by Liz Fielding
He specialised in Contract Law. It was serious stuff. He took his work seriously. This nonsense — Emerald Carlisle — who could possibly take it or her seriously? Unfortunately, he already knew the answer to that.
He closed his eyes. What on earth was the matter with him? He wasn’t in the habit of losing his head over a pretty face. And yet they were sharing a hotel suite in Marseilles when common sense suggested that he should have phoned her father the moment he’d caught up with her in her flat. Before that even, from the café where they had stopped. Or simply turned around and taken her back to Honeybourne the moment he realised she had stowed away in his car.
So why hadn’t he?
Why had he connived at her escape in the first place?
Above the mingled smells of the traffic and the harbour her scent lingered in his memory, the way she had felt in his arms, the taste of her mouth as she had melted against him, and he knew why.
His hand tightened around the glass. She hadn’t meant it, he reminded himself. She had been desperate to distract him, bewitch him — and for a moment she had succeeded. The way she had looked up at him just now with those huge green-gold eyes as she had tried to apologise, it had taken every ounce of willpower to walk away.
Damn it, he should have driven her straight to Fairfax and sorted the whole thing out tonight. He’d brought her here to delay her, not for her own good, but for his. Because he wanted to get to know her. Understand what was driving her. There was something. And he could swear it wasn’t undying love for Kit Fairfax. Or maybe he just wanted to believe that. The glass disintegrated in his hands showering him with pastis.
He was immediately descended upon by Madame Girard who rushed out to cluck and coo over him, checking his hand for cuts while the waiter swept the glass from the pavement. But there was no damage except for a damp patch on his trousers and he refused a replacement for his drink; there were no answers to his problems to be found in the bottom of a glass. He would be much better occupied calling his office to see what messages Mark Reed had left for him, if any.
But Mark Reed had no news for him. Gerald Carlisle, however, had left several messages.
‘He’s desperate to know if you’ve managed to speak to a man called Fairfax,’ Jenny told him. ‘I take it you know what he’s talking about?’
‘Yes, unfortunately, and the answer is no. He’s in the South of France and I hope to talk to him tomorrow. That’s all. Anything else?’
‘Mmmm. He asked if you’d mentioned seeing his daughter. Given her a lift into London last night, perhaps?’ She paused. He didn’t confirm or deny it. ‘It was just one suite of rooms you asked me to book for you?’
‘There is nothing wrong with your hearing, Jenny.’
‘No. I thought not. Only I wondered. What with all that business about your car. You never did explain why you’d had to borrow that little purple VW.’
‘No, Jenny, I didn’t. And if you continue to interrogate me like some overpaid QC, I’ll never tell you what happened.’
‘But—’
‘I promise you, you’ll be sorry.’
‘No, I won’t. I’ll ring Betty and ask her.’
‘Betty?’
‘What a sweet lady. She rang to thank you for the prompt return of her car and for the lovely presents.’ Jenny paused. ‘She also gave me a message to pass on. Hold on, I wrote it down because I didn’t want to get it wrong… She said, “The cards are warning against taking affairs of the heart at face value because nothing is what it seems.” Does that make sense to you?’
‘As much sense as anything else that’s happened this week,’ he replied, caustically. ‘If she calls again ask her if the cards can locate Kit Fairfax.’
‘I won’t wait for her to ring, Tom. I’m going to call her right now.’
‘You do that.’
‘And if Mr Carlisle calls again do you want me to tell him that his daughter is with you? Or would you rather he didn’t know?’
‘I can get another secretary any time, Jenny,’ he warned. ‘I’ll ask the agency to replace you with one of those leggy blondes—’
‘And here was me thinking leggy redheads were the flavour of the month. I’ll give your love to Betty, shall I?’
Returning to their suite, Brodie discovered that Emerald had taken him at his word when he told her not to hurry in the bathroom. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, her curly hair still damp from the shower when he tapped at the bedroom door and was answered with a cheery, ‘Come in.’
