Hazard of Love Read online

  'That's that sorted out. Now to sort you out.' He was almost on top of her when he came to a halt, and she was shiveringly aware of how big and broad-shouldered he was in his thorn-proof tweeds and husky Aran sweater, but before she could sort out her feelings he snarled, 'So why the hell did you do that?' His voice, though fierce, was quiet—as if to conceal the fact that he was about to launch a verbal attack. 'Do you realise,' he went on, 'I could have the whole thing assessed and land you with a hell of a bill? Apart from any other more personal revenge I might want to take. What then?'

  Almost despite himself, his glance scudded over her body again, taking in the skimpy T-shirt and too-short mini with the little boots that had seemed cute when she had bought them, but now seemed suddenly bizarre. She began to draw the oversized coat around herself. It kept slipping off her shoulders. In the city it looked merely stylish like that—here it seemed deliberately provocative. The effect was not lost on her adversary, and seeing it she lifted her chin and tried to give him her coldest stare.

  'I take it you're Mr de Maine?'

  'Who the hell else? Look, just answer me, who sent you? Ravella Eastwood?'

  She felt bewildered. 'I don't know what you mean. Why should anyone send me? I'm quite capable of deciding where and when I travel --'

  'Don't play games with me, sweetheart,' he broke in. 'You've just cost me one and a half thousand over the odds. There has to be a reason.'

  She recognised that he had a right to be angry, but she felt too scared to be seen to agree, in case he really did carry out his threat to get the whole thing assessed. She didn't know what that meant, but it sounded stuffy and legal and very humiliating.

  'I don't understand English customs,' she explained. 'I honestly thought I'd have enough cash on me to pay for it. Then when it shot up like that I suppose I imagined I could pay by credit card or something.' She shrugged. 'I didn't know there was all this stuff about bank guarantees. Back home my name's enough to guarantee anything I want to buy.'

  'Back home? The States?'

  'I'm surprised you've heard of it,' she said before she could stop herself, provoked beyond reason by his cutting tones.

  His expression hardened. 'So we're all country hicks out here, are we?' His lips curved back in a mirthless smile. 'I've got news for you. Some of us have actually walked to the end of the lane and back.' He suddenly peered closer. 'The coincidence is too much. Ravella was in California last time I heard. And you freely admit your home is the States --'

  'Add it up and you might get ninety-two!' she retorted, angry now that her fear had abated somewhat. 'It's not my fault I don't know your stupid rules. Nor do I see why I should stand here and be cross-questioned by you, Mr de Maine.'

  She made to walk past him, but a hand shot out and he pulled her back. She could feel his fingers like a vice through her coat sleeve. 'Let me go!' she managed to say, prising uselessly at his fingers.

  'I still might have this whole incident opened up. Your answers are by no means satisfactory,' he replied grimly, all vestige of humour gone now, so that her first sneaking suspicion that he was merely giving her a hard time for the perverse pleasure it gave him was swept aside.

  She flung back her head, platinum-blonde spikes brushing his chin, and he flinched back as if he expected her to hit him with her free hand, but his grip tightened and she stamped her foot in frustration.

  'Wild little thing, aren't you?' he murmured close to her ear. 'Now, tell me who sent you.'

  'Nobody sent me! How many times do I have to tell you?'

  'Then what in hell were you playing at?'

  'I've already told you. I thought I could pay --' She broke off.

  'So how much could you have actually put on the counter?' he asked grimly.

  'I suppose you intend to open the whole thing up?' She dropped her gaze. This was awful. She was always getting into scrapes of some sort, but she could usually brazen her way out. Now she just felt silly and naive. 'I could have paid if they accepted normal money!' She raised her voice. 'I guess I could outbid you any day!' She flung her head back again, but was still unable to make any impression on the iron hold with which he held her arm. 'You de Maines are small fry where I come from,' she boasted. 'All I have to do is go to along to an Express office first thing in the morning. I didn't know I had to have the money in my actual hand. It's primitive!'

  'I'm curious to know how much you've rooked me for,' he said, ignoring her outburst. 'How much could you lay down now?'

