Wife Against Her Will
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

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Endpage

Copyright

PROLOGUE

IT WAS raining heavily, but the girl paying off the taxi did not turn up her coat collar, or try to avoid the rivulets of water running across the pavement. She seemed oblivious to the wet chill of the evening, pausing under a street lamp to check the address on the scrap of paper clutched in her hand.

It was just one of a number of similar tall houses in the terrace, its neat front door reached by a short flight of railed steps. There was a polished brass plaque by the entrance, and an equally burnished doorbell beneath it.

She touched the button, but it was damp and her fingers slipped. Or was she beginning to lose her nerve? She took a deep, steadying breath, then pressed the bell again, more firmly.

Her ring was answered promptly by a man in a porter’s uniform.

‘May I help you, miss?’ His tone was civil but guarded.

She said, ‘I’d like to speak to one of your members—a Mr Harry Metcalfe.’

His brows lifted, and she found herself being closely scrutinised.

‘Mr Metcalfe is attending a private party, miss. I don’t think he would wish to be disturbed. But I could take a message, if you like.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t do.’ She lifted her chin. Returned his stare. ‘I need to talk to Mr Metcalfe myself. It’s—urgent. So will you get him, please?’

For a moment she wondered blankly what she would do if he simply denied her Harry again and shut the door in her face. But, grudgingly, he stood aside, and she walked into a large square hallway panelled in dark wood.

Straight ahead a wide flight of stairs, carpeted in deep crimson, curved away to the upper floors. On her right was a desk, with two telephones, and the club’s registration book with a pen tray beside it. There was also a newspaper folded at the crossword and a mug of tea, half-drunk, beside it.

And on the other side of the hall was a series of doors, all closed.

Behind one of them, she supposed, was Harry, centre of attention at his private party. But which one?

The porter opened the nearest door, motioning her to precede him into the room beyond. He pressed a switch, bringing two heavily shaded wall lights into service.

‘If you’ll wait here in the reading room, miss, I’ll see what I can do.’ He added dourly, ‘But I can’t promise.’

Reading room? she thought as the door closed behind him. It was so dim in here, you’d probably go blind.

As she unfastened her damp trench coat, she looked around at the formal groups of hard leather armchairs and the table in the centre with magazines and periodicals arranged in regimented rows. They looked as if their cover stories might relate to Queen Victoria’s jubilee, she thought, her mouth twisting.

Stationed round the walls were several glass-fronted bookcases with elaborate locks, but no keys, as if to discourage any attempt to open them, let alone prise out one of the rigid leather-bound volumes they contained.

The whole room seemed as if it had been frozen in time—or was that only because she felt the same? Numb, as if the world had stopped six hours ago when she’d looked at a line on a plastic tube, and seen it turn blue.

‘Harry.’ She whispered the name into the emptiness. ‘Harry, you’ve got to help me. I don’t know what to do.’

She heard the door open behind her and spun round in instinctive relief. But it was short-lived. Because the newcomer wasn’t Harry. It was someone she’d never seen before. Someone taller, and much darker than Harry, but by no means as handsome, she thought, apprehension uncurling inside her. Harry had charm, and a smile that could melt icebergs. This man’s mouth looked as if it had been forged from steel.

In addition, he had hair as black as a witch’s cat, and the coldest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Which were currently looking her over with unconcealed exasperation.

‘Oh, God.’ His voice was low-pitched with a faint drawl. Perhaps a trace of an accent too. ‘Who had the bright idea of inviting you, sweetheart? Because I’ll wring his bloody neck.’

Jolted, she stared back at him. She said, ‘I think there’s some mistake. I’m here to see Harry Metcalfe.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ he said. ‘But Harry’s enjoying a bachelor dinner with some friends and relations, including his future father-in-law,’ he added with a touch of grimness. ‘So you can see that your intrusion would be completely inappropriate.’ He reached into the jacket of his elegant suit and took out his wallet. ‘How much to make you disappear?’

Her brows snapped together. She said, icily, ‘I don’t know who you are, but …’

‘And I don’t care who you are,’ he cut across her, his tone bored. ‘It’s what you are that sticks in my gullet. Because it’s really not that kind of party, so be a good girl, and don’t hang around where you’re not wanted.’ He extracted some banknotes from his wallet. ‘Now, tell me how much you were going to be paid, and add on the cab fare, so we can all get on with our lives.

‘And it’s nothing personal, darling.’ The blue gaze skated over her again more slowly, taking in the simple knee-length black dress that her open raincoat revealed. His smile was swift and cynical. ‘In other circumstances, I’d probably enjoy watching your performance. You might even persuade me to join in, if I’d had enough to drink. But this isn’t your night, so I suggest you get off to your next engagement.’

She stared up at him, dazed, bewildered. She said thickly, ‘What the hell are you talking about? I came here to see Harry, and I’m not leaving until I do.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘With a police escort, if necessary. Here.’ He walked over to her, briskly peeling off some of the notes, and before she could read his intentions he pushed them down the front of her dress between her breasts, the long fingers casually brushing her rounded flesh.

She gave a small cry of outrage and stepped back, dragging out the money and throwing it at him.

She said hoarsely, ‘How dare you—how dare you touch me—you bastard?’

‘You mean touching’s not part of the act?’ He was unfazed, even mocking. ‘Now, there’s a novelty.’ He paused for a moment, glancing towards the door. ‘Oh, God,’ he said wearily. ‘The bloody cavalry. Just what I didn’t want.’

The door was flung open and a younger man came in, sandy-haired and faintly flushed. ‘I’m the search party, old boy,’ he announced, faintly slurring his words. ‘Your uncle Giles is asking for you.’

Then as his gaze discovered the room’s other occupant he halted, and let out a long, slow whistle. ‘You sly devil, you,’ he said, grinning. ‘Where did she come from?’

‘How odd you should ask.’ The drawl was even more pronounced. ‘That, my dear Jack, was going to be my question—to you.’

Jack’s brows lifted, and he began to laugh. ‘You mean some live entertainment’s arrived after all?’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Nothing to do with me, my friend. I seriously didn’t dare, not when I heard your uncle Giles was planning to honour us with his presence. Couldn’t see old Harry wanting to get his kit off and frolic with his bride’s father looking on.’

He gave another appreciative whistle. ‘But she’s a bit adorable, eh? Not the usual type at all. Fancy giving a private show down here, darling? Just for the two of us?’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ The retort from her adversary was clipped and immediate. ‘You may be drunk enough, but I’m not. And anyway, we have a party to go back to, so she’s leaving.’

He took her arm, but she wrenched herself free. ‘Let go of me,’ she said stormily, a hectic flush spreading along her cheekbones. ‘You don’t understand. This isn’t—I’m not what you obviously think. I know Harry. I’m a friend of his, and I have to see him tonight—talk to him. It’s terribly important.’

‘Harry’s friends are upstairs at his stag party,’ he said. ‘And you definitely weren’t on the guest list. Now go.’ He took her by the shoulders and turned her, pushing her inexorably towards the doorway.

She struggled against his grasp, aware of the raincoat slipping from her shoulders as they reached the hall. Her bag sliding away too, with the coat. Hitting the floor.

She reached down, trying to grab for it, and stumbled, almost sinking to her knees, but his fingers were like iron, pulling her up again.

The porter was on his feet, and there were other people there too—men—some of them on the stairs, but others right there in the hall, surrounding her, groping at her, trying to reach her zip, laughing and shouting, ‘Off. Off.’

She felt the back of her dress tear, and cried out in fear. Knew the shock of her tormentors’ hands on her bare skin.

And she suddenly saw Harry in the turmoil of grinning, hooting faces, standing towards the back. He was as white as a ghost, his mouth open in shock, staring at her as if she was his worst nightmare.

She called out to him, her voice high and desperate with panic. ‘Harry—help me—please. You must …’

But he didn’t move or speak. Only his expression changed, going from surprise to guilt. And from guilt, she realised, to cold fury.

It was then that she stopped fighting. That she let the hard male hands still on her shoulders propel her towards the club’s open front door.

Where they halted. She found herself swung, not gently, to face him. She saw the blue eyes skim her with contempt, and, gasping, wrenched herself free of him at last, her naked skin feeling flayed where he’d touched her.

He took her coat and bag from the sandy-haired man, who’d appeared beside him, and tossed them to her.

He said softly and unsmilingly, ‘I’d consider a change of career, darling, if you want to make a living. I don’t think you’re cut out for this.’

Then the door closed, leaving her outside in the rain-washed darkness, and more alone than she had ever been in her life.

CHAPTER ONE

Two years later

‘MY FATHER retiring?’ Darcy Langton gave a derisive snort. ‘Only with the help of six pallbearers and a memorial service.’

