Читать книгу His Wedding-Night Heir - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

SHE was running. Forcing herself onwards down a long straight road, where flanking trees threw grotesque shadows in front of her. Shadows that she did not want to enter. Her breath tore at her lungs, and her legs ached, but she could not stop. And dared not look behind.

Must keep going. Need to move on. The words beat a rhythm in her brain. Have to run. Have to…

Cally Maitland sat up, gasping, her body damp with perspiration, as the sudden shrill of the alarm clock invaded her subconscious and brought her with shocking suddenness to the reality of a new day. She reached out a shaking hand and silenced the noise, then sank back against her pillow, trying to clear her head.

My God, she thought. What was all that about?

But of course she already knew. Because she’d had that dream before. Several times.

The sun was pouring into the room through a gap in the shabby curtains, and it was clearly a beautiful May day. But Cally felt a chill in the air, and wrapped her arms round her body with a faint shiver.

She said softly, half under her breath, ‘It is—definitely—time to go.’

She pushed back the thin quilt and got out of bed, running her fingers through her tousled light brown hair, smoothing it into its usual shoulder-length bob. That was one thing she had refused to economise on—her monthly trip to the best hairdresser in town.

There were shadows under her long-lashed hazel eyes, she realised, giving herself a swift, critical glance in the mirror, and the flowered cotton pyjamas she’d bought from a market stall covered her slim body without grace.

She felt, she recognised with bewilderment, like a stranger in her own skin. A being totally alien to the cherished, pampered girl she’d been eighteen months ago. That girl had vanished for ever.

Her mouth tightened with sudden bleakness. But there was no time to linger feeling sorry for herself, she thought, squaring her shoulders. Kit had phoned the previous evening to call an emergency breakfast meeting at the Children’s Centre, and she couldn’t be late.

She collected clean underwear, and one of the plain grey skirts and cream blouses that formed her working gear, and headed for the small dank shower room which had been created in a corner of the attic room she inhabited.

The landlord had thrown up cheap plywood partitions to divide the living space from the sleeping area, and pushed together a rudimentary kitchen with a sink and a gas stove in an alcove. He felt that entitled him to christen the whole thing a flat, but it was still nothing more than a draughty bedsit.

To call it adequate would pay it an undeserved compliment, Cally thought, grimacing over the fact that her towel was still damp from the day before.

It was not the kind of accommodation she had ever envisaged for herself. But it was just affordable, and it was also the last place on earth where anyone would think to look for her, and that was its major—its sole—attraction for her as far as she was concerned.

Still she would bid it goodbye without a moment’s regret.

Although she couldn’t say the same for Wellingford itself, oddly enough.

She’d chosen it for the same reasons she’d picked the flat. It was a small, nondescript market town beside an unexciting river. A neutral background that she could disappear into. Somewhere to provide her with breathing space to think and consider her long-term future.

She had not expected to like it, of course, Cally thought, trying to coax hot water out of the reluctant shower. She had certainly not anticipated being happy here either, yet somehow, against all the odds, she’d achieved a measure of both.

There were times when she’d almost managed to forget her reasons for being there. Almost, but not quite.

And now it was time to leave, she told herself. She’d already stayed more than a month over her allotted time, and she simply couldn’t risk remaining any longer. Otherwise she might start to feel at home, and that was dangerous. She needed to keep moving. To cover her tracks.

Although there was no actual proof that this was necessary, she reminded herself. No evidence of any attempt to trace her, as she’d feared. She could well be panicking unduly. Yet some gut instinct—some sense of self-preservation—seemed to be warning her again. Otherwise, why the dreams?

In any case, there were valid, practical reasons for her to leave Wellingford.

For one thing, the job she’d enjoyed so much no longer existed, and at the end of the week she would receive her final wage packet from the Hartley family. Who would begrudge her every penny of it.

