The Cinderella Factor
Page 6
Her tongue seemed to twist itself in knots when she tried to say that, however. So she just glared at him instead.
At last, Patrick Burns seemed to notice his housekeeper’s agitation.
‘Sorry, Nanny,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘It’s not your fault. Crispin has overreached himself this time. And he’s not alone.’ He sent Jo a narrow-eyed look that made her mouth go dry. But he patted Mrs Morrison on the shoulder. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. Don’t worry about it.’
Mrs Morrison looked even more alarmed.
He managed to smile at the housekeeper, though Jo saw that it got nowhere near his eyes.
‘No excuse for upsetting you, Nanny. Sorry. Jo—that is your name? Jo?—Jo and I will settle this between us. You go and get on with whatever you were doing. Jo and I need to talk.’
Mrs Morrison could hardly do anything but leave the room in face of a direct order. She sent Jo a puzzled, sympathetic look. And went.
Patrick Burns turned back to Jo. His eyes raked her up and down. It was about as pleasant as being rubbed over with sandpaper.
She tried to remember the warmth of that startling smile. His kindness when he gave her his shirt. The attraction that had flared between them.
But it was no good. He looked as if his face had been hacked out of stone. As if he hated her. She could not imagine how she had ever thought that he had smiled at her. It must have been a trick of the light.
‘Jo,’ he said softly, tasting it.
She swallowed. She still could not think of anything to say.
‘Short for Joanna? Josephine? Joelle?’
There was no point in trying to pretend that she did not know him, that he had made a mistake. She was even wearing the same stained lumberjack shirt. Besides, those bold, cold eyes were telling her that he remembered perfectly well the body under those clothes.
Oh, yes, the attraction was still there all right. Only now it was not exciting. It was a threat
Jo felt the colour stain her cheeks at the insolence of that look.
‘Joanne,’ she muttered.
‘Joanne what?’
She hesitated.
‘No more pretty games,’ Patrick Burns said softly. ‘I don’t find them amusing. If you don’t answer me, I shall hand you over to the police.’
Her head lifted in a quick flare of alarm. If the police came they might be able to track Mark down through her. If Carol had had the gall to report him missing, of course. After Brian’s violence, would she dare, though? The Greys had never reported it when Jo took off, she knew. She bit her lip, weighing the chances.
He watched her—and, inevitably, misinterpreted her reaction.
‘So you’re wanted by the police too, are you, my wild thing?’
The endearment was a deliberate insult, and he wanted her to know it. She stiffened, surprisingly hurt. He was shattering a stupid fantasy—one she had hardly recognised until now. But it had been there from the moment he touched her fingers. She set her teeth and refused to react.
‘Your name,’ he rapped out.
Jo swallowed and said quietly, ‘You needn’t shout. It’s Jo Almond.’
‘So you gave Crispin your real name? Interesting. How long have you known him?’ He paused. ‘Was it because of you that he sent the Rouen guy packing?’
He shot the questions at her like a machine gun. Or, she thought with a strange little sadness, like an interrogator who hated her.
But at least they were questions she could answer factually. Without expression, she did so.
‘I met Crispin in town. It was chance.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘I didn’t know him before. He got the Rolls into a pickle and I helped him out. So…’ She spread her hands. ‘He offered me the job of covering for him while he was on holiday. I needed one. So I said yes. I was supposed to be a gopher for the expert when he arrived, just like Crispin was. That was all.’
Patrick Burns said, in a voice like glass, ‘It’s so unlikely I almost believe it.’
Jo lifted her head with sudden pride. ‘You said yourself I’ve looked after the cars well.’
He let out an expletive that shocked her. He saw her recoil and his mouth twisted.
‘We are not talking about cars, sweetheart. You’re not stupid. You know what we’re talking about.’
Jo could feel the hot, painful build-up of tears. That didn’t often happen, and it made her mad. She averted her eyes and tried to sniff quietly.
‘You mean the fact that I deceived the Morrisons?’ she said desolately.
