Читать книгу Raw Silk - Anne Mather - Страница 9

‘BUT why do we have to have separate rooms?’ asked Rose Chen impatiently. ‘It’s not as if we have to keep our relationship a secret or anything. I know you’ve always insisted on keeping your own apartment in Hong Kong, but surely this is different? We are travelling together.’

‘I’ve told you: I need my own space,’ said Oliver shortly, growing tired of the argument they had been having since they booked into the hotel.

They were staying at the Moathouse in Market Risborough, which was the nearest town to Sutton Magna. The night before, Rose had stayed with her father’s agent in Fulham, and Oliver had occupied a room in a small hotel off Piccadilly.

Rose heaved a deep breath now. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she demanded. ‘I thought our first meeting with the Hastingses went off rather well. At least they aren’t openly hostile. It was a brilliant idea of yours to make the first move so informal. They could hardly throw us out without creating quite a fuss.’ She paused. ‘Though I did detect some undercurrents, didn’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

Oliver was non-committal. In truth, he hadn’t devoted as much attention to the reasons why they had gone to Sutton Grange as he should. From the moment he’d laid eyes on Felicity Hayton he’d been hard pressed to keep his mind on anything else. Her cool, honey-blonde beauty had done forgotten things to his nervous system. Just thinking about how her skin felt-smooth and soft beneath his fingers—still caused a definite tightening in his groin.

Which was fairly pathetic, and he knew it. Ever since the youthful marriage he had contracted in college had ended with a ‘Dear John’ letter while he was in Vietnam, he had had no use for emotional relationships. There had been women, of course—plenty of them, he acknowledged without conceit—but they had served their purpose and been forgotten. He supposed his association with Rose Chen was the closest thing to a permanent relationship he had had since his teenage years.

But it was just a job, and one which he sometimes despised himself for. He liked Rose, he admired her spirit, and sometimes he’d even felt some affection towards her. But he didn’t love her. He doubted he had ever really loved anyone.

‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’ Rose was nothing if not persistent. ‘What did Robert say to you? He wasn’t awkward or anything, was he? I know his mother was a real pain, but I thought he kept his cool.’

Except where his fiancée was concerned, thought Oliver drily, remembering the way the other man had dragged Felicity—Fliss—up from her chair and practically savaged her. Oliver could still feel the fury he had felt when Hastings had put his hands upon her. He hadn’t cared at that moment whether the younger man had known of his father’s dealings or not. All he’d wanted to do was put his hands about the other man’s thick neck and squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze …

‘He’s a runt,’ declared Oliver succinctly, his own feelings briefly getting the better of him. He knew it wouldn’t do to alert Rose Chen to the dislike he felt for her half-brother, but it felt good to voice his contempt just the same.

‘You think so?’

Naturally, Rose Chen was interested in his opinion, and Oliver had to quickly fabricate a reason for his remark. ‘I gathered from his mother that he doesn’t like work,’ he said dismissively. ‘If even half what she says is true, he seems to spend most of his time either at the race-track or on the golfcourse.’

‘I see.’ Rose Chen caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘That could be useful, couldn’t it? If Robert isn’t too familiar with running the business, he may not be so opposed to my taking charge.’

‘In a pig’s eye,’ said Oliver, wondering if Rose could really be as gullible as she liked to appear. Personally he didn’t believe it for a moment. She was James Hastings’ daughter; she must know what there was at stake.

Rose Chen lifted her slim shoulders now. She’d worn a cream silk suit to go to Sutton Magna, but she’d shed the jacket since she got back, and her arms were bare. Her hair was short, moulding her shapely head like a black cap. Her small breasts were taut against her silk vest, and the short skirt of the suit showed her legs to advantage. She was small and exotic and sexy, but Oliver felt no attraction as she preened before his gaze.

The trouble was, he was comparing her dainty appearance to the long-legged Englishwoman he had met on the Hastingses’ terrace. And, although Fliss didn’t possess Rose Chen’s sophistication, she was infinitely more feminine. Tall, easily five feet eight, he guessed, and not thin in the way most women these days were thin, but supple, and shapely, with breasts a man could die for. She was elegant and classy, with legs that went on forever. Not at all like the women he was used to, with her golden skin and hair …

‘Whatever,’ Rose Chen murmured carelessly, lifting her arms and cupping the back of her neck. Her oval eyes sought Oliver’s as he lounged against the writing table. ‘I think I’ll take a shower. D’you want to join me?’

