A Reckless Affair

“And what other secrets have you been hiding from me, Miss Martyn-Browne?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“And what other secrets have you been hiding from me, Miss Martyn-Browne?”

For a moment her heart seemed to stand still, then it was racing hectically. But, with an effort, she forced herself to answer lightly. “So many, I don’t know where to begin.” It was a relief to see him smile, and she felt she could hurry on.

“You know, you are very trusting, Jake. You have only my word that I am who I say I am. I could be perpetrating the most enormous con trick.”

“I’ll lock my door tonight as a precaution.” Now his look was teasing but with a hint of a challenge.

“I promise you are quite, quite safe.”

“You disappoint me.”

Ginny found herself maneuvered against the bole of one of the ancient oaks, and as he spoke in that low disturbing voice, he placed one hand flat against the trunk and hooked the other against her waist, pulling her into the curve of his body, effectively overpowering her.

“Jake.” It was a gasp of fear and longing. “lake, don’t.”

And gently, gently, all his attention on her mouth, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Alexandra Scott was born in Scotland and lived there until she met her husband, who was serving in the British army, and there followed twenty-five years of travel in the Far East and Western Europe. They then settled in North Yorkshire and, encouraged—forcefully—by her husband, she began writing. Her other interests include gardening and embroidery, and she enjoys the company of her family.

A Reckless Affair

Alexandra Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

GINNY MARTYN-BROWNE paused for a mere second beside the enormous plate glass windows, scarcely aware of her reflection in that instant and moving on before she could be intimidated and turn tail. For the hundredth time since leaving Heathrow she questioned the logic of what she was doing—the morality, even. There was little doubt that her actions placed the happiness of other people in jeopardy but she had come too far, suffered too long, to consider turning back now.

HUGO VANBRUGH ASSOCIATES. Directly in front of her eyes, embossed in gold on the smoked plate glass, it was enough to intimidate the most supremely confident, and to Ginny, with her toe on the second or third rung of the legal ladder, it caused a distinct tremor in the pit of her stomach... Nevertheless she straightened her spine, averted her gaze from the crushing superiority of the gold lettering and refused to be deflected from her purpose—not at this late stage, when she had just arrived in the Big Apple. Perhaps a few days ago, before she had made her impulsive decision would have been the time for second thoughts, but now...

Now was a moment for a final check on her appearance, and the dark glass was ideal for that purpose. Not too bad, in spite of her fatigue—the hasty shower back at her hotel had helped to hold that at bay...

Hmm. The business trip to Paris last month had not been entirely wasted. The exorbitantly priced, sleekly fitted trousers had been worth every sou, their burnt-cream colour blending perfectly with the multicoloured silk of her blouse and simple dark waistcoat. Make-up was freshly applied and understated. She was pleased with herself, and with the confidence she found to sweep past the uniformed doorkeeper.

She gave a flash of her business card and declared, ‘Miss Virginia Martyn-Browne of Brockway and Laffan, London, to see Mr Hugo Vanbrugh.’ Amazing what a little fabrication and a super-confident manner could achieve.

A moment later she’d been taken into the lift, and she stood there, heart hammering, palms damp while the attendant pressed buttons and they were whisked upwards.

She made an effort to divert her thoughts from the immediate, stomach-churning future. At least now she could return to being plain Ginny Browne, forget the self-importance of Virginia Martyn-Browne. And that might open an escape route—another comforting idea—if she should take an instant dislike to the man she had come to see. She could think up some excuse and leave, and he would be none the wiser.

But it was useless—she found herself gazing at her own reflection in polished copper walls which were a little distorted but all the more realistic for that. What she saw was far from reassuring: all her assumed insouciance began to evaporate.

Deep-set dark eyes, which she had been told could seduce and entrance, were now wide with shock and terror, and she could no longer understand or even begin to recall the primitive urge which had brought her here in search of her elusive background. As if it had any importance—it wasn’t that she had been de-prived...

