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Without Trust
PENNY JORDAN


Penny Jordan needs no introduction as arguably the most recognisable name writing for Mills & Boon. We have celebrated her wonderful writing with a special collection, many of which for the first time in eBook format and all available right now.She had been hurt too many times. Accused by a malicious cousin of committing a scandalous crime, Lark Cummings was devastated. And, in the British courts, the prosecutor, ruthless James Wolfe, showed her no mercy. Then, incredibly, the case was dropped. And - out of the blue - impoverished Lark was offered an ideal job by a rich widow. She gladly accepted - unaware that disconcerting James Wolfe was her employer's enigmatic son.With James's reappearance in her life, Lark feared the powerful currents pulsing between them. She couldn't bear to risk her trust. Not to the man who'd once treated her so callously.










Celebrate the legend that is bestselling author

PENNY JORDAN

Phenomenally successful author of more than two hundred books with sales of over a hundred million copies!

Penny Jordan’s novels are loved by millions of readers all around the word in many different languages. Mills & Boon are proud to have published one hundred and eighty-seven novels and novellas written by Penny Jordan, who was a reader favourite right from her very first novel through to her last.

This beautiful digital collection offers a chance to recapture the pleasure of all of Penny Jordan’s fabulous, glamorous and romantic novels for Mills & Boon.




About the Author


PENNY JORDAN is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular authors. Sadly, Penny died from cancer on 31st December 2011, aged sixty-five. She leaves an outstanding legacy, having sold over a hundred million books around the world. She wrote a total of one hundred and eighty-seven novels for Mills & Boon, including the phenomenally successful A Perfect Family, To Love, Honour & Betray, The Perfect Sinner and Power Play, which hit the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists. Loved for her distinctive voice, her success was in part because she continually broke boundaries and evolved her writing to keep up with readers’ changing tastes. Publishers Weekly said about Jordan ‘Women everywhere will find pieces of themselves in Jordan’s characters’ and this perhaps explains her enduring appeal.

Although Penny was born in Preston, Lancashire and spent her childhood there, she moved to Cheshire as a teenager and continued to live there for the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband, she moved to the small traditional Cheshire market town on which she based her much-loved Crighton books.

Penny was a member and supporter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Romance Writers of America—two organisations dedicated to providing support for both published and yet-to-be-published authors. Her significant contribution to women’s fiction was recognised in 2011, when the Romantic Novelists’ Association presented Penny with a Lifetime Achievement Award.




Without Trust

Penny Jordan





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CHAPTER ONE


‘IT SHOULDN’T be long now.’ Did he realise how unreassuring he sounded? Lark wondered as she listened to the hesitant, slightly tense voice of her solicitor’s clerk. He probably wasn’t much older than she was herself, a young trainee whose work for a solicitor comprised, in the main, Legal Aid cases, which had probably never brought him into contact with a case of the notoriety and severity of this one. No wonder he was looking at her as though he half expected her to bare her teeth and then sink them into him. That was what predators did, wasn’t it?

Predators! She shuddered and wondered if she would ever fully be able to put behind her the events of the last ten months. She would never be able to forget them, that was for sure. The newspapers had had a field day with the story, giving it intense coverage, and why not? It was the sort of sordid tale that was almost guaranteed to sell newspapers.

Would this affect her chances? Her solicitor had not been able to reassure her that it would not, and perhaps, after all, that was what she deserved for being trusting and naïve. It amazed her that she still had the power to feel such indignation after the tremendous battering her self-confidence had received; and it had all started so innocently. But who was going to believe that now? The jury waiting outside to judge her? The ‘other side’ had engaged one of the country’s best-known prosecuting counsels. She herself had never met him, of course, but she had heard enough from her own solicitor to fear him. If he could see to it that the jury condemned her, he would. After all, that was his job.

That did not stop her feeling an almost irrational fear and hatred of him, though. Irrational because the person she really ought to hate was Gary, but somehow she couldn’t do that. Perhaps it was the memory of the childhood years they had shared that stopped her from doing so, or perhaps it was the blood bond between them. She had no idea. She only knew that all her fear, all her hatred, all her anxiety, was focused on the inquisition she knew was to come; an inquisition that would be conducted by James Wolfe himself. She couldn’t help shivering at the thought, her face pale and strained as she instinctively dipped her head forward in a defensive gesture so that it was shadowed by the curtain of her hair.

Only the previous week, her solicitor had begged her to give him the names of at least two character witnesses, who would strengthen their position, but how could she? Her aunt and uncle had refused to have anything to do with her. As far as they were concerned, she had ceased to exist, and in a way who could blame them? Her lips compressed and her companion, watching out of the corner of his eye, wondered if he dared tell her that her very obvious anger and resentment could only weigh against her.

Perhaps if she had looked different, pale and blonde maybe, instead of well tanned, her dark red hair curling riotously around her vivid face … Lark would have told him that her tan came from helping out on the allotments alongside the railway lines. The work was therapeutic and helped to pass the time. Perhaps she ought to have tried to get a proper job instead, but how could she? She had no references, nothing. Only the odd sound penetrated through the thick doors shutting her off from whatever was going on inside the court room.

Even though she had been expecting it, had been tensely waiting for it in fact, when the door eventually opened and her name was called, it made her jump.

The walk to the witness box was a long one. Lark was burningly conscious of other people’s curiosity. She refused to look anywhere other than at a spot somewhere above the judge’s head. Because of the amount of money involved, this was a High Court action. The sight of so many gowned and bewigged officials was intensely intimidating.

Even so, she lifted her chin a little higher—a tall, slender girl whose face held the promise of mature beauty, but which at the moment was marred by tension and pride.

‘Just look at her,’ she heard someone whisper behind her, ‘nose up in the air. You wouldn’t think she’d be that brazen, would you? Not after what she’s done.’

As she stepped into the witness box, Lark froze, her glance clashing with one of the bewigged lawyers. She had expected him to withdraw from the challenge under the hard stare of her dismissive eyes, something she had perfected over the long, hauntingly unhappy months, but instead she was the one to back down, to look away, a dark cloud of colour sweeping her skin as she did so.

He was tall, with dark hair showing under his wig, his skin almost as tanned as her own. His eyes were grey, a cool, unreadable grey that suggested that they knew a great many secrets. Who was he? Because she was so engrossed in him, she missed a few words the judge said, and therefore it was a shock to realise that he was coming towards her, although even then she didn’t realise the truth until he addressed her in a cool, well-modulated voice, his words telling her exactly who he was.

James Wolfe, the prosecuting counsel, whom her solicitor had told her had been hired at an enormous fee by Crichton International to make sure she was seen to be punished for her crime. Counsel for the prosecution—counsel—she knew exactly what that meant now, just exactly how far up the legal ladder that title indicated this man was. Yet he couldn’t be much over thirty—thirty-two or -three at the very most.

Her own counsel was much older, a dry, unsympathetic man, who had listened to her story as though he had found it boring and unbelievable. She remembered how frightened she had been then, realising for the first time just how alone she was, just how little anyone really cared. Certainly not enough to believe her, to understand.

The questions started, the story unfolding. Why were they bothering? Surely everyone in the country was familiar with them now? How her cousin had committed suicide on the eve of his employer’s discovery that he had embezzled many tens of thousands of pounds from them by way of a complicated computer fraud. He had known he was about to be found out, that much was obvious.

The police had broken into his flat just after he’d taken the overdose. There had been long enough before he died for him to tell them the story that brought her here to this court today.

The story—the lies, didn’t she mean? She had a shrewd idea why Gary had done it, of course, but who was going to believe her now? It had been three days before he’d died of liver failure connected with the effect of the tablets he had taken, a side-effect not known to many would-be suicides, and one which was just as lethal as the taking of the tablets themselves.

