The Innocent's One-Night Confession

by Sara Craven

  Instead, she spent a wretched night, tossing and turning, her body’s turmoil reflecting the chaos of her emotions.

  They said confession was good for the soul, she thought miserably, but that must only be when you could tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  Yet, in her case, that was still impossible.

  And it was all her own fault.

  Because, that night in London, she could have called the lift and gone down to the waiting cab, to resume her normal existence.

  Because, at the abbey she could have told Gerard to sort out his own marital problems, and walked away.

  Because, she could also have found some excuse—a headache, plans of her own, or urgent scripts to be read—in fact anything, for God’s sake, to avoid accompanying Zandor to the manor, or anywhere else for that matter.

  And, once there, why hadn’t she waited staidly downstairs in the hall while he completed his inspection of the bedrooms, like any sane person would have done, instead of drifting into the garden and allowing herself to be found indulging inexplicable fantasies in a disturbingly secluded spot?

  But once found, why hadn’t she dodged any potentially disastrous confrontation by looking at her watch, expressing concern about the time then leading the way briskly back to the car.

  In fact, she groaned inwardly, why hadn’t she followed any of those eminently sensible courses of conduct, thereby avoiding a load of grief?

  That was what she couldn’t understand or explain, least of all why she’d said what she did about a possible pregnancy, as if she was deliberately trying to provoke him.

  Which was dangerous nonsense, especially in view of what had followed...

  She turned over yet again, aware that her breathing had quickened, then sat up abruptly, pushing away the covers, before stripping the nightgown from her overheated body and tossing it to the floor.

  Even so, just the Egyptian cotton sheet still seemed to be causing too much friction against her starkly sensitised flesh, her nipples erect and swollen, her thighs and belly taut with a tension as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome.

  Because, for a shocked moment, she was back in the orchard, Zandor’s mouth taking hers in passionate demand, his body harshly aroused against hers as his hands caressed her naked breasts, and then, as the night seemed to stand breathlessly, eternally still, she heard herself sigh, softly, achingly, as if, again, she was waiting for his possession.

  Once more experiencing the glorious reality of his body sheathed in hers, every long rhythmic movement forcing her ever closer to the exquisite agony of culmination, then at last carrying her exultantly over the brink...

  Gasping, she managed to break the spell, pressing horrified hands to her burning face, whispering that this was sheer delusion, a few shameful seconds of madness which she could not—would not allow to continue, and with implications she refused even to consider.

  ‘I have to stop beating myself up about this,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve made it clear I want him out of my life and he’s apparently accepted that. So what I need now is to erase him from my...’

  She faltered suddenly aware that she’d been about to say heart and mind. But Zandor Varga had no place in her heart and never would have, so she swiftly substituted memory as a much safer option.

  But tonight selective amnesia clearly needed some assistance. She slid out of bed and grabbed her elderly bathrobe from the back of the door before slipping quickly and quietly down the passage to the bathroom, and the cabinet where her mother kept a bottle of non-prescription sleeping pills for occasional use.

  She hadn’t much faith in their efficiency, but perhaps the mere act of swallowing the recommended dose was enough to slow down the mental treadmill which had her trapped, and eventually release her from it into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  On the train, she called Gerard and outlined the new development, omitting any mention of Zandor’s part in it, and telling him he could announce the engagement publicly, if he wished.

  ‘Of course I do.’ He sounded actually buoyant. ‘Darling, you won’t regret this, I promise.’

  Oh, God, she thought wearily, as she rang off. That is so not true.

  And now, of course, she had to face Susie.

  Whose first response when she’d finished her halting explanation was, ‘Wow.’

  ‘And to think it seems like only a short time ago you were swearing blind that there was no engagement in sight,’ she continued affably.

  Alanna shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, things change.’

  ‘Clearly.’ Susie gave her an ironic look. ‘But not usually so quickly. Don’t forget what they say about repenting at leisure.’

  ‘That,’ said Alanna, feeling she was already drowning in repentance, ‘refers to marriage, which quite definitely is not on the cards.’

  ‘Depends who’s dealing,’ said Susie.

  ‘Anyway,’ Alanna went on, determinedly disregarding the last remark. ‘That secret you said he was hiding. At least you know what it was now.’

  Susie considered. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think I do. Or you either. Not yet.’

  And as the kitchen timer pinged, with Alanna staring after her, she went to fetch the bacon and egg flan she’d made for supper from the oven.

  * * *

  The office was already buzzing when Alanna arrived on Monday, and by the time she’d poured herself some fresh coffee from the dazzling machine in the kitchenette, she’d learned that meetings had been held all day Sunday, and since seven that morning, and that the deal was finally done.

  Hawkseye Publishing was now officially part of the TiMar empire.

  ‘And apparently it’s business as usual and no redundancies, thank heavens,’ said Jeanne, from the art department. ‘Steve and I have just taken out the most horrendous mortgage on a new flat,’ she added, shuddering. ‘I don’t know what we’d have done.’

  She gave Alanna a friendly nudge. ‘But you never had to worry. After all, you’re Hetty’s blue-eyed girl.’

