The Bedroom Barter (23 page)

It had been a difficult homecoming. Her father had greeted her with the ominous calm which invariably preceded a storm. And the storm had not been long in coming.

Clive Greer had wasted no sympathy on his errant child, or the risks and dangers she'd endured. He'd dwelt instead on her stupidity, her credulity, and her stubborn recklessness.

'Do you realise I've had to pay out a bloody fortune to get you back in one piece?' he'd roared.

'Yes,' she said as pain slashed at her once again. 'I know.'

'And all to some soldier of fortune who doesn't know his place.' He glared at her. 'Oh, yes, madam. Jeffrey felt obliged to tell me what he'd discovered when he arrived—that you'd lost all sense of decency.'

'Of course,' she said with irony. 'Your good and faithful servant.'

'Not for much longer,' he retorted grimly. 'He's taking early retirement for some damned reason. So I'm losing my right hand, and I've got a daughter behaving like a tart with every unscrupulous bastard who crosses her path. Pretty good, eh?'

There wasn't too much she could say in her own defence, so she bowed her head to the onslaught and conserved her energy for the more important struggle to come.

The moment when she told her father that she was giving up her flat and taking a room in a house with three other girls who'd advertised for a fourth to share. And that, against all the odds, she'd found a job as a receptionist and filing clerk with a firm of accountants.

Sir Clive had resorted to his usual tactics, issuing commands one moment, cajoling the next Threats, Chellie thought wryly, bribery—he'd tried them all.

Even emotional blackmail had been brought into play. 'I'm not as young as I was,' he'd told her. 'And Jeffrey's decision to leave has been a blow. I need your help, Michelle, your support.'

'And I need a life of my own.' She'd remained rock-solid throughout, steadfast in her determination not to be browbeaten or persuaded back into her old role.

Then strike out on your own,' he'd shouted, angrier than she'd ever known him. 'But you'll get nothing from me, so don't come whingeing when you find yourself sleeping in a doorway.'

She'd not heard another word from him for almost a month, then he'd contacted her in person, instead of through his secretary.

Sounding oddly subdued, he'd asked if she would join him for lunch at his club.

She'd agreed to meet him against her own better judgement, afraid that he would start wheedling and manipulating, working to get her back into the fold.

Remembering how their previous battles had left her emotionally drained.

I can't start all that again, she thought I
can't
—even if it does make me a wimp. But I've just managed to achieve some equilibrium, and I don't want to be thrown off balance again.

But the meal had gone better than she expected, probably because they'd adhered rigidly to strictly neutral topics of conversation.

All the same, she was sure that he was biding his time, circling round her, looking for a chink in her armour.

And he'd almost found it with Aynsbridge. She'd enjoyed being at the big Sussex country house more than anything else in her life, and when he'd mentioned almost casually that he was giving a small house party, and asked if she'd care to join it, she'd been tempted.

But then she'd seen it-—the small, betraying gleam of triumph—and offered her regrets instead. He'd concealed his chagrin well, but she knew it wouldn't be his last attempt to make her dance to his tune, and that she needed to be wary.

He was sitting at his usual corner table, a buff envelope conspicuous on the white linen cloth. He rose as she approached.

'You're losing weight,' he commented abruptly as Chellie sat down.

'You're clearly not eating properly.'

'I'm fine,' she said. 'And I have three meals a day, in-eluding dinner. Everyone in the house has to take a turn in getting it ready, so some of the meals are pretty weird.'

He grunted, clearly uninterested in her domestic arrangements. 'You look pale, too.'

'My Caribbean tan didn't last long.' She kept her tone light, but wondered when she saw his mouth tighten and his fist clench on the envelope.

'So,' he said; as the soup was served. 'Still in that deadend job?'

She smiled. 'It pays the rent—and for my singing lessons.'

His brows snapped together in the old thunderous way that used to frighten her. 'So you're still going on with that nonsence?'

'It's something I enjoy,' she returned composedly. 'And other people seem to enjoy it too. Jordan, who's teaching me, has managed to fix me up with a couple of gigs. I've actually been paid for them, too. And I'm singing at another tomorrow night,' she added. 'A private party. Someone's birthday.'

His frown deepened. 'Not using your own name, I hope?'

'I call myself Chellie,' she said 'But I drop the Greer part.' She paused. 'Father—why do you hate it so much? My singing?'

He did not look at her. 'Because it took your mother away from me,' he said roughly at last 'She was never—just my wife, as I wanted her to be.' He glared at her. 'Satisfied?'

She was silent for a moment. 'They say the more you let people go, the more willing they are to return to you.'

'What Christmas cracker did that come from?' Sir Clive asked with contempt 'And who's come back to you lately? Not your gallant rescuer, I bet.'

She put her soup spoon down very carefully. 'No.'

'You won't either,' he said. 'I had him fired from that company he worked for. Told them I'd see them ruined if he stayed.' He paused. 'I dare say he wishes now he hadn't been so hasty, sending back his share of the money I paid them.' He smiled grimly. 'An expensive gesture, that, for someone who lives by his wits. It'll be a cold day in hell before he earns that much again.'

There was a sudden roaring in Chellie's ears, and she felt numb. She said, in a voice she hardly recognised, 'You're saying—Ash—sent back the money?'

