distance in almost any direction—a Victorian Gothic building with a medieval flavour, its turrets and battlements dominated the skyline for miles around.

‘My God, it’s creepy!’ Helen muttered.

Denzil Black laughed. ‘Don’t you like it?’ He didn’t sound as if it mattered to him whether she did or not. Clare frowned. Not that it was any of her business, but she was curious about their relationship.

A moment later they came to a halt in front of elaborate ironwork gates. Clare got out and went to unlock them with a key from the set she had in her pocket. The lock was a little rusty; she struggled with the key. Denzil Black got out of the car and came to help.

‘I’ll do it.’ His hand reached for the key, touching hers. A jab of electricity went through her; Clare jumped back.

He shot her a veiled sideways look. She felt herself go red and was furious. Why on earth had she reacted like that? He’d think she was some schoolgirl, blushing because a man came too close to her!

A second later, the lock turned with a grating sound, and he pushed the gates open.

‘This lock needs oiling.’

‘Yes, I’ll see that’s done tomorrow.’ Flustered and irritated, Clare retrieved the key and went back to the car with Denzil Black walking just behind her. The wind was howling through the trees ahead of them, in the wild gardens of Dark Tarn; out of the corner of her eye she saw the man’s long black coat blowing around his legs, as if he had wings and might take off at any minute and flap away into the night.

They drove slowly up the winding gravel drive, which was rutted and overgrown with moss and grass. Wild rabbits ran for cover, their white scuts showing as they shot away.

It was hard to see much of the garden, but Clare knew it was wildly overgrown with enormous rhododendrons and laurels in towering banks on either side of the drive.

The empty house loomed above them suddenly, the windows shuttered, no sign of life. Around the high turret a dark shape fluttered; a bat, registered Clare. There was a colony of pipistrelle bats living in the roof; she wondered if Denzil Black had noticed and whether or not the presence of bats might put him off. Some people hated bats, were terrified of them. She couldn’t think why, as pipistrelle were quite tiny creatures only interested in devouring insects and no threat whatever to people. Clare would have loved to have some in her own cottage. She decided not to mention them to Denzil Black.

‘There’s no caretaker?’ he asked at that moment, and Clare shook her head.

‘The owner didn’t want to pay for one. He’s living in Australia, and has no intention of ever coming back here; he just wants to sell the house. It is still furnished, but, if you’re seriously interested, we can deal with that. The furniture will all go up for auction, and you’ll have vacant possession.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said vaguely, staring up at the sky.

Helen looked up too, gave a high-pitched scream. ‘Ughh...what’s that?’

‘A pipistrelle,’ Denzil Black said softly. ‘They’re delightful little brown bats...hardly bigger than a large moth. I wonder if there’s a colony in the roof? There must be a lot of space under the rafters. It’s exactly the habitat they love.’

He knew a lot about bats; well, it was a point in his favour. Clare smiled and in the mirror saw a brief reflection of his dark, glowing eyes.

‘Do you like bats, Miss Summer?’

‘Love them—I’d like some in my own place.’

‘You have your own house?’

‘I’m renovating an old farm labourer’s cottage not far from here; I work on it every weekend,’ she admitted. ‘But for the moment I live with my family, during the week, in town.’

‘I’m interested in interior decoration,’ Helen said with her first sign of enthusiasm. ‘Are you doing all the décor yourself, Clare?’

‘Well, at the moment I’m mending the roof,’ Clare said drily. ‘And then I have to replaster the ceilings and walls. It’ll be a long time before I get around to any décor.’

Helen looked horrified. ‘It sounds as if the place is a total wreck!’

Clare laughed. ‘It is.’

‘What on earth made you buy it?’

‘It was very cheap, and it was a challenge,’ Clare told her as they pulled up outside the house.

‘You’re braver than I am, then!’ Helen said, making a face.

Clare felt Denzil Black’s dark gaze in the driving mirror, but didn’t meet it. She sorted out the large front-door key, slid out of the car, and climbed the steps to the door. This lock turned easily enough, the door swung open with a prolonged creak, and Clare fumbled for the light switch just inside on the panelled walls of the hall.

Light blazed from a chandelier hung high above their heads. Ahead of them stretched the arched vault of the roof, and the panelled walls, hung with an extraordinary mixture of objects—paintings, sketches, prints, armour, photographs in silver frames, weapons, the heads of dead animals mounted on wooden plaques.

The wind blew through the long hallway; a door crashed shut somewhere up above; stained-glass windows further down the hall rattled.

‘It’s monstrous!’ Helen wailed, huddling into her coat, her pale face only just visible above the collar. ‘You can’t be serious about being interested in this place, Denzil! It’s a tomb, not a house.’

It was cold, Clare had to admit, and not simply because it was empty and this was autumn. The house had a deep coldness which was in the very bricks and stones of the building. She had a feeling it would never be warm, even if you lit a fire in every room.

‘Central heating will soon warm it up,’ Denzil Black said, opening the first door leading off the hall. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult to install.’

Clare could see his face now, clearly, for the first time; an austere bone-structure, a wide, passionate mouth, strong nose, those pale eyes with the glittering centres, his black hair growing from a widow’s peak on his high temples. Each feature contradicted all the others; it was not an easy face to read or assess.

‘I like big rooms,’ he said, looking around the main reception room.

‘This is certainly big,’ agreed Clare.

‘Big! It’s enormous!’ groaned Helen.

