Читать книгу The Innocent's One-Night Confession: The Innocent's One-Night Confession / Hired to Wear the Sheikh's Ring - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

‘SO, COME ON, BECKS. Tell all. What’s he like in bed?’

Alanna Beckett nearly choked on her mouthful of St Clements as she cast an apprehensive glance round the crowded wine bar.

‘Susie—for heaven’s sake, keep your voice down. And you can’t ask things like that.’

‘But I just did,’ said Susie, unruffled. ‘I have a thirst for information that even this very nice wine can’t satisfy. Think about it. I go to America for six whole weeks, leaving you alone in the flat and doing your usual imitation of a hermit crab. I come back terrified that you’ll have adopted a cat, started wearing cameo brooches and signed up for an evening class in crochet—and, instead, you’re on the brink of getting engaged. Hallelujah!’

‘No,’ Alanna protested. ‘I’m not. Nothing like it. He’s just invited me to his grandmother’s eightieth birthday party. That’s all.’

‘An important family do at the important family house in the country. That’s serious stuff, Becks. So, let’s have some details about—Gerald, is it?’

‘Gerard,’ said Alanna. ‘Gerard Harrington.’

‘Also known as Gerry?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

‘Ah.’ Susie digested this. ‘Complete physical description, warts and all?’

Alanna sighed. ‘Just under six foot, good-looking, fair hair, blue eyes—and no warts.’

‘As far as you’re aware. How did you meet?’

‘He saved me from being run over by a bus.’

‘Good God,’ Susie said blankly. ‘Where—and how?’

‘Not far from Bazaar Vert in the King’s Road. I was thinking of something else and just—stepped off the pavement. He snatched me back.’

‘Well, God bless him for that.’ Susie stared at her. ‘That’s not like you, Becks. What on earth were you daydreaming about?’

Alanna shrugged. ‘I thought I’d seen someone I knew.’ She hesitated, thinking rapidly. ‘Lindsay Merton, as a matter of fact.’

‘Lindsay?’ Susie repeated, puzzled. ‘But she and her husband are living in Australia.’

‘And I’m sure they still are,’ Alanna returned brightly, cursing herself under her breath. ‘So I nearly got squished for nothing.’

‘What did Sir Galahad—aka Gerard—do then?’

‘Well, I was naturally a bit shaky, so he took me into Bazaar Vert and got the manageress to make me some very sweet tea.’ She shuddered. ‘I’d almost have preferred being run over.’

‘No you wouldn’t,’ Susie corrected briskly. ‘Think of the unfortunate bus driver. And how come your knight errant has so much influence with the snooty ladies in Bazaar Vert?’

‘Someone in his family—his cousin—owns the entire chain. Gerard is its managing director.’

‘Wow,’ said Susie. ‘Therefore earning megabucks and ecologically minded as a bonus. Darling, I’m seriously impressed. Don’t they say that if someone rescues you, then your life belongs to them for ever after?’

‘“They”, whoever they are, seem to say a lot of things, most of them plain silly,’ Alanna returned evenly. ‘And there’s no question of belonging—on either side. Or not yet, anyway.’ She shrugged. ‘We’re simply—getting acquainted. And this party is another step in the process.’

‘Seeing if Grandma bestows the gold seal of approval?’ Susie wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t think I’d like that.’

‘Well, it can work both ways. Anyway, it’s a weekend in the country, so I intend to relax and just—go with the flow. Which will not carry me into sleeping with Gerard,’ she added. ‘In case you were wondering. It’s strictly separate bedrooms at Whitestone Abbey.’

Susie grinned. ‘With Vespers thrown in by the sound of it. But he might know where to find a convenient haystack.’ She raised her glass. ‘To you, my proud beauty. And may the weekend make all your dreams come true.’

Alanna smiled back and drank some more of her orange juice and bitter lemon. After all, she told herself, it might even happen.

And perhaps she could, at long last, dismiss her secret nightmare to well-deserved oblivion. Begin to live her life to the full without being crucified by memories of the private shame which had turned her into a self-appointed recluse.

Everyone made mistakes and it was ludicrous to have taken her own lapse so seriously. Even if it had been totally out of character, there’d certainly been no need to continue beating herself up about it, allowing it to poison her existence for month after dreary month.

