Exorcism

Exorcism
PENNY JORDAN

Penny Jordan needs no introduction as arguably the most recognisable name writing for Mills & Boon. We have celebrated her wonderful writing with a special collection, many of which for the first time in eBook format and all available right now.Could she exorcise her dreams of love?Looking back, Christy realised that Simon hadn't wanted to fall in love six years ago – while she'd had no other choice. Still, she shouldn't have assumed he'd want to marry her.She'd naively planned their future together until the day Simon accused her of trying to trap him into marriage. Apparently, unlike her, he hadn't needed to be in love to experience desire.Now he was determined to have her accompany him to the Caribbean to research his new book. Did he really expect her to put the past behind her?

Exorcism

Penny Jordan

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#ub52c5997-01cb-55d9-85c7-41a927b8b11a)

Title Page (#u1a888bdd-7810-5e2e-bef7-957626c868ef)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f03d27ad-c0c4-5607-9313-af5afb54cf1d)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d5db70ba-c6ec-5793-96b2-0621a20d71ee)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7e67c65a-2458-5de5-aedf-95d8c62eca84)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_02a4fc7c-2592-521d-a6b6-07022e429cae)

IT had been a perfect spring, the bright, rain-washed April days giving way to a totally unexpected lazy May heat that made the Dorset hedgerows bloom, and old Harry Carver, who came twice a month to do their garden, proclaim pessimistically that nothing good would come of it, but now May was sliding languorously into June with no sign of a break in the weather. Christy was lying on her back in the small orchard, squinting at the sky occasionally and wondering if she dare be lazy for another half an hour or whether she ought to return to the house and do some work. That was one of the pleasant aspects of working for one’s mother, and having endured the rigours of a nine-to-five routine in the early days when she had just left secretarial school, Christy appreciated her present freedom all the more.

Not that her job was in any way a sinecure. Working for a compulsive writer brought its own share of crises. Her mother loathed using a dictaphone and had a habit of scribbling down her thoughts in the most unlikely places on the smallest scraps of paper she could find, and then there was always the inevitable panic when one of these ‘treasures’ couldn’t be found.

Not many young women of twenty-four would want to work for their mothers, especially not such a successful mother as hers, Christy acknowledged, but then the images the words ‘successful’ in conjunction with the word ‘woman’ conjured up were so totally at variance with her petite, vague, sometimes infuriating, often enchanting mother.

Christy had lost count of the number of people over the years who had been lulled into a false sense of security by her mother’s apparent vagueness. As a young widow with a small baby to rear and no visible means of support, other than a small pension from the Armed Services, she had somehow managed to withstand the strong pressure brought to bear by both her own and her husband’s parents that she make her home with them. At twenty she was young enough to marry again they had both told her, and it was foolish to burden herself with the responsibility of a small baby when both sets of parents were willing to take over for her. Somehow she had withstood that pressure … somehow she had carved a niche for herself in the jungle of the publishing world persevering with her children’s stories until she found a publisher willing to take them.

Now, under her pen-name, she was famous, but Christy did not envy her that fame. Any artistic talents she had inherited from her mother found expression in the illustrations she did for her mother’s books. And not only her mother’s. Christy had a rare talent that other writers had seized on eagerly, and the royalty cheques she received for this work could have made her pleasantly independent of her mother had she had any desire to live alone.

Perhaps she was unusual at twenty-four in still living at home. But when ‘home’ was a rambling Victorian vicarage with close on two acres of delightful garden, set in a small Dorset village complete with thatched cottages; a small village store and a local pub whose food drew visitors from miles around, it seemed hard to visualise any merit in moving. She and her mother got on well and were close without stifling one another. Georgina Lawrence had always had the knack of preserving her own privacy and it was a gift she had passed on to Christy. While it would have been a fallacy to say they were as close as sisters, they were, as well as mother and daughter, friends, with some interests they shared and some they did not. Her mother was wise, Christy acknowledged, in the way that people who had suffered great emotional pain often were. She was also capable of standing back from a situation and assessing it from the outside; although she had explained to Christy that both sets of parents had been bitterly opposed to her living alone when she was widowed, she had also gone on to say that their opposition was simply a sign of their caring. All in all her mother was a very remarkable woman, and yet Christy felt no envy of her. She herself was not professionally ambitious … perhaps that was what was wrong with her … her lack of ambition. Her mother had told her that she took after her father; the young army captain who had been killed in Northern Ireland by a bomb blast.

