Edge Of Deception

This was Andy’s professor?

‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said about the ThreadBears,’ Jane told him. ‘Hardly anyone’s heard of them yet, but in my opinion they’re the best group this country’s produced since Crowded House.’

‘You like them?’ Andy sounded stunned.

‘I think their music is really interesting,’ Jane said. ‘Don’t you? Did you see their latest video clip on TV last night?’

‘You like the ThreadBears?’ Andy repeated.

‘Yes, I do.’ Jane’s smile faded as she looked enquiringly up into his face, and then widened again. ‘I know,’ she said resignedly. ‘You thought I’d only be interested in fossils or dead languages or logarithms or something.’

Cautiously, he said, ‘What are logarithms?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Jane answered cheerfully. ‘I’ve always been too intimidated to ask. Something to do with maths. My field is popular culture.’

Perhaps she wasn’t quite so young as her curls and fresh complexion made her appear.

It took a few minutes for Andy to progress from uneasy monosyllables to entire sentences, but Jane’s enthusiasm and her respect for his opinions soon opened him up. He gradually relaxed his death grip on Tara’s hand, eventually freeing it so that he could wave his own hand to make a point.

‘I’ll fetch some more drinks,’ she murmured, taking his empty beer glass in nearly numbed fingers. He hardly noticed as she slipped away.

Near the bar a few people were dancing to a tape player. One of the guests was dispensing drinks, and Philip was among the dancers, his arms wrapped about his wife.

‘Been married fifteen years, those two,’ the man behind the bar confided as he poured a beer for Andy and an iced tonic for Tara, ‘and look at them. Beauty, isn’t it?’

Tara smiled, hiding a pang of envy. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘They’re very lucky.’

She picked up the glasses and turned carefully, to find her way blocked by a white designer shirt and charcoal dinner jacket. Sholto, holding two empty wine glasses.

He was inches away, both of them halting suddenly to avoid a collision. He looked at the drinks in her hands and said softly, so that only she could hear, ‘Doesn’t Lover-boy have the manners to fetch his own drink—and yours?’

‘He’s having an interesting conversation. I offered.’

‘Conversation?’ Sholto drawled. ‘I have it on good authority that the guy’s as thick as a couple of four-by-twos and his conversation is on a level with Neanderthal man’s.’

Tara might have admitted the general premise, but she’d never have put it so brutally, nor discounted Andy’s many and not unimportant virtues. Angry, she said, ‘Jealousy will get you nowhere, Sholto.’

‘Jealousy? Over you?’ The contempt was back, in his voice. ‘Dream on, darling.’

Annoyingly, she flushed. As he made to walk round her, she said, ‘I wasn’t talking about me. Almost every man here is jealous of Andy’s physique—and his looks. Just as every woman admires them.’

‘Every woman?’ His brows rose.

‘Is Averil an exception? Well...’ she paused pointedly, then shrugged ‘...perhaps,’ she conceded doubtfully. ‘There’s no accounting for taste, is there?’

‘Perhaps she’s not as easily impressed by the flagrantly obvious as...some.’ Sholto turned his head, his eyes going towards the group about Andy’s large frame. ‘Hadn’t you better get back to him, though? He probably has a short memory span.’

Involuntarily her eyes had followed the track of his. Jane, her lively, piquant face uplifted, was talking animatedly, while Andy grinned down at her, fascinated. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Andy’s memory,’ she said. ‘Does Averil know about yours?’ If he was going to hit below the belt, he could expect to be hit back.

‘Mine?’ His eyes narrowed, gleaming under the thick lashes.

‘Does she know you’re likely to forget that you’re married?’

‘I never forgot that I was married,’ Sholto said bitingly after a loaded moment. ‘There was no chance of that.’

‘You could have fooled me,’ she said, giddy with the knowledge that she’d made some impression on his apparent imperviousness. ‘You did fool me for a while.’

‘You fooled yourself.’ His voice hardened, dark satin over steel. ‘It was you who wrecked our relationship, Tara. You believed what you wanted to, and indulged in a childish revenge. Well, it doesn’t matter to me now.’

She couldn’t answer that—he always managed somehow to have the last word.

He stepped around her and went up to the bar, and she returned to Andy’s side and stayed there for the rest of the interminable evening, leaning on his shoulder and pretending to listen, and laughing at the appropriate times.

