Burning Inheritance Read online

  'I know,' she murmured unhappily, responding to his censure, as he rose to hold her chair for her. 'I'm late. But it wasn't my fault.'

  Jason Ferry resumed his seat and regarded her sombrely. 'So whose fault was it, then?' he enquired coldly. 'Don't tell me you've just left the salon.'

  'But I have,' protested Isabel anxiously. 'You know what it's like trying to get a taxi at this time of day. And then, when I did manage to get one, we got stuck in Charing Cross Road.'

  'You should have phoned,' said Jason unreasonably, summoning the waiter. 'Two glasses of white wine, Claud. One with ice.'

  Isabel sank back in her chair, slipping off her jacket as Jason gave the order. It no longer annoyed her that Jason hadn't asked her what she wanted before ordering. She was used to his high-handedness now, and besides, today she was relieved that he had not caused a scene. He was a strange man, in some ways. Childishly temperamental at times, and at others, infinitely kind and understanding. He was a conscien­tious worker, tireless in his pursuit of success for his models. Yet, at the same time, he could be sulky and impatient, taking offence at the slightest thing, and venting his spleen on those who were nearest to him.

  She supposed he was a handsome man, although she had never been attracted by his fair good looks and stocky frame. Apart from the fact she wasn't interested in men, he reminded her too much of her ex-husband. And that was why she hoped his present proprietorial attitude towards her was not going to create problems.

  'Well, at least the appointment was a success,' he remarked now, capturing her hand on the pretext of examining her nails. His thumb rubbed over the mauve lacquer the manicurist had applied before he brought her fingers to his lips. 'I'm sorry if I was rude. But I was getting quite worried about you.'

  Isabel offered a smile, but she withdrew her hand from his grasp. 'No problem,' she said, picking up the glass the waiter had just set beside her and, avoiding Jason's possessive gaze, she looked round the room-—straight into the eyes of Alex Seton.

  To say she was surprised would have been an understatement. She was shocked, stunned, and not a little resentful that he should be there. After all, she had never seen him here before, and the thought immediately occurred to her that his presence was intentional. But why? What did he have to gain? After their recent encounter, it was the last thing she would have expected. But then she saw his companion, and the doubts she had been feeling crystallised.

  Unknown to her, a little of the colour left her cheeks at this discovery, and although she quickly looked away, she could not hide her dismay from Jason. The make-up the beautician had employed with such effect earlier in the day only accentuated her sudden pallor, and his brows drew together when he noticed her expression.

  'What is it?' he exclaimed, at once concerned on her behalf. 'Is something wrong? Aren't you feeling well? You can tell me.'

  'It's nothing.' Isabel had no wish to draw Jason's attention to the Setons. 'I—I just felt a bit faint, that's all. I'm probably hungry. What shall we eat?'

  Jason frowned. 'Are you sure you're telling me the truth?'

  Isabel gathered her defences and levelled a cool gaze in his direction. 'I'm not in the habit of lying,' she declared, lifting her glass to her lips. But although she performed quite convincingly to Jason's wary eye, she was intensely conscious of another, hostile, scrutiny.

  'Very well.' Jason was obliged to believe her. He picked up the menu the waiter had left lying by his plate, and gave it a swift appraisal. 'What would you like to eat?'

  'Hello, Isabel.'

  The much-hated, yet undeniably attractive, voice relieved her of an immediate decision. Instead, as Jason's features mirrored a taut reflection of his feel­ings at this interruption, she was obliged to acknowledge the man who had paused beside their table.

  'Alex,' she greeted him coldly, leaving him in no doubt as to her reaction to his presence, and to her irritation, he smiled.

  'It's Ferry, isn't it?' he added, turning to her companion. 'Jason Ferry? You probably don't remember, but we met once at a charity gala. You were with Yvonne Hemmingway, and I was with her cousin, Meryl French. I'm Alex Seton. Isabel was married to my cousin.'

  Jason was forced to get to his feet then to shake hands with the other man, and Isabel's nerves tight­ened. It wasn't like Alex to be so civil, and she couldn't help but suspect his motives.

