Читать книгу Act Of Betrayal - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

THERE was a lay-by about half a mile from the factory complex. Laura drove the car into it, and stopped, slumping limply forward over the driving wheel.

She’d left Caswells at the run, uncaring about who might see her, or what conclusions might be drawn. She’d fumbled with the ignition, crashed the gears, and missed the concrete gatepost at the exit by a whisker.

It was a miracle she’d got this far without an accident, only she’d stopped believing in miracles. They were on a par with the tooth fairy, who’d stopped calling a very long time ago.

She sat very still, her hands still gripping the wheel as she sought to control the deep inner trembling which threatened to convulse her.

She kept hoping she would wake up and find it had all been just another nightmare—trying, but purely transitory—but she knew that however many times she might pinch herself, Jason was not going to vanish like a bad dream this time.

He was there. He was flesh and blood, and for one endless, searing moment, he’d made her feel like flesh and blood too.

She groaned, nausea rising in her throat, and sat up slowly, fighting her own self-disgust.

How could she have felt like that—even for a second? She knew what Jason was—who better? she thought bitterly—so what in the name of God had she been doing to allow him anywhere near her?

She lay back in her seat, staring sightlessly through the windscreen.

Well, it had happened, and while it was shaming to realise just how close her body had been to betraying her, the situation wasn’t totally irretrievable.

Because Jason had not guessed. She repeated the words aloud to herself, giving each one its own resounding emphasis—because it mattered. It really did.

She’d been a total innocent when they’d first met, but under his tutelage she’d blossomed, discovering depths in her nature, aspects of sexuality which she’d never dreamed existed. Jason was the first man to whom she’d been physically attracted, the first one to teach her sensual delight. It was hardly surprising that she’d imagined she was in love with him, or that she’d been naïve enough to believe that he loved her in return.

She’d soon learned differently, of course—even before that first, crazy, delirious year had wound to a close.

‘Trust me,’ he’d urged. ‘Laura, trust me please.’

I trusted him, she thought. I’d have done anything for him. I’d have followed him naked, if he’d asked me. Only he never asked.

She hadn’t let herself cry much during the long months while she was waiting to be divorced. She hadn’t cried a great deal since, but there were tears now. Laura put her hands over her face and sobbed. The moisture ran between her splayed fingers, and down the backs of her hands. She could hear herself moaning, and the desolation of the sound frightened her into silence, and ultimately into control again.

There was a box of tissues in the car, and she used them to blot the worst signs of her emotional collapse from her face. She didn’t want to have to face Celia with red eyes, and a blotched skin. In fact, it occurred to her, she would prefer not to have face Celia at all just yet.

She sat for a moment, drumming her fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, then started the car with new determination. She would go to Alan’s house—take him up on one of the many invitations she’d always steered clear of in the past.

After all, she liked Alan, she argued defensively to herself. She’d enjoyed their dates together over the past year, but she’d been wary of allowing their relationship to develop along more intimate lines, and when Alan had shown signs of trying to force the pace a little, she’d always drawn back. One day she might be ready for a serious involvement again, but that day had not yet arrived.

And although to seek him out like this might not be altogether fair to Alan in view of the ambivalence of her feelings, it was necessary. She needed the reassurance of his undoubted regard for her. He was the present tense in her life. Jason was the past.

It took Laura just under ten minutes to drive out of town to the small village where he lived. One minute there were suburban houses and neat gardens, and then, as abruptly as if someone had drawn a line, there were fields and trees and narrow lanes, with fingerposts pointing out the hidden life of the countryside.

She parked her car on the verge opposite his small cottage, and crossed the lane to the gate, returning the friendly nod she received from an elderly man working in the neighbouring garden.

As she walked up the path, she could hear the sound of Alan’s typewriter clicking away through the open window, and she hesitated for a moment before knocking at the door.

Alan had trained originally as a teacher, but because of the cuts in education spending, he’d never managed to secure a permanent post in an English department anywhere. So, instead, he’d turned to freelance writing, and was managing to make an adequate living if not an affluent one, eked out by some private coaching. Among other things, he wrote a restaurant column for the local paper, as well as being its drama critic, and in a way it was through this column that they’d become friends, because when they’d been casually introduced at a party, Laura had told him bluntly she didn’t always agree with his praise or criticism of the local eating houses, and they’d enjoyed discussing their differing opinions.