She sighed as she cleaned her teeth. She could still hardly believe that Genevieve Hartley was dead. She’d seemed indomitable—eternal. Even now, six weeks later, Cally half expected to see the large car draw up at the end of Gunners Wharf and Mrs Hartley’s small, silver-haired figure alight.

Riding to our rescue, Cally thought grimacing. Except it was far too late for that.

I hope the dead can’t see the living, she told herself with sudden fierceness. I hope Mrs Hartley doesn’t know what her ghastly sons and their expensive wives did to her dream for Gunners Wharf even before she was cold in her grave. All those hopes and plans and hard work just swept away. All those people suddenly discovering they needed somewhere else to live.

It shouldn’t have happened, of course. Mrs Hartley’s intentions had been very different. She’d meant the Gunners Wharf project to survive and thrive even when she was no longer there to supervise it. She’d been to see her lawyers, to draw up the necessary adjustments to her will, only to succumb to a sudden devastating heart attack before the all-important document could be signed.

Even so, the residents had all hoped that her wishes would be respected. She’d made them clear enough even to her resentful children.

So they’d collected for a wreath, and attended the funeral to demonstrate their affection and respect for the woman who’d encouraged their visions, only to find themselves totally ignored by the family, their presence unnecessary and embarrassing.

A bad omen, Cally had thought at the time, unease twisting inside her.

And her premonition had been quite correct.

Within two weeks all the tenants had received notice to quit, and Gunners Wharf had been sold for redevelopment. They’d protested, naturally, but legally, they’d been told, they didn’t have a leg to stand on. Their leases had been privately agreed with Mrs Hartley, and the rents kept deliberately, unrealistically low.

But there’d been nothing in writing, and her sudden death had prevented her from regularising their position in law.

Besides, it had been added, in a final blow to their hopes, most of the houses were still waiting to be renovated, and could well be deemed unfit for human habitation.

As she put on her clothes Cally tasted the acid of tears in her throat, and swallowed them back. She’d become genuinely fond of Genevieve Hartley, and her death had been a personal blow, quite apart from all the other ramifications.

On the other hand, the abandonment of the Gunners Wharf housing project would give Cally a personal release.

I always knew my time here was limited, she reminded herself, applying moisturiser to her pale skin. But I thought I’d be the first to leave.

Once again someone she loved had been suddenly and tragically taken away from her. And once again she was left floundering in a kind of limbo.

Genevieve Hartley had been almost the first person Cally had met when she’d arrived in Wellingford.

She’d been sitting in the bus station buffet, drinking coffee while she looked through the small ads in the local weekly paper, scanning them for job opportunities and room rentals, when she’d spotted the last entry in the ‘Situations Vacant’ column.

‘Administrative assistant required for housing project with Children’s Centre,’ she’d read. ‘Enthusiastic and computer literate. Able to work on own initiative.’ Followed by a telephone number.

Less than an hour later she’d been in Mrs Hartley’s elegant drawing room, being interviewed.

She’d been unfazed to find that her future employer was a chic elderly woman with steely blue eyes and an autocratic manner. She was used to ageing despots. In fact, she’d spent most of her life with one, she thought ruefully. So Mrs Hartley’s brisk, searching interrogation had come as no real shock.

Cally had sat composedly, answering the older woman’s questions with quiet candour.

Yes, she had references, but mainly for waitressing and shop work. She’d been taking a kind of gap year, she’d added, mentally crossing her fingers, travelling around and working at whatever jobs offered themselves.

‘But you have worked with computers?’ Genevieve Hartley poured China tea into thin porcelain cups. ‘I need someone who can do word processing, keep records and oversee the on-going renovation scheme. Also act as liaison between the builders, the tenants and the Town Hall.’ She paused with a faint smile. ‘My tenants at Gunners Wharf have not had easy starts in life, and this has made them wary, so sometimes the situation can become—shall we say volatile? I’m looking for someone who can sort out any snags before they become real difficulties.’

Cally hesitated. ‘I took computer studies during my last year at school.’

‘Which school was that?’

