Bittersweet Deception. Liz Fielding

on hers. The kiss seemed to go on forever, her breath rising in tempo to match his, her arms long since having found their way around his neck to draw him down to her.

      When finally he held her away from him Kate stared up at him, dazed, every inch of her pulsing with the sort of arousal that until that moment she would have dismissed as the feverish and overworked imagination of the adolescent mind, and a stifled sound came from somewhere deep in her throat.

      ‘Your word, like any other woman’s, Kate, is worthless.’ The sharp edge to his voice jolted her roughly back to the reality of the kitchen, the edge of the table at her back, the humiliation of having been kissed by a total stranger as if one of them was going to war. And the certain knowledge that it had been a demonstration. Nothing more. The blanked-out expression in his eyes could mean nothing else. And how could she protest? She had told him she didn’t want to kiss him and he had called her a liar. Her lips had betrayed her and proved him right.

      ‘I said I didn’t want to kiss you, Mr Warwick,’ she said, her voice hoarse from a throat aching with misery. ‘And that was the truth. I didn’t say I wouldn’t enjoy it.’ That was what made it so awful. At least Harry’s fumbling attempt at a pass, horrible though it had been, had had a kind of honesty about it.

      Jason Warwick had simply set out to prove a point. Whether he had gained any pleasure from kissing her it was impossible to say. His brown eyes had a natural warmth that disguised the apparent coldness of his soul. Only a vein, beating furiously at his temple, suggested any feeling, any emotion.

      For a moment he stared at her, then with a fierce oath he turned away and strode from the kitchen.

      ‘Mr Warwick,’ she called, a little unsteadily, as he reached the doorway. He paused, but didn’t turn. ‘You’ve forgotten your ice.’

      The telephone rang and Kate, deep in concentration adding a row of figures, jumped, lost her place, sighed and lifted the receiver. ‘Kate Thornley,’ she said.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Thornley.’ Kate returned the greeting, instantly recognising the silvery tones of Lady Maynard, one of her favourite clients, despite the fact that it was Tisha Maynard’s kitchen that had been the scene of the appalling encounter with Jason Warwick.

      ‘Miss Thornley, I wonder if you would be kind enough to spare me an hour today?’

      ‘Of course. What kind of party are you planning?’

      ‘Not a party. I’d rather not discuss it on the telephone.’

      Kate stared at the telephone. That sounded ominous. Surely the man hadn’t said anything about finding her in Harry Roberts’ arms? Jason Warwick hadn’t exactly covered himself with glory. ‘I’m free at eleven-thirty. Would that be convenient?’

      ‘I’ll expect you then.’

      Kate replaced the receiver and went into her bedroom to change into something more suitable than jeans for the forthcoming interview. She opened her wardrobe door and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

      She had the clear, almost translucent skin that often went with black hair. Only her cheeks were blushed delicately with pink, throwing her full mouth into vivid relief. For days after Jason Warwick had kissed her it had seemed swollen, heated, and she had been unable to bear to look at herself in a mirror. She laid a light finger on her lower lip and the pressure instantly brought his powerful image into sharp focus, and with it the memory of an urgent desire he had jolted free from its cage of ice.

      ‘Damn him!’ she swore, and reached for her one serious business suit.

      It was precisely eleven-thirty when she rang the front doorbell of Lady Maynard’s Belgravia house, and she was immediately shown into the drawing-room.

      ‘How good of you to come at such short notice, Miss Thornley.’ Lady Maynard, a tall, graceful figure, her fair hair somewhat faded, but her dark eyes still remarkably bright, extended a beringed had. ‘Please sit down.’ Kate perched sedately on the edge of an exquisite sofa and waited. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I have a business proposition to put to you, Miss Thornley.’

      ‘A business proposition?’ she repeated faintly. Until that moment she had not realised how tense she had become, convinced that she would have to defend herself in the face of unjust criticism. In freelance catering, where she was invited into homes and offices, reputation was everything. ‘What kind of business proposition?’

      ‘I would like to engage your professional services exclusively, that is full-time, for the next six months.’ The woman raised a hand to stall Kate’s expected protest. ‘I have no doubt that your business in London is booming. You are a wonderful cook, and, more to the point, a splendid organiser. I can assure you that I have employed enough people who called themselves caterers to appreciate that.’ She paused. ‘Shall I go on? Please tell me if you are booked up so far ahead that I’m wasting my breath.’

      Kate, only too aware of the sharp reminder on her desk from the bank manager about the state of her overdraft and the way bookings had fallen in the past few months, particularly for lucrative business lunches as people tightened their belts, barely hesitated. ‘Please go on.’

      ‘Have you ever been to Norfolk, Miss Thornley?’

      ‘Norfolk?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

      ‘People say it’s flat and maybe it is, but the light is wonderful and it has enormous skies. I live between Norwich and the coast with my nephew. At Fullerton Hall.’ Her eyes were as sharp as needles. ‘Maybe you have heard of it?’

      Kate shook her head. ‘No.’

      Lady Maynard was not offended, but nodded as if rather pleased. ‘Well, it’s not so grand as Blickling, although it’s just as old.’ She took a booklet from the table beside her, a visitor’s guide, and handed it to Kate. ‘It’s being opened to the public very shortly.’

      Kate looked at the photograph on the front cover. It was very beautiful and, despite Lady Maynard’s remark, grand enough, with twin towers at each end of the fa$cLade and enormous brick chimneys, similar to those she had seen on a visit to Hampton Court. ‘It’s lovely.’ She looked up, somewhat at a loss, and said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Heating must be a bit of a problem.’

      ‘Yes, my dear, it is.’ Lady Maynard laughed. ‘I knew you would be just right for the job. You’re not the sort of girl to get carried away by the romance of working in an Elizabethan manor. You see the problems. That’s good.’

      ‘I’m sorry…?’

      ‘We have a sort of tearoom in the old coach house, which was perfectly adequate when we just opened the gardens once a month during the summer. But I’ve decided to use the Edwardian conservatory to provide somewhere rather more comfortable and offer a really special afternoon tea to tempt new visitors. Now, would you consider taking on the task of organising it, running it for the first season and training a local girl to take over from you?’

      Under normal circumstances she would simply have turned it down, eager to concentrate on her own business. But these weren’t normal times. Sitting at her desk, going through the figures, Kate faced the hard truth that the six-month contract she had been offered would answer all her immediate worries.

      Particularly the problem of her sister’s school fees. She had been banking on a scholarship for this year, but it hadn’t happened.

      Kate felt again the sharp tug of compassion as Sam had thrown her arms about her and cried. ‘I did try, Kate. Really I did.’

      ‘I know, my love. It’s not a reflection on your dancing. They just feel…’ She didn’t continue. She didn’t need to. Samantha was only fourteen, but she had come to terms with what being deaf meant. And deep down she had to sympathise with the dance academy’s reaction. They had given her a place when others wouldn’t even audition her and they were delighted with her progress. But there were so many deserving, talented girls…

      It had all been there, tactfully