by Sara Craven
Adrien, very conscious of her elderly tee shirt and paint-stained dungarees, gave a constrained smile. 'Yes, of course. Er—welcome to Wildhurst Grange.'
'It's certainly a lovely house.' Mrs. Whitley gave her surroundings an appraising look. 'I can see why Mr. Haddon feels so strong about it.' She nodded, then picked up the leather suitcase beside her. 'If you'd be good enough to show me my quarters, I'll get settled in. The rest of my things are in the car.'
She looked at her watch. 'Lunch will be ready in an hour and a half, madam. Only soup and sandwiches, I'm afraid, but I'll be back in my stride by this evening.'
She looked at the table. 'And where is that to go?'
'In my room. There are a couple of other things as well,' Adrien said. 'I'm going to ask one of the workmen to bring them up for me.'
'No doubt they'll need cleaning.' Mrs. Whitley clicked her tongue. 'What a shame to let nice things go to rack and ruin. But all that can stop here and now.' She nodded again, rather fiercely. 'Now, where am I to sleep?'
Adrien took her up to the small self-contained flat on the second floor which the Grange housekeepers usually occupied.
I wonder if she knows that Chay used to live there? she wondered as she returned downstairs, feeling as if she'd been caught in a small whirlwind. The soup was a homemade vegetable broth, and the sandwiches were smoked salmon.
'That was delicious,' Adrien said with complete sincerity when Mrs. Whitley arrived to collect her tray.
The housekeeper snorted. 'Nothing but a snack,'
she declared, and ran a martial eye over Adrien's slender figure. 'You need feeding up, Miss Lander,' she added, and withdrew.
Did she? Adrien wondered, glimpsing her reflection in the drawing room window. Her week of snatched meals and sleepless nights had emphasised her cheekbones and made her eyes look shadowed and wary. Perhaps Chay would take one look and decide she was past her sell-by date, she thought, her lips twisting wryly.
Mrs. Whitley's head reappeared round the door.
'The furniture van's just coming up the drive, madam. Mr. Haddon said you'd give the men their orders, as you know where everything goes.'
'I know?' Adrien repeated in bewilderment, following her into the hall. T don't understand.'
But comprehension soon came as the first pieces of furniture were carefully unloaded and carried into the house.
She said numbly, 'But those are Mr. Stretton's things. That cabinet—and the table and chairs. And there's his big desk from the library.' She shook her head. 'But that's impossible.'
'Not if you know where to look, madam. And Mr. Had-don was keen to have the house just as it was in the old days.'
Adrien felt her throat close in shock. My God, she thought, but he's been thorough. He's even got the Persian carpets—and most of the oil paintings too, by the look of it. And the silver...
She opened the nearest crate and found herself looking down at Angus Stretton's chessboard, its ivory and ebony squares gleaming. And next to it was the familiar box of matching chessmen. How many times, she wondered, had she seen Mr. Stretton and her father sitting opposite each other in the study, intent on their next moves? And this was the board she'd learned on too.
It's not just the house—or me, she thought, feeling cold. He wants the whole of Piers's inheritance. He hasn't missed a thing. Not the slightest detail. All these years he must have been waiting. And this is his revenge—on both of us.
She lifted her head, staring into space. Ruthless, she thought. He's totally ruthless. And soon—very soon now— he'll be here. For me.
CHAPTER SIX
'You really don't have to do this,' Zelda said. Adrien fastened the lid of her suitcase. It had been mid-afternoon before the furniture was finally in place at the Grange, leaving her free to come back to the cottage for her clothes. A task she'd left to the last minute. Like a condemned person hoping for reprieve, she thought ruefully.
She said lightly, 'Oh, but I do. It's a job, just like any other.' She paused. 'My goodness, you didn't make all this fuss when I moved into the Grange last time.'
'That was different,' Zelda said grimly. 'I know it, and you won't admit it.'
'Well, don't look so glum,' Adrien said bracingly, as she hefted her case off the bed. 'I'll be back before you know it. This is our work base, after all. Besides, I have to see Smudge's puppy.'
