The butler came into the room, that bland smile on his face. He was a man in his fifties, a trifle portly, his head bald and pink, his eyes pouched, the formality of his dark clothes dousing the essence of his humanity.
`Is there anything I can get for you, sir ?' he asked Randal.
Randal turned a cold face towards him. 'I didn't ring,' he said softly.
The butler bowed his head without a reply and vanished like a genie back into a bottle, so that
Marcy almost expected to see a puff-of smoke lingering after him.
She looked at Randal in sudden dislike. 'There was no need to snap at him,' she reproved. 'The poor man was only doing his job. Anyway, I would like to know how much longer we've got to wait for the Great Panjandrum himself ?'
Randal moved to a smooth, satinwood table which stood behind the wide blue silk brocade couch, and began silently to pour dark amber sherry into two glasses. The soft light of a white glass table lamp shed pale light around his dark figure.
He moved back towards her, a glass in each hand, and gestured to the couch. 'Sit down, Miss Campion, and be patient,' he said blandly.
Marcy hesitated, then sat down at the end of the couch, accepting the sherry, her eye approving the finely chased glass. Randal sat down beside her, turning, an arm along the back of the couch, to look at her.
She sipped the liquid cautiously, her glance still
travelling over the room. Randal's eyes moved with
equal curiosity over her slender body in the simple
little green dress. Sleeveless, round-necked, almost
childish, it could not douse her radiant vitality, and
he thought with a faint smile that the very simplicity
had a telling effect. His roving eyes strayed to the fine,
bright ringlets clustered around her neck, and suddenly he recalled the moment when he had sat in his
car and watched as that other man, in his darkly
elegant clothes, had curved a possessive hand around
that slender throat. His blue eyes darkened in a stab
of jealousy. She had not moved away. She had smiled up trustingly at the other man, and he had sat and watched, his hands tightening on the wheel in a spasm of anger which had alarmed him.
When the other man, still caressing her neck, had bent to kiss her raised mouth, Randal had been conscious of a rage so bitter it had taken all his willpower to sit still and watch them.
Watching her now , he wondered exactly how far she was involved with the other, and could not believe she was deeply committed. There was that open, disingenuous look to her face which still held traces of childhood.
He suspected passion was unknown to her. The soft lines of those features said as much, and his body shook with sudden urgency as he contemplated the change in her which passion must make. I must be insane, he told himself. She's almost half my age, a schoolgirl, a tomboy with wild, radical attitudes which would upset my whole way of life. But his blue eyes continued to move over her restlessly as he attempted to get a grip on his usual self-control.
Marcy finished her sherry, placing the glass dubiously on the arm of the couch, and turned back to him in challenge.
`I'm getting hungry, if you aren't,' she said crossly. `As the Great Panjandrum shows no signs of putting in an appearance, I suggest we leave, either separately or together. I can always get a bus home if you prefer to stay here.'
He leaned over, his hard body turning gracefully, and put his own glass on the table behind them, then
turned to reach across her for her glass. As their bodies brushed briefly, she felt his glance up at her like a physical touch, and a faint pink came into her cheeks.
He sat round again and smiled at her, a practised, charming smile to which he got only a cool look.
`I thought you were going to have dinner with me,' he said quietly.
I've changed my mind,' she said.
`I've ordered a very good meal,' he said.
Her eyes narrowed speculatively. He met her stare coolly.
`Is this your house ?' she demanded.
He nodded.
She turned and glanced slowly around the room, then back at him, her face grave.
`Who are you?' she asked.
`I'm Randal Saxton,' he said, watching her carefully.
Her eyes studied him blankly for a long moment. Then she lay back against the brocade cushions, laughing. 'Well, well, well . . . so you aren't the errand boy, after all? You're the Great Panjandrum himself ?'
`In person,' he said, his mouth twitching.
She looked at him through her long lashes, mischief in her face. 'And this is the big seduction scene after all?'
