by Penny Jordan
Sophie looked so tired and drained when they got back to the house that Chris suggested a nap. Although she could not speak Sophie had her own way of communicating and her brief nod confirmed to Chris that the little girl was tired.
With Sophie asleep the rest of the afternoon stretched emptily ahead. It was five o’clock. She had no idea what time she could expect Slater back—if indeed he intended to return for dinner. In the old days he had only worked Saturday mornings. She had a strong suspicion that from now on he would be at pains to avoid her. He had made his point; proved how vulnerable to him she was.
Sighing, Chris remembered her promise to go through Natalie’s things. She pushed open the door to her cousin’s room, letting out her breath in a faint sigh. The decor was typically Natalie, strong and dramatic with lots of rich colours. A bank of wardrobes filled one wall.
An hour later Chris had accumulated several piles of clothes on the floor beside her. The air around her was thick with her cousin’s favourite perfume, almost cloyingly so, and Chris moved back to push open the bedroom door. Natalie certainly hadn’t stinted herself on clothes, but then wasn’t clothes buying a favoured occupation of lonely, bored women? Had her cousin been lonely?
A small sound made Chris turn round. Sophie was standing just inside the open door a look of abject horror on her face. When she saw Chris she made a small, inarticulate sound and hurled herself at her, the force of her small body nearly rocking Chris back on her heels.
Instinctively she comforted the little girl, hugging and soothing her. Sophie buried her face against her breast, breathing in deeply, and it was several seconds before Chris realised that the little girl was trying to absorb her perfume. Unlike Natalie’s it was light and fresh, and Sophie seemed to find it soothing, because she stopped trembling and allowed Chris to stand up with her in her arms.
She was just walking towards the door with her, when Slater walked in, his eyes a hard, metallic gold. They raked over her furiously as she stood there, a pulse beating sporadically at the side of his jaw.
“What are you doing?”
“Natalie was my cousin.” Chris replied tautly, for some reason not bothering to explain to him that Mrs Lancaster had requested her help. “Isn’t it natural that I should want to know why she should want to end her life?”
“And you hoped to find explanations in here?” His smile was unkindly derisive. “Natalie spent almost as little time in her own bed as she did in mine. Well,” he demanded savagely when she stared mutely at him, “isn’t that what you wanted to know? Isn’t that one of the reasons why you came back? To see just what havoc you wrought?”
His meaning was lost to her, all she could do was take in the fact that whilst she had assumed Slater’s indifference had driven Natalie away from him, he was implying that her cousin never enjoyed being his wife. What was the truth?
CHAPTER FIVE
NOT wanting to meet Sarah again Chris decided the next time the other girl was due that she would spend the morning at the cottage. Before she got estimates for the work that would need to be done she wanted to have another look at the place. Was it simply misplaced nostalgia that made her want to keep it? After all she was rarely in England these days. Still she wouldn’t model for ever, she reminded herself and then there was Sophie. The cottage would be a useful base from which she could see the little girl in years to come. She had a sudden and sharply painful vision of Slater with Sarah and perhaps even their children, herself condemned always to be an outsider in his life, tolerated because Natalie had appointed her as her child’s guardian. A bitter thought struck her. Natalie had known how desperately in love with Slater she had been; had her cousin appointed her as Sophie’s guardian through some Machiavellian desire to cause her further pain? She frowned, trying to dismiss the thought as she drove towards the cottage. She had heard so much that was conflicting recently, it was no wonder she found it difficult to correlate all the facts properly. For instance Richard had claimed that it had been Slater who rejected Natalie because of her pregnancy, while Slater had implied, without saying as much, that Natalie had been promiscuous—unfaithful to her marriage vows, but then might her emotionally unstable cousin have thought she had good reason to be if Richard was right and Slater had rejected her?
When she pulled up outside the cottage Chris was no nearer to discovering exactly what she thought. As a teenager she had found Slater sexually overpowering; he was a man with a strong sex drive as recent events had proved and she couldn’t see him absenting himself from his wife’s bed unless there was someone else to take her place. Had he perhaps betrayed her? Both of them had been young and innocent—perhaps too naïve to hold his interest once the thrill of the initial chase was over.
In the bright early summer sunshine the cottage looked depressingly dilapidated. It would cost a fortune to put it in order, Chris mused as she examined the downstairs rooms. The kitchen, always small and poky needed completely gutting and perhaps even extending, if planning permission could be obtained. The prospect of all the work and expense involved should have been daunting but as she wandered round Chris found herself imagining how the cottage could be; how much she would enjoy being here, looking after Sophie…the two of them spending long evenings talking… If Sophie ever did talk again.
She must, Chris thought fiercely, somehow the little girl must be freed from the trauma trapping her in her world of silence. If only there was some way she could really help her. The impotence of her situation galled her. She wanted so much to help Sophie, already drawn to the little girl in a way she had never expected. Sophie had much of her grandmother in her Chris acknowledged; and that combined with the physical similarity between them had forged an almost instantaneous bond. Soberly she reflected on how that same combination must have affected Natalie, who had loathed her, and never truly appreciated her own mother.