'Adie,' Zelda said. 'Tell me you're not doing this so that my son can have a dog.'
'It's work,' Adrien said determinedly. 'Just another assignment. Purely temporary. So don't worry about a thing.'
When Zelda had made her reluctant departure, Adrien carried her case down to the Jeep. She hadn't packed very much, partly because her wardrobe was limited, and far too utilitarian for a tycoon's mistress, she decided with irony, even if she was only on loan. No slinky evening dresses, designer casuals or see-through lingerie anywhere. But perhaps Chay intended to buy her those kind of things, she thought with a grimace.
That could be just one of the many hurdles confronting her. She still wasn't sure what conclusions Mrs. Whitley was drawing about her place in the house-hold, but it hadn't taken long for her to discover that Chay could do no wrong in his housekeeper's eyes, and that she probably wouldn't have turned a hair if Adrien had been lead concubine in his harem. But she seemed prepared to go along with the fiction that Adrien was just another employee, and had, in a brief time, transformed the rooms Adrien had chosen for herself.
When she got back to the Grange Adrien found the bed made up, two charming watercolours on the sitting room walls, and the reject furniture polished to within an inch of its life. There was a cushion in the easy chair, and a bowl of late roses on the table. Mrs. Whitley had even found time to fix new handles to the chest of drawers. Adrien said, 'It all looks wonderful.'
Mrs. Whitley beamed. 'Mr. Haddon said I was to make sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed.' She glanced at her watch. 'Now I must make a start on dinner.'
It didn't take long to unpack, and then Adrien found herself at a loose end. It was disturbing to walk round the house and find it almost the same as it had been in Angus Stretton's day. For a small child it had been like a treasure house—an enchanted castle with Mr. Stretton as the kindly wizard, talking to her about the pictures on the walls, opening the cabinets of curios so that she could hold them while he told her their history. And always Chay had been there, a quiet, watchful presence on the edge of her vision.
Mr. Stretton was so good to him, Adrien thought wretchedly. It must have broken his heart to find that he was a thief.
Thank God he can never know that Chay was just biding his time, she told herself with bitterness. That he's stepped in and stolen everything. The afternoon seemed endless, moving slowly but inevitably to the moment when Chay would return.
She tried to keep herself occupied, using the computer in the office to draw up a new design for the kitchen garden, but got to a point where the walls of the room seemed to be closing in on her. She was glancing at her watch every few seconds, every nerve on edge and screaming, so that at last she said, To hell with it,' and went out for a walk instead.
She went up through the trees, steadfastly ignoring the place where the treehouse used to be. She had to dismiss that part of her childhood—relegate it to some distant corner of her mind—even though the sense of betrayal—of desertion—would always haunt her. What Piers had done to her was infinitely worse, yet some strange instinct told her that his defection would not linger nearly as long in her mind. And that made no sense at all.
The sun was still warm on her back, but there was a crispness in the air which signalled autumn. It was her favourite time of year, and one of the busiest too, as people decided to have rooms redone for Christmas. But now Chay Haddon had the right to the lion's share of her time.
But I can't allow the business to suffer, she told herself. I'll need something to go back to when— all this is over.
She bit her lip and increased her stride. It was the present she needed to worry about, she reminded herself grimly. The future—well, that would have to look after itself.
It was over an hour later when she got back to the house, and Mrs. Whitley met her with an air of faint reproach.
'Mr. Haddon called,' she said. 'He's been slightly delayed, so I've put dinner back to eight thirty.' She paused. 'Would you like me to run you a bath, madam? And bring you a glass of sherry, perhaps?'
My God, thought Adrien. She thinks I'm going to do the whole bit Soak in a hot tub, rub in body lotion, varnish my toenails, and put on something glamorous and revealing. Prepare myself for the master's return.
Well, no chance. That's not for me. In my case, what you see is what you get.
She smiled at Mrs. Whitley. 'Thanks, but I'm just going to have a quick shower. And I'll have a glass of white wine—Chardonnay, for preference—when I come down.'
