Politeness cost nothing, but now he wasn’t even prepared to give her that. Had she been as unsure of herself, as outwardly quashed as he remembered, then he might have been able to manage a stilted pretence of polite behaviour. But this new sassy, super-confident creature with the gleam of battle in her eyes could expect nothing from him.
After the funeral, after he’d satisfied himself that she was prepared to take her new responsibilities seriously, Georgia Blake was on her own.
Her old room. Georgia flung it a look of deep distaste.
She had always hated the little-girly pinks and peaches Vivienne had chosen for its decor, the frills and flounces everywhere and the delicate white and gold furniture that looked as if it might fall to pieces if she went anywhere near it. She had felt like a lumbering elephant in a fairy grotto, but had been too unsure of herself, too cowed by her mother’s resentment of her existence, to object.
If Jason had possessed any sensitivity at all he would have asked Mrs Moody to make a bed up for her in one of the several guest rooms.
Thankfully, she would only have to make use of the room that had been the scene of her humiliation and anguish for a couple of nights at most. Thankfully again, a quick inspection revealed that all of the things she’d left behind on that terrible evening had been turfed out of the drawers and hanging cupboards. Mrs Moody would have binned them on her mother’s instructions.
She tossed her overnight bag on the frilly pink bedcover and stood in front of the mirror, running her fingers through her untidy mane of hair.
‘Mouse’ was a thing of the past. After the trauma of losing everything—Jason, their baby, the right to show her face at Lytham, to have anything more to do with her mother—her hair had grown because she simply hadn’t bothered to have it cut, and the puppy fat had dropped off her because she had only been able to pick at her food.
A final fleeting glance told her she’d do. Jason would have to take her as she was. Vivienne had always insisted they dress for dinner. How well she remembered having to climb out of her uniform of baggy tops that hid a multitude of sins and deck herself in the frilly frocks her mother deemed suitable for a young girl.
Or perhaps Vivienne had deliberately picked out those awful fussy dresses because she’d known they made her daughter look a fright, the contrast with her own elegant perfection all the more pointed.
She wouldn’t let it hurt her. Why should she? Vivienne was dead, the past was dead, and Jason—despite appearing as handsome and virile as ever; even more so if she were to be painfully honest—might just as well be.
Being at Lytham again brought back far too many uncomfortable memories, and if what Jason had said about her inheritance was true then she’d get rid of the place faster than it took her gorgeous, powerful new car to get from nought to sixty!
She found him in the breakfast room, and he hadn’t changed what he was wearing, either. So the old order had altered. Which, she thought, raking her eyes over the lean, powerful frame enhanced by his casual jeans and sweater, was a pity. She would have taken perverse pleasure from annoying him, underlining her confident independence.
‘Ready to eat?’ Did she have to look at him as if they were squaring up for the fight of the century? He lifted the lid of the steaming casserole Mrs Moody had brought through five minutes ago, along with a clutch of jacket potatoes, and found the enticing aroma repelled him.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Georgia stated, helping herself from the opened bottle of red wine, filling a glass for him, making it look like a slightly insulting afterthought, before carrying her own drink to one of the armchairs that flanked the brightly burning fire. ‘But you go ahead.’
Bitch! he thought savagely, but held his tongue. Who would have thought the vulnerable, too-eager-to-please Georgia would have grown up into—into this? But then who would have thought that that same, seemingly loving child-woman would have coldly and callously aborted their baby without even consulting him?
He put the cover back on the untouched casserole and pulled out one of the dining chairs, angling it to face her. Time to get any necessary talking out of the way: details of tomorrow’s funeral, the exact extent of her very considerable inheritance, and a lecture on her responsibilities to the resident staff if she decided to liquidise her property assets.
Instead he found himself deriding, ‘Is that how you stay thin? By starving yourself? There was a time when you’d eat everything you could lay your hands on.’
