by Daphne Clair
She took him into the back room used as office and storage space and pulled aside the hanging, opened the safe without a word and handed him the tin cash box.
The man stowed it bulkily inside his jacket and pushed her again. ‘What’s in there?’ he demanded, nodding his helmeted head towards the door behind her.
‘It’s a toilet.’
He grabbed her arm and shoved her inside the tiny room. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t come out for twenty minutes or you’ll be sorry.’ He slammed the door.
Tara leaned an ear against the panel, closing her eyes in a mixture of relief and hope. She heard his booted feet on the floor, and the muffled voice shouted, ‘Twenty minutes! Or you’ll get it.’
He was making his getaway, not hanging about to see if she obeyed. She knew that, but her ears strained, her heart thudding. Had he gone all the way to the door? Would he wait for a minute—five, ten? Or just run? Was that the roar of a motorbike she could distantly hear? What direction did it come from?
She was shaking. The painted wood against her ear, her cheek, felt cold. She wanted to be sick. How long had she been standing here, too afraid to get out, to move?
The longer she delayed the more time he had to get away. Cautiously she turned the door handle, then paused. Nothing happened. She opened the door a crack, holding her breath, peering through the inadequate aperture. Still nothing.
Gathering her courage, she opened the door properly, looked through the connecting doorway to the shop. The place seemed empty. The telephone was on the desk in one corner of the back room. She dived for it, and with trembling fingers dialled the emergency number.
Hours later she opened the door of the turn-of-the-century Epsom cottage she’d restored and refurbished, and thankfully closed it behind her. The police had been great, but trying to remember every detail that would help them and poring through photographs of likely suspects had taken its toll. Someone had given her coffee and a biscuit, and the phone number of a victim support group. Her legs were unsteady as she walked across the dimmed living room, drawn by the light blinking on the answering machine sitting on a graceful antique writing bureau. She turned on a side lamp and pressed the play button on the machine, listened to a message from the library about a book she’d requested, another from a friend offering to sell her a ticket to a charity concert, and then jerked to attention as Sholto’s voice filled the room. ‘I’ll phone again later,’ he said, adding, ‘It’s Sholto,’ as though she didn’t know his voice, didn’t react to it with every pore.
He had phoned again later, and again, each time with the same message, leaving no number for her to return the call.
Tempted to replay the tape just to hear his voice again, Tara clenched her teeth and reset it instead. She wasn’t a mooning adolescent now; she was a grown woman and she’d got over Sholto. Not easily, but at last. There was no way she was going to fall into that maelstrom of emotion and pain again. If he did repeat his call she would let the machine deal with it.
In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator and her stomach turned at the sight of food. Closing the door, she made herself more coffee and nibbled on a dry cracker. And found herself back in the living room, leaning against the door jamb and staring at the phone.
When it rang she almost dropped the half-finished coffee in her haste to intercept the rings before the machine cut in. Snatching up the receiver, she managed a breathless, ‘Hello? This is—’
‘Tara,’ Sholto said. ‘I’ve been phoning you all day.’
‘I was at the shop,’ she said. ‘I heard your message-messages.’
‘You work in a shop?’
He didn’t know, of course. ‘I own a shop. Bygones and Bibelots. Mostly it’s just called Bygones, though.’
‘Antiques?’
‘Yes, and some new stuff. A mixture.’
‘You work late.’
‘No, not really.’ She swallowed, remembering the man in the dark-visored helmet. The shadows in the unlit corners of the room were deepening and she had a sudden urgent desire to turn on all the lights in the house. ‘What did you want?’
‘I shouldn’t have said some of the things I did last night.’
Tara didn’t answer immediately. Was this some kind of apology? Although his tone was aloof rather than conciliatory.
‘I was caught off balance,’ he said.
‘So was I,’ Tara admitted. She’d said some fairly waspish things herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting you there.’
‘I suppose I spoiled the party for you.’
