Secret Intentions

by Caitlyn Nicholas

  She pushed on the front door; it was always open. Karen was of the opinion that anyone brave enough to make it past the sports equipment and the family’s three demented golden retrievers, who, truth be told, would just invite a burglar in, was entitled to make off with anything they desired. Providing, of course, they could find it.

  Karen had strict rules about who did what in the house and refused to hire a cleaner. Generally it was up to the teenaged occupants to keep the place clean, and as a result it spent most of the time looking like there had been several devastating explosions on each floor.

  Zani found Karen in the kitchen, cooking. The dogs all lay underfoot, except for Fang who was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hi-ya,” said Karen. “Fang’s upstairs with Tegan, having a makeover.” She rolled her eyes.

  Zani smiled. Last time Fang had emerged with curls and bows, smelling delectable. Truly the most miserable dog in all of Chichester.

  “Karen, I’m really worried about this Klebnikoff contract. There’s something just not right about the whole thing,” Zani began.

  “Yeah, I realised that. He’s not exactly being easy to deal with. But I think it’s okay. I mean, look how quickly he transferred the deposit.” The older woman rested her hip against the bar at the top of the Aga. Holding her stirring spoon in one hand, she eyed Zani contemplatively. “Really the only strange thing he’s done is insist you sign the Russian version of the contract.”

  Zani pointed at the spoon. “You’re dripping.”

  “We need to upgrade the computer system, and the new CAD license for it will be thousands of pounds. Not to mention the money could pay for a draftsperson. Think how much that sort of help’d speed you up,” said Karen, going back to her stirring.

  “I suppose…” began Zani, when suddenly there was a great scrabbling of claws on the stairs. Fang shot into the room, a large pink bow around her neck and a small doll-sized tutu wound around one leg. “Oh, Fang, what have they done to you?” Zani laughed, picking up the small dog who wriggled with joy to see her. A sullen young girl followed Fang into the room—Tegan, Karen’s youngest child and only daughter.

  Fang looked at Zani with a pleading expression, so Zani kept her close and gently told Tegan that perhaps Fang needed a rest from dressing up. The child mooched off, managing to get through the entire conversation without muttering a word, sour expression still in place.

  “Yeah, you’re right, I’m just being an idiot,” Zani continued. She hugged Fang then gently put her on the floor, where she hesitated for a second before squeezing herself between two of the golden retrievers at the warm base of the Aga. “I’ll get the contract translated. He can just wait for it, and in the meantime, as he’s transferred the money, I’ll get on with the designs.”

  “It’ll be fine, Zani. You’ll see,” said Karen with a confidence Zani wished she had.

  Corbin let himself into his Woodend farmhouse. It seemed cold and quiet, and for a moment he wished he had a dog or at least a cat, something that might have missed him whilst he was gone. He tossed his keys onto the glass top of the entry hall table, turned on the central heating and went in search of a coffee. The house seemed smaller somehow, different. He felt as if he’d been away on a long trip, though in reality he’d been gone just over twenty-four hours.

  Zani. He filled the espresso maker with water and absently waited for it to start percolating, trying to ignore the tingle of emotion her name elicited. He missed her. He actually missed her. He, who took pride in never needing anyone, not even a dog or a cat, missed her.

  The espresso maker seemed to be taking a long time to do anything, and with an exclamation he hit the “on” button. Then he smiled, recalling his first meeting with Zani. Only if she spat in your coffee, she’d snapped at him. Legs that went on forever.

  He was, he acknowledged, a complete idiot to have anything to do with her. So much he didn’t know. The few things he did know didn’t fill him with confidence, either. He knew that she’d deceived him. That she was no hapless PA desperate for a job. She’d come to Sunberri for a reason and helping him out in the office wasn’t it.

  She’d said herself she was some sort of designer, not that she’d volunteered the information. She always seemed to let things slip, or drop huge clanging hints, rather than come plainly out with it. It was almost as if she’d wanted to tell him the truth from the beginning, but something stopped her.

