Love’s Only Deception
Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CALLIE added jam to her buttered toast, knowing she would have to start getting ready soon, but lingering reluctantly over her breakfast, making herself another cup of coffee. After all, it wasn’t a long drive from London to Berkshire.

She wished she didn’t have to go, that Jeff hadn’t put her in this position. Hadn’t she gone through enough the last six months—her mother’s death, Jeff’s own death in a car accident, and now she had to meet his family, a family who hadn’t even wanted to speak to her themselves but had contacted her through a lawyer. She had disliked James Seymour on sight.

He had sat in that dusty-looking office, surrounded by rows and rows of huge official-looking books, the whole room looking like a mausoleum. And James Seymour had been totally in keeping with the room, fusty and old, looking down his nose at her as he informed her she was the sole beneficiary of Jeff’s will.

‘I am?’ she gasped. ‘Oh, but surely there must be some mistake,’ she protested.

James Seymour looked as if he thought so too, and that Jeff, dear kind, loving Jeff, had made it! ‘I can assure you there is no mistake,’ he said in his haughty voice. ‘I was Mr Spencer’s lawyer for many years, did in fact draw up this will for him. Caroline Day, 28, Hill Apartments, London. That is you, isn’t it?’

‘Well … yes. But I don’t want any of—of that,’ she pointed wildly at the will laid out in front of the lawyer.

He looked at her as if she were slightly deranged. ‘Three-quarters of a million pounds, seven hundred and sixty-three thousand pounds, to be exact—–’

‘Oh, let’s be exact,’ she said shrilly, sure this man didn’t know what he was talking about. Jeff hadn’t been rich, not that rich anyway. Three-quarters of a million pounds! It was unthinkable, unimaginable.

James Seymour looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘I was being exact,’ he said stiffly. ‘There is also the matter of thirty-seven and a half per cent of the shares of Spencer Plastics—–’

‘Spencer Plastics?’ she questioned sharply.

His mouth tightened. ‘We would get on a lot quicker, Miss Day, if you would refrain from constantly interrupting me.’

‘Yes, but Spencer Plastics? Sorry,’ she mumbled at his quelling look, the eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses the cold grey of the sea on a winter’s day.

Had she gone mad? She had looked warily at the letter when it had arrived last week, should have guessed there was something wrong when she had telephoned the office of Seymour, Seymour, Seymour, and Brown, and they had refused to divulge the reason for requesting to see her over the telephone.

‘If we could continue?’ James Seymour said woodenly.

‘Go ahead. I mean—please do,’ she blushed at his condescending look.

‘Mr Spencer, Mr Jeffrey Spencer, that is, left you his shares in the family company—–’

‘You mean Jeff—I mean Jeffrey, was related to the Spencers of Spencer Plastics?’ Even she had heard of the powerful Spencer family, Sir Charles and Lady Spencer, and Sir Charles’ sister Cicely. But surely the Charles and Cissy Jeff had sometimes spoken of couldn’t be them …?

‘Jeffrey Spencer was Sir Charles’ younger brother,’ she was informed distantly.

It was what she had already guessed, what she had dreaded him confirming. Jeff had never said, never given any indication—Dear God, that family would eat her alive if she dared to claim those shares!

‘I—Do they know about me?’ she asked nervously.

‘I believe Mr Spencer told them of your relationship, yes.’

‘No, not that. I mean, do they know about Jeff’s will?’

‘Yes, they know.’

Oh, lord! They were probably ready to lynch her from the highest tree by now. The Spencer family was one of the most powerful in the world of plastics, and they would hardly welcome a little nobody like her into their midst. If only Jeff had told her who his family was, explained to her what he meant to do!

‘Sir Charles has expressed a wish to see you,’ the lawyer told her now.

She would just bet he had, and she could guess what about. ‘When?’ she asked dully.

‘This weekend, if that’s possible.’

It didn’t sound as if she had much choice. ‘I—Well, yes, I suppose so.’

‘Good. Sir Charles is expecting you.’ He handed her a piece of his official-looking notepaper with Sir Charles’ address on. ‘For the weekend,’ he added firmly.

Callie’s eyes widened, deep brown eyes with golden flecks in their depths. Her hair was the colour of corn, straw-coloured she called it, straight and thick to just below her shoulders, the full fringe shaped about her small heart-shaped face, making her eyes the dominant feature, her nose small and short, her mouth wide and smiling—usually—her figure petite, even boyish, and at twenty-two years of age she had given up the idea of growing any taller than her five feet two inches in height.

‘For the weekend …?’ she echoed weakly.

‘Yes. Sir Charles feels it would be advisable for you to meet the family. I understand the nephew will not be there,’ James Seymour’s voice cooled perceptively, giving Callie the impression that he disliked the absent nephew even more than he apparently disliked her—if that were possible. His disdain for her had been obvious from the moment she had entered the office half an hour earlier. ‘I believe business matters have taken him out of the country,’ he explained abruptly.

Callie could understand his reluctance to talk to her—after all, she had no real claim on the Spencer family, and James Seymour obviously thought so too, revealing the family movements as if pressured to.

Well she had had enough, she didn’t want to hear any more. ‘Please tell Sir Charles I accept his invitation. I have to leave now—–’

‘We haven’t finished, Miss Day—–’

‘I’m sorry,’ she stood up, ‘but I really do have to go. Perhaps you could send me a letter explaining everything in more detail?’ she added to soften the blow.

He looked as if she had insulted him, sitting ramrod-straight in the leather desk-chair. ‘That isn’t the way I like to do business, Miss Day—–’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you,’ she told him before disappearing out of the door.

It all seemed like a bad dream, the money, the thirty-seven and a half per cent shares in Spencer Plastics. She felt sure she would wake up soon and just be ordinary Callie Day with none of the responsibility of money and shares.

She told her friend Marilyn so; Marilyn and her husband Bill lived in the flat next door. ‘I’m sure the haughty Mr Seymour will find there’s been some mistake. He has to,’ she groaned.

Marilyn shook her head dazedly. ‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You’re rich, don’t you realise that?’

‘Of course I do,’ Callie frowned. ‘Although Mr Seymour said it would take several months to sort out the details. But I don’t feel I have any right to those things.’

‘Jeff wanted you to have them, that’s all the right you need.’

‘I doubt the Spencer family see it that way,’ she grimaced.

The two of them were sitting in Marilyn’s kitchen drinking tea, baby Paul playing happily at their feet.

‘From what I can tell, you’re more Jeff’s family than any of that snobby lot,’ commented Marilyn. ‘Not one of them came to the funeral.’