'Just as you wish, madam, of course. But I thought...'
'I'm sure you did,' said Adrien, and ran lightly up the stairs.
So she wasn't deceived at all, she thought, wondering just how many others Mrs. Whitley had pampered in this particular way...
Wrinkling her nose, she went into her room and banged the door with unnecessary force.
She showered and washed her hair, then pulled on a pair of white jeans and a black silky sweater with long sleeves and a round neck before piling her still-damp hair into a loose topknot. She put on moisturiser, added a coating of mascara to her lashes, and a pale coral lustre to her lips. Tidy, she decided, giving herself a critical look. And that was all the effort she was prepared to make.
Reluctantly, she went downstairs, into the drawing room. The lamps had been lit and there was a fire burning in the hearth, dispelling the faint chill of the evening. The whole room seemed to be glowing a welcome, Adrien thought cynically, taking a seat on one of the jewel-colour sofas. And the only discordant note was herself. Now that the moment of truth had finally come, she could feel tension coiling inside her. She could rationalise what she was doing until the crack of doom, but the fact remained that tonight she had a debt to pay. And the transaction would take place in Chay's bed. In Chay's arms.
And she wasn't sure she could cope. If she could bear the reality of it.
As if, she thought bitterly, she had a choice. She was grateful for the wine that she'd found cooling on a side table. It was cool and fragrant against her dry throat, but she wasn't going to drink too much of it. That had been the cause of her problems last time, she told herself with conviction, and she couldn't risk another loss of control like that. While she was getting ready, she'd reached a serious decision. Chay would have the access to her body that he'd paid for, but nothing more. Because her heart and soul belonged to herself alone. That was the only way she could survive. By closing off her mind, by divorcing herself from everything but the physical act.
Endurance, she thought, staring at the restless flames curling round the logs in the dog crate. That was the word to focus on. To cling to.
Mrs. Whitley came bustling in, smiling. 'Mr. Haddon has returned, madam. He's gone up to change. Perhaps you'd like to take his drink up to him. He has whisky with a little spring water,' she added confidentially.
She paused expectantly, and Adrien, whose lips had started to frame a blistering retort, found herself subsiding, the furious words bitten back.
This, she thought, was how it began. What she had to expect. And there was no point in protesting. It was, after all, only what she'd agreed to. She swallowed hard. 'Very well,' she said tonelessly, and took the heavy cut-glass tumbler which Mrs. Whitley was holding out to her.
'And do you still wish me to serve dinner at half past eight, madam?' The question was delicately put but the implication was clear, and Adrien felt her face burn.
She said coolly, 'Yes, that will be fine, thanks,' and started for the door.
Her legs were like lead as she mounted the stairs and walked along the passage to the master suite at the end.
She would knock, she thought, leave the whisky on his night table, then make herself scarce. And Mrs. Whitley could read what she wanted into that.
She tapped gently at the door, and opened it a fraction. The bedroom appeared to be empty, and she could hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom.
The coast was clear, she thought, treading quietly across the room. She was just about to place the whisky beside the bed when Chay spoke from behind her. 'Good evening.'
Adrien jumped violently, spilling a few drops of spirits on the carpet, then turned warily to face him.
He was standing in the bathroom doorway, towelling his shoulders and upper arms. And, apart from another towel draped casually round his hips, he was naked.
Against the white towel, his skin looked very brown. It was the kind of all-over tan he certainly wouldn't have acquired in Brussels, she thought, biting her lip.
She said huskily, 'You—you startled me.'
'I seem to make a habit of it,' he returned drily, running his fingers through his water-darkened hair. 'And you're quite a surprise yourself. Is that drink for me? How sweet and thoughtful of you.'
'It isn't— I mean, I didn't...' Adrien stumbled to a halt, resentfully aware of the amusement lurking in his grey eyes. 'Mrs. Whitley asked me to bring it.'
'Ah,' he said softly. 'But Jean always did have a romantic streak.' There was a note of laughter in his voice, and something else, less easily definable. He tossed the towel he was using for his hair back into the bathroom and took a step forward. Adrien froze.
