by Ann Charlton
She had to be Lara Moore, the dress designer. And heiress. Ashe bent towards Lara, smiling into her eyes, and Teressa felt a jolt of memory. This could be him with Cecily―teeth whitely displayed, eyes crinkled with the ‘you’re the only girl in the world’ look.
Teressa should have felt sorry for Lara Moore, but she didn’t. She disliked her without reservation.
The girl’s father was readily indentifiable-a five foot eight industrial giant with the cool, greenish eyes he’d bequeathed to Lara. He delivered a series of dry remarks to a tall, balding man who laughed too quickly, nodded too vigorously in the manner of a devoted yes-man. Ashe’s sister was petite, her curling short hair the exact colour that Ashe’s had been six years ago. Teressa looked at the last member of the group-a nice-looking young man who didn’t seem to belong to either the Primac or the Warlord camps. He looked about the foyer with interest, but his eyes kept returning to Lara Moore.
‘Teressa.’ Her name snapped out and she jerked to attention to be introduced to the two girls. ‘Show Lara and Wendy to their rooms, will you?’ said Ashe.
Lara walked past and thrust her beauty case on to Teressa without a glance. She went upstairs without waiting to be shown the way.
‘Take this, Teressa.’ Ashe gave her another bag and yet another. They weren’t heavy, but she set off feeling like a packhorse. Lara was standing at her window when Teressa went in with her bag and beauty case.
‘Don’t go,’ said Lara when Teressa put them on the floor, ‘I want something pressed before dinner. What was your name again?’
‘Teressa.’ Teressa gave a sort of stage bob as she spoke. Lara Moore didn’t even blink an eye, but pulled out a fine silky dress from her bag. ‘Here, and be careful with it. The fabric is very delicate.’ Her greenish eyes barely touched Teressa. ‘Use a very low temperature, won’t you.’ Teressa observed that she didn’t exactly inspire confidence in her role as dogsbody. One look at her and everyone expected the worst. Oh well―it was only right that they should get what they expected.
‘Ooh yes, ma’am,’ she said, none too bright but eager to please. ‘Should I set the iron for “cotton”, do you think?’
The diaphanous dress was snatched back and Lara held the garment protectively to her breast. ‘Cotton? Heavens above-I’ll do it myself. You can run me a bath. Make sure it’s hot.’
‘Yes ma’am.’ Teressa went to the neighbouring bathroom. Some people just didn’t know how to be graciously rich. Now me, she thought with a dry smile, I would have been a thoroughly nice rich person.
Unselfish, tolerant, sweet to the paid help. Or would I? If she had never had to type boring business letters and soothe irritated bosses all day, cook her own meals and do chores at night and weekends, perhaps she would have turned out just like Lara. She shrugged. At any rate, Ashe Warwick deserved Lara Moore.
Perhaps the best revenge of all would be to see him married to her. Teressa ran the bath and went downstairs, meeting the men, only now on their way up. She moved aside on the stairs to let them pass.
‘There might be a bit of pressing to do, Teressa.’ Ashe remarked as he led the way. He was followed by the balding, tall man, and Teressa discovered that the pressing had already started. The man smiled at her and made quite a thing of getting himself and his bag past her on the staircase, his thigh pinning hers in the process. She slid away in distaste. Behind him were the nice young man who half smiled at her and Wallace Moore, who gave her no acknowledgement at all.
There was indeed some ironing to do. Lara used the laundry and swept upstairs with her ironed dress as Teressa carried in a pile of shirts and trousers.
‘I trust they’ve all got spares,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Did you run my bath?’
‘Yes, Miss Moore.’
‘I hope the water was hot―I can’t stand lukewarm baths even in summer.’
‘It was quite hot, Miss Moore.’ She hadn’t been able to put her hand in it. That should be hot enough even for Lara Moore, Teressa thought.
The dinner was successful. Dundurra’s best restaurant supplied the meal in an insulated steel container.