‘Darcy, dear,’ her aunt said reproachfully. ‘That’s not nice. Not nice at all.’

Neither, thought Darcy, is my father, a lot of the time. But out of respect for her aunt Winifred, she didn’t voice it aloud.

‘Is this why I’ve been summoned home in such haste?’ she demanded instead. ‘To hear about his latest whim?’

Her aunt sighed. ‘I think it’s gone much further than that. He is actually standing down as managing director of Werner Langton, and plans to hand over as chairman too, just as soon as his successor finds his feet.’

‘But there was no mention of this before I went away.’ Darcy, who’d been standing by the window, staring at the sunlit autumn gardens, came back and seated herself on the sofa beside her aunt, stretching out slim, denim-clad legs. ‘Yet, if it’s this far advanced, he must have been planning it for ages.’

But then, she thought suddenly, we all have our secrets. Don’t we?

Restlessly she flicked back a tendril of pale blonde hair that had escaped from the loose knot on top of her head.

She said abruptly, ‘This successor you mentioned—has he already been appointed? Is he a member of the board?’

‘No, he’s not.’ Aunt Freddie frowned slightly. ‘In fact, he seems rather an odd choice. Much younger than I’d have expected.’

Darcy stared at her. ‘You’ve met him, then?’

‘Your father brought him down here a few weekends ago. They spent most of the time shut up in the study, so that must be when the deal was done.’

She shrugged. ‘Your father seems very pleased with his choice. He says Werner Langton has become too complacent, and needs the injection of dynamism and drive that this young man will provide.’

‘How on earth did they meet?’

‘Your father went to the USA specially, because he’d heard of this whizkid who’d been there for the past year, troubleshooting various projects that had got into difficulties and turning them around.’ She paused. ‘His name is Joel Castille. Does that mean anything to you?’

Darcy shrugged. ‘Absolutely not. It’s quite an odd name, so I think I’d have remembered it.’

‘It seems he had an English mother, but a French father.’ Aunt Freddie devoted a moment to silent consideration. ‘Quite striking looks, too. I don’t do many portraits, as a rule, but he has a face I’d like to paint.’

Darcy’s lips twitched faintly. ‘Something to hang in the boardroom, maybe. You should suggest it to him.’

‘No, darling,’ Aunt Freddie said wryly. ‘I really wouldn’t dare—as you’ll understand when you meet him. Your father’s throwing a reception for him next week at the Templar Hotel. Introducing him to the company, and trade Press. And, naturally, he wishes you to act as his hostess for the occasion. You’re so much better at these London things than I am.’

‘Not true,’ Darcy said instantly. ‘You’d rather stay down here in your studio and paint than work the room at a party, or make polite conversation at formal dinners, that’s all.

‘But I see now why I’ve had the regal summons to return,’ she added, her mouth tightening.

‘Not altogether.’ Her aunt spoke with a certain constraint. ‘I’m afraid pictures of the police raid on the yacht appeared in some of the papers here—and you were clearly visible in them, and mentioned in the stories as one of Drew Maidstone’s companions on board. Gavin is—not pleased. And that’s putting it mildly.’

‘Then it’s a pity the Press—and Gavin—can’t get their facts straight,’ Darcy said hotly. ‘Firstly, yes—there was a raid, and we all spent a few hours in custody while they searched the boat. No, it wasn’t pleasant, but the search found nothing—no drugs or anything else untoward. It was a mistake.

‘Secondly, I’ve been working on Sorceress and damned hard too. Drew doesn’t bother with the charming playboy image when he’s paying the wages, believe me,’ she added bitterly. ‘Nor was I sharing his stateroom—ever. I was squashed into something the size of a half-pint broom cupboard.’

She spread her hands. ‘He just likes posh totty waiting on his guests, that’s all. And he reckons I qualify.

‘Thirdly, he was furious when I left, so Daddy will be pleased to hear I won’t be going back, because I no longer have a job. I hope he’s satisfied.’

‘No, I don’t think he will be,’ Aunt Freddie said calmly. ‘He wants to see you in some settled occupation, dearest, not skivvying round Europe and the Caribbean for frankly chancy characters like Mr Maidstone.’

‘No,’ Darcy said flatly, and with candour. ‘He really wants to see me a boy—the son he never had, but always thought Mummy would give him eventually. The son who would have taken over from him at Werner Langton. Kept the dynasty going.’ She shook her head. ‘He never wanted a daughter—hadn’t a clue what to do with me. And still hasn’t.’

‘You’re very hard on him.’ Her aunt spoke gently.

Darcy hunched a shoulder. ‘It’s mutual.’

‘But things will not improve while you go out of your way to antagonise him.’ Aunt Freddie spoke with unaccustomed severity. ‘Werner Langton has been his life. Giving it up cannot have been an easy decision for him. So when he arrives, can we make a concerted effort to have a pleasant weekend?’

Darcy reached across and kissed her aunt on the cheek. ‘For you—anything,’ she said gently, and smiled.

But when she was alone, the smile faded. Much as she loved her aunt, it was galling to hear about the startling change in her father’s future plans at second hand like this.

And if he hadn’t suddenly needed her to be his hostess at the reception next week, because Aunt Freddie had jibbed, he wouldn’t have sent for her, she thought bitterly. She’d simply have arrived home at some time in the future to discover a fait accompli.

He’s not that different from Drew Maidstone, she told herself drily. He also needs some posh totty to wait on his guests. That’s why I went on that course in France two years ago, to learn how to cook, and arrange flowers, and organise a household. Because I’m a girl, and to Dad, that’s what girls are for. Or partly.

And if I hadn’t been feeling so totally hellish, I might have fought back. Demanded some training where I could have used my brain. Had a proper career. But I simply didn’t have the strength. Not then. Besides, I just wanted to get away—to escape.

She squared her shoulders. But that was all in the past, where it belonged. Dead and buried, with no looking back.

It was much more important to consider what the future might hold, she thought with slight unease. There was no doubt that her father’s unexpected decision would bring about a big shake-up in all their lives.

Perhaps when he retired altogether, and would no longer need her services even marginally, she could get some proper qualifications at last. Up to now, her father’s frequent calls on her had precluded her working on anything but a temporary basis, or performing much more than menial tasks that could be swiftly abandoned.

She might, she thought longingly, eventually find employment that would be more fulfilling and absorbing than acting as au pair for spoiled children, or cooking on board yachts which were basically extensions of the latest fashionable night clubs.

Maybe achieve something that would include real travel too.

The world could be opening up for her at last.

Hey there, Darcy, she whispered inwardly, abruptly halting her train of thought. You’re running too far ahead of yourself here. Dad might change his mind about retirement—especially if this whizkid turns out to be a little too whizzy after all. You could be back at square one.

But maybe she could hope—just a little. After all, she told herself, you never know in life what might be just around the corner—do you?

It was a difficult weekend. Her father arrived looking dour, and insisted on seeing Darcy alone in his study soon afterwards.

‘I hope you realise the Werner Langton Press office received calls from gutter journalists about the company you keep,’ was his opening salvo. ‘At every lunch I go to, other men are showing me pictures of their grandchildren. And what can I offer in return? My daughter being arrested in a drugs raid.’

Darcy bit her lip. ‘The police searched the boat and found nothing,’ she repeated wearily. ‘No one was charged with anything.’

‘More by luck than judgement,’ her father returned angrily. ‘Understand this, Darcy: I will not have you consorting with the likes of Drew Maidstone.’

She looked back at him stonily. ‘I was his employee, Dad. Part of the crew, and nothing more.’

‘And that’s hardly to your credit either—being at the beck and call of that kind of riff-raff.’ Under the thick thatch of silver hair, his face was unbecomingly flushed.

‘But it’s OK for me to put on a designer dress and smile at the people you do business with,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that why I’m here now?’

He grunted. ‘That’s hardly the same thing. They know you’re my daughter, and they treat you with respect. And that’s how it should be, if you’re ever to find a husband.’

She hadn’t been expecting that. Her head went back. ‘I’m hardly on the shelf at twenty.’

‘Many more Drew Maidstone episodes and you’ll be looked on as damaged goods. Is that what you want?’

She was very still suddenly, remembering contemptuous blue eyes judging her—stripping her …

Not, she thought, shivering inwardly, not twice in a lifetime.

‘It’s time you pulled yourself together, Darcy,’ Gavin Langton went on. ‘Began to take your life seriously. God knows what your mother would say to you if she was here now,’ he added sombrely.

His previous remark had made her vulnerable. The cruelty of this left her gasping, but she rallied. ‘She’d be saying nothing, because I wouldn’t actually be present. I’d be away, starting my final year at university with her blessing and encouragement.’

‘Of course,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Some ludicrous degree in engineering, wasn’t it? To be followed by a job with the company, no doubt.’

