Vampire Lover

‘I wanted her to advise me on the property value,’ he said.

At once, Clare told him, ‘I think the house is a bargain, considering its size and the very large amount of land that goes with it.’

He gave her a dry look. ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? I was hoping Helen would give me a neutral point of view. Shall we go upstairs and see the rest of the place?’

The house seemed even bigger upstairs, and emptier, too. Every movement they made echoed, their footsteps on floorboards creaked. It was freezingly cold, too.

Clare would have liked to follow Helen out of here, but she kept reminding herself of the percentage the firm would get from this sale, so she followed Denzil Black around from one bedroom to another, forcing herself to make bright, encouraging comments.

He must be mad even to consider buying it, she thought, staring at the four-poster bed hung with ancient, tattered dark red curtains, which dominated the main bedroom. The oak shutters were closed across the high windows, there was only one faint lamp beside the bed, and the light reflected in a narrow Gothic-arched oak-framed mirror hanging on the opposite wall. That would probably sell well at auction. It was small enough for modern houses, and perfectly in tune with the current taste for art nouveau.

As she stared at it, Denzil Black looked round and followed her gaze.

‘That’s charming,’ he said at once. ‘I’ll certainly want to keep that.’

He had very good taste. Curiously, she asked him, ‘What do you actually do, Mr Black? What’s your job?’

‘At the moment I don’t have one.’ He shook a curtain, watched the dust fly up from it. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll be paying cash for Dark Tarn, if I buy it. There’ll be no problem about money.’

That was not what she was thinking about. Her curiosity about him still unsatisfied, she asked, ‘Where do you live at present? I mean, apart from staying at Jimmy Storr’s hotel?’

He gave her a dry, sardonic look. ‘Los Angeles.’

Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that. ‘Really? But you’re not American, are you?’ He had a faint accent of some kind, admittedly, but she hadn’t pinned it down as American.

‘No. I was born in Scotland, not that I remember anything about it. I left there when I was two years old. I lived in Manchester until I was twenty-one, but I spent a succession of very good holidays in Greenhowe in my late teens.’

‘Oh, that’s why you’ve come back?’

He looked amused. ‘That’s what you wanted to know, was it? Why I wanted to move to Greenhowe? Well, in answer to your next question, I’ve lived in California for years now, mostly around Los Angeles and Beverley Hills.’

‘Beverley Hills?’ She stared at him, couldn’t keep back the question, ‘You aren’t in the film business?’ She laughed as she asked, expecting him to shake his head.

‘Yes,’ he said, though, calmly.

‘Oh.’ Clare was incredulous. ‘Doing what? You’re not an actor?’ But he could be, she thought; he had the looks for it, and, even more, the charisma; she could imagine how dynamic he would look on film.

‘I did some acting, many years ago—I was an extra once. But I wanted to be on the other side of the camera. I’ve worked at a number of jobs in the industry—stills photographer, cameraman, set designer. My ambition was to be a director, and I finally got there, but I’m out of a job at the moment, and wanted to get away, which is why I’m back in Britain.’

‘And you picked Greenhowe because you remembered it better than Scotland?’ she worked out, and he nodded.

‘I had very happy memories of Greenhowe; summers on the beach, walks across the moors. A travel agent booked me into Jimmy Storr’s hotel, so here I am.’ He dusted his hands with a handkerchief, grimacing. ‘This whole house is filthy.’ He leaned against the wall, those dark eyes cool and steady. ‘Well, let’s talk business, Miss Summer. The price is ridiculous, considering the state of the house, as I’m sure you realise. I shall have to spend a fortune renovating it before I can move in. I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to pay, and you can talk to the owner and let Helen know his decision. I won’t bargain. I’m making one offer and that’s it. If he turns it down, I won’t want to discuss the matter any further.’

Clare watched him calmly, nodding.

He named the price he was prepared to pay. It was far less than she had hoped and her blue eyes hardened.

‘Well, of course I’ll put your offer to my client,’ she said flatly. ‘But I doubt if he will be ready to agree to such a low amount.’

‘How long has the house been on the market? Some years, isn’t it? Empty houses deteriorate quickly; this one is falling to bits. In another two years the roof will go, kids will smash the windows, the garden will be completely wild, and then it won’t take long to become a total ruin.’

He was right, but Clare wasn’t admitting it. ‘I’ll talk to my client,’ she said in a cold, remote voice, and turned to walk back down the stairs and out of the house, with Denzil Black behind her.

