Читать книгу Dangerous Deceiver - Lindsay Armstrong, Lindsay Armstrong - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL, well,’ he drawled in that quizzical, amused voice that haunted her dreams, ‘we meet again. I wonder if that’s pure fate or—something else?’

Two things happened at the same time: Madame burst forth into surprised French and Martha tossed her head and clenched her sherry glass so that her knuckles showed white. Which caused Simon Macquarie to narrow his eyes and cut across Madame’s outpourings as he said drily, ‘Now, Martha, we’ve been through this once before. I was remarkably understanding about the champagne but there is a limit—I would drink that sherry if I were you.’

Martha did just that and the next best thing she could think of. She tossed off the last of her sherry, placed the glass down gently on a table, and stalked out with all of the considerable hauteur, disdain and controlled rage she was capable of—leaving the party to fall into a sudden, electrified silence behind her.

Once in the sanctuary of her basement with the door firmly locked, she tore off her earrings and bracelet and flung them down on the kitchen table. She was just in the process of undoing the buttons of her waistcoat when, to her incredulity, she heard a key in the area door and it swung open into her kitchen-cum-sitting-room to admit Simon.

Buttoning herself up with furious, trembling fingers, but aware that he must have seen at least the flesh-coloured silk and lace of her low-cut French bra, she spat, ‘How dare you! How did you get a key? This is intolerable!’

‘It’s Yvette’s master key,’ he said placidly, laying the offending article on the table next to her earrings and bracelet. ‘She—er—agreed with me that there was obviously some unfinished business between us.’

‘Oh, no, there’s not!’ Martha flashed, then took a breath as she tried to think, tried to gather herself into some sort of icy composure. ‘At least to my mind,’ she said in a suddenly cool, reflective voice, ‘there’s only this, Simon Macquarie. You posed the theory that I’d somehow tracked you down and ingratiated myself with your aunt in a bid to...’ She paused, which was fatal as it turned out.

‘To re-establish yourself in my life?’ he suggested gently, but with such mockery that she winced. ‘It did cross my mind, yes.’

‘Then you must be mad!’ she accused. ‘I had no idea she was your aunt, and believe me, if I had, the last thing I’d be doing is working for her.’

‘Well,’ he murmured with a faint smile, ‘you’ll have to forgive me for being a little wary of your motives, Martha. But I must say——’ that clever, amused gaze roamed up and down her figure ‘—I have to give you full marks for ambition, my little Aussie tart. This is a rather astonishing climb up the ladder from serving drinks and propositioning guests. Like to tell me how you achieved it?’ And with a wryly raised eyebrow he sat down at her kitchen table and picked up the gold bracelet she’d cast down in such a rage, to run it thoughtfully through his long fingers.

Martha had never actually seen red before but what saved her was the sudden, startlingly clear mental picture of what had happened to her the last time she’d slapped this man’s face. So she closed her eyes on the red film, very briefly and discreetly filled her lungs with air as she’d been trained to, then sat down opposite him with a shrug and said, ‘How do you think? It’s amazing what you can achieve—on your back.’

For a long moment their gazes locked, hers not even defiant, she hoped, yet she was momentarily puzzled by the tinge of scepticism she thought she saw in his; then it was gone and she wondered if she’d imagined it.

But he said abruptly, ‘So that part of it was always true?’ And there was no mistaking the cold disgust in his eyes now.

‘Of course. Did you ever doubt it?’ Martha asked sweetly, despite the strange mixture of hurt and the feeling that she was tumbling down a mine-shaft—by her own hand but unable to stop herself. ‘Perhaps I was a bit...rough in those days. Is that what made you have doubts? Well, I’m much, much more experienced now, Mr Macquarie. Would you like a demonstration?’

He relaxed all of a sudden. ‘No, thank you, Miss Winters. I think I could live without it. No,’ he mused. ‘What activated certain doubts was the sometimes undoubted genuineness of your—rages. But I guess we’re all wrong from time to time. Does my aunt know how you operate?’ he asked drily.