‘But why?’ Susie had wailed so often. ‘It’s party time so forget your authors and their damned manuscripts for one evening and come with me. Everyone would be thrilled to see you. They ask about you all the time.’

And, invariably, her mind flinching, she’d used the excuse of work—deadlines—an increased list—and the very real talk of a possible takeover, to be followed, almost inevitably, by redundancies.

Explained, perfectly reasonably, that, to make sure of her job, she needed to put her heart and soul into her work. Which wasn’t any real hardship because she loved it.

And, as reinforcement, she’d created this new office persona, quiet, dedicated and politely aloof. Confined her cloud of dark auburn hair in a silver clasp at the nape of her neck. Stopped enhancing her green eyes and long lashes with shadow and mascara, restricting her use of cosmetics to a touch of lipstick so discreet it was almost invisible.

And only she knew the reason for adopting this deliberate camouflage. She hadn’t even told Susie, best friend from school days and now flatmate, who’d provided her joyfully with the refuge she needed from her solitary bedsit, and was now equally delighted to welcome her apparent renaissance.

Not that she planned to abandon her current version of herself. She’d become used to it, telling herself that safe was far better than sorry. Not, of course, that she’d ever gone in for fashion’s extremes or painted her face in stripes.

And Gerard seemed to like her the way she was, although she could, maybe, move up a gear without too much shock to his system.

Depending, she thought, on how things went at his grandmother’s party.

The invitation had surprised her. Gerard was undeniably charming and attentive, but their relationship so far could quite definitely be characterised as restrained. Not that she had any objections to this. Quite the contrary, in fact.

She’d only agreed to have dinner with him on that first occasion because he’d put himself at risk to save her from serious injury at the very least, and it would have seemed churlish to refuse.

And, almost tentatively, she’d found herself relaxing and starting to enjoy a pleasant and undemanding evening in his company. It had been their third date before he’d kissed her goodnight—a light, unthreatening brush of his lips on hers.

Not, as Susie put it, a martini kiss. She’d been, to her relief, neither shaken nor stirred. At the same time, it was reassuring to reflect that she’d have no real objection to him kissing her again. And, when he did, to realise that she was beginning, warily, to find it enjoyable.

‘We’re going steady,’ she’d told herself, faintly amused at the idea of an old-fashioned courtship, but thankful at the same time. ‘And this time,’ she’d added fervently, ‘I’ll get it right.’

All the same, she was aware that the coming weekend at Whitestone Abbey could prove a turning point in their relationship which she might not be ready for.

On the other hand, refusing the invitation might be an even bigger mistake.

On the strength of that, she’d spent a chunk of her savings on a dress, the lovely colour of a misty sea, slim-fitting and ankle length in alternating bands of silk and lace, demure enough, she thought, to please the most exacting grandmother, yet also subtly enhancing her slender curves in a way that Gerard might appreciate.

And which would take her through Saturday’s cocktail party for friends and neighbours to the formal family dinner later in the evening.

‘I hope you won’t find it too dull,’ Gerard said, adding ruefully, ‘There was a time when Grandam would have danced the night away, but I think she’s started to feel her age.’

‘Grandam?’ Alanna was intrigued. ‘That has a wonderfully old-fashioned ring about it.’

He pulled a face. ‘Actually, it was an accident. When I was away at school for the first time, she sent me a food parcel and when I wrote to thank her, I mixed up the last two letters of Grandma and it stuck.’

‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘I think it’s charming.’

‘Well, don’t think in terms of lavender and lace,’ he said. ‘She still goes out on her horse each day before breakfast, summer and winter.’ He paused. ‘Do you ride?’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘Up to the time I left home to go to university and my parents decided to downsize to a cottage with a manageable garden, instead of a paddock with stabling.’

‘Bring some boots,’ he said, his surprised smile widening into a grin. ‘We can fix you up with a hat and I’ll give you a proper tour of the area.’

Alanna smiled back. ‘That will be marvellous,’ she said, and meant it in spite of a growing conviction that the soon-to-be eighty-year-old Niamh Harrington was one formidable lady.

And then, of course, there was the rest of the family.

