No More Lonely Nights

by Charlotte Lamb

  No More Lonely Nights

  By

  Charlotte Lamb

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sian heard a rustle as Cass's long fingers tightened on the pages, and bit her lip in apprehension.

  He suddenly flung the paper across the table. 'I ought to wring your neck!' he grated. 'You've made me sound like some sort of ogre.'

  'I just wrote what Annette had said.'

  His face darkened. 'Annette's known me most of her life—ever since she was a toddler, in fact. For heaven's sake, she was going to marry me. Even if she changed her mind, she can't have hated me enough to talk about me as if I… and to a total stranger, too!'

  Sian watched him with anxious sympathy. She had never had to face anyone she had written about in that intimate way. It put her job into a new perspective for her. She had hurt this man! She bit her lower lip, watching him uneasily. Suddenly she saw his body slacken from the tense rage that had held it.

  'Stop looking at me like that!' he said softly, in a very different tone, and Sian lifted her lashes, and widened her eyes at him in query.

  'How was I looking at you?'

  His stare held an amused intimacy that made her heart skip a beat. 'You are a very annoying woman,' he drawled.

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  First published in Great Britain 1988

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Charlotte Lamb 1988

  Australian copyright 1988

  Philippine copyright 1988

  This edition 1988

  ISBN 0 263 76098 7

  Since Charlotte Lamb's first book for Mills & Boon was published in 1973, this prolific author has become a firm favourite with readers all over the world. Mills & Boon is proud to present Charlotte Lamb's 75th Romance, No More Lonely Nights.

  Charlotte writes:

  "This morning, I've read my post, drunk a coffee and waved to the dustman staggering off with another sack of my discarded manuscripts.

  I am a working writer. Translated, that means I leap on any excuse not to work. I have 5 children, from grown up down to teenage twins, a husband, who would never forgive me if I told you how old he was, and a Cavalier spaniel who takes me for long walks.

  I used to live in London, my home town, and still miss the shops, the bustle of the streets, the cinemas and theatres. Now I live on the tranquil Isle of Man. My house is Edwardian—red tiled roof, white walls—set in a large garden looking over the sea, which gives me another excuse for not working. Watching the sea change colour can take up hours.

  Don't get me wrong—writing has its advantages, too. I travel more than I could ever afford to before; fourteen countries in one year! I can read Mills & Boon all day and claim I'm working—after all, I have to keep up with the latest trends, don't I? (Well, my children make sarcastic noises over this excuse, but my accountant accepts it!) I also make a lot of new friends when I talk to societies and writing circles or get letters from other writers. Answering them is yet another of my excuses.

  Sooner or later, though, I have to go to that typewriter—and then the daily miracle happens. Once I force myself to start writing, the story runs away with me and I forget everything else. When people ask me (as they do!) "How do you do it?" I can never give an answer because I simply don't know how it happens. The flow of words begins, the characters come to life and make things happen around them, and I find my fingers falling over themselves trying to get it all down on paper before it vanishes.

  That's why my house groans beneath the weight of my own books. When I realise that I've written my seventy-fifth for Mills & Boon, I have to pinch myself, though. When did I ever find the time?"

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sian did not have second sight, or she would never have said on the phone to her editor that morning, 'I'm going to have a slow, peaceful drive back to London today and I'll see you at work on Monday. I'm still on holiday, and I am not working this weekend, whatever you say, Leo, so forget it.'

  'But you'll driving right by the place,' he had protested in his rational, coaxing fashion. 'It wouldn't take you long.'

  'You never give up, do you?' Her voice was wry, affectionate, but firm. She wasn't letting Leo talk her into anything. 'I am on holiday, Leo. I won't cover this wedding for you. Got it? Anyway, I'm in no mood to go to a wedding.'

  'I see,' he murmured infuriatingly in a voice loaded with meaning.

  'What do you see?' she snapped, which was a mistake, she shouldn't have let him see she picked up the implication.

  'Love-life still hurting?' he asked sympathetically, and her teeth met.

  'I have to pack. See you.'

  She hung up before he could come back with anything else, and stared into space for a moment, fuming. Were they all still gossiping at the paper? She thought they had forgotten it by now; she and Louis were an old item, surely? It was weeks since they had split up, after all, and Sian was sure she was over him. She hadn't thought about him much during her holiday. She had been enjoying herself too much; she hadn't given herself time to brood over past mistakes and she wished Leo hadn't reminded her now. People should have found other things to talk about, but the trouble with having lots of friends, or working in a big organisation, was that people took far too close an interest in your private life and felt quite free to comment on it, either to your face of behind your back. Sian hated being talked about. It put her back up. Her life was her business and nobody else had a right to an opinion about it, she thought, glowering, as she set about packing to go back to London.

