When the Devil Drives
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

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘SIMON, YOU DON’T—you can’t mean this! It’s a joke, isn’t it—one of your appalling, tasteless bloody jokes?’

Simon Chalfont’s face reddened, and his glance shifted away from the anguished appeal in his sister’s eyes.

‘I’m totally serious, old girl.’ He sighed. ‘God, Jo, if I could change things, I would. But you weren’t here, and the bank wouldn’t lift a finger to help me. I was desperate.’

‘So you’ve mortgaged us—this house—the workshop—the little we have left—to Cal Blackstone.’ Joanna Bentham’s hands gripped the back of the chair as if it were the only reality in a suddenly tottering world. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t credit that you’d do such a thing.’

‘And what was I supposed to do?’ Simon demanded defensively. ‘Lay the men off? Close the workshop? Try and sell this house?’

‘If you were so strapped for cash, surely there are other sources you could have borrowed from in the short term?’

‘A loan shark, perhaps,’ Simon suggested derisively. ‘For God’s sake, Jo, do you know the kind of interest those people charge?’

‘I know the kind of interest Cal Blackstone could charge.’ Joanna drew a shaky breath. ‘Simon, don’t you realise what you’ve done? You’ve sold us lock, stock and barrel to our greatest enemy!’

‘Oh, I knew that was coming.’ Simon flung himself on to the sofa, giving his sister a trenchant look. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we grew up and forgot all about this ridiculous family feud? Isn’t carrying the thing into a third generation going over the top?’

‘Ask Cal Blackstone,’ Joanna bit back at him. ‘He hasn’t forgotten a thing. Fifteen years ago, his father took the mill away from us. Now his son’s coming for the rest. And, thanks to you, he hasn’t even had to fight for it.’

There was a sullen silence.

Joanna released her grip on the chairback, rubbing almost absently the indentations the heavily carved wood had left in her flesh.

Cal Blackstone, she thought, and her skin crawled. The grandson of the man who was once glad to work for my grandfather as an overlooker at the mill. The trouble-maker, the rabble-rouser who tried to close our doors with strikes over and over again. The self-made millionaire who drove Chalfonts to the edge of bankruptcy, and died swearing he’d put us out on the street.

Even after the fierce old man had gone, there was no respite for the beleaguered mill. His son Arnold had proved just as inimical, just as determined. In the end Chalfonts had had to be sold, and there was only one bidder.

Arnold Blackstone got it for a song, Joanna thought, anger welling up inside her. Chalfonts, who’d been making quality worsteds on that site for over a hundred years. And he made it a byword for cheap rubbish, aimed at the bottom end of the market.

The only thing remaining from the old days was the name—Chalfonts Mill—kept deliberately by the Blackstones, Joanna’s father had said bitterly, as a permanent thorn in the family’s flesh—a constant and public reminder of what they’d lost.

Now, under the direction of Cal Blackstone, his grandfather’s namesake, the mill, as such, no longer existed. The looms had been sold, and the workforce dispersed, and the vast building had become a thriving complex of small industrial workshops and businesses.

Because Cal Blackstone wasn’t interested in quality or tradition. He was an entrepreneur, a developer of property and ideas. Local gossip said there was hardly a pie in a radius of two hundred miles that he didn’t have a finger in. And what he touched invariably turned to gold, Joanna reflected, wincing inwardly. He’d already more than doubled the fortune his father and grandfather had left, and at thirty-three years of age it was reckoned his career had barely even started.

To the outrage of the local landowners, he’d acquired Craigmoor House and its park, which had been derelict for years, renovated it completely, and, in the face of strenuous opposition, turned it into a country club, with an integral restaurant and casino, and a challenging nine-hole golf course in the reclaimed grounds.

Within a year, all those who’d been most vociferously outspoken against the plan were among the club’s most stalwart members.

But the Chalfonts were not among them. Since the original breach between the first Callum Blackstone and Jonas Chalfont, all those years ago, the families had never knowingly met under the same roof. The Chalfonts had let it be known that they would accept no invitations which had also been extended to any member of the Blackstone clan, and the rule had been rigorously applied by Cecilia Chalfont, Joanna’s mother, who came from an old county family and carried considerable social clout.

The two families had still been at daggers drawn when Cecilia had died from an unexpected heart condition while Joanna was in her early teens.

I’m almost glad, Joanna thought fiercely, walking to the window and staring down at the formal rose garden, glowing with summer bloom, which it overlooked. At least Mother was spared the knowledge of this—betrayal by Simon. But keeping it from Dad will be another matter.

Anthony Chalfont had his own suite of rooms on the first floor. Severely crippled by arthritis, he rarely ventured forth from them, but was looked after devotedly by his manservant Gresham, and Joanna’s own elderly nanny.

Just recently, her father’s mind had begun to wander, and he seemed to prefer to dwell very much in the past. A couple of times since her return, Joanna had found herself being addressed by him as Cecilia, although she could see little resemblance in herself to her mother’s haughty beauty. But there were other days too when his brain was as sharp and lucid as it had ever been. If Cal Blackstone turned them out of their home, the effect on her father might be disastrous.

She took a deep breath. ‘Tell me again—slowly—what happened. How you came to do this thing. After all, when I went away the workshop seemed to be doing well. The order-book was full.’

‘It was.’ Simon’s shoulders were hunched, his whole attitude despondent. ‘Then everything started to go wrong. Two of our biggest customers gave us backword. They said the recession was biting, and the property market was going into decline. They reckoned people weren’t prepared to spend that kind of money on handcrafted furniture and kitchens any more. We were left with thousands of pounds’ worth of specially designed gear on our hands.’

‘And what about our partner, Philip the super-salesman?’ Joanna asked. ‘What was he doing about all this?’

Simon shrugged. ‘Philip tried to find other markets, but the answer was always the same. Property development was being cut back, and prices kept down. They wanted mass-market stuff people could afford in their show houses.’

Joanna bit her lip hard. It was Philip who’d urged expansion, she thought angrily. Philip who’d persuaded Simon to take on more men, and buy more machinery to fulfil a demand he was confident he could create. In vain, she’d argued that small was beautiful, that they should concentrate on quality rather than quantity, and feel their way cautiously for a while until their markets were firmly established.

But Simon hadn’t wanted to listen. He’d wanted to make money fast, and restore the shaky Chalfont fortunes. He’d also wanted to marry Philip’s pretty sister Fiona, so anything Philip suggested was all right with him.

And at first their growth had been meteoric, just as Philip had predicted. Simon and Fiona had been married with all the appropriate razzmatazz, and the couple had moved into Chalfont House. The Craft Company had continued to flourish, and, although Joanna’s instincts had still warned her that they should be cautious, she was having deep problems of her own, and her involvement in the business was becoming less and less.

I should have stayed here after Martin died, she thought with a small silent sigh. I shouldn’t have run away like that. But I felt I needed time—to lick my wounds—to try and heal myself. There were too many memories here. Too much I needed to forget.

