Hold Back the Dark Read online

  ‘Clare and I are old friends,’ said Nicolas, and she gave Clarry a chilly sidewards glance.

  ‘How convenient,’ she said coolly. Then her voice warmed as she turned back to the man. ‘I came to remind you about lunch. At the golf club.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘But my friends are expecting you.’

  ‘Another time.’

  ‘But—’ Whatever her argument was going to be she gave in without voicing it. ‘You’re busy,’ she said sweetly. ‘I understand.’

  Very undemanding, thought Clarry, standing back. Although I would put Fiona Stretton down as a girl who’d always demanded the best and got it.

  Fiona went, still smiling for Nicolas, and Clarry said, ‘We are not old friends.’

  He shrugged broad shoulders, but he knew that. They had once had a mutual friend, which was a very different matter, and now she said with faint mockery, ‘Or is that how you describe all your employees? Paul Burnley says you like to run a happy ship.’

  ‘Does he, now?’

  He must know he had a fan in the estate manager, just as anyone could see that Fiona Stretton was setting her cap at him. Clarry had no patience with the attitude of either, but Paul Burnley was likeable, while it would be easy to dislike Fiona. She said, ‘If you did get mutiny aboard I should expect you to make them walk the plank rather than bother about keeping them happy.’

  ‘Are you going to mutiny?’ he queried.

  ‘Why should I?’ All she wanted was the chance to do her work, as well and as fast as possible. ‘I’ll be happy enough,’ she said, ‘if you let me get on and keep out of my way.’

  ‘I don’t keep out of anyone’s way.’

  He was still smiling, but it was a chilling reminder of how implacable he could be. She could imagine him towering over poor Nigel, not giving an inch, and she asked, ‘What’s the girl like that you picked for Nigel?’

  She had gone too far again, but he spoke with what sounded like detached amusement. ‘Let’s get this straight. If you want to work for me, fair enough, but if you’re staying we shall be seeing a lot of each other, it isn’t that big a house, and I’m not employing you as a sparring partner, it would be too uneven a contest.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it, though,’ she muttered.

  ‘Unless you play a dirty game.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Very high-minded, but it could put you at a disadvantage. Do you want the job?’

  Clarry gulped, then admitted, ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then we’d better call a truce, or the next time you get lost in a maze after dark you could meet more than you bargained for.’

  That couldn’t be a real threat, he had to be taking this lightly, and she started to say, ‘Or the next time I—’ and held that back, because ‘put my feet up on your bed,’ was far too suggestive.

  ‘So it’s a truce?’ Nicolas said, and when he held out a hand she had to take it.

  But as their hands locked her breath caught, and her heart missed a beat, then pounded on furiously. His hand was cool and the pressure was light, but his touch seemed to reach the deepest nerves in her, so that if she had left her hand in his she could have been invaded body and mind.

  It must have been brief, that handshake, for almost at once she was clutching her camera again. It was a wonder she hadn’t dropped it. He had moved away from the fireplace and she went closer and pretended to peer at it, because the handshake had been a shaker. She had been kissed on the lips and felt far less, and she couldn’t explain now what she had felt, almost a bonding, as if there was a living link between them.

  That was not so. There was no bond between her and Nicolas Dargan. He was her old enemy, but if she wanted the contract she had to keep a civil tongue in her head while she was here. If she couldn’t manage that it would not be for want of trying, and she began to take her photographs, concentrating harder than she needed on a simple routine task so that she felt rather than saw him go into the office through the door in the panelling.

  When she stopped snapping he called, ‘Hold on!’

  She would have gone, but now she looked at the oil paintings again. They were all old scenes of the house and what she supposed was the local countryside, and as he came back she asked, ‘Have they always been here?’

  ‘They’ve mostly been bought with the Lodge. So has some of the furniture. This was the bed Charles slept in.’

  If the Strettons had lived here for the last fifty years that meant it had been Fiona’s home all her life. ‘It must be hard to leave a place like this,’ Clarry mused, and was almost sorry for Fiona, who had temporary rooms in her old home and designs on the man who was master here now.

