by Green, Cally
Between the disconnected sentences he began to make out the gist of their conversation. His initial expression of surprise gradually gave way to a look of cynicism, an expression that became more pronounced as the story progressed. He felt his earlier good humour evaporate and his mouth set into a grim line. If what he was hearing was true, and of course it was true, because neither Emmy nor Claire would invent such a tale, then someone had capitalised on his deception - fast work, he thought grimly - and decided to use it for their own ends. But who the hell, besides Roger, could have known about it?
‘Do you mean to tell me that “Annabelle” is here? At Little Brook?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, dear,’ said Emmy with a smile, ‘and she’s feeling much better today. She’s up and about again, and -’
He frowned, scarcely listening to the rest of the conversation. Instead he was thinking. He hadn’t told anyone else about the deception, had he? No. No one but Roger. And Roger would never - although, come to think of it, Roger, knowing Mark to be out of London for the summer, might have passed it on as a good story to one or two London friends. But who amongst them would tell someone who would be likely to take advantage of it? And take advantage so fast?
‘ - good journey? You made good time.’
Claire’s voice broke in on his thoughts. Realising that she had been asking him about his trip he replied mechanically, ‘Very good. The chopper was waiting for me and conditions were perfect. We made good time to Nottingham and once in the Porsche I enjoyed the drive. It makes a nice change to motor along quiet roads instead of having to wrestle with London traffic.’
‘Helicopters!’ shuddered Emmy. ‘I don’t know how you can abide those things. Somehow they never look the right shape to fly. I said to Claire only last . . . ’
The conversation flowed on as they went inside, but he didn’t really listen. Whilst Emmy and Claire argued happily over the merits - or otherwise - of helicopters, he thought over the problem of “Annabelle”.
Who can she be? he wondered as he turned over a list of likely candidates in his mind. She would have to be someone with a lot of nerve to fake the accident outside Little Brook and then fake an even more convenient “memory loss”, and he couldn’t think of anyone who would be capable of pulling it off. It would have to be someone with intelligence, too. From what his aunts had said there had been enough clues for them to guess that the crash victim was Annabelle Chambers, the fiancée of their nephew, Mark Raynor, without “Annabelle” ever once having to tell a lie. It was a bold idea and one which “Annabelle” must be fairly certain would work.
But then again, why shouldn’t she? She obviously thought she had him over a barrel. And in a way she did. If he declared her to be an impostor she would reveal that “Annabelle” didn’t exist - thus causing him a great deal of embarrassment. He could contradict her, of course, and repeat his story about “Annabelle” being abroad. But the revelation would cast doubts into the minds of Emmy and Claire, and if they challenged him openly he would not be prepared to lie.
What was it Roger had said? Deception’s a dangerous game?
Yes. It was. Far more dangerous than he had realised.
But what could she hope to get out of it? Could she really believe she could manipulate him into marriage? Or an affair, perhaps? Or did she just think she could buy herself a week of the high life? There was no point in speculating. He wouldn’t know the answers until he saw what kind of woman she was.
‘ . . . must be dying to see her,’ beamed Emmy as they went into the living room; a large square room with tall windows open onto the gardens, filled with fresh flowers. ‘And here she is.’
A slender young woman rose from a chair at the far side of the room. She hesitated for a few seconds and then walked uncertainly towards him.
He stood stock still for a moment as all his half-formed expectations crumbled into dust. She was not what he had expected. When his aunts had told him about “Annabelle” he had pictured a leggy blonde or an immaculate, hard-faced brunette, possibly one of the women who hovered on the outskirts of the London set. But not the shy creature who was walking towards him like an awkward young foal. Dark brown hair, big brown eyes . . .
His attraction gave way to a hard cynicism. The apparent awkwardness, the almost imperceptible air of hesitancy, the look of being lost - whoever she was, she was quite an actress. And the way she was looking at him with those big brown eyes . . .
‘H . . Hi.’ The word came out with just the right mixture of sweetness and shyness. ‘M . . . Mark?’
