Dark Betrayal

by Patricia Lake

  Deborah watched him as he poured the drinks. He was a very attractive man, tall and ruggedly built with

  cropped dark hair and a roughly hewn face.

  His success was stamped all over him, his personality aggressive and pugnacious, yet he was kind and generous to the people he was fond of. Deborah knew he was fond of her. He admired talent and ability, he admired strength of personality. Employees who shrank before him were of no use. He wanted his staff and everybody he came into contact with to stand up for themselves, without fear or particular respect. He was a man of contradictions and Deborah found him fascinating to work with.

  Sipping a gin and tonic, she glanced round the air-conditioned suite. It was elegant and comfortable; the walls were peach and white, the carpets incredibly thick, the long sofas flanked by white porcelain lamps. Near the shuttered windows stood a mahogany table set with silver and crystal, white bases making a delightful centrepiece beneath the small chandelier.

  Cole and Oliver were chatting about Paleskastritsa but Deborah felt detached from her surroundings, subdued by her thoughts of the past twenty-four hours. Aware that Cole kept glancing at her with a slight frown between his eyes, she picked up an English newspaper from the low mahogany tables in front of her and began to flick through it.

  She didn't want to face any questions, and Cole was always so protective, so easily worried about her. He treated her as though she was a piece of china that needed gentle handling. Usually she appreciated his kindness, but tonight she felt she might burst into tears at the slightest show of concern.

  She had already read most of the news, her eyes scanning the printed pages quickly, until a headline tucked away at the bottom of a page made her freeze.

  'West End playwright in car crash.' The photo beneath was unmistakably Jake. A publicity shot, she imagined, as she stared at the achingly familiar lines of his face, the wide mobile mouth and cool grey eyes.

  Everything inside her seemed to stop shock-still, and for a second she didn't dare to read the print, in case he was ... Her heart began to pound again, sickeningly fast. Dead. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. She would have heard if he was dead. She had been listening to the radio while she showered. He was a famous man. They would have reported it. Focusing her eyes with a great effort of will, she forced herself to read on. 'Logan and a woman companion, Caroline Winters, an actress, had been travelling towards London on the motorway when a car skidded across the central reservation and hit them. Miss Winters was shocked but unhurt, Logan suffered two broken ribs. It was a miraculous escape for both of them because the car was a writeoff.' Deborah's heart twisted painfully as the words sank in. Caroline Winters. Another beautiful woman, she did not doubt. Jake attracted them so effortlessly. They fell over themselves to get to him.

  She looked up at Oliver and Cole but they were still engrossed in conversation. She stared at the photograph of Jake, her body inexplicably weak. Two broken ribs. Was he in hospital?

  She swallowed back her gin and tonic trying not to think about the pain she had felt when she thought he might be dead.

  'Cole, could I have another drink?' She stood up and he was beside her within a second.

  'Sure, honey, same again?' As Deborah nodded, Janetta's voice drifted across.

  'Pour one for me, darling, while you're there.'

  Deborah turned smiling, all her actions automatic.

  Beneath the brilliant smile she was a confused mass of raw nerves.

  'Ah, you're ready at last,' Cole remarked with a grin. 'I thought we'd have to start eating without you.'

  Janetta ignored that. 'Bourbon and water,' she advised him with a cool smile.

  She looked stunning, Deborah thought without envy, in heavy red silk, low off the shoulders with a rustling layered skirt. Around her neck glittered a gold and ruby necklace, complementing the colour of her dress.

  They ate near the long windows, the white muslin curtains drifting in the breeze. Silent waiters served the food which was exquisite. There was a clear lemon soup, redolent of fresh herbs, huge shiny peppers stuffed with meat, olives and rice, then slices of veal in a thick creamy sauce. Deborah ate with little appetite. The part of her that was running on automatic was smiling, throwing remarks into the lively conversation around the table. Underneath she felt like a zombie and it was a relief to be able to refuse the rich orange dessert in favour of fresh figs and coffee.

