Act of Betrayal (5 page)

gold cylinder from his pocket, and tossed it towards her. 'So, if

you were imagining that I'd followed you here, drooling with

lust, think again.' She looked stupidly down at her own lipstick.

'Where

...? Oh, it must have fallen out of my bag when I dropped it.'

'Right,' he said unemotionally. 'And I assumed you might need it

at some time.' 'It could have waited,' she said. 'You could have

given it to Fergie—my uncle's secretary. Anyway, thank you.'

'Graciously spoken,' Jason approved sardonically. He sat down at

the other end of the sofa, leaning back, very much at his ease.

'Well, aren't you going to pour the tea?' She shrugged. 'I'm sure

Celia would prefer to do that. She's the hostess here, after

all.' 'And you're what? The skivvy? The Cinderella of the

establishment, with that lipstick the nineteen eighties

equivalent of the glass slipper?' She bit her lip. 'Please don't

be ridiculous. And don't—don't judge by appearances either. I'm

glad to do anything I can for Uncle Martin. It's the least I can

offer in exchange for a roof over my head.' 'You had a roof over

your head,' he said softly. 'A perfectly adequate one—although

not admittedly as flash as this.' He looked around, his lips

curling slightly. 'What charming decor? Your choice?' He knew

perfectly well that it wasn't, she thought stormily. On one of

their few visits to his house during their brief marriage, she'd

told him how much she loved the quiet charm of this room, with

the pale silk wallpaper and faded chintzes which had furnished it

then. She said quietly, 'It was time for a change.' 'A telling

phrase,' he said cynically, and the colour ran into her face. She

leaned forward and began to pour the tea, praying that her hand

wouldn't shake and betray her. 'And not the only change,' he

added. 'There's also yourself. You've allowed yourself to become

a shadow, instead of the flesh and blood I remember. If I painted

you now, what would there be just a soft blur in the background?'

'You still paint?' To her annoyance, the question was out before

she could prevent it. 'Sometimes.' He sent her a cool smile as he

took the cup from her. ' If I can find a subject which appeals to

me. I have to be more selective these days, now that my time is

limited.' Underneath her confusion of anger and anxiety, she was

conscious of the stirrings of regret. He'd been a truly talented

painter, and his work had just started to sell, even though he'd

refused to compromise his arresting, almost violent style. He'd

believed in himself, and in his work, and it seemed impossible

that now he'd relegated it to the role of a hobby, to be pursued

in whatever leisure he allowed himself. As if he could read her

thoughts, he said, 'It was time for a change,' mocking her with

her own words. She drew a breath. 'And the change was Tristan

Construction? How did that come about?' 'Through the death of my

father,' he said expressionlessly. 'The company belonged to him.'

She swallowed. I..I didn't know. I'm sorry.' 'Are you, Laura? I

can't imagine why. You never knew him. In fact, you didn't even

believe he existed.' She was suddenly and chillingly aware of the

anger in him, the violence just below the surface. She said

tightly, ' I had good reason-if you remember.' 'Yes, I remember,'

he said too ggntly. 'Every detail of the whole bloody mess is

indelibly engraved on my memory, darling, believe me.' 'You both

look very fierce,' Celia said from the doorway. 'Would you rather

throw this cup than drink out of it?' Laura said levelly, 'I'd

really prefer to do neither. So, if you'll both excuse me.'

She got up, and he watched her, his mouth smiling, but his eyes

grim. He said, 'Until later then.' 'Later,' she repeated. 'The

drinks party, sweetie,' Celia chirped. 'For the Tristan

executives. I've decided to do my bit for Caswells at last.

Aren't you pleased?' 'Over the moon,' Laura said wildly,

wondering why Celia hadn't been strangled at birth. Celia pouted

prettily. 'Laura's always telling me I don't take sufficient

interest in the company. But all that's going to change from now

on.' She sent him a mischievously provocative look from under her

lashes. 'In fact, I'm going to take the most amazing interest in

every aspect of its dealings.' She giggled. 'This party is only

the start.' Jason smiled at her. 'It should be a truly memorable

evening for us all,' he said. His tone was light, but over

Celia's blonde head, he looked at Laura, and his eyes were bleak

with a warning it was impossible to ignore. She walked to the

door, and left them alone together.

SHE found she was still clutching the lipstick. She

unclenched her hand, and put the little tube down on the dressing

table in her room. It had left marks on her hand where she'd been

gripping it, and she touched them almost wonderingly. She sank

down on the stool, and stared at her pale reflection in the

mirror. It was true, she thought. She was like a shadow—like

the moon to Celia's golden, confident sun. It had been the same

all their lives—even at school. Celia had been 'the pretty one'

and she'd been 'the quiet one' which she supposed was a kind way

of saying 'the plain one'. She supposed her parents had thought

her beautiful. But since then—only one other person . . . She

bit into the softness of her lower lip, relishing the pain, if

only it would help to quell the deeper pain inside her. A l l

this time, she thought, she'd been struggling to put her fife

back together again, to reconcile herself to the fact that Jason

would never be part of it again. All this time and, it seemed all

for nothing. Divorce was like surgery, she thought wearily. And

while the operation had been a complete success, the patient,

apparently, had not recovered. She gave a swift shiver, and stood

up determinedly. What a triumph for Jason if he could only know

how completely she'd been thrown by his sudden reappearance and

its implications. But he must never know, she told herself. He'd

said their paths were bound to cross, but that was not

necessarily so. They could operate on parallel lines, and never

meet.

