by Sara Craven
'Damn him,' she said raggedly under her breath. 'Oh, damn him to hell.'
'I hope I haven't kept you waiting.' Right on cue, he was there, watching her from the doorway. Adrien stared back, lifting her chin insolently.
'Please don't apologise,' she said. 'It must have been quite a fantasy.'
'The best.' Chay strolled across to the drinks table and replenished his glass. 'Remind me to share it with you some time.' He indicated the bottle of Chardonnay. 'Some more wine?'
She said hurriedly, 'No—thank you.'
He said silkily, 'I'm sure you're wise.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'You want me sober?'
'Not necessarily,' he said. 'But conscious would be a bonus.'
As he walked across the room, Adrien tensed involuntarily, but he made no attempt to join her, choosing instead the sofa on the opposite side of the fireplace.
He moved well, she acknowledged unwillingly, his body lean and graceful. But even as a boy he hadn't been subject to the usual adolescent gaucherie. Only, they weren't children any longer. And he was a predator with his prey in sight. She had to remember that.
He'd gone for the casual look, too, in blue denim, the shirt open at the neck to reveal the faint shadowing of chest hair that she remembered had felt like springing silk beneath her fingers. The cuffs were turned back negligently over tanned forearms, and his legs in the close-fitting jeans seemed to go on for ever.
She watched him lean back against the cushions, very much at ease, his dark blond hair gleaming like silk in the lamplight. Making himself at home, she thought, igniting anger and resentment inside her and letting it burn slowly, driving out the trembling weakness which the sight of him had induced. The intruder, she whispered silently. The usurper. Something else she could not afford to forget. He said softly, 'So you're still here.'
She stared down at her empty glass. 'Did you doubt it?'
T wasn't totally certain.' A smile played round his mouth. 'That's one of your great charms, Adie. Your ability to surprise me.'
She said curtly, T must try to become more predictable.'
'You just did,' he murmured, and she subsided, biting her lip.
There was a silence as he sipped his Scotch and took a long, appraising look round the room. He said, 'The house looks good. Thank you.'
Adrien shrugged. 'It wasn't difficult to achieve.' She paused. I have a good memory.'
'If a selective one,' he murmured.
'You seem to have instant recall, too,' she went on doggedly, deliberately ignoring his interjection.
'You've hardly missed a thing. How on earth did you do it?' She gave a small, harsh laugh. 'You must have been stalking Piers for weeks.'
T didn't have to.' He lifted his glass, studying the amber of the whisky with a kind of detached appreciation. 'I knew what he would do, and the probable markets he would use. After that, it was simple.'
'Easy pickings,' she said stonily. 'Like everything else you've taken from him. He really didn't stand a chance.'
He drank some whisky. T didn't exactly hold him at gunpoint.' His tone was unexpectedly mild. 'He chose to sell. And I'm a little surprised to find that you're still defending him.'
'I'm not,' Adrien denied. I just don't understand why you should have gone trawling through the salerooms for Angus's furniture. What were you trying to prove?'
'Not a thing. I simply wanted his things back where they belong. I thought if he knew, he'd be pleased.'
He paused 'I thought you'd be glad, too.'
'Pleased that you rescued them? When you abused the roof he put over your head?' Her voice bit. 'When he barred you from his house for thieving?' She shook her head. 'I think it would make him sick to his stomach to know that you're here—pretending to be the master.'
'And is that how you feel, too?'
Across the space that divided them their eyes met and clashed. His gaze was like grey ice, but there was some-thing darker, deeper, that quickened her breath, shivering along her nerve-endings, and Adrien was the first to look away.
She said hoarsely, 'What else?'
'Then that's unfortunate,' he said softly. 'Because I am the master here—be in no doubt of that, Adrien.' He paused, allowing his words to sink in, watching her pupils dilate in confusion as she absorbed them.
'Now,' he continued coldly, 'I've had one hell of a day, and a bastard of a journey, so I really don't need this.'
