Phantom Lover

by Susan Napier

  Dazed by the speed and dexterity with which the elderly woman leapfrogged to ever more bizarre conclusions, Honor reacted too late. Joy Blake had the box out of her hand and on the floor and was opening it before she could get a protest out. Monty’s flat, malevolent face appeared instantly, sniffing suspiciously at the strange environment before retreating as the rest of his body flattened, bunching for a spring.

  ‘Why, it’s a darling pussycat—aren’t you a sweetie...?’

  As Joy bent and reached eagerly into the box both Honor and Adam cried out simultaneous warnings:

  ‘No, wait!’

  ‘Don’t touch that ani—!’

  The protests died abruptly as Joy straightened up with Monty clasped to the dark red blouse that clashed so badly with her purple skirt.

  ‘Oh, aren’t you just adorable?’ she cooed, pushing her face against his bristling fur.

  Honor watched open-mouthed as her irascible pet went limp and allowed himself to be nuzzled and chucked under the chin by a total stranger. Even more staggering, he actually began his motoring purr and aimed a few swipes of his raspy tongue at Joy’s stroking fingers. Out of the corner of her eye Honor could see Adam wearing a stunned look very similar to her own.

  Joy laughed. ‘What’s your name, cutie?’

  Cutie? Honor had heard Monty called plenty of names—including a few imaginative ones coined by Adam tonight—but never had anyone suggested that cuteness was one of his feline attributes.

  ‘He’s called Monty,’ she said faintly, wondering if the trauma of travel had temporarily altered his personality for the better.

  ‘I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you, fella? Why don’t I take him into the kitchen while you two go upstairs and change for dinner? It’ll be ready in about half an hour.’

  ‘I’ve already eaten,’ Honor said hastily.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Joy Blake shook her head. ‘I’ve invented this lovely Mediterranean chicken casserole dish and I would have appreciated another opinion. I’ve used dried fruits and almonds and cinnamon and ginger...’ She smiled coaxingly at Honor. ‘Are you sure you couldn’t manage even a nibble?’

  Honor’s stomach was remembering the chocolate-cake bribe that hadn’t quite compensated for the wizened omelette. Her taste-buds moistened. ‘Well, maybe a little—’

  ‘I thought we’d agreed that you were supposed to be taking things easy,’ Adam interrupted, frowning at his mother. ‘You don’t have to bother with the cooking. That’s what Rhonda’s employed for—’

  ‘It so happens, Adam, that I like to bother with the cooking,’ his mother told him, her smile fading as she faced him, still hugging the purring cat to her chest. ‘And you needn’t worry. I didn’t do anything more taxing than stir a few pots. Rhonda did all the carrying and chopping and running around. I just sat back and gave her instructions.’

  As Adam continued to regard her with a worried expression Joy Blake’s confidence visibly wavered and she stroked Monty’s fur with a finely trembling hand, her faded brown eyes clouding over. She pinned a determined, if slightly shaky smile back on her face as she turned towards Honor, immediately launching forth into the breathless chatter with which she had first greeted them.

  ‘Now, don’t you fret about Monty; we’re friends already and once I feed him he’ll settle in nicely. We have a cat ourselves so there’s plenty of cat food in the kitchen and I’ll make a place for him to sleep unless you want to have him in your room.

  ‘And talking of rooms, Adam...’ she turned back to her son, lifting her chin haughtily ‘...I’ll leave you to decide where to put Honor. I don’t want to be accused of being a nosy, interfering old woman so I’ll just say whatever sleeping arrangements you choose to make will be fine by me. Although you might want to bear in mind that certain others who live here might not be as accommodating!’

  And with that obscurely pointed jab she retreated down the hall, Monty’s tail waving like a victory flag behind her back, vanishing through a wooden swing door at the far end, giving Honor a brief glimpse of the large, brightly lit, tiled kitchen beyond.

  Honor was still wearing an involuntary smile when she turned back to Adam. ‘Is she always like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  He looked so ready to bite her head off that Honor decided she would be unwise to say that she found his mother very entertaining. He was bound to take it the wrong way.