He snorted. ‘You think I’d allow my daughter to strut round on site in a hard hat, giving orders while the men laughed at you behind your back?’

‘No,’ she said, quietly. ‘I—never thought that. But I hoped you might let me make—some contribution.’

‘Then you can, at the reception next week. I want to make sure the evening goes smoothly. Not everyone approves of the man I’ve chosen to step into my shoes. Some of them feel … passed over, others are afraid the axe is going to fall, so I’ll need you to … defuse any troublesome situations that might arise. After all, the shareholders won’t like open warfare.’

‘No,’ she said, and hesitated. ‘Why are you doing this, Dad? You’re still years off retirement age. You could have introduced this man at a lower level. At least let him prove himself, before you give him the top job.’

‘I’ve given my whole life to Werner Langton.’ His voice was suddenly harsh. ‘Travelled the world building bridges, digging tunnels, putting up shopping malls. I was in Venezuela when your mother died. I’ve thought a thousand times that if I’d been here, I might have been able to do something. That she could still be with us now.

‘I plan to enjoy the time that’s left to me.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Let the company swallow up another willing sacrifice. I’ve paid my dues. And Joel Castille will follow me, whatever the rest of them think.’

She said slowly, ‘It didn’t occur to you to speak to me first—talk things over.’

‘And you’d have advised me, would you—out of your vast experience?’ He shook his head. ‘I make my own decisions. Just be pleasant to my choice of managing director, Darcy, and see the evening goes smoothly. That’s your forte.’

He looked her over, his lips pursing irritably at the jeans and sweatshirt she was wearing. ‘And buy yourself a new dress—something glamorous that’ll make you look like a woman. Don’t forget you have a bad impression to wipe away.’

She felt her hands tighten into fists, but made herself unclench them. Even smile. ‘Yes, Father,’ she said quietly. ‘Of course.’

‘The guest of honour is late,’ Aunt Freddie murmured. ‘And your father is getting agitated.’

‘Not my problem,’ Darcy returned softly, smiling radiantly over her untouched glass of champagne. ‘He can’t expect me to go out and scour the highways and byways for the guy.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps he knows there’s dissension in the ranks over his appointment, and has changed his mind.’

Her aunt shuddered faintly. ‘Don’t even think it. Can you imagine the fallout?’

‘Yes, but at least you’re here to help me cope. I’m truly grateful, Freddie. I know how you hate London.’

‘But occasionally, a visit is inevitable.’ Her aunt looked around her, and sighed. ‘What a disagreeable evening. All these resentful faces.’

‘Plus a drunken waiter, and a waitress spilling a tray of canapés all over the finance director’s wife,’ Darcy reminded her softly.

‘They may turn out to be the high spots of the party.’ Aunt Freddie turned to survey her niece. ‘You look very lovely, darling, but does it always have to be black?’

Darcy glanced down at her figure-skimming voile dress, with its narrow straps and the bias-cut skirt that swirled as she moved.

‘This is a compromise,’ she said. ‘I was looking for sackcloth and ashes.’

‘Well, start celebrating instead,’ her aunt said with open relief. ‘Because the errant guest has finally made it.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Oh, for a sketch pad.’

Amused, Darcy turned towards the doorway. A group of Werner Langton executives was already clustering round the latecomer, and, for a moment, her view was blocked by her father’s commanding figure.

She ought to join them, she thought. Play her part in the meeting and greeting.

She took a step, then the group shifted, and she saw him. And, sick with shock, recognised him. Confronted the harrowing, unforgettable image she’d carried for two years—the tall figure with black hair, and eyes as cold as a northern sea in his tanned face.

Not a bad dream or a hallucination. But here—now—in this room—breathing the same air. And looking round him.

Almost, she thought, dry-mouthed, as if he was searching for someone …

CHAPTER TWO

DARCY COULDN’T move. Could barely think straight.

She gulped air. Any other social event, and she could have contrived to vanish discreetly. But not this one. Not tonight. There was no way.

She tried desperately to compose herself. To be rational.

He won’t remember, she tried to tell herself frantically. Why should he? It was two years ago, for heaven’s sake, in a dimly lit room. She’d changed since then, she was slimmer, had different hair. She was older.

And he wouldn’t be expecting to see her either.

But, as their eyes met at last across the room, Darcy found herself reeling under a look that froze her flesh to her backbone.

For a heartbeat she was stunned, then she lifted her chin and returned the look with as much additional venom as she could muster.

Only to realise, with horror, that he was actually crossing the room towards her. Standing straight in front of her, when he must know, if he possessed a grain of sense or tact, that she would never want to see or speak to him again.

That the looks they’d exchanged had said it all.

She was aware of Aunt Freddie’s surprised glance at her as the taut silence lengthened, then her quiet voice saying, ‘Mr Castille, how nice to see you again. I don’t think you’ve met my niece. Darcy, this is Werner Langton’s new managing director, Joel Castille.’

She was prepared to bluff it out. To take the only option—shake hands and turn away.

But he was not.

He said softly, ‘Actually, Miss Langton and I have met before, but only briefly. It was two years ago, around the time of Harry Metcalfe’s wedding. I’m sure she remembers.’

‘No,’ Darcy returned with total and chilling clarity. ‘I do not.’

‘Are you sure it was the Metcalfe wedding?’ Aunt Freddie was wrinkling her brow. ‘Because none of us actually attended it. We were invited as neighbours, of course, but only out of politeness, I’m sure. And Darcy was in London, staying with friends.’ She turned to the unsmiling statue beside her. ‘You were ill there, weren’t you, darling? A severe migraine, if I recall. Such a shame.’

‘A shame, indeed,’ Joel Castille said gravely. There were twin devils dancing in the cold blue eyes. ‘Do you suffer much from migraines, Miss Langton?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I feel as if I might be developing one right now.’

‘And we didn’t meet at the wedding itself,’ he added, turning to her aunt. ‘But at one of the parties beforehand. Isn’t that right, Miss Langton?’

‘Your memory is clearly better than mine,’ she said icily. ‘I have no recollection of you at all, Mr Castille.’

‘What a pity,’ he said lightly. ‘Now, I found our encounter electrifying—quite unforgettable.’ His eyes went over her with that same sensual male appraisal that she’d never quite been able to erase from her mind. The look that suggested she was standing in front of him, unclothed. His loaded smile seemed to leave a bruise. ‘And I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.’

As he moved away, Aunt Freddie said in quiet reproach, ‘Darcy, what were you thinking of? You were almost rude to Mr Castille.’

Rude? thought Darcy, shock now battling with fury inside her. I’m only sorry I didn’t kick him where it hurts, and throw up all over his shoes.

She said shortly, ‘I didn’t find him quite as irresistible as he clearly does himself.’ She shrugged. ‘But, what the hell? Hopefully, we won’t have to meet again.’ Please God. Please God.

The evening became like some weird game of hide-and-seek, she thought afterwards. She tried to be totally unobtrusive. He let her know, without coming near her, that he knew exactly where she was at any given moment. And she flinched under that knowledge.

At the same time, he could work a room, she acknowledged without pleasure. She could actually notice a thaw in the atmosphere. Realised that some tight-lipped expressions had relaxed. That people were approaching him, gathering round him, wanting to talk. And that he was listening.

She saw her father smiling expansively, not even bothering to conceal his triumph that the first hurdle, at least, had been cleared with consummate ease.

But she found her own heart sinking.

It was ludicrous to hope that her desperate prayer would be answered, and that Joel Castille could simply be—dismissed from her life, as if he’d never existed. He was only too real. And letting her know it, too.

She heard some sally from her father and the quieter response, followed by an appreciative roar of laughter, and winced. Langton and Castille, she thought, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing tray. The new double act.

I’ll be lucky if my father doesn’t offer to adopt him.

Oh, God, if I could just get out of here. If I didn’t have to stay until the bitter end.

Instinct told her that she hadn’t heard the last of him. That he would seek her out again before the night was over. But at least this time she would be slightly more prepared.

She’d just said goodnight to the personnel director and his wife when Joel Castille eventually came up to her. She took an instinctive step backwards, which was a mistake because it took her into a corner, and she found herself blocked there, her only escape route to push right past him.

She stood her ground and waited.

He said softly, ‘You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this evening.’

‘Of course.’ She didn’t even pretend to smile. Her expression was stone, and to hell with what people thought. ‘You’ve just landed one of the top jobs in the industry. Congratulations. Now leave me alone.’

‘I really didn’t know you were Gavin’s daughter,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Until I saw that photograph of you adorning the grand piano in the drawing room at Kings Whitnall. You looked younger, of course, and more innocent, but quite unmistakable.’

