Читать книгу Surrender To Seduction - Robyn Donald - Страница 7

HASTILY Gerry transferred her attention to the policeman. ‘What do you want to know about the baby?’ she asked. ‘She’s a little girl, and although I’m no expert I don’t think she’s any more than a day old, judging by the umbilical cord.’

He gave her a respectful look and rapidly became professional. ‘Exactly what time did you first see her?’ he said.

So, very aware of the opening and closing of cupboards in her kitchen, Gerry explained how she’d found the child, nodding at the box with its pathetic little pile of damp clothes. The policeman asked pertinent questions and took down her answers, thanking Bryn Falconer when he brought a mug of coffee.

The constable plodded through his cup of coffee and his questions until Cara appeared in the doorway, her sultry face alive with curiosity and interest.

‘Hello,’ she said, and watched with the eye of a connoisseur as the policeman leapt to his feet ‘I’m ready to go,’ she told Bryn, her voice soft and caressing. ‘Bye, Gerry. Have fun.’

Bryn smiled, the crease in his cheek sending an odd frisson straight through Gerry. Go now, she commanded mentally. Right now. And flushed as he looked at her, a hard glint in his eyes.

Fortunately the doorbell pealed again, this time heralding the social worker, a pleasant, middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a knack with babies. Cara and Bryn left as she came in, so Gerry could give all her attention to the newcomer.

‘I’m rather sad to see her go,’ Gerry said, watching as the woman efficiently dressed the baby in well-worn but pretty clothes, then packed her into an official carrycot while the policeman took the box and its contents. ‘For what it’s worth, I think her mother fed her before she put her behind the hedge—she’s not hungry. And she wasn’t very cold when I picked her up, so she hadn’t been there long.’

The social worker nodded. ‘They usually make sure someone will find them soon.’

Gerry picked up her towel and the still dry cashmere jersey. ‘What will happen to the baby?’

‘Now? I’ll get her checked over medically, and take her to a family who’ll foster her until her mother is found.’

‘And if her mother isn’t found?’

The social worker smiled. ‘We’ll do our best for her.’

‘I know,’ Gerry said. ‘I just feel a bit proprietary.’

‘Oh, we all do that.’ The woman gave a tired, cynical smile. ‘When you think we’re geared by evolution to respond to a baby’s cry with extreme discomfort, it’s no wonder. She’ll be all right. It’s the mother I’m worried about. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a pregnant woman looking over the hedge this last couple of weeks, or anything like that?’

‘No, not a glimpse.’

The policeman said, ‘I’d say she’s local, because she put the baby where she was certain she’d be found. She might even have been watching.’

Gerry frowned, trying to recall the scene. ‘I don’t think so. Apart from the traffic, I didn’t see any movement.’

When they’d gone she lifted the cashmere jersey to her face. It smelt, she thought wryly, of newborn baby—that faint, elusive, swiftly fading scent that had probably once had high survival value for the human race. Now it was just another thing, along with the little girl’s heart-shaking fragility and crumpled rose-petal face, to remind Gerry of her empty heart.

‘Oh, do something sensible instead of moping,’ she advised herself crisply, heading for the laundry.

After she’d dealt with the clothes she embarked on a brisk round of necessary housework that didn’t ease her odd flatness. Clouds settled heavily just above the roof, and the house felt chilly. And empty.

Ruthlessly she banished the memory of wide shoulders, narrow masculine hips and a pair of gleaming green eyes, and set to doing the worst thing she could find—clearing out the fridge. When she’d finished she drank a cup of herbal tea before picking up the telephone.

‘Jan?’ she said when she’d got through. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ said her favourite cousin, mother of Gerry’s goddaughter, ‘and so are Kear and Gemma, but why aren’t you at work?’

‘How do you know I’m not?’

‘No chaos in the background,’ Jan said succinctly. ‘The agency is mayhem.’

‘Honor persuaded me to take a holiday—she said three years without one was too long. And she was right. I’ve been a bit blasé lately.’

‘I wondered how long you’d last,’ Jan said comfortably. ‘I told Kear a month or so ago that it must be time for you to look around for something new.’

‘Butterfly brain, that’s me.’

‘Don’t be an idiot.’ For a tiny woman Jan could be very robust. ‘You bend your not inconsiderable mental energy to mastering something, and as soon as you’ve done it you find something else. Nothing butterfly about that. Anyway, if I remember correctly it was your soft heart that got you into the modelling business. You left the magazine because you didn’t agree with the way it was going—and you were right; it’s just appalling now, and I refuse to buy it—and Honor needed an anchor after she broke up with that awful man she was living with. Whatever happened to him?’

