When She Was Bad... (40 page)

Lita didn’t want to confront him about it. But she knew she had to. They had been dating now for almost two months. And she didnTt want to believe that she had chosen wrong again with Mark, too. Because then she might never be able to trust her own judgement again.

She planned and plotted but could never bring herself to say anything, and then finally she blurted it out in the street, when they

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were walking down Piccadilly on their way to Hamley’s to look for a doll for Mark’s niece.

‘Yes, I need to talk to you about that.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been putting it off.’

‘Oh, God,’ Lita said, looking horrified. ‘You’re gay.’

‘What?’ Mark’s eyes rounded with shock, then he started to laugh. ‘Dear God, no. What the hell would I be doing dating you if I were gay?’ His eyes flickered over her body appreciatively. ‘Let me tell you something, honey, you’re no Twiggy. No gay man wants anything to do with those curves.’

‘Then what the hell is it?’ Lita demanded.

‘Let’s go and have lunch,’ Mark said.

He took her to a pub, the Duke of Sussex, and settled them into one of those dark, musty-smelling banquettes with the polished wood sides and faded velvet seats that Lita was coming to appreciate, in a back room far away from the jukebox and the TV set showing Arsenal vs. Coventry. Mark ordered scampi and a couple of pints, then sat opposite her and started to fidget.

‘You don’t need to be nervous,’ Lita said, though her heart was thudding. ‘We can work through it, whatever it is. Are you … you know …?’

‘Impotent? Nope. I’m in perfect working order.’ His eyes trickled

over her breasts again. ‘And dating you, that can sometimes be a trial.’ ‘Then I don’t get it. I thought you found me attractive.’

‘I do. God, you don’t know how bloody much. I think of you all the time. I’m glad I’m not a surgeon - I could get distracted any minute. I’d be a menace to the poor sod on the operating table.’

The waiter came and laid down their food. Lita’s fingers drummed on

the table with impatience. She couldn’t wait for him to leave.

‘The thing is.’ He sighed. ‘I’m a Catholic.’

Lita stared at him. ‘I know. What difference does that make?’

‘I’m practising. I actually believe in it. I want to wait until I get married.’

‘You’re a virgin!’ she almost shouted.

Mark grimaced. ‘A bit louder, babe, I don’t think they heard you in Scotland. And actually, no, I’m not. When I was a teenager … But now … This is what I want.’

‘But … we could be waiting for ever,’ Lita said.

He looked at her wolfishly. ‘That depends on you, doesn’t it?’

She paused, then let the blush spread richly over her face. ‘You’re kidding. You want to marry me?’

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‘Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?’

She thought oflupert and Edward. ‘I don’t know. The other guys I was with …’

‘The other guys you were with were arseholes,’ Mark said. ‘And I’m not.

Logan drove her back late, as the sky’s red and gold streaks were already fading to blue and the twilight darkened across the Shropshire hills. Becky couldn’t stop looking at him, could hardly bear to take her eyes off him. She felt his touch across every inch of her skin, where he had caressed her like he wanted to feel every part of her, from the firm, smooth skin on the inside of her thighs to the delicate bone of her ankle and the high dancer’s arch of her instep.

‘I want to come back with you, but I can’t.’

Becky suppressed a stab of disappointment. ‘I understand.’

‘I already blew the whole day off, and I have to get back to the office and make calls. But I’ll be down to Fairfield tomorrow, day after at the latest.’

‘OK.’ She picked a few grass strands from her clothes. ‘I guess I’ll see you there, then.’

She wasn’t going to get too stressed about it. Logan was the one for her. There was no doubt in her mind.

When she got back, he called to apologize and say there had been a delay. It would take six weeks to finish up the job he was on currently, because the owner had messed up a garden wall and it had collapsed, wrecking his hothouse. Becky was wretched, more so when Tracy took

the phone from her boss and asked Becky to send the new cheque. ‘Of course,’ she said coldly, and put it in the mail that day.

‘Will you come down on weekends?’ she asked Logan when they next spoke. His low chuckle was maddening, sexy and too far away.

‘No, baby. I want to get t’ job done, so I can spend the right time with you. And we’ll figure it out from there. Besides, you’ll be flying off to t’ Scilly Isles soon.’

