Ruthless Passion

by Penny Jordan

  Christie saw that her face was slightly flushed when she came in with the tea but said nothing.

  ‘I hope it isn’t anything too serious that has called your brother away,’ Davina said politely as she poured Christie’s tea. It was an automatic remark, the kind she had trained herself to make in the days when she had had to play the role of her father’s hostess and then Gregory’s and, as when one enquired to another’s health, it required merely a standard meaningless response.

  Only Christie didn’t make that response; instead she said, ‘Unfortunately, it is serious. Saul’s daughter, Josey, has been suspended from school, allegedly for possessing drugs.’

  Christie paused, annoyed with herself. What on earth was she doing, telling Davina James that? It certainly hadn’t been her intention when she had first read Saul’s hastily written note asking her to call and deliver the letter he had left for Davina, but there was something about the other woman that was so instantly genuinely sympathetic and compassionate that Christie had somehow found her own anxiety for both her brother and her niece spilling over into the kind of emotional unburdening she was more used to hearing rather than giving.

  And, contrary to what she might have supposed, Davina did not look shocked, withdrawing herself both mentally and actually physically, as Christie had seen so many people do when confronted by something that made them feel uncomfortable or uneasy; as though somehow merely to have received such a confidence might in some way endanger or contaminate them.

  Christie knew enough about people to accept that this was an instinctive and subconscious reaction, and one which was generally quickly retracted, but it still surprised her a little that someone like Davina had not actually made it.

  And now Davina was waiting quietly, allowing her to decide for herself whether or not to continue. And somehow, although she had not intended to do so, because Davina was not pressing her she heard herself adding, ‘Josey has told her mother that the drugs weren’t hers; that another girl had asked her to look after them because she was afraid she was about to be found out. Of course, Josey refuses to say who this girl is. Saul’s ex-wife is the kind of person who places great store on what others think. I suspect that Josey won’t get much sympathy or understanding from her.’

  Something in Christie’s voice, in the frown that briefly marred her forehead, caused Davina to say gently, ‘But she has a good relationship with her father?’

  Christie hesitated. ‘Not exactly,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Josey and Saul … Saul loves both his children dearly, but he isn’t particularly close to them, and Josey in particular …’ She broke off, shaking her head wryly. ‘I shouldn’t be boring you with all of this.’

  ‘I’m not bored,’ Davina assured her honestly, and then added compassionately, ‘Poor Josey.’

  Christie’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘My relationship with my own father wasn’t a good one,’ Davina told her honestly, seeing the query in her eyes.

  ‘Nor mine,’ Christie admitted openly. ‘I used to envy Saul because he was so very much our father’s obvious favourite, but, once I realised the price he was having to pay for that favouritism, my envy disappeared. I know that Saul is desperately anxious to establish contact with his children. It hurts him more than he wants to admit that he isn’t allowed more fully into their lives, and Josey’s rejection of him has really hit home, although, of course, he always defends her and points out that he’s hardly been the ideal father. Of course, it doesn’t help that Josey is at that notoriously “difficult” age, no longer a child and yet not actually an adult.

  ‘I’ve told Saul that they do both need him, no matter how much they might deny it. Perhaps this crisis might be a way for him to re-establish some sort of bond with her, although I must admit I was surprised to come home and find that he’d gone. Five years ago—one year ago, he would never have done that; never have put his own emotional need to be with them above our father’s ambitions for him.’ She saw the way Davina frowned and shook her head again. ‘I shouldn’t be bothering you with all of this. Saul merely asked me to deliver his letter, not …’

  She frowned quickly, and Davina, who was perceptive enough to realise what was going through her mind, said quietly, ‘You’re worried that he wouldn’t want you discussing his private life with me because of Carey’s, in case I try to use it against him in some way? You needn’t be.’

  ‘Will you sell out to Alex?’ Christie asked her.

  Davina gave her a quick searching look. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone … someone else who could help you?’ Christie asked her.

  Again Davina looked at her, noticing the faint flush that coloured Christie’s olive skin. It seemed unlikely, impossible really that Christie Jardine could know that Leo had offered her a very substantial personal loan so that she could keep Carey’s going, so she could only assume that Christie was somehow trying to probe her for information about as to whether she was likely to accept Hessler Chemie’s supposed ‘purchase offer’ for Carey’s in order to help her brother.

  ‘How long does Sa … your brother expect to be away?’ Davina asked her instead of answering her question.

  Christie shrugged uncertainly. ‘I don’t honestly know.’ She got up. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. I must go.’

  Davina saw her to the door and then watched until she had driven away before closing it and walking slowly back to the sitting-room to collect the tea things.

  She carried them through into the kitchen, washing and then drying them with slow, almost obsessive care, but all the time her mind was on the note in the middle of the kitchen table.

  She dried her hands slowly, smoothed handcream into them, and then at last, because she could not avoid putting it off any longer, she picked up the sealed envelope. What would it contain? More threats? More condemnation?

  She unsealed the envelope slowly with painstaking care and removed the folded sheets of paper.

