Dark Victory

‘Driven by an upmarket brunette making her way home at dawn after a night of passion with her lover?’ Lawson said pithily. He shook his head. “There won’t be a car in sight, I swear. However,’ he continued, striding lithely uphill, ‘don’t be surprised if you wake up one morning next week to find a chorus-line of ten-foot-high fish fingers shimmying their way through the herb garden.’

Cheska’s march halted and she gazed at him in horror. Built around 1750, and incorporating an earlier Queen Anne house, Hatchford Manor was a striking Georgian property of elegant proportions, graceful lines and tall windows. It reeked history and, surrounded by wooded acres and lush meadows, occupied an idyllic setting. But to use it as a backdrop for some cheeky, chirpy, vaudevilletype commercial would be sacrilege.

‘ You’re kidding!’ she protested.

Lawson slid his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans, an action which contrived to pull the denim tight across his thighs. It was an action which Cheska noticed, though she wished she hadn’t.

‘Why would I kid?’ he enquired.

She started to walk again. He would kid because, for some totally unwarranted reason, he considered her to be a snob and it would amuse him to rattle her.

As though deep in contemplation, Cheska pursed her lips. ‘Y’know,’ she said, shining a defiant smile, ‘on second thoughts, dancing fish fingers sound like fun.’

‘Don’t they?’ Lawson said.

Cheska had hoped to detect a clue as to the validity of his claim, but neither his expression and nor his tone had given anything away. Yet even if he was promoting breaded fish, which had begun to seem more and more unlikely, he would do so with style. Prior to her advertising début, other commercials which he had made had been pointed out to her, and without exception they had been imaginative, well-crafted and by far a cut above the usual. Apparently he had received several awards. She had not seen anything he had directed since, but it would be surprising if his standards had dropped. Lawson Giordano had cared about his work. Cared passionately.

Though if his standards had plummeted she was not bothered, Cheska decided, as they approached the house. All she wanted was for him to do whatsoever he had come to do and leave. Soonest. A commercial should take no more than three or four days, and for that time she would make certain their paths did not cross again. She had not envisaged spending her first days home holed up in her bedroom or going off for long walks, but if that was what was necessary, so be it.

‘Where are you staying?’ Cheska enquired, wondering whether he had based himself in Tunbridge Wells, the nearest sizeable town, or had elected for the more homespun comforts of an Olde English country pub.

‘Here,’ Lawson said.

She shot him a startled glance. ‘In the manor?’ she protested.

How could she avoid him if he was staying in the same house? Cheska wondered feverishly. Spacious and roomy though Hatchford Manor was, it would be impossible. Her mind buzzed. She would get a girlfriend to invite her to stay next week. She would telephone—

‘No, in one of the oast-houses,’ he said, and pointed beyond the ivy-covered walls which enclosed the gardens at the rear of the manor to where two conical red-brick towers with white caps topped a timbered brick building.

“They’ve been newly converted.’ Cheska said, as relief at his being under a different roof flooded through her. ‘When I left two years ago the building was virtually derelict, but Rupert brought in an architect. Plans were drawn up for a pair of semidetached houses and, after endless progress reports, he wrote last month to say they were finally finished and ready for habitation.’

‘You’ve been abroad for two years?’ Lawson enquired.

‘Almost, and I was abroad for a two-year stint prior to that. In the olden days, oast-houses were where the hops used to be dried, she went on. ‘Hops are dried flowers which give a bitter taste to—’

‘Beer. You don’t need to explain, he said. I went to university in Sussex.’

Cheska cast him a surprised glance. ‘I’d realised from your English that you’d probably lived in England at some time, but I had no idea it was in this part of the country. Being a student and then returning to film in the area is quite a coincidence.’ she observed.

Lawson looked straight ahead. ‘Isn’t it?’

Even though he had studied here, for him to have become so fluent and to have lost almost all trace of an accent meant that he must have a natural flair for languages, Cheska reflected, as they walked on. But Lawson Giordano seemed to have a flair for many things—not least lovemaking. Raising her eyes, she watched a pack of black swifts streak across the sky. For years she had obliterated all thoughts of the night they had spent together, and she was not going to resurrect any memories now. ‘ What’s the oast like?’ Cheska asked.