He flung the remains of the whisky down his throat and got to his feet. 'Shall we go to dinner—or are you planning a hunger strike?'
For a crazy moment she was tempted to do just that. To run. To take refuge in her room and lock the door.
But something told her that he would follow, and that might precipitate a disaster which could haunt her for the rest of her life.
Not in anger, she thought, swallowing convulsively. I— I couldn't bear to be taken in anger. She stood up, lifting her chin, because she didn't want him to sense the naked panic twisting inside her, and went with him, in silence, to the dining room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The central leaves had been removed from the big dining table, and candles had been lit to provide a more intimate atmosphere. Mrs. Whitley was a determined woman, Adrien thought without amusement. Or perhaps she had her orders... Chay saw Adrien to her chair, then seated himself opposite.
'Not quite two sword lengths apart,' he observed drily. 'But you should be safe enough.'
Adrien concentrated on shaking out her table napkin. 'Safe,' she thought, was not a word she could ever apply to her present situation.
It's a business transaction, she reminded herself forcibly, adding the mantra she'd been whispering to herself all week. Nothing lasts for ever... Mrs. Whitley had provided a marvellous meal—a homemade country pate, followed by duck with a dark cherry sauce, and creme brulee to finish with. To her surprise, Adrien found she was enjoying the food, and the claret that accompanied it. Ironic, she thought, that her appetite should have chosen this of all days to return.
It wasn't a silent meal, although Chay initiated most of the conversation, talking lightly about his trip to Brussels, and the problems with European bureaucracy. At any other time she'd have been intrigued and animated, leaning forward to ask questions, or expand on a point he'd made. We could always talk to each other once, she thought with a sudden pang. But that was while I was a child, and didn't know any better. When I trusted him. Before everything changed...
She found herself wondering how she would feel if they had just met for the first time. If she was here with him now simply because she wanted to be, without the past like a shadow at her shoulder. But she couldn't let herself think like that. It was stupid—and could be dangerous, she reflected with a slight shiver.
'Are you cold?' He didn't miss a thing.
'No—I'm fine.' It was the usual all-purpose lie, and it was a relief when Mrs. Whitley appeared to clear the table before Chay could probe any further. The housekeeper returned briefly, to bring in coffee and cognac, and then withdrew, wishing them goodnight.
'She's very discreet,' Adrien said, after a pause.
'But I suppose she'd had a lot of practice.'
Chay sighed. 'What do you want me to say?' he asked wearily. 'That I've been celibate all these years? It wouldn't be true.'
'And, naturally, you're the soul of honesty,' she said bitterly.
'But there hasn't been a constant procession of women through my life either,' he went on, as if she hadn't spoken. 'A major part of my time has been taken up by work— getting the company established abroad as well as here.'
'Oh, don't let's forget for a minute v/hat a dazzling success you are.' Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. 'Yet you never seemed particularly ambitious in the old days.'
He shrugged. 'Perhaps I was still deciding what I really wanted.'
'And it just turned out to be Piers's inheritance.'
His smile was cold. 'Piers was only e
ver interested in disposable assets. Haven't you grasped that yet?'
'He was in trouble, and you dangled a small fortune in front of him. What was he supposed to do?'
'In his place, I wouldn't have sold.' He paused, then added more gently, 'And nor would you, Adrien.'
She found his use of her name disturbing. The way his voice seemed to linger over the syllables sent an odd, unwelcome frisson down her spine. She looked down at her cup, aware that his eyes were on her, feeling her heart begin to bang unevenly against her ribcage. He said, 'Shall we take our coffee into the drawing room?'
She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. 'It's fine here—isn't it?'
'You mean with a yard or two of solid oak between us?' He was openly amused. 'Believe me, my sweet, the barricade you're trying to build in that stubborn mind of yours is far more effective.'
