by Susan Napier
Virginia pursed her lips. She couldn't see what Clare's objection was. In her opinion, the more people who knew about Tim's talent, the better. It was almost criminal of Clare to try and hide it away as if it were something to be ashamed of. Wisely, however, she said nothing.
There were two more phone calls before Tim was finally tucked up in bed; it being Saturday night he was allowed to stay up later than usual. The first was from a rival newspaper, the second from a local television regional news reporter. By the time the third call came, Clare was fed up with people who wouldn't take no for an answer.
'Yes, who is this, please?' she demanded in an icy tone as she snatched up the offending instrument.
'Mrs Malcolm?' The voice of an angel. Clare fought the impulse to slam the receiver back down.
'Who is this?'
'David Deverenko. Virginia suggested I call.' Virginia? First-name terms already? It had taken Clare four months of 'Mrs Malcolm' and an engagement ring before she had been invited to use 'Virginia'.
'Mrs Malcolm?'
'Yes, I'm here,' said Clare reluctantly, staring at her reflection in the shiny kettle on the bench. Her face looked quite pale and, combined with the thick, wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair and cream kitchen walls behind her, looked rather ghostly. She blinked. There was no room for ghosts in her life, real or imagined.
'It's about your son, Timothy. Did Virginia mention that I wanted to talk to you about his future?'
'His present, don't you mean?'
There was a slightly startled silence. 'If you mean the possibility of his studying at my school here, yes. That's where I'm ringing from, in fact. I know you're leaving the city tomorrow evening, but I thought that perhaps we could have some initial discussion—'
'I'm afraid that's not possible,' Clare cut in hastily, having drifted slightly in her fascination with that rich, dark, musical voice. He wasn't mesmerising her with his song! 'Virginia seems to have misled you—'
'You already have Tim accepted somewhere else?' The mellow voice sharpened critically.
'No, I—'
'I thought not. There is no other equivalent facility to the Deverenko School—not in this country, anyway. Are you considering taking him overseas?'
'No, I—'
'Good. I can save you the trouble. My school can provide Timothy with a very well-balanced musical education. Anything less for a boy who shows his promise would be unthinkable.'
Oh, it would, would it? Another narrow-minded musician trying to. tell her that music was the only choice for her son.
'If you would let me finish at least one of my sentences—' Clare said tartly, and there was the sound of a faintly indrawn breath, followed by a silence that seemed anything but meek. 'Thank you. As I was saying, Virginia seems to have misled you. She did not have my permission to allow Tim to take part in your Master Class, and I have no interest in placing him in your school.'
'No interest? Mrs Malcolm, you don't seem to understand—'
'No, you don't understand, Mr Deverenko.' Clare was tired and cross, or she would never have been so rude. Being a parent toughened one to standing up to outside threat, but Clare hated confrontations. She had a shy person's fear of drawing attention to herself. But in this mood, protected by the anonymity of the telephone, she overcame her shyness. 'I didn't solicit your help and I don't require it. And neither do I appreciate your speaking to the Press about my son.'
'I only—'
'I don't want to hear your excuses, Mr Deverenko. I refuse to be hounded by you or your friends in the Press.'
She could feel herself blushing furiously as she hung up the phone, cutting across his explosive protest, and the reflection in the kettle confirmed it. She pressed a cool hand against her hot cheek. Even though no one had witnessed her behaviour, she felt embarrassed. She had been very rude and probably unfair, given the fact that he had been as much a victim as she and Mrs Carmen, but she had sensed that being offensively brusque was the only way to get rid of a man like David Deverenko. Although he had been born in New Zealand, both his parents were Russian and, from all reports, he had a thoroughly Russian temper—and the pride to match. He had certainly sounded arrogant, even when he was being polite, and musicians of his stature were notoriously single-minded. She only hoped she had succeeded in thoroughly putting him off. After his New Zealand concert he was off to a series of engagements in London, so she doubted he would have the time to spare to pursue a reluctant pupil. Perhaps now he wouldn't send the tickets to his concert, either—Clare knew that it had been booked out the week that the box-office opened—thereby freeing her of the obligation to take Tim. Tim would be disappointed, but better a temporary disappointment than a prolonged, serious division of his loyalties. Clare had no intention of playing the villainess to Deverenko's hero, which would toe the role assigned to her if she allowed him any quarter.
