The Deception Trap Page 3

  He was stropping a towel back and forth across his shoulders when he noticed her. Without embarrassment he flicked the lime-green cloth lower, wrapping it about his waist. Teressa turned scarlet and fled down the stairs, hearing him say something but not waiting for it. Of all the stupid reactions! she chided herself as she made her way more calmly to the modern extension. Anyone would think she really was as shy and gauche as she was pretending to be.

  The extended wing contained a study. A large desk spanned a book-lined corner and the side wall was sheer glass giving out on to a view of the inlet where the surf rushed untamed over the jutting land, then flowed inside the narrow opening. She could see why it was named Deception; once in, the sea water was virtually locked into a tiny lake. Ripples ran across it, rocking the craft moored by a pier, and a sandy beach curved away, engraved with the arcs of high tides and hemmed in by grass-tufted hillocks, dunes and ti-tree. She heard a sound on the stairs and shot out to hover at their base-the picture, she hoped, of an earnest but colourless housemaid.

  But she made the mistake of looking up as he lightly dropped down the last few steps. Ashe strapped his watch about his wrist as he came to a stop. Colour rushed again to her face. In tailored sports pants and a knit shirt he was vital and attractive. Naked, he’d looked like some carving of male perfection.

  ‘I should have closed the door, Teressa,’ he said unexpectedly. She’d rather thought he might chide her for being upstairs snooping about on her own. ‘But I hope you weren’t too embarrassed.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she mumbled, and kept her head down, wondering why on earth she was. Nudity was hardly a novelty.

  ‘After all, you’ve been brought up with brothers.’

  Her head came up, eyes wide and startled. ‘Brothers ? ’

  Ashe blinked. His eyes wandered over her face. ‘Didn’t your mother tell me she had sons? One is away somewhere, I believe.’ Now was the time to tell him that Thelma Richards wasn’t her mother. But she was unnerved again by those intent topaz eyes.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she gave a weak smile. ‘But it’s not the same.’

  ‘No, I daresay it isn’t,’ he said, amused. ‘Come, I’ll show you where to find everything.’ He led the way to a large cupboard, opening a couple of doors to display towels and bed-linen. ‘You might tidy my bedroom and then make up the guest beds using the colours that match each room. Understand?’ He looked dubiously at her.

  Teressa dropped her head to hide her flaring nostrils. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said meekly.

  He heaved a sigh and strode on to the kitchen. As she followed, Teressa speculated on what he did to maintain his muscular leanness. He must spend most of his time at a desk, but he looked very fit. And very tanned―all over. Did he sunbathe nude?

  ‘… you won’t have to cook. But you already know that. The food will be delivered from a restaurant tonight and tomorrow night. Just serve it on this trolley and make coffee afterwards. . . are you listening, Teressa?’

  She looked up unwarily, picturing the managing director of Warlord stretched out on the sand or in a solarium. His pause was infinitesimal before he turned away and explained the kitchen’s equipment, were and how he wanted tonight’s meal served.

  ‘You do know how to serve dinner, I hope?’

  ‘ I think so, sir.’

  As he ran a hand through his damp hair. ‘Damn it! The whole thing could turn out a fiasco’ he muttered to himself. ‘Fix up the bedrooms, Teressa. Somehow, I suppose ,we’ll get through the meals.’ He went out patting her shoulder as he passed. It infuriated her ,even though she admitted she was playing a ‘pattable ’part.

  She worked at the bedrooms, tempted to mix up the sheets and covers in a scandalous mismatch of colour but finished them properly. In the master bedroom she re-made the rumpled bed and plumped up the pillows one of which smelled of Ashe. Just for a few second she held it near her face, surprised to discover just how strongly she identified him already with the tangy scent. Hurriedly she tossed the pillow down and it bounced so that she had to stretch across the bed to retrieve it.

  ‘Not lying down on the job so soon, Teressa?’

  She snatched the pillow and stood up, smoothing down her skirt that had ridden up in her awkward position.

