‘I’ve got the car parked on a meter round the corner. I’ll drive you home.’
‘No, thanks. To the nearest underground will do.’
He shrugged, keeping her arm in a vice-like grip until they reached his Jaguar. Inside, he turned to her urgently, his features sharpened by the street light shining into the car. ‘Is this really what you want?’ he demanded.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know bloody well what I mean!’ He thrust his face forward so she could see his bruised eye. ‘I mean your incestuous relationship with the lout who gave me this.’
‘You know perfectly well that Luke and I are not related, Francis,’ she said irritably.
‘Oh, yes, I know.’ He sat back in his seat, the satisfaction plain to see on his bruised face. ‘But others don’t Soon it will be common knowledge that Lucius bloody Armytage is having fun and games with his sister. I’ve got a contact who works on the evening paper all our friends read—the one who did such a flattering little feature on the young wine entrepreneur and his new book. After all, darling, the resemblance between the two of you may be coincidental, but it’s very convincing. Once a photograph of you appears alongside Luke’s all the world and his wife will believe it whether it’s true or not. Incest has such a sexy ring to it But it won’t do much for Armytage’s business.’
Saskia stared at him, feeling sick, as her mind grappled with the connotations. Joel Gilbert, of course, was the journalist friend. And she’d been introduced to him as Luke’s little sister at the Harleys’ party. Luke could sue, of course, if the titbit was published. But some mud always sticks. And with a shudder she pictured the effect on her mother and Sam.
‘I must have been mad,’ she said slowly at last as she stared at Francis.
‘To move in with Armytage?’ he demanded eagerly.
‘No. To have ever imagined I could share my life with you.’
‘But I love you, Saskia,’ he said in desperation. ‘I’ll even marry you—’
‘Not on your life,’ she said swiftly, then breathed in deeply as inspiration struck. ‘In any case, you can’t Because I’m going to marry Luke. I’m sure you’ll appreciate being the first to know—Luke and I are engaged.’
Francis, who was no fool, stared at her in furious comprehension.
She nodded kindly. ‘That’s right, Francis. It rather shoots your story down, doesn’t it? So you’d better get onto your tame hack and say your scoop’s no-go. Not, for a moment, that I think he would have had it published. The lawyers at the paper in question are surely too clever for that?’
‘They might have done,’ he said bitterly, ‘if the wording had been euphemistic enough. Or if he’d sold it to a less fussy tabloid. All right, you little witch. You win.’
‘Thank you, Francis. I was sure you’d see sense. Goodbye,’ she added absently, her eyes on an approaching taxi, and before he could say a word she’d dived out of the car to flag it down.
Luke had left a message on his answer machine to say he wouldn’t be home until late, due to an unexpected dinner with a valued client. He told her to eat a proper meal and go to bed early if she was tired. ‘I’ll come and tuck you in,’ he added in a different tone, just as the message ended.
Saskia was both disappointed and relieved. She needed time before talking to Luke. The encounter with Francis had left her feeling grubby, and in desperate need of the kind of bath she’d been used to when living on her own.
Afterwards, after a lonely, perfunctory supper off a tray, she found she couldn’t quite bring herself to get into Luke’s bed on her own. A bit late in the day to be shy, she told herself irritably, but in the end she climbed into the brass bed in the guest room and turned her radio on low. Worn out by the various events of the day, she fell asleep almost at once, deaf to the disc jockey’s muted pleasantries, and never saw the tall figure who came in silently and turned the radio off, then switched off her light.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t wait up for you,’ she said in remorse as, fully dressed and ready for the day next morning, she came out onto the landing to see Luke leaning in his doorway in his dressing gown, looking as haggard as she felt. ‘It was a hectic day.’
‘My problem was a hectic night,’ he said bitterly, with a hand to his head.
‘Too much of the Sangiovese grape?’ she asked in sympathy, reaching up to kiss him.
‘And every other kind,’ he sighed, holding her close. ‘It’s hard to refuse when the other man’s paying and also happens to be one of my best customers.’ Luke tried to smile, but gave up. ‘Can’t do that. It hurts.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’re earlier this morning.’
