Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Captive Destiny
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE telephone rang and Emma picked up the receiver.

‘Avery Antiques. Can I help—–’ she was beginning, when a harsh, masculine voice interrupted her.

‘Emma! How are you?’

Her heart quickened its beat for a moment and then she squashed the sudden anger that gripped her. There was no point in expending unnecessary emotion needlessly. She ought to be able to speak to Jordan without feeling anything at all, but it wasn’t easy when for so long resentment had coloured her reactions towards him.

‘Good morning, Jordan,’ she responded now, coolly, without expression. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘So formal!’ he remarked cynically. ‘I asked how you were.’

‘Oh—well, I’m fine, thank you.’ Emma’s fingers tightened on the receiver. It wasn’t like Jordan to care, one way or the other.

‘You are? Good.’ She could hear the irony in his tone. There was a long pause, then: ‘Aren’t you going to ask how I am?’

I don’t particularly care! But the words were never spoken. Instead, she said: ‘I am rather busy at the moment, Jordan. If there’s something—–’

‘There is.’ His crisp tones overrode her polite rejection. ‘Have dinner with me this evening.’

‘No!’ The refusal was out before she had time to formulate her feelings. ‘That is—I’m afraid I can’t have dinner with you this evening.’

‘Why not?’ Jordan was not a man to accept defeat so easily.

‘Because—because I already have an appointment, as it happens,’ she declared, justifying her words with a silent admonition to her conscience. After all, she had told Mrs Ingram she was going to make a start on clearing out the attic and despite the cold weather she had considered going up there tonight.

‘I see.’ She heard Jordan’s impatient intake of breath. Tomorrow night, then.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Another appointment?’ His sarcasm was showing.

‘No.’ She moved the receiver to her other ear. ‘As a matter of fact, I—I really don’t want to have dinner with you, Jordan.’

‘Afraid of making David jealous? From what I hear, I don’t believe you have to worry on that score.’

‘You swine, Jordan!’

‘Oh, come.’ He made an irritated sound. ‘I don’t want to row with you, Emma. I just want to talk to you, that’s all. Nothing more.’

‘No.’

She wanted to hang up on him then, but something kept her hanging on the line, despising herself for allowing him any opportunity to hurt her once again. Jordan Kyle was a past master in the art of hurting her, yet she still felt a tremor when she heard his voice.

‘Emma …’ He was obviously seeking for words. ‘I have to talk to you. You could say it’s—a matter of life and death.’

‘Whose death?’ Emma’s mouth was dry. ‘Yours?’

‘Unfortunately not.’ He paused. ‘Well? Am I to be granted an audience?’

Emma hesitated. ‘You—you could come to the house. Have, dinner with—with David and me, if you want to.’ But she crossed her fingers as she suggested this. David would never sit down to a meal with Jordan Kyle.

Jordan sighed. ‘No, Emma. That wouldn’t do at all, and you know it.’

‘I’m sorry …’

‘Are you?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘All right, Emma. If I can’t persuade you to change your mind … I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

‘Wait!’ He was going to hang up on her. She knew it. And at the same time, she couldn’t allow it. ‘I mean …’ She faltered as she tried to justify detaining him. ‘Why did you want to speak to me, Jordan?’

‘You’ll never know, will you?’ he retorted equably, and hung up on her.

Emma continued to sit there, holding the receiver, for several agonising seconds. Then, as if it had suddenly burned her, she replaced it on its rest, staring at it mutinously as the familiar resentment she felt towards Jordan enveloped her in a wave of hot indignation. How dare he ring her up like that? After all this time? How dare he coolly invite her out to dinner when for the past eight years he had apparently ignored her existence?

She drew a long steadying breath. Thank goodness she had refused him, she thought, smoothing her hair with a nervous gesture. At least she had shown him that he could not drop her and then pick her up again when it suited him. How she would have despised herself if she had given in to his persuasions! And how David would have despised her if he had found out!

Even so, her hands trembled as she reached for the majolica vase she had been dusting when the telephone rang. One had to admire his audacity, she thought reluctantly. No one could ever say that Jordan Kyle lacked temerity. And there was no doubt, she was curious to know why he had suddenly chosen to contact her again. Could it have anything to do with the business? No. Her mother was no longer even a shareholder, and besides, if it had had to do with her mother’s affairs, surely Jordan would have contacted her. But what else could it be? What other connection could there possibly be between the Kyle family and her own?

She was still standing by the desk, absently smoothing her duster over the cherubs’ heads depicted on the vase, gazing blindly through the belling leaded panes of the shop window, when Gilda returned. The older woman came into the shop with its mellow chiming bell, closed the door and approached her assistant without Emma seeming to be aware of her. She stretched out a hand without speaking to rescue the fragile piece of pottery, and Emma’s startled response was a justification for her employer’s prudence.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she gulped, as the vase fell harmlessly into Gilda’s waiting hand. ‘I—I was miles away.’

‘So I noticed,’ remarked Gilda dryly, setting the vase down safely on the desk. ‘For heaven’s sake, where were you? I was sure you hadn’t heard the bell.’

‘I hadn’t.’ Emma’s face was flushed with embarrassment. ‘You’re back early. Did you get what you wanted?’

Gilda Avery removed the sheepskin jacket she was wearing over a slim-fitting jersey suit and hung it on the stand behind the desk. Then she held out her wrist watch for Emma to see.

‘I don’t know what time you think it is, my dear, but I make it a quarter to one. Don’t you want any lunch today?’

‘A quarter to one?’ Emma could hardly believe it. What time had Jordan rung? Half past ten? Eleven? Whatever, she had been standing staring out of the window for well over an hour.

Shaking her head as if to shake away the sense of unreality which still gripped her, she exclaimed: ‘I seem to have fallen asleep, don’t I?’ She forced a worried smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve missed any customers.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ drawled Gilda amiably, subsiding into her armchair and stretching her booted legs in front of her. ‘God, I’m glad that’s over. Dealing with someone on a one-to-one basis is always harder than outbidding buyers at an auction.’

‘But did you get it?’ Belatedly Emma was remembering the French secretaire Gilda had gone to see that morning, and realising that in her absence she had done next to nothing.

‘Yes, I got it,’ Gilda replied now, pulling out a pack of Gauloises and putting one between her lips. ‘But …’ she lit the long French cigarette and inhaled deeply, ‘… at a vastly inflated price.’

‘Then why didn’t you—–’

‘—let it go?’ Gilda shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’m getting soft in my old age, or perhaps Lady Margaret was too persuasive.’

‘I don’t believe that.’ Emma was striving for composure. ‘I—I can tell by your face that it’s what you wanted.’

‘Oh, it is!’ Gilda shed all pretence of indifference and enthusiasm shone in her light blue eyes. Drawing in her legs, she moved to the edge of her chair and resting her elbows on the desk, she exclaimed: ‘Emma, it’s exquisite. Really exquisite! It’s a genuine Riesener, of course, and the marquetry is so intricate—–’ She broke off abruptly to draw on her cigarette again, looking up at her young assistant. ‘You’ll love it, Emma. It’s so beautiful, I shan’t want to sell it.’

Unable to sustain the penetration of those curiously intent blue eyes, Emma moved round the desk, her fingernail trailing lightly over its surface. ‘Oh, I—I’m sure you will,’ she murmured, forcing a light tone. ‘Someone—some American—will come into the shop and offer you a fabulous price, and you’ll be unable to resist.’