He paused, his mouth twisting wryly. He said,
'Adrien,
I'm going to comb my hair. That's all. And it may comfort you to know that I never ravish women on an empty stomach. You're safe until after dinner.'
She said unevenly, 'You bastard—how dare you laugh at me?'
'I was trying to be reassuring—as the sight of me seems to have turned you to stone.' He walked to his dressing table and picked up a comb. 'You'll have to get used to it, Adrien.'
'Used to what?'
'Having me around—with or without my clothes.' He was watching her in the mirror. 'Or have you changed your mind about our bargain?'
She lifted her chin. 'I'm here, aren't I?'
'Ah, yes,' he said. 'But that's not the same thing at all. You've had nearly a week to think again.'
She said shortly, 'I can't afford second thoughts, and you know it.'
'Well, you're honest.' He put the comb down and turned. 'So, bring my drink over here, please—and say hello to me properly.'
Reluctantly, she complied, heart sinking, stomach churning, and mouth as dry as a desert. Chay took the tumbler from her hand and put it down, then let his fingers curl gently round the nape of her neck, drawing her forward.
His skin smelt cool and damp, the fragrance of soap commingling with the sharper essence of some cologne. He said softly, 'You can fake your orgasm later, darling. For now, just pretend to be glad to see me.'
And his mouth took hers.
She stood in the circle of his arms, steeling herself against the gently insidious movement of his lips on hers, her body taut as a bowstring under the skilful glide of his hands.
He lifted his head and stared down at her, the grey eyes glittering. He said, 'I told you I'd expect my money's worth, Adrien. And so far you haven't earned a penny. So—relax.'
He put up a hand and took the clips from her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders, his fingers teasing the damp, silky strands. Then he took her hands, lifting them to his shoulders.
He said softly, 'Touch me.'
Swallowing, Adrien obeyed, her fingers spreading over the smooth skin, feeling the hard muscularity that lay beneath. A tacit reminder of how helpless she really was. Of how easily he could subdue her if she tried to fight...
Chay kissed her again more deeply, parting her unwilling lips with hi
s and exploring the softness of her mouth with his tongue.
His hands slid down to her hips, pulling her against him, letting her experience the strength and heated power of his arousal.
The thin layers of cloth which separated them were no barrier-—no barrier at all, she thought, as her breathing quickened and her lashes swept down to veil her eyes.
When he lifted his head, he was smiling faintly.
'You see,' he said. 'This is not going to be as impossible as you think.'
Adrien stared up at him. She felt strangely dizzy, as if she'd taken some powerful drug.
She said, her voice shaking, 'I hate you.'
He nodded, unperturbed. 'I can live with that. At least you're not claiming to have fallen madly in love with me. Because that could mean serious trouble.
'And leave your hair loose,' he added sharply, as Adrien dived to retrieve her clips from the floor. The look he sent her was sardonic. 'It will give me something to fantasize about while I'm dressing.'
She glared at him. 'Am I free to go now?'
'The choice, as always, is yours, my sweet.' He picked up the tumbler of whisky and lifted it in a mocking toast. 'But if you stay, dinner could be delayed indefinitely. My appetite seems to have changed.' He swallowed some whisky and put the glass down again, his eyes quizzical as his hands moved to discard the towel round his hips. He said softly, his gaze holding hers. 'Well, Adie, what's it to be?'
She gasped in outrage and whirled round, making for the door. And as she fled, to her chagrin, she heard his laughter following her.
She was still ruffled some twenty minutes later, seated tensely on the edge of one of the sofas, the stem of her wine glass gripped so tightly it was in danger of snapping.
How could he do this? she asked herself despairingly. How was it possible that, just for a fleeting moment— barely more than a second, indeed—she'd been tempted? That she'd actually wondered, to her shame, what it would be like to have that potent male force sheathed inside her...?
And he—Chay Haddon—had evoked this unlooked for sexual curiosity in her. Had deliberately initiated this need to know—and be known.