Her headlong flight, after her husband’s funeral, had taken her to her godmother’s home in the United States. Aunt Vinnie had extended the invitation in a warmly affectionate letter of condolence as soon as she’d heard about Martin’s fatal car accident. Joanna hadn’t planned on staying more than a few weeks in New Hampshire, but had become interested in spite of herself in the running of the art gallery Aunt Vinnie owned. She’d started helping out for a few hours each week, but had soon grown more deeply involved, and gradually her stay had extended into months.

If her godmother hadn’t reluctantly decided to sell up and retire to California, she had to admit she might still have been there.

Clearly, eighteen months had been a long time to absent herself. Too long, she castigated herself.

‘We had suppliers to pay, and the wages bill to meet,’ Simon went on. ‘Things were looking really black. The bank refused outright to allow us to exceed our stated overdraft. In fact, they started pressing us to repay some of it. Jo—I didn’t know where to turn.’

She didn’t look at him. She continued to stare rigidly down into the garden. ‘So you turned to Cal Blackstone. Why?’

‘It wasn’t quite like that.’ The defensiveness was back in his voice. ‘He approached me. He was the guest speaker at the Round Table dinner, and the people I was with asked him to join us afterwards for a drink. I couldn’t very well avoid him. We were left on our own, and at first he just—made conversation.’

‘But later?’ Joanna asked matter-of-factly.

‘Later—he began to talk about the Craft Company. He seemed to know we were in trouble. He said that things were generally difficult for small businesses, and mentioned a few of the problems some of them were having at Chalfont Mill. He said he’d been able to help in a lot of cases. That it would be a pity to go under, if a simple injection of cash could save the day.’

‘Cal Blackstone, philanthropist.’ Joanna gave a mirthless laugh. ‘And you fell for it!’

Simon came to stand beside her. ‘What else was I supposed to do?’ he almost hissed. ‘Things were bad and getting worse every day. Our creditors were pressing, and the bank was threatening to bounce the wages cheque. If someone offers you a lifeline, you don’t throw it back in his face, for God’s sake.’ He paused. ‘Besides, Fiona had just told me she was pregnant.’

With her usual immaculate sense of timing, Joanna thought resignedly. ‘So how much did you borrow from him?’

‘Twenty thousand to begin with. The rest, later.’

‘Using your power of attorney from Dad to put this house up as collateral, I suppose.’

‘We had to do something,’ Simon said stiffly. ‘And Phil’s flat is only rented.’

‘Lucky Philip! I hope he’s got a spare room. You and Fiona are probably going to need it. And the baby when it arrives, of course,’ she added, her mouth twisting. ‘Have you warned your wife she may shortly be homeless? Not to mention Dad, of course.’

Simon looked at her uneasily. ‘Why should it come to that?’

‘Because—to quote the words from his letter of today’s date—Mr Blackstone wishes to meet you to discuss the extent of your liabilities to him.’ She was silent for a moment, then said abruptly, ‘He’s closing in for the kill, Si. He means to finish what his father and grandfather began. The old man swore he’d see our family on its knees when Grandpa fired him, and turned him out of his cottage all those years ago. Cal Blackstone means to fulfil that pledge.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s as well I came back when I did. I would have hated to return and find all my clothes and other possessions dumped outside on the lawn by the present Mrs Blackstone.’ She paused again. ‘I presume there is one by now?’

‘No one official,’ Simon said moodily. ‘He’s apparently still quite happy to play the field, lucky bastard.’

Joanna bit her lip. She had only been at home for a week, but it was already clear to her that Fiona was not enjoying her pregnancy, and resentment of her condition was making her querulous and demanding. Joanna, torn between the amusement and irritation which her blonde, brainless sister-in-law usually aroused in her, had decided immediately that the prudent course would be to leave the couple to paddle their own rather shaky canoe in privacy.

She had just made arrangements to view a cottage which had come on to the market in the neighbouring valley when Simon had dropped his bombshell about Cal Blackstone’s loan.

Blind instinct told her to proceed with her own plans. To walk away from Simon and the mess he’d created, and let him sort it out for himself, while she began to rebuild her life at a safe distance from Chalfont House, the mill, and everything and everyone concerned with it.

But it wasn’t as simple as that. Simon had been hard hit by Cecilia’s death, and although Joanna was four years his junior she’d learned, in its aftermath, to mother him with almost fierce protectiveness. She couldn’t simply abandon him to his fate now.

The dizzy Fiona would be no help, she thought ruefully, totally preoccupied as she was by nausea and vague aches and pains all over her body. And Joanna was still a partner in the Craft Company, although admittedly she’d taken little active part in the running of the business since her marriage.

She had forgotten Simon’s propensity for taking the easy way out of any difficulty, she thought, with an inward sigh.

‘So when are you planning to see him?’ she asked quietly.

‘He’s coming here tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Here?’ Joanna stared at him, appalled. ‘Why not at the Craft Company?’

Simon shrugged, his expression pettish. ‘It wasn’t my choice. When I telephoned him, his secretary simply gave me the appointment. There was no consultation about it. She just told me what time he’d be arriving.’

‘I can believe it,’ Joanna said grimly.

It was the first time a Blackstone had ever set foot in Chalfont House, she realised with a sense of shock. And, if there was anything she could do, it would also be the last.

She said, ‘We’ll have to try and fend him off, Simon.’

‘How?’

Joanna considered for a minute. ‘Well—Martin left me some money, not all that much, admittedly, but it’s a start, and there’s the commission Aunt Vinnie paid me at the gallery. I saved most of it. If we can keep him at bay for a few weeks with that, we might be able to raise the rest of the capital elsewhere.’

‘Do you think I haven’t tried?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done everything I can think of. I tell you, Jo, it’s hopeless.’

‘No!’ Joanna said fiercely. ‘There is hope—there’s got to be. He’s not going to take everything away from us.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to,’ Simon suggested hopefully. ‘You are rather taking his intentions for granted, you know. Condemning him without a hearing.’

Joanna gave him a level look. ‘I have no illusions about Cal Blackstone, or his intentions.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Isn’t it time you were getting off to the workshop?’

‘Hell, yes. But I’d better pop up and see Fiona first. She didn’t have a particularly good night.’

Poor old Si, Joanna thought as her brother left the room, his brow furrowed with anxiety. Fiona’s vagaries were just one more problem for him to worry over. Troubles never seemed to come singly these days.

She moved over to the sofa and plumped up the cushions which Simon had crushed. As she straightened, she looked up at the big portrait of Jonas Chalfont which hung over the ornate mantelpiece. A harsh face looked down at her, its expression arrogant and dominating, thick grey brows drawn together over his beak of a nose.

She took a breath. The portrait had been painted in her grandfather’s heyday, when the Chalfont family were a force to be reckoned with in the Yorkshire woollen industry. Master of all he surveyed, she thought wryly, studying the sitter’s proud stance.