On two sides of the room windows ran from ceiling to floor, those in the turret bay having deep, cushioned window-seats. All the rooms in the house had high ceilings; from this one another chandelier hung, giving the room a party glitter. There was a wooden fireplace like the prow of a ship, the hearth dressed with Victorian Minton tiles which bore black-line medieval style pictures on their ochre background.

The furniture was old and shabby, the stuffing leaking out of Victorian chairs, the curtains threadbare, the carpets showing signs of wear and tear.

On every possible surface stood silver-framed photographs and ornaments; the walls in here were as lined with paintings and drawings as the hall had been. There were so many objects, in fact, that the effect was mind-numbing; you looked and looked until you could take in no more.

‘Wonderful,’ Denzil Black said.

‘It’s only fit for the garbage truck!’ Helen complained.

Denzil Black asked, ‘Are the entire contents for sale, did you say? If I buy, I’d want first pick of everything in the place.’

‘I’m sure that could be arranged.’ Clare would be relieved if they managed to sell a tenth of the stuff. There were a few antiques of value, but most of the furnishings were in bad repair and would sell for peanuts at auction. Clare often acted as auctioneer at sales; her father mostly did them, but when they were dealing with a large number of objects it took hours, and Dad found it tiring after a while, so Clare usually took over to finish the auction. She had learnt to price objects at sight, and had a very good idea how much money would be raised by the sale of the contents of Dark Tarn.

‘Oh, Denzil, surely you can’t be serious?’ Helen moaned, following him as he strode on down the hall to the next room, a few curled brown leaves blowing along with him from the open front door.

Clare paused to close it, before following the other two. She found them in the gloomy servants’ hall; a long, narrow room with tiny windows, a lot of dull brown paint, and walls which had once been cream-coloured, on one of which hung a row of bells labelled with the names of other rooms. From the ceiling hung ancient hooks, from which hams and herbs had once hung, and a broken laundry pulley, which had been used to suspend washing high above the heads of the servants as they sat around the long, well-scrubbed deal table.

‘It’s so dreary!’ Helen said, staring around the room with unhidden distaste.

‘All it needs is a coat of varnish, a pretty wallpaper, some white paint—it will look wonderful! This dresser must be the same age as the house,’ Denzil said, running a finger along the dust piled up on the shelves which held rows of plates and bowls and jugs.

‘It is,’ agreed Clare. ‘Some of the china is quite good, too. A lot of it’s Victorian, and it will fetch excellent prices at auction.’

‘I may well want to keep it all,’ he said.

‘Oh, my God!’ Helen groaned. ‘It would be like living in a museum!’

Eerily, on the flat top of the dresser, stood a bowl of long-dead flowers, their skeletal shape dusty and dry, wreathed in cobwebs, among which was the mummified body of a spider.

Helen stared at it, dramatically shuddered, wrapped her coat around herself, and gave Denzil Black a reproachful stare. ‘It’s like the Mary Celeste in here! I keep expecting the owners to come back from the dead. I can’t take any more—I’m going back to the car. Hurry up before I freeze to death!’

She stamped out, her high heels clattering along the tiled floor of the hall. The front door creaked open, slammed shut with a booming, echoing sound.

‘I’m afraid she doesn’t like the house,’ murmured Clare.

‘Well, she won’t be living in it,’ Denzil Black drawled, and Clare’s blue eyes flickered thoughtfully.

Oh, wouldn’t she? Well, bang went one theory. Obviously he had not brought Helen here to see her future home! Did she realise that?

Clare didn’t think she did. Helen had been showing an almost proprietorial attitude towards him; Clare was convinced their relationship was not purely professional.

She met Denzil Black’s glossy-pupilled eyes and saw sardonic amusement in them. He had been watching her, reading her thoughts. A faint pink crept under her skin.

‘I wanted her to advise me on the property value,’ he said.

At once, Clare told him, ‘I think the house is a bargain, considering its size and the very large amount of land that goes with it.’

He gave her a dry look. ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? I was hoping Helen would give me a neutral point of view. Shall we go upstairs and see the rest of the place?’

The house seemed even bigger upstairs, and emptier, too. Every movement they made echoed, their footsteps on floorboards creaked. It was freezingly cold, too.

Clare would have liked to follow Helen out of here, but she kept reminding herself of the percentage the firm would get from this sale, so she followed Denzil Black around from one bedroom to another, forcing herself to make bright, encouraging comments.

He must be mad even to consider buying it, she thought, staring at the four-poster bed hung with ancient, tattered dark red curtains, which dominated the main bedroom. The oak shutters were closed across the high windows, there was only one faint lamp beside the bed, and the light reflected in a narrow Gothic-arched oak-framed mirror hanging on the opposite wall. That would probably sell well at auction. It was small enough for modern houses, and perfectly in tune with the current taste for art nouveau.

As she stared at it, Denzil Black looked round and followed her gaze.

‘That’s charming,’ he said at once. ‘I’ll certainly want to keep that.’

He had very good taste. Curiously, she asked him, ‘What do you actually do, Mr Black? What’s your job?’

‘At the moment I don’t have one.’ He shook a curtain, watched the dust fly up from it. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll be paying cash for Dark Tarn, if I buy it. There’ll be no problem about money.’

That was not what she was thinking about. Her curiosity about him still unsatisfied, she asked, ‘Where do you live at present? I mean, apart from staying at Jimmy Storr’s hotel?’

