by Green, Cally
With a kiss and a smile Anna thanked him, before following the assistant to the desk.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
She looked at him in surprise.
‘We haven’t finished yet,’ he said.
‘But the skirts will do for the rest of my time here, and don’t forget I can wash out the tops. And I have the sundress for when it’s hot.’
‘You don’t have any idea, do you?’ he asked, sounding amused. ‘You should be demanding a different outfit for every day you’re at Little Brook -’
She frowned. ‘I don’t approve of demanding.’
He gave her a puzzled look. ‘No. I can see that. It looks like I’ll have to do it for you, then. Now, go and try on the crêpe-de-chine. You’ll need it for the evenings - or were you thinking we would stay in and play Monopoly?’ he teased.
Anna laughed. Now that he said it, she saw his point. He must have an active social life, and when they went out she would need something smart to wear. ‘Do you always spoil me like this?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said with a wry smile, as though he was entering into some kind of game. ‘But there’s a first time for everything.’
She tried on the dress, and whilst she was in the cubicle Mark chose another armful of outfits for her to try on, including a dark red sheath dress he had seen in the window and a couple of little black dresses.
By the time Anna had modelled them all, and they had made their selection - with only a few discreet arguments about certain styles - she was exhausted.
And it was the exhaustion, she thought later, that had probably triggered the memory. A memory of a voice.
She didn’t remember any words, just a hard and uncompromising voice, but even that slight memory was enough to make her experience a feeling of alarm verging on panic.
‘Are you all right?' Mark asked in concern, seeing that something was wrong.
‘Yes. Yes.’ The feeling was receding, to be replaced by frustration that she couldn’t remember anything. ‘I’m fine now.’
‘It’s probably the heat,’ said the assistant, going to fetch her a glass of water.
‘You don’t look fine,’ said Mark in concern, helping her to a seat by the till, where a fan placed on the desk created waves of cool air. ‘When we’ve finished here we’ll go back to my apartment and you can have a lie down.’
‘But your apartment’s in London,’ she protested in surprise.
‘One of them is. I have a few.’
A few, she thought. Just what sort of world am I marrying into?
‘Here you are,’ said the shop assistant as she returned with a full glass. ‘It’s not very nice, I’m afraid. The water round here doesn’t make good drinking water, but at least it should revive you.’
Anna took the glass gratefully and had a sip. ‘I see what you mean.’ She made a wry face as she tasted it. ‘But I’m grateful all the same. Thank you.’
‘I’ll just settle up,’ said Mark, ‘and then we can go.’
Feeling much recovered, Anna slipped out of the green crêpe-de-chine and into her own clothes. They looked even shabbier by contrast. Then she joined Mark, who was already waiting for her with a collection of bags. ‘I didn’t realise there would be so many,’ she said.
He smiled and took her arm. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
Thanking the assistant, they went out into the arcade and then through on to the street, where Mark hailed a taxi. A quarter of an hour later Mark was opening the door to his apartment and escorting Anna inside.
‘It’s stunning,’ she said, looking round the spacious living room that gave off from the hall.
It was furnished in modern style, and was geared to masculine comfort. Black sofas contrasted with a white carpet, and large geometric pictures - originals, Anna suspected - covered the walls.
‘Why don’t you have a lie down for half an hour?’ he said, nodding towards a door at the far end of the living room. ‘The bedroom’s just through there. When you’re rested I’ll make us a drink before we head back to Little Brook.’
Anna was happy to go along with his suggestion. For someone who had been involved in a road accident a few days before she had done a lot, and a quiet half hour was just what she needed to restore her depleted energy.
She went into the bedroom, which was decorated in cool shades of white, blue and grey, and looked at the king size bed. Yes, she would feel better for a lie down, she realised. She pulled off her skirt and T shirt, hanging them over the back of a chair. She was about to remove her lacy underwear - the only decent clothing she possessed - when she hesitated, her hand on her bra strap. To undress fully, with Mark in the next room, seemed . . . dangerous. Engaged or not, she did not feel she really knew him, and to think of him touching her filled her with fear as well as excitement. The more so because she suspected that, if once she let him start, she would never want him to stop.
Pulling back the covers, she slipped into the bed. The sheets were cool. She closed her eyes, and as she did so she caught the faint scent of Mark on the pillow. She felt herself relax, and without being aware of it she drifted off into a light doze.
A little more than twenty minutes later, as she could tell by the bedside clock, she drifted back into wakefulness. To her surprise, she found that she was listening for something. She had the curious feeling that she had been wakened by a bell. But as the noise did not come again she decided she must have dreamt it. She stretched out her arms and then her legs, glad to find that they were much less sore than they had been the day before. Slowly she sat up. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and then stood, padding over to the en suite bathroom, where she freshened herself by splashing water over her face and throat before running herself a glass of water, leaving her skin to dry in the warm air. She turned off the tap . . . and thought she heard something. Surely those were voices coming from the living room? Unconsciously, she strained to hear. Yes. There were definitely voices. One of them was Mark’s. The other was a woman’s.
