Twenty minutes later —both wearing at least something — they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, demolishing Vashti’s roast dinner as if neither had eaten for weeks.
‘I’m pleased you’re a good cook,’ Phelan said, teasingly. ‘Being sexy and decorative is all right in its place, but when all is said and done...’
‘You mean that’s all there was?’ Vashti could tease too, she found, and revelled in it. ‘I’d have thought your hero’s abilities were more than just wishful thinking.’
‘You’re starting to sound like my sister,’ he cautioned. ‘Keep it up and I won’t help with the dishes, much less phone in your excuses in the morning.’
‘No such thing,’ she said, eyes widening at what she imagined Ross Chandler’s reaction would be to a telephone call from one of her clients saying she was in bed and couldn’t come to work. Then she giggled, unable not to at the mental picture she’d created.
‘All right, I suppose it wouldn’t be the best idea,’ he admitted with a chuckle of his own. ‘I will do the dishes, though, provided you promise to keep your hands off my body. Any fondling and you’ll be picking up broken crockery for the next fortnight.’
‘You can dry,’ she said. ‘No, on second thoughts, I’ll dry. You’d only take advantage of me while I had both hands in the sink. This way, I keep control, and besides, I know where everything goes. You can tell me all about your gambling foray while you’re at it.’
Which he proceeded to do in great detail, creating for Vashti a wonderful, hilarious story; she howled so much at one point that she almost started dropping dishes herself.
‘Oh, I wish I’d been there,’ she cried, only to have Phelan flick a fistful of suds at her.
‘I’ve already told you — if you’d been there I wouldn’t have done it,’ he said with a mock-scowl. ‘Because if we’d been together, we’d have been here, and there’d have been other things on my mind besides gambling, I can tell you that!’
‘We were here,’ she said, serious for a moment. ‘And you did have other things on your mind. But you didn’t stay.’
‘I did not!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it wouldn’t have been right.’
‘You can say that, now? I ... don’t think I understand.’
‘You were too tired to understand anything,’ he replied, ‘which is why I didn’t stay. And, I suppose, why I came back today, if you want the truth.’
‘Of course I do. This isn’t one of your books, for goodness’ sake.’
‘Sometimes I wonder. When life starts getting stranger than my own fiction, well...’
‘I ... I really would like to know,’ she said hesitantly, afraid now she was about to get an answer she didn’t want to hear.
Phelan grinned, the sheer magic of his grin dispelling the worst of her fears.
‘You were too tired,’ he said again. ‘The timing was wrong, the circumstances were wrong, everything was wrong. It would have been a disaster. And — you would have hated me in the morning.’
‘I wouldn’t!’
‘You might have. I might have.’ His eyes flashed for an instant, radiating something Vashti couldn’t quite discern.
‘And besides,’ he said in a tone of voice just a tinge different somehow, ‘when I left here last night I was broke, or near as damn it.’ His eyes were on what he was doing in the sink now; Vashti could only hear what he was saying, not see his expression.
‘And you thought that would matter to me?’
Her voice must have registered some of the confusion she felt, the astonishment.
‘It would have mattered to me. One doesn’t take advantage of a beautiful woman when one can’t even afford to offer to buy her breakfast afterwards.’
Vashti could only laugh.
‘And last night I was feeling ... lucky,’ he continued, pretending not to notice. ‘Probably because of what I now think might have been misplaced feelings about being virtuous and honourable and all that stuff. Not realising what a wanton you really are, I had myself convinced that it would have been wrong to take advantage, so even before we left the casino I was busy talking myself out of my lustful ideas. Which I did, and I left here feeling quite pleased with myself.
‘Now, of course,’ he said with a mischievous grin, ‘I realise I was only lucky you didn’t trip me and beat me to the floor. But I couldn’t have known that then, could I? Not when I was busy convincing myself not to work my wicked way with you because ... I wanted it to be right. More than right, damn it! Perfect!’
