The Trouble with Trent! - Jessica Steele
Temporarily sharing with Trent..
When Trent de Havilland waltzed into Alethea's life, she was already wanting to leave home. So, Trent's idea that she move in with him could have been the ideal solution. But Alethea didn't think so. She'd only met the man a few times and, anyway, Trent expected that, in time, she would be living with him in a fully intimate manner! However, Alethea had little choice but to become Trent's housemate: her sister's husband was in a mess and only Trent could help him out. Alethea crossed her fingers in the hope that Trent would get tired of her and beg her to move out...before things got out of hand!
Printed and bound in Great Britain
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First published in Great Britain
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited, Eton House, - Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW SR
© Jessica Steele 1997
ISBN 0 263 80149 7
CHAPTER ONE
Alethea was in her bedroom, unsure that she wanted to go to the party. She was not a party animal. A shrill, high-pitched scream rent the air—she changed her mind Perhaps a party would be preferable to staying home and listening to her niece's temper tantrums It had all been so peaceful—once!
Up until a month ago life had meandered along at a fairly routine pace. Then, without so much as a warning phone call, her sister Maxine had left her husband.
Alethea had been twelve years old when her sister, her senior by six years, had married Keith Lawrence. 'It won't last!' her mother had proclaimed, not at all in favour of the match. But it had—for ten years.
Then Maxine was back home, and her mother was triumphant. After the children had been tucked up into hurriedly made beds, Maxine had revealed how her husband had confessed that he had been stealing from the firm he worked for.
`I'm not a bit surprised!' her mother had stated bluntly. 'I always knew he was shiftless! That he's a crook as well is all part and parcel of the man!'
At which Maxine had started crying, and then her two year-old, Polly, who should have been fast asleep, started screaming. Before they knew it, seven-year-old Sadie and five-year-old Georgia were out of bed and coming downstairs, in tears, crying that they wanted to go home.
`Your home is here with Nanna now, darlings.' Their grandmother poured oil on troubled waters, and it took all of an hour to get the children settled again.
`I don't know what I'm going to do,' Maxine fretted when the three of them were in the drawing room again. `Keith's hoping to pay the money back before the theft is discovered. He's putting the house up for sale and ...'
`He's selling the house!' Eleanor Pemberton exclaimed. 'He's stolen as much as that?'
`We don't own the house yet. There's a heavy mortgage on it. But there should still be enough in the difference to repay what he took.'
`Why did he take the money in the first place? He knew it wasn't his to take. He was in a trusted position at SEC. He ...'
It then transpired that Keith selling their home to discharge his criminal activity was not the sole reason for Maxine leaving him.
`He's having an affair...'
`Typical! And you the mother of his three children!' Mrs Pemberton steamrollered in before Maxine could finish. 'Men!' she scorned—and went off on her favourite theme of males, their fickleness and how there was not one to be trusted.
Alethea's father had left home when she was ten to go and live with someone else. Alethea had grown up having the evils of men being drummed into her daily.
`It's not the first time,' Maxine went on. She had a right, Alethea supposed, to sound as bitter as her mother.
`Are you listening to this, Alethea?' Eleanor Pemberton demanded.
`Every word,' Alethea replied quietly. Her mother's warning about men was there in every look and every sentence. 'Which is why I decided on a career.'
Later that night, the house was, for the moment, silent, and Alethea had space to consider how best she might help her sister. Maxine was a lovely person and it just wasn't right that any man should use her so.
But sympathy on its own would not be much help. It was fortunate that the house had four bedrooms so, with two-year-old Polly sleeping in Maxine's room, and Sadie and Georgia—protesting loudly—sharing another, they were still fairly comfortable.
Alethea was up early the next morning. They lived on the outskirts of London and it was an hour's drive to her office. As usual she took her mother a cup of tea before she left. She contemplated taking Maxine one too. But remembering toddler Polly's screams of the night before—the tot seemed incapable of doing anything at low decibels—she thought that, on balance, Maxine might prefer her not to enter her room and so disturb the sleeping child.
`Is there anything you need?' she had asked her mother.
`I expect Maxine and I will take the girls out for an airing. We'll get anything we need then,' her mother replied. Then her disapproval of men surfaced again. 'I would hope Maxine's learned her lesson after this. My g—'
Alethea could see that her mother was coiling herself up, ready to give forth on the iniquities of the male species. 'I shall have to go—we're very busy at the office just now.'
They had been too. Alethea worked for Gale Drilling International, a huge company. And, at twenty-two, after two years' training and two years as a secretary, she had recently been promoted to Assistant to Hector Chapman's PA, Carol Robinson.
Hector Chapman, for all he was in charge of the whole concern, had a human side to him and was a pleasure to work for. He and Ursula, his wife, were celebrating their silver wedding anniversary in a month's time.
