Beaumont Brides Collection (Wild Justice, Wild Lady, Wild Fire)

by Liz Fielding

  She found her handbag and in the back of her diary she began to make a list.

  Family first, then close friends, then acquaintances. It was a long list and it was nowhere near complete. She looked up when he returned a while later with a couple of mugs of what looked suspiciously like cocoa.

  He had to be kidding.

  He wasn’t. He saw her face and smiled slightly. ‘I thought since we were into comfort, we might as well go the whole hog, although whether nanny would approve of the Scotch I’ve laced it with is a moot point. But since there was half a bottle with the groceries...’

  Only half? Because Adele had thought he might need a drink to get him through his first visit to the cottage since his wife had been killed, but wasn’t prepared to take the risk of leaving a whole bottle?

  ‘I think I’ve let myself go quite sufficiently for one day,’ she said, standing the mug on the hearth. ‘But don’t let me stop you.’

  But he didn’t seem in any hurry to indulge himself. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m making a list of everyone I know.’ She handed it over.

  ‘You know a lot of people.’

  ‘Oh, there are more. A lot more.’ She watched as he looked over the names. ‘Do you suppose,’ she asked, after a while, ‘that the most likely culprit is a close friend, or a mere acquaintance? Or just somebody I was a bit offhand with one day in a television studio, or backstage, somebody whose name I’ll probably never know?’ She paused as another thought seized her. ‘Or even an outraged theatre-goer who didn’t like my performance? Some man who didn’t think I was as good as my mother?’

  ‘On that basis it could be half the country.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean-’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Their eyes met briefly then he indicated the list.

  ‘Who are all these people? Matthew for instance?’

  ‘He’s my hairdresser.’ The poor man was going to have his work cut out to make something out of the remains of her hair. ‘You can cross him off, by the way, he’d never have done this.’ She indicated her turbaned head.

  ‘Peter Jameson?’

  ‘Cross him off too. He’s my agent and when I don’t work he doesn’t get paid.’

  ‘Joanna Gray. Who is she?’

  ‘A friend. We were at RADA together. She’s a very good actress, in fact she should have been in the Stalker but she broke her arm. She’s taking my place tonight.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that. When was that organised?’

  ‘I telephoned her yesterday evening.’ She shrugged. ‘My performance was beginning to suffer.’

  ‘Tell me about Phillip Redmond.’

  ‘Phillip?’

  ‘He seemed somewhat obsessed by your mother.’

  ‘I don’t know about obsessed. She gave him his first job in the theatre and you’ve seen for yourself that he believed she could do no wrong. But he isn’t alone in that.’

  She gave a little shiver.

  ‘You’re cold?’ He didn’t sound particularly surprised, despite the warmth of the August evening and the fire.

  ‘Just a little.’ She rubbed at the gooseflesh raised on her arms.

  ‘It’s probably reaction. You can’t simply block out what’s happening.’

  ‘I can try.’ Her eyes were dry and painful and she closed them, fighting back the threatening tears. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t.

  ‘Hey. Hey, come on.’ She felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned over her, lifting her from the chair, pulling her into his arms to hold her, warm her. His lips brushed against her temple, but there was no threat only comfort in the gesture. ‘You’ve had a tough few days. No one’s going to ridicule you for letting it show.’

  ‘Oh, no? Let me tell you there’s a whole raft of people out there who would love to see the golden girl crumple up, fall apart.’

  ‘Golden girl?’

  She buried her face in his shoulder. ‘It’s what some newspaperman called me once. He said I had it all.’

  ‘No one has it all.’ He touched her undamaged cheek, turned her face so that she was looking up at him. ‘Sometimes it looks that way to outsiders, but you can’t enlighten them because they’d rather believe the illusion.’

  Claudia looked up at him. All her life she’d been living with an illusion. ‘I’m tired of playing make-believe, Gabriel, but there are some things we can’t escape.’

  ‘We can try.’ His voice was hoarse and as he held her she sensed that for all the comfort he was offering her as he enfolded her against his strength, he was receiving an equal measure in return. ‘We should try.’

  And without thinking she reached up, touched his cheek as he was touching hers and then followed the gesture with a kiss, the merest touch of her lips on his. It wasn’t seductive, or bold, or like any kiss she could remember giving before. It was simply the only way she could think of to thank him.

  To thank him for being there, for giving her shelter in the cottage he had shared with his wife, even when it was painful for him. To thank him for just holding her, keeping her safe.

  The feeling disturbed and confused her. She had never looked to anyone else for strength before and she was beginning to rely on Gabriel MacIntyre far too much, beginning to want Gabriel MacIntyre far too much.

  And because she didn’t want to embarrass him, or herself, she drew back, putting a little distance between them, sinking first back onto the chair and then slipping down onto the rug, curling her legs beneath her and reaching out her fingers to the last of the warmth, as if it could replace the warmth that he generated.

  But it wasn’t the same as being held in those strong arms.

  Gabriel hunkered down beside her, saying nothing as he stirred the embers of the fire with a long poker before carefully placing a couple of logs in the warmest part of the fire. Then he picked up her discarded mug and placed it into her hands, wrapping her fingers about it and holding them there briefly before disappearing into the darkness to close the window.

