Smokescreen. Anne Mather
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television for a while. After you’ve arranged about the meal, you can all take the rest of the night off.’
It was a relief to reach the sanctuary of her room. It was such a beautiful apartment, and at least one area of the house which held no associations of Henry. Oh, he had probably hired the interior decorators who had designed it for her, she reflected, sinking down on to the side of the huge square bed; but he had never entered the room during her habitation, and she had made it peculiarly her own by the addition of her personal possessions.
Her brushes, with their gilt handles, did look a little out of place on the crystal tray on her dressing table, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t ashamed of her background, and she had refused to pretend she was used to such luxury as she now possessed. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why the servants had taken such a liking to her; because she had never hidden the fact that she had been brought up in surroundings similar to theirs.
Nevertheless, she had become fond of the exquisitely appointed rooms allocated to her. She would not have been human if she had not appreciated a superbly-sprung mattress and real silk sheets, that stroked her skin with sensuous enjoyment; she would not have been honest if she had denied the pleasures of waking up in the morning to the artistic beauty of linen-covered walls, in delicious shades of rose and turquoise, and a soft, shaggy carpet to tease her toes; and she would not have been feminine if she had not felt a thrill every time she slid back the doors of the air-conditioned units in her dressing room, to disclose the rows and rows of suits and dresses, pants and skirts and sweaters and jeans, enough to last a lifetime, were fashion never to change.
Now, Olivia bent and unzipped her boots, kicking them off carelessly as she stood to unfasten the tiny pearl buttons of her dress. When she pushed it off her shoulders, it fell too, in a pool of silk jersey about her feet, and picking it up she tossed it on to the bed. Her reflection, in the stark simplicity of her black slip, was thrown back at her from half a dozen mirrors set about the room, but she paid little attention to her appearance. She saw little to admire in her magnolia-pale skin and night-dark hair. Her mother’s Italian ancestry was never more pronounced than when she was tired, and she turned aside impatiently and strode into the bathroom.
She ran her own bath, liberally sprinkling the contents of a cut-glass flagon of perfumed essence into the water. The step-in tub was deep and wide, and she filled it almost to the brim before stepping into its scented softness, feeling the chill that had enveloped her dispersing in its warmth. She must not allow herself to become depressed, she thought determinedly. She was still the nominal head of the Gantry corporation. And tomorrow she would find out from Francis exactly what that meant.
She was seated on the padded stool in front of her dressing table brushing her hair when there was a knock at her door, and a young woman’s voice called: ‘It’s me, Mrs Gantry. Can I come in?’
‘Of course, Mary.’ Olivia forced herself to welcome the young woman who entered, even though she would have preferred to be alone.
‘You should have asked me to run your bath for you, Mrs Gantry,’ Mary Parrish exclaimed reprovingly, picking up Olivia’s discarded dress and slipping it on to its hanger. ‘How are you feeling now? Mrs Winters seemed to think you had overdone it. Why don’t you get into bed, and let me fetch you some supper?’
‘Thank you, Mary, but I prefer to eat downstairs,’ declared Olivia resignedly, wishing the girl didn’t take her duties so seriously. Henry had employed her, soon after their marriage, to act as lady’s maid, and Olivia had often wished he had consulted her first. However, she meant well, and Olivia tempered her remark with a small smile so that she should not hurt Mary’s feelings.
‘Then what are you going to wear, Mrs Gantry?’ the girl persisted, carrying the silk jersey into the dressing room and replacing it in the closet. ‘I suggest this trouser suit,’ she displayed an outfit consisting of narrow fitting pants and knee-length jacket, teamed with a silk shirt, ‘or this,’ which was a soft cashmere caftan, with knee-length slits at either side.
Olivia sighed. She had considered going downstairs in a dressing gown and pyjamas, but she realised there was always the possibility that someone else might call to offer their condolences. She could always plead a headache, of course, and avoid visitors, but with Mary pulling out various combinations of garments, it was easier to choose than explain her preference.
‘The caftan, I think,’ she said, indicating the exquisite handwork of the knitted cashmere. Its muted shades of blue and mauve were suitably restrained, and she cared little that it was one of the most flattering items in her wardrobe.
‘I wish I had a figure like yours, Mrs Gantry,’ Mary remarked later, when the folds of the caftan clung lovingly to Olivia’s shapely form. Indeed, its plain lines accentuated the rounded swell of her bosom, and displayed the slimness of her hips and the slender length of her legs.
Olivia shook her head, unconvinced in spite of Mary’s sincerity. ‘Clothes maketh man—or woman,’ she misquoted, half cynically. ‘Leave my hair loose, Mary. I shan’t be seeing anyone tonight.’
Leaving the maid to tidy the room, Olivia descended the stairs with slow deliberation. It was strange to think this house was hers, so long as she chose to live in it, unmarried, of course; the rooms were hers to decorate as she wished; the servants were hers to command. It was a tempting proposition, as Henry had known it would be. He had left her enough money, whatever her inclination, to live in luxury for the rest of her life; firmly believing, as he had always believed, that personal gratification was all that mattered.
But it wasn’t. Not for her. She had not married Henry Gantry to embrace his philosophy. Her motives might have been thwarted at every turn, but she was still determined not to give in. Her mother was dead. She could no longer help her. But she could help the one person Henry had least desired to benefit from his fortune: his son!
Her feet sank into the rich pile of the hall carpet as she walked towards the library. Mrs Winters would know where to find her; the library had become her retreat from Henry’s world. Opening the door, she found the lamps still burning and the fire replenished. Its visible warmth was comforting, and she closed the door wearily, leaning back against it, and closing her eyes.
When she opened them again, the first thing she saw was a pair of booted feet set apart on the hearthrug; and as her eyes moved unsteadily upward, they quickly covered long denim-clad legs and thighs, a loose fitting jersey over an open-necked denim shirt, and a lean tanned face below a straight slick of ash-streaked hair. The man was leanly built, but his chest was broad, and the vee of his shirt revealed a gold medallion glinting among the fine whorls of body hair. His arms were strong and his legs looked powerful, and Olivia could not help but notice the bulging muscles of his thighs. But she did not know him. She had never seen him before in her life. And her initial reaction was that he must be an intruder, who had known he would find her alone.
However, before her undisciplined fears could take verbal form, he spoke, and when he did so, she suddenly realised his identity.
‘Hello, Olivia,’ he greeted her sardonically. ‘How delightful to meet you at last. I’ll say one thing for old Henry, he certainly had good taste!’
‘Alex!’
The man inclined his head. ‘How did you guess?’
Olivia straightened away from the door. ‘How—how did you get in? Did Mrs Winters——’
‘I let myself in,’ he responded laconically, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out a key, allowing it to hang from its silver chain like some kind of hypnotic device. ‘Do I need an invitation? To Henry Gantry’s house?’
Olivia struggled for composure. ‘No. No, of course not.’
‘Of course not,’ he mocked, putting the key back into his pocket and indicating the leather armchairs set at either side of the fire. ‘Won’t you sit down—Mother? You look as if you