‘He died of an overdose. He was a drug addict.’

‘What a tragedy,’ Jan sighed. ‘If you’re on the lookout for another job, will you stay in the fashion industry?’

‘It’s a very narrow field,’ Gerry said, wondering why she now yearned for wider horizons. She’d been perfectly happy working in or on the fringes of that world since she’d left university.

‘Well, if you’re stuck you can take over from me.’

‘In which capacity—babysitter, part-time image consultant, or den mother to a pack of wayward girls?’

Several years previously Jan had inherited land from her grandfather in one of Northland’s most beautiful coastal areas, and had set up a camp for girls at risk. After marrying the extremely sexy man next door, she’d settled into her new life as though she’d been born for it.

Jan laughed. ‘The camp is going well,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I don’t think it’s you. I meant as image consultant. You’d be good at it—you know what style means because you’ve got it right to your bones, and you like people. I’ve had Maria Hastings working for me, but she, wretched woman, has fallen in love with a Frenchman and is going to live in Provence with him! And I’m pregnant again, which forces the issue. I sell, or I retire. I’d rather sell the business to you if you’ve got the money.’

‘Well—congratulations!’ It hurt. Stupid, but it hurt. Jan had everything—an adoring husband, an interesting career, a gorgeous child and now the prospect of another. Quickly, vivaciously, Gerry added, ‘I’ll think about it. If I decide to do it, my share of the agency should be enough to buy you out.’

‘Have you spoken to Honor? Does she mind the thought of you leaving?’

‘No. Apparently she’s got a backer, and she’ll buy my share at a negotiated price.’

‘I don’t want to over-persuade you,’ Jan said quickly. ‘I know you like to develop things for yourself, so don’t feel obliged to think about it. Another woman wants it, and she’ll do just as well. You’re a bit inclined to let the people you like push you around, you know. Too soft-hearted.’

‘You’re not over-persuading.’ Already the initial glow of enthusiasm was evaporating. What would happen when she got tired of being an image consultant? As she would. A shiver of panic threaded through her. Surely that wasn’t to be her life? Her mother had spent her short life searching for something, and had failed spectacularly to find it. Gerry was determined not to do the same.

‘Something wrong?’ Jan asked.

‘Nothing at all, apart from an upsetting start to my day.’ She told her about the abandoned baby, and they discussed it for a while, until Gerry asked, ‘When’s your baby due?’

‘In about seven months. What’s the matter, Gerry?’

‘Nothing. Just—oh, I suppose I do need this holiday. I’ll let you know about the business,’ Gerry said.

‘Do you want to come up and stay with us? We’d love to see you.’

‘It sounds lovely, but no, I think I want to wander a bit.’

Jan’s tone altered. ‘Feeling restless?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jan said in a bracing voice. ‘Even if you don’t buy my business a job will come hopping along saying, Take me, take me. I’m fascinating and fun and you’ll love me. Why don’t you go overseas for a couple of weeks—somewhere nice and warm? I don’t blame you for being out of sorts; I can’t remember when New Zealand’s had such a wet winter.’

‘My mother used to go overseas whenever life got into too tedious a routine,’ Gerry said.

‘You are not like your mother,’ Jan said even more bracingly. ‘She was a spoilt, pampered brat who never grew up. You are a darling.’

‘Thank you for those kind words, but I must have ended up with some of her genes.’

‘You got the face,’ Jan said drily. ‘And the smile—but you didn’t get the belief that everyone owed you a life. According to my mama, Aunt Fliss was spoilt stupid by her father, and she just expected the rest of the world to treat her the way he did. You aren’t like that.’

‘I hope not.’

‘Not a bit. Gerry, I have to go—your goddaughter is yelling from her bedroom, and by the tone of her voice it’s urgent. I’ll ring you tonight and we can really gossip. As for a new job—well, why not think PR? You know everyone there is to know in New Zealand, and you’d be wonderful at it. One flash of that notorious smile and people would be falling over themselves to publicise whatever you want.’

‘Oh, exaggerate away!’ Gerry laughed, but after she’d hung up she stood looking down at the table, tracing the line of the grain with one long finger.

For the last year she’d been fighting a weariness of spirit; it had crept on her so gradually that for months she hadn’t realised what it was. The curse of my life, she thought melodramatically, and rolled her eyes.