  Illogically, he still wanted to trust her. There was a wholesomeness about her that instinctively made him believe she had a very good reason for the way she acted. Yes, and your instincts told you to ask Pixie out on a date. Look where that got you. Page seventeen of the tabloids.

  He muttered an oath.

  The espresso maker stopped its bubbling and fizzing. He grabbed the warm cup and filled it with milk. He took it with him to stare out the window at the broad expanse of lawn. His favourite thinking position. There was a robin hunting for worms, and he wondered where the tiny bird had sheltered from the storm the night before.

  His heart may tell him to trust Zani, but his head certainly did not, and he was damned if he was going to be taken for a fool again. Leaving the coffee untouched on the windowsill, he fished his mobile out of his pocket and turned it on. His company was facing a huge challenge and all he could do was daydream about women.

  In a moment of harsh realization, he saw he’d been so caught up in his personal life that he’d neglected what was really important. The phone twittered. Fifteen missed calls. He headed for the door, determined to get to Sunberri’s headquarters as fast as he was able. Zani had been nothing but a mistake.

  Secret Intentions

  Chapter Ten

  Corbin summoned his new PA on the intercom. A friendly girl, impeccably trained and qualified, unflappable, efficient and altogether unstintingly professional. She appeared promptly in his office, shorthand pad in one hand, pencil poised in the other, and for a moment he thought rather wistfully of Zani. The woman sitting before him, ready to hang on his every utterance, was blonde, tanned, confident and single. She’d let him know that in the first five minutes. But she wasn’t Zani. A fact for which, he tried to convince himself, he was eternally thankful.

  It hadn’t been a difficult decision. He’d just applied logic. Zani had practically admitted she was untrustworthy. Sure she fascinated and intrigued him; she made him feel fresh and interested when most women, such as Ms. Keen and Eager, patiently waiting for him to begin, left him feeling bored and jaded. But Zani was bad news. Pixie had taught him a hard lesson about trusting women he barely knew. This time he refused to blindly follow his emotions. Henceforth it would be his personal policy that future relationships were carried out with straightforward women who had no secrets to hide. Simple.

  He’d even considered the idea of having Karl do a background check on all potential girlfriends. Then, realising how utterly sad that idea was, he’d decided he needed a break from women completely. He was obviously in no fit state for a relationship.

  Usually his resolve was unshakeable. If he’d made a decision, he stuck with it. Zani, however, insinuated herself into his thoughts with annoying frequency. He’d remember the smell of her hair, or remember how she’d calmly and competently controlled the Vixen in weather that would make the most seasoned of sailors think twice. In his happiest moments he’d remember the sight of her wearing jodhpurs and long boots, then he’d be cranky for at least half an hour.

  He met the eye of his patient secretary.

  “Do you have plans for Saturday night?” he asked. She smiled smugly.

  “No, nothing at all.” The smile turned into a softly voracious grin.

  Zani climbed blearily out of her warm, soft bed. The heating, which, at the best of times was a law unto itself, had decided to turn off, and the whole house was bitterly cold. She peered crabbily at the radio alarm which read 7:03 a.m., and it was only the thought of Vladimir Klebnikoff which kept her from giving up on the day for at least another ho
ur.

  She’d got as far as not being able to find her slippers when somebody impatiently rang her doorbell. Fang, who viewed cold mornings with the same lack of enthusiasm as Zani, was instantly galvanised and shot downstairs barking. For an insane moment she hoped it was Corbin, come to see her. Then, sighing at her own stupidity, she trudged down the creaky stairs to answer it.

  She’d not seen Corbin since Everwood, and apart from two brief and stilted telephone conversations there’d been no contact between them. Zani told herself repeatedly that they were both dementedly busy, but a cold and unsurprised corner of her heart knew the relationship would not get off the ground. He went for dyed blonde goddesses, and Zani was about as far as you could get from a dyed blonde goddess. More like neurotic, pointy-nosed, short-sighted, mouse-haired girl. She didn’t blame him in the slightest for not wanting to take their burgeoning relationship further.

