Sweet Bondage (2 page)

‘I didn't mean anything,' Glenda said quickly, biting her lower lip. She added crossly, ‘I'd rather be bored than in the mess I'm in.'

‘I'm sure Daddy will get you out of it. Contrition quickly followed the thought Perhaps Glenda was in real trouble. She was certainly the type to attract it.

‘I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let fly at you. Is there anything I can do to help?' It was not in her nature to shout at someone because she was feeling let down by life and too inadequate to do anything about it. Regretting her outburst, she said, ‘Why don't you talk about it? It might help.'

‘What could you do?' The contempt in Glenda's tone didn't match the speculation in her eyes, which had been there from the moment she'd caught sight of Gemma sitting in the cafe and been prompted to come in and join her.

‘I could listen,' Gemma sugested, ignorant of what was in the other girl's mind.

Glenda's chin lowered. Her expression turned guarded in a way that was almost furtive. ‘It's all been talked out, and everything has been decided very sensibly and rationally—but not by me. I suppose I'll take the course I've been told I must take, but that's not the point. It should be my decision. Don't you agree?'

‘Oh, yes, most definitely,' Gemma said,
though
with no idea what she was agreeing to.

Glenda's chin lifted and a smile of self-indulgence came to her mouth. ‘Thank you. I knew that you would be on my side.'

‘Hang on a minute. I'm not taking sides. How can I when I don't know what it's all about?'

‘And I know that you would help me if you could,' Glenda continued as if Gemma hadn't spoken.

‘If I could, yes,' Gemma admitted lamely, ‘but I don't see—'

‘I've got to get away—away from them
both.
What's the good of escaping from the clutches of a domineering father to fall under the influence of someone who shows all the signs of being even more domineering still? I refuse to be bullied into doing something I might regret later. I've got to think this out for myself.'

‘Well—good for you,' Gemma applauded.

What did one say in such circumstances? Even if she didn't know what was going on she agreed with Glenda's verdict of having the right to decide her own destiny. Hadn't her own thoughts just run a similar course and arrived at this same conclusion?

Changing the subject, Glenda said, ‘My car was making a funny noise when I drove into town this morning.'

Gemma bit back the unsympathetic retort that it had sounded all right to her when
Glenda
had attempted to run her off the road and let her finish what she was saying.

‘I've taken it to the garage that does Daddy's cars, but—and it's a terrible nuisance—they're so jammed that they can't look at it for at least an hour and I need transport now.'

Gemma would have thought that the Channing account was too valuable for Glenda not to snap her fingers and get instant service. Her eyebrows lifted speculatively.

The implied question was ignored as Glenda's doll-blue eyes widened in appeal. ‘I wouldn't ask if the situation wasn't desperate, but . . . No,' she said, her lashes sweeping down in a gesture that conveyed despair and touched Gemma's heart, ‘it's not fair of me.' She sighed. ‘I can't ask.'

Gemma would have been very dull indeed not to know what she was getting at. Without hesitation she opened her bag, ironically the same clutch bag which had originally belonged to Glenda, took out her car keys and placed them on the table. ‘If it isn't too much of a come-down and you really do
need
transport that badly, my car is parked in the square. You're welcome to borrow it.'

Glenda's mouth lifted in triumphant laughter. ‘Do you mean it?' And then, before Gemma could have second thoughts, ‘Thanks so much, you don't know what this means to me.' To which she added the unexpected rider,
because
a daughter of Clifford Channing had not been brought up to think of anyone but herself, ‘How will you get home?'

‘Don't worry about me. I'll catch the bus.'

Again there was something not quite genuine in Glenda's smile. ‘No, I've a better idea. Why don't you collect my car for me—if you're up to it?'

That ominously thrown taunt was no doubt meant to pay Gemma back for suggesting it would be a come-down for Glenda to drive the Mini and, if she were frank about this, she wasn't up to driving Glenda's car. It was as if Fate had been listening to her petty grumbles about the dullness and lack of purpose in her life and had said, ‘Right, this girl needs to be taught a lesson.' It had thrown down the gauntlet and there was nothing Gemma could do but pick it up—pick up Glenda's car for her from the garage and accept the challenge.

