Strange Adventure. Sara Craven

dress.’

      ‘But that’s ridiculous. I always have in the past,’ Lacey swung round vexedly on the dressing stool and gasped as she saw the mass of clinging black fabric Barbara was holding carefully over her arm. ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Your dress, miss.’ Barbara sounded surprised. ‘Didn’t you think it would arrive in time?’

      Lacey’s lips parted helplessly as she recognised that Barbara was holding out the daring gown with the minimal bodice that she had seen modelled at Jean Louis.

      ‘There’s been some mistake,’ she said eventually. ‘That dress is for Madame. I—I couldn’t wear anything like that.’

      ‘It’s definitely your dress, Miss Lacey. Madame said so when I unpacked the box, and besides, this isn’t her fitting. It must be a little surprise for you,’ she added encouragingly.

      Lacey’s lips tightened. ‘Well, I still don’t intend to wear it,’ she declared. ‘Please take it away and bring me my blue dress instead.’

      ‘But, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara’s voice was anxious, ‘Madame said you had to wear it tonight. I don’t know what she’ll say if …’

      ‘That isn’t your problem, Barbara,’ Lacey said gently. ‘I’ll see my stepmother before I go down and explain. I’m sure there’s been a mistake of some kind.’

      ‘Mistake? What mistake?’ Michelle’s cool voice spoke from the doorway. She came gliding across the carpet, elegant in a silver gown, a cigarette held tensely in her fingers, and carrying a glass filled with some pale liquid in her other hand.

      ‘Miss Lacey doesn’t want to wear the Jean Louis model, madame.’ Barbara sounded subdued, as if she felt she would be blamed for Lacey’s rebellion.

      Michelle’s eyebrows rose. ‘Eh bien? You may go, Barbara. I will deal with this.’

      When the door had closed behind the girl, she set the glass down on the dressing table near the bowl of daffodils and stood, looking grimly down at her stepdaughter.

      ‘Were my instructions not clear?’ she asked.

      ‘Michelle!’ Lacey was totally appalled. ‘You surely can’t expect me to go downstairs wearing—that.’

      ‘Pourquoi pas?’ Michelle gave her a hard look. ‘It is an an expensive dress, and black will set off your hair and skin admirably.’

      Slow colour crept up Lacey’s face. ‘You know why not,’ she protested.

      Michelle gave a brief, metallic laugh. ‘A prude, ma chère? You are no longer at the convent, tu sais. Most girls of your age would give much to wear such a dress. What have you to be ashamed of? Your body is young, and your breasts are firm. You have the perfect figure for the gown, which is why I bought it for you. Now please dress yourself in it without further arguments. It is getting late.’

      ‘But, Michelle, what will people think—what will my father say?’

      Michelle shrugged. ‘What should they think? That you look—charming. And your father will say nothing. He not only approves of the gown but he particularly wishes you to wear it tonight.’

      ‘But why?’

      Michelle sighed elaborately. ‘It is his wish that you should make a favourable impression on one of his guests.’

      ‘By appearing half naked?’ Lacey’s mouth twisted in a sudden cynicism that belied her youth. ‘And who is this very important person—or am I not allowed to ask?’

      But as soon as the words were uttered, she knew. There was only one person it could be—the strange man into whose room she had blundered with her unwanted welcome offering of flowers. She felt suddenly cold and sick, remembering how his eyes had assessed her earlier with all the assurance of a man for whom the female body held few secrets. To have to appear in front of him wearing the black dress would be a total humiliation.

      ‘You asked to be treated as a woman, but you persist in behaving like a child.’ Her stepmother’s tone was icy. ‘His name is Troy Andreakis.’

      Lacey had been staring at the bowl of daffodils, trying to fight back her tears, but at the name her head came up sharply and she stared at Michelle disbelievingly.

      ‘The oil and shipping magnate? But what is he doing here? He has no interest in Vernon–Carey.’

      ‘Not yet.’ Michelle picked up a hairbrush and studied it with over-absorbed interest. ‘Yet—who knows? By the time the weekend is at an end …’ She shrugged again, leaving the sentence unfinished.

      Lacey stared at her bewildered. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Oh, it’s quite simple, ma chère. A large-scale investment by a man of Andreakis’ status would restore confidence in Vernon–Carey. Without it, there could well be a catastrophe—quite soon.’

      Lacey gripped the edge of the dressing table. ‘Things are that bad?’ she managed, her green eyes enormous in her pale face.

      ‘They are that bad,’ Michelle corroborated tautly. ‘And, believe me, there are no lengths to which I will not go to ensure that your father gets that investment from Andreakis. That is why, ma chère, you are going to wear that dress tonight, because you are going to help me—you are going to be an asset to your father for the first time in your life instead of a liability.’

      Lacey flinched a little, but her stepmother went on unheeding. ‘This is why you are being dressed as an attractive woman, instead of a child. A man like Andreakis does not want to dine in the company of a gawky schoolgirl. You once hoped to occupy a concert platform, and for that you would have needed an ability to act, to project your personality as well as your music. Tonight your father needs that performance from you. He wants you to relax Andreakis, to charm him if you can.’

      Lacey closed her eyes for a moment. Now was not the time to confess that she and Troy Andreakis had already encountered and failed to charm each other. Would the transformation from gawky schoolgirl to sophisticate be sufficiently complete to render her unrecognisable? She doubted it, and knew that she was going to need every scrap of social grace that had been imparted to her at the convent to get through the evening without disaster.

      ‘If it’s what Daddy wants,’ she said wearily, at last.

      ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say precisely that.’ Michelle’s voice was ironic. ‘But he appreciates the necessity at least, and he is depending on you.’ Her eyes skimmed Lacey’s wilting figure appraisingly. ‘Barbara has done her work well. Make sure you do the same. Now please hurry. The others will be arriving soon.’

      As she turned to go, she indicated the glass on the dressing table. ‘Pour toi. For you—a dry Martini,’ she said.

      ‘But I only drink fruit juice,’ Lacey protested.

      Michelle smiled a little. ‘Call it Dutch courage. You may need it.’ And she was gone on a cloud of Balmain perfume.

      Lacey tasted the drink gingerly, grimacing slightly at the taste, but it had a warming effect which served to chase away some of the unpleasant butterflies which appeared to have taken up residence in her abdomen.

      When she was finally ready, she stood and stared at herself in the full-length mirror, resisting an impulse to cover the upper part of her body with her hands. It was true, she thought detachedly—she did not have to be ashamed of her figure. The stark black of the material made her white skin look almost translucent and gave her slender curves a frank enticement. She just prayed that her untried poise would be able to cope with the promise of almost total revelation that the gown exuded.

      But in spite of its provocation, and the sophistication of her shadowed eyes, glowing mouth and softly piled hair, Lacey felt desperately inadequate. Unwillingly she forced her mind back to that earlier encounter, visualising the ruthlessness of his dark face. Not a man who would suffer