Act of Betrayal
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

THE traffic was heavy all the way, but that was how it always turned out when you were in a hurry, Laura thought, drumming her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

She was running late already, but perhaps the meeting at the works would go over time. It was certainly important enough to do so.

She glanced at her watch, with a brief sigh. She wished Uncle Martin had given her more notice, but from his secretary’s agitated call, she’d gathered he’d had very little warning himself. And supplying delicious lunches for important clients at the works was part of her job, as well as a challenge, so she couldn’t complain. Besides, she remembered herself drily, clients rarely came quite as important as Tristan Construction.

The traffic lights changed, and she let in the clutch and drove on towards the industrial estate where Caswell Carpets had their main works and offices.

She ran through the menu in her mind as she drove. Watercress soup to start, followed by pheasant in a red wine sauce, all plucked from the freezer and packed in cartons in the boot. To follow, the strawberries she’d just collected from the local market garden served with crème Chantilly.

She hoped the Tristan directors would be suitably impressed. She also wished they’d chosen some other day for their visit. She’d had plans of her own, including a visit to the hairdressers, she thought, giving herself a swift disparaging glance in the driving mirror. She could probably have managed it too if Celia had only agreed to give her a hand with the lunch, but she had learned a long time ago that her cousin’s model-girl prettiness concealed a selfishness which more than matched the charm she worked at so determinedly.

Clad in brief shorts and a minimal suntop, Celia had been bound for the garden to sunbathe, and she’d refused, smilingly but totally, to accompany Laura to the works instead.

‘Honestly, sweetie, I’d be less than useless,’ she’d protested. ‘That microwave oven you persuaded Daddy to install frightens me to death. Anyway, you were only going to have your hair trimmed, and you can do that any time.’

‘Of course,’ Laura said without irony. ‘I just thought you might want to help, as there’s a panic on.’

Celia waved a languid hand. ‘There’s always a panic on.’

‘Perhaps,’ Laura said rather drily. ‘But this time it’s Tristan Construction.’

‘Am I supposed to know who they are?’

Laura gave her a resigned look. ‘I think you should,’ she said crisply. ‘They’re only the customers who could stop Caswells sliding any further into the red this year. They’ve got two major building projects in this area—offices and flats—and the carpeting contracts are up for grabs. Naturally, your father wants first grab.’

Celia’s lack of concern about the fluctuating fortunes of the company never ceased to surprise her. Or was her cousin deliberately closing her eyes to the present difficulties Caswells was suffering, she wondered. Celia didn’t like unpleasant facts, and never had. To her Caswells was as firm and unshakable as the Rock of Gibraltar, and she preferred to ignore the fact that other companies, many of them older established than Caswells, and leaders in their fields, had gone to the wall in the present recession.

Laura supposed her cousin couldn’t wholly be blamed. She had always been encouraged to think of herself as a rich man’s daughter. Uncle Martin had indulged her since the day she was born, and the only thing she had done since leaving school that even approached work was redesigning the interior decor of the large house they all lived in. Celia’s tastes leaned towards the opulent, to Laura’s regret, but Uncle Martin regarded his home as a showcase for the company, and seemed well pleased with her efforts.

‘Then I hope he gets it,’ Celia yawned. ‘Feed them well, won’t you, darling. Oh—and Laurie, you will change, won’t you? Put on something decent?’

‘I don’t actually wait on table, you know.’ Laura felt a little curl of anger deep inside her, as she glanced down at her simple denim skirt and short sleeved top. ‘I’m not on public display to the customers. I spend all my time in the kitchen.’

Celia gave a graceful shrug. ‘Just as you please. But isn’t it enough to behave like a drudge? You really don’t have to look like one as well.’

Her words still rankled with Laura as she turned into Caswells main gate, returning the salute from the security man.

She knew she was being a fool to allow it, especially when she should be inured to Celia’s little ways by now, and particularly when her affection and gratitude to her uncle made her suffer them in silence anyway. He had been endlessly kind to her, giving her a home during that most difficult part of her young life when her parents had been killed in a motor crash in France.

And later, when her life fell apart again, he’d helped her to pick up the pieces, and she would always be grateful for that. Always. And if it meant tolerating Celia’s waspishness and selfishness, then she would do so.

Nevertheless, she had changed into a neat navy cotton shirtwaister, despising herself for doing it even as she fastened the buttons.

She pulled into the executives’ car park, and braked, swearing mildly under her breath. She had no official parking space, but a place was always left for her, and today it was occupied by a long sleek Jaguar.

Laura, staring frustratedly at it through the windscreen, supposed it must belong to one of the Tristan directors. She didn’t recognise it anyway, and now she had to resign herself to driving round to the rear of the building, and taking all the food up the stairs to the boardroom floor, instead of using the reception lift, and the brawny arms of George the commissionaire.

It was fast turning out to be one of those days, she decided ruefully.

It took three journeys, and she was flushed and a little breathless as she unpacked her cartons and switched on the oven, and checked unobtrusively that the waitresses had laid the dining room table correctly.

She’d hulled and washed the strawberries, and was layering them in a glass bowl with the crème Chantilly, when the kitchen door almost burst open, and Mrs Ferguson, her uncle’s secretary came in at the run.

‘Oh, you’re here.’ Fergie looked more flushed than Laura did herself, and sounded agitated. ‘So you didn’t get the message. I was afraid of that. I should have ‘phoned myself—made sure.’

Laura gave her a long look. ‘I hope you haven’t been at the boardroom sherry, Fergie,’ she suggested mischievously. ‘You did speak to me, you know. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Oh, no, not that.’ Fergie shook her head, looking more distressed than ever. ‘You see, there was another message—later. Your uncle told them to call you from reception, but I was certain you’d already have left. I did try to tell him … Oh dear, it’s all so difficult …’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Laura said resignedly. ‘Tristan Construction are all vegetarians.’

‘What?’ Fergie gulped and stared.

‘Allergic to strawberries?’ Laura went on, frowning a little. ‘Or simply not turned up?’

‘No, they’re here. That’s the trouble. You see, we didn’t know—how could we—until they arrived. And then it was too late.’

Fergie looked as if she was about to burst into tears, and Laura could hardly believe what she was seeing. Mrs Ferguson was one of the mainstays of the company, and under normal circumstance totally unflappable. What in the world could have got her in this state?

She gave her an encouraging smile. ‘It can’t be that bad,’ she urged gently. ‘Surely they’re not international terrorists holding Uncle Martin to ransom for the formula of the new miracle fibre? Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll poison the soup.’

But Fergie was almost wringing her hands. ‘Oh, Laura,’ she wailed. ‘Their managing director—it’s Jason Wingard—your ex-husband.’

Laura found she was putting the bowl of cream she was holding very carefully down on to the table. It was suddenly important to move slowly and certainly, and to wait to speak too, until she was sure she could trust her voice.

She said, ‘There must be some mistake. Jason was—was an artist. He doesn’t know anything about the building trade. And Tristan Construction is a big company. Besides—his name would have been on the letterheads. Uncle Martin—one of you would have seen it.’

She was building up excuses like a wall to shelter behind, because it just couldn’t be possible for Jason to walk back into her life like this. She hadn’t seen or heard anything of him for over three years now. He’d simply touched the edge of her life like a comet, a star of ill-omen, then vanished, leaving her emotionally scorched, hardly able to believe what had happened to her. She’d prayed she would never have to set eyes on him again. And now, out of the clearest of blue skies—this.

Fergie shook her head. ‘It was the first thing I checked, but there was only the company heading, plus the address and telex. No directors’ names at all. Your uncle told reception to ‘phone you at once—to stop you coming here—or to turn you back downstairs if you’d already left. They must have missed you somehow.’

