Bittersweet Deception Page 12

  ‘Tell me about your week, Sam. Have you had a good holiday?’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve learned how to cast a fly.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’ He raised an ironic brow. ‘Did you catch anything?’

  She looked stunned. ‘I couldn’t actually kill anything,’ she said, horrified at the suggestion. She babbled on, amusing Tisha, filling the silence between Kate and Jay.

  Finally, Jay excused himself. ‘If you’re making coffee, Kate, perhaps you would be kind enough to bring some to the study. I want to discuss some changes I have in mind for the future.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Her voice was a little unsteady. Perhaps she was over-sensitive to the atmosphere, but that sounded ominously like a prelude to dismissal.

  Kate cleared the dishes and carried the coffee through to the study. She placed the tray on the table in front of the sofa and shut the door. Jay was staring at something on the desk in front of him. A newspaper clipping. Even upside down she could see that it was a photograph of them both, taken on Saturday. They were standing very close. Jay’s trousers were clinging muddily to his legs and he was grasping her firmly by the arm. His expression was not exactly happy. He had been trying to get her away when the photographer had snapped them together after Sam’s mishap at the lake.

  He looked up and she froze at the hard implacability of his face. ‘This is all very interesting, Kate. Perhaps you’d care to offer an explanation?’ He tossed the newspaper clipping across the desk and sat back. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘I’m waiting.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE quiet menace in his voice was like a pain scything through her and she stepped sharply back, but the headline seemed to leap out after her, an accusation.

  ‘Kate Unmasked’, it read.

  While we’ve all been racking our brains to discover the identity of Jay Warwick’s mysterious new lady, the Kate whose name he let slip recently, the answer has apparently been lying under our noses, week after week on the women’s page. It seems that the country’s most elusive marriage prize has fallen for home cooking. Our own Kate Thornley, writer of delicious recipes and a superb cook, is being hotly pursued by the good-looking chairman of Magnum Television. Although, from the evidence of this photograph, not with his usual success.

  Kate’s column has been especially interesting lately. Apparently her country cousin Cathy has taken over the job for a while, but reading between the lines it doesn’t take much imagination to work out who the chauvinistic Jack Wessex might be, especially when we learn that Kate is at present working in a large country house in Norfolk.

  Annabel Courtney had better polish up her baking skills if she has any serious plans to become chatelaine of Fullerton Hall.

  Photocopies of her column, dozens of them, back to her first tentative offerings two years earlier, were littered about his desk. But a few, the most recent, were marked with vivid slashes of highlighter. His staff had done their work very thoroughly. Kate didn’t read them. She didn’t need to. All those suggestive little remarks of Jay’s had found their way into her weekly ‘letters’. In the beginning, she had taken some pleasure from her small and totally private joke at his expense. Now, seeing it like this, as he must be seeing it, it seemed nothing less than a betrayal.

  She stood motionless in the pool of light cast by the desk lamp and waited for the explosion, but when he spoke his voice was aloof, distant. Quite terrifying.

  ‘Well, Kate. You’ll have some really exciting copy for your paper this week, won’t you?’ he said. It would have been so much easier if he shouted. She could bear that, could understand that. She could shout back. But this mind-numbing display of self-control was paralysing.

  She didn’t answer. There was no point. He would never believe anything she said and who could blame him? How in honesty could she excuse herself? He had decided to prove a point, prove that she could not resist him. And she had retaliated. It had started as a game. But it had become so much more.

  ‘You will remember, darling, when you’re writing your poisonous little barbs, to mention that you were the one waiting in my bed?’ There was frost-bitten white about lips. ‘That no one dragged you screaming and kicking from the servants’ quarters?’ The words dripped like icicles into her heart, splitting it in two. She had thought she would be able to manage when he broke her heart. She was wrong. Desperately wrong. ‘No need to mention that I declined your generous offer. I do have a reputation to maintain. But then, you don’t have more than a passing acquaintance with the truth, do you?’