  She hardly heard what Jason said in response, but then Alex turned to her again. 'I hope you don't mind me barging in like this,' he said smoothly. 'But my uncle and I were just talking about you. We wondered if you'd—both—like to join us for a drink.'

  Isabel stared up into his lean, sardonic face with unconcealed disbelief. 'You can't be serious!'

  'Why not?' Alex's eyes were dark and enigmatic. 'Just because you're no longer family doesn't mean we can't be friends. I realise we've had our differences in the past, but that's over now. We—that is, Uncle Robert and I—want to mend bridges. Can't you at least meet us half-way?'

  Isabel caught her breath. 'I don't believe this,' she choked. 'The Setons don't mend bridges; they destroy them!'

  Alex gave a convincing impression of being taken aback at this, and to her astonishment, Jason came to his aid. 'Isabel,' he said mildly. 'I think the man is only trying to be friendly.' He resumed his seat to take her hand, giving Alex an apologetic smile. 'I'm afraid she's not feeling well right now. A few moments ago, I thought she was going to faint------'

  'Will you please stop talking about me as if I wasn't here?' Isabel exclaimed angrily, snatching her hand from him. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to look at Alex again. 'Thank you, but I have no wish to share anything with either you or your uncle! I'm not sick—only sickened, if you get my meaning.'

  Alex's expression never faltered, but she thought she saw a fleeting savagery in his eyes. But then, with a rueful shrug in Jason's direction, he strolled back to his own table, leaving Isabel with the unpleasant task of explaining herself to her escort.

  'Well,' he said, as soon as Alex was out of earshot. 'That wasn't very sensible, was it? And why didn't you tell me your ex-husband was one of those Setons? My God, I assumed he was some little salesman or something.'

  Isabel felt inestimably weary suddenly. 'Does it matter?' she countered, wishing Jason would just forget about it. She determinedly picked up the menu. 'We were about to decide what we were going to have to eat.'

  But Jason wasn't listening to her. 'Denby Textiles,' he was saying wonderingly. 'They have their own catalogue, you know. All very exclusive stuff, espe­cially for the American market. That's one contract the Ferry agency could use.'

  'No, Jason.' Isabel was quite definite now, and he pulled a wry face.

  'No?'

  'That's what I said.'

  'Still painful, hmm?' he probed, his sharp eyes alert, and Isabel sighed.

  'Just—distasteful,' she corrected him tersely. 'Now, can we talk about something else? The food, for example?'

  It took an immense effort of will, but somehow she managed to swallow smoked salmon mousse and a salad. At least, she ate enough to convince Jason that whatever had disturbed her earlier no longer was a problem, and by the time they left the restaurant, she was convinced she had handled herself with aplomb.

  Alex and Robert Seton had departed much earlier. She had known the minute that inimical gaze was withdrawn, and from then on it had been easier to sustain her self-assurance. She was sure now that Alex's presence in the restaurant had not been coinci­dental, and she hoped Jason would not object if she refused to eat there any more.

  Thankfully, Jason had an afternoon engagement, and she did not have to find excuses to go home. His suggestion that they meet up later for dinner, to discuss a projected trip to Paris, was less easy to avoid, but she had left it until the last minute to demur, and Jason did not have time to try and persuade her.

  'Very well. I'll see you in the studio tomorrow morning,' he conceded at last, his fair good looks marred by an angry scowl. 'And don't
be late this time. Or I may just decide to terminate your contract.'

  The words 'Do it!' trembled on her lips, but she bit them back. It was no use letting her frustration over Alex Seton and his uncle colour her professional judgement. And that was what she was doing. Oh, Jason could be awkward, and his possessiveness where she was concerned was becoming a nuisance. But she convinced herself that she could handle him, and it would be stupid to sacrifice a well-paid occupation just to prove her independence.

  She came out into Oxford Street and summoned a taxi, giving the driver her Dorset Place address before sinking back against the worn leather upholstery. It was such a relief to relax at last, and she couldn't help wondering if it was going to be worth the effort to hang on to Vinnie's shares after all. Because that was why Alex was hounding her. No matter how friendly or polite he had seemed, his real motive was plain to see. They had intimidated her and threatened her; Alex had even come round to the flat in an effort to prise her legacy from her; but none of that had worked. Her solicitors had politely, but firmly, denied any attempt to gain possession of the shares, and now they were trying different tactics, pretending to offer her an olive branch.