Laura said, ‘The car park was full.’ She took a deep breath, marshalling all her forces determinedly. ‘It’s kind of my uncle to be so concerned, but I can cope, truly I can. I’m here now, and I’ll prepare the lunch as I always do. I don’t have to see—Jason, and he need never even know I’m around.’ She made herself smile. ‘No problem.’

‘Are you quite sure?’ Fergie gave her a harrassed look, then glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll let your uncle know what you’ve decided.’ She shuddered. ‘Oh, dear, he was so angry. I’ve never seen him in such a state. I was terrified he might have a heart attack.’

Laura looked down at the strawberries. She said neutrally. ‘He and Jason—they never liked each other. Never got on.’

Their mutual antagonism, she remembered, had been the first shadow across the dazzling glitter of her happiness. Too bright, too dazzling, like a day in spring which promises sunlight, but ends in weeping rain.

Fergie said, ‘Oh dear,’ again, rather helplessly. Then, ‘Don’t even attempt to clear away afterwards. I’ll have it all seen to. Just do what needs to be done, then get away.’

‘I’ll do exactly that.’ Laura made her tone reassuring, and Fergie gave her an uncertain smile and dashed away.

Laura was alone again, and she stood for a long moment, forcing herself to breathe deeply and calmly, regaining her equilibrium. She’d told Fergie she could cope, but she wasn’t altogether sure it was true.

It was all so unexpected—so frankly incredible.

They’d parted in bitterness, and Jason hadn’t contested the divorce, although her solicitor had said that was often the case where there were no children to fight over. She could still remember her reaction to that—the swift agonised sob, and the way he’d looked at her, kind but uncomprehending. But that had been the only time she’d come near breaking point, on the surface at least.

There had been no communication between Jason and herself—none at all, and she’d been thankful for it—thankful there was no need for maintenance payments or property settlements. ‘A clean break’ her uncle had called it, and that was what it had been. Only it was more like a cut than a break—an amputation, where the aching continued long after the severance had healed.

So why had Jason chosen to probe the wound again? Because that was what he was doing. True, he could not have expected to find her at the works, but he must know that news of his reappearance would get back to her sooner or later.

Surely it wasn’t his intention to torment her by turning up in her life at intervals, when least expected? That would be too cruel, she thought numbly, but after all, Jason specialised in cruelty. Wasn’t she only too aware of that?

She could serve the lunch and run. That was the easy bit. The hard part would come later—closing him out of her mind, as she thought she’d succeeded in doing already, refusing to allow herself any more fruitless speculations about the reasons for his presence at the works, or his intentions.

All her cookery school training was needed, as the moment approached when the meal would be served. Laura found herself wishing she’d not made it so easy for herself—that she’d decided to splurge with some complicated dish which needed every atom of concentration of which she was capable. She was on edge all the time, keyed up for the sound of voices, even though she knew it was doubtful whether they would penetrate so far. Quite deliberately, the kitchen had been planned at a discreet distance from the board’s dining room, and she was thankful for this as never before, because as soon as the food was served she could leave the way she had come, with no-one being any the wiser.

She was just frying the croutons for the soup when the waitresses arrived, and as Laura poured the fragrant soup into the two matching tureens, she wondered if they knew who was waiting to be served in the dining room—if word had got around somehow? She hoped not. They were excellent workers, but she knew from past experience that they loved a good gossip, and she had no wish to be the butt of any sidelong glances, or murmured remarks.

But, she reminded herself, she was probably being over-sensitive. It was doubtful whether more than the merest handful of people at Caswells knew she had been married, let alone her former husband’s name. She’d got married in London, after all, not locally, and most of her brief married life had been spent in the capital too.

‘Well, they’ve got good appetites, I’ll say that for them.’ One of the girls came back with the first batch of used plates. ‘All except Mr Martin, that is,’ she added. ‘He hardly touched a drop of his soup.’ She gave Laura a confidential wink. ‘And they’re not the usual collection of stuffed shirts either. There’s one there I could fancy myself.’

Laura’s heart jerked uneasily, but all she said was, ‘Be careful of the casserole dishes. They’re very hot.’

‘They look a real treat.’ The girl began to load the bowls of croquette potatoes, green beans, buttered baby carrots and creamed broccoli on to her tray.

Laura smiled non-committally, and began to stack the soup plates into the dish washer. Like most good cooks, she enjoyed having her efforts praised, and savoured, but not today. Today, she just wanted this particular lunch over and done with so she could make good her escape.

She wandered about restlessly, measuring coffee into the filter machine, filling cream jugs and sugar basins, endlessly arranging and re-arranging a dish of home made petits fours.

The meal was only a prelude, she knew. Her uncle had often declared that the real business was done over coffee, brandy and a good cigar afterwards when everyone was relaxed and replete, and Laura made sure always that the coffee was strong, aromatic and plentiful, just as he liked it.

She was chafing inwardly, wanting to serve the dessert and the cheese. Once that was done, she could go. The girls could manage anything that remained, between them.

The kitchen window was open and she had the extractor fan in operation, but she could still feel beads of perspiration on her forehead.

For heaven’s sake, she adjured herself sharply, calm down. It’s awkward and embarrassing, but it isn’t the end of the world.

But it was once, a sly voice whispered in her mind, when you realised the kind of man you had married. When it all came crashing down round your naïve, idealistic ears. That was the end of the world—or it seemed so.

But she was older now. Three years older, and three years wiser, please God. She wasn’t a stupid trusting child any more and she supposed she had Jason to thank for that.

And she also had him to thank for the fact that these kitchen walls seemed to be closing in on her like a prison. She was almost counting the tiles, when the girls came bustling back.

‘There’s a funny atmosphere in there,’ one of them informed her, jerking a head in the direction of the dining room. ‘Important meeting is it?’

‘All orders are important these days.’ Laura scraped the pheasant bones into the waste disposal. There were enough rumours flying round Caswells already about the company’s difficulties, without her adding to them, but it was no secret the sales department had had long faces for months. Uncle Martin had great hopes of Tristan Construction—until now.

She saw the waitresses back to the dining room with their final loads, and relaxed slightly. It was nearly over.

The coffee was filling the room with its fragrance, when she heard the slight squeak of the kitchen door as it opened.

Without looking round, she said, ‘I’m going now, but I’ve left everything else ready.’

‘So I see,’ Jason remarked. ‘You’re a domestic paragon, my sweet, but then you always were.’

Laura had been reaching for her bag. Shock made her jerk nervously at the strap, and the bag fell, disgorging its contents at her feet. For a moment, she stared down at them blank-faced, as if she’d never seen them before, then moving like an automaton, she turned to face him.

He was lounging in the doorway, hands thrust into the pockets of an expensively cut dark suit. It occurred to her as she stared at him that she’d never seen Jason in a suit before—not even on their wedding day. He’d always dressed casually in the extreme—denims and sweaters usually. This new conventionality was a shock, until she looked more closely, and saw that the silk tie had been loosened impatiently, and the top button of the pristine white shirt left unbuttoned. The thick unruly mane of dark hair had been trimmed, but not tamed, and still hung nearly to his collar. The lines of the thin, clever, arrogant face were deeper and more harsh, and the eyes which met hers were as bleak and inimical as they had been at their last confrontation.

No, she thought. He might wear the trappings of convention, but underneath he was still as dangerous as ever.

He said silkily, ‘Are you going to tell me I’ve changed?’

‘I don’t think it would be true.’ She was amazed to hear how normal her voice sounded. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m here on business. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.’ His mouth curled sardonically. ‘I saw all the agitated fluttering when I walked in. And I don’t need to ask why you’re here, of course. You’re still a superlative cook, Laura, even though kind Uncle Martin is reaping the benefit now instead of me.’

