No Place For Love

She glanced around, sighing a little wistfully as she let her chin rest in her cupped hand. Their mother would have been pleased to see that they were keeping the little flat the way she would have wanted it. She had always been very houseproud, though it hadn’t been easy for her, a widow with two children, working long hours in the kitchen at the local hospital.

It was almost three years now since she had died; Lacey often thought that Hugo had taken it harder than she had, though he didn’t say much. But every time she visited the neat little cemetery where their parents were buried side by side, there were fresh flowers on the grave, and she knew that he had been the one who had put them there.

‘Morning, sis.’ Hugo himself, clad in a pair of hip-hugging denim jeans, his magnificently muscled torso bronzed and bare, strolled into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing the back of his head with his hand. ‘What’s that you’re eating?’ he teased her cheerfully, looking askance at the contents of her cereal bowl. ‘It looks like wet cardboard.’

‘It’s muesli,’ she informed him with dignity. ‘You should try it—it’s good for you.’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t call that a proper breakfast,’ he insisted. ‘Let me see...’ He opened the fridge, scanning the contents. ‘It’s full of your damned live yoghurt! Haven’t we got any bacon?’

‘Bottom shelf.’

‘Oh, yes—thanks...’ He took the packet out, tossing it on to the worktop beside the cooker, and reached into the cupboard to find the frying pan. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you when I came in last night,’ he remarked. ‘It was pretty late.’

‘Oh... No, I was fast asleep,’ she lied a little selfconsciously. ‘Did you have a nice time?’

He shrugged. ‘So-so. I reckon I’m going to cool that one off a bit. She’s starting to get... Hey, you damned mutt! He’s got the bacon!’

He threw himself across the room, trying to rugby-tackle a spring-loaded bundle of yellow fur that darted nimbly out of his way and dashed off down the hall, triumphantly bearing his prize.

‘Khan! Bad dog—give me that!’ Lacey scolded, the effect of her stern words somewhat mitigated by the laughter in her voice. The overgrown pup peeped out from beneath his shaggy yellow fringe, weighing up his chances of escaping a second time as Hugo closed in on him.

The ensuing tussle had them all landing in a heap on the floor, Khan barking excitedly and trying to lick them both, his tail flailing wildly. Hugo pushed him off, struggling to sit up.

‘Damned animal! Look at that—three rashers, and he’s eaten the lot! Call him an Afghan? He’s a greedy pig, that’s what he is!’

‘Ah, don’t hurt his feelings!’ Lacey protested, hugging the dog and letting him shower slobbery kisses over her cheek. ‘He can’t help it—he had a disturbed childhood.’

Hugo laughed, pushing himself to his feet. ‘He saw you coming! You’re nothing but a soft touch for any waif and stray that crosses your path.’

‘Well, but I couldn’t let them have him put down, just because they couldn’t cope with him any more,’ she argued. ‘I know he’s a handful, but he’ll grow up one day, and then he’ll be beautiful.’

‘When?’ enquired Hugo with a touch of asperity. ‘I don’t see much sign of it so far. He doesn’t even look like an Afghan, with that silly fringe—in fact he’s the stupidest-looking dog I’ve ever seen.’

‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ Lacey advised the dog earnestly. ‘He’s only jealous ’cos you’re better-looking than he is. Want a cup of tea?’ she added to her brother. ‘I was just going to——’ A loud ring at the doorbell interrupted her. ‘Oh, it’s probably the postman—I’ll get it.’

The scuffle with the dog had loosened her dressing-gown a little, and she held it together with one hand as she went to open the door. Unfortunately Khan had come along to see who it was, and at that exact moment Mrs Potter, who lived in the flat opposite, came out with her little West Highland terrier on its lead.

Khan gave a bark of fury at spying his mortal enemy, and Lacey had to grab his collar swiftly to restrain him from his murderous intentions. Her dressing-gown fell open, revealing her softly curvaceous figure, clad only in the skimpy baby-doll nightdress she wore in bed. But it wasn’t the postman at the door—it was a photographer.

‘Hey!’ She gasped in shock as a flashbulb dazzled her eyes. ‘What the hell do you... ? Khan, get in!’ Wrestling with the dog prevented her from covering herself, and the photographer managed to get several more very revealing shots before she could do anything about it. By the time she had got the dog under control, the man was inside the door, along with another carrying a small tape-recorder.

