by Anne Mather
'Mother, Kingston told you I was fully recovered.'
'But are you?' Isobel looked anxious. 'Oh, I know your arm has healed, but you're so thin. You don't eat enough and—and—'
'—I drink too much?' he finished for her, momentarily sorry for upsetting her like this. But living in the same house as his father for the last six weeks had been a mistake, and he couldn't wait to be his own master again. Putting a sympathetic arm about her shoulders, he gave his mother a brief hug now, and said gently: 'I'll compromise with you. I'll attend your dinner party—but I'll go home afterwards.'
'This is your home.'
'No, it's your home,' Dominic corrected her firmly. 'So? Is that all? Because I think I ought to go before James releases any more adrenalin into his blood.'
Isobel caught his arm as he would have turned away. 'Actually, no,' she said, looking up at him doubtfully, a slim attractive figure in her well-cut shirt and pleated skirt. 'I mean, that wasn't all I had to say to you, darling.' She hesitated, as if reluctant to go on. 'As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you something.'
'Yes?'
Dominic's eyes narrowed, the long, gold-tipped lashes shielding his expression, and Isobel made a play of straightening his tie. 'Tell me, darling,' she said, 'why did you ask Tim Connor to investigate that girl's background? I was talking to his wife yesterday evening, and she let it slip that—'
'What girl?' Dominic spoke deliberately harshly, and his mother moved her shoulders apologetically.
'You know. There's only one girl who might qualify for that description. Ruth, wasn't that her name? Ruth Jason?'
Dominic removed himself out of reach of her agitated fingers. He should have guessed Tim Connor couldn't keep anything from Marcia, he thought violently. He was completely dominated by his wife, and Dominic knew Marcia had been intrigued when she ran into him coming out of Tim's office three days ago.
'I was curious, that's all,' he answered his mother now, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. 'A girl like that, whose father is dying. I wondered if she had any relatives.'
'But didn't you tell me she hadn't?' asked his mother in surprise. 'I thought—'
'Her father says she hasn't,' remarked Dominic flatly. 'I wanted to be certain, that's all.'
Isobel sighed. 'But why? What difference can it make? There's nothing you can do for her. I'm grateful for the way she and her father cared for you, of course, although I can't help feeling a little resentful that they didn't think fit to give us your whereabouts—'
'Mother, that was my decision.'
'Not initially, it wasn't. Didn't you tell me you were unconscious?'
'They didn't know who I was,' Dominic retorted impatiently. 'Professor Jason thought I was a beachcomber, I think. In any event, they were not to blame for my idiosyncrasies.'
His mother shuddered. 'When I think of how worried I was when Trevor telephoned—' She broke off with evident distress. 'I know we've discussed this before, but how could you take a boat out in such weather? You must have been drunk!'
'Maybe,' responded Dominic laconically, and his mother gazed reproachfully at him.
'You said you hadn't touched a drop,' she protested, and a wry smile twisted her son's lean mouth.
'You said I must have been drinking,' he reminded her mildly, and she made a sound of frustration.
'Nevertheless, it was reckless.'
'Agreed.'
'So why did you do it?'
'I've told you—I was bored.'
'But Barbara was there!'
'So?' Dominic expelled his breath heavily. 'Can I go now?'
'I suppose so.' Isobel spread her hands distractedly. if you must. Where is that wretched girl with the coffee? She's never here when I want her.'
As if on cue, there was a light knock on the door, and Dominic, going to open it, reflected on the premise that Ginny had been standing outside eavesdropping. Certainly her face was flushed as she carried the tray into the room, and he was tempted to confront her with his suspicions and see how she reacted.
But a glance at his wrist watch advised him it was nearing twelve, and bidding his mother farewell for the present, he made his escape, breathing more freely when he was descending the steps to the pavement outside.
It was a beautiful morning, the warm sunshine more than making up for the frost the night before. Already the blossom was out on the trees in the park across the way, and despite the gusty north-east wind, it was comparatively mild on the unshaded side of the street.
