by Craven, Sara
With a little groan, she tried to think of what little she knew about him—mostly gleaned from rare newspaper stories, and generally illustrating his loathing of personal publicity. But there had been a story recently—something to do with litigation over a trusteeship involving his young sister— which he had won, she recalled with a slight curl of her lip. She could remember there had been pictures of his beautiful villa on the Ionian island of Theros, taken presumably with a long-range lens out of respect for his dislike of the Press. She could recall gossipy items, too, about beautiful women who had been his guests on Theros for varying periods of time.
A little shiver ran through her body. She felt like a novice swimmer who suddenly finds the water too deep, and too cold.
She gave a shaky little sigh and turned reluctantly towards the door. Better to make her entrance downstairs as incon-
-
spicuous as possible than linger, and have Michelle coming in search of her.
As she came slowly down the wide, polished staircase to the hall, Mrs Osborne was just admitting a latecomer. As he shugged off his overcoat and handed it to the housekeeper, Lacey realised it was Alan Trevor and in spite of herself she felt a wave of self-conscious colour rising in her face and had to crush an impulse to turn and. run back to her room.
When she spoke, she was amazed to hear how normal, even prim, she sounded. Good evening, Alan.'
He swung round. 'Er—hello, Lacey. Am I the last? I had to stay behind because the vet was coming to look at Domino. She's due to foal any time, but he doesn't think there'll be anything doing tonight.'
`Well, I'm glad you were able to make it.' She moved forward from the foot of the stairs, aware that his eyes were taking in the transformation in her appearance with evident puzzlement. 'Is something the matter?' She looked up at him innocently.
`No—oh, no. It's just ...' He stared down at her, frowning a little. 'Hell, Lacey, what have you done to yourself?' `Don't you approve?'
No—yes. I don't know.' He pushed his hair back impatiently. 'What's more important, will your parents approve? I mean, have they seen that dress?'
`Of course.' Lacey twirled round slowly, letting the filmy skirt float out and settle back against her slender legs. `What's wrong with it?'
`Oh, it's fine—what there is of it,' he said, heavily sarcastic. 'And black. I've never seen you in black before.' `And you don't like it?'
'I wouldn't say that. It just takes a bit of getting used to.' His eyes went over her again. They held censure and something less easy to define. 'You just look so—different.'
`Well, I can't always wear jeans and gymslips,' she said defensively. 'I have to grow up some time.'
'We all have to do that,' he muttered. 'Come on. We'd better go in.' He offered her his arm with a strange formality.
'Oh, Alan!' She ignored the gesture, slipping her hand in-
to his with all the confidence of long familiarity. 'I haven't changed that much, believe me. I'm the same person I always was.'
`Are you, Lacey?' He gave her fingers a quick squeeze. `I guess I'll just have to take your word for it.'
She was glad she did not have to enter the drawing room by herself. Even though her appearance did not cause the sensation she had feared, she was conscious of a number of curious glances, particularly from guests who had known her since childhood. There was admiration mixed with the curiosity too from most of the men, and after a moment or two Lacey felt some of the tension begin to leave her body. Alan released her hand, murmuring that he would fetch her a drink, and she stood alone, looking round the room and returning smiling nods and greetings.
Then she saw him. He was standing by the ornate marble mantelpiece, his arm casually resting along the shelf. He seemed to be paying minute attention to the glowing butt of his cheroot, but as if aware of her scrutiny he raised his head, and their eyes met across the room. Lacey felt the polite smile fading on her lips as she encountered his look. It held recognition bordering on disbelief, and a frankly sensual assessment that brought the colour flaring to her face and an angry light to her eyes. For a moment she stood motionless, then, as she saw him fling the remains of his cheroot on to the blazing logs in the hearth and move away from the fireplace in one swift impatient movement, she realised he was coming towards her and panicked, turning towards the door, regardless of the curious glances she was attracting from the group of people nearest to her.
