Act Of Betrayal

She said, ‘What the hell are you doing here, Jason? Whatever impression Celia may have given, you must know you’re not welcome in this house.’

‘On the contrary,’ he sounded amused. ‘I confidently expect to become the year’s most honoured guest. As for why I’m here—I came to return this to you.’ He took a small gold cylinder from his pocket, and tossed it towards her. ‘So, if you were imagining that I’d followed you here, drooling with lust, think again.’

She looked stupidly down at her own lipstick. ‘Where …? Oh, it must have fallen out of my bag when I dropped it.’

‘Right,’ he said unemotionally. ‘And I assumed you might need it at some time.’

‘It could have waited,’ she said. ‘You could have given it to Fergie—my uncle’s secretary. Anyway, thank you.’

‘Graciously spoken,’ Jason approved sardonically. He sat down at the other end of the sofa, leaning back, very much at his ease. ‘Well, aren’t you going to pour the tea?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m sure Celia would prefer to do that. She’s the hostess here, after all.’

‘And you’re what? The skivvy? The Cinderella of the establishment, with that lipstick the nineteen eighties equivalent of the glass slipper?’

She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t be ridiculous. And don’t—don’t judge by appearances either. I’m glad to do anything I can for Uncle Martin. It’s the least I can offer in exchange for a roof over my head.’

‘You had a roof over your head,’ he said softly. ‘A perfectly adequate one—although not admittedly as flash as this.’ He looked around, his lips curling slightly. ‘What charming decor? Your choice?’

He knew perfectly well that it wasn’t, she thought stormily. On one of their few visits to his house during their brief marriage, she’d told him how much she loved the quiet charm of this room, with the pale silk wallpaper and faded chintzes which had furnished it then.

She said quietly, ‘It was time for a change.’

‘A telling phrase,’ he said cynically, and the colour ran into her face. She leaned forward and began to pour the tea, praying that her hand wouldn’t shake and betray her. ‘And not the only change,’ he added. ‘There’s also yourself. You’ve allowed yourself to become a shadow, instead of the flesh and blood I remember. If I painted you now, what would there be—just a soft blur in the background?’

‘You still paint?’ To her annoyance, the question was out before she could prevent it.

‘Sometimes.’ He sent her a cool smile as he took the cup from her. ‘If I can find a subject which appeals to me. I have to be more selective these days, now that my time is limited.’

Underneath her confusion of anger and anxiety, she was conscious of the stirrings of regret. He’d been a truly talented painter, and his work had just started to sell, even though he’d refused to compromise his arresting, almost violent style. He’d believed in himself, and in his work, and it seemed impossible that now he’d relegated it to the role of a hobby, to be pursued in whatever leisure he allowed himself.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said, ‘It was time for a change,’ mocking her with her own words.

She drew a breath. ‘And—the change was Tristan Construction? How did that come about?’

‘Through the death of my father,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘The company belonged to him.’

She swallowed. ‘I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you, Laura? I can’t imagine why. You never knew him. In fact, you didn’t even believe he existed.’ She was suddenly and chillingly aware of the anger in him, the violence just below the surface.

She said tightly, ‘I had good reason—if you remember.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ he said too gently. ‘Every detail of the whole bloody mess is indelibly engraved on my memory, darling, believe me.’

‘You both look very fierce,’ Celia said from the doorway. ‘Would you rather throw this cup than drink out of it?’

Laura said levelly, ‘I’d really prefer to do neither. So, if you’ll both excuse me.’

She got up, and he watched her, his mouth smiling, but his eyes grim. He said, ‘Until later then.’

‘Later,’ she repeated.

‘The drinks party, sweetie,’ Celia chirped. ‘For the Tristan executives. I’ve decided to do my bit for Caswells at last. Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Over the moon,’ Laura said wildly, wondering why Celia hadn’t been strangled at birth.

Celia pouted prettily. ‘Laura’s always telling me I don’t take sufficient interest in the company. But all that’s going to change from now on.’ She sent him a mischievously provocative look from under her lashes. ‘In fact, I’m going to take the most amazing interest in every aspect of its dealings.’ She giggled. ‘This party is only the start.’