‘You’re not making a lot of sense,’ Vashti said, picking up the cutlery all in a bunch and drying the bits as they came to hand.
‘More than you do, sometimes,’ he said, reaching down to stop her. ‘Are you trying to cut off a finger or something?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied. ‘I do this all the time.’
‘Well, don’t do it when I’m around, OK? I don’t want the body damaged; it’s far too valuable.’
‘Just get on with your story,’ she said. ‘I’m still waiting for the full explanation. And ... I have a knife in my hand now. So be truthful.’
‘I was afraid you’d insist on that,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, knowing I was going to be virtuous — presuming I got the chance to have a choice — I saved out one chip from the lot I cashed in to give me an excuse.’
‘An excuse for what?’
‘For not taking advantage, of course. That way I could convince myself I ought to be virtuous because you’d brought me luck and I still had your chip in my pocket, so I’d have to go back and finish up that run of luck.’
‘Have you been reading your own books or something?’ Vashti cried. ‘That’s the most convoluted, nonsensical load of old cobblers I’ve ever heard.’
‘I was looking after your best interests,’ he replied, totally unabashed. Except for that wicked gleam in his eyes.
‘And what would you have done, pray tell, if I’d come on all frisky? What if I had tripped you and beaten you to the floor, as you so politely put it?’
‘I’d have helped!’
‘And then what?’
‘Probably borrowed the money from you to buy you breakfast — is that what you want to hear?’ His scowl was fierce, but his eyes were warm, laughing.
I want to hear you say you love me! The words flashed through her mind in huge, blazing capital letters. But went unsaid. Instead, she resorted to cheekiness, taking solace from the fact that she was comfortable enough with Phelan to allow that much.
‘Maybe I just want to hear you say you’ve finished the washing-up,’ she said. ‘It would be awfully hard to trip you while you can grab the sink for support.’
‘You’re insatiable, woman,’ he accused with a grin. ‘I’m going as fast as I can and it still isn’t good enough for you. I might have to change my mind about this whole arrangement; I can’t have a heroine with such lustful ideas in a romance. The research would kill me before I could manage to finish the damned thing.’
‘And that’s what I am? A heroine for one of your books?’ Vashti couldn’t meet his eyes, could hardly credit her own daring, didn’t want to. Nor did she want to hear the answer, but it was too late now!
‘Is that what you think?’
He smiled, but it was a false smile, a liar’s smile. She knew it was, suddenly hated him. Hated herself more. Wanted to run, but couldn’t, of course. This was her home; this was where she ought to be running to, not from. And in that burning instant the wonder of the afternoon seemed to collapse around her. Impossible, she thought, but she tasted deception where she’d only tasted love, caring.
‘For the book you’re working on now? The one about the tax office? That’s what it’s all been about, isn’t it? You’ve just been using me.’ She was becoming hysterical, could hear it in her own voice, could see it in the strange look on Phelan’s face, the stranger light in his eyes.
‘Well? Is that it? It is — isn’t it? Isn’t it?
’
She was screaming at him now, waving the knife she’d forgotten she even held until just that instant. ‘Isn’t it? This whole damned thing has been nothing more than a ... a charade, a game, to you. You’ve been orchestrating it all with that ... that woman, just for a lousy book!’
‘I don’t believe this.’
He was reaching out, braving the knife to lift the tea-towel from her other hand, using it to wipe the soap suds from his hands. And all the while looking at her, shaking his head in tiny, abrupt motions.
‘Answer me!’
He reached out, plucked the knife from her fingers, and flung it into the sink. The gesture was swift, angry.
But his eyes weren’t angry. Only ... different, somehow.
‘Will you please come and sit down?’
‘No! I want an answer and I want it now!’
Phelan sighed, looking down at the floor for an instant, his shoulders drooping.
‘Please?’
‘Now, damn you.’
‘All right,’ he said, voice quiet, resigned. ‘Yes, I’m writing a book. That is what I do...write books. And yes, it’s about the tax office, sort of. But I am not — repeat not — using you. Nor am I using whatever tax affairs were between us.’