It had been soon after the portrait had been finished, however, that Jonas had sacked Callum Blackstone following a violent argument, and evicted him and his small son from their tied cottage. Holding the frightened child in his arms, as bailiffs dumped their possessions into the street, Callum had publicly sworn revenge.

‘As you’ve taken from me, Jonas Chalfont, I’ll take from you,’ he’d declared, standing bareheaded in the rain. ‘Aye, by God, down to every last stick and stone!’

And nothing’s gone right for us since, Joanna thought wearily. Oh, Grandfather, you didn’t know what you were starting.

Know your enemy, had been one of Jonas’s favourite maxims, but he had totally underestimated his former overlooker’s sheer force of will and determination to succeed. Just as Simon had failed to assess Cal Blackstone’s deviousness of purpose in offering to help the Craft Company financially.

But then Si had never taken the family feud too seriously anyway, Joanna recalled.

‘Isn’t it time we started to live and let live?’ he’d demanded angrily when Joanna had flatly refused to attend a dinner party to which Cal Blackstone had also been invited.

‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ Joanna had returned with a toss of her tawny hair. ‘If people invite that man, they needn’t bother to ask me as well.’

But, as she’d grown up, she’d found it was well-nigh impossible to avoid Cal completely. The Chalfonts were no longer the powerful social mentors they’d once been, and Cal, single, wealthy and darkly attractive, was a welcome visitor to every household in the area except theirs.

Joanna had found to her exasperation that to keep out of Cal Blackstone’s way entirely was to risk social isolation. More and more she’d found herself running into him at point-to-points, parties and charity functions. To her annoyance, she’d actually been introduced to him a number of times by a series of well-meaning people who clearly shared Simon’s view that it was time a truce was called in this family war.

But none of these people had been hounded and cheated by the Blackstones, Joanna thought violently. To them, Cal Blackstone was simply a charming young man, if a trifle sardonic, who drove a series of fast cars, dated all the most attractive girls in the West Riding, and could always be relied on for a hefty donation to any good cause. No one cared any more about past rights or wrongs, it seemed.

And once she and Cal Blackstone had been formally introduced, he took pains to remind her of the fact by seeking her out to greet her at every encounter. In fact, Joanna decided, he took an unpleasant delight in forcing himself on her notice, engaging her in conversation, and even inviting her to dance.

And the fact that she had ignored all his overtures and was never anything but icily civil in return seemed only to amuse him.

If she continued to keep him rigidly at a distance, eventually he would get tired of his cat-and-mouse games with her, she’d assured herself.

But she’d been wrong about that—totally wrong. Which was why she knew, none better, just what Cal Blackstone’s real motives were, and exactly what he had planned for the remaining members of the Chalfont family.

She shivered, wrapping her arms defensively across her body, as she made herself relive once more in nerve-aching detail that rain-washed autumn afternoon on the high moor road above Northwaite when she’d discovered for herself how ruthless, how relentless an enemy he was …

‘Damnation!’ Joanna stared down at the offside wheel of her Mini, her heart sinking. ‘Of all times to get a flat tyre!’ she muttered to herself, as she went to find the jack.

The rain was sweeping in sheets across the Northwaite valley below, and the hills were dankly shrouded in low cloud and mist.

By the time she’d fetched the jack, and squatted uncomfortably in the road beside the car, the rain had plastered her tawny blonde hair to her skull, and droplets of water were running down her forehead into her eyes, so that she had to pause every few seconds and brush them away.

She’d never had to change a tyre before, and she realised, to her shame, that she only had the haziest idea of how to go about it. Watching other people was not the same as personal experience, she decided wretchedly, as the jack stubbornly refused to co-operate with her efforts to fix it in place.

Send me someone to help this time, she bargained silently with her guardian angel, and I promise I’ll sign on for a course in car maintenance this winter.

The thought had barely formed in her mind when the sleek grey Jaguar materialised silently out of the mist and slid to a halt behind her. She looked round eagerly, planning some self-deprecating, humorous remark about her predicament. Then the relieved smile died on her lips as she realised her rescuer’s identity.

‘Having trouble?’ Cal Blackstone asked pleasantly, as he emerged from the driver’s seat, shrugging on a waterproof jacket.

‘I can manage, thanks,’ Joanna said shortly. It occurred to her that her guardian angel must have a totally misplaced sense of humour.

‘Then this must be a new method of wheel-changing of your own devising,’ he said urbanely, folding his arms across his chest, and draping his tall, lean, elegant length against his own vehicle. ‘How fascinating! I hope you’ll allow me to watch.’

Apart from striking him down with a convenient boulder, or even the recalcitrant jack, Joanna could see no method of preventing him. Seething, she gritted her teeth and soldiered on. It was raining harder than ever now, and the damp was beginning to penetrate right through her layers of clothing to her skin, making her feel clammy and uncomfortable.

‘You don’t seem to be getting on very fast,’ the hated voice commented at last.

‘I don’t like having an audience.’

‘I can believe you don’t like having me as an audience.’ She wasn’t looking at him, but there was something in his voice that told her he was grinning. ‘Come on, Miss Chalfont, why don’t you swallow your damned pride and say, “Help me”?’

‘I didn’t ask you to stop.’

‘You wouldn’t ask me to throw you a rope if you were drowning. As you probably will if this rain keeps up—that, or die of pneumonia.’ He walked to her side, put his hand under her elbow and yanked her to her feet, without ceremony.

‘Leave me alone!’ She wrenched herself free of his grasp.

‘Willingly—once this wheel of yours is changed.’ He was fitting the jack into place with a deft competence that made her want to kill him and dance on his grave. ‘Go and sit in my car, and dry yourself off a little,’ he directed over his shoulder. ‘If you look in the sports bag on the back seat, you’ll find a towel.’

Instinct prompted her to reply haughtily that she preferred to remain where she was, but common sense intervened, reminding her that in this weather she would simply be cutting off her nose to spite her face, and that she was only laying herself open to further jibes.

The interior of the Jaguar smelt deliciously of leather upholstery mixed with a faint tang of some expensively masculine cologne.

Joanna sniffed delicately, grimacing a little as she extracted the towel from the bag, which was lying next to his squash racket on the rear seat. The towel, and the rest of the gear in the bag, was unused, so he must be on his way to the country club, but if so what was he doing on the high road, when there were other, more direct routes?

In spite of the towel’s pristine condition, it was still his property, and she was deeply reluctant to use so personal an item. The idea of having to be beholden to him in any way affronted and revolted her. But she couldn’t escape the fact that water was dripping dismally from her hair on to her face, and, after a brief internal tussle, she unfolded the towel and began to blot away the worst of the moisture.

With any luck, he would be the one to catch pneumonia, she thought, glaring through the windscreen at him as he worked. And, as if aware of her scrutiny, Cal Blackstone looked round from his task, and waved.

With a snort of temper Joanna tossed the towel back into the bag and leaned back, savouring the undeniable comfort of her seat. Her father had driven a Jaguar when she was a small child, she remembered, and she’d always loved riding in it. She began to examine the dashboard and internal fittings, trying to remember what they’d been like in her father’s day.

