Trust In Tomorrow

It wasn’t until she threw back the bedclothes to go through to the bathroom that she gasped her dismay. She was wearing a black silk pyjama jacket that hadn’t been there when she fell into bed the evening before! And it could only belong to one person, Lucas! It was much too big for her slender frame, hung precariously off one shoulder, the sleeves turned back to accommodate her shorter arms, the length of it reaching almost down to her knees. And it smelt vaguely of the elusive aftershave Lucas had worn the evening before.

She had been sleepwalking in the nude!

There could be no other explanation for her to wake up in Lucas’s pyjama jacket. She had often walked in her sleep when she was a child, but much less so now that she was older, and it hadn’t really mattered that she did when there was just her mother and herself at home.

That the trauma of the last few days had brought on one of the rare occasions when it happened she had no doubt. And she blushed with embarrassment at the thought of Lucas having to cover her nakedness with his own pyjama jacket before guiding her back to bed. Whatever must he think of her! More to the point, how was she supposed to face him again after this? He might, as he said, have seen plenty of other women unclothed, but the circumstances of him seeing her made her writhe with embarrassment.

And uninvited came the question, had he liked what he had unwittingly seen?

It was a provocative thought, and one that she regretted as soon as it came into her mind. It put their relationship on too personal a level, and it was going to be difficult enough to maintain the tenuous link they had now without any added complications, such as her possibly rekindling the attraction she had once felt for him.

Nevertheless, the colour in her cheeks refused to recede as she showered and dressed, and she could only hope that Lucas had indeed left for the day; she had no idea what sort of hours lawyers kept in England.

A glance out of her bedroom window showed her that the central heating in the apartment was deceiving, that it was still very cold and wet, so she put on fitted blue trousers and a designer blouse in a beautiful rust colour. The wealth and publicity of her father’s career may have helped to destroy her parents’ marriage, it had also given Chelsea a taste for beautiful clothing that had always been indulged. She had been limited as to the amount of clothing she could bring with her on this trip, had had little inclination for packing, but at home she had a wardrobe full of designer-label clothing. A spoilt brat, she thought with a grimace. Oh well, she was what she was.

Her long hair was still slightly damp from her shower, but she knew from experience that the silvery fine hair would soon dry; its long silver length made a startling contrast to the rust colour of her blouse. Her eyes were still shadowed by grief, but at least the sleep seemed to have given her back some of her usual confidence, the ability to cope, and she knew that during the weeks and months that were to follow she would need every ounce of that confidence.

She made her bed before leaving her room, the door to Lucas’s bedroom firmly closed, the lounge empty, the only sounds to be heard coming from the kitchen. Bracing her thin shoulders in expectation Chelsea entered the room.

A middle-aged woman looked up from the vegetables she was peeling to put into the huge roasting pot on the table in front of her, the woman’s expression becoming as wary as Chelsea’s own.

‘Good morning,’ Chelsea greeted lightly.

‘Miss Stevens,’ the woman acknowledged abruptly.

‘Chelsea, please,’ she returned smoothly.

‘Miss Chelsea,’ the woman nodded abruptly, tall and thin, her short curled hair a very light brown colour, beginning to grey at her temples.

‘No, I meant——’

‘Can I get you some breakfast now?’ Mrs Harvey turned to wipe her hands on the towel, a pristine white pinafore covering her severely styled blue dress. ‘Mr McAdams had his meal some time ago.’

There was no rebuke in the words for her own tardiness, just a statement of fact. ‘Lucas is here?’ she asked half in anticipation, half in dread, the memory of that sensuous black silk against her flesh, and its reason for being there, still too new for her to be able to look forward to seeing him again.

The housekeeper shook her head. ‘He always leaves at precisely eight-fifteen,’ her voice was flat as she stated her employee’s movements.

Chelsea mentally concluded that Lucas lived his life in altogether too precise a manner, that the last seven years had made him cold and unemotional. Or perhaps a woman had brought about the change. Maybe he had once been very badly hurt and now preferred to live his life in this stiffly rigid pattern that allowed no room for a woman to hurt him; Jennifer didn’t sound as if she had penetrated his emotions, just his need for sexual fulfilment. Somehow Chelsea couldn’t even imagine Lucas with ruffled hair and a flushed face of satiation after the throes of lovemaking. Probably even that was an automotive reflex to him!

‘I’ll just have a slice of toast and some coffee,’ Chelsea answered Mrs Harvey as she realised she was still looking at her expectantly.

