Читать книгу An Unbroken Marriage - Пенни Джордан, PENNY JORDAN - Страница 6

FAMOUS last words, India thought ruefully, three days later, surveying the contents of her wardrobe. Knowing Melisande, the majority of the other guests would be culled from the ranks of the beautiful and/or socially prominent; people with whom she could scarcely compete.

Positive thinking, India told herself. She might not be either wealthy or titled, but she was young, reasonably attractive, and if she wasn’t dressed at least as eye-catchingly as the other female guests she had no one to blame but herself.

However, that was half the trouble. Her own personal preference for plain, unfussy clothes revealed itself in the garments hanging in her cupboard. If she knew Melisande and the rest of her crowd, the women would be dressed in the very latest fashions, the more outré and daring the better. She would look like a minnow in the midst of a whole host of brightly painted tropical fish!

She fingered her velvet dress, frowning as she pictured Simon Herries, looking over it—and her—with that cynical knowingness that so infuriated her. Without giving herself time to change her mind she rang for a taxi.

When it came she was ready, having bathed and carefully applied her make-up while she waited.

She gave him directions and asked him to wait while she slipped into the salon.

It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for—a dress she had designed for one of her clients to wear over Christmas. Unfortunately the girl had broken her leg the week before the dance and the dress had remained unworn.

Grabbing it off the rail, together with its protective wrapping, India hurried back to the waiting taxi.

‘Sorry about that,’ she apologised to the waiting driver, ‘but I needed to collect something.’

‘Don’t worry about it, love,’ she was assured as the taxi driver glanced down at the dress she was carrying over her arm, grinning at her as he opened the taxi door.

‘At least you’ll never be able to use the same excuse as my missus; not with a whole shopful of things to choose from—always complaining that she ain’t got anything to wear she is.’

India glanced at her watch as she stepped out of the taxi in front of her flat.

Fifteen minutes before Simon Herries was due to pick her up. With a bit of luck she should just about be ready. She had no desire to be forced into asking him into the flat while she finished dressing.

India was choosy about who she invited into her home. The salon was where she saw most of her clients—either there or at their homes; and she treasured the privacy and solitude of the flat which she kept firmly separate from the salon.

Most of the decorating she had done herself, unlike the salon; and she had chosen furniture and furnishings which appealed to her.

That, she reflected, unlocking the door, was one of the pleasures of accounting to no one but oneself. There was no one to question one’s taste!

The kitchen, with its mellow wooden units and tiled worktops, reflected her love of natural products as opposed to synthetics. The honey-coloured tiles on the worktops and the floor had been bought on a business trip to Spain, and their warm colour always reminded her of the brilliant sunshine and warmth of Spain. The kitchen had pretty green and white curtains made up in a French fabric she had found in Liberty’s; a comfortable basket chair possessed cushions of the same fabric, and green plants in pretty pots added a touch of extra colour and freshness.

The comfortable lounge was furnished with an assortment of items India had purchased over the years; an old bookcase which she had had stripped and cleaned; a huge settee which she had bought in a sale and subsequently re-covered in cream; and most prized of all, probably, the traditional Persian rug which she had bought with the profit from her first year in business on her own account.

In her bedroom, which reflected her taste for fresh, natural colours, India stripped off the clothes she had worn to go to the salon and unzipped the protective cover from the dress she had brought from there.

Made of crinkly gold tissue, the strapless bodice moulded the firm thrust of her breasts, emphasising the slenderness of her waist and clinging seductively to the feminine curve of her hips and the slender length of her legs.

The dress needed no adornment, and the only jewellery India wore was a thick twisted rope of gold hugging her throat.

She did not possess any gold sandals, but had an elegant pair of black suede evening shoes which she had bought in Paris, and which were so high that they mde her tower above most of the men she knew; perhaps it was a power complex, she thought wryly, this refusal to acknowledge male pride and resort, as so many of her tall sisters did, to wearing flat or low-heeled shoes.

Over the dress she intended to wear her black velvet evening cloak, and she was just reaching for it when she heard the doorbell ring. Smothering the butterflies swarming in her stomach, she checked her appearance in the mirror, a little taken aback by the reflection staring at her.

