“Please, Janet, do wait until I ask,” he chided and laughed again. There was less humor in the sound than Janet expected. “I mentioned supper, didn’t I?” he reminded her. “Although I might be persuaded to throw in a visit to the Ivory Room. Wouldn’t that make a marvelous supplement to your interview: a firsthand account of the fabled Van Hoon ivory?”
She hadn’t seen the Ivory Room. Her father had, and it should have served as a warning. Vincent Van Hoon, a man with that much evidence of mass slaughter in his basement, plus ties to the mining community, wouldn’t have been interested in feasibility studies for a wildlife preserve—no matter how much he had pretended to be so.
There was a sharp knock. The door opened slightly, and Roger stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve packed everything,” he said. “We’re ready whenever Janet is.”
“Janet has accepted my invitation to stay a little longer,” Christopher said. “I’ll have my chauffeur drive her back to the hotel later this evening.”
“Right!” Roger said, not waiting for Janet to verify Christopher’s statement.
“You had no right!” she said, anger coloring her cheeks. She wasn’t pleased with Roger’s hasty retreat, either.
“You are going to stay, aren’t you?” Christopher asked, although it wasn’t really a question.
She wanted those tapes. They were part of her only feasible plan for getting back at the Van Hoons. If Christopher was unimpressed by the damage the tapes could do, that didn’t squelch Janet’s overpowering need to use them. Her condemnation of the hunter-clan, money-mad Van Hoons might yet have repercussions Christopher couldn’t imagine. She hoped so.
“Yes, I’ll stay,” she said.
“Good,” he replied and kissed her.
She didn’t believe it. Not with Jill, Tim, and Roger in the next room. It wasn’t a peck on the lips, either. Nor was it a kiss she could enjoy, despite her curiosity about how kissing the man would differ from kissing the boy. It was aggressive, crushing her lips between her teeth and his. And his arms wrapped around her with a strength that made it impossible for her to move.
“There!” he said; his smile was the epitome of satisfaction. “Tell the world the Van Hoons attack women as well as wild animals.”
She couldn’t find her voice to scream. So when he released her, she slapped his face. The sound of flesh colliding against flesh was like a rifle shot. How apropos.
“How dare you!” she said, her breathing erratic. His continuing smile infuriated her.
“I’ll be sportsman enough to accept a one-on-one exchange, but don’t try to take advantage,” he warned her.
“You bastard!” she accused, her voice dripping venom. She went quickly to the door, willing her weak legs to support her. She expected to find Tim, Roger, and Jill in the next room, but they weren’t there. Nor was the camera equipment. She hurried through the French doors and around the house, praying she would be in time. She prayed in vain. The van was gone. She was alone with Christopher Van Hoon, except for the people who worked for him.
She could count on no one but herself. There was something disturbing about her predicament.
Christopher stepped out on the front porch like an Olympian god about to bestow his favors on an unwilling maiden.
“I insist you have someone drive me back to my hotel immediately!” she said.
“You’ll be driven to your hotel—later,” Christopher said, his smile mocking her demands.” Right now, Ashanti will show you where you can freshen up. We do, by the way, dress for dinner.” The servant who had collected the punch glasses appeared on cue.
“Dress for dinner?” Janet echoed incredulously. She expected him to tell her he had raided her hotel room for the only dress she’d brought for formal occasions. She wasn’t expecting opportunities for dressing up in the bush, where she was heading the day after tomorrow.
“I’m sure you’ll find something in the room to fit you,” Christopher said instead. “I’m partial to the black silk myself.”
“Then you wear it!” She refused to humor him. “I’m returning to my hotel!”
“Suit yourself,” Christopher said with a shrug. “I just hope you’re up to the walk.” He turned and disappeared into the house.
Janet looked at the driveway, knowing how far it was to the main highway, let alone to Johannesburg.
“Miss Westover?” It was Ashanti, waiting patiently for her to obey Christopher’s wishes.
She didn’t answer. She started walking away from Lionspride and the madman who owned it.
