The Inheritance (10 page)

‘Say hello to Mr Baxter, Logie,’ Brett prompted. ‘She’s not normally shy,’ he added to Gabe. ‘I think she likes you.’

‘
Daddy
,’
Logan hissed, blushing vermilion.

‘Oh, come on, pumpkin,’ Brett ruffled her dark hair. ‘I’m only teasing you.’

Gabe said his goodbyes and left. Once he’d gone, Logan swiftly changed the subject. ‘Guess what?’ she asked Brett, making herself an orange squash that was practically neat syrup.

‘What?’

‘Jason’s got a girlfriend.’

Brett looked at his son, half amused and half amazed. ‘Have you? That was quick work. Who is it?’

‘It isn’t anyone. Stop being silly, Logie.’

‘She’s the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen in my life,’ Logan gushed, between gulps of teeth-rotting orange squash, helping herself to a fistful of McVitie’s chocolate fingers from the jar. ‘She had very tight clothes on and long hair and big boobs. And she winked at Jason in the playground. Everyone saw her.’

‘Who knew the school run could be so exciting?’ said Brett. ‘I should have gone myself.’

He was playing it cool, but inside he was delighted. It had long bothered him that his son was so hopeless with the opposite sex. Brett viewed Jason’s shyness, like his on-and-off depression, as some sort of personal affront. It was almost as if the boy was deliberately asserting his complete ‘otherness’ to Brett and everything he stood for, throwing it in his father’s face:
I don’t look like you, I don’t act like you, I don’t think like you.
A gorgeous girlfriend – any girlfriend – would be a welcome development indeed.

‘So come on, Jase, spill the beans. Who is this mystery woman?’

‘There’s no mystery,’ muttered Jason, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow him. How was it that his father always managed to take every good thing in his life, however small, and ruin it? ‘Logan’s talking about Tatiana Flint-Hamilton. I ran into her briefly at school, that’s all.’

Brett stiffened. ‘What was that scheming bitch doing at the school?’

‘She’s not a bitch,’ said Jason. ‘She’s actually quite nice once you get to know her.’

‘I’ve no intention of “getting to know her”. She’s already been round here, I gather, causing trouble and upsetting your mother. I won’t have that.’

Why? Because nobody’s allowed to upset Mum except you, you hypocrite?
Jason thought darkly.

‘And I won’t have you dating her either,’ Brett ranted on.

‘For God’s sake, I am not dating her,’ said Jason, exasperated. ‘I barely know the girl.’

‘Logan said she winked at you.’

‘She did!’ Logan insisted through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit crumbs.

‘She was being friendly. Jesus.’

‘Winking isn’t friendly. It’s flirtatious. She’s up to something, and you’re too dumb to see it. You shouldn’t even be talking to her.’ Brett’s anger was building, like a steaming kettle about to sing. ‘Where’s your family loyalty?’

‘She
is
family, in case you’ve forgotten,’ Jason shot back. ‘We wouldn’t be standing here in her house if she weren’t.’

‘Furlings is not
her house
!’ Brett erupted.

Disturbed by all the shouting, Angela walked in. After spending the better part of the day in bed with Brett, she positively beamed with contentment. Until she saw the expression on her son’s face. Angela knew that look. Angry. Detached. Shut-down.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’

‘Ask him.’ Jason glowered at his father before storming out of the room.

‘Come back here!’ Brett roared. ‘Don’t you walk away from me, you little shit!’

‘Don’t say shit, Daddy,’ said Logan, utterly unperturbed. Knockdown drag-out fights between her father and brother were a daily occurrence. Stuffing more chocolate fingers into her pockets, she went up to her bedroom to think about Gabe Baxter in peace. She wondered if she could see his farm from here, and whether or not her binoculars had been unpacked yet.

Once she’d gone, Angela put a tentative hand on Brett’s arm. ‘What happened?’

Brett’s face was set like flint. ‘Apparently Jason and that Flint-Hamilton woman were all over each other outside the school gates this afternoon.’

Angela frowned. ‘That sounds
highly
unlikely. Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure she was there. Logan said she winked at Jason.’

‘Well, maybe she did. But I’m sure it was quite innocent.’ Angela could not imagine the poised, sophisticated, drop-dead gorgeous Tati in any sort of romantic entanglement with her cripplingly shy, depressive son. Much as she might like to. ‘Or maybe Logan made a mistake.’