Jason smiled at her. ‘It should be a truly memorable evening for us all,’ he said.

His tone was light, but over Celia’s blonde head, he looked at Laura, and his eyes were bleak with a warning it was impossible to ignore.

She walked to the door, and left them alone together.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE found she was still clutching the lipstick. She unclenched her hand, and put the little tube down on the dressing table in her room. It had left marks on her hand where she’d been gripping it, and she touched them almost wonderingly.

She sank down on the stool, and stared at her pale reflection in the mirror. It was true, she thought. She was like a shadow—like the moon to Celia’s golden, confident sun. It had been the same all their lives—even at school. Celia had been ‘the pretty one’ and she’d been ‘the quiet one’ which she supposed was a kind way of saying ‘the plain one’.

She supposed her parents had thought her beautiful. But since then—only one other person …

She bit into the softness of her lower lip, relishing the pain, if only it would help to quell the deeper pain inside her.

All this time, she thought, she’d been struggling to put her life back together again, to reconcile herself to the fact that Jason would never be part of it again. All this time—and, it seemed—all for nothing.

Divorce was like surgery, she thought wearily. And while the operation had been a complete success, the patient, apparently, had not recovered.

She gave a swift shiver, and stood up determinedly. What a triumph for Jason if he could only know how completely she’d been thrown by his sudden reappearance and its implications. But he must never know, she told herself. He’d said their paths were bound to cross, but that was not necessarily so. They could operate on parallel lines, and never meet.

In the meantime, she could get out of this drinks party Celia had arranged, by ‘phoning Alan and asking if they could meet in Burngate. He would be disappointed, she supposed, as she went over to her wardrobe and scanned along the hanging rail for something to wear, but under the circumstances that couldn’t be helped.

None of the garments hanging there were particularly spectacular, she thought with a little mental shrug. They were what Celia disparagingly called ‘background clothes’, neutral in colour and design—part of her recovery camouflage. Yet now she was conscious of a vague dissatisfaction as she selected a silky grey crêpe, with full sleeves and a deeply slashed crossover bodice, and draped it across a chair while she went into her tiny adjoining bathroom to shower and wash her hair.

Usually, she blow-dried her hair, then used a hot brush to curve the ends underneath, and around her face, but as she hadn’t managed the trim she needed, she decided she would wear her hair up for a change.

She was experimenting, twisting the silky strands into various styles, when she heard sounds of departure from downstairs, and a car engine starting up in the drive.

She rose, and trod barefoot across the carpet to her window and looked out from the shelter of the curtain. Inevitably, he was driving the Jaguar which had occupied her space in the car park. If she’d decided to park in the drive, instead of taking the car round to the garages at the back, she would have seen it, recognised it—maybe even been warned.

She watched him drive away towards the town, then turned back to her dressing table with a little sigh. He would be back.

It occurred to her that she ought to warn Mrs Fraser that she wouldn’t be there for dinner. She didn’t want to add a charge of thoughtlessness to the crime sheet against her. And she could ’phone Alan at the same time.

The first errand was simple enough, but the second was more tricky. The ‘phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. She groaned silently as she replaced the receiver. She would have to try later.

When she got back to her room, Celia was stretched on the bed waiting for her. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and malice.

‘Well, sweetie, you’re quite a dark horse aren’t you—but rather silly to think you could ever keep such a delectable man all to yourself. It was just as well I was still in Switzerland while it was all going on, or I might have tried to steal him myself. And he wouldn’t have got away from me so easily.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘He could hardly believe we were cousins.’

Laura picked up her comb again, forcing suddenly nerveless fingers back to their former task. She said tonelessly, ‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first to find it amazing that we’re related.’

‘That’s true,’ Celia agreed limpidly. ‘But he’s by far the most interesting to date.’ She stretched like a little cat. ‘Poor Laura. It was being rather optimistic, sweetie, to think you could ever hold his interest for long.’

Laura’s fingers gripped the edge of the dressing table. She was used to Celia, she thought, inured to the kind of jibes she excelled at, but for the first time she was tempted to rake her nails down that lovely, contemptuous face.