The driver stayed to help her apportion the food on to the hot plates while the diners ate their seafood appetisers.
He put the selection of desserts into the refrigerator and went again. Teressa wheeled the main course in on the trolley, collected the seafood plates and then waited in the kitchen for a decent period before arranging the dessert courses on the trolley with a cheese platter…
Wendy Warwick was entertaining them with a story about the filming of a soap opera―It appeared she was an actress. Mrs Richards would be delighted to hear that her Mr. Warwick’s sister was on television. The young man caught Teressa’s eye. He beckoned her over and she took the trolley with her.
‘John O’Brien―call me John—’ he grinned. ‘I always like to be friends with the lady in charge of the food. How about putting my name on that, Teressa and that―and— ’ He pointed to a cream-laden torte, a Black Forest gateau and a creme caramel.
‘Take it easy, John!’ protested Wendy, ‘I might want seconds of those. Let me choose first, Teressa, otherwise 1 might be left high and dry with the cheese and bikkies, and I’m fed up with them. My diet has Just come to an end.’ Lara selected fruit salad. Her diet had not come to an end, it seemed. Her father waived sweets altogether and the balding man whom Wallace Moore addressed as ‘Reg’ chose two desserts, interspersing his decisions with many cloying ‘my dears’ and ‘that’s the girls’ and familiar pats on the arm. Teressa longed to drop a wedge of Black Forest in his lap.
Ashe asked for the cheese platter. As she leaned over to place it before him, he looked up with a smile.
‘It must have been a very comprehensive book,’ he murmured, and she supposed it was a compliment on her serving of the meal. What a pity she hadn’t messed it up!
‘Yes, it was. Shall I make coffee now, Mr. Warwick?’
‘No, we’ll have it in the billiardroom later. I’ll buzz you in the kitchen when I want it.’
‘Very good, sir,’ she muttered, feeling like a Victorian skivvy.
John and Wendy fought good-naturedly over the last slice of rum cake and Teressa cut the wedge down the centre.
‘How come you’re filling in for Gwen, Teressa?’ Wendy asked. ‘Did Ashe hire you through an agency?’
‘No―I―work for Universal, the firm that has the cleaning contract with Warlord.’
‘Oh, my God―a cleaner! No wonder she didn’t have the faintest idea about ironing my dress, ‘laughed Lara. ‘And I was lucky to escape third degree burns in that bath she ran for me!’
Ashe’s attention shifted from the exchange between Wallace Moore and Reg, and his eyes narrowed at Teressa’s heightened colour. It was anger at being spoken about in the third person that reddened her face, but he couldn’t know that.
‘I believe I’m still pink from it.’ Lara looked complacently down at her perfect tan skin.
‘Teressa wasn’t hired as a maid, Lara. If you want your bath just right, I’m afraid you’ll have to do it yourself,’ Ashe said with a smile.
Wallace Moore appeared to notice Teressa for the first time. ‘Doesn’t hurt the girl to run a bath,’ he put in shortly.
‘Of course not,’ Ashe agreed. ‘I’m sure Lara’s more than capable of doing so.’
The Primac boss stared. ‘You know damned well I mean that girl there. ‘ He inclined his head at Teressa, whose cheeks flamed again at being treated like a dummy.
‘Her name is Teressa.’ Ashe smiled with steel-lined courtesy and the older man stared a moment longer, then gave a reluctant chuckle.
‘He’d never make the grade as a yes-man, would he, Reg?’ he said, and Reg managed to go against the grain to answer, ‘No.’
Lara’s mouth tightened at Ashe’s mild rebuke and she shot a frigid look at Teressa. The unexpected support from Ashe surprised Teressa. Without doing or saying anything she had caused tension
between him and his girlfriend. She was even more surprised to find that it didn’t please her nearly as much as it should.
The dishwasher was stacked and the trolley cleared before the buzzer for coffee sounded in the kitchen.