She nodded. ‘If you would like to go through to the dining-room I’ll bring it through to you.’

‘Oh I didn’t mean for you to get it——’

‘It’s what I’m here for,’ the woman insisted, her light blue eyes wide with indignation.

Chelsea shook her head. ‘You’re here to take care of Lucas, not any unexpected guests that suddenly appear,’ she smiled so that the woman shouldn’t once more take offence.

‘I’m perfectly capable of getting breakfast for two people instead of one,’ Mrs Harvey snapped as she prepared the coffee perculator.

The housekeeper had taken offence despite all her efforts, and with a shrug of resignation Chelsea pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and sat down. ‘I’d rather sit in here and eat if you don’t mind?’ Once again she gave a friendly smile.

The woman looked surprised. ‘I’m sure you would be more comfortable in the dining-room.’

Chelsea shook her head. ‘This is just fine,’ she insisted, envisaging nothing more dismal than sitting alone in that huge dining-room, where everything was tidily in its place, with not a speck of dust anywhere. At least here in the kitchen the apartment looked lived in, an orderly clutter on the work units as Mrs Harvey prepared the food for the evening meal.

The housekeeper shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want.’ But she didn’t look very comfortable with the idea of a guest sitting in her kitchen to eat toast and drink coffee.

Chelsea sipped the coffee greedily, the brandy Lucas had insisted she drink the evening before leaving her mouth feeling like sandpaper, even after cleaning her teeth twice. But Lucas had been right about its effect on her; she had slept soundly. At least, she had thought she had! The hot colour returned to her cheeks as she thought of the black pyjama jacket that lay across her bedroom chair.

‘Lucas said you’ve worked for him for five years,’ she burst into speech with the first thing that came into her mind, not wanting to dwell on the memory of last night.

‘Yes.’ The other woman had returned to her preparation of dinner after giving Chelsea her breakfast.

‘That’s a long time,’ she added conversationally.

‘Yes.’

‘I imagine Lucas is nice to work for.’ She tried once again to draw the other woman into conversation.

‘He’s a very thoughtful employer,’ Mrs Harvey confirmed abruptly.

Because he didn’t want to lose his ‘domestic help’? She couldn’t believe Lucas was as unfeeling about people as he liked to appear to be. ‘I imagine so,’ she answered in a preoccupied voice. ‘Will he be home for lunch?’

The housekeeper frowned at the suggestion. ‘He doesn’t usually—But perhaps with you here?’ she added uncertainly.

Chelsea shook her head, her hair moving silkily against her slender back. ‘I’m sure Lucas won’t alter his routine for me.’ She stood up to pour herself some more coffee, receiving a disapproving look for her action. ‘Our maid at home doesn’t usually mind my getting my own coffee,’ she excused lamely.

‘I imagine a lot of things are done differently in America.’ Mrs Harvey stiffly passed her the jug of milk.

The middle-aged woman somehow made it sound as if she suspected all sorts of decadence occurred in the other country. ‘I imagine they are,’ Chelsea smiled, having felt the same nervousness herself about an alien country seven years ago when her parents had decided to make the move to her father’s homeland. As it had turned out she loved it over there. ‘So you don’t think Lucas will be home for lunch?’ she persisted.

‘I can’t say for certain,’ Mrs Harvey frowned. ‘He doesn’t inform me of his every move.’

‘I think I’ll risk it and go out anyway,’ Chelsea decided.

‘Oh, I don’t think he expected you to leave the flat today,’ the housekeeper said worriedly. ‘His last instruction was that I was to see that your day here was comfortable.’ The woman looked concerned that she may already have disobeyed that instruction.

And Chelsea was well aware of the reason Lucas had made it; he didn’t want her to possibly see a newspaper. She had been aware of the absence of all such literature both in the lounge and here, and yet she was sure Lucas was one of those men who read several newspapers as he ate his breakfast. The story of her mother’s death would be front-page news in America once the information leaked out, and she didn’t doubt it would be the same over here. Being protective was one thing, it was the reason she had let Jace send her here after all, but she didn’t intend becoming a self-inflicted prisoner in Lucas’s apartment; she would go insane in a matter of hours, needed to get out, to have breathing space.

‘And it has been,’ she assured the other woman warmly. ‘I just need some air.’

‘But——’

‘Don’t worry about me, Mrs Harvey,’ she deliberately interrupted the other woman. ‘It may have been some time, but I used to live here.’

Light blue eyes widened in surprise at this information. ‘You did?’