  'I—I don't know.' The few pounds in sterling burned in her pocket. She must have cost him nearly two thousand if they were playing by the book.

  'Oh, hell.' He suddenly let her go and for a moment they stood next to each other, too close for ordinary conversation—and too distant, came the renegade thought into Goldie's head, to be taken in his arms . . .

  As if aware of what was in her mind, he moved back and straddled a wooden chair. 'I've just realised who you are,' he said in a dull, flat voice. 'I always forget Ravella, is older than she looks. She'll be forty now. That makes her old enough to be your mother.' He gave another of the grim smiles that made the hollows beneath the jutting cheekbones deepen. 'Of course, your mother didn't give you instructions to come along and bid up. Of course not,' he added sarcastically.

  'Of course she didn't!' Goldie bit back. 'Why on earth would she do that?'

  'Why?' Teeth flashed in the weather-tanned expanse of his face as he gave a derisive laugh. 'She always likes to throw the cat among the pigeons, doesn't she?' He chuckled almost admiringly, then a thought seemed to strike him. 'I suppose she guesses the proceeds of the sale will go to her eventually, too?'

  Goldie looked at him, too stunned to speak. 'Actually,' she told him, 'she doesn't know I'm here. And if she did, she wouldn't give a damn about a single stick here—or what they've fetched. She's got so much money she doesn't know what to do with it. A few thousand here or there won't make a blind bit of difference. I came along because I would have liked the painting. It means a lot to me. And I really can't see why you should go to all this trouble to get it. It's not exactly Rembrandt.'

  'It's a very nice painting.'

  'Two thousand pounds nice?'

  He smiled then, without rancour. 'You're an expensive little thing. I feel you owe me.'

  She held her breath. This was where he made a pass. It was amazing how rapidly he'd got to the point, especially after the way they'd started out. Country hick or not, he was as smooth an operator as anybody she'd met.

  He gave a soft chuckle. 'No, sweetheart. You can't read me like a book. I wasn't going to ask that.' The bark-brown eyes flecked over her pink face. 'You're not exactly my type. Though with a nice sensible hair-do and some decent clothes you could look quite presentable.' Then he added insultingly, 'If you dressed with more decorum, perhaps you wouldn't invite the response from men you're so obviously expecting.'

  To stem the rising tide of her anger, she switched on her iciest manner. 'You're wasting my time. I can't stand here bandying words; I've got to go. But,' here curiosity got the better of her, 'I think you owe me an answer to one question.'

  He raised his eyebrows.

  Despite her actress's training, she couldn't control the way her lips tightened with renewed disappointment at what had happened. 'Why on earth,' she asked, 'did you want that painting so badly?'

  CHAPTER TWO

  A guarded look had come into his face, and he must have had luck on his side, too, because at the same moment there was a commotion in the corridor and the door was opened cautiously to allow a short, portly looking man in a dark blue suit and college tie to come in.

  'I say, are you the chap who just bought the Halliwell?' He addressed Goldie's adversary, but his eyes kept straying to her, especially to her legs, and she felt her animosity direct itself equally between the two men. It was her cue to leave. She cut across the room and was nearly at the door before a figure bulked in the way.

  'Look, I—er . . .' he glanced
back at the newcomer, one hand indicating Goldie '. . . I'm in conference, actually, old chap.' He smiled accommodatingly. 'So sorry . . .'

  'I say, I do beg your pardon.' The stranger gave a knowing smile, but despite his apology for barging in he dived straight on with what he'd wanted to ask anyway. 'The thing is, I think I've probably got a purchaser for it, if you're willing to sell on?' He raised his eyebrows in expectation.

  'Again, I have to say sorry,' replied Goldie's captor, for by this time he was gripping her firmly by the elbow. 'My client will be most unwilling to sell—at any price,' he added.

  'Here's my card,' the man said, feeling in his pocket for his wallet and extracting a white card which he pushed towards them. 'Just in case. It looks as if I missed all the fun,' he went on conversationally. 'Didn't realise there was going to be anything big. You never can tell with these country sales. Lunching, don't you know? Nice little restaurant down the road. Still, bear me in mind, old chap. Bear me in mind.'

