The Longest Pleasure

To begin with, she had found it very hard to live alone. She had known few people in the capital, and the temporary receptionist’s job she found hardly paid her food bills. Without the allowance her grandmother had insisted on paying her, she wouldn’t even have been solvent, and she had fought a losing battle with her conscience every time she cashed a cheque.

Her meeting with Melanie Forster had come at a time when she had seriously begun to question the sense in what she was doing. It was January, and having just been home to Castle Howarth for Christmas, Helen had been made acutely aware of the shortcomings of the life she had chosen to lead. Everything at home had been so warm; so familiar; returning to her poky, one-roomed flat in Kensington, she had been sorely tempted to abandon her bid for emancipation.

A few years older than Helen, Melanie was another ex-pupil of St Agnes, and that had been sufficient reason for their friendship to develop. Unlike Helen, Melanie was a Londoner, born and bred. Her mother was dead, and her father was a politician, struggling against a failing economy to sustain the life he had always led. In no time at all, their house in St John’s Wood became a second home to Helen, and she was always welcome, whenever she chose to call.

It didn’t take long for Helen to discover that Melanie was looking for someone to help finance a business venture she was considering. She owned the lease of a small shop in Beatrix Street, and she wanted to use the shop to sell antiques. Looking back, Helen occasionally wondered whether Melanie’s insistence that they should be friends had been as innocent as it had at first seemed. Certainly, as Lady Sinclair’s granddaughter, she must have seemed like a gift from the gods. Melanie needed finance, and after some persuasion on Helen’s part, her grandmother had agreed to advance her the money. After some initial hiccoughs, Pastiche had opened, and right from the beginning, their gamble had paid off.

The success of the shop had exceeded their wildest dreams. The combination of Melanie’s shrewdness and Helen’s instinctive feeling for old furniture and paintings had proved effective, and the position of the shop made it a focal point for tourists. It was also true that Helen’s striking appearance and forthright manner had disarmed some of the toughest dealers in the trade, but it was their mutual skill in business which had made the venture a success. If Melanie’s talents were best employed in selling, Helen had found her niche in uncovering items of value in the most unexpected places. Because she was young, and feminine, old people tended to trust her, and she acquired a reputation for honesty and fair dealing. She had patience, and compassion, and although the shop’s turnover couldn’t match the larger of their competitors, their profits pleased their accountant.

Of course, her grandmother had known of her success. Helen had been unable to hide the pride with which she had returned her grandmother’s investment to her—with interest. Besides, she had since admitted that she had also wanted Rafe to hear what she had done. Knowing Nan, as she did, she felt pretty sure he would hear of it, one way or another. And this awareness, in its turn, assuaged a little of the bitterness she felt every time she thought of him.

Tom Fleming’s death had been, she supposed, the final contributory factor to the breakdown of her relationship with her grandmother. At the time, she had thought no more of it than she would of the death of any of her grandmother’s employees. It was sad. He had been comparatively young—only fifty-seven—but these things happened. It was the way of the world. She had not attended his funeral but, once again, her grandmother had not expected her to. She had sent condolences to his widow—and, reluctantly, to the family—but that was all.

The first inkling she had had that Rafe had come back to Castle Howarth had come a few weeks later. Helen had driven home for the weekend and, after parking her car in the courtyard, she had walked nonchalantly into the house. It had been a dull November day, she remembered, and she had been anticipating warming her hands over the open fire in her grandmother’s sitting room. Nan had always kept an open fire in her sitting room, even though the other rooms were heated by rather ancient radiators.

The sight of Rafe Fleming, lounging in the armchair opposite her grandmother, taking tea, had caused a feeling much like a body blow to Helen’s midriff. It wasn’t so much seeing him—although it had been some years since she had done so; it was the apparent intimacy of his relationship with her grandmother; the cosy way Nan was sharing her tea with him, and Rafe’s evident ease in these familiar surroundings.

Of course, the impact of his presence had twisted like a knife. The hatred she still felt for him had never faltered. What shocked her most was the ability he still had to strip her of her defences, and although her anger sustained her, she was shaken to the core.

