by Penny Jordan
The pain grew sharper and she suppressed it from force of habit. Dear God, even now after seven years, the thought of him still made her ache, both emotionally and physically. She had never truly got over him—or more truthfully, she had never truly recovered from the blow of discovering he was not the man she had believed. Not only had she suffered a gruelling sense of rejection, she had also to endure the knowledge that her judgment was grossly at fault.
She would never forget the day Natalie came to her and told her the truth. It was just a week after she had seen her cousin in Slater’s arms.
She had been working all day, and normally Slater picked her up after work. On this occasion though, the girl she worked with told her that Slater’s secretary had rung and left a message asking her to go straight round to his house.
She had no car of her own, and it was a two mile walk, but Chris had been too much in love to consider that much of an obstacle. At Slater’s house they would be alone. Something he had seemed to avoid since Natalie interrupted them. She knew he was having problems with the company; a matter of securing a very important order which was vital to its continued existence and had put his behaviour down to this.
His car had been parked in the drive when she arrived, and for some reason, which even now she could not really understand, instead of ringing the front door bell she had decide to surprise him by walking in through the sitting room and gave her an uninterrupted view of the settee and its occupants. Her whole body had gone cold as she recognised her cousin’s dark head nestled against Slater’s shoulder, her arms were round his neck, his head bent over hers. Chris hadn’t waited to see any more. On shaky legs she had walked away, dizzy with sickness and pain, unable to come to terms with what she had just witnessed.
She went home and rang Slater from there to tell him that she wasn’t feeling well, hoping against hope he would mention Natalie’s presence; that there was some explanation for what she had seen, other than the obvious, but he hadn’t.
Natalie had returned many hours later, her face pale, and her eyes smudged, her whole bearing one of vindictive triumph and Chris knew that somehow Natalie knew what she had witnessed. It was never mentioned by either of them, at least not then, and Chris had determinedly refused to accept any of Slater’s calls in the week that followed, too hurt to even confide in her aunt. Later she was glad she had not done so.
Never in a thousand years would she forget her shock and pain when Natalie came home and announced that she was expecting Slater’s child. She had only told Chris at that stage, gloating over her pain, violently triumphant, almost hysterical with pleasure. Her cousin had always been volatile, Chris remembered, always subject to emotional “highs” and “lows”; dangerously so, perhaps.
She had not got in touch with Slater. The only thing left for her now was her pride and her profound thankfulness that she would not share Natalie’s fate; at least she had told herself it was thankfulness. Even now pain speared her when she thought of Slater’s child, but she dismissed it, forcing herself to remember the events of that traumatic day.
Just as soon as she could escape from Natalie she had gone out, simply walking herself into a state of numb exhaustion, and that was how Ray had found her. She hadn’t even realised how far she had walked or that it was getting dark. He had taken her home with him, and although he had questioned her closely, all she would tell him was that she wanted to get away from Little Martin. That was when he had made his suggestion that she should take up modelling as a career. Previously she had only known him casually, but now she found him a warm and helpful friend. When Chris mentioned Natalie’s name briefly, not wanting to tell him the truth, Ray had looked angry, and she had gained the impression that he did not like her. That alone had been sufficient to underwrite her trust in him, and it was a trust that had never been misplaced, unlike that she had had for Slater.
She had left that night for London with Ray, and had written to her aunt the next day, explaining that she had worried that her aunt might dissuade her from leaving, giving this as an explanation for her unplanned departure.
A month later Natalie and Slater were married. Her aunt was both stunned and concerned. “She’s so young, Chris,” she had sighed, “far too young for marriage, but perhaps Slater…” she had broken off to frown and say quietly. “My dear I know that you and Slater…”
“We’re friends, nothing more,” Chris had quickly assured her, hastily changing the subject, telling her aunt about her new life and making it sound far more exciting than it actually was.
She had worked hard for two years, before suddenly becoming noticed, and was now glad that she had not accepted any of the more dubious assignments that had come her way in those early days. No magazine was ever going to be able to print “girly” photographs of her simply because none had ever been taken.
She had heard from Natalie once, that was all. A taunting letter, describing in detail her happiness with Slater, and his with her.
“It was very wise of you to leave when you did,” Natalie had written. “You saved Slater the necessity of telling you he didn’t want you any more.”
Chris hadn’t bothered replying and she had never heard from either of them since. Now Natalie was dead.
It took her a long time to get to sleep, images from the past haunting her, and then when, at last she did, the impatient jangling of the telephone roused her.
Her room was in darkness, and for a few seconds she was too disorientated to do anything but simply listen to the shrill summons of the ’phone.
At last she made a move to answer it. The crisply precise English accent on the other end of the line surprised her by sounding almost unfamiliar, making her remember how long it was since she had visited her own country. “I have Mr Smith for you,” the crisp voice announced, the line going dead, before Chris heard the ponderous tones of her aunt’s solicitor.
“Chris my dear how are you?”