‘Is that what you think?’ Gilda continued to study the girl’s unnaturally deepened colour. And then, with an abrupt change of topic, she said shrewdly: ‘What’s happened, Emma? Who’s been here? Why are you so nervous suddenly? Did David call?’

‘No.’ At least that was true. Emma pushed back the heavy weight of her hair with a determined hand. ‘You know what it’s like when you’ve been day-dreaming and you’re suddenly brought down to earth again. I—I guess I’m just a little off balance, that’s all.’

Gilda’s eyes narrowed. ‘What were you day-dreaming about?’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’ Emma shrugged. ‘This and that. Er—have you had lunch?’

‘No. I’ll have a sandwich here later.’ She frowned. ‘Emma, I don’t want to probe, but if there’s something worrying you, don’t you think you should tell me? We’ve been friends a long time, and I’ve known your family for years. If there’s something troubling you …’

‘Why should you think there’s something troubling me?’ Emma reached for her own suede coat and slipped her arms into the sleeves, and without waiting for an answer, added: ‘What sort of sandwich do you want? Ham or cheese?’

‘Ham, please.’ Gilda rose to her feet. ‘Emma, you’re not having trouble with David again, are you? I mean—well, he’s not being more objectionable than usual, is he?’

‘No!’ Emma pressed her lips together tightly. Then, as if suddenly coming to a decision, she said shortly: ‘It was Jordan. He rang.’

‘Jordan Kyle!’ Gilda’s eyes widened disbelievingly.

‘Do I know any other Jordan?’ demanded Emma, with an attempt at levity. Then, tautly: ‘Yes, of course. Jordan Kyle.’

Gilda breathed a sigh. ‘Am I permitted to ask why he telephoned?’

‘He asked me to have dinner with him.’

‘He what?’

‘Yes, I was surprised, too.’ Emma shifted awkwardly. ‘But there you are. The unexpected sometimes happens.’

‘Yes.’ Gilda regarded the girl opposite her with an anxious expression. ‘And did you agree?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Emma was glad she could speak honestly. ‘I told him I didn’t want to have dinner with him. Besides,’ she paused, ‘David wouldn’t approve, would he?’

‘No,’ Gilda agreed dryly. ‘But then David isn’t likely to approve of you doing anything that might upset his scheme of things.’

‘Oh, Gilda!’ Emma sighed. ‘I know you don’t like David. I know you have reason not to do so. But please, don’t put me in the middle, like a bone between two dogs.’

Gilda shrugged. ‘All right. Let’s leave David, for the time being. Why did Jordan invite you to dinner?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me.’

‘I see,’ Gilda nodded. ‘As enigmatic as usual. I wonder what’s going on? Do you think he still finds you attractive?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ Emma headed determinedly for the door. ‘The only thing Jordan Kyle ever found attractive was Tryle Transmissions, and you know it.’

‘Really?’ Gilda resumed her seat. ‘That’s not what I heard.’

Unwillingly, Emma was intrigued. ‘What—what do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Gilda flicked over the pages of an inventory. ‘Go get your lunch. And don’t forget my sandwich. I’ll have ham today.’ She chuckled. ‘I feel like a lion, not a mouse.’

‘Gilda!’ Emma clenched her fists, and as the woman looked up, she added: ‘What do you know? What have you heard about Jordan? Is he involved with some girl? Is she married?’

‘Does it matter to you?’ Gilda’s eyes softened. ‘Oh, yes, I can see it does. Emma!’ The tone was reproving now. ‘I thought you’d got over all that foolishness.’

‘I have.’ Emma held up her head. ‘But I’ve known Jordan all my life. Naturally I’m—interested in what happens to him.’

‘All right.’ Gilda picked up a pencil and toyed with it thoughtfully. ‘He’s been seen around with Stacey Albert. You know—her father has a controlling interest in—–’

‘—A.C.I. Yes, I know.’ Emma nodded jerkily. ‘The computer corporation.’ She paused. ‘Oh! Well, I didn’t know that.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Are they—getting married?’

‘Perhaps. Your Mr Kyle doesn’t seem too eager to tie himself into that kind of situation, does he? I mean, he’s what? Thirty-six? Thirty-seven? Quite old not to have been married already.’

The skin over Emma’s cheekbones felt tight. ‘Yes, well—like I said, the company was always his first and last love.’

‘Maybe no longer,’ observed Gilda wryly, but Emma reserved her opinion. Even so, the possibility of Jordan being involved with another woman still had the power to weaken her knees.

The antique shop stood in the High Street. Because Abingford’s history dated back to feudal times, its size and reputation had spread, and in the season it was flooded with visitors from both sides of the Atlantic. Its timbered buildings were world-famous, and its cathedral dreamed beside the placid waters of the River Avon. It was near enough to Stratford, and the other attractions of the Cotswolds, to merit half a dozen decent hotels, but it still maintained the atmosphere of the country town it had always been. It was far enough from London not to attract a commuter population, yet near enough for a day’s visit using the efficient rail link. Emma had lived there all her life—at least, apart from the two years she had lived in London; and her family had lived in the district for as long as she could remember.

Today, as she hurried along the High Street and turned into Hunter’s Mews, however, she was paying little attention to her surroundings. Not even the east wind, bringing with it little flurries of snow, could distract her from the chaotic turmoil of her thoughts, and she had passed the butcher’s shop before she realised she needed to call in there. Turning back, she bought the fillet steak David liked grilled to a juicy rareness, and then hastened on towards Mellor Terrace.

Before Emma and David were married, David’s mother had lived in the house in this pleasant Georgian terrace, but when the wedding was planned, she had insisted on finding a flat and giving the house to her son as a wedding gift. In consequence, its furnishings were rather old-fashioned, with lots of dark furniture in rooms that were themselves inclined to be gloomy. Emma had planned to change all that. She and David had discussed interior decorating and colour schemes in those few short weeks of their engagement, but afterwards—after disaster had struck—he had lost all interest in changing anything. On the contrary, he seemed to cling to those things that were familiar with an almost obsessive grasp, and the idea of going against his wishes was unthinkable. Even so, there were times when Emma felt her mother-in-law’s hand in the matter, and guessed that Mrs Ingram was using David’s disability to her own advantage. She had always been a possessive woman, and the abnormality of their marriage made her position that much stronger.

Letting herself into the house in Mellor Terrace, Emma immediately sensed the presence of the only other person who had a key to her home. It was an intangible awareness compounded of their mutual antipathy, and the more physical evidence of her mother-in-law’s slightly cloying perfume. Attar of roses drifted along the hall, and with it the murmured sound of voices.

Emma was removing her coat when the wheels of David’s chair heralded his emergence from the living room. His hands on the wheels brought the chair to an abrupt halt when he saw her, and his pale features assumed the somewhat peevish air he invariably adopted with her these days.

‘You’re late,’ he observed shortly. ‘Fortunately, Mother’s here to keep me company, or I should have been most concerned. Doesn’t Gilda Avery know that I expect you home at a quarter past twelve?’

Sighing, Emma went to bestow a kiss on his cheek. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she murmured apologetically, ignoring the impulse to defend herself. ‘Gilda had an important meeting this morning, and I had to hold the fort until she got back.’

‘If you ask me, I think that woman detains you deliberately,’ remarked Mrs Ingram, coming out of the living room to stand behind her son. A tall, well-built woman, she tended to overpower any opposition, but Emma had had plenty of experience in defying her.

‘Gilda wouldn’t do that,’ she said now, smiling in the face of hostility, knowing full well that Mrs Ingram would prefer her to argue, thus giving her an opportunity to gain her son’s support.

