Dishonest woman

by Jessica Steele

  She forced a smile of greeting to her lips, but the smile didn't reach her eyes as he made no move to come forward as she stepped back, but stood, those dark blue eyes going over her face, her sleeveless blouse, and her long cotton skirt.

  `Just as I remembered you,' he said, his eyes taking in her hair, dressed exactly as it had been last night. `Come in,' she said, trying for a light note.

  She was uncomfortably aware of him as he followed her into the living room. She had no idea what to say to him, but she knew she was going to have to make an effort if he wasn't to begin to suspect how things really were with her—that she wanted his name, but not his company.

  In the living room he handed her a bottle of wine, his contribution to the evening. 'You shouldn't have,' she said straight away, seriously, her thoughts on his impecunious state. The wine was one her father liked and not cheap, she knew.

  `It's only a bottle of wine,' he said easily.

  `Would you like a drink?' she enquired politely.

  `I'm starving,' he said, which threw her, because the next line she had ready was, 'I thought we'd eat in half an hour.'

  `We'll eat now, then, shall we?' she offered primly, then saw that since he was an out-of-work actor he probably hadn't eaten at all that day and that was the reason his stomach had overcome good manners.

  She took him to the dining room, leaving him there while she hurried to the kitchen. Leaning on the kitchen sink for a moment, she gave herself a repeat of the pep talk she had given herself up in her bedroom earlier when her hand had strayed to her bottle of tranquillisers. She hadn't taken one then, for all she had felt the need. She needed to be fully alert, needed to try her own hand at acting. It was important, she reminded herself as she turned on the grill. Bramcote was at stake.

  `I've poured you a drink.'

  She jumped, turned at the unexpected sound of Slade's voice in her kitchen. He came forward and she tried not to get annoyed that he must have opened up the drinks cabinet—virtually empty apart from the couple of bottles she had invested in that day—and found a bottle opener and glasses.

  `Thank you,' she said, turning to check the grill.

  A glass was pushed into her hand. 'You're uptight,' Slade said coolly by her side. 'Relax, I don't bite.' She looked at him and saw his grin surface. 'Well, not usually,' he added.

  After that, strangely, Kimberley did start to unwind. Slade proved himself witty without being grating, and as the first course—another investment in the shape of thawed-out frozen smoked salmon—was followed by steak and salad, and she took another sip of wine, Kimberley warmed to the idea of either getting him to do the proposing or doing the asking herself. There was no rush, though, there were months to go yet.

  He wasn't so bad after all, she thought, as he declined her offer of strawberry mousse, settling for cheese and biscuits instead. None of his remarks had

  been what she would call 'forward', she thought, pleased, something she had rather been dreading. And for any girl who was that way interested, he wasn't so bad looking. His eyes were nicely spaced, his nose straight apart from that small suggestion of a hump on the bridge, and his mouth, which she had thought didn't look to curve too readily, had curved several times when he had looked across at her this evening. It was rather a nice mouth, she thought, then felt nerves begin to bite when she saw he had caught her staring at him.

  `Have you had enough to eat?' she asked quickly. `More cheese?' she offered.

  `My hunger for food is satisfied,' he replied, his eyes on her face, making her heart go thump at what was implied by that remark—that he was still hungry, but not for food.

  `Shall we—go back to the living room?' Kimberley was on her feet needing to be doing something.

  `I'll help you with the washing up,' he suggested.

  `No,' she said, more sharply than she meant, not wanting him in the domestic atmosphere of the kitchen. She forced a smile 'I can do it later.'

  He didn't press it, but rose too. 'As you wish,' he said easily.

  On the way to the living room, she sought for a new topic that would take his mind from the channel it had taken. She had decided against asking him about his profession since, when he hadn't said one word about any of the plays he had been in, she had gathered from his silence on the subject that he must be sensitive about not having any work at the moment. But she had to get his mind off that other subject—her own mind was rearing away from travelling that route.

  Once back in the living room she was ready, insensitive to his feelings or not, to ask him about the only subject that presented itself. But before she could get as far as asking him if Slade Darville was his own

  name or his stage name, she felt his arm come about her, and then everything within her froze.

  `Thank you for my dinner,' he said softly, and was pulling her round to face him before she knew what he was about.

  `I t—was a pleasure,' she found from somewhere in the icy coldness that had come to her—an icy coldness that blanked out any thought that she stood to lose Bramcote if she didn't make some show of participating.

  Slade pulled her close up to him, his head coming nearer. Kimberley stiffened, pushed against his chest in panic, not wanting to feel those lips on hers, those lips that now looked sensuous—she wanted David's lips, not his.

  `What's wrong?' Still holding her, those dark blue eyes narrowing, Slade refused to let her back away.

  But Kimberley couldn't take it. She wanted him to go. She must have been mad to think she could go through with this, even for Bramcote. She pushed again, struggling to be free, and found to her surprise that Slade wasn't interested in having her in his arms unwillingly.

  She took a few hurried steps away and went to stand looking sightlessly out of the window. Tears inside her wanted to empty out, and valiantly she struggled for composure, and conquered her tears, but she was agitated again when she heard Slade come to stand behind her.

