An Unbroken Marriage
Penny Jordan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘MELISANDE’S here—and you should see the man she’s got with her!’ Jennifer Knowles announced, walking into her employer’s work-room and rolling her eyes expressively. ‘Gorgeous—and rich too, by the looks of him. Well, if he’s Melisande’s latest, he’ll need to be, won’t he?’ she added forthrightly. ‘I didn’t realise we had anything in hand for her. What is it, there’s nothing in the book.’ She frowned a little as she studied the leather-bound book India used to book in and chart the progress of her orders. ‘We finished the black silk last week.’

‘Umm,’ India Lawson agreed, removing half a dozen pins from her mouth and studying the pink silk blouse she was working on. ‘She’s been invited to a Charity Ball—she rang me yesterday and asked if we could make something for her in a hurry.’

‘Provided you let her have it at next to no cost,’ Jennifer added caustically. ‘Honestly, she’s the limit! She must be earning a fortune from that part she landed in Evergreen. It’s been running for six months now, and there’s no sign of bookings dropping—I know, I tried to get seats for my mother and sister for next weekend.’

India smiled. ‘Well, don’t forget that simply by wearing our clothes Melisande is doing an excellent public relations job for us.’

‘You’re far too easygoing,’ Jennifer scolded. ‘I don’t know how you do it, and you with auburn hair as well.’

India laughed. ‘Tell Melisande I’ll be with her in five minutes, would you Jen—oh, and offer her…’ She had been about to say a ‘cup of coffee’, but changed her mind, remembering her secretary’s description of the actress’s companion. ‘Offer them a glass of sherry,’ she corrected. ‘I can’t leave this blouse until I get these tucks right. I promised Lady Danvers that I’d have it ready for the weekend.’

The expressive line of Jennifer’s departing back said what she thought of the way India, as she put it, ‘pandered’ to her clients’ wishes, but then she did not have the responsibility of a business resting on her shoulders, India reflected.

Of course she enjoyed being her own boss, it had been her ambition since the Fifth Form at school when she had spent her Saturday mornings studying the shoppers in their often drab and ill-fitting clothes mentally re-clothing them in her own designs.

Not that it had been easy, but then those things really worth having rarely were, she decided. She had spent three years at art college, followed by another three in Paris working in a very lowly capacity for one of the well-known couturiers. After that there had been a spell on the buying side, learning about merchandising, stocking control, and a whole host of other vitally important things which sometimes got overlooked—to their cost—by those who thought ‘artistic’ genius enough to guarantee them success.

And it had all paid off. A small legacy from a great-uncle had provided her with enough capital to risk going it alone. To her delight her first very limited range of skirts and blouses had sold, enabling her to take the risk of leasing more expensive premises close enough to the heart of London to be called ‘exclusive’, and now she numbered among her clientele enough socially-conscious women for her designs to be becoming featured in glossy magazines and society columns.

Even so, it paid to keep one’s feet on the ground, which was why India made no demur when women such as Melisande Blake, a well-known actress, insisted on being given a ‘discount’ on clothes which they were going to wear in public.

India smiled wryly as she put the blouse aside and stood up, studying her reflection in the small mirror behind her desk. So Jennifer thought she didn’t have a temper. If only she knew! It was not so much that she didn’t have one; more that over the years she had learned for her own sake to keep it strictly under control, although even now there were occasions when it suddenly and unexpectedly flared into all-consuming life.

Having checked that there were no threads clinging to her grey flannel skirt, India gave her reflection a final cursory glance before walking towards the door.

A short corridor linked the workrooms to the salon proper and when she opened the connecting door the first person she saw was the man whom her secretary had described as ‘gorgeous’. She hadn’t lied, India acknowledged, schooling her features into a professional smile, while inwardly noting the expensive cut of the pearl grey suit, the toning silk shirt and tie, the well manicured but entirely masculine hands, deeply tanned even though it was March, thick dark hair curling over his collar, his eyes a disturbing, hard grey.

‘India darling!’ Melisande greeted her in her husky, carrying voice. ‘You’ve saved my life! Do show me what you have in mind. It must be something special—very special. If Simon likes it he’s promised to buy me another. Will he like it?’ she asked, adding mockingly, ‘Really, darling, isn’t it time you stopped wearing that frightful schoolgirl outfit? No one looking at you would have the faintest idea that you design the most incredibly sexy dresses!’

India thought she had been quite successful in hiding her reaction to hearing her clothes described in such a fashion until she glanced up and found Melisande’s companion watching her with mocking comprehension.

‘Oh, I haven’t introduced you, have I?’ the actress said. ‘Simon darling, this is India, she really is the cleverest thing. India, meet Simon Herries—you must have read about him in the gossip columns.’

‘I have, and in the financial press.’ India agreed lightly, conscious of the sudden alertness in Simon Herries’ expression.

‘You take a keen interest in the world of big business, then?’

Gritting her teeth at the condescending tone, India replied lightly, ‘Of course—what female doesn’t in one form or another?’

She could tell from his expression that her barb had found its mark. He was far too intelligent to have imagined that Melisande’s interest in him was purely altruistic, but, India thought shrewdly, he was attractive enough for it to wound his vanity to be told that others were aware of the fact too.

She had known Melisande for several years, and while the actress made no secret of the fact that she expected her escorts to be presentable and sexually attractive, she also expected them to be wealthy enough to afford her.

India watched her, aware of the contrast they must present. Melisande, small, barely five foot three, with fair, almost silver hair, and prettily feminine features—the archetype of female beauty, while she…. She wrinkled her nose slightly. She was tall, five eight in her stockinged feet; her hair, as Jenny had remarked, was a deep, intense auburn, saved from being unkindly described as ‘red’ by rich russet undertones; her green eyes set slightly aslant beneath well defined eyebrows, only her vulnerably full mouth betraying the fact that she was less self-possessed than first appeared.

She knew that Simon Herries was watching her, and she strived to fight off the inclination to return his look. She could almost feel his eyes sliding down her body, resting on the unexpectedly full curves of her breasts, the slimness of her waist, and the slender length of her legs.

His eyes rested on her legs for several seconds, a thoughtful, appraising look in them when he finally raised them to India’s faintly flushed face.

‘Quite an enigma,’ he remarked softly. ‘Prissy blouse, schoolgirl skirt and silk stockings.’

‘It isn’t meant to be,’ India assured him with a calmness she was far from feeling—there had been something in the look he had given her which had sent vague frissons of awareness running down her spine. It wasn’t unusual for her clients to bring men along with them—sometimes to pay, sometimes merely to approve, and she was used to the flirtatious, sometimes almost offensive comments some of them made, but this was something different; something alien and almost frightening; an absurd awareness of her own femininity which had nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with the way had looked at her, and how her body had reacted to it.

