Smokescreen

by Anne Mather

‘The caftan, I think,’ she said, indicating the exquisite handwork of the knitted cashmere. Its muted shades of blue and mauve were suitably restrained, and she cared little that it was one of the most flattering items in her wardrobe.

  ‘I wish I had a figure like yours, Mrs Gantry,’ Mary remarked later, when the folds of the caftan clung lovingly to Olivia’s shapely form. Indeed, its plain lines accentuated the rounded swell of her bosom, and displayed the slimness of her hips and the slender length of her legs.

  Olivia shook her head, unconvinced in spite of Mary’s sincerity. ‘Clothes maketh man—or woman,’ she misquoted, half cynically. ‘Leave my hair loose, Mary. I shan’t be seeing anyone tonight.’

  Leaving the maid to tidy the room, Olivia descended the stairs with slow deliberation. It was strange to think this house was hers, so long as she chose to live in it, unmarried, of course; the rooms were hers to decorate as she wished; the servants were hers to command. It was a tempting proposition, as Henry had known it would be. He had left her enough money, whatever her inclination, to live in luxury for the rest of her life; firmly believing, as he had always believed, that personal gratification was all that mattered.

  But it wasn’t. Not for her. She had not married Henry Gantry to embrace his philosophy. Her motives might have been thwarted at every turn, but she was still determined not to give in. Her mother was dead. She could no longer help her. But she could help the one person Henry had least desired to benefit from his fortune: his son!

  Her feet sank into the rich pile of the hall carpet as she walked towards the library. Mrs Winters would know where to find her; the library had become her retreat from Henry’s world. Opening the door, she found the lamps still burning and the fire replenished. Its visible warmth was comforting, and she closed the door wearily, leaning back against it, and closing her eyes.

  When she opened them again, the first thing she saw was a pair of booted feet set apart on the hearthrug; and as her eyes moved unsteadily upward, they quickly covered long denim-clad legs and thighs, a loose fitting jersey over an open-necked denim shirt, and a lean tanned face below a straight slick of ash-streaked hair. The man was leanly built, but his chest was broad, and the vee of his shirt revealed a gold medallion glinting among the fine whorls of body hair. His arms were strong and his legs looked powerful, and Olivia could not help but notice the bulging muscles of his thighs. But she did not know him. She had never seen him before in her life. And her initial reaction was that he must be an intruder, who had known he would find her alone.

  However, before her undisciplined fears could take verbal form, he spoke, and when he did so, she suddenly realised his identity.

  ‘Hello, Olivia,’ he greeted her sardonically. ‘How delightful to meet you at last. I’ll say one thing for old Henry, he certainly had good taste!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Alex!’

  The man inclined his head. ‘How did you guess?’

  Olivia straightened away from the door. ‘How—how did you get in? Did Mrs Winters—’

  ‘I let myself in,’ he responded laconically, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out a key, allowing it to hang from its silver chain like some kind of hypnotic device. ‘Do I need an invitation? To Henry Gantry’s house?’

  Olivia struggled for composure. ‘No. No, of course not.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he mocked, putting the key back into his pocket and indicating the leather armchairs set at either side of the fire. ‘Won’t you sit down—Mother? You look as if you need some support.’

  Olivia looked at him uneasily, moistening her lips with a nervous tongue. This was a contingency she had not prepared herself for, and in spite of her half-formed intentions to try and find Henry’s son, she was shaken to the core of her being by his unheralded appearance.

  ‘When did you arrive?’ she ventured. ‘When did you get here? Do—do you know—’

  ‘—that Henry’s dead?’ he finished flatly. ‘Yes, I know. Cosgrove informed me.’

  ‘Adam Cosgrove?’ Olivia gazed at him, then shook her head. Of course. Adam had asked her if she had heard from Alex. He had obviously been aware of his whereabouts and informed him accordingly.

  She stepped across the Persian carpet now, and determinedly held out her hand. Whatever her impressions, she had to conduct this first interview calmly, even if his expression did not encourage a closer liaison.