  ‘So...welcoming.’

  He glared, as if he knew that she had mentally edited her reply. Just to needle him, she added, ‘She seemed to think that we’re heavily involved with each other.’

  ‘I wonder where she got that impression?’ he snarled sarcastically. ‘What the hell did you have to mouth that cliché about being “just good friends” for? You must have known the interpretation she’d put on it.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect me to say when you just stood there stammering like an idiot?’ she demanded. ‘If you knew you were going to have to lie you might have at least had the sense to cook up a good one before we got here. I was just trying to help you out.’

  ‘The hell you were! You said it purely to make trouble. I was going to tell her that you were a new secretary here to do some work for me—’

  ‘You could still tell her that,’ Honor said, feeling guilty at the truth of his accusation. At the time she hadn’t been concerned with anything but petty point-scoring.

  ‘She knows I don’t play around with my secretaries,’ he gritted.

  ‘Uh—I’m glad to hear it,’ said Honor in a weak attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘And certainly no secretary of mine would bring a damned cat to work with her!’

  Honor’s eyes narrowed. Even guilt had its limits. ‘You can’t blame that on me. I didn’t want to come here in the first place. And your mother seemed awfully anxious to whip up a passionate affair out of nothing. I wonder why that is?’

  He ignored her, picking up the suitcase that he had hastily dropped in anticipation of having to rescue his mother from Monty’s temper and indicating the stairs to their left with a sharp inclination of his blond head. The overhead light revealed reddish glints hidden among the gold. An incipient redhead. No wonder he had a healthy temper, Honor thought as she followed him silently up the wide wooden staircase. Actually, he could do with a haircut. The lighter blond ends which brushed the crew neck of his sweater were uneven, frosted and split by exposure to the sun. She also noticed that although the black trousers and sweater sported expensive designer motifs the sweater was worn thin on one elbow and the trousers had a frayed back pocket. Obviously not a man who put a lot of emphasis on sartorial elegance. Maybe he didn’t worry about dressing to impress because he knew he was all too impressive whatever he wore. Her eyes fell further and widened. He was wearing odd socks: one dark grey, one black. She grinned, irrationally reassured by the absent-minded chink in his forcefully confident appearance.

  ‘You find my home amusing?’

  She reached the top of the stairs to find Adam staring at her curving mouth with a mixture of belligerence and suspicion.

  ‘Your home?’ She was disconcerted. ‘I thought you lived on the North Shore?’

  ‘I inherited this place from Zach.’

  So his brother had had no wife or children of his own... ‘Are you going to be living here from now on?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  She squinted back. ‘I thought I might semaphore the information out the window to my criminal cohorts atop the next ridge.’

  For a moment she thought she saw a quiver of amusement touch the hard mouth but his reply was hopelessly pedantic.

  ‘You know semaphore?’

  ‘I was a crack Guide,’ she lied. ‘I try always to be prepared.’

  ‘I thought that was the Scout motto,’ he said drily.

  She looked at him in mock-dismay. ‘No wonder there was always a rush to share my tent when we went camping!’

  Definitely a gr
in, but he turned away before she could fully appreciate its effect on his tanned features and strode along the hall to push open one of the pale doors.

  The room was large and uncluttered, the painted cream walls and warm apricot accents in the draperies a clever contrast to the cool blues and greys that predominated in what she had so far seen of the rest of the place. A single bed covered with a billowing quilt inhabited the far corner and adjacent to it was a broad sash window which overlooked the rear of the property.

  ‘What, no bars?’ murmured Honor tartly, to hide the unexpected sense of welcome the room gave her. She crossed to peer out of the window, noting the irregularly shaped swimming-pool which glittered darkly in the dimly lit fenced gardens below.

  ‘I’m sure I can arrange to have some installed if that’ll make you feel safer, Honor.’

