Old Desires/A Stranger's Kiss (2-in-1 edition) (3 page)

Her hand moved in swift, angry strokes over the paper and in seconds a caricature of Joshua Kent sneered back at her, the exaggerated curve of his lower lip a sensual counterpoint to her savage portrayal of the man.

Holly stared in horror at what she had done. At college her caricatures were always in demand for special occasions and newsletters, and she had drawn them of students and lecturers alike with humour and affection. But this was deeply personal and the intensity of it almost scared her.

What on earth was it about him that brought out the very worst in her? It was as if from the moment she had opened the door to his imperious ring some basic instinct had sent up a warning signal that he was trouble and she must be on her guard.

Tentatively, almost reluctantly, her finger traced the lines she had drawn. It was a cruel portrait. And not quite true. It missed something she had glimpsed, very briefly, in that moment she had turned from the window.

Something he was taking great pains to hide from her.

Holly shivered convulsively. She didn’t know why she had come to Ashbrooke. Why he had insisted that she come. But it had to be more than a childhood memory of a pretty face blanked with pain that she knew had been caused by her.

* * *

He was prompt, but she hadn’t expected anything else. She hadn’t packed anything very grand — she didn’t have anything grand to pack — but she had twisted her hair up into a smooth chignon and her dark blue dress had a classic simplicity that would take it to most places without raising an eyebrow. However, it was clearly not up to the dining-room at Ashbrooke Hall.

‘You’d better bring a coat. We’ll go to a restaurant in the town, rather than eat here. It’ll be quieter.’

‘If you’d prefer not to be seen with me, Mr Kent, just say so. I would be perfectly happy with something on a tray in my room.’

Her comment apparently hit the mark.

‘It’s nothing to do with your appearance. You look … charming.’

Holly wondered why it had hurt him so much to say that, it had almost been torn from him, but she opened her wardrobe and took out her grey coat.

When she turned back he was idly turning the pages of her sketchpad.

‘No…’ She took half a step towards him, but it was too late.

He was staring at the appalling caricature. She held her breath, but there was no reaction. No exclamation of rage.

Nothing. He simply closed the pad and looked up at her. ‘Ready? Then we’ll go.’

It was a quite terrifying demonstration of self-control and she was still holding her breath as they walked through reception, expecting a delayed eruption. But fate was kind.

‘Joshua, darling, you’re home!’ A dark-haired beauty kissed his cheek and looked as if she would have liked to do considerably more if the place had been less public and they had been alone.  ‘How long are you staying?’

‘Just a few days.’

‘Back for Mary’s funeral?’ Joshua Kent glanced at the man behind the woman but he didn’t wait for an answer, instead turning to her. ‘And who’s this?’ he asked, eyeing her with interest.

‘Holly Carpenter. Lisa and Brian Stamford.’ The introduction was brief almost to the point of rudeness. ‘Holly was Mary’s cousin,’ he added, as if he found it necessary to explain why he was with her. Maybe he did. Holly had not missed the hungry expression in the woman’s eyes.

‘Why don’t you join us for dinner?’ Lisa suggested hopefully.

Brian unexpectedly intervened. ‘Don’t be silly, Lisa. The girl won’t want to be dancing the night before the funeral of her —’ he glanced enquiringly at Joshua ‘—cousin, did you say?’

He nodded.

Brian Stamford regarded her for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Astonishing.’ He turned back to Lisa. ‘Josh will be taking her somewhere quiet.’

‘The Ship,’ Joshua confirmed.

Brian nodded. ‘Good food. You’ll enjoy it,’ he added for her benefit, and patted her hand. ‘My condolences to you, m’dear. We’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Shall we go?’ Joshua prompted.

Feeling about six inches tall. Holly knew that, no matter how much it might stick in her throat, she had to apologise to the man. She hadn’t known Mary, but he had and she doubted very much if he felt like dancing or even eating in such an atmosphere.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Kent. I didn’t realise.’