Cally told her, and the plucked brows rose. ‘Indeed?’ said Genevieve Hartley. ‘Then I suggest a fortnight’s trial on both sides. After all,’ she added drily, ‘you might find some of the tenants rather too much of a problem.’

I’d find not eating a much greater one, Cally thought wryly. Thought it but did not say it.

‘In addition to the administrative work you’ll be asked to take your turn at the Children’s Centre, particularly helping out in the coffee bar.’ She gave Cally an unexpectedly sweet smile. ‘So your past experience could be useful, my dear.’

The money Mrs Hartley had offered was reasonable, but not lavish. It had enabled Cally to live, yet hadn’t encouraged her to put down roots. Which was exactly what she needed.

In time, when she was entirely free of her former life, she would find a home, and a career. Until then she would continue to be a nomad, because it was safer that way.

Tonight, she thought, adding a muted lustre to her lips, she would get out her map book and decide where to go next.

The river might sparkle in the sunshine, but the brightness did no favours to the dilapidated warehouses and crumbling sheds along Gunners Wharf itself.

In many ways redevelopment was exactly what was needed for the entire area, Cally conceded reluctantly as she walked down to the Centre, where the admin office was based. But why did it have to happen at the expense of the housing scheme? Why couldn’t they have existed side by side?

Here, in the back street running parallel to the wharf, nearly half the properties had already been restored, with new windows and roofs, freshly pointed brickwork and gleaming paint. A lot of the work had been done by the tenants themselves, as an act of faith—an investment in a future that had now been taken from them, she thought bleakly.

Mrs Hartley had provided the Children’s Centre at her own expense, patiently providing funds to meet every new Health and Safety regulation that the local council could throw at them. It was no secret that it had cost her a small fortune, and maybe this was what her sons had resented so much. Because it was also known that Hartleys department store, like many other High Street shops, had been struggling for a couple of years, and needed a cash injection.

Well, they certainly had it now, Cally thought, biting her lip. The sale had gone through so fast that they must have had a string of potential buyers already lined up. While the single mothers and families in badly paid work they were turning out would struggle to find alternative housing that they could afford.

She sighed. But, as her grandfather had always said, one man’s gain was another’s loss. And the whole scheme had been living on borrowed time anyway.

‘Cally.’ A girl’s voice broke across her reverie, and she turned to see Tracy approaching, pushing her baby buggy over the dilapidated pavement. ‘Cally—what’s this meeting about? Do you know? Has Kit said anything?’

Cally stifled a sigh, and pulled a silly face at the baby in the pushchair, an act rewarded by a lopsided grin.

‘Not a thing,’ she responded briskly. ‘But we don’t live in each other’s pockets, you know.’

She’d said it before so often, but no one seemed to take her denials seriously. Kit Matlock was the director of the Centre, and the man with whom she worked most closely. They were both, on the face of it, single, so assumptions were made.

Nor could Cally deny that, before the recent bombshell, Kit had been making it clear he’d like to shift their professional relationship to a more personal level—which was, in itself, another excellent reason for moving away.

Not that she disliked him. How could she? He was attractive, pleasant, and endearingly short on temperament. But they were not an item, and never would be. And Cally had resolutely made excuse after excuse to refuse his invitations.

Their most intimate involvement to date had only been the sharing of sandwiches and coffee at lunchtime, in her small, crowded office at the rear of the Centre. And that was as far as it would ever go.

Because, she told herself, I don’t cheat.

‘Oh,’ Tracy said, obviously disappointed. ‘I thought maybe he’d found a loophole in the law or something. And obviously he’d tell you first.’

Cally buried her bare hands in the pockets of her black jacket and forced a smile. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Tracy—honestly. Kit’s a lovely guy, but I’m moving on very soon. I’ve been offered another job—in London,’ she added with sudden inspiration.

Tracy stared at her, woebegone. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘I have to. Technically, I’m unemployed, so I need to find work pretty urgently.’ Kit too, she thought.