'Yes.' He pushed the envelope towards her. 'It's all here in the report he submitted before he left, and the final statement from the company. He sent the cheque back himself.'

'Did he explain why?'

'Oh, there was a note with some arrogant comment about blood money. I tore it up.' He paused. 'Do you want to read the report? See what you cost me?'

She shook her head. Her voice was desperate. 'Father— the note—did—did it mention me?'

His eyes narrowed. 'No, and just as well. He's out of the company and out of your life too.'

'And that was your doing.' She closed her eyes, feeling sick. 'How could you?'

'I employed him to save you from the consequences of your own criminal foolishness.' Sir dive's voice was harsh. 'Not to take advantage of the situation and seduce
my
daughter.'

Chellie stood up, trying to control her unsteady breathing. She said, 'I have news for you, Father. It was the other way round—I seduced him. And there hasn't been a day or a night since when I haven't missed him, or wanted him. And if he was here now, I'd tell him that I loved him.'

As she turned to leave, Sir dive rose too. 'Where do you think you're going?'

'To find him,' she said. 'If it's not too late.'

'Then you're a fool.' The word cracked at her. 'And I've not time for fools, Michelle, so be warned. I forgave you once, but it won't happen again.

'Is this what you call having a life of your own?' her father demanded scornfully. 'Chasing a man who hasn't given you a second thought since you climbed out of his bed.'

'Oh, but you're wrong,' Chellie told him gently. 'He's given me much more than that. He's given me my life.'

She snatched up her coat, and was gone.

'Here are those earrings you wanted to borrow.' Jan wandered into Chellie's room after a perfunctory knock and paused, frowning. 'Hey, you're going to a party tonight, not a funeral. What's the matter?'

'I haven't had a very good day.' Chellie bit her lip. 'I've been trying to trace someone—an old friend—and so far I've had no luck at all.'

'The old friend being a man, of course?'

'Yes,' Chellie admitted. 'How did you know?'

'You've been crying.' Jan shrugged. 'It figures.'

'Oh, God, does it still show?' Chellie gave herself a distracted look in the mirror. 'I've been bathing my eyes too.'

'Well, don't worry about it' Jan gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. 'Lorna's got some miracle eye-drops. You'll be fine.' She looked Chellie over. 'And that's a wonderful dress. I've never seen it before.'

'I've never worn it before.' The silvery material shimmered enticingly as she moved. 'But tonight I just—thought I would.'

'So who's giving this party?'

'A girl called Angela Westlake—or rather her parents. It's her twenty-first birthday, and they approached Jordan and asked if he'd play the piano during supper, and whether he knew anyone who would sing.'

Jan grinned at her. 'If you're not careful, honey, you could end up famous. Just remember who loaned you the earrings that got you your start,' she added as she went off to fetch the drops.

Left to herself again, Chellie applied blusher without enthusiasm, staring at herself with haunted eyes. She'd really believed it would be so simple to find Ash. That it would take one phone call.

But when she'd finally screwed up the courage to ring the security company she'd been completely blanked by a frosty woman who'd told her they never revealed details about past or present employees.

Her only other hope was to telephone Arcadie. It was the nearest thing he had to a sanctuary, after all, she reminded herself. He might have gone to ground there while he considered his options. And while he licked his wounds too.

But the international operator had been unable to help either. St Hilaire had no listing for anyone called Howard.

So it was
impasse
, thought Chellie drearily. She couldn't afford to hire a private detective to find Ash, or go to the Caribbean and search for herself. Besides, she was unsure what she might find at Arcadie. There was still the unresolved question of Julie Howard, who might now have gained a new importance in his life. Or reasserted her former supremacy.

She might have leapt to the wrong conclusion about the money, too. Who said he'd returned it because of some feeling he still might have for her? Maybe—and more likely— it was simply Ash's way of drawing a line under an episode he now wished to forget. After all, their association hadn't done him much good, so perhaps he was clearing away the debris of the past.

And maybe it was wiser—healthier—for her to do the same.

She picked up her lipstick, put it down again, and closed her eyes.

If only, she thought, it could be that easy. But it wasn't. Ash was in her waking thoughts every hour of the day, and at night she tossed restlessly from side to side of the bed, consumed with longing. Burning up for him.

So she wasn't prepared to give up just yet. Not while there was an atom of hope—another avenue to pursue. And, of course, there was.

Laurent, she thought, her lips quivering into a smile. Laurent Massim. He and Ash sailed together, but they were also friends. He must know where Ash was.

And if he can't tell me, she thought, I'll know that Ash really doesn't want to be found. And, however hard it may be, I'll stop looking.

She looked at her watch. No time to call the operator this evening, of course. She had a party to attend, a professional engagement to fulfil. But tomorrow would be a different story.

She lifted her chin. I will do this, she told herself. It's not over yet.

The party was being held in a tall house in a leafy square. It was in fall swing when they arrived. They were greeted by the hostess, a tall, attractive girl with a pleasant smile.

'Hi,' she said. 'So you're Jordan.' Chellie found herself being given a friendly but minute inspection. 'And you, of course, must be Chellie.' The smile widened. 'It's good to meet you. If you put your coats in the downstairs cloakroom, I'll show you where you'll be performing.'

They were taken down to a large basement room, covering almost all of the lower ground floor, where the supper was to be served.