Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About The Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Copyright

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Cheska’s mind was a blank.

“The kiss,” Lawson said, walking toward her.

“Kiss?” Cheska queried.

“You know the saying ‘kiss and make up?” Lawson bent over her. “We’ve done the making up part, so…?”

“Funny you should mention it,” she said. “I was just thinking the same thing myself.”

Lawson straightened a little, his eyes suddenly watchful. “You were?”

ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing, and had her first romance novel accepted in 1982. Now she’s hooked on the genre! They live in London, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.

Dark Victory
Elizabeth Oldfield

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHESKA sauntered contentedly towards the woodland pool which, from childhood, she had always regarded as her own special place. It felt so good to be home. Especially when the sky stretched above in a cloudless blue, when a warm breeze stirred the leaves in the trees, when the countryside was bright with drifts of wild flowers. She hugged slender arms around herself. It felt so good to be alone in the tranquillity of the morning and, praise be, to have at last escaped from the unfortunate, pressurising, increasingly dangerous attentions of—

Her thoughts and her footsteps came to a full stop. Her contentment vanished. She was not alone. On the far side of the oval pool, a man lay on his stomach, half hidden in the long grass. Cheska’s pewter-grey eyes narrowed. Who was he? What did he want? He appeared to be gazing up the long sweeping slope of green lawns in the direction of the manor house, but why? She regarded him with suspicion and acute distaste. She did not appreciate anyone violating her hideaway. After all, this was private property, she thought indignantly—and it had yet to reach eight o’clock.

Cheska studied the trespasser. Had she stumbled upon a gypsy, intending to poach a rabbit or maybe a wild deer? His thick jet-black hair and the golden skin of his arms made Romany blood a possibility.

Or might he be one of the so-called ‘New Age’ travellers the newspapers had been complaining about, scouting out a suitable tract of land on which his druggy friends could descend in hordes and create havoc by holding an illegal pop festival? Defiant hands were spread on her slim Lycra-clad hips. Over her dead body. Or was he, perhaps, more innocently, a tramp sleeping rough? Or, less threateningly still, a bird-watcher? All four options were dismissed. The tall, athletic figure stretched out on the far side of the sun-dappled water was too well dressed. He might be wearing jeans, but even from her vantage-point Cheska could see that they were clean and well cut, and that the burgundy sports shirt which fitted his muscular torso like a glove was of good quality.

Her eyes drifted back down. His lean-hipped, taut-curved backside was one of the sexiest she had ever seen. On a scale of one to ten, it definitely rated as a ten. Cheska gave her head a little shake. Where had that thought come from? The jet-lag which had kept her tossing and turning all night and had her raring to go at dawn must be befuddling her. She was not in the habit of admiring male bottoms and awarding points—let alone so early in the day—and, instead of admiring his, she ought to be deciding what the man was up to.

As Cheska watched, he slowly tilted his dark head from side to side, as though studying the eighteenth-century stone mansion from different angles, then he lifted a pair of binoculars. Her heart started to race. Oh, lord, what she had stumbled upon was a thief, undertaking a reconnaissance of the house before he broke in and swiped a selection of the family heirlooms! An exceptionally professional thief, she realised with galloping alarm, for a pad had been produced from his breast pocket and he had begun making notes.

With hasty steps Cheska backed out of sight behind the thick trunk of a beech tree. She gulped down a breath. What was she to do? Her instinct was to steal quietly and quickly away before the man spotted her, which, as he was so engrossed in his survey, should be simple. Her brow furrowed. Yet a prompt retreat would mean that, when she telephoned the police, there would be little description to give them—unless she waxed lyrical about his cute rear-end, Cheska thought wryly. But perhaps the thief was a known villain who, if identified, could be shadowed and apprehended. A burnished curl of cinnamon-brown hair was hooked decisively behind one ear. Before making her getaway, she would creep around the edge of the steepsided pool and sneak a swift, discerning sideways look.

After checking that the trespasser remained preoccupied, Cheska left the beech tree and, with stealthy scampering steps, hightailed it to the leafy screen of a rhododendron. She slunk to another bush, and another, and the next. The note-making continued. A few more furtive prowls and she was on the point of taking up her viewing position beneath the convenient canopy of a weeping willow, when her prey reached down into the grass to produce a camera. As he half turned, Cheska froze. Her pewter-grey eyes flew open wide. Her heart thudded behind her ribs. Jet lag must be playing weird tricks again, for the glimpse she had had of the man’s strong, angled profile had made her think…It couldn’t be, a voice wailed in protest inside her head. It is, her eyesight and common sense insisted. That Roman nose and clean-cut jawline are instantly recognisable, even after a gap of five years. When the man twisted his torso and reached down into the grass again, this time to dispense with a lens cap, her fears were confirmed. Her worst fears. Cheska raised a shaky hand to her brow. She had never expected to meet Lawson Giordano, whizz-kid director of television commercials, again, and certainly not in the depths of the Sussex countryside in the early hours of a summer morning.

She stared at the prone male figure. How did he come to be here? she wondered frantically. What on earth could he be doing? Her curiosity received short shift. His activities did not matter. What mattered was that Lawson Giordano had not seen her, so she did not need to meet him now, Cheska thought thankfully. She could, would, creep quickly and quietly away. As he focused the camera she took a blind step in hasty retreat, turned, and felt her flip-flop sandal start to slide out from beneath her foot. Her balance went.

‘Aarrgh!’ Cheska yelped, as in a flurry of windmilling arms, skidding legs and spiralling body she slithered out from the weeping willow, down the bank of the pool and into the dark green water.

Above her, Lawson Giordano’s head whipped round and he stared. He clambered to his feet. ‘Francesca Rider?’ he said, in stunned disbelief. For a moment or two he gawked down at her, and then he started to laugh.

