A High Price to Pay (15 page)

studied the contents, frowning a little. They were so beautiful, it

seemed criminal to leave them shut away like this, unworn. She

extracted a set of diaphanous ivory silk cami-knickers and the

suspender belt that matched them, and took them into the bathroom,

while she showered and washed her hair. She would try them on, she

thought, although she wasn't altogether convinced that she would

wear them. Yet once she had felt the silky, seductive glide of them on

her skin, she was lost.

Sitting at her dressing table, applying the hand- dryer to her damp

hair, she could hardly believe the image she saw in the mirror. When

her hair was dry, she brushed it straight back from her face and

anchored it with pins in a prim bun at the nape of her neck. The

contrast between the demureness of her hairstyle and the cloudy

sensuality of her attire could not have been more complete, she

thought, her mouth twisting slightly. It was almost—erotic.

An impression dispelled the moment she put on the black dress. In the

few seconds it took to fasten the zip, she was transformed from

embryo seductress into dull nonentity. She sighed a little. Well,

maybe it was safer that way.

She could hear her mother's silvery tones coming from the drawing

room when she got downstairs. She hesitated, then vanished to the

kitchen, to make sure that Cook, and her niece who helped her on

hectic occasions, hadn't encountered any unexpected snags. But

everything was going smoothly.

'As you should know, Miss Alison,' Cook told her placidly. 'And your

place is in the drawing room, not here, where you might get

something spilled on your dress,' she added, with a dubious look at

the garment in question.

'Oh, don't scold me,' Alison appealed mischievously. 'I just want to

relax for a few moments before the fray, that's all.'

'Well, you're in the way here,' Cook told her severely. 'And Mr

Bristow will be wondering where you are. And leave those canapes

alone!' she added in a voice of doom. 'Why, Miss Alison, for all

you're grown up and married, you're like a naughty child sometimes, I

swear you are!'

'But anchovies have always been my weakness, you know that,'

Alison said plaintively. She was in no hurry to go the drawing room.

She wanted no awkward questions about the black dress until it was

too late for her to change.

'And other people will like them too, I daresay. Now leave them,

there's a love. And isn't that the doorbell? Your guests are arriving,

and you're not there to receive them.'

Alison laughed, and slid off the kitchen table. 'I'm on my way!'

She reached the drawing room while the first arrivals were still

dispensing with their coats and wraps, but her lateness had been

noticed. And laughter gurgled within her, as she saw how Nick's

initial glare of annoyance changed dramatically to sheer incredulity

as he assimilated her appearance. She returned his searching stare

with a defiant lift of her chin, although she was quaking inwardly,

then, as he started towards her, his brows drawn thunderously

together, he turned, smiling with calm warmth to meet the new

chairman of Mortimers as Mrs Horner showed him and his wife into

the room.

The next few minutes was totally taken up with new arrivals and

introductions, and the handing round of drinks and canapes, so there

was no chance of Nick saying anything privately to her, although it

was obvious, by the fulminating glances he occasionally bestowed on

her, that he was anxious to do so.

And as she shook hands and murmured conventional greetings to a

succession of chic, well-groomed and bejewelled women, Alison

found herself wishing she had not allowed her resentment to get the

better of her. They were all too pleasant, and generally, she thought,

too kind to let their feelings show, but she could sense the shock in

them as they were introduced. They must all be wondering why the

sexy, dynamic Nicholas Bristow had saddled himself with a plain,

dowdy freak as a wife. And she wasn't sure she could blame them.

She had intended to annoy Nicholas, but even though she had

succeeded, probably beyond her wildest dreams, she had done herself

no credit either.

In fact, the whole day had been something of a nightmare, and when

Mrs Horner came to announce dinner, Alison would not have been in

the least surprised if she had told them the kitchen had exploded, and

the food was ruined.

She saw her guests seated, then took her own place at the foot of the

long table, opposite Nicholas but far enough away from him to be

safe, at least for the moment.

She gave her attention to the people sitting near her, responding to

their appreciative comments as the bowls of chilled avocado soup

with the swirls of cream were placed in front of them. The meal was

beginning, and she could relax.

Then she looked up and found Nicholas watching her,'-his blue eyes

skimming her like an Arctic breeze, and she shivered involuntarily.

Because eventually, however delicious the meal, however warm the

hospitality and interesting the conversational! these strangers would

leave.

And sooner or later she would have to face the reckoning with

Nicholas.

'MARVELLOUS party! Thank you so much.' 'We have enjoyed

ourselves.' The words of thanks and parting reverberated in Alison's

head as she went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her, a

stifled sigh of relief escaping her lips as she leaned against its solid

panels.

Outwardly, the evening had indeed been a great success, the meal a

triumph, the after-dinner conversation in the drawing room so

interesting, that everyone was clearly loth to tear themselves away.

But, for Alison, the evening had been a personal nightmare. Whatever

had possessed her to do such a crazy thing? she asked herself

wretchedly, chewing at the soft inner flesh of her lower lip. Oh, yes,

she'd made a fool of Nicholas, which was what she had intended, but

she had made an even bigger fool of herself. And the knowledge of

the stupidity of her own conduct had exacerbated her natural shyness,

so that their guests not only must think she was a frump, but a

tongue-tied idiot as well, she thought miserably.