Tracy groaned. ‘It’s all falling apart,’ she said dismally.

Cally felt intensely sorry for her. Tracy’s house had been one of the first in the terrace to be overhauled. There had been serious damp in the upstairs rooms, and little Brad had been seeing a local doctor with non-stop chest complaints. Now he was well enough to use the Centre, and Tracy had found part-time work as a supermarket checkout assistant. Things had been looking up for both of them. Now the coin was in the air again.

Most of the others were already there, hunched awkwardly on miniature chairs in the playroom, drinking coffee and nibbling half-heartedly on the Danish pastries Kit had brought.

The air of gloom was almost tangible as he stood up. ‘Sorry to drag you here so early, everyone. I asked for this meeting because, thanks to Leila, we now know who’s bought Gunners Wharf.’

There was a murmur of surprise. ‘How did you manage that?’ someone asked.

Leila looked round with open complacency. ‘My mum’s next door neighbour works in the planning department at the Town Hall. The company’s called Eastern Crest Developments, and they’re going to be in town the day after tomorrow. Roy says they’re putting on an exhibition at the Town Hall to show how they’re going to redevelop Gunners Wharf with the Council.’ She nodded. ‘So this is our chance.’

‘To do what?’ Cally asked.

‘To show them they can’t just walk all over us,’ Leila informed her triumphantly. ‘I say we picket the Town Hall. Carry banners saying “Save our Homes” and “Hands off Gunners Wharf”. Chain ourselves to the railings if necessary.’

Cally groaned inwardly. ‘Why stop there?’ she said. ‘Why not march down the High Street and put a brick through Hartleys’ windows?’

Leila’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea.’

‘You’re right,’ Cally said shortly. ‘It’s more than bad. It’s appalling—and illegal as well.’

‘Well,’ Leila said defiantly, ‘so is what they’ve done to us.’

‘I was going to suggest a slightly softer approach,’ said Kit. ‘Why don’t a few of us go to the exhibition and actually talk to the developers? See if their scheme couldn’t be adapted somehow to include Gunners Terrace. Suggest it could show the human side of big business. After all, they may not even know we exist down here. I bet the Hartleys won’t have mentioned it during negotiations,’ he added grimly.

There were a couple of upturned noses. ‘I’ve heard it’s all going to be yuppie flats and designer boutiques,’ someone said. ‘They won’t want the likes of us making the place look untidy.’

‘And won’t this Town Hall thing be invitation only?’ another voice asked.

‘Well, Roy could get us the invites,’ said Leila.

‘And it has to be worth a try, surely?’ added Tracy.

Kit gave her a warm smile. ‘I certainly think so.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you should be part of the deputation, with Cally and myself.’

‘Just three?’ Leila queried with a touch of belligerence.

‘I think small could be beautiful under the circumstances,’ Kit said smoothly. ‘No use going in mob-handed. That could be seen as aggressive, and we want a discussion, not a confrontation.’ He paused. ‘Of course we’ll be relying on you for the entry passes.’

There was a silence while Leila weighed her own disgruntlement against the good of the Gunners Terrace community as a whole. At last, ‘Not a problem,’ she said grudgingly, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

‘Is it really necessary for me to go?’ Cally asked later, when she and Kit were momentarily alone.

Kit shrugged. ‘If we manage to talk to Eastern Crest’s big bosses, it would be useful to have an accurate note of what’s said.’

‘Tracy could do that.’

He shook his head. ‘Tracy gets flustered, and she’s too involved to be objective anyway. She’ll hear what she wants to hear. Besides, she’s there for the sympathy vote,’ he added, grimacing slightly. ‘Pretty blonde single mother, whose baby used to be always ailing. That might tug at their hard heartstrings.’

‘Good PR—if slightly callous.’ Cally doodled aimlessly with a pencil. ‘What do you think the chances are?’

‘Of getting them to listen? Pretty good—especially without Leila threatening to kneecap them. Overall?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not hopeful. Major property companies are moneymakers, after all, not social workers.’