‘I don’t know why you have to work anyway,’ added her mother-in-law, digging up an old bone of contention. ‘Heaven knows, David spends enough time on his own as it is. I can’t imagine why you persistently follow your own career at the expense of your husband’s happiness.’

Emma’s tongue probed her upper lip. Then she said firmly: ‘David understands. I need an occupation. And so far as being alone is concerned, David wouldn’t want me around all the time. When he’s working—–’

‘When I’m working,’ put in David moodily. ‘A rare and wonderful occurrence these days.’

‘Oh, David …’

Whenever he got on about the shortage of commissions coming his way these days, Emma felt guilty. And yet his work was as good as ever. His artistic talents had not been impaired at all, but his attitude of mind coloured his illustrations, and his London agent had confided that unless David could shed his almost manic preoccupation with misery and suffering he would no longer be able to represent him. It was just an added problem to the already overloaded problem of their lives, and there were times when Emma wished it could have been she who had been crippled in the crash. It was at times like these when she chided herself for insisting on continuing with her job, but most of the time she accepted that without the three days a week she spent at Avery Antiques she would go mad.

Now, leaving David to offer his mother another glass of sherry, she went into the kitchen and turned on the grill. The steaks would not take long, and as she had bought extra to go into the freezer it was no problem to cater for three instead of two. Mrs Ingram was a frequent visitor to the house, and Emma had long abandoned the idea of being mistress in her own home.

Lunch was ready in half an hour, and seated at the square mahogany table in the dining room overlooking the walled garden at the back of the house, Emma relaxed a little. Why not? she asked herself, sipping at the glass of wine David had produced to drink with the meal. It was perfectly natural that hearing from Jordan again after all this time should have disconcerted her, but she was over the worst now and she was glad she had confided in Gilda. She was the only person she could confide in, and telling her had lessened the impact somehow. All the same, there was still the element of unease in not knowing what he had wanted, but that would dissipate with time. He had probably been at a loose end, she thought wryly. He must have been, to ring her when he had made it brutally plain in the past that their relationship had meant nothing serious to him. Did he think perhaps that now she was married she might be more accommodating? What kind of relationship did he think she had with David? Or didn’t he think about David at all?

Yet, if what Gilda said was true, he already had an accommodating girl-friend. Stacey Albert was a very sophisticated young lady, so why was Jordan bothering with the girl he had once known and discarded, the girl he had shed like an unwanted toy when her father sank into debt and finally killed himself? Her lips tightened. Oh, yes, as soon as the firm of Trace and Kyle, known familiarly as Tryle Transmissions, was bought out by the Kyle family, he no longer made any pretence of his feelings towards his father’s partner’s daughter.

‘Do you have to go back to the shop this afternoon?’

Mrs Ingram was speaking to her, and Emma looked up half guiltily, as if afraid her thoughts were visible for everyone to read.

‘I—beg your pardon? What? Oh, yes. Yes. I promised Gilda I’d take her a sandwich. She’s had no lunch.’

‘Can’t she afford to buy her own sandwiches?’ demanded David testily, pouring more wine into his glass. ‘You aren’t paid to feed your employer as well as yourself, are you?’

‘No,’ agreed Emma, biting her tongue on the desire to tell him that without her salary they couldn’t afford to drink wine at lunchtime either, and Mrs Ingram took up the comment.

‘She really is the most objectionable woman,’ she declared, with a sniff. ‘When I asked her to contribute to our charity fund, she had the nerve to tell me that her taxes alone would feed and clothe half the population of Abingford and she didn’t see why she should contribute when the state had millions of pounds just waiting to be applied for.’

Emma hid a smile. ‘Well, that is true,’ she conceded quietly. ‘People simply won’t claim, and Gilda says she doesn’t see why she should give money to organisations who spend half of it to pay the administratory costs.’

Mrs Ingram’s head went up. ‘I hope you’re not implying, Emma, that my colleagues in the Ladies’ Guild and I use the money we collect for any other purpose than that for which it’s intended.’

‘Oh, no.’ Emma shook her head, assuming an innocent expression. ‘I’m only telling you what Gilda thinks.’

‘Huh!’ Mrs Ingram attacked her steak with more vigour. ‘As I said before, she’s an objectionable woman, and I can’t imagine why David permits you to work for her.’

‘Why David permits …’ Emma was almost driven into retaliation, but just in time she bit back the words. ‘I just do a job, Mrs Ingram,’ she declared evenly. ‘Now, do you want cheesecake or crackers, David?’

To her relief, the topic was dropped, but when she left for the shop later she was aware that her mother-in-law had not given up on it. No doubt she would use this time alone with David to pursue her point, and Emma could only hope that, as in the past, Mrs Ingram would over-reach herself. David could be as perverse as his mother, and if he suspected he was being manipulated, he would retaliate in kind. It had happened before, and both Emma and his mother knew what a precarious game they were playing.

Gilda was busy with a customer when Emma re-entered the antique shop a few minutes later. They were studying a catalogue of Italian ceramics, and Emma removed her coat and picked up her duster to complete the tidying of the shelves she had begun before Jordan’s phone call. She was admiring a display of Victorian miniatures when the doorbell chimed once more, and she turned smilingly to deal with the new customer. But the smile was frozen on her face as she recognised the newcomer. It might be some time since she had seen Jordan Kyle in the flesh, but he was sufficiently newsworthy to warrant the occasional write-up in the local press and because of this she had not been allowed to forget his lean features.

Now, coming face to face with him, she was struck anew by the magnetism he exercised, the powerful influence that had once wrought such havoc in her life. Tall, around six feet, she estimated, with a strong if leanly built body, he looked more like an athlete than a businessman. His legs were long and muscular, and he moved with a litheness that belied his thirty-seven years. He was not handsome, but Emma had long since come to the conclusion that handsome men were rarely attractive to women. Jordan Kyle’s harsh, uncompromising features—the deep-set, hooded eyes, the high cheekbones and roughly set nose, the thin line of his mouth—combined to give his face a hard, almost cruel disposition, and yet when he smiled and displayed uneven white teeth, he had a fascination that was impossible to ignore. And to complete his appearance, his hair was that peculiar shade known as ash-blond, which meant it could look silver in some lights. He wore it short on top, but it grew low down the base of his neck, and Emma knew from experience it was strong and vital to the touch.

All these things were evident to her in those first few seconds when her blood ran cold in her veins and burned like a banner in her cheeks. Jordan Kyle. Coming to see her after all this time. The last she had heard about him, he had been spending several weeks with his father who had lately retired to live in the West Indies, and his tan which looked so unusual against the lightness of his hair was further evidence that the English winter had meant little to him.

‘Hello, Emma,’ he said now, closing the door behind him with a little click. His words attracted Gilda’s attention, and for a brief moment they, too, exchanged glances, then her customer demanded attention and Jordan transferred all his attention to her assistant.

Clearing her throat, Emma managed not to let her smile disappear completely. It was four years since she had actually spoken to Jordan, and then only in passing at a charity ball organised by David’s mother. He had been with someone else then, a girl she couldn’t even remember. All she could remember was going to the ladies’ room and spending fifteen minutes in the toilet gaining control of herself again.

‘Hello, Jordan,’ she responded now, folding her duster meticulously between her fingers. Tightening her lips, she added, in what she hoped was a casual tone: ‘I didn’t know you were interested in antiques.’

‘I’m not.’ Jordan glanced round the cluttered shop with faint contempt. Then he looked at Emma again. ‘You know why I’m here. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘This is the showroom,’ replied Emma tautly. ‘Whatever you have to say, it can be said here.’

