Burning Inheritance Page 9

  'Um—Chris is entertaining an old schoolfriend, isn't he?' she queried, after Alex had negotiated the traffic in central London. Like him, she was obviously endeavouring to forget their differences, for the journey, at least, and Alex made an effort to respond in equal vein.

  'So I believe,' he said, immediately aware that his tone was not as cordial as hers. 'Chris has a lot of friends from his days at Haveringham.'

  'Haveringham.' Isabel picked up on his last word. 'That's a public school, isn't it? I seem to remember hearing the name, but I don't know where it is.'

  'It's in Buckinghamshire,' replied Alex evenly. 'It's quite a beautiful part of England. Do you know that part of the country at all? Or is London more to your taste?'

  He realised his final question was decidedly patron­ising, but he couldn't help it. The more he spoke to her, the stronger was the urge to try and belittle her. He didn't know why that was. He only knew that her indifference infuriated him.

  'No. I don't know Buckinghamshire,' she responded honestly. 'But London hasn't always been my home. I was born in Lincolnshire, as a matter of fact. It wasn't until I started working that I actually came to London.'

  Alex absorbed this news with reluctant attention. Somehow, he had assumed she had always lived in the city. His assessment of her character had been so total, it was disconcerting to realise there were facets of it he had overlooked.

  'What part of Lincolnshire?' he asked now, assuring himself his interest was purely circumstantial, and Isabel gave him a sideways glance.

  'I'm not sure,' she admitted ruefully. 'I was brought up in a children's home, you see. I never knew my parents. Only that my mother abandoned me, when I was a few days old.'

  Alex was amazed. No wonder Chris had glossed over the fact that Isabel's parents were dead and unable to attend the wedding. If Robert Seton had known that the girl was an orphan, he might well have decided to call Chris's bluff.

  'Are you shocked?' she asked now, and Alex strug­gled to put his thoughts in order.

  'Surprised,' he conceded, after a moment. Then, compulsively, 'Didn't you ever try to find out who your parents were?'

  Isabel shook her head. 'No.' she paused. 'I decided that if my mother was the kind of person to abandon her own daughter, I didn't really want to know her.'

  They were travelling along the M3 now, and Alex had to concentrate on overtaking a stream of slow-moving lorries at that moment, so it was several minutes before he said, 'And your father? Didn't you ever try to trace him?'

  Isabel sighed. 'He probably didn't even know of my existence,' she replied. 'Eighteen years ago, people were a lot less liberal-minded than they are today. My mother may have kept my birth a secret. Is it fair now to resurrect a mistake?'

  Alex lifted his shoulders. 'You're very philosophical.'

  'Just practical,' she amended quietly. And then, with a little splaying of her hands, she gave a low laugh. 'I don't know why I'm telling you all this. What is it they say when they're arresting someone? "Anything you say will be taken down, and may be used in evidence against you?" Is that what you're planning to do? Tell your Uncle? Give him yet another reason to try and prevent this marriage?'

  Alex cast her a cooling glance. 'If Chris hasn't chosen to tell him, why should I?'

  'Because you're your uncle's favourite.' Isabel spoke without prejudice. 'Oh, you may not be his son and heir, but you're the one he depends on, aren't you? You're the one who supports him, who shares his opinion of me.'

  Alex's mouth compressed. 'Which is?'

  'What?' Isabel was momentarily confused.

  'My opinion of you. What is it?'

  'Oh-----' She bent her head now, and the tiny beads chinked against the vulnerable curve of her neck. 'You don't like me. You never have. Well—the feeling's mutual. So don't bother to deny it.'

  Alex's hands clenched on the wheel. 'You know nothing about me.'

  'Yes, I do.' She drew a steadying breath, and looked up at him. 'You haven't exactly hidden your feelings. You think I'm marrying Chris because he's got lots of money. You despise my profession; and you criticise how I look.'

  Alex's breathing was less than steady now. 'You don't have a profession!' he retorted at last. 'Taking your clothes off in front of a camera is hardly meaningful employment-----'

  'I don't take my clothes off!' Isabel was indignant.

