Special Treatment

It wasn’t until she saw Simon that she realised how dramatically different the dress made her look. His eyebrows lifted, his mouth pursed in a silent whistle.

‘Wow! What happened to you, Red?’ he demanded teasingly.

‘Nothing,’ she told him flatly, both irritated and at the same time faintly embarrassed by his openly male inspection of her. ‘And don’t look at me like that.’

‘No, don’t,’ agreed his wife, Emma, joining them and giving Susannah a friendly smile. ‘Love your outfit. Lucky you to be able to wear it.’ She grimaced ruefully and patted her hips. ‘I do envy you being so slim.’

‘Nonsense, woman, you’re perfect as you are,’ Simon told her firmly. ‘Are you sure you’re up to the consequences of wearing an outfit like that?’ he teased Susannah over his shoulder as he took his wife’s arm. ‘If not …’

‘Stop tormenting her, Simon,’ Emma commanded him, firmly leading him away.

But it was too late, the damage was done; Susannah immediately felt awkwardly conspicuous, her small stock of courage dwindling away. The best thing she could do would be to find herself a dark corner and to hide away in it until she could safely escape to her room. Aunt Emily had been right, she thought grimly, men did judge a woman on how she dressed. She had never really thought about it before, but now she could see what her aunt meant.

Normally, she didn’t waste much time or concern over her clothes; her life was far too busy for that. Comfortable, loose-fitting skirts or well worn jeans comprised her normal working wear. Busy reporters didn’t have time to worry about looking glamorous.

Glamorous? She made a face at herself in the rococo mirror hanging in the hall. What an out-of-date word! But then, she was out of date, in some respects, at least. She still felt bruised and sore from her last meeting with David. He had accused her then of leading him on, of being a ‘tease’, although his language had been stronger and very offensive. She had seen him in a new light then—not just as a weak man, but as an unkind one as well. She told herself that she had had a lucky escape, but that didn’t make the pain inside go away.

The interior designers had done their work well, she admitted as she slipped into Neil’s study in order to avoid the chattering group of people making their way down the hall.

When she had first seen the house, before Neil and Mamie had moved in, this room had been very neglected, the panelling on the walls in a very poor state of repair. Now it had been cleaned and treated, the stone fireplace restored and Neil’s antique partner’s desk installed, the designer touches showing only in the clever co-ordination of fabrics and ornaments. She rather liked the richness of the paisley fabric chosen for the curtains, she admitted. It went well with the heaviness of the dark red leather chesterfield. This would be a comfortable retreat for Neil, somewhere where he could come to read his papers and escape.

Behind her, the door opened and she stiffened, surprised out of her resentment at being discovered by the unexpectedness of Richard’s familiar voice. ‘My goodness, you do look …’

‘Don’t, please,’ Susannah begged, interrupting him. ‘I think I’ve already heard as much as I want to hear about my changed appearance from Simon.’

She knew she sounded far more irritated than the circumstances warranted, and it wasn’t Richard’s fault that the shop had got their orders muddled up. She bit her lip and apologised.

‘I’m sorry, Richard …’

‘Don’t be. And don’t apologise. Truthfully, my dear, you look lovely. It’s just that I’m more used to seeing you in rather more mundane outfits. I didn’t realise you knew the Sunderlands.’

‘Neil and Mamie are the closest thing I have to a family. Neil and my father were at school together. I must admit, though, that I didn’t realise you knew them.’

‘I don’t—not really. Caroline and Mamie have become great friends though, both of them being newcomers into the area, so to speak. I came in here to escape the hustle for a while. Parties aren’t really my cup of tea.’

But he would never deny Caroline the pleasure of attending them, Susannah thought enviously. He was too kind, too considerate to spoil his wife’s pleasure. If only David could have been more like Richard … She sighed faintly, and instantly Richard frowned in concern.

‘Is something wrong? I must admit I’ve been worrying about you lately. It isn’t this change of editor business that’s worrying you, is it? There’s no need, I promise you. I’ve given Hazard a glowing report on you, and one that you well deserve. He’s not an easy man to get along with, I admit, but he’s a very fair one.’

‘It … it isn’t work.’

She could have bitten her tongue out for letting the admission escape, and the instant she looked into Richard’s face, she guessed that he had already known.

‘Romance troubles, eh?’ he asked sympathetically. ‘Poor Susannah! Would it help to talk about things?’

Susannah shook her head, appalled by the sudden rush of weak tears flooding her eyes and clogging her throat. What on earth was the matter with her? Aunt Emily had brought her up to keep her emotions strictly under control, and here she was, behaving like … ‘Come on, now! It can’t be as bad as all that.’ The comforting arm Richard put round her shoulders was the last straw. To her utter chagrin, she found herself bursting into tears.

‘Come on, now. Whoever he is, he isn’t worth getting into this state over. There are always other fish in the sea, Susannah. Besides, you’ve got a good career ahead of you …’

As she listened to Richard’s soothing voice, she fought to get herself back under control. He was so kind, so gentle, and she felt the worst kind of fool for crying all over him like this.

‘Come on,’ he coaxed gruffly, ‘it will be all right. You’ll see.’

