Читать книгу Irresistible Temptation - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

BROODINGLY, Declan stood at the study window, watching Olivia’s slim figure walk away. He was already regretting the quixotic impulse to suggest Sasha as a temporary refuge for her.

I should have taken her to Paddington—put her on the next train west. Saved a hell of a lot of trouble all round, he told himself irritably.

He saw her stop and put down her case, flexing her fingers before transferring it to her other hand and walking on. Her straight back looked gallant, and somehow vulnerable, and he cursed silently. He knew that if he’d been dressed he’d have felt obliged to go after her. Help her with the bloody thing. Take her to Sasha’s and introduce her, even.

And yet there was no obligation on his side. On the contrary, he reminded himself bitterly. All he’d probably done by his intervention was make a bad situation worse.

For a moment or two he let his thoughts dwell unpleasantly on Jeremy Attwood, and the things he would have to say to him on his return.

That done, the ball would be in Jeremy’s court. This is his damned mess. Let him sort it out, he told himself curtly as he turned determinedly away from the window.

In the meantime, he had a problem of his own to deal with.

He went swiftly up the stairs to the first floor. The drawing room was there, with its panoramic view over the garden, but he didn’t waste a glance on it, heading instead for the door at the back of the room which led to his private suite. For his next task he needed to be fully dressed, with his head firmly together.

He stepped through into the narrow passage, and turned right into his dressing room, grabbing some underwear, a white cotton shirt and a pair of jeans. He was on his way into the bathroom opposite when he realised that his bedroom door at the end of the passage was standing ajar, and he knew he’d left it closed.

Still holding his armful of clothing, he moved noiselessly along the passage, his foot tangling in something lying on the floor in front of the door. Mouth tightening, he recognised the peach towel from the guest bathroom on the second floor, and swore under his breath.

He pushed the door wide, and stood in the doorway. Melinda was propped artistically against the pillows of his bed, the covers draped across her hips.

‘Hello, darling.’ Her smile was pure invitation. ‘What an age you’ve been. Did you manage to get rid of the little brown mouse?’

Declan leaned a shoulder against the doorpost. He felt unutterably weary. ‘What are you doing, Melinda?’

‘Waiting for you, darling, what else? You did tell me to.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I said I’d see you later. Not the same thing at all.’

‘Don’t be picky, sweetie.’ She moved slowly, luxuriously, stretching her arms above her head. ‘Doesn’t this bring back some happy memories?’

‘I won’t deny that.’ Declan kept his eyes fixed steadily on her face. ‘But I also remember that you’re engaged—to Bill Fenner. Maybe you should, too.’

‘Bill’s in Warwickshire, staying with his dreary family,’ she said with a touch of impatience. ‘That’s why he didn’t take me to the party last night. He can be so boring sometimes.’

‘And this is pay-back time—for being boring?’ Declan sighed. ‘No, Melinda. That’s not how it works. Now go and get dressed, and I’ll call a cab for you.’

She lifted a hand, admiring the sparkle of the enormous diamond she wore on her left hand.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘Bill might want to know why I ended up naked in your bed last night. He might feel you’d taken advantage.’

‘You actually ended up naked in the spare room bed,’ Declan said dispassionately. ‘I had to bring you here because you were drunk, and making a nuisance of yourself at the party. I’d have taken you home, but the cab driver refused to go any further in case you threw up. I undressed you for the same reason.’ He gave her a level look. ‘And Bill will almost certainly not want to hear about that.’

‘My word, haven’t we got virtuous all of a sudden?’ Melinda wasn’t smiling any more. ‘Could this be the influence of Little Miss Well-Scrubbed downstairs?’

‘No,’ Declan said wearily. ‘It’s all my own idea. What we had is over now. We’ve both moved on, so let’s leave it like that.’

She threw back the covers and walked towards him, body moving sinuously. ‘I could make you change your mind.’

Once, he thought. But not any more. Once he’d have damned all thought of decency, and reached for her. But his mind had stopped wanting her a long time before his body did. A realisation that made him ashamed, because in those last weeks they’d spent together he knew he’d just been using her.

He said more gently. ‘You could probably bring a stone statue to life, Melinda. You’re a beautiful woman. But you’re not my woman—and that makes all the difference.’

‘Or perhaps you’re just losing it,’ she said contemptuously as she went past him. ‘And I’ll get my own cab,’ she threw back over her shoulder.