When the crowd began to thin out and a surreptitious survey showed no sign of Sholto and his fiancée, she found Chantelle and said good night. ‘Lovely party,’ she added.

‘We enjoyed it,’ Chantelle said. ‘Are you all right?’ Her eyes turned searching, shrewd.

‘A bit tired, maybe.’

‘Philip said you were talking to Averil’s fiancé.’

‘Sholto—yes,’ Tara said steadily. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘Averil’s Philip’s cousin, though they don’t get together very often, she’s away so much. Is Sholto a friend of yours?’

Tara shook her head. ‘Not exactly. I hadn’t seen him in years. Well, thanks again.’ She turned away, making for the door.

Outside the house, the quiet suburban street was lined with parked cars. She walked rapidly along the pavement towards hers, looking round as she heard footsteps behind her.

‘It’s only me,’ Andy said.

‘I didn’t realise you were leaving, too.’ She waited for him to fall into step beside her. ‘Did you bring a car?’

‘Yeah, but I’ll pick it up in the morning. I’ve had a couple too many beers.’

‘How are you getting home?’

‘Walk it off, I guess. Maybe I’ll pick up a cruising taxi later.’ They passed under the shadow of an overhanging tree, and Andy stumbled, flinging a heavy arm over Tara’s shoulders to help regain his balance. Automatically she hitched her own arm about his waist, shoring him up. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Never could hold my liquor.’

‘Why drink it, then?’ Tara asked reasonably. She hadn’t noticed him drinking all that much.

‘Aw, come on,’ Andy protested. ‘A man’s gotta—you know.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘I was okay until the fresh air hit me.’

He still had his arm about her when she stopped by her car. ‘You’d better get in,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you home.’

‘You don’t hav’ta do that.’

‘You’re not safe to walk in your condition.’ She lifted his arm with two hands and slipped out of his hold to go round the car and unlock the doors. The latches leaped up with a loud thung.

Andy rested his arms on the roof of the car as he smiled muzzily at her. ‘No one’s going to mess with me,’ he assured her.

He was probably right. But there were other dangers for a man in his state. ‘You could get hit by a car,’ she argued.

He put his chin on his linked hands. ‘I’m not that drunk, honest.’

Tara opened her door and stood holding it as she looked over at him. ‘The door’s unlocked. Get in.’

‘Nah.’ Andy shook his head. ‘I’m okay.’

‘You are not okay! I’ll take you home.’

He straightened finally. ‘All right, then. Thanks.’ He opened the door and folded himself into the seat.

With a sigh of relief, Tara slid into the driver’s seat beside him. ‘Do up your safety belt.’

‘Wha’?’ He was leaning back, eyes closed, his hands loosely dropped between his knees.

‘Your safety belt.’ She sighed and reached across his substantial bulk to pull it down from its housing and across his broad chest to the clip between the seats. ‘There.’ She fastened her own belt and started the car.

Andy snoozed all the way, and she wondered if she’d have to help him inside, but the nap seemed to help sober him, and when she dropped him outside his flat he thanked her nicely and walked slowly but almost steadily to his door, waving at her before he closed it behind him.

‘That’s my good deed for the week,’ Tara muttered to herself as she drove away. At least it had diverted her for a while from thinking about Sholto. And his impending marriage.

Black depression hit her, and she swallowed hard. Damn him, why did she have to meet him again? Just when she was able to spend days at a time, even whole weeks, without thinking of him?

* * *

TARA SLEPT BADLY in spite of the late hour that she’d gone to bed. Dressing in the morning for work, she chose a summery, low-necked frock printed with yellow daisies in the hope that it would cheer her up and detract attention from the hollows under her eyes. Thank heaven it was Saturday and at lunchtime she could shut up the shop and spend the rest of the day alone. Last night she’d had a surfeit of people.

She and her assistant, Tod Weller, were kept busy all morning, leaving her scant time to stand about thinking. She stayed after Tod had gone home, nibbling on a filled bread roll from a nearby cafe while she rearranged the stock, not because it needed it really, but to give herself something to do.

She hauled a couple of recycled-wood chests from the rear of the shop to the window, and draped two bright linen tablecloths across their corners, allowing much of the fabric to fall on the floor. Then she placed some smaller things among the folds—a glass paperweight, a bronze statuette, a branched candlestick of gleaming brass.