  ‘Hello, Alex,’ she said now, and after a moment’s consideration he shook her hand. ‘I’m sorry you had to learn about your father’s death so abruptly. He’d been ill for some time, and it was not unexpected.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  Alex held on to her hand rather longer than was necessary, and Olivia had to pull it away before crossing to the desk and seating herself beside it. She felt more sure of herself sitting down, less vulnerable somehow; and she needed that space between them, to recover her sensibilities.

  ‘You’ve been living in Africa, I believe,’ she remarked, trying to keep her tone light. ‘As we didn’t know your address, we—I—had no way of contacting you.’

  ‘Cosgrove knew where I was,’ he pointed out dryly.

  ‘Yes, obviously. But unfortunately he didn’t tell me.’

  Alex shrugged, pulling out a crumpled pack of cheroots. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, and after gaining her permission, he added: ‘I’ve been living in Tsaba for the past eight years. Do you know it? My—partner and I set up a mining company. Some of these central African republics are rich in mineral wealth.’

  Olivia nodded. She was quite prepared to believe he had lived in rougher circumstances than these. There was a roughness about him, a hard virility, that seemed out of place in this elegant room. He looked as if he would feel more at home in the raw civilisation of a mining community, although she had to admit he did not seem at all concerned that his appearance did not match his surroundings.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he offered, and she noticed the empty glass standing on the curve of the fender. He must have been sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire when she entered the room, she thought incredulously, but she had been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she had not noticed him.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ she said now, realising as she did so that it was she who should have made that remark. Summoning her most cordial tone, she said; ‘Tell me, where are you staying? If I’d known you were coming—’

  ‘—you’d have had the welcome mat out, I’m sure,’ Alex cut in mockingly, his eyes, which were amazingly dark in his tanned face, narrowed and insolent. ‘You surprise me, Olivia. I never expected such civility. I’d have thought you’d have kicked me out by now.’

  Olivia’s pale face gained colour. ‘Then you’re wrong, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He studied her intently. ‘I guess you knew how old Henry felt about his son.’

  Olivia expelled her breath cautiously. ‘Yes, I knew.’

  He sneered. ‘But you’re prepared to be generous.’

  ‘Henry’s dead—’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘—and I see no reason why we should not behave like civilised human beings—’

  ‘The hell you don’t!’ Alex’s lips curled.

  ‘As—as I was saying,’ Olivia continued determinedly, ‘we can hardly be enemies when we don’t even know one another.’

  ‘Can’t we?’

  He was not making it easy for her, and Olivia wished she was more prepared for this interview. She should have had her speech written, her arguments marshalled; as it was, she was stumbling and faltering like a schoolgirl up before the head.

  ‘I see no point in prolonging past grievances,’ she declared steadily. ‘Your father’s dead. I don’t know what happened between you two, but whatever it was, it had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Alex’s lips were white now. ‘So what’s your game?’

  ‘My game?’ Olivia was speechless.

  ‘Yes, Livvy, your game! God, my turnin
g up here like this gave you one hell of a start, didn’t it? My God! You must have thought you had it made. Henry’s heiress, inheriting all this!’ He waved a careless hand towards the ceiling. ‘You’re cool, I’ll give you that. In your place, I’d have thrown you out and asked questions afterwards. But you—you’re cleverer than that, aren’t you? You must have been to hook old Henry in the first place. You realised straight off that my intervention might, just might, upset the applecart, so you’ve decided it might be safer to play both ends against the middle!’

  ‘No!’ Olivia was indignant, but Alex didn’t believe her.

  ‘No?’ he mocked. ‘You’re not even the tiniest bit concerned that I might bring this house of cards down about your pretty ears!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No what? No, you’re not concerned, or no, you don’t believe I can do it?’ He took an indolent step towards her, and it was all Olivia could do to remain sitting in her seat under that insolent regard.

  ‘I mean—no, you couldn’t overset the will,’ she said, through tight lips. ‘It’s tied up too securely for that. Didn’t Adam tell you? He drew it up, on your father’s instructions, of course.’

  Alex’s dark eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘Livvy, you know as well as I do that in any civilised society, a man’s heirs are his sons, not his wife.’