He paused, looked in her eyes and saw the fury, the hurt, the total disbelief, and sighed again.
‘And I don’t know how you could think I would.’
Not one word about Janice Gentry, not even a suggestion of denial about his involvement with her, their pictures together in the paper, her obvious attitude to him.
‘You’re lying.’ She fought to control her growing hysteria, made the statement flat, emotionless.
Phelan just looked at her, eyes weary, but cold now. He shook his bead.
‘OK,’ he said then, ‘I guess you’re entitled to your opinion, no matter how ridiculous it is.’
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped around her, quickly gathering up shoes and socks, and shrugging into his shirt. He took his dinner-jacket from the hall closet as he passed it, and walked out of the door.
He didn’t slam it, didn’t even look back as he slouched down the footpath in his bare feet, climbed into his luxury motor car, and drove slowly, almost sedately, out of her life.
Vashti watched him go without a tear, then plunged into the shower and stayed there, trembling and shivering in the steam, scrubbing him away. Obsessively, compulsively, angrily. Fruitlessly. Until the hot water turned cold.
CHAPTER NINE
‘The Keene file is closed!’
Vashti blurted out the words and could have kicked herself for how she knew they sounded. Ross Chandler didn’t appear to notice, any more than he’d noticed that she was half an hour late for work.
‘All right,’ he said, lifting his small, shrewd eyes from the mountain of paperwork on his desk only long enough to utter those two words.
‘I’ve ... I ... it just shouldn’t have been me,’ Vashti stammered, then plunged on. ‘The audit is complete now anyway and there’s no evidence against ... Mr Keene. Never was.’
‘I said it was all right.’ He didn’t even bother to look up this time. He’d seen her come into his office, dressed appropriately for a businesswoman, hair neatly spun into a chignon, tailored skirt and jacket, sensible shoes. If he’d noticed the vain attempt to disguise reddened eyes and a complexion pale as death, he didn’t bother to say.
‘I’m ... sorry. It’s the first time...’ Vashti couldn’t just accept his acceptance; she felt she must try and explain, had to somehow explain. Only she couldn’t, couldn’t even get the words together sufficiently to make a coherent sentence.
He looked up again, impatient now. She knew the signs, had seen them often enough before. And now, she realised, he was noticing her appearance.
‘I said it didn’t matter, Vashti,’ he said, unusually gentle for the mood she could see he was in. ‘Why don’t you go home? You look worse than you did on Friday.’
I looked fine on Friday, she wanted to scream. Infinitely better than now! A million times better than now! And I felt better, too.
‘I’m fine,’ was all she could manage. ‘Just ... tired, a bit. But I didn’t sleep in or anything; I was late because my car played up and wouldn’t start, so I had to walk.’
‘If you’re so fine, you might explain why you charged into the building — admittedly late, but let’s ignore that — and promptly went off to be sick?’
‘How...?’ She had to stop, or risk being sick again.
‘I know everything. That’s why I’m the boss.’ And he bent again to his paperwork. ‘Now either go on back to work or book yourself off sick, but stop standing around my office like a dog waiting to be shot.’
He didn’t know everything, couldn’t know everything, thank God, she thought as she fled back to the relative sanctuary of her own office, moving fairly stiffly, as if all her muscles were sore, knowing why and hating it, hating even more the way all her nerve- endings seemed exposed, tender. It was like the worst of hangovers without the headache.
Only hangovers, she decided a week later, didn’t go on and on, ad infinitum, didn’t renew themselves without a fresh infusion of what started them, didn’t creep up unseen to leap out of the bushes at one with no warning, no chance of defence.
She had read something once about the so-called ‘drinker’s hour’, that apparently horrific time in the wee small hours when alcoholics woke to sweats and nightmares and unknown, unseen, indescribable fears. Did they also, she wondered, have insanely erotic nightmares?
