Indiscretions

by Robyn Donald

  And no more memories of his beloved weight, the scent of his skin that was more precious than attar of roses to her, his sleek power that responded so swiftly to the gentle touch of her hand.

  “Ma’am,” the doorman said, beckoning as the yellow cab slid into the curb.

  She had almost reached it when from behind came a voice, smooth and smug. “Hello, Ms. Browning. Or should I say Ms. Frensham?”

  She almost tripped; she could feel the colour drain from her face, seeping back to her heart and taking all warmth and life with it.

  Peter Sanderson stood there, his broad, ruddy face suffused with a satisfaction that sent chills as far as her feet.

  “You coming, lady?” the cabdriver yelled indignantly.

  For once grateful for the legendary impatience of New York cabbies, she collapsed into the car, but the man who must have dug and dug until he found his bit of dirt followed her in. Because she had time to realize that she needed to know exactly what he had discovered, she moved across the seat.

  She did not bargain, however, on having him lean forward and give the address of a famous and extremely expensive restaurant to the driver.

  “What—” she began to protest, only to be overridden.

  “I think we need to talk,” he said complacently, his intent eyes searching her face. “And we’ll have some privacy there.”

  He was just as dangerous as Nicholas, but in a more alarming way. There was something not quite normal about Peter Sanderson, something that made her skin creep and her heart thump.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, striving to sound normal. Surprised, even a bit taken aback, but not in the least afraid.

  He smiled. “Didn’t you?”

  “I gather you’re in town for the conference,” she said, her fingers curving tightly around the strap of her bag, keeping it between them like a kind of flimsy bulwark.

  “Partly,” he said significantly.

  The cab pulled up. After paying the driver, Sanderson got out, taking her elbow in a grip that made her want to shrink instinctively away.

  “I’m not dressed for this,” she said, looking about.

  His smile was patronizing. “My dear Mariel, you’ll outshine most of the women in there, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  She curved her mouth in what she hoped didn’t register as a parody of a smile. “Pull the other leg,” she invited ironically.

  “Come on, now, don’t tell me you didn’t know that all of us at Bride’s Bay thought you were very pretty.” His smile didn’t match the malicious calculation in his eyes. “In fact, you made poor Susan quite jealous. She’s accustomed to being the beauty of the delegation, and for a while there it looked as though Nicholas had found a redhead he liked just as much as he liked her. However, they’re back together again now.”

  He didn’t care who he hurt, Mariel realized, provided he could turn it to Nicholas’s disadvantage. When he said the other man’s name his voice had a slow, gloating intonation he couldn’t hide.

  She’d deal with the pain of that later; for the present there was a greater imperative. It would be utterly unfair if Nicholas had to suffer any consequences because her parents had been traitors to their country.

  And it would, she thought with bitter irony, make her sacrifice pointless.

  She drew a deep, carefully regimented breath. Exactly how much did Peter Sanderson know? Now that her first panic was over she knew that it was unlikely he’d found any evidence of their idyll on the island—Liz Jermain ran a tight ship when it came to security—because if he did have hard proof he wouldn’t need to waylay her.

  It was much more likely that he merely suspected an affair. So he was probably intending to probe her reactions and responses for indications of guilt; that remark about Nicholas and Susan being together again would have been thrown in to see if she considered herself a woman scorned.

  A fierce indignation stiffened her spine. Let’s see, shall we, she thought, just how comprehensively and conclusively I can fool you.

  They were seated at a small discreet table with a good view of the entrance, and after a quite unnecessary fuss over the right wine, during which her companion showed a rather cursory knowledge of the subject, she ordered an appetizer and a salad.

  “That doesn’t seem much,” Peter Sanderson observed, an odd gleam in his eye. “Aren’t you feeling well? You look as though you’ve lost some weight since we were on the island.”

  Did he think she’d been wasting away from a broken heart? “Summer always does that to me. I’m not a big eater,” she said, “and they do big meals here.”