Maybe she was right, Declan told himself with wry derision as he stood under the shower a short while later. Certainly he hadn’t put himself out to find female company lately. And the few dates he’d had had been strictly casual.

He could say he’d been working too hard to pursue any personal relationships. As well as writing a weekly political column for the Sunday Clarion, his television commitments were burgeoning. A new series of Division Bell was starting next week on First City TV, and he’d also been asked to research and draw up a proposal for a series on Prime Ministers of the past, covering the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Never a dull moment, he thought drily. But it left him with little free time. And what there was he preferred to spend in Ireland, at his parents’ stud farm, helping out with the horses rather than doing the social rounds.

However, there’d been a girl at the party last night who’d made her interest in him perfectly clear—until Melinda had started behaving badly, and their hostess had quietly begged him to remove her.

She was an interior decorator, tall, blonde, and definitely attractive, and he had one of her cards somewhere—probably in his jacket.

‘In case you want advice about a room,’ she’d told him, smiling.

He’d ring her presently, he decided as he towelled himself down. Apologise for his abrupt departure, and ask if she’d like to have dinner. See where it might lead.

She was called Claudia, he remembered, and it was a name he liked. An unusual name—rather like Olivia.

His mouth tightened in irritation. He hadn’t planned to throw another thought in her direction. But the image of that slight, lonely figure walking down the road with her case seemed etched on his mind.

All the more reason to call Claudia, he told himself cynically. Because Olivia was bad news, and he wasn’t going to waste another thought on her—or any of Jeremy’s leavings for that matter.

Sasha was a small woman, slender to the point of emaciation, and draped in a black caftan ornamented with embroidered tropical flowers. She had rich magenta hair which she wore twisted into dozens of little spiral curls, and amazing dark blue eyes, heavily emphasised with kohl. In one hand she held a cheroot. The other was attempting to control a small, brown terrier, spitting out fire and fury on a high-pitched note between a yap and a warble.

Her voice was surprisingly deep and husky, probably, Olivia thought, because of the cheroots.

‘So you’re Declan’s waif.’ Olivia was looked up and down, and assessed in one sweeping glance.

‘The flat’s down here, darling.’ She led Olivia down a flight of outside steps to the basement. ‘There’s only one room, but it has its own separate kitchen, and I had the bathroom fitted two years ago. The rest of the basement I use for storage.’

She opened the living room door, and motioned Olivia to go in. ‘The sofa turns into a bed, and I can lend you linen and stuff till you get fixed up. Will it do?’

‘It’s wonderful,’ Olivia admitted. She bit her lip. ‘But I must warn you I don’t expect to be staying long.’

‘People don’t.’ Sasha shrugged. ‘They come and go, and that’s fine with me. I’m just a stepping post on their journey.’ She paused. ‘What about the rent, darling?’ The dark blue eyes flicked shrewdly over her again, and she nodded. ‘It’s seventy-five pounds a week. Can you manage it? You’re not working, are you?’

‘Not yet,’ Olivia said quietly. ‘But first thing on Monday morning I’m going to start job-hunting.’

‘What sort of thing are you looking for—acting—modelling?’

‘Heavens, no.’ Olivia felt emotionally battered by the events of the morning, but she managed a weak giggle. ‘In Bristol I taught computer systems in offices, but I thought I’d look for a secretarial agency—start by temping.’

‘Oh.’ Sasha gave her an astonished look. ‘You mean real work. Such a novelty. My tenants are usually waiting tables and stacking shelves while they wait to be discovered.’

She swept to the door, the tropical flowers billowing, the dog firmly tucked under her arm. ‘When you’ve unpacked, come on up and we’ll have some coffee, introduce ourselves properly. I can brief you on local shops, house rules and things at the same time. Humph and I will be in the kitchen. Just push the door open and yell.’

‘Thank you.’ Olivia gave her a resolute smile. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘Ah, well, darling,’ said Sasha. ‘Declan sent you. And I’d do anything for Declan.’

So would I, Olivia thought bitterly, as she unfastened her case. As long as it involved red-hot irons and a few gallons of boiling oil.

But she seemed to have fallen on her feet, she admitted, looking round her. The room was large, the furniture was simple and comfortable, and it was spotlessly clean. And amazingly cheap, for London, too. She’d expected to be charged twice or three times as much.