It was a good fifteen minutes' walk to his father's office in Holborn, but despite the fact that he usually made the journey on foot, this morning Dominic walked to the end of the terrace and hailed a cab. The sooner he put in an appearance at the offices of the Crown Chemical Corporation the better, although he felt little real compunction at his lateness. He had spent the previous three evenings working until well after eleven, and he deserved a break. James Crown was a demanding employer, and in his eyes his son merited little, if any, leniency. Nevertheless, Dominic would have chosen to avoid the inevitable confrontation with his father, if he could have helped it, knowing as he did what stress their arguments put on the older man. If only his father would accept that Dominic had a mind—and a life—of his own. Instead of which, their present familiarity only added to the contention, putting a strain on both of them.
Even so, as the cab wove through the busy West End traffic, it was not his father who filled Dominic's thoughts. Annoyance at Tim Connor's incompetence was uppermost in his reasoning, and irritation with himself for instigating the enquiry in the first place. He knew he had had no right to ask Connor to look into Ruth's affairs, but it was doubly galling to have to explain his motives.Yet nothing could alter the fact that he did feel a sense of responsibility towards her. He didn't want to feel it. He had tried hard since he came home to dismiss the interlude on the island from his mind. But no matter how he endeavoured to justify himself, he could not forget the look on Ruth's face when she had tried to feign indifference.
The memory of that night on the beach haunted him still, even though it was more than six weeks since he returned to London. Deep inside him. he knew that irrespective of how eager Ruth had been, she could not be held accountable for his behaviour, and ultimately the blame for what had happened was his. She was an innocent—he had known that. He had even teased her about it. He had had no right to violate the trust she had placed in him, and leave her to face the consequences.
Shifting moodily in his seat, he raised one booted foot to rest on the bar of the pull-down seat opposite. As always, his thoughts left a distinctly unpleasant taste in his mouth. He was thirty-two years old. and all his life he had enjoyed the company of the opposite sex. But for the first time in his life he found himself at a disadvantage, and he did not like it.
The cab slowed to a halt in the Charing Cross Road, snarled up in a stream of traffic, and Dominic settled back moodily, realising he might have done better to walk after all. It was too late now, however, and unwilling to join the press of humanity on the pavements, he resigned himself to the delay—and to further introspection.
He decided he was a fool to involve himself further. It wasn't as if Ruth would welcome any help from him. On the contrary, the epilogue to that affair on the beach had been that she had sworn him to silence over what had happened. Her earnest face convulsed with anxiety, she had threatened him with actual physical violence if he dared to reveal one word of what had happened to either her father or Celeste, and while he had not taken her vow of retribution seriously, it had appeared an unnecessary caution. Only in retrospect did he question his own integrity, and the willingness with which he had accepted that easy solution.
Yet what could he have done? he argued now. What possible good could have come from admitting his guilt to the old man? It might have killed him. Certainly it would have abused the faith he had in Ruth, and made a mockery of their relationship. Nothing he, Dominic, could have done for them would have compe
nsated for that loss, so why was he tormenting himself like this? There had been no suspicion. On the contrary, their return to the bungalow had gone unremarked. Professor Jason and the old priest. Father Andreas, were still engrossed in their discussion on comparative religions, an extension of their original theme, and as Celeste and her cousin were nowhere about, the pitfalls of discovery had all been erased.