Callie shrugged. ‘Mr Seymour said they weren’t informed in time. Anyway, I wouldn’t have wanted them there,’ she added with a catch in her throat. ‘Only people who loved you while you were alive should be allowed to say goodbye to you. Jeff always said that.’

‘And now Jeff is saying he wants you to have those things, that he still wants to take care of you,’ Marilyn pointed out gently. ‘If you turn them down it will be like throwing his love back in his face.’

Put like that, she had little choice but to go to Berkshire for this weekend, grit her teeth and make the most of it. But she felt sure it was going to be a disaster.

She got up from the breakfast table, if it could be called that at eleven-thirty in the morning! Sir Charles and Lady Spencer would probably be scandalised by such behaviour. But she had been out with some friends the evening before, a party that had gone on long into the early hours of this morning, carrying on to one of the girls’ flats once the other party had ended. Her hangover wasn’t going to help her cope with the Spencer family! She was expected for dinner, Mr Seymour had told her when she telephoned his office yesterday, his manner even more frosty than at their first meeting.

A long soak in the bath, her hair washed, and she was starting to feel a little more human, although what to wear was another problem. She was invited to dinner, and yet she would be arriving late afternoon. Of course she could always change before dinner … Yes, that was what she would do, what she would be expected to do. Oh dear, she was going to make a fool of herself this weekend, she just knew she was. She wasn’t used to mixing with Sirs and Ladies, and she usually sat down to dinner in whatever she had worn to the office that day!

She chose one of the suits she wore to work to arrive in, a black tailored skirt and jacket, a white Victorian-style blouse worn beneath the jacket, a large cameo brooch pinned at her throat. Her hair swung smoothly about her shoulders, clean and silky, her whole appearance was one of cool confidence. She just hoped she acted that way when she got there.

Once she got out of London and on to the motorway it was a clear run down to Berkshire, her ten-year-old Ford Escort excelling itself and doing a steady sixty miles an hour. Royal Berkshire, the home of Windsor Castle, one of the Queen’s residences. It was also the home of the Windsor Safari Park, which perhaps wasn’t quite so prestigious. Maybe that was one of the subjects she should avoid this weekend.

The trouble was she had no idea what she was going to talk about! They obviously couldn’t discuss Jeff and the shares for the whole of the time she was there, and she doubted she would have anything else in common with the Spencer family. The truth of the matter was, she had nothing in common with them, not even Jeff. He had been as far removed from them as she was, hadn’t even owned to being a member of the family.

Dear Jeff. Callie had loved him so much, his death had come as a shock to her, even more so than her mother’s, which had been expected, as her illness had been terminal. But the car accident that had taken Jeff from her too had left her numbed with grief, still had the power to reduce her to tears, and she rapidly blinked them away as she saw the turn-off for Ascot.

She had instructions to the Spencer house from there; the name of the house did not reveal its location. She followed the instructions implicitly, and finally found herself completely out in the country, slowly turning the Escort down a long gravel driveway, a huge stately Tudor manor house standing at the end of it.

The gardens were resplendent with flowers, despite the lateness of the season, the October weather not being exactly conducive to the delicate blooms. Someone obviously tended these gardens with tender loving care—and why not? she thought cynically. Money could achieve most things, even a flowering garden in October. Oh dear, she was getting cynical! But maybe that was the only way she was going to get through this weekend. Sir Charles was likely to eat her alive otherwise.

Her Escort looked slightly out of place next to the Jaguar, a Rolls-Royce parked next to it, a huge garage at the side of the house containing two more cars, although from this distance she couldn’t tell their make.

There was a man coming down the steps towards her as she got out of her car, a tall grey-haired man of perhaps fifty, fifty-five, still handsome despite his years, the superb cut of his cream trousers and Norfolk jacket pointing to him not being a servant. Could this possibly be Sir Charles himself?

Callie closed her eyes. Oh Jeff, Jeff—she was in the lions’ den now, and he had put her there.

She didn’t fit in with these people, should never have come here. Just the house was enough to frighten the life out of her! It was certainly nothing like the small flat Jeff had shared with her for the last four years.

The man she assumed to be Sir Charles Spencer looked no more welcoming than the house did, seeming slightly surprised by her. ‘Miss Day …?’ He looked at her with narrowed blue eyes.

She put her overnight case down on the gravel and slammed the boot shut, hoping it wouldn’t shoot up again as it often did. It didn’t and she gave a relieved smile as she straightened. ‘Yes, I’m Caroline Day,’ she confirmed breathlessly.

‘Charles Spencer.’ He thrust his hand out at her.

‘I’m pleased to—meet you,’ she faltered in her warm greeting as he barely touched her hand before releasing it again.

‘Come into the house.’ He didn’t return her polite greeting, but bent to pick up her small suitcase. Suddenly he frowned. ‘I had no idea you were so—–young,’ he said bluntly.

Callie held herself back from saying she hadn’t realised he was so old! ‘I’m twenty-two,’ she felt she almost had to defend herself.

‘My dear, in my book that is young.’

Maybe it was to a man of fifty, but plenty of her friends were already married with children of their own. ‘Jeff always said—–’

‘Jeff?’ Sir Charles pounced. ‘Do you mean my brother Jeffrey?’

‘Er—yes. He always said that you’re only as young, or old, as you feel.’

His mouth twisted contemptuously. ‘Looking at you, Jeffrey must have felt very young indeed,’ he drawled.

She didn’t like this man, not his manner towards her, or his derogatory way of talking about Jeff. No matter what their differences, and from Sir Charles’ manner there had to have been a lot, Jeff had never made a single criticism of his brother. Jeff had only ever talked of the good times, of the times when he, Charles, and Cicely were all children.

‘He was always lots of fun,’ she said stiffly, walking through the door the manservant held open for her.

‘Take this upstairs to Miss Day’s room,’ Sir Charles handed her case over as if it had stung him. ‘Come through to the drawing-room, Miss Day, and meet my wife and son.’ He strode forward, pushing open the double oak doors.

So the nephew was here after all. If he was as pompous as his father then this was going to be a really fun weekend!

A woman stood up as they entered the room, or rather, she flowed up, moving with a liquid grace that drew attention to the perfection of her tall figure. She was a beautiful woman, although obviously of middle age, her black hair perfectly coiffured, her beautiful face made up in dark and light shades that gave her an ageless appearance. The grey silk dress she wore looked as if it were real silk. Thank goodness, Callie thought, she had put on something smart herself!

‘My wife Susan,’ Sir Charles introduced needlessly. ‘Susan, this is Miss Day.’