‘Oh, India is far from prissy, as I have very good reason to know,’ Melisande remarked archly. ‘I happen to know that she has a very charming and extremely wealthy boy-friend. In fact she brought him to my last party, didn’t you, darling? Melford Taylor,’ she added for Simon Herries’ benefit, mentioning the name of a well-known financier.

Although India wasn’t looking at him, she could feel Simon Herries appraising the salon with fresh eyes. It was decorated in white and gold with touches of green, sharp and fresh, and yet with an unmistakable richness. India had designed it herself, and the alterations and decorations had been carried out by a small firm specialising in stage settings. With ingenuity and flair the work had cost very little in terms of actual money, and India had repaid the help she had had from her friends by recommending them whenever she could. Some of the stage settings for Melisande’s latest play had been designed by them, but because she very rarely allowed her private and business lives to mingle she doubted if Melisande was even aware that she knew them. She had only attended the party Melisande had mentioned because the actress had insisted upon it, and yet India could tell that Simon Herries was assessing the cost of the salon; that he could probably gauge the rental on it to the nearest pound, and was quite obviously thinking that Mel had paid for it.

India was no naïve young girl. She was twenty-five and had lived alone since the death of her parents when she was twenty. She was perfectly well aware of the moral code prevailing in the circles in which Melisande and presumably Simon Herries himself moved; and the conclusions he had undoubtedly drawn from Melisande’s reference to Mel, and she longed to refute them. She and she alone was responsible for her success. She had received no financial ‘help’ or reward from other people, and she bitterly resented the implication that she was the sort of woman who chose the men in her life for what she could gain from the relationship.

Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself as she went to unlock the discreetly concealed floor-to-ceiling cupboards in which she kept completed orders. Why should it matter to her if Simon Herries judged her as he himself was no doubt quite happy to be judged? Her relationship with Melford Taylor was her own business and no one else’s. Except of course that Mel happened to be married, she reminded herself wryly, as she removed the pale blue satin dress from its hanger.

‘I love the colour,’ Melisande enthused. ‘Darling, I really must insist that you design my wardrobe for my next role. You know I’ve landed the female lead in The Musgraves?’

India inclined her head in acknowledgment.

‘It was Simon who clinched things for me really,’ Melisande added, scarlet-tipped nails almost stroking the grey-suited arm resting on the chair next to her own. ‘He has extensive interests in commercial TV.’

‘Really?’

India was not aware quite how dampening she had made the word sound until she looked up and caught the grey eyes watching her with curt anger. She had already heard that Melisande had got the main role in the proposed new TV blockbuster series, but stage costume designing was unfamiliar territory to her, and while she appreciated Melisande’s faith in her, she felt that she had more than enough on her hands with the salon. The sudden boom in ‘high living’ had meant that she had had to take on extra staff to cope with the orders as it was, and she was cautious about who she employed.

‘I’m sure he’ll put in a good word for you with the studio bosses,’ Melisande said.

‘I’m sure Miss Lawson doesn’t need me to help her, not with Melford Taylor as her… backer.’

Fighting down the sudden surge of anger which had almost taken her unawares, India turned her back on him, glad of the excuse of suggesting to Melisande that she help her with the dress. It was years since she had felt such an almost immediate antipathy towards someone, even given that she was being quite deliberately needled. And why, she could not imagine! Even if she were Mel’s mistress, to use an outdated word, what possible business was it of Simon Herries?

In the fitting room she helped Melisande on with the blue satin. The bodice was cleverly draped to flatter the actress’s figure, with the pencil-slim skirt which India knew she favoured.

‘It’s gorgeous!’ Melisande pronounced when she had finished studying her reflection.

‘The hem has to be finished and one or two other little things done, but you’ll have it tomorrow,’ India promised.

She could hear her private phone ringing and sighed, knowing that it would be Mel. She had told him last weekend that there was no future in their relationship. She liked him; he had a good sense of humour and was a pleasant, undemanding companion, but as she had pointed out to him, he was a married man.

Hadn’t she heard of divorce? Mel had asked her quizzically, but India had cut him short. He had, as she knew, two small children, and even if she had been in love with him, which she wasn’t, she doubted if she could have brought herself to be the one responsible for depriving them of their father. The reason was quite simple; during her own childhood her father had had an affair with another woman. It had lasted about a year. India had been twelve at the time, a very impressionable age. She had known that something was wrong. Her mother and father never seemed to laugh any more, and she had caught her mother crying. It hadn’t been long before an older, more knowing child at school had enlightened her. She could remember quite vividly the sickness which had overwhelmed her; the need to be alone, to be assured that what she had heard wasn’t true. She had gone home and poured out the whole thing to her mother. It was true, her mother had explained, but that didn’t mean Daddy no longer loved her. He did, very much.

Her mother had been extremely courageous, India reflected, thinking about that time now. It couldn’t have been easy, trying not to let her own doubts and bitterness affect India’s relationship with her father, but somehow she had succeeded, and been rewarded, when eventually the affair had fizzled out. Afterwards neither of her parents made any reference to what had happened, and to all intents and purposes lived quite amicably together, but the experience had changed India, made her question life and love far more deeply than most girls of her age, and although she was reluctant to admit it, had made her wary and mistrustful, unconsciously unwilling to commit herself to any deep emotional involvement with a man so that somehow, at twenty-five she had emerged from her teens and early twenties without the sexual and emotional experience most girls of her age took for granted.

When they returned to the salon Simon Herries was studying a seascape hanging on one of the walls. India’s father had painted it before his death, and it depicted the view from their Cornish home on the cliffs high above the Atlantic. It was from her father that she had inherited the ambition which had made her successful, India acknowledged. He had been a civil engineer before his retirement, often working abroad. She herself had been conceived during a brief visit her mother had paid him when he was working on a contract in India—hence her unusual name.

‘Cornwall?’ he commented to India without lifting his eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘Your secretary came to look for you. She asked me to tell you that there’d been a call for you. Said you’d know who it was from.’ This time he did look at her. ‘It can’t be easy, conducting an affair with a married man. You’re to be congratulated. You’ve obviously been very discreet.’

He made it sound on a par with earning a living as a prostitute! Even Melisande caught the contemptuous undertone and frowned slightly.

‘Oh, really, darling,’ she protested, ‘aren’t you being just the tiniest bit old-fashioned? Extra-marital affairs are the norm these days. Be honest now, if you were married could you see yourself being faithful for the rest of your life? No, I think India has the right idea. Far better to be independent; to have a lover rather than a husband. You will make sure the dress is sent round tomorrow, won’t you?’ she asked India as Simon Herries helped her on with her fox jacket. ‘Simon is taking me to the charity do at the Dorchester and I want to look my best.’

India walked with them to the door. Melisande kissed her on the cheek; she half extended her hand expecting Simon Herries to shake it formally, but to her chagrin he ignored her hand, instead glancing curtly down the length of her body, before following Melisande out to the sleek dark green Ferrari parked outside the salon.