She flushed. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Don't lie, Adrien.' Chay leaned forward. There were little silver sparks dancing in his eyes, she noted confusedly, or was it just some trick of the light? 'Right this moment, there's a battle going on between your heart and your body. That's why you're spitting venom at me with every other breath.'
She said very clearly, 'Of course it couldn't be that I just don't find you attractive?'
'In that case,' he said, his voice almost meditative, 'why don't you wear a bra when I'm around?'
She gasped, and her colour deepened fierily. 'How—how dare you? I do as I like.'
'But not all the time.' He slanted a grin at her. 'You were wearing one that first day, but not later—when we went out to dinner. I—er—noticed particularly,' he added, his grin deepening reminiscently. 'And you're not wearing one tonight either. Interesting, don't you think?'
'Only if your mind's in the gutter,' she hit back.
'Why, Adie,' he said gently. 'What a little hypocrite you are.' He picked up his coffee and got to his feet. 'Now, I'm going to sit in my new drawing room and listen to some music. I suggest you go to bed.' He paused. 'In your own room.'
Her lips parted in sheer astonishment as she stared up at him. 'But I thought... I don't understand.'
Chay shrugged. 'What's to understand?' he countered. 'This is your own private war that you're fighting, darling, and although I'm naturally interested in the outcome, I haven't the patience tonight to become personally involved. For which you should be grateful,' he added with grim significance. 'As I said, I've had a bastard of a day, and I'm not turning my bed into a battlefield. So, when the fight's over let me know which won—your mind or your body. Because it matters quite a lot.' He paused on his way to the door and swung round, his eyes raking her mercilessly. 'And forgive me for not kissing you goodnight, my sweet. I think it's best to keep my distance, or I might forget myself and show you that the top of that table isn't quite the defense against passion that you seem to think. Catch my drift?'
He nodded to her with a kind of remote courtesy, and left, closing the door behind him quietly but very definitely.
Leaving her sitting there. Staring after him. Trying to make sense of what had just happened. There were a number of emotions struggling for dominance inside her, but disbelief was ahead on points.
All evening he'd been making love to her with his eyes, his voice, his smile. She'd assumed he'd be offering a more physical expression before long, and had been gearing herself up for passive resistance. And now—nothing.
So, what sort of game was he playing?
She shouldn't ask questions, she thought, as she pinched out the candles and walked slowly to the door in her turn. She should just be thankful. But gratitude didn't seem to feature too strongly in her inner turmoil.
She could hear music from the drawing room as she crossed the hall. Rachmaninov, she recognised, passionate and plangent. Not the cool jazz she'd expected. But let's face it, Adie, she told herself. You don't know what to expect any more. And she went upstairs to her room. Alone. That night she dreamed about the treehouse again. The same dream as always, where she knelt on rough boards, peering, terrified, over the edge, searching for a way down. But the ground, hundreds of feet below, was shrouded in clouds and mist, and she knew she was seeking a safety— a reassurance—that no longer existed. Knew, too, that it wasn't simply the isolation or distance from the ground that was scaring her...
She could hear herself crying, but barely recognised her own voice. There were other voices too, raised in anger, but she couldn't catch the words as a rising wind took the little house and shook it, sending it tumbling down into crumpled matchwood. And her with it.
Adrien awoke with a start, to find tears on her face. She sat up shakily and looked at her alarm clock, and saw it had just gone one a.m.
She drank some water from the carafe on her night table, then got out of bed, wandering across to the window seat.
Tucking her feet under her, she leaned her forehead against the cool pane and stared sightlessly into the darkness.
It was time, she thought, to lay some ghosts to rest. To force herself to remember exactly what had happened all those years ago and then wipe it from her mind. If she could.
Young as she'd been, she'd sensed instantly the hostility between Chay and Piers from the first day the glamorous newcomer had spent at the Grange, and had been distressed by it. Chay had been her friend, but Piers was exciting, almost alien, with his expensive clothes and easy charm.
