Beware of the Beast (3 page)

Even so, she could not bear to think of what her father's
erstwhile colleagues would say if they ever discovered to what
depths he had sunk. Something, some inner sense of pride,
made her flinch from their hidden laughter, from the pitying
sympathy which would be hers if ever this got out. So - if
she went through with this, she would be doing it for herself, and not for her father, she thought bitterly. Was Alex Faulk
ner so astute? How cynical was his assessment of his fellow man?

One of the capsules, which the doctor had given her to help
her to sleep immediately after her father's death, brought
oblivion towards dawn, and she awoke feeling headachy, and with a nasty taste in her mouth, around noon. At first,
she couldn't imagine why she should have slept so late, and
then the remembrance of the previous day and night's events came back to her, and she rolled over to bury her face in the
pillow. If only she could just bury Alex Faulkner, she thought
violently, and then kicking off the covers, she got up.

When she came downstairs about a quarter of an hour later,
slim and pale in mud-
coloured
levis and a green tee-shirt, her
silky hair gathered back with a leather hair-slide, she found
Laura Winters, their daily, busily slicing vegetables into a
saucepan. Laura was a West Indian woman in her thirties,
divorced now, with two young children of her own to sup
port. She occupied a flat in a block just round the corner from
Glebe Square, and had
been
 
working
for the
Mortimers
for
the past five years. She looked relieved when she saw Char
lotte, although she noticed the dark rings around the girl's
eyes with some concern.
    
..

"I was beginning to wonder if I should wake you, Char
ley," she said, shaking her head. "
You been
staying out
late?"

Charlotte shook her head. "No. I didn't sleep well, Laura.
You okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I've got young Jessie off school with a
stomach ache, but she'll be all right. Been eating too many of
them plums, that's all. That tree in the garden has been full
this year. I must have made more than fifteen pounds of
jam."

Charlotte bit her lip. Her father used to love Laura's
M home-made jam. Going to the steel sink, she ran herself a glass of water and sipped it slowly, watching Laura's deft
hands as she dealt with the onions and carrots. Then she said:
''
"Have there been - any calls for me?"

Laura frowned. "Sure, and I was forgetting." Charlotte
tensed. "That lady you
was
working for called." Charlotte relaxed again. "She said to tell you she doesn't get half the
young men coming into the shop she used to do."

Charlotte acknowledged this with a slight smile, and
Laura went on: "What's up with you? You're looking awfully
pale. Not still grieving over your pa, are you? It don't do
no
good. He's gone.
life
goes on.
just
pull yourself to
gether, Charley."

Charlotte put down her glass. "I — I may be going away,
Laura," she said slowly.

"Going away?" Laura looked astounded. "Where would you be going?"

"I - don't know.
Greece, maybe."
   

"Greece. And who do you know in Greece?" Laura
looked
sceptical
.

"I don't know where I'm going yet," retorted Charlotte
sharply. Then: "I'm sorry, Laura, but I just may have to."

Laura frowned over her task. "There's more to this than you're telling me. Are you sure you're telling me the truth? About last night, I mean. You've not gone and got yourself mixed up with some man, have you?"

Charlotte stifled
an
hysterical giggle. If Laura only knew I
Shaking her head, she walked to the kitchen door. "Don't
do much lunch for me, Laura," she said, opening it. "I'm not
really very hungry."

Leaving the older woman to her speculations, Charlotte
walked across the hall and into the comfortable lounge
which overlooked the garden at the back of the house. It was
unusual to have a large garden in London, but it had been
one of the things her mother had most loved about the house.
She had been a keen gardener, most content tending her
plants and weeding the flower beds. Some of Charlotte's
clearest memories were of her mother teaching her small
daughter the names of some of the plants and how to look
after them. Then Charlotte had gone away to school and soon
afterwards her mother had died. Her father had told her that
her mother's heart had never been strong, and a severe attack
of bronchitis had proved fatal.

Now Charlotte opened the
french
doors and stepped out
on to the paved patio. They had a man who tended the garden
these days, and it was pleasant to come out here on a hot day
and sit in the shade of the fruit trees. Not that she would be
able to do this much longer, she thought with sudden
depression'. Whatever happened, the house would have to be sold. Besides, it was getting quite chilly out here. September
was bringing mists and cool breezes, and the
smouldering
scent of burning leaves drifted from the garden next door.

Charlotte had bent down to examine a particularly large
beetle which had somehow wedged itself between two of
the paving stones when the doorbell rang. Expecting it to be
a tradesman, Charlotte made no move to answer it, but then
she heard footsteps behind her, and glancing over her shoulder
she found a rather agitated Laura stepping out of the
french
doors.

