by Susan Napier
It might be Duncan’s way to fling himself headlong at problems and batter them into submission but it wasn’t Kalera’s. She preferred to withdraw into herself and carefully look at things from every angle before she decided what action to take, to observe and let her conclusions percolate until she was comfortable and confident with her choice. Sometimes, in her experience, problems even faded away when you refused to take them seriously, and stifling fears eased when you gave them a little breathing room.
Alas, this was not one of those times.
At work she had struggled to regain her old equilibrium in the face of unsettling events. Perhaps in revenge for her stubborn silence on the subject of Stephen, Duncan had abruptly made a choice of secretary—a woman who hadn’t even been on Kalera’s short-list—and with customary speed had installed her the very same day at a desk face to face with Kalera’s.
Bettina Fisher was a busty twenty-year-old university drop-out who wore skin-tight clothing and minimal underwear and seemed to have a problem with the concept of alphabetic order. She was thirty minutes late back from lunch on the first day, cheerfully confiding to Kalera that she had been celebrating her new job in the pub, and she had lost at least half a dozen files every day she had worked. Her typing speed was staccato-fast, but so was her mouth. Kalera had gritted her teeth and been as helpful as she was able to be without screaming. Bettina merely proved her point about hasty decisions. Her appointment had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction that Duncan would live to sorely regret.
Kalera confidently predicted that the jolly Bettina would not last a week after her mentor left, despite the shrink-wrapped breasts and bottom that Duncan pretended to admire when he knew Kalera was looking.
The other jarring note at Labyrinth was the beefing up of security, and the introduction of a new level of secrecy that excluded everyone but Bryan Eastman and Duncan from certain parts of the system. As usual, this was taken as a direct challenge by every hacker in the office worthy of the name and bets were laid on the bulletin board as to who would be first to burrow into the inner sanctum. Meanwhile Bryan and Duncan were often to be seen in low-voiced huddles, and, while Kalera was suddenly surplus to requirements after five o’clock, rumours abounded about all-night sessions in the research department.
‘More champagne, madam?’
Kalera started, nearly spilling the remainder of her glass. ‘Oh, yes, please,’ she said, holding it out to the white-gloved waiter as he topped her up. ‘Thank you.’ She flushed slightly, belatedly remembering that Stephen had said it wasn’t necessary to thank the hired help constantly—one just ignored them and took their excellent service for granted.
She turned back to the room, sipping the perfectly chilled vintage, enjoying the brief period of respite offered by the conveniently large floral arrangement furnished with drooping red spikes of flowers almost the same shade of crimson as her dress. She knew she should be out there circulating, presenting herself for inspection by Stephen’s friends, and the movers and shakers of his world who were seizing this chance to mix business with pleasure, but she had been doing it now for nearly two hours and her throat ached from the strain of talking over the top of the conversational rumble.
The men almost without exception were all in black ties but the women were dressed in a myriad of colours and styles, all excruciatingly high fashion, and yet as a group there was a sameness about them that was rather depressing. She caught a flutter of feather and lace amongst the glitter of sequins and silk and smiled reluctantly. Maybe not quite all the same. Silver and Kris were here, making their presence felt by their extremely liberal interpretation of ‘dress: formal’, and frankly making the most of the free food and drink and the chance to spread a little revolutionary talk amongst the scions of the local establishment. Poor Madeline had nearly fainted at the sight of Kris’s ceremonial blue caftan but she had been too shrewd to let their guests see her dismay and had minimised the social damage by gushingly emphasising their status as amusing eccentrics. Once Kalera might have cringed but tonight she felt only amusement, unable to shake the strange detachment that made her feel as if she was a spectator at a play.
Kalera took another, longer gulp of champagne as she saw Stephen step in from one of the terraces, his blond head beginning a sweeping search that would inevitably result in her discovery. He would be annoyed that she had chosen to lurk in the background instead of basking in the spotlight but she would weather his disapproval. He had to accept her for what she was…or not at all.