  It didn't take her long. She hadn't brought much; just jeans and shorts and a lot of cotton shirts and T-shirts. She had long ago learnt how to travel light; travelling was part of her job. She lived with a suitcase ready packed; she never knew when Leo would despatch her to some remote corner of the British Isles. That was part of the fascination of the work; Sian had always been excited by the glamour, the roving, gypsy-like nature of a reporter's life. She would hate to be in an office all day, doing nothing but staring out of the window as the rest of the world went by.

  It was really her job that had wrecked her relationship with Louis, of course. She was always going away, spending time in hotels with other men, as he saw it; and when she was around she was often tired, she used up too much en
ergy elsewhere to have much to spare for a man.

  She and Louis had begun to argue, then to quarrel. When he started on the 'Choose! Me—or your job!' theme that was more or less it. The affair had died out in one violent explosion on both sides. Now that she had cooled down she could see it from his angle and didn't blame him. No man wanted his woman constantly vanishing, always preoccupied. Louis had known what she should have known, that she was more interested in her work than she was in him.

  He was seeing someone else, she had heard lately, and that had stung for a second, but she wouldn't be a dog in a manger about Louis. At the same time, she couldn't herself face getting involved with another man; Louis had taught her that she wasn't yet ready for a serious affair, or to give herself entirely to loving anyone, and that was sad, too; that did worry her.

  She felt much happier now, though, after a week sailing at Poole, staying with cousins who lived in a delightful harbour cottage. Sian had been weary and irritable when she'd arrived; but she was returning in a very different mood: tanned and relaxed, her green eyes tranquil, after days of physical hard work and mental rest on sun-dappled water. The weather had been perfect—just enough wind, not too much heat. She had been out every day from dawn to dusk, her blonde hair looped up in a ponytail, her shirt and shorts leaving enough of her figure exposed to give her a glowing tan. It had been just what she needed.

  'Thanks for having me, Jen,' she told her cousin as she said goodbye on the harbour road. 'It was wonderful.'

  'You look better, anyway,' Jenny said, grinning at her.

  'I feel it—and when you and Roger come to London next month, don't forget you're staying with me!'

  'We won't,' Roger chimed in drily, and they all laughed. Then Sian got behind the wheel of her little Ford and gave them a final wave before heading towards London.

  It was June; the morning was already quite warm by the time Sian reached the New Forest, and she drove with the windows wide open and cool air blowing through her blonde hair which she was wearing loose around her face. She was playing a tape of pop music, watching the way the shadows of trees flickered along the road, her mind vaguely drifting over the holiday, the shopping she must do when she was back in her flat, the excitement of getting back to work on Monday.

  As she paused at a crossroads her eye noted the name of a nearby village on the signpost. Crasby? Wasn't that where the big wedding was being held? Sian had never been asked to cover a society occasion before; it wasn't her line of territory, the gossip column usually took care of weddings, but the reporter who should have covered this one had apparently rung in earlier to say she was in hospital after crashing on her way down. Leo always liked to kill two birds with one stone, so he had immediately thought of Sian, who was vaguely in the neighbourhood and could drop in at the church on her way back to London. He would just have to send someone else, thought Sian, driving on between the clustering trees.

  The girl in white came running out right in front of the car a moment later, and Sian thought for a flash of time that she was seeing ghosts, then with a jolt of horror that she was going to hit the girl.

  Luckily both her reflexes and her brakes were in good working order. She slammed her foot down, and the car came to a rocking halt with a scream of burning tyres.

  Sian sat, gripping the wheel, for an instant, then she went white, and a second later bright, angry red.

  'Are you crazy?' she yelled, leaning out of the window.

  'Sorry, I'm sorry,' babbled the girl, stumbling round the car to the other window.

  Sian's blonde head followed her movements, her green eyes dilated and incredulous. She had had her eyes open for wild ponies or deer. All along the road there were signs warning drivers of their presence—but there were none telling you to beware of brides! The last thing Sian had been expecting to see was a bride in full regalia: an extravagantly romantic dress of foaming white satin and lace, a flowing veil thrown back from the face over a high head-dress of pearls and tiny white flowers, a beribboned bouquet of white roses and pink carnations clutched in the hand which had gripped the window-frame of the car.

  'I didn't mean to startle you, and I am sorry, but please… could you give me a lift? It is urgent,' the bride said breathlessly.

  'Don't tell me the bridal car didn't arrive,' Sian said, unable to stay angry for long, and beginning to smile as she leaned over to open the passenger door. 'Hop in, then.'