‘If you trust me with it, I'll collect it with pleasure,' she announced.

‘Splendid!' Glenda said, sealing the bargain. ‘Meridith's look after Daddy's cars, as you probably know. The mechanic said he'd leave it in the forecourt when it was ready. Here—you'll need the keys.' She placed them on the table. ‘Why the look of surprise?'

‘Oh . . . nothing really. I just thought the keys would have been left with the mechanic. I always have to leave my keys when I take my Mini in for service. I suppose they've got
spares
for yours?'

‘Er . . . yes, that's it. The garage keeps spares.'

‘How shall we change back? Would you like me to come round to The Hall this evening to effect the swap?'

‘Yes, do that.' A smile played about Glenda's mouth. ‘Come in time for cocktails,
if you can make it,'
she added softly.

‘I've nothing else arranged,' Gemma said in acceptance. Cocktails at The Hall! That was one for the book. ‘Thank you, I'll look forward to it.'

‘Good.' A waitress, who had apparently just spotted Glenda, came hurrying forward to take her order. Glenda forestalled her by standing up. ‘Now that I've got wheels I don't think I'll bother with coffee after all. The service here is getting dreadful. See you later,' she called over her shoulder as she walked out, a smug, self-satisfied look on her face.

Gemma was unable to give the generous slice of gateau she had ordered with her coffee the concentration it deserved as she thought about what to wear for ‘cocktails at The Hall.' The soft pink that suited her milk and roses complexion? Or would the dramatic blue that tended to drown her delicate coloring but made the most of her figure be better? And all the while something about Glenda's manner puzzled her, the mysterious smile on her lips, the way her words seemed to have a double
meaning,
and her gratitude for the loan of Gemma's car when it would have been so easy for her to call a taxi.

It wasn't until she went for her bag to pay her bill and her fingers closed round unfamiliar black patent leather that she realized Glenda had taken the wrong handbag. She could see how it had happened. Glenda must have forgotten discarding the dove-gray clutch bag. She had seen it on the table, a familiar possession, and picked it up without thinking.

Gemma felt guilty at having to dip into Glenda's purse to pay for her coffee and cake, but there was no alternative. She would have to recompense Glenda later.

On leaving the cafe she made straight for the square, hoping to catch Glenda before she got away and exchange handbags, but her red Mini wasn't there. She'd tried; there was nothing more she could do except wait until she saw Glenda this evening when she returned the car. She shoved the matter of the handbags to the back of her mind and enjoyed her browsing. A lack of money and her own disinclination to make free with Glenda's stopped her from buying the intended groceries.

When she judged that sufficient time had elapsed she made her way to Meridith's garage. The white Lincoln Continental was parked in the forecourt, just as Glenda had
said
it would be. The shoes she would have preferred to drive in were in her Mini. She looked down at her boots, wondering whether to take them off and drive in her stockinged feet, but decided against it. She'd see how it went. She unlocked the car door, settled herself in and, rather nervous and unsure of herself, drove off.

The mechanic had done his stuff because the engine wasn't making any funny noises now but was singing as sweetly as a bird. At first she was frightened that she wouldn't be able to gauge the car's unfamiliar width and length and hung back rather than take the risk of overtaking. But a strange thing happened. Sitting behind the wheel of such a lovely vehicle gave her confidence, or perhaps some of Glenda's panache had rubbed off onto her, because she began to enjoy the new experience. She almost didn't take the Ash-le-dale road, toying with the idea of first going for a drive round, but thought better of it. She was a punctilious soul and she hadn't asked Glenda's permission.