It was clear he was working now, and she was unwilling to disturb him for such purely selfish reasons, but just as she was preparing to turn away, he called, ‘Come in, Laura. The door isn’t locked.’

He met her in the tiny hall, smiling delightedly. ‘Hey—this is fantastic. I was just going to ‘phone you. What brings you this way?’

‘Oh, I was just passing.’ She hated lying, and was bad at it. ‘Could I use the bathroom, do you suppose?’

‘Of course,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s on the right at the top of the stairs. And I’ll make some coffee.’

As she made hurried repairs to the ravages which emotion had done to her face, Laura wondered wryly whether Alan had seen she was upset, but been too tactful to enquire about it. On balance, she decided the dimness of the light in the hall had probably been to her advantage, and he hadn’t noticed a thing. She hoped not, anyway. She didn’t want to have to embark on lengthy explanations.

He was emerging from the kitchen with a tray as she came downstairs, and she followed him into a sizeable, cluttered living room. There was a large desk under the window, and a frankly sagging sofa in front of the empty fireplace, flanked by a couple of easy chairs which had also seen better days.

But for all that, the room had a cosy welcoming air, which in Laura’s view, the Caswell mansion totally lacked.

The coffee was good too. Alan was fussy about the blends he chose, and it showed. She accepted the pretty pottery beaker he handed her with a murmured word of thanks.

He perched on the arm of a chair, smiling eagerly. ‘I’m glad I didn’t ‘phone and find you out. I get the impression your uncle’s housekeeper doesn’t altogether appreciate taking messages from me.’

Laura smiled rather ruefully. ‘It’s no fault of yours. I’m afraid that she resents me. She’s been with the family for years, and my uncle thought I could take some of the housekeeping burdens off her shoulders, but she doesn’t see it that way at all. Anyway, why did you want to speak to me?’

‘I’ve been asked to cover the opening of a brand-new restaurant in Burngate tonight,’ he said. ‘The Echo were going to send Linda Watson from staff, because there’ll be free champagne, but as she’s gone down with some virus they’ve had to fall back on me.’ He gave a self-deprecating grin. ‘I’m allowed to take guests, so I wondered if you’d go with me?’

In any other circumstances, Laura thought she would probably have made an excuse. It didn’t sound like her sort of junket at all, but tonight the last thing she wanted to do was sit at home and brood.

She said lightly, ‘It sounds like fun. Pick me up early, and have a drink with us first.’

His face lit up. ‘I’d really like that.’ He paused. ‘Your family don’t object to you going out with a struggling hack?’

‘Is that how you see yourself?’ Laura asked. She gave a faint shrug. ‘Why should they object? I’m not a child anymore. I have my own life to live.’

‘I suppose so.’ He spoke slowly, as if measuring his words. ‘But do you live it? I mean—you seem so sheltered sometimes.’

‘I assure you I don’t feel it,’ she told him drily. ‘But if you’re nervous of my ivory tower, we could always meet in a bar.’

‘Oh, no,’ he denied hastily. ‘I’d like to meet your uncle.’

He didn’t actually say ‘at long last’ but his tone implied it, and Laura bit her lip. Clearly her attempts to keep their relationship on a strictly casual basis hadn’t been as subtle as she’d hoped, and now Alan was taking her decision to introduce him into the family circle as a step towards a greater intimacy. She could only hope she wasn’t starting something she’d be unable to control.

She’d never told Alan any details about her personal life. To him, she was just Laura Caswell, and he had no idea there had ever been a Laura Wingard. It had never seemed necessary to tell him, but now it occurred to her that she was going to have to, and she wondered how he would react.

He said suddenly, ‘Where do you go to, Laura?’

Her eyes flicked questioningly to his face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not even sure myself. It’s just sometimes when we’re together, you seem to—vanish—somewhere inside yourself. It makes me wonder.’ He laughed rather awkwardly. ‘Perhaps it’s just that I’m not very exhilarating company.’

