How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams (27 page)

“I told you, twice,” I said, “the marriage was annulled donkey’s years ago.”

“But that hardly makes him a casual acquaintance, for God’s sake! They lived together, slept in the same bed, made love!”

“No, they didn’t.” I was becoming impatient. “Evangeline—now Mrs. Swabucher—and the brigadier never consummated their marriage. She freaked out on the wedding night and fled from the bridal bed, never to return.”

“The woman must be nuttier than a fruitcake. I’m surprised you let her go back to London on her own.”

“That’s unfair!” I bridled at this male viewpoint. “Her marriage to the brigadier took place over thirty years ago. It was a different era. She was a sheltered girl who didn’t have a clue about the facts of life.”

“Neither did I”—Ben folded his hands and assumed a
reflective pose—“but you didn’t have me bursting into tears on our wedding night and sobbing that I wanted my mummy.”

“I don’t know how you can sneer; the brigadier was a lot kinder. He understood that his bride had come to him thinking that intimacy meant a kiss on the lips while wearing only one’s night attire and marriage was sharing the same pot of marmalade.”

“Poor devil, I’m not surprised he never remarried after such a hellish experience.” Ben began to pace in front of the fireplace. “Is there any justice in this world? He meets up with the frightened virgin after all these years and discovers she found herself another husband and somehow managed to stick it out for the long haul. Or”—he raised a sardonic eyebrow—“are you about to tell me the
Swabucher
marriage was never consummated either?”

“Of course it was.” I settled a cushion behind my head and curled up in the chair. “But from what Mrs. Swabucher told me after Brigadier Lester-Smith left us, Reginald, having been married before, was mostly interested in companionship. He was a kind, sensitive man who took things slowly at the beginning and never made excessive demands.”

“What a champ!”

“I think he sounds a dear.”

“The sort of man
you
should have married?” Ben was now standing with one arm resting on the mantelpiece and I resented his tone of voice.

“We’re not talking about us.”

“Sorry, that was uncalled-for, wasn’t it? What I find curious is that Mrs. Swabucher ended up running an escort service. I wouldn’t have thought that was the business for a Victorian-minded woman.”

“As you should know from having worked for her,” I responded as gently as I could, “there was never anything seamy about Eligibility Escorts; I think she saw herself as a sort of fairy godmother, making sure no one had to go to the ball, the theatre, or the office party alone. She’s a very sweet woman and I always thought you were rather fond of her.”

“So I am; she brought us together.” Ben rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, Ellie, for being such a grouch. Sometimes
the long hours at Abigail’s catch up with me, but that’s no reason for me to snip at you. Your day can’t have been much fun. Vanessa mentioned this evening at Abigail’s that your friend Sylvia’s husband had died. There wasn’t time for her to give me any details because Abigail’s was so busy, but I understand he was our milkman. Did Mrs. Swabucher seem all right when she took off for London?”

“She was still a bit dazed.”

“Perhaps you should have asked her to spend the night.”

“I did suggest it, but she had to get back to discuss the weekend arrangements with Karisma.”

“Who?”

“Oh, cripes!” I bounced out of the chair and guiltily faced my husband. “I haven’t told you anything about that, have I? You don’t even know why Mrs. Swabucher came to see me.”

“You were afraid she wanted to rope you into some advertising campaign for Eligibility Escorts.”

“I was mistaken and I’m sorry, darling, for carrying on the way I did at Abigail’s. What it comes down to is that Mrs. S. is no longer in the escort business. She’s the business agent for—”

“The bloke with the funny name?”

“Exactly,” I said, and proceeded to explain the sequence of events that had ensured Miss Bunch’s memorial benefit would be an unqualified success.

“And we’re to entertain this Adonis for the weekend!” Ben did not sound particularly enthusiastic at being given the rare opportunity to host a celebrity who might be persuaded to give him some pointers on muscle-building. “Well, you’d better let me know what I’m to expect. For instance, does he wear regular clothes or just a G-string?”

“Don’t be silly!” I turned away to hide the blush that fired up my face. “If you are worried that having Karisma here will turn the house upside down, you’re mistaken. We don’t even have to cook for him. He’s bringing his own chef, along with his trainer, hairdresser, and I’m not sure who else.”

