Raw Silk

‘Nor do I,’ averred Fliss energetically. ‘The woman’s identity’s been verified and, if that wasn’t enough, she’s shown a remarkable aptitude for filling the void left by Mr Hastings’ death. Honestly, Rose Chen knows more about the business than Robert ever has. She’s a natural organiser, and she certainly gets things done.’

‘Which is probably another reason why Robert objects to her presence,’ declared the Reverend Matthew Hayton drily. ‘I mean, you can’t deny that Robert seldom showed a great deal of interest in the company when his father was alive. He spent more time playing golf and sailing his yacht than he ever did in the office.’

‘Robert’s always maintained that his father never gave him any responsibility,’ Fliss exclaimed loyally. ‘And after all, Mr Hastings was only in his fifties. Who’d have thought he’d die so young? He never seemed to have much stress in his life. Though I suppose if he was leading a double life there must have been some strain.’

‘Hardly a double life, Felicity.’ Her father was the only person who ever called her by her given name, and now he viewed his daughter with some misgivings. ‘We can’t really speculate about Hastings’ life in Hong Kong. And if neither Robert nor——’

‘Rose Chen?’

‘—nor Rose Chen knew of each other’s existence, the affair—if that was what it was—must have been over some time ago.’

Fliss nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

‘In any event, it’s not our concern, Felicity, and I hope you don’t encourage Robert to criticise his father’s behaviour.’ He pushed his spectacles back up his nose, and returned his attention to the sermon he was trying to compose. ‘People who live in glass houses, Felicity. Need I say more?’

Fliss snorted. ‘I don’t encourage Robert to talk about his father, Dad, but he does it anyway.’ She grimaced. ‘He talks about little else. Oh, and he moans about Oliver Lynch’s influence on Rose Chen, as well. Apparently, she’s insisted he sits in on their meetings—like a skeleton at the feast, according to Rob.’

Matthew Hayton looked up again. ‘Oliver Lynch?’ he frowned. ‘Oh, that American you said had accompanied her. What is he? Her accountant? Her solicitor?’

Fliss shuffled the pile of reference books she had been tidying, and gave a careless shrug of her shoulders. ‘Her—partner, I think,’ she said, bending her head so her father shouldn’t see the colour that had stained her cheeks at his words.

‘Her partner?’ Matthew Hayton frowned. ‘You mean, he has a share in the business, too?’

‘No.’ Fliss wished she hadn’t mentioned Oliver Lynch at all. ‘He’s her—boyfriend, I believe. At least, Robert says she can’t keep her hands off him.’

‘I see.’ Her father arched his brows that were several shades lighter than his daughter’s. ‘And Robert thinks this man exercises some undue influence on his—sister, is that right?’

‘Well—something like that,’ agreed Fliss uncomfortably. ‘No one seems to know what he does exactly. He doesn’t appear to have a job, and—well, Robert thinks he must be living off Rose Chen.’ She hesitated and then added reluctantly, ‘He certainly wears expensive clothes for someone without any obvious means of support.’

Matthew Hayton took off his spectacles now, and gave his daughter a reproving look. ‘Felicity, this is all hearsay, isn’t it? I doubt very much whether Robert has actually asked Rose Chen what this man—Lynch, did you say?—does.’

‘No, but—’

‘He may be a man of substance. He may have independent means. I don’t think you should immediately assume he’s some kind of—what’s the word?—pimp? Just because Robert’s feeling betrayed by his father’s deception.’

‘No,’ said Fliss again, but with rather less emphasis. And, after all, her father had a point. Robert really did know nothing about Oliver Lynch. If she was perfectly honest, she’d have to admit that she’d only sympathised with him because she’d been intimidated by Oliver Lynch’s tall, dark presence.

‘So, what did you think of the man?’ Reverend Hayton prompted now, and Fliss realised that her careless words had got her into even deeper water. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss Oliver Lynch with her father. Particularly as her reaction to him had been so disturbingly confused.