'I hate to disappoint a lady,' he murmured, and before she could move the lean body, swerved to trap her against the cushions, his long hands framing her surprised face.
Marcy had not seriously expected it. She looked at him, blinking, startled.
Randal appeared to be in no-hurry. His fingertips slid softly over the soft skin of her cheeks, as if he were learning all the angles and hollows beneath the flesh. His eyes explored her at close quarters, finding odd rays of leonine gold in the bottle-green eyes, watching the black pupils dilate under his gaze, observing almost casually the slow rise of pink under her skin. He stared at her fine dark brows, at the length of her glinting gold-tipped lashes, at her small, tilted nose, and then finally, with intent absorption, at the tender pink mouth, inspecting it calmly, while it began to quiver in sudden alarm under his gaze.
`If your butler comes in,' she said a little uncertainly, 'he's going to be very embarrassed.' `He won't come in again,' Randal said coolly.
She gave him a flickering, partially defiant smile. -
`Well trained, is he? You bark. He jumps.'
`Shut up,' snapped Randal, lowering his mouth to hers.
Marcy felt a prickle of electric astonishment, her green eyes wide open, staring at the austere features as they descended towards her. Randal's mouth touched hers so softly her lips parted in a sigh of surprise, and then, to her own fury, felt her eyes closing as if by instinct, her slender body yielding as if it had suddenly become plastic under the impact of his kiss His long hands held her face as if their touch were an elongation of the kiss, his warm palms caressing her face, shaping it, possessing it. For a moment
Marcy, was held, hypnotised, by the mastery he was using against her.
Then she violently pulled her head backwards, her eyes opening wide in angry amazement.
`What do you think you're doing ?' she asked him in such tones of disgust that a twitch overtook his mouth and he was forced to smile, although his blue eyes were very dark and she could hear him breathing oddly.
`Seducing you,' he returned coolly, sitting back in his seat and smiling at her.
Marcy was flushed and irritable. 'Please,' she said politely, 'don't bother on my account. It would make no difference, anyway. I still refuse to sell you my property.'
`Just possibly,' Randal drawled, 'I'm not after the property you mean.'
Her indignant green eyes spat fire. 'I'd like to go home now, Mr Randal Saxton. I'll make do with beans on toast.'
He caught her wrist as she jumped up and she looked down at his elegant, lounging figure, suddenly seeing it as many others had done in the past, charged with a ruthless menace which meant to enforce its own desires. There was a stubborn jut to his jaw, a darkness in the blue eyes.
`We have a lot to talk about, Marcy,' he said in sudden gravity. 'You'll stay to dinner.'
`No, thank you,' she said, her own face as obstinate as his.
`I think you will when you learn what I have to say,' he told her calmly.
`I'm not interested,' she said, trying to pull her wrist out of the iron grip he had on it.
`Not even if I say you've won ?' he asked softly, watching her.
She stood very still, frowning, staring at him. 'Won what? A bottle of free champagne and a night in bed with the Great P
anjandrum?' she asked scathingly.
He looked dangerous for a second, then his face smoothed out. 'When the new office block is built it will be built around your land, not over it,' he said clearly.
Marcy stood in astonishment, her eyes open wide. (Do you mean that ?'
He nodded, his mouth satirical. 'One of the talents required for success at the top is the knowledge of when one is beaten,' he said wryly. `Now, if I give you my word your house and land are safe, will you stay to dinner, Marcy, and talk about what's to be done with them?'
She considered the question gravely. 'You know what I want to be done with them.'
know only the press stories,' he said, 'I want to talk to you about the practical details of how the scheme is to be financed.'
`Financed ?' she frowned.
. 'It will need to be kept in good condition,' 'he said, shrugging. 'My company is prepared to be responsible for the upkeep of the place.'
Marcy looked suspiciously at him. 'Is this a scheme to get hold of it in some devious way ?'
He grimaced. 'On my word of honour, it will be kept exactly as you want it . . .' His blue eyes quiz-
zically teased her. 'Do you want me to swear it on the Bible ?'
