Читать книгу No Place For Love - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

‘ROSES?’ Hugo, sprawled in the threadbare armchair in his sister’s dressing-room, glanced up as Fred, the ageing major-domo who guarded the stage door as if it were the entrance to some sacred temple, appeared in the doorway with a huge cellophane-wrapped bouquet. ‘Red ones, too. Who’s your secret admirer, sis?’

Lacey laughed merrily, taking the bouquet and making Fred blush by reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘No, it’s just Clive—to wish me luck,’ she responded, glancing at the card. ‘Bless him—how thoughtful.’

Hugo snorted in derision. ‘Just Clive, indeed! I’ll tell you what, if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself splashed all over the Sunday papers—“Government minister in affair with actress.” A married government minister at that. And a blonde actress, practically young enough to be his granddaughter. They’d just love it.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Lacey chided, her soft violet-blue eyes dancing as she smiled down at her handsome twin. ‘I’m not having an affair with him.’

‘I know that, and you know that,’ Hugo countered sagely. ‘But you can bet your sweet life the papers could make it look as though you were.’

‘Well, I’m not going to stop being friends with him just because some nasty reporters have got smutty minds,’ she declared forcefully. ‘He’s a very nice, very sweet man—I feel sorry for him. His wife hates living in London, and he has to be here while Parliament’s sitting. He gets lonely.’

‘Lonely my foot! He’s nothing but a dirty old man. You certainly do pick ’em!’

‘If you’re talking about Ted Gardiner, you know that wasn’t my fault,’ Lacey protested, moving aside some of the clutter of make-up on the dressing-table to make room to lay down the bouquet. ‘He seemed so nice—how was I supposed to know he was lying when he said he wasn’t married?’

‘That’s your trouble,’ her brother insisted. ‘You think everyone’s nice. If I weren’t around to watch out for you, I don’t know where you’d be.’

‘Yes, and your idea of taking care of me nearly lost me this part!’ she retorted indignantly. ‘You can’t speak to a producer like that.’

‘I can when he’s pestering my sister.’

‘He wasn’t pestering me—he just took me out to dinner a few times. And he was a perfect gentleman.’

‘Except that he was married,’ Hugo pointed out with a touch of asperity. ‘And don’t pretend that you don’t know what he was leading up to—even you’re not that naive.’

Lacey conceded a wry smile. ‘No—well, I suppose you’re right. But it isn’t the same thing at all with Clive. For one thing, he’s almost sixty! And besides, if you annoy him, he might stop backing the play, and it isn’t easy to find “angels” to put up the money these days.’

Hugo yawned, stretching lazily. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘Oh, there’s no harm in him,’ she averred, running her hairbrush through the bright golden curls that tumbled around her shoulders. ‘Besides, if he isn’t worried about the papers getting hold of it, why should I be?’

‘Because, my sweet, trusting little sister, you would be forever typecast thereafter as a career-wrecking, marriage-wrecking bimbo.’

Lacey gurgled with laughter. ‘Well, I’m typecast already,’ she pointed out without rancour, striking a pose in her stage costume—a low-cut, skin-tight red jersey and a black leather mini-skirt short enough to reveal an interesting inch of black stocking-top whenever she moved. ‘Blonde hair and big boobs equals dumb—period. I could have a fantastic career if I didn’t mind taking my clothes off in public.’

Hugo flashed her a wicked grin. ‘Lucky one of us doesn’t mind, then, isn’t it?’ he teased. ‘Someone has to pay the rent.’

‘I pay my share,’ she countered indignantly. ‘You don’t have to be a Sauvage if you don’t want to. Anyway, I thought you’d give it up once you’d got your degree.’

He shrugged wide, well-muscled shoulders, tanned to a deep, healthy bronze and shown off to striking effect by the sleeveless black T-shirt he was wearing. ‘Why should I?’ he queried laconically. ‘It’s great, getting paid to have hundreds of girls screaming for my body.’

‘Prancing around on stage wearing nothing but a couple of bits of leather and a few chains?’ she chided, shaking her head. ‘I do wish you’d get a proper job.’