  Without him at her side the room was suddenly far less friendly and her eyes sought him in the darkness. Her teeth were beginning to chatter and she sipped at the cocoa, the whisky immediately warming the back of her throat and spreading its heat to warm her stomach.

  But it wasn’t the same.

  ‘Do you think all this could be to do with Stalker, Gabriel?’ she asked, when he lingered by the window. ‘The networks started running publicity footage a week ago and it might just have given someone the idea.’

  ‘It could be I suppose,’ he said, returning to the fireside but keeping his distance from her. He sounded doubtful. ‘But the thing about stalkers is that they are driven to punish their love-object for not returning their love. They want their victim to know why they are suffering.’

  ‘And I don’t.’ For a moment their eyes locked and held then he reached out, touching the unmarked side of her face with just the tips of his fingers.

  ‘Maybe you do, Claudia. Maybe you just don’t want to admit it.’ She flinched away from him. For a moment his hand remained poised in the air, then he let it fall. ‘The subconscious is very good at burying the unpleasant things we’d rather not face.’

  ‘I am not burying anything,’ she protested.

  He turned and stared into the fire. ‘Not deliberately, perhaps. But none of us is immune. Before you go to sleep you should run through any disagreements you’ve had lately.’ He paused. ‘Professional or personal. The mind is very good at finding answers-’

  ‘What answers?’ She gathered herself and stood up, looking down into his upturned face. He had this view of her as a thoroughly spoilt woman who had got herself into something she couldn’t handle but wasn’t prepared to own up.

  Because of Tony he had got it into his mind that this nonsense was the result of a sexual entanglement that had gone awry, some scorned lover getting his revenge.

  Well he was wrong, but he was so fixated on her public image that he wasn�
��t prepared to look beyond it and she certainly wasn’t about to explain herself, leaving herself open to an additional charge of lying. Because he wouldn’t believe her.

  The only reason he was taking such a very personal interest in her problems was because, in trying to get to her, to frighten her, someone had had the temerity to contaminate one of his precious parachutes. He accused her of hiding from the truth, but he was hiding too.

  ‘Maybe you should be asking yourself a few questions, Gabriel.’

  ‘What questions?’ His eyes were very still, very intent as he looked up at her. She had his divided attention and she wasn’t about to waste it.

  ‘You’re the only person I’ve fallen out with recently, Gabriel MacIntyre. You knew where I was when I ran to Fizz-’

  ‘Claudia…’ he warned, rising to his feet.

  She wasn’t listening, she was too busy putting two and two together. ‘And you could easily have pushed that nasty little welcome home note through my door when we got home. It might even have been there from the night before. What did it say exactly?’ She frowned. ‘How does it feel to be home? Something like that. It would have done the job anytime, wouldn’t it?’ She stared at him. Trust me. Put yourself in my hands. She had trusted him, accepted his protection and now she was in this isolated cottage, no telephone, no way of escape.

  As his hands reached out for her she let out a little shriek of fear and stumbled back against the chair. He caught her, his fingers biting into her arms as he stopped her from falling, steadied her.

  ‘Why, Claudia?’ he said, very gently. ‘Why do you think I’d do that?’ She shook her head, unable to answer, but he was insistent. ‘That’s the second time you’ve suggested I’m capable of hurting you.’ His brow was furrowed in a deep frown that brought his thick dark brows down into a straight line. ‘I don’t understand why.’

  Neither did she. She didn’t believe it. He’d tried to protect her from the photograph, the only reason he’d shown it to her was because he was so concerned about her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Gabriel. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.’

  ‘You’re sure? I brought you here so that you would feel safe. If you’re in the least bit uncertain I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.’

  And finally that did it. The tears welled up and spilled over. She shook her head unable for the moment to speak. Without another word he put his arms about her, drawing her into the warmth of his body, holding her close against his chest as he would a frightened child, so that she could take comfort from the steady beat of his heart.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, let it out. You’re just scared. Anyone would be.’

  ‘Yes, I’m scared,’ she admitted, closing her eyes, as if that would make the fear go away. ‘I just feel so alone.’

  ‘You’re not alone, Claudia,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘You won’t ever be alone again.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “YOU won’t ever be alone again.“ The words had come from nowhere, but he meant them. Claudia Beaumont had taken his cold, bitter heart and warmed it with her bright eyes, her teasing mouth. A heart that he had learned was as big as a house, despite all her efforts to keep that fact hidden.

  He had fought it every step of the way, but with that unpremeditated declaration he knew that he had lost the battle, that he was hers, for better or worse. That he would be there for her, for as long as she needed him.

  He knew it might not be for long. She needed him, but need wasn’t love and he wasn’t about to load her with guilt by selfishly declaring his own feelings.

  She stirred in his arms and looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears, her lashes clumped together. He wanted to kiss them. And because he thought it would make her feel better, he bent and touched her lids, tasting the salt of her tears on his lips.

  ‘Gabriel?’ The way she murmured his name was like an intimate caress, her liltingly soft voice stroking him, stirring a response, an ache of longing.

