The Deception Trap Page 6

  She nodded. ‘I left because he kept on—you know.’ Pathetic, she thought, trying not to laugh.

  ‘For God’s sake, Teressa, you’re twenty. How come you don’t have the faintest idea of how to look after yourself?’ His eyes lingered on her mouth. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘Don’t let that experience put you off.’

  She laughed. That’s not why 1 haven’t got a boyfriend.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  She ran a finger and thumb along the hem of her over-shirt. ‘Well, the last boy 1 went out with was a footballer.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘The conversation was a bit limited.’

  ‘Surely he didn’t waste time telling you the details of his matches?’

  ‘Not all the time,’ she admitted. ‘But a lot of Tony’s passes were with a football. 1 learned a lot from him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Teressa wrinkled her nose. ‘Not to date any more footballers. ‘

  Ashe chuckled. There was an arrested look in his eyes that rather pleased Teressa. But it was clear that he was imagining her footballer friend to be a callow youth more interested in sport than in girls; If he could only see Tony, she thought, suppressing a giggle.

  Good looks, muscle and all amorous determination when he wasn’t rearranging a dinner table to plotout his latest match strategy.

  ‘Did you play football, Mr. Warwick—when you were younger?’

  Wryly, he nodded. ‘I played several sports. These days 1 can still manage the odd game of tennis.’ He didn’t like being slotted into the next generation, she saw with some amusement.

  ‘Yes, Tony said he’ll probably take up tennis when he’s too old for football. Or golf, even.’

  Ashe leaned back on his elbows. Looking over at her, he murmured, ‘I can feel myself ageing by the minute. 1 hope 1can get to my feet unaided.’ He stood up experimentally, as if expecting his back to seize up.

  ‘Yep, there’s a few years in me yet.’

  She couldn’t help laughing. ‘Oh, 1didn’t mean—’

  ‘Don’t let it worry you, Teressa. The male ego is rather too sensitive.’ He grinned. ‘Remember that when you find a boyfriend you really want to keep.

  And remember we’re not all like Reg and your boss.’

  ‘Oh, 1 know. You’re not like that, Mr. Warwick.’

  His grin faded. ‘You think 1 don’t want to touch you, Teressa? Don’t give your trust too easily.’ His eyes skimmed her figure again. ‘And keep out of sight of Reg Stretton in that thing!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT was nearly three o’clock before Teressa went back to the house. Cloud had drifted across the sky and a stiff breeze lifted dry sand now and then into small flurries.

  The house was silent and empty and stayed that way. The leaves of the fig tree tossed outside her room as she sat down in an armchair with a book. She had prepared the kitchen and set the table for dinner, and there was nothing else to do until the guests came back. Once she walked outside and was surprised by the force of the salt wind on the veranda. The sky was darkening info a storm over the sea. There was a greenish-grey glow on the horizon and the surfs sound was carried before the wind in deafening waves.

  Teressa closed the french windows. She didn’t much care for storms, especially this close to the ocean. It seemed somehow more elemental.

  Five o’clock. Even allowing for a late, lingering lunch, it was time everyone returned. It began to rain-large, heavy drops that smacked down on to the stone veranda in a random tattoo before they came thick and close in a hollow roar that rivalled that of the sea. The sound of a door closing sharply, followed by footsteps, took her out of her bedroom, ready to face another evening with the beautiful people. But only Ashe was in the hall.

  His tan shirt was open almost to the waist. It was soaked and marked with grease, as were his slacks. A few spots of blood showed stark on a handkerchief wrapped about one hand.

  ‘Ashe—Mr Warwick—what happened?’ gasped Teressa.

  ‘Car trouble—fixed now. I phoned. Where the hell were you around four?’ His face was almost as thunderous as the sky, and Teressa was at a loss to understand why she should be the object of his anger.

  ‘In my room. I didn’t hear the phone—but it was very windy.’

  Abruptly he told her that the guests had left that afternoon.

  ‘All of them?’ she asked stupidly.

  ‘Yes, yes, all of them. I drove them to the yacht this afternoon. Of course I should have made the time to come down to the inlet and tell you then that you weren’t needed any more. In the normal course of things I would have been back in time to send you home. But the dammed car played up, you didn’t answer the phone and now … ‘ he looked out at the vile weather, ‘it’s too late for you to drive in those conditions. ‘

  Teressa stood beside him and stared out at the blackness.

  ‘Did they leave early to outrun this?’ They were here alone. Just her and Ashe.

  ‘Yes. Local storms were predicted and Wallace decided not to risk being stuck here another day. I would have kept Wendy here if I’d guessed…’ He was almost talking to himself, still standing at the window.

  ‘Will they get home all right?’ Just her and Ashe .

  ‘They’ll be well away from foul weather by now.’

  Briskly he went upstairs and came down again later, hair shower-damp. Scowlingly he found some plasters 10 the first aid box in the kitchen. ‘Come and have a drink, Teressa,’ he said, and she followed him to the billiardroom.