Oliver straightened. ‘No, thanks,’ he said swiftly, and then tempered his refusal with a brief smile. ‘I’ve got some unpacking to do, and I thought I might call home.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s cheaper ringing from London than it is from the Far East.’

Rose Chen hid her impatience badly. ‘We will dine together, I assume? You won’t be too tired? Or suffering from jet-lag?’

Oliver strolled towards the door. ‘I’ll try to keep awake,’ he responded over his shoulder. ‘Shall we say seven-thirty? We’d better not make it too late. Hastings is picking you up at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, isn’t he?’

‘He’s picking us up,’ amended Rose Chen tersely. ‘I want you to come with me, Lee. You’re so much better at reading people’s faces than I am.’

Oliver acknowledged her remark with lazy indulgence, but as soon as the door had closed behind him he frowned. He knew that as far as the colonel was concerned things could not be going better. The old man had actually asked Oliver to try and get inside the Hastings offices and find out as much as he could about distribution and so on. And, while accompanying Rose Chen was not quite what he had had in mind, it might be possible to use the visit to his own advantage.

He called Hong Kong while he was waiting for room service to deliver the bottle of Scotch he’d ordered. It was already the early hours of the following morning there, but he guessed Colonel Lightfoot would be waiting for his call. Rose Chen had no idea that ‘calling home’ were his own code words for keeping in touch with the agency. So far as she was concerned, he was keeping in touch with his family. And, doubtless he’d do that, too, if only to cover himself. Besides, his mother would appreciate it.

Colonel Lightfoot’s voice was barely drowsy. If he had been asleep, he was one of those people who was instantly awake. Oliver guessed he’d half expected him to call the previous evening. But until he’d encountered Robert Hastings he’d really had nothing to report.

‘The family,’ said the colonel, after Oliver’s initial impressions had been aired. ‘Do you think his wife is aware of what’s been going on?’

‘Difficult to say.’ Oliver wasn’t sure what he thought about Amanda Hastings. The woman had come on to him, but that might have been her way of sounding him out. She had certainly been curious about his relationship with Rose Chen, but once again she might have had her own reasons for asking so many questions.

‘You say you’re going to the company’s offices tomorrow?’ The colonel didn’t waste time on speculation. ‘I don’t think anyone will make any mistakes while you’re around, but you may be able to assess whether Rose Chen has any authority.’

Oliver absorbed this without comment. Unless the upheaval of learning she was Robert Hastings’ daughter had made Rose Chen more vulnerable, he doubted he would learn anything from her behaviour. As far as business was concerned, Rose Chen had been the ideal employee: she had respected her employer’s confidence, and never betrayed any of his secrets, even in the heat of passion.

‘Of course, it’s her reaction to Robert Hastings we’re interested in,’ the colonel went on doggedly. ‘The apparent animosity between them may be just a front. We can’t be absolutely sure that neither of them knew of the other’s existence before Hastings cashed his chips.’

Oliver didn’t argue, but personally he was fairly sure they hadn’t. Even without Rose Chen’s response he had sensed that, for all his apparent affability towards his half-sister, Robert Hastings was inwardly seething.

There had been that moment with his fiancée, for example. He hadn’t just been reacting to the fact that another man was showing her some attention—though if he’d known Oliver’s thoughts he might have been; there had been anger and barely suppressed violence in his actions. And it hadn’t been just because he was a man. It was who he was that mattered. As far as Hastings was concerned, he—Oliver—was irrevocably linked with Rose Chen.

‘You’re not saying a lot,’ Colonel Lightfoot commented at last, and Oliver gathered his drifting thoughts.

‘There’s not a lot to say,’ he responded evenly. ‘I’ll be in touch again when I’ve got something to report.’

‘Right.’ The colonel hesitated. ‘You wouldn’t go soft on me, would you, Lynch? I’d hate to see that solid gold reputation sullied because you’ve let your—sexual urges—rule your head. I know you care about the woman. But don’t think that warning her will do her any good.’

The short laugh Oliver uttered then was ironic. If only Archie knew, he thought wryly. It wasn’t his Chinese nemesis the colonel had to worry about. It was a cool, innocent Englishwoman, Oliver was remembering. With skin as sweet as honey, and hair as fine as silk …

‘And you say Robert isn’t coming to terms with the situation?’ Matthew Hayton remarked thoughtfully, looking at his daughter over the rims of his spectacles. ‘Well, I don’t really see what choice he’s got.’

