She'd been so frightened. She'd cowered in the back seat beside her
father, holding his arm, listening to the jeering and catcalls and the
thudding of missiles against the side of the car.
'Who are they, Daddy?' she'd wailed.
'They're local scum, my pet, not worth your notice,' Anthony
Chalfont had said scornfully. 'Sit up, Joanna, and show them you're
not afraid. Harris, hurry up and get us out of here.'
She'd been scared half to death, but she'd obeyed him, lifting her chin
and staring disdainfully at the gang of youths at the side of the road. It
was then she'd seen him.
He was taller than any of the others, and standing a little way apart.
He was wearing the same anonymous jeans and sweater, yet there
was something about him that told her that he was different. That he
was the leader, and always would be.
He was smiling, openly enjoying their discomfiture, as the chauffeur,
cursing under his breath, edged the big car along the narrow street. He
saw Joanna and laughed out loud, pointing at her, and calling out
something to the others.
Thick mud splattered the window beside her, and Joanna cried out
and jerked away.
'It's all right, sweetie,' her father said gently, as the car gathered speed
out of Northwaite. 'They've gone.'
'They're vile!' she said passionately, looking at the mud dripping
down the window. 'They've spoiled our car. And that big boy was the
worst. He was laughing, making them do it. Who was he?'Her father's
mouth compressed. 'I've no idea, Joanna,' he said repressively. 'I can't
be expected to know the identity of louts from the slums.'
Some instinct told her that he was not telling her the whole truth, but
now was not the time to pursue it. Instead, she bearded Harris while
he was cleaning the motor which was his pride and joy.
'Is the car going to be all right, Harris?'
'Reckon it will, Miss Jo. No great harm done.'
'That's good.' She stood watching him polishing the chrome. 'Why did
they do it, do you suppose? We didn't even know them.'
Harris shrugged. 'Times are hard just now, Miss Jo, and tempers run
high sometimes.'
'Oh.' Joanna wasn't sure what he meant, but there was something
more important she wanted to ask. 'Harris—that boy—the one who
was making the others throw stones at us. Who was he? My father
said he didn't know.'
'Happen he didn't recognise him, Miss Jo,' Harris said laconically.
'He's been away to school and grown a fair bit since your father last
laid eyes on him.' He snorted. 'That was Cal Blackstone, that was.'
Now, nearly fifteen years on, Cal Blackstone said frowningly, 'If
you're going to remember things like that, remember them right. They
weren't throwing stones, you little idiot, just clods of earth, and the
odd empty can.'
'But you were encouraging that pack of hooligans in their disgusting
behaviour. Getting them to throw things at us just because our name
was Chalfont.'
'Is that what your father told you?' His mouth tautened
contemptuously. 'Well, it figures. Let me make one thing plain,
Joanna—any mud-slinging going on wasn't my idea. Although I will
admit I did nothing to stop it until I saw how scared you were,' he
added.
'You were directing operations—laughing at us!'
'My God,' he said slowly, staring at her, 'it did make an impression on
you. Yes, I laughed. I enjoyed seeing the lordly Mr Chalfont on the
receiving end of some dirt for once. Do you know who those lads
were, by any chance? Did Daddy tell you they were the sons of some
of the men he'd just laid off from his mill without warning? I bet he
didn't.' His voice hardened. 'They'd all lived with unemployment
before, and they were—reacting accordingly. You wouldn't
understand anything about that, would you, Joanna? Your family may
not be lords of the Northwaite valley any more, but you've never had
to stand in the queue for free school meals, or wear jumble sale
clothes. Or pray that the giro comes on time.'
Her face flamed. 'Don't you dare criticise my father! He did his best to
keep the mill going—to provide work. Men were laid off in other
places as well.'
He shrugged. 'But he couldn't understand that times were changing,
or change with them. In the woollen industry, only the strong and
adaptable survive. But I don't blame him entirely. Your grandfather's
interpretation of strength was pig-headedness and bullying, so by the
time your father took over it was too late.'
'You don't need to make excuses for him or any member of my
family,' she said bitingly.
'I'd find it hard in Simon's case, certainly.'
'You have the arrogance—the unmitigated gall to say that? Simon
wouldn't be in all this financial mess if it weren't for you. You led him
into it deliberately!'
He stared at her incredulously for a moment, then burst out laughing.
'Now I've heard everything! Let me tell you something, beauty.
Where temptation's concerned, your brother needs no leading. I first
barred him from using the casino several years ago because I could
see he was going to be trouble, and I had the feeling I would be
blamed for it somehow. Nor did I take him by the hand and introduce
him to his bookmaker either. He managed that all by himself.'
He shook his head. 'No, Joanna, if you think Simon's problems are
down to some deep Machiavellian plotting by me in order to get my
hands on your delectable body, then you flatter yourself. The
circumstances were there, and I decided to turn them to my
advantage, that's all.'
'All?' she said chokingly. 'My God—all!'
'What was I supposed to do? Ring you and ask for a date? You'd have
hung up on me. Send you flowers? They'd have gone straight in the
bin. Come calling on you to the house? You'd have told whatever
servants you have left to throw me out.'
'You had another choice. You could have left me alone.'
'I tried that, beauty, while you were married, and when you ran away
to America. It didn't work.' He poured out some more coffee and
handed her cup to her. 'Now drink this. Can I offer you a brandy?'