Yes, he thought harshly, if he hadn’t known better she could have fooled him.
He had one spilt second of indecision. One second in which he wondered how she would react if he exposed her there and then . . . but the thought of the pain it would cause Emmy and Claire meant he never had a choice. They idolised him, and if they knew that he had lied to them it would hurt them deeply. It was not something he was prepared to risk. There would be time enough for him to find out exactly what “Annabelle” was up to once they were alone . . .
Anna, watching the play of expressions across his face, felt increasingly hesitant and unsure of herself. She was at a loss, out of her depth, and was not certain what to do next. She had hoped the sight of Mark would trigger her memory but she was dismayed to realise she didn’t remember him.
She offered no resistance as he walked over to her and rested his hands lightly on her waist. Nor when he bent his head and kissed her on the cheek. It was the lightest of kisses, gossamer light, so light as to be almost not there, but to her amazement it sent shockwaves down her spine. She pulled back, eyes wide. Her fiancé? She didn’t - couldn’t - know. But the kiss had convinced her of one thing, at least. There was definitely some kind of powerful connection between them.
But she was being silly. Of course he must be her fiancé. His aunts had claimed her, and he had welcomed her. True, there had been something in his face when he had first seen her, something that had made her unsure. But he had greeted her - warmly? - and his aunts couldn’t have been more kind . . .
And now he was turning to face his aunts, with his arm still round her.
‘Well, now that we’re all here,’ Emmy said, a smile of delight on her face at seeing Mark reunited with his fiancée, ‘I suggest we eat. Dinner’s been ready for the last hour - just a buffet,’ she said to Mark. ‘But Annabelle helped out. She made the pastries and the salad. I told her not to strain herself, but she insisted.’
‘Did she?’ he murmured softly, turning to Anna, his hand pressing against her more tightly, making her realise he had suddenly tensed. ‘I’m surprised. But then, Anna has so many hidden talents.’
Chapter Two
And what did he mean by that? thought Anna, watching him across the table which was laid out with an appetising selection of food on the sweeping lawns behind the house.
The small helping of food on her plate - devilled chicken, crisp salad and French bread - went all but untouched as she took in the man sitting directly opposite her. The man she was going to marry.
He was handsome. Extremely handsome, with dark hair, dark eyes - so dark as to be almost black - high cheekbones and a firm mouth, creating a face which was not only handsome, but powerful. She shivered slightly.
Emmy, noticing the shiver, offered to lend her a wrap, but she refused, knowing instinctively that the shiver had had nothing to do with being cold.
Her eyes travelled over his body. It was firm and strong, the breadth of his shoulders giving a clue to the muscle beneath. His clothes - a simple shirt, open at the neck to reveal an inch of tanned chest - and well-cut trousers were expensive, their casual style hiding the fact they had been custom made.
As if feeling her eyes on him he looked up and for a brief second his eyes met hers. She gave a start. That wasn’t the kind look she had expected to see in the eyes of a man who had just been reunited with his fiancée - any more than his perplexing comment had been the kind of thing she had expected to he
ar. There was definitely something out of place here. What was it? Curiosity? Hostility? She couldn’t tell. But whatever it was it unsettled her, and she found herself wondering, not for the first time since her crash the day before, if she was really engaged to this man.
But how could she not be? she wondered, as she took a sip of wine, an elegant Chardonnay that went perfectly with the summer meal. How could she not be engaged to a man who had claimed her as his fiancée, and whose family had welcomed her with open arms? A family who had treated her with nothing but kindness and - she gave a frown. Something, some - memory? - told her that kindness had been lacking in her life.
Was it because of Mark? Was that why kindness had been lacking? She shook her head. No. That didn’t seem right. What then?
‘You’re not eating, Anna.’ Emmy’s considerate voice broke in on her thoughts. ‘Is there anything else I can get you, dear?’
‘No. No, this is delicious,’ she said, picking up her fork and taking a mouthful of chicken.