‘Gerard’s mother is a widow and his late father was Mrs Harrington’s eldest child and only son,’ she told Susie over a Thai takeaway at the flat that evening.

She counted on her fingers. ‘Then there’s his Aunt Caroline and Uncle Richard with their son and his wife, plus his Aunt Diana, her husband Maurice and their two daughters, one married, one single.’

‘My God,’ Susie said limply. ‘I hope for your sake they wear name tags. Children?’

Alanna speared a prawn. ‘Yes, but strictly with attendant nannies. I get the impression that Mrs Harrington doesn’t approve of modern child-rearing methods.’

She added, ‘She also had a third daughter, her youngest, called Marianne, but she and her husband are both dead, and their son apparently is not expected to attend the festivities.’

‘Just as well,’ said Susie. ‘Sounds as if it will be standing room only as it is.’ She paused. ‘Is it this Marianne’s son who owns Bazaar Vert?’

Alanna shrugged. ‘I guess so. Gerard hasn’t said much about him.’ She picked up a foil dish. ‘Share the rest of the sticky rice?’

‘Willingly,’ said Susie. ‘But I’m glad to be missing out on the sticky weekend,’ she added thoughtfully.

The stickiness, in fact, began early at the Friday morning acquisitions meeting.

Alanna walked from it into her cubbyhole of an office, kicked the door shut behind her and swore.

‘Oh, Hetty,’ she said quietly. ‘Where are you when I need you?’

Well, on maternity leave was the answer to that, which was why Alanna had been temporarily promoted to head up romantic fiction at Hawkseye Publishing during her boss’s absence.

Initially, she’d been thrilled at the opportunity, but now the rose-tinted spectacles were off and she realised she was in a war zone, the opposing foe being Louis Foster who produced the men’s fiction list, mainly slanted towards the ‘blood and guts’ school of thought, but also including some literary names. And others, as Alanna had just found out.

She had gone to the meeting to sell a new author with a fresh voice and innovative approach, who was her own discovery.

She had spoken enthusiastically and persuasively about acquiring this burgeoning talent for the Hawkseye stable, only to find herself blocked by Louis’s suave determination.

He could not, he said, having studied the figures, recommend such a high-risk investment in a total unknown.

‘Especially,’ he added, ‘as Jeffrey Winton told me over lunch the other day that he was very keen to extend his range, and what he was suggesting sounds very similar to what this young lady of Alanna’s is offering. And, of course, we’d have the Maisie McIntyre name which sells itself.’

Jeffrey Winton, thought Alanna, her toes curling inside her shoes, the bestselling creator, under a female pseudonym, of village sagas so sweet they made her teeth ache.

Also Hetty’s author, so what the hell was he doing being wined and dined by Louis, let alone discussing future projects?

Not that she wanted to go within a mile of him, she thought, recoiling from the memory of her one and only encounter with the rotund, twinkling author of Love at the Forge and Inn of Contentment. And, even worse, what had followed...

Everything she had done her best to erase from her consciousness was now suddenly confronting her again in every detail, rendering her momentarily numb.

And while she was still faltering, Louis’s powers of persuasion convinced the others round the table and she was faced with telling an author she believed in that there was no contract in the offing after all. Adding to her bitter disappointment twin blows to her negotiating skills and her pride.

And possibly moving Louis a definite step towards his ultimate goal of uniting men’s and women’s commercial fiction under his leadership.

All this, she thought wearily, and, in a few hours, her first encounter with the extended Harrington family, for which she probably needed all the confidence she could get.

She looked at her weekend case waiting in the corner, holding jeans and boots, together with the expensive tissue-wrapped dress and the hand-crafted silver photograph frame she’d chosen as her hostess’s birthday present.

For a moment she considered assuming the role of victim of a forty-eight-hour mystery virus, then dismissed it.

Having let her author down, she would not do the same to Gerard, mainly because she sensed he was anxious about the weekend too.

I must make sure it all goes well for his sake, she thought. And for the possibility of a future together—if and when liking grows into love.

A cautious beginning to a happy ending. The way it ought to be.

That was what she needed. Not a passionate tumultuous descent to guilt and the risk of disaster. That, like all other bad memories, must be locked—sealed away to await well-deserved oblivion.

