A tall figure emerged from the shadows, and was clearly illuminated in the bright glare of her headlights. Mike's eyes widened in disbelief. Perhaps if she hadn't been thinking about him, hadn't seen a photograph of him in the newspaper only that morning, she might not have recognised Luke Duncan so instantly, but there was no mistaking the grim, craggy face.
Reassured, she wound down her window. 'Do you have a problem?'
'Of all the damn stupid questions,' a deep voice growled back at her. 'No, I've stopped to admire the view.'
Mike compressed her lips together. She'd just been about to introduce herself, offer him a lift—but she rapidly changed her mind on both accounts. She could appreciate that in the given circumstances he might not be in the best of moods, but to vent his ill humour on her when she'd only been intending to assist him was unpardonably rude. For two pins she'd leave him stranded in the pouring rain on this secluded stretch of road.
'I'll have a look at the car,' she said shortly, relenting, and reached over the back seat for her waterproof coat and flashlight.
'Perhaps it would be more to the point if you'd stop at the next phone box and call out a breakdown service?' he suggested caustically as she scrambled out of the car and pulled the enveloping hood of her huge waterproof coat over her head.
How typically and arrogantly male to assume that simply because she was a female her knowledge of anything mechanical was virtually non-existent, Mike thought scornfully as, ignoring him, she walked around to the boot of her car and opened it. She unfastened the lid of the large metal tool-box, and played the light over its contents, deftly extracting a selection of spanners.
'I take it that those aren't merely accessories but you actually know how to use them,' a voice drawled by her shoulder.
Mike spun round. 'Is there any reason why I shouldn't?' she demanded.
'Oh, God, not a women's libber,' he groaned under his breath as she marched purposefully over to the second stationary vehicle.
She looked at him contemptuously. 'Would you open the bonnet? The release catch is on the right-hand side, just under the dashboard,' she added sweetly.
'I think, even as a mere male, I might be able to manage that,' he murmured drily. 'Would you like me to hold the light for you as well?' he added helpfully as he returned to her side.
Mike handed it to him in silence, bent her head over the open bonnet and inspected the engine. She'd been tinkering with cars since she was ten, helping Matthew renovate his cherished vintage cars during her school holidays.
She located the problem immediately and set to work with a spanner.
'There, that should do it,' she announced, wiping her hands on a rag she'd discovered in her pocket.
'Thank you. Anything serious?'
Mike frowned. It was too dark to see the expression on Luke Duncan's face, but there was something in the deceptively solemn voice that she mistrusted. He was laughing at her, she was certain of it, although why he should find her in the least bit amusing, she couldn't begin to comprehend. Unless...
'The battery terminal was loose,' she explained shortly, rather wishing it had been something far more technical.
'Ah, I see.'
Mike's eyes narrowed, her suspicions increasing. 'You knew exactly what was wrong, didn't you?' she demanded. 'And you just stood there, watching me --'
'Hire cars don't come equipped with either a tool kit or torch,' he cut in. 'Besides,' he added thoughtfully, 'I've never been rescued by a damsel in shining armour before.'
Mike's mouth curled, unamused. 'You being the chivalrous, gallant knight in distress?' she asked scornfully, still smarting from the fact that she had been hoodwinked so easily. 'That's the last time --'
'You're ever foolhardy enough to stop on a deserted road to help a total stranger.' There was an ominous note in the deep, gravelly voice.
'I knew exactly—ouch!' Mike yelped in protest as his hand snaked around her wrist and he drew her effortlessly towards him. 'Let me --' Her words were drowned as the hard mouth descended on hers, bruising her lips, crushing them mercilessly against her teeth. Frantically, she tried to escape the onslaught, but she was immobilised by the powerful arms. There was no warmth or gentleness in that harsh, punishing mouth violating her senses. Luke Duncan was simply making a point, illustrating just how vulnerable she was by virtue of being so much physically the weaker.
'You absolute bastard,' she spat out the second he released her and, with tears of fury pricking her eyelids, stormed towards her car.