  She shook her head. Why had Vinnie done it? Why had she pushed her gently, but firmly, back into the middle of the ring? It wasn't as if she hadn't known how Isabel felt about her ex-husband and his family. In those dreadful, traumatic days, following the break­up of her marriage, Vinnie had been her only confi­dante, and the only person she could turn to when she first left Nazeby. She must have known how Isabel would feel, having to deal with Robert Seton again, and if her intention had been to give the girl the means to take her revenge, Isabel wished she had asked her first before putting the onus on her.

  Dorset Place ran at right angles to the road that circled Regent's Park. Near the end of the street, the upper windows of the converted Victorian town house, where Isabel's apartment was situated, overlooked the cricket ground, and the open aspect from her living-room was one of the reasons why she had bought it. But as well as that, it was in a reasonably quiet area, and as she sometimes worked at odd times of the night, she was able to sleep undisturbed during the day. Her fellow tenants were professional people for the most part. As Alex had taunted, they were a conservative group, and although she knew them all by sight, she remained an enigma to them.

  It was only a little after three when she let herself into the apartment and, kicking off her shoes, she padded into the living-room. Then, shedding her jacket on to the cream linen cushions of the sofa, she trod into her bedroom, to get into something more casual.

  The bedroom was the one room in the apartment in which she had allowed her imagination free rein. From the folded Chinese screen behind the bed to the adjoining cubicle with its whirlpool bath, she had spent rather more lavishly than she had intended, but the resulting blend of ancient and modern was a more than pleasing compensation. The walls were pale amber, the radiator was concealed behind a lattice­work screen, and the warm, stencilled fabric of the bed quilt was echoed in the long, draped curtains at the windows.

  But today, even the beauty of her bedroom failed to lift her spirits. She was still torn by doubts about what she was doing, and troubled by the uncertain wisdom of pursuing revenge. She was not naturally a vindictive person. Until Virginia Denby had put the means into her hands, she had never thought of making Robert Seton pay for the pain and humiliation he had wreaked upon her. She didn't want to think about Chris, or Alex—and as time went by, she had begun to believe that period in her life was behind her. She had even convinced herself that she wasn't the marrying kind, and her relationship with Jason had reinforced that opinion.

  Now, pulling her track suit out of the wardrobe, she stepped into the baggy yellow trousers. Then, tugging the top over her head, she rummaged for her running shoes. Her careless dressing had dislodged her hair from its knot, and she grimaced resignedly. Still, an elastic band soon secured it at her nape and, taking a deep breath, she collected her key and left the apartment.

  Although it was May, it was still chilly, and though the tulips were out in the park, there were not many admirers. At this hour of the afternoon, her usual companions were children with their mothers or nannies, people walking their dogs, and a few elderly gentlemen, out to take the air. And today was no exception. As Isabel jogged round the lake, she saw several faces she recognised, and her tense nerves responded to the comfort of familiar surroundings. She felt almost content as she trotted back across the Broad Walk, and not until she saw the gun-metal grey Ferrari parked outside the house in Dorset Place did a feeling of apprehension take a hold of her.

  Alex! she thought unsteadily, coming to an abrupt halt. Or Chris? She took a ragged breath. Or maybe just someone entirely different, she fretted. But who, in these fairly modest apartments, was likely to own a Ferrari? Or even know someone who did!

  She sighed. Was she being absurdly melodramatic? A car parked in Dorset Place meant nothing. Good heavens, it could belong to anyone. Just because Alex used to drive another expensive car was no reason to connect the two.

  Nevertheless, her pace was considerably slower as she approached the vehicle, and only when she had satisfied herself that it was unoccupied did a little of the tension leave her. All the same, as she mounted the stairs to her apartment, she couldn't help wondering if some unwelcome visitor might not be waiting for her outside her door.

