Читать книгу Loren's Baby - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 6

THE road widened at the top of the hill, as though inviting visitors to Port Edward to get out of their cars and take a look at the view before plunging down the narrow, precipitous lanes which eventually ran between the whitewashed cottages of the village. Telling herself it was because she wanted to see the village too, and not because it would provide a welcome delay to the culmination of her journey, Caryn thrust open the car door and climbed out.

Below, the sun-dappled roofs of Port Edward seemed too closely woven to allow for the passage of traffic, and beyond, the mud flats of the Levant estuary were exposed as the tide ebbed. An assortment of fishing vessels and pleasure craft were beached like so many gasping porpoises at their moorings, and children beach-combed in the shallow pools left stranded by the tide.

The road to the village said ‘Port Edward only’ and Caryn glanced about her thoughtfully. The address had said Port Edward too, but she remembered once Loren had told her that the house faced a creek where Tristan Ross kept his boat. If only she had paid more attention to those fleeting references to Druid’s Fleet; but then she had never expected to have to come here. And didn’t she also remember that there were trees? A house standing among trees …

The cliffs that overlooked the estuary were not thickly wooded, but further upstream Caryn could see forests of pine and spruce clinging staunchly to the hillside. Obviously she had come too far towards the village. She would have to turn the car and go back to where the road from Carmarthen had forked across the river.

It was easier said than done, but the road at this hour of the evening was practically deserted, and she at last managed to manoeuvre herself back the way she had come. She felt tired, and half wished she had come by train, but it would have been awkward asking a taxi driver to bring her to the house and then expect him to wait while she saw Tristan Ross. Particularly when there was always the chance that he might not be at home. But Loren had said … Besides, if she was truly honest with herself she would admit that her tiredness had more to do with her mental than her physical state, and until she had this interview with Tristan Ross over, she was not likely to feel much better.

She sighed. Was she making a mistake? she wondered for the umpteenth time. Ought she to go through with this? Could she go through with it? And then she remembered Loren’s face as she had last seen her, the cheekbones exposed and skeletal in her thin face, her eyes hollow and haunted. Her features had relaxed in death, but she would always remember her pain and despair. Always.

She came to the fork that led across a narrow suspension bridge shared by a disused railway line, and drove swiftly across it, glancing at her wristwatch as she did so. It was after six, but it had taken longer than she expected, and if Tristan Ross was put out by her late arrival, there was nothing she could do. Perhaps she should have driven into the village after all and asked for directions. But she was loath to draw attention to herself, particularly in the circumstances, and surely she was on the right track now.

The village was in sight again, but across the river now, and Caryn drove more slowly, watching for any sign which might indicate a dwelling of some kind. She saw a sign that said ‘Water’s Reach’ and pulled a wry face. Why couldn’t that have been Druid’s Fleet? How much further did she have to go?

After reaching a point which at a lower level precisely matched the point she had reached on the opposite bank, she stood on her brakes and chewed viciously at her lower lip. She was getting nowhere, and not particularly fast. Where the devil was the house? She couldn’t have missed it. There simply wasn’t another house in sight.

Another three-point turn, and she was facing back the way she had come once more. Below her, in the estuary, the tide was beginning to turn, and ripples of water set the smaller craft stirring on their ropes. The sun was sinking steadily now, and a cool breeze drifted through the open window of the car. It would be dark soon, she thought crossly, and she was sitting here watching the tide come in as if she had all the time in the world.

Putting the engine into gear again, she drove forward and with a feeling of inevitability brought the car to a halt at the stone posts supporting the sign ‘Water’s Reach’. There was nothing else for it; she would have to ask directions. Surely whoever owned Water’s Reach would know where Druid’s Fleet could be found.

