by Penny Jordan
She and her mother had never been close. Tara did have a very dim memory of the days when her father was alive, when their small house had seemed a happier, warmer place, but he had died over ten years ago and althouth there had been sufficient insurance to keep Tara and her mother in modest comfort there was no extra for the luxuries she had seen in Susan’s home.
‘You are coming, aren’t you?’
‘I promised I would, didn’t I? Of course I’m coming,’ she told her.
Some of Tara’s classmates were scornful of the friendship which had sprung up between Tara and the three years younger Susan, but for all her lack of years Susan had a worldliness that bridged the age gap and sometimes made Tara’s heart ache for the loneliness concealed behind the air of defiance.
‘I’ll see you at four, then,’ Susan announced, jumping up from her sitting position on the floor at Tara’s side as the bell signalling the end of the lunch break went.
‘I thought third-formers weren’t allowed in these studies,’ one of Tara’s classmates commented caustically, entering the room as Susan left. ‘Honestly, Tara, you shouldn’t encourage her, spoiled little brat! Mummy wanted to send her to boarding school, but she’s been expelled from so many she couldn’t find one to take her. God, what I wouldn’t give to have rich parents,’ she groaned, rolling her eyes theatrically. ‘No more school for me!’
For all the scorn some of the girls heaped on Susan’s head, there were very few of them who weren’t secretly impressed by her mother’s wealth. Hilary Harvey had become a legend in the few short months she had lived in Hillingdon. She had bought what had once been the local Manor House and spent literally thousands on modernising it. Interior decorators had come down from London; a kitchen such as most of the inhabitants of Hillingdon had only seen on American soap operas had been installed, together with several luxurious bathrooms.
Tara had been unwillingly impressed when Susan had shown her round, but, sensible beyond her years, she had sensed loneliness and uncertainty beneath Susan’s apparent gloating manner, and so she had pushed aside any feelings of jealousy and concentrated on finding the real Susan, hidden away behind the defensive barricades.
‘God knows why you should want to be friends with her anyway,’ her classmate commented in disgust. ‘You’ve always been such a goody two-shoes, and for all that she’s only fourteen I’ve heard…’
‘I’m not interested in what you’ve heard, Jill,’ Tara cut in quietly. ‘It’s only gossip anyway.’
Malice gleamed in the other girl’s pale blue eyes. Tara had never run with the crowd and kept herself slightly aloof from the giggles and whispered confidences concerning boy-friends and dates which were bandied about between the other girls during free periods and lunch breaks, and this, coupled with her intelligence and faint air of disdain, had generated jealousy among some of the girls, including Jill Blady.
‘Huh, Miss High and Mighty,’ Jill interrupted bitterly, ‘but not too high and mighty to make friends with the richest girl in the neighbourhood, even if she is three years younger than you and nothing but a little tart!’
Before Tara could retort she had slammed out of the study, leaving Tara alone. She managed to put the unpleasant incident out of her mind during the afternoon. English literature was one of her favourite lessons and it was easy to lose herself among the heady pleasure of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.
At four o’clock when she went to collect her bicycle from the shed she found Susan waiting for her, her expression so wary and uncertain that she forced herself to put Jill’s envious comments out of her mind and concentrate instead on the younger girl. Was she really thought of as a ‘goody-goody’ by her peers? she wondered uncertainly as they cycled leisurely down the country lane which led to Susan’s home. It was an unpleasant thought, and one that made her want to examine her own motives for befriending Susan more deeply. It was true that they were divided by age and culture, and yet there was something about Susan, an air of aloneness, that called to something within herself.
‘You’re not listening,’ Susan protested. ‘My father’s coming home soon. You’ll love him, Tara.’
Tara hadn’t met Susan’s father, although she had heard a lot about him. Susan adored him and talked of him constantly. Tara had built up the impression of a kindly, indulgent man who was no match for his aggressive, domineering wife.
‘Is your mother coming back as well?’ Tara asked unenthusiastically. She had only met Susan’s mother once and had gained the distinct impression that Hilary Harvey hadn’t liked her; an impression which was confirmed when Susan had confided artlessly that her mother generally disliked all her friends.