‘No, it can’t,’ he contradicted, looking beyond her to the door leading into the tiny office at the back of the shop. ‘Can we go in there?’ He gestured towards the office. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone.’

‘How mysterious!’ Emma tried to be facetious, but it didn’t quite come off. Looking doubtfully at Gilda, she murmured in a low voice: ‘Was it necessary to come to the shop? Why couldn’t you have told me over the telephone?’

Jordan’s sigh was irritable. ‘Look, Emma, I don’t have all day. Are you going to speak to me or aren’t you?’

She licked her dry lips. ‘And if I say no?’

‘I’ll leave,’ he stated grimly, and she knew he would.

‘But what can you have to say that—that’s so important?’ she exclaimed. Then, viewing his uncompromising features, she capitulated. ‘Oh, very well. Come in here.’

Ignoring Gilda’s speculative stare, she led the way into the tiny office at the back which was as cluttered in its way as the shop. Jordan looked about him impatiently as he closed the door, and in the small office his presence was that much more disturbing.

‘My God,’ he said, as she moved round the desk to put it as a physical barrier between them. ‘How do you find anything in this place?’

‘I imagine we manage,’ she replied, gripping the edge of the desk tightly for support. ‘Now, do you mind telling me why you’re here?’

‘Well, as you refused to eat a meal with me, I had no other alternative,’ he responded, and his dark eyes which were such a contrast to the lightness of his hair were suddenly compelling. ‘I wanted to talk to you—to ask your assistance—and I couldn’t do that over a telephone.’

‘To—ask my assistance!’ Emma sat down rather suddenly, as her legs gave out on her. ‘You want my assistance?’ She shook her head. ‘How can I help you?’

Jordan came to the desk and leant upon it, his long-fingered hands, the only artistic thing about him, spread squarely on the polished surface. His nails were always clean, she thought inconsequently, mesmerised by his closeness, by the clean male smell of him emanating from the opened buttons of his black leather car coat. But she dared not look up at him, and her eyes became glued somewhere between the waistband of his pants and the swinging pendulum of his tie.

‘My father is dying,’ he said, without preamble. ‘He wants to see you. He wants to see us—reconciled, for want of a better word.’

CHAPTER TWO

EMMA was glad she was sitting down. His words delivered in that curt uncompromising manner were completely emotionless, but that didn’t prevent them from shocking her to the core of her being. Andrew Kyle was dying! The man who had once been like a second father to her had only a limited time to live. She found it impossible to accept.

‘But—what’s—–’

‘Cancer,’ retorted Jordan coldly. ‘It’s terminal. The doctors gave him approximately six months.’

‘Does—does he know?’

‘I believe so.’ He straightened. ‘He’s not a fool. He knows the score. I imagine that’s why he wants to—put his affairs in order.’

‘But—but why me?’ Emma gazed up at him with troubled eyes. ‘I—he hasn’t seen me for—oh, seven or eight years. Not since—not since you took over the company, in fact.’

‘I know that.’ Jordan thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. ‘But now he wants to see you, and I’m here to find out how you feel about it.’

‘How I feel about it.’

Emma shook her head. How did she feel about it? Naturally, she pitied anyone served that kind of death sentence, but how could she be expected to feel any kind of personal involvement for so long she had forced herself not to think about the Kyles, father and son? And why should he want to see her anyway? He had shown no obvious distress when she and Jordan went their separate ways, and to receive this summons now was like opening up an old wound.

‘Well?’

Jordan was regarding her intently and she shifted awkwardly beneath that penetrating gaze. What was he thinking? she wondered. Did he resent having to come here and ask her for anything? Or was he perhaps comparing her to the woman he had known, and finding her wanting? Certainly, her straight rope of glossy dark hair could not compare to the champagne brilliance of Stacey Albert’s silken curls, and apart from her eyes, which were a mixture of violet and blue and set between long curling lashes, her features were quite ordinary. She was tall, of course, which was an advantage, but not willowy enough by today’s yardsticks. Her breasts were far too prominent, and although her legs were slim, her hips were not.

Now she rose to her feet again, and feeling at less of a disadvantage said: ‘Tell me where your father is, and I’ll go and see him.’

‘You will?’ Jordan’s features relaxed somewhat. ‘Thank you.’

‘That’s all right.’ Emma held up her head. ‘Uncle—that is, your father—was always very kind to me. And I know—I know Daddy would want me to do as you ask, despite—despite everything.’

Jordan bent his head thoughtfully, and as the silence between them stretched, Emma spoke again.

‘How—how is your mother taking this?’

‘My mother?’ Jordan looked up in surprise. ‘Didn’t you know? My mother is dead. She died eighteen months ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Emma was aghast at her mistake. ‘I—I didn’t know. No one ever said …’

‘Why should they?’ Jordan seemed unmoved, and she flinched from his hard indifference. ‘It was a long way away, and the press are really only interested if they can get an angle on a story. If there’s something unusual or scandalous to write about. My mother’s death would make dull reading.’

Emma pressed her lips together and looked down at the desk. Then she said quietly: ‘Just tell me where your father is staying, and I’ll make arrangements to see him as soon as possible.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Jordan’s mocking tone brought her head up again. ‘Well, that’s where we run into a slight problem.’

‘A slight problem? What do you mean?’ Emma frowned.

‘My father lives on an island in the Caribbean. Didn’t you know that either?’

Emma gasped. ‘Well, yes—yes, I knew that. But I naturally assumed …’

‘What did you assume? That he’d come to England to die?’ Jordan shook his head. ‘Oh, no. Nothing would persuade my father to come back to this country now, particularly not in the middle of winter. No, Valentia is his home, and that’s where he’ll die.’

‘But—but what about his treatment?’

‘What treatment? He’s had two operations, and various radiation therapy. He knows there’s nothing more anyone can do for him, except prevent him from suffering any more pain than is absolutely necessary.’

‘Oh, Jordan!’

The helpless words fell from her lips, and for a brief moment she saw the spasm of pain that crossed his face. But then it was gone again, and she was left with the impression that perhaps she had imagined it.

‘So …’ He flexed his shoulder muscles. ‘Does this make a difference to the situation?’

‘You must know it does.’ Emma shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other. ‘I mean—how can I go out to the West Indies? I have a home—and a husband.’ She avoided his eyes as she said this. ‘I can’t just abandon them without thought or consideration.’

‘No one’s asking you to,’ replied Jordan shortly. ‘I realise how difficult it would be for you. And I’m quite prepared to accept your refusal, should you feel you can’t do it.’

Emma expelled her breath on a heavy sigh. Then she faced him squarely. ‘You don’t really care, do you?’ she exclaimed tautly. ‘You don’t really want me to go out there.’

‘If I’ve given that impression, then I’m sorry,’ replied Jordan politely. ‘Naturally I want what’s best for my father. And if he wants to see you, I shall do everything in my power to accommodate him.’

‘To accommodate him?’ Emma’s lips trembled at the dispassionate tone of his voice. ‘You’re so cold, aren’t you, Jordan? So unfeeling. To you it’s just another job of work, and if anyone’s feelings are hurt, then hard luck!’

‘I see no reason for you to feel so emotively about it,’ he retorted harshly. ‘As you’ve already pointed out, my father has ignored your existence for several years. Why should you rush to his defence now?’

‘He’s dying, Jordan.’

‘And does that eradicate the sins of the past? Are you one of those people who believes that repentance equals forgiveness?’