Pink-faced and with untidy clouds of brown hair tumbling over her eyes, Cheska glared. A dry spring and summer had reduced the level of the pond, so the water barely reached her thighs and the legs of her black cycling shorts. She had also, by some miracle, managed to remain upright. And she was unhurt. She swept back her hair. OK, OK, she thought tetchily, her impromptu descent could be construed as somewhat comic, but she resented providing amusement for a man who had once savagely condemned her and then proceeded to exploit her for his own ends. Exploit her ruthlessly.

Cheska folded her arms across her chest. ‘It isn’t funny, she declared, her voice frigid.

Although it required an effort and a moment or two, Lawson Giordano managed to clamp down on his laughter—though a crooked grin annoyingly remained.

‘You think not?’ he said.

‘I do!’ Cheska snapped. ‘And it’s your fault that I fell.’

‘Mine?’

She glowered up at him. ‘I didn’t expect anyone to be here, and—and you startled me.’

Dark brown eyes made a swift but expert appraisal of her slim figure in the Lycra shorts and matching cut-away top.

‘You thought I might be a lust-crazed rapist, scouring the fields for scantily dressed maidens and about to pounce?’ Lawson Giordano suggested.

Cheska’s glower intensified. She had not considered herself scantily dressed—until he had mentioned it. But now she felt like a fugitive from some Las Vegas strip show!

‘You were looking at the house and I thought you might be what’s commonly called “casing the joint”,’ she retorted, and realised he was staring.

Cheska flushed. In folding her arms, she had pushed up the high breasts which sprang from her narrow body and now the honeyed curves seemed in imminent danger of spilling from her low-cut neckline. Hastily dropping her arms, she waded two or three steps across the muddy floor of the pool to the side, but when she reached it she frowned. The bank, which was covered with ferns and stones and yellow wands of loosestrife, was almost vertical. How did she climb up it?

Looming above, Lawson Giordano made a tall silhouette against the dazzle of the morning light. ‘May I give you a hand?’ he offered, in the low, smoky voice which she remembered so well.

When he held down a golden-skinned arm covered with a floss of black hair, Cheska eyed it warily. She did not want to touch him. She did not want to have any physical contact with the man. No, thanks. Never again.

‘I can manage on my own, thank you,’ she informed him, with the grand hauteur of a duchess.

Lawson shook his head. ‘You can’t,’ he said.

After undertaking a more detailed scrutiny of the bank, Cheska gave a silent scream. While she was loath to admit it, he seemed to be right. Her teeth ground together. She not only balked at touching him, she also objected to Lawson Giordano’s taking control of the situation—as he had always been so magnificently in control of situations before. But what was the alternative? She was damned if she would scramble up to him on her hands and knees.

Cheska forced a grit-eating smile. ‘I can’t’ she agreed, and clasped the large hand which he had continued to hold down.

It would serve him right if, instead of him pulling her out, she pulled him in, Cheska reflected, as her rescuer planted his long legs apart and prepared to haul. A dipping would be no more than he deserved and apt punishment, in view of his laughter, and his cruel manipulation of her in the past. Indeed, nothing would give her greater satisfaction than to manipulate him, by jerking at his hand so that he hurtled past her down the bank, to splash headlong into the water. And if he should sink for the regulation three times—tough luck! She had no badges for life-saving.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Lawson warned.

Cheska was looking at him in astonishment, wondering if she had a plate glass forehead, when with one powerful pull he yanked her out of the water, up the ferny slope and on to the side. Her legs skitter-skattered like pistons until—wham!— she thudded up against the firm-muscled wall of his chest.

Oh!’ she gasped.

In reflex, she clutched at his shoulders, and in reflex his arms went around her waist. Breathing hard, they stood together, body pressed against body, eyes gazing into eyes.

‘You always were a bloody-minded, uncooperative little bitch, and you haven’t changed,’ Lawson said roughly, then his dark head came down, blotting out the sun, and he kissed her.

Taken by surprise, Cheska opened her mouth to protest. That was her first mistake, for, as her lips parted, his tongue thrust between them, a predatory invader. Her second mistake was not to push him away. But how could she, when he had begun a seductive exploration of her mouth, when he was tasting her—and she was tasting him? A clean, male, intoxicating taste which revived all kinds of memories. As the kiss deepened, Cheska’s head started to spin and her knees seemed to buckle. She clung tighter to his shoulders; it was vital if she was to remain upright. But clinging to him had been her third mistake, she realised, for when Lawson drew back a minute or two later he was smiling, a confident, amused, knowing smile.

‘I—I have changed,’ Cheska stammered, needing to break the spell which he seemed to have cast, desperate to stifle the frenetic thump-thump of her heart. Letting go of his shoulders, she placed her arms stiffly down by her sides. ‘I have,’ she repeated, her voice firmer this time.

A brow lifted. ‘You’re no longer susceptible?’

‘Susceptible?’ she queried. To what?’

Lawson traced the tip of a tapered index finger slowly across her bare midriff, leaving a trail of heat tingling in its wake.

‘Me.’

Cheska took a brisk step in retreat. ‘No way,’ she said tartly.

‘That wasn’t the impression I received a moment ago.’

Her fingers curled into balls, their nails biting into her palms. She was furious with herself for having reacted so unthinkingly, so naively—and furious with him for daring to comment on it. It had seemed odd that Lawson Giordano should kiss her, but now she knew why. He had been testing her. He had been checking whether the sexual fire which he had once ignited with such casual ease could still be coaxed into flame. And she had obligingly boosted his male ego by providing the answer!

‘You always were an arrogant bastard and you haven’t changed,’ Cheska declared, in a sharp reworking of his earlier condemnation of her.

At the back of her mind, it registered that he had not changed physically, either. His hair was still black and wavy, worn a mite too long for fashion and curling over his shirt collar. His eyes continued to be heavy-lidded and a lustrous yellow-flecked brown. His mouth remained…well, beautiful. The granite-cut upper lip hinted at imperiousness, the lower was full and sensual. Cheska felt an irritating and totally unwelcome frisson. Five years ago, his dark Latin looks and muscular physique had meant that Lawson Giordano had been almost insolently masculine. He still was.

‘You’re saying you’re not susceptible?’ he drawled.

