When the Devil Drives (8 page)

She'd been so frightened. She'd cowered in the back seat beside her

father, holding his arm, listening to the jeering and catcalls and the

thudding of missiles against the side of the car.

'Who are they, Daddy?' she'd wailed.

'They're local scum, my pet, not worth your notice,' Anthony

Chalfont had said scornfully. 'Sit up, Joanna, and show them you're

not afraid. Harris, hurry up and get us out of here.'

She'd been scared half to death, but she'd obeyed him, lifting her chin

and staring disdainfully at the gang of youths at the side of the road. It

was then she'd seen him.

He was taller than any of the others, and standing a little way apart.

He was wearing the same anonymous jeans and sweater, yet there

was something about him that told her that he was different. That he

was the leader, and always would be.

He was smiling, openly enjoying their discomfiture, as the chauffeur,

cursing under his breath, edged the big car along the narrow street. He

saw Joanna and laughed out loud, pointing at her, and calling out

something to the others.

Thick mud splattered the window beside her, and Joanna cried out

and jerked away.

'It's all right, sweetie,' her father said gently, as the car gathered speed

out of Northwaite. 'They've gone.'

'They're vile!' she said passionately, looking at the mud dripping

down the window. 'They've spoiled our car. And that big boy was the

worst. He was laughing, making them do it. Who was he?'Her father's

mouth compressed. 'I've no idea, Joanna,' he said repressively. 'I can't

be expected to know the identity of louts from the slums.'

Some instinct told her that he was not telling her the whole truth, but

now was not the time to pursue it. Instead, she bearded Harris while

he was cleaning the motor which was his pride and joy.

'Is the car going to be all right, Harris?'

'Reckon it will, Miss Jo. No great harm done.'

'That's good.' She stood watching him polishing the chrome. 'Why did

they do it, do you suppose? We didn't even know them.'

Harris shrugged. 'Times are hard just now, Miss Jo, and tempers run

high sometimes.'

'Oh.' Joanna wasn't sure what he meant, but there was something

more important she wanted to ask. 'Harris—that boy—the one who

was making the others throw stones at us. Who was he? My father

said he didn't know.'

'Happen he didn't recognise him, Miss Jo,' Harris said laconically.

'He's been away to school and grown a fair bit since your father last

laid eyes on him.' He snorted. 'That was Cal Blackstone, that was.'

Now, nearly fifteen years on, Cal Blackstone said frowningly, 'If

you're going to remember things like that, remember them right. They

weren't throwing stones, you little idiot, just clods of earth, and the

odd empty can.'

'But you were encouraging that pack of hooligans in their disgusting

behaviour. Getting them to throw things at us just because our name

was Chalfont.'

'Is that what your father told you?' His mouth tautened

contemptuously. 'Well, it figures. Let me make one thing plain,

Joanna—any mud-slinging going on wasn't my idea. Although I will

admit I did nothing to stop it until I saw how scared you were,' he

added.

'You were directing operations—laughing at us!'

'My God,' he said slowly, staring at her, 'it did make an impression on

you. Yes, I laughed. I enjoyed seeing the lordly Mr Chalfont on the

receiving end of some dirt for once. Do you know who those lads

were, by any chance? Did Daddy tell you they were the sons of some

of the men he'd just laid off from his mill without warning? I bet he

didn't.' His voice hardened. 'They'd all lived with unemployment

before, and they were—reacting accordingly. You wouldn't

understand anything about that, would you, Joanna? Your family may

not be lords of the Northwaite valley any more, but you've never had

to stand in the queue for free school meals, or wear jumble sale

clothes. Or pray that the giro comes on time.'

Her face flamed. 'Don't you dare criticise my father! He did his best to

keep the mill going—to provide work. Men were laid off in other

places as well.'

He shrugged. 'But he couldn't understand that times were changing,

or change with them. In the woollen industry, only the strong and

adaptable survive. But I don't blame him entirely. Your grandfather's

interpretation of strength was pig-headedness and bullying, so by the

time your father took over it was too late.'

'You don't need to make excuses for him or any member of my

family,' she said bitingly.

'I'd find it hard in Simon's case, certainly.'

'You have the arrogance—the unmitigated gall to say that? Simon

wouldn't be in all this financial mess if it weren't for you. You led him

into it deliberately!'

He stared at her incredulously for a moment, then burst out laughing.

'Now I've heard everything! Let me tell you something, beauty.

Where temptation's concerned, your brother needs no leading. I first

barred him from using the casino several years ago because I could

see he was going to be trouble, and I had the feeling I would be

blamed for it somehow. Nor did I take him by the hand and introduce

him to his bookmaker either. He managed that all by himself.'

He shook his head. 'No, Joanna, if you think Simon's problems are

down to some deep Machiavellian plotting by me in order to get my

hands on your delectable body, then you flatter yourself. The

circumstances were there, and I decided to turn them to my

advantage, that's all.'

'All?' she said chokingly. 'My God—all!'

'What was I supposed to do? Ring you and ask for a date? You'd have

hung up on me. Send you flowers? They'd have gone straight in the

bin. Come calling on you to the house? You'd have told whatever

servants you have left to throw me out.'

'You had another choice. You could have left me alone.'

'I tried that, beauty, while you were married, and when you ran away

to America. It didn't work.' He poured out some more coffee and

handed her cup to her. 'Now drink this. Can I offer you a brandy?'

