Waiting Game
Waiting Game
Diana Hamilton
Face the truth. You want me as I want you. Saul Ackerman changed his girlfriends as often as he changed his shirts. Rich, successful and attractive, he had no shortage of women waiting to share his life. And he assumed that Fenella was another in a long line of empty-headed lovelies who would jump at his bidding.But Fen wasn't what she appeared to be. And there was a reason behind her masquerade… .
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u1650c99d-edf7-551f-a95e-671724098a2f)
About the Author (#u66ca2c54-75ec-58eb-91e5-e882935d5758)
Title Page (#uad1cf377-0529-5410-9acb-d1dee6f43798)
CHAPTER ONE (#ub3436a17-8706-54a5-b7b1-1654bb3b7d14)
CHAPTER TWO (#u860042ef-c1fe-54e7-a7a9-4678211eff7d)
CHAPTER THREE (#u6c0a1bf0-1513-5fa2-adba-c040f6c46839)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic at heart and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often-chaotic life-style, ever since she learned to read and write Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.
Waiting Game
Diana Hamilton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f97f0f38-4001-547f-8f0e-f0de52a54caa)
THE group of photographers and reporters outside the highly exclusive, highly expensive West End restaurant snapped to attention as the taxi rumbled to a halt.
‘You were right, they did follow.’ Fenella wriggled along the seat, closer to Alex, her golden eyes smiling wickedly into his, slipping into a warm Cornish drawl as she tacked on, trying to help him loosen up, ‘Brace yourself, me ‘andsome!’ Picking up languages had always come as easily as breathing, so regional dialects were an absolute doddle, and Alex grinned back at her.
‘I’m always right, sweetheart, you should know that by now. Come on, let’s strut our stuff!’ He had his hand on the door release but despite his jokey tone the interior light picked out the lines of tension around his mouth.
Fenella felt her own lips tighten. At fifty-five Alex was still a handsome man, his considerable talent as a light entertainer still very much intact. She didn’t know how Saul Ackerman, that hard-nosed business mogul, had the gall to try and put him down. And out.
What would he know about anything? Alex’s talent was creative; Saul Ackerman wouldn’t know anything about that because his head would be stuffed with columns of figures, and big profits were the name of the game.
But her triangular, cat-like smile was firmly in place again as she stepped out on to the pavement and simply stood there, illuminated by the soft lights beneath the awning, one slender hip elegantly tilted forward, her honey-gold head tipped slightly to one side, her slumbrous golden eyes almost taunting the jackals of the Press as Alex paid off the driver.
Her height gave her an advantage—helped by the ridiculously high heels she was wearing—and the tight sheath of her low-cut evening dress gave an elegant emphasis to the width of her white shoulders, the black silk clinging lovingly to understated yet exquisite curves.
As the taxi slid away the activity among the waiting Press men became frenetic as they recognised her companion. Having followed Saul Ackerman’s party from the theatre, got photographs, and possibly comments from him and the leading lady he was squiring, they had probably decided to call it a day. There was only so much they could milk from a first night, a brilliant young Cornish playwright and a leading lady whose name was a household word on both sides of the Atlantic.
Her smile firmly in place, Fenella swayed over to Alex’s side, felt his arm snake possessively around her narrow waist and tried not to flinch as the flashes exploded around them.
‘You were at the opening, Mr Fairbourne?’
‘What do you think of VisionWest’s new boy genius?’
‘Now Ackerman’s consortium has the franchise do you see your programme continuing in the same format?’
Questions were bitten out thick and fast and Fenella gave Alex full marks for his performance. There was no sign of that tension as he picked his answer, his voice as smooth and rich as ever.
‘I would hardly call Jethro Tamblyn a boy, but he is certainly a genius. As you know, Vision West has him under contract to produce two new dramas for us a year, which will, of course, be sold to the networks. A scoop the board is justifiably proud of.’
This was common knowledge, safe stuff. VisionWest had had their own camera crew outside the theatre, making sure everyone in the west country knew that their regional commercial television station was backing the Cornishman to the hilt, Saul Ackerman, the chairman, attending the first night, wining and dining the author, his wife, and Vesta Faine, the glamorous leading lady, in high style after the performance.
‘And will the networks continue to buy Evening With Alex? Are you worried by reported falling ratings?’
‘Darling,’ Fenella interjected with a tiny pout and a manufactured shiver. ‘Do we have to hang round here? It’s cold.’
It wasn’t. The mid-May evening was unseasonably warm, if anything, but she wasn’t going to see Alex savaged by this mob. She moved subtly closer to him, as if seeking his warmth, his protection. In the whole of her twenty-five years she couldn’t remember needing or wanting a man’s protection. But she would do anything to save Alex from having to answer that particular question.
And then a voice, coarser than the rest, heavy with salacious overtones, drawled out, ‘Couldn’t your wife make it tonight, Alex? Did you leave her tucked up in bed with a good book, in case she cramped your style?’
Fenella felt Alex’s arm tighten around her waist and glared at the reporter who was pushing a notepad under her nose. She knew they had a job to do, a living to earn—but did they have to be so despicable?
‘Jean is visiting her mother in Edinburgh,’ Alex said uncomfortably. ‘Now, if you don’t mind—’
But they were like hounds on the scent and one of them bayed, ‘And you are a keen theatre-goer, Ms—? Or is it Mrs? Or are you just a wannabe?’ The voice persisted as Fenella refused to give her name. ‘A model, perhaps, just itching to break into television?’
‘Oh, Alex—’ Fenella hid her twitching mouth against his broad, dinner-jacketed shoulder just as the flash lights exploded again.
Alex said toughly, ‘That’s enough. Go hassle someone else.’ And he swept her forward into the luxurious foyer.
A breathing space, if only brief. While Fenella got her heartbeats back under control Alex’s deep blue eyes raked her pale face with deep concern.
‘You all right, sweetheart?’
‘I’m fine.’ Golden eyes sparkled into his. ‘You did warn me what to expect. I think I could get hooked on living dangerously!’
And there was no time to say any more because they were being whisked through to the main restaurant area, all soft lighting and wickedly sumptuous décor and potted plants like a miniature exotic jungle flanking delicate Japanese silk screens painted with golden dragons with glittering ruby eyes.
And full of beautiful people. And the table they were deferentially conducted to was within spitting distance of Saul Ackerman’s party. If she looked to the left of Alex’s shoulder she would be staring straight into the chairman’s face.
A quick, encompassing glance told her he had even more presence than she had realised when Alex had pointed him out to her during the interval back at the theatre. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he had the type of hard, slashing features that could never be over-looked. But it was more than merely the striking combination of a strongly modelled bone-structure, thick black hair and piercing silver-grey eyes. It was the sheer unadulterated power of the man.
She didn’t look his way again. She concentrated on Alex. A tiny muscle was twitching at the corner of his mouth and that only happened when he was nervous. Gently, she laid her hand over his.
‘Don’t worry, everything will be fine. I promise.’
‘Of course it will.’ There’d been only a momentary hesitation preceding his answer and then he was smiling into her eyes and he was back to being the urbane, self-confident man she loved. ‘Now order something fabulous, Fen, my darling, and we’ll have the best champagne on offer.’
‘Well…’ She could hear the note of doubt in her voice and deplored it. But the menu she’d been handed was almost too heavy to hold, and nothing was priced. ‘Can you afford it?’ Which was even more deplorable, but she couldn’t help it.
‘Look on it as payment for services rendered and those yet to come.’ Alex leaned back expansively in his chair, the look in his eyes, the play of that smile across his mouth making her understand why women had literally thrown themselves at him during his live stage performances a decade or two ago, why his records had once regularly featured high in the charts. ‘And if I can’t afford it, Jean can.’
‘Say no more!’ Fenella buried her head in the menu. She was famished. And it was common knowledge that Jean was fabulously rich. She’d inherited a fortune from her father and was due to inherit another when her mother died. Not an event Jean was anticipating, Fenella knew, but the old lady was over ninety. So the price of a meal in a place such as this wouldn’t cause Alex’s wife any hardship!
‘Has Ackerman noticed us yet?’ Alex asked quietly as soon as he’d given their order. ‘Too obvious if I turned round. I don’t want him to think our being here was anything other than coincidence.’ He leaned forward, trailing a finger down the side of her face. ‘Look over to their table in a moment or two; make it natural. I don’t think there’s a man in the room who could have failed to notice you, sweetheart.’
Fenella wasn’t so sure about that, but she knew the trouble Alex had gone to to discover which restaurant Ackerman intended to bring his party to tonight in time to reserve a table himself.
Strangely unwilling to meet those silver-grey eyes, she waited until the champagne was brought to their table, breaking up their intimately whispered conversation. Then slowly, as if wanting something to do while Alex’s attention was no longer given exclusively to her, she allowed her eyes to wander idly over the animated group at Saul Ackerman’s table.
Vesta Faine was as lovely close to as she had been on stage, her dark beauty enhanced by the dramatic lines of the white satin of her gown, her vivacious chatter obviously holding Jethro Tamblyn in thrall. The playwright was leaning forward, his arms folded on the table, his ruggedly striking features animated as he listened to every word. He looked as if he had been running both hands through his dishevelled, wiry chestnut hair for at least a couple of hours. In contrast, his wife looked out of her depth in her unimaginative chain-store dress, her pale blue eyes fixed anxiously on her famous husband. Had she married the boy from her own Cornish village when he’d been nothing more than a struggling, impecunious writer only to find him leaving her behind? Would she be able to withstand the pressures of his newly found fame?
Aware that these idle musings were merely delaying tactics, she reluctantly glanced at the head of the table. Saul Ackerman was probably just as riveted by the actress as Jethro was. But she met the silver-eyes head on and the mocking awareness in them made her face go hot.
She looked away quickly, expelling the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, dipping her head on the slender stalk of her neck, feeling the long ornate drop-earrings brush against her skin, restraining the desire to remove the irritants. She had only worn the outlandish things to soften the effect of her starkly modern hairstyle. Cut very short into the shape of her head at the back, it was long on top, falling forwards into a honey-gold fringe that brushed her eyebrows in a heavy, well-defined curve.
‘Well?’ Alex arched a brow. ‘Have we been noticed?’
Hastily banishing any trace of discomfort or wariness from her eyes, she gave him her most brilliant smile, the discreet, muted lighting making her shoulders gleam like oiled satin above the rich black silk of her low-cut dress as she leaned forward, her voice low and intimate as she told him, ‘Yes. I don’t think anyone, even someone as tunnel-visioned as Saul Ackerman, could fail to recognise your impressive profile!’
‘Never mind that.’ The blatant flattery left him visibly unimpressed. ‘The bastard knows every line on my face! It’s you I want him to see, Fen. I want him to recognise you when he sees you again.’ He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. ‘I want him so he can’t take his eyes off you.’
Involuntarily, her gaze slid to the other table and her breath caught in her lungs. Even through the thick veiling of her long dark lashes there was no mistaking the speculation in those flat silver eyes. Saul Ackerman was leaning back in his chair, making no attempt now to join in the conversation that was flying around his table, the fingers of one hand idly playing with the stem of his wine glass as he watched her, his eyes unnerving.
Two thunderous heartbeats later Fenella dragged her attention back to Alex. It would appear that his wish had been granted. Ackerman would know her if he saw her again. Something fluttered inside her breasts, something uncomfortable and alien. Vowing not to look Saul Ackerman’s way again, she made a determined and happily successful effort to flirt with Alex across the table but could make little impression on the superb meal she had been hungry for only a short while ago.
What a waste of Jean’s money, of good food, she sniped at herself. She didn’t know what was the matter with her. She would have thought it would have taken very much more than the impudent stares of a strange man to deaden her always hearty appetite.
‘Won’t you introduce me to your companion, Alex?’
Fenella didn’t have to look up to know whom that voice belonged to. It was cool, authoritative steel, very slightly burred with dry, amused confidence. The fingers that held the fork she’d been using to push her food around her plate started to shake. Very carefully, she put the implement down as Alex hurriedly pushed back his chair and stumbled to his feet.
‘Saul. How’s this for a coincidence! I saw you at the theatre—only had to look for VisionWest’s camera team—’ His expansive smile was shaky round the edges, the sudden pinkness of his face emphasising the beginnings of a sagging jawline, the pull of gravity that was wrecking the face that had had women of all ages drooling in the aisles. He was making a too conscious effort to straighten his shoulders and pull in his stomach muscles, Fenella noted, her heart twisting with anguished love.
Ackerman, though, had no need to try to project an image. There wasn’t a superfluous ounce of flesh on that tall, aggressively masculine frame. Not even the suavely styled immaculate dinner-jacket could disguise the potent rawness of this prime male animal, she thought with disgust, hating him.
He had a cruel mouth, she decided, refusing to flinch away from the eyes that were consciously and compellingly holding her own. He was totally devoid of compassion, sympathy or understanding. The uncrowned head of the consortium which had recently made a successful bid for the Vision West franchise, he had more clout than was good for him. Already his business empire encompassed publishing, an airline, communication systems; he had forgotten the meaning of compassion—if he had ever known it in the first instance—and would break poor darling Alex without a second thought.
‘How did you rate tonight’s performance, Miss ?’ Very briefly, his cold gaze spiked towards Alex, reminding the older man of the neglected introduction. No one, especially someone he had already put down as a has-been, neglected his commands.
‘Fenella Flemming—my—my niece.’ Alex went crimson, shifting from one foot to the other. He couldn’t have looked more ill at ease if he’d tried. ‘Fen, sweetheart, this is—’
‘I know who it is, darling,’ she cut in, sounding bored, the downward twist of her mouth, the golden glitter of her eyes letting him know she wasn’t impressed, catching her breath a split-second later as she saw the gleam of pure cynicism in the blackly fringed silver eyes, the scornful knowing curve of his mouth as he repeated softly,
‘Your niece? But of course—who else could she possibly be?’
