Wife Against Her Will

He had the audacity to smile. ‘Don’t look now, sweetheart,’ he drawled. ‘But I think you’ve just blown your perfect-hostess image. Didn’t you know that your father had invited me to dinner?’

‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘Obviously not.’ She badly wanted to refasten those damned buttons on her shirt, which he’d already noticed, but knew that would only give him further ammunition.

‘I wonder why not,’ he said pensively. ‘Maybe he thought you might suddenly remember a previous engagement.’

‘And he’d have been right,’ Darcy said stonily. Shod once more, she got to her feet. ‘You’ll both have to excuse me, I’m afraid. But I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. I’d only be in the way.’

As she made for the door he halted her, his fingers closing on her arm.

She pulled free, glaring at him. ‘Do not—ever—put your hands on me again.’

He stepped back, lifting them in mock-surrender. ‘Just a word of warning, Miss Langton. I don’t think your father would be pleased if you disappeared this evening. He seems to want us to be friends.’

‘Something else he hasn’t chosen to mention.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Why didn’t you tell him he’s wasting his time?’

‘Because it seemed a little arbitrary. And it occurred to me that for the sake of future harmony, you and I could perhaps develop—a working relationship. On a temporary basis only, of course. Until his retirement is complete.’

She shook her head, angrily aware that his blue gaze had returned to the loosened front of her shirt. ‘No, Mr Castille,’ she said. ‘Not even for the space of the next five minutes.’

‘A pity,’ he said. ‘Your father doesn’t strike me as a man who takes disappointment well. It’s something we have in common,’ he added levelly.

‘Then that’s as far as the resemblance goes,’ she said. ‘And if he had any idea how you once treated me, you’d be looking for another job.’

‘Which I’d find,’ he said. ‘How’s your employment record, Miss Langton? Logged on the police computer?’

Her face was suddenly burning. ‘How dare you?’

‘Well, it’s hardly a secret.’ He shrugged. ‘Drew Maidstone is pretty notorious, and you’re extremely photogenic. And as we’re being totally frank, you should be grateful to me. I got you away from that party two years ago just in time. People had been drinking, and things could have turned nasty for you. I’m sure you remember that.’

‘I remember,’ she said, ‘that as far as I was concerned, you were just one more animal in a truly disgusting pack. So, gratitude doesn’t really feature.’

He wasn’t smiling any more, and she saw a muscle flicker at the corner of his mouth. She’d got to him at last, she thought, and knew a fleeting moment of triumph.

‘All the same,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you might be wiser to stay at home for dinner tonight.’

‘And if ever I need your advice,’ she said, ‘I’ll ask for it.’ She collected blazer and bag, and walked past him into the hall.

She was at the front door when her father’s voice reached her. ‘Darcy? Where are you going?’

She turned to see him coming down the stairs, his expression faintly forbidding.

‘To visit Lois.’ She kept her tone light. ‘Pizza, a bottle of wine and a couple of chicks’ movies. Didn’t I say?’

‘No, it must have slipped your mind.’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘And I’m afraid you must telephone Lois and make your excuses. As you now know, we have a guest, and I need you here this evening to act as my hostess.’

‘Aunt Freddie seems to be one of Mr Castille’s fans,’ she returned defiantly. ‘I’m sure she’d take my place for once.’

‘Your aunt returned to Kings Whitnall this afternoon. I pay you a generous allowance, Darcy, and occasionally I expect you to earn it.’ He waited, giving a nod as, reluctantly, she turned back from the door. ‘Now, run upstairs and tidy yourself, then join us for sherry,’ he added implacably, ignoring her pleading look.

Mutinously, Darcy went to her room. She washed her face and hands, then applied moisturiser, but no other cosmetics. Not even a touch of her favourite scent. No concessions whatsoever, she told herself, brushing her hair vigorously then sweeping it back severely from her face, in order to confine it, with a silver clip, at the nape of her neck.

Mouth tightening, she refastened her shirt to the throat, and straightened her skirt.