Beyond the gateposts, the drive sloped away quickly between pine trees, and with a shrug she locked the car and with her handbag slung over one shoulder, descended the steep gradient. She could see the roof of a house between the branches of the trees, and as she got nearer she saw it was a split-level ranch-style building whose stonework blended smoothly into its back-drop of fir and silver spruce. A porch provided shelter as she rang the bell, and she stood back from the entrance as she waited, admiring the view away to the right where the dipping rays of the sun turned the sails of a yacht on the horizon to orange flames of colour. Only the wind was a little chilly now, striking through the fine wool of her violet jersey suit.

The door had opened without her being aware of it; and she turned to face cold grey eyes set beneath darkly-arched brows. Expertly streaked blonde hair was drawn smoothly into a chignon on the nape of the woman’s neck, while the elegant navy overall she wore bore witness to the fact that she had been interrupted while she was baking.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ Caryn hid her nervousness in a smile. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’ The woman, Caryn guessed she must be about thirty, said nothing, just continued to stare inquiringly at her, and she hurried on: ‘I’m looking for a house called—Druid’s Fleet. Do you—’

‘Who is it, Marcia?’

The impatient male voice from somewhere inside the house was vaguely familiar, and the woman turned automatically towards the sound. Caryn, half afraid she was about to close the door in her face, exclaimed: ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve come at an inconvenient moment, but—’

She broke off abruptly as a man appeared behind the woman. For a moment she was too shocked to do anything but stare at him, but perhaps he was used to the effect his appearance had on girls. And why not? Those harshly etched sardonic features, vaguely haggard in appearance, were apparently capable of mesmerising his viewers, and Loren had told her he got more mail than any other interviewer in his field. For all that, he was taller than she had expected, and his lean body showed no signs as yet of the dissipations he indulged in, and considering she knew he was at least forty, his corn-fair hair showed little sign of grey. Of course, he was deeply tanned from his last assignment in East Africa, the one Loren had kept all those cuttings about, and his hair was no doubt bleached by the sun, thus disguising any unwelcome signs of encroaching age, but in his dark mohair business suit, he didn’t look a day over thirty-five.

Recovering herself, Caryn realised both he and the woman were looking at her now, and colouring hotly, she said: ‘Mr Ross?’ annoyed to find her voice trembled a little as she spoke.

‘Yes?’ He sounded impatient now, and she felt resentful that he should. After all, she had not expected to find him here. Come to think of it, what was he doing here?

‘I—I’ve been looking for your house, Mr Ross,’ she said carefully, unwilling to say too much in front of the woman, and his expression suddenly changed.

‘Hey!’ he exclaimed, his impatience disappearing as swiftly as it had come. ‘You’re not from the agency, are you? My God! I never thought they’d send anyone so promptly.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got to be at the studios in half an hour. Can you wait till I get back?’

Caryn opened her mouth to protest that she was not from any agency, and then closed it again. Why not, if it served the purpose? She could easily explain her subterfuge when they spoke privately together.

‘Druid’s Fleet?’ she ventured, avoiding a direct reply, and he shook his head.

‘This is Druid’s Fleet,’ he explained apologetically. ‘I guess you saw the old sign on the gatepost. I keep that there to discourage unwelcome sightseers. That’s who we thought you were.’

‘Oh.’

Caryn was taken aback, and the woman, Marcia, gave Ross a curious look. Then Tristan Ross was inviting her in, and feeling only slightly guilty, Caryn stepped inside.

She found herself in a large open hall, with stairs leading both down and up. The floor was polished here, heavy wood blocks with a gleaming patina, that were an attractive foil for the skin rugs that enhanced its aura of age. There was an antique chest supporting a bowl of creamy yellow roses, and matching silk curtains billowed in the breeze beside the archway that led through to the dining room.

As Caryn followed Tristan Ross down the steps which led into the main body of the house, she was aware of Marcia coming behind her, and speculated on her relationship to the master of the house. His girl-friend, perhaps; or his mistress, she mused rather bitterly. He seemed to like to have a woman about the place. Loren had discovered that.