‘Oh, I will, one day,’ he conceded with a yawn. ‘I told you, once I’ve saved up enough money to start my own business, I’ll—’

‘Two minutes to curtain, Miss Tyrell,’ the assistant stage manager called from the corridor.

‘Oh, lord! Do I look all right, Hughie?’ Lacey begged, casting an anxious glance at her reflection in the huge, brightly lit mirror over the dressing-table and dabbing her nose with a little more powder.

‘Well,’ he mused, surveying her with sardonic amusement, ‘it’s a good job you’re not planning to walk down the street in that outfit—you could cause a traffic accident.’

‘I know,’ she sighed wryly, wriggling to adjust the clinging jersey so that it didn’t skim quite so low over the lush curves of her breasts. ‘It was bought in for Vanessa, and she hasn’t got quite as much up top as me.’

‘Well, just be careful you don’t bend over too far in it,’ he advised. ‘You’re likely to pop out.’

Lacey giggled. ‘That’d make sure we got a full house for the rest of the week, wouldn’t it?’ she remarked, checking her appearance one last time before skipping out to take her place in the wings and await her cue.

She was under no illusions that understudying the role of French au pair in a rather weak comedy being produced in a converted West London bus station was going to prove her big break. She only had the part for a few days anyway, while the actress who was supposed to be playing it recovered from a bout of flu.

It wasn’t exactly a demanding role; it mostly required her to stand around looking alluring, and adjusting her suspenders, as the household of her employers disintegrated around her. The husband had most of the laughs—when they came. But it was better than resting, and serving behind the counter in the local fast-food emporium, as she had for the previous six months.

The house sounded even thinner than usual, and it was hard work to get as far as the interval. With a sigh of relief, Lacey hurried back down the passage to her dressing-room. Hugo was still draped across the armchair, reading the evening paper.

‘I thought you had a date tonight?’ she queried, slanting him a questioning look as she slipped behind the screen to change into her costume for the second act—a frivolous pink silk wrap, trimmed with a froth of swansdown.

Hugo yawned, casually tossing aside the paper. ‘There’s no rush,’ he drawled with all the arrogance of handsome youth. ‘It does ’em good to keep ‘em waiting.’

She frowned at him in stern reproach, but with little hope of being attended to. Much as she loved her twin brother, she couldn’t help disapproving of his behaviour sometimes. But then if his girlfriends were silly enough to put up with it... ! She knew she had been lucky to have had him around to put her wise to the dangers of falling for any smooth masculine lines as she was growing up—she could certainly never say she was unaware of the pitfalls!

‘What time will you be coming home?’ she asked, checking her stockings for runs as she took them across to the tiny washroom opposite her dressing-room to rinse them through ready for tomorrow—the company wasn’t large enough to afford more than one wardrobe mistress, and she had more than enough to do.

‘I don’t know,’ she heard him call back. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’

She chuckled with laughter, leaning over the sink to splash cold water over the pulse-points of her wrists and throat—she found it always cooled her down after the heat of the stage lights. ‘If I waited up for you every time you stayed out half the night, I’d never get any sleep!’ she chided him as she walked back into her dressing-room.

‘Is that so?’

She stopped abruptly. A total stranger was standing in the middle of the room, regarding her with insolent disdain; a tall stranger, with crisp dark hair, wearing an immaculately cut grey suit which moulded his wide shoulders to perfection.

‘Who the... ?’ She glanced around in confusion. ‘Where’s Hugo?’

‘If you mean the young Adonis with his hair in a ponytail, I just passed him in the corridor,’ the stranger responded. ‘Miss Tyrell?’ He allowed his dark gaze to slide down over her body, taking in every contour on the way. ‘Yes—you’re exactly the type I expected.’

Her eyes flashed in anger, and she glared back at him, uncomfortably aware that the loose wrap was displaying rather too much of the soft shadow between her breasts. ‘Really?’ she queried, discreetly easing the swansdown lapels a little more closely together. ‘And what type is that?’

‘I believe you know exactly what type I mean, so please don’t waste my time with that pretence of injured innocence,’ he countered with caustic contempt.