Lady Spencer’s handshake was as fleeting as her husband’s had been, her slender fingers barely touching Callie’s. And had it been her imagination, or had Sir Charles emphasised the ‘this’ in the introduction, almost as if she weren’t what they had been expecting. Maybe they just weren’t used to the lower classes, they didn’t either of them look as if they got off their pedestal very often. No wonder you got away from this lot, Jeff, Callie thought ruefully. They would have suffocated him with their stuffy attitudes and falsely polite manners.

‘Please call me Callie,’ she invited, not one to stand on ceremony, even if they were. ‘Everyone does.’

‘Including—Jeff?’ Sir Charles drawled.

She flushed, although she had no idea why. ‘He never called me anything else.’

‘But your name is Caroline, isn’t it?’ Lady Spencer spoke for the first time, her accent so terribly-terribly English that Callie’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought anyone really spoke like that.

‘Yes, it’s Caroline. But—–’

‘Then that is what we will call you,’ Lady Spencer said dismissively.

Whether you like it or not, Callie thought resignedly. ‘As you wish,’ she shrugged.

‘Would you care for tea?’ the other woman asked languidly.

‘Oh—er—yes. Tea would be lovely.’

She occupied herself with looking around the room while Lady Spencer rang for the tea, guessing the paintings on the wall to be originals, the antique furniture and ornaments all genuine too. The room was exactly what television and films always portrayed for the English gentry, and to Callie it was all like being in some terrible play, with her as the main character, ignorant of the roles of her fellow-actors.

‘Donald is in the study taking a telephone call,’ Lady Susan said in answer to her husband’s question.

Sir Charles’ face darkened. ‘I’ll go and get him.’

Callie was curious about Donald Spencer, wondering what was so terrible about him that James Seymour disliked him. Maybe he grew his hair too long, that was sure to annoy the balding lawyer.

‘Jeffrey was alone in the car at the time of the accident, I believe,’ Lady Spencer interrupted her thoughts.

Pain flickered across her face before she could control it. ‘Yes, he was alone.’ Fun-loving Jeff, who was never alone, who hated to be alone, had been trapped in his car for over an hour before he died; the rescuers had been unable to get to him in time to save him, and his chest had been crushed so that he drowned in his own blood. Callie shuddered with the horror of it. The way Jeff had died often came back to haunt her in horrific nightmares. ‘All alone,’ she repeated harshly.

‘I—–’

The doors swung open and Sir Charles came in, a younger version of himself at his side. Callie looked at Donald Spencer with interest, seeing the youthful handsomeness that had once been Sir Charles’, the only difference being that Donald’s hair was as fair as her own, and there was perhaps a certain weakness about the chin that wasn’t present in the father.

But neither of these men bore any resemblance to Jeff, Jeff of the laughing blue eyes, the unruly dark hair, denims and a casual shirt his usual attire.

Donald Spencer was dressed as formally as his father, and he looked as if he were never dressed any other way. Did no one ever relax in this family?

‘This is my son Donald,’ Sir Charles told her needlessly.

A frown creased her brow. Why was it she had the feeling there should have been a fanfare attached to that announcement?

Donald was looking at her with stunned eyes. ‘You aren’t what I was expecting,’ he blurted out, and received a scowl from his father, a warning look from his mother, and a ruddy hue coloured his cheeks as he muttered an apology.

So she had been right about the weakness about the chin. Donald Spencer was nowhere near as self-confident as his parents. She instantly felt a sympathy for him. ‘You aren’t what I was expecting either,’ she smiled.

‘Did Uncle Jeffrey talk about us, then?’ he wanted to know.

How could she say never? She had had no idea Jeff even had a nephew, let alone who Charlie was. How Sir Charles must have hated being called that. And how Jeff would have loved to taunt him with it! Jeff had loved to tease, had a warped sense of humour that she shared, a sense of humour she hoped was going to get her through this.

‘Sometimes,’ she compromised.

‘But you never felt impelled to meet any of his family?’ once again it was Lady Spencer who asked the probing question.

Callie sensed reprimand, and bristled resentfully. ‘As you never felt compelled,’ she returned waspishly.

The other woman’s mouth twisted mockingly. ‘You are hardly family, Caroline,’ she drawled insultingly.

Callie blanched, the shaft going home. ‘No, I’m not, am I?’ she said stiffly.

Lady Spencer looked down her haughty nose at her. ‘You see, we feel—–’

‘Tea, my dear,’ Sir Charles interrupted as the maid wheeled in the tea-trolley, almost thankful for the interruption, it appeared to Callie.

‘Please sit down, Miss Day,’ Lady Spencer invited graciously as she took charge of the silver teapot. ‘Cream or lemon?’ she looked up to enquire.

A spark of rebellion entered Callie’s eyes, the gold flecks instantly more noticeable. It was obvious that this family thought she was something rather unpleasant that had momentarily entered their lives, and that they also expected her not to even have the social graces.

‘Is it fresh lemon?’ she asked coldly.

Her hostess looked affronted. ‘Of course.’

‘Then I’ll have lemon,’ she accepted abruptly, moving back from her perched position on the edge of the chair to lean back against the soft leather, so that Lady Spencer had to bend forward to give her the steaming cup of tea. ‘Thank you.’ Her tone was still curt.

‘Sandwich, Miss Day?’ Donald Spencer held out a plate to her, tiny squares of bread arranged invitingly on the delicate china. ‘These are salmon, and these cucumber,’ he pointed out.

Of course, what else? ‘Thanks.’ She took two of the tiny sandwiches, wondering if she was actually supposed to eat them. No one really lived like this, did they? It was so unreal, so—so pompous.

‘We were talking about the accident, Caroline.’ Lady Spencer spoke again, looking at her enquiringly from beneath arched brows as Callie choked on her sandwich. ‘Donald, pat her on the back—gently!’ she instructed after the first painful thump landed in the middle of Callie’s back.

‘I’m all right,’ she choked as Donald went to hit her again, sitting on the arm of her chair to do so. She blinked back the tears and swallowed hard. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

Lady Spencer nodded regally. ‘Donald, don’t sit on the arm of the chair like that,’ she said waspishly.

He at once moved back to his own armchair. Just like an obedient child, Callie thought with a shake of her head. Donald must be about thirty, his late twenties at least, and yet he still seemed to live here with his parents, something she found unbelievable for a man. Perhaps he had a home of his own in London, was only here for the weekend as she was, although she doubted it. Donald had the look of a devoted son, too much so in her opinion.

It had been the mention of Jeff’s accident that had sparked off her choking and coughing fit. Why did this woman persist in talking about it? Jeff was dead, no amount of talking could bring him back, as could no amount of crying, although when she was alone she couldn’t seem to stop the latter.

Her head went back, her chin held at a proud angle. ‘We weren’t talking about the accident, Lady Spencer,’ she said distantly, ‘you were. I really have nothing to say about it. Jeff is dead, that’s all there is to say.’