He put his glass down.
‘And the fact that you deceived me.’ It was said quietly. But the tone was virulent.
Jo blenched.
She stammered, ‘I never m-meant to. I didn’t know who you were.’
‘I suppose I should be grateful for that,’ he mused. His tone was savage, for all his attempted lightness. ‘What would you have done if you had known, I wonder?’
Jo stared. ‘Told you the truth, of course,’ she said, bewildered. ‘There would have been no point in doing anything else.’
For a moment she almost told him how she’d hated lying. That she regretted running away from him the moment she had done it. But his expression was much too grim. He would not believe her.
‘So tell me now,’ he said softly.
His eyes were like lasers. Jo shifted uncomfortably, but her chin came up in defiance.
‘The whole truth,’ he warned. ‘Not just a careful selection to keep me sweet.’
Jo bared her teeth. ‘Wouldn’t dare.’ But she didn’t sound frightened, she thought thankfully. She sounded defiant. And mocking.
He ignored the defiance. ‘Good decision.’
Patrick had not invited her to sit down, but she did anyway. She chose a narrow, high-backed chair with a petit point seat set on the very edge of a priceless rug. It was deeply uncomfortable and no doubt very valuable. The furniture in this house, Crispin had told her, was even more antique than the cars.
Suddenly, gratefully, she was angry at the waste of it.
‘If I had all this money I’d buy things that didn’t stamp a brand on your backside every time you sit on them,’ Jo announced, fighting back.
Patrick looked taken aback. Then, unexpectedly, his lips twitched.
‘I’m sorry you don’t like my furniture. Perhaps you would be more comfortable somewhere else?’ he suggested softly.
Jo managed not to flinch, but she read the ironic message he was giving her easily enough. He was going to send her away.
Well, she had always known that would happen if Crispin’s brother came back. And her meeting with Patrick by the stream had in some obscure way made things worse. Infinitely worse.
She recognised the seeds of panic. She stamped on them ruthlessly and summoned up a cheeky grin. She even managed a shrug.
‘Okay. Do you want me to go today?’
‘You’re not going anywhere until you’ve told me the truth,’ he said with quiet menace. ‘Then I’ll think about what I do with you.’
So he was still thinking of handing her over to the police! Jo bit her lip.
‘What do you want to know?’ she asked warily.
For a moment he seemed almost at a loss.
Then he said, ‘You can start with where you met Crispin.’
Well, that was easy enough. She shrugged again.
‘In Lacombe. I told you. He got the Rolls-Royce wedged.’
‘And you turned it on a sixpence and roared into the stock-yard?’ Patrick supplied, marvelling.
Jo flushed at the sarcasm. Her chin lifted.
‘If that’s how you want to put it, yes.’
‘How convenient.’ He was watching her narrowly. ‘How much did you bribe Renard to quit? Or did Crispin pick up the tab?’
Jo stared. ‘Bribe—? Oh, you’re paranoid. That’s crazy. Why on earth should I?’ Her voice rose.
‘Because your main aim was to get into my house and clear out the opposition,’ Pa
trick Burns said flatly. ‘You might as well admit it. It is perfectly obvious. My only question is, why?’
Jo was suddenly angry. It was a relief. She came off the embroidered seat in a bound and stood in front of him, her fists clenched by her sides.
‘You’re a nutcase. You know that? I didn’t know anything about you or your house until I met Crispin. Yes, I was looking for a job. But that isn’t a crime, is it? I was doing the rounds of the cafés in Lacombe—waiting tables, helping in the kitchen, anything.’
He looked down at her, unspeaking, unsmiling. She could not tell what he was thinking. Jo thought with sudden unease that she had not realised how very tall he was. Even when they were so close that she could see his warm chest rising and falling, his height had not been so obvious, somehow. Jo’s coltish legs had always made her the tallest girl in the class. To feel suddenly small intimidated her.
It was a new experience for her. Jo did not like it. She flung her head back and glared.