Her glance held compunction. Obviously, he needed reassurance too. ‘It certainly isn’t that,’ she said gently. ‘I don’t think I even realise I’m doing it.’

There was a pause, then he said, ‘If you’ve got problems, it can help sometimes to share them.’ He sounded tentative, unsure, as if aware he was offering himself in a new role, and she was grateful, even if she couldn’t be sure it was what she wanted from him.

She drank down her coffee, and rose. ‘If we’re going on the town, then I’d better do something about my appearance. I don’t want to put my fellow revellers off their food.’

‘You’d never do that,’ he protested.

She knew that he wanted to kiss her, and she made herself yield as he took her in his arms, hoping that the touch of his lips would turn her to fire, totally erasing the memory of that other devastating kiss.

Oh, Alan, forgive me, she thought remorsefully, as her hands slid up to clasp his shoulders in the simulation of passion. She felt his arms tighten round her in response, his mouth move on hers with growing confidence. Laura closed her eyes, waiting, praying for the alchemy to happen. After all, he was young, he was attractive in a quiet way, and she wanted to want him. She wanted another man to kindle the deep flame in her body which Jason had always lit so effortlessly.

Since their parting, she’d been in a kind of limbo, leading a half-life, but now she wanted to be whole again, and Alan could be the man to make her so.

But once again, there were no miracles. The kiss was pleasant, but it ignited no fierce, answering excitement within her, and it was a relief when he let her go—reluctantly, but without initiating any further intimacies.

There was tenderness in his face when he looked at her, and a slight triumph as well, which she supposed was understandable. She’d never invited caresses in the past, and she’d always been the first to draw back.

He said huskily, ‘Well, I’ll see you later then,’ and Laura tried not flinch at the new possessive note in his voice.

She said steadily, ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ and wished with all her heart that it could be true.

Celia was nowhere to be seen when she got back to the house, her lounger in the garden unoccupied, a discarded magazine tossed on the grass beside it, and an empty jug which had once contained orange juice still reposing with its used glass on a wrought iron table nearby. Laura put the lounger away in the summer-house, and carried the other things across the lawn towards the house.

She was almost at the french windows which opened into the drawing room, when she heard Celia laughing, the low throaty chuckle which meant there was a man about.

Her cousin was entertaining one of her numerous boyfriends, Laura decided resignedly. If it was Greg Arnold, she could only hope he would save his more risque stories until she was out of the room.

She was almost tempted to retrace her steps, and go in by the kitchen entrance, but she told herself forcefully not to be so silly.

She was actually inside the room, with retreat impossible, when she saw the man sharing the wide sofa with Celia was Jason.

‘Hello, sweetie,’ Celia flashed her a smile. She’d thrown on the shirt which matched her sunbathing gear, but she still managed to look alluringly undressed. She waved a hand at Jason. ‘I gather introductions aren’t necessary.’ She giggled. ‘What an amazing surprise for you both. I always understood Laura’s ex-husband was a struggling artist, and now he turns up as a tycoon. You sly thing, Laura, keeping it all to yourself like this.’

Before Laura could speak, Jason intervened smoothly. ‘She can hardly be held responsible for not telling you I was the boss of Tristan Construction. She didn’t know it herself until a few hours ago.’

‘So it was all your little secret?’ Celia’s eyes fastened limpidly on his face. ‘Perhaps you should have told her. You might both still be living in connubial bliss.’

‘I doubt that.’ His lips smiled, but the words bit. ‘In any case, I’m sure there are far more interesting subjects to discuss than my past matrimonial difficulties.’

Celia pouted a little. ‘Are there any current ones?’

‘No.’ He didn’t look at Laura at all. ‘So far, I’ve decided not to risk another dip in the troubled waters of marriage.’ He looked at her ringless left hand. ‘It seems like a view we share.’

Celia shrugged gracefully. ‘I was engaged—once, but to be honest I find the whole concept of marriage the teeniest bit cramping and old-fashioned, even though the divorce laws have made things easier.’

Laura listened with a sense of incredulity. Easier, she thought helplessly. Easier? Was that really how Celia regarded those few brief moments in court which tore apart flesh and sinew and emotion?

