Читать книгу Marriage Under Suspicion - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

THIS, Kate decided, as she crossed the deserted hotel lounge, had quite definitely been the morning from hell.

She sank into a chair by the window, easing off her elegant black court shoes under the shelter of the table, and discreetly massaging the ball of one aching foot against the calf of her other leg.

Outside on the sunlit lawn, the pretty pink and white striped marquee, with its distinctive octagonal shape, was being swiftly and efficiently dismantled.

Kate, recalling how many hours and telephone calls had been required to track it down, surveyed the operation with genuine regret.

Elsewhere in the hotel, all preparation on the carefully chosen menu for two hundred and fifty people had ceased; the champagne was being returned to the cellar, together with the claret and the chablis; and phones were buzzing as disappointed guests were told their presence would not be required after all.

Kate sighed soundlessly, and opened the file in front of her, running a finger down a hastily assembled check list. Setting up a wedding was a long and complicated business. Cancelling it on the day itself was almost as complex, and probably twice as hectic.

Damn Davina Brent, she thought irritably, scanning through the invoices from her sub-contractors. Why couldn’t she have decided a month—a week—even yesterday—that she didn’t want to go through with it?

Quite apart from the drama and upset of the last few hours, she would also have saved her distraught family some massive but unavoidable bills.

It was the first time since Kate and Louie, her friend from college days, had started Special Occasions that a bride had actually cried off on her wedding morning. In fact, in the three years that they’d been functioning, they’d had remarkably few hiccups, organising other people’s parties, receptions and special events.

And certainly there’d been no prior hint that the beautiful Davina was likely to throw such a spectacular last-minute wobbly. During the preliminary discussions that Kate had had with her, and her unfortunate husband-not-to-be, and, indeed, ever since, she’d seemed very much in love.

But then, thought Kate with an inward shrug, how could you tell what went on in other peoples’ lives—or heads?

For a moment, she was very still, aware of an odd shiver tingling down her spine. A goose walking over my grave, she thought. Or an angel passing over.

And jumped, as a glass was placed on the table in front of her. A martini, if she was any judge, and served just as she liked it, very dry, very cold, and with a twist of lemon. Only, she hadn’t ordered it.

‘There must be some mistake,’ she began, turning in her chair to face the waiter. Instead she found herself looking up into the unsmiling face of Peter Henderson, the erstwhile best man, now casually clad in jeans and sweater.

‘No mistake at all.’ His voice was terse. ‘You look as if you need a drink. I know I do.’ He indicated the whisky glass he was holding.

‘Thanks for the thought.’ Kate accorded him a brief, formal smile. ‘But I make a rule—no alcohol while I’m working.’

He grimaced. ‘I thought, under the circumstances, you’d be off duty by now.’

Kate gestured at the open file. ‘There are still a few loose ends to tie up.’

‘May I join you, or will I be getting in the way?’

‘Of course not. Sit down—please.’ Kate searched around under the table with a stockinged foot for her discarded shoes.

‘Allow me.’ Peter Henderson went down on one knee, and deftly replaced the errant footwear before seating himself in an adjoining chair.

‘Thank you.’ Kate was aware of a faint, vexed flush warming her face.

‘No problem.’ He surveyed her, his expression openly appreciative of the dark blonde hair, drawn sleekly back from her face, and the slender figure set off by her elegant raspberry-pink suit, and black silk shirt. He reached across the table, touching his glass to hers.

‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked lightly. ‘Love and happiness?’

‘Under the circumstances, that could be something of a minefield,’ Kate said drily. ‘Let’s stick to something brief and uncomplicated like “Cheers.’” She paused. ‘How is your brother?’

His mouth tightened. ‘Not good. Shattered, in fact.’

‘I can believe it.’ Kate hesitated again. ‘I—I’m so sorry.’

He gave a slight shrug. ‘Maybe it’s all for the best. If one has genuine misgivings, a clean break now could be preferable to a messy divorce later, when children could be involved, and real damage done.’

