Strange Adventure. Sara Craven

      With a little groan, she tried to think of what little she knew about him—mostly gleaned from rare newspaper stories, and generally illustrating his loathing of personal publicity. But there had been a story recently—something to do with litigation over a trusteeship involving his young sister— which he had won, she recalled with a slight curl of her lip. She could remember there had been pictures of his beautiful villa on the Ionian island of Theros, taken presumably with a long-range lens out of respect for his dislike of the Press. She could recall gossipy items, too, about beautiful women who had been his guests on Theros for varying periods of time.

      A little shiver ran through her body. She felt like a novice swimmer who suddenly finds the water too deep, and too cold.

      She gave a shaky little sigh and turned reluctantly towards the door. Better to make her entrance downstairs as inconspicuous as possible than linger, and have Michelle coming in search of her.

      As she came slowly down the wide, polished staircase to the hall, Mrs Osborne was just admitting a latecomer. As he shugged off his overcoat and handed it to the housekeeper, Lacey realised it was Alan Trevor and in spite of herself she felt a wave of self-conscious colour rising in her face and had to crush an impulse to turn and run back to her room.

      When she spoke, she was amazed to hear how normal, even prim, she sounded. ‘Good evening, Alan.’

      He swung round. ‘Er—hello, Lacey. Am I the last? I had to stay behind because the vet was coming to look at Domino. She’s due to foal any time, but he doesn’t think there’ll be anything doing tonight.’

      ‘Well, I’m glad you were able to make it.’ She moved forward from the foot of the stairs, aware that his eyes were taking in the transformation in her appearance with evident puzzlement. ‘Is something the matter?’ She looked up at him innocently.

      ‘No—oh, no. It’s just …’ He stared down at her, frowning a little. ‘Hell, Lacey, what have you done to yourself?’

      ‘Don’t you approve?’

      ‘No—yes. I don’t know.’ He pushed his hair back impatiently. ‘What’s more important, will your parents approve? I mean, have they seen that dress?’

      ‘Of course.’ Lacey twirled round slowly, letting the filmy skirt float out and settle back against her slender legs. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

      ‘Oh, it’s fine—what there is of it,’ he said, heavily sarcastic. ‘And black. I’ve never seen you in black before.’

      ‘And you don’t like it?’

      ‘I wouldn’t say that. It just takes a bit of getting used to.’ His eyes went over her again. They held censure and something less easy to define. ‘You just look so—different.’

      ‘Well, I can’t always wear jeans and gymslips,’ she said defensively. ‘I have to grow up some time.’

      ‘We all have to do that,’ he muttered. ‘Come on. We’d better go in.’ He offered her his arm with a strange formality.

      ‘Oh, Alan!’ She ignored the gesture, slipping her hand into his with all the confidence of long familiarity. ‘I haven’t changed that much, believe me. I’m the same person I always was.’

      ‘Are you, Lacey?’ He gave her fingers a quick squeeze. ‘I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.’

      She was glad she did not have to enter the drawing room by herself. Even though her appearance did not cause the sensation she had feared, she was conscious of a number of curious glances, particularly from guests who had known her since childhood. There was admiration mixed with the curiosity too from most of the men, and after a moment or two Lacey felt some of the tension begin to leave her body. Alan released her hand, murmuring that he would fetch her a drink, and she stood alone, looking round the room and returning smiling nods and greetings.

      Then she saw him. He was standing by the ornate marble mantelpiece, his arm casually resting along the shelf. He seemed to be paying minute attention to the glowing butt of his cheroot, but as if aware of her scrutiny he raised his head, and their eyes met across the room. Lacey felt the polite smile fading on her lips as she encountered his look. It held recognition bordering on disbelief, and a frankly sensual assessment that brought the colour flaring to her face and an angry light to her eyes. For a moment she stood motionless, then, as she saw him fling the remains of his cheroot on to the blazing logs in the hearth and move away from the fireplace in one swift impatient movement, she realised he was coming towards her and panicked, turning towards the door, regardless of the curious glances she was attracting from the group of people nearest to her.

      But the way was blocked by Mrs Osborne’s comfortable figure, telling Michelle that dinner was served, and escape was impossible. She gave a swift glance around, searching vainly for Alan, as her father reached her side.

      ‘So there you are, Lacey.’ She knew she was not imagining the impatient, anxious note in his voice and turned towards him reluctantly. ‘Mr Andreakis has been waiting to meet you, my dear.’

      Her hand was encompassed by lean, brown fingers. It was the most conventional of salutes, so it was nonsense to imagine that she could still feel the pressure of his hand, long after he had released her. Dry-throated, she acknowledged his greeting in a small husky voice, registering that he was treating her as a complete stranger although there was no doubt that he had recognised her from that brief encounter in his room earlier. She supposed she should be grateful to him for saving them both from awkward explanations, but whereas she had hoped to be able to make him feel foolish, she now felt at a disadvantage. Resentment kept her silent as he took her arm and escorted her into the dining room, holding her chair as she sat down with a courtesy that she was certain masked—what? Something as simple as mockery? She could not be sure and it irked her as she unfolded the exquisite damask napkin, and picked up her soup spoon.

      To her relief, Michael Fairclough, a leading member of the local hunt, was her other neighbour at the table and she was able to start a conversation with him about the forthcoming point-to-point, even pretend for a while that the dark, sardonic figure at her other side did not exist, but a glacial look from Michelle at the end of the table brought her up with a jerk, reminding her of her duties. She turned towards him to find, disconcertingly, that he was watching her. Her colour rose, and the trite remark she had been planning on the weather prospects for the weekend died on her lips.

      Wonderingly her eyes searched his face, marking the strongly arched eyebrows above those impenetrably dark eyes, and the hard lines of his mouth and jaw. In spite of the formal elegance of dinner jacket and befrilled white shirt, she was aware of the muscular strength of the chest and shoulders they concealed, and the air of restless, barely controlled energy that suggested these civilised trappings were merely a veneer.

      ‘Do you read characters from faces, Miss Vernon?’

      Her nerves jumped both at the appositeness of his question, and at the realisation that she had been guilty of staring at him.

      She shook her head, transferring her gaze swiftly back to her plate.

      ‘You must think me very rude,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

      ‘You’re no thought-reader either.’ He picked up his glass and drank some of the wine it contained. ‘You’ve barely touched yours,’ he commented. ‘It’s hardly a compliment to such a fine vintage.’

      ‘I—I don’t know a great deal about wine,’ she confessed, and his brows rose.

      ‘No? I would have thought such occasions as this would have been second nature to you.’

      Was that an edge to his voice or was it her imagination running riot again? she wondered desperately. His remark proved one thing at least—Michelle’s outward grooming of her had been impeccable. He obviously thought she was much older than she was. Now all she had to do was to live up to that belief—provide him with the light-hearted flirtation that he would expect from a female companion at dinner.

      ‘Perhaps