The Manor House had been built during the reign of Queen Anne and the mellow late afternoon spring sun bathed the front of the building in a golden glow. Tara, always acutely sensitive to moods and surroundings, felt touched by a nostalgia she could barely understand as she brought her cycle to a halt several yards from the house.
‘Come on,’ Susan called, less attuned to the golden perfection of the afternoon. ‘I’m hungry!’
A housekeeper looked after the house in Susan’s mother’s absence; providing meals and a watchful eye, although it was far less strict than Tara’s mother’s, and Tara was often slightly shocked by the amount of freedom Susan was allowed.
Even now she felt a little surprised by the ease with which she had been able to persuade her mother to allow her to stay overnight with Susan.
When they had first met Susan had talked glibly of the sophisticated life she had led with her mother, but once she had realised that Tara wasn’t impressed by her tales of wild parties at her Swiss boarding school, of the drinks and drugs indulged in by the teenage set in which she claimed to move, Susan had swiftly dropped her pseudo-sophisticated image.
Mrs Lear, the housekeeper, expressed relief when she saw that Tara was with Susan.
‘It’s my daughter,’ she explained briefly. ‘Her husband rang me a few hours ago. Gayle has started the baby and Jonathan wants to stay with little Peter while he’s at the hospital. I didn’t want to leave Miss Susan on her own, but if you’re staying overnight…’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Tara assured her. ‘You go to your daughter, Mrs Lear, don’t worry about us.’
When Mrs Lear had gone Tara briskly set about preparing an omelette for their evening meal, watched by Susan with undisguised awe.
‘Grief!’ she exclaimed watching Tara’s expertise. ‘I can’t even boil an egg.’
‘You’re going to have to find a rich husband, then,’ Tara teased, ‘or hasn’t your mother told you yet that the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?’
‘My mother believes that the best way to get a man is to buy him,’ Susan retorted cynically, the bitter expression on her young face shocking Tara into silence. She had heard rumours in the small town about Susan’s mother, but had naïvely dismissed them as mere gossip. What was Susan implying? That her mother was unfaithful to her father? No one apart from Susan seemed to mention Mr Harvey. Susan’s mother was the one who controlled the family reins. Susan had once told her that her mother had been left a lot of money by her parents and that this money was invested in various businesses in America, where Susan’s grandparents had lived. But what of Susan’s father? What did he do for a living? Susan had said vaguely once that he was abroad ‘working’, and knowing how sensitive she was on the subject of her parents Tara had been reluctant to pry. Susan was fiercely defensive of her father, but privately Tara suspected he was too gentle and weak to stand up to his strong-willed wife, even to protect his child. She knew it was wrong of her, but she tended to despise him a little. Couldn’t he see that Susan needed him?
This thought was very much uppermost in Tara’s mind when she undressed for bed in the room next to Susan’s. As she had discovered during previous visits to the Manor House, Susan suffered from frightening nightmares, often crying out in the night for her father, although in the morning she appeared to rem
ember nothing of them.
She didn’t know which was worse, Tara mused as she slid in between the expensive pure cotton sheets—having a father one rarely saw, or being deprived of one altogether as she had been.
She fell into a light sleep from which she woke abruptly, ears straining in the heavy silence without knowing what she was listening for.
It was the dryness of her throat that prompted her to go downstairs to the kitchen in search of a cooling drink. She knew the house well enough not to need to switch on any lights. The kitchen door was ajar and she pushed it open, automatically flinching as her bare feet came into contact with the icy cold ceramic floor tiles. She was just about to turn on the cold tap when the atavistic prickling of the tiny hairs on her arms warned her that she wasn’t alone. She swung round in panic at the precise moment that strong fingers gripped her bare upper arms, warm male breath brushing her hair as an incredulous voice proclaimed softly, ‘Sue?’
Responding automatically, Tara stammered, ‘Sue’s in bed. I’m her friend Tara…’
‘Lord, yes,’ the husky voice continued tiredly. ‘She mentioned you in her last letter.’ Her arms were released and Tara saw his bulky shadow move as he reached for the light switch.