For some reason the gold fabric seemed to intensify the dark richness of her hair and the creamy perfection of her skin. Although she was very slim, her breasts were marginally fuller than the girl’s for whom the gown had originally been designed, and the strapless bodice seemed to draw provocative attention to their firm upthrust.

It was too late to change now, she told herself, reaching for her cloak and evening bag, and switching off the bedroom light.

In the lounge she left a table light burning, a solitary pool of colour reflecting downwards from the cream shade on to the richness of her prized rug.

She opened the door, composing her features into her ‘professional’ mask.

Her first thought was that Simon Herries seemed larger than she remembered; then she realised that the proximity of her small hall meant that she was far closer to him, and actually forced to look up at him as he stepped inside.

That made India frown. She had been on the point of stepping out of the flat as he moved forward and the two paces were enough to bring them close enough for her to be able to smell the fresh, sharp scent of his aftershave. It enveloped her in a spicy, entirely masculine scent, and she wondered briefly if he was equally as aware of her Arpège, a thought which she quickly dismissed as unimportant and stupid.

‘Do you think it’s wise to leave that on?’ He was looking over India’s shoulder, into the lounge where she had left the lamp burning, and beneath her make-up India felt her face colour with mingled resentment and anger. Another step and he would be inside the lounge; penetrating her private sanctuary, violating her privacy. She moved instinctively, impeding his progress, her voice curt and clipped as she said coolly,

‘I always leave it on.’

‘Why? To deter thieves? Because you’re frightened of the dark?’

His eyes swung from her collection of attractive, but with the exception of her rug, relatively inexpensive furniture, to her cool, remote face, and he drawled mockingly, ‘Hardly. So why…?’

‘Perhaps because it’s welcoming to come home to.’

‘Ah, yes!’ Something gleamed in his eyes; something alien and almost frightening. ‘Of course,’ he said softly, ‘you would know all about the… benefits of being welcoming.’

If there was a double meaning to the words, it escaped India.

‘Has it ever occurred to you that it might not be safe?’

Before she could stop him, Simon Herries had walked past her to the lamp, swiftly switching it off, but not, she noticed, before those all-seeing dark grey eyes had glanced swiftly and assessingly over the room and its contents.

‘Very nice,’ he commented as they left. ‘You’re a very fortunate young woman, India Lawson. Your own business—a successful business at that—youth; looks.’ They were out on the street and beneath lashes far darker and thicker than any mere man had a right to possess his eyes assessed her contours cloaked in the black velvet.

What was she supposed to do, India fumed; fawn ingratiatingly? But Simon Herries hadn’t finished.

‘A devoted admirer… even if he is someone else’s husband… He must be very fond of you to have set you up with the salon. Prime site in Mayfair—it can’t have come cheap.’

They were standing on the kerb in front of the immaculate Ferrari, Simon Herries had reached towards the passenger door and was opening it for India to get in, but she stood her ground, sparks kindling in her eyes,

‘For your information, no one “set me up with the salon”, as you put it. All I have has been achieved through my own hard work!’

‘And Melford Taylor hasn’t helped you in the slightest, is that what you’re trying to say?’ He was sneering outright now, and for two pins India would have walked off and left him standing, but two things stopped her. One was her own pride; if she ran now it was tantamount to admitting that his accusations had some basis; and the other was that she could not run anywhere, because Simon Herries’ lean, hard fingers were gripping her wrist like a manacle; his superior weight forcing her into the passenger seat of the car. Her wrist was released and the door was closed. India rubbed it covertly, staring stonily out of the passenger window as she felt the cold rush of air as the driver’s door opened and she felt the car depress as Simon Herries slid alongside her.

‘Sulking?’ he commented ten minutes later when India was still staring furiously ahead of her. ‘It won’t alter the truth.’

‘The truth!’ India turned to face him, her mouth taut with anger. ‘I doubt if a man like you could recognise it!’

‘Men like me are the only ones who do recognise it,’ came the pithy reply, ‘simply because they’ve had so much experience of the opposite. Your sex never cease to amaze me with their ability to contort “truth” to suit their own requirements; their own careers. Believe me, I know.’

‘I’m sure you do!’

In the darkness of the car India could feel him staring at her, her eyes drawn involuntarily to his hands on the wheel, holding it with cool easy confidence; the way he would hold a woman, and she shivered with some prescient knowledge she could scarcely comprehend. What on earth was the matter with her?

