by Sara Craven
But as she added the milk he'd politely requested, and stirred the brew, she had the uneasy feeling that he knew exactly what she was up to, and was laughing at her.
Jaw set, she led the way back to the sitting room, pausing in surprise to see that he'd kindled the fire.
'I believe there's a superstition that you shouldn't tend anyone's fire until you've known them for seven years, but I decided to risk it,' Dominic Ashton drawled. 'After all, we're practically old acquaintances.'
Her heart skipped a panicky beat. 'Not,' she said, 'as far as I'm concerned.'
His mouth twisted. 'You don't take many prisoners, Phoebe.' He paused. 'That's an unusual and charming name. May I know how you came by it? Or is that another invasion of privacy?'
Phoebe looked at the flickering fire. 'My mother was playing the shepherdess in an amateur production of As You Like It when she met my father,' she said, her voice unconsciously wistful. 'It was love at first sight.'
'Even though Phoebe isn't a very likeable character in the play?'
She was startled. 'You know Shakespeare?'
'I'm not a complete Philistine.' Leaning back on the cramped settee, his long legs stretched out in front of him, he dwarfed the room. 'Where are your parents now?'
Phoebe sank her teeth into her lower lip. Then she told him, 'My mother died when I was a child. I—I lost my father just over six months ago.'
He closed his eyes for a moment. 'Oh, God, I'm sorry. My facetious remarks about Serena were totally out of place.'
'You couldn't have known,' she said. 'Please don't worry about it.'
'Have you any brothers or sisters?'
She shook her head. 'I was an only child.'
'No relations at all?' He was frowning.
'My father's sister is still alive,' she said. 'But we're not close.' She paused. 'My father put all his energies into work after my mother—went. He was very successful, and eventually sold his business for a great deal of money. He should have been secure for life. He invested in a second-hand bookshop, which he ran himself as a hobby. He was really happy, probably for the first time in years.'
'And?' he prompted when she hesitated.
'Only someone persuaded him to play the stockmarket. He ended up owing enormous sums—debts he couldn't possibly pay. We lost everything. The house, the shop, the furniture—it was all sold off.'
She shook her head. 'My aunt seemed to feel that Dad had shamed the family name, and she wrote us off, even though he'd helped her husband out several times in the past.'
'And she wasn't prepared to do the same, and couldn't live with the guilt,' he said calmly. 'It's quite a familiar story.'
A story that she couldn't believe she'd actually told him. It was something, like her grief, which she'd kept private, hugged fiercely to herself. She'd never confided in anyone. How had he, of all people, managed to break through the shell?
She gathered her defences. 'What do you know about it?'
'I come across similar cases all the time in my work. I'm a financial adviser—a troubleshooter, if you like. I go into companies, large and small, which have hit problems, and try and provide realistic solutions.'
'I hope,' she said, 'that you don't look at me in the same light.'
'Certainly not,' he said. 'Your path is clearly strewn with primroses.'
'Because,' she went on, as if he hadn't spoken, 'I don't need your charity.'
'And I wouldn't dream of offering it,' he said coolly. 'I'm very highly paid for what I do.'
'Encouraging people at their wits' end to get into more debt?' she said bitterly. 'Raising false hopes?'
He finished his coffee and set down his mug. He said slowly, 'Your poor opinion of me seems to have all kinds of ramifications.'
'We're strangers,' she said. 'I don't have an opinion.'
'Lady, you could have fooled me,' he drawled. 'I'd say I was tried and condemned before you ever set eyes on me.' He leaned forward, his grey eyes fixed on her face.
'Today,' he said. 'You did me a tremendous service. When we were at my house, I suggested that we make a fresh start. I'd still like to do that.'
'Why?' she asked baldly.
'Because I want to be your friend.' He spoke very gently. His eyes were gentle too, and his mouth curved suddenly in a smile without mockery. Despite herself, Phoebe felt a sudden pang of emotion akin to longing twist deep inside her. And it frightened her.
She said tonelessly, 'That's very obliging of you, Mr Ashton. But I have enough friends already.'
