Читать книгу Separate Rooms - Diana Hamilton - Страница 4

‘IS THIS man bothering you?’

The relaxed, vaguely transatlantic drawl cut Honey’s tirade off in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to come to this wretched party and Graham, as ever, was being a pain. But she’d imagined her voice had been pitched low enough not to carry, especially considering the volume of chatter. Registering the tide of scarlet that flooded Graham’s nicely put together features, she turned on one spiky heel to deliver a frosty comment and met speedwell-blue eyes in a tanned, fantastically masculine face and promptly forgot what she’d been going to say.

‘Well?’ One sable brow quirked upwards and Honey’s fingers tightened in a defensive reflex action as she clutched her unwanted glass of wine against her breast, feeling the cold shiver of the glass against the creamy flesh exposed above the scoopy neckline of her black silk dress.

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ she got out, her dark brown eyes still spitting temper. ‘Graham’s a friend and—’

‘If you screech abuse to your friends, I would hate to think what you do to your enemies,’ the stranger inserted smoothly, his mouth curling. And Honey turned back to Graham. Screech? Had she really? But Graham had disappeared into the crowd and she felt her shoulders loosen with relief. Good. She could make her excuses to Sonia and slope away. And the smooth voice drawled amusedly, ‘Feeling better now? Fine. The poor wimp’s slunk off to drown his sorrows so why don’t we two crash out of this rabble and have a quiet drink in one of the bars downstairs?’

The invitation was delivered in a take-it-or-leave-it tone that intrigued her, and she tilted her head on one side and back because he had to be well over six feet tall. Well over because she stood five six in her stockinged feet and tonight she was wearing four-inch heels. And no one, but no one, had ever called Graham Trent a wimp before. He was the town’s most eligible bachelor, his father one of the richest men in the area. He would be furious if he ever found out!

‘I don’t drink with strangers.’ She knew her eyes were full of laughter; she could feel it, and a little light amusement was a darn sight better than the heavy hassle Graham never failed to provide, and the wide rangy shoulders lifted just slightly beneath expensive grey suiting as the smooth dark voice confirmed,

‘But you think it might be marginally better than fighting with friends?’ He took her glass from suddenly unresisting fingers and put it on a wide window-ledge, those quite incredibly blue eyes smiling down into hers. ‘And if it makes you feel easier I’ll introduce myself. Ben Claremont, long-time buddy of Colin Watts. I’m a house guest with them for the next few weeks, which is why I couldn’t get out of this thrash tonight. And if we don’t make a run for it now Sonia’s going to grab us.’

Watching his tall, lithe body move effortlessly through the crowd, making it patently clear that he wasn’t bothered whether she went with him or not, Honey swallowed a grin and began to follow. Well, why not?

Besides, he had been right. Sonia the indefatigable would soon pounce on any guests who weren’t circulating, chattering and grinning to show they were having a whale of a time. And although Sonia had been a friend since schooldays Honey had never been able to understand why every year the Wattses hired the biggest function room in the town’s smartest hotel to throw an anniversary party. Everyone knew that the other three hundred and sixty-four days they were at each other’s throats!

In any case, Ben Claremont’s take-it-or-leave-it attitude intrigued her, she had to admit. She had been fighting men off ever since she had turned seventeen and it was refreshingly different to come across one who was quite obviously not bowled over by a curvaceous body, wicked brown eyes and a mane of fiery red hair!

She caught up with him at the head of the sweeping, thickly carpeted stairs and, apart from the way he dipped his glossy dark head in acknowledgement, he made no comment, merely matching his pace to hers as they descended the shallow staircase, the noise level receding to an opulent hush as he stood aside to allow her to precede him into the discreetly lit and elegantly furnished cocktail bar.

‘Make it two cognacs,’ Ben told a hovering waiter, then sat on the banquette next to Honey, his endless legs casually outstretched, his eyes frankly curious as he followed on, ‘What were you and your friend fighting about, Honey? He looked as if he wanted to strangle you.’

