Dark Paradise. Sara Craven

too much with trivial sins, and closing its eyes to the deeper crimes against humanity being perpetrated somewhere in the world each day.

      Probably Matt Lincoln would regard the seduction of someone else’s wife as a very trivial sin, she thought stormily.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ Clive’s tone was worried. ‘You look as if you’re about to plunge that knife into someone!’

      She forced a laugh. ‘Well, I promise it isn’t you, Clive. I’m afraid I’m just poor company today.’

      ‘You’re never that,’ he said warmly. ‘Is something bothering you? Can I help?’

      She said, ‘It’s a family matter,’ and determinedly changed the subject. The dreaded Felicity’s latest book was a slight departure from her usual style, and Kate was wondering how far Clive expected the jacket and illustrations to reflect this. It was a good ploy and occupied them for the rest of lunch.

      The next time Kate allowed her glance to slide towards the other table, it was to note with relief that it was unoccupied. Alison and her companion had departed—perhaps to go their separate ways, or perhaps not.

      Clive said ruefully, ‘All we’ve done is talk about work, and that’s the last thing I intended.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Perhaps I should wait for a time when I can count on all your attention.’

      He wanted to call a taxi for her, but she refused, saying she felt like walking.

      It was a beautiful day, crisply autumnal, reminding her of horse-chestnut trees and bonfires. Alison and Jon had been married on a day just like this, she recalled, and the sun had been so warm that the guests had spilled out on to the terrace and lawns of the riverside hotel where the reception was being held.

      Kate had been chief bridesmaid, in a topaz crěpe dress with a high ruffled neck, her curling chestnut hair drawn into a casually pretty topknot. She didn’t outshine the bride—Alison managed to look ethereal and radiant in her white silk organza—but she looked and felt good, and Jon’s unattached friends buzzed round her like flies round a honeypot. After Jon and Alison had left for Paris, there was going to be a family dinner that evening, and Jon’s best man, a friend since their schooldays, was escorting her in the traditional manner, and she declined all the other offers with smiling charm.

      And all the time she was intensely aware that she was under surveillance.

      If Kate was providing a centre of attention for the men, then Matt Lincoln was the same and more for the women. He was the celebrity guest, and it could only be a matter of time before someone actually asked him for an autograph, Kate thought cynically. Wherever he went there was an adoring group like satellite moons round a planet, but she supposed that wasn’t altogether his fault. Even without the glamour imposed by television, Matt Lincoln was formidable, exuding a vibrantly masculine aura. No one with blood in her veins could have overlooked him even for a moment, and Kate was annoyed to find how often her own eyes were straying in his direction.

      ‘For God’s sake,’ she adjured herself irritably, ‘haven’t you learned your lesson?’

      And to make matters worse, each time she looked at him, it was to discover that he was watching her, a half smile playing about his lips as if he had discerned her inner struggle and was amused by it.

      So she did her best to ignore him, and pretend that the buzz of talk and laughter around him did not exist, although she couldn’t help but be aware of the almost electric excitement his presence engendered. But he was bound to leave soon, she told herself. A suburban wedding couldn’t hold his interest or confine the air of restless energy which characterised him for very much longer.

      Not for the first time, she wondered why he had accepted the invitation. The dinner service he had bought as a wedding present was displayed with the other gifts, so no other gesture was necessary. Alison’s parents had issued the invitations, of course, and had been cock-a-hoop when he had accepted, but Kate knew that Jon had not been pleased, although he’d said nothing in the light of Alison’s jubilation.

      She had watched her stepbrother watching Matt kiss the bride, seen the rigidity of his features, and her heart had ached for him. Matt had been in Venezuela until the previous day, and had dashed back specially, she heard Alison’s mother smugly proclaiming to a coterie of her friends.

      ‘Why did he bother?’ she asked herself savagely.

      She had avoided him, and the inevitable introductions, since the reception began. She had no wish to become one of the admiring throng, she told herself, although even her mother who was not easily impressed had been won over, she noticed.

      But at an intimate gathering like a wedding reception, she couldn’t hope to keep out of his way for ever.

      She was chatting to Simon, the best man, when she became suddenly aware that he was beside them. She was immediately irritated by Simon’s deference, stopping in mid-sentence to turn to Matt Lincoln.

      ‘Can I get you another drink, Mr Lincoln?’

      ‘No, thanks.’ Matt Lincoln shook his head, smiling. ‘Jet-lag and alcohol don’t mix too well.’ He nodded towards the adjoining room where a small band had been playing softly during the reception. ‘But some gentle exercise could be just what I need.’ He looked down at Kate. ‘We haven’t actually met, but I’m sure this is our dance.’

      The tenor of the music had changed, she realised as she took in what he had said. The energetic disco beat had changed to a slower dreamy rhythm, and people were moving closer, holding each other as they danced.

      He would expect to put his arms round her, she realised, a kind of sick panic rising inside her at the prospect.

      Her voice sounded thick as she said, ‘I don’t want to dance, Mr Lincoln. Why don’t you ask one of your devoted fans? I’m sure any one of them would be only too delighted.’

      The blue eyes narrowed slightly but he was still smiling. ‘I can’t really debate that without sounding like a slob. But the point doesn’t arise, because the fact is I’ve asked you—Miss er …’

      ‘Marston,’ Simon supplied helpfully. ‘Kate Marston.’

      ‘Kate,’ Matt Lincoln repeated musingly. ‘A nice old-fashioned name.’

      She said hotly, ‘Please don’t patronise me, Mr Lincoln. I’m not the subject of one of your programmes. And here’s another fact, as you’re so keen on them—I’m turning down your invitation.’

      She’d never been so deliberately rude to anyone in her life, and she was aware of Simon gaping.

      For a long moment, Matt Lincoln stood looking at her as she felt the betrayal of embarrassed colour rising in her cheeks, then he said coolly, ‘I beg your pardon for having annoyed you.’ And turned away.

      ‘My God,’ Simon said helplessly. ‘That was a bit strong, wasn’t it?’

      Kate lifted her chin defiantly, crushing down an unexpected feeling of shame. ‘I don’t think any lasting damage has been done—not to an ego like his!’

      Simon was looking at her as if she was a stranger who had suddenly developed horns and a tail. ‘But he only wanted to dance with you, Kate. Hell’s bells, you couldn’t have cut him off more sharply if he’d made a heavy pass!’

      ‘Well, I find his conviction that he’s God’s gift to women a bit strong too,’ Kate retorted. ‘Men like that are an abomination. One smile, an invitation to dance—and they expect you to—to roll over and beg!’

      ‘Well—roll over anyway,’ said Simon with a mock leer. ‘I didn’t know you were such a feminist, Kate.’

      ‘I’m not,’ she said shortly. ‘But he—his whole approach—reminded me of—of someone I used to know.’

      ‘Did you give him a hard time too?’ Kate wondered if the alarm she heard in Simon’s voice was altogether feigned.

      She