by Liz Fielding
The corners of his mouth creased in amusement. ‘I play a mean horn though.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, with a sigh. ‘You certainly play a mean horn. That should have been enough to warn...’ She stopped before she betrayed herself too completely.
They stopped at the club and Jack picked up her keys before driving her home.
‘No, Jack. Don’t come up,’ she said, as he made a move to accompany her upstairs.
‘You’re not going to offer me coffee?’
‘No.’ She held out her hand. ‘And I’ll take the keys, Jack.’
‘Keys?’
‘You know what I mean. The house keys. Or did you think I’d let you go back?’
He grinned. ‘You’re learning fast, sweetheart. But what about my clothes?’
She tried to ignore the fact that he was standing very close, that even out here on the cold pavement she responded to the nearness of his body in a way that disturbed and bothered her.
‘You won’t want to run into the police, Jack. I’ll go back later to clear up and I’ll pack your things,’ she said, crisply.
He took her chin in his hand and tilted it up until she was forced to face his scrutiny. ‘You’d do that for me, Rosie?’
The touch of his fingers against her skin sent a tremor through her body. While he had had her at his mercy he had made no move to touch her, except to hold her hand in a simple gesture of comfort. Now, when she was home free, he chose to remind her of that spark that had flashed between them. Yes, she thought. Oh, yes. She would do that for him. But he mustn’t know.
‘No, Jack,’ she said, firmly. ‘I’m doing it for me. The fewer people who know about this the better. Do you have a suitcase?’ she added, with a briskness she was far from feeling.
For a moment his eyes held her. Then he stepped back. ‘Two. You’ll find them in the wardrobe. They are labelled.’
She nodded. ‘You can pick them up here at eight o’clock tonight. And I’ll warn the neighbours against letting you back in, so don’t try any stories about losing your keys.’
‘You’re a hard woman. I really liked that house.’
‘No doubt. I like my job, too. But I may not have one after this morning’s little escapade.’
He smile was wry. ‘I may yet have to throw myself on your mercy. After all, I took you in when you had nowhere to stay.’
‘You said it, Jack,’ Rose snapped back. ‘I’m a hard woman and I really like my job, too. But I may not have one after this morning’s little escapade.’
Jack gave her a long look. ‘If I didn’t know better, darling Rosie, I might think that you’re more concerned about your job than whether your marriage is still on.’
‘That’s not true,’ she retorted fiercely, refusing even to consider the possibility that he might be right.
‘No? Well, I shouldn’t worry too much. You’ll have to do a bit of fast talking, but I don’t think Anthony will be telling too many people that he found his betrothed in bed with another man, do you?’
She gasped. ‘I wasn’t in bed with you!’
‘A fine distinction. You were in my bed.’ He held out a bunch of keys on the tip of his finger. ‘Maybe you can persuade Anthony that there is a difference. If you need any help with that, be sure to let me know.’
‘Don’t you think you’ve already done enough?’ She snatched the keys. ‘Goodbye, Jack,’ she said, turning away and heading for the entrance to the flats.
‘Until this evening,’ he reminded her. She didn’t look back but ran up the stairs to her apartment. It would be a very brief meeting this evening, she promised herself. She had done her last good deed as far as Jack Drayton was concerned. His type was nothing but trouble. She had known it from the beginning but had ignored all the danger signals.
Now she had to try to salvage something from the wreckage. Despite Jack’s confidence, she had very little doubt that Anthony would want to forget the wedding plans, at least for the moment and she could hardly blame him. She had behaved very stupidly. But she didn’t have time to worry about that. Right now, she had to set about convincing Anthony that she would never do anything like it again. Because Jack was right about one thing. Her job was very important to her.
* * *
Anthony listened grim-faced to her halting story. She left nothing out and made no excuses. She told him about her lunch with Jack. How she had arranged an audition at the jazz club. About losing her keys. Finally she placed the keys to the Wickham property on his desk. ‘I will clean up any mess in the house this evening after the office closes.’