‘There are stone walls, oak beams and thick white carpets. It comes with all mod cons and is very comfortable. Whoever rents it will be delighted, especially as I believe they’re also to be given the use of the manor’s swimming pool and tennis court.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘The oasts are to be rented out?’

‘To holidaymakers.’ Lawson swung her a mocking look. ‘The prospect of hoi polloi setting their grimy feet on her hallowed ground makes my lady shudder?’ he enquired.

Cheska’s lips thinned. He had misread her bewilderment for snooty objection. Once condemned as toffee-nosed, always condemned, she thought angrily.

‘No, but I understood that the oasts were meant to house a couple of gardeners and their families,’ she retorted.

‘Then you understood wrong.’

Cheska was silent and pensive for a moment. Had Rupert said the oasts were for gardeners or had she assumed it?

‘How did your location people discover Hatchford Manor?’ she enquired.

‘They didn’t,’ Lawson said. ‘It was offered to them.’

Cheska’s winged eyebrows soared. Her stepbrother was a scholarly individual whose consuming passion in life was moths and butterflies. As one of the world’s leading lepidopterists, Rupert Finch had identified new species and written several books on the subject. But he rarely took an interest in television, and she was astonished that he should have known of the TV companies’ requirement for locations; let alone felt inspired to submit his home and his routine to the obtrusion of a film crew.

‘Rupert sent in details?’ she asked.

‘I believe it was Miriam who submitted them.’

‘I see,’ Cheska said thinly.

Shortly after her departure two years ago, there had been a mention in one of her stepbrother’s letters about him renewing his friendship with Miriam Shepherd, a former childhood sweetheart and near-neighbour who had not long been widowed. Miriam was a dreadfully well broughtup, insufferably bright individual who loved to take charge, and while Rupert’s increasing references had made it clear that he did not object to the woman being around, Cheska had always found even a small dose of her extremely trying. But having a commercial made at the manor would give Miriam much to talk about at her bridge games and coffee mornings, and, as its instigator, would put her firmly centre-stage.

‘You’ve met Miriam?’ Cheska enquired.

Lawson nodded. ‘When I came to discuss filming on a couple of earlier occasions and again on my arrival yesterday. She seems to be a constant visitor.’

Cheska uttered a silent scream. From Rupert’s letters it had appeared that the woman might be muscling in and attempting to establish herself— which would be easy because her stepbrother was far too malleable—and this was confirmation. Her brow furrowed. Now that she thought about it, it seemed likely that using the oast-houses as holiday homes had been Miriam’s idea. The fiftyish blonde had a keen eye for money; which was doubtless one of the reasons why she had decided to set her cap at Rupert again, Cheska thought scathingly.

‘How old were you when your mother married Rupert’s father?’ Lawson enquired.

‘Er…ten,’ she said, surprised by the veer in subject and surprised that he should be interested.

‘How did you get on with your stepfather?’

Cheska smiled. ‘Very well, though, as he was in his sixties, he seemed more like a grandfather than a father. Desmond Finch was a gentle man, the same as Rupert.’ Her smile faltered. ‘Unfortunately he and my mother were only together for—’

‘Yoo-hoo,’ a voice shrilled, splitting through the still of the morning, and they both looked up to see a corseted figure in a vividly floral dress and pearls flapping a hand from the manor’s pillared porch.

Cheska’s heart sank. Miriam Shepherd might be a constant visitor, but did she have to arrive so early?

‘Yoo-hoo, Lawson! the woman yodelled.

She shot him a glance. ‘Lawson?’ she queried tartly. ‘It sounds as if the two of you are friends.’

‘The best of,’ he said, stopping as they reached the semi-circle of the metalled forecourt, ‘and don’t crinkle your patrician nose like what. Miriam’s a good-hearted type.’

‘Good-hearted? Huh! What are you doing?’ Cheska protested, as she was abruptly tipped off her feet and swung up into his arms.

‘Carrying you to the front door.’

She frowned at him. ‘Why?’

Lawson set off across the forecourt. ‘Because chances are you’ll either step on a stone in your bare feet or, if you put on your sandals, you’ll slip.’’ And I thought the age of chivalry had died,’ Cheska said archly.

He prowled effortlessly on, like a big cat bringing home its prey. ‘I hadn’t finished. In either case, it’ll be me you make a grab for, and, as I have no desire to be sent flying, carrying you seems the most prudent course of action.’

