Dark Victory

‘You got fed up with it?’ Lawson suggested.

Cheska’s lips compressed. His question appeared to imply that she was both capricious and fickle.

‘On the contrary, I was deeply interested in what I was doing and I would’ve stayed, but there were—’ she hesitated ‘—problems. However, they were not of my making. Difficult though you may find this to believe, even “wilful little brats” grow up some time,’ she said, tersely recalling a phrase which he had once used to describe her.

Brown eyes locked on to hers. ‘Grow up into what—wilful big ones?’

She glared, so incensed by the insult which hung palpably in the air that she itched to slap his lean face. Slap it hard. Slap it ringingly. But, once again, Lawson Giordano had read what was in her mind.

‘Try it, and you’ll find yourself back in the water,’ he warned.

‘The speed of my departure meant I was only able to phone Rupert at the last minute,’ Cheska said, tautly resuming her recital, ‘so when he collected me from Heathrow late last night he’d had less than twenty-four hours’ notice of my return.’ She gave him a cold, unsmiling look. ‘And what is the reason for your presence?’

‘I’m doing preparatory work before I start filming.’

Her forehead crinkled. ‘You’re filming here, at Hatchford Manor?’

‘I am,’ Lawson said, bending to retrieve the binoculars, the camera and his notebook from the long grass. He straightened. ‘I came yesterday and everyone else rolls up on Monday.’

Cheska’s thoughts shattered. She had been looking forward to some peace and quiet in which to unwind and recover from the episode abroad, but there would be no quiet if a commercial was being made on the doorstep, and no peace of mind so long as the tall Italian remained in her vicinity. None.

‘Rupert never said,’ she objected, a mite pugnaciously.

‘If you only arrived back late last night, I dare say he didn’t have time to get around to it.’

‘I guess not,’ Cheska muttered.

Her stepbrother had not had much opportunity to tell her, never mind the time, she acknowledged ruefully. Yesterday evening, she had chattered nonstop about what had been happening in her life, while the fond bachelor had indulgently listened. As usual. Cheska frowned. Though she had not told him everything.

“The idea of filming offends you?’ Lawson enquired, noticing her frown.

‘No, but ’

‘Your stepbrother’s signature on the dotted line means the arrangement is incontrovertible,’ he rasped, ‘so if you should be toying with the idea of trying to talk him out of it you’re wasting your time.’

‘Am I? Well, let me tell you that if I did try to talk him out of it I’d manage it,’ Cheska retorted. ‘Rupert is prone to seeing things my way.’

‘In which case, I’d sue for breach of contract. However, I’d advise you to remember that what I expect, I get.’ His dark eyes were unblinking beneath straight black brows. ‘Am I making myself clear?’

‘Crystal,’ she snapped.

He hooked his binoculars and camera over a broad shoulder and gestured up the lawn. ‘Then let’s go.”

One of the things Lawson Giordano had got five years ago had been her, Cheska thought bitterly, as she tramped beside him. In his bed. Though he had not wanted her, in the lusting, besotted, longing-to-possess-her sense. Far from it. As, just now, he had kissed her for a reason, so he had made love to her then for a cold-blooded, selfish and deliberate reason. Cheska’s footsteps quickened. She had forbidden herself from thinking about that long-ago night, and how the touch of his hands, his mouth, his tongue had driven her wild, and she refused to think about it now. It was too demeaning, too embarrassing. Of course, then she had been young and gullible, whereas these days she was mature, alert and—

‘Yipes’ Cheska squeaked, as her foot skidded out from under her.

Abruptly finding herself on the verge of performing the splits, she made an instinctive grab for Lawson’s arm. He stumbled, swore, and for a moment also seemed about to fall. Then he recovered his balance and held her upright.

‘Are you accident-prone?’ he demanded, his fingers biting into the flesh of her bare arms, ‘or is doing pratfalls every five minutes your way of pepping up a slow day?’

Cheska wrenched herself free. ‘I slipped because my flip-flops happen to be wet and muddy,’ she informed him frostily.