The storm was deepening outside, the wind howling around the house like a wolf. There was a crash of thunder and a white zigzag of lightning split the sky, then the chandelier lights flickered and went out, plunging the whole house into darkness. Clare was halfway down the wide, elaborately carved staircase, and she stopped dead, blind in the unexpected blackness.

Denzil Black was right behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped about ten feet into the air. ‘Have you got a torch?’

‘In the car,’ she told him, her voice a mere thread of sound.

He sighed. ‘Never mind, I can see in the dark. Give me your hand.’ His fingers slid down her shoulder to her arm, down her arm to entwine around her hand; Clare would have liked to pull away—he had the strangest effect on her—but she didn’t like being here alone with him in the dark, she urgently needed to get out of this house, so she let him lead her down the stairs.

When they got to the car Helen was standing beside it and ran towards them, flung herself at Denzil Black, close to hysteria. ‘All the lights went out! There was a terrible flash of lightning...didn’t you see it? The storm’s right overhead; I was afraid it would hit the car, then I saw this flash...and the lights all went out. I called and called—didn’t you hear me? How could you leave me out here all by myself in the dark, all this time?’

‘You shouldn’t get so upset!’ soothed Denzil Black, his head bent over hers. ‘I can hear your heart beating like a drum!’ He lowered his head, Clare thought she saw him kissing Helen’s neck and hurriedly looked away, very flushed. They might remember she was there! She didn’t want to be an audience for their lovemaking!

Helen gave a long, ragged sigh, winding her arms around him. ‘Oh, Denzil...’

‘Shh...you’re safe now,’ he soothed. ‘We’ll drop Miss Summer off and then I’ll take you home. Get back into the car now. You’ll feel better when you’re warmer.’

Languidly, Helen obeyed, settling down into her seat without another word. As Clare got back into the car she noticed that Helen had her eyes shut and was apparently half asleep.

As they drove away from Dark Tarn Denzil Black asked, ‘Where do you live, Miss Summer?’

‘Just around the corner from the office, in York Square. You probably know it; it’s a Georgian square behind the Town Hall.’

‘I know. Very handsome houses; they’ve been well preserved, too. Has your family lived there long?’

‘My father was born in the house; I’ve lived there all my life. It’s a warm, family house; we love it.’

‘But you’re planning to move out, all the same, when your cottage is fit for occupation?’

‘There are quite a lot of us,’ Clare unwillingly explained. Why did he ask so many questions? ‘I’d like to have more room to myself.’

‘You have a lot of brothers and sisters?’

‘Two brothers and a sister,’ she said. ‘And there are only four bedrooms between all of us. Dad has one to himself, so do my brothers, because Robin is a student, and needs somewhere private to study, and so my little brother, Jamie, has the tiny boxroom to himself, and I share a bedroom with my sister.’

‘How old is she?’

Helen stirred resentfully. ‘Do stop asking her questions, Denzil! You sound like a TV chat show host!’

He laughed, but Clare saw his long hands tighten on the wheel, the knuckles briefly showing white, and suspected he hadn’t liked being pulled up by Helen in that way.

For a while he drove in silence, then they reached town and began to navigate a way through the one-way-street system until they came to York Square. The early nineteenth-century houses ran on each side of the square with well-cared-for gardens in the centre, set back behind green-painted Victorian railings. It gave the square a feel of the country, especially in summer, when the trees and bushes were in full leaf, and there was a scent of flowers on the air.

‘Which house?’ Denzil Black asked and Clare leaned forward to point.

‘That one, by the street-lamp, with the holly trees in the garden.’

He parked under the street-light, and Clare politely thanked him. ‘I’ll let Helen know my client’s decision as soon as possible,’ she promised. ‘Goodnight, Helen.’

Helen sleepily murmured, ‘Night.’

Denzil Black got out of the car and came round to open Clare’s door. ‘Thanks,’ she said, avoiding his hand as he tried to help her out. ‘Goodnight, Mr Black.’

Before she could walk away, the front door of the house opened and in the yellow light from the hallway a girl was outlined, her face framed in a cloud of long, smooth silvery fair hair.

‘Who’s that?’ Denzil Black’s voice had altered. Clare shot a look up at him and frowned, not answering.

There was a long silence, while the girl began walking towards them.