After giving Virginia a brief, edited version of the content of the call, Clare went up to bed herself, although it was a long time before she could force herself to sleep. At times like this she missed her husband badly. His confidence in her as a woman, a wife and mother had bolstered her own. He had respected her opinions even when he'd disagreed with them, and had never tried to ride roughshod over them the way his mother was attempting to do. Lee had never been underhand, always open and direct. He had been full of fun and laughter, and even two years after his death Clare still found herself thinking, 'I must tell Lee about that one,' when she saw or heard of an amusing incident that would have appealed to his offbeat sense of humour.
Sunday lunch was something of an occasion at Virginia's. Lee had been an only child, but Virginia had two sisters and two brothers-in-law, and Sunday was considered family 'visiting day'. In honour of Clare and Tim's visit the lunch was being held at Virginia's, although it was quite a squash with the additional wives and husbands and children. To Clare's relief Tim mixed well with the other children—he was inclined to be impatient and dismissive of those of his peers who didn't share his interests, and resented social encroachments on his love of solitary pursuits. However, most of his cousins were several years older than him and had obviously been well-coached to 'make allowances'. The afternoon went so well that Tim cheerfully went off on a visit to the Auckland Museum with one of his lesser known relations.
'Kim only plays the recorder, but she's OK,' Tim allowed magnanimously as Clare hid a grin, 'for a girl, that is.'
A dozen children and their assorted toys had wreaked a small amount of havoc on Virginia's neat yard, and one of the last guests to leave helped Clare tidy up. Ray had been the closest of Lee's cousins, and a fringe member of Kraken before the band had begun making a name for itself and adopted a thoroughly professional approach. For that reason, and the fact that he rode a motorcycle and wore the leathers to match, he and Virginia didn't get on particularly well, but Clare enjoyed his friendship. In many ways he reminded her of her husband, especially in his laid-back optimism and the wickedly teasing grin he often wore.
As they worked, she told Ray about the events of the previous day and he gave her his full support.
'Aunt Virginia means well, but often they're the worst kind…give her an inch and she'll take a mile. Or should that be millimetres and kilometres? Just shrug it off with a laugh, Clare, that's the only way to deal with her… if you take her seriously, you're done for. What you need, my good woman, is a good man to stand shoulder to shoulder with. Any candidates on the horizon?'
'It's only been two years, Ray.' Lee's death, from a form of leukaemia, had been frighteningly swift, with no remissions.
'A long time to be alone.'
'I've had Tim.' Ray gave her a challenging look. 'I just haven't met anyone who's come close to making me feel… anything.'
'What about all those disgustingly rich guests who tuck themselves away in your retreat? They can't all be blind.'
'Oh, I get plenty of passes, Ray,' she laughed at him. 'I'm just being choosy.'
'Lee's a hard
act to follow; the guy'll have his work cut out. Of course, you could keep it all in the family…' He leered suggestively at her.
'For that, Ray Cowling, you can climb up that plum tree and fetch down that kite.' A makeshift newspaper and bamboo version was enmeshed in the topmost branches.
Ray followed her glance. 'The branches up there are too thin, they'd never hold my weight.' Ray was a solidly built young man, and Clare was inclined to agree. 'What we need here is a slender blonde sylph.'
'I'm hardly sylphlike,' said Clare drily, 'and I'm too old to be climbing trees.'
'Twenty-seven isn't old. Why, you're not even ripe yet… you won't hit your stride till you're thirty. Come on, I'll give you a leg-up. Hang on, let me take my jacket off first.'
Ray carefully took off his black leather pride and joy, revealing a fashionably ragged black T-shirt that showed off the bulging muscles in his arms. He struck a pose and Clare giggled.
'Promise you won't look up my dress?'