She went down on one knee, and began to shovel her things back into her bag, her fingers clumsy with haste.

‘You’ve missed this.’ Jason bent too and handed her a slender gilt scent spray.

‘Thanks.’ She almost snatched it from him.

‘Relax, Laura.’ There was a note of warning in his voice, steely and implacable. ‘Our paths are bound to cross during the next few months, so the best thing you can do is accept it.’

‘And if I’m not prepared to do that?’ She gave him a bitter look. ‘I meant what I said, Jason—that I never wanted to see you again. I still mean it. So why are you tormenting me like this?’

‘Had it been left to me,’ he said gently, ‘I would not have come within a hundred miles of this bloody place. But these are hard times, darling, and most companies get work where they can and are glad of it. Tristans is no exception. Under the circumstances, the risk of offending your delicate sensibilities had to be discounted. I hope that precious little ego of yours will survive?’

She took a deep breath. ‘So—it’s all a coincidence. But the carpeting for all these units you plan to build didn’t have to come from Caswells. You could have stayed away from here.’

‘And we still might,’ Jason said bitingly. ‘We have other firms to see besides this one. No orders have been placed, or contracts signed—yet.’

‘We shan’t be going on our knees to you.’ The palms of her hands felt damp, and she had to resist an impulse to run them betrayingly down her skirt.

‘Oh, I’m sure that goes for you, my sweet, and possibly your uncle. But not his fellow directors. They’re gratifyingly eager to do business with us—even to the extent of rushing this new wonder fibre of yours into production.’ He looked round him rather grimly. ‘Perhaps you should come out of your cosy little kitchen occasionally, and see what’s happening in the real world.’

‘Thanks, but I think I know,’ she said tautly. She had her bag firmly gripped now, but he was still blocking her path. ‘Will you excuse me please? I—I have to go …’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘We’ve confronted each other at last, and neither of us has been turned to stone, so why run away?’

‘I’m not running,’ she denied hastily. ‘But I do have other things to do—a hairdressing appointment for one …’

‘Ah.’ His grey eyes gave one swift disparaging glance at the tawny hair, pulled back from her face and confined at the nape of her neck, for coolness and ease while she was working, by an elastic band. ‘It’s time you abandoned the schoolgirl look, Laura. You’re a grown-up lady now. Or doesn’t marriage and divorce confer any kind of maturity?’ He ignored her infuriated gasp, and went on. ‘But I’m sure you can spare a moment or two from your crowded schedule to join us in the boardroom for coffee. My colleagues want to congratulate you on the meal.’

‘That’s kind of them, but I prefer to take it as read.’ Laura took another shaky breath. ‘You say our paths have to cross. Jason. Well I don’t believe that’s necessary at all. If today could be cancelled, then I’d wipe it out without a second thought.’

‘Not very civilised of you, darling.’

‘I don’t feel particularly civilised,’ Laura snapped. ‘And don’t call me that.’

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. ‘What would you prefer to be called then? Mrs Wingard?’

‘No.’ The small sound was expelled from her in a kind of agony. ‘Not that—ever again. The first thing I did when the decree was made final was revert to my maiden name.’

‘How said for you that it can only be in name,’ he said softly. He looked at her bare left hand. ‘All traces of me removed except one. Did you sell your ring for scrap?’

‘I gave it to Oxfam.’ It was a lie. She’d considered that, but in the end, she’d hidden it at the bottom of her trinket drawer. It was a decision she hadn’t been able to rationalise even at the time, and the last thing she wanted was to have to think about it again now.

‘Very public spirited of you,’ he approved sardonically, and she felt a dull flush rise in her cheeks. ‘What a pity you can’t dispose of me quite so easily.’

‘I thought I had,’ Laura said shortly. She lifted her chin. ‘I’d like to leave now please. And I imagine those colleagues of yours will be starting to wonder where you are.’

He grinned suddenly, and she felt tension break out all over her like porcupine quills. ‘I’m sure kind Uncle Martin will enlighten them. He was even less pleased to see me than you are if that’s possible.’

‘And that surprises you?’

‘No,’ Jason said. ‘But then there’s very little about the Caswell family that could surprise me any more.’ He moved, straightening his shoulders, and Laura felt herself recoil. He saw it, and stopped, the grey eyes narrowing glacially as they surveyed her. ‘But I still seem to have the ability to surprise you,’ he said half to himself. ‘How interesting. Perhaps some further research is called for.’

She said hoarsely, reading his purpose in his face, ‘You dare lay one finger on me, and …’

‘You’ll do what? Scream for your uncle?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Not this time, darling. He’s too busy chasing a contract to hear you.’ As he spoke, he walked forward, until he was only inches away from her. There was a row of units right behind her, and nowhere to retreat to. Besides, it suddenly seemed a matter of honour to stand her ground, as if this unwanted proximity didn’t concern her one bit, although her breathing had become painful and even difficult.

Jason’s hand touched the nape of her neck, his fingers stroking the smooth skin. Her mouth went dry, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

‘This thing,’ Jason said softly, ‘is an obscenity.’ The elastic band was tugged from her hair, not gently, and the soft tawny strands fell round her face. It was all she could do not to cry out. She found herself wondering absurdly where the waitresses had got to. Surely they would be back at any moment. Surely …

She’d cried a lot of tears and spent many sleepless nights, trying to forget how it had once been between Jason and herself, and she thought she had succeeded.

Now, the first seeking warmth of his mouth on hers told her that she was wrong, and every fibre of her being whimpered in shock.

She stood rigidly, resisting the practised sensual teasing of his mouth, the warm coaxing of his tongue against the unrelenting contours of her lips. Pain armoured her against response, and she was grateful for it, because it could have been so tempting to let the past slide away, and with it the icy restraint she’d imposed on herself.

Sex was the great betrayer. It made your body impose on your mind. It robbed you of reason and commonsense. It made you believe there could be ‘happy ever after’, and Laura wanted no more of it.

But she wasn’t prepared for this gentleness in him, and it bewildered her. She almost wished he’d shown her some of the brutality of their last time together. It would have provided a focus for her hatred, for her disgust.

This insidious probing at her senses was less easy to fight, and it made her afraid, because the memories it evoked were not of anger or bitterness and accusation, but of their early days together, and all the promise of them.

A promise which Jason had cynically and blatantly broken. That was what she had to remember—all she had to remember. Nothing else mattered—no laughter-filled days, or passion-warmed nights. No moments when she’d wondered crazily why she’d been chosen to be so lucky.

Because ultimately and heartbreakingly, there’d been no luck about it. She was simply Laura Caswell, a girl who had been married for her money. Not the first one to find herself in that situation, and certainly not the last.

The thoughts ran wildly in her brain, bolstering her against the first slow, sweet stirring of the senses which Jason’s kiss was inevitably arousing. He’d taught her to want him, to want the pleasure which his mouth and hands and body could give her, and her starved sexuality was slowly, almost incredulously reviving under the insistent pressure of his lips against hers. She wanted to open her mouth, to sink against his body, and feel the hard possession of his arms round her again. She wanted it so much that she ached inside—an ache which pleaded for assuagement …

With a little cry, she jerked her head back, bringing up a clenched fist to scrub furiously at her lips. ‘You’re disgusting.’

‘You think so?’ he asked mockingly. ‘Where have you spent the last three odd years, Laura? In a nunnery?’

‘That’s none of your business.’ How dare he stand there so utterly unmoved, when her heart was threatening to choke her with its hammering. ‘And may I remind you that you’ve lost the legal right to—maul me.’

He shrugged. ‘Merely an experiment, darling. Nothing to get hysterical about.’ He laughed briefly. ‘And there wasn’t, was there? It’s all quite dead. Not a single pang of unrequited passion on either side. So—no reason why we can’t behave civilly to each other when we meet from now on—as we inevitably will. Shake hands forever. Cancel all our vows. Isn’t that how it goes?’

