In the Millionaire's Possession Page 6

  When she and Nigel finally managed to talk, Mrs Hartley’s attitude was going to be one of the topics of conversation, she thought grimly.

  When she awoke next morning, it was to intermittent sunshine and scudding clouds driven by a sharp breeze.

  Unpredictable, she thought as she dressed. Rather like my life. But a good day for touring historic houses rather than going to the beach, so let’s hope the queues start forming like they did last week.

  Well, not quite, she amended hastily. At least this time Marc Delaroche would not be part of them.

  She was on her way to the kitchen when she saw the post van disappearing down the drive. At the door she paused, and drew a deep, calming breath before entering.

  ‘Any phone calls for me?’ she enquired, making her tone deliberately casual.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ Daisy told her, putting a fresh pot of tea on the table.

  ‘What about mail?’

  ‘A couple of bills,’ Daisy said. She paused. ‘And this.’ She held out an imposing cream envelope embossed with the committee’s logo.

  Helen’s stomach lurched frantically. She wiped her hand on her jeans and took the envelope, staring down at it. Reluctant, now that the moment had come, to learn its contents, slowly she pushed the blade of a table knife under the flap and slit it open.

  The words ‘We regret’ danced in front of her eyes, making it almost unnecessary to read on. But she scanned them anyway—the brief polite lines that signified failure.

  George had come into the kitchen and was standing beside his wife, both of them watching Helen anxiously.

  She tried to smile—to shrug. ‘No luck, I’m afraid. They try to help places that have suffered some kind of terrible devastation, like earthquake sites. It seems that rising damp, leaky roofs and dry rot aren’t quite devastating enough.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Helen, love.’

  She sank her teeth into her lower lip at the compassion in Daisy’s voice, forbidding herself to cry.

  ‘Does this mean you’ll have to sell to that Mr Newson?’ George asked, troubled.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to do that. I’m never going to do that.’ There was something else in the envelope, too. A note in the chairman’s own hand, she discovered, wishing her well. ‘Mr VanStratten and Monsieur Delaroche argued very persuasively on your behalf,’ the note added, ‘but eventually it had to be a majority decision.’

  Her hand clenched round the paper, crushing it. That—lecherous hypocrite, speaking up for her? she thought incredulously. Dear God, that had to be the final blow.

  Aloud, she said, ‘There’ll be something else I can do. Someone else I can turn to. I’ll call Nigel. Ask for his advice.’

  ‘He hasn’t been so helpful up to now,’ George muttered.

  ‘But now the chips are down,’ Helen said with more confidence than she actually felt. ‘He’ll find some way to rescue us.’

  Rather than run the gauntlet of his mother’s disapproval again, Helen rang Nigel’s mobile number.

  ‘Yes?’ His voice sounded wary.

  ‘Nigel?’ she said. ‘Darling, can you come round, please? I really need to see you.’

  There was a silence, then he said, ‘Look, Helen, this isn’t a good time for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but please believe that it’s a far worse one for me,’ she told him bluntly. ‘Something’s happened, and I need your advice.’ She paused. ‘Would you prefer me to come to you instead?’

  ‘No,’ he said hastily. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ll be about half an hour, and I’ll use the side gate into the garden. I’ll meet you by the lake.’

  ‘Bringing your cloak and dagger with you, no doubt,’ Helen said acidly. ‘But if that’s what you want, then it’s fine with me.’

  She’d spoken bravely, but she rang off feeling sick and scared. Suddenly her entire life seemed to be falling in pieces, and she didn’t know why, or how to deal with it.

  Whatever, facing Nigel in working clothes wasn’t a good idea. She dashed upstairs and took another quick shower, this time using the last of her favourite body lotion. From her scanty wardrobe she chose a straight skirt in honey-coloured linen, with a matching jersey top, long-sleeved and vee-necked.

  She brushed her hair loose and applied a touch of pale rose to her mouth.

  War paint, she thought ironically, as she took a last look in the mirror.

