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.

Tangled Tapestry
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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

DEBRA came out of the apartment building into the early warmth of a spring day. The faint mist which shrouded the harbour promised to lift quite soon, and then the magnificent vista from this vantage point would be spread out panoramically below her. When she had learned she was to come to San Francisco on the west coast of the United States she had, at first, been disappointed. She had wanted to see New York and Washington, and all the famous cities crowding the eastern seaboard, but since her arrival here she had forgotten all her earlier misgivings in the satisfying knowledge that she was to live for six months in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. For years poets and writers alike had tried to put into words the beauty of its bays and bridges, clanging street cars, modern skyscrapers and rambling family dwellings, all spreading up and down the almost perpendicular streets of the city. That they had had little success Debra thought was due to the fact that the real thing was so much more warming and exciting and alive. In the three months since her arrival she had learned that every street corner could produce an unexpectedly enchanting scene, and below the geographical curve of the peninsula with the silver lance of its bay slicing a cleft through the land mass provided a constant challenge to the artist. She supposed she had fallen in love with the place, and the thought of returning home to England and Aunt Julia filled her with dismay.

Smiling at the friendly mailman who was passing, she began to walk slowly down the steep slope towards the Filbert High School where she was a teacher. She had come from Valleydown in Sussex on an exchange scheme, much to the annoyance of Aunt Julia, her only relative. For some obscure reason Aunt Julia disliked anything to do with America, and besides she had rarely allowed Debra much freedom in England, despite the fact that her niece was now twenty-two and quite capable of taking care of herself. Debra, not wanting to annoy Aunt Julia unnecessarily, had usually fallen in with her wishes. She was not the kind of girl to want to go out a lot, anyway. She loved books, and reading, and classical music, and although her clothes were modern, she was really quite old-fashioned in many ways due of course to Aunt Julia’s overpowering influence.

But when this chance had come her way to see something of the world, Debra had determined to take it. After all, there seemed little opportunity of her being able to afford to travel far in the normal course of events. Aunt Julia commandeered most of her salary for housekeeping, and as she knew that Aunt Julia only had a pension to support herself with, Debra did not object. But it meant that she had to make all her own clothes, and it was as well that she used little make-up. Fortunately, her complexion was smooth and creamy, and her eyes, green and slightly tilted at the corners, already had sooty lashes to match her thick dark hair. Although her hair was straight, its length and silkiness required no adornment. In the right clothes, with carefully applied make-up, she could have been quite beautiful, but Debra, engrossed in her small world of books and teaching, was completely unaware of herself.

She swung now round the corner of Maple Vine, and entered the tall gates of the Filbert School. Scarcely above medium height, she looked more like one of the students than their teacher, and sometimes her exuberant pupils took advantage of the fact. But whenever she could she made their lessons so interesting that they forgot to be troublesome. This morning, for example, she had arranged a visit to some television studios, where they were filming a new series of detective stories. The studios were in Market Street, a wide thoroughfare that ran diagonally through the city. At the eastern end of Market Street was the long waterfront which curved past the dozens of piers from where hundreds of ships sailed every month. Debra loved this area; the colourful fishing vessels manned mainly by Italians whose home base was there gave the harbour an almost cosmopolitan appearance, and there was always plenty to see. Sometimes, on Sundays, she took sandwiches for her lunch and spent the whole day browsing about the tiny shops that abounded on the quayside, admiring the tourist stores with their stacks of souvenirs, and sometimes joining a trip that was going out in the bay so that she could look back at the city and imprint it firmly in her memory for when she must return home.

The Filbert School was huge and impressive, but surroundings in educational establishments, thought Debra, were only as good as the teachers within them. After preliminary assemblies, she gathered her class of eighteen and said:

‘I’ve arranged for transport to the studios. Are there any questions you wish to ask before we leave?’

A freckle-faced youth in jeans and a white sweater, with a huge ‘F’ imprinted upon it, grinned cheekily, and said: ‘Will we get to meet any of the stars, Miss Warren?’

Debra shrugged. ‘Who knows? I doubt it. We’re very small fry, and we’ve been extremely lucky to be accepted as visitors. The studios are particularly busy, I believe, and of course we won’t be expected to overstay our welcome.’

A girl with a ponytail grimaced. ‘Oh, I thought we might be televised ourselves,’ she said dejectedly. ‘And Ross Madison is there, and we all think he’s dreamy, Miss Warren.’

‘Oh, Sheralyn!’ Debra had to smile. ‘This is an educational visit, to demonstrate the techniques of ciné-photography and video-tape recording. Not the annual visit of Ross Madison’s fan club!’

There was an outburst of giggling, and Debra relaxed. She would miss this class when she returned to England. Whether it was because most of them came from families in the lower income bracket she wasn’t certain, but they seemed to appreciate everything she did for them with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Later they all piled into the coach which was to take them to the studios. The automobile negotiated the steep hills and turns with ease, while Debra sat on the edge of her seat, still a little nervous of the apparent lack of concern displayed by the city’s drivers. She was sure that if she could drive she would never dare exceed ten miles an hour down the precarious slopes.

The Omega Studios were large but completely unimpressive outside. It wasn’t until they entered the massive reception area which gave on to a flight of stairs leading up to various studios that the full impact of its size and opulence was felt. There were lifts, of course, some of them large enough to carry an elephant should that be necessary, while others were small and self-operable. Several attractive girls were employed as receptionists, used to dealing with every kind of personality from stage, screen and government.

Debra approached the desk, introduced herself, and was put into the charge of a Miss Powell, one of the attractive girls she had noticed at first. The children were staring about them with interest and curiosity, all hoping to see someone of importance. A lift transported them to the tenth floor, where Miss Powell led the way towards one of the larger studios. Debra had a muddled impression of lights and cameras and cables everywhere, before Miss Powell turned to her and said:

‘The director here is Emmet Morley. Have you heard of him?’

Debra shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

Miss Powell smiled. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not important. Around the studios he’s extremely well known, of course. He has directed quite a lot of movies, but your being English makes quite a difference, of course. You may get to meet him. He’s a nice man.’

Debra nodded, and they continued with the tour. The children were shown the various cameras used for different shots, the instant video-tape recording machine, and one or two of them even rode on one of the camera dollies. At the moment nothing was happening, but Miss Powell explained that later in the morning some filming would be taking place. The children were fascinated with seeing themselves on the closed-circuit television screens, while from time to time they recognised a familiar face walking across the sets. Much to Sheralyn’s and the rest of the girl’s disappointment, Ross Madison, the star of the detective series, did not appear, although his leading lady, Marcia Wayne, did, and she signed some autographs before retiring to the control office.

Miss Powell suggested they went along to the restaurant for some coffee, and cokes for the children, and Debra agreed. In the restaurant there were many more familiar faces, and even she recognised a star of his own variety show, Barry Willis. It was around this time that Debra became aware that she was attracting a great deal of attention.

It wasn’t so much the fact of being stared at that troubled her, but rather the sensation of being discussed, rather thoroughly. Some of the older men, who she presumed were camera crews, seemed to find her positively magnetising to look at, and she flushed with embarrassment and said to Miss Powell:

‘Is it my imagination, or are all these people staring at me?’

Miss Powell glanced around. She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Why?’

Debra sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to sound ridiculous. It’s just a feeling I have. Maybe they don’t see parties of children and their teacher visiting the studios every day.’

Miss Powell laughed. ‘Heavens, there are frequently visitors coming round. I think you’re probably imagining it.’ She looked critically at Debra. ‘You’re a very attractive girl. Has no one ever told you so?’