  “Ah, you’ve been here before?” He didn’t manage to hide a flash of chagrin.

  What a strange man he was. “No, never. I was talking generally. Most restaurants in America have huge servings.”

  But he was looking past her with that gloating look once more. Even as he said, “Well, well, well, look who’s here,” she knew just what he had done.

  He’d set her up. Of course he hadn’t just brought her here to pump her. He was cleverer than she had thought; he had decided to see for himself just how close Nicholas and she were. Please, she had time to pray, not Susan, too.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At least she had her back to the entrance, so as Peter Sanderson got to his feet and waved, Mariel had a precious few seconds to drag her tattered composure about her.

  But as Sanderson’s gaze moved avidly to her face, she realized she was not to be spared anything. For it was Susan’s voice she heard, the higher, feminine tones carrying across the room.

  “It’s bizarre,” she was saying. Her voice dropped, but was still only too audible. “Did you know they were going to be here?”

  “No,” Nicholas said coolly.

  Attack, Mariel ordered herself. That way you don’t have to defend yourself. Think of this whole ghastly situation as a play, she commanded that shrinking, terrified inner part of her, the lonely, frightened child who wanted to race out of the restaurant and cower in her apartment until they’d all left New York.

  “You and the rest of the New Zealand delegation seem to have similar tastes in food,” she said dryly to her tormenter, relieved to hear that her voice obeyed her will.

  She allowed herself to turn slightly and smile at Susan and Nicholas with the right amount of surprise, of pleasure, that a casual meeting like this should engender.

  Of course Nicholas’s face revealed nothing. He would have made a magnificent gambler. She could visualize him in some Regency gaming hell, not a flicker of expression warming the hard, handsome face as he negligently won thousands of pounds.

  “Hello, Mariel,” he said, nodding, his eyes the cold pale green of glacier ice.

  Susan’s smile was coated with reserve. “Hello, Mariel. Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I must admit it’s not one of my usual haunts,” Mariel explained. “If I hadn’t more or less been kidnapped by Peter, I wouldn’t be here tonight. Restaurants like this are for out-of-towners—New Yorkers pride themselves on living on car exhaust and adrenaline.”

  It was as much of a warning as she dared give Nicholas, and she couldn’t risk even a fleeting glance to see whether it had been understood.

  “That’s coming it a bit strong,” Peter said, beaming expansively. “I saw her as she came out of the Cosmopolitan and talked her into dining with me.”

  Hoping that Nicholas would see and understand, Mariel gave a small, incredulous smile.

  Susan slipped her hand into the crook of Nicholas’s arm. “What fun for you both,” she said, her gaze travelling from Mariel’s face to Peter’s. “How are you, Mariel?”

  “Join us and find out properly,” Peter said, playing the effusive host rather badly. “No, I mean it—we’ll have a little reunion!”

  He signalled the waiter, but even as the man came up Nicholas said deliberately, “I’m sorry, but Susan and I are having a working dinner. We must get together some other time.”


  And he and Susan—the latter throwing a swift, enigmatic glance at Mariel—followed the waiter to another table across the room.

  Calling on all her reserves of strength, Mariel said calmly, “So now, Peter, tell me why you’ve been digging around in my life. I consider it to be an invasion of privacy, and you’d better have a damned good reason for doing it.”

  He had hidden his anger and frustration remarkably well, but such open provocation brought colour to his skin and a harsh note to his voice. “I consider it a matter of security.”

  “Really?” She didn’t attempt to hide her disbelief. “And exactly what threat do I represent to New Zealand’s security?”

  He paused until the waiter had placed the appetizers in front of them. Carefully keeping her eyes from the dark head on the other side of the room, Mariel picked up her spoon and forced herself to eat clam chowder.

