by Susan Napier
She ran a brush through her loose hair and then raked it back from her forehead and ears with her fingers and gave it a quick spritz with a firm-hold hairspray to stop the loose strands from annoying her while she was eating. Of course, they probably would anyway, but a woman needed one frivolity in her life and with Vanessa it was her hair.
She surveyed herself in the age-spotted mirror on the wall of her room and nodded as she spun around, pleased with the way the thin crêpe de Chine of the skirt flowed around her legs. It looked just the way the photo did in the Vogue pattern book. The stiffened bodice, fastened from waist to collarbone by thirty tiny covered buttons hooked through satin loops and detailed with top stitching, had caused her a lot of trouble when she was making it, but the end result had been worth all her cursing and unpicking. Her bared shoulders were a little unseasonal but she knew the restaurant that Richard was taking her to was small and warm so she merely wrapped herself in a three-quarter-length black mohair cardigan-coat for the car trip.
‘Looks rather spooky in the moonlight, doesn’t it?’ said Richard as they drove away from the inn.
Vanessa looked back at the ragged outline of gables and chimneys, the slate roof gleaming darkly in the light of a richly overripe moon. Crouched in a small valley just off the main Thames coastal-road, with the foothills of the Coromandel Range rising steeply in the background and no other visible signs of the thriving community which existed just over the hill, the inn did look rather Gothic. The main design of the inn was a long stone T-shape, with the kitchen and service areas jutting out at the back, but the uncompromising sternness of the stone shape was softened by the addition of ornate wooden-covered verandas which ran the length and breadth of both storeys, supported on huge pillars of heart kauri milled from the native forests, for which the area was justly famous. The carriage light at the front door which she had left burning only seemed to emphasise the completeness of the shadowy building’s isolation.
‘That reminds me, has Savage tracked down his ghost yet?’
Vanessa gave him a sharp look. ‘How did you hear about that?’
He grinned. ‘Word gets around.’
Vanessa gave an inward groan. She might have known that Bill Jessop wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. She wondered whether Richard suspected the source of the hoax, but his handsome features were harmlessly amused as he concentrated on negotiating the narrow, winding road.
‘He’s been into the newspaper office, Melissa says, going through hundred-year-old files. She said he took away photocopies of reports about Meg’s murder.’
‘Oh?’ Vanessa was distracted from her immediate worry by the realisation that Richard had seen Melissa Riley recently. Had it been a date or just a casual meeting? Since she had insisted she wasn’t ready for exclusivity the idea of him seeing other woman had never bothered Vanessa before. To her dismay it didn’t really bother her now, either. Surely she ought to feel jealous of the man she intended...
Intended what? That was the problem—she still didn’t really know what her intentions towards him were. Richard’s intentions towards her she could guess; from the gallantly cautious way he was treating her they were of the most honourable kind. He would be happily willing to take her to bed but she had no doubts that ultimately it was marriage that he wanted from her. He was in his mid-thirties and ready to settle down. Unlike someone else she could name. The trouble was that she had a hard time imagining herself in bed with Richard while she was having much difficulty imagining herself out of bed where Benedict Savage was concerned!
The small cottage restaurant was filled to capacity. It had a good reputation for excellent food at reasonable prices and was highly popular with local residents who wanted to dress up and eat somewhere a bit more special than the pub or one of the fast-food restaurants that commonly sprang up at normally sparsely populated, seasonal holiday destinations like the Coromandel.
When Richard accepted the wine-list he looked over at her and grinned. ‘Champagne, my dear?’
Vanessa’s determination shivered. ‘What about red tonight? I think I’m going to have the venison,’ she said, pretending not to understand the reference.
‘Right. But only one bottle this time, OK?’
Vanessa gave him a mock-glare as the waitress drifted away. ‘Now she’s going to think I’m a lush.’
‘I wouldn’t blame her. You do look rather lush this evening.’ His eyes dipped to the neckline of her dress which she had left unbuttoned as far as the swell of her breasts to give a more casual look. It also revealed more cleavage than usual and, given the way the light boning of the bodice lifted her breasts, she couldn’t blame Richard for taking it as an invitation to look. That was what she had intended, wasn’t it?
‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she said flippantly, feeling that she ought to blush at the intensity of his gaze but unable to summon the required rush of excited blood. ‘You look rather gorgeous yourself.’
To her amusement he produced the flush that had eluded her, visibly moved by her teasing flattery. She felt a surge of tenderness for him. Dear Richard; she couldn’t think of one good reason why she shouldn’t fall madly in love with him.
To that end she flirted gently with him through the leisurely meal and was waiting for her dessert, sipping the last of the smooth Australian red wine he had ordered, when she suddenly choked.
‘Van, are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ She coughed, blinking her eyes rapidly to clear them of tears. The vision on the other side of the room blurred, then steadied again. It was a delusion; it had to be! Then the man speaking persuasively to the hostess turned full-face to the room. It was Benedict Savage—supposedly safely ensconced at a posh banquet in Auckland—sinfully overdressed in a white dinner-jacket and black tie. Oh, God! Furtively Vanessa looked around. The waitress had removed the lavishly large menus when she had taken their order and there wasn’t even so much as a pot-plant to hide behind.
‘Van, what’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
That wretched word again! Vanessa produced a feeble smile. Thank goodness Richard was sitting opposite across the table instead of on the banquette seat beside her, and had his back to the open foyer. With any luck the hostess would just explain to Benedict that the restaurant was full and send him on his way. The kitchen shut down at eleven, and it was nearly that now, although the restaurant itself didn’t close until midnight and people usually made the most of their night out by lingering over special coffees or to dance in the small adjoining room where the chef’s wife played the piano. Anyway, no one got in these days without a reservation. But if Richard saw him he was bound to acknowledge him in his usual polite way, perhaps—horror of horrors—even invite him to join them!
‘Some wine went down the wrong way,’ she explained hurriedly, and with perfect truth.
Just in time she saw the light glint off Benedict’s spectacles as he lifted his head to look into the room over the hostess’s shoulder and she brushed her dessert fork off the table with her elbow and ducked down to pick it up in one fluid movement.
‘Whoops, excuse me!’ Her head pressed against the bottom of the table, she pretended to grope for her lost implement, her heart thumping as she congratulated herself on her quick reflexes.
‘Don’t worry about it, Van; I’ll get you another one. You won’t be able to use one that’s been on the floor, anyway.’ Too late Vanessa saw the flaw in her impulsive plan. Richard had already raised his voice to attract the attention of their waitress. ‘Excuse me, Kylie, could we have another fork here?’
Half crouched under the table, Vanessa closed her eyes and prayed, deaf to the soft hum of conversation and discreet clatter of crockery and cutlery from the patrons around them. All she could hear were the approaching footsteps that sounded like the knell of doom.
‘Thanks. Just leave it, Van. Kylie’s brought another one.’
Vanessa’s panic eased a moment too soon at his quiet reassurance. She was cautio
usly beginning to ease upright as she heard Richard suddenly rise and say, ‘Hello, Savage. What are you doing here? I thought you were up for some big award in Auckland tonight?’
Vanessa froze, thinking stupidly that she hadn’t known Benedict was in line for one of the awards, as she listened to the casual reply. She opened her eyes and saw the polished black shoes planted beside the table leg. Shoes that she herself had buffed to their shellac shine the previous afternoon.
‘I was. I decided to come back early.’
‘Come straight from there, I suppose?’ Richard guessed, obviously looking at the white jacket as he ventured another sympathetic guess. ‘Missed out, did you? I don’t blame you for ducking out early. Those type of things can certainly drag on if you don’t have anything to celebrate. But if you called in here for a nightcap on the way home you made a bit of a mistake; they don’t run a separate bar.’
‘So I just discovered.’ There was an excruciating pause, then he said sardonically, ‘I hesitate to sound indelicate, but whatever your companion is doing under the table she seems to be doing very thoroughly. That is, I assume it is a woman?’