‘Miss Tyrell? John Brennan, Sunday Beacon—this is my colleague, Roger Williams. We just want to ask you a few questions. Is it true that you’re a friend of Sir Clive Fielding, the MP? When did you meet him? How well do you know him?’

She stared at them in bewilderment. ‘Yes, I know him,’ she responded, managing at last to bundle Khan into the nearest room and shut the door on him—causing him to howl as if he had been cast out into the uttermost darkness. ‘But it’s none of your business...’

‘Did you know he was married, Miss Tyrell?’

Her violet-blue eyes flashed in icy indignation. ‘Yes, of course I knew—he told me so the first time we met. But there’s nothing wrong in it—we’re just friends... Hey, where do you think you’re going?’

The reporter had spied the bouquet of roses on the hall table—she hadn’t yet got around to putting them in a vase. Dodging past her, he snatched up the card that had come with them. ‘What’s this? “Wish I could be with you tonight. Fondest love. Clive”,’ he read in a mocking tone. ‘Just friends, eh?’

‘Give me that!’ she protested, lunging for the card, but he held it out of her reach.

‘We’re going to publish, Lacey,’ he taunted, his manner sneeringly over-familiar. ‘But you could be on to a nice little earner here if you’re a sensible girl. We’re willing to offer you fifty grand for the exclusive.’

Lacey almost exploded in fury. ‘How dare you come in here asking your filthy questions?’ she spat at him, a hectic flush colouring her cheeks as she realised her dressing-gown was still gaping open, revealing rather too many of her charms. She clutched it around her body, putting up her arm to shield her face as the photographer raised his camera again. ‘Get out of here.’

‘You want more money? Sure—sixty wouldn’t be too much.’

‘I’m not going to talk to you! Now get out of here, before I call the police.’

‘Lacey... ?’ Hugo appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking incongruously domesticated with an egg in one hand and the spatula in the other. ‘What the hell... ?’ He took one look at the reporters, and sized up the situation. ‘Get out,’ he growled. ‘Unless you want your legs broken.’

Since he looked perfectly capable of carrying out his threat—they weren’t to know what a complete pussycat he was—the two men retreated strategically towards the door. ‘This your boyfriend, is it, Lacey?’ the one with the tape-recorder enquired intrusively.

‘I’m not answering any more of your questions,’ she raged.

‘OK, OK—just one last picture, eh, Roger?’

The flashbulb exploded again—catching Lacey still clutching at her loose dressing-gown, Hugo’s arm protectively around her shoulders. Hugo bellowed in rage, and pounced after them, trying to grab the camera, but they were very nimble—no doubt through long practice—and were gone before he could catch them. He chased them down the steps, but they had a car waiting, and all that happened was that they got more pictures of him hurling the egg at the car and yelling wild threats as it swerved away.

He came back up to the flat to find Lacey in tears. He wrapped his arms around her comfortingly. ‘Hey, don’t let the bastards upset you, love,’ he coaxed as she sobbed her heart out against his chest. ‘It isn’t worth it.’

‘They made me feel so dirty, and I haven’t even done anything wrong,’ she protested brokenly. A sudden thought struck her. ‘Oh, my lord, I ought to ring Clive and warn him...’

‘I should imagine he knows all about it by now,’ Hugo advised her acidly. ‘And he’ll be thinking only of how to save his own skin—he won’t give a damn about you. Now come on, stop crying—you’ll make your eyes all red and puffy.’

Lacey sniffed, reaching for the roll of kitchen paper and tearing off a piece to wipe her eyes. ‘You were right,’ she admitted wryly. ‘I should have listened to you. But I never thought the papers would really be interested, even if they found out about us.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder how they did find out?’

Hugo shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t take much—politics is a very dirty game. A bit of rivalry inside the party, or someone out to take a dig at the government... They’re just using you, I’m afraid—you happened to be convenient.’

Lacey stared up at him, shocked. ‘Do you really think so? But that’s awful!’

He laughed, hugging her affectionately. ‘Dear old Lacey—how have you managed to live in this world for twenty-two years and remain so innocent? Most people would... Damn, what’s the matter with that stupid hound now?’

