by Penny Jordan
‘You needn’t have worried,’ he told her dryly, ‘I didn’t come here to make love to you.’
Kirsty turned away, willing herself not to colour up. Of course she hadn’t thought that he had, it was just that she hadn’t felt comfortable dressed merely in her shirt, while he was wearing an expensive cashmere sweater and equally costly-looking pants. The leather jacket had been discarded and lay on a chair, but Kirsty could tell simply by looking at it that it was as expensive as the rest of his outfit.
‘Omelette’s ready. Here, pass me the plates, will you,’ Drew instructed. ‘They’re heating under the grill.’
They ate off trays on their knees—a strangely intimate scene, and one that caused Kirsty an inexplicable pang. What did it matter to her if Drew was merely using her? she asked herself. She fully intended to turn the tables on him. But somehow it did matter. She stole a look at him beneath her lashes as she finished off the omelette. He was so handsome, so virilely masculine that she doubted that any woman could remain impervious to him for long, but there was more to him than that. She was intelligent and articulate, and to the woman he loved would be a companion and friend as well as a lover. What was happening to her? Kirsty wondered, the omelette suddenly tasting like rubber. She loathed the man! He was overbearing and domineering; everything she detested in a man.
‘I hope this sacrifice has the desired effect,’ she told him acidly as she collected their empty plates. ‘Just think, you could have been dining in luxury with Beverley Travers!’
‘But instead I chose to eat with the woman I love,’ Drew mocked. ‘Although I doubt that they’d believe me—that I came here to eat, I mean,’ he told her. ‘I suspect they thought I had very different appetites in mind when I said my goodbyes.’
For the life of her Kirsty couldn’t meet his eyes.
‘It’s late,’ she told him in a strained voice. ‘I think you ought to be going.’ Somehow any reference to the way she had felt in his arms, no matter how oblique, made her stomach churn in protest.
‘How very timid you are! I thought in these modern days girls no longer feared being alone with their intended husband and his unbridled passion.’
‘That hardly applies in our case,’ Kirsty told him stiffly. ‘I’m simply tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day…’
‘And looks like being an even longer night,’ Drew drawled in a curiously bitter tone. It struck Kirsty then that there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, a look of strain round his mouth, and she wondered how much he felt the deprivation of being without Beverley, who had undoubtedly spent more than one night wrapped in his arms.
It was several seconds before it dawned on her that the emotions aroused by the mental picture she had conjured up were those of pain and envy, and several more for her to come to terms with them sufficiently for her to get to her feet and walk numbly towards the door.
‘Kirsty…’ Drew’s hand was on her arm, a more understanding expression in his eyes than she had ever seen before. ‘I know this is hard for you,’ he told her, ‘but I…’ He frowned suddenly, black brows snapping together as the doorbell pealed.
‘A late visitor,’ he remarked. ‘Were you expecting someone?’
‘No.’ She flushed as his eyes lingered intently on her face, suddenly feeling like a guilty schoolgirl, for no reason at all.
The bell pealed again and she moved towards it and opened the door.
‘At last—I’d begun to think you’d gone to bed!’ Clive stepped in through the open door, bending to nuzzle her neck and murmur appreciatively, ‘Umm, you smell nice. What is it?’
‘Forbidden.’
Drew’s icy voice stopped him in his tracks, and his head lifted as he drawled appreciatively and without the slightest trace of embarrassment, ‘Oh dear! Sorry about that, lovey, but I thought…’
‘I think you should leave,’ Drew interrupted suavely.
For a moment Kirsty thought Clive would debate the issue, and then he shrugged lightly, smiling as he turned back towards the door, murmuring sotto voce to Kirsty, ‘Another time, perchance, oh fair one,’ and then he was gone, leaving Kirsty alone to face the icy coldness of Drew’s eyes, feeling as guilty as though they had in truth been engaged.
‘I didn’t ask him to call—’ she began defensively.