‘I’m saying that the only reason you weren’t kicked on the shins just now, or kneed in the groin,’ she added, with a razor of a smile, ‘was because you took me unawares.’

Lawson moved his shoulders in a leisurely shrug. ‘I was taught never to contradict a lady—even when she’s lying through her teeth. But what are you doing here?’ he went on, not missing a beat. ‘How come you’re wandering through the woods alone before breakfast, wearing a revealing top,

and’ dark eyes dipped momentarily down to her

hips in the elasticated shorts ‘—no knickers?’

Cheska forced herself to meet his steady gaze with an equally steady one of her own. He might just have got the better of her, but he would not be allowed to do so again. Whatever he said, whatever he did, she refused to be fazed. She would let him know that the gauche, biddable girl of so long ago had become a sophisticated and self-assured young woman.

‘It was hot,’ she declared, tossing back her mane of long brown hair in a couldn’t-care-less gesture.

‘And you don’t wear knickers when it’s hot?’ The corner of his mouth tweaked. ‘Now that’s intriguing.”

Cheska jabbed a hand up the rolling lawn to where the windows of the house reflected the pale yellow of the morning sun. She had absolutely no wish to continue this discussion about her underwear—or lack of it.

I’m here because Hatchford Manor is my home,’ she said.

‘Your home?’ There was a long moment of silence before Lawson next spoke. ‘But I understood that Rupert Finch, the owner, lived there alone. Apart from a housekeeper and her husband.’

‘He does, most of the time—but I arrived back yesterday. Rupert is my brother.’

Lawson seemed to recoil in shock. ‘Brother?’ he repeated.

Cheska cast him a puzzled glance. She had never seen him thrown before, but his voice had been filled with horror and his tense expression made it plain that he was now working his way through all manner of difficulties and doubts. Yet why should the relationship be of any possible concern, pose any possible problem, to him?

‘But he’s Finch and you’re Rider,’ Lawson protested, raking back the strands of black hair which fell over his forehead. ‘Besides, the guy’s in his early fifties whereas you can only be…twenty-five?’

‘Twenty-six,’ Cheska amended. ‘To be accurate, Rupert’s my stepbrother, hence our different names and the gap in ages, but we’re close and I always think of him as my brother.

‘So you’re not blood relations, he said, with what could be recognised as blatant relief.

She shook her head. ‘His father married my mother. He married her late in life after his first wife, Rupert’s mother, died. And my mother was a widow,’ she explained.

‘When we were talking last week, he did make a reference to a “Cheska”,’ Lawson recalled, frowning, ‘but I thought he said you were abroad.’

‘I was, until yesterday. However, I quit my job unexpectedly—’ a shadow crossed her face ‘—and—’

‘You were working abroad?’ he cut in.

‘What did you think I was doing, holidaying at length in glitzy abandon?’ Cheska demanded. ‘Cruising the Caribbean or living it up at a house party on the Côte d’Azur?’

‘Something like that’ His eyes flickered over her. ‘After all, you have a deep tan which couldn’t have been acquired overnight, so’

‘Although I may have tended to swan around once, I now work hard for my living,’ she informed him curtly.

‘But you’re no longer a model?’

‘No, I stopped modelling shortly after we last met. To continue, I quit my job and—’

‘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.

‘Almost, and I was abroad for a two-year stint prior to that. In the olden days, oast-houses were where the hops used to be dried, she went on. ‘Hops are dried flowers which give a bitter taste to—’

‘Beer. You don’t need to explain, he said. I went to university in Sussex.’

Cheska cast him a surprised glance. ‘I’d realised from your English that you’d probably lived in England at some time, but I had no idea it was in this part of the country. Being a student and then returning to film in the area is quite a coincidence.’ she observed.

Lawson looked straight ahead. ‘Isn’t it?’

Even though he had studied here, for him to have become so fluent and to have lost almost all trace of an accent meant that he must have a natural flair for languages, Cheska reflected, as they walked on. But Lawson Giordano seemed to have a flair for many things—not least lovemaking. Raising her eyes, she watched a pack of black swifts streak across the sky. For years she had obliterated all thoughts of the night they had spent together, and she was not going to resurrect any memories now. ‘ What’s the oast like?’ Cheska asked.

‘There are stone walls, oak beams and thick white carpets. It comes with all mod cons and is very comfortable. Whoever rents it will be delighted, especially as I believe they’re also to be given the use of the manor’s swimming pool and tennis court.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘The oasts are to be rented out?’

‘To holidaymakers.’ Lawson swung her a mocking look. ‘The prospect of hoi polloi setting their grimy feet on her hallowed ground makes my lady shudder?’ he enquired.

Cheska’s lips thinned. He had misread her bewilderment for snooty objection. Once condemned as toffee-nosed, always condemned, she thought angrily.

‘No, but I understood that the oasts were meant to house a couple of gardeners and their families,’ she retorted.

‘Then you understood wrong.’

Cheska was silent and pensive for a moment. Had Rupert said the oasts were for gardeners or had she assumed it?

‘How did your location people discover Hatchford Manor?’ she enquired.

‘They didn’t,’ Lawson said. ‘It was offered to them.’

Cheska’s winged eyebrows soared. Her stepbrother was a scholarly individual whose consuming passion in life was moths and butterflies. As one of the world’s leading lepidopterists, Rupert Finch had identified new species and written several books on the subject. But he rarely took an interest in television, and she was astonished that he should have known of the TV companies’ requirement for locations; let alone felt inspired to submit his home and his routine to the obtrusion of a film crew.

‘Rupert sent in details?’ she asked.

‘I believe it was Miriam who submitted them.’

‘I see,’ Cheska said thinly.

Shortly after her departure two years ago, there had been a mention in one of her stepbrother’s letters about him renewing his friendship with Miriam Shepherd, a former childhood sweetheart and near-neighbour who had not long been widowed. Miriam was a dreadfully well broughtup, insufferably bright individual who loved to take charge, and while Rupert’s increasing references had made it clear that he did not object to the woman being around, Cheska had always found even a small dose of her extremely trying. But having a commercial made at the manor would give Miriam much to talk about at her bridge games and coffee mornings, and, as its instigator, would put her firmly centre-stage.