‘I had more sleep last night.’ She bit her lip at the gleam in his bloodshot eyes and started downstairs. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’
Since Luke was obviously in no state to hear about her run-in with Francis, Saskia decided to leave it until the evening to give details. It was only when she was emerging from the underground to make for the bank that she remembered they were dining out with Dante, and sighed morosely. Dante was a very charming young man, but tonight, after the inevitable hassle of her day, she would have much preferred a quiet evening with Luke and an early night. Also with Luke.
Despite all her efforts, it was late when she got home that evening, to find that both Dante and another unexpected visitor were already in the study with Luke.
‘Hello, darling,’ said Luke, coming to greet her, a very odd glitter in his eyes as he took her in his arms and kissed her very deliberately on the mouth.
‘Hi,’ said Saskia, taken aback, then went forward to take Dante’s hand.
‘Buona sera, Saskia,’ he said, kissing her hand with grace. He straightened, smiling. ‘As you see, I am early, and there is another visitor here also.’
Saskia smiled brightly at the small, exquisitely dressed girl. ‘Why, Zoë. How nice to see you,’ she lied.
‘Hello, Saskia.’ Zoë gave her a cool little smile. ‘I was in the neighbourhood, so I thought I’d drop by and offer my congratulations.’
Luke put an arm round Saskia’s waist, squeezing it significantly as his eyes speared hers. ‘Zoë read something in the paper tonight—about our rumoured engagement.’
‘It is a great sorrow for me to hear it,’ said Dante, smiling at a dumbstruck Saskia. ‘You told me you were Luke’s sorellastra, but I did not realise you were not related at all.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Zoë sweetly.
‘But you spent Christmas Day with the family in Oxford last year,’ said Saskia. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘You were always so offhand with me she took it for granted you really were a sister of some kind,’ said Luke, with an edge to his voice. He tightened his arm, smiling down at her. ‘Now, of course, everything’s different.’
‘Obviously,’ said Zoë, and cast an eye at Dante. ‘So, how do you fit into the picture, Mr Fortinari?’
‘Call me Dante, please.’ He smiled at her. ‘My family knows Luke well. He does business with us. I met Saskia when she and Luke were staying at the Villa Rosa near my home recently.’
Zoë’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ah. The Tuscany Fortinaris. I thought the name was familiar. Luke must have mentioned it. He likes talking about his work.’
Saskia, who was eight inches taller and several pounds heavier than the unfailingly elegant Zoë, felt very untidy and unappealing after her exhausting day, and fervently hoped the girl would leave soon so she could have a bath.
But instead of getting up to go, Zoë handed her a copy of the evening paper, folded at the relevant section. ‘Have you seen this yet?’
Saskia shook her head. Her eyes widened as she saw a blurred picture of Luke kissing her in the pub, and read that Luke Armytage—the young wine entrepreneur who had featured recently in the features section—was rumoured to be engaged to the beautiful Saskia Ford, daughter of the lady his father, Professor Samuel Armytage, had married ten years previously.
‘Dear me,’ she said at
last. ‘I wonder how that got in there?’
‘I was wondering that, too,’ said Luke casually. ‘But, since the secret’s out, let’s celebrate. Perhaps you’d like to join us for dinner, Zoë?’
Both Dante and Zoë were so delighted by the invitation Saskia had no option. She smiled brightly and excused herself to get ready.
Later, hair gleaming, face painted with rather more emphasis than usual, Saskia rejoined the others, wearing a scarlet jacket over a brief black shift dress, the gold hoops in her ears swinging against her rapidly lengthening hair—every detail calculated to contrast with Zoë’s pastel-pink suit.
‘Bellissima!’ applauded Dante.
‘Amazing,’ agreed Luke, something in his voice raising the hairs on Saskia’s neck.
