Guilty

by Anne Mather

  ‘I won’t be a minute,’ she said, not looking to see if he was watching her, and, without giving Julie time to lodge a protest, she ran up the stairs to her room.

  Her mirror confirmed her worst fears. Her face was scarlet, and, even to her own eyes, she looked as guilty as she felt. But guilty of what? she wondered. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong. Heavens, she was no femme fatale, and she was a fool if she thought he had been flattered by her attention. On the contrary, he had probably found her unwary appraisal amusing, or pitiful, or both. Right now he was probably regaling Julie with the news that her mother had been lusting after his body. Oh, God, it was embarrassing! What must he be thinking of her?

  However, right now she couldn’t afford to let that get to her. She was probably exaggerating the whole incident anyway, and the best way to put the matter behind her was to go down and behave as if nothing had happened. Then, if Jake Lombardi had been discussing her with Julie, it would look as if he had been imagining things, and not her.

  Earlier, she had laid out the dress she had intended to wear on the bed, but now, looking at it with new eyes, she saw it was far too formal for this evening. Made of fine cream wool, it had a soft cowled collar, and long fitted sleeves, and, bearing in mind Julie’s remarks about not making the best of herself, Laura had bought it at Christmas, to silence her daughter’s criticisms. In the event, however, Julie had not come home at Christmas, and the dress had hung in the wardrobe ever since, a constant reminder of her extravagance.

  Now, she picked it up, and thrust it back on to its hanger. The last thing she wanted was for Julie to think she was dressing up to impress her fiancé, she thought grimly. Or for him to think the same, she added, pulling out a pair of green cords, and a purple Aran sweater, that had seen better days. Whatever Julie thought, she was almost forty, and she refused to behave like a woman twenty years younger.

  Her hair gave her no trouble, and she coiled it into its usual knot without difficulty. And, as the colour receded from her face, she began to feel more optimistic. She had allowed the fact that she had answered the door in her bathrobe and nothing else to upset her equilibrium, and now she had had time to gather herself she could see how silly she had been. It had probably amused Jake Lombardi that she had been caught out. And why not? He was no doubt used to much more sophisticated surroundings, and more sophisticated women, she acknowledged drily.

  She leant towards the mirror to examine her face. Should she put on some make-up? she wondered, running her fingers over her smooth skin. She had intended to, but, now that she had been seen without it, was there much point? She didn’t wear much anyway, and she was lucky enough to have eyelashes that were several shades darker than her tawny hair. Golden eyes, the colour of honey, looked back at her warily, and she allowed a small smile to touch the corners of her mouth. Compared to her daughter, she was very small change indeed, she thought ruefully. So why try and pretend otherwise?

  The hardest part was going downstairs again. She entered the living-room cautiously, steeling herself to meet knowing smiles and shared humour, but it didn’t happen. Although Julie was stretched out in front of the fire her mother had lit when she’d come home, Jake wasn’t in the room, and Laura’s expression mirrored her surprise.

  ‘He’s gone to lock up the car,’ remarked Julie carelessly, extending the empty glass she was holding towards her mother. In a fine suede waistcoat over a bronze silk blouse, and form-fitting black ski-pants, she was as sleek and indolent as a cat—and her attitude said she knew it. ‘Get me another Scotch, will you? I’m badly in need of sustenance.’

  Laura caught her lower lip between her teeth, but she took the glass obediently enough, and poured a measure of malt whisky over the ice that still rested in the bottom. Then, handing it back to her daughter, she said carefully, ‘Is this wise? Drinking spirits so early in the evening?’

  ‘What else is there to do in this God-forsaken place?’ countered Julie cynically, raising the glass to her lips, and swallowing at least half its contents at one go. She lowered the glass again, and regarded her mother through half-closed lids. ‘So—what do you think of Jake? Pretty dishy, isn’t he? And he tastes just as good as he looks.’

  Laura couldn’t help the frisson of distaste that crossed her face at her daughter’s words, and Julie gave her an impatient look before hauling herself up in the chair. ‘I hope you’re not going to spend the whole weekend looking at me with that holier-than-thou expression!’ she exclaimed, using the toe of one of her knee-length boots to remove the other. Then she held out the remaining boot to her mother. ‘Jake is tasty. Even you must be able to see that. Even if your criterion for what might—or might not—be sexy is based on that wimp Mark Leith!’