He paused. ‘We may never be friends, Laura, but we have to be acquaintances. You can surely see that?’

There was another, longer pause, as if he was waiting for some kind of reaction, perhaps even an answer to what he had said.

Then he added, ‘Anyway—think about it.’

He turned, the door gave its familiar monitory squeak, and Laura was alone.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE was a lay-by about half a mile from the factory complex. Laura drove the car into it, and stopped, slumping limply forward over the driving wheel.

She’d left Caswells at the run, uncaring about who might see her, or what conclusions might be drawn. She’d fumbled with the ignition, crashed the gears, and missed the concrete gatepost at the exit by a whisker.

It was a miracle she’d got this far without an accident, only she’d stopped believing in miracles. They were on a par with the tooth fairy, who’d stopped calling a very long time ago.

She sat very still, her hands still gripping the wheel as she sought to control the deep inner trembling which threatened to convulse her.

She kept hoping she would wake up and find it had all been just another nightmare—trying, but purely transitory—but she knew that however many times she might pinch herself, Jason was not going to vanish like a bad dream this time.

He was there. He was flesh and blood, and for one endless, searing moment, he’d made her feel like flesh and blood too.

She groaned, nausea rising in her throat, and sat up slowly, fighting her own self-disgust.

How could she have felt like that—even for a second? She knew what Jason was—who better? she thought bitterly—so what in the name of God had she been doing to allow him anywhere near her?

She lay back in her seat, staring sightlessly through the windscreen.

Well, it had happened, and while it was shaming to realise just how close her body had been to betraying her, the situation wasn’t totally irretrievable.

Because Jason had not guessed. She repeated the words aloud to herself, giving each one its own resounding emphasis—because it mattered. It really did.

She’d been a total innocent when they’d first met, but under his tutelage she’d blossomed, discovering depths in her nature, aspects of sexuality which she’d never dreamed existed. Jason was the first man to whom she’d been physically attracted, the first one to teach her sensual delight. It was hardly surprising that she’d imagined she was in love with him, or that she’d been naïve enough to believe that he loved her in return.

She’d soon learned differently, of course—even before that first, crazy, delirious year had wound to a close.

‘Trust me,’ he’d urged. ‘Laura, trust me please.’

I trusted him, she thought. I’d have done anything for him. I’d have followed him naked, if he’d asked me. Only he never asked.

She hadn’t let herself cry much during the long months while she was waiting to be divorced. She hadn’t cried a great deal since, but there were tears now. Laura put her hands over her face and sobbed. The moisture ran between her splayed fingers, and down the backs of her hands. She could hear herself moaning, and the desolation of the sound frightened her into silence, and ultimately into control again.

There was a box of tissues in the car, and she used them to blot the worst signs of her emotional collapse from her face. She didn’t want to have to face Celia with red eyes, and a blotched skin. In fact, it occurred to her, she would prefer not to have face Celia at all just yet.

She sat for a moment, drumming her fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, then started the car with new determination. She would go to Alan’s house—take him up on one of the many invitations she’d always steered clear of in the past.

After all, she liked Alan, she argued defensively to herself. She’d enjoyed their dates together over the past year, but she’d been wary of allowing their relationship to develop along more intimate lines, and when Alan had shown signs of trying to force the pace a little, she’d always drawn back. One day she might be ready for a serious involvement again, but that day had not yet arrived.

And although to seek him out like this might not be altogether fair to Alan in view of the ambivalence of her feelings, it was necessary. She needed the reassurance of his undoubted regard for her. He was the present tense in her life. Jason was the past.

It took Laura just under ten minutes to drive out of town to the small village where he lived. One minute there were suburban houses and neat gardens, and then, as abruptly as if someone had drawn a line, there were fields and trees and narrow lanes, with fingerposts pointing out the hidden life of the countryside.

She parked her car on the verge opposite his small cottage, and crossed the lane to the gate, returning the friendly nod she received from an elderly man working in the neighbouring garden.

As she walked up the path, she could hear the sound of Alan’s typewriter clicking away through the open window, and she hesitated for a moment before knocking at the door.

Alan had trained originally as a teacher, but because of the cuts in education spending, he’d never managed to secure a permanent post in an English department anywhere. So, instead, he’d turned to freelance writing, and was managing to make an adequate living if not an affluent one, eked out by some private coaching. Among other things, he wrote a restaurant column for the local paper, as well as being its drama critic, and in a way it was through this column that they’d become friends, because when they’d been casually introduced at a party, Laura had told him bluntly she didn’t always agree with his praise or criticism of the local eating houses, and they’d enjoyed discussing their differing opinions.

It was clear he was working now, and she was unwilling to disturb him for such purely selfish reasons, but just as she was preparing to turn away, he called, ‘Come in, Laura. The door isn’t locked.’

He met her in the tiny hall, smiling delightedly. ‘Hey—this is fantastic. I was just going to ‘phone you. What brings you this way?’

‘Oh, I was just passing.’ She hated lying, and was bad at it. ‘Could I use the bathroom, do you suppose?’

‘Of course,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s on the right at the top of the stairs. And I’ll make some coffee.’

As she made hurried repairs to the ravages which emotion had done to her face, Laura wondered wryly whether Alan had seen she was upset, but been too tactful to enquire about it. On balance, she decided the dimness of the light in the hall had probably been to her advantage, and he hadn’t noticed a thing. She hoped not, anyway. She didn’t want to have to embark on lengthy explanations.

He was emerging from the kitchen with a tray as she came downstairs, and she followed him into a sizeable, cluttered living room. There was a large desk under the window, and a frankly sagging sofa in front of the empty fireplace, flanked by a couple of easy chairs which had also seen better days.

But for all that, the room had a cosy welcoming air, which in Laura’s view, the Caswell mansion totally lacked.

The coffee was good too. Alan was fussy about the blends he chose, and it showed. She accepted the pretty pottery beaker he handed her with a murmured word of thanks.

He perched on the arm of a chair, smiling eagerly. ‘I’m glad I didn’t ‘phone and find you out. I get the impression your uncle’s housekeeper doesn’t altogether appreciate taking messages from me.’

Laura smiled rather ruefully. ‘It’s no fault of yours. I’m afraid that she resents me. She’s been with the family for years, and my uncle thought I could take some of the housekeeping burdens off her shoulders, but she doesn’t see it that way at all. Anyway, why did you want to speak to me?’

‘I’ve been asked to cover the opening of a brand-new restaurant in Burngate tonight,’ he said. ‘The Echo were going to send Linda Watson from staff, because there’ll be free champagne, but as she’s gone down with some virus they’ve had to fall back on me.’ He gave a self-deprecating grin. ‘I’m allowed to take guests, so I wondered if you’d go with me?’

In any other circumstances, Laura thought she would probably have made an excuse. It didn’t sound like her sort of junket at all, but tonight the last thing she wanted to do was sit at home and brood.

She said lightly, ‘It sounds like fun. Pick me up early, and have a drink with us first.’

His face lit up. ‘I’d really like that.’ He paused. ‘Your family don’t object to you going out with a struggling hack?’

‘Is that how you see yourself?’ Laura asked. She gave a faint shrug. ‘Why should they object? I’m not a child anymore. I have my own life to live.’

‘I suppose so.’ He spoke slowly, as if measuring his words. ‘But do you live it? I mean—you seem so sheltered sometimes.’

‘I assure you I don’t feel it,’ she told him drily. ‘But if you’re nervous of my ivory tower, we could always meet in a bar.’

‘Oh, no,’ he denied hastily. ‘I’d like to meet your uncle.’