But it terrified her; boredom had driven her mother through three unsatisfactory marriages, leaving behind shattered lives and discarded children as she’d searched for the elusive happiness she’d craved. Gerry’s father had never got over his wife’s defection, and Gerry had two half-brothers she hardly ever saw, one in France, one in America—both abandoned, just as she’d been.

She sat down with the newspaper, but a sudden scatter of rain against the window sent her fleeing to bring in the clothes she’d hung on the line an hour before.

A quick glance at the sky told her they weren’t going to get dry outside, so she sorted them into the drier and set it going. Staring at the tumble of clothes behind the glass door, she wondered if perhaps she should go overseas.

Somewhere warm and dry, she thought dourly, heading back to pick up the newspaper from the sofa. The model disporting herself beneath palm trees was one she had worked with several occasions in her time as fashion editor; Gerry was meanly pleased to see that her striking face was at last showing signs of the temper tantrums she habitually engaged in.

‘Serves her right, the trollop,’ she muttered, flicking the pages over before putting the newspaper down.

No, she wouldn’t head overseas. She couldn’t really afford it; she had a mortgage to pay. Perhaps she should try something totally different.

She read the Sits Vac with mounting gloom. Nothing there. Well, she could make a right-angle turn and do another degree. She rooted in a drawer for the catalogue of extension courses at the local university, and began reading it.

But after a short while she put it to one side. She felt tired and grey and over the hill, and she wondered what had happened to the baby. Had she been checked, and was she now in the arms of a foster-mother?

Gerry decided to clean the oven.

It was par for the course when halfway through this most despised of chores the telephone beeped imperatively.

An old friend demanded that Gerry come to lunch with her because she was going through a crisis and needed a clear head to give her advice. Heaving a silent sigh, Gerry said soothingly, ‘Yes, of course I’ll have lunch with you. Would you like to eat here?’

Her hopes were dashed. ‘We’ll go to The Blue Room,’ Troy said militantly. ‘I’ve booked. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’

‘No, I’ll meet you there,’ Gerry said hastily. Troy was the worst driver she knew.

Coincidences, Gerry reflected gloomily, were scary; you had no defence against them because they sneaked up from behind and hit you over the head. Bryn Falconer was sitting at the next table.

‘And then,’ Troy said, her voice throbbing as it rose from an intense whisper to something ominously close to a screech, ‘he said I’ve let myself go and turned into a cabbage! He was the one who insisted on having kids and insisted I stop work and stay at home with them.’

Fortunately the waiter had taken in the situation and was already heading towards them with a carafe of iced water, a coffee pot and a heaped basket of focaccia bread.

Very fervently Gerry wished that Bryn Falconer had not decided to lunch at this particular restaurant. She was sure she could feel his eyes on her. ‘Troy, you idiot, you’ve been drinking,’ she said softly. ‘And don’t tell me you didn’t drink much—it only takes a mouthful in your case.’

‘I had to, Gerry Mrs Landless—my babysitter—had her thirtieth wedding anniversary party last night. Damon wouldn’t go so she saved me a glass of champagne.’

‘You could have told her that alcohol goes straight to your head. Never mind—have some coffee and bread and you’ll soon be fine, and at least you had the sense to come by taxi.’

Her friend’s lovely face crumpled. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said bitterly, ‘I’m making a total idiot of myself, and there’s bound to be sh-someone who’ll go racing off to tell Damon.’

Five years previously Gerry had mentally prophesied disaster when her friend, a model with at least six more years of highly profitable work ahead of her, had thrown it all away to marry her merchant banker. Now she said briskly, ‘So, who cares? It’s not the end of the world.’

‘I wish I was like you,’ Troy said earnestly and still too loudly. ‘You have men falling in love with you all the time, and you just smile that fabulous smile and drift on by, breaking hearts without a second thought.’

Acutely aware that Bryn Falconer was sitting close enough to hear those shrill, heartfelt and entirely untrue words, Gerry protested, ‘You make me sound like some sort of femme fatale, and I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are,’ Troy argued, fanning her flushed face with her napkin. ‘Everyone expects femmes fatale to be evil, selfish women, but why should they be? You’re so nice and you never poach, but nobody touches your heart, do they? You don’t even notice when men fall at your feet. Damon calls you “the unassailable Gerry”.’

Gerry glanced up. Bryn Falconer wasn’t even pretending not to listen, and when he caught her eyes he lifted his brows in a cool, mockingly level regard that sent frustration boiling through her.

Hastily Gerry looked back at Troy’s tragic face. Tamping down an unwise and critical assessment of Damon’s character, she said firmly, ‘He doesn’t know me very well. Have some coffee.’