‘Umm, I wish I could find myself someone like that,’ Jennifer commented dreamily, unashamedly watching them depart. ‘Fantastic looks, money—and I’ll bet he rates ten out of ten as a lover as well!’

‘You’d probably be very disappointed,’ India said briefly.

‘You reckon?’

Something in her expression made Jennifer frown. ‘He really got to you, didn’t he?’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve never known you to lose your sense of humour like this before, and God knows we’ve had them all in here. What happened, did he make a pass at you when Melisande wasn’t looking?’

‘Why should he? You said yourself he’d got the lot; I can’t think of a single reason why he should spare me a glance when he’s got Melisande.’

‘I can,’ Jennifer replied. ‘Several. For a start, you’ve got far more sex appeal. Oh, I know Melisande looks all soft and cuddly, but anyone can see she’s as hard as nails underneath, while you… Are you sure he didn’t make a pass?’

‘Positive. Now, can we please change the subject?’

‘Okay,’ Jennifer agreed cheerfully. ‘What do you want to talk about? Oh, help! I’ve just remembered, you-know-who rang. Said he’d pick you up at eight. I didn’t know you had a date with him tonight.’

‘I don’t—at least not officially. He did say something about us having dinner together last week, but I’ve already told him I…’

‘You don’t date married men,’ Jenneifer supplied with another grin. ‘You certainly believe in making things difficult for yourself, don’t you? With his influence…’

‘I don’t want his influence, Jen,’ India cut in with unusual crispness. ‘I like Mel, and I value his friendship. I’ve known him for over three years—ever since I first opened this salon. My accountant introduced him to me—in fact it was Mel who first told me about these premises…’

‘Well, you could do worse, you know,’ Jennifer pointed out judiciously. ‘He’s mad about you—anyone can see that.’

‘He’s married,’ India replied stubbornly. ‘And besides, I don’t love him.’

‘Love? Who needs it?’ Jennifer demanded sourly. ‘You know, for all that I’m three years younger than you, I sometimes feel old enough to be your mother.’

‘If you were, you’d hardly be encouraging me to go out with someone else’s husband,’ India pointed out dryly, but Jennifer merely raised her eyebrows.

‘You’re kidding! With a man as wealthy as Mel, mothers tend to forget an unimportant thing like an existing wife.’

Was she being stupid? India wondered several hours later as she locked the salon and stepped out into the crisp evening air. It wasn’t very far from the salon to where she lived. She had been lucky enough to be able to buy the top floor of one of an old row of Victorian terraced houses, just before they became fashionable, and she loved the privacy and space it gave her.

Mel had hinted on more than one occasion that he wanted to put their relationship on a more serious footing, but she had always reminded him of his wife.

Perhaps it was foolish at her age to virtually abandon the idea of a home, husband and children of her own simply because she had yet to meet the man who would be her ideal. It might have helped if she had known what she was looking for. All she did know was that as yet she had not met him; the man who would touch her emotions deeply enough for her to be able to break through the barriers of distrust erected during her vulnerable teens.

The phone rang just as she was unlocking her front door. She reached for it, dropping her coat and bag on the attractively re-covered Victorian chair which was the only piece of furniture in the tiny hall.

She had several good friends who often rang her, but she knew before she heard his voice who it would be on this occasion.

‘You got my message?’

‘Yes, I did, Mel, but I’m afraid…’

‘Please come, I want to talk to you—seriously. Please, India, I need to talk to you. I’d suggest that you come round here to my place, but I know you’d refuse, and as I’m hardly likely to get an invitation to your retreat, dinner seemed to be the only alternative.’

Recognising the strain in his voice, India gave way.

‘I’ll pick you up—about eight. We’re dining at Jardine’s.’

It was one of the more exclusive new restaurants which had recently opened and tables were not easily come by, but then to a man of Mel Taylor’s influence nothing would be impossible.

He had done very well for himself, India recognised, having built up an enviable business empire from one small company, and India suspected he was drawn to her because she too had had to struggle, and knew the value of what one earned by one’s own achievements. About his home background she knew very little apart from the fact that he had a wife and two small children, both boys, who attended an exclusive prep school. Although it was never said India guessed that there was a tremendous gulf between father and sons in the way that there often was between a parent who had been forced to work hard, building up a fortune from very small beginnings, and the children who enjoyed the style of life that fortune could purchase. She had once heard it mentioned that Mel had married ‘above himself’—an expression which she detested, and which she considered in Mel’s case was grossly unmerited, as he was a man of extremely refined taste, gentle and kind, and she wondered if it was perhaps this which had given rise to his marital problems. They were not something she cared to discuss with him, and she had never pried into his private life, despite the length of time she had known him. In fact it was only quite recently that she had seen him on a regular basis, certainly within the last six months, and it had not been until a couple of months ago that she had realised that Mel was subtly trying to steer their relationship into more intimate waters.

As they were dining out she made herself a light snack, and ate it sitting on a stool in the tiny kitchen she had planned and designed herself. Her flat was reasonably spacious; a large lounge with tall classical windows, a small dining room which had looked cold and dark until she had cleverly redecorated it in shades of crimson offset by white; two bedrooms each with their own bathroom, and a small study.

Decorating and furnishing the flat had been a labour of love which India had thoroughly enjoyed. Her parents had had several good pieces of furniture inherited from older members of the family, and India had spent much of her spare time combing antique shops and street markets until she found what she was looking for. The street markets served two purposes. In addition to finding the odd piece of furniture she had been lucky enough to come across several pieces of old lace which she meticulously repaired herself and kept for her own designs.

Usually after her evening meal, when she was relaxed, she found herself gravitating towards her sketch pad, and sometimes the ideas which came to her then proved far better than those she laboured over in her work-room at the salon, but tonight there would not be time for any work.

Jardine’s attracted a sophisticated fashion-conscious crowd of diners, and India chose carefully from her own surprisingly limited wardrobe. When one was constantly making things for other people there never seemed to be enough time to make for oneself, and as India was the first to admit, she was fussy about her clothes.

The outfit both Melisande and to some extent Simon Herries had mocked earlier in the day was one she had had for several years. The plain silk blouse had been bought in Paris and she loved the texture of the fabric and the neatly tailored lines of the garment. It had cost a small fortune, but India considered that she had more than had her money’s worth in terms of wear. The grey flannel skirt was one of her own, beautifully styled and cut, top-stitching emphasising the neat centre pleat, and with it she often wore a slightly darker grey cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons. The flamboyant clothes favoured by many of her clients simply were not ‘her’.

Sliding a soft black velvet dress with a high neck edged with cream lace and three-quarter-length sleeves off its hanger, she left it on the bed while she had her bath.

Her bathroom possessed both a bath and a separate shower, and while in the mornings a quick shower was all she had time for, whenever possible she preferred a luxurious soak in scented water.

