“Let’s talk about what happened in the elevator.”
Rosanna’s heart gave a thud against her shirt. “I’m not angry about that,” she said carefully. “It was my fault, anyway.”
His eyebrows shot up to his hair. “Your fault!”
She nodded glumly. “I was hysterical, you comforted me and the inevitable happened. A good thing the power came back on.”
Ewen’s eyes locked with hers. “What would have happened if it hadn’t?”
CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of their son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romance novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antique shops and walk the dog.
CHATHERINE GEORGE
The Temptation Trap
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
THE dark attic was airless in the heat of the June day. Rosanna swung herself up through the hatch, found the light switch and picked her way gingerly through boxes and bundles, past her brother’s electric guitar and old tennis racquets, the small desk she’d used as a child. Eventually, behind a pile of boxes full of Christmas decorations, Rosanna spotted some battered old luggage and in triumph seized on a suitcase stencilled with the initials R.N. She threw open the lid, then sat back on her heels, suddenly reluctant to disturb the layers of silver paper. Her grandmother had been dead for a long time but it felt like trespass, nevertheless, to rummage through the belongings Rose Norman had once locked away so carefully.
In silent apology Rosanna lifted the top layers of paper, revealing not, as she’d expected, a favourite ball-gown from Rose’s youth, but worn grey dresses folded with voluminous aprons yellow with age, the red cross prominent on the bibs.
Rose Norman had been a VAD, a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment in the First World War. Rosanna had always loved hearing how her grandmother had left home at the tender age of seventeen to tend the wounded, unpaid, armed with only a basic training in first aid, but fired with the desire to help.
Rosanna took the clothes out and began filling polythene bags with the countless letters and photographs stored underneath. When the only thing left was a linen bag containing a rosewood box, Rosanna slid it into one of her carrier bags, replaced the clothes in the case, then climbed down to the landing with her haul and pushed the stairs up into place behind their square wooden cover in the ceiling.
Rosanna took her treasure trove down to the kitchen and laid it out on the big round table, amused by her mother’s cunning. Rosanna had actually been driving her to Heathrow Airport when Henrietta Carey casually mentioned that a man was coming to the house the following evening.
‘I meant to tell you before, darling, but with you so snowed under with work it slipped my mind. This Mr Fraser called round last week, credentials very much in order. I thought you wouldn’t mind dealing with it.’
‘Deal with what? Who is he? What does he want?’
Mrs Carey explained that quite by chance she’d seen an item in the Personal column of The Times, a request for information about Miss Rose Norman.
‘Really?’ Rosanna’s eyes lit up. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I thought you might talk me out of contacting Mr Fraser in case he was up to no good.’
‘As if I could talk you out of anything!’ Rosanna chuckled and, having parked the car, began hauling out suitcases. ‘Who is he, and where does Grandma come in?’
‘He’s involved in research for memoirs of some kind. I liked him.’ Henrietta gathered up her flight bag, smiling at her daughter. ‘I told him to call round after dinner, so make sure you’re in.’
Rosanna drove back into North-West London, quite taken by the idea of research about Rose Norman. Henrietta Carey hadn’t enlarged much on this Mr Fraser, but if he was writing memoirs he was obviously elderly. In which case, after sherry and biscuits, and some reminiscences about her grandmother, he could be eased politely on his way. In the meantime, thought Rosanna happily, with no Monday morning rush to work she had an entire, leisurely day to sort something out for this Mr Fraser.
Rosanna had assumed she knew everything there was to be known about her grandmother, until her mother mentioned the suitcase. Rose Norman had passed it on to her daughter just before she died, and told her to show it to Rosanna when the time was right.
And now, thought Rosanna, pulling the first batch of letters towards her, the time is perfect. She’d packed in her job and, though sharing a flat with her friend Louise was fun most of the time, the prospect of living alone for a while, house-sitting for her mother, was absolute bliss. A spot of research about young VAD Rose Norman was the icing on the cake.
Rosanna forced herself to leave the rosewood box locked for the time being. It so obviously contained something special, she would save it for last. The rest of the papers were mainly letters and cards from members of the family, along with photographs of Rose’s parents and her sister Amelia, stiff, posed portraits very different from the bundles of amateurish family snapshots of a later date.
Rosanna quickly sorted letters and photographs into date order before settling down to read the diaries, which gave a fascinating insight into the life of the time. She read of Gerald Rivers’ proposal, and how dashing he looked in his officer’s uniform. Rose had accepted him, and he’d kissed her reverently and gone off to war, and that was the last she’d seen of him.
‘Gerald is dead,’ said a final, terse entry in 1916. ‘I cannot stay here, grieving and idle. There must be some way to make myself useful.’
At that point Rosanna found she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She yawned wearily, then locked up for the night, deciding to leave the rosewood box for the morning.
Next day Rosanna was so deeply affected after reading the contents of the box, she went for a long run in the park in the early evening, and only just managed to make herself presentable by the appointed hour. In deference to the probable age of her visitor she borrowed a linen skirt and white voile blouse of her mother’s, and used only a minimum of make-up, and was still piling her damp hair into a knot on top of her head when the doorbell rang. She raced downstairs, tucking in escaping damp tendrils, threw open the door, then stared blankly at the man standing in the porch.