  'You would, if the price was right,' returned Alex without sympathy, and she glared at him impotently, restrained from physical retaliation by his concen­tration on the traffic.

  Thereafter, there was silence for a while. Isabel flung herself round in her seat, so that she was facing away from him, her knees nudging the door handle, and Alex tried to take some interest in his driving, which usually gave him satisfaction. But, for all his determi­nation to ignore her, his eyes were irresistably drawn to the long, slender fingers, balled into fists on her knees, and the smooth shapely curve of her thigh, exposed to some advantage by the sheer tights she was wearing. The shortness of her skirt was disturb­ingly provocative, although he doubted if she was aware of it. She wore her clothes with the same careless elegance with which she moved. She was naturally graceful, that much he had to grant her, and the sexuality of her movements owed more to his sensitivities than to hers.

  They left the motorway after Winchester, turning on to a narrower, two-laned road, and driving deep into the Hampshire countryside. They passed through villages, sleeping in the shadows of early evening, tiny hamlets some of them, with only a church and a petrol pump to mark their passing.

  Alex knew his way well. There was a busier, major road he could have taken to reach his destination, but her preferred the quieter route. Besides, at this hour on a Friday afternoon, all the major roads were crammed with commuter traffic, and inhaling someone else's exhaust fumes was not the way he liked to start his weekend.

  Isabel had evidently noticed their detour, however and judging by the way she was reading the road signs they passed she was no doubt wondering where he was taking her. Knowing Chris's penchant for taking the shortest route between any two points, he doubted his cousin had brought her this way. His lips twitched. Perhaps she was afraid he might be abducting her for his uncle; or planning to murder her, and dump her body in some remote corner of the county.

  'It's only about twenty miles now,' he remarked, at last, compelled, for reasons he didn't care to admit, to reassure her, and Isabel turned her smoky eyes his way.

  'Is it?'

  'I don't lie,' he assured her crisply, slowing as they approached a Give Way sign. 'This way may be a few miles further, but at least we're not hampered by slow-moving vehicles. And,' he appended almost defens­ively, 'It's a much more scenic route.'

  Isabel shrugged. 'I wasn't complaining, was I?'

  Alex's blood rose. 'Is it too much to expect that you might speak civilly-----'

  'Civilly!' Isabel hardly let him finish the word, her eyes fixed on his face in raw contempt. 'After what you've said to me?' You arrogant—bastard! If it wasn't for the fact that Chris thinks you're wonderful, I'd never speak to you again!'

  Alex's foot hit the brake almost instinctively. His anger was almost choking him, and without hesitation he swung the car on to the grassy verge at the side of the road, uncaring of the fact that the waving fronds of ragwort could be hiding a ditch or worse. He was lucky. The Porsche's tyres skidded a little bit on the grass which had been dampened earlier in the day by a thunderstorm, but apart from a few bumps, the car came safely to a halt.

  Then he turned towards her, his eyes blazing furiously, saying the first thing that came into his head to prevent himself from physically attacking her. 'If you feel like that, I suggest you find your own way to Nazeby!' he snarled, gripping the wheel as he'd like to grip her neck. 'Go on! Get out! I'm sure you'll find someone more to your liking to give you a lift!'

  Isabel blanched. 'You don't mean that.' She glanced about her and he saw the muscles of her throat flex as she swallowed. 'I don't even know w
here we are.'

  'We're approximately nineteen miles from Nazeby,' said Alex harshly. 'Exactly one mile further than we were when I gave you our situation. Is the prospect daunting? It shouldn't be for someone of your doubtful—talents!'

  Isabel caught her breath. 'You'd do this, wouldn't you?'

  'You'd better believe it.'

  She sniffed. 'And what will you tell Chris?'

  Alex shrugged. 'I may not tell Chris anything. I might just decide to waive my role in this fiasco of a wedding, and drive straight back to London.'

  'You wouldn't do that.' She stared at him.

  'Wouldn't I?'