CHAPTER TWO
Mike's eyes darkened, all the resentment and anger she'd experienced the night before tearing back through her. Except that now the anger wasn't directed just at Luke Duncan but also at herself.
She hadn't particularly enjoyed being treated like a reckless idiot, and perhaps her feminine pride had been marginally wounded that Luke Duncan had failed to recognise her this morning, but those were minor irritations. No, what really rankled was the humiliating knowledge that, just for one brief moment when Luke Duncan had held her in his arms last night, she hadn't been fighting her captor but herself, fighting to deny the upsurge of alien sensations that scorched through her, spreading from her swollen mouth to every inch of her being. Her mind had been repelled by his touch but her traitorous body had responded to it.
Mike's eyebrows knitted together in a fierce scowl. She was usually so calm and level-headed, confident of her ability to handle any situation in which she found herself. Yet last night, for the first time in her life, she'd been close to panic. And it was that disturbing revelation that gnawed deep inside her.
She jolted, appalled to discover that subconsciously she'd started to scrawl Luke Duncan's name in the dust on the window-sill. With an abrupt, jerky movement, she swept her hand along the sill, wishing fervently that it was equally simple to erase the man himself from her life. And why was she standing here daydreaming anyway when she had far more urgent matters to attend to? Like Andrew Simpson, she reminded herself with a heavy heart.
*
It had been an utterly appalling day, Mike summed up dispiritedly as she inched the Porsche through the congested London traffic. She felt jaded, drained both mentally and physically, and the last thing she felt like doing this evening was acting as hostess at her father's dinner party.
Some twenty frustrating minutes later she reached her destination and swung the Porsche through two wrought-iron gates, drawing up in front of an imposing Edwardian house overlooking Hampstead Heath. She walked around to the back and entered by a side-door leading into the kitchen, telling herself that she ought to check that the preparations for the evening were well under way, but knowing she was trying to avoid her father. She simply couldn't face another argument just now.
'Of course everything's under control,' the stout, red-faced cook assured her indignantly.
'Those look terrific.' Mike admired a tray of savouries.
'Here you are.' Her ruffled feathers soothed by the compliment, the cook benevolently stacked a plate with the delicacies and handed it to Mike. 'Now don't you go spoiling your dinner,' she added severely.
'No,' Mike said obediently, hiding her grin. Cook had been one of the few constant factors in her life, had outlasted her four stepmothers. And still managed to make her feel like a recalcitrant six-year-old.
'And now you go on upstairs and get changed.'
Mike nodded, her mouth full. She hadn't realised how hungry she was until now, but then she hadn't eaten since breakfast, she remembered.
'I don't know how you do it. You eat like a horse and there's not an ounce of fat on you.' The cook sighed, glancing mournfully at her own ample proportions, and then looked up sharply. 'Last day tomorrow, isn't it?'
'Mmm,' Mike agreed, edging towards the door.
'Good job, too, if you want my opinion. I never did hold with all that nonsense. Getting up at the crack of dawn, out all night. Coming home looking like something the cat's dragged in. It's just not ladylike. No wonder
your father...'
Mike reached the door and, with a quick grin over her shoulder, darted thankfully into the hall. She debated whether to inspect the dining-room, decided it was unnecessary, and bounded up the back stairs to her private suite of rooms. She entered her sitting-room and tossed her jacket over a chair.
'Mike?'
'Come on in, Christina,' she invited in response to the light tap at the door and smiled affectionately as her half-sister glided into the room, wafting expensive perfume with her.
'What do you think? Of the dress?' The eighteen-year-old pirouetted slowly, the rose-coloured chiffon gown swirling gracefully around her.
'You look stunning,' Mike obliged, 'but then you always do.' There was little family resemblance between the two girls. Christina, with her huge black eyes and dark shoulder-length hair, had inherited her sultry beauty from her Italian mother.