She studied his tall, handsome figure, radiating boyish charm as he smoothly worked the room, blatantly enjoying being the focus of attention. Yes, there was something still very boyish about Stephen, an element of narcissistic self-absorption which she had overlooked in her eagerness to enjoy the security of his affections, and relive the joy of being needed. But in spite of Duncan’s dire pronouncements and predictions she still couldn’t bring herself to feel threatened by Stephen’s over-attentive behaviour. Irritated and uncomfortable, perhaps, but not threatened. And that was because there was not the intensity of emotion between them to generate such a threat, she had realised in the last few days of soul-searching, and there probably never would be. Without passion and ardour to wreak havoc on his self-control and drive him to try and reimpose control in other ways, Stephen was merely going through the motions of habitualised behaviour. Just as Kalera had seen him as a safe haven for her reawakening feelings, so she was for him a haven from his own emotional extremity.
And Kalera had seen for herself, that very morning, the difference between the Stephen of her experience and the one that Duncan had described.
The standing arrangement had been for her to drive to Stephen’s in the early evening for a light meal—to compensate for the late dinner they would be having—and for Kalera to shower and have her hair and face done by Madeline’s beautician before she changed into her dress. But Kalera had decided on impulse to drop her clothes over in the afternoon, along with the engagement present she had agonised over choosing, in case they didn’t get any privacy later in which to exchange their personal gifts. As it happened she’d discovered that Stephen planned to give her hers when he made the formal announcement after dinner.
She had been about to swing into Stephen’s curving drive when she had caught sight of the trio emerging from the front door and had panicked, swerving over to the far side of the street and parking under the shade of a spreading pin oak, slumping down in her seat in case she was spotted.
She’d watched the small boy, stylishly dressed in a green polo shirt and baggy safari shorts, tip back his head to look up at the tall man beside him and say something. The boy’s hair was as dark as the man’s was blond, but even at this distance, or perhaps because she wasn’t distracted by detail, Kalera could see an echo of genes in the shape of their heads and the proportions of their bodies, and stiff set of their shoulders that denoted both yearning and rejection. If Kalera had harboured any fleeting doubt about Michael’s paternity it had been banished then. He could well have been the little boy in those early home videos of Madeline’s.
Stephen’s hand had raised and Kalera had found herself holding her breath, but instead of a pat on the shoulder or a ruffling of hair there had been a solemn shaking of hands. The boy’s thin shoulders were visibly drooping as he’d headed slowly down the stairs towards the silver BMW parked on the gravel.
The slim brunette in the cream sheath, who had been standing behind the two males, had tossed the cigarette she had been jerkily smoking over the balustrade and started to follow, but she’d suddenly whirled around, obviously at some remark, and remounted the stairs to issue a flow of words at Stephen, punctuated by angry, darting gestures with her head and hands.
Whatever she was saying had been like a match to paper for Stephen had ignited into a tempestuous answering volley and for several minutes they had been toe-to-toe in a super-heated exchange. It had ended when Terri threw out her arms and turned away in disgust
, only to have Stephen catch her hand and spin her back, jerking her against him for a furious kiss. Reduced to the role of reluctant voyeur, Kalera had felt a rush of embarrassment as she’d watched their angry bodies clash in hostile passion. They had quickly broken away from each other, but she’d been left with a distinct impression of unfinished business.
Kalera had waited until well after the silver BMW had zoomed angrily away before she’d ventured in. Taken aback by her unexpected arrival, Stephen had been distinctly edgy, but he’d soon relaxed when she’d presented him with his engraved gold cuff-links and tie-pin, sufficiently for her to do some gentle probing that finally elicited a casual mention of his ex-wife’s visit.
‘Did Michael come, too?’ she had asked innocently.
‘Yes, but they didn’t stay long. Terri knows our engagement party is tonight so she chooses today to insist I perform my fatherly duties. She knew I wouldn’t have time to spare for the boy. She just wanted to make trouble—’
‘And did she succeed?’
