by Sara Craven
Especially when she should be concentrating all her energies strictly on the present—getting out of this mess.
And yet the past five years had certainly not been all bad. On the contrary. There’d been good things to treasure as well, she thought. The unfailing kindness of the Jessops, who’d treated her as if she’d never been away. Her continued friendship with Carrie, who’d secured her Oxford place with ease, and had only been sorry that Rhianna wasn’t there with her.
And the wonderful Marika Fenton, the retired actress running drama classes at a local evening institute, who’d used jealously guarded contacts to get her star student into stage school, and chivvied the board of trustees into granting whatever bursaries might be going.
She’d written regularly to Aunt Kezia, but had never received a reply. Then her aunt had died very suddenly of a heart attack, before receiving the letter in which Rhianna told her she’d just won a leading role in a brand-new drama series called Castle Pride.
A clearly embarrassed communication from Francis Seymour had told her that Miss Trewint had given strict instructions that Rhianna was not to attend her funeral service or cremation, that her possessions should be sold and any money raised, together with her meagre savings, donated to the RSPCA.
Rhianna had accepted those harsh final wishes without protest.
The following day she’d begun to rehearse the role of Lady Ariadne. And the rest, as they said, was history.
She stood up, stretching. And history it had to remain. She had to deal with the here and now. Get through the pain of the next few days as efficiently as possible.
And to start with it seemed pointless to spend all night on this sofa when there was a perfectly good bed waiting, she told herself.
If she had to be miserable, then it might as well be in comfort.
So, having changed into her nightgown, performed her simple beauty routine, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair, Rhianna slipped under the covers.
But sleep proved elusive. However much her mind might twist and turn, she could see no easy way out of this present disaster, she thought. Diaz had set a trap, and she’d walked blindly, insanely, into it.
And the old anodyne about things looking better in the morning didn’t seem to apply in the current situation.
Unless she woke to find herself back in the primrose room, recovering from a particularly bad nightmare, she thought wryly. And how likely was that?
Eventually, however, the comfort of the mattress beneath her was too enticing, and the pillows too soft to resist, so that the next time she opened her eyes it was broad daylight.
She lay still for a moment. It’s here, she thought. It’s today. Carrie’s marrying Simon and I’m not there. God help me, I’m in the middle of the ocean with Diaz Penvarnon. No bad dream. It’s really happening.
There’d been some troubling moments in the night, she remembered painfully. Her mind had been invaded by disturbing images of weeping, unhappy girls, Carrie and Daisy among them, their faces blotched and swollen with emotion. And another, her expression haggard, the velvet dark of her pansy-brown eyes red-rimmed with tears.
That one most of all, she thought, moving restively.
Her reverie was interrupted by a tap on the door, and Enrique came in with a tray holding a cafetière, cup and saucer, and a cream jug.
‘Buenos dias, señorita,’ he greeted her respectfully, just as if he hadn’t had to unlock her door to gain entry. ‘It is fine today, with much sun, and the sea is calm. The señor hopes that you will join him for breakfast presently.’
A number of responses occurred to Rhianna, most of them occupying a position between fury and obscenity, but she reminded herself that Enrique was only obeying orders, and managed to confine herself to a quiet, ‘Thank you.’
Alone again, she leaned back against her pillows and considered. A fine day, she thought. Wasn’t there a saying about “Happy is the bride that the sun shines on”?
Oh, let it be true, she begged silently and passionately. Let Carrie’s happiness be unclouded, and maybe that will justify this whole hideous business.
In a few hours’ time the wedding would be over, anyway, and if there had ever been a time for intervention it was long past.
She could only hope and pray that Simon had been sincere when he’d claimed Carrie was the one he really wanted all along. But his straying could hardly be dismissed as a temporary aberration when it had left such misery in its wake.
Cape Town should be far enough away to give the pair of them a totally fresh start. No chance of embarrassing or agonised encounters in the street or at parties there. No startled recognition in theatre bars or restaurants.