He sighed now, as the cab began to move again. It wasn't as if he hadn't offered her anything. The following morning, just before the doctor's arrival, he had attempted to speak with her, to make the proposal that should there be anything— should she need anything—she should contact him through the International Bank in Kingstown, but she wouldn't listen to him. She wanted nothing from him, she had told him contemptuously, and Dominic's mouth compressed impatiently in remembrance of his impotence to get through to her. She had been remote, scornful, aloof beyond her years—yet pathetically noble, in her faded shirt and shorts. She had been desirable too, he recalled now, with an unwilling quickening of his senses. He remembered well the wide, innocent guilelessness of her eyes, her nose, small and yet delightful, the soft vulnerability of her mouth. He could still feel that responsive, lissom body beneath him, the surging upthrust of her breasts, and the yielding sweetness of her thighs. Their lovemaking had been everything he had imagined and more, and he wondered, with a sudden pang, whether if things had been different he might have considered bringing her back to England. There had been a certain novelty in being the first man to invade her honeyed sweetness, and they had been good together—But he soon dismissed this flagrant proof of his own foolishness. He must be mad, to be even contemplating such an idea, he thought disgustedly. Whatever else she might be. she was seventeen, and he was fifteen years older; she was shy and inexperienced, he was already cynical; she was naive, ingenuous,, immature, while he was jaded with the fruits of success. They had nothing in common. She would bore him silly, and he would probably frighten her. It would have been a disastrous union, and he was wasting his time even considering the consequences.
Nevertheless, he felt distinctly raw when he got out of the cab, and he was in no mood to respond to the provocative smile bestowed upon him by the receptionist who occupied a desk in the entrance hall of the Crown Building. With the briefest of nods, he crossed the veined marble floor to the lifts, pressing the button with an impatient finger.
His office was on the fourteenth floor, but he had barely stepped out of the lift before Andrea Bell, his secretary, came hurrying towards him along the corridor.
'Oh, there you are, Mr Crown.' she exclaimed, with some relief. 'I was just coming to meet you. Your father's been ringing for you this past hour. He's waiting for you upstairs.'
Dominic adopted a resigned stance. 'Do you know what he wants, Andrea?' he asked wearily, and the redheaded girl made an apologetic face.
'No,' she responded regretfully. 'He wouldn't say. Just to ask you to go up and see him, the minute you came in.'
Dominic nodded. 'Okay, you can tell him I'll be right there. Oh. and get me Tim Connor on the phone, would you? Tell him I'll meet him in the Alexander for a drink at one o'clock.'
'Yes, Mr Crown.'
Andrea made a note on the pad in her hand, and with a wry smile Dominic stepped back into the lift and pressed the button for the penthouse floor, two floors above.
James Crown's suite of offices incorporated the boardroom of the Crown Chemical organisation, in addition to the penthouse apartment which he used for himself, as well as for entertaining, and the huge digital computer that stored every detail of both the corporation and its employees. Dominic sometimes thought his father was a little like the computer. He, too. analysed every action, before putting it into motion.
His father was waiting for him in the large panelled office belonging to the chairman of the board. It was an austere room, with its dark panelling and mahogany furniture, an intimidating room, to those who came here under duress, and yet a beautiful room for all that, in its elegant simplicity. When the Crown Chemical Corporation had moved from its smaller offices in Deansgate to these more spacious premises in Malta Square, James had had his apartments furnished to his own design, and entering the office now in response to his father's summons, Dominic briefly acknowledged that his parent had good taste.
'Good morning,' James acknowledged, in answer to his son's greeting, glancing significantly at his pocket watch. The hands hovered a centimetre from their midday position, and the silent bid for sarcasm was not lost on Dominic.
'I overslept.' he said, before a word of admonishment could be spoken. 'I'm sorry I'm late, but you owe me the time.'
'Do I?' James Crown's lips thinned. 'Because you choose to spend your nights at Daly Tanners, I'm to overlook a matter of some two and a half hours' absence, is that it?'
Dominic sighed, if it's two and a half hours you're worried about, deduct it from the five hours' extra time I worked last evening,' he suggested laconically, tucking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.
His father, who had been conducting the interview from the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, rose to his feet. 'I consider the extra hours you've been working lately some small recompense for the six weeks when you didn't put in an appearance at all.' he remarked tersely. 'And before you tell me that it wasn't your fault. I'll remind you that had it not been for your recklessness, you wouldn't have half killed yourself in the first place.'