But the way was blocked by Mrs Osborne's comfortable figure, telling Michelle that dinner was served, and escape was impossible. She gave a swift glance around, searching vainly for Alan, as her father reached her side.
`So there you are, Lacey.' She knew she was not imagining the impatient, anxious note in his voice and turned towards him reluctantly. `Mr Andreakis has been waiting to meet you, my dear.'
Her hand was encompassed by lean, brown fingers. It was the most conventional of salutes, so it was nonsense to
imagine that she could still feel the pressure of his hand, long after he had released her. Dry-throated, she acknowledged his greeting in a small husky voice, registering that he was treating her as a complete stranger although there was no doubt that he had recognised her from that brief encounter in his room earlier. She supposed she should be grateful to him for saving them both from awkward explanations, but whereas she had hoped to be able to make him feel foolish, she now felt at a disadvantage. Resentment kept her silent as he took her arm and escorted her into the dining room, holding her chair as she sat down with a courtesy that she was certain masked—what? Something as simple as mockery? She could not be sure and it irked her as she unfolded the exquisite damask napkin, and picked up her soup spoon.
To her relief, Michael Fairclough, a leading member of the local hunt, was her other neighbour at the table and she was able to start a conversation with him about the forthcoming point-to-point, even pretend for a while that the dark, sardonic figure at her other side did not exist, but a glacial look from Michelle at the end of the table brought her up with a jerk, reminding her of her duties. She turned towards him to find, disconcertingly, that he was watching her. Her colour rose, and the trite remark she had been planning on the weather prospects for the weekend died on her lips.
Wonderingly her eyes searched his face, marking the strongly arched eyebrows above those impenetrably dark eyes, and the hard lines of his mouth and jaw. In spite of the formal elegance of dinner jacket and befrilled white shirt, she was aware of the muscular strength of the chest and shoulders they concealed, and the air of restless, barely controlled energy that suggested these ,civilised trappings were merely a veneer.
'Do you read characters from faces, Miss Vernon?'
Her nerves jumped both at the appositeness of his question, and at the realisation that she had been guilty of staring at him.
She shook her head, transferring her gaze swiftly back to her plate.
`You must think me very rude,' she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
`You're no thought-reader either.' He picked up his glass and drank some of the wine it contained. 'You've barely touched yours,' he commented. 'It's hardly a compliment to such a fine vintage.'
'I—I don't know a great deal about wine,' she confessed, and his brows rose.
`No? I would have thought such occasions as this would have been second nature to you.'
Was that an edge to his voice or was it her imagination running riot again? she wondered desperately. His remark proved one thing at least—Michelle's outward grooming of her had been impeccable. He obviously thought she was much older than she was. Now all she had to do was to live up to that belief—provide him with the light-hearted flirtation that he would expect from a female companion at dinner.
`Perhaps I find wine of less interest than people,' she ventured, making herself smile at him.
`And some people of more interest than others,' he said, and this time there was no mistaking the satirical note in his voice. 'It's a pity, for example, that I don't sh
are Mr—er —Fairclough's interest in hunting matters. Perhaps that might make me more acceptable to you as a companion.'
Oh God, what a mess she was making of it all! Lacey put down her knife and fork, feeling she would choke if she took another mouthful. She realised her father was watching them, a slight anxious frown wrinkling his forehead, and she felt a pang of self-recrimination as she realised the stress he was undergoing and the importance that the success of this weekend had assumed his mind. Somehow she must make an effort to do and be what he wanted, and to win over this unsmiling man who was totally outside her admittedly limited experience.
Frantically she searched her memory for some of the scraps of worldly wisdom that the girls at the convent had let drop when they were recounting the details of their latest conquests. Hadn't someone said it was sexy to look straight into a man's eyes as you smiled at him? De-
liberately she caught and held his gaze, allowing her eyes to widen endlessly while her mouth curved slowly into warmth and charm.