And, as always, her frustration had turned on her grandmother. Had she no conception of what it meant to her to come home and find him—the usurper—occupying her place? she demanded wordlessly. Didn’t she know what he was like? Couldn’t she see the kind of man he was?

But, of course, only the bitter voice inside her answered. No, it said, her grandmother had no conception of Rafe’s real character. She didn’t know how he had teased and tormented her granddaughter over the years. She didn’t know of his sexual exploits, or of the near-rape in the long meadow, which had left Helen wary of any man, good or bad. So far as Nan was concerned, he was almost family; the son she had never had. And Rafe took damn good care not to jeopardise their relationship by showing her his darker side.

To his credit, Rafe had not lingered long after Helen’s arrival. With the sinuous grace that had always come so naturally to him, he had risen to his feet at her entrance and offered her his seat. The fact that she had refused it didn’t seem to trouble him. The cool green eyes she remembered from her nightmares were as enigmatic as a glacier. The polite words that moved his lips gave no inkling of what he was really thinking, but he must have made the right noises because her grandmother had noticed nothing amiss.

For her part, Helen had barely glanced at him. After that first visual confrontation, she had avoided looking at him: but for all that, she had been unable to prevent his image from imprinting itself on the insides of her eyelids. She recalled thinking that Tracy would have been impressed to see him now. He had fulfilled all her girlish fantasies, and the slim, good-looking boy had become a lean, attractive man. He was different, though; she sensed that. His face was still familiar, but it was tougher; harder. Evidence of the life he had been leading, she had assumed, her lips curling contemptuously when she was unwillingly reminded of how slavishly she had once hung on his every word. What a fool she had been, she thought wryly. Thank God she had had the good fortune to find out what he was really like, before it was too late.

But the news Nan had had to impart had driven all other considerations out of her head.

Rafe had apparently offered to take his father’s place on the estate. As Helen was absorbing this unbelievable piece of information, Lady Elizabeth had gone on to say, with evident satisfaction, that he was doing it for her! In a pig’s eye! Helen had thought furiously, but her grandmother would hear no dissent. If Rafe was willing to leave an apparently secure position with Chater Chemicals and return to Castle Howarth as her agent, she was grateful, and there was no one else she would trust implicitly.

Of course, Helen had been unable to hide her disapproval, and the weekend had been an unmitigated disaster. Helen had returned to London on Sunday afternoon, and that was the last time she had visited her old home. The few subsequent occasions when she and Nan had met had been in London, and although at Christmas, particularly, she had felt a sense of loss, Adam’s entry into her life had filled the empty space.

It was strange, she thought now, her hands involuntarily seeking the tail of her braid and spreading the hairs between her fingers; Rafe had been the cause of the rift between her and her grandmother, and yet they had never actually talked about it. Oh, she had grumbled about him when she was younger, just as she had when she was four, but Nan had never allowed a discussion on the subject. Even that last weekend at Castle Howarth, when the news of his appointment as agent had been the most obvious talking-point of all, Rafe’s name had seemed taboo. Why? Why wouldn’t her grandmother listen to reason? Had she really been indifferent to his faults, or had Rafe actually seemed a paragon to her? Whatever her reasoning, she would never know now, Helen reflected with bitter acceptance. But when she drove down to Wiltshire in the morning, she would assume her role as Castle Howarth’s mistress, and nothing Rafe said or did could change her opinion of him …

Helen left the motorway at Basingstoke and took the A30 to Salisbury. It would have been quicker to go via Andover, but she was chary of crossing Salisbury Plain in the worsening weather conditions. At least the more southerly route looked a little less hazardous, but by the time she reached the old cathedral city, her windscreen wipers were clogged with driving snow. It was just as well Adam couldn’t see her now, she decided wryly. He worried if she drove in frosty weather, and today would more than justify his concern. The snow was thickening by the minute, and she thought how fortunate it was that she had set away early that morning. It hadn’t even been light when she drove out of London. The going had been slow but it was only a little after twelve when she drove into Salisbury.