He didn’t actually say ‘at long last’ but his tone implied it, and Laura bit her lip. Clearly her attempts to keep their relationship on a strictly casual basis hadn’t been as subtle as she’d hoped, and now Alan was taking her decision to introduce him into the family circle as a step towards a greater intimacy. She could only hope she wasn’t starting something she’d be unable to control.

She’d never told Alan any details about her personal life. To him, she was just Laura Caswell, and he had no idea there had ever been a Laura Wingard. It had never seemed necessary to tell him, but now it occurred to her that she was going to have to, and she wondered how he would react.

He said suddenly, ‘Where do you go to, Laura?’

Her eyes flicked questioningly to his face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not even sure myself. It’s just sometimes when we’re together, you seem to—vanish—somewhere inside yourself. It makes me wonder.’ He laughed rather awkwardly. ‘Perhaps it’s just that I’m not very exhilarating company.’

Her glance held compunction. Obviously, he needed reassurance too. ‘It certainly isn’t that,’ she said gently. ‘I don’t think I even realise I’m doing it.’

There was a pause, then he said, ‘If you’ve got problems, it can help sometimes to share them.’ He sounded tentative, unsure, as if aware he was offering himself in a new role, and she was grateful, even if she couldn’t be sure it was what she wanted from him.

She drank down her coffee, and rose. ‘If we’re going on the town, then I’d better do something about my appearance. I don’t want to put my fellow revellers off their food.’

‘You’d never do that,’ he protested.

She knew that he wanted to kiss her, and she made herself yield as he took her in his arms, hoping that the touch of his lips would turn her to fire, totally erasing the memory of that other devastating kiss.

Oh, Alan, forgive me, she thought remorsefully, as her hands slid up to clasp his shoulders in the simulation of passion. She felt his arms tighten round her in response, his mouth move on hers with growing confidence. Laura closed her eyes, waiting, praying for the alchemy to happen. After all, he was young, he was attractive in a quiet way, and she wanted to want him. She wanted another man to kindle the deep flame in her body which Jason had always lit so effortlessly.

Since their parting, she’d been in a kind of limbo, leading a half-life, but now she wanted to be whole again, and Alan could be the man to make her so.

But once again, there were no miracles. The kiss was pleasant, but it ignited no fierce, answering excitement within her, and it was a relief when he let her go—reluctantly, but without initiating any further intimacies.

There was tenderness in his face when he looked at her, and a slight triumph as well, which she supposed was understandable. She’d never invited caresses in the past, and she’d always been the first to draw back.

He said huskily, ‘Well, I’ll see you later then,’ and Laura tried not flinch at the new possessive note in his voice.

She said steadily, ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ and wished with all her heart that it could be true.

Celia was nowhere to be seen when she got back to the house, her lounger in the garden unoccupied, a discarded magazine tossed on the grass beside it, and an empty jug which had once contained orange juice still reposing with its used glass on a wrought iron table nearby. Laura put the lounger away in the summer-house, and carried the other things across the lawn towards the house.

She was almost at the french windows which opened into the drawing room, when she heard Celia laughing, the low throaty chuckle which meant there was a man about.

Her cousin was entertaining one of her numerous boyfriends, Laura decided resignedly. If it was Greg Arnold, she could only hope he would save his more risque stories until she was out of the room.

She was almost tempted to retrace her steps, and go in by the kitchen entrance, but she told herself forcefully not to be so silly.

She was actually inside the room, with retreat impossible, when she saw the man sharing the wide sofa with Celia was Jason.

‘Hello, sweetie,’ Celia flashed her a smile. She’d thrown on the shirt which matched her sunbathing gear, but she still managed to look alluringly undressed. She waved a hand at Jason. ‘I gather introductions aren’t necessary.’ She giggled. ‘What an amazing surprise for you both. I always understood Laura’s ex-husband was a struggling artist, and now he turns up as a tycoon. You sly thing, Laura, keeping it all to yourself like this.’

Before Laura could speak, Jason intervened smoothly. ‘She can hardly be held responsible for not telling you I was the boss of Tristan Construction. She didn’t know it herself until a few hours ago.’

‘So it was all your little secret?’ Celia’s eyes fastened limpidly on his face. ‘Perhaps you should have told her. You might both still be living in connubial bliss.’

‘I doubt that.’ His lips smiled, but the words bit. ‘In any case, I’m sure there are far more interesting subjects to discuss than my past matrimonial difficulties.’

Celia pouted a little. ‘Are there any current ones?’

‘No.’ He didn’t look at Laura at all. ‘So far, I’ve decided not to risk another dip in the troubled waters of marriage.’ He looked at her ringless left hand. ‘It seems like a view we share.’

Celia shrugged gracefully. ‘I was engaged—once, but to be honest I find the whole concept of marriage the teeniest bit cramping and old-fashioned, even though the divorce laws have made things easier.’

Laura listened with a sense of incredulity. Easier, she thought helplessly. Easier? Was that really how Celia regarded those few brief moments in court which tore apart flesh and sinew and emotion?

She said in a small wooden voice, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me I’ll just take these things to the kitchen.’

‘And while you’re there, sweetie, you might see about some tea for us.’ Celia’s tone was casual, but the words, putting Laura in a position of subservience was quite deliberate.

Hot outrage rose in Laura’s throat. She was sorely tempted to yell, ‘Get your own damned tea,’ and brain Celia with the empty jug for good measure, but she exercised an almost superhuman restraint.

She returned coolly, ‘Of course.’ She looked at Jason, lifting her brows enquiringly, ‘Milk or lemon?’

His mouth twisted. She saw a glimmer of anger deep down. ‘You mean you don’t remember?’ he asked silkily. ‘I think lemon on such a warm day—don’t you?’

It didn’t make a particle of difference what she thought, Laura told herself as she left the room. She had no intention of sharing the tea with them, and watching Celia exercise her blatant wiles on Jason.

The kitchen was full of delicious baking smells, and Mrs Fraser, looking harassed was removing a tray from the oven.

‘Miss Celia wants tea,’ Laura said rinsing the jug and glass under the tap. ‘But you seem to have your hands full already.’

Mrs Fraser snorted ungraciously. ‘A drinks party—and at the last moment—expecting cheese straws and canapés to appear from thin air.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Laura walked warily. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘I can cope, thank you.’ The older woman’s voice was ungracious but Laura was used to that. ‘Although——’ she paused. ‘Well, you could get a tea tray ready, and save me the job.’

Laura’s heart sank. She’d hoped to deliver the message and escape upstairs to her room. But being allowed to make any contribution was a concession, she thought drily. She’d never been the housekeeper’s favourite as a child, but since her return, the woman’s attitude had been practically hostile.

So, she filled the kettle and set it to boil, while she laid a tray with cups and saucers under Mrs Fraser’s critical eye.

‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw who was at the door,’ the housekeeper volunteered at last, producing a tin of homemade biscuits from a cupboard and handing them to Laura. ‘Looks more affluent than he did in the old days,’ she added, with another snort. ‘Back for good, is he?’

Laura shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t say. I understand he’s here on business.’

‘Not looking for a reconciliation then?’ Mrs Fraser’s sharp eyes were bright with malice, and Laura bit her lip, controlling a number of heated replies.

She said, with cool politeness. ‘As I said, Mrs Fraser, he seems to have business in the area. Would you like me to take the tray in as well.’

The housekeeper sniffed, and turned back to her baking. ‘If it wouldn’t trouble you too much.’

‘Oh, you’ve only brought two cups,’ Celia exclaimed as Laura set the tray down on the low table which fronted the sofa. ‘But I meant you to join us sweetie, naturally.’