  After the meal Janetta somehow persuaded Oliver to dance with her, to the lilting strains of a waltz Cole had found on the radio. Deborah took the opportunity to slip out on to the balcony. The city sprawled below her. The low roar of the traffic assaulting her ears. The balcony was scattered with wrought iron tables and chairs, and terracotta pots of wild roses, and she leant against the rail, enjoying the peace, able to drop her smiling mask. Her solitude was short-lived. Cole came and stood beside her. 'What is it?' he asked quietly.

  She was silent for a moment. .'Nothing. I just felt like some air.' Her voice sounded overbright, strained.

  She stared at the black sky and wished he would go away.

  'Deborah...' He paused as though searching for the right words. 'I've been watching you all evening. We go back quite a few years and I know you well enough by now to know that there's something pretty damn serious the matter. Can't you tell me?' He took her arm, turning her to face him, his voice coaxing.

  He was right. He did know a lot about her. He knew about Robert, she had needed a shoulder to cry on at the end, and although he knew about Jake, he knew none of the details. She felt she couldn't tell him about it.

  'Really Cole, I'm fine. Please, don't worry about me.' She couldn't meet his eyes, her glance resting on the top button of his immaculate white shirt.

  His hand still lay along her arm and she realised that they were standing very close. 'We'd better go in, I suppose,' she said lightly.

  Cole nodded in silence, and looking up into his eyes, she caught some emotion there that made her step back with shock.

  'No . . .' She didn't realise she had spoken.

  Cole's mouth twisted self-deprecatingly. 'Oh, Deborah, don't you know?'

  Frowning, she asked. 'What?' She had to be sure, even though it might change things for ever.

  'I guess you'd run like hell if I told you.' His eyes were serious, but she knew by his voice that he was deliberately trying not to frighten her away.

  'Cole ...' It was totally unexpected and she felt nothing but shocked surprise, and a nagging worry. How could she not have known how he cared for her? How could she have been so stupidly blind?

  'Don't say another word.' He dropped his hand, and when she looked uncertainly into his eyes, she saw nothing but his usual friendly cynicism.

  'I don't ... I'm sorry I .. .' She couldn't bear to hurt him, and that, together with her surprise, showed in her face, and Cole sighed.

  'Think about it, okay?'

  'But . ..'

  He held up his hand. 'No, look, I know my timing is lousy—I had no intention of letting you know how I feel. Oh, hell!' He shook his head wryly. 'I don't know about you, but I need a stiff drink.'

  'Make that two, I'm dying of thirst after all that dancing.' Janetta's voice was dry, hard-edged. How long had she been standing there near the window, Deborah wondered worriedly. Had she heard everything? Cole merely laughed. 'Serves you damn well right,' he replied, and they all went inside.

  Deborah was lost in thought on the way back to the villa. Her head was spinning with the evening's startling events. But, shamefully, her overriding thoughts were of Jake, injured in the car crash.

  She closed her eyes and finally accepted that she had to see him again. She had to lay to rest those ghosts that were driving her insane. Time and distance had lent a powerful enchantment. She needed disillusion, the same disillusion she had known when she left him.

  'Dammit, I want to go to Tess's party,' she said, turning in her seat to look at Oliver.

  'Bravo, my child!' He smiled crooked
ly, not taking his eyes off the road as he negotiated the narrow streets. 'Being a coward never suited you for a moment.' Deborah forced herself to laugh. It might not have suited her, but it had saved her. She had been safe for three years, and it was going to take more than courage to fling off her protective cloak and face the only man she had ever loved.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The weather in London was very cold, the air heavy with fine rain, as they travelled into the city by taxi.

  Deborah was quiet, in the grip of an apprehensive foreboding that irritated her.

  She had telephoned Tess from the villa. Sealing her doom, she thought melodramatically. Tess had been ecstatic, grateful, which had made Deborah feel even worse.