“Then take the damn things off.’ Lawson looked down at the flimsy sandals. ‘They were never designed for trekking up hill and down dale anyway.’

She scowled. Forget maturity; he was making her feel like a dim-witted three-year-old.

‘I know, but they were at the top of my suitcase and… available,’ she said, in ineffectual protest, and, barefoot now and with the flip-flops dangling from her fingers, Cheska set off again beside him over the grass. ‘Which product are you promoting this time?’ she enquired.

‘Product?’ Lawson repeated, as if he did not know what she was talking about.

She darted him a glance through the thick veil of her dark lashes. ‘It’s—it’s not a car?’

Five years ago they had met because she had appeared in a commercial which he had been directing. It was her one and only involvement in such a thing, and had come about because, at the time, she had been dating the son of a motor dealer. A millionaire motor dealer who marketed luxury cars and who had decided to boost his sales with an advertisement on television.

‘Driven by an upmarket brunette making her way home at dawn after a night of passion with her lover?’ Lawson said pithily. He shook his head. “There won’t be a car in sight, I swear. However,’ he continued, striding lithely uphill, ‘don’t be surprised if you wake up one morning next week to find a chorus-line of ten-foot-high fish fingers shimmying their way through the herb garden.’

Cheska’s march halted and she gazed at him in horror. Built around 1750, and incorporating an earlier Queen Anne house, Hatchford Manor was a striking Georgian property of elegant proportions, graceful lines and tall windows. It reeked history and, surrounded by wooded acres and lush meadows, occupied an idyllic setting. But to use it as a backdrop for some cheeky, chirpy, vaudevilletype commercial would be sacrilege.

‘ You’re kidding!’ she protested.

Lawson slid his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans, an action which contrived to pull the denim tight across his thighs. It was an action which Cheska noticed, though she wished she hadn’t.

‘Why would I kid?’ he enquired.

She started to walk again. He would kid because, for some totally unwarranted reason, he considered her to be a snob and it would amuse him to rattle her.

As though deep in contemplation, Cheska pursed her lips. ‘Y’know,’ she said, shining a defiant smile, ‘on second thoughts, dancing fish fingers sound like fun.’

‘Don’t they?’ Lawson said.

Cheska had hoped to detect a clue as to the validity of his claim, but neither his expression and nor his tone had given anything away. Yet even if he was promoting breaded fish, which had begun to seem more and more unlikely, he would do so with style. Prior to her advertising début, other commercials which he had made had been pointed out to her, and without exception they had been imaginative, well-crafted and by far a cut above the usual. Apparently he had received several awards. She had not seen anything he had directed since, but it would be surprising if his standards had dropped. Lawson Giordano had cared about his work. Cared passionately.

Though if his standards had plummeted she was not bothered, Cheska decided, as they approached the house. All she wanted was for him to do whatsoever he had come to do and leave. Soonest. A commercial should take no more than three or four days, and for that time she would make certain their paths did not cross again. She had not envisaged spending her first days home holed up in her bedroom or going off for long walks, but if that was what was necessary, so be it.

‘Where are you staying?’ Cheska enquired, wondering whether he had based himself in Tunbridge Wells, the nearest sizeable town, or had elected for the more homespun comforts of an Olde English country pub.

‘Here,’ Lawson said.

She shot him a startled glance. ‘In the manor?’ she protested.

How could she avoid him if he was staying in the same house? Cheska wondered feverishly. Spacious and roomy though Hatchford Manor was, it would be impossible. Her mind buzzed. She would get a girlfriend to invite her to stay next week. She would telephone—

‘No, in one of the oast-houses,’ he said, and pointed beyond the ivy-covered walls which enclosed the gardens at the rear of the manor to where two conical red-brick towers with white caps topped a timbered brick building.

“They’ve been newly converted.’ Cheska said, as relief at his being under a different roof flooded through her. ‘When I left two years ago the building was virtually derelict, but Rupert brought in an architect. Plans were drawn up for a pair of semidetached houses and, after endless progress reports, he wrote last month to say they were finally finished and ready for habitation.’

‘You’ve been abroad for two years?’ Lawson enquired.