She felt a sudden cold feeling grip her insides. This was Mark’s flat. In Nottingham. But why did he need a flat in Nottingham, when he had Little Brook? Was it for . . . she couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. Just how much did she know about Mark? she wondered. Where had she met him? How long had they known each other? When had they become engaged? All these questions she had meant to ask him, hoping the answers would jog her memory, but she had not wanted to spoil the mood. She was still unsure of him, still not knowing why he had been so abrupt the day before, and had not wanted to do anything to jeopardise the friendship that had been so evident during their day in the city.
But sooner or later she would have to know. Would want to know. And sooner or later she would have to know who the woman in the living room was, and why Mark kept his Nottingham flat.
She put her glass down on the night table and picked her skirt up from the chair. The voices in the next room became louder, and it was evident that an argument was in progress, an argument which she could not help but overhear.
‘ . . . only marrying you for your money. You know that, don’t you?’ came a woman’s voice. It was a hard voice, like polished steel. ‘I knew it as soon as I saw her with you. And who can blame her? She obviously doesn’t have two pennies to rub together. I’m surprised at you, Mark, falling into that kind of trap - again.’
Anna swallowed. Only marrying you for your money. The words were hard and poisonous. But could they be true? She looked at the shabby skirt she held in her hands and threw it down, as if wanting to throw the accusation away with it. Was she marrying Mark for his money? Because if she knew very little about him, she knew even less about herself. At least she knew where Mark lived and who his family were. Whereas, apart from the fact that she was engaged to Mark, she knew next to nothing about herself. It made her feel vulnerable, uncertain and confused.
She gave a start as a door banged shut. Mark’s guest had obviously gone. But the poi
sonous words lingered.
She lifted her chin. It was too late to try and preserve the mood of the day, it had already been spoilt. And now she needed to know. She needed to know just who she was, and whether it could be possible that she was marrying Mark because of his wealth.
Forgetting that she was wearing nothing but her underwear she opened the door of the bedroom. She could see Mark clearly. His back was towards her, and he was looking out of the window as though deep in thought.
She felt a sudden urge to go over to him and run her fingers lightly down his back, but knew that she must not do so. Not until things had been sorted out. Leaning slightly against the door frame with one arm raised for support, she spoke. ‘Am I?’ she asked.
He turned round at the sound of her voice, and the passion that flared in his eyes made her suddenly aware that she was only half dressed; that her hair was tousled and her skin was still damp; and that, despite the bruises that remained as a testament to her accident, the sight of her was visibly rousing him.
She saw his eyes drop, and felt them tracing her bare shoulders. Then they dropped again. With a shiver she realised that her raised arm was pulling the lacy material of her bra taut across her breasts. She lowered it immediately, but it was too late. Her body was already responding to his intensely masculine presence and she was aware that her nipples, half-visible beneath the lace, were growing hard. She wanted to move, to speak, to do something to break the breathless tension that had flooded the room, but she was helpless. Trapped. Held there by the intensity of his gaze.
He took a step towards her and she felt her mouth go dry. But she could not let him touch her. No matter how much her body cried out for his caress she must not let it happen. Not until she knew for sure. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She tried again. ‘Am I . . . am I doing it because of your money?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’ His voice was low and throaty. ‘Are you?’
She swallowed. ‘I don’t think so.’ The words were no more than a whisper.
‘Then why?’ He took a step towards her and looked into her eyes, as though trying to find the answer to some deep and complex question. ‘Is it for this?’ he murmured, raising his hand and running his fingers through her rich dark hair.
She arched her neck, luxuriating in his touch.
‘Or this?’ he asked, stroking one finger down her bare back and sending a tingling awareness through her, making her whole body ache.
He was so close to her now that his mouth was less than an inch from hers and she longed for him to touch her lips with his own. But he did not do so. He was playing with her, she thought, and, drowning in the new and unbearably seductive feelings that he was awakening she raised her arms, slipping them round his neck.
She sensed the moment when he could no longer control himself. His hands slid down her back and pulling her roughly against him, he covered her lips with his own.
She gave a stifled moan and then responded, her lips parting as he explored her mouth. It was incredibly sensuous, and awakened her to a whole new world of pleasure. But as she gave herself up to him a sudden change came over him. His body grew tense, and she felt a brief moment of confusion before his arms released their pressure. She reeled slightly, still drunk with his kisses, as he pulled away.
‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘This isn’t right.’
He turned away to steady himself, and she could tell that it had been no easy thing for him to break away from her. She could sense his frustration. And also sense that he was wrestling with some problem she could not even begin to guess at.
Watching him, she felt a sense of loss, complicated by a sense of confusion. The kiss they had shared had felt so wonderful but then, suddenly, everything had changed. Was it her fault? she wondered. Had she done something wrong? Or was it that her fiancé was a man of moods? Thinking over the time she had spent with him since the accident she thought that must be the case. One minute he was warm and friendly, the next hostile and remote; sometimes passionate and exciting, at other times hard and cold.
Her eyes followed him as he walked to the other side of the room: Mark Raynor was a difficult man to fathom. But, despite his perplexing character, she could understand why she had fallen in love with him. Because she felt more comfortable with Mark than she had ever felt with anyone before, more in tune and more secure. But those feelings paled into insignificance beside the feelings he aroused in her when he so much as walked into a room . . .