Sasha’s kitchen was big, cosy and chaotic. As she went in Olivia was greeted by the small brown dog, warbling menacingly at full throttle.

‘Quiet, Humph, you fool.’ Sasha, percolator in hand, swept a pile of newspapers, empty envelopes and special offer coupons from the large pine table to the floor with one magnificent gesture. ‘You’ve got to tell friend from foe. He’s a Norfolk terrier with the soul of a Rottweiler,’ she added. ‘Grab a chair, darling, but not the one with the embroidered cushion—that’s Humph’s.’

She poured the coffee into attractive pottery mugs, set cream and sugar beside them, and offered home-made carrot cake which Olivia fell on thankfully.

‘So, tell me all about yourself,’ Sasha said, lighting another cheroot. ‘How long have you known my lovely Declan?’

Olivia put down her mug, her stomach churning in swift apprehension. ‘Er—not long.’

Oh, come on, she chided herself. Tell the truth, even if she dumps you back on the pavement. She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I met him for the first time about an hour ago. I—I was looking for someone else entirely.’

‘Serendipity,’ Sasha nodded, apparently unfazed. ‘A happy accident.’

‘Not,’ Olivia said tautly, ‘how I’d have described it.’

‘Ah, you clashed.’ Sasha gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Excellent.’

‘I don’t think he sees it that way,’ Olivia said thinly.

‘Well, of course not. He’s had to beat women off with sticks since he could walk. And now he’s a media personality I expect he gets targeted by all sorts.’

‘Media personality?’ Olivia stared at her, while connections in her brain jangled into place. ‘My God,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘I’ve just realised—he’s Declan Malone. He interviews politicians on television. I knew I’d seen him somewhere.’

But not, she thought, next to naked on a doorstep.

Sasha gurgled. ‘You could say that, darling. I think I’m going to like you.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘Declan can be abrasive sometimes, because his work demands it, but his heart’s in the right place or you wouldn’t be here now. Why, he’s even got one of his in-laws lodging with him, which I think is carrying charity too far.’

Olivia swallowed her last morsel of carrot cake. ‘One of his in-laws?’ she repeated.

‘Well, almost.’ Sasha gestured broadly, doing no good to yet another pile of miscellaneous paperwork. ‘The chap who’s married to his cousin Maria. But she and Declan were practically brought up as brother and sister, so I suppose it counts.’

‘Yes,’ Olivia said, dry-mouthed. ‘I—suppose it does.’

She felt deathly cold—shrivelling inside. She wanted to throw her head back and howl like a banshee.

My God, she thought, despairingly. He’s Maria’s cousin, and I just marched up to his door and laid my claim to her husband. What have I said? What have I done?

Oh, Jeremy—Jeremy. Why didn’t you warn me?

Because he didn’t know you were about to descend on him, a small, flat voice in her head reminded her. You did it all off your own bat, and now you have to live with the consequences. Whatever they are.

‘Are you all right?’ Sasha was staring at her. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, darling.’

‘No.’ Olivia mustered a smile. ‘I think I’ve just realised how much I’ve bitten off—and I’m wondering if I can chew it.’

‘While on the subject of chewing.’ Sasha grabbed an envelope and drew a swift sketch map on the back of it. ‘The Portobello Road, darling, and our closest food source. Today’s market day, so you’ll find everything you need, but keep a close grip on your wallet. Pickpockets are practically endemic down there, so try not to look like a tourist.’

She didn’t feel like a tourist, Olivia thought an hour later, as she picked her way warily along the crowded Portobello pavements. More like an alien from the Planet Zog.

She’d spent a fraught hour with Sasha, being interrogated with the utmost charm on her background from birth to the present day. Nothing to hide there, but she’d had to dance round the subject of why she’d come to London, and how she’d happened to fetch up in W11.

She’d said far too much about her association with Jeremy already, and she suspected Sasha would approve no more than Declan Malone.

She’d been quite glad to make her urgent need to shop for provisions an excuse to escape.

And now here she was, walking down the Portobello Road. At first she thought she’d come to the wrong place, because all she could see on both sides of the road were antiques shops. The displays of silver and crystal were certainly mouth-watering, but there was no sign of any food outlets.

She crossed a road, and suddenly found herself absorbed into an alternative reality. A rowdy, brash reality, where dozens of ethnic accents brayed and clashed. Where clumps of street musicians vied for attention with a non-stop assault on the eardrums. Where stall-holders bellowed incomprehensible special offers. Olivia was wearing her bag slung diagonally across her body under her jacket, and she kept a protective hand on it as she found herself almost borne along on a tidal wave of humanity.