'Indeed.' He got to his feet. 'Well,' he went on, his face and voice expressionless, 'that must make you unique to the rest of the human race. Then can I ask instead that you don't consider me an enemy when we meet in future?'
Phoebe rose too. 'It's unlikely our paths will ever cross again, Mr Ashton.'
'I'm sorry to hear that because I know Tara has her heart set on seeing you.' He walked to the door, then turned. He said quietly, 'Phoebe, please don't allow your judgement of me to affect my daughter. That wouldn't be fair. Goodnight.'
She heard the front door close behind him, and sank back onto her chair, aware that her legs were shaking under her.
'And that's not fair either,' she whispered under her breath. 'Oh, so clever, Mr Ashton.'
She couldn't sleep that night, although she tried the usual anodynes of a warm bath and hot chocolate. She found herself tossing restlessly from one side of the bed to the other.
Dominic Ashton filled her mind, precluding all else.
She could hardly believe her own bad luck. On his own admission, he'd only been back at Fitton Magna a short time. If she hadn't been offered that temporary job at the tea rooms, she might have moved away from Westcombe in complete safety, her peace of mind intact.
Peace of mind? a scornful voice in her head seemed to ask. You don't even know what that means. For six years you've been torturing yourself over this man.
Doing endless penance for something that wasn't even your fault. Raying yourself over a humiliation that he doesn't even remember. Not even your name rang any bells with him. It was all far too trivial for that. You've been beating yourself to death for nothing, you stupid bloody idiot.
And now you've seen him again. You've talked to him and the world hasn't come to an end. In fact, this could just be the impetus you need to get you out of Westcombe and onto this new life that you want. If you're not careful, you could end up feeling grateful to him.
'Oh, no,' Phoebe said aloud, and forcefully. 'Not that. Never that.'
She pushed the quilt away, got out of bed, put on her robe and trailed downstairs.
There were still embers glowing in the grate, and she added a few sticks and some lumps of coal, then curled up in the corner of the settee, staring at the flames.
Whatever she did, the bad dreams, the obsession with Dominic Ashton as the villain who had scarred her for life had got to end, she told herself. And that wouldn't happen unless she went back to the beginning. Remembered, and placed in perspective, everything that had happened.
Up to now, she'd never really allowed herself to do that, telling herself it hurt too much. Finding it easier to focus only on the culmination of the whole wretched chain of events.
Now she made herself recall how it had all begun.
Which, of course, had been with Tony...
'You fancy him, don't you?' asked Tiffany, laughing.
Phoebe blushed. 'No, of course not.'
They were in Tiffany's bedroom, trying on clothes. Phoebe looked at herself in a tiny scarlet Lycra skirt and a black bustier. She'd never worn anything like them in her life. She'd never been allowed to. Her father was ultra-conservative about clothes. When Phoebe needed anything, a personal shopper from one of the big department stores was employed and her instructions were clear.
In fact, it was amazing that her dad had allowed her to spend a few days at Tiffany's. But then, as she admitted to herself, if he'd had any idea what a comparatively short time Phoebe had kn
own her, he would probably have refused. The fact that Tiffany had only arrived at the school the previous term had been kept strictly under wraps.
Tiffany's house was a revelation. It had been designed along the lines of an ante-bellum mansion of the American Deep South, because, as Tiffany's mother had explained, she'd spent her honeymoon in New Orleans and felt it was her spiritual home.
The decor was lavish. Phoebe, more used to book- lined walls and faded chintzes, thought, a shade uncomfortably, that it was like a Hollywood movie set. Every bathroom gleamed with gold fittings. Every window seemed to droop under the sheer weight of swagged and festooned velvet. The kitchen seemed as elaborate as the control capsule of a space craft, and as sterile, because no one ever cooked in it.
Outside, there was a heart-shaped swimming pool, with an adjoining Jacuzzi, and a tennis court.
Partly because of this, but mainly through the totally casual welcome extended by the Bishops to anyone who turned up, the place was always teeming with people.
Tony Cathery was one of them.
He was at university, reading Fine Arts, because, as he'd said, he couldn't think of anything more useful, and Tiffany, apparently, had known him 'for ever'.