Sighing Chris made her way upstairs. The stairs creaked protestingly under the pressure of her weight, the banister rail dangerously rickety. Upstairs Chris made instinctively for her own room, her eyes glancing along the familiar book shelves. There were several small gaps. Did that mean Sophie had more books that had belonged to her? But how had she got them? Chris couldn’t see Natalie giving them to her. Natalie had never been a keen reader; indeed Chris had a vivid memory of crying wretchedly under the bedclothes one night because Natalie had mutilated one of her favourite books. Natalie had taken a spiteful pleasure in her distress, she remembered wryly. Could her cousin have changed so much that she had actually wanted to hand Sophie into her care through genuine cousinly love? Chris did not think so. She bit her lip as she stared sightlessly out of the bedroom window. She had a strong conviction that her earlier suspicions had been the right ones. Natalie had made the appointment through sheer malice, knowing how much it would torture her to have to come in close contact with Slater. Knowing…
Chris drew in a sharp breath, trembling as she sank down on to her bed, unaware of the damp seeping from it into her jeans. What was she thinking? What was she admitting? Suddenly she had been brought face to face with something she had tried to conceal from herself for years. There had been no one else in her life simply because she had never completely evicted Slater from it. Oh yes, she had gone away, built a new life for herself, but it had been in many ways a sterile life; and no matter how much she tried to deny it to herself she was still very vulnerable to Slater. She had met many men during her careers as a model—some as sexually powerful, many better looking, but none of them affected her in the way that he did. She still loved him; if love, such a simple word, was the right description from the frightening complexity and range of emotions he aroused inside her; anger; need; pain, sharply acute sexual hunger, and always a terrible aching loss that she should care so much and he should care not at all.
Shivering, she stood up, pacing the small room, angry with herself and bitterly resentful of Natalie who forced this confrontation upon her. The other night when Slater had touched her she had res
ponded blindly, instinctively, her starved sense responding to his touch against her will. He believing her to be sexually experienced had put her response down to sexual hunger—she knew better. Wrapping her arms round her slender waist she told herself that Slater must never, ever discover the truth. If he did he would use it to humiliate and degrade her, to mock her and cause her pain as he had done once before. Like a child burned by fire Chris shrank away from even the thought of such pain, remembering how searing and agonising it had been.
Suddenly the cottage seemed claustrophobic. She walked towards the door, bumping into a small chest in her haste. The impact jarred her hip painfully. It also moved the small chest a few inches and revealed a man’s tie lying half concealed beneath it. Idly Chris bent and picked it up. The tie was very traditional; striped in the fashion of an old school or university tie. She fingered it absently, noting that the fabric was high quality silk. How had it come to be in this room? Perhaps it had been Natalie’s father’s, although somehow it looked too new. Telling herself that it didn’t matter who it belonged to, she put it on top of the chest, and headed for the door.
It was time she returned her borrowed car to its rightful owner and checked up on the Mini’s progress. If nothing could be done with it she would have to hire another for the duration of her visit.
A call at the garage elicited the information that the Mini was being overhauled and that there was nothing major wrong with it. It would take two days to fix, Richard told her with a shy smile, asking if she wanted him to continue with the work. Chris said that she did, and then drove on to the small estate agents’ office. Harold Davies was delighted to see her, and asked her out to lunch. Remembering the work that would need to be done on the cottage Chris assented. She would be able to pick his brains as to who she ought to employ. When she mentioned the car, he brushed aside her comments. “Keep it until yours is ready. My sister won’t be back for some time yet.”
“You really are very generous,” Chris thanked him. “I don’t know how I’m going to repay you.”
“By having lunch with me today and dinner one night later in the week,” he responded promptly.
They both laughed. Chris recognised his type of approach, and was amused by it. Harold Davies was a man who would always enjoy having an attractive woman on his arm; if she was socially or publicly prominent, so much the better. When he married, it would be a carefully judged step, possibly to someone who was faintly “county”. He was a man who would always put his own interests first, but he was pleasant company. Lunching out would be a welcome break from her too intense thoughts, she decided as she followed him out to his car, smiling faintly as she noticed the impressive lines of the new registration BMW, commenting dutifully on it as she slid into the passenger seat.
“A reasonable car is a must in my business,” Harold told her with a smile. “Helps impress the clients…”
He took her to a small country restaurant that was new to her, but obviously very popular to judge from the packed car park. Without being told Chris guessed that it was the local “in” place.
“This place hasn’t been open very long,” Harold told her, confirming her thoughts. “I sold them the farmhouse—a very enterprising young couple, who specialise in nouvelle cuisine. I think you’ll like it.”
Inside Chris was pleased to see that the farmhouse atmosphere had been retained. The cottage had been skilfully renovated to provide a comfortable, but authentic-looking dining room.