  The bride bundled herself and all her layers of satin and lace into the seat with some difficulty, while Sian watched with amusement. The bride looked at her, not smiling back. Sian might find it funny, but obviously she couldn't see the funny side of her predicament at the moment. In fact, there was a look of panic in her face, and Sian felt sorry for having laughed.

  'Please…' the bride began, and Sian nodded.

  'Don't worry, I'll get you there on time,' she soothed. 'And I'm sure the groom will wait. Did you think of ringing the church to say you'd be late?' And where was the bride's father, come to that? she thought curiously, and then saw it had been a mistake to mention the groom. The bride was looking almost faint.

  'Can we go, please? I'm sorry to rush you but…'

  'Not at all,' said Sian quickly, starting the engine again. 'Can you direct me? Where's the church? I'm a stranger around here—isn't it always the way?'

  The bride didn't answer for a second, then she said huskily, 'Where are you going?'

  'Back to London—I've been down here on holiday, sailing.' Sian sat waiting, her hands on the wheel, the engine running, watching the other girl. 'So? Where do I go?' she prompted when the bride just bit her lip and said nothing.

  'London,' whispered the bride. Sian did a double-take, doubting her own ears.

  'Sorry?'

  'London's fine for me, too,' repeated the other with a self-conscious look, her eyes not meeting Sian's.

  That was when Sian's brain got to work on the situation and she remembered Leo's call, the signpost she had noticed a few moments earlier. Of course, on a Saturday a lot of people got married, some churches had a constant stream of brides coming and going, but the coincidence was enough to make Sian sit up, alert and watchful.

  'London? You're sure you want to go to London?' she asked, and the dark girl nodded fiercely.

  'Yes, please, I've got to get away before…'

  'Before?' Sian's green eyes narrowed to catlike slits of comprehension. 'Before someone catches up with you?'

  The dark girl swallowed. 'So please can we drive On?' she muttered. Sian obeyed, putting her foot down on the accelerator. The car shot forward with a happy roar.

  'Why didn't you change out of the wedding dress before you left?' Sian asked curiously, and the girl sighed.

  'I didn't think, I just climbed out of the window.'

  'Out of the window?' repeated Sian incredulously.

  'We live in a bungalow—at least, my father does, and he was at the front, watching out for the car. I climbed out of my bedroom window.'

  'Why didn't you just tell your father that you couldn't go through with it?'

  The bride groaned. 'I've never been able to talk to Dad. If my Mum hadn't died I might have told her, but Dad was so pleased that I was marrying Cass…' She broke off, and Sian sat very still as she drove, her brain clicking wildly.

  She was right, it had to be him, William Cassidy. Everyone called him Cass, especially the newspapers, and he was often in the news because he headed a successful electronics firm with a very active public relations department who managed to keep his name and the firm's products firmly in the public eye. Sian didn't work on the gossip pages, she was strictly a news reporter, but she had vaguely known of his surprise engagement and rapid wedding. Wasn't he marrying his secretary, or a typist, or something? A very ordinary girl, anyway; that had excited the gossip columnists.

  'I'm Sian, by the way,' she said carefully. 'What's your name?'

  'Annette.'

  Sian couldn't recall that name, but then she hadn't
looked at the bride's name too closely. She hadn't been sufficiently interested except to give the story her usual professional glance. One had to keep up with all the news in the paper. Sometimes two stories dovetailed unexpectedly, and if you didn't know about the other one you might miss something vital. She probably wouldn't have connected this girl with William Cassidy, for instance, if Leo hadn't rung her earlier that morning. He had put the wedding into her mind, alerting her.

  'It's very kind of you to do this,' the other girl said shyly. 'I realise it must seem a bit odd, but I just knew I couldn't go through with it. All of a sudden I had to get away. Every time I tried to talk to Cass or to Dad the words didn't come out right. They make me feel… helpless.'

  Sian slowed as they approached a pull-off for picnicking, a grassy little glade opening from a parking area, but surrounded by trees. The other girl looked startled as Sian drove off the road.

  'What's wrong? Why are you stopping?'

  'You don't want to drive through London like that, do you? I think we're much the same size. I've got a suitcase in the back, I'll lend you some clothes to change into, if you like.'

  'Oh,' Annette said, flushing. 'Oh, thanks, that's very…'

  Sian parked and turned off the engine, but before she fished out her case she looked round at the other girl, her face serious. Sian was a slightly built girl of around twenty-five, with classical features and a cool, self-contained air. She gave the impression of having herself and her world well under control, but that wasn't altogether accurate. Sian so far hadn't managed to make her two lives fit, the personal and the professional. At the moment she would prefer to forget any idea of having a private life, anyway. She wasn't risking the minefield of a love affair again for a long, long time, and she looked at Annette with wry sympathy.