The traffic was thinning out. India glanced at the dashboard clock, amazed to see that they had been travelling for well over half an hour. She frowned, searching the dark for a familiar landscape, and demanded abruptly, ‘Is it far?’

‘Is what far?’ came the cool reply.

Fear gnawed edgily at India’s already overstretched nerves.

‘Don’t play games with me!’ she snapped. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Is it far to Melisande’s flat?’

‘Not particularly.’

No further information was forthcoming, and India was forced to contain her growing anger in a fuming silence; either that or be drawn into further bickering. Abominable man! she thought crossly. She could almost believe that he had been deliberately trying to goad her into losing her temper. She shot him a suspicious glance, watching the dark lashes flick downwards in answer to her scrutiny, although he never lifted his eyes from the road.

The Ferrari was picking up speed. India had fastened her seat-belt when she got in, and that, combined with the luxury of the deep leather seats, combined to hold her snugly in place, even when the car veered abruptly to the right. She just had time to see the road sign before suburban darkness swallowed them up again, and what she read on it had her turning ashen-faced to the man seated next to her.

‘This isn’t the way to Melisande’s! It said on that signpost, M₄, Bath and South Wales.’

‘So it did,’ Simon Herries agreed smoothly.

‘Well, aren’t you going to turn back?’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ India stared at him in disbelieving silence. ‘Because we’re going the wrong way, that’s why!’

‘Oh no, we’re not.’ The words were spoken so softly that at first she couldn’t believe she had actually heard them, but as though to reinforce them, Simon Herries continued expressionlessly, ‘We’re going exactly the way I planned we would go when I asked you to come to Melisande’s party.’ His mouth curled sardonically. ‘I knew you’d find the bait irresistible.’

‘Bait?’ India said tonelessly. She was beyond feeling; beyond anything, apart from trying to come to terms with what was happening to her.

‘Yes, the lure of a possible TV designing contract. That was why you agreed to come, of course.’ For a moment India was too stupefied to speak, and then all at once she found her voice, questions tumbling over one another.

‘What is this? Where’s Melisande? Where are you taking me?’

‘Which shall I answer first?’ he mused sardonically. ‘This, my dear India, is a form of—shall I call it retribution? A theatrical word to use, perhaps; justice is more how I think of it. As to Melisande,’ he continued, before India could question his first statement, ‘to the best of my knowledge at this very moment she’s in California. Now as to your third question, which was, I believe, “Where are you taking me?” he mimicked her own half furious, half fearful tones to perfection, much to India’s chagrin, ‘I’m taking you to a cottage I own in Dorset, where you and I shall spend the weekend together, returning to London on Monday morning, when I shall deposit you at your salon, having very publicly escorted you inside.

‘Tomorrow morning I shall ring your efficient secretary from the cottage, and explain to her that you’ll be late for work on Monday, and why…’ His eyes gleamed in the darkness and it seemed to India, completely unable to believe what she was hearing, that there was Satanic madness in that dark grey gleam.

‘Being the inestimable character that she is, she will naturally leap to the most appropriate conclusions, and before the week is out, my dear India, it should even have reached the ears of that doting boy-friend of yours that you and I have, to put it colloquially, become “very good friends”.’

‘But why? I don’t understand! You don’t like me. You don’t…’

‘Desire you?’ He was mocking her openly, but beneath the mockery India sensed a dangerous anger held in check. ‘No, I don’t desire you.’

‘Then why?’ India demanded helplessly, running through in her mind all the possible explanations for his totally irrational behaviour. Could it be an elaborate joke? She glanced doubtfully at the iron cast of his profile, the hard jaw, and set mouth.

‘Try Melford Taylor,’ the hatefully controlled voice drawled above her ear, ‘or better still, try Melford’s unfortunate wife—my cousin. Oh yes,’ he agreed when she turned dismayed eyes towards him, ‘Alison is most definitely my cousin. Her parents were the only stable family I knew after my own divorced; they practically brought me up. Alison was like a sister to me—in fact I was the one to introduce her to Melford. I’m even godfather to his two sons. You did know about them: about the fact that your lover had children by another woman—his wife?’ he demanded with a savagery that found India totally unprepared after the controlled calm of his earlier statements.