Ruthless in All

by Jessica Steele

  'We've run out of paint,' said Owen, having taken the weekend off the decorating and now, save for the mid-morning coffee break the three of them were having in the kitchen, back to work with a will.

  'I'll go for some more if you like,' volunteered Arden.

  'You may have to shop around for that particular colour,' Owen advised, taking her up on her offer. 'I had the last tin—I thought it would stretch, but…'

  'But you miscalculated,' suggested Louise with a definite look of laughter in her eyes.

  'With you around, it is any wonder?' he teased.

  Stopping only to change from paint and paste-smeared jeans and shirt into clean ones, and adding a jacket, Arden headed for Worcester.

  Owen had not seemed to be in any hurry to get back to his painting, she mused, when eventually she ran the correct shade of paint to earth. And feeling better to be out, she took a leisurely stroll round Marks and Spencer to see what was new there, before her conscience told her that Owen could well be waiting for his paint.

  It was that same conscience that had her not wasting time going around the back to park, but stopping her car at the front of Hills View and dashing up the steps.

  'One can of…' Owen, showing he had been waiting, took the paint from her and trundled off while Arden was still looking at Louise. It had been her aunt who had had her breaking off. For there was that look in her aunt's eyes which, though she hadn't seen it just recently, told her that Louise had been up to something while she had been out.

  'Going to confess?' Arden asked, her lips quirking.

  'Well, he insisted,' replied Louise in defence.

  Knowing she couldn't be meaning Owen, or she would have used his first name, Arden shrugged out of her jacket. 'He?' -she questioned, knowing that they would get there eventually.

  'I told him we were in too much of a pickle to take in guests, but he…'

  'You've let one of the rooms?' suggested Arden, seeing nothing so very dreadful about that, given that Louise by the sound of it had warned their guest that redecoration was going on.

  'I've let the green room,' she confessed. 'He asked for that room particularly.'

  Starting to get very definite vibes, while at the same time telling herself not to be ridiculous; that Blane would not come to Hills View ever again, though obviously their guest had to be someone who had stayed with them before, Arden felt her nerves start to jump as Louise went on:

  'I was a bit hesitant to say he could stay—I had a feeling you didn't like him when he was here before. But…'

  'Who…?' asked Arden, her voice all strangled, not a smile about her now as she fought with all she had to control her wild imaginings. 'Who—is he?'

  Arden was to find that her control was never more needed. For Louise chose just then to have one of her grasshopper moments, and the very definite vibes Arden was experiencing started to sound a violently discordant apprehensive clamour, as Louise said:

  'You won't have forgotten him, I'm sure.' And, a warm smile coming through, 'Though he looks so much better now than he did. Why, I only just recognised him when he…'

  'Who, Aunt?' Arden broke in, all her senses shrieking that there was nothing wrong with her imagination, even as her heart told her no, he just couldn't be that ruthless. 'Who is he?'

  'Why,' said her aunt, just as if she thought she had already revealed his name, 'that charming Mr Stephens—didn't I say? He particularly asked after you, dear.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rocked to her very foundations, Arden barely registered that Owen had come to ask Louise if she could come to hold his ladder. Only vaguely was she aware that her aunt had gone.

  Had she really heard her say 'Mr Stephens'? Or had she, expecting to hear that name, imagined that was the name she had heard? Not wondering that she should doubt her hearing, her insides all over the place, Arden saw that there was one very quick way of finding out who was in possession of the green room.

  Wasting no further time, she went hurriedly to the reception desk, dropping her jacket down on a chair, as with her fingers all thumbs she turned over the guest house register to the place where her aunt would have asked him to sign.

  Then great strident bells of alarm were going off in her head. Living proof was spread out before her, yet with her aunt still calling him Mr Stephens, she had not checked his registration. For the name that was staring her in the face was not that of J. Stephens. With shocked eyes Arden saw that the man who had booked in while she had been in town had boldly signed his name—Blane Hunter!