Richard, the idiot, saw it as a joke rather than the subtle insult that made Vanessa go hot all over. ‘If you saw her dress you wouldn’t ask that question! Are you running out of air down there yet, honey?’ he said, his voice threaded with wicked laughter.
It was all so humiliating, Vanessa thought as she clenched her teeth and slowly unfolded herself, the errant fork clutched in her sweaty palm.
She knew that her face was red and her hair was falling all over her face. She was certain that Benedict knew who she was and was just doing this to embarrass her. Sure enough, when her eyes emerged far enough to peep sullenly over the table-top, she could see an expression of malicious satisfaction on Benedict’s face as he glanced at Richard.
For her he had a faintly quizzical smile as she reluctantly sat upright, his eyes sinking to the exposed cleft between her breasts before lifting, lifting as she straightened to her full height. The quizzical amusement faltered as his gaze went over the thick blanket of hair that she quickly tucked back behind her ears.
It vanished entirely when he looked back at her flushed face, really looked this time, and she knew that he hadn’t realised, not until then. He had thought Richard was dining with some other woman.
‘Flynn?’
Her smile was a mere twitch. ‘Hello, Mr Savage; fancy seeing you here.’
Her attempt at bright surprise fell flat as a lead balloon. He stared at her, his eyes leached from blue to sleet-grey as he leaned back so that he got a better look at the hair rippling down between her shoulder-blades.
A nervous tic suddenly began to pull at the skin on his left temple and Vanessa began a fatalistic countdown to the imminent explosion. She could only hope that his rigorous self-control and distaste for emotional display would rescue her from complete public annihilation!
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS Richard who unknowingly defused the ticking time bomb.
‘Why don’t you sit with us and have your drink?’ he suggested blithely. ‘Van and I are just waiting for our dessert. I’m sure the management won’t quibble if they know you’re our guest. After all, you don’t look as if you’ll cause any trouble.’
Little did he know, thought Vanessa as, to her horror, the offer was smoothly accepted.
‘Why not? Unless Van objects. Do you...Van?’
She wished he would stop saying her name like that. It was enough to make her hair curl—if it hadn’t been a coiled mass of ringlets already.
‘Why should I object?’ she squeaked bravely.
‘I don’t know...guilt, perhaps.’
‘Guilt?’ Why didn’t he sit down if he was going to, instead of looming over her like that? There was a perfectly good empty chair next to Richard. She wasn’t going to let him bully her with stand-over tactics. ‘I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about,’ she lied brazenly.
‘No? How about leaving me to come home to a cold, dark, deserted house?’
His mock-pathos made her heart flip-flop in her chest. Perhaps her fate wasn’t so cut and dried after all. Maybe she had mistaken that searing look. Perhaps he was just in a foul mood after losing out on an award he had wanted.
‘You weren’t supposed to be coming home. But as it happens I left a light on—and the oil-fired heating going.’ She adopted a conciliatory tone.
‘I notice you don’t dispute the deserted bit.’ To her dismay he didn’t take the chair beside Richard. Instead he slid on to the banquette beside her. She felt the heat of his thigh even though he remained a decorous distance away on the upholstered leather bench. ‘Unless, of course, you count my ghostly courtesan. Sorry, Flynn, I mean actress... What lovely hair you have, by the way,’ he continued in the same mild, conversational tone. ‘And what a lot of it.’
‘She looks quite different, doesn’t she, with that mane flying free?’ said Richard affably, relaxed by his good meal, and cheerfully oblivious to the undertones.
‘Very different. So different, in fact, I nearly didn’t recognise her,’ said Benedict, shifting on to his hip so that his body was curved towards hers, still a safe distance away and yet suffocatingly close. Vanessa continued to look towards Richard with a fixed smile, her back stiff, conscious that with the blind end of the banquette on her other side she was very effectively trapped.
‘Continuing the equestrian analogy, Wells, what would you call that colour?’ he mused lightly. ‘Golden palomino?’