Mike moved into her bedroom, inspected her wardrobe without much interest, and selected a sapphire-blue silk dress. She would leave most of these expensive, elaborate dresses when she moved down to Rakers', she decided. She somehow doubted whether she was going to have the time or the inclination for a social life in the next few months. She slipped off her clothes, wrapped a white towelling robe around her, and wandered back into the sitting-room.
'Where is everyone?' She'd been aware of the unnatural peace the moment she entered the house.
'The twins are staying the night with their mother, Tim's gone swimming with a school friend and Olly's in bed,' Christina explained. 'That is, Oily was in bed,' she added as a small tousle-haired boy came bursting through the door and rushed across to Mike with a whoop of delight. He flung his arms around her knees and then spied the plate of tempting savouries.
'For me?' he enquired with beguiling blue eyes.
'You can have two,' Mike relented and the child squatted down on the carpet with his spoils, munching contentedly.
'You spoil him,' Christina observed, swallowing a tiny vol-au-vent and reaching out for a canapé.
'Probably.' Mike smiled vaguely. She felt absurdly protective about the four-year-old and it was him she was going to miss more than anyone when she moved to Rakers'. At least Christina, Timothy and the twins all saw their respective mothers on a regular basis, but Oliver's mother had shown no interest in her son since abandoning him at eighteen months. It constantly puzzled Mike that her father should not only have gained but wanted custody of all his children. In less charitable moments she decided that it was because, with a house full, he was always assured of an audience.
'Come on, poppet.' Mike lifted up her half-brother and kissed his rosy, soft cheek. 'You'll have to clean your teeth again before you go to bed.'
She returned from the nursery a few moments later, slightly irritated to discover Christina sitting in her bedroom, experimenting with a lipstick.
'You'd better hurry up, Mike, or the guests will be arriving,' she murmured, studying her reflection in the mirror.
Mike forbore to mention that if it hadn't been for the interruptions she might well have been, ready by now.
Christina suddenly swivelled around on the velvet stool, her pretty face petulant. 'I'll never understand why Daddy always asks you to come to his parties. You really hate them and I'd --'
'Be a much better hostess. I know,' Mike finished with an unoffended grin.
'Well, I'll be nineteen soon,' Christina pouted. 'But then you've always been Daddy's favourite.' The words were said without rancour.
'That's not true,' Mike denied uncomfortably. 'He loves us all, you know that, Chrissy.'
'But you most of all. Even though you never seem to stop arguing with him.' She paused and added with slight malice, 'He's furious with you for not selling your grandfather's shares. And for planning to move down to that awful house in the middle of nowhere. I heard him talking to Luke about it in the library.'
'Luke?' Mike enquired stiffly.
'Mmm. Luke Duncan.' Christina rose to her feet, her eyes glazing over. 'Oh, Mike, isn't he gorgeous?'
'You mean Luke Duncan's actually been to this house?'
Christina frowned. She'd never seen her half-sister look so agitated before. She was always so relaxed and unruffled.
'He's here now,' she explained uncertainly. 'Daddy met him this afternoon at some business lunch or other and asked him to stay with us while he was in London. Mike, are you all right?'
'Of course. Just a bit surprised, that's all,' Mike said quickly, her mind whirling in small, erratic circles. It wasn't as great a coincidence as it seemed that Luke Duncan and her father should have met, she decided, trying to be rational. In fact, considering they inhabited the same jet-setting business world, it was far more surprising that they hadn't encountered each other until now. Neither was it unusual for her flamboyant, gregarious father to invite someone to be a house guest after the briefest of acquaintance. But he had no earthly right to discuss her with Luke Duncan. Or had it been the latter who had instigated the conversation, perhaps suffering from the deluded notion that Daniel Harrington might be able to pressurise or influence his daughter into reversing her decision about Kingston Air? Her mouth curved rebelliously. Let the two men, undoubtedly allies by now, discuss her until they were blue in the face. Neither of them could prevent her from pursuing her intended course of action.
'Do you think I'm too young for him?'
She frowned as Christina's voice penetrated through her thoughts. No need to ask to whom she was referring.
'Oh, don't look at me like that, Mike. I can't help it if I'm not like you. There's nothing wrong with liking someone and wanting to get married.'
