by Anne Mather
"Are there?"
"Oh, yes. Once you have - er - provided the necessary heir to the Faulkner fortune, you will be free to leave. To get a divorce and live comfortably - luxuriously - for the rest of your life. Why, by the time you're twenty-one, you could be your own woman again."
Charlotte's dark brows grew together. "Did he say so?"
"It's in the contract."
"The contract!" Charlotte drew an unsteady breath. "Where is it? I think I have a right to see it."
Mr. Falstaff opened a drawer of his desk and withdrew a foolscap manilla envelope. He passed it across to her. "Take it home," he advised. "It's just a photo-copy, naturally. I'll telephone you tomorrow when I have some more information."
Charlotte fingered the envelope. "Just out of curiosity, where does Faulkner live?"
"He has an island, off the Greek mainland - Lydros. He spends much of his free time there. I should also tell you that he has homes - houses - in many of the capital cities: of the world. There is his penthouse apartment overlooking Hyde Park, for example, and the town house he owns on the East Side of New York-"
"I don't want to hear about his possessions," retorted Charlotte bitterly. Then: "You - you can tell whoever it is you communicate with that I refuse to consider this matter any further until I get to meet Alex Faulkner."
Mr. Falstaff made a helpless gesture. "My dear, you don't tell Faulkner anything. You suggest."
"Then suggest it. But make sure you get it right." She uttered a sound which was half between a laugh and a sob.
"My God, imagine having to insist on meeting the man you're expected to marry!"
At three o'clock in the morning, Charlotte went downstairs and made herself some tea. She had been lying awake for hours, her mind far too active to allow her to rest, her nerves too stretched with the sense of apprehension which filled her. She couldn't believe what was happening to her, and yet it was happening, and there seemed little she could do about it.
She had cared for her father deeply, but the things she had learned about him the previous afternoon had shaken her to the core. Briefly she recalled the little she had known of his enjoyment in gambling, the few occasions when he had surprised her with a present, some gift in celebration of a horse which had beaten its opponents past the post. Had she been too young to see a deeper meaning behind it all? And, like a drug, had it gradually gained a stronger hold upon him? Encouraged no doubt by men like Alex Faulkner !
But whatever had possessed him to put his name to such an infamous document as that contract she had read with such loathing? How could he, even for a moment, have considered such a solution? And then to take his own life like that... For now she felt convinced that that was what he had done. Some people said that suicides were cowardly, afraid to face life. In her present frame of mind, she was inclined to agree with them, Whichever way you looked at it, it was a horrible mess - on the one hand cheating her, and on the other cheating the insurance companies. It was as though the man she had known and loved had never even existed and it was a devastating realization.
Even so, she could not bear to think of what her father's erstwhile colleagues would say if they ever discovered to what depths he had sunk. Something, some inner sense of pride, made her flinch from their hidden laughter, from the pitying sympathy which would be hers if ever this got out. So - if she went through with this, she would be doing it for herself, and not for her father, she thought bitterly. Was Alex Faulkner so astute? How cynical was his assessment of his fellow man?
One of the capsules, which the doctor had given her to help her to sleep immediately after her father's death, brought oblivion towards dawn, and she awoke feeling headachy, and with a nasty taste in her mouth, around noon. At first, she couldn't imagine why she should have slept so late, and then the remembrance of the previous day and night's events came back to her, and she rolled over to bury her face in the pillow. If only she could just bury Alex Faulkner, she thought violently, and then kicking off the covers, she got up.
When she came downstairs about a quarter of an hour later, slim and pale in mud-coloured levis and a green tee-shirt, her silky hair gathered back with a leather hair-slide, she found
Laura Winters, their daily, busily slicing vegetables into a saucepan. Laura was a West Indian woman in her thirties, divorced now, with two young children of her own to support. She occupied a flat in a block just round the corner from Glebe Square, and had been working for the Mortimers for the past five years. She looked relieved when she saw Charlotte, although she noticed the dark rings around the girl's eyes with some concern. ..