‘Arpège’ was her favourite perfume; she had read somewhere that women who favoured the aldehydic floral scents, such as Arpège, Chanel No. 5, and Madame Rochas, projected a cool, in-control image, and that they were in fact very much ‘establishment’ fragrances. Perhaps it had something to do with her childhood experiences; this desire to uphold traditions, and encourage permanence, India did not really know. What she did know, however, was that when she had tried to switch to a different type of scent, something more sensual and oriental, she had found it impossible to do so.

She dressed quickly and efficiently, a black silk camisole and matching slip trimmed lavishly with lace; sheer black stockings—one of the pleasures of being successful was that it was possible to indulge in such luxuries without feeling guilty. As she slid the fine silk over her legs she paused, remembering Simon Herries’ comment, and the way he had looked at her. She had found that look disturbing. She shrugged mentally. What did he, or his opinions, matter to her? He was not the type of man she was ever likely to want to impress—too physically dominant; almost too male for her tastes. She, unlike Jennifer, did not think he would be a good lover; he was too much aware of himself, she felt, although she had to admit that the procession of women through his life read like a Beautiful People’s Who’s Who.

The black velvet dress fitted her perfectly, the colour of the lace almost exactly matching the creamy texture of her skin.

Because she knew Mel would like it, she applied more make-up than normal, concentrating on emphasising her eyes, which because of their size and deep clarity of colour tended to look almost impossibly emerald.

It was in Paris that she had learned the importance of proper skin care, and she knew she was fortunate in having the type of bone structure which would never really age.

Again because Mel liked it, she wore her hair in a soft chignon, twisting into it a row of pearls which had been last year’s Christmas present to herself. She was just applying perfume to her throat and wrists when she heard the door, and gathering up the black velvet evening coat designed to be worn over her dress she hurried to open it.

Mel’s eyes widened appreciatively when he saw her. He bent his head towards her, but she moved slightly so that it was her cheek and not her mouth that he kissed.

‘You look wonderful,’ he said simply. ‘I wish we were spending the evening alone.’

His voice and eyes were heavy with pain, and India sensed that something was troubling him.

‘Not now,’ he forestalled her. ‘We’ll talk over dinner.’

He wasn’t driving his own car, but had come in a taxi. It had rained since India had left the salon, and the streets glistened like liquorice, reflecting the brilliantly lit store windows.

Neither of them spoke, although to India the atmosphere felt heavy with sadness.

CHAPTER TWO

DOWN a narrow street not far from Hyde Park, Jardine’s was in what had once been a small mews.

Wall-to-wall expensive cars lined the cul-de-sac; a doorman appeared from under a striped awning to open the taxi door, the requisite bay trees standing sentinel in their tubs either side of the door.

As they entered the restaurant India noticed at least half a dozen famous faces and repressed a small sigh. In many ways she would far rather have eaten in the cheerful family-run Italian restaurant round the corner from her flat, but she recognised that Mel probably thought he was giving her a special treat, which was merely another pointer against their relationship, she reflected. If he really knew and understood her, he would have known that she had little liking for the trappings of success.

She studied her reflection critically for a moment in the cloakroom while she waited for the girl to take her cloak. The black velvet dress accentuated the creamy pallor of her skin, her neck rising slenderly and elegantly above the crisp lace, her eyes deeply and intensely green, almost too large for the delicacy of her face. But India saw nothing of the delicate beauty of her features; all her concentration was focused on her dress. Most of the other female diners were wearing evening dresses of one sort or another, the majority of them baring vast expanses of flesh. Was she prudish? She shrugged the thought aside, but it was not quite as easy to dismiss the memory of the manner in which Simon Herries had commented on the contrast between her clothes and the sheer silk stockings she had been wearing with them; almost as though he had been accusing her of deliberately trying to project a false image of school-girlish innocence. Drat the man! What did it matter what he and his kind thought?

They were shown to a table discreetly set aside from the majority of the others in a small alcove, but which by its very ‘apartness’ negated its intimacy by making it almost a focal point of the room.

The restaurant had not been open for very long, and had been designed to represent a Victorian conservatory, the marble-topped tables set among a profusion of indoor plants, cleverly illuminated in the evening.

With such a vast expanse of glass the restaurant could have been cold, but fortunately the owners had had the foresight to install an efficient central heating system.

‘All we need is for a parrot to come flying down out of the foliage,’ Mel commented jokingly to her as he studied the menu.

‘Either that or Tarzan,’ India agreed.

‘Don’t you like it? We could go somewhere else. This place is all the rage at the moment and I thought…’

‘It’s fine. Give me a quick nudge if you see me staring round open-mouthed—the last time I saw so many stars was on television, at a Royal Command Performance.’

‘Umm, it does seem to be patronised rather heavily by the acting profession. What do you fancy to eat?’

‘I think I’ll start with the seafood platter, and then perhaps chicken in white wine.’

Mel gave her order to the hovering waiter, adding his own. He was a very traditional male, India reflected; not a male chauvinist, but a man who genuinely believed that women were the frailer sex and needed protecting. He reminded her in many ways of her father; she felt comfortable and safe with him, or at least she had done until recently.

He waited until their food arrived and the wine had been poured before mentioning the reason for his invitation, for once his normal businesslike self-control deserting him.

‘India, you know how I feel about you,’ he blurted out without preamble. ‘Oh, I know you refuse to take me seriously, but you aren’t either a fool or insensitive, I know that. I also know how you feel about my marriage, and it’s to your credit, although there have been times when I’ve wished that you were less… old-fashioned.’

‘Old-fashioned?’ India queried lightly.

‘Moral,’ Mel submitted, ‘even though in my heart of hearts I wouldn’t have you any other way. I only wish I’d met you ten years ago, before I married Alison. Even if you were willing to have an affair with me, I don’t think I could. I don’t think I’ve got it in me to destroy that shining look of self-respect you always seem to have about you. India… If I divorced Alison would you marry me?’

She had known it was coming, but nevertheless it was a shock. Her face went white, her hand trembling as she reached for her glass. Her fingers reached for the stem, her emotion making her clumsy, and as the glass overturned she stared helplessly at the wine flowing across the table and on to the floor.

Unfortunately she had barely touched it, and while a waiter discreetly mopped up, Mel tried to reassure her that it didn’t matter.

‘It happens all the time—and you didn’t even break the glass,’ he joked. ‘Even if you had it isn’t the end of the world!’

India herself didn’t really know why she should be so distraught, unless it was because she was so rarely clumsy. Fortunately the wine had not gone on her dress, but her fingers were a little sticky, and it was as she bent down to open her handbag and find her handkerchief that she became aware of being watched. She raised her head slowly, disbelief mirrored in her eyes as she glanced across the restaurant and encountered the hard, inimical grey eyes of Simon Herries. Her heart started to thump uncomfortably, her mouth dry with a tension which owed nothing to the contretemps with the wine glass.