Lips pale, she saw the tip of her tongue slip over them, her face colourless, drab. She very much doubted that Mr Hugo Vanbrugh would be impressed by her appearance. Only the dark hair, belling above ashen features, hidden gleams hinting, wrongly, at hours spent in front of a cheval glass with a silver brush, gave any distinction.

‘Mr Hugo’s offices.’ She had missed the soft warning ping of the lift but the attendant’s voice drew her attention to the now open doors and, further, to the spacious landing, deep carpeting and bowls of flowers. ‘His secretary’s door is at the far side. Thank you and have a nice day.’

And that, decided Ginny as she advanced into the silent world of antique side-tables, elegantly shaded lamps and discreet paintings, was very much a forlorn hope, but... It would be madness to chicken out, having come so far, having spent so many lonely, distressed hours tossing and turning, trying to reach a decision. She strode forward, fastened a confident smile on her face and opened the door that the attendant had indicated.

‘May I help you?’ Everything about the woman—clipped voice, perfectly smooth blonde hair brushed back from regular features—was straight out of Hollywood. Even the wonderfully plain navy suit with its short jacket and sparkling white blouse was perfect for her-role. Ginny had the feeling that when she stood her legs would be long, like those of a ballerina.

‘I would like to see Mr Hugo Vanbrugh, please.’ This woman could intimidate with a raised eyebrow, reducing Ginny from high-flying lawyer to office junior.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ Since she knew the answer to that, the query was mere rhetoric.

‘No, I don’t.’ Ginny gave a smile, deceptively calm and wholly at odds with the tempestuous beating of her heart. ‘But he’ll see me if you would be kind enough to give him my name.’

‘I’m afraid that is impossible.’ The woman—Karen Lavery, according to the sign on her desk—shook her head. ‘Mr Vanbrugh is operating on a tight schedule.’ She had the maddening habit of switching on a dazzling smile, then as you began to respond it disappeared. ‘In fact, it is company policy. He never agrees to see anyone without a prior appointment, otherwise there would be chaos.’ The on/off smile was nothing less than an accusation.

‘Except, of course—’ Ginny refused to allow herself to be intimidated—or at least to show she was ‘—the rules are being broken all the time.’

‘Not with—’ Karen broke in, but she was meeting Ginny at her most determined.

‘And if you tell him that Ginny Browne, of Brockway and Laffan in the City of London—’ she handed over the heavily embossed card which detailed an impressive list of qualifications ‘—on a matter of considerable importance and confidentiality, I’m sure you will find him willing to make an exception.’

‘Well...’ The blonde’s smile grew noticeably more strained, and she scribbled on a sheet of paper ripped from a pad and rose from behind her desk. She was not as tall as Ginny had supposed—legs shorter. The observation was mean but pleasing. ‘Please wait here.’

Resentment barely disguised, she went to a concealed door, closed it carefully behind her and reappeared a moment later. ‘Very well.’ Her voice was still more clipped and disapproving. ‘Mr Vanbrugh can spare you just four minutes. Please don’t delay him; he has an impossible timetable.’

On legs which had turned to jelly Ginny entered the huge office. Wraparound windows offered a view of the fabulous backdrop of New York City, to which she was at first oblivious as she looked round the apparently empty room. Then she heard a soft chuckle behind the wide desk and the back of a revolving chair swung slightly, the top of a dark head appeared, and her heart gave a fevered leap.

‘Yeah...’ Another amused growl, an impression of a...of a younger man than...

Then the conversation was ended, the receiver was replaced and the chair swung round to face her.

The figure uncurled itself from the black leather chair—he was tall enough to have played basketball with the Harlem Globetrotters. But how frustrating that she was unable to see his face, with the light behind him and with her looking directly into the glare...

‘Miss...’ A brief consultation of his note. ‘Miss Ginny Browne?’ The voice was deep and mellow, one that started all kinds of reaction in the pit of her stomach. ‘Of Brockway and Laffan. And what is your business with Vanbrugh Associates, Miss Browne?’ While speaking he came round from the expanse of mahogany and perched on one corner, a highly polished shoe swinging gently.