Which meant, of course, that he didn’t believe it for one instant.
She held his eyes with cool defiance. ‘We enjoyed the performance immensely, didn’t we, Alex?’ She wished he would sit down, stop fidgeting from foot to foot. But maybe no one, but no one, sat when in ‘the Presence’! She made a mental note to ask him some time and then went icy cold as that cool voice commanded,
‘Then why don’t we discuss it? Join me for coffee and brandy and I’ll introduce you to the author and Vesta.’
No mention, Fenella noted sourly, of the author’s wife. People wouldn’t count with him unless they were famous, at the top of their own particular ladder.
‘Some other time, maybe.’ Fenella rose languidly to her feet, her eyes on Alex. He was probably itching to take up the invitation but not even for his sake could she endure to spend a moment longer in Ackerman’s company. One delicate brow rose and disappeared beneath her glossy, honey-gold fringe. ‘It’s time we were tucked up in bed, isn’t it, darling?’ Her mouth curved in a slow smile that couldn’t be misinterpreted. ‘Excuse me just for a moment while I freshen up before we leave.’ And then, not giving her courage chance to desert her, she made herself encounter Saul Ackerman’s icy stare. ‘So nice to have met you, Mr Ackerman.’
And she walked away, heading for the rest-rooms at the rear of the restaurant, threading her way through the tables, aware as never before of the way her body swayed within the clinging confines of the black silk sheath, uncomfortably sure that the monster’s eyes were following her every inch of the way.
The door closed behind her with a soft, expensive thud and she leaned gratefully against the cool, aqua wallpaper, her fingertips to her throbbing temples.
What had started out as a fun, if mentally challenging evening had ended on a quite different note, a note she couldn’t really define—even if she’d wanted to. From the moment she’d learned what the chairman of Vision West was planning to do to Alex she had disliked the man. But seeing him, meeting him, had affected her more strongly than she had bargained for.
Shuddering, she pushed herself away from the wall and effected a few minor repairs to her make-up in front of one of the softly lit mirrors. Saul Ackerman was nothing to her, simply a man she despised. He was planning to axe Alex’s programme, strip him of his self-respect, toss him into an empty, financially barren future.
So it was perfectly natural that she should dislike the man so intensely. Sheer, gut-wrenching hatred was something she had never experienced before. No wonder it had a strange effect on her!
Relieved that that was sorted out, she dropped her lipstick into her slender evening purse and snapped the clasp with a defiant click. The sooner she and Alex were out of this place, back in the flat, alone together with all the time they needed to chew over the evening’s happenings, the better.
She marched out into the silent, thickly carpeted corridor and almost scurried straight back in again when she saw Ackerman waiting for her, his face blank.
Sinkingly prepared to brazen it out, she gave him the ghost of an acknowledgement and stalked past him. But, levering himself away from the wall he’d been so casually leaning against, his hand shot out, clamping around her upper arm, dragging her to a teetering halt. Her breath froze in her lungs as she swayed on her impossible heels. At a distance he was lethal enough; at such close quarters he was pure poison.
‘Do you make a habit of grabbing every passing female?’ She managed to sound frosty but she was boiling inside, her temperature rising through the roof. How dared he waylay her? Touch her?
‘Do you make a habit of being rude to strangers?’ he countered, his mouth indenting sardonically. ‘Or is it only me?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She glanced pointedly at the hand that manacled her arm. His fingers looked strong and lean and dark against the whiteness of her skin. ‘Please let me go; you’re hurting.’
‘I don’t think so.’ There was a trace of wicked humour in his voice, making it richer, deeper, too intimate. ‘I might touch the goods before I buy, but I never damage them.’
And what the hell did he mean by that? She had a sneaking suspicion but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. And there was far too much exposed flesh above the low-cut bodice of her dress to give her any hope that he had failed to register the increase of her breath-rate. And he was certainly looking, those silver eyes making a thorough scrutiny of everything exposed or otherwise.
Quickly putting a lid on her temper, she made a futile effort to pull away, hating the way the pressure of his hand increased immediately, loathing the way his touch made her feel. As if she was burning up inside. With outrage. What else?
Those wandering eyes fastened on her lips and she turned her head quickly, scanning the emptiness of the lush corridor, wishing a whole horde of other diners would come through to use the facilities.
‘What do you want?’ She made herself sound cool, as if nothing he had to say could possibly interest her, and heard him laugh, a warm sound low in his throat. She hadn’t expected that and, just for a moment, it threw her, so when he said,
‘To know who you are, for starters. There’s much more you could supply me with, but that can wait,’ she was unguarded enough to turn again and seek his eyes, her own wide beneath the thick golden fringe.
‘You know who I am. My uncle—’ her tongue tripped over the word but she ploughed quickly on before her teeth started to chatter in her head ‘—Alex introduced us. And if you don’t mind, he’ll be waiting. I—’
‘But I do mind,’ he cut across her. ‘I didn’t swallow that old chestnut. What kind of fool do you take me for? And the thought of that delectable firm white flesh tangled up with the folds and wrinkles of an ageing pop star does not bring tears of joy to my eyes.’ The voice was infinitely sharper now, the silver eyes glinting like the edge of a bright steel blade.
‘You’re obscene!’ He made her feel literally ill. ‘Unc—Alex is in his prime! Pop star doesn’t come into it, ageing or otherwise.’
She threw her head back, the better to glare up at him along the length of her nose, unaware that the defiant gesture afforded him an unimpeded view of her long, slender throat, the tantalisingly revealed upper curves of her breasts.
‘He’s a highly talented, all-round entertainer. All he needs is a new vehicle for those talents, but you’re too blinkered to see it!’ She drew in a great, shuddering breath, almost sobbing with the hatefulness of being held so near to that vibrant body. She had never encountered a man who exuded such power. It came off him in waves, swamping her.
But she wasn’t going to drown in such a potent deluge without struggling, and she ground out between her teeth, ‘VisonWest’s not the only TV company in the land. There’s not a damn thing stopping him from moving on and up—going where he’ll be appreciated!’
‘Such loyalty. I envy the man his ability to earn it,’ he said grimly. The hand on her arm dropped away and his face was rigid, his eyes bitter as he subjected her to one lancing look before he turned on his heels and strode away.
Fenella knuckled her mouth, her eyes anguished as she watched the door back into the restaurant swing to behind him. Oh, God, she had probably killed off any faint hope Alex had had for his programme! She, with her big mouth, had finally wielded the axe that had been hovering over his head ever since Saul Ackerman’s lot had taken over the franchise!
And even an abject, squirming apology would do no good. Ackerman’s mind had already been made up. He simply hadn’t got around to burying Evening With Alex yet. All she had done was drive the final nail in the coffin with her outspoken tongue!
She didn’t know how she was going to tell Alex what she had done.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_dfbd5815-e965-5b60-b3b9-9ad22de6e1a7)
‘I’M SORRY, you probably wanted to join Ackerman’s party,’ Fenella mumbled unhappily as the taxi sped towards Hampstead. Alex hadn’t said a word since they’d left the restaurant and, in view of her rudeness in refusing to accept his boss’s invitation, was probably deeply regretting ever having let Jean talk him into this.
‘About as much as a sharp kick up the backside!’ Alex sighed gloomily, giving her hand a gently reassuring pat. ‘We were both brilliant, all evening, but I doubt if we could have actually sat down with them and socialised without giving the game away. We need a whole load more confidence for that.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ she conceded, sagging back against the upholstery and closing her eyes. But she didn’t feel any less miserable. Alex didn’t know what had been said out in the corridor and she didn’t know how she was going to tell him.
‘We achieved what we set out to do—one of the sleazier tabloids will pick up on the “scandal” and splash it all over the front page. And I’ll be famous—or rather, notorious—for all of five minutes. And Ackerman himself saw us together. So the old has-been who once pulled record-breaking female audiences with his sex-appeal will be judged to have regained some of his touch,’ he said, sounding tired and uncharacteristically cynical. ‘As they say, even bad publicity is good publicity. I thought Jean was mad when she came up with the idea but I think we were even crazier to go along with it.’
Fenella couldn’t argue with that so she said nothing. But as soon as they were back in the flat her aunt Jean had bought with a minor part of her inheritance from her father she drew the curtains in the long living-room, poured her uncle a large slug of whisky and pointed him at the telephone.
‘Phone her now; she’ll be dying to know how everything went. I’ll lay a penny to a pound she’s sitting up in Edinburgh quite convinced we didn’t have the bottle to go through with it because she wasn’t around to make sure we did.’
Easing her feet out of her ridiculous shoes, she said goodnight and left him to it, confident that a nice long natter with his wife would cheer him up. She hated to see him so depressed. She thought the world of both of them; in some ways they meant more to her than her own parents. Which was why she’d agreed to go along with the crazy scheme in the first placemuch against her better judgement.
The guest bedroom was furnished with Jean’s unmistakable stamp of elegant style and home-fromhome comfort. Six years ago, when her uncle had been signed up for the hour-long, prime-time Evening With Alex—a combination of his light-hearted interviews with celebrities from the entertainment world, plus a couple of comedy sketches and, naturally, half a dozen of his own songs performed in his own inimitable style—the couple had bought a house on the outskirts of Tavistock to be near the main studios in Plymouth.
But Alex had missed London and when Jean had received her inheritance she had immediately bought this flat, which they used when he wasn’t recording his show.
They were a devoted couple, and it showed. And that, Jean had stated, was half the problem. The viewing public saw him as a middle-aged pipe, slippers and comfortable old cardigan man, never seen anywhere without his equally middle-aged and unspectacular wife. Now, if they could see him as a bit of a dog, some lovely young thing on his arm as they emerged from some rackety night-spot or other, then people might sit up and take notice, and his female audience might again tune in to his show and realise he hadn’t lost all the sex-appeal that had drawn them in adoring droves in the first place!
And it might have worked, too, if she hadn’t wrecked everything by the way she’d reacted to Saul Ackerman, she thought wearily, padding out of the en-suite bathroom packaged in an old towelling robe as she heard a light knock on her bedroom door.
‘She’s put us to the top of the class!’ Alex was smiling now. He looked relaxed and a good ten years younger. He and Jean had never spent a night apart in the whole of the thirty years of their marriage and he was missing her.
When Jean had stated firmly that she would visit her aged mother in Edinburgh—alone—leaving the field clear for him to ‘misbehave’ at home he had almost vetoed the whole idea, she remembered, forcing herself to return his smile.
‘Good. How is her mother?’ She had only met the old lady once, years ago, and remembered her as being quite alarming, and she couldn’t have changed much because Alex pulled a face as he told her,
‘As intractable as ever. She still stubbornly refuses to make her home with us and insists that “Young Elspeth” can look after her. “Young Elspeth” must be knocking eighty!’ He puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘Talk about the blind leading the blind! But never mind that; Jean’s given me a whole list of things we have to do, places we have to be seen at. Shall we chew them over now, with a nice mug of drinking chocolate, or would you rather we left them to the morning?’
‘They’ll keep,’ Fenella told him with a sick smile. Before they worked out tactics for the coming two weeks she would have to confess that they would be a complete waste of time. After her outburst to Saul Ackerman earlier this evening Alex’s programme would be trashed—no matter what happened! No need to depress him tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
‘We did it, sweetheart!’ Alex bounced into the kitchen, his arms full of newspapers. ‘This one’s a blinder!’ He dropped a folded tabloid on the table in front of her. ‘Any coffee left in that pot?’
‘Plenty.’ Fenella made a gulping sound in her throat. When she’d crawled out of bed half an hour ago the flat had been silent. Believing her uncle to be safely asleep, she’d sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and trying to decide exactly how she would tell him of her run-in with his boss.
It wasn’t going to be easy, especially as he was looking so pleased with himself, delighted now because the plan to kick him back into the public eye seemed to be working.
‘Well—aren’t you going to read it?’ He had pulled out a chair opposite her, cradling his coffee-cup, his eager grin and boyishly rumpled blond-streaked grey hair reminding her of how attractive to women audiences he had been in his heyday.
Feeling sick inside, she unfolded the paper and ran her fingers over the newsprint. Foreign wars, the balance of payments deficit and the latest cowardly IRA bomb attack had been relegated to a few square inches of print, the majority of the front page sporting the moment when the cameras had caught her hiding her mischievous smile in Alex’s jacket. It came over as a snuggling embrace, Alex’s arms curved protectively around her slinkily clad body and the huge caption read: “Has-Been Has-Got?”
‘Don’t look so shattered!’ Alex grinned, swinging the paper round on the table-top, and read out the article, with plenty of hysterical expression.
Alex Fairbourne, whose top-spot TV show is to be axed—or so rumour has it—pictured outside one of London’s most exclusive restaurants, finally sheds his dull-dog image. His lovely young companion coyly refused to state her name or business. Maybe his wife could throw light on the identity of the Mystery Mistress? But poor old Jean, we hear, has been conveniently banished to the wilds of Scotland. Did she go willingly, or was she pushed?
‘Grief! “Mystery Mistress”! How tacky can you get?’ Fenella giggled. ‘But Aunty’s not going to like that “poor old Jean” bit.’
‘She’s going to love it,’ Alex contradicted. ‘And since when did you ever call her Aunty?’
Since never, Fenella admitted, her face straightening out. Alex, her mother’s younger brother, and Jean had always seemed more like an older brother and sister. It had nothing to do with their ages, more to do with their boundless capacity to enjoy life. Only people as perpetually optimistic as they could have devised such a scheme when faced with the persistent rumours—plus a very definite hint from Saul Ackerman himself—that Evening With Alex was to be axed. And, what was more, put it into practice.