I’ve gone too far—I’ve done it again! Martha found herself thinking dully as she coloured a little. Why does this man do this to me? Then she stood up abruptly, swung her hair defiantly and said equally drily, ‘No. In fact I’ve turned over a new leaf. Now I’ve got this far it would be silly to...well, I guess you know what I mean.’

‘Acquire a sleazy reputation?’ he suggested softly.

‘Yes,’ she said shortly, but couldn’t prevent herself from shooting him one brief, blazing glance.

His lips twisted. ‘Well, I hope you succeed. And I hope you don’t find it too difficult to live without,’ he added, standing up himself.

Martha knew exactly what he meant as his gaze drifted up and down her again as if he could see beneath the blue crêpe and the coffee silk and she was reminded with deadly accuracy how it felt to have his hands on her body, but he didn’t leave a thing to chance. He moved towards her and stopped only inches away so that she was assailed by everything about him that she’d always found so tormentingly attractive: his height and the width of his shoulders; the slight tang of a lemony aftershave and the sheer male smell; the hard planes and angles of his fit, lean body that she’d secretly so admired. And she recalled the rapture of being kissed and held by him and how her heart had beaten and her skin shivered of its own accord, how her nerves had leapt...

She swallowed as she tried to gaze up unaffectedly into his eyes and remembered that he’d always been more than a match for her, and not only physically. She remembered, too, how he’d looked into her eyes, often after a passionate embrace, with that assessing, clever amusement lurking in the greeny depths of his and that wry, ironic twist to his lips and just sometimes with a more deadly kind of mockery.

She opened her mouth, desperate for something to say to break the unbearable tension of the moment, but he spoke first. ‘Live without sex, I mean,’ he murmured, and smiled as she trembled suddenly. ‘It should be interesting, Martha, to see how you cope. And I suppose one can’t altogether blame you for working your way up the ladder on your back when there are places on your body where your skin is like silk and there are curves and hollows so well arranged and designed, so erotic and sensitive, it’s...’ he paused ‘...almost a crime to find that you haven’t got the heart and soul to go with them. But——’

‘Get out,’ she whispered, rigid and white to the lips.

‘Just going. Good luck...’

‘Look, Madame, I apologise for walking out of your party but if you want to sack me for it that’s fine with me.’

Yvette Minter threw up her hands. She was wearing a colourful, stiffened-silk dressing-gown and she’d descended the area steps and knocked Martha up only moments ago. It was the morning after the party, a Sunday morning, and about nine o‘clock. ‘Why did I know you would say something like that to me?’ she demanded in clearly aggrieved tones. ‘Can you not even offer me a cup of coffee at this horrendous hour of the day?’

Martha shrugged and turned to the stove where a percolator was bubbling gently. ‘If you like.’ She poured two mugs.

Madame glanced at Martha’s bent head during this process but uncharacteristically said nothing for a time as she sat down and arranged the rich folds of her gown around her.

‘There.’ Martha pushed a mug across the table and after a brief hesitation sat down herself.

‘Merci.’ Madame smiled faintly and pursed her lips.

This caused Martha to wonder what was coming and it was as if Madame guessed her thoughts, because she said lightly, ‘I was just thinking—such a difference! Last night you were all fire and elegance; today you are like a teenage girl.’

Martha grimaced down at the floral patterned leggings and voluminous T-shirt she wore. ‘So?’

‘That’s another thing—how many times you say, “So?” to me, like so.’

‘Sorry. I guess what I’m trying to say is this. If I’ve blown my chance, if I’ve disgraced myself thoroughly and you can’t see any hope of retrieving things and making me famous——’ there was a tinge of irony in her voice ‘—you only have to tell me straight.’

‘Martha,’ Madame reproved, ‘why are you so prickly?’

‘It’s the way I’m made, I guess.’ Martha shrugged.

