Читать книгу The Inheritance: Racy, pacy and very funny! - Тилли Бэгшоу - Страница 18

Tati lay back in a bath full of Badedas bubbles and inhaled deeply on her cigarette. Even now, a grown woman, half of the pleasure she derived from smoking in the bath was the knowledge of how vehemently both Mrs Worsley and her father would have disapproved of it.

‘Unladylike,’ Mrs Worsley would have called it. Rory would have said it was vulgar, or worse, ‘common’: the ultimate insult in Tati’s father’s book. What they had both failed to appreciate was the deep, profound sense of relaxation the combination of warm water and a shot of nicotine to the bloodstream had on the human body. Fuck yoga. This was the only way to de-stress. Better yet, it was guilt and hangover free, unlike red wine and Pringles …

Flicking ash into a horrid, fish-shaped soap dish on the ledge above the bath (her landlady’s taste really was abysmal; she must get around to putting more of her ghastly tat into boxes and out of sight), she reflected again on her interview with St Hilda’s new headmaster.

Max Bingley had rejected her. Worse, he had patronized her, humiliated her, treated her like a spoiled child who needed to be slapped down, taught a lesson. His voice in her head now made Tati’s stomach churn with shame:

‘I can’t parachute in a completely inexperienced teacher. The very idea’s ridiculous! I might consider taking you on as an assistant …’

How had her life come to this? How? This time last year she’d been sunning herself on a yacht in the Caribbean, enjoying a much-publicized dalliance with an Arab prince. By now the whole village would know that she’d come crawling to the sanctimonious Max Bingley today, begging for work, and been turned down. The humiliation was almost more than Tati could bear. She didn’t even have the luxury of not caring what the locals thought of her. She needed them and their good opinion now, more than ever.

As the bubbles and nicotine worked their combined magic, a small part of her – tiny – admitted the possibility that Max Bingley might, in fact, have been trying to help her this afternoon. That he’d thrown her a lifeline with the offer of a trial position when he really didn’t have to. That in reality it was she who had been rude and surly and entitled, not the other way around. But Tati squashed that part, snuffing it out ruthlessly. Letting it live would mean admitting weakness. That was something she could never do. Not even to herself. Not if she wanted to survive.

Be that as it may, and despite her wounded pride, she already knew that she would accept Bingley’s offer. The job might be unpaid, but without it her trustees would leave her penniless. Of course she could always find herself another rich boyfriend, as she had in the past. But in Tatiana’s experience, while men were more than happy to pay for clothes and trinkets and expensive suites in hotels, they were less likely to stump up for their paramours’ protracted legal battles. Especially when said battles had been consistently advised against by a veritable fleet of lawyers. When it came to fighting for Furlings, she was on her own.

Stubbing out her cigarette, she pulled herself up out of the bath and stood in front of the mirror. Clumps of bubbles stuck to her wet skin like cuckoo spit on a stem of sticky jack. Tendrils of wet hair escaped from the wide white linen hairband she always wore in the bath, coiling themselves into spring-like ringlets that kissed the top of her neck and shoulders. Naked and without make-up she looked younger than her 24 years, except for the green eyes that stared back at her, knowing and cynical beneath dark, wet lashes.

Tatiana was beautiful and she knew it. A small smile escaped her as she admired her reflection. But it soon turned to a shriek of terror. The figure of a man suddenly appeared behind her, looming ominously in the bathroom doorway.

‘Get out!’ Panic manifested itself as anger as Tati reached for the nearest heavy object – a solid pottery vase filled with plastic poppies that stood beneath the mirror – and hurled it at the intruder’s head. He ducked, narrowly missing being knocked out cold, then lunged forwards, grabbing Tati by the wrists.

‘Calm down. I’m not here to hurt you.’

Luckily for Tati her skin was still wet from the bath. With a quick twist of her arms she was able easily to escape his grip. Having no other weapons to hand, she lashed out wildly, kicking, scratching and biting, before finally aiming her left knee towards the man’s groin.