  “I wasn’t happy with the hotel’s security check,” he said stiffly, “so I ran my own, and that turned up a couple of intriguing facts, enough to send me looking for connections. I found it very interesting.” He spun the words out, glancing sideways at her, and when she merely looked inquiringly at him, repeated them as a taunt. “Yes, very interesting that a daughter of New Zealand’s two most notorious traitors should be working in such a sensitive area.”

  “You suspect me of selling secrets to the Russians?” she asked with smooth sarcasm.

  “No, but there is such a thing as industrial espionage,” he asserted, watching her with an intensity in which she could read anger and bafflement.

  “So you assume that treachery is genetic. I see.” She swallowed a small amount of the white wine he’d ordered and asked sweetly, “And did you find any signs of industrial espionage in my dossier?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  “Then perhaps you’d like to tell me what all this is about?”

  It was a bold request, but she felt strong enough to push it.

  He shrugged. “Nothing. I just thought I should tell you that I’d been prowling amongst your records,” he said, and if she hadn’t overheard his impassioned diatribe against Nicholas on the golf course at Bride’s Bay she might have believed him.

  “Thank you,” she said, adding, “I think.”

  He nodded across the room, saying with a sly smile, “That doesn’t look like a business meeting, does it?”

  Mariel looked. Susan was laughing, her eyes fixed on Nicholas’s dark face as though all her hopes for the future rested there.

  “No,” Mariel said, marvelling at her ability to sound confident and unconcerned when her whole being was racked by a soul-deep cry of outrage and misery. The only thing that consoled her was that Peter Sanderson wouldn’t be learning anything from this expensive exercise. “But what has that to do with the fact that you’ve been invading my privacy and threatening me?”

  “I did not threaten you,” he blustered.

  “Then what do you call referring to me by a name I’ve long given up and hijacking my cab? Why do you think I’m here, Mr. Sanderson? You said that we needed to talk. Believe me, from my position that sounded like a threat.”

  He glowered at her with dislike. “Well, you were wrong.” And as though he couldn’t bear not to keep an eye on Nicholas, his gaze slid sideways again. “Rude bastard,” he said, adding with a quick suppression of his emotions, “I imagine there’ll be an engagement announcement before long.’’

  Calling on every reserve of power and self-control she possessed, Mariel said evenly, “I’m very pleased for them.”

  He said acidly, “They deserve each other. Stuck-up bitch.”

  His eyes lingered on Susan’s face. The other woman chose that moment to laugh and touch Nicholas’s mouth with her long forefinger, and a spasm of pain shot through Mariel, echoed by the look in Peter Sanderson’s eyes.

  Join the club, she felt like saying, and experienced a jolt of sympathy. Now she understood why his dislike of Nicholas had turned the perilous corner into obsessive hatred. He was in love with Susan, and seeing her with Nicholas must rub raw the inferiority complex that bedevilled him.

  She said, “I think at the very least you owe me an apology.”

  Sanderson peered at her, obviously trying to assess her mood. To stop any further speculation she played a hunch and said, “I assume your superiors don’t know anything about your extracurricular activities.”

  “Of course they do,” he said promptly.

  She nodded. “Then I intend to write to them registering my anger and asking them how New Zealand’s privacy laws deal with this sort of thing. I’m still a citizen.”

  With bland obduracy she met and parried a glare compounded of rage and frustration intermingled, she was glad to see, with alarm.

  “Of course,” she continued delicately, “if I could be sure that this information is not going to be bandied about, I might be persuaded to forget about your prying. Knowledge of my parents’ treachery is not going to harm me in any way, but I prefer not to talk about it.”

  He understood. He said with great dignity, “I assure you, it will remain completely secret.”

  “Good,” she said, not believing a word of it. Oh, he’d keep quiet for the present, but if he ever saw a chance of using the information to advance his career, he’d do it.

  Still, she could deal with that if and when it ever happened. “Then as long as it stays secret I won’t need to contact anyone,” she said calmly, and began to talk of something else.