Nick had accompanied Ian Farnham, his second-in-command, out to

his car for a final word, and Alison had seized the opportunity to

escape.

She had made the excuse to her mother that she had a

headache—which, in a way, was no more than the truth. Her scalp felt

tender as a result of wearing her hair wrenched back all evening, and

every pin she had used to secure the unbecoming bun seemed to be

burrowing into her head. She removed them carefully, then shook her

ill-used hair loose, as she walked over to her dressing table and sank

down on the stool. God, but she looked awful! Pale, washed-out,

because she'd used no make-up but a smudge of lipstick, and drowned

in that monster of a dress. She groaned and picked up her hairbrush,

stroking it gently through her hair, restoring it to its usual shining

order.

Well, she thought, at least she had managed to postpone the inevitable

confrontation with Nicholas, even though she couldn't put it off

forever.

But even that forlorn sense of reassurance went by the board, as her

bedroom door opened forcefully and Nick strode in. He closed the

door with a swift, backward kick of one well-shod foot, then stood,

hands on hips, regarding her grimly.

Alison swallowed, then turned slowly to face him, forcing herself to a

semblance of composure.

She said with a certain hauteur, 'Didn't my mother explain ...?

'That you have a headache?' Nicholas supplied. 'Yes, she mentioned

it. And I'm here to tell you, sweetheart, that if you play me any more

tricks like tonight's, you're going to ache in a very different part of

your anatomy!'

'I don't understand what you mean,' she said defiantly. 'I—I thought it

went very well.'

'You understand perfectly well,' drawled Nick. 'So—where did you

get the dress? A jumble sale? What a pity you couldn't find one that

actually fitted!'

Alison felt the betraying colour seep into her face, but she kept going

just the same. 'I'm sorry if you don't care for my taste in clothes.'

His mouth curled. 'I'd be sorry too if I thought for one moment this

was a genuine sample of it. No, darling. Your decision to appear in

front of our guests looking like something out of a third- rate touring

production of
Rebecca
was quite deliberate, and we both know it.'

'I know nothing of the kind,' Alison said stiffly. 'And I think you're

being very insulting. I'd be glad if you'd go now, and leave me in

peace.'

'I'm sure you would,' he said derisively. 'But I haven't finished with

you yet. I can appreciate why you might wish to ignore the jewellery

I've given you. It's hardly in keeping with your image of

Downtrodden Drudge, after all. But you could at least have worn your

bloody engagement ring. Or have you left that somewhere too—like

the car?'

Alison controlled a little gasp. The failure to wear his sapphire had

been a complete oversight, not a deliberate affront, little though he

might believe that now. A sense of guilt refuelled her rising temper.

'And why should I wear it?' she demanded scornfully. 'To

demonstrate to everyone how generous you are—and how rich? I'm

sure they know that already. I never wanted an engagement ring from

you, Nick. I was never your fiancee, just as I'm not your wife. The

truth is I'm just the housekeeper. I know it, and you know it, so why

shouldn't the rest of the world be aware of it too? And now get out of

my room!'

He said softly, 'This is my room, darling. It belongs to me, along with

most of the other things in this bloody house—yourself included. And

if you don't care for your role—self-imposed, I might remind

you—then that can be remedied, right now.'

He walked towards her, stalking her like some predatory jungle

animal, she thought, fear catching in her throat. She jumped up,

knocking over her dressing stool.

'I asked you to go.' Her voice sounded young and breathless.

'I heard you,' Nick said coolly. 'But I'm staying—at least long enough

to ensure that you'll never wear that damned dress again!'

She backed away. 'Please—leave me alone. I'll throw the dress

away—I promise I will.'

'You'll have to.' He was still advancing on her, and Alison found

herself, literally, with her back to the wall, and nowhere left to retreat

to.

'No!' She put out her hands to ward him off, and his fingers clamped

round her slender wrists, jerking her towards him.

'Experiencing a few regrets?' he asked with a low laugh. 'Well, you

started this, my sweet. Just remember that.' He swung her round, and

she felt his hands at the back of her dress, where the cowled neckline

dipped towards the zip-fastening. She began to struggle, trying to

drag herself away from him.

'Don't! I—I'll take it off—really ...'

'And deprive me of the pleasure?' Nick drawled. He didn't bother with

the zip. His strong hands gripped the material wrenching at it, until it

gave with a tearing sound that echoed in her head like a scream.

As it began to slip off her shoulders, she tried to grab at it, but Nick

forestalled her, using his superior strength to drag the crumpled and

ripped fabric downwards to fall in a dark mass at her feet. His arm

was like a band of steel round her waist as he lifted her clear of the

tangling folds.

"Put me down!' Nearly crying with humiliation, Alison kicked out at

him.

He obeyed so promptly that she almost fell over.

She turned to face him, like some small creature at bay, words of wild

indignation trembling incoherently on her lips. But never to be

uttered.

Because suddenly she saw him looking at her— and remembered too

late exactly what she'd been wearing under all that ugly black.

He was totally arrested, his eyes travelling over her in incredulous

absorption as he took in every provocative detail, from the heavy

band of lace that outlined the thrust of her small breasts to the fragile

suspenders which fastened her stockings.

Nick said, too quietly, 'You're full of surprises tonight, aren't you, my

sweet? Are you leading some kind of secret life, or was all this

glamour for your, own eyes only—because, if so, it's an appalling

waste.'