‘I don’t expect you did,’ Drew agreed. ‘His type never need asking, although God knows you were giving all the encouragement he could have wanted this afternoon. I ignored it because I thought it was all pique, but perhaps I was wrong? Is he what you want from life, Kirsty?’
‘He was being friendly, that’s all. He felt sorry for me because I was on my own…’
‘Is that so? Now I got a completely different impression,’ Drew told her with iron inflexibility. ‘I thought he knew quite well that you were engaged to me and that he wanted to do a little poaching in safe water—safe for him, that is.’
Kirsty fired up indignantly. ‘You’re wrong! He was just being friendly…’
‘Very friendly,’ Drew drawled in agreement. ‘Friendly enough to call around at…’ he shook back the sleeve of his sweater to glance at his watch, ‘nearly eleven at night. You would have offered him a cup of coffee, of course, by which time it would have been twelve-ish—he has lodgings in York, unless I’m mistaken, with some of the other bit players, and the last bus leaves at eleven-fifteen. What would you have done, Kirsty—suggested that he walk home, or offered him a bed here? Your bed, perhaps?’
‘That’s a vile thing to suggest!’ Kirsty protested indignantly. ‘Must everyone have an ulterior motive? Couldn’t he simply have been wanting to be friendly?’
‘Not where you’re concerned,’ he told her brutally, ‘and if all he had in mind was a platonic friendship, I’m no judge of character. But then of course men in love are notorious for their lack of judgment,’ he added with fine irony. ‘One thing’s for sure—he wasn’t expecting to see me here.’
‘He heard Rachel Bellamy asking you to dine with them,’ Kirsty told him brittlely.
‘And felt sorry for my poor deserted little fiancée, all uncared for and unloved. Perhaps I’d better correct that impression—don’t worry,’ Drew told her, when her eyes widened, ‘I have no intention of spending the night on your settee—there are other ways,’ he told her enigmatically. ‘Starting with getting my ring on your finger.’
When he had gone, Kirsty found it curiously difficult to get to sleep, despite her tiredness. What was the matter with her? she asked herself restlessly. The sooner she was free of this bogus engagement the better. And everything was working out so well. Clive appearing unexpectedly as he had done had plainly aroused Drew’s suspicions. All she had to do was to fan them to the point when it provoked a confrontation—and yet she had a curious revulsion for what she had to do. It brought her down to the level of Beverley Travers and Drew, she thought fastidiously.
CHAPTER SIX
THE fine weather continued as Drew drove them towards York. He had picked Kirsty up just before eleven. She had been ready and waiting for him, choosing, on some impulse she couldn’t quite define herself, to wear an expensive, fine tweed suit Chelsea had given her when she left college. The plums and greys were a perfect foil for her own dark colouring, and with it she wore a plain grey silk blouse she had bought in Harrods sale.
If she had expected Drew to be impressed by the care she had taken with her appearance she was disappointed. He murmured only a brief greeting and then escorted her to the waiting car, opening the door for her and seeing her safely inside before driving off.
As she glanced surreptitiously at him it came to Kirsty how little she knew about him, and yet here they were practically on the verge of getting engaged, albeit temporarily. Did he have a family, close friends who might be expected to want to know about their supposed ‘engagement’? It was hard for her to imagine him in a family setting, for some reason he struck her quite forcibly as a loner, but somewhere he must have parents; perhaps other relatives…
�
�You’re looking worried—what’s the matter this time?’
Kirsty hadn’t realised he had switched his glance from the road to her, and caught unawares by the steely perception of his eyes she blurted out unthinkingly, ‘I was just wondering about your family—what they might think about…’
‘I have no family.’ His voice was clipped, his face shuttered and repressive.
‘No… but…’
‘Oh, I had parents once—if you could call them that. A mother who cheated on her marriage and then when she found herself pregnant by her lover deserted the child she bore, while her lover disappeared, somewhere in the Australian outback. They’re both dead now,’ he told Kirsty coldly, ‘and if it wasn’t for the compassion of my mother’s husband, I doubt if I’d know even today who my parents actually were.’