‘Jeff is Jeffrey,’ Sir Charles told his family dryly.

Callie’s eyes flashed. ‘I never knew him as anything other than Jeff.’

‘Of course you didn’t, my dear,’ he soothed. ‘Perhaps you would like to go to your room and rest, you look a little pale.’

‘The mourning colour always does that to blondes, darling,’ his wife told him in a bored voice.

Callie flushed. ‘I didn’t wear this suit because I’m in mourning.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Lady Spencer said tartly. ‘We would hardly expect you to mourn for Jeffrey. He’s left you a very rich young woman, why should you mourn him?’

‘Susan—–’

‘Perhaps I should go to my room.’ Callie stood up jerkily. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’

‘Donald, take Miss Day up to her room,’ Lady Spencer commanded irrritably.

‘Of course.’ He stood obediently to his feet, moving to open the door for her.

Callie walked out without saying another word. She had expected opposition, even resentment from this family, but she hadn’t expected open dislike. But why hadn’t she? She was an intruder, a usurper. James Seymour had explained that the other sixty-two and a half per cent of Spencer Plastics was owned by the family—and Lady Spencer had already told her that she certainly wasn’t that!

‘Mother doesn’t always mean things the way they sound,’ Donald spoke suddenly at her side, more relaxed now that he was away from his parents’ domination.

Callie looked at him with new eyes, seeing the rather pleasant features, the friendly blue eyes. And away from his parents he didn’t seem weak at all, his lighter personality was no longer overshadowed by them.

But he didn’t know his mother very well if he really didn’t think she had meant that remark about Jeff leaving her a rich young woman. She was under no such illusions about Lady Spencer, she had meant every word exactly as it had been said—bitchily!

But the truth couldn’t be denied, Jeff had left her very rich—if she dared to accept what James Seymour had told her about Jeff’s will. Up until today she really hadn’t thought it could be true, was sure they would find it was all a mistake, and yet now she had to believe it, the Spencers’ resentment had made it so. She needed time alone to adjust to this new sensation, to accept that she really was as rich as James Seymour had said she was.

‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ she answered Donald blandly. ‘My coming here has been—a surprise to you all.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed truthfully. ‘It never occurred to us that Uncle Jeffrey would—Oh well, it’s done now.’

‘Yes,’ she answered huskily. ‘Yes, it’s done now.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean—–’ His cheeks flooded with colour, made to look even worse on his normally pale cheeks.

‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ she squeezed his arm in sympathy. ‘Thank you for showing me to my room.’

He smiled. ‘My pleasure,’ he pushed the bedroom door open before turning to her. ‘You really aren’t what we were expecting, you know.’

Callie quirked an eyebrow, her curiosity aroused. ‘And just what were you expecting?’

‘Oh, someone older, more—more—–’

‘Sophisticated and money-grasping?’ she finished softly, walking into the bedroom and throwing her clutch-bag down on the bed, not even sparing a glance for the beautifully furnished room she was to sleep in tonight.

‘No—–’

She gave a tight smile. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t fall into the right category, Donald. Maybe I could work at it?’

‘No, please—–’

‘I’m sorry,’ she sat down heavily on the bed. ‘This meeting has been as trying for me as it has for you.’ She put a hand up to her aching temple. ‘Now I really would like to rest.’

He took her hint to leave. ‘Dinner is at eight o’clock. Shall I call for you?’

It would mean she didn’t have to walk into the midst of the lions’ den on her own. ‘I’d like that,’ she accepted gratefully.

‘Good,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

Callie lay back on the bed once she was alone, staring up at the ornate ceiling. With Jeff at her side she might have got through this, alone she had no defences. But if Jeff had been alive she would never have come here, would never have been allowed through the doors! Oh, Jeff, what have you done to me? she groaned, turning her face into the pillow and crying for her loss.

She must have actually fallen asleep, for the sun was just going down when she at last opened her eyes. She sat up groggily, pushing her hair from her eyes and looking around her dazedly. The curtains were still drawn back, the last of evening’s light fading. Jeff had always liked sunrise and sunset, they were his favourite times of day, and the two of them had often shared those times together.

She hadn’t slept well since Jeff had died, had missed his presence in the flat, finding herself surrounded by the memories there. Maybe she should move, try to forget, and yet she had been loath to do that, to leave the memories behind. Maybe one day, when she was ready to let the memories go. But not yet, not yet …

Her suit was badly creased after she had slept in it, and she hung it up in the wardrobe, seeing that the dress and trousers she had brought with her were already in there, her shoes laid out neatly on the floor, the empty suitcase beside them. A search of the dressing-table drawers found her clean underwear, silky pantyhose, pink lacy panties and matching bra, and she didn’t like the idea of some unknown person sorting through her more intimate clothing, it was like an invasion of her privacy. She had packed and unpacked her own clothing since she had been on a school trip when she was ten years old, and she didn’t like the fact that someone else had done it for her now. She had always been an independent, self-reliant person, and she doubted she would ever want that to change. Even if she was supposedly rich now! She wasn’t going to let any of this change her life, and she certainly didn’t intend to give up her private life to an army of servants.

Her dress was a deep, rich brown velvet, making her eyes appear the same way, giving her skin a honey-tone, the halter-neckline showing a large expanse of her flesh, the straight style of the skirt showing her slender curves to advantage.

When Donald knocked on the door for her she looked cool and attractive, and saw his eyes deepen in appreciation as his gaze ran from the top of her golden head to the tip of her tiny feet.

He looked very handsome himself in a black dinner suit, his shirt snowy white, his short hair brushed neatly away from his face. He really was the most innocuous-looking individual, and Callie couldn’t for the life of her imagine what it was James Seymour disliked about him.

The two older members of the Spencer family were already in the lounge when she entered with Donald. Lady Spencer’s peacock-blue full-length gown gave her a more regal look than before, and Sir Charles’ black dinner suit was as well cut as his son’s.

Dinner was a very strained affair, with the four of them making polite conversation, no mention being made of the reason Callie was here. By the end of the meal her head ached with the effort of trying to enjoy the meal and look relaxed, when all she really wanted to do was get away from here, go back to London and forget she had eyer met Jeff’s snooty relatives. Maybe if his sister Cissy had been here things might have been easier; Jeff had always spoken of his sister with affection.

Coffee in the lounge was even more of a strain; the conversation suddenly seemed to dry up completely.

Callie put her cup back on the silver tray. ‘I—I think I’ll go to bed. I have a headache,’ she told them truthfully.

‘Nonsense,’ Lady Spencer said briskly. ‘Fresh air is the best cure for a headache. Donald, take Caroline for a walk in the garden.’

