No Place For Love

‘I should imagine he knows all about it by now,’ Hugo advised her acidly. ‘And he’ll be thinking only of how to save his own skin—he won’t give a damn about you. Now come on, stop crying—you’ll make your eyes all red and puffy.’

Lacey sniffed, reaching for the roll of kitchen paper and tearing off a piece to wipe her eyes. ‘You were right,’ she admitted wryly. ‘I should have listened to you. But I never thought the papers would really be interested, even if they found out about us.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder how they did find out?’

Hugo shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t take much—politics is a very dirty game. A bit of rivalry inside the party, or someone out to take a dig at the government... They’re just using you, I’m afraid—you happened to be convenient.’

Lacey stared up at him, shocked. ‘Do you really think so? But that’s awful!’

He laughed, hugging her affectionately. ‘Dear old Lacey—how have you managed to live in this world for twenty-two years and remain so innocent? Most people would... Damn, what’s the matter with that stupid hound now?’

‘Oh, dear—I shut him in the bathroom. I was afraid he’d get out and chase Mrs Potter’s dog, and she’s already threatened to report him to the police as dangerous.’

She hurried to open the bathroom door. Four and a half stone of half-grown Afghan hound launched himself past her, scampering round in a circle in the middle of the hall and then diving into the living-room to leap on to the sofa, his brown eyes liquid and appealing, accusing her of the most ruthless cruelty for shutting him up for so long.

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘You rascal—you know you’re not supposed to be on there,’ she scolded him fondly.

From the bathroom came an angry roar. ‘That damned dog! He’s had my shaving-brush now! I swear one day I’ll strangle him!’

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER that unpleasant experience, Lacey would have liked nothing better than to be able to shut herself in her room and hide. But if there was one thing guaranteed to take her mind off her troubles, it was the youngsters at the day centre where she worked part-time as a drama therapist. All of them had been classified as having severe learning difficulties, but their enthusiasm for the Christmas play they were preparing was enormous.

‘It’s really coming on,’ remarked Hilary, the centre manager, watching as some of the cast earnestly rehearsed a scene. ‘And they really seem to be enjoying themselves.’

Lacey nodded. ‘They wrote most of the script themselves, by improvising,’ she explained quietly. ‘It’s about Jesus coming back in the present day, as one of the homeless in London.’

Hilary looked impressed. ‘Who thought of that?’

‘They did,’ Lacey responded proudly.

‘Very good. Let me know what you’re going to need in the way of props and scenery, and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks,’ Lacey whispered. ‘That was very good, Tom,’ she added, raising her voice to the characters on the makeshift stage. ‘Maria, I like the way you’re sitting, but could you just turn a little this way, so we can see your face properly?’

‘Was I really good, Lacey?’ Tom queried excitedly, his eyes alight with pride.

‘You were very good,’ she asserted with emphasis. ‘And you’ve learned your lines really well. Well done.’

‘I know my lines too, Lacey,’ Maria put in eagerly, coming over to take her hand.

Lacey smiled down at her with warm affection. ‘Do you? You have been working hard. We’ll come to your bit in a minute. I want you all to practise your song first, OK? Come on, gather round the piano.’

It made her feel warm inside to see all their bright, happy faces as they clustered around her. Sometimes it made her really angry that life seemed so unfair to them, but when she thought about the way that people who apparently had so much more could be so arrogant and rude, she was inclined to the conclusion that they were the ones to be envied.

The day centre was only a short distance from the flat she shared with Hugo, and with a speculative glance at the grey November sky she decided to walk home instead of waiting for the bus. It took her rather longer than she had expected—she had lived in this part of south London all her life, and it was inevitable that she would keep bumping into people she knew. By the time she had stopped to chat, nodding in sympathy at the story of someone’s recent spell in hospital, congratulating someone else on the birth of a new grandchild, it was beginning to rain.

She had to pop into the small supermarket on the corner to get a bottle of milk and some dog food for Khan, and then hurried the rest of the way home, struggling with her umbrella and her shopping, cursing mildly at a car that splashed her as she waited to cross the road.

As she turned the corner, she noticed with surprise that the same car was drawn into the kerb outside her block of flats. She frowned, puzzled. It was a sleek dark blue Aston Martin—who on earth could be visiting around here, driving a car like that? At least she could be fairly sure it wasn’t another reporter.