The brooding quality of the words struck Kirsty to the heart. Surrounded all her life by her parents’ almost doting affection, she found it hard to accept that any parents could simply abandon their child as Drew was suggesting.
‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded sardonically. ‘Don’t you believe me? Or is it simply that you want to hear all the unpleasant details?’
When she made a brief sound of denial in her throat, he grimaced. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well this engagement isn’t real, otherwise you might legitimately question who you were marrying. It’s a terrible thing to deprive a child of all knowledge of its parents; it creates a vacuum that no one who hasn’t experienced it can understand; a sense of being set apart from the rest of society and oneself; a loss of identity that lurks in the shadows like a childhood nightmare.’
Listening to him, Kirsty remembered what Helen had told her on the night of her party. Now her words started to make sense. Was this what she had meant about Drew being reluctant to commit himself to marriage? Was it because he himself…
‘You have a very expressive face,’ he told her roughly. ‘I can almost see the word “bastard” written on it in six-inch-high letters!’
‘No… no… I was just thinking how terrible it must have been for you as a child,’ Kirsty told him honestly.
‘Not at first. I was brought up in a children’s home with “others of my kind”.’ His mouth was wry. ‘It was only when I reached my teens that I realised fully what that meant. Those were agonising years—knowing nothing about myself except the fact that I had been abandoned as a baby. I was fifteen before I learned the truth, and then only by chance. My mother’s husband had found her letters to her lover on her death and on going through them had realised she had had a child and that they had decided between them to abandon it. He started to look for me—not out of any sense of maudlin sentiment but because he truly believed she had done wrong in leaving me with no means of discovering anything of my roots. I liked him. He died two years ago, unfortunately…’
‘And your father?’ Kirsty prompted softly, a huge lump in her throat. It was silly to feel so much pain for a man she positively hated, and yet she did—oh, not pain for the man he was, but pain for the child he had been—bitter, deserted…
‘Like I said, he went to Australia when my mother discovered she was pregnant and he died there six years afterwards. Both of them were only children, so if you’re expecting to gain a family as well as a fiancé I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment.’
‘Was it very dreadful?’ Kirsty asked quietly. ‘I.…’
‘Save your sympathy for those more deserving of it,’ Drew told her dryly. ‘I’ve come to terms with my birth a long time ago. I just wish to God these kids who glibly get themselves pregnant and then find out the hard way that being a single parent in Surbiton doesn’t measure up to the Hollywood image of having a “love-child” would think a little more about the child they’re creating and a little less about themselves.’
He was a man of strange contrasts, Kirsty reflected to herself as he turned away from her to concentrate on his driving, and plainly there were scars, however much he tried to hide them. No doubt this was why he had been wary of marriage, but now he had found Beverley and he wanted total commitment from her; the sort of commitment his mother had denied him when she deserted him for the sake of propriety, Kirsty realised with sudden insight.
‘Do you… do you hate your mother very much?’ she whispered hesitantly. ‘It must have been dreadful for you.’
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. He was frowning, staring out of the window.
‘I don’t think I ever hated her,’ he said at last. ‘She was a victim, of circumstance and her own emotions, but I can’t deny that I’d prefer to see a world where children don’t have to grow up not knowing their parents’ names. You might bear that in mind the next time you invite yourself into a man’s bedroom.’
Was that why he had stopped when he did? Because he didn’t want to be guilty of the same crime as his mother’s lover?
‘Stop looking so desperate,’ he advised her wryly. ‘It’s something I came to terms with years ago; these things happen.’
‘But not to you?’ Kirsty guessed, watching him. He was dressed in casual cords and a chunky sweater today, a soft pale grey leather blouson jacket open over his sweater; emphasising the breadth of his shoulders and the muscled suppleness of his body.