And now she was going to have to tell him that she, who had promised to help, had thrown a ten-ton spanner into the works!
‘We’ll put in an appearance at Tinkers tonight,’ Alex told her, pouring more coffee for them both. ‘You won’t have heard of it—how long is it since you were last in England? But it’s the night-spot of the moment,’ he burbled on jovially. ‘The newshounds are always sniffing around, waiting for something to happen. Only a couple of weeks ago there was a deplorable fracas involving a minor Royal and a lady whose credentials are far from being unimpeachable. One of the pack earned himself quite a scoop that night. Since then there’s always someone hanging around, waiting for something they can blow up into a scandal.’ He pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Now, what shall we have for breakfast?’
‘Wait; there’s something you should know,’ Fenella said heavily. She felt awful. She’d let him and Jean down. She hadn’t felt happy about the idea of putting on a deception for the sake of the more gutter-bound Press but once Jean had talked him round Alex had been just as enthusiastic as his wife, pointing out that Fen was the only answer—part of the family, utterly trustworthy and, almost as important, she looked the part.
‘Well?’ Alex prodded. ‘What should I know?’
‘I argued with Ackerman last night.’ She took the plunge, her tongue feeling like wood. ‘In the rest-room corridor, of all places. He accused me of being rude when he invited us to join his party.’ She met his eyes miserably. ‘And he was right. I was rude. Then I lost my head and accused him of being blinkered. I said there was nothing stopping you working with another company where your talents would be appreciated. I’m sorry if I’ve blown it.’ She lowered her head dejectedly. ‘He didn’t come over as the type of man who would take any kind of rudeness or criticism lying down. There’ll probably be a letter in tomorrow morning’s post telling you your contract won’t be renewed. So carrying on with this—’ she flicked the tabloid disgustedly with her fingernail ‘—would be a total waste of time and effort.’
There were two more pre-recorded shows to run before the end of the current—and rumoured final— series. He would be on tenterhooks to see if all this publicity halted the abysmally falling ratings. ‘Nothing will save the show, after what I said. A flicker of public interest because you appear to be running around with a woman young enough to be your daughter won’t alter a thing.’
She had said as much when her aunt had first enlisted her help but once Jean had persuaded Alex to take the idea on board there had been no dampening their enthusiastic optimism.
And no dampening now, either, she thought despairingly as Alex hooted, ‘Rubbish!’ and started to make the belated breakfast. All that stuff in the papers this morning had made him see himself as a celebrity again; he was, once more, the idol women had scratched each other’s eyes out to be first in the queue for his autograph, a lock of his hair, the clothes off his back!
‘Saul’s too astute a businessman to let something like an insubordinate female affect his judgement. He was probably intrigued by the way you stood up to him. He’s used to having females at his feet, not at his throat. And I’d lay odds you were the first ever to turn down an invitation from him!’
‘If you say so.’ Fenella was too dejected to argue. Alex might be her uncle but right at this moment she felt more like his grandmother. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, she laid the table while he toasted wholemeal bread and scrambled the eggs; she took over as the phone in the living-room warbled out and was still half-heartedly stirring when he rushed back in again, rubbing his hands.
‘What did I tell you? That was Saul on the phonenot his secretary, mark you—the great man himself. I am commanded to attend the open day tomorrow in my best bib and tucker. And you, my dear Fen, are likewise commanded! “Bring your niece”, he said!’ He bounced over and ruffled her hair affectionately then snatched the pan from the burner. ‘Good God, Fen, these eggs are like case-hardened rubber!’
But even the ruination of his breakfast couldn’t wipe the beam from his face and she felt a complete spoiler as she pointed out, ‘He doesn’t believe I am your niece.’
‘Of course he doesn’t. He wasn’t meant to, was he? But he still wants you along. Most insistent.’
Fen wanted to ask why but glumly decided she wouldn’t like the answer—supposing Alex knew it, which she doubted. She asked instead, ‘What is this open day? Anything important?’
‘The best news I’ve had in six months, sweetheart!’ Alex abandoned all attempts to eat his breakfast, leaning back and smiling expansively. ‘Part of the studios will be open for members of the viewing public to meet the regular presenters and the back-room crews. It’s an annual thing but this year the board, in their wisdom, decided to throw a garden party, issuing the invitations as if they were made of diamond-studded gold. Much more exclusive. Backers and advertisers in the main with a sprinkling of showbiz names. A few selected members of the viewing public—they’ve been running a competition for the past three months. Twenty-five lucky winners received a couple of tickets apiece. Not forgetting the performers in, and writers of, the most successful series we produce. I wasn’t asked. Not until today! It’s a public-relations stunt, of course—make the viewers feel part of the network. Not to mention making the invited advertisers feel important.’
‘And you!’ Fen pointed out with an indulgent smile. His high spirits were infectious and at least last evening’s piece of rudeness hadn’t produced the backlash she’d expected. That made her conscience easier.
‘Ab—so—lutely!’ His blue eyes were gleaming like sapphires. ‘Clear up, would you, Fen? I’ll phone Jean and tell her the good news. The whole thing’s beginning to work like a dream. Oh, and—’ he was halfway out of the room before he turned ‘—we’ll have to scrub Tinkers tonight. Pity, but it can’t be helped. We’ll drive down to Tavistock this afternoon and be nice and rested for tomorrow’s high jinks. Be sure to pack something sexy to wear.’
By no stretch of the imagination could the simple, wrap-over amber silk dress be called sexy, Fen consoled herself as the Daimler Jean had given Alex for his last birthday swept over the Tamar into Cornwall.
She had happily dressed for the part she’d been allotted when they’d attended the first night and shown up afterwards at the restaurant. But for some unknown reason she could no more bring herself to dress the part of a femme fatale this afternoon than fly. Long sleeves looked demure enough and the narrow belt was tied tightly around her waist to ensure that neither the bodice nor the cleverly draped skirt would gape.
A floppy-brimmed hat in fine amber straw, festooned with huge cream silk roses, completed the ensemble and, emerging from the guest room in the Tavistock house, she had blinked in surprise when Alex, looking very elegant and Fred Astaire-ish in a morning suit, had told her, ‘You look fantastic!’
It was probably the hat, she decided edgily, not looking forward to the coming afternoon one tiny bit. Certainly nothing to do with the dress which covered her from her neck to just below her knees as effectively as a shroud.
‘Don’t forget to stick to me like glue,’ Alex said tersely as he slowed down for the turn-off on to a decidedly minor road. ‘I’m beginning to get butterflies. I’ll need you to hold my hand for that reason alone.’
He was beginning to look white around the mouth, Fen noted, giving him an narrow-eyed glance as the car swept between high hedges filled with the foam of Queen Anne’s lace and pink campion. It was a beautiful blue and green afternoon, as perfect as only an English early summer could be, and everything seemed to be going to plan, so why should the pair of them be so uneasy?
‘I’ve suddenly developed a split personality,’ he confided. ‘One minute I’m up in the air and thinking all this is a superb idea—especially when it’s bringing results—and the next I’m wishing we’d never started it. Trouble is, Fen, I can’t come to terms with the thought of being on the scrap heap, reduced to earning my crust advertising somebody’s frozen dinners in some ghastly commercial.’
About to point out that he didn’t need to work at all, that Jean’s fortune would keep them both in reasonable luxury for life, she thought better of it. Jean loved him to bits and wouldn’t begrudge a penny—as the gifts she showered on him so lavishly testified. But Alex had his pride. His ability to keep himself and support his wife was important to him.
‘But we won’t get anywhere if we back out now. And Jean would clobber us senseless if we did,’ he chuckled softly, his mood swinging again as he slowed down, looking for signposts.
Fen had imagined that the garden party would be held in some suitable spot near the main studios and the information that Saul Ackerman’s country home was to be the venue had only added to the niggling sense of unease she’d been suffering ever since she’d had to admit there was no backing out, no way of rejecting the invitation to attend.
Though it was more like a royal command, she decided edgily as the high hedges gave way to a wall of rough-grained quarried stone and then to a pair of massive iron gates flung open in well-bred invitation. Uniformed men who looked suspiciously like security guards directed them along a track that branched off from the main gravelled drive to an area of grassland that served as a temporary car park.
Big white vans bearing the distinctive Vision West logo left Fen in no doubt that the television crews would be prowling, getting the glittering occasion on film to be relayed to the viewers through the local news programme this evening. And there was well over a million pounds’ worth of motorised status symbols lined up on the crushed dry grass, she noted, which meant that everyone here was a ‘somebody’, and that sent her tension-reading up another couple of notches.
Just why had Saul Ackerman changed his mind and invited Alex along at practically the last moment? He couldn’t have had second thoughts about tossing him on to the scrap heap on the strength of a few scandal-mongering write-ups in the tabloids, surely?
Ducking her head as she got out of the car, she still managed to knock her hat to a rakish angle. Muttering under her breath, she righted it. She wasn’t used to wearing any kind of headgear; she felt like a mushroom. Hitching up her skirts, she spindle-heeled her way to Alex who was pocketing the keys to the Daimler, her tawny eyes wary as she told him, ‘I don’t want to spoil your moment of triumph, but have you stopped to wonder why you’re here? We never thought about the possibility of Ackerman being disgusted by what he must have read in the papers—he might not want to employ a man who is seen publicly to be cheating on his wife. We could be letting ourselves in for a highly public snub. Have you thought of that?’
‘Yes.’ Alex smoothed down his hair then took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘It’s always a possibility, but a remote one. Publicity and top ratings are the name of the game, and besides, he’s no saint. He’s rarely seen with the same woman twice. Whatever he is, I don’t think he’s a hypocrite.’
‘Is he married?’ Fen spiked her heels into the grass. For some unknown yet powerful reason she needed to know more about the man. A case of ‘know your enemy’, she supposed.
‘He was.’ Alex gave her a look that carried a hint of impatience. ‘But it ended very messily. There was someone else involved—there always was someone else involved during the short lifetime of that marriage. Do come on, Fen!’
More cars were arriving, sunlight glittering from their faultless bodywork, more frivolous hats and sleek-faced men in morning suits. Fen gave in and fell in step beside her uncle as they gravitated towards a gateway in the fuchsia hedge, a graceful figure in the amber silk that emphasised the slenderness of her hips and long, long legs, blissfully unaware that each step she took afforded the onlooker a tiny tantalising glimpse of creamy thigh and intriguing stocking-top.
Alex’s brief words had told her as much as she wanted to know about Saul Ackerman, and left her even less endeared to him than before. His poor wife was well rid of him; Alex had spoken of the marriage ending—so presumably that meant divorce. Because he couldn’t keep his hands off other women? It certainly sounded like it.
Fen couldn’t understand why any right-minded woman wanted to get married at all. Why put yourself in a position where your happiness depended on the good nature and fidelity of one man? Generally speaking, she liked men, enjoyed their company and valued their friendship. But she would never surrender her independence to one; she knew what it had done to her mother and, in consequence, to her. And had heard enough about disastrous marriages to make any sensible female wary.
So footloose and heart-free she would remain, a citizen of the world, a happily independent lady answerable to no one but herself.
‘Fen!’ A sharp nudge in her ribs brought her wandering mind back to present circumstances. Blinking, she focused on the tray of glasses, the white-shirted, impassive-faced waiter who held it. Then, champagne in hand, she took in her surroundings. Acres of emerald-green, closely mown grass quartered by stoneflagged paths, parterres of flowers cut into the sward, punctuated by tall trees, their leaves whispering softly in the gentle summer breeze. And, beyond and above the long sweep of a closely cut yew hedge a few hundred yards away, the glimpse of the tumbled roofs of an impressive Tudor house.
Some country pad, she thought sourly, contrasting it with the humble stone cottage, the only place that had ever remotely come to resemble a home, a bare twenty miles away as the crow flew.
But at least there was no sign of the owner, so be grateful for small mercies, she told herself, wondering if they could possibly manage to avoid him all afternoon.
‘What do we do now?’ she asked. ‘Plant ourselves in front of the camera crews and grin?’
‘We circulate and give each other adoring glances,’ he said firmly. ‘Drink your fizz; it might put you in a better mood.’ He whisked her along paths and over expensively maintained lawns, mingling with various groups of guests, introducing her simply as Fenella, doing nothing at all to dampen the often openly inquisitive stares she was getting, speculative eyes watching her every move. She could almost hear them thinking, debating whether she was with Alex for love or for money.
There was a lot of well-mannered back-slapping, a lot of preening and a fair amount of talking shop and by the time they had worked their way through to the terrace beyond the hedge Fen had had more than enough.
The paving ran along the entire frontage of the spectacularly lovely house and was set with white-clothed buffet tables and bars, all perfumed and punctuated by terracotta pots brimming over with stately lilies. And in the middle distance, surrounded by a group of obvious sycophants, was Saul Ackerman.
Fen recognised him with a curious jolt right in the pit of her stomach. He was easily the most impressive male around—the handful of sexily handsome actors she had encountered notwithstanding.
Oh, drat it to Hades! She had really hoped she wouldn’t have to see him. Guilty conscience, she supposed. She had behaved badly that first time they’d met. Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t behave twice as badly if there happened to be a second time. And that wouldn’t do Alex’s career prospects a whole heap of good, she admitted. But then, she had never encountered anyone, male or female, who had aroused her to such a pitch of unthinking animosity. Her blood boiled whenever she thought of him!
‘We could leave now,’ she whispered to Alex out of the side of her mouth. ‘You must have spoken to everyone here.’