  Except, thought Alanna, that Hetty isn’t here...

  The official announcement was to be made in the boardroom at eleven, and everyone, according to Louis, wearing an air of smugness that was almost tangible, was expected to attend.

  Business as usual, Alanna wondered wryly, as she joined the throng, or, for him, something rather better? Time would show.

  It was standing room only, so she tucked herself into a corner.

  ‘They say the big boss himself, the actual head of TiMar, is going to be here, hence the three-line whip,’ the girl next to her confided in an excited whisper.

  That explained all the last-minute repairs with mascara and lip pencil, plus the wafts of freshly applied scent reaching her from all sides, Alanna decided with faint amusement.

  She was her usual muted self, in tailored black pants and a pale green shirt, her hair drawn back from her face and severely confined at the nape of her neck.

  And then the door at the far end opened, and silence fell as a group of men entered, one of them slightly ahead of the rest, immaculately clad again in charcoal grey, his silk tie impeccably knotted, his dark hair tamed, and moving as if he owned the place—which of course he now did.

  Alanna’s lips parted in a soundless gasp, as she shrank further into her corner. For a moment, she thought she must be going crazy. That because Zandor had once more forced himself on her attention that weekend, she was somehow imposing his image on a complete stranger.

  Except this was no stranger...

  Trembling, she felt time slip backwards to that evening in SolBooks when he’d first walked in and smiled at her, as she hurried down the shop towards him. Reminding her how her entire body seemed to warm under his gaze, as if this had been an intensely intimate reunion rather than a first meeting.

  And that, for one heart-stopping moment, they were the only two people in the universe.

  A sweet madness that had turned her
voice to a husk as they’d spoken together, exchanging conventionalities.

  And which, above all else, had forced her to the incredible certainty that whispered—So here he is—at last...

  Something she’d tried to banish from her mind ever since, like so much else about that encounter, yet now found herself recalling in every vivid, disturbing detail.

  Which told her too, with fierce, churning excitement that, no matter how hard she’d tried, nothing had changed. The urgency that had taken her back into his arms that night at the hotel was as potent—as dangerous as ever. Its implications as far-reaching and life-transforming.

  Finally acknowledging that all the denials—all the harsh words that she had used to protect herself were irrelevant.

  Admitting at last what she’d always known. That on that evening—that night all those months ago—she had fallen deeply and hopelessly in love with him, the stranger called Zandor who’d admitted he would be gone in the morning, and for whom, she told herself, she’d been no more than just another girl in another bed.

  Someone she’d never see again, and for whom she’d committed the ultimate act of self-betrayal...

  A humiliation she could not bear to remember and had tried so hard to forget. But all in vain.

  Because he hadn’t simply shrugged and gone on his way, after all. He’d tried to find her. And but for Clive Solomon’s retirement, he would probably have succeeded. And then—what?

  She had no answer to that.

  As it was, she’d constructed her own ugly version of events, cementing it with heartache and bitterness. Convincing herself she’d behaved with a reckless, unforgivable stupidity, which must never be allowed to occur again.

  That she must at all costs keep him at bay.

  And less than forty-eight hours ago, she believed her campaign had succeeded at last.

  Only to discover now that she’d been fooling herself.

  Realising that if he looked at her and smiled, she would surrender to the soul-shaking need inside her and run the length of this room to throw herself once more into his arms.

  Zandor paused at the top of the long table, his eyes sweeping the hierarchy waiting on either side, before briefly scanning the lesser mortals crammed together at the far end.

  Skimming her briefly with a glance like ice turned silver by a winter moon before moving on with silent indifference. Total finality.

  At all costs? she thought, her nails digging into the palms of her hands as her throat tightened, painfully, uncontrollably. Had she ever, until this moment, reckoned up the price she might have to pay?

  Or examined her feelings about him with any kind of honesty?

  Not until now, was the bleak answer, when it was far too late. And that was something she’d have to live with for the rest of her life.

  Then, as the silence in the room seemed to stretch to screaming point: ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Zandor Varga.

  * * *

  Her office had always been more of a cubbyhole than a sanctuary, but Alanna dived into it, and fell, shaking, into the chair behind her desk.

  There’d been no escape, of course. She’d had to stand there, sheer willpower holding her upright, for the duration of his short speech, outlining his reasons for choosing Hawkseye Publishing, commending their successes but also making it clear there was room for improvement.

  So business as usual was by no means a certainty, she thought, remembering the uneasy looks being exchanged by his audience.

  But she knew only too well whose head would be the first to roll.

  The only question was would he wield the axe himself, or get one of the suits who’d followed him into the boardroom to do it?

  TiMar, she thought. Of course—Timon and Marianne, the amalgamation of his parents’ names, which Joanne had confided to her. How could she not have seen it—not have guessed?

  And Jerry Morris had been right. Zan was indeed a billionaire, probably several times over.

  Zandor had said she might have problems air-brushing him out of her life, but how could she have guessed how all-encompassing they might be? Especially with a man she’d once accused of not taking rejection well?