She’d been sitting with her father in the back of the Jaguar the first time she’d seen Cal Blackstone, she remembered with a shiver of pure distaste.

With regrettable promptitude, he appeared at the side of the car. ‘Your wheel is duly changed, madam. Don’t forget to have your damaged tyre mended.’

‘I’m quite capable of working that out for myself,’ she snapped.

‘Of course.’ He got into the driver’s seat, and gave her a long look. His eyes were grey, she found herself noticing for the first time. Grey eyes, hard as steel, and cold as the skies above them. ‘Please don’t overwhelm me with gratitude.’

Joanna flushed at the sarcasm in his tone. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was—fortunate that you were passing.’

‘I often use this road,’ he returned. ‘I like the view of the Northwaite valley from up here.’

‘If you can see it today, you must have X-ray vision.’

‘I don’t need to see it,’ he said softly. ‘I know what’s there by heart. I’ve always known.’ He pointed out into the mist and cloud. ‘Away to your right is the country club. As you come down the valley, there are the chimneys of the Blackstone engineering works. They’re generally what people notice first, just as my grandfather intended when he built the place. Then there’s the Mill, relegated to second place these days, I’m afraid.’ He paused for a moment as if expecting some response, some denial, and when there was none he continued, ‘And finally, down to the left, well away from the pollution of the workers’ houses in Northwaite, tucked away as if it’s trying to hide, is Chalfont House.’

When he smiled, his teeth were very white. A predator’s smile, Joanna thought, and her heart began to thump suddenly, harshly. ‘Everything I own,’ he said. ‘And everything I intend to own before I’ve finished. Including you, Joanna Chalfont, you beautiful, hostile little bitch.’

For a moment she sat gaping at him, hardly able to credit what she’d just heard. Then,

‘How dare you?’ She could barely squeeze the words out of the frightening, painful tightness in her throat.

Cal Blackstone threw back his head and laughed. ‘Said to the manner born,’ he mocked. ‘The well-born young lady rebuking the upstart pleb. It’s wonderful what they teach you at those fancy Harrogate schools!’

‘I think you must be insane,’ said Joanna, fumbling for the handle of the door. ‘I refuse to listen to any more of this.’

‘You don’t have to.’ He was infuriatingly at his ease. ‘I want you, and I’m going to have you. There’s nothing more to be said.’

‘Well, you couldn’t be more wrong!’ Joanna flung at him. She was trembling all over, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘I have a few things to say myself, and the first is that I wouldn’t have you, Callum Blackstone, if you came gift-wrapped.’

He was still smiling. ‘And what do you know about it?’ he asked softly. ‘What do you know about anything, Miss Chalfont, except pride and your own version of the past?’ He shook his head slowly, his gaze locked with hers. ‘It’s time you began to think of the future, so let’s start your thoughts in the right direction.’

The car door refused to budge under her frantic fingers. It was clearly linked to some central locking system outside her control, trapping her there alone with him.

Shrinking into the corner of her seat, Joanna saw Cal Blackstone reach for her, felt her shoulders grasped without gentleness, and her whole body drawn inexorably forward towards him. The smile had been wiped from his face, and his grey eyes glittered with something far removed from amusement. Something she barely understood, but, strangely, feared just the same.

She said, on a little sob, ‘No—ah—no,’ then his mouth was on hers and all further protest was stifled.

Nothing in her limited experience had prepared her for Cal’s kiss and nothing could have done. He held her ruthlessly, crushing her soft breasts against the hard muscular wall of his chest, twining his hand in her still-damp hair to hold her still, while his lips plundered hers, relentlessly, hungrily—and endlessly.

She couldn’t breathe. The scent of his skin filled her nostrils with a sudden and desperate familiarity. Tiny coloured lights danced frenetically behind her closed lids. She felt physically overpowered, totally at his mercy. She thought she might be going to faint, and with the thought came a surge of anger, and contempt for her own weakness.

He muttered against her lips, ‘Open your mouth,’ and in a flash she saw her salvation. Pliantly she obeyed. She felt his sigh of satisfaction, was aware of his clasp slackening slightly so that he could turn her in his arms, to hold her more easily against his body, and as he relaxed she bit him hard, sinking her teeth into his lower lip.

Cal jerked his head away, swearing, lifting a hand almost unbelievingly to his bleeding mouth.

‘You little shrew!’

‘Try explaining that to your latest woman!’ Joanna flung at him. ‘And, from now on, keep your distance from me.’

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood. To her fury he was grinning again.

‘Not now I’ve had a taste of delights to come, sweetheart.’

‘You’ll get nothing more from me as long as you live! You might have been able to take advantage of the situation today, but I’ll make sure it never happens again.’

‘Ah, but it will,’ he said softly. ‘I may have lost the first skirmish, Joanna, but the war’s only just beginning. And, I warn you, nothing but your complete surrender will do.’

She drew a swift, blazing breath, glaring at him. ‘You’re nothing but an animal, Cal Blackstone!’

He held out the bloodstained handkerchief, staring grimly back at her. ‘Then I’ve certainly picked the right mate.’

‘You’ve picked nothing and no one. From now on, keep out of my way!’ She turned to wrestle with the door-handle, and to her chagrin it worked instantly.

‘Our paths were made to cross.’ His voice followed her as she stumbled out of the car. ‘If you didn’t know it before, you know it now. So drive carefully, my hot-tempered vixen. When I finally get to unwrap my gift, I want it to be perfect.’

She got to her car somehow, and sat, shaking, in the driving seat, waiting until the Jaguar slid past, and was swallowed up in the mist and rain.

She put up a cautious finger and touched the swollen contours of her mouth. Her lips felt bruised, but the greatest wound she’d suffered was humiliation.

She stared at the grey-soaked landscape, and thought, I’m afraid of him.

Now, in the drawing-room of Chalfont House, Joanna found the same words rising to her lips. I’m afraid of him.

She shook herself irritably. That was what came of letting herself remember—relive things best banished from her mind for good. But oh, God, it had been so real. She could swear she’d almost felt the pressure of Cal’s mouth ravaging hers once more, tasted his blood …

Two years ago she had escaped him, but at what a price. She couldn’t run away again. This time she had to stand her ground and fight him. She squared her shoulders, glancing up again at her grandfather’s portrait.

‘The war’s on again, Grandpa,’ she said. ‘And this time I mean to win—for all our sakes.’

She had to. Because surrender on Cal Blackstone’s terms was unthinkable.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MIST SWIRLED thickly above the high road. Joanna was lost in the depths of it, the damp tendrils wreathing about her, stifling her, confining her so that her limbs felt heavy and incapable of movement.

Yet she had to move—to run, because somewhere in the fog Cal Blackstone was waiting, his predator’s hands reaching to stop her—to take her. She took one sluggish step, then another—and screamed aloud as a hand closed purposefully on her shoulder.

‘Why, Miss Joanna, whatever’s the matter with you?’