Joanna shook her head silently, numbly, staring down at the swirl of

brown liquid. Cal finished his own cup, then sat back in the corner of

the sofa, watching her, his fingers laced behind his head. He'd

discarded his jacket and unbuttoned the waistcoat he wore beneath it.

He looked relaxed, but Joanna, herself taut as a coiled spring, could

sense the tension emanating from him.

She made the coffee last, drinking it down to the last drop and

beyond, playing for time. As she leaned forward to replace the empty

cup on the tray, Cal's hand closed round her wrist. She sat motionless,

not looking at him, as his fingers stroked across the swelling mound

at the base of her thumb, then found the indentation of her soft palm,

and lingered.

It was the lightest of caresses, but she was as sharply aware of it as if

he'd kissed her on the mouth, or taken her breasts in his hands.

To her astonishment, she could feel some of her nervousness

beginning to ebb away under the gentleness of his touch.

She had fastened her hair up into a loose knot on top of her head, and

he reached up and began to take out the pins, very slowly and

carefully, until the whole shining mass was loose on her shoulders.

'Shake your head,' he directed softly, and she obeyed mutely.

Cal gave a low sigh of appreciation, twining a long blonde strand

round his fingers and carrying it to his lips.

'You don't have it cut,' he murmured. 'Not ever.'

She should have resented the proprietorial note in his voice, but oddly

it didn't seem to matter in this strange new euphoria which was

possessing her. This isn't me, she found herself thinking. This can't be

happening. Yet she didn't have the energy or the will to pull away

from him.

His hand slid under her hair, lifting it away from the nape of her neck,

and caressing the smooth skin there in a delicate circular movement.

It was her turn to sigh, arching her throat in a pleasure she couldn't

disguise. She felt weak, boneless, as languorous as a small kitten. The

cushions that supported her were clouds, and she was floating above

them.

Cal's fingers were still continuing their delicious massage, but

physically he seemed to have withdrawn to some great distance. She

stared at him, trying to focus.

'How do you do that?' she asked, her voice slurring a little. 'How can

you be so near, and miles away at the same time?'

'Is that how I seem?' She could tell he was smiling. 'I think, beauty,

it's time you went to bed.'

'Yes.' She let him take her hand and draw her, unresisting, to her feet.

His arm was round her, and she was glad to lean against him as she

walked, because the carpet was so thick, she was in danger of sinking

down into it.

She was vaguely aware of another room, and a door closing behind

her. More lamplight, and a blur of rust, royal blue and gold which,

when she peered more closely from beneath her leaden eyelids,

turned out to be an enormous bed.

'A king-size bed.' Her voice sounded wondering and far away. 'I've

never seen one before. Now that is
nouveau riche.'

'Think so?' He was laughing. 'It's also very convenient for times like

this.'

She felt him drawing down the long zip at the back of her dress, and

couldn't lift a finger to stop him. A fate worse than death, she thought

dazedly. That was what they called what was happening to her, and

she was allowing it. Cal eased the dress from her shoulders, and she

felt the silky material glide down and pool round her feet.

He lifted her and carried her, and she turned into his arms like a child,

feeling the thud of his heart beneath her cheek. The bed was a cloud,

too, even softer than the sofa, and she sank into it gratefully,

eyelashes curling on her cheeks.

She could dimly sense his shadow, standing over her. There was

something she had to tell him, she thought, trying to grope her way

back to awareness from her state of drifting lassitude. Something

important that she needed to explain, to warn him about, but there

were so many shadows now that she couldn't tell which was

his—couldn't find him.

She lifted a wavering hand, while her lips attempted to frame his

name.

Cal, she thought, Cal. I've never called him that.

She tried desperately to speak the word, but the shadows were too

strong, too powerful, and they reached for her, overwhelming her,

drawing her down into their midst, where she was lost.

JOANNA awoke from sleep slowly, like a swimmer surfacing from the

depths of some vast and limitless sea. For a few moments she

remained exactly where she was, supine and relaxedt enjoying the

warmth of the morning sunlight against her still-leaden eyelids.

She could remember vague untroubled dreams that seemed to have

left her totally at peace, yet at the same time she was aware of sounds,

ordinary in themselves—the splash of running water into a basin, a

muted but cheerful whistling—that nevertheless introduced an alien

note into the normal, familiar pattern of her awakening.

She made herself open her eyes. She took one dazed look at her

surroundings, and sat up with a smothered cry as memory came

flooding back, reminding her in grisly detail exactly where she was,

and why.

The next thing she realised was that, apart from her dress, hanging

neatly on the back of a convenient chair, she was still fully clad. And

under the circumstances that seemed odd, unless Cal Blackstone had

relented...

She turned slowly and reluctantly, and stared down at the pillow

beside her. It bore the unmistakable impress of a head, so it was

apparent she hadn't slept alone last night.

But what on earth happened? she asked herself frantically. She could

remember feeling sleepy, and being carried, but after that—nothing.

A great, dreaming void, she realised in panic.

She threw back the quilt and swung her legs to the floor, pausing as a

slight wave of dizziness overtook her. She put a hand to her head, and

waited for it to pass. Maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe she'd

been taken ill with some virus.

She stood up gingerly. A man's robe in dark brown silk had been

draped across the foot of the bed, presumably for her use. She put it

on, fastening the sash with fingers that totally lacked their usual

deftness. As she bent her head impatiently to enforce their obedience,

she caught the whisper of a familiar and evocative scent from the