A Guilty Affair

As soon as the heavy front door closed behind Jessica, Bess thrust all thoughts of Helen’s man out of her head, went into the airy sitting room and lit the fire. Although the Old Rectory was centrally heated the early spring day was chilly, and a real fire was always cheerful. When Tom arrived they could have coffee in here and discuss her new job opportunity in comfort and peace.

She had meant to tell him about it last night. But when she’d returned after her encounter with the disgraceful Italian he and Helen had been having one of their vitriolic spats. They’d both looked as if they could slaughter each other.

The way she must have been looking, with burning cheeks and her hair all over the place, must have been the final straw, because Tom hadn’t exchanged more than half a dozen words with her during the remainder of the evening, and every last one of them had been grumpy.

Watching the fire take hold, she heaved an exasperated sigh. She and Tom never fell out; everyone said how compatible they were. But he had seen the Italian sweep her onto the dance-floor; he had seen how she’d looked when she’d eventually returned. Had he guessed what had been happening? If he could have seen the way she’d responded to that devil’s kiss he would have been disgusted. Ashamed of her. And she wouldn’t have blamed him.

Thoroughly ashamed of herself, and not quite knowing how it had happened, she went to the kitchen. Lunch for six. Roast beef and all the trimmings with apple pie to follow. A suitable penance, she reflected as she covered her serviceable grey skirt and neat cream blouse with one of Jessica’s aprons, since cooking was one of her least favourite occupations.

Half an hour later, making pastry, she could happily have hurled the rolling pin at Luke Vaccari’s head when he sauntered through the door. Instead, she controlled herself and said in tones of deceptive docility, ‘Helen’s not up yet. Why don’t you go and wake her?’

She wasn’t going to stoop to her sister’s level and bring up the subject of puffy eyes. And if he did as she’d suggested he’d be doing everyone a favour. He was looking throat-clenchingly virile this morning, in a soft black sweatshirt topping wickedly tight-fitting stone-coloured jeans. So Helen would welcome him into her bedroom with open arms. And his subsequent absence would mean that she and Tom could mend fences in peace and discuss her job offer.

‘Let her sleep. She works hard enough.’ Annoyingly, he refused the bait. He took a slice of prepared apple and crunched it between perfect white teeth. ‘Something smells good. Beef? Is this what you’re best at—finding your way to a man’s heart through his stomach? Is this how you snared Tom?’

He’d said it as if she were incapable of finding a man any other way. And the derisory gleam in his eyes as they wandered over her small, neat person was a back-up statement if ever she’d seen one.

She slapped the pastry topping over the apples and trimmed it with rough, savage sweeps of the knife, a betraying flare of colour on her face as she snapped out, ‘Did no one ever teach you manners? If you’re as rude to Helen as you are to me it’s a wonder she lets you anywhere near her!’

‘I thought the dulcet tones were a put-on.’ His smile was all sinister satisfaction. ‘The antagonism’s still all there.’ He moved closer. ‘What about the fear?’ And closer still, until she was backed against the table, her eyes spitting green fire. His face was all menacing hard lines until he suddenly smiled. ‘It’s there. No need to repeat last night’s lesson.’ And then his tone altered, became gentler, softer. ‘I behave impeccable around Helen. She doesn’t need a bomb under her. But you do.’

Bess didn’t know what he meant. He talked in riddles and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking for answers.

All she wanted was for him to go away. She hated it when he was in the same room, hated it more when he was this close.

She had no way of understanding the untypical violence of her reaction to him but she did know that he robbed her of self-control. He had a shattering effect on her, and before she fully knew what she was doing she was pummelling his chest with floury hands, her head spinning as she ground out, ‘Just leave me alone—you’re insufferable!’

‘Yes, I know.’ He captured both her hands, making no real effort, his lazy eyes laughing into hers as he perched on the edge of the table, drawing her between his parted thighs. ‘Fun, isn’t it?’

Fun? Being forcefully held in such a wickedly intimate position was not her idea of fun. Frustration glared from her eyes as he disregarded her squirming efforts to pull away, his mouth curling with silky amusement as he chided, ‘You haven’t felt this fired up for years. If ever. Admit it. Be honest for once; say what you feel, not what you think other people expect you to feel.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she denied, regretting her inability to iron the quaver out of her voice. ‘Why don’t you back off and leave me alone? You’re Helen’s guest, not mine. I don’t know what you’re trying to do—what you want,’ she finished desperately.