Christy had once asked her mother why she had never married again. She knew it hadn’t been for lack of offers. Even now at forty-five her mother was an extremely attractive woman; small and slim with a thick head of naturally curly dark red hair and animated feminine features.

‘Perhaps because I’ve grown beyond it,’ she had responded openly. ‘I loved your father as one does at eighteen—blindly … passionately … our relationship was one of love formed between equals … both of us young and united against our parents. They thought we were too young to marry, and probably they were right. The danger of marrying young and then losing one’s partner is that one sees the deterioration of one’s peers’ marriages while one’s own remains perfect and inviolate. Who knows, had your father lived he might have become entrenched in the same male role I see so often in the husbands of my friends … he might not have wanted me to write … I’m a very selfish woman, Christy … women have to be selfish to do what they want because there are so many other pressures on them, both emotional and social. If I have not married again perhaps it is because I relish my right to make my own decisions, to do as I please. As a man’s lover I retain that right and he respects me for it, as his wife, a subtle re-arrangement of priorities takes place and most men, whether they are prepared to admit it or not, want their wives to conform to a certain image. Perhaps with your generation it will be different, I don’t know, but I should hate to commit myself to a relationship and then find it soured by habit and familiarity.’

Christy had understood what her mother had meant. She had looked long and hard at the marriages of her mother’s friends, and realised why her mother might prefer a lover to a husband. And undoubtedly there must have been lovers, although her mother had always been discreet. There had been no procession of ‘uncles’ through Christy’s life, and although her mother had been a loving, caring parent, she had also instilled in Christy an independence which she herself shared; a subtle reminder that both of them had rights as individuals which they must respect in themselves as well as in one another.

Earlier on in the week her mother had gone to London to see her publisher, and had decided to stay there a few days in order to do some shopping and catch up on old friends. Christy could have gone with her but had elected to remain at home. The city in the May heat was not something that appealed to her. She stretched out luxuriously and yawned. Her skin, after so many hours spent in the garden, was tanning a warm gold. In looks she was completely unlike her mother. Her gypsy dark skin and hair had been inherited from her father, her long, heavily lashed grey eyes from her maternal grandmother; her height and slenderness, like her colouring, from her father. At twenty-four, without a scrap of make-up on and her shoulder-length hair curling wildly round her face she looked more like eighteen, although those with the experience to see it would know that pain had at some time touched her and left its indelible mark, and that having once touched her, would not be allowed to do so again.

If she had one thing in common with her mother it was a shared strength of will that both cloaked skilfully. Georgina with her vagueness, and Christy with her relaxed almost lazy approach to life. Those who didn’t know her well marvelled at her lack of ambition and said pityingly that no doubt it sprang from being overshadowed by her mother, but the real explanation lay simply in the fact that there was nothing in life that Christy found worth competing for. An only child, she had a deeply romantic vein to her personality and had grown up daydreaming of fairy tales; stories of valour and heroics and later, tales of bitter-sweet and indestructible love. Her mother had gently tried to warn her that life was vastly different, but she had chosen to ignore that warning—and had paid a price for it. In one brief summer she had tasted all the pleasure life could hold, but the sweetness of it had turned to acid in her mouth when she realised she had simply been living a daydream. She had been eighteen then, now she was twenty-four. She had long ago come to terms with her disillusionment and her memories of the man who had caused it. Now she was content to accept life for what it was … now she did not daydream. One day perhaps she would find a pleasant man whose company she enjoyed enough to marry … they would have children, and a placid life, but for now she was content with her life the way it was.

The sound of a car coming down the narrow lane that led to the vicarage made her get up. From the noise it was making it sounded as though it was their one and only local taxi, which meant that her mother was back.

Brushing the grass from her shorts she walked lazily towards the house. Her trips away always fired her mother into frantic bouts of work, although before she left Georgina had said that she didn’t intend to start work on her next children’s collection until the autumn. She had even talked about going away on holiday—something almost unheard of for her mother. Smiling to herself, Christy walked into the kitchen and filled the electric kettle.