  ‘Mark is not a wimp,’ began Laura indignantly, and then, realising she was defending herself, she broke off. ‘I—gather you didn’t enjoy the journey here. I believe Friday evenings are always busy.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Free of her boots, Julie moved her stockinged feet nearer the fire. ‘You could say that.’ She shrugged. ‘I hate driving in the rain. It’s so boring!’

  ‘Even with Jake?’ enquired Laura drily, unable to resist the parry, and Julie gave her a dour look from beneath curling black lashes.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what you think of him,’ she retorted, returning to the offensive. And Laura wished she had kept her sarcasm to herself.

  ‘I’m hardly in a position to voice an opinion,’ she replied guardedly, escaping into the kitchen. To her relief, the fish was simmering nicely, and the strawberry shortcake had defrosted on the window ledge. At least checking the food and setting out the plates and cutlery distracted her from the more troubling aspects of her thoughts, and it was only when Julie came to prop herself against the door that Laura fumbled with a glass, and almost dropped it.

  ‘Would you like to know how we met?’ Julie asked now, making no effort to assist her mother with the preparations, and, deciding it was probably the lesser of two evils, Laura nodded. ‘It was in Rome actually,’ Julie went on. ‘D’you remember? I told you I was going there about six weeks ago, to shoot the Yasmina lay-out. Well, Jake’s father—Count Domenico, would you believe?—sits on the boards of various governing bodies, and this ball had been organised to benefit some children’s charity or other. Harry got an invitation, of course, so we all went. It promised to be good fun, and it was.’ Her lips twisted reminiscently. ‘Oh—Jake wouldn’t have been there if his mother hadn’t raked him in to charm all the women, so that they’d get their husbands to contribute more generously than they might have done. But he was; and we met; and the rest is history, as they say.’

  Laura managed a smile. ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes.’ Julie studied the liquid residing in the bottom of the glass she was cradling in her hands. ‘Events like that are not really his thing, you see.’ She looked up again, and her eyes glittered as they met her mother’s wary glance. ‘I intend to change all that, naturally.’

  ‘You do?’

  Laura didn’t know how else to answer her, but then the sound of the front door closing made any further response unnecessary. Julie turned back into the living-room to speak to the man who had just come in, and Laura bent to lift the casserole out of the oven.

  She knew she would have to join them shortly, of course. Although she generally ate at the pine table in the kitchen, the room was scarcely big enough for two people, let alone three, which meant she would have to pull out the gatelegged table at one end of the living-room.

  However, before she had summoned up the courage to leave the comparative security of the kitchen, Jake himself appeared in the doorway. He had shed his leather jerkin, somewhere between entering the house and coming to disrupt her fragile composure, and as he raised one hand to support himself against the lintel Laura was not unaware of the sleek muscles beneath the fine silk of his shirt.

  ‘I’ve left the car parked behind yours beside the house,’ he said, and she noticed how the drops of
rain sparkled on his hair. He wore his hair longer than the men she was used to, and where it was wet it was inclined to curl. Otherwise, it was mostly straight, and just brushed his collar at the back. ‘Is that OK?’ he added softly, and Laura realised rather flusteredly that she hadn’t answered him.

  ‘What…? Oh—oh, yes,’ she said hastily, taking a tablecloth out of a drawer, and starting towards him. Then, realising he was blocking the doorway, she halted again, and waving the cloth at him, murmured, ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

  Jake frowned, but he didn’t move out of her way. ‘Can’t we eat in here?’ he suggested, looking about him with some appreciation. ‘This is cosy.’ He nodded at the begonias on the window ledge. ‘Did you cultivate those?’

  ‘Cultivate? Oh…’ Laura glanced behind her, and then nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I enjoy gardening. You wouldn’t notice today, of course. I think the rain has even beaten down the daffodils.’

  ‘The rain!’ Jake grimaced. ‘Oh, yes, it is certainly raining. It reminds me of home.’