  ‘Put this on for me,’ he said, fumbling to apply a plaster to his hand.

  ‘How did you cut it?’

  ‘Trying to play mechanic,’ he snapped as she put the plaster over the cut on the heel of his hand. ‘Bloody Mercedes—it never breaks down. And today of all times—’ he muttered. Teressa glanced up. His topaz eyes were angry and slid away from hers. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and went to the bar to pour two drinks. He handed her one silently. It was a weak Pimm’s and she took it, wandering aimlessly to look at the big bi11iard table and the paintings on the walls.

  ‘You can sit down, Teressa. I won’t bite your head off!’

  ‘Won’t you?’ She sat down opposite him.

  ‘I’ve already done that, have I?’ he grunted. His gaze moved over her face, rested on the silver streak in her hair. She hadn’t bothered with the scarf; there seemed no point now. As she crossed her legs, his eyes dropped, taking in the jeans, faded but slim-fitting, and the loose top which failed to entirely conceal her shape.

  ‘My apologies, Teressa. The day has turned into a shambles and I’m not exactly in a mellow mood.’

  Outside the wind howled. Surf shattered on the beach below the house. Incredible to think that the sand had shimmered this morning under a clear blue sky.

  ‘About the dinner, Mr. Warwick—’

  ‘I cancelled with the restaurant. What are you like at omelettes, Teressa?’

  She pictured herself slaving away in the kitchen cooking his dinner and decided she wasn’t very good.

  She said so.

  ‘In that case I’ll make it,’ said Ashe.

  His humour was partially restored while he cooked their omelettes.

  ‘It looks good, Mr. Warwick,’ she said when they sat down at one end of the big diningroom table.

  Wine chuckled into the glasses as he poured. ‘Call me Ashe. You make me feel ancient with your “sir” and “Mr. Warwick”.’

  ‘But you’re not old,’ she said in innocent protest.

  ‘I’m thirty-four, Teressa.’

  She looked at him in commiseration. ‘Oh. Yes. Well, that’s not young, is it?’

  ‘At twenty I suppose it seems decrepit—’ he muttered.

  ‘Anyway, it’s a good thing you’re older, otherwise people might talk.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Talk, Teressa?’

  ‘About staying here tonight.’

  ‘And you think they won’t talk
because I’m older?’

  He shook his head. ‘My God, do I look as harmless as that?’ The last was murmured into his wine. Poor man, Teressa thought, hiding her amusement-his ego really was taking a beating.

  ‘Will your mother be angry that you’ve stayed overnight here with me?’

  ‘She won’t like it. But she thinks highly of you and she wouldn’t believe you’d ever—um—’

  ‘Such faith!’

  Teressa suddenly thought of Ashe asking Mrs Richards questions about her ‘daughter’. If he found out she’d been fooling him he would be furious. For the moment she shelved the problem, but decided it might be a good idea to establish an ‘escape route’ now. The sooner Teressa Richards disappeared off the scene after this weekend, the better.

  ‘But it won’t matter if she’s upset, because I’ll be going back to Perth soon,’ she said. ‘To live with my godmother. ‘

  The storm flung its opening anger at the house. Rain teemed, its noise shrinking the world to this one place of shelter-an oddly intimate one. When they had finished eating, Ashe asked abruptly: ‘Can you play snooker, Teressa?’ She hesitated and he took that as a ‘no’. ‘Come on, I’ll teach you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to write?’ she asked as Ashe set up an arrowhead of balls on the billiard table and chalked the cues.

  ‘It might be more sensible,’ he drawled and flicked a glance in her direction. Her confidence took a sharp turn upwards.

  ‘Have you written any more novels, Ashe?’

  He sighed. ‘My writing has been rather spasmodic since Hunter, I’m afraid. The next book is limping along. I’m hoping to take a holiday from Warlord soon to concentrate on it.’ He handed her a short cue and switched on the fringed light over the table. ‘Come here, I’ll show you how to break.’ She watched him demonstrate. He shot the white ball into the phalanx, breaking it up. Then he set it up again and spent some time showing her how to position her hands on the cue, to make a bridge on the felt with her left to support it. The’ burn on her arm showed brownish-pink and unattractive in the light. Ashe took her arm and turned it.

  ‘Did you put the cream on it today?’ he enquired, and when she looked up at him, his fingers contracted, sinking into the flesh of her upper arm.

  ‘Yes, it’s a lot better.’ Her lips parted in sudden breathlessness as Ashe leaned closer. Then he let her go and re-chalked his cue while she attempted another shot.

  ‘No, no. Place your feet further apart and bring your elbow back,’ he said. Teressa was all angles and awkwardness trying to disguise the basic knowledge she had of the game. Damien had been a snooker and billiards enthusiast and had taught both her and Cecily the rudiments of the game at an early age. She could admit she could play, she supposed, but that would mean another web of lies to invent a snooker background for the Richards family. Her shot was clumsy. Ashe laughed, put his cue down against the table.