Stephen’s light brown eyes had been soothing, but his smile was forced. ‘Only if she causes us to get into an unpleasant discussion about her, and, believe me, I find every discussion about Terri unpleasant.’ That had been an oblique reference to her attempts earlier in the week to encourage him on the subject, when he had simply told her, without the slightest trace of irony, that she had no need to be jealous. ‘Forget about Terri. This is supposed to be our day…’
Any chance for further serious discussion had been denied as the party designer arrived, twittering about last-minute alterations to the decor requested by Madeline, and the caterers and florist had begun to-ing and fro-ing. Amidst all the bustling activity, Kalera had been discreetly made to feel not only superfluous, but in the way. Stephen had shooed her back home, advising her to spend the afternoon quietly resting so that she would be fresh for the big night ahead.
‘Kalera?’ Stephen had finally found her and with an obedient smile Kalera moved forward to take his extended hand.
‘What are you doing over here? I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Well, I’m here now,’ she said, letting him tuck her arm through his and guide her back into the throng.
A passing matron jogged her elbow and she gave a tiny cry as a few sparkles of champagne bounced out of her glass and beaded on the tight bodice of her dress.
‘Oh, no, I hope it doesn’t mark the silk,’ she murmured anxiously, flicking them away with a finger.
‘Since you won’t be wearing that dress again I wouldn’t worry about it,’ said Stephen tersely, and Kalera bit the inside of her lip to stop a hasty reply. What could she say?
The dress had been another unfortunate omen for the evening.
She had been stunned when it had been delivered to the house that morning in a tissue-lined black box embossed with the gold symbol of a leading couturier along with a small slip of paper printed in a flowingly ornate font.
I know you’ve already bought a dress, but when I saw this one I just knew it was for you. I don’t want you to thank me, this is not my engagement gift, but please, wear it for me tonight—so that everyone can appreciate the richness of your beauty as I do…
The dress she had already bought for the occasion was a long, shimmering, beaded blue creation, which Kalera had thought would fit the understated elegance that Stephen liked to project.
But when she’d opened the box and lifted out the red taffeta dress she’d found that he had a very different image of her in mind. She had never worn red before but the knee-length dress with its draped skirt and ravishingly low sweetheart neckline and small, stand-up ruff at the back of her neck proved a dramatic foil for her pale blondeness. And—the most thoughtful and romantic touch of all—he had sent her matching shoes, exactly the right size for her small feet. Her hesitancy about accepting such an extravagant gift when her feelings about her engagement were becoming increasingly ambivalent had dissolved when she had tried it on for the mirror. The silk felt sleekly sensuous against her skin and the dress itself was pure fashion—dashingly sexy yet with loads of class. Wearing it had made her feel almost defiantly confident and she had put the blue creation back in her wardrobe with scarcely a qualm.
But when she had proudly descended the stairs to meet a few of Stephen’s close friends for drinks before the party proper began the look on Stephen’s face as he’d crossed the foyer to meet her had not been one of delighted admiration.
‘I thought you said you were wearing a long dress?’ he’d said through his teeth as she’d reached the bottom of the curving marble staircase.
‘You must have known I wouldn’t be able to resist this.’ She had smiled back, disconcerted by the white rim around his compressed lips. ‘Especially after I read your note.’
‘What note?’ His hard gaze had shifted to the curving expanse of creamy flesh revealed by the dramatic plunge of red silk between her tightly encased breasts. ‘I’ve never seen you wear that colour,’ he’d accused, shortening their steps to keep them out of earshot of the early guests gathered around the sideboard of drinks in the library. ‘Or a neckline so low it’s almost indecent. What on earth got into you to think it was suitable?’
It had hit her then—the drama of the dress, the whimsy of the impulsive gesture that was so totally unlike him! ‘Oh, God,’ she said, her hand on his arm bringing him to a full halt. ‘You didn’t send me this dress?’
