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She’d never been in the house, never been alone with him. On the few occasions when they had met, it had always been in the centre when other people were present—and she couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep. Too many late nights, she supposed, and a weekend spent chasing clients who owed her money. And the day-to-day tension that she might see Beck, of course. Who was engaged to Helena. And women knew, didn’t they? When another woman was attracted to their man?
You can sometimes be very silly, Carenza. Masochistic even. Yes.
With a deep sigh, a wide yawn, she pushed the blanket aside. The knees of her tailored trousers were torn and muddy, her boots caked with God only knew what. Her jacket was creased. And she ached. Stretching to ease her cramped muscles, she went to peer at her reflection in an ornate mirror, and tried to smile. Something the cat wouldn’t have brought in. Her long hair was tangled, her mascara smudged. Wetting a finger, she wiped away the worst of it and then turned away, because there was absolutely nothing she could do about how she looked. She didn’t even have a comb with her.
Walking into the large kitchen, she halted with another dented smile. It was also expensively decorated. A blue enamel Aga stood proudly against one wall; a matching blue hood with a brass rail hovered protectively above it. The stone flags were cold beneath her feet. The oak cupboards and units matched the long table and chairs, the tiles matched the floor, the walls the curtains. Someone’s idea of a country kitchen. Except it wasn’t. She’d been in a great many country kitchens, and they didn’t look like this. There should be muddy wellington boots, raincoats, a dog basket…Where did poor Spanner sleep? Not here, obviously.
There was no sign of Beck, or Helena, but a kettle steamed gently on the Aga. Milk, sugar and coffee had been left on the work surface. Taking a cup from the mock Welsh dresser, she made herself a hot drink and went to stare from the window. The rain was falling heavy and straight. Noisy. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, menacing sound, and she spared a thought for the poor clear-up crews who would be working out in this. She could see a lot of the damage from here. White, ugly scars on the trees where branches had been ripped off, those that were left standing, that was. There were scattered bricks across what looked like a dug-up lawn. Perhaps that was the next item for renovation.
Sipping her coffee, lost in her thoughts, she started when she heard the back door open. Turning, heart beating over-fast, she found a faint smile as Beck walked in. Drowned rat wasn’t in it. Hair plastered to his head, jacket and jeans soaked through, he gave a small smile back, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke,’ he apologised quietly. ‘I just wanted to check for damage.’
‘That’s all right. How bad is it?’
‘Bad. The “front”, as it’s being called,’ he murmured humorously as he shrugged out of his jacket, shook it and draped it over a chair, ‘cut a swathe through the south of England about a mile wide. Anything in its path was either uprooted or destroyed. Fortunately, it seems to have missed any major towns. I don’t suppose the true extent of the damage will be known for a few days. Certainly the electricity won’t be on for a while. Did you sleep all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Never one to pussy-foot around, she said bluntly, ‘I haven’t seen Helena.’
He looked away, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘No,’ he agreed quietly. ‘She isn’t here.’
‘Oh.’
Sounded like a sensitive subject, best avoided, perhaps, and she was disgusted with herself for the rush of hope she felt that they might have split up. Returning her attention to the garden, she observed lightly, ‘The storm will have put your landscaping plans back.’ When he didn’t answer, she turned to look at him, curiosity in her dark eyes. ‘No landscaping?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
One hand on the back of the chair where he’d tossed his jacket, he said quietly, ‘I tried to keep it separate.’
‘Sorry?’ she asked in confusion.
‘The house and the conference centre. I tried to keep them separate.’ His back to her, he walked across to the Aga and put the kettle back on to boil.
Thoroughly bewildered, she asked lamely, ‘Why?’
‘Because it was easier.’ Turning to face her, he gave a grim smile. ‘Helena is missing.’
‘Missing?’
‘Yes. She walked out one day and didn’t come back.’
‘Didn’t come back?’ she echoed in amazement. ‘But why on earth didn’t you tell me? No,’ she corrected herself with a little grimace. ‘Why should you? It wasn’t any of my business, was it? And you wanted to keep the conference centre and your private concerns separate.’ Which was why he’d never invited her to the house. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was because something was between them that wasn’t allowed to be between them.
‘Yes.’
‘She left without telling you she was going?’ Just because it was none of her business, that didn’t stop her being curious.
‘Yes.’
‘Because of the row?’
‘No,’ he denied simply.
‘Because of a lover?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And no one knows where she is?’
‘No.’
‘How long…? I mean, when did she…?’
‘Leave? Two months ago. She didn’t take anything with her. Not her passport, her clothes, any money. Or her car.’
