A Nanny for Christmas (6 page)

'Just the usual bash,' she returned. 'Don't worry about it.'

She'd expected the house to be another designer nightmare, like Tiffany's, so North Fitton House came as a pleasant surprise. She lingered on the steps, breathing in the fragrance of the night-scented stocks which filled the stone urns flanking the front door.

Tiffany gave her a little push. 'Come on. There's a hungry man waiting in there.'

Tony's reaction was all that she could have desired.

'You look fantastic,' he muttered, his eyes resting hotly on the cleavage revealed by the bustier. 'Absolutely perfect.' He licked his lips. 'Tiff—you're a genius.'

She heard Tiffany say with a giggle, 'And now the rest is up to you.'

Tony grabbed Phoebe's hand and pulled her into one of the rooms. 'What do you want to drink?'

'Just orange juice,' she assured him hurriedly.

'Whatever my princess requires,' he said.

In the end, she was sorry she'd asked for it because it tasted odd. She would have poured it into one of the jardinieres in the drawing room, given half a chance, but Tony was close beside her all the time. And the next one didn't taste nearly as bad, and the one after that was actually pleasant, so she thought she must have imagined it. Or maybe it was a brand she hadn't come across before.

'Whose party is this?' she asked Tony while they were dancing.

He shrugged. 'Just a guy I know. It's his birthday, so we thought we'd surprise him.'

'Oh.' Phoebe was puzzled. 'Which one is he?'

'He hasn't arrived yet,' Tony said easily. 'He's had to go to some boring dinner first, but he'll be along later and then you'll meet him, I promise.' He drew her closer, running practised fingers down her bare back. 'In the meantime, just concentrate on me.'

Deliriously, Phoebe obeyed. She had never dreamed this could happen. That Tony would be holding her like this, his hps nuzzling her neck, creating all kinds of strange, delicious sensations deep within her.

It was a hot night, and the rooms were crowded, so she was glad of the orange juice, and grateful to Tony for keeping her so assiduously supplied.

In fact, the room was far too hot, because her head was swimming and her legs were behaving strangely. Her voice sounded odd too. Slurred and far away, as if she were speaking in an echo chamber.

'C'n I sit down a minute?'

'Oh, we can do better than that.' Tony's arm was like an iron bar round her waist, supporting her. She realised they were going upstairs.

'Where's thish?'

'I'm taking you to lie down,' he murmured. 'It's cooler up here, and you'll feel better soon.'

He opened a door. The big, canopied bed which dominated the room seemed to sway in front of her.

'The master bedroom,' Tony said exultantly. 'Now, all we need is the master.'

The bed felt as soft as a cloud as she stretched out upon it.

'It looks like a bloody altar.'

'Then let's supply the virgin sacrifice.'

The words made no sense to her. As Tony came to lie beside her she turned to him greedily, offering the softness of her mouth.

'Oh, I'm tempted,' he said thickly. 'Believe me, I am.'

'That's not the deal.' It seemed to be Tiffany's voice. 'You're having me—remember?'

Phoebe opened dazed eyes, and found the room revolving slowly. There were people standing round the bed. She could see their mouths smiling, but she couldn't recognise any of the faces. The room was going faster, and she mumbled, 'Make it shlow down.'

'Anything you say, Princess.' Tony's hands were caressing her just as she'd always dreamed. She could feel him undoing all the little buttons on the bustier. Dimly, she could hear voices and laughter, and a few whistles.

Tony was kissing her bare breasts, sucking hard on her nipples, hurting her, so that she moaned a little and tried to pull away.

'You're wasting time.' Tiffany's voice again.

There were other hands on her now, pulling down her skirt. She resisted, protesting weakly.

Someone said, 'You can have your clothes back now, Tiff.'

And Tiffany's reply, swift and venomous. 'After she's been wearing them? You're joking.'

'Tony,' Phoebe whispered, bewildered. 'Wass happening? Where are you?'

She heard his voice. 'I'm here. Close your eyes, Princess.'

She was glad to obey, and shut out the staring faces. It stopped the room revolving too, which was also a relief.

'But her mouth felt so dry. She ran her tongue round her lips. 'I—I need a drink.'

'No more for you, Princess. We don't want you unconscious for your big moment.'