‘I knew the man was trouble. I warned you, Rosalind.’
‘You were right, Anthony,’ she said, her throat tight with misery at having to admit how wrong she had been. ‘I should have listened to you.’
‘You can’t help some people.’
‘No.’
‘I do admire you for trying.’ This was so unexpected that she frowned. ‘And I choose to believe that you didn’t...do anything to prevent our wedding going ahead as planned.’ Choose? The word suggested room for doubt, she thought. ‘But I want your promise that you will never see the man again.’
She hesitated. She considered explaining that she had to see Jack once more to hand over his bags. But it would only take a moment. It wasn’t the sort of meeting that Anthony meant. Yet to make such a promise seemed almost a tacit admission of some kind of guilt.
‘I don’t think I can make a promise like that, Anthony. You either trust me or you don’t.’
He stared at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. The silence lengthened between them. ‘What have you done about the police?’ she said, finally.
He looked relieved that she had asked something he could deal with. ‘I’ve withdrawn my complaint. Told them it was a misunderstanding. There’s no need to take it any further under the circumstances.’ Rose found herself breathing a soft sigh of relief. Then chided herself. She was doing it again. Worrying about Jack Drayton. Trying to protect him. ‘But I think it might be a good idea to check on any other properties that are empty,’ Anthony went on. ‘In case he tries the same thing again. I’ll have to do it myself, it’s not the sort of thing we want every junior negotiator finding out about. But it’ll have to be this evening as we’re so short-handed. If this epidemic keeps up we’ll be the only two still working,’ he added, with an attempt at humour.
‘Yes, Anthony.’ Her head was beginning to ache quite dreadfully. ‘If there’s nothing else I’d better get to my desk.’
‘Yes, of course. The staff are under serious pressure. I don’t know how we would have managed without Julie today. She’s a very capable woman.’ His tone suggested that she could learn something from her example.
Grateful that he had at last recognised Julie’s qualities, Rose ignored the implied criticism, happy to agree. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘I’m just off to the East Street branch. They’re apparently down to one man and he sounded dreadful on the phone.’
‘Anthony—’ She wanted to explain. He was a proud man and it must have been hard to forgive her the embarrassment she had caused.
‘Yes?’ He looked up from the paper he was already consulting, a touch of impatience in his voice.
‘Nothing.’
She staggered down the stairs and almost fell into her chair. Julie handed her a cup of coffee. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘What?’
‘Mr Harlowe came back from Wickham with a face like thunder. And after being closeted with him for half an hour, you look like death. Have vandals got in and messed the place up?’
‘Vandals?’ she said. ‘Oh, no. Nothing like that. A… a squatter, that’s all. It’s been dealt with. There’s no damage.’ At least not to property. Her self-esteem had taken something of a battering. ‘Don’t mention it to anyone else. It wouldn’t do our image much good if it got out. Have you got such a thing as an aspirin?’
Julie found a box in her desk and gave her a
glass of water. ‘Are you finally succumbing to the bug that’s going round?’
Rose made an effort at a smile. Her face was aching with the effort, but it seemed to convince Julie. ‘Not me. Constitution of a horse.’ She shook herself. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘Mark and Susie have called in with the flu. That’s why I had to telephone Mr Harlowe at home and ask him to do the viewing in Wickham,’ she added apologetically. ‘Everyone else is out.’
‘And I chose today to be late. Sorry, Julie.’
‘We coped. But tomorrow is the property section in the paper.’
‘I’ll see if I can get a temp to help with the phones.’
‘I’ve tried the agencies already. Nothing doing. Everyone’s in the same boat. Shall I ask my sister if she’ll do Saturday?’
‘Please. She could come in after school tomorrow if she would like to. She could help...’ She put her hand to her throat which seemed to be constricted. Julie looked at her oddly.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Fine.’ It was just the dull ache of tears unshed. But there was no time to indulge in self-pity and guilt kept her pinned to her desk without a break for the remainder of the day. At least the constant battle to keep ahead of the phones pushed Jack Drayton to the back of her mind. But by the end of the day as she set off for Wickham, her eyes were gritty and her head was splitting.
