Unguarded Moment (7 page)

Alix felt as if she had been turned to stone. She stared at Liam Brant as if he was a mirage that would mercifully fade, but he clearly had no such intention. He moved, rose to his feet and smiled at her. 'An unexpected pleasure, Miss Coulter,' he said. 'Did you enjoy the play?'

She knew what he had done. He had deliberately used the ticket as bait in order to get her out of the way for the evening. He knew when he left the restaurant that she wouldn't be able to resist the temptation, and he had probably come straight here. But how on earth had he managed to be admitted to the house? How could he possibly be comfortably ensconced in Bianca's drawing room after everything she had said?

Unless, of course, she didn't know who he was.

She said, 'Unexpected, certainly, but a doubtful pleasure. Who let you in here?'

'Alix dear!' Bianca had also risen. She was smiling, but there was an underlying bite in her voice. 'I allow you a lot of leeway because of our relationship, but you really mustn't be rude to my guests.'

Alix exhaled sharply. 'You do realise who this is?'

'Of course,' Bianca shrugged. She turned to Liam, the smile widening. 'Alix is inclined to be a wee bit over-protective, so you must forgive her. She doesn't approve of anyone wanting to write the story of my life, and she's a little wary of the media in general at the moment.' The smile became intimate and a little rueful. 'Poor darling Alix is nursing a bruised heart, I'm afraid.'

She thought she would die of humiliation. She wanted to scream, 'It's not true! None of it's true,' but she remained silent.

Liam said with a trace of unholy laughter in his voice, 'Then her rather jaundiced attitude becomes altogether more understandable. As a matter of fact, Miss Coulter, it was you I called to see. I was on my way back to my flat when I realised I'd picked up a parcel of yours by mistake. I thought I'd better return it at once before you missed it and became worried.'

She recognised .the package he had picked up from the sofa beside him. It was the book Gemma had lent her. One of his books.

She said, 'You really shouldn't have bothered, Mr Brant. It wasn't important.'

His mouth twisted mockingly. 'Perhaps the library might not agree with you. Anyway, Miss Layton and I encountered each other on the steps, and she was charming enough to agree to talk to me. I've been trying to convince her that I'm not as black as perhaps I've been painted.'

Oh, you've convinced her all right, Alix thought, seething. All that and more.

She knew the signs of old—the shaded lamps, the Harrises dismissed for the night to their own quarters, the clinging velvet gown—and the way Bianca was letting her eyes linger, meeting his gaze as if they were the only two people in the room, resting with unspoken appreciation on the width of his shoulders beneath the expensive wool jacket, the way his close-fitting pants clung to his hips.

It wasn't for real, of course, Alix thought cynically. Not on a first encounter. Bianca was just gently indicating the possibilities—making sure that he would return, a fly to her honeytrap.

He wasn't dazzled, as Peter had been, but then he was older than Peter—mid-thirties, she supposed—and infinitely more sophisticated.

If he decided to accept Bianca's delicately proffered invitation then it would be on his own terms, and she wondered if Bianca realised this.

And why should she care, anyway? she thought with a rush of irritation. Bianca was old enough and certainly experienced enough to look after herself. While she, Alix, wasn't experienced at all, which made her concern totally laughable.

She took the book from Liam Brant, thanking him coolly through compressed lips. It was galling to realise from his remark about the library that he knew exactly what the package contained, and was amused by it. He must have picked it up as he was leaving the table simply to provide himself with an excuse for calling back at the house.

It would have served him right, she thought savagely, if I'd been here after all, and answered the door, and put an end to all his wheeling and dealing. But of course, I wasn't here, and he knew that I wouldn't be. Clever Mr Brant. First create your opportunity, then exploit it to the full.

And now he was leaving, taking Bianca's hand with charming deference, and lifting her fingers lightly to his lips, while his eyes lingered on her mouth with unmistakable significance.

'Alix will show you out,' Bianca was saying. 'You two have simply got to be friends. Goodnight, Liam.
A bient
ô
t
.'

Her smile seemed to indicate both regret and a promise, calculated to a nicety. It didn't really matter whether she was playing to the camera or a man, Alix thought wearily. She applied the same art and dedication to either situation.