She saluted it and switched on the percolator. As the kitchen was so far away she used the trolley to transport everything to the billiardroom. John greeted her enthusiastically.
‘How about putting aside some of those cherry liqueur chocolates for me?’ he said with a grin.
‘Oh no, you don’t!’ cried Wendy in ringing drama school tones. She gave him a playful cuff on the arm and their mild squabbling ended in him hugging her.
It seemed to irritate Lara, for Teressa heard her say to Ashe, ‘Really, John’s behaviour is quite infantile sometimes!’
Ashe laughed. ‘He and Wendy certainly seem kindred souls.’
Lara didn’t like that either. She took her coffee from Teressa and said, ‘I thought she was interested in Drew Hazeldene.’
‘She was, but it broke up a month ago. You couldn’t have chosen a better time to introduce her to John.’
Lara was plainly not ecstatic about playing Cupid.
Teressa wondered why.
Wallace Moore took his coffee-black, no sugar, no chocolates and no ‘thank you’. The balding man in his armchair stretched out a hand to take his cup.
‘Reg Stretton, my dear,’ he introduced himself. ‘That’s a pretty name you’ve got.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Stretton. Cream ? ’
He nodded and put his cup down on the low table beside his chair so that she had to lean across to add the cream. It only took a second, but the abominable man managed to pinch her thigh and she jerked back, red-faced with anger. Even in her surprise she could have saved the cream. But fury made her wrist relax and a torrent of white fell on to Reg Stretton’s lap.
CHAPTER THREE
‘OH, I am sorry,’ she wailed as her wrist flailed aimlessly and the last bits of cream dribbled out in a fetching pattern on the man’s dark trousers.
‘Damn me!’ he exclaimed, and sat helplessly, his hands hovering in indecision. Everyone looked, then came over. Wallace Moore muttered something about inept employees. Lara clicked her tongue, vindicated in her criticisms. But Wendy stifled her laughter and John O’Brien said tongue-in-cheek, ‘Did you have to take the lot, Reg?’
Ashe directed a tight look at Teressa and fetched the bar towel and a sponge and began the difficult task of cleaning up Reg and the floor. He thrust the greasy cloths at her.
‘Get rid of these. Bring some clean sponges and water.’
Angrily stern he was. Teressa hurried to the kitchen to do his bidding. Back in the billiardroom again, Ashe directed her to finish cleaning the carpet. Reg Stretton had gone, presumably to change, and as she finished mopping up he reappeared in clean trousers.
Genially he patted her on the back.
‘Never mind my dear-accidents will happen. But we must be more careful, mustn’t we?’
Her temper flared. ‘It’s just that you startled me when you pin—’ she said clearly.
‘Yes, yes, yes. Never mind.’ Reg patted her again and moved with some speed to the bar.
‘Bring some more cream, Teressa. And another pot of coffee,’ Ashe said coldly. ‘Quick as you can.’
Well, it had been an impromptu performance, Teressa thought shakily as she made more coffee, but one that had certainly stirred things up a bit. Not exactly a spanner in the works, but Ashe would have a few apologies to make … she picked up the percolator, saw a familiar silver-beige reflected on its surface and turned around. The silver-beige turned into a streak as the cat raced across in front of her and the percolator dropped from her hand, flinging its boiling contents over the kitchen floor. A splash caught Teressa’s left arm and with a shriek, she dashed to the sink and plunged her arm under cold water. ‘Damn, damn—’ she muttered, and found a spare percolator before she began mopping the floor.
The cat had disappeared into the corridor. Lord knows where it had gone. Running like—like a scalded cat, she giggled, and choked off the almost hysterical sound.
‘For God‘s sake, Teressa,’ Ashe said testily, striding into the kitchen, ‘We’re waiting for the coffee. Why the devil are you mopping the floor?’
‘I dropped the percolator. The lid’s broken. I’ve put the spare one on.’