‘You’ve met Miriam?’ Cheska enquired.

Lawson nodded. ‘When I came to discuss filming on a couple of earlier occasions and again on my arrival yesterday. She seems to be a constant visitor.’

Cheska uttered a silent scream. From Rupert’s letters it had appeared that the woman might be muscling in and attempting to establish herself— which would be easy because her stepbrother was far too malleable—and this was confirmation. Her brow furrowed. Now that she thought about it, it seemed likely that using the oast-houses as holiday homes had been Miriam’s idea. The fiftyish blonde had a keen eye for money; which was doubtless one of the reasons why she had decided to set her cap at Rupert again, Cheska thought scathingly.

‘How old were you when your mother married Rupert’s father?’ Lawson enquired.

‘Er…ten,’ she said, surprised by the veer in subject and surprised that he should be interested.

‘How did you get on with your stepfather?’

Cheska smiled. ‘Very well, though, as he was in his sixties, he seemed more like a grandfather than a father. Desmond Finch was a gentle man, the same as Rupert.’ Her smile faltered. ‘Unfortunately he and my mother were only together for—’

‘Yoo-hoo,’ a voice shrilled, splitting through the still of the morning, and they both looked up to see a corseted figure in a vividly floral dress and pearls flapping a hand from the manor’s pillared porch.

Cheska’s heart sank. Miriam Shepherd might be a constant visitor, but did she have to arrive so early?

‘Yoo-hoo, Lawson! the woman yodelled.

She shot him a glance. ‘Lawson?’ she queried tartly. ‘It sounds as if the two of you are friends.’

‘The best of,’ he said, stopping as they reached the semi-circle of the metalled forecourt, ‘and don’t crinkle your patrician nose like what. Miriam’s a good-hearted type.’

‘Good-hearted? Huh! What are you doing?’ Cheska protested, as she was abruptly tipped off her feet and swung up into his arms.

‘Carrying you to the front door.’

She frowned at him. ‘Why?’

Lawson set off across the forecourt. ‘Because chances are you’ll either step on a stone in your bare feet or, if you put on your sandals, you’ll slip.’’ And I thought the age of chivalry had died,’ Cheska said archly.

He prowled effortlessly on, like a big cat bringing home its prey. ‘I hadn’t finished. In either case, it’ll be me you make a grab for, and, as I have no desire to be sent flying, carrying you seems the most prudent course of action.’

So much for chivalry! All he had been thinking about was himself. But she did not want to be carried, Cheska thought edgily. She did not want to be held so close in his arms. She did not want to feel the warmth of his hands on her bare legs or the rub of her body against his body as he walked.

‘My flip-flops have dried—see?’ she said, flourishing them in front of his nose. ‘So I shan’t slip and you can put me down.’

Lawson shook his head. ‘My self-preservation instincts say no.’

‘But I say yes!’

‘You’re in the hands of someone bigger and more powerful than yourself,’ he informed her, ‘so why not just lie back and enjoy the ride?’

Cheska’s temper fizzed. Self-preservation came a low second, she thought darkly, what he was really doing was demonstrating his control over her—in a patronising, condescending, infuriating kind of way. And what made it even more infuriating was the sight of gossipy Miriam watching from the porch. Doubtless by this time tomorrow half the population of the county would know how she—an independent, intelligent young woman—had been toted around like some daffy doll.

‘Put me down! ‘ Cheska commanded, in her most majestic tone. “Twitching your pectorals like this may be doing wonders for your machismo, but—’

‘Relax. If you wriggle, you could make me drop you,’ Lawson said, and loosened his grip. ‘Do you want that?’

Able to recognise a threat when she heard one, Cheska hooked a hasty arm around his neck. Being unceremoniously dumped would be even more demeaning than being carried.

‘No, thanks, she muttered.

‘I thought not.’ His eyes dipped to the swell of her breasts in the low neckline. ‘Besides, carrying you like this is…stimulating.’

‘For you, maybe, Cheska retorted, ‘but not for me.’

‘No?’ Slowly and deliberately, Lawson lowered his gaze again. ‘That’s odd; all the evidence points to—’

Her cheeks flamed. He had not bothered to finish his sentence, but he did not need to. Belatedly— and to her dismay—she realised that being carried in his arms had aroused her. Her nipples had tightened and, without looking down, Cheska knew they would be jutting like miniature thimbles beneath the black Lycra.

With agile ease, Lawson took the steps up to the porch two at a time, where he set her down on her feet.

‘I didn’t want my lady to slip,’ he told the eagleeyed Miriam.

Cheska seethed. If he called her ‘my lady’ once more, she would slap him. She would. And never mind Miriam broadcasting the news far and wide.

‘Sir Galahad,’ the older woman declared, with a simpering smile of admiration. She cocked a curious head. ‘Do you two know each other?’ Intimately,’ Lawson replied, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and standing with long legs set apart. ‘The truth of the matter is’

Cheska’s nerve ends shrieked. He couldn’t tell her…He mustn’t…

“That he’s joking and we met just now, down at the pool, she gabbled, shooting a daggers-drawn look which defied him to argue.

The last thing she needed was for Miriam to know that something had happened between them—no matter how long ago. An avid ferreter and something of a prude, if the blonde sniffed a whiff of something untoward she would not cease digging until she had unearthed the facts. All of them. Cheska shuddered. Her behaviour may have been less than circumspect, but she refused to be branded as a scarlet woman.

‘Yes, we did,’ Lawson said, being dutifully obedient, though an impudent gleam shone in his dark eyes. ‘You were calling me?’ he asked Miriam.

“There’s a phone call from Mrs Croxley, Janet’s mother.’ Ushering him indoors, she wafted a beringed hand down the wide, oak-floored hall with its worn Persian rugs, to where a door stood open into the library. ‘She promised to hold on.’

