Potent As Poison

‘I guess you’re none too fond of caviar, huh?’ he smiled.

He looked so darkly handsome that she had been convinced that he would be Italian, or Spanish perhaps—so that it came as something of a shock for her to hear his rich, deep American drawl.

‘Caviar!’ She shuddered. ‘Is that what it is? Well, that’s the first and last time I ever eat it!’

‘Never tried it before?’ He sounded curious.

She gave him a look, but then took pity on him, after all—he wasn’t to know about the institutional food which had been the sum total of her experience. ‘Actually,’ she confided, the champagne she’d drunk giving her the confidence to tease, ‘I normally eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner—but this isn’t Beluga, and Beluga’s the only one I can bear!’

He laughed. ‘But you’ve heard of Beluga?’

She hadn’t been the light of her school debating society for nothing. ‘Just because I’ve never tried it, it doesn’t mean to say I’ve never heard of it!’ she answered back. ‘There are such things as books, you know!’

His eyebrows were raised slightly at the reprimand, but his eyes held a glimmer of amusement. ‘I stand corrected!’ He held two hands up in mock defence, then picked up a plate of hors-d’oeuvre. ‘Here, have one of these.’

Beth eyed some more dark-looking things wrapped in bacon—yeuk!—she wasn’t risking another try! She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. All the books say don’t eat the nibbles—they pile on the pounds and never fill you up. I’ll have something when I get home.’ She looked around for Donna, but he was speaking to her.

‘You’re not going already?’

He sounded, she thought, absolutely astonished.

She nodded. ‘It’s not really my scene.’

‘Nor mine,’ he said suddenly. ‘Tell you what—I’m hungry, too. So what would you tell an American in London to eat?’

‘Fish and chips out of the newspaper!’ she said at once, memories of a rare seaside day-trip swamping her. ‘But it’s no good asking me where to find one,’ she protested, as he gently but firmly pushed her through the door. ‘Because I don’t know London at all!’

‘And neither do I,’ he smiled. ‘But I know a man who does.’

Which was how they found themselves in a black cab speeding towards the East End, where they were deposited in the front of the most delicious-smelling chip shop.

Still in her party clothes, but with Riccardo’s jacket on, she sat with him eating their feast on a park bench, munching the hot chips covered with salt and vinegar and breaking off great chunks of glistening white cod wrapped in batter.

Then they caught a cab back to Westminster, arguing all the way about how Verdi should be interpreted. Then they went to a pub, where he tried draught bitter and found it quite as disgusting as she’d found the caviar.

Quite by coincidence they were passing underneath Big Ben when midnight struck and they stood very still as the mighty chimes rang out around them.

This is it, Cinderella, thought Beth regretfully as she stared up into that dark, beautiful face ...

‘Meeting him was the most magical thing that had ever happened to me,’ said Elizabeth slowly, her mind coming back to the present as she surveyed Jenny sitting opposite her, staring at her with open curiosity. ‘I didn’t know that people like him existed—intelligent, witty—and oh, goodness, so attractive. I’d never felt any physical attraction for anyone before that—and he, somehow ...he made me feel ...oh, I don’t know. I was stupidly naïve. Too young and too inexperienced to realise he was feeding me a line.’

‘But what happened?’ asked Jenny. ‘What happened next?’

Elizabeth looked at her secretary, her eyes unwavering. ‘I didn’t go home that night. I went back to his uncle’s flat with him. I spent the weekend there. And afterwards I discovered that I was pregnant.’

‘Good grief!’

Elizabeth had expected this; the censure; perhaps that was why she had told no one besides John. ‘It’s pretty awful, isn’t it? Not a story I’m proud of.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I’m not casting blame. For heaven’s sake, you must have been so young.’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And him?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘But Elizabeth—doesn’t he know? About the baby?’

Elizabeth’s voice became a flat monotone. ‘There was no reason to tell him——’

‘But surely, as the father, he had a right——’

‘No!’ Elizabeth’s voice was harsh. ‘A weekend fling with a stranger does not make you a father. It doesn’t constitute any rights. And anyway——’ and here her voice faltered ‘—I did try to contact him. To tell him. But he’d flown back to the States. I left him on the Sunday, and he flew back home on the Monday. And he had a fiancée back at home waiting for him. So you see,’ she gave a watery smile. ‘It really was just a quick roll in the hay—isn’t that what Americans say?—for him. That’s all he ever intended it to be. But it gave me what has made my life worth living. It gave me Peter. Speaking of which——’ and she rubbed a fist into each eye and glanced at her watch ‘—I’d better get going—he’ll be back from football practice soon.’ She swallowed the last of her brandy and got to her feet.