‘I don’t want anything I’m not entitled to try to take,’ he countered enigmatically, his hard thighs tightening on either side of her taut, slender body. ‘I’d be doing you a favour if I forgot my manners and took before I was offered.’

Heat was building up inside her. She couldn’t cope with it. Or him. And if Tom were to walk in now—or Helen—what would they think, seeing them like this?

Panic and guilt pushed her heart up into her throat and forced out a frenzied whimper, and he slid his hands behind her shoulderblades, the pressure inescapable as he pulled her body into his.

‘Relax, Bess.’ His voice was unforgivably soothing, the touch of his hands, the imprisoning, sexy strength of his thighs making her unthinkingly respond to his gentling command as easily as if he’d touched a control button. ‘I’m trying to open your eyes a little, that’s all. I’m not aiming to hurt you, ravage you on the kitchen floor. Because, so far as any of us know, we only have one life to live. I hate waste, and you’re wasting yours.’

‘You know nothing about me,’ she objected, and wondered why her voice was so submissive, why her head was burrowing into the drugging warmth of his impressive shoulders, why the thought of Tom’s imminent arrival meant nothing to her now.

And she felt her entire body lose every scrap of resistance as his lean hand cradled her head as if he liked the way it felt against his body, and he contradicted softly, ‘I knew all about you before I saw you. More from what Helen left out than from what she said. She’s a beautiful, vital woman and as far as she’s concerned you’re not merely her pale shadow, you barely exist. And she’s made sure that’s the way everyone else sees you too. Am I right?’

Bess didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He had made her mind spin off into orbit. This wonderful, shocking intimacy had blanked out her brain, leaving only sensation.

‘It’s a criminal waste,’ he continued in the same husky, hypnotic voice, as if he had expected no reply, not even the smallest effort at self-defence. ‘You have far more potential than you realise, or have been allowed to realise. Tom’s a nice enough guy, but he’s not for you. You deserve more than the safe predictability of life with him. Go out and look for what you’ve never had. Break away—find the passion and drama of living—find yourself.’

The sudden surge of emotion that stormed through her was too intense to be borne and she pushed herself backwards within the confines of his arms. They were both mad. He for spouting such nonsense, she for listening—even for a second. He knew nothing about her; why should he say such things?

‘Let me go,’ she commanded tightly, her face going white when she saw his taunting smile.

The colour flooded shamefully back when he countered, ‘You wanted it. When a woman uses physical force on a man she usually expects a physical response.’ His arms dragged her back into the curve of his body. ‘You asked for this, and you got it. So stop complaining.’ The wicked gleam of his eyes was hidden by the sweep of dark lashes. ‘Or isn’t this enough? Are you asking for more? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Don’t be afraid to admit what you feel.’

‘No!’ Appalled, she pushed the denial out, and to her shame felt her eyes swim with tears of humiliation and shame. Had he been right? It didn’t bear thinking about, but she had never used her fists on anyone before. Had she unconsciously sought physical contact, using the small violence of her fists to provoke a response, taking it for granted that he wouldn’t punch her right back but use a far more devastatingly effective method of responding?

She shook her head to clear it of the awful selfknowledge and the tears brimmed and fell. And that was her salvation, because he put her gently aside, brushing the floury deposits from his shirt, his voice blank as he said, ‘I’ll make coffee. We could both use a cup.’

Bess scrubbed her wet eyes with her apron, too emotionally distraught to say a thing, and turned to the sink, trying to block out the rattle of china, the chink of a teaspoon, to shut down all her senses as far as he was concerned because she didn’t want to know what he was doing. She didn’t want to know he existed at all.

She shot out of the way as he came to her side to fill the kettle—right over to the other end of the room—just as Tom came through the door, rubbing his hands and wrinkling his nose appreciatively.

‘Jessica said you’d offered to make lunch. Smells good.’

