Act Of Betrayal

Act of Betrayal

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

THE traffic was heavy all the way, but that was how it always turned out when you were in a hurry, Laura thought, drumming her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

She was running late already, but perhaps the meeting at the works would go over time. It was certainly important enough to do so.

She glanced at her watch, with a brief sigh. She wished Uncle Martin had given her more notice, but from his secretary’s agitated call, she’d gathered he’d had very little warning himself. And supplying delicious lunches for important clients at the works was part of her job, as well as a challenge, so she couldn’t complain. Besides, she remembered herself drily, clients rarely came quite as important as Tristan Construction.

The traffic lights changed, and she let in the clutch and drove on towards the industrial estate where Caswell Carpets had their main works and offices.

She ran through the menu in her mind as she drove. Watercress soup to start, followed by pheasant in a red wine sauce, all plucked from the freezer and packed in cartons in the boot. To follow, the strawberries she’d just collected from the local market garden served with crème Chantilly.

She hoped the Tristan directors would be suitably impressed. She also wished they’d chosen some other day for their visit. She’d had plans of her own, including a visit to the hairdressers, she thought, giving herself a swift disparaging glance in the driving mirror. She could probably have managed it too if Celia had only agreed to give her a hand with the lunch, but she had learned a long time ago that her cousin’s model-girl prettiness concealed a selfishness which more than matched the charm she worked at so determinedly.

Clad in brief shorts and a minimal suntop, Celia had been bound for the garden to sunbathe, and she’d refused, smilingly but totally, to accompany Laura to the works instead.

‘Honestly, sweetie, I’d be less than useless,’ she’d protested. ‘That microwave oven you persuaded Daddy to install frightens me to death. Anyway, you were only going to have your hair trimmed, and you can do that any time.’

‘Of course,’ Laura said without irony. ‘I just thought you might want to help, as there’s a panic on.’

Celia waved a languid hand. ‘There’s always a panic on.’

‘Perhaps,’ Laura said rather drily. ‘But this time it’s Tristan Construction.’

‘Am I supposed to know who they are?’

Laura gave her a resigned look. ‘I think you should,’ she said crisply. ‘They’re only the customers who could stop Caswells sliding any further into the red this year. They’ve got two major building projects in this area—offices and flats—and the carpeting contracts are up for grabs. Naturally, your father wants first grab.’

Celia’s lack of concern about the fluctuating fortunes of the company never ceased to surprise her. Or was her cousin deliberately closing her eyes to the present difficulties Caswells was suffering, she wondered. Celia didn’t like unpleasant facts, and never had. To her Caswells was as firm and unshakable as the Rock of Gibraltar, and she preferred to ignore the fact that other companies, many of them older established than Caswells, and leaders in their fields, had gone to the wall in the present recession.

Laura supposed her cousin couldn’t wholly be blamed. She had always been encouraged to think of herself as a rich man’s daughter. Uncle Martin had indulged her since the day she was born, and the only thing she had done since leaving school that even approached work was redesigning the interior decor of the large house they all lived in. Celia’s tastes leaned towards the opulent, to Laura’s regret, but Uncle Martin regarded his home as a showcase for the company, and seemed well pleased with her efforts.

‘Then I hope he gets it,’ Celia yawned. ‘Feed them well, won’t you, darling. Oh—and Laurie, you will change, won’t you? Put on something decent?’

‘I don’t actually wait on table, you know.’ Laura felt a little curl of anger deep inside her, as she glanced down at her simple denim skirt and short sleeved top. ‘I’m not on public display to the customers. I spend all my time in the kitchen.’

Celia gave a graceful shrug. ‘Just as you please. But isn’t it enough to behave like a drudge? You really don’t have to look like one as well.’

Her words still rankled with Laura as she turned into Caswells main gate, returning the salute from the security man.

