A Reckless Affair

The farewell letter she had written to him twenty-seven years ago, after their decision to part, was touching in its intensity, even though it began with the caveat that she did not know if she would ever send it, but it was sealed and stamped—and wept over, if Ginny’s interpretation of the blotches was correct.

I’m torn, because I feel it is your right to know I am going to have your child. And yet what good can it do? More anguish for everyone will result—for you and your family, too, perhaps. You know I’m very fond of Tom and don’t want to hurt him any more than I have already done, but you know, too, that when we married I had no idea what real love was about. Even afterwards I wondered what all the fuss was for. Then, Hugo, I met you and I knew.

I think I conceived two weeks ago, on that last fraught night we spent together. Such joy and such despair. But Tom returns tomorrow, and if, as we planned, our lives return to normal, then he will never know the child is not his. What possible good would it do to tell him and break his heart? You see, he loves me.

The letter continued for several pages of intimate reminiscences, with a postscript saying that she had decided against further contact and then a last note with Ginny’s name and date of birth.

In the months between her discovery and her journey to New York thoughts of her mother and Hugo Vanbrugh had dominated Ginny’s mind. Had Jane intended one day that her daughter should find out the truth about her birth? Or had she meant eventually to destroy the evidence? It was something she would never know and, in a way, that very uncertainty had brought her to the United States.

By seven-fifteen Ginny had got herself entirely under control. All the foolish reactions to the man she had met earlier in the day were totally unbalanced—the result of too many emotional upheavals and an overactive imagination. Recent events had left her in a vulnerable state; add to that her sudden black-out and it was little wonder that Jake Vanbrugh had come over as a cross between Sir Galahad and Richard Gere.

In any event she had never been particularly susceptible to handsome men, and now was most definitely not the time to start. She gave her reflection a sardonic grin.

On the other hand it was good to be able to take a certain amount of complacent assurance from her appearance. The calf-length skirt swaying above shiny black boots was smart and sophisticated enough for wherever he planned to take her. The green silky material clung lovingly to her slender figure, picking up all kinds of subtle shades where the light caught it. The white lawn blouse was full-sleeved and billowy, elaborately tucked and with a prim high collar which made her hold her head proudly. She wore earrings, too, antique silver set with brilliants, which glittered against her dark hair.

Generally, she could see the rest had done her good. A sparkle had returned to the luminous brown eyes, a faint blush to the creamy cheeks—and if the whole was enhanced by a skilled hand with make-up, so what? Her pleased smile was entrancing; the new lipstick in a silky shade of plum suited her wide mouth and exaggerated the white teeth.

‘How convenient, Tom,’ she remembered a friend remarking, ‘that your daughter should be such a wonderful advertisement for your craft.’

And all the time...

A familiar ache returned to her chest, but at that very instant the telephone rang. Her escort, she was told, was waiting, and her heart gave a tiny plop. She forced herself to sit calmly for half a minute before picking up her bag, pulling the door behind her and walking to the lift as sedately as if she had an appointment with her bank manager.

But he was as disturbingly good-looking as she had imagined. Her fainting fit, her empty stomach, the stress—all had nothing to do with it. The realisation was seriously unwelcome. Watching him turn when he heard the lift doors, she held her breath, then, with a determined attempt to distract, found herself taking mental notes.

The hair—which she had thought as dark as sable—had, with the glow of a lamp behind his head, a suggestion of chestnut in it, but that disappeared when he came forward, hand extended.

‘Ah...’ His mouth curved upwards in appreciation, those splendid violet eyes gleaming as they absorbed each detail of her appearance from the sheen of silky hair to the full mouth—his interest in which she found more than a little disturbing.

She could not say what banal greetings were exchanged before, a moment later, they were being driven off in his limousine. The vehicle purred effortlessly, edging its way through heavy traffic, finally pulling into the parking area of a small, unobtrusive restaurant just off the main thoroughfare.

‘Thanks, Steve. Give us about two—two and a half hours.’

The uniformed chauffeur helped her from the car and then she was being guided inside. And if the outside was unobtrusive, the inside was subdued luxury. This was instantly obvious.

