‘No, I haven’t. Everything is under control, Kim. Don’t fuss so. All I have to do is light the oven when Victor gets here. Are you getting hungry, Katharine?’
‘Not really. Thank you, anyway. It always takes me a while to unwind after the performance. Shedding the part.’
‘But I’m ravenous,’ Kim announced. ‘I wouldn’t mind sampling some of that caviar, and the pâté, which you have so conveniently forgotten, Francesca.’
Laughing, Francesca rose. She, who was so beautifully mannered, had indeed forgotten the food she had intended to serve with the drinks. It was a rare lapse. She had been so fascinated by Katharine and engrossed with her, everything else had been swept out of her mind. ‘How awful of me. Please excuse me. I won’t be a minute.’ She flew out of the drawing room, her taffeta skirt crackling as she moved.
The minute they were alone, Katharine turned to Kim and, quenching her rising anxiety about Victor, she said, ‘I think your sister is really lovely.’
‘She likes you, too, I’m sure,’ Kim murmured. He moved closer to Katharine and put his arms around her, kissing her neck and her hair. ‘And that goes for me too,’ he whispered. He felt the warmth of her enveloping him, the delicate perfume of her silky skin intoxicating him, and as always when he held her like this his excitement surged in him.
‘Oh, Katharine, Katharine, I do adore you so,’ and he buried his face against her neck.
Katharine stroked the back of his fair head and returned his embrace, but she said nothing. At this moment Victor filled her mind and one thought turned endlessly against itself: How could he have let her down? She never broke her promises. Men. They were all the same. Untrustworthy. Just like her father, the bastard. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, endeavouring to obliterate the image of him.
After a moment, Kim drew away from her; as he looked down at her nestled in his arms he was overcome by his longing for her. He slowly lowered his mouth to hers, wanting to devour those warm lips. Katharine pushed him back, but with gentleness.
Somehow she managed to find her voice. ‘Please, Kim darling, don’t start this now. Francesca will be back any moment, and how would it look if she catches us necking on the sofa.’ She extracted herself from his tight embrace and stood up, tugging at her skirt and smoothing her hair. ‘I’m surprised at you,’ she pronounced sternly, but the tone was soft.
Kim fell back against the cushions helplessly, groaning out loud. ‘It’s all your fault. You’re a temptress, don’t you know. And the most maddening it’s ever been my great good luck to encounter. What am I going to do with you?’
‘Nothing at the moment,’ she said. ‘But you can get me another glass of champagne.’
He grinned at her good naturedly, pushed himself up off the sofa and brought the bottle. He filled the Waterford flutes, and then eyed the empty bottle, shaking it. ‘Well, this one’s a dead soldier. I’d better put another one on ice. We’ll need it when Victor gets here.’ As he reached the door, he swung around and said, ‘If he ever turns up, that is, which I seriously doubt now. Back in a jiffy, my sweet one.’
Katharine nodded, not trusting herself to respond coherently. Kim had voiced the one fear nagging at her. She turned and rested her hand on the mantelpiece and gazed down into the fire miserably. She had been in control of her own destiny since the age of twelve. She had never relied on anyone for anything, for mistrust was paramount in her nature, and especially so when it came to men. Yet she had broken her own stringent rule and trusted Victor Mason. Damn, damn, damn, she muttered under her breath.
Francesca came in carrying a large silver tray. ‘I hope you’ll try a little of this, Katharine,’ she said. ‘I think I will.’
‘I’m not really hungry, thank you,’ Katharine answered and returned to her place on the sofa.
Francesca seated herself in the chair, and picked up a pearl-handled silver knife. She plunged it into the mound of sturgeon’s roe, so glistening and moist in the crystal dish, spread a portion on a piece of Melba toast and squeezed lemon over it. Smiling, she offered it to Katharine, who shook her head, and then handed it to Kim, who had joined them again.
‘I say, this is superb!’ Kim exclaimed, after devouring it. ‘You don’t have to bother with the cottage pie. This will do just nicely for me.’
Francesca said, ‘Try the pâté too. It’s—’ The shrilling of the door bell caused her to stop. She glanced from Kim to Katharine, arching her blonde brows. ‘Could that be our missing guest at long last?’