Her stock was an eclectic range of old and new. She specially loved antiques and second-hand knick-knacks, but also appreciated the brash colours and exciting forms of modern design, and the exotic charm of craft objects from other countries. Tara’s special talent, she’d been told, was her ability to juxtapose styles in unexpected combinations that enhanced the qualities of each. She stocked anything that took her fancy and that might catch a customer’s eye.

She spent the remainder of the afternoon pottering, and it was almost five o’clock when she opened the door and stood in the doorway fumbling in her bag for her key.

She had the key in her hand when she became aware of someone behind her and looked around, startled.

He was a big man, wearing a dark-visored motorcycle helmet that obscured his face. Steadying her breath, Tara said, ‘Can I help you?’

His voice was muffled by the helmet. ‘Money.’

Tara’s heart lurched. She tried to step back and slam the door in his face, but he was too quick for her, pushing it hard so that it swung back and she had to move further inside to avoid being hurt.

And, of course, he came after her. ‘Money,’ he repeated. ‘What do you do with it?’

‘I...it’s gone,’ she lied. There was a small safe in the back room where they kept the takings and the cash float over the weekend, but it was well hidden behind an oriental hanging on the wall. ‘I don’t keep money in the shop.’

He gave her a shove and grabbed at the bag in her hand, upending it so that everything fell on the floor, including her wallet. Snatching that up, he opened it, pulled out the several notes that it contained and stuffed them into a pocket of his leather jacket before throwing the wallet on the floor again. ‘You’ve got a safe,’ he said. ‘Show me!’

He was probably guessing. But even if he was he might be prepared to use violence before he’d be convinced. Better to lose her takings than risk that.

She thought about it a bit too long, saw his hand make a fist and tried to dodge, but he caught her cheek and sent her staggering against a solid oak sideboard, painfully banging her head, hip and elbow on the wood, and sending a small china jug to the floor, where it smashed to pieces.

Her instinct was to retaliate, but there was no weapon within reach and common sense dictated compliance. Besides, she was a little dizzy from the pain of the blow to her head. ‘All right,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I’ll show you.’

She took him into the back room used as office and storage space and pulled aside the hanging, opened the safe without a word and handed him the tin cash box.

The man stowed it bulkily inside his jacket and pushed her again. ‘What’s in there?’ he demanded, nodding his helmeted head towards the door behind her.

‘It’s a toilet.’

He grabbed her arm and shoved her inside the tiny room. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t come out for twenty minutes or you’ll be sorry.’ He slammed the door.

Tara leaned an ear against the panel, closing her eyes in a mixture of relief and hope. She heard his booted feet on the floor, and the muffled voice shouted, ‘Twenty minutes! Or you’ll get it.’

He was making his getaway, not hanging about to see if she obeyed. She knew that, but her ears strained, her heart thudding. Had he gone all the way to the door? Would he wait for a minute—five, ten? Or just run? Was that the roar of a motorbike she could distantly hear? What direction did it come from?

She was shaking. The painted wood against her ear, her cheek, felt cold. She wanted to be sick. How long had she been standing here, too afraid to get out, to move?

The longer she delayed the more time he had to get away. Cautiously she turned the door handle, then paused. Nothing happened. She opened the door a crack, holding her breath, peering through the inadequate aperture. Still nothing.

Gathering her courage, she opened the door properly, looked through the connecting doorway to the shop. The place seemed empty. The telephone was on the desk in one corner of the back room. She dived for it, and with trembling fingers dialled the emergency number.

* * *

HOURS LATER she opened the door of the turn-of-the-century Epsom cottage she’d restored and refurbished, and thankfully closed it behind her. The police had been great, but trying to remember every detail that would help them and poring through photographs of likely suspects had taken its toll. Someone had given her coffee and a biscuit, and the phone number of a victim support group.

Her legs were unsteady as she walked across the dimmed living room, drawn by the light blinking on the answering machine sitting on a graceful antique writing bureau. She turned on a side lamp and pressed the play button on the machine, listened to a message from the library about a book she’d requested, another from a friend offering to sell her a ticket to a charity concert, and then jerked to attention as Sholto’s voice filled the room. ‘I’ll phone again later,’ he said, adding, ‘It’s Sholto,’ as though she didn’t know his voice, didn’t react to it with every pore.