‘She’s staying in the village, isn’t she? Tatiana?’

‘Yes. At Greystones Farm. Why?’

Brett picked up his car keys from the kitchen counter.

Angela looked alarmed. ‘You’re not going over there?’

‘Damn right I am.’

‘Oh darling please, don’t. What will you say?’

‘That I don’t want her sniffing around my son, upsetting my wife, or stalking my bloody daughter on her first day at school.’

Angela wrung her hands miserably. ‘You’re being ridiculous, Brett. If you go over there it’ll only stir up trouble, and you know it.’

But it was no use. Brett was already striding down the hall towards the front door. Angela stood and watched from the kitchen window as he jumped into the driver’s seat of his new Bentley Continental GT V8 and sped off down the drive like a maddened bull. He could fuel that car on testosterone alone
,
she thought sadly, as the gravel sprayed up into an angry arc behind him. Testosterone and rage.

Standing at the window she offered up a silent prayer.

Please, please, don’t let him start a war with Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.

Some sixth sense told her that Tatiana was every bit as angry and stubborn as Brett. Once begun, this was not a war that would be over by Christmas.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tati lay back in a bath full of Badedas bubbles and inhaled deeply on her cigarette. Even now, a grown woman, half of the pleasure she derived from smoking in the bath was the knowledge of how vehemently both Mrs Worsley and her father would have disapproved of it.

‘Unladylike,’ Mrs Worsley would have called it. Rory would have said it was vulgar, or worse, ‘common’: the ultimate insult in Tati’s father’s book. What they had both failed to appreciate was the deep, profound sense of relaxation the combination of warm water and a shot of nicotine to the bloodstream had on the human body. Fuck yoga. This was the only way to de-stress. Better yet, it was guilt and hangover free, unlike red wine and Pringles …

Flicking ash into a horrid, fish-shaped soap dish on the ledge above the bath (her landlady’s taste really was abysmal; she must get around to putting more of her ghastly tat into boxes and out of sight), she reflected again on her interview with St Hilda’s new headmaster.

Max Bingley had rejected her. Worse, he had patronized her, humiliated her, treated her like a spoiled child who needed to be slapped down, taught a lesson. His voice in her head now made Tati’s stomach churn with shame:

‘
I can’t parachute in a completely inexperienced teacher. The very idea’s ridiculous! I might consider taking you on as an assistant …’

How had her life come to this? How? This time last year she’d been sunning herself on a yacht in the Caribbean, enjoying a much-publicized dalliance with an Arab prince. By now the whole village would know that she’d come crawling to the sanctimonious Max Bingley today, begging for work, and been turned down. The humiliation was almost more than Tati could bear. She didn’t even have the luxury of not caring what the locals thought of her. She needed them and their good opinion now, more than ever.

As the bubbles and nicotine worked their combined magic, a small part of her – tiny – admitted the possibility that Max Bingley might, in fact, have been trying to help her this afternoon. That he’d thrown her a lifeline with the offer of a trial position when he really didn’t have to. That in reality it was
she
who had been rude and surly and entitled, not the other way around. But Tati squashed that part, snuffing it out ruthlessly. Letting it live would mean admitting weakness. That was something she could never do. Not even to herself. Not if she wanted to survive.

Be that as it may, and despite her wounded pride, she already knew that she would accept Bingley’s offer. The job might be unpaid, but without it her trustees would leave her penniless. Of course she could always find herself another rich boyfriend, as she had in the past. But in Tatiana’s experience, while men were more than happy to pay for clothes and trinkets and expensive suites in hotels, they were less likely to stump up for their paramours’ protracted legal battles. Especially when said battles had been consistently advised against by a veritable fleet of lawyers. When it came to fighting for Furlings, she was on her own.

Stubbing out her cigarette, she pulled herself up out of the bath and stood in front of the mirror. Clumps of bubbles stuck to her wet skin like cuckoo spit on a stem of sticky jack. Tendrils of wet hair escaped from the wide white linen hairband she always wore in the bath, coiling themselves into spring-like ringlets that kissed the top of her neck and shoulders. Naked and without make-up she looked younger than her 24 years, except for the green eyes that stared back at her, knowing and cynical beneath dark, wet lashes.