Which would come, in spite of the recent unwanted reminder, she assured herself. It had to...

* * *

It was an uneventful journey, Gerard handling his supremely comfortable Mercedes with finesse while he chatted about the abbey and its turbulent history.

‘It’s said that the family who acquired it in Tudor times bribed the King’s officials to turn the monks out and the abbot cursed them,’ he said ruefully.

‘Whether that’s true or not, they certainly fell on hard times in later years, largely due to the drink and gambling problems of a succession of eldest sons, so my great-great-grandfather Augustus Harrington got it quite cheaply.

‘Also being eminently respectable and hard-working, the restoration of Whitestone was his idea of recreation.’

‘Is much of the original building left?’ Alanna asked.

‘Very little, apart from the cloisters. The Tudor lot simply pulled the whole thing down and started again.’

‘Vandals.’ She smiled at him. ‘I suppose upkeep is an ongoing process.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very much so. Maybe that’s the real meaning of the abbot’s curse. He said it would be a millstone round the owners’ necks for evermore.’

‘I don’t think I believe in curses,’ said Alanna. ‘Anyway, even a millstone must be worth it—when it’s such a piece of history.’

‘I certainly believe that.’ He spoke with a touch of bleakness. ‘But that isn’t a universal view. However you must judge for yourself.’ He accelerated a little. ‘We’re nearly there.’

And he was right. As they crested the next hill, Alanna saw the solid mass of pale stone which was the abbey cradled in the valley below, its tall chimneys rearing towards the sky and the mullioned windows glinting in the early evening sunlight.

From either side of the main structure, two narrow wings jutted out, enclosing a large forecourt where a number of cars were already parked.

Like arms opening in welcome? Alanna wondered. Well, she would soon find out.

Gerard slotted the Merc between a Jaguar and an Audi, just to the right of the shallow stone steps leading up to the front entrance. As she waited for him to retrieve their luggage from the boot, Alanna saw that the heavily timbered door was opening, and that a grey-haired woman in a smart red dress had appeared, shading her eyes as she watched their approach.

‘So there you are,’ she said with something of a snap. She turned to the tall man who had followed her out. ‘Richard, go and tell Mother that Gerard has arrived at last.’

‘And good evening to you too, Aunt Caroline.’ Gerard’s smile was courteous. ‘Don’t worry, Uncle Rich. I can announce us.’

‘But you were expected over an hour ago.’ His aunt pursed her lips as she led the way into an impressive wainscoted hall. ‘I’ve no idea how this will affect the timing of dinner.’

‘I imagine it will be served exactly when Grandam ordered, just as usual,’ Gerard returned, unruffled. ‘Now, let me introduce Alanna Beckett to you. Darling—my aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Healey.’

Slightly thrown by the unexpected endearment, Alanna shook hands and murmured politely.

‘Everyone is waiting in the drawing room,’ said Mrs Healey. ‘Leave your case there, Miss—er—Beckett. The housekeeper will take it up to your room.’ She turned to Gerard. ‘We’ve had to make a last change to the arrangements, so your guest is now in the east wing, just along from Joanne.’ She gave Alanna a dubious look. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to share a bathroom.’

‘I’m used to it.’ Alanna tried a pleasant smile. ‘I share a flat in London.’

Mrs Healey absorbed the information without comment and returned to Gerard. ‘Now do come along. You know how your grandmother hates to be kept waiting.’

It occurred to Alanna as she followed in Mrs Healey’s wake that she wasn’t really ready for this. That she would have preferred to accompany her case upstairs and freshen up before entering the presence of the Harrington matriarch.

Or—preferably—return to London, on foot if necessary.

Gerard bent towards her. ‘Don’t worry about Aunt Caroline,’ he whispered. ‘Since my mother went off to live in Suffolk, she’s been taking her role as daughter of the house rather too seriously.’

She forced a smile. ‘She made me wonder if I should curtsy.’

He took her hand. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise you.’

She found herself in a long, low-ceilinged room with a vast stone fireplace at one end, big enough, she supposed, to roast an ox, if anyone had an urge to do so.