He gave her a dry, sardonic look. ‘Los Angeles.’

Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that. ‘Really? But you’re not American, are you?’ He had a faint accent of some kind, admittedly, but she hadn’t pinned it down as American.

‘No. I was born in Scotland, not that I remember anything about it. I left there when I was two years old. I lived in Manchester until I was twenty-one, but I spent a succession of very good holidays in Greenhowe in my late teens.’

‘Oh, that’s why you’ve come back?’

He looked amused. ‘That’s what you wanted to know, was it? Why I wanted to move to Greenhowe? Well, in answer to your next question, I’ve lived in California for years now, mostly around Los Angeles and Beverley Hills.’

‘Beverley Hills?’ She stared at him, couldn’t keep back the question, ‘You aren’t in the film business?’ She laughed as she asked, expecting him to shake his head.

‘Yes,’ he said, though, calmly.

‘Oh.’ Clare was incredulous. ‘Doing what? You’re not an actor?’ But he could be, she thought; he had the looks for it, and, even more, the charisma; she could imagine how dynamic he would look on film.

‘I did some acting, many years ago—I was an extra once. But I wanted to be on the other side of the camera. I’ve worked at a number of jobs in the industry—stills photographer, cameraman, set designer. My ambition was to be a director, and I finally got there, but I’m out of a job at the moment, and wanted to get away, which is why I’m back in Britain.’

‘And you picked Greenhowe because you remembered it better than Scotland?’ she worked out, and he nodded.

‘I had very happy memories of Greenhowe; summers on the beach, walks across the moors. A travel agent booked me into Jimmy Storr’s hotel, so here I am.’ He dusted his hands with a handkerchief, grimacing. ‘This whole house is filthy.’ He leaned against the wall, those dark eyes cool and steady. ‘Well, let’s talk business, Miss Summer. The price is ridiculous, considering the state of the house, as I’m sure you realise. I shall have to spend a fortune renovating it before I can move in. I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to pay, and you can talk to the owner and let Helen know his decision. I won’t bargain. I’m making one offer and that’s it. If he turns it down, I won’t want to discuss the matter any further.’

Clare watched him calmly, nodding.

He named the price he was prepared to pay. It was far less than she had hoped and her blue eyes hardened.

‘Well, of course I’ll put your offer to my client,’ she said flatly. ‘But I doubt if he will be ready to agree to such a low amount.’

‘How long has the house been on the market? Some years, isn’t it? Empty houses deteriorate quickly; this one is falling to bits. In another two years the roof will go, kids will smash the windows, the garden will be completely wild, and then it won’t take long to become a total ruin.’

He was right, but Clare wasn’t admitting it. ‘I’ll talk to my client,’ she said in a cold, remote voice, and turned to walk back down the stairs and out of the house, with Denzil Black behind her.

The storm was deepening outside, the wind howling around the house like a wolf. There was a crash of thunder and a white zigzag of lightning split the sky, then the chandelier lights flickered and went out, plunging the whole house into darkness. Clare was halfway down the wide, elaborately carved staircase, and she stopped dead, blind in the unexpected blackness.

Denzil Black was right behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped about ten feet into the air. ‘Have you got a torch?’

‘In the car,’ she told him, her voice a mere thread of sound.

He sighed. ‘Never mind, I can see in the dark. Give me your hand.’ His fingers slid down her shoulder to her arm, down her arm to entwine around her hand; Clare would have liked to pull away—he had the strangest effect on her—but she didn’t like being here alone with him in the dark, she urgently needed to get out of this house, so she let him lead her down the stairs.

When they got to the car Helen was standing beside it and ran towards them, flung herself at Denzil Black, close to hysteria. ‘All the lights went out! There was a terrible flash of lightning...didn’t you see it? The storm’s right overhead; I was afraid it would hit the car, then I saw this flash...and the lights all went out. I called and called—didn’t you hear me? How could you leave me out here all by myself in the dark, all this time?’

‘You shouldn’t get so upset!’ soothed Denzil Black, his head bent over hers. ‘I can hear your heart beating like a drum!’ He lowered his head, Clare thought she saw him kissing Helen’s neck and hurriedly looked away, very flushed. They might remember she was there! She didn’t want to be an audience for their lovemaking!

Helen gave a long, ragged sigh, winding her arms around him. ‘Oh, Denzil...’

‘Shh...you’re safe now,’ he soothed. ‘We’ll drop Miss Summer off and then I’ll take you home. Get back into the car now. You’ll feel better when you’re warmer.’

Languidly, Helen obeyed, settling down into her seat without another word. As Clare got back into the car she noticed that Helen had her eyes shut and was apparently half asleep.

As they drove away from Dark Tarn Denzil Black asked, ‘Where do you live, Miss Summer?’

‘Just around the corner from the office, in York Square. You probably know it; it’s a Georgian square behind the Town Hall.’

‘I know. Very handsome houses; they’ve been well preserved, too. Has your family lived there long?’

‘My father was born in the house; I’ve lived there all my life. It’s a warm, family house; we love it.’

‘But you’re planning to move out, all the same, when your cottage is fit for occupation?’

‘There are quite a lot of us,’ Clare unwillingly explained. Why did he ask so many questions? ‘I’d like to have more room to myself.’

‘You have a lot of brothers and sisters?’

