An Unbroken Marriage. PENNY JORDAN

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      ‘Perhaps because it’s welcoming to come home to.’

      ‘Ah, yes!’ Something gleamed in his eyes; something alien and almost frightening. ‘Of course,’ he said softly, ‘you would know all about the… benefits of being welcoming.’

      If there was a double meaning to the words, it escaped India.

      ‘Has it ever occurred to you that it might not be safe?’

      Before she could stop him, Simon Herries had walked past her to the lamp, swiftly switching it off, but not, she noticed, before those all-seeing dark grey eyes had glanced swiftly and assessingly over the room and its contents.

      ‘Very nice,’ he commented as they left. ‘You’re a very fortunate young woman, India Lawson. Your own business—a successful business at that—youth; looks.’ They were out on the street and beneath lashes far darker and thicker than any mere man had a right to possess his eyes assessed her contours cloaked in the black velvet.

      What was she supposed to do, India fumed; fawn ingratiatingly? But Simon Herries hadn’t finished.

      ‘A devoted admirer… even if he is someone else’s husband… He must be very fond of you to have set you up with the salon. Prime site in Mayfair—it can’t have come cheap.’

      They were standing on the kerb in front of the immaculate Ferrari, Simon Herries had reached towards the passenger door and was opening it for India to get in, but she stood her ground, sparks kindling in her eyes,

      ‘For your information, no one “set me up with the salon”, as you put it. All I have has been achieved through my own hard work!’

      ‘And Melford Taylor hasn’t helped you in the slightest, is that what you’re trying to say?’ He was sneering outright now, and for two pins India would have walked off and left him standing, but two things stopped her. One was her own pride; if she ran now it was tantamount to admitting that his accusations had some basis; and the other was that she could not run anywhere, because Simon Herries’ lean, hard fingers were gripping her wrist like a manacle; his superior weight forcing her into the passenger seat of the car. Her wrist was released and the door was closed. India rubbed it covertly, staring stonily out of the passenger window as she felt the cold rush of air as the driver’s door opened and she felt the car depress as Simon Herries slid alongside her.

      ‘Sulking?’ he commented ten minutes later when India was still staring furiously ahead of her. ‘It won’t alter the truth.’

      ‘The truth!’ India turned to face him, her mouth taut with anger. ‘I doubt if a man like you could recognise it!’

      ‘Men like me are the only ones who do recognise it,’ came the pithy reply, ‘simply because they’ve had so much experience of the opposite. Your sex never cease to amaze me with their ability to contort “truth” to suit their own requirements; their own careers. Believe me, I know.’

      ‘I’m sure you do!’

      In the darkness of the car India could feel him staring at her, her eyes drawn involuntarily to his hands on the wheel, holding it with cool easy confidence; the way he would hold a woman, and she shivered with some prescient knowledge she could scarcely comprehend. What on earth was the matter with her?

      The traffic was thinning out. India glanced at the dashboard clock, amazed to see that they had been travelling for well over half an hour. She frowned, searching the dark for a familiar landscape, and demanded abruptly, ‘Is it far?’

      ‘Is what far?’ came the cool reply.

      Fear gnawed edgily at India’s already overstretched nerves.

      ‘Don’t play games with me!’ she snapped. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Is it far to Melisande’s flat?’

      ‘Not particularly.’

      No further information was forthcoming, and India was forced to contain her growing anger in a fuming silence; either that or be drawn into further bickering. Abominable man! she thought crossly. She could almost believe that he had been deliberately trying to goad her into losing her temper. She shot him a suspicious glance, watching the dark lashes flick downwards in answer to her scrutiny, although he never lifted his eyes from the road.

      The Ferrari was picking up speed. India had fastened her seat-belt when she got in, and that, combined with the luxury of the deep leather seats, combined to hold her snugly in place, even when the car veered abruptly to the right. She just had time to see the road sign before suburban darkness swallowed them up again, and what she read on it had her turning ashen-faced to the man seated next to her.

      ‘This isn’t the way to Melisande’s! It said on that signpost, M₄, Bath and South Wales.’

      ‘So it did,’ Simon Herries agreed smoothly.

      ‘Well, aren’t you going to turn back?’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Why?’ India stared at him in disbelieving silence. ‘Because we’re going the wrong way, that’s why!’

      ‘Oh no, we’re not.’ The words were spoken so softly that at first she couldn’t believe she had actually heard them, but as though to reinforce them, Simon Herries continued expressionlessly, ‘We’re going exactly the way I planned we would go when I asked you to come to Melisande’s party.’ His mouth curled sardonically. ‘I knew you’d find the bait irresistible.’

      ‘Bait?’ India said tonelessly. She was beyond feeling; beyond anything, apart from trying to come to terms with what was happening to her.

      ‘Yes, the lure of a possible TV designing contract. That was why you agreed to come, of course.’ For a moment India was too stupefied to speak, and then all at once she found her voice, questions tumbling over one another.

      ‘What is this? Where’s Melisande? Where are you taking me?’

      ‘Which shall I answer first?’ he mused sardonically. ‘This, my dear India, is a form of—shall I call it retribution? A theatrical word to use, perhaps; justice is more how I think of it. As to Melisande,’ he continued, before India could question his first statement, ‘to the best of my knowledge at this very moment she’s in California. Now as to your third question, which was, I believe, “Where are you taking me?” he mimicked her own half furious, half fearful tones to perfection, much to India’s chagrin, ‘I’m taking you to a cottage I own in Dorset, where you and I shall spend the weekend together, returning to London on Monday morning, when I shall deposit you at your salon, having very publicly escorted you inside.

      ‘Tomorrow morning I shall ring your efficient secretary from the cottage, and explain to her that you’ll be late for work on Monday, and why…’ His eyes gleamed in the darkness and it seemed to India, completely unable to believe what she was hearing, that there was Satanic madness in that dark grey gleam.

      ‘Being the inestimable character that she is, she will naturally leap to the most appropriate conclusions, and before the week is out, my dear India, it should even have reached the ears of that doting boy-friend of yours that you and I have, to put it colloquially, become “very good friends”.’

      ‘But why? I don’t understand! You don’t like me. You don’t…’

      ‘Desire СКАЧАТЬ