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  Clarry heard Danny snort and asked, ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the drawing-room, but—Miss Rickard—’ Mrs Haines’s raised voice trailed away as Clarry dropped her case and went quickly, with long strides, before Danny could attempt to stop her or move to go with her.

  Something was wrong. She was almost running along the corridor. In the drawing-room the TV was on and the man sitting in front got up from a high-backed armchair.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, and although she was speechless with surprise she thought what a hypocritical thing that was for Nigel Dargan to be saying.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘YOU haven’t changed,’ said Nigel, and that nearly made Clarry laugh. Maybe the white streak in her hair was the only outward sign, but in every inner way she had changed out of recognition.

  ‘Whatever gives you that idea?’ she asked.

  His good looks would always be boyish. Compared to Nicolas he would always be immature, and his smile now was unsure, as well it might be.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ve just heard you were here.’ Behind him the television audience broke into applause and Clarry, shocked to the edge of hysterical giggles, thought, Take a bow, you’re putting on quite a show!

  He turned the set off. ‘Nicolas isn’t here?’

  ‘No.’ She bet he had heard that too. ‘Did you come to see me?’ He nodded a yes. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I wanted to see you. How have you been?’

  ‘Fine. Happy and healthy, and business is building up.’ They sounded like casual acquaintances meeting again, and that was how she felt now the shock was wearing off—not particularly interested, just making small talk.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ Nigel was standing by the television. She had not moved from the open doorway, but now she came into the room and closed the door. It would be ridiculous to leave the door open as though it was a way of escape. Then she took a chair and he sat down again in the wingback.

  ‘How are you?’ She asked the obvious question, and his smile was wry.

  ‘If we’re talking about Dargan Enterprises, everybody knows they go from strength to strength.’ Everyone who read the financial pages or even the news stories knew that Nigel Dargan must be making a comfortable living. ‘But personally,’ he said heavily, ‘things aren’t so good. My marriage is on the rocks.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. She did not want to hear this. It was none of her business.

  ‘I should never have listened to Cole.’ Nor did she want to listen to that. ‘How are you getting on with him?’

  Nigel was watching her closely and she said, ‘All right,’ and hoped her voice was not giving her away. ‘We went riding yesterday.’

  ‘He doesn’t have his horses here. They’re still at the Rawnsley Stables.’

  ‘We were at the Shire Horse Centre.’ Nigel gave a jeering snort of laughter.

  ‘But of course, everyone falls over themselves to provide for Nicolas Dargan. How about you?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What are you providing?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear that too? I’m Rickard Restoration; we restore chimneyplaces, that sort of thing.’ But colour was creeping into her cheeks, and Nigel sneered:

  ‘So he’s got you too, has he, as well as the live-in lady?’ Now the hot blush could pass for anger, and anger was one of the emotions churning in her. ‘I should have thought Fiona Stretton would have been enough in the home comforts line. What’s he running here, a harem?’

  She was saying nothing to that, but she looked at him with such distaste that he tried to justify himself. ‘I could be on the wrong track, but Cole knows how things are between Caroline and me. He doesn’t want that partnership cracking up, he’s got business dealings with Caro’s father. And he’s guessed I was missing you—he misses nothing, I sometimes think he’s a mind-reader. Well, it’s a coincidence, isn’t it, that he comes down here when you’re here, and you’re getting on with him, riding with him? How far has he got with you in a week?’

  How far? She could have been away with Nicolas now. Burning her bridges, flying and burning. That was how far he had got.

  And this explanation made more sense than Paul Burnley’s deciding Nicolas was using her to hold off Fiona. Nobody seemed to think that Clarry had what it took to make Nicolas Dargan want her for herself. Come to that, neither did she. Later there might be pain, but now there was only emptiness, which was why she could change the subject as if it bored her, asking, ‘How long are you staying?’

  Her composure took him aback. ‘A few days,’ he said, ‘unless I’m shown the door. Do you know how long Cole’s away for?’

  ‘No.’ Clarry got up, and he tried to grin.