As the harsh brilliance flooded the kitchen she blinked hazily, forgetting the transparency of her thin cotton nightdress—a year old and almost outgrown, the thin fabric stretched tight across the taut swell of her high breasts. When she opened her eyes she reeled in shock, recognising even in her naïvety and inexperience the potent masculinity of the man standing opposite her. Tiredness did nothing to detract from the lean suppleness of his six-foot-odd frame, a thin black polo-necked wool sweater clinging to the powerful muscles of his shoulders and chest, narrow black trousers revealing the taut thrust of male hipbones and thighs. Against her will Tara’s gaze returned to his face, and her eyes rounded with surprise as they recognised the smouldering sensual appeal of dark blue eyes and the dangerous attraction of the hardboned, totally male face in which they were set.
‘Who… who are you?’ she demanded hesitantly at last, striving to hang on to her dignity and the responsibility Mrs Lear had thrust upon her shoulders. The hideous possibility that this man might be some undesirable acquaintance of whom Susan’s mother would undoubtedly disapprove could not be ignored. One glance had been sufficient to convince her that this man, whoever he was, was no fit companion for a fourteen-year-old girl. He bore all the signs of experience and cynicism which even Tara recognised as being a lethal and highly explosive mixture, and yet despite her revealing attire there was nothing in the icy blue eyes to make her feel uncomfortable as they skimmed quickly over her pale worried face and slender, coltish body.
‘Where’s Mrs Lear?’ he demanded calmly, ignoring Tara’s question, indifference giving way to anger as her expression betrayed her and he exhaled smokily, his eyes darkening. ‘Don’t tell me Hilary’s left Sue in this barn of a place with no one but another schoolgirl for company?’
‘Mrs Lear had to leave unexpectedly,’ Tara told him hurriedly, recognising instinctively the tone of authority in his voice and wanting to protect the housekeeper. ‘How did you get in? The doors were locked—I checked myself.’
‘And now you’re looking at me as though I were Lucifer himself,’ he mocked softly. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. Nothing so dramatic. I used this.’ He produced a key, and grimaced suddenly, flexing his shoulders. ‘God, I’m tired! Transatlantic flights are a refined form of torture. There wouldn’t happen to be any milk in the fridge, would there?’ When Tara nodded he dropped wearily into a chair, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning backwards eyes slightly closed, hands clasped loosely in front of him. ‘Be a good girl and pour me a glass,’ he said softly without moving.
Compelled by a will stronger than her own, Tara did as he demanded, and placed the glass in front of him on the table.
‘It’s all right, I don’t bite,’ he told her sardonically, making her jump as she pushed the glass hesitantly towards him, and she wondered how he had known she was nervous when his eyes were closed.
‘How is Sue?’ he asked when he had drained the glass. ‘She’s had a rough time recently, poor kid. Hilary isn’t the best of mothers. No comment?’ he said wryly. ‘Tactful but unnecessary. Hilary herself makes no secret of the fact that she finds motherhood an unwanted chore. Now why are you looking at me like that?’ Suddenly the blue eyes were open, watching her with an unwavering glance that was acutely perceptive.
‘I’ll get you something to eat,’ Tara heard herself saying nervously. ‘You must be hungry. Travelling always makes me feel hungry.’ She was babbling nonsense, but she couldn’t seem to stop, her eyes constantly avoiding those searching blue ones as she bustled about the kitchen.
‘Okay, I can understand why you don’t want to discuss Sue’s mother—but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?’ her companion continued perceptively, leaning across to take the carton of eggs Tara had removed from the fridge from her suddenly nerveless fingers. His hands were warm and hard, his fingers lean, the nails clean and well manicured. She found herself studying them in helpless fascination, strange, unnerving emotions stirred into life as she imagined those fingers against her skin, touching her… She shuddered violently and pulled away, appalled by the direction of her thoughts, shocked by their unwanted sensuality and the fear that this stranger might read it in her eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ he drawled sardonically. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Sue has two parents,’ Tara retorted unwisely, breaking the eggs neatly into a bowl. A mother and a father,’ she emphasised,
‘And?’ One dark eyebrow rose interrogatively, the blue eyes narrowed; concentrating on her face, suddenly steely.
‘And…’ Heavens, why did she feel like this, so awkward and clumsy, lost for words in front of this intimidating man?
‘And she misses her father,’ Tara said huskily at last. ‘She misses him and loves him, and he must know what her mother is doing to her, but he makes no effort to intervene.’
