by Daphne Clair
Darling Deceiver by Daphne Clair
At seventeen, Carissa had been a silly, romantic teenager in love with a dream called Cade Fernand —which was why she had behaved the way she had on the one dramatic occasion they had met. Now, eight years later, they had met again, in very different circumstances, and she had no reason to suppose that Cade would even recognise her, let alone remember her. But he did remember—and, it soon became obvious, still despised her as he had all those years ago. And Carissa realised, hopelessly, that her feelings for him had not changed either...
printed in Great Britain
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A STREAK OF GOLD
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SOMETHING LESS THAN LOVE
Just what had gone wrong with Vanessa's marriage? True, her husband Thad had been badly injured in a car crash soon after the wedding, but he was recovering now. It wasn't that—it was his curious, bitter, suspicious attitude to her. What was she supposed to have done?
THE JASMINE BRIDE
Rachel didn't think it mattered in the least that she was so much younger than Damon Curtis—at any rate, it hadn't stopped him marrying her. But she was also very much more inexperienced; wasn't that going to be the rock on which the marriage would flounder before it had even begun?
THE SLEEPING-FIRE
Adam Broome—the 'new Broome' as he soon became to all the staff of Lively Lady magazine—was living up to his name and introducing all kinds of changes, and editor Lee Palmer wasn't sure she was happy about' them. She felt happier about Adam himself, who was undeniably attractive. But then she wasn't the only one to feel that way about him, was she ... ?
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.
First published 1980
This edition 1980
© Daphne Clair 1980
ISBN 0 263 73253 3
CHAPTER ONE
THE airline had mixed up the tickets somehow, and Cade was separated from his manager by the width of the narrow aisle. The hostess had offered to ask the other ticket-holder to change places, but when she said the lady was already seated, Cade said curtly, 'Never mind. It doesn't matter.'
He hated to have special treatment because of his blindness, even more than he enjoyed buying it because of his fame and the wealth it had brought him. When in doubt about the reasons, he would assume a connection with his disability, and - pride often produced a harsh reaction.
Aware of Jack's warning hand on his arm as they -proceeded down the plane to their 'seats, he tried to curb his irritation. Too much temperament was bad for his image, Jack always said, when he allowed his acid tongue to lash at someone who plainly pitied him for his disability. A certain amount of Latin fire was okay, but the fans must not be alienated. Sometimes Cade hated the whole business.
He was conscious of the woman beside him when he sat down. When the chatter in the cabin paused he heard the soft sound of her breathing, the click of her safety belt and the small sound of the clasp on her handbag as she opened it. Her arm brushed his sleeve lightly as she rummaged in the bag for something. She wore a light flowery perfume, not too heavily applied; the faint scent of it reached him now and then when she moved.
She had murmured some polite greeting when he sat down, which he had returned with nothing more than a slight, cold nod. Unreasonably, he was annoyed with
her over the seating muddle. It was going to be a nuisance not having jack beside him when the meal came. He hated the thought of being made conspicuous by having his manager cross the aisle to help him. Besides, this was one of those days when he was sick of keeping up his public image. He hoped the woman on the next seat had never heard of him.
The hostess touched his shoulder and said, 'Would you fasten your seat belt, please, Mr Fernand. Do you need help?'
'No, thanks.' She moved on, and he fumbled and found the buckle and snapped it into place.
The woman beside him said, 'Excuse me, you are Cadiz Fernand, aren't you?'
He contemplated denying it, but the voice had surprised him. It was a particularly pleasant one, low and soft with a hint of huskiness, but clear and with a trace of some accent he couldn't place. And he wanted to hear it again. She wasn't American, but he didn't think she was English, either. Probably Australian, he guessed.
He nodded and turned his face to her—the famous 'sensuous Latin face' as some fool of a columnist had once called it, with the proud nose and the bitter, beautifully masculine mouth and the very dark glasses covering equally dark blind eyes.
'I like your music very much,' she said.
He sighed inwardly and waited for the next line ('I have all your records,' or 'I suppose everyone says that! '), but it didn't come.
After a moment he said, 'Thank you.' And began to like her a little better. After all, it wasn't her fault about the seats.
After a while he went to sleep. He had done a show in Honolulu the night before, and it was a long flight to Sydney where he would be performing again tomorrow night.
He woke feeling dry-mouthed and uncomfortable. The woman was turning over the pages of a magazine, and with a return of his former irritation he wondered if that was what had woken him. The dry crackling got on his nerves.
He called `Jack!' softly, and Jack was immediately beside him. 'Let's take a walk, do you mind?' Cade said.
'Sure, Cade-this way.'
Cade had liked Jack Benton from their first meeting. He had been quick to learn how to deal with a blind man, and had never acted as though Cade must be deaf, crippled and mentally retarded as well.