He led the way into a magnificent sitting room with long windows that looked out over the estuary. A padded window seat invited relaxation, or there were two squashy velvet couches, one either side of the stone fireplace, matching the heavy apricot velvet of the floor-length curtains. A coffee-coloured carpet fitted every comer, and the casual tables set around the room in no way encroached upon the feeling of space the room engendered.

Ross halted in the middle of the room and turned to face her. ‘Have you eaten?’

Caryn shook her head, but hastened to add that she wasn’t particularly hungry.

‘Nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘Marcia will see you get something that appeals to you, and I’ll be back in about two hours. I’m sorry about this, but I did warn the agency—’

‘It’s all right, really.’ Caryn didn’t want to get involved in discussions about the agency right now. ‘I—I don’t mind waiting.’

‘Very well.’ He raised his eyes to Marcia who was standing in the doorway. ‘Can I leave it to you to see that Miss—Miss—’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, you didn’t give me your name.’

Caryn thought quickly. ‘Er—Mellor,’ she got out jerkily. ‘Susan Mellor.’

She thought his eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he was walking swiftly across the room again, past her to the door. ‘Look after Miss Mellor, will you, Marcia?’ she heard him say quietly, and then she heard him mount the steps again to the front door. It closed behind him a few moments later, and she was alone with her unwilling hostess.

The silence that followed his departure was broken only by Caryn smoothing moistened palms down her skirt. Then she faced Marcia with an apologetic smile.

‘There’s really no need to go to any trouble on my account. I—er—I honestly am not very hungry.’

Marcia considered her silently, and it was unnerving. What was wrong with the woman? Caryn thought impatiently. Why didn’t she say anything?

‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked, and then realising how pointed that sounded, added: ‘I mean—it’s a very beautiful place to live, isn’t it? I love Wales. I used to come here as a child. We used to camp on the Gower peninsula …’

Marcia inclined her head, as if in acknowledgement of Caryn’s words, and then turned and walked away, across the lower hall and down two steps and through another door. Leading where? Caryn wondered. The kitchen, probably. What a taciturn creature she was! As if she couldn’t have said something!

Left to herself, she relaxed somewhat. Well, she was here, and she was within reach of her goal. Or at least within sight of it. And she had been given two hours grace to augment her defences.

She walked across to the windows and admired the view. Then her eyes dropped to the terraced garden that fell away beneath her, and to the wooden flight of steps which led down to the boathouse. Loren had said there were thirty-seven steps, and she had had plenty of time to count them. Dangerous for a child perhaps, but that was not her problem.

Dropping her handbag on to the padded chocolate-brown cushions of the window seat, she half knelt beside it, feeling the familiar pang as she remembered what Loren had suffered. Why should he get away scot free?

She had been kneeling there for some time, hardly aware of the light fading until the switching on of a lamp brought her round with a start. Marcia had re-entered the room in that silent way of hers, and in her hands she carried a tray.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered!’ Caryn exclaimed, sliding off the window seat, as Marcia set the tray down on one of the low tables nearby. But the smell of minestrone and fresh salmon was delectable, and she looked down on the meal the woman had prepared for her with undisguised gratitude.

Marcia spread her hands, and Caryn felt the guilt of false pretences colouring her cheeks once more. ‘I say—won’t you join me?’

Marcia shook her head. Her expression seldom altered, and Caryn was perplexed. Unless the woman couldn’t speak, of course. But she must be able to hear. She had answered the doorbell, hadn’t she? Yet how could she broach such a suggestion?

Marcia withdrew again, and with a shrug of defeat, Caryn seated herself on the couch beside the tray. She was hungry, she realised that now, and she remembered the old adage about fighting better on a full stomach.

But as she ate, she couldn’t help wishing she had been able to ring Bob and Laura before coming here. It was going to be so late now before she got back to the hotel in Carmarthen, and she hoped they wouldn’t worry. Still, he was in good hands, and that was the main thing.