She led the way out of the drawing room in silence and walked across the hall to the front door.

He said softly, 'Well, secretary bird, why don't you call me some of the unladylike names which are no doubt hovering on your extremely ladylike lips?'

'Situations change, Mr Brant, and I have to change with them.' She kept her voice even. 'This morning you
were persona non grata
. Tonight you're the flavour of the month. Congratulations.'

'Everybody's choice but yours, poor darling Alix.' He put out a hand and lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. 'As we seem destined to spend a considerable amount of time around each other, shall we declare a truce? There's little point in waging a war you can't win, particularly when the general has deserted you.'

'Please don't celebrate your victory too soon,' she said icily. 'It may not be a lasting one. Don't run away with the idea that Bianca is a pushover, because she isn't.'

'She's certainly right about your over-protectiveness,' he said drily. 'As a matter of fact it's none of your business. Your beautiful relative and I are both consenting adults and free to come to whatever arrangement seems best to us.'

'You believe in being frank.' Alix was annoyed to feel the colour rising in her cheeks.

'And you don't? You couldn't have been more disapproving if you'd caught us in bed together.'

'Then I must apologise. As you say, it's none of my business.' Her voice sounded colourless. 'Perhaps you'd excuse me now. It's been a long day.'

'The first of many, I suspect,' he said coolly. 'Goodnight, poor darling Alix. Sleep well.'

She closed the door behind him, locked it, fastened the bolts, and attached the chain, moving like an automaton.

When she got up to her room, she was shivering. She took off the despised trench coat and let it drop to the floor. Then she took along, level look at herself in the mirror. There she was—'poor darling Alix', someone to be pitied in an amused way, then shrugged aside and disregarded. Muted, dull and drab, in her very ordinary dress.

She unfastened her hair and shook it loose around her shoulders. Better, but not much, she thought. The dress was to blame, of course. Basically, it was shape-less—or at least its shape didn't conform to hers in the ways which mattered. The colour too was wrong for her skin tone.

She began to take it off, tugging so sharply at the buttons that at last one of them tore away. She went on staring at herself, aware of air odd satisfaction. She slipped her finger experimentally into the rent in the material and widened it, then pulled with both hands. The bodice split irrevocably, down to the waistline, and beyond.

Alix said grimly, 'So that's the end of you.' She stepped out of the remains, and kicked them away from her. She gave a sudden giggle, then clapped her hands over her mouth.

What was happening to her? she asked almost despairingly. What on earth was she doing, standing around in her bra and half-slip laughing like an idiot because she'd just torn an expensive dress almost to shreds?

And why had she done such a crazy thing? Because a man she didn't even like had looked at her and found her lacking in sex appeal, had criticised her appearance.

'Oh God,' she whispered, her mouth trembling. Only twenty-four hours ago she had been on her way home from Rhodes, rested, relaxed and prepared to take up her life again on the terms offered. Now there seemed endless confusion within her.

She bent and picked up the torn dress, throwing it across the bed. Then once again she looked at herself in the mirror, examining herself half fearfully as if she had undergone some sea change.

The curtains were drawn across the window, and only one lamp—a cream-shaded one by the side of the bed— was lit. She stood in the shadows, her dark hair tangling on her shoulders, the crisp, lacey lines of the half-cup bra emphasising the curve of her small breasts.

As if she was a puppet at the mercy of some unknown force manipulating the strings, she felt herself turn slightly, lifting her chin. Saw her lips curve and part, her eyes gleam with promise through her lowered lashes. Saw a total reflection of the image Bianca had projected only minutes before, all woman, all sensuous provocation. It was the look that had become her trademark. The look which made strong men buckle at the knees and cameras melt.

It was one of the clips they often played on the movie programmes—ranking with Lauren Bacall's famous 'You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve?' It had been imitated a hundred times with differing degrees of success.

And just for a moment—one tiny second out of the whirl of time—Alix hadn't recognised herself. For a moment she had looked into the mirror and seen Bianca.