She shook her head. No, I. trust you, Mr Saxton.' `Randal,' he corrected.
She hesitated. His eyes watched her shrewdly. After a pause she said slowly, 'Yes, Randal.'
He stood up, his hand sliding to her elbow. 'Then we'll have dinner and talk about it, shall we ?'
Allowing him to lead her out of the room, Marcy felt a strange quiver of apprehension. She had won. Had she ?
CHAPTER THREE
THE dining-room had the same cool, elegant formality of the room they had just left, and Marcy paused to stare around it, reminded vaguely of her own home as a child.
Randal drew back a straight-legged, shield-backed dining chair whose mahogany had a deep inlaid polish which testified to years of loving care. She ran an admiring finger over the carving which embellished the back. 'Hepplewhite,' she murmured.
He gave her a quick look of surprise. 'Yes,' he admitted. 'You like furniture ?'
`My father did.' Her glance ran down the long table, taking in the branched silver candlesticks, the crystal, the silver bowls of exquisitely arranged flowers. Everything looked as if it had been arranged for some elaborate banquet, yet she guessed that this was how it always looked when he sat down to eat, and her glance at him held faint compassion. 'Do you eat here like this even when you're alone ?' It must be like living in isolation, she thought.
`I'm rarely on my own,' he said drily.
The butler silently appeared beside her, his head inclined in an attitude of deference, proffering a large silver dish in which a selection of hors d'oeuvres were carefully arranged.
Randal took a damask napkin from the table and
shook it out, laying it across her lap, as if she were a child for whom such attentions were necessary.
When the butler had served them both he departed as softly as he had come. Randal lifted his wine glass, smiling at her. 'To the community project,' he murmured.
Marcy smiled, but sipped the wine a little doubtfully. Although he was treating her with curious indulgence she was not unaware of something behind that bland manner. She had done battle with his giant corporation and beaten them, yet here they were, eating alone together in this silken exclusivity, and every nerve in her being warned her against taking him on his face value.
Looking at him through her gilded lashes in sudden appraisal, she remembered with alarm the way he had kissed her. What was he really up to ?
`What are you thinking ?' he asked, having watched the expressions flickering across her small, mobile face intently.
`Why you've suddenly changed your mind about getting hold of my house,' she said in her direct way.
`You placed us in an invidious position, little Miss Campion,' he told her softly. 'It's very easy for someone like you to make a large company look absurd, and, quite' frankly, we can do without the public image you've been busy projecting for us recently.'
`Mr Askew will be furious when he hears,' she said, drinking some more of the wine. It was sending a not unattractive warmth through her, and she relaxed a little more, her cheeks growing faintly flushed, her eyes as green as polished glass.
Randal raised a sharp brow. 'Askew ?'
`The Borough Surveyor.' She drank some more of the wine, barely noting that he had refilled her glass in a quiet movement. Her tongue loosened by the unaccustomed effect, she began to retail to him what Russell and Sim had told her about the convoluted dealings which underpinned the Saxton deal in the borough. Randal watched, listening intently. A hardness came into his blue eyes when she said airily, `Your Mr McAllister is very thick with Mr Askew, Sim says. Wheeling and dealing, Sim calls it. I said it was corruption, but Russell and Sim said it was just the way the wheels got oiled . .
The butler served a delicate course of tender slices of chicken in a creamy vinous sauce on a bed of rice with peppers and slivers of mushroom. Over Marcy's bright, ringleted head the two men glanced at each other. Discreetly the butler replaced the bottle of wine which was finished with another, then vanished again, a slightly anxious look on his bland face. Randal Saxton had entertained many women in his home, but Walters had never known him bring home a child so obviously out of her depth, nor could he comprehend why his master was deliberately plying her with wine which she assuredly could not handle.
`Tell me about your, home in Cornwall,' Randal invited, as she savoured the taste of the thick white sauce, her lids half lowered in dreamy delight.
