Mistress on Loan Read online

  She gave a small, fierce nod, and turned on the shower.

  She dressed for action, in a tee shirt under a pair of denim dungarees, and secured her hair at the nape of her neck with an elastic band.

  Over a breakfast of toast and coffee, she reviewed what the workmen would be doing when they arrived, making notes on her clipboard as she ate. There was some tiling to complete round the new Aga in the kitchen, and plumbing to install in the laundry room. They'd converted the old flower room into a downstairs cloakroom, and if the plaster was dry that could be painted. The panelling in the (lining room was finished, but the ceiling needed another coat of emulsion. Most of the bedrooms were finished, apart from the one with the camp bed that she was occupying at the front of the house.

  She decided she would make a start on that, peeling off the layers of old wallpaper with the steam stripper. It was a messy process, but she enjoyed it.

  Remembering how immaculately the house had been kept in Mr. Stretton's time, Adrien could have wept when Piers had taken her back there to see what needed to be done. The plaster had been flaking, and there had been damp patches on some upstairs ceilings. In addition, her practised nose had warned her that dry rot was present.

  'My God,' Piers had muttered. 'It might be easier just to pull the place down.'

  'No.' She'd squeezed his hand. 'We'll make it beautiful again. You'll see.'

  And she'd been as good as her word, she reflected, with satisfaction. The Grange was looking pretty wonderful already. Most of the work that was left was cosmetic—adding finishing touches—so that the final bills should be relatively modest. At least compared with the last batch that she'd just paid, she remembered, shuddering.

  She was making good progress with the steam stripper when it occurred to her that her small workforce was uncharacteristically late. She finished the section she was working on, then undipped her mobile from the belt of her jeans. But before she could dial it rang, making her jump and swear under her breath.

  She said crisply, 'A to Z Design. Good morning.'

  'Is that Miss Lander?' It was the boss of the building firm she was using. 'It's Gordon Arnold here.'

  She gave a sigh of relief. T was just about to call you, Gordon. No one's turned up yet. Is there some reason?'

  'You could say that.' His voice was slow and deliberate. 'We've had a bit of a problem.'

  Not another vehicle breakdown, Adrien thought with a faint irritation. Gordon should get himself a van that worked.

  She said briskly, 'Well, try to get it sorted quickly. There's still plenty to do here.'

  'That's it, you see, Miss Lander.' He sounded odd, embarrassed. 'We did the work, and you paid us for it, same as always. Except this time the bank sent the cheques back.'

  Adrien was very still for a moment. This was a room that caught the early sun, yet she felt suddenly deathly cold.

  Rallying herself, she said, "There must be some mistake.'

  'That's exactly what I said.' He sounded almost eager. 'A mistake. So I got on to the bank, but they wouldn't talk to me. Said I had to refer to you.'

  Adrien groaned. 'I'll get on to them myself,' she said. 'It'll probably be a computer error,' she added confidently.

  'Dare say it will,' he said. 'Generally is. I'll leave it with you, then, Miss Lander. Only, we can't really do any more work until we know we're going to be paid, and there's other jobs waiting.'

  'Yes, of course,' she said. 'I'll have it put right by this afternoon, Gordon. Cheers.'

  But she didn't feel very cheery as she switched off the phone and put it back on her belt. Something had gone badly wrong, she thought, as she went to her room to retrieve her bag and, because she was still feeling cold, a jacket. It was a mistake. It had to be. Yet somehow she kept getting an image of that dark, silent figure standing un-moving in front of the house, like some symbol of ill omen.

  Don't be silly, Adie, she reproved herself, using the childish version of her name she'd coined when she was small. Just go to the bank and get it sorted.

  It was a simple enough system that she and Piers had devised. He'd opened an account at a local bank, with a chequebook in her name, and each month she sent him an itemised account of her spending and he deposited sufficient funds to cover it.

  'You're too trusting,' she'd told him.

  'I love you,' he'd returned. 'Love can't trust too much.'