He had phoned again later, and again, each time with the same message, leaving no number for her to return the call.

Tempted to replay the tape just to hear his voice again, Tara clenched her teeth and reset it instead. She wasn’t a mooning adolescent now; she was a grown woman and she’d got over Sholto. Not easily, but at last. There was no way she was going to fall into that maelstrom of emotion and pain again. If he did repeat his call she would let the machine deal with it.

In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator and her stomach turned at the sight of food. Closing the door, she made herself more coffee and nibbled on a dry cracker. And found herself back in the living room, leaning against the door jamb and staring at the phone.

When it rang she almost dropped the half-finished coffee in her haste to intercept the rings before the machine cut in. Snatching up the receiver, she managed a breathless, ‘Hello? This is—’

‘Tara,’ Sholto said. ‘I’ve been phoning you all day.’

‘I was at the shop,’ she said. ‘I heard your message—messages.’

‘You work in a shop?’

He didn’t know, of course. ‘I own a shop. Bygones and Bibelots. Mostly it’s just called Bygones, though.’

‘Antiques?’

‘Yes, and some new stuff. A mixture.’

‘You work late.’

‘No, not really.’ She swallowed, remembering the man in the dark-visored helmet. The shadows in the unlit corners of the room were deepening and she had a sudden urgent desire to turn on all the lights in the house. ‘What did you want?’

‘I shouldn’t have said some of the things I did last night.’

Tara didn’t answer immediately. Was this some kind of apology? Although his tone was aloof rather than conciliatory.

‘I was caught off balance,’ he said.

‘So was I,’ Tara admitted. She’d said some fairly waspish things herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting you there.’

‘I suppose I spoiled the party for you.’

It was an apology—or at least probably as near as Sholto was likely to come to one.

‘Th-that’s all right.’ Dismayingly, she heard her voice wobble. Tears slid hotly down her cheeks. ‘It was j-just unlucky, I guess.’

‘Tara?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Are you all right?’

She wasn’t crying because he was marrying someone else, she told herself fiercely. It was too humiliating that he should think so. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Tara—what is it?’ He sounded cautious.

She could put the phone down. Only he’d be sure then that she was crying over him. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I got robbed, that’s all—’

‘Robbed?’ For a moment there was silence, before he said urgently, ‘Where? At your shop? Are you hurt?’

‘N-no,’ she gulped. ‘Not really—not badly.’

‘Do you have someone there with you?’

‘No.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Sholto—no! I’m all right.’

But he’d already hung up and all she heard was the hum of the dial tone.

CHAPTER THREE

THE DOORBELL buzzed imperatively fifteen minutes later. Tara had spent the time stemming the stupid tears, rinsing her face in cold water and rather unsuccessfully trying to cover up the aftermath of her crying jag with make-up.

She didn’t switch on the passage light and avoided raising her eyes to Sholto’s as she opened the door and said quickly, ‘You had no need to come rushing over. How did you know where to find me, anyway?’

‘Your address is in the phone book.’ He stepped inside and closed the door himself, and then his hard fingers lifted her chin, and he reached out his other hand to the light switch by the door.

His brows contracted as he saw the swelling on her cheekbone. He cursed under his breath. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘The police surgeon checked me over. It’s only bruises.’

‘Only! There are others?’

‘A couple. You know I bruise easily. I was lucky—it could have been worse.’ She shivered, thinking how much worse it could have been, and folded her arms across herself, turning away. ‘Now that you’re here, you’d better come in.’ She led the way to the living room.

‘Your back!’ he exclaimed, and as she looked round, startled, he said, ‘The bruise on your back, it’s already gone blue.’

Tara flushed. She’d forgotten about it, although she’d had to invent a story for the doctor. She’d noticed a bit of stiffness after she got up this morning, but there was nothing visible when she peered in the mirror, and she’d thought no more about it as she donned the dress that dipped even lower at the back than in front. Over the afternoon the bruise had evidently coloured up, although it couldn’t have been too bad earlier. Tod hadn’t noticed. ‘That must have happened last night,’ she said.

‘Last night?’ he repeated sharply. ‘What did that great ape do to you?’