When he said nothing further, she persisted, ‘And?’ Because there had to be an ‘and’, didn’t there?
‘And the police dug up the garden.’
Flicking her eyes to the window, then back to him, a very hollow feeling inside, she whispered in shock, ‘They think you—killed her?’
‘Probably not, but her father insisted that she wouldn’t have just walked out. And the police have to cover all possibilities, don’t they?’
‘That’s what they said?’
‘Yes.’
A frown in her eyes, she returned her attention to the garden. ‘Why would her father think she wouldn’t walk out?’
‘He doesn’t like me, and he didn’t think I was good enough for her. He thinks me cruel.’
‘No,’ she denied without hesitation. Whatever else he might be, she would have staked her life on the fact that he wasn’t a cruel man. And how on earth could she not have known that all this was going on? People gossiped, started rumours… ‘Does everyone believe it?’ she asked. ‘That you killed her?’
‘I don’t know if they believe it or not, but mud sticks.’
‘But there’s no evidence—is there?’
‘No.’
‘But until she’s found…’
‘I’m under suspicion, yes.’
Genuinely concerned, she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Beck.’
With a deep sigh, he finished making his coffee. ‘I’ll see if I can find you somewhere else to stay until the roads are open.’
‘Why?’
‘I just told you why.’
Watching him, she gave a disturbed smile. ‘For my reputation, or yours?’ she asked softly.
‘Yours.’
‘Oh, I think my reputation can stand it. More to the point, does anyone else have a wood-burning stove?’
His mouth smiled. His eyes didn’t. ‘No, but you can’t stay here.’
End of discussion? He spoke so quietly, impassively, with no sign of the strain he must be under, and her staying here had nothing whatever to do with reputations.
‘Afraid I might ravish you?’ she asked huskily.
‘No, Carenza, I’m not afraid you might ravish me.’
‘I’d like to…Sorry,’ she apologised hastily, her face pink. ‘I sometimes have a very big mouth.’
‘To go with being a big girl?’
‘Yes.’ Being tall and rather generously made was the bane of her life. She’d always yearned to be tiny. Like Helena. No, not like Helena. Sigh deeper, she continued her contemplation of the ruined garden. ‘She was very beautiful,’ she murmured, and she had been. She’d only seen her the once—and once had been enough, she thought with a twisted smile. And no greater contrast to herself could ever have existed. Helena had been small and slender, perfection personified. Shoulder-length blonde hair that waved in exactly the right places. Wide blue eyes, a perfect nose…She’d watched from the window of the conference centre as Helena had tucked her hand into Beck’s arm, smiled at him. A woman sure of her own attraction. Sure of being loved. Carenza was statuesque, and her thick dark hair didn’t wave at all.
‘Is there anyone you need to let know where you are?’ he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
‘Just as well,’ he said with slight wryness, ‘because I have no way of contacting them for you. I don’t have a mobile.’
‘And I left mine on the hall table. I wasn’t going to be gone long: drive down and collect my notebook, drive home.’
‘Yes. The Aga doesn’t have a back boiler, but there should be enough hot water left if you want a shower,’ he continued. ‘Bathroom’s the first door at the top of the stairs.’ Hesitating a moment, he added, ‘Helena left all her clothes here, and although you might not want to wear her things there are whole drawers of new underwear, things she’d bought and never used. There’s no easy way to offer this, but you’re very welcome to take anything you need. It might take a while to find you somewhere else to stay. Her bedroom is next to the bathroom.’
‘Thank you. Clean underwear would be nice.’
‘Then help yourself. I’ll get us some breakfast.’
Nodding, she walked out and into the hall, and then up the stairs. She felt ragged and weak. And the strain of being alone with him until however long it took for him to find her somewhere else to stay was going to be enormous. And yet she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Halting outside Helena’s room, she hesitated. She’d have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t curious about the other woman’s bedroom. Not theirs, Helena’s. Maybe they didn’t sleep together, but in this day and age it was usual for engaged couples to do so, and Beck didn’t look like a man who was celibate. He looked as though he would be a very competent and gentle lover. Innovative, perhaps…And she really rather despised herself for wanting a man who belonged to someone else. For wanting a man who could be attracted to another woman when he was involved with someone else.