The forbidding, steely eyes, the dark, slashing frown would have sent the old Georgia running to hide. The new one was unquenchable, and it was high time he got to understand that.
‘Not thin, surely?’ With deliberate provocation she ran one hand slowly over her body, drawing attention to the pert swell of her breasts, the very feminine curve of her hip. ‘Let’s say slender.’ Her gaze was coolly mocking and Jason’s breath hissed in his throat as he silently amended ‘bitch’ to ‘witch’.
She had matured into one very sexy lady. But outward appearances meant nothing. He preferred the admittedly over-generous curves of the extraordinarily loving body that had been his for that brief time, when a combination of medicinal drugs and a hefty dose of alcohol had made him forget that he was supposed to be a responsible adult.
Memories of that amazing night, so rigorously denied for seven years, punched holes in his brain, and he drained his wine glass, wishing it were something stronger, as she told him languorously, ‘Normally I have a healthy appetite, I assure you. The difference is, I no longer go in for comfort eating.’
That made sense; he had to admit that. The kid had had a loveless, largely lonely life, packed off to boarding school and encouraged, when possible, to spend as much time during the holidays with her schoolfriend—all because the elegant Vivienne hadn’t wanted her teenage daughter to clutter up her new, sophisticated lifestyle.
He remembered arriving for the weekend, one summer Saturday morning, and finding Georgia in the kitchen, her face red with guilt and covered with crumbs, being lectured by Mrs Moody for polishing off a whole batch of newly baked cookies.
He didn’t want to remember feeling sorry for her. Or the way he’d cast around for something to take her mind off the humiliating scene he’d walked in on, telling her he was stiff from driving, suggesting she accompany him on a walk over the fields. He didn’t want to remember anything about her.
It was his own fault, of course, for mentioning something as personal as her eating habits. He regretted the lack of control that had led to the remark. It wouldn’t happen again.
‘Right.’ Briefly, unemotionally, he detailed the arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral, then commented, his tone unaltered, ‘As you didn’t bother to attend your mother’s funeral I can only assume you’re here for your stepfather’s because he discussed the contents of his will with you. However—’
‘Hold it!’ The cool detachment dropped away as she pushed herself to her feet and slapped her almost empty wine glass down on the table. She stared down at him, her wide mouth tight. ‘I was out of the city on business and knew nothing of Vivienne’s death until Harold flew out to New York the day after her funeral, so you can button your lip on the snide remarks. And, no, you choose to assume wrongly; Harold never discussed his will or his financial affairs with me.’
‘No?’ One black brow arched, grey eyes cool, cynical. ‘Then what did you discuss during your cosy little lunches? Or would you rather not tell me? Did you know,’ he said flatly, almost uninterestedly, ‘that he kept all the letters you wrote him from New York?’
What the hell did he think he was implying? Emotion, raw and sharp, tore ragged holes around her heart. She was right; Harold had obviously never put the record straight. Jason thought now, as he had done then, that she’d enthusiastically thrown herself at anything in trousers.
Over the years she’d worked so hard to block out any sign of emotion where he was concerned. She had confidently believed she’d managed it, that the only emotion she
could feel for him was a cool and distant contempt. Showing any emotion in front of him, even anger, was a definite no-no.
As he tipped the bottle to refill her glass she pulled in a deep breath and made a conscious effort to un-clamp her jaws. He couldn’t get to her; she wouldn’t let him.
Controlled again now, she responded evenly, ‘You found my letters, so I’m sure you read them through a microscope.’
She hoped he had; she did so hope he had. Duty things, and not many of them, written because she’d felt sorry for the lonely, guilt-ridden elderly man, and because it had seemed unmannerly not to reply to one or two of the dozens he’d sent her. Duty letters. Nothing in them but comments about her work, the weather.
But he didn’t tell her whether he’d read them or not, and she reminded herself that she didn’t care a fig what he thought of her and watched him push her glass towards her over the smooth, polished surface of the table.