‘What are you saying, Jordan? What sin has your father committed? Ignoring my existence hardly warrants condemnation.’

‘In your eyes, perhaps not,’ he conceded stiffly. ‘Very well. Do I take it that you’ll come?’

Emma turned her back on him, resting her chin on her knuckles, trying desperately to decide what she ought to do. Obviously, she could make no decision without first discussing it with David, and she already knew what his reaction would be. But here and now she had to decide whether she wanted to go, whether there was any point in holding out hope that she would agree.

After a few moments, she said: ‘What—what would be the arrangements? How would I get to—to Valentia?’

There was a pause, and then Jordan replied: ‘A direct flight operates between London and Barbados. An inter-island transport flies between Seawell and Valentia.’

‘I see.’ Emma turned again, slowly. ‘And—and how long would all this take? I mean—how long would I be away?’

Jordan shrugged. ‘That would be up to you, of course. Technically, the flight to Barbados takes something like ten hours, but bearing in mind the four-hour time lag, you can complete the journey in half a day. The inter-island flight is much shorter—a matter of forty minutes, no more.’

‘And—flights to Valentia; they’re pretty frequent?’

‘No.’ Jordan shook his head. ‘Generally they’re laid on when required. Valentia’s population doesn’t exceed five hundred, so as you can imagine, there’s not a lot of need for a regular service.’

Emma absorbed this with difficulty. Somehow she couldn’t imagine herself flying off to the West Indies at a moment’s notice, going to see a man to whom she was practically a stranger, seeing sights and people totally alien to her normally limited existence. She had seen pictures of the Caribbean islands, shared a common longing for their beauty and tranquillity. But never at any time had she seriously considered going there. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted the dream exposing, for nothing was ever quite as attractive as one anticipated.

‘I’ll have to talk it over with David,’ she said at last, and Jordan’s lean mouth turned downward at the corners.

‘Then you might as well give me your answer right now,’ he remarked cynically. ‘We both know Ingram will never agree to your going anywhere with me.’

‘With—with you?’ Emma’s eyes were wide.

‘Why, yes, with me,’ agreed Jordan dryly. ‘You didn’t imagine I would let you fly out there on your own, did you?’

Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘I thought—that is—the company—–’

‘I have a very capable general manager,’ Jordan interrupted her curtly. ‘Even I am not so heartless as to let my father die alone. At the moment, I’m dividing my time between Abingford and Valentia, but as the time runs out, I’ll stay on the island.’ His lips twisted. ‘There are telephones. My father saw to that.’

Emma didn’t know what to say. Considering going to Valentia alone was one thing. Contemplating the trip with the one man she had hoped never to see again was quite another.

‘I need some time,’ she said now, pushing back her hair with a nervous hand. ‘Surely you can grant me a couple of days. When are you leaving?’

‘At the end of next week,’ he answered, taking his hands out of his pockets to fasten his coat. ‘When will you let me know what you’ve decided? At the weekend? Or is that too soon?’

‘No—no.’ That gave her three days. ‘No, I’ll know by the weekend.’

‘Good. Will you ring me?’

Emma linked her fingers together. ‘I don’t have your number.’

‘It hasn’t changed,’ he reminded her shortly. ‘Abingford double-six-one-nine. Or you can ring me at the office. I’m sure you remember that number.’

Emma’s skin prickled. ‘My father’s number, you mean?’ she countered tautly, and saw the faint colour run up under his tan.

‘You remember,’ he observed, and turning, opened the door into the showroom. ‘Until the weekend, then …’

Emma nodded, and followed him out into the now empty shop, empty, that was, but for Gilda lounging carelessly on the edge of her desk. When she saw them, her eyes flickered thoughtfully, then she put aside the pen she had been holding and smiled.

‘Good afternoon, Jordan,’ she said, the mockery in her tones only lightly veiled. ‘This is an unexpected honour.’

Jordan’s expression was equally sardonic. ‘Good afternoon, Gilda,’ he responded in kind. ‘Still as defensive as ever, I see.’

‘Defensive!’ Gilda straightened to face him, and then subsided again as she realised she was automatically proving his point. Controlling her temper, she said: ‘Might one ask why you’re slumming? I’m sure you have enough antiques in that mansion of yours to furnish half a dozen salerooms, so I can’t believe that’s why you’re here.’

Jordan smiled then, and Emma had to admire his self-control. ‘You’re right, of course, Gilda,’ he agreed imperturbably, turning up the collar of his coat against the cold outside. ‘Quite enough antiques. Yes. Nice to have seen you again. G’bye, Emma!’ And with a polite nod to both of them he left.

‘Conceited bastard!’ declared Gilda as soon as the door had closed behind him, and Emma was glad of the brief respite to collect her own composure. ‘What did he want? Can’t he take no for an answer? You did say you had refused his invitation, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Emma turned aside to rescue the sandwich she had brought for her employer from her handbag. ‘Here you are: ham! Are you ravenous?’

‘Not particularly, but put the kettle on, will you?’ said Gilda, peeling the sealing plastic from the roll. Then, as Emma moved to comply, she added: ‘Well? Are you going to tell me what he wanted, or aren’t you?’

Emma sighed. ‘His father wants to see me, that’s all.’

‘Old Andrew?’

‘Not so old. He must be about—sixty-five.’

‘Even so …’ Gilda was perplexed. ‘I didn’t know he’d come back to live at Athehnere.’

‘He hasn’t.’

Emma disappeared into the back office to fill the kettle in the tiny cloakroom adjoining, but Gilda moved to stand, eating her sandwich, at the open doorway, and she was waiting for her when she emerged again.

‘Emma …’ she said, chewing almost absently. ‘Emma, he hasn’t asked you to go out to the Caribbean, has he?’

‘As a matter of fact—–’

‘But why? Emma, why?’ She gulped. ‘You can be considering it!’

Emma plugged in the kettle. ‘Why not?’

‘Why? Why, because—because—how do you know it’s his father who wants to see you? How do you know it’s not some devious—–’

‘Gilda!’ Emma’s impatient use of her name silenced her. ‘Don’t be foolish! Jordan Kyle isn’t interested in me. Good heavens, you said yourself he was involved with Stacey Albert! And in any case, aren’t you forgetting—I’m married!’

‘Is that what you call it?’ retorted Gilda sharply. ‘Being at the beck and call of a man who’s only half a man!’

‘Gilda!’ Emma was trembling now as much with nervous reaction as indignation, although she would never have admitted it. ‘Gilda, David isn’t responsible for his condition.’

‘Isn’t he?’ Gilda was unsympathetic. ‘Who is, then? Who else was at the wheel of the car if it wasn’t himself? He was alone when they found him, wasn’t he? You can’t blame yourself for that.’

‘I don’t. I just wish you wouldn’t talk like that about—about my husband.’

‘But he’s not your husband, is he?’ pursued Gilda relentlessly. ‘He never has been. And don’t forget, I was with you that week before the wedding. I know the doubts you had, long before Master Ingram chose to smash himself, and your relationship, before it had even been consummated.’

‘Oh, Gilda …’ Emma dropped two teabags into the pot. ‘Must you keep bringing that up? David and I are married. We’ve been married for almost four years. Why can’t you accept it? There’s no point in thinking about what might have been. This is here and now, and there’s no—no—–’

‘Escape?’ suggested Gilda dryly, but Emma vigorously denied it.

‘No. I was about to say there’s no—altering it. That’s all.’

‘All right.’ Gilda finished the sandwich and delicately licked her fingers. ‘So where does that leave us? Oh, yes—Jordan’s invitation to temptation.’