‘Thank you,’ Laura said evenly. ‘But I have things to do.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait, I’m sure.’ Celia gave her a limpid look. ‘You’re being rather silly, you know. We’re bound to be seeing a lot of Jason once the Tristan projects get under way locally. You may as well get accustomed to the fact, and have tea with us in a civilised manner.’

‘Civilised’ was fast becoming her least favourite word, Laura reflected bitterly. She said tautly, ‘Some other time.’

‘There’s no time like the present,’ Jason said smoothly. He rose to his feet, his lean body straightening in one lithe movement. ‘Sit down, Laura. I’m sure your cousin won’t mind fetching another cup.’

To judge by the expression which fleetingly crossed Celia’s face, he’d made a big mistake there, Laura thought drily.

She began, ‘I’ll get it …’ but his hands descended on her shoulders, pushing her firmly down on to the softness of the sofa.

‘I said sit down,’ he reminded her gently.

Celia said with a small, artificial laugh. ‘How very masterful. I’d better go and get that cup.’

The door closed behind her. Laura sat rigidly, her hands linked round her knees in a parody of relaxation, staring down at the carpet.

‘Alone together over the teacups,’ Jason said softly. ‘What a moment of pure nostalgia for us to savour, darling.’

She said, ‘What the hell are you doing here, Jason? Whatever impression Celia may have given, you must know you’re not welcome in this house.’

‘On the contrary,’ he sounded amused. ‘I confidently expect to become the year’s most honoured guest. As for why I’m here—I came to return this to you.’ He took a small gold cylinder from his pocket, and tossed it towards her. ‘So, if you were imagining that I’d followed you here, drooling with lust, think again.’

She looked stupidly down at her own lipstick. ‘Where …? Oh, it must have fallen out of my bag when I dropped it.’

‘Right,’ he said unemotionally. ‘And I assumed you might need it at some time.’

‘It could have waited,’ she said. ‘You could have given it to Fergie—my uncle’s secretary. Anyway, thank you.’

‘Graciously spoken,’ Jason approved sardonically. He sat down at the other end of the sofa, leaning back, very much at his ease. ‘Well, aren’t you going to pour the tea?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m sure Celia would prefer to do that. She’s the hostess here, after all.’

‘And you’re what? The skivvy? The Cinderella of the establishment, with that lipstick the nineteen eighties equivalent of the glass slipper?’

She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t be ridiculous. And don’t—don’t judge by appearances either. I’m glad to do anything I can for Uncle Martin. It’s the least I can offer in exchange for a roof over my head.’

‘You had a roof over your head,’ he said softly. ‘A perfectly adequate one—although not admittedly as flash as this.’ He looked around, his lips curling slightly. ‘What charming decor? Your choice?’

He knew perfectly well that it wasn’t, she thought stormily. On one of their few visits to his house during their brief marriage, she’d told him how much she loved the quiet charm of this room, with the pale silk wallpaper and faded chintzes which had furnished it then.

She said quietly, ‘It was time for a change.’

‘A telling phrase,’ he said cynically, and the colour ran into her face. She leaned forward and began to pour the tea, praying that her hand wouldn’t shake and betray her. ‘And not the only change,’ he added. ‘There’s also yourself. You’ve allowed yourself to become a shadow, instead of the flesh and blood I remember. If I painted you now, what would there be—just a soft blur in the background?’

‘You still paint?’ To her annoyance, the question was out before she could prevent it.

‘Sometimes.’ He sent her a cool smile as he took the cup from her. ‘If I can find a subject which appeals to me. I have to be more selective these days, now that my time is limited.’

Underneath her confusion of anger and anxiety, she was conscious of the stirrings of regret. He’d been a truly talented painter, and his work had just started to sell, even though he’d refused to compromise his arresting, almost violent style. He’d believed in himself, and in his work, and it seemed impossible that now he’d relegated it to the role of a hobby, to be pursued in whatever leisure he allowed himself.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said, ‘It was time for a change,’ mocking her with her own words.

She drew a breath. ‘And—the change was Tristan Construction? How did that come about?’

‘Through the death of my father,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘The company belonged to him.’

She swallowed. ‘I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you, Laura? I can’t imagine why. You never knew him. In fact, you didn’t even believe he existed.’ She was suddenly and chillingly aware of the anger in him, the violence just below the surface.

She said tightly, ‘I had good reason—if you remember.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ he said too gently. ‘Every detail of the whole bloody mess is indelibly engraved on my memory, darling, believe me.’

‘You both look very fierce,’ Celia said from the doorway. ‘Would you rather throw this cup than drink out of it?’

Laura said levelly, ‘I’d really prefer to do neither. So, if you’ll both excuse me.’

She got up, and he watched her, his mouth smiling, but his eyes grim. He said, ‘Until later then.’

‘Later,’ she repeated.

‘The drinks party, sweetie,’ Celia chirped. ‘For the Tristan executives. I’ve decided to do my bit for Caswells at last. Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Over the moon,’ Laura said wildly, wondering why Celia hadn’t been strangled at birth.

Celia pouted prettily. ‘Laura’s always telling me I don’t take sufficient interest in the company. But all that’s going to change from now on.’ She sent him a mischievously provocative look from under her lashes. ‘In fact, I’m going to take the most amazing interest in every aspect of its dealings.’ She giggled. ‘This party is only the start.’

Jason smiled at her. ‘It should be a truly memorable evening for us all,’ he said.

His tone was light, but over Celia’s blonde head, he looked at Laura, and his eyes were bleak with a warning it was impossible to ignore.

She walked to the door, and left them alone together.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE found she was still clutching the lipstick. She unclenched her hand, and put the little tube down on the dressing table in her room. It had left marks on her hand where she’d been gripping it, and she touched them almost wonderingly.

She sank down on the stool, and stared at her pale reflection in the mirror. It was true, she thought. She was like a shadow—like the moon to Celia’s golden, confident sun. It had been the same all their lives—even at school. Celia had been ‘the pretty one’ and she’d been ‘the quiet one’ which she supposed was a kind way of saying ‘the plain one’.

She supposed her parents had thought her beautiful. But since then—only one other person …

She bit into the softness of her lower lip, relishing the pain, if only it would help to quell the deeper pain inside her.

All this time, she thought, she’d been struggling to put her life back together again, to reconcile herself to the fact that Jason would never be part of it again. All this time—and, it seemed—all for nothing.

Divorce was like surgery, she thought wearily. And while the operation had been a complete success, the patient, apparently, had not recovered.

She gave a swift shiver, and stood up determinedly. What a triumph for Jason if he could only know how completely she’d been thrown by his sudden reappearance and its implications. But he must never know, she told herself. He’d said their paths were bound to cross, but that was not necessarily so. They could operate on parallel lines, and never meet.

In the meantime, she could get out of this drinks party Celia had arranged, by ‘phoning Alan and asking if they could meet in Burngate. He would be disappointed, she supposed, as she went over to her wardrobe and scanned along the hanging rail for something to wear, but under the circumstances that couldn’t be helped.

None of the garments hanging there were particularly spectacular, she thought with a little mental shrug. They were what Celia disparagingly called ‘background clothes’, neutral in colour and design—part of her recovery camouflage. Yet now she was conscious of a vague dissatisfaction as she selected a silky grey crêpe, with full sleeves and a deeply slashed crossover bodice, and draped it across a chair while she went into her tiny adjoining bathroom to shower and wash her hair.

Usually, she blow-dried her hair, then used a hot brush to curve the ends underneath, and around her face, but as she hadn’t managed the trim she needed, she decided she would wear her hair up for a change.

She was experimenting, twisting the silky strands into various styles, when she heard sounds of departure from downstairs, and a car engine starting up in the drive.

