She put away her purchases in the kitchen and made herself a salad lunch which she ate with the blinds down, because the photographer was hanging around and she did not want to look up and find herself being snapped with a forkful of lettuce half-way to her mouth. She could stay indoors and ignore their noisy comings and goings; from her cottage to the pub and then to the river to check on the latest state of affairs among the anglers and then back to check on her and see if they could persuade her to open the door. She could turn a deaf ear to what they were up to, but the quiet and peace of the cottage was totally shattered. She was irritable and fed up and she couldn't stand any more of it, so in the end she packed her case again, and as soon as the coast was clear she got into her hired car and drove back up to London.
At least nobody would know where she was now. They would all think she was at the cottage, so she might be able to get a few hours peace, which was what she did, from Saturday afternoon until Sunday lunchtime, when Bruno arrived at her flat, flushed and agitated, because he had driven down to Essex to see her, only to find her gone and the cottage empty.
Liza opened the door because she recognised his voice. 'Bruno, what on earth are you doing here?' she asked, letting him walk past while she stared hurriedly around the hallway. 'How did you know I was back?'
That was when he told her that he had been to the cottage, and Liza looked horrified. 'You didn't run into the local press? They didn't get a picture of you at the cottage?'
'No, I met a policeman,' Bruno said. 'Nice chap, he told me he'd seen you driving off and you hadn't been back. I thought he was going to turn nasty at first, because when he saw me hanging around the cottage, banging on the door and peering in the windows, he came over as if he was going to hit me or arrest me or something, but then he apparently recognised me, because he stopped looking ferocious and asked if I was Bruno Gifford and I explained that that wasn't my name, but I was who he thought I was, and then he told me about seeing you leave and I guessed you must have come back to London.' He was breathless and she took him into the kitchen and gave him a chair while she made some coffee.
'Are you OK?' Bruno asked anxiously, looking at her like a worried little boy, and she ruffled his hair and smiled at him although she should have begun her new policy of freezing him off. How could she, though, when he looked so helpless and unsure of himself?
'I'm fine. How about you? Any bruises?'
He seemed baffled. 'Bruises? Why on earth . . .'
'From your family? Did your uncle read you the riot act?'
'He was in one of his dry moods,' Bruno said. 'More in sorrow than in anger, you know the tone. He said it was a pity to get myself into the gossip columns and he asked me if I planned to marry you. He wasn't quite as tough as I'd expected, but my mother was pretty upset. She'd got a crazy idea of you from the newspapers. I told her she just didn't know you and she shouldn't jump to conclusions until she'd met you, but . . .'
The phone rang and Liza handed him his coffee and said, 'Excuse me, I'd better answer that." He didn't have to finish what he had been saying about his mother, anyway, because she had a shrewd idea that his mother would not want to meet her and did not want to change her ideas about her.
She picked up the phone and said 'Yes?' coldly, hoping to scare off the Press, if it was them, but the deep, intimate voice at the other end made her pulses leap in shocked surprise.
'Hello, Liza. I rang the cottage, but got no reply so I thought I'd try your London number.'
How had he got it? She had given him her office card with the office telephone number and address, she hadn't (old him her London address, and it wasn't in the directory—so how had he got it?
'What do you want?' she asked and he laughed.
'Not very friendly, are you? I've had the estimate on my car—the damage isn't as much as I'd expected. Two hundred pounds, though, I'm afraid. Shall I tell them to go ahead?'
'Of course,' she said offhandedly.
'Right, and I'll send you the bill when it comes.'
'Yes.' She wanted to him to get off the phone, because hearing his voice made her feel hot and cold at once and she was afraid. No, that was an understatement; she was terrified—not of him exactly, but of how he made her l «-el. If he ever touched her again she had a sinking suspicion that she would go crazy, she wouldn't be able to think straight or stop him. He could make her feelings explode and send her out of control, and she was appalled by how she felt.