“Thank you,’ he said, and strode away.

‘Francesca, how nice to see you again,’ Miriam declared, with a gracious smile. ‘Rupert tells me you had a good flight.’

She nodded. ‘It was fine. Where is Rupert?’ she asked, for her stepbrother was usually an early riser.

‘He’s getting up. After such a late night last night, he overslept.’

Wondering if she could be being blamed for her plane’s midnight arrival time, Cheska shot a suspicious look, but all she saw was raging affability.

‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here,’ Miriam went on. ‘Friday’s my day for going into Tunbridge to do my weekly shop, so I thought I’d stop by as usual to see if dear Rupie needs anything.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ Cheska said, because it was. Though it could also be regarded as a way of the blonde insinuating herself into ‘dear Rupie’s life, she thought astringently.

Miriam smiled. ‘My pleasure. While we’re alone there’s something I feel I must say.’ She paused, fingering her pearls, and her tone became that of the clucking mother hen. ‘It would be so nice if, this time, while you’re home, you could pay for your board and lodging. After all, you are a working girl and you can’t expect dear Rupie to finance you for ever.’

Cheska’s spine went ramrod-stiff. Her eyes darkened to a stormy grey. She did not consider her dealings with her stepbrother were any of Miriam’s business and she resented the interference. The woman might shop for Rupert, but that did not grant her the freedom to meddle in other aspects of his life!

‘I don’t expect him to finance me, she replied glacially, then stopped.

She had never paid for her keep. Whenever she had offered, her stepbrother had always refused. There was no need, he had told her, and indeed, until her modelling had made it unnecessary, he had insisted on giving her an over-generous allowance. Cheska’s brows drew together. She was perfectly willing to pay, but what did she pay with? Her salary had not been high and, when she had given up her job two days ago, she had also given away all of her savings. Given them away rashly, it now seemed, though she did not regret it.

‘So suppose we say thirty pounds a week? That seems fair,’ Miriam declared, in a tone which said the matter had been amicably settled. As Lawson reappeared from the library, she swivelled. ‘Not trouble, I hope?’ she enquired, for as he walked towards them he was frowning.

‘I’m afraid so. As you know, we’d arranged that Janet would join me here today, but—’

‘She can’t?’ Miriam rushed in. ‘What a shame. Janet’s an absolute sweetie,’ she informed Cheska. ‘She accompanied Mr Giordano—Lawson,’ she amended, flashing him a smile, ‘on his earlier visits and—’her conversation switched to Lawson again ‘—I could see how close the two of you were. How you shared an affinity.’

He nodded. ‘Unfortunately, last night Janet was rushed into hospital with acute appendicitis,’ he continued. ‘She’s been operated on and—’

Oh, no!’ the blonde broke in again, fluttering a hand to her ample bosom in what, to Cheska, seemed extravagant dismay. ‘How dreadful!’

Who was this Janet? she wondered. Lawson’s girlfriend? His live-in lover? Perhaps even his wife? The idea brought Cheska up with a start. It had not occurred to her that he might now be married, yet why not? His looks, his intelligence and his sex appeal made Lawson Giordano an undeniable catch and he must be all of thirty-five, an age by which most men had settled down. Her brow puckered. It was irrational, yet the prospect of his having a wife made her feel strangely… piqued.

‘How is the poor girl?’ Miriam enquired.

‘Doing well,’ Lawson reported, ‘but—’

‘Thank heavens! ‘she crooned, this time stopping him to affect extravagant relief.

‘But her convalescence means that Miss Croxley has decided she must withdraw from the shoot’ Lawson completed, a touch impatiently, ‘and I need a PA.’

So Janet—Miss Croxley—was not his wife, but his personal assistant, Cheska thought. Though this would not exclude her from also being his girlfriend. Indeed, Miriam’s reference to and his acknowledgement of their affinity more than hinted that way.

‘What kind of duties would an assistant be required to perform?’ Miriam enquired.

‘She’d have to type up notes, take and make phone calls, help me with the thousand and one matters which need attention during filming.’ Lawson massaged his jaw. ‘I’ll have to contact the office and see if they can rustle someone up and send them down from London, though it’s short notice and—’

‘Don’t bother,’ the blonde cut in, smiling. ‘I have a replacement’

‘You do?’ he said. ‘Who?’

Like a magician producing a white rabbit from a top hat, Miriam triumphantly flourished an arm. ‘Francesca.’

CHAPTER TWO

CHESKA’S mouth gaped. ‘Me?’ she protested.

“Thanks, but no, thanks,’ Lawson said, simultaneously.

‘It’s the ideal answer,’ Miriam declared, in a voice which sounded as though she was chewing on a bag of marbles. She stopped to listen as noises drifted down the baluster staircase from the first floor. ‘Rupert sounds to have finished his shower, so I must see to his toast.’

Cheska felt a spasm of annoyance. Her stepbrother’s ladyfriend had not only established herself as near enough a fixture, she also appeared to be running the show! Which included taking over the housekeeper’s duties.

‘Can’t Millie do it?’ she enquired, an edge to her tone.

‘Millicent and her husband are away on holiday for two months, visiting their daughter in Canada,’ Miriam informed her. ‘Would you care for some toast, too, Francesca?’ she continued, being tediously pleasant and well-mannered.

Cheska resisted the urge to tell her, most impolitely, what she could do with the toast. ‘No, thanks,’ she replied. ‘I’ll get my own breakfast after I’ve showered.’

‘Then please excuse me,’ Miriam said, and click-clacked cheerfully away down the hall on her high heels.

‘Having you as my assistant would be anything but ideal,’ Lawson said, as the well-upholstered figure disappeared.

‘I agree,’ Cheska rapped back.

‘For a start, the hours are long and antisocial. I often dictate notes in the evening ready for filming the next day, which means I need someone who’s good-natured, amenable and everlastingly willing, whatever the time and whatever the strains and stresses.’

