Act Of Betrayal. Sara Craven

car park, and braked, swearing mildly under her breath. She had no official parking space, but a place was always left for her, and today it was occupied by a long sleek Jaguar.

      Laura, staring frustratedly at it through the windscreen, supposed it must belong to one of the Tristan directors. She didn’t recognise it anyway, and now she had to resign herself to driving round to the rear of the building, and taking all the food up the stairs to the boardroom floor, instead of using the reception lift, and the brawny arms of George the commissionaire.

      It was fast turning out to be one of those days, she decided ruefully.

      It took three journeys, and she was flushed and a little breathless as she unpacked her cartons and switched on the oven, and checked unobtrusively that the waitresses had laid the dining room table correctly.

      She’d hulled and washed the strawberries, and was layering them in a glass bowl with the crème Chantilly, when the kitchen door almost burst open, and Mrs Ferguson, her uncle’s secretary came in at the run.

      ‘Oh, you’re here.’ Fergie looked more flushed than Laura did herself, and sounded agitated. ‘So you didn’t get the message. I was afraid of that. I should have ‘phoned myself—made sure.’

      Laura gave her a long look. ‘I hope you haven’t been at the boardroom sherry, Fergie,’ she suggested mischievously. ‘You did speak to me, you know. That’s why I’m here.’

      ‘Oh, no, not that.’ Fergie shook her head, looking more distressed than ever. ‘You see, there was another message—later. Your uncle told them to call you from reception, but I was certain you’d already have left. I did try to tell him … Oh dear, it’s all so difficult …’

      ‘Don’t tell me,’ Laura said resignedly. ‘Tristan Construction are all vegetarians.’

      ‘What?’ Fergie gulped and stared.

      ‘Allergic to strawberries?’ Laura went on, frowning a little. ‘Or simply not turned up?’

      ‘No, they’re here. That’s the trouble. You see, we didn’t know—how could we—until they arrived. And then it was too late.’

      Fergie looked as if she was about to burst into tears, and Laura could hardly believe what she was seeing. Mrs Ferguson was one of the mainstays of the company, and under normal circumstance totally unflappable. What in the world could have got her in this state?

      She gave her an encouraging smile. ‘It can’t be that bad,’ she urged gently. ‘Surely they’re not international terrorists holding Uncle Martin to ransom for the formula of the new miracle fibre? Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll poison the soup.’

      But Fergie was almost wringing her hands. ‘Oh, Laura,’ she wailed. ‘Their managing director—it’s Jason Wingard—your ex-husband.’

      Laura found she was putting the bowl of cream she was holding very carefully down on to the table. It was suddenly important to move slowly and certainly, and to wait to speak too, until she was sure she could trust her voice.

      She said, ‘There must be some mistake. Jason was—was an artist. He doesn’t know anything about the building trade. And Tristan Construction is a big company. Besides—his name would have been on the letterheads. Uncle Martin—one of you would have seen it.’

      She was building up excuses like a wall to shelter behind, because it just couldn’t be possible for Jason to walk back into her life like this. She hadn’t seen or heard anything of him for over three years now. He’d simply touched the edge of her life like a comet, a star of ill-omen, then vanished, leaving her emotionally scorched, hardly able to believe what had happened to her. She’d prayed she would never have to set eyes on him again. And now, out of the clearest of blue skies—this.

      Fergie shook her head. ‘It was the first thing I checked, but there was only the company heading, plus the address and telex. No directors’ names at all. Your uncle told reception to ‘phone you at once—to stop you coming here—or to turn you back downstairs if you’d already left. They must have missed you somehow.’

      Laura said, ‘The car park was full.’ She took a deep breath, marshalling all her forces determinedly. ‘It’s kind of my uncle to be so concerned, but I can cope, truly I can. I’m here now, and I’ll prepare the lunch as I always do. I don’t have to see—Jason, and he need never even know I’m around.’ She made herself smile. ‘No problem.’

      ‘Are you quite sure?’ Fergie gave her a harrassed look, then glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll let your uncle know what you’ve decided.’ She shuddered. ‘Oh, dear, he was so angry. I’ve never seen him in such a state. I was terrified he might have a heart attack.’

      Laura looked down at the strawberries. She said neutrally. ‘He and Jason—they never liked each other. Never got on.’

      Their mutual antagonism, she remembered, had been the first shadow across the dazzling glitter of her happiness. Too bright, too dazzling, like a day in spring which promises sunlight, but ends in weeping rain.

      Fergie said, ‘Oh dear,’ again, rather helplessly. Then, ‘Don’t even attempt to clear away afterwards. I’ll have it all seen to. Just do what needs to be done, then get away.’

      ‘I’ll do exactly that.’ Laura made her tone reassuring, and Fergie gave her an uncertain smile and dashed away.

      Laura was alone again, and she stood for a long moment, forcing herself to breathe deeply and calmly, regaining her equilibrium. She’d told Fergie she could cope, but she wasn’t altogether sure it was true.

      It was all so unexpected—so frankly incredible.

      They’d parted in bitterness, and Jason hadn’t contested the divorce, although her solicitor had said that was often the case where there were no children to fight over. She could still remember her reaction to that—the swift agonised sob, and the way he’d looked at her, kind but uncomprehending. But that had been the only time she’d come near breaking point, on the surface at least.

      There had been no communication between Jason and herself—none at all, and she’d been thankful for it—thankful there was no need for maintenance payments or property settlements. ‘A clean break’ her uncle had called it, and that was what it had been. Only it was more like a cut than a break—an amputation, where the aching continued long after the severance had healed.

      So why had Jason chosen to probe the wound again? Because that was what he was doing. True, he could not have expected to find her at the works, but he must know that news of his reappearance would get back to her sooner or later.

      Surely it wasn’t his intention to torment her by turning up in her life at intervals, when least expected? That would be too cruel, she thought numbly, but after all, Jason specialised in cruelty. Wasn’t she only too aware of that?

      She could serve the lunch and run. That was the easy bit. The hard part would come later—closing him out of her mind, as she thought she’d succeeded in doing already, refusing to allow herself any more fruitless speculations about the reasons for his presence at the works, or his intentions.

      All her cookery school training was needed, as the moment approached when the meal would be served. Laura found herself wishing she’d not made it so easy for herself—that she’d decided to splurge with some complicated dish which needed every atom of concentration of which she was capable. She was on edge all the time, keyed up for the sound of voices, even though she knew it was doubtful whether they would penetrate so far. Quite deliberately, the kitchen had been planned at a discreet distance from the board’s dining room, and she was thankful for this as never before, because as soon as the food was served she could leave the way she had come, with no-one being any the wiser.

      She was just frying the croutons for the soup when the waitresses arrived, and as Laura poured the fragrant soup into the two matching tureens, she wondered if they knew who was waiting to be served in the dining room—if word had got around somehow? She hoped not. They were excellent