Dominic conceded the truth of his father's words, but he was in no mood to say so. 'Maybe if you'd allow me a little more responsibility around here, there wouldn't be this conflict between us,' he averred instead. 'You don't want a son, Jake, you want a robot, a toy. some mechanical device you can move around to your own choosing.' He paused, realising what he had to say next could blow the argument sky-high. 'Perhaps it would be better for both of us if I left Crowns. You don't need me. Any accountant could do my job, and I guess I—'
'You're not just an accountant!' snapped his father now, with angry emphasis. 'And what's the point of leaving Crowns, when it will all be yours when I retire?'
'When you retire,' remarked Dominic dryly. 'You mean when they carry you out of here in a wooden box!'
'Not necessarily.' James subsided into his chair again, and Dominic, receptive to every nuance in his father's voice, knew a sudden chill. Was it his imagination, or did the old man's face have a slightly greyish tinge? He was so used to looking at those features, so like his own in shape and colouring, that he seldom examined them objectively. At sixty-two, James Crown was as active as he had ever been, but now Dominic noticed the slight stoop to the broad shoulders, the whiteness in hair that had previously been only grey. Was he imagining it. or was his father ill? Somehow that possibility had never entered his head.
Moving to the desk, he rested his palms on its polished surface and appraised the older man thoroughly. 'Tell me,' he said, and all trace of indifference had gone from his voice and his manner, 'exactly what was the essence of that remark?'
An hour later Dominic entered the crowded bar of the Alexander Hotel in Tavistock Gate. The hotel was near Tim Connor's office, and was full of eager young executives and their secretaries, all crowded round the bar, eating crisps and drinking beer. It was an 'in' place, and Dominic knew Tim came here most lunchtimes. to enjoy a sandwich and a couple of gin and tonics. It was one of the few occasions when he could pry himself free of Marcia's clinging tentacles, and Dominic could rely on his being alone.
He was seated in the corner as usual, studying the Times crossword, and munching on a wedge of ham and cheese. He looked up half irritably when Dominie came to stand over him. but when he realised who it was, he quickly folded his paper and made room for him on the padded bench. Dominic deposited the two gin and tonics he had collected from the bar on his way over on the table, then shook the frosted droplets of condensation from his fingers. 'How are you. Tim?' he enquired mildly, and the other man relaxed and emptied the dregs in the glass in front of him.
>
'Can't grumble, Dominic,' he asserted comfortably, reaching for the drink Dominic had provided. 'As a matter of fact, I was going to ring you today, but you beat me to it.'
Dominic studied his companion's florid face without enthusiasm. Although he was only about ten years older than Dominic, Connor had the puffy eyes and broken veins of a much older man, and too much good food and too many hard drinks had left their mark upon him. Perhaps he ate to compensate. Dominic reflected now, then raised his own drink in dismissal of that particular train of thought.
'How's Jake?' Connor was asking now, observing the formalities. 'Marcia was talking to your mother at that charity auction yesterday evening. She said Isobel thinks he works too hard.'
'He does.' said Dominic flatly, without elaborating. 'So—you had something to tell me?'
Connor looked slightly disconcerted now, but he managed to maintain a fagade of good humour. 'I thought you wanted to speak to me, Dominic, old boy,' he protested, taking another sip of his drink. 'Age before beauty, as they say.' He chuckled.
Dominic's mouth was a thin line. 'No, you first, Tim.' he insisted without expression, and with a discomfited sigh Connor complied.
'That matter you asked me to look into,' he began slowly. 'About Miss Jason?' Dominic nodded impatiently and he went on: 'You were right. She does have relatives—well, one relative, at least. An aunt, a woman called Davina Pascal. Have you heard of her?'
Dominic frowned. 'Should I have?'
Connor hesitated. 'That depends. She's wealthy enough, goodness knows. Her father was Henry Pascal. He was a famous art collector in his day.'
Dominic shook his head. 'The name doesn't mean anything.'
'No. well, it's some years since old Henry died. His wife preceded him.'
'And this woman—Davina—is his daughter?'
'That's right.' Connor was beginning to enjoy himself. 'It's quite an interesting story really. Henry Pascal was an art collector, as I said, but he didn't really have the money to indulge his hobby. So he found himself a wealthy heiress, the daughter of some mill owner from Yorkshire, and she financed his business.'