She said with no particular expression, ‘Well, I didn’t labour under that particular misapprehension for very long.’

Celia giggled. ‘No, indeed. It can’t be many men who are unfaithful to their wives during the first year of marriage. Your little honeymoon didn’t last long at all.’ She paused, her eyes fixed almost avidly on Laura’s mirrored reflection. ‘And did you really not know about the Tristan Construction connection? Don’t you think the whole thing’s quite fascinating?’

Laura shrugged, carelessly she hoped. ‘It’s hardly any of my concern. We’re divorced—remember?’

‘How could I forget?’ Celia sounded gloating. ‘And I’m glad you had the sense to let him go without a struggle, Laura. It’s never very dignified fighting a battle you simply aren’t capable of winning.’

Laura dug a last hairpin viciously into the top-knot she’d created, almost transfixing her scalp in the process. ‘Frankly, I don’t think that aspect ever occurred to me.’ She was surprised to realise this was the truth. She’d been too hurt, too shattered by Jason’s infidelity to want to do anything but crawl away and lick the wounds he’d inflicted. To somehow learn to endure the blow she’d suffered to her new-found, fragile confidence in her womanhood.

‘It would have occurred to me,’ Celia said complacently. ‘And I think—yes, I really do think I’d have fought tooth and nail—and won. But that’s the difference between us, isn’t it, sweetie?’

‘One of them, certainly,’ Laura returned. Dissatisfied, she pulled the pins out of her tawny hair and let it spill round her face again.

‘So, I can take it you won’t start fighting now?’ Celia lifted a hand and studied its perfectly manicured nails.

‘I don’t think I understand.’ Laura picked up her jar of moisturiser and began to apply it sparingly to her face and throat.

‘Then think.’ Celia’s voice sounded almost strident suddenly. ‘He doesn’t belong to you anymore, as you’ve just admitted. In fact it’s a moot point whether he ever actually belonged to you at all, even if you did wangle a wedding ring out of him. So, I take it you’ll have no real objection if I have him instead now?’

Laura’s mouth felt so dry, she felt as if her lips might crack open and bleed as she forced the words between them. ‘No, I’ve no reason, and certainly no right to object, but I should warn you your father may well feel very differently. He never liked Jason or approved of him, and I don’t think he’ll care for the fact that you’ve invited him here this evening.’

Celia smiled. ‘He may not have liked the penniless artist who married his little niece for her money, then—done her wrong, as the saying is. But the Jason Wingard who’s now the managing director of a big, successful firm like Tristan Construction is a very different proposition. He’s no fortune hunter now to be shown the door, but an extremely eligible, and incredibly sexy man.’

‘Perhaps.’ Laura could hardly believe how calm she sounded, how collected, when emotionally she felt ravaged. ‘But I still doubt if your father will see it like that, no matter how rich Jason may be now.’

‘If you think for one moment that Daddy would let any personal feelings stand in the way of business, then you don’t know him,’ Celia told her coolly. ‘You told me yourself how important this contract is, and like a dutiful daughter I intend to spare no effort to make sure that Caswells gets this contract, along with any other goodies Tristan Construction might care to throw our way. Your ex-husband was telling me, when you so thoughtlessly interrupted us, that they’re heavily committed to private housing over the next few years, as well as the local projects. And housing estates mean show houses—completely furnished, including carpets.’

‘You seem to have it all worked out,’ Laura said.

‘I have.’ Celia lifted herself off the bed, straightening a crease from her shirt. ‘I just want to make sure, Laura darling, that you aren’t going to be the skeleton at any little feasts I may plan.’ She laughed. ‘Because I intend to mix the firm’s business with a hell of a lot of pleasure.’

‘So, why tell me?’ Laura began to apply foundation in quick jerky movements. ‘What do you want from me? Surely not my blessing?’

‘Hardly.’ Celia’s eyes, bright and predatory, met hers. ‘No, this is just a timely reminder that Jason is no longer your affair, and that I don’t intend to brook any interference from you or anyone else. You had him, and you couldn’t hold him. Well, that’s tough, but it’s the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. Now, it’s my turn.’