His gaze roamed over her, slowly and comprehensively. ‘And tonight you’re wearing black again. But then it’s your colour. Gives that lovely skin of yours the sheen of ivory. I recollect thinking that at our last encounter. Besides, white would hardly be appropriate, would it?’

‘If you say so.’

Black, she thought, was a non-colour. It was darkness—it was mourning. It was a vast hole in the middle of the universe, filled with nothing.

He’d paused, deliberately building up the tension that already vibrated between them. ‘Of course, Harry said you were a neighbour’s daughter, and I knew whereabouts he lived, so I should have put two and two together.’

‘And made five, no doubt,’ she said. ‘Like last time.’

‘Listen, darling,’ he said. ‘Pretty blondes who turn up at stag nights are asking to be misunderstood. Anyway, I wasn’t so far off the mark,’ he added sardonically. ‘You might not have been a stripper, but you were still trouble. One look at Harry’s face told me that.’

Harry’s face. Oh, God, Harry’s face …

She rallied. ‘And what gave you the right to interfere?’

‘His wife is my cousin, Emma.’ His tone hardened. ‘I’ve known her since she was a tot, and I care very deeply about her happiness. Harry Metcalfe wouldn’t have been my choice for her, but she—loves him. So, I wasn’t going to have her wedding ruined by a spoiled, man-hungry little bitch like you.’

She was white to the lips. ‘How dare you? You know nothing—nothing about me.’

He said grimly, ‘The bridegroom told me all I needed to know—after some persuasion. He said that you’d had a crush on him for years, and you’d always been hanging around him, trying to attract his attention. Do you deny it?’

‘No.’ Her voice was almost inaudible.

I was a child. And he was like a god to me—gorgeous, glamorous Harry. I’d had hopes—dreams. Who wouldn’t? And, of course, I wanted to be noticed by him—but not like that. Not ever like that …

‘Eventually, against his better judgement, you had a brief fling together,’ the hard voice went on. ‘He admitted that. Also that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake, and just wanted to forget the whole thing, only you wouldn’t allow that—would you, beautiful? You refused to let go.

‘He said that you’d been making a nuisance of yourself ever since, phoning and sending text messages. In effect—stalking him. That you had this pathetic obsession with him and were begging him to break it off with Emma, and marry you instead.’

Darcy drew a deep, unsteady breath. ‘And, of course, you believed him?’

‘Why not? I’d seen for myself how persistent you could be.’ The cold eyes were contemptuous. ‘Are you now saying you didn’t have sex with Harry—that he invented it?’

‘No.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘I—can’t say that. And I knew he had a girlfriend, because he always did. But I didn’t know he was going to be married. Not until the wedding invitations arrived,’ she added, almost inaudibly.

‘But it was true that you’d been trying to contact him before you came to the club that night? That you wouldn’t take no for an answer?’

‘Yes.’

I wanted to know how he could have done what he did—with me—when he was in love with someone else. Engaged to her. I needed to ask why—that’s all.

Then I realised our so-called ‘fling’ was going to have consequences, and I was scared—so scared. I didn’t know what to do—who else to turn to. Was that so wrong?

‘And you were trying to stop the wedding?’ His voice probed at her again.

‘Yes—I—I suppose so.’

Was I? I can barely remember any more. I think I just needed Harry to listen—to take some responsibility for what he’d done. But what I do recall is those men’s faces—sweating, gloating. And you—your hands on me … That I remember most of all.

‘Then I’m glad you didn’t get away with it,’ he said curtly, ‘because it would have broken Em’s heart, and that’s not allowed, whatever my private take on Harry.’

‘Fine,’ Darcy said quietly and savagely. ‘It’s all over, and no harm done, so can we leave it there? Because you’ve had your say, Mr Castille. You’ve raked up a lot of things I’d rather forget about, and I’d really like it to stop. Besides, people are leaving, and I need to say goodnight to them.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Daddy’s only daughter. The perfect hostess.’ His mouth twisted. ‘My God, if he only knew.’

‘Let’s leave him in his innocence, shall we?’ She stared back in challenge. ‘Like your cousin Emma?’

She made to get past him, but he halted her, his hand on her arm. ‘One moment. I hope you don’t still harbour any obsessive little fantasies about Harry? Because that could make your life awkward.’

She shook him off almost violently. ‘You—do—not touch me.’ She choked out the words. ‘Not now. Not ever. And my sole fantasy, Mr Castille, is never to see you again as long as I live.’

‘Unfortunate,’ he said. ‘Because something tells me that we shall be meeting again, and quite soon. So, let’s simply bow to the inevitable, shall we? And smile while we’re doing it,’ he added softly. ‘Or people might notice.’

He looked down at her again, in slow assessment, and she saw the hard mouth soften, curve into deliberate amusement—and something more.

Because his smile did several strange things to her, none of which she wanted to happen. To her utter horror and dismay, it seemed to smooth an errant strand of hair back from her face, kiss her mouth gently and delicately caress the tips of her breasts.

Suddenly her heart was racing, and she felt her pale skin burn. And he knew it. The smile told her that too.

She hastily strengthened her wavering defences, gave him a look of pure loathing and walked away. At the same time, wondering, with every step she took, if he was watching her go.

‘I saw you having a long chat to Joel,’ Gavin Langton commented with satisfaction. He was standing, brandy glass in hand, before the fireplace in the drawing room of their Chelsea house. He nodded. ‘You did well tonight, Darcy. Very well.’

‘Thank you.’ She kept her voice neutral. Yet her heart was still thudding unnaturally, and she felt hollow inside.

She’d wanted to go straight to bed when they got back, and Aunt Freddie had already done so, but, as usual, her father wanted to talk about the evening’s events over coffee, and a nightcap.

‘So, what did you think of him?’

She made a deliberate effort not to stiffen. Even managed to speak relatively lightly. ‘I thought my role was purely decorative. That I wasn’t required to have an opinion. Or, at least, not to voice it.’

Her father frowned. ‘You’re a pretty girl. He’s a good-looking man. There must have been some reaction.’

Yes, she thought, there was. But not one I’d ever wish to contemplate. I think I must have gone a little mad.

‘He was the guest of honour.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought you’d want me to be civil. But I doubt we’ll ever be friends.’

She was still shaking at the memory of those last minutes in his company. She felt incensed by the way he’d looked at her. Degraded.

‘Oh?’ He looked at her sharply. ‘And why’s that, pray?’

She replaced her cup carefully in its saucer. ‘Well—I have very little contact with the company, so the opportunity will hardly arise.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Joel’s been in America for the past eighteen months, so I plan to do more entertaining—make sure he’s properly introduced around. Also, it seems he might be visiting regularly in our neighbourhood in Hampshire.’

‘Oh,’ Darcy said. ‘Why?’

Her father pursed his lips. ‘Harry Metcalfe and his wife are coming back from Malaysia quite soon, and moving in at the Hall with his parents while they look for a house of their own.’

There was a sudden buzzing in Darcy’s ears, and her mouth went dry.

‘I didn’t know that,’ she managed somehow.

Her father nodded. ‘Joel’s related to Emma Metcalfe, of course. First cousins, apparently, but he looks on her more as his younger sister. Speaks of her with great affection. And he’s concerned about her, too. The climate abroad didn’t suit her, apparently, particularly now she’s having a baby. So naturally he feels protective.’

The world seemed to dissolve around her. Slide sideways, turning crimson with a pain she’d thought buried forever. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she might have fallen. A baby …

She heard herself say from some great distance, ‘So she has two men watching out for her—her husband, and her cousin. Lucky girl.’

‘Perhaps.’ Her father’s frown deepened. ‘I never had a lot of time for young Metcalfe. Definite lightweight, I thought. Oh, I knew you had some childish thing about him once, but I was always glad that he never came sniffing round you.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was just as well he had Emma.’

She wished she could appreciate the terrible, unspeakable irony of it all, but it was impossible. She longed only to crawl away into some dark, forgotten corner, and deal with her grief all over again. Something she’d believed she would not have to do.

Her father was speaking again. ‘Things are going to be changing, Darcy. Changing rapidly for all of us, and maybe it’s time you and I talked seriously about the future.’

She steadied herself, kept her voice even. ‘I’d like that. But not now, please. Not tonight. I’m a bit whacked.’

‘You’ve not recovered from burning the candle at both ends on that damned boat, I suppose,’ he said gruffly, then relented. ‘Off with you, then, my child.’

He walked across to her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I was proud of you tonight,’ he said. ‘I want to go on feeling like that.’

She gave him half a smile, and fled.

Safely in her room, she threw herself face downward across the bed and stayed there. How could one short evening bring so many disasters? she asked herself in agonised disbelief. And what the hell could she do to prevent any more occurring? It seemed to her that she was trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea.