‘Is that your sister?’ asked Denzil Black slowly, and Clare answered him in a chilly voice.

‘Yes.’ She wished Lucy hadn’t come out just now. Clare was intensely protective towards her sister, and she was also deeply intuitive; her intuition told her now that it wouldn’t be a good idea for Lucy to meet Denzil Black.

‘Goodnight, Mr Black,’ Clare said, willing him to get back into the car and drive away.

He didn’t. He stood there, watching Lucy stroll down the garden path towards them, his face intent. Clare gritted her teeth. She would have loved to know what he was thinking.

As Lucy came into the circle of lamplight at the gate she paused, smiling, her oval face taking on a shimmering quality. She wasn’t wearing make-up, and yet her skin was perfect, smooth and clear.

She and Clare shared the same colouring, yet there was an immense difference between them. Clare knew that she herself was very attractive, and men always liked the look of her, but Lucy was, quite simply, beautiful.

More than that, she had a mysterious radiance which was partly due to her very fair skin, the long, flowing golden hair framing her face, her eyes, which were a deeper blue than Clare’s, and partly to a childlike nature.

Perhaps because her family had always spoilt her, Lucy had never quite, it seemed to Clare, grown up, yet she was so lovable that it didn’t matter. Lucy was kind-hearted, loving, generous. Clare had always worried over her, afraid that some day someone would hurt Lucy. It had been a great relief to her when Lucy got engaged to someone who, she knew, would never make her little sister unhappy.

‘What a fabulous car!’ Lucy said as soon as she was within earshot. ‘It’s a Lamborghini, isn’t it?’ She gave Denzil Black a fascinated look. ‘Is it yours? Hello, I’m Lucy, Clare’s sister. We haven’t met before, have we?’

‘I’d remember if we had,’ he said, his jet pupils glittering as he took the hand Lucy held out to him. He bent and kissed it and Lucy gave a startled gasp, then laughed.

‘You aren’t French, are you?’

He laughed. ‘I had a French grandmother—does that count?’

‘Of course. I knew it—you look French!’

‘I’d be here all night if I started talking about the way you look!’ he murmured, and Lucy blushed and laughed excitedly.

Clare was so angry that her teeth hurt. ‘Helen is in a hurry to get home, remember,’ she told Denzil Black tightly.

He gave her a dry look, then glanced towards the car, and at that moment Helen leaned forward and banged peremptorily on the window, gesturing.

‘Denzil!’ they all heard her call crossly.

He gave her a wave, looked down at Lucy, smiled, his eyes glowing and dark-centred.

‘I’m afraid I have to go, and I’m leaving for the States tomorrow for a couple of months, but I’ll be back—we’ll meet again.’

He got back into the car, the engine fired and the Lamborghini moved off with a dulcet roar.

‘I want that car,’ Lucy said dreamily. ‘Isn’t it heavenly? And him...what did he say his name was? Denzil something? That’s a very unusual name; I’ve never met anyone called Denzil before. Is he your new boyfriend, Clare? You’ve never mentioned him—have you been keeping him a secret? He’s as gorgeous as his car. I’ve never seen anyone like him—where did you find him and why is he with Helen Sherrard? Tell me all about him.’

‘He isn’t my boyfriend. I barely know the man; he’s just a client.’ Clare tried not to lose her temper, but her voice was raw and she felt Lucy staring at her in surprise. It was very unusual for Clare to show temper.

‘What’s the matter?’ Lucy asked uncertainly.

‘Oh, never mind. Let’s get indoors, it’s cold,’ Clare said, walking towards the house, very fast.

She had not liked the acquisitive way Denzil Black had been looking at Lucy. She barely knew the man, but she did not like or trust him.

Despite the temptation of her own share of the purchase price on Dark Tarn, she hoped the owner would turn down Denzil Black’s offer for the house. Then, maybe, Denzil Black would go away and find somewhere else to live, and she needn’t worry about what might happen next time he met her little sister.

CHAPTER TWO

THE owner, however, accepted Denzil Black’s offer at once. ‘So we’ve managed to get rid of that white elephant at last!’ Clare’s father said, hearing the news, then gave her a shrewd look. ‘You don’t look overjoyed! Got doubts about the buyer’s ability to pay?’

‘No,’ Clare said grimly, not bothering to explain the doubts she did have, and went to ring Helen Sherrard.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ Helen said in lack-lustre tones, barely managing to sound alive, let alone delighted by the news. ‘I’ll make sure you get the deposit immediately, and start proceedings rolling.’

