Читать книгу Edge Of Deception - Daphne Clair - Страница 5

AVERIL GAVE HER a stiff smile. Her eyes were the light, almost achromatic hue of bleached denim. Although she wore high-heeled shoes, her head was barely level with Sholto’s black tie, the pale hair contrasting with his jacket as his arm curled possessively about her shoulders. There’d be blond hairs adhering to the fine wool when he took his clothes off, Tara thought.

Banishing the picture edging into her mind, she held out her right hand. ‘How nice to meet you. I was just giving Sholto my best wishes for you both.’

Averil’s hand briefly met hers. ‘Thank you.’ She glanced up at Sholto, whose expression was enigmatic, his eyes resting on Tara with suspicion lurking in their depths.

The solid feel of the glass tumbler in her left hand was comforting. She tried a social answering smile, and asked, ‘When is the happy day?’

‘Soon,’ Sholto said, as Averil answered, ‘We haven’t decided—’ and then looked at him again, apologetically.

Sholto explained, ‘There hasn’t been time to discuss the details. We only bought the ring yesterday.’

So the engagement was new. ‘I’m sure you’ll work something out.’ Tara kept the smile in place. Turning it on Averil, she said, ‘May I see it—the ring?’

Averil’s left hand was half concealed in the pastel pink folds of her skirt. Tara saw it clench before it was reluctantly proffered for her inspection.

The large oval diamond flanked by two smaller ones suited Averil’s slim, tapered fingers and pink-painted nails.

‘Lovely,’ Tara said perfunctorily, her own ringless fingers clamping even harder on her glass. Tipping it to her lips, she emptied it completely. ‘Well, I think I’ll get myself another drink and join the party. Have a good time, you two.’

She turned away from them, making blindly for the lounge doorway and wending her way back to the bar. No one was there, but she helped herself to more gin from one of the variety of bottles standing on the counter, splashing a liberal amount into the glass before adding squash. Her hand shook and she spilled a few drops.

When she looked about, the room seemed to blur before her eyes, the sounds of chatter and laughter rising to a raucous hum until she wanted to cover her ears.

She held herself tightly together, taking three deep breaths. Perhaps she shouldn’t have poured another gin. The final humiliation would be to get herself drunk and do something stupid. She’d snatched a couple of sandwiches at lunchtime, between customers, and had eaten nothing since. Although she’d never felt less hungry, some food would be a good idea.

As she went in search of it, a warm male hand fell on her shoulder. ‘Tara! Chantelle said you were here! I’ve been looking for you.’

‘Andy—’ Tara turned with resignation. Andrew Paget towered over her, a wide grin showing perfect teeth that went with his over-long flaxen curls, guileless summer-sky gaze and carefully nurtured, brawny frame. A dazzling white T-shirt two sizes too small accentuated his sun-bed tan, and designer-label dress jeans lovingly hugged dramatically muscled thighs and calves.

She couldn’t help smiling back at him. Andy had that effect on women. There was not a lot between his surgically flattened ears to complement the magnificent body and the Greek-god face, but she’d known him when he was an undersized kid with unevenly mown sandy hair and a mouth full of brand-new dental braces. Behind the fragile self-assurance engendered by a late growth spurt and the correcting of his disastrous teeth and ears, followed by a determined regimen of body-building, lurked the child who had endured the nickname of ‘Wingnut’ from the day he started school.

Tara had always had a soft spot for him during the two years they’d both attended the same school, before her father sold his hardware business in a Waikato town to invest in a new business selling how-to books to supermarkets and garages, then later bought out a surplus goods firm in Auckland. When Andy turned up years afterwards working in a sporting goods store in the small suburban mall where Chantelle and Tara had their own shops, his metamorphosis had stunned and amused her.

The women his new image attracted had improved Andy’s confidence considerably, but that in no way changed the basic sweetness of his nature. Only, his conversational powers were extended by any discussion that ranged beyond football, pop songs, the innards of cars and the esoteric mysteries of body-building. He’d got his job less, she suspected, on any perceived sales ability than on the advertising value of his mere presence, kitted out from the store’s range of expensive sports clothing.

‘What did you want me for?’ she asked him.

