by Sara Craven
He chatted on amiably and Paige turned away, thankful that her ordeal seemed to be over at last. But she knew in her heart that it would really only end on Sunday afternoon, when she could put a hundred miles between herself and Hampton Priors—and an even greater distance between herself and Nick Destry.
To Paige’s surprise, dinner was served in the smaller family dining room, with its more intimate circular table, and her heart sank when she realised she’d been placed next to Nick.
He held the chair for her, and as she sat down his hand brushed the exposed skin of her back. It was the most fleeting of contacts, yet she felt it in her bones. Knew the tremble of it along her nerve-endings. Her fingers were shaking as she unfolded her napkin.
The vichyssoise was excellent, but Paige barely tasted a mouthful. To her relief, Nick spent the first course talking to Denise, seated on his other side. In the past, Paige had been irritated by the sound of her sister-in-law’s tinkling laugh, but now she welcomed it, and hoped devoutly that Denise would continue to monopolise his attention for the rest of the meal.
But her hopes were in vain. As the plates were being efficiently changed by the catering staff Nick said softly, ‘Relax.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re vibrating like the string section of a philharmonic orchestra.’
She bit her lip, staring down at the plate of poached salmon which had been placed in front of her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘If you find this weekend such a problem, why did you agree to come?’
‘I had very little choice in the matter.’
‘Ah,’ he said, meditatively. ‘The Harringtons circling the wagons when attack is threatened.’
‘We believe in family loyalty, certainly.’
‘And just how far are you prepared to let this famous loyalty take you, Miss Harrington? Or may I call you Paige?’
‘Once again, I suspect I have little choice.’ Paige drank some of the Pouilly Fumé which had been poured into her glass.
‘And I suppose that answers both of my questions.’ There was an odd flatness in his voice.
She was bracing herself for more interrogation when he suddenly turned back to Denise, reducing her to nervous giggles within seconds.
As Paige picked up her fork she became aware that her father was watching her anxiously across the table. She paused uncertainly, her brows lifting in question, but he looked away and began talking to Toby.
What’s going on here? she asked herself restively as she picked at her salmon. She’d been asked to help entertain difficult guests before. It was hardly a new situation. Yet every instinct told her that this occasion was somehow different. That there was a hidden agenda of which only she remained unaware.
Things must be worse than I thought, she told herself unhappily. But why? Harringtons had managed to survive war, peacetime slumps in the building industry, attempted buy-outs and full-blown recessions. So what on earth could have gone so terribly wrong?
When the main course—chicken simmered with shallots in a rich wine sauce—had been served, Nick turned back to her. Instantly she stiffened, but to her surprise he began to chat with impersonal civility about books and the theatre. As these were among her interests too, she was able to respond with reasonable readiness. He had a strong critical capacity, she discovered, and marked opinions, but he didn’t seek to impose them. He seemed far more interested in what she felt and thought, and for a little while at least Paige found they were as near to harmony as they were ever likely to be.
All the same it was a relief when the meal ended and she and Denise went off to the drawing room, leaving the men to their brandy and cigars. The preliminaries had been dealt with, she thought, closing the door behind her. Now the main bout could begin.
‘I think it’s going quite well, don’t you?’ Denise busied herself pouring coffee. ‘But I hope that man’s not going to be a regular guest,’ she added, frowning.
‘You seemed to be getting on with him pretty well.’
‘I admit he’s gorgeous.’ Denise’s frown deepened. ‘But even when he’s talking to you, you don’t know what he’s thinking—and I hate that. I always know what Toby’s thinking,’ she added naively. ‘Even if I don’t like it very much.’
Paige gave a non-committal shrug. ‘I just wish I could be a fly on the wall,’ she muttered.
‘What—and listen to all that boring business stuff?’ Denise looked at her as if she’d grown an additional head.
‘I have a feeling it could be more critical than that,’ Paige said drily. She paused. ‘Denise—does Toby never talk to you about what’s going on?’
Denise wrinkled her nose. ‘Not really. But I don’t think things have been going too well. There’s this wonderful new designer, Francine Kaye, and when I suggested we should ask her to redo this room he got quite cross with me. Said he wasn’t made of bloody money.’
‘I see.’ Paige looked around. ‘I thought you’d had it completely redecorated two years ago.’
‘Well, I did. But this look is so old hat now. And it’s so important to have just the right background for entertaining. Toby always understood before, but this year he’s been talking about nothing but cutting back. I’m sick of hearing it.’
There was real petulance in her tone.
Paige sought to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘I really like what you’ve done with the Blue Room.’
‘Do you really?’ Denise launched herself into an eager recital of colour charts and fabric suppliers, leaving Paige to wrestle with her own troublous thoughts.
Whatever deal was currently being hammered out, she could only pray it would be enough to save Harringtons. But Nick Destry wasn’t her idea of a saviour. More of a predator, seeking what he might devour, she thought, then condemned herself for being over-fanciful.
But she couldn’t doubt that he would drive a hard bargain, and Denise might well find all her decorating plans for the Hall put on indefinite hold. She might have to hang on to her current Porsche as well, and wear the same dress twice. A fate worse than death.
