'You've planned everything,' Abby smiled.
'I always do,' came the retort, and the thin arm slipped itself through Abby's and edged her to the door.
It was not until they were in a ramshackle taxi speeding back to Malibar Hill that the old lady spoke of Vicky Laughton.
'I suppose you guessed she was once engaged to my nephew?'
'Yes, I did- Did he know she'd be there tonight?'
'No. I don't think he even knew she was in India. You should have seen his face when she came out on the terrace.'
'I did see it,' Abby confessed. 'He seemed rather surprised.'"
'Shattered is the word. But I'm glad it's happened. I told him only the other day that he should stop running away from the past and admit that he'd made an ass of himself even to have loved Vicky in the first place.'
'Seeing her could have the opposite effect and make him realise he still loves her,' Abby warned.
'If he does, he'll be able to do something about it. Vicky is bored with her husband and is ready to leave him.'
'Did she say so?' Abby asked, wondering when her employer could have had such an intimate conversation with the girl.
'Of course not But I know her so well that I can tell what's in her mind before she even admits it to herself. Mark my words, Abby, she came to India to show Giles she's ready to return to him.'
'He may accept the offer,' Abby pointed out.
'He's a fool if he does. She was never good enough for him, but he loved her too much to see it. I'm hoping that all these years away from her have given him better vision.'
Abby did not answer and they drove some way in silence before Miss Bateman spoke again.
'You think I shouldn't interfere in my nephew's life, don't you?'
'Yes,' Abby admitted. 'Loving someone doesn't give you the right to tell them what to do.'
'I wouldn't dream of telling Giles—that would be the best way of getting him to do the opposite. All I can do is to put a lovely girl in front of him and hope he'll remember he's a man.'
Abby caught her breath and Miss Bateman heard it and nodded.
'Yes, my dear. You would make Giles an ideal wife.'
'But you can't… it's—it's awful… I would never have agreed to work for you if I'd known such an idea was in your mind!'
'Unfortunately it doesn't seem to be in my nephew's.'
'I'm not so sure. I think he has guessed. That's probably why he dislikes me. Have you done this sort of thing before?'
'Many times.' The reply was blunt. 'But I've always failed.'
'You'll fail again,' Abby said with asperity. 'I really don't think I can stay with you.'
'Of course you can.' Miss Bateman clasped her wrist 'Forgive me for being such an interfering old woman, but I love Giles and I am also becoming very fond of you. I shouldn't have told you what was in my mind, but seeing Vicky tonight made me lose my temper. Please forget what I said. Don't make any hasty decisions because of a foolish old woman's day-dreams.'
'But I can't continue to work for you. Every time I see Mr Farrow I shall be embarrassed'
'Twaddle! You call yourself a modern young woman, don't you? If you're not attracted to him, you've no cause to be embarrassed.'
'That's true.' Abby almost snapped the words. 'I find your nephew quite intolerable, and I assure you he feels the same about me.'
'Then neither of you need worry about my matchmaking,' Miss Bateman said practically.
Abby could not help chuckling at how the old lady had turned the tables on her.
'You're incorrigible,' she said aloud, 'and I'll only stay with you if you promise not to do anything that will embarrass me. You must treat me as an employee and not as—as someone you'd like to have as a niece.'
'If that's what you want,' came the prompt reply, 'then that's what you'll have.'
Lying in bed an hour later, Abby found it hard to forget her conversation with Miss Bateman. Knowing the woman had seen her as a potential wife for her nephew made it all too easy for Abby to see herself in the same way, and it was disquieting to discover how agreable the picture was. If only Giles Farrow's character matched his extreme good looks! Perhaps if he had never met Vicky Laughton… Yet to think he might have been different was pure conjecture, for she had never seen any side to him other than an irritable one.