She rose, and trod barefoot across the carpet to her window and looked out from the shelter of the curtain. Inevitably, he was driving the Jaguar which had occupied her space in the car park. If she’d decided to park in the drive, instead of taking the car round to the garages at the back, she would have seen it, recognised it—maybe even been warned.

She watched him drive away towards the town, then turned back to her dressing table with a little sigh. He would be back.

It occurred to her that she ought to warn Mrs Fraser that she wouldn’t be there for dinner. She didn’t want to add a charge of thoughtlessness to the crime sheet against her. And she could ’phone Alan at the same time.

The first errand was simple enough, but the second was more tricky. The ‘phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. She groaned silently as she replaced the receiver. She would have to try later.

When she got back to her room, Celia was stretched on the bed waiting for her. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and malice.

‘Well, sweetie, you’re quite a dark horse aren’t you—but rather silly to think you could ever keep such a delectable man all to yourself. It was just as well I was still in Switzerland while it was all going on, or I might have tried to steal him myself. And he wouldn’t have got away from me so easily.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘He could hardly believe we were cousins.’

Laura picked up her comb again, forcing suddenly nerveless fingers back to their former task. She said tonelessly, ‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first to find it amazing that we’re related.’

‘That’s true,’ Celia agreed limpidly. ‘But he’s by far the most interesting to date.’ She stretched like a little cat. ‘Poor Laura. It was being rather optimistic, sweetie, to think you could ever hold his interest for long.’

Laura’s fingers gripped the edge of the dressing table. She was used to Celia, she thought, inured to the kind of jibes she excelled at, but for the first time she was tempted to rake her nails down that lovely, contemptuous face.

She said with no particular expression, ‘Well, I didn’t labour under that particular misapprehension for very long.’

Celia giggled. ‘No, indeed. It can’t be many men who are unfaithful to their wives during the first year of marriage. Your little honeymoon didn’t last long at all.’ She paused, her eyes fixed almost avidly on Laura’s mirrored reflection. ‘And did you really not know about the Tristan Construction connection? Don’t you think the whole thing’s quite fascinating?’

Laura shrugged, carelessly she hoped. ‘It’s hardly any of my concern. We’re divorced—remember?’

‘How could I forget?’ Celia sounded gloating. ‘And I’m glad you had the sense to let him go without a struggle, Laura. It’s never very dignified fighting a battle you simply aren’t capable of winning.’

Laura dug a last hairpin viciously into the top-knot she’d created, almost transfixing her scalp in the process. ‘Frankly, I don’t think that aspect ever occurred to me.’ She was surprised to realise this was the truth. She’d been too hurt, too shattered by Jason’s infidelity to want to do anything but crawl away and lick the wounds he’d inflicted. To somehow learn to endure the blow she’d suffered to her new-found, fragile confidence in her womanhood.

‘It would have occurred to me,’ Celia said complacently. ‘And I think—yes, I really do think I’d have fought tooth and nail—and won. But that’s the difference between us, isn’t it, sweetie?’

‘One of them, certainly,’ Laura returned. Dissatisfied, she pulled the pins out of her tawny hair and let it spill round her face again.

‘So, I can take it you won’t start fighting now?’ Celia lifted a hand and studied its perfectly manicured nails.

‘I don’t think I understand.’ Laura picked up her jar of moisturiser and began to apply it sparingly to her face and throat.

‘Then think.’ Celia’s voice sounded almost strident suddenly. ‘He doesn’t belong to you anymore, as you’ve just admitted. In fact it’s a moot point whether he ever actually belonged to you at all, even if you did wangle a wedding ring out of him. So, I take it you’ll have no real objection if I have him instead now?’

Laura’s mouth felt so dry, she felt as if her lips might crack open and bleed as she forced the words between them. ‘No, I’ve no reason, and certainly no right to object, but I should warn you your father may well feel very differently. He never liked Jason or approved of him, and I don’t think he’ll care for the fact that you’ve invited him here this evening.’

Celia smiled. ‘He may not have liked the penniless artist who married his little niece for her money, then—done her wrong, as the saying is. But the Jason Wingard who’s now the managing director of a big, successful firm like Tristan Construction is a very different proposition. He’s no fortune hunter now to be shown the door, but an extremely eligible, and incredibly sexy man.’

‘Perhaps.’ Laura could hardly believe how calm she sounded, how collected, when emotionally she felt ravaged. ‘But I still doubt if your father will see it like that, no matter how rich Jason may be now.’

‘If you think for one moment that Daddy would let any personal feelings stand in the way of business, then you don’t know him,’ Celia told her coolly. ‘You told me yourself how important this contract is, and like a dutiful daughter I intend to spare no effort to make sure that Caswells gets this contract, along with any other goodies Tristan Construction might care to throw our way. Your ex-husband was telling me, when you so thoughtlessly interrupted us, that they’re heavily committed to private housing over the next few years, as well as the local projects. And housing estates mean show houses—completely furnished, including carpets.’

‘You seem to have it all worked out,’ Laura said.

‘I have.’ Celia lifted herself off the bed, straightening a crease from her shirt. ‘I just want to make sure, Laura darling, that you aren’t going to be the skeleton at any little feasts I may plan.’ She laughed. ‘Because I intend to mix the firm’s business with a hell of a lot of pleasure.’

‘So, why tell me?’ Laura began to apply foundation in quick jerky movements. ‘What do you want from me? Surely not my blessing?’

‘Hardly.’ Celia’s eyes, bright and predatory, met hers. ‘No, this is just a timely reminder that Jason is no longer your affair, and that I don’t intend to brook any interference from you or anyone else. You had him, and you couldn’t hold him. Well, that’s tough, but it’s the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. Now, it’s my turn.’

Laura replaced the lid on the little jar. She said slowly, ‘Celia—Jason may be legally single, but that doesn’t mean that he’s necessarily—free. Doesn’t it disturb you that there may still be other—priorities in his life?’

‘Why should it?’ Celia gave a negligent shrug. ‘I’m not a naïve, narrow-minded little schoolgirl. And I’ll make damned sure his sole priority in future is me.’

‘Then I wish you luck.’ Laura rose too. ‘Now I’d be glad of some privacy. I’d like to get dressed.’

Celia’s eyes swept her cousin’s slim figure, wrapped in its cotton robe, and her lip curled. She said, ‘What a ridiculous prude you are, Laura. It’s little wonder Jason found himself another woman.’

As the door closed behind her, Laura dropped limply back on to her dressing stool. Celia’s behaviour was incredible, even by her own standards, plumbing new depths of selfishness and arrogance.

But then, there was little wonder, she thought ruefully. Following the death of his wife, Martin Caswell had poured his energy and considerable resources into making sure his only daughter had everything she wanted in life, almost before the wish had been expressed. It wasn’t a healthy situation, and Celia had grown up believing that the world was hers for the taking.

And generally, the world went along with Celia’s belief, Laura was forced to admit. Her name had been linked, at one time or another, with all the wealthiest young men in the locality, but never very seriously, or for very long.

But now Celia had seen a man she wanted at last, and she intended to go after him with that incredible single-mindedness which had always characterised her devotion to her own interests.

And she really thinks, Laura thought with growing anger, that I’m going to sit back and watch her.

She slipped off her robe and began to dress, struggling with normally simple hooks and fasteners.

For the past three years, she’d looked on this house as a refuge, and ignored Celia’s vagaries out of gratitude to Uncle Martin. But in view of Celia’s expressed intentions, this could not go on.

She thought, ‘I’ve got to get out of here, and soon.’

There was a rap on the door, and she jumped nervously, laddering the tights she was smoothing on to her slender legs.

Mrs Fraser appeared. ‘Mr Caswell has come home, and is asking for you,’ she announced magisterially. ‘He’s in the study, and he doesn’t seem best pleased, so I wouldn’t keep him waiting.’