She gave him a level stare. Did he know her name, or had he simply been using a meaningless endearment? The only way to find out was to ask.

‘How did you know my name?’

‘Simple, I asked.’ The brandy balloons arrived on a silver tray and he extracted a note from his pocket, idly gestured the waiter away, his eyes never leaving hers as he drawled out a string of particulars. ‘Honey Ballantyne, twenty-six years old, dealer in antiques, with a sizeable shareholding in BallanTrent Components. And the dog-housed boyfriend is Graham Trent whose father has a fifty per cent holding in the said company. Right?’ His long mouth twitched, registering the black snap of her eyes. ‘And before you blow a gasket, Sonia volunteered the information. All I did was ask who you were. She tells me she’s your best friend.’

Oldest, but not best—Honey’s thoughts went off at a tangent. And trust her to give out her life history at the drop of an idle question. Sonia had always been a gossip, a stirrer, and the older she got, the worse she got. It came from having an empty life.

The silent spurt of temper he had so obviously noted was now under control and she leaned back, her eyes narrowing as she observed the way he cradled his glass, warming the liquid with his capable, well shaped hands. He looked supremely relaxed and at home with himself and she was glad he hadn’t been trying to sweet-talk her, using a meaningless endearment. She was tired of empty flattery from men who only saw her as a sex object. So far, this man seemed different from the many others who had tried to get her into bed and when he repeated, ‘Why were you and Graham fighting?’ she was sure enough of his impartiality to offer defensively,

‘He started it. Going on and on about Sonia’s and Colin’s fifth wedding anniversary party and how we’d be ninety years old before we got around to celebrating our first. I will not be pressured that way.’ Temper surfaced again, had her reaching for her glass, swirling the contents round and round the bowl. And Ben deduced disinterestedly,

‘I take it you’re in no hurry to name the day. How long have you been engaged?’

‘We are not engaged. Never have been and never will be.’ Honey gave a sagging sigh and sipped at her brandy, feeling the smooth, expensive liquid slide easily down her throat, beginning to unknot the bunch of tension lodged behind her breastbone. Then she asked with a sharp sidelong glance, ‘Why so interested?’

‘I’m not—particularly.’ His elegant shrug was indicative of indifference. And then he qualified, ‘At least, only in as much as I’m interested in people—what motivates them, why they act as they do in different circumstances.’

‘Oh?’ Her interest caught, Honey took another sip of the warming spirit and bestowed a slight smile. ‘Why? What are you—a social worker, a writer, maybe?’

‘Much duller.’ He returned her smile with a trace of wryness. ‘I’m Claremont Electronics. Much the same line as BallanTrent. Boring stuff, as I’m sure you’d be the first to agree.’

Blandly said, but Honey’s fine brows drew together. Had Sonia told him of the running battle between herself, her mother and Henry Trent, her deceased father’s partner? Could be. Which would explain his comment about boredom. But she’d heard of Claremont Electronics. And maybe that company and BallanTrent could be classed in the same breath, but only just. Claremont was world-wide, huge, and specialised in futuristic stuff, designing and manufacturing electronics for the space industry. A different and far classier kettle of fish... And if he was the Claremont, then, by all accounts, he was a near-genius...

‘So you’re not in love with young Trent and you have no intention of marrying him, am I right?’ The rich, comforting voice startled her out of her thoughts and she wrinkled her neat nose.

‘Got it in one. Only you try convincing him. I can’t. Ever since my mother and his father decided that their sole offspring should marry for the good of the company—all one happy family kind of stuff—he’s been driving me crazy. The trouble is,’ she confided on a gusty sigh, ‘he’s so old-fashioned and conventional. The business comes first. It must be secured because it provides not only a sizeable income but social standing, respect, if you like. And if Henry, his father, tells him that our marriage would be the best thing for the dratted business then that, as far as Graham is concerned, is that. Regardless.’