‘Marvellous—you heard Sam’s car. I’m dying for a cup of tea … London was stifling … you were wise not to come.’

There was a note in her mother’s voice that Christy picked up on but didn’t respond to, concentrating instead on making the tea.

‘Outside, or in the conservatory?’ she asked her when she had set a small tray with cups and her mother’s favourite biscuits. Neither of them had a weight problem, but both of them were sparse eaters.

‘The conservatory,’ Georgina replied, grimacing faintly as she added. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are not to have inherited my wretched Celtic skin.’

‘Being pale and interesting is coming back into fashion,’ Christy responded. Her mother burned at the slightest touch of the sun, the pallor of her skin emphasising the warm golden brown of her own.

‘I should have called you gypsy …’ Georgina responded wryly, taking the tray from her and leading the way to the house’s old-fashioned and delightfully overgrown conservatory. It boasted a vine that ran wild much to Harry’s disgust, but which both women loved, and a profusion of other plants that Georgina spent part of each morning crooning to. It helped her to collect her thoughts, she claimed.

Following her mother barefoot, her long legs slender and brown Christy sank down into one of the comfortable, ancient chairs. Georgina raised her eyebrows slightly as she observed her daughter’s bare feet. They could represent no greater contrast, Christy reflected, studying her mother’s immaculate slate grey skirt and toning blouse; her silk stockings and elegant high-heeled shoes.

‘No shoes?’ Georgina commented. ‘You could cut your feet.’

‘It’s healthier for them,’ Christy responded with a lazy smile, ‘and you know how big they are. Put them in delicate shoes like yours and I’d look like an elephant.’

It wasn’t true and they both knew it. Christy could, when she wanted to, look supremely elegant; she wasn’t her mother’s daughter for nothing, but she preferred not to copy, instead developing her own style; her clothes casual and comfortable.

Sipping her tea Georgina studied her daughter covertly. Had she done the fight thing in teaching her to be independent and self-reliant …? Christy had a vulnerability she herself had never possessed; underneath her indolent exterior she hid emotions and uncertainties that tortured only those who possessed natures that were both romantic and idealistic. Never a joiner, Christy’s individuality had become more marked over the years. A distinctly attractive young woman she seemed to prefer to be alone rather than out dating. Georgina sighed. How inconvenient the mothering instinct was; and after all the time she had put in teaching Christy to respect her own privacy and that of others, she herself could scarcely now intrude, and question. She put her cup down quickly, unaware that her daughter’s quick eye had picked up on the betraying uncertainty of her movements.

‘Okay, spill it out,’ Christy commanded laconically. ‘You’ve got to produce three new books by autumn, is that it?’

When her mother didn’t respond, Christy frowned. ‘There is something, I know. Please tell me …’

Putting down her cup, Georgina said quietly, ‘Darling, Simon’s back.’

Christy was proud of her lack of reaction. Not even her expressive grey eyes were allowed to mirror any feelings.

‘Returning in triumph no doubt after the success of his American tour. Mum, I’m not eighteen any more,’ she added gently, ‘Simon Jardine means nothing to me now other than a bad memory. I’m glad for his sake that he’s found success at last—he wanted it so badly, he’d never have been satisfied with anything less.’ Restless, energetic Simon whom she had met six years ago, and who had stolen her unwary, foolish heart. He had told her then that nothing was more important to him than his writing and she, foolishly, had not believed him. He had just had his first book accepted by her mother’s publishers; a blend of fact and fiction that made compulsive reading. Now he was a world-renowned author with three books to his name, all of them bestsellers. He had been out of the country for the last four years, either writing, or doing promotional tours, with only brief visits to the UK, mainly to see his publishers. Now, according to her mother, he was back. So what was she expected to do? Disintegrate into a thousand broken pieces?

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she chided her mother, pouring each of them a cup of tea. Her own senses relayed to her the disturbing information that her pulse was racing, her stomach muscles knotting in remembered tension. ‘Okay, so I had a childish crush on Simon when I was eighteen—everyone’s entitled to one mistake.’ She managed to produce a wry smile. ‘Cheer up Mum, it’s not the end of the world.’