‘Go on…’ She had captured his attention now and the blue eyes had hardened. Her courage deserted her. She swallowed, wishing she had never spoken.
‘You were saying,’ the hard voice continued, ‘Sue misses her f…’ he paused and then finished smoothly, ‘her father. You have a very revealing face, Tara, and it tells me that you don’t altogether approve of Sue’s father.’
‘She needs him,’ Tara said quietly, ‘but he’s never here. He lets her mother bully and hurt her. Oh, I don’t suppose he can help it,’ she added quickly. ‘It can’t be easy for a gentle-natured man to stand up to someone like Mrs…’ Her voice faded gently and she bit down hard on the tremulous softness of her lip, wishing she had never allowed herself to be dragged into this conversation.
‘Is that how Sue describes her father?’ Tara’s companion asked in an odd tone. ‘As weak and uncaring?’
Once more Tara’s expression betrayed her, and a vivid flush stained her skin, making it unnecessary for her to admit that she had drawn her own conclusions from Sue’s adoring remarks about the father who seemed to have so little time to spend with her.
‘Sue loves him very much,’ she murmured haltingly. ‘I’d better go back to her. Who shall I say?’ She was remembering suddenly the key he had shown her.
He smiled sardonically, replacing the empty glass and getting to his feet. ‘Sorry, I’m forgetting the formalities, aren’t I? I haven’t introduced myself. James Harvey,’ he told her briefly, watching the realisation dawning in her eyes. ‘That’s right,’ he told her softly. ‘Sue’s weak uncaring father—or rather stepfather. Didn’t it ever occur to you when you were jumping to all those rash decisions that stepfathers have to tread very warily with children who aren’t legally theirs?’
Stepfather! He was Sue’s stepfather! A mass of conflicting emotions seized her, paramount among which was a sense of sick disbelief that this man could actually be ma
rried to Sue’s mother, combined with a bitter chagrin that she had been stupid enough to voice her opinions of him to his face so blithely.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
For the first time Tara saw the harsh features relax and glimpsed behind the austerity the compassion which must have drawn Sue to him. But why had she never told her that he was her stepfather? Did she really need to ask herself that question? Tara thought wryly, remembering Sue’s vulnerability.
‘Don’t wake Sue up now,’ James Harvey continued. ‘I’m half dead from the flight and all I want right now is a few hours’ sleep. Come on.’ He paused, hanging back to allow her to precede him through the kitchen door, but as she drew level with him Tara stumbled. His right hand shot out grasping her firmly round the waist. Tara could feel the hard bite of his fingers against the soft flesh of her ribcage, and her heart started to race and jerk, her inarticulate apology lost in the darkness as James Harvey switched off the light, withdrawing the support of his hand. As she turned away his fingertips brushed accidentally against the taut curve of her breast, and Tara shuddered deeply without understanding the violence of her reaction.
He was Sue’s stepfather, for heaven’s sake, she reminded herself, hating her body’s momentary physical response to his accidental touch.
They walked upstairs together, James leaving her on the landing making his way to the suite of rooms occupied by Mrs Harvey when she was at the Manor. It was a long time before Tara fell asleep again.
In the days that followed and she got to know James better Tara gradually discovered that beneath the sensuality and cynicism which had been the two things about him which had struck her most at their first meeting did indeed lie the compassion she had expected from Sue’s description. She also learned something about herself, something she would have given much not to learn and something which kept her awake at night and unable to concentrate on her school work during the day; she was terrifyingly attracted to Sue’s stepfather. Teenage infatuations and crushes had bypassed Tara completely, so that her feelings for James came as an abrupt and frightening shock; as much for their strength as for their sensuality. She constantly caught herself daydreaming about how it would feel to be held in his arms, to be kissed by his hard male mouth, her body tortured into fierce passion by the expertise of his lovemaking. Such thoughts disturbed and alarmed her, tormenting her to the point where she felt selfconscious and tonguetied in his presence, the disturbed state of her mind betrayed by the swift colouring of her skin whenever they met. Sue, lost in the pleasure of having his sole attention, seemed unaware of her friend’s reaction, and Tara alternately longed for and yet dreaded Sue’s mother’s return.