‘Oh, heavens, no!’ Debra felt worse than ever.

Miss Powell narrowed her eyes. ‘Are there no men in England? Or do you live in a convent there?’

Debra twisted her fingers together. ‘Not at all. It’s just that I don’t have much time … for that sort of thing.’

‘I thought London was the swingingest city in the world,’ remarked Miss Powell mockingly.

‘Valleydown, where I live, is thirty miles from London,’ returned Debra swiftly. ‘Anyway, this is hardly the kind of conversation we should be having. Will we be returning to the studios?’

Miss Powell smiled and accepted the rebuff with good grace. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we’ll go back. I promised Mr. Morley that the children should see a little of the actual shooting going on.’

Back in studio seven, Emmet Morley was already on the set giving final instructions to his cast. When the sound of the children entering came to his ears, he came over, smiling expansively, a huge cigar hanging from his mouth. Debra looked at him with interest. He was the first director she had seen, and the fact that he had directed films pointed to his being more important than she had imagined. He was of medium height and veering to plumpness, but he had a charming smile, and used it to good effect. He grinned at Miss Powell, said, ‘Hi, Lucy,’ and then looked at Debra.

At once his expression changed. His amiable approach gave way to a disbelieving glare, and something like recognition flickered in his small eyes. He swept the cigar out of his mouth and narrowed his lids, then ran a hand over his forehead, up to the receding line of his hair. Then he said:

‘Your name. What’s your name?’

Debra was taken aback, and glanced desperately at Lucy Powell. But Lucy merely looked surprised too, and Debra answered: ‘Debra Warren, Mr. Morley.’

He studied her appraisingly, replacing the cigar in his mouth and gnawing at it abstractedly. The children were staring too, now, all wondering what was going to happen, and hoping for some excitement. Debra felt terrible. In the restaurant she had felt as though she was being stared at, but this—this was much worse. Why on earth did Emmet Morley stare at her like that, and why didn’t he hurry up and say something and get it over with? The whole studio seemed conscious of the small scene being enacted just inside the wide doors, and a strange hush had descended.

Lucy Powell eventually broke the silence by saying: ‘This is the schoolteacher from Filbert, Mr. Morley. The English girl who is over here on the exchange scheme.’

Morley drew heavily on his cigar, gathered his thoughts, and lifting his shoulders in a helpless gesture, said: ‘Yeah, the English teacher from the High School.’ He glanced round thoughtfully. ‘Go on looking around, kids! Lucy, do me a small favour, will you? Take charge of these kids for five minutes. Give me a moment to speak to Miss … er … Warren, in private.’

Lucy looked taken aback, and not particularly pleased. ‘Mr. Morley, I have other visitors to show round after this party has left——’ But she was left talking to herself, for ignoring her protests, Emmet Morley had determinedly taken Debra’s arm, and was propelling her across the studio floor, past the interested eyes of the camera men, to a small office at the back of the studio. Debra herself tried to protest, but Morley merely said:

‘Relax, kid, relax! No one’s going to frighten you. I only want to have a small talk with you. Right?’

‘I suppose so.’ Debra could hardly refuse without causing an embarrassing scene. Besides, what could happen to her? The office was glass-panelled, and all eyes would be on them, anyway.

The office held a couple of easy armchairs, a low desk and several telephones. Emmet Morley seated himself behind the desk and waved to one of the armchairs. ‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake. I’m not going to eat you! You look positively petrified!’

‘Well, quite frankly, I am rather nervous,’ she said, subsiding on to an armchair, and then seeing that by doing so she was out of sight of the rest of the studio because the glass panelling only started some three feet from the floor, standing up again.

‘You’ve no reason to be so,’ remarked Morley impatiently. ‘Good God! Sit down. What on earth experience has made you act like this? Did some guy attack you, or something?’

Debra stiffened her shoulders. ‘Of course not. It’s merely that all this is beyond me, and I wish it were over and done with. I can’t think what we have to say to one another. Everybody is staring at me as though I were a freak or something! Do I look like a freak?’

Morley’s hard features relaxed into a smile. ‘Anything but! You’re a particularly attractive girl. Surely you know that without me telling you? Sure you do. Even a girl like you couldn’t be so dumb!’

‘And is that all this is about?’ exclaimed Debra disbelievingly.

Morley hesitated. ‘More or less,’ he muttered evasively. ‘Now, will you sit down?’

Debra did so unwillingly, and accepted a cigarette from the box he offered to her. After it was lit, Emmet Morley studied her silently for a while before saying:

‘What part of England do you come from, Miss Warren?’

Debra shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose you’d have heard of it. It’s a place called Valleydown, in Sussex. It’s actually about thirty miles from London.’

‘I see. And your parents? Do you live with them?’

‘No. My parents are dead.’

Emmet Morley leaned forward interestedly. ‘Is that so? How did they die?’

Debra frowned. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’

‘Just answer the question, Miss Warren,’ muttered Morley impatiently.

Debra compressed her lips in annoyance. What right had this man to speak to her so peremptorily? But she still answered him, albeit a little sulkily. ‘They were killed. In a train crash. When I was just a baby.’

‘So? Go on, who brought you up?’

‘You want my life history, Mr. Morley?’

‘More or less, Miss Warren. Go on … please.’

Debra sighed. ‘I was brought up by my aunt, Aunt Julia, that is.’

‘I see.’ He lay back in his chair. ‘Tell me, kid, what do you know about Elizabeth Steel?’

‘Elizabeth Steel?’ Debra shook her head. ‘Why, hardly anything. I mean, I know she was very famous, and that she was killed in a plane crash, but that’s about all. Why?’

Morley did not answer her. Instead he said: ‘She was famous, very famous, as you say. And very popular, too, if a little conceited sometimes. Her death was a tragedy for us all. She was only forty-three, and no one could have guessed even that. She was at the peak of her career.’ He sighed heavily. ‘That happened a little over ten years ago, when you’d have been—how old?’

Debra thought for a moment. ‘Twelve, I suppose.’

‘Hmn! Interesting, very interesting.’ Morley’s eyes were uncomfortably intent.

Debra lifted her shoulders. ‘Mr. Morley, what is all this about? I mean, you invite me in here, you want to know my life history and now you start asking me about some film star who’s been dead over ten years! I mean, it just doesn’t add up. I’m sorry this Steel woman is dead, of course. But I don’t see what I have to do with any of it.’

Emmet Morley stubbed out his cigar. ‘Okay, okay, Miss Warren. Don’t blow your top. We’ll leave it—for now at any rate. Just out of interest, do you remember your parents?’

Debra frowned. ‘Not at all. Why?’ She sounded distrait.

Morley shrugged. ‘Cool it, Miss Warren,’ he advised her sardonically. ‘I have my reasons, believe me, for this interrogation. But I don’t think it would be fair at this time to voice them. I’m sorry, kid, but there it is.’

Debra stood up and walked to the door. ‘Can I go now?’

‘I guess,’ he replied lacontcally, and standing up as well followed her out of the office and across the studio floor again to where Lucy Powell was waiting with the children. She looked bored and impatient, and relinquished her charges with some relief. Then, as Debra was about to suggest it was time to leave, Emmet Morley said:

‘Say, you kids, how’d you like to see your Miss Warren take a screen test?’

Debra turned to him, compressing her lips angrily. ‘Oh, really—’

‘We sure would!’ exclaimed Pete Lindsay, her freckle-faced pupil.