  Knowing that what she was seeing was no figment of her imagination, nor was there anything wrong with her hearing, for long witless seconds she stared, numbed, at Blane's signature.

  Then suddenly, the rest of what her aunt had said was stirring in her brain. And anger was then pushing out shock. 'He particularly asked after you,' Louise had said. I'll bet he did, thought Arden. The next moment she had closed the book with a snap.

  A moment later she was charging up the stairs. The nerve of the man! The diabolical cheek of him! Who the hell did he think he was, that he could come dunning her for money!

  A fine fury about her, Arden was not stopping to think, as she had thought before his letter had arrived, that she was in debt to him. Highly indignant, she was in no mood to question—was it likely he would call in person to collect that debt when with all his money it was far more likely he would send someone else, a debt collector maybe.

  On reaching the door of the green room, she just wasn't thinking at all. Without ceremony she threw open the door, and was still not thinking when she went storming in.

  Veritable sparks were flashing in her eyes. Sparks which the tall dark-haired man who rose as she burst in could not fail to see.

  Arden thought she had been furious enough to slam into him first and ask questions afterwards, though to her mind there were not any questions outstanding— just that debt. But, just seeing him—fitter than she had ever seen him; even the scar that had once been a livid mark on the side of his face had faded and was barely noticeable—pulled her up short.

  'Come in, do.' He was the first to speak, when just to see how terrific he looked when returned to full health had left her bereft of speech.

  It was his sarcasm that she had not so much as stopped to knock on his door that released her tongue. 'Did you have to come to humiliate me?' she charged, anger flaring that Blane, who had never pretended about anything, John Blunt always, should suddenly assume a surprised look.

  'Humiliate?' he echoed.

  'You've had my letter,' Arden snapped, in charge of herself again, not ready a second time to let in that weakness just seeing him brought. 'There was no need for you to come dunning me for your money,' she said, nettled, starting to get worked up. 'I explained about my being short of funds in my letter. There…'

  'Ah yes, your letter,' cut in Blane. 'The one asking for time before I began legal proceedings.' Arden threw him a searing glance. He knew, with his talk of 'the one', that she had only ever written to him the one time. 'I'm here to come to some arrangement about that, Arden.'

  So he had come to dun her for the money, for all his feigned surprise at her suggestion that he had arrived to humiliate her. Doing her best to cover how much that hurt, she told him stiffly:

  'I'm hoping to have a better season this year than last. If you can wait until after the summer's over, I'll…'

  Blane shaking his head had her breaking off. 'I can't give you that long, I'm afraid,' he said calmly, fracturing her with his ruthlessness, not a sign of compunction about him that she could see.

  'My God!' she gasped, having to believe it, but desperately not wanting to. 'That newspaper man was right when he said you were a ruthless ba…' she broke off again. Calling him names wouldn't help. 'Very well,' she said coldly after a moment, and rashly, 'if you'll give me until the end of the spring…'

  But again he was shaking his head. 'Not even until spring begins—I'm an impatient man, Arden,' he told her, no s
ign of apology about him as he added, 'I find I am unable to give you time. It is my wish to take—legal proceedings—as…'

  'You—swine!' she hissed. God, ruthless wasn't the word for it! 'With all the money you have you in-tend…' incredulous, never believing this of him, she just could not finish.

  But she was to find that she was in for an even bigger shock when, his face serious, not a smile about him, which to her mind there should have been since he must be delighting in having her at his mercy, softly, he let fall:

  'Who said anything about money?'

  Staggered that, not having humiliated her enough, apparently, Blane was now going on to play some cat and mouse game with her, Arden was angry again.

  'You did!' she flared hotly.

  'Forgive me.' Still serious, he didn't look at all sorry. 'I can't recall…'

  'You said…' she started to blaze, then began to grow confused that she could not, in fact, remember him mentioning the word 'money'. It was implied, though, she thought, getting herself together. In his letter he had implied… 'You said in your letter that you were writing about a—a matter outstanding,' she challenged. 'You said…' she went sailing on, only to be interrupted:

  'I know full well what I said. But,' one corner of his mouth did actually start to pick up, 'the matter outstanding to which I referred was not remotely connected with any money you think you owe me.'

