Substitute Fiancee

by Lee Wilkinson

'Well, no. I didn't want to actually move in until he came back, so I stayed in my own flat last night and only handed in the keys this morning.'

  'And now you're looking forward to him getting back, so that after this weekend's out of the way you can be together?'

  Suspecting hidden mockery, she nevertheless answered as steadily as possible, 'Yes, I am.'

  They had reached the man-made lake, an elongated figure of eight, the narrowest part spanned by a mellow stone bridge with three arches.

  Its looking glass surface was marred by an occasional ripple as the light breeze skittered over it. Patches of late water lilies, their dark green pads and perfect waxy blooms looking almost artificial, formed floating islands.

  The expanse of blue water was surrounded by a paved walkway with herbaceous borders, stone benches and old statuary. Beyond the low walls were ornamental trees and beautifully terraced gardens.

  'It's always referred to as "the lake",' Blaze remarked, as they began to follow the path round it, 'though really it's little more than a pond.'

  Reaching a honeysuckle-entwined arbour, he sat down, and, indicating the space beside him suggested straight-faced, 'It might be as well to rest those knees a little.'

  Knowing she'd invited his derision, Fran hid her chagrin and joined him on the sun-warmed marble bench, keeping a careful distance between them.

  For a while they sat without speaking, watching brilliant blue dragonflies darting over the water, whirring like tiny helicopters. Then Blaze broke the lengthening silence to ask, 'So how do you see your relationship with Varley?'

  She hesitated. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'

  'Do you see it as a wildly romantic love affair, or as something more...shall we say...mundane?'

  'I'm in love with Kirk, if that's what you're getting at,' she answered stiffly. 'I wouldn't be marrying him otherwise.'

  'And how does he feel? Is he in love with you?'

  About to say Of course, she paused. He'd never actually said so... But he must love her, otherwise why had he asked her to marry him?

  Cocking a dark brow, Blaze commented, 'You seem a bit doubtful?'

  'Not at all,' she denied hurriedly. 'I'm quite sure he loves me.'

  'Do you intend to have children?' Blaze probed.

  'I hope so, eventually.'

  'How does Varley feel about children?'

  'I'm not quite sure,' she admitted.

  'You don't seem to know him very well.'

  'We haven't really had a chance to discuss it.'

  'How long have you been going out together?'

  'Not long,' she replied, purposely vague.

  'Five months? Six months?'

  'A few weeks.'

  Blaze picked it up, as she'd known he would. 'But didn't you say you'd been working for him since last August?'

  'Yes.'

  'What took him so long?'

  Aware of his piercing stare, she shrugged, and trying for nonchalance, spoke the exact truth. 'I was just another employee. I don't think Kirk had ever really noticed me until I started to work on the designs for the necklace.'

  'I see. But you'd noticed him?'

  Flushing a little, she said nothing.

  'Tell me, Francesca, how old is Varley?'

  'He was thirty-two at the beginning of September. The same as you.'

  Blaze quirked a brow and she bit her lip, wishing she hadn't revealed the fact that she'd remembered his birthday.

  'What's he like?'

  'Intelligent, witty, sociable, fun to be with, a man who makes a lot of friends—'

  'Mostly women-friends...' Blaze watched her generous mouth tighten, before adding, 'Or so the detective agency told me.'

  'I've no doubt the detective agency was wrong about a lot of things—'

  'It's possible, but not probable.'

  Ignoring the interruption, she went on angrily, 'And, whatever they told you, Kirk's no womaniser. He's caring and responsible, he respects women...'

  'I see! As you're planning to be married, I wondered why you hadn't yet been to bed together.'

  Infuriated by his open mockery, she pointed out, 'You asked me whether we were living together, not sleeping together.'

  'So I did... And are you?'

  'Of course. Don't most engaged couples these days?' Blaze's expression didn't change, but she was oddly convinced that the thought of her sleeping with the other man had made him furious.

  Just for an instant she wanted to admit that it was a lie. But if she did he would only go back to making fun of Kirk.

