Act Of Betrayal. Sara Craven

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      ‘And you’re what? The skivvy? The Cinderella of the establishment, with that lipstick the nineteen eighties equivalent of the glass slipper?’

      She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t be ridiculous. And don’t—don’t judge by appearances either. I’m glad to do anything I can for Uncle Martin. It’s the least I can offer in exchange for a roof over my head.’

      ‘You had a roof over your head,’ he said softly. ‘A perfectly adequate one—although not admittedly as flash as this.’ He looked around, his lips curling slightly. ‘What charming decor? Your choice?’

      He knew perfectly well that it wasn’t, she thought stormily. On one of their few visits to his house during their brief marriage, she’d told him how much she loved the quiet charm of this room, with the pale silk wallpaper and faded chintzes which had furnished it then.

      She said quietly, ‘It was time for a change.’

      ‘A telling phrase,’ he said cynically, and the colour ran into her face. She leaned forward and began to pour the tea, praying that her hand wouldn’t shake and betray her. ‘And not the only change,’ he added. ‘There’s also yourself. You’ve allowed yourself to become a shadow, instead of the flesh and blood I remember. If I painted you now, what would there be—just a soft blur in the background?’

      ‘You still paint?’ To her annoyance, the question was out before she could prevent it.

      ‘Sometimes.’ He sent her a cool smile as he took the cup from her. ‘If I can find a subject which appeals to me. I have to be more selective these days, now that my time is limited.’

      Underneath her confusion of anger and anxiety, she was conscious of the stirrings of regret. He’d been a truly talented painter, and his work had just started to sell, even though he’d refused to compromise his arresting, almost violent style. He’d believed in himself, and in his work, and it seemed impossible that now he’d relegated it to the role of a hobby, to be pursued in whatever leisure he allowed himself.

      As if he could read her thoughts, he said, ‘It was time for a change,’ mocking her with her own words.

      She drew a breath. ‘And—the change was Tristan Construction? How did that come about?’

      ‘Through the death of my father,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘The company belonged to him.’

      She swallowed. ‘I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

      ‘Are you, Laura? I can’t imagine why. You never knew him. In fact, you didn’t even believe he existed.’ She was suddenly and chillingly aware of the anger in him, the violence just below the surface.

      She said tightly, ‘I had good reason—if you remember.’

      ‘Yes, I remember,’ he said too gently. ‘Every detail of the whole bloody mess is indelibly engraved on my memory, darling, believe me.’

      ‘You both look very fierce,’ Celia said from the doorway. ‘Would you rather throw this cup than drink out of it?’

      Laura said levelly, ‘I’d really prefer to do neither. So, if you’ll both excuse me.’

      She got up, and he watched her, his mouth smiling, but his eyes grim. He said, ‘Until later then.’

      ‘Later,’ she repeated.

      ‘The drinks party, sweetie,’ Celia chirped. ‘For the Tristan executives. I’ve decided to do my bit for Caswells at last. Aren’t you pleased?’

      ‘Over the moon,’ Laura said wildly, wondering why Celia hadn’t been strangled at birth.

      Celia pouted prettily. ‘Laura’s always telling me I don’t take sufficient interest in the company. But all that’s going to change from now on.’ She sent him a mischievously provocative look from under her lashes. ‘In fact, I’m going to take the most amazing interest in every aspect of its dealings.’ She giggled. ‘This party is only the start.’

      Jason smiled at her. ‘It should be a truly memorable evening for us all,’ he said.

      His tone was light, but over Celia’s blonde head, he looked at Laura, and his eyes were bleak with a warning it was impossible to ignore.

      She walked to the door, and left them alone together.

CHAPTER THREE

      SHE found she was still clutching the lipstick. She unclenched her hand, and put the little tube down on the dressing table in her room. It had left marks on her hand where she’d been gripping it, and she touched them almost wonderingly.

      She sank down on the stool, and stared at her pale reflection in the mirror. It was true, she thought. She was like a shadow—like the moon to Celia’s golden, confident sun. It had been the same all their lives—even at school. Celia had been ‘the pretty one’ and she’d been ‘the quiet one’ which she supposed was a kind way of saying ‘the plain one’.

      She supposed her parents had thought her beautiful. But since then—only one other person …

      She bit into the softness of her lower lip, relishing the pain, if only it would help to quell the deeper pain inside her.

      All this time, she thought, she’d been struggling to put her life back together again, to reconcile herself to the fact that Jason would never be part of it again. All this time—and, it seemed—all for nothing.

      Divorce was like surgery, she thought wearily. And while the operation had been a complete success, the patient, apparently, had not recovered.

      She gave a swift shiver, and stood up determinedly. What a triumph for Jason if he could only know how completely she’d been thrown by his sudden reappearance and its implications. But he must never know, she told herself. He’d said their paths were bound to cross, but that was not necessarily so. They could operate on parallel lines, and never meet.

      In the meantime, she could get out of this drinks party Celia had arranged, by ‘phoning Alan and asking if they could meet in Burngate. He would be disappointed, she supposed, as she went over to her wardrobe and scanned along the hanging rail for something to wear, but under the circumstances that couldn’t be helped.

      None of the garments hanging there were particularly spectacular, she thought with a little mental shrug. They were what Celia disparagingly called ‘background clothes’, neutral in colour and design—part of her recovery camouflage. Yet now she was conscious of a vague dissatisfaction as she selected a silky grey crêpe, with full sleeves and a deeply slashed crossover bodice, and draped it across a chair while she went into her tiny adjoining bathroom to shower and wash her hair.

      Usually, she blow-dried her hair, then used a hot brush to curve the ends underneath, and around her face, but as she hadn’t managed the trim she needed, she decided she would wear her hair up for a change.

      She was experimenting, twisting the silky strands into various styles, when she heard sounds of departure from downstairs, and a car engine starting up in the drive.

      She rose, and trod barefoot across the СКАЧАТЬ