Handful of stardust

by Yvonne Whittal

  Handful of Stardust by Yvonne Whittal

  "You can't deny you enjoy my company!"

  Brett challenged. Samantha wouldn't admit it. Perhaps she was starry-eyed about Clive; though her father disliked him, she was sure he was the only man in the world for her. Brett Carrington had no right to criticize her or Clive— much less try to tell her she should marry him instead!It never occurred to Samantha that Brett might be right. Nor did sherealize just how far he was prepared to pursue his campaign....

  PRINTED IN U.S.A.

  OTHER Harlequin Romances by YVONNE WHITTAL

  1915—EAST TO BARRYVALE 2002—THE SLENDER THREAD 2077—DEVIL'S GATEWAY 2101—WHERE SEAGULLS CRY 2128—THE PRICE OF HAPPINESS

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  Handful of Stardust by YVONNE WHITTAL

  TORONTO · LONDON · NEW YORK · AMSTERDAM · SYDNEY

  Original hardcover edition published in 1977

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  ISBN 0-373-02162-3

  Harlequin edition published May 1978

  Copyright © 1977 by Yvonne Whittal. All rights reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this

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  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagina-

  tion of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing

  the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by

  any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents

  are pure invention.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  EXUBERANT voices and the loud twanging of electric guitars fought for supremacy as Samantha Little and Clive Wilmot faced each other on the dimly lit terrace of the hotel. Both were equally fair, but whereas Clive was tall and slender with his shoulders hunched in anger and his sensitive mouth petulant at that moment, Samantha stood small and erect, with an almost regal quality in the way she held herself. Except for the faint glimmer of tears in her large violet blue eyes, there was no way of guessing at the turbulent thoughts that were racing through her mind during that tense confrontation.

  'Don't be such a puritan, Sam,' Clive Wilmot was saying accusingly. 'Be with it and let yourself go.'

  'I'm afraid I can't let myself go to the extent you desire, Clive.'

  'I thought you loved me.' His lips tightened once again with irritation and anger.

  'I do love you, you know I do, and that's why I can't do what you ask of me.' She bit down hard on a trembling lower lip and fought for composure. 'I can't live with you, Clive, until after we're married.'

  'But you know that marriage is out of the question at the moment.'

  'I know that, Clive, and I understand, but until then you must respect my wishes.'

  For several seconds he stared at her in angry disbelief before he straightened and said, 'I'm going back inside. Are you coming?'

  Samantha shook her head. 'If you don't mind, I'd like to remain out here for a while longer.'

  'Suit yourself,' he shrugged negligently, striding along the terrace and disappearing through the glass doors.

  Samantha closed her eyes for a moment to relieve the ache behind them and tasted the salty tang of the sea on her lips. Clive's behaviour had been strange lately, and at times she glimpsed a side of his nature that did not entirely impress her. His anger and dissatisfaction never lasted long, and he usually succeeded in sweeping aside her fears by apologising profusely and kissing her warmly. His erring little boy act always touched her heart and vanquished her misgivings. He was also so terribly handsome.

  Her high heels tapped softly on the stone floor as she walked along the terrace, which was on the third floor level, taking the opposite direction to the one Clive had taken until she eventually found her way barred by an iron gate. She clutched at it for a moment, tempted to go beyond it into the lush greenery of the garden bathed in moonlight which she had discovered so unexpectedly. While she was still contemplating whether to enter or retrace her steps, the decision was more or less taken for her when the gate squealed slightly and swung open beneath her agitated hands.

  The Trydon Hotel sliced into the steep hill, and for the first time Samantha realised that the remaining portion of the hill on the east side was on a level with the third floor of the building, with a concrete bridge leading from a secluded balcony into the garden she had just entered.

  She stood for a moment with her back pressed hard against the gate and inhaled the sweet fragrance of frangipani as it mingled with the tangy sea air on this

  sultry January night. The din of the party at the other end of the terrace barely reached her ears in the tranquillity and peace of the enchanting oasis she had stumbled upon. The grass was springy beneath her feet in this scented garden, the shadows soft and enfolding on such a starlight night as she wandered further. It represented a way of escape from her troubled thoughts; a garden to dream in when harsh reality threatened one's sanity, she decided unhappily as she ventured deeper into the garden.

  A dark shape disengaged itself from the shadows beside her and, startled, she turned and fled.

  'Just a moment!' an imperious voice halted her in her stride before she reached the gate. She turned, pressing a hand against her throat where a frightened pulse throbbed achingly. A man was approaching her and in the moonlit darkness he seemed terrifyingly tall and broad-shouldered, his dark evening suit almost blending with the shadows. 'Did I startle you?'

  His voice was pleasantly deep and somehow reassuring, she noticed as she stammered a reply. 'I—I thought I was the only one here.'

  He laughed briefly. 'I've been watching you for some time. Are you a resident at this hotel, or were you escaping from the rowdy party in the restaurant?'

  'I suppose you could saying I was escaping from the party,' she acknowledged guiltily.

