by Anne Mather
‘Oh, Orlando,’ said the girl at once, including Laura in the exchange with evident reluctance. ‘Disney World. Have you been there?’
‘Yeah.’ But Oliver didn’t want to get into that. He gave a sardonic smile. ‘Small world.’
‘Isn’t it?’ she agreed, not getting the pun, and then, noticing that the manager was watching her, she added hurriedly, ‘I’ll get your order.’
She didn’t hurry away, however. She sauntered, hips swaying provocatively towards the kitchens, and Oliver pulled a wry face when Laura arched her brows. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You were right and I was wrong. But, dammit, can I help it if women find me—?’
He broke off abruptly, belatedly aware of where his words were taking him, and silently cursing himself for being so crass. As if she didn’t already have a low enough opinion of him, he thought grimly, reaching for his beer.
But he saw Laura’s eyes were twinkling as she looked at him across the rim of her own glass. ‘Irresistible?’ she suggested, finishing his sentence. ‘Why, no, Mr Kemp, how could it be your fault? We ladies are just bowled over by your southern charm.’
Oliver grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. I’m getting used to finding my foot in my mouth.’
‘You’re too modest.’ Laura put down her glass. ‘Anyway, I know you too well to be—surprised at your conceit.’
‘Ouch.’ But Oliver found himself grinning. ‘Yeah, I guess you know me pretty well at that.’
‘Which isn’t to say that I approve of your attitude,’ she appended swiftly. ‘You always did have an inflated opinion of yourself.’
‘Is that so?’
Oliver watched her with indulgent eyes. The tensions he’d felt towards her in the car seemed a million miles away now. Her mouth was curved, her lips had parted in a wide smile, and he realised suddenly how much he’d wanted her to smile at him.
Which was crazy really, remembering their history. Okay, they’d both been a lot younger then, a lot more naive, he conceded, but those sorts of memories were dangerous now. God knew, he’d been attracted to her that summer she turned sixteen, but that was no excuse. Nor was the fact that it had been bloody hard for him to remember exactly how young she was.
His stomach tightened. He didn’t want to think of that. What he’d done had been unforgivable, and she had every right to despise him for it. But, dammit, when she’d come to his room that night he’d been in no state to act sensibly. He should have sent her away. He knew that. If nothing else, the thought of how his mother would react if she found out should have deterred him. But it hadn’t. Nothing like that had occurred to him. He’d been caught in the grip of an irresistible compulsion and his sex had governed his response.
In any case, Stella’s reasons for resenting the relationship that was developing between her stepdaughter and her son had had little to do with their feelings. She’d been more concerned over what Griff might do if he discovered what was going on. And besides, she hadn’t seen the way Laura looked at him, the way her eyes devoured him—or suffered the agony of stifling his arousal every time Laura came into the room.
Afterwards, she’d been furious, of course. And so eager that he should keep what had happened to himself. She didn’t care about his morals, or the fact that he’d betrayed Griffs confidence. As far as she was concerned, Laura had started it. She’d deserved everything she’d got.
And because he’d been ashamed of his behaviour he’d let his mother persuade him not to talk about it. He’d taken her advice and kept out of Laura’s way from then on. He’d consoled himself with the belief that Laura had regretted it as much as he had and would be grateful for his discretion, but he suspected now that it had been the worst thing he could have done. He’d let her think it had meant nothing to him. He’d let her believe that he didn’t care how she felt. And then he’d compounded his guilt by clearing off to Europe, telling himself she’d forget all about him while he was away...
‘What do you think your mother will do?’
Laura’s voice aroused him from the pit of melancholy he’d made for himself, and he realised they’d been sitting for several minutes not saying anything. Her dark brows were lifted in mild enquiry and he felt a treacherous return of the emotions he’d felt before. Her grey eyes surveyed him, wide and gently appealing, shaded by dark lashes that showed a trace of red at their tips. Pale cheeks, only subtly tinged with colour, were a delicate foil for the wild beauty of her hair. It tumbled about her shoulders, curling riotously, and although it was the last thing he should have been thinking at that moment an erotic image of himself burying his face in its silky coils swept over him.
