by Sara Craven
‘Did he try and snog you on the way home?’ someone else asked eagerly.
‘No.’ Shocked and upset, Rhianna felt her face turn the colour of a peony. ‘No, of course not. That’s rubbish. He wouldn’t do anything like that.’ And suddenly she remembered the night when she’d inadvertently glimpsed him on the terrace, intimately entwined with that girl, and how it had made her feel. How she’d found herself guiltily wondering what it would be like to be kissed—caressed—in that way by a man…
‘Bet you wish he had, though,’ said Lynn. She sighed gustily. ‘Sex on a stick, that one.’
‘Well, you’re quite wrong.’ Rhianna lifted her chin, dismissing the inconvenient jolt to her memory. ‘As it happens, Diaz Penvarnon is the last man in the world I’d ever fancy.’
There was some derisive laughter, and a couple of girls looked at her as if she’d grown an extra head.
‘Pretty high and mighty for a nobody, aren’t we?’ Lynn said critically. ‘So who’s your dream man, Lady Muckcart?’
Rhianna swallowed. She had to say something—name someone—if only to get them to stop talking about Diaz in that horrible way, which made her burn everywhere all over again.
‘Simon Rawlins, actually,’ She said, adding, ‘If you must know.’
After all, she told herself defensively, it wasn’t that much of a lie. Who wouldn’t want Simon? And hadn’t she been secretly hoping she might run into him in the village again some time?
‘That tasty blond bit who comes down here every summer?’ Lynn stared at her. ‘Lives at the top of the village? Thought he hung around with Carrie Seymour.’
‘Not all the time,’ Rhianna tossed back over her shoulder, as the bell sounded and she walked away.
‘That wouldn’t stop her,’ she heard someone say. ‘Takes after her mother, I dare say.’ And there was more laughter.
And she hadn’t had the courage to turn back and say, What are you talking about? What do you mean?
But even without that her image of Diaz smiling at her across the table had become blurred, as if it had been touched by a hand dipped in slime.
And her precious birthday celebration had been spoiled—tainted, she thought, with a sigh that was almost a sob.
She recovered herself with a start, and slid down from the rock, smoothing her skirt. Bed for you, my girl, she told herself, with a touch of harshness. Before you get maudlin, remembering a time when he could be kind.
Because tomorrow night, when you have dinner with him for the last time, kindness will be the last thing on his mind and you know it.
Ten years on, at least she didn’t have the same problems over her wardrobe, she thought wryly, as she viewed herself in the mirror the following evening.
She’d decided to wear the dress she’d originally planned for that night, a wrap-around style in a dark green silky fabric, which accentuated the colour of her eyes. The skirt reached mid-calf, the sleeves were three-quarter length, and its cross-over bodice revealed a discreet plunge.
She’d slept badly the previous night, and she’d been jumpy all day, thankful for all the tiny last-minute tasks that she’d been able to help with, while all the time she was turning her mind by sheer force of will away from the prospect of the evening ahead of her.
But now the time was nearly here. In less than an hour, she thought, glancing at her watch, she’d be setting off for the Polkernick Arms in one of the taxis that had been ordered.
Where Diaz would be waiting…
She drew a deep breath as she fastened her prettiest earrings—small gold hoops studded with tiny emeralds—into her lobes. She still couldn’t fathom the actual motive behind his invitation. If she was feeling charitable, she might attribute it to his wish to solve the Seymours’ unexpected problem and save them further embarrassment.
But charity isn’t the name of the game, she told herself silently. For either of us.
She took one long, final look, checking that the pink polish on her finger and toenails was still immaculate, and that her make-up was understated but effective.
Then she collected the green patent purse that matched her elegant strappy sandals and went downstairs.
There was the usual momentary hush as she entered the drawing room, and she knew that many of the older people in the room would be looking at her and seeing someone else entirely—her mother, Grace Carlow.
