Shadow Of Desire. Sara Craven

sparked off by the fact that he was good and mad.

      She said on a sob, ‘What have you done with Toby?’

      ‘Toby?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘I’ve done nothing with him, you madwoman. He’s in London as far as I know.’

      ‘But he was coming down here—I had a message.’

      He shook his head decisively. ‘Oh, no, he wasn’t. I’d made it quite clear I’d be using the house myself this weekend. He knows better than to intrude.’

      ‘You’re the intruder,’ she gasped. She was shaking now from reaction so violently that if it hadn’t been for that bruising grip on her shoulders, she thought she might well have collapsed to the floor at his feet. ‘You’re in his house—you’ve got his car. Why?’

      He swore under his breath. ‘So that’s it.’ There was a long silence, then he said, ‘Did Toby tell you this was his house? Answer me, damn you, or I’ll break your neck before I break his!’

      There was something in his voice, rather than the threatening words themselves, which caught her attention and held it riveted. Panic was filling her up, and a curious sense of unreality. She looked up into his face, absorbing other details—the firm hard lines of his mouth, and his eyes, as cold and grey as a winter sea, and as perilous, she thought wildly.

      She marshalled every vestige of self-control of which she was capable in order to say, ‘Will you let go of me, please. I think there’s been a mistake.’

      ‘I’m damned sure there has. I still want some answers to my question. Has my feckless cousin been passing off my property as his?’

      Ginny said numbly, ‘Your property?’

      He nodded. ‘Mine. The car certainly—as for the house, I signed the lease and I pay the rent.’ He looked round the kitchen and his mouth curled derisively. ‘I also pay a generous service charge. There’s supposed to be a housekeeper–caretaker woman living on the premises to keep the place in a permanent state of readiness. If this is a fair sample of the “service” then I’m wasting my money. There aren’t even sheets on my bed.’

      She said on a whisper, ‘I’m sorry.’ Her stomach was churning wildly, and she was afraid she was going to be sick. ‘Do—do you mind telling me your name?’

      ‘It’s Hendrick—Max Hendrick.’ He gave her an impatient glance. ‘Now do you mind telling me how you come to have the run of the place? Or need I ask? No matter how remote the spot, Toby can always be relied on to organise himself a village maiden.’ He cast a wry glance at the fragments of broken china, and the remnants of chicken casserole still adhering glutinously to the wall. ‘And this one can even cook, it seems.’

      Ginny felt slow hot colour stealing under her skin as she absorbed the implication in his words.

      ‘It isn’t what you think.’

      ‘No?’ He pulled a kitchen chair forward with his foot and motioned her towards it. ‘So tell me about it.’

      She moistened her lips frantically. ‘Toby never actually said he owned the house. I’m afraid I assumed …’

      ‘Altogether too damned much,’ he cut in abruptly. ‘Including that you have the right to come and go as you please. Well, you don’t, my child. I’ve rented this place for peace and privacy, and I have no wish for transient female companionship—or at least’—the flick of his eyes over her body was like the lash of a whip—‘not the nubile but immature brand you represent. Now if you’d care to clear up the mess you’ve made, you can go.’

      She said, ‘But you must let me explain.’

      ‘I don’t think any further explanations are necessary,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if you’re disappointed about Toby. He should have told you that the house and the car were merely temporary loans while I was abroad.’

      ‘It isn’t that …’ she tried again, but he held up a peremptory hand.

      ‘I’d like to cancel any further discussion,’ he said coolly. ‘I’ve been halfway round the world in the past few days, and I’ve just driven down from London this afternoon, expecting a few home comforts which haven’t been provided. I’ve even had to switch on the immersion heater in the bathroom to obtain enough hot water for a bath. Whatever my so-called caretaker is taking care of, it certainly isn’t my interests.’

      Ginny heard him out, feeling sick. The most galling part of it was that the time she had wasted bathing and prettying herself for Toby had been the time she should have been over in the main part of the house, lighting the kitchen stove, seeing that the water was hot, and making up the bed. Those were the duties she was being paid for, and which she’d failed to carry out, and there was little doubt in her mind that one of the first actions of this angry stranger was going to be to complain to Vivien Lanyon.

      Nor had his temper been improved by having a casserole thrown at his head, she thought dejectedly, or by being accused of being an intruder in his own home. There seemed no end to the list of her misdeeds which he could present to Mrs Lanyon.

      She got up from the chair, her mind working madly. There was plenty of chicken left—she could easily fetch another helping. And she could fight the range, and make up his bed while he was having his bath. If she did these few basic chores for him, perhaps his temper would cool and he would think twice about complaining about her, she told herself without much conviction.

      She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a—poor welcome, Mr Hendrick. I’ll clear up in here before I go.’

      He nodded curtly, and after giving her one last measuring look he turned and went out of the room.

      Hastily Ginny cleaned the mess from the wall and floor, and collected the pieces of broken pottery in a newspaper before depositing them in the kitchen bin. Then she tackled the range, using firelighters and sticks with prodigal recklessness in order to get it going fast. When the fire was burning up well, she rinsed her hands at the sink and started for the door. At the foot of the stairs she paused to remove her shoes, then went upstairs quiet as a cat in her stockinged feet.

      The linen cupboard on the landing was well stocked with sheets and pillowcases, and she chose a set at random before tiptoeing across to the door of the master bedroom and listening.

      It was quiet, but from the bathroom beyond came the sound of running water. Ginny breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped quietly into the room. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation with the forbidding Mr Hendrick—not at least until she’d had a chance to put things right. She stripped the covers from the bed and began to make it up, stretching the bottom sheet to an immaculate smoothness with an unsteady hand.

      She had behaved like an idiot, she thought miserably. In hindsight, everything pointed to the fact that Toby was not the real tenant, but she had chosen to assume otherwise, and no one had bothered to correct her mistaken impression. After all, her job was to have the house ready for occupation at all times, not to question the identity of the occupier, and Max Hendrick was entitled to lend his house and his car to whomsoever he pleased.

      She snatched up a pillow and rammed it into its waiting case with real vindictiveness. It was his own fault if the house wasn’t ready for him, she told herself hotly and without pausing to examine her own logic, expecting her to spring into action like a programmed robot through some vague message from a third party. He was cold and arrogant, and she hated him, though she wasn’t entirely sure why—unless it was because he couldn’t have presented a greater contrast to Toby.

      Her newly washed hair flopped across her face as she bent over the bed, tucking in the top sheet, and she pushed it back angrily. She was both disappointed and disillusioned, but the disappointment was paramount. She had built so much on Toby coming down this weekend that this new development was shattering.

      But why hadn’t Toby told her—warned her? she asked herself almost despairingly. Presumably because he would assume she already knew of his cousin’s existence—because