Except Saul, and she wasn’t about to remind him of that. She was sick of being on show, being talked about. Most of the people here would have read at least one scandal-mongering piece of so-called journalism. Most of the men, with varying degrees of interested speculation, had ogled her, while she was sure all the women were bitching about her inside their heads. She was getting paranoid, she recognised, but that didn’t stop her wanting to hit Alex when he scoffed, ‘What, and miss out on all that gorgeous food? Besides, I haven’t paid my respects to Saul yet. Got to keep a high profile. If Jean were here she’d say the same.’
‘Go ahead,’ Fen told him, feeling tight-lipped. ‘You’ll deserve a medal if you can drag him out from under all those female admirers.’ She had just recognised the lushly sensual, scarlet garbed figure of Vesta Faine hanging adoringly on to his arm. No doubt she was his current lady. Seen twice already in his company, she must be all set to break the record—if what Alex had said about the staying power of his ladies was true. ‘And I need to go to the loo,’ she grumbled untruthfully. ‘Where is it?’
‘Go to the house. You’ll find doors if you look for them. Saul won’t have Portakabins labelled “His” and “Hers” on his sacrosant property.’ He gave her arm a little squeeze. ‘Don’t be long. I’ll get us some food and try to grab Saul’s attention. After all, he did expressly invite you to come.’
Which wasn’t what she wanted to hear, Fen thought as she swayed her way along the terrace, skirting the lily pots and knots of festively dressed personalities with an empty smile fixed on her face.
She had no need to find a bathroom—just a bit of empty space. And she had no intention of returning before she had got herself nice and calm again. Alex could manage on his own; she’d done quite enough.
To the side of the house she found a swimmingpool complete with loungers and white-painted wrought-iron tables. And people. Quickly, she withdrew her inquisitive nose from the trellis of billowing roses that formed part of the pool surround and explored further.
And eventually found just what she’d been hoping for: utter seclusion. A small secret garden, enclosed on three sides by tall yew hedges, the fourth side open to a vista of sweeping fields and the thickly wooded river valley below. No one in sight. Just the sun, the warm soft air, the patchwork of greens, the song of the birds. Heaven.
Ignoring the stone bench seat, strategically placed for peaceful contemplation of the breathtaking view, she kicked off her shoes and sank down on the soft, sun-warmed grass, pulling her hat down over her face to shade her creamy pale skin from the damaging rays.
If she weren’t so tense she would be asleep within seconds; she hadn’t realised just how exhausted she was. The past four years she’d been travelling round Europe, flitting from one job to the next like a demented gnat, enjoying every hectic moment. Eighteen months ago, after her father’s sudden and unexpected death from a heart condition, she had taken two months off to get her distraught mother settled with an old schoolfriend—recently widowed herself—in Australia. And that had been no easy ride.
She had grieved for her father, of course she had, her sorrow taking the form of deep regrets. Regret that he had barely ever acknowledged her existence and, when he had, only because of her nuisance value. A selfish man, there had been no room in his life for anything outside his work as a highly respected travel writer. He’d travelled the world, dragging his wife along behind him and, much later, the child he had never expected or wanted. Not that he’d had to drag his wife, exactly. She’d been too dependent on him, too besotted, to let him out of her sight! And now that he had gone, her mother didn’t know what to do with her life. So no, that two months spent trying to help her mother come to terms with the loss she vowed she would never be able to accept had not been a picnic.
And a few weeks ago, during one of the frequent calls to Australia she made from wherever she happened to be, her mother had instructed mournfully, ‘When you’re next in the UK I want you to arrange for the cottage to be sold. I couldn’t bear to go there again, not without your father. It would kill me. You can crate up any of his books and papers that are still there and send them out to me. I’d ask Alex and Jean, but you know how busy they are. Alex has better things to do with his time than bother himself with my affairs.’
And so, after a job that had taken her to the English Midlands, Fen had dropped in on Jean and Alex in Hampstead, intending to spend a few days with them before hiring a car and driving down to Cornwall, promising herself that before she did anything about disposing of the cottage and its furnishings she would give herself a full week simply to laze around and recoup her energies. Instead, she had found herself drawn into playing the part of Alex’s mistress, all thoughts of a much needed breathing space pushed into the background.
Sighing gustily, she wriggled herself into a more comfortable position, feeling her skirt ruck up around her thighs and not caring. There was no one to see her, after all. If she was going to have to spend the next couple of weeks racketing around notorious night-spots with her uncle, pretending they were having an adulterous fling, she would need to unwind.
She made a conscious effort to relax, to push everything out of her mind, and succeeded, feeling her body go boneless, sleep pulling at her eyes, pulling her deeper and deeper…
‘Can anybody join in, or is Alex the only man who’s allowed to sleep with you?’
The steel-sharp voice cut through the layers of sleep as a hand flicked the silk and straw confection away from her face. Fen went rigid with shock, then wriggled frantically, trying to get upright without sacrificing too much of her dignity. But a warm hand—a burningly warm hand—on her thigh sent all thoughts of dignity scattering in the ether, her temper and temperature going through the roof.
Not only had her skirt rucked up to an indecent level, it had also gaped embarrassingly. And that lean, olive-toned hand was curved around her thigh, on the soft white flesh above her stocking-top.
‘How dare you?’ She slapped fiercely at his hand, but it didn’t budge an inch. The pressure of his fingers increased by a fraction and Fen pulled in a scorching breath, appalled by the electrifying sensations that spread all over her body. Then she twisted away, ending up on her hands and knees, hardly knowing how to contain her fury when he simply reached for her, dragging her down on to the grass, his arms pinioning her beneath him.
Down, but not out, she glared into his unsmiling eyes and tried to control her hectic breathing as she rasped out, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mr Ackerman? If this is a sample of the way you treat your female guests I’m surprised you weren’t locked safely away years ago!’
And then he did smile, a sweet, slow smile that took her breath away all over again, a smile that touched his eyes like the rays of the moon on a silver sea and made the harshly modelled planes of his face seem far less uncompromising.
‘I treat my female guests in exactly the way their body language leads me to believe they expect,’ he murmured, his voice as soft as velvet now. ‘The invitation you posed was impossible to resist. And as for what I was doing—’ He moved off her and her eyes went wide and wild. Why, her body seemed scorched by the imprint of his, as if she would never be able to rid herself of the way all that power-packed virility had felt as it had crushed her into the grass! ‘I was looking for you. Alex has been going frantic. And having found you, pinned you down so to speak, I wasn’t willing to risk losing you again.’
He got to his feet, as if nothing had happened, as if he tumbled women he barely knew in the grass every day of the week, insulted them and put his hands…Oh, it was unendurable! And if he touched her again she would kill him!
But she didn’t. Because when he hauled her to her feet, and smoothed down her wrinkled skirt, pulled together the gaping bodice of her dress and settled her silly hat on her head, his touch was completely impersonal, as if he were dressing a tailor’s dummy, making it fit for the public gaze. And that, strangely, was miff-making enough without his almost curt command, ‘Come. Alex has something he wants to tell you. Besides, if you’re missing for much longer he’ll get withdrawal symptoms.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4b30141c-4d22-5c3e-9be4-a82d84e3a291)
SAUL didn’t touch her as he walked her back to the party, not even a hand beneath her elbow as they mounted the flight of stone steps that led up from the lower walkway to the pool and terrace level.
Which didn’t mean a thing. Because Fen couldn’t have been more aware of him if his hands had been all over her. Her body was burning, her mouth suddenly dry, her breath thick in her lungs. Yet she was shivering, quivering all over like a startled mare. But that was just a symptom of the tension she’d been under ever since she and Alex had started out on this mad charade, she informed herself tartly, trying to wipe away the memory of being pinned beneath Saul Ackerman’s hard male body, the way his hand had felt on the soft warm flesh of her thigh.
But the memory wouldn’t go away and she had never been as pleased to see anyone in her life as she was to see Alex when he met them at the end of the now almost deserted terrace.
‘So there you are!’ His face lit up with relief. ‘I thought you’d run out on me, sweetheart.’
‘Never!’ In her eagerness to reach him and the safe normality he represented, one of her spindly heels twisted beneath her and only Saul’s lightning-fast reactions, the hand that snaked out to steady her, prevented her from falling in a heap and saying goodbye to what little was left of her dwindling composure. ‘If you’re this eager in bed I can understand why he hates you to be out of his sight,’ Saul murmured close to her ear, his breath fanning her thick honey-gold fringe beneath the dipping, rose-laden brim of her hat.
Fen shuddered with scalding outrage. She wanted to tell him to shut his insulting mouth but the words wouldn’t come. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. And the hand that had steadied her relaxed, just a little, his thumb making lazy circles on the inside of her arm, scorching her through the thin silk sleeve. And the most bewildering, the most horrible thing of all was the way she was just standing there as if turned to stone, letting him do it. Enjoying—
No! Never!
She slapped that thought away smartly then went hot all over as he released her arm, his hand brushing her silk-clad bottom as it fell back to his side, brushing against her so lightly that she could almost have imagined it.
‘Excuse me for a moment; there’s someone I must have a brief word with,’ Saul said, turning away, his movements very fluid for a man whose body packed so much power. And Fen gave him a sourly reluctant ten out of ten for urbanity, for behaving as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t foully insulted her with both word and touch!
‘Can we go now?’ Fen glared at her uncle, unfazed by the way his eyebrows shot up to his hairline at her tone. He hadn’t been close enough to catch Saul’s lowvoiced insult, and the touching had gone on out of sight!
‘Not yet.’ Alex pulled her out of the way of the waiters who were already dismantling the buffet tables. The party was long over. She must have slept for longer than she’d thought. ‘Listen,’ he began in a rush, his flushed face close to hers, ‘while you were missing I had a word with Laurence Meek—he’s the director of programmes, the man who can put ‘em on and take ‘em off. And the only living soul who can sway the decisions he makes is—’
‘Saul Ackerman,’ Fen put in drily, hatred bubbling up inside her all over again at the mere thought of him.
‘Dead right. Anyway, Laurence gave me a very strong hint that, after all, my show mightn’t get the shove. His actual words were, “Don’t go anywhere else with your c.v., old man. There’s a big decision in the offing and I think it will go your way.”’
‘That’s great news!’ Fen’s golden eyes shone, her bad mood disappearing like mist in the summer sunshine. She was really pleased for him. His own show meant a lot to him—his pride, his self-respect, his sense of worth. Slowly, she walked over to the stone balustrading that edged the terrace and gazed out over the now deserted gardens, Alex at her side. His good news meant that soon they would be able to stop the pretence of a torrid, adulterous relationship. She had never been wildly ecstatic about the idea but she hadn’t foreseen how tawdry and besmirched it would make her feel. The relief was heady.
The Ackerman monster certainly had a beautiful home, she decided, the tranquillity of the scene soothing her. She could almost imagine herself putting down roots if she owned something like this. Almost. She sighed. No, she couldn’t see herself putting roots down anywhere, any time. She couldn’t really see the point. There was always something new over the horizon, something to draw her wandering feet onwards…
‘And when’s this big decision to be taken?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. But soon. And when it’s made, either way, we can drop this act.’
‘But it can’t have had anything to do with their change of mind, surely?’ Fen looked at him worriedly. ‘One scandalous story in print…’ Her voice trailed away. From what she’d gathered, the viewing figures for Alex’s show had been falling steadily for some time, and dropping like a stone just recently. Could their altered decision be based on what was, after all, simply a piece of sleazy journalism and salacious speculation? It didn’t make a whole lot of sense.
But Alex didn’t care why he had been offered a reprieve, only that it seemed that he had. He was smiling expansively, his face too flushed. Fen suspected he’d been celebrating ever since he’d had that talk with the director of programmes. The champagne had been flowing like water, after all!
‘Shall I drive us home?’ She didn’t want to offend his male pride by suggesting he might be over the legal limit—well over!—but it was time they made a move. She didn’t want to face Saul again, not after what he had said and done. Especially not after what he had said and done!
‘We’ll see. Later. Saul’s asked us to stay to dinner—I’ve been trying to tell you.’
‘What?’ Fen shook her head decisively. ‘No. Oh, no!’ She had had more than enough of his company. Several others would have been invited, too, she was sure of that. A select few. Definitely including the lovely Vesta Faine! But she had no wish whatsoever to be part of the élite around Saul Ackerman’s dinnertable tonight.
‘Fen!’ Alex looked pole-axed. ‘Don’t be like that! I know it’s been difficult—being taken for my mistress, and everything. But it won’t be for much longer, I promise, and then we can come clean. And it’s important to me; you must see that. We got away with refusing his invitation once; do it twice and I can kiss all hopes of a change of mind goodbye!’ He put his hand over hers as it clenched and curled around the sun-warmed stone. ‘I can’t afford to ruffle his feathers, at least not until that decision’s been made. And he might want to discuss it over dinner. Please, sweetheart, try to endure it. For me?’
It was emotional blackmail and she knew she had no choice. But, just to get her own back, she snapped out, ‘Couldn’t we just tell him we can’t wait to get back to your place and dive into bed?’ Saul would understand something like that—the arrogant, insulting, over-sexed monster…!
She saw Alex’s face go purple, and knew why when, from just behind her, that hated voice said, in a tone like steel cutting through stone, ‘Shall we go in? We’ve time for a drink before dinner. And perhaps your niece…’ his voice hovered damningly over that word ‘…would like to freshen up before we eat?’
He had heard what she had said; no doubt about it. Trying to hide her flaming face beneath the brim of her hat, she had no other option but to keep pace with the two men as they walked towards the house. But once inside she could have wept with relief as he introduced his housekeeper, Mrs Pringle.