‘Don’t bully her, Emmy,’ came Claire’s practical voice. ‘You can’t expect her to eat like a horse so soon after her accident. Her appetite will come back by and by.’ She turned to Anna. ‘I dare say it must have shaken you up a good deal in ways you don’t even realise,’ she went on. ‘Eat what you want and leave the rest. Don’t be bullied by Emmy. “Feed them up” has always been her motto, to the horror of everyone else!’
Anna smiled. She glanced at Mark, expecting him to be also smiling at the banter between the two sisters, only to discover that he was watching her intently.
Again she wondered whether she could really be engaged to this man. He didn’t seem to behave like an engaged man. He had barely spoken two words to her since he had arrived. Could it be because he was tired after his journey?
Perhaps.
But something told her it was more than that.
‘You’re very quiet this evening, Mark,’ said Emmy, echoing Anna’s own thoughts.
‘Just . . . concerned, that’s all,’ he said.
‘Of course he is, Emmy. Leave the boy alone,’ said Claire.
Anna smiled at the idea of Mark being a boy: as he poured out a second glass of wine, his shirt stretched tightly over his broad chest, Mark Raynor was all man.
He turned to Anna and his look was appraising. ‘I really think you ought to be checked out at the hospital,’ he said. ‘Claire’s right. The accident might have affected you even more badly than you realise. And I don’t like this memory loss of yours.’ There was something almost significant in his voice as he said it. ‘I’ll take you in tomorrow myself.’
‘No.’
The word shot out like a bullet.
‘No?’ he enquired.
His voice was silky smooth but there was a note of iron behind it, and she had the distinct impression he was going to force her into a hospital visit whether she liked it or not. But she knew she couldn’t go. She didn’t know why she had this fear of hospitals. A bad experience, perhaps, or a spate of ill health? Whatever. She had a fear - almost a terror - of the idea of a hospital and she was determined not to give in.
‘Well, that was very definite.’ He watched her closely as he said it, his dark eyes boring into her own. ‘Perhaps you think this . . . memory loss . . . will go of its own accord?’
There was an undercurrent to his words. Anna picked up on it but couldn’t understand the reason behind it. There was definitely something going on between her and her fiancé, and the sooner she remembered what it was the better.
‘And how does Anna know?’ Claire’s voice was amazed. ‘Really, Mark, I don’t know what’s come over you. You’re never usually so -’
‘Time for the strawberries, I think,’ broke in Emmy, pushing back her chair. ‘I’ll need your help in the kitchen, Claire.’
‘You can’t possibly need my help for bringing in a bowl of strawberries.’ Claire leaned over to help herself to another lobster tail.
‘Now, Claire.’
‘I don’t see . . . Oh!’ she said, as if suddenly realising that Emmy wanted to give Mark and Anna some time alone. ‘I suppose I’d better bring the cream.’
The two women bustled out, leaving Mark staring intently at Anna across the depleted rustic table.
His stare made her feel uncomfortable. There was a tension between them, a tension that should not be there. Was he angry that she had visited his family?
Was that the reason for his hostility?
What was it Emmy had said, “You weren’t invited”? Was that why Mark was angry? Had he not known she was coming? Had he not wanted her to come?
There was only one way to find out.
She looked down, toying with the small amount of food that remained on her plate, and then looked directly into his eyes. ‘Wasn’t I meant to come down here?’ Her question was forthright. ‘When your aunts took me in after the crash they let slip that I hadn’t been invited. Is that why you’re so angry? Didn’t you want me to come?’ She faltered. It was impossible for her to keep going with him sitting there, strong arms folded across his chest, looking at her in silence.
A new thought hit her and she flushed. ‘Are you ashamed of me? Is that why you didn’t want me here?’
It makes sense, she thought, as she suddenly looked at the sweeping lawns, the immaculately-tended gardens, in a completely different light. Everything around her spoke of money. Everything dripped with wealth. And she . . . almost as a reflex action she looked down at herself . . . she looked like someone who dressed from a charity shop.