‘He seemed—very nice,’ she said carefully, avoiding making any statement that might initiate a follow-up. ‘Um—I think I’ll go over to the church. I promised Mrs Rennie I’d help her with the flowers.’

Her father looked as if he might have some further comment to make, and she balled her fists in the pockets of the linen trousers she was wearing as she waited for the verbal axe to fall. But all Matthew Hayton said was, ‘Ask Mr Brewitt to check on the communion wine, if you see him,’ before pushing his spectacles back in place and returning to his sermon.

Outside the pleasantly cool environs of her father’s study, the air was hot and decidedly humid. At this time of year, any long spell of hot weather was usually followed by a bout of thunderstorms, and the sky had that ominous overcast sheen that often heralded bad weather.

Other than that, the village looked rather pretty at the moment. The cottage gardens were filled with every kind of flower imaginable, and sunflowers and hollyhocks rose thickly above the rest. There were geraniums, too, in great numbers, spilling from every hedge and border, and tumbling riotously from stone urns and planters. Only the lawns looked rather parched, because sprinklers had been forbidden.

The vicarage garden was no different from the rest, and Fliss, who invariably ended up having to do the weeding herself, viewed its dried beds with some misgivings. The church did employ a caretaker, part of whose duties was to keep the grass neat in the churchyard, and to look after the rather large gardens of the vicarage. Church fetes were always held on the back lawn, and it was important to keep the weeds at bay. But Mr Hood was really too old now to do all that was needed. Even with a tractor mower, he found it hard to pull his weight. Not that the Reverend would ever force him to retire, thought Fliss affectionately. Not as long as Mr Hood wanted to work. Until he chose to retire, the job was his.

Walking up the gravel path to the vestry door, Fliss lifted the weight of her hair from her neck with a slightly weary hand. She really ought to have her hair cut, she thought ruefully. Or confine it permanently in a braid. Having long hair might look nice, but it certainly wasn’t easy to handle. And it could be rather tiresome at this time of year.

Still, it wasn’t really her hair that was making her feel so tired all of a sudden. The truth was, she wasn’t sleeping well. These warm, humid nights left her feeling limp, not rested, and the problems Robert was having were creating troubles for her, too.

Ever since their engagement, Robert’s attitude towards her had become more and more possessive, and she wondered if it was because she had so far evaded giving in to his demands that he was so aggressive. Since Rose Chen came on the scene he had become increasingly persistent, and he was no longer willing to make compromises. He wanted her, he said. Not at some nebulous date in the future, but now. Nothing in his life was certain any more, and he needed her with him to keep him sane.

Her protestations that she was with him, that possession was nine-tenths in the mind anyway, didn’t persuade him. How could he feel she was really his when she drew the line at the bedroom door? he asked. When two people loved one another, there should be no lines, no barriers.

Of course, there were other arguments: that she was prudish and old-fashioned—arguments she couldn’t really defend. Perhaps she was both those things, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Sex had never figured highly in her thoughts.

And the truth was, although she liked Robert, and cared about him, after her experience at college she didn’t know if she had it in her to feel any more deeply than that. There were women—she had read about them in magazines—who were happily married, with a handful of children, who’d never known what real passion was. The importance of feeling loved, of feeling wanted, was what they cared about. Orgasm—a word which was freely bandied about today, and which her father abhorred—was not something she was eager to experience. She was sure it was vastly over-rated; something men had introduced to try and get their way.

She sighed. Not that that conclusion in any way solved her problem. She still had to deal with Robert’s plans for their future. If only she were a more emotional person, she thought wistfully. It wouldn’t seem so coldblooded then, discussing the terms of her surrender.

When she reached the porch, she noticed a car parked at the kerb, just beyond the lych-gate. It was a black saloon, long and sleek, but nothing like the racy sports car Rose Chen and her escort had arrived in a week ago. She expelled her breath rather relievedly, not really appreciating, until that moment, that she’d experienced a moment’s unease. It wasn’t that the sight of a strange car alarmed her, she assured herself. Because of its history, the old church occasionally attracted visitors in the summer months. It was the association with that other strange car that had startled her. And the realisation that she was not looking forward to meeting Oliver Lynch again.