‘Forget it.’ He sounded bored with the subject. ‘Take your wine and sit down. If you really don’t know, then I’ll run over the details of his will for you.’
She shrugged, just slightly, took the glass, but didn’t sit down. The time when she would have walked over hot coals if he’d told her to was long since past. She wandered over to the window instead, tweaked aside the heavy claret-coloured curtains and gazed up at a billion stars. It was freezing hard, but the atmosphere inside was much, much colder as Jason stated matter-of-factly, ‘Everything he had comes to you. As you know, on his marriage to your mother he sold his company—I’d already told him I had no interest in property development. The proceeds were wisely invested, so he leaves an extremely healthy portfolio. The interest on the investments means you would never have to work again if you didn’t want to. And this house, of course, and everything in it. I can’t see you keeping it on, and imagine you would prefer to sell.’
He watched her closely. Her profile, cameoed against the black of the night sky, could have been carved from marble. No reaction. No pretence of being overwhelmed by such largesse. Not even a flicker of avarice. Unlike her younger self—transparent as tap water—this new Georgia played her cards very close to her chest.
He pushed aside an unwilling respect, and wondered if his next pronouncement might produce a reaction. ‘Since Harold failed to do so, I suggest you think about making provision for Mrs Moody if you do decide to sell after probate. She’s looked after things here very efficiently for as long as I can remember. I know she’s not exactly a bundle of fun, but she means well. At her age she’s not likely to find another job with living accommodation. Think about it. Then, of course, there’s Baines. He’s done the gardens for the past thirty-odd years on ridiculously low wages. He and his wife have their own small cottage, so he won’t have so much to lose as Mrs Moody. But I would suggest he deserves something.’
That got a reaction, proving—if he’d needed proof—that his assessment of her character was spot-on. He knew it when she slowly turned her head, looking at him with cold golden eyes, her delicate nostrils slightly flared, her wide mouth curved with a slight, contemptuous smile.
‘Anyone else in need of a hand-out? You, perhaps? I would imagine so, since Harold didn’t make provision for you, either. How much would you like? Would half be enough? Or do you think you should have it all?’
She didn’t regret a word. Not a single one. He was Harold’s adopted son; naturally he would bitterly resent everything going to her, the pariah. But she wasn’t about to show misgivings in front of this man who had so decisively turned his back on her at the time when she’d needed him most.
And of course she would ensure Mrs Moody and Baines received generous recognition for their years of loyalty and service, but she had no intention of telling him that, and letting him think he still had the power to pull her strings. She’d hoped her scathing comments had made him feel small, and was so appalled when she saw him lean back on his chair and actually smile that she had to look away.
‘You’re welcome to the lot,’ he told her smoothly. ‘I make my own way. I even funded my years at university with a legacy my mother left in trust. I took nothing of Harold’s after I reached eighteen, and I want nothing of his now. As I said, you’re welcome to it.’ The derisive smile slid away, his mouth going tight. ‘I’m sure you more than earned it.’
‘If you say so.’ She lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug to indicate complete indifference, to show him he could no longer wound her with his rock-bottom opinions.
She drained the wine in her glass. She needed something to help her sleep. Then wished she hadn’t because it made her feel peculiar.
‘If that’s it, I think I’ll turn in.’
She began to head towards the door, slowly, her legs feeling a bit like cotton wool now, and Jason, watching her impassively, said, ‘Not quite.’
Her progress halted, Georgia grasped the back of a chair to steady herself. The floor seemed to be dipping and swaying under her feet. ‘What now?’ she asked belligerently. She couldn’t let him see she was tipsy, would loathe the consequent scornful amusement.
‘Blue Rock,’ he said. He watched her unwillingly. She was pale, her huge eyes wide, burning. Suddenly she looked practically out on her feet. She was too sophisticated a being to be affected by a couple of glasses of wine. Over-excited by her prospects, he guessed. Meeting up with him again wouldn’t have had that effect because she didn’t have a conscience. Well, he’d give her something else to get excited about.