‘Dropped it!’ he exclaimed in exasperation. Then, ‘Did you burn yourself?’
‘A bit.’
‘Where?’
Reluctantly she displayed her arm. Ashe frowned at the large area of reddened skin. He drew a deep breath, let it out again.
‘I’ll put something on it for you. Sit down.’ He took the mop away and pushed her into a kitchen chair, then rummaged in a cupboard. ‘There’s a first aid kit somewhere—’
He came back with it and opened a tube of ointment. As he bent to smooth the yellow paste on, his odd-coloured hair was inches from her face.
Teressa’s heart hammered. Shock, she thought, looking at the fine silver hairs glinting among the beige. You got shock from even a mild burn.
‘How did you drop the thing anyway?’ he asked.
‘It was the cat—’
Ashe stood up, recapped the tube and looked at her with unblinking eyes, rather like the cat. ‘Cat?’ he repeated as if she might be suffering from hallucinations.
‘Yes, it was in here and ran across just as I picked up the coffee pot.’
‘We don’t keep a cat.’
‘It was in my room tonight when you went to Dundurra. On my bed. I think it’s a stray.’
He shook his -head. ‘Okay, Teressa, a cat. But I suspect you’re being a bit careless. There was no excuse for spilling that jug on Reg Stretton.’
She swallowed hard. The burn was stinging. And so was his unexpected consideration. ‘I wouldn’t have, but he pinched me.’
‘Pinched—?’ Ashe was incredulous. He tipped her chin up to him. ‘Are you sure, Teressa?’
‘Yes, of course. I can show you the mark…’ she added ingenuously in her role of naive Teressa from Universal. It seemed suddenly important to remember it with those golden eyes boring into hers. He glanced down at the pewter slacks, then gave a short laugh.
‘That won’t be necessary. Do you want me to have a word with him?’
Her eyes widened. Another word to a business colleague on behalf of the insipid kitchen girl? Confusion made her stammer.
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘Tell me if he touches you again, Teressa. Will you do that?’
She nodded, wishing Ashe would stop touching her … looking at her …
‘Your scarf is nearly off. Why do you wear the damned awful things anyway …’ He pulled it from its precarious position and stared at her hair.
Involuntarily Teressa’s hand went to the streak, covering it, but his fingers closed over hers, bearing her hand downwards. Pulling her from her chair, he studied her face framed in the dark hair that was springing up from its repression under the scarf. He touched the pure silver of the streak.
‘Why on earth do you keep hair like this hidden?’ he asked softly.
‘I—don’t—the coffee’s ready, Mr Warwick—’ she stammered, warming under his close inspection.
She was close enough to see the small lines around his eyes, the even texture of his skin. A clean, astringent smell of aftershave came from him and a warmth that made her skin prickle with awareness.
‘Heavens, Ashe, what is the matter?’ Lara’s svelte shape appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her voice was light but her eyes lingered coolly on them. Teressa was standing close to Ashe, her scarf off and her hand in his. A nervous giggle almost escaped her. It must look rather strange. Would Lara think twice about a husband who amused himself with the domestic staff?
Wendy came in and saw the first aid kit on the table.
‘An accident, Ashe?’
‘Teressa burned herself.’
�
�Are you okay?’ Wendy asked Teressa.
She nodded. More kindness and concern. It made her feel terrible.
‘You must be accident-prone, dear,’ Lara said in a bored voice.
‘It was a cat.’ Ashe’s mouth twitched a little. He explained the circumstances of the accident and Wendy switched off the percolator. As her brother moved she noticed Teressa’s hair.
‘Teressa, is that natural?’
‘Yes,’ her hand went to the silver, ‘it grew that way when I was seventeen.’
‘How old are you now?’ Ashe enquired and looked thoughtful when she admitted to twenty. Considering her role she felt it wise to take a couple of years off her age. ‘I thought you were even younger,’ he murmured.