  But the landing was deserted, and she chided herself for her own conceit. She was not that important and, although she had been a little anxious after the way she had snubbed Alex in the restaurant, he had more important things to do than seek an unwilling apology.

  After another reassuring look around her, Isabel took out her key and unlocked the door. Then, letting herself swiftly into the apartment, she carefully dropped the latch and slid the bolt and security chain into place. Fort Knox, she mused, a little ruefully, and turning away from the door, she walked more confi­dently into the living-room.

  The man standing indolently in the bay of the window, staring out on to the park, turned at the sound of her approach. His shadow was the first inclination Isabel had that she was not alone, but her initial surge of panic quickly gave way to a stinging shock of resentment. 'H—how did you get in here?'

  She was clutching her keys to her chest as she spoke, and Alex's lips twitched mockingly. Then, with­drawing one of his hands from the pockets of his pants, he displayed the key dangling from his fingers. 'Snap,' he said, putting it away again. 'You ought to know by now, Isabel, I can get most things I want.'

  Isabel squirmed beneath his sardonic appraisal. 'I should have trusted my instincts,' she exclaimed bitterly. 'When I saw the trap downstairs, I should have known the rat would be about somewhere!'

  Alex's mouth tightened a little at the deliberate insult, but he didn't respond in kind. Instead, he came round the sofa, and lowered his lean length on to the cushions. 'Thank you, I will sit down,' he declared smoothly, occupying the central position and spreading his arms out along the back on either side. 'And yes, I would like a drink, if you're having one.'

  'Get out!'

  Isabel could think of nothing else to say, but as she had expected, Alex didn't comply. Instead, he remained where he was, cool and relaxed, watching her frustra­tion with bland, untroubled eyes.

  Think! she told herself fiercely, when a sense of impotence threatened to overwhelm her. So long as she remained the aggressor, Alex held all the cards. He was bigger than she was; he was certainly stronger than she was; and in any verbal battle, his vocabulary would always outstrip hers. Her only chance lay in turning his anger against himself, and she wouldn't do that by stamping her feet.

  'You look hot,' he said now, and she turned away from the blatant mockery of his regard. Keep calm, she told herself grimly. Let him think that you're frustrated. And don't be discouraged by his attempts to bait you.

  All the same, she couldn't help being aware of him, and not just as her tormentor either. Seate
d, as he was, with the two sides of his jacket opened over a white silk shirt and striped grey tie, she found her eyes were drawn to the spot where one small pearl button had parted from its fastening. The hint of brown, muscled flesh revealed by that errant stud caused a wave of unwelcome remembrance to sweep over her, and she tore her eyes away before he noticed her confusion.

  'Um—is coffee all right?' she asked determinedly, and she had the momentary satisfaction that came from a delayed response.

  'Coffee's fine,' he conceded at length, his tone just a little less confident now, and Isabel drew a triumphant breath as she walked into the kitchen.

  Her triumph was premature. As she set the kettle to boil, and spooned coffee into the filter, Alex came to the kitchen door, propping his weight against the jamb, and watching her unblinkingly. With one hand in his pocket, and the other toying absently with his tie, he was a disturbing presence, and it took the utmost self-control not to spill grounds all over the marbled working-surface.

  'Why did my grandmother leave those shares to you?' he asked unexpectedly, and Isabel felt the hot colour running up underneath her skin. 'She must have known how Uncle Robert would react. She was an intelligent woman. If she wanted to leave you something, why not money?'

  Isabel refused to let his words upset her. It was a reasonable question, after all. If she took it at face value, she might yet retain some dignity. Why had

  Vinnie left her the shares? She really wished she knew.

  'I don't know,' she said now, setting out two earthenware cups and saucers. 'Do you take cream and sugar? I can't remember.'

  'Can't you?' Alex straightened. 'Sugar, but no cream,' he advised her distantly. 'And you must know more than you're admitting. Was it your idea to grab a piece of Denby's?'

  'My idea?' Isabel's voice rose, but she caught herself just in time. 'Of course it wasn't my idea,' she denied less vehemently, putting the sugar and cream jug on a small silver tray. 'I—would you like a biscuit? I believe there are some in the tin.'