The evening, on the surface, was a success. They dined in a north London restaurant famed for the numbers of writers, film makers and television producers among its clientele. The food was both good and unpretentious, the wine came up to both men’s high standards, and Zoë, who knew several of the recognisable diners well enough to wave at, scintillated accordingly. Dante was charmed with everything, Saskia with nothing. She was so conscious of the smouldering beneath Luke’s bonhomie that the food on her plate could have been sawdust for all the pleasure she took in it.
Matters grew worse when both Dante and Zoë insisted on discussing the engagement, teasing them about wedding bells.
‘We haven’t done much thinking on the subject yet,’ said Luke lazily, smiling at Saskia.
‘No,’ she agreed. They hadn’t done much thinking about anything other than the pressing need to share a bed—something she rather fancied Luke was regretting as of now. Rumours of an engagement, exaggerated or not, were quite obviously not to his taste.
The evening ended at last when Dante took Zoë home in one taxi while Saskia and Luke took another back to the house. The journey was accomplished in total silence which had stretched Saskia’s nerves to breaking point by the time Luke unlocked his handsome front door. She went ahead of him into the hall and stood irresolute, wondering what to do next.
‘Perhaps,’ said Luke, very quietly, ‘we could have a little chat before you go up to bed.’
You go up to bed, not we, thought Saskia miserably. Not that she felt in the least like escaping to any bed except her own at this precise juncture. And even that bed belonged to Luke.
‘Of course.’ She took off her jacket and hung it on the newel post, then went through the study door he was holding open for her. She sat down in a corner of the sofa, crossing her long legs in the sheer black stockings that were her weakness.
Luke half sat on the desk, one foot swinging back and forth like a pendulum. ‘I think before we start I’d like to make one or two things clear.’
She said nothing and sat composedly, waiting for him to rid himself of the burden he’d been carrying all evening.
‘I’m a pretty old-fashioned, conventional sort of guy at heart,’ he began conversationally. ‘I always assumed that when the time came I would be the one to do the proposing. Who did you talk to, Saskia, to get that piece in the paper? Was it Joel? He was sniffing round you enough at the Harleys’ party.’
‘You think I was responsible?’ Saskia demanded, eyes glittering icily. ‘Why on earth would I do such a stupid thing?’
‘To force my hand, maybe.’ Luke stared down at his swinging foot.
‘Force your hand?’ she repeated blankly, then her eyes flashed sudden green fire. ‘You mean stampede you to the altar?’ Saskia jumped to her feet. ‘Thanks a lot!’ She turned to make for the door, but Luke shot upright and caught her wrist, jerking her round to face him.
‘Who else could have done it?’
‘Why not try whoever it was who took the photograph?’ she said through her teeth. ‘Let me go. You’re hurting me.’
Luke dropped her hand, but stood with his back to the door, barring her way. ‘You must have some idea of how it happened. I don’t. So who else knows—or is even interested in—the fact that you and I share a house now?’
She looked at him for a long, tense interval, then shrugged and turned away. ‘All right, you may as well know the truth.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘ARE you saying you were responsible?’ Luke demanded, his face draining of colour, demonstrating all too clearly he’d hoped Saskia wasn’t the culprit. ‘Couldn’t you have let nature take its course, Saskia? I strongly object to having my hand forced. Even by you.’ He closed his eyes for a moment ‘Especially by you,’ he added, as though the words choked him.
Saskia’s chin lifted proudly. ‘I wasn’t forcing your hand. It was more a damage limitation exercise. Francis met me outside the bank last night, and told me he’d sent a juicy little piece, via his journalist friend, to the paper who did the feature on you—thought it would be a nice little follow-up for readers to learn that the young wine entrepreneur was involved in a questionable relationship with his sister. Francis said everyone would remark on this inconvenient resemblance of ours in the photograph that went with it. I didn’t realise the shot was such a recent one.’
‘Plenty of photographers and journalists frequent the Royal Oak.’ Luke’s shoulders came away from the door. ‘But they couldn’t have published it, Saskia. It’s libel.’