The police had remained at his bedside until he had lapsed into that final coma, or so she had been told. She had not been allowed to see him. Her aunt and uncle had been with him, of course. She had been waiting outside for them when they finally ended their long vigil.

She had never expected them to simply ignore her, never imagined they would believe Gary’s lies. He was their son. Surely they knew how he liked to embroider, to deceive? But of course that wasn’t the only reason he had told the police that he had stolen the money to give to her. He had said that it was her incessant demands, her threats of blackmail if he didn’t comply with them, that had driven him to more and more embezzlement and finally to suicide.

What had started as a game had got out of control because she had forced him to steal more and more, or at least that was what he had told them. Only it hadn’t been like that. She had had no idea what was going on; she had not even known about Lydia Meadows until she had seen the photographs in the local paper: a tall, elegant woman posing at the side of her much older husband, a very wealthy industrialist.

And then she remembered seeing Gary with her, a Gary who had obviously been completely besotted with her. Had she been the reason he had turned to crime? Had it been to protect Lydia that his dying words had been those lies which had brought Lark herself here today?

She admitted grimly to herself that she was probably never likely to know. After all, she wasn’t going to get much chance to find out, locked away behind prison walls.

James Wolfe was still watching her, and she only just managed to repress the violent shiver of anguish trembling through her body at the thought of what today could lead to—prison. She wanted to cry and scream that they were wrong, that she had done nothing, nothing at all. Pride wouldn’t let her.

Why would these strangers believe her when her own family would not?

She still couldn’t believe how completely her aunt and uncle had turned against her. How they had never even for one moment allowed themselves to believe that their son might be lying—that she might be the innocent party. All those years when she had tried to think of them as her parents, when she had hoped they thought of her as a daughter, she had been living a lie. She knew that now.

It was hard not to feel bitter, not to feel resentful. But bitterness and resentment would get her nowhere now. No—what she needed was the skill of another James Wolfe, skills that she somehow doubted she could find in her own tired and cynical counsel.

The cross-examination started and, although she was trembling inside, Lark held up her head proudly, her dark green eyes clashing with those of her attacker. How cool and controlled he was, how sure that he was going to win. She would be convicted. Such a large hammer to wield against such a very frail person as herself, but her cousin’s employers were determined to make an example of her now that Gary himself was beyond their reach.

They and others like them were too vulnerable to embezzlement of this kind, and therefore they would want to ensure that no one else was tempted to follow in Gary’s footsteps, that others saw exactly how harsh the punishment for such embezzlement could be. As an accomplice, her sentence would be comparatively light, of course—non-existent if she could convince the judge that Gary had lied. But, even as her solicitor had said those words, Lark had read in his eyes his own disbelief of her tale. After all, why should her cousin deliberately implicate her, a girl who had been brought up practically as his sister? What kind of man would do such a cruel and malicious thing to another member of his family? Certainly not a man as mild as Gary.

But there had been another side to Gary—one that the world did not see. One that was hidden and secret. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to think of those first days when she had been orphaned, when Gary’s parents, her aunt and uncle, had taken her into their home.

They had been unhappy, dark days, filled with longing for the parents she had lost. Days which had been further darkened by Gary’s hostility towards her. Two years older than her, he had tormented her cruelly in those early months: getting her into trouble with his parents, stealing and destroying her toys, taunting her by telling her she would have to go and live in a home. But surely it wasn’t just because of his childish resentment that Gary had lied about her now?

No—she was convinced that there was more to it than that. Convinced that Gary had lied to protect the woman he loved. A woman who was married to another man.

Caught up in her own emotions, she was intensely aware of the emotional climate of the court room, and of the way James Wolfe skilfully played on those emotions, when describing to the jury the enormity of her supposed crime.

It was the company shareholders, ordinary people much like themselves, who would ultimately be the losers, so he told them. People who put their life savings into companies such as the one Gary worked for. Life savings which had been stolen by a young man who was now beyond their reach. But he was not the real perpetrator of the crime. He had been forced into it, blackmailed by his cousin, by herself.

Sickly, Lark realised that the jury were drinking in every word, sitting in silence, deeply absorbed in everything that James Wolfe was saying to them. He was lying, lying to them, she wanted to call out. None of what he said was true. She wasn’t the reason Gary had robbed his company. She wasn’t the one he had wanted the money for.

What was the use of saying anything? Nobody would believe her.

Listlessly, she answered the questions he put to her, the words mechanical and without emotion. How many times had she already been through those questions? How many times had she already listened to the same words?

The cold grey eyes focused on her, and an unnerving sensation raced up and down her spine.

‘What a very fortunate young woman you are, Miss Cummings. Tell me something, do you honestly feel no compunction, no guilt, no remorse?’

It was too much. Lark stared at him, her temper suddenly deserting her.

‘No,’ she told him recklessly, ‘I don’t feel any of those things. Not a single one. I don’t need to. I’m not guilty. I haven’t done anything. You don’t understand. You’re wrong, wrong!’

To her horror she discovered she was crying, her whole body shaking with the force of her emotions. There were sounds behind her, tuts from the jury, the vague sounds of unease the British always make in the face of other people’s emotions.

Hatred engulfed her as she tried to control herself. He had done it deliberately—deliberately trapped her into saying what she really felt. She looked at him proudly, her head held up, her body trembling under the force of her feelings. Grey eyes looked back at her. She could read nothing in them, but then, what had she expected to read? Triumph, because he knew he would win his case? He was far too professional for that, she decided scornfully, watching him as he turned and walked away from her.

The rest of the proceedings passed in a blur. There were questions and then more questions. There were speeches and then more speeches, but none of it meant anything to her. She already knew what the outcome was going to be. No one had had such a profound effect on the jury as James Wolfe, no one had had as profound an effect on her.

Her solicitor was withdrawn and ill at ease when the case was eventually adjourned for a break. The jury had retired to make their decision. As she stood in the long, draughty corridor next to her solicitor, Lark shivered convulsively. Only now, when it was over, did she actually realise what was happening to her: this could be one of her last few precious hours of true freedom. Prison. She shivered, unable to contemplate the enormity of what was going to happen to her.

Why? Why, when she was innocent? But this was a case in which innocence had to be proved, and how could she prove hers when she had been condemned by a dying man?

A harassed-looking court official appeared and drew her solicitor to one side. She saw them looking at her and her heart sank. Had the jury made their decision already? Was that what they were talking about?

Her solicitor turned to her and excused himself. The judge wanted to speak to him, he told her. He was gone for what seemed to be a long, long time. His assistant tried to take her mind off things by talking to her, but Lark wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. In other circumstances, she might have been willing to make more of an effort. The young man was shy and meant well, but it was more than she could manage at the moment to respond to his inarticulate small-talk.

When her solicitor came back, he looked slightly flushed and rather surprised. He drew her to one side, his smile almost avuncular as he said jovially, ‘You’re a very lucky young lady, Miss Cummings. Crichtons have made a last-minute decision to withdraw their case. Apparently they’ve decided that the publicity your conviction would give them would not reflect well on them.’

‘To withdraw the case …’ Lark was practically stammering. ‘But surely they can’t just do that?’

‘Not in normal circumstances,’ her solicitor agreed. ‘But … er … in this case the judge has decided …’ He was plainly struggling to give her an explanation for this extraordinary turn of events, but Lark didn’t care. All she cared about was the enormous feeling of relief sweeping away the fear and anxiety of the past long months. It was over. She wasn’t going to prison. She was free, she could simply walk out of this court and never again have to hear another word about Crichton International or Gary. She could hardly believe it. Especially not after the way James Wolfe had so effectively destroyed her while she was in the witness box. After what he had done, she had felt quite sure that the jury would have convicted her to a life sentence in Russia’s salt mines if he had asked them to.

How infuriated he must be by Crichtons’ decision! He hadn’t struck her as the kind of man who would enjoy having the rug pulled out from under his feet like that.