‘That’s for sure!’ echoed the others.

‘Go on, Miss Warren, be a dare-devil!’

‘They may make you a television star,’ exclaimed Sheralyn dreamily. ‘Oh, Miss Warren, fancy working with Ross Madison!’

All the children were enthusiastic, seeing this as an excuse to stay away from school a bit longer. Debra herself was convinced Emmet Morley had deliberately appealed to the children on her behalf because he knew she would have refused had they been alone. As it was, she felt she would look small and petty if she refused. And also she was sure that this was what Morley had wanted all along, but like the shrewd man he was, he had waited until the perfect opportunity presented itself so that she could not refuse.

‘Mr. Morley,’ she began slowly, ‘I really think it’s time we were leaving. I’m sorry, but—’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Emmet Morley, his faint frown an indication that she was annoying him too. ‘What are you so scared of here, Miss Warren? We’re not monsters, we’re only human beings, the same as everyone else.’

‘I … I’m not scared!’ exclaimed Debra furiously.

‘Then what have you to lose? Take the test!’

Debra clenched her fists. ‘You’re … you’re making it practically impossible for me to refuse.’ She glanced round at the children. ‘You know perfectly well that if I do refuse it will seem churlish. Besides disappointing the children!’

‘Exactly. So what are we hanging about for?’ he remarked dryly.

Debra’s eyes met his for a moment, and then she capitulated. ‘Oh, very well. But I still think it’s all rather ridiculous!’

Lucy Powell, who had been standing close by listening, moved nearer to Debra as Morley walked away to arrange for the test. She gave Debra a studied glance, and then said: ‘What gives? Are you some relation of his?’

‘Of course not,’ exclaimed Debra, rather shortly, and then added contritely: ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on. Do many people take tests?’

‘A fair number. But not like this, straight off the cuff, so to speak. There are always hundreds of people, men and women, all hanging around waiting to get “discovered” as they say. But in your case you have the satisfaction of knowing that what’s happening to you is practically a unique experience.’

‘But why?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know. I’ve never known Morley interest himself in unknowns before, except when he expects to make a deal of money out of it.’

Debra sighed weakly. ‘It’s fantastic! Oh, well, I hope it’s soon over.’

‘Pray that it’s a success,’ remarked Lucy sardonically. ‘Have you any idea what you could earn as a television personality?’

‘Money doesn’t interest me,’ exclaimed Debra. ‘At least, only so far as keeping me in food and clothes is concerned. I’ve no aspirations to grandeur.’

‘Amazing,’ remarked Lucy dryly, and walked away, leaving Debra to her own confused thoughts.

In the shortest space of time the studio was cleared and Morley took charge. Debra was amazed at the way he shed his semi-indolent manner and became a veritable tiger when his wishes weren’t carried out instantly. She glimpsed the genius behind the façade and was suitably impressed. The cast of the series were not particularly pleased to be shifted off the set, and Debra felt awful about the whole business. It just wasn’t feasible that Emmet Morley was doing all this because he liked her face, and the reasons hidden were beginning to trouble her.

But when it came to the actual test she found it was not at all difficult, after all. She followed his instructions implicitly, and found that once she was actually before the cameras her nervousness fled and she relaxed completely. She didn’t know why, but she felt an affinity with the artificial scenery, the set of a comfortable lounge, and in consequence when she was handed a script she read from it without actually thinking about it. She had always been good at amateur dramatics, and had taken part in several school plays, but even she was unaware that she was particularly good until at the end of her speech the whole studio resounded with the applause of the watching crew.

Hot, flushed and embarrassed, she thrust the script back into Morley’s hand and said:

‘Please, now can I go?’

Morley seemed abstracted, and merely nodded, as though lost in his own thoughts, and Debra made good her escape. She didn’t know why she had this incredible urge to get away, but it was overpowering, and she breathed a sigh of relief when the studio doors swung to behind them.

The children were admiring and loud in their praise, but Debra managed to quieten them. She had no particular wish to remember what had just occurred. She was no stage-struck teenager, and all she could feel was relief that her ordeal was over. She refused to consider what might be behind it all. It had been a strange experience, and she felt uncomfortably suspicious that Emmet Morley would not let her get away so easily. It would be an easy matter for him to find her telephone number if he wanted to get in touch with her.

She shook these thoughts away impatiently. It was no good worrying over something that might never happen. She straightened her shoulders. After all, she would not allow herself to be bulldozed into anything she did not like.

It wasn’t until she was in bed that night and musing over the day’s events that she recalled the words she had spoken during her screen test. Emmet had thrust the script into her hand and she had been too bemused to register what it was. But now she remembered: it had been ‘Avenida’ and the words she had spoken were Laura’s words; Laura, the part which had given Elizabeth Steel her greatest success.

CHAPTER TWO

DEBRA poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it through to the wide window seat in the lounge. From here she had an uninterrupted view of the outer waters of the harbour, and at this hour of the early evening it was unbelievably beautiful. The apartment was small, and not always quiet as it was now, the rest of the building being taken up by young people who seemed to spend their nights playing records and dancing, despite the complaints of the landlady downstairs, but the situation made up to Debra for everything else it lacked. She spent hours sitting here, sometimes sketching idly, and sometimes just dreaming, and remembering that in twelve short weeks she would be back in Valleydown.

The prospect of returning to her aunt’s house was not an inviting one. Aunt Julia was not a gregarious person, and did not welcome company in the small house backing on to the river. She was content to sit and knit, and watch television, and sometimes read a magazine. She did a little gardening, complained about the neighbours and the housework, and the cost of groceries, and this was her whole world. In truth Debra had begun to think it was hers too. But this trip had been a revelation in more ways than one. She had met so many people, nice people, who were genuinely interested in her. Back home in England, any friendships she had made were quickly snuffed by Aunt Julia, and Debra had been loath to bring friends to her aunt’s house after Aunt Julia had been rude to a fellow teacher from the school.

She had never had a regular boy-friend. She had occasionally attended lectures together with fellow teachers, some of whom happened to be men, but this was all.

But here, in America, everything was different. There was no Aunt Julia to prevent her making friends, and only the habits of years curtailed her social activities. She was still very shy, and it was difficult to respond naturally to the natural exuberance of her colleagues. And yet she knew that given more time, it would come, if only she had the chance.

She sighed, and lit a cigarette. She didn’t smoke a lot, not at all at home, but she enjoyed a cigarette with a cup of coffee at this hour of the evening. She wondered idly what her life would have been like if her parents had lived. She didn’t know much about them. As long as she could remember there had only been Aunt Julia, and Valleydown. She could vaguely remember living somewhere else, somewhere nearer London, but always with Aunt Julia. Whenever she questioned her aunt about her parents she received no satisfactory answers. Julia seemed to think the fact that they had both died in a train crash was sufficient to tell a lonely child, not understanding that Debra would have cherished every memory she could relate with avid attention.

Debra shrugged these thoughts away as being disloyal. After all, had it not been for Aunt Julia she would have been in a children’s home, and Aunt Julia had described them in terrible terms, whenever she wanted to frighten Debra into submission for some misdoing.

Footsteps on the stairs outside the apartment, loud and frequent, heralded the arrival home of the three boys who lived in the flat above her. A few minutes later the throbbing beat of a current pop song came clearly from above, and Debra sighed again, and standing up walked back into the tiny alcove which served as a kitchen, and replaced her cup on the draining board.