  A tendril of curly ash-brown hair had escaped from the restraining knot, and the breeze blew it across her hot cheek. Before she could brush it away Blaze took the errant strand between his finger and thumb, and while she sat frozen, unnaturally still, began to toy with it.

  With sudden painful clarity she recalled how in the past, when they had made love, he'd always liked to play with her thick sun-streaked hair, saying it felt like spun silk.

  Apparently content with the response he had evoked, he tucked the strand behind her ear, before enquiring coolly, 'Leaving Varley's character aside, what's he like to look at?'

  The tension snapped like an overstretched rubber band. 'Surely your detective told you?' she demanded waspishly.

  Unruffled, he said, Td like to hear your version.'

  'Kirk's your exact opposite...' Was that why she'd chosen him? Pushing the treacherous thought away, she went on determinedly, 'He's not too tall, slimly built, with blond hair, light blue eyes, a fair complexion—'

  'And oodles of charm, I expect?'

  'Oodles,' she agreed evenly, determined not to let her companion's snide comment bother her.

  'Melinda found him charming,' Blaze admitted. 'She remarked that he was like a young Robert Redford.'

  'Jealous?' Fran enquired sweetly.

  'What do you think?'

  Of course he wasn't jealous. With his looks and charisma Blaze had no call to be jealous of any man.

  'I think most men would be.'

  'But then I'm not "most men", and I've learnt how to keep what's mine while I still want it.'

  She didn't doubt it.

  'What about you, Francesca? Aren't you jealous?'

  'You mean of Melinda?'

  'I wasn't thinking of Melinda. I meant of all the other women in Varley's life.'

  'So far as I'm aware, there are no other women.'

  'And you still intend to go ahead and marry him?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'Then what I told you earlier hasn't made any difference?'

  Just for an instant she thought Blaze was referring to what she'd learnt about Sherrye and his previous engagement, and her heart seemed to stop.

  Pulling herself together, she stammered, 'A-are you talking about Kirk's financial situation?'

  'What else?' Blaze asked laconically.

  'No, it hasn't made any difference.'

  'You'll be prepared to stand by him when he becomes bankrupt?'

  'If he becomes bankrupt, I'll certainly be prepared to stand by him.'

  'But you still don't believe it?'

  'No, I don't believe it!' she stated boldly. 'When Kirk gets here—'

  'If he gets here.' Blaze used the same emphasis on the same word.

  'Of course he'll get here.' The statement, meant to reassure herself as much as Blaze, seemed to echo hollowly. Jumping to her feet, she insisted, 'He's probably here now. And surely Miss Ross will be?'

  With no sign of haste, Blaze rose. 'Then perhaps we should start to stroll back. The prettiest way, and as it happens the shortest, is across the bridge and through the rose garden.'

  Halfway across the bridge, by tacit consent, they paused to look at the spectacular sunset. Leaning her arms on the stone balustrade, Fran stood entranced.

  The sun was slipping towards the horizon, turning the sky into a riot of pink and lavender, interlaced with palest green and wisps of grey chiffon cloud.

  As she stared, Blaze moved t
o stand behind her, his hands on the balustrade either side of her elbows, effectively imprisoning her there.

  She straightened, every nerve in her body tightening at his nearness.

  He bent closer, and, his cheek brushing hers, asked softly, 'Do you remember that evening in Paris? The sunset?'

  She had dammed up the past with misery and pain, with self-reproach and bitter determination, never allowing herself remember. Now, as though his words had breached the dam, she was unable to stop the memory flooding back.

  It had been his birthday, and the most wonderful evening of her life. Stretched on a lounger on their private balcony, still glowing from his lovemaking, she had watched the glorious pageant from the luxury of his arms.

  Later, her fingers entwined in his, he had shown her the Left Bank by night, before taking her for a trip along the Seine and a romantic candlelit dinner on one of the bateaux mouches.

  Afterwards they had returned to his small house close to the Ile de la Cité and made love again...

  Unable to bear the recollection, she turned blindly to escape, only to find herself imprisoned by his arms.