‘There’s no reason why you should know that the Hall has a regular dinner-dance on Wednesday evenings,’ he said rather brusquely. Then he unbent sufficiently to say, ‘I’d prefer it if you called me Joshua.’

If Holly thought this tokened a thaw in his attitude to her she was quickly disabused of any such notion.

He was grimly quiet in the car and at the restaurant they were ushered to a seat as far from public view as possible, which she thought was taking things a little bit far. Not that she was prepared to say so.

She was too aware of some strong emotion, firmly suppressed for the moment, but smouldering dangerously just below the chill mask of civility, and she was glad to take refuge behind the menu.

But she couldn’t concentrate. Why was he was so antagonistic towards her? She had just about screwed herself up to the point of demanding to know what she had done to make him dislike her so much, when his voice cut across her thoughts.

‘Have you made a decision? Or do you need a little longer?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, making an effort to pull herself together. ‘I was thinking—’

‘Were you? You have my sympathy.’ His voice, heavy with irony, made her look up. ‘Your thoughts cannot be very comfortable to live with right now.’

Her temper flared.

‘I was thinking about you, Mr Kent. I leave you to make your own decision as to how enjoyable an exercise that might be.’

‘I see,’ he said.

‘I doubt it. It would be impossible for someone with your insufferable arrogance to understand how unbearable you’ve been.’ She glanced quickly at the menu and chose the first thing that she saw. It hardly mattered what it was. Her appetite was practically non-existent and the sooner she could get back to the privacy of her room, the better she would like it.

He summoned the waiter to give him their order and then sat back in his chair, his eyes firmly fixed on her.

‘Mary told me that you’re a painter.’

‘You talked about me?’

‘It seemed to help her. Not surprisingly, you were on her mind a great deal at the end.’ His mouth tightened, but he was apparently making some sort of effort to be civil, so perhaps her words had struck a nerve. ‘Are you any good?’

She wasn’t used to people asking her to pass judgement on her own work and, confused by his constant switching of attack, she hardly knew what to say. ‘I paint pictures that people like. They buy them, anyway. Water colours,
mostly.’

‘Pretty landscapes?’ he suggested, making no attempt to conceal his contempt.

She reflected on the series she had almost finished for the gallery. Bread-and-butter pictures in the main and she acknowledged that there was some truth in his remark, no matter how much it hurt. ‘If you like. But I do other things.’

‘Well, you’ll find plenty around here to paint.’

‘I tried this afternoon. But I’m afraid I couldn’t concentrate.’

‘Yes,’ he said, drily. ‘I noticed. You don’t confine yourself entirely to landscapes.’ She was thankful that the lighting was dim enough to hide the shaming flush that darkened her cheeks.

‘No, not entirely,’ she confessed, then, desperate to turn the conversation to less dangerous subjects, she asked, ‘Do you live in Ashbrooke, Mr Kent?’

‘When I’m not in London. I own Ashbrooke Hall.’

‘Ashbrooke…’ She was stunned. ‘I hadn’t realised — you hardly seem…’

‘The type to run a hotel?’ he finished for her. He twirled the stem of his glass. ‘I’m not. I don’t. And I thought I’d asked you to call me Joshua?’ He shrugged. ‘It was my family home. By the time my sisters were married and it was just my father and me rattling around in it like a couple of bones it seemed a bit pointless.’

‘But it’s lovely,’ she protested.

‘Yes. It is.’ His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile. ‘It would be dreadfully selfish to keep it all to myself, don’t you think?’ She acknowledged his smile.

‘How very altruistic of you, Mr Kent. Joshua,’ she said, quickly.

‘Do you think so, Holly?’ he said, stressing her name, and she almost thought he might be making fun of her. But that seemed highly unlikely. ‘It’s just good business. My father wanted to live in France so I bought him out and leased the place to an Italian hotelier who was looking for a base to launch himself in England.’

‘Only leased?’ she asked.

‘At the time I couldn’t quite bring myself to let it go entirely.’

‘But now you can?’ Because Mary was dead? Had they been
that
close?