Knew too that someone would be saying in an undertone, ‘But you must remember—all that appalling scandal. That’s why Esther won’t be here. She doesn’t come near the place. Hasn’t done for years now. Poor Moira must be devastated.’
The devastated Moira simply gave her a look and turned away, but Francis Seymour came over to her with a smile. ‘“Every inch a star, Rhianna,’ he told her kindly. He handed her a glass of pale sherry. ‘I hope this is to your taste. ‘You look like a fino girl to me.’
She laughed. ‘You guessed right.’ She raised the glass. ‘Here’s to the family gathering. I hope it goes well.’
He gave her a dry look. ‘I would not put money on it, but we shall see.’ He sighed suddenly. ‘Sometimes I wish that Carrie hadn’t been quite so single-minded about her future. That she’d had other serious boyfriends besides Simon. Oh, I’ve nothing against the boy. But she was so very young—hardly more than a child—when she decided he was the one, as, of course, you know, which is why I can mention it to you.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She cleared her throat. ‘I think—I believe that sometimes it can happen like that. You meet someone—and you know. And that’s it—for ever. No questions. No second thoughts.’ She stared down at her glass. ‘So then you have to hope that he feels the same.’
She took another steadying breath, praying that her voice would not shake. ‘And Simon clearly does, which is why there’s going to be a wedding tomorrow.’
‘And you, Rhianna?’ he said gently. ‘When are we going to be invited to your wedding?’
She managed another laugh. ‘Oh, I’m an impossible case. Married to my career, as they say. On the other hand, I might meet someone at tomorrow’s reception. You never know.’
‘No,’ he said. He gave her a reflective look. ‘Although there was a time when I thought I did.’ He paused. ‘But now I see my wife beckoning, so I must go.’
Rhianna put down the sherry glass untouched. Carrie’s father was a shrewd man, she thought, her stomach churning. What had he been trying to say just then? That he’d once seen something—and guessed how she felt…?
No, she thought. Please, no. Let it stay a secret for just a little while longer. Another twenty-four hours and I’ll be gone for good. And no one need ever know—anything.
The initial free-for-all at the Polkernick Arms had some of the overtones of the Montagues versus the Capulets, Rhianna thought detachedly, with the Seymours and Penvarnons on one side of the private bar, and Clan Rawlins on the other. It was to be hoped that the knives in the dining room weren’t that sharp, or there could be mayhem.
She was keeping strictly to the edge of the room, away from the small charmed circle of well-wishers where Carrie stood, her arm through Simon’s.
She hadn’t looked at him, or he at her, while they’d murmured their conventional and meaningless greetings to each other.
Would there ever come a time when she could look at him and see simply Carrie’s husband? Maybe one day—once time and distance had done their work. Or that was all she could hope.
She knew, of course, the exact moment that Diaz arrived, and for a blinding instant she wished with real savagery that she could turn back the clock and wipe out the past months with their burden of lies, secrets and shame.
That she could turn and see him standing in the doorway and be free to walk to him, smiling, and say in her turn, ‘Diaz—it’s been a long time.’ And offer him her hand, or even her cheek. That she could see the silver eyes warm with surprise—and something more…
That it could be a beginning, and not an end.
Except
that it was too late for that. Too much had happened.
Now, she could hear the buzz as he worked his way round the room. Knew when he’d paused to shake hands and hold a brief conversation with another guest, even as she herself listened politely to the elderly woman beside her. As she responded gracefully to what the other was saying about her favourite characters in Castle Pride, with Lady Ariadne very clearly not included among them.
Felt her heart quicken and her mouth dry as he reached her.
‘Rhianna,’ he said silkily. ‘You take my breath away. This evening will be a real privilege.’
She watched him looking at her, frankly assimilating the way her dress clung to her breasts and hips. How the sash reduced her waist to a handspan.
‘Allow me to return the compliment,’ she returned crisply. One swift glance had been enough to inform her of his immaculately cut dark suit, the crisp whiteness of his shirt, and the sombre silk magnificence of his crimson tie.