Perspiring, Joanna opened her eyes and found Nanny, comforting as the daylight pouring through the window, standing at her bedside with a cup of tea.

She managed a weak smile. ‘Sorry, Nan, I must have been dreaming. Did I startle you?’

‘It looks more as if you startled yourself, lass.’ Nanny scrutinised her austerely. ‘You’re white as a sheet! Drink your tea while it’s hot.’

A cup of tea, Joanna thought. Nanny’s panacea for all ills from a headache to bereavement. She sat up, punching her tumbled pillows into shape. ‘You’re spoiling me.’

‘Well, make the most of it. It won’t happen so soon again,’ Nanny said severely. ‘And I’ve a message from Mr Simon.’

‘Let me guess.’ Joanna looked up at the ceiling. ‘He’s won a million pounds on the football pools and all our problems are solved.’

Nanny snorted. ‘Since when has Mr Simon done the pools?’ she demanded. ‘I’m to tell you that Mrs Chalfont was taken badly in the night, and he’s gone with her to the nursing home.’

‘You mean Fiona’s started labour?’ Joanna sat bolt upright. ‘But the baby’s not due for another couple of months. Oh, that’s awful!’

‘Don’t waste your sympathy,’ Nanny advised tartly. ‘That baby won’t be born until the right time, take my word for it. Madam’s got indigestion, as I told her.’ She snorted. ‘What can she expect—sending Mr Simon into Northwaite at all hours for that tandoori chicken stuff?’

‘Oh, is that all?’ Joanna relaxed.

‘Anyway, Mr Simon said to tell you if he’s not back in time for the meeting this afternoon, you’ve to hold the fort. He said you’d understand.’

Joanna choked on a mouthful of tea. ‘He said what?’

‘You’re not deaf. And don’t spill that tea on your quilt.’

‘But he can’t do this,’ Joanna said, half to herself. ‘He’s got to be back here in time—he’s got to …’ She looked up beseechingly at Nanny. ‘The nursing home—they’ll send Fiona home straight away if it’s just indigestion, won’t they?’

Nanny sniffed. ‘The lord only knows. She might have discovered a few more symptoms by the time the doctor comes round. Madam’s not averse to a few days in bed being waited on.’

Nanny could never be described as the young Mrs Chalfont’s greatest fan, but Joanna had to admit she spoke with a certain amount of justice. Once in the luxury of the nursing home, with attentive nurses answering her every bell, Fiona might well be reluctant to return to Chalfont House where people were more likely to tell her to pull herself together and stop making a fuss about nothing. And she would certainly insist on Simon dancing attendance on her.

‘After all,’ Fiona had often pouted to him, ‘it’s your fault I’m feeling so ghastly. It’s your baby.’

Joanna groaned inwardly. Her plan to put several miles between herself and Chalfont House prior to Cal Blackstone’s arrival was now plainly inoperable.

I could always ask him to postpone his visit, she thought, but dismissed the idea almost as soon as it had formed. The last thing she wanted, after all, was Cal Blackstone to guess her deep reluctance to face him. And at a wider, less personal level, any attempt to put him off might be unwise at this juncture.

If Simon doesn’t come back in time, I’ll talk to him myself, she decided grimly. And I’ll let him know that though he may have conned Si into thinking he’s Mister Nice Guy, he’s got a fight on his hands with me.

‘Why, Miss Jo, you look really fierce. Whatever are you thinking about?’ queried Nanny.

‘Getting up.’ Joanna swallowed the rest of her tea, and threw back the duvet. ‘I think I’ll have breakfast with my father.’ She paused. ‘How is he today?’

‘He’s taking an interest in the cricket, according to Gresham.’ Nanny’s face was expressionless. ‘Reckons they should bring back Len Hutton as England captain.’

Joanna sighed. ‘Maybe they should at that.’ She shot a glance at the older woman. ‘Nanny, we’re having a—visitor this afternoon, and I’d prefer if Dad knew nothing about it. I don’t want him to be upset, especially if he’s not—thinking too clearly.’ She put on her robe and knotted the sash.

Nanny nodded. ‘Gresham won’t say owt, and I can stop Mrs Thursgood nattering. But am I to know who’s expected?’

Joanna hesitated. ‘It’s Callum Blackstone.’

‘A Blackstone crossing this doorstep?’ Nanny gasped. ‘I never thought I’d live to see the day!’

‘Neither did I.’ Joanna bit her lip. ‘Believe me, Nanny, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t let him within a mile of the place. But it’s out of my hands.’

Nanny shook her head. ‘Then you’ll have to make the best of it, lass. Like the old saying, “Needs must when the devil drives.”’

And that, Joanna thought wryly, as she made her way to the bathroom, seemed to sum the situation up with total accuracy.

Shrouded by the curtains at the long upstairs landing window, she watched him arrive. He was punctual, she noted without surprise. The Jaguar car he parked in front of the house—staking his claim at once, she thought bitterly—was the latest model. Nothing else had changed. He looked no older, no greyer, no heavier as he stood on the gravel below her, his gaze raking the blank windows as though he sensed her presence, and sought her.

Although she knew she couldn’t be seen, Joanna felt herself shrink.

Oh, come on, she castigated herself. This is no way to start. After all, I know what he’s planning, so there must be some way I can stop him.

But, for the life of her, she couldn’t think of one.

As she heard the doorbell peal, she went on swift and silent feet back to her room, and waited for Mrs Thursgood to admit him.

She gave herself a long, critical look in the mirror. Her slim navy linen skirt, and the pure silk cream shirt she wore with it, looked neat and uncompromisingly businesslike. She’d drawn her hair severely back from her face and confined it at the nape of her neck with a wide navy ribbon.

She’d had plenty of time to prepare for this confrontation. Simon had phoned mid-morning to tell her that Fiona was being kept in for observation, at her own insistence.

‘She’s a bit fraught, Jo.’ He’d sounded thoroughly miserable. ‘Hit the roof when I suggested pushing off.’ He’d paused. ‘I feel an absolute worm about this. Do you think you can cope with Blackstone—feed him some story or other to keep him off for a while?’

‘I can try,’ she’d said wearily. ‘Cheer up, Si. I hope Fiona feels better soon.’

Now Mrs Thursgood was tapping at her door. ‘Your visitor’s come, madam. I’ve put him in’t drawing-room.’

Joanna counted to ten, breathing deeply, then walked sedately along the broad landing and down the stairs. She didn’t hesitate at the drawing-room door, but went straight in, closing it behind her.

He was standing on the rug in front of the empty fireplace, studying her grandfather’s portrait. At the sound of her entry, he turned, the grey eyes skimming over her, missing nothing.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bentham.’ The cool laconic voice grated on her. ‘A historic moment, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Hardly a giant step for mankind, Mr Blackstone,’ she returned with equal insouciance. ‘Perhaps you’d like to state your business.’

‘I’m sure your brother’s informed you of the changes that have taken place during your—period of mourning.’

Joanna shrugged. ‘I understand you now have a financial interest in the Craft Company.’

