Dangerous to Know. Barbara Taylor Bradford

he was having a grand love affair at the time.

      That afternoon, when he had sauntered up the steps of the gazebo and seated himself next to me, I had known he was going to play a huge part in my life, in my future. Don’t ask me how the young girl that I was then sensed this. She just did.

      We had talked about horses, which he knew scared me to death. He had asked me if I would like to come to Laurel Creek Farm in Cornwall to learn to ride.

      “I have a son, Jack, who’s six, and a daughter, Luciana, who’s four. They’re already astride their ponies and doing well. Say you’ll come and ride with us, Vivienne, say you’ll come and stay at the horse farm. Your mother’s a fine equestrienne, as you well know. She wants you to ride as proficiently as she does. You mustn’t be afraid of horses. I will teach you how to ride myself. You’ll be safe with me.” He was correct in that, I did feel safe with him, and he did teach me to ride well, showing much more patience and understanding than my mother. And I loved him all the more for that.

      A long time later, many years later, I realized he had been trying to make us into a family, that he had wanted my mother for himself. For always. But how could she have been his forever? She was married to Liam Delaney, and he had gone missing far across the ocean. Until she got a divorce she could never remarry. Not Sebastian. Not anyone. Still, Sebastian had tried to blend us into a tight-knit little circle, and in certain ways he succeeded.

      That afternoon, staring up at him, I had only been able to nod mutely as he talked about horses, tried to reassure me about learning to ride. I was rendered speechless by this man, totally mesmerized by him.

      I was under his spell.

      And I was forever after, for that matter.

      It was Belinda who broke into my memories and my golden dreams, who scattered my beloved ghosts to the far corners of Gran Rosalie’s garden.

      “Vivienne, Vivienne!” she called as she hurried down the path, waving frantically. “It’s the New York Times. They’re on the phone.”

      I leaped to my feet on hearing this and raced toward her. We met in the middle of the lawn. “The New York Times?” I repeated, searching her face, my heart sinking.

      “Yes, they’ve gotten wind of it…wind of Sebastian’s death. They seem to know that the police were called in, that the circumstances are suspicious. Etcetera, etcetera. Anyway, the reporter wants to have a word with you.”

      The mere thought of tomorrow’s headlines around the world sent a chill surging through me. And of course there would be headlines. A famous man had died, a man of conscience and compassion…the world’s greatest philanthropist. And he might have been murdered. I shrivelled inside at the mere thought of those headlines. The press would turn his life upside down and inside out. No one, nothing, would be sacrosanct.

      “The reporter wants to talk to you, Vivienne,” Belinda said more urgently, taking hold of my arm. “He’s waiting.”

      “Oh God,” I groaned. “Why me?”

       CHAPTER TWO

      “Why me?” I repeated later that evening, staring up at Jack. “Why did you elect me to be the spokesperson for this family?”

      He had just arrived for supper a few minutes ago, and we were in my small den at the rear of the house, a room he preferred: It was intimate, warm, with its red brocaded walls and old Persian carpet. He hovered in front of me, his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets.

      Returning my stare, seemingly at a loss, he did not answer. Then shaking his head in a thoughtful way, he started to speak, stopped, frowned, and pursed his lips.

      “Well, Vivienne,” he said at last, “I’m not sure why.” He shook his head again. “Liar,” he said emphatically. “I’m a liar. And a coward. That’s why I sicked the Times on you. I didn’t want to talk to them myself.”

      “But you’re the head of the family now. I’m not,” I protested.

      “And you’re a journalist. A respected journalist. You know better how to deal with the dreaded press than I do.”

      “Luciana could have spoken to them. She’s Sebastian’s daughter.”

      “You’re his ex-wife,” he shot back.

      “Oh, Jack, please.”

      “Okay, okay. Look, she’s been out of it all day, ever since we got here. She can barely speak to me, never mind the New York Times. You know how fragile she is. The least little thing upsets her.”

      “It always has. I never even expected her for supper tonight, even though she accepted. I knew she wouldn’t come,” I retorted. When we were children growing up together, Luciana had usually been the one to hang back, to drop out, to claim tiredness, even sickness, when she didn’t wish to do something, or if she was faced with a difficult situation. But fragile she wasn’t. I knew that for a fact. She was strong. And tough. Not that Luciana ever let anyone know this. Dissembling came to her readily and with great ease; she was a facile liar, an expert spinner of tall tales. Her father once told me she was the cleverest liar he had ever known.

      “How about a drink?” Jack said, cutting into my thoughts about his half sister.

      “Of course!” I exclaimed, jumping up. “How rude of me. What would you like? Your usual scotch? Or a glass of wine?”

      “Scotch, please, Viv.”

      I went to the antique Georgian table near the door, which held a few bottles of liquor and a bucket of ice. I fixed his scotch, a vodka on the rocks for myself, and carried them back to the fireplace. Handing him his glass, I sat down.

      He muttered his thanks, took a great gulp of the amber-colored alcohol, and stood nursing it in both hands, ruminating.

      “It’s been a terrible day,” I said. “The worst day in a long time. I still can’t quite accept the fact that Sebastian’s dead. I keep expecting him to walk in any minute.”

      Jack made no comment, merely sipped his drink and rocked back and forth on his heels.

      I regarded him over the rim of my glass, thinking how unsympathetic and without emotion he was. I experienced a little spurt of anger. Jack could be so cold, cold as an iceberg. At this moment I hated him, as I had sometimes hated him as a child. His father had been found dead this morning, and in the most peculiar circumstances. Yet he was behaving as if nothing had happened. And he certainly wasn’t showing any signs of grief. It struck me as being most unnatural, even though father and son had never really been close. I had been distressed for the entire day, fighting tears, engulfed by sadness. I mourned Sebastian, and I would go on mourning him for a long time.

      Suddenly, without preamble, Jack said, “They took the body.”

      Startled by this announcement, I gaped at him. “You mean the police took the body away?”

      “Yep,” he answered laconically.

      “To Farmington? For the autopsy?”

      “You got it.”

      “I really can’t stand you when you’re like this!” I exclaimed, and I was surprised at the harshness of my voice.

      “Like what, sugar?”

      “For God’s sake, come off it, you know what I mean. So cold and hard and detached. Half of it’s pretense anyway. You can’t fool me. I’ve known you for the best part of your life and mine.”

      He shrugged indifferently, drained his glass, went and poured himself another drink. Walking back to the fireside, he continued, “That detective, Kennelly, told me we’ll get the body back tomorrow.”

      “So quickly?”

      He