He was a tall man, powerfully built without being the least overweight. His jacket had been left slung over the back of his chair but the trousers were dark and formal, with a tiny red stripe, and accompanied by a white shirt, and a tie in restrained whorls of navy and red. She was still having trouble focusing and...

‘Not with Vanbrugh Associates.’ It was becoming more of an effort to keep up the pretence of calm self assurance; all the carefully rehearsed explanations had evaporated, driven out by the realisation that something was terribly wrong. If only she could see his face clearly she might be able to... ‘But with you personally- That is... You are Mr Hugo Vanbrugh, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am.’ He was relaxed. She caught the glint of white teeth and had an impression of close appraisal, feeling that no detail of her appearance was escaping his notice. Then he twisted slightly so that, for the first time, light slanted across his face and she was offered a glimpse of his eyes—densely blue, almost violet, and certainly the most beautiful she had ever seen in such an unambiguously masculine face.

A powerful man in every sense of the word. And exciting—that was something about which she must remain detached. For a split second she wondered why that was so essential...

‘What is your business with me, Miss Browne?’

And in that instant she found the answer—how could she miss it, when it was staring her in the face? But that did not mean it was easy for her to accept it. In fact her startled cry was a denial. She felt the ground begin to undulate beneath her feet. The dark blue carpet was rising to meet her, and... This was all wrong; there was no way this man was the one she had come so far to trace.

For one thing, deep in her brain was a powerful rejection of that possibility—a rejection which brought with it a curious sense of relief. And, for another, he was the wrong generation. This man, this Hugo Vanbrugh, could be no more than thirty-five. Much too young to be the father she had never seen, whose existence she had not suspected until recently, in search of whom she had made this precipitate trip to the States. Reality began to slip away from her, then; she felt herself being drawn into a yawning black abyss and welcomed it.

‘Take it easy.’ Emerging from the bottomless pit, Ginny found she was lying on a leather settee. A damp towel was being applied to her head, and a voice was expressing sympathy.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Raising weighted eyelids, she found her brain at once distracted by a problem—that a man should have such amazing eyes, such an unusually dark violet, and when showing deep concern as they were now... Her blouse was threatening to part from her waistband; she struggled to sit up in a more composed way.

‘I can’t imagine how that happened.’ Sheer nervous tension and excitement, most likely—fatigue from the flight, lack of food, all could have contributed. The secretary was there in attendance, too, much more cynical and suspicious than her employer. Ginny felt a blush starting, pulled again at her blouse and swung her feet determinedly onto the floor.

‘Don’t rush it...’

‘I’ve never fainted before.’ She tried to summon a smile but it was wobbly and insecure. ‘I ought to have given myself time to recover from the flight before rushing...’

‘Ah...you’ve just arrived. Then that explains it.‘ He had this curious air, tense but relaxed. ‘Maybe some tea, Karen?’ He raised an eyebrow in the direction of his secretary. ‘You wouldn’t mind fixing that for us, would you?’

‘Of course not.’ The cool glance was for Ginny, the smile for the man. ‘Which would you prefer, Miss Browne? Tea or coffee?’

‘Right now, I can’t imagine anything nicer than a cup of tea. If it’s no trouble.’

When they were alone together Ginny smiled ruefully, brown eyes gleaming with a touch of self mockery. ‘I’m afraid I’m taking up your time for no reason. You see, when I asked to see Mr Hugo Vanbrugh I was expecting a much older man. I think...’ This was the crux of the whole issue. Her entire future seemed to depend on his answer. ‘It must be your father I was hoping to meet—that is, if...’ How to ask delicately if his father was still alive? Or if the other should be his uncle, his cousin, even... Waiting for his reply, she found she was holding her breath.

‘My father, Miss Browne, is, I assure you, fit and well and still running this company very efficiently.’

‘Oh.’ His father! For no immediately obvious reason his assurance caused a tiny ache in the region of her heart but the arrival of the tea-tray was a distraction, a diversion from the need to analyse and dissect. Numbly she watched as the things were placed on a low table close to the settee.