‘That’s right.’ She had spilled her guts out to him on her plans for selling the hotel and starting a new business.

‘Better I do this than twiddle my thumbs[ I’m not good on the phone, sugar. I’ll see you soon, all fight?’

‘Calm down,’ Sharon said when she saw her face. ‘My God, I’ve never seen a man get you like this.’

‘He’s a jerk,’ Becky said, furious at being blown off.

‘I thought he was the best lover in history.’

‘I must have been dreaming. Come on, get in the car.’

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‘Where are we going?’

‘We’re going to the Scilly Isles,’ Becky said angrily. ‘I’ve got a hotel

to sell.’

They wrapped up the deal quickly enough. Becky stayed in the hotel

while she took investors round it, talking to her lawyers and watching

how her improvements had worked in practice.

‘This was what the place was like before Lancaster started the ,.I

emodelling, Martin Drasner, the general manager, told her, showing

her a large album of photographs and wall plans.

Becky winced. ‘Yes, I remember.’ Hideous chintzes and faded

patterned carpets. Her new style, neutral beige carpeting and walls, each

room hung with different and inexpensive paintings for distinctiveness, had given the place a much more modern feel with less cost. Some of

the old, early adrenaline she’d felt had started coming back to her.

‘I’m surprised it took you this long to sell,’ Drasner said. ‘The hotel

has a ninety/sixty-five per cent split in occupancy, season to off-season,

because of the promotions you run in winter.’ He dropped his voice.

‘Scilly Isles tourism is off in general, though. The big chains have been

circling this hotel for a couple of years now, but it’s really the time to

sell.’

‘I agree.’ Becky snapped the book shut. ‘You said you wanted to

resign?’

‘I want to work on the mainland. Besides, he shrugged, ‘the Hiltons

of this world like to use their own people.’

Drasner was an early hire of hers, Becky recalled. He had helped her

lay people offand keep the costs low by making contractors bid for their

business.

‘You might want to consider coming to wor.k for me, Mr Drasner,’

she said.

‘You have another hotel, Miss Lancaster?’

‘Not yet. But I’m going to,’ Becky said.

His smile was polite, but regretful. ‘Call me when you make your

acquisition. I don’t really have time to wait.’

Becky travelled back to Fairfield one week later and two hundred grand richer. That was the profit once all the debts had been settled. She had money to live on, and almost enough to start a new company. But not quite.

The hotels she targeted for improvement were ready to sell, in good positions, and trammelled by uncooperative union labour and winter

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vacancy rates. So far, so good. However, the banks refused to give her the mortgage necessary to buy any of them outright.

‘You have no experience of running a hotel, Miss Lancaster.’

‘I ran one very successfully at Lancaster,’ Becky said for what seemed like the hundredth time. ‘Look at my goddamn record.’

The commercial loans manager at Lloyds frowned at her language. ‘Your record, Miss Lancaster, frankly, does not inspire confidence. A company broken up … well …’

‘Those aren’t the facts,’ Becky said, colouring.

‘Mr Wilson’s press people sent us detailed factual statements, Miss Lancaster. I did my research on this request,’ he said smugly. ‘Would you like to see the dossier?’

Not trusting herself to speak, trembling with rage, Becky held out her hand.

The firm that had put it together was called New Age. There was a glossy mock prospectus, and everything in it was true. It concentrated on Uncle Henry, Pupert and the high rates of refinancing she’d had to agree to for the bridge loan. It was damning, and vicious, and her blood pressure rose as she read it.

Careful not to let her emotions show, Becky flipped to the back page. There was a picture of Wilson looking sober and trustworthy, and a picture of a young, beautiful woman with dark hair and olive skin…

I know her, Becky thought, and the recognition flashed into her mind so strongly she almost dropped the report.

‘Thank you for your time,’ she said automatically, hardly looking at the banker. She almost ran from his office, and couldn’t compose herself until she was out on the street.”

She had forgotten the name of that woman. But she would find out. And she would break her.

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Lita knew he was the right guy when she took him home and he managed to do something with Chico.

‘Jeez. Another limey,’ her brother muttered sullenly, sitting at the

table in his ill-fitting suit. He made sure the words were loud enough for

Mark to hear. ‘What the hell is wrong with American guys?’