  As Goldie was almost half out of the door, though prevented from making a complete escape by the hand round her elbow, it seemed natural on this note for Goldie and Mr de Maine to make some kind of farewell. They both had the same idea at the same moment, and she found herself being hustled out into the corridor. Before she could make sense of what was happening a voice called, 'Lucas! So there you are!'

  An elegantly dressed woman of about fifty, with white hair that looked rather striking against a deeply tanned face, left the group she was talking to and came towards them. 'Did you get what you wanted?'

  'I always do, Violet.'

  'I must say,' she swept on, 'you went wild over poor Brendan's little painting.' She gave Goldie a quick, appraising, not overtly critical look, but one lacking in warmth, and went on, 'I've got some of Eva's wonderful old evening dresses. I couldn't bear the thought of them sliding down the scale until they finished up in some jumble sale or worse. Hugh's just taking them out to the car for me.'

  Lucas, thought Goldie. Lucas de Maine. She'd never heard of a Lucas. Or had she? Burgh Hall had always been peopled by oldies. At twelve, that had meant anybody over twenty. But she vaguely remembered a son or two. Much older than she was, or they had seemed so at that time. They had been away at school, and in the holidays the whole family had decamped to Italy. Some villa. Something which, at that time, had seemed unbelievably exotic.

  'Are you coming back, then?' There was an impatient edge to her voice now, as Lucas apparently failed to respond.

  Goldie noticed that his hand had slipped discreetly away from her elbow. Feeling that this was the opportunity she wanted, she started to walk on towards the front door. Sun was beginning to stream in through the stained glass now that the rain had stopped, and she paused for a moment with her hand on the brass knob, blues and reds and purples staining her skin. How many times had she stood in just this position in the past, regret at leaving filling her heart, or regret at being left behind? Now she felt a surge of something similar.

  She turned back, intending just a quick glance over her shoulder. Lucas de Maine was standing gazing after her over the head of the white-haired woman who blocked his path. Their glances collided. Goldie felt her breath draw in. It was crazy. He was just a country man, a farmer presumably, or an estate agent, a vet—anything. But what was obvious from the clothes he wore was that their life-styles were totally dissimilar. Oil and water. Chalk and cheese. Sugar and salt. And she was 'not his type'. End of story.

  She turned rapidly and pushed her way outside, running down the steps into the fresh air and beginning to walk away down the drive as fast as she could. It had been an expensive waste of time flying over here. A futile jaunt to satisfy some sentimental whim. Lost in thought, she didn't realise someone had called her name until she heard footsteps beside her on the gravel and felt a hand on her arm. It was Sam Woollard.

  'Hetty meant it about tea, Goldie. She's gone on ahead to put the kettle on.'

  'Oh, Sam . . .' She held him by the hand. 'I'd love to come.' She glanced back at the main door of Eva's rambling old house. Any minute a figure might appear in the doorway, but though she hesitated it stayed firmly shut.

  Sam urged her down the drive. 'Ravella was always a favourite of Hetty's. Follows her career as if she's one of her own. She's over the moon to see you after all this time,' he told her.

  'I remember making a real nuisance of myself over your apple trees,' admitted Goldie. Memory had blunted her recognition of the couple at first, but now, with the alteration of the passing years taken into account, she recalled Sam's reddish hair, now iron-grey, and the ample figure of his wife perpetually swathed in a flowered apron, and now so much slimmer and smarter. Of course, their children, almost grown up then, would have left home long ago by now, leaving the couple free to make something of themselves.

  Together they strolled up the half-familiar drive. The trees bordering it had changed. They were bigger, bushier. But little else was different.

  'It's so pretty. I'd forgotten, you know. It isn't easy to remember when you're jetting all over the place as I am.' They exchanged smiles before going inside.

  Hetty was in the kitchen. 'Now then, Goldie, first things first. Where are you staying, love?'

  'Actually, I haven't booked in anywhere yet. I was going to get a taxi back to Driffield and see if I could get in somewhere there.'

  'Nonsense, lass. You'll stay here—won't she, Sam?'