It was only a little after seven-thirty, and the evening stretched ahead of her. She wondered what she would do. She didn’t much like to go out alone, and she had made no arrangements to meet any of the girls from the High School this evening. She supposed she could go to the movies, but on an evening like this the prospect did not appeal.

Suddenly the telephone rang shrilly, and Debra almost jumped out of her skin. She was still not used to the ubiquitous presence of the telephone, and in consequence usually felt her nerves jangle when its bell broke the quietude of her thoughts. Stubbing out her cigarette, and wondering who could be calling her, she lifted the receiver.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Debra Warren speaking.’

An unfamiliar male voice came to her ears. ‘Miss Warren? Good? I understand you took a party of teenagers to the Omega studios a couple of days ago.’

Debra pressed a hand to her stomach. She had still not quite recovered from that, to her, unpleasant sensation of being thoroughly appraised, and although she had thrust it to the back of her mind, at the man’s words it all came flooding back.

‘That’s right,’ she said, her voice cool. ‘But I must warn you that I have absolutely no interest in any further screen tests or auditions, or anything like that. I’m a schoolteacher, and I have no desire to be a film star!’

The man made a sound which seemed like suppressed humour, and Debra gripped the receiver tightly.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Whoever you are, get off this line!’

‘Hold on, hold on,’ he said hastily. ‘Look, my name is Dominic McGill, and I want to see you.’

Dominic McGill! Debra’s brain buzzed chaotically. Dominic McGill! She knew that name! Who was he? A film star? No! Her brain rejected this. Where had she seen his name? Recently! She ran a hand over her forehead puzzlingly.

‘I’m a playwright,’ he supplied, as though reading her thoughts.

Of course! Debra’s memory clicked. Dominic McGill, the playwright! That was where she had seen his name—on the script that Emmet Morley had given her to read. Dominic McGill had written ‘Avenida’, the play that when filmed had given Elizabeth Steel her most successful role!

Swallowing hard, she said: ‘I really can’t imagine why you’re ringing me, Mr. McGill.’

‘Can’t you? Well, maybe not, at that. Anyway, that changes nothing. I still want to see you.’

‘And I’ve explained I want nothing more to do with that screen test,’ said Debra quickly. ‘Look, understand me, Mr. McGill, I’m not some stage-struck teenager. Whatever you have to say doesn’t interest me one bit!’

‘Is that so?’ He sounded rather less amicable now. ‘Now, you look, Miss Warren! I have no intention of discussing this matter over the phone. When will it be convenient for me to come round?’

‘To come round?’ echoed Debra in amazement. ‘Surely I can’t make it any plainer. I don’t want to have anything more to do with it!’

‘Miss Warren,’ his voice was cold now, and for some reason she shivered, ‘I mean to see you. Now tell me when, like a good girl!’

‘Don’t patronise me,’ she said angrily. ‘For goodness’ sake! There ought to be laws against this sort of thing. I’m going to hang up now, Mr. McGill. Please don’t ring again!’

And she did so, slamming down the phone with a sense of satisfaction, a malicious kind of satisfaction which she didn’t know she possessed.

Then she lit herself another cigarette, and switched on her television, turning the volume up high to drown the wailing tones of the guitars in the flat above. She was annoyed to find herself trembling, and she shook herself violently. Why had she this awful feeling of apprehension suddenly? Just because a producer had taken a fancy to her and had her tested, it didn’t mean that she was no longer in control of her own destiny. And Dominic McGill! She shrugged bewilderedly. Imagine receiving a call from Dominic McGill! It was all quite fantastic, and quite crazy.

She crossed to the mirror and studied her face seriously for a minute. What was there there to attract such interest? She wasn’t particularly beautiful. Since arriving in San Francisco she had seen dozens of beautiful girls, with much more clothes sense than she had. Besides, surely the fact that she herself wasn’t interested would be enough to put them off.

She grimaced at herself mockingly, and then picking up the book she was reading, she subsided on to the couch, completely ignoring the television.

About an hour later her doorbell rang. Frowning, she put down her book and glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Immediately she felt nervous. Who could be calling on her at this hour? She crossed to the door, and without unfastening the bolt, she opened it to the width of the chain catch.

A man stood outside. He was tall, very lean and tanned, as though he spent long hours in the open air, with hair of that particular shade of ash-blond as to appear silvery in some lights. He was not handsome; his features were hard and craggy, but he had very light blue eyes, fringed by dark lashes, that seemed to penetrate Debra with their intensity, and she felt a shaky feeling assail her lower limbs.

‘Y … yes?’ she said, keeping half behind the door.

‘I’m Dominic McGill,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Can I come in?’

Debra’s fingers tightened on the door handle. ‘No,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘We … we said all we had to say over the phone.’

‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘We didn’t. Now, open the door.’

His voice was still quiet, but his blue eyes had narrowed and Debra felt suddenly afraid. After all, who did she really know here, in San Francisco? A few teachers at the High School. Her landlady? Who would miss her if she disappeared?

‘Please,’ she said, running a tongue over her dry lips, ‘go away. I … I don’t want anything to do with it. I’m sorry if you’ve had a wasted journey.’

‘Open the door,’ he repeated, ignoring her pleas.

Debra closed her eyes momentarily. ‘And if I don’t?’

‘You will.’

She glanced back at the telephone. ‘I could call the police.’

‘You could be dead before they arrive,’ he remarked, as though he was discussing the weather.

‘Oh!’ Debra pressed a hand to her mouth.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, open the door,’ he said coldly. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

Debra unlatched the door with shaking fingers, unable to resist any longer. She opened it wider, and he stepped inside, into the light. Then, as before with Emmet Morley, she saw his sudden shock of recognition, before he controlled his expression.

She saw now he was a man in his late thirties, dressed casually in a turtle-necked navy blue sweater over grey pants, a grey car-coat over all. She thought he was very attractive, and stifled the idea. But there was a kind of animal magnetism about him that was hard to ignore. Whatever kind of life he had led, it had not been always easy, she thought. He was no soft-skinned drone; and this was part of his attraction. He would not be a man to play around with—in any way.

‘So,’ he murmured, ‘you are Debra Warren.’

Debra did not reply, but merely stood there rubbing her elbows with the palms of her hands nervously.

‘Emmet tells me you made a good test. And you read part of Laura’s script from “Avenida”.’

Debra shrugged and nodded.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘are your parents living?’

Debra shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Don’t give too much away,’ he remarked dryly, lighting himself a cigarette. ‘Who were they?’

‘I never knew them. I … I suppose my father was my aunt’s brother, as our names are the same.’

He studied her thoughtfully. ‘And you never knew Elizabeth Steel.’

Debra stared at him exasperatedly. ‘Oh, not that again!’ she exclaimed. ‘How would I know Elizabeth Steel?’

He ignored her question and said: ‘Where do you live?’

‘Didn’t Mr. Morley tell you?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘Yes. But you tell me.’

Debra exhaIed irritably. ‘Valleydown, in Sussex. Don’t tell me you’ve heard of it!’

Again he ignored her outburst, much to her annoyance.

‘How old were you when they died?’

Debra compressed her lips. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on. When?’

Debra squared her shoulders. ‘Now look here,’ she said. ‘You’ve come here, practically forced your way in and asked a lot of questions for which you’ve received answers. Now this is all! Do you understand?’ Her green eyes were blazing, and he seemed lost in some speculative study. Then he shrugged, his eyes cold.

‘You look here,’ he said, in a quiet voice that emanated suppressed violence. ‘Sure I’ve come here uninvited, sure I’ve asked you questions, and can you say in all honesty you don’t know what in hell I’m talking about?’