He was tall and blond, with blue eyes which crinkled at the corners, and a glossy Mediterranean tan acquired in the Greek islands earlier that summer. And, yes, he'd confirmed, grinning, it was all over, if anyone wanted to check. He was a marvellous swimmer, a terrific tennis player and an exuberantly sexy dancer.
Phoebe had never encountered anyone quite like him. Up to the time of his arrival, she'd been feeling very much the odd one out. There was no one else she knew there, and everyone else seemed so much smarter and streetwise than she did.
She was miserably aware that a couple of the girls had christened her 'Feeble Feeb' and laughed at her behind her back, and there had been times when she'd wondered if Tiffany was regretting that she'd ever invited her. Certainly she didn't seem to want to spend much time with her. And, in a house virtually devoid of books, Phoebe often found herself at a loss.
Eventually, she discovered an elaborate onyx and ivory chess set on a table in the ornate conservatory which served as an extension of the drawing room.
She was hunched over it one day, half-heartedly working out a chess problem—and considering the more pressing dilemma of what excuse she could make to cut her visit short—when a voice behind her said softly, 'My God, I don't believe it. At last, a woman with a brain.'
Startled, Phoebe turned to find Tony Cathery smiling down at her.
'Black seems to be in a hopeless position,' he went on, pulling up a chair opposite her. 'Let's see what I can do.'
By the time the problem was solved, Phoebe was shyly hanging on his every word.
That night he sat beside her at dinner, and made her join in the dancing afterwards. Phoebe could see the surprise on the other girls' faces, and revelled in it.
Not so Feeble Feeb, she thought joyously.
But she was also a little nervous. Her sexual experience, apart from a few kisses, was nil. She might bedazzled, but she was also wary, unsure what Tony wanted from her.
But Tony, oddly, seemed wary too—hesitant to push things too far or too fast between them—and she was grateful for his restraint, at first anyway. Then, as time went on, she began to wonder. To worry a little.
She was cheered, however, when he told her there was going to be a party the following Friday evening at a house some miles away.
'You are going to come with me, aren't you?' he asked almost anxiously.
'I haven't been invited. Besides, I said I'd go home at the weekend.'
Tony groaned. 'Oh, sweetheart, you can't do this to me. Ring home. Say you're staying on for a few days.' He put his hand on the nape of her neck, under the heavy fall of brown hair, and stroked the slender curve very gently, making her body arch in delight.
He put his hps to her ear, and whispered, 'I don't want to part with you, darling. Not yet.'
The next day, she phoned her father, making some excuse, trying not to hear the disappointment in his voice.
Because she needed to be with Tony. She couldn't bear to leave either. Not before...
Always, at that point, her mind closed off.
She believed that Tony must want her, otherwise why would he spend so much time exclusively with her? She just wished he would show it rather more openly. Each time he kissed her, he seemed to be holding back. The caresses he offered were exciting, but fleeting too, always short of any real intimacy, leaving her unsatisfied and longing for more.
.And she had other, minor worries too. She wanted to look wonderful for Tony at the party, but she was dismally aware that he'd seen all the clothes she'd brought with her, and there was nothing sensational among them.
So, when Tiffany had asked her casually what she was planning to wear, and she'd confessed she didn't know, she'd found herself immediately up in Tiffany's room, confronted with a whole range of the kind of gear that looked so terrific on the others.
'Well, he certainly fancies you.' Tiffany, lounging on the bed, wouldn't let the topic rest.
Phoebe tried pulling her hair up on top of her head, but it was too heavy and too thick, and kept sliding down again.
She sighed. 'I don't think so.'
'That's crap. He never leaves you alone.'
Phoebe sighed again. 'Actually, he does. He treats me as if I was made of glass and might break.'
'He wouldn't if he saw you dressed like that,' Tiffany giggled.
'But he won't see me.' Phoebe tried not to sound desolate.
'Of course he will.' Tiffany sat up. 'Y'know, your problem is that you give off the wrong vibes. The way you dress and talk and present yourself all says "hands off', and guys like Tony pick that up. So, on Friday, you're going to give him a signal that says "I'm available". And I'm going to help.'