Tyres scraped on the drive below her window and headlights gleamed momentarily on the wall opposite her bed. Giles had come home. She heard the car door slam and then the front door follow it. After that there was silence, for the walls were thick. But the knowledge that he was so close re-awakened the embarrassment she had felt earlier. Could she continue to stay here? Would she be able to see him without remembering his accusation that she was here for the pickings she could get from his aunt? And was he afraid she might be hoping to pluck him? Surprisingly she giggled.
If that was what he thought, she was going to take great pleasure to show him he was wrong. The last thing she wanted for herself was a man who had allowed himself to be permanently soured by another woman.
On this determined thought she fell asleep.
CHAPTER NINE
For the next fortnight Abby ostentatiously avoided Giles Farrow. On the infrequent occasions when he dined at home with his aunt, she would sit at the table like a deaf mute and glide away from it immediately the meal was over. She developed a sixth sense that told her when he was in the house or about to return to it, and almost before his car stopped in the drive, she was halfway up the stairs to her room, where she would remain until Miss Bateman asked to see her or the gong summoned her to a meal.
To begin with, Giles Farrow tried to engage her in conversation, as if still trying to atone for his rudeness at the party, but soon realised what her attitude was and decided to ignore her. Only on the evenings when he was not at home did Abby feel sufficiently at ease to wander around the downstairs rooms and admire the beautiful paintings, furniture and objets d'art, repeatedly returning to study the miniatures that lined the wall of what had obviously been the Maharajah's private sitting-room.
It was not much used these days, for Miss Bateman preferred to sit under the shade of the trees in the garden during the day and in the salon at night, with its screened doors opening on to the arched patio. But Abby loved the little sitting-room with its puffy cushions, rich textured carpet and heavily embossed walls, one of which was completely covered with the miniatures. She longed to reproduce one of them and the urge to do so sent her searching on the main shopping street for watercolour paper and paints. That night, to her great pleasure, Giles Farrow was again dining out, and after she and Miss Bateman had finished their meal she went to the little sitting-room, draped a cloth over one of the small, intricately carved tables, to protect it, and set her paper and paints on it.
She had already chosen the miniature she wanted to copy, and she carefully took it down from the wall and placed it on another table beside her. Ever since she could remember she had possessed the ability to copy fluently, and occasionally wondered whether she might not have achieved success and job satisfaction if she had become a picture restorer.
She lowered her head and began to draw, pink tongue between small white teeth, her whole face and body absorbed in her task. Swiftly the picture began to take shape, the small figures forming themselves in front of her as if they were rolling out of her pencil. In less than an hour the outline was done, and she picked up one of her brushes and loaded it with paint. As she put the first touch of colour on to the smooth surface of the paper, she let out a sigh of pure sensual pleasure and then held her brush motionless in order to savour this moment It was only then, as she raised her head from the table, that she saw Giles Farrow.
Her heart started to pound as if she were a thief who had been caught in the act of stealing, and she set her brush down carefully on the box of paints and went to rise.
'Don't let my presence send you away,' he said quietly.
'I was going to stop anyway.'
'May I see what you're doing?'
Short of being openly rude, which she had resolved not to be, it was impossible to refuse. 'Do you mind if I don't lift the paper, it's still wet?'
He nodded and came over to the table, looking first at the miniature and then at her copy of it. 'I hadn't realised you were an artist.'
'I'm not. I'm a copyist.'
'And an excellent one.' He bent closer, his face intent. 'You've got every single detail. How long have you been doing it?'
'I started after dinner.'
'It has the accuracy of a photograph. If you paint it as well as you've drawn it, it will be a perfect reproduction.'
She remained unresponsive and he straightened and moved across to the window that overlooked the secluded part of the garden.
'Have you sold any of your reproductions?' he asked.
'I generally give them away.'
He swung round to look at her, a gleam in his eye. 'Are you doing this as a present for my aunt?'
'No. I don't think Miss Bateman would appreciate it; not when she can afford the real thing.' Anger made her continue, even though she knew that when it abated she would regret what she was saying.