Katharine rose with unusual swiftness. ‘Perhaps I’d better answer the door, Kim. After all, you’ve never met Victor.’
Chapter Eight
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Katharine hissed, her eyes blazing as she confronted Victor Mason on the door step.
‘Charming welcome,’ he said, adding with a huge grin, ‘am I allowed in, or shall I be on my merry way?’
‘Of course you’re allowed in,’ Katharine cried, and fearing he was about to depart she quickly snatched at the sleeve of the trenchcoat thrown casually over his shoulders, and drew him towards her possessively.
Victor turned to his driver, who hovered on the step next to him, holding a large black umbrella over them both. ‘I guess I’ll be a couple of hours or so, Gus. That is if I don’t get thrown out on my rear end before then. You can mosey off for a while. I’ll see you later. Have fun.’ His mouth twitched. ‘But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
‘Right you are, Mr Mason,’ Gus responded, and retreated to the car as Victor stepped inside the house.
‘Well, at least he’s stopped calling you Guv, thank heavens,’ Katharine remarked.
Victor threw her a swift, amused look, chuckled softly and said, ‘Only in front of people. When we’re alone he still calls me Guvnor. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it.’ He thrust a package at her, winked theatrically and declared ‘Beware of Italians bearing dubious gifts.’
Katharine accepted the package in grudging silence. She was not so easily placated and the tension was still flaring within her. In consequence, she was a little on edge and her patience had worn thin. There was a cold silence, during which she continued to glare at him, and then she said, ‘I thought you weren’t coming. You’re very late. Abominably late. You’ve heard of the telephone haven’t you? It’s a small instrument that enables you to communicate between two points—’
He cut in with a throaty laugh, ‘Save me the sarcasm, honey.’ Shrugging off the trenchcoat he glanced around. ‘Where shall I put this?’
Katharine nodded in the direction of the hall cupboard. ‘In there.’ She looked down at the package she was holding. ‘What is this, anyway?’
‘A peace offering. Champagne. Pink champagne.’
‘Pink! Now I know what you mean by dubious,’ she retorted.
‘My, my, we are being gracious tonight,’ Victor said. But he did not seem in the least put out by her scathing words or her frosty manner. In fact, he appeared sanguine, and his voice was even as he said, ‘Look, honey, I’m sorry, I really am. The delay was unavoidable. I had to wait for a call from the Coast. An important business call. Come on, Katharine, give a guy a break.’
His smile was so sincere, and he sounded so genuinely apologetic that Katharine found herself smiling back at him. She was also shrewdly aware that it would be foolish to antagonize Victor, and by so doing put her assiduously-made plans into certain jeopardy. Need her he well might, but his goodwill was absolutely crucial to her, and since he had finally made an appearance her troubling doubts about him were subsiding, were replaced by the optimistic belief that he had not reneged on his promise to her. And so she softened her manner and her chameleon-like ability to present a different visage went into immediate play. The smile became infinitely more luminous and beguiling and the turquoise eyes were instantaneously veiled with affectionate fights.
‘I’m sorry too,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but the English are very peculiar about time and the pr
oper form and all that, as I’ve mentioned to you before.’ She returned the package to him. ‘And it was very sweet of you to bring this. Truly. But I think it would be more appropriate if you gave it to your hostess. I know she’ll appreciate your thoughtfulness. Now, come on, my darling, we’re wasting time. Let’s go in.’
Victor tucked the bottle under his arm with a jaunty flourish, glanced at himself in the Georgian mirror, adjusted his de, and said, ‘I’m all yours, honey. Lead the way.’
Kim and Francesca stopped talking when Victor and Katharine walked into the drawing room, and Victor saw two pairs of eyes focused on him intently and with enormous interest. Considering he was a world-famous film star, and had been for a number of years, he was not unaccustomed to this kind of fixed and curious scrutiny, for everyone had their own vision of him, which was not always compatible with the man he truly was.