‘Two brothers and a sister,’ she said. ‘And there are only four bedrooms between all of us. Dad has one to himself, so do my brothers, because Robin is a student, and needs somewhere private to study, and so my little brother, Jamie, has the tiny boxroom to himself, and I share a bedroom with my sister.’

‘How old is she?’

Helen stirred resentfully. ‘Do stop asking her questions, Denzil! You sound like a TV chat show host!’

He laughed, but Clare saw his long hands tighten on the wheel, the knuckles briefly showing white, and suspected he hadn’t liked being pulled up by Helen in that way.

For a while he drove in silence, then they reached town and began to navigate a way through the one-way-street system until they came to York Square. The early nineteenth-century houses ran on each side of the square with well-cared-for gardens in the centre, set back behind green-painted Victorian railings. It gave the square a feel of the country, especially in summer, when the trees and bushes were in full leaf, and there was a scent of flowers on the air.

‘Which house?’ Denzil Black asked and Clare leaned forward to point.

‘That one, by the street-lamp, with the holly trees in the garden.’

He parked under the street-light, and Clare politely thanked him. ‘I’ll let Helen know my client’s decision as soon as possible,’ she promised. ‘Goodnight, Helen.’

Helen sleepily murmured, ‘Night.’

Denzil Black got out of the car and came round to open Clare’s door. ‘Thanks,’ she said, avoiding his hand as he tried to help her out. ‘Goodnight, Mr Black.’

Before she could walk away, the front door of the house opened and in the yellow light from the hallway a girl was outlined, her face framed in a cloud of long, smooth silvery fair hair.

‘Who’s that?’ Denzil Black’s voice had altered. Clare shot a look up at him and frowned, not answering.

There was a long silence, while the girl began walking towards them.

‘Is that your sister?’ asked Denzil Black slowly, and Clare answered him in a chilly voice.

‘Yes.’ She wished Lucy hadn’t come out just now. Clare was intensely protective towards her sister, and she was also deeply intuitive; her intuition told her now that it wouldn’t be a good idea for Lucy to meet Denzil Black.

‘Goodnight, Mr Black,’ Clare said, willing him to get back into the car and drive away.

He didn’t. He stood there, watching Lucy stroll down the garden path towards them, his face intent. Clare gritted her teeth. She would have loved to know what he was thinking.

As Lucy came into the circle of lamplight at the gate she paused, smiling, her oval face taking on a shimmering quality. She wasn’t wearing make-up, and yet her skin was perfect, smooth and clear.

She and Clare shared the same colouring, yet there was an immense difference between them. Clare knew that she herself was very attractive, and men always liked the look of her, but Lucy was, quite simply, beautiful.

More than that, she had a mysterious radiance which was partly due to her very fair skin, the long, flowing golden hair framing her face, her eyes, which were a deeper blue than Clare’s, and partly to a childlike nature.

Perhaps because her family had always spoilt her, Lucy had never quite, it seemed to Clare, grown up, yet she was so lovable that it didn’t matter. Lucy was kind-hearted, loving, generous. Clare had always worried over her, afraid that some day someone would hurt Lucy. It had been a great relief to her when Lucy got engaged to someone who, she knew, would never make her little sister unhappy.

‘What a fabulous car!’ Lucy said as soon as she was within earshot. ‘It’s a Lamborghini, isn’t it?’ She gave Denzil Black a fascinated look. ‘Is it yours? Hello, I’m Lucy, Clare’s sister. We haven’t met before, have we?’

‘I’d remember if we had,’ he said, his jet pupils glittering as he took the hand Lucy held out to him. He bent and kissed it and Lucy gave a startled gasp, then laughed.

‘You aren’t French, are you?’

He laughed. ‘I had a French grandmother—does that count?’

‘Of course. I knew it—you look French!’

‘I’d be here all night if I started talking about the way you look!’ he murmured, and Lucy blushed and laughed excitedly.

Clare was so angry that her teeth hurt. ‘Helen is in a hurry to get home, remember,’ she told Denzil Black tightly.

He gave her a dry look, then glanced towards the car, and at that moment Helen leaned forward and banged peremptorily on the window, gesturing.

‘Denzil!’ they all heard her call crossly.

He gave her a wave, looked down at Lucy, smiled, his eyes glowing and dark-centred.

‘I’m afraid I have to go, and I’m leaving for the States tomorrow for a couple of months, but I’ll be back—we’ll meet again.’

He got back into the car, the engine fired and the Lamborghini moved off with a dulcet roar.

‘I want that car,’ Lucy said dreamily. ‘Isn’t it heavenly? And him...what did he say his name was? Denzil something? That’s a very unusual name; I’ve never met anyone called Denzil before. Is he your new boyfriend, Clare? You’ve never mentioned him—have you been keeping him a secret? He’s as gorgeous as his car. I’ve never seen anyone like him—where did you find him and why is he with Helen Sherrard? Tell me all about him.’

‘He isn’t my boyfriend. I barely know the man; he’s just a client.’ Clare tried not to lose her temper, but her voice was raw and she felt Lucy staring at her in surprise. It was very unusual for Clare to show temper.

‘What’s the matter?’ Lucy asked uncertainly.

‘Oh, never mind. Let’s get indoors, it’s cold,’ Clare said, walking towards the house, very fast.

She had not liked the acquisitive way Denzil Black had been looking at Lucy. She barely knew the man, but she did not like or trust him.