‘I suppose so,’ Kate agreed slowly. ‘But they seemed so genuinely well-suited. Did he have any idea she was having second thoughts?’

‘I imagine any problems would be simply attributed to bridal nerves.’ He looked at the narrow gleam of platinum on her wedding finger. ‘A pitfall you apparently managed to avoid.’

She said lightly, ‘Goodness, it’s so long ago, I can hardly remember.’

‘Not that long, surely, unless you were a child bride.’

‘Oh, please.’ Kate sent him an ironic look, aware that she’d flushed again. ‘It was actually five years.’

‘A lifetime.’ He sounded amused. ‘Any regrets?’

‘None at all,’ Kate returned sedately. ‘We’re very happy. Extremely so,’ she added, wondering why she’d needed the extra emphasis.

‘Any children?’

She was aware, once again, of his blue eyes assessing her trim figure.

‘Not yet. We’re both busy establishing our careers.’ She picked up the waiting martini, and sipped it after all, relishing its forceful chill against her dry throat. ‘In Ryan’s case a change of career,’ she added.

‘Something you don’t approve of?’

‘On the contrary.’ Kate stiffened. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘The fact that you took a drink before you mentioned it.’

She laughed. ‘You made a wrong connection, I’m afraid. The actual fact is that martinis are my weakness in life.’

‘The only one?’

‘I try to limit them,,’ she said drily.

‘Would calling me Peter be regarded as a weakness? ’

She was suddenly conscious of a marginal shift in her body language—that she’d relaxed—turned towards him. She straightened, giving him a cool look. ‘An error of judgement, possibly.’

She picked up her file, shuffling some papers. ‘And not very businesslike,’ she added crisply.

‘But your business isn’t with me. Like you, I’m just trying to pick up the pieces.’

‘In that case, shouldn’t you be with your brother instead of me?’

‘Andrew’s with our parents. They’re taking him home with them for a few days.’ He frowned at his glass. ‘I don’t know if that’s a good thing, or a bad. My mother’s inclined to be rather emotional, and she’s never been a fan of Davina’s anyway. It might make any rapprochement a bit difficult.’

Kate’s brows lifted. ‘You really think that could happen—in spite of everything?’

‘Perhaps—if they’re left to come round without too much interference on either side.‘ He sighed. ’In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if they just sloped off to a registry office one day, and simply got married in front of a pair of witnesses off the street. Neither of them wanted this kind of shindig in the first place. I wonder if it was the pressure of it all that finally goaded Davina into flight?’

‘I do hope not.’ Kate swallowed the rest of her martini and put down the glass. ‘Or I might develop a guilt complex.’

‘Blame both sets of parents,’ he said succinctly. ‘They were the ones coming up with endless lists of people who simply had to be invited.’

‘They usually are,’ Kate agreed. ‘And I must admit I’d have hated it myself.’

‘You mean you didn’t have the bridal gown, the fleet of cars, and the cast of thousands—when you’re actually in the business?’

She smiled constrainedly. ‘Ah, but I wasn’t then. And we did exactly what you recommended for Andrew and Davina. A registry office early in the morning, with two witnesses.’

‘Followed by unmitigated bliss?’

‘I would never claim that.’ Kate frowned. ‘I wouldn’t even want it. It sounds deadly dull.’

‘So you and Mr Dunstan enjoy the occasional clash?’

She shrugged. ‘Naturally. We’re both individuals in a relationship which pre-supposes a fair degree of togetherness, and all kinds of adjustments .’ She paused. ‘And it isn’t Mr Dunstan. That’s my name. My husband’s called Lassiter.’

His brows lifted. ‘You mean you’re married to Ryan Lassiter—the writer?’

Kate smiled. ‘I do indeed. Are you one of his fans?’