‘Gilda!’ The kettle boiled at that moment, and she made the tea with hands that spattered drops of boiling water all over the papers on the desk. ‘Jordan’s father is ill. He wants to see me before—in case—anything happens.’

‘I see,’ Gilda nodded.

‘That’s confidential, Gilda.’

‘Of course,’ Gilda agreed. ‘But that doesn’t answer the question, does it? Are you seriously considering going?’

‘I don’t know …’ Emma added milk to the teacups. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

The chiming of the shop bell brought their conversation to an abrupt halt, and leaving Gilda to drink her tea in peace, Emma went to attend to the customer. For the rest of the afternoon, she was kept busy and although she knew that Gilda only had her well-being at heart, she was relieved. The whole situation was too new, too fraught with difficulties, to discuss coherently, and the arrival of Gilda’s latest boy-friend just before closing time curtailed any prolonged farewells.

‘See you Friday,’ she called, as she left the shop, but she was not unaware of her employer’s impatience at the knowledge that it would be two days before she heard her decision.

Outside, Frank Horner’s Jaguar was parked at the kerb. A man in his early fifties, he had already been married twice before, and Gilda was his present quarry. Gilda herself took him much less seriously. She had not reached the age of forty-two without learning a little about the opposite sex, and while her slim figure and good looks attracted plenty of attention, she seldom got seriously involved with anyone. She was a career woman, first and foremost, and the income from the shop more than compensated any need for security. Emma doubted she would ever get married, despite Frank Horner’s ambitions.

David’s mother had left by the time she got home, and to her relief David was engrossed in his study, working on his present commission. He spared a moment to greet her, and then, while she set the casserole she had prepared at lunchtime on a low light and went to bathe and change before serving their evening meal, he returned to his work.

Later, eating their meal from a serving trolley set before the fire in the drawing room, Emma let herself relax. It was pleasant in the lamplit room with the television playing away quietly in one corner, there to be seen or not as the mood took her. She could almost convince herself that they were any ordinary couple sitting eating their supper together, until David got bored with quiet domesticity and thrust his tray savagely aside.

‘God, I wish this weather would improve!’ he muttered, reaching for the bottle of Scotch on the table beside him and splashing a generous measure into his glass. ‘I’m so sick of being confined to this house, day in and day out! I get so bored I could scream!’

Emma gathered the dirty dishes together on to the trolley. ‘We could go out tomorrow, if you like,’ she offered mildly, looking up to see his reaction, and predictably, he scowled.

‘With you driving?’ he demanded, and then shook his head. ‘You know I hate being driven by a woman.’

‘I know that. But unless you do—–’

‘I know, I know. Don’t remind me. Unless you drive, I can’t go anywhere.’

‘David, you know you could have transport …’

‘One of those ghastly three-wheelers? No, thanks!’

‘No. I believe there are other vehicles—–’

‘It doesn’t matter. They’re all the same. They all have disabled driver on the back.’

‘Well, that’s what you are, David,’ Emma pointed out quietly. ‘Surely you see that if you could only accept that, things would be so much easier …’

‘For you, you mean. Would it take some of the guilt from your shoulders knowing I was mobile?’

Emma sighed. They had had this argument before and it always ended the same. ‘David, accepting your disability would make it easier for you, too. Don’t you see? There’s so much in life to enjoy—–’

‘Not in my life. I’m just a living vegetable. I just about manage to feed and clothe myself, and that’s all.’

‘You have your work …’

‘My work!’ David snorted. ‘Do you think I don’t know that all the jobs I get now are second-rate commissions? Langley never sends me anything worthwhile any more. That’s why he never comes here. He daren’t show his face.’

‘David, Harry Langley doesn’t come here because you’re so unpleasant to him when he does, that’s all. And I think you’re wrong. The commissions he sends you are good commissions. It’s just that you don’t take the—the interest in them that you used to do.’

‘Don’t give me that! I’m interested all right. David Ingram used to be a name to be reckoned with, and I’m not about to give that up.’

‘Then—then stop feeling so sorry for yourself!’ exclaimed Emma urgently. ‘And stop drinking so much. That’s the second bottle of Scotch you’ve started this week.’

‘Who’s counting?’ retorted David, and deliberately refilled his glass.

Shaking her head, Emma rose and wheeled the trolley out of the room. It was useless trying to reason with him, particularly when he’d been drinking. His self-pity was absolute, and she could see no end to it.

As she loaded the dishes into the sink, she pondered the improbabilities of her life thus far. Gilda had been accurate about the doubts she had had before her marriage to David. There had been times in those weeks before the wedding when she had considered calling the whole thing off. She had not loved David as she should have done, but he had known that and wanted her anyway, and she had foolishly allowed herself to be persuaded.

It was all down to her feelings for Jordan Kyle. Maybe if she had never known him, her affection for David would have been enough. As it was, she had known what love could be like between a man and a woman, and didn’t they always say that a woman never forgot her first affair?

She sighed, dipping her hands into the soapy water. The trouble was, she had never known a time when Jordan had not played some part in her life. She remembered when she was little more than a toddler and he was already twelve or thirteen years old, the way he had given her rides on his back, taught her how to swim, had snowball fights with her, and given her trips on the crossbar of his bicycle. As she grew older he was always there, to tease or mock, to chide or admire, the older brother she had never known. Because they were both only children, and because their fathers were partners in business, it was natural that they should see a lot of one another, and by the time Emma was eighteen and home from boarding school, her infatuation for Jordan was complete.

The magical thing had been that he appeared to feel the same. For all there were ten years between them, he had never seriously bothered with any other girl, and that summer of her maturity had been the most marvellous summer of her life. Although even then Jordan had already joined the company and was starting to make a name for himself in the cold hard world of finance, all his free time he had spent with Emma, and their relationship became the most important thing in her life. She had adored him with all the stirring passion of her youth, and had been able to deny him nothing …

The blade of a knife skimmed her finger, and a thread of blood appeared along the parting skin. With an exclamation, she ran the cut under cold water, wondering whether the careless gesture had been an omen. Certainly it epitomised the savagery of their parting when it happened; she had felt then that she was bleeding—but inside.

It had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so brutally. So wrapped up in her own feelings had she been, she had not noticed the strain in her father’s face which had increased daily, the anxiety her mother must have been feeling. Instead, when the crash came, it tore into her like a physical blast, shattering her home and her family, everything she had held dear.

Her mother had stood up well under the strain. She had blamed Emma’s father entirely, and perhaps this had been her means of recovery. And it was true, Jeremy Trace had been gambling recklessly, using shareholders’ money to subsidise his debts. He had always enjoyed the good life, sometimes to the detriment of his wife and daughter, but inevitably time had caught up with him. Even then, he had taken the easiest way out. He had shot himself in the library of their home, leaving his womenfolk to settle his debts and face the inevitable scandal that followed.

Andrew Kyle had tried to help them, but naturally he had to think of his shareholders first, and in any case, her mother had not wanted his assistance. Instead, she had sold the house standing adjacent, to the Kyle home, and moved herself and Emma into a tiny flat in Abingford, overlooking the yard of St Stephen’s Church.

During this traumatic time, Emma had seen little of Jordan, or his parents. She had not thought a lot about it, being in the grip of her own grief, and needing to comfort her mother. But as the weeks passed and the scandal died down, he still continued to avoid her, and her suspicions were born.