Dropping her flip-flops down on the polished wooden floor, she slid her feet into them. As she had already vetoed the idea, there was no need for him to embark on a more detailed job description; though, of course, by stating his requirements, Lawson was also stating what he considered she was not. It was yet another dig. Another condemnation. A further chance to indulge in a gratuitous bit of Cheska bashing.

She shone a saccharine smile. ‘And I would only work for someone who was understanding, eventempered and everlastingly considerate,’ she retaliated.

His jaw clenched and, for a moment, he seemed about to launch a spirited defence, but instead he chose to ignore her.

‘My PA must also be a skilled practitioner of shorthand and typing,’ he said.

‘I am,’ Cheska told him.

Lawson gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Since when?’

‘Since I packed in modelling and took a course at secretarial college. For the past four years I’ve worked as a secretary, so my shorthand and typing speeds are high. I’ve also manned telephones, fixed trips, dealt with a wide variety of problems and people. In other words, I can do whatever Janet can do.’ She shone another saccharine smile. ‘Chew on that, bambino.

He frowned. ‘Why did you stop modelling?’ he enquired. ‘As I recall, you were in great demand. You’d appeared on the cover of Vogue and—’

‘Maybe, and maybe if I’d knuckled down to it I could have reached the top. Who knows?’ Cheska’s slender shoulders rose and fell. ‘But modelling was something I’d been talked into because other people felt it was right for me, not a career which I’d chosen.

The general consensus that modelling was her forte had been because of her looks. In all modesty, Cheska knew she was pretty—the oval face with fine bone-structure and huge grey eyes which she saw in the mirror every morning told her so, likewise the compliments which had been coming her way since she was knee-high. But, all in all, her looks had been something of a liability, and were a sore point right now.

‘And having been talked into it, after just a year or so you decided you wanted out. Why?’ Lawson asked.

‘Because I found standing in front of a camera, mute and striking poses day after day, deadly boring,’ Cheska replied, and her chin lifted.

She had given him an ideal opportunity to come back with some crack about her having a short attention-span—in other words, to imply that she was a bimbo—and she was prepared. But, to her surprise, he nodded.

‘I’ve always thought that modelling must be a hell of a strain on any thinking person’s sanity,’ he said. ‘Was boredom the reason why you swanned around?’

Not expecting such acuity, Cheska nodded. ‘If anything came along which seemed like it’d be more fun, I went.’

‘And you had the means to do so. Life’s a bed of roses for some people,’ Lawson remarked drily, then, turning his broad wrist, he inspected the steel and gold watch which was strapped to it. ‘Someone might be at the office, so I’ll ring and see if the wheels can be set in motion for locating a substitute assistant.’

‘Before you use the telephone, don’t you think it would be polite if you asked permission?’ Cheska said, as, having offloaded his camera and binoculars on to the carved hall table, he started to walk away.

She was not in the habit of pulling rank, but, as a stranger in the house, his behaviour seemed just a little too familiar.

Lawson stopped to bow a dutiful head. ‘Please, ma’am, may I have your permission to use the telephone?’ he recited.

‘You may,’ she replied stiffly, for his tone and the smile which tugged at the corner of his mouth were mocking.

‘Thanks. However, there’s really no need for me to ask, not when you consider that, as from yesterday, the production company’s been responsible for Hatchford Manor’s telephone account.’ He strode away. ‘And that,’ he was tossing the words back at her across his shoulder, ‘also as from yesterday, the library’s been doing duty as my office.’

Cheska stared at him along the length of the hall. ‘Your office?’ she said weakly.

‘Just until Monday, when phones are being installed in the oasts,’ Lawson replied, and vanished.

Cheska sank down on one of the high-backed chairs beside the table. The morning had been a long procession of surprises. One after another they had hit her, until now she was feeling shellshocked and, due to the lack of sleep, also a little weary. Were there any more surprises in store? Please, no. Cheska plucked at the damp edges of her shorts. Not only had Rupert’s ladyfriend established herself at Hatchford Manor, but Lawson Giordano appeared to be well entrenched, too. And if she remained here for the next week, there was no way she could escape him. She wanted to remain, Cheska thought wistfully. After so long away, she had been looking forward to renewing her acquaintance with the house which occupied such a fond place in her heart. Besides, why should she feel hounded out?

Stretching out her legs, she frowned down at her feet. Much as it went against the grain to admit it, Miriam’s ‘ideal answer’ would solve one of her problems—for a while. Television companies were known to pay good wages, and if she acted as Lawson’s Girl Friday the cash she received would enable her to make two, three or maybe more weekly contributions towards her keep. Her grey eyes became steely. Now that Mrs Busybody had raised the issue, she was determined to pay, even though Rupert would not be fussy. Her pride insisted. And, after all, Cheska acknowledged ruefully, she had been pampered for far too long.

As the murmur of Lawson’s baritone sounded from the library, she wiggled her toes. In order to keep up the weekly contributions she would need to find herself a permanent job. Smartish. On the flight home she had decided that she had had her fill of both working abroad and of the big-city hustle-bustle of living in London, and that she would prefer to work locally. Maybe for a vet, or a village solicitor, or a farmers’ co-operative. Cheska sighed. Such jobs were thin on the ground and finding one could take time.

Abruptly she looked up, alerted by the creak of the floorboards to the fact that Lawson had completed his call.

‘Any luck?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘The woman in charge of personnel had gone in early so I managed to speak to her, but she reckons there’s no chance of finding anyone who comes within a mile of Janet’s efficiency at such short notice. She says she can send me a temp or a girl from the typing pool, and I guess ’

Cheska rose to her feet. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll be your assistant,’ she said. ‘I’m efficient, plus—’ her jaw took on a blockbuster slant “—I’m good-natured, amenable and everlastingly willing, whatever the strains and stresses.’

OK, you’re hired,’ Lawson said.

Her grey eyes widened. She had expected barbed observations and heavy sarcasm, not straightforward acceptance. She had expected to have to battle. But he must have listened to what she had said and accepted that, in her, he was being given the opportunity to employ a first-rate assistant.