This was no elderly gentleman. He was tallish, with high cheekbones in a suntanned face, and a mop of thick black hair in need of a barber. And at a guess he was a mere few years older than she was. And equally surprised—dumbfounded even. He wore a light tweed jacket with jeans, polished loafers and a plain white T-shirt. And something about him was familiar. And very, very attractive. As she met the dazed look in his slanted eyes Rosanna stiffened, astounded by a deep-down flicker of reaction. And as though he sensed it he moved towards her involuntarily, then stopped dead, the hand he’d half raised dropping to his side again.
‘Good evening,’ he said huskily at last. He cleared his throat. ‘My name’s Fraser.’
‘Hello,’ said Rosanna, pulling herself together. ‘My mother said you were coming tonight.’
‘Would you like proof of my identity?’ He produced a yellow card with a photograph and signature that confirmed he was E. A. Fraser, a
member of the National Union of Journalists. ‘If you want confirmation your best bet at this time of night would be the offices of the Sunday Mercury.’
‘Is that where you work?’
‘Not any more. But I’m well-known there. Someone would vouch for me.’
Rosanna shook her head, telling herself she’d imagined that first, startled moment of rapport. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary. I gather you’ve already met my mother. Do come in.’ She smiled, determinedly polite, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Rosanna Carey.’
Her visitor shook her hand formally, then followed her along the hall to a small sitting room, where French windows opened on a long, narrow garden at the back of the house.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Miss Carey.’ His careful formality belied the look in his eyes, which were still riveted to her face. ‘Your mother told me she had some papers I could borrow.’
‘Quite a lot of them. I did some rummaging in the attic for you.’ Rosanna made no mention of her mother’s holiday. Bad idea to say she was living temporarily and alone in the house. ‘My mother couldn’t be here this evening. She asked me to deputise for her.’
‘It’s very kind of you.’ Her visitor looked away at the garden at last, breathing in appreciatively as the scent of roses came wafting in on the warm evening air. Someone was mowing a lawn nearby, and there were faint shouts from children playing in a garden a few houses away. ‘This is very pleasant. I miss a garden.’
‘Do sit down. Can I offer you a drink?’ Rosanna smiled, her eyes dancing suddenly. ‘I had sherry and biscuits lined up. I thought you’d be nearer my grandmother’s age than mine.’
He smiled, his teeth gleaming white in his tanned face. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Relieved, not disappointed,’ she assured him lightly. ‘I’d braced myself for a formal exchange with someone venerable. Though I’d better make it clear at the outset that I’ve got reservations about passing on some of the things I found.’
‘Letters?’ he asked quickly.
She nodded. ‘Very private ones.’
He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then got to his feet. ‘Look, could we go out for a drink? Miss Carey, you don’t know me from Adam. So just to reassure you I’m not about to nick the silver I vote we adjourn to neutral ground while I ask my questions.’
‘Are you writing some kind of article?’ asked Rosanna curiously.
‘No. This is nothing to do with any newspaper.’ He took a book from his briefcase and handed it to her.
Rosanna looked at the cover, eyebrows raised. ‘Savage Dawn, by Ewen Fraser,’ she noted, and turned to the back cover to look at a photograph of the author. Ewen Fraser. Of course. That was why his face was familiar. His book was a runaway bestseller. She’d read quite a lot about him recently. And not just about his books. ‘No wonder I thought I knew you.’
‘You’ve read it?’ he said, pleased.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I haven’t. But you’ve been in the news lately. One way and another,’ she added deliberately. Candid camera shots of Ewen Fraser, usually with some gorgeous female in tow, had appeared regularly in the press since his book made the bestseller list.
His wide, expressive mouth twisted in distaste. ‘Don’t believe everything you read, Miss Carey—other than my book, of course. That was researched with great care,’ he said shortly, obviously nettled by her reference to his private life. ‘Savage Dawn is set in the Zulu wars. It’s selling so well my editor wants a follow-up with a descendant in the same military family in the First World War. Which is why I’m interested in anything you can tell me about your grandmother.’
Rosanna frowned. ‘Why my grandmother?’
‘If you’ll come and have a drink with me I’ll explain.’
She thought for a moment. It was easy to see women, her mother included, took to Ewen Fraser on sight. Rosanna couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d reacted the same way herself. Which was a first. ‘All the necessary papers and records are here, Mr Fraser. We could hardly go through them in a pub. If you’ll settle for a drink here we can go through the papers in peace.’
The leap of pleasure in his eyes ignited a second little flicker of heat inside her, to her consternation. ‘I’d like that very much,’ he said with emphasis. ‘Thank you for sparing me the time.’
Rosanna took a quick look at her father’s drinks supply. ‘You don’t look like a sherry type to me. Whisky? Brandy?’
Ewen Fraser smiled. ‘Any hope of a beer, please?’