"I was beginning to wonder if I should wake you, Charley," she said, shaking her head. "You been staying out late?"
Charlotte shook her head. "No. I didn't sleep well, Laura. You okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I've got young Jessie off school with a stomach ache, but she'll be all right. Been eating too many of them plums, that's all. That tree in the garden has been full this year. I must have made more than fifteen pounds of jam."
Charlotte bit her lip. Her father used to love Laura's M home-made jam. Going to the steel sink, she ran herself a glass of water and sipped it slowly, watching Laura's deft hands as she dealt with the onions and carrots. Then she said:'' "Have there been - any calls for me?"
Laura frowned. "Sure, and I was forgetting." Charlotte tensed. "That lady you was working for called." Charlotte relaxed again. "She said to tell you she doesn't get half the young men coming into the shop she used to do."
Charlotte acknowledged this with a slight smile, and Laura went on: "What's up with you? You're looking awfully pale. Not still grieving over your pa, are you? It don't do no good. He's gone. life goes on. just pull yourself together, Charley."
Charlotte put down her glass. "I — I may be going away, Laura," she said slowly.
"Going away?" Laura looked astounded. "Where would you be going?"
"I - don't know. Greece, maybe."
"Greece. And who do you know in Greece?" Laura looked sceptical.
"I don't know where I'm going yet," retorted Charlotte sharply. Then: "I'm sorry, Laura, but I just may have to."
Laura frowned over her task. "There's more to this than you're telling me. Are you sure you're telling me the truth? About last night, I mean. You've not gone and got yourself mixed up with some man, have you?"
Charlotte stifled an hysterical giggle. If Laura only knew I Shaking her head, she walked to the kitchen door. "Don't do much lunch for me, Laura," she said, opening it. "I'm not really very hungry."
Leaving the older woman to her speculations, Charlotte walked across the hall and into the comfortable lounge which overlooked the garden at the back of the house. It was unusual to have a large garden in London, but it had been one of the things her mother had most loved about the house. She had been a keen gardener, most content tending her plants and weeding the flower beds. Some of Charlotte's clearest memories were of her mother teaching her small daughter the names of some of the plants and how to look after them. Then Charlotte had gone away to school and soon afterwards her mother had died. Her father had told her that her mother's heart had never been strong, and a severe attack of bronchitis had proved fatal.
Now Charlotte opened the french doors and stepped out on to the paved patio. They had a man who tended the garden these days, and it was pleasant to come out here on a hot day and sit in the shade of the fruit trees. Not that she would be able to do this much longer, she thought with sudden depression'. Whatever happened, the house would have to be sold. Besides, it was getting quite chilly out here. September was bringing mists and cool breezes, and the smouldering scent of burning leaves drifted from the garden next door.
Charlotte had bent down to examine a particularly large beetle which had somehow wedged itself between two of the paving stones when the doorbell rang. Expecting it to be a tradesman, Charlotte made no move to answer it, but then she heard footsteps behind her, and glancing over her shoulder she fou
nd a rather agitated Laura stepping out of the french doors.
"It's a man," she told the girl in a low voice, and Charlotte got jerkily to her feet.
"A man?"
"Yes. I've never seen him before, but he insists you'll know who he is. I didn't know what to do, so I've left him waiting in the hall. He says his name's Faulk - Faulkner? Is that right?"
CHAPTER TWO
A wave of blind panic swept over Charlotte at these words. "Faulkner? Are you sure?"
"As sure as I can be." Laura looked at her curiously. "Why? Who is he? He came in a big black limousine. Seems like he's not short of money." She paused. "Don't you want to see him?"
Charlotte passed a dazed hand over her forehead. Did sht want to see him? Yes. But not like this. Not so - precipitately. Was that why he had come? The element of surprise to add to his attack?