  ‘Henry obviously did not consider he had a son—’

  ‘A court of law might not agree with you.’

  ‘I don’t care what a court of law might think.’ Olivia fought to defend herself. ‘The will is watertight, Mr Gantry. Henry was far too astute not to have considered every possibility.’

  Alex snorted. ‘What you mean is, you’ve got expensive tastes as well as greedy fingers!’ he snapped. ‘You’re scared to death someone’s going to come along and take a slice of it away from you!’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Olivia sprang to her feet then, her pulses racing and her breasts heaving beneath the clinging folds of the caftan. ‘How dare you come here and speak to me like this? It’s not my fault that you and your father came to despise one another. That had nothing to do with me. I don’t know why you split up and I don’t care. But you have no right to accuse me of being greedy, when the minute your father’s dead, you come here threatening to contest the will in your own favour!’

  She had not meant to say that, but Alex surveyed her evident upheaval with unwilling admiration. ‘So—it has claws, does it?’ he mocked, as she struggled to control herself. ‘And so vehement, too. When it obviously knows nothing about it.’

  ‘I know enough,’ declared Olivia tensely, not wanting to defend Henry, but unable to defend herself without doing so. ‘I know something must have happened between you and your father to drive him to disown you. But that’s in the past now—’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ He stared at her contemptuously. ‘You’re here, aren’t you? His grieving young widow! What’s the matter, Livvy? finding it lonely?’

  Olivia drew a deep breath. ‘Please don’t call me Livvy.’

  ‘Why not? Is that what he used to call you?’

  ‘No. No, your father always called me Olivia.’

  ‘Okay, so I’ll call you Liv,’ he remarked carelessly. ‘As I’m going to be around for a while, I guess we can dispense with formality. We are—related, after all. Unless,’ his dark eyes were disturbing, ‘unless you’d like me to call you Mother.’

  Olivia flushed. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’

  ‘What’s ridiculous? You are my—stepmother, aren’t you?’

  Olivia’s nervous tension was expanding not decreasing. This whole conversation was quite ludicrous, and yet it was all happening. ‘I—I don’t think that’s relevant,’ she said now, wishing she smoked so that she had something to do with her hands. They were fluttering about quite distractedly, and she knew he could not be unaware of her state of agitation. ‘You didn’t tell me where you were staying,’ she said now. ‘Do you have a base in London? What arrangements have you made?’

  ‘None.’ Now it was his turn to offer the negative. ‘I didn’t tell you where I was staying because I didn’t know.’

  Olivia’s lips parted. ‘You mean—you came right here from the airport?’

  ‘Via Cosgrove’s office, yes.’

  ‘You’ve seen Adam?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Olivia shook her head. ‘But—how—’

  ‘I hired a car at the airport,’ he explained carelessly. ‘I knew there was no chance I could get here in time for the funeral—my flight didn’t land until four o’clock. So I made the diversion while I was in Chalcott. It’s only an hour’s drive, after all.’

  ‘Yes.’ Olivia was thinking hard. ‘So—do you have any immediate plans?’

  He studied the glowing tip of his cheroot. ‘You tell me.’

  Olivia hesitated. ‘I suppose you need a bed for the night.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you going to turn me out?’

  Olivia caught her breath. ‘Turn you out?’ she echoed faintly, knowing as she did so that if she intended going through with her intentions, he should stay here. But after the things he had said, she was no longer certain of anything.

  ‘I seem to remember you saying something about us being civilised,’ he reminded her sarcastically.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But—’

  ‘But what?’

  Olivia shook her head. She was getting out of her depth with this man. He was so totally different from what she had imagined, what she had expected. He disturbed her, he was an unpredictable quantity; and whatever she intended to do, she did not want him living in the same house.

  ‘You said yourself, you—you and your father despised one another,’ she began.

  ‘No, you said that.’

  Olivia pressed her palms together. ‘You didn’t disagree.’

  ‘All right.’ Alex tossed the remains of his cheroot into the fire behind him. ‘So I didn’t. But Henry’s dead now, as you say, and there’s just you and me, Liv. As Henry’s surviving relatives, don’t you think we should stick together?’