Added to a sense of relief was one of dizzy pleasure. He had been cheated of his prey. She had actually escaped the net he had woven so cleverly around her.

God, how she hated him! How she hated all men like him who preyed on those less fortunate than themselves, using their intelligence, their skills, their training, to earn themselves a very good living from the misfortunes of others.

He had not cared whether she was guilty or innocent. All he had cared about was his fee.

Her solicitor was saying something, but she hadn’t really been listening. She turned to look at him, her eyes flashing with the force of her emotions. He took a step backwards and eyed her uncertainly. He had not wanted to handle the case right from the very beginning. It had been loaded with potential disaster, with problems and uncertainties. At the very best, all he had hoped to get was a conviction that took into account her youth and lack of a previous record. That Crichtons should suddenly and almost inexplicably decide to drop the case was something he had not anticipated at all, and even now he could hardly believe it had actually happened.

She was free. Really free, for the first time since Gary’s death. Without a backward glance, Lark walked out of the court and into the spring sunshine.

The London streets were busy, heavy with the sounds of traffic, a muted dull roar which suddenly sounded as triumphant as the most triumphal of all hymns. She wanted to dance down the street, to embrace almost everybody she saw. She wanted to cry out to them that she was free, that the ordeal was over. And yet, would they understand? No.

Probably, like the jury, they would have condemned her too, had they been given the chance.

A week later she wasn’t feeling anything like as euphoric. Reality had set in hard upon the heels of her initial exuberance. Since Gary’s death she had been living in a small bedsit she had managed to rent, but she had very little money of her own.

According to her aunt and uncle, the money that her parents had left her had been virtually swallowed up by her education. After school she had gone on to university, where she had obtained a Business Studies degree, and then it had taken her six months to find her first job.

Her bedsit was cold and damp, and she grimaced bitterly to herself as she sat huddled over its one-bar electric fire. Who would have believed that twelve months ago she had considered herself to be one of the luckiest people she knew? She had just landed her first job with a prestigious PR firm in the city. The salary hadn’t been very high, but the PR firm was a very high-profile one which handled a lot of famous names.

She had planned to stay there for two or three years to gain some initial experience, and then look for something better. When added to her salary and carefully eked out, the five thousand or so pounds that was left to her from her parents’ money would have just about lasted until she had been in a position to look for something better, but now all that was gone.

She had lost her job almost as soon as the news had broken. Her boss had called her into his office and explained to her in cool and bitingly unkind words that a high-profile PR firm could not afford to carry an employee whose name was splashed so notoriously all over the front pages of the nation’s gutter press. She had not been sacked, simply asked to resign.

That had been six months ago. Now there was virtually nothing left in her account at all. How on earth was she going to get another job, once any prospective employer learnt who she was?

She had an interview with her solicitor in the morning. He wouldn’t tell her what it was about on the telephone. Simply that there were matters he had to discuss with her.

There had been an uproar in the press over Crichtons’ decision to pull out of the case, of course. A spokesman for the company had made the astounding statement that, because of certain anomalies in the evidence, they had decided not to go ahead with the prosecution.

What anomalies? Lark wondered. As far as she could see, the case against her had been very definite indeed. Her solicitor had not been able to enlighten her, either. He had simply said that they had been very, very lucky indeed, and now, as far as the national papers were concerned, she was yesterday’s news.

What had happened? What Gary had done to her would haunt her all her life, she knew that. She would never be able to escape from it, never be able to get a job, make an application for a loan, do anything without referring to the fact that she had once been considered to be guilty of causing another person’s death. And, what was more, of forcing him to lie and steal from his employers.

She had even thought about changing her name. She was not by nature deceitful, and her pride scorned the subterfuge of deliberately lying to others. But what was she going to do—join the already long queue of young people living on state benefits? At this stage, she couldn’t see that she had any other option.

Her room was poorly lit and even more poorly furnished. She shared a bathroom with the other inhabitants of the run-down Victorian terrace. The drains smelled and the bathroom walls ran with damp.

She could never go back to her aunt and uncle. They would never forgive her for Gary’s death. They would never cease blaming her for what had happened to him, and she in turn would never ever be able to feel the same way about them again.

She had looked upon them as her parents. She had loved them and thought they loved her, even though she had always known that Gary, their own child, would come first. The last thing she had expected was that they would turn on her the way they had done. It had left her feeling as though her whole world had slipped out of focus, as though nothing had ever really been as she had imagined it.

Now what she really wanted to do if she was truthful with herself was to escape—but escape to where or to what? She had always been a rather solitary sort of person, perhaps initially because of her parents’ death. The abrupt shock of suddenly finding herself alone in the world at the age of eleven had had a profound effect upon her. Both at school and then later at university, she had been wary of too close a contact with others, of making friends, of allowing other people inside her carefully erected barriers; perhaps because, subconsciously, she was frightened that they would one day desert her as her childish mind had considered that her parents had done.

Logically, of course, she knew that their deaths had not been their fault, but children’s emotions did not respond to logic, and left scars which even adult analysis could not wholly remove.

Smart, businesslike clothes, bought for her new job and hanging on a free-standing rail in her shabby room, reproached her. Now it was hardly likely they would ever be worn. Certainly not for the purpose she had originally envisaged.

During the long, dark days when the court case was pending, she had taught herself to live just one hour at a time. To look no further than one hour ahead, if that. In fact, there had been times when she had felt so depressed that she had wondered whether it was worth being alive at all, but she quickly dismissed such dangerous thoughts.

Life was a gift, she had reminded herself fiercely. A gift that must not be wasted the way Gary had wasted his. She shivered again, but this time not because of any lack of heat. What had driven Gary to do what he had done?

She had known, of course, that he had always been a weak character, someone who did not like taking the blame for his actions. She had discovered that when they were children. Whenever they had been naughty and about to be found out, he had always somehow managed to ensure that she was the one to shoulder the blame. She had not objected in those days—perhaps because she had known instinctively that his parents would always support him against her. Had she known that? The thought was vaguely shocking. Could it be that she had somehow taught herself to love her aunt and uncle because she felt that her love was what she owed them? Could it be that she had never really felt that depth of affection for them at all, just as they had never felt any true affection for her? Had they perhaps always resented having to take her in, a solitary child, orphaned by the death of her parents? Parents who had not had the foresight to provide financially for a secure future for her.

Her uncle had had a good job, but there had always been a consciousness of money in the household. She remembered that, when they were children, her aunt had constantly reminded them how much their clothes had cost, how much their food had cost. She had never thought about it before, but could this have been what had led to Gary’s absorption with money? Could this have been what had led him into embezzlement?

Surely not! How many times over the past few months had she gone over and over the events leading up to Gary’s suicide? How many times had she queried what lay behind his actions? Had it simply been the fear of discovery? The knowledge that such discovery would lead to imprisonment? Or had there been something more—a more deep-rooted fear and unhappiness?

Despite the fact that his parents had spoilt him, they had not been physically affectionate adults. She remembered that, as children, she and Gary had constantly been reproved for demanding physical signs of affection.

Her parents had been different, and how she had missed their hugs and kisses during those first two years with her aunt and uncle! Gradually she had learnt to accustom herself to their differing ways. Gradually she had learnt to keep her emotions to herself, and realised that if she was to gain her aunt and uncle’s approval she would have to learn a different code of behaviour.

How much of her true self had she repressed deliberately over those years? How much had she become the person that her aunt and uncle expected her to be rather than the person she genuinely wanted to be?

It was pointless thinking about that now. Nothing could change the past, but there was still the future, and somehow she was going to have to find a way to live through it. But how? No money; no job; no true home; no friends; no family. All she could see ahead of her was a black void of nothing.