He mastered his frustration and turned round. ‘You’ll catch cold like that,’ he said. His voice was smooth and passionless; deliberately so, she suspected. ‘You should get dressed.’
She nodded. The present situation was too tense to be good for them. But as she was about to go back into the bedroom she hesitated. There was something she had to know for sure. ‘Was it me? Did I do something wrong?’
‘No. Of course not.’ His voice sounded unnaturally controlled. ‘But it’s only a few days since your accident. You need to take things slowly. It won’t do you any good to get too deeply involved.’
She wasn’t sure he was telling her the truth, but she accepted his answer for the moment.
‘And once you’re dressed,’ he said, as she walked into the bedroom, ‘we’d better get back to Little Brook.’
‘We haven’t picked up Emmy’s glasses, or the things for Claire yet,’ she reminded him.
He looked surprised, as though he had not expected her to show any consideration for other people. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll go out and get their things now, and then I’ll fetch the car. You get dressed and have a cup of tea. We can go as soon as I get back.’
They turned into the drive just after half past three. The smooth run had restored their sense of camaraderie, and Anna felt more light-hearted than she could ever remember. Funny, every vague memory of the past seemed to be connected with pain. She glanced sideways at Mark, wondering whether he was in some way responsible for the bad memories. But she didn’t think so. He was moody and unpredictable, but she wasn’t afraid of him, and she didn’t believe she ever had been. On the contrary, being with him was fun.
The Porsche swept round the final bend in the drive, and Anna saw a strange car parked in front of the house. It was a flashy red Ferrari.
‘Visitors?’ she asked.
Mark looked unusually dour. He pulled up behind the Ferrari and switched off the engine. ‘Trouble,’ he said.
Anna looked at him enquiringly but he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he got out of the car and strode round to her side, opening the door and handing her out. It was something she had noticed about him before: he was a perfect gentleman.
Gathering up the parcels, Mark guided her into the house.
The murmur of conversation drifted lazily out of the drawing-room and into the hall. It was closely followed by Emmy, who bustled out.
‘There you are!’ she said. ‘Did you have a good time - don’t tell me, I can see that you did!’ she said, laughing at the sight of all the parcels. ‘But I’m so pleased you’re back. You’ll never guess who’s here,’ Emmy went on, talking now to Mark.
He gave a grimace. ‘Serena Davenport.’
‘But how did you -? Oh, the car. Of course. How silly of me. But we mustn’t stand here talking in the hall. She’s come to congratulate you.' She turned now to Anna. ‘She so wants to meet you. She’s heard all about your engagement from Elizabeth Parks. Fancy you running across Elizabeth in town!’
Elizabeth Parks, thought Anna with a constricting feeling in her chest. So that’s who Mark’s visitor was.
‘But then, it was bound to happen, sooner or later, you know,’ Emmy went on. ‘You can never keep these things quiet. Everyone loves a wedding, and they’ll all want to have a look at Mark’s future bride.’
Anna felt some of her confidence leave her. She had known that at some time she would have to meet Mark’s friends, and had in fact been looking forward to it, but she had not wanted to meet any of t
hem like this. She glanced down at her shabby skirt and T shirt. But before she had time to say that she would just run up and change, a new voice broke into the conversation.
‘Well, well.’ It was a husky drawl.
Anna looked beyond Emmy to the door of the drawing-room. If she had felt shabby before, she felt ten times shabbier now. Every inch of Serena spoke of money, from the top of her immaculately coiffured blonde head to the tips of her Italian shoes.
‘Hello, Mark.’ Serena’s voice was low and cultured.
‘Serena.’ Mark’s brief acknowledgement was unwelcoming.
‘And you must be Annabelle,’ said Serena, coming forwards.
Anna felt her spirits sink. Serena Davenport was everything she would never be: beautiful, glamorous, confident and entirely at ease. She seemed to fit effortlessly into the world Mark inhabited, a world of wealth and power. Just looking at her made Anna feel clumsy and gauche. Serena’s clothes were perfection. Her suit was a miracle of tailoring, the dove grey linen being cut to emphasise every curve of her perfect body - a body that could surely only be produced by hours of work in the gym. And the jewellery that went with the suit, whilst being classily understated, was obviously worth a fortune.
Anna’s spirits sank still further. The things Serena threw away would be better than anything she ever wore.
But not better than the green crêpe-de-chine, she thought unexpectedly. Not the dress Mark had bought her.
‘I’ve heard so much about you. Elizabeth was most - surprised.’
It was a deliberate set-down, but before Anna could respond Mark stepped in.
‘Elizabeth is always surprised at other people’s engagements. The only engagement that won’t take her by surprise is her own.’ It was a barbed comment, and one which showed he was clearly annoyed to find Serena there. The beautiful blonde had obviously come to get her claws into Anna, but with a sudden rush of warmth Anna realised that Mark wasn’t going to let it happen.
‘Why don’t we go into the drawing-room?’ asked Emmy happily.