She stopped there, feeling slightly ashamed of herself. After all, Toby had not chosen to marry an economist, nor had he ever tried to curb Denise’s extravagance—or not until now.
And in some ways I’ve been just as bad, she thought. Because I’ve taken Harringtons for granted all my life. The company—this house—has always been my safety net, which makes all my claims of independence look pretty pathetic.
But from now on I’ll take nothing on trust, and I need to talk to my father and find out just how bad things really are.
Just for a moment she allowed herself to contemplate the worst-case scenario. That Harringtons might go into receivership and that everything, including this house, might be lost.
That, she thought with cold resolution, could not be allowed to happen. And she would do her utmost to prevent it.
Whatever it takes, she thought. Whatever it takes.
She found herself suddenly and inexplicably remembering that moment earlier, when Nick Destry’s fingers had touched her skin. And she felt herself shiver.
CHAPTER FOUR
I SHOULD have known, Paige told herself broodingly as she stared down at the sea. Should have realised what was coming. All the clues were there. Only I didn’t—couldn’t—believe that such a thing was possible. That they would ever ask me to do—that.
Or that I would agree…
That was and always would be, she thought, the most astonishing part of the whole thing.
Instinct had already been telling her to run. But family duty had kept her in chains.
Time in the drawing room had dragged that night, she remembered, every minute seeming like an hour.
‘How much longer are they going to be?’ Denise had demanded fretfully, glancing at her narrow gold wristwatch. ‘What on earth can they be discussing all this time?’
And Paige, prowling restlessly from one of the drawing rooms to the other, unable
to settle, thought, Survival.
‘For heaven’s sake sit down.’ Denise rounded on her crossly. ‘All this pacing up and down is making me nervous.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous myself.’ Paige paused. ‘In fact, I have a slight headache. I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ Denise said instantly. ‘Would you like some of my special tablets? They’re absolutely amazing—as you know, I used to get the most terrible migraines.’
Paige smiled with an effort. ‘A good night’s rest is all I need, but thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘You’ll make my apologies to the others?’
‘Well, yes.’ Denise’s acquiescence was reluctant. ‘But I don’t think Toby will be very pleased. He was relying on you to be nice to Mr Destry.’
‘I’m afraid that was always a forlorn hope.’ Paige walked to the door.
‘But I don’t want to be left with him,’ Denise wailed.
‘Then I’d arrange another quick migraine,’ Paige flung over her shoulder. ‘Goodnight.’
Up in her room, she undressed and put on her dressing gown, then unpinned and brushed her hair.
The headache was a fiction, but it could quite easily become a reality. The tensions of the evening had really got to her.
But there’s nothing I can do, she thought, easing her shoulders under the satin robe, except join in the rejoicing tomorrow if the news is good, or help pick up the pieces if it’s bad. Her mind flinched away from that possibility.
It was good to be alone, but the benefits of an early night had suddenly lost their appeal. Her brain was teeming, and sleep was a thousand miles away.
She retrieved pad and pen from her bag and curled up on the window seat, sketching out ideas for future series for the magazine. Some topics never lost their appeal with readers, she thought, but instead of the search for Mr Right, maybe they should explore ways of spotting and banishing Mr Wrong. She could write that herself.
She made a few notes, but her heart wasn’t in it, and she laid the pad aside with a sigh, resting her head against the cool glass while she looked down into the moonlit garden.
She could see the cars parked on the drive: her father’s Mercedes next to Toby’s Range Rover, and beside that the sleek sporting vehicle that Nick Destry must have arrived in. Dark, powerful and alien, she thought, like its owner. The unwanted intruder into the family circle.
Surely they couldn’t have exhausted all other possibilities before turning to him.
The tap on the door made her jump. She stared across at the white-painted panels, her heart thumping idiotically, wishing they could be made transparent by some instant magic so that she could see who was waiting outside. Then she heard her father’s voice call quietly, ‘Paige—are you asleep?’
‘No, Dad. Come in—please.’ For a bemused second she didn’t know whether to be relieved or sorry.
Francis Harrington’s head appeared apologetically round the door. ‘I don’t want to disturb you, darling, especially if you’re feeling unwell.’
She uncurled herself and stood up. ‘I’m fine again, now. Really.’ But it wasn’t true, because she was shaking inside. Terrified to hear what he’d come to tell her. She braced herself. ‘Did—did you want to talk?’
‘I was hoping to have a word with you downstairs.’ He hesitated, looking at her doubtfully. ‘But it could always wait until morning.’
Paige pressed a switch and the wall lights sprang to life. She said, ‘I think it had better be now. Don’t you?’
‘Perhaps.’ He seated himself in the satin-covered easy chair and Paige resumed her place at the window, facing him, her hands gripping the edge of the cushion on either side of her.
There was a silence, then he said, ‘Nick Destry, darling. What do you think of him?’
She swallowed, said carefully, ‘I don’t think of him at all. He’s like all his kind—just a suit.’
He frowned. ‘I’d say he’s rather more than that.’ He paused again. ‘Do you positively dislike him? Please be frank with me.’