Feeling like an intruder, she pushed open the door. White. Everything was white. Drapes, bedlinen, carpet, even the furniture was white. The only colour was an ornate, and probably very expensive, turquoise glass lamp. Taking a deep breath, she slowly opened one door of the fitted wardrobe—except it wasn’t a wardrobe, it was a small, walk-in closet. Clothes hung neatly to either side, all covered in plastic. Evening clothes, day clothes, smart, casual. Shoe racks held all her footwear. All neatly paired. Handbags were tucked beside them. Her own wardrobe looked as if the army might have been holding manoeuvres in there. To actually find a pair of shoes involved taking everything out from the bottom of the wardrobe and then stuffing it all back in. Shoes she never wore, shoes that no longer fitted…Looking at all this, she was embarrassed, and vowed that never, ever would she let anyone else look in her wardrobe. Best clear it out in case she disappeared.
Don’t tempt fate, Carenza.
Backing out, she closed the door. She would just borrow some underwear, she decided. Helena’s clothes wouldn’t have fitted her anyway. Opening each drawer in the tall cabinet that stood by the window, she stared at all the tiny frilly triangles that seemed to constitute Helena’s underwear. Glancing down at her own ample proportions, she laughed. She might just get into a thong. Selecting one, she shut the drawer and escaped from all this glamour.
Removing her jacket, she hung it over the rail at the top of the stairs and walked into the bathroom, which was a great deal more than functional. White granite had been moulded to form the basin, flow smoothly into the bath, and then up to form the shower. A vision in white modernity, as though it had been carved from snow. An ice sculpture. Gold fittings, bottle-green tiles and floor. Almost a shame to use it, really.
A curved groove in the granite allowed the glass door for the shower to be slid easily into place, and with a wry smile for all this sybaritic luxury she stripped off. There was no sign of Helena’s toiletries on the glass shelves, so she used Beck’s.
Had the relationship been in trouble? she wondered as she rubbed her hair as dry as she could and then dressed. Had her disappearance come as a surprise? It wasn’t something she felt she could ask because she really didn’t know him all that well. Only knew that he had the ability to make her heart beat faster, induce fantasies, even after she’d known he was engaged. Her infatuation had been extraordinarily foolish considering the contrast between herself and Helena. Beck obviously went for the pocket Venus type…So why, then, was he attracted to herself? As unlike Helena as it was possible to be? Tall, with brown hair and eyes, legacy of a Greek great-grandmother, busty, definitely hippy—exotic, someone had once said, but she couldn’t see it. Never saw her own quicksilver smiles, or the flashes of amusement in her dark eyes.
Tilting her head to one side, she wondered what she was really like. A contrary sort of person, she decided, one moment serene, the next a flurry of energy and enthusiasm. She also tended to say what she was thinking, which wasn’t always wise. Neither was it wise to stay in the house of a man you were very strongly attracted to. A man you wanted to touch. Constantly. And she’d lingered too long.
Quickly washing out her own underwear and hanging it on the towel rail, she gave a wry smile. Her underwear was pretty but definitely big. Big knickers, big bra, not something Beck would be used to.
With a little shake of her head for thoughts that really didn’t matter, she walked out. The smell of frying reached her as she descended the stairs, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
He turned as she entered the kitchen, eyes sombre. ‘Hungry?’
‘Very.’
‘Good. The tea’s made, only needs pouring.’
Whilst she poured the tea into the two mugs, he dished up eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato and fried bread.
‘Tuck in,’ he ordered as he placed the meals on the table.
They ate mostly in silence, and when they’d finished both sat, staring down into their tea. She couldn’t think of anything to say, nothing that might not have thorns on it, anyway.
‘I’m not much good at small talk,’ he eventually apologised quietly.
She smiled. ‘Neither am I. Did I thank you for rescuing me?’
‘No thanks were needed.’
She lapsed back into silence, and then asked quietly, ‘Where’s Spanner? I never see him around.’
‘Spanner?’ he echoed softly. ‘He died.’
‘I’m sorry. Shall you get another dog?’
‘No.’
Because his life was still unsettled? Because he might have a murder charge hanging over his head? ‘Why Spanner?’ she asked curiously. ‘It seems an odd name for a dog.’
‘Because when I found him as a tiny, abandoned puppy he was trying to chew a nut off a piece of scrap metal.’
‘Oh.’
‘And you? Is business good?’
‘So-so. I’ve just finished a large commission. Barn conversion. I opened a small shop in Croydon.’ She grinned, then qualified, ‘I’m renting out a small area in a wallpaper and fabric shop. I persuaded the owner that it would be good for his business. When people came in to buy decorating materials, he could steer them in my direction. Or, alternatively, if they came to see me, I could make my selections from his stock.’
‘Sounds a good arrangement.’
‘Mm, seems to be working OK. And your days of inactivity will soon be over,’ she teased. ‘A few more weeks and the conference centre will be finished. You’ll be able to go to work.’