Alethea and Carol, as well as sending out invitations to the dance and buffet, to which they were also invited, were busy in the background dealing with the hotel where the event was to be held, making bookings for long-lost aunts and uncles and dealing with florists. In addition to their other work, they were making sure that nothing could go wrong.
Alethea went home after another exhausting but stimulating day to find that the house, which last night she had considered 'fairly comfortable' for the six of them, had undergone something of a change. Maxine's furniture had arrived.
`You don't mind, do you?' Maxine asked anxiously as she followed Alethea into her bedroom.
Alethea stared at her once roomy bedroom, which now housed an extra wardrobe, a couple of easy chairs and a sofa. Sympathy,
she recalled thinking less than twenty-four hours ago, would not be of much help.
`Of course I don't,' she answered stoutly. I'm—er just a bit surprised. I had an idea furniture removers took an age to organise.'
`You know Mother. She hired a van, and got the chap who comes to do the garden to bring his pal and do some heavy carrying. Sadie droned on endlessly at breakfast about having to share a bed with Georgia, so Mother said it was common sense to go and fetch their two beds and anything else I might need, before Keith sold the furniture as well as the house.'
`I didn't see why he should let his other woman have any of the stuff that Maxine's cared for all these years.' Eleanor Pemberton joined them in the bedroom.
Alethea could just see it: no doubt her mother had gone to Maxine's house, taken a look around—and taken charge!
A month later, they could barely move for furniture. Because in their own adequately furnished house they now had what Alethea was sure must be the entire contents of Maxine's home. Barking one's shins against something or other became an everyday hazard.
And still Polly's screaming went on. There was nothing wrong with the child apparently, except temper—she had the lungs of an opera singer in her prime.
Time to party! Alethea stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Honest violet eyes stared back at her. She skimmed her glance over her blonde hair, which fell straight to her chin and then just turned under.
Was her dress too short? She had few party clothes and had bought this dress specifically for Mr and Mrs Chapman's anniversary party. It was a violet-blue that matched her eyes. She had good legs, long legs—but the dress had not seemed so short in the shop. Only now, in the privacy of her room, did it seem a shade on the skimpy side. Perfectly plain, with narrow shoulder straps, it was cut to flare gently from the hips.
She was just assuring herself that perhaps she had made a good choice after all when her bedroom door opened. Privacy? It was a thing of the past. Her seven-year-old niece came in.
`Sorry,' Sadie apologised. She was rather a nice child when she wasn't complaining. 'I didn't know you were changing.'
`I'm changed.' Alethea smiled.
`You're going to your party in your petticoat?'
Oh, grief! Alethea was just about to die when her sister came in. 'Out!' Maxine instructed her daughter.
`Sadie thinks this dress looks like a petticoat,' Alethea panicked.
`Rot! You'll see shorter skirts there,' Maxine told her bracingly.
To Alethea's relief, Maxine was proved right. In fact, given that the hem was inches above her knees, her dress looked positively decorous beside the thigh-length outfits that some were wearing.
Alethea had called for Carol Robinson on her way, and both Mr and Mrs Chapman had greeted them warmly when they arrived at the hotel. 'You're not on duty tonight—you're here to enjoy yourself,' Hector Chapman had reminded them.
It was fun chatting to all and sundry, Alethea discovered. Fun being able to put faces to names on the invitation list Mrs Chapman had given her. Fun to dance without the remotest inclination to be more involved.
Carol Robinson was fun too. Alethea knew Carol was thirty-three and dedicated to her work but was amazed when, during a medley of dances that went back to before the flood, someone asked Carol to Charleston with him—and she agreed.
My giddy aunt! Alethea's lovely violet eyes widened. Never had she suspected Carol of such expertise! She was so superbly efficient in the office, Alethea had never guessed her capable of letting her hair down to this degree.
Unbeknown to her, Alethea wore a gentle smile as she glanced away from the dancers. She looked up to her right—and her breath caught. There, about ten yards away, was one person, she discovered, who was not
watching the dancing. He was tall, dark-haired, somewhere in his mid-thirties, and was staring at her!
Hurriedly Alethea looked back to where Carol was still showing no sign of flagging. But this time Carol's flashing feet had less of an impact on Alethea. Who was he? Why was, he watching her and not the dancers? And for how long had he been watching her?
Somehow, for all that she had not exchanged so much as a single word with the man, Alethea felt shaken by having met him. Rot, she admonished herself, not ready to believe it. Yet ...
Just then the music ended and a breathless Carol headed her way. 'Whew! I'm hot. I'm going for a drink. Can I get you something?' she offered.
Alethea declined and, as if by some magnetic pull, felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to look to her right to see if the tall, dark-haired man was still there. It took a very determined effort not to.