  She knew he was baiting her. He didn’t like her, and she was sure she didn’t like him. It was strange how one’s opinion could alter when faced with the realities of a situation. Earlier, she had half sympathised with Alex Gantry. She had been prepared to believe he was the innocent victim of his father’s despotism. Now she was not so sure. Alex Gantry did not strike her as the kind of man who would care twopence for his father’s feelings. He was hard, he was a predator; and no matter how he might excuse himself, she could not forgive his arrogant assumption that she had been cast in the same mould.

  ‘What—what are your plans?’ she ventured now, playing for time, needing a space to consider what she was going to do.

  ‘Plans?’ He was annoyingly obtuse. ‘Why, some food and a good night’s sleep. In that order,’ he responded lazily, and Olivia’s lips came together in a compressed white line.

  ‘I mean—how long do you plan to stay in England? she exclaimed. ‘You said you’d been working in Tsaba. How long do you intend to remain here? Surely your partner will expect you back.’

  ‘My partner’s dead,’ he declared grimly, his eyes suddenly hard and uncompromising. ‘And I have no immediate plans to return there. As it happens, I was planning to come to England quite soon, and it was a comparatively mild inconvenience to bring my trip forward.’

  ‘You mean—you were coming to see your father?’

  ‘We’ll never know that now, will we?’ he remarked flatly.

  Olivia lifted her shoulders. ‘I don’t know what to suggest,’ she was beginning stiffly, when a light tattoo on the panels of the door interrupted her and a moment later Mrs Winters appeared in the open doorway.

  ‘I’ve had Cook make you a nice light omelette—’ she started comfortingly, only to break off abruptly at the sight of the man standing squarely between herself and her mistress. Alex had turned his head at her entrance, so that Mrs Winters’
first sight of him was in profile, and her mouth dropped open. Olivia, tense herself, was nevertheless aware of a certain tension about him as he confronted the housekeeper, and she realised with a pang, that he was apprehensive of her reaction. And why not? Olivia asked herself wryly. Mrs Winters had worked for his father for almost twenty years, and her loyalty might well not include a welcome for the son who had deserted Henry Gantry almost fifteen years ago.

  Watching the housekeeper Olivia knew a sudden sympathy for her. This could not be easy, and the veined hands holding the tray shook a little as comprehension dawned. ‘Alex?’ she mouthed, almost inaudibly. ‘Master Alex, is that you?’

  He moved then, taking the tray from her and setting it carelessly on one of the elegantly polished tables that flanked the armchair where he had been sitting. Then he smiled, and Olivia’s heart took an unaccountable jolt. ‘Don’t you recognise me, Mrs Winters?’ he demanded, his tone warm and teasing, and with a broken cry, the normally reserved Mrs Winters cast herself upon him.

  ‘Oh, Master Alex,’ she sobbed, clutching his shoulders, and gazing up into his face with unconcealed emotion. ‘Oh, if only you’d come a week sooner!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Alex allowed the housekeeper to enfold him in a convulsive embrace, but over the housekeeper’s head, his eyes were mocking Olivia. Look, he seemed to be saying, you may have had it all your own way so far, but how do you feel about it now?

  ‘Master Alex—that is, I mean—Alex—has just arrived from Africa, Mrs Winters,’ she exclaimed, needing to exert her authority for no other reason than to reassure herself. ‘He—I—perhaps you could prepare a room for him. And—and something to eat.’

  ‘You’re staying?’ Without looking at Olivia, Mrs Winters addressed herself to Alex, and after exchanging another challenging look with Olivia, he nodded.

  ‘It appears so,’ he conceded, with infuriating coolness. ‘Liv—Olivia—insists that it would be foolish for me to stay anywhere else.’

  Olivia’s gasp of indignation went unheard beneath the housekeeper’s eager confirmation. ‘Where else would you stay?’ she exclaimed, drawing away from him with evident reluctance, and squeezing one of his hands between both of hers. ‘If Mr Gantry was still alive—’