Rounding a bend she saw a stationary car just a little way ahead. It wasn't a car she recognized as belonging to anyone local. It was dark blue in color, long, with classic lines, and like Glenda's car it was geared for speed but stuck on a road more suitable for the slow pace of a farm tractor. For the unwary these bends could be tricky and Gemma's first
thought
was that it had come round too fast and spun out of control. She was relieved to see no sign of damage to indicate that it had crashed into anything. It must simply have broken down. She would have stopped in any case at this obvious sign of trouble even if she hadn't been obliged to do so because it was parked in a way that left her insufficient room to pass.

She wound down her window with the idea of calling out and asking if help was wanted and saw that the driver of the car was coming toward her.

The sight of the car had stirred her curiosity; its owner aroused her interest. He was certainly worthy of being looked at. He wasn't handsome in a picture postcard way, but bold handsome, with a shock of black hair crowning a well-shaped head and slightly forbidding features. A nose that could be described as aquiline, a strong mouth, a granite chin. A somewhat somber face with eyes to match which appeared black from a distance, but as he got nearer she saw they were an unusual shade of olive. He was tall, a giant of a man combining broad shoulders and muscular strength yet having the lean physique of someone who keeps trim with a healthy diet and regular exercise.

He presented an awesome figure as he came striding toward her. Her pulse started to race in automatic reaction to the magnificence of
him,
or was it something to do with the way he came at her that made her feel—odd choice of thought, but—menaced?

‘Run the car onto the grass verge,' he instructed without preamble.

He spoke in an educated voice with just the trace of a Scottish accent. He looked normal enough, but you could never tell and she decided that it might be wise to humor him.

‘Now why should I want to do that?' she inquired in her most pleasant conversational tone.

‘For safety's sake, obviously. To leave it where it is would be asking for an accident.'

‘But I'm not leaving it here.'

‘No?'

‘No!' This was getting to be ridiculous. Even men as divinely, spectacularly handsome as he was could not go round ordering people about, defenseless females at that, in this bombastic manner. ‘I'm not in the mood for games. I don't know what this is all about and I don't have the time to spare to find out. So would you be kind enough to move
your
car to the side of the road and give me room to pass?'

‘You don't know what it's all about, do you?' he scoffed. ‘Well, I'm very much afraid that I do.' Without more ado he reached through the window and released the catch to open her door.

‘I demand to know what you think you're doing.' She gasped, giving full vent to her fury
at
this outrage.

‘Move over. I'll drive it onto the verge. Even if you're irresponsible enough to leave it where it is, I'm not.'

‘Now look here—' For all his dark-faced Highland laird appearance, she wasn't going to stand for his battling warrior tactics. ‘Just what do you think you're—'

‘Move! Unless you want me to sit on you and crush you.'

He looked as if he would. She wriggled onto the other seat, more furious than frightened. He started up the engine and drove the car onto the verge where it wouldn't constitute a hazard.

‘Now that that's safely out of the way and no unsuspecting motorist is likely to run into it, are you coming with me voluntarily or do I have to take you by force?'

Suddenly it hit her. It was an abduction plot. A laugh that had its origins in hysteria rose in her throat. A kidnapper with a moral conscience, ensuring that no one got hurt! She hoped his consideration would be extended to her.

But why should he want to kidnap her? What would be the profit? There wouldn't be any. Oh dear! Her brain must be on the blink not to have realized this immediately. He thinks I'm Glenda, she thought wildly. He must think she was Glenda Channing because there would be no gain in kidnapping Gemma
Coleridge,
who didn't have one rich relative in the world to fly to her assistance. But Glenda Channing was a different proposition altogether. He would be able to demand a big ransom for her.

She must not panic. All she had to do was explain things to him and everything would be all right.

‘You've made a mistake,' she said in as steady a voice as she could muster. ‘I realize you think I'm Glenda Channing, because I'm driving her car, but I'm not. My name is Gemma Coleridge.'

His head swiveled round and down to fix on her face. His eyes narrowed as he considered. ‘I've never met the girl, admittedly, but you fit the overall description. Early twenties, tiny little thing, blond hair, a face that's easy on the eye, and a figure that's hard on the blood pressure—masculine viewpoint, of course.'