If she stayed in London, it would be difficult to avoid Werner Langton’s new managing director completely, as she needed to do. Particularly as her father seemed determined to be involved with him socially as well.

Whereas if she went down to Kings Whitnall, sooner or later Harry would turn up, with his wife. His pregnant wife.

Was that why she’d received that oblique warning from Joel Castille? Could he really think she still cherished memories of Harry? Well, he seemed to have swallowed all Harry’s half-truths, lies and evasions, so he probably did.

She shuddered and sat up, pushing her dishevelled hair back from her face. Across the room, her mirror reflected a white-faced, wild-eyed creature she barely recognised.

She pulled off her dress, and tossed it aside with loathing as she walked to the bathroom. No more black ever, she swore to herself, recoiling at the memory of Joel Castille’s gaze making its lingering way down her body.

Tomorrow she would go back to the agency she used and find another job as an au pair. Lisbon, maybe, or Vienna, she thought. Or even—Australia.

It wasn’t at all what she’d hoped for, of course.

She cleaned off her make-up, and stepped under the shower, welcoming the sting of the water on her overheated skin.

But maybe it was time to stop dreaming about careers she would never have, and face up to reality.

And the truth was, she needed to get as far away as possible, and as soon as possible. So, she would have to settle for whatever was available.

She dried herself, slipped into a nightdress and went back into the bedroom. She felt stifled suddenly, so she went over to open the window. It had begun to rain, she realised, and the glass panes were running with water, but she undid the catch anyway and pushed the frame a few inches ajar, allowing a draught of cold, dank city air to penetrate the room.

She climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around her shoulders with a faint shiver.

Traffic noise in London had never bothered her particularly, and their square was quiet enough. And when the distant rumble of cars and buses was conjoined with the splash of the rain, it was almost soporific.

She hadn’t expected to sleep, yet she did, only to find herself dreaming endlessly of rain-washed pavements and a flight of steps leading to a door that would not open to her, however hard she knocked for admittance. And she woke in the grey dawn light with tears on her face.

Darcy pulled off her black blazer, and tossed it over the back of the sofa with her bag, before sinking down onto the cushions and kicking off her shoes. She rested for a moment, flexing her aching toes with a slight grimace. She must have walked miles, she thought, and what had she achieved? Practically zilch.

The au pair market was crowded by eager and cheaper applicants from Eastern Europe. The only post immediately available was one she’d actually taken a year ago with an American couple living in Paris, who believed their three hyperactive children should grow up with total freedom from discipline and who had since, Darcy heard with horror, been blessed with a fourth hostage to liberty. No one, the agency had frankly confessed, would stay for longer than a week. A situation that Darcy totally understood.

She had tried other agencies, and even job centres, but without success.

‘I really want to work abroad,’ she’d said wearily as she was offered yet another computer training course.

The girl behind the desk had given her an old-fashioned look. ‘Don’t we all?’ she’d responded crisply.

Which wasn’t a great deal of help.

She hoped Aunt Freddie had met with better luck in whatever business had brought her to the city. She’d been almost mysterious about it at breakfast, declining Darcy’s offer to meet her for lunch with the excuse that she wasn’t sure of her plans.

So what was that all about? Darcy wondered.

Her reverie was interrupted by the quiet voice of their housekeeper, Mrs Inman. ‘I thought I heard you come in, Miss Langton. I wondered if you’d take a quick look at the dining room, and approve the table settings before you go up to change.’

Darcy glanced down at her white silk blouse, and corded damson skirt. Quite good enough for a simple family supper, she decided. Mrs Inman was a treasure, but not over-confident about her abilities, and inclined to fuss a little over non-essentials.

She said gently, ‘There’s only the three of us, Mrs Inman, and I’m sure everything looks lovely.’

‘Well, if you’re quite certain. Only your father seemed to think …’ The other woman’s voice tailed off as she gave a swift, nervous smile and left the room.

Darcy curled up, unfastening the button at the neck of her blouse, plus a couple more for good measure, and tucking her stockinged feet under her. It had been a pretty dispiriting day, she mused, leaning back and closing her eyes, but maybe things would be better tomorrow. They certainly couldn’t get any worse.

Her mind was beginning to drift, and she was almost sinking into a tired doze, when she suddenly heard the sound of the door bell. She sat up, surprised, glancing at her watch, wondering who on earth could be calling at this hour. Unless, of course, Aunt Freddie had forgotten her key again. It had been known.

As the drawing-room door opened she turned her head casually, ready to make some teasing comment, and froze as she saw Joel Castille walk into the room.

He paused, his brows lifting sardonically as he registered her horrified expression. ‘Good evening.’ His voice was silky, but the note of faint amusement was unmistakable.

Darcy shot upright, her feet frantically scrabbling for her discarded shoes. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded hoarsely.

He had the audacity to smile. ‘Don’t look now, sweetheart,’ he drawled. ‘But I think you’ve just blown your perfect-hostess image. Didn’t you know that your father had invited me to dinner?’

‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘Obviously not.’ She badly wanted to refasten those damned buttons on her shirt, which he’d already noticed, but knew that would only give him further ammunition.

‘I wonder why not,’ he said pensively. ‘Maybe he thought you might suddenly remember a previous engagement.’

‘And he’d have been right,’ Darcy said stonily. Shod once more, she got to her feet. ‘You’ll both have to excuse me, I’m afraid. But I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. I’d only be in the way.’

As she made for the door he halted her, his fingers closing on her arm.

She pulled free, glaring at him. ‘Do not—ever—put your hands on me again.’

He stepped back, lifting them in mock-surrender. ‘Just a word of warning, Miss Langton. I don’t think your father would be pleased if you disappeared this evening. He seems to want us to be friends.’

‘Something else he hasn’t chosen to mention.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Why didn’t you tell him he’s wasting his time?’

‘Because it seemed a little arbitrary. And it occurred to me that for the sake of future harmony, you and I could perhaps develop—a working relationship. On a temporary basis only, of course. Until his retirement is complete.’

She shook her head, angrily aware that his blue gaze had returned to the loosened front of her shirt. ‘No, Mr Castille,’ she said. ‘Not even for the space of the next five minutes.’

‘A pity,’ he said. ‘Your father doesn’t strike me as a man who takes disappointment well. It’s something we have in common,’ he added levelly.

‘Then that’s as far as the resemblance goes,’ she said. ‘And if he had any idea how you once treated me, you’d be looking for another job.’

‘Which I’d find,’ he said. ‘How’s your employment record, Miss Langton? Logged on the police computer?’

Her face was suddenly burning. ‘How dare you?’

‘Well, it’s hardly a secret.’ He shrugged. ‘Drew Maidstone is pretty notorious, and you’re extremely photogenic. And as we’re being totally frank, you should be grateful to me. I got you away from that party two years ago just in time. People had been drinking, and things could have turned nasty for you. I’m sure you remember that.’

‘I remember,’ she said, ‘that as far as I was concerned, you were just one more animal in a truly disgusting pack. So, gratitude doesn’t really feature.’

He wasn’t smiling any more, and she saw a muscle flicker at the corner of his mouth. She’d got to him at last, she thought, and knew a fleeting moment of triumph.

‘All the same,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you might be wiser to stay at home for dinner tonight.’

‘And if ever I need your advice,’ she said, ‘I’ll ask for it.’ She collected blazer and bag, and walked past him into the hall.

She was at the front door when her father’s voice reached her. ‘Darcy? Where are you going?’

She turned to see him coming down the stairs, his expression faintly forbidding.

‘To visit Lois.’ She kept her tone light. ‘Pizza, a bottle of wine and a couple of chicks’ movies. Didn’t I say?’

‘No, it must have slipped your mind.’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘And I’m afraid you must telephone Lois and make your excuses. As you now know, we have a guest, and I need you here this evening to act as my hostess.’

‘Aunt Freddie seems to be one of Mr Castille’s fans,’ she returned defiantly. ‘I’m sure she’d take my place for once.’

‘Your aunt returned to Kings Whitnall this afternoon. I pay you a generous allowance, Darcy, and occasionally I expect you to earn it.’ He waited, giving a nod as, reluctantly, she turned back from the door. ‘Now, run upstairs and tidy yourself, then join us for sherry,’ he added implacably, ignoring her pleading look.

Mutinously, Darcy went to her room. She washed her face and hands, then applied moisturiser, but no other cosmetics. Not even a touch of her favourite scent. No concessions whatsoever, she told herself, brushing her hair vigorously then sweeping it back severely from her face, in order to confine it, with a silver clip, at the nape of her neck.

Mouth tightening, she refastened her shirt to the throat, and straightened her skirt.