London’s a village, she thought. Sooner or later you bump into everyone. As she knew to her cost…
Stop thinking like that, she adjured herself fiercely. Today’s going to be quite tricky enough, and you need to be on top of your game, so stop right now.
She turned determinedly to the coffee, which was hot, strong and aromatic, and she could almost feel it putting new life into her.
A shower helped too, even if the limitations of her wardrobe became all too apparent immediately afterwards.
With a mental shrug, she picked out the white cut-offs and the green and white striped shirt she worn on the beach at Penvarnon the previous day, and slid her feet into espadrilles.
She brushed her hair back from her face with unwonted severity, securing it at the nape of her neck with an elastic band which had begun its life round the folder containing her train ticket and seat reservation.
The return portion would now remain unused, of course, she thought. wondering ironically if the train company would deem being kidnapped as a valid excuse for a refund.
Another item, she told herself, to be added to the cost of my stupidity.
Biting her lip, she walked to the door. When she tried it this time, however, it opened easily, and, drawing a long, deep breath, she went out and up the companionway to join her captor.
She found Diaz on the sun deck, where a table and two folding chairs had been placed. He was casual, in shabby cream shorts and a faded dark red polo shirt, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses as he studied some very small item of hand-held technical gadgetry, which probably contained, she reflected, his bank statements, his address book and details of his business commitments for the next ten years.
And she thought how much she’d like to throw it overboard.
At her approach, however, he switched it off and rose courteously to his feet.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I hope you slept well.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But that was hardly likely—under the circumstances.’
His brows lifted quizzically. ‘Because you’ve been under a certain amount of tension lately? Is that what you’re saying?’
She thought of the anguished phone calls, the bitter outbursts, the threats of self-harm, and all those other truly sleepless nights, punctuated by harsh, heart-rending sobbing. All culminating in the final acknowledgement that Simon had gone, and all hope had gone with him.
She looked past him. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘One of those situations where ignorance is definitely bliss.’ His tone bit. ‘But you’re a really splendid actress, my sweet,’ he went on, after a pause. ‘Because when I came in to check on you, just after dawn, I’d have sworn you were flat out. I thought I even detected a little snore. How wrong can anyone be?’
She shrugged. ‘I’d say the field was wide open.’ She sat down, determined not to show her inner disturbance at the thought of him watching her sleeping, and unfolded her table napkin. ‘But you seem to have insomnia problems too, if you were lurking around in the small hours.’ She gave him a small, flat smile. ‘Conscience troubling you, perhaps?’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘These are busy waters. I had no wish for a moment’s inattention to result in our being mown down by a tanker.’
The arrival of the attenti
ve Enrique, with glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice and a basket of warm rolls, followed almost at once by scrambled eggs with chorizo and another large pot of coffee, saved her having to find a reply.
‘I hope the sea air has given you an appetite,’ Diaz remarked, offering her the pepper mill.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Rhianna said icily, aware, to her everlasting shame, that her mouth was watering in response to the aroma from her plate. ‘Being shut up in that five-star cell you condemned me to, I didn’t know it existed. After all, I could hardly open a window to check the ozone levels.’
‘Well, your freedom has been now fully restored, and you can breathe again.’ He indicated a powerful-looking pair of binoculars lying on the table beside him. ‘Are you interested in bird-watching? It could be a good day for it, now we’ve left the sea mist off Brest behind us.’
‘I’m afraid your plans for my shipboard entertainment are doomed,’ she returned, doing her damnedest not to eat too fast, even though these were the best scrambled eggs she’d ever tasted. She added untruthfully, ‘I really wouldn’t know a canary from a robin.’
‘I think Biscay goes in more for shearwaters and arctic terns,’ he said. ‘But maybe you prefer mammals. We can usually offer a selection of dolphins in good weather, or, if you’re lucky, you might even spot a whale.’
