by Sara Craven
Lynn shook her head. 'Rather you than me.'
As Phoebe had expected, Tara was reluctant to accompany her.
'No, I've got to wait for Cindy.' Her bottom lip jutted ominously.
'But the cafe is closing for the night,' Phoebe told her gently. 'If Cindy comes it will be all dark and locked up.'
'Then I'll sit in her car and wait.'
Over my dead body, Phoebe returned silently. Aloud, she said, 'Let's go and see if it's still where she parked it, shall we?'
The main car park was emptying fast, and the white Peugeot 205 was standing in the middle, in splendid isolation. It was also securely locked, which Phoebe secretly regarded as a bonus under the circumstances.
However, she was getting more concerned about Cindy's non-appearance by the minute.
'Perhaps her boyfriend's motorbike's had a puncture,' she suggested neutrally. 'Whatever, there's no point hanging round here in the cold and dark. We'll go round to the bus station and find out when there's one to Fitton Magna.'
But here too she drew a blank. Buses to Fitton Magna, she learned, were thin on the ground. There was one return trip mid-morning and mid-afternoon each day. And a market day special which she'd missed as well.
'Right,' Phoebe said breezily, thanking her stars she'd been paid at lunchtime. 'We'll get a taxi.'
Even if the people at the other end weren't very pleased with what she had to say, they would at least reimburse the fare to her—wouldn't they?
'Do you know the address?' she asked, fixing Tara's seat-belt.
'Of course.' The outraged note was back, if a little wobbly. 'It's North Fitton House.'
'Would that be on the Midburton Road?' the driver asked as he started the engine.
'I don't know,' Phoebe confessed. 'I've never been there.' At least, I hope I haven't, she amended silently. 'Is it, Tara?'
'I think so.' The little girl didn't sound any too sure.
'Well, Fitton Magna isn't exactly big. Reckon we'll find it,' said the driver.
It was a placid drive through the dark lanes, but, all the same, Phoebe could feel tension rising inside her. Beside her, Tara was very quiet. Perhaps too quiet?
I don't really know anything about her, Phoebe realised ruefully. Certainly not enough to go charging in and taking- over like this. Lynn was right. I should have stayed out of it. Handed the whole mess over to the police or Social Services.
What do I do if there's no one at her home either? Why didn't I think things through?
There was a muffled sound beside her, as if Tara was choking back a sob, and Phoebe reached out and took a small, cold, shaking hand, squeezing it comfortingly.
'Everything's going to be all right,' she whispered. 'Trust me.'
Knowing, even as she spoke, that in truth she could guarantee nothing.
They were coming to a scatter of houses, lights gleaming behind curtained windows, and Phoebe felt an icy fist clench in her stomach.
Any moment now, she thought, and she might find herself back at the place where the actual scenario of her nightmare had been played out.
But maybe that was what she needed—to go back and exorcise this particular demon once and for all. Let herself see that it was all in the past. That, even if it was the same house where she'd been so bitterly humiliated, the people had changed. Because Tara's name was Vane, and no one called that had been involved.
I would, she told herself, have remembered that.
Ashton, she thought. Dominic Ashton. That had been his name. No Dark Lord of her overheated imagination, but a normal man caught off-guard and reacting furiously to a shameful, tasteless joke.
Who was now somewhere else, living his perfectly normal life, and who had probably never given the incident another thought. Whose biting mouth would twist sardonically in disbelief at the possibility that she could still be tormented by her memories.
It doesn't matter any more, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. I can't afford to let it.
'Well, this is it,' the taxi driver announced.
Leaning forward, Phoebe saw NORTH FITTON HOUSE inscribed on the gate pillar, and, glancing up, the stone gryphon which crowned it. Quite unforgettably.
'Yes,' she said tonelessly. 'This is the place. Could - you drive up to the door, please, and wait for me?'
Tara was reluctant to leave the taxi. 'They're going to be so angry.' Her voice caught on a sob.
'But not with you,' Phoebe said bracingly. 'Or they'll have me to deal with.'