“You’ve changed your mind?’ Cheska enquired, with an arch smile.

‘Haven’t you? Look, I’m tied to a tight budget,’ Lawson said impatiently, ‘and if someone comes down from London it means paying for them to stay in a hotel, whereas you—’

Her nostrils pinched. ‘Whereas I’m cheap?’ she demanded.

‘You said it, not me. Cheaper,’ he amended, before she could protest. ‘How does two hundred pounds a week sound?’

Cheska considered his proposal. She might have offered her services, but she would not be working for Lawson Giordano willingly. On the contrary; she approached the week’s employment with strong reservations. As she knew to her cost, the man was a blackguard and, although there was absolutely no risk of her making the same mistake she had made in the past, she reckoned that this entitled her to ‘danger money’.

‘Three hundred sounds better,’ she replied.

He swore. ‘Who on earth do you think is funding the film, the Getty family?’ he demanded.

‘What I think is that it’s the tourist season and a week in a hotel’ll cost over a hundred pounds, wherever anyone stays,’ Cheska told him coolly. ‘Not only that, if your assistant works late then a taxi will be needed to ferry her back each night, and another to ferry her here each morning. That means more expense. However, I’m already on the premises, so—’

‘Three hundred it is.’ His dark eyes narrowed as they focussed on her. ‘But you’d better be good.’

‘I’m the best,’ Cheska assured him.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Lawson said drily, and picking up his camera and binoculars, he hooked them over his shoulder again.

‘Rupie, dead’ Miriam bustled out from the kitchen to stand at the foot of the staircase. ‘Rupie, dear,’ she cooed again, “breakfast is waiting.’

‘Down in a minute,’ a muffled voice replied.

As if in anticipation of his arrival, Miriam dabbed at her lacquered champagne-blonde head, then click-clacked her way along the hall towards them. ‘Have you agreed terms?’ she enquired, clearly having taken it for granted that their protests had been no more than froth and that the merits of her suggestion would be speedily recognised and endorsed.

Lawson nodded. ‘It seems I’ve got myself an assistant incredibile,’ he said, kissing his fingers in a pronounced mock-Mediterranean style, but, although Cheska replied with a thin smile, his sarcasm went straight over Miriam’s head.

‘Having a film shot at the manor will be so exciting,’ she gushed, then turned to Cheska. ‘Did you know that Nicholas Preston is in it?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘But you’re impressed,’ demanded Miriam.

‘Very.’

Nicholas Preston was a handsome young actor who, Cheska remembered from her last visit home, had had the critics sighing over the eloquence of his Shakespearian roles and whose dynamism in contemporary parts had seemed to earmark him for stardom. Though perhaps he had already become a star? Her time overseas meant she was out of touch with what was happening in the theatre. Out of touch with so many things, she thought pungently—like the raison d’être of the oast-houses. However, one thing she did know—Nicholas Preston would not be performing as a front man to any oversized fish fingers.

‘I’m surprised he’s willing to be in a television commercial,’ Cheska remarked, and threw Lawson an oblique look. ‘Of any kind.’

‘A commercial?’ Miriam burst into trilling peals of laughter. Oh, dear, Francesca, what on earth gave you such a bizarre idea? It’s not a commercial which is being made at Hatchford Manor, its a film for television. An adaptation of one of the classics, a period costume drama.’

Cheska whirled round to Lawson. Here was yet another surprise, though on this occasion she had been tricked, she thought fiercely.

‘You direct costume dramas now?’ she demanded.

‘Among other things—which means you won’t see anything shimmying through the herb garden next week,’ he said, and placed a fist to his brow. Oh, cruel fate.’

Her grey eyes blazed. From them meeting, Lawson Giordano had been having fun at her expense.

‘You are a—’ Cheska began evilly, then halted,

aware of Miriam listening and realising that there were more urgent issues than badmouthing him. ‘How long is this film going to take?’ she enquired.

‘It’s scheduled for six weeks,’ Lawson said. ‘Of course, these things can overrun, though not usually when I’m in charge.’

Cheska’s thoughts flew every which way. She had imagined she would be working for him for a mere week, which had been acceptable—just—but instead she was expected to be his assistant for approaching two months! Her stomach cramped. She rebelled against such a timescale—and yet, and yet…Three hundred pounds a week was a goodly sum and, when multiplied by six, a most useful sum. It would mean that, at the end of filming, she would have enough money to update her wardrobe and pay for her keep for another three, perhaps four months, which would enable her to take her time and be selective about her next job, her next employer. And, after what had happened abroad, her next employer would be required to meet certain stringent criteria.

‘You don’t mind too much about moving out of your room, do you?’ Miriam enquired. ‘I appreciate that it’s—’

‘My room?’ Cheska said distractedly. She had a lot to think about and the woman was talking double Dutch.

‘Didn’t Rupert tell you how the whole of the manor has been requisitioned by the film company?’

Cheska’s mind ran amok. She had objected to feeling hounded out, but now it seemed that she was actually, physically being hounded out! And by whom? Lawson Giordano.

She swung to him. “The whole of the manor?’ she protested, her tone a mix of horror, hostility and dismay.

He nodded. ‘As well as using various of the downstairs rooms for filming, it’s been arranged that the first floor will accommodate make-up, wardrobe, dressing-rooms and such.’

‘So Rupert is coming to stay with me,’ Miriam informed her.

Cheska struggled to take everything in. ‘But’

‘He’ll have his own room,’ the older woman went on hastily, as though she had been about to make prurient enquiries into their sleeping arrangements and issue a strict moral lecture, ‘and you’re going into the other oast-house, next door to Mr Giordano.’

She felt numb. Rupert had not told her anything about this last night. Not a hint. She might have talked at length, but he could have interrupted, Cheska thought rebelliously, then sighed. He would have kept quiet on purpose, in the hope that his garrulous ladyfriend would reveal all. And why? Because he would have known that when she had realised she was to be turfed out of her room, out of the house, she would argue; and the mildmannered bachelor disliked arguments.