Rosanna went off to the kitchen, relieved to find the fridge yielded up a couple of cans of her father’s favourite bitter. She collected a tankard, found some nuts and put them in a dish on a tray, added a tonic water for herself, then went back to her guest.
Ewen Fraser’s manners were too good to plunge into immediate discussion of the reason for his visit. He told Rosanna he lived in Chelsea, and that the idea for his best-selling novel had come from a series of articles he’d done for the Mercury on famous military heroes. While still working as a journalist he’d written two previous novels, but Savage Dawn was his first bestseller, and these days he wrote full-time. Rosanna, in return, told him she was a teacher, and shared a basement flat in Bayswater with a friend.
‘Where do you teach?’ he asked.
‘I started out at a small, private school, replacing someone on maternity leave. After that I was lucky enough to get a junior post at my old school, but it meant an academic year to fill in, so up to Easter I did some supply teaching. Along the way I did a course in computers and word-processing.’ She smiled at him. ‘Technology comes in handy these days.’
‘I’m impressed,’ he said, raising his tankard to her. ‘So what are you doing until the autumn term? Holiday?’
She shook her head. ‘An old college friend started up on his own last year. He works from home and argued it would hone my computer skills if I gave him a hand for a bit, so like a fool I agreed.’
‘You obviously regret it.’
Rosanna’s eyes kindled. ‘Charlie Clayton wants a slave, not a secretary. He’s an insolvency accountant, needs everything documented—not that I mind that part. But his wife goes out to work in the City every day, so Charlie expects me to provide coffee all the time, make him lunch, go shopping sometimes, even iron a shirt in an emergency.’
Her visitor’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘The last straw, obviously. Is that what you’ve been doing today?’
‘No. The Claytons went off on holiday last week. Thank goodness. The workload up to that point was so heavy I decided it just wasn’t on for the money he’s paying me. I told Charlie that, but I don’t think he believed me. When he gets back he can find another dogsbody—or get some voice-activated software and make his own lunch.’
‘Good for you,’ he approved.
‘Help yourself to the other beer, Mr Fraser,’ said Rosanna politely.
‘Thank you. But I’d enjoy it more if you called me Ewen.’
‘Then I will—you don’t sound very Scottish,’ she added.
‘I’m sort of London Scottish,’ he informed her. ‘My father met my mother here when he first came down from Edinburgh to join a Fleet Street daily.’
‘Ah! Printer’s ink runs in your veins, then!’ Rosanna drained her glass then got down to business. ‘Right then, Ewen Fraser,’ she said briskly, looking at him squarely. ‘I’ve told you why I was surprised at the sight of you. But why, exactly, were you so thunderstruck at the sight of me?’
His attractive smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘I thought I was seeing things. I know your grandmother’s photograph very well. You’re so like her you took my breath away.’
Rosanna stared, astonished. ‘How on earth did you come by a photograph of my grandmother?’
His eyes, set slantwise beneath ruler-straight brows, held hers. ‘My great-uncle met Miss Rose Norman in France.’
‘Ah, I see!’ Rosanna leaned forward eagerly. ‘Was he 2nd Lieutenant Henry Manners
of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, by any chance?’
Ewen nodded. ‘That’s the one. Military Cross and Bar, DSO. By some miracle he managed to survive the war. He was a great old boy, a career soldier. Brigadier by the end. I was very fond of him.’
‘Did he ever marry?’
He shook his head. ‘No prizes for guessing why.’
‘Because Miss Rose Norman married someone else,’ she said quietly.
They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Rosanna got up. ‘Let’s make a start. We’ll have to work at the kitchen table.’
Ewen leapt to his feet. ‘Right. I haven’t brought much. There’s a huge amount at home, of course, but where your grandmother’s concerned it’s just a diary, plus some letters and the photograph.’
‘The same for me, too,’ she said. ‘I’m not counting the letters from relatives. The prize was a rosewood box left to my mother.’ She smiled. ‘I’d never seen it until yesterday. I made myself go through the other stuff first before opening it.’
When they were ready to start, Ewen discarded his jacket and drew his chair next to Rosanna’s. She turned the small brass key in the lock of the rosewood box, then handed it to Ewen. He stared down at the photograph of Lieutenant Harry Manners, in uniform but hatless, the grenades of the Royal Welch Fusiliers on his collar. His thick dark hair was combed flat, and his slanted eyes shone with bright certainty in his young, intelligent face.
‘The letters are all from him,’ said Rosanna quietly, suddenly conscious of Ewen’s bare brown arm close to her own, of the fine hair which showed dark against his gold watch on a slim, sinewy wrist. She pulled herself together hurriedly. ‘I’d rather you took them home and read them at your leisure,’ she told him. Harry’s letters were so passionate they were best read in private.
‘Thank you. I’ll leave Rose’s letters for you.’ Ewen pulled a leather box from the briefcase he’d brought, and pushed it towards her. And there, on top, was a photograph of Rose Norman in her bloom, a study her granddaughter had never seen before. Waving dark hair piled high, bare shoulders wreathed in white tulle, Rose Norman smiled with a radiance undimmed by the sepia tint of the photograph.
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