‘Frankly, it makes a much better hotel. It’s been a great success and Luigi is anxious to make the arrangement permanent. Perhaps it’s the right time to cut myself loose.’

‘That’s rather sad.’

‘Sad?’ He considered the matter for a moment. ‘The end of an era perhaps. And no bad thing. Those sort of houses were fine when you could employ armies of cheap labour to run them.’

‘If you weren’t part of the army,’ she pointed out.

‘If you weren’t part of the army,’ he agreed, with a sudden smile. ‘And meanwhile you, Holly, have the pleasure of sleeping in my four-poster bed.’

‘Your bed?’ The image of his dark head against the lace-edged pillow, the broad shoulders, a naked chest sprinkled with dark hair revealed as he threw back the cover to invite her in brought a slow burn to her cheeks, exposing her to his ridicule.

‘Does that bother you?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said quickly.

‘Why should it?’

‘No reason. But I would have thought an enquiry as to whether I was still using it before you answered in the negative was advisable. Or maybe you’re not that fussy.’ He looked up. ‘Ah, here’s our dinner at last.’

Relief at the interruption to the conversation was so overwhelming that she left his insult unchallenged. But when, on their return to the hotel, he insisted on seeing her to her room she began to feel a little nervous. His hand at her back was possessive; he was at home here, master of all he surveyed. He unlocked the door and stood back to let her enter.

She turned abruptly in the doorway. ‘Goodnight, Joshua. Thank you for dinner.’

‘I think I can safely claim that the pleasure was all mine, Holly.’ He handed her the key. ‘Better make sure you lock your door.’

He stepped back and she shut the door and turned the key. She then had the humiliation of hearing him laughing all the way down the corridor.

‘Hateful man,’ she said. But she spent the night imagining that the room smelt faintly of something indefinable that was Joshua Kent.

* * *

Holly had been certain that it would rain. Funerals were linked in her mind with rain. But the sun was shining as Joshua parked outside the little grey stone church.

It was already crowded with people and she was conscious of a great many eyes on her as he introduced her to the vicar before leading her up the aisle of the church to her seat in the front pew. She wanted to protest that it wasn’t her place, but it was hardly the time to make a fuss, so she slid on to the ancient seat and he sat alongside her and handed her the order of the service, and she was glad, despite everything, to have his strength at her side as the occasion threatened to overwhelm her.

Afterwards Mary’s friends crowded into her pretty cream and pink drawing-room for tea. All the while Joshua kept close to her elbow, fielding the intense small town curiosity about the stranger, introducing her again and again as, ‘Holly Carpenter, Mary’s cousin...’ as if it was somehow important to stress the relationship.

At least the constant need to shake hands and smile kept at bay the unhappy memories of her mother’s funeral on the cold, wet Christmas Eve that had been her twenty-first birthday. Finally, though, people began to drift away and Joshua, who had momentarily disappeared, was at her side.

‘Marcus wants you in the study now, Holly.’ He ushered her across the hall into the small study where Mary’s solicitor, Marcus Lynton, was settled with his papers. They had already been introduced and he looked up and smiled.

‘Sit down, Miss Carpenter, Joshua. This won’t take long.’ He looked over his spectacles at the pair of them, and when he was satisfied that he had their undivided attention he began to read the last will and testament of Mary Elizabeth Graham.

As she listened, Holly felt more and more confused. Her glance involuntarily flickered across the room to the stony figure of Joshua Kent, expecting him any moment to leap up and announce that he would be contesting every line of Mary Graham’s will. But presumably he already knew its contents. In any event he said nothing, but the stiff disapproval of his features spoke volumes.

‘It will take a week or two for all the formalities to be settled.’ The solicitor’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘But you won’t have to bother about any of that. Joshua, as executor, will deal with everything for you,’ he said, under the mistaken impression that this information would reassure her. ‘Naturally, you will have access to whatever sum you need for your immediate use. As for the house, you will no doubt wish to take advice about selling it. Unless of course,’ he went on, ‘you plan to move to Ashbrooke? It is a wonderful place to live and this is a lovely house.’