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed, Claudia,’ he said, thickly. ‘You’ve had a rough day. I’ll be here if you need me.’ And he eased himself away from her before his reaction to the warmth of her body, the scent of her skin became too obvious to ignore.

  As he stepped back she turned away from him, but not before a fleeting expression of sadness darkened her eyes and for one treacherous moment every part of him screamed that he had made a mistake, that she wanted him to hold her, wanted him to make love with her every bit as much he was hungering for her. But then she lifted her head and smiled.

  ‘You’re right. It’s been a bloody awful day and it’s time it was over.’

  ‘You’ll feel better after a decent night’s sleep.’

  ‘That’ll do it every time,’ she agreed, brightly and there was a bustle while she brushed her teeth, found her handbag and finally departed for bed.

  But once she had gone, he stabbed at the dead ashes of the fire, taking his frustration out on the inanimate embers.

  Why? She kept asking him why he was bothering with her. Now he was asking himself why he had fallen in love with her. He couldn’t come up with an answer to either question that made any sense.

  Why would he put himself out for a woman he had actively disliked before he had ever set eyes on her? It wasn’t as if she had made any effort to change his opinion. On the contrary she had gone out of her way to reinforce it, flirtatious one minute, downright rude the next, eagerly courting the media even while she purported to despise it.

  Yet all the time, underlying so much worldly cynicism, there was a little girl lost fragility that made him want to wrap her in cotton wool. He was sure it wasn’t part of the act. The Claudia Beaumont performance.

  For a while she had fooled him and it had made him angry with himself for wanting her so much. Angry with her for being so desirable. She was a man-eater. But a beautiful man-eater and honesty forced him to admit that he was a willing victim.

  When she had kissed him for the cameras he had thought he would explode. Yet when she had kissed him this evening if had been different. She had been different.

  He poked at the fire again as he relived that moment when she had fallen apart. She hadn’t cried. Not then. Wouldn’t an actress have cried? Just a little, nothing too messy. But she’d fought tears and when later she had finally succumbed there had been nothing controlled or pretty about them. They had been real enough.

  So, was the glamorous image something she put on for public consumption, little more than a disguise to hide behind?

  Love was clouding his judgement and he shied away from answering himself, knowing that he wanted it to be the truth, knowing how easy it would be to fool himself into believing that she returned his feelings.

  He dragged his fingers through his hair, shutting his eyes tightly for a moment to blot out the moment when he had held her, when she had raised her lips and kissed him with an almost childlike innocence. He needed to concentrate, although how he was supposed to do that when he could hear the springs squeak as she climbed into bed just a few feet above his head. There was only so much a man could take. It was definitely time for some fresh air.

  He dropped the poker, straightened, flexing his aching knee and then quietly let himself out of the back of the cottage, standing for a moment on the step.

  The night was clear and the newly risen moon was bathing the scene in sufficient light to make the use of the torch unnecessary. The lake, pink in the dying light of the sun, was now a smooth sheet of steel grey. Everything was perfectly still.

  The brightness drew him down towards the small dock he had helped his father build years before, drawing him out along its length over the lake to stand finally a few feet above the water.

  He knew he should be doing what he had encouraged Claudia to do, think. Try and work out what was happening. The plain truth was that he was finding it difficult to think about anything but her.

  He rubbed his hand over his face. The fire had dried him out, leaving him feeling tight-skinn
ed and hot. He needed was a shower, preferably a cold one; what he had was the lake.

  It wouldn’t be the first time he had taken a night time dip and now, when his body was tormented with the kind of thoughts that seemed to burn continuously in his brain, seemed as good a time as any.

  He turned to look up at Claudia’s window, half hoping to see her there, but there was no flicker of candlelight from behind the dark window and he imagined her lying in the big old-fashioned bed and wondered if she was restless too.

  For a moment he thought he saw a movement, but it was just the curtain shifting in the light breeze, his imagination conspiring with his overcharged libido to show him what he wanted to see.

  He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or sorry, but he refused to dwell on it. Instead he reached up and catching hold of the collar of his shirt, he pulled it over his head.

  *****

  It was too quiet. Used to London, Claudia missed the constant, day-and-night drone of traffic to lull her to sleep. Or maybe it was her thoughts that were keeping her awake, disturbing thoughts of Mac lying in this bed, locked in his wife’s arms, the little bedroom filled with the soft murmurs of their lovemaking.

  As her imagination began to work overtime it provoked feelings of such self-disgust in her that she threw back the cover and flew to the window, hanging onto the sill as, eyes closed, she drew deep breaths of fresh air down into her lungs.

  His wife. Jenny.

  It was terribly wrong to be envious of a dead woman, but she wanted Gabriel so much. For just a moment, when he had held her, kissed away her tears, she had been certain that he felt the same way. She had been fooling herself. He couldn’t wait to get away from her.

  The click of a thumb latch being raised startled her out of the bewildering thoughts that raced through her head, thoughts she didn’t want, couldn’t handle, but refused to be blocked out and she swung round, hoping that she had been wrong, that Gabriel would be standing the doorway. But the door remained closed.