'So this is the demon chess-player,' he greeted her at their first meeting. 'My uncle's told me all about you. I shall have to watch my step.'
And when they played, and she beat him, he praised her extravagantly, making her glow. Each time she went to the Grange after that he sought her out, behaving as if she was the one person he wanted to see.
She tried her best to bring the two boys together. She wanted them to like each other so that she wouldn't feel disloyal when Piers monopolised her company, as he undoubtedly did. But Chay stayed aloof.
And it wasn't Piers's fault. He was clearly interested in Chay, continually asking questions about him. And, eventually, Adrien succumbed to his pressure and showed him the treehouse.
She knew at once it was a mistake. She stood, awkward and upset, while Piers prowled round, examining everything with contemptuous eyes, rifling through the precious biscuit tin, tossing the neat pile of sketches on to the plank floor.
'Field glasses.' He snatched them up. 'Good ones too. Where did he pinch these from?'
'Mr. Stretton gave them to him.' Adrien looked apprehensively at the entrance. 'Let's go down again, please. Chay will be angry if he finds us here. It's his special place.'
'Chay has no right to any place at all.' There was a note in his voice that scared her. 'He's nothing—just the housekeeper's son.' He looked down at the field glasses.
'As for these...' His arm went back, and he hurled them into the nearby trees. She heard a crash and a tinkle as they landed.
She said with a little wail, 'You've broken them,' and began to scramble down. But when she reached the ground Chay was waiting, his face like stone and his eyes bitter with anger and condemnation as he looked at Adrien.
She tried to say something, but he cut her short. 'Go back to the house, Adie. Go now.'
Tears streaming down her face, she ran. Behind her, she could hear angry voices, then the violent sound of a scuffle. As she came out of the trees she saw her father standing with Angus Stretton by the gateway to the kitchen garden, clearly looking for her. She reached them breathlessly.
'Chay and Piers are fighting,' she gasped through her tears. 'Oh, make them stop—please.'
Mr. Stretton said grimly, 'I'll deal with it,' and broke into a run.
'We'd better go home,' her father said, trying to hustle her gently away, but she resisted.
'No, Daddy, please. I want to see Chay. I want to see he's not hurt.'
She watched them come down from the trees, with Angus Stretton bringing up the rear.
Adrien twisted free of her father's restraining hand and ran up to him. 'Chay.' Her voice was urgent. 'Chay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to happen—any of it.'
He didn't look at her, and his voice was barely more than a whisper. 'Go away from me, Adie, and keep away. I'm warning you.'
But she had to see him, she thought as she lay in bed that night She had to talk to him properly and explain. Tell him how sorry she was that their secret place was spoiled.
The next morning she told her mother she was going to play with a school friend, who lived at the other end of the village, and set off on her bike, taking the back road to the Grange instead. She left her bike in a deserted corner of the rear yard and set off to the wood, expecting to find Chay already there, clearing up.
By the time she reached the tree the sky had darkened, and misty rain was falling. Usually he helped her to climb up, but this time there was no answer when she called, so she had to struggle up as best she could, her feet slipping on the damp rungs.
Chay had already been there, she saw with disappointment, because all his things had gone. The little structure looked deserted and forlorn. All that remained was one sketch, torn in half and lying facedown on the floor.
When Adrien picked it up she realised it was a drawing of herself, lying on her tummy with her chin propped in her hands. She hadn't even known he was sketching her, and now he didn't want it any more, she thought desolately.
She was standing staring at it, tears pricking at the backs of her eyes, when she heard a scraping noise from down below. Puzzled, she went to the edge and peeped down cautiously, only to see the ladder lying on the ground and someone walking away. A figure in a grey waterproof hooded coat as familiar to her as her own green anorak.
Bewildered, and frightened, she shouted to him.
'Chay— I can't get down. Come back—oh, please come back.'
But he didn't even look round. Just kept going until he was lost to view among the trees. And although she went on calling until her voice was hoarse, her only answer was silence.