Oh, Lord, he thought, struggling desperately to remember what she’d said. This was definitely not the time to be picturing himself lying between her pale thighs, delighting in her sweetness, revelling in her innocent sensuality, congratulating himself on arousing such an innocent response...
‘Do?’ he got out at last, struggling to interpret what she meant. Had Marcus Venning given her any suspicion that the will might not be as straightforward as she’d obviously expected? ‘You mean, after the funeral?’
‘Well, yes.’ Laura frowned, white teeth nibbling at her bottom lip. ‘I assume she intends to stay at Penmadoc?’
Oliver took a deep breath. ‘I think she’d like to,’ he conceded weakly, and she nodded.
‘Aunt Nell will be pleased,’ she said. ‘It’s her home, too, you see.’
Oliver hesitated. Evidently she didn’t know anything about the will. If she thought his mother would have allowed her aunt to stay on at Penmadoc if she’d inherited the place, though, she was very much mistaken. Despite her usefulness, Eleanor Tenby had crossed his mother too many times for her to expect any favours from her.
‘It’s your home, too,’ he said now, resisting the urge to stretch across the table and capture the hand that was lying beside her glass.
‘No.’ Laura’s expression hardened for a moment. ‘No, it’s not. It hasn’t been my home for over ten years.’
‘Just because you don’t live there any more doesn’t mean it’s not your home,’ replied Oliver evenly. ‘I’m sure you know they still call it the Tenby house in the village.’
‘But we know it’s not the Tenby house, don’t we?’ she pointed out quietly. ‘When your mother married my father, it became the Williams house instead.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said Oliver, before he could prevent himself, but happily the waitress returned at that moment with their food.
‘One tuna and one bacon, lettuce and tomato,’ she said, depositing the sandwiches with one hand and taking Oliver’s empty glass with the other. ‘Can I get you another beer?’
‘Why not?’
Oliver wished he could have a lager. Right now, he would have preferred something stimulating instead of the non-alcoholic brew. His mother had put him in an impossible position, and he didn’t like the thought that Laura was blaming her father for something he hadn’t done.
‘I’ll have another glass of wine, too,’ Laura said, before the waitress could move away, and just for a moment she and Oliver shared a teasing glance.
‘Oh—right. The waitress took her glass, too, and then, evidently deciding she was fighting a losing battle, she added, ‘I’ll get your drinks. Enjoy your meal!’
In fact, neither of them was particularly hungry. Oliver watched as Laura picked at her sandwich, wishing there was something he could say to lighten her mood. It was obvious she believed that her father had left Penmadoc Hall to his mother, and that was why she was steeling herself for when the will was read.
‘Tell me about New York,’ he said, after their second round of drinks had been delivered and they were alone again. ‘What do you do at this publishing house of yours?’
‘Hardly mine,’ she said wryly. ‘As a matter of fact, it belongs to Conor’s uncle. He gave me a job, you see, when Conor and I first moved to New York.’
‘I see.’ Oliver squashed a surprising twin
ge of jealousy. It was nothing to do with him if she chose to continue to work for the Neills. ‘But isn’t that awkward? You being his brother’s ex-daughter-in-law, and all?’
‘I thought it might be,’ she conceded, sipping her wine in preference to the sandwich. ‘But Jeff, that’s Conor’s father, was really nice about it.’ She hesitated, and then said ruefully, ‘I think he hoped we might change our minds.’
‘About getting divorced?’ Oliver knew that it really wasn’t any of his business, but he couldn’t deny he was curious about the man she’d chosen to marry.
‘Mmm.’ Laura seemed to realise who she was talking to and a guarded expression came into her eyes. ‘But I’m sure you’re not interested in me. My career has been singularly unimpressive when compared to yours.’