  Her head whirled as her brain sought this way and that to try to discover if it was not that debt which was outstanding, then—what was, and she heard Blane going on:

  'Money, I might add, which until I had your letter reminding me of it, I hadn't given a thought to.'

  'Huh!' she scoffed.

  But when he merely looked steadily at her, and did not argue the point—looked at her as though having made his statement that the money she owed him, or rather according to him, thought she owed him, did not come into it, and no further statement was needed, Arden had to own she was nowhere near clear of confusion. As far as she could remember, there was no other matter outstanding.

  'You say—money doesn't come into it?' she recapped slowly. But getting no help from him; feeling her way, 'But that you—intend to take legal proceedings against me?'

  The fire of anger gone from her in her confusion, she saw Blane take in a deep breath. That for a moment there she had received the absurd notion that he appeared nervous was, she readily admitted, all due to that confusion.

  'I intend to take legal proceedings—with you—not against you, Arden.'

  'With me?' Confusion wasn't the word for it! And whirling head didn't begin to describe the spinning world Arden found herself in when, nothing at all wrong with his nerves, his voice calm, quietly Blane said:

  'I believe legal proceedings have to be gone through before I can lawfully call you—my wife.'

  Had her hearing not been affected before, then as those last two spoken words bounced around in her head, Arden was sure it was affected now. Dumbfounded, she stared at him. Then as her world gradually righted, she found just sufficient wind to exclaim:

  'Y-your—wife!'

  'You may remember,' he nudged, when her memory needed no nudging, 'that I've asked you to marry me. Your reply, I wrote to remind you, is still outstanding.'

  'I—I…' Arden closed her mouth and tried to get her brain patterns sorted out. In his letter Blane had asked for an affirmative reply! But—but surely he had not come to Hills View solely for the purpose of hearing that 'Yes' she had walked from in fear she might so reply at Brynmoel!

  'You were—serious?' she asked, shaken to recall she had thought he had asked her then because of the loneliness in his soul.

  'I can't remember laughing,' he replied shortly, an impatient man, as he had told her, but a man still having to wait for his answer.

  Her insides suddenly full of energetic butterflies, she stared at him. Lonely he might have been then, but, returned to full health, he looked to be more than ever the loner she had always thought him to be.

  'But—why?' she had to ask.

  He did not answer her straight away. And suddenly she was seeing again that same sensitivity in him she had seen before. A sensitivity that was well hidden from the world, yet a sensitivity which could not be hidden at night when sleep claimed him, that hidden sensitivity being responsible for his nightmares. And Arden's sensitivity was matching his then, when without waiting for him to answer, she gave him the reason why she could not marry him.

  'You still love Delcine, Blane,' she told him gently.

  But she was to learn that the regretful look he gave her was not because she had refused him. And she was to know confusion again, when, since there was nothing more but for her to go, Blane stepped forward and with a resigned, 'It appears that explanations won't wait,' he led her to one of the bedroom chairs, pausing only to see that she was seated, then he moved the other chair and went to sit facing her.

  Wondering why she was seated when she had meant to go, Arden tried hard to collect herself. To her thinking there were no explanations that could overcome that giant obstacle of Blane being forever in love with Delcine.

  Which was why, that belief set like concrete in her, Arden stared blankly, utterly shattered, as, his face stern, she heard Blane distinctly say:

  'To begin with, I was never in love with Delcine.' And while wide-eyed Arden stared, equally clearly he added, 'Any infatuation I felt was soon over when I discovered that not only was she a compulsive liar, but that she was incapable of staying faithful to any man.' Transfixed by what he had just said, she could not even blink. 'Believe it,' he told her, 'I was never in love with her.'