"I - yes, I want to see him, Laura." Charlotte glanced down frustratedly at her jeans and tee-shirt. If he was standing in the hall, she could not pass him to get changed. "Mmm - show him into Daddy's study - well, the study, anyway. I must get changed. I can't see anyone like this!"
"Why not?"
The deep male voice so unexpectedly behind them startled both women, and Laura's huge brown eyes widened in dismay. For Charlotte, it was a moment of complete imbalance, and she stared at the man confronting her with almost childish indignation. The words "How dare you? formed and disintegrated without being spoken as her astonishment at his audacity gave way to a sense of shock. If this was Alex Faulkner, he bore no slight resemblance to the man whose image she had created.
Her imagination had conceived an obese, repugnant individual, his body bearing witness to the excesses in which he indulged. A man whose appearance repelled those women he would want to attract, and who had to resort to blackmail to get himself a wife. The reality came almost as a relief.
This man was tall, more than six feet, she guessed, with a broad muscular frame. His skin was darker than was normal for an Englishman, and she wondered if there was some Greek blood there somewhere. Straight dark hair lay thickly against his scalp. He was not handsome, but his hard features did have a certain attraction. He was immaculately dressed for the city in a dark blue pinstripe suit, the jacket unfastened to reveal the matching waistcoat beneath, the pants moulding the powerful muscles of his thighs.
In those first few seconds, Charlotte found disbelief uppermost in her thoughts. This could not be Alex Faulkner, could h? No man who looked like he did, who had such superb s-eif-confidence, whose eyes seemed to penetrate to the very core of her being, could seriously consider buying himself a wife. Could he?
Gathering herself with difficulty, she realized he was waiting for her to speak. Laura, too, was watching her strangely, and Charlotte felt the hot colour running up her throat to her face. Oh, yes, she decided, with sudden insight. This was Alex Faulkner. This was exactly the sort of thing he would do to disconcert her.
"I - you are - Mr. Faulkner?" she enquired coolly.
"That's right." His eyes assessed her insolently. "And you must be Charlotte."
Charlotte! Charlotte's indignation hardened. For a few moments she had allowed his appearance to disconcert her, and now he thought he had the upper hand. Well, he was wrong! This was still the man who had forced her father to sign that contract, still the man who had driven her father to his death ! Bitterness surged inside her.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Faulkner?" she demanded.
"An unnecessary question, don't you think? As you asked to see me," he returned smoothly. Then he looked at Laura. "You can go. I want to talk to Miss Mortimer alone."
"I'll dismiss Laura, as and when I choose," exclaimed
Charlotte angrily, putting a detaining hand on the older woman's arm.
He inclined his head. "If you wish to discuss our affaii in front of your housekeeper, that's all right with me. However, don't you think she might find it rather embarrassing?"
Charlotte pressed her lips frustratedly together. Then she gave a helpless little shake of her head. "All right, Laura," she said, her hand falling to her side. "Thank you."
Laura moved reluctantly towards the french doors, glancing back doubtfully, and following her Alex Faulkner said: "You can fetch us some coffee - Laura, isn't it? Then you can reassure yourself that I'm not a rapist - or worse."
Laura's mouth opened in a gasp, but she said nothing, and Charlotte indicated that she should do as she had been asked. Then they were alone, and her heart refused to slow its exhausting pace.
Alex Faulkner turned and looked at her, then he gestured towards the french doors. "Shall we go inside?" he suggested coolly. "I would not expect you to want our conversation to be overheard."
"Don't you mean you don't want it to be overheard?" she burst out hotly, and his mouth turned down at the corners.
"My dear Charlotte, if you want to discuss your father's addictions out here, that's perfectly all right by me."
Charlotte glanced round apprehensively. Although his voice was deep, it was very clear and succinct, and he had spoken in just a slightly raised tone deliberately.
"Oh, come inside," she exclaimed angrily, and brushed past him into the lounge.
He followed rather more slowly, looking about him with evident interest, and unable to prevent herself, she said: "Assessing your property? I believe you'll get quite a good price for it these days !"