‘I’m sorry I’m a little late. I had some business to attend to.’ He paused. ‘Is there anyone else you wish to speak to? Or may I steal you away now?’
Rhianna shrugged. ‘We’re having a duty dinner,’ she said. ‘It’s hardly an elopement.’
‘Then let’s go,’ he said. ‘Before we’re arrested and charged with criminal damage to a tiara. I saw Mrs Rawlins bristle as I walked in.’ He took her hand and smiled at her companion. ‘Will you excuse us?’
She looked arch. ‘With pleasure,’ she said. ‘And may I say you make a very handsome couple?’
No, Rhianna wanted to scream. You may say nothing of the kind. In fact you aren’t even allowed to think it. And if the ground would open and swallow me, I’d regard it as a blessing.
But the floor remained in its usual robust state as she walked across it to the door, hand in hand with Diaz Penvarnon, acutely aware of the curious stares and whispers following them.
In the foyer, she detached herself coolly and firmly. ‘We really don’t have to do this,’ she said. ‘We can part company here and now and no one will be any the wiser.’
‘So what’s your alternative?’ Diaz asked softly. ‘Mourning your loss over a solitary scampi and chips at the White Hart?’ He shook his head. ‘No way, Rhianna. I asked you to have dinner with me, and the invitation stands—however distasteful you may find it.’
She hesitated, then reluctantly followed him out of the hotel. She glanced around her. ‘I don’t see the Jeep.’
‘It was needed elsewhere,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s a beautiful evening. I thought we’d walk. Will your shoes allow that?’
‘Of course.’ But where on earth could they be going? she asked herself in bewilderment. The hotel, the pub, Rollo’s Café, plus the fish and chip shop in Quay Street constituted Polkernick’s entire claim to gourmet fame, as far as she was aware.
It was only when they reached the harbour and she looked out across the water to the sleek, beautiful motor yacht, riding there at anchor, dwarfing everything around it, that she realised.
‘Your boat?’ Her voice rose as she turned to him. ‘You expect me to have dinner on your boat?’
‘Why, yes.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s like a millpond out there, Rhianna. You can’t be that poor a sailor. And I have an excellent chef, so what’s the problem?’
You are, she thought, and I am. I’d prefer not to be quite so alone with you, but to have other people at other tables around us. And I can’t walk on water if I need a quick exit.
As she hesitated, he added, ‘It was either Windhover or the Boathouse at Garzion again, and I felt that might be a trip too far down memory lane for both of us.’
‘How right you were.’ Her own smile was forced. ‘Well—if this is the deal, let’s go. After all, we don’t want to keep your chef waiting.’
And felt her heartbeat quicken as she went with him.
CHAPTER FIVE
AT THE harbour wall, she was forced to take his hand again to negotiate the slippery steps down to the waiting dinghy, where a grizzled man helped her aboard, his teeth flashing in a smile that managed to be admiring and respectful at the same time.
‘This is Juan,’ Diaz said casually. ‘He helps me with the boat. His brother Enrique does the cooking.’
An efficient outboard motor propelled them across the calm water to the side of the yacht and a small platform at the foot of a broad steel ladder, leading to the upper deck, where Enrique, dressed in dark trousers and a white coat, waited deferentially to show her to the companionway leading down to the saloon.
Carrie’s ‘floating hotel suite’ didn’t even begin to cover it, she thought, looking round her in astonishment at the elegant pale tweed sofas grouped round a large square table, with drawers and cupboards beneath it.
Behind the seating area was a dining table, large enough to seat eight people, but tonight set only for two. And beyond that, judging by the delectable smells, was the galley.
‘A drink?’ Diaz suggested as Enrique disappeared, presumably to put the finishing touches to their meal. ‘I can offer you fresh orange juice, if you’re still swearing off alcohol.’
She noticed decanters and glasses waiting on a side table, and said lightly, ‘If you can promise that Juan will be there to save me if I fall overboard, then I’ll have sherry, please, as dry as possible.’