Laura replaced the lid on the little jar. She said slowly, ‘Celia—Jason may be legally single, but that doesn’t mean that he’s necessarily—free. Doesn’t it disturb you that there may still be other—priorities in his life?’

‘Why should it?’ Celia gave a negligent shrug. ‘I’m not a naïve, narrow-minded little schoolgirl. And I’ll make damned sure his sole priority in future is me.’

‘Then I wish you luck.’ Laura rose too. ‘Now I’d be glad of some privacy. I’d like to get dressed.’

Celia’s eyes swept her cousin’s slim figure, wrapped in its cotton robe, and her lip curled. She said, ‘What a ridiculous prude you are, Laura. It’s little wonder Jason found himself another woman.’

As the door closed behind her, Laura dropped limply back on to her dressing stool. Celia’s behaviour was incredible, even by her own standards, plumbing new depths of selfishness and arrogance.

But then, there was little wonder, she thought ruefully. Following the death of his wife, Martin Caswell had poured his energy and considerable resources into making sure his only daughter had everything she wanted in life, almost before the wish had been expressed. It wasn’t a healthy situation, and Celia had grown up believing that the world was hers for the taking.

And generally, the world went along with Celia’s belief, Laura was forced to admit. Her name had been linked, at one time or another, with all the wealthiest young men in the locality, but never very seriously, or for very long.

But now Celia had seen a man she wanted at last, and she intended to go after him with that incredible single-mindedness which had always characterised her devotion to her own interests.

And she really thinks, Laura thought with growing anger, that I’m going to sit back and watch her.

She slipped off her robe and began to dress, struggling with normally simple hooks and fasteners.

For the past three years, she’d looked on this house as a refuge, and ignored Celia’s vagaries out of gratitude to Uncle Martin. But in view of Celia’s expressed intentions, this could not go on.

She thought, ‘I’ve got to get out of here, and soon.’

There was a rap on the door, and she jumped nervously, laddering the tights she was smoothing on to her slender legs.

Mrs Fraser appeared. ‘Mr Caswell has come home, and is asking for you,’ she announced magisterially. ‘He’s in the study, and he doesn’t seem best pleased, so I wouldn’t keep him waiting.’

When Laura entered the study a little while later, she decided the housekeeper had not exaggerated her uncle’s peevishness. His usually ruddy colour had deepened alarmingly, and his mouth was set in sour lines.

‘This is a damned mess,’ he greeted Laura fretfully, his tone faintly accusing, as if in some way it was all her fault. ‘Had you any idea this was likely to happen?’

Laura sighed. ‘Uncle Martin, you know quite well I haven’t seen or heard from Jason since before the divorce. The only communication we had after I left was through our solicitors.’

‘Yes, yes, I suppose so.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk, frowning heavily. He said half to himself. ‘And I thought we were rid of him.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Well, it seems we must make the best of it. There’s no room for personalities in business, after all. What’s past is past, and the Tristan contract could be a lifesaver for us. So I hope I can depend on you, Laura, not to make waves.’

Laura’s hands clenched together. ‘Behave in a civilised manner, do you mean?’ she enquired ironically. ‘Now, where have I heard that before?’

Her uncle shrugged irritably. ‘What the hell does it matter? And it’s exactly what I mean. We can’t let our personal feelings get in the way, Laura. Our first loyalty has to be to the firm.’ He paused. ‘Even Celia is going to make every effort …’

‘So I understand.’ Laura looked at him drily. ‘Starting off with a cocktail party this very evening. How will you feel, entertaining Jason under this roof again?’

‘I’ll do what I need to do.’ Martin Caswell walked over to the tray of decanters situated on a side table and poured himself a generous measure of whisky. ‘And so will you, my child, if you know what’s good for you.’

‘I see.’ Laura ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. ‘Uncle Martin—don’t you think it might be better if I went right away from here? This is a very embarrassing situation for all of us and …’

‘Nonsense.’ Martin Caswell slammed his glass down on the desk, slopping some of the contents on to the polished surface. ‘Good God, girl, divorce is no novelty these days. You’re not unique. Besides where would you go? What could you do?’

