Act Of Betrayal. Sara Craven
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It was doubtful whether more than the merest handful of people at Caswells knew she had been married, let alone her former husband’s name. She’d got married in London, after all, not locally, and most of her brief married life had been spent in the capital too.
‘Well, they’ve got good appetites, I’ll say that for them.’ One of the girls came back with the first batch of used plates. ‘All except Mr Martin, that is,’ she added. ‘He hardly touched a drop of his soup.’ She gave Laura a confidential wink. ‘And they’re not the usual collection of stuffed shirts either. There’s one there I could fancy myself.’
Laura’s heart jerked uneasily, but all she said was, ‘Be careful of the casserole dishes. They’re very hot.’
‘They look a real treat.’ The girl began to load the bowls of croquette potatoes, green beans, buttered baby carrots and creamed broccoli on to her tray.
Laura smiled non-committally, and began to stack the soup plates into the dish washer. Like most good cooks, she enjoyed having her efforts praised, and savoured, but not today. Today, she just wanted this particular lunch over and done with so she could make good her escape.
She wandered about restlessly, measuring coffee into the filter machine, filling cream jugs and sugar basins, endlessly arranging and re-arranging a dish of home made petits fours.
The meal was only a prelude, she knew. Her uncle had often declared that the real business was done over coffee, brandy and a good cigar afterwards when everyone was relaxed and replete, and Laura made sure always that the coffee was strong, aromatic and plentiful, just as he liked it.
She was chafing inwardly, wanting to serve the dessert and the cheese. Once that was done, she could go. The girls could manage anything that remained, between them.
The kitchen window was open and she had the extractor fan in operation, but she could still feel beads of perspiration on her forehead.
For heaven’s sake, she adjured herself sharply, calm down. It’s awkward and embarrassing, but it isn’t the end of the world.
But it was once, a sly voice whispered in her mind, when you realised the kind of man you had married. When it all came crashing down round your naïve, idealistic ears. That was the end of the world—or it seemed so.
But she was older now. Three years older, and three years wiser, please God. She wasn’t a stupid trusting child any more and she supposed she had Jason to thank for that.
And she also had him to thank for the fact that these kitchen walls seemed to be closing in on her like a prison. She was almost counting the tiles, when the girls came bustling back.
‘There’s a funny atmosphere in there,’ one of them informed her, jerking a head in the direction of the dining room. ‘Important meeting is it?’
‘All orders are important these days.’ Laura scraped the pheasant bones into the waste disposal. There were enough rumours flying round Caswells already about the company’s difficulties, without her adding to them, but it was no secret the sales department had had long faces for months. Uncle Martin had great hopes of Tristan Construction—until now.
She saw the waitresses back to the dining room with their final loads, and relaxed slightly. It was nearly over.
The coffee was filling the room with its fragrance, when she heard the slight squeak of the kitchen door as it opened.
Without looking round, she said, ‘I’m going now, but I’ve left everything else ready.’
‘So I see,’ Jason remarked. ‘You’re a domestic paragon, my sweet, but then you always were.’
Laura had been reaching for her bag. Shock made her jerk nervously at the strap, and the bag fell, disgorging its contents at her feet. For a moment, she stared down at them blank-faced, as if she’d never seen them before, then moving like an automaton, she turned to face him.
He was lounging in the doorway, hands thrust into the pockets of an expensively cut dark suit. It occurred to her as she stared at him that she’d never seen Jason in a suit before—not even on their wedding day. He’d always dressed casually in the extreme—denims and sweaters usually. This new conventionality was a shock, until she looked more closely, and saw that the silk tie had been loosened impatiently, and the top button of the pristine white shirt left unbuttoned. The thick unruly mane of dark hair had been trimmed, but not tamed, and still hung nearly to his collar. The lines of the thin, clever, arrogant face were deeper and more harsh, and the eyes which met hers were as bleak and inimical as they had been at their last confrontation.
No, she thought. He might wear the trappings of convention, but underneath he was still as dangerous as ever.
He said silkily, ‘Are you going to tell me I’ve changed?’
‘I don’t think it would be true.’ She was amazed to hear how normal her voice sounded. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here on business. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.’ His mouth curled sardonically. ‘I saw all the agitated fluttering when I walked in. And I don’t need to ask why you’re here, of course. You’re still a superlative cook, Laura, even though kind Uncle Martin is reaping the benefit now instead of me.’
She went down on one knee, and began to shovel her things back into her bag, her fingers clumsy with haste.
‘You’ve missed this.’ Jason bent too and handed her a slender gilt scent spray.
‘Thanks.’ She almost snatched it from him.
‘Relax, Laura.’ There was a note of warning in his voice, steely and implacable. ‘Our paths are bound to cross during the next few months, so the best thing you can do is accept it.’
‘And if I’m not prepared to do that?’ She gave him a bitter look. ‘I meant what I said, Jason—that I never wanted to see you again. I still mean it. So why are you tormenting me like this?’
‘Had it been left to me,’ he said gently, ‘I would not have come within a hundred miles of this bloody place. But these are hard times, darling, and most companies get work where they can and are glad of it. Tristans is no exception. Under the circumstances, the risk of offending your delicate sensibilities had to be discounted. I hope that precious little ego of yours will survive?’
She took a deep breath. ‘So—it’s all a coincidence. But the carpeting for all these units you plan to build didn’t have to come from Caswells. You could have stayed away from here.’
‘And we still might,’ Jason said bitingly. ‘We have other firms to see besides this one. No orders have been placed, or contracts signed—yet.’
‘We shan’t be going on our knees to you.’ The palms of her hands felt damp, and she had to resist an impulse to run them betrayingly down her skirt.
‘Oh, I’m sure that goes for you, my sweet, and possibly your uncle. But not his fellow directors. They’re gratifyingly eager to do business with us—even to the extent of rushing this new wonder fibre of yours into production.’ He looked round him rather grimly. ‘Perhaps you should come out of your cosy little kitchen occasionally, and see what’s happening in the real world.’
‘Thanks, but I think I know,’ she said tautly. She had her bag firmly gripped now, but he was still blocking her path. ‘Will you excuse me please? I—I have to go …’
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘We’ve confronted each other at last, and neither of us has been turned to stone, so why run away?’
‘I’m not running,’ she denied hastily. ‘But I do have other things to do—a hairdressing appointment for one …’
‘Ah.’ His grey eyes gave one swift disparaging glance at the tawny hair, pulled back from her face and confined at the nape of her neck, for coolness and ease while she was working, by an elastic band. ‘It’s time you abandoned the schoolgirl look, Laura. You’re a grown-up lady now. Or doesn’t marriage and