It was true that she had made friends with some of the old men who worked the allotments down by the railway when, out of desperation, she had one day wandered down there from the Victorian terrace where she lived, looking for something to do.

She had stopped to chat to one of the men, and then later on had offered to help him with his weeding. The hard physical work had helped her over those initial, dark, early days when she had first discovered that Crichtons intended to prosecute her. One thing had led to another, and within a matter of weeks she had found that she was helping several of the elderly men work their plots. None of them knew who she was or what she was involved in, and there had been a certain kind of relief to be found in tugging up the weeds and digging the rich, moist soil.

Lark had discovered that she enjoyed gardening. Neither her aunt nor uncle really bothered much with the small, neat suburban garden that surrounded their house. Someone came in twice a week to mow the lawns and keep the beds tidy during the summer months, and once a month during the winter.

Her aunt and uncle preferred the small, select dinner parties they attended, the bridge games with their small coterie of friends. Their lives were very regimented, Lark now realised. It was something which she hadn’t really been aware of before, but then, of course, she had been living away from home for some considerable time, first at university and then later in her bedsit.

Gary, too, had moved out of the parental home, but unlike her he had found a job in the local market town where his parents still lived. Crichtons had opened up there several years ago, with brand new offices, all based on computer technology, and Gary had soon found a niche for himself there, with his skill as an advanced computer operator. Quite where and when he had met Lydia Meadows, Lark didn’t know.

When she had asked her aunt and uncle about Gary’s relationship with the other woman, they had denied vigorously that he had ever known her, but that seemed improbable because Lydia was a local girl, albeit one who was several years older than both herself and Gary. Even so, Lark remembered reading several years ago in their local newspaper that Lydia won a nationwide beauty competition. She had gone from there to modelling, her name cropping up regularly in the local paper.

Her marriage to Ross Wycliffe, a local businessman, had been widely publicised. Ross was many years her senior, a widower with grown-up children of his own. He also had a reputation for being very shrewd and hard-headed in business. He was reputed to be a millionaire. Certainly the photographs that Lark had seen of Lydia showed a very soignée young woman dressed expensively in furs and jewellery. How on earth had Gary got involved with her, if involved he had been? He had been in love with her, that much had been obvious on the one occasion when Lark had seen them together.

She had gone home unannounced for the weekend, wanting to collect some books that were still in her bedroom at her aunt and uncle’s. Her visit had just happened to coincide with a time when her aunt and uncle themselves were away on holiday, and so she had gone round to Gary’s to ask him if she could borrow his key to his parents’ house.

His car had been parked outside. When no one had responded to her knock, she had gone round to the back of the small, semi-detached house. Neither of the participants in the passionate embrace she had witnessed through the window of Gary’s dining-room had been aware of her presence for several seconds. Indeed, she herself had been so stunned that it had taken her that length of time to realise that she was intruding, and she was just about to whisk herself away when Lydia Meadows had turned around and seen her.

Neither of them had been very pleased by her presence, and initially she had put that down to the fact that she had interrupted them. It wasn’t until later that she realised exactly who Lydia was, and why she would not be too happy about someone seeing her making love with a man other than her husband.

She had tried to talk to Gary about it, knowing how his parents would feel about his involvement with a married woman, but their relationship was such that they had never been close, and he had brushed her off with a curt refusal to discuss the matter.

It had been obvious that he had loved Lydia, but had she loved him in return? And had it been for her sake that he had been stealing money from his company?

Sighing faintly, Lark reminded herself that it was pointless going over and over this old ground again and again, that nothing was to be gained from living in the past. It was over, and she would have to find a way of putting it behind her. She could never go back. Her aunt and uncle would never forgive her for what had happened. Both of them blamed her for Gary’s death—perhaps in their shoes she would have felt the same, although she hoped she would have had more compassion, more insight into other people’s feelings.

Over the years there had been many, many occasions when she had desperately longed for her own parents, but to long for them so desperately at twenty-two, when she was supposedly an adult, seemed rather ridiculous. But long for them she most certainly did.

Her thoughts switched abruptly from her cousin to James Wolfe. It was odd the way she couldn’t get him out of her mind, couldn’t quite prevent herself from thinking about him in unguarded moments, remembering the cool timbre of his voice, the reasoned logic of his arguments, the overwhelming, overpowering and illogical emotional turbulence he had aroused in her. Her passionate outburst in the court room still had the power to make her flinch inwardly, and to wonder at the way he had broken through her defences.

She had sworn to herself that she would never betray herself in that way, and yet, with a few well-chosen words, he had caused her to forget that promise and to cry out to the world how badly she felt it was treating her. Did he ever feel the guilt and compunction he had accused her of not feeling? Did he ever wonder what happened to the victims of his savage cross-examinations? Victims who, like her, could quite easily have been innocent. No, of course he wouldn’t. Men like him never did, did they? Men like him … She shivered slightly.

There had been very few men in her life, and certainly none like James Wolfe. So why was it that the very thought of him caused this frisson of sensation to race across her skin, almost as though in some primitive way she feared him on a level that had nothing to do with their meeting in court? On a level that was purely emotional, and had to do with her being a woman and him being a man.

She told herself that she was being ridiculous, that she had allowed the atmosphere in the court to disturb her far too deeply, and that was why she was still so vulnerable at the mere thought of the man. But somehow the excuse didn’t quite ring true.

James Wolfe had made an impression on her which no amount of stern self-lecturing could entirely dismiss. There had been something so male and vigorous about him, something that aroused and piqued her feminine curiosity. That was what one got for being a virgin at twenty-two, she mocked herself. Idiotic fantasies about strange men.




CHAPTER TWO


LARK was still thinking about James Wolfe when she walked from the tube station to her solicitor’s office on the morning of her interview. A chance sighting of a dark-haired man sitting in an expensive car at the traffic lights caught her attention, and it wasn’t until he turned his head to return her look that she realised that it wasn’t James and that she was staring at him quite blatantly. She blushed and walked on, angry with herself; angry and disturbed.

It was time she put James Wolfe out of her mind. There was no point in dwelling on what had happened. No point in reliving the torment of those long minutes in court.

Oddly, it didn’t help much telling herself that he was the one who had been vanquished. Over the recent months her solicitor’s offices had become as familiar to her as her own shabby bedsit. They were up three flights of stairs in an ancient building that didn’t possess a lift other than one that rather reminded Lark of a creaking, terrifying cage.

She had lost weight; the need to economise had meant that she had cut down on her food. It was quite frightening to realise how lacking in energy she was by the time she reached the third floor.

Her solicitor himself opened the door to her, which rather surprised her. Normally, she was made to wait a good fifteen minutes before being shown into the inner sanctum. But today the outer office was empty. The secretary had gone to lunch, he told her, noticing her curious glance.

‘Lunch, at eleven o’clock in the morning?’ Still, it was hardly any business of hers, although she did notice that her solicitor seemed rather flustered and uncomfortable. She had had that effect on him ever since Crichton International had decided to pull out of the case, and she wasn’t quite sure why.

‘Sit down,’ he told her, beaming at her and picking up a pile of manuscripts from the chair opposite his desk.

She did so unwillingly, wondering what on earth it was he wanted to discuss with her. By rights she ought to be out looking for another job. Only this morning she had happened to see her landlord, who had reminded her that the next quarter’s rent was due.

With accommodation in London being so hard to come by, he was able to charge more or less what he wanted for her appalling room, and she knew that if she didn’t produce the money within a very short space of time he would have no compunction at all in evicting her. She had the money but, once it was gone, what would happen to her then? She could manage this quarter, possibly the next quarter’s rent, but after that …

Her solicitor was clearing his throat nervously and playing with the papers stacked untidily all over his desk. A cloud of dust rose from some of them, and Lark grimaced faintly. The office looked as though it could do with a good clean; there was grime on the windows and a film of dust on top of the filing cabinet.