‘I don’t see what one has to do with the other,’ said Oliver, frowning. ‘And I am interested in what you’ve been doing for the past eight years. What you did after I left for Europe, for that matter. I did wonder if you might write to me. I sent Ma several poste restante addresses, but you obviously didn’t want to know.’
Laura gave him an odd look. ‘You are joking,’ she said disbelievingly, and his frown deepened.
‘No.’ He paused. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, come on.’ Laura gazed at him incredulously. ‘Your mother was unlikely to have given your address to me.’ Her face darkened suddenly. ‘Besides which, I had nothing to say to you. You destroyed any faith I might have had in you when you ran away.’
‘I didn’t run away.’ But Oliver could feel the heat in his cheeks and he wished they were not sitting in a public restaurant when the guilt he was feeling was on display. ‘I’m sorry, but I thought it would make things easier for you,’ he said defensively. ‘It was going to be damn difficult going on as before.’
‘For you.’
‘For both of us,’ he amended shortly. ‘I was nearly nineteen, Laura. What the hell was I supposed to do?’
‘What indeed?’ She regarded him scathingly. ‘I could say you were supposed to be going to Oxford in October, but obviously I was wrong. You wanted to get away, so you decided to delay your education. Backpacking in Europe must have been an inspiration. It enabled you to get away from me, from what I represented, as quickly as you could.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ he began, but she put up a hand to stop him.
‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ she told him wearily. ‘I don’t care what your intentions were. As it turned out, you did us both a favour. You got the pictures that ultimately made you famous, and I learned to stand on my own two feet.’
Oliver stared at her impatiently. ‘Why do I get the feeling that that’s not the whole story?’ he muttered harshly. ‘For God’s sake, Laura, I was hoping we could talk it out.’
‘You’re too late,’ she said, draining her glass and setting it down on the table. ‘If you’re finished, I think I’d like to go.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Laura huddled into her chair beside the library fire. It was late, almost midnight, she thought, but she had little desire to go to bed. This might be the last night she’d spend at Penmadoc, and she wanted to make the most of it.
It was hard to believe that it was all over. Yet the funeral had been a dignified affair, in its own way. The priest who’d led the service had known Griff and that had come through in his eulogy, so that the words Oliver had spoken afterwards had had a poignant echo in what had gone before.
Despite their differences, Laura had been glad of Oliver’s support throughout the service. Any sense of unreality had been banished by the presence of the flower-bedecked coffin, and she had found it hard to face the fact that she was now totally alone.
Stella had not attended.
Although Laura had been sure her stepmother would change her mind at the last minute and join the cortege before they left for the church, she hadn’t. She’d continued to insist that she was at the mercy of her nerves, that she simply couldn’t face the harrowing prospect of interring her husband, and that Griff would understand if he were here.
Actually, Laura rather thought he might. Her father had always been putty in Stella’s hands. She’d known that, right from the beginning of their relationship, and although she’d tried to put her resentment aside Stella had never made it easy. She’d always been jealous of their relationship and it had been that, as much as anything, that had persuaded Laura to stay in New York after her divorce.
However, because Stella hadn’t left her room all day, the will had not been opened. Which meant that although Laura had intended to leave for London the next morning her plans had had to be delayed. Marcus Venning had been most insistent that Laura should be present when her father’s will was read, and despite her belief that her presence was only a formality she felt she owed it to her father to honour his last wishes.
His last wishes...
Her eyes burned. She had thought she was all cried out, but she had only to remember that she would never see her father again for the hot tears to dampen her cheeks. Poor Daddy, she thought, unable to deny her emotions. What a terrible thing it must have been to die alone.
The sound of the door opening behind her startled her. Scrubbing the heels of her hands across her eyes, she glanced across the firelit room. She had thought everyone else was asleep. Her aunt had retired earlier, worn out after greeting the many friends and acquaintances who had come back to the house after the interment to offer their condolences, and as Stella hadn’t been available Aunt Nell had stood in her place.
