Dark Paradise. Sara Craven

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      TABLE OF CONTENTS

       COVER

       TITLE PAGE

       ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       ENDPAGE

       COPYRIGHT

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE wine in her glass glowed like a ruby. And had cost very nearly as much, Kate Marston reflected drily.

      She’d been expecting a business lunch, but this was fast developing into an occasion, and she wasn’t sure she could take it.

      She wondered what would happen if she were to lean across the table and say to her companion, ‘Clive, you’re very sweet, and I like you. But it will never, ever be any more than that. So if all this expensive claret and sharing a chateaubriand is to promote a shift in our relationship, then they’d better go back to the kitchen’.

      She wouldn’t say it, of course. She was too fond of Clive to give him such a public affront, besides being fairly dependent on him financially, and extremely hungry as well.

      She had been a young hopeful in her final year at art college when they had met. He was the youngest director of a well-known publishing firm specialising in children’s books, and she’d been hawking a portfolio of her work around, looking for a job as an illustrator.

      She was tired of hearing how talented she was, accompanied by regretful little speeches about economic recession and cutbacks, and she had expected little different from Barlow and Herries. Her confidence, her belief in herself had taken several hard knocks already, and she was surprised to get beyond the reception desk.

      Her surprise deepened as the fair-haired, rather solemn young man into whose office she had been shown began to exhibit signs of positive enthusiasm as he examined the paintings and sketches she had brought.

      ‘Do you know,’ he had said at last, ‘you could be exactly the person we need.’

      He told her confidentially that they had just acquired an established and popular author for their list who was proving troublesome to say the least. The lady in question had left their chief rivals after rows about publicity and the quality of illustrations for her books, and Barlow and Herries were naturally anxious to satisfy her on both these points.

      Only it was proving more difficult than anyone had ever imagined.

      ‘She’s turned her nose up at all our regular artists,’ Clive Joffrey had said rather bitterly. ‘She claims she wants something original and unique to match her very personal style, and I quote. I think you might have what she wants.’ He picked up one painting and studied it closely. ‘This is a scene from one of her books, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Kate, hope and excitement choking any deeper explanation.

      He nodded. ‘I like it. All that sweetness and light on the surface, and the sinister undertones.’ He shuddered. ‘God knows why kids go overboard for her, but they do. Her books would have given me nightmares when I was a child!’

      Kate smiled. ‘I love them.’

      ‘Better and better. Make sure you tell her that when you meet. That’s another thing she insists on—meeting everyone, checking on the vibrations. Awful woman.’ He gave her a narrow glance. ‘Think you could cope?’

      Amazingly, she had, and was still doing so. Not that the dreaded Felicity, as she was known, was her only source of income. Clive had seen to that, recommending her to contacts in the magazine and advertising worlds, so that now, three years after that fateful interview, she had a flourishing freelance career as an artist.

      The only fly in the ointment had proved to be Clive, whose personal interest in her had developed as rapidly as his professional interest had done. That was something she hadn’t wanted at all, and she had done her best to dissuade him, but all to no avail. Clive might seem quiet, but he was also determined, she had discovered, and eventually she had succumbed in a moment of weakness to his gentle pressuring and agreed to go to the theatre with him.

      That evening, and subsequent outings in his company, had proved pleasantly undemanding, and if Clive was content to be held at arm’s length, then Kate supposed she had no real reason to complain.

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