The young woman who greeted them was pleasant and charming. Harold introduced her as Sally Webb, explaining that she and her husband ran the restaurant. “Paul is king of the kitchen.” Sally added with a grin. “I’m responsible for the buying and the general running of the place.” They chatted for a few minutes, and then went to the bar to order their drinks. By the time they had been served Sally was back to take them to their table. Although busy, the restaurant wasn’t overcrowded, and Chris particularly liked the way the other woman went through the menu with them. The selection was quite small, but very varied, and Chris gave her order confident that she was going to enjoy every mouthful.
They were just waiting for their first course, when a tall fair-haired man walked into the restaurant. Broad shouldered, physically, he was very attractive, although Chris had the unmistakable impression that he was under some degree of strain. His blond hair was already streaked with silver, although he couldn’t be more than in his late thirties at the most. When he saw Harold he smiled and came quickly towards them.
“John,” Harold greeted him warmly. “Are you lunching alone?”
“That was my intention,” the other man agreed.
“Well if Chris doesn’t mind, why don’t you join us?” Harold suggested quickly.
Put like that Chris could hardly have voiced an objection even had she wanted to, but she didn’t. Something about the blond-haired man touched her deeply. She had an intuitive sense that he had experienced great pain. Whoever he was, he must be relatively important for Harold to want him to join them, she thought cynically. A prospective client perhaps?
The introduction when it came startled her. “Chris, meet John,” Harold smiled, “Dr John Howard. He lives just outside the village…”
“Yes…” Chris’s smile was automatic. “Yes, I know…” So this was Dr Howard. The same doctor who had prescribed Natalie’s sleeping pills apparently. Was that why he looked so strained? He looked a caring man; one who would suffer from the knowledge that one of his patients had used the drugs he had given for aid, to end her life. And then Chris remembered the story of his wife, and her sympathy increased. Instinctly she put herself out to make him feel at ease, tactfully mentioned in conversation that she was Natalie’s cousin, and sensing his controlled start.
“A real tragedy,” Harold interrupted, “and that poor little kid. How is she, Chris?”
“It’s hard for me to say. I know so little about these things. What are the chances of her regaining speech?” She put the question directly to John Howard, glad of an opportunity to get a qualified medical opinion.
“It depends.” He had gone very tense; Chris could plainly see the signs of his tension in his clenched hands and white face.
“On what?” Chris persisted. “Discovering the cause of the original trauma? I’m sure it’s connected with Natalie in some way,” she continued. “My cousin…” She broke off, startled as John Howard upset his drink, the fluid pouring stickily over the table. His face was almost as white as the linen, and Chris was shocked by his tension.
He apologised jerkily. Harold was frowning, and Chris summoned every last ounce of her social poise to smooth over the awkward moment. She didn’t know why John Howard had knocked over his drink like that, but plainly he had more compelling things on his mind than Sophie’s trauma. She talked gaily for several minutes about her life in New York, making Harold laugh and even drawing a faint smile from John, and by the time their food arrived the awkward moment might never have been.
John ordered quickly, refusing a starter. He and Harold obviously moved in the same crowd, and Chris listened to them discussing a local hunt meeting with one ear while her other sense quivered tensely in response to some silent, subtle message. At last, unable to stop herself, she turned her head.
Now it was her turn to lose colour. Slater was seated three tables away, with two other business-suited men and an extremely glamorous brunette. All four of them seemed to be engrossed in discussion but as her glance lingered on Slater’s face it was as though she had sent out some silent message to him. He moved, gold eyes taunting green, his mouth twisting derisively as he studied her too-pale face. Still acutely aware of the morning’s unpleasant discovery that she loved him Chris was the first to look away, hoping that he had not noticed the sudden betraying flood of colour surging up under her skin.
Who was the brunette? In other circumstances she would have found her instinctive jealously almost ridiculous, but now she was held fast in its painfully biting grip
, torturing herself on its sharp teeth, as she tried to listen to what her table companions were saying instead of watching Slater.
He was like a magnet, drawing her attention back to him time and time again. On several occasions he looked up to find her watching him, and on one the brunette saw her, and smiled.
“Umm, I hadn’t realised Slater was here,” Harold commented following her gaze. “He’s got the Chief of Executives from Fanchon with him too… Must be negotiating another contract with them.”
Fanchon, he went on to explain, were a French company in a similar market to Slater’s, to whom he occasionally sold various patent rights.
“And the girl?” Chris asked as lightly as she could.
“Slater’s secretary,” Harold told her promptly. Chris felt acutely sick. What was the matter with her? Just because the girl was Slater’s secretary it did not necessarily mean that they had a sexual relationship as well as a business one. What about Sarah?
What about her, she derided inwardly, with unusual bitterness. Sarah, like herself and Natalie would no doubt have to accustom herself to sharing him.
She was glad when the lunch was over, and so it seemed was John Howard. There was an almost physical air of relief about him as he stood up. She had not, Chris thought regretfully been able to ask him about Natalie. Moved by sudden impulse she reached out to place a restraining hand on his jacket. “Please…” she asked huskily, “could I see you some time…I want to talk to you about Natalie.” Beneath her fingers Chris felt his arm tense. “I…I’ll call you,” he told her curtly. “I must go now…”