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Diana Hamilton
Face the truth. You want me as I want you. Saul Ackerman changed his girlfriends as often as he changed his shirts. Rich, successful and attractive, he had no shortage of women waiting to share his life. And he assumed that Fenella was another in a long line of empty-headed lovelies who would jump at his bidding.But Fen wasn't what she appeared to be. And there was a reason behind her masquerade… .
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u1650c99d-edf7-551f-a95e-671724098a2f)
About the Author (#u66ca2c54-75ec-58eb-91e5-e882935d5758)
Title Page (#uad1cf377-0529-5410-9acb-d1dee6f43798)
CHAPTER ONE (#ub3436a17-8706-54a5-b7b1-1654bb3b7d14)
CHAPTER TWO (#u860042ef-c1fe-54e7-a7a9-4678211eff7d)
CHAPTER THREE (#u6c0a1bf0-1513-5fa2-adba-c040f6c46839)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic at heart and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often-chaotic life-style, ever since she learned to read and write Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.
Waiting Game
Diana Hamilton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f97f0f38-4001-547f-8f0e-f0de52a54caa)
THE group of photographers and reporters outside the highly exclusive, highly expensive West End restaurant snapped to attention as the taxi rumbled to a halt.
‘You were right, they did follow.’ Fenella wriggled along the seat, closer to Alex, her golden eyes smiling wickedly into his, slipping into a warm Cornish drawl as she tacked on, trying to help him loosen up, ‘Brace yourself, me ‘andsome!’ Picking up languages had always come as easily as breathing, so regional dialects were an absolute doddle, and Alex grinned back at her.
‘I’m always right, sweetheart, you should know that by now. Come on, let’s strut our stuff!’ He had his hand on the door release but despite his jokey tone the interior light picked out the lines of tension around his mouth.
Fenella felt her own lips tighten. At fifty-five Alex was still a handsome man, his considerable talent as a light entertainer still very much intact. She didn’t know how Saul Ackerman, that hard-nosed business mogul, had the gall to try and put him down. And out.
What would he know about anything? Alex’s talent was creative; Saul Ackerman wouldn’t know anything about that because his head would be stuffed with columns of figures, and big profits were the name of the game.
But her triangular, cat-like smile was firmly in place again as she stepped out on to the pavement and simply stood there, illuminated by the soft lights beneath the awning, one slender hip elegantly tilted forward, her honey-gold head tipped slightly to one side, her slumbrous golden eyes almost taunting the jackals of the Press as Alex paid off the driver.
Her height gave her an advantage—helped by the ridiculously high heels she was wearing—and the tight sheath of her low-cut evening dress gave an elegant emphasis to the width of her white shoulders, the black silk clinging lovingly to understated yet exquisite curves.
As the taxi slid away the activity among the waiting Press men became frenetic as they recognised her companion. Having followed Saul Ackerman’s party from the theatre, got photographs, and possibly comments from him and the leading lady he was squiring, they had probably decided to call it a day. There was only so much they could milk from a first night, a brilliant young Cornish playwright and a leading lady whose name was a household word on both sides of the Atlantic.
Her smile firmly in place, Fenella swayed over to Alex’s side, felt his arm snake possessively around her narrow waist and tried not to flinch as the flashes exploded around them.
‘You were at the opening, Mr Fairbourne?’
‘What do you think of VisionWest’s new boy genius?’
‘Now Ackerman’s consortium has the franchise do you see your programme continuing in the same format?’
Questions were bitten out thick and fast and Fenella gave Alex full marks for his performance. There was no sign of that tension as he picked his answer, his voice as smooth and rich as ever.
‘I would hardly call Jethro Tamblyn a boy, but he is certainly a genius. As you know, Vision West has him under contract to produce two new dramas for us a year, which will, of course, be sold to the networks. A scoop the board is justifiably proud of.’
This was common knowledge, safe stuff. VisionWest had had their own camera crew outside the theatre, making sure everyone in the west country knew that their regional commercial television station was backing the Cornishman to the hilt, Saul Ackerman, the chairman, attending the first night, wining and dining the author, his wife, and Vesta Faine, the glamorous leading lady, in high style after the performance.
‘And will the networks continue to buy Evening With Alex? Are you worried by reported falling ratings?’
‘Darling,’ Fenella interjected with a tiny pout and a manufactured shiver. ‘Do we have to hang round here? It’s cold.’
It wasn’t. The mid-May evening was unseasonably warm, if anything, but she wasn’t going to see Alex savaged by this mob. She moved subtly closer to him, as if seeking his warmth, his protection. In the whole of her twenty-five years she couldn’t remember needing or wanting a man’s protection. But she would do anything to save Alex from having to answer that particular question.
And then a voice, coarser than the rest, heavy with salacious overtones, drawled out, ‘Couldn’t your wife make it tonight, Alex? Did you leave her tucked up in bed with a good book, in case she cramped your style?’
Fenella felt Alex’s arm tighten around her waist and glared at the reporter who was pushing a notepad under her nose. She knew they had a job to do, a living to earn—but did they have to be so despicable?
‘Jean is visiting her mother in Edinburgh,’ Alex said uncomfortably. ‘Now, if you don’t mind—’
But they were like hounds on the scent and one of them bayed, ‘And you are a keen theatre-goer, Ms—? Or is it Mrs? Or are you just a wannabe?’ The voice persisted as Fenella refused to give her name. ‘A model, perhaps, just itching to break into television?’
‘Oh, Alex—’ Fenella hid her twitching mouth against his broad, dinner-jacketed shoulder just as the flash lights exploded again.
Alex said toughly, ‘That’s enough. Go hassle someone else.’ And he swept her forward into the luxurious foyer.
A breathing space, if only brief. While Fenella got her heartbeats back under control Alex’s deep blue eyes raked her pale face with deep concern.
‘You all right, sweetheart?’
‘I’m fine.’ Golden eyes sparkled into his. ‘You did warn me what to expect. I think I could get hooked on living dangerously!’
And there was no time to say any more because they were being whisked through to the main restaurant area, all soft lighting and wickedly sumptuous décor and potted plants like a miniature exotic jungle flanking delicate Japanese silk screens painted with golden dragons with glittering ruby eyes.
And full of beautiful people. And the table they were deferentially conducted to was within spitting distance of Saul Ackerman’s party. If she looked to the left of Alex’s shoulder she would be staring straight into the chairman’s face.
A quick, encompassing glance told her he had even more presence than she had realised when Alex had pointed him out to her during the interval back at the theatre. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he had the type of hard, slashing features that could never be over-looked. But it was more than merely the striking combination of a strongly modelled bone-structure, thick black hair and piercing silver-grey eyes. It was the sheer unadulterated power of the man.
She didn’t look his way again. She concentrated on Alex. A tiny muscle was twitching at the corner of his mouth and that only happened when he was nervous. Gently, she laid her hand over his.
‘Don’t worry, everything will be fine. I promise.’
‘Of course it will.’ There’d been only a momentary hesitation preceding his answer and then he was smiling into her eyes and he was back to being the urbane, self-confident man she loved. ‘Now order something fabulous, Fen, my darling, and we’ll have the best champagne on offer.’
‘Well…’ She could hear the note of doubt in her voice and deplored it. But the menu she’d been handed was almost too heavy to hold, and nothing was priced. ‘Can you afford it?’ Which was even more deplorable, but she couldn’t help it.
‘Look on it as payment for services rendered and those yet to come.’ Alex leaned back expansively in his chair, the look in his eyes, the play of that smile across his mouth making her understand why women had literally thrown themselves at him during his live stage performances a decade or two ago, why his records had once regularly featured high in the charts. ‘And if I can’t afford it, Jean can.’
‘Say no more!’ Fenella buried her head in the menu. She was famished. And it was common knowledge that Jean was fabulously rich. She’d inherited a fortune from her father and was due to inherit another when her mother died. Not an event Jean was anticipating, Fenella knew, but the old lady was over ninety. So the price of a meal in a place such as this wouldn’t cause Alex’s wife any hardship!
‘Has Ackerman noticed us yet?’ Alex asked quietly as soon as he’d given their order. ‘Too obvious if I turned round. I don’t want him to think our being here was anything other than coincidence.’ He leaned forward, trailing a finger down the side of her face. ‘Look over to their table in a moment or two; make it natural. I don’t think there’s a man in the room who could have failed to notice you, sweetheart.’
Fenella wasn’t so sure about that, but she knew the trouble Alex had gone to to discover which restaurant Ackerman intended to bring his party to tonight in time to reserve a table himself.
Strangely unwilling to meet those silver-grey eyes, she waited until the champagne was brought to their table, breaking up their intimately whispered conversation. Then slowly, as if wanting something to do while Alex’s attention was no longer given exclusively to her, she allowed her eyes to wander idly over the animated group at Saul Ackerman’s table.
Vesta Faine was as lovely close to as she had been on stage, her dark beauty enhanced by the dramatic lines of the white satin of her gown, her vivacious chatter obviously holding Jethro Tamblyn in thrall. The playwright was leaning forward, his arms folded on the table, his ruggedly striking features animated as he listened to every word. He looked as if he had been running both hands through his dishevelled, wiry chestnut hair for at least a couple of hours. In contrast, his wife looked out of her depth in her unimaginative chain-store dress, her pale blue eyes fixed anxiously on her famous husband. Had she married the boy from her own Cornish village when he’d been nothing more than a struggling, impecunious writer only to find him leaving her behind? Would she be able to withstand the pressures of his newly found fame?
Aware that these idle musings were merely delaying tactics, she reluctantly glanced at the head of the table. Saul Ackerman was probably just as riveted by the actress as Jethro was. But she met the silver-eyes head on and the mocking awareness in them made her face go hot.
She looked away quickly, expelling the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, dipping her head on the slender stalk of her neck, feeling the long ornate drop-earrings brush against her skin, restraining the desire to remove the irritants. She had only worn the outlandish things to soften the effect of her starkly modern hairstyle. Cut very short into the shape of her head at the back, it was long on top, falling forwards into a honey-gold fringe that brushed her eyebrows in a heavy, well-defined curve.
‘Well?’ Alex arched a brow. ‘Have we been noticed?’
Hastily banishing any trace of discomfort or wariness from her eyes, she gave him her most brilliant smile, the discreet, muted lighting making her shoulders gleam like oiled satin above the rich black silk of her low-cut dress as she leaned forward, her voice low and intimate as she told him, ‘Yes. I don’t think anyone, even someone as tunnel-visioned as Saul Ackerman, could fail to recognise your impressive profile!’
‘Never mind that.’ The blatant flattery left him visibly unimpressed. ‘The bastard knows every line on my face! It’s you I want him to see, Fen. I want him to recognise you when he sees you again.’ He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. ‘I want him so he can’t take his eyes off you.’
Involuntarily, her gaze slid to the other table and her breath caught in her lungs. Even through the thick veiling of her long dark lashes there was no mistaking the speculation in those flat silver eyes. Saul Ackerman was leaning back in his chair, making no attempt now to join in the conversation that was flying around his table, the fingers of one hand idly playing with the stem of his wine glass as he watched her, his eyes unnerving.
Two thunderous heartbeats later Fenella dragged her attention back to Alex. It would appear that his wish had been granted. Ackerman would know her if he saw her again. Something fluttered inside her breasts, something uncomfortable and alien. Vowing not to look Saul Ackerman’s way again, she made a determined and happily successful effort to flirt with Alex across the table but could make little impression on the superb meal she had been hungry for only a short while ago.
What a waste of Jean’s money, of good food, she sniped at herself. She didn’t know what was the matter with her. She would have thought it would have taken very much more than the impudent stares of a strange man to deaden her always hearty appetite.
‘Won’t you introduce me to your companion, Alex?’
Fenella didn’t have to look up to know whom that voice belonged to. It was cool, authoritative steel, very slightly burred with dry, amused confidence. The fingers that held the fork she’d been using to push her food around her plate started to shake. Very carefully, she put the implement down as Alex hurriedly pushed back his chair and stumbled to his feet.
‘Saul. How’s this for a coincidence! I saw you at the theatre—only had to look for VisionWest’s camera team—’ His expansive smile was shaky round the edges, the sudden pinkness of his face emphasising the beginnings of a sagging jawline, the pull of gravity that was wrecking the face that had had women of all ages drooling in the aisles. He was making a too conscious effort to straighten his shoulders and pull in his stomach muscles, Fenella noted, her heart twisting with anguished love.
Ackerman, though, had no need to try to project an image. There wasn’t a superfluous ounce of flesh on that tall, aggressively masculine frame. Not even the suavely styled immaculate dinner-jacket could disguise the potent rawness of this prime male animal, she thought with disgust, hating him.
He had a cruel mouth, she decided, refusing to flinch away from the eyes that were consciously and compellingly holding her own. He was totally devoid of compassion, sympathy or understanding. The uncrowned head of the consortium which had recently made a successful bid for the Vision West franchise, he had more clout than was good for him. Already his business empire encompassed publishing, an airline, communication systems; he had forgotten the meaning of compassion—if he had ever known it in the first instance—and would break poor darling Alex without a second thought.
‘How did you rate tonight’s performance, Miss ?’ Very briefly, his cold gaze spiked towards Alex, reminding the older man of the neglected introduction. No one, especially someone he had already put down as a has-been, neglected his commands.
‘Fenella Flemming—my—my niece.’ Alex went crimson, shifting from one foot to the other. He couldn’t have looked more ill at ease if he’d tried. ‘Fen, sweetheart, this is—’
‘I know who it is, darling,’ she cut in, sounding bored, the downward twist of her mouth, the golden glitter of her eyes letting him know she wasn’t impressed, catching her breath a split-second later as she saw the gleam of pure cynicism in the blackly fringed silver eyes, the scornful knowing curve of his mouth as he repeated softly,
‘Your niece? But of course—who else could she possibly be?’