  She could tell the note had been written quickly, the sight of the firm, very masculine handwriting sending an unexpected sensation of shock jolting through her. It was as though in some way simply unfolding the paper had unleashed some of Saul Jardine’s abrasive energy into the room. If she closed her eyes she could almost visualise him standing there, hear him speaking to her …

  Quickly she scanned the first few lines of the note, frowning and reaching automatically to pull out a chair so that she could sit down to study it in more detail as she absorbed the implications of the fiercely self-critical apology contained in the first two paragraphs. But, while he was taking all the blame for his misjudgement on to his own shoulders, there was no explanation as to why he had made that misjudgement, Davina noted. Did she really need to know? Was it even important? Not perhaps to Davina James, the owner of Carey’s, but to Davina James, the woman.

  Quickly she returned her attention to Saul’s note, her frown deepening. Saul wasn’t just apologising to her, he was actually warning her about Alex’s plans for Carey’s should he acquire it, and she saw, as she turned over on to the second page, that he had actually outlined and listed the means by which she might try to evade Alex’s forcing her into a sale, even down to explaining to her the proposed government legislation that lay at the root of Alex’s determination to acquire Carey’s.

  Quickly Davina ran through the letter again, her brain working overtime to assimilate all the information Saul had given her, to analyse all the options he had listed for her, and finally to wonder over the advice he had given her, advice which she could see instantly would jeopardise all Sir Alex’s plans.

  There was a final postscript to the letter, obviously an afterthought, the writing less decisive and sharp.

  You will no doubt wonder if you can trust me to have told you the truth and perhaps assume that this is some machiavellian ploy on my part to undermine you. After all, you will ask yourself, on my past showing, why should I care one way or the other what happens to Carey’s? />
  There is no logical reason I can give here; perhaps the best I can do is to say that, in offering you this information, I am trying to make some form of recompense for my earlier transgressions.

  There wasn’t anything more, just a brief signature.

  Shakily Davina put the letter down. On the face of it, his claims about Sir Alex’s intentions for the company seemed implausible, but, then, so had his original offer. Again on the face of it, there was no reason why she should trust any information that Saul Jardine might give her and every reason why she should not, and yet illogically she did believe him.

  She frowned. In the light of the information Saul had given her, the first thing she really needed to do was to get in touch with Giles.

  Deliberately she was pushing aside her own personal feelings, clamping down on the tight aching loneliness that had gripped her as she had listened to Christie Jardine explaining her brother’s love for his children. Surely she wasn’t foolish enough to be jealous of that love, to admit to everything that acknowledging that emotion would mean?

  A woman, especially a woman of her age and with her inherent caution, did not fall in love with a man. She might desire him physically; she might be mentally curious about him; she might even allow herself to be slightly intrigued with him; but she did not fall in love.

  Giles; she must ring Giles, Davina reminded herself. If the information contained in Saul’s letter was true, and she believed it was, then it would be impossible for them to proceed with any negotiations with Saul’s boss.

  And what about the recommendations he had made, the suggestions, the proposals, which even she, with her limited experience, could see had been made with an expert hand and eye? Diversify, he had written, find a sponsor to help you ride out this storm, and wait in a safe harbour if you can, well anchored to something solid until the tide turns.

  She had had no difficulty in interpreting what he was saying.

  Had Leo told him about the money he had offered to lend her at the same time as he had told him that he was not in the market for Carey’s and that she had in fact spoken the truth when she had told Saul that there was no business relationship between them?

  Giles, she reminded herself. She must ring him. Not at the office. He was taking a few days’ leave, he had said. There was nothing he could constructively do at work, since the decision as to whether or not she intended to accept Sir Alex’s offer could only be made by her, he had told Davina.

  He had been distant with her when she’d last spoken to him. Because she had not taken his advice and accepted Saul Jardine’s offer immediately, or was there some other, more personal reason? She hesitated for a moment and then picked up the receiver and started to punch in Giles’s home number.

  * * *

  When Lucy came downstairs she could see Giles standing just inside the sitting-room door. He was half turned away from her and he was reading a letter, frowning while he did so. He hadn’t heard her, Lucy recognised.

  The letter had arrived this morning along with a handful of bills. He had opened it and read it, but had said nothing to her about its contents, and yet she had known instinctively that whatever it contained was important.

  Since his return to the house they had been sleeping together, and not just sleeping together either. When they made love it was her name he called, her body he wanted, her touch that aroused him—she knew that. Neither of them mentioned Davina, but she was still there between them, and Lucy was still mortally afraid that she might lose Giles to her.

  She knew now that she did not want to lose him. She had suddenly and painfully been torn free of the anaesthetising depression with its false protection of indifference.

  Why had she and Giles shut one another out in their pain at losing Nicholas? Why had they not been able to share that pain? Why did she feel now that she couldn’t ask Giles how he felt about Davina? How he felt about her? Why couldn’t she even ask him about that letter he was holding and frowning over? Why was she so afraid?