His grin widened. One thing Andy had learned from the parade of women competing for his delighted attention was a rather obvious form of sexual banter. His gaze dropped innocently over the figure-hugging red dress that stopped well short of Tara’s knees and returned to her eyes, mischief dancing in his.

Before he could say anything, she told him crisply, ‘I need to eat. Put those muscles of yours to good use, will you, and carve me a path to the food?’ She’d glimpsed a couple of tables against the wall of the other room, laden with filled dishes.

Andy took her hand and did as she’d asked, fetching up before one of the tables with a look of triumph. Tempted to say, ‘Good boy,’ and pat him, she settled for, ‘Thank you.’ As she picked up a plate and began placing a selection of nibbles on it, she added, choosing her words more carefully this time, ‘Why were you looking for me?’

Shoving a sausage roll into his mouth, Andy apparently swallowed it whole. ‘Chantelle said you’re on your own.’

‘Yes, I am.’ She hadn’t brought anyone because she figured that would make it easier to slip off home early. These days parties tended to pall after a couple of hours, and she usually avoided them. Did Chantelle think she’d be lost without a partner?

Looking round idly, her gaze skittered away from Sholto and Averil, talking to Philip and another man. Chantelle didn’t know, did she? No, she told herself. If she had, she’d have warned me.

‘So’m I.’ An oyster patty followed the sausage roll, leaving a fragment of pastry on his lower lip.

‘What?’ Absently she reached up and removed the flaky crumb, dropping it onto the edge of her plate.

‘Alone,’ he explained. ‘I don’t know anyone.’

Light dawned. Andy was shy, and had made a beeline for the one person he knew well. Childhood insecurities died hard. ‘I don’t know many people, either. Shall we stick together?’ She smiled at him kindly, then bit into an asparagus roll, cool and bland.

Andy picked up another from the table and popped it into his mouth. ‘Chantelle introduced me to this woman,’ he muttered, furtively looking about the room. ‘Over there.’ Quickly he averted his eyes, and Tara’s curious glance over her shoulder failed to identify which woman he meant.

‘Didn’t you like her?’ she asked, finishing the roll and picking up a club sandwich. Andy was almost fatally friendly. She couldn’t imagine him taking an instant dislike to anyone, especially a woman. He was so overwhelmingly grateful for their interest that he practically fell over himself trying to please them.

‘Like her?’ He looked as though the concept was beyond him. ‘She—she’s a professor! At the university.’ His expression was one of awe bordering on terror.

Tara bridled. What had the woman done—deliberately intimidated him? If so, she was both cruel and a snob. It wasn’t Andy’s fault that he’d not been blessed with an academic brain like some people. ‘What did she say to you?’

‘Say?’ He looked at her blankly. ‘Not much. “Hello,” and “What do you do?” is about all, really.’ He swallowed. ‘I g-got her a drink and then took off to find you.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Nothing. She doesn’t look like a professor. But how could I talk to her?’

‘Just the same way you talk to me.’ If the professor didn’t like football, cars or pop music, she could at least have pretended to. Maybe she’d learn something. But maybe Andy hadn’t given her the chance.

He shook his head. ‘She’s one of those intelligent women. What could I say to her?’

A smile lurking on her mouth, a pastry case filled with creamed corn poised in her hand, Tara raised her brows at him.

Andy looked at her silently, then blushed to the roots of his golden locks. ‘Sorry, Tara! I didn’t mean you aren’t—I just meant—I mean, she—’

Tara laughed aloud, placing a comforting hand on his bronzed arm and patting it. ‘Never mind, I know what you meant. I was teasing you.’

Relief washed over his superb features. ‘Oh—good. That’s all right, then. I wouldn’t want to offend you, Tara.’

‘You haven’t.’ She picked up her drink and hooked a casual hand into his arm. ‘Come on, let’s circulate.’

She didn’t particularly want to circulate, but she wasn’t intending to lurk in corners all night, either. Unable to stop her eyes from travelling to where she’d last seen Sholto, she found her gaze colliding with his dark stare. His eyes flicked to Andy and back to her face, a corner of his mouth momentarily curling in contempt before he looked away.

Shaken and hot with rage, she tightened her grip on Andy’s substantial arm.