Marcia reappeared with coffee as Caryn was finishing sampling the delights of a chocolate pudding. She had shed her overall to reveal a plain tailored grey dress, and looked more than ever like the lady of the house. Perhaps she was, thought Caryn doubtfully. Perhaps she should find out before Tristan Ross got back.

‘That was absolutely delicious,’ she said now, wiping her mouth on a napkin. ‘Did you make the minestrone yourself? I’ve never tasted anything nicer.’

Marcia nodded, and retrieved the tray after setting down the coffee pot beside it. She was about to withdraw again, and on impulse Caryn got to her feet.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t rush away on my account.’

But Marcia’s thin lips merely twitched slightly before she bowed her head and went away.

Caryn subsided on to the couch again. If Marcia wasn’t dumb she was giving a damn good imitation of being so. She sighed, and reached for the coffee pot. Oh, well! If she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to talk. And maybe it was as well. She didn’t want to get involved here—not more than necessary, anyway.

Her coffee finished, she looked about her restlessly. There was no television, which was unusual. She would have expected him to have one in every room. Was he on this evening? Was that why he had had to leave for the studios in Carmarthen? Or was it simply a pre-recording for something that was going out later?

Getting to her feet, she wandered round the large room. It was a man’s room, she thought reluctantly. There were no ornaments to speak of, no china cabinet or collection of porcelain in sealed cases. There were bookshelves, but she couldn’t believe anyone actually read such heavy, boring tomes, and she longed for the sight of a paperback or a magazine, anything to fill the time until Tristan Ross returned.

A silver trophy on the mantelshelf turned out to be an award from the Television Academy of Arts and Sciences for his contributions to the popular news programme Action World, and beside it was a bronze shield denoting Tristan Ross as Outstanding Television Correspondent for 1976.

Caryn pulled a face and put the awards down again, wondering in passing whether a silver trophy would smash if it fell into the stone hearth. It probably would, but she was not brave enough to find out. She could imagine her stammering apology: ‘I—I’m s-sorry, Mr Ross. It—it just s-slipped out of m-my f-fingers …’

Outside darkness had fallen, and she went to take another look over the estuary. The lights of the village were comforting across the water, and here and there a mooring light winked on the rising tide. A person could get delusions of grandeur living here, she thought cynically. Remote from the problems of the world outside.

The sound of a car’s engine broke the stillness, and although she hadn’t heard him leave, Caryn guessed her host had returned. She glanced at her watch. Eight-thirty. She raised her dark eyebrows. He was prompt anyway; she should be thankful for small mercies.

A door slammed, and then surprisingly, a female voice called: ‘Marcia! Marcia, I’m back! Whose car is that parked at our gate? I almost ran into the wretched thing! ‘

Caryn stiffened. Another visitor? Someone well-used to coming here anyway. Who else had a key to the door? Her lips tightened as she thought again of Loren’s waxen features. Oh, Tristan Ross had such a rude awakening coming to him!

Light footsteps ran down the stairs, and a moment later a girl appeared in the open doorway—tall, slim, almost as tall as Caryn, in fact, who always considered her five feet eight inches to be less than an advantage, with straight fair hair and smooth pale skin. She was one of the most attractive young women Caryn had seen for some time, and her orange jump suit accentuated the slender grace of her figure while exposing more of the unblemished skin than was absolutely necessary.

She stopped short when she saw the other girl, and stared at her frowningly. Competition? wondered Caryn dryly, although she felt positively gipsy-dark beside such Scandinavian fairness. She tanned easily, and her skin was already brown, its texture caring nothing for the burning at of the sun. She guessed this girl would have to be careful, or she would burn all too easily. And she probably was, Caryn conceded. She looked as if she spent some time caring for her appearance.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded now, and relieved to find someone who was not averse to speaking with her, Caryn answered:

‘Susan—Mellor. I—I’m waiting to see Mr Ross.’

The girl frowned and came into the room. ‘Why?’

