Act Of Betrayal. Sara Craven

throat, and sat up slowly, fighting her own self-disgust.

      How could she have felt like that—even for a second? She knew what Jason was—who better? she thought bitterly—so what in the name of God had she been doing to allow him anywhere near her?

      She lay back in her seat, staring sightlessly through the windscreen.

      Well, it had happened, and while it was shaming to realise just how close her body had been to betraying her, the situation wasn’t totally irretrievable.

      Because Jason had not guessed. She repeated the words aloud to herself, giving each one its own resounding emphasis—because it mattered. It really did.

      She’d been a total innocent when they’d first met, but under his tutelage she’d blossomed, discovering depths in her nature, aspects of sexuality which she’d never dreamed existed. Jason was the first man to whom she’d been physically attracted, the first one to teach her sensual delight. It was hardly surprising that she’d imagined she was in love with him, or that she’d been naïve enough to believe that he loved her in return.

      She’d soon learned differently, of course—even before that first, crazy, delirious year had wound to a close.

       ‘Trust me,’ he’d urged. ‘Laura, trust me please.’

      I trusted him, she thought. I’d have done anything for him. I’d have followed him naked, if he’d asked me. Only he never asked.

      She hadn’t let herself cry much during the long months while she was waiting to be divorced. She hadn’t cried a great deal since, but there were tears now. Laura put her hands over her face and sobbed. The moisture ran between her splayed fingers, and down the backs of her hands. She could hear herself moaning, and the desolation of the sound frightened her into silence, and ultimately into control again.

      There was a box of tissues in the car, and she used them to blot the worst signs of her emotional collapse from her face. She didn’t want to have to face Celia with red eyes, and a blotched skin. In fact, it occurred to her, she would prefer not to have face Celia at all just yet.

      She sat for a moment, drumming her fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, then started the car with new determination. She would go to Alan’s house—take him up on one of the many invitations she’d always steered clear of in the past.

      After all, she liked Alan, she argued defensively to herself. She’d enjoyed their dates together over the past year, but she’d been wary of allowing their relationship to develop along more intimate lines, and when Alan had shown signs of trying to force the pace a little, she’d always drawn back. One day she might be ready for a serious involvement again, but that day had not yet arrived.

      And although to seek him out like this might not be altogether fair to Alan in view of the ambivalence of her feelings, it was necessary. She needed the reassurance of his undoubted regard for her. He was the present tense in her life. Jason was the past.

      It took Laura just under ten minutes to drive out of town to the small village where he lived. One minute there were suburban houses and neat gardens, and then, as abruptly as if someone had drawn a line, there were fields and trees and narrow lanes, with fingerposts pointing out the hidden life of the countryside.

      She parked her car on the verge opposite his small cottage, and crossed the lane to the gate, returning the friendly nod she received from an elderly man working in the neighbouring garden.

      As she walked up the path, she could hear the sound of Alan’s typewriter clicking away through the open window, and she hesitated for a moment before knocking at the door.

      Alan had trained originally as a teacher, but because of the cuts in education spending, he’d never managed to secure a permanent post in an English department anywhere. So, instead, he’d turned to freelance writing, and was managing to make an adequate living if not an affluent one, eked out by some private coaching. Among other things, he wrote a restaurant column for the local paper, as well as being its drama critic, and in a way it was through this column that they’d become friends, because when they’d been casually introduced at a party, Laura had told him bluntly she didn’t always agree with his praise or criticism of the local eating houses, and they’d enjoyed discussing their differing opinions.

      It was clear he was working now, and she was unwilling to disturb him for such purely selfish reasons, but just as she was preparing to turn away, he called, ‘Come in, Laura. The door isn’t locked.’

      He met her in the tiny hall, smiling delightedly. ‘Hey—this is fantastic. I was just going to ‘phone you. What brings you this way?’

      ‘Oh, I was just passing.’ She hated lying, and was bad at it. ‘Could I use the bathroom, do you suppose?’

      ‘Of course,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s on the right at the top of the stairs. And I’ll make some coffee.’

      As she made hurried repairs to the ravages which emotion had done to her face, Laura wondered wryly whether Alan had seen she was upset, but been too tactful to enquire about it. On balance, she decided the dimness of the light in the hall had probably been to her advantage, and he hadn’t noticed a thing. She hoped not, anyway. She didn’t want to have to embark on lengthy explanations.

      He was emerging from the kitchen with a tray as she came downstairs, and she followed him into a sizeable, cluttered living room. There was a large desk under the window, and a frankly sagging sofa in front of the empty fireplace, flanked by a couple of easy chairs which had also seen better days.

      But for all that, the room had a cosy welcoming air, which in Laura’s view, the Caswell mansion totally lacked.

      The coffee was good too. Alan was fussy about the blends he chose, and it showed. She accepted the pretty pottery beaker he handed her with a murmured word of thanks.

      He perched on the arm of a chair, smiling eagerly. ‘I’m glad I didn’t ‘phone and find you out. I get the impression your uncle’s housekeeper doesn’t altogether appreciate taking messages from me.’

      Laura smiled rather ruefully. ‘It’s no fault of yours. I’m afraid that she resents me. She’s been with the family for years, and my uncle thought I could take some of the housekeeping burdens off her shoulders, but she doesn’t see it that way at all. Anyway, why did you want to speak to me?’

      ‘I’ve been asked to cover the opening of a brand-new restaurant in Burngate tonight,’ he said. ‘The Echo were going to send Linda Watson from staff, because there’ll be free champagne, but as she’s gone down with some virus they’ve had to fall back on me.’ He gave a self-deprecating grin. ‘I’m allowed to take guests, so I wondered if you’d go with me?’

      In any other circumstances, Laura thought she would probably have made an excuse. It didn’t sound like her sort of junket at all, but tonight the last thing she wanted to do was sit at home and brood.

      She said lightly, ‘It sounds like fun. Pick me up early, and have a drink with us first.’

      His face lit up. ‘I’d really like that.’ He paused. ‘Your family don’t object to you going out with a struggling hack?’

      ‘Is that how you see yourself?’ Laura asked. She gave a faint shrug. ‘Why should they object? I’m not a child anymore. I have my own life to live.’

      ‘I suppose so.’ He spoke slowly, as if measuring his words. ‘But do you live it? I mean—you seem so sheltered sometimes.’

      ‘I assure you I don’t feel it,’ she told him drily. ‘But if you’re nervous of my ivory tower, we could always meet in a bar.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ he denied hastily. ‘I’d like to meet your uncle.’

      He didn’t actually say ‘at long last’ but his tone implied it, and Laura bit her lip. Clearly her attempts to keep their relationship on a strictly casual basis hadn’t been as subtle as she’d hoped, and now Alan was taking her decision to introduce him into the family circle