‘Ow!’ he protested, looking down at her in surprise.

Hastily she loosened her fingers, horrified to see the curved indentations of her fingernails showing red against his hair-dusted tan. ‘Andy! I’m sorry!’

Recovering, he grinned. ‘Just give me warning next time, huh? Women don’t usually mark me there! If you like I’ll show you—’

‘No, I don’t like,’ she said repressively. ‘Behave yourself or I’ll throw you to your professor and leave.’

‘Awp!’ He looked cowed. ‘I’ll behave, promise!’

Tara put on a friendly smile and without difficulty struck up several conversations, watching Andy regain some assurance as the women predictably reacted to his looks and diffident charm, and the men regarded him with covert envy.

He seemed to be getting on with a group of mainly young people who shared his musical taste, and she was murmuring an excuse to leave his side when he grabbed at her hand and said in lowered but panic-stricken tones, ‘Don’t go away!’

A young woman with a cuddly figure and halo of short, gingery corkscrew curls had joined the group, and one of the others said, ‘Jane—have you met Tara and Andy?’

‘Hi, Tara.’ Jane gave Tara a smile that lit her rounded, unpainted face, and then turned to her companion. ‘Andy and I met earlier, didn’t we?’

Andy nodded, a strangled sound rising from his throat. His fingers convulsed around Tara’s, making her suck in her breath, but she heroically refrained from complaint.

This was Andy’s professor?

‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said about the ThreadBears,’ Jane told him. ‘Hardly anyone’s heard of them yet, but in my opinion they’re the best group this country’s produced since Crowded House.’

‘You like them?’ Andy sounded stunned.

‘I think their music is really interesting,’ Jane said. ‘Don’t you? Did you see their latest video clip on TV last night?’

‘You like the ThreadBears?’ Andy repeated.

‘Yes, I do.’ Jane’s smile faded as she looked enquiringly up into his face, and then widened again. ‘I know,’ she said resignedly. ‘You thought I’d only be interested in fossils or dead languages or logarithms or something.’

Cautiously, he said, ‘What are logarithms?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Jane answered cheerfully. ‘I’ve always been too intimidated to ask. Something to do with maths. My field is popular culture.’

Perhaps she wasn’t quite so young as her curls and fresh complexion made her appear.

It took a few minutes for Andy to progress from uneasy monosyllables to entire sentences, but Jane’s enthusiasm and her respect for his opinions soon opened him up. He gradually relaxed his death grip on Tara’s hand, eventually freeing it so that he could wave his own hand to make a point.

‘I’ll fetch some more drinks,’ she murmured, taking his empty beer glass in nearly numbed fingers. He hardly noticed as she slipped away.

Near the bar a few people were dancing to a tape player. One of the guests was dispensing drinks, and Philip was among the dancers, his arms wrapped about his wife.

‘Been married fifteen years, those two,’ the man behind the bar confided as he poured a beer for Andy and an iced tonic for Tara, ‘and look at them. Beauty, isn’t it?’

Tara smiled, hiding a pang of envy. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘They’re very lucky.’

She picked up the glasses and turned carefully, to find her way blocked by a white designer shirt and charcoal dinner jacket. Sholto, holding two empty wine glasses.

He was inches away, both of them halting suddenly to avoid a collision. He looked at the drinks in her hands and said softly, so that only she could hear, ‘Doesn’t Lover-boy have the manners to fetch his own drink—and yours?’

‘He’s having an interesting conversation. I offered.’

‘Conversation?’ Sholto drawled. ‘I have it on good authority that the guy’s as thick as a couple of four-by-twos and his conversation is on a level with Neanderthal man’s.’

Tara might have admitted the general premise, but she’d never have put it so brutally, nor discounted Andy’s many and not unimportant virtues. Angry, she said, ‘Jealousy will get you nowhere, Sholto.’

‘Jealousy? Over you?’ The contempt was back, in his voice. ‘Dream on, darling.’

Annoyingly, she flushed. As he made to walk round her, she said, ‘I wasn’t talking about me. Almost every man here is jealous of Andy’s physique—and his looks. Just as every woman admires them.’

‘Every woman?’ His brows rose.