‘I wish I had got a waitress job. Anything would be better than this.’
His eyebrows rose in gentle incredulity. ‘You’d better tell me why you needed a job.’
It was quite possible, Jo found, to fancy the pants off someone and still loathe them. She looked at him with dislike.
That too was a relief. Dislike was a lot better than that awful sentimental hunger she had felt by the river. Hell, she had even felt wistful about running away from him. Dislike was heaps better.
‘People do,’ she snapped. ‘It helps them eat.’
He was not offended. If anything, he looked amused suddenly.
‘How much of the stuff you told me by the river was true?’
Jo was tempted to say, Everything; including the way my body responds to yours. Of course she didn’t. She had to tell him the truth, but only as much of the truth as she could bear.
His voice softened suddenly. ‘Are you sure you’re not a student, after all? Overspent on your grant and daren’t go home. Is that it?’
Home! Jo could have laughed aloud. The only reason she had ever told a lie at all was to make sure that neither she nor Mark went within ten miles of Brian and Carol Grey and their cruel house, ever again.
She did not laugh. ‘No.’ Her voice sounded stilted, even to herself. ‘I’m not a student.’
His eyes narrowed.
Oh, Lord, she thought, he had seen that moment of near amusement. His eyes were like lasers. She swallowed. She withstood his look, steady-eyed. But it was an effort.
‘Of course you’re not,’ he said at last, softly. ‘Much too sure of yourself.’
She did laugh at that—a great gulp of astonished hilarity. ‘Sure of myself? Me?’
‘You dealt with me very professionally by the river,’ pointed out Patrick in a still voice.
Jo snorted in derision. ‘No, I didn’t. I ran,’ she said, disgusted with herself.
There was a strange pause that she did not understand. Then he said, ‘Yes, you did, didn’t you?’ in a voice she did not understand.
She did not understand the look in those tiger’s eyes, either. She looked away.
‘Right,’ said Patrick Burns, as if he was having to wrench his thoughts back to the matter in hand. ‘Stop playing games. You’re not a student. But somehow you managed to pick up Crispin. And convince him that it was okay to move you in with a priceless collection of cars and a couple of elderly disabled people. Want to tell me how you did that? Or shall I guess?’
Light dawned on Jo. ‘You think I’m a burglar?’
‘Nothing so crude,’ Patrick said. ‘Let us say that I am toying with the idea that you might be the—er—advance party.’
Jo stared at him in blank incomprehension.
‘You see,’ he said conversationally, ‘I keep remembering that you mentioned a boyfriend staying round here somewhere. And I ask myself—why didn’t he keep you with him?’
Jo felt as if she had been frozen to the spot. She could not think of a single thing to say. His eyes bored into hers as if he could read her mind like an old floppy disk. She put up a hand, as if to shield herself from that laser analysis.
Then, to her astonishment, after a narrow-eyed moment he made a small gesture of repudiation.
‘Maybe I’m wrong. If so, I apologise.’
It did not sound very apologetic. But it was something.
Jo pulled herself together with an effort. ‘You can’t have looked in your desk,’ she said distractedly. ‘Crispin took a character reference. I had to tell him to,’ she added in self-justification.
Crispin had moaned about having to sit down and write to Jacques Sauveterre, but Jo had insisted. She had not known about the antique furniture in the house, but she had recognised the value of the veteran cars at once.
He looked sardonic. ‘That was why I thought it must be a put-up job. I knew Crispin would never think of it himself. And a burglar capable of planning to put someone inside the target would obviously have thought of providing suitable references.’
‘Oh,’ said Jo. She was nonplussed. ‘I didn’t think of that,’ she admitted candidly.
One dark eyebrow flicked up. ‘No, I can see you didn’t.’ And lightly, with no change in tone at all, he said casually, ‘Is Jacques Sauveterre your lover?’
She could not believe that he had said it. ‘My what?’
‘Or whatever you want to call it. Your partner? Your main squeeze? Your shag of the moment?’
