Читать книгу Running From the Storm - Lee Wilkinson, Lee Wilkinson - Страница 6

THE twelfth-century, lichen-covered church was filled with the fragrance of roses and lilies and the strains of Mendelssohn’s traditional and well-loved Here Comes The Bride.

Bright sunshine slanted through the stained-glass windows and, as the trees in the churchyard moved in the breeze, made changing kaleidoscope patterns across the backs of the polished pews and the grey stone slabs of the floor.

Nothing seemed quite real as Caris walked slowly up the aisle on the arm of her Uncle David. Her father, still angry with her, had refused to give her away.

A man, presumably the best man, was waiting by the chancel steps. He had his back to her and she couldn’t see his face.

There was no sign of her groom.

On both sides of the aisle the congregation turned their heads to look and smile at her as she passed in a froth of white tulle that, even then, she knew was all wrong for her.

She did her best to smile back, but her face felt set and stiff, as though it was made from wax, and she couldn’t.

As she reached the chancel steps she was aware that her bridegroom had joined her and was standing by her side. She didn’t look at him.

The elderly priest stepped forward, gathered the congregation’s attention with a glance and began with the traditional words, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together …’

While the wedding service solemnly progressed, Caris stared straight ahead and asked herself what she was doing here.

When they reached the point where she and her bridegroom needed to make their vows and she still refused to look at him, he took her upper arms and turned her to face him.

His green eyes were cool, commanding; his blond, well-shaped head had that slightly arrogant tilt she knew so well.

‘Say it, Caris.’

But she couldn’t. This was all wrong! She couldn’t, wouldn’t, marry Zander!

Dropping the bouquet of pale-pink roses she carried, she turned and, gathering up her full skirts, fled down the aisle between the rows of gaping guests, tears pouring down her cheeks.

She could hear him calling after her, ‘Don’t go, Caris … Don’t go …’

But she had to. No matter how much she loved him, she wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t love her, who could well suspect that he had been trapped into marriage.

Gasping for breath, sobs rising in her throat, she reached the gloomy inner porch of the church and flung open the heavy door.

Stumbling through into the outer porch, she was met by bright sunshine and a brisk breeze that blew the folds of the fine silken-net veil over her face.

The dreamer was endeavouring to tear off the suffocating veil when she awoke and, sitting bolt upright, found she was in her own bed, the uncertain light of a rainy, late-spring morning filtering in.

Even so, it was a few seconds before the panic subsided and the sight of her familiar room, with its pastel walls and pretty, flowered curtains, steadied her a little.

Somewhere nearby a car door slammed and she could hear the unmistakable sounds of the quiet, tree-lined street coming alive—Billy Leyton’s motorbike being kicked into life, the shush of tyres on the wet road, next door’s dog barking.

Right on cue, the bedside alarm-clock announced with a loud jingle that it was seven-thirty.

‘It was a dream,’ Caris said aloud as she brushed a hand over her wet cheeks and reached to switch off the alarm. ‘Just a dream.’

But a haunting, reoccurring dream that had disturbed her sleep and, like some earthquake, shaken her world, causing the ground beneath her feet to open into a gaping chasm.

Since coming to England almost three years ago, she had fought hard to push all thoughts of Zander and the past out of her mind, and over the last six months she had started to believe she was succeeding.

Despite the gloomy economic climate, the estate agency she ran kept her so busy that, immersed in work, she could sometimes go for days on end without thinking of him, days on end without picturing his face.

In consequence she had gradually gained some kind of shaky equilibrium. She was able, at last, to look back and put their relationship into perspective.

It hadn’t been all bad.

Though it had ended in tears and heartache, for a while she had enjoyed the kind of happiness that she had never known existed.

And hadn’t it been said repeatedly that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Pleased that she was able to think that way, she had congratulated herself on her newly found emotional stability.

Now, all because of a dream, that had been swept away. She was once again off-balance and Zander was back in her head, his handsome, strong-boned face clear in her mind’s eye.

All at once she felt cold and bereft. Churned up and desolate. All the old bitterness back.

But she wouldn’t let a dream throw her into emotional chaos again. She was no longer the vulnerable, inexperienced, round peg in a square hole she had been when they had first met.