Joanna shook her head silently, numbly, staring down at the swirl of
brown liquid. Cal finished his own cup, then sat back in the corner of
the sofa, watching her, his fingers laced behind his head. He'd
discarded his jacket and unbuttoned the waistcoat he wore beneath it.
He looked relaxed, but Joanna, herself taut as a coiled spring, could
sense the tension emanating from him.
She made the coffee last, drinking it down to the last drop and
beyond, playing for time. As she leaned forward to replace the empty
cup on the tray, Cal's hand closed round her wrist. She sat motionless,
not looking at him, as his fingers stroked across the swelling mound
at the base of her thumb, then found the indentation of her soft palm,
and lingered.
It was the lightest of caresses, but she was as sharply aware of it as if
he'd kissed her on the mouth, or taken her breasts in his hands.
To her astonishment, she could feel some of her nervousness
beginning to ebb away under the gentleness of his touch.
She had fastened her hair up into a loose knot on top of her head, and
he reached up and began to take out the pins, very slowly and
carefully, until the whole shining mass was loose on her shoulders.
'Shake your head,' he directed softly, and she obeyed mutely.
Cal gave a low sigh of appreciation, twining a long blonde strand
round his fingers and carrying it to his lips.
'You don't have it cut,' he murmured. 'Not ever.'
She should have resented the proprietorial note in his voice, but oddly
it didn't seem to matter in this strange new euphoria which was
possessing her. This isn't me, she found herself thinking. This can't be
happening. Yet she didn't have the energy or the will to pull away
from him.
His hand slid under her hair, lifting it away from the nape of her neck,
and caressing the smooth skin there in a delicate circular movement.
It was her turn to sigh, arching her throat in a pleasure she couldn't
disguise. She felt weak, boneless, as languorous as a small kitten. The
cushions that supported her were clouds, and she was floating above
them.
Cal's fingers were still continuing their delicious massage, but
physically he seemed to have withdrawn to some great distance. She
stared at him, trying to focus.
'How do you do that?' she asked, her voice slurring a little. 'How can
you be so near, and miles away at the same time?'
'Is that how I seem?' She could tell he was smiling. 'I think, beauty,
it's time you went to bed.'
'Yes.' She let him take her hand and draw her, unresisting, to her feet.
His arm was round her, and she was glad to lean against him as she
walked, because the carpet was so thick, she was in danger of sinking
down into it.
She was vaguely aware of another room, and a door closing behind
her. More lamplight, and a blur of rust, royal blue and gold which,
when she peered more closely from beneath her leaden eyelids,
turned out to be an enormous bed.
'A king-size bed.' Her voice sounded wondering and far away. 'I've
never seen one before. Now that is
nouveau riche.'
'Think so?' He was laughing. 'It's also very convenient for times like
this.'
She felt him drawing down the long zip at the back of her dress, and
couldn't lift a finger to stop him. A fate worse than death, she thought
dazedly. That was what they called what was happening to her, and
she was allowing it. Cal eased the dress from her shoulders, and she
felt the silky material glide down and pool round her feet.
He lifted her and carried her, and she turned into his arms like a child,
feeling the thud of his heart beneath her cheek. The bed was a cloud,
too, even softer than the sofa, and she sank into it gratefully,
eyelashes curling on her cheeks.
She could dimly sense his shadow, standing over her. There was
something she had to tell him, she thought, trying to grope her way
back to awareness from her state of drifting lassitude. Something
important that she needed to explain, to warn him about, but there
were so many shadows now that she couldn't tell which was
his—couldn't find him.
She lifted a wavering hand, while her lips attempted to frame his
name.
Cal, she thought, Cal. I've never called him that.
She tried desperately to speak the word, but the shadows were too
strong, too powerful, and they reached for her, overwhelming her,
drawing her down into their midst, where she was lost.
JOANNA awoke from sleep slowly, like a swimmer surfacing from the
depths of some vast and limitless sea. For a few moments she
remained exactly where she was, supine and relaxedt enjoying the
warmth of the morning sunlight against her still-leaden eyelids.
She could remember vague untroubled dreams that seemed to have
left her totally at peace, yet at the same time she was aware of sounds,
ordinary in themselves—the splash of running water into a basin, a
muted but cheerful whistling—that nevertheless introduced an alien
note into the normal, familiar pattern of her awakening.
She made herself open her eyes. She took one dazed look at her
surroundings, and sat up with a smothered cry as memory came
flooding back, reminding her in grisly detail exactly where she was,
and why.
The next thing she realised was that, apart from her dress, hanging
neatly on the back of a convenient chair, she was still fully clad. And
under the circumstances that seemed odd, unless Cal Blackstone had
relented...
She turned slowly and reluctantly, and stared down at the pillow
beside her. It bore the unmistakable impress of a head, so it was
apparent she hadn't slept alone last night.
But what on earth happened? she asked herself frantically. She could
remember feeling sleepy, and being carried, but after that—nothing.
A great, dreaming void, she realised in panic.
She threw back the quilt and swung her legs to the floor, pausing as a
slight wave of dizziness overtook her. She put a hand to her head, and
waited for it to pass. Maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe she'd
been taken ill with some virus.
She stood up gingerly. A man's robe in dark brown silk had been
draped across the foot of the bed, presumably for her use. She put it
on, fastening the sash with fingers that totally lacked their usual
deftness. As she bent her head impatiently to enforce their obedience,
she caught the whisper of a familiar and evocative scent from the