Phoebe gave her a quick, rather shamefaced look. 'Are you sure, Tiff? It's just that I thought—at the beginning—that it was Tony and you...'
Tiffany laughed. 'Hardly. We know each other far too well.' She contemplated Phoebe with a satisfied smile, like the cat with the cream. 'Put yourself in my hands, and you'll knock his eyes out on Friday.'
Phoebe could hardly believe her own eyes when she was finally allowed to look in the mirror on Friday evening. Her own hair was concealed under a shoulder- length blonde wig, which Tiffany had purloined from her mother's room. Her eyes were slumbrous with kohl, and her lips gleamed a deep, wicked red.'You look more like Madonna than she does,' said Tiffany.
Downstairs, Phoebe was disappointed to discover that Tony had gone ahead to the party with some of the others.
'Whose party is it, anyway?' she asked Tiffany, who shrugged vaguely.
'Just the usual bash,' she returned. 'Don't worry about it.'
She'd expected the house to be another designer nightmare, like Tiffany's, so North Fitton House came as a pleasant surprise. She lingered on the steps, breathing in the fragrance of the night-scented stocks which filled the stone urns flanking the front door.
Tiffany gave her a little push. 'Come on. There's a hungry man waiting in there.'
Tony's reaction was all that she could have desired.
'You look fantastic,' he muttered, his eyes resting hotly on the cleavage revealed by the bustier. 'Absolutely perfect.' He licked his lips. 'Tiff—you're a genius.'
She heard Tiffany say with a giggle, 'And now the rest is up to you.'
Tony grabbed Phoebe's hand and pulled her into one of the rooms. 'What do you want to drink?'
'Just orange juice,' she assured him hurriedly.
'Whatever my princess requires,' he said.
In the end, she was sorry she'd asked for it because it tasted odd. She would have poured it into one of the jardinieres in the drawing room, given half a chance, but Tony was close beside her all the time. And the next one didn't taste nearly as bad, and the one after that was actually pleasant, so she thought she mu
st have imagined it. Or maybe it was a brand she hadn't come across before.
'Whose party is this?' she asked Tony while they were dancing.
He shrugged. 'Just a guy I know. It's his birthday, so we thought we'd surprise him.'
'Oh.' Phoebe was puzzled. 'Which one is he?'
'He hasn't arrived yet,' Tony said easily. 'He's had to go to some boring dinner first, but he'll be along later and then you'll meet him, I promise.' He drew her closer, running practised fingers down her bare back. 'In the meantime, just concentrate on me.'
Deliriously, Phoebe obeyed. She had never dreamed this could happen. That Tony would be holding her like this, his hps nuzzling her neck, creating all kinds of strange, delicious sensations deep within her.
It was a hot night, and the rooms were crowded, so she was glad of the orange juice, and grateful to Tony for keeping her so assiduously supplied.
In fact, the room was far too hot, because her head was swimming and her legs were behaving strangely. Her voice sounded odd too. Slurred and far away, as if she were speaking in an echo chamber.
'C'n I sit down a minute?'
'Oh, we can do better than that.' Tony's arm was like an iron bar round her waist, supporting her. She realised they were going upstairs.
'Where's thish?'
'I'm taking you to lie down,' he murmured. 'It's cooler up here, and you'll feel better soon.'
He opened a door. The big, canopied bed which dominated the room seemed to sway in front of her.
'The master bedroom,' Tony said exultantly. 'Now, all we need is the master.'
The bed felt as soft as a cloud as she stretched out upon it.
'It looks like a bloody altar.'
'Then let's supply the virgin sacrifice.'
The words made no sense to her. As Tony came to lie beside her she turned to him greedily, offering the softness of her mouth.
'Oh, I'm tempted,' he said thickly. 'Believe me, I am.'
'That's not the deal.' It seemed to be Tiffany's voice. 'You're having me—remember?'
Phoebe opened dazed eyes, and found the room revolving slowly. There were people standing round the bed. She could see their mouths smiling, but she couldn't recognise any of the faces. The room was going faster, and she mumbled, 'Make it shlow down.'