  Looking down into her face, he said with soft satisfaction, 'I see you do.'

  As she stood helpless, vulnerable, he bent his dark head and, making no attempt to hold her in any way, covered her mouth with his.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HIS KISS was light, almost casual, with no hint of force or compulsion, yet there was an arrogance about it that claimed her body and soul, and declared complete ownership.

  When he drew back she staggered a little, dazed and confused. It took her what seemed an age before she was able to pull herself together and regain some semblance of assurance.

  As soon as she could speak, she demanded huskily, 'Why did you do that?'

  'An impulse... For old times' sake... Whichever you prefer.'

  For whichever reason, she could only wish he'd never done it. It had thrown her completely. Destroyed any remaining certainty or peace of mind.

  But she mustn't let past feelings, a passion long over and done with, ruin the present. She must hold on to the here and now, to what she had rather than what she might have wanted three years ago.

  Td prefer it if you would forget the past and resist any further impulses,' she informed him sternly. 'Particularly as I'm engaged, and you're going to be married in a few days' time.'

  Brushing aside his arm, she turned to walk away, adding over her shoulder, 'Now I'd like to get back. Kirk's sure to be waiting.'

  Falling into step beside her, Blaze taunted, 'I wouldn't bet on it.'

  'Well, I would,' she retorted defiantly.

  'Then we'll have a small wager. Do you remember the keyring you bought me in Paris? The one with the picture of the Eiffel Tower?'

  'Yes, I remember it,' she said huskily. It had been just a cheap souvenir, laughingly bought on the spur of the moment when he'd mentioned it was his birthday.

  'Well, if Varley's there I'll give it back to you...'

  Her heart lurched painfully. Was it possible that Blaze had kept it all this tune?

  'If he's not—'

  Shaking her head, she objected, 'I can't bet. I have nothing to give you if I lose.'

  'Tell you what,' he said lightly, 'if you lose you can give me a kiss.'

  Panic-stricken, she began, 'No! I don't—'

  'I thought you were certain he would be there?' Blaze broke in mockingly.

  'I am.'

  'So why are you so scared?'

  'I'm not scared, but—'

  The trap snapped shut. 'Then the wager's on!'

  Apparently confident of winning, he made no attempt to hide his triumph.

  Realising belatedly that she had been led into this like a lamb to the slaughter, Fran bit her lip.

  But why? What was his motive?

  He was well aware of the effect his last kiss had had, so it was probably to disconcert her. But why should he want to?

  Or could it be that he was simply baiting her? Having some fun at her expense? Waiting to see what her reaction would be if she lost?

  Though of course she wouldn't lose, she told herself stoutly as they went through a stone archway and into the walled rose garden.

  'I'm afraid it's past its best,' Blaze remarked.

  'It's lovely.' Fran let the pleasant scene wash over her, too busy with her thoughts to give it more than a passing accolade.

  This weekend was of the utmost importance to Kirk, and he would move heaven and earth not to be later than was absolutely necessary.

  He would be waiting, she was sure of it, and able to answer all Blaze's ridiculous suspicions and unfounded allegations. Everything would miraculously right itself, and this uncomfortable day would be unimportant, relegated to the past.

  But even as she made an effort to reassure herself Fran knew that no matter what answers Kirk had nothing would ever be quite the same again. At the back of her mind there would always be a lingering regret for what she'd lost, for what might have been...

  At the far end of the rose garden a door in the wall gave on to the kitchen garden, with its carefully laid out vegetable plots and fruit bushes.

  Beyond the greenhouses was a kind of small covered courtyard at the side of the house, and from there a metal-studded door led into what Fran judged to be the servants' hall.

  Several heavy oak dressers were ranged against the walls, a refectory table stood on the stone-flagged floor and the huge fire-grate was filled with logs and pine cones.

  They were scarcely inside before Mortimer advanced to meet them purposefully.

  'I take it Miss Ross is here?' Blaze asked.

  'No, sir. However, there is a gentleman waiting in your study.'

  Her heart leaping, Fran gave her companion a swift glance of triumph.