She didn't even know him; he was a stranger, a man she'd only spent a few hours with, yet he had somehow managed to pierce her defences, get to her—and she had been so sure she was safe, locked up behind high, icy walls. She hadn't been. He had reminded her of how she had felt once before, when she was young, and hadn't learnt to keep a tight hold on her emotions. She had blazed then, gone up like dry straw when a match is dropped into it. It had been a wild, fierce conflagration for a little while and then she had been left dead and blackened and destroyed, so she had learnt to fear fire and dread emotion.
'What are you doing later on?' he asked softly, a smile in his voice. 'Can I see you?'
Liza was shaking and feverish; she was mentally running, too, getting away from him.
'No, I have a date,' she said. 'I'm going to watch a game of polo.'
Then she hung up and Bruno was standing there watching her, frowning. 'Who was that?' he asked and she shook her head.
'Nobody important,' she said, which was a mistake because her evasiveness made Bruno even more suspicious.
'Did you mean it? Are you coming to watch the polo and meet my mother?' he asked, still frowning, and she sighed and nodded, because it would distract him from asking about Keir Zachary. All she wanted to do was forget she had ever met him.
CHAPTER FOUR
'What's the time? Only ten past twelve?' Bruno looked surprised. T thought it was later. I'm starving—have you had lunch yet?*
Liza shook her head. *I was going to have a sandwich.'
'Why don't we eat in Windsor? I know a great pub,' Bruno said. 'They do the best roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for miles—out of this world! You'll love it, and I'm ready to eat a horse! I've been driving since early this morning—all the way to Essex and then back again. It seems a century since I had my egg and bacon at breakfast.'
'OK,' said Liza, because she didn't want to argue with him. She was going to have to make a break with Bruno; that was obvious. She had thought of him as a good friend, a playmate, someone to have fun with, but not a man you might ever love, and that wasn't fair to Bruno. He was a man, he wasn't a little boy, and he had feelings, just like anyone else. She had got them into an invidious position; people believed something was going on between them and it wasn't, but she was beginning to realise that Bruno didn't see their relationship in quite the same light as herself. She might have thought of them as just good friends; but what had Bruno thought?
'You'll be nice to my mother, won't you?' Bruno said a little helplessly as he drove along beside the winding river towards Windsor. 'She's really very soft-hearted, but she worries about me. She's got the wrong impression of you, but once she knows you everything will be fine.'
'I'll be very nice,' promised Liza, smiling at him. She had changed before they left; when he'd arrived at her flat she had been wearing casual jeans and a top, which wasn't suitable to wear on a polo ground, not if she wanted to impress the Giffords. She had picked out a cool, summery linen dress, classily styled by a top designer; very simple, very chic. The gentle green of the material flattered her, brightened her eyes; she wore a hat with it, white with a green edging to the brim, and that emphasised her eyes too. In the soft shadow of the hat her eyes took on a vivid glimmer.
'Will your uncle be there?' she asked and Bruno looked surprised.
'He's playing—didn't I say?'
'Playing?' Liza's voice rose in disbelief and Bruno laughed.
'Oh, he's good, very good. He plays like a demon, surely you must have read about his polo? He's
one of the best players in the country, and he has a whole stableful of polo ponies. He breeds them.'
'Isn't he a bit old for a rough game like that?'
'I expect he'll give up if he has any more accidents,' admitted Bruno. 'He says his broken bones don't heal as quickly as they did when he was young, but if you're as fit as G. K. you can go on playing polo well into middle age. After all, it's the horse that does all the running about!'
He turned into the forecourt of a large country hotel. There were plenty of other cars parked there and when they entered the bar of the restuarant they saw that the place was packed. They had a drink while they read the menu and chose what they wanted. Bruno had the roast beef; Liza chose salmon hollandaise with a salad. The food was delicious and the restaurant delightful. They sat by an open window looking out into a beautifully maintained garden; the sunny afternoon was full of perfume from roses and carnations and old-fashioned pinks, the gillyflowers of Shakespeare, with their frilly pink petals and clove scent, heady and aromatic. Birds flew and called, the air was warm on Liza's cheek, she relaxed and felt much happier. Bruno was laughing and cheerful; not a trace of sexual awareness in his eyes. She could almost believe that the events of the last few days had never happened and they were the same easy friends they had always been.