She hadn’t stopped at all during the journey, but now she was obliged to do so, the physical needs of her body demanding relief. The car-park of the Blue Boar seemed to offer the easiest solution, and after locking the doors of the Porsche, she struggled across the slushy yard and into the hotel.

It was years since she had last used the old hotel’s amenities, but she remembered her grandmother bringing her here for afternoon tea during shopping trips to the city. The entrance from the car-park brought her into the carpeted corridor next to the powder-room, and she made use of its facilities before walking on into the attractive reception lounge. A log fire was burning in the huge hearth, and several people were clustered about the chintz-covered settees, drinking tea or coffee, or eating some of the delicious sandwiches the management provided for guests only requiring a snack meal.

Helen hesitated on the fringe of the group, wondering if she really had the time to wait for sandwiches. There was no sign of the waitress, and while it would have been pleasant to relax in front of the fire, she was apprehensive of becoming stranded.

She was also aware that her appearance had attracted an undue amount of attention. Not caring much for anything beyond keeping dry and warm, she had dressed in a black jumpsuit and long leather boots, with a knee-length orange parka overall. It was its vivid colour which was attracting attention, she decided, ignoring the fact that to the residents of the quiet hotel she herself was an exciting diversion. With her pale skin showing just a hint of becoming colour, and her smoky-purple eyes shadowed with anxiety, she was quite startlingly beautiful, without the silky richness of her hair to add to her individuality. In the conservative surroundings of the Blue Boar’s panelled lounge, she was as alien as an exotic bird of paradise, and it was difficult to ignore so many curious faces.

At that moment, she caught the eye of the hotel receptionist, and with a smile of acknowledgement, he came out from behind his desk to walk towards her. At last, she thought, looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. If he could just tell her how long it would take to get something to eat, she could decide then whether or not she had the time.

With her attention concentrated on the approaching receptionist, she was unaware of a man who had been drawn to the doorway of the adjoining bar by the sudden buzz of speculation. A tall man, dressed in tight-fitting woollen pants and a black leather jacket, he surveyed the newcomer with grim concentration for a moment, before abandoning his stance and starting purposefully towards her.

The two men reached her simultaneously, and Helen, suspecting his motives, turned to give the second man a freezing look. However, her intentions received a sudden reversal. Even as her astonished eyes registered who it was, the receptionist identified him, and his polite: ‘Is this the young lady you were waiting for, Mr Fleming?’ left no room for manoeuvre.

‘Helen,’ he acknowledged unsmilingly, his expression impossible to read. Then, turning to the hotel employee, he added smoothly: ‘Yes. This is Miss Michaels, Trevor. And we’ll have that soup now, if you don’t mind.’ Ignoring Helen’s indignant face, he glanced around before indicating a table at the far side of the lounge. ‘Over there. Speed it up. We don’t have much time.’

The young man didn’t wait to check if these arrangements suited Helen, she saw to her fury. He simply grinned her way before hastening off towards the kitchens, and she was left to confront the one man she least desired to face.

‘You have a nerve!’ she exclaimed in an undertone, still overwhelmingly aware of their audience, but Rafe seemed unperturbed. With supreme indifference, he gripped her upper arm and guided her across the room to where a table was waiting, practically pushing her into the depths of the armchair beside it before taking the settee opposite.

Helen glared at him, but his clear green gaze was more than a match for her sparkling resentment. Settling himself more comfortably against the cushions, he rested one booted ankle across his knee, surveying his surroundings critically before returning his attention to her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she accused, wondering what he would do if she attempted to leave. It was a temptation to find out, but she loathed making scenes, and she very much suspected Rafe would have no qualms about humiliating her.

‘What do you think?’ he responded now, the thick, sun-bleached lashes that fringed his eyes narrowing his gaze, and she gave an impatient shrug.

‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,’ she retorted, keeping her voice down with difficulty. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the Blue Boar was your kind of habitat. Isn’t it rather old-fashioned for someone with your tastes?’