CHAPTER TWO
“YOU’RE LUCKY you’re dark complexioned,” Christopher said. He was sitting behind a large oak desk. “That bit of redness will fade, and you’ll look even more beautiful in your new tan.”
“Call off your goons, damn it!” Janet said. If she had originally looked upon the two men as her salvation, her opinion had changed when they’d driven her back to Lionspride.
“Bill and Karl, this is Janet,” Christopher said, pyramiding his fingers beneath his chin. He looked disgustingly cool and calm, but then he hadn’t been trudging in the South African sun. Janet, on the other hand, looked a sight, and she didn’t need a mirror to tell her that.
“Ma’am,” Bill and Karl said in unison. They’d been supremely polite until she’d tried to force her way out of the moving car. Even then, they had done nothing but keep her from jumping out and hurting, maybe even killing, herself. She should thank them instead of calling them names—except they had brought her back to Christopher. She was no better off than she had been a couple of hours earlier, although she was considerably more tired. And no matter what Christopher said, she felt the tightness of sunburn across her forehead.
“That’s all for now, men,” Christopher said. “I’ll have Ashanti show Janet upstairs—that is, if she’s finally decided to cooperate.” Ashanti appeared: a man-robot getting messages via telepathy.
Bill and Karl left, Janet staying where she was. Christopher ignored her, attending to his paperwork. He looked up several minutes later, pretending surprise to find her still there. He made a great show of checking his wristwatch. “I really wouldn’t recommend any walks after dark,” he said.
“I refuse to believe this is happening!” Janet said, leaving the room. He would have left her standing there until doomsday.
“Miss Westover?” It was Ashanti, trying to perform the task Christopher had assigned him.
The view through the drapery-banked windows confirmed it was getting dark. Even with no wild animals around, Janet wouldn’t tempt fate after nightfall. “Okay, Ashanti,” she said, resigned—temporarily—to defeat, “where’s this room?”
‘This way, please,” Ashanti said, leading the way to the sweeping stairway that reminded Janet of a set from Gone with the Wind.
Once in the room, she locked the door and looked for a telephone. There was none. The room wasn’t one Janet remembered. She had never been in all of the rooms of Lionspride. Christopher used to joke that he hadn’t, either.
The bathroom was well stocked, complete with expensive perfumes. Everything was obviously designed for the use of not one but a procession of women, of whom Janet was merely the latest.
Christopher had never married. The press kept Janet informed, because no matter what Christopher Van Hoon did, he made the papers. He was interesting copy, tremendously good looking and tremendously rich. That he hadn’t married gave Janet satisfaction long after her marriage to Bob.
The bathroom mirror confirmed that she looked like hell. Her sunburn, though, wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.
She started running the water in a bathtub as big as a swimming pool, liberally adding bath salts from two of six available jars of the stuff. The result was so inviting, she got into the tub before it was filled. She used her sore feet to turn off the faucets, then leaned back, closed her eyes and relaxed her weary bones.
Qwenella Fairchild might have enjoyed the luxury of this sunken tub, Janet
mused. Christopher had dated her in the States. That, too, had made the gossip columns. Qwenella was an ex-Playboy Bunny and centerfold. Compared to her, Janet looked like a man. Then, there had been the high-fashion model who had gone from the cover of Vogue to a big movie contract. Compared to her, Janet looked like a Playboy bunny. Then, Lady Bellona Morrel, who was related by blood to the Princess of Wales.
“Who knows, I may marry you when you grow up,” he had told Janet sixteen years before. The sun was hot that day, a huge ball of molten gold behind blue-gum trees. Christopher’s hair was long over his ears and collar. He looked like a young lion. “If you ever do grow up,” he had added with a laugh, and kissed her.
She roused herself from a drifting lethargy, concentrating on her lips, sensitive from his most recent, stolen, kiss. What a world of difference between their first kiss and this last one. What a world of difference between the loving youth and the hateful man.