'I told you you would love this place, didn't I?' he congratulated himself and she laughed.
'You did and you were right, I do love it.' She hoped it was a good omen; she hoped she was going to like his mother and his demon uncle, too.
'Do you remember your father?' she asked, because she knew Bruno had been very small when his father died
'Vaguely,' he said. 'In flashes, you know how it is—I have a few clear pictures and a lot of fuzzy ones. My mother married against her family's advice and they never cared much for my father. We didn't see much of them until after he died. In fact, that's my first real memory of G. K. He came to the funeral and he looked terribly grim all in black. He's over six foot and looked 1.1Her to me. I was terrified, I didn't understand what was happening and I was miserable. Funny what you remember and what you forget. I don't remember my father dying, but I remember the day he was buried and the day we drove to Hartwell to stay for good. My father had lost all his money; our own house had been sold to pay debts, so we went back to my mother's old home to live She was never quite the same. I remember her as being very different when my father was alive.'
He had never talked so freely about his family and Liza listened thoughtfully, curious about them all.
'She was happier, I suppose,' she said and Bruno looked at her in surprise, as if he had forgotten she was there. He wasn't the introspective type; he didn't spend too much time worrying about life or brooding over the past. Bruno lived in the present and liked to be happy.
'I suppose so,' he agreed. 'She must have been wild about him, because it certainly isn't in character for her to cut herself off from her family. He had no money, my father, you know. He was no business man; he was charming and good-looking, but he didn't like offices and working for a living. I don't blame him. I probably take after him—I look like him, my mother says. I think that worries her.' Bruno grinned, but his eyes were a little sad. 'She'd rather I took after her side of the family; she'd like me to be like her father or her brother, I suppose, only interested in money!'
'Yet she picked your father, who was nothing like them?' Liza said gently and Bruno looked at her, eyes widening.
'Yes, that's true. Odd, isn't it? Funny business, love.'
'Very funny,' Liza said wryly, but she hadn't found it so. There had been nothing remotely amusing in what happened to her.
'Have you ever been in love like that?' Bruno asked, and in a sense it was a relief to hear him ask that question, because he wouldn't ask it if he thought she was in love with him. Would he?
She looked secretly at him through her lashes, wondering—would he, though? Bruno was a queer mixture of confidence and uncertainty. He seemed so outgoing and assured, yet she knew how easily you could shake that happy confidence of his, it was more than possible that he might hope she cared about him yet not be sure, not ready to risk rejection by being too open.
'Once,' she confessed deliberately and it was the first time she had ever told him, ever told anyone since it happened. 'When I was seventeen,' she said. 'Eight years ago now, a long, long time, but I'm still not ready to have another shot at it. The first time was hell and I'm the cautious type. Once burnt, I definitely fear the fire!'
'Eight years ago?' Bruno queried with a frown. 'You must be over it by now, Liza ... It isn't someone I know, is it?'
She laughed. 'Good heavens, no! I haven't seen him myself since . . . no, that was another place, another life.' 'Were your parents alive?'
Liza wished she hadn't started talking; hadn't opened this Pandora's box and let out the spectre of her past. There was a lot about her that Bruno did not know and she didn't want to talk about any of it.
'Hadn't we better be moving?' she asked, looking at her watch, and Bruno exclaimed ruefully,
'Oh, God, you're right! They're probably in the middle of the first chukka by now.'
'First what?'
Bruno signalled to the waiter, who brought the bill. As he wrote a cheque Bruno said, 'Haven't you ever been to a game of polo? It isn't very complicated, I'll give you a brief outline of the rules as we go. There aren't many, and I often think they make them up as they go along! Once they're in the melee you can't see who hit what, anyway.'
it's just hockey on horseback, isn't it?' Liza asked as they got back into the car, and Bruno winced.