‘Is Averil an exception? Well...’ she paused pointedly, then shrugged ‘...perhaps,’ she conceded doubtfully. ‘There’s no accounting for taste, is there?’

‘Perhaps she’s not as easily impressed by the flagrantly obvious as...some.’ Sholto turned his head, his eyes going towards the group about Andy’s large frame. ‘Hadn’t you better get back to him, though? He probably has a short memory span.’

Involuntarily her eyes had followed the track of his. Jane, her lively, piquant face uplifted, was talking animatedly, while Andy grinned down at her, fascinated. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Andy’s memory,’ she said. ‘Does Averil know about yours?’ If he was going to hit below the belt, he could expect to be hit back.

‘Mine?’ His eyes narrowed, gleaming under the thick lashes.

‘Does she know you’re likely to forget that you’re married?’

‘I never forgot that I was married,’ Sholto said bitingly after a loaded moment. ‘There was no chance of that.’

‘You could have fooled me,’ she said, giddy with the knowledge that she’d made some impression on his apparent imperviousness. ‘You did fool me for a while.’

‘You fooled yourself.’ His voice hardened, dark satin over steel. ‘It was you who wrecked our relationship, Tara. You believed what you wanted to, and indulged in a childish revenge. Well, it doesn’t matter to me now.’

She couldn’t answer that—he always managed somehow to have the last word.

He stepped around her and went up to the bar, and she returned to Andy’s side and stayed there for the rest of the interminable evening, leaning on his shoulder and pretending to listen, and laughing at the appropriate times.

When the crowd began to thin out and a surreptitious survey showed no sign of Sholto and his fiancée, she found Chantelle and said good night. ‘Lovely party,’ she added.

‘We enjoyed it,’ Chantelle said. ‘Are you all right?’ Her eyes turned searching, shrewd.

‘A bit tired, maybe.’

‘Philip said you were talking to Averil’s fiancé.’

‘Sholto—yes,’ Tara said steadily. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘Averil’s Philip’s cousin, though they don’t get together very often, she’s away so much. Is Sholto a friend of yours?’

Tara shook her head. ‘Not exactly. I hadn’t seen him in years. Well, thanks again.’ She turned away, making for the door.

Outside the house, the quiet suburban street was lined with parked cars. She walked rapidly along the pavement towards hers, looking round as she heard footsteps behind her.

‘It’s only me,’ Andy said.

‘I didn’t realise you were leaving, too.’ She waited for him to fall into step beside her. ‘Did you bring a car?’

‘Yeah, but I’ll pick it up in the morning. I’ve had a couple too many beers.’

‘How are you getting home?’

‘Walk it off, I guess. Maybe I’ll pick up a cruising taxi later.’ They passed under the shadow of an overhanging tree, and Andy stumbled, flinging a heavy arm over Tara’s shoulders to help regain his balance. Automatically she hitched her own arm about his waist, shoring him up. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Never could hold my liquor.’

‘Why drink it, then?’ Tara asked reasonably. She hadn’t noticed him drinking all that much.

‘Aw, come on,’ Andy protested. ‘A man’s gotta—you know.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘I was okay until the fresh air hit me.’

He still had his arm about her when she stopped by her car. ‘You’d better get in,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you home.’

‘You don’t hav’ta do that.’

‘You’re not safe to walk in your condition.’ She lifted his arm with two hands and slipped out of his hold to go round the car and unlock the doors. The latches leaped up with a loud thung.

Andy rested his arms on the roof of the car as he smiled muzzily at her. ‘No one’s going to mess with me,’ he assured her.

He was probably right. But there were other dangers for a man in his state. ‘You could get hit by a car,’ she argued.

He put his chin on his linked hands. ‘I’m not that drunk, honest.’

Tara opened her door and stood holding it as she looked over at him. ‘The door’s unlocked. Get in.’

‘Nah.’ Andy shook his head. ‘I’m okay.’

‘You are not okay! I’ll take you home.’

He straightened finally. ‘All right, then. Thanks.’ He opened the door and folded himself into the seat.

With a sigh of relief, Tara slid into the driver’s seat beside him. ‘Do up your safety belt.’

‘Wha’?’ He was leaning back, eyes closed, his hands loosely dropped between his knees.