‘Not if I can help it,’ he agreed. ‘Which is why…’
He broke off to negotiate a dangerous bend, but Kirsty didn’t need to hear the words to guess what he had been intending to say; something to the effect that that was why he was using her to make Beverley jealous. He loved the other woman, but he wanted more than an affair with her—and yet he would have to be very sure of a woman before he committed himself fully to her, Kirsty could see that now; sure that she loved him and that she would be faithful to him. He wouldn’t be the first man in Beverley Travers’ life; perhaps the rich divorcee had already hinted that they simply continue as lovers and this was his way of showing her that he wanted more. Perhaps he was hoping that Beverley would be jealous enough of her to commit herself completely to him.
They drove in silence the rest of the way to York, where Drew parked on the outskirts, just outside the city walls, then he took Kirsty’s arm to guide her across the busy street. Once the other side had been reached Kirsty expected him to release her, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was expecting to bump into someone from the cast, she thought acidly, disliking this public display of ‘affection’, knowing how insecure it was. She couldn’t think of any other reason for the distinctly proprietorial manner in which he tucked his hand under her elbow, holding her close enough for her to feel his body heat as they manoeuvred their way through the other shoppers.
It was plain that Drew knew York well, because he wasted little time, hurrying her towards Parliament Square with its banks and finance houses and then down one of the narrow little wynds leading off it, where Kirsty could have spent hours entranced in front of the mouthwatering shop windows with their displays of craft goods and elegant clothes, but Drew ignored them all, and Kirsty was hard put to it to keep pace with his long strides.
He stopped at last outside a small, discreetly expensive jewellers. Several stunning items of jewellery adorned the small window, and Drew explained as they went inside that it was owned by a craftsman who made his own pieces.
The girl who came forward to serve them was friendly and obviously interested in her work. So why should she feel this spark of resentment at the way she looked admiringly at Drew? Kirsty asked herself.
When Drew explained what they wanted her face fell a little. She retreated to the rear of the shop and an older man emerged in her place.
‘My assistant tells me you are looking for an engagement ring?’ When Drew nodded, he smiled, and asked Kirsty if she had any preference.
She shook her head, a curiously heavy sensation taking possession of her chest. Somehow what they were doing made a mockery of all her childhood romantic dreams of this moment, when a man bestowed upon her what was supposed to be a pledge of his love.
When he opened it, Kirsty caught her breath in awe.
‘They’re all so lovely,’ she expostulated, ‘I…’
‘Try this one.’ Very quietly Drew handed her a barked band of gold in a modern design, set with random diamonds, the gold a mingling of red and yellow. For all that it was modern, there was a timeless quality about the ring that came from skilled workmanship, and Kirsty discovered that she was holding her breath as Drew took it from her and slid it deftly on to her finger.
It fitted as though it had been made for her, and in some strange way she felt as though it had.
‘And then of course there’s the wedding ring,’ the jeweller was saying. ‘Would you…’
Kirsty drew back in horror as she realised he wanted her to try it on.
‘It’s bad luck,’ she protested weakly, knowing the excuse sounded foolish, but the jeweller seemed to understand, because he smiled, and said gently, ‘Of course, we can leave it for now and then you could have it altered later. I’m sure it will fit.’ And it was then that Kirsty realised that the ring was designed to fit snugly against the engagement ring, a final band of pale gold to tone in with the other two, the jagged edgings of both rings fitting perfectly together.
‘I like to think it symbolic of the best of marriages,’ the jeweller explained, ‘a perfect dovetailing.’
‘We’ll take them both,’ Kirsty heard Drew say, adding to her, ‘You’ll keep the engagement ring on, won’t you, darling?’
She wanted to protest, but lacked the courage to make a scene in the small confines of the shop. Once outside it was a different matter, and she shrugged ineffectually at the offending band of gold which stubbornly resisted all her attempts to remove it.
‘Leave it,’ Drew commanded in far less lover-like tones than he had used before.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Surely Beverley isn’t going to materialise out of nowhere to check that we’re actually engaged? It takes more than a ring to turn two people into lovers.’