'Please! Don't say that to my uncle or he may hit you with his mallet.'
'It's already beginning to sound like a dangerous game,' Liza muttered as they parked and walked along the grass verge towards the polo field near Windsor Great Park. There were crowds of people milling around, but Bruno whisked her through; he was obviously well known there, for officials smiled and nodded. Liza was very nervous. She hadn't been looking forward to meeting Bruno's mother, but she couldn't back out of it now at the eleventh hour, so she let Bruno put an arm around her and lead her forward.
'Mother, this is Liza. Liza, my mother.' He was very formal and very nervous; the back of his neck was dark red and Liza could feel the rigidity of the arm around her waist.
Bruno's nervousness made Liza more nervous too, but she managed a quavering little smile and held out her hand to the woman turning to look at her. Philippa Morris was still beautiful; no question about that. She had blue eyes and dark hair and a long-nosed, faintly haughty face. She looked like a rather beautiful horse, thought Liza, feeling the long, cool fingers touch hers in a well-bred handshake. It was over in a second; the less contact Philippa Morris had with her the better, obviously!
'So you're Liza,' the other woman drawled. 'You look even more lovely in person.' Liza smiled. 'Thank you.'
'My mother saw your picture in the paper,' Bruno explained and then clearly wished he hadn't reminded his mother about the gossip item.'
'Oh, that nonsense!' Liza said and felt the other woman's quick, narrowed glance.
'Absolute rubbish,' Bruno hurriedly agreed, laughing, then he looked at the field. 'G. K. has got the ball!'
Heads swivelled to watch the field and Liza looked blankly at the blur of galloping figures, hearing a strange whirr as a player hit the ball and sent it flying. At first she couldn't make anything of what was happening, or see any individual faces; things happened too fast, men bent and whirled in their saddles, striking at the ball, the long, twangy handles making an arc as they bent. She saw polished boots, white breeches, sweating horses and heard the crowd watching the game shouting, laughing, yelling encouragement or praise.
"Which one is your uncle?' she whispered to Bruno, who muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
'On the grey.'
Liza studied the horses; two of them were white, was that what Bruno meant by grey? But which one was G. K Gifford?
It shouldn't be hard to guess since there were only eight men playing altogether, but she was sure none of them looked old enough. Bruno's uncle was middle-aged and presumably had grey hair; none of these men looked much above thirty-five.
Her eye floated from one to the other and froze suddenly on features she recognised with a blinding shock.
It couldn't be! All the colour flowed from her face as her eyes widened until they stretched the skin around them painfully; her pupils dilated, glowing brilliantly, black and shiny, and she stared hard as the tall man on the white horse wheeled and began to gallop after the ball he had just struck. The others wrenched their mounts round and followed, jostling him, and Bruno made a crowing, cheering gurgle.
G. K. Gifford? She slid a look at Bruno. 'Is that your uncle? Is that him, the man who just hit the ball?' That's him!' Bruno said, exultant, grinning. 'He's a damn good player—ruthless as hell and faster than lightning!"
'Yes,' Liza said.
'Never misses a trick,' Bruno cheerfully added.
He could say that again, Liza thought with bitter irony. If she had ever seen a photograph of him in the newspapers, she would have recognised him, of course. Bruno had often told her that his uncle hated having his photograph taken, especially by the Press. He loathed personal publicity, would never be interviewed or answer questions by any of the journalists who hung around official functions at which he appeared.
He preferred privacy, Bruno said, and of course he would—it made it easier for him to play his vicious little games, to lie and cheat!
Her throat closed up and she had to bite down on her inner lip not to scream out. She mustn't let it show; Bruno and his mother couldn't know, if he had told them it would show in their faces and there was no awareness there at all.
She kept her eyes fixed on the flying figures, watching his supple body bending and striking. He had lied to her about everything right from the start; made a fool of her, without caring what he did to her, and she hated him, her hands screwed up into fists as she imagined hitting him. If she got hold of one of those twangy cane-handled mallets she would . . .
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