She stared up at him, startled by such unwarranted hostility. She had never met this man before in her life—she was quite certain that she would have remembered if she had; that hard-boned, arrogant face, with its faintly patrician nose and firm, level mouth wouldn’t be easy to forget.

‘I... I’m sorry,’ she managed, struggling to project a facade of cool dignity. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave—the public aren’t allowed backstage in the middle of a performance.’

‘Oh, I’m not the public,’ he responded, his voice menacingly soft. ‘You could call me a sort of friend of the family. Does the name Jon Parrish mean anything to you?’

She frowned. ‘Of course. He’s Clive Fielding’s...’ Realisation dawned with a bump. ‘You’re Jon Parrish?’

‘Correct,’ he confirmed tautly. ‘Sir Clive Fielding’s stepson.’

Lacey faltered, not quite knowing how to respond. Somehow they seemed to have got off on entirely the wrong foot, but it wasn’t too late to put it right. She tried a smile, though it was a bit of a wobbly effort. ‘Well, how do you do? I... I’m very pleased to meet you...’

‘I haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries, Miss Tyrell,’ he rapped tersely. ‘And I’ll warn you now that you’ll be wasting your time trying to play off your tricks on me. My taste has never run to well-stacked blondes—and even if it did I’m a bit too awake to the time of day to be taken in by a cheap little gold-digger like you.’

The stinging insult almost took her breath away. ‘You... What?’ she protested in furious indignation. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

Again that indifferent regard swept down over her, and she found herself wishing that she was wearing rather more than this flimsy wrap. With her curvaceous figure, she was accustomed to having men stare at her—drool over her, to be more accurate. But apparently the promise of her firm, ripe breasts, dainty waist and shapely derrière did nothing for him.

‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Miss Tyrell,’ he informed her in a voice of cold derision. ‘Apparently you specialise in rich men old enough to be your father. You had Ted Gardiner in your coils, beguiling him into giving you a part in his play—until you decided my stepfather was a better prospect. If I had my way, women like you would be horsewhipped.’

She glared at him, her palm itching to slap that arrogant face. ‘Get out of here,’ she demanded heatedly. ‘Or I’ll...’

‘You’ll what?’ he countered with biting mockery. ‘Have me thrown out? I doubt it—I’m a good friend of the producer, not to mention the stepson of one of your most important backers. I’ll go when I’m good and ready.’ He leaned back casually against the edge of her dressing-table, asserting his intention to stay as long as he pleased. ‘Nice roses,’ he remarked, casting them a sardonic glance. ‘From my stepfather? Or that macho hulk who was leaving as I arrived? No, he wasn’t the type to buy flowers.’

‘They’re from your stepfather,’ she retorted, returning him a defiant glare. It was more than apparent that losing her temper with him was going to get her nowhere—a more subtle approach was needed. Deliberately she picked up the flowers, sniffing delicately at their sweet fragrance. ‘Mmm, lovely—they must have cost a fortune, out of season like this.’

Those dark eyes kindled in momentary anger. ‘You little tramp,’ he grated. ‘I’m warning you, your affair with him is over.’

She blinked at him in shock, controlling with difficulty her boiling anger at his unwarranted assumption. ‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension,’ she informed him coldly. ‘I’m not having an affair with Clive. He’s simply a friend.’

He laughed in chilling scorn. ‘You really can’t expect me to believe that,’ he sneered. ‘It may be less than flattering to your ego, but you’re just the latest in a very long line—mostly blonde, and mostly as... opulently endowed as you. His taste in mistresses is quite tiresomely predictable.’

She slid him a glittering glance from beneath her lashes. It was evident that he had come here without speaking to Clive first. Well, he deserved to be taught a sharp lesson about jumping to conclusions about people; three years in drama school had taught her plenty about improvising characterisations.

Strolling across the room, she disposed herself gracefully in the shabby armchair, crossing her slender legs and letting the wrap slip a little to display a few tempting inches of creamy thigh. Smiling with just a hint of coyness, she shook back her hair, lifting one hand to rub the nape of her neck, knowing how the movement would cause her firm, round breasts to rise beneath the soft silk of her wrap. She was pleased to note that he couldn’t help looking, though his dark eyes conveyed only mocking contempt.