It was an apology—or at least probably as near as Sholto was likely to come to one.
‘Th-that’s all right.’ Dismayingly, she heard her voice wobble. Tears slid hotly down her cheeks. ‘It was j-just unlucky, I guess.’
‘Tara?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Are you all right?’
She wasn’t crying because he was marrying someone else, she told herself fiercely. It was too humiliating that he should think so. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Tara—what is it?’ He sounded cautious.
She could put the phone down. Only he’d be sure then that she was crying over him. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I got robbed, that’s all—’
‘Robbed?’ For a moment there was silence, before he said urgently, ‘Where? At your shop? Are you hurt?’
‘N-no,’ she gulped. ‘Not really—not badly.’
‘Do you have someone there with you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Sholto—no! I’m all right.’
But he’d already hung up and all she heard was the hum of the dial tone.
CHAPTER THREE
The doorbell buzzed imperatively fifteen minutes later. Tara had spent the time stemming the stupid tears, rinsing her face in cold water and rather unsuccessfully trying to cover up the aftermath of her crying jag with make-up.
She didn’t switch on the passage light and avoided raising her eyes to Sholto’s as she opened the door and said quickly, ‘You had no need to come rushing over. How did you know where to find me, anyway?’
‘Your address is in the phone book.’ He stepped inside and closed the door himself, and then his hard fingers lifted her chin, and he reached out his other hand to the light switch by the door.
His brows contracted as he saw the swelling on her cheekbone. He cursed under his breath. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘The police surgeon checked me over. It’s only bruises.’
‘Only! There are others?’
‘A couple. You know I bruise easily. I was lucky—it could have been worse.’ She shivered, thinking how much worse it could have been, and folded her arms across herself, turning away. ‘Now that you’re here, you’d better come in.’ She led the way to the living room.
‘Your back!’ he exclaimed, and as she looked round, startled, he said, ‘The bruise on your back, it’s already gone blue.’
Tara flushed. She’d forgotten about it, although she’d had to invent a story for the doctor. She’d noticed a bit of stiffness after she got up this morning, but there was
nothing visible when she peered in the mirror, and she’d thought no more about it as she donned the dress that dipped even lower at the back than in front. Over the afternoon the bruise had evidently coloured up, although it couldn’t have been too bad earlier. Tod hadn’t noticed. ‘That must have happened last night,’ she said.
‘Last night?’ he repeated sharply. ‘What did that great ape do to you?’
Tara gaped at him. ‘If you mean Andy—’
‘I mean the guy you were draping yourself over all night, the one you brought home with you, even though it was obvious he was smashed out of his mind.’
‘He was not! And what makes you think I brought him home?’
‘I saw him get into your car. As a matter of fact, I thought you were trying to argue him out of it—I was half out of my car, intending to come to the rescue, when you leaned ove
r and kissed him, so I figured you didn’t need help after all.’
Kissed him? She’d leaned over to fasten Andy’s safety belt. She supposed that from a distance it might have looked like an embrace. ‘Where were you, anyway?’ She’d thought that he and Averil had been long gone by then.
‘Sitting in my car, some way behind you.’
So what he’d seen could only have been through the windows of other parked cars. And he’d jumped to conclusions.
But surely they’d left the party before she had. Why hadn’t they driven off? Necking, she supposed, not able to wait until they got to—where? Averil’s place? Or did they share? ‘Couldn’t keep your hands off each other?’ she heard herself suggest. ‘How sweet! Just like a couple of teenagers!’
Something flickered in his eyes. His mouth straightened. ‘Actually, we were blocked by another car. The party appeared to be breaking up, so we thought we’d wait a while until someone moved it.’ Not that it was any of her business, his tone implied.
Neither was her taking Andy home any of his. But she said, ‘I drove Andy to his flat—and left him there.’
‘Too far gone to perform, was he?’ Without waiting for her comeback on that, he said, ‘So where did that bruise come from?’