Her eyes widened. Being alone with Donald Spencer was the last thing she had in mind for getting rid of the throb at her temples. ‘Perhaps a couple of aspirin …’ she began.

‘Not when you’ve been drinking wine,’ the other woman dismissed. ‘Fresh air, that’s what you need. Donald!’ she prompted her son sharply.

He looked as reluctant as Callie felt! ‘I—Of course,’ he agreed instantly. ‘Caroline?’

‘It really is too chilly an evening—–’

‘Get Caroline my jacket, Charles,’ Lady Spencer instructed her husband.

Callie knew when she was defeated, and gave in gracefully to the dictates of her hostess. Lady Spencer appeared to her rather like a puppeteer, and when she pulled the strings they all jumped into action.

Lady Spencer’s ‘jacket’ turned out to be a mink, and Callie felt revulsion for the article as Sir Charles slipped it about her shoulders. She had always hated the breeding and killing of animals just to provide a woman with the prestige of owning a fur coat, not even wanting to think how many mink had been killed to make up this jacket. It made her feel nauseous to wear it!

She had been right, the evening was chill, and yet as soon as she could she took the jacket from about her shoulders, preferring to carry it than feel it against her skin.

‘You’ll catch a chill,’ Donald warned as they walked through the heavily scented rose garden at the side of the house, a single light illuminating their way.

‘I’m fine.’ She repressed a shiver, knowing he wouldn’t understand her aversion to the coat.

‘Headache going?’

He sounded as if he really cared, and she smiled at him. ‘Yes, it’s going,’ which, miraculously, it was.

‘You’re very beautiful, Caroline,’ he remarked suddenly.

The remark was as unexpected as it was surprising. This family, not one of them, had reason to like her, to even be polite to her, and yet Donald had gone out of his way to be nice to her. She liked him if only for that reason. ‘Thank you, Donald,’ she accepted huskily.

‘I can’t understand—–’ He broke off, frowning his consternation.

Callie gave a light laugh. ‘Can’t understand why you think I’m beautiful? Or is it something else you don’t understand?’ she looked at him curiously.

‘Something else,’ he muttered.

‘Like what?’ she teased.

‘I—Did you really care for Uncle Jeffrey?’

She flushed. So they were back to the subject of Jeff and whether or not she was entitled to what he had chosen to leave her. ‘Yes, I cared for him,’ she said stiffly. ‘Very much, as it happens.’

‘You loved him?’

‘There was nothing not to love,’ she shrugged. ‘Did you ever meet him?’

Donald shook his head. ‘I was only three when he left.’

‘And you’ve never seen any of his work?’

‘Work?’ Donald frowned. ‘What work?’

Heavens, these people didn’t know Jeff had been a sculptor, that he could bring clay alive beneath his gentle fingertips! She had always thought Jeff the most uncomplicated, giving man she had ever known, and it came as a shock to her to find he had kept secrets from everyone.

‘Your uncle was Jeff Thornton.’

Donald still looked puzzled. ‘Jeff who?’

Callie sighed. ‘Jeff Thornton. He had a very successful exhibition of his sculptures about a year ago.’ It hadn’t exactly made him a fortune, as Jeff had joked, he wouldn’t get rich from it, but it had given his individual talent the recognition it deserved.

The way that Jeff had struggled and slaved to get that exhibition made her respect and love for him deepen. With the money he had, his influential family, he could have commanded that exhibition. Instead he had chosen to assume a pseudonym, to get recognition on his own talent.

Donald’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’m sure my parents didn’t know about that.’

‘That he was a sculptor, or that he was successful at it?’ she taunted.

He flushed at the rebuke in her voice. ‘Both. I—You see, Uncle Jeffrey walked out years ago. None of us really knew what he was doing. The only contact we ever had from him was through our lawyer.’

‘James Seymour?’

‘You’ve met him, haven’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ she nodded. ‘I’ve met him.’ She repressed a shiver. ‘Could we go back inside now?’

‘Of course,’ he was instantly solicitous. ‘How’s the headache?’

‘Gone;’ she lied, handing him the jacket as soon as they were inside the house. ‘Would you please excuse me to your parents, I’d like to go straight to bed.’ Before she collapsed with the strain of this weekend.

‘Certainly. Goodnight, Caroline.’

She returned the politeness, but she had the feeling that the night was going to be far from good. There had been too much talk of Jeff today for the nightmares not to return.

She awoke in a state of panic in the early hours of the morning, a fine sheen of perspiration on her brow, her hands clenching and unclenching at her side. God, she thought, would she ever lose the guilt, the knowledge that Jeff had been picking her up from work, as her own car was in the garage being serviced, that he wouldn’t have been driving down that particular road at that particular time if it hadn’t been for her.

She had waited outside her office building for over half an hour, deciding that Jeff must have become immersed in his work and forgotten about her. He often did that, and it was no hardship to her to get the bus. It was only when she arrived home and found a policeman waiting for her that she realised she wouldn’t be able to tease Jeff about his bad memory, that she would never be able to tease him again …

She went down to breakfast the next morning pale and heavy-eyed, and the lemon trousers and blouse she wore made her appear paler than ever.

Only Donald was in the breakfast-room when she went in to have her coffee; the thought of food was unpalatable to her. He stood up to pull her chair out for her, once again wearing well-cut trousers and a contrasting Norfolk jacket. ‘Mother always has breakfast in her bedroom,’ he excused her absence. ‘And Father is out riding.’

Callie’s eyebrows rose. ‘You have horses?’ She could at least talk to Donald, feeling only relief at his parents’ absence, knowing that they still hadn’t discussed the real reason she was here, that before she left this afternoon the question of her business involvement with this family would have to be talked about in more detail. And she was dreading it, knowing their resentment was justified.

‘We have stables out at the back of the house,’ Donald answered her. ‘You wouldn’t have been able to see them yesterday when you arrived. Do you ride?’

‘Only in cars,’ she answered teasingly.

Donald obviously lacked a sense of humour, and took her seriously. ‘Then I’ll take you out for a drive this morning.’

‘Oh no, really—–’

‘I insist. Mother won’t leave her room until almost lunch-time anyway, and I have no idea when Father will be back.’

He seemed to genuinely want to take her, and so with some reluctance she agreed, going upstairs to collect her jacket before going outside to meet him. He had driven the Jaguar up in front of the house and came round to open the door for her.

Berkshire really was a beautiful county. A lot of it still owned by the Crown, and what wasn’t was mainly owned by people almost as rich. Some of the houses they passed were magnificent, although the Spencers’ was still the most beautiful she had seen.