Which meant, of course, that he didn’t believe it for one instant.
She held his eyes with cool defiance. ‘We enjoyed the performance immensely, didn’t we, Alex?’ She wished he would sit down, stop fidgeting from foot to foot. But maybe no one, but no one, sat when in ‘the Presence’! She made a mental note to ask him some time and then went icy cold as that cool voice commanded,
‘Then why don’t we discuss it? Join me for coffee and brandy and I’ll introduce you to the author and Vesta.’
No mention, Fenella noted sourly, of the author’s wife. People wouldn’t count with him unless they were famous, at the top of their own particular ladder.
‘Some other time, maybe.’ Fenella rose languidly to her feet, her eyes on Alex. He was probably itching to take up the invitation but not even for his sake could she endure to spend a moment longer in Ackerman’s company. One delicate brow rose and disappeared beneath her glossy, honey-gold fringe. ‘It’s time we were tucked up in bed, isn’t it, darling?’ Her mouth curved in a slow smile that couldn’t be misinterpreted. ‘Excuse me just for a moment while I freshen up before we leave.’ And then, not giving her courage chance to desert her, she made herself encounter Saul Ackerman’s icy stare. ‘So nice to have met you, Mr Ackerman.’
And she walked away, heading for the rest-rooms at the rear of the restaurant, threading her way through the tables, aware as never before of the way her body swayed within the clinging confines of the black silk sheath, uncomfortably sure that the monster’s eyes were following her every inch of the way.
The door closed behind her with a soft, expensive thud and she leaned gratefully against the cool, aqua wallpaper, her fingertips to her throbbing temples.
What had started out as a fun, if mentally challenging evening had ended on a quite different note, a note she couldn’t really define—even if she’d wanted to. From the moment she’d learned what the chairman of Vision West was planning to do to Alex she had disliked the man. But seeing him, meeting him, had affected her more strongly than she had bargained for.
Shuddering, she pushed herself away from the wall and effected a few minor repairs to her make-up in front of one of the softly lit mirrors. Saul Ackerman was nothing to her, simply a man she despised. He was planning to axe Alex’s programme, strip him of his self-respect, toss him into an empty, financially barren future.
So it was perfectly natural that she should dislike the man so intensely. Sheer, gut-wrenching hatred was something she had never experienced before. No wonder it had a strange effect on her!
Relieved that that was sorted out, she dropped her lipstick into her slender evening purse and snapped the clasp with a defiant click. The sooner she and Alex were out of this place, back in the flat, alone together with all the time they needed to chew over the evening’s happenings, the better.
She marched out into the silent, thickly carpeted corridor and almost scurried straight back in again when she saw Ackerman waiting for her, his face blank.
Sinkingly prepared to brazen it out, she gave him the ghost of an acknowledgement and stalked past him. But, levering himself away from the wall he’d been so casually leaning against, his hand shot out, clamping around her upper arm, dragging her to a teetering halt. Her breath froze in her lungs as she swayed on her impossible heels. At a distance he was lethal enough; at such close quarters he was pure poison.
‘Do you make a habit of grabbing every passing female?’ She managed to sound frosty but she was boiling inside, her temperature rising through the roof. How dared he waylay her? Touch her?
‘Do you make a habit of being rude to strangers?’ he countered, his mouth indenting sardonically. ‘Or is it only me?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She glanced pointedly at the hand that manacled her arm. His fingers looked strong and lean and dark against the whiteness of her skin. ‘Please let me go; you’re hurting.’
‘I don’t think so.’ There was a trace of wicked humour in his voice, making it richer, deeper, too intimate. ‘I might touch the goods before I buy, but I never damage them.’
And what the hell did he mean by that? She had a sneaking suspicion but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. And there was far too much exposed flesh above the low-cut bodice of her dress to give her any hope that he had failed to register the increase of her breath-rate. And he was certainly looking, those silver eyes making a thorough scrutiny of everything exposed or otherwise.
Quickly putting a lid on her temper, she made a futile effort to pull away, hating the way the pressure of his hand increased immediately, loathing the way his touch made her feel. As if she was burning up inside. With outrage. What else?
Those wandering eyes fastened on her lips and she turned her head quickly, scanning the emptiness of the lush corridor, wishing a whole horde of other diners would come through to use the facilities.
‘What do you want?’ She made herself sound cool, as if nothing he had to say could possibly interest her, and heard him laugh, a warm sound low in his throat. She hadn’t expected that and, just for a moment, it threw her, so when he said,
‘To know who you are, for starters. There’s much more you could supply me with, but that can wait,’ she was unguarded enough to turn again and seek his eyes, her own wide beneath the thick golden fringe.
‘You know who I am. My uncle—’ her tongue tripped over the word but she ploughed quickly on before her teeth started to chatter in her head ‘—Alex introduced us. And if you don’t mind, he’ll be waiting. I—’
‘But I do mind,’ he cut across her. ‘I didn’t swallow that old chestnut. What kind of fool do you take me for? And the thought of that delectable firm white flesh tangled up with the folds and wrinkles of an ageing pop star does not bring tears of joy to my eyes.’ The voice was infinitely sharper now, the silver eyes glinting like the edge of a bright steel blade.
‘You’re obscene!’ He made her feel literally ill. ‘Unc—Alex is in his prime! Pop star doesn’t come into it, ageing or otherwise.’
She threw her head back, the better to glare up at him along the length of her nose, unaware that the defiant gesture afforded him an unimpeded view of her long, slender throat, the tantalisingly revealed upper curves of her breasts.
‘He’s a highly talented, all-round entertainer. All he needs is a new vehicle for those talents, but you’re too blinkered to see it!’ She drew in a great, shuddering breath, almost sobbing with the hatefulness of being held so near to that vibrant body. She had never encountered a man who exuded such power. It came off him in waves, swamping her.
But she wasn’t going to drown in such a potent deluge without struggling, and she ground out between her teeth, ‘VisonWest’s not the only TV company in the land. There’s not a damn thing stopping him from moving on and up—going where he’ll be appreciated!’
‘Such loyalty. I envy the man his ability to earn it,’ he said grimly. The hand on her arm dropped away and his face was rigid, his eyes bitter as he subjected her to one lancing look before he turned on his heels and strode away.
Fenella knuckled her mouth, her eyes anguished as she watched the door back into the restaurant swing to behind him. Oh, God, she had probably killed off any faint hope Alex had had for his programme! She, with her big mouth, had finally wielded the axe that had been hovering over his head ever since Saul Ackerman’s lot had taken over the franchise!
And even an abject, squirming apology would do no good. Ackerman’s mind had already been made up. He simply hadn’t got around to burying Evening With Alex yet. All she had done was drive the final nail in the coffin with her outspoken tongue!
She didn’t know how she was going to tell Alex what she had done.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_dfbd5815-e965-5b60-b3b9-9ad22de6e1a7)
‘I’M SORRY, you probably wanted to join Ackerman’s party,’ Fenella mumbled unhappily as the taxi sped towards Hampstead. Alex hadn’t said a word since they’d left the restaurant and, in view of her rudeness in refusing to accept his boss’s invitation, was probably deeply regretting ever having let Jean talk him into this.
‘About as much as a sharp kick up the backside!’ Alex sighed gloomily, giving her hand a gently reassuring pat. ‘We were both brilliant, all evening, but I doubt if we could have actually sat down with them and socialised without giving the game away. We need a whole load more confidence for that.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ she conceded, sagging back against the upholstery and closing her eyes. But she didn’t feel any less miserable. Alex didn’t know what had been said out in the corridor and she didn’t know how she was going to tell him.
‘We achieved what we set out to do—one of the sleazier tabloids will pick up on the “scandal” and splash it all over the front page. And I’ll be famous—or rather, notorious—for all of five minutes. And Ackerman himself saw us together. So the old has-been who once pulled record-breaking female audiences with his sex-appeal will be judged to have regained some of his touch,’ he said, sounding tired and uncharacteristically cynical. ‘As they say, even bad publicity is good publicity. I thought Jean was mad when she came up with the idea but I think we were even crazier to go along with it.’
Fenella couldn’t argue with that so she said nothing. But as soon as they were back in the flat her aunt Jean had bought with a minor part of her inheritance from her father she drew the curtains in the long living-room, poured her uncle a large slug of whisky and pointed him at the telephone.
‘Phone her now; she’ll be dying to know how everything went. I’ll lay a penny to a pound she’s sitting up in Edinburgh quite convinced we didn’t have the bottle to go through with it because she wasn’t around to make sure we did.’
Easing her feet out of her ridiculous shoes, she said goodnight and left him to it, confident that a nice long natter with his wife would cheer him up. She hated to see him so depressed. She thought the world of both of them; in some ways they meant more to her than her own parents. Which was why she’d agreed to go along with the crazy scheme in the first placemuch against her better judgement.
The guest bedroom was furnished with Jean’s unmistakable stamp of elegant style and home-fromhome comfort. Six years ago, when her uncle had been signed up for the hour-long, prime-time Evening With Alex—a combination of his light-hearted interviews with celebrities from the entertainment world, plus a couple of comedy sketches and, naturally, half a dozen of his own songs performed in his own inimitable style—the couple had bought a house on the outskirts of Tavistock to be near the main studios in Plymouth.
But Alex had missed London and when Jean had received her inheritance she had immediately bought this flat, which they used when he wasn’t recording his show.
They were a devoted couple, and it showed. And that, Jean had stated, was half the problem. The viewing public saw him as a middle-aged pipe, slippers and comfortable old cardigan man, never seen anywhere without his equally middle-aged and unspectacular wife. Now, if they could see him as a bit of a dog, some lovely young thing on his arm as they emerged from some rackety night-spot or other, then people might sit up and take notice, and his female audience might again tune in to his show and realise he hadn’t lost all the sex-appeal that had drawn them in adoring droves in the first place!
And it might have worked, too, if she hadn’t wrecked everything by the way she’d reacted to Saul Ackerman, she thought wearily, padding out of the en-suite bathroom packaged in an old towelling robe as she heard a light knock on her bedroom door.
‘She’s put us to the top of the class!’ Alex was smiling now. He looked relaxed and a good ten years younger. He and Jean had never spent a night apart in the whole of the thirty years of their marriage and he was missing her.
When Jean had stated firmly that she would visit her aged mother in Edinburgh—alone—leaving the field clear for him to ‘misbehave’ at home he had almost vetoed the whole idea, she remembered, forcing herself to return his smile.
‘Good. How is her mother?’ She had only met the old lady once, years ago, and remembered her as being quite alarming, and she couldn’t have changed much because Alex pulled a face as he told her,
‘As intractable as ever. She still stubbornly refuses to make her home with us and insists that “Young Elspeth” can look after her. “Young Elspeth” must be knocking eighty!’ He puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘Talk about the blind leading the blind! But never mind that; Jean’s given me a whole list of things we have to do, places we have to be seen at. Shall we chew them over now, with a nice mug of drinking chocolate, or would you rather we left them to the morning?’
‘They’ll keep,’ Fenella told him with a sick smile. Before they worked out tactics for the coming two weeks she would have to confess that they would be a complete waste of time. After her outburst to Saul Ackerman earlier this evening Alex’s programme would be trashed—no matter what happened! No need to depress him tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
‘We did it, sweetheart!’ Alex bounced into the kitchen, his arms full of newspapers. ‘This one’s a blinder!’ He dropped a folded tabloid on the table in front of her. ‘Any coffee left in that pot?’
‘Plenty.’ Fenella made a gulping sound in her throat. When she’d crawled out of bed half an hour ago the flat had been silent. Believing her uncle to be safely asleep, she’d sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and trying to decide exactly how she would tell him of her run-in with his boss.
It wasn’t going to be easy, especially as he was looking so pleased with himself, delighted now because the plan to kick him back into the public eye seemed to be working.
‘Well—aren’t you going to read it?’ He had pulled out a chair opposite her, cradling his coffee-cup, his eager grin and boyishly rumpled blond-streaked grey hair reminding her of how attractive to women audiences he had been in his heyday.
Feeling sick inside, she unfolded the paper and ran her fingers over the newsprint. Foreign wars, the balance of payments deficit and the latest cowardly IRA bomb attack had been relegated to a few square inches of print, the majority of the front page sporting the moment when the cameras had caught her hiding her mischievous smile in Alex’s jacket. It came over as a snuggling embrace, Alex’s arms curved protectively around her slinkily clad body and the huge caption read: “Has-Been Has-Got?”
‘Don’t look so shattered!’ Alex grinned, swinging the paper round on the table-top, and read out the article, with plenty of hysterical expression.
Alex Fairbourne, whose top-spot TV show is to be axed—or so rumour has it—pictured outside one of London’s most exclusive restaurants, finally sheds his dull-dog image. His lovely young companion coyly refused to state her name or business. Maybe his wife could throw light on the identity of the Mystery Mistress? But poor old Jean, we hear, has been conveniently banished to the wilds of Scotland. Did she go willingly, or was she pushed?
‘Grief! “Mystery Mistress”! How tacky can you get?’ Fenella giggled. ‘But Aunty’s not going to like that “poor old Jean” bit.’
‘She’s going to love it,’ Alex contradicted. ‘And since when did you ever call her Aunty?’
Since never, Fenella admitted, her face straightening out. Alex, her mother’s younger brother, and Jean had always seemed more like an older brother and sister. It had nothing to do with their ages, more to do with their boundless capacity to enjoy life. Only people as perpetually optimistic as they could have devised such a scheme when faced with the persistent rumours—plus a very definite hint from Saul Ackerman himself—that Evening With Alex was to be axed. And, what was more, put it into practice.
And now she was going to have to tell him that she, who had promised to help, had thrown a ten-ton spanner into the works!