Tara let her lip curl derisively. ‘Don’t you remember?’
His brows drew together. ‘Remember what?’
‘When your fiancée found us kissing last night—’
‘You kissed me!’ he interrupted harshly.
There was no reason, Tara decided, to let him get away with that. She tipped her head to one side and smiled, slowly. ‘When you were finishing what I’d started,’ she said deliberately, ‘and we were interrupted, you shoved me against the door frame—rather hard.’
He’d already been turning to Averil then, and by the time he’d looked back at Tara she’d been standing upright again.
Colour darkened his cheekbones and quickly receded, leaving them oddly sallow. ‘I did that?’ he queried finally.
Tara nodded.
He hauled a rasping breath into his lungs. ‘I had no idea!’ He sounded almost shaken.
‘It wasn’t intentional,’ she conceded. ‘I do realise that.’
‘Does it hurt?’
Tara shook her head. ‘I’m not permanently damaged—by either you or the robber.’
She thought he almost winced. ‘Where did it happen?’ he asked. ‘The robbery—at the shop?’
‘Yes. He made me open the safe and took all this morning’s takings.’
‘Is that much?’
‘Quite a lot. It was a busy morning. I’m not thrilled about it, but it won’t put me out of business.’
Sholto moved further into the now well-lighted room, looked quickly at the two roomy, comfortable sofas, the faded oriental rug, the old heavily framed pictures, the antique bureau in one corner, the exotic wall hangings, and then returned his gaze to Tara’s face. ‘You were upset when I phoned.’
‘Reaction. You were the first person, apart from the police and the doctor, that I’d spoken to since it happened.’
‘How are you feeling now?’
‘I’ll be all right. It was kind of you to enquire, but unnecessary.’
He glanced again about the room. ‘You live alone?’
‘Yes. What about you? I mean,’ she added hastily, ‘where did you come from, tonight?’ Was Averil waiting impatiently somewhere for him? She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask.
‘I’m staying in a hotel in the city. Averil’s parents live in a small flat.’
And was she staying with them, or with him at the hotel? ‘Chantelle said Averil’s away a lot. What does she do?’
‘She’s a flight attendant.’
‘The Hong Kong route? Is that how you met?’
‘Yes. Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?’
She hadn’t expected him to stay. Tara shrugged. ‘Do you need an invitation? Please sit down, if you want to.’
‘And you?’ He indicated politely.
She sank onto the nearest sofa, and he sat on the other one, at right angles to hers, his arm resting on the back as he twisted to face her.
‘So... how have you been?’ he asked her.
The deep, quiet voice sounded caring, sincere. She thought she’d probably fallen in love with Sholto’s voice before she’d fallen for the man. Marginally. Her almost instant emotional involvement had been cataclysmic— she’d scarcely had time to draw breath before she was in over her head.
And floundered for nearly three years, until the next cataclysm had propelled her out of his life, leaving her alone and struggling to stay alive.
Not in material terms, of course. He’d made sure she was financially amply provided for—conscience money, she had told herself bitterly. But emotionally she’d been annihilated, and it had taken her years just to regain some kind of equilibrium.
Last evening she’d discovered how fragile that equilibrium was. The news of Sholto’s engagement had sent her spinning. All night she’d been reliving in her mind every detail of their ultimately disastrous relationship, besieged by grief and despair. She wondered if Sholto had ever experienced even a twinge of regret.
‘I’ve been fine,’ she told him. ‘I have a very nice life.’
It was true, if one went by the surface things. She had a small but adequate circle of friends, a thriving if modest business, a delightful little home in a fashionable and pleasant suburb. Epsom was an area of desirable real estate, well-established and only minutes from the centre of Auckland city, but tranquil and almost crime-free, with tree-lined streets and a high proportion of gracious older homes among newer, architect-designed dwellings.
She didn’t have a lover. Didn’t want one, she reminded herself firmly. She preferred her life as it was— conventional and uncomplicated.