She let herself into the house and set about the task of erasing all signs of Jack’s presence. She stripped the bed she had slept in and a single bed in the room next door and put the linen in the washing machine. While the wash cycle was running she looked for Jack’s suitcases and found them in the wardrobe, labelled, as he had promised: Jack Drayton, Inn on the Park, London. For a moment she was confused. Then she began to fling his clothes into them. Just another of his little tricks, she thought crossly. Probably to convince the next door neighbours of his probity. Not that there was anything cheap about the luggage. Or his clothes.
They were mostly casual things, but his sweaters were cashmere and there was a beautifully tailored dinner jacket. She pulled a face. Probably de rigueur for a con man. She folded it carefully on the top, then checked the rest of the house for anything she had overlooked. She spotted the silk dressing gown across the chair in the spare bedroom and picked it up. She shook it out and folded it and as she bent over the suitcase with it caught an indefinable scent that reminded her so painfully of him that she slammed the lid shut and fastened it before she was tempted to bury her face in it and cry her eyes out.
What possible reason did she have to cry over a man who seemed hell bent on destroying her life?
Her limbs felt leaden as she cleared away the remains of their meagre breakfast. She washed up and put everything away and emptied the refrigerator. She wiped it out and leaned against it briefly to cool her hot cheek. Her head was throbbing and her throat seemed to have closed. She looked in her bag for the aspirins Julie had given her and took two more before calling next door to explain Jack’s abrupt departure. She decided to tell them that he had been called away on business, with perhaps just a suggestion that they contact the office should anyone else turn up.
She rang the bell, shivering on the doorstep. But in the event her story was unnecessary. The neighbours were out and on reflection she thought it was just as well. The police may have spoken to them already and given them an entirely different version of events. She left a note for the milkman with five pounds and hoped that would cover the bill, loaded her car and thankfully headed home.
The flat was empty. Sarah had been back and left a note tucked in the hall mirror. “Matt’s got the bug. I’ll be over at his place looking after him if you need me. Love, Sarah.” Rose, shivering, turned on the fire and went to make some tea. She was pouring the boiling water on the tea when the door bell rang and she jumped, splashing her hand.
She stifled a moan and went to answer the door. Jack frowned as he saw her nursing her hand.
‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘Nothing. I just...’ She glanced at her hand. ‘It’s nothing.’
He took her hand and looked at it and apparently unconvinced by her diagnosis led her into the kitchen and stuck it under cold running water. The water was freezing. Far worse than the burn, but he wouldn’t let her remove her hand and she felt too weak to resist.
‘Your bags...’ she began. Her mouth kept moving but the words refused to come out.
Jack removed her hand from the water and looked at it. ‘How does that feel?’
She tried clearing her throat. ‘I...’ It happened again and he looked up and frowned.
‘Are you all right, Rosie?’ he asked. ‘You’re rather pink.’
‘I’m fine,’ she croaked. ‘Just take...’ This was ridiculous. She had refused to promise Anthony that she would never see him again, but she had promised herself. Her voice, however, ignored the signals from her brain. She gestured hopelessly with her free hand for him to leave but he clamped his over her forehead.
‘My dear girl, you’re on fire,’ he said. ‘There’s only one place for you and that’s your bed.’
‘No...’ She mouthed the word. No sound came, but she had to convince him. She was never ill. She’d told Julie, she had the constitution of a horse. She tried to tell him, but her voice had given up the struggle.
‘I’m not having any argument, Miss Rosalind Parry,’ he warned. ‘To bed with you.’ She shook her head furiously and then wished she hadn’t as the room spun and the pain behind her eyes intensified. She grabbed for his shoulders to prevent herself from falling, but her legs were like butter and as she slithered down him, he scooped her up and carried her swiftly through to her room and laid her upon the bed. She knew she should get up. This was all wrong. But her limbs would not obey her.
Jack eased off her shoes and jacket, then turned his attention to the zip of her skirt. She began to protest but it hurt to move her head. It hurt to move everything.