She hadn’t stopped thinking of Christopher when she married Bob. Some of those thoughts she hadn’t minded—those concerned her plans to get back at the Van Hoon family. Others, though, were betrayals of her father and of her wedding vows. That Vincent Van Hoon was dead and buried, her husband murdered by guerrillas in Central America, didn’t make such thoughts less disturbing. She was never physically unfaithful to her husband during the years of their marriage; but, every woman indulged in fantasies. It didn’t mean she didn’t love Bob. It didn’t mean she loved Christopher, either.
She came out of the bath like Venus from the sea, reaching for one of the Turkish towels monogrammed with the Van Hoon crest: a full-mane lion against a sun disk. She dried herself quickly, dispelling her disturbing thoughts. She needed her wits, and her memories were betraying her. She had been crazy, basing so many daydreams on an incident that had happened sixteen years ago.
She found a black silk dress on the bed. She hadn’t put it there, and the door was locked. This didn’t mean anything. It was Christopher’s house, and he had the keys. He must have been there while she was in the bath, the bathroom door ajar. He must have watched ever so silently, and—
She was letting her imagination run away with her because of one unpleasant kiss meant to scare her. He had laid out the dress to scare her, too. He was getting back at her for her plan to blacken the Van Hoon name. Scaring, though, was as far as it went. Christopher, with all the willing women he could have, wasn’t going to force himself on her. Janet wasn’t a little Miss Nobody. She was a well-known personality in the States and in five foreign countries that syndicated Animal Kingdoms in the Wild. She could cause one helluva big stink that not even Van Hoon money could gloss over.
He was playing a game. She could play games, too. She walked over to the bed and lifted the dress for closer inspection. It was a Valentino: simple, expensive and with a revealing neckline. She checked the closets and dresser drawers for accessories.
He knew her correct size at a glance, because the dress fit like a glove. If the bodice was tight, the effect was sexy. It was so sexy, she wouldn’t have worn the dress in public, but only the servants and Christopher would see her here.
She unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, surprised when she wasn’t confronted by guards. She could enter one of the other bedrooms to find a phone, but her rescue party would be spotted before it reached the house. Besides, she wasn’t as frightened as she had been.
She paused at the top of the stairs, her fingers poised delicately on the highly polished banister. Her gaze followed the long downward curve of the railing, her mind flashing to long-ago rides with her and Christopher astraddle the thing. At eighteen, he had argued that he was too old for such antics, yet Janet hadn’t had that much trouble changing his mind.
Janet was older now and wasn’t dressed for a ride, but the temptation was too great. She assumed an experimental sidesaddle position, more weight on her feet than on her derriere. By the time she made her slow slide to the bottom, the silk dress was hiked well above her knees. She felt ridiculous when she slipped off, feeling more so when she realized Christopher was watching. It wasn’t possible to guess how long he had been there.
He was dressed in a white dinner jacket with black tie, the jacket and white shirt contrasting attractively with the darkness of his tan. His cufflinks were small asterisks of gold.
“I used to be quite a tomboy,” she said, recovering enough poise to speak. “Sometimes, I’m afraid, there’s a reversion to childhood.”
“Yes? Well, you could have easily fallen and broke your pretty neck,” he said unsympathetically. He was the one who once had fallen from this particular banister, but reminding him would reveal too much. With a small cut on his forehead, he’d remained undaunted, immediately going back for another ride. Maybe the small crescent-shaped scar was still there, waiting for her to brush back the attractive tumble of his blond hair to find it.
“Where’s supper? I’m starving!” she said, taking the last three steps to the marble floor. Her tone of voice said she was now in control.
“I’ll do my very best to satiate your every appetite,” he said suggestively. He was insinuating more than food, but she let his double entendre pass without comment.
“So, let’s eat!” she said, sweeping grandly past him and leading the way to the formal dining room. A long teak table, set for two in the intimacy of one corner, was illuminated by three beautiful chandeliers. “I presume the head of the table is your spot?” she said. She would have said more to emphasize her new mood, but he was giving her a strange look.
“It has taken you an astoundingly short time to find your way around my house,” he said.