‘Actually, yes.’ Peter Henderson seemed momentarily nonplussed. ‘I started life as a City broker myself, so I read Justified Risk as soon as it came out I thought it was amazing—that combination of big business and total chill. And the second book was just as good, which doesn’t always happen.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ Kate said lightly. ‘Fortunately a great many people share your opinion.’

‘Is he working on a third book?’

She shook her head. ‘On a fourth. The third’s already in the pipeline for publication this autumn.’

‘I can’t wait. And while he’s pounding the keyboard you do this?’ Peter Henderson reached across and picked up one of her business cards which had slipped out of the file. ‘And all under your own name too,’ he added softly.

Kate shrugged again. ‘We might have fallen on our faces. It seemed a good idea to keep our individual enterprises totally separate.’

‘But now you’re flying high, surely?’

‘Let’s say we’re holding our own in difficult trading times.’ Kate closed her file. ‘Please keep the card, in case you have a celebration of your own to plan one of these days.’ She sent him a mischievous look. ‘Maybe even a wedding reception.’

‘God forbid.’ He shuddered.

‘You’re against marriage?’

‘Not for other people,’ he returned. The blue eyes dwelt on her thoughtfully. ‘Although I’d have to make exceptions there too.’

Their glances locked—challenged—and to Kate’s shock she was the first to look away.

What’s the matter with me? she thought, swallowing. I’m an adult woman. I’ve been chatted up before, plenty of times. Why should this be any different?

With what she recognised was a deliberate effort, she retrieved her black briefcase from the floor beside her, snapped open its locks, and put away the file with an air of finality.

As she got to her feet, she gave Peter Henderson a brief, noncommittal smile.

‘Well, thanks for the drink. Now I must really get on.’

‘Must you?’ He pushed back his own chair, and rose. ‘I was hoping, once you were free of your business cares, that we might have dinner together.’ He paused. ‘I’ve decided to stay on here tonight after all.’

‘And I’ve decided to make the earliest possible start back to London.’ Kate’s tone was more curt than she’d intended.

‘Running away, Miss Dunstan?’ Peter Henderson’s smile was engaging and unabashed. He glanced down at the card he was holding. ‘Or may I call you Kate?’

‘If you wish.’ Her own glance was pointedly at her watch. ‘Although I can’t see why you should wish to. Unless you do decide to throw a party one of these days, we’re unlikely to meet again. Even if Andrew and Davina get together again, I doubt they’ll hire our services a second time.’

Peter Henderson smiled at her. ‘I remain an optimist,’ he said. ‘In all sorts of ways.’

He paused. ‘And believe me—Mrs Lassiter—’ he stressed the name almost mockingly ‘—if and when I decide to party, you will be the first to know.’

Kate felt suddenly as if her own parting smile had been painted on, as wide and foolish as a clown’s.

She said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Mr Henderson,’ and walked away, out of the hotel lounge, without looking back.

She made her way straight to the powder room, glad to find it deserted. She closed the door behind her, and leaned on it for a moment, angrily aware that her breathing was flurried. Hoping too that her exit had been as dignified and final as she’d intended.

But I couldn’t guarantee it, she thought, pulling a face. And he was probably well aware of it, damn him.

She walked to the row of basins, smoothed back her already immaculate hair, added another unnecessary coating of colour to her mouth, then washed her hands—a symbolic gesture which forced a reluctant laugh from her.

Admit it, Kate, she adjured her bright-eyed reflection, half guilty, half amused. Just for a moment there, you were actually tempted.

After all, Ryan isn’t expecting you back until tomorrow. And it was only an invitation to dinner. Who would know if you’d accepted—and where would have been the harm anyway? Your marriage is rock-solid—isn’t it?

For a moment, she was very still, conjuring up Ryan’s image in her mind, until he seemed to be standing beside her, tall, loose-limbed, nose and chin assertively marked in a thin face that would always be attractive rather than handsome.