‘Er … I asked you to come in this morning, because I’ve been … er … approached by …’ He stopped talking and fiddled again with the papers, ducking his head as though he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say.

‘Yes?’ Lark prompted him.

‘Yes … an old client of mine, a widow whose husband has left her very, very comfortably circumstanced … She … um … she’s the chairwoman of a small private charity, and she’s looking for a young woman to help her with her paperwork. She wants somebody who would be prepared to live in. She’s based in London, but spends some time in Boston. She is herself actually an American who was married to an Englishman.’

Lark frowned, not quite sure what the point of his long, rambling statement was, until he looked at her and said rather nervously, ‘It occurred to me that such a position might suit you, Miss Cummings. I know you … er … had to leave your previous post.’

Lark stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Here she was worrying about how on earth she was ever going to find another job, and right out of the blue she was being offered one which, by the sound of it, also included accommodation. Or perhaps she had misunderstood him. She looked at him and said firmly, ‘Are you sure about this? Would she want me under the circumstances, or doesn’t she know?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, she knows all about you,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘Yes, she seemed most keen to interview you. She said you sounded just exactly what she had been looking for.’

It sounded too good to be true. Lark didn’t move in the sort of circles where elderly ladies still employed live-in companions, but she was widely read and knew all about the pitfalls of such employment. Perhaps she would be expected to work twenty-four hours a day for nothing more than a pittance and her food. Before she could actually voice these fears, her solicitor went on hurriedly, ‘The salary is excellent—really, very generous, and of course there will be no living expenses. All those will be included. Mrs Mayers always travels first class, and she assured me that when she travels you will travel with her.’

Lark raised her eyebrows and asked enquiringly, ‘And does the charity pay for all this first-class travel?’

Her solicitor looked shocked. ‘Oh, no, no, certainly not! As I’ve already told you, Mrs Mayers is independently wealthy. She’s charming, quite charming, and you really are a very fortunate young woman in being offered such a post.’

Lark frowned, a little puzzled by his attitude. Initially she had gained the impression that he had been the one to recommend her for the job, and yet now it sounded as though he had doubts about her suitability. She was just about to question him further when his telephone rang. He picked it up, covered the mouthpiece and pushed a piece of paper over to her.

‘That’s the address,’ he told her. ‘I’ve arranged an interview for you for two-thirty this afternoon, although I don’t think you’ll have any problems. Mrs Mayers is quite convinced that you’ll suit her.’

He turned away from her when he spoke into the telephone, making it plain that he expected her to leave. Feeling rather bemused, Lark did so. When she had come to see him this morning, the very last thing she had expected was the offer of a job—especially not one that sounded almost too like a fairy-tale, and too good to be true.

It probably was too good to be true, she admitted as she walked down three flights of stairs and out into the cool air. Although officially it was spring, it was still almost cold enough to be winter, the trees barely in bud. She shivered beneath the cold wind, wishing she could afford to go and sit somewhere warm and order herself a decent meal.

No cooking was allowed in the bedsits, but in reality all the tenants had their own small gas or electric rings. Hers was tiny and only really fit for heating up a can of soup or the odd tin of beans, neither of which was particularly tempting at the moment.

She was hungry, but lunch was a luxury she could no longer really afford. Would this Mrs Mayers really want to employ her? The salary her solicitor had mentioned had indeed been generous, far more generous than the amount she had been receiving with the PR company.

She had tried to ask him what her duties would be, but he had been very vague on the subject, saying that Mrs Mayers would explain everything to her. She felt oddly reluctant to go for the interview, which was ridiculous under the circumstances. Had the ordeal of the last few months scarred her so much that she was actually afraid of meeting new people? Afraid of seeing in their eyes the dislike and contempt she had already seen in so many people’s eyes, including those of James Wolfe?

James Wolfe—there he was again, back in her thoughts. How on earth had he managed to get there, and how on earth was she going to get rid of him?

He had absolutely no right to keep on pushing his way into her life, into her mind, into her thoughts, she thought distractedly as she hurried down the street. It was barely twelve o’clock; two and a half hours before she needed to attend her appointment, but it was on the other side of London in St John’s Wood …

Lark stood outside a pretty little Victorian villa that some rich man had probably built for his mistress. There was a time when St John’s Wood had been notorious for such dwellings. Now, of course, it was eminently respectable and an area to which only the extremely wealthy could aspire.

Her particular destination was set behind a high wall. Lark tried the gates and then realised that they were locked. A discreet metal plaque set into one of the brick pillars startled her by bursting into speech.

‘Do come in, Miss Cummings. We’ve unlocked the gates for you now.’ The woman’s voice was late middle-aged rather than elderly, pleasant, with more than just a hint of warmth. Had she heard it in any other circumstances, Lark would have felt immediately drawn to its owner. As it was she felt too nervous, too on edge to do anything than give a startled glance at the gates and then try them again.

This time, of course, they opened. The front garden was large by London standards. Early shrubs were just beginning to burst into blossom against the walls, crocuses were dotted here and there on the smooth green lawn. Despite its very obvious elegance, the house had an almost comfortable air about it.

A dark blue Rolls-Royce was parked discreetly to one side of the front door. Was she supposed to go to the front door, or should she go round the back? Lark wondered bemusedly. It was the kind of house that made one start thinking about such things. Her dilemma was solved for her when the front door opened.

She walked into the parquet-floored hall, and was immediately struck by the pleasant scent of sandalwood which greeted her.

‘Ah, I’m glad you like it. Some people don’t. I can’t understand why, can you? It always makes me think of sailing ships and the China seas, possibly because originally sandalwood was from the Orient. Oh, dear me, please excuse my chatter, I’m always like this when I’m nervous, I’m afraid. Come on into the sitting-room.’

Was this her would-be employer? This small, pretty woman, with her pepper and salt curls and ingenuous smile? She barely reached her shoulder, Lark noticed as they both paused in the entrance to the sitting-room.

‘Oh, I forgot to take your coat. It’s so cold out, isn’t it? I’ve lived in this country for nearly forty years, and yet I still miss our New England springs.’

The American accent was barely discernible, and had a twang with which Lark wasn’t familiar.

‘I wanted to invite you to have lunch with me,’ Mrs Mayers was saying as she ushered her into a pretty sitting-room decorated in soft blues and yellows. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate, and Lark couldn’t resist a soft exclamation of pleasure as she looked around her.

‘I’m so glad you like it. My son doesn’t approve at all. He thinks it’s far too frivolous and feminine. Do come and sit down. I’ll get Cora to bring us some tea, or would you prefer coffee?’

Her hostess was charming but rather obviously slightly dizzy, and Lark couldn’t help wondering how on earth she had come to be the chairwoman of a charity committee. Surely such a role demanded great organisational skills?

It had been a long time since anyone had treated Lark with such warmth and friendliness, and she found herself responding to it like a thirsty plant soaking up rain. It was several minutes before she could interrupt her hostess for long enough to ask her exactly what the job would entail.

For a moment or two Mrs Mayers looked rather vague.

‘Oh, yes, the job. Well, my dear, here’s Cora with the tea.’

Cora proved to be a late-middle-aged woman with dark hair and a round face in which brown eyes snapped energetically and curiously. Mrs Mayers introduced them, and Lark was very conscious of Cora’s scrutiny as she put down the tea tray.

‘Cora’s been with us for years,’ Mrs Mayers told her when the other woman had left. ‘I don’t know what on earth I would do without her.’

‘Mrs Mayers, the job …’ Lark prodded gently.