He stopped abruptly in the doorway. ‘Sorry, I thought you would be dressed by now.’
‘Did you?’ She paused in the careful application of mascara to look up at him and immediately noticed the damp patch above his knee. ‘Did you enjoy your drink?’
‘Not particularly.’ He headed for the bathroom. ‘If I pass my trousers out to you, will you give them to Madame Girard? She’s waiting outside, determined to give them a sponge and press.’
She put down her mascara wand and followed him to the bathroom door, leaning with her back to the architrave while she waited for him to remove them and pass them out to her.
‘This is all delightfully intimate, Brodie,’ she called back through the door. ‘But do you think it was what Pa had in mind when he instructed you to stop at nothing to prevent my marriage to Kit?’
‘Stop at nothing?’ Brodie didn’t recall Gerald Carlisle couching his instructions in quite those terms, although, come to think of it, doing whatever he had to came pretty close. ‘That seems rather desperate.’
‘Desperate situations need desperate measures. Kit, you know, is not his idea of a suitable son-in-law.’
‘I had already gathered that.’ Brodie, wrapped in a bathrobe began emptying his pockets onto a small table just inside the bathroom door. ‘What exactly is wrong with the man?’
‘Haven’t you read that file he gave you?’
‘Not all of it.’
‘Just enough to know all my horrible names.’
‘I haven’t had a lot of time.’ He certainly hadn’t been able to bring himself to take it out and read it while she sat next to him on the train. In fact he didn’t want to read it at all. He’d much rather hear Emerald’s story from her own lips. Over dinner.
‘Oh, well, let me enlighten you,’ she said, obligingly. ‘Kit is an artist which, on its own, is sufficient reason to rule him out of the son-in-law stakes, you understand. Then there’s the problem of money. He doesn’t have any—’
‘Which is why he’s about to lose his studio.’
‘He’s not going to lose his studio—’
‘Not if he marries you.’
She peered round the door to glare at him before continuing. ‘Finally, and probably worst of all…’ Brodie waited and she gave a wicked little shrug. ‘…well, his hair comes down below his collar. Or would do, if he ever wore one.’
‘Beyond the pale, without a doubt,’ Brodie said, dryly.
‘You don’t think that combination makes him a totally unsuitable husband?’
‘Not necessarily—’
‘Hollingworth would be very disappointed to hear you say that, Brodie and so would Pa. Are you sure you’re the man for the job? It’s not too late. You could still summon Hollingworth from his ritual Highland slaughter…’
‘—just a totally unsuitable husband for you. While you, Miss Carlisle, would appear to be all Fairfax’s dreams come true.’ All most men’s dreams come true, if it came to that even without the multi-million pound inheritance from her grandmother.
‘That’s very cynical of you, Brodie. Don’t you believe in true love?’
‘Not when the advantages are so loaded in one direction.’
‘Only on paper. You haven’t met Kit, yet,’ she said, pushing away from the doorframe and turning to take the trousers from him, ‘so you’re in no position to judge. He’s going to be a great artist one day.’
‘With you as his muse? You don’t strike me as the kind of woman to live a second-hand life
in someone else’s shadow.’
‘I don’t?’ She looked momentarily startled. ‘I’d better hand these over to Madame if we’re going to eat tonight.’
‘A good idea. And just in case it occurred to you to do something drastic to them, Emmy, I should advise you that I do have another pair.’
She laid one hand against her breast, looking thoroughly shocked. ‘Nothing so dreadful had crossed my mind, Brodie.’ Then she rather spoilt the effect by adding, ‘But I’d seriously advise you not to put ideas into my head.’
He grinned. ‘You don’t need anyone to put ideas into your head, Emmy. You’ve quite enough of your own.’
Emmy’s answering smile was seraphic. ‘A compliment, how sweet. But I promise I’ll be good tonight. I’m hungry and I have this strong suspicion that if I chop up your trousers with my nail scissors I won’t be getting room service, but will be sent to bed without any supper.’