'No. Daddy does it all the time.'
The two girls exchanged glances and dissolved into laughter, Mike's tension and anger evaporating.
Christina sobered up and asked thoughtfully, 'Do you ever wonder if your mother hadn't died whether she'd still be married to Daddy?'
'Sometimes,' Mike admitted. In which case it was odd to realise that Christina and the others might never have been born. 'But with Daddy's track record it seems unlikely.' She didn't point out that her father had married Christina's mother just four months after being widowed, something Matthew had never been able to forgive him for. 'Oh, no!' She grimaced as the doorbell rang. 'Surely someone isn't here already?'
Christina obligingly looked out of the window. 'Angela.' She pulled a face. 'Probably arrived early on purpose to catch Daddy on his own.'
'Who's she?' Mike asked without much interest.
'Somebody or other's secretary,' Christina said vaguely. 'Daddy brought her over here yesterday evening to meet us.'
'Wife number six,' Mike uttered drily and headed determinedly for the bathroom. Her father had a moral code of sorts, she supposed. He conducted his numerous affairs with reasonable discretion, only ever inviting to his home those women towards whom his intentions might loosely be called honourable. She shook her head incredulously. Surely he wasn't seriously contemplating another marriage? How many more ex-wives could he afford? It really was about time her father found himself a less expensive hobby, she decided cynically.
She didn't have time for the long, leisurely bath she craved, and settled for a quick shower. She'd make sure that Luke Duncan was seated as far away from her as possible at the dinner table tonight. Then, with any luck, except for a cursory greeting, she could avoid him completely. She'd had more than enough of him for one day.
Christina had departed when she emerged from the bathroom and she sat down on the side of her bed and blow-dried her hair, deliberately straightening out the wilful curls. Why did she always agree to act as her father's hostess when he was in between wives? She sighed. Probably for the same confusing reasons that she still lived under his roof, still accepted his lavish presents. Because, despite the constant battles that raged between them, she loved him deeply and couldn't bear to hurt him. And because mixed up with that love was the guilty knowledge that she was a disappointment to him, that she hadn't mater
ialised into the daughter he'd envisaged and wanted. Somehow acting as his hostess was a way of making amends for the fact that she had long ago refused to let him dictate how she should live her own life.
She slipped her dress over her head, clipped on two sapphire earrings, added a matching necklace and then carefully applied her make-up. She walked over to the full-length mirror and grinned mockingly at her reflection. Daniel Harrington's sophisticated, poised, assured eldest daughter. The image was flawless. She pushed her feet into her evening shoes and, without much enthusiasm, made her way downstairs to the drawing-room where guests were entertained before dinner.
Her father was standing by the huge marble fireplace, nursing a whisky in his hand, smiling down at a blonde young woman. A large, powerful man who exuded vitality, there was no trace of grey in the flaming red hair.
'Hello, Daddy.' Mike kissed him lightly on the cheek.
'You look beautiful, Michaelia.' His eyes expressed his approval, a truce evidently to be declared for the duration of the evening. 'Have you met Angela?'
He knew perfectly well she hadn't, Mike thought exasperatedly.
'How do you do?' she murmured politely, smiling at the other girl, observing that she didn't look much older than herself. The day would inevitably arrive when she'd have a stepmother younger than herself, she thought wryly.
She glanced round as the door opened and Luke Duncan walked in accompanied by a vivacious Christina. She'd probably waylaid him in the hall, Mike decided with amusement, ignoring the involuntary cramping of her stomach muscles at the sight of the dark man in full evening dress.
'Good evening, Miss Harrington. How delightful to see you again so soon.'
Rats to you, too, Mike thought silently, meeting the dark, taunting grey eyes evenly. 'Mr Duncan,' she murmured coolly, inclining her head graciously. It seemed utterly ridiculous for them to continue to address each other so formally. 'Excuse me,' she added with frigid politeness and moved away to greet the first arrivals as they were shown into the drawing-room.
An Unequal Partnership Page 3