As she lifted her head from his shoulder, Susannah thought she saw someone walk past the open study door. Suddenly conscious of the fact that anyone could walk in and see them, she pulled away from him, mustering a weak smile.

‘I’m being a complete idiot, and you’re quite right. He isn’t worth crying over.’

‘That’s OK, what else are ex-bosses for?’

‘I’d better go upstairs and do something about my face.’

As she turned to leave him, Richard caught hold of her arm and said soberly, ‘It’s a very good face, you know, Susannah. Even more important, there’s a very good brain behind it. Whoever he is, he just isn’t worth what you’re putting yourself through.’

With another watery smile, she left him and hurried up to her room. Apart from a suspicious pinkness round her eyes, she didn’t look too bad, but, as she discovered when she attempted to reapply the small amount of make-up she normally used, it took rather more eye-shadow and mascara than usual to conceal the evidence of her tears. She wasn’t quite sure if she liked the very heavy-lashed effect produced by the extra mascara; it gave her an unfamiliar, almost sultry look.

Shrugging aside the thought, she hurried back downstairs. She was here as Neil and Mamie’s guest, and she mustn’t spoil their party by letting them worry about her.

As luck would have it, Mamie was walking across the hall just as Susannah went back downstairs. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Fine. I didn’t realise you knew Richard, my exboss …’

‘Richard? Oh yes, of course, Caroline’s husband. Heavens, what a coincidence! I really had no idea …’

Having successfully distracted her, Susannah made her escape, pleading thirst.

In point of fact, there was nothing she felt less like doing than drinking champagne and chatting with people who were, in the main, strangers. She wanted to go home and be alone to nurse her hurts, she acknowledged painfully. But what was the point? David wasn’t worth her tears, or her anguish. Savagely, she told herself over and over again, almost as though she was repeating a powerful spell, that she was better off without him, that it was David’s wife who was to be pitied. She had been lonely and David had seen that loneliness and played on it, gradually drawing her deeper and deeper into a relationship which he had known all along was wrong.

Once inside the marquee, she headed for a quiet corner, close to one of the ornate floral decorations. Here she could see without being seen, and with luck escape Mamie’s alert eyes.

If she admitted the truth, she was still suffering from the after-effects of that appalling interview with Louise, David’s wife. The extent to which the other woman had had to degrade herself hurt Susannah; ridiculously, she felt both shame and resentment for Louise on behalf of their shared sex. She didn’t love David any more; how could she? She had deluded herself as to his real personality; the man she had thought she loved had been an ideal, an adolescent’s dream. The reality was the reason for her anguish and shame, she acknowledged, raw with the newness of her emotions. Her hand shook a little, and in a fit of self-disgust she took a deep swallow of her champagne. It tasted tart and sour, like her whole life, she derided herself bitterly, impulsively tipping what was left in her glass into a convenient plant-pot.

It was only as she turned round that she realised that she had been observed. Not by anyone she knew. The man watching her with such compelling eyes was a complete stranger.

His evening clothes had quite obviously been tailored for him; they fitted far too well to have been bought off the peg.

At some time or another in his life he must have indulged in some sort of punishingly physical sport, she guessed, noting the width of his shoulders and the leanness of his torso. He was tanned, not a summer holiday tan, but the tan of someone who had spent long, long hours in the sun. His hair was black and very thick. It was also a shade too long, she noted disapprovingly, its length rather at odds with the sophisticated elegance of his evening-dress clothes. Surely a man whose clothes fitted as well as this one’s did could afford to have a decent hair-cut? Her forehead creased in a slight frown, her reporter’s mind, trained to notice even the smallest anomalies, registered the oddly discordant note of the length of that thick dark hair and queried it. Was it simply that he preferred it that length and didn’t give a damn about what the rest of the world thought? Was it …

Abruptly, she realised that she was staring at him, and that, worse, he was regarding her with a look of insolent knowingness that made her blood burn in a dark red tide of betrayal over her body.

As clearly as though he had spoken the words across the space that divided them, she sensed his sexual appraisal. It was the dress, of course, she realised bitterly. That was why he was looking at her as though she were some sort of commodity for sale. And yet, behind the arrogant contempt, she had glimpsed, if only for a second, something more dangerous: something male and predatory that made her skin tingle and her body quiver. Sexual chemistry at its most potent. And, ridiculously, she had had the distinct impression that he had been as startled by it as she had herself in those few seconds of mental awareness they had exchanged before he had recovered himself and guarded his expression from her.

It was the dress. It had to be the dress. She just did not have that sort of effect on men, especially not on men as blatantly masculine as that one. Everything about him had shrieked that he was a man used to having his own way. It had all been there, in the narrowed, assessing scrutiny of his eyes, and that hard, chiselled outline of his profile. He was about Simon’s age, early thirties or thereabouts, and he looked as though he had lived every one of those years to the full.

He was no David, she thought ironically.

Annoyed with herself, she clenched her hands. It didn’t matter who he was, she wasn’t interested. The last thing she wanted was to get herself involved with another man, especially one who thought she was the sort of woman portrayed by the dress she was wearing.

‘What’s the matter? Wasn’t the champagne an acceptable vintage?’