‘It’s more than that. As far as money’s concerned, I am the Craft Company.’ He glanced round. ‘May I sit down?’

‘If you wish.’ She pretended faintly surprised amusement. ‘Is this going to be a long interview? I do have other plans …’

‘Then cancel them,’ he said pleasantly, seating himself on the sofa. ‘I’d prefer your undivided attention.’ He leaned back, crossing his long legs. ‘I gather Simon will not be joining us.’

She hesitated. ‘His wife isn’t very well.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ He didn’t sound even slightly regretful. ‘She must take after her mother. She’s thoroughly enjoyed very poor health for years. Apparently medical science is baffled.’

He’d captured the lady’s martyred tones with wicked accuracy. To her annoyance, Joanna discovered an unwilling giggle welling up inside her, and hastily turned it into a cough.

‘Can we get back to the business in hand, please?’ She took the armchair opposite to him. ‘I suppose you want to know when you’ll see some tangible return on your investment.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m prepared to bide my time on that. There are other far more pressing matters between Simon and myself.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a small sheaf of papers, held together by an elastic band. He tossed them on to the low oak coffee-table between them. ‘Do you know what these are?’

Her brows snapped together. ‘How could I?’

‘Then I suggest you take a look.’

Reluctantly she reached for the papers, and removed the band. As she studied them, her frown deepened.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’re not a fool, Joanna,’ he said quietly. ‘You know as well as I do that those are IOUs, and that the signature on them is Simon’s. They’re gambling debts that he ran up at the country club.’

Her mouth was dry suddenly. She’d been doing addition sums in her head as she riffled through them, and the total she’d reached was horrifying, and still incomplete.

She said, ‘Gambling? But Si doesn’t gamble.’

‘He certainly doesn’t gamble well. He’s lost consistently at poker, blackjack and roulette. He’s exceeded the house limit for credit more than once as well, and used my name to get more. I’ve had to bar him from the gaming-rooms.’ He saw the colour drain from her face, and smiled sardonically. ‘I presume this is news to you.’

She said thickly, ‘You know it is.’

‘Then I may as well add that he’s in hock to a bookie in Leeds for several thousand.’

She dropped the papers back on the table with an expression of distaste. ‘You’re very well informed.’

‘I find it pays to be.’

‘Yet it’s hardly ethical. Neither is your presence here this afternoon. These—debts should be a private matter between Simon and yourself, surely. You have no right to involve me.’

‘Sometimes private matters have a tiresome habit of becoming incredibly public.’ He seemed impervious to the ice in her tone. ‘And then you’d find yourself involved right up to the hilt, my dear Mrs Bentham. For instance, I could insist on having a spot audit made at the Craft Company.’

The words hung in the air between them, challenging her.

She swallowed. ‘And what would that prove, pray?’

‘Perhaps nothing. But I’m afraid—I’m very much afraid that there would be certain sums unaccounted for. Simon had to find his stake money from somewhere, after all.’

‘I don’t believe you. In fact, I don’t believe any of this.’ She flicked the IOUs with a contemptuous finger. ‘If Simon had known you were going to raise any of these matters this afternoon, he would have been here in person. He thought you were coming to discuss the Craft Company, and only that. Therefore he obviously has no guilty conscience …’

‘A true Chalfont! Your grandfather had no conscience either. It’s a pity Simon hasn’t inherited his strength as well.’

Joanna got to her feet. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

‘When I’m good and ready,’ he retorted, making no attempt to move. ‘Sit down, Joanna, and hear me out. Simon had good reason for failing to realise I was about to call in his markers.’

She didn’t want to hear any more. Her mind was reeling, blanking out with sheer incredulity. Simon gambling, she thought with horror. Losing thousands he didn’t possess and couldn’t repay. What in the world could possibly have started him on such a course to disaster?

As if, she thought, I didn’t know.

She lifted her head and stared at their enemy. Steadying her voice, she asked, ‘What good reason?’

‘I promised I’d give him time, so he assumed he was safe.’

‘And what made you change your mind?’

‘You did,’ he said softly. ‘You came home again, Joanna. And that altered everything.’

‘I fail to see why.’ Her tone was defiant, but alarm bells were sounding all over her nervous system.

He smiled at her. ‘Oh, no, beauty, you haven’t that poor a memory. You put yourself temporarily out of reach when you married Martin Bentham, but that’s all. And that’s over. You knew it the day of the poor bastard’s funeral. Was that why you fled to the States?’

She drew a sharp, painful breath. ‘How dare you?’

‘I dare quite easily,’ he said. ‘After all, I’ve waited longer for you than for anything else in my life, Joanna, and, frankly, I’m beginning to run out of patience.’

‘How unfortunate for you.’ She invested her voice with all the scorn she could muster. ‘But I’m afraid you’re destined to go on waiting for a very long time. For eternity, in fact.’

Cal shook his head. ‘No, sweetheart. You’re not thinking clearly.’ He pointed to the IOUs on the table between them. ‘As you so rightly said, these should have remained a private matter between Simon and myself. But in a war you use whatever weapons are available, if you want to win. And I intend nothing less than total victory.’

Joanna’s hands clenched into fists. ‘I’ll see you in hell—’

‘And we’ll both see your brother in the bankruptcy court,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘I’ll do it if I have to, Joanna, and there isn’t a soul in the world who would blame me. He’s behaved like a incompetent in his business life, and a reckless fool privately. He should be stopped sharply and permanently before he drags himself, and everyone involved with him, any deeper into the mire.’

He paused. ‘On the other hand, the threat of it may be enough to shock him to his senses, and impending fatherhood may keep him there.’

‘What do you care?’ she asked bitterly. ‘You helped push him into this mess. You’ve used him and manipulated him all along the line for your own disgusting purposes …’

His mouth twisted. ‘Have I? Then the more fool Simon for letting me, wouldn’t you say?’

‘He’s no match for you—he never was. He didn’t realise what he was getting into.’

Cal tutted. ‘You mean you didn’t try to warn him? How very remiss of you!’

‘Of course I tried,’ she said with angry weariness. ‘But he wouldn’t listen, and it was too late anyway. He’d already handed the Craft Company to you on a platter, the naïve, trusting idiot. He thought your offer of help meant that the feud between us was over.’

‘And so it will be soon,’ he said softly. ‘Every wrong righted, every debt paid in full. The wheel come full circle. A very satisfying state of affairs.’

‘You’re unbelievable!’ Her voice shook. ‘How can these old quarrels still matter after all this time?’

He smiled. ‘My grandfather always said revenge was a dish best eaten cold.’

‘I find that a nauseating idea.’

‘Is that going to be your new refuge—self-righteousness?’ He sounded amused. ‘It won’t cut any ice with me.’

‘I’m sure it won’t.’ She put up a hand in a revealingly nervous gesture, and smoothed her hair back over her ear. ‘I suppose you’re here to discuss your terms. I can’t say when Simon will be available—’

‘He doesn’t need to be.’ The grey eyes glinted up at her. ‘As you’re already well aware, the settlement I have in mind involves just the two of us—you and me. And I suggest, once again, that you sit down.’