Melisande was with him, but as yet the actress seemed to be unaware of India’s presence, and it was as though the two of them, India and Simon Herries, were locked in some primaeval conflict, which excluded the other diners as though they simply did not exist.

‘India…’

‘Oh… I’m sorry,’ she muttered.

‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I wish he was. Oh, I’m sorry,’ she apologised, seeing Mel’s worried frown. ‘It’s just Melisande’s latest man. She brought him to the salon this afternoon, and for some reason he rubbed me up the wrong way, I don’t know why.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Simon Herries—you must have heard of him. He’s always appearing in the gossip columns… Are you all right?’ she asked, noticing the sudden jerky movement he made, his face oddly pale. ‘Mel…’

‘I’m fine… It’s nothing, India,’ he began with a kind of desperation, ‘Would you… would you marry me if I divorced Alison?’

She reached across the table, touching his hand with hers, her expression compassionate.

‘I admire you, Mel; I value your friendship, and there’s no one I would rather turn to in a crisis, but…’

‘But you don’t love me,’ he supplied heavily. ‘Well, I guess I knew what the answer was going to be, but a man can’t help hoping.’

‘I wish I could love you,’ India surprised herself by saying. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of love—the kind of love which burns so fiercely that nothing else matters.’

There was understanding and pain in Mel’s eyes as he looked at her.

‘You are, my darling,’ he told her huskily. ‘It’s just that as yet you haven’t met the right man, but never doubt yourself in that way, and never demean yourself by giving yourself to someone without it.’

It was an oblique reference to the fact that she had never had a lover, and India was a little surprised by his astuteness. It was not a subject she had ever discussed with him—or indeed anyone, and she could only hope that no one else found her equally transparent. Knowing in what light the majority of her acquaintances would view a twenty-five-year-old virgin, she took immense pains at least outwardly to preserve a modern, almost cool attitude towards sex.

Darling, you never told me you were dining here tonight.’ Melisande’s sharp eyes appraised Mel. ‘You’re looking tired, Mel,’ she told him, adding to India, ‘What have you been doing to him, darling?’

Simon Herries was at her side. It was apparent that they had finished their meal and were on the point of departure. Mel looked even paler than he had done before. He had stood up when Melisande approached the table, and although he was a tall man, Simon Herries topped him by several inches. Even she had to tilt her head to look up at him, India acknowledged; something that was quite rare when she wore, as she was doing tonight, in defiance of smaller girl friends’ advice, high-heeled shoes.

‘We’re going on to Tokyo Joe’s,’ Melisande told them, mentioning one of the newer clubs. ‘Why don’t you come with us? I’ve read this divine new play; the lead part could have been written for me… but it costs a fortune to put on a production nowadays…’

She was looking at Mel as she spoke, but he didn’t respond, and the actress pouted a little.

‘Persuade them to come with us, darling,’ she demanded of Simon Herries. ‘It will be fun.’

‘I suspect the sort of “fun” Melford and Miss Lawson have in mind requires only two participants,’ he drawled in response, ‘despite the almost puritanical appearance of Miss Lawson.’

‘Darling!’ Melisande protested in half shocked, half fascinated breathy tones, her eyes rounding with surprise. Mel was already on his feet, and India saw the way his fingers bunched into his palm, the giveaway muscle beating sporadically in his clenched jaw.

She reached towards him instinctively, her voice low as she begged him to let matters alone.

‘Such modesty; such quiet, well-bred manners!’ Simon Herries mocked savagely. ‘No one looking at you would guess that what you’re really doing is stealing someone else’s husband, or is it simply that you’ve discovered that it turns some men—especially older men—on to project that quakerish, “touch-me not” image?’

He turned on his heel before India could respond, his hand under Melisande’s elbow as he escorted her out of the restaurant. None of the other diners seemed to have noticed the small piece of byplay. India looked at Mel. He was as white as a ghost, the skin stretched ageingly over his bones, his eyes pained and defeated.

‘He had no right to speak to you like that,’ he said thickly. ‘No right at all. God, I could have killed him!’

‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter,’ India lied lightly.

‘I hadn’t realised what I was doing to you, what interpretation others would put upon our friendship.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And all for nothing! India, there’s something I have to tell you. Oh, if I thought there was the slightest chance that you might marry me… Alison, my wife, is pregnant…’ He grimaced when he saw India’s expression. ‘Yes, I know, but then, my darling, men are like that. Despite what I feel for you I still make love to my wife. Despicable, aren’t I? And knowing you as I do, I haven’t told you before, because I knew you would never let me leave her while she was carrying my child. But that isn’t all of it. After the boys Alison was told she wasn’t to have any more children. Perhaps that’s why…’ he frowned. ‘God, I shouldn’t be burdening you with all this, but the fact of the matter is that after Johnny was born we took to sleeping separately. She had a bad time, and then the doctor warned us that she wasn’t to have any more. The pill didn’t agree with her… and what with one thing or another we just never got it together again. Until now. Her parents came to spend a weekend with us along with her brother and his wife. We needed the extra bedroom space, so I spent the night with her…’

‘What will she do?’ India asked, her mouth dry. ‘Have an abortion?’

Mel shook his head. ‘No, she’s totally against the idea, and I have to confess that so am I. No, tonight was the final tie-breaker. If you’d agreed to marry me, I would have asked Alison for a divorce. I’m fortunate enough to be able to support two wives, two families, but as you won’t, I feel I owe to my son, or daughter, whichever the case may be, to at least make an effort to provide a stable home. Alison isn’t well, and…’

‘Does she… does she know how you feel, I mean…’

‘About you?’ Mel shook his head. ‘Not specifically. ‘Oh, she knows that all is not as it should be, perhaps even how I feel about you, but nothing else. I’m going to go away for a while, India. I know that my duty, I suppose I should call it, lies with Alison and my children, but I need time to come to terms with it, time to gather my strength, if you like…’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I haven’t decided.’

They left the restaurant in a silence which continued during the taxi journey, almost morose on Mel’s part, and pitying on India’s—not just for Mel, but for his wife as well, and it wasn’t until the taxi stopped that she realised where they were. The taxi had come to a standstill outside the expensive block of apartments where Mel lived.

‘Come in and have a drink with me, please,’ he begged, and India hadn’t the heart to refuse.

She had been in his apartment before, but never late at night, alone with him. It had a curiously sterile appearance, despite the obvious expense of the furniture and fittings.

‘Alison hates this place,’ he told India over their drink. ‘She prefers the country. I think I’ll give the apartment up. After all, I’ve got to a position in life now, where I can quite easily work from home… Alison and I should never have married. We’re too different.’

‘How did you meet?’ India asked him gently, sensing his need to talk.