  Nigel was already waiting when she arrived at the lakeside. The breeze across the water was ruffling his hair and he was pacing up and down impatiently.

  ‘So there you are,’ he greeted her peevishly. ‘What the hell’s the matter?’

  ‘I think that should be my question.’ She halted a few feet away, staring at him. ‘You don’t tell me you’re coming down, and then you avoid me. Why?’

  His eyes slid away uncomfortably. ‘Look, Helen—I know I should have spoken before, but there’s no easy way to say this.’ He paused. ‘You must know that things haven’t been good between us for quite a while.’

  ‘I’ve certainly realised we don’t see as much of each other, but I thought it was pressure of work. That’s what you told me, anyway.’ She clenched her shaking hands and hid them in the folds of her skirt.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asked sharply. ‘Always fussing about that decrepit ruin you live in—scratching round for the next few pennies. You’ve had a good offer for it. Why not wise up and get out while it’s still standing?’

  She gasped. ‘How can you say that—when you know what it means to me?’

  ‘Oh, I know all right,’ he said bitterly. ‘No one knows better. I discovered a long time ago I was always going to play second fiddle to that dump, and you took it for granted that I’d settle for that. No doubt that’s what you want to talk about now. What’s happened? Deathwatch beetle on the march again?’

  ‘I do have a serious problem about the house, but that can wait,’ she said steadily. ‘What we obviously need to discuss is—us.’

  ‘Helen, there is no ‘us’, and there hasn’t been for a long time. But you refuse to see it, for some reason.’

  Her nails dug painfully into the palms of her hands. ‘Maybe because I’m in love with you.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a weird idea of what love’s about,’ Nigel commented sourly. ‘Frankly, I’m sick and tired of this ‘hands off till we’re married’ garbage. I’ve tried everything to get you into bed, but you’ve never wanted to know.’

  She bit her lip. ‘I—I realise that now, and I—I’m sorry.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘I thought you were prepared to wait too.’

  ‘No,’ he said brutally. ‘Men only beg for so long, then they lose interest.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s only ever going to be one passion in your life, Helen, and that’s Monteagle. No guy stands a chance against a no-win obsession like that.’

  She said carefully, ‘You mean—you don’t want me any more?’

  He sighed. ‘Let’s be honest. It was a boy-girl thing at best, and it certainly didn’t make it into the grown-up world. Although I hope we can stay friends,’ he added hastily. ‘Face it, you’ve never been interested in sex—or even curious. A couple of kisses have always been enough for you. But now I’ve met someone with a bit of warmth about her and we’re getting married. I brought her down this weekend to meet my parents, so I really don’t need you ringing up every five minutes.’

  ‘I see.’ Helen swallowed. ‘You know, I had the strangest idea I was engaged to you myself.’

  He shrugged. ‘I know we discussed it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘But there was nothing definite. For one thing, I’d have had a hell of a fight on with my parents.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Helen said unevenly. ‘I always knew they didn’t like me.’

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ he told her defensively. ‘They felt we were wrong for each other, that’s all. And they didn’t want me tipping everything I earned down that money pit of yours, either.’

  He paused. ‘I have ambition, Hel
en, and I’m not ashamed of it. I want a wife who can help with my career—someone who likes entertaining and can provide the right ambience. Let’s face it, you’d hate that kind of life.’

  The wind was cold suddenly—turning her to ice.

  She said quietly, ‘And I haven’t any money—to make up for my other deficiencies. Isn’t that part of it?’

  He gave her an irritated look. ‘Money matters. Are you pretending it doesn’t?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Particularly when I’ve just been turned down for my grant.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect? Clearly they don’t want to throw good money after bad,’ he said. ‘That’s not good business practice.’

  She winced painfully. ‘Nigel,’ she said urgently, ‘I—I’m trying to save the home I love. I thought you might be able to suggest something—someone who could help. Who might be prepared to invest in the estate…’

  ‘This is a joke—right?’ His tone was derisive. ‘I suggest you look round for a rich husband—if you can find someone as frigid as you are yourself. And how likely is that?’