‘Nor do I,’ averred Fliss energetically. ‘The woman’s identity’s been verified and, if that wasn’t enough, she’s shown a remarkable aptitude for filling the void left by Mr Hastings’ death. Honestly, Rose Chen knows more about the business than Robert ever has. She’s a natural organiser, and she certainly gets things done.’

‘Which is probably another reason why Robert objects to her presence,’ declared the Reverend Matthew Hayton drily. ‘I mean, you can’t deny that Robert seldom showed a great deal of interest in the company when his father was alive. He spent more time playing golf and sailing his yacht than he ever did in the office.’

‘Robert’s always maintained that his father never gave him any responsibility,’ Fliss exclaimed loyally. ‘And after all, Mr Hastings was only in his fifties. Who’d have thought he’d die so young? He never seemed to have much stress in his life. Though I suppose if he was leading a double life there must have been some strain.’

‘Hardly a double life, Felicity.’ Her father was the only person who ever called her by her given name, and now he viewed his daughter with some misgivings. ‘We can’t really speculate about Hastings’ life in Hong Kong. And if neither Robert nor——’

‘Rose Chen?’

‘—nor Rose Chen knew of each other’s existence, the affair—if that was what it was—must have been over some time ago.’

Fliss nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

‘In any event, it’s not our concern, Felicity, and I hope you don’t encourage Robert to criticise his father’s behaviour.’ He pushed his spectacles back up his nose, and returned his attention to the sermon he was trying to compose. ‘People who live in glass houses, Felicity. Need I say more?’

Fliss snorted. ‘I don’t encourage Robert to talk about his father, Dad, but he does it anyway.’ She grimaced. ‘He talks about little else. Oh, and he moans about Oliver Lynch’s influence on Rose Chen, as well. Apparently, she’s insisted he sits in on their meetings—like a skeleton at the feast, according to Rob.’

Matthew Hayton looked up again. ‘Oliver Lynch?’ he frowned. ‘Oh, that American you said had accompanied her. What is he? Her accountant? Her solicitor?’

Fliss shuffled the pile of reference books she had been tidying, and gave a careless shrug of her shoulders. ‘Her—partner, I think,’ she said, bending her head so her father shouldn’t see the colour that had stained her cheeks at his words.

‘Her partner?’ Matthew Hayton frowned. ‘You mean, he has a share in the business, too?’

‘No.’ Fliss wished she hadn’t mentioned Oliver Lynch at all. ‘He’s her—boyfriend, I believe. At least, Robert says she can’t keep her hands off him.’

‘I see.’ Her father arched his brows that were several shades lighter than his daughter’s. ‘And Robert thinks this man exercises some undue influence on his—sister, is that right?’

‘Well—something like that,’ agreed Fliss uncomfortably. ‘No one seems to know what he does exactly. He doesn’t appear to have a job, and—well, Robert thinks he must be living off Rose Chen.’ She hesitated and then added reluctantly, ‘He certainly wears expensive clothes for someone without any obvious means of support.’

Matthew Hayton took off his spectacles now, and gave his daughter a reproving look. ‘Felicity, this is all hearsay, isn’t it? I doubt very much whether Robert has actually asked Rose Chen what this man—Lynch, did you say?—does.’

‘No, but—’

‘He may be a man of substance. He may have independent means. I don’t think you should immediately assume he’s some kind of—what’s the word?—pimp? Just because Robert’s feeling betrayed by his father’s deception.’

‘No,’ said Fliss again, but with rather less emphasis. And, after all, her father had a point. Robert really did know nothing about Oliver Lynch. If she was perfectly honest, she’d have to admit that she’d only sympathised with him because she’d been intimidated by Oliver Lynch’s tall, dark presence.

‘So, what did you think of the man?’ Reverend Hayton prompted now, and Fliss realised that her careless words had got her into even deeper water. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss Oliver Lynch with her father. Particularly as her reaction to him had been so disturbingly confused.

‘He seemed—very nice,’ she said carefully, avoiding making any statement that might initiate a follow-up. ‘Um—I think I’ll go over to the church. I promised Mrs Rennie I’d help her with the flowers.’

Her father looked as if he might have some further comment to make, and she balled her fists in the pockets of the linen trousers she was wearing as she waited for the verbal axe to fall. But all Matthew Hayton said was, ‘Ask Mr Brewitt to check on the communion wine, if you see him,’ before pushing his spectacles back in place and returning to his sermon.