She stepped back quickly, pushing her hair back from her face, picking up her flowered cotton housecoat and putting it on, tying the sash tight, with quick, nervous gestures. Dull but familiar, she thought. She was herself again, Alix, the efficient, obedient secretary, and that dark, unsuspected stranger who had surfaced just then could go back to whatever fantasy realm she inhabited, and stop rehearsing for a role she would never be called on to play.

She turned away from the mirror, moving towards the bed, then stopped suddenly. The confusion within her was fading, leaving a terrible aching clarity in its place. Why—now of all times—did she feel like this?

But she knew why. She thought of Bianca alone with Liam Brant and the inner pain gripped her again like a clenched fist.

She said aloud, 'No,' and again, 'Oh, no!' She must be going crazy. She'd been attracted before to men—of course she had. But instinct told her that what she felt now went deeper by far than mere attraction. She was experiencing desire for the first time in her life. Desire for a man whose sole interest in her had been as a stepping stone by which he might reach Bianca. A man whom Bianca had already marked down as her own.

Alix sank down on the edge of the bed with a little groan. As the shadows seemed to close in around her, she thought, 'What am I going to
do
?'

She hadn't slept, but her Greek tan, coupled with the careful application of make-up, disguised the telltale marks. Now as she made her way along the corridor to Bianca's room, she was mentally rehearsing what she had to say.

She had dressed to give herself courage in some of her holiday gear, a short-sleeved, scoop-necked green top, and a matching button-through skirt. She had brushed her dark hair back from her face, but left it loose.

Bianca's sitting room and bedroom were both deserted, as they usually were at that time of the morning. Alix walked across the bedroom to the door in the corner, half hidden by a looped curtain of rose silk.

The room beyond was where Bianca got down to the real business of making herself ready for the day ahead. It had once been an ordinary dressing room, but imagination and unlimited resources had transformed it into something between a gymnasium and a beauty parlour. There was a sauna with an adjacent shower cubicle tiled in aquamarine, while an archway led into a bathroom with a circular sunken bath in the middle. There were exercise machines, and a multitude of beauty aids lined up on the wall-length vanitory unit, topped by carefully lit mirrors.

In the middle of all this was a high couch, and here Bianca lay discreetly covered by towels while Monty in a crisp white overall gave her her morning massage.

She looked up at Alix and smiled lazily. 'Good morning, sweetie.' Then as her eyes fell on the single envelope in Alix's hand. 'My God, surely that isn't all the mail?'

'I haven't been down to the office yet,' Alix retraced.

'I see.' The smile faded as Bianca studied her for a moment, her eyes taking in the casual clothes, the smooth tan of her bare legs. 'You seem to have decided to carry on with your holiday for a few days.'

'You could say that,' Alix said calmly. 'Actually I'm here to hand in my notice. I'd like to leave as soon as possible.'

There was an electric silence. Monty's busy hands stopped suddenly and Bianca levered herself upwards, staring at Alix increduously.

'This is far too early in the morning for jokes, Alix. What's the matter with you?'

'I'm not joking.' Alix placed the envelope down on the vanitory unit. 'I've put it in writing.'

'I don't care whether you've put it in Cyrillic script,' Bianca snapped. Her face was flushed. 'Don't be such a fool! You can't possibly want to leave. You've no reason—no reason at all.'

Alix looked at her steadily. 'None?'

Bianca had the grace to look faintly guilty. 'Are you upset about last night? You've no need to be. I had to say what I did. I thought you'd understand.'

'
You've always understood before
,' hovered unspoken in the air between them. And so she had. Part of her job had been to allow herself to be used in whatever ploy Bianca was engaged in. But she wasn't the same person any more.

She shrugged. 'It's only partly that. The fact is I can't come to terms with the fact that you've changed your mind over the book again. I think it's a bad move on your part, and that Liam Brant is a dangerous man. I can't guarantee the kind of co-operation over the project that you'd expect, so it's best if I leave.'

'That's a rather extreme reaction,' Bianca said, sounding a little amused. 'But there's no need to be a martyr. There isn't going to be any book—at least, there won't be for some time to come. We're going to Italy.'