His smile was so safe, so uncomplicated. Bess could have hugged him. But she wouldn’t display any emotion in front of Vaccari. She’d done too much of that already—to her everlasting bewilderment and shame. Instead, she said quickly, ‘You’ve timed it right. We’re just about to take a coffee-break.’ Which hadn’t been the right way to put it, she decided wearily as Tom’s face turned sullen, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he watched the elegantly casual Italian take down an extra cup and saucer from the dresser.

‘Break from what?’

Bess swallowed a sigh. Tom would be remembering her hectic appearance after she’d danced with Vaccari last night. She could have said, He’s been manhandling me again. Do something about it. But she said no such thing. She knew, no matter how unjust it was, that the Italian would regard whatever outraged ferocity Tom was able to dredge up with no more trepidation than he would a bluebottle buzzing inside an upturned jar.

So she forced a smile, removing her apron as she walked over to the dresser.

‘A break from cooking. Luke’s just come in from a walk.’ She felt sneaky, and vilely guilty. Vaccari would know now that she was capable of lying to her finance, if only by omission. She took another cup from the dresser. ‘Take coffee up to Helen, would you?’ she asked the enigmatically smiling brute. ‘Tom and I will have ours in the sitting room.’

Thank heaven she sounded cool enough. And if her face was flushed then Tom would put it down to the heat of the kitchen.

But her attempt at appeasement hadn’t worked, she realised as Tom followed her through with the tray of coffee. He sounded peevish as he muttered, ‘Having Vaccari around is spoiling the whole weekend. I can’t think why your mother invited him to stay.’ He slumped down on the sofa, accepting the cup Bess handed him, stirring it irritably.

‘She didn’t. Helen brought him, remember? He’s her latest,’ she stressed. ‘Everyone thinks it’s serious because she’s never introduced one of her menfriends before.’ Colour touched her cheeks. She knew exactly why she’d made a point of mentioning that—forcefully reminding herself that Vaccari was Helen’s man. Though she shouldn’t need the emphasis, should she? She was happily engaged to Tom.

She made an impatient gesture with her hands, brushing the subject aside. She wanted to spend this time discussing her job offer. And for that she needed Tom in receptive mood, and enough time at their disposal to go into the pros and cons very thoroughly.

But the reminder that it had been Helen who had foisted the Italian on them seemed to have added to his displeasure. Bess couldn’t understand it. On the surface, Vaccari was pleasant enough. Tom couldn’t know what he’d said and done to her. And he couldn’t possibly care who Helen got serious about. He couldn’t stand her.

‘What were you thinking of, sending him to wake her?’ Tom grumbled, his face going red. ‘It’s like giving him an invitation to—well—’ He went redder. ‘It’s hardly proper.’ He lifted his cup and gulped at his coffee, as if he needed something to hide behind. Bess swallowed a smile.

Proper! He didn’t know how unintentionally funny he could be. He would hate it if he thought she was laughing at him. But his old-fashioned attitudes, his rock-like steadiness, were the attributes which had drawn her to him. He was comfortable, safe and utterly reliable.

‘Does it matter?’ She perched on the sofa, close to him. ‘Helen can take care of herself.’ The thought that taking care of herself would be the last thing on her sister’s mind right now made her breath snag in her throat and something painful claw at her midriff.

Hating her stupid reaction, she twisted her hands together in her lap, wondering why everything seemed to be going so wrong, and shook her head despairingly when Tom muttered dourly, ‘I just bet she can.’

‘I wish you could find some good in her,’ she sighed. Helen had her faults, but she had her good points too. But Tom would go to his grave believing that everything about her was suspect. ‘She’s my sister, after all. Family. And if you’re going to be at each other’s throats every time you meet it won’t be very comfortable for the rest of us.’

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, but when he took her hand and squeezed it, making her ring dig painfully into her finger, she guessed it was an apology and suggested, ‘Let’s go for a walk after lunch. Just the two of us. There’s something I need to discuss with you.’ And there wasn’t time now, she realised. Not if she had to have lunch ready by the time her parents returned.

‘And that is?’ He carried his cup over to refill it from the coffee-pot on the tray and Bess wondered why he was distancing himself from her. He had never been demonstrative, yet on the all too rare occasions when they’d been alone together he’d always taken the opportunity to cuddle her, his tender kisses making her feel that she counted, was secure.