‘You don’t know what my tastes are,’ remarked Rafe without heat, and Helen was furiously aware that he was handling matters better than she was. ‘Here’s the food. I hope your animosity won’t prevent you from enjoying it. It’s usually rather good.’

The receptionist served them himself, setting down earthenware bowls of a thick chicken soup, and a napkin-lined basket filled with warm bread rolls. There were creamy curls of butter in an earthenware dish, set beside wooden salt and pepper shakers, and a generous jug of steaming coffee, with cups and saucers made at the local pottery.

‘Is everything all right, Mr Fleming?’ he asked, after checking that the rolled napkins contained the correct amount of cutlery, and Rafe nodded.

‘Thanks,’ he acknowledged briefly, pressing a note into the young man’s hand, and although Helen would have preferred to pay for her own meal, she could hardly say so, not just then.

In fact, the soup was delicious, and Helen was too hungry to spite him by not eating. Besides, she doubted he would care, one way or the other. Whatever his reasons for being here—and it appeared he had been waiting for her—there would be time enough to consider them after the meal was over. For the moment, the fact that she had left that morning without breakfast seemed to have most significance, and she felt sure she would find it easier to deal with him once the emptiness inside her had been filled.

The coffee was just as she liked it, strong and black, but she added a spoonful of sugar to take away any bitterness. As she poured herself a second cup, she noticed Rafe had eaten rather less enthusiastically than she had, and although he had drunk one cup of coffee, he made no attempt to pour a second.

She had shed her parka as they ate, but now Helen shouldered her arms back into it, feeling considerably warmer than she had before. It had been warm enough in the car, but outside it was decidedly chilly, and she had no doubt that if it stopped snowing it would probably start to freeze. Which reminded her of the number of miles she still had to cover and, looking at Rafe, she arched her dark brows: ‘May I go now?’ she inquired coolly.

‘Are you still driving that sports car?’ he asked, without really answering her question, and Helen seethed.

‘If it’s any business of yours!’

‘It is.’ Rafe wiped his mouth on the napkin and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘You’ll never make it to Castle Howarth in a sports car. The roads beyond Yelversley are practically impassable to any vehicle without a four-wheel drive. You can leave your car here. I’ll take you myself.’

‘You won’t!’ Helen came instinctively to her feet, and then, aware that once again she was drawing attention to them, she added huskily: ‘Why can’t I just—follow you, if you insist on escorting me? I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been driving for years!’

Rafe shrugged. ‘Like I said, the roads are impassable. Now—do you want a lift, or don’t you? You can always take a room here, if you’d prefer to wait and see if there’s any improvement tomorrow.’

Helen pressed her lips together. ‘How did you know I’d come this way?’ she exclaimed resentfully. ‘I could have gone via Andover.’

‘It was an educated guess,’ he replied, connecting the two sides of his jacket and running the zip half up his chest. His eyes were disturbingly intent. ‘As there was a white-out warning for the Andover road, it was reasonable to assume you’d choose the A30.’

‘Even so…’ Helen was not convinced. ‘What made you think I’d come in here?’

‘Your daily woman said you’d left without breakfast,’ retorted Rafe surprisingly, and Helen gasped.

‘You rang my apartment this morning?’

‘To tell you not to come,’ agreed Rafe, stepping round the settee and gesturing towards the exit. ‘Shall we get moving? It may be that we’ll both have problems before we get there.’

Helen shook her head, but she was obliged to follow him. The snow had become a little too thick for comfort, and if she was honest she would admit to a certain relief at not having to drive any further on her own. All the same, she resented the arrogance with which he had made himself responsible for her safety. She would like to have told him she didn’t need anything from him, but for the present, it seemed, she had no choice but to do as he suggested.

Rafe unlocked the door of a dark green Range Rover which was also parked in the hotel yard, and then said: ‘Give me your keys?’

‘Why?’

Helen was unwilling to be more amenable than she had to, and Rafe’s nostrils flared. ‘All right,’ he said, opening the door of the Range Rover and climbing indolently behind the wheel. ‘Get your own luggage then, but be quick about it. As you can see, the conditions are getting impossible. And I have no intention of spending the night trapped in here just because you choose to be awkward.’