They soon ordered and were sipping a chilled Catawba which Ginny found deliciously reviving. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the glossy white cloth, perceptive eyes ranging over her features in a way she could only describe as seductive, ‘Now tell me, what exactly is it you would like to speak with my father about?’

With meticulous care she put down her glass, eyes lowered protectively as she considered how to deal with any sudden surge of nerviness. Now she was in control, all wide-eyed innocence as she switched her attention abruptly to his face. ‘Has he—has he asked you to filter any message to me?’

‘No.’ A dark eyebrow was raised in surprise—she wondered if her words had roused some momentary suspicion. ‘No. Unfortunately I was unable to contact him, but I shall be seeing him at the weekend and... No, the question was on my own account and merely because I am curious.’

‘Ah.’ A touch of colour warmed her cheeks, brought an added gleam to her eyes. Above all she must seem sincere. ‘There isn’t a great deal to tell. Among my parents’ things...’

‘Are they both dead, your parents?’

‘Yes, my father died two years ago and my mother... she was in a car crash earlier this year.’ It was dismaying to hear her voice shake. She had been convinced that she had passed through the grievously wounded stage. Now she bit fiercely at her lower lip. ‘They were both too young. Dad sixty, Mum not quite fifty.’

‘That is sad.’ There was a pause before he went on. ‘And you were left alone?’

‘Yes. No brothers or sisters.’ The idea of being alone, the one she had been trying to ignore, made her draw in a deep breath. Quickly she tried to force her thoughts along a different path, but he was not going to allow that.

‘And you were saying...?’ He was gently persuasive. ‘Among your parents’ things...?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Her fingers played with the stem of her wineglass. ‘Among their things were some letters, one or two mementoes, and a tiny picture with a note attached with detailed plans about how, at some time in the not too distant future, they meant to contact Hugo. They were planning a long tour of the States when Dad retired.’

That, at least, was true, although the reason for it was not what she was implying. She was certain that the two men had never met—certainly nothing she had read suggested that such a meeting had ever taken place.

With a tremendous effort she was able to control her feelings, was able, even, to produce a wan smile and a shrug—which, to her companion, seemed hopeless—vulnerable rather than philosophical. ‘It simply goes to show one should do things when one can, not plan for a future which can so easily... elude one.’

‘We should all remember that.’ He touched her hand sympathetically, removing his almost at once, just as she became aware of a powerful and affecting reaction. Fortunately there was a diversion as plates were placed in front of them, napkins shaken out...

‘And this company you work for...’ He handed her the pepper mill, watched as she ground the spice over broiled lobster, his mouth curving in amusement as it was handed back. ‘This Brockway and Laffan—it does exist, I suppose?’

‘Of course.’ Her eyes widened in mock reproof. ‘How can you doubt it? They are one of the oldest chambers in the City.’

‘And your position with them?’

‘Is a very junior one. I’ve been there since I qualified, three years ago, and if I work hard I have hopes of a partnership—a junior partnership—in, oh, in about twenty years’ time.’

‘As soon as that, eh?’ One elbow on the table, a finger moving against the almost smiling mouth, he leaned forward.

The compelling gaze, more violet than blue, held her in an intense, very nearly intimate scrutiny—so intimate that her whole body came alive with the joy of it—pulses throbbing, blood singing, heart pounding, eyes glowing.

‘But I shall be surprised, Miss Ginny Browne, to find you still with Brockway and Laffan in two years, let alone twenty.’

‘Really?’ Silly to sound so breathless, so naive, when she most certainly was not, when all she was doing was enjoying herself with an intelligent, attractive man and with absolutely no strings. That was what made it such a special attraction. ‘And where do you imagine I’ll be in...yes, let’s say in two years’ time?’

‘Not, I suggest, among the dusty files of one of the oldest firms in the City of London.’

‘The oldest firm does not necessarily imply fusty Dickensian premises.’

‘Ah, so you’re in modern offices?’

