A Guilty Affair. Diana Hamilton

kept her busy all over the world. Pity about the engagement party, she’d told Bess, but it couldn’t be helped. She’d sounded bored.

      ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for a king’s ransom—the first high spot in my baby sister’s life!’

      She wasn’t bored now, Bess thought, stoically refusing to react to the unsubtle put-down. Helen was sparkling, the almost frenetic trill in her voice making Bess wonder if she’d been hitting the bottle.

      But Helen didn’t touch alcohol; she lived on bottled spring water, salads and fruit. She was careful about what she put into that fantastic body. That and her classically beautiful face were the only assets she had, so it was little wonder she looked after them so carefully.

      Bess was shocked by her own descent into cattiness but swiftly exonerated herself when Helen moved closer to her silent escort, her body wriggling seductively beneath the gold tissue, her voice huskily amused now as she imparted, ‘We’ve been waiting for ever for good old Tom to make an honest woman of her. They’ve been at it for years, can you believe? The parents all thought it was sweet but I used to shudder to think of what must have been going on behind the school bike sheds! Hilarious, isn’t it, darling?’

      ‘There has never been anything improper...’ Tom began stuffily, and Bess felt her face go red with rare temper. For some extremely dubious reason she wanted the dark stranger to believe that she and Tom weren’t as staid and boring as they looked.

      But Tom had never liked Helen and his sense of humour was non-existent, so he wasn’t about to let her comments go uncorrected, and Bess knew he was about to describe their chastity with cringemaking pomposity, when the stranger slotted in smoothly, ‘It seems I must introduce myself. Luke Vaccari.’ His voice was a dark, lazy drawl and it made all the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. She felt, she thought dizzily, as if she’d been rubbed all over with rough hot velvet. ‘Congratulations on your engagement, Clayton.’

      Unwillingly mesmerised, she watched the strong, tanned hand clasp Tom’s much paler, smoother fingers and savagely tussled with the clamouring instinct to slide away and hide. But she stood her ground. What did it matter if the stranger with the Italian-sounding surname was about to turn his attention to her? She had endured the dissection of his eyes all evening, so she could endure a few meaningless well wishes without going into a decline.

      ‘You’re a solicitor, Helen tells me.’ He was still talking to Tom and Bess couldn’t help looking at him more attentively. She surely didn’t want to, but her eyes insisted on gluing themselves to his face.

      Close to, he was far more incredibly good to look at than her earlier embarrassed and harried observations had prepared her for. Expertly cut, silky dark hair made the perfect foil for features that had been hewn with confidence and authority. He had an intelligent face, and it looked lived-in, too, which saved it from the banal unreality of complete perfection.

      And his body, her waywardly devouring eyes informed her, was something else; tall, lean and lithe and packed with power. He looked, Bess thought on a wave of shock, like every woman’s fantasy lover. His very being was a palpable assault on the senses.

      ‘Tom’s father is Daddy’s partner—the firm’s been around for a million years.’ Helen couldn’t bear to be left out of any conversation. ‘So this has to be more a cosy merger than a wildly romantic marriage. Think it out: when the oldies are tottering around in Zimmer frames dear little Bess will have done her duty and produced the next generation of Braylington solicitors. I’ve tried to persuade her to stick her head above the parapet and find out what living’s all about, but she simply won’t listen.’

      Which was an out-and-out lie, Bess thought, her soft lips compressing. Helen had never shown the slightest interest in her unremarkable kid sister. About to make her excuses and drag Tom back onto the dance-floor, she was paralysed by the rich velvet warmth of Vaccari’s voice, pinned to the spot by the gleam of interest in those tarnished-silver eyes.

      ‘So Bess is a homebody. There’s nothing wrong with that.’ An odd smile flickered at the corners of his wide, sensual mouth and then he addressed her directly, the hateful entrapment deepening until she was sure there were goose-bumps standing to attention all down her spine. ‘From what I’ve seen of it, Braylington seems to be the archetypal English market town; I’m not surprised you prefer to stay put. I’m looking forward to seeing more of the area myself.’

      ‘Actually, I live and work in London,’ Bess managed to push out. She would not be patronised by him or anyone else. And she wasn’t going to come clean and admit that her job as assistant to the manager of the South Kensington branch of a chain of travel agencies wasn’t in the least bit glamorous or high-powered. So, before Helen could leap in and do it for her, she literally dragged Tom away.

      Not that he needed much urging. He ran a finger round the inside of his shirt collar and muttered, ‘How did she latch onto him? I don’t know what they see in her. And he looks far too astute to be taken in by all that glitz.’

      ‘Does it matter?’ To be seen with Helen Ryland, supermodel, a man had to be a millionaire at the very least. Looks didn’t mean a thing—or hadn’t in the past, anyway. Helen went for the prestige of being seen with money—preferably old money—and the more of it the better. As well as no doubt possessing the mandatory millions, this new guy looked spectacular enough to take any woman’s breath away, so no wonder she’d lowered herself to attend her kid sister’s party. She had probably decided to upstage her.

      Luke Vaccari was the first man-friend she’d ever introduced to her family.

      And Bess wasn’t the only one to have taken this on board, she discovered as her mother, still striking despite her fifty-odd years, bore down on them, closely followed by Barbara Clayton.

      ‘Time to eat, you two. Barb reserved a table and the partners are filling plates at the buffet. I’d nab Helen and Luke too, but they’re so wrapped up in each other it would be a pity to intrude.’ She tucked her arm through Bess’s and hauled her away in the direction of the room set aside for the buffet and bar while Barbara Clayton brushed imaginary lint from her son’s dinner jacket, forcing him to lag behind, then promptly despatched him to help the two older men at the buffet.

      Jessica Ryland lowered her voice and confided, ‘If you and Tom had delayed your engagement a little while it could have been a double celebration.’

      ‘It’s serious, is it?’

      Barbara’s pale blue eyes, so like her son’s, fastened intently on her old friend’s complacent features and Jessica nodded.

      ‘A mother knows these things. He’s a wonderful catch. A highly respected financier, and although his father was Italian his mother was one of the Gloucestershire Dermots.’ She leaned further over the white-covered table. ‘Mother’s instinct apart, just ask yourself when Helen has ever brought one of her man-friends home—let alone invited one to stay for a family long-weekend gathering!’

      So that was what he’d meant when he’d said he was looking forward to seeing more of the area. Bess’s heart plummeted to the soles of her feet. He made her uneasy just by being here tonight—spending the Easter break with him underfoot would be intolerable! And the thought of him married to Helen filled her with sudden, unreasonable panic.

      ‘She’s so lovely, she can have her pick,’ Barbara was saying, the wistful note in her voice a reminder that, for a long time, Helen would have been the wife she would have hand-picked for her only son.

      Wondering if her future mother-in-law still regretted her son’s choice, Bess heard her own mother boast, ‘She takes after me in looks, while little Bess here is an exact replica of her father.’

      ‘I wondered why I have to shave twice a day,’ Bess put in drily, not taking offence because she was used to put-downs and knew, in her mother’s case, they weren’t intentionally hurtful. Just thoughtless. Whereas in Helen’s case...

      Thankfully, the menfolk arrived with loaded plates, one of the white-coated waiters following with the obligatory champagne.