The painful three years she had just lived through had made a great deal of difference. Now, to all intents and purposes, she was a self-possessed, successful businesswoman in her own right.

If the assurance—the air of confidence, the polish—was only a veneer, these days she didn’t allow anyone to get close enough to even scratch the surface, so who was to know?

To outsiders, she was what she appeared to be.

Partly reassured by this restored vision of a calm, secure, well-ordered life, Caris made her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and shower.

When she was dried and dressed for the day—in a grey, lightweight business suit, discreetly made-up, her long dark hair taken up into a knot, small gold studs in her ears—she went through to the kitchen to make herself some toast and coffee.

It was the Saturday morning of a bank holiday weekend, a busy, working Saturday as far as Caris was concerned, in spite of the weather.

After a cold, wet spring and almost a week of heavy and prolonged rain, everyone had been hoping that, with the prospect of a warm front moving in, the bank holiday would stay dry.

But it was raining yet again, and the latest forecast had been for continuing heavy rain and severe thunderstorms.

In spite of the inclement weather and the continuing recession, Carlton Lees, the estate agency Caris now owned, was doing quite well.

After the death of her aunt, finding it almost impossible to run the agency single-handed, she had taken on a local girl, a cheerful eighteen-year-old named Julie Dawson.

Julie, who did the secretarial work and held the fort while Caris was out with clients, had proved to be an absolute godsend.

Sensible and mature for her years, when sales had started to pick up she had been quite willing to come in early and work late whenever it had proved to be necessary.

Properties in and around the quiet market town of Spitewinter, though moving relatively slowly, were at least moving, and just at present there was no lack of interested clients.

This was due partly to the only other estate agent in town closing down, and partly to the fact that several of the more sought-after properties had recently come on to the market.

The most notable of these was a small manor house dating from the fifteen-hundreds. It had been owned by a famous writer who, at ninety-eight, had recently died and left it to a distant cousin.

The cousin, who lived in Australia, had no desire to keep it. Wanting a speedy sale so he could buy his own ranch, he had put Gracedieu onto the market, causing a buzz of excitement and interest in the property world.

An article about the sale—lavishly accompanied by pictures of the house, estate and the ‘sole agent, Miss Caris Belmont’—had appeared in one of the most prestigious magazines:

Gracedieu, a unique example of a small, sixteenth-century manor house, is an absolute gem. It stands in its own delightful estate which is complete with an old water-mill and a hamlet of picturesque, period cottages,especially built in the late seventeen-hundreds to house the estate workers …

This coverage had caused even more interest and, despite the astronomical asking price and the fact that it had been somewhat neglected by its previous owner, there were several potential buyers waiting to view the place.

The first of these had an appointment for that afternoon, and Caris knew her attention should be focused on getting a quick sale at the asking price.

But, though she tried her hardest to banish all thoughts of Zander, she found it impossible to get him out of her mind.

The Old Vicarage, bequeathed to her by her aunt, along with what had then been a struggling estate agency, all at once seemed too big and too empty, with nothing but regrets and ghosts from the past to keep her company.

Impatient with herself, anxious to get away, she jumped to her feet, grabbed her bag and mac and headed for the door.

Beaded with raindrops, her modest car was waiting on the driveway, and in a moment or two she had left the house behind and, with wipers clicking rhythmically, was heading into town.

Passing the library, she joined the light stream of traffic flowing through Spitewinter’s High Street and across the old humpbacked bridge that spanned the willow-hung river, brown and swollen now because of all the recent rain.

When she reached Carlton Lees, which was at the end of a row of Dickensian shops situated in a wide, cobbled street by the river, she parked in her usual spot beneath the trees and ran to let herself in, her mac around her shoulders.

Julie hadn’t yet arrived, and everywhere was quiet. After attending to the messages and emails, Caris found her client for that morning had been forced to cancel and had requested an appointment for the following week.

That dealt with, she tried to concentrate on the routine work, but tenuous threads of the dream still clung, sticky and inescapable as a spider’s web, and in spite of all her efforts she found her thoughts going back three years.

