Conflict Of Hearts

The woman’s endless chatter was oddly comforting—normal in a world that had turned upside down. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harper.’

The woman took the bags that her husband brought to the door and hung Lizzie’s dress over the wardrobe door. ‘Shall I unpack for you?’

‘Oh, no. I can do that. Thank you,’ Lizzie repeated a little belatedly as the woman withdrew.

She stared at the pale pink taffeta dress. It had been bought when she’d had to accompany her father to a formal dinner a couple of years earlier and had been worn only once. It was a little creased, but otherwise fine.

She pulled a face. No, it wasn’t. It was awful. It had been her father’s choice, and had been too young for her even then. But when she had protested he’d said that he wanted everyone to be sure she was his daughter, that he was not some foolish middle-aged man out with a bimbo. It had been hard enough to get him out of the house; she hadn’t been about to argue over the dress. Well, it would have to do—it was all she had. She quickly stowed the remainder of her belongings and went to take her shower.

Ten minutes later she emerged from the bathroom to find a tray laid with a pot of tea and a plate of tiny sandwiches waiting for her. Her dress had disappeared.

As she sipped her tea she sat at the dressing table wondering what to do with her hair. It was ridiculously long, she decided, twisting it up into a simple chignon. If she left it loose, with the pink dress it would simply emphasise the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ look. There was a tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ she called. It was Mrs Harper with her dress. And another gown, black and elegant, on a padded satin hanger.

‘I’ve pressed your dress, Miss French,’ she said, ‘but...’ The woman was clearly embarrassed. ‘Mr Jordan suggested you might... um...prefer to wear this.’

‘Prefer’? She had the feeling that he had said something a great deal stronger than that. A closer look at her dress had doubtless warned him that she wouldn’t look like anyone’s lover in such a garment—certainly not that of the urbane, the very sophisticated Mr Jordan.

What would he consider suitable? she wondered, regarding the black dress with interest. It was an exquisite, ankle-length black shift in the finest silk jersey, with long, straight sleeves, a scooped-out neck and not a single detail to distract from the purity of the line. It was simply beautiful.

But then, the man was a world-renowned art dealer. He had appeared in his own series on the television, discussing the merits of twentieth-century art, the unexpected success of which had been the devastating charm of the presenter rather than the subject matter. His good taste had never been in doubt.

‘Thank you, Mrs Harper. If s... very kind of Mr Jordan.’

The woman was clearly relieved at her reaction. ‘It should fit you well enough. Miss Olivia isn’t quite as slender as you, but that fabric clings rather, so I’m sure you’ll get away with it.’

‘This is Olivia’s dress?’ She hadn’t given a thought as to where the gown might have come from. But Olivia had been staying with Noah for the last few weeks while her own apartment had been decorated. Something in her voice must have betrayed her.

‘It will look lovely on you, Miss French,’ Mrs Harper pressed, a little anxiously. ‘I know Miss Olivia wouldn’t mind...’

Lizzie minded. She minded a great deal. But that wasn’t Mrs Harper’s problem. ‘Please call me Lizzie,’ she said, offering a reassuring smile. And Mrs Harper smiled with relief and left.

She quickly made up her eyes and flicked blusher over her cheek-bones, leaving her tan to take care of the rest. Then, ignoring the black shift, she slipped into the pink taffeta dress. It was a little tight across the bodice; she had fulfilled the early promise of womanhood since she had last worn it. She tugged up the zip and then, very slowly, released her breath. It held, and for a moment she regarded her reflection with a certain amount of grim satisfaction.

Then she fastened a pair of pearl studs to her ears and touched the oval locket that she always wore about her throat before going down the broad staircase in search of her nemesis. She was now quite cheerfully prepared to convince the world that she was Noah’s lover. But somehow she didn’t think he would be quite so eager.

He was staring at a painting as she entered the drawing room, his thick dark hair a crisp counterpoint to the immaculate perfection of black broadcloth that emphasised his wide, square shoulders. For a moment she was struck by the sheer grace, almost beauty of the man. How easy it would be to fall under his spell, if he chose to cast it, she thought. Then he turned as he heard her move towards him.

The feeling was clearly not reciprocated. Regarding Lizzie in silence, Noah’s glance moved quite deliberately in a chilling inspection of her appearance. She lifted her chin a little and stood her ground, although the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stirred as she sensed that her defiance had made him very angry indeed.

But as he moved towards her it wasn’t her dress that claimed his attention. It was the locket.