‘Of course I can!’ Debra felt something suspiciously like tears behind her eyes, pricking uncomfortably. ‘If I knew what it was all about, maybe I’d be able to tell you what you want to know. Because it seems obvious to me that you want something that at present you’re not getting.’

‘You’re damn right,’ he muttered, his blue eyes piercing her cruelly. ‘I really believe you’re on the level!’

Debra was breathing swiftly. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she exclaimed, ‘get to the point!’

‘All right, all right, I will!’ He flung his cigarette out of the half-open window, staring momentarily on the midnight blue scene below him, lit like stars with the myriads of lights of the city.

Then he looked back at her. ‘All right, Miss Warren. You can have it straight. Elizabeth Steel may have been your mother!’

For a moment there was silence in the apartment, and then Debra gave a nervous laugh. ‘You must be joking,’ she exclaimed.

He shook his head, and said: ‘Say, do you have anything to drink around here?’

Debra shook her head. ‘Only Coke.’

He smiled sardonically, and for a brief moment she could not drag her eyes away from him. Then she hunched her shoulders and looked towards the kitchen. ‘Do you want some coffee?’

He shrugged, and then tucked his fingers into the back waistband of his trousers, walking across to the television, and switching it off firmly. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s have some conversation. What do you really know about your parents?’

Debra twisted her fingers together. ‘Before you start asking questions, let me ask one,’ she said. ‘Why are you so sure I might be Elizabeth Steel’s daughter? Where’s the connection?’

He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out a wallet. From it he extracted a photograph which he handed silently to Debra. She stared at it in amazement. She might have been looking at a photograph of herself. But this woman’s face was older more mature, and yet, basically, there was little difference. The hair, the eyes, the whole expression, was emphatically identical.

‘I see,’ said Debra, breathing shakily. ‘Now I understand.’ Then she looked up at him. ‘Even so, it’s possible for anyone to have a double.’

He lit another cigarette before answering. ‘Sure it is, and that’s why Emmet wanted to test you. I guess he thought that if you were conceivably some relation of Steel’s it would show.’

‘And?’

‘Well, let’s say the resemblance was sufficient to warrant further investigation.’

Debra brushed back her hair from her eyes, feeling bewildered. It was like some crazy dream, brought about by the disturbing affair at the studios. This couldn’t actually be happening to her. Her parents had been English, they had been killed in a train crash when she was a baby. She could not possibly be Elizabeth Steel’s daughter.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she said unsteadily. ‘My parents died in a train crash years ago. If I was Elizabeth Steel’s daughter why was I brought up in England? And who is Aunt Julia?’

Dominic McGill put the photograph back in his wallet, then he said: ‘Elizabeth Steel was English, even though she made her greatest impact professionally in the States. It’s quite possible that your aunt—did she bring you up, by the way?’ and at her nod, he continued: —‘it’s possible that your aunt was Elizabeth’s sister—or I should say is her sister.’

‘That sounds unlikely.’

‘I agree. It is unlikely, but I find in this business the unlikeliest things can happen.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘What are you thinking? That you wish you’d never gone to the Omega studios?’

‘How did you guess?’ Debra managed a small smile.

‘But why? For most girls it would be a dream come true?’

‘If it is true, why didn’t Elizabeth Steel bring me up herself? And why have I never heard of her from Aunt Julia?’

Dominic McGill shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that. Not at the moment, anyway. Her producer, Aaron Johannson, knew her longest. He might know. Unfortunately he’s out of the country at the moment, filming on location in Spain. But when he comes back …’

‘Mr. McGill,’ Debra chose her words carefully, ‘even if it’s true, that I am Elizabeth Steel’s daughter, what then? What will it achieve to know the truth?’

‘Look, Miss Warren, when Steel died she left a small fortune. She had no apparent next of kin. The money is in trust.’

Debra shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t want the money,’ She shivered. ‘If that’s the whole point of this enquiry, then forget it. I have enough money for my needs.’

Dominic McGill looked exasperated. ‘Oh, don’t give me that,’ he said, raising his eyes heavenward. ‘Look! Okay, I guess the knowledge that your mother may have abandoned you at birth isn’t pleasant hearing, but at least have the sense to realise that if there is any money it’s yours to use as you like.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Besides, that’s not all. Aaron is on the point of remaking “Avenida”. Can you imagine the impact you would make in that part?’

‘Me?’ Debra looked astonished. ‘I can’t act!’

‘Anybody can be a film star,’ replied Dominic McGill laconically. ‘They’re not all Oliviers, you know.’

‘Does it occur to you that in spite of all this I may be happy as I am?’

McGill’s eyes were derisive. ‘You really are quite a girl, aren’t you?’ he mocked her. ‘The only woman I’ve ever met who is actually not curious! Do you mean to tell me you can go back to—what was it—Valleydown, and forget everything I’ve told you? Won’t it ever trouble you that I might just be right?’

Debra turned away. She couldn’t take it in. She couldn’t be Elizabeth Steel’s daughter. She just couldn’t. But as she tried to find some truth in all that she had been told certain things came back to her; her aunt’s refusal to discuss her parents; the pathetically little she knew about them; and most of all, Aunt Julia’s hatred of all things American.

She turned back to McGill. ‘So,’ she said, ‘if I do accept all that you’ve told me, what then?’

Dominic McGill’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, now, I guess we wait until Aaron comes home. And then it’s up to you. Can you dismiss it all?’

Debra felt the hot tears pricking at her eyes. ‘You know I can’t,’ she cried tremulously. ‘Oh, why did you have to come here, why did I ever arrange that visit to the studios?’

‘The astrologers would likely call it fate,’ he remarked lazily. ‘Calm down, kid, it’s not the end of the world. It may be the beginning of yours.’

‘I was happy, I was,’ she cried, staring at him with wide eyes. ‘You’ll never believe me, I know, but I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. I never wanted to be anything than what I am!’

‘A schoolteacher!’

‘Don’t say it like that. I like working with children.’

‘You don’t look much more than a kid yourself,’ he said.

‘I’m twenty-two,’ she replied indignantly.

‘A great age,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Oh, to be twenty-two again!’

‘I’m sure you don’t mean that.’

‘You’re right. But even at twenty-two, I didn’t have that dewy-eyed innocence. God, if Steel was your mother you’ve a hell of a lot to learn.’

He walked to the door. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. I guess you won’t be working.’

‘I … I have a baseball match to attend in the afternoon,’ she said quickly.

‘High livin’,’ he mocked, his expression amused. ‘Okay, make it Sunday. At least that will give you a couple of days to cool down. I’ll pick you up at eleven in the morning, right?’

‘Why?’ Debra stared at him.

‘I have something to show you,’ he replied casually, opening the door. ‘Don’t worry, honey. You may find something in all this to enjoy.’

‘But—’ Debra linked her fingers. ‘I’m sure there ought to be something more than this to say. I mean, how do I know you are who you say you are?’

He grinned then, a completely charming relaxation of his features. ‘Honey, no one would dare to impersonate me!’

Then he closed the door behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She ran to the door, but as her fingers closed over the handle she found she could not turn it. It was no use calling him back. It was her problem, and no one else’s, and her heartache if it turned out to be true. What kind of a person was Elizabeth Steel to turn her back on her own baby? Had she never had any curiosity about her own child? Did she have no desire to see her, developing into a child, and then … But her thoughts were brought up short. Elizabeth had been killed when she was only twelve years old. Might she have changed if she had lived? Would she eventually have acknowledged her offspring?