‘OK, I believe you, but what makes you think you disgraced yourself last night? All you did was add a bit of spice and mystery to the image. Believe me, to walk out on Simon—even to want to, let alone to do it—is a gesture not many girls make.’

‘Then they should,’ Martha said before she could stop herself. ‘I’m sorry if he’s your nephew but he—’ She stopped abruptly.

‘Go on,’ Madame said, her black eyes fairly snapping with curiosity.

Martha bit her lip and thought, Shades of Jane...‘No—uh—well, the least said, the soonest mended, I’m sure. Unless he...’ She stopped and looked directly at the other woman.

‘He has said nothing. Nothing,’ Madame emphasised. ‘Well, beyond that he met you three years ago in Australia. He has left me totally in the dark in other words—which is extremely frustrating for a woman like me,’ she added with complete honesty. ‘Mind you, it’s not hard to guess that you two—er—had something going; the air nearly sizzled around you. What a shot in the eye for Sondra Grant.’ She sighed with obvious pleasure.

‘Who’s she?’

Madame opened her eyes very wide. ‘His fiancée—well, his unofficial fiancée—you didn’t know?’

‘I don’t know anything about him, other than that he can be an absolute——’

‘Then I will tell you.’ Madame sat forward eagerly, and took not the slightest notice of Martha’s protest. ‘He is the son of my late ’usband’s brother—in reality we bear the same name but I chose to use my maiden name for my business. Now you think it’s strange that I should have married a Scot? Not at all; the Macquaries ‘ave married French women often; the family is half French anyway because——’

‘I know about the liqueur,’ Martha said drily. ‘That’s how we met in Australia—at a cocktail party but serving liqueur instead.’

‘Ah!’ Madame looked suddenly enlightened then she became serious again. ‘But do you know that Simon has literally saved the family company from fading into oblivion and turned it into a highly profitable concern again? Because he is a brilliant businessman—dynamic. Why, without his advice even I wouldn’t be where I am today and—–’

‘Madame—’ Martha stood up ‘—I’m really not interested. I’m sorry—–’

‘So he was the one?’

‘The one what?’

‘Who ’urt you, Martha. Look—–’ Madame became angry at last ‘—don’t take me for a fool, Mees Winters!’

‘I’m not!’ Martha denied. ‘But he is your nephew—Oh, this is impossible,’ she whispered suddenly, and was horrified to find she had tears welling. Tears because she could see a new life she’d just begun to believe in shattering before her eyes.

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘What’s what got to do with it?’ Martha asked impatiently, dashing at her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘That he’s my nephew?’ Madame said with more of her old arrogance.

‘Everything, I should imagine. I hate him, he...despises me, and I couldn’t even begin to tell you how much. We could be tripping over each other all the time, but you obviously admire him tremendously and—–’

‘So you think I automatically take his side, Miss Martha?’

‘Yes!’

Madame stood up and arranged her robe regally around her. ‘Then you do not even begin to understand me, Martha Winters,’ she said chillingly. ‘I do not only design exquisite clothes but I am a very fine judge of character as well as human nature. I’m also a Frenchwoman through to my bones and as such I know a lot about men, so I would never dream of saying, This man is my nephew therefore he must be all honour and virtue. No. Instead I say to myself, This is a man, first and foremost, and we all know what bastards men can be sometimes—this is what I say!’

Martha stared at her then sat down abruptly, dropped her face into her hands and started to laugh a little wildly. ‘But you hardly know me from a bar of soap!’

‘True,’ Madame conceded. ‘But I like you. So, hate Simon if you wish to. It will not affect me. But it also might not deceive me entirely.’

Martha looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Chérie,’ Madame said kindly, ‘you do not deceive me for one moment. However, before you get your ’ackles all in a knot again, I will say not one word more!’ And for once in her life she didn’t.

Neither did Martha. For the simple reason that she rather felt as if she’d had all the stuffing knocked out of her.