  ‘Home?’ Laura frowned. ‘But I thought—–’

  ‘You thought that the sun always shines in Italy?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Oh, no. Like the fog in London, it is somewhat overrated.’

  Laura felt herself smiling in return, but then, realising she was wasting time, and the meal was almost ready, she caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  ‘Um—do you really think we could eat in here?’ she ventured, not at all sure how Julie would respond to such a suggestion, and then her daughter appeared behind Jake. Sliding possessive arms around him from behind, she reached up to rest her chin on his shoulder, before arching a curious brow at her mother.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Your mother was going to serve the meal she had prepared in the other room,’ Jake interposed swiftly. ‘I thought we should eat in here. I always enjoyed eating in the kitchen, when I lived at home.’

  ‘Yes, but how big was the kitchen you used to eat in?’ countered Julie, turning her head deliberately, and allowing her tongue to brush the lobe of his ear. ‘Not like this rabbit hutch, I’m sure. I bet there were acres and acres of marble tiles, and dressers simply groaning under the weight of copper pans.’

  ‘I don’t think it matters how big the room is,’ Jake retorted, displaying a depth of coolness she had clearly not expected. He moved so that Julie had either to move with him, which would have been clumsy, or let him go. She chose the latter, and stood looking at him with sulky eyes. ‘It’s the room where the cooking is done. That’s what’s important. The smell of good food isn’t enhanced by wasted space.’

  ‘How gallant!’

  Julie grimaced, but Laura had the feeling that Jake’s reaction had surprised her daughter. Evidently, he was not going to prove as easy to manipulate as Julie had expected, and, although she was probably nursing her grievances, she had decided to reassess her options before making any reckless moves.

  ‘Well—if you’re sure,’ Laura murmured now, half wishing Jake had not chosen to champion her. She had no desire to be the cause of any rift between them, and, in all honesty, she would have preferred to keep the kitchen as her sanctuary. But it was too late now, and, ignoring Julie’s still mutinous expression, she shook out the tablecloth.

  ‘D’you want a drink?’ asked Julie, after a few moments, apparently deciding that sulking was getting her nowhere, and to Laura’s relief Jake accepted the olive branch.

  ‘Sounds good,’ he said, and when Julie backed into the living-room he followed.

  Breathing a somewhat relieved sigh, Laura quickly laid the table with the silver and glassware she had prepared earlier. Then, after rescuing the plates from the warming drawer, she set the casserole dish containing the fish on a cork mat in the middle of the table. The attractive terracotta-coloured casserole looked good amid the cream plates, with their narrow gold edging, and the crystal wine glasses that had been her gift to herself last Christmas.

  She had bought some wine, and, although if Mark came for a meal she had him uncork the bottle, this evening she tackled the job herself. It wasn’t as if she was helpless, she thought irritably, removing a tiny speck of cork from the rim. It was only that Julie tended to intimidate her. And that was her own fault, too.

  In the event, the meal was a success. The fish tasted as delicious as Laura had hoped, and, whatever Jake and her daughter had said to one another in the living-room, the atmosphere between them was definitely lighter. Evidently, Julie had been appeased, and, although Jake still didn’t respond to her frequent attempts to touch him, he didn’t reject them either. Instead, he spoke equally to both women, encouraging Julie to talk about her recent trip to Scandinavia, and showing an apparently genuine interest in Laura’s teaching.

  Although Laura was sure he was only being polite, so far as she was concerned, she was not averse to talking about her job, and only when Julie gave a rather pronounced yawn did she realise she had been lecturing. But it was so rare that she spoke to anyone at any length outside the teaching profession, and Jake’s intelligent observations had inspired her to share her opinions.

  When they eventually left the table, Julie asked if she could have a bath. ‘I feel grubby,’ she said, deliberately stretching her arms above her head, so that the perfect lines of her slim figure could be seen to advantage. She wore her hair short these days, and with its smooth curve cupping her head like a burnished cap, and her small breasts thrusting freely against the bronze silk, she was both provocative and beautiful. She cast a mocking smile in Jake’s direction. ‘But you won’t be able to come and wash my back, darling,’ she added lightly. ‘Mum doesn’t approve of that sort of thing, do you, Mum?’