Honey swallowed the last of her drink and crashed the glass back on the table, her movements edgy again. Her temper, always volatile, was in danger of exploding from the pressure she’d been under just lately, from both Graham and her mother, and her mouth curled with derision when Ben put in equably, ‘Maybe he’s in love with you. Couldn’t you put his persistence down to that?’

‘Love!’ Honey’s voice rose several decibels, her magnificent eyes narrowing with scorn. ‘Graham loves BallanTrent, his self-image, and golf. In that order!’

‘Are you quite sure?’ The relaxed voice was smoky, amusement curling through it as the vivid blue eyes roamed from the unrestrained corkscrew twists of her fiery hair to the tips of her elegantly shod feet, taking in every point of interest in between. ‘Your mind is alert and bright, your face could be your fortune, and your body is quite definitely of the come-to-bed variety. And don’t get me wrong,’ he inserted at her suddenly suspicious, withering glare, his tone not altering in the slightest, ‘I’m speaking entirely as a non-involved observer.’

‘Oh.’ The frown between her eyes eased away. Just for a moment she had felt hot and bothered by the lazy sweep of his eyes, the tone of his voice, the things he had said. ‘Come-to-bed body’ sounded like things she had heard a score of times before and had taken the greatest exception to. But he had shown, all along, his impartiality, described his interest in the situation as merely academic. And even though his arm was stretched casually out along the back of the banquette, his fingers a mere twitch away from the naked, creamy skin of her shoulder, he hadn’t once tried to touch.

And his impartiality was back in force when he stated, ‘So you are not in love with young Trent and have no intention of marrying him to keep BallanTrent in the family, so to speak. You have repeatedly told him this, to no avail. I take it there is no one else?’ And, receiving the quick shake of her head with a tiny smile, he advised, ‘You’d better leave the area if you want to get him off your back.’

And Honey fumed, ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it!’

‘But not seriously.’

How astute. He seemed to know her a little too well for her liking. She got unhurriedly to her feet, smoothing the silky fabric over her curvaceous hips before reaching for her matching evening bag.

‘No, not seriously. Why should I? I’m happy here, my business is doing well. Why should I let myself be hounded out of town?’ A small, cool smile. ‘It’s been nice talking to you, but I think it’s time I left. Would you make my excuses to Sonia and Colin when you rejoin the party?’ No mention of Graham; he deserved no excuses. He would only see them as a type of apology for the way she had goaded, snarled and snapped at him earlier.

She had perhaps revealed too much to this stranger, this man with the clever, incredible eyes. She had always been too ready to trust people, to confide, rarely keeping her own counsel and never bottling her feelings up inside her where they could fester and do damage. A healthy attitude, maybe, but one that had sometimes led her into difficulties.

But not this time, she recognised as he accepted his dismissal with suave grace, walking with her into the foyer and asking, ‘Can I order you a cab?’

Relief that he had not, as many another might, insisted on seeing her home flooded her with unreasoning warmth. She gave him a generous unguarded smile, telling him, ‘Thanks, but there’s no need. I live over the shop, barely a stone’s throw away.’ She extended a fine-boned hand and felt his own close over it, his fingers warm and hard, the brief contact completely polite, no unnecessary and unwanted lingerings, prompting her to add, ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay with Colin and Sonia,’ and then, not knowing why she wanted to know, why there was this sudden reluctance to end the conversation, ‘Where is your home? I can’t quite place your accent. Canada? America?’

‘No place in particular.’ His shrug was barely noticeable. ‘I was born in England but since I finished my education—in the States—I’ve lived out of suitcases. There’s always been some place else to be.’

He looked and sounded bored. With her? Probably. So what? Time she left. One last small and, this time, controlled smile and then she turned on her spiky heels and walked through the revolving doors on to the Cop and made her way up the hill, breathing in the warm spring night air, pushing Ben Claremont right to the back of her mind as she turned into Stony Shut, her heels tapping on the cobbles, her heart lifting as it always did as her shop came into view, the light from the single street-lamp reflecting in the dozens of tiny glass panes of the frontage.