‘We’ll put in an appearance at Tinkers tonight,’ Alex told her, pouring more coffee for them both. ‘You won’t have heard of it—how long is it since you were last in England? But it’s the night-spot of the moment,’ he burbled on jovially. ‘The newshounds are always sniffing around, waiting for something to happen. Only a couple of weeks ago there was a deplorable fracas involving a minor Royal and a lady whose credentials are far from being unimpeachable. One of the pack earned himself quite a scoop that night. Since then there’s always someone hanging around, waiting for something they can blow up into a scandal.’ He pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Now, what shall we have for breakfast?’
‘Wait; there’s something you should know,’ Fenella said heavily. She felt awful. She’d let him and Jean down. She hadn’t felt happy about the idea of putting on a deception for the sake of the more gutter-bound Press but once Jean had talked him round Alex had been just as enthusiastic as his wife, pointing out that Fen was the only answer—part of the family, utterly trustworthy and, almost as important, she looked the part.
‘Well?’ Alex prodded. ‘What should I know?’
‘I argued with Ackerman last night.’ She took the plunge, her tongue feeling like wood. ‘In the rest-room corridor, of all places. He accused me of being rude when he invited us to join his party.’ She met his eyes miserably. ‘And he was right. I was rude. Then I lost my head and accused him of being blinkered. I said there was nothing stopping you working with another company where your talents would be appreciated. I’m sorry if I’ve blown it.’ She lowered her head dejectedly. ‘He didn’t come over as the type of man who would take any kind of rudeness or criticism lying down. There’ll probably be a letter in tomorrow morning’s post telling you your contract won’t be renewed. So carrying on with this—’ she flicked the tabloid disgustedly with her fingernail ‘—would be a total waste of time and effort.’
There were two more pre-recorded shows to run before the end of the current—and rumoured final— series. He would be on tenterhooks to see if all this publicity halted the abysmally falling ratings. ‘Nothing will save the show, after what I said. A flicker of public interest because you appear to be running around with a woman young enough to be your daughter won’t alter a thing.’
She had said as much when her aunt had first enlisted her help but once Jean had persuaded Alex to take the idea on board there had been no dampening their enthusiastic optimism.
And no dampening now, either, she thought despairingly as Alex hooted, ‘Rubbish!’ and started to make the belated breakfast. All that stuff in the papers this morning had made him see himself as a celebrity again; he was, once more, the idol women had scratched each other’s eyes out to be first in the queue for his autograph, a lock of his hair, the clothes off his back!
‘Saul’s too astute a businessman to let something like an insubordinate female affect his judgement. He was probably intrigued by the way you stood up to him. He’s used to having females at his feet, not at his throat. And I’d lay odds you were the first ever to turn down an invitation from him!’
‘If you say so.’ Fenella was too dejected to argue. Alex might be her uncle but right at this moment she felt more like his grandmother. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, she laid the table while he toasted wholemeal bread and scrambled the eggs; she took over as the phone in the living-room warbled out and was still half-heartedly stirring when he rushed back in again, rubbing his hands.
‘What did I tell you? That was Saul on the phonenot his secretary, mark you—the great man himself. I am commanded to attend the open day tomorrow in my best bib and tucker. And you, my dear Fen, are likewise commanded! “Bring your niece”, he said!’ He bounced over and ruffled her hair affectionately then snatched the pan from the burner. ‘Good God, Fen, these eggs are like case-hardened rubber!’
But even the ruination of his breakfast couldn’t wipe the beam from his face and she felt a complete spoiler as she pointed out, ‘He doesn’t believe I am your niece.’
‘Of course he doesn’t. He wasn’t meant to, was he? But he still wants you along. Most insistent.’
Fen wanted to ask why but glumly decided she wouldn’t like the answer—supposing Alex knew it, which she doubted. She asked instead, ‘What is this open day? Anything important?’
‘The best news I’ve had in six months, sweetheart!’ Alex abandoned all attempts to eat his breakfast, leaning back and smiling expansively. ‘Part of the studios will be open for members of the viewing public to meet the regular presenters and the back-room crews. It’s an annual thing but this year the board, in their wisdom, decided to throw a garden party, issuing the invitations as if they were made of diamond-studded gold. Much more exclusive. Backers and advertisers in the main with a sprinkling of showbiz names. A few selected members of the viewing public—they’ve been running a competition for the past three months. Twenty-five lucky winners received a couple of tickets apiece. Not forgetting the performers in, and writers of, the most successful series we produce. I wasn’t asked. Not until today! It’s a public-relations stunt, of course—make the viewers feel part of the network. Not to mention making the invited advertisers feel important.’
‘And you!’ Fen pointed out with an indulgent smile. His high spirits were infectious and at least last evening’s piece of rudeness hadn’t produced the backlash she’d expected. That made her conscience easier.
‘Ab—so—lutely!’ His blue eyes were gleaming like sapphires. ‘Clear up, would you, Fen? I’ll phone Jean and tell her the good news. The whole thing’s beginning to work like a dream. Oh, and—’ he was halfway out of the room before he turned ‘—we’ll have to scrub Tinkers tonight. Pity, but it can’t be helped. We’ll drive down to Tavistock this afternoon and be nice and rested for tomorrow’s high jinks. Be sure to pack something sexy to wear.’
By no stretch of the imagination could the simple, wrap-over amber silk dress be called sexy, Fen consoled herself as the Daimler Jean had given Alex for his last birthday swept over the Tamar into Cornwall.
She had happily dressed for the part she’d been allotted when they’d attended the first night and shown up afterwards at the restaurant. But for some unknown reason she could no more bring herself to dress the part of a femme fatale this afternoon than fly. Long sleeves looked demure enough and the narrow belt was tied tightly around her waist to ensure that neither the bodice nor the cleverly draped skirt would gape.
A floppy-brimmed hat in fine amber straw, festooned with huge cream silk roses, completed the ensemble and, emerging from the guest room in the Tavistock house, she had blinked in surprise when Alex, looking very elegant and Fred Astaire-ish in a morning suit, had told her, ‘You look fantastic!’
It was probably the hat, she decided edgily, not looking forward to the coming afternoon one tiny bit. Certainly nothing to do with the dress which covered her from her neck to just below her knees as effectively as a shroud.
‘Don’t forget to stick to me like glue,’ Alex said tersely as he slowed down for the turn-off on to a decidedly minor road. ‘I’m beginning to get butterflies. I’ll need you to hold my hand for that reason alone.’
He was beginning to look white around the mouth, Fen noted, giving him an narrow-eyed glance as the car swept between high hedges filled with the foam of Queen Anne’s lace and pink campion. It was a beautiful blue and green afternoon, as perfect as only an English early summer could be, and everything seemed to be going to plan, so why should the pair of them be so uneasy?
‘I’ve suddenly developed a split personality,’ he confided. ‘One minute I’m up in the air and thinking all this is a superb idea—especially when it’s bringing results—and the next I’m wishing we’d never started it. Trouble is, Fen, I can’t come to terms with the thought of being on the scrap heap, reduced to earning my crust advertising somebody’s frozen dinners in some ghastly commercial.’
About to point out that he didn’t need to work at all, that Jean’s fortune would keep them both in reasonable luxury for life, she thought better of it. Jean loved him to bits and wouldn’t begrudge a penny—as the gifts she showered on him so lavishly testified. But Alex had his pride. His ability to keep himself and support his wife was important to him.
‘But we won’t get anywhere if we back out now. And Jean would clobber us senseless if we did,’ he chuckled softly, his mood swinging again as he slowed down, looking for signposts.
Fen had imagined that the garden party would be held in some suitable spot near the main studios and the information that Saul Ackerman’s country home was to be the venue had only added to the niggling sense of unease she’d been suffering ever since she’d had to admit there was no backing out, no way of rejecting the invitation to attend.
Though it was more like a royal command, she decided edgily as the high hedges gave way to a wall of rough-grained quarried stone and then to a pair of massive iron gates flung open in well-bred invitation. Uniformed men who looked suspiciously like security guards directed them along a track that branched off from the main gravelled drive to an area of grassland that served as a temporary car park.
Big white vans bearing the distinctive Vision West logo left Fen in no doubt that the television crews would be prowling, getting the glittering occasion on film to be relayed to the viewers through the local news programme this evening. And there was well over a million pounds’ worth of motorised status symbols lined up on the crushed dry grass, she noted, which meant that everyone here was a ‘somebody’, and that sent her tension-reading up another couple of notches.
Just why had Saul Ackerman changed his mind and invited Alex along at practically the last moment? He couldn’t have had second thoughts about tossing him on to the scrap heap on the strength of a few scandal-mongering write-ups in the tabloids, surely?
Ducking her head as she got out of the car, she still managed to knock her hat to a rakish angle. Muttering under her breath, she righted it. She wasn’t used to wearing any kind of headgear; she felt like a mushroom. Hitching up her skirts, she spindle-heeled her way to Alex who was pocketing the keys to the Daimler, her tawny eyes wary as she told him, ‘I don’t want to spoil your moment of triumph, but have you stopped to wonder why you’re here? We never thought about the possibility of Ackerman being disgusted by what he must have read in the papers—he might not want to employ a man who is seen publicly to be cheating on his wife. We could be letting ourselves in for a highly public snub. Have you thought of that?’
‘Yes.’ Alex smoothed down his hair then took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘It’s always a possibility, but a remote one. Publicity and top ratings are the name of the game, and besides, he’s no saint. He’s rarely seen with the same woman twice. Whatever he is, I don’t think he’s a hypocrite.’
‘Is he married?’ Fen spiked her heels into the grass. For some unknown yet powerful reason she needed to know more about the man. A case of ‘know your enemy’, she supposed.
‘He was.’ Alex gave her a look that carried a hint of impatience. ‘But it ended very messily. There was someone else involved—there always was someone else involved during the short lifetime of that marriage. Do come on, Fen!’
More cars were arriving, sunlight glittering from their faultless bodywork, more frivolous hats and sleek-faced men in morning suits. Fen gave in and fell in step beside her uncle as they gravitated towards a gateway in the fuchsia hedge, a graceful figure in the amber silk that emphasised the slenderness of her hips and long, long legs, blissfully unaware that each step she took afforded the onlooker a tiny tantalising glimpse of creamy thigh and intriguing stocking-top.
Alex’s brief words had told her as much as she wanted to know about Saul Ackerman, and left her even less endeared to him than before. His poor wife was well rid of him; Alex had spoken of the marriage ending—so presumably that meant divorce. Because he couldn’t keep his hands off other women? It certainly sounded like it.
Fen couldn’t understand why any right-minded woman wanted to get married at all. Why put yourself in a position where your happiness depended on the good nature and fidelity of one man? Generally speaking, she liked men, enjoyed their company and valued their friendship. But she would never surrender her independence to one; she knew what it had done to her mother and, in consequence, to her. And had heard enough about disastrous marriages to make any sensible female wary.
So footloose and heart-free she would remain, a citizen of the world, a happily independent lady answerable to no one but herself.
‘Fen!’ A sharp nudge in her ribs brought her wandering mind back to present circumstances. Blinking, she focused on the tray of glasses, the white-shirted, impassive-faced waiter who held it. Then, champagne in hand, she took in her surroundings. Acres of emerald-green, closely mown grass quartered by stoneflagged paths, parterres of flowers cut into the sward, punctuated by tall trees, their leaves whispering softly in the gentle summer breeze. And, beyond and above the long sweep of a closely cut yew hedge a few hundred yards away, the glimpse of the tumbled roofs of an impressive Tudor house.
Some country pad, she thought sourly, contrasting it with the humble stone cottage, the only place that had ever remotely come to resemble a home, a bare twenty miles away as the crow flew.
But at least there was no sign of the owner, so be grateful for small mercies, she told herself, wondering if they could possibly manage to avoid him all afternoon.
‘What do we do now?’ she asked. ‘Plant ourselves in front of the camera crews and grin?’
‘We circulate and give each other adoring glances,’ he said firmly. ‘Drink your fizz; it might put you in a better mood.’ He whisked her along paths and over expensively maintained lawns, mingling with various groups of guests, introducing her simply as Fenella, doing nothing at all to dampen the often openly inquisitive stares she was getting, speculative eyes watching her every move. She could almost hear them thinking, debating whether she was with Alex for love or for money.
There was a lot of well-mannered back-slapping, a lot of preening and a fair amount of talking shop and by the time they had worked their way through to the terrace beyond the hedge Fen had had more than enough.
The paving ran along the entire frontage of the spectacularly lovely house and was set with white-clothed buffet tables and bars, all perfumed and punctuated by terracotta pots brimming over with stately lilies. And in the middle distance, surrounded by a group of obvious sycophants, was Saul Ackerman.
Fen recognised him with a curious jolt right in the pit of her stomach. He was easily the most impressive male around—the handful of sexily handsome actors she had encountered notwithstanding.
Oh, drat it to Hades! She had really hoped she wouldn’t have to see him. Guilty conscience, she supposed. She had behaved badly that first time they’d met. Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t behave twice as badly if there happened to be a second time. And that wouldn’t do Alex’s career prospects a whole heap of good, she admitted. But then, she had never encountered anyone, male or female, who had aroused her to such a pitch of unthinking animosity. Her blood boiled whenever she thought of him!
‘We could leave now,’ she whispered to Alex out of the side of her mouth. ‘You must have spoken to everyone here.’
Except Saul, and she wasn’t about to remind him of that. She was sick of being on show, being talked about. Most of the people here would have read at least one scandal-mongering piece of so-called journalism. Most of the men, with varying degrees of interested speculation, had ogled her, while she was sure all the women were bitching about her inside their heads. She was getting paranoid, she recognised, but that didn’t stop her wanting to hit Alex when he scoffed, ‘What, and miss out on all that gorgeous food? Besides, I haven’t paid my respects to Saul yet. Got to keep a high profile. If Jean were here she’d say the same.’