Unluckily, his reactions were as quick as her own. Turning to one side so that her knee collided with nothing more sensitive than his thigh bone, he advanced towards her, forcing her back against the bathroom wall. There he was easily able to pin her down, his weight and strength more than compensating for the lack of a firm grip as he pressed her against the plaster, waiting for her breathing to calm down and her struggling to cease.

‘Please stop screaming.’

‘Fuck off!’ Tati screeched. ‘There’s nothing here to steal, you arsehole!’

‘I’m not a burglar.’

‘I don’t care who you are. Get out of my fucking house!’

‘I’m Brett Cranley.’

It took a few seconds for this information to sink in.

Feeling Tati relax beneath him, Brett cautiously released her. ‘I’m sorry I frightened you. The front door was open. I called your name but there was no answer so I came in.’ Turning around he grabbed a towel, holding it out to Tatiana at arm’s length, waving it like a white flag.

‘Here. You’d better take this.’

Tati stood in front of him, quivering with rage. Brett felt his libido start to stir, like a roused lion. Stark naked, her perfect, high round breasts jutting out at him defiantly, Tatiana was quite simply magnificent, one of the most beautiful girls Brett had ever seen. And he’d seen quite a few. Slim but not skinny, her long legs tapered up perfectly into softly curving hips and waist, like the sides of a cello. A sleek, dark triangle of pubic hair, like the wet hide of a mink, nestled proudly beneath a perfectly flat stomach. Brett did like a woman with some hair down there. Back in the early nineties the explosion of bare, Brazilian-waxed pussies had been new and exciting. But these days it was so commonplace, he’d come to prefer the mystery of the more natural look. It showed confidence. Although not as much confidence as the way that Tatiana steadily met his gaze, acknowledging the hunger in it, taking the proffered towel slowly rather than jumping to grab it. Clearly she was not remotely embarrassed by her nakedness.

‘Get out of my house.’

Her voice was quiet now, and controlled, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

‘Not yet. I need to talk to you,’ said Brett.

He knew he ought to leave but he was congenitally incapable of taking orders, especially from a woman. He fully expected Tati to lose it and start pushing him out the door, and/or calling the police. But to his surprise she merely said icily ‘Fine. Go downstairs and wait while I dress.’

Ten minutes later, perched uncomfortably on the ugly brown sofa in Tati’s sitting room, Brett began to wish he’d left when she’d asked him to. He’d made a complete balls-up of his first encounter with the Flint-Hamilton girl. Barging up the stairs uninvited had been a foolish thing to do. But he’d been so damn angry, and the open door had felt like an invitation. Now he was very much on the back foot, waiting around for Tatiana to grant him an audience like a nervous kid on a first date. Worse, he now very obviously owed her an apology, which was not the way he’d hoped to begin this evening’s tête-à-tête.

‘So, Mr Cranley. You want to talk.’

Tati came downstairs in a pair of chocolate brown corduroy trousers and an old, sludge-green sweater that looked bizarrely good on her. She was barefoot, her wet hair pulled back in a messy bun, and hadn’t bothered to put on make-up. It was a look that told Brett very clearly, ‘You are not important to me.’ A second jolt of desire surged through him, like the aftershock of a major earthquake.

‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘I apologize for startling you earlier. It was stupid of me to barge in on you like that.’

‘Yes, it was. Not to mention illegal. But perhaps they don’t have breaking and entering in Australia? I daresay in a nation descended from convicts, one shouldn’t be surprised.’

Brett’s eyes narrowed. You arrogant little minx.

‘The door was open,’ he said coldly. ‘As for stupid, I guess you would know. Challenging your father’s will is downright moronic. You haven’t a prayer of getting Furlings back, you do realize that?’

‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ Tati said brazenly. She knew she must not show weakness in front of this usurper. ‘You’ll find I’m not the only person in this village who wants you out, Mr Cranley.’

‘I don’t give a fuck what the village thinks. I won’t have you coming around my house upsetting my wife.’

‘It’s not your house,’ Tati hissed.

‘You can explain that to the police when I have you arrested for trespassing,’ said Brett.