‘Oh, dear—I shut him in the bathroom. I was afraid he’d get out and chase Mrs Potter’s dog, and she’s already threatened to report him to the police as dangerous.’

She hurried to open the bathroom door. Four and a half stone of half-grown Afghan hound launched himself past her, scampering round in a circle in the middle of the hall and then diving into the living-room to leap on to the sofa, his brown eyes liquid and appealing, accusing her of the most ruthless cruelty for shutting him up for so long.

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘You rascal—you know you’re not supposed to be on there,’ she scolded him fondly.

From the bathroom came an angry roar. ‘That damned dog! He’s had my shaving-brush now! I swear one day I’ll strangle him!’

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER that unpleasant experience, Lacey would have liked nothing better than to be able to shut herself in her room and hide. But if there was one thing guaranteed to take her mind off her troubles, it was the youngsters at the day centre where she worked part-time as a drama therapist. All of them had been classified as having severe learning difficulties, but their enthusiasm for the Christmas play they were preparing was enormous.

‘It’s really coming on,’ remarked Hilary, the centre manager, watching as some of the cast earnestly rehearsed a scene. ‘And they really seem to be enjoying themselves.’

Lacey nodded. ‘They wrote most of the script themselves, by improvising,’ she explained quietly. ‘It’s about Jesus coming back in the present day, as one of the homeless in London.’

Hilary looked impressed. ‘Who thought of that?’

‘They did,’ Lacey responded proudly.

‘Very good. Let me know what you’re going to need in the way of props and scenery, and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks,’ Lacey whispered. ‘That was very good, Tom,’ she added, raising her voice to the characters on the makeshift stage. ‘Maria, I like the way you’re sitting, but could you just turn a little this way, so we can see your face properly?’

‘Was I really good, Lacey?’ Tom queried excitedly, his eyes alight with pride.

‘You were very good,’ she asserted with emphasis. ‘And you’ve learned your lines really well. Well done.’

‘I know my lines too, Lacey,’ Maria put in eagerly, coming over to take her hand.

Lacey smiled down at her with warm affection. ‘Do you? You have been working hard. We’ll come to your bit in a minute. I want you all to practise your song first, OK? Come on, gather round the piano.’

It made her feel warm inside to see all their bright, happy faces as they clustered around her. Sometimes it made her really angry that life seemed so unfair to them, but when she thought about the way that people who apparently had so much more could be so arrogant and rude, she was inclined to the conclusion that they were the ones to be envied.

The day centre was only a short distance from the flat she shared with Hugo, and with a speculative glance at the grey November sky she decided to walk home instead of waiting for the bus. It took her rather longer than she had expected—she had lived in this part of south London all her life, and it was inevitable that she would keep bumping into people she knew. By the time she had stopped to chat, nodding in sympathy at the story of someone’s recent spell in hospital, congratulating someone else on the birth of a new grandchild, it was beginning to rain.

She had to pop into the small supermarket on the corner to get a bottle of milk and some dog food for Khan, and then hurried the rest of the way home, struggling with her umbrella and her shopping, cursing mildly at a car that splashed her as she waited to cross the road.

As she turned the corner, she noticed with surprise that the same car was drawn into the kerb outside her block of flats. She frowned, puzzled. It was a sleek dark blue Aston Martin—who on earth could be visiting around here, driving a car like that? At least she could be fairly sure it wasn’t another reporter.

The driver was still at the wheel, and as she drew closer an uncomfortable suspicion began to dawn in her brain. A glimpse of a dark head and a pair of wide shoulders in an immaculately cut jacket confirmed it; it couldn’t be anyone else but Jon Parrish.

Well, he needn’t think she was going to stop and speak to him, after the way he had behaved last night! Ignoring him completely, she climbed the flight of steps to her front door on the first floor, irritated at her own uncharacteristic clumsiness as she struggled with her umbrella and her shopping and fumbled for her keys.

She heard him open the car door. ‘Miss Tyrell?’

Her umbrella was slipping, and instinctively she tried to catch it, succeeding only in dropping the bottle of milk. It smashed on the step, spilling broken glass and milk in the rain. ‘Oh...drat!’ she muttered, juggling with the tins of dog food as they too began to slip out of her hands.

He came quickly up the steps and took them from her before she dropped them.