Alex closed the french doors and leant back against them, "You've decided to sell, then?"
"I’ve decided? Don't you mean you have?"
"No." Alex shook his head. "This house is yours, as is the company. They're of no value to me."
Charlotte stared at him. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. What possible use would I have for another house in London? But I would suggest you sold the company. You could always invest the money. I believe Faulkner shares are quite viable."
''What do you mean? What are you talking about?" Charlotte could feel panic rising inside her again. "Everything's yours, you know it is!"
"No. Everything's yours. Only you are mine."
Charlotte's gulping laugh was hysterical. "You can't be serious!"
He straightened, his features hardening. "I trust we will not have to go through all that. I understand your solicitor made the position perfectly clear to you yesterday."
"Perfectly clear? Perfectly clear?" Charlotte gulped again. "I won't marry you! I - I don't know you! And - and besides, I wouldn't marry the man who - who drove my father to kill himself!"
"Ahl" He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "So you've found out."
"What do you mean? Found out?"
"That your father's death was no accident, of course."
Charlotte gasped, "You mean - you mean you can stand there and tell me coolly that my father committed suicide, knowing that you were directly responsible - "
"I was not directly responsible," he interrupted coldly. "Was your father a machine? An automaton, controlled by my manipulations? No! He was not. He was a free and thinking individual. Gambling was second nature to him - "
"No I"
" - and the stakes were never too high for him I Good God, this isn't the first time he's gambled his soul away!"
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind." He breathed deeply. "So - as I say, he chose to play. He knew the rules, as well as anybody else."-,
"Oh, that's very easy for you to say, isn't it?" Charlotte^ stormed, her breasts heaving. "Do all murderers excuse themselves so easily?"
Alex's eyes, which she had thought to be dark brown, were now almost black, and shaded by thick black lashes guarded his expression. "I am not a murderer," he stated quietly. "I! did not choose the stakes."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that like all addicts, your father needed one more, game - one more chance to win. He had nothing left, so - he chose you I"
"I don't believe you."
"I don't expect you to.
Nevertheless, as you get to know me better, you will learn that I do not tell lies. Nor do I make rash statements which I cannot sustain. You belong to me, Charlotte, whether you like it or not, and you will marry me."
"Why? Why me?" Charlotte's forehead and palms were damp, and she could feel the trickle of sweat at the back of her neck. "Am I so desirable? Or are you one of those men who prefer young girls?"
If she had thought to arouse his anger, she was disappointed. A faint sardonic smile crossed his lips, and belatedly she recalled what Mr. Falstaff ad said about crossing swords with this man.
"I have no preference," he said then, surveying her in a way which deepened her unease. "So long as you were not too repulsive and were capable of bearing a child, I had no objections."
Charlotte gasped, "You mean - you would be prepared to make love to any woman, just to get a son?"
"Oh, no, not any woman. You seemed eminently suitable. But I would hardly call the act we are to perform making love!"
Charlotte stepped back from his cold cynicism. “But -there must be dozens of women who - who would jump at the chance..."
"You flatter me." But he did not sound gratified. "However, the women who might, as you say, jump at the chance, are not the kind of women I would choose to be the mother of my son."
"How do you know what kind of woman I am?"
He shrugged. "The very fact that you are charing at your fate reveals a certain independence of character. I like that."
Charlotte sniffed resentfully. "So - if I'd thrown myself into your arms, you'd have changed your mind?"
"Such a hypothetical question requires no answer. We're wasting time. Are there any questions you wish to ask?"
"I-I-"
Charlotte was still staring at him desperately when Laura knocked at the open door. Alex glanced round, saw the woman standing there, and indicated that she should place the tray on a low table near the couch,
"Is there anything else, Charley?" Laura looked anxiously towards the girl, who hardly seemed aware of her presence. Charlotte heard the words as if from a distance, and swung about,