She wondered fuzzily what he meant. Nothing made sense any more. All she wanted was for everyone to go away, and Tony to take her in his arms again. Not hurting her, but gentle, like he'd been in the past.

After a while, the whispering and giggling seemed to fade away, and there was nothing but silence and darkness ...

I want to stop there, Phoebe thought, gathering the folds of her robe around her with a shiver. I don't want to remember any more. But I must. I have to deal with it— all of it—once and for all time.

And then I can get on with the rest of my life.

But first—first, I have to think about Dominic.

P
HOEBE
was grateful at first for the quiet and the shadows. She felt light-headed, weightless, rocked on some infinite, swaying ocean. Soon, she thought drowsily, soon Tony would return. She lay back on the pillows, smiling to herself. Waiting for him. Wanting him.

The sudden brilliance of the overhead light snapping on was like a physical shock. She propped herself grog- gily on one elbow, staring towards the door.

Not Tony at all, she registered dazedly, but a complete stranger in dinner jacket and frilled shirt, his black tie unfastened.

A tall man, with dark hair and eyes as grey and cold as a January sky. A man standing there as if he'd been transfixed. Clearly as startled as she was herself.

His gaze grated across her skin. He said slowly and harshly, 'What the hell are you doing here?'

The room was swaying again. She stared frantically past him, searching for Tony—for anyone except this unknown man who was looking at her as if she was dirt. As if he despised her.

And then, in the long mirror beside the door, she saw herself, irrevocably and indelibly, as he did—naked and bedraggled, her face under the dishevelled blonde wig flushed and streaked with make-up. Someone she barely recognised, but knew must be herself.

He took a step closer and she shrank, grabbing at a sheet to cover herself. 'I said—what are you doing here? And who are you?'

'Phoebe,' she mumbled from her dry throat. 'I'm Phoebe. Tony—brought me.'

He said bitterly, 'I should have known. Well, you're wasting your time. I can do without your kind of filth.' He bent, picked up the handful of her discarded clothing lying beside the bed, his mouth grim with distaste, and threw it at her. 'Get dressed and get out, you slut, before I throw you out.'

He walked across the room and flung open another door. Phoebe could see gleaming tiles and the edge of a bath.

'And dress in there,' he went on bitingly. 'I don't want to watch.'

She couldn't move. She felt numb, paralysed with horror. She had to say something—to explain that it was all a terrible mistake. But the words wouldn't come. She could only stare up at him helplessly.

He completely misinterpreted her lack of response. Phoebe found herself ruthlessly dragged off the bed by her arm and pushed forcefully into the bathroom.

'No more games,' he told her. 'You have exactly ten minutes to make yourself decent, or I call the police.'

The door slammed behind her. Phoebe looked at the grotesque caricature of her own face in the mirror above the wash-basin, and was instantly and comprehensively sick.

She had never been so ill. Each wave of nausea seemed more bitter, more all-engulfing than the last. And even when her stomach was empty she was still clinging to the lavatory bowl, retching weakly.

Eventually, she levered herself to her feet, splashed her face with cold water and put on her underwear. She mentally recoiled when she came to the outer clothing, but there was nothing else to choose, so reluctantly she dragged on the skirt and fastened the bustier. Her shaking fingers could hardly cope with the myriad buttons, but she persevered, urged on by his threat of the police. That, she thought, visualising her father's horrified face, would be the ultimate degradation.

She was ready at last—for whatever might be facing her, she thought, swallowing. Slowly, she opened the bathroom door and looked into the room beyond. It was empty. The bed, she saw, was stripped of everything— even the pillows and duvet. Gone to be decontaminated, no doubt, she thought, supporting herself against the doorframe, fighting another wave of nausea.

She went out onto the landing and cautiously down the stairs. She felt raw and hollow inside, and her throat ached with vomiting.

The house was ominously quiet. No music, no sound of voices. Where was everyone? she thought, fighting down a feeling of panic.

He was waiting in the hall below, the dark face carved from stone.

'Where are the others?' Her voice was hoarse and strained.

'Long gone.'

Gone? she thought numbly. Leaving her behind? But they couldn't...

'Who are you?' she asked.