She knew she was being a fool to allow it, especially when she should be inured to Celia’s little ways by now, and particularly when her affection and gratitude to her uncle made her suffer them in silence anyway. He had been endlessly kind to her, giving her a home during that most difficult part of her young life when her parents had been killed in a motor crash in France.

And later, when her life fell apart again, he’d helped her to pick up the pieces, and she would always be grateful for that. Always. And if it meant tolerating Celia’s waspishness and selfishness, then she would do so.

Nevertheless, she had changed into a neat navy cotton shirtwaister, despising herself for doing it even as she fastened the buttons.

She pulled into the executives’ car park, and braked, swearing mildly under her breath. She had no official parking space, but a place was always left for her, and today it was occupied by a long sleek Jaguar.

Laura, staring frustratedly at it through the windscreen, supposed it must belong to one of the Tristan directors. She didn’t recognise it anyway, and now she had to resign herself to driving round to the rear of the building, and taking all the food up the stairs to the boardroom floor, instead of using the reception lift, and the brawny arms of George the commissionaire.

It was fast turning out to be one of those days, she decided ruefully.

It took three journeys, and she was flushed and a little breathless as she unpacked her cartons and switched on the oven, and checked unobtrusively that the waitresses had laid the dining room table correctly.

She’d hulled and washed the strawberries, and was layering them in a glass bowl with the crème Chantilly, when the kitchen door almost burst open, and Mrs Ferguson, her uncle’s secretary came in at the run.

‘Oh, you’re here.’ Fergie looked more flushed than Laura did herself, and sounded agitated. ‘So you didn’t get the message. I was afraid of that. I should have ‘phoned myself—made sure.’

Laura gave her a long look. ‘I hope you haven’t been at the boardroom sherry, Fergie,’ she suggested mischievously. ‘You did speak to me, you know. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Oh, no, not that.’ Fergie shook her head, looking more distressed than ever. ‘You see, there was another message—later. Your uncle told them to call you from reception, but I was certain you’d already have left. I did try to tell him … Oh dear, it’s all so difficult …’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Laura said resignedly. ‘Tristan Construction are all vegetarians.’

‘What?’ Fergie gulped and stared.

‘Allergic to strawberries?’ Laura went on, frowning a little. ‘Or simply not turned up?’

‘No, they’re here. That’s the trouble. You see, we didn’t know—how could we—until they arrived. And then it was too late.’

Fergie looked as if she was about to burst into tears, and Laura could hardly believe what she was seeing. Mrs Ferguson was one of the mainstays of the company, and under normal circumstance totally unflappable. What in the world could have got her in this state?

She gave her an encouraging smile. ‘It can’t be that bad,’ she urged gently. ‘Surely they’re not international terrorists holding Uncle Martin to ransom for the formula of the new miracle fibre? Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll poison the soup.’

But Fergie was almost wringing her hands. ‘Oh, Laura,’ she wailed. ‘Their managing director—it’s Jason Wingard—your ex-husband.’

Laura found she was putting the bowl of cream she was holding very carefully down on to the table. It was suddenly important to move slowly and certainly, and to wait to speak too, until she was sure she could trust her voice.

She said, ‘There must be some mistake. Jason was—was an artist. He doesn’t know anything about the building trade. And Tristan Construction is a big company. Besides—his name would have been on the letterheads. Uncle Martin—one of you would have seen it.’

She was building up excuses like a wall to shelter behind, because it just couldn’t be possible for Jason to walk back into her life like this. She hadn’t seen or heard anything of him for over three years now. He’d simply touched the edge of her life like a comet, a star of ill-omen, then vanished, leaving her emotionally scorched, hardly able to believe what had happened to her. She’d prayed she would never have to set eyes on him again. And now, out of the clearest of blue skies—this.

Fergie shook her head. ‘It was the first thing I checked, but there was only the company heading, plus the address and telex. No directors’ names at all. Your uncle told reception to ‘phone you at once—to stop you coming here—or to turn you back downstairs if you’d already left. They must have missed you somehow.’