  She spun around at the bland comment. Now the glint of humour in the brown eyes was unconcealed and Honor was perversely annoyed by his amusement. ‘That’s not what I meant—’

  ‘Then what did you mean? You’re a guest here, not a prisoner. See, your door doesn’t even have a lock on it.’ He swung it on its hinges to show her both sides.

  ‘And that’s supposed to reassure me?’ Honor goaded with heavy sarcasm. ‘Your hospitality must be really dire if you have to resort to threatening people to get them to come and stay. If I really am a guest then I guess Monty and I are free to leave when we like...?’

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed, adding smoothly, ‘Ignoring police advice may be foolish and in this case probably quite dangerous, but it’s certainly not illegal...’

  She gave him a fulminating look that had no effect whatsoever on his smug confidence. If she had known how aggravating he was in person she would never have fallen in love with his letters.

  ‘What’s in here? The bathroom?’ She flung open the door next to the wardrobe, resorting to action to divert her dangerous thoughts.

  ‘No, I’m afraid you have to share the bathroom,’ he said with suspicious meekness. ‘It’s two doors down the hall on the right.’

  She was staring at the room which interconnected with hers, an intensely masculine room with a huge brass bedstead that dominated everything else.

  ‘This is your room,’ she guessed accusingly, letting go the door-handle as if it were a red-hot coal. ‘Why am I in the room next to yours?’

  ‘Because it’s the only one available.’

  She would have liked to call him a liar but since there was a slight chance he might be telling the truth she kept her mouth shut. She had made enough of a fool of herself in front of him for one day.

  ‘I suppose there’s no key to this door, either?’ she snapped, closing it again with exaggerated care, shutting out the view of that looming, masculine bed.

  He shrugged. ‘What can I say?’ He spread his big hands palm up in a gesture of mock-helplessness. ‘We’re a very trusting family.’

  Oh, yes, his mood had turned very affable now he was getting his own way.

  ‘Well, I’m not one of the family and I don’t trust you,’ she told him grittily.

  ‘The feeling is entirely mutual,’ he assured her.

  ‘I’m scarcely likely to sneak into your room and try and overpower you,’ she pointed out.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘It sounds like wish transference to me. Is that what you’re hoping I might do? Don’t let your frustrated-spinster fantasies run away with you, Honor. They’ve got you into enough trouble as it is—’

  ‘My fantasies?’ Her temper hotted up again. ‘You’re a fine one to criticise. You—’

  ‘Let’s not get into another round of pointless argument,’ he cut her off succinctly. ‘Suffice it to say that I’ve never been so hard up for sex that I had to resort to violence to get it.’

  She believed him. With his looks and his wealth he would have no trouble attracting women. She found it hard to superimpose that confident image on the man of letters who had so enchanted her with his sensitivity. If it hadn’t been shyness or social awkwardness that had prompted him to hide behind a box number, had it merely been an experiment, an idle mental exercise in seduction without the complications of a fully fledged affair? A new fillip for a jaded male palate? But then the last few frantic letters made nonsense of that theory. They had been nothing short of a raw demand for a physical consummation of their relationship. Not even an invitation—a demand...

  ‘Neither have I,’ she said bluntly, trying for the same blend of arrogance and sexual sophistication he was displaying. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her into feeling inferior. She let her eyes drift over him with what she hoped was a suitably haughty disdain.

  ‘Good, then neither of us has to lie awake tonight worrying whether we’re about to be ravished in our bed.’

  The notion of her small body physically overpowering his huge, solid frame was ludicrous. As for forcing him to make love to her, Honor didn’t think such a thing could physically be accomplished...unless— Her eyes flicked to the adjoining door and a vivid mental picture arose in her head. Unless she crept in and tied him to the convenient bars of his brass bedstead while he was still asleep and then, when he was utterly at her mercy...

  Honor closed her eyes, blushing hotly as she realised where her thoughts were taking her. She was shocked at herself. Did his taunt have some basis after all? Was she becoming obsessed with unhealthy fantasies at the expense of drab reality? Reality being that if it were Helen whom Adam had dragged up here he wouldn’t be rejecting the possibility of ravishment!