And on the heels of this thought came another: if Elizabeth Steel was her mother, who was her father? Was she illegitimate? Was that why so little interest had been taken in her? Oh, God, she thought, feeling sickened. ‘It couldn’t be true,’ she said aloud, as though by voicing the opinion, it negated it.

But the fact remained that there was a faint, yet sturdy, vein of authenticity about the whole affair. So many things linked together, most particularly her aunt’s attitude.

And yet why should her aunt act that way? Why pretend she had no mother, even if that mother refused to acknowledge her? There were hundreds of children in similar circumstances, living with relatives because their parents hadn’t time for them. It didn’t make sense.

When she went to bed that night her thoughts were no further forward. She felt a healthy resentment towards Dominic McGill for coming here so arrogantly, and brutally destroying her peace of mind. She was also aware that she had never met a man like him before. He could be hard and cold, yet when he smiled he had the charm of a small boy. A man of moods and complexes, completely outside her comprehension.

She rolled over in her bed, punching her pillow into shape angrily. Whatever came of all this, whatever truths were uncovered, Dominic McGill was merely interested in her as Elizabeth Steel’s daughter, and as such, a possible asset to the remake of his famous ‘Avenida’. She must never, at any time, start thinking of him as a friend of hers.

CHAPTER THREE

ON Saturday afternoon at the baseball game, Debra was surprised to be approached by David Hollister, the school principal. Hollister, a man in his early forties, was a bachelor, and had taken a friendly interest in Debra’s career since her arrival at Filbert. He had made her feel welcome, and was more than willing to listen to any problem she might encounter.

Debra, used to the stiff formality of an English headmistress, had been astonished when the principal addressed her as Debra from the start, and introduced himself as David. In consequence, although she liked talking to him, she had been inclined to aloofness, unable to wholly lose her normal detachment when speaking to him.

Today, however, after yesterday’s revelations which had cost her a night’s sleep already, she was more relaxed, and she smiled when he said:

‘I think you’re beginning to like our national sport.’

‘I am,’ she agreed, nodding. ‘Particularly when our side is winning. Pete Lindsay is in my class.’

‘Of course he is,’ said the principal reflectively. ‘But tell me, Debra, what is all this about the Omega Studios, and Dominic McGill?’

Debra was taken aback. ‘You … you know?’ she exclaimed.

‘Of course. How do you imagine they got your telephone number?’

‘Well, from the book, I suppose,’ murmured Debra awkwardly. ‘You mean they rang you?’

‘Exactly. It was obviously the most satisfactory way. But anyway, enough of that, what exactly did he have to say to you? Or is it too private for me to know?’

‘Oh, no—that is—well, actually, what did they tell you?’

‘Dominic McGill rang me. He told me he wanted to get in touch with you. Something about a screen test at the studios. Was that in the itinerary, by the way?’

‘Of course not.’ Debra was blushing furiously. ‘You must think me a stage-struck teenager!’

David Hollister gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Hardly that, my dear, but I must confess I was disturbed when I found that a member of my staff had been taking a screen test.’

‘I was practically forced into it,’ replied Debra quickly. ‘Mr. Morley, Emmet Morley, that is, one of the directors—’

‘I have heard of Emmet Morley,’ remarked Hollister dryly.

‘—well, Mr. Morley said he wanted me to take a test, in front of all the children. Naturally, they would have been disappointed if I had refused.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ he nodded. ‘But even so, it must have occurred to you that it was hardly what was expected of you.’

‘I know, I know.’ Debra compressed her lips. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘And is that all there was to it? This screen test?’

Debra’s colour deepened. Somehow she didn’t want to have to tell him about everything else, not yet. It might not be true, and it was nothing to do with him, however friendly his interest might be.

‘Well, I suppose so,’ she temporised.

David Hollister studied her confused expression. ‘Dominic McGill—whom we have all heard of; a man with numerous plays and films to his credit: who lives an entirely different life from any you have known, or me, for that matter; this man takes the trouble to find out your name and telephone number from the school principal, just because you’ve taken a screeen test that has apparently been successful! My dear Debra, the mind boggles!’

Debra stared miserably at her fingernails. ‘Please, Mr. Hollister—David, then,’ as he protested, ‘don’t ask me any more now. There is more, I admit it, but just at this moment I don’t want to say any more.’

Hollister looked a little annoyed, but he shrugged his shoulders and ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. ‘I can’t make you, of course.’ he said slowly. ‘But if I were you, I would think carefully before getting involved with a man like McGill. At the moment, he’s only a voice over the telephone; when you meet him you may be able to understand what I mean.’

‘Oh, but …’ began Debra, starting to tell him about McGill’s visit to her apartment, and then she stopped.

Misunderstanding her, Hollister continued: ‘I know you’re going to say you can take care of yourself, but really, Debra, the film world is a very big jungle, swarming with wild animals. It’s kill or be killed, and quite frankly, I don’t think you have the proportions of a lady-killer.’

Debra smiled at his humour, but said nothing.

Hollister offered her a cigarette, and when they were both smoking, he said: ‘I’d like to think you’d think of me as someone you could turn to, if you found yourself out of your depth.’

‘Thank you.’ Debra felt grateful to him.

‘Well, as I’ve said, be careful. Remember what I’ve told you. No matter how much they flatter you, don’t be misled.’

‘I … I won’t,’ murmured Debra, wishing now he would let it go. But instead he returned to the subject of Dominic McGill.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘do you know much about McGill?’

‘Practically nothing,’ replied Debra truthfully.

‘Then remember, as a jungle animal, there is no one more dangerous.’

Debra drew on her cigarette to avoid a reply, and he looked at her a little irritatedly.

‘I do know what I’m talking about,’ he said. ‘He’s completely without scruples, either morally or financially. The press can’t leave him alone. He’s news!’ He said the word with vehement dislike, and Debra wondered fleetingly whether in actual fact David Hollister didn’t envy, just a little, the life that Dominic McGill apparently led.

She looked at Hollister uncertainly. ‘If you think he’s particularly interested in me, you couldn’t be more wrong,’ she said. ‘It … it’s not exactly a personal thing.’

This of course intrigued David Hollister even more, and she could tell he was becoming more curious than ever. So changing the subject, she began talking about the sports they had in England, most particularly British football which was becoming more popular in the United States. David Hollister had no choice but to follow her lead, for without labouring the point there was nothing more he could say.

That evening Debra went to the movies with Margaret Stevens, the teacher who took classes in music and drama. Margaret was a girl in her late twenties, unmarried now, although she had been married and divorced several years before. She was a cynic so far as men were concerned, and Debra didn’t take her comments about the opposite sex too seriously.

She had not, of course, heard about Debra’s screen test, and for a few hours Debra determinedly put all thoughts of it out of her mind. The film, a powerful police thriller, was sufficient to occupy her thoughts, although she stiffened when she read in the credits that the screen play had been written by Dominic McGill. Was she to have no peace now? she thought angrily. Until then she had never bothered to read the credits.

Afterwards they called in a coffee bar and had hamburgers and coffee, and discussed the film. When Debra returned to the apartment she felt pleasantly tired, and thought she would sleep without much difficulty. But once she was alone in bed, her thoughts turned back tortuously to the problem at the front of her mind, and she lay for hours puzzling the circumstances of her birth. Eventually, when she did get to sleep, she slept soundly and dreamlessly, not waking until after ten o’clock.