  `You're trembling,' he said, not touching her, his voice strangely soothing. 'You don't like being rushed, is that it?' he asked, finding excuses for what to him must appear to be the oddest behaviour. No doubt, she thought, most of the women he knew melted once he took them in his arms.

  She nodded. `Y—yes,' she stammered, grasping at the excuse he offered.

  `Turn round, Kimberley.'

  The soothing note had gone, but his voice was kind. And although she didn't want to turn, there was such a quiet authority in him, plus the fact that he could have touched her again and physically turned her round had he wanted to, that hesitantly she turned.

  But she couldn't look at him. She fastened her eyes on his shirt, knowing she had ruined everything. She felt too churned up at that moment to want anything but that he should go.

  `Look at me,' he commanded.

  Slowly she raised her eyes, deep wide pools of hazel looking back at him. She hoped he wasn't going to start getting aggressive that his plans for how the evening was going to end had been thwarted. She didn't think she could take the aggression that that firm chin on him denoted he had a plentiful supply of.

  Slade didn't grow aggressive, but while she stood staring at him fearing the worst, slowly a smile broke from him for her.

  Now,' he said, 'trust me. Trust me and close your eyes.' Solemnly she stared at him without complying. `Trust me, Kimberley,' he said softly.

  Why she closed her eyes then, she didn't know. For she didn't know, even though they had spent over an hour in each other's company, whether he was to be trusted or not. Her eyes closed, she felt something brush against her mouth. And as her eyes flew open, she realised that Slade Darville, without taking hold of her again, had just kissed her.

  `You . . .' she began.

  `Did that hurt?' he enquired before she could get farther.

  Kimberley swallowed hard. It hadn't hurt at all. 'Not too much,' she answered, never having met a man like him before, and unprepared for what he had to say next.

  Deliberately he studied her face. Th
en, his eyes still watching, he asked, 'Is that the first time you've been

  kissed since your engagement ended?'

  Immediately anger she hadn't known in a long time flared, 'Who told you about that?' she snapped, moving a step away, and saw Slade Darville wasn't an atom put out that he had fired her anger to life.

  `Edward Gilbert,' he answered easily. 'Though he couldn't tell me who broke the engagement, you or the ex-fiancé.'

  Her flare of anger had rapidly cooled, and an iced up feeling came to her again that he could so lightly talk of something that had shattered her world. The ice thickened when Slade stretched his arms forward as if to capture her. 'Ten months is a long time between kisses,' he said. 'Come here, Kimberley.' -

  She moved in the opposite direction, turning from him. She wanted to be away from him. She had nothing to say to him. Then she found that the sensitivity she had allowed him and his feelings by not bringing up his lack of employment was non-existent when it came to what she wanted to keep hidden. For he showed no sensitivity at all when it came to probing.

  `Who did the breaking off?' he pressed, his voice near, telling her he had no objection to following her about the room.

  `Does it matter?' she snapped icily, and turned to face him, her chin tilted.

  Not to me,' he replied carelessly, only a yard from her. 'Though if you had moments of trying to freeze him off the way you're trying with me, then I can't say I blame him for taking to his heels.'

  Anger sparked to life again at his comment. It hadn't been like that with David, it just hadn't! But this time, before she could give vent to her anger in a short and sharp reply, it came to her in a lightning flash that, knowing she was trying to freeze him by her attitude, Slade Darville was nowhere near to being frozen off. He was still here with her, wasn't he? Did that mean he

  was still attracted to her? He could be forgiven for leaving when she had pushed him away not long ago, only—he hadn't left!

  `D—David,' she said, surmounting the hurdle of bringing out his name to this other man she wanted to marry her, though for vastly different reasons, 'did take to his heels, as you put it.' And explaining because she had to give if she was going to take, 'But not because of anything I did—I don't think.' Her voice faltered. 'He—he just—fell out of love with me,' she said, a knife turning in her, 'and—in love with someone else.' It was out, said. Said to someone who was almost a stranger. And she felt weak from the effort of it. She mastered her emotions. 'I'm sorry I was snappy,' she apologised, and confessed, 'I'm a bit on edge.'

  Slade took a step that did away with the space between them. Then, as though he liked having her there, he took her in his arms. 'You were edgy when I arrived,' he said, his hold loose, his face serious as he looked down at her and added, 'With your father dying so recently, it's understandable, Kimberley.' Then quietly, 'It becomes more understandable when taken into account is the fact that it's almost a year since you last entertained an—admirer.'

  Not trembling this time to find herself in his arms, Kimberley wanted to get off this subject that would have her near to tears again. And she saw then that there was only one way, to do that, much though it went against the grain.

  `So you—admire me?'

  She saw how well she had succeeded in changing the subject when Slade looked into her face, a fire lighting his eyes.

  `If I showed you how much,' he said, a complex man if ever she met one by in direct contrast to that fire, his arms fell away from her, 'I would probably have you backing away again.' Her agitation at his remark was quietened, when he followed it up with,

  `As it is—believe it. Now I think it's time I made tracks for my bed.'