‘You’re not a very dutiful stepson,’ she pouted, a husky laugh in her voice.

‘I have no particular reason to be—my stepfather has never done anything much to earn my respect. But you had better believe, Miss Tyrell, that I have no intention of allowing him be dragged into a scandal over a cheap little tart like you.’

She had to force herself to ignore that barb. ‘Why don’t you call me Lacey?’ she purred, her violet eyes peeping at him from beneath the silky fringe of her lashes. ‘Everyone does.’

‘I wouldn’t care to be that familiar, Miss Tyrell,’ he grated with deliberate emphasis. ‘Oh, and by the way, if you have any ideas about selling your sordid little kiss-and-tell story to the gutter Press, you can think again.’

She lifted one delicately arched eyebrow. ‘But I’m sure they’d be very interested,’ she demurred provocatively. ‘It’s just the sort of juicy little titbit they love. If I play my cards right, I could make a great deal of money.’

She had the satisfaction of knowing that she had driven him to the very edge of losing his temper; it was costing him a visible effort to regain his control. ‘It would be very dangerous for you to cross me, Miss Tyrell,’ he warned, his voice soft and sinister. ‘I have a great deal of power—rather more, in fact, than most politicians. You might discover that any money you make wouldn’t go very far if you were never to find another job—not even cleaning floors.’

Lacey felt a small chill scud down her spine; she was quite sure that he could—and would—carry out such a threat. She knew, from the things that Clive had said, that even he was slightly in awe of his stepson. She couldn’t quite remember what line of business he was in, but she knew he was highly successful at it. Now she had met him, she wasn’t at all surprised—he was completely ruthless.

He was watching her in silence, those hard eyes glinting. But she’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her! She was quite enjoying playing out her role—by the time she had finished with him, he was going to owe her the biggest apology of all time!

‘Tell me,’ she queried, deliberately goading him, ‘what does your mother think about Clive’s...er—mistresses?’

But he had himself well in hand again now. ‘My mother gave up allowing herself to be concerned a very long time ago,’ he responded with cool restraint. ‘They came to an agreement to lead virtually separate lives. So long as he was discreet, she didn’t mind what he did—naturally a divorce could have been harmful to his career.’

‘How very civilised,’ she approved bitingly.

‘Perhaps. However, I will not have her subjected to public humiliation—she has been unwell recently, and I don’t want her to have to cope with that sort of strain.’ There was an unmistakable thread of steel in his voice. ‘I believe I have made myself clear, Miss Tyrell—and rest assured, these are no idle threats.’

‘Oh, no?’ It was time to call an end to this little game! Rising to her feet, she regarded him with frosty dignity. ‘Well, let me tell you something, Mr Super-Powerful Jon Parrish. If you had bothered to speak to Clive before you came round here throwing your weight around, he would have told you what I told you—we are not, repeat not, having an affair. We are simply friends—though I doubt if your smutty little mind can conceive of such a thing. Nor do I have any intention of speaking to the Press. Now will you kindly get out of my dressing-room? You’re polluting the atmosphere.’

He had listened to her speech with an air of sardonic amusement, and as she finished, he slowly clapped his hands in mocking applause. ‘Well done, Miss Tyrell,’ he taunted. ‘A magnificent performance—almost worthy of an Oscar.’

She stared at him in angry frustration. He hadn’t believed a word she had said! And then he stood up and came towards her, those dark eyes glinting with unmistakable menace. She stepped back in alarm, but in the small room there was nowhere to go.

With an abrupt movement he caught both her wrists, shackling them in steely fingers, and jerked her against him. ‘Maybe I can understand what my stepfather sees in you after all,’ he grated softly. ‘When your eyes flash like that, they add a certain spirit to your whole face.’

Before she had realised what he was going to do, he had tangled one hand in her hair, dragging her head sharply back, and as she gasped in shocked protest his mouth descended on hers in a kiss that was almost savage in its intensity.

She struggled to be free, but beneath that air of aloof urbanity he had portrayed was the hard-muscled strength of any primitive male, angry and aroused. And to her shame, she felt herself responding, succumbing helplessly to his fierce demand, melting in a honeyed tide of purely feminine submissiveness.