Immediately her thoughts leapt to the remembrance that McGill was arriving at eleven o’clock to take her—where? She shook her head, slid out of bed, and washed hastily while the percolator bubbled appetizingly. She dressed in a slim-fitting suit of orange tweed, that suited her very well. With her dark hair and lightly tanned complexion, it was very attractive, and even the skirt, which Aunt Julia had said was too short, looked all right with her two-inch heels. She left her hair loose, and it curved confidingly round her chin. She was gulping down her third cup of coffee when the bell rang. She swallowed quickly, almost choked herself, and went to the door realising she had forgotten to put on any make-up.

Dominic McGill was waiting outside, looking tall and relaxed in a biscuit-coloured suit, a cream shirt, and a brown knitted tie. His hair, which he wore cut very short on top, was a little unruly from the hectic breeze outside, and lay half over his forehead. He brushed it back with a careless hand and said:

‘Hi. You’re ready after all. I had an idea you’d cry off at the last minute.’

Debra looked at him momentarily, liking what she saw, and then she said: ‘Just a minute. I want to put on some lipstick.’

He raised his shoulders indolently, swinging his car keys. ‘Okay. Make it quick!’

For a moment she resented his tone, then hastily grabbed her make-up bag and extracted the pink lipstick and quickly applied it to her mouth, looking in the mirror to make sure it was not smudged. Then she lifted her black patent handbag, and said: ‘I’m ready!’

He stood back so that she could precede him down the stairs, and she went down awkwardly, overwhelmingly conscious of him behind her. Outside, parked in a ‘No waiting’ area, was a dark green car of generous proportions, twin exhausts heralding the power that Debra was sure was beneath the bonnet. McGill swung open the passenger door, and Debra took a deep breath, then slid in, tucking her skirt round her legs, a little self-conscious of the shortness of the skirt now. But Dominic McGill didn’t even look at her knees as he slid in, inserting the keys casually in the ignition. When he turned on the engine, there was a powerful roar, and Debra tensed a little. If she had been nervous in the buses, what would she be like in this thing!

Surprisingly, though, she could relax with him. He drove fast but expertly, and even the terrifying descent from the heights to the harbour didn’t frighten her. She looked at his lean, tanned hands on the wheel. They were long-fingered, hard hands, which she felt sure could be powerful, too, if their owner desired it. There was nothing gentle about him, and she wondered on what particular stories David Hollister had based his opinion of him. As she spent more time with him she could see that to some women he would be irresistible. Women who liked men to be brutal, and treat them like chattels.

Surprised at her thoughts, she half-smiled to herself, and he glanced at her as she did so, and said: ‘What’s so funny?’

Debra shook her head. ‘Nothing really.’ She flushed. ‘What—what sort of car is this?’

He negotiated a sharp bend and turned the car on to the main highway out of the city, before replying. ‘A Ferrari,’ he remarked casually. ‘Have you heard of it?’

‘Of course.’ Debra swallowed hard. A Ferrari, no less! No matter what happened now, she would certainly have something to remember when all this was over. ‘Does—does it do over a hundred?’

He smiled sardonically. ‘Just about,’ he remarked, and then relented. ‘Sure, it goes much faster than that. Do you want me to show you?’

‘Oh, no! That is—no, thank you.’ Debra looked out of the window. She was interested in where they were going, and wished he would tell her now, instead of leaving her wondering. She had never been far out of the city, and this was an entirely new direction for her. They were driving along the highway that ran beside the ocean, and it was startlingly beautiful. The breakers creamed on to the shoreline below them, while the blue of the sky seemed to melt into the horizon. Dominic McGill had the front windows of the car open, and the fresh breeze cooled the atmosphere in the vehicle. Debra rested her arm on the open window ledge and felt a sense of wellbeing pervade her whole body. It was such a glorious day, and even her eventual facing of this problem that troubled her could not douse her enjoyment of the day.

About an hour from San Francisco, he turned off the main highway on to a lesser road that wound up into the hills. A private road curving to the left was tree-lined and shady, and it was on to this that Dominic turned the powerful automobile. Debra glanced at him.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked at last, unable to prevent her curiosity.

He glanced at her. ‘I thought you were the girl who didn’t want to know,’ he said lazily. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve aroused your interest at last!’

Debra half-smiled. ‘Actually, you have. Where are you taking me?’

‘Wait a few minutes longer, and you’ll find out,’ he said, grinning, and she was caught again by the boyish quality of his smile. She looked away from him. This was no good, she was behaving foolishly, allowing him to get under her guard like this. Heavens, she had hardly known him five minutes; she must control her enjoyment of trips like this. She was as susceptible to charm as the silliest teenager.

The road wound between cyprus trees, through wrought iron gates, hanging wide, and up a drive overgrown with weeds arid flowering shrubs. It had once been beautiful, and there were still evidences of the landscaped gardens, and an empty swimming pool, moss-covered, was surrounded by the most expensive mosaic tiling.

Then the house came into view; an old haciendatype dwelling, with a fountain standing idly in the courtyard before the front verandah. Dominic stopped the car, slid out, and before Debra could get out he had opened her door and helped her to her feet. She looked at Dominic and said:

‘Please, tell me now. Where are we?’

Dominic McGill mounted the verandah, and pulling open the mesh door he pushed open the inner door into a wide hallway. Then he beckoned to Debra to follow him, smiling rather sardonically now.

‘Welcome to the Hacienda Elizabetta!’ he said mockingly.

Debra looked a little puzzled. ‘The Hacienda Elizabetta?’

‘Yes. This used to be Elizabeth Steel’s private hideaway!’

Debra shivered a little in spite of the heat of the day. Then she walked reluctantly up the steps and across the verandah. Hesitating only momentarily, she passed Dominic McGill and walked into the dimly lit hallway. All the windows were still shuttered, but McGill walked round, opening them, letting in the brilliant sunshine to flood away all the shadows of the past.

‘I … I always thought film stars lived in Hollywood—you know, Beverly Hills, and all that.’

Dominic McGill shrugged. ‘So they do. Even Elizabeth had a house on Wilshire Boulevard. But this was where she came when she wanted complete privacy. Very few people knew this address. Come through here, and I’ll show you why she liked it.’

He pushed open the double doors of a long lounge; a ghostly place, shrouded with white-sheeted furniture, and thickly covered with dust. Cobwebs hung everywhere, and Debra brushed them aside, grimacing. She had never liked spiders. McGill flung open the shutters of wide french doors that opened on to the verandah at its western elevation. Then Debra saw the view; the height of the hacienda was deceptive, for from here they had a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean, stretched out below them like blue silk edged with white lace. Crumbling bamboo chairs on the verandah here were positive proof that at some time someone had sat here, looking at the view in all its glory. Debra had no doubt that in the evening, with the sun setting into the ocean, it would be even more beautiful than it was at present. It was a strange and eerie thought; that the woman who had rested on this verandah might well have been her mother.

Dominic McGill seemed lost in thought, too, staring out at the view himself, as though recalling a time when things had been different. It crossed her mind momentarily to wonder how well he had known Elizabeth Steel. Of course, she would have been much older than he was, fifteen years at least, so she presumed that they had been merely acquaintances in the same business. At least, it appeared, he had been one of the very few people who had known this address.

He looked at her now, seeing the tautness of her features. ‘Does it bother you?’ he asked softly. ‘Coming here, I mean.’

Debra looked at him. ‘Should it? After all, if she was my mother, which I doubt, she never cared about me, so why should I care about her?’

