Melting Fire. Anne Mather
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herself to be irritatingly innocent. In England, Richard deterred all the boys she met at the golf and tennis clubs, and the overtures she had had were more than a little daunted by her stepbrother’s power and position. They didn’t seem to understand that she had never really felt herself part of the Jenner corporation, that her mother’s marriage to Matthew Jenner had been months rather than years old when they were killed, and she herself was very much the poor relation. Not that she had ever been treated that way. The schools she had attended, the clothes she had worn, had all been the best that money could buy. But it was Richard’s money, not hers, and their relationship was a tenuous thing at best. She loved him, of course, and she thought that he was genuinely fond of her, but he was not really her brother, and she sometimes wished she wasn’t so dependent upon him.
‘Have you heard of Jules Merignac?’ she asked Alex now, and was gratified when he told her that he had.
‘He’s a French pop singer, isn’t he?’ he asked, without taking his eyes from the road. ‘He plays the guitar, too, doesn’t he? I’ve seen him a couple of times on television. Why?’ He chanced a look at her. ‘Did you meet him?’
‘Yes.’ Olivia enjoyed the feeling of power saying so gave her. ‘I met him. Several times, in fact.’
It was only three actually, but there was no need to tell Alex that. However, his: ‘Really!’ was irritatingly unimpressed, and she said rashly:
‘He asked me to have dinner with him, and I did. He saw me off at the airport this afternoon actually.’ She tugged a strand of red-gold hair and twined it round her finger. ‘All the other girls were madly jealous.’
‘Indeed.’
Alex’s tone was dry now, and she was tempted to say something that would really shock him. But the knowledge that their conversation would no doubt be relayed to Richard, verbatim, encouraged her to guard her tongue.
Instead, she half turned towards him, giving him the full benefit of her exquisite profile, and rested her bare elbow on the back of his seat, beside his shoulder. It might be fun to see if the things she had learned had any effect on Alex, she considered wickedly, but again the thought of her stepbrother’s reaction was an effective deterrent.
‘Tell me, Alex,’ she murmured reflectively, ‘haven’t you ever wanted to get married? Working for Richard is a demanding occupation, I know, but you must have a life of your own.’
Alex shifted a little uncomfortably, and she sensed his awareness of her firm breasts surging against the low round bodice of her dress. It was tantalising to know she could disturb him in this way, and she deliberately lifted her arm to remove the weight of her hair from her nape, allowing the fragrant perfume she used to drift about him. It occurred to her that he was as innocent as she was, more so probably, she decided wryly, for with her new-found knowledge she was at least aware of her own sexuality.
‘I don’t think about it,’ Alex confessed now, accelerating to overtake a lumbering pantechnicon. ‘I’m afraid I’d make very poor husband material.’
‘Why do you say that?’ she protested, but the glance he cast her way was only reproving.
‘Oughtn’t you to fasten your safety belt, Olivia?’ he suggested dampeningly. ‘We’re travelling at approximately sixty miles an hour, and if we should hit a vehicle travelling at a similar speed——’
‘—we’d both be killed!’ retorted Olivia, but she twisted round in her seat and obediently clipped the seat belt into place. What was the point of baiting him? He was far too conscious of provoking Richard’s disfavour to respond to her, and besides, Richard would never believe she could be serious about Jules if Alex related that she had been attempting to flirt with him.
She settled back to enjoy what remained of the journey. It was pleasant in the Mercedes, with the open roof fanning her forehead, and the breeze blowing across them from the open windows. There was nowhere like England on a hot summer’s day, she thought reluctantly, though Richard’s absence still had the power to sour her mood.
Copley lay on the borders of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. It was a small estate which Richard had bought eight years ago, and from the first Olivia had loved it. She had tried not to, telling herself it was only her home so long as Richard remained a bachelor, and that being his stepsister gave her no rights to organise his house. But it hadn’t worked that way. Because Richard spent so much time abroad, her visits to Copley often encompassed weeks when she had the place to herself, excluding the staff and dear Bella, of course, and as a matter of course, they all deferred to her as Richard’s deputy.
Alex had turned off the motorway towards Wallingford, and just inside the Oxfordshire border he swung on to the narrow country road which led to the village of West Cross. Copley lay a couple of miles beyond the village, and Olivia couldn’t prevent the glow of excitement she felt as they left the narrow streets of the village behind and approached the gates of her home.
The estate comprised some fifteen acres of orchard and parkland, and the area immediately surrounding the house provided tennis courts and a swimming pool, as well as cultivated gardens and a pergola-hung patio. Richard kept horses, too, but for stud purposes mostly, although he had several hunters which he ran at point-to-point meetings.
The house itself was of traditional design, with gabled windows, and ivy-hung walls. Parts of it were said to date from the eighteenth century, but the main building had been largely restored, and boasted no particular period. It was just a very attractive country house, Olivia had stated, when her love affair with the place first began, and Richard had agreed that it served the purpose.
Miss Ponsonby appeared long before Alex had circled the courtyard that fronted the house and brought the limousine to a halt at the foot of the steps leading up to the porch. Small and bustling, she fretted impatiently as he parked the powerful car, and then tugged open Olivia’s door herself. Olivia scrambled out and was immediately enfolded in the nursemaid’s warm embrace, inhaling again the fragrance of Devonshire violets she always associated with Miss Ponsonby.
‘It’s so good to see you!’ the older woman exclaimed, half annoyed at the tears that moistened her eyes. ‘All these months, and never a visit! How could you treat your old Bella so?’
Olivia sighed as she extricated herself, smoothing her tumbled hair with a careless hand. ‘Oh, Bella, I wanted to see you!’ she protested smilingly, ‘but Michelle invited me to stay with them at Easter and as Richard was away …’
‘I know. You didn’t give a thought to me, here on my own,’ retorted Bella reprovingly, but there was no censure in the words. ‘Come along, then. I’ve got tea waiting, and while we have it you can tell me all your news.’
‘Yes,’ Olivia murmured, as Alex extracted her cases from the boot and carried them up the steps and into the house, but now that she was actually here, she felt a certain reluctance to expose her feelings for Jules to the cold light of day. Richard would be scathing, she expected that, but she didn’t think she could bear it if Bella was not enthusiastic. She felt too unsure of herself, too vulnerable, to withstand anyone’s criticism, and she had a ridiculous desire to keep her secret just a little longer.
The hall of Copley was cool after the dusty heat outside. The drone of a distant tractor was muted within its maple panelling, dark and polished, reflecting the colours of a vase of asters and lupins that occupied the antique table in the curve of the stairs. A warm gold and blue carpet was soft to the feet, and Jess, Richard’s Irish wolfhound, came yawning across it to greet her. Fondling the bitch’s grey head, Olivia chided her for the lazy animal she was, pushing the probing tongue away and informing her that she didn’t earn her keep.
Alex had apparently carried her cases upstairs, and Olivia followed Bella into the sitting room, flopping down lazily on to the squashy cushions of the velvet sofa. Looking about her, she was struck anew by the beauty of this room that was so lived-in, and yet retained its air of casual elegance. Its pale walls were hung with some of Richard’s collection of miniatures, and in the window embrasure a baby grand piano supported a bowl of cream roses. Occasionally Richard could