Jenny stood up too, still looking puzzled. ‘But how could he—how could he not recognise you? After ...after ...’ Her voice tailed off in embarrassment.

Elizabeth shrugged. ‘It was nearly a decade ago. I’m pounds lighter, I’ve had my hair cropped, and I wasn’t wearing glasses at the time. And, I expect,’ she said bitterly, ‘that there have been countless others in his bed since. But Jenny,’ she said, very softly. ‘Please. John was the only other person who has heard the whole story before. Perhaps I shouldn’t even have told you. I probably wouldn’t have done if it weren’t for the shock of seeing him again. But please, promise me that you’ll never speak of it to anyone? Imagine if any of the partners got to hear about it?’

‘Of course I won’t. Not that I think the partners would care—not in this day and age. But what about Peter? What does he know of all this? Does he think that your husband was the father?’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never lied to him. I simply told him the truth—that I loved his Daddy very much, but that sometimes things just don’t work out as you hoped they would.’

‘But now that this—Rick Masterton is back. Don’t you feel you ought to tell him?’

‘No,’ said Elizabeth with a quiet fervour. ‘Not now—it’s too late. Especially not now. I was nothing to him—a young, willing bed-partner he can’t even remember. And now he’s a rich and powerful man; very powerful indeed. He’s also an attorney who specialises in child custody cases, driven by a particular zealous fire—taking up the cudgels on behalf of men who he feels have been poorly treated in custody cases. Imagine if he discovers that he hasn’t just been denied access, but knowledge of his son as well? He could take Peter away from me. And I can’t take that chance. Now, I really must go, Jenny.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘Thanks for listening. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Elizabeth travelled the three blocks to the Tube station in a total daze and flashed her season ticket at the guard as she waited for the northbound train which would take her home. She took a deep breath of fresh air as she walked along the platform, welcoming the anonymity of the crowded train, the blank eyes of the fellow passengers, the opportunity the journey would give her for time to think. To come to terms with having seen him again after all this time.

But by the time she reached her exquisite detached Regent’s Park house her mind was still a maze of muddled images. She walked wearily up the path to the distinctive black-painted front door, the sight of the elegant building momentarily soothing her troubled mind. Home.

She walked into the elegantly spacious hall and heard the familiar sound of a computer game from just down the hall.

‘Peter!’ she called, and there was a flurry as the boy, whose build, though wiry, none the less showed a hint of muscle which would make him as tall as his father in adulthood, came dashing along the corridor.

‘Hello, Ma—I scored three times today—can you believe that? Hey——’ And he peered at his mother closely. ‘You haven’t been crying, have you?’

‘Crying? Of course I haven’t,’ said Elizabeth briskly. ‘Now, do I get a hug or not?’

‘Ma!’

He spoke with all the feigned horror of physical affection which was prevalent in little boys after their sixth birthday, but he gave her a tight hug anyway, and it needed every bit of effort she possessed for her eyes not to grow unnaturally bright for the second time that afternoon.

‘Where’s Mrs Clarke?’ she asked, looking around for her stalwart of a housekeeper-cum-babysitter.

‘Gone upstairs,’ said Peter. ‘She’s knitting some kind of jacket for her granddaughter. What’s for supper?’

Deciding on a simple supper for them both, Elizabeth went into the kitchen with Peter and busied herself with cracking eggs for omelettes and making a salad, while Peter chattered on excitedly about his chances of playing for the junior soccer team that autumn.

Elizabeth was aware that she was viewing her son with new eyes this evening. Her heart was always in her mouth when she looked at him, consumed with unconditional love for the small being whose appearance had dramatically altered the whole course of her life.

Over the years she had tried, without lasting success, not to think too much about his father, not just because of the pain, but because there didn’t seem a lot of point in dwelling on a man she would never see again.

But now she had seen him, and it was as if his reappearance had brought it slamming home to her just how like his father Peter was. The same dark hair, the same curiously light and distinctive blue-green eyes, the same long-limbed build with the potential for a distinctively steely strength. The same razor-sharp mind.

He looked up suddenly, aware of her scrutiny. ‘You’re sad,’ he said, with unnerving perception—since she had been sure that her face showed nothing of her thoughts.

‘A little,’ she admitted.

‘You’re thinking about my dad?’

She kept her voice deliberately light. ‘Why d’you say that?’

He shrugged. ‘’Cos that’s how you always look when you think about him.’ He gave a small shrug which suddenly made him look terribly vulnerable.

She felt suddenly, inexplicably guilty. ‘I bet you really miss never having had a real father?’ she probed.

‘I had John—I can kind of remember him. I know he wasn’t my real Dad but—he was great.’

