Satan's Contract

Sir Charles drew himself up in righteous indignation. ‘I won’t have that kind of talk at my dinner table,’ he pronounced pompously. ‘If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, you’d better leave the room.’

‘That’s exactly what I was planning to do,’ she retorted. ‘I couldn’t stand to sit here with the pair of you wittering on a moment longer! Neither of you ever listen to each other anyway. I’m going down to the stables—at least the company’s a little more civilised down there!’

Her temper was still simmering as she walked down to the stables. She knew she shouldn’t have been so rude to her father, but she felt as if she had been stretched on a rack all day—and his posturing had been just about the last straw.

Of course, she shouldn’t be the least bit surprised at the way he was behaving, trying to thwart poor old Gramps’s wishes even after his death. It wasn’t as if he needed the money—he seemed to have business interests all over the place; there were always companies who were eager to pay for the kudos of his aristocratic links and public-school education, though she had the impression that they generally saw through him pretty quickly, and kept him out of any serious areas of responsibility.

The stables were warm and quiet. Fury wickered softly in greeting, nuzzling into her shoulder, hopeful that she had brought him an apple. She had, of course, and one for Lady too, then she perched up on the partition of the stall as she watched them munching contentedly.

‘Maybe it’s time I started to look for a place of my own anyway,’ she mused, idly stroking the horse’s thick mane. ‘After all, I’m twenty-two. The only problem is, what am I going to do with you two? I’ll have to find a livery stable for you somewhere. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable. But it won’t be quite the same as having you at home.’

Fury regarded her with one liquid brown eye, completely understanding every word she said.

* * *

She had had the day off for Gramps’s funeral, but the next day found Pippa back at work behind the counter of the small flower-shop she owned, in partnership with her friend Marjorie. They had been in business for nearly eighteen months now, and the shop was proving so successful that they were thinking about opening another one.

Situated on the edge of Stratford-upon-Avon, close to the river, it was one of a row of medieval half-timbered houses that had been preserved and turned into shops—there was a tea-shop next door, and an antiques dealer, and a very smart dress shop at the end of the row. It was the kind of hidden corner that the tourists loved, stumbling across it unexpectedly and ever after convinced that they were one of an exclusive few who had found it.

It had been a busy afternoon. As closing time approached, Pippa was helping a customer select a bouquet for his wife’s birthday when she heard the door open. She didn’t bother to look up—Marjorie was already stepping forward with her polite, ‘Can I help you?’ on her lips.

‘Yes—I’d like some flowers to send to a young lady. Roses, I think.’

The sound of that familiar laconic drawl brought Pippa’s head round in astonishment. He must have seen her, though he was acting as if he hadn’t. But it was certainly no coincidence that he had chosen to come in here, out of all the florist shops in town, she reflected, her mind in turmoil—he must have done it deliberately, just to needle her.

But who on earth could he be sending flowers to? A girlfriend in Canada? He had hardly had time to get something going in this country—so far as she was aware, he had arrived only yesterday morning! Not that she cared, of course—it was none of her business...

‘Does that include VAT?’

‘Oh...’ She turned her attention quickly back to her own customer, annoyed with herself for allowing Shaun Morgan to distract her. ‘I beg your pardon.’ She smiled a swift apology. ‘Yes, that’s inclusive of VAT. And delivery within the local area is two pounds ninety-five. Tomorrow, you said?’

Shaun was chosing long-stemmed roses—a pretty expensive trifle, to be paid for out of his new-found wealth, Pippa noted acidly. At least he had chosen yellow instead of red—the significance of sending a dozen red roses would have been unmistakable, and she had no wish to see the girl he proposed to install as the new mistress of Claremont flying over here on the next 747.

Forcing herself to concentrate on what she was doing, she began to write down the address for delivery of the birthday bouquet. But she couldn’t stop herself listening to the conversation taking place at the other end of the counter.

‘What message would you like to put with them?’ Marjorie was asking, the way she was gazing up at Shaun betraying very clearly that that eminently sensible married lady had succumbed without a fight to his smooth masculine charm.

He smiled down at her, just a trace of sardonic humour in his eyes. ‘Let me see. I think just “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” will do,’ he said. ‘And you needn’t bother to put who they’re from—I think she’ll guess.’

Pippa had stiffened, her pen stilled. Marjorie was laughing. ‘Lucky girl,’ she sighed, comfortable enough to amuse him with a little meaningless flirtation. ‘You’d like them delivered this afternoon?’

‘If that’s possible?’

‘No problem,’ she assured him, smiling. ‘I’ll take them myself. Pippa, have you finished with the order pad?’

‘Oh... Yes.’ She pushed it casually across, far too busy with taking her customer’s payment to even notice whom Marjorie was serving—though her jaw was clenched with the effort of ignoring him as much as he was ignoring her.