‘At a charity function. She was what was then called a deb—her mother’s family are very well connected; not much money but generations of blue-blood and the “right” marriages. She was small, and dark, and was the only person there who didn’t seem to look down on me. I was very conscious in those days of my “nouveau-richeness”. To cut a long story short, we both convinced ourselves that what we felt for one another was love and we got married. It didn’t take very long for the gilt to tarnish. Alison tried to re-model me along the lines of her friends’ husbands; and then the boys came along and she seemed to lose interest in me altogether…’

‘You loved her once,’ India reminded him softly, ‘and she loved you. You both have a responsibility to your children and to each other.’

‘Responsibility!’ Mel laughed bitterly. ‘God, that’s a sterile, relentless word. Come on, I’d better get you a taxi.’

‘It isn’t very far—I’ll walk.’

‘No way.’

Reluctantly she allowed him to order her a taxi, smiling a little at his insistence on accompanying her downstairs to the street when it arrived.

‘What do you think’s going to happen to me?’ she teased, her expression changing when she saw the haunted look in his eyes. Oblivious to the taxi and the passing traffic, she put her hands on either side of his face.

‘Oh, Mel, please don’t look like that,’ she whispered. ‘It will all work out… I know it will.’

‘Will it?’ With a muffled groan he pulled her into his arms, kissing her with a fierce urgency which she did nothing to prevent, knowing in her heart that this was his final goodbye.

Held fast in his arms, overwhelmed by pity, she was unaware of the sleek green Ferrari speeding past them, or of the bitter cynicism in the eyes of the man who observed them.

Another hour and she’d have to call it day, India decided wearily. She had spent the last week working on designs for dresses for one of her oldest customers and her daughter for the latter’s eighteenth birthday party. Celia Harvey was small and plump with smooth dark hair and an almost Madonna-like expression, and India would dearly liked to have dressed her in something soft and flowing, almost pre-Raphaelite, but she had been told in no uncertain terms by the young lady in question that she wanted something slinky and sexy à la Anthony Price. Her mother had raised her eyebrows in despair, and India sympathised.

Well, either Celia would like it, or she would have to find herself another designer, she decided at length, frowning critically over the multitude of careful drawings she had sketched. Her head was beginning to ache with familiar tension and she flexed her back, rubbing the base of her neck tiredly. Jennifer and the girls from the workroom had left hours before, and outside the streets were in darkness. She glanced at her watch. Nearly nine. Another evening almost gone, and all she wanted to do was to go home, soak in a hot bath and then go to bed.

She grimaced as she remembered the letter she had received that morning from her accountant. It was time they had a meeting, he reminded her. The trouble was that her clientele was expanding all the time, and it was becoming too much of a burden for her to design, and run the financial side of her business. The obvious answer was to take on someone to deal with the financial side, but who? It was at times like this that she missed Mel—selfishly, she admitted. She hadn’t seen him since the evening they had dined together at Jardine’s, and she had presumed that he had gone away, as he had said he intended to do, to sort himself out.

She herself was badly in need of a holiday. Summer had never seemed farther away. London was having one of the worst springs on record, with cold, blustery winds, and almost constant rain.

Of course it was impossible to find a taxi when she emerged into the street. Rather than wait for a bus she set off at a brisk pace in the direction of her flat, and got caught between bus stops in an icy downpour which soaked through her raincoat, the fierce wind making it impossible to keep her umbrella up. To cap it all, a speeding car, screeching round a corner in front of her, sent freezing cold water all over her legs, soaking through the hem of her coat, and by the time she reached the sanctuary of her flat she was both frozen and bad-tempered.

She ran a bath, and luxuriated in it for half an hour, feeling the strain of the day seeping away. With her newly shampooed hair wrapped in a towel she padded into her small kitchen to heat a bowl of soup. When she worked as she was doing at the moment her appetite seemed to desert her. She could have done without Celia’s dress right now; she already had enough orders to keep her going until the autumn.

She was becoming obsessed with the salon, she told herself wryly. Jenny had been saying only that morning that she never went out anywhere any longer. She had pleaded the excuse of there simply being not enough time, but Jenny had scoffed and quoted direfully, ‘All work and no play make’s a spinster dull and grey.’

Something must have happened to her sense of humour lately, India acknowledged, because the comment had jared.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jenny had said later when she apologised. ‘We all suffer from it from time to time.’

When she had unwisely asked, ‘Suffer from what?’ Jenny had eyed her assessingly and said, ‘Frustration, of course.’

Was that the answer? She wasn’t consciously aware of the need for a lover, but then perhaps she had grown so used to ignoring her natural urges that she was no longer attuned to them; and spring was notorious for having an odd effect on the lonely.

But she wasn’t lonely, she told herself. She had plenty of…

The phone rang, cutting across her thoughts. She padded into the hall and lifted the receiver,

‘Miss Lawson?’ a crisp male voice intoned decisively. ‘You may not remember me. Simon Herries.’

Her free hand clutched at the silk robe she had pulled on as though by some means he was able to see how little she was wearing. Her mouth had gone dry, her heart pounding heavily.

‘Yes, Mr Herries,’ she managed. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s not what you can do for me, but what you can do for Melisande,’ she heard him say in response.

‘Melisande?’ India frowned. ‘I thought she was in the States filming.’

‘Yes, she is, but she’s due back this weekend. I’m organising a welcome home party for her at her apartment and she particularly wanted me to invite you.’

‘Me? But…’

‘I hope you can make it. Several colleagues of mine from South-Mid Television will be there, and Melisande tells me that you’re quite keen to break into television designing.’

‘Not particularly.’

What on earth was it about this man that set her teeth on edge; brought the tiny hairs on her skin up in atavistic dislike?

‘Melisande will be very disappointed…’

‘I don’t honestly know if I can make it,’ India temporised. ‘I have rather a lot of work on at the moment… I’ll have to look in my diary.’

‘Very well. I’ll ring you at the salon tomorrow and check if you can make it,’ he told her coolly.

After he had rung off India found it impossible to settle. She wandered about the flat, touching things, fidgeting, full of a nervous energy which eventually drove her into her small study where she worked until at last tiredness began to claim her.

She told Jenny about the invitation over coffee the following morning.

‘You’re going, of course,’ her secretary exclaimed. ‘You lucky thing!’

‘Well…’ India demurred, ‘I don’t know if I can manage it, we’ve so much on at the moment.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ Jenny told her briskly. ‘Look, I’ve got all the schedules here. You can’t work all day, half the night and all weekend as well!’

‘There’s Celia’s dress…’

‘Blow Celia! I don’t know why you’re wasting so much time on her anyway. If she wants to dress herself up like a plump shiny Christmas tree let her. Seriously, you ought to go. You’re the boss, I know, but I like my job and I feel I’ve got to do all I can to protect it, which includes making sure my boss doesn’t kill herself through overwork. One party; half a dozen hours out of your life…’

Put like that it did make her reluctance seem a little foolish, India was forced to admit. And why was she so reluctant? She didn’t know; she only knew that it had something to do with Simon Herries. Something; didn’t she mean everything?