There were dozens of Shuts, or shoots, in old Shrewsbury town, narrow cobbled alleyways leading from one street to another, enabling the pedestrian who was familiar with the passages that riddled the town to get from one end of it to the other in record time. And Honey considered Stony Shut by far the prettiest, the tall, gabled and half-timbered buildings almost meeting overhead; and, apart from the addition of the street-lamp, it must look now as it had looked in medieval times.

Extracting her key from her bag, she let herself in and checked on the security system before threading her way through the overstocked shop. The amber security light gleamed softly against polished oak and rosewood and drew warm glints from her prized display of early pewter.

As always, she was tempted to linger, to gloat over all her lovely things, the things that were hers for such a short time. She always felt a pang when something was sold, which, she acknowledged with a small, self-deprecating smile, was a stupid attitude for a dealer to have. Or a shopkeeper, as her mother called her in that awful, denigrating tone she had taken to using of late.

Honey stopped smiling, checked the bolts on the door to the workroom at the rear of the premises and mounted the narrow, twisty staircase to her living quarters. Tomorrow was Sunday, the day she invariably spent with her mother. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

* * *

She was woken from a dream which featured a tall, dark man with speedwell-blue sleepy eyes by the insistent shriek of the telephone by her bed. Rolling over, she pushed the long mass of her rumpled hair off her face and fumbled for the receiver, muttering into it, ‘What the hell time do you call this?’ and heard the affected, breathy laugh, Sonia’s gushy voice.

‘Nine-thirty, darling. I thought you were supposed to be an early riser.’

Levering herself up against the satin-covered pillows, Honey grumbled, ‘Weekdays I am. Sundays I ain’t,’ but her grumble was forgiving because she was always wide awake by eight on the one day a week she took off from business, even though she’d promised herself the luxury of a long lie-in. Maybe her dreams had made her restless, for some unknown reason...

‘So where did you and Ben get to last night?’ Sonia wanted to know. ‘Graham was furious when he found out you’d sloped away—I thought I ought to warn you. Mind you,’ she continued at her normal breakneck speed, ‘I don’t blame you. If I were a single woman I’d take off with Ben Claremont, no question. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

Was he? Honey’s thoughts strayed, looking back. Yes, she had to admit his looks were fantastic. Not as conventionally good-looking as Graham—but then who would be? she thought sourly—but he had masses more presence, and there was something significantly compelling about those assertive features, those brilliant blue eyes with the thick fringing black, black lashes...

‘And he doesn’t only excel in the looks department, either,’ Sonia was still gushing away. ‘According to Colin, he has a brilliant mind and, of course, he’s fabulously wealthy. I envy the woman who eventually ties him down—’

‘He’s not married?’ Honey got a word in sideways then wondered why she’d bothered. Ben Claremont’s marital status was no concern of hers.

‘No, and hands off! He’s my house guest, not yours!’ Sonia giggled. ‘I wonder if I could persuade Colin to take one of his precious fishing holidays? In Scotland. Or at the North Pole! No, but seriously—I just felt I had to warn you. Ben came back to the party and told me you’d gone home. You’d had a busy day and were developing a headache.’ Tactful, at least, Honey thought, glancing at her watch to discover the fingers marching towards ten o’clock. ‘And when I relayed the message to Graham he was absolutely furious! You’re going to have to come up with a good excuse for disappearing with Ben and making your apologies through him and not through Graham.’

‘Graham doesn’t own me,’ Honey pointed out sharply, not bothering to add that neither would he. It was a waste of breath. Graham made a point of acting as if she were his property. Which didn’t do her love-life much good—always assuming she had the time or inclination to get involved with anyone. She added quickly, before Sonia could dispute that statement, ‘Thanks for phoning but I must dash. If I’m late for Sunday lunch Mother will skin me alive.’