But although Troy obediently sipped, she couldn’t leave the subject alone. ‘Have you ever been in love, Gerry? I mean really in love, the sort of abject, dogged, I-love-you-just-because-you’re-you sort of love?’

Gerry hoped that her shrug hid her burning skin. ‘I don’t believe in that sort of love,’ she said calmly. ‘I think you have to admire and respect someone before you can fall in love with them. Anything else is lust.’

It was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it as soon as the words left her mouth. Bryn Falconer’s presence must have scrambled her brain, she decided disgustedly.

Troy dissolved into tears and groped in her bag for her handkerchief. ‘I know,’ she wept into it. ‘Damon wanted me and now it’s gone. He’s breaking my heart.’

Gerry leaned over the table and took her friend’s hand. ‘Do you want to go?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes.’

Avid, fascinated stares raked Gerry’s back as they walked across to the desk. She’d have liked to ignore Bryn Falconer, but when they approached his table he looked up at her with sardonic green eyes. At least he didn’t get to his feet, which would have made them even more conspicuous.

Handsome meant nothing, she thought irrelevantly, when a man had such presence!

‘Geraldine,’ he said, and for some reason her heart stopped, because that single word on his lips was like a claiming, a primitive incantation of ownership.

Keeping her eyes cool and guarded, she sent him a brief smile. ‘Hello, Bryn,’ she said, and walked on past.

Fortunately Gerry’s custom was valuable, so she and the desk clerk came to an amicable arrangement about the bill for the uneaten food. After settling it, she said, ‘I’ll drive you home.’

‘I don’t want to go home.’ Troy spoke in a flat, exhausted voice that meant reality was kicking in.

‘How long’s Mrs Landless able to stay with the children?’

‘Until four.’ Troy clutched Gerry’s arm. ‘Can I come with you? Gerry, I really need to talk.’

So sorry for Troy she could have happily dumped a chained and gagged Damon into the ocean and watched him gurgle out of sight, Gerry resigned herself to an exhausting afternoon. ‘Of course you can.’

Once home, she filled them both up on toast and pea and ham soup from the fridge—comfort food, because she had the feeling they were going to need it.

And three exhausting hours later she morosely ate a persimmon as Troy—by then fully in command of herself—drove off in a taxi.

Not that exhausting was the right word; gruelling described the afternoon more accurately. Although Troy was bitterly unhappy she still clung to her marriage, trying to convince herself that because she loved her husband so desperately, he had to love her in return.

The old, old illusion, Gerry thought sadly and sardonically, and got to her feet, drawing some consolation from her surroundings. She adored her house, revelled in the garden, and enjoyed Cara’s company as well as her contribution to the mortgage payments.

But restlessness stretched its claws inside her. Gloomily she surveyed the tropical rhododendrons through her window, their waxy coral flowers defying the grey sky and cold wind. A disastrous lunch, a shattered friend, and the prospect of heavier rain later in the evening didn’t mean her holiday was doomed. She wasn’t superstitious.

But she wished that Bryn Falconer had chosen to eat lunch anywhere else in New Zealand.

Uncomfortable, jumpy—the way she felt when the music in a horror film indicated that something particularly revolting was about to happen—Gerry set up the ironing board. Jittery nerves wouldn’t stand up to the boring, prosaic monotony of ironing.

She was putting her clothes away in her room when she heard the front door open and Cara’s voice, bright and lively with an undercurrent of excitement, ring around the hall. The masculine rumble that answered it belonged to Bryn Falconer.

All I need, Gerry thought with prickly resignation.

She decided to stay in her room, but a knock on her door demanded her attention.

‘Gerry,’ Cara said, flushed, her eyes gleaming, ‘come and talk to Bryn. He wants to ask you something.’

Goaded, Gerry answered, ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

Fate, she decided, snatching a look at the mirror and despising the colour heating her sweeping cheekbones, really had it in for her today.

However, her undetectable mask of cosmetics was firmly in place, and anyway, she wasn’t going to primp for Bryn Falconer. No matter that her dark blue-green eyes were wild and slightly dilated, or that her hair had rioted frivolously out of its usual tamed waves. She didn’t care what he thought.

The gas heater in the sitting room warmed the chilly air, but the real radiance came from Cara, who lit up the room like a torch. Should I tell her mother? Gerry thought, then dismissed the idea. Cara was old enough to understand what she was doing.

But that little homily on messing around with married men might be in order.