‘If I was lucky,’ she said stonily, concealing a flash of delight, ‘I wouldn’t be here in the first place. And why would I want to see a whale anyway?’
‘Because they’re rare and beautiful creatures,’ Diaz said quietly. ‘I thought like might call to like.’
Rhianna looked down at her empty plate, her throat tightening as he paused.
‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘you might get cast one day in another remake of Moby Dick, with the advantage of being already acquainted with the main character.’
‘Unlikely,’ she said, forbidding herself even a marginal smile. ‘Female roles are pretty thin in that particular epic.’
‘I’m sure they’d adapt it to accommodate you,’ he said, pouring more coffee. ‘A girl stowaway on the Pequod who slowly wins the heart of Captain Ahab and turns him from his revenge to joint ownership of a seafood restaurant on Nantucket.’
She shuddered. ‘Oh, God, don’t even suggest it. Someone might hear.’
‘But if not that,’ he said, ‘there’ll be other roles to play eventually.’
‘I hope so,’ Rhianna said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t like to think that Lady Ariadne would be all I’d be remembered for.’ She bit her lip. ‘But at the moment I’m not looking beyond the next series.’
‘And what would have happened to that,’ he enquired levelly, ‘if Simon had asked you to marry him after all? If he’d wanted you to keep the baby? What price Lady Ariadne then?’
Be careful, said the voice in her head. Be very careful. You can’t give anything away.
She shrugged again. ‘That was never going to happen,’ she said. ‘I knew it. Simon certainly knew it. And we both made our choices long before you decided to interfere. Whatever you may have seen or heard, or think you know, the wedding was never in any danger from me.’
She sent him a cool smile. ‘So now you’ll have to live with the knowledge that it’s all been a total waste of time. That you’ve carried me off for nothing, Mr Penvarnon.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Therefore, why don’t you admit defeat, turn this expensive piece of equipment right around, and take me back to England?’
He pushed his chair back and rose. ‘Because it’s far too late for that, Rhianna,’ he said softly. ‘It always has been. And if you don’t know that, sweetheart, then you’re lying not just to me but to yourself as well.’
And he walked away, leaving her staring after him, her mouth suddenly dry and her pulses pounding.
In spite of the breeze, it was still hot enough for Rhianna to be thankful for the awning above the sun deck, where she lay on a cushioned lounger. But even in its shade her clothes were sticking to her.
I didn’t bring a bikini on this trip, she thought wryly, because it never occurred to me I’d have time to sunbathe. Besides, I knew I could always borrow a costume from Carrie if I fancied a quick swim in between pre-wedding chores.
But maybe a bikini, or any kind of swimwear, would not be a good choice for these particular circumstances. Being fully dressed might not be comfortable, but it seemed altogether the safer option.
In view of his parting shot, she’d been half tempted to go to her stateroom and stay there, not venturing back on deck at all. But that might suggest she was disturbed by what he’d said, and she couldn’t afford that. She had to appear indifferent, even relaxed, if that was possible.
So she’d simply collected her sunglasses, and the book she’d intended for the journey back to Paddington, and she was now struggling to lose herself in it. The reviews had been good, and it was by an author she liked, but the story was failing to hold her.
Real life seems to keep intruding, she told herself, endeavouring not to glance at the bridge, where Diaz, his shirt discarded, was seated at the controls, and thankful for the designer shades concealing the direction of her gaze.
What’s wrong with me? she demanded silently. I’ve seen plenty of men in less than he’s wearing. Come to that, I’ve seen him in far less too, only I was too young to appreciate it. Even if I’ve never been able to forget…But would the image of him emerging from the water like some dark sea god be the one she would take with her into the approaching wilderness?
Or would their encounters of a few months ago prove more potent in the end? Become the ones to be treasured?
Like the moment when she’d glanced across the crowded room at the sponsors’ party and seen him there, unchanged and unmistakable after nearly five years, chatting to the Apex chairman and his wife.