In the meantime, she could get out of this drinks party Celia had

arranged, by 'phoning Alan and asking if they could meet in

Burngate. He would be disappointed, she supposed, as she went

over to her wardrobe and scanned along the hanging rail for

something to wear, but under the circumstances that couldn't be

helped. None of the garments hanging there were particularly

spectacular, she thought with a little mental shrug. They were

what Celia disparagingly called 'background clothes', neutral in

colour and design—part of her recovery camouflage. Yet now she

was conscious of a vague dissatisfaction as she selected a silky

grey crepe, with full sleeves and a deeply slashed crossover

bodice, and draped it across a chair while she went into her tiny

adjoining bathroom to shower and wash her hair. Usually, she

blow-dried her hair, then used a hot brush to curve the ends

underneath, and around her face, but as she hadn't managed the

trim she needed, she decided she would wear her hair up for a

change. She was experimenting, twisting the silky strands into

various styles, when she heard sounds of departure from

downstairs, and a car engine starting up in the drive. She rose,

and trod barefoot across the carpet to her window and looked out

from the shelter of the curtain. Inevitably, he was driving the

Jaguar which had occupied her space in the car park. If she'd

decided to park in the drive, instead of taking the car round to

the garages at the back, she would have seen it, recognised

it—maybe even been warned. She watched him drive away towards

the town, then turned back to her dressing table with a little

sigh. He would be back. It occurred to her that she ought to warn

Mrs. Fraser that she wouldn't be there for dinner. She didn't

want to add a charge of thoughtlessness to the crime sheet

against her. And she could 'phone Alan at the same time. The

first errand was simple enough, but the second was more tricky.

The 'phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. She groaned

silently as she replaced the receiver. She would have to try

later. When she got back to her room, Celia was stretched on the

bed waiting for her. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling with a

mixture of amusement and malice. 'Well, sweetie, you're quite a

dark horse aren't you— but rather silly to think you could ever

keep such a delectable man all to yourself. It was just as well I

was still in Switzerland while it was all going on, or I might

have tried to steal him myself. And he wouldn't have got away

from me so easily.' She gave a little laugh. 'He could hardly

believe we were cousins.' Laura picked up her comb again, forcing

suddenly nerveless fingers back to their former task. She said

tonelessly, 'Well, he wouldn't be the first to find it amazing

that we're related.' 'That's true,' Celia agreed limpidly. 'But

he's by far the most interesting to date.' She stretched like a

little cat. 'Poor Laura. It was being rather optimistic, sweetie,

to think you could ever hold his interest for long.' Laura's

fingers gripped the edge of the dressing table. She was used to

Celia, she thought, inured to the kind of jibes she excelled at,

but for the first time she was tempted to rake her nails down

that lovely, contemptuous face. She said with no particular

expression, 'Well, I didn't labour under that particular

misapprehension for very long.' Celia giggled. 'No, indeed. It

can't be many men who are unfaithful to their wives during the

first year of marriage. Your little honeymoon didn't last long at

all.' She paused, her eyes fixed almost avidly on Laura's

mirrored reflection. 'And did you really not know about the

Tristan Construction connection? Don't you think the whole

thing's quite fascinating?' Laura shrugged, carelessly she hoped.

'It's hardly any of my concern. We're divorced ,remember?' 'How

could I forget?' Celia sounded gloating. 'And I'm glad you had

the sense to let him go without a struggle, Laura. It's never

very dignified fighting a battle you simply aren't capable of

winning.' Laura dug a last hairpin viciously into the top-knot

she'd created, almost transfixing her scalp in the process.

'Frankly, I don't think that aspect ever occurred to me.' She was

surprised to realise this was the truth. She'd been too hurt, too

shattered by Jason's infidelity to want to do anything but crawl

away and lick the wounds he'd inflicted. To somehow learn to

endure the blow she'd suffered to her new-found, fragile

confidence in her womanhood. 'It would have occurred to me,'

Celia said complacently. 'And I think—yes, I really do think

I'd have fought tooth and nail—and won. But that's the

difference between us, isn't it, sweetie?' 'One of them,

certainly,' Laura returned. Dissatisfied, she pulled the pins out

of her tawny hair and let it spill round her face again. 'So, I

can take it you won't start fighting now?' Celia lifted a hand

and studied its perfectly manicured nails. T don't think I

understand.' Laura picked up her jar of moisturiser and began to

apply it sparingly to her face and throat. 'Then think.' Celia's

voice sounded almost strident suddenly. 'He doesn't belong to you

anymore, as you've just admitted. In fact it's a moot point

whether he ever actually belonged to you at all, even if you did

wangle a wedding ring out of him. So, I take it you'll have no

real objection if I have him instead now?' Laura's mouth felt so

dry, she felt as if her lips might crack open and bleed as she

forced the words between them. 'No, I've no reason, and certainly

no right to object, but I should warn you your father may well

feel very differently. He never liked Jason or approved of him,

and I don't think he'll care for the fact that you've invited him

here this evening.' Celia smiled. 'He may not have liked the

penniless artist who married his little niece for her money,

then— done her wrong, as the saying is. But the Jason Wingard

who's now the managing director of a big, successful firm like

Tristan Construction is a very different proposition. He's no