  ‘Like this.’ Close behind her, he guided her left hand to the table and her right to the correct position and made the shot with her. The white ball cannoned into another which dropped into the side pocket.

  Teressa’s hand jerked under the pressure of his. In seconds all her senses were alert. And something in his grip told her that it was a mutual stirring.

  Ashe let go and said irritably, ‘For God’s sake don’t drag the tip across the felt like that—you’ll tear it.’

  He picked up his cue. ‘Now—let me show you—’ He demonstrated again.

  Teressa decided to improve and in fact showed such remarkable progress that Ashe was delighted. He was modest but satisfied when she gave him the credit as a wonderful teacher. Teressa smothered her amusement.

  There was something intoxicating about leading him by the nose, especially now that he thought she would be off to Western Australia. If Mrs Richards co-operated, he need never find out who she was—Teressa was suddenly repelled at the idea of him ever knowing. One or two questions fielded by Mrs Richards would be the extent of his contact with her after this weekend. She hadn’t been able to throw a spanner in the works, so after tonight—nothing. But these small jokes at his expense gave her some private satisfaction.

  As they finished the game, the storm began its second assault. The wind changed direction, throwing rain against the shuddering walls and windows. Ashe lit a candle and left it on the bar in case of blackout.

  ‘Are all the windows and shutters closed? ’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘Damn! I didn’t think. Come on, give me a hand to close them—’

  They shut the downstairs windows and were upstairs when the lights went out. Teressa was in the hall and stood there for a minute, losing all orientation.

  She felt suspended in black space. ‘Ashe?’ she called on a rising note. ‘Are you there?’

  When he touched her, she snatched at him, holding on tightly. It was like getting her feet on the ground again.

  ‘Hey, it’s all right,’ he said softly, guiding her along in the blackness until her knees touched framework and fabric. ‘Sit down. I’ll try to find a torch or candle. Both are here somewhere … ‘ Teressa heard him moving about, and, though she strained to see, could distinguish only vague gradations of black. ‘Ah, here it—damn! The battery’s gone—’

  A thunderstrike vibrated the house and set the darkness zinging with menace. Lightning sheeted at the window and Teressa pressed herself down on to the divan.

  ‘I hate storms—’ she said, wanting to hear her I own voice and his. It was such a stupid, childish fear.

  Thank goodness he couldn’t see her cringing. She opened her eyes to a glow and saw that she was not on a divan, but a bed—Ashe’s bed. The Victorian brass railings gleamed the way they were meant to—by candlelight. Ashe stood looking down at her, his expression camouflaged by the underlighting of the candle he held.

  ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

  She got up as thunder cracked again and her involuntary start bumped Ashe’s hand. He grabbed her, held her out of harm’s way as the candle fell to the floor and snuffed out.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he growled, and she clung to him now that it was dark again.

  After a few seconds he moved and she felt his breath warm on her face. Then his arms went around her and held her close against him. Her body trembled. She pressed nearer still so that she felt the slam of his heartbeat.

  ‘Did the candle burn you?' he whispered, and his hands strayed over her back. .

  ‘No.’ But there were more ways than one of getting burned. He’d told her that-warned her. Desperately she tried to remember what he was, what he had done.

  Her arms were about him and she held on tight, no longer afraid of the storm. This was a physical thing, she told herself. He was rotten at the core, but it didn’t show. He was an attractive man and she was only human. His chest rose and fell deeply against her. In her hair she felt a caress as if he had touched his mouth to her head. An instinctive move and her lips met the bare skin near his collar. No, she thought, she couldn’t feel this way about Ashe. She wouldn’t. But her body told her otherwise, and his told her it was mutual. His lips touched her temple and she caught her breath as the idea was born.

  Ashe jerked away, lit a match and then the candle, and they went downstairs by its wavering light. Their shadows stretched out hugely, shifted and glided on the walls. Ashe’s wide shoulders were squared with tension-he walked as if he had a coiled spring inside him. Teressa knew now how to hit back at him. It was a small revenge and wouldn’t hurt him so much as frustrate him. But it was poetic, so poetic. What better way to punish a louse than with his own finer instincts? Their meeting last night and today on the beach had given her the clue.

  He fancied her. They were alone in the house with a storm lashing outside-a perfect setting for a man with a girl he fancied. But he would not take what he wanted, nor would he use his expertise in persuasion because she was young and trusting and naive. And Ashe Warwick, mercenary and self-seeking,
had one redeeming feature: he didn’t seduce girls who were young and trusting. But Teressa wondered—had he ever been seduced?

  Ashe fetched the silver candelabrum from the diningroom, and the light of its candles transformed the billiardroom into a cosy space around the bar.

  The stereo was silent due to the power blackout and only the turbulence of storm and ocean filled the dark spaces beyond the glow. Candlelight caught on glass as Ashe poured Scotch over some Ice.

  ‘I’d like one too, please.’

  ‘Scotch is a powerful drink. Have another Pimm’s.’

  ‘Please.’ She winced at a crack of thunder. ‘I need it.’