But she was back at work the next morning and Madame’s avowed liking for her didn’t prevent Madame from putting her through a gruelling day, or from telling her she looked like a sack of potatoes in a certain outfit.

It was almost a fortnight before she saw Simon Macquarie again, then she saw him twice in two days.

The first time was at a pub in Fulham Road. It was a hot, dry Friday with an uncharacteristically merciless sun beaming out of an English sky. It had been a torrid week work-wise as well and she was only too happy to escape the salon during her lunch-hour and the depths of the pub had looked cool and inviting so she’d ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of iced tea. It had taken a few minutes to notice that Simon was among a group on the other side of the room, mostly men in business suits and with briefcases but one eye-catching girl with them, sitting next to him.

Sondra Grant? Martha wondered. Or a business associate? Because, for all that her bobbed, dark, shining hair, pale olive skin, slightly exotic bone-structure and deeply red painted mouth were rather stunning, she wore a plain black suit and white blouse, a man’s watch on her wrist, and, as Martha’s eyes rested on her, delved into a black leather briefcase and withdrew what looked like a formal document from it that she handed to Simon. Then again, Martha mused, watching the way their shoulders touched as they scanned the document, not altogether business associates probably...

All of which, to her disgust, had the effect of turning the salad she’d been enjoying to sawdust. She got up and left not long afterwards, taking a detour around the room so she wouldn’t come within recognising distance; hopefully.

It was her Saturday off the next day, still hot and bright, and after sleeping in for once in her life, then doing her chores at home, she walked up to South Kensington where she shopped, browsed for an hour in a fascinating bookshop, and finally walked home via Sydney Street and St Luke’s Parish Church. What prompted her to stop as she realised there was about to be a wedding she never knew. But there were a few other people standing at the iron railings and it was undoubtedly going to be a posh wedding, judging from the Rolls and Mercedes coming and going and the morning suits and fancy hats. So she stayed to watch, telling herself she had nothing else to do anyway and it was interesting to see the clothes and try to work which were designer ones and which were not.

Finally the bride arrived and she turned out to be a short, plump, pink-cheeked girl in a plain, beautiful silk dress but a mixture of nerves and stars in her eyes. And Martha saw her take a deep breath then turn to go into the dark, cavernous recesses of the church on the arm of her father with only two little page boys behind her. But for some reason Martha also found herself unusually touched as she bent down to pick up her shopping bags. By the blue of the sky and the green of the grass on the other side of the railings, the beautiful old honey-coloured stone of the church—and a plain girl taking a momentous step in her life.

So she got a double shock to find Simon Macquarie in khaki cotton trousers and a blue open-necked shirt standing right behind her, even picking up one of her bags himself—double because she had a lump in her throat that would be a dead give-away if she opened her mouth. But perhaps he saw something in her eyes because he raised an eyebrow and said, ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for the kind of person that cries at weddings, Martha.’

She cleared her throat but it was still in a slightly husky voice that she replied, ‘No? Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Perhaps I’m regretting lost opportunities, that kind of thing. What,’ she enquired coolly, having regained complete control of her voice, ‘are you doing here?’

‘I live around here.’

‘I might have known.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? By the way, I saw you yesterday, having a single, chaste lunch.’

‘Saw me? But I—–’ Martha closed her mouth quickly.

He smiled slightly. ‘Took pains to be invisible? I know. Perhaps I have a certain sensitivity—about you.’

‘After three years?’ Martha said drily. ‘I find that very hard to believe. If you’d mind handing over my meat and groceries, I’ll get going.’

‘Oh, I’ll walk you home,’ he said blandly. ‘It’s a lovely day.’ But he made no move. Instead a rather thoughtful greeny grey gaze took in her floral leggings, T-shirt and blue canvas shoes.

‘What now?’ Martha demanded through clenched teeth.

‘Two things,’ he drawled. ‘You look ridiculously young and untouched in that gear but—–’ he overrode her ‘—I was just wondering what kind of a scene you were going to make to—dispel the illusion.’

