by Liz Fielding
*****
As they approached the entrance to the pier Luke Devlin slowed. When he left his office his only concern had been to make sure that Melanie was safe. Out in the town, with no one to protect her if a crowd gathered, the situation could so easily get out of hand. He'd seen it happen once in Sydney. He'd left her for a moment and still remembered the fear as he'd had to fight through a mob to get back to her.
He realised the moment he reached the pier that he had overreacted. Everyone was going about their business in an orderly fashion. There were no hysterical fans, no seething mass of reporters.
He should have turned around and gone straight back to his office, he had more than enough work to keep him pinned behind his desk until evening. But Fizz Beaumont had taken him by surprise and he didn't like that.
Not one bit.
It suggested he had underestimated her.
He still wasn't sure why he had insisted on her help in house hunting. He wasn't even sure he wanted a house. It had never been part of his plan to stay in Broomhill Bay.
He had acquired Harries at a ridiculous price, planning to redevelop the site, put up small industrial units where satellite companies could assemble electronic units manufactured cheaply in the Far East.
Once the dirty work was done he and Melanie would shake the dust of Broomhill off their feet and never return.
He glanced down at the girl beside him, breathless in her attempts to keep up with his long strides. She looked vital, full of life with her hair blowing about her face and the colour whipped into her face by her wind.
He had thought, from the photographs he had seen of her, that she was a fragile little thing. But while there was a vulnerability about her, she had strength, too.
If her secretary hadn't come in at that moment, taking the ground from beneath her, he doubted if he would have moved her from her office. Not without resorting to some kind of threat. And he didn't want to threaten her, he wanted her to trust him.
But she didn't.
Which was odd, since he was going to considerable expense to make life easy for her. She turned and looked up at him and something inside him seemed to contract. Abruptly he stopped, looked back at the ocean.
The oriental domes of the pavilion were sparkling white against the pale winter blue of the sky and the sea was broken by hundreds of tiny wave tops running before the wind. 'I love the sea in winter,' he said.
She stopped looking at him and turned to face the sea. 'You should try it when there's a gale blowing,' she said.
'Don't you feel vulnerable out there at the end of the pier?'
She shrugged. 'The Trust has spent a fortune strengthening the underpinnings, as well as restoring the deck and the pavilion. It's a constant job to keep it up of course, but we're safe enough at the moment.' Her smile was slow, wide, oddly seductive. 'At least from the weather. Now that Michael has retired to Portugal we'll be needing another Trustee. As the chairman of the company that built the pier you do realise that you are almost duty bound to take his place?'
Even when she was struggling, at her wit's end, she couldn't resist the temptation to provoke him. He liked that. Under other circumstances he realised he could like Fizz Beaumont very much indeed. It was an uncomfortable thought.
But become a Trustee? It was a twist he hadn't considered. Maybe he should, but he didn't say so.
Instead he favoured her with a look so dry that she could have sandpapered the deck with it, just to keep her on her toes, before turning her through the elegant arched entrance and onto the promenade where his car was attracting admiring glances from people arriving at the pier.
He unlocked the door for her and she slid into the leather-scented interior.
'Well, an Aston Martin. What a treat,' she said, brightly.
'Is it?'
The weather, the scenery, his taste in cars. Maybe he should take his cue from her and stick to safe subjects. When she didn't answer he turned and found himself confronted by a tormenting little smile and for a moment he had the feeling that he was walking on quicksand, that being with Fizz Beaumont was never going to be safe.
'My heap has more rattles than a first born babe,' she confessed, her smile deepening and he suffered the stomach-lurching sensation associated with taking a hump-back bridge too fast. 'I don't imagine this car rattles?'
For a moment his eyes rested on the elderly E-type Jaguar parked alongside them. Old it might be, but it had been well cared for and was still very beautiful. 'Your heap was a fine car in its day,' he said. 'Unfortunately its day was over twenty years ago.'