She said in a small wooden voice, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me I’ll just take these things to the kitchen.’

‘And while you’re there, sweetie, you might see about some tea for us.’ Celia’s tone was casual, but the words, putting Laura in a position of subservience was quite deliberate.

Hot outrage rose in Laura’s throat. She was sorely tempted to yell, ‘Get your own damned tea,’ and brain Celia with the empty jug for good measure, but she exercised an almost superhuman restraint.

She returned coolly, ‘Of course.’ She looked at Jason, lifting her brows enquiringly, ‘Milk or lemon?’

His mouth twisted. She saw a glimmer of anger deep down. ‘You mean you don’t remember?’ he asked silkily. ‘I think lemon on such a warm day—don’t you?’

It didn’t make a particle of difference what she thought, Laura told herself as she left the room. She had no intention of sharing the tea with them, and watching Celia exercise her blatant wiles on Jason.

The kitchen was full of delicious baking smells, and Mrs Fraser, looking harassed was removing a tray from the oven.

‘Miss Celia wants tea,’ Laura said rinsing the jug and glass under the tap. ‘But you seem to have your hands full already.’

Mrs Fraser snorted ungraciously. ‘A drinks party—and at the last moment—expecting cheese straws and canapés to appear from thin air.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Laura walked warily. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘I can cope, thank you.’ The older woman’s voice was ungracious but Laura was used to that. ‘Although——’ she paused. ‘Well, you could get a tea tray ready, and save me the job.’

Laura’s heart sank. She’d hoped to deliver the message and escape upstairs to her room. But being allowed to make any contribution was a concession, she thought drily. She’d never been the housekeeper’s favourite as a child, but since her return, the woman’s attitude had been practically hostile.

So, she filled the kettle and set it to boil, while she laid a tray with cups and saucers under Mrs Fraser’s critical eye.

‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw who was at the door,’ the housekeeper volunteered at last, producing a tin of homemade biscuits from a cupboard and handing them to Laura. ‘Looks more affluent than he did in the old days,’ she added, with another snort. ‘Back for good, is he?’

Laura shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t say. I understand he’s here on business.’

‘Not looking for a reconciliation then?’ Mrs Fraser’s sharp eyes were bright with malice, and Laura bit her lip, controlling a number of heated replies.

She said, with cool politeness. ‘As I said, Mrs Fraser, he seems to have business in the area. Would you like me to take the tray in as well.’

The housekeeper sniffed, and turned back to her baking. ‘If it wouldn’t trouble you too much.’

‘Oh, you’ve only brought two cups,’ Celia exclaimed as Laura set the tray down on the low table which fronted the sofa. ‘But I meant you to join us sweetie, naturally.’

‘Thank you,’ Laura said evenly. ‘But I have things to do.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait, I’m sure.’ Celia gave her a limpid look. ‘You’re being rather silly, you know. We’re bound to be seeing a lot of Jason once the Tristan projects get under way locally. You may as well get accustomed to the fact, and have tea with us in a civilised manner.’

‘Civilised’ was fast becoming her least favourite word, Laura reflected bitterly. She said tautly, ‘Some other time.’

‘There’s no time like the present,’ Jason said smoothly. He rose to his feet, his lean body straightening in one lithe movement. ‘Sit down, Laura. I’m sure your cousin won’t mind fetching another cup.’

To judge by the expression which fleetingly crossed Celia’s face, he’d made a big mistake there, Laura thought drily.

She began, ‘I’ll get it …’ but his hands descended on her shoulders, pushing her firmly down on to the softness of the sofa.

‘I said sit down,’ he reminded her gently.

Celia said with a small, artificial laugh. ‘How very masterful. I’d better go and get that cup.’

The door closed behind her. Laura sat rigidly, her hands linked round her knees in a parody of relaxation, staring down at the carpet.

‘Alone together over the teacups,’ Jason said softly. ‘What a moment of pure nostalgia for us to savour, darling.’

She said, ‘What the hell are you doing here, Jason? Whatever impression Celia may have given, you must know you’re not welcome in this house.’