“You’re right, sweetheart, sounds hassle-free to me.” Ben crossed the room to lay a supportive hand on my
shoulder. “I should go outside and practice my Tarzan swing through the trees so I can compare notes with our guest when he arrives, but I think I’ll go upstairs to make sure Abbey and Tam are snug in their beds. Vanessa helped Gerta get them settled down and waited until I got home before she went out again with her fiancé, but I miss saying good night to the children.” He paused at the door and smiled rather wistfully. “Do you suppose that in addition to all his other attributes Karisma is the sensitive-male type?”

Something twisted deep inside me; but before I could answer, Ben was gone, and even as I took steps to follow him I heard a murmur of voices and Gerta came through the door. She looked cozy and completely wholesome in her wooly dressing gown, her braided hair coiled tidily around her head. Surely, I was the wacky one for listening to Vanessa’s snide suggestions that we had been harbouring a demented nanny in our midst.

“Frau Haskell,” she began, and her quiet voice and gentle manner did not make me feel any better about myself, “I am sorry to come in on you so late. I was in the hall on my way to make some hot milk, and I see Herr Haskell, who tells me you are in here alone.”

“My cousin is still out with George Malloy,” I said, wishing the guilt I felt did not make me sound so stiff. “Please come and sit down, Gerta, and tell me how the dinner at Abigail’s went.”

“It was very good.” Gerta sat down on the sofa, hands on her knees and a smile on her face. “Abbey and Tam they have a nice time and eat all on their plate. Mrs. Mop, she came too and she looked pleased. I think she gets to like your cousin, who is very nice even to me. Mr. Malloy made lots of jokes about me thinking he was a crazy man and telephoning the police station. We all laughed a lot and for a little while I forgot my troubles.”

“I’m glad,” I said, sitting beside her.

“But the pain is still here”—Gerta placed a hand over her heart—“that I am so glad you get me out of the house before that man arrives.”

“Karisma?”

“That’s him, Frau Haskell.” The plaits slipped from their anchors and plopped over her slumped shoulders.
“And now I see clear as daytime why you acted to save me.”

“You do?”

“Mrs. Mop had a book with that most-naked man on the cover. In her handbag at the restaurant. And when your cousin told her he was coming to this house, she showed him to me. It was almost more than I could bear without the tears landing on my face.”

“Oh, dear,” I murmured.

“He is so much like my husband.”

“Really?”

“The hair it is much longer and my Ernst always wears his trousers up to where they are supposed to be, not down around his personal parts, but otherwise they are the same man.”

“Good heavens!” I was beginning to wonder if Vanessa had been right after all. “You never said anything about this when you saw Karisma on television the other morning.”

“I was too upset that Mrs. Mop would let the children watch such a person, instead of the dinosaurs, to see what was in front of my face. And I have you to thank, Frau Haskell, for saving me from going wacky.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Gerta picked up my hand and planted an impassioned kiss upon it. “You remembered what I had told you about my Ernst and knew I could not be in the house with this unclad man. All that talk you made about him bringing lots of servant people and it being nice for me to have a quiet place of my own, it was your kind heart speaking. And I can never make enough strudel and dumplings to repay you.”

I was at a loss for words, but even had I attempted to say anything, my voice would have been drowned out when Gerta jerked her head towards the open window and let out a scream that threatened to shred the curtains end to end.

“He is here!” She was on her feet, hiding her face in her hands. “I must go to the cottage before he comes in and my mind is never the same again.”

“Karisma isn’t due here until tomorrow night,” I assured her, somewhat bewildered by her panic. “You must
have seen a shadow cast by one of the trees, or even more likely Ben went outside for a minute. It’s getting dark, so it’s not surprising you would confuse him with someone we were just talking about.”

This was not Ellie Haskell’s evening. At that very moment my husband came charging into the room with his eyebrows elevated to the middle of his forehead and steam coming out of his nostrils. “Who gave that bloody awful screech? I was all the way upstairs and it sounded as though a siren was going off inside my head.” So much for Ben being the lurker in the shadows. Gerta and I had both opened our mouths to explain, when the doorbell rang.