  ‘No, sir.’

  Ashe raised thoughtful eyes from her legs, then went across to a bureau to rustle through some papers.

  Teressa tucked the coverlet over the pillows, picked up the wet swim-trunks and shirt and soft-footed to the door.

  ‘Towels’ he reminded her without looking up, and pointed to the adjoining bath suite. ‘In the bathroom.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she chanted. Arrogant devil! The bathroom was redolent with soap and aftershave―a concentrated version of his pillow’s scent. Teressa gathered up the towels from the damp floor. Her heel slipped and she gave a small scream as her legs went in separate directions.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ He was in the doorway, a sheaf of papers in one hand. As Teressa grasped a towel rail to pull herself up, he came in and gripped her elbow, lifting her to her feet in one careless, powerful movement.

  ‘Not accident-prone, are you, Teressa?’ he said with a slight smile as he steadied her. But he sobered as she clutched the towels and inched away from him. ‘You will be careful when you’re serving dinner tonight, won’t you?’ he added with a barely repressed shudder.

  Nodding, she dashed away: somewhat restored by his anxiety. Maybe he was imaginnig Primac falling victim to a runaway gourmet trolley or his girl-friend with seafood in her lap.

  When she’d found a dryer for the damp clothes, Teressa went along to his study to seek further instructions. As she reached the door, Ashe’s deep voice came clearly.

  ‘Can you suggest anyone else?’ Pause. ‘I need someone for tonight—’ Pause. ‘No, just a dinner party for six. Let me know if you find someone.’

  The phone was restored to its rest with a discouraged clatter and Teressa hurried to the kitchen. She’d overdone the moron bit; he was trying to find a replacement for her. It could be a blessing, to be sent home before she could get herself into trouble. Teressa dismissed the craven thought. What could happen?

  Somehow she would get around that unfortunate slip with her name. No, she didn’t want to be thrown out, not before she had met his distinguished guests and experimented with a spanner. Time to inspire a little confidence in Mr Warwick. Setting a small tray, she made some coffee and took it to the study. He was standing at the window when she went in.

  ‘Coffee, Mr Warwick?’

  He turned at that. ‘Thanks. On the desk, Teressa.’

  ‘Shall I pour it for you?’ She ground her teeth and managed to sound subservient.

  He nodded and came to sit in the chair behind the desk, putting on his silver-rimmed glasses. As he rummaged in one of the drawers he said, ‘Coffee is just what I need, Teressa. Are you reading my mind?’

  There was an indulgent note in his voice as if he were talking to some poor well-intentioned dimwit.

  ‘Well now,’ she heard herself falling into Mrs Richards’ speech patterns, ‘it’s just that I’ve heard writers like coffee all day long, sir. But if you’d prefer a glass of milk just say–’

  ‘Milk?’ he repeated, looking at her in bafflement.

  Teressa looked sympathetic. ‘Oh―I thought maybe you had some stomach troubles―being a writer and a businessman as well.’

  ‘Ulcers?’ he smiled. ‘Not me. Not yet.’

  ‘Or dyspepsia?’ She tried hard to keep the hopeful note from her voice.

  ‘No, I’m glad to say,’ Ashe chuckled. Pity. His stomach was probably steel-lined like the rest of him.

  His topaz eyes focused on her headscarf, dropped to her face. ‘How did you know 1 write?’

  Don’t overdo it, she cautioned herself, and cast her eyes down. ‘I’ve read your novel Mr. Warwick―A Lonely Hunter.’

  ‘Oh?’ The deep voice changed. She heard it and smothered a laugh. Already his ego
was demanding a reappraisal of the slow-witted girl who had read his book. After all, such discernment must surely indicate intelligence, however latent.

  ‘Did you like it?’

  What he meant was ‘Did you understand it?’ she thought. A slight frown marred her brow. She tried to look striving but a bit dim. Just what he expected.