Not that Bryn looked married—he had the air of someone who didn’t have to consider anyone else. Forcing a smile, Gerry said, ‘Hello, Bryn. Did you have a good lunch?’

His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Very.’

Gerry maintained her hostess demeanour. ‘I like the way they do lunch there—sustaining, and it doesn’t make you sleepy in the afternoon.’

‘A pity you weren’t able to stay long enough to eat,’ he said blandly.

Despising the heat in her skin, Gerry kept her voice steady. ‘My friend wasn’t well.’ Before he could comment she continued, ‘Cara tells me you want to ask me something?’

‘I’d like to offer you a very short, one-off project,’ he said, and without giving her time to refuse went on, ‘It involves a trip to the islands, and some research into the saleability—or not—of hats.’

Whatever she’d expected it wasn’t that. ‘Hats,’ she repeated blankly.

The green gaze rested a moment on her mouth before moving up to capture her eyes. ‘One of the outlying islands near Fala’isi is famous for the hats the islanders weave from a native shrub. They used to bring in an excellent income, but sales are falling off. They don’t know why, but I suspect it’s because they aren’t keeping up with fashion. Cara tells me you have a couple of weeks off. One week at Longopai in the small hotel there should be ample time to check whether I’m right.’

No, she wanted to say, so loudly and clearly that there could be no mistaking her meaning. No, I don’t want to go to a tropical island and find out why they’re no longer selling their hats. I don’t want anything to do with you.

‘I’d love to go,’ Cara said eagerly, ‘but I’m booked solid for a couple of months. You’re a real expert, Gerry—you style a shoot better than anyone, and Honor says you’ve got an instinct about fashion that never lets you down. And you’d have a super time in the islands—it’s just what you need.’

Gerry looked out of the window. Darkness had already fallen; the steady drumming of rain formed a background to the rising wail of wind. She said, ‘I might not have any idea why they aren’t selling. Marketing is—’

‘Exactly what you’re good at,’ Bryn said smoothly, his deep voice sliding with the silky friction of velvet along her nerves. ‘When you worked as fashion editor for that magazine you marketed a look, a style, a colour.’ He looked around the room. ‘You have great taste,’ he said.

As Gerry wondered whether she should tell him the room was furnished with pieces from her great-grandmother’s estate, he finished, ‘I can get you there tomorrow.’

Gerry’s brows shot up. It was tempting—oh, she longed to get away and forget everything for a few days, just sink herself into the hedonism of a tropical holiday. Lukewarm lagoons, she thought yearningly, and colour—vivid, primal, shocking colour—and the scent of salt, and the caress of the trade winds on her bare skin…

Aloud, very firmly, she said, ‘If you got some photographs done I could probably give you an opinion without going all the way up there. Or you could get some samples.’

‘They deal better with people,’ he said evenly. ‘They’ll take one look at you and realise that you know what you’re talking about. A written report—or even a suggestion from me—won’t have the same impact.’

‘Most people,’ Cara burbled, ‘are dying to get to the tropics at this time of the year. You sound like a wrinklie, Gerry, hating the thought of being prised out of your nice comfortable nest!’

And if I go, Gerry thought with a tiny flash of malice, you’ll be alone here, and no one will realise that you’re spending nights in Bryn’s bed. Although that was unkind; Cara knew that Gerry wouldn’t carry tales to her parents. And she honestly thought she was doing Gerry a favour.

Hell, she probably was.

Green eyes half-closed, Bryn said, ‘I’d rather you actually saw the hats. Photographs don’t tell the whole story, as you’re well aware. And of course the company will pay for your flights and accommodation.’

She was being stupid and she knew it; had any other man suggested it she’d have jumped at the idea. Striving for her usual equanimity, she said, ‘Of course I’d like to go, but—’

Cara laughed. ‘I told you she wouldn’t be able to resist it,’ she crowed.

‘Where is this island?’ Gerry asked shortly.

‘Longopai’s an atoll twenty minutes by air from Fala’isi.’ All business, Bryn said, ‘A taxi will pick you up at ten tomorrow morning. Collect your tickets from the Air New Zealand counter at the airport. Pack for a week, but keep in mind the weight restrictions.’

What did he think she was? One of those people who can’t leave anything in their wardrobe when they go overseas?

Cara headed off an intemperate reply by breaking in, ‘Gerry can pack all she needs for three weeks in an overnight bag,’ she said on an awed note.

Bryn’s brow lifted. ‘Clever Gerry,’ he said evenly, his voice expressionless.

So why did it sound like a taunt?