Then she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the flurried beat of her heart, and went slowly and unhappily down to the drawing room, and the continuing nightmare that waited for her there.

CHAPTER THREE (#ub12fcd38-217d-5cd2-85c9-4891dcf2959f)

SHE’D EXPECTED to be met with a combination of mockery and triumph, but she was wrong. Joel Castille rose politely as she entered, his smile pleasant and unchallenging, then brought her the glass of excellent amontillado that she’d requested in a small wooden voice.

Then he and her father resumed their quiet conversation, and she was left, thankfully, to her own devices.

But, with her enemy sitting only a few feet away, long legs stretched in front of him, dark face warmly alive as he talked, it was difficult to divorce herself as totally from the proceedings as she might wish. He was speaking about some project he’d been involved with in Colombia, and the inbuilt problems his team had been forced to overcome, and she was annoyed to find her attention first captured, then engaged.

In addition, as time passed, Darcy realised uneasily that she was studying him covertly under her lashes, taking in the elegant lines of the charcoal suit, and the way its waistcoat accentuated his lean body. Her aunt had mentioned he had a French father, and she saw that particular heritage in the occasional swift, graceful gesture of the long-fingered hands when he wished to emphasise some point.

Attractive? Well, yes, she was forced, grudgingly, to admit. But not in any way that could ever appeal to her, although if Lois ever got to see him she would probably describe him as sex on legs.

But even without the events of two years before, Darcy would always find a man like Joel Castille eminently resistible. He was too armoured in his own arrogance, she told herself. His sense of power.

Joel Castille was clearly brilliant at his job, and a born raconteur, but it would be a relief when her father finally retired, bringing this interregnum to an end. Then she could finally airbrush his successor out of sight, mind and memory.

But long before that happy day, she needed to remove herself completely from his sphere of influence, she thought, and found herself suddenly wondering why she should know that with such total conviction. And also such terrifying urgency.

Fool, she castigated herself. It’s not that difficult to work out. You have to get away before something is said, deliberately or by chance, which could bring all your skeletons from two years ago tumbling into the open. Some random comment that will give your father the idea that you and Joel Castille have some kind of shared past, because that would be a disaster.

And the prospect of Harry coming back just increases the pressure. Because it would be so easy if he wished to make mischief …

She closed her mind at this point. She couldn’t let herself think about that, she told herself fiercely.

She simply needed to stay cool, and take the necessary avoiding action. And then everything would be fine. Or at least survivable.

Tomorrow she’d make it clear to the agency that she’d take any job at all, even if it meant, heaven help her, going back to Paris to the Harrisons and their demonic brood, and hoping that some other alternative opportunity for employment would present itself while she was there, and before she was driven either mad, or to murder.

She realised suddenly that a momentary silence had fallen, and that both men were looking at her, Joel’s eyes intent and slightly narrowed.

Her father said, rather too heartily, ‘I’ve been telling Joel how beautiful the woods round Kings Whitnall are looking—with the autumn tints. We’ll have to persuade him to come down again and see for himself.’

‘Mr Castille is a much travelled man,’ she said coolly, avoiding that too searching gaze. ‘I don’t think a few autumn leaves are enough to interest him.’

‘I’m always fascinated by beauty, Miss Langton,’ he drawled. ‘Wherever it may be found. And whatever unlikely form it takes,’ he added softly.

She was aware of her hands involuntarily clenching into fists, and was rescued by Mrs Inman, who came to say that dinner was served.

The housekeeper had always been an excellent cook, but that night she seemed to have surpassed herself. Her wonderful thick vegetable soup was followed by rib of beef, succulently pink in the middle, served with crisp golden potatoes and an array of vegetables, perfectly cooked. For dessert there was Queen of Puddings, served with a bowl of whipped cream.

And when she came to clear the plates, and tell them coffee would be served in the drawing room, she accepted Joel Castille’s sincere praise with shy, pink-faced pleasure.

Darcy had not felt like eating, but she knew that any failure of appetite on her part would be noted and commented on by her father, so she’d forced the food down as if she’d been programmed to do so.