‘Go ahead,’ Fen told him, feeling tight-lipped. ‘You’ll deserve a medal if you can drag him out from under all those female admirers.’ She had just recognised the lushly sensual, scarlet garbed figure of Vesta Faine hanging adoringly on to his arm. No doubt she was his current lady. Seen twice already in his company, she must be all set to break the record—if what Alex had said about the staying power of his ladies was true. ‘And I need to go to the loo,’ she grumbled untruthfully. ‘Where is it?’
‘Go to the house. You’ll find doors if you look for them. Saul won’t have Portakabins labelled “His” and “Hers” on his sacrosant property.’ He gave her arm a little squeeze. ‘Don’t be long. I’ll get us some food and try to grab Saul’s attention. After all, he did expressly invite you to come.’
Which wasn’t what she wanted to hear, Fen thought as she swayed her way along the terrace, skirting the lily pots and knots of festively dressed personalities with an empty smile fixed on her face.
She had no need to find a bathroom—just a bit of empty space. And she had no intention of returning before she had got herself nice and calm again. Alex could manage on his own; she’d done quite enough.
To the side of the house she found a swimmingpool complete with loungers and white-painted wrought-iron tables. And people. Quickly, she withdrew her inquisitive nose from the trellis of billowing roses that formed part of the pool surround and explored further.
And eventually found just what she’d been hoping for: utter seclusion. A small secret garden, enclosed on three sides by tall yew hedges, the fourth side open to a vista of sweeping fields and the thickly wooded river valley below. No one in sight. Just the sun, the warm soft air, the patchwork of greens, the song of the birds. Heaven.
Ignoring the stone bench seat, strategically placed for peaceful contemplation of the breathtaking view, she kicked off her shoes and sank down on the soft, sun-warmed grass, pulling her hat down over her face to shade her creamy pale skin from the damaging rays.
If she weren’t so tense she would be asleep within seconds; she hadn’t realised just how exhausted she was. The past four years she’d been travelling round Europe, flitting from one job to the next like a demented gnat, enjoying every hectic moment. Eighteen months ago, after her father’s sudden and unexpected death from a heart condition, she had taken two months off to get her distraught mother settled with an old schoolfriend—recently widowed herself—in Australia. And that had been no easy ride.
She had grieved for her father, of course she had, her sorrow taking the form of deep regrets. Regret that he had barely ever acknowledged her existence and, when he had, only because of her nuisance value. A selfish man, there had been no room in his life for anything outside his work as a highly respected travel writer. He’d travelled the world, dragging his wife along behind him and, much later, the child he had never expected or wanted. Not that he’d had to drag his wife, exactly. She’d been too dependent on him, too besotted, to let him out of her sight! And now that he had gone, her mother didn’t know what to do with her life. So no, that two months spent trying to help her mother come to terms with the loss she vowed she would never be able to accept had not been a picnic.
And a few weeks ago, during one of the frequent calls to Australia she made from wherever she happened to be, her mother had instructed mournfully, ‘When you’re next in the UK I want you to arrange for the cottage to be sold. I couldn’t bear to go there again, not without your father. It would kill me. You can crate up any of his books and papers that are still there and send them out to me. I’d ask Alex and Jean, but you know how busy they are. Alex has better things to do with his time than bother himself with my affairs.’
And so, after a job that had taken her to the English Midlands, Fen had dropped in on Jean and Alex in Hampstead, intending to spend a few days with them before hiring a car and driving down to Cornwall, promising herself that before she did anything about disposing of the cottage and its furnishings she would give herself a full week simply to laze around and recoup her energies. Instead, she had found herself drawn into playing the part of Alex’s mistress, all thoughts of a much needed breathing space pushed into the background.
Sighing gustily, she wriggled herself into a more comfortable position, feeling her skirt ruck up around her thighs and not caring. There was no one to see her, after all. If she was going to have to spend the next couple of weeks racketing around notorious night-spots with her uncle, pretending they were having an adulterous fling, she would need to unwind.
She made a conscious effort to relax, to push everything out of her mind, and succeeded, feeling her body go boneless, sleep pulling at her eyes, pulling her deeper and deeper…
‘Can anybody join in, or is Alex the only man who’s allowed to sleep with you?’
The steel-sharp voice cut through the layers of sleep as a hand flicked the silk and straw confection away from her face. Fen went rigid with shock, then wriggled frantically, trying to get upright without sacrificing too much of her dignity. But a warm hand—a burningly warm hand—on her thigh sent all thoughts of dignity scattering in the ether, her temper and temperature going through the roof.
Not only had her skirt rucked up to an indecent level, it had also gaped embarrassingly. And that lean, olive-toned hand was curved around her thigh, on the soft white flesh above her stocking-top.
‘How dare you?’ She slapped fiercely at his hand, but it didn’t budge an inch. The pressure of his fingers increased by a fraction and Fen pulled in a scorching breath, appalled by the electrifying sensations that spread all over her body. Then she twisted away, ending up on her hands and knees, hardly knowing how to contain her fury when he simply reached for her, dragging her down on to the grass, his arms pinioning her beneath him.
Down, but not out, she glared into his unsmiling eyes and tried to control her hectic breathing as she rasped out, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mr Ackerman? If this is a sample of the way you treat your female guests I’m surprised you weren’t locked safely away years ago!’
And then he did smile, a sweet, slow smile that took her breath away all over again, a smile that touched his eyes like the rays of the moon on a silver sea and made the harshly modelled planes of his face seem far less uncompromising.
‘I treat my female guests in exactly the way their body language leads me to believe they expect,’ he murmured, his voice as soft as velvet now. ‘The invitation you posed was impossible to resist. And as for what I was doing—’ He moved off her and her eyes went wide and wild. Why, her body seemed scorched by the imprint of his, as if she would never be able to rid herself of the way all that power-packed virility had felt as it had crushed her into the grass! ‘I was looking for you. Alex has been going frantic. And having found you, pinned you down so to speak, I wasn’t willing to risk losing you again.’
He got to his feet, as if nothing had happened, as if he tumbled women he barely knew in the grass every day of the week, insulted them and put his hands…Oh, it was unendurable! And if he touched her again she would kill him!
But she didn’t. Because when he hauled her to her feet, and smoothed down her wrinkled skirt, pulled together the gaping bodice of her dress and settled her silly hat on her head, his touch was completely impersonal, as if he were dressing a tailor’s dummy, making it fit for the public gaze. And that, strangely, was miff-making enough without his almost curt command, ‘Come. Alex has something he wants to tell you. Besides, if you’re missing for much longer he’ll get withdrawal symptoms.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4b30141c-4d22-5c3e-9be4-a82d84e3a291)
SAUL didn’t touch her as he walked her back to the party, not even a hand beneath her elbow as they mounted the flight of stone steps that led up from the lower walkway to the pool and terrace level.
Which didn’t mean a thing. Because Fen couldn’t have been more aware of him if his hands had been all over her. Her body was burning, her mouth suddenly dry, her breath thick in her lungs. Yet she was shivering, quivering all over like a startled mare. But that was just a symptom of the tension she’d been under ever since she and Alex had started out on this mad charade, she informed herself tartly, trying to wipe away the memory of being pinned beneath Saul Ackerman’s hard male body, the way his hand had felt on the soft warm flesh of her thigh.
But the memory wouldn’t go away and she had never been as pleased to see anyone in her life as she was to see Alex when he met them at the end of the now almost deserted terrace.
‘So there you are!’ His face lit up with relief. ‘I thought you’d run out on me, sweetheart.’
‘Never!’ In her eagerness to reach him and the safe normality he represented, one of her spindly heels twisted beneath her and only Saul’s lightning-fast reactions, the hand that snaked out to steady her, prevented her from falling in a heap and saying goodbye to what little was left of her dwindling composure. ‘If you’re this eager in bed I can understand why he hates you to be out of his sight,’ Saul murmured close to her ear, his breath fanning her thick honey-gold fringe beneath the dipping, rose-laden brim of her hat.
Fen shuddered with scalding outrage. She wanted to tell him to shut his insulting mouth but the words wouldn’t come. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. And the hand that had steadied her relaxed, just a little, his thumb making lazy circles on the inside of her arm, scorching her through the thin silk sleeve. And the most bewildering, the most horrible thing of all was the way she was just standing there as if turned to stone, letting him do it. Enjoying—
No! Never!
She slapped that thought away smartly then went hot all over as he released her arm, his hand brushing her silk-clad bottom as it fell back to his side, brushing against her so lightly that she could almost have imagined it.
‘Excuse me for a moment; there’s someone I must have a brief word with,’ Saul said, turning away, his movements very fluid for a man whose body packed so much power. And Fen gave him a sourly reluctant ten out of ten for urbanity, for behaving as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t foully insulted her with both word and touch!
‘Can we go now?’ Fen glared at her uncle, unfazed by the way his eyebrows shot up to his hairline at her tone. He hadn’t been close enough to catch Saul’s lowvoiced insult, and the touching had gone on out of sight!
‘Not yet.’ Alex pulled her out of the way of the waiters who were already dismantling the buffet tables. The party was long over. She must have slept for longer than she’d thought. ‘Listen,’ he began in a rush, his flushed face close to hers, ‘while you were missing I had a word with Laurence Meek—he’s the director of programmes, the man who can put ‘em on and take ‘em off. And the only living soul who can sway the decisions he makes is—’
‘Saul Ackerman,’ Fen put in drily, hatred bubbling up inside her all over again at the mere thought of him.
‘Dead right. Anyway, Laurence gave me a very strong hint that, after all, my show mightn’t get the shove. His actual words were, “Don’t go anywhere else with your c.v., old man. There’s a big decision in the offing and I think it will go your way.”’
‘That’s great news!’ Fen’s golden eyes shone, her bad mood disappearing like mist in the summer sunshine. She was really pleased for him. His own show meant a lot to him—his pride, his self-respect, his sense of worth. Slowly, she walked over to the stone balustrading that edged the terrace and gazed out over the now deserted gardens, Alex at her side. His good news meant that soon they would be able to stop the pretence of a torrid, adulterous relationship. She had never been wildly ecstatic about the idea but she hadn’t foreseen how tawdry and besmirched it would make her feel. The relief was heady.
The Ackerman monster certainly had a beautiful home, she decided, the tranquillity of the scene soothing her. She could almost imagine herself putting down roots if she owned something like this. Almost. She sighed. No, she couldn’t see herself putting roots down anywhere, any time. She couldn’t really see the point. There was always something new over the horizon, something to draw her wandering feet onwards…
‘And when’s this big decision to be taken?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. But soon. And when it’s made, either way, we can drop this act.’
‘But it can’t have had anything to do with their change of mind, surely?’ Fen looked at him worriedly. ‘One scandalous story in print…’ Her voice trailed away. From what she’d gathered, the viewing figures for Alex’s show had been falling steadily for some time, and dropping like a stone just recently. Could their altered decision be based on what was, after all, simply a piece of sleazy journalism and salacious speculation? It didn’t make a whole lot of sense.
But Alex didn’t care why he had been offered a reprieve, only that it seemed that he had. He was smiling expansively, his face too flushed. Fen suspected he’d been celebrating ever since he’d had that talk with the director of programmes. The champagne had been flowing like water, after all!
‘Shall I drive us home?’ She didn’t want to offend his male pride by suggesting he might be over the legal limit—well over!—but it was time they made a move. She didn’t want to face Saul again, not after what he had said and done. Especially not after what he had said and done!
‘We’ll see. Later. Saul’s asked us to stay to dinner—I’ve been trying to tell you.’
‘What?’ Fen shook her head decisively. ‘No. Oh, no!’ She had had more than enough of his company. Several others would have been invited, too, she was sure of that. A select few. Definitely including the lovely Vesta Faine! But she had no wish whatsoever to be part of the élite around Saul Ackerman’s dinnertable tonight.
‘Fen!’ Alex looked pole-axed. ‘Don’t be like that! I know it’s been difficult—being taken for my mistress, and everything. But it won’t be for much longer, I promise, and then we can come clean. And it’s important to me; you must see that. We got away with refusing his invitation once; do it twice and I can kiss all hopes of a change of mind goodbye!’ He put his hand over hers as it clenched and curled around the sun-warmed stone. ‘I can’t afford to ruffle his feathers, at least not until that decision’s been made. And he might want to discuss it over dinner. Please, sweetheart, try to endure it. For me?’
It was emotional blackmail and she knew she had no choice. But, just to get her own back, she snapped out, ‘Couldn’t we just tell him we can’t wait to get back to your place and dive into bed?’ Saul would understand something like that—the arrogant, insulting, over-sexed monster…!
She saw Alex’s face go purple, and knew why when, from just behind her, that hated voice said, in a tone like steel cutting through stone, ‘Shall we go in? We’ve time for a drink before dinner. And perhaps your niece…’ his voice hovered damningly over that word ‘…would like to freshen up before we eat?’
He had heard what she had said; no doubt about it. Trying to hide her flaming face beneath the brim of her hat, she had no other option but to keep pace with the two men as they walked towards the house. But once inside she could have wept with relief as he introduced his housekeeper, Mrs Pringle.
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Diana Hamilton
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Face the truth. You want me as I want you. Saul Ackerman changed his girlfriends as often as he changed his shirts. Rich, successful and attractive, he had no shortage of women waiting to share his life. And he assumed that Fenella was another in a long line of empty-headed lovelies who would jump at his bidding.But Fen wasn′t what she appeared to be. And there was a reason behind her masquerade… .