Entering the church, she immediately felt the sense of peace that always invaded her consciousness whenever she did so. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be a wife at all, she reflected thoughtfully. She got so much pleasure from spiritual things; perhaps she ought to consider becoming a nun.

She was smiling to herself, thinking how horrified her father would feel at this suggestion, as she pushed open the door into the choir. It was quite dark in the church, the overcast sky leaving the pulpit in shadow. Mrs Rennie hadn’t put on any of the lights; indeed, there was no sign of Mrs Rennie at all. Instead, a man was standing at the foot of the nave, gazing silently up at the altar.

Fliss’s heart skipped a beat, and, although she endeavoured to calm herself, the realisation that she wasn’t alone had given her quite a shock. But it wasn’t just the presence of a solitary man that had startled her. It was the awareness of who that man was that had her wishing she were any place but here …

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_4ebe701a-1eaa-5b84-8f94-1ab13064e405)

IT WAS Oliver Lynch. Even without the evidence of his superior height, she would have known it was him immediately. It was something she didn’t understand; something she certainly didn’t wish to consider. A kind of recognition in her bones that left her feeling weak.

Why he should have this effect on her, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she even liked the man. Their conversation on the terrace at Sutton Grange had left her with the uneasy impression that he could be totally ruthless if the occasion warranted it. And he’d had only contempt for Robert, of that she was very sure.

And now, here he was, invading the only place of sanctuary she had ever found. In a black shirt and black jeans, low-heeled black boots echoing solidly on the stone flags, he approached her, his expression mildly amused at her obvious disconcertment.

He appeared to be alone. A quick glance round the church assured her that the Chinese woman was not with him. So where was she? At the Grange? And why wasn’t he driving the Ferrari today, if the car outside was his?

But all these thoughts were secondary to her own unwelcome reaction to the man himself. Everything about him—from the perverse length of his hair to the lazy sensuality of his mouth—assaulted her senses. Even the way he moved was almost sinful in its grace and sexuality, and when he tucked his thumbs into the back of his belt his appeal was frankly carnal.

‘Hi,’ he said, and she wondered if he had recognised her as instantly as she had recognised him. Probably not, she decided tensely. He had to be aware of the effect he had on women.

‘Um—hello,’ she responded, rather offhandedly, wishing she had something in her hands—a vase or a bunch of flowers, for example—to give her a reason for being there. She’d hate him to think she’d followed him.

‘You’re right,’ he said, reaching the step that led up to the choir stalls, and resting one powerful hand on the rail. ‘It is a beautiful little church. I’m glad you told me about it.’

Fliss wished she hadn’t, but she took a steadying breath and moved out into the aisle. ‘We like it,’ she said, and for all her efforts to appear casual, she knew her voice sounded clipped. She swallowed. ‘Is—Miss Chen with you? I didn’t notice her car.’

‘My car—or at least the car I’ve hired—is outside,’ said Oliver, hopefully getting the message Fliss had been trying to convey. ‘And no: Rose isn’t with me. I drove down from London on my own.’

‘Oh.’

Fliss absorbed this with mixed feelings. She’d heard that Robert’s half-sister had found an apartment in London, that she intended to lease while she was in England. It obviously wasn’t practical for her to stay in an hotel, and although they’d stayed at the Moathouse in Market Risborough for a couple of nights they’d soon left the district. Besides, Robert said staying there had just been a ploy to get them into Sutton Grange. A successful ploy, as it had turned out. People were naturally less guarded in their own home.

And now, hearing Oliver say that he’d driven down from London confirmed that they were obviously still together. And why not? She was probably his meal ticket, for heaven’s sake. Whatever her father said, she believed Oliver Lynch was not just along for the ride.