‘Not exactly.’ Later she might explain that they occupied a pair of terraced houses built originally for well-to-do city merchants. Elegant staircases led to the partners’ chambers, with masses of highly polished mahogany and brass, and there were walled gardens to the rear, which were fragrant in summer with old-fashioned roses and honeysuckle, pinks and peonies. It was light years from his prestigious penthouse, but there was little doubt as to which she preferred.

‘You are being so provoking and evasive, Miss Browne.’ He frowned, emphasising the degree of his disapproval by covering her hand with his. The thumb stroked her gently and, though it was difficult to admit, excitingly. His expression continued to show amusement. ‘Do they teach that at law school these days?’

‘They teach us to be accurate and questioning!’ Her manner was tart, a little defensive, and all because of that disturbing touch. If she could extract her hand casually, or... A tiny shudder was repressed. What if she were to obey her instincts, if she were to turn her hand over so their palms were in contact, with the possibility of fingers lacing? Her eyes grew dreamy with longing and there was a powerful but unfamiliar sensation in the pit of her stomach...

And then he moved, severing the moment, the indulgence. She sighed relief and...and she would not think of frustration. Hurriedly she tried to backtrack. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

‘And that was?’

Now she must keep the conversation light, with no opportunity for emotional complications. ‘Where do you imagine I shall be in two years’ time?’ Oh, heavens! Was she being deliberately provocative? Inviting speculation which she hoped would flatter or at least please her?

‘Married, I should say was the most likely scenario.’

‘Married?’ Her tone suggested he’d mentioned a synonym with slavery and bondage. ‘But even if I were to marry...’ she continued with the pretence that such a circumstance had never entered her mind, longing to grin at herself but managing to keep a straight face. ‘...and that would be if the worst should happen—that does not mean I would leave the company.’

‘It might.’ He pursed his lips, his amused expression lingering. ‘But, then again, it might not. I concede to that extent.’

The best defence was attack, and at that moment she felt much in need of defence—from her own feelings if from nothing else. ‘Now, Mr Vanbrugh, first of all, you don’t even know me. I might be already married.’

‘No ring.’ He caught her left hand, smiling in triumph, and took it to his mouth.

Without an impressive degree of self-control she would surely have flinched, but she was confident her inner turmoil was totally concealed—other than, perhaps, a tiny tremble in her voice which might have given him a clue.

‘Neither,’ she began firmly, ‘do you wear a ring.’ They ought not to be going down this road, ought not to be acting in this silly, almost—oh, heavens—almost flirtatious way. At least, she ought not to be—he might be excused. ‘But I certainly do not make the deduction that you are unmarried...’

‘It would be the right one.’

His reply in itself might have set off alarm bells, but all she was aware of was a throb of satisfaction. ‘Nevertheless, it need not have been.’

‘Are you telling me...?’ When she pulled gently, he released her hand. ‘Are you telling me I was wrong to draw implications from the absence of a ring?’

‘Not exactly,’ she said primly, repressing the desire to smile but capitulating when he grinned.

‘I rest my case.’ Both of them sat back, smiling at each other, while waiters came to remove plates and to serve the next course.

It was impossible, she conceded with a tiny pain immediately below her ribs, to pretend she didn’t find him dangerously attractive. In a room full of good-looking, wealthy men he stood out. That was not simply her own opinion—more than one woman in their immediate neighbourhood would probably be willing to neglect her escort for Jake Vanbrugh. That he had been recognised when they arrived was obvious—he had exchanged casual greetings with several couples but had shown no signs of wishing to linger or introduce them to Ginny.

They were drinking strong black coffee when he dropped his bombshell, one which made her crash down her cup and look at him in consternation. ‘On Saturday, Ginny, I’m going down to Richmond to visit my parents. I want you to come with me.’

‘What?’ She frowned, taking a moment to allow her brain to absorb the implications. Then her reaction was immediate. ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly; I wouldn’t dream of intruding.’ The whole situation was getting out of hand. It was Mr Hugo Vanbrugh she had come all this way to see; there had been no intention of becoming involved with other members of his family.