He tutted. 'Didn't they tell you that? I'm Dominic Ashton, and this—shambles you're about to vacate is my property.' He tossed her bag to her. 'This must be yours.'

Then he walked to the front door and opened it, letting in a wave of cold night air. Despite herself, Phoebe shivered.

^V
'A word of advice,' the hated, contemptuous voice went on. 'Next time you go whoring, try and stay sober. It makes a better impression on the client.'

She said hoarsely, 'I'm not—what you think.'

"You're certainly not very good at it.' He gestured impatiently. 'Now get out.'

'But how am I going to get back?' She knew exactly what her bag contained—a lipstick, a comb, a hanky and a few coins. 'I've no transport. I haven't even got a jacket.'

'That's your problem,' was the curt dismissal. 'Presumably you got paid for your—services tonight. There's a call box in the village with the names of local cab firms.'

'I'm not a whore,' she said desperately. 'I swear I'm not. I—I was with—Tony. No one gave me any money.'

There was a taut silence, then he reached inside his jacket, produced a wallet and extracted a twenty-pound note, which he dropped onto the carpet in front of her.

'For the floorshow,' he said insolently, the grey eyes raking her, reminding her starkly of how he'd found her—stripped and vulnerable on his bed.

She wanted to hit him, to lash out with her nails and wipe the mockery from his face. But she couldn't afford to. It was as simple as that. She had to accept this final humiliation at his hands.

Every inch of her skin seemed to burn as she bent to pick up the note. Then, head bent, she went swiftly past him and out into the darkness. And heard the door slam behind her...

There were tears on her face. Phoebe lifted her hands and wiped them angrily away. She hadn't cried then, so why was she allowing herself this weakness now?

She supposed she must be weeping for her lost innocence. For the sheer cruelty of the betrayal she'd been subjected to.

She remembered little of her journey back to the Bishops' house, except that the cab driver had been an older man who'd treated her with a mixture of kindness and disapproval, even offering her a rug to wrap round her.

She'd been miserably ill for most of the following day, and, when she had emerged from her room, found herself the target of some edged remarks about the stupidity of drinking to excess when you couldn't handle alcohol from Tiffany's mother.

'I'm surprised at you, Phoebe,' she'd been told coldly. 'I thought you had more sense. And, if this is the kind of exploit we can expect, you'd better go home. You're not at all a good influence on Tiffany.'

Phoebe had felt too wretched to mount any kind of defence in the face of this onslaught. She was already in Mrs Bishop's bad books through the ruin of her wig.

Tony, she'd soon discovered, was nowhere to be seen.

'You surely didn't think he really fancied you?' Tiffany said derisively. She was sitting on the bed, watching Phoebe pack. 'He just needed someone for this trick he was going to play on Dominic, and you were so obviously smitten, you made it easy for him.'

'Why did he do it?'

It hurt to ask. Her head ached terribly, and she felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach, but that was nothing to the inner pain—the knowledge that people she'd trusted had degraded her, made a fool of her. Allowed a stranger to badmouth and humiliate her.

Tiffany shrugged. 'They've never liked each other, and Dominic was having this really stuffy birthday dinner with some boring old schoolfriends, so Tony thought he'd liven it up for him. Simple as that.'

She giggled. 'When we all cleared off, he left this note for him to find—"Many happy returns. Your birthday present is unwrapped on your bed". We only wished we could have been there to see his face when he found you. Or yours, when you saw him,' she added spitefully.

She shook her head. 'God, you're so gullible, Phoebe. You must be the only person in the world not to guess thece was vodka in that orange juice.'

'Yes,' Phoebe agreed colourlessly. 'Gullible is the word.'

Tiffany eyed her speculatively. 'Tell me, did old Dom—you know—try anything on? Or were you too far gone to notice?'

'No. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be any more interested in me than Tony was.' Phoebe looked her straight in the eye, and it was Tiffany who lowered her gaze uncomfortably.

'A word of warning,' Tiffany said, after a pause. 'Don't go whingeing to anyone about all this. Because it's our word against yours, and my parents believe that you were so far gone that you passed out and we had to leave you behind. I'm sure you don't want that to be spread about.'

'No,' Phoebe said quietly. 'I wouldn't want that. I suggest we forget the whole thing.'