  ‘Well, yes, 1 did. Of course,’ she twisted her hands together, ‘I didn’t understand everything, but it was very—’ one hand went inarticulately to her heart, ‘I can’t think of how to describe it, but when Chapman made his choice between ambition and his family …’

  Ashe smiled directly at her and Teressa’s nerves jumped. His teeth showed, white and a fraction uneven, but he had a fantastic smile. She had forgotten how fantastic.

  ‘You seem to have got to the heart of the book, Teressa,’ was all he said, but she could see hope stirring in his eyes. Perhaps he hadn’t got a numbskull on his hands after all.

  Whatever he thought, he outlined enough work to keep the most capable, intelligent house help staggering all day. Flowers to be arranged in every room as soon as they arrived from the nearest florist at the village of Dundurra, towels and guest toiletries to be organised, the laundry to be readied should anyone require clothes cleaned or pressed tonight, trays, glasses to be polished―Teressa’s head reeled.

  ‘Bring me in something to eat at about one, Teressa, and I don t want any interruptions until then.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she dropped a curtsy while his head was turned away. He looked back and she lowered her eyes. Ashe gave a sigh.

  ‘Tonight is important, Teressa. Mr. Moore is a business client of mine and he’s bringing his daughter and two other men as guests. My sister is sailing down with them too.’ He paused. ‘Try not to shrink every time they speak to you, will you?’

  ‘I’ll try, Mr. Warwick,’ she nodded, head down to hide her anger at his tone.

  ‘Start now. Look at me when I’m talking to you for Pete’s sake!’

  She looked.

  ‘Don’t be shy, Teressa. No one will bite you.’ He studied her a moment longer, blinked a couple of times and picked up a pen. ‘You look quite pre- … a lot better with colour in your cheeks at any rate. Off you go.’ She went.

  The flowers arrived and Teressa enjoyed arranging them m the superb collection of vases, epergnes and bowls. It was a long time since she had had such magnificent blooms to work with. Old Mr. Snell, the gardener at Cliffe House, had always been able to produce carnations and roses, gypsophila, sweet peas and, in the spring, daffodils. Teressa slipped a long-stemmed pink rose into a vase and smiled. Yes―the daffodils. They had been planted under the poinciana tree and came up every year―an annual miracle she’d taken for granted along with so much else. If she’d known it was all coming to an end, she would have appreciated more fully, looked that bit longer at the last magic daffodil show.

  Teressa picked up another pink rose, absently twirling it: It was funny how some things made a vivid picture to take from child to adulthood. The daffodils, coin-bright beneath the poinciana’s spring bareness, were one. The tree itself, aflame with its flowers―the view from that spot to the front of the house … a wedding cake, Damien had affectionately called Cliffe House. Built in 1900 by one of the nouveau riche determined to spare no expense, it had the exotic elements of a dozen other styles overlaid on the classical. Moorish arches and triple light windows, pillars and mannerist pilasters and cast-iron lace. And a tower-a tall, Italianate tower with a mansard roof just to show that no style was to be left unacknowledged, and a tiny balcony at the top of its spiralling stairs. In her dreaming teens Teressa had often viewed the moon from the balcony of her tower. Pudgy and plain; she had leaned over the stone coping and wished to be slim and pretty.

  ‘Ouch!’ The rose thorns bit into her fingers. She put the bloom in the vase, reflecting that she should have worded her wish more specifically. She had never thought she would have to lose so much before it would be granted.

  At four Ashe stopped work, had another swim and changed to go to fetch his guests from the Dundurra Manna. He .entered the diningroom, looking casual an? eleg.ant In a ale tan silk shirt and a lightweight beige suit. The shirt lay open at his neck and Teressa caught the gleam of gold in his chest hair. Mrs Richards’ ‘real man’ wore jewellery after all. His keen topaz eyes ran over the table setting. Teressa was rather proud of it. The floral centrepiece was flanked with silver candlesticks, the glassware and silver cutlery winked and the snowy napkins fanned out in stiff folds.

