скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Naturally.’ Ellie hacked the skin from an inoffensive potato. ‘It’s all happened a little fast—that’s all.’
‘Then tell him you need more time. If he cares for you, he’ll understand.’
Ellie shook her head. She said, ‘Time is something I—don’t have.’
‘Oh, God.’ Lou came to an apprehensive halt in her preparations. ‘Ellie—you’re not pregnant, are you?’
Ellie stared at her in astonishment. ‘Of course not. How could I possibly be?’
Lou shrugged uncomfortably. ‘People in love are usually—lovers too,’ she suggested. ‘And accidents happen.’
Her stepsister flushed. ‘Well, not in our case. Because we—don’t…’
‘Oh,’ Lou said, adding mendaciously, ‘I see.’
Although she didn’t know why she should be so surprised, she thought, turning back to the mushrooms. After all, sex before marriage wasn’t obligatory. And in a sharp-eyed village, where any kind of privacy was at a premium, and your beloved still resided with a mother who tracked his every move, it was virtually impossible, as she knew to her cost.
But, as David had said ruefully, there was no real hurry when they had the rest of their lives together. And what could she do but reluctantly agree?
However, Alex Fabian didn’t live his life under the spotlight of parental disapproval, she thought. On the contrary. So, why this uncharacteristic restraint?
She said, ‘Then what’s the matter? Because there’s clearly something.’
Ellie was silent for a moment. She said, ‘He—he scares me a little. To be honest, he always has.’
‘Then why on earth did you go out with him?’ Lou demanded, bewildered.
Ellie shrugged. ‘Oh, I wasn’t very happy at the time,’ she said evasively. ‘I thought it might—take my mind off things.’
‘And did it?’
Ellie’s laugh sounded a little forced. ‘Well, of course. Alex demands—total concentration at all times. And now we’re going to be married,’ she added brightly. ‘So everything’s worked out for the best.’
‘In this best of all possible worlds,’ Lou murmured with irony. ‘And maybe you should leave the potatoes to me, love. There’ll be none left at the rate you’re going.’
‘Oh, Lou, I’m sorry.’ Ellie looked with contrition at the results of her labours.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Lou rinsed her hands. ‘The future Mrs Fabian will never have to bother with such mundane tasks, anyway. So go and make yourself look gorgeous for him.’
‘Yes,’ Ellie said slowly. ‘I suppose so.’ She looked up at the clock, her expression blank. ‘He’ll be here soon. Time’s running out.’ And she wandered off, leaving Lou staring after her, perplexed, and frankly worried.
Ellie, she thought, bore no resemblance to a girl about to say ‘yes’ to the man she adored.
She wondered if she ought to talk to Marian about it, then dismissed the idea, knowing that it would be seen as interference rather than intervention.
And Ellie wasn’t a child any more. She had to work out her own salvation. And whether that would include Alex Fabian was entirely her own decision.
Left to herself, she worked steadily, and competently. Soon the ducklings were waiting on their rack, the vegetables prepared, the soup simmering, and a bowl of Chantilly cream whisked up to accompany the dessert of fresh local strawberries.
As David’s wife, she might always have to do her own cooking, she thought with faint amusement, but she didn’t have one iota of envy for Ellie’s carefree future. David was her rock, and she’d never entertained the slightest doubt about him.
Dinner was to be served at eight o’ clock, so she now had a breathing space to go back into the loft and choose the dresses to take down to the village hall later.
It was a fascinating task. Like most lofts, it was crammed with remnants of the past, including a lot of old photograph albums, and Lou was constantly being sidetracked.
‘Oh, hell,’ she muttered as she glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time those ducklings were in the oven. I’d better get cracking.’
She picked up the armful of dresses she’d chosen. They were too bulky to manage safely on the ladder, she decided. Much better for them to go first.
She dropped them through the hatch, and was about to follow, when a startled cry reached her from below.
Glancing down in sudden apprehension, Lou saw the dresses seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Were, in fact, on the move. And under their concealing folds a muffled male voice was swearing angrily.
‘Oh, God.’ Lou scrambled down the ladder at neck-breaking speed. She grabbed a handful of satin, and hauled it away. ‘I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise anyone would be there.’
Her victim shook himself free, his impatient glance flicking over her. ‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘I thought it might be some bizarre rite of passage.’