Back to when her home had been in Upstate New York, and she had joined Belmont and Belmont, her father’s well-respected law firm in Albany. It was there she had first met and fallen in love with Zander …

She had been sitting behind her desk one Friday evening, checking some legal documents before she went home, when her father had looked in to wish her a good vacation. ‘You’ve earned it,’ he’d added.

Austin Belmont, a clever, not to say brilliant lawyer, was a cold, unapproachable, irascible man who rarely handed out praise.

For as long as she could remember she had done her best to please him—with scant success. Now, his spoken approval left her open-mouthed and gasping.

Some half an hour later, she had just filed away the documents she’d been working on, and was about to go home, when the internal phone had rung.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Belmont …’ The firm’s usually unflappable secretary sounded a little flustered. ‘But I have a Mr Devereux here. I wonder if you could possibly see him?’

Devereux … The name rang a bell, though Caris couldn’t immediately think why. ‘Does he have an appointment?’

‘He was supposed to see Mr David, but I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up. We have the wrong date down, and both Mr Austin and Mr David have already left. I was on the point of leaving myself.’

Knowing Kate Bradshaw would need to pick up her daughter from the child minder, Caris said quickly, ‘That’s quite all right, Kate. If you would like to show Mr Devereux through before you go, I’ll do what I can to help him.’

She heard a slight but unmistakable sigh of relief before the receiver was replaced, and guessed that their disgruntled client had been giving the poor woman a hard time.

A moment later there was a tap at the door and he was ushered in.

For some reason Caris had pictured him as being short and portly with grey, thinning hair and jowls, wearing a stuffy suit and tie.

The man who strode in, however, was attractive and self-assured, and carried with him an aura of power and authority.

He was somewhere in the region of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, she judged, blond and broad-shouldered, well over six-feet tall, dressed in smart casuals and looking anything but stuffy.

Beneath the thick, sun-streaked hair his handsome face was lean and tanned, with strong, clear-cut features and long, heavy-lidded eyes beneath curved brows several shades darker than his hair. His mouth, at first glance austere, held a hint of passion that sent shivers running up and down her spine.

Rising to her feet, she held out her hand. ‘I’m Caris Belmont, Mr Devereux.’

She was vexed to find that, instead of being composed and businesslike, her voice sounded very slightly breathless.

Taking her hand, he said formally, ‘Miss Belmont.’

As those long fingers wrapped around hers she felt an electric tingle run up her arm, and thought a trifle dazedly that she had read about that kind of thing happening in romantic novels but had never quite believed it.

Pulling herself together, she said, ‘I gather there’s been some kind of mix-up over the date of your appointment?’

His green eyes cool, he said a shade brusquely, ‘So I understand. Though I must point out that the mistake wasn’t mine.’

‘No. I do apologize.’

If she had hoped for some softening in his attitude, she was disappointed. Clearly he wasn’t the kind of man who took kindly to being brought on a wild goose chase.

She resumed her seat and, indicating the black leather armchair in front of her desk, asked politely, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

When he made no move to follow her suggestion, she added, ‘I may be able to help you.’

He studied her with great deliberation for a moment or two before raising a well-marked brow and asking, ‘In what way?’

Annoyed by the cool mockery, she said stiffly, ‘I am a qualified lawyer.’

His manner holding a faint but unmistakable touch of incredulity, he drawled, ‘Really?’

Her soft mouth tightened. How could she ever have thought him attractive? she wondered furiously. The man was so arrogant!

‘Yes, really,’ she said frigidly.

‘How old are you, Miss Belmont? Let’s see, you must be all of twenty-two—twenty-three at the most?’

Caris bit her lip. He had expected to see one of the senior partners and clearly he thought he was being fobbed off with an inexperienced junior.

Which in a way he was, honesty made her admit.

‘I can’t see that my age matters.’

‘Then suppose I phrase that question differently. Have you had any actual experience?’

‘Certainly … Lots,’ she added recklessly.

‘Lots? My! You must be older than you look. So exactly how long have you been with the practice?’

‘Almost a year.’ She tried not to sound defensive.

‘That long!’

She gritted her teeth.

‘And what exactly is your position here?’

She was pleased to be able to say, ‘I’ve just been offered a partnership.’

The gleam in his eye told her that he knew quite well she had deliberately left out the word ‘junior’.