  ‘How’s old Danny these days?’

  ‘Still chiselling away.’ Danny had not disliked Nigel. At least, he never glared at Nigel with the malevolence he showed towards Nicolas Dargan.

  As she opened the door Nigel asked, ‘You’ll come down for dinner?’

  ‘Sure.’ She said with a spurious gaiety, ‘Get Fiona and the Colonel down too—I’ve never seen the Colonel. Let’s have a party.’

  As she walked through the door he said, ‘Now you’ve seen Cole, what chance do you think I had of standing up to him?’

  Clarry had asked herself that question more than once, and she answered it for him. ‘No chance at all.’ She had stopped blaming Nigel ages ago. She had stopped caring about Nigel. She had to stop caring about anything for now.

  Danny was waiting for her in the parlour, and she told him, ‘That was Nigel.’

  ‘So she said.’ The housekeeper had probably been stammering that out while Clarry was hurrying out of earshot.

  ‘His marriage is on the rocks; he’s been missing me.’ Danny grunted, and she went on, ‘He says Nicolas is putting on the charm to keep me away from him—what do you think?’

  ‘Keep away from both of them,’ said Danny.

  ‘You don’t think I should give Nigel a second chance?’ What rubbish she was talking! She could never take up with Nigel again.

  ‘Better him than his cousin,’ said Danny. ‘Nigel Dargan’s not much of a man, but Nicolas Dargan could break you.’

  Not while I feel like this, Clarry thought; you can’t break nothing. She said, ‘I said we’d have dinner downstairs.’

  ‘Not me,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Well, I hope it’s not going to be just the two of us, because if Nigel wants to tell me again how he picked the wrong girl I shall probably start screaming with laughter.’

  Screaming, anyway. She wished she had listened to Danny and they had not come back. She wished she had said just now, ‘It’s a big house, keep out of our room.’

  Staying cool was hard, but that was how she had played it and how she must go on, and it left less time for thinking. When she had changed her travelling clothes for one of the snazzy dresses she had brought back with her, and fixed her face and hair, it was time to go downstairs. She was not dressing up for Nigel, just putting on a good face to hide how wretched she was feeling. And if Fiona was there, the live-in lady, that was another good reason for going down with flying colours.

  Her dress was a flame-coloured crêpe shift, with thin straps over smooth bare shoulders. She had thought she might wear it next weekend. Only now there would be no next weekend, because nothing could blot out the suspicion that she was only with Nicolas to prevent her being with Nigel, putting the final strain on a marriage that was good for business if for nothing else.

  Fiona had joined them. She was sitting at the table, and she stared when she saw Clarry, with her hair piled artfully, vivid in her red dress, eyes glittering and colour on her cheekbones to hide her pallor.

  Nigel said huskily, ‘You’re as beautiful as ever.’

  Clarry smiled, ‘So I get told.’ She sat down. ‘This is Nigel Dargan,’ she said to Fiona, ‘another old friend of mine, but you must have met.’

  They didn’t say when, but they agreed that they had, and i
t was almost like friends dining together. The food was excellent—Clarry appreciated that. She could see how attractive and appetising it looked, although it had no flavour in her mouth. And the wine slipped smoothly and tastelessly down.

  Fiona was being a sweetie, she and Nigel had plenty in common, and Clarry could be bright and funny, and tonight she was both. The wine helped, but it was all superficial. Nigel’s charm, and Fiona’s, seemed skin-deep, but they were young and good-looking and they talked animatedly, and Clarry could have been enjoying herself.

  She was looking as if she was, leaning back in her chair smiling, when the door opened and Nicolas walked in.

  Nigel yelped, sending his wine splashing red on the white damask cloth. Fiona exclaimed, ‘Nicolas!’ and started to get up from her chair. Then she sat down again hurriedly, and Clarry thought, He’ll push past anyone who gets in his way.

  She could feel the anger radiating from him, and they could all hear it when he towered over Nigel, demanding, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His voice was steely and more threatening than if he had shouted.