“That must be Vanessa and George,” I said even as my heart began to hop, skip, and jump. “Who else could it be?” There would have been no point in my saying that Gerta’s hypothesis was rubbish, because suddenly I was alone in the room. She had escaped, in fear and trembling, through the French windows into the courtyard and Ben had gone to open the front door.

“Good evening, I do not arrive too late at night I hope.”

The masculine voice of incredible sexiness was as recognizable to me as my own face in the mirror above the bookcase as I made frantic, futile attempts to smooth my hair and lick my lips into some semblance of desirability. Not only had I heard that voice on the television, I had known it always in some secret corner of my heart, possibly from time immemorial and certainly from the time I stopped reading
School Girl Annual
and walked the Yorkshire moors with Heathcliff’s namesake.

“Ellie, guess who just arrived?” My husband sounded politely enthused, but how he looked as he came back into the room is anyone’s guess. My eyes saw past my spouse to the embodiment of all my girlish dreams. Karisma! Here in the glorious flesh. He crowded out every sane thought with his magnificent height, powerful breadth of shoulders, flowing mane of hair, and those eyes that looked deep into my soul as if he too had been waiting a dozen lifetimes for this moment. He was indeed virility personified and—my heart slowed to an even thud—inhumanly handsome.

“Hello,” I said, amazingly still on my feet and able to
extend my hand. Only now did I focus on his clothes—blue jeans and a black leather jacket opened to the waist with not a stitch of shirt underneath. He wore them like a second skin.

“Giselle …” His smile would have melted the ice age as he bent and kissed the tips of each of my fingers. “It is so good of you and your husband to make me a guest in your home. But I have goofed”—the word sat enchantingly on his lips, given his deep-timbred continental accent—“I arrive on your doorstep before I am expected.”

“He and Mrs. Swabucher got their wires crossed.” With this interruption, Ben reminded me of
his
presence. “But I told Mr. Karisma there’s no problem. It won’t take more than half an hour to get a room ready for him, and I wasn’t going to bed for another five minutes anyway.”

“I intrude …” Karisma’s eyes darkened with anguish.

“Nonsense. Whatever gave you that idea?” Ben strolled between me and our guest to wave a hand at the sofas and chairs. “You can ring Mrs. Swabucher when she’s had time to reach home and let her know you’re here. In the meantime, why don’t you and Ellie sit down and I’ll fix you both a drink? A sherry for you, darling?” The voice was that of the devoted spouse, but the glance he gave me was inscrutable. “And what’s your pleasure, sir?”

Karisma had paused before the mirror to stand rumpling the tawny strands of his hair through his hand. His expression was perplexed as he turned around. “Forgive me, I did not catch what you said to me.”

“A drink?” Ben held up the crystal decanter from which he had been pouring my sherry. “I can offer you a fairly decent brandy, or would you prefer Scotch?”

“You are so kind, but if it is no problem I would prefer a glass of vegetable juice if you have some freshly made, or …” Taking the silence as a negative, he suggested, “I will take a mineral water.”

“From our very own springs.” My husband’s little joke bounced off Karisma, who in accepting the Perrier and lime pronounced it better than anything currently available on the market. Or was he being polite? The world’s most beautiful man was a mystery, I reminded myself, except on one subject.

“I
lorve
women,” he said.

Ben, not appreciating such exquisite sensitivity, merely raised an eyebrow.

“They are my intoxicating beverage.” Karisma leaned forward so that his classic features and incomparable bone structure made every other object, inanimate or otherwise, fade into the walls. He opened the room up to the sky. He
was
the room. “To me all women are beautiful. They feed my spirit, fuel my masculinity, and make music in my heart.”

“Excuse me if I get myself another drink.”

It was inexcusable of Ben to sound as if he were being driven to overindulgence, but Karisma did not appear to notice. He was looking at me as if I were an entire orchestra.

“Women have something that we men lack.” His expression became one of utmost tenderness, which only served to emphasize the sheer physical power of the man. “They have the gift of friendship. I know from looking into your eyes … Giselle … that you have many people in Chitterton Fells who turn to you when they need desperately for someone to make them feel part of the human race.”

“
She
has
me
.” The sound of Ben replacing the stopper exploded into the air like a gunshot, forcing me at last to find my voice.