  The pain was suddenly more than she could bear. She took a step towards him, lifting her hand, driven by a half-crazy need to wipe the sneer from his face.

  Nigel retreated, throwing up an arm to ward her off, his smart brogues slipping suddenly in the mud created by the recent bad weather.

  Helen saw his face change from alarm to fury as he over-balanced, teetering on the edge of the lake for a moment before he fell backwards into the water with a resounding splash.

  He was on his feet instantly, dripping and crimson with rage. ‘Bitch,’ he shouted hoarsely, as Helen turned her back and began to walk, head bent, towards the house. ‘Bitch.’

  She was trembling violently, her breathing an agony, every nerve in her body striving to continue putting one foot in front of another so that she could reach sanctuary before she fell on her knees and howled her hurt and misery to the sky.

  She was too blinded by his cruelty even to see that someone was standing in front of her until she collided with a hard male body and recoiled with a cry.

  ‘Tais toi,’ Marc Delaroche said quietly. ‘Be calm.’ His arm round her was like iron, holding her up. ‘I have you safe. Now, walk with me to the house.’

  And, too numb to resist, Helen could only obey.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HE’D said ‘walk’, but Helen was dazedly aware she was being half-led, half-carried into the house. Warmth surrounded her, and a feeling of safety as its walls closed round her.

  She heard Daisy’s shocked exclamation, and his quiet reply.

  When she could think clearly again she found she was sitting on the sofa in the library, with a mug of strong, hot tea clasped in her icy hands.

  Marc Delaroche was standing by the fireplace, an elbow resting on the mantelshelf, looking contemplatively into the blue flames of the small twig fire that she supposed he’d kindled in the grate.

  He was wearing jeans and a matching blue shirt, its top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled back, revealing the shadowing of dark hair on his chest and forearms.

  He turned his head slowly and met her accusing gaze.

  She said huskily, ‘You knew, didn’t you? I mean about Nigel. Somehow, you knew.’

  There was a pause, then reluctantly he nodded. ‘I regret, but, yes.’

  ‘And is that why you’re here—to gloat?’ She took a gulp of the scalding brew in her beaker.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Who knows,’ she said, ‘why you do anything? Yet here you are—again.’

  ‘Among other things, I came to warn you. But I was too late.’

  ‘How can this be?’ Helen said, half to herself. ‘How can you have guessed that Nigel didn’t love me when I was still in the dark about it?’

  He shrugged. ‘You were in the dark, ma mie, because you had closed your eyes to what was happening—perhaps deliberately. Also,’ he added, ‘I had an advantage, because you were not sitting in the window of the Martinique that day when your supposed fiancé arrived. He came by taxi, not alone, and his companion was most reluctant to let him go. That was how I came to notice him—because their leavetaking was quite a spectacle. Each time he tried to say au revoir she wound herself round him the more. She behaved with une ardeur etonnante,’ he added with a faint whistle. ‘I almost envied him.’

  He paused. ‘And then I watched him join you at your table, and realised who he must be, and it was no longer so amusing.’

  ‘So you took pity on me,’ Helen said bitterly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But for a moment only. Because I could see that you were strong and would survive your disappointment.’

  ‘Disappointment?’ she echoed in angry incredulity. ‘My God, I’ve just been dumped by the man I’ve loved all my life. The only man I’ll ever love. And you talk about it as if it were a minor inconvenience.’

  She paused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me there and then?’

  ‘Because I already knew that the committee’s decision would go against you,’ he said. ‘I did not wish to overburden you with bad news.’

  ‘So instead you let me stew in my fool’s paradise,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Shall we agree it was a no-win situation for us both?’ he suggested.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Helen said raggedly. ‘My life’s in ruins, I’m falling apart—and you sound so bloody casual.’

  She gave him an inimical look. ‘And, for the record, there is no “both”. There’s myself alone, and no one else.’

  ‘Are you so sure of that?’