‘This offer isn’t subject to a surveyor’s report, is it?’ That was unusual, but Denzil Black had not mentioned the idea of getting a surveyor in to look at the house.

‘No, Denzil says he’ll take it, whatever the condition. He’s going to do a lot of work on the house anyway, and he has taken that into account in the offer he made.’

‘He’s getting a very good bargain,’ said Clare, almost wishing he would make difficulties so that she could talk the client into not selling to him, although that would be cutting her nose off to spite her face, and she wasn’t usually that childish. She was surprised at herself. ‘If he’s paying cash, then it shouldn’t take long to complete the transaction.’

‘No, I’m sure it won’t,’ said Helen slowly. ‘I just have to do the land search, to prove title.’ She gave an audible sigh.

‘You sound so tired, Helen—are you working too hard?’

‘Not really, but I get so bored with work; mine isn’t exactly a thrilling job, you know. And I’m missing Denzil. He seems to have been away for months, although he only left a few days ago.’

Clare was doodling on her desk pad, frowning. ‘How long did you say he would be away?’

‘Oh, a couple of months, at least—he hopes to be back in time for Christmas, but he isn’t sure he’ll make it now, it seems.’

‘Too bad,’ Clare said indifferently. ‘Well, let me have the deposit, then, and I’ll make sure my client gets in touch with his solicitor too. Bye, Helen. Talk to you again soon, I expect.’

A couple of days later she met Helen in the High Street and was shocked by her pallor. ‘You’ve lost a lot more weight, Helen. I think you ought to see a doctor! There must be something wrong with you.’

‘Oh, don’t fuss!’ Helen snapped. ‘You sound like my mother!’

‘Sorry to do that,’ drawled Clare, laughing. ‘Was Mr Black pleased to hear his offer had been accepted?’

Helen’s face tightened. ‘Yes. Did you see the picture of him in the Sunday papers?’

‘Never read them,’ said Clare. ‘Haven’t got the energy to do anything on Sunday mornings except sleep late. Why was he in the newspapers?’

‘He got some award or other. There was a big photo of him with the star of the film, that one who was a serious actress, did a lot of plays on Broadway before going into films. She has long black hair and a fabulous figure. Deirdre something-or-other, I think; she’s half Mexican, half Irish.’

‘What a combination! I know who you mean, though,’ said Clare, frowning. ‘It wasn’t Deirdre, it was Bella something or other. I saw her last big film, the vampire film—it was pretty way out, if you ask me! The sex scenes almost burnt the celluloid they were printed on.’

‘That’s the one,’ said Helen, palely smiling. ‘That’s Denzil’s last film.’

Clare’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’re kidding? He made that?’ It gave her a new idea of Denzil Black. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a sexier film.

‘And from what they said in the papers this Sunday, he and Bella what’s-her-name are having an affair!’ Helen said huskily, almost as white as paper. She turned on her heel to walk away, stopped, swayed, and crumpled up. Clare was too late to catch her. Before she understood what was happening, Helen had fallen sideways and hit her head on a lamp-post.

A crowd gathered, of course. Clare knelt down anxiously and looked at the wan, shadowed face in its frame of rich auburn hair. ‘Helen? Helen, are you OK?’

‘She’s fainted!’ someone in the crowd said.

‘Knocked herself out,’ someone else insisted. ‘I saw her do it; she hit her head on that lamp-post. Drunk, most likely; she looked drunk to me.’

‘Send for an ambulance! She needs to go to hospital; she’s out for the count,’ somebody said, and a shopkeeper leaned forward.

‘I just did. They’ll be here any minute.’

Helen’s lashes were flickering. She sighed through lips almost as white as her face. Clare almost caught the word she said. She was almost sure Helen had said, ‘Denzil...’

Clare didn’t know whether to be sorry for her, or furious with her, or just furious with Denzil Black. Any woman who let a man reduce her to this state deserved a good slap, she thought, watching the other woman bleakly.

The ambulance arrived a moment later, siren wailing. The crowd cleared enough to let the men through with their stretcher. They took a look at Helen, asked, ‘What happened?’

A babble of voices tried to answer.

Clare cut through them coldly and efficiently. ‘She fainted, and managed to hit her head on that lamp-post while she was falling.’