He returned to his seat feeling fresher, and ordered a drink. The woman politely refused an offer to join him. She offered to read him the menu, and he accepted, sipping at his cool drink and listening to the -warmth of her attractive voice.
When the food came, he refused the stewardess's offer of help, and was relieved that Jack must have taken the hint, too. No presence hovered beside him as he carefully found the wrapped cutlery and removed plastic covers from the dishes. He managed the starter and the main course without difficulty, then groped for a son for the sweet, but a cool hand took his fingers and placed it in them.
He thanked her rather shortly, and she said, 'It had slipped down the side of the tray.'
He understood that she wouldn't have helped if she had thought he would find it quickly, and felt a little sorry for his curtness.
'My brother is blind,' she explained.
'I see.' He must have trained her well.
By the time their coffee cups had been removed he felt in a mood to listen to that attractive voice for a while. He turned and gave her the smile that made millions of hearts flutter.
&
nbsp; 'You have the advantage of me,' he said.
'I—have I?'
`You know my name,' he pointed out.
`Oh ' Her low, breathy laugh was rather attractive, too, he noted.
`Carissa Martin,' she said. 'Most people call me Crissy.'
'I like Carissa better,' he said. 'It's unusual.'
`My mother got it from a book.'
'Your mother had good taste.'
He asked about her blind brother.
'Clive is studying electronic engineering,' she said. `Sounds pretty difficult,' he commented.
'It is,' she said. 'Even for a sighted person. I suspect that's one reason why he chose it. He's very determined, and I guess he feels he has something to prove.'
I guess he does, Cade thought. Don't we all! He felt some considerable empathy for the unknown Clive Martin.
'Are you Australian?' he asked.
`No, I'm a New Zealander. The accents sound similar to you Americans.'
`You sound almost English,' he said. 'Most Australians have a pronounced twang.'
'Oh, they don't all talk like Chips Rafferty,' she said. 'But I expect your ear is more acute than most.'
`Are you on your way home to New Zealand?'
`Yes, I've lived in the States for a year—it will be strange coming home.'
The plane shuddered and dropped a little, and he felt the small jarring as her hand clutched at the armrest beside him.
'Are you nervous?' He raised his own hand to cover hers, finding the skin smooth and warm under his fingers.
'Not terribly,' she said. 'I was a bit startled, that's all.
I haven't flown much, really. You must be quite used to it, I suppose.'
He thought she was more scared than she admitted, as the plane continued to shake intermittently. She spoke quickly and her voice had a suddenly breathless quality. The hand under his quivered a little and he tightened his long fingers on it, partly to reassure her and partly because he liked the feel of the smooth, silky skin against his palm. His thumb absently caressed her wrist as he said, 'Yes, I travel a lot. Mostly by plane. It's supposed to be the safest mode of travel, you know.'
`Yes, I had heard that.'
She still sounded faintly agitated, and he went on talking, his beautiful singer's voice deliberately soothing as he told her about some of the journeys he had made, the places he had seen.
When the plane flew out of the turbulence, she quietly withdrew her hand as they resumed a steady, even flight. ,
`I think I'll have a short nap,' she said.
`Have I bored you?'
`Oh, no! Please don't think that. You've been fascinating me, Mr Fernand. It was kind of you to try to take my mind off the plane,, but you must be tired of talking to me.'
Surprised, he said, 'What makes you think that?'
'Well, you obviously didn't want to talk before—when you got on the plane. I expect you're tired after last night's performance.'
`Were you there?'
`I'm afraid not. I boarded in Los Angeles. And I'll miss your show in Sydney, too.'
'You're going straight on to New Zealand, then?'
'No. I have two days in Sydney. I'll be staying in a hotel with an aunt who lives in Adelaide. But your shows will be booked out, I'm afraid, before I get there.'
`I'll get Jack to leave two tickets at the box office for you. There'll be some kept for my friends.'
The genuine pleasure which warmed her voice when she thanked him convinced him she wasn't just being polite when she said she liked his music. Then, to his slightly piqued surprise, she lowered the back of her seat, and apparently did go to sleep.
When they stopped over at Nandi she left the plane, saying she wanted to buy a few souvenirs at the duty-free shop for her family and friends, and Jack crossed the aisle and sat beside Cade until she returned.
When he made to relinquish the seat to her, she said, `Oh, no, please stay there. I don't mind taking your seat.'
Cade's own annoyance surprised him by its strength. Only a few hours ago he would have welcomed the change, but now he found he wanted that soft voice beside him, and he answered Jack's enthusiastic comments on the likely success of the Australian tour with little enthusiasm of his own. In his mind he was creating a mental picture of Carissa Martin.
After they left the plane he asked Jack what she was like.