  It was still early, but Kimberley wasn't sorry_he was going. She found him confusing, and didn't like the feeling. She walked along the hall with him.

  `You don't live locally, do you?' she enquired, conversation coming to her more easily now he was on the verge of leaving.

  'My base is London,' he told her at the door, 'but I'm putting up at the village pub for a while.'

  The door was open and soon she would be alone again. `I've—enjoyed this evening,' she made herself say, and saw from his look that he didn't believe her.

  `You'll have a pimple on your tongue in the morning,' he said softly, and before she knew what he was about, he had bent and kissed her, and had gone.

  It should have been relief that rushed in when she had closed the door after him, but it wasn't. He was staying in the village, but had made no mention of seeing her again.

  Kimberley went into the dining room and began clearing away, wondering if she was any further forward in her quest to get herself a husband.

  She was in the kitchen tackling the washing up when one very certain fact made itself known. Slade Darville was going to have to do the proposing. There was something about him, she didn't know quite what, maybe the way he always seemed to say and act in the opposite way from that she was expecting, that had her wary, scared, of asking him to marry her.

  Oddly enough she slept well that night. She was out of bed as sun streamed through her bedroom window, and was bathed and dressed and downstairs sipping tea before she realised she had gone to sleep dry-eyed last night.

  She was busy with a duster, in the middle of wondering if Slade Darville was up yet; these acting types slept late, she was sure. Or perhaps he was out of his

  bed and had already vacated his room at the Rose and Crown, she was thinking, when the front door bell went.

  `A duster suits you,' said the object of her thoughts. `But you can dust any old time. Can you come out to play?'

  It was the first of many outings with Slade Darville. He called every day, always unannounced. The weather was perfect. They walked, talked, picnicked, had taken a boat out on the river. And though Kimberley was more often than not guarded with him, there were occasions, as each day followed, when she was more natural with him. He always kissed her on parting, but as if he could sense her withdrawal, his kisses remained like that fleeting kiss he had given her that first night he had entered her house.

  She admitted to herself that she was learning to be more comfortable with him. So much so that when last night, after two weeks of seeing him every day, he had been about to leave for what he called his 'digs', a theatre term if ever she heard one, it had been she who had raised up her face to receive his kiss.

  But his kiss hadn't happened straight away. Her volunteering to be kissed had halted him. He had looked at her for long moments, and then that smile of his had come out.

  `Goodnight, sweet Kimberley,' he had said, and had kissed her just as lightly as before.

  Kimberley raced round her housework that Sunday morning, expecting any second to hear his familiar tattoo on the kitchen door. That he no longer came to the front door was a mark of how their friendship had progressed.

  At lunch time, when he hadn't arrived, she was beginning to feel disquieted. Where was he? Things had been going so well. That he did not seem to be the rake Doreen had said he was , she was sure, because

  Slade was respecting that she was still a little off balance from losing her father.

  She now had less than five months left to get him to put a gold band on her finger. It was important that not a moment was wasted.

  Not feeling like eating lunch, Kimberley took her writing materials into the kitchen. She was still hopeful of seeing him coming up the garden path with that long-legged stride of his, as she got down to answering letters from friends that there had been no time to answer during the past two weeks.

  Her letters finished at three, she returned her writing case to where it belonged, and was just returning to the kitchen, when the knock she had spent all morning listening for sounded at the kitchen door.

  There was a smile on her face as she opened it. 'Did I tell you you have the prettiest nose I've ever seen?' said Slade.

  `Come in,' she said, her face returning to its usual unsmiling look. And airily, since he was so offhand— s
ix hours late—although he hadn't said he would call at all. 'You've only just caught me. I was just off out to post some letters.'

  `Are they important?'

  `They've waited a fortnight.'

  He grinned, knowing he was the culprit. 'Come and have a farewell picnic with me,' he said. And while she looked at him incredulously—he couldn't go yet, he couldn't, not before he had married her!—he added, 'I have to return to London tomorrow.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHE should have been more forthcoming, Kimberley saw as she crossed fields and meadows with Slade, him carrying the plastic carrier with the picnic food he must have got them to prepare at the Rose and Crown. She should have brought up the subject of his work. For it was clear now that he must have been in regular contact with his London agent and had a part he was to start rehearsing tomorrow.

  The idea of her doing the proposing came to her again as silently she trudged beside him. But what was the good of putting the proposition to him now? Before, when he hadn't any work, he might have considered it. But what chance had she now that he would take the meagre sum she could offer him when he had work and money from his own efforts coming in?

  They came to a brook, Slade took her hand to help her across the stepping stones—and she was back with David, remembering how David had helped her across at this same spot. How it was David who had come to grief by slipping off the stone, and had stood in six inches of water, not at all amused that she had burst out laughing.

  `No sad thoughts today.'

  Kimberley looked up, about to reach the bank. Slade was looking at her as though he could read her mind, knew her thoughts had been far away with her ex-fiancé. She didn't want Slade Darville intruding on her private thoughts. Her unfriendly gaze went from him, to see the sun had gone in.

  `It's clouded over,' she said. She wanted to go back. What was the use of going on? She would never get Slade to proposing in the short time she had left She