by Sara Craven
Desperate Measures
Sara Craven
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Endpage
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
‘BUT THIS TREATMENT is totally revolutionary! The specialist says it could make all the difference to Daddy—that it might even cure him permanently. But it’s expensive, and it’s in America, and we just don’t have that kind of money.’
Philippa Roscoe leaned forward, her hazel eyes fixed pleadingly on her former stepmother’s unresponsive face. ‘Monica, you’re the only one I can turn to. Help us—please!’
‘It’s quite impossible.’ Lady Underhay shook her head with finality. ‘I haven’t access to unlimited funds, Philippa, and I certainly can’t ask Lennox for money to go to my ex-husband.’ She flushed, looking self-conscious. ‘He’s always been—a little jealous of Gavin.’
‘They were business partners once.’
‘But that was some time ago. And anyway, Lennox feels the board was more than generous when Gavin left—deserted them in that absurd way to go off and paint.’ Monica’s lips became set. ‘Deserted me, as well.’
You were the one who left! Philippa wanted to cry out. You were the one who wouldn’t risk your lifestyle to let Daddy fulfil his dream. And now here you are, once more, living in the lap of luxury.
But she said none of it. Across the years, she could remember her father’s face, haggard with the strain, his voice telling her huskily, ‘You mustn’t blame Monica, sweetheart, and you mustn’t be bitter either. I’m trying not to be. She loved us, in her way, but she can’t do without money and comfort. She needs it as other people need air to breathe. And, inevitably, she’ll go where money is. Lennox will treat her well. They have a mutual regard for material possessions and security.’
Looking round the elegant drawing-room, Philippa could well believe it. The sale of any of the pictures and antiques it contained would have paid for Gavin Roscoe’s treatment.
‘Anyway, I understood that your father had been quite successful at this precious painting of his. Can’t he produce a few more pictures—pot-boilers or something, to finance his own treatment?’ Monica looked restively at her watch.
Philippa shook her head, thankful that Gavin couldn’t hear her. ‘The disease—or rather the virus that caused it—attacked the muscles on his right side first. He has—difficulty using his hand, so he can’t paint any more.’
Monica bit deeply into the coral curve of her lower lip. ‘I—see. Well, that is tragic, but of course, if he’d remained with the firm, there’d have been private health insurance to cover this kind of eventuality.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I really am, but there’s nothing I can do.’
Philippa’s hands twisted together in her lap, the knuckles white. ‘Monica, I’ve got to get that money somehow. I’ve got to make sure Daddy has this chance before it’s too late. The specialist says if there’s any more muscle wastage …’ She paused, her voice breaking. ‘I’ll do anything—agree to any terms you offer. I’ll pay the loan back, if it takes the rest of my life, but I’ve got to have it. If you ever cared for Daddy at all, please help me to think of some way.’
Monica flushed again. ‘Naturally I cared. But what you ask is out of the question.’ She paused. ‘Have you approached some financial institution?’
‘I tried, but I had nothing to use as collateral for a loan. I can’t even guarantee there’ll be a lasting cure, or that Daddy will ever be able to paint again.’
‘What a pity Gavin didn’t make some provision for the future before throwing up his business career in that crazy way.’ Monica’s tone was short.
‘He couldn’t know he was going to be ill,’ Philippa protested. ‘He was so well up to that winter—happier than he’d ever been …’ She stopped guiltily, aware that her words were singularly infelicitous, and saw by the tightening of Lady Underhay’s facial muscles that she thought so too.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Lennox will be home at any minute, and I’d as soon he didn’t find you here. We’re entertaining this evening—the head of De Courcy International, as it happens—and there are things I must do.’ She paused. ‘I’m sincerely sorry I can’t help, Philippa, but there’s really nothing I can suggest.’ She hesitated again. ‘Surely there must be similar treatment available in this country on the National Health Service, for instance?’
‘No, as I’ve told you this is completely new. In fact, it’s still at the experimental stage,’ Philippa said tonelessly, rising in her turn. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you. You were my last hope.’
As she turned to the door, it opened and Lennox Underhay came in. He checked at the sight of her.
‘Philippa, isn’t it? How are you?’ His smile was polite but unenthusiastic, and the look he threw his wife was questioning.
‘She has to rush away, darling,’ Monica intercepted hastily. She put her arm through Philippa’s. ‘I’ll see you out, my dear.’
Her lips were compressed when they reached the hall. ‘No doubt he’ll want to know what you were doing here,’ she said snappishly. ‘I don’t want to seem uncaring, Philippa, and I feel for you in your distress, but you do make things very awkward sometimes.’
‘I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t been absolutely desperate,’ Philippa said quietly. She handed Lady Underhay a scrap of paper. ‘This is the telephone number of my hotel. If you do happen to think of something—some way in which I could raise the money, you can reach me there over the next couple of days.’
Monica accepted it with a reluctant sigh. ‘Very well, but I’m promising nothing.’