She felt a sob begin to rise in her throat as thoughts of her own deceit began to hit her. She had meant to be so honest, so understanding. Certainly the last thing in her mind had been the possibility of some kind of perverse emotional entanglement. But she could at least nip that in the bud—she herself was the only one who might suffer and...

‘You wouldn’t be.’ The flimsy excuse was disregarded the instant it was uttered, and with the smiling charm which was proving impossible to resist.

They decided to stroll back to her hotel. The limousine was dismissed and it was impossible for Ginny to deny the pleasure of the experience—being with a handsome man with unobtrusive good manners, added to a certain amount of euphoria engendered by the wine...

‘My parents are hospitable people,’ he continued, his hand touching her elbow to warn of an obstruction in their path. ‘And I know they would love to see you.’

Now his touch became more of a threat. He seemed to be tempting her into a trap of her own making, arousing feelings she was reluctant to face, and her shiver was an involuntary reaction.

‘You’re cold. I knew we should have been driven.’

‘No, I’m not cold.’ She took a firm grip of herself. ‘Not in the very least. It was simply... Anyway...’ A change of subject was indicated, before she lost herself in a maze of unconvincing explanations. ‘I don’t feel I can go, Jake, I... I took only a few days off work...’

‘You won’t see my father otherwise. He and my mother are off on a cruise next week, so... you’d best fly down with me if you want to see him.’

They had reached the hotel and went in and sat down in the foyer, deserted now but for the young man who sat yawning behind the reception desk.

‘Besides, apart from that—’ his eyes were signalling a message she hardly dared translate ‘—I want to see you again.’

His swift, unexpected touch, just the brush of a finger against her cheek, brought her heart leaping in wild agitation.

‘More than that, I’m determined on it. You may not know it—’ he leaned forward, his manner becoming more intimate ‘—but Hugo Vanbrugh is a very determined man, used to getting his own way, and I’ m cast in the same mould as my father.’ He smiled as if his words were not to be taken entirely literally—he might even have been amused by her wide-eyed expression of shock.

Yes, she thought numbly, she could see that Hugo Vanbrugh was someone very used to having his own way—she was living proof of that, and she felt a stab of disgust. What kind of man was it who would seduce a lonely young wife? It was convenient to forget her mother’s willing participation... Then Jake’s voice brought her back from her reverie.

‘But you look tired. Why don’t you go up to bed now?’ Automatically she allowed herself to be led to the lift, and stood waiting while it was summoned. ‘Have a good night’s sleep.’ Again a finger brushed tenderly, this time against her mouth. ‘I shall have Karen bring over all the details tomorrow and I shall pick you up here on Saturday morning. Good-night.’

Leaning back in the furthest corner of the lift, she watched the doors slide closed to exclude him. Only then did she release a great sigh, as if, by some feat of courage and daring, she had escaped encroaching danger. And it was a few seconds before her disordered thoughts were sorted to the extent that she could recognise the exact nature of that danger.

There was only one thing for it: she must leave New York at the first opportunity—tomorrow morning if possible. There were many places in the States where she could happily spend the rest of her short stay. Boston or St Louis, even Sioux City—anywhere that the Vanbrugh empire was unlikely to extend, and where, perhaps more to the point, Jake Vanbrugh was unlikely to think of looking for her.

Certainly the present situation was one she could never have envisaged. It had all been so carefully plotted—to come and to make the most discreet contact with the man who had fathered her so many years ago. It was not difficult to visualise how much of a shock such a piece of news might be to a happily married man.

She knew few men would welcome such news, and that was why she had been so cautious, why she had concocted such a misleading explanation. She had meant to cause no anxiety—her first concern would have been to assure him there was no threat of exposure. And then after passing on the few things which might have held some sentimental interest for him, they would have said goodbye, she would have returned to her job in London and any future meetings would have been arranged by mutual consent.

It had been her hope, but no more, that their meeting would settle the deep uncertainty which had troubled her after discovering the truth about her birth. And if it didn’t then she was determined it would be her problem, one she would keep to herself and not expect him to share.