‘Now...’ Marjorie held her pen poised expectantly. ‘Who are they for?’

‘Miss Philippa Corbett,’ Shaun dictated, only that slight smile betraying his amusement in the situation. ‘The address is Claremont...’

Pippa choked, her cheeks flaming a vivid scarlet as both Marjorie and the other customer stared at her in astonishment. Her eyes clashed with those deep-set hazel ones in a storm of anger—how dared he make a laughing-stock of her like this?

‘Don’t bother to take the order, Marjorie,’ she rapped, snatching back the pad and ripping off the sheet on which her friend had begun to write. ‘It’s just his stupid idea of a joke.’

Shaun put on an air of hurt surprise that wouldn’t have deceived a child. ‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘Why shouldn’t I send you flowers?’

‘You can save your money,’ she fumed. ‘I’m not going to have dinner with you.’

His mocking laughter was a deliberate goad. ‘My, what a little hornet! You do change sides quickly—I can’t keep up with you. Yesterday afternoon you were batting those big baby-blues at me as if I were the answer to all your prayers!’

‘I was not!’ She caught herself up, furious with him for provoking her into such an undignified public argument. Tilting up her chin at a haughty angle, she responded with icy clarity, ‘Of course, if you chose to be conceited enough to interpret a simple apology for my father’s appalling rudeness as some kind of attempt to flirt with you, that’s up to you. All I can do is assure you that it was nothing of the sort.’

‘Ah, what a pity. And I thought I was beginning to make some headway.’ The regret in his tone was belied by the sardonic glint in his eyes. ‘I guess I’m out of luck.’

Pippa hesitated, lost for a sufficiently cutting response. She was all too uncomfortably aware of Marjorie’s burning curiosity, and the mild amusement of the other customer, who was still standing watching. With a snort of angry frustration, she flashed them all a glare that would have stripped paint, and, turning on her heel, marched out into the back room of the shop.

She was shaking with rage. No one, in all her life, had ever dared to treat her that way! Picking up the flower-scissors in a taut fist, she stabbed them into the wooden draining-board, wishing with all her heart it was Shaun Morgan’s damned handsome face.

Marjorie came in after her, laughing a little uncertainly. ‘Hey, careful,’ she protested. ‘Those are the best scissors. Here.’ She took the pair from Pippa’s hand with exaggerated caution, and substituted some old ones. ‘If you really must start stabbing things, use those. They’re blunt.’

Her friend’s gentle teasing made Pippa laugh at herself. She shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t be much good, then, would they?’ She put the scissors down. ‘I’m sorry, Marje. But I could just kill that man!’

‘Oh, surely not!’ Marjorie protested. ‘He’s gorgeous! What’s he done?’

‘His name’s Shaun Morgan,’ Pippa explained, a slight flush of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘He’s...Gramps’s son.’

Marjorie stared at her in amazement. ‘Well, I never! I never knew he had a son.’

‘Well, he did. Apparently his mother used to be Gramps’s secretary. I can’t say I blame him for going off and having an affair—my grandmother must have been hell to live with. Anyway, he came over for Gramps’s funeral. And according to the solicitor, because Gramps died without making a will, he’s going to inherit all his fortune.’

‘What—the house, and the company and everything?’ Marjorie queried, stunned. ‘But...what about your father?’

‘Oh, he’s hopping mad.’ Pippa confirmed with grim satisfaction. ‘But there’s not a thing he can do about it. The law says it’s a child of the blood who inherits, legitimate or not, and a stepchild gets nothing at all.’

‘Well, I never!’ Marjorie sat down heavily on a convenient stool. ‘No wonder you’re mad at him.’

‘Oh, it isn’t that.’ Pippa pulled a wry face. ‘I’m not bothered about the money at all—in fact it serves my father right that he’s not going to get a penny. But he’s so arrogant! Do you know, he had the nerve to suggest that I was trying to...to get him to marry me, just as my grandmother married Gramps for his money!’

Marjorie laughed, but there was a wise glint in her eyes. She had known Pippa from her babyhood—her own mother was one of Lady Corbett’s closest friends. And although she knew all about the notorious Corbett temper, she was shrewd enough to guess that her young friend would normally have been able to dismiss any such ridiculous suggestion with all her usual sense of humour. This could lead to all sorts of interesting developments!

But the sound of the doorbell prevented her from exploring the situation any further. ‘Damn—there’s a customer,’ she grumbled, rising reluctantly to her feet. ‘Tell me the rest later.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘JEREMY, please—get down!’ Pippa begged, watching anxiously as the handsome boy teetered along the top of the high wall that surrounded the car park of the country club. ‘You’ve had too much to drink—you’ll fall off.’

‘No, I won’t—I can do it,’ he insisted obstinately. ‘Watch me—right the way to the end.’