  She didn't know why she was blowing it up out of all proportion. It was only a party, after all. But it was only three days away, looming larger and nearer with every second that ticked by.

  She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she didn't hear what Oliver was saying, surprised when she found herself on the pavement outside their house, her case at her feet, while the taxi carrying Oliver shot away.

  Shrugging, she kicked open the gate, picking up her case. The house was tall and thin, a blackened Victorian terraced house near the centre of the city. There was a tiny garden overgrown with wild flowers and worn dipping steps up to the front door.

  Originally the house had belonged to Oliver's mother, now it was divided into two spacious flats and shared by Oliver and herself. It had seemed the most sensible solution to the problem of somewhere to live and had proved very satisfactory for both of them.

  Inside, the house smelled empty, letters piled up behind the front door. Deborah walked into her flat and switched on the central heating and the kettle. She sorted through the mail, leaving the pile addressed to Oliver on the hall table.

  She made some instant coffee, flicking through her own letters, not bothering to open any of them.

  After an omelette that she only picked at, she unpacked her case, flinging her dirty clothes into the linen basket. Jake was still pervading the corners of her mind. She didn't want to think about him. She was going to have to focus all her attention on her work now that she was back. Cole was expecting the drawings for her new collection within the month. It wasn't going to be easy.

  Tonight the flat felt lonely. It was probably the anti-climax of coming home from holiday, she tried to tell herself, but being back in London brought her nearer to Jake and that made her feel very vulnerable.

  The following day her concentration was so poor that she finally gave up all thought of work and decided to travel into the city centre and buy a dress for Tess's party.

  She needed something that would boost her confidence and she spent the whole afternoon scouring the West End stores, rejecting without a second glance everything that wasn't perfect.

  Her knowledge of design and production made her very critical and it was late in the day when she finally found what she wanted in a small designer boutique just round the corner from Harrods in Knightsbridge.

  It was a simple dress in black watermarked silk, beautifully designed with a tight bodice, the back cut away in a deep vee, and a skirt that hugged her hips before falling fluidly to her knees.

  She tried it on, knowing it would fit her perfectly, encouraged by the assistant. And of course it did. It was stunning, and she didn't need the assistant to tell her that. It lent a pale fire to her blonde hair and a translucent glow to her skin. There were high-heeled silk-covered shoes to match, and she emerged from the shop fifteen minutes later with two gold embossed bags hanging from her wrist, and a satisfied smile curving her lips.

  Walking down to Harrods on legs that ached from long hours of pushing through the London crowds, she bought some gentleman's relish as a small present for Oliver, then looked around for a taxi.

  It was impossible. She had spent longer in town than she had planned and the rush hour was now in full swing.

  Twenty minutes passed and she must have tried unsuccessfully to hail at least twenty taxis. She was feeling worn out and decidedly irritable and could hardly believe her luck when a black cab suddenly pulled up in front of her.

  Without hesitation she pulled open the door and climbed inside, freezing into immobility, her parcels falling from her hands as she came face to face with the man already inside. It was Jake Logan, the last person in the world she expected or wanted to see.

  She didn't know what to do, she didn't know what to say, and her heart stopped beating for a second as she heard his cool greeting.

  From somewhere far away she heard her own voice saying inanely, 'I didn't realise this taxi was occupied. I'

  'Shut up and sit down. We can share it.' She heard his clipped instructions to the driver and as the taxi shot into the heavy traffic, she lost her balance, falling awkwardly into the seat opposite Jake.

  It was like some crazy dream, totally unbelievable.

  'Would you mind stopping this taxi?' Her voice was icy, her thoughts spinning in confusion. She didn't dare to look at him. She had glanced at him once when she got in, but since that first shock she had not lifted her eyes.

  'Don't be ridiculous, you'll never get another taxi at this time in the afternoon.' His voice was amused, its deep attractive timbre making her shiver inside.

  She hadn't heard his voice for three years, but she had never forgotten it, or the effect it always had on her.