So real, she realised wonderingly, that she could almost smell the slightly harsh, totally male scent of the cologne he used. So sexy, in a cool, understated way, that her whole body clenched in sudden, unexpected excitement.

His long legs and narrow hips were encased in faded denim, his collarless shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and the sleeves rolled back over muscular forearms. Working gear—and a far cry from the dark City suits he’d worn when they first met. But the changes in Ryan went far deeper than mere surface appearance. And if she was honest, this had been one of the aspects of his new life which had troubled her most.

As usual, one strand of his silky mid-brown hair was straying untidily across his forehead. But, less usually, the hazel eyes were narrowed almost questioningly, and the mobile mouth wasn’t slanted with its usual amusement.

She was being watched, she thought slowly, by a cool, sexy stranger. With the accent on the cool.

Or she was simply transferring her guilt She rallied herself with a slight shrug, acknowledging Ryan’s reaction if he ever discovered she’d been tempted, even for a second, to accept Peter Henderson’s invitation.

She closed her eyes, dismissing the image, wiping the whole incident. It had been a brief glitch on the smooth tenor of her life, not to be considered again.

Aloud, she said, ‘It’s time I went home.’

She used the public telephone in the foyer to call their flat. The answering machine was on, indicating that Ryan was working.

She said lightly, ‘Hi, darling. The wedding’s off, and I’ll be back as soon as I can make it. Why don’t we eat out tonight—my treat? See if you can get a table at Chez Berthe.’

She called at Reception on her way out to tell them she was leaving, and check that the cancellation hadn’t brought any unexpected hitches.

‘Everything’s fine,’ the girl assured her. ‘It’s just such a shame. None of us can remember it ever happening before.’

‘I hope it doesn’t set a trend,’ Kate said drily as she turned away.

‘Oh, one minute, Miss Dunstan.’ The receptionist halted her. ‘I almost forgot.’ Her expression was suddenly conspiratorial—almost sly. ‘This was left for you.’

She handed over an envelope, inscribed ‘Ms Kate Dunstan’ in bold handwriting.

‘Thanks,’ Kate said coolly, and thrust it into her bag, silently cursing the other woman’s overt curiosity. It was important to leave the place on a business footing, she thought, pinning on a smile that was pleasant but formal.

‘I can’t foresee any further problems,’ she said briskly, ‘but if something does crop up you can contact me at the office or on my mobile.’

She waited until she was in her car before she opened the envelope. It was Peter Henderson’s business card, but he’d scrawled his private number across the back of it.

And underneath he’d written, ‘I told you I was an optimist.’

Kate’s mouth tightened. She was sorely tempted to tear the card up and dump it in a waste bin, except there wasn’t one handy. She’d get rid of it later, she decided, slotting the card into the back of her wallet. After she’d added him to the client file list in the office computer, of course, she amended. That would neutralise him. Reduce him to a business contact. Innocent, and potentially useful. End of story.

Traffic was miraculously light, and she didn’t hang about, finding herself at home almost before she’d dared hope, parking next to Ryan’s Mercedes in the underground car park which served the development where their flat was sited.

It was the top floor of what had once been a large warehouse, overlooking the river. In addition to a superb living area, which also contained the galley kitchen, a bathroom, and the room which Ryan used as his office, there was a wide gallery up a flight of wooden steps housing their bedroom, and a private bathroom. The floors were pale, sanded wood, the ceilings were high and vaulted, and every window had wonderful views.

Each time she opened the front door, Kate felt a thrill of ownership buzz through her veins. It was light years away from the flat they’d had when they first married, she thought. That had been the basement of a Victorian house, where the floors creaked, the windows stuck, and the plumbing was eccentric. They’d spent the first year furnishing it, prowling round second-hand shops and markets to find exactly the pieces they wanted. But the eclectic mixture they’d assembled wouldn’t have fitted in here, and they’d sold most of it on to the couple who’d bought the basement from them as well.