She walked forward up the two shallow steps flanked by stone urns, bare now with the onset of winter. On her last visit they'd been a vibrant, sprawling mass of colour which had matched the light and warmth spilling out of the house and her own inner excitement about the party she'd been going to. The man she'd been going to see.
'Sweet Phoebe.' She could hear his voice whispering to her persuasively, overcoming her scruples. 'Promise me you'll be there.!
And I went, Phoebe thought as she rang the bell. Like a lamb to the slaughter.
After a pause, the door was opened by a stout, white- haired woman wearing a dark dress and a neat apron.
'Good evening.' She sounded surprised. 'Can I help...?' Her gaze fell on Tara, clinging to Phoebe's hand, and her hand flew to her mouth.
'Oh, my God, it's the little one. You should have been home hours ago, you naughty girl. I was just going to take your supper up to the nursery. And where's that Cindy, may I ask?'
'You may indeed,' Phoebe said quietly, leading Tara into the hall. 'I've brought Tara home from the cafe where I work. There seems to have been some mistake over the arrangements to collect her.'
'Mistake,' the other woman repeated. 'And what was Miss Tara doing in a cafe, I'd like to know? From school to her piano lesson, and then straight home. That's her routine.'
'Apparently not.' Phoebe gave her a level look. 'You mentioned supper, which is a splendid idea. Tara's had rather a trying time, as you can imagine.'
'Well, yes.' The woman looked helplessly from one to the other. 'I don't know what to say, I'm sure.'
'If you could take her upstairs, and see to her.' Phoebe urged the child gently forward. 'Go on, poppet, and I'll come and say goodbye once I've spoken to your father.' She turned to the other woman. 'I presume he's here.'
'Yes, miss, but he's working in his study.' The woman glanced uneasily at a door on the right of the large hall. 'Left strict instructions he wasn't to be disturbed.'
'I'm sure he did,' Phoebe said with a lightness she was far from feeling. 'But I think this is an emergency, don't you?'
And she walked past them both, opened the study door and went in.
It was a room she remembered only vaguely, with its book-lined walls and the large desk standing in the centre of the room.
He was standing with his back to her, intent on a fax machine delivering a message on a side table.
When he spoke, his voice was clipped with impatience. 'Carrie, I thought I said—'
"It's not Carrie, Mr Vane.' The anger which had been seething in Phoebe came boiling to the surface. 'I've just brought your daughter back from Westcombe, where she'd been abandoned, and I'd like to know whether you're just totally selfish or criminally irresponsible.'
He turned slowly. The grey eyes travelled over her without haste. Like ice that burned. She had thought it then. She knew it now.
She gave a gasp, and stepped backwards.
'I don't know who the hell you are, bursting in and abusing me like this.' Every word was like the slash of a whip. 'But you've made a big mistake, young woman.'
He paused, taking in every detail from the top of the smooth brown head, down over her working uniform of white shirt and brief black skirt, to her slender feet in their sensible shoes. Registering it all, then dismissing it with the contempt that she remembered so vividly from six years before.
He said softly, 'My name is Ashton. Dominic Ashton. Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you out.'
C
HAPTER TWO
PHOEBE wanted to run away, harder and faster than she'd ever done in her life. But for dazed seconds she wasn't able to move, or think. She could only stare at him. At the nightmare made flesh, and standing in front of her.
He'd hardly changed at all. She was capable of recognising that, at least. The thick dark hair, untouched by grey, still waved untidily back from its widow's peak. He would never be handsome. His nose was too beaky, his mouth and chin too firmly uncompromising, and the grey eyes under the cynically lifted eyebrows too piercing. But he was even more of a force to be reckoned with than at their last disastrous encounter.
She was the one who'd changed, she realised with a reviving jolt of the same anger which had driven her into this room. She wasn't a naive, betrayed sixteen- year-old any longer.
The real vulnerable child was upstairs, and she was all that mattered in this situation.
She lifted her chin and prayed her voice wouldn't let her down. She probably couldn't equal his own level of contempt in the look she sent him, but, by God, she was going to try.