They stopped for a drink in a pub, greeted by several of Donald’s friends, all of them as upper-crust as Donald himself. No doubt ‘Mother’ wouldn’t approve of anyone who wasn’t, in fact Callie felt sure she wouldn’t.

That was why it came as something of a surprise to her when Donald asked if he could take her out one night. ‘I work for Spencer head office in town,’ he explained. ‘So it would be a simple matter to call for you one evening.’

‘Yes, but then you would have the long drive back—–’

‘The family has an apartment in town, I often use it.’

Now what did she say? Donald Spencer appeared to be pleasant enough, a little insipid for her tastes, but otherwise nice. But he didn’t appeal to her, blond men never had for some reason, and after living with Jeff the last four years, loving every moment of it, it was going to take a special man to interest her. Donald wasn’t that man.

‘I’m really not sure—–’

‘Just dinner, Caroline,’ he encouraged, his hand covering hers.

What harm could dinner do? ‘All right, Donald,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘I’ll leave you my number and you can call me.’

‘And you’ll come out with me?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at her wrist-watch. ‘Now I think we should be getting back, I wouldn’t want to upset your mother by being late for lunch.’

Callie was able to eat her lunch, the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, safe in the knowledge that in an hour or two she would be able to leave. The sooner the better as far as she was concerned. Sir Charles and Lady Spencer had been overly polite during lunch, and she knew that the talk they had brought her here for couldn’t be far off.

‘Perhaps Caroline would like to see the roses in the daylight, Donald,’ his mother suggested once they had retired to the drawing-room.

‘Would you?’ he asked eagerly.

Anything to get away from his parents. ‘I’ll love it,’ Callie nodded.

It really was a spectacular garden; many of the roses were still in bloom, their aroma heady, their colours a delight to the eye, as was their perfect shape.

Donald laughed when Callie asked if his mother tended the roses herself. ‘As far as gardens go my mother is a looker, not a doer. She prefers organising garden-parties, things like that,’ he added as if to make up for the slight he had given his mother.

‘I’m sure—–’

‘Telephone, Mr Donald.’ The butler had quietly appeared at their side.

A look of irritation crossed Donald’s face and he turned to look down at Callie. ‘I’m sorry about this, but I shouldn’t be long,’ he apologised.

‘I’ll be fine out here,’ she assured him.

In fact it was a relief to be on her own. She found the Spencer family, this whole situation, completely overwhelming. Maybe if she had been given the time to think about it she might even have found a way not to come here.

After about ten minutes, when Donald still hadn’t returned, she decided to go back into the house, the beauty of the garden being exhausted. As she approached the open french doors into the lounge she could hear the sound of Donald’s voice, and hesitated as she realised he was still on the telephone. Then she wasn’t hesitating at all, but was listening avidly; the burden of the conversation seeming to be about her!

‘Because of Caroline, darling,’ Donald was explaining. ‘You know I don’t prefer her to you. No, I don’t want to marry her, I want to marry you, but—No, don’t hang up,’ he begged in a panicked voice. ‘Darling, please, try to be reasonable. It just means we’ll have to wait a while. Until after the divorce. Well, I know it could take years, but—–’

Callie was no longer listening, but slumped down on to the garden seat. The reason Donald had been so nice to her this weekend was suddenly clear to her. They were actually intending to marry her off to him. And divorce them too!

Heavens, they must really want those shares badly. Any guilt she might have felt about Jeff leaving her the shares was now erased. People like the Spencers didn’t deserve to have anything that had been Jeff’s. She had come here willing to be polite to them because they were Jeff’s family, might even have been prepared to arrange for Sir Charles to take the shares off her. But not now.

She knew Donald didn’t have the deviousness, the intelligence to come up with an idea like this, it had to have been his parents’ plan. Besides, he was in love with someone else.

He had finished on the telephone now, hanging up hastily as his mother spoke to him.

‘Who was that?’ she demanded sharply.

‘Just a friend,’ he dismissed shakily.

‘Are you sure, Donald?’

‘Of course I am, Mother,’ he said nervously.

‘And where is Caroline?’

‘I left her in the garden when I came in to answer the telephone.’

‘And how are things going with her?’

‘Well—I hope.’

‘You only hope?’ his mother echoed scathingly. ‘You aren’t pushy enough, Donald,’ she tutted. ‘If she doesn’t like you I don’t know what your father will say—or what he will do,’ she added threateningly. ‘We really can’t have someone like that at Spencer Plastics.’

‘But you’re intending to make her my wife!’ Donald groaned.

‘Only for a short time, dear,’ his mother dismissed.

‘But—–’

‘Now don’t be tiresome, dear. Your father will be very pleased with you if you do this for him. And it won’t be for ever. You have to admit she’s prettier than you had imagined.’

‘Well … yes. But—–’

‘Really, Donald, you agreed to this when we discussed it earlier in the week. Now go and get Caroline. She’s been left alone too long.’

By the time Donald found her Callie had regained her composure. She was back in the rose garden so that he shouldn’t realise she had overheard his telephone call and his conversation with his mother. But she was able to look at them with new eyes, to see the greed in all their faces. No wonder they hadn’t wanted to discuss the shares—they didn’t need to, they intended getting their hands on them when she married Donald. Whoever had thought of such an idea must have a warped mind.

And to imagine she would actually fall for Donald, that was an insult to her intelligence!

CHAPTER TWO

SHE had calmed down somewhat by the time she got home, although she was no less determined to make the Spencers pay for their cold-blooded scheme.

She persuaded Bill, Marilyn’s husband, to deal with the details of her side of Jeff’s will. He was a very good lawyer himself, and he wouldn’t be intimidated by James Seymour or the Spencer family.

With that worry off her mind Callie’s time was free to accept Donald Spencers’ invitation. But if he thought she was going to be an easy conquest he was going to be out of luck. She would make sure he took her to all the most expensive places in town. The Spencer family had angered her, and Donald was going to know all about dating Callie Day!

He might be weak and & little stupid where his parents were concerned, but she had to admire his determination—or maybe it was just fear of his parents? Whatever the season, Donald didn’t object to anything she said or did.

And during the next month she said a lot of wild things, did a lot of wild things, and she made Donald do them with her, no matter how mad they were. And some of them were very extreme. She made him take off his shoes and socks one night, roll up his trousers, and paddle in the fountain with her in Trafalgar Square. Another time she took him to a really weird party, watching him squirm as an extrovert artist tried to seduce him up to her studio. And then there had been the time she made him take her to a football match, watching how awkward he felt at the disgusting language and loud behaviour of some of the rougher spectators.

Donald suffered through it all without demur, even during the modern play Callie insisted she had to see—even though she didn’t understand a word of it! Most of it seemed to have sexual undertones, and she could see Donald becoming more and more uncomfortable by the minute, her decision to leave changed as she made him sit through it to the embarrassing end.