The voices stopped, and people stared at her. She was well-known in town; nobody argued openly, although she heard a few whispered comments from those who preferred to believe Helen had been drunk.

She went to the hospital with Helen, and rang Helen’s mother from the waiting-room. ‘They’re keeping her in here tonight; they want to do some tests on her. They think she could be anaemic; apparently her blood-count was very low, and so is her blood-pressure.’

Helen’s mother sounded terrified. She was a small, delicate woman, and very highly strung. She often seemed to Clare still to be grieving for her husband, who had died a couple of years ago. Tears came easily to her, and she wore either black or grey most of the time.

‘Oh, no; you don’t think...they don’t think...it might be...? Her father died of cancer, you know—’ She broke off, obviously close to tears now. ‘Clare, if anything happened to Helen... I’ve been so worried about her; she has been terribly pale lately, and she never has any energy. That was how it happened to her father. She used to be the life and soul of the party. Well, you remember what she was like before the divorce, Clare! I know you weren’t a close friend, but you’ve known Helen for years; she was always full of fun. But over the last couple of months she’s been fading away, and yet the doctor could never find anything wrong with her.’

Clare’s blue eyes had an icy sparkle. Well, she knew what had been wrong with Helen lately, and there was nothing the doctor could do to help that pain. ‘Will you ring Paul and let him know?’ she asked Joyce.

‘Paul? Oh, do you think I should tell him? After all, they are divorced; I expect he has someone else by now.’

‘Well, they were married for a long time. I’m sure he’ll be concerned about her.’

‘Oh...Clare, I...Clare, couldn’t you?’ gabbled Joyce. ‘If you rang him, it would be so much easier. I mean...I don’t like to interfere...Helen wouldn’t thank me; she might be furious with me for doing it.’

Clare sighed. ‘I hardly know him, Joyce!’

‘Please, Clare...would you?’

Clare gave in, her face grim. She rang Paul Sherrard at his hotel and was put through to his office. His secretary answered breathlessly, sounding very young and faintly scatty.

‘Mr Sherrard’s office. Oh, yes? Miss Summer? Was it important? Well, I don’t know if he’s...I’ll see if he’s free...’

Paul’s voice appeared on the line a second later. ‘Good morning, Clare. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Paul, but I’m ringing from the hospital—Helen is here, and they’re keeping her in overnight. She may be seriously ill; they aren’t sure yet. I thought I ought to let you know.’

‘What do you mean, seriously ill?’ Paul asked curtly. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘I’ve no idea, Paul, but she looks terrible. I just thought I should let you know. I’ve rung her mother; she was very upset. I wish I could get the doctors here to be frank, but they won’t commit themselves.’

‘Oh, won’t they? We’ll see about that. I’ll be there in half an hour,’ Paul said, and rang off.

Clare stayed at the hospital until Paul and Helen’s mother arrived, almost at the same time, and then she had to get back to the office, which had been closed all this time.

She rang the hospital later that day, but there was no further news, other than that Helen was in no danger, was conscious again, and would be in hospital for some days. Clare sent her flowers and a get-well card. She visited her the next afternoon and found her sitting up against banked pillows, still pale, still listless.

‘They say I can go home at the weekend,’ Helen said. ‘After these tests. They think I’m anaemic. I’ll have to drink blood, like Dracula!’ She laughed.

Clare didn’t. She was too horrified by how ill Helen looked; by the dark shadows under Helen’s eyes and the thin, restless, frail fingers. It was a relief to find that the illness was nothing worse than anaemia—no doubt that would be a huge weight off Mrs Storr’s mind—but Clare kept remembering Helen’s look of pain as she talked about Denzil Black and his sexy actress. That man had a lot to answer for! ‘You’re beginning to look better,’ she lied.

Helen brightened. ‘Do you think so? They say I mustn’t go back to work, I must rest for a few weeks, and I’m going to my brother’s place, to stay with him. Paul thinks I should go abroad after Christmas; he’s going to Majorca to the apartment we owned over there, and he suggested I came too.’ A faint flush crept up her cheeks. She gave Clare a defiant look, looked away quickly. ‘Well, we were married for years. Nobody will think anything odd about that.’

‘Of course not,’ said Clare. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea.’

She smiled at Helen warmly. If Paul took her away she would soon forget Denzil Black, and maybe Helen and Paul might even get together again for good, not just for a holiday?