by Liz Fielding
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A STRANGER’S KISS - CHAPTER ONE
Praise for Liz Fielding
About the author
Old Desires
By
Liz Fielding
Old Desires
Copyright © 1994 by Liz Fielding
The right of Liz Fielding to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.
OLD DESIRES
Joshua Kent infuriated Holly — he was arrogant overbearing and convinced she was a good-for-nothing gold-digger! But even worse was his bombshell that her past was a complete fabrication. A new identity — and the inheritance which went with it — meant that Holly could embark on a fresh life for herself. But where did Joshua fit into the scheme of things? Was he just using the desire which flared between them to manipulate her? Only time would tell…
CHAPTER ONE
‘MISS Carpenter?’
The enquiry was simply a formality. Holly had no doubt that the man on her doorstep, filling the entrance with his powerful presence, knew exactly who she was. In that, he had her at a disadvantage and she didn’t much care for it, or for the quite unmistakeable chill in his manner.
She had the feeling that, whatever the reason for his call, he would prefer not to be making it and she already wished she had kept to her usual habit of ignoring the doorbell when she was working. Except that this afternoon nothing was going right and she had almost welcomed the interruption.
Besides, one look had been enough to warn her that this man would not have simply given up and gone away. Determination was written in every austere, finely chiselled line of his face; an intensity of purpose that hardened the sensual curve of his full lower lip.
‘I’m Holly Carpenter,’ she affirmed with an unconscious lift of her chin, wondering what this arrogant and very expensively-groomed man could possibly want with her. The well-cut navy pin-striped suit gracing his square shoulders and lean, hard figure, and the telling pale blue stripe of his tie, betrayed that he was a long way from his City office. His method of transport, if the gleaming silver Rolls at the kerb could be described in so plebeian a manner, was already attracting curtain-twitching attention from a window opposite.
Under the disapproving gaze of a pair of wintry grey eyes her paint spattered smock, a rather grand word for a gaudy shirt bought at a jumble sale to cover her clothes while she worked, seemed faintly ridiculous.
She firmly resisted the urge to snatch it off and bundle it into the nearest corner. She resisted, too, the almost overwhelming desire to rub her hands down the back of her jeans to wipe away any lingering trace of paint. Maybe that was why he did not offer his hand when he introduced himself.
‘Joshua Kent,’ he said, extending a card between two fingers.
Holly took the slip of white paste-board.
It bore his name and a London address that added to the aura of wealth that surrounded the man, but told her nothing useful. A public school tie and haughty manner were insufficient reason for her to let a total stranger into her home when she was on her own.
‘What do you want, Mr Kent?’
‘A few moments of your time. I would have telephoned to make an appointment, but it seems that you aren’t listed.’ He did not bother to disguise what he thought of someone inconsiderate enough to have an unlisted number. Someone who lived in a very ordinary semi-detached house, in a very ordinary street.
‘I’m not listed, Mr Kent, because I don’t have a telephone. Sorry if that inconvenienced you, but I do have a letterbox. It’s an old-fashioned concept, I know, but there was nothing to stop you from writing a letter.’
‘My business is too urgent for a letter. I am here on behalf of Mary Graham.’ His mouth tightened, dangerously and the restrained anger in his voice was far more effective than any crude foot-in-door at halting her attempt to shut him out. ‘The late Mary Graham.’
‘Mary Graham?’ She frowned. She had only met her mother’s cousin once, but the occasion had left a dark imprint on her young mind. It had been her seventh birthday. She’d been having a party and everything had been wonderful until Mary Graham had arrived with the gift of a doll — a very expensive doll that she had wanted so much, begged for, but which her mother had said they could not afford. In her excitement, she had thrown her arms around the woman’s neck and hugged her. ‘She’s dead?’
‘She died the night before last.’ He was watchful, clearly expecting some response to this news. While she felt a natural sadness at hearing of the death of anyone, her mother was dead too and Mary Graham hadn’t come to her funeral.
She regarded him thoughtfully. She could usually read a face but his expression was guarded, as if her reaction was too important to be influenced by his own expectations and that bothered her.
For a long moment he returned her look, holding it with eyes grey and hard as cold steel, as if searching for her soul. When at last he nodded, as if he had seen enough, she took an instinctive step back, unconsciously seeking the reassurance of her own roof-tree above her.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. I’m here for Mary.’ The measured control in his voice did nothing to disguise a tightening of the skin across the hard bones that moulded his cheeks.
‘Well?’
‘I’m not in the habit of discussing business on the doorstep.’ Sensing her resistance he took half a step back. ‘If you wish, you may telephone that number from my car and verify my bona fides.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ She had no doubt that he was exactly who he said he was. ‘If you were some kind of conman you’d have made rather more effort to be pleasant.’ Her reluctance to invite him in had more to do with a barely understood antagonism than fear. She did not want him in her home, but since he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d said his piece, she stood back. ‘You’d better come in.’