  For the past four months the system had worked like a charm. But this time, when some of the heaviest bills had to be paid, a hiccup had developed. I suppose it had to happen eventually, Adrien thought, as she set her Jeep in motion. Nothing's perfect, especially when it's automated. But why did it have to be this month?

  The bank was busy, but as Adrien waited at the enquiry desk she had the curious feeling that people were watching her. That a couple of the cashiers had exchanged glances as she walked in.

  They probably realise they've screwed up in a big way and are wondering how to apologise, she decided, with an inward shrug.

  The enquiry clerk looked nonplussed when she saw her. 'Oh—Miss Lander. The manager has been trying to contact you at home, but we only got your answer-machine.'

  'That's right.' Adrien's brows lifted in slight hauteur. My God, she thought, she sounds almost accusing. 'I'm staying at the Grange so that I can oversee the final stages.' If it's any business of yours.

  'Oh—that explains it. Will you take a seat for a few moments? Mr. Davidson needs to talk to you urgently.'

  Adrien was glad to sit down, because her legs were trembling suddenly and her stomach was quaking. Because those were not phrases that indicated grovelling on the bank's part. On the contrary... She wished that she'd taken the trouble to change, to put on a skirt and blouse, or even a dress, some heels, and some make-up. Because she had the oddest feeling she was going to need all the help she could get. She was also aware that in her present gear she looked about sixteen.

  'Miss Lander?' Mr. Davidson was standing beside her. 'Come into the interview room, won't you?' His smile was pallid and his gaze slid away. A very different reaction from his enthusiasm when the account was being set up.

  She wished, not for the first time, that Piers had used her own bank, where she was a known and valued customer.

  While he closed the door, Adrien took the chair he indicated. 'Mr. Davidson, I understand you've returned some of my cheques.'

  'I've had no choice, Miss Lander. There are no funds to meet them.'

  Her throat tightened, and her heart began to pound. She heard herself say with unbelievable calmness, 'Then payment must have been delayed for some reason. Perhaps you could give me a little leeway here, while I contact my fiancé.'

  'I'm afraid not, Miss Lander. You see, we've been notified that no further deposits will be made. Did Mr. Mendoza not warn you of his intentions?'

  'No more deposits?' Her lips felt numb. 'But that's impossible.'

  'I fear not.' He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. 'I have some other bad news which I must pass on to you. I have just learned that Mr. Mendoza is no longer the owner of Wildhurst Grange. That he has sold it to a property development company.'

  There was a strange buzzing in Adrien's ears. The room seemed to be swimming round her.

  She said hoarsely, 'No—it's not true. It can't be. He— he wouldn't do that. Not without telling me—discussing it...'

  'I'm afraid it is perfectly true. I have the head of the company in my office now, and...Miss Lander—where are you going?'

  The metal handle slipped in her damp grip, but she wrenched the door open and ran out.

  The door to the manager's office had been left slightly ajar. She pushed it wide and went in, knowing what she was going to see. Fearing it... A man was standing by the window. He was tall, and dressed in beautifully cut black Italian trousers and a matching rollneck sweater in fine wool. The long overcoat had been discarded, and was lying across a chair. His dark blond hair, expertly layer
ed, reached the collar of his sweater. His face was lean, with a beak of a nose and strongly marked mouth and chin. The eyes that met hers across the room were as grey as a northern sea, and about as warm.

  And at the edge of one cheekbone there was a small triangular scar.

  Adrien recognised that scar, because she'd put it there. She'd been just nine years old, and she had been cold, hungry, and hysterical. Because he'd deliberately left her on a flimsy platform in a tall tree for hours. To punish her. To make her think that she'd be left there for ever. That she'd die there. So she'd picked up a stone, and flung it at him. He'd gasped and thrown back his head, but it had hit him, and she had seen a small trickle of blood on his face and been glad, because she'd hated him. She'd wanted to hurt him.

  He'd looked at her then with those cold grey eyes just as he was looking at her now. With contempt and a kind of icy arrogance. And without pity.