Tatiana was beautiful and she knew it. A small smile escaped her as she admired her reflection. But it soon turned to a shriek of terror. The figure of a man suddenly appeared behind her, looming ominously in the bathroom doorway.

‘
Get out!
’ Panic manifested itself as anger as Tati reached for the nearest heavy object – a solid pottery vase filled with plastic poppies that stood beneath the mirror – and hurled it at the intruder’s head. He ducked, narrowly missing being knocked out cold, then lunged forwards, grabbing Tati by the wrists.

‘Calm down. I’m not here to hurt you.’

Luckily for Tati her skin was still wet from the bath. With a quick twist of her arms she was able easily to escape his grip. Having no other weapons to hand, she lashed out wildly, kicking, scratching and biting, before finally aiming her left knee towards the man’s groin.

Unluckily, his reactions were as quick as her own. Turning to one side so that her knee collided with nothing more sensitive than his thigh bone, he advanced towards her, forcing her back against the bathroom wall. There he was easily able to pin her down, his weight and strength more than compensating for the lack of a firm grip as he pressed her against the plaster, waiting for her breathing to calm down and her struggling to cease.

‘Please stop screaming.’

‘Fuck off!’ Tati screeched. ‘There’s nothing here to steal, you arsehole!’

‘I’m not a burglar.’

‘I don’t care who you are. Get out of my fucking house!’

‘I’m Brett Cranley.’

It took a few seconds for this information to sink in.

Feeling Tati relax beneath him, Brett cautiously released her. ‘I’m sorry I frightened you. The front door was open. I called your name but there was no answer so I came in.’ Turning around he grabbed a towel, holding it out to Tatiana at arm’s length, waving it like a white flag.

‘Here. You’d better take this.’

Tati stood in front of him, quivering with rage. Brett felt his libido start to stir, like a roused lion. Stark naked, her perfect, high round breasts jutting out at him defiantly, Tatiana was quite simply magnificent, one of the most beautiful girls Brett had ever seen. And he’d seen quite a few. Slim but not skinny, her long legs tapered up perfectly into softly curving hips and waist, like the sides of a cello. A sleek, dark triangle of pubic hair, like the wet hide of a mink, nestled proudly beneath a perfectly flat stomach. Brett did like a woman with some hair down there. Back in the early nineties the explosion of bare, Brazilian-waxed pussies had been new and exciting. But these days it was so commonplace, he’d come to prefer the mystery of the more natural look. It showed confidence. Although not as much confidence as the way that Tatiana steadily met his gaze, acknowledging the hunger in it, taking the proffered towel slowly rather than jumping to grab it. Clearly she was not remotely embarrassed by her nakedness.

‘Get out of my house.’

Her voice was quiet now, and controlled, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

‘Not yet. I need to talk to you,’ said Brett.

He knew he ought to leave but he was congenitally incapable of taking orders, especially from a woman. He fully expected Tati to lose it and start pushing him out the door, and/or calling the police. But to his surprise she merely said icily ‘Fine. Go downstairs and wait while I dress.’

Ten minutes later, perched uncomfortably on the ugly brown sofa in Tati’s sitting room, Brett began to wish he’d left when she’d asked him to. He’d made a complete balls-up of his first encounter with the Flint-Hamilton girl. Barging up the stairs uninvited had been a foolish thing to do. But he’d been so damn angry, and the open door had felt like an invitation. Now he was very much on the back foot, waiting around for Tatiana to grant him an audience like a nervous kid on a first date. Worse, he now very obviously owed
her
an apology, which was not the way he’d hoped to begin this evening’s tête-à-tête.

‘So, Mr Cranley. You want to talk.’

Tati came downstairs in a pair of chocolate brown corduroy trousers and an old, sludge-green sweater that looked bizarrely good on her. She was barefoot, her wet hair pulled back in a messy bun, and hadn’t bothered to put on make-up. It was a look that told Brett very clearly, ‘You are not important to me.’ A second jolt of desire surged through him, like the aftershock of a major earthquake.

‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘I apologize for startling you earlier. It was stupid of me to barge in on you like that.’

‘Yes, it was. Not to mention illegal. But perhaps they don’t have breaking and entering in Australia? I daresay in a nation descended from convicts, one shouldn’t be surprised.’