‘Keep still, Rosie,’ he muttered. ‘I’m putting you to bed, not taking you to bed. There’s a world of difference.’ He briskly dealt with her skirt and slip then looked for a nightgown. She lay on the bed in skimpy silk underwear quite beyond caring as he propped her up, slipped a girlish white gown over her head and then removed her bra before poking her arms through the appropriate holes. That done, he laid her back down and after that the world went black.
CHAPTER SIX
ROSALIND opened her eyes a crack, winced at the light seeping in around the door from the hall and closed them again. She ached everywhere and her skin was burning. There was a movement by her bed.
‘Sarah?’ she murmured and moaned softly at the pain in her throat.
‘Ssh. Don’t try to talk.’ A cool cloth bathed her face and neck. ‘Drink some of this, Rosie.’ A strong arm propped her up and she drank thirstily from the glass held to her lips before she caught the bitter taste of aspirin and tried to push it away. ‘Finish it up,’ the voice insisted and she did as she was told, shuddering as it went down. ‘Good girl.’ She lay back against the pillow, weak with the effort and the duvet was drawn up over her and tucked around her shoulders. ‘Try to get some more sleep.’
She didn’t need encouraging to close her eyes. She drifted off, woke shivering and clutched at a hot water bottle that was tucked in beside her. She dreamed once that Jack was bending over her anxiously, applying a cold cloth to her face and neck and in her dream she tried to thank him but the words wouldn’t come. He smiled as if he understood and oddly that helped.
Time passed, disturbed, painful. Bouts of shivering alternated with periods of over-heating so intense that she threw off her covers. Cool soothing drinks helped her throat. She clung to hot water bottles that magically never seemed to cool.
She finally woke soaked with sweat, her hair clinging in lank strands about her face. The night had been long and dreadful, but now it was day and she had to get to work. Rosalind marshalled her strength. For a moment she sat
on the edge of the bed, waiting until the room stopped spinning. Then she stood up.
‘Rosie! I take my eyes off you for two minutes and you’re in trouble.’ Jack helped her up off the floor and onto the bed, wrapping her up in the quilt as she began to shiver uncontrollably.
‘Jack?’ She’d been dreaming about him and now he was in her bedroom. She didn’t understand. ‘What are you doing here?’ she managed to croak.
‘Looking after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after.’ She tried to sit up and he helped her, propping her up against his chest. ‘I don’t need looking after,’ she insisted, so weakly that even she didn’t believe it.
‘Don’t waste your breath, Rosie. Drink this.’ She sipped the orange juice he held for her.
‘Where’s Sarah? You can’t...’ This last effort was too much for her throat and it refused to co-operate further.
‘I found a note stuck in the mirror. She’s apparently looking after Matt and if he’s only half as bad as you, he needs her. Come on. I’ll help you to the bathroom. That is where you were trying to get to I imagine?’ He didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘Then it’s back to bed with you and no argument.’
‘I have to get to work,’ she managed.
‘Shall we see if you can make it to the bathroom first?’ he suggested.
She made it to her feet and for a moment thought everything would be fine, but as soon as he removed the steadying arm her legs began to buckle and in the end she had to give in to the humiliation of being helped. But once in the bathroom she hung onto the towel rail and stubbornly refused any further assistance. ‘I can manage,’ she said.
Jack gave her a searching look. ‘Don’t lock the door.’
If her face hadn’t been hurting so much she would have laughed. It took every ounce of strength to get to the toilet. She didn’t have any left over to waste on locking doors.
Afterwards she tried to wash, but she couldn’t even turn on the tap. She was shivering, damp with sweat from the effort of getting so far and she clung shakily to the basin for support staring angrily at her reflection in the mirror. A gaunt white face she hardly recognised stared back, eyes huge in dark circles. She hated to be so helpless. She was never ill. How dare her body let her down like this? It was only willpower that was keeping her on her feet. Before she could stop them, huge hot tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed against the porcelain.