‘You know,’ Jenny exclaimed judiciously, when they had finished their coffee, ‘I think you’re scared to go. Are you, India?’

‘No… No, of course not. Why should I be?’ Why indeed?

The phone rang as she finished speaking.

‘It’s Simon Herries,’ Jenny, who had taken the call, announced to her in a whisper. ‘Shall I tell him you’re going?’

‘I’ll tell him myself, thanks very much,’ India replied dryly, taking the proffered receiver.

‘Are you able to make it?’ he asked without preamble, obviously not seeing any need to waste time in unnecessary conversation.

Conscious of Jenny in the room, India forced herself to sound calm and relaxed.

‘Yes… yes, I think so.’

‘Good. Melisande would have been disappointed if you couldn’t. She particularly wanted you to come. So did I.’

Why should her pulses race simply because of those three casually spoken words?

‘Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot. Don’t bother with a taxi, I’ll pick you up. Eight, at your flat—I know the address.’

He had hung up before India could say a word.

‘Well,’ Jenny demanded, ‘are you going?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘Great. Now all you have to do is to decide what to wear.’

CHAPTER THREE

FAMOUS last words, India thought ruefully, three days later, surveying the contents of her wardrobe. Knowing Melisande, the majority of the other guests would be culled from the ranks of the beautiful and/or socially prominent; people with whom she could scarcely compete.

Positive thinking, India told herself. She might not be either wealthy or titled, but she was young, reasonably attractive, and if she wasn’t dressed at least as eye-catchingly as the other female guests she had no one to blame but herself.

However, that was half the trouble. Her own personal preference for plain, unfussy clothes revealed itself in the garments hanging in her cupboard. If she knew Melisande and the rest of her crowd, the women would be dressed in the very latest fashions, the more outré and daring the better. She would look like a minnow in the midst of a whole host of brightly painted tropical fish!

She fingered her velvet dress, frowning as she pictured Simon Herries, looking over it—and her—with that cynical knowingness that so infuriated her. Without giving herself time to change her mind she rang for a taxi.

When it came she was ready, having bathed and carefully applied her make-up while she waited.

She gave him directions and asked him to wait while she slipped into the salon.

It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for—a dress she had designed for one of her clients to wear over Christmas. Unfortunately the girl had broken her leg the week before the dance and the dress had remained unworn.

Grabbing it off the rail, together with its protective wrapping, India hurried back to the waiting taxi.

‘Sorry about that,’ she apologised to the waiting driver, ‘but I needed to collect something.’

‘Don’t worry about it, love,’ she was assured as the taxi driver glanced down at the dress she was carrying over her arm, grinning at her as he opened the taxi door.

‘At least you’ll never be able to use the same excuse as my missus; not with a whole shopful of things to choose from—always complaining that she ain’t got anything to wear she is.’

India glanced at her watch as she stepped out of the taxi in front of her flat.

Fifteen minutes before Simon Herries was due to pick her up. With a bit of luck she should just about be ready. She had no desire to be forced into asking him into the flat while she finished dressing.

India was choosy about who she invited into her home. The salon was where she saw most of her clients—either there or at their homes; and she treasured the privacy and solitude of the flat which she kept firmly separate from the salon.

Most of the decorating she had done herself, unlike the salon; and she had chosen furniture and furnishings which appealed to her.

That, she reflected, unlocking the door, was one of the pleasures of accounting to no one but oneself. There was no one to question one’s taste!

The kitchen, with its mellow wooden units and tiled worktops, reflected her love of natural products as opposed to synthetics. The honey-coloured tiles on the worktops and the floor had been bought on a business trip to Spain, and their warm colour always reminded her of the brilliant sunshine and warmth of Spain. The kitchen had pretty green and white curtains made up in a French fabric she had found in Liberty’s; a comfortable basket chair possessed cushions of the same fabric, and green plants in pretty pots added a touch of extra colour and freshness.

The comfortable lounge was furnished with an assortment of items India had purchased over the years; an old bookcase which she had had stripped and cleaned; a huge settee which she had bought in a sale and subsequently re-covered in cream; and most prized of all, probably, the traditional Persian rug which she had bought with the profit from her first year in business on her own account.

In her bedroom, which reflected her taste for fresh, natural colours, India stripped off the clothes she had worn to go to the salon and unzipped the protective cover from the dress she had brought from there.

Made of crinkly gold tissue, the strapless bodice moulded the firm thrust of her breasts, emphasising the slenderness of her waist and clinging seductively to the feminine curve of her hips and the slender length of her legs.

The dress needed no adornment, and the only jewellery India wore was a thick twisted rope of gold hugging her throat.

She did not possess any gold sandals, but had an elegant pair of black suede evening shoes which she had bought in Paris, and which were so high that they mde her tower above most of the men she knew; perhaps it was a power complex, she thought wryly, this refusal to acknowledge male pride and resort, as so many of her tall sisters did, to wearing flat or low-heeled shoes.

Over the dress she intended to wear her black velvet evening cloak, and she was just reaching for it when she heard the doorbell ring. Smothering the butterflies swarming in her stomach, she checked her appearance in the mirror, a little taken aback by the reflection staring at her.

For some reason the gold fabric seemed to intensify the dark richness of her hair and the creamy perfection of her skin. Although she was very slim, her breasts were marginally fuller than the girl’s for whom the gown had originally been designed, and the strapless bodice seemed to draw provocative attention to their firm upthrust.

It was too late to change now, she told herself, reaching for her cloak and evening bag, and switching off the bedroom light.

In the lounge she left a table light burning, a solitary pool of colour reflecting downwards from the cream shade on to the richness of her prized rug.

She opened the door, composing her features into her ‘professional’ mask.

Her first thought was that Simon Herries seemed larger than she remembered; then she realised that the proximity of her small hall meant that she was far closer to him, and actually forced to look up at him as he stepped inside.

That made India frown. She had been on the point of stepping out of the flat as he moved forward and the two paces were enough to bring them close enough for her to be able to smell the fresh, sharp scent of his aftershave. It enveloped her in a spicy, entirely masculine scent, and she wondered briefly if he was equally as aware of her Arpège, a thought which she quickly dismissed as unimportant and stupid.

‘Do you think it’s wise to leave that on?’ He was looking over India’s shoulder, into the lounge where she had left the lamp burning, and beneath her make-up India felt her face colour with mingled resentment and anger. Another step and he would be inside the lounge; penetrating her private sanctuary, violating her privacy. She moved instinctively, impeding his progress, her voice curt and clipped as she said coolly,

‘I always leave it on.’

‘Why? To deter thieves? Because you’re frightened of the dark?’

His eyes swung from her collection of attractive, but with the exception of her rug, relatively inexpensive furniture, to her cool, remote face, and he drawled mockingly, ‘Hardly. So why…?’