Underneath the blandly handsome façade he was furious. ‘No, I didn’t send it to you! Are you telling me you let someone else buy you a dress?’
‘It arrived this morning. The note asking me to wear it wasn’t signed. I—well, naturally I thought it was from you,’ she protested, aware of his friends’ amused glances from the library. No doubt they thought the murmured conversation in the hall was a romantic exchange of sweet nothings.
‘A dress that gaudy and you thought it was from me?’ Stephen heaved a stentorian breath through his nose.
Gaudy! Her newly defiant confidence helped her field that punishing pitch. It was not so much his taste that was offended, but his pride.
‘It’s not gaudy, it’s a very expensive designer dress.’ She didn’t dare mention the shoes!
Nor did she care to mention the only person who would dare send her a horrendously expensive designer outfit with an anonymous note that implied it was from her fiancé.
But Stephen didn’t need telling.
‘It has to be bloody Duncan!’ he said in a savage undertone. ‘I’m not having you wearing anything that bastard bought for you! You’ll have to go back up and change!’
‘I can’t; I haven’t got another dress here.’ She nudged him into remembering his restive guests. ‘Besides, your friends have already seen me in this one. What does it matter, anyhow? No one is going to know—’
‘I’ll know,’ Stephen ground out.
Kalera couldn’t blame him for being resentful when he had his nose rubbed in his unwelcome knowledge many times during the early course of the evening as she was inundated with compliments about her stunning gown and womanly curiosity about where she had bought it.
Her fingers stilled now on the fading champagne splashes as her ring caught the light of the overhead chandeliers and flashed like an icy beacon against the fiery silk. Fire and ice, she thought. Two radically different elements which could cancel each other out. Fire could melt ice and ice could smother fire…
She shivered.
‘Stephen, are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’ The soft sigh slipped involuntarily out of her mouth and she hastily checked to make sure the betraying words hadn’t been overheard.
She saw a fleeting panic blur his brown eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Kalera—is this just because of that damned dress?’ he said roughly. ‘I can buy you a hundred other designer dresses to replace it!’ He looked at his watch as the orchestra struck up another tune. ‘We’ll make the formal announcement after this next set,’ he said, shifting a small, flat case from
his breast to his hip pocket. Her gift, she guessed, and unmistakably jewellery—the same as hers to him. Could neither of them think of anything more interesting?
The conversation around them abruptly dropped, wallowing in a peculiar flat patch that made Kalera look curiously around.
Duncan Royal stood on the threshold of the ballroom, resplendent in black dress trousers and a white dress shirt with concealed buttons—no jacket, and his gold tapestry waistcoat flared open to reveal a red and gold cummerbund…
But it wasn’t Duncan who had caused the dramatic hush, it was the woman at his side—even more resplendent in a gold lamé gown which clung to every hint and nuance of her statuesque body.
Terri.
Kalera felt a surge of fury, followed by a terrible desire to laugh.
Stephen was poleaxed, but for only a brief instant. Then his hand clipped around Kalera’s free wrist and he dragged her across the room, her glass spilling champagne at every stumbling step, oblivious to a ripple of nervous titters.
‘How the hell did you get in?’ he snarled, as soon as he got within striking distance of the couple in the doorway.
Duncan hadn’t taken his all-encompassing gaze off Kalera as they approached. His eyes were hot with triumph, smouldering with approval as they flirted with the sweetheart neckline and caressed her round breasts and narrow waist, the silken flare of her hips and the peep of her knees beneath the red hem. It was the kind of greedy, needy look that struck delicious terror into her heart.
He took his time in completing his slow appraisal before turning his head to answer Stephen.
‘With this.’ He produced a gilt invitation seemingly from nowhere with the flick of his wrist, like a magician doing a card trick, and Stephen let go of Kalera to snatch it out of his hand, condemning it with a frown.