“Half asleep,” she told him drily. “Do you realise what time it is here?”
“And do you realise we’ve been trying to get in touch with you for the last six weeks,” he retaliated. “I’ve practically had to subpoena your agent to get this address out of her. Chris, it isn’t like you to be so dilatory… I’d expected to hear from you before now.”
He must mean about Natalie’s death, Chris realised, suddenly coming awake.
“I only got your letter today,” she told him. “It must have been following me round. What happened? How did Natalie…?”
“The coroner’s verdict was suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed,” she heard Tom Smith saying, the words reaching her stupefied brain only very slowly. “I did tell you that in my letter, my dear. Your cousin always was a mite unbalanced, I’m afraid. Your aunt recognised that fact and it used to cause her considerable concern. Roger’s mother had a similar temperament.”
Since Tom Smith had known the family for many years Chris did not dispute his comments. Suicide! The word seemed to reverberate painfully inside her skull, resurrecting all her childhood protective instincts towards her cousin. “Why? Natalie had had everything to live for, a husband, a child…”
“It seems that your cousin had been suffering from depression for a long time.” Tom Smith further shocked her by saying. Remorse, hot and sharp, seared through her. Had Natalie needed her, wanted her? Could she have helped her cousin. Pain mingled with guilt; her animosity towards Natalie forgotten, all her bitterness directed towards Slater. Perhaps he had been as unfaithful to Nat as he had her? She should never have blamed her cousin for what had happened; Nat had been an impressionable seventeen, Slater a mature twenty-five. Hatred burned white hot inside her, he had robbed her of everything she thought childishly, all her illusions; her unborn children, and now her only relative. No, not quite her only relative, she realised frowning. There was Nat’s little girl…Sophie.
“How is Sophie taking it?” she asked Tom Smith automatically, voicing the words almost before she
realised she was going to. She had deliberately held herself aloof from all knowledge of Sophie, unable to contemplate the pain of knowing she was Slater’s child—the child she had wanted to give him.
“That’s why I’m ringing you,” Tom Smith told her, further stunning her. “She’s always been a very withdrawn, introverted child, but now I’m afraid there’s cause for serious concern. Sophie hasn’t spoken a single word since her mother died.”
Pity for her unknown niece flooded Chris, tears stinging her eyes as she thought of the child’s anguish.
“Natalie wouldn’t have named you as Sophie’s guardian if she hadn’t wanted to do so. I know it’s asking a lot of you, Chris, but I really think you should come home and see the child.”
Guardian! She was Sophie’s guardian? Chris couldn’t take it in. Her hand was slippery where it gripped the receiver, all her old doubts and pain coming back, only to be submerged by a wave of pity for Natalie’s child.
“But surely Slater…” she began huskily, knowing that Slater could never willingly have agreed to Natalie’s decision to appoint her as his child’s guardian.
“Slater is willing to try anything that might help Sophie,” Tom Smith astounded her by saying. “He’s desperate, Chris.”
There was a hint of reproach in his voice, and guiltily Chris remembered the unread pages of his letter, which she had discarded. “Did you write to me about this?” she asked.
“I set everything out in my letter,” he agreed patiently. “I was surprised when Natalie came to see me nine months ago and said that she wanted to appoint you as Sophie’s guardian, but she was so insistent that I agreed. If only I’d looked more deeply into her reasoning I might have realised how ill she was, but she seemed so calm and reasonable. Her own experience of losing her father had made her aware of how insecure a child could feel with only one parent; if anything should happen to her she wanted to be sure that Sophie would always have someone she could turn to.
“I had no idea then of course, that she hadn’t discussed her intentions with Slater, or indeed that you weren’t aware of them. There’s nothing legally binding on you, of course, and naturally Slater will continue to bring up his daughter, but at the moment he seems unable to reach her. She needs help, Chris, and you might be the only person who can help her.”
“But I’m a stranger to her,” Chris protested, realising fully what Tom was asking of her. How could she return to Little Martin? How could she endure the sight of Slater’s child; of Slater himself…but no, she was over that youthful infatuation. She knew him now for what he was, a weak man too vain to resist the opportunity to seduce a trusting seventeen-year-old.
Had he really loved Natalie or had he simply married her because he had had to? She had had a lucky escape Chris told herself. She could have been Natalie, crushed by marriage to a husband who didn’t love her, trapped… She was letting her imagination run away with her, Chris told herself. She had no reason to suppose that Slater did not love Natalie, perhaps it was even wishful thinking! No! Never!
“Well, Chris?”
“I’m coming home.” It wasn’t what she had intended to say at all, but now the words were out they could not be retracted.