'The reason—Mr Ashton—is called Tara, and for the past week she's been spending a regular part of the day totally unsupervised in Westcombe.'
The dark brows snapped together. 'What kind of dangerous nonsense is this?'
Phoebe shook her head steadily. 'No nonsense at all. I only wish it were. The girl who looks after her has been allowing her to have tea on her own in the cafe where I work while she meets her boyfriend.' She paused. 'He has a motorcycle,' she added without expression.
There was a heavy silence. Dominic Ashton was still staring at her, but Phoebe had the feeling that he wasn't seeing her at all.
He said, half to himself, 'I'm going to get to the bottom of this,' and strode towards the door.
Phoebe put up a detaining hand. 'If you're going to look for Cindy, she's not here. At least I don't think she is. She didn't turn up to collect Tara as arranged. And her car is still in the market car park.'
He stopped. Looked down at her. Aware and refocusing, his face suddenly haggard.
She had hated him for six years, for his lack of understanding—and compassion. She had never in the whole of her life expected to feel sorry for him, yet, somehow, she did.
Here he was, in the middle of some business empire, with computers, modems and machinery as far as the eye could see, and just briefly he'd lost his power. He too was naked and bewildered, in a situation he couldn't control.
His voice was quiet. 'I accept what you say—everything you say. But I still think I should check—don't you?' He hesitated. 'Please sit down, Miss—?'
'Grant,' she said. 'Phoebe Grant.'
He nodded, as if storing it for future reference. 'I'll have my housekeeper bring you some coffee.'
'I think she's got her hands full giving Tara her supper.'
'Yes, of course,' he said abruptly. 'I wasn't thinking.' He looked at her again, frowning as if puzzled. 'Where exactly did you say you'd met my daughter?'
'In the Clover Tea Rooms. I'm a waitress there. She sits at one of my tables.' She hesitated. 'I followed her out one afternoon and saw Cindy meet her. That's how I know about the boyfriend. Not through Tara.'
He looked at her as if she were mad. 'What possible difference can that make?'
'Tara promised not to say anything. She's frightened of breaching a confidence.'
'My God,' he said. He pointed at a cupboard. 'You'll find a decanter and glasses. Help yourself to some brandy, and pour one for me. You look as if you need it, and I know I do.'
She said huskily, 'I'm afraid I don't drink.'
'Then perhaps you should start.' The grey eyes examined her critically. 'Or are you always this pale?'
Phoebe looked down at her feet. 'I have a taxi waiting. I'd really like to leave.'
'And I'd be obliged if you'd stay. After all, you marched in, issuing some pretty dire and extremely personal accusations. I'd like the chance to defend myself. But first I need to talk to Tara.' He paused. 'Well?'
Still avoiding his gaze, Phoebe nodded jerkily, and walked to an armchair beside the cheerful fire burning in the grate.
As she heard the door close she felt herself go limp.
'He doesn't remember me,' she whispered to herself. 'He didn't even recognise my name, although in fairness I only gave half of it.'
'Who are you?' he'd demanded with bitter intensity six years before.
And, through a haze of shame and nausea, she'd mumbled, 'Phoebe.'
Of course, she'd looked very different too. Her nondescript brown bob had been concealed under a curly blonde wig then, and her skin had been plastered with make up.
I thought I looked so glamorous—so sophisticated, she thought sorrowfully. And, instead, I was just being set up.
She shivered, and stretched out her hands to the fire. The burning logs smelled sweet, and the chair was deep and magically comfortable. It would have been very easy to lean back and give herself up to the luxury of the moment. But she couldn't afford to relax.
Dominic Ashton might not have recognised her, but she knew him down to the marrow of her bones. And, when she left here tonight, she wanted him out of her system for good.
If Tara had admitted from the first that her name was really Ashton, would she have the guts to come here and face him tonight? she wondered. Probably not.
But why had Tara told such a pointless fib in the first place? And where had the name 'Vane' come from?