When Laura entered the study a little while later, she decided the housekeeper had not exaggerated her uncle’s peevishness. His usually ruddy colour had deepened alarmingly, and his mouth was set in sour lines.

‘This is a damned mess,’ he greeted Laura fretfully, his tone faintly accusing, as if in some way it was all her fault. ‘Had you any idea this was likely to happen?’

Laura sighed. ‘Uncle Martin, you know quite well I haven’t seen or heard from Jason since before the divorce. The only communication we had after I left was through our solicitors.’

‘Yes, yes, I suppose so.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk, frowning heavily. He said half to himself. ‘And I thought we were rid of him.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Well, it seems we must make the best of it. There’s no room for personalities in business, after all. What’s past is past, and the Tristan contract could be a lifesaver for us. So I hope I can depend on you, Laura, not to make waves.’

Laura’s hands clenched together. ‘Behave in a civilised manner, do you mean?’ she enquired ironically. ‘Now, where have I heard that before?’

Her uncle shrugged irritably. ‘What the hell does it matter? And it’s exactly what I mean. We can’t let our personal feelings get in the way, Laura. Our first loyalty has to be to the firm.’ He paused. ‘Even Celia is going to make every effort …’

‘So I understand.’ Laura looked at him drily. ‘Starting off with a cocktail party this very evening. How will you feel, entertaining Jason under this roof again?’

‘I’ll do what I need to do.’ Martin Caswell walked over to the tray of decanters situated on a side table and poured himself a generous measure of whisky. ‘And so will you, my child, if you know what’s good for you.’

‘I see.’ Laura ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. ‘Uncle Martin—don’t you think it might be better if I went right away from here? This is a very embarrassing situation for all of us and …’

‘Nonsense.’ Martin Caswell slammed his glass down on the desk, slopping some of the contents on to the polished surface. ‘Good God, girl, divorce is no novelty these days. You’re not unique. Besides where would you go? What could you do?’

She looked at him. ‘I’m a good cook. I can keep house. Even these days there are jobs …’

‘You already have a job—here.’ He glared at her. ‘My God, Laura, I thought you had some gratitude in you. I take you in when you’re on your knees, and just when I most need your help, your support, you threaten to walk out.’

‘Am I supposed to have no feelings at all?’ she asked hoarsely.

‘Feelings? Don’t talk to me about feelings when the whole future of Caswells could be at stake.’ He threw himself back in his chair. ‘They want to use the new Fibrona in both these projects they’re committed to locally. If they do, and they like it, it could be worth a fortune in advertising for us. My God, Laura, the stuff isn’t even properly in production yet—the lab still want to do more tests on the fireproofing element—yet somehow Tristan Construction have heard about it, and they’ve beaten a path to our door. I’ve always said Fibrona was revolutionary, and this proves it. It will the saving of Caswells, I tell you.’

Laura said urgently, ‘But it isn’t the only fibre we produce—and we have other customers besides Tristans. Aren’t we putting all our eggs into one rather chancy basket? Supposing we invest heavily in the production of Fibrona, and then Tristan Construction decide they don’t want it after all. What then?’

‘Of course they want it,’ he said. ‘Why else would they have come to us?’

He made it sound unanswerable, but Laura had an uneasy feeling that it was not.

She said quietly, ‘Uncle Martin—I only wish I knew,’ and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

From the windowseat in her room, she watched the cars begin to arrive for the party. She had no choice. She’d rung Alan’s cottage twice in the intervening period, but had received no answer. So—she would wait up here until she saw his car, and persuade him to slip away quietly, without getting involved.

She’d done a lot of hard thinking while she was waiting, but none of the conclusions she’d reached were very happy ones. Uncle Martin was a worried man, and had been for sometime, and like other worried men he was prone to clutch at straws. But that didn’t mean that Jason had walked back into their lives with a lifeline.

He, she thought soberly, had no reason to love Caswells, or wish to do them any favours.

She had tried many times to blot out of her mind the agonising bitterness of that last scene between them. No-one should pay too much credence to things said or done in savage anger, she told herself. But that didn’t alter the fact that one of the last things Jason had said to her was that he would make Martin Caswell pay for his role in the breach between them.

She tried to reassure herself that it had simply been said in the heat of the moment. Tried to tell herself that however cynically immoral his behaviour, Jason was not a vengeful man.

Or was he? What did she know of him, after all? What had she ever known? she asked herself despairingly.

In the early days of their relationship, she’d probed, trying to establish details about his childhood, upbringing, education, family—all the things which had contributed to make the man she’d fallen in love with. But he’d always blocked her questions abruptly, telling her the past didn’t matter—that it was only the present and the future which counted.

In fact, she’d assumed he had no family—that his reluctance to discuss his former life stemmed from the fact that he’d been brought up in a children’s home, or similar institution.

The discovery that his parents were both living had only been the first of the shocks which had torn their married life apart.

And now, he was back and in a position of power. A position where he could hurt Caswell as easily as he could extend a helping hand.

It would be fatally easy for him to encourage her uncle’s company to rush Fibrona into production, then back out at the last moment. Easy—and potential financial devastation for Caswells.

If he wanted revenge for the humiliation that the discovery of his double life, and the subsequent divorce must have caused him, then the weapons for that revenge were at his fingertips. He was a man who kept his secrets well, she thought bitterly. This time, his motives and intentions would all be locked in his mind, safe from any form of investigation.

All she had to go on was a gut reaction that nothing was as simple as it seemed. And Uncle Martin was a hard-headed man. Did he really suspect nothing? Whatever miracle qualities the chemists might claim for Fibrona, she couldn’t believe they were sufficient to have brought Jason Wingard back into their lives.

And she was no longer naïve enough to think it could just be coincidence either.

People were arriving all the time. Celia had been busy. She seemed to have invited half the neighbourhood as well as the members of the Caswell board, and the Tristan executives.

She could hear the faint hum of voices from downstairs each time the drawing room door opened, and Celia’s laugh floating above them all, as sparkling as springwater.

Laura had watched her go downstairs. Celia had looked dazzling, all the stops pulled out, in a dress of midnight blue taffeta, with a huge stiffened collar framing and accentuating her blonde hair.

She tried to tell herself that for once Jason might have met his match in Celia, but she didn’t believe it in her heart. Whether or not Celia deserved it, she felt anxious for her.

She’d even considered seeking Jason out—not here, but at whatever hotel he was staying at and telling him bluntly that she didn’t believe he wanted to bury the past.

She wanted to say, ‘Whatever residue of bitterness remains, let it stay just between the two of us. If you must punish someone for what happened, then punish me, not my family. My uncle only acted as he did to protect me, because he loved me.’

She tried to imagine his reaction to her words. Tried, and failed.

It was a relief to see Alan’s red Mini backing carefully into a space between two far more opulent vehicles. She snatched up her bag and wrap and flew downstairs just as the doorbell sounded, calling, ‘I’ll get it,’ to Mrs Fraser.

Alan was smiling broadly as she opened the door. He handed her a cellophane box. ‘Happy restaurant opening.’

The box contained flowers—freesias tied with a bow of silver ribbon.

She heard herself say, ‘How lovely. No-one’s ever brought me flowers before.’

Except once, her memory reminded her relentlessly, and they were freesias too. Bought from a street stall on your wedding day as you walked together to the registrar’s.

She said, ‘I’ll put them in water.’

Alan looked surprised. ‘You’re supposed to wear them, I think.’

‘But if you do, they die almost at once, and it’s such a shame.’ She put the box down gently. ‘Do you mind if we leave at once—have our drink in a pub after all? My cousin’s having a cocktail party—business and very boring. I don’t really want us to be caught up in it.’

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