‘Yes,’ Cally said quietly. ‘They’re generally not famous for their humanitarian qualities. They tend to have their own agenda.’

‘Therefore,’ Kit went on, ‘we need to present our case in an articulate and reasonable way—and pray like hell.’ He paused. ‘Of course, what we really need is a deus ex machina—another rich philanthropist to make a counter-offer and save us all at the eleventh hour.’ He grinned at her. ‘Got many millionaires in your address book?’

The pencil snapped suddenly in her fingers. ‘No,’ she said, her voice faintly hoarse. ‘Not many.’

‘Nor me,’ he acknowledged ruefully, and was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant. ‘After the meeting, we could maybe have some dinner—at that Italian place in the High Street. What do you think?’

‘Fine by me,’ Cally agreed. ‘But you’d better warn Tracy to get a babysitter,’ she added disingenuously. ‘It will do her good to get out for the evening.’

Kit’s face fell a little, but he knew better than to argue.

When she was by herself again, Cally wondered whether that would have been a good time to tell him she was leaving—if he hadn’t guessed already. After all, the Hartleys must have him under notice too, although they’d reluctantly agreed to let the Children’s Centre remain open for the time being.

They’re thinking of nasty stories appearing in the local paper, Cally thought. Television cameras filming weeping children in pushchairs. The kind of publicity one’s friendly local department store needs like a hole in the head.

The kids’ parents, of course, were a different matter. Not everyone had the same concern for the disadvantaged as Genevieve Hartley had had, or tried to do anything about it. They’d be counting on that.

And the Gunners Terrace residents, once they were made homeless, would qualify for council housing anyway. That would be their argument, so how many people would really care if a small, struggling would-be community fell by the wayside?

But Cally knew that real pride, real spirit was being engendered in this tiny part of town, where those qualities had long been absent. And that it mattered. But it would soon wane once the families were dispersed, as seemed inevitable.

They deserve to survive, she told herself with sudden angry passion. They don’t need another defeat. If only—only—there was something I could do…

But there could have been—once, a sly voice in her head reminded her. If you’d chosen another kind of life. If you hadn’t run away. You might have made all the difference.

For a moment she was motionless, staring into the distance with eyes that saw nothing but pain.

She said under her breath, ‘But I made the right—the only possible choice. I know that.’ And dropped the broken pencil into the wastepaper basket.

She had no smart clothes, so she opted for another version of her working gear for their visit to the Town Hall.

The exhibition, which included a video presentation as well as a scale model of the development, was being staged in the conference hall—which hadn’t seen many conferences, but was useful for antiques fairs and craft markets. Also for the flower show in its usual inclement weather.

The Mayor and his entourage were clearly preening themselves because the place was living up to its grandiose title at last.

There were a lot of people present, most of them clustered around the tables where the scale model was set up, and the remainder hovering near the lavish buffet.

Waiters were going round with trays of champagne and heavy platters loaded with canapés, presumably all with the compliments of Eastern Crest. How to win friends and influence people, Cally thought cynically as she stood with Kit and Tracy, wondering whom they should approach.

But in the end the decision was made for them when they found themselves caught in a pincer movement by Gordon Hartley and his younger brother Neville, their faces flushed and inimical as they strode across the room.

‘I wasn’t aware anyone had asked you here.’ Gordon addressed Kit, ignoring the two girls completely. ‘I’d like you to leave—now.’

Kit held up three invitation cards. ‘Someone clearly has a different idea,’ he returned coolly. ‘I thought we should see what we’re up against.’

‘You’re up against nothing,’ Neville chimed in. ‘You’ve already lost, so what’s the point in coming here, making fools of yourselves? Our mother may have looked on you all as an act of charity, but we don’t.’

‘All the same.’ Kit was undeterred. ‘We’d like to have a look at the proposed development, and maybe speak to whoever’s in charge at Eastern Crest.’