So much for chivalry! All he had been thinking about was himself. But she did not want to be carried, Cheska thought edgily. She did not want to be held so close in his arms. She did not want to feel the warmth of his hands on her bare legs or the rub of her body against his body as he walked.

‘My flip-flops have dried—see?’ she said, flourishing them in front of his nose. ‘So I shan’t slip and you can put me down.’

Lawson shook his head. ‘My self-preservation instincts say no.’

‘But I say yes!’

‘You’re in the hands of someone bigger and more powerful than yourself,’ he informed her, ‘so why not just lie back and enjoy the ride?’

Cheska’s temper fizzed. Self-preservation came a low second, she thought darkly, what he was really doing was demonstrating his control over her—in a patronising, condescending, infuriating kind of way. And what made it even more infuriating was the sight of gossipy Miriam watching from the porch. Doubtless by this time tomorrow half the population of the county would know how she—an independent, intelligent young woman—had been toted around like some daffy doll.

‘Put me down! ‘ Cheska commanded, in her most majestic tone. “Twitching your pectorals like this may be doing wonders for your machismo, but—’

‘Relax. If you wriggle, you could make me drop you,’ Lawson said, and loosened his grip. ‘Do you want that?’

Able to recognise a threat when she heard one, Cheska hooked a hasty arm around his neck. Being unceremoniously dumped would be even more demeaning than being carried.

‘No, thanks, she muttered.

‘I thought not.’ His eyes dipped to the swell of her breasts in the low neckline. ‘Besides, carrying you like this is…stimulating.’

‘For you, maybe, Cheska retorted, ‘but not for me.’

‘No?’ Slowly and deliberately, Lawson lowered his gaze again. ‘That’s odd; all the evidence points to—’

Her cheeks flamed. He had not bothered to finish his sentence, but he did not need to. Belatedly— and to her dismay—she realised that being carried in his arms had aroused her. Her nipples had tightened and, without looking down, Cheska knew they would be jutting like miniature thimbles beneath the black Lycra.

With agile ease, Lawson took the steps up to the porch two at a time, where he set her down on her feet.

‘I didn’t want my lady to slip,’ he told the eagleeyed Miriam.

Cheska seethed. If he called her ‘my lady’ once more, she would slap him. She would. And never mind Miriam broadcasting the news far and wide.

‘Sir Galahad,’ the older woman declared, with a simpering smile of admiration. She cocked a curious head. ‘Do you two know each other?’ Intimately,’ Lawson replied, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and standing with long legs set apart. ‘The truth of the matter is’

Cheska’s nerve ends shrieked. He couldn’t tell her…He mustn’t…

“That he’s joking and we met just now, down at the pool, she gabbled, shooting a daggers-drawn look which defied him to argue.

The last thing she needed was for Miriam to know that something had happened between them—no matter how long ago. An avid ferreter and something of a prude, if the blonde sniffed a whiff of something untoward she would not cease digging until she had unearthed the facts. All of them. Cheska shuddered. Her behaviour may have been less than circumspect, but she refused to be branded as a scarlet woman.

‘Yes, we did,’ Lawson said, being dutifully obedient, though an impudent gleam shone in his dark eyes. ‘You were calling me?’ he asked Miriam.

“There’s a phone call from Mrs Croxley, Janet’s mother.’ Ushering him indoors, she wafted a beringed hand down the wide, oak-floored hall with its worn Persian rugs, to where a door stood open into the library. ‘She promised to hold on.’

“Thank you,’ he said, and strode away.

‘Francesca, how nice to see you again,’ Miriam declared, with a gracious smile. ‘Rupert tells me you had a good flight.’

She nodded. ‘It was fine. Where is Rupert?’ she asked, for her stepbrother was usually an early riser.

‘He’s getting up. After such a late night last night, he overslept.’

Wondering if she could be being blamed for her plane’s midnight arrival time, Cheska shot a suspicious look, but all she saw was raging affability.

‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here,’ Miriam went on. ‘Friday’s my day for going into Tunbridge to do my weekly shop, so I thought I’d stop by as usual to see if dear Rupie needs anything.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ Cheska said, because it was. Though it could also be regarded as a way of the blonde insinuating herself into ‘dear Rupie’s life, she thought astringently.