‘You could be right. And I would consider it my duty to make sure you stayed there.’ His own smile could scarcely be described as angelic. More like the devil in a good mood. ‘You choose,’ he said.
And suddenly she wasn’t looking at him, challenging him, instead her glance flickered self-consciously towards the big, cushion-heaped bed that dominated the room and he saw a slow flush of colour steal into her cheeks before she once more turned her huge hazel eyes upon him. For the space of a heartbeat it seemed that the world stood still, a heartbeat in which nothing mattered but two people alone in a room somewhere… Then a sharp rap on the sitting room door shattered the spell and Emmy spun around and walked from the room without another word.
And Brodie turned and closed the bathroom door, leaning against it as he let out a long, slow breath. It was a long time since he’d felt an urgent need for a cold shower, but right now seemed like a good time; for a solicitor acting in loco parentis, he was spending altogether too much time in bedrooms with Emerald Carlisle.
Which, if she was as much in love with Fairfax as she proclaimed, shouldn’t have been a problem. So why was it? For both of them.
CHAPTER SIX
EMERALD was shaking as she opened the door and handed Brodie’s trousers to Madame Girard. She returned cautiously to the bedroom but there was no sign of Brodie, just the sound of water running from beyond the bathroom door.
She wasted no time, but slipped out of the bathrobe and stepped into the simplest pale peach silk jersey dress that skimmed over her figure stopping well short of her knees. Far too short; and the neck scooped in a way that suddenly seemed recklessly flirtatious. And dear God, how she wanted to flirt!
Oh, no. Not just flirt. Whenever Brodie was near her all she could think of was reaching out to touch him, to feel his skin beneath her fingers, against her body. And he felt the same way, she knew it, had seen it in his eyes just now. Whatever that flash of recognition between them as she had hung from the drainpipe had been, it was like an irresistible force drawing them together. The more time they spent together, the stronger it became. There was only one place it could end and her eyes were drawn once more to the bed.
Why now? Why now when it was all just so impossible!
She was shaking with the sheer force of her feelings, her hands were trembling; she couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow morning to make a dash for it. The way things were going, tomorrow might well be too late. It would have to be now. She cast around her for the car keys before recalling that Brodie had emptied his pockets in the bathroom.
The shower was still running, inside the frosted glass cubicle he wouldn’t see her, but her heart was beating in her mouth as she slowly eased the door open a crack. His wallet, some loose change and the keys were lying on the small table just inside the door. She carefully lifted the keys and began to back out, then she stopped and checked his wallet as well, helping herself to a handful of notes. After all she reasoned, he wouldn’t be short of money. He had hers if he ran short.
Then she grabbed her low-heeled sandals and tiny shoulder bag into which her precious two hundred euros had already been transferred. Yet still she hesitated, glancing at the bathroom door, hating to leave like this, knowing what he would think of her.
Then the water stopped and she caught her breath. Why on earth was she dithering? She had seconds not hours and Brodie would come after her, she had proof enough that he wouldn’t hang about wringing his hands. He was a man of action. She hung onto that thought as she beat a hasty retreat down the stairs, ignoring a startled cry from Monsieur Girard as she passed him in the lobby.
Her fingers were shaking so much as she tried to fit the key to the door lock of the car that she was afraid she would set off the alarm, but finally it slid home without incident and she flung herself into the driving seat, dropping her shoes and bag on the seat beside her.
‘Deep breaths, Emmy,’ she said. ‘Deep breaths. He doesn’t even know you’ve gone yet. And this time he won’t know where you’re going.’ She glanced over the controls. They were all on the wrong side. Still, she’d been driving about her father’s estate since she could reach the pedals with the help of a cushion. She would manage. She started the engine. It purred as gently as a contented kitten and she carefully selected reverse. This was not the moment to demolish the front of the hotel.
She glanced behind her. Left or right? It was so confusing. Right. It was right… She checked behind her, the road was miraculously clear and she eased her foot down on the accelerator and began to move backwards.