I don't need to know, she reminded herself firmly. I did what I set out to do and made sure Tara was safe. That's as far as it goes. The state of the relationships in this house is none of my business.
But she couldn't help reflecting that clearly the last time she'd seen Dominic Ashton he'd been a married man—Tara would already have been born. Now, it seemed, he was a widower. He'd had more to concern him in the past six years than a trivial prank, however cruel. And the damage caused to herself seemed positively inconsequential compared with what he must have suffered.
Oh, pull yourself together, she thought impatiently. You've allowed yourself the statutory glimmer of compassion. The fact remains that Dominic Ashton was a sadistic, heartless swine six years ago, and the evidence suggests he hasn't undergone any material alteration.
It seemed an eternity before he came back. And, she saw, he was carrying a tray with a silver coffee-pot and two cups which he set down on the desk.
He said, 'I think we should both take a deep breath and start again from scratch.'
Phoebe scrambled awkwardly to her feet, aware that her skirt had ridden up, revealing more of her long black-clad legs than she wished.
She said rather breathlessly, 'There's really no need for that, Mr Ashton. I did what I thought was necessary, and now I'd just like to leave. My taxi's waiting.'
He shook his head. 'I paid him and sent him away.'
'You did what?' Her voice rose. The realisation that she was as good as trapped here with him made her shake inside. 'You had no right...'
'Oh, please,' he said impatiently. 'Clearly I have every right to establish just what's being going on. And when we've talked I'll run you home myself. It's the least I can do.'
My God, she thought. That's one positively diametric change from our last meeting. You tossed me out then without any regard for what might happen to me. I was little more than a child, and you treated me like a whore.
She said crisply, 'Another cab will be fine. I don't want to drag you away from your important business.' She put ironic emphasis on the last two words.
His brows lifted in swift acknowledgement. 'You really don't think a great deal of me, do you, Miss Grant? Would it earn me some Brownie points if I swore to you that I truly believed when I came home tonight that Tara was safely upstairs in the care of her highly paid nanny?'
'Nevertheless,' Phoebe said stiffly, 'she wasn't your first priority. You didn't actually check.'
'Touche,' he said gravely. 'Now, would you like to drink this co
ffee, or throw it over me?'
In spite of herself, she felt her lips twitch. He grinned back at her, and she realised it was the first time she'd ever seen him smile.
Realised, too, with a sense of shock, what a powerful attraction he could put out when he tried.
Thank God I'm immune, she told herself as she accepted the cup with a formal word of thanks and reseated herself.
'May I recap on a few points?' Dominic Ashton handed her the cream jug. 'You actually saw Cindy with this guy—how many times?'
'Only once—yesterday. I followed Tara into the street to see where she went. To make sure that she was all right.' Phoebe stirred her coffee.
'It hasn't taken Cindy long to get fixed up,' he said grimly. 'We only moved down here three weeks ago.'
Phoebe moved a restive shoulder. 'I suppose she is allowed a social life.'
'Naturally. She has most weekends off, and usually each evening too. The whole point of moving my business down here was so that I could spend more time with Tara.'
'But I thought—' Phoebe stopped abruptly.
'What did you think?'
She drank some coffee. 'That you'd have to be away a lot on business.'
'Well, it does happen, of course. I was away overnight earlier in the week. But Tara understands, I think. At least I hope she does.'
I wouldn't count on that, Phoebe thought. Aloud, she said slowly, 'She seems very mature for her age. Very self-possessed.'
'In some ways, perhaps.' He looked down at his cup. 'She's had to grow up quickly.'
'Yes.' She hesitated. 'It must have been hard on her— losing her mother like that.'
'You make it sound as if she's been deliberately careless,' he said lightly.
Her lips parted in a silent gasp of outrage. She said thickly, 'I hope you don't refer to your late wife quite so casually in front of Tara.'
'I try not to refer to her at all,' he said curtly, his grey eyes scanning her stormy face. 'And when you talk of my "late" wife, are you referring to Serena's chronic unpunctuality, or are you under the misapprehension that she's departed this life?'