Despite the temptation of her own share of the purchase price on Dark Tarn, she hoped the owner would turn down Denzil Black’s offer for the house. Then, maybe, Denzil Black would go away and find somewhere else to live, and she needn’t worry about what might happen next time he met her little sister.




CHAPTER TWO


THE owner, however, accepted Denzil Black’s offer at once. ‘So we’ve managed to get rid of that white elephant at last!’ Clare’s father said, hearing the news, then gave her a shrewd look. ‘You don’t look overjoyed! Got doubts about the buyer’s ability to pay?’

‘No,’ Clare said grimly, not bothering to explain the doubts she did have, and went to ring Helen Sherrard.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ Helen said in lack-lustre tones, barely managing to sound alive, let alone delighted by the news. ‘I’ll make sure you get the deposit immediately, and start proceedings rolling.’

‘This offer isn’t subject to a surveyor’s report, is it?’ That was unusual, but Denzil Black had not mentioned the idea of getting a surveyor in to look at the house.

‘No, Denzil says he’ll take it, whatever the condition. He’s going to do a lot of work on the house anyway, and he has taken that into account in the offer he made.’

‘He’s getting a very good bargain,’ said Clare, almost wishing he would make difficulties so that she could talk the client into not selling to him, although that would be cutting her nose off to spite her face, and she wasn’t usually that childish. She was surprised at herself. ‘If he’s paying cash, then it shouldn’t take long to complete the transaction.’

‘No, I’m sure it won’t,’ said Helen slowly. ‘I just have to do the land search, to prove title.’ She gave an audible sigh.

‘You sound so tired, Helen—are you working too hard?’

‘Not really, but I get so bored with work; mine isn’t exactly a thrilling job, you know. And I’m missing Denzil. He seems to have been away for months, although he only left a few days ago.’

Clare was doodling on her desk pad, frowning. ‘How long did you say he would be away?’

‘Oh, a couple of months, at least—he hopes to be back in time for Christmas, but he isn’t sure he’ll make it now, it seems.’

‘Too bad,’ Clare said indifferently. ‘Well, let me have the deposit, then, and I’ll make sure my client gets in touch with his solicitor too. Bye, Helen. Talk to you again soon, I expect.’

A couple of days later she met Helen in the High Street and was shocked by her pallor. ‘You’ve lost a lot more weight, Helen. I think you ought to see a doctor! There must be something wrong with you.’

‘Oh, don’t fuss!’ Helen snapped. ‘You sound like my mother!’

‘Sorry to do that,’ drawled Clare, laughing. ‘Was Mr Black pleased to hear his offer had been accepted?’

Helen’s face tightened. ‘Yes. Did you see the picture of him in the Sunday papers?’

‘Never read them,’ said Clare. ‘Haven’t got the energy to do anything on Sunday mornings except sleep late. Why was he in the newspapers?’

‘He got some award or other. There was a big photo of him with the star of the film, that one who was a serious actress, did a lot of plays on Broadway before going into films. She has long black hair and a fabulous figure. Deirdre something-or-other, I think; she’s half Mexican, half Irish.’

‘What a combination! I know who you mean, though,’ said Clare, frowning. ‘It wasn’t Deirdre, it was Bella something or other. I saw her last big film, the vampire film—it was pretty way out, if you ask me! The sex scenes almost burnt the celluloid they were printed on.’

‘That’s the one,’ said Helen, palely smiling. ‘That’s Denzil’s last film.’

Clare’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’re kidding? He made that?’ It gave her a new idea of Denzil Black. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a sexier film.

‘And from what they said in the papers this Sunday, he and Bella what’s-her-name are having an affair!’ Helen said huskily, almost as white as paper. She turned on her heel to walk away, stopped, swayed, and crumpled up. Clare was too late to catch her. Before she understood what was happening, Helen had fallen sideways and hit her head on a lamp-post.

A crowd gathered, of course. Clare knelt down anxiously and looked at the wan, shadowed face in its frame of rich auburn hair. ‘Helen? Helen, are you OK?’

‘She’s fainted!’ someone in the crowd said.

‘Knocked herself out,’ someone else insisted. ‘I saw her do it; she hit her head on that lamp-post. Drunk, most likely; she looked drunk to me.’

‘Send for an ambulance! She needs to go to hospital; she’s out for the count,’ somebody said, and a shopkeeper leaned forward.

‘I just did. They’ll be here any minute.’

Helen’s lashes were flickering. She sighed through lips almost as white as her face. Clare almost caught the word she said. She was almost sure Helen had said, ‘Denzil...’

Clare didn’t know whether to be sorry for her, or furious with her, or just furious with Denzil Black. Any woman who let a man reduce her to this state deserved a good slap, she thought, watching the other woman bleakly.

The ambulance arrived a moment later, siren wailing. The crowd cleared enough to let the men through with their stretcher. They took a look at Helen, asked, ‘What happened?’

A babble of voices tried to answer.

Clare cut through them coldly and efficiently. ‘She fainted, and managed to hit her head on that lamp-post while she was falling.’

The voices stopped, and people stared at her. She was well-known in town; nobody argued openly, although she heard a few whispered comments from those who preferred to believe Helen had been drunk.

She went to the hospital with Helen, and rang Helen’s mother from the waiting-room. ‘They’re keeping her in here tonight; they want to do some tests on her. They think she could be anaemic; apparently her blood-count was very low, and so is her blood-pressure.’