Miriam smiled. ‘My pleasure. While we’re alone there’s something I feel I must say.’ She paused, fingering her pearls, and her tone became that of the clucking mother hen. ‘It would be so nice if, this time, while you’re home, you could pay for your board and lodging. After all, you are a working girl and you can’t expect dear Rupie to finance you for ever.’

Cheska’s spine went ramrod-stiff. Her eyes darkened to a stormy grey. She did not consider her dealings with her stepbrother were any of Miriam’s business and she resented the interference. The woman might shop for Rupert, but that did not grant her the freedom to meddle in other aspects of his life!

‘I don’t expect him to finance me, she replied glacially, then stopped.

She had never paid for her keep. Whenever she had offered, her stepbrother had always refused. There was no need, he had told her, and indeed, until her modelling had made it unnecessary, he had insisted on giving her an over-generous allowance. Cheska’s brows drew together. She was perfectly willing to pay, but what did she pay with? Her salary had not been high and, when she had given up her job two days ago, she had also given away all of her savings. Given them away rashly, it now seemed, though she did not regret it.

‘So suppose we say thirty pounds a week? That seems fair,’ Miriam declared, in a tone which said the matter had been amicably settled. As Lawson reappeared from the library, she swivelled. ‘Not trouble, I hope?’ she enquired, for as he walked towards them he was frowning.

‘I’m afraid so. As you know, we’d arranged that Janet would join me here today, but—’

‘She can’t?’ Miriam rushed in. ‘What a shame. Janet’s an absolute sweetie,’ she informed Cheska. ‘She accompanied Mr Giordano—Lawson,’ she amended, flashing him a smile, ‘on his earlier visits and—’her conversation switched to Lawson again ‘—I could see how close the two of you were. How you shared an affinity.’

He nodded. ‘Unfortunately, last night Janet was rushed into hospital with acute appendicitis,’ he continued. ‘She’s been operated on and—’

Oh, no!’ the blonde broke in again, fluttering a hand to her ample bosom in what, to Cheska, seemed extravagant dismay. ‘How dreadful!’

Who was this Janet? she wondered. Lawson’s girlfriend? His live-in lover? Perhaps even his wife? The idea brought Cheska up with a start. It had not occurred to her that he might now be married, yet why not? His looks, his intelligence and his sex appeal made Lawson Giordano an undeniable catch and he must be all of thirty-five, an age by which most men had settled down. Her brow puckered. It was irrational, yet the prospect of his having a wife made her feel strangely… piqued.

‘How is the poor girl?’ Miriam enquired.

‘Doing well,’ Lawson reported, ‘but—’

‘Thank heavens! ‘she crooned, this time stopping him to affect extravagant relief.

‘But her convalescence means that Miss Croxley has decided she must withdraw from the shoot’ Lawson completed, a touch impatiently, ‘and I need a PA.’

So Janet—Miss Croxley—was not his wife, but his personal assistant, Cheska thought. Though this would not exclude her from also being his girlfriend. Indeed, Miriam’s reference to and his acknowledgement of their affinity more than hinted that way.

‘What kind of duties would an assistant be required to perform?’ Miriam enquired.

‘She’d have to type up notes, take and make phone calls, help me with the thousand and one matters which need attention during filming.’ Lawson massaged his jaw. ‘I’ll have to contact the office and see if they can rustle someone up and send them down from London, though it’s short notice and—’

‘Don’t bother,’ the blonde cut in, smiling. ‘I have a replacement’

‘You do?’ he said. ‘Who?’

Like a magician producing a white rabbit from a top hat, Miriam triumphantly flourished an arm. ‘Francesca.’

CHAPTER TWO

CHESKA’S mouth gaped. ‘Me?’ she protested.

“Thanks, but no, thanks,’ Lawson said, simultaneously.

‘It’s the ideal answer,’ Miriam declared, in a voice which sounded as though she was chewing on a bag of marbles. She stopped to listen as noises drifted down the baluster staircase from the first floor. ‘Rupert sounds to have finished his shower, so I must see to his toast.’

Cheska felt a spasm of annoyance. Her stepbrother’s ladyfriend had not only established herself as near enough a fixture, she also appeared to be running the show! Which included taking over the housekeeper’s duties.

‘Can’t Millie do it?’ she enquired, an edge to her tone.

