Fight For Love. PENNY JORDAN
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had she done to provoke this degree of antipathy from Tip’s staff? Too proud to show how hurt she was by the woman’s attitude, she trailed tiredly behind her as she mounted the elegant double-banistered stairs.
‘Jay said to put you in the guest suite—for the time being …’
Why was it that those last few words should have such an ominous ring to them? Natasha wondered, as Dolores paused and pushed open one of the many doors leading off the galleried landing.
In London, she had looked forward with hope and anticipation to being asked to stay on for a brief time, but now … Now she was half wishing she had never come, she admitted, as she stepped past Dolores and into her room.
She was left alone to explore it. It was certainly very elegant: not just a bedroom, but a bedroom, a sitting-room and her own private bathroom.
It was decorated in a style that Natasha found slightly pretentious, and not suited to the beautiful simplicity of the Spanish-style house. The furniture was too modern, the pale Nile-green leather settee not in keeping with the building. Her bed was swathed in flimsy printed silk covers, where she would have instinctively chosen a heavily carved Spanish bed and covered it with one of the beautiful heritage quilts she had seen in a display of American goods in Harrods, or perhaps even an Indian or Mexican woven spread. Certainly, she would never have chosen the bedroom’s delicate pseudo-French gilt and white trappings.
At home in Cheshire, the farmhouse had been furnished with sturdy heirlooms collected over the generations, each one suited to its purpose and its background. Here she found her surroundings jarred on her, so out of step was the décor with the exterior and the ambience of the house.
Who had been responsible for choosing them? Not a man—they were too flimsy, too delicate for that. They spoke of a woman who loved luxury; a woman who despised the sturdy building that was her home …
She was getting fanciful again, Natasha told herself. For all she knew, Tip might have commissioned interior designers to decorate and furnish this suite.
She was in the bathroom freshening up when she heard her door open. When she returned to her sitting-room she discovered a pot of fragrant coffee and a generous plate of sandwiches waiting for her, along with her luggage.
She poured some of the coffee and ate a couple of sandwiches, stifling her yawns, as she started to make an attempt to unpack. She had to give it up half-way through, overcome by intense exhaustion. A shower and then bed, she decided sleepily. That was what she needed now …
CHAPTER THREE
‘WAKE up, Miss Ames. It’s well after seven, and Dolores will be mad as fire if you’re late for breakfast.’
The voices were familiar, but the room wasn’t. Cautiously, Natasha opened both eyes properly.
Of course, Texas … She was in Texas!
This morning the twins were dressed in dungarees and checked shirts, their hair in pony-tails and not plaits.
‘Why don’t you try calling me Natasha?’ she suggested sleepily. ‘Miss Ames makes me sound like a schoolteacher. Now then, which of you is which?’
‘You can always tell, because Rosalie has a mole just there,’ Cherry informed her helpfully, pointing out the small dark mark on her sister’s throat.
‘I’ll go down and tell Dolores you’re on your way.’ Rosalie slid off the bed and made for the door.
The events of the previous day came crowding back, and unconsciously Natasha sighed.
‘Don’t worry,’ Cherry consoled her. ‘Me and Rosalie like you …’
Natasha fought to control her feelings. The girls had been quick to pick up on her misery … too quick, perhaps. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Cherry why Jay was so antipathetic towards her, but she swallowed her words. She was not going to use the girls in that way. If she really needed to know, then she must ask Jay himself …
But would he tell her? She shrugged the thought aside, pushing back the bedclothes and sliding out of bed.
‘Oh, my, that’s a real pretty nightgown!’ Cherry exclaimed. ‘We wear pyjamas.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Uncle Jay doesn’t wear anything at all, and we aren’t allowed to go into his bedroom in the morning … He always gets up too early anyway.’
‘We used to go into Ma and Pa’s. That was a long time ago, though … before they started fighting. Before we came to live back here …’
Natasha gave a small start. She had assumed that the girls had been born and brought up on the ranch, but before she could say anything Cherry went on, ‘You’ll have to hurry. It used to take Ma hours to get ready. That was one of the things that made Daddy real wild. He said she didn’t need to get herself all gussied up for living on the ranch. She never wanted to live here. We did, though. Our mother was like you … She came from England.’
Downstairs, a bell rang imperiously.
‘That’s the breakfast bell. You’ve got half an hour,’ Cherry told her, sliding off the bed. ‘I’d better go down.’
So the twins’ mother had been English, Natasha reflected as she quickly showered and started to dress. Tip had never mentioned that … but then, why should he?
She wondered uncertainly on what she should wear. To judge from the girls’ appearance, jeans would be the order of the day; but she was supposed to be meeting Tip’s lawyer to be told the nature of his bequest, and somehow jeans seemed too unbusinesslike for such a meeting.
Old habits die hard, Natasha reflected rather wryly. American laywers were not like their British counterparts even the most casual watcher of American TV had to be aware of that, but even so she found herself donning a tailored, charcoal-grey skirt and its complementary white silk shirt.
It was one of the few formal outfits she had packed, thinking she might wear it for shopping in Dallas, should she get the chance. It had a matching unlined jacket in the same charcoal-grey, with a shadowed white line forming large checks, and she had bought it in a fit of extravagance.
The grey skirt emphasised the slenderness of her hips and the length of her legs. There wasn’t time for her to coil her hair into a chignon, so she compromised by taking it off her face with two mother-of-pearl combs she had found in a small antiques shop in Knightsbridge.
A touch of lip gloss and just enough mascara to darken her long lashes and she was ready to go downstairs and face the world … But was she ready to face Jay?
She ignored the treacherous little voice that asked her the question and hurried downstairs.
Luckily, one of the twins appeared in the hallway at just the right moment to show her the way to the large, sunny room where the table was set for breakfast.
Dolores looked up as they walked in, her eyebrows lifting slightly as she saw Natasha’s formal outfit.
‘I believe I’m supposed to be seeing Tip’s lawyers this morning. At home, we tend to dress rather formally for such events, and I’m afraid old habits die hard.’
Despite her friendly explanation and the smile she gave the Mexican housekeeper, she got no response other than a cool glance from wary brown eyes.
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