‘Palominos may have golden coats but their manes are always cream or white. Vanessa’s colouring is definitely bay.’ Richard chuckled.
‘Do you mind? This is a restaurant, not a stable,’ Vanessa cut in sharply, perversely as annoyed with Richard as she was with Benedict. ‘If you came in here gasping for a drink, shouldn’t you order one?’
There was a tiny, splintering silence.
‘Oh, are you talking to me? I didn’t realise—you weren’t looking in my direction,’ came the purr by her ear and she was forced to turn her head to meet the challenge of his stare.
Did he or didn’t he?
Was he baiting her or was her paranoia colouring his innocent words with perilous meaning? He hadn’t seen her face, she reminded herself desperately, so he couldn’t be absolutely certain, not on such flimsy evidence as her hair.
‘Let me buy that drink for you—it’ll be easier all round if I just add it to my bill.’ Richard interrupted the wordless duel with his customary generosity. ‘What would you like? A whisky?’
At Benedict’s careless nod he turned in his seat and beckoned the waitress again.
Benedict hadn’t taken his eyes off Vanessa and now his voice lowered for her ears alone. ‘Is all that hair as soft as it looks, I wonder?’ As he spoke he ran a hand lightly down from the top of her skull to the uneven ends of the thick pelt. Vanessa nearly shot out of her seat. Every nerve-end in her scalp seemed to spit and crackle.
‘I’m sorry, did I hurt you?’ he murmured, his eyes glittering in the light of the flickering candle in the centre of the small table.
‘No,’ Vanessa gritted. He can’t prove a thing, she repeated to herself in a mental chant. All she had to do was hold him off until they got home. Or, better still, until tomorrow, when he might be in a more receptive frame of mind.
‘Mmm, it’s even softer than it looks.’ He stroked again, this time sinking his fingers into the corkscrew ripples and drawing a swath forward over her shoulder. His knuckles brushed the bare skin of her upper arm, sending a fresh shiver of awareness right down to her toes. ‘And very attractive against your black dress and pale skin. Such a surprising colour variation, too; it almost looks golden in this candlelight. And so light and fleecy, such a fluffy confection...’
He leaned towards her as he toyed with the captive locks, his nostrils flaring slightly, and her heart jerked in her breast at each tightening of his lethally soft voice on the trigger words.
‘Do you mind?’ She reached up to push her hair back out of his grasp, discovering to her embarrassment that she was still holding the fork in a white-knuckled grip.
Resisting the temptation to stab him with it, she shifted instead so that her back was to the corner of the banquette, tossing her head so that her hair fell into the shadow behind her. She laid the fork down on the white tablecloth in front of her and then began to fiddle nervously with it as she tried to think of an innocuous starting point for a polite conversation.
When she finally plucked up the courage to give him a quick, sideways glance it was to find him staring down at her hands with their carefully painted nails. Hoping he hadn’t noticed their faint nervous tremor, she clenched her fists, and then froze as his fingertip tracked slowly over the white cloth and up over the ring-finger of her right hand.
‘That’s an interesting ring you’re wearing. Silver and jade, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, a jeweller at a craft commune up past Coromandel made it,’ she babbled eagerly, automatically splaying her hand, as much to shake off his touch as to display the large, ornate ring. Local crafts. You couldn’t get much more innocuous than that. ‘This area is quite famous for the number of artists and artisans—’
‘It’s an extremely unusual design. One might even say...unique.’
There was something odd in his voice, a note of repressed exultation, that brought Vanessa up short just as she was about to agree. The ring. She had been wearing the ring that night and hadn’t bothered to take it off before she crashed into his bed!
‘Oh, I don’t know, she probably stamps them out by the dozen for the tourist trade,’ she said with a hectic little laugh.
But Richard was there to keep her on the straight and narrow, the directest possible route to her downfall...
‘Not at those prices, Van,’ he said as he turned back from ordering. ‘I was with you when you bought it last spring, remember? You didn’t want to part with that much until the woman told you everything she did was strictly one-off.’