Outside the pleasantly cool environs of her father’s study, the air was hot and decidedly humid. At this time of year, any long spell of hot weather was usually followed by a bout of thunderstorms, and the sky had that ominous overcast sheen that often heralded bad weather.

Other than that, the village looked rather pretty at the moment. The cottage gardens were filled with every kind of flower imaginable, and sunflowers and hollyhocks rose thickly above the rest. There were geraniums, too, in great numbers, spilling from every hedge and border, and tumbling riotously from stone urns and planters. Only the lawns looked rather parched, because sprinklers had been forbidden.

The vicarage garden was no different from the rest, and Fliss, who invariably ended up having to do the weeding herself, viewed its dried beds with some misgivings. The church did employ a caretaker, part of whose duties was to keep the grass neat in the churchyard, and to look after the rather large gardens of the vicarage. Church fetes were always held on the back lawn, and it was important to keep the weeds at bay. But Mr Hood was really too old now to do all that was needed. Even with a tractor mower, he found it hard to pull his weight. Not that the Reverend would ever force him to retire, thought Fliss affectionately. Not as long as Mr Hood wanted to work. Until he chose to retire, the job was his.

Walking up the gravel path to the vestry door, Fliss lifted the weight of her hair from her neck with a slightly weary hand. She really ought to have her hair cut, she thought ruefully. Or confine it permanently in a braid. Having long hair might look nice, but it certainly wasn’t easy to handle. And it could be rather tiresome at this time of year.

Still, it wasn’t really her hair that was making her feel so tired all of a sudden. The truth was, she wasn’t sleeping well. These warm, humid nights left her feeling limp, not rested, and the problems Robert was having were creating troubles for her, too.

Ever since their engagement, Robert’s attitude towards her had become more and more possessive, and she wondered if it was because she had so far evaded giving in to his demands that he was so aggressive. Since Rose Chen came on the scene he had become increasingly persistent, and he was no longer willing to make compromises. He wanted her, he said. Not at some nebulous date in the future, but now. Nothing in his life was certain any more, and he needed her with him to keep him sane.

Her protestations that she was with him, that possession was nine-tenths in the mind anyway, didn’t persuade him. How could he feel she was really his when she drew the line at the bedroom door? he asked. When two people loved one another, there should be no lines, no barriers.

Of course, there were other arguments: that she was prudish and old-fashioned—arguments she couldn’t really defend. Perhaps she was both those things, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Sex had never figured highly in her thoughts.

And the truth was, although she liked Robert, and cared about him, after her experience at college she didn’t know if she had it in her to feel any more deeply than that. There were women—she had read about them in magazines—who were happily married, with a handful of children, who’d never known what real passion was. The importance of feeling loved, of feeling wanted, was what they cared about. Orgasm—a word which was freely bandied about today, and which her father abhorred—was not something she was eager to experience. She was sure it was vastly over-rated; something men had introduced to try and get their way.

She sighed. Not that that conclusion in any way solved her problem. She still had to deal with Robert’s plans for their future. If only she were a more emotional person, she thought wistfully. It wouldn’t seem so coldblooded then, discussing the terms of her surrender.

When she reached the porch, she noticed a car parked at the kerb, just beyond the lych-gate. It was a black saloon, long and sleek, but nothing like the racy sports car Rose Chen and her escort had arrived in a week ago. She expelled her breath rather relievedly, not really appreciating, until that moment, that she’d experienced a moment’s unease. It wasn’t that the sight of a strange car alarmed her, she assured herself. Because of its history, the old church occasionally attracted visitors in the summer months. It was the association with that other strange car that had startled her. And the realisation that she was not looking forward to meeting Oliver Lynch again.

Entering the church, she immediately felt the sense of peace that always invaded her consciousness whenever she did so. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be a wife at all, she reflected thoughtfully. She got so much pleasure from spiritual things; perhaps she ought to consider becoming a nun.

She was smiling to herself, thinking how horrified her father would feel at this suggestion, as she pushed open the door into the choir. It was quite dark in the church, the overcast sky leaving the pulpit in shadow. Mrs Rennie hadn’t put on any of the lights; indeed, there was no sign of Mrs Rennie at all. Instead, a man was standing at the foot of the nave, gazing silently up at the altar.

Fliss’s heart skipped a beat, and, although she endeavoured to calm herself, the realisation that she wasn’t alone had given her quite a shock. But it wasn’t just the presence of a solitary man that had startled her. It was the awareness of who that man was that had her wishing she were any place but here …