She looked at him. ‘I’m a good cook. I can keep house. Even these days there are jobs …’

‘You already have a job—here.’ He glared at her. ‘My God, Laura, I thought you had some gratitude in you. I take you in when you’re on your knees, and just when I most need your help, your support, you threaten to walk out.’

‘Am I supposed to have no feelings at all?’ she asked hoarsely.

‘Feelings? Don’t talk to me about feelings when the whole future of Caswells could be at stake.’ He threw himself back in his chair. ‘They want to use the new Fibrona in both these projects they’re committed to locally. If they do, and they like it, it could be worth a fortune in advertising for us. My God, Laura, the stuff isn’t even properly in production yet—the lab still want to do more tests on the fireproofing element—yet somehow Tristan Construction have heard about it, and they’ve beaten a path to our door. I’ve always said Fibrona was revolutionary, and this proves it. It will the saving of Caswells, I tell you.’

Laura said urgently, ‘But it isn’t the only fibre we produce—and we have other customers besides Tristans. Aren’t we putting all our eggs into one rather chancy basket? Supposing we invest heavily in the production of Fibrona, and then Tristan Construction decide they don’t want it after all. What then?’

‘Of course they want it,’ he said. ‘Why else would they have come to us?’

He made it sound unanswerable, but Laura had an uneasy feeling that it was not.

She said quietly, ‘Uncle Martin—I only wish I knew,’ and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

From the windowseat in her room, she watched the cars begin to arrive for the party. She had no choice. She’d rung Alan’s cottage twice in the intervening period, but had received no answer. So—she would wait up here until she saw his car, and persuade him to slip away quietly, without getting involved.

She’d done a lot of hard thinking while she was waiting, but none of the conclusions she’d reached were very happy ones. Uncle Martin was a worried man, and had been for sometime, and like other worried men he was prone to clutch at straws. But that didn’t mean that Jason had walked back into their lives with a lifeline.

He, she thought soberly, had no reason to love Caswells, or wish to do them any favours.

She had tried many times to blot out of her mind the agonising bitterness of that last scene between them. No-one should pay too much credence to things said or done in savage anger, she told herself. But that didn’t alter the fact that one of the last things Jason had said to her was that he would make Martin Caswell pay for his role in the breach between them.

She tried to reassure herself that it had simply been said in the heat of the moment. Tried to tell herself that however cynically immoral his behaviour, Jason was not a vengeful man.

Or was he? What did she know of him, after all? What had she ever known? she asked herself despairingly.

In the early days of their relationship, she’d probed, trying to establish details about his childhood, upbringing, education, family—all the things which had contributed to make the man she’d fallen in love with. But he’d always blocked her questions abruptly, telling her the past didn’t matter—that it was only the present and the future which counted.

In fact, she’d assumed he had no family—that his reluctance to discuss his former life stemmed from the fact that he’d been brought up in a children’s home, or similar institution.

The discovery that his parents were both living had only been the first of the shocks which had torn their married life apart.

And now, he was back and in a position of power. A position where he could hurt Caswell as easily as he could extend a helping hand.

It would be fatally easy for him to encourage her uncle’s company to rush Fibrona into production, then back out at the last moment. Easy—and potential financial devastation for Caswells.

If he wanted revenge for the humiliation that the discovery of his double life, and the subsequent divorce must have caused him, then the weapons for that revenge were at his fingertips. He was a man who kept his secrets well, she thought bitterly. This time, his motives and intentions would all be locked in his mind, safe from any form of investigation.

All she had to go on was a gut reaction that nothing was as simple as it seemed. And Uncle Martin was a hard-headed man. Did he really suspect nothing? Whatever miracle qualities the chemists might claim for Fibrona, she couldn’t believe they were sufficient to have brought Jason Wingard back into their lives.

And she was no longer naïve enough to think it could just be coincidence either.

People were arriving all the time. Celia had been busy. She seemed to have invited half the neighbourhood as well as the members of the Caswell board, and the Tristan executives.

She could hear the faint hum of voices from downstairs each time the drawing room door opened, and Celia’s laugh floating above them all, as sparkling as springwater.