‘Thank you.’ He gave a swift upward glance at the secretary, who paused with her hand on the doorknob.

‘You will remember, Jake, you have an appointment with the chairman of Genesis Holdings.’

‘Ah...’ He glanced at his watch.

From her position to his left Ginny could see that the wafer-thin gold disc, gold mesh bracelet and cuff-links, also in gold, were disappearing as he shrugged his arms into the jacket rescued from the back of his chair. A slender dark finger checked his shirt collar; he stretched his neck briefly and adjusted his tie.

‘That gives us—what? About two minutes would you say, Karen?’ He dismissed the woman, who was so clearly disapproving, with a smile. ‘Well, maybe you can stall him for a bit. You’ll try anyway, won’t you?’

And he hooked a chair with one foot, sat opposite Ginny and poured tea into two cups, one of which he handed across, offering sugar and milk as well as a plate of tiny sugary biscuit. ‘I’m sorry about the rush, Miss Browne.’

‘No.’ She was aware of being hideously intrusive, knowing only too well what unscheduled visitors could do to a carefully arranged timetable. ‘No, I’m the one who must apologise—I’ve taken an unfair amount of your time already. But, you see...’ Her mind raced and the truth seemed to adapt to the peculiar circumstances. ‘Your father and... and mine were great friends long ago... in Hong Kong ... and since...’ She must be careful, remember what she was saying. Even the slightest hint could have disastrous consequences.

‘I tell you what.’ Draining his cup, he stood up. ‘I’m due to speak with my father later this evening. I can let him know you’re here, and...’

‘Maybe...’ She felt a compulsion to equivocate, possibly because her feelings about the whole mission were so confused. She was so much less certain than she had been at first. ‘Maybe he won’t want to...he might have forgotten...’

‘I’m sure that won’t be the case, since he and your father were such friends, but, what I was going to suggest was to let me take you to dinner tonight, and then I can let you know.’

‘Oh.’ Most of her instinct was to seize the offer with both hands—there was just the tiniest sense of caution and reserve. ‘I think I have imposed enough already...’

‘You haven’t imposed. Besides...’ His eyes seemed unwilling to leave hers. They were so disturbing in their intense scrutiny. ‘I want to see you again. Nothing—’ his sudden grin was brilliant and earthshaking ‘—nothing at all to do with any friendship which existed between our parents. I shall collect you at... say... would seven-thirty be all right?’

‘Seven-thirty would be perfect,’ she said, meaning it. She rose, picked up her bag and turned to the door. ‘But, oh...’ She put her hand on the doorknob and paused. ‘Your secretary called you Jake just now.’ She lowered her voice as if there was the chance of Karen hearing their conversation through the heavy door. “That was what threw me—at first, you see, I did ask for Mr Hugo Vanbrugh.’

‘Ah, well, there is just one Hugo Vanbrugh., and, though I was christened with the same name, I’ve always been known by my second one to avoid confusion.’

‘Ah, that explains it, then.’

‘I look forward to seeing you later. Which hotel are you staying at?’

‘The Excelsior,’ she replied.

There was all the time in the world as Ginny made her way back through the bustling, lively streets for her to reconsider and regret so much lying and deceit. How much wiser to have avoided the folly of further contact with the son when her whole concern was with the father, and the very fact of that connection wholly precluded the possibility of more than friendship between her and Jake Vanbrugh. A shudder ran through her. It was a most melancholy thought—possibly the lowest point in the whole wretched business.

When she reached the hotel foyer she was achingly weary. Having misjudged the distance, she had been walking for more than an hour, so in the bedroom, she leaned her head against the door for a few moments before going to her as yet unpacked suitcase.

After rummaging for a few minutes her fingers came up against a hard square package which she stared at, filled with regret that it hadn’t been disposed of years ago. And she wished with a quite desperate longing, for her days of lost innocence, before the shock of her mother’s death in that car crash. That had been more than enough for anyone to cope with. And then to find that her entire existence was based on a lie...