  A brief, uncomfortable silence lingered between them before he said calmly, 'I suppose you do realise you're trespassing?'

  Samantha bit her lip nervously. 'Oh, dear! I should have known but I couldn't resist the temptation. Who does this garden belong to?'

  'It belongs to the owner of this hotel.'

  'You mean Brett Carrington, the man who owns al-

  most half the five-star hotels in the Eastern Cape as well as one of the most prosperous sheep farms in the Karoo?' she asked incredulously, voicing her harassed thoughts.

  'That's rather a sweeping statement, but yes, it does belong to Brett Carrington.' He coughed slightly.

  'He's an extremely wealthy man, I hear,' Samantha continued thoughtfully, loath to leave this paradise, yet strangely disturbed by the man confronting her.

  `Does wealth impress you?' he asked suddenly.

  'Good heavens, no I should imagine that being wealthy could be an agonising bore, especially when people fawn all over you.' What on earth was she doing, she wandered crazily, talking to t
his stranger in the shadows of this secluded garden as though she had every right to be there? 'It must be terribly difficult for Mr Carrington to know whether people are sincere, or merely trying to cash in on his wealth.'

  'Experience makes one a good judge of character.'

  'I suppose so,' she agreed reluctantly. `Do you know him well?'

  The tall, dark figure beside her moved slightly. 'You could say I know him well. I am Brett Carrington.'

  `Oh, lord!' she gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth. 'I've said and done all the wrong things, I suppose.'

  'Look, we can't talk here,' he said briskly his hand at her elbow and sending a current of awareness along her nerves. 'Let me take you inside, then I can at least offer you something to drink before I return you to your friends.'

  'Oh, I don't think—'

  'Have you lost your nerve?' he challenged, his face an unrecognisable blur in the darkness.

  'No, I haven't, but—'

  'Come, then.' He led her across the garden and on to the balcony, opening the double glass doors and drawing aside the heavy curtains for her to enter. It was when those doors closed behind them that Samantha began to panic.

  'Mr Carrington, I must apologise for entering your private garden uninvited, but I don't think I ought to make further use of your hospitality.'

  'Relax, you're quite safe. I have some excellent sherry I can offer you,' he replied unperturbed, selecting a bottle from the teak cabinet at the other end of the room and filling two delicately stemmed glasses.

  Samantha took this opportunity to glance about her and felt a pleasurable feeling of delight ripple through her at the plush gold furnishings and the quiet elegance of his impeccable taste.

  Brett Carrington turned towards her then and she found herself looking directly into the dark brown eyes with peculiar gold flecks about the pupils. They were unusual eyes that seemed to burn through her with a strange intensity.

  'Sit down,' he said as she accepted the glass of sherry from him, and she subsided thankfully into the nearest chair as she became aware of a strange weakness in her legs at his now disturbing nearness.

  Her mind registered clearly for the first time the tanned angular face and thick dark hair greying at the temples. His suit was well cut and expensive, the white lacy front of his shirt contrasting drastically with the dark evening suit and black bow-tie. He was no longer a young man and neither was he old, she thought, hastily judging his age to be about thirty-five, and he looked different somehow from the photographs she had seen of him in the newspapers—more attractive, perhaps. But, with his rugged good looks, he could

  never be called handsome, although there was something undeniably authoritative about his distinguished manner and the arrogant set of his broad shoulders. It was his eyes, however, that filled her with the curious desire to escape.

  'I don't know your name,' he interrupted her thoughtful scrutiny, and Samantha blushed, realising that she had been staring rudely.

  `Samantha Little,' she replied warily.

  His glance swept over her briefly and the hard smooth mouth twisted cynically. 'I dare say you've been teased enough about suiting your name, so may I call you Sam an than ? '

  'Why ... yes, of course.' Startled by this request, she almost spilt some of the liquid on to her lap.

  'Tell me about the party in the restaurant,' he said. 'My friend Gillian Forbes is celebrating her twenty-first birthday.'

  'Did something happen to make you want to escape?'

  He was far too astute, she realised and, to her surprise, found herself replying, 'I had a slight disagreement with my boy-friend.'

  'I see.' His expression altered without warning and became coldly impersonal. 'You'd better drink up so I can return you to your friend before he comes looking for you.'

  When he eventually walked her back to the restaurant, he took her through the garden once again and she turned at the gate to take one last look at the enchanting and slightly mysterious paradise. Against the wall beside the gate was a large board marked PRIVATE. she had not noticed it before she could not imagine, and she felt decidedly guilty at having trespassed into Brett Carrington's private domain.

  'Oh, there's Clive! ' she exclaimed as they entered the

  noisy restaurant, and it was then that the most extraordinary thing happened.

  Clive hesitated in his stride, paling visibly when he noticed her companion, but he recovered swiftly as he made his way towards them among the tables. A drastic change had taken place in Brett Carrington as well, she noticed. The polite, impersonal mask had been ripped from his face to be replaced by a look that was close to hatred, and there was a hardness about his mouth that chilled her to the marrow.