Laura said, ‘The car park was full.’ She took a deep breath, marshalling all her forces determinedly. ‘It’s kind of my uncle to be so concerned, but I can cope, truly I can. I’m here now, and I’ll prepare the lunch as I always do. I don’t have to see—Jason, and he need never even know I’m around.’ She made herself smile. ‘No problem.’

‘Are you quite sure?’ Fergie gave her a harrassed look, then glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll let your uncle know what you’ve decided.’ She shuddered. ‘Oh, dear, he was so angry. I’ve never seen him in such a state. I was terrified he might have a heart attack.’

Laura looked down at the strawberries. She said neutrally. ‘He and Jason—they never liked each other. Never got on.’

Their mutual antagonism, she remembered, had been the first shadow across the dazzling glitter of her happiness. Too bright, too dazzling, like a day in spring which promises sunlight, but ends in weeping rain.

Fergie said, ‘Oh dear,’ again, rather helplessly. Then, ‘Don’t even attempt to clear away afterwards. I’ll have it all seen to. Just do what needs to be done, then get away.’

‘I’ll do exactly that.’ Laura made her tone reassuring, and Fergie gave her an uncertain smile and dashed away.

Laura was alone again, and she stood for a long moment, forcing herself to breathe deeply and calmly, regaining her equilibrium. She’d told Fergie she could cope, but she wasn’t altogether sure it was true.

It was all so unexpected—so frankly incredible.

They’d parted in bitterness, and Jason hadn’t contested the divorce, although her solicitor had said that was often the case where there were no children to fight over. She could still remember her reaction to that—the swift agonised sob, and the way he’d looked at her, kind but uncomprehending. But that had been the only time she’d come near breaking point, on the surface at least.

There had been no communication between Jason and herself—none at all, and she’d been thankful for it—thankful there was no need for maintenance payments or property settlements. ‘A clean break’ her uncle had called it, and that was what it had been. Only it was more like a cut than a break—an amputation, where the aching continued long after the severance had healed.

So why had Jason chosen to probe the wound again? Because that was what he was doing. True, he could not have expected to find her at the works, but he must know that news of his reappearance would get back to her sooner or later.

Surely it wasn’t his intention to torment her by turning up in her life at intervals, when least expected? That would be too cruel, she thought numbly, but after all, Jason specialised in cruelty. Wasn’t she only too aware of that?

She could serve the lunch and run. That was the easy bit. The hard part would come later—closing him out of her mind, as she thought she’d succeeded in doing already, refusing to allow herself any more fruitless speculations about the reasons for his presence at the works, or his intentions.

All her cookery school training was needed, as the moment approached when the meal would be served. Laura found herself wishing she’d not made it so easy for herself—that she’d decided to splurge with some complicated dish which needed every atom of concentration of which she was capable. She was on edge all the time, keyed up for the sound of voices, even though she knew it was doubtful whether they would penetrate so far. Quite deliberately, the kitchen had been planned at a discreet distance from the board’s dining room, and she was thankful for this as never before, because as soon as the food was served she could leave the way she had come, with no-one being any the wiser.

She was just frying the croutons for the soup when the waitresses arrived, and as Laura poured the fragrant soup into the two matching tureens, she wondered if they knew who was waiting to be served in the dining room—if word had got around somehow? She hoped not. They were excellent workers, but she knew from past experience that they loved a good gossip, and she had no wish to be the butt of any sidelong glances, or murmured remarks.

But, she reminded herself, she was probably being over-sensitive. It was doubtful whether more than the merest handful of people at Caswells knew she had been married, let alone her former husband’s name. She’d got married in London, after all, not locally, and most of her brief married life had been spent in the capital too.

‘Well, they’ve got good appetites, I’ll say that for them.’ One of the girls came back with the first batch of used plates. ‘All except Mr Martin, that is,’ she added. ‘He hardly touched a drop of his soup.’ She gave Laura a confidential wink. ‘And they’re not the usual collection of stuffed shirts either. There’s one there I could fancy myself.’