‘Perhaps because it’s welcoming to come home to.’

‘Ah, yes!’ Something gleamed in his eyes; something alien and almost frightening. ‘Of course,’ he said softly, ‘you would know all about the… benefits of being welcoming.’

If there was a double meaning to the words, it escaped India.

‘Has it ever occurred to you that it might not be safe?’

Before she could stop him, Simon Herries had walked past her to the lamp, swiftly switching it off, but not, she noticed, before those all-seeing dark grey eyes had glanced swiftly and assessingly over the room and its contents.

‘Very nice,’ he commented as they left. ‘You’re a very fortunate young woman, India Lawson. Your own business—a successful business at that—youth; looks.’ They were out on the street and beneath lashes far darker and thicker than any mere man had a right to possess his eyes assessed her contours cloaked in the black velvet.

What was she supposed to do, India fumed; fawn ingratiatingly? But Simon Herries hadn’t finished.

‘A devoted admirer… even if he is someone else’s husband… He must be very fond of you to have set you up with the salon. Prime site in Mayfair—it can’t have come cheap.’

They were standing on the kerb in front of the immaculate Ferrari, Simon Herries had reached towards the passenger door and was opening it for India to get in, but she stood her ground, sparks kindling in her eyes,

‘For your information, no one “set me up with the salon”, as you put it. All I have has been achieved through my own hard work!’

‘And Melford Taylor hasn’t helped you in the slightest, is that what you’re trying to say?’ He was sneering outright now, and for two pins India would have walked off and left him standing, but two things stopped her. One was her own pride; if she ran now it was tantamount to admitting that his accusations had some basis; and the other was that she could not run anywhere, because Simon Herries’ lean, hard fingers were gripping her wrist like a manacle; his superior weight forcing her into the passenger seat of the car. Her wrist was released and the door was closed. India rubbed it covertly, staring stonily out of the passenger window as she felt the cold rush of air as the driver’s door opened and she felt the car depress as Simon Herries slid alongside her.

‘Sulking?’ he commented ten minutes later when India was still staring furiously ahead of her. ‘It won’t alter the truth.’

‘The truth!’ India turned to face him, her mouth taut with anger. ‘I doubt if a man like you could recognise it!’

‘Men like me are the only ones who do recognise it,’ came the pithy reply, ‘simply because they’ve had so much experience of the opposite. Your sex never cease to amaze me with their ability to contort “truth” to suit their own requirements; their own careers. Believe me, I know.’

‘I’m sure you do!’

In the darkness of the car India could feel him staring at her, her eyes drawn involuntarily to his hands on the wheel, holding it with cool easy confidence; the way he would hold a woman, and she shivered with some prescient knowledge she could scarcely comprehend. What on earth was the matter with her?

The traffic was thinning out. India glanced at the dashboard clock, amazed to see that they had been travelling for well over half an hour. She frowned, searching the dark for a familiar landscape, and demanded abruptly, ‘Is it far?’

‘Is what far?’ came the cool reply.

Fear gnawed edgily at India’s already overstretched nerves.

‘Don’t play games with me!’ she snapped. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Is it far to Melisande’s flat?’

‘Not particularly.’

No further information was forthcoming, and India was forced to contain her growing anger in a fuming silence; either that or be drawn into further bickering. Abominable man! she thought crossly. She could almost believe that he had been deliberately trying to goad her into losing her temper. She shot him a suspicious glance, watching the dark lashes flick downwards in answer to her scrutiny, although he never lifted his eyes from the road.

The Ferrari was picking up speed. India had fastened her seat-belt when she got in, and that, combined with the luxury of the deep leather seats, combined to hold her snugly in place, even when the car veered abruptly to the right. She just had time to see the road sign before suburban darkness swallowed them up again, and what she read on it had her turning ashen-faced to the man seated next to her.

‘This isn’t the way to Melisande’s! It said on that signpost, M₄, Bath and South Wales.’

‘So it did,’ Simon Herries agreed smoothly.

‘Well, aren’t you going to turn back?’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ India stared at him in disbelieving silence. ‘Because we’re going the wrong way, that’s why!’

‘Oh no, we’re not.’ The words were spoken so softly that at first she couldn’t believe she had actually heard them, but as though to reinforce them, Simon Herries continued expressionlessly, ‘We’re going exactly the way I planned we would go when I asked you to come to Melisande’s party.’ His mouth curled sardonically. ‘I knew you’d find the bait irresistible.’

‘Bait?’ India said tonelessly. She was beyond feeling; beyond anything, apart from trying to come to terms with what was happening to her.

‘Yes, the lure of a possible TV designing contract. That was why you agreed to come, of course.’ For a moment India was too stupefied to speak, and then all at once she found her voice, questions tumbling over one another.

‘What is this? Where’s Melisande? Where are you taking me?’

‘Which shall I answer first?’ he mused sardonically. ‘This, my dear India, is a form of—shall I call it retribution? A theatrical word to use, perhaps; justice is more how I think of it. As to Melisande,’ he continued, before India could question his first statement, ‘to the best of my knowledge at this very moment she’s in California. Now as to your third question, which was, I believe, “Where are you taking me?” he mimicked her own half furious, half fearful tones to perfection, much to India’s chagrin, ‘I’m taking you to a cottage I own in Dorset, where you and I shall spend the weekend together, returning to London on Monday morning, when I shall deposit you at your salon, having very publicly escorted you inside.

‘Tomorrow morning I shall ring your efficient secretary from the cottage, and explain to her that you’ll be late for work on Monday, and why…’ His eyes gleamed in the darkness and it seemed to India, completely unable to believe what she was hearing, that there was Satanic madness in that dark grey gleam.

‘Being the inestimable character that she is, she will naturally leap to the most appropriate conclusions, and before the week is out, my dear India, it should even have reached the ears of that doting boy-friend of yours that you and I have, to put it colloquially, become “very good friends”.’

‘But why? I don’t understand! You don’t like me. You don’t…’

‘Desire you?’ He was mocking her openly, but beneath the mockery India sensed a dangerous anger held in check. ‘No, I don’t desire you.’

‘Then why?’ India demanded helplessly, running through in her mind all the possible explanations for his totally irrational behaviour. Could it be an elaborate joke? She glanced doubtfully at the iron cast of his profile, the hard jaw, and set mouth.

‘Try Melford Taylor,’ the hatefully controlled voice drawled above her ear, ‘or better still, try Melford’s unfortunate wife—my cousin. Oh yes,’ he agreed when she turned dismayed eyes towards him, ‘Alison is most definitely my cousin. Her parents were the only stable family I knew after my own divorced; they practically brought me up. Alison was like a sister to me—in fact I was the one to introduce her to Melford. I’m even godfather to his two sons. You did know about them: about the fact that your lover had children by another woman—his wife?’ he demanded with a savagery that found India totally unprepared after the controlled calm of his earlier statements.

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