‘You have me arrested?’ Tati laughed. ‘You just assaulted me, naked, in my own bathroom!’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic.’

He stood up and started wandering around the room, picking up random objects and examining them idly. In her shocked state up in the bathroom, Tati hadn’t got a good look at her enemy. Although clearly he’d got a very good look at her. Now, she examined Brett Cranley more closely. Her first thought was how much he looked like his daughter, or rather how much Logan looked like him. Man and girl both had the same dark eyes and blue-black hair, the same swarthy, pirate-like complexion. But whereas Logan was a slender, delicate little thing, Brett had the broad, stocky build of a cage fighter. Moving around Greystones’ drawing room now, he seemed too big for the space, like a bear stumbling around a tea room.

He’s not especially tall. But he has presence, thought Tati.

She’d witnessed the same effect before in countless other powerful, successful men, men who she’d delighted in seducing and bending to her will. Brett Cranley, she suspected, might prove a more difficult fish to catch. Not that she had the remotest interest in him romantically. All Tatiana wanted from her obnoxious third cousin was the deeds to her house. That and his handsome head on a platter.

Brett gave her a questioning look. ‘What are you doing here, Tatiana?’

She glared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, why are you in this house? This village? You know damn well you’re never going to get Furlings back. Why don’t you go back to London, find some nice, rich schmuck to marry and live happily ever after? A girl like you could get a score of beautiful houses if she wanted to.’

‘I don’t want to,’ said Tati with feeling. ‘All I want is Furlings. Anyway, what do you mean “a girl like me”?’

Brett’s questions were the same ones she’d been asking herself less than half an hour ago. But she instantly bridled hearing them from him.

‘Oh, I think you know what I mean,’ Brett sneered. He had moved close to her now, too close. Tati could smell the faint, patchouli scent of his aftershave and feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Before she knew what was happening, he had slipped one hand around the small of her back and begun gently stroking her bare skin beneath the tatty sweater, a gesture at once affectionate, erotic and breathtakingly presumptuous.

It was the latter that Tati reacted to, pushing him away violently.

Brett laughed. ‘Why so affronted? You’re a sexy girl and you know it.’

‘And you’re a revolting old lech, whether you know it or not. You don’t seriously think I’d be attracted to you?’

‘Oh that’s right, I forgot. You prefer boys now, don’t you? Like my son,’ Brett said archly, walking away. ‘Strange, that’s not what I read in the papers about you.’

‘I haven’t the remotest interest in you or your son,’ Tati insisted furiously. ‘All I want is my house back. And whether you like it or not, I’m going to get it.’

‘You’re out of your league,’ Brett said languidly. He was mocking her now, a cruel, amused smile playing on his thin lips as he pulled his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them from hand to hand. ‘Pretty girls like you should stick to what they’re good at.’

‘Oh really. And what’s that?’

‘Shopping and shagging. And looking decorative.’

‘That’s what your wife does, is it?’ said Tati, touching a nerve at last. ‘How proud you must be.’

Brett’s face darkened. ‘You stay away from my wife.’

‘I’ll be glad to. Just as long as you stay away from me. I’ll see you in court, Mr Cranley.’

Brett said nothing. He merely walked back to his car, laughing.

Once he’d gone, Tatiana stood frozen to the spot, too angry to breathe, let alone move.

Disgusting, arrogant, entitled, sexist pig!

I hate him.

I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire life.

It was a miracle that both the Cranley children had turned out so sweet. Clearly Angela Cranley must be quite a mother, far from the ‘decorative’ doll of her revolting husband’s imagination.

Conceited little shit.

Shopping and shagging indeed …

Tati had been determined to contest the will even before Brett Cranley showed up at her door. But now? Now she’d sell her own organs to get Furlings back if she had to. Brett Cranley was going to rue the day he underestimated Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.

Laura Baxter brushed her teeth and spat furiously into the basin.