Laura’s heart jerked uneasily, but all she said was, ‘Be careful of the casserole dishes. They’re very hot.’

‘They look a real treat.’ The girl began to load the bowls of croquette potatoes, green beans, buttered baby carrots and creamed broccoli on to her tray.

Laura smiled non-committally, and began to stack the soup plates into the dish washer. Like most good cooks, she enjoyed having her efforts praised, and savoured, but not today. Today, she just wanted this particular lunch over and done with so she could make good her escape.

She wandered about restlessly, measuring coffee into the filter machine, filling cream jugs and sugar basins, endlessly arranging and re-arranging a dish of home made petits fours.

The meal was only a prelude, she knew. Her uncle had often declared that the real business was done over coffee, brandy and a good cigar afterwards when everyone was relaxed and replete, and Laura made sure always that the coffee was strong, aromatic and plentiful, just as he liked it.

She was chafing inwardly, wanting to serve the dessert and the cheese. Once that was done, she could go. The girls could manage anything that remained, between them.

The kitchen window was open and she had the extractor fan in operation, but she could still feel beads of perspiration on her forehead.

For heaven’s sake, she adjured herself sharply, calm down. It’s awkward and embarrassing, but it isn’t the end of the world.

But it was once, a sly voice whispered in her mind, when you realised the kind of man you had married. When it all came crashing down round your naïve, idealistic ears. That was the end of the world—or it seemed so.

But she was older now. Three years older, and three years wiser, please God. She wasn’t a stupid trusting child any more and she supposed she had Jason to thank for that.

And she also had him to thank for the fact that these kitchen walls seemed to be closing in on her like a prison. She was almost counting the tiles, when the girls came bustling back.

‘There’s a funny atmosphere in there,’ one of them informed her, jerking a head in the direction of the dining room. ‘Important meeting is it?’

‘All orders are important these days.’ Laura scraped the pheasant bones into the waste disposal. There were enough rumours flying round Caswells already about the company’s difficulties, without her adding to them, but it was no secret the sales department had had long faces for months. Uncle Martin had great hopes of Tristan Construction—until now.

She saw the waitresses back to the dining room with their final loads, and relaxed slightly. It was nearly over.

The coffee was filling the room with its fragrance, when she heard the slight squeak of the kitchen door as it opened.

Without looking round, she said, ‘I’m going now, but I’ve left everything else ready.’

‘So I see,’ Jason remarked. ‘You’re a domestic paragon, my sweet, but then you always were.’

Laura had been reaching for her bag. Shock made her jerk nervously at the strap, and the bag fell, disgorging its contents at her feet. For a moment, she stared down at them blank-faced, as if she’d never seen them before, then moving like an automaton, she turned to face him.

He was lounging in the doorway, hands thrust into the pockets of an expensively cut dark suit. It occurred to her as she stared at him that she’d never seen Jason in a suit before—not even on their wedding day. He’d always dressed casually in the extreme—denims and sweaters usually. This new conventionality was a shock, until she looked more closely, and saw that the silk tie had been loosened impatiently, and the top button of the pristine white shirt left unbuttoned. The thick unruly mane of dark hair had been trimmed, but not tamed, and still hung nearly to his collar. The lines of the thin, clever, arrogant face were deeper and more harsh, and the eyes which met hers were as bleak and inimical as they had been at their last confrontation.

No, she thought. He might wear the trappings of convention, but underneath he was still as dangerous as ever.

He said silkily, ‘Are you going to tell me I’ve changed?’

‘I don’t think it would be true.’ She was amazed to hear how normal her voice sounded. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m here on business. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.’ His mouth curled sardonically. ‘I saw all the agitated fluttering when I walked in. And I don’t need to ask why you’re here, of course. You’re still a superlative cook, Laura, even though kind Uncle Martin is reaping the benefit now instead of me.’