  'I'll walk. I'd rather anyway,' she gritted, hating his amusement, hating herself for responding.

  Jake laughed. 'What's the matter?' he taunted softly, 'Scared? This is a taxi, not a locked bedroom.'

  Deborah bit hard on her lower lip, stifling the angry retort that hovered on her tongue. He was laughing at her and she was blind with fury. What was she betraying by making such a fuss about a shared taxi? She didn't dare contemplate what he would read into her panic.

  She looked out of the window as the taxi ground to a halt obeying a red light. She would be home in twenty minutes, and how bad could twenty minutes of anything be? All she had to do was keep cool. She lowered her head again, resolving silence, letting the smooth curtain of her hair fall across her flushed cheeks.

  She could feel Jake's eyes upon her, intent, staring. There was only a few inches between them in the close confines of the taxi and the air seemed heavy with tension. She looked down at her hands. They were trembling, the knuckles white and she hurriedly pushed them into the pockets of her thick coat, as she tried to cope with the situation she found herself in.

  She still felt shocked, incredulous that she was sitting in this taxi with him.

  'You haven't changed at all.' Jake's voice broke the silence, low and slightly husky.

  Deborah lifted her head, a frown pleating her pale brow. 'Of course I have,' she replied with as much coolness as she could muster. 'Three years is a lifetime.'

  'I know.' He gave no emphasis to the words, no expression, yet his voice was loaded with meaning.

  Deborah looked out of the dusty window, not bothering to answer, her eyes unfocused, pained.

  'How have you been?' He sounded polite now, urbane.

  She didn't want to talk and he knew that, she thought furiously.

  'Fine.' She had to stop herself snapping, deliberately keeping to one word.

  'And your husband?' His gaze narrowed blankly on her averted face.

  'He's dead,' she said flatly, regret tightening her mouth.

  'So I heard.' He clipped the words harshly, very coolly.

  'So why did you ask?' Furiously angry, her eyes met his. Their glances locked, raw electricity flashing between them. Deborah looked into the narrowed silvery grey depths and felt as though she was being sucked into a whirlpool.

  'I suppose I was curious to see your reaction,' Jake said very slowly, his eyes still holding hers.

  Stunned by his callousness, Deborah swallowed painfully. 'You haven't changed either,' she retorted icily. 'You're still a cold, ruthless swine.'

  He
acknowledged the insult, his mouth curving in a hard smile. 'And you're still as bad-tempered.'

  'Thanks very much.' Strangely the slightest criticism still hurt, and she could feel tears stinging her eyes, blocking her throat as she stared with pretended interest out of the window. But she found herself looking at Jake's reflection, unable to drag her eyes away or focus them on anything beyond the glass.

  She had told him the truth, however calculated to insult. He hadn't changed. Perhaps a few more lines etched into the tanned smoothness of his face, but no sign of grey in the vital darkness of his hair. And his body was still magnificent* lean and powerful beneath the expensively tailored dark suit.

  She swallowed on the blockage in her throat. He was so near she could feel the pull of his physical magnetism, his sheer strength reaching out to her. She had thought that if, by chance, they ever met again, she would surely be immune. Wasn't time supposed to heal all wounds? How long would she have to wait to be whole again?

  The taxi screeched to a sudden halt, horn blaring as another motorist cut out of a narrow side-street in front of them. Deborah fell forward, sliding off the vinyl seat. Strong hands closed around her upper arms, steadying her. And for a second Jake's face was so close to hers that she could see the web of fine lines beneath his eyes, the thickness of black lashes against his skin, before she was gently pushed back into her seat.

  The driver was swearing, leaning out of the window to gesticulate. Deborah, unaware of it all, felt her heart pounding in her chest.

  'I . .. I'm sorry ...' She felt the need to break the silence, the awkwardness, her skin running cold with worry.

  'It wasn't your fault,' Jake said in a deep quiet voice.