But what brought him up short and filled him with amazement was his consciousness of the girl in grey, seated near the fireplace, who was now slowly rising. Like a brilliant lodestar she drew him magnetically towards her, and he felt a need, indeed a compulsion, to rush over to her, was filled with an urgency not only to meet her, but to know every facet of her. He had no desire to appear foolish, even immature, and he realized, too, that this kind of behaviour would be incorrect and a rank display of that ‘bad form’ the British, and Katharine, were always muttering about. Nor did he have any intention of giving Katharine the opportunity to lecture him about his manners. Before he could take another step, the young man next to her, obviously Katharine’s boyfriend, Kim, was hurrying forward, smiling broadly.
Kim grasped Victor’s hand. ‘I’m Kim Cunningham. Delighted you could come.’
‘So am I,’ Victor replied, shaking Kim’s hand vigorously. And he apologized and again explained his reason for being late.
‘Oh, please don’t give it another thought,’ Kim exclaimed. He grinned. ‘We’ve been very cosy here, guzzling champagne and chatting. Now, do come and meet my sister, and then I’ll get you a drink. What do you prefer? Champagne, or something else, perhaps?’
‘I’d like Scotch-on-the-rocks with a splash of soda, please.’
Kim took hold of Victor’s arm and propelled him across the room to the fireplace. ‘This is Francesca,’ he said, and, after bestowing a bright smile on them, he disappeared in the direction of the drinks chest to pour a Scotch for Victor.
‘How nice to meet you, Mr Mason,’ Francesca said.
Their hands met and held and their eyes locked, and simultaneously they exchanged a startled glance. Looking down into the delicate face upturned to him, Victor saw the shining amber-flecked eyes widen and fill with the astonishment he himself was feeling. A tremulous smile touched her mouth briefly, and was gone. I’ve never met her before, but I recognize her, he thought with incredulity. I know her. I’ve always known her, somewhere deep in my heart and soul. This strange and surprising knowledge shook him, and momentarily he was thrown off balance.
Being adroit, he swiftly pulled himself together. ‘I’m pleased to meet you too, Lady Francesca,’ he said with a slow lazy smile, but his black eyes were serious and searching, and his gaze remained unswervingly on her face.
‘Oh please, do call me Francesca.’ Two faint spots of colour stained her ivory cheeks.
‘I’ll be glad to, if you’ll call me Victor.’
She nodded and gently extracted her hand, which he was still holding tightly, and stepping back, she lowered herself into the chair. Victor remembered the package under his arm, bent forward and handed it to her, instantly wishing it were something more personal, more appropriate like—like an armful of fragile white May lilac, fragrant after a drenching of spring rain. Yes, lilac was the ideal flower for her. It suited her delicacy and freshness. He said, ‘I almost forgot. This is for you.’
Francesca looked up at him, surprised. ‘Why thank you. How very kind.’ She began to unwrap it, her head bent, her fingers moving slowly, and she wondered why she was suddenly trembling internally, not recognizing the dynamic chemistry interacting between them. However, Victor, who was wise in the ways of the world and of men and women, knew it. At least, he knew she had affected him strongly, and that he had responded to her on a variety of levels, not the least of which was sexual. He looked at her sharply, a keenness in his eyes. She appeared serene and unperturbed. Cool as a cucumber, he thought. He remembered that look of astonishment they had shared a moment ago, the startled glance exchanged. Had he imagined them? He was not sure. Perhaps the attraction had not been mutual, but merely one-sided. His side. He smiled faintly to himself.
Victor had no way of knowing that Francesca had a natural poise that belied her years, and a great measure of that special self-confidence so endemic to the English aristocracy. She rarely lost her composure. And so, despite her equally strong reaction to Victor, one she found extraordinary and baffling, she let no emotion show on her face. But she was disturbed, and understandably so. To begin with, she had had little or no experience of men, and certainly she had never encountered one of Victor Mason’s ilk. Then again, her boyfriends had been, for the most part, chums of Kim’s and the same age, and she had never taken any of them seriously. At nineteen she was sexually inexperienced, and, in comparison to her girl friends, who were much more worldly, unusually innocent for a young woman who mixed in smart London society.