Elizabeth remembered her ex-husband with the same affection. ‘Yes, he was great. But never having known your real father——’

‘You were always enough for me, Ma.’ And then, obviously embarrassed by such a slushy admission, he scowled. ‘When’s supper going to be ready? I’m starving.’

‘Coming right up,’ she said brightly, sliding a fluffy omelette on to the plate and pushing the wooden bowl of dressed salad into the centre of the table, while they both sat down.

Nothing’s going to happen, she told herself. Nothing. In a few months he’ll be gone, and that will be that.

But she lay awake all night long, her face set with tension, blinking unseeingly at the moon-shadows on the ceiling, her mind fraught with images of Rick.

CHAPTER THREE

ELIZABETH’S bad night did little for her temper in the morning, and she found herself snapping at Peter more than once, something she rarely did. She was normally fairly calm where her son was concerned, and when she caught him looking at her curiously she decided to pull herself together, determined from that moment on to put away her groundless fears and to get on with life. Rick had had no part in her life for the past nine years—and there was no earthly reason why he should start now.

But what about Peter? prompted a little demon inside her head.

Peter is happy just the way he is, she told her demon tormentor fiercely.

The one good thing which had happened was that her voice had, thankfully, returned to normal.

She set off for the office to find that Jenny had already arrived; she gave Elizabeth a brisk smile and handed her a pile of correspondence, and Elizabeth breathed a small sigh of relief. Obviously Jenny was as good as her word, and last night’s confidences were not about to be dredged up this morning.

Elizabeth dictated for an hour then tackled a pile of paperwork. Then she took some calls, went out for a meeting with a client, and when she came back, Jenny was sitting at her word-processor, a wry smile on her face as she pointed to a bouquet of flowers which sat on her desk. ‘For you,’ she said succinctly.

Elizabeth stood stock-still. She had never received flowers, never in her life, unless you counted the single red rose which Rick had had delivered on the tray containing their champagne breakfast. And she knew without looking at the card that he had sent these flowers, although they couldn’t be more different from that simple red rose she had once so treasured.

These, she realised, were the flowers sent by a man whose tastes had matured; fragrant, subtle and lovely. There were big, squashy pale pink roses which contrasted beautifully with the clear blue of cornflowers. Peonies too, in a much darker pink. And dark green ivy nestling with the sweet-scented purple spears of lavender. A pink ribbon tied the stems together, and the whole effect was that the flowers had been freshly and casually picked in the country that morning, though this was an illusion, for Elizabeth had heard of the florist who had designed this, and knew that they charged a small fortune.

She reached down and picked up the card.

Despite the friction—or perhaps because of it—I enjoyed our encounter immensely. Have dinner with me tonight. Rick.

She crumpled the card in her hand and dropped it into the bin. She was irritated, both at the peremptory tone he’d used, and at her own brief but foolish response to his extravagant bouquet—of the sudden urge to bury her nose in the sweet perfume, to take them away to her office and arrange them lovingly in a vase. I should trample them underfoot, she thought bitterly, as common sense prevailed.

‘You can have the flowers, Jenny,’ she said abruptly. ‘Or send them downstairs to the typing pool.’

‘Are you sure?’ Jenny’s eyes were assessing. ‘They’re from Mr Masterton, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, they are, and yes, I’m sure—and if he rings—you can tell him——’

But her words were never to be spoken, for at that moment Paul Meredith, her boss, had strolled smilingly through the door.

‘Tell him what? Mmm—lovely flowers. Yours, Elizabeth?’

Elizabeth nodded.

There was a gleam in Paul’s eyes. ‘And may we know who they’re from?’

Elizabeth was reluctant to tell him, but she wasn’t about to start lying to her boss. ‘They’re from Rick Masterton,’ she said stiffly.

‘You obviously made quite a hit,’ he observed.

‘You sound surprised,’ said Elizabeth, a trifle waspishly.

Paul’s eyebrows rose. ‘The only thing that surprises me is why someone didn’t sweep you off your feet years ago. I’ve tried often enough!’

Elizabeth smiled. Over the years, Paul had frequently asked her out, but she had said no so often to him that she suspected he wouldn’t be able to cope if she gave him a positive answer! A divorcé, in his early forties, with an easygoing manner which carefully hid his astute business mind, Paul was an eligible man, but Elizabeth had no intention of dating her boss—that was simply asking for trouble, quite apart from the fact that she simply didn’t fancy him. I don’t fancy anyone, she thought gloomily. Except Rick.

‘So where are you having dinner?’

‘I’m not.’ She saw his perplexed frown. ‘Having dinner, that is.’ She turned to her secretary. ‘Please tell Mr Masterton that quite clearly, when he calls.’

Paul walked through into her office and Elizabeth followed.

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