‘I told Francis that,’ she agreed. ‘But he assured me that if it was euphemistic enough something could be made out of it. And, human nature being what it is, some mud invariably sticks whether it’s the truth or not. So I was struck by this utterly brilliant idea, and sabotaged his little scheme by saying we were engaged.’ She gave him a disdainful smile. ‘I never thought for a moment that the news would be of interest to anyone but Francis. The other slant would have been, of course. But to be honest, Luke, I was thinking of our respective parents as much as you. I just couldn’t take the risk.’
Luke stared down at her, his face like a mask. ‘I apologise,’ he said stiffly. ‘I should have known—’
‘If Dante and Zoë hadn’t been here I would have told you as soon as I came in tonight.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, all is now explained. Francis would be pleased if he knew.’
‘Knew what?’
‘That he’s had his revenge for his black eye.’
‘He’s lucky his injury wasn’t worse,’ retorted Luke grimly.
‘Lucky for us all,’ she agreed lightly. ‘Otherwise who knows what havoc he might have created? Goodnight, Luke.’
He stayed where he was, barring her exit. ‘Where are you going?’
She stared at him. ‘To bed. Where else?’
‘You haven’t given me time to apologise properly—’ he began, but she held up a peremptory hand.
‘Please don’t bother.’ She raked a weary hand through her hair. ‘Let me pass, Luke. I’m very tired.’
‘I hope you resigned from that blasted job,’ he said sharply.
‘Oh, yes. I burnt my boats right on schedule.’ She managed a smile. ‘My boss was not pleased. Mainly because he’s unlikely to find anyone else likely to put up with him the way I do.’
‘I can well believe that.’ Luke rubbed a hand over his eyes and stood aside. ‘All right, then, Saskia. I’ll let you get off to bed. Perhaps we can talk things over more amicably tomorrow evening, when we’ve both calmed down.’
‘Perhaps.’
Luke caught her by the shoulders and bent his head to kiss her, but Saskia moved her face away and he released her instantly, his face grim. ‘It was only a goodnight kiss, not a request to share my bed.’
She nodded matter-of-factly. ‘I’m aware of that. But oddly enough, Luke, I don’t feel very cordial towards you right now. And just before we lay the subject to rest I’d like it understood that the thought of marrying you never entered my head. Until very recently I looked on our relationship in a vastly different light.’
‘You adjusted to the change very well. Or have you forgotten our nights together already?’ he pointed out, his eyes glittering like a tiger�
��s.
‘Of course I haven’t. You’re a very accomplished lover, as well you know,’ she said sweetly. ‘But it was never intended as a permanent arrangement, Luke, and please don’t try to kid me that you thought otherwise. Your objection to the news item proved that.’ She yawned suddenly, more from nerves than weariness. ‘Anyway, there’s no point in going over the same ground. My intentions were the best. but it all went wrong somewhere. I—I’m sorry,’ she added, her voice thickening. ‘Goodnight.’
Somewhere around six next morning Saskia gave up all pretence of trying to sleep. Without turning on a light, she crept downstairs to the kitchen with the suitcases she’d packed the night before and went out into the cold morning to make for the underground. Her early arrival caused no comment at the bank, where the trading floor at the bank was in full swing, as usual, by seven-thirty. Saskia dumped her luggage in the cloakroom, then rang her tenant, Carol Parker, who had a job similar to her own in a rival bank.
When Saskia asked if she could beg a bed on her own sitting-room sofa for a day or two Carol consented readily, expressing surprise that Saskia was not, after all, living in luxurious sin in Docklands with Francis Lawford. Saskia thanked Carol gratefully, confirmed she still had a key, then put the phone down to greet Charles Harrison, who was brandishing the previous day’s evening paper.
‘I thought you weren’t getting married,’ he thundered.
‘I’m not, Mr Harrison. It’s a mistake.’
Saskia let herself into the familiar Chiswick flat that night to find a note on the counter in the minuscule kitchen informing her that Carol was at a party and wouldn’t be home that night, and if anything appealed to Saskia in the food line she was to help herself.
It was only then that Saskia rang her mother to chat for a while and ask about Sam and the twins, and then, as if it were an afterthought, she mentioned her move, and explained that sharing with Luke hadn’t been a good idea after all.
A Rumoured Engagement Page 14