Could it possibly be that now they were officially engaged he had decided he had no more need to bother with physical assurances of his love and caring? She knew he wasn’t highly sexed, but—

Swallowing an unhelpful spurt of anger, she explained mildly, ‘I’ve had the offer of another job. It would be exciting and challenging, but there would be disadvantages. There’s not time to discuss it now, not with lunch to see to. That’s why I suggested a walk. I’m going back to town tomorrow afternoon and I have to give an answer on Tuesday.’

‘You have a job,’ he pointed out unnecessarily. He took his cup and stood with his back to the fire. ‘It isn’t as if you have a career, as such. You won’t be working at all once we have a family. Why bother to change, especially if there are disadvantages? Why put yourself through the hassle of having to adapt to a new employer?’

‘I won’t have to adapt—’ She bit off her explanation and stood up. She’d known she would have to discuss every detail, pick the subject over endlessly before he would feel able to give a considered opinion. But he appeared to be discounting it entirely without hearing the full story, and she hadn’t known he could be like that.

Moreover, he was looking at her as if he disliked her, and she didn’t understand what was happening. This should have been such a happy weekend but it had turned topsy-turvy, like a bad dream.

She began to stalk out of the room. She really couldn’t bring herself to continue the discussion. She didn’t want to have to talk to him at all. And that horrified her so much that she turned back, dismayed.

‘Let’s talk it through this afternoon. You haven’t heard the details.’

She hadn’t meant to sound antagonistic but hadn’t been able to keep the edge out of her voice, and Tom snapped back, ‘I don’t need to. You’re settled where you are, so why change things? It’s not as if—’

‘I’m a high-flyer,’ she inserted crossly. Part of her brain was seething because he’d written the subject off, as if he couldn’t be bothered to summon an interest. The other part was amazed that they were having their first quarrel.

‘One career woman in the family’s one too many. And no, you’re not a high-flyer, thank the Lord. Stick with what you know, and just be yourself. That’s good enough for me.’

Bess sucked in a painful breath. She felt as if he’d slapped her face. And she felt even worsemortified—when Vaccari’s cool drawl sliced through the heated, ragged atmosphere.

‘Squabbling, my children? We can’t have that, can we?’ His silver eyes mocked her as he sauntered across the room, dropping with boneless grace onto the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of him as he purred, looking deeply, devastatingly, into her wide green eyes, ‘Anything I can do to make things better?’

CHAPTER THREE

‘I SUPPOSE he thought he was being funny,’ Tom muttered, following Bess out to the kitchen.

‘I suppose so,’ she shrugged, tight-lipped. She hadn’t bothered to dignify Vaccari’s remark by making a reply. She’d be a much happier woman if she knew she would never have to speak to him again.

Then, swept by a wave of contrition, she turned and wound her arms around Tom’s waist. ‘I’m sorry I was snappy.’

‘Me too.’ His arms enfolded her briefly. ‘There’s a funny atmosphere this weekend; it’s getting to both of us.’

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and Bess thought, We both know who’s to blame for that, don’t we? and held onto him with quiet desperation until he untangled her arms and offered placatingly, ‘Tell me about your job offer after lunch. But I warn you, I don’t think you should give it any real consideration—’

‘Fine, we’ll just talk about it.’ Miffed, Bess swung briskly away, cutting him off before he could repeat his opinion that she was not, and never would be, high-flyer material.

He was probably right, and she shouldn’t feel hurt because he’d voiced his opinion. This time yesterday she would have agreed with him and possibly even felt a little bit smug about being the sensible sort of woman who knew her limitations and was perfectly content with what she had.

So why was she feeling hurt and undervalued for no reason? No good reason, she amended swiftly, pushing the things Vaccari had said to the bottom of her mind. She couldn’t imagine why. And wasn’t even going to try to work it out.

She became quite cynical when, over lunch, Helen said with sugary surprise, ‘This is perfectly cooked. Well done, little sister. You should have woken me; I could have helped. This is supposed to be your weekend—and Tom’s, of course.’

She was toying with a small slice of beef and looking spectacularly golden in a daffodil-yellow sweater, and her belated offer of help had to be for the Italian’s benefit. Any reply Bess might have made was swamped by Jessica’s, ‘Bess needs the practice. Twelve months from now she’ll have to give Tom three good meals a day. And you need your rest. You told me how tiring your assignment in the Bahamas was—you have to look after yourself. Don’t you agree, Luke?’