  She'd been frightened then, and she was frightened now. Too scared to speak or to run. Although she was no longer a child. Or an eighteen-year-old whose birthday had been ruined by theft and betrayal. All these years she'd blotted him out of her memory, even though the legacy of those traumatic days was still with her. Haunting her each time she had to climb a ladder or stand on a chair, and found herself assailed by nausea and giddiness. Piercing her when she opened her jewellery drawer and saw the empty velvet box which had once held the garnet pendant.

  But she'd managed to convince herself that she would never see him again. That she could bury the past.

  And that he would have done the same.

  But she was wrong, because here he was.

  And once again she was stranded and terrified, with no means of escape.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It's been a long time, Adrien.' His voice had deepened, but she would have recognised that husky timbre anywhere. She would not— not—allow herself to go to pieces in front of him. Not again. Not for a third time.

  Instead she lifted her chin defiantly. 'My God.'

  She kept her tone just this side of insolence. 'It's the Haddon boy.'

  'No,' he said. 'Not any longer. I've become the Haddon man. A distinction I advise you to observe.'

  'A threat,' she said. 'But then you were always good at them.'

  'And an accusation,' he said. 'For which you had a positive genius. Even when you were in pigtails. And later.' The grey eyes made a leisurely and nerve-jangling inspection of her. 'You haven't changed a great deal—over the intervening years.'

  Her throat tightened. 'I'm afraid I can't say the same for you. I would never have known you.'

  He laughed softly. 'Are you quite sure about that, Adie? Wasn't there just a glimmer of recognition this morning when you were staring down at me from your ivory tower?'

  His use of her childhood name grated. As did the confirmation of her earlier suspicion that he'd known she was there.

  She said shortly, 'You were the last person in the world I ever expected to see again. And you didn't hang around to introduce yourself.'

  'No,' he said. 'I had business elsewhere. And besides, I knew we'd be meeting again very soon. I didn't want to anticipate such a pleasurable moment. The first, I hope, of so many more to come,' he added silkily. She bit her lip. 'So—what are you doing here?

  Why have you come back? I don't understand...'

  'You're not required to.' His smile chafed her nerve-endings. 'Perhaps I just wanted to surprise you.'

  He looked past her as Mr. Davidson peered anxiously into the room.

  'Is everything all right, Mr. Haddon?'

  'Everything's fine, thanks.' The sudden switch to power and charm made Adrien reel inwardly. 'Could you give us five minutes? Miss Lander and I would like to renew our old acquaintance.'

  'Yes—yes—of course.' Mr. Davidson began to back out of the room.

  She wanted to cry out, Don't go. Don't leave me with him. But she couldn't allow herself to betray such weakness.

  Instead, she stood in silence and watched the door close. Shutting her in with him. Her enemy.

  'How very deferential of him,' she threw into the sudden silence. 'I'm surprised he didn't call you sir.'

  'He probably will—given time. I'm about to become a very important customer at this bank.'

  'Does he know you were the housekeeper's son?'

  She cringed inwardly at the crudity of the query. Despised herself for voicing it too. Because she'd liked Mrs. Haddon, who'd always been warm and kind to her on Adrien's visits to the Grange with her father. She had a sudden memory of the well-scrubbed kitchen table, being allowed to scrape the remains of the cake mixture from the bowl. And being given fresh-baked cookies, with her initial picked out in chocolate chips.

  'I've no idea.' His voice was calm. 'But it would make no difference. Because money talks—and it has a louder voice than your outdated notions of snobbery.'

  Faint colour rose in her face, but she stood her ground. 'Then you've come up in the world. How odd.'

  His brows lifted. 'I've worked hard. I've found it pays off. And I intend to go on working so I can have what I want in life.'

  'Wildhurst Grange, for instance?'

  'Among other things, yes.'

  'Well, I don't believe it,' she said. 'Piers would never sell his inheritance—and especially not to you.'

  'Piers would sell his own grandmother to get out of the kind of mess he's in.'

  She said thickly, 'How dare you say that? After the way you've behaved. You always hated him— you were always jealous...'