  She buried herself in work. It wasn’t hard. Frantically preparing designs for Vladimir Klebnikoff and getting ready for her trip to Finland, she’d never been so busy.

  Fang’s shrill barking subsided to irate growls when opening the front door revealed a scowling Paul, standing in a camel-hair coat and check scarf with rain glistening in his carefully styled hair.

  “Paul, its early, what do you want?” She didn’t bother to hide the annoyance in her voice. Tired of the unacceptable attitudes of both her father and brother, she’d made a conscious decision to distance herself from her family, and had been avoiding Paul and his telephone calls.

  “Have you seen this?” Without waiting to be invited in, he handed her a copy of a tabloid paper, and pushed past her into the kitchen. “I need coffee. I don’t suppose you have any milk?”

  Zani trailed after him, the paper in her hand. Hearing the comment, she went to the fridge and pulled out a pint of fresh milk, then scolded herself for doing it.

  “Well, read it.” He gestured impatiently to the paper.

  She unfolded it and there on the fifth page was a grainy photograph of herself under the headline “Corbin knows Best.” She read the first few lines: Lady Zaniah Best, (Interior Designer) recently spent a passionate afternoon at the Holmwood Hotel with none other than Corbin de Villiers. The unmarried Lady Best, 36, was seen having a cozy tête á tête with de Villiers before they retired upstairs, together. They did not reappear for dinner.

  “I’m not thirty-six or an interior designer, and that is an awful photo. I wonder where they got it? Taken during my alice-band phase, so it must have been at least six years ago.”

  “Not thirty-six? Is that all you have to say?” snarled Paul.

  With a sigh, Zani saw the familiar signs of Paul about to explode.

  “Well, what do you want me to say?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, girl,” said Paul.

  Mistake, thought Zani.

  “What the hell is going on? I’ve been on the phone to Dad, and neither of us knows anything about this. You’ve been screwing around with de Villiers and didn’t even tell us. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Bigger mistake… thought Zani.

  “What on earth are you doing getting yourself plastered all over the papers? You’ve completely embarrassed the family. The Count of Ledenfeld, Sebastian’s father, has been on to Dad wanting to know what is going on…”

  Biggest mistake…

  “Where’s that coffee?”

  Right, that’s it…

  Years of frustration and rage at his attitude settled in the pit of her stomach, and it took every ounce of her self-control not to hit him. In the past, she’d bought in to everything he’d say to her, bitching and bickering until she got tired of it and let him win the argument. But now things were different. She could see his bullying tactics, his vicious pleasure at saying nasty, hurtful things to her.

  She waited, and the desire to strangle him with her bare hands slowly ebbed. Although it didn’t disappear entirely, just hovered in the background waiting to see what would happen next.

  “Paul…” She said his name as unemotionally as she could, but there must have been something in her tone, as he stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Paul. Be quiet.” He opened his mouth to protest. “What I do with my love life has nothing to do with either you or Dad, okay?”

  Shit. Force of habit made her ask him for permission. She continued, not letting him get a word in edgeways.

  “I’ve been trying to call Dad. He won’t return my calls. I want to know what’s going on with Everwood. He’s winding the place up. There’s only Emily and Peeves left. But neither of you has even had the courtesy to tell me what is going on.” Using every ounce of control she kept calm, even though she wanted to shriek at him, show the rage and the hurt.

  “Peeves and Emily are only there because they’re refusing to go. Neither is being paid anymore,” said Paul.

  “Why? And don’t placate me. I want to know why. I’m so tired of things going on behind my back. This is to do with Sunberri, isn’t it? You’re in financial trouble, aren’t you?”

  Paul looked down at his hands, studying his perfectly manicured fingernails.

  “We just wanted to protect you from the truth. Yes, I admit I’ve made a couple of poor decisions, but it’s nothing that can’t be easily fixed. And is losing Everwood such a bad thing? It’s a tremendous drain on our resources. Think how much more we’ll inherit if all that money is safely invested,” he said, cajoling her.