‘Your safety belt.’ She sighed and reached across his substantial bulk to pull it down from its housing and across his broad chest to the clip between the seats. ‘There.’ She fastened her own belt and started the car.

Andy snoozed all the way, and she wondered if she’d have to help him inside, but the nap seemed to help sober him, and when she dropped him outside his flat he thanked her nicely and walked slowly but almost steadily to his door, waving at her before he closed it behind him.

‘That’s my good deed for the week,’ Tara muttered to herself as she drove away. At least it had diverted her for a while from thinking about Sholto. And his impending marriage.

Black depression hit her, and she swallowed hard. Damn him, why did she have to meet him again? Just when she was able to spend days at a time, even whole weeks, without thinking of him?

* * *

TARA SLEPT BADLY in spite of the late hour that she’d gone to bed. Dressing in the morning for work, she chose a summery, low-necked frock printed with yellow daisies in the hope that it would cheer her up and detract attention from the hollows under her eyes. Thank heaven it was Saturday and at lunchtime she could shut up the shop and spend the rest of the day alone. Last night she’d had a surfeit of people.

She and her assistant, Tod Weller, were kept busy all morning, leaving her scant time to stand about thinking. She stayed after Tod had gone home, nibbling on a filled bread roll from a nearby cafe while she rearranged the stock, not because it needed it really, but to give herself something to do.

She hauled a couple of recycled-wood chests from the rear of the shop to the window, and draped two bright linen tablecloths across their corners, allowing much of the fabric to fall on the floor. Then she placed some smaller things among the folds—a glass paperweight, a bronze statuette, a branched candlestick of gleaming brass.

Her stock was an eclectic range of old and new. She specially loved antiques and second-hand knick-knacks, but also appreciated the brash colours and exciting forms of modern design, and the exotic charm of craft objects from other countries. Tara’s special talent, she’d been told, was her ability to juxtapose styles in unexpected combinations that enhanced the qualities of each. She stocked anything that took her fancy and that might catch a customer’s eye.

She spent the remainder of the afternoon pottering, and it was almost five o’clock when she opened the door and stood in the doorway fumbling in her bag for her key.

She had the key in her hand when she became aware of someone behind her and looked around, startled.

He was a big man, wearing a dark-visored motorcycle helmet that obscured his face. Steadying her breath, Tara said, ‘Can I help you?’

His voice was muffled by the helmet. ‘Money.’

Tara’s heart lurched. She tried to step back and slam the door in his face, but he was too quick for her, pushing it hard so that it swung back and she had to move further inside to avoid being hurt.

And, of course, he came after her. ‘Money,’ he repeated. ‘What do you do with it?’

‘I...it’s gone,’ she lied. There was a small safe in the back room where they kept the takings and the cash float over the weekend, but it was well hidden behind an oriental hanging on the wall. ‘I don’t keep money in the shop.’

He gave her a shove and grabbed at the bag in her hand, upending it so that everything fell on the floor, including her wallet. Snatching that up, he opened it, pulled out the several notes that it contained and stuffed them into a pocket of his leather jacket before throwing the wallet on the floor again. ‘You’ve got a safe,’ he said. ‘Show me!’

He was probably guessing. But even if he was he might be prepared to use violence before he’d be convinced. Better to lose her takings than risk that.

She thought about it a bit too long, saw his hand make a fist and tried to dodge, but he caught her cheek and sent her staggering against a solid oak sideboard, painfully banging her head, hip and elbow on the wood, and sending a small china jug to the floor, where it smashed to pieces.

Her instinct was to retaliate, but there was no weapon within reach and common sense dictated compliance. Besides, she was a little dizzy from the pain of the blow to her head. ‘All right,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I’ll show you.’

She took him into the back room used as office and storage space and pulled aside the hanging, opened the safe without a word and handed him the tin cash box.

The man stowed it bulkily inside his jacket and pushed her again. ‘What’s in there?’ he demanded, nodding his helmeted head towards the door behind her.

‘It’s a toilet.’

He grabbed her arm and shoved her inside the tiny room. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t come out for twenty minutes or you’ll be sorry.’ He slammed the door.

Tara leaned an ear against the panel, closing her eyes in a mixture of relief and hope. She heard his booted feet on the floor, and the muffled voice shouted, ‘Twenty minutes! Or you’ll get it.’