Helen’s mother sounded terrified. She was a small, delicate woman, and very highly strung. She often seemed to Clare still to be grieving for her husband, who had died a couple of years ago. Tears came easily to her, and she wore either black or grey most of the time.

‘Oh, no; you don’t think...they don’t think...it might be...? Her father died of cancer, you know—’ She broke off, obviously close to tears now. ‘Clare, if anything happened to Helen... I’ve been so worried about her; she has been terribly pale lately, and she never has any energy. That was how it happened to her father. She used to be the life and soul of the party. Well, you remember what she was like before the divorce, Clare! I know you weren’t a close friend, but you’ve known Helen for years; she was always full of fun. But over the last couple of months she’s been fading away, and yet the doctor could never find anything wrong with her.’

Clare’s blue eyes had an icy sparkle. Well, she knew what had been wrong with Helen lately, and there was nothing the doctor could do to help that pain. ‘Will you ring Paul and let him know?’ she asked Joyce.

‘Paul? Oh, do you think I should tell him? After all, they are divorced; I expect he has someone else by now.’

‘Well, they were married for a long time. I’m sure he’ll be concerned about her.’

‘Oh...Clare, I...Clare, couldn’t you?’ gabbled Joyce. ‘If you rang him, it would be so much easier. I mean...I don’t like to interfere...Helen wouldn’t thank me; she might be furious with me for doing it.’

Clare sighed. ‘I hardly know him, Joyce!’

‘Please, Clare...would you?’

Clare gave in, her face grim. She rang Paul Sherrard at his hotel and was put through to his office. His secretary answered breathlessly, sounding very young and faintly scatty.

‘Mr Sherrard’s office. Oh, yes? Miss Summer? Was it important? Well, I don’t know if he’s...I’ll see if he’s free...’

Paul’s voice appeared on the line a second later. ‘Good morning, Clare. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Paul, but I’m ringing from the hospital—Helen is here, and they’re keeping her in overnight. She may be seriously ill; they aren’t sure yet. I thought I ought to let you know.’

‘What do you mean, seriously ill?’ Paul asked curtly. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘I’ve no idea, Paul, but she looks terrible. I just thought I should let you know. I’ve rung her mother; she was very upset. I wish I could get the doctors here to be frank, but they won’t commit themselves.’

‘Oh, won’t they? We’ll see about that. I’ll be there in half an hour,’ Paul said, and rang off.

Clare stayed at the hospital until Paul and Helen’s mother arrived, almost at the same time, and then she had to get back to the office, which had been closed all this time.

She rang the hospital later that day, but there was no further news, other than that Helen was in no danger, was conscious again, and would be in hospital for some days. Clare sent her flowers and a get-well card. She visited her the next afternoon and found her sitting up against banked pillows, still pale, still listless.

‘They say I can go home at the weekend,’ Helen said. ‘After these tests. They think I’m anaemic. I’ll have to drink blood, like Dracula!’ She laughed.

Clare didn’t. She was too horrified by how ill Helen looked; by the dark shadows under Helen’s eyes and the thin, restless, frail fingers. It was a relief to find that the illness was nothing worse than anaemia—no doubt that would be a huge weight off Mrs Storr’s mind—but Clare kept remembering Helen’s look of pain as she talked about Denzil Black and his sexy actress. That man had a lot to answer for! ‘You’re beginning to look better,’ she lied.

Helen brightened. ‘Do you think so? They say I mustn’t go back to work, I must rest for a few weeks, and I’m going to my brother’s place, to stay with him. Paul thinks I should go abroad after Christmas; he’s going to Majorca to the apartment we owned over there, and he suggested I came too.’ A faint flush crept up her cheeks. She gave Clare a defiant look, looked away quickly. ‘Well, we were married for years. Nobody will think anything odd about that.’

‘Of course not,’ said Clare. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea.’

She smiled at Helen warmly. If Paul took her away she would soon forget Denzil Black, and maybe Helen and Paul might even get together again for good, not just for a holiday?

Very flushed, Helen said, ‘Oh, and Johnny Pritchard is dealing with Dark Tarn, by the way.’

‘I wasn’t worried about it,’ Clare said coolly. ‘It can wait.’

‘Oh, no,’ Helen said, sounding shocked. ‘Denzil is in a hurry.’

‘Never mind him,’ said Clare. ‘You just look after yourself.’

Over the next few weeks she seemed to be busier than usual. This was usually a dead time of year. People didn’t buy and sell houses in winter; spring was when their minds turned to moving home. But that winter Clare was very busy. A firm had recently built a large block of luxury apartments overlooking the harbour, and, failing to sell half of them, was eager to rent them out rather than leave them empty. They gave Clare the job of finding tenants, and for a while she was constantly driving possible clients out to the apartment building, showing them round, and dealing with their rental agreements.

As she was out of the office so much her father came in to help part-time, but she still had a lot of extra paperwork to do.

One evening in late November she was working at her desk after all the other shops had closed when the phone rang.

Grimacing, she answered. ‘Hello?’

‘You sound bad-tempered.’

A jab of shock went through her, but she pretended she hadn’t recognised his voice. ‘Who’s speaking?’ she asked distantly.

He laughed. She flushed.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I need to have a team of men look over Dark Tarn to recommend how it can be modernised without losing its atmosphere. Will you see that they have the keys for a day? My architect is Bernard Atkins. He’ll be in touch this week.’