‘Tell me, Miss Belmont, what is the relationship between yourself and the senior partners? As the surname is the same, I take it there is one?’

Seething inwardly, because she already knew what he was getting at, she curbed her temper as best she could and said briefly, ‘Austin Belmont is my father. David Belmont is my uncle.’

‘So it’s what you might call a nice, cosy little set-up.’

Her anger boiled over and she threw caution to the winds. ‘Mr Devereux,’ she said, her voice icy, ‘I accept that you have a genuine reason for complaint, but I find your attitude insufferable.’

‘And I find yours, shall we say, somewhat naive for a qualified lawyer.’

‘In that case perhaps you would prefer to wait and talk to one of the senior partners?’

‘I understood from your secretary that there is no one else available before Monday.’

‘I’m afraid there isn’t,’ she confirmed shortly.

He studied her heart-shaped face. She was quite lovely, he thought, with flawless skin, a short, straight nose, generous mouth, dark silky hair taken up into a neat coil, and almond eyes beneath winged brows the deep, purple-blue of pansies.

Eyes that at the moment were sparkling with anger.

It had been his intention to leave—his company’s new lawyer would be taking up her post in ten days’ time, and at a pinch his business could wait—but all at once he changed his mind.

This woman interested and intrigued him. As well as beauty, she had brains, character and spirit.

She also had a temper.

Deciding to test that temper a little more, he said, ‘I see.’ Glancing at her from beneath long, gold-tipped lashes, he added, ‘Well, if you think you can cope …?’

Forcing back an angry response, she said, ‘I can cope.’

‘Then the answer to your question is, no.’

She took a deep, steadying breath, before saying coolly, ‘Well, if you intend to stay, Mr Devereux, perhaps you’d like to sit down?’

Ignoring the chair, he came and sat on the edge of the desk, turning slightly to face her.

Suddenly he was much too close and instinctively she flinched away.

It was only the slightest movement, but he noticed it and looked amused.

This time she kept her cool, but her hand itched to throw something at him.

And he knew it, damn him. In fact the gleam in his eye gave her the distinct impression that he was enjoying needling her.

Before she could make any attempt to regain the initiative, he asked with smooth effrontery, ‘So after only a year, and young as you are, you’ve been offered a partnership? You must be exceptionally clever and talented.’

A flush rising in her cheeks, she said tightly, ‘I don’t claim to be either of those, Mr Devereux. But I graduated from one of the top English law schools with honours, and while I’ve been with the firm I’ve kept studying and learning.’

Her voice as dispassionate as she could make it, she went on, ‘If you knew my father and my uncle at all well, you would know that they have no time for nepotism. Any advancement in this firm has to be earned by hard work and competence.’

Yes, she certainly had a temper, but she knew how to control it, he thought admiringly.

Deciding to change tactics, he slid off the desk and turned to face her in one fluid movement.

When green eyes met deep blue, he said simply, ‘I apologize. While I believe I have every right to be angry, I shouldn’t have vented it on you.’

She wanted to say, no you shouldn’t. Instead, the wind taken out of her sails, she said inanely, ‘That’s all right.’

‘Forgive me?’

‘Of course.’

He gave her a smile that lit his eyes, put creases beside his mouth and sent his already powerful sex appeal soaring. ‘And you’re not still angry with me?’

That smile robbed her of breath and, unable to speak, she shook her head.

‘Positive?’

‘Yes, I’m positive,’ she managed.

His gaze dropped to her hands which were long and slim with neat oval nails, mercifully free from the dark-coloured varnishes he so disliked.

Pleased that she appeared to be neither married nor engaged, he asked, ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

Taken by surprise, she echoed, ‘Doing anything?’

‘I mean do you have a date with a boyfriend, or a live-in lover waiting impatiently at home for you?’

‘Neither.’

‘Why not? A beautiful woman like you.’

‘For the last five years I’ve been working so hard I’ve had no time for boyfriends or live-in lovers,’ she told him pointedly.

Suddenly human and likeable, he pulled a droll face. ‘I suppose I asked for that.’

‘You did, rather.’

‘Well, now you’ve cut me down to size, how about having dinner with me tonight?’

Feeling a strange pang of regret, she said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I’m driving down to Catona tonight to start my vacation.’