  She considered the possibility of trying to explain, to justify herself, and dismissed it in the same thought. He was far too angry to listen. ‘I’ll go as soon as you can get a replacement,’ she said dully, and turned to leave.

  ‘No.’ The word was final, not to be argued with. ‘I’ll handle this in my own way. And you will do exactly as you’re told. Sit down.’ He lifted the telephone receiver and punched in a number. ‘But first, I’ll have to put a stop to their nasty little innuendoes.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘I have it in my power to limit the damage. Newsroom, please.’ He regarded her stonily. ‘Have you any idea what you have brought down about our ears, Kate? Jay Warwick finds his perfect girl, a cook who’s good in bed. Every column will be running with it for weeks. It’s a gift of a story.’

  ‘You’ve flaunted it as your ideal often enough,’ she said bitterly. ‘Can you blame them?’

  ‘No, Kate, I don’t blame them. They’re just doing their job. But I never intended… Good, God, can’t you see? You work in my house. I pay you a salary! At rather more than the going rate in this part of the world, I can assure you. After that last piece there are quite obvious implications…’ The colour drained from her face and she sank into the chair. He nodded grimly. ‘Have you thought what it will do to Sam?’

  ‘Sam?’ Her head snapped up. ‘What on earth has she got to do with this?’

  He ignored her. ‘Newsroom? Jay Warwick. I have a late item for the evening news.’ He listened for a moment. ‘This will go in at the end. After so much gloom, I’m sure the public will welcome a little joy. I’m announcing my marriage to Miss Kate Thornley.’ He listened and grimaced, glancing across at her. ‘Yes, that Miss Thornley.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, the chair toppled as she stood up, falling over with a crash, and she backed away, only stopping when she felt the door at her back.

  He broke off at her cry, daring her with his eyes to interrupt further. ‘The wedding will take place a week from tomorrow.’ A sudden burst of excitement from the other end of the phone made him wince. ‘If you can get a crew out from Norwich you can have some live pictures. And Geoff—it’s exclusive. Don’t tell anyone else. Don’t even tell the news team why you’re sending them. I don’t want any eager stringers ringing their contacts on the nationals. I want the papers left flat-footed.’

  She was pressed hard against the door when he dropped the phone back into its cradle and strode towards her.

  ‘Well?’

  Kate opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. She had long since realised that there was a lot more to Jay than the careless playboy image he liked to project. There had to be more to a man who had built on a satire show put together by a group of university students and turned it into a television empire. Much more.

  In the last few moments she had seen the other side of Jay Warwick. A totally ruthless man who would stop at nothing to get his own way.

  She groaned. ‘Please don’t do this to me. I can’t…can’t pretend that I’m going to marry you just to prevent a bit of gossip.’ She wrapped her arms about herself and hung on. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Don’t you know, Kate?’ His eyes were unwavering. ‘No. I don’t believe you do.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Everyone loves a lover. Anything your nasty little rag prints now will just seem petty and little bit tacky. They will understand that perfectly well and print their
joyous felicitations, along with the suggestion that they engineered the whole thing.’

  ‘It’s impossible.’

  He ignored this cry from her heart. ‘I don’t know exactly what you expected to gain from all this, Kate.’ His gesture took in the desk littered with newspaper clippings. He looked down at her. ‘I remember you telling me about your cookery column. I suppose I should have taken more notice. But you have a way of distracting me.’ He reached out and trailed his fingers along her throat. She tried to back away, but the door was behind her and he was in front. Much too close. ‘You write very well. The caricature of me is done with a delicate hand.’

  ‘Jay, believe me, I never intended—’

  He ignored her appeal. ‘Sadly, Sam is the one who would suffer most from the fun the press would enjoy at our expense. Between us we can save her from that. If you’re the loving sister you profess to be you’ll smile and look happy.’

  ‘I won’t go through with this charade, Jay.’ She tried to move away, but his hand held her firm.