‘We never expected you to ring out of the blue and announce that you were returning,’ Miriam carried on, ‘so we had no idea you’d be around. However, the oast-house is most tasteful. I dealt with the decoration and furnishing, and I know Mr Giordano considers I did a good job. Isn’t that right, Lawson?’

‘You did an excellent job,’ he assured her, with a smile and a courteous bow of his head. ‘I reckon you should set up in business as an interior decorator.’

Cheska winced. How smarmy could you get? And as for Miriam having taste—chances were it would be diametrically opposed to hers.

‘When am I expected to uproot myself and transfer my belongings? she enquired.

‘Rupert’s coming over to my house on Sunday afternoon, so I’d suggest some time before then,’ Miriam said, and shone a hopeful smile. ‘All right?’

Cheska replied with a brusque bob of her head.

But it was not all right. Any of it. The manor having been commandeered, her being virtually frogmarched into the oast-house, but, most of all, Lawson Giordano being in situ. By quitting her job she might have escaped from one farrago, but she had flown straight back into another!

‘That’ll be Rupert,’ Miriam chirruped, as a door closed somewhere upstairs. ‘I must brew his Earl Grey.’

‘After you’ve had your breakfast, we’ll make a start,’ Lawson said, when the stand-in housekeeper had disappeared back to the kitchen.

Cheska blinked. ‘Start this morning?’

‘There are a couple of items which need to be dealt with, so I’ll see you in the library at ten.’

‘Ten o’clock?’ she echoed.

The affinity-sharing Janet might have intended to join her boss today—and no doubt they would have gone on to share a weekend of high passion— but she had not imagined being roped in for duty quite so soon. Grief, it was less than twelve hours since her plane had touched down and she had still to unpack! Cheska frowned. Should she say she needed time to sort herself out, both physically and mentally? But if she showed any reluctance her new employer might respond by telling her to forget about working for him; and she needed the money.

‘Ten a.m. in the library. You want it in skywriting?’ Lawson demanded, when she continued to gaze at him.

Cheska straightened. ‘No, thanks.’

He walked to the heavy oak front door which stood open. ‘In that case, difficult as it is to tear myself away, arrivederci,’ he said, and strode out across the porch, down the steps and disappeared.

Cheska took a bite of wheatmeal toast. ‘Why did you let Miriam talk you into lending out the manor?’ she enquired.

It was three-quarters of an hour later and she was at the table in the high-ceilinged dining-room with Rupert. After compiling an extensive shopping list—Miriam had insisted on buying provisions for her to use in the oast house, too—the do-gooder had driven off into Tunbridge Wells, and they were finally alone.

‘She didn’t talk me into it,’ Rupert demurred. ‘I happen to think it’s an excellent idea.’

Cheska hissed out an impatient breath. ‘Come on, Rupert, you know you don’t enjoy having lots of people around. You know how you hate any upheaval, any disruption.’

‘To watch how a film is made will be mindbroadening,’ he declared, his narrow face taking on an uncharacteristic stubbornness. ‘And the manor isn’t being lent out—not for free. The production company are paying a most generous rent. One which, because they’re using the premises in total, amounts to several thousands of pounds.’

‘Presumably their monopolising the place was Miriam’s idea?’ she asked.

As he poured himself a second cup of tea, her stepbrother frowned. ‘ Well…yes.’

Had Miriam made the suggestion with the aim of getting Rupert into her home and more firmly into her clutches? Cheska wondered, as she ate her toast. After two years of friendship, did she hope that six weeks together, when she could pamper to his every need and make herself even more indispensable, might push him into a proposal? Tall and slim, with the air of a public school housemaster, the middle-aged bachelor was an attractive man. Over the years, various females had fluttered their eyelashes in his direction, and yet, although he might have had the occasional liaison, he had never taken much real notice. But the references in his letters had made it plain that he was noticing the widowed Mrs Shepherd. Cheska sighed. After devoting so many years to looking after her, Rupert deserved to have someone look after him, and she had hoped he might meet someone and fall in love. But why, if he was falling in love, did it have to be with Miriam?

‘You’re in urgent need of those thousands of pounds?’ Cheska enquired.

‘Not at all,’ Rupert said hastily, ‘but—’ he

stroked a hand over his thinning blond-grey hair ‘—a little extra is never to be sneezed at.’

‘Where are the snuff bottles?’ she asked.

Whether it was an association of ideas—sneeze/ snuff—she did not know, but Cheska had abruptly realised that the shelves in one of the mahogany cabinets which flanked the fireplace were bare. For as long as she could remember, there had been twenty or so antique bottles on display. Made of coloured glass, some of them were Chinese and extremely rare. They had been collected by Rupert’s mother, Beatrice Finch, a pompous woman, who had apparently amassed them to impress visitors rather than for their beauty.

Rupert hesitated, making her wonder if he could not remember—which would be typical. Unless it concerned butterflies, he could be amazingly vague.

‘They’ve been put away, like some other bits and pieces. They were valuable and, as there are going to be strangers in the house, Miriam and I thought ’ His voice trailed off. ‘It’s quite an honour, having Lawson Giordano make a film at the manor,’ Rupert declared. ‘His previous three films were Hollywood productions, Quality productions, mind. The last one hasn’t been released in this country yet, but it’s breaking box-office records in the States.’

Cheska laughed, and shaking her head. What her stepbrother knew about the entertainment world could be written on a postage stamp, and the few facts he did know were invariably confused.

‘You’re getting him mixed up with someone else,’ she said. ‘Five years ago, Lawson Giordano was directing TV commercials.’

Rupert’s brows soared. ‘Fancy that.’’

She cast him a look. He had known of her involvement in the car commercial and, at the time, she would have told him the director’s name, but he had forgotten. Cheska took a sip of coffee. She could see no point in reminding him now and neither was she eager to remind herself. It was not only the night spent with Lawson which she had erased from her mind, but she preferred to black out the entire unfortunate episode.

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