Jo blinked. He sounded almost savage. She found she could not answer, could not think, could not breathe.
Their eyes locked.
After a moment he expelled an explosive breath. ‘Okay,’ he said in a more restrained voice. ‘I think I accept that you’re not here to steal my cars.’ He paused. ‘So what are you here for?’
She shook her head, still breathless. ‘I’ve told you. I needed a job. By chance there was one here. It’s nothing more sinister than that.’
‘So why,’ asked Patrick Burns lightly, as if he didn’t give a damn about the answer, ‘did Crispin tell you to pretend to be a boy?’ His eyes sharpened suddenly. ‘I take it that he didn’t think you were a boy, too? Even Crispin couldn’t be that blind.’
Jo flushed.
‘He said you wouldn’t allow a girl to work for you,’ she muttered. ‘Or to live here. He said you needn’t know. That you wouldn’t be back until I’d gone.’
‘I—see.’
She sent him a slightly scornful look. ‘It sounded daft to me. But it really worried Crispin. He said it was enough to torpedo the whole idea. Then, when I met Mrs Morrison and she thought I was a boy, Crispin said that was the answer.’
‘It didn’t worry you? Taking advantage of someone who is half-blind?’
Jo flushed even harder. There was a pause. ‘I didn’t like it,’ she said at last, in a low voice. ‘But—’
He flung up a weary hand. ‘I know. I know. You wanted a job. And, as you’ve pointed out, it’s a job you do well.’
There was something in his voice that suddenly made her think that it might be possible to stay after all. That he might be willing for her to keep the job—though no doubt on conditions.
But what conditions? She thought of that warm, naked skin. His eyes. The husky note in his voice when he had said, so intently, ‘Where are you staying?’
A little tremor ran up her spine. The conditions might be impossible. Or more possible than she wanted to think about. And that was a shock. Gargoyles with big feet ought not to let themselves think thoughts like that. She didn’t, normally.
Jo held her breath, not daring to meet his eyes.
‘I still need someone to do something about the cars,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Your records look as if you’re pretty clued up. And you can always call for help if something is beyond you.’
He looked her up and down. This time, Jo could not read his expression at all.
‘But—you?’ he mused, as if he could hardly believe that he was saying it.
‘It would be like importing a time bomb.’
Jo stared.
Patrick’s eyes glinted. ‘Well, would you say our first meeting was ideal for employer and prospective employee?’
Jo winced before she could stop herself. She remembered—and her heart did a double somersault in her breast. The way he had gripped her hand when she gave him back his shirt! The strength of it still lingered on her fingers, as if she had pinched them in a vice. She gave a little shiver she could not have controlled to save her life.
She hoped Patrick Burns would not see it. But he was hawk-eyed.
‘Exactly,’ he said.
‘B-but will we see each other? I mean,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘would we? You’re not going to be here. Crispin said you were not going to be back all summer.’
‘Crispin was wrong,’ he said shortly. ‘My plans have changed. I shall be here.’
Jo bit her lip. ‘I could keep out of your way,’ she offered in a small, despairing voice.
‘You could try.’ There was a grim amusement in his voice. ‘Do you think you could bring it off?’
She frowned. ‘It shouldn’t be difficult. I never meant to come into the main house anyway. But the Morrisons were so friendly—’
His eyes glinted. ‘I’m not—friendly.’
‘No,’ she agreed with feeling.
‘Do you think that will make it easier to keep out of my way?’ he mocked.
She swallowed. ‘I—I suppose so.’
‘Get real!’
‘I can just stay in the barn and you needn’t even see me.’
‘But we will both know you’re there,’ he pointed out softly.
Jo looked at him, wary and confused.
Just for a moment the strange eyes changed. She caught a glimpse of the warmth she had seen by the stream. Warmth, and more than warmth; curiosity, a fleeting anticipation, a recklessness she recognised in herself, too. Even a sort of awe, as if this was so unexpected it was unbelievable.