His lips were moving over hers, hot and enticing, as his tongue plundered deep into the sweet, defenceless valley of her mouth. Her head was dizzy from the racing of her blood, and she was clinging to him as his hand slid down the length of her spine to mould her supple body into his hard embrace.

His other hand had shifted to encompass the rounded fullness of her breast, cupping and caressing it with an insolent assumption of licence. But she couldn’t control the sudden flare of heat he had ignited inside her. Her tender nipple had ripened to an exquisitely sensitive bud beneath the delicious abrasion of his palm, the teasing touch of his fingers, as electric sparks of pleasure crackled along her nerve-fibres and pierced her brain.

And for one magical moment it seemed as though he too had been caught up in the same wild surge of desire; his kiss gentled to the most incredible tenderness, and their bodies seemed to melt together like two halves cast from the same mould.

She heard herself moaning softly, her head tipping back into the crook of his arm as his hot mouth roved over her trembling eyelids and down to the delicate shell of her ear, his hard teeth nibbling sensuously at her lobe and making her shiver with heat...

The voice of the assistant stage manager calling the end of the interval shattered the spell. Jon drew back, regarding her with acute distaste. ‘Well, that’s one thing you can’t cover up with acting,’ he sneered, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth as if to wipe away every last trace of her. ‘You really are nothing but a cheap little tart.’

With a sudden rush of shame, Lacey realised that the tie of her silk wrap had slipped loose, affording him much too generous a glimpse of the warm fullness of her breasts, somewhat inadequately contained in the delicate lacy cups of her bra. Her cheeks flamed scarlet, and she snatched at the wrap, tying it tightly around her waist, all too aware of the way it outlined every curve of her body.

‘Get out of here,’ she hissed.

‘Don’t worry—I’m going,’ he countered witheringly. ‘Forgive me if I can’t bring myself to sit through the second half of the play.’ He deliberately let his gaze drop to the rounded curve of her breasts, rising and falling in her heated agitation, the taut buds of her aroused nipples still faintly visible beneath the sheer fabric. ‘I think I’ve seen more than enough of your talents.’ And turning on his heel he strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with a controlled slam.

Lacey felt herself trembling inside. The humiliating memory of that kiss seemed to be burned on to her mouth like a physical scar—and she wasn’t sure that it would ever go away.

But she had no time to pull herself together—she was due back on stage. Pausing only to repair the worst ravages to her make-up, she hurried down the stairs, crossing her fingers that he had meant it about not staying for the second half; she didn’t like the idea of him sitting out there in the darkened auditorium, watching her, unseen...

Lacey sat at the kitchen table, idly toying with her breakfast. She had slept little, and now she seemed to have lost her appetite. Disturbing images of what had happened last night were still troubling her brain. How on earth could she have let him kiss her like that? It had been stupid of her to taunt him—like baiting a wild tiger.

The yellow gingham curtains at the window gave the illusion of bright sunlight streaming into the room, though in fact it was a dull November morning, drizzling with rain. The kitchen was spotless; it had been Hugo’s turn to clean it up yesterday, and he always tackled the chore with a thoroughness that amused her—it was just a pity he couldn’t be more tidy in between.

She glanced around, sighing a little wistfully as she let her chin rest in her cupped hand. Their mother would have been pleased to see that they were keeping the little flat the way she would have wanted it. She had always been very houseproud, though it hadn’t been easy for her, a widow with two children, working long hours in the kitchen at the local hospital.

It was almost three years now since she had died; Lacey often thought that Hugo had taken it harder than she had, though he didn’t say much. But every time she visited the neat little cemetery where their parents were buried side by side, there were fresh flowers on the grave, and she knew that he had been the one who had put them there.

‘Morning, sis.’ Hugo himself, clad in a pair of hip-hugging denim jeans, his magnificently muscled torso bronzed and bare, strolled into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing the back of his head with his hand. ‘What’s that you’re eating?’ he teased her cheerfully, looking askance at the contents of her cereal bowl. ‘It looks like wet cardboard.’