He was making his getaway, not hanging about to see if she obeyed. She knew that, but her ears strained, her heart thudding. Had he gone all the way to the door? Would he wait for a minute—five, ten? Or just run? Was that the roar of a motorbike she could distantly hear? What direction did it come from?

She was shaking. The painted wood against her ear, her cheek, felt cold. She wanted to be sick. How long had she been standing here, too afraid to get out, to move?

The longer she delayed the more time he had to get away. Cautiously she turned the door handle, then paused. Nothing happened. She opened the door a crack, holding her breath, peering through the inadequate aperture. Still nothing.

Gathering her courage, she opened the door properly, looked through the connecting doorway to the shop. The place seemed empty. The telephone was on the desk in one corner of the back room. She dived for it, and with trembling fingers dialled the emergency number.

* * *

HOURS LATER she opened the door of the turn-of-the-century Epsom cottage she’d restored and refurbished, and thankfully closed it behind her. The police had been great, but trying to remember every detail that would help them and poring through photographs of likely suspects had taken its toll. Someone had given her coffee and a biscuit, and the phone number of a victim support group.

Her legs were unsteady as she walked across the dimmed living room, drawn by the light blinking on the answering machine sitting on a graceful antique writing bureau. She turned on a side lamp and pressed the play button on the machine, listened to a message from the library about a book she’d requested, another from a friend offering to sell her a ticket to a charity concert, and then jerked to attention as Sholto’s voice filled the room. ‘I’ll phone again later,’ he said, adding, ‘It’s Sholto,’ as though she didn’t know his voice, didn’t react to it with every pore.

He had phoned again later, and again, each time with the same message, leaving no number for her to return the call.

Tempted to replay the tape just to hear his voice again, Tara clenched her teeth and reset it instead. She wasn’t a mooning adolescent now; she was a grown woman and she’d got over Sholto. Not easily, but at last. There was no way she was going to fall into that maelstrom of emotion and pain again. If he did repeat his call she would let the machine deal with it.

In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator and her stomach turned at the sight of food. Closing the door, she made herself more coffee and nibbled on a dry cracker. And found herself back in the living room, leaning against the door jamb and staring at the phone.

When it rang she almost dropped the half-finished coffee in her haste to intercept the rings before the machine cut in. Snatching up the receiver, she managed a breathless, ‘Hello? This is—’

‘Tara,’ Sholto said. ‘I’ve been phoning you all day.’

‘I was at the shop,’ she said. ‘I heard your message—messages.’

‘You work in a shop?’

He didn’t know, of course. ‘I own a shop. Bygones and Bibelots. Mostly it’s just called Bygones, though.’

‘Antiques?’

‘Yes, and some new stuff. A mixture.’

‘You work late.’

‘No, not really.’ She swallowed, remembering the man in the dark-visored helmet. The shadows in the unlit corners of the room were deepening and she had a sudden urgent desire to turn on all the lights in the house. ‘What did you want?’

‘I shouldn’t have said some of the things I did last night.’

Tara didn’t answer immediately. Was this some kind of apology? Although his tone was aloof rather than conciliatory.

‘I was caught off balance,’ he said.

‘So was I,’ Tara admitted. She’d said some fairly waspish things herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting you there.’

‘I suppose I spoiled the party for you.’

It was an apology—or at least probably as near as Sholto was likely to come to one.

‘Th-that’s all right.’ Dismayingly, she heard her voice wobble. Tears slid hotly down her cheeks. ‘It was j-just unlucky, I guess.’

‘Tara?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Are you all right?’

She wasn’t crying because he was marrying someone else, she told herself fiercely. It was too humiliating that he should think so. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Tara—what is it?’ He sounded cautious.

She could put the phone down. Only he’d be sure then that she was crying over him. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I got robbed, that’s all—’

‘Robbed?’ For a moment there was silence, before he said urgently, ‘Where? At your shop? Are you hurt?’

‘N-no,’ she gulped. ‘Not really—not badly.’

‘Do you have someone there with you?’

‘No.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Sholto—no! I’m all right.’

But he’d already hung up and all she heard was the hum of the dial tone.