'Twenty? That recent? You can be honest with me, Luke, I can take it. Don't feel obliged to be kind.'
The smile abruptly left his face. Kind? What did any Beaumont know about kindness?
'I don't feel obliged to be anything.' She threw a startled glance in his direction and he cursed inwardly as he turned away to slide the key into the ignition. With an effort he forced his face into a smile before he looked back at her. 'Certainly not kind to your car. Shall we go?'
Fizz had almost felt the anger boiling up from somewhere deep inside the man.
It had only been for a moment, like the heat from an oven door opening and closing quickly. Now the smile was back in place and try as she might to see beyond the mask, the hard cheek-bones, hawkish flare of his nose, passionate line of his mouth gave her no clue as to his real feelings.
But she knew she was right to distrust him.
She would be wise to remember that Luke Devlin wasn't about to sponsor Pavilion Radio out of the kindness of his heart. If it hadn't been for the evidence that Melanie Brett was capable of stirring the passion damped down behind eyes dark as wet slate, Fizz would have considered it entirely possible that he didn't have a heart.
Or could it be that the girl was just another attractive acquisition for a man wealthy enough to indulge himself with expensive playthings?
Like the car she was sitting in. Like the wrist watch he wore. Made from tough stainless steel, rather than gold, it would still cost enough to put down a deposit on a small house.
And quite suddenly, although she could not have explained why, she pitied Melanie.
She took a deep breath. 'Right. If we're going to the Angel for lunch, we should be able to look at some houses on the way. Have you got the details?'
He took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to her. 'The estate agent gave me this. It lists everything available to rent, although I don't suppose they'll all be suitable.'
'No. I don't suppose they will.' The list was still warm from his body and for just a moment she wanted to put it to her face to see if his scent had penetrated the paper. Then certain that she was going quite mad she snapped it open. 'What exactly are you looking for?'
'Something comfortable, easy to run, secluded, with a view of the sea,' he said, waiting for her to scan it and suggest which direction they should take before pulling out into the traffic.
'The sea view is easy,' she said. 'Any property of consequence in Broomhill Bay has a sea view.' And he wouldn't be looking for anything else. 'As for the rest ...' Fizz found a pen in her bag and proceeded to strike through two-thirds of the houses listed as totally unsuitable for a man of his means and a girl who would certainly require a considerable degree of privacy.
His hand closed over hers. 'Perm any three from four,' he instructed.
Fizz firmly ignored the battalion of butterflies that stampeded through her body at his touch, devastating the cool self-assured indifference to anything but work that she had cultivated with such care over the years.
Why should she suddenly lose it? And for Luke Devlin of all people? Why couldn't she bowled over by someone like Julian, who was kind and thoughtful and would never hurt her?
It had been the same with Patrick. Fizz, bang, light the blue touch paper and retire. Except she hadn't retired. She had been like Melanie, young, bright, full of life and ready for love. For a second the print blurred as sh
e remembered how she had been. Then she blinked hard.
She had reinvented herself, changed her life, and eventually the pain had faded into the background. Older and wiser, she wouldn't let Luke Devlin take anything from her. Not her radio station. Certainly not her heart.
'I've left all those properties that meet with at least two of your requirements,' she informed him, in control of her voice if nothing much else.
'You think I'm being unreasonable?'
His smile was back in place. Not quite up to the standard that he had turned on Susie, but still dangerous. It was so much easier to hang onto her wits when he was being just plain rude.
'Not unreasonable,' she said, keeping her eyes firmly on the list. 'I'm sure you're prepared to pay well to get exactly what you want. But Broomhill isn't a large city with an enormous choice of houses to let. I think that unless you modify your requirements you might be living at the Metropole for some time.'
With Melanie Brett. That thought made it was easier to turn and look at him, confront the slightly puzzled expression with which he was regarding her. She even managed a smile of sorts.