She gave her attention to the MC, who was announcing that the next dance in the selection would be a Viennese waltz. Alethea then discovered that the man who, a few minutes earlier, had been watching her was standing right in front of her.
She was tall but she still had to look up. Her honest violet eyes met his dark ones, and her heart, for some reason, did a little somersault.
`Are you going to dance with me?' he asked. He had a warm, rather pleasant kind of voice.
`I don't ...' she began.
`You don't know me.' With a hint of a smile he finished what she had not been going to say! Clearly he was a man who had no time for obstacles in his way, for he straightway rectified that omission. 'Trent de Havilland,' he introduced himself.
De Havilland rang a bell. She'd typed it on one of the invitation envelopes. 'How do you do?' she found herself murmuring.
`And you are?'
Alethea had been brought up to be wary of men, but they were in a crowded room, for goodness' sake. And while Trent de Havilland was sophisticated to the ninth degree, he was hardly likely to carry her off to his evil lair in front of everyone.
`Alethea Pemberton,' she answered quickly, starting to feel she was no end of a fool for delaying so long.
That hint of a smile on his well-formed mouth grew. `And where do you come from, Alethea Pemberton?' he wanted to know.
Alethea was backed up against a brick wall of caution. But she felt it was fairly safe to reveal, 'I work in Mr Chapman's office.'
`There, now we know all about each other,' he commented, when in fact all she knew about him was his name. 'Let's dance.'
`I don't dance.' She stopped him quickly before he could guide her to the dance area.
`How could you lie to me?' he reproached teasingly, not moving, just standing there looking down at her.
`I'm sorry,' she apologised at once, realising he might have caught a glimpse of her dancing already. 'What I meant to say...' she went on. At work she was unflappable, at home she was unflappable, so why, all of a sudden, standing here with this man, was she getting all confused? 'What I meant to say was, that I don't Viennese waltz. I can't.'
Trent de Havilland leaned back. 'Can you count to six?' he enquired. It seemed her apology was accepted,
because, without waiting for her to reply, he caught her elbow in a firm hold and took her to the dance area.
Nervousness made Alethea fumble over the first few steps but, after less than ten seconds' tuition, she was floating. Trent de Havilland was holding her firmly, neither too close nor too far away, his right hand steady at her back, his left hand clasping her right as he guided her elegantly over the floor.
Round and around they went, in perfect rhythm with the music. There was something magical about it. Alethea felt as if she were in another era, dressed not in some violet slip of a dress, but in some magnificent ball gown and bejewelled.
What Trent de Havilland was thinking or feeling she had not the smallest clue, because while other couples circling the floor were in occasional conversation, he didn't say a word.
Someone almost cannoned into them. Trent pulled her closer. She caught her breath again, indeed, felt the oddest difficulty in breathing at all as he held her against him for long seconds after he had drawn her out of harm's way.
She looked up into his dark eyes. It was as if no one el
se existed, as if it were just the two of them. His eyes, those warm, dark eyes, seemed to search down into her very soul.
Some small sound escaped her—she didn't know what to say. Her lips parted and he transferred his gaze down from her eyes. She felt his hand on her back pulling her close to him, and her whole body tingled.
Then the music stopped. Alethea had been aware of it, but abruptly snapped out of her trance-like state.
She realised too that her partner was no longer holding her. He had taken a step away. She searched for some-
thing to say—a murmured 'thank you' would have done. But she felt too tongue-tied to say anything. A moment later she discovered that comments from her were not required. Because, without saying one word himself, Trent de Havilland once more touched a hand to her elbow and escorted her off the floor. And—still silent—went striding from her view.
`I didn't know you could Viennese waltz!' Carol exclaimed, appearing from nowhere, while Alethea was still striving to come back to earth.
`Your Charleston beat everything into a cocked hat!' Alethea somehow found the wit to respond.
Alethea did not see Trent de Havilland again that evening. Not that she consciously looked for him—it was just that he wasn't around. Perhaps he'd just looked in out of courtesy, stayed for one dance, and then legged it out of there to follow his more normal Saturday night pursuits. Not that she was in the least interested, anyhow!
At midnight Carol asked her how she felt about leaving. 'Fine by me,' Alethea replied, and, after exchanging a few pleasantries with their hosts, they said their goodbyes. Alethea dropped Carol off on the way to her own home.
`Nice party?' Maxine enquired the next morning. Thinking about it, Alethea realised that, yes, it had been. 'Very nice,' she replied.
`Anyone special there?' Maxine wanted to know.
Why Alethea should have a sudden picture in her mind's eye of tall, dark, sophisticated Trent de Havilland, she couldn't have said. But she did not have time to wonder for long, because her mother, acid in every syllable, butted in to chide, 'If by "special" you mean some man, then I hope to Heaven that Alethea has more sense!'
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