But nothing put him off, and by the end of four weeks she was beginning to tire of the game. The stuffy party he had brought her to tonight was the end as far as she was concerned. When he took her home she intended telling him she didn’t want to see him again.

At least that way she wouldn’t have to suffer through another goodnight kiss! How Donald had reached the age of twenty-eight without even learning how to kiss properly she didn’t know, but somehow he had managed it, and his wet, soggy kisses were totally uninspiring.

The party was at last beginning to warm up. A lot of the older people were leaving, and the younger ones starting to let their hair down a little. Even Donald was dancing rather enthusiastically with a tall, busty blonde, for once not fawning over Callie trying to grant her every wish. When he had time to meet the girl he was really in love with she had no idea, since he had spent most of his evenings with her this last month. Perhaps one day Donald would realise there was more to life than pleasing his parents—especially at twenty-eight!

She took advantage of his preoccupation to absent herself, leaving the noisy party to go into one of the side rooms, to find herself in the peace and tranquillity of a library, its walls lined with books, books her fingers ached to touch.

She looked along the shelves, finding most of the classics, and took down her own particular favourite, leafing through the pages.

‘I see I’m not the only one who needed to escape,’ drawled a husky male voice.

Callie turned almost guiltily, her eyes widening as she looked at the man who had interrupted her solitude—tall, with dark, almost black hair, a rivetingly handsome face, the dark dinner suit perfectly tailored, as was the white hand-made silk shirt. She looked up into darkly grey eyes, and wondered why she hadn’t noticed him at the party earlier—he was hardly the type to be overlooked.

He closed the door behind him, instantly shutting out the noise of the party, and walked across the room with long, relaxed strides, looking at the book in her hand. ‘Jane Eyre,’ he mused. ‘You like the story?’

His voice was deep and well modulated. ‘Yes,’ she blushed her confusion. ‘Have you read it?’

He smiled, instantly looking younger than the mid-thirties she had guessed him to be, his teeth very white against his tanned skin, looking ruggedly attractive this close to rather than handsome. ‘I think everyone should read Jane Eyre at least once,’ he drawled.

Callie held the book in front of her almost defensively, something about this man warning her he was dangerous. ‘Which means you have?’ she persisted.

‘Twice, actually.’

‘So you liked it.’

‘I think Rochester could have been a little kinder to Jane.’ He shrugged. ‘But if he had been perhaps she wouldn’t have fallen for him. You women are reputed to fall for the bastards of life.’

Callie flushed her resentment of such a generalisation. ‘We can’t pick and choose whom we love—neither men nor women. And Mr Rochester wasn’t kind to Jane because he was conscious of his mad wife.’

The man sat down in one of the armchairs, looking very relaxed. ‘If he had been that conscious of her he would have sent her away as soon as he realised he was becoming attracted to her.’

Her mouth twisted. ‘Unfortunately most humans aren’t that self-sacrificing.’

He eyed her curiously for several seconds, obviously liking what he saw. ‘Before we come to blows perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Logan Carrington,’ he introduced softly.

‘Callie Day,’ she returned stiffly.

‘I’ve upset you,’ he said ruefully. ‘I didn’t mean to. Jane Eyre is a favourite of yours, hmm?’

‘Yes.’ She sighed, beginning to smile at her intensity. ‘Sorry,’ she shrugged, ‘they say you should never get into a discussion about religion or politics, but with me it’s books. Everyone gets something different out of them.’

‘Truce?’

‘Truce.’ She smiled openly now, very attractive in a dress the brown of her eyes, her hair made to look even blonder against its dark colour.

He sat forward to put his hand out to her. ‘Friends?’

She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before placing her hand in his. ‘Friends,’ she agreed huskily.

The touch of his hand against hers was only fleeting, and yet her ringers seemed to tingle from the contact before she hastily thrust her hand behind her back and placed the book back on the shelf. She turned to find him still watching her.

‘Do I have a smut on my nose or something?’ she challenged, not being used to being stared at in this way.

Logan Carrington smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Nothing like that,’ he shook his head. ‘I was just wondering why a beautiful girl like you would shut herself away in here when the party is out there.’

‘Maybe for the same reason you’ve come in here,’ she returned, a glow coming to her cheeks at being called beautiful.

‘I doubt it,’ he grimaced. ‘Unless you have secretary trouble?’

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I am a secretary.’

Much to Marilyn’s disgust she had kept on with her job, sure that the bubble of her sudden wealth would burst and leave her penniless. She could do without being jobless too. She had been brought up with a sense of values, of having to work for what she had, and it was going to take months, not weeks, to accept that she no longer had to work. Besides, the question of Jeff’s will hadn’t been settled yet, and she didn’t intend spending money she didn’t even have.

‘You are?’ Logan Carrington looked interested.

‘And very happily employed, thank you,’ she told him hastily.

‘Oh.’

‘If your girl is incompetent——’

‘She isn’t,’ he made a face. ‘She’s very good at the job.’

Callie sat down, looking puzzled. ‘Then I don’t understand your problem.’

‘She’s new, my last secretary has left to have a baby. Her replacement is—well, she—she just isn’t suitable.’

The uncomfortableness of his expression told a story in itself. ‘She’s attracted to you,’ Callie guessed with amusement.

‘Yes,’ he admitted with a grimace.

She had trouble holding back a smile. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that a drawback.’

‘Except that I don’t get involved with my secretaries.’

‘Ah, now that is a problem.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you mocking me?’

‘Me?’ she gave him an innocently wide-eyed look. ‘Of course not.’

‘You are,’ he gave a reluctant smile.

‘Yes,’ she smiled back.

‘So tell me, why are you hiding in here?’

‘I’m not hiding!’ She was irritated by his choice of word. ‘But I am bored and—and tired.’

‘Tired?’ He raised one dark eyebrow.

‘I haven’t been sleeping very well lately—and not for the reason you’re thinking,’ she added sharply at his speculative look. ‘Do you have any idea of the pain babies suffer while they’re teething?’ she attacked.

‘Your baby?’

‘Of course not! I’m not married.’

His brows rose. ‘I didn’t think that was compulsory nowadays.’

‘In my book it is,’ Callie told him waspishly. ‘The baby lives next door. And he’s going through agony.’

Poor Marilyn had been pacing the floor day and night with Paul the last few weeks, and it was starting to tell on her, dark circles appearing under her eyes. And Callie knew she didn’t look much better. The walls of the flat were not exactly soundproof, although not for anything would she let Marilyn and Bill know of her own disturbed nights.