  At least I got that right, she thought, pain twisting inside her.

  But, however flimsy the reason for her coming dismissal, there was no way she would seek reparation from a tribunal, even if such action was justified, because who knew what skeletons might come tumbling from the cupboard?

  She might even find herself portrayed as Zandor’s vengeful discarded mistress, she realised, dry-mouthed.

  She glanced at the contents of her in-tray, then reached with an unsteady hand for the script she’d been working on. At least she could clear her desk before the inevitable happened. Behave correctly and with dignity, although heaven only knew what kind of a reference she could expect.

  But she would deal with that when she had to.

  She ate her lunchtime sandwich in seclusion, bitterly aware that acquiring a boss who was not only mega-wealthy, single and sex on legs would be the sole topic of conversation among her female colleagues.

  By this time they probably knew his collar size, she thought, for a brief instant allowing herself to imagine the reaction if she tossed, I’ve seen him naked into the conversation.

  It was the only marginally bright moment in an increasingly bleak afternoon, crowned by a summons from Louis just as she was about to leave.

  So he was the executioner of choice, she thought, resisting an impulse to lie down and drum her heels, screaming.

  But to her astonishment, he greeted her pleasantly and invited her to sit down.

  ‘I think it’s clear to us all that the new regime is going to be pretty tough,’ he opined importantly, leaning back in his chair. ‘And while we’re obviously looking to expand our fiction range, we also need to build on our current successes.

  ‘Which brings me to you. While I have not always agreed with your judgement, I cannot deny your editing skills and ability to get the best from the authors on your list.’

  He paused. ‘In view of that, I’ve decided to give you a very special assignment. As you know, Jeffrey Winton has decided on a change of direction in order to attract a younger readership. Naturally, he feels he’ll need help in making such a complete switch, so, from now on, and at his own request, you’ll be working exclusively with him.’

  He nodded graciously. ‘This is an exciting career move for you, Alanna, and will naturally warrant a slight increase in salary, which may improve once the partnership has been successfully established.’

  He eyed her. ‘So, what do you say?’

  Alanna drew a breath. ‘Just this.’ She couldn’t believe how calm she sounded. ‘That there isn’t enough money in the world to persuade me to having anything to do with that squalid little lech, let alone work with him.

  ‘And don’t tell me he hasn’t tried it on with other girls,’ she added contemptuously. ‘Because I won’t believe it. So, briefly, and for the record, the answer is no because I’m quite happy working as I am.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that. I will overlook, for the moment, the slur on a bestselling author’s reputation. In return you must understand that the decision has come from the top.’

  He nodded at her faint gasp. ‘Your current authors have been reassigned to other editors, leaving you free to concentrate your efforts on Jeffrey’s behalf.’ He smiled. ‘He tells me he is very much looking forward to your input.’

  So this is how it’s going to be done, Alanna thought, feeling sick. What’s known as virtual dismissal, because Zandor of all people knew exactly what her response would be to this new scheme.

  The cruelty of it took her breath away.

  How could he? she asked herself desolately. Why didn’t he simply include me in the first staff cull? Because there’s bound to be one.

  ‘Then Mr Winton is going to be disappointed.’ She rose. ‘Because I refuse to be co
nnected with this project in any way. And don’t worry. My resignation will be on your desk before I leave tonight.’

  ‘Aren’t you being rather foolish?’ Louis tried to sound concerned but his eyes were glinting. ‘Publishing jobs are hard to come by, and you’re turning down a promotion.’ He tutted. ‘That won’t look well on your CV.’

  Alanna shrugged. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  At the door, she paused. ‘Oh, and, still on the record, Jeffrey Winton is not only vastly untalented, but a sleazy little slimeball and you’re welcome to tell him so from me.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘And I strongly advise you not to repeat such comments, unless you want to find yourself in court. On the whole, I’d say you had enough problems already—wouldn’t you?’ He paused. ‘More immediately, after you’ve written your resignation, I suggest you clear your desk. You’re a loose cannon, Alanna, as I always suspected, so why delay the inevitable?’

  Somehow she managed to keep her tone light. ‘Why indeed?’ she agreed, and left him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘WHAT AM I going to do?’

  Alanna sat curled in a corner of the sofa, an untouched glass of wine on the table beside her, her throat tight, tension knotting her stomach, as the question echoed and re-echoed in her head.

  But always receiving the same answer. ‘I don’t know.’

  For the first time since leaving university, she was unemployed—and scared.

  She was also alone, as Susie had agreed to meet an ex-boyfriend for an after-work drink.

  ‘Just a drink, I promise. You will not have to avert your gaze at bedtime.’

  Which gave her time to decide on a feasible explanation for leaving Hawkseye so precipitately without too many embarrassing disclosures.

  It occurred to her that, although she’d be entitled to a proportion of the current month’s salary, she was totally ill-informed about possible benefit entitlement. She hadn’t really expected they would ever matter.

  At the same time she suspected that her resignation had put her in a bad place to make claims.

  She sighed. All this, of course, was something she’d have to find out about.