‘Millicent and her husband are away on holiday for two months, visiting their daughter in Canada,’ Miriam informed her. ‘Would you care for some toast, too, Francesca?’ she continued, being tediously pleasant and well-mannered.

Cheska resisted the urge to tell her, most impolitely, what she could do with the toast. ‘No, thanks,’ she replied. ‘I’ll get my own breakfast after I’ve showered.’

‘Then please excuse me,’ Miriam said, and click-clacked cheerfully away down the hall on her high heels.

‘Having you as my assistant would be anything but ideal,’ Lawson said, as the well-upholstered figure disappeared.

‘I agree,’ Cheska rapped back.

‘For a start, the hours are long and antisocial. I often dictate notes in the evening ready for filming the next day, which means I need someone who’s good-natured, amenable and everlastingly willing, whatever the time and whatever the strains and stresses.’

Dropping her flip-flops down on the polished wooden floor, she slid her feet into them. As she had already vetoed the idea, there was no need for him to embark on a more detailed job description; though, of course, by stating his requirements, Lawson was also stating what he considered she was not. It was yet another dig. Another condemnation. A further chance to indulge in a gratuitous bit of Cheska bashing.

She shone a saccharine smile. ‘And I would only work for someone who was understanding, eventempered and everlastingly considerate,’ she retaliated.

His jaw clenched and, for a moment, he seemed about to launch a spirited defence, but instead he chose to ignore her.

‘My PA must also be a skilled practitioner of shorthand and typing,’ he said.

‘I am,’ Cheska told him.

Lawson gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Since when?’

‘Since I packed in modelling and took a course at secretarial college. For the past four years I’ve worked as a secretary, so my shorthand and typing speeds are high. I’ve also manned telephones, fixed trips, dealt with a wide variety of problems and people. In other words, I can do whatever Janet can do.’ She shone another saccharine smile. ‘Chew on that, bambino.

He frowned. ‘Why did you stop modelling?’ he enquired. ‘As I recall, you were in great demand. You’d appeared on the cover of Vogue and—’

‘Maybe, and maybe if I’d knuckled down to it I could have reached the top. Who knows?’ Cheska’s slender shoulders rose and fell. ‘But modelling was something I’d been talked into because other people felt it was right for me, not a career which I’d chosen.

The general consensus that modelling was her forte had been because of her looks. In all modesty, Cheska knew she was pretty—the oval face with fine bone-structure and huge grey eyes which she saw in the mirror every morning told her so, likewise the compliments which had been coming her way since she was knee-high. But, all in all, her looks had been something of a liability, and were a sore point right now.

‘And having been talked into it, after just a year or so you decided you wanted out. Why?’ Lawson asked.

‘Because I found standing in front of a camera, mute and striking poses day after day, deadly boring,’ Cheska replied, and her chin lifted.

She had given him an ideal opportunity to come back with some crack about her having a short attention-span—in other words, to imply that she was a bimbo—and she was prepared. But, to her surprise, he nodded.

‘I’ve always thought that modelling must be a hell of a strain on any thinking person’s sanity,’ he said. ‘Was boredom the reason why you swanned around?’

Not expecting such acuity, Cheska nodded. ‘If anything came along which seemed like it’d be more fun, I went.’

‘And you had the means to do so. Life’s a bed of roses for some people,’ Lawson remarked drily, then, turning his broad wrist, he inspected the steel and gold watch which was strapped to it. ‘Someone might be at the office, so I’ll ring and see if the wheels can be set in motion for locating a substitute assistant.’

‘Before you use the telephone, don’t you think it would be polite if you asked permission?’ Cheska said, as, having offloaded his camera and binoculars on to the carved hall table, he started to walk away.

She was not in the habit of pulling rank, but, as a stranger in the house, his behaviour seemed just a little too familiar.

Lawson stopped to bow a dutiful head. ‘Please, ma’am, may I have your permission to use the telephone?’ he recited.

‘You may,’ she replied stiffly, for his tone and the smile which tugged at the corner of his mouth were mocking.

‘Thanks. However, there’s really no need for me to ask, not when you consider that, as from yesterday, the production company’s been responsible for Hatchford Manor’s telephone account.’ He strode away. ‘And that,’ he was tossing the words back at her across his shoulder, ‘also as from yesterday, the library’s been doing duty as my office.’