  Lifting a dark brow, Blaze enquired satirically, 'A blond, blue-eyed Adonis with oodles of charm?'

  'No, sir,' the butler replied, his face impassive, 'A military-looking gentleman. He gave his name as Bellamy and said he'd spoken to you earlier, and you'd asked him to call.'

  Blaze nodded his satisfaction. 'Then Mr Varley hasn't arrived?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Any messages?'

  'No, sir, none.'

  As Fran's heart sank like a stone, Blaze said, "Thank you, Mortimer. Will you tell Cook we'll have dinner at eight-thirty?'

  The butler bowed his head and retreated soundlessly.

  Blaze led Fran through to the main hall and opened the door into the living room. An edge of steel to his voice, he told her, 'I'd like to talk to you. It won't take me long to deal with Bellamy, if you'd care to wait in here.'

  Though politely phrased, it was undoubtedly an order.

  Her soft mouth firming, she objected, 'I was hoping to have a shower and get changed before dinner.'

  "There'll be plenty of time for that after we've talked.'

  'Very well,' she said tightly.

  Simple and spacious, the living room was a harmonious blend of old and new. It had linenfold panelling, a beamed ceiling and deep window recesses; the doors on to the terrace, which still stood open, though designed with some care, had obviously been added at a much later date.

  The carpet was old and venerable, and the delicate antique furniture bore the patina of age, but a modern, comfortable-looking suite stood in front of the huge stone fireplace, and the television and stereo units were state-of-the-art.

  Sinking into a low chair, gazing blindly at the huge pottery jug of mixed flowers that filled the hearth, Fran wondered what could possibly have happened to delay Kirk for this length of time.

  It seemed so peculiar that he hadn't at least phoned to explain his absence and make his excuses.

  Suppose he'd had an accident?

  No, she mustn't start thinking like that...

  Agitated, too restless to sit still, she jumped to her feet and went out on to the terrace.

  The little breeze had died, and the air was warm and still. A
lready the brightness of the day was being eclipsed, shrouded in blue-grey diaphanous veils.

  As she stood watching the September dusk creep stealthily out of hiding, a black London taxi, headlights on and moving slowly, swung round the corner of the house.

  Melinda Ross had her own car, so it must be Kirk!

  In her eagerness, hurrying down the steps to meet him, Fran missed her footing and landed awkwardly, turning her ankle. Ignoring the stab of pain, she struggled down the remaining steps.

  As she reached the bottom, the taxi, which was picking up speed, drew level, and she realised two things simultaneously. Rather than just arriving, it was in fact just leaving, and the occupant definitely wasn't Kirk, but a much older man with smooth silver hair and a neat moustache.

  No doubt it was Mr Bellamy departing.

  Staring after the vehicle, watching its red rear-lights disappear down the back drive, she frowned. Though she'd glimpsed I the passenger's face only fleetingly, it had been strangely familiar.

  It took her a little while to place it. When she did she felt a shock of surprise. Blaze's visitor had been her 'colonel', the military-looking man who had helped her to her feet and picked up her case.

  Sheer coincidence?

  Surely not.

  Of course coincidences did happen, as much in real life as in fiction, but it was stretching credibility too far to believe that this was one.

  But what else could it be?

  Fran was still puzzling over it when lights flashed on behind her, and she turned to find Blaze standing in the doorway.

  Her ankle distinctly painful now, and threatening to let her down, she went back up the steps with some care.

  'Knees still troubling you?' he queried with mock sympathy as he stood aside to let her enter.

  'No,' she said shortly. Then, unwilling to sound rude, added, 'I jarred my ankle when I slipped off one of the steps.'

  He indicated an armchair. "Then you'd better sit down.'

  She obeyed thankfully.

  Taking a seat opposite, he queried, 'How did you come to do that?'

  'I saw the taxi and I—' She stopped speaking abruptly.

  'Thought it was Varley?' he finished for her.

  'Yes,' she admitted.

  'Are you really expecting him to come?'

  'Of course I'm expecting him to come.'