‘Are you meeting someone there?’

‘I’m staying with a friend.’

‘Oh?’ He raised a questioning brow.

For no good reason, she found herself explaining, ‘Sam’s an old school friend.’

‘Male or female?’

‘Female.’

‘I see.’ He looked satisfied. ‘What time is she expecting you?’

‘No particular time. Whenever I get there.’

‘Well Catona’s only a couple of hours away at the most. You could always have dinner with me first. After all, you’ll need to eat some time,’ he pointed out persuasively.

As Caris hesitated, he added, ‘If you don’t say yes, I’ll know you haven’t forgiven me.’

‘But I have forgiven you.’

He smiled into her eyes. ‘Then tell me where you live and I’ll pick you up at … shall we say seven?’

Without intending to, Caris found herself telling him, ‘I live in Apartment One-A, Lampton House, Darlington Square.’

She was about to explain how to find it when he said cheerfully, ‘I know Darlington Square. I have a small apartment quite near there.

‘Until seven, then.’ He sketched a brief salute and was gone.

She must be stark, staring mad! she thought, gazing after him. Pressure of work had meant burning the midnight oil for the past couple of weeks, and she had intended to get to Catona in time to have an early night tonight.

So what on earth had made her agree to go out with a man she had only just met, and whose first name she didn’t even know? A man who had proved he could be not only difficult but downright demoralizing? A man she had felt instinctively was dangerous?

The truth was she had found him damn-nigh irresistible, and that element of danger added a dash of excitement and spice that had been sadly missing from her life.

When her doorbell rang promptly at seven, Caris was ready and organized, her evening bag and jacket to hand, her small vacation case and holdall packed and waiting to be put into her car later.

With no idea where he intended to take her, she had been undecided what to wear. In the end, having little else because she so rarely went out, she had put on her one and only cocktail dress, a silky sheath in midnight blue with matching high-heeled strappy sandals.

Needing little in the way of make-up, she had applied a light foundation and a touch of lip gloss, taken her hair up into an elegant chignon and fastened pearl drops to her small lobes.

As she opened the door she wondered if he would approve. She very much hoped so.

His gaze travelled over her slowly and appreciatively. Now she had shed the formal business suit, he could see that, as well as a lovely face, this woman had a stunning figure.

Seeing the open admiration in his eyes Caris was satisfied that he liked what he saw.

Knowing now how attractive he was, she had thought herself prepared, and hadn’t expected to be bowled over by the sight of him. But, looking more handsome than ever in an immaculate dinner jacket and black tie, he made her heart lurch crazily.

Taking a deep breath, she invited, ‘If you’d like to come in for a moment, Mr Devereux …?’

‘Won’t you call me Zander? Everyone else does.’

‘Zander?’ she echoed uncertainly.

‘A mistake on my birth certificate,’ he explained with a twinkle in his eye. ‘My parents had intended to call me Alexander, but somehow Zander went down and the name stuck.’

Following her into the light, pleasantly furnished living-room, he remarked with a smile, ‘A nice place. Do you live here alone?’

‘No, I share. But Mitch is on vacation in Rome and won’t be back for another week.’

‘Mitch?’

‘Diana Mitchell, but everyone calls her Mitch.’

Then, recalling the time, Caris added hastily, ‘I’m all ready. I just need pick up my jacket and bag.’

‘It’s a pleasure to find a woman who’s prompt as well as beautiful.’

His words sent a little thrill of excitement running through her. But, knowing it was necessary to keep her feet firmly on the ground, she observed practically, ‘I need to be prompt. I’m hoping to be back here in time to put my luggage in the car and get down to Catona this side of midnight.’

Glancing at the waiting case and holdall, he asked thoughtfully, ‘Will you be doing much driving while you’re there?’

She shook her head. ‘None at all, I imagine. First thing tomorrow morning, Sam and I will be joining a small group of hikers who’ll be doing a five-day trek along the Rowton Way. But I need my car to get to Catona and back.’

‘If that’s all, I’ve a suggestion to make. The restaurant I’m planning to take you to is well on the way to Catona.’

Feeling suddenly breathless, she waited, wondering what was coming.