Then she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the flurried beat of her heart, and went slowly and unhappily down to the drawing room, and the continuing nightmare that waited for her there.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE’D EXPECTED to be met with a combination of mockery and triumph, but she was wrong. Joel Castille rose politely as she entered, his smile pleasant and unchallenging, then brought her the glass of excellent amontillado that she’d requested in a small wooden voice.

Then he and her father resumed their quiet conversation, and she was left, thankfully, to her own devices.

But, with her enemy sitting only a few feet away, long legs stretched in front of him, dark face warmly alive as he talked, it was difficult to divorce herself as totally from the proceedings as she might wish. He was speaking about some project he’d been involved with in Colombia, and the inbuilt problems his team had been forced to overcome, and she was annoyed to find her attention first captured, then engaged.

In addition, as time passed, Darcy realised uneasily that she was studying him covertly under her lashes, taking in the elegant lines of the charcoal suit, and the way its waistcoat accentuated his lean body. Her aunt had mentioned he had a French father, and she saw that particular heritage in the occasional swift, graceful gesture of the long-fingered hands when he wished to emphasise some point.

Attractive? Well, yes, she was forced, grudgingly, to admit. But not in any way that could ever appeal to her, although if Lois ever got to see him she would probably describe him as sex on legs.

But even without the events of two years before, Darcy would always find a man like Joel Castille eminently resistible. He was too armoured in his own arrogance, she told herself. His sense of power.

Joel Castille was clearly brilliant at his job, and a born raconteur, but it would be a relief when her father finally retired, bringing this interregnum to an end. Then she could finally airbrush his successor out of sight, mind and memory.

But long before that happy day, she needed to remove herself completely from his sphere of influence, she thought, and found herself suddenly wondering why she should know that with such total conviction. And also such terrifying urgency.

Fool, she castigated herself. It’s not that difficult to work out. You have to get away before something is said, deliberately or by chance, which could bring all your skeletons from two years ago tumbling into the open. Some random comment that will give your father the idea that you and Joel Castille have some kind of shared past, because that would be a disaster.

And the prospect of Harry coming back just increases the pressure. Because it would be so easy if he wished to make mischief …

She closed her mind at this point. She couldn’t let herself think about that, she told herself fiercely.

She simply needed to stay cool, and take the necessary avoiding action. And then everything would be fine. Or at least survivable.

Tomorrow she’d make it clear to the agency that she’d take any job at all, even if it meant, heaven help her, going back to Paris to the Harrisons and their demonic brood, and hoping that some other alternative opportunity for employment would present itself while she was there, and before she was driven either mad, or to murder.

She realised suddenly that a momentary silence had fallen, and that both men were looking at her, Joel’s eyes intent and slightly narrowed.

Her father said, rather too heartily, ‘I’ve been telling Joel how beautiful the woods round Kings Whitnall are looking—with the autumn tints. We’ll have to persuade him to come down again and see for himself.’

‘Mr Castille is a much travelled man,’ she said coolly, avoiding that too searching gaze. ‘I don’t think a few autumn leaves are enough to interest him.’

‘I’m always fascinated by beauty, Miss Langton,’ he drawled. ‘Wherever it may be found. And whatever unlikely form it takes,’ he added softly.

She was aware of her hands involuntarily clenching into fists, and was rescued by Mrs Inman, who came to say that dinner was served.

The housekeeper had always been an excellent cook, but that night she seemed to have surpassed herself. Her wonderful thick vegetable soup was followed by rib of beef, succulently pink in the middle, served with crisp golden potatoes and an array of vegetables, perfectly cooked. For dessert there was Queen of Puddings, served with a bowl of whipped cream.

And when she came to clear the plates, and tell them coffee would be served in the drawing room, she accepted Joel Castille’s sincere praise with shy, pink-faced pleasure.

Darcy had not felt like eating, but she knew that any failure of appetite on her part would be noted and commented on by her father, so she’d forced the food down as if she’d been programmed to do so.

Now that it was too late, she realised she’d been a fool to let Joel Castille see that his re-entry into her life mattered to her one iota.

She should have smiled—shrugged the whole thing off. Maybe pretended it was a joke that had gone wrong. That she was one of a whole series of girls who were supposed to turn up and play tricks on Harry.

He might not have believed her, but if she’d stuck to her guns he’d have had to accept her story. And she could have edged her way out of the situation quietly, and without fuss.

In the meantime, this was turning into the pleasant social occasion from hell.

It was so difficult, she discovered, to be forced to converse with someone and maintain an essential distance at the same time. Especially when that someone seemed to have read many of the same books, seen some of the same films and liked much of the same music that she did herself. Or so he claimed, anyway.

Joel Castille was making himself agreeable, and she didn’t want that. She wanted him to be brutal and bullying again. Behave in a way that would give her every excuse to shun him, and give her father every reason to accept those excuses.

She groaned inwardly. Oh, why had Aunt Freddie gone back to Kings Whitnall? Why wasn’t she here to give her niece some respite from this unwanted charm offensive?

As it was, she could almost hear Gavin purring with satisfaction, and she wanted to scream in frustration and rage, because her tormentor was doing this quite deliberately. Putting her in an impossible position, and watching her squirm.

All right, she wanted to shout at him. I made a mistake once when I was eighteen, but I’ve suffered for it. And I don’t need to be continually harassed and punished by you of all people. So, why the hell can’t you leave me alone?

And she would have to sit there in the drawing room and take anything he cared to dish out, smiling politely as she did so. She couldn’t even use one of her migraines as an excuse to quit this ghastly threesome, she realised bitterly. He’d see through that in an instant.

Yet it was Joel Castille himself who called a halt to her profound discomfort. He drank his coffee and rose to his feet.

‘I hate to break up such an unforgettable evening,’ he said, ‘but I have an early start tomorrow, and a crowded day. Will you forgive me, please?’

‘As long as you promise to dine here again very soon.’ Gavin Langton clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Show Joel to the door, won’t you, darling?’ he added to Darcy.

Only a few more minutes, she thought as she preceded him, sedate and unsmiling, to the front door. She held it open. ‘Goodnight, Mr Castille.’

But he’d halted, and was looking down at her, smiling faintly.

He said, ‘You look as if you’re about to take the minutes of some meeting.’ He glanced pointedly at the rigidly closed top button of her shirt. ‘Now, I prefer the dishevelled look, with your hair loose and your dress falling off.’

The shiver that ran down her spine had little to do with the chill of the night air entering the hallway.

She said in a low, scornful voice, ‘Your personal preferences are a matter of complete indifference to me. As far as I’m concerned, Mr Castille, you’re in this house purely on sufferance.’

He remained unruffled. ‘And has it ever occurred to you, Miss Langton,’ he drawled, ‘that the same might be said of you?’

He paused. ‘Tell me something,’ he said quietly. ‘What exactly did you hope to achieve that night two years ago?’

She stiffened. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Then indulge me,’ he said. ‘Satisfy my curiosity.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you know quite enough about me already.’ She faced him, chin up, her grey-green eyes sparking furiously. ‘I’m a marriage wrecker. A weapon of mass destruction. There’s no need for more.’

‘Now, there we differ.’ He spoke softly, his blue gaze suddenly and disturbingly intense. ‘Because I’ve only just begun to find out about you. And before I’m finished, I intend to discover everything there is to know. So, be warned.’

He went past her, and out into the night.

It was hardly a grand gesture to slam the door after him, but Darcy did it anyway. And found, as she’d suspected, that it was no comfort at all.

She went back to the drawing room to find her father had poured himself another brandy, and was seated, gazing broodingly into space. Perhaps it was a trick of the lamplight, but for a moment it seemed to Darcy as if his face was shadowed, even haggard.

But when he looked at her it was with his usual searching look, and the illusion passed. ‘You took long enough to say goodnight.’

‘On the contrary,’ Darcy returned coolly. ‘Mr Castille doesn’t know when he’s outstayed his welcome.’

‘Speaking of which,’ he said slowly, ‘you might have taken a little more trouble with your appearance tonight.’

‘When we have guests, I will.’ There was a chill in her voice. ‘Mr Castille already seems to be part of the family.’

‘Maybe he is, at that.’ He shook his head. ‘Dear God, Darcy when I’m talking to him, I see myself at the same age. He’s just what Werner Langton needs.’

‘Which I never could be, of course.’ She didn’t hide her bitterness. ‘Why don’t you say it, Daddy? He’s the son you never had.’

‘I’m not exactly in my dotage,’ he came back at her sharply. ‘There could yet be another Langton to take up the reins in the years to come. I’ve never taken a vow of celibacy, you know.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’

Her thoughts were sober as she went up to bed. ‘Another Langton’, her father had said. Could he really be considering marrying again—spending his retirement with another woman—even starting a second family? Plenty of other men did so, of course.