‘It’s muesli,’ she informed him with dignity. ‘You should try it—it’s good for you.’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t call that a proper breakfast,’ he insisted. ‘Let me see...’ He opened the fridge, scanning the contents. ‘It’s full of your damned live yoghurt! Haven’t we got any bacon?’

‘Bottom shelf.’

‘Oh, yes—thanks...’ He took the packet out, tossing it on to the worktop beside the cooker, and reached into the cupboard to find the frying pan. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you when I came in last night,’ he remarked. ‘It was pretty late.’

‘Oh... No, I was fast asleep,’ she lied a little selfconsciously. ‘Did you have a nice time?’

He shrugged. ‘So-so. I reckon I’m going to cool that one off a bit. She’s starting to get... Hey, you damned mutt! He’s got the bacon!’

He threw himself across the room, trying to rugby-tackle a spring-loaded bundle of yellow fur that darted nimbly out of his way and dashed off down the hall, triumphantly bearing his prize.

‘Khan! Bad dog—give me that!’ Lacey scolded, the effect of her stern words somewhat mitigated by the laughter in her voice. The overgrown pup peeped out from beneath his shaggy yellow fringe, weighing up his chances of escaping a second time as Hugo closed in on him.

The ensuing tussle had them all landing in a heap on the floor, Khan barking excitedly and trying to lick them both, his tail flailing wildly. Hugo pushed him off, struggling to sit up.

‘Damned animal! Look at that—three rashers, and he’s eaten the lot! Call him an Afghan? He’s a greedy pig, that’s what he is!’

‘Ah, don’t hurt his feelings!’ Lacey protested, hugging the dog and letting him shower slobbery kisses over her cheek. ‘He can’t help it—he had a disturbed childhood.’

Hugo laughed, pushing himself to his feet. ‘He saw you coming! You’re nothing but a soft touch for any waif and stray that crosses your path.’

‘Well, but I couldn’t let them have him put down, just because they couldn’t cope with him any more,’ she argued. ‘I know he’s a handful, but he’ll grow up one day, and then he’ll be beautiful.’

‘When?’ enquired Hugo with a touch of asperity. ‘I don’t see much sign of it so far. He doesn’t even look like an Afghan, with that silly fringe—in fact he’s the stupidest-looking dog I’ve ever seen.’

‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ Lacey advised the dog earnestly. ‘He’s only jealous ’cos you’re better-looking than he is. Want a cup of tea?’ she added to her brother. ‘I was just going to——’ A loud ring at the doorbell interrupted her. ‘Oh, it’s probably the postman—I’ll get it.’

The scuffle with the dog had loosened her dressing-gown a little, and she held it together with one hand as she went to open the door. Unfortunately Khan had come along to see who it was, and at that exact moment Mrs Potter, who lived in the flat opposite, came out with her little West Highland terrier on its lead.

Khan gave a bark of fury at spying his mortal enemy, and Lacey had to grab his collar swiftly to restrain him from his murderous intentions. Her dressing-gown fell open, revealing her softly curvaceous figure, clad only in the skimpy baby-doll nightdress she wore in bed. But it wasn’t the postman at the door—it was a photographer.

‘Hey!’ She gasped in shock as a flashbulb dazzled her eyes. ‘What the hell do you... ? Khan, get in!’ Wrestling with the dog prevented her from covering herself, and the photographer managed to get several more very revealing shots before she could do anything about it. By the time she had got the dog under control, the man was inside the door, along with another carrying a small tape-recorder.

‘Miss Tyrell? John Brennan, Sunday Beacon—this is my colleague, Roger Williams. We just want to ask you a few questions. Is it true that you’re a friend of Sir Clive Fielding, the MP? When did you meet him? How well do you know him?’

She stared at them in bewilderment. ‘Yes, I know him,’ she responded, managing at last to bundle Khan into the nearest room and shut the door on him—causing him to howl as if he had been cast out into the uttermost darkness. ‘But it’s none of your business...’

‘Did you know he was married, Miss Tyrell?’

Her violet-blue eyes flashed in icy indignation. ‘Yes, of course I knew—he told me so the first time we met. But there’s nothing wrong in it—we’re just friends... Hey, where do you think you’re going?’