'The last copy I made of a picture was Gainsborough's Blue Boy. It was a favourite of an old woman whose shopping I do. She used to go to the Gallery once a month to look at it until she became too frail to travel. She bought a print reproduction, but it wasn't the same thing for her, so I made her a copy in oils. It was a totally premeditated action on my part, because I know that when she dies she'll endow me with all her worldly goods. I haven't yet told her that an old age pensioner can't bequeath her pension to anyone, because she'd be upset to hear it, since she hasn't anything else to leave me.'
Her voice shaking, Abby collapsed into silence, already bitterly regretting her lost temper. There was no reason for her to explain herself to Giles Farrow. Why should she care how badly he thought of her?
It was a question immediately echoed by what he said. 'Why did you tell me that, Miss West? I can't believe you care what I think of you.'
'I don't. But since I know you have such a low opinion, I thought I might confound you with the truth.'
'I could disbelieve you.'
This was something that had not occurred to her, and he saw it as he went on watching her face. 'Don't worry, Miss West. I do happen to believe you. No one would make up such a sentimental tale.'
Fury impelled her across the room towards him. 'Do you have to denigrate everyone?' she cried. 'You're so hard-boiled, you make a stone seem soft!'
'Too hard-boiled for you to reform me?'
'I wouldn't want to waste my time on you! You're the most contemptible man I've ever met!'
She went to swing away from him, but his hand shot out to her shoulder and swung her back to face him. 'Be careful how you talk to me. You're still a guest in my home.'
'Don't remind me! If I didn't like your aunt so much, I'd leave here tonight.'
'You mean you've given up all thought of getting anywhere with me?'
Colour ran up her neck and into her face, and the increased glitter of his golden eyes told her he had seen it and was enjoying her embarrassment.
'So you did know what my aunt was hoping for when she engaged you! I wasn't sure you did, but now you've answered me.'
Abby swallowed hard. 'I only found out the other night—after the party. If I'd guessed it in the beginning, nothing would have induced me to work for her. I may enjoy helping lame ducks, but not being sacrificed on the altar of egoism and rigidity!'
His breath hissed between his teeth and angrily he jerked her close. 'You know nothing about me. Nothing!'
'I know you're so eaten up with self-pity because a stupid girl behaved stupidly that you think every woman will act in the same way.'
'Most of them will,' he grated. 'Their main concern is to find the richest man they can.'
'That's not true!'
'Isn't it? Then why are you here? Or do you expect me to believe you really enjoy the prospect of living in the country for nine months of the year and working for a woman in her mid-seventies!'
'That's exactly what I fancy,' Abby cried. 'Living in a nunnery would be a pleasure compared with living with you!'
'Is that so?' With startling suddenness his mouth came down on hers. She struggled to free herself, but she was like a sparrow trying to free itself from an eagle, and he merely increased the pressure of his mouth and held her more tightly, forcing her lips apart by the pressure of his own.
No man had kissed her in this way before; no hands had moved over her breasts and body in such intimate gestures, and despite her burning anger she felt the insidious flame of desire kindle at his touch. Afraid he would guess how he was making her feel, she began to kick him, and he swung her against the wall and pinned her there with his body, making it impossible for her to fight him.
She was astonished that his aloof exterior hid such violent passion, and recognising the depth of the feelings she had aroused—albeit they were caused by anger and not love—she went limp in his arms, knowing that to fight him any more would make him continue to punish her.
It was only as he felt her body sag in his hold that he lifted his mouth away from hers and looked into her eyes. His pupils were dilated, so that there was only a narrow golden rim around them. She stared into them, reminded of the eclipse of the sun she had once seen, when the moon had overlain it and all that had been visible was the bright corona. Fascinated, she went on staring into his eyes and, as she did so, the pupils contracted and the golden rim widened and deepened until they became the rich warm topaz which had been the first thing she had noticed about him that morning at the airport, a lifetime ago.