She went down on one knee, and began to shovel her things back into her bag, her fingers clumsy with haste.

‘You’ve missed this.’ Jason bent too and handed her a slender gilt scent spray.

‘Thanks.’ She almost snatched it from him.

‘Relax, Laura.’ There was a note of warning in his voice, steely and implacable. ‘Our paths are bound to cross during the next few months, so the best thing you can do is accept it.’

‘And if I’m not prepared to do that?’ She gave him a bitter look. ‘I meant what I said, Jason—that I never wanted to see you again. I still mean it. So why are you tormenting me like this?’

‘Had it been left to me,’ he said gently, ‘I would not have come within a hundred miles of this bloody place. But these are hard times, darling, and most companies get work where they can and are glad of it. Tristans is no exception. Under the circumstances, the risk of offending your delicate sensibilities had to be discounted. I hope that precious little ego of yours will survive?’

She took a deep breath. ‘So—it’s all a coincidence. But the carpeting for all these units you plan to build didn’t have to come from Caswells. You could have stayed away from here.’

‘And we still might,’ Jason said bitingly. ‘We have other firms to see besides this one. No orders have been placed, or contracts signed—yet.’

‘We shan’t be going on our knees to you.’ The palms of her hands felt damp, and she had to resist an impulse to run them betrayingly down her skirt.

‘Oh, I’m sure that goes for you, my sweet, and possibly your uncle. But not his fellow directors. They’re gratifyingly eager to do business with us—even to the extent of rushing this new wonder fibre of yours into production.’ He looked round him rather grimly. ‘Perhaps you should come out of your cosy little kitchen occasionally, and see what’s happening in the real world.’

‘Thanks, but I think I know,’ she said tautly. She had her bag firmly gripped now, but he was still blocking her path. ‘Will you excuse me please? I—I have to go …’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘We’ve confronted each other at last, and neither of us has been turned to stone, so why run away?’

‘I’m not running,’ she denied hastily. ‘But I do have other things to do—a hairdressing appointment for one …’

‘Ah.’ His grey eyes gave one swift disparaging glance at the tawny hair, pulled back from her face and confined at the nape of her neck, for coolness and ease while she was working, by an elastic band. ‘It’s time you abandoned the schoolgirl look, Laura. You’re a grown-up lady now. Or doesn’t marriage and divorce confer any kind of maturity?’ He ignored her infuriated gasp, and went on. ‘But I’m sure you can spare a moment or two from your crowded schedule to join us in the boardroom for coffee. My colleagues want to congratulate you on the meal.’

‘That’s kind of them, but I prefer to take it as read.’ Laura took another shaky breath. ‘You say our paths have to cross. Jason. Well I don’t believe that’s necessary at all. If today could be cancelled, then I’d wipe it out without a second thought.’

‘Not very civilised of you, darling.’

‘I don’t feel particularly civilised,’ Laura snapped. ‘And don’t call me that.’

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. ‘What would you prefer to be called then? Mrs Wingard?’

‘No.’ The small sound was expelled from her in a kind of agony. ‘Not that—ever again. The first thing I did when the decree was made final was revert to my maiden name.’

‘How said for you that it can only be in name,’ he said softly. He looked at her bare left hand. ‘All traces of me removed except one. Did you sell your ring for scrap?’

‘I gave it to Oxfam.’ It was a lie. She’d considered that, but in the end, she’d hidden it at the bottom of her trinket drawer. It was a decision she hadn’t been able to rationalise even at the time, and the last thing she wanted was to have to think about it again now.

‘Very public spirited of you,’ he approved sardonically, and she felt a dull flush rise in her cheeks. ‘What a pity you can’t dispose of me quite so easily.’

‘I thought I had,’ Laura said shortly. She lifted her chin. ‘I’d like to leave now please. And I imagine those colleagues of yours will be starting to wonder where you are.’