Holly indicated the sitting room which had always seemed so warm and welcoming, but she saw it now through his eyes. The worn patch on the carpet by the door, the shabby sofa, velvet curtains so old that the blue had faded to grey along the edges. Her home. Exactly as she liked it and he would just have to put up with it. But he didn’t seem to notice his surroundings, his whole being intent only on her.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked, quickly, in an effort to distract him rather than from any belated desire to be hospitable. He refused, but took the chair she indicated.
Holly perched nervously on the sofa opposite him and waited. He sat forward in the slightly sagging armchair, his beautifully kept hands between his knees, long fingers meshed together. It seemed forever before he began but she waited. He had a force of presence that would make anyone wait to hear what he had to say.
‘Mary died the night before last,’ he said at last, his voice warmer as he spoke her name. She realised then, that for him Mary’s dea
th had been a real loss and wondered what exactly their relationship had been. Mary had been younger than her mother, or so it had appeared to her seven-year-old eyes.
There was a severity about Joshua Kent that made it difficult to judge his age. The smooth cap of hair was dense and black without a shadow of grey, he moved with the supple athletic grace of a man very much at the height of his power while his full lower lip suggested strong passions held, for the moment, by iron self-control. If he smiled…
Holly stopped the thought.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, softening a little as she noticed dark smudges beneath his eyes that suggested a recent lack of sleep. ‘What happened?’
‘It was very sudden, a great shock to her friends, though I suspect not to Mary herself. Her affairs were left with the precision of someone who knows she won’t have time for last minute details.’ He looked up then and any suggestion of warmth was obliterated by his frost-bitten expression. ‘Except, apparently, for you.’
‘Me?’
He nodded briefly. ‘Her funeral is the day after tomorrow…’
A chill hand feathered her spine and Holly shuddered. Lilies, black hats, black cars and the mournful scent of damp earth and chrysanthemums.
‘No.’ Straight dark brows drew together in a frown and she realised she had spoken the word out loud. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Kent,’ she said, as she realised how that must sound. ‘I really cannot—’
‘It was Mary’s dying wish that you were present, Miss Carpenter. She made me promise to take you myself. That’s why I’m here.’ His mouth was drawn into a hard uncompromising line. ‘I have no intention of breaking my word.’
Her dying wish?
She frowned. ‘But I only met her once. Why…?’
His look was pure disdain. ‘Because she asked it of you. Isn’t that enough?’ He stood up. ‘A small enough request under any circumstances. The bare minimum under these I would have thought. However, I’ll make it easy for you, Miss Carpenter.’ He stared down at her. ‘You are a beneficiary of her will and I am sure you will wish to be there to hear that document read after the service.’ He ignored her gesture of protest. ‘I’ll pick you up here tomorrow morning at ten. Arrangements have been made for your accommodation. Afterwards —’ his lip curled derisively ‘–should you wish to return here, I will make whatever arrangements you prefer.’
Holly leapt to her feet, stretching to every slender inch of her five feet seven. It did not feel nearly enough against the towering figure of Joshua Kent, but it would have to do. ‘There will be absolutely no reason for you to make any arrangements for me. I have other plans for tomorrow.’
‘Cancel them.’
He ignored her exclamation of outrage, merely allowing his gaze to drift up from the battered jeans, the paint covered smock until he met her gaze head on. ‘Ashbrooke is a small town, rather conservative. Her friends will expect some token of mourning. I can advance you the money to buy something suitable.’ He reached inside his jacket and began to extract notes from a soft leather wallet.
Holly’s face darkened ominously. ‘I have all the clothes I need, Mr Kent. Put your money away.’
His left eyebrow rose a fraction but after a moment’s hesitation he replaced the wallet. ‘What a very unusual woman you must be, Miss Carpenter.’ He reached out and his fingers brushed so lightly over her forehead that she might have imagined the touch but for the immediate charge of electricity that made every nerve ending leap frantically to attention. ‘Let us hope they are the right ones. In the meantime, just make sure you wash your face,’ he said, rubbing a smear of umber from his fingers. ‘Until tomorrow at ten.’
She stood open-mouthed as he turned and walked through the door. In all her twenty-three years no one had ever spoken to her as this man had, left her feeling quite so small, so helpless in the face of his mind-numbing arrogance. He was half way down the path before she regained the power to react, to make a move to stop him and let him know exactly what she thought of him and his outrageous demands.
‘Wait!’ she demanded from the door.
He paused, his hand on the gate and turned back, irritated to be delayed. ‘Yes?’
She wanted to scream, put a hefty dent in so much arrogant effrontery, but some innate sense of self-preservation warned her that any attempt in that direction was doomed to failure.