It took some time before the truth gradually began to sink in. Jordan had been interested in her only so long as she was her father’s daughter. By marrying her, he would have gained ultimate control of both family’s shareholdings. Once that situation no longer applied, he had decided to cut his losses. Why marry a girl without a penny to her name when there were plenty of well-heeled ladies around only too willing to share their inheritance with a man as attractive as Jordan Kyle?

She had considered the possibility that perhaps her father’s suicide and the scandal which had ensued might have affected his feelings towards her, but she couldn’t believe Jordan to be so small-minded, so the obvious explanation seemed the most probable.

Whatever, Emma had suffered a severe relapse herself. Her relationship with Jordan had been such that she had never given the idea of not marrying him any serious consideration, and to discover that he had deceived her in that way had been more than she could bear. As soon as she was capable of finding a job, she had taken herself off to London, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the Kyles as was humanly possible. Her mother had encouraged her decision, and Emma had decided that so far as her mother was concerned, the break-up of their relationship had not been unexpected.

Inevitably, time wrought its own miracles of healing. Emma was lucky enough to get a job in an auction house in London. She had always been interested in antiques, and her apprenticeship there served her in good stead when she finally returned to Abingford. She came back when she discovered her mother was finding it difficult to live on the allowance she made her, and for a while Emma shared the flat with her again.

It was about this time she met David Ingram once more.

She had met him first in Jordan’s company. David was a freelance commercial artist, working at that time on an advertising campaign for Tryle Transmissions. She had known immediately that she attracted him, but whether that was because she was the boss’s girl-friend or not, she could never be sure. What had always been apparent was that any girl who could hold a man like Jordan had to have something, and several of his friends had made passes at her when they thought Jordan wasn’t looking.

Emma had quite liked David, although she had sensed his feelings towards Jordan contained quite an element of envy. He had always had an intense ambition to be wealthy, and having money meant a lot to him.

From the minute he learned that Emma was back in Abingford to stay, he had started dating her, and within a very short time he asked her to marry him. Emma had demurred, insisting that they hardly knew one another, secretly wondering whether Jordan might ring her once he knew she was home again. She knew he was still unmarried, unattached, if what the papers said was true, and she cherished hopes that perhaps time would have worked its miracle for him, too.

But as the weeks and months went by, and there was no word from Jordan, she was forced to accept that so far as he was concerned, their affair was over. Her mother, guessing her feelings, had ridiculed such foolishness. David, she said, was a far better candidate than Jordan Kyle could ever be, and besides, she wanted Emma to have nothing more to do with that family.

The crunch came the night Emma casually encountered Jordan at the charity ball. He had spoken to her politely, but that was all. His eyes had looked straight through her and she had known that whatever there had been between them was dead—and buried. That was the night she had accepted David’s proposal, and lived to regret it. His accident, just four days before the date of the wedding, had destroyed any idea she might have had for cancelling the ceremony. Instead, it had been conducted around his bed in the hospital, the only thing, they said, that would give him a reason for living. A reason for living …

Emma pressed her lips together tightly now. That was ironic. From the moment David learned that he was paralysed from the waist down, he had despised the life he was forced to live, and gradually he was forcing Emma to despise her life, too. It was as if there was a malignant cancer growing inside him that was gradually corrupting his soul, and Emma seldom looked into the future without a sense of despair.

If only David had accepted his disability. If only he could appreciate how good it was to be alive, instead of persistently bemoaning his lot in life, and allowing the envy he had always possessed to poison and destroy what little happiness they might have had.

‘Emma!’ She heard him calling her now, the irritability evident in his voice. ‘Emma, what in God’s name are you doing? Does it take half an hour to make a cup of coffee?’

‘Coffee!’ Emma started guiltily. She had forgotten to turn on the percolator.

‘I won’t be long,’ she called in reply. ‘I’m just finishing the dishes!’ and as if to emphasise this point she clattered plates and dishes on to the draining board.

But later that night, lying in the lonely isolation of her bed, she gave in to the frustrated tears that stung the backs of her eyes. She and David didn’t even share a bedroom, he having decided he needed the double bed they had once intended to use for his own use downstairs, while she occupied the single divan in the bedroom upstairs. How could she suggest going to the West Indies? she thought helplessly. Apart from anything else, it was unfair to David to even think of such a thing when he was stuck here at home, hating the cold weather. There had never been money for expensive holidays. Even the accident insurance had been denied to them on a technicality, which Emma had never understood, and without her job in those early days they would have had to have applied for social security.

Besides, what could Andrew Kyle have to say to her that was so desperately important that he should send for her practically on his dying bed? It didn’t make sense to her, so how could David be expected to understand, let alone agree to the trip?

She sighed. Jordan would not be surprised if she refused. Relieved, was his more likely reaction. After all, how boring it would be for him having to escort her all that way, and embarrassing, too, if she chose to bring up the past. But she wouldn’t do that, she thought, fumbling under her pillow for a paper tissue. She had some pride! Of course, he didn’t know that, and now he would never find out.

CHAPTER THREE

THE attic at Mellor Terrace was dark and gloomy, the only light coming through a tiny window set up high in the roof. There was no electricity, and Emma had to use a torch to see what she was doing. It was chilly, too, but she had put on thick trousers and a chunky sweater, and the effort of her exertions was keeping the cold at bay.

Looking round the cobwebby interior of the attic, she wondered how many years it was since anyone had been up here. Mrs Ingram had shuddered at the prospect of climbing the rickety old staircase that coiled to the upper regions of the house, and she had shown little interest in Emma’s plans to clean the place out. One of her arguments for Emma giving up her job was to imply that she had not the time to keep up with her housework, but she ignored the fact that she had not entered the attic so long as Emma had known her.

David had been much less emphatic. On the contrary, he had stated that as there was never likely to be more than two of them living in the house, the three spare bedrooms provided more than enough storage space without disturbing the dust of decades that filmed everything in the attic. He had got quite annoyed with her for bringing the matter up, and it was one of those occasions when Emma had kept her own counsel.

But since then she had had private thoughts about it, and this morning she had needed something energetic to do, something to take her mind off her decision to refuse Jordan’s invitation. Cleaning out the attic had seemed an ideal occupation, and as David was busy with his drawings, she had come up here straight after breakfast.

David was right about one thing, she thought, tracing her name in the dust that thickly covered an old cedarwood ottoman. This was the dust of decades. She doubted Mrs Ingram had ever done more than check for dampness, and she began to wonder whether she might not be more sensible to let well alone. Who knew what hairy monsters might lurk among these piles of outdated magazines and discarded books, the rolls of old wallpaper and battered suitcases, filled with faded curtains and worn-out bedding? She was not normally afraid of insects, but the prospect of meeting spiders or beetles up here sent a shiver down her spine.

Then she gave herself a mental shake. She was being fanciful, she decided impatiently. The attic was just another room, after all, and cleaned out it would make a pleasant storage place for David’s old drawings. At present they littered the drawers of his study, but if she could persuade him to let her store them up here, he would have so much more room to work. Besides, it wasn’t healthy to have all this dust about the place, and it would give her a great deal of satisfaction to show Mrs Ingram what she had done.

Fortunately she had secured her hair beneath a scarf before tackling the first removals, for the dust flew freely, and she sneezed as particles invaded her nose and tickled her throat. It would be easier, she decided, to investigate the contents of suitcases and boxes up here, rather than drag them through the house, and then those that were to be discarded could all be disposed of together.

Box after box contained toys, she found, and she realised Mrs Ingram must have kept every toy David had ever had. It was a disconcerting discovery, and although she was tempted to throw the lot out, she decided to speak to her mother-in-law first. After all, they were not hers to dispose of, and if Mrs Ingram wanted to keep them, that was her prerogative.