But, to her astonishment, she saw it was Stella who appeared now. She came almost silently into the room, the folds of her dressing gown wrapped closely about her slim form. Laura had been sitting in the firelight, and with her legs coiled beneath her she was virtually invisible. Certainly, her stepmother didn’t notice her as she glided across the floor.
Laura didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to frighten the woman if she was suffering with her nerves, but at the same time she didn’t want to remain unseen and later be accused of eavesdropping.
Goodness knew what Stella was thinking. Perhaps she’d come down to get a drink to settle the very nerves that had kept her from attending her husband’s funeral. If so, should Laura speak to her? Was it possible that for once Stella might actually welcome her company?
But, before she could decide what to do, Stella had reached the desk and picked up the phone. Her long, scarlet-tipped fingers punched out a number she obviously knew very well indeed, and then she put the receiver to her ear, tapping an impatient tattoo on the desk with her fingernail as she waited.
Laura shrank back into the chair. God, this was awful, she thought, stifling a groan. Unless she did something right now, she was going to be the unwilling recipient of her stepmother’s confidence and that was the last thing she wanted. If only Stella had switched on the light...
It was too late. Even as it occurred to her that it was strange for Stella to be phoning anyone at this hour, her stepmother spoke. ‘Jaz?’ she said huskily. ‘Jaz, is that you? Oh, thank God! I was afraid someone else might answer the phone.’
There was a pause then while whoever was at the other end of the line said something in their turn and then Stella spoke again. ‘I know,’ she said urgently. ‘I haven’t been able to do anything. The house has been full of people all day. I wanted to call you but I was afraid someone might listen in. That’s why I’m ringing you from the library now. This way, I can be sure no one else is on the line. Yes, who else? Laura? No, I don’t think so. She’s far too full of herself to stoop to snooping on my calls.’
Laura could hardly prevent the gasp of indignation that rose into her throat. Who on earth was Stella talking to? Jaz? Who was Jaz? Male or female? And what right did they, whoever they were, have to suggest that she might do something so underhand? Even if...
Stella was still talking. ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she murmured, and now there was a defensive note in her voice. ‘I can’t help that. I real
ly wasn’t up to dealing with it all today.’
Laura frowned. All what? What was she talking about? What could she possibly want to know? What could Jaz possibly want to know?
‘I’ve no idea,’ Stella persisted, suppressing Laura’s speculation. ‘I mean it. I wasn’t looking over his shoulder when he wrote it.’ She broke off and then said fiercely in answer to whatever she’d heard, ‘Well, yes. Yes, I expect so. What else can I do?’
The will. It had to be the will!
Laura smoothed her trembling palms over the knees of her woollen trousers, trying not to feel resentful of what was being said. After all, Stella had no idea she had an audience. It wasn’t fair to judge her when she should have spoken up before her stepmother started the call.
When the door opened again, without warning, she didn’t know who was the most surprised, herself or Stella. But when Oliver switched on the light and walked into the room there was no doubt that his mother’s face showed her alarm.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, cutting the call short and slamming down the receiver. Then, gathering her composure, she turned to face her son with enviable restraint.
Laura really thought that Oliver had seen her. After all, the ceiling chandelier was casting light into all the shadowy corners of the room and her position seemed fatally exposed. But she’d counted without his very real irritation at finding his mother—his supposedly grief-stricken mother—recovered enough to come downstairs to make a phone call when she had a perfectly good connection upstairs. In consequence, his attention was focussed on her.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his voice low and menacing, and Stella pushed her hands into the wide sleeves of her robe, as if to hide their reaction from him.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. ‘I should have thought it was perfectly obvious. I’m making a call, that’s all. Is there anything wrong with that?’
Oliver’s lips thinned. ‘You tell me.’