  ‘What are you saying? That he’ll dump this new lady too, and come back to me?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. And do you know why that is, Monsieur Delaroche? It’s because I lack the necessary social skills. Also, I’m frigid—and she isn’t,’ she added, her voice cracking. Then stopped, horrified at what she’d let him see.

  ‘He told you that?’ Marc Delaroche raised his eyebrows. ‘But how can he possibly know?’

  She stared at him in silence, almost paralysed with shame as she interpreted what he’d just said to her. Oh God, she thought, he—he knows I’m still a virgin. And I wish I’d died before he told me so.

  But you were the one who told him, said a small cold voice in her head. You let it slip the last time he was here. And he said he’d be patient. How could you have forgotten that?

  She’d tried to block out every detail of their previous encounter, but that was something she should have remembered. Because it spelled danger.

  ‘I understand now why you pushed him into the lake,’ Marc added.

  ‘I didn’t push him,’ Helen said icily. ‘He slipped.’

  ‘Quel dommage,’ he murmured. ‘And, no—he will certainly not come back,’ he went on calmly. ‘But for a reason far removed from the ones you have given.’

  She said, ‘Oh?’ her voice wooden.

  The dark eyes studied her. ‘He did not tell you, peut-être, the identity of his new fiancée? Then I shall. Her name is Amanda Clayburn.’

  ‘Clayburn?’ Helen repeated, bewildered. ‘You—you mean she’s related to Sir Donald Clayburn, the chairman of the bank?’

  ‘His only daughter.’ His grin was cynical. ‘Your Nigel is an ambitious man, ma mie. He has chosen money and the fast track to the boardroom.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And, anyway, he doesn’t need to do that. He has money of his own.’

  ‘Which he prefers to keep, sans doute.’ He bent and added another handful of twigs to the fire. ‘But it is all true. I have a colleague with contacts at the bank, and he informs me their affaire has been an open secret for weeks. She is wild and spoiled, this Amanda, and her father, they say, is glad she is marrying before she disgraces him openly.’

  ‘Obviously a marriage made in heaven.’ The words cut at her, but she refused to wince. Instead, she threw back her head. ‘Monteagle an
d Nigel—the two things I care most about in the world—I’ve lost them both.’

  ‘I notice,’ he said, ‘you place the house before your fiancé.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Nigel said that too. He said that because of Monteagle I would never be capable of loving anyone properly. All in all, it was a pretty comprehensive condemnation. And do you know the worst of it, Monsieur Delaroche? You—you were here to watch it happening.’ She almost choked on the words. ‘You—of all the people in the world. You’re like some terrible jinx—do you know that?—because each time you appear in my life, everything goes wrong.’

  She punched her fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘Well, you’ve had your fun, monsieur, if that’s what you came for, so now you can go. I need to be on my own. Even you should be able to appreciate that,’ she added burningly.

  His own glance was cool. ‘You have a strange idea of how I choose to amuse myself, ma chère,’ he drawled. ‘And, although I am desolate to grieve you further, I must tell you I have no intention of leaving yet. Because I came not just to warn you, but also to offer my help.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘You spoke up for me at the committee—you and your Dutch colleague. I—I suppose I should thank you.’

  ‘If we had succeeded, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But as matters stand I do not expect you to torture yourself with an attempt to be grateful.’

  ‘But why should you do that?’ she asked. ‘When you knew what the verdict would be? You don’t look like someone who supports lost causes.’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I felt you did not deserve to lose yet again.’ He gave her a measured look. ‘So—what do you plan to do now? Will you take advantage of Monsieur Newson’s offer—if it still stands?’

  ‘I’d rather burn the place to the ground.’

  ‘The insurance company might find that suspicious,’ he murmured.

  ‘Probably—if we were insured,’ Helen said shortly, and for the first time saw him look taken aback.

  ‘You like to take risks,’ he said.

  ‘Sometimes I don’t have a choice in the matter. I found my grandfather had let the premiums lapse.’ She drank the rest of her tea and put down the mug. ‘And now please leave. I’ve answered enough questions, and you have no further excuse to be here.’