Frank? she asked herself. Good God, she couldn’t even be honest with herself.
‘Dad—I really don’t know him well enough to make that kind of judgement. Why do you want to know? Is it important?’
He said heavily, ‘Yes, my dear. In fact, the whole future of Harringtons depends on it.’
‘On my opinion of Nick Destry.’ Her laugh sounded forced—brittle. ‘How—how is that possible?’
And she sat, her mind reeling into chaos, as he told her. As he spelled out the bargain that had been hammered out, and her role in it.
For a moment the world stopped. Nausea rose in her throat, and she wanted to scream No and go on screaming until they saw how impossible this thing was that they were asking of her.
She said, ‘Is that why I was made to come here? So that he could look me over—see if I measure up to his stringent requirements?’
‘Naturally, it was considered desirable that you should meet.’
‘Desirable,’ she repeated. ‘Oh, yes. I—see that.’
She lifted her hands to her face. She remembered his eyes—the way they’d stripped the clothes from her body. The money held insolently in his fingers that evening in the wine bar. And—oh, God—just a few hours ago his touch.
Every instinct was urging her to refuse and let Harringtons work out its own salvation.
But she knew that she couldn’t do that. Instead, she heard a stranger’s voice speaking the words of agreement. Of compliance.
‘Do we know when he’ll want this non-marriage to take place?’ she asked, cutting across Francis Harrington’s stumbling words of thanks.
‘As soon as the necessary arrangements can be made. But it might be better if you were to discuss that with him yourself.’
‘Must I?’ Her throat tightened.
‘Of course. And he’ll wish to make you a formal proposal—to hear from you that you agree in principle…’
She said shortly, ‘I don’t think principles have much to do with this.’
He looked at her doubtfully. ‘We’re all eternally grateful to you, my dear. I want you to know that. And when we’ve surmounted our current problems perhaps we can find some way of easing Maitland Destry out of the picture altogether, so that you’ll never have to see him again.’
Her smile was wintry. ‘I don’t plan to see that much of him anyway.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, of course not. Well, I’ll leave you now. Let you get some rest.’
Rest? Paige thought incredulously as the door closed behind him. She didn’t feel as if she’d ever sleep again. There was only chaos and she was part of it.
What the hell had been going on at Harringtons? she asked herself. Was it Toby?
If she was honest, she’d always had doubts about his ability to run the company, but she’d stifled them. Told herself not to get involved. And this was the result. This hideous mess in which she was now involved up to her neck.
She wrapped her arms round the cold rigidity of her body and stood, teeth clenched to stop them chattering.
She thought, What have I done? Dear God, what have I done?
In spite of herself, she managed to doze fitfully for a few hours, but even during those brief periods she was pursued by strange disturbing dreams.
She awoke just after sunrise and lay staring at the stream of golden light pouring into the room. It was going to be a beautiful day, and there was a terrible irony in that somehow, because it was also going to be the worst day of her life. It ought to be marked by cold winds and sombre rain. Accompanied, if possible, by the kind of thunderstorm that got financiers struck by lightning.
She got up, because there seemed to be no point in staying in bed. No one else in the house would be stirring yet. It was far too early.
She showered, and dressed in a plain cotton shirt and a brief denim skirt, thrusting her bare feet into flat leather sandals.
She went noiselessly downstairs and made her
way to the kitchen. She filled the kettle and put it on the range, then spooned coffee into a mug. Strong and black, she thought as she stirred the brew. Something to put heart in her.
She let herself quietly out of the back door and made her way round to the formal garden. There was something about the symmetrical beds and neat box hedges that she found calming to the spirit. It was where she did all her best thinking.
Except that today there was nothing to think about. Her decision had been made and there was no going back. Not if Harringtons was to survive and old Crispin’s dream was going to be carried forward to the next generation.
Her great-grandfather had been very clear about what he expected. He wanted the best architects, the best materials and the top craftsmen to work on his developments. He wanted everything he built to be in harmony with its surroundings.
Yet now, in the twenty-first century, it seemed that for the first time his vision had faltered.
She walked slowly, sipping her scalding coffee, lifting her face to the sun. There’d been a heavy dew, and all the plants and leaves were glistening in the pure morning light. Behind her, the house looked as if it had been rooted in the earth since the dawn of time.
Yet it had not always been so. Hampton Hall had been almost a ruin when Crispin Harrington had bought it, but he’d worked on it slowly, bringing it back to life and landscaping the neglected grounds like some eighteenth-century grandee.
He’d designed the formal garden, saved the old roses in the walled garden from extinction and added new ones, replanted all the lawns and cleared the lake, stocking it with carp.
A labour of love, she thought, and the results had silenced local critics who’d derisively nicknamed it ‘Crispin’s Folly’ when the work had begun.
And it was that she was fighting for as much as the company. The Harrington heritage. And no one was going to take it away from them.
She walked across the damp grass to the edge of the lake and stood while she finished her coffee, watching the bubbles breaking the surface of the water as the fish rose.
She turned to go back to the house, then halted with a gasp, her heart hammering unevenly. Because she wasn’t alone any more. The peace of the morning was already destroyed.