Nice,' Jack said, meaning good-looking. 'Very nice. blonde, long hair but done up on top. Young, but stylish. A lady, you might say. Yeah—very nice. Wish I was twenty years younger.'
Cade brushed that remark aside. 'Eyes?' he said. Wm—darkish, I think. But not brown. Grey, maybe? Hazel? I dunno. Say, are you interested?'
He means, do you want to sleep with her? Shall I fix it?
`No,' Cade laughed, and clapped his friend on the shoulder to cover a rare surge of angry disgust that he knew was unfair. `No, not that much.'
But—if she came to the show ...
'I promised to leave some tickets for her for the
show,' he said casually. 'Remember it, will you?' 'Sure.'
And Jack would remember. Not that Cade would have forgotten it ...
It was a great show. The crowd went wild, which they told him was unusual here. He played on their feelings with his guitar and with his voice, and felt them swaying with the moods that he created for them. He played a number with a strong, primitive beat, and they clapped and stamped in time with the music. He sang a sad South American lament, and they hushed and he felt them grieving with him for lost loves and forgotten childhoods. He sang a love song for a beautiful woman that he had written, and every woman in the audience knew it was for her. Their soft sighs of passion almost feathered his skin has he sat apparently relaxed and intimate in the spotlight he couldn't see. Here, it didn't matter that he was blind. They were all in darkness and only he had light. He couldn't see, but how he could make them feel! He felt like a god.
At the end they called him back again and again, with cheers and whistles and stamping feet. After the second encore when he went into the wings, Jack said in his ear, 'She's here.'
'Who?' His audience was calling him again, like a lover, and like a lover he didn't want to come down yet from the sweet heights that he had taken them to.
'Carissa Martin,' said Jack. 'Say, do you know what her name-means? Dearest little schemer! Is that weird?'
Jack had a book of names and their meanings that he was almost superstitious about. 'Cadiz Fernand' had been his invention. Cade went along with the stage name in public, but simply refused to answer to it in private.
'Yeah, well get her backstage, Jack,' he said, and
walked confidently back on to the bare stage, his arms lovingly outstretched to their ovation.
There seemed to be a remarkable number of people in his dressing room. He was introduced to several names and accepted all their congratulations. Some of the women kissed his cheek. They all twittered. He remembered Carissa's warm, sweet voice, and wondered where she was.
Then Jack took his arm. 'You remember Miss Martin, Cade.' And a cool, firm hand clasped his.
'Thank you for the ticket,' she said. 'I loved the show.'
He remembered there was an aunt. Just because he didn't want her to go, and the smooth hand in his fingers was already beginning to withdraw, he asked, 'Did your aunt enjoy it?'
'She couldn't come, after all. She's still in Adelaide, in bed with some virus that's going round. I only used one of your tickets.'
'You don't know anyone in Sydney?'
'I don't know anyone in the whole of Australia, except my aunt—and you.'
.The hand moved out of his grasp with some determination, against the fractional tightening of his fingers .
'Don't go away!' he said. 'Jack!' And he turned to someone's insistent grasp on his shoulder, knowing he could trust Jack to make sure she stayed until all these superfluous people had gone.
He did, and got them a taxi to a place he recommended for a late supper. Jack al
ways knew the best places to go within hours of arriving in any city in the world.
Carissa Martin was good to be with. She guided him while seeming to be simply holding his arm like any pretty woman out with a man. They were seated as he
liked, side by side, so that he could feel her movements, and she read the menu to him quietly but let him
order. And didn't talk too much. She questioned the waiter about one or two things on the menu, and Cade thought he detected admiration in the man's voice as he replied, the subtle difference of cadence that denoted a masculine reaction to feminine beauty. He smiled to himself with a glimmer of satisfaction. The envy of other men was a compensation for his blindness. Having beautiful women to show off in places like this, to share social occasions and sometimes his bed, was a way of scoring off men who had their sight. Cadiz Fernand was never seen with a plain woman.
When they had eaten, he brushed a hand lightly down her left arm and fingered the watch on her wrist.
`Is it marcasite?' he asked, feeling the small chips about the smoothness of the glass.
'No, gold.'
With—not diamonds.' She wasn't a diamond type, he thought.
`No, they're emeralds. Small ones.'
`To go with your eyes?'
She laughed, a little self consciously. 'Well, that depends. My eyes change, colour with my mood. Sometimes they're green. Especially when I'm angry. When I feel sentimental, or emotional, they go grey. Mostly, I guess you'd call them hazel.'
Hearing movement and a chink of glassware behind him, Cade turned.
'Waiter?'
'Yes, sir?' The man bent over them.
He turned his face towards Carissa. What colour are the lady's eyes?' He heard her small gasp.
`Grey, sir. Dark grey.'
`Thank you.' He smiled at her in triumph, wishing he could see her expression, and handed the man a note. “Call a cab for us; would you, please.'