'Shall we get on?' she suggested. 'This is still a working day for me, no matter what Susie said and I don't have time to waste.'
'I'm sure you consider this as work, Fizz. And since you want me to sponsor your radio station, I'm afraid that you'll have to waste just as much time as I think necessary. I never said you had to enjoy it.'
It was just as well that she was, finally, lost for words. Anything she said right now she would be sure to regret.
*****
He didn't want to get out of the car and look at the house and it wasn't a comfortable feeling. He was having to face the fact that he had manufactured an excuse to get Fizz Beaumont to spend the afternoon with him. Not so that he could flirt with her, tease her, ultimately take her to bed. But because he wanted to be with her, find out what made her tick.
Despite his harsh words, he did want her to enjoy his company, although for some reason she was fighting him every inch of the way. Perhaps it was simply because she was fighting him every inch of the way.
'But it's beautiful,' Fizz declared, with barely cloaked irritation at the waste of her time.
She had already made it quite obvious that in her opinion the other houses had been more than adequate for a temporary stay. But Winterbourne Manor was a great deal more than adequate. It was a house to dream about. To dream in.
A place to raise children, grow old in, spend a life in utter contentment. All the things that had evaded him. But he'd had no example of happiness. His mother had been abandoned by his father when he was a baby. His sister... Well, Juliet hadn't even got that far.
Luke stirred. 'Don't you think it's a bit isolated for Melanie?'
'I thought the whole point of this exercise was to present Melanie with a fait accompli?'
'Would you like to live out here?'
'It's only five miles from Broomhill, Luke and I'm sure Melanie can drive. You did ask for seclusion and in the height of the summer you'll be glad of the privacy. Both of you.'
She didn't wait for him to agree but opened the car door, swinging her long legs out, apparently determined that he should look at the place properly.
He had hated the suit she wore when she came to his office, but right now he wished she was wearing it. He had enjoyed her struggle with the skirt, the briefest glimpse of a stocking top.
For a moment he watched as she walked across to the edge of the drive. She had a great walk, swinging her legs from the hips in a smooth, fluid action. It made him wonder what she would be like in bed. Then he remembered her hot eyes and knew. Wanted to feel her beneath him, her thighs opening to welcome him. The knowledge was like a kick in the midriff, robbing him of the ability to breathe.
It’s even got a little beach of its own, Luke,' she said, impatient with his reluctance to come and see, she turned and looked back over her shoulder at him. 'For heaven's sake, Melanie will love it.'
He climbed out of the car and walked over to where she was standing. The beach was a pale yellow postage stamp of sand where the dark, spray-soaked rocks parted to form a tiny bay.
'Small is right,' he agreed. 'And is it ever warm enough to swim?' She was intent on the little beach, a pair of gulls trawling a rock pool in search of lunch.
He was content to look at her small white hands curving over the top of the parapet. Her nails were perfect little ovals, even without nail polish they were as pink as the inside of sea shells. His own hands, beside them, were permanently darkened by the sun, scarred and hardened, a legacy of his short but glorious career as a field geologist.
'Well?' he demanded.
'You know it is,' she said, lifting her eyes to meet his, not backing down at his silent challenge. 'Unless of course you've gone soft in the warm waters of the Pacific?'
He knew then that he'd made a serious mistake. It had been a mistake to allow her to take her father's place in the negotiations. To fill his mind with questions to which there could be no answers.
Felicity Beaumont was to have played a supporting role in his scenario, to provide the last little twist of the knife in his destruction of Edward Beaumont. But she was beginning to assume an importance out of all proportion.
'Don't rely on it. When was the last time you swam off this coast?'
'Me?' For a fraction of a second she hesitated. 'I can't swim.'
And she hadn't even crossed her fingers as she lied. 'Isn't that a little foolhardy for someone who works at the end of the pier?' Luke asked.
'I hadn't thought about it.'
She was so damned cool.