‘And you,’ she said, ‘are obviously thriving.’ He looked more confident, more handsome than ever. And he’d just got engaged to a woman who was pretty and presentable in every way, even if, in Tara’s possibly biased opinion, a trifle colourless. ‘I suppose business is booming?’
A small shrug. ‘It’s doing well,’ Sholto conceded. He looked down at his polished shoes for an instant, and then up, with an air of deliberation. ‘I’m going to be running it from Auckland again. Averil wants to settle here. She comes from a close-knit family.’
‘Is she giving up her work?’
‘Giving up flying, anyway.’
‘Had enough of the high life?’ Mentally Tara slapped herself. Bad puns weren’t any way to conduct a sophisticated conversation.
Sholto’s eyes sharpened for a second. ‘She wants children.’
Did he know how much that hurt? Probably not, but he’d been defending Averil, all the same. Driven by some obscure demon, Tara said flippantly, ‘And you’ll be happy to keep her barefoot and pregnant, I suppose.’
He moved abruptly, dropping his arm from the sofa back and linking his fingers on one long, impeccably trousered thigh. ‘I’ll be happy to keep her happy,’ he said softly.
She’d asked for that. With an effort she refrained from closing her eyes, staring unblinkingly into his until hers stung.
‘Well,’ she said then, ‘you’ve assured yourself I’m still in one piece, and I expect Averil will be waiting for you. Thanks for your concern—’ She stood up rather quickly and then gasped as the room spun before her surprised eyes. ‘Oh!’
A hand gripped her arm. ‘Sit down,’ Sholto ordered, and pushed her back onto the sofa. ‘Are you sure that doctor examined you properly?’
‘Yes. I’m not concussed or anything. Just a bit of delayed shock, I expect. I shouldn’t have got up so fast.’ Experimentally, she moved her feet, ready to try again.
Sholto bent and scooped them onto the sofa. ‘Don’t move! When did you last eat?’
‘Um—I had a cracker when I came home, with coffee.’
‘A cracker!’ he said with disgu
st. ‘I wasn’t hungry. At lunchtime I ate a filled roll.’
‘One roll?’
‘It was quite substantial,’ she protested. ‘Do you have any brandy?’
‘You know I hate it.’
‘I’ll make you some more coffee. Where’s the kitchen?’
‘You can’t—’
‘Where’s the kitchen? Never mind, I’ll find it.’
‘I’m really all right, now—’
He was already walking out of the room. At the door he looked back at her and said, ‘Stay there.’
Tara subsided. Humiliatingly, she felt tears gathering again. It was such a long time since anyone had looked after her, and tonight she was feeling vulnerable. The afternoon’s experience had affected her more than she’d realised.
When Sholto returned with a steaming cup she took it from him gratefully. He sat down on the end of the sofa by her feet and said, ‘You’ve got no food here.’
‘I was going to get a few things on my way home,’ she said, ‘but everything else that happened sort of killed that idea. There is bread, and a couple of eggs. And I’m sure I’ve got packets of pasta meals in the cupboard.’
Sholto grimaced disparagingly. ‘Drink that up,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take you out for supper.’
Tara nearly spilled the coffee she was sipping. ‘You can’t! What about Averil?’
‘Averil is somewhere in the skies over Asia at this moment,’ he drawled, glancing at his watch.
‘Even so, what will she think about you spending the evening with me while her back is turned?’
‘I said supper,’ he reminded her mildly. ‘Nothing more. And Averil isn’t the jealous type.’
Tara lowered her eyes and took some more coffee. Averil, it seemed, was a paragon of all the virtues. ‘Will you tell her?’ she asked, realising that she’d tacitly agreed to go out with him.
‘Probably,’ he replied indifferently. ‘I certainly won’t be making a secret of it.’
And would Averil be as complacent about it as he obviously expected? Tara wondered. She hoped he wasn’t in for a nasty surprise.