Mark leaned across the table and winked at him. ‘The thing is, I

bench two-fifty and I’m hung like a horse.’

Chico blinked in astonishment then burst out laughing.

‘You’re OK, man,’ he said.

Pappy inspected the ring that Mark had put on Lira’s finger. It was a three-stone, round cut, sleek, modern design from.Cartier in platinum, with a two-carat stone in the centre flanked by half-carat stones. When Lita’s hand moved, the whole room glittered from the light it threw off.

‘Hmm.’ He grunted his satisfaction. ‘You’re a doctor? Doctors got

money. ,

‘Pappy,’ Lita protested, blushing richly. ‘I make my own money.’

‘A man should be able to take care of his woman,’ Pappy said unrepentantly. ‘Not like that lord guy.’

‘Mr Morales, I brought you a copy of my bank statement,’ Mark said

easily, ‘as well as pictures of my house in tow. n and my place in the country.’

Lita blinked at him. ‘You did what?’

Chico was laughing at her, which made a nice change from his usual

sulky, resentful stares.

‘Your father is concerned that I can keep you in the style to which

you have become accustomed. So I brought proof,’ Mark said, grinning.

‘Yeah. That’s good.’ Her father glanced over the papers; to Lira’s mortification he was actually checking the figures. ‘I like this guy, losa.’

Mrs Morales came back with her roast lamb and put it on the table.

‘God, that smells good,’ Mark said, sniffing hungrily.

Her mother beamed, and Lita squeezed his hand under the table. In

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exchange, Mark deftly slipped his hand up her thigh, keeping his eyes fixed on her father.

The wedding took place in America. ‘Bride’s home,’ Lira had insisted, and Mark had shrugged.

‘As long as we get married soon, I couldn’t care whether it’s Oxford, New York or sodding Timbuktu.’

He didn’t even blink at flying in hordes of his family and friends. New Wave negotiated a good rate at the Victrix, and Lira invitedJanice, Harry, Mrs Harry and her other friends from the company. The girls

oohed and aahed over her diamond.

‘He must be loaded,’ Janice said.

Lita thought of all those first-class tickets for Uncle Jacob and Aunt

Camilla. ‘You know, I kinda think he is.’

The girls giggled.

‘Business is pretty good. You’re not doing so badly yourself,’ Janice reminded her.

‘I know.’ Lita resisted an impulse to hug herself. ‘It’s finally all coming together.’

They held the ceremony in St Patrick’s Cathedral.

‘That’s going to be impossible,’ Lita said when Mark told her his plans.

‘I’ve got connections,’ Mark said.

And he had. They found them an impossible-to-get slot, and Lita had to practically stop her mother from fainting with glee. She got to invite a few of her friends from Queens, sitting in the pews in big dresses and too-tight shoes and green with etvy. Lita was thrilled for her mother.

Mama almost got more joy out of this than Lira did. Almost, but not quite.

Lira’s style on her wedding day was the same as her normal style fresh, light, modern. She wore a slim sheath dress with sheer organza sleeves and a draped, cowl neck in heavy cream satin with no beading or fuss. Her bouquet was fresh grasses, arum lilies and white tulips, and instead of a veil she had a circlet of orange blossom woven into her loose, glossy dark hair. She kept her face almost bare of make-up -just a little concealer under the eyes to hide the excitement of the night before and gloss on her large, soft lips, which Mark found so erotic. Her lashes were so thick and dark they needed nothing, and beyond that, Lita decided to let her young, clear skin speak for itself.

Mark wore English morning dress, something that involved a waistcoat and tails, and he managed to look as comfortable in it as though it were a pair of jeans. After the ceremony, which passed in a

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blur to Lita, limos picked them up and drove them a few short blocks to the Victrix, where Mark had hired the ballroom. The place was covered in tumbling fountains of pale pink roses and huge, cloudy bunches of babies’ breath in square crystal vases. The chairs were covered in crisp white cotton, the waiters served roast Long Island duckling with a bitter orange sauce, and the cake, taking centre stage, was an eight-layer pale blue and gold affair. Lita’s family and her guests moved from stately shuffling around to the string quartet to drunken congas once the third bottles of Tattinger tLos4 had been drank.