‘The job, oh, yes! Well, my dear, I can’t tell you exactly what your duties would be other than to say that you would be acting as my personal assistant.’ Suddenly she sounded brisker, less vague. ‘The charity’s only a small one. We have a branch here in London and another one in Boston, which is not, perhaps, as odd as it seems.’ A rather sad smile touched her face. ‘My first husband was, like myself, from Boston. Our families had known one another for years.’ She made a slight face. ‘That’s how it is in Boston. We’re a conservative lot, I’m afraid. I became involved with the charity after the deaths of my husband and son. Both of them died from an inherited genetic complaint. My husband knew nothing about it. There had been cousins, other members of the family who had died in their early thirties, but in those days …’ She shrugged, her eyes suddenly very sad. ‘When John, our son, was born, neither of us had any idea. He died when he was ten. In some cases the disease is more progressive then in others. My husband died twelve months later. He suffered such a lot, poor man, not just from the illness itself, but from his guilt over what had happened to John. He said before he died that, had he known, he would never have married me.’ She smiled again. ‘Perhaps it is selfish of me to be glad that he did not.’

She said it with such quiet sincerity that Lark felt a lump rise in her throat. This woman was the antithesis of everything she had expected before she came for the interview. She realised now that she had been guilty of judging her on surface evidence alone.

‘My husband was a wealthy man,’ Mrs Mayers continued quietly. ‘Very wealthy. I used some of the money he had left me to set up the charity. In those days my first thoughts were that perhaps somehow we might be able to find out what caused the hereditary defect which gave rise to his death and that of our child. Those early days were probably what saved my sanity, but that was a long time ago. Now it’s very different. These days we’re far better organised, and the money we’ve raised has helped with research into the causes and possible treatment for the deficiency. A lot of work has been done. We’ve now managed to isolate the genes that cause the problem, but there is still an awful lot more work to be done, which is where you and I come in, my dear,’ she added briskly.

‘My role of chairwoman involves me in having overall control of our fund-raising activities both here and in Boston. I think you already know that I spend part of the year over there working for the charity.’ When Lark nodded, she went on quietly, ‘I’m not a young woman any more, unfortunately. In fact, my son claims that I’m too old to be doing as much work as I do, but I’m loath to give it up, so he and I have compromised. He has made me promise to get myself an assistant, which is where you come in, my dear. I do hope you’re going to take the job,’ she added whimsically, ‘because if you don’t, I’m afraid my son is going to insist I give up a very important part of my life.’

Her son, she had said, which meant that she must have married a second time. Almost as though she had read Lark’s mind, Mrs Mayers continued, ‘I have been married twice. I was devastated when John died. He and our child were the most important things in my life. I thought I would never, ever recover from the blow of losing them, but then I met Charles.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘He was exactly as I’d always imagined an English gentleman to be. He was a surgeon, and I was introduced to him by a mutual friend in Boston.’

‘And you have just the one son?’ Lark prodded, conscious of an air of sadness settling on her companion’s face.

‘Yes, it is probably just as well. He is a typical Taurean, incredibly stubborn, but I shan’t bore you by being a doting mother and telling you how wonderful he is. Did your solicitor tell you that the job would involve living in?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I know that wouldn’t appeal to most young girls these days, but I’m afraid that it’s really a necessity. You see, sometimes, because of the very nature of the work I do, it means working odd hours. We hold a variety of charity events to raise funds, and I would want you to help me with all of those. Plus there’s a great deal of correspondence which always needs answering. Does the thought of living in deter you?’

Deter her? If only Mrs Mayers knew! Lark thought wryly. She glanced round the sitting-room again, comparing its warmth and loveliness with the shabby bareness of her bedsit. What person in their right mind would prefer living in that to living in something like this—or rather, living alone, to living with someone like Mrs Mayers? Her stubborn Taurean son apparently did, because with the next breath she was explaining to Lark that there would only be the two of them in the house, plus Cora.

‘It’s very much an all-female household, I’m afraid. Do you have a … a boyfriend?’

She looked rather hesitant as she asked the question. Lark shook her head quickly.

‘Would you like to see your rooms?’

Rooms? Lark felt as though she had wandered into some sort of daydream.

‘Mrs Mayers,’ she said gently, ‘you do know who I am, don’t you? You do know about the court case?’ Suddenly she had had the uncomfortable suspicion that her solicitor had not been totally open and honest with this charming woman, and that she had absolutely no idea of Lark’s recent history.

To her surprise, Mrs Mayers said quickly, ‘Oh, yes, I know all about that. It must have been awful for you, my dear.’

‘They weren’t true—all those things they said,’ Lark told her desperately. ‘None of it was true. I’d absolutely no idea what Gary was doing.’ To her chagrin, tears suddenly filled her eyes. What on earth was happening to her—giving way like this?

‘My dear, you must try to put it all out of your mind. It’s over. It was a terrible thing to endure, I know.’

‘I could have gone to prison,’ Lark sobbed helplessly, suddenly overwhelmed by the terror of those dreadful months. ‘That’s what he wanted to happen to me. He wanted me to be sentenced to prison,’ she hiccuped between sobs.

‘He?’ Mrs Mayers questioned uncertainly, coming to sit beside her and putting a comforting arm round her shoulder.

‘The prosecuting counsel,’ Lark told her. ‘He believed that I was guilty. I know he did. I could see it in his eyes.’

She looked up at Mrs Mayers, and was astounded to see a rather odd expression in her eyes—an almost guilty expression, she realised.

‘No, no, I’m sure you’re wrong. Oh, dear, let me call Cora and she can make us a fresh cup of tea. You mustn’t get upset like this. You must put it all behind you and make a fresh start.’

But could she? Could she put it all behind her? Lark wondered miserably as she fished for a handkerchief and dried her face. What on earth had possessed her to break down like that, and in front of her prospective employer as well?

She refused the offer of a cup of tea and tried to restore what she could of her dignity.

‘You will take the job, won’t you?’ Mrs Mayers implored. ‘It would be such a relief to tell my son that I have found someone.’

She wanted to take it. The duties Mrs Mayers had outlined to her had seemed far more interesting than onerous, and yet she couldn’t help feeling that she was taking advantage of the older woman’s generosity. It was all very well for her to say that she knew all about the court case, but did she really realise the enormity of the crimes of which Lark had so nearly been convicted? And this son of hers, whom she seemed so in awe of, what would he feel about Lark working for his mother?

‘I don’t know. I think we should both think about it,’ she managed to say, guiltily aware of the disappointment in her prospective employer’s eyes.

‘Oh, dear, I’ve gone and done everything the wrong way, haven’t I? And I did so want you to take the job.’

‘I want to take it,’ Lark told her honestly. ‘But I’m not sure if it would be fair to you. Does your son …?’

‘The choice is mine,’ Mrs Mayers told her, surprisingly firmly. ‘And you are my choice, Lark.’

How reassuring those words sounded. How they warmed the coldness of her heart; a coldness which had grown steadily more intense over the months, starting with Gary’s accusations and then her aunt and uncle’s rejection of her.

What ought she to do? she wondered on her way back to her bedsit. She wanted desperately to take the job, but her conscience wouldn’t let her.

Mrs Mayers’ son didn’t sound like the kind of man who would neglect to check up on his mother’s prospective employee. And once he did and he discovered what had happened, surely he would not allow his mother to employ her. Could she take the risk of that kind of rejection? Would it be fair of her to expose Mrs Mayers to her son’s anger when he discovered the truth?

And yet, being with her today was like being given a taste of warmth after enduring the most icy cold. Perhaps the work would not tax her skills and abilities to the full, but it would give her an opportunity to regain the self-confidence she had lost during the months leading up to the trial. It would give her the chance to put the past behind her and start life afresh.

People in the kind of circle Mrs Mayers obviously moved in were hardly likely to concern themselves with the affairs of a young woman such as herself. There would be no knowing looks, no questions.

She let herself into her bedsit and was immediately struck by the contrast to Mrs Mayers’ sitting-room. Her aunt and uncle’s home was comfortably furnished, but it lacked the warmth that Mrs Mayers’ home possessed.