'Maybe you should. It's a dangerous place.'
The inference that she was at the end of the pier without a life belt was too obvious to be missed. There was no need to press the point. Instead he turned, resting his elbows against the stonework and looked up at the house.
'According to the agent, Winterbourne Manor has a heated pool. Perhaps you'd like me to give you some lessons?' he offered, very gently.
He saw her swallow nervously. That would teach her not to cross her fingers.
'That's very kind of you, Mr Devlin,' she said, abandoning his given name in an attempt to shoehorn the formality back into their relationship.
'Luke,' he prodded her, not allowing her to get away with it.
'But you haven't taken it yet. And as you pointed out, it's quite isolated.' He didn't disagree, he didn't do anything. He just let her keep talking. 'And I suppose it would be very large for just two people,' she persisted, in the manner of a child who has just learned to swim and is determined to make the width of the pool. Sinking further with every stroke. But refusing to give up. 'It's sure to cost a fortune to heat.'
'Particularly the swimming pool.'
'Yes,' she said. And she blushed. And so she should. Although he had enjoyed the performance. It was plucky, full of grit. He had particularly enjoyed his own comparison of it with a child learning to swim.
It fitted very nicely with some old publicity photographs of Elaine French swimming with her two daughters in the private pool of their London home. Fizz must have been about four and she had been like a little fish.
'Actually the house does have two of the features I was looking for. You seemed to think it would be foolish of me to expect more.'
'Two?'
He generously upgraded isolated. 'It's secluded and it has a view of the sea.'
'But it won't be easy to run. And it's bound to be terribly draughty -'
'Why don't we go inside and find out?' And taking her, gently but firmly by the arm, he led her towards the huge studded oak door.
Winterbourne Manor was one of those warm stone houses that looked as if it belonged in the landscape, nestling into a natural contour, taking advantage of the shelter it offered, sitting low against the sudden storms that could whip up the channel and batter themselves out on the Downs.
Built long ago of the local buff-gre
y stone, the house had weathered until it blended so perfectly with its surroundings that nothing jarred or looked out of place. Fizz reached for the bell, but Luke forestalled her, producing a key.
'Where are the owners?' she asked, surprised.
'In America, apparently. They inherited it over a year ago. They've kept on the housekeeper but she's visiting her sister for a couple of days.'
'And the agent handed over the key? Just like that?'
He gave her an odd look. 'He's desperate to let the place. Or sell it. And perhaps he had the good sense not to offend me but suggesting I might run off with the silver.'
'If you did he'd know where to look for you.'
'Perhaps that was it,' he agreed, softly and discovered that making her blush was a pleasure he hadn't anticipated.
She turned away, making a great performance of looking at the house. But he didn't need to look at it. Winterbourne Manor exuded a warmth that had nothing to do with the efficient central heating and the ruthless exclusion of draughts. Fizz was right. It was beautiful.
'Well? Where would you like to start?' she asked.
'You're the practical one, where do you suggest?'
'The kitchen?'
'I'm disappointed, Fizz. The housekeeper is part of the package. I'll leave the kitchen to her, thanks all the same. Really practical people look at the plumbing first.'
'The plumbing? You want to hunt for stopcocks?'
For just a moment he cherished the delightful picture of the beautiful Miss Beaumont covered in cobwebs and dust as she braved the spiders in some back scullery.
'Not stopcocks,' he said. 'But I do insist on a shower that does more than dribble.'
'Oh.' She looked up the broad oak staircase that had been built, like the house, to last centuries.
'Upstairs then.'
The sudden wobble in her voice had surprised him. Despite her inclination to snap she was clearly as aware of the sexual tension between them as he was. Maybe that was the reason for the snappiness. He would have to be careful or she would shy away like a skittish colt.
'Upstairs,' he agreed, with a smile that caught him unawares and found a brief answering echo in her eyes. Then she turned quickly and ran lightly up the shallow steps.