‘Very well, but nothing can be done until you actually own the house, of course!’

‘I realise that. How long do you think it will be before the contract is ready for signature?’

‘A week or two.’ She paused, then, her voice chilling even more, asked, ‘I presume you know Helen is very ill?’

‘Yes, I had a letter from her, explaining. If I’m back in time before she goes off to Majorca, I’ll go and see her.’

‘I shouldn’t,’ Clare said quickly. ‘She needs complete rest; she isn’t having visitors.’

‘She’ll want to see me,’ he said with a soft inflexion that made Clare shiver.

‘Maybe she would,’ she bit back. ‘But it wouldn’t be good for her!’

His voice even softer, he said, ‘You don’t like me much, do you, Miss Summer?’

‘I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion one way or another!’

‘When I get back, we must do something about that!’ he murmured, and she bit her lip.

‘I must go, Mr Black—I’m very busy, I’m afraid. I’ll make sure your architect gets the keys. Goodbye.’

Clare put the phone down hurriedly before he could say anything else and sat there staring out into the dark, empty street, feeling a hot pulse beating in her throat. She put a nervous hand up to it, pressed down into her flesh and felt the leap of blood under her fingertip.

Snatching her hand down, she angrily told herself not to let the man get to her. He was on the other side of the Atlantic, and she hoped he would stay there for a very long time, but when he did get back Clare had no intention of getting to know him any better!

She went home an hour later and wasn’t surprised to find that nobody had cooked the evening meal yet. They were all supposed to do it in turn, but in practice it was more often than not Clare who ended up doing the cooking. Clare’s father did the shopping most days, but cooking wasn’t something he enjoyed or was good at, nor were any of the others. Robin and Jamie thought cooking was ‘for girls’ and Lucy, although always willing to do it, often drifted off into daydreams and forgot.

That evening she wasn’t even home yet, and only walked in halfway through the meal. ‘Oh, terrific! Sausages and onions,’ she said happily, sitting down in her usual chair, and helping herself from the large dish in the centre of the table.

‘You were supposed to cook tonight, Lucy!’ her father reproached her.

Lucy gave a groan. ‘Oh, no, I knew there was something I’d forgotten! Who cooked it, then?’

‘Who do you think?’ enquired their father wryly, and Lucy gave Clare a guilty look.

‘I’m sorry, Clare, I honestly forgot! It went clean out of my head! I’ll do it next time it’s your turn; when’s that?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Right, I won’t forget.’ Lucy looked down at her food. ‘There wasn’t a letter from Mike again today. That’s nearly ten days. I hope he isn’t sick.’

‘It’s probably the post,’ Clare said quickly, watching her sister anxiously.

Lucy was delicate and sensitive, and easily hurt, and it had been a relief to her family when she met Mike Duncan a year ago, while she was still at college. Mike had been doing postgraduate research at the same college; he was four years older than Lucy, and had had some work experience before returning to do his postgraduate work.

Quiet, steady, friendly—the whole family had liked Mike at once, and been delighted when Lucy got engaged to him, but then Mike had taken a job in Africa for a year in a teacher-training college there. He had insisted that he and Lucy postpone their marriage until he returned, and again the whole family had agreed with him, although from time to time Clare had her doubts. It had been the sensible decision. Lucy was very young, and a year wasn’t an eternity, but Clare realised that Mike’s absence was making Lucy restless.

He had been away now for six months; he would be back in the spring, for their wedding. He wrote all the time, and sent recorded audio tapes of messages too; but it wasn’t the same as having him there and Lucy was lonely and often bored.

‘As long as he hasn’t met someone else!’ Lucy said, pretending to laugh, but not acting very well.

Clare and her father exchanged glances, but neither said anything. They knew what the other one was thinking. What if Lucy’s fears proved true? The tremor of her lips told them how badly she would be hurt.

‘Can I have some more chocolate mousse? Oh, did I tell you what I want for Christmas? I made a list, to help you, save you time trying to guess what I want,’ Jamie said, only interested in his own concerns.

‘Don’t even mention Christmas!’ Clare thought of all the work the festive season entailed and groaned aloud. She would have to make some lists of her own any day, but for the moment she was putting off all idea of Christmas until she felt strong enough to cope with it.

‘Eat your mousse and then you can help clear the table,’ George Summer told his younger son. ‘And after that you can finish your homework.’

Clare watched Jamie take another huge helping of mousse without even thinking about him. She had Denzil Black on her mind. It would take months for him to have Dark Tarn modernised—would he stay in America meanwhile? Now that he had won this big award, maybe he would be offered other jobs? She remembered him saying that he was leaving America because he hadn’t been asked to make another film. What if he was? Maybe he wouldn’t be moving back here at all. Maybe he would sell Dark Tarn again, once he had had it renovated?

She felt her pulse take that odd, disturbing skip again, and bit her lip. She didn’t like the man. Why should she care?

December started badly: icy winds blew sleet and snow through the town from the sea, which had a chill grey look as it heaved and surged under a sky banked with dull, heavy clouds pregnant with yet more snow.

Lucy finally heard from Mike. Three letters came at once; the post was erratic from Africa, especially at this time of year. Lucy was flushed with excitement and relief, but Clare still worried. Her sister’s wild mood swings bothered her. Lucy was far too volatile. Clare wished Mike were coming home sooner.