And Lou realised, horrified, she was taking her first look at Alex Fabian. In the flesh, she thought, swallowing.
He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and endless legs. His hair, dishevelled from its close encounter with several pounds of fabric, was thick and tawny, and curled slightly. Lou remembered Ellie once saying that his nickname in the City was the Lion King, and could understand why.
He was not conventionally handsome, but he was arrestingly, dynamically attractive, with high cheekbones, glinting green eyes under heavy lids, and a firmly sculpted, almost insolent mouth.
And he was frighteningly, effortlessly sexy. A man who did not have to try, she thought instantly, and wondered how she could possibly know.
A shiver traced its way down her spine. And she thought, ‘Poor Ellie.’
Alex Fabian was looking at her too. Lou recognised with shock that she had been stripped, assessed and dismissed in one devastating and totally male glance. A conditioned reflex, she told herself angrily. That’s all it was. See a woman—imagine her naked. He probably can’t help himself.
But all the same she resented it, even as she realised he was speaking to her again.
He said softly, ‘And who are you?’
Lou gave him a bland smile. ‘The cook.’
‘Indeed?’ His brows lifted. He stirred the mass of shimmering cloth at his feet with the toe of a polished shoe. ‘Is it part of the job to dress for dinner?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘These are for the local drama group. They’re doing a revue—An Evening with Noël Coward.’
‘Dear God,’ said Alex Fabian, and his lips twitched into an appreciative grin. ‘A little ambitious, wouldn’t you say?’
Lou had thought exactly the same when the idea was first mooted, but she stonily refused to share his amusement. Particularly when his smile had sent his attraction quotient soaring into some sexual stratosphere.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said crisply. ‘You won’t be expected to buy a ticket.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’ve just realised. You’re Louise, Ellie’s stepsister. How do you do? I’m Alex Fabian.’
Lou dived to pick up the dresses, pretending not to have seen his outstretched hand. It occurred to her that she did not want to touch him. That even a polite handshake might carry some inherent risk, like making contact with a force field. And that she could not afford to find out.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d gathered who you were.’ She hoisted the pile of silks and satins into her arms, using them as a barrier. ‘Now you must excuse me. Duty calls.’
‘You mean you really are doing the cooking?’
‘Well, don’t sound so surprised. Someone has to.’ She gave him a swift, taut smile. ‘Reliable staff is hard to come by round here. But I promise not to poison you.’
‘I’m completely reassured.’ He paused. ‘Before I was booby-trapped,’ he said, ‘I was looking for the guest bathroom.’
‘Second door on the left.’ She edged round him.
‘One moment,’ he said, and a sudden tremor went through her as she felt his hand brush her hair.
She practically jumped backwards, nearly flattening herself against the wall. She said breathlessly, ‘Just—what do you think you’re doing?’
‘Relax,’ he advised, a sudden glint in those amazing eyes. ‘You had a cobweb in your hair. See?’ He showed her its remains on his fingertips. ‘Some poor spider is now homeless.’
‘A banker with a caring side,’ she said. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Now, why do I find that so hard to believe?’ Alex Fabian said musingly. ‘But I won’t detain you now for any further discussion. You have your pots and pans to get back to. So, as Noël Coward himself would have put it, Miss Louise Trentham, I’ll see you again.’
No, she thought with relief. No, you won’t.
Tonight she would be at the village hall, and tomorrow she would persuade David to take her out for the whole day. And on Sunday she’d invent a headache, and stay in her room until they’d all gone back to London.
She muttered something unintelligible into the pile of dresses, and headed off to her room.
Once safely inside, she leaned back against the door panels, and whispered, ‘Phew.’
So that was Alex Fabian, she thought weakly. Hell’s bells, he should carry a government health warning. No wonder Ellie was becoming flaky at the prospect of marriage with him.
Nor was he a picture of the eager suitor. He was a cool operator. She had seen no kindness in that smiling mouth, no warmth to soften the sensual speculation in the green eyes. For Alex Fabian, women were no more than a commodity to be enjoyed. And what happened when a particular commodity began to pall?
Did Ellie really have the emotional and mental stamina to cope with someone like him? Or was she too glamoured—too beguiled by his looks, charisma and money to care?
She should turn him down, she told herself vehemently. Instantly, and without a second thought. It was a question of survival—pure and simple.
A description which could never be applied to the bridegroom-to-be, she added, her mouth twisting wryly.