It had been such a bitter, ghastly time. Looking back now, it took on the quality of a nightmare—there were days when she was certain it had happened to someone else, when she was sure she would wake and find all was well, that she wasn’t involved in this cruel history which was turning her life upside down. But in her hands she held the evidence—undeniable, absolute.

It had been weeks after the accident before she could bring herself to start the task of clearing out the family home, but at length, refusing the offers of help from various friends, she’d steeled herself and had begun to make some headway.

She had been sitting in the small room which her mother had designated the sewing room, the beauty of the spring day with the sun streaming through high arched windows and all the daffodils planted by her parents stirring gently in the breeze adding a poignant touch. Then she’d reached down for the wrapped and taped package at the bottom of the now almost empty blanket chest. And in that instant her life had fallen apart.

Even now she found it difficult to believe that Tom Browne, who had died two years previously, the man who had been such a tender and devoted father to her, was in fact unrelated by blood. Her own existence was due to a brief and very passionate affair her mother had had in Hong Kong.

The whole story was contained in the diary, in the few letters which had been hidden away for so many years and which, for all Ginny knew, would never have been revealed but for the car crash. But for the devastating suddenness of that event her mother would, in all likelihood, have destroyed the package.

Desolated by the loss of both her parents within such a short time, Ginny had found her anguish compounded by the new disclosures. Any doubts she might have clung to had been blown away by the letter her mother had written to Colonel Hugo Vanbrugh, addressed to the Military Division of the American Embassy in Saigon.

It was a passionate letter, but also touching and rather frightened, telling him that as a result of their affair she was pregnant. But the letter had never been posted, possibly because—and this was made much clearer in the diaries—they had already decided to part.

Reading the fevered soul-searching, the intensely private baring of feelings, Ginny had felt intrusive but, because of her own deep involvement, the story had been irresistible. Even various things which had vaguely puzzled her over the years were, in part, explained. Those times when her mother had seemed withdrawn, when it had seemed all her thoughts and emotions were elsewhere. It was easy now to understand.

Just once in a while there had been glimpses of a more passionate woman than the one who had kept her feelings under such strict control, while her father... Ah, well, not really that, it seemed, but the man who would always be regarded as such. Tom Browne had been placid, calm, even-tempered—a good man, a kind husband and father—but not, one might have thought, the kind of man who would have attracted Jane...

Often Ginny had mused on the apparent disparity, but then what child hadn’t pondered the improbability of sexual attraction between its parents? But what was true in this case was that Jane Browne had been an extremely striking woman, beautiful even in middle age, while Tom had been simply an average Englishman, neither good-looking nor particularly plain. But perhaps when they were both young—at least Jane had been young when they’d met and married—things might have been different.

It was so difficult to judge these things when the experience of her own generation was so very different. Intelligent women nowadays did not see marriage as any kind of goal—in fact, the very idea of any woman committing herself for life at nineteen was difficult to understand...

Tom had been an army dentist when they’d met in Germany, where Jane’s father, also an army man, had been serving, and... Oh...it was impossible to judge these things—a youngish major, a pretty girl; they could even have fallen madly in love.

The one thing that was abundantly clear was that when Jane had been on her own in Hong Kong for a few weeks—Tom back in London on some kind of military course—she had met Hugo Vanbrugh and there had been instant attraction. Neither had been willing or able to control their feelings, that much was obvious in the one letter from him—several thin, yellowing pages folded inside the back cover of the journal, pages in which Hugo bared his soul, and damned fate that they hadn’t met before committing themselves to others.

The diaries reflected some of the anguish Jane had suffered in trying to cast aside the religious scruples which forbade divorce—she had so longed to be free of them, but in the end she’d admitted that abandoning them could possibly poison any happiness she and Hugo could have together.

As it is, I know I have betrayed Tom and my marriage, and I shall suffer lifelong remorse, but, Hugo, I shall always give thanks that you were sent to me. And I shall love you for the rest of my life.