  An affair with Nicolas Dargan and she could keep her apartment, marry him, and King’s Lodge was hers again. Marriage might be harder to manage. Clarry remembered Nigel saying Cole was not the marrying sort... ‘He gets some gorgeous girls, but he never buys a wedding ring...’

  Of course, he could have changed his ideas since then. Fiona Stretton could be the ideal partner here, and she was already playing her part. Nicolas Dargan did not tolerate dissent, so she was sweet-talking him. They could suit each other. He was a cold-blooded character, and to Clarry Fiona had seemed to have more than a touch of ice maiden.

  She looked at Nicolas, and the crazy notion that he knew what she was thinking seized her so that she could feel herself starting to blush. She turned her head quickly, the fall of her hair swishing across her burning cheek, looking at the nearest painting and saying the first thing that came into her mind. ‘They’re scenes from round here, aren’t they? Do you know where this was?’

  The foreground was a wide rough track. Behind were low hills, a cluster of cottages and a church steeple. ‘It’s the old road.’ Nicolas crossed to the window. ‘Seen from here.’ She went to stand beside him and look down. Behind the creeper-covered walls and the gates was a narrow lane. On the skyline traffic was moving along a busy highway.

  ‘The main road ran just in front of the house until about a hundred years ago,’ he told her. ‘Charles stood at this window and watched men who had fought for him trudging back to Scotland.’

  Some would be wounded, all would be weary and defeated, hungry and thirsty. Clarry could imagine the day would be grey like today, and a flurry of leaves blown in the wind went like a ragged garment. ‘How could he bear it?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Didn’t he want to go out and give them food, something?’ and she knew how stupidly impulsive she was sounding, she didn’t need him to explain.

  ‘There’d have been a high price to pay,’ he said. ‘Once it was known they were hiding Charles Stuart every man and woman in the house would have been strung up.’

  ‘All the same it must have been dreadful. And terrifying.’

  ‘I agree. But don’t shiver for them.’

  A little tremor was running down her spine. Not exactly a shiver, more like a finger touch trailing on bare skin from the nape of her neck. It could have been her imagination reliving the terrifying past, or it could be because Nicolas Dargan was so close. ‘They got him away,’ he said. ‘The operation was a success.’

  ‘Dargan Enterprises couldn’t have handled it better?’ she said lightly.

  ‘I don’t think they could.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted the house, for a tourist attraction?’

  ‘I see no reason why the public shouldn’t be admitted, it’s everyone’s heritage, but I’ve bought the Lodge to live here. We’ve got land and property in the area. I heard the house was for sale and I came to see it.’

  Clarry wondered if his first sight of the house was his first meeting with Fiona, or did they know each other before and was it Fiona’s suggestion that had brought him here? None of which was any of Clarry’s business.

  ‘When I turned in through the gates,’ he said, ‘I knew that if anyone was buying this house it was going to be me.’

  She gave a mock sigh. ‘How fabulous to be rich! When I drove my little
van in I thought, how lovely, and how rotten that I can’t have it.’

  Suddenly she was fooling with him, and when he asked, ‘So what are you going to do for us?’ she was eager to explain, as if it was giving her a small share in the house.

  ‘This chimneypiece, cleaning and there’s some cracking, that’s all in this room.’

  ‘Show me the rest.’

  On this floor several rooms needed attention, where panelling veneer had split, marquetry had lifted and lacquer flaked. Fireplaces needed cleaning. There was furniture with a build-up of wax polish to be removed, a table on rickety legs.

  She had the list in her mind and she went round, pointing out the items. When they came to the mirror with its carved frame she said, ‘Danny wants to do this.’

  The antique glass had clouded so that reflections were misty and the white streak in her hair was dull silver. Nicolas Dargan, a man in grey, loomed beside her, his head brushing the low-beamed ceiling. He was looking down at her, not at their image. ‘He’s a wood carver?’ he queried.