She said thickly, ‘I prefer to stand. Say what you have to say, and go.’

He shrugged, and rose to his feet in one lithe, controlled movement. Like some jungle animal, she thought, flinching inwardly, flexing itself before the kill.

‘I told you my terms two years ago, Joanna. They haven’t changed. I want you.’ He looked at her levelly. ‘Come to me and I’ll write off Simon’s personal obligations to me, and his bookie friend.’

Joanna stood rigidly, feeling the colour drain out of her face. It was like standing in the dock, she thought dazedly, knowing you were innocent, but hearing a life sentence pronounced just the same. She wanted to scream aloud, to hit out in anger and revulsion, but a small, cold inner voice warned her to keep cool—keep talking—keep bargaining.

She lifted her chin. ‘What about this house—our home? Do you intend to take that too?’

‘Originally, yes,’ he said. ‘But if you behave with sufficient—er—generosity to me, I might be prepared to match it, and leave it in Chalfont hands for your father’s lifetime at least.’ He smiled at her sardonically. ‘Its fate rests entirely with you, beauty.’

She bit her lip, her whole being cringing from the implications in his words. ‘And the Craft Company? Will you leave that alone too?’

‘I think you’re beginning to overestimate the price of your charms,’ Cal Blackstone said drily. ‘No, my investment in the Craft Company stays—as insurance, if you like, for your continuing good behaviour.’

Joanna closed her eyes for a moment. She said evenly, ‘I suppose there’s no point in appealing to your better nature. Reminding you that there are normal standards of decency.’

‘Tell me about it,’ he said laconically. He glanced up at the portrait over the fireplace and his expression hardened. ‘At least I’m not evicting you without notice, throwing you on to the street.’

‘And if I tell you that I do have standards—that I have my pride and my self-respect? And that I’d rather starve in the gutter than accept any part of your revolting terms?’

He shrugged again. ‘Then that can be quite easily arranged,’ he returned. ‘The choice is yours. But I strongly advise you to think my offer over. You’ve got twenty-four hours.’

‘I don’t need twenty-four seconds,’ she said bitingly. ‘You can do your worst, Mr Blackstone, and go to hell!’

‘I shall probably end there, Mrs Bentham,’ he said too courteously. ‘But first I mean to order that independent audit I mentioned into the Craft Company’s accounts.’ He paused. ‘Simon may well find himself facing more than a bankruptcy court. How will the Chalfont pride cope with that, I wonder?’

‘I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t do such a thing.’ Her voice shook with the force of her conviction.

‘Ask him,’ he said. ‘Some time during the next twenty-four hours. Then call me with your final answer.’

‘You’ve had all the answer you’re getting, you bastard!’ she said. ‘I’ll see you damned before I do what you want!’

He gave her a sardonic look, as he retrieved the papers from the coffee-table and slipped them back into his pocket. ‘Don’t count on it, beauty. I promise one thing—when you do call, I won’t say that I told you so.’

Knuckles pressed to her mouth, Joanna stood like a statue as he made his way across the room to the door. As it closed behind him, she bent and snatched up a cut glass posy bowl, hurling it with all the force of her arm at the solid panels.

‘The swine!’ she sobbed, as it shattered. ‘Oh, God, the unutterable bloody swine!’

She was like a cat on hot bricks for the rest of the day waiting for Simon to return. It took all her self-control not to drive over to the nursing home and confront him there. She was sorely tempted, too, to drive over to the Craft Company and do her own spot check of the books.

But she discarded the idea. Such action would be bound to provoke just the kind of comment she wanted to avoid. And if, by the remotest chance, there was something even slightly amiss … She caught at herself. That was the kind of poisonous reptile Cal Blackstone was, she raged inwardly. Sowing discord and distrust wherever he went.

She couldn’t deny that Simon had been all kinds of a fool, but she couldn’t believe he was also a thief. She wouldn’t believe it.

‘There’s got to be some way out of this mess,’ she said aloud, through gritted teeth, as she paced the length and breadth of the drawing-room. ‘There’s got to be. Together we’ll think of something. We have to!’

She swallowed convulsively as that same small voice in her head reminded her of the sheer magnitude of what was threatening them all. The loss of their home, the destruction of their remaining business venture, and personal disgrace for Simon—and all at the worst possible time, if there was ever a good time for such things to happen, she acknowledged wryly.

It was no good telling herself that it was all Simon’s own fault, and he’d have to find some remedy himself. She couldn’t leave him to sink if she could help him to swim. But she couldn’t sacrifice herself either.

Cal Blackstone’s words rang like hammer blows inside her brain. ‘I want you. Come to me …’

He’s just offered me the ultimate insult, she told herself, by presuming I’d even consider such a degrading suggestion. He’s misjudged me completely.

Yet he’d summed up some of her past reactions with disturbing accuracy, she recalled unwillingly. His comments about her marriage to Martin had been too close to the mark for comfort.

She shivered. What was she saying? She’d loved Martin, of course she had. He’d been sweet and safe and there, and she’d thought that was enough. She’d convinced herself that it was.

Only it wasn’t, she thought wretchedly. How could it be? And it was disaster for both of us.

On the day of his funeral, she’d stood in the small bleak churchyard in the conventional black dress of the widow, feeling drained of emotion, totally objective, as if all this tragedy were happening to some other person. She could even remember being thankful that the demure veiling on her equally conventional hat concealed the fact that she was completely tearless.

Then she’d looked up and seen Cal Blackstone staring at her. He’d been standing on the edge of the small crowd of mourners, but his head wasn’t bent in grief or common respect. There had been bitterness in the look he sent her, and condemnation, and overlying all a kind of grim triumph.

Don’t think I’ve given up, his glance had told her. This marriage of yours was just an obstacle which has now been removed. And now I’m coming after you again.

The knowledge of it had been like a blow, knocking all the breath out of her body. Involuntarily, instinctively, she’d taken a step backwards in instant negation, her foot stumbling on a tussock of earth.

‘Be careful, my dear!’ Her father had insisted on attending the ceremony with her, standing bareheaded at her side in the windswept graveyard, and she’d snatched at his arm for comfort and support as she’d done when she was a small girl, and a crowd of jeering boys had thrown earth and stones at their car.

Oh, I will, she’d promised herself silently. I’ll take more care than I’ve ever done in my whole life.

Aunt Vinnie’s letter offering her sanctuary had been, like Martin’s proposal of marriage, a godsend, a lifeline, and she’d snatched at that too, telling herself that Cal Blackstone would eventually resign himself to the fact that she was gone, and abandon his crazy obsession about her.

He wasn’t really serious about it, she’d assured herself over and over again. For heaven’s sake, he was never short of female companionship, so he wasn’t exactly single-minded about his pursuit of her, if she could call it that. He didn’t chase her, yet he always seemed to be there, like a dark shadow on the edge of her world, a winter storm threatening the brightness of her horizon.