True, there had been the fanciful notion that he might from time to time visit her in the UK, that they could get to know each other, might even find they liked each other. After all, since her mother had fallen so hopelessly in love with him, and he with her mother, Ginny and he were bound to find some common ground. And, in a strange way, she felt she would be doing something for her mother—completing a story which had been unresolved for more than a quarter of a century.

She reached her bedroom and began, listlessly, to unbutton her blouse. Only, the plans she had made had begun to unravel the moment she’d reached New York. For one thing, on finding the company had offices in the city centre, she had rushed off immediately. Experience ought to have told her it was unlikely she would be ushered into the presence of the top man—life in the higher echelons simply did not work like that and, in any case, what she had most certainly not anticipated was meeting not the man himself, but his son. Still less had her wildest flights of fancy expected that, after a few hours’ acquaintance, she would find herself in the gravest danger of falling in love.

There! She had faced up to the dread which had been hovering at the back of her mind all evening. Her knees gave way and she sank onto the bed. Fingers pressed against her mouth, she stared at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, hardly noticing that her face was drained of colour or that her eyes were wide with shock.

In spite of herself she was reliving that moment in the restaurant when she’d had that yearning to turn her palm up to his, to feel the brush of sensitive skin on... A shudder of something very close to fear ran through her.

With determination she got up and began to walk about the room, putting clothes away as she made up her mind to deal with the dangers.

If she was to keep on reminding herself that Jake Vanbrugh was her half-brother then all these juvenile feelings would die down. It was most likely all down to the intense emotions of the past months, plus the very fact of arriving in New York. The combination was more than enough to knock anyone off balance.

Slightly more relaxed, she pulled her nightdress over her head and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Tomorrow she would leave a polite little note for Jake, letting him know that a distant cousin had flown in from Nova Scotia and had persuaded her to join a trip to Niagara Falls. The permutations were endless.

Ginny pulled the light-cord and stood in the half-dark, dreading that moment when the bedside lamp would be extinguished and she would face the bleak terror of the night. There was a word used to describe illicit feelings between certain blood relatives, one from which she shrank with disgust.

But it was firmly lodged there at the back of her mind and she could drive it out only by seeing Jake Vanbrugh as he was—her half-brother. She had to find the strength to take him up on his invitation, to fly down to Richmond with him. It was the only way she would be forced to face the truth and to see Jake Vanbrugh as her father’s son. That was what he was and always would be. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more.

CHAPTER TWO

GINNY moved among the guests, smiling, exchanging pleasantries, answering the various queries about herself. It was the kind of life to which it would. be dangerously easy to become addicted. Alone for a moment, determined to ignore the strange feeling of discomfort in her chest, she stood back, taking in the sheer elegance of the room.

Three high arched windows were thrown open to the covered terrace, where friends lingered chatting. Beyond that were acres of immaculate lawn. There were rose bushes, each blooming, or so it seemed, at the height of its fragrant perfection. And so many beautifully dressed people, iced drinks clinking, all so animated, friendly and sophisticated.

It was everything that came to mind when one considered these East Coast states. Richmond was very nearly a caricature of itself—the very scene one would have lapped up in a glitzy TV miniseries.

Inside, too, there was so much good taste in the discreet furnishings, which ranged through soft creams to the more subtle gamboge and tawny golds. Pale walls were the perfect backdrop for the small collection of modern paintings, while at the far end the grand piano—music by Chopin on the stand-was waiting for the hostess to sit and entertain her guests.

‘Ginny, my dear.’ The slow, drawling tones of that very woman made Ginny turn and fix a smile firmly on her mouth. ‘I hope my son isn’t neglecting you. I do so want everyone to enjoy the afternoon.’

‘No.’ How breathless and unsure she sounded. Not at all like Mrs Vanbrugh. ‘I’m enjoying myself enormously. It’s a real pleasure to spend time in such lovely surroundings, meeting such friendly people. And I have a drink here.’ She reached for the glass of mint julep and sipped appreciately. ‘Mmm. Delicious. And once again, my very best wishes for your anniversary. A ruby wedding is something rather special.’