Tara gaped at him. ‘If you mean Andy—’

‘I mean the guy you were draping yourself over all night, the one you brought home with you, even though it was obvious he was smashed out of his mind.’

‘He was not! And what makes you think I brought him home?’

‘I saw him get into your car. As a matter of fact, I thought you were trying to argue him out of it—I was half out of my car, intending to come to the rescue, when you leaned over and kissed him, so I figured you didn’t need help after all.’

Kissed him? She’d leaned over to fasten Andy’s safety belt. She supposed that from a distance it might have looked like an embrace. ‘Where were you, anyway?’ She’d thought that he and Averil had been long gone by then.

‘Sitting in my car, some way behind you.’

So what he’d seen could only have been through the windows of other parked cars. And he’d jumped to conclusions.

But surely they’d left the party before she had. Why hadn’t they driven off? Necking, she supposed, not able to wait until they got to—where? Averil’s place? Or did they share? ‘Couldn’t keep your hands off each other?’ she heard herself suggest. ‘How sweet! Just like a couple of teenagers!’

Something flickered in his eyes. His mouth straightened. ‘Actually, we were blocked by another car. The party appeared to be breaking up, so we thought we’d wait a while until someone moved it.’ Not that it was any of her business, his tone implied.

Neither was her taking Andy home any of his. But she said, ‘I drove Andy to his flat—and left him there.’

‘Too far gone to perform, was he?’ Without waiting for her comeback on that, he said, ‘So where did that bruise come from?’

Tara let her lip curl derisively. ‘Don’t you remember?’

His brows drew together. ‘Remember what?’

‘When your fiancée found us kissing last night—’

‘You kissed me!’ he interrupted harshly.

There was no reason, Tara decided, to let him get away with that. She tipped her head to one side and smiled, slowly. ‘When you were finishing what I’d started,’ she said deliberately, ‘and we were interrupted, you shoved me against the door frame—rather hard.’

He’d already been turning to Averil then, and by the time he’d looked back at Tara she’d been standing upright again.

Colour darkened his cheekbones and quickly receded, leaving them oddly sallow. ‘I did that?’ he queried finally.

Tara nodded.

He hauled a rasping breath into his lungs. ‘I had no idea!’ He sounded almost shaken.

‘It wasn’t intentional,’ she conceded. ‘I do realise that.’

‘Does it hurt?’

Tara shook her head. ‘I’m not permanently damaged—by either you or the robber.’

She thought he almost winced. ‘Where did it happen?’ he asked. ‘The robbery—at the shop?’

‘Yes. He made me open the safe and took all this morning’s takings.’

‘Is that much?’

‘Quite a lot. It was a busy morning. I’m not thrilled about it, but it won’t put me out of business.’

Sholto moved further into the now well-lighted room, looked quickly at the two roomy, comfortable sofas, the faded oriental rug, the old heavily framed pictures, the antique bureau in one corner, the exotic wall hangings, and then returned his gaze to Tara’s face. ‘You were upset when I phoned.’

‘Reaction. You were the first person, apart from the police and the doctor, that I’d spoken to since it happened.’

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘I’ll be all right. It was kind of you to enquire, but unnecessary.’

He glanced again about the room. ‘You live alone?’

‘Yes. What about you? I mean,’ she added hastily, ‘where did you come from, tonight?’ Was Averil waiting impatiently somewhere for him? She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask.

‘I’m staying in a hotel in the city. Averil’s parents live in a small flat.’

And was she staying with them, or with him at the hotel? ‘Chantelle said Averil’s away a lot. What does she do?’

‘She’s a flight attendant.’

‘The Hong Kong route? Is that how you met?’

‘Yes. Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?’

She hadn’t expected him to stay. Tara shrugged. ‘Do you need an invitation? Please sit down, if you want to.’

‘And you?’ He indicated politely.

She sank onto the nearest sofa, and he sat on the other one, at right angles to hers, his arm resting on the back as he twisted to face her.

‘So...how have you been?’ he asked her.

The deep, quiet voice sounded caring, sincere. She thought she’d probably fallen in love with Sholto’s voice before she’d fallen for the man. Marginally. Her almost instant emotional involvement had been cataclysmic—she’d scarcely had time to draw breath before she was in over her head.