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself!’ she managed weakly, at last, opening her eyes to deny the power of the wicked images behind her closed lids. To her horror he was studying her guilty blush with mocking speculation.

  ‘Was I? No need to get flustered, Miss Sheldon, your naughty secrets are safe with me...I’m not in the trade of buying and selling private conversations.’

  The slightly grim edge to his mockery had Honor floundering for a fittingly acid reply as he continued coolly, ‘May I suggest you take my mother’s advice and change before you go down for dinner? We don’t bother with formality but we do expect guests to be clean and reasonably dressed. In that tatty ensemble you’ll probably shed cat fur all over the table.’

  With that masterly final insult he vanished into his bedroom, shutting the connecting door with a quiet click that punctuated Honor’s open-mouthed silence.

  ‘Well, of all the...!’

  She wished she had a stunning cocktail dress she could whip out of her suitcase and use to knock his arrogant eyes out.

  Alas, she discovered as she ferreted through the clothes that Adam had carelessly stuffed into her suitcase, nothing he had brought matched. He had included the bottom half of two suits and the top half of a third, a skirt and blouse that didn’t match, a dress that she hadn’t worn for at least three years and another that she didn’t even remember possessing, and assorted bits and bobs that didn’t go with anything else.

  First things first. She nipped along to the big, old-fashioned but very functional bathroom and washed her face and hands. When she came back she wedged the bedroom chair under the handle of the connecting door and peeled off her clothes.

  The black dress that she didn’t remember seemed her best bet but when she struggled into it she realised why it had seemed so unfamiliar. It was one of Helen’s discards, several of which hung, largely unworn, in the back of Honor’s wardrobe. What looked elegant on Helen’s willowy size ten verged on the tacky when draped on a figure which hovered erratically between size twelve and fourteen, even though the famous designer label claimed the figure-hugging tube was of the ‘one size fits all’ variety.

  It had undoubtedly been a mini on Helen, revealing a startling amount of long, slender leg. On Honor the length was more modest but the fit definitely wasn’t. It was desperately tight cross the hips and bust and although the stretchy, bubble-knit fabric hid a multitude of sins there was no getting away from the fact that it made her look disa
ppointingly lumpy. Her bra straps refused to align with the cut-away shoulders, further destroying the elegant simplicity of line, although at least the front was high enough to hide the thin scratches that marred her chest. She muttered darkly to herself, cursing high-fashion designers who refused to acknowledge that most of the world’s women didn’t conform to their artificial standards of bodily perfection.

  She rifled back through her suitcase and came up with a short-cropped red cardigan. A jacket would have been better but this would have to do. She pulled it on. It created a much less tarty effect. She couldn’t wear stockings because she didn’t have a suitable slip to stop them sticking to the knit skirt but thankfully her legs were evenly tanned from her gardening and at least Adam had, obviously by mistake, included some flatteringly high-heeled black shoes that would minimise the flare of her calves. She dragged a brush ruthlessly through her hair, grimacing at the knots and the way it sprang up again in a crackling frenzy. The harder she tried to control it, the more it disobeyed.

  The carpet on the floor was thick and the house seemed strangely hushed as she found her way back downstairs. Always sensitive to atmosphere, Honor felt a prickling unease as she moved along the ground-floor hall, passing several fastidiously neat rooms furnished in a jarring mixture of the starkly modern and comfortably antique. The silence was almost unnatural, as if the house were watching her progress disapprovingly, isolating her within its walls, waiting for her to set the first foot wrong.

  A whisper of sound had her quickening her step to push open the double doors opposite the kitchen, grateful that she’d found the dining-room at last.

  Expecting to see only Adam and his mother, she was startled to find two other people with them. One was a slender, strikingly attractive brunette in her mid-thirties and the other was a plump, blonde-haired child of about ten or eleven whose mouth fell rudely open as Joy Blake hustled forward.

  ‘Honor, come in, don’t be shy—come in and meet my daughter-in-law, Tania. She’s just arrived with Adam’s daughter, Sara. Sara, say hello to Miss Sheldon...’