Worse, did they have them in the middle of the day, in the middle of walking down a city street where a glint of glossy dark hair, a certain type of masculine posture, a certain type of walk, could make one go weak at the knees, could create a dryness in the mouth, a moist, spongy feeling in the tummy?
By the end of another week, she had generally stopped finding herself assaulted by such feelings while at work, where it was damnably embarrassing to be recalled to the present and find herself squirming in her seat, her body burning, her clothing insanely constricting.
But it was done now. Finished. Over. Had been for days when Vashti got the call from downstairs asking if a Miss Alana Keene might be allowed to see her without an appointment.
‘No,’ she replied instinctively, only to relent within the space of a heartbeat. Her calendar was a desert; she could spare three hours without any appointment if she wanted to. Which she damned well didn’t, but couldn’t in all conscience find a single excuse even she would think worthy. And she liked Alana, despite the girl’s propensity for meddling, despite her relatives.
Alana walked through the door a few moments later, granting Vashti a fleeting smile, but having little else in her demeanour that indicated friendliness.
‘I am instructed,’ she said gravely, ‘to deliver this to you personally, by hand, and — if possible — to obtain a receipt.’
‘This’ was a fat, large Jiffy bag which Alana was holding as if it contained live tiger-snakes. She plunked the parcel down on Vashti’s desk with obvious relief, took a deep breath, and announced dramatically, ‘And I am instructed to sit here while you read it.’
‘Alana, the audit is over, all done, finished,’ Vashti said. ‘I don’t see…’
‘Exactly my point,’ Alana interrupted. ‘You don’t see, and without a bit of help you probably never will. Now will you please just humour me and read this so I can finish my penance and get back to what passes for a normal life again?’ The girl’s tension was unnerving, and it forced her voice up and up and up with every word. She was almost screaming at the end.
‘Must I?’ Stupid question, Vashti realised, as Alana stomped over to sit down beside the window, glaring at her, tense, angry, defensive. It would have something to do with Phelan; Vashti was certain of it, and even more certain when Alana snapped,
‘Too right you do!’
‘You wouldn’t like to leave it with me and we can talk about it ove
r lunch?’ Vashti ventured, seeking some semblance of sweet reason, some escape valve for the naked hostility that filled the office like smoke.
‘I am instructed to watch you read it. Every ... single ... word! If possible,’ she added, making it obvious she wasn’t impressed with even that concession.
‘Dare I ask what penance you’re talking about?’ Vashti asked gently. Very gently! Alana was clearly upset, and Vashti didn’t want to make it any worse.
‘That,’ her visitor replied, ‘is a very, very silly question. Please, Vashti ... will you just read the damned thing and stop harassing me? I’ve been harassed quite enough over this already and I’m getting intensely sick of it.’
Alana sighed as if she could see the end of the world, then leaped to her feet and rushed forward. ‘Please,’ she pleaded, hostility exchanged now for concern. ‘I’m sorry I played at being a matchmaker; I’ll never do it again as long as I live, I swear it! All I wanted was for you and Phelan to stop being stupid and get it together; it isn’t my fault that ... whatever happened.’ And she sighed hopelessly. ‘But I can’t handle this being an ... an intermediary, either. I told him that, but he said I owed him — owed both of you. Please.’
The final plea was so genuine, so heart-breaking, that Vashti couldn’t refuse, despite her better judgement.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I’d rather be alone.’
Alana closed her eyes, obviously on the brink of agreeing, but her courage failed her. Shaking her head, she walked slowly back to her chair and slumped in it, quite obviously prepared to sit and stare at the floor, if necessary, until Vashti had read whatever it was she was supposed to read.
‘At least take this,’ Vashti sighed, reaching into her bottom drawer for the Dick Francis novel she was currently involved in. ‘I won’t be able to concentrate on anything with you sitting there sighing like some spectre of doom.’ She tossed the paperback over to Alana, who looked at it as if it were a cheese sandwich or something, sighed again, and nodded some vague form of agreement.
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