Dark Paradise. Sara Craven
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‘Just as long as my interference doesn’t push her into doing something stupid,’ she thought gloomily, as the bus finally trundled into sight.
When she arrived back at the house, Maria was waiting for her.
‘Felix phoned,’ she said, holding out a slip of paper. ‘With the information you wanted.’
‘Oh,’ Kate accepted it gingerly. ‘That was quick work.’
‘I think he had the impression that there was some sort of crisis going on,’ Maria said drily. ‘Is there?’
‘Something of the kind,’ Kate admitted. ‘I wish I could tell you about it, Maria, but—but it’s a family matter.’
‘But not, thank God, the sort that Felix clearly imagines,’ said Maria, an underlying note of laughter in her voice. She gave Kate’s flat young stomach a long and meaningful look.
‘No, of course not.’ Kate was appalled. ‘My God, I hardly know the man!’
‘That could be best,’ Maria nodded. ‘That girl Felix mentioned—Lorna Bryce—apparently she was almost cut to ribbons when he finished with her, and Felix reckons that ordinarily she’s quite a tough cookie.’ She turned away, adding almost as an afterthought, ‘Clive may not set the world on fire, but he doesn’t leave charred remains behind him either.’
In the studio, Kate stood staring down at the piece of paper in her hand, sorely tempted to tear it into a hundred infinitesimal fragments.
But that wouldn’t solve anything. She had no idea how deep the problems between Jon and Alison were, but she knew that this offer from Matt Lincoln could not have come at a worse time. If Alison were to accept, Kate was sure it would finish all hope of them ever working out their difficulties together. The marriage would end bitterly.
And she didn’t believe for one moment that Alison was as indispensable as she had been led to believe. Matt Lincoln was an experienced and cynical man. He would know a discontented wife when he saw one, and know exactly what kind of lure to offer.
Drew had known too, she thought painfully. ‘You have an exceptional talent,’ she remembered. And ‘There’s this amazing quality of innocence about you, Kate …’
Tell a woman what she wants to hear, and she’ll follow you anywhere, she thought.
And this was how Matt Lincoln was treating Alison. But why? Because he’d only discovered when it was too late and she was married to someone else that he really cared for her? Kate’s mouth curled. Never in a million years, she dismissed. If he cared, then his first thought would be for her happiness—not a selfish desire to plunge her into the kind of ugly recriminations which were inevitable if she went away with him.
It was more probable that he wanted to boost his ego by proving to himself that he was irresistible. That he only had to beckon and even a bride of a year would run.
Distaste rose like bile in Kate’s throat. But she knew what she had to do. For once in his life, Matt Lincoln was going to have to think again before causing havoc in people’s lives. Slowly she opened her purse and slid the slip of paper inside.
The block of flats the taxi brought her to was a surprise. She had expected somewhere far more opulent and showy, but this place with its warm red brick, its balconies and windowboxes was positively old-fashioned, she thought as she paid off the driver.
She asked, ‘Are you sure this is the place?’ and he gave her a look, half indulgent and half irritable.
‘Do me a favour, love! The name’s on the wall over there if you don’t believe me.’ And he drove off.
Kate went in through the revolving doors. She stood for a moment assimilating her surroundings. Stairs on the left, she noticed, and lifts straight ahead.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ There was a long desk on the right, she saw, with a modern looking switchboard, and a uniformed man looking at her enquiringly.
She said lamely, ‘I’m just visiting someone …’
He nodded politely. ‘Of course, madam. If you could give me the resident’s name, and tell me whether or not you’re expected.’
The building wasn’t as old-fashioned as she thought, she decided drily.
She said, ‘I’ve come to see Mr Matthew Lincoln, and no, I’m not expected.’
‘Then if I might have your name, miss, I’ll just check whether it’s convenient.’ He sounded courteous but inexorable.
Kate swallowed a defeated sigh. ‘It’s Marston—Kate Marston.’
She stood, waiting and listening while he dialled and gave the message. He replaced the receiver and looked at her and she waited to be told that Mr Lincoln was not at home, or Mr Lincoln was busy.
He said, ‘If you’d like to take the lift, miss. It’s the second floor, and the door on the right-hand side of the corridor.’
She said dazedly, ‘I—see. Thank you.’
She took a deep breath as she pressed the button for the second floor and heard the smooth whine of the doors as they closed. There was no going back now.
The palms of her hands felt damp, and she wiped them surreptitiously on her skirt, trying to marshal her thoughts, decide on the best tactic to use.
The lift stopped, and she got out and walked along the corridor. The lighting was subdued, and the carpet under her feet felt thick, muffling her footsteps.
She stopped outside Matt Lincoln’s door and subduing an urge to run away very fast and very ignominiously, she lifted a hand to ring the bell.
But before she could do so, the door opened abruptly.
Matt Lincoln stood staring at her, the dark brows lifted questioningly. He was casually dressed this evening, with faded blue denims encasing his long legs, and a black woollen shirt unbuttoned to reveal the strong column of his throat.
Kate moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She said, ‘Mr Lincoln, you won’t remember me, but …’
‘I remember you perfectly,’ he said sardonically. ‘You’re the bridesmaid with an equal aversion to dancing and to me. What an unexpected pleasure. Won’t you come in?’
He waved her into the flat, his mouth slanting mockingly at her obvious reluctance.
The room he showed her into seemed enormous, with pale walls and acres of olive brown carpet. Two big sofas upholstered in an abstract design of brown, orange and gold faced each other on either side of an imposing fireplace, and a huge antique desk, heavy with carving, stood beneath the window, but there seemed little occasional furniture and no clutter. A massive shelving unit occupied the length of one wall, part of it housing sophisticated hi-fi and television equipment, including a video tape recorder, and the rest crammed with books.
‘At the flick of a switch, it transforms into a bed,’ Matt Lincoln said smoothly. ‘And mirrors come popping out of the ceiling.’ He grinned maliciously at her startled expression. ‘Relax, Miss Marston. This is my home, not Bluebeard’s chamber. What the hell were you expecting?’
She said stiffly, ‘I’m sorry if I gave the impression …’
He made a gesture of impatience. ‘Forget it. Can I get you a drink?’
She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. This—this isn’t exactly a social call.’ She swallowed. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m here.’
‘I am indeed,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you’re going to tell me. Do you want to sit down, or is it the kind of thing that needs to be said standing?’
There was music playing softly in the background, nothing she recognised, a persuasive mixture of drums and guitars and some kind of wind instrument.
He