  'I had no reason to like him.' The grey eyes glittered at her. 'But I wasn't jealous. He had nothing that I wanted— not then.'

  'And now you want the Grange. So you've stolen it from him—somehow.' She lifted her chin contemptuously. 'Well—once a thief, always a thief.'

  'What a depressingly commonplace mind you've developed, Adie,' he drawled. 'It must be through associating with Mr. Mendoza. But I'm sure you'll recover.'

  'I don't have to,' she said. 'Or did you think I'd dump Piers because he doesn't have the Grange any more?' She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. 'If so, you're wrong. Because that was never the attraction. Piers and I are going to be together, no matter what's gone wrong. As soon as I get home I'm going to call him and...'

  'Well, make sure you get the time zones right.'

  He looked at his watch. 'It's probably the middle of the night in Brazil. And you wouldn't want to disturb him on his honeymoon.'

  The sudden silence in the room was almost tangible. Adrien could feel it beating against her eardrums, constricting her heart. She looked at him numbly. He seemed to have retreated to a great distance, his dark figure swimming in front of her. Swimming...

  'Sit down.' His voice was suddenly incisive, authoritative. 'Put your head between your knees and breathe deeply.'

  She obeyed for no better reason than her legs no longer seemed capable of supporting her.

  When the dizziness had passed, and she could speak again, she said, 'You're lying.'

  He said slowly, 'No, it's true. He'd been seeing this girl out in Portugal, and made her pregnant. Her father is Brazilian, and powerful, and insisted on marriage. And Brazil was a safer option for him than London or Lisbon.'

  He paused. 'Will you believe, Adrien, that it gives me no pleasure to tell you?'

  'No.' She raised her head to glare at him. 'I don't believe it You've waited a long time for your revenge, Chay Haddon. Waited to punish me for having you sent away all those years ago. I just wish with all my heart that you'd gone to jail instead.'

  'Only to jail?' he came back at her mockingly. 'I was certain hell would be the preferred destination.'

  'Hell's too good for you.' She pushed back a strand of hair that had escaped its confinement and got to her feet, swaying slightly as she fought off the last remnants of dizziness.

  'Be careful.' He went to take her arm, and she recoiled, 'Don't touch me,' she s
aid hoarsely. 'Don't ever dare to touch me.'

  'A threat, an accusation, and now a challenge.' He was actually smiling. 'What a pity I have neither the time nor the inclination to take you up on it. At present,' he added silkily. 'I gather you're terminating our reunion. May I ask where you're going?'

  'Yes,' she said. 'I'm going to find Piers and talk to him. Show you up for the liar and cheat that you are.'

  'I wouldn't have so much to say about cheating.'

  There was a note of grimness in his voice. 'Not when you owe money all over the area. And don't even think of going to Brazil, Adie, always supposing you could find the fare. I'm sure your creditors wouldn't like it, quite apart from Piers's wife.'

  He opened the door and held it for her. 'I'll see you around.'

  To answer, Not if I see you first, would have been simply childish rudeness. Instead Adrien did not even glance at him as she walked out of the office. She heard Mr. Davidson saying, 'Miss Lander—Miss Lander, I need to talk to you,' but she ignored him too, breaking into a run as she headed for the door of the bank.

  She could only think of Piers, and the necessity to contact him. To disprove the monstrous things that Chay Had-don had been saying. Nothing else mattered, or could be allowed to matter. The next hour was a nightmare. She tried faxing Piers in Portugal, but found his outlet had been closed down and that the same thing applied to his e-mail address. The telephone line she'd always used seemed to be disconnected.

  Panic was closing her throat and making her fingers clumsy as she pressed the buttons on her receiver, trying every number he'd ever given her. Eventually someone answered—a man speaking Portuguese. She asked haltingly for Piers, and heard him say something in a muffled voice, as if he'd covered the phone with his hand, which was followed by a burst of laughter, as if other people in the room were responding to his remark. To a joke that her query had triggered. Adrien found she had bitten her lip so hard she could taste blood.