‘Oh...Thank you,’ she responded, automatically polite, but instantly jumped back on to the defensive before he could think she was making any concessions. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she demanded, glowering up at him in undisguised suspicion.

Those dark eyes glinted, warning that he hadn’t come to apologise. ‘We need to talk,’ he answered tersely.

‘We have nothing to talk about,’ she insisted, trying to reach the lock with her key while still holding on to all the things she was carrying.

‘Unfortunately we do,’ he ground out, taking the key from her. ‘As you may be aware, the newspapers have discovered your relationship with my stepfather.’

‘I told you last night, I don’t have a relationship with your... Look out!’

He didn’t heed her warning, and as he pushed the door open he found himself mobbed by an overexcited bundle of fur, not sure whether to attack him or try to lick his face.

‘Khan—down!’ Lacey instructed sharply, afraid that if her dog ran to meet her he would cut his paws on the broken glass. She hurriedly shooed him back inside, catching her open umbrella on the door and muttering more impatient curses.

Jon calmly took it from her, shaking off the raindrops and closing it down as he followed her into the passage. ‘Sit,’ he instructed Khan imperiously.

To Lacey’s absolute astonishment, the delinquent hound immediately responded by plopping his back end down on the floor, his front paws neatly together, his whole expression conveying smug pride in his own uncharacteristic obedience.

‘Good lord—how on earth did you get him to do that?’ she queried, forgetting all her wariness in her surprise.

Just for a moment; a smile flickered at the corners of his hard mouth, and Lacey felt her heart give an odd little flutter; that smile was quite startlingly attractive. But she couldn’t afford to let herself think like that, she reminded herself sharply.

‘Well, you’d better come in,’ she remarked, the inflection of sarcasm in her voice acknowledging that he had already done so.

‘Thank you.’ He closed the front door behind him. Khan, evidently deciding he was a friend, was fawning at his feet, his rump in the air, his curly tail wagging wildly. ‘What exactly is this?’ he enquired, restraining the exuberant hound as he reared up to seal their relationship with his floppy pink tongue.

‘He’s an Afghan hound,’ she informed him, dumping the dog food on the kitchen table.

‘Is that a fact?’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’d have taken him for a mobile hearthrug.’

Lacey had to suppress ruthlessly the inclination to feel that anyone who could win Khan’s adoration so swiftly couldn’t be all bad—she could hardly rely on that brainless mutt as a judge of character, she reminded herself with a flash of wry humour.

She slanted him a wary glance from beneath her lashes. The memory of last night was still all too vivid in her mind, and although nothing in his manner now suggested that he was planning a repetition, she wasn’t at all sure she should have let him across the threshold. She was going to have to handle the situation very carefully, avoid doing anything that he might take as further confirmation of the conclusion he had leapt to so readily last night; at least having her own clothes on should give her a little more confidence.

‘Take a seat,’ she invited stiffly.

‘No, thank you,’ he responded in clipped tones. ‘I won’t be staying more than a few moments.’

Biting back a sharp retort, she shrugged her slender shoulders in a gesture of pure indifference. ‘Suit yourself,’ she returned breezily. ‘But first I’m going to have to go and clear up that mess outside, before someone hurts themselves.’

Without waiting for him to answer, she took the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink and, stepping briskly past him, went out to the step to sweep up the broken glass. The rain had already washed the milk away, and it was running down into the gutter in a long white stream. She was going to have to go out and get another bottle now, or there wouldn’t be enough for breakfast—thanks to that damned man.

But at least those few minutes had given her some valuable time to compose herself. When she went back inside, he was sitting at the kitchen table, and although she tried to ignore him she was conscious of those dark eyes following her as she carefully tipped the shards of glass into an empty cornflake packet so that the sharp edges wouldn’t be dangerous, before stowing them neatly in the dustbin, and putting the dustpan and brush away.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she offered, shrugging off her outdoor coat and tossing it across a chair.

He shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘I could make you coffee instead?’ If he was going to be churlish, she would retaliate with an excess of good manners.

His eyes flickered with something that could almost have been amusement, and he conceded a terse nod. ‘Black, no sugar.’