‘If memory serves, you’re probably a better swimmer than he is,’ Diaz observed drily. ‘But let’s say I guarantee that drowning won’t be an option.’ He handed her the sherry and raised his own glass. ‘Salud!’
She echoed the toast a little shyly, and sipped. She looked at him, her eyes widening. ‘That’s superb.’
‘I’m glad you approve. You’re permitted to sit down.’
She complied, and he took the seat opposite. ‘I’m still trying to take it all in,’ she said frankly. ‘It’s just amazing. And it—she—really is brand-new.’
‘Just out of her trials,’ he agreed. ‘She’s the new version of my previous boat and rather more powerful, giving me a greater range.’
‘I—I didn’t realise you were interested in boats.’
‘How could you?’ he said. ‘You went off to London when you were eighteen, shaking the Cornish dust off your shoes. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.’
‘No.’ She didn’t look at him, aware that her throat was tightening.
‘And we haven’t seen a great deal of each other since that time,’ he went on slowly. ‘Or not until the last few months when we—met again. And once we had met there were always other things to talk about. We never really got around to my leisure interests, if you remember.’
She stared down at her glass. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think that at least is true, if not the whole truth.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘The curse of a good memory.’ He paused. ‘So, tell me something, Rhianna. Why, in spite of everything, did you come to this bloody wedding?’
‘Because I couldn’t think of a convincing reason to stay away,’ she said. ‘I could hardly tell Carrie that I was being pressured by you. She might have asked you for an explanation, and imagine how embarrassing that would have been. What price the whole truth then?’ She paused. ‘Anyway, I needed to say goodbye.’
The firm mouth curled.
‘To Carrie.’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘And to all the rest of it. Everything. Cutting the last links for good. You should find that reassuring.’
He contemplated the pale liquid in his glass. ‘Very little about you reassures me, Rhianna.’ He leaned back against the cushions. ‘Tell me, have you seen any more of your reporter friend, or hasn’t he managed to track you down yet?’
‘You clearly have a very broad view of friendship,’ she said shortly. ‘But the gentleman concerned—another loose term—seems to have returned to the hole he crawled out of. I only hope he stays there.’
‘Amen to that.’ He was watching her, the silver eyes sombrely intent. ‘I did wonder, of course, if yo
u were planning to hand him the scoop of his career. “Lady Ariadne claims another victim in best friend’s nightmare.” “Bridegroom flees with TV star.” Or something of the kind.’
Her fingers tightened round the stem of her glass. ‘What a vivid imagination you have,’ she remarked. ‘And you seem to have captured the gutter jargon perfectly. Maybe you missed your vocation.’
‘Then I’m glad at least one of us has fulfilled his or her potential,’ he said. ‘Tell me something. Did the television company realise at once it was typecasting, or did you actually have to sleep with someone in order to play Ariadne?’
Oh, God. Oh, God…
Pain and outrage, which she could not afford to let him see, clawed at her. She leaned back in her turn, smiling at him with a fair bid for insouciance.
‘Believe me, you really don’t want to know,’ she drawled. ‘But I can swear that the casting couch was never as comfortable as this one. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’
She saw a sudden flare of colour along the high cheekbones, a glint in his eyes that might have been anger, or something less easy to define, and felt a stab of bitter triumph.
But when he spoke his voice was even. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is something that you really don’t want to know. And I think Enrique is ready to serve dinner.’
She would have given a great deal to damn him and his dinner to hell and leave. But that, of course, was impossible. She was virtually trapped there.
And if she insisted on being put ashore immediately he would know that she was not as unaffected by his jibes as she wished to appear.
Besides, Sod’s Law was kicking in, reminding her that she’d eaten very little for the past twenty-four hours, and her usual appetite was being forcibly awoken by the enticing aromas of Enrique’s cooking.
She rose in silence and followed him to the dining area, realising with chagrin that she would not be facing him from the opposite end of the long table, but had been seated instead at his right-hand side. Almost close enough to touch.