‘Why do you doubt it so much? The more I see of you, the more convinced I am that Morley was right. You are like her, incredibly like her.’

‘How do you know what I’m like?’

He looked bored. ‘Come on, come on! I don’t know what you’re like—as a person. You naturally have your own personality. There are other things, less tangible things, that connect, somehow. The way you look when you’re angry, the way you twist your fingers together, the way you walk, and move your head. It’s no good, Debra. You have too much going for you.’

Debra compressed her lips, annoyed that he had called her by her Christian name, without her consent. She walked back into the hall, and looked up the flight of stairs to the floor above.

Without her being aware of it, he came behind her, and she jumped when he said: ‘Do you want to see your mother’s room?’

Debra glared at him. ‘She might not have been my mother! And no, I’ve seen enough. Why did you bring me here, anyway? It’s a horribly gloomy place.’

‘It didn’t used to be,’ he remarked, closing the shutters again in the long lounge. Then he closed the hall shutters, and Debra thankfully pushed open the mesh door, and emerged into the sunshine. ‘When Elizabeth was alive, it was never gloomy.’

‘Why hasn’t it been sold?’ asked Debra, kicking a stone.

Dominic locked the doors. ‘Who would sell it? She had no heirs. Everything has been left as it was, mainly I guess because Aaron is such a sentimentalist.’

Debra leaned against the bonnet of the powerful car, but straightened when Dominic McGill remarked that it was dusty after the journey. Brushing down her skirt, she accepted a cigarette from him with ill grace. Then she said, through a cloud of smoke:

‘Tell me something: if Elizabeth Steel was my mother, who was my father? Am I illegitimate?’

McGill blew a smoke ring lazily, and then smiled. ‘Illegitimate? What a terrible word! Would it matter to you if you were?’

Debra swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’

‘Why? You weren’t responsible.’

‘I know—but there’s a stigma attached, all the same.’

‘Imagination,’ he remarked, looking amused still.

‘You know nothing about it,’ she stormed at him angrily. ‘You seem to think you can tell me anything, and I should just be able to accept it—like that!’ She rubbed her nose thoughtfully. ‘I always thought my parents died in a train crash. I wish they had.’

‘Oh, grow up!’ He looked disgusted now.

‘Well!’ Debra drew on her cigarette. ‘Anyway, surely you must have some idea—if this woman had a baby, people would know!’

‘And that’s the only point against this claim,’ he said, nodding. ‘So far as Emmet can remember, Elizabeth worked solidly from the end of the war until about 1953 when we know she took six months’ holiday, on doctor’s orders. She went to Fiji, in the Phillippines.’ He smiled slowly and reminiscently, and Debra looked at him strangely.

‘How old are you, Mr. McGill?’ she asked, frowning.

‘Thirty-nine. Why?’

‘Just curiosity,’ she replied, walking across the gravel sweep to the side of the house where that wonderful view was visible. Hé followed her, the soles of his suede shoes crunching on the stones. She looked up at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. They were so blue, she thought inconsequently, and then colouring, she looked away feeling gauche. ‘So you would be twenty-three, in 1953,’ she said, half to herself, and he nodded. ‘Had … had you started in the business then?’

He shrugged. ‘Only just,’ he replied briefly. He glanced at the gold watch circling his tanned wrist. ‘Come: let’s go. We’ll drive to San José for lunch. We pass through the Santa Clara valley on our way. The fruit groves are blooming at this time of year. It’s quite a sight.’

Debra walked back to the car and slid in easily. It was strange, she thought, how quickly the mind adapted itself to circumstances. She would never have believed a week ago that so many eventful things could happen to her. And to imagine what Aunt Julia would think of her exploring the countryside in company with Dominic McGill was laughable, really. She would be scandalised!

When he climbed in beside her, she looked at him. ‘You didn’t tell me why you brought me here.’

McGill switched on the engine before replying. ‘I guess I wanted to see you here. And after all, this is only a small part of what you would inherit if you really are Elizabeth Steel’s daughter. There’s still the house on Wilshire Boulevard, although that is in excellent repair. Her staff of servants are still employed there. Aaron pays their salaries. It was never closed up. Her death was so unexpected.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ exclaimed Debra, feeling in her handbag for her cigarettes.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, noticing her fumbling.

‘A cigarette.’

He drew out the slim gold cigarette case from his pocket, flicked it open, and she took one of the long American cigarettes from it. Then he tossed his lighter into her lap, and she lit the cigarette gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

He nodded and put the lighter back in his pocket. ‘Now, tell me about your life in England.’

Debra sighed. ‘There’s very little to tell. My life has been singularly uneventful, so far!’ and she smiled when she saw his humorous expression. ‘It’s true. I teach at the Valleydown Secondary School, and I live with Aunt Julia. When you’ve said that, you’ve said it all.’

He shook his head. ‘And you are content?’

‘I suppose I am. I like reading, you see, and classical music, and it doesn’t take much to entertain me.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘God, what a life!’

Debra smoked her cigarette in silence, content to gaze out of the window. The journey to San José was accomplished swiftly. Once on to Route 101, Dominic McGill opened up the powerful engine, and the Ferrari responded effortlessly. Debra glanced once at the speedometer and read its dial disbelievingly. Then she glanced at her companion, seeing the intense concentration on his face, and decided to say nothing. It was obvious he had complete control of the automobile, and the outside world had temporarily ceased to exist for him.

They ate at a motel restaurant on the outskirts of the city. It was an enormous place, cabanas set around a swimming pool providing the individual accommodation. The restaurant had a glass floor through which a gigantic aquarium was visible below them. Debra gazed about her in astonishment, following Dominic McGill and a white-coated attendant across to a table in one comer. Potted plants in huge bases clung tenaciously over the trellises which divided the tables, while a four-piece group of Mexican entertainers played unobtrusively on a small dais near the bar. Their table was set by a wide glass-paned wall that overlooked the swimming pool, and the highway beyond.

Dominic McGill ordered martinis, his own laced with gin, and then they studied the enormous menus, Debra unable to decide from so many exciting dishes which to choose. McGill looked at her over the top of his menu and grinned lazily. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Have you decided?’

Debra shook her head, liking the crinkly, humorous lines around his eyes. ‘Would you—I mean—you decide?’

He studied her momentarily, and then returned to the menu. ‘Okay, we’ll have avocado cocktail, steaks, and lemon soufflé, does that sound all right?’

Debra put her menu aside. ‘It sounds wonderful!’ She accepted another cigarette, and after it was lit, she said: ‘This is a marvellous place, isn’t it?’

It’s okay.’ He looked sardonic. ‘You’re easily satisfied.’

Debra flushed, and he bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said shortly. ‘I guess that was unkind.’

Debra did not reply, but her cheeks continued to burn. He must think her an awfully old-fashioned creature. Probably the women he was used to associating with could verbally spar with him much more successfully than she could. All she seemed to do was act like a teenager who had never been taken out for a meal before.

Dominic McGill studied her expression. She had a very revealing countenance, although she was unaware of it. She was also unaware of the attractive picture she made in her orange suit, her sleek swathe of dark hair falling like a curtain of silk across her cheeks.

The meal was delicious, but Debra purposely refrained from enthusing over it. Instead, she concentrated on enjoying it, and the white and red wine which he had ordered to go with the food. Unused to alcohol, she was vaguely aware that she was drinking rather too much, but she did not want to appear gauche, so she drank her martini, and three glasses of wine, and even had several sips of the brandy which accompanied their coffee.

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