‘I don’t know why you’re so angry,’ said Gabe. Lying on the bed in his boxer shorts in Wraggsbottom Farm’s beautiful, beamed master bedroom, he had a James Bond novel open in one hand and a packet of Maltesers in the other. It was a warm night and the lead-mullioned window beside the bed was open, revealing a glorious view of the valley, with the river Swell at its base and the Downs rolling away to the sea. Gabe had lived here since birth and loved his farm as if it were a person. Since marrying Laura he loved it even more, with all the promise it now held for the future. Their future.

‘I went to see a neighbour,’ he said, popping another Malteser into his mouth. ‘I wasn’t selling our first-born child to Pol Pot.’

‘We don’t have a first-born child,’ said Laura. ‘And we’re not likely to if you keep lying to me.’

She came back into the bedroom looking as furious as it was possible to look in a floral Laura Ashley nightdress covered in pale pink rosebuds.

‘I didn’t lie to you,’ said Gabe indignantly.

‘You went behind my back. It’s the same thing.’

‘It is not the same thing. Christ, what is wrong with trying to buy a few fields anyway?’

Throwing back the covers, Laura climbed into bed, punching the pillows as if she had a grudge against them. She hated it when Gabe was deliberately obtuse. Not to mention deceitful.

‘It is not “a few fields”. It’s hundreds of acres of land that we can’t afford. And that may not even be Brett Cranley’s to sell. You know as well as I do that his inheritance is disputed.’

‘All the more reason to buy now, while we’ve got the chance.’

Laura let out a stifled scream of frustration and turned out her bedside light. Pulling the covers around her like a shield, she pointedly turned her back on her husband.

Gabe was equally frustrated. Running the farm was his job. He didn’t tell Laura how to produce television programmes or write scripts. What gave her the right to meddle in his business decisions? On the other hand, he hated fighting with her. Putting down his book and sweets, he wrapped his arms around her stiff, angry body.

‘I love you,’ he whispered in her ear.

Laura didn’t move.

‘I know you want to know what they’re like,’ Gabe teased, slipping a warm rough hand under her nightdress and caressing her wonderful, full breasts. ‘The Cranleys.’

Despite herself, Laura moaned with pleasure. It was utterly infuriating, how good he was in bed.

‘I’ll tell you if you’re nice to me,’ Gabe whispered, his hands moving slowly down over her belly, his fingertips just skimming the soft fur between her legs. Unable to keep up her resistance any longer, Laura turned around and kissed him, luxuriating in the solid warmth of his body. God, he was beautiful.

‘Go on then, tell me,’ she said, releasing him at last. ‘What are they like?’

‘Ha!’ said Gabe. ‘So you do want to know. I knew it! You’re just a sad old village gossip, Mrs Baxter.’

‘What’s he like?’ asked Laura, ignoring him. ‘Brett Cranley.’

‘Actually, I liked him,’ said Gabe. ‘I mean, I can see how he could be seen as arrogant.’

Laura frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘He’s a big personality. Maybe even a bit of a bully. He obviously favours his daughter over his son, and the wife seems a bit afraid of him.’

Gabe told her about his brief encounter with Logan and Jason today, and about Angela’s nerves the first time they met.

‘He sounds vile,’ said Laura. ‘What on earth did you like about him?’

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Gabe, thinking. ‘He’s direct. Honest. I don’t think he’d cheat you in business.’

‘Well he certainly cheats in his private life,’ said Laura with feeling. ‘At least if the press coverage is anything to go by.’

‘Oh, yeah, but that’s different,’ said Gabe.

‘Why? Because it’s OK to cheat on women? Just as long as you’re honest with men, is that it?’

Laura felt her hackles rising again. She loved Gabe but sometimes he could be so … unreconstructed.

Gabe sighed. ‘Give it a rest, Germaine Greer. You asked, I answered. I liked him. Sorry if you and the rest of the village lynch mob have already decided he’s the Swell Valley’s answer to Vladimir Putin. But I do have the advantage of having actually met the guy.’

‘Well, bully for you. I hope the two of you will be very happy together,’ said Laura.

Turning away from her, Gabe turned off his own bedside light.

‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ he added defiantly. ‘I’m going to get him to sell those fields to me. So put that in your bra and burn it.’