  He was impressed. And surprised. His accident-prone waif had done something right. ‘Excellent Teressa. Have you done this before?’

  ‘No. But I got a book out of the library and looked up how to do it,’ she offered shyly. Heavens, she sounded moromic! Ashe shook his head and smiled. ‘You must be one of a kind Teressa’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll be back in an hour, I imagine. You re doing well.’ This was said with another pat on the shoulder, then he tugged at the scarf. Don’t wear this tonight, eh ?’

  Startled, she put a hand to her head and touched his hand. The tiny contact made her snatch away as if she ad brushed against a lit cigarette. His eyes narrowed at her reaction and he stood there a moment looking at her as if he would say something. He swayed closer, his nostrils distending briefly. Another few seconds of that odd regard then he spun away, his footsteps crisp on the hall floor as .he went out to the garages.

  Teressa pushed back the velvet curtains at the diningroom window, In the fading light she saw a burgundy Mercedes glide down the drive and turn into the lane. Those few seconds had disconcerted her … she sniffed at her wrist. Maybe he’d noticed her perfume. This afternoon, from sheer habit she had freshened up and dabbed on Ma Griffe and it had lingered―an out-of-character touch for shy Teressa from Universal. But later, when she had set out plates and utensils in the kitchen, the fading perfume washed away in the shower. Easy, Teressa thought, shaking on talcum powder. Now she not only looked ,but also smelled like a nice, simple girl. She avoided her eyes in the bathroom mirror.

  Her room was dark when she went back. The tree outside and its attendant shrubbery had collected great pools of shadow and clouds of tiny insects which milled about in the light of the garden lamp that had come on while she showered. She had left the french windows open and the contrast of the darkened room with the glow outside made her inexplicably nervous as she stood in the doorway. There was no sound, only the soughing of the big tree and the sigh of the breeze in the shrubbery and behind it all the hush, hush of the sea. In the hall there was a creak and she started. Just the contraction of timbers in the evening coolness. But a movement on her bed brought her gaze around again and her heart into her throat. With a jerk she reached for the light switch. Golden eyes stared at her. A long body reclined on the patchwork coverlet―a body tan and silver-beige…

  The cat’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. Teressa laughed, feeling a little foolish at her momentary panic.

  The animal stretched, sat in the sphinx position, its eyes fixed on her in feline guardedness as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Hello, intruder—’ In the soft fur at the cat’s neck, her fingers touched a tattered collar. Its name disc and its owner were long gone, it seemed. ‘You obviously don’t belong to the master, cat, even if you are lookalikes.’

  Lightly she ran her fingertips along the length of the warm back and her smile faded as the topaz eyes turned up to her. ‘If I believed in magic, cat, I’d think you were him in a different form. Same colour hair, same eyes … ‘ She got up suddenly and the cat stood as the bed bounced under him. ‘But you can’t stay here.’ Before she could reach him, he picked his way across the bed and leapt to the floor. He stalked to the open french windows, looked back at her a moment and then vanished into the shadows beyond the garden lamp-glow.

  Teressa was standing in the entry hall by the staircase when the guests straggled in, laughing and talking.
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  The men carried overnight bags, the two women small cosmetic cases. Ashe settled two leather hold-alls on the floor and cast an eye over Teressa. His mouth compressed a little as he noticed the change of scarf and the faded dowdiness of her pewter grey slacks and loose top. She wondered just why her appearance annoyed him so much, and almost laughed at the very different scene she could have created. In her bag with her bikini was a super dress of clinging pale pink and silver which she had packed with vague ideas of a transformation scene. What would his guests have thought if they’d arrived to find Ashe’s home help in a strapless dress and stiletto heels? The worst, possibly. Especially the blonde who was clinging to Ashe’s arm. She was svelte in trousers and nautical striped sweater and, though it was dark now, designer sunglasses perched on top of her hair.