A Passionate Affair

‘Heavens, no!’ Cassandra’s laughter was slightly hysterical. ‘As I told you, I hardly know him. Er—Liz introduced us, today, at the Stafford reception. You remember—I told you I was going with her.’

‘I see.’ Mrs Roland sounded intrigued now. ‘So who is he? The name sounds foreign.’

‘Well, I don’t think he is.’ Cassandra felt a sense of relief at being able to talk about him. ‘He’s a journalist, so Liz says. For the Post.’

‘Ravek? Ravek?’ Mrs Roland said the name over. ‘You know, now I come to think of it, the name does sound vaguely familiar. Ravek!’ She said it again. ‘Yes, I have it. It’s Jay Ravek, isn’t it?’

‘He’s that well known, hmm?’ remarked Cassandra cynically, remembering Liz’s condemnation, but her mother-in-law gave an impatient exclamation.

‘No. No, you misunderstand me. I recall reading something about his mother, when she married Sir Giles Fielding—you know, the M.P. He was a barrister before he became interested in politics, and I believe I was introduced to him once at some dinner Henry and I attended. Anyway,’ she uttered an apologetic chuckle, ‘I’m digressing. What I really wanted to say was that his mother is Russian, her parents’ name was Ravekov, and they were émigrés at the end of the last war.’

Cassandra frowned. ‘But—if his father’s name is Fielding—–’

‘It’s not.’ Mrs Roland sighed. ‘That’s why I remember it. Her son was born long before she became Lady Fielding.’

‘I see.’ Cassandra drew her lower lip between her teeth.

‘I haven’t trodden on any toes, have I, Cass?’ Her mother-in-law sounded concerned. ‘Darling, you mustn’t mind my gossiping. I’m sure he’s a very nice man.’

‘Liz doesn’t think so,’ said Cassandra flatly. ‘She said he was a bastard, and somehow I don’t think she meant what you did.’

Mrs Roland clicked her tongue. ‘I should hope not! One can hardly blame him for his parents’ behaviour.’

‘No.’ Cassandra felt irritated suddenly. ‘Well, he probably had a commission he wanted to discuss. If he needs to get in touch with me, he can easily do so at the office.’

‘Yes . . .’ Mrs Roland was thoughtful. ‘If you say so, dear.’

‘I do.’ Cassandra was eager now to put down the phone. ‘Have a nice evening, and I’ll probably see you tomorrow.’

‘Very well, Cass. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

With the telephone receiver restored to its rest, Cassandra lifted her head and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror above the sideboard. She observed with some impatience that she had a smudge of ink on her chin, the result no doubt of supporting her head with the same hand that held her pen, and she rubbed at it absently as she contemplated what she had just learned. Why was Jay Ravek ringing her? What possible reason could he have? And why did it fill her with a sense of apprehension, when she had thought of him constantly since leaving the reception?

She sighed. It wasn’t as if she was a raving beauty or anything. She was reasonably tall and slim, and she had lost that angular thinness she had had while Mike was alive, but she was quite ordinary otherwise. She had naturally ash blonde hair, which was always an advantage, but she wore it short, a common enough style nowadays. She had nice skin, the kind that tanned in spite of her blonde hair, but her features were unremarkably regular, and only her eyes attracted any attention. They were large and green, with curling lashes that she darkened, but Mike used to say even they were deceptive. He said they promised so much, but offered so little, and she had never been able to understand why he had married her in the first place. He had had so many girls chasing him in his role as a racing driver, and during their more bitter arguments he had always thrown this up at her.

But that still didn’t explain why Jay Ravek wanted to speak to her. It was flattering, of course, and she would not have been human if she had not been curious, but her common sense told her that it might be simpler not to get involved, and perhaps her mother-in-law taking the call was just a blessing in disguise.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_61ffece3-e224-544c-b847-f81383588e72)

WITH the help of a capsule, Cassandra slept reasonably well, and awakened next morning feeling only mildly lethargic. It was months since she had felt the need for any assistance to sleep, and she had almost forgotten the heady feeling that lingered and the horrible taste in her mouth.

Needing to dispel that sense of inertia, she took a bath before breakfast, and then read the daily paper over her coffee. She was determined not to let thoughts of Jay Ravek disrupt her day as they had disrupted her night, but the latest wave of industrial troubles held little attraction.

Yet the night before she had spent far too much time wondering what his reasons for ringing her had been. After her moments of introspection, she had trudged back into the kitchen, and switched off the percolator without even pouring herself a cup of coffee. She had remained bemused, both by the evidence of the phone call and by what her mother-in-law had told her, and that was why she had taken one of the sleeping capsules the doctor had prescribed for her just after Mike had met his fatal accident. She had needed to sleep, to be alert to face the day—and it was annoying to discover that with consciousness came awareness, and the troubled conviction that Jay Ravek was not going to be that easy to dismiss.

She had an appointment that morning with the manager of a textile warehouse, and when she left the flat soon after nine o’clock, she drove straight to the address in north London. She usually chose the cloth the contractors were to use herself, and she always felt a thrill of excitement as she walked along the rows of bales, fingering their fine texture and admiring the variety of colours. There were so many shades, and such intriguing names for the different colours – oyster satin, damask in a delicious shade of avocado, cream brocade and bronze velvet. There were patterned cottons and rich cretonne, chintz and tufted fabrics, and lengths of chiffon and soft wild silk. Cassandra gained a great deal of satisfaction from choosing the materials, her decision was important, and the exhilaration she obtained more than made up for the long hours of hard work spent at her drawing board.

She and Gil Benedict spent over an hour discussing her requirements and the availability of the order, then she got back into the Alfasud and drove to Chandler Mews.