`Horses aren't my sole preoccupation,' she protested with a little shrug.
For a moment as he returned her look unwaveringly, she thought painfully that she had failed, then he smiled too—a cynical twist of her lips, but a smile—and lifted his glass to her in a toast to which she was forced to respond.
`My last doubt is removed,' he said musingly.
`Doubt?' Lacey looked at him from under her lashes, a favourite trick of Vanessa's.
`That you and I will eventually find a topic that will arouse the—interest of us both.'
A little quiver of uncertainty jangled the nerve-endings along her spine and curled around the nape of her neck. Almost involuntarily she lifted her hand to rub her neck, and remembered too late the revealing nature of her dress. She hurriedly folded her hands in her lap again, stealing a glance at Troy Andreakis, but his attention seemed to be centred on his wine glass.
'Is this your first visit to Kings Winston, Mr Andreakis?' Surely that was a safe subject.
`No, I was here last autumn, but only for a day or two. I am glad to have a chance of a longer visit so that I can see something of the surrounding countryside.'
Lacey's heart sank. It seemed that his visit might not be confined to simply a weekend after all.
`I'm surprised at your interest. I didn't picture you as a nature-lover,' she said more tartly than she had intended.
His mouth curled slightly again. 'Because I rejected your flowers? On the contrary, I can appreciate beauty as well as any man. However'—the dark eyes swept over her again—`as I said, I prefer it in its natural state.' Her eyes met his, frankly indignant, and he laughed softly. 'What a creature of contrasts you are, pethi mou—from gamine to femme fatale in the course of an hour or so. What is real about you, I wonder, and what is an illusion?'
She was thankful that the arrival of the sweet course diverted his attention momentarily and gave her a chance
to regain her equilibrium. So much for Michelle's efforts to transform her, she thought wretchedly. The scheme had been doomed to failure from the start. She simply did not have the poise and confidence to hoodwink a man like Troy Andreakis. She was staring miserably at the untouched portion of Creme Chantilly on her plate when she realised he was speaking to her again.
`I think you owe me something for spilling water all over my bedroom and then running away,' he said. `I'm willing to settle for a tour of the local beauty spots in your company tomorrow—unless you object and prefer to buy my silence in some other way.'
`I don't object,' she said rather woodenly. 'It—it will be delightful.'
There was a disturbing pause while he looked at her again with that faint, cynical amusement.
`You know,' he said softly, 'you have almost convinced me that it will be.'
She was thankful that her family still adhered to the old custom of leaving the men to enjoy brandy and cigars while the women drank coffee in the drawing room. She was kept busy handing round cups and when everyone was served found herself a seat beside Fran Trevor, who was looking like a vivacious robin in her long cherry-coloured dress.
`Hello, love,' she exclaimed as Lacey sat down. `What a gorgeous dress! Is that what comes of having a French stepmother? I envy you, if so. Mother took one look at me in this and started muttering direly about modesty vests—whatever they are.'
Lacey sighed. `I think my sympathies are with your mother,' she said uncomfortably. `I feel an absolute fool.'
Fran looked at her shrewdly. 'Well, I assure you, you don't look one. And that terrifying Mr Andreakis obviously didn't think so. I'm glad he's your guest, and not ours. I wouldn't have a clue what to say to him. Does he ride, by the way?'
`I don't think so. He—he said he wasn't interested in hunting, at any rate.'
Fran shrugged. `Ah well, you can't have everything. Are
you going to come and exercise Starlight for me tomorrow? I'm going to be tied up with these people from the Bull.'
Lacey gave a little groan. 'Oh Fran, I wish I could, but I'm committed to going for a drive with Mr Andreakis.'
Fran whistled humorously. 'I should be so committed! Honestly, love, you are the limit. Pursued by millionaires and still you look glum!'