  'So, Clive Wilmot, we meet again,' Brett Carrington remarked drily while Clive regained his composure with a visible effort. `I've had the pleasure of your young lady's company for a few short moments.'

  `So I see,' Clive muttered nervously.

  `I'm afraid I wandered into Mr Carrington's private garden by mistake,' Samantha explained hastily, her cheeks suffused with colour as Clive glanced at her questioningly.

  `So there you are, Sam,' Gillian interrupted this tense little scene as she and Stan fought their way through the dancing guests towards them. 'Stan and I have been looking everywhere for you, and so has Clive.'

  `Mr Carrington,' Samantha began almost apologetically, 'this is my friend Gillian Forbes and her fiancé, Stan Dreyer.'

  Brett Carrington acknowledged their presence with a polite nod. Clive stepped past him at that moment and placed a possessive arm about Samantha's shoulders, but Brett Carrington merely raised a mocking eyebrow in their direction before giving his complete attention to Gillian.

  'I believe it's your twenty-first birthday,' he said politely. 'May I also offer my congratulations?'

  Gillian thanked him with equal politeness, and in

  the same easy manner asked: 'Would you care to join us, Mr Carrington? There's plenty to eat and drink.'

  'I'm afraid it's impossible,' he apologised, 'but please accept the case of champagne I shall have sent in to you.' His glance returned to Samantha and, for a brief moment, she was conscious of his eyes looking keenly into her own. 'Perhaps we shall meet again, Miss Little. Goodnight.'

  He turned on his heel then and left, taking something vital with him that made it impossible for Samantha to enjoy the rest of the evening. Clive, too, remained strangely reticent throughout the rest of the evening, but her encounter with Brett Carrington led to their first serious argument as he drove her home later that evening.

  'What the devil were you doing with Brett Carrington?' he demanded, not taking his eyes off the road.

  'I told you—I went for a walk and ended up in his private garden,' she explained once more. 'He found me there, we talked a bit, and then he offered me something to drink before he returned me to the party.' She glanced at Clive surreptitiously. 'I didn't know you were acquainted with Brett Carrington?'

  Clive parked the car at the entrance to the flats and lit a cigarette, his hands shaking slightly. 'Well, if you must know, he and I had a bit of an argument some years ago and it wasn't very pleasant. I had hoped I would never have to meet him again, and it was absolute rotten luck that it had to be his garden you strolled into.' He drew hard on his cigarette and blew the smoke forcibly through the open window. 'What on earth made you go in there?'

  'I don't know. I wasn't thinking, I suppose, and the garden looked so tempting and so very peaceful.' She felt her irritation rising swiftly. 'Really, Clive, you can't blame me for your embarrassment.'

  'What did he say to you?'

  'There in the garden, you mean?'

  'Of course,' he snapped angrily, 'unless you'd rather not tell me the intimate details.'

  'Oh, for goodness' sake, Clive, what was there for him to say?' she demanded hotly, her breath coming fast as she recalled her fright when he had emerged from the shadows to confront her. 'He was polite enough not to order
me drastically off the premises and when he discovered that I'd strayed from the party, he offered to walk me back. What else was there for him to say or do?'

  'You looked rather flushed,' he explained, glancing at her suspiciously. 'He didn't try anything, did he?'

  Samantha stared at him aghast, the street light filtering dimly into the car so that she could see his angry, questioning expression without difficulty. 'Clive Wilmot, if you're suggesting that someone as wealthy and influential as Brett Carrington would consider cuddling a strange girl in a shadowy garden, then forget it. He's not the type.' -

  Clive relaxed then, flicking his cigarette out of the window before drawing her unresistingly into his arms. 'You're right, Sam. He's virtuous, pompous, and arrogant. Oh, hell, darling, let's forget it.'

  Samantha was about to protest that he had started the discussion, but his lips got in the way and successfully swept aside all further thought of Brett Carrington and their brief encounter. As usual, Clive's kisses became possessive and demanding and, for the first time, Samantha felt strangely repulsed by his lack of control. She was not ready for the kind of relationship he desired and she had told him so earlier that evening. That sort of thing had to wait until after their marriage. Although she had fallen in love with him almost from the first moment they had met a month ago and found it a pleasurable sensation to know that he wanted her to such an extent, she could not tear down principles which had been erected since childhood. Because of this he appeared to become obsessed with possessing her.

  'When will I see you again?' Clive murmured against her throat.

  'Tomorrow evening, if you like,' she whispered, successfully avoiding his lips. 'I must go now.'

  'I'll call for you at seven,' he announced, satisfied, yet still reluctant to release her.

  It was Samantha who finally managed to struggle free of his warm embrace and slip from the car. It was, in a sense, becoming increasingly difficult to part from him and she longed for the day when there would be no need for him to leave her on the doorstep; a time when they could return to their own home where they could be together.

  She was tiptoeing into the flat she shared with her father when she heard him call: 'Samantha, is that you?'