  To her great relief, he followed suit; apparently he had decided there was nothing to be gained from probing. She and Nicholas had managed to appear like acquaintances, nothing more. Afterward, when she was safely at home, she tried to recall what they had spoken of. A vain attempt, for all she could remember was the pain Nicholas’s presence with Susan had caused her, the intense emotional agony she’d been forced to push deep beneath her conscious mind.

  As she walked out of the restaurant with Peter Sanderson, he said, “I’ll take you home.”

  “No, thank you, that’s not necessary,” she said.

  A dull flush darkened his face. “Why so fussy?” he sneered. “You let bloody Leigh kiss you a couple of nights after you met him.”

  So that was why he’d been so convinced there was something between them.

  Although her skin crawled at the thought of being watched by this man, she said steadily, “I see your spying is not confined to raking through old documents. Well, to convince you I’m not a slut, I’ll tell you how that happened. Your research will, no doubt, have told you that a couple of years ago I was in love with an English diplomat.”

  “Yes,” he muttered. “You dumped him.”

  Not for the world was she going to correct him. “Nicholas reminded me a bit of him,” she said clearly. “But one thing I’ve learned is that you can’t let the past shadow the future, and that it’s no use raking over old embers. Both Nicholas and I realized I was letting my memories take over. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going home.”

  It seemed he believed her. He said, “Yes, well, I see. I’m sorry.”

  “Your apology is accepted,” she returned frigidly.

  At home she sat for some time in the small living room, then got up and drew a glass of water, drinking it down without, for once, wrinkling her nose at the flat, insipid warmth of it.

  She had to get away. She couldn’t bear the thought of running into Nicholas again, especially not with Susan. She lifted the hot weight of her hair away from her neck and listened to the traffic’s dull, never-ending roar.

  The telephone shrilled suddenly, making her jump. Staring at it, she willed it to stop, but it kept going and in the end, knowing who it was, she picked it up and said wearily, “Hello.”

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  A humourless smile stretched her mouth. “He told me he’d done some research and found out who my parents were.”

  “Damn his hide. I’ll see to it that he pays for his snooping,” Nic
holas said.

  “He saw us kissing on the island and decided to dig into my past. He’s paranoid, Nicholas. He’s also in love with Susan.” Hearing an intake of breath at the other end of the line, she hurried on, “That’s part of the reason he hates you, and I’m afraid it is hatred. I’d watch him very carefully if I were you. When he discovered who my parents were, he was sure he’d be able to use the information to discredit you in some way.”

  “Does he know we were on the island together?” he asked brusquely.

  “No, I’m certain he doesn’t.” She steadied her voice with nothing but raw, steely willpower. “He’s suspicious, but that’s all. Otherwise, why would he have arranged that elaborate charade tonight? He hoped we’d betray something if he sprang me on you.”

  “You’re probably right.” Nicholas’s voice was completely noncommittal.

  The sooner this was over the sooner he’d hang up. “You’re quite safe, Nicholas,” she said quickly.

  “And what about you? I’ll bet he’s already thinking of ways to use this information against you.”

  “I doubt it. I threatened to go to his superiors if I ever heard the slightest whisper, and he didn’t seem to like the idea of that.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he did.” Nicholas paused, then said, “Mariel—”

  “So you don’t need to worry at all,” she interrupted, listening to her heart break. “Thanks for ringing. Goodbye.”

  And replacing the receiver she sat quietly, looking at nothing with burning eyes.

  A friend had a cabin in the woods of New Brunswick. She had her own key, and she toyed with the idea of catching a flight to Saint John and spending a week there. Then, the trade conference over, it would be safe to come back to New York.

  But she couldn’t do it. She’d be letting Carole down, and besides, who was she fooling? Nicholas wouldn’t come looking for her, not even to explain anything. She had given up any rights when she refused to marry him.

  Ten days later she was closing the street door behind her, her mind set on grocery shopping, when a clipped voice said, “Mariel?”