‘Emerald!’ Brodie’s voice thundered from the first floor window in a manner that echoed a number of unpleasant incidences earlier in her life. The time she ran away from school. The occasion on which she borrowed her father’s Bentley to run down to the village shop for some hairspray. She’d been fifteen at the time. Or was it fourteen? The last time had been when she’d run away with Oliver Hayward…
She didn’t hang around to discover if Brodie in a temper resembled her father in any other way. She jammed her foot down hard on the accelerator and swung out of the parking space. Behind her there was a screech of brakes, then a crunch of rending metal that sent her flying forward. In her hurry she’d forgotten her seatbelt, but the airbag erupted with admirable efficiency saving her from the worst effects of her own stupidity.
It did not however, save her from a torrent of Gallic abuse that she was, fortunately, largely unable to understand.
Besides, an angry Frenchman was nothing compared to what she could expect from Brodie. She looked up as, white with rage and shaking with fury he wrenched the car door open.
‘Are you hurt?’ His voice was shaking too, she noticed. He had a smear of shaving cream beneath his right ear and he was standing in the street barefoot, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. And they were being rapidly surrounded by a crowd of onlookers each of whom had an opinion about what had happened, and determined that someone should listen.
It was very loud and very frightening and all she wanted was for Brodie to hold her and tell her that it would be all right. But he wasn’t about to do that. He was going to shout at her for being a stupid, irresponsible girl and that was worse, because he was right. So she put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes.
But he took her hand away from her ear. ‘Emmy?’ Brodie’s voice almost cracked and she turned as she realised that he wasn’t angry, that he couldn’t care less about the car, or the crowd or the fact that she had behaved like an absolute idiot and had no doubt brought down a whole barrel-load of trouble on their heads.
He was only concerned about her.
At that moment she could have thrown her arms about him, kissed him, forgotten all about Kit. Forgotten everything but Tom… She closed her eyes. ‘No. I’m not hurt,’ she said, as a tiny shiver seemed to sweep her from head to toe.
He noticed. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ she snapped, irritably. Much as she longed for him to hold her, kissing him was not an option.
But he must have put her irritation down to shock
because rather than responding in kind, he eased his arm gently beneath hers to help her out of the car as if she were made of something very precious, very fragile. And she discovered that she needed the help as her legs buckled and she sagged against him. He put his other arm about her and held her against him.
‘Emmy?’ he repeated, more urgently.
Oh, God. He was so gentle, so concerned that she wanted to weep at the unfairness of it all, but as the tears squeezed from beneath her eyelids she laid her head against his chest so that he shouldn’t see.
‘I’m sorry, Brodie,’ she muttered into the fluffy white towelling. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He said something soothing and she was almost sure he kissed the top of her head. That just made things ten times worse. Especially as the driver of the other car had come closer in order to abuse her more directly and was perfectly happy to include Brodie in his insults.
But as she flinched, Brodie began talking quietly to the man and although she didn’t understand everything he said, she understood enough to know that he was taking the blame, telling him that she had not been looking because she had been upset, because they had quarrelled.
The onlookers began murmuring amongst themselves, uttering wonderfully Gallic exclamations of understanding, warmly reminiscent of French wine commercials, and she caught phrases such as “affaire de coeur” spoken in a knowing manner. And then she was aware of a sudden and expectant hush.
‘Emmy?’ She glanced up. ‘I’m afraid everyone is waiting for us to kiss and make up,’ he murmured.
‘Oh?’
He pushed the tumbled curls back from her cheek, gently brushing the tears from her lashes with the pad of his thumb. ‘This is France you see,’ he said, as if that explained everything.
‘I see. And if I kiss you it will help…?’
In answer, he cradled her cheek in his hand. ‘Je suis désolé, chérie…’ he murmured softly, for the benefit of the onlookers. They clucked encouragingly but she didn’t rush the moment.
‘Don’t be désolé, Brodie,’ she said. ‘I’m the one who should be apologising. I did promise to be good…’