Late or early, Avril Ballantyne would give her a hard time today. Pointing out her foolishness—not to mention selfishness—in refusing to even consider accepting Graham’s persistent proposals, Honey thought despondently as she dressed in a softly gathered cream cashmere skirt, tan leather boots and a Cossack-style tawny over blouse, neatly belted around her small waist.

The minimum of make-up—just a smear of moisturiser and a slick of copper-toned lipstick—and she was ready. Leaving her hair loose—’all over the place’, her mother would call it—she hitched the narrow strap of her leather bag over her shoulder and made for the stairs. She had given up on trying to please her parent long ago because nothing she did ever seemed to be right. Her father, God bless him, had been just the opposite. She had been his ‘Princess’ and his death, when she was fifteen, had been the severest, most traumatic blow she had ever had to suffer. Even now, eleven years on, she still missed him.

The phone began to ring as she was halfway down the stairs and she hurried on down, making for the instrument at the rear of the shop. And if it was Graham, itching to vent his annoyance over what had happened last night she would tell him that she never wanted to set eyes on him again, in any conceivable circumstance, and that she would do as she damned well pleased with the BallanTrent shares her father had left her, sell them to whoever offered to buy if she felt like it! And fell over a gatelegged table in her hurry, scattering her display of Victorian pincushions, which gave her rising temper a rapid push upwards, made her voice growly as she snatched up the receiver and fulminated, ‘Well? What is it?’ to whoever.

‘My, my! Did you fall out of the wrong side of the bed, Honey?’

It was quite amazing how that smooth, drawly voice could soothe her. It was like pouring cool ointment on a sore place, she thought as her mouth twitched upwards towards a smile.

‘No. Over a table.’

‘No harm done?’ He sounded as if he cared. Her smile deepened.

‘Only to my dignity. What can I do for you?’

Too late, she regretted the loaded question then released the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding when he didn’t take the question as an innuendo and told her, ‘It’s about the problem you have, the one we were discussing last night. Sonia filled me in on it over breakfast this morning. She seemed to be under the impression that the pressure put on you by various people was too intense to be resisted forever, that you’d end up marrying Trent for the sake of a quiet life. And before you jump down my throat and tell me—probably with justification—to mind my own business, let me tell you that I’ve come up with a perfect solution to the problem.’

‘You have?’ Her smile deepened. There was no solution that she could think of, except for sticking it out and refusing to do a single thing she didn’t want to do. But she was perfectly willing to listen to what he had to say, even if it meant she was late. She had enjoyed his company last night, the way he’d listened as she’d let off steam, his comments both sensible and objective. It had been years since she’d talked problems over with anyone who hadn’t had some kind of personal axe to grind, a biased viewpoint. Not since her father had been alive. He had always encouraged her to bring her worries to him, to talk them out, showing her how to solve her problems logically, his loving kindness never failing to ease them out of the way, put them in their proper perspective.

‘But of course,’ the dark, velvety voice was assuring her now. ‘I’ll give you dinner tonight and put the solution to you.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Honey said with a regret that surprised her, considering she hardly knew the man and, in any case, knew his ‘solution’, whatever it was, would not be worth a row of beans. ‘I always spend Sunday with Mother.’ If she didn’t there would be hell to pay: constant phone calls complaining about loneliness, vague and unconfirmed illnesses—palpitations were the ‘in’ thing at the moment. ‘Can’t you tell me now? Or is it a state secret?’ she found herself teasing. Most unlike her.

‘Over the phone?’ His voice was a curl of amusement and she supposed he had a point. Sonia probably had her ear glued to a crack in the door at this very moment, straining to hear every word he was saying in case he let slip something gossip-worthy. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven this evening.’

Somehow, the arrogance of that statement didn’t annoy her as much as, on reflection, she felt it should and she merely reminded him, ‘You don’t know where I live.’

‘I’ll find out. And don’t stand me up,’ he warned lightly. ‘Or you’ll be missing out on an offer I might not be inclined to repeat.’