She was used to crowds, for heaven’s sake. She’d lived and worked in Bristol. But here the noise and numbers suddenly threatened to overwhelm her.

She’d never seen a market like it. As well as all the fruit and vegetables on offer, there were innumerable stalls offering bric-à-brac, second-hand clothing—including a display of old fur coats and military uniforms from another century—books, jewellery and musical instruments.

The temptation to linger and explore was fierce, but buying food had to be her main priority.

She turned and fought her way back, diving into a supermarket with something like relief. She filled a basket with staples, then pushed her way up the road to a specialist bakery she’d noticed earlier, where tempting displays of every kind of bread and pastry were presented outside for customers to pick and mix.

Olivia chose some focaccia bread, with a mini-baguette filled with smoked ham and salad, which, with fruit, would serve as lunch. She selected apples, plums, tomatoes and peppers from a street stall, and then stopped at the old-fashioned butcher’s further up the road and bought a chicken and enough minced pork and beef to make a pasta sauce.

On her way back, she passed the end of a cobbled mews and paused for a moment, looking wistfully at the narrow smart houses, painted in pastel colours. One of them she saw, even had a ‘For Sale’ board hanging from its first-floor balcony.

As she hesitated a couple came out of the house opposite, walking fast, hand in hand, the girl looking up into her companion’s face and laughing. Olivia stepped back to let them pass, an intense pang of envy twisting inside her as she wondered what it would be like to live there with someone you loved.

She allowed herself to indulge a brief fantasy of being there with Jeremy. Wandering out to buy fresh croissants and oranges to squeeze for breakfast, while he stayed in bed with the newspapers. Then, later, going for a stroll together round the second-hand bookshops and junk stalls, choosing something for the house—a piece of pottery, maybe, or some glassware. Something to provide memories in the years ahead.

She stopped herself right there. At the moment there was no guarantee that she was going to share any time with Jeremy, she thought wretchedly. Not after her appalling gaffe at Lancey Gardens.

She shuddered as she walked slowly back up the hill, weighed down by her shopping and the remembrance of the morning’s confrontation.

Because she could just imagine the row there would be when Jeremy got back, she thought despondently.

Declan Malone had caught her off guard—flicked her on the raw—but that was no excuse. She’d behaved like an idiot, pushing herself forward like that before she’d sussed out the situation.

If only Jeremy had told her that he was holed up temporarily with his wife’s cousin. Instead, she’d gained the opposite impression—that he had his own independent flat, that he was making a life which she would be able to share.

I couldn’t have been listening properly, she admitted, with a sigh. Or else I simply heard what I wanted to hear.

Nothing, but nothing was working out as she’d expected. And she could well end up on her own in one of the world’s great uncaring capitals.

Or she could go back to Bristol, she reminded herself. No one apart from Beth knew why she’d come to London, and her flatmate was too kind and loyal to have spread the word. She could probably even get her old job back.

My God, she thought in swift horror, as she crossed the road to Lancey Terrace. That was real defeatist talk. Return to square one and occupy her familiar rut. When in fact it had been more than time for a change. For her to take hold of her life by the scruff of its neck and shake it.

She had a career—valuable job skills to offer. She could earn her living—pay her way. She’d come to London to share Jeremy’s life, not to become some pathetic dependent.

And whatever happened, she intended to survive.

Lifting her chin, she strode the last hundred yards.

Her shopping unpacked and put away, Olivia sat down to eat her lunch and take a long look round her. The flat was starting to look occupied, and she had her small portable radio to fill the silence. She’d noticed, too, there was a TV aerial in the room. And from the information that Sasha had thrown at her earlier about Notting Hill Gate she reckoned she’d be able to rent a set quite easily.

That will be my project for the afternoon, she thought. Keep busy—keep interested—and, above all, don’t brood.

She’d found a vase in one of the cupboards. She’d get some flowers to go in it. And some wine. If it turned out there was nothing to celebrate, then she’d drown her sorrows instead, she decided, squaring her shoulders.

She got out her A to Z of London, working out the shortest route to the Gate.