  ‘What charade?’ His mouth caressed her lips, emphasising the power he had to hold her, bind her to him. She shivered and apparently satisfied, he raised his head in order to press the point home. ‘I urge you to consider the consequences if you don’t. At the very least I shall have to take out an injunction against your newspaper—’

  ‘On what grounds?’ The words jerked from her as she suddenly saw red. Her voice was rising and she made an effort to regain control of it. ‘I wrote nothing but the truth, after all!’

  ‘Really?’ He took her arm and hauled her across the room to his desk. He picked up one of the photocopies by the corner as if closer contact might contaminate him. ‘This is truthful?’ he asked and read from the paper. ‘“…One last thing, Kate. Mr Jack keeps asking me for something called droit de seigneur. I’ve looked it up in every cookbook I can find but it’s not there. If you know what it is perhaps you could send me the recipe. You know I like to keep him happy…”’ He shook the paper under her nose. ‘Perhaps you would remind me exactly when I demanded your presence in my bed as my right? Last night you were waiting for me and I take a little comfort from the fact that I had the good sense to throw you out.’ Her hand struck him before she knew what she was about, rocking him back on his feet.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Mike Howard?’ she demanded. ‘He remembered your conversation with startling clarity. When he saw me in the post office he almost took to his heels and ran!’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you are talking about.’ He moved his jaw carefully. The print of her hand was livid against his skin.

  ‘Then you’d better ask him to jog your memory!’

  She turned to go. The determination that was keeping the tears behind gritty lids was almost exhausted. But his voice stayed her, harsh as it had not been throughout the whole appalling scene.

  ‘By tomorrow the press will have found out this telephone number. I’m surprised, quite frankly, that it’s taken them so long. They’ll want to talk to you. I can protect you here, Kate, but then they’ll get to Sam. She was in the paper too. It won’t take them long to connect the names. She goes back to school in a couple of days.’ He regarded her dispassionately. ‘Do you want that? Reporters waiting outside the gate, climbing over the fence, lying in wait to take photographs.’ Numb, unable to utter a word, she shook her head. ‘No. And neither will the school. Not matter how talented she is.’ Sure now of her undivided attention, he issued his instructions.

  ‘We will go across the hall now to break the happy news to Tisha and Sam. By happy coincidence I have a bottle of champagne cooling.’ She saw the ice-bucket on the sideboard and frowned, but he gave no further explanation. Instead he continued to issue his orders. ‘You will go and change into something suitably festive. That red dress you wore the other night will be perfect. You’ll want to look good for the television cameras, I’m sure.’ He seized her face in his hands and with his thumbs wiped fiercely at the tears that were now falling unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Don’t do that!’ he grated. Then his mouth twisted in a mocking little smile. ‘Any tears on display tonight had better look as if they are tears of happiness, don’t you think?’

  She made it, somehow, through the ordeal of telling Tisha Maynard and Sam. Jay did all the talking and although his aunt looked at Kate rather hard for just a moment, she was plainly delighted with the news.

  ‘I couldn’t be more pleased, my dear,’ she said warmly, as Sam threw her arms about her sister and hugged her and Kate curled up inside with misery at the deception.

  ‘The television crew will be here in a few minutes so if you’ll excuse us we’d better go and make ourselves look presentable.’

  Alone in her room Kate began to shake. She had stripped off her clothes and washed away the tearstains. She looked deathly pale, but now her hands wouldn’t hold the make-up steady. A tap at the door and Jay’s voice sent the bottle smashing into the sink.

  She was hanging on to it, kneeling, her cheek against the cold porcelain when he appeared in her bathroom door. He seized her and hauled her to her feet.

  ‘I can’t. I can’t do it,’ she sobbed.

  He dumped her in a chair in front of her dressing-table and searched quickly through her make-up. She sat trembling violently as he flicked a blusher over her cheeks.

  ‘That’s a bit better. Close your eyes.’ He made an impatient sound. ‘For goodness’ sake, Kate. I’ll poke you in the eye with this thing if you don’t stop shaking.’

  ‘I c-c-can’t h-h-help it!’