  Nigel gulped, ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Nicolas looked at Clarry and his glare shrivelled her. ‘Excuse us,’ he said, and to Nigel, ‘Let’s talk.’

  Nigel got up to follow him out of the room, grinning sheepishly at the girls and murmuring, ‘Keep the coffee warm!’

  Then they were left alone at the table with the spreading scarlet stain of wine between them, and Fiona gasped, ‘What was that all about?’ Clarry knew, but she was not discussing it, and suddenly Fiona giggled. ‘I wonder what young Nigel’s been up to. You knew them both before you came here, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not well,’ said Clarry. ‘I knew neither of them well.’

  Fiona looked pleased to hear it. She was a little high on the wine, while Clarry herself had suddenly become cold sober. ‘Nicolas was terrifying, wasn’t he?’ said Fiona dreamily. ‘I love masterful men.’

  ‘You’re welcome to them,’ said Clarry. ‘Let’s talk—hah! Nicolas’ll be the only one doing the talking, and whatever he had to say could have waited a few minutes. He didn’t need to make it so humiliating. He should have been wearing jackboots!’

  Fiona giggled again. ‘He was angry—I’ve never seen him like that before.’

  ‘Oh, I’d say it was in character,’ said Clarry. ‘Perhaps you’ve never crossed him,’ and Fiona gave a little erotic wriggle.

  ‘I’ve never wanted to.’ And she poured herself more wine, smiling her smug smile.

  After a silence Clarry asked, ‘Where’s your father? Isn’t he living here too?’ Fiona seemed to be enjoying her thoughts, but Clarry was not.

  ‘We have an apartment,’ said Fiona. ‘He comes and goes,’ and that was the end of that.

  So am I going, thought Clarry. This is a Dargan affair and I don’t even want to be an onlooker. She really felt sorry for Nigel, who could have stood no chance against Nicolas from the day he was born. That man, bulldozing everything in his way, was the real Nicolas Dargan. She did not know him well, but well enough to know that, and she couldn’t sit here any longer, waiting and feeling sicker by the minute.

  As she got up from the table Nigel came back into the room. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I should have been nursing a deal that Cole is determined shouldn’t go down the drain. I came here for a break, now I’m back on duty tomorrow.’

  The double-talk was for Fiona’s benefit, the deal was his marriage, and it was all pathetic. Clarry said, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘I guess not.’ He looked very shaken. ‘I didn’t think he’d be here, and I never thought he’d cut up this rough. He’s still out there. He told me to get out of his sight—I don’t think he could trust himself near me. I thought he was going to knock me down.’ He sat down groggily. ‘You’d better keep out of his way too. He’s in a bloody murderous mood.’

  ‘That’s his problem,’ Clarry said airily. ‘Goodnight, all.’

  She had no strength for any more play-acting. She got out of the room and reached the staircase with her head high although there was no one to see. But she needed the rail to help her up the stairs, and she stopped for a moment by one casement window, looking blindly into the darkened garden.

  It was not quite dark out there. Lights from the house reached to where Nicolas was walking the lawn. She was not looking for him, at least she didn’t think she was, and it had to be chance that he looked up as if the pale shimmer of her face had caught his attention.

  He could get away with murder. Everybody took it from him, whatever he laid on them. Nigel was hopeless. Fiona never crossed him. In business and private life his word was law, nobody stood up against him, and she would probably be out of here tomorrow, but tonight, first, she was going to tell him some home truths.

  She tore down the stairs, and was out of the door and haring across the lawn as if the house was on fire. He was still there, further into the shadows, but she could see him plainly, and he heard her coming and turned and growled, ‘Well?’ when she was near enough to hear.

  She took a few more steps before she stopped, and then she said, ‘Not very well, no.’ She had words ready in her head, and they came in a rush. ‘I suppose Nigel’s used to it, you must have been treating him like this for ever, but I’m not, and watching you just now knocked me out. So you were mad at finding him here and you don’t want his marriage breaking up, but you treated him appallingly. Whistle and he comes to heel—that’s it, isn’t it? Like a dog. We make a good pair there. He’s the dog you crack the whip at and I’ve been the one you pat on the head. Pet the poodle and the silly bitch will jump through hoops for you.’