Stubborn was how she had described her son, and yet, listening to her, Lark had known immediately how much she loved him. It was there in her voice, in her smile. She had once known that kind of love, before her parents’ accident.

If there was one thing she detested, it was people who consistently felt sorry for themselves, she told herself fiercely. And yet it was through no fault of her own that she had become involved in Gary’s dishonesty.

Gary had escaped from the consequences of what he had done, but he had unfairly left her to face them. Deliberately, or simply because he had panicked and known no other way of protecting his mistress? Lark was convinced that Lydia Meadows was his mistress, just as she was convinced that it was for her benefit that he had been stealing from his company.

But Gary was dead, and she would have to stop thinking about the past and put her mind on the future.

She sat down tiredly. Could she take the job with Mrs Mayers? And what about Mrs Mayers’ son?

She had been aware of a slight inflection of uncertainty in Mrs Mayers’ voice when she spoke about him. Did that mean that she herself was not sure that he would approve of her choice of employee? If he did not, where would that leave Lark?

Mrs Mayers had assured her that the decision was hers and hers alone, but it had been obvious to Lark that she respected her son, and no doubt valued his judgement …

Her head was starting to ache, and she pressed the palm of her hand to her temple wearily. She couldn’t make a decision now. She would have to sleep on it. She wished there was someone with whom she could discuss what was happening—a friend whom she might confide in. But she had no close friends.

Her aunt and uncle had frowned on her bringing friends home when she lived with them, and those friends she had made at university had now all gone their separate ways.

She hadn’t been in her new job long enough to make new friends. Or was it simply that her aunt and uncle’s reluctance to admit new people into their lives had rubbed off on her, and that she had been wary of allowing anyone to come too close to her? She had once been accused of that by one of the young men she had met at university. But friendship hadn’t been what he’d wanted from her.

At six o’clock she made herself beans on toast—a meagre meal that would have to suffice until breakfast the following morning. Her slenderness was getting very close to the point where she was almost becoming thin. If she took the job with Mrs Mayers she would never have to worry about where her next meal was coming from … She refused to listen to the tempting inner voice.

She wasn’t going to take the job simply for selfish reasons. She had liked Mrs Mayers too much to do that. She could help the older woman, she knew that. From a quick glance at the files Mrs Mayers had shown her, she had realised that they were in a muddled and disorganised state, but she had felt that there was something that Mrs Mayers was holding back, something that was worrying the older woman, and she very much suspected that that something was Mrs Mayers’ son’s reaction to the news that his mother was employing a young woman who had only by the skin of her teeth escaped receiving a prison sentence.

She remembered how evasive Mrs Mayers had been when she had asked her about her reasons for approaching her with the offer of this job. Lark suspected that the truth was that Mrs Mayers had somehow or other learned in conversation with her solicitor what had happened, and that out of the kindness of her heart she had immediately and unthinkingly suggested that she could offer Lark a job. That was the kind of woman she was.

But Lark felt that she owed it to her to point out the problems that she might be storing up for herself by taking her on. And yet wasn’t the job exactly what she needed? And with the added benefit of living accommodation thrown in as well?

It wasn’t just the luxury of the house that drew Lark. It was the warmth that seemed to pervade it. A warmth that she guessed sprang from Mrs Mayers herself. Lark had found herself wishing that she might have had an aunt or a godmother like the American woman. Someone to whom she could have turned when her parents were killed.

How cold and withdrawn her aunt seemed when compared with Mrs Mayers. Or was it simply that she herself was far more sensitive to such things since the ordeal of the last few months? It was true that since she had grown up there had been an enormous distance between herself and her aunt and uncle, but she had put it down to the fact that she was growing up rather than to any lack of emotion for her on their part.

Now she knew the truth. They had never loved her in the way that she had always believed they did. In fact, they had resented her, and very deeply. That had been made abundantly clear to Lark following Gary’s death.

It didn’t take her long to clear up after she had eaten. She was still wearing the clothes in which she had gone for her interview. She ought to change out of them and press them so that they would be ready to wear the next time that she needed them. If she ever needed them again …

She had just changed into an old pair of jeans and a warm sweatshirt when she heard someone knocking on her door. Visitors were such an unusual occurrence that it was several seconds before she could actually accept the fact that it was her door which was being knocked on.

She went to open it and then hesitated uncertainly. While she hesitated, the knocking increased in volume, its imperative summons demanding that she open it immediately.

The man standing there was instantly familiar to her, but the shock of seeing him so totally unexpectedly robbed her of the ability to do anything other than simply stand and stare, her heart giving a gigantic leap and the breath squeezing out of her lungs as she looked into James Wolfe’s cool grey eyes.

Her first panicky thought was that somehow or other there had been a mistake and that he had come to drag her back to court. Her fear of that thought was so great that she actually started to try to close the door.

But, as though he had anticipated such an action, he stepped into the room, forcing her to move back or risk coming into physical contact with him. If he had appeared formidable in court, it was nothing to the effect he was having on her senses now.

Somehow, being stripped of his court robes had invested him with an even more intensely masculine aura. As he reached out to push her door closed behind him, her attention was caught by the sinuous strength of his wrist. A gold watch glinted discreetly in the dim light of her room.

She watched him tensely, unable to understand what he was doing here, and yet too shocked to frame any coherent questions.

‘You should never open your door without finding out who’s on the other side of it,’ he reproved her casually. ‘Not these days—not in London.’

Weakly, Lark collapsed on to her shabby, lumpy settee.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded cracked and strained, artificially high and totally unfamiliar. She noticed that her hands were shaking and, to hide it from him, she folded them and tucked them underneath her. She didn’t want to betray any weakness in front of this man, but she realised immediately that he had seen the small, betraying gesture.

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Triumph? No, it hadn’t been that. Then what? Compassion? No, never, not from a man like James Wolfe.

‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated huskily. ‘Or can I guess?’ she demanded bitterly, her brain suddenly working properly. ‘You hated it, didn’t you, that the case was dismissed? You wanted them to convict me.’ Suddenly she was back inside the court room, the silence around her charged with expectations, as the jury waited for her to respond to his allegations.

She drew a quivering breath, unaware of his frown as he studied her, unaware of anything other than the terror of the moment when she had known that no one would believe her. That, innocent as she was, innocence on its own was not going to be enough.

‘Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now,’ she told him harshly, dragging herself back to reality.

There was a moment’s silence, and then he asked quietly, ‘Is that how you’re going to spend the rest of your life? Living in the past?’ His question startled her. It wasn’t the reaction she had been expecting at all, but before she could say a word he continued derisively, ‘But then, what else can you do, living here? You don’t have a job, you don’t have anything, do you?’

He had come here deliberately to taunt her, to remind her that, although she might have escaped conviction, she was still being punished as he quite obviously considered that she should be. But he was wrong, she did have a job.

Lark didn’t stop to weigh the consequences, to remember how she herself had had doubts about the wisdom of accepting Mrs Mayers’ generous offer. Instead she told him with fierce pride that he was wrong, that she did have a job. Her eyes flashed fierce signs of fire, her hands clenching into small fists as she stood up to face him.

He didn’t look as surprised as she had expected, but then, of course, he was adept at concealing his true feelings; that would have been all part of his barrister’s training.

‘You see, despite what you tried to do to me, there are still people around who can recognise the truth when they hear it.’

An odd expression crossed his face. If she hadn’t known better she might almost have believed that he was amused, and then suddenly he leaned forward, his hand touching her throat, sliding up over her skin to her jaw, cupping it firmly.

The shock of his unanticipated touch scalded her into immobility, while her pulse jumped frantically beneath her skin and her heart surged heavily against her breastbone. She knew that he was going to kiss her, and yet she refused to believe it. It was unthinkable, impossible, unimaginable, and yet when his mouth touched hers it was as though some part of her had always known that one day there would be a man who would kiss her like this, who would make her pulses race and her blood burn, who would caress her mouth with his own, and in doing so possess her more thoroughly than any other man before or after him.