She smiled sweetly, reflecting that he was fortunate she had no arsenic to put in it. She took her time about making the drinks, forcing herself to maintain that façade of cool indifference to his presence. It wasn’t easy; she was quite used to having the kitchen filled with handsome hunks of male—Hugo’s friends from the polytechnic, or the others in his all-male dance troupe. But there was something distinctly different about this man; he seemed to dominate his surroundings without any conscious effort.

The kettle boiled, and she made the drinks, bringing them over to the kitchen table, and sitting down opposite him. ‘So—what was it you wanted to talk about?’ she enquired, regarding him levelly across the table.

‘Have you spoken to any reporters from the Sunday Beacon?’ he demanded without preamble.

‘They’ve been here,’ she responded cautiously.

‘I see.’ His expression was grim. ‘And did you give them an interview?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

He eyed her with frank scepticism. ‘Did they offer you money?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact they did,’ she informed him loftily. ‘And I turned it down.’

That hard mouth curved into a faint sneer. ‘Not quite enough for you, was it?’ he taunted.

Her violet-blue eyes flashed with anger. ‘Just what do you think gives you the right to come round here insulting me?’ she exploded hotly. ‘Just because I’m not rich and powerful like you, that doesn’t mean you can treat me like a piece of dirt.’

‘You placed yourself in that position when you chose to begin an affair with my stepfather,’ he countered scathingly. ‘You can hardly expect me to treat you like a lady.’

She felt a sudden urgent desire to throw her hot tea in his face, and had to force herself to put down her cup, her hand shaking slightly. ‘Have you asked Clive about this so-called affair?’ she asked, her voice very controlled.

‘Naturally—and, like you, he denied it. Unfortunately, my stepfather’s denials tend to have a rather hollow ring after all these years. And if I had had any remaining trace of doubt,’ he added, letting his eyes drift down to the firm, round swell of her breasts and linger there with deliberate insolence, ‘it would have been very thoroughly eliminated last night.’

Lacey could feel her heart beating faster, and was uncomfortably aware that beneath her pale blue sweater her tender nipples were ripening to hard nubs, as if in some kind of instinctive response to his dominating male presence. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference what I’d done,’ she countered defensively. ‘You’d already made up your mind about me before you even came to the theatre.’

‘True,’ he conceded, a cynical twist to his mouth. ‘I’d already heard a great deal about you from Ted Gardiner’s wife—she happens to be my cousin. You really don’t care what sort of harm you do, so long as you get what you want, do you? I have to admit, you’re a very tempting baggage. But if you had any ideas of adding me to your list of conquests, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment—the thought of touching you after Clive’s had his paws on you is rather more than I can stomach.’

‘Oh? You didn’t give that impression last night,’ she threw at him in ragged desperation.

He laughed without humour. ‘Put that down to... curiosity,’ he conceded. ‘I can assure you I had no intention of allowing it to go any further.’

‘Neither did I!’ she snapped.

‘No?’ he enquired, coolly mocking. ‘Well, we won’t debate that one. But I don’t imagine that a woman who could go to bed with a man old enough to be her grandfather can afford to possess a great deal of discrimination.’

‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ she demanded, her temper boiling over. ‘I was not having an affair with him! I’ve met him maybe half a dozen times. He came backstage at the theatre, he took me out for coffee once or twice, and bought me flowers—that’s all. What do I have to do to convince you?’

He leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes regarding her levelly across the table, and she found it impossible to read their expression. What was he thinking? Under that cool scrutiny she felt her cheeks flushing a hot pink, and had to look away from him. Why should she care whether he believed her anyway? He meant nothing to her; so far as she was concerned, she would be heartily glad if she never saw him again.

‘Actually, it really doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not,’ he pointed out with cool indifference. ‘My only concern is what the newspapers will be able to make of it. Once the Beacon breaks the story, the rest’ll be swarming all over this place, offering you the sort of money that’ll make the Beacon’s opening bid look like chicken-feed.’

‘Then I shall tell them exactly what I told the Beacon,’ she countered tautly. ‘That I have no intention of speaking to any of them.’

His hard mouth twisted into a cynical smile. ‘Oh, they can be pretty persuasive with their cheque , books—especially when they think they’ve caught a whiff of scandal in high places. I could really hardly blame you for being tempted. That’s why I don’t want you here where they can work on you—you’re going to have to disappear for a few weeks, until the heat dies down.’