Janet had made a very dangerous mistake by leading her host to a room she had supposedly never seen. But she was far better at subterfuge than she expected when she said, “It’s a knack I’ve always had,” tossing off his observation as less than it was. “Most women have it. It comes with the territory.” She walked to the table, not surprised when Ashanti was there to pull out her chair. Christopher hesitated, finally joining her.
They were served hotchpotch of curly kale, a hearty Dutch stew of cabbage, potatoes, sausage, salt, butter, pepper and chicken stock. The stew was anything but pedestrian, served as it was from a large Delft soup tureen into matching soup bowls and accompanied by a 1947 South African Cabernet Sauvignon from the Groot Constantia vineyards outside Cape Town. The wineglasses were Baccarat.
“You say you’re going to Great Zimbabwe?” Christopher asked when they paused in their small talk about the food. Janet had told him her travel plans earlier, using them as her excuse for avoiding this very meal.
“I guess it’s Great Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe, isn’t it?” she said, and recalled her earlier confusion at the apparent redundancy. Great Zimbabwe was once only a group of impressive archaeological ruins on a high plateau in Rhodesia, she knew. When Rhodesia became officially independent from Britain in 1980, Zimbabwe also became the name of the new country, and Great Zimbabwe now also referred to the game reserve surrounding those ruins.
“The camera crew and I are going to spend some time with a government group,” Janet continued. She didn’t mention elephants. Christopher’s promise to show her the Ivory Room was more of a bonus for her than he imagined. “We’ll stop off in Salisbury first.”
His right hand realigned the lush blond hair that tumbled almost to his golden eyes. She longed for the fluid movement of those silky strands through her fingertips.
“I was at the Great Zimbabwe ruins not long ago,” Christopher said, putting Janet on her guard. He eyed her over the elaborate place settings, his eyes luminous and hypnotic. “There was a government team there, then,” he added. “An encampment of soldiers, too, for that matter.”
“Soldiers?” Janet asked nervously. Soldiers hinted of more unexpected dangers.
“There’s a heavy poaching problem in the area,” Christopher said. “The troops have been sent in to stop it.” He, no more than Janet, mentioned elephants, but he sure1y
knew which animals concerned the Great Zimbabwe research group. He knew how interested Janet was to see his Ivory Room.
He was taking her attempt at revenge too lightly—not that he seemed to recognize it as revenge. Her motivations probably didn’t matter to him—he was that confident she wasn’t a threat. He had not only let her crew leave with the tapes but had hinted at giving her more ammunition by showing her what was in the basement.
She was at a decided disadvantage. Her memories were interfering, while he thought her nothing more than a busybody television hostess. She would tell him who she was. If nothing else, that would assure him of her determination.
But she caught herself in time. She couldn’t let more tender emotions take control. Her best chance for success was in getting the tapes to the States, editing them to emphasize the now extinct animals tacked so proudly on the Van Hoon walls. There would be footage shot at Great Zimbabwe about elephant herds endangered not only by encroaching civilization but by people like the Van Hoons who had encouraged the poaching epidemic in their eagerness to stockpile ivory.
She couldn’t spoil her plans because she wanted Christopher to laugh as he once laughed, or because she wanted the sparkle back in his eyes instead of the glaring suspicion and distrust she saw there. She was a fool if she let those wants make her act rashly. There was no bringing back the past. Too much water had passed under the bridge. Christopher had probably not forgotten or forgiven the daughter of a man his father hired, used, and fired. And that was her fault. She had left him, had refused to answer his letters, not vice versa.
She had been only thirteen, after all, and needed desperately to blame someone. She had blamed him—herself, too. She and Christopher had chalked up too much happiness, and her father was the forfeit. Years later, of course, she realized the extent to which big business and politics were linked—business and politics concerning gold and Vincent Van Hoon’s desire to control it—neither of which had anything to do with two adolescents enjoying each other’s company. By then, though, it was too late to go back. It was too late to go back now.
Love's Golden Spell Page 2