Never had she suspected then that halfway across the world she would find herself held against him, her mouth bruised from the pressure of his, her body trembling from the touch of his hands. Oddly, all fear of him had gone, even though she was still pinned so tightly against him that she could feel the throbbing contractions that racked his body and slowly subsided. But she knew that the rage within him had gone. Although desire still remained, he was able to control it, and slowly he loosened his grip on her, though he continued to stare steadfastly into her eyes.
'I'm sorry, Abby. What I did was inexcusable.'
'It was as much my fault,' she said huskily. 'I goaded you into it.'
'Let's say we were both at fault.'
His arms released her completely and she stepped away from him, swaying slightly. At once he caught hold of her again.
'I haven't hurt you?' he asked anxiously. 'You're so little that I….'
'I'm fine,' she interrupted. 'It's just that I've never been kissed like this before.'
He gave an abrupt laugh, but it held no vestige of sarcasm. 'You're very innocent, Abby. If it will make you feel better, you may smack my face.'
'Then we'd be back to square one, and that would be pointless and humiliating.'
Less shaky now, she was able to move away from him, and went over to the table where she picked up her unfinished copy of the miniature.
'Leave it where it is,' he ordered. 'I'll see that no one touches it. Then it will be ready for you to go on working on it tomorrow.'
'Thank you.'
'But I suggest you do it during the day. You'll find it less tiring on your eyes.'
'During the day I'm with your aunt,' she pointed out.
'Do you enjoy working for her?' he asked.
'We're hardly working yet. I'm more of a companion than anything else.'
'She'll have your nose to the grindstone once you get back to England,' he said, and ran his hand over his hair to smooth it down. The front was ruffled, as if she had raked it with her fingers, but she had no memory of having done so, and quickly averted her eyes from him.
'Abby,' he said, 'I want to apologise again for ' 'It isn't necessary,' she interrupted him. 'Or are you worried that I'll tell your aunt what happened tonight?'
&n
bsp; 'She'd probably be delighted if you did.'
Face flaming, Abby glared at him. Amusement crinkled the corners of his mouth and he looked almost gentle.
'All the more reason for me not to tell her,' Abby said aloud, and went to the door. Her hand was on the knob when he spoke again.
'You're partly to blame for what happened, Abby. During these past few weeks you've done your best to get under my skin.'
'I've done the exact opposite,' she flared. 'I've done my best to keep out of your way.'
'I've never known anyone make themselves so obvious by their absence.'
'That wasn't my intention.'
'Possibly not. But it's what happened.'
'Then you should blame your own guilty conscience,' she said boldly. 'That's what made you aware that I was avoiding you. If you hadn't known that you'd behaved badly, you wouldn't have noticed what I was doing.'
He gave the slightest of smiles. 'Please don't avoid me in future. It isn't necessary.'
'Very well,' she said, without any intention of taking notice of him. 'Goodnight, Mr Farrow.'
'You'd better make it Giles; it's more civilised.'
Wandering around her bedroom—there was no point trying to go to sleep, for she was too overwrought— Abby thought of the scene that had taken place between them and wondered if it had been a dream. But her lips, still hurting from his brutal kiss, told her it had been a reality, and she knew her awareness of him would be intensified. The knowledge frightened her and she wished there was some way of maintaining a neutral attitude to him. She did not want to go on disliking him, yet equally important, she definitely did not want to like him. To do so could be dangerous.
Refusing to think why this might be so, she went over to the window to adjust the curtains. In the garden she saw a dark form move away from a clump of trees and recognised Giles Farrow pacing the narrow path that skirted the pool. So he was also too restless to sleep. She saw the pale blur of his face as he raised his head to the sky, and his profile glowed in the small flame of a fighter as he lit a cigar. Then darkness enveloped him again and with a sigh she twitched the curtains together and went to bed.
Rachel Lindsay - Man of Ice Page 9