‘On the contrary,’ he sounded amused. ‘I confidently expect to become the year’s most honoured guest. As for why I’m here—I came to return this to you.’ He took a small gold cylinder from his pocket, and tossed it towards her. ‘So, if you were imagining that I’d followed you here, drooling with lust, think again.’

She looked stupidly down at her own lipstick. ‘Where …? Oh, it must have fallen out of my bag when I dropped it.’

‘Right,’ he said unemotionally. ‘And I assumed you might need it at some time.’

‘It could have waited,’ she said. ‘You could have given it to Fergie—my uncle’s secretary. Anyway, thank you.’

‘Graciously spoken,’ Jason approved sardonically. He sat down at the other end of the sofa, leaning back, very much at his ease. ‘Well, aren’t you going to pour the tea?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m sure Celia would prefer to do that. She’s the hostess here, after all.’

‘And you’re what? The skivvy? The Cinderella of the establishment, with that lipstick the nineteen eighties equivalent of the glass slipper?’

She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t be ridiculous. And don’t—don’t judge by appearances either. I’m glad to do anything I can for Uncle Martin. It’s the least I can offer in exchange for a roof over my head.’

‘You had a roof over your head,’ he said softly. ‘A perfectly adequate one—although not admittedly as flash as this.’ He looked around, his lips curling slightly. ‘What charming decor? Your choice?’

He knew perfectly well that it wasn’t, she thought stormily. On one of their few visits to his house during their brief marriage, she’d told him how much she loved the quiet charm of this room, with the pale silk wallpaper and faded chintzes which had furnished it then.

She said quietly, ‘It was time for a change.’

‘A telling phrase,’ he said cynically, and the colour ran into her face. She leaned forward and began to pour the tea, praying that her hand wouldn’t shake and betray her. ‘And not the only change,’ he added. ‘There’s also yourself. You’ve allowed yourself to become a shadow, instead of the flesh and blood I remember. If I painted you now, what would there be—just a soft blur in the background?’

‘You still paint?’ To her annoyance, the question was out before she could prevent it.

‘Sometimes.’ He sent her a cool smile as he took the cup from her. ‘If I can find a subject which appeals to me. I have to be more selective these days, now that my time is limited.’

Underneath her confusion of anger and anxiety, she was conscious of the stirrings of regret. He’d been a truly talented painter, and his work had just started to sell, even though he’d refused to compromise his arresting, almost violent style. He’d believed in himself, and in his work, and it seemed impossible that now he’d relegated it to the role of a hobby, to be pursued in whatever leisure he allowed himself.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said, ‘It was time for a change,’ mocking her with her own words.

She drew a breath. ‘And—the change was Tristan Construction? How did that come about?’

‘Through the death of my father,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘The company belonged to him.’

She swallowed. ‘I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you, Laura? I can’t imagine why. You never knew him. In fact, you didn’t even believe he existed.’ She was suddenly and chillingly aware of the anger in him, the violence just below the surface.

She said tightly, ‘I had good reason—if you remember.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ he said too gently. ‘Every detail of the whole bloody mess is indelibly engraved on my memory, darling, believe me.’

‘You both look very fierce,’ Celia said from the doorway. ‘Would you rather throw this cup than drink out of it?’

Laura said levelly, ‘I’d really prefer to do neither. So, if you’ll both excuse me.’

She got up, and he watched her, his mouth smiling, but his eyes grim. He said, ‘Until later then.’

‘Later,’ she repeated.

‘The drinks party, sweetie,’ Celia chirped. ‘For the Tristan executives. I’ve decided to do my bit for Caswells at last. Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Over the moon,’ Laura said wildly, wondering why Celia hadn’t been strangled at birth.

Celia pouted prettily. ‘Laura’s always telling me I don’t take sufficient interest in the company. But all that’s going to change from now on.’ She sent him a mischievously provocative look from under her lashes. ‘In fact, I’m going to take the most amazing interest in every aspect of its dealings.’ She giggled. ‘This party is only the start.’

Jason smiled at her. ‘It should be a truly memorable evening for us all,’ he said.

His tone was light, but over Celia’s blonde head, he looked at Laura, and his eyes were bleak with a warning it was impossible to ignore.

She walked to the door, and left them alone together.