Early in the month, Dark Tarn became the property of Denzil Black, causing a flurry of interest from London newspapers and the local TV station. A camera team invaded Clare’s agency and tried to interview her, but she coldly asked them to leave, and refused to answer questions. They still did an item on the news that night.

‘Why didn’t you talk to them? It would have been great seeing you on TV,’ her brothers complained.

‘Professional etiquette. I can’t talk about my clients,’ she said, and her father agreed.

Her brothers looked disgusted.

Clare was able to bank a sizeable share of the price. The agency had done rather better this year than she had expected, in fact; their bank statements were looking very healthy.

‘I think we could afford to pay someone to help me in the office, at least part-time, now,’ she told her father, who agreed.

‘Then maybe you can take some time off occasionally! I hate to see you look so tired!’

‘Oh, I’m fine!’ shrugged Clare.

‘You don’t want to end up like poor Helen Sherrard.’

Clare’s blue eyes smouldered. ‘I won’t, don’t worry.’ She had more sense than to let a man do that to her, especially a man like Denzil Black.

That week she saw an article in a magazine about the actress who had starred in Denzil Black’s last film. The photo above the print showed her on a stretcher being rushed into a Los Angeles clinic. She had overdosed on heroin and almost died. But a ‘close friend’ was quoted as saying that the actress had never been the same since making Denzil’s film.

‘It isn’t drugs, it’s love,’ the ‘friend’ said. ‘She hasn’t seen much of him these last months. Now that he’s finished the film, he’s finished with her, and he’s broken her heart.’

Clare stared at the blurred photo, just able to make out the other girl’s haunting dark eyes and tragic expression. Wasn’t that just how Helen had looked lately? What did that man do to the women who fell for him?

That weekend, Clare got the video of the film out of the local video shop and watched it several times, fascinated both by the film itself and by the beauty of the actress. She had to admire Denzil’s skill as a film-maker; the film was beautifully shot, mesmerising and very different from any film she had ever seen before. The erotic content made it too adult for her to want her brothers to see it—she watched it late at night, alone. The subtlety with which the sex scenes were shot somehow made them even sexier; a glimpse of a white thigh, the tensed muscles in a man’s back, the sound of a groan did far more than all the naked writhing flesh most such films used to make their impact.

After she had gone to bed she lay in the dark thinking about the film—and about Denzil Black. Seeing the film again had made her realise that he was a clever, complex, dangerous man.

When she took the video back she asked if they had any other Denzil Black films, and was given an earlier one he had made, which she watched the next night. Again, she watched it several times, and after that she saw all his films in quick succession, trying to work out more about him from the way he made them. She had never taken so much interest in a director before or realised how much you could learn about someone from the sort of work they did. All his films had clues scattered through them, she realised, picking up on some of them over and over again.

On Christmas Eve she shut up early, just after four, and hurried through the crowded, darkening winter streets looking for last-minute presents.

She was staring into the window of an expensive lingerie shop when she felt someone halt behind her. Automatically she looked at the reflection of the street which she could see in the plate-glass shop window, but she couldn’t see anyone.

‘Hello,’ said a voice, and she stiffened, glancing round.

An icy shiver ran down her spine as she recognised that face—the widow’s peak, the sleek black hair, the piercing grey eyes, the ruthless mouth.

For a second she was unable to move, paralysed like someone in a nightmare, facing something more terrible than words could express and frozen by sheer terror. She just stood there, staring into those eyes, feeling the insistence of his will burning into her.

‘You haven’t forgotten me, have you?’ he asked in that deep, dark voice, and she wished she could nod and say that yes, she had forgotten him—but it would be a lie and, anyway, she knew he was well aware that she hadn’t.

He didn’t wait for her to answer, anyhow. He went on coolly, ‘What are you thinking of buying? The demure white slip, or the Victorian nightgown that buttons up to the neck and goes right down to the feet? I saw you looking at them. Why not go crazy for once and buy something sexy—like that black négligé? I can imagine you in that—wearing nothing else underneath it, of course.’ His smile teased, held mockery.

Hot, burning colour rushed up her face. She blinked, breaking free of the spell holding her, her heartbeat accelerating, her breathing rough. It was like waking up from hibernation. Her whole body seemed to have been stopped for that brief time, and now it began working again. Clare was overwhelmed by a feeling so strong that it made her giddy, and then she got angry. She snapped back at him, ‘I’m not buying for myself, I’m shopping for Christmas presents!’

She couldn’t trust herself to talk politely. She had to get away from the overpowering effect of being near him. She almost ran towards the shop doorway.

He came with her, his long legs easily keeping pace without hurrying. ‘For your beautiful little sister?’

She was sorry to hear he remembered Lucy. Grimly, she realised that somehow she had to stop him meeting Lucy again. She did not want him pursuing her sister. Lucy was vulnerable at the moment; she might lose her head over this man and get badly hurt, the way Helen and that film star had been hurt.

Clare would kill him if he hurt her sister.

‘You aren’t living up at Dark Tarn, are you?’ she asked him, pausing just before the shop door. ‘I heard that the builders weren’t starting work on it before the New Year.’

‘Your information is very accurate,’ he said drily. ‘Small-town gossip is amazing. Talking about gossip, thank you for refusing to talk about me to the Press.’

Surprised, she asked, ‘How do you know that?’

‘One of them told me. Their interest seems to have died down now, but if it starts up again I’d be grateful if you would go on being discreet. I shall be working hard over the next few months; I don’t want to waste time on the media.’





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