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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 (#uacbf47ff-5fc1-50a2-8c41-419103fcbdbc)
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, M
, Bath and South Wales.’
‘So it did,’ Simon Herries agreed smoothly.
