No Gentle Possession

‘You’re only where you belong,’ Karen declared lightly. ‘Good heavens, you weren’t fit to go to work.’

‘Maybe not, but I don’t need a manager to tell me what to do!’

‘I’m sure – Mr. Whitney only did what he thought was best,’ she remarked cautiously.

‘Best for him, you mean.’ Her father moved restlessly in the bed. ‘Sending me home like that. Calling the doctor.’

‘Did he do that?’ Karen was surprised.

‘ ’Course he did. You don’t think I’d have let your mother call him, do you?’

‘Perhaps he knew that,’ murmured Karen quietly.

‘Huh!’ Her father sounded bitter. ‘Anyway, I’m out of the way now for goodness knows how long! He’ll be able to do as he likes and no one to stand in his way.’

‘Oh, Pop! I’m sure you’re exaggerating.’

‘What do you know about it? And I’ve told you before, don’t call me Pop!’

Karen sighed. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘No. I don’t want anything.’ Her father began to cough hoarsely, and she watched him helplessly until he lay spent upon the pillows. ‘All right, all right,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll have some tea.’

Karen hesitated only a moment longer and then left him. In this mood there was no reasoning with him.

After the evening meal, her mother said: ‘I promised I’d go down to Lucy’s this evening. She’s got a pattern for a dress and she asked if I’d help her cut it out. Do you think your father would mind?’

‘Of course not.’ Karen shook her head. ‘Besides, I shall be here. I’m not going out. I expect Ray will come round later.’

Her mother looked at her uncertainly. ‘Well, he’s asleep at the moment. If I go now, I might be back before he wakes up.’

Karen gave her an exasperated smile. ‘Darling, no one’s going to need you for a couple of hours. Go on, go and chat to Lucy; tell her all about Daddy.’

Laura smiled, taking off her apron. ‘It would be nice,’ she admitted.

‘There you are, then.’ Karen lounged into a chair near the fire. ‘Actually, I have some books to mark and I want to work out tomorrow’s schedules.’

Laura nodded. ‘All right. But I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘Fine.’ Karen glanced up as her mother left the room and then settled down to reading a fifteen-year-old’s idea of the reasons behind the collapse of every empire since the days of Kubla Khan. Once she got up and switched on the record player, seducing herself with the rhythmic sound of a jazz piano.

When the doorbell rang she felt a sense of impatience. It was nearly nine o’clock and she had felt convinced that Ray would not come this evening. He knew she had work to do.

Glancing down at her crumpled velvet pants and loose white smock, she sighed. Oh well, she thought resignedly, she hadn’t time to change now. Running a smoothing hand over her straight hair, she went to the door and swung it open.

But it was not Ray Nichols who stood on the doorstep. It was a man, certainly, but he was taller and leaner, and the shafted light from the hall glinted on silvery lights in hair that was unmistakable.

Karen’s heart thumped heavily. Sooner or later, she had known that this would happen, and now it had she felt totally inadequate. He was so much more attractive now than he had been seven years ago, lines of experience adding maturity to his features. And his holiday in Austria had given him a tan which was quite startling when his hair was so pale. But he didn’t have the usual skin that went with such blondness, and he suffered none of the difficulties experienced by people with fair skin. Oh God, she thought weakly, to think she had once gone out with him, and once planned to go away with him for the week-end, alone …

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9a47493e-f7b7-5589-8501-7514d8c33669)

‘GOOD evening,’ he was saying now, in that lazily attractive voice she remembered so well. ‘I just called to see – my God!’ He stared at her in astonishment, and she felt the hot colour run up her cheeks.

‘Good – good evening, Mr. Whitney.’

His eyes narrowed, strange, amber eyes, like the eyes of a cat, with thick black lashes. ‘I was right!’ he said, almost to himself. ‘We had met before, hadn’t we?’

Karen thought quickly. ‘I – er – of course. We met about a month ago in Grüssmatte.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ he said, frowning. Then he shook his head. ‘No matter.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘The name – I should have guessed.’

Karen shivered. ‘It’s very cold, Mr. Whitney. What can I do for you?’

‘You could invite me in,’ he remarked dryly.

Karen was about to refuse, but then good manners stopped her. He was her father’s superior, after all; the son of the mill owner, even if Howard Whitney had gone on to bigger and better things.

‘Very well,’ she stepped back. ‘Won’t you come in? My father’s in bed, of course.’

‘Naturally.’

Alexis stepped into the small hall which was immediately dwarfed by his presence. Karen felt disturbingly aware of him, and walked quickly ahead of him into the living-room. Gathering together her books which had been strewn all over the couch, she said: ‘Please, sit down. Would you like a drink? There’s only whisky, I’m afraid.’

Alexis unbuttoned his coat, but he didn’t sit down. He stood on the hearth looking about the room, looking at her, until she felt hopelessly out of her depth.

‘Whisky would be fine,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Tell me: how is your father?’

‘Possibly better in health than temper,’ she replied, pouring whisky into a glass from the sideboard cabinet. ‘Do you have anything in this? Water – or ice?’

Alexis shook his head and she put the glass into his hand. ‘That’s fine, thank you.’ He swallowed a mouthful, and then went on: ‘Why do you say your father’s angry? Because I sent him home?’

Karen twisted her hands together wishing he would sit down. ‘I – I suppose so,’ she replied, wishing she had not mentioned it. Her father wouldn’t be very pleased if he knew what she had said.

Alexis nodded, looking down thoughtfully into his glass. Watching him, Karen was aware of every small detail about him, her eyes lingering on the fine material of the dark suit he was wearing, a dark grey fur-lined overcoat on top. His hands holding the glass were lean and hard and tanned, like the rest of him, and a disturbing feeling of apprehension ran through her. She had only been a young girl when she met him seven years ago – seventeen, little more than a child really. But she was a woman now, and whatever it was he had possessed then, he still possessed to a greater degree, and she did not intend to be foolish enough to tamper with it. Her own experience had taught her that if nothing else.

He looked up. ‘I’m afraid your father doesn’t like me.’

Karen glanced round apprehensively, half expecting her father to appear at any moment. But judging from the silence upstairs she could only assume he was still sleeping. ‘I – er – I’m sure you’re wrong.’

‘No, I’m not. He doesn’t think I know anything about the wool trade. He thinks this is only a game to me.’

‘And isn’t it?’ The words were out before she could prevent them.

‘No.’ His brows were drawn together and suddenly he looked very formidable. ‘I intend to do this job to the best of my ability, and it would make things a whole lot simpler if your father accepted this.’

Karen bent to pick up an errant exercise book. ‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me, Mr. Whitney.’

‘Isn’t it?’ His tone was curt. ‘I’m beginning to think it is.’