‘So, if we take your luggage with us, after we’ve eaten instead of bringing you back here I could drive you down to your friend’s. That would save a good deal of time.’

‘Oh, but …’

‘It would give us the chance to be together longer and have a more leisurely meal.’

The chance to be together longer …

Her heart doing strange things, she pointed out, ‘But then I wouldn’t have a car to get back.’

‘My house is only about twelve miles from Catona, so if you let me know when your vacation’s over I could quite easily pick you up.’

‘I couldn’t possibly put you to all that trouble,’ she protested.

‘It’s no trouble. If it had been I wouldn’t have suggested it.’ Briskly, he added, ‘Is this all the luggage you have?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there anything else you need to do before we go?’

Common sense told her she ought to dig her toes in and refuse to be hustled but, looking into those green eyes, she was lost.

‘Nothing else,’ she answered.

He put her jacket around her shoulders and handed her her bag, before picking up her case and holdall. ‘Then let’s get started.’

Feeling as if she was being swept along by a prairie wind, Caris allowed herself to be escorted out to a sleek silver sports car that waited by the kerb.

When her luggage had been stowed in the back and she had been helped into the passenger seat, Zander slid behind the wheel. ‘All set?’

She nodded.

The engine purred like a satisfied cat; they traversed the quiet square and joined the busy evening stream of traffic.

Some five minutes later they had left the outskirts of the city behind them and were heading roughly south-west.

Seeing the wooded peaks of the Catskills in the distance, she asked, ‘Where exactly are we going?’

‘The restaurant is called Le Jardin Romarin. It’s rather a special place, and they have an excellent French chef.’

‘How far is it?’

‘Not too far. It’s near the mountains, on the outskirts of a pretty little village called Bright Angel Falls.’

‘Oh, we once drove through Bright Angel Falls!’ she exclaimed. ‘I remembered it because it was such a lovely name.’

‘Do you know the area well?’

‘Not very well. But my father took me that way once or twice when I was younger, and I always thought it was really picturesque.’

‘So it is,’ he agreed. ‘That’s why I chose to buy a house in that area.’

If he had a house, as well as an apartment in town and a luxury car, he must be a relatively wealthy man; the way he dressed seemed to confirm that.

But, even if he hadn’t had a cent, with his looks and charisma it was a wonder he was still free.

They were following a quiet, spruce-lined road when he broke into her thoughts to remark, ‘We’ll soon be at the bridge that spans the Bright Angel Gorge. If you look to your left, you’ll get a good view of the falls. They’re quite spectacular.’

When they dropped down an incline, Caris saw the bridge ahead of them, and on the opposite side a small parking area from which a short but steep and narrow flight of rocky steps led down to a viewpoint guarded by a chest-high railing.

As they crossed the bridge, she glanced left, as she had been bidden. A series of delicate waterfalls, looking like skeins of bright spun silk, plummeted gracefully into the rocky depths; lit by the rays of the sinking sun, a rainbow arched in the air, forming a multicoloured halo.

Her first thought was that he had been right to call them spectacular. In fact even that adjective seemed to be something of an understatement.

When he glanced at her, as if trying to judge her reaction, she said a little huskily, ‘They’re magnificent. Absolutely magnificent.’

‘So is the gorge itself. But it’s so deep you can only see it properly by going down to the viewpoint.’

‘Could we do that? Have we time?’

‘If you want to go down, we’ll make time.’ As he spoke, he was drawing into the car park.

Having helped her from the car, he warned, ‘Better let me go first. Some of the steps are worn and uneven, and could be tricky with those high heels.’ Carefully, she followed him down and, standing by the railings, looked over into the gorge.

The tumbled rocks and surging white water far below took her breath away, and she was still gazing in wonder when her companion reminded her, ‘If you want to get down to Catona tonight we’d better be moving.’

The awesome scene still filling her mind, she held on to the metal handrail and began to climb back up the steps, Zander at her heels.

She had almost reached the top when she missed her footing and slipped off a step.

Her companion stopped her falling and held her steady until she’d had time to gather herself, before asking, ‘Any damage done?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she answered.

But when she tried to climb the remaining steps she couldn’t prevent a gasp of pain.

‘What is it?’

Reluctantly, she admitted, ‘I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle.’