Her senses reeled beneath the force of it, her mind a total blank, as he kissed her with slow thoroughness, not rushing or forcing her, his mouth tasting hers with voluptuous delight. His hand still supported her neck, his thumb gently caressing her pulse. His body didn’t touch hers. He made no move to hold her closer or to touch her in any other way, and yet she trembled as much as though he had caressed every single inch of her.

He released her slowly and deliberately. She came back to earth to hear him saying softly, ‘Delicious.’

Her eyelids felt weighed down. It was an effort to open them and look at him. He was smiling at her, his mouth curving half mockingly. His eyes looked more silver than grey, liquid like mercury.

She wanted to reach out and trace the shape of his mouth in wonder and awe, still lost in the mystery of what had happened between them, and then he said in amusement, ‘What’s wrong, Sleeping Beauty? Has no one ever kissed you before?’ And immediately she realised exactly what she was doing and wondered how on earth she would ever be able to forgive herself for being so stupid.

‘You had no right to do that,’ she told him painfully, appalled by the folly of her own actions, and yet her heart was still thumping, the effect of his touch still bemusing her senses. She had been kissed before, of course, but never in a way that had affected her so strongly.

‘No right at all,’ he agreed affably, cutting across her thoughts. ‘But that didn’t stop both of us enjoying it.’

Enjoying it? Lark almost choked on her chagrin, but what could she say? She had enjoyed it, more than enjoyed it, she admitted, shivering as she remembered how she had abandoned herself to the sensation of his mouth moving against her own.

It was because it had been such a shock, she told herself defensively. For him to kiss her had been so out of character, the very last thing she had anticipated.

‘I want you to leave,’ she told him stiffly, standing up and walking over towards the door. Her whole body felt as though she had been subjected to a terrible fever, her joints actually feeling as though they ached. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

To her relief he made no demur, but it wasn’t until he had actually gone and she had locked the door behind him that she realised that she had never really discovered exactly why he had come in the first place. What if he should come back? Panic hit her. She didn’t want to see him again. She couldn’t. She couldn’t even think about why she was so terrified at the prospect.

There was only one way she could escape. She would have to take Mrs Mayers’ job. Even if he traced her there, she wouldn’t be so alone, so vulnerable. He would never kiss her like that while she was living with Mrs Mayers. He would never dare to arrive on Mrs Mayers’ doorstep and demand entrance.

Had his kiss been his personal way of extracting payment because the case had been cancelled? She shivered, hugging her arms tightly around herself.

He was certainly arrogant enough to do something so unorthodox, but there hadn’t been anger in his touch, nor resentment. So why, then? She shivered again, knowing the answer but not wanting to admit it. There had been that brief moment of time in the court room, that exchanging and mingling of glances that had contained more than mere acknowledgement of one another as adversaries.

Too inexperienced to judge its value properly, she had nevertheless been aware of that brief arcing of some indefinable emotion between them, some sensation of almost physical communion, generated by their mutual awareness. But she had dismissed it, not wanting to recognise its potential.

She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself for instinctive comfort. She would have to take the job now. She wasn’t going to allow herself to dwell on exactly why she felt this need to protect herself, and if Mrs Mayers’ son disapproved, well, that was his problem, she told herself defiantly.




CHAPTER THREE


WHY on earth was she spending so much time agonising about taking the job which, in her heart of hearts, she was forced to admit might have been tailor-made to get her out of her present dilemma?

The reason was quite simple. She liked Mrs Mayers. The older woman had stressed right from the start that she knew all about the court case and that she didn’t want to discuss it.

Lark had taken her words at face value, only too glad to meet someone at last who was prepared to judge her on herself and not on what she had read in the papers about her. But would the same hold true for Mrs Mayers’ son? Somehow, she doubted it very much, and there was the crux of her dilemma.

With every word she had said to Lark about her son, Mrs Mayers had betrayed her love of him, and mixed with that love had been just the tiniest tinge of awe, Lark was sure of it.

She wouldn’t go as far as saying that Mrs Mayers was in fear of her son. Lark would hate to be the cause of any trouble between them, and yet, if she didn’t accept Mrs Mayers’ offer, what on earth was she going to do? And that was before she had even begun to try and analyse exactly why James Wolfe had come round to see her.

She told herself that she had hated the way he had brazenly demanded entrance to her flat, the way he had so calmly and arrogantly assumed that she would welcome his attentions. Attentions! She laughed bitterly and wryly to herself.

What a very old-fashioned word for what was in effect a very modern sin. She had no doubt at all about what James Wolfe had wanted from her. She remembered with sick distaste several newspaper men who had haunted her doorstep until they realised that there was simply no way she was going to respond to their advances.

They had been at first amused and then annoyed to discover that she was not in the least flattered by their propositions. She had been astounded to discover that they seemed to take it for granted that she would be only too happy to go to bed with them. Common sense had warned her that they would laugh in her face if she had told them she was simply not that kind of girl, which happened to be the truth.

She was twelve years old when her aunt took her on one side and gave her a lecture about the ways that good girls did and did not behave. Her aunt had left her in no doubts whatsoever as to what her fate would be if she ever dared to stray from the straight and narrow path she had just outlined to her.

As a teenager, Lark had struggled with her own inner rebellion when she’d discovered her cousin was not expected to adhere to the same rigid moral code. Now she considered it was too late for her to indulge in the kind of teenage experimentation she had then been denied.

At university, she had been too busy to have much time to spend with friends of the opposite sex. In her first month at work, she found that she had discovered a certain fastidiousness that put her out of step with many of her peers. Perhaps that was why the thought of working for Mrs Mayers was so tempting. It would be a totally non-threatening environment—something that she needed badly after the traumas of the past few months. Something that she needed badly because it would provide an escape from James Wolfe.

She shivered a little, cross with herself for allowing him to creep into her thoughts. She could still feel the imprint of his mouth on her own, still see his lazy amusement at her shock. What had been his purpose in coming to see her? One thing she was sure of, she wasn’t going to wait around for him to appear a second time so that she could ask him.

For all she knew, he could be like the newspaper men she had met, making a habit of taking his victims to bed. Well, in her case he was going to be disappointed.

She tried to imagine him making the virulent comments she had been subjected to by the reporters, but somehow couldn’t quite do so. He was too controlled, too much in charge of his emotions to do that.

She tried to visualise him losing his temper and was dismayed with herself for doing so.

Morning brought her no closer to a solution to her dilemma, until her landlord arrived and announced that he was intending to put up her rent. Lark hated the way his eyes roved unceasingly over her body while he talked to her. She had never liked him, right from the start, and last night’s episode with James Wolfe had left her feeling acutely vulnerable.

Her flat was nowhere near as safe as she would have liked. The rent the landlord mentioned was exorbitantly out of line with the accommodation. She told him as much, and flinched as he sneered, ‘A woman like you—you’ll soon find the money from somewhere or someone.’

Dear God, was this what she was going to have to put up with until the world forgot about who she was and what had happened? It wasn’t until she heard herself telling the landlord exactly what he could do with his rent increase and his accommodation that she realised that she had committed herself to Mrs Mayers’ job.

Shaking with reaction, as soon as the landlord had gone she pulled on her coat and hurried out into the street to the nearest telephone box.

Mrs Mayers answered the telephone herself. Shakily, Lark told her her decision, unable to keep the hint of apology from her voice as she did so. She only hoped that the older woman would not live to regret her generosity. She would have felt better if she had actually met Mrs Mayers’ son before accepting the job, but he was a very busy man, Mrs Mayers had informed her, and a touch of defiance in her voice as she said the words had made Lark condemn him as both overbearing and selfish.




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