  “Protect me from the truth? What truth?”

  He looked up at her, dead in the eyes, unblinking.

  “That Dad and I have decided to sell Everwood. That’s all.”

  He scratched the end of his nose. With a flush of angry resentment, Zani recognised the gesture. People who were lying would almost always scratch their nose. She’d seen it in a documentary.

  “No you didn’t. You didn’t just decide to sell Everwood. Sunberri is involved in this as well, I know it. Dad wouldn’t sell Everwood unless he absolutely had to, and Corbin told me they were hushing-up the whole Vivre thing. That the stock price would stay steady. Dad can sell his stock and no one will be any the wiser about the insider trading. So there’s no need.”

  He patted his hair and swiped at his nose again. “You see, Zani, you just don’t understand how it all works. Trust me, Dad and I are doing the best thing for the family.”

  “I don’t care about the best thing for the family, I don’t want to sell Everwood. I think that’s the best thing for the family.”

  “That, Zani dear, has nothing to do with you. As the next Lord of Southwick I’d inherit the property and the bulk of the money. The decisions are mine alone, and you’ll be grateful for what you receive.” He’d abruptly changed tack and dripped arrogance. But she’d unsettled him. He shifted and gave an exaggerated shiver. “It’s freezing in here, put the heating on.”

  But Zani wasn’t going to be deflected. “Don’t speak to me that way. I’m serious, Paul. I’ve had enough. Things have to change, and the first is going to be your attitude. I blame myself for letting you order me around, but it stops. Now. Today.”

  Paul looked stunned, as if a cute, fluffy kitten had sunk its sharp teeth into his hand, but he made a quick recovery. He hastily rearranged his face from an arrogant, mocking grin to remorse, though a slyness lingered in his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Zani. I never realised you felt this way. You are correct, of course. Things between us have been…difficult. I’m happy to forgive and forget. Turn over a new leaf.”

  Zani, almost amused at the speed of his capitulation, nevertheless let him continue.

  “I’m sorry you took our little spats so seriously. I only meant to tease. Big brother prerogative and all that…” He tried an insincere smile, and Zani fought back an incredulous laugh.

  “Teasing? We both know it went a bit further than teasing, especially when we were kids. You bullied me unmercifully.”

  Paul shook his head, a picture of abject sorrow. “B
ut you see, I’ve just always been so angry with you. Ever since mum died, you were the one who seemed to get the attention, the sympathy. Nobody seemed to care about how I felt.” There was a lost note in his voice that very nearly bought a tear to her eye—well, if she’d believed him. “Look, can we start again? Let me make you a coffee.”

  Yeah, right, she thought cynically. A lifetime of grief and we’ll just rewrite the future over a cup of tea. She nearly broke out into sarcastic applause and congratulated him on a performance worthy of a BAFTA. But then she wondered how far Paul would take his little charade.

  With a surge of resentment she realised her mother’s name came up only when Paul or her father wanted something. She pointed. “The kettle is there.”

  “Oh, right.” Muttering and fumbling, he painfully managed to search for and find mugs, then a still-sealed jar of instant coffee, then milk, which after searching the fridge he located on the bench top in a puddle of condensation. Zani sat at the table, fists clenched, ignoring the performance, which was clearly designed to make her get up and make him a hot drink.

  Finally he put a steaming cup in front of her. She stared at it. Coffee. How could he not know she hated coffee?

  “Been doing any sailing lately?” he asked genially, sitting opposite her. She waited for the waste-of-money comment or the pointless-sports comment, but neither came. He’d never shown the slightest interest in her sailing. She still remembered the dinner when she received the national junior championship. Neither her father nor brother had turned up. Quietly devastated on her behalf, Sarah and her family had done their very best to fill the void.

  “Took a new catamaran over to Cowes the other day. Wonderful boat, top of the range.”