‘The island, the house, and everything in it. Harold never went back after the accident. Apparently, Vivienne left a lot of personal stuff behind. I doubt you’d be interested in her clothes, but you might like to get your hands on her jewellery.’ He got to his feet. He’d had enough of her company, as much as he could take. ‘If you feel like flying out, taking the boyfriend, you’d be well looked after. Blossom and Elijah still live in the annexe and look after the house.’
The room was so quiet he could hear her breathing. Sharing space with her made his blood run hot. Suddenly, the thought of her taking up his suggestion, spending time on the island with her current boyfriend—the guy who’d answered her phone?—made every muscle in his body go into spasm.
The pigeons were coming home to roost with a vengeance, and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d behaved with reckless irresponsibility, lived through the traumatic consequences, managed to put the whole thing behind him.
Or so he’d thought.
Seeing her in the flesh, gorgeous, sexy, self-possessed, awoke something raw and savage inside himself. He wanted to lash out at her for being so damned fanciable, at himself for finding her so, at fate for pushing them together again.
He said a brusque goodnight and walked out of the room. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Looking at her created a pain it was impossible to describe.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE dream had been haunting her far less regularly. But that night she dreamed of the baby. The baby that was dead.
She woke and felt the weight of guilt, and wept, and couldn’t stop. The dream had been more heart-wrenching because of its long absence.
At the funeral, at the gathering of the handful of mourners back at the house, she kept the tears inside her, silent, smothered, but no less real. She couldn’t weep for Harold, with whom she had made her peace; the silent tears were for her baby, with whom she had not, and never would while the guilt stayed with her. If only she hadn’t allowed herself to get so distraught over what had happened, over Harold’s lies and Jason’s contempt, she might not have miscarried, she might have kept her baby!
She’d done her best to hide the ravages of her restless, grieving night, used far more make-up than usual, worn a slate-grey business suit with a white silk scarf tucked into the neckline. But her face felt unnaturally stiff, like stone, and she caught the penetrating appraisal of Jason’s grey and narrowed eyes and wondered if he knew the reason for her grief.
But of course he didn’t. He’d
turned that strong, broad back on her and their baby, shut them out of his mind. He didn’t know what had happened to the child he had fathered—apart from Sue, and her loving, supportive family, no one did.
And he hadn’t even asked, didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to know if he’d fathered a boy or a girl, if the child was doing well at school, happy and strong. If the child was alive.
The pain of it nagged her like an aching tooth, an abscess eating away at an exposed nerve. The pain wouldn’t go away and so she knew she must, and as quickly as possible.
She saw Jason escort the last of the mourners out through the hall and began to stack plates and glasses on to a tray. She carried it through to the kitchen.
Mrs Moody, her small eyes red-rimmed, folded her hands across her stomach and said, ‘You don’t need to do that; it’s my job—while I still have a job.’
‘That’s what I’d like to talk about.’
Georgia put the heavy tray down on one of the gleaming work surfaces. She was doing her best to put aside the intensity of the pain that was growing inside her. She would be leaving soon, just as soon as she could throw her things together and get out of this house, and this was probably the last opportunity she would get to talk to the housekeeper face to face. She didn’t want to set foot inside Lytham again, and meet the taunting, haunting ghosts of the past.
‘If you’ve no immediate plans I’d like you to stay on and look after the house until everything’s settled. I’ll be leaving shortly to meet with my stepfather’s solicitor.’ She had phoned him first thing, at his rooms in Gloucester, and he’d said he could see her any time after four. ‘I’d like to be able to tell him you’re staying on, and then he’ll make arrangements for your wages and the usual bills to be paid out of the estate.’
Mrs Moody, staring at her, wasn’t making this easy. Her face had always reminded Georgia of a rat trap. She picked up her faltering voice and stated, ‘I won’t have any use for Lytham, and eventually it will be sold.’
Mistress for a Night Page 4