‘I’ll send some flowers,’ she offered.
‘No flowers, by request.’ There was a dreadful insistence about the man. ‘Just you, Holly Carpenter. In person.’
‘No,’ she objected, almost desperately. ‘I can’t go with you. I have to work.’
‘I’m sure that under the circumstances Maybridge College will be able to find a supply teacher to take your place,’ he said. ‘I’ll telephone them myself if it will make things easier?’
She stared, for the moment speechless. He knew altogether too much about her and she didn’t like it one bit. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘You have my card. That tells you everything you need to know.’
‘If I came…’ The cynical twist of his mouth as he closed the gate behind him, told her that she had just confirmed his worst suspicions. But why he should so obviously dislike her and what he suspected her of were not at all clear. He was already unlocking the door of his car as she advanced swiftly down the short path to the gate.
‘If I came, I would prefer to make my own way to Ashbrooke, Mr Kent.’
He looked over the roof of the car at her. ‘I’m sure you would, Miss Carpenter. However, since you have no idea where the funeral is to be held or the will read…’ his pause was just long enough to be insulting ‘…you’ll just have to put up with my company. And this way I’ll be certain you won’t change your mind.’
He didn’t wait for her agreement or otherwise, but ducked into the car and a minute later might never have been there at all. Except that her pulse was beating an angry tattoo in her throat and when she looked down her hands were clenched into small fists, the knuckles white. She slowly opened them, the effort of extending her fingers almost painful. Then she turned and walked stiffly back into the house.
She paused and drew a sharp breath as she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror, the smear of umber that swooped across her forehead, the angry patches of colour that stood out against the pallor of her skin. If Joshua Kent had taken away that impression of her it was no surprise that he had looked so contemptuous. With her cheeks aflame and her hair tied back under a scarf, she looked like some half-mad gipsy from a Victorian melodrama.
She snatched off the scarf that covered her hair to keep it from the paint and it fell, silver-gilt in the afternoon light filtering through the glass door, to her shoulders. The hectic colour was already beginning to fade, leaving no more than a gentle flush across her cheekbones to set off the spark he had provoked, darkening her eyes to amber.
She shook her head, took a mental step back and returned to the conservatory that she used as a studio and where she had been working when she had been interrupted by the urgent summons of the bell. She had been struggling with the picture all afternoon, but now, seeing it afresh she saw exactly what she must do.
She swished her brush furiously through the water and stroked it across the colour, determined to put the disturbing Joshua Kent and his equally disturbing errand out her mind entirely and carry on with her work. But her hand shook as she touched the paper and the brush jabbed out of control.
Holly sighed and blotted at the paper with rag in an effort to minimise the damage, but somehow it no longer mattered.
The delicate little water colour had been destined, along with half a dozen others, for the small gallery in the High Street that was a favourite haunt of summer visitors to the picturesque riverside town. They would have taken many more, but she had refused to be seduced by the easy money to be made churning out pretty postcard scenes. Right now, though, her ancient car had to have new tyres and she needed the extra cash if she was going to spend the
Easter holiday in Florence visiting the galleries.
Joshua Kent had said she was a beneficiary of Mary’s will. She allowed herself briefly to dwell on the fantasy of having enough money to give up working and just concentrate of painting. Then the faces of her students intruded, all ages and abilities, with only one thing in common, the desperate longing to paint.
Furious with herself for even thinking such a thing, she took the ruined picture and rent it in two. She felt restored by the action, almost as if it was Joshua Kent’s immaculate white shirt front she had torn and held in rags between her fingers. Then she looked down at the paper in her hands and shook her head.
‘Stupid,’ she said, softly.
She was allowing his visit to upset her and that was ridiculous. His manner had been disturbing, it was true. No one had ever disapproved of her quite so openly before. But no matter what Mr high-and-mighty Kent thought, she wouldn’t be tempted into attending a funeral because of any bequest. It would almost certainly be nothing more than some small token, a trinket left to her in deference to her mother.
She crushed the paper between her fingers and dropped it in the bin. Then, too agitated to continue painting, she gathered up her brushes and began to swish them furiously through the water, knowing that a funeral would upset her for days.
And yet…
It was odd how clearly she remembered the eager, anxious face bending over her as child, hoping she would like the doll she had brought her. She remembered too, the tears hurriedly blinked back by her mother and her own guilt at wanting it so very much that she had pushed the strange woman away and run to her mother’s arms.
How had she looked, Mary Graham, lying on her hospital bed, begging Joshua Kent to make sure that she came to her funeral? An over-vivid imagination supplied the answer.
If she went with him, it wouldn’t be because he demanded that she should. It would be because…She shook the water from her brushes and stuck them, too fiercely, in a pot to dry. It toppled and fell to the hard quarry-tile floor and smashed in a thousand pieces.