  Alex returned her stare without flinching, and as if he had just pushed her too far, Isabel acquiesced. 'All right,' she said, a disturbingly flat note in her voice now. 'All right. I'll take my chance.' She shook her head. 'There are such things as buses; and trains. I don't need your help to get to Nazeby.'

  Thrusting open her door, she threw her overnight bag on to the verge and started after it. She really expected him to abandon her here, Alex realised, and suddenly he knew that for all his simmering resent­ment, he couldn't do it. What would Chris say? he asked himself bitterly; but it wasn't just his cousin's reactions that were causing him to have second thoughts. He couldn't leave her here, at the mercy of every tramp and sexual pervert that might come her way. Besides, the sky was still very overcast, evening was approaching, and if a storm erupted, there were too many trees around for safety.

  'Forget it!' he said abruptly, putting out his hand and grasping her shoulder, preventing her from following her bag out of the car. But now, she turned on him.

  'Let go of me,' she commanded, in an icy voice, though her eyes sparked fire. 'Don't you think because you're having an attack of conscience, you can manipulate me at will. I didn't ask you to give me a lift. Chris insisted on it. And, fool that I was, I thought you might actually be prepared to make friends at last. But I was wrong. I should have realised you were too much like your uncle to have a charitable thought in your head!'

  Alex's mouth hardened. 'I said, forget it,' he repeated harshly. 'Now, cut out the dramatics and pick up your bag. We still have several miles ahead of us, and I want a shower before supper.'

  'I'm not stopping you,' said Isabel carelessly, but she was making no attempt to reach out and pick up her bag, and with a sigh of impatience, Alex was forced to push open his own door to walk round and get it himself.

  However, as soon as he released his hold on Isabel, she was out of the car in a flash and, as he first of all lunged after her, and then, finding himself baulked by the gear console, thrust his legs out of the car and came to his feet, she snatched up her bag and scram­bled through a gap in the hedge into the field beyond.

  'Isabel!' he yelled, his frustration knowing no bounds as he plunged after her. 'For God's sake, what the hell do you think you're doing?'

  She was a hundred yards ahead of him when he emerged from the hedge, his hair almost torn from his scalp by a wayward briar. Looking down at his jacket, he saw that it too had been raked by the prickly bushes, and the cuffs of his trousers were already damp from the wet grass. When he got his hands on her ... he promised himself savagely. But threats were not going to bring her back, and with a violent oath he went after her.

  Although she had a head start, his shoes were flat-heeled and he had a longer stride. Besides, she had accidentally stumbled into the boggy surrounds of a swollen pond, and while the herd of cows that occupied the field lifted their heads in mild curiosity, Isabel's steps were dogged with cold mud. She flailed about for several seconds, like a swimmer who has suddenly discovered he's wearing cement shoes, and then she over-balanced, sinking to her knees in a morass of dirt.

  Alex reached her just as she was using her hands to lever herself to her feet again, and for all his anger with her, he couldn't prevent the errant lifting of his mouth. She looked so pathetic somehow, her knees and feel all caked with mud. And funny, too; a kind of cruel retribution.

  'Don't move,' he said, as she endeavoured to lift her feet out of the squelch. 'You may lose your balance again. Here,' he took some papers, a pen and his wallet out of his jacket pocket and tossed the expensive garment down on the earth between them. 'Step on to that, and come this way. 'It's dry enough where I'm standing.'

  Isabel gasped. 'But your jacket!'

  'I have another,' he informed her drily. 'Just do as I say. Or do you like standing in mud? If so, I'll leave you to it.'

  Isabel cast him a resigned glance. 'Oh, all right,' she said wearily, lifting one foot and depositing it, not without some reluctance, on the fine silk lining of the jacket. Then, gaining courage, she lifted the other, and seconds later she was on the comparatively dry grass beside him. 'Thank you.'

  Alex shook his head. 'You look a mess.'

  'I know.' She looked down at herself ruefully. 'What can I do?' Then, looking up at him. 'What am I going to tell Chris?'

  'What am I going to tell Chris?' amended Alex drily. 'We're going to have to think of something. But first of all, I suggest we do something about your hands and legs.'