She left the dresses on her bed. As she turned away she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and realised there was a smudge of dust on her cheek that Alex Fabian had not seen fit to mention.
Thank God he didn’t try to remove it as well, she thought caustically as she went down to the kitchen, or I’d probably be a gibbering wreck by now.
She was concocting the orange sauce for the ducklings when Marian came in.
‘Is everything under control?’ she demanded, glancing sharply around her.
‘In here, it is.’ Lou added a dash of Cointreau. ‘I can’t speak for the rest of the house.’
Marian stared at her. She was elegant in amethyst jersey, with pearls at her throat and in her ears, and her blonde hair was drawn back into an elaborate chignon. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘I met Ellie’s intended,’ Lou returned. She paused. ‘Are you really going to let her marry him?’
Marian’s brows lifted haughtily. ‘I think that is a decision that we can safely leave to them.’
‘I don’t agree.’ Lou met her gaze calmly and directly. ‘I think it’s like handing a lamb over to a tiger.’
‘What a dramatic turn of phrase,’ her stepmother said mockingly. ‘Perhaps you should be writing melodramas for your little village group.’
‘Better melodrama than tragedy,’ Lou said curtly. ‘Marian, she’s not in his league. You must see that.’
‘I see that she’s marrying a very successful man, who will soon be chairman of Perrins Bank,’ Marian retorted.
‘So you’re not pretending she loves him.’
Marian laughed. ‘Oh, I think she’ll find it very easy to love him—in the ways that matter to a man. After all, she’ll have an expert teacher.’ She paused. ‘Are you quite sure, Lou, dear, that you’re not just a tiny bit jealous?
‘No,’ Lou said steadily. ‘Because I have a man that I can love in all the ways there are. Not just those that happen in the bedroom.’
‘You’re really a little prude, aren’t you?’ Marian drawled. ‘I’m sure you and David will suit each other admirably.’ She glanced at her diamond watch. ‘Are you leaving yourself enough time to change?’
‘I’m going to a village-hall rehearsal, not Glyndebourne.’ Lou tasted her sauce, and nodded with satisfaction.
‘But you can’t serve the dinner in jeans and an old sweater.’
‘I’ve no intention of serving it at all,’ Lou retorted curtly. ‘I said I’d cook, and that’s it. You and Ellie can manage the rest between you—unless, of course, you want Alex Fabian to end up with a lap full of mushroom soup,’ she added menacingly. ‘No? I thought not. And I presume you know how to load the dishwasher as well,’ she called after her stepmother as Marian flounced out.
A minor victory, she thought, but what did that matter when the war was already lost?
Up in her room, she went across to the window to close the curtains against the gathering twilight, and paused, alerted by a movement in the shrubbery below her. To her surprise, she saw it was Ellie, pacing up and down, and talking on her cell-phone.
What on earth is she doing out there? Lou asked herself in bewilderment. ‘I’d have thought Marian would have had her chained to Alex Fabian’s wrist by now.’
She was about to rap on the window—attract Ellie’s attention—then held back. Even in the poor light, she could see that her stepsister looked strained. Every gesture, every restless movement betrayed her agitation.
Maybe she’s decided she can’t go through with it, she thought. But who is she talking to? The Samaritans?
She went back to the bed and began shaking out the dresses, folding them with care and placing them in large carriers.
On her way out to the car she would have a word with Ellie, she decided. Tell her that she, at least, was on her side.
But when she got outside, there was no one about. As she went past the dining-room window she glanced in, and saw Ellie sitting next to Alex Fabian at the candlelit table, talking and laughing as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
The Samaritans must do a wonderful job, Lou thought with a resigned sigh, and went to her rehearsal.
The carrier bags were seized on joyfully by the female cast members and taken off to the women’s dressing room. Lou found a chair and sat down to watch while she waited for David to arrive. He didn’t act in any of the village productions but he helped with scenery and lighting, and he was coming to discuss the design of the set with Ray, the producer.
Lou hadn’t attended any rehearsals for a couple of weeks, and she was amazed to find what progress they’d made. Even Ray who was also playing Noël Coward, was far better than she’d expected.
Then the girls came back in the evening dresses she’d brought, and paraded them on stage for Ray to make a final choice, and it was only when she was re-packing the rejected ones that she realised how late it was getting.