  Her tongue was running away with her, she was beginning to shock herself when she had to draw breath.

  ‘Have you done?’ Nicolas demanded.

  ‘I’ve done,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing out here.’

  ‘You’re making a fool of yourself.’ He was a stone man, but he was right there.

  ‘Not for the first time,’ Clarry said raggedly, ‘but it will be the last. We all know how you feel about fools, and I’m pretty sick with myself for being so stupid.’

  ‘Get inside,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re half naked and you’ll catch cold.’

  Get out of my sight, he had said to Nigel, who had thought he was about to be knocked down. She was in no danger of that, but he was making her feel like a screeching child, and she was not half naked. This was a perfectly respectable dress, although a strap had slipped off her shoulder. She yanked it up so hard the stitches snapped. It was only a bootlace wide, so up or down didn’t make much difference, but a trailing strap looked ridiculous, and as Nicolas strode away she found herself dancing on the spot in impotent fury.

  No way had that hysterical outburst helped. She had said her say and he couldn’t have cared less, and she felt worse for it, not better.

  This time she went upstairs breathing slowly and deeply, clutching her shoulder strap and trying to hold herself together emotionally as well. It was not late yet. When she was sure she was in full control she went to the parlour, where Danny was sitting with a book by the fire.

  As he looked up she gave him an impish grin. ‘I bet it was more exciting down there than in that book! We’ve just had a very high-powered scene.’

  Danny’s grizzled eyebrows shot up over the rims of his glasses, and Clarry sat down at the table and laughed, holding the snapped strap. ‘This just popped while I was flinging my arms around—it wasn’t a fight exactly but pretty near. Nicolas turned up, and he was furious finding Nigel here, looking cosy with me. Absolutely foul! He carried on as though he’d caught us pinching the family silver!’

  She was still laughing, although it was getting harder, and she gave up trying to speak and tried to keep smiling until the tears that had welled in her eyes were rolling down her cheeks. She gave up then, burying her face in her hands, because there was no hiding this fr
om anyone. Least of all from herself.

  She was not a weeping woman. She must have shed tears sometimes since, but this torrent of grief was how it was after the motorway pile-up when her parents died. Danny had loved them both, since then he had loved and cherished her, and when she looked up now he was sitting opposite her, the deep lines in his face like a carved mask of despair.

  ‘Is it Nigel?’ he asked gently, and she shook her head. ‘So it is Nicolas.’ He sounded as if he had always known that.

  So had she. As though there was a bond between herself and Nicolas Dargan so powerful that nothing should have broken it. But it was broken, and now she was alone and adrift and she would never be safe or happy again.

  There was no explanation, but she searched for one, stammering, ‘It was a sort of obsession. You know it was before we came here, but after I met him it hit me all ways. I hated him and—well, I didn’t hate him. Sometimes—like when he first held my hand—it seemed that I should be holding on to him. It was weird. I didn’t want to, I wanted to run, but somehow he seemed like a lifeline.’

  It could make no sense to Danny, and when he said, ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  Clarry was baffled. ‘Tell me what?’ she queried.

  ‘I thought he had when I saw the stone griffin. Yours was by your bed in the hospital. Then you said you’d told him about it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He held your hand when you were in the coma,’ Danny told her.

  That had to mean he had come to see her. ‘Nicolas?’ she stammered. ‘Not Nigel?’

  ‘Nigel came once, twice, no more. After that, Nicolas came.’

  She would not have known, and no one had told her. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I said, “You’re the wrong Dargan.” He looked at me, he looked at you, and he said, “We’ll get her back.”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He got you back. He came most nights.’

  This was incredible. It would have made a news paragraph in any paper. Someone would have leaked something like that. She said, ‘He must have been seen, why didn’t it get talked about?’