  ‘All right. It’s done. Dress?’ She didn’t answer and he wrenched open the door and pulled out the red silk dress. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered and she was beyond doing anything else. He slipped the dress over her head and zipped up the back. Quite the expert. Clearly he’d had years of practice. She used the thought as a cudgel to beat down the sensations that, despite everything, his nearness provoked in her. He pushed her feet into her shoes and turned her around. ‘Just some lipstick. But first,’ he said with determination, ‘something for those shakes.’ He jerked her hard into his arms and, despite her stiff resistance, he kissed her fiercely, his teeth grating against her tight clamped lips. For a moment there was no reaction, then a flash of anger ignited deep inside her and she began to fight him. He hung on until she savagely kicked his shin and, free at last, stood glaring at him, her chest heaving, her cheeks hectic. He regarded her impassively, completely unmoved by her fury. Then he nodded. ‘That’s more like it.’ He tossed her the tube of lipstick. ‘Here. But frankly I don’t think you need it now.’ The little gilt cylinder hit the door as he closed it behind him. She turned and stared at her reflection in the mirror, rubbing furiously at her swollen lips.

  But the anger had brought her back to life and carried her through the worst of the press call. They stood, she and Jay, arm in arm for all the world to see in the great drawing-room at Fullerton Hall, while Jay explained how they had met over an Aga and he had fallen in love instantly. So convincing was he that, if she hadn’t known better, she would have believed every word of it.

  There was a slightly sticky moment when the interviewer asked Kate what she thought about the Evening Mail’s coverage of their romance.

  ‘Evening Mail?’ She looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t looked at a paper for days.’ She raised her eyes to Jay. He wasn’t the only one who could act. ‘I’ve been much too busy.’ She was unaware of the delicate blush that darkened her cheeks, and only by the slightest upward movement of his brow did Jay acknowledge her performance.

  The broadcast over, Jay invited the crew to share a glass of champagne with them. He turned back to Kate and refilled her glass. ‘I see you’ve fully recovered,’ he murmured, adding ominously, ‘And make no mistake, my darling. I plan to see that you’re kept much too busy to get into any more mischief for a long time to come.’

  * * *

  Jay was very firm that he and Kate would drive Sam back to school on Sunday. The an
nouncement of the engagement was bound to bring in extra visitors and among them would almost certainly be reporters trying to snatch an opportunist photograph or speak to Kate.

  ‘But Nancy shouldn’t be left to cope by herself!’ Kate protested.

  ‘Why not? If you were given the chance you’d leave here like a shot. At least this way she believes she’s aiding true love. When we’re married she’ll be doing far more anyway. But if you’re worried you can always get up a little earlier and make certain everything is ready for her.’

  ‘But we’re not getting married. That was just to stop…’ He couldn’t mean to go ahead with it. It was ridiculous. ‘Jay?’

  ‘The announcement will be in The Times on Monday.’

  * * *

  On Sunday morning she rose long before daylight to prepare as much as she could in advance.

  It was still warm, with no sign of a break in the weather, although the air had become heavy. Kate felt drained and headachy and was dreading the long drive to school with Sam.

  She had already written a letter of resignation to her editor, asking her to send her fee direct to a children’s charity. She didn’t blame the woman for what had happened. It had been her own fault entirely, but clearly she was unable to continue to work for them. The letter was lying on her dressing-table and she planned to put it in a box somewhere on the way.

  There was a knock on her bedroom door and she opened it. Jay stepped inside and closed it behind him, standing in front of it barring her escape. ‘What do you want?’ she asked nervously, backing off under his scouring eyes. ‘How long are you going to keep me a prisoner here, Jay?’

  ‘Prisoner?’ He gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘For the moment we’re both prisoners, Kate, and on trial by media.’ His eye fell on the letter and he frowned. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘My resignation. I can’t write for the Mail any more.’

  He picked the envelope up. ‘I think that would be a mistake. A final episode is required. You mustn’t leave your readers in suspense.’ He tapped the envelope against his hand, then pocketed it. ‘It’s time for Cathy to discover what droit de seigneur really means, don’t you think?’