  Laura didn’t know how to answer her, but as it happened she didn’t have to. ‘I’ll be too busy helping your mother with the washing-up, anyway,’ Jake returned, causing Laura no small spasm of trepidation. ‘Go ahead. Take your bath, cara. We don’t mind—do we, Laura?’

  Laura turned to stare at him then, telling herself it was his attempt to link them together that disturbed her, and not her reaction to her name on his lips. But Jake wasn’t aware of her scrutiny. He was looking at Julie, and for once her daughter seemed nonplussed. Laura guessed she, too, was trying to gauge exactly what Jake was implying by his remarks, and her response revealed her uncertainty.

  ‘I—well, of course, I’ll help to clear up first—–’ she began but she got no further.

  ‘It’s not necessary for either of you to help me. Really,’ Laura retorted, her face reddening as she spoke. ‘Honestly. I can manage. Please. I’d rather.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ declared Jake, apparently indifferent to her embarrassment. ‘You’ve been at work all day, while we’ve only had a rather leisurely drive from London. In addition to which, you prepared this very appetising meal, which we’ve all enjoyed. I suggest you go and relax, while we deal with the clearing up.’

  Laura looked at Julie now, and she could tell that her daughter didn’t like this turn of events at all. It was so unexpected, for one thing, and, for another, Julie wasn’t used to being treated like a servant in her own home. It did not augur well for the remainder of the weekend, and Laura decided she wasn’t prepared to play pig-in-the-middle any longer.

  ‘No,’ she said clearly, gathering up the coffee-cups and saucers, and bundling them on to the drainer. ‘Really, Mr—er—I insist. You’re my guests. I invited you here, and I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to do my job.’ She couldn’t quite meet his gaze as she spoke, so she looked at Julie instead. ‘Go along,’ she continued. ‘Have your bath. The water’s nice and hot, and there’s plenty of it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Julie hesitated, looking doubtfully from Jake to her mother and back again, but Laura was adamant. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Heavens, there are only a few plates to wash, when all’s said and done. Hurry up. I’m sure your—er—friend would much prefer your company to mine.’

  Julie frowned. It was obvi
ous what she wanted to do, but Jake’s attitude had confused her. Still, her own basic belief, that she was not being selfish by allowing her mother to have her own way, won out, and, giving them both a grateful smile, she departed. Seconds later, Laura heard the sound of her daughter’s footsteps on the stairs, and, breathing a sigh of relief, she moved towards the sink.

  ‘You’re wrong, you know.’

  She had almost forgotten Jake was still there, but now his quiet words caused her to glance round at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said—you’re wrong,’ he responded. He had got up from the table when she had, and now he was leaning against the base unit behind her, his arms folded across his chest, his long legs crossed at the ankle.

  ‘About Julie?’ Laura turned her back on him again, and proceeded to fill the sink with soapy water. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You spoil her,’ he went on. ‘She’s perfectly capable of washing a few dishes.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Laura didn’t like his assumption that he could discuss Julie with her, as if she were some racalcitrant child. ‘But—I choose to do them myself.’

  ‘No.’ Jake came to stand beside her as he spoke, and now she was forced to meet his dark gaze. ‘No, you don’t choose to do them yourself. You take the line of least resistance. Which just happens to coincide with what Julie wants to do, no?’

  Laura took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think it’s any of your business, Mr—er—Lombardi—–’

  ‘Jake will do,’ he put in briefly. ‘And so long as Julie and I are together, I consider it is my business.’

  Laura gasped. His arrogance was amazing, but at least it served to keep her own unwilling awareness of him at bay. ‘You don’t understand,’ she declared, depositing the newly washed glasses on the drainer. ‘Julie and I don’t see one another very often—–’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘It’s nobody’s fault.’ But Laura couldn’t help wondering if he knew exactly how infrequently Julie made the journey north. Recently, Laura had had to travel to London if she wanted to see her daughter, and as she could only do so during school holidays, and they often coincided with Julie’s working trips abroad, these occasions were getting fewer.