'Nope.' He panted realistically and she laughed again, looking nothing like the cool, shy person that she was when she was uncomfortable or unsure. 'Tuck it between your legs. As a dancer, you should be used to flinging yourself about in next to nothing.'
'A leotard is a great deal more circumspect than lace panties,' said Clare primly, but she tucked up her skirt as he had suggested and he hoisted her up into the spreading branches.
'Ouch!' The twigs were spiky, and as she negotiated them showers of dried leaves were shaken down on to Ray's upturned face.
'Great legs, Clare!'
'Shut up!' Although she had grown too tall for classical ballet, Clare still enjoyed going to jazz ballet and 'jazzercise' classes for fun, and even filled in for the instructor now and then at the gym she attended in Rotorua. Lee had always told her that she had the legs of a chorus girl.
She retrieved the crumpled kite and tossed the remains, with its tangled ball of string, to the ground. Going down was not quite as simple as going up, and Ray's ridiculous teasing didn't help.
'Look, Ray, will you be quiet? I can't laugh and climb at the same time.'
'Doesn't say much for your co-ordination, old girl. Why don't you jump from there? I'll catch you.'
'I bet you will,' said Clare, not trusting him an inch.
'Cross my heart. Would I risk letting you damage one of those glamorous legs?'
Clare didn't really mean to jump, but the flexible soles of her canvas espadrilles slipped suddenly, and to save herself from a thicket of branches she flung herself downwards. Ray caught her, but he was off balance and she wrapped her arms and legs frantically around him as he staggered backwards and fell against the rough tree-trunk, banging his head hard enough to make his eyes water.
'Oh, Ray, I'm sorry. Are you all right?'
He blinked manfully. 'I'm enjoying every minute of it. It's not often I get women crawling all over me. Shall we do it right here like this, or should we take our clothes off first?'
'Ray!'
Clare's laughter-choked protest was echoed by a horrified one from several yards behind them. With an inward groan Clare detached herself from the wickedly amused Ray to turn and explain to her mother-in-law. She was rooted to the spot when she discovered that Virginia was not alone.
Beside her stood a tall, dark man in a black polo-neck sweater and jeans, staring at Clare with a mixture of disapproval and bold sexual appraisal. Clare stiffened, instinctively pressing her splayed hands protectively across her bared upper thighs, which the bold black eyes seemed to find of particular interest. Her silent groan became a moan as she had no difficulty in identifying the famous face.
David Deverenko had come to call.
CHAPTER TWO
Clare's hands were trembling with embarrassment as she untucked her skirt and smoothed it back down around her knees, even though she knew it wasn't going to redeem the wanton image she had just presented. Damn Virginia for springing this on her! She could at least have had the decency to come out and warn Clare that he was here.
She hardly heard Virginia's reproving questions or Ray's rumbling amusement as he explained the circumstances of their clinch, she was far too conscious of the silent penetration of the dark eyes which watched her fumble with her clothing. He wasn't even trying to make the pretence of polite disinterest, and the faint tilt at one corner of his mouth made a mockery of Ray's explanation. How dared he insult her with his disbelief?
She wasn't going to allow herself to be flustered any longer. Let him think what he liked. She raised her eyebrows and stared back at him coolly, eyes grey with disdain. The only defence for shyness was directness; staring someone in the eye always projected an impression of confidence… or so it had proved in the past. Unfortunately, looking at David Deverenko, her eyes had a tendency to wander.
He was not as tall as she had first thought, under six foot, in fact, but the squarish shoulders and compact muscularity of his body beneath the close-fitting clothes exuded command—over himself and others. His skin was olive, and broad Slavonic cheekbones and a hawkish nose bore aggressive testament to his Russian ancestry. Not handsome, Clare decided, then her eyes met his again and she was not so sure. His eyes were very aware, holding a brooding intelligence that refined the harshness of his features.
'Your mother's expecting you back for tea, isn't she, Ray?' Virginia was saying pointedly. 'I'll see you off on that dreadful machine of yours while Mr Deverenko talks to Clare. Take him into the lounge, Clare, and I'll bring a tray through when it's ready.'