  ‘The best,’ she said. ‘He used to make the most incredible toys—I’ve still got some of them. A griffin he carved for my fourteenth birthday—you should see that!’

  ‘You seem very fond of him.’

  ‘We’re not really related, but he’s always been a kind of grandfather to me. He was my grandfather’s friend, they worked together.’ When she paused Nicolas waited and everything was quiet. ‘Am I talking too much?’

  ‘No,’ he said, and she went on.

  ‘My grandfather died before I was born and I lost my parents in my teens, but Danny was always there. The work I do, I suppose I inherited the knack from my grandfather, and I was trained, but Danny taught me so much.’ She hesitated again. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘You interest me,’ he explained.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re here, and the odds against that have got to be considerable.’ His expression told her nothing except that he was watching her. ‘Burnley had a free hand, he was told to get anything repaired that needed repairing, and he comes up with Rickard Restoration.’

  ‘How did you know that was me?’ Clarry asked.

  ‘There was publicity a year ago when you started up.’

  So there was. Even the nationals had given a picture and a write-up to the Sleeping Beauty who had recovered so well she was launching her own small firm. For a little while everyone knew what kind of business Clare Rickard was in.

  ‘I’ve only had local publicity since,’ she said, ‘but we’re doing quite well.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We are good,’ she assured him.

  ‘Then I can probably put more work your way.’

  Work would be welcome, but she didn’t want him patronising her, and she said, ‘I don’t want any favours.’

  ‘While you’re getting that white streak removed,’ he said, ‘you might do something about the chip on your shoulder.’

  Her lips parted to say, That’s no chip, that’s the weight of past experience; but before she could speak he said, ‘Remember the truce,’ and his smile was something.

  Clarry had never thought of him smiling. He had always been the tycoon, with all Nigel’s prospects in his pocket. Nigel had always spoken of his cousin as a grim and dominating figure, and the image in her mind was never of Cole Dargan smiling.

  Now she knew that when he did smile, the way he was smiling at her, his smile could warm a dark-panelled room.

  ‘Of course I remember the truce,’ she said gaily. ‘I better had, hadn’t I, or I’m off the happy ship. Well, it’s the mirror frame in here and this fireplace, which has a fairly modern surround, more’s the pity.’

  He could see that, he knew that. She sounded like a teacher, and she grinned. ‘This is ridiculous, me, showing you round your house.’

  ‘But instructive—you’re showing me faults I didn’t know existed. Although perhaps I should be showing you around.’

  Paul Burnley had taken them where they would be working. Walking the rooms with Nicolas Dargan would be quite different, and she said, ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Come on, Clarry.’

  Something faint and faraway echoed in her mind like a warning bell, making no sense at all. He was going to show her round his home, for goodness’ sake, not pull her off a cliff! She said, ‘It’s a fantastic house.’

  ‘I think so,’ he agreed.

  For a while she put herself out to be knowledgeable and intelligent, to show him that if Nigel had waited for her he would not have made too bad a bargain. But when she relaxed Nicolas Dargan was an ideal companion.

  He knew it all, of course. He answered her questions, he told her things, he would have made a cracking good tourist guide. And sometimes, as they walked through the quiet rooms and along the uneven floors of the narrow corridors, there were silences when she felt no need to search for something to say. That was pleasant. Usually you only got that kind of easiness with friends.

  Of course she was always conscious of him. She had been wrong, thinking that everything was investment to him. He did value beautiful things for their own sake. When he picked up a brown-glazed stirrup cup, shaped like a sleek head of a hound, and held it in strong sensual hands, she could feel the caress on her own arm in little electric shocks, because Nicolas Dargan was a sexy man.

  Nigel had told her about the women, but she had put most of Nicolas’s success down to him being wealthy. That wouldn’t hurt. Big money was a turn-on. But right now she would assess the cash as a bonus, because he had enough innate sensuality to weaken any red-blooded woman.