Lacey wanted to tell her that the pursuit was actually being conducted from the opposite quarter, but she had to remain silent. She had learned long ago not to chatter indiscreetly about Vernon—Carey matters. Instead she shrugged carelessly.
`I'm his host's daughter. I suppose he feels he has to be polite.'
`Hmm.' Fran eyed her. 'I wonder if he'd be as "polite" if you had a squint and legs like tree-trunks. Besides, people like Andreakis don't have to bother with things like politeness. They deal in power, and that's what matters in their world.'
And in mine, Lacey thought rebelliously.
She walked over to replace a cup on the tray, and encountered a taut glance from Michelle. 'Eh bien?'
Lacey gave a slight shrug. 'I've done as I was told. I suppose it's too much to hope that I can be given my freedom for the rest of the evening.'
Michelle's eyes snapped. 'Are you quite mad?' she questioned glacially. 'What would our guests think if you were to disappear in the middle of the evening? Besides, I have already been asked if you will play for us later. Everyone will be most disappointed if you refuse.'
Lacey bent her head defeatedly. At least if she was at the piano, it would release her from close attendance on Troy Andreakis.
`Very well,' she agreed listlessly. 'Is it all right if I go to my room for some aspirin? I have a slight headache.'
`Certainement. You are by no means a prisoner. Please do not dramatise the situation.' Michelle gave her a final, inimical look before turning to smile graciously at Mrs Taylor who was approaching them.
Lacey was glad to escape from the stuffiness of the
drawing room. Michelle, who loathed the British climate, invariably had the central heating turned full on in the winter months and tonight was no exception. She was walking rather wearily across the hall when she heard the sound of chairs being moved and a crescendo of voices as the dining room door was opened. Lacey picked up her long skirt and fled up the stairs. She had no wish to be caught loitering in the hall—by anyone, she thought crossly as she safely gained the upper landing.
It was with a real sense of refuge that she reached her bedroom. Her fingers had just closed on the handle of her bedroom door when the voice she least wanted to hear spoke lazily just behind her.
`Running out on the party, Miss Vernon?'
She swung round, her heart thudding in sudden ridiculous panic.
`You followed me,' she accused before she could stop herself, then stood, aghast at what she had said, conscious that his lips were twisting in faint amusement.
`Alas, no,' he murmured. `I was lured here by my cigarette case, not by your charms, Miss Vernon, potent though they are.'
His eyes went over her with a kind of lingering insolence that made her want to cover he
r body with her hands.
`I'm sorry,' she managed at last. If you would excuse me ...'
His hand closed over hers, preventing her from opening her bedroom door.
`You haven't answered my question yet,' he reminded her.
`Question?' she repeated lamely, then flushed as she remembered. 'No, I'm not "running out". I have a headache, and I've come to get something for it.'
`I am desolated to hear it,' he said with a complete absence of expression. 'May I recommend prevention rather than cure as a policy for the future.'
`Prevention?' she echoed bewilderedly.
`My advice would be to avoid alcohol, to which you are patently not accustomed.' His tone was smooth. 'Also
hair styles which rely for their effectiveness on quantities of hairpins.'
Her hand was released, and she recoiled instinctively as she felt his hands moving with detestable assurance among the lacquered coils of her hair.
`What are you doing?' She sounded breathless and very young, and saw his teeth gleam suddenly in a smile.
`Curing your headache,' he replied laconically, and Lacey tensed as the long shining strands, released from their restraint, spilled past her shoulders.
'Oh!' She lifted a helpless hand to check on the complete ruin of Barbara's careful creation. 'Oh, how dare you!'
'Oh, I dare.' Totally ignoring her flushed face and eyes filled with angry tears, he reached out and lifted one gleaming tendril between his finger and thumb. 'You have hair like silk, pethi mou, why not take pride in it, instead of torturing it into shapes that only serve to make you look older than the child you are.'
`I'm not a child!' she defended herself hotly, forcing herself to forget all her own misgivings about her appearance that night.