It was a leading question, and Caryn hesitated. She had no qualms about evading an answer, but she was curious to know who the girl was, and antagonising her was not going to help. In consequence she gave the answer Ross himself had suggested:

‘The—er—agency sent me.’

‘The agency!’

The girl stared at her, and Caryn realised in dismay that if the next question was ‘What agency?’ she was stumped. What sort of agency might a man like Ross have contacted? Hysterical humour bubbled in her throat. She ought to be hoping it was as innocent as it sounded.

But the girl said: ‘Do you mean the Llandath Agency?’ and that was even worse.

Crossing her fingers behind her back, Caryn nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she agreed manfully. ‘The Llandath Agency.’

‘You liar!’

It was worse than Caryn had imagined. The girl was staring at her unpleasantly, and what was worse, the woman Marcia had come to reinforce the opposition.

‘Tris asked me to call at the agency,’ the girl declared, glancing round at Marcia for her support. ‘And I forgot! So what the hell do you think you’re doing here? Are you a reporter or something? Or just one of those awful groupies?’

‘I’m not a groupie!’ exclaimed Caryn, fighting a ridiculous desire to laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation.

‘What are you, then? Because I’m damn sure you’re not a secretary!’

Caryn straightened her shoulders. ‘As a matter of fact, you’re wrong. I am a secretary,’ she stated, more calmly than she felt. ‘And—and Mr Ross—rang the agency.’

Half of it was true anyway, she consoled herself, but the girl wasn’t finished yet. ‘Tris wouldn’t do that. Not when he’d asked me to call. Why should he? He knew I’d be in Carmarthen all afternoon.’

‘Perhaps you’d better take that up with him,’ remarked Caryn equably, and then started as a masculine voice said:

‘Take what up with me? Angel, what’s going on here? Why are you arguing with Miss Mellor?’

Tristan Ross came into the room. At some point on his journey home he had loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt, but he still managed to look calm and unruffled. Caryn noticed that contrary to tradition, the bottom button of his waistcoat was fastened, but his jacket was unfastened. Raking back the thick straight hair that was inclined to fall across his forehead, he regarded the two antagonists wryly, waiting for an explanation, and Caryn waited for ‘Angel’ to act entirely out of character.

‘I didn’t go to the agency, Tris!’ she declared. ‘I don’t know what this woman’s doing here, but she’s not from Llandath.’

Caryn silently acknowledged the girl’s attempt to classify her. Angel, if that really was her name, was younger than she was, but twenty-four didn’t exactly put one in the middle-aged bracket.

Tristan Ross had listened expressionlessly to what Angel said, and now he turned to Caryn. ‘Is that right? Are you not from the Llandath Agency?’

‘I never said I was,’ Caryn ventured slowly, and then when Angel began to protest, added: ‘Not to you anyway. You—just—assumed that.’

His mouth turned down only slightly at the comers. ‘All right, I’ll assume some more. You chose not to enlighten me because you wanted to get in here, is that right?’

‘Oh, I’d have got in here, Mr Ross,’ declared Caryn levelly, ‘whether you assumed I was from the agency or not.’

‘Is that so?’

She barely acknowledged the edge of steel that deepened his voice now. ‘Yes, that is so.’

‘I see.’ He glanced frowningly at the two other women. Then: ‘You sound very sure of yourself, Miss—Mellor, is it? Or is that assumed, too?’

To her annoyance, Caryn coloured again. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact it is. My name is Stevens, Caryn Stevens. Loren Stevens’ sister.’

She watched him carefully as she said her sister’s name, but it aroused no great reaction. A flicker of his eyes was all the notice he gave it, and then he shrugged and said:

‘Forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t see the connection. Why should the sister of a girl who left my employ more than six months ago want to see me? Or are you looking to take over your sister’s position?’

Caryn gasped. ‘How dare you!’