‘Oh, you’re good,’ he said. There was something in his voice she didn’t like, something that made her feel cold. It was a kind of grudging admiration, but an admiration for something that was wrong, or false.
‘Have we had an argument?’ she flashed, feeling her cheeks starting to grow red.
‘Oh, you’re very good. If I didn’t know better . . . ’ He took a drink of wine and then set his glass down on the table before running his eyes over her, his expression hard.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said, flushing more deeply. She swallowed and put down her fork. There was no way she could eat. The food, delicious though it was, seemed to turn into ashes as soon as she put it into her mouth. With Mark sitting and staring at her like that she was nervous, and she felt her stomach growing tense.
‘Like what?’ he asked.
‘Like I’m something that’s just crawled out from under a stone.’ The words came out in a snap. He was supposed to be her fiancé, but instead of behaving as though he was in love with her he was behaving as though he hated her.
But her anger did not last. She was still too weak to sustain any strong emotion for long, and the anger died as quickly as it had flared. Besides, without remembering anything of their relationship it was impossible to know what was wrong. She gave a sigh and pushed her plate away. Taking up her napkin, she wiped her fingers and then tried again. ‘So tell me, Mark.’ Her voice was half demanding, half pleading. ‘What is this all about?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
She felt her confusion grow. It was as though they were involved in some cat-and-mouse game, but she didn’t know the rules.
‘Would you care to explain that remark?’
He continued to stare at her. Then, although still watching her, his gaze lost its intensity and he seemed to lose interest in their battle. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. ‘No.’
‘Good. Then perhaps we can forget this nonsense.’
He was about to reply when Emmy’s voice floated out through the French doors. ‘ . . . so lovely to see the young people enjoying themselves.’
He pushed back his chair. Plucking his napkin from his lap he threw it down on the rustic table and went to help his aunts. ‘Here, let me carry that.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mark. I’ll just go and get the glasses.’ Emmy handed him a bottle of dessert wine whilst Claire placed a large bowl of r
ipe red strawberries in the middle of the table.
‘And how have you two been getting on?’ asked Emmy, as she returned with four small glasses.
‘As you’d expect,’ said Mark enigmatically.
‘Good. Good.’ Emmy, interpreting the words in her own way, was pleased.
She dished out four bowls of strawberries, with Claire pouring on a generous helping of rich, thick cream.
‘I need a couple of things getting from Nottingham tomorrow,’ said Claire to Mark, in between savouring mouthfuls of strawberries and cream. ‘Why don’t you take Anna in and show her around a bit, and then I won’t mind asking you to pick up my things on your way home?’
‘What a good idea,’ said Emmy. ‘And if it’s not too much bother, could you pick up my new glasses?’
‘You haven’t lost another pair?’ asked Mark in surprise.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Emmy with a sigh.
‘Where this time?’ asked Mark, half sympathetic, half amused.
‘Somewhere in the garden. I’m not sure exactly where.’ She turned to Anna. ‘The shops here aren’t as good as those in London, but even so, there are some quite nice stores. And of course you can’t visit Nottingham without seeing the statue of Robin Hood.’
Anna smiled. ‘I’d like that.’ She glanced at Mark, hoping that he would be happy to go along with the idea. Some time on their own was probably just what they needed to patch things up.
‘You approve of Robin Hood, then?’ he asked, watching her intently. ‘Robbing from the rich to give to the poor?’
Anna laughed. ‘Of course.’ Wondering, a moment later, why her light-hearted remark had made him look so thoughtful, as though she had just answered a far more significant question.
‘I should go in the morning, if I were you,’ said Emmy as she helped herself to more cream. ‘It won’t be so busy then. And don’t keep Anna out too long,’ she said to Mark. ‘She’s looking a lot better today, but she still needs to take it easy, you know. And talking of taking it easy,’ she said, turning to Anna, ‘I really don’t think you should go back to performing straight away. You ought to cancel your engagements for the summer, dear, and stay here with us until you’ve had time to recover.’