Helen’s jaw clamped, but she had brought this on herself. With ill-grace, she slipped and slid across the yard, almost losing her balance as she lifted her bags out of the Porsche, and then struggled back again to deposit them on the back seat.

‘Is that all?’ inquired Rafe drily, viewing the two suitcases and the navy-blue canvas hold-all with a sardonic eye. ‘You don’t believe in travelling light, do you?’

‘Is it any of your business?’ snapped Helen, casting one last regretful look at the sleek little sports car, now becoming submerged beneath the unabating blizzard. Her lips tightened as she turned back to observe his comfortable vehicle. ‘Does this belong to the estate? It’s quite an improvement on the Land-Rover your father used to drive.’

‘It’s mine,’ remarked Rafe in a laconic tone as he reversed out of the space the Range Rover had occupied, and swung the wheel towards the road. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. I bought it myself.’

‘With money my grandmother gave you, I suppose,’ retorted Helen tartly, still smarting from having to carry her own cases, and Rafe cast her a brief look.

‘With money she paid me,’ he amended, with an inclination of his head. ‘I’ve worked for the old lady for the past three years. Naturally, I was paid a salary.’

‘Worked!’ Helen was scathing. ‘I can think of other names for it!’

‘As I can for the allowance she made you,’ conceded Rafe, revealing a discomfiting familiarity with her grandmother’s affairs. ‘Now, shut up, there’s a good girl! I’ve got enough to do here keeping us moving.’

‘Don’t patronise me!’

Helen fairly flung the words at him, but Rafe ignored her. As he had said, the treacherous conditions left little room for error, and although she was tempted to tell him exactly what she planned for him right there and then, common sense warned her to wait until she was on her own territory. She had plenty of time to deal with him. He would soon learn the difference between a gullible old lady and an astute young one.

CHAPTER THREE

OUTSIDE the town, the lowering skies made headlights a necessity, even in the middle of the day. Such traffic as there was could only move at a snail’s pace, and although the Range Rover would have had the advantage, the crawling stream of vehicles made overtaking impossible.

Yelversley was still some fifteen miles away when Rafe turned right on to a side road which, though being blessedly free of other traffic, was obviously more hazardous. Helen, who did not recognise any of the names on the partly obliterated signpost gave Rafe a wary look and, as if relenting, he explained:

‘We can get on to the Castle Howarth road if we cut through Farnham Woods,’ he told her evenly. ‘With a bit of luck, the snow won’t have drifted among the trees. It may be a bit rougher, but it should be a damn sight quicker.’

Helen lifted her shoulders. ‘If you say so.’

‘A concession?’ Rafe’s mouth took on a mocking slant. ‘Do you want to take a turn at driving?’

‘No, thanks.’

Helen looked away from his humorous expression, unwillingly aware that even with the advantage of being able to control all four wheels she would not have wanted the responsibility. She didn’t want to admit it, but she knew that if Rafe hadn’t come to meet her, she would never have got this far. As it was, she realised that for all her dislike of the man, she had complete confidence in his abilities, and if anyone could get her to Castle Howarth, it had to be Rafe.

Of course, he knew the area so much better than she did, she consoled herself defensively. He had lived here most of his life, whereas she had spent her formative years at boarding school and left home as soon as she gained her maturity.

All the same, she had reason to admire Rafe’s driving skills as they turned on to the woodland track and began the perilous passage through the trees. He had been right in assuming the snow would be less deep here, but the earth beneath the tyres was frozen solid, and the Range Rover skidded frequently on patches of black ice. Helen’s fingers were locked on the rim of her seat, even though her seat-belt provided adequate protection. Nevertheless, her hands were sticky by the time they emerged from the wood, and she didn’t relax until they had covered the width of the verge and made a crab-like swerve back on to the road.

‘All right?’ Rafe inquired, as she ran her tongue over her dry lips and shuffled back in her seat, and after a moment Helen nodded.

‘Fine,’ she proffered in a taut voice, and he gave her a half-amused look.