At last she aroused some reaction, and the thin lips tightened ominously. ‘How dare I?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Come, Miss Stevens. I think this has gone far enough. Either tell me what in damnation you want or get out of here!’

Caryn gazed at the two women watching them so intently. ‘I would rather say what I have to say in private,’ she declared unevenly.

‘Would you?’ He made no attempt to dismiss their audience. ‘Well, I wouldn’t. Whatever it is, spit it out. Here! Where I have some witnesses.’

Caryn licked her lips. This was not what she had intended. She shrank from exposing her sister before two strangers. It was bad enough having to tell him. She could not bring herself to speak the words in front of anyone else.

‘I—I can’t,’ she said at last. ‘I—I won’t.’

Tristan Ross’s teeth ground together. ‘Miss—Miss Stevens: I don’t know why you’ve come here, but I should tell you that I have no secrets from either my daughter or my housekeeper.’

‘Your—your daughter!’ Caryn swallowed convulsively.

‘Angel—Angela. Angela Ross. Didn’t your sister tell you about her?’

‘No.’

‘Or about Marcia?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t have to worry about her carrying tales, or isn’t that what’s troubling you?’

So the woman couldn’t speak! Caryn felt a rush of sympathy, but then she gathered her small store of confidence about her. She straightened her spine, but even in her wedged heels he topped her by several inches, which was a disadvantage, she found. However, she had to go on:

‘Mr Ross,’ she said slowly, ‘what I have to say concerns my sister, not me. Please—’ She hated having to beg. ‘Give me a few minutes of your time.’

Impatience hardened his lean features. ‘Miss Stevens, I’ve just spent an uncomfortable half hour interviewing a man who refuses to admit that he’s a bloody Communist, and I’m tired! I’m not in the mood for play-acting or over-dramatisation, and if this has something to do with Loren then I guess it’s both—’

Caryn’s hand jerked automatically towards his cheek, and he made no attempt to stop her. The sound of her palm rang in the still room, and only his daughter’s protest was audible.

Tristan Ross just hooked his thumbs into the back waist-band of his trousers under his jacket and heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Is that all?’ he enquired flatly, but Angela burst out:

‘Are you going to let her get away with that?’ in shocked tones.

In truth, Caryn was as confused as the other girl. The blow administered, she was disarmed, and they all knew it.

With a sense of futility, she would have brushed past him and made for the door, but his hand closed round her arm, preventing her from leaving.

‘Not so fast,’ he said, and she noticed inconsequently how the red weals her fingers had left in no way detracted from the disturbing attraction of his dark features. Such unusually dark features with that light hair. The hair he had obviously bestowed on his daughter. His daughter! For heaven’s sake, why hadn’t Loren mentioned that he had a grown-up daughter? Did he have a wife, too? Was that why …

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded, and she held up her head.

‘I—I’ll write to you,’ she said, saying the first thing that came into her head, and he stared at her frustratedly.

‘Why? What have we to say to one another? If Loren has something to say why the hell didn’t she come and say it herself?’

Caryn’s jaw quivered. ‘Loren is dead, Mr Ross. Didn’t you know?’

At last she had succeeded in pricking his self-confidence. His hand fell from her arm as if it burned him, and feeling the blood beginning to circulate through that numbed muscle once more, Caryn felt a trembling sense of awareness. She was too close to him, she thought faintly. She could almost share his shock of cold disbelief, feel the wave of revulsion that swept over him.

‘Dead!’ he said incredulously. ‘Loren—dead? My God, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

‘Why be sorry?’ Angela spoke again. ‘She was nothing but a nuisance all the time she was here—’

‘Angel!’

His harsh interjection was ignored as Caryn added bitterly: ‘Why pretend to be sorry, Mr Ross? You never answered any of her letters.’

‘Her letters?’ He shook his head. ‘All right, Miss Stevens, you’ve won. We’ll go into my study. We can talk privately there—’

‘You’re not going to talk to her, are you?’ Angela’s dismayed protest rang in their ears, but Tristan Ross just looked at his daughter before walking past her out of the room.