The driver was still at the wheel, and as she drew closer an uncomfortable suspicion began to dawn in her brain. A glimpse of a dark head and a pair of wide shoulders in an immaculately cut jacket confirmed it; it couldn’t be anyone else but Jon Parrish.

Well, he needn’t think she was going to stop and speak to him, after the way he had behaved last night! Ignoring him completely, she climbed the flight of steps to her front door on the first floor, irritated at her own uncharacteristic clumsiness as she struggled with her umbrella and her shopping and fumbled for her keys.

She heard him open the car door. ‘Miss Tyrell?’

Her umbrella was slipping, and instinctively she tried to catch it, succeeding only in dropping the bottle of milk. It smashed on the step, spilling broken glass and milk in the rain. ‘Oh...drat!’ she muttered, juggling with the tins of dog food as they too began to slip out of her hands.

He came quickly up the steps and took them from her before she dropped them.

‘Oh...Thank you,’ she responded, automatically polite, but instantly jumped back on to the defensive before he could think she was making any concessions. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she demanded, glowering up at him in undisguised suspicion.

Those dark eyes glinted, warning that he hadn’t come to apologise. ‘We need to talk,’ he answered tersely.

‘We have nothing to talk about,’ she insisted, trying to reach the lock with her key while still holding on to all the things she was carrying.

‘Unfortunately we do,’ he ground out, taking the key from her. ‘As you may be aware, the newspapers have discovered your relationship with my stepfather.’

‘I told you last night, I don’t have a relationship with your... Look out!’

He didn’t heed her warning, and as he pushed the door open he found himself mobbed by an overexcited bundle of fur, not sure whether to attack him or try to lick his face.

‘Khan—down!’ Lacey instructed sharply, afraid that if her dog ran to meet her he would cut his paws on the broken glass. She hurriedly shooed him back inside, catching her open umbrella on the door and muttering more impatient curses.

Jon calmly took it from her, shaking off the raindrops and closing it down as he followed her into the passage. ‘Sit,’ he instructed Khan imperiously.

To Lacey’s absolute astonishment, the delinquent hound immediately responded by plopping his back end down on the floor, his front paws neatly together, his whole expression conveying smug pride in his own uncharacteristic obedience.

‘Good lord—how on earth did you get him to do that?’ she queried, forgetting all her wariness in her surprise.

Just for a moment; a smile flickered at the corners of his hard mouth, and Lacey felt her heart give an odd little flutter; that smile was quite startlingly attractive. But she couldn’t afford to let herself think like that, she reminded herself sharply.

‘Well, you’d better come in,’ she remarked, the inflection of sarcasm in her voice acknowledging that he had already done so.

‘Thank you.’ He closed the front door behind him. Khan, evidently deciding he was a friend, was fawning at his feet, his rump in the air, his curly tail wagging wildly. ‘What exactly is this?’ he enquired, restraining the exuberant hound as he reared up to seal their relationship with his floppy pink tongue.

‘He’s an Afghan hound,’ she informed him, dumping the dog food on the kitchen table.

‘Is that a fact?’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’d have taken him for a mobile hearthrug.’

Lacey had to suppress ruthlessly the inclination to feel that anyone who could win Khan’s adoration so swiftly couldn’t be all bad—she could hardly rely on that brainless mutt as a judge of character, she reminded herself with a flash of wry humour.

She slanted him a wary glance from beneath her lashes. The memory of last night was still all too vivid in her mind, and although nothing in his manner now suggested that he was planning a repetition, she wasn’t at all sure she should have let him across the threshold. She was going to have to handle the situation very carefully, avoid doing anything that he might take as further confirmation of the conclusion he had leapt to so readily last night; at least having her own clothes on should give her a little more confidence.

‘Take a seat,’ she invited stiffly.

‘No, thank you,’ he responded in clipped tones. ‘I won’t be staying more than a few moments.’

Biting back a sharp retort, she shrugged her slender shoulders in a gesture of pure indifference. ‘Suit yourself,’ she returned breezily. ‘But first I’m going to have to go and clear up that mess outside, before someone hurts themselves.’