If she went away, and stayed away, with luck he’d forget her, and get safely married to one of the many willing ladies he escorted. Time and distance would solve everything. That was what she’d thought. That was how she’d reassured herself.

But how wrong was it possible to be? Joanna thought broodingly, as she paced restlessly up and down. Cal Blackstone hadn’t just been making mischief and trying to alarm her, as she’d secretly hoped and prayed. He’d meant every word, and that warning look he’d sent her at Martin’s funeral had been nothing less than a stark declaration of intent.

And typical of his appallingly tasteless behaviour, she thought with a fastidious shudder, then paused, a hysterical bubble of laughter welling up inside her.

Why the hell was she worrying about something as trivial as the way he’d treated her as a widow in mourning, when he was now threatening her and her entire family with total humiliation and ruin?

While she’d thought herself safe in the States, Cal Blackstone had been busy ensnaring Simon in a web of financial dependency, both personal and professional. Then he’d sat back and waited, like the spider, for the unsuspecting fly to return …

But that was defeatist talk, she told herself in self-reproach. After all, if the fly struggled hard enough, even the strongest web could be broken.

She was halfway through a dinner she had no interest in eating when Simon eventually came in. He looked tired and anxious, and for a moment she was tempted to leave him in the peace he so clearly needed at least until the morning.

She let him talk for a while about Fiona and the labour pains which had so unaccountably subsided while he ate his meal.

Then she said quietly, ‘Don’t you want to know what happened this afternoon?’

He shrugged, his face adopting a faintly martyred expression. ‘I suppose so. To be honest, Jo, although his letter threw me when it arrived, I’ve been thinking about it while I’ve been hanging around at the nursing home, and, frankly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Things at work are picking up slowly. He’ll get his money back, and he’ll just have to be patient, that’s all. I hope you told him so.’

She picked up the coffee-pot and filled two cups with infinite care.

‘I didn’t actually get the chance,’ she said. ‘He didn’t come here to talk about work. It was your other debts he was concerned with. The ones you ran up at the casino, and the race-track.’

She watched him go white. There was a long, painful silence. Then he said very rapidly, ‘He told you that, but he had no right. He said there was no hurry. He knew I’d pay it all off if he just gave me time.’

‘How?’ She looked at Simon’s guilty, miserable face and knew that the question was unanswerable.

She nerved herself to go on. ‘He—he did mention the Craft Company in one context. He talked about the books—the accounts.’

‘What about them?’ Simon’s gaze was fixed on the polished dining table.

‘He said something about an independent audit,’ Joanna said, and stopped appalled as Simon’s cup dropped from his hand, spilling coffee everywhere.

‘Can he do that?’ The blue eyes were scared, imploring. ‘Can he, Jo?’

‘Is there some reason why he shouldn’t?’ She tried to speak evenly, but her voice trembled as she realised she had to face, to come to terms with the unthinkable.

He didn’t reply, just picked up his table napkin and began blotting up the coffee as if it were the most important thing in the world.

She said, ‘It’s true, then. There’s money missing, and you’re responsible.’

‘Whose bloody company is it anyway?’ he said, his tone mutinous, defensive.

‘Not yours to that extent. Simon, are you crazy?’

‘I had to do something. Fiona was miserable, and needed a break. She had her heart set on St Lucia. She’s never known what it is to be short of cash—she doesn’t understand.’

Joanna closed her eyes for a moment, trying to visualise Fiona’s reaction to the news that her husband had made them bankrupt and homeless. But her imagination balked at the very idea.

‘Go on,’ she said, with infinite weariness. ‘So you embezzled money from the Craft Company to take Fiona on an expensive holiday.’

‘I did not embezzle it!’ Simon’s face was flushed now with anger. ‘I borrowed it.’

‘With Philip’s knowledge and permission?’

‘I didn’t think it was necessary to mention it to him. After all, it was only a couple of thousand or so on temporary loan. I fully intended to pay it back. One damned good win at blackjack was all I needed.’

‘But you didn’t win.’

‘No, I started losing really badly. I kept telling myself my luck would change, but it didn’t. It just kept getting worse.’

‘Then why on earth didn’t you stop?’

‘I couldn’t,’ he said simply. ‘I had to go on trying to win.’

Joanna ran the tip of her tongue round her dry lips. ‘Did you borrow any more money?’ she asked carefully.

‘Some,’ he muttered. ‘I’d have been all right—I know I would—if bloody Blackstone hadn’t barred me from the casino. How the hell was I supposed to recoup my losses if I wasn’t allowed to play?’ He gave her a petulant look. ‘I still don’t see why he found it necessary to drag you into all this. I thought we had a gentlemen’s agreement about it.’

‘Cal Blackstone,’ she said quietly, ‘is no gentleman. Tell me, Si, and I want the truth—is there any hope that you’ll be able to repay at least the—loan from the firm?’

There was a pause, then he shook his head. ‘I can’t. Philip and I are both drawing minimum salaries at the moment. And I’ve had so much extra expense with the baby coming. The nursing home fees cost a fortune for a start.’ His expression became alarmed. ‘Blackstone won’t really insist on this audit, will he? I mean—I can explain to old Phil, and I’m sure he’d understand, but I’d rather not.’

Joanna murmured something non-committal, but in her heart she wasn’t at all convinced that old Phil would be quite so amenable to the news that some of their slender profits had been illegally squandered on gambling, and vacations in the West Indies.

‘So what does Blackstone want?’ Simon demanded apprehensively.

Joanna hesitated. ‘I’m not altogether sure,’ she prevaricated. ‘Now that I know his—allegations are true, I have to get back to him—work something out.’

‘Oh, goody.’ Simon’s voice was heavily sarcastic. ‘I didn’t realise that you two were so much in each other’s confidence. Yesterday you couldn’t stand the sound of his name. Today you’ve got your heads together, deciding what to do for the best about poor misguided Simon. Does he get his knuckles rapped, or just stand in the corner?’

Joanna bit her lip. ‘That kind of attitude doesn’t help.’

‘And having my private affairs chewed over behind my back isn’t totally acceptable either,’ Simon retorted furiously. ‘You should have refused to listen—referred him straight to me, instead of meddling in what doesn’t concern you.’

Joanna held on to her temper with an effort. ‘If you’re charged with embezzlement, it will concern me very closely,’ she said evenly. ‘It will concern us all. And imagine the effect it could have on Daddy.’

‘Oh, yes, let’s.’ Simon’s face was stony. ‘Look, everyone, Simon’s been a naughty boy. And Joanna’s the blue-eyed girl who’s going to put everything right. Well, bloody good luck to you!’ He glared at her. ‘What a pity you didn’t stay here and pitch in after Martin died, instead of swanning off to the States. Things might have been different then.’ He scraped his chair back and rose. ‘I’m going back to the nursing home to stay with Fiona. Have your high-level conference with Blackstone, sister dear, and get everything sorted. Feel free to let me know some time what’s been decided for me.’

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