She’d never really expected to see him again, so the shock of it had held her breathless, motionless for a moment, captive to all kinds of contradictory emotions. Then, obeying an imperative she’d barely understood but had known she might regret, she’d murmured an excuse to the group around her and begun to make her way towards him.
Halfway across the room, she had almost turned back.
I don’t know what to say, she’d thought. Or even how I should behave. Surprised—that goes without saying. But should I be pleased to see him, or strictly casual? Just stopping for a quick word in passing on my way out to find a cab?
She had still been undecided when Sir John Blenkinsop had noticed her approach.
‘Ah, delightful,’ he said heartily. ‘Diaz, you must allow me to introduce you to our star—the lovely girl who keeps the ratings for Castle Pride sky-high. Rhianna, my dear, this is Diaz Penvarnon, a valued client of Apex Insurance.’
There was an instant’s silence, then Diaz said pleasantly, ‘Actually, Sir John, Miss Carlow and I have already met. And delightful is certainly the word.’ His eyes skimmed her, taking in the white brocade coat-dress, knee-length, its lapels designed to show a definite but discreet amount of cleavage. Then he took her nerveless hand in his and bent to kiss her cheek, his lips warm and firm as they brushed her face.
‘Rhianna,’ he said as he straightened. ‘It’s been a long time.’
Say something—anything…
‘It has indeed. Too long.’ Her numb lips managed to return his smile. ‘I suppose this is one of your flying visits to the UK? Is it business or pleasure this time?’
‘The usual mix,’ he said. ‘And my plans are fluid at the moment.’ He paused. ‘I’ve just come back from Polkernick.’
‘Of course,’ she said over-brightly, as guilt kicked in, reminding her of all the reasons she had to avoid him, and why she should have resisted this and every other temptation he represented to her. ‘How—how is everyone?’
His grin was rueful. ‘Wedding fever has risen to epidemic proportions,’ he returned. ‘If ever I tie the knot it’s going to be at a register office very early in the morning. Guest list limited to two witnesses.�
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‘Oh, your bride will soon change your mind about that,’ said Sir John. ‘Women like these full-dress affairs, you know.’
Diaz said gently, ‘Then I shall just have to persuade her.’ He indicated the empty glass Rhianna was holding. ‘May I get you another drink?’
‘Yes, you look after her, my boy.’ Sir John turned to his wife. ‘Marjorie, my dear, I see Clement Jackson has arrived. He’s bound to want a word, so shall we leave these two to catch up with each other?’
Rhianna stood, clawed by a mixture of excitement and uncertainty, as she waited for Diaz to return with the dry white wine she’d requested. I shouldn’t be doing this, she whispered inwardly. I should be making an excuse and easing myself out. But I can’t—I can’t…
‘Apparently Lord Byron said he woke up one morning and found himself famous,’ Diaz remarked, as he handed her the glass. ‘Was it like that for you?’
‘Far from it,’ she said. ‘Although it’s got trickier since. You become public property. People see me in their living rooms and think they know me.’
‘How very optimistic of them,’ Diaz said silkily. ‘But it’s good that you’ve prospered, Rhianna, after your precipitate exit from Polkernick. I was afraid the sight of me might put you to flight again.’
But I didn’t jump—I was pushed…
Aloud, she said coolly, ‘I think I’m a little more resilient these days.’
Am I? she thought. Am I—when the memory of you saying ‘I don’t take sweets from babies’ still has the power to tear me apart? When just by standing here like this I know I could be setting up such trouble for myself?
She swallowed. ‘I think Sir John’s trying to attract your attention. He has someone he wants you to meet.’ She sent him a brilliant smile. ‘Enjoy your time in London.’
She walked away and didn’t look back, her heart hammering painfully against her ribcage.
I’ve met him, she thought. I’ve spoken to him. And that’s the end of it. There’s no point in hoping, or wishing things could be different. Because that’s never been possible.