“Good girl.” Tom Smith’s voice approved, and Chris shivered wondering what train of events she had set in motion. She didn’t want to go back to Little Martin; she didn’t want to see Slater or his child. The past was another country; and one she had sworn she would never re-visit, but it was too late now, she was already committed; committed to a child she had never seen, and remembering instances of Natalie’s vindictiveness, she wondered momentarily just why her cousin had named her as her child’s guardian. This thought was brushed aside almost instantly by a flood of guilt. If Natalie had been jealous of her, hadn’t she been jealous too in turn? Hadn’t she felt almost ready to kill her cousin when she saw her in Slater’s arms. She sighed. All that was over now, Natalie was dead, and in the end, for whatever reason, her cousin had entrusted to her care her child, and she could not in all honour ignore that charge, if only for her aunt’s sake.
CHAPTER TWO
LESS than thirty-six hours later when she stepped off a ’plane at Heathrow, Chris still wasn’t sure quite how she had got there. A brief call to her agent explaining the situation had resulted in cancellation of several of her assignments and the postponement of others. It was a testimony to her success that this was allowed to happen, her agent told her drily when she rang from London to tell Chris what she had done.
London was much cooler than New York. To save herself the hassle of a complicated train journey Chris had elected to travel to Little Martin by taxi. The cabbie raised his eyebrows a little when she explained where she wanted to go. The fare, would she knew, be astronomical, but that was the least of her worries right now. Had she done the right thing? Time alone could answer that. She had acted impulsively, rare for her these days, listening to the voice of her conscience rather than logic. Sophie did not know her and it was almost criminally stupid to imagine the child would respond to her when she could or would not to her own father.
Closing her eyes Chris leaned back into her seat, unaware of her driver’s appreciative scrutiny of her through his rear view mirror. Her clothes were simple, but undeniably expensive, and the cabbie wondered what it was that took her to such a remote part of the country in such a rush. She wasn’t wearing any rings.
It was three o’clock when the taxi deposited her at Slater’s house. She hadn’t known where else to go, and since Tom Smith had told her that Slater would be expecting her it had seemed the sensible thing to do. She had only brought one case with her. The local estate had the keys to the cottage she had inherited from her aunt and she planned to collect them later on. The cottage would make an ideal base for her whilst she tried to get to know Sophie and decided what to do. It had at one time been let out but the past tenants had left some time ago and now it was empty.
Her ring on the doorbell produced no response and as she waited for someone to appear Chris acknowledged that at least some of the tension infiltrating her body was caused by the thought of meeting Slater.
The house seemed deserted and she rang again, frowning when there was no response. Tom had assured her that Slater would be there. He wanted to see her before she saw Sophie, so Tom had said. Sighing she tried the door handle, half surprised when it turned easily in her hand.
The moment she stepped into the hall memories flooded through her; she had often visited the house with her aunt and uncle who had been friends with Slater’s parents, but most of her memories stemmed from the brief months when she had met Slater here, when merely to cycle down the drive and arrive at the house had sent dizzying excitement spiralling through her veins. It had been in this hall that he had first kissed her the afternoon she had come on some now forgotten mission from her aunt. Slater had taken her by surprise, and she had been too stunned to resist. He had seemed half shocked himself, but he had recovered very quickly, making some teasing remark about her being too pretty to resist. That had been the start of it…
She sighed, glancing anxiously round the panelled room. Where was Slater? She called his name doubtfully, shivering a little in her thin silk dress. What had been warm enough in New York was far from adequate here at home, despite the fact that it was June.
The sitting-room door was half open and drawn by some force greater than her will Chris walked towards it, almost in a trance. It had been here in this room that all her bright, foolish dreams had been destroyed. Like a sleepwalker she walked inside, surprised to find how little had changed. Natalie had loathed the house’s traditional decor and she had half expected to find everything different. The sun shone rosily through the french windows, clearly revealing the features of the man stretched out on the settee and Chris came to an abrupt halt, her breathing unexpectedly constricted, almost unbearably conscious of the air burning her skin, as though someone had ripped off an entire layer and left her exposed to unendurable
pain. The shock of seeing Slater was a thousand times worse than she had envisaged, and it mattered little that he was oblivious to her presence, apparently fast asleep. Suddenly the intervening years meant nothing, the sophisticated shell of protection she had grown round her during them dissolving and leaving her acutely vulnerable.
His hair was still unmarked by grey, thickly black and ruffled, his frame still as leanly powerful even in sleep. His eyes were closed, lines she didn’t remember fanning out from them. His mouth curled downwards, a deep cynicism carved into his skin that she didn’t recall, and that shocked her by its unexpectedness. His face was the face of a man who had suffered pain and disillusionment, or so it seemed as she looked at him, and yet where she should have felt glad that this was so, his appearance made her heart ache. Seven years and God alone knew how many thousand miles, they had been apart, and yet as she looked at him Chris found her reaction to him as intense and painful as it had been so long ago.
She couldn’t possibly still love him; that was ridiculous, no, what she was experiencing now was something akin to déjà vu… It was only the shock of seeing him so unexpectedly that caused this reaction… She must remember that he was not and never had been the man she had thought him. She had invested him with qualities, virtues that he had never possessed.