Here, furnishings had been kept to a minimum, and clutter banished altogether. Kate had concentrated on shades of cream and ivory, with an occasional bold splash of Mediterranean colour. And it worked. A glossy magazine had suggested using the flat in a series on ‘Working at Home’, but rather to Kate’s disappointment Ryan had refused to take part, saying simply he couldn’t afford the disruption to his routine.

Now, she used her key quietly, because Ryan would still be working, and it was important not to disturb him. He liked peace when he was writing, although he was reasonably tolerant of interruptions, especially when they came with a cup of coffee.

I’ll give him half an hour, and then take him some, Kate thought, dropping her briefcase on to a sofa.

And she paused, as it occurred to her that things were altogether too quiet, too peaceful. She listened intently, but only silence came surging back to her.

She cleared her throat. ‘Ryan—are you there?’ And, for the first time, was aware of a faint echo in all that vaulted emptiness.

She thought, in bewilderment, but he must be here. He’s always here. And besides, he didn’t take the car.

Across the room, she could see the answering machine’s red light winking at her. When she played back the tape, she found just her own message, unheard.

She checked the bedroom, and both bathrooms, then looked in Ryan’s office to see if he’d left her a note, but there was nothing. His desk was clear.

Of course, she thought. He wasn’t expecting me until tomorrow.

She felt absurdly deflated. She’d rushed back here like a mad thing to be with him, and he was somewhere else. What was more, there was no table booked at Chez Berthe, or anywhere for that matter.

She sighed. She’d have to do something with pasta. Tuna, she thought, and anchovies, and there was some garlic bread in the freezer. She might as well make a start on it, because Ryan wouldn’t be long—not if he hadn’t taken the Merc.

On the other hand, she realised, as she glanced restively around her, the flat was preternaturally tidy—unused even, as if no one had been there all day.

Oh, stop it, she adjured herself. You’re just disappointed. You don’t have to be paranoid as well.

She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She’d make herself a cup of coffee instead, and then begin the evening meal. Surprise him when he returned.

As she turned off the tap, she saw the two crystal flutes upturned in the drainer.

Her brows lifted. Champagne? she thought. But Ryan hardly ever drank champagne. He was a claret man. They’d spent their eventual honeymoon touring the Médoc.

She set the kettle to boil, then obeying an impulse she hardly understood, flicked open the waste bin. An empty bottle of Krug was right there, mute evidence that Ryan had indeed been drinking champagne, and not on his own either.

For a moment, Kate stood staring down at it, then she dropped the lid and turned away.

Well, what of it? she thought, with a mental shrug. Clearly he had something to celebrate. Perhaps Quentin, his agent, had called round with news of the film option on the last book.

She still could hardly believe how spectacular Ryan’s new career had proved. She’d thought he was firmly implanted in the City. Had been frankly horrified when he’d announced his decision to leave broking, and write his first novel. Kate, whose partnership with Louie had been in its early, tentative stages, had tried to reason with him, pointing out the risks he was taking, but he’d been quite determined.

‘I don’t like my life,’ he’d said. ‘I look at the people around me, and I can see myself becoming like them. I don’t want that. This is my chance to break free, and I’m taking it.’

He’d added more gently, ‘You don’t have to worry, Kate. I’ve got money put away to cushion us initially. I won’t let you starve.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of myself,’ she’d protested. ‘If you jack your job in, there’s no way back. And becoming a writer is such a—leap in the dark. How do you know you can do it?’

‘I’ll never know, unless I try.’

‘I suppose not.’ She’d sighed. ‘Well, do it, if you must. After all, we’ve always got Special Occasions to fall back on.’

There was a silence, then he’d said quietly, ‘So we have. I was almost forgetting.’

But, in the event, it hadn’t been needed. Ryan’s script had been read and auctioned by Quentin Roscoe for a sum which had made Kate blink.

‘You’re a genius.’ She’d flung her arms round Ryan, kissing him rapturously. ‘Nothing can stop us now.’