‘I thought they had creams and things for that nowadays,’ Logan Carrington spoke now.

Her eyes widened. ‘They do. But I have to admit to being surprised that you know about things like that. Do you have children of your own?’

‘I’m not married,’ he gave her own answer.

Well, at least she wasn’t lightly flirting with a married man! ‘Neices and nephews, then?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m an only child. But I told you my secretary left to have a baby.’

‘And she told you about teething creams?’ It seemed a strange subject to discuss with one’s boss.

He grinned. ‘Only when I teased her about all the sleepless nights she was going to have.’

‘Typical male!’ Callie tried to sound annoyed, and knew she had failed miserably as Logan began to chuckle. ‘I’ll have you know your attitude is chauvinistic,’ she added crossly.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have to sound so—so proud of it?’

‘Are you a Woman’s Libber?’

He made it sound like something insulting, and Callie wished she could have said yes. ‘No,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘I admit to liking equal opportunities, but I like to be treated as a woman.’

‘Protected?’

‘I suppose so,’ she nodded.

‘You want it all ways,’ he drawled mockingly.

‘Yes!’ her eyes flashed.

‘As a man, I can tell you we like to protect. I also like a woman to have a mind of her own. We humans are a mass of contradictions, aren’t we?’

‘We’ve also discussed some very unusual subjects for two people that just met!’ Callie had suddenly realised the strangeness of the situation. She and Logan Carrington had only met fifteen minutes ago, and yet they had been talking, arguing, like old friends. He was a man she found it easy to talk to, and she was aware of talking to him as she and Jeff used to talk, lightly arguing, airing different points of view. After four months it felt good to be with someone she could be like this with.

‘Maybe we could discuss some more unusual subjects,’ Logan suggested huskily. ‘Maybe over dinner one night in the week?’

She was tempted—oh, how she was tempted! But she didn’t know this man, no matter how relaxed she felt with him. She knew nothing about him except that she liked talking to him, liked the challenge of their conversation.

‘I’d really like it, Callie,’ he prompted.

She stood up. ‘I should get back to the party.’

Logan stood up too, suddenly very serious, his expression intent. ‘Dinner, Callie. Please?’

He didn’t look as if it were a word that came easily to him. ‘Maybe you could call me …’

‘Give me your number,’ he nodded.

She watched while he wrote it down, the pen he used obviously gold. He looked as if he might be a wealthy man; he had an air about him that spoke of authority.

She gave him the number, not really expecting to hear from him again, sure that he wouldn’t even remember the meeting tomorrow, then watched as he moved across the outer room with lithe grace to join a tall willowy redhead, whispering something in the woman’s ear before they made their excuses and left. The woman had been beautiful, and their relationship was obviously intimate. No, Logan Carrington wouldn’t remember her tomorrow—but Callie knew she would remember him!

‘There you are!’ Donald pounced. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

‘I think I’d like to leave now, Donald,’ she told him coolly.

‘That’s why I’ve been looking for you. It’s late, I have to work in the morning.’

What a husband he would make! ‘No, I can’t make love to you tonight, I have to go to work in the morning’! He didn’t know the meaning of the word spontaneity.

As she had known, he didn’t take the news that she didn’t want to see him again very well. But she didn’t tell him the real reason she had been stringing him on this last month—let the Spencers stew for a while! Bill was looking into Spencer Plastics for her, and by the time she attended the shareholder’s meeting next month she should have a fair idea of what was going on. She would knock down their marriage plans at the same time.

The telephone was ringing as she let herself into the flat, and she rushed to pick it up, the silence from the adjoining flat telling her that so far Marilyn was having an undisturbed night.

‘Yes?’ she hissed into the receiver.

‘Callie?’

She instantly recognised the voice. ‘Heavens, Logan, it’s almost one o’clock in the morning!’

‘Am I disturbing you?’ His voice had cooled.

‘I just told you, it’s almost one o’clock in the—–’

‘I meant, are you alone?’

‘Of course I—Logan!’ She was indignant as she realised what he was implying.

‘Ssh, you’ll wake the neighbours,’ he chided mockingly.

‘I should think you’ve already done that,’ she snapped, although there was still no sound from next door.

‘You told me to call you—–’

‘Yes. But I didn’t mean now, tonight—–’

“‘Never put off until tomorrow what you can do—–"’

“‘Today”,’ she finished the quote dryly. ‘What happened to your friend?’

‘Danielle?’

‘If that’s her name, yes.’

‘As far as I know she’s at home safely tucked up in bed,’ he taunted.

‘And why aren’t you with her?’

‘What makes you think I’m not?’

‘I—Are you?’ She blushed, even though he couldn’t see her reaction to his teasing.

‘No,’ he chuckled. ‘Believe me, she wouldn’t let me call another woman while I was in her bed! And what about your partner for the evening, where’s he?’

‘On his way home to be safely tucked up in bed, I should think,’ Callie answered mischievously.

‘And why isn’t he with you?’

‘Because I always sleep alone,’ she told him waspishly.

‘Always?’

‘Yes!’

‘But you don’t always eat alone?’

‘No …’

‘Dinner tomorrow, then?’

It was like being taken along in the path of a tidal wave, and Callie rebelled at this management of her life. ‘Not tomorrow,’ she refused. ‘I already have a date,’ she invented.

‘Break it.’

‘I most certainly will not!’

‘The neighbours, Callie,’ he once again taunted.

‘Damn the neighbours—–’

‘Tut, tut, tut, you swear too.’

‘Too?’ she echoed sharply.

‘As well as talk to strange men at parties,’ he mocked.

‘As I remember it, that strange man spoke to me first!’

‘Touché,’ he chuckled. ‘How about dinner on Monday?’

‘I—–’

‘Tuesday?’

I—–’

‘Wednesday?’

‘I was about to say Monday would be fine,’ she put in quickly before he got to Thursday, deciding that Monday didn’t seem too eager. ‘Although your calendar seems to be very empty for such a—–’ she broke off as she realised what she had been about to say. Logan Carrington needed no extra boosts to his ego from her!

‘Such a …?’ he prompted softly.

‘Such a conceited man,’ she snapped.

He chuckled. ‘Tell me your address, Callie, and I’ll let you get to bed.’

She told him, wondering if he rushed all his women like this. She was beginning to feel decidedly overwhelmed. So much for him forgetting all about her!

Marilyn and Bill spent the day at Bill’s mother’s the next day, so Callie didn’t get chance to discuss Logan Carrington with her friend. She didn’t quite know how to explain him to herself, she just knew she had been instantly attracted. And after Donald’s inane conversation for a month it would be nice to talk to someone who obviously read as much as she did, a man of high intelligence who amused and challenged her at the same time.