The reporter had spied the bouquet of roses on the hall table—she hadn’t yet got around to putting them in a vase. Dodging past her, he snatched up the card that had come with them. ‘What’s this? “Wish I could be with you tonight. Fondest love. Clive”,’ he read in a mocking tone. ‘Just friends, eh?’

‘Give me that!’ she protested, lunging for the card, but he held it out of her reach.

‘We’re going to publish, Lacey,’ he taunted, his manner sneeringly over-familiar. ‘But you could be on to a nice little earner here if you’re a sensible girl. We’re willing to offer you fifty grand for the exclusive.’

Lacey almost exploded in fury. ‘How dare you come in here asking your filthy questions?’ she spat at him, a hectic flush colouring her cheeks as she realised her dressing-gown was still gaping open, revealing rather too many of her charms. She clutched it around her body, putting up her arm to shield her face as the photographer raised his camera again. ‘Get out of here.’

‘You want more money? Sure—sixty wouldn’t be too much.’

‘I’m not going to talk to you! Now get out of here, before I call the police.’

‘Lacey... ?’ Hugo appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking incongruously domesticated with an egg in one hand and the spatula in the other. ‘What the hell... ?’ He took one look at the reporters, and sized up the situation. ‘Get out,’ he growled. ‘Unless you want your legs broken.’

Since he looked perfectly capable of carrying out his threat—they weren’t to know what a complete pussycat he was—the two men retreated strategically towards the door. ‘This your boyfriend, is it, Lacey?’ the one with the tape-recorder enquired intrusively.

‘I’m not answering any more of your questions,’ she raged.

‘OK, OK—just one last picture, eh, Roger?’

The flashbulb exploded again—catching Lacey still clutching at her loose dressing-gown, Hugo’s arm protectively around her shoulders. Hugo bellowed in rage, and pounced after them, trying to grab the camera, but they were very nimble—no doubt through long practice—and were gone before he could catch them. He chased them down the steps, but they had a car waiting, and all that happened was that they got more pictures of him hurling the egg at the car and yelling wild threats as it swerved away.

He came back up to the flat to find Lacey in tears. He wrapped his arms around her comfortingly. ‘Hey, don’t let the bastards upset you, love,’ he coaxed as she sobbed her heart out against his chest. ‘It isn’t worth it.’

‘They made me feel so dirty, and I haven’t even done anything wrong,’ she protested brokenly. A sudden thought struck her. ‘Oh, my lord, I ought to ring Clive and warn him...’

‘I should imagine he knows all about it by now,’ Hugo advised her acidly. ‘And he’ll be thinking only of how to save his own skin—he won’t give a damn about you. Now come on, stop crying—you’ll make your eyes all red and puffy.’

Lacey sniffed, reaching for the roll of kitchen paper and tearing off a piece to wipe her eyes. ‘You were right,’ she admitted wryly. ‘I should have listened to you. But I never thought the papers would really be interested, even if they found out about us.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder how they did find out?’

Hugo shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t take much—politics is a very dirty game. A bit of rivalry inside the party, or someone out to take a dig at the government... They’re just using you, I’m afraid—you happened to be convenient.’

Lacey stared up at him, shocked. ‘Do you really think so? But that’s awful!’

He laughed, hugging her affectionately. ‘Dear old Lacey—how have you managed to live in this world for twenty-two years and remain so innocent? Most people would... Damn, what’s the matter with that stupid hound now?’

‘Oh, dear—I shut him in the bathroom. I was afraid he’d get out and chase Mrs Potter’s dog, and she’s already threatened to report him to the police as dangerous.’

She hurried to open the bathroom door. Four and a half stone of half-grown Afghan hound launched himself past her, scampering round in a circle in the middle of the hall and then diving into the living-room to leap on to the sofa, his brown eyes liquid and appealing, accusing her of the most ruthless cruelty for shutting him up for so long.

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘You rascal—you know you’re not supposed to be on there,’ she scolded him fondly.

From the bathroom came an angry roar. ‘That damned dog! He’s had my shaving-brush now! I swear one day I’ll strangle him!’