He laid the tip of one finger against it, his eyes dark as thunderclouds as he fixed her to the spot. Then, without warning, he grasped it in his hand and jerked it from her throat, the old, delicate chain offering no resistance to this brutal treatment.

‘No!’ Lizzie’s hand instinctively reached out to retrieve the precious object. But his hand snapped shut, and he dropped the locket into his pocket.

‘What were you going to do, Elizabeth? Show Francesca your pretty antique locket? It’s old and no doubt the clasp is worn, and if by chance it should happen to fall open...’ He turned away in disgust. Lizzie swallowed.

‘Please give it back to me.’

‘I’ll have it repaired,’ he said abruptly.

‘That doesn’t matter. I just want it back.’

‘You can have it when Mr and Mrs Hallam are safely back across the Atlantic.’ He indicated the sideboard. ‘Would you like a drink? I have a feeling that we’re both going to need one to get through this evening.’

‘You invited them. You have the drink.’ She turned away, unable to bear to look at him, staring instead at the painting that had claimed his attention—a very traditional portrait of a young woman. Oddly out of place amongst Noah’s collection of modern art, the sitter looked vaguely familiar... She took a step towards it.

‘Sherry? Gin and tonic?’ he persisted.

She didn’t drink very much, but her throat was dry. ‘A tonic water,’ she conceded.

She heard the chink of ice, the fizz of tonic, then he walked across the magnificent Aubusson carpet until he was standing beside her. ‘Elizabeth?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to take the crystal tumbler from his hand.

‘You’re entirely welcome.’ And he poured the contents of the glass down the demure décolletage of her gown.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a9cf36f3-eb7b-5b14-ba0c-1f63725a56fb)

LIZZIE caught her breath in a long, shuddering gasp as the icy liquid ran inside her dress, inside her bra, darkening the delicate fabric as it spread coldly to her waist.

For a moment Noah regarded his handiwork impassively. Then his eyes rose to meet hers. ‘You appear to have a piece of...’ He paused and fished a slice of lemon from the neckline of her dress. It was the last straw.

She swung at him and caught his cheek as he rocked back on his heels. She was certain that she had barely made contact, and yet the mark of her hand was there, livid against his sun-darkened skin.

He moved swiftly to capture her wrist, holding it fast in his strong fingers. ‘Once, Elizabeth. Just once,’ he warned. ‘Try that again and I promise you won’t sit down for a week.’ For a moment she fought him, her cheeks hectic, her breath coming in furious gasps. Then, with a long tremulous sigh, she subsided.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re only sorry that you didn’t hit me harder,’ he said in a voice that struck like steel against her bones. Then he dropped her hand. ‘Now go and change.’ And this time she didn’t bother to ask what he would do if she refused.

In the safety of her bedroom Lizzie came close to panic, stripping off her wet things, dropping them on the bathroom floor, desperate to change before Noah took it into his head to follow her and make certain she obeyed him.

The man was a monster. He had the ability to provoke the most outrageous feelings in her. She had never hit anyone in her life before—had never wanted to. But he had known only too well that she would have done it again, given the opportunity. She shivered, shaken by the intensity of her reaction to him.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Lizzie. The wretch drowned you in ice. You’re just cold,’ she told herself crossly, sponging herself with warm water until she was rid of the sticky tonic water, and towelling herself dry. But she was still shivering.

Impatiently she tugged the black dress from its hanger and lifted it over her head, letting the material slide over her body until it came to rest against her hips. She glanced briefly at her reflection and then, startled, took a second look. The dress could have been made for her. The simple elegance, the purity of the line was so right.

Then she turned, and for the briefest of moments she was shocked at this very different vision of herself. As she moved the dress clung, offering a tantalising glimpse of her figure as she moved. It might be borrowed glamour, but Noah had been right to insist upon it. Lizzie had the feeling that tonight she was going to need all the help she could get.

She forced herself to say the painful words out loud. ‘Francesca Hallam. Mrs Francesca Hallam.’ Lord, how it hurt! But she had no one but herself to blame. Peter had warned her.

‘Three times, Lizzie. I’ve asked you to marry me three times. Once I leave for New York, that’s it.’ The next day an envelope with an airline ticket had been delivered by courier from London. By Concorde to New York. One way. It had been an ultimatum and it had infuriated her. She had sent it back by return. Such stupid, stupid pride. If only she had tried a little harder to make him understand.

‘Elizabeth?’ There was a tap at her sitting room door, and it was something of a relief to drag her eyes away from the pale reflection in the mirror and dwell instead on the flare of anger that his voice alone was enough to provoke.