  'But…' She could not believe it. Yet he seemed to be telling her the truth—that he had never loved Delcine! Her eyes stuck fast on his, there was no thought then in Arden that she had meant to leave the green room. 'But you were—out of your mind about her!' she managed to exclaim. And she recalled, instantly, as she came out of her trance, remembering the way he had been—'You had dreadful nightmares,' she reminded him, nowhere any nearer to believing the impossibility of what he was saying. 'Your soul was in torment in those nightmares that she was dead—that the car might go up in flames before you could get her out.'

  'I'm aware of that,' he agreed, contradicting to her mind his statement that he had never been in love with Delcine, that he did not love her now.

  Having no fancy to have her intelligence underrated, even if she was finding difficulty in comprehending what it was he was telling her, her voice was short as she asked:

  'You're trying to tell me that you hated her?'

  'I didn't hate her,' he replied. Which must, she thought, mean that he loved her, despite what he had said.

  'You were like a man demented,' she thought to remind him as anger flared that if this was an explanation, all he was succeeding in doing was to make her even more confused. 'You wanted no one to intrude on your grief because you'd killed her.'

  'You obviously haven't seen a report of the inquest.' It was his turn to remind her.

  'I—did,' she confessed, her short flare of anger gone.

  'Then you'll know that if anyone killed Delcine, she did it herself.'

  Arden didn't wonder that, with fog thick around her, she had spoken without thought to that inquest.

  'She was driving recklessly,' Blane went on. 'I should have told her not to drive so fast, but with her only aim being to try to scare the daylights out of me, I saw any attempt I made to get her to slow down would result in making her press her foot down further on the accelerator.'

  At that point, imagination took over from the confusion in Arden. In her mind's eye she then had a clear picture of the woman who had once been Blane's wife, furious because she hadn't got anywhere in her attempts to get him to settle her debts, driving like a mad thing to try and get some reaction from him. Love for him was uppermost in her then as that vivid scene was replayed in her mind, and Arden's sensitivity to him, for him, was again to the fore.

  'You
'd had a foul day,' she couldn't refrain from saying.

  'It's sometimes like that in business,' he nodded. 'What I didn't need that afternoon was to have Delcine worm her way past my secretary, then, when only a month before I'd bailed her out, try and worm more money from me.'

  'The paper said she'd been hysterical.'

  'I wasn't in the mood for her hysterics either,' said Blane, with the air of a man who had often seen Delcine hysterical. 'It wasn't the first time when she couldn't get what she wanted that she'd threatened suicide. But she'd just about worn out that particular theme, and she knew it when I told her "Good".'

  'You—don't think she meant to kill you both?' asked Arden, feeling sick inside that Blane could have died too.

  'Not on your life,' he answered. 'Delcine loved the party scene too much to want to deprive the pack she ran with of her company. She soon came off the suicide gambit anyway when she saw I wasn't playing, and started hissing at me in language a guttersnipe would blush at.' His look was hard as he ended, 'I'd had enough—I ordered her out.'

  'But she didn't go any farther than to where you'd parked your car.'

  'The attendant in the parking lot fell for the line she shot him that she was going to drive me home because, poor man, I'd had a stress-filled day. He handed over the spare car keys.'

  'She was sitting there, the paper said, when you left your office.'

  'And thought if I wouldn't listen to her verbal abuse, she would get change out of me some other way.'

  'The way she chose,' said Arden softly, 'was to drive like a maniac and end up killing herself, as she'd threatened.' Suddenly light was beginning to break. 'Is that why you had nightmares—because she had threatened suicide and had in fact ended up killing herself?'

  'Those nightmares were brought on by guilt,' he admitted, 'but not because it appeared she had carried out her threat.' Then, always a very private man, he broke off to tell her frankly, keeping nothing secret from her, 'Delcine was always short of funds, even though the amount I settled on her wasn't puny. To dramatically threaten suicide was no more than a ploy she frequently used when all else failed. I have nothing to feel guilty about on that score—I'd heard it all before, many times, remember. Within minutes of my giving her a cheque other times, she'd be off somewhere to have a whale of a time.'