But how would she feel about sharing her home with a stepmother, and having younger siblings around? Except it wouldn’t be her home any more. And what on earth would Aunt Freddie do under those circumstances?

She’d put her career as an artist on hold when her sister, Darcy’s mother, had died, and moved into Kings Whitnall, a gentle presence to run the house and care for a small, bewildered child.

As Darcy had grown older, she’d come to understand that her aunt cared far more deeply for Gavin than he seemed to realise.

He’s probably so used to having her around that he doesn’t see her any more—or not as a woman he could love, she thought sadly.

She hung her skirt in the wardrobe, and put the rest of her clothing in the laundry basket for Mrs Inman to attend to. The kind of luxury she would have to learn to do without, she told herself.

Kings Whitnall had always been her safety net. Somewhere to come home to. Safety and security under one welcoming roof. Now she might have to learn to be a guest there.

But if there was to be a new regime, at least she wouldn’t have to deal with Joel Castille, she reflected as she slipped into bed. And for that she could be truly thankful.

Even so, Darcy suddenly found herself remembering the way he’d looked at her as he was leaving. Heard again the softly voiced promise that threatened what was left of her peace of mind. And dragged the bedclothes around her body, shivering.

On the spur of the moment, she went down to Kings Whitnall the following afternoon. She needed, she thought, to talk to Freddie. To lay the cards on the table. But there was a shock in store for her.

‘Darcy, my love,’ her aunt said, pouring tea in the drawing room. ‘Please don’t worry about me. I’ve been making my own plans. I’m not needed here any longer. So, I’m ready to move on.’

‘But where will you go?’ Darcy bit her lip. ‘If I had a real job, we could find a flat, maybe. Somewhere together.’ She sighed. ‘But I haven’t got any kind of work at the moment. I was thinking of going back to that awful family in Paris, but even they managed to find someone else while I was making up my mind. So I can’t even afford a grotty bedsit right now.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much.’ There was an odd note in her aunt’s voice. ‘I’m sure your father has plans for you. And I do have somewhere to go. I went up to London to sort out the final arrangements.’

She paused. ‘You remember Barbara Lee, my great friend from school and art-college days? Well, she was appointed as headmistress of St Benedict’s last year, and she’s been looking for someone to teach art there.’

She drew a breath. ‘I didn’t say anything before, because I had to be interviewed by the board of governors. That’s where I was yesterday, and they’ve offered me the job, and asked me to start next month. I’m so thrilled about it all. It’s just the new beginning I need.’

Darcy said slowly, ‘It all sounds wonderful.’ And so it did. Her aunt sounded confident—energised. A different woman, taking her life by the throat.

I’m less than half her age, she reflected unhappily. And I feel as if everything around me has shifted by about sixty degrees and I don’t know where I am any more. Or where I can go next.

And she knew exactly who was responsible for this turmoil in her existence.

Damn you, Joel Castille, she thought savagely. Damn you to hell.

Which reminded her …

‘By the way,’ she made her voice deliberately casual, ‘I think my father intends to invite the new Werner Langton supremo down here from time to time. Can you keep me posted about this, please, so that I can avoid him?’

‘Avoid him?’ Her aunt’s expression was openly startled. ‘But I thought …’ She paused for a moment. ‘My dear, are you sure this is wise?’

Darcy raised her brows. ‘Why not?’

‘Because your father wants you and Mr Castille to—get on together. You know that.’

‘I also know it’s not going to happen,’ Darcy said defiantly. ‘As I’ve told him. I can’t stand the man.’

Aunt Freddie gave her a quizzical look. ‘I’d have thought most young women would find him seriously attractive,’ she commented.

‘You’re the artist, Freddie, dear,’ Darcy countered. ‘You always told me to look below the surface. Perhaps I don’t like what I see.’

‘Really?’ her aunt said drily, and paused. ‘Do you still insist you never met before the other night, Darcy? Because he certainly seemed to remember you.’

Darcy shrugged. ‘It’s probably his mistaken notion of a chat-up line,’ she evaded.

‘I shouldn’t think he needs one,’ said Aunt Freddie, clearly hell-bent on being irritating. ‘He’s good-looking, successful and wealthy. The average girl would generally find that enough.’

Darcy forced a smile. ‘Then I must be the exception that proves the rule,’ she said lightly. ‘But you will tip me off when he’s expected, won’t you?’

Her aunt sighed. ‘If that’s what you really want.’ She hesitated, then said reluctantly, ‘As it happens, your father telephoned just before you arrived. It seems they’ll both be down tomorrow evening.’

‘My God,’ Darcy said slowly. ‘He doesn’t waste any time.’ She shrugged. ‘Thank you, Freddie dearest. I’ll be gone in the morning.’

‘And what am I to tell your father?’ Aunt Freddie gave her a level look.

‘That history’s repeating itself, and you have another migraine, perhaps?’

There was a taut silence. Darcy bit her lip. She said in a low voice, ‘I truly wish I could tell you about that, but I can’t. One day, perhaps. Anyway,’ she added more robustly, ‘tell Dad you don’t know what I’m doing. After all, I’m free, and in six months I’ll be twenty-one. Do I have to explain how I’m spending my weekends?’

‘You’d think not,’ her aunt agreed. ‘But where Gavin’s concerned, the usual rules rarely apply. And I warn you now that he’s going to be bitterly disappointed.’

When Darcy got back to Chelsea, Mrs Inman was clearly surprised to see her.

‘Mr Langton said you’d both be away, miss, and that I could have the weekend off. I was going to visit my sister.’

‘And so you can,’ Darcy assured her. ‘I’ll hardly be here, except to sleep, and I plan to eat out as well.’

‘Well, if you’re quite sure …’ Mrs Inman shook her head, still anxious, and departed reluctantly for her own pleasant flat in the basement.

It was good, Darcy discovered, to have the house to herself, and be able to embark on a couple of days of sheer indulgence, with no one to please but herself.

She’d expected phone calls—messages on the answering machine from Kings Whitnall demanding her presence, or at least an explanation for her absence.

But there were none. Perhaps her father was being philosophical at last, accepting that she and Joel Castille would always be oil and water.

And when Gavin finally phoned on Monday morning, there were no awkward questions.

‘Are you free for lunch, Darcy?’ he asked. ‘Then why don’t I reserve a table at Haringtons for one o’clock?’

‘My favourite place,’ she told him happily. ‘I can’t wait.’

He seemed in a good mood, she thought as she rang off, because that was definitely a peace-offering. She found herself wondering how the rest of the weekend had gone, and if Joel Castille had shown any great interest in the autumn countryside he’d been invited to admire. But she immediately dismissed it all from her mind. His interests were no concern of hers. And the falling leaves could bury him alive for all she cared.

For her lunch date, she dressed in a cream straight skirt topped by a V-necked sweater in a pale honey colour. She put gold studs in her ears, and brushed her hair into silky waves round her face. She emphasised the faint almond slant of her eyes with shadow and pencil, and touched her lips with a neutral gloss.

Neat, she told herself, her mouth twisting, but not gaudy. The way her father liked her to look.

Because if, as she suspected, they were about to have that serious talk about the future that he’d mentioned last week, it would be good to get off on the right foot.

And she would raise, yet again, the subject of her engineering training. Try and make him see that she was serious. That she wanted to make a contribution.

She arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, to be greeted by the head waiter, all smiles, and conducted with some ceremony to one of the corner tables.

The stage was definitely set for a quiet tête-à-tête, she thought wryly as she asked for a white-wine spritzer. She settled back on the cushioned bench, and glanced around her. It might not be the most fashionable place in London, but the food was wonderful, so most of the tables were occupied, and the room was filled with the soft hum of conversation.

She and her father had been coming here for years. Even when she was a schoolgirl, a meal at Haringtons had invariably featured as part of every half-term treat.

And maybe it was a good omen that he’d suggested meeting her here today.

She heard a sudden stir in the room, suggesting a new arrival, and looked up with an expectant smile, which froze on her lips as she realised just who was walking towards her, accompanied by Georges, the head waiter.

‘Oh, no,’ she wailed under her breath. ‘I don’t believe it. This can’t be happening to me. It—can’t.’

She sat in stony silence while Joel was seated opposite her, his napkin spread on his lap, and menus and the wine list ceremoniously handed to him.

When they were left alone, she said, ‘Where is my father?’

‘He couldn’t make it.’ His smile was equable. ‘I’m taking his place.’

‘Not,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘in this lifetime.’ She reached for her bag. ‘I’m going.’

‘I’m aware you have a predilection for making scenes,’ he said softly. ‘But I hardly think you want to start one here, where you’re so well-known. Not if you ever want to come back, anyway.’ He allowed that to sink in for a heartbeat, the continued evenly, ‘So I suggest you bite on the bullet, Miss Langton, and stay exactly where you are.’

