Edge Of Deception. Daphne Clair
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His eyes flicked to Andy and back to her face, a corner of his mouth momentarily curling in contempt before he looked away.
Shaken and hot with rage, she tightened her grip on Andy’s substantial arm.
‘Ow!’ he protested, looking down at her in surprise.
Hastily she loosened her fingers, horrified to see the curved indentations of her fingernails showing red against his hair-dusted tan. ‘Andy! I’m sorry!’
Recovering, he grinned. ‘Just give me warning next time, huh? Women don’t usually mark me there! If you like I’ll show you—’
‘No, I don’t like,’ she said repressively. ‘Behave yourself or I’ll throw you to your professor and leave.’
‘Awp!’ He looked cowed. ‘I’ll behave, promise!’
Tara put on a friendly smile and without difficulty struck up several conversations, watching Andy regain some assurance as the women predictably reacted to his looks and diffident charm, and the men regarded him with covert envy.
He seemed to be getting on with a group of mainly young people who shared his musical taste, and she was murmuring an excuse to leave his side when he grabbed at her hand and said in lowered but panic-stricken tones, ‘Don’t go away!’
A young woman with a cuddly figure and halo of short, gingery corkscrew curls had joined the group, and one of the others said, ‘Jane—have you met Tara and Andy?’
‘Hi, Tara.’ Jane gave Tara a smile that lit her rounded, unpainted face, and then turned to her companion. ‘Andy and I met earlier, didn’t we?’
Andy nodded, a strangled sound rising from his throat. His fingers convulsed around Tara’s, making her suck in her breath, but she heroically refrained from complaint.
This was Andy’s professor?
‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said about the ThreadBears,’ Jane told him. ‘Hardly anyone’s heard of them yet, but in my opinion they’re the best group this country’s produced since Crowded House.’
‘You like them?’ Andy sounded stunned.
‘I think their music is really interesting,’ Jane said. ‘Don’t you? Did you see their latest video clip on TV last night?’
‘You like the ThreadBears?’ Andy repeated.
‘Yes, I do.’ Jane’s smile faded as she looked enquiringly up into his face, and then widened again. ‘I know,’ she said resignedly. ‘You thought I’d only be interested in fossils or dead languages or logarithms or something.’
Cautiously, he said, ‘What are logarithms?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Jane answered cheerfully. ‘I’ve always been too intimidated to ask. Something to do with maths. My field is popular culture.’
Perhaps she wasn’t quite so young as her curls and fresh complexion made her appear.
It took a few minutes for Andy to progress from uneasy monosyllables to entire sentences, but Jane’s enthusiasm and her respect for his opinions soon opened him up. He gradually relaxed his death grip on Tara’s hand, eventually freeing it so that he could wave his own hand to make a point.
‘I’ll fetch some more drinks,’ she murmured, taking his empty beer glass in nearly numbed fingers. He hardly noticed as she slipped away.
Near the bar a few people were dancing to a tape player. One of the guests was dispensing drinks, and Philip was among the dancers, his arms wrapped about his wife.
‘Been married fifteen years, those two,’ the man behind the bar confided as he poured a beer for Andy and an iced tonic for Tara, ‘and look at them. Beauty, isn’t it?’
Tara smiled, hiding a pang of envy. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘They’re very lucky.’
She picked up the glasses and turned carefully, to find her way blocked by a white designer shirt and charcoal dinner jacket. Sholto, holding two empty wine glasses.
He was inches away, both of them halting suddenly to avoid a collision. He looked at the drinks in her hands and said softly, so that only she could hear, ‘Doesn’t Lover-boy have the manners to fetch his own drink—and yours?’
‘He’s having an interesting conversation. I offered.’
‘Conversation?’ Sholto drawled. ‘I have it on good authority that the guy’s as thick as a couple of four-by-twos and his conversation is on a level with Neanderthal man’s.’
Tara might have admitted the general premise, but she’d never have put it so brutally, nor discounted Andy’s many and not unimportant virtues. Angry, she said, ‘Jealousy will get you nowhere, Sholto.’
‘Jealousy? Over you?’ The contempt was back, in his voice. ‘Dream on, darling.’
Annoyingly, she flushed. As he made to walk round her, she said, ‘I wasn’t talking about me. Almost every man here is jealous of Andy’s physique—and his looks. Just as every woman admires them.’
‘Every woman?’ His brows rose.
‘Is Averil an exception? Well...’ she paused pointedly, then shrugged ‘...perhaps,’ she conceded doubtfully. ‘There’s no accounting for taste, is there?’
‘Perhaps she’s not as easily impressed by the flagrantly obvious as...some.’ Sholto turned his head, his eyes going towards the group about Andy’s large frame. ‘Hadn’t you better get back to him, though? He probably has a short memory span.’
Involuntarily her eyes had followed the track of his. Jane, her lively, piquant face uplifted, was talking animatedly, while Andy grinned down at her, fascinated. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Andy’s memory,’ she said. ‘Does Averil know about yours?’ If he was going to hit below the belt, he could expect to be hit back.
‘Mine?’ His eyes narrowed, gleaming under the thick lashes.
‘Does she know you’re likely to forget that you’re married?’
‘I never forgot that I was married,’ Sholto said bitingly after a loaded moment. ‘There was no chance of that.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ she said, giddy with the knowledge that she’d made some impression on his apparent imperviousness. ‘You did fool me for a while.’
‘You fooled yourself.’ His voice hardened, dark satin over steel. ‘It was you who wrecked our relationship, Tara. You believed what you wanted to, and indulged in a childish revenge. Well, it doesn’t matter to me now.’
She couldn’t answer that—he always managed somehow to have the last word.
He stepped around her and went up to the bar, and she returned to Andy’s side and stayed there for the rest of the interminable evening, leaning on his shoulder and pretending to listen, and laughing at the appropriate times.
When the crowd began to thin out and a surreptitious survey showed no sign of Sholto and his fiancée, she found Chantelle and said good night. ‘Lovely party,’ she added.
‘We enjoyed it,’ Chantelle said. ‘Are you all right?’ Her eyes turned searching, shrewd.
‘A bit tired, maybe.’
‘Philip said you were talking to Averil’s fiancé.’
‘Sholto—yes,’ Tara said steadily. ‘Do you know him well?’
‘Averil’s Philip’s cousin, though they don’t get together very often, she’s away so much. Is Sholto a friend of yours?’
Tara shook her head. ‘Not exactly. I hadn’t seen him in years. Well, thanks again.’ She turned away, making for the door.
Outside the house, the