  She already knew the answer. She was afraid of not being loved; of not being wanted; afraid because she felt that she herself was not really worthy of being loved. It was as though somehow part of her had always been held in reserve because deep down inside she had always suffered this fear that she might somehow lose Giles.

  But she hadn’t lost him, had she? Not yet.

  The stair creaked as she moved and Giles turned round, looking up at her. He was still frowning, still holding that letter.

  She took a deep breath. It was time she outfaced her fear; time she finally set aside the past and allowed herself to become adult. After all, now …

  Her stomach muscles quivered a little with her tension with the knowledge she was still half afraid to allow herself, never mind share with anyone else … Even Giles. And she could be wrong. It was still far too early, really.

  ‘What is it, Giles? What’s wrong?’ she asked him.

  The quiet calmness in her voice softened Giles’s frown. These last few days had been so different from anything he and Lucy had ever shared before. They had a new closeness, a new awareness; there was a greater depth to their relationship, a greater sense of having shared something. Their mutual acknowledgement of their pain over Nicholas’s death had brought them closer together than Giles had ever believed possible. He had felt guilty, of course, and uncomfortable too, remembering Davina, but now the way he had felt about Davina seemed like a sequence out of a dream; Davina herself wasn’t even really as he had imagined. He could see that now. But, even so, he still owed her something, and this letter …

  He looked up at Lucy, knowing that had this letter arrived a month, even perhaps a week ago the last thing he would have done would have been to disclose its contents to her.

  ‘It’s from Henry Norton—you remember, Lucy. He was my old boss at Smethwick’s. He’s taking early retirement on health grounds and they’ve asked him to recommend someone to take his place. Apparently he’s recommended me. Financially we wouldn’t be much better off …’

  ‘But you didn’t like working for Smethwick’s,’ Lucy reminded him.

  ‘Not then,’ Giles agreed. ‘But now …’

  He stopped speaking as the phone rang. Since he was standing closest to it, he answered it.

  ‘Davina.’ There was no personal warmth in his voice, only discomfort and unease, and neither was he, Lucy noticed with a quick easing of her tension, turning away from her or making any attempt to speak more quietly as though he didn’t want her to hear what was being said.

  Lucy waited while he listened to whatever it was Davina had to say.

  ‘Well, it does sound as though you did the right thing in not rushing to accept Sir Alex’s offer,’ Giles said eventually. ‘The thing is, though, Davina … I’m having to rethink my own position in all of this. I’d like to stay on, but we … Lucy has been very forbearing about the amount of time I’ve had to devote to Carey’s recently, and I think it’s only fair that I start putting her … and our marriage first for a change. If you could give me some time to think things over …’

  At the other end of the line Davina paused before responding courteously, ‘Of course I can, Giles, and of course I understand. As you say, Lucy has been very understanding and patient, and, after all, you do owe it to her to secure your own financial position. I’m afraid I can’t offer you any kind of guarantees on that score. There’s no need for me to say, though, how much I do appreciate all that you have done.’

  Lucy waited until Giles had replaced the receiver before launching herself at him, her eyes shining with emotion.

  ‘Stay on at Carey’s,’ she told him fiercely as she kissed him. ‘I don’t mind, not now that I know you love me.’

  ‘How could you ever have thought I didn’t?’ Giles reproached her.

  Lucy opened her mouth to tell him and then closed it again. There was a time and a place for everything, and this was not the time to remind him of what was now hopefully past; just as it was not th
e time either to tell him of her own nervous hope-cum-apprehension that she might be pregnant. That was something they could share together later, and, who knew, one day perhaps they might also be able to share with honesty and pain the truth about these last few months and how close they had both come to destroying their marriage? One day, but not now. Now was not the time to risk probing the wounds they had both inflicted and to risk infecting them with mistrust and guilt. Now was the time to quietly let them heal.

  Once at such a point her first and instinctive action would have been to coax him into bed, wanting to bind him to her with the chains of her sexuality and his vulnerability to it. Now, though, she simply smiled at him and said serenely, ‘There’s no need for you to decide right now. About your job, I mean. I’ve been thinking, Giles, Nicholas’s tree … It’s going to look rather bare in the winter. I thought we might plant some bulbs underneath it, and then perhaps when it grows bigger you could build a seat around it.’

  Just as she intended to build a safeguard around their love.

  * * *

  With hindsight Leo suspected that he should have known from the very silence and absence of any kind of communication or complaint from Wilhelm that greeted his return to Hamburg; should have known or at least should have perceived the warning in that silence.

  Perhaps it was because his thoughts were still with Christie that he did not do so, or perhaps he was simply growing tired of playing the unwanted role of his brother’s keeper.

  However, instead of asking himself why Wilhelm should remain so uncharacteristically and blessedly silent, he welcomed the opportunity to have a small breathing-space in which to try to disconnect himself from England and everything that had happened there; Davina, whom he had shocked with his revelations about the past, and whom he had liked and felt extraordinarily close to, and, of course, Christie.