  'Just what I was going to suggest. Besides, you'll never get a taxi on a Saturday. And it would cost a fortune. Money wasted when you're welcome here. Eva would never have forgiven us if we let you go traipsing off! Besides,' he added, to clinch matters, 'Hetty's like a hen without any chicks just now. You'll be doing her a favour.'

  Goldie stood helplessly in the kitchen doorway, clutching her shoulder-bag, the big coat sliding down off her shoulders again. She felt like a waif and stray being offered the hand of rescue. Suddenly she knew she wanted to stay more than anything else in the world. 'It's home, isn't it?' She blinked. 'You're so kind. I'd forgotten that.' She felt she'd forgotten a lot.

  'The weekend, then. Longer, if you like. But we know you're busy. What are you in at the moment?' Hetty, beaming now, bustled about preparing tea.

  'Well, we've just finished filming in Columbia, and I'm scheduled to start another in the summer. I've got a nice long rest ahead of me. Nearly four months.' She'd decided to spend four months working on herself. Change of diet. Change of gym. Change of acting classes. Change of apartment—maybe give up the flat altogether and stay in the mountains somewhere, living simply off the land. Take up yoga again, really get into herself and discover what it was she really wanted. It sounded good; she couldn't wait to start. It was just that it also sounded lonely.

  She helped Hetty sort out the cups and saucers and they chatted amiably together, reminding each other of acquaintances from the past. Hetty told her she had five grandchildren now, with another due any day, and Goldie asked after the names she remembered, friends she'd always taken up with whenever she had been shunted off to Aunty Eva's, as she'd called her when she was little. Her friends had either married and settled in the district, or gone away for good as she had herself.

  'If I'd been older than twelve I would have kept in touch properly, but at that age, and going to Hollywood of all places, one thinks only of the future,' she explained when they were sitting down in front of a roaring fire. Her bone-china plate had its rose pattern almost obliterated by the huge slab of fruitcake Hetty had placed on it. Looking at it, Goldie gulped. 'I'd forgotten Yorkshire teas, too,' she smiled. 'I think I'm going to put on weight!'

  'You could do with it, there's nowt on you,' observed Sam, not unkindly.

  There was a knock at the door. 'I'll get it.' Hetty rose to her feet. 'Now, you pour us all another cup of tea, Sam. I won't be a tick.'

  Goldie heard voices in the hall. She was just reaching out to hand her empty cup to Sam when Hetty came back in. Turning, she nearly dropped her saucer. Th
ere was Lucas de Maine, smiling broadly and looking most unlike a man who had just had to pay one and a half thousand pounds over the odds for something.

  'Afternoon, Sam,' he greeted his host in the laconic manner of the region. Without being invited, he sat down beside Goldie on the sofa. She felt his thigh against her own. With her eyes steadily on the teapot which Sam was upending into her cup, she tried to pretend that Lucas had called to see the Woollards. But she knew it wasn't true. There was something cracklingly alive about him. It was as if his whole body, pressing so dangerously against her own, were vibrating with electricity. And she knew that she was the cause of it.

  'Goldie's staying for the weekend,' began Hetty, taking the teapot from Sam and automatically going through into the kitchen to refill it and bring in an extra cup and saucer for Lucas.

  'That'll be convenient,' remarked Lucas to Goldie.

  She pretended she didn't know he was looking at her. 'Will it?' she asked.

  'Lucas has the millhouse for now,' Sam informed her. The millhouse was over the road from the Woollards' on de Maine land.

  'I thought you'd be living at Burgh Hall,' she blurted before she could stop herself. It was nothing to her where he lived. Now he would think she was interested.

  'Time enough for Burgh Hall when Uncle drops off the twig,' he said bluntly. 'I'll be there for keeps, then.'

  'I'm not surprised you moved out so sharp,' observed Sam. 'Coming out of the Army like you, he'd be doubly hard to take. I can't imagine Martin having anybody under the same roof as himself for long. He was an awkward devil when he was younger, and he's worse now he's getting on.' He chuckled. 'It's to your credit he's still on friendly terms with you, Lucas.'

  'He disinherits me regularly. One of these days he's going to kick the bucket when I'm out of favour. It's worse than Russian roulette. But he's not so bad with a bit of careful handling. He's like my Queenie.'