Other boxes contained paint and wallpapering equipment, but after levering off a lid from one of the paint tins and finding only solid glue inside, Emma put the whole lot aside to be thrown away. There was a suitcase full of old photographs that would need to be sorted, and a couple of albums filled with pictures of David growing from a boy into a man. Emma spent a few minutes flipping through these pages, and was shaken when she found Jordan’s face staring up at her from a group photograph. It appeared to have been taken when he was at university, but the picture was stuck firmly into the album and she couldn’t turn it over to discover whether it was dated. It was unexpected, finding a photograph of Jordan here, and she quickly turned the page to hide his sardonic features from sight. David had been part of the group, too, although he was a couple of years younger than Jordan, and she frowned. She had not known they had attended the same university, or indeed that they had known one another so long.

The shock of even visually encountering the man who had so lately thrown her feelings into turmoil left her taut and vulnerable. The task she had set herself was no longer remote from the problems he had created, and with depression digging at her dwindling enthusiasm, she decided to call it a day. Not even Mrs Ingram’s reluctant approval could spur her on at that moment, and the idea of a cup of coffee was far more attractive.

She was picking her way towards the trapdoor when she stumbled over what she saw to be the sleeve of a sweater hanging carelessly over the side of a cardboard box. It was old and dusty and she bent to pull it out and throw it with the other things for disposal. But her fingers encountered something hard within its folds, and as she curiously pulled the fabric aside, an oblong object fell to the floor with a distinct thud.

Frowning, she bent to pick it up and saw with surprise that it was a lady’s handbag. Mrs Ingram’s? She pulled a face. She didn’t think so. It wasn’t at all the sort of thing her mother-in-law would use. It was too cheap, for one thing: not leather; and once it had been a garish shade of red.

Whose, then? she wondered, perplexed. It was too modern to have belonged to some long-dead occupant of the house, and besides, the sweater wrapped around it was familiar to her. David had once had a sweater of that colour, with that particular pattern around the welt and sleeves. She hadn’t seen him wearing it for ages and ages, but she was sure it was the same one.

Feeling a little like Alice, or maybe Pandora, she turned the clasp fastening and opened the flap. To her surprise the bag was not empty, but filled with the usual paraphernalia to be found in any woman’s handbag—purse, make-up, perfume; even some letters and a cheque book. Exactly as if whoever had been using the handbag had lost it. She pulled out one of the letters to read the address and then stared in amazement. The handwriting on the letter was David’s, she would have recognised it anywhere, and the addressee was someone called Miss Sandra Hopkins, 11, Montford Street, Stratford. The date on the letter was almost exactly four years ago.

Aware that she was trembling, Emma saw, as if in silent replay, the crumpled wreckage of David’s car after the accident that had crippled him. It had been this time of year, the roads frozen and treacherous with black ice. David had been driving to Stratford—to see a client, or so he had said. Emma had never discovered who that client was, but then she had had no reason to disbelieve him. Was it possible he had been going to meet this girl—this Sandra Hopkins? And if so, why hadn’t he told her? If he had cared about this girl, why had he insisted on marrying her? And what was more to the point, why was the girl’s handbag in their attic, wrapped up in his sweater inside a cardboard box?

‘Emma!’

David’s angry voice echoed hollowly from the floor below. Since his illness, he seldom ascended to the first floor, even though with two metal sticks he was capable of climbing the stairs. But obviously today he had made that effort, and was presently standing at the foot of the attic stairs, calling up to her.

She was tempted not to answer him. She needed time to absorb what she had just learned in private, but from the tone of David’s voice she guessed he was afraid she might have discovered the handbag, and that gave it all a horrible credence.

‘Emma! Answer me! I know you’re up there. Come on down. I told you not to bother cleaning that place out. It’s not necessary.’

Taking a deep breath, Emma tucked the handbag into the waistband of her pants, and lowered herself on to the top step. Then she fitted the trapdoor in place and descended to the landing below where David awaited her. His eyes went instantly to the wedge of red plastic that pushed her chunky sweater aside, and then unbecoming colour stained his pale cheeks.

If Emma had needed any further proof that David knew of the handbag’s existence, his guilty appearance was enough, and pulling it out, she said, rather unevenly:

‘I think we need to have a little talk, don’t you?’

‘It was all your fault!’

The accusation was so unexpected that Emma was speechless. They were facing one another in David’s study after he had insisted it was too cold to discuss the matter on the upstairs landing, but now she wondered whether his excuse to go downstairs had been motivated by the desire to gain breathing space. Certainly it was the last thing she had expected him to say, and for a few moments she was so shocked she could Only stare at him.

But at last she gathered herself sufficiently to say weakly: ‘My fault?’

‘Yes, your fault,’ declared David, returning confidence adding assurance to his voice. ‘So cold—so frigid! A warm-blooded man could freeze before you’d thaw for him. Such a puritan little soul, I sometimes wondered what—–’ He broke off abruptly at this point and when he spoke again, she had the distinct impression he was not finishing the sentence in the way he had originally intended. ‘I wondered—what kind of a wife you’d turn out to be!’

‘Wait a minute.’ Emma moistened her lips. ‘Are you telling me the—the relationship you obviously had with this girl was the result of my refusal to sleep with you before—before our marriage?’

‘What else?’ muttered David moodily, and she moved her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

‘You can’t expect me to believe you!’ she exclaimed, a sense of hysteria lifting her voice. ‘My God, David, you can’t honestly expect me to swallow that!’

‘Why not? It’s the truth. You were a frigid creature. Still are, most likely. Only I’ll never know now, will I?’

The reminder of his physical condition stayed Emma’s reckless impulse to tell him exactly what she thought of his behaviour. Instead, she folded her arms closely about her, and moved almost like a sleepwalker towards the window which looked out on to the walled garden at the back of the house.

‘How long was this going on?’ she asked, in a tense voice, and David made a sound of irritation.

‘Does it matter? It’s all over now. It was all over before our marriage—–’

‘Yes.’ Emma swung round. ‘I expect it was. But why, I wonder? Because you’d told her that once we were married you intended to be faithful to me?’ Her lips twisted. ‘Or because the crash curtailed your activities in that direction!’

David’s face burned with colour. ‘That’s a foul thing to say!’

‘But more accurate than you care to admit!’ declared Emma, without compassion. ‘Heavens, to think that all those nights I thought you were working, you were with this—girl, whoever she is! Did anyone know? Did your mother know? Have you both been laughing behind your hands all these years—–’

‘No!’ David was adamant. ‘No one knew.’

‘Sandra Hopkins knew.’

‘Yes, well—she got married soon afterwards herself, and as far as I know, she may have moved away from Stratford.’

Emma digested this. Then suddenly she realised she had overlooked the most important thing of all. Why did David have the girl’s handbag? What was it doing in the attic, wrapped in his sweater? A film of perspiration broke out all over her. Dear God, he hadn’t murdered the girl, had he?

David was watching her, and suddenly she couldn’t ask the obvious question. It wasn’t that she was scared exactly. She knew David’s capabilities, and put to the test, she was probably stronger than he was. He had spent four years practically confined to a wheelchair, and it was unlikely he could harm her in any way. But if there was some reason for his confidence in believing that Sandra Hopkins would not talk about their relationship, she would rather not hear about it from him. She could no longer trust him to answer her honestly, and the sympathy which had kept her affection for him alive had received a mortal blow.

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