Life was so unfair, Philippa thought bitterly as she rode home on the Tube. Monica had simply exchanged one luxuriously cushioned setting for another. If leaving Gavin after five years of marriage had caused her any real grief, she’d kept it well concealed. But it had probably been outweighed by her sense of injury at his decision. When Monica was getting her own way, no one could be sweeter. But when she was crossed …
Philippa grimaced inwardly. Gavin, a widower for some years, had indulged and cosseted his second wife, and she’d revelled in it. When Gavin had first announced his intention of giving up his City directorships, his home in London and country house in West Sussex in order to be an artist, Monica had treated it as a bad joke, then as a temporary aberration. When she’d realised he was not only serious, but absolutely determined, she had become angry, and Philippa still shuddered when she recalled the scenes and tantrums, all of which Gavin had borne patiently.
Anyway, Monica had fallen on her feet, firstly with an over-generous divorce settlement, which she seemed conveniently to have forgotten, and later with Lennox Underhay, who had always admired her chic blonde prettiness.
But, at first, everything had worked out for Gavin too. Instead of starving in some foreign gutter as
Monica had confidently predicted, he had found a ready and high-paying market for his landscapes, and he and Philippa had enjoyed several heady years of travelling round the Dordogne and Provence together as he worked. Gavin Roscoe, as one critic had said, had a unique ability to express in paint the intensity of heat and shade the southern regions of France could produce.
It had seemed as though it would never end, Philippa thought, biting her lower lip until she could taste blood. Perhaps it was as well that neither of them had realised how little time there really was.
I’m not going to think like that, she castigated herself. I’m going to get the money, somehow, and Daddy’s going to America for this treatment.
But how could she get rich quick? she wondered, leaning her aching forehead against the train window. There were so few avenues left unexplored.
I’ve tried all the conventional ways, she thought. Maybe I should consider more desperate measures. High-class call-girls earn a lot, it’s said, and it’s tax-free. She turned her head a little, studying her reflection in the glass. Only a supreme optimist would think the punters were clamouring for skinny nineteen-year-olds with small breasts, straight hair and very little experience.
Let’s face it, she thought. No experience at all.
She was thankful her father had no idea what she was contemplating, even in joke. He thought she was trying to sell the last painting he’d produced before the muscle wastage became too severe.
But even that had been hopeless. The man at the Orbis Gallery had been very kind, very understanding, but the painting had been almost unrecognisable as Gavin Roscoe’s work. It had been unrealistic to think they might take it.
I’m going to need a miracle, Philippa thought.
She was stretched on the bed in her tiny single room a few hours later, trying to interest herself in a detective story she’d bought at the station, when the phone rang.
It was probably reception checking when she was leaving, she thought as she lifted the receiver.
Instead, her stepmother’s voice said curtly, ‘Can you come over to the house right away? There’s something I want to discuss with you.’
‘Something about the money.’ Philippa’s heart skipped a beat. ‘You mean you’ve thought of a way?’
‘Possibly.’
‘But that’s wonderful! What is it?’
‘It’s not something I care to talk about on the telephone,’ Monica returned frostily. ‘As for it being wonderful—well, that remains to be seen.’ She paused. ‘It would help if you came looking reasonably presentable.’ She replaced the receiver.
Presentable, Philippa thought with bewilderment, reviewing in her mind the details of the scanty wardrobe she’d brought with her. There was little there that would fall within Monica’s stringent requirements.
She compromised with clean jeans, and a cream full-sleeved shirt, brushing her brown hair until it shone, then fastening it behind her ears with two tortoiseshell combs.
She took a cab to Lowden Square. She found Monica alone, standing by the marble fireplace in the drawing-room, brandy glass in hand. She turned as Philippa was shown in, and her lips thinned. ‘My God, I said presentable, and you turn up looking like some art student!’
‘Which is exactly what I am,’ Philippa returned, lifting her chin. ‘Anyway, do my clothes really matter so much? I’m not going to be offered a modelling contract, surely?’
‘There’s no guarantee you’re going to be offered anything at all,’ Monica said with a snap. ‘When he sees you, he may well have second thoughts, and who can blame him?’
‘He?’ Philippa frowned. ‘Just who is he?’
‘He is Alain de Courcy,’ Monica said shortly. ‘As I think I mentioned, he’s the head of De Courcy International, and he has a proposition to put to you. If you’re as desperate for money as you claim to be, you’ll listen to him, although I find the whole thing totally incredible—unthinkable.’ She drank some of her brandy. ‘He’s waiting for you in the library, so I suggest you don’t keep him waiting any longer.’
Philippa walked the few yards to the library, her mind whirling. She had rarely seen her stepmother so on edge—not since the time she’d first learned Gavin’s plans for the future. Obviously the important dinner party hadn’t gone precisely to plan.
She’d heard of de Courcy International, of course. Who hadn’t? But what on earth could anyone connected with such a vast and influential organisation want with someone as insignificant as herself? As Monica had indicated, it made no sense.
She paused outside the library door, wondering whether she should knock, then, deciding against it, turned the handle and walked into the room.