Slowly, unwillingly, she let go of her bag. Looked at him, her enemy, elegant in his dark blue suit with the discreetly striped silk tie. Found herself noticing reluctantly the long, dark lashes that fringed the vivid blue gaze—the cool, sculpted line of the hard mouth.

She took a breath. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because I don’t have a choice. If you’d spent the weekend at Kings Whitnall, this interview could have been conducted in private. That was certainly your father’s initial wish.’

‘I thought he took my absence far too well,’ she said bitterly. ‘I should have known that he’d be planning something.’ She paused. ‘And what interview, precisely?’

‘Maybe we should order first,’ he said. ‘Some discussions should be avoided on an empty stomach.’

‘Then I’ll have the red-pepper soup,’ she said, barely glancing at the menu. ‘Followed by Dover sole, and a green salad.’

Joel beckoned to a hovering waiter. ‘I’ll have the vegetable terrine, and the sea bass,’ he added, having given her order. ‘And the Chablis.’ He glanced at Darcy, sitting rigidly across the table, bright spots of colour flaring in her pale cheeks. ‘Also some still water, right away, please.’

‘You think I might need it?’ she asked sarcastically as the waiter left.

‘I’m still learning your reactions,’ he said. ‘And this is new territory.’

‘Then here’s a response to be going on with.’ She kept her voice low and fierce. ‘I do not want to be here with you. I hoped I would never see you again. I would like you to go away now. Is that clear enough?’

‘Your father’s wishes are rather different,’ he said. ‘And he’s still the boss. And this is the scenario as he sees it. I stay, and we enjoy a pleasant lunch together. Tomorrow, I get my secretary to send you flowers. At the end of the week, I call you personally and invite you to dinner. After that, I have tickets for a play you want to see.

‘And on we go for three months, say, when I arrange dinner à deux, probably at my flat, produce a very expensive diamond ring, and ask you to be my wife.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re quite insane,’ she said flatly. ‘You must be.’

‘As I said, it’s your father’s script, not mine. And certainly not yours.’

‘No.’ She bit the word.

‘Then why don’t we save a lot of time and wasted effort? Scrub the meaningless courtship rituals, and cut to the chase.’ The blue gaze dwelt on her dispassionately. ‘Your father intends you to marry me, Miss Langton. So, what’s it to be? Yes—or no?’

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NOISE and movement around them faded to some unknown distance. Darcy could hear nothing but the echo of his words in her head. Could see nothing but the watchful blue eyes.

From somewhere, she found her voice. Made it work.

‘No. No. Of course not. Obviously. You—you couldn’t possibly think …’

She drew a breath. Moved her hands in a quick, angry gesture. ‘My God, no.’

He nodded. ‘You don’t think you should give the proposition some reasoned consideration?’ His tone was almost meditative.

‘Reasoned?’ she echoed derisively. ‘I think my father, and you, must have taken leave of your collective senses.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Isn’t it apparent?’ She took a quick breath. ‘I loathed you on sight, Mr Castille, and first impressions count with me. And, of all the women in the world, I must be the last one you’d ever seriously consider as a wife. So why don’t you simply tell my father so, and put a final end to this nonsense?’

‘On the other hand,’ he said softly, ‘why don’t you tell him the grounds for your dislike of me? I’m sure he’d be fascinated.’

There was a tense silence, then Darcy said, ‘Are you daring to blackmail me, Mr Castille?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Just pointing out that your continued hostility could lead to explanations we’d both find awkward.’ He paused. ‘Your aunt already has her suspicions.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘to you.’

There was an enforced pause while one waiter brought the water to the table, another arrived with a wine cooler and someone else came with a basket of home-made bread.

Darcy drank some of her spritzer, hoping vainly it would ease the dryness of her mouth, or, at least, calm her whirling thoughts.

This is a bad dream, she thought. One of those waking ones that leaves you with a headache for the rest of the morning. And, presently, I shall open my eyes and find I’m still in bed in Chelsea, and if that happens I’ll happily take aspirin for the next week.

But then the flurry of activity round the table ceased, and she was once again alone with her tormentor.

She put her glass down, hoping that he hadn’t noticed that her hand had been shaking.

She said, ‘Who thought up this sick joke?’

‘It evolved. Your father’s a realist, and he knows that his decision to bring me into the company hasn’t met with universal favour. The board might decide it prefers another outsider. Someone less inclined to upset the status quo. But as Gavin’s son-in-law, a member of the family, I’d be in a much stronger position when he finally stands down.’

He gave her a level look. ‘Think about it. Your father entrusts not only his company to me, but also his precious only child. That indicates a certain amount of faith, wouldn’t you say? And it might tip the balance in my favour, if it came to a showdown.’

He paused. ‘And our marriage could have other positive advantages, too.’

‘Really?’ The query was taut. ‘I’m unable to think of a single one.’

Joel drank some water. ‘He was telling me at the weekend that you’d once had an idea about going to university.’

‘Did he also tell you he’d made sure it didn’t happen? That he warned me he’d block any application I made for a student loan—tell the banks I was a bad risk?’ Her voice was bitter. ‘As far as my father’s concerned, all I’m fit for is to act as his hostess, on occasion. My God, he’d prefer me to have a career as a table decoration.’

His tone was laconic. ‘You do it well.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, quivering with temper.

‘In between,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘you’ve filled your time with a series of dead-end jobs that pay peanuts. Not that it matters, because you get an allowance, approved by the board, for your services. You also have the use of the house in Chelsea.’

He rearranged his cutlery. ‘But that happy state of affairs is about to end. Your father is retiring, which leaves you out of regular work, and out on a limb.’

‘On the contrary.’ Darcy lifted her chin coldly, ‘I have every intention of getting a full-time job. Even without a degree.’

‘In London?’

‘Perhaps.’

He nodded meditatively. ‘And where do you plan to live?’

‘I’ll continue to live in Chelsea. It’s just as much my home as Kings Whitnall.’

‘Actually, no.’ His eyes met hers. ‘The Chelsea house is owned officially by Werner Langton. A glamorous London pied-à-terre for the chairman, reflecting his status, as well as somewhere to entertain clients, especially those who dislike hotel life.’

He paused. ‘Of course, that’s never really mattered while your father’s been managing director, and chairman. He’s treated it as a second home, and allowed you to do so. I can see where the confusion has arisen.’

He smiled at her. ‘But once he stands down as chairman, that will no longer apply. It will revert to being a company residence. And I don’t think you can afford the rent, especially without your allowance. And I’m not sure I want a lodger, anyway.’

She sat motionless, staring at him, as their first courses arrived.

I didn’t know, she thought. I assumed it was our house. Why did my father never tell me the real situation?

She picked up her spoon, and began to eat her soup. It was very hot, and subtly spiced, helping to dispel some of the growing chill inside her. Some, but not all.

‘This terrine is delicious,’ he commented, breaking the taut silence. ‘Like to try some?’

Mutely, she shook her head.

He studied her with faint amusement. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to be made to starve in the gutter. When we’re married, your upkeep will become my responsibility.’ He paused. ‘I think you’ll find me reasonably generous,’ he added lightly.

She put down the spoon. She said thickly, ‘You talk as if this—thing was a done deal.’

‘Oh, we’re a fair way from that,’ he said. ‘But I live in hope.’

The waiters returned to clear away their plates, and bring the next course. Darcy sat with a forced smile as her fish was removed from the bone, wine was poured and vegetables handed.

When they were left to themselves again, she said, ‘Disregarding personalities, why on earth should you wish to get married at all? You seem to me to be a perennial bachelor.’

‘Based, naturally, on your vast experience of men.’ His tone was cutting. ‘But all husbands were single once. That’s how it works.’

He paused. ‘I’ve spent a lot of my time travelling—working in the field. Now that I’m putting down roots, maybe I’ve begun to realise the value of a well-run home.’

‘But you’ll have that,’ she said swiftly. ‘I presume Mrs Inman is also a Werner Langton employee, who goes with the house, and, as you’ve already discovered, she’s a treasure. You’ll hardly let her go.’

‘Certainly not. But I think she prefers receiving orders to acting on her own initiative. And I have little time for domestic minutiae. I need someone who knows how the household works, and what instructions to give. Who can deal with sometimes difficult and demanding people.’

Darcy lifted her eyebrows. ‘Do you include yourself in that category, Mr Castille?’ she asked caustically.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If I don’t get my own way. But I’m sure you’re already accustomed to that in your family circle,’ he added silkily.

‘And there is another consideration,’ he went on, ignoring her mutinous glare. ‘Mrs Inman is a worthy soul, but I wouldn’t want to look at her on the other side of my table every night.’

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