‘Any calls?’ she asked casually of Chris, as she shed the jacket of her fringed suede suit, and he lifted his head from the supporting prop of his knuckles and regarded her consideringly.

‘One or two,’ he conceded, reaching for the inevitable packet of cigarettes, and Cassandra’s nerves tightened. ‘Holbrook rang to say he can’t get those rails for the radiators until next week, and there’s been a tentative enquiry from a Mrs Vance, who’s apparently seen the Maxwells’ flat and would like to discuss us doing something similar for her.’

‘Oh.’ Cassandra hid her unwelcome sense of disappointment. ‘Is that all?’

‘Who were you expecting?’ Chris was laconic. ‘Oh, yes, a man did phone.’ He paused as Cassandra’s heart accelerated. ‘He said his name was—Ludlum, is that right? Something to do with your mother-in-law, I think.’

‘Paul Ludlum, yes.’ Cassandra’s voice was breathy as she sought escape from her foolish thoughts. She crossed the room, and picking up the electric kettle, weighed its contents before plugging it in. ‘He’s an accountant friend of hers, or rather his father was. She thinks we should have some professional help in that direction.’

‘I agree.’ Chris lit his cigarette and lay back wearily in his chair. ‘God, I’m bushed! Rocky cried on and off all night, and June said it was my turn to keep him quiet.’

Pushing aside her problems, Cassandra managed to smile. ‘Don’t call him Rocky!’ she exclaimed. ‘His name’s Peter. You know June hates you to make fun of him.’

Chris grimaced. ‘He still looks like a horror to me,’ he remarked, drawing the nicotine gratefully into his lungs, and Cassandra shook her head as she turned to spoon instant coffee into the cups.

Chris and June had only been married a little over a year, and baby Peter, the main reason for their nuptials, Chris maintained, was now almost six months old. It was typical of Chris that he should choose a nickname for his son, derived from the Rocky Horror Show, but Cassandra was very much afraid that June found this no less unacceptable than Chris’s previous decision to give up his well-paid job in the art department of a London television studios to go into partnership with her. Cassandra knew she could never have approached him. She would never have dreamed of asking him to give up so much on the strength of so little. But when Mike was killed and Chris heard the news, he contacted her himself and set up a meeting. It was the start of many such meetings, encouraged by Mrs Roland, and now, nine months later, their business was established and beginning to make the headway Liz had predicted.

Thinking of Liz, Cassandra realised she ought to give her a ring and thank her for lunch the previous day. Liz’s work, on a famous women’s magazine, entailed many such lunches, but for Cassandra it had been a less familiar experience. Lunches generally were spent at her desk, with a sandwich from the local delicatessen, and the chance to open the windows in Chris’s absence, and get rid of a little of the smoke haze. Chris usually went to the pub round the corner, eating his sandwiches with a pint and exchanging news with the staff from the hospital across the street. It was a popular meeting place, but although she was often invited to join him, Cassandra preferred to keep their association on a business footing.

As usual, Chris left the office at about a quarter to one, but after he had gone Cassandra felt curiously restless. Somehow the idea of sitting here enjoying a solitary sandwich had no appeal, and on impulse she got up from her chair and went to put on her jacket. It was a cold day, but sunny, and she decided to take a cab to Fetter Lane and surprise Liz. If she was free, they might have lunch together. If not, at least it would give her a break.

A car drove into the mews as she was descending the iron staircase, her heels clattering on the hollow slats. It was a dark green car, low and powerful-looking, and as she halted uncertainly, a man thrust open the door and climbed out.

It was Jay Ravek. There was no mistaking his lean indolent grace, or the silky hair that persisted in falling over his forehead. In a pair of dark pants and a corded jacket, his dark silk shirt opened at the neck in spite of the cold, he exhibited all the magnetism and sexuality she remembered, and just looking at him, she could feel every inch of her skin tingling.

He stood after closing the car door, inspecting his surroundings, and Cassandra guessed he was looking for her office. For an anxious moment she didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t seen her, that much was obvious, and she knew a ridiculous impulse to rush back up the steps and lock the door, before he noticed her. But that would have been silly and childish, and besides, she was taking it for granted he was coming to see her. He might not be, and in any case she was on her way out. Even so, it took a certain amount of courage to continue on down the steps as if she hadn’t recognised him, when every step she took seemed to echo horribly in the quiet mews.

He heard her at once, and the dark eyes she remembered so well fastened on her slender figure, his mouth curving into a wry smile as he came towards her.

‘Mrs Roland,’ he acknowledged her easily, as she reached the cobbled yard. ‘This is a coincidence. I was just coming to see you.’

‘You were?’ Cassandra assumed a cool smile of enquiry.

‘Yes.’ He inclined his head. Even in her heeled boots he was taller than she was, and it gave him a slight advantage. ‘Didn’t your mother-in-law tell you? I tried to phone you last night.’

Cassandra thought quickly. ‘It—er—it’s Mr Ravek, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed, ignoring his mildly incredulous intake of breath. ‘Why, yes. Yes, Thea did say something about a call.’

Jay Ravek’s eyes revealed his scepticism. Looking into their definitely mocking depths, Cassandra was left in no doubt as to his disbelief in the part she was playing, and remembering how his name had slipped out the day before, perhaps he could not be blamed for that.

Wanting—needing—to restore her credibility, Cassandra hastened on: ‘I was just going to lunch, but if there’s anything we can do for you, perhaps you could come back—–’

‘I was hoping to persuade you to have lunch with me,’ he interrupted her smoothly, and the frankness of his approach left her briefly speechless.

‘You—were hoping—–’ she got out, when she was able to drag sufficient air into her lungs, and once again he took the initiative.

‘Yes.’ He glanced round at his car. ‘I was reliably informed that you didn’t usually go out for lunch, but it seems my informant was mistaken.’