A Bad Enemy. Sara Craven

      

      A Bad Enemy

      Sara Craven

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

       COVER

       TITLE PAGE

       ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       ENDPAGE

       COPYRIGHT

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘WONDERFUL party, darling,’ the man said. He was smiling owlishly and slurring his words, and Lisle wondered without interest who he was. A friend of Janie’s, perhaps. Certainly no one she knew.

      ‘Thank you.’ She gave him an absent smile and tried to move past him down the passage to the kitchen. ‘It’s not a wonderful party,’ she thought. ‘It’s a lousy party, and I’m bored out of my skull. I wish they’d all go.’

      She was amazed to hear herself. She was the girl who enjoyed life to the full, who only needed a few hours’ sleep, whose pace never slackened.

      ‘I’m starting to believe my own publicity,’ she thought ruefully.

      ‘Where are you goin’?’ The man seized her arm, his face plaintive. His fingers felt warm and clammy on her skin, and she had to repress a shiver of distaste.

      She tried to detach herself, but he hung on. ‘To get some more ice.’ She kept her voice cool and equable, because she didn’t know who he was. Someone had once made a semi-drunken pass at her at a party, and she’d administered a crushing snub and a slapped face, only to discover when taxed on the matter by a furious Gerard that he had been an important client, and she had just lost Harlow Bannerman a contract that they had wanted. Since then, she had learned to handle the casual fondling, the innuendoes and sometimes blatant propositioning with imperturbable charm. As Gerard had pointed out, it was part of her job.

      ‘Don’ leave me,’ the man said, and winked at her. ‘I’ve been trying to get you alone all evening.’

      She doubted that. The truth was probably that he had seen her slip out of the room and followed, fancying his chances, and now he was blocking the way to the kitchen and leering.

      She groaned inwardly, and at the same moment the doorbell pealed loudly. Saved by the bell, she told herself drily, inwardly blessing the late arrival.

      She threw the front door open, smiling with determined gaiety, but the man on the threshold didn’t smile back. In fact the expression on his face was almost one of contempt, which was ridiculous considering he was a complete stranger to her.

      Lisle wondered for a moment if he was a new neighbour coming to complain about possible noise, because he wasn’t a party guest, or even a hopeful gatecrasher. Instinct told her that.

      He said, ‘Miss Bannerman?’

      She went on smiling. ‘Yes?’

      A dark forbidding face, she thought, the features harshly marked, with a firm-lipped mouth and a nose which had quite evidently been broken at some time in its career, but attractive nonetheless.

      He said, ‘Perhaps we could have a private word—preferably out of earshot of that—bear-garden.’ He waved towards the muted roar of the party.

      ‘Oh dear.’ Lisle raised her eyebrows. ‘So who are you? The police—the bailiffs—the Inland Revenue?—because whoever you are, I think you’ve got the wrong person.’

      He shook his head, the wintry grey eyes going impassively over her, taking in every detail of the expensive black dress from the low neckline to the skirt slit as far as her thigh.

      ‘I don’t think so.’ There was a sudden burst of noisy laughter from the living room, and he glanced towards the half-closed door, his mouth twisting. ‘And how will this ultimately feature in the Harlow Bannerman accounts?’ he asked. ‘As entertaining clients?’

      ‘My God!’ Lisle struck a pose of exaggerated horror. ‘It is the Inland Revenue!’ The owlish man released his grip on her arm and slid back to the party, leaving them alone in the narrow hall, watching each other warily.

      She said, ‘All joking apart, would you mind telling me who you are, and what you want?’

      ‘In privacy—yes.’ He walked past her unhurriedly, down the passage, away from the din of the party. ‘In here, perhaps.’ He opened a door.

      ‘And perhaps not,’ Lisle said indignantly. ‘That happens to be my bedroom.’

      He said grimly, ‘Spare me the coy protests, Miss Bannerman, they don’t go with your clothes. I assure you I’m not in the mood, and even if I were, you overestimate your charms where I’m concerned.’

      The breath caught in her throat. She said slowly, ‘I—think I’ve just been—insulted. Will you leave now, or must I have you thrown out?’

      ‘You have to have me thrown,’ he said at once. ‘And before you do perhaps I should tell you that your grandfather was taken ill this afternoon, and is asking for you. He isn’t expected to live.’

      She made a muffled sound and sank down on the bed, pressing her hand against her mouth, her green eyes widening in shocked incredulity.

      She exclaimed, ‘This afternoon? But why has no one been in touch—why wasn’t I told before?’