Sasha had told her she could find anything there, and that seemed to be true, she thought as she battled with the other Saturday afternoon shoppers. Like Portobello, it seemed to be fizzing with life. She gave herself time to look properly, lingering in front of boutiques and reading the menus of the various bistros, walking, inevitably, much further than she’d planned.

But if Notting Hill was to be her home, at least for the time being, she needed to get to know it. She wanted to look as confident and purposeful as the people who streamed past her, and feel it too.

She thought suddenly, I want to belong.

At a wine shop she bought some red Italian wine to go with the pasta, a decent Chardonnay for the chicken, and an optimistic Bollinger for her reunion with Jeremy, investing in a strong canvas bag in which to lug her purchases home, as most of her shopping was likely to be done on the hoof from now on.

She discovered a TV store without difficulty, and ended up buying a reconditioned portable with a reasonable warranty for far less than the cost of an annual rental, treating herself to a cab to get it back to Lancey Terrace. After all, she reminded herself, she couldn’t waste good job-hunting time waiting at the flat for a delivery to be made.

In spite of her personal reservations, there was a curious satisfaction in making her basement look like home.

But, when it came to it, the idea of spending her first evening in London concocting a pasta sauce for one held little appeal.

Up to now there’d always been people around her—family first, then friends, and flatmates. Always someone to laugh with, or moan to, or simply exchange the news of the day.

This was her first experience of being single in the city, and she needed to tackle it positively.

So she wouldn’t skulk in the flat, feeling hard done to. She would go out. Go to the cinema in the Gate, and have a meal afterwards. Make her first night in London an occasion.

She changed, putting on black leggings, a cream shirt, and a long black linen jacket, and set off. She had a choice of films, including a well-reviewed romantic comedy, but it seemed safer in her present state of mind to opt for a thriller, with a plot convoluted enough to keep her mind engaged, and, consequently, off her personal problems.

She emerged feeling more relaxed then she’d done all day. Now all that remained was to find somewhere to eat. Probably not easy, she realised, surveying the still crowded pavements. Maybe she’d have to settle for a take-away.

She’d intended to head for one of the bistros she’d checked out earlier, but instead found herself wandering up Kensington Park Road.

The lit window of a restaurant drew her across the street, but one look was enough to convince her that it was not only full to bursting point with beautiful people, but, more significantly, out of her price range.

She was just moving on when she saw a diner seated at a table for two in the window itself turn, hand raised, to summon a waiter.

She recognised him with stomach-churning immediacy. Declan Malone, she thought, stiffening, her hackles on full alert. But not with the morning’s exotic redhead, she noticed at once. His evening’s companion was a willowy blonde decorously clad in a dark trouser suit. For the moment anyway. Presumably the peach towel outfit came later.

‘Poor girl,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Does she realise she’s simply feeding the ego of a serial womaniser?’

Clearly she didn’t, because she was devouring Declan Malone with her eyes, to the complete detriment of the food on her plate. And he was looking at her and smiling in a way that had been totally lacking in his dealings with Olivia.

In fact, Olivia acknowledged without pleasure, she would hardly have recognised him.

A taxi drew up, and three girls got out, all stick-thin, and talking and giggling at the tops of their voices.

As the new arrivals pranced past her into the restaurant, shrieking their hellos and air-kissing everyone within reach, Olivia started, as if she’d been woken abruptly from some spell.

What the hell am I doing? she demanded silently. Hanging round here with my nose pressed against the glass like the Little Match Girl? Do I want him to look up and see me?

Hastily, she turned away, retracing her steps towards the Gate.

She realised with sudden bleakness that her appetite had totally deserted her. And, more disturbingly, that she had never felt quite so cold, or so lonely in her life before.

Claudia Lang was not a particularly conceited girl, but she was sufficiently keyed in to know when her dinner partner’s attention was wandering, and human enough to be piqued by it.

She reached across the table and put a scarlet-tipped hand on Declan’s sleeve.

‘Is something wrong?’

Startled, Declan wrenched his frowning gaze back from the window.

‘No—I’m sorry. I—thought I saw someone outside. Someone I knew.’

Claudia directed a sceptical glance over her shoulder at the darkness beyond the window. ‘Then you must have X-ray vision,’ she commented lightly. ‘Do you want to go and check?’

‘Of course not.’ The frown faded, and the smile he sent her was charming and repentant. ‘I’m probably wrong, and anyway, it’s really—not important.’ He paused, then added with cold emphasis, ‘Not important at all.’

And wondered why he’d needed to say that.