‘How awful for you.’ Bess didn’t want to hear gooey, solicitous sentiments from Vaccari, especially not if they were directed at her got-it-all sister. She helped herself to another roast potato. ‘Personally, I’d love the opportunity to tire myself out in the Bahamas.’

And, so saying, she effectively silenced the lot of them.

The afternoon walk with Tom hadn’t been a success either, Bess ruminated as she drove herself back to London on Bank Holiday Monday afternoon.

As soon as they’d set out she’d explained it all. How Mark Jenson, her former boss at the agency, had set up on his own six months ago, renting elegant premises in Knightsbridge, working hard to establish the kind of travel agency that specialised in holidays for the discerning, seriously wealthy traveller.

‘He’s offering off-the-beaten-track unadulterated luxury to people who are willing to pay top whack to be pampered,’ she’d explained. ‘It’s really taking off, and now he needs an assistant to seek out and vet new venues in the more exotic parts of the world to make sure everything meets his high standards. And do you know what? He thought of me! The job’s mine if I want it, but he needs to know by Tuesday.’ Her face had lit up. A little squirm of excitement had built up inside her. It was there whenever she thought about the offer.

But she’d said honestly, ‘The only downside is the newness of the venture. He’s got more prospective clients than suitable places to send them—so he needs new venues and more employees. But to get them he needs more capital, and if he can’t get it the agency will stagnate and probably sink.’ She’d tucked her arm through Tom’s and reassured him happily, ‘But he’s a fighter. He’ll raise the capital somehow.’

‘You must be mad.’ He’d walked steadily on, staring straight ahead. ‘You’re secure where you are. Where will you be if you join him and the whole thing fails? Because fail it will. You’ll be unemployed. Safe jobs aren’t easy to come by. We’ve decided you’ll work for two years after we’re married. Or had you forgotten? We’ve agreed to invest your earnings to create a nest egg before we start trying for a family.’

He’d given her a scathing look, shaken her hand from his arm and turned to go back to the house. ‘You can’t seriously consider jeopardising your chance to contribute to our future comfort and security? In any case, from the job description, you’d have to be out of the country looking for places to send people who probably wouldn’t want to go there anyway. We’d see even less of each other than we do now.’

She’d had the definite impression that this last had been a complete afterthought. That the investment nest egg was of far greater importance.

Still aggrieved, she parked her car outside Brenda Mayhew’s terraced house in Battersea, reached her luggage from the back seat and rummaged in her handbag for the doorkey.

If he’d said, Go ahead and take the job if you want to try your wings, but I’ll hate having to see even less of you than I do now, she wouldn’t have given Mark’s job offer another thought. As things stood, though, she had the strongest urge to phone him right now and ask when she could start!

Sighing over her contrariness, she unlocked the door and walked inside. Brenda shot out of her sitting room, all middle-aged, grey disapproval, and stated the obvious.

‘Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you back yet. You’ll have to go out for supper. Wasn’t expecting you; I haven’t catered.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Supper each Monday was fish fingers and mash. Bess wouldn’t pine over missing it. And not for the first time she regretted having agreed to board here during the week.

When she’d first announced her intention of looking for a bedsit in the sprawling suburbs of the capital to avoid the daily drive into work and back, Barbara Clayton had come up with the perfect solution.

A local woman, Brenda Brown, as was, had been her domestic help until she’d married and moved to Battersea. They’d kept in touch—just a short letter tucked in with a card each Christmas. And it was just as well, Barbara had declared, because since she’d been widowed Brenda had taken in a lodger from time to time to help make ends meet. It would be ideal for Bess—a sort of home from home, someone to keep an eye on her, look after her...

Home from home it wasn’t. But Bess hadn’t felt uncomfortable enough to move out. She wouldn’t find anywhere cheaper, and if the suppers Brenda provided were unusually dreary at least she was saved the chore of having to cook for herself.

She lifted her case and began to walk up to her dismal room, and Brenda called, making it sound like an accusation, ‘A Nicola something or other phoned. If you call her back, work out the cost and leave the money on the table. And don’t leave it too late. You know I don’t like being disturbed after I’ve settled down to watch telly.’