The furnishings, mainly large squashy sofas and deep armchairs, all upholstered in faded chintz, made no claim to be shabby chic. Like the elderly rugs on the dark oak floorboards and the green damask curtains that framed the wide French windows, they were just—shabby.

A real home, she acknowledged with relief, and full of people, all of whom had, rather disturbingly, fallen silent as soon as she and Gerard walked in.

Feeling desperately self-conscious, she wished they’d start chatting again, if only to muffle the sound of her heels on the wooden floor, and disguise the fact that they were staring at her as Gerard steered her across the room towards his grandmother.

She’d anticipated an older version of Mrs Healey, a forbidding presence enthroned at a slight distance from her obedient family, and was bracing herself accordingly.

But Niamh Harrington was small and plump with bright blue eyes, pink cheeks and a quantity of snowy hair arranged on top of her head like a cottage loaf in danger of collapse.

She was seated in the middle of the largest sofa, facing the open windows, still talking animatedly to the blonde girl beside her, but she broke off at Gerard’s approach.

‘Dearest boy.’ She lifted a smiling face for his kiss. ‘So, this is your lovely girl.’

The twinkling gaze swept over Alanna in an assessment as shrewd as it was comprehensive, and, for a moment, she had an absurd impulse to step back, as if getting out of range.

Then Mrs Harrington’s smile widened. ‘Well, isn’t this just grand. Welcome to Whitestone, my dear.’

The distinct Irish accent was something else Alanna hadn’t expected although she supposed ‘Niamh’ should have supplied a clue.

She pulled herself together. ‘Thank you for inviting me, Mrs Harrington. You—you have a very beautiful home.’

Oh, God, she thought. Did that sound as if she was sizing the place up for future occupancy? And had Gerard warned his grandmother that they’d only been dating for a few weeks rather than months.

Mrs Harrington made a deprecating gesture with a heavily beringed hand. ‘Ah, well, it’s seen better days.’ She turned to the girl beside her. ‘Move up, Joanne darling and let—Alanna, is it?—sit beside me while she tells me all about herself.’

Gerard was looking round. ‘I don’t see my mother.’

‘Poor Meg’s upstairs having a bit of a lie down. I expect she found the journey from Suffolk a great burden to her as I always feared she would.’ Mrs Harrington sighed deeply. ‘Leave her be for now, dearest boy, and I’m sure she’ll be fine, just fine by dinner.’

Alanna saw Gerard’s mouth tighten, but he said nothing as he turned away.

‘So,’ said Mrs Harrington. ‘My grandson tells me you’re a publisher.’

‘An editor in women’s commercial fiction.’ Alanna knew how stilted that must sound.

‘Now that’s a job I envy you for. There’s nothing I love more than a book. A good story with plenty of meat in it and not too sentimental. Maybe, now, you could suggest a few titles that I’d enjoy.’

‘Can you recommend a book for an elderly lady who loves reading?’

Almost the same request she’d heard in a London bookshop nearly a year ago, but spoken then in a man’s deep drawl. And the start of the nightmare she needed so badly to forget, she thought, trying to repress an instinctive shiver.

Which was noticed. ‘You’re feeling cold and no wonder, now the evening breeze has got up.’ Niamh Harrington raised her voice. ‘Will you come in now, Zandor? And close those windows behind you, for the Lord’s sake. There’s a terrible draught, and we can’t have Gerard’s guest catching her death because you’re wandering about on the terrace.’

Alanna found she was freezing in reality. She stared down at her hands, clasped so tightly in her lap that the knuckles were turning white.

‘Zandor,’ she repeated under her breath in total incredulity. Zandor?

No, it couldn’t be. Not possibly. She was nervous so she’d misheard. That’s all it was.

‘I apologise, Grandmother. To you and my cousin’s beautiful friend. We must all take care that no harm comes to her.’

Not just the name, she thought dazedly. But the voice—low-pitched and tinged with that same note of faint amusement. Instantly and hideously recognisable. Shockingly, horribly unmistakable.

As, God help her, she must be to him.

She forced herself to look up and meet the gaze of the tall figure, dark against the setting sun, framed in the French windows.

The man from whose bedroom she’d fled all those months ago, leaving her with memories that had haunted her ever since.

And for the worst of all possible reasons.