Ray gave Clare a resigned grin and, with a quick glance at the silently waiting visitor, leaned over to give her an unnecessarily warm goodbye kiss, taking the opportunity to whisper teasingly, 'Chin up, Goldilocks, the Russian bear won't eat you. He lives on porridge, remember. Odds on he'd never catch you!'
For once his humour didn't register. Clare watched them go down the garden path towards the side gate in the high fence before turning towards the house and saying stiffly, 'If you'd like to come this way, Mr Deverenko…'
David Deverenko followed her thoughtfully, his faint amusement at the entertaining scene fading. He wouldn't have been human if he hadn't, after her rudeness the previous night, rather enjoyed her discomfort, but he was aware it could work against him. Her continued antagonism would make his self-appointed championship of her son that much more difficult.
How to handle it? The problem was that Virginia Malcolm had given him a very sketchy, incomplete picture of Timothy's mother. He had expected someone cool and self-contained, a very reserved woman with a host of emotional anxieties stemming from her husband's death, anxieties that she was projecting on to her son. The artist in David had revolted at the thought of great musical talent being stifled by the clinging of a neurotic woman. She had certainly been 'clinging' a few minutes ago, but not in the context that he had expected.
Pondering the best approach, David's eyes fell to the trim ankles in front of him and he idly shortened his stride, dropping back in order to get another look at her legs. Her calves were slender and beautifully shaped, and the fine interplay of muscles as she walked indicated femininity modified by strength. In spite of the tense set of her spine, she moved with a natural grace enhanced by the subtle refinements of teaching. He wondered whether the thick tangle of her hair was naturally the colour of pale honey, and then, remembering her startlingly pale skin with its liberal sprinkling of freckles, decided that it was. That very fair complexion would burn easily, which was probably why, unlike most New Zealand women at the end of a long, spectacular summer, she didn't have a tan.
Clare excused herself for a few minutes when they reached the lounge, he presumed to have a few trenchant words with her mother-in-law, but when she came back David's amusement was revived. She had used the time to arm her defences. Her hair was returned to sleekness and her blouse had been firmly tucked back into her skirt and buttoned to the hilt. She had used powder, too, to disguise the freckles on her face, as if they might weaken her authority,
and her demeanour was brisk and businesslike. She looked him dead in the eye as she invited him to be seated, and he was careful not to show his amusement at her tactics. What was it, he wondered, that rendered those cool grey eyes under their unfashionably thick and straight brows so ineffective? Her mouth, he decided. It was rather small for her face, but sweetly full. A perfect bow. However cold and stern her manner, that mouth would always give her away. Confident now, David relaxed. Her concern with her appearance revealed her vulnerability. All he had to do was to show her that his was the superior strength and authority, and she would be ripe for persuasion. The insecure—male and female—usually responded to the disconcerting mixture of aggression and charm that came naturally to him. Face to face, Clare Malcolm didn't have a chance… and her son would be able to have his…
'Well, Mr Deverenko. Why did you want to talk to me?' Clare sat down opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, her shoulders squared.
In contrast, David Deverenko lounged. Admittedly he did it very well. 'Games, Mrs Malcolm? You may have time for them, but I don't. You know very well why I'm here to see you. Your son Timothy.'
His loaded patience was designed to make her feel silly for her pretence of ignorance. Awed, too, by the great man's condescension, no doubt.
'Really? You surprise me. I thought I made my opinion quite clear on the subject last night.'
'Opinions can change.'
'Not mine.'
'Are you so inflexible, then? That must make the task of bringing up a young child on your own doubly difficult.'
He had her there. Parenting was nothing if not the knack of constantly adjusting oneself to new crises. Children were adept at finding loopholes in hard and fast rules, particularly bright children like Tim. Clare smiled unwillingly at one particularly vivid memory, then hurriedly smoothed it out as she saw David Deverenko staring at her left cheek. Her hand automatically went up to brush away the dimple that gave her smile its funny lopsidedness. As a child her Shirley Temple cuteness had many times enabled her to escape the consequences of mischief, but who took an adult with a baby-dimple seriously?