"It's a man," she told the girl in a low voice, and Char
lotte got jerkily to her feet.

"A man?"

"Yes. I've never seen him before, but he insists you'll know
who he is. I didn't know what to do, so I've left him waiting
in the hall. He says his name's Faulk - Faulkner? Is that
right?"

CHAPTER TWO

A
wave
of blind panic swept over Charlotte at these words.
"Faulkner? Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be."
Laura looked at her curiously. "Why? Who is he? He came in a big black limousine.
Seems like he's
not short of money."
She paused. "Don't you want to see
him?"

Charlotte passed a dazed hand over her forehead.
Did
sht
want to see him?
Yes. But not like this. Not so - precipitately.
Was that why he had come?
The element of surprise to add to his attack?

"I - yes, I want to see him, Laura." Charlotte glanced down
frustratedly
at her jeans and tee-shirt. If he was standing in the
hall, she could not pass him to get changed. "
Mmm
- show
him into Daddy's study - well,
the
study, anyway. I must
get changed. I can't see anyone like this!"

"Why not?"

The deep male voice so unexpectedly behind them startled
both women, and Laura's huge brown eyes widened in dis
may. For Charlotte, it was a moment of complete imbalance,
and she stared at the man confronting her with almost
childish indignation. The words
"How dare you?
formed
and
disintegrated without being spoken as her astonishment at
his audacity gave way to a sense of shock. If this was Alex
Faulkner, he bore no slight resemblance to the man whose image she had created.

Her imagination had conceived an obese, repugnant
individual, his body bearing witness to the excesses in which he indulged. A man whose appearance repelled those women
he would want to attract, and who had to resort to blackmail
to get
himself
a wife. The reality came almost as a relief.

This man was tall, more than six feet, she guessed, with a
broad muscular frame. His skin was darker than was normal
for an Englishman, and she wondered if there was some
Greek blood there somewhere. Straight dark hair lay thickly against his scalp.
He was not handsome, but his hard features did have a
certain attraction. He was immaculately dressed for the city in a dark blue pinstripe suit, the jacket unfastened to reveal the matching waistcoat beneath, the pants
moulding
the powerful muscles of his thighs.

In those first few seconds, Charlotte found disbelief uppermost in her thoughts. This could not be Alex Faulkner, could
h? No man who looked like he did, who had such superb
s-
eif
-confidence, whose eyes seemed to penetrate to the very
core of her being, could seriously consider buying himself a
wife.
Could he?

Gathering herself with difficulty, she realized he was waiting
for her to speak. Laura, too, was watching her strangely,
and Charlotte felt the hot
colour
running up her throat to her
face. Oh, yes, she decided, with sudden insight. This
was
Alex Faulkner. This was exactly the sort of thing he would
do to disconcert her.

"I - you are -
Mr.
Faulkner?" she enquired coolly.

"That's right." His eyes assessed her insolently. "And you
must be Charlotte."

Charlotte!
Charlotte's indignation hardened. For a few moments she had allowed his appearance to disconcert her,
and now he thought he had the upper hand. Well, he was w
rong! This was still the man who had forced her father to
sign that contract, still the man who had driven her father
to his
death !
Bitterness surged inside her.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Faulkner?" she demanded.

"An unnecessary question, don't you think? As you asked to see me," he returned smoothly. Then he looked at Laura.
"You can go. I want to talk to Miss Mortimer alone."

"I'll dismiss Laura, as and when I choose," exclaimed

Charlotte angrily, putting a detaining hand on the older
woman's arm.

He inclined his head. "If you wish to discuss our
affaii
in front of your housekeeper, that's all right with me. How
ever, don't you think she might find it rather embarrassing?"

Charlotte pressed her lips
frustratedly
together. Then she
gave a helpless little shake of her head. "All right, Laura," she
said, her hand falling to her side. "Thank you."

Laura moved reluctantly towards the
french
doors, glancing
back doubtfully, and following her Alex Faulkner said: "You
can fetch us some coffee - Laura, isn't it? Then you can
reassure yourself that I'm not a rapist - or worse."

Laura's mouth opened in a gasp, but she said nothing, and
Charlotte indicated that she should do as she had been asked.
Then they were alone, and her heart refused to slow its
exhausting pace.

Alex Faulkner turned and looked at her, then he gestured
towards the
french
doors. "Shall we go inside?" he suggested
coolly. "I would not expect you to want our conversation to
be overheard."