All the lights were on, and Philippa paused, blinking a little after the relative dimness of the hall. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the glare, and she saw him, she stopped dead, completely taken aback.
The head of an important company like De Courcy should be an older man, she found herself thinking dazedly. Someone heavyweight, middle-aged and mature—like Lennox Underhay, for instance.
But this man was young, and she realised, incredibly attractive, as her artist’s eye took in the underlying strength of his superb bone-structure which would last long after his surface looks were gone. The thick dark hair, waving back from his forehead, the green eyes with their almost feminine sweep of lashes, the firm-lipped mouth and deeply cleft chin—all these were only a bonus.
He was tall too, his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped body perfectly set off by the formal elegance of his evening clothes.
He looked surprised as well, the dark brows snapping together autocratically above his high-bridged nose as he looked her unhurriedly up and down.
Philippa’s hands felt damp suddenly, and she wiped her palms on her jeans. The movement broke the silent stillness which seemed to enclose them, and he moved too, suddenly, abruptly, as if he was angry about something.
But when he spoke, his cool, faintly accented voice was only meditative. ‘So—you are Philippa.’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed, still staring at him as if mesmerised, aware that her throat was dry, and that her pulses were doing disturbing things. ‘And you are—Monsieur de Courcy.’
He smiled briefly and sardonically. ‘Oh, I think, in the circumstances, we should be less formal, perhaps. My name is Alain.’
‘What circumstances?’ Suddenly she was afraid. I didn’t mean what I said about being a high-class callgirl, she placated some unknown but clearly humourless deity. ‘I—I don’t understand, monsieur.’
‘You have not been told?’ The green eyes met hers, held them. ‘Then the task—the privilege is mine, it seems. You and I, mademoiselle, are destined to be married.’
For a moment, Philippa’s mind seemed numb. She couldn’t move or speak—or even think coherently. Incredible, Monica had said. But it was worse than that. It was completely insane. The word kept running through her brain. The head of De Courcy International had gone stark raving mad, and they were the only ones who knew.
‘You had better sit,’ Alain de Courcy added curtly. ‘Before you fall down.’ His gaze raked her again, taking in the cling of the tight-fitting jeans to her slender hips, the slight swell of her breasts under the thin shirt. The frown returned. ‘How old are you, mademoiselle?’
‘I’m—nearly twenty.’ She ran her tongue round her dry lips. ‘Did you really say—married?’
He nodded unsmilingly.
She swallowed. ‘But I’ve never seen you before in my life—never even knew you existed until tonight.’
‘Nor I you,’ he said with a slight shrug. ‘But that need not be an obstacle.’ He fetched a high-backed chair and set it for her, then placed another one opposite for himself. ‘Before you reject me out of hand as a dangerous lunatic, allow me to explain. I need to be married, mademoiselle, and urgently too. Before I came to dinner tonight, I was seriously contemplating advertising for a wife in some newspaper.’
‘This must be some tasteless jok
e,’ Philippa said thickly. ‘I shall never forgive Monica—or Lennox. I suppose it was because I made a nuisance of myself earlier—said I was desperate for money.’
‘There is no joke,’ Alain de Courcy said quietly. ‘I was distrait at dinner, and they persuaded me to speak of my problems. It was then that your stepmother suggested that your dilemma might provide the solution to mine. This is why you were asked to come here tonight. This is why we are alone together now.’
She took a breath. ‘I—can’t believe this. It’s crazy!’ She sent him a scornful look. ‘Putting an ad in a paper, indeed! You’re the last person in the world who needs to resort to something like that.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Merci du compliment—if that’s what it was. But the truth is, I know very few women of a suitable age and background and even fewer who would allow themselves to be taken in marriage in such a headlong way, without a conventional period of courtship at least—if not vows of undying love and devotion. Anything less, however insincere, would insult them.’
‘You don’t think it would insult me?’ Philippa stiffened.
Alain de Courcy shrugged. ‘From what little I have learned tonight, I don’t think you can afford to be insulted,’ he countered levelly. ‘I understand you need a substantial sum of money to pay for your father’s medical treatment in the United States, and maintain him there in a private clinic. If you marry me, I will make sure sufficient funds are made available for you to use in this way—or as you wish.’ He paused. ‘You need me for your father’s future, mademoiselle. I need you for mine. Do we have a bargain?’
Monica had said, ‘Listen to him.’ Philippa found herself shivering.
‘First, you’d better explain why you need to be married so quickly,’ she said. ‘Why can’t you wait—find a wife whom you might—care for?’
‘Marriage, ma chère, is a lottery,’ he said cynically. ‘Until now I have always managed to avoid buying a ticket. But now I find myself under pressure through my family.’
He paused. ‘I inherited the chair of De Courcy International from my grandfather. Since then, my uncle Louis has always borne a grudge that he was passed over for me. For the past two years, he has been working against me, trying to thwart deals I was involved in—attempting to undermine my authority by castigating me to the more sober members of my board as an irresponsible playboy.’