Marcy cheerfully told him about it, hardly aware any longer of the fact that she was doing all the talking, her clear light voice full of loving nostalgia, her expressive face revealing her loneliness as a child, her
independence, her early habit of self-preservation.
He was amused to note that, although the wine had made her quite careless of consequences, she showed no sign of becoming actually drunk. Beneath her tomboy frankness there was a strong personal dignity which held beneath the impact of the wine, and he wondered if she had become aware of the effect produced upon her.
She looked at the profiteroles which the butler was offering her with regret, her mouth dimpled. 'Oh, I'd love to, but no, thank you,' she smiled with childish greed.
A faint smile on his bland face, the butler delicately placed one of the small objects in front of her. `Why not try just one, miss ?' he suggested in fatherly tolerance.
Marcy turned a grinning face up at him, her triangular smile and bright eyes entrancing. 'You're tempting me,' she said lightly.
Randal's eyes were fixed on her enchanting profile, a curious hard brightness in his eyes. Walters caught the look and withdrew, more and more perplexed.
Marcy lovingly tasted the profiterole. A sigh came from her. 'Ambrosial,' she remarked. Looking at him, she asked, 'Aren't you having any ?'
He shook his head, charm in his face. `They were intended for you,' he admitted.
`Oh, and I only had one. I'm sorry.'
`Coffee ?' he asked her. She watched him add swirls of thick cream which floated in marbled streaks across the coffee.
`I shall never forget this meal,' she said with easy
frankness. `Do you always eat like this? I've never
eaten like it in my life. Who cooks it? Your butler ?'
His mouth quirked. 'Walters? He would be shattered by the suggestion. No, I have an extremely good French chef.'
Marcy snorted, coffee going the wrong way. Randal, with a look of concern, patted her on her thin back, and she gradually recovered, but the laughing eyes she turned on him made his brows rise.
`What did I say that was funny?'
`A French chef,' she said. 'You said it so calmly too . . . like someone saying "I've got an elephant in the bathroom".'
Randal lowered his eyes to his coffee. 'I'm a very wealthy man,' he said softly. 'Would you rathe
r I pretended I was not?'
She considered the question soberly. 'No,' she decided, shaking her head. 'Honesty is the best policy.'
`Is it?' he asked, as if he took her words in quite another context. 'Always, would you say?'
She thought oddly of Sim, and a little flush rose into her cheeks. She turned away, sudden constraint in her face. 'It ought to be,' she said on a regretful note.
Randal watched her in abrupt intensity. Why had that strange look come into her mobile face? What had she thought of that made her stop smiling and look grave? He watched her, thinking that every look, every word, of hers was becoming incredibly important to him. He was becoming consumed by a burning desire to know her as he had never known any other human being.
`I ought to be going,' she said, glancing at the lyre-, shaped French clock which suddenly chimed on the mantelpiece.
`We haven't talked about our project yet,' he said casually. 'More coffee ?'
She was about to refuse when he refilled her cup, then shrugged and accepted it, feeling the queer prickling heat which had invaded her body as she drank the wine seem to recede. The coffee would clear her head, she thought.
`Shall we take it into the sitting-room while Walters clears the table ?' he suggested.
Marcy followed him, sinking into the soft depths of the couch with a relaxed, sigh. Randal moved softly around, lowering the lights, and she sipped her coffee, a sleepy content on her lowered lids, unaware of what he was doing because she was becoming more and more drowsy..
Randal removed her cup to the satinwood table and sat down beside her. 'My main idea was that we should get a suitable architect to plan a way in which wee could involve your house and garden into the actual fabric of our development,' he said quietly.
She was lying back, her heart-shaped face filled with drowsiness. 'I don't follow,' she murmured, trying to grasp what he said.
`No ?' said Randal, his long hand pushing back the marmalade ringlets with tender precision until the whole outline of her features could be seen without concealment. 'Your own idea of a local communal centre is the lynch-pin of the scheme,' he said. 'What we have to do is decide the exact nature of the various
Sweet Compulsion Page 5