‘Well, you’re in for a surprise,’ Martha said conversationally, having fought a very brief battle with herself and decided she would rather die than afford him the satisfaction of a scene, despite the fact that it might be playing right into his hands. But then he’ll be in for a shock there too, she vowed as she continued sweetly, ‘Do you know, and I’m surprised—–’ she started to stroll along, swinging her bags ‘—really surprised no one’s told you this, but men who think they know everything are the most boring men on earth.’

He laughed but said only, ‘Come and have a drink. We could expand this theory of yours—–’

‘No!’

‘Not even at the Chelsea Farmer’s Market just across the road? You’d be quite safe. Did you think I was planning to lure you back to my house? Now I don’t think that would be safe at all, Martha,’ he murmured. ‘For either of us.’ And with one quizzical look that seared her to the depths of her soul he simply crossed the road with her meat and groceries still in his hand and walked through the entrance to the colourful market.

‘Not such a bad idea after all,’ he said lightly after she’d eaten a hamburger and was sipping a glass of chilled white wine. ‘Mind you, I must admit it’s often hard work to get models to eat lettuce leaves, let alone hamburgers, but you didn’t finish your lunch yesterday, did you?’

Martha narrowed her eyes against the sun and refused to be provoked. ‘Nor had I had lunch today.’

‘I know the feeling.’ He stretched his long legs out and put his hands behind his head. ‘Well?’

‘Well? I’m not sure what you’re trying to say. That I’ll never make the top if I go on eating hamburgers, which was entirely your suggestion by the way, or—–’

‘No, I was merely pointing out that we can relax in each other’s company.’

‘So we can,’ she murmured. ‘Although I’m not sure what the point of it is.’

He grinned. ‘Perhaps even old adversaries like us, if you can call it that, can’t keep fighting all the time. How’s work?’

Just keep cool, Martha warned herself. ‘Your aunt is highly temperamental so that I doubt if working for her is ever a peaceful experience, but the new range, the off-the-rack one, is quite stunning. I’m enjoying it despite all the drama,’ she confessed.

‘I think she’s enjoying having you,’ he commented. ‘She said to me the other day, “Ah, that one, she ’as a mind of ‘er own!”’

Martha looked across at him. ‘You were discussing me with her?’

‘Not at all. Your secrets are quite safe with me.’

‘So how did I come up?’ Martha enquired drily.

‘She was showing me some of the photography for the new range.’

‘Is that all she said?’ Martha bit her lip.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Nothing.’ She sat up. ‘Thanks for lunch but I’d better get going.’

‘Tell me something before you go, Martha. Have you made any friends?’

‘No, as you so rightly observed, I’m still managing to stay chaste.’ She directed him a blue gaze full of irony.

‘So you’re going home to wash your hair and spend this lovely Saturday evening watching television?’ he said with a mocking little glint in his eye. ‘What a waste; but there are not only men friends to be had in this world.’

‘I am aware of that,’ Martha said, counting to ten beneath her breath as she fished in her purse and started to count out the exact money for her lunch and wine. ‘And no, I haven’t made any other friends as yet, but it will come, I’m sure. It also seems to me that sworn enemies such as you and I can’t help fighting, so I was right, there seems little point in this kind of truce, besides which it’s a bit exhausting. But never let it be said I’m cheap in the matter of free lunches.’ And she pushed the pile of coins in front of him, adding with what she hoped was insouciance and her best Australian accent, ‘Good-day, mate.’

But as she went to turn away he caught her wrist, and said, so that only she could hear in the colourful throng enjoying the sun in the open air. ‘You won’t last, you know, Martha. If I hadn’t had my wits about me you’d have gone to bed with me three years ago.’

But Martha stayed to hear no more. With an upward chop of her wrist she broke his grip, gathered her bags and strode away.

‘Ah-ha!’ Madame said with deep satisfaction a few days later, days during which Martha had reminded herself of an angry tigress lashing her tail, but it hadn’t appeared to affect her image.