  'Can we?' Isabel was doubtful, and Alex found himself grinning.

  'I guess so. It may have slipped your notice, but this pond adjoins a stream. Over there. With a bit of luck, the water in the stream will be clean. Cold, perhaps, but clean.'

  It was. With an absence of affectation, Isabel peeled off her tights and washed them in the stream while Alex did his best to clean her shoes. Grass and dock leaves soon had the plain purple pumps looking outwardly as good as new. The lining inside remained stained, but once they were on her feet, this discrep­ancy would not be visible.

  With her hands and feet washed clean of the mud, Isabel rose to her feet to face her rescuer. 'I'll put these in my bag,' she said, indicating the damp tights in her hand. She shivered. 'Is it very badly stained? I tried to keep it out of the mud as best I could.

  'I've brushed it down, and I guess when it's dry it'll be as good as new,' said Alex, handing her her shoes, but hanging on to the bag. 'Right. Are we ready to go? Or are you still intent on hiking to Nazeby?'

  Isabel's lips twitched. 'What do you think?'

  Alex felt his senses stir. 'I think we should get back to the car before someone steals that,' he replied, his tone a little cooler than it might have been because of his unexpected arousal. 'After you. And take care where you put your feet!'

  Isabel carried her shoes to the car, walking easily in her bare feet. Without heels, she seemed smaller, more vulnerable somehow, and Alex had to remind himself of who she was as his antagonism gave way to other emotions. Her bare legs were disturbingly beautiful, long and slender, and far too accessible below her short skirt. He found himself staring at the rounded curve of her rear as she scrambled back through the hedge, and the unmistakable tightness of his trousers betrayed his callow reaction. It was years since any woman had had such an effect on him, and he swung round the car irritably to avoid her observation.

  This time, he stowed her case in the boot of the car realising, as he did so, that had he done that in the beginning, none of this might have happened. She could hardly have gone charging off across the fields, leaving him in possession of her belongings. Without her purse, her clothes, she would not have felt such independence, and he would not be suffering now from the discomfiting effects of his frustration.

  'Where's your jacket?' she enquired, as she slipped into the seat beside him, and Alex glanced over his shoulder.

  'In the boot, with your bag,' he replied, waiting for her to close the door so that they could be on their way. He was eager now to reach their destination. Eager, too, to escape the knowledge that had eluded him for so long.

  'Will it clean?' she persisted, examining her shoes before putting her feet into them. She gave him a rueful smile. 'You'd better send me the bill.'

  'Perhaps I will.' Alex was curt, but he couldn't help it. For Christ's sake, he fretted, why didn't she shut the bloody door? Every
second they remained here, his control over the situation decreased.

  'I've always liked these shoes,' she said instead, surveying them affectionately, like some remarkable find she'd made. 'I got them in Venice at Easter. Have you ever been to Venice? Oh, yes, I suppose you must have. Chris says you've travelled quite a lot.'

  Alex sighed. 'Aren't you cold?'

  'A little bit. Why?'

  'Then why don't you close the door? So we can get moving.'

  Isabel looked surprised. 'Oh—sorry.' She reached for the armrest. 'I'll just put my shoes on first. Then I can see what I'm doing.'

  Afterwards Alex cursed himself for his impatience. He could have waited, while she bent and slid the offending shoes on to her feet, but he didn't. Instead, as she bent to accomplish her task, he leaned across her to reach the door, and when she came up suddenly, his arm was trapped behind her.

  He never knew who was the most surprised: himself, for being caught that way, or Isabel, when she found his face only inches from hers. But, in either case, the result was the same, and for a heart-shuddering moment, neither of them moved. Alex found he was breathing more quickly than his exertions had warranted and, his eyes falling from Isabel's flushed, startled face to the steady rise and fall of her lungs, discovered a similar reaction in her. As he watched, the tenor of her breathing accelerated, and the rounded breasts beneath her dress swelled against the cloth. Her nipples hardened, creating little aureoles of darkness beneath the brushed cotton, and Alex's lips parted involuntarily, tempted beyond measure to discover how they would feel beneath his mouth.