  Not that she was weakening, but keeping the truce was getting less of an effort all the time. They went over most of the house. Three closed doors on the first floor were where the Strettons were staying. For the time being, Nicolas told her, and she wondered what he would say if she said, ‘I shouldn’t bank on their leaving.’ But he must know what Fiona was about, and Clarry reminded herself again that it was no concern of hers.

  In the dining-room one of the dailies was giving a final shine to the oak refectory table. Her name was Dolly. She was plump and middle-aged, and she smiled when they walked in and said, ‘Morning, miss,’ to Clarry, then entered into an animated conversation with Nicolas about her youngest, our Ivan, who had broken his leg on a school skiing trip last month.

  Nicolas Dargan knew all about that. He seemed genuinely concerned, and amused to hear that Ivan’s crutch had brought down a supermarket display of baked beans yesterday while he remained upright and unscathed.

  Dolly seemed contented, polishing his table and telling him about her family. ‘A happy ship,’ said Clarry, when Dolly had left them. ‘So long as they remember who the captain is.’

  ‘Would you prefer the ship to sink?’ queried Nicolas.

  ‘Of course not.’ That was the chip on her shoulder again, but she could understand why the villagers wanted him here, shouldering their burdens, and she was prepared now to be working for him herself. ‘Honest,’ she said, ‘the thought of mutiny never crossed my mind.’

  ‘Smart girl,’ and she pretended to wince.

  ‘I always stiffen when anyone calls me girl.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow and she went on, ‘And it’s nothing to do with Women’s Lib. It’s what Danny calls me when he thinks I’m making a fool of myself. He’s a man of few words, is Danny, but if he says “Not on, girl,” that means he has some very good reasons against whatever it is, and you’d better believe it.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She was joking, but he didn’t smile.

  ‘It won’t be hard,’ he said, ‘when you’re so entirely a woman.’

  Shock-waves surged through her, all her female hormones responding to his overwhelming male force, so that it would not have been hard to go to him like a mote of metal to a magnet. She had too much sense to do that, but holding back was leaving her blood tingling.

  Hav
ing him around could sharpen your senses, she thought. All those virility vibes, even in small doses, would be a marvellous tonic. So long as she did keep her head, because, as she knew to her cost, Nicolas Dargan was a hell of a man.

  He was not making a pass. He didn’t follow that up in any way. They were by a window that overlooked the maze, and he looked down now and said, ‘That was overgrown when I came, I had it tidied up.’

  ‘And a super job they made. I’ve never seen a tidier maze.’ Clarry smiled, and this time he smiled back. ‘I looked at the plan of it last night,’ she said, ‘and I was sure I’d memorised it, but when I got inside I was hopelessly lost. That map in the office is right?’

  ‘It’s the original. The design was never changed.’

  ‘Maybe it moves by moonlight.’

  He chuckled. ‘Not on, girl,’ and she shook her head.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Danny.’ Danny was hollow-chested and croaky. Nicolas Dargan’s voice had a deeper timbre entirely. ‘Mind you, that’s what Danny would have said. I hope—’ She hesitated. ‘I hope you’ll like Danny. He can be an awkward old cuss.’

  ‘We’ll get along.’ He sounded confident, but Danny knew what Nicolas had done, and it took a lot to change Danny’s mind. Clarry hoped he would remember the rose and not be too stubborn.

  If she saw him before Nicolas did she would tell him that having spent a while with Nicolas Dargan she had decided he was no money-grubber. He had bought this house because he wanted to live here, and he would be a caring custodian. She would not, of course, mention that in bed tonight, before falling asleep, she might possibly fantasise about making love with Nicolas Dargan.

  That was all it would be, fantasy. It was unlikely he was going to proposition her, and if he should she would decline very firmly. She would never risk getting involved with this man. He was ruthless and he was dangerous, but he was the stuff erotic dreams were made of, and Clarry had a lively imagination.

  Downstairs in his office the estate manager jumped up as they walked in. Clare Rickard seemed to have some sort of grudge against Nicolas Dargan, who had said he wanted to see her this morning. Since then Paul Burnley had been wondering what the outcome of that would be.