Cally found herself admiring his calmness. His refusal to be rattled. He had ‘We shall not be moved’ written all over him, in spite of the hostility he was faced with.

Goodness, she thought, if Leila had come she’d have bitten someone in the leg by now.

‘Then you’re really out of luck.’ Gordon was speaking again, his tone curt, pushing his weight forward threateningly. ‘Because the chairman himself is hosting tonight’s presentation, and he plays in the big league. Get out now, before you become a laughing stock or he has you removed.’

The brothers’ raised voices were attracting attention, Cally realised, with embarrassment. Curious glances from all over the room were coming their way, and even some of the crowd round the model were turning their heads to look.

She realised that she wasn’t just uncomfortable, she’d actually begun to tremble inside. Even begun to be afraid in some obscure but compelling way.

We shouldn’t be here, she thought, swallowing. We may have invitations, but there’ll be an official guest list somewhere, and we’re still gatecrashers.

She touched Kit’s sleeve. ‘Listen,’ she began, ‘maybe we should…’

But the sentence was never completed. Because she was suddenly aware that a hush had fallen. That someone was making his way across the room towards them between groups of people that obediently fell back at his approach.

A tall man, she saw, with a thin tanned face under fashionably dishevelled hair, dark as a raven’s wing. A face marked by high cheekbones, a nose and chin almost arrogant in their strength, a mouth tough and unsmiling. And totally unforgettable.

The muscularity of his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped body was emphasised by the elegance of his designer suit as he strode towards them with powerful, determined grace, purpose in his every line.

He was someone, she realised, the breath catching in her throat, that she knew. Whose reappearance in her life she’d been dreading for over a year. And who was here now, almost within touching distance, when there was no time to run or place to go.

All she could do was stand her ground and pray to whatever unseen deity protected fugitives.

But as his eyes, grey and deep as a winter ocean, met hers, Cally felt the measure of his glance in the marrow of her bones, and knew that her escape had only been an illusion all along.

‘Good evening.’ The cool, crisp voice was like ice on her skin. ‘Is there some problem?’

A game, Cally thought numbly. He was playing a game, with rules that he’d invented. But no one knew it but herself.

‘A few troublemakers have got in, Sir Nicholas,’ Neville Hartley said swiftly. ‘But we’re dealing with them. So if you’d like to go back to your guests…’

‘Presently,’ the newcomer said quietly. He looked at Kit. ‘May I know who you are?’

Kit cleared his throat. ‘I’m Christopher Matlock, and I run the Children’s Centre, and the Residents’ Association down at Gunners Wharf. We face eviction because of your development, but I’m still hoping some compromise can be reached, and that you might spare me some time to discuss the matter.’

‘Ah, yes.’ The other man nodded. ‘This has been mentioned to me.’ He turned to Tracy, whose face had been blotched with nerves ever since their arrival. ‘And this is?’ His smile held a swift charm that softened the hardness of his face.

‘Tracy—Tracy Andrews,’ Kit said quickly, seeing that she was beyond speech. ‘One of the residents.’ He turned to Cally. ‘And this is my administrative assistant.’

‘Oh, but we need no introduction,’ the new arrival said with cold mockery. ‘Do we, Caroline, my love?’

Before she could move he took one long step towards her, capturing her chin in his long fingers. He bent his head, and for a brief, hideous second Cally felt the sear of his mouth on hers.

He straightened, his lips twisting. ‘They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I wonder if that’s true. Because you don’t seem very pleased to see me.’

‘Cally?’ Kit was staring at her, lips parted in shock. ‘You know this man?’

‘Yes.’ She forced her lips to move to make the necessary sounds. ‘His name is Nicholas Tempest.’

‘I’m the chairman of Eastern Crest.’ His smile did not reach his eyes. The gaze that held hers was a challenge, and a warning. ‘Now, tell him the rest, darling.’

And from some far, terrible distance, she heard herself say, with a kind of empty helplessness, ‘He’s my husband.’