Although it hadn’t all been plain sailing, she was bound to admit. She still remembered the day Ryan had told her about the author tour which had been arranged in the States for the launch of Justified Risk.

‘Every major city,’ he told her jubilantly. ‘Book signings, TV and radio interviews. And, while I’m working, you’re going to be taken shopping and sight-seeing.’

‘I am?’ Kate’s smile faded. She bit her lip. ‘Darling, I can’t go with you.’

‘What are you talking about? Of course you’re coming. It’s all arranged.’

‘Then it’ll have to be un-arranged,’ Kate returned crisply. ‘After all, I wasn’t even consulted about this.’

‘I wasn’t included in the planning stage either,’ Ryan said with a touch of grimness. ‘These are the kind of hoops I’m expected to jump through, and be grateful. It’s certainly the kind of opportunity you don’t refuse.’

‘Of course not, and I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.’ Even to her own ears, her voice held a slightly brittle note. ‘But I’m far too busy at work to take that amount of time off.’

‘Louie would understand—if you explained.’

‘There’s nothing to explain.’ Kate lifted her chin. ‘Like you, I have a career, Ryan—and a life. I’m not just an—appendage to be trailed round in your wake.’

‘No indeed,’ he said, too courteously. ‘You’re my wife, and I’m looking for a little support here.’

‘So, I just drop everything and run?’ Kate shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ryan, but that isn’t how it works.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps if I’d had more notice . . . ’

‘I’ve only just heard myself.’ He paused ‘Kate, I need you with me—please.’

‘It’s impossible,’ she said stubbornly. She saw the utter bleakness in his face as he turned from her, and added hastily, ‘Next time, maybe . . . ’

‘Of course,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘There’s always a next time.’

Only there hadn’t been. Ryan had carried out a number of promotional tours since, but she’d been included in none of them, although she could have accompanied him with Louie’s goodwill.

‘You’re a fool,’ her partner had commented when Kate had told her what had happened. ‘If Ryan belonged to me, I wouldn’t let him roam off alone.’

‘He’s not alone,‘ Kate had protested. ‘He has people with him—a publicist, for one.’

‘Male or female?’ Louie had sent her a beady look.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then I’d get to know. I’m only a single woman, but it seems to me like the kind of information a caring wife should have at her fingertips.’ Louie had adjusted her scarlet-rimmed spectacles. She was taller than Kate, and built on more Junoesque lines, with a mop of dark curly hair.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ Kate had said impatiently. ‘I trust Ryan implicitly.’

Nevertheless, when Ryan got back she’d heard herself asking, ‘How did you get on with the publicist?’

‘Grant?’ Ryan had shaken his head. ‘Nice lad, but I think I was his first author. We carried each other.’

‘Oh,’ Kate had said, despising herself for feeling relieved.

The kettle whistled imperiously, bringing Kate back to the present with a start.

Not exactly the kind of trip down Memory Lane that I wanted, she reflected wryly as she made her coffee.

And it must have been sparked off by her encounter with Peter Henderson. His questions had re-opened several cans of worms which she’d thought closed for ever, and that was vaguely disturbing.

So, she hadn’t wanted Ryan to jettison his City career. She could hardly be blamed for that. But no one was more delighted than herself when the gamble paid off.

We’re both doing what we want. We have a wonderful life, and a strong marriage, she told herself as she made her way back to the living area. Things really couldn’t be better.

There was a small stack of mail beside the telephone, junk and bills by the look of it, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she flicked through the envelopes. There was only one she couldn’t categorise quite so simply. An expensive cream laid envelope, typewritten, and addressed quite starkly to ‘Kate Lassiter’, with a central London postmark.

Kate slit open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper it contained.

She unfolded the letter, reaching casually for her coffee cup as she did so.

There was no address, and no greeting. Just two lines in heavy black script. Seven words which leapt off the page at her with a force that left her stunned.

Your husband loves another woman.

A Friend.