Caryn hesitated only a moment before following him. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Why then did she feel so little enthusiasm for the task?

They went across the hall and down a passage that descended by means of single steps at intervals to an even lower level, and he thrust open a leather-studded door and stood back to allow her to precede him inside.

The room was only slightly smaller than the living room, with all the books Caryn could have wished for lining the walls. Paperbacks there were in plenty, as well as every issue of the Geographical Magazine for years past. A honey-brown carpet supported a leather-topped desk, a pair of revolving leather chairs, and several armchairs. A smaller desk in one corner held a typewriter and a pair of wire trays, with metal filing cabinets completing the furnishings. Here again, the windows overlooked the estuary, but it was dark and Ross drew the venetian blinds.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ he suggested, indicating one of the armchairs, but Caryn preferred to stand. ‘As you wish.’ He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the leather chairs. ‘But if you’ll excuse me …’

‘Of course.’

He lounged into one of the revolving chairs, behind the desk, and in spite of his informal attire he was still the Tristan Ross she knew from so many current affairs programmes. Calm, polite, faintly sardonic; using his grammar school education to its fullest potential while still maintaining the common touch that encouraged the most unlikely people to confide in him.

‘Right,’ he said, and she thought rather hysterically that all that was missing were the television cameras. ‘Suppose you tell me why you wanted to see me.’

Taking a deep breath, she decided to come straight to the point. ‘You—knew about Loren, didn’t you?’

‘What did I know?’

He was annoyingly oblique, and she clenched her fists. ‘She wrote and told you about—about the baby—’

‘The baby!’ His indolence disappeared. ‘What baby?’

Caryn suddenly found she had to sit down after all, and backed until her knees came up against the soft velvety cushioning of an armchair. She sat down rather weakly on the edge of the seat.

‘I said—what baby?’ he repeated, getting to his feet to rest the palms of his hands on the desk in front of him, leaning slightly towards her. ‘I warn you—if this is another of Loren’s tricks—’

‘I told you. Loren’s dead!’ she reminded him tersely, and his jaw clenched.

‘So you did.’

‘Why didn’t you answer any of her letters?’

‘For God’s sake! I don’t remember seeing any letters from her. And even if I had—’

He broke off abruptly and Caryn guessed what he had been going to say. ‘You wouldn’t have answered them?’

‘Look,’ he sighed, ‘Mrs Forrest—that’s the name of the woman I employed on a temporary basis to take over after—after Loren left—she had orders to deal with—well, that sort of thing.’

‘Fan mail?’ demanded Caryn bitterly, and his eyes held hers coldly.

‘Why not?’ he challenged, and she wondered how she could have thought his eyes were dark. They were light, amber-coloured, the alert eyes of a prey-hunting animal at bay.

‘She told you she was expecting your child and you ignor—’

‘She did what?’ He came round the desk towards her, the muscles of his face working tensely. ‘Say that again!’

Caryn licked her dry lips. ‘She—she was expecting your—’

‘The bitch!’

Caryn came abruptly to her feet. ‘Don’t you dare to speak of my sister like that!’

‘I’ll speak of her how the hell I like!’ he retorted savagely. ‘God Almighty, what a bloody cock-and-bull story that is! And you came here to tell me that—’

‘Not just for that,’ she got out jerkily. ‘Not just for that.’

He made an effort to calm himself, but he began to pace about the room and she was reminded of a predator once more. He moved so lithely, so naturally; with all the grace and none of the nobility of the beast, she thought fiercely.

‘Of course,’ he said coldly. ‘You came to tell me she was dead. Well, perhaps it’s just as well.’ He stopped to stare into her working features. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well. I think if she’d still been alive, I’d have killed her!’

Caryn backed off again. ‘And—and what about your son?’ she got out chokingly. ‘What about him? Do you want to kill him, too?’