In all truth, Victor Mason had unnerved Francesca. Gradually this, realization began to formulate in her mind. How absurd she was being, allowing herself to become rattled by this man. Yet, she had to admit he was devastatingly attractive; she thought: If Katharine Tempest seems improbable, with her stunning beauty and allure and vivacious personality, then he is undoubtedly larger than life. And very disconcerting.
Abruptly, Victor left his position in front of the fire, and without glancing at her or addressing another word to her, he moved over to the chest. He stood talking to Kim as if they were old friends, and not total strangers from worlds so wide apart it was debatable whether they had any common ground upon which to meet. Francesca observed him through the corner of her eye, her head still bent in concentration on the package. It struck her that he looked unconcerned, as if she no longer existed, as if he had not given her those fierce stares. It was then that she wondered whether he always behaved in this manner, when first meeting women, in view of who and what he was, believing, perhaps, that it was expected of him. Although she was not the typical film fan, she was sufficiently well-informed to know that Victor Mason was idolized by women all over the world. Few men had ever been the recipients of the kind of female adulation which was showered on him. There was no doubt in her mind that he could pick and choose at will from a galaxy of women infinitely more beautiful and interesting than her, and so she concluded she had not been singled out for any special treatment. And why should she be?
Francesca swung her eyes away from Victor when Katharine’s clear laughter echoed across the room; then she could not resist focusing her attention on the three of them. Victor turned slightly, also laughing, and leaned towards Katharine, teasing her. Katharine looked up at him as she returned his banter.
Clutching the crumpled wrapping paper and the bottle of Pommery and Greno, Francesca got up and went to the door. Without looking at Victor, she exclaimed, ‘Thank you for the champagne. It’s lovely. Look, Katharine. Kim. Victor brought this.’ She held out the bottle and went on, ‘I’ll go and put it in the refrigerator. And turn the oven on, otherwise we’ll never get supper tonight.’ She went out, closing the door quietly behind her.
When Francesca returned a few minutes later, she was surprised to see Victor standing at the far end of the drawing room, quite obviously admiring the paintings that graced the walls. He and Katharine were listening attentively to Kim, who was giving them a long dissertation on the Constables and Turners in the room. Francesca chose not to join them. She went to the fireplace, picked up the brass fire tongs, plopped a couple of logs on the diminished embers, s
at down in the chair and picked up her glass. She peered at Victor over the rim. A faint image of him from his films had apparently lingered at the back of her mind, for it surfaced suddenly. It was the image of an excessively handsome man, glossy and too sleek, who looked as if he had been patted and pummelled and polished, and then varnished into smooth and characterless perfection. She sneaked another look at him, and saw how utterly false this image now proved to be.
He was handsome, there was no quarrelling with that, yet in reality he was rough-hewn and rugged. His face was more craggy and raw-boned than she had remembered and, far from lacking character, it had a virility and strength, and was webbed around the eyes with those faint tell-tale lines of experience which are the real evidence of a life well-lived, and to the fullest. His skin had a leathery, almost weather-beaten texture, and she knew that his deep sunburn was the type acquired only by a man who is always out of doors. His features were more sharply denned than she had recalled, from the strong Roman nose and the prominent black brows above those black and forceful eyes, to the wide humorous mouth and the large white teeth. Even the thick black hair, brushed smoothly back from the furrowed brow, seemed to have a vitality and life of its own. He was powerfully built, broad-shouldered and massive across the chest and back.
In all truthfulness, the only sleek things about Victor Mason were his clothes. They were of the finest quality and appeared to have been assembled with unerring precision. And they’re just a little too perfect, Francesca thought. She noted the excellent cut of the black cashmere jacket, the grey flannel slacks with their knife-edge creases, the pale blue cotton-voile shirt, the darker blue silk tie, the grey silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket, the velvet-soft brown suede loafers on his feet. He lifted his hand at this moment and put a cigarette in his mouth and fit it, and she caught the gleam of sapphires in the French cuff, the flash of gold on the wrist. Poor Kim, he looks positively shabby in comparison, she said to herself, even though he is wearing his new suit. Unaccountably, this had a crumpled and well-lived-in appearance. Francesca had to smile. Victor Mason’s clothes would never look crumpled, of that she was quite positive.
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