One Life at a Time Page 2

  Ariel chuckled and assured her that she was. The girl answered with a satisfied giggle. 'I know. I'm incorrigible. I'm Daria, by the way. Chris's niece.

  Well, step-niece, to be more precise, and not exactly a niece either. My mother is married to his cousin, Neville. I just call him uncle to tease him. Chris, that is. Not Neville. Come on, he's waiting for you. You're number four today.'

  There was something elusively familiar about the girl which was at once endearing and exasperating. It took Ariel several seconds before it suddenly dawned on her: the red-headed chatter-box could have been herself at the age of nineteen. That was hardly three years ago but she seemed to have aged a century since those carefree days in her native island of St Patrick, she thought grimly.

  'Do you like being a secretary?' the redhead wanted to know.

  'I guess I do,' Ariel lied coolly, 'otherwise I wouldn't be doing it, would I?'

  She followed the girl into a vast living-room which seemed to occupy the space of a good-sized flat. The tasteful, unobtrusively expensive decor was given almost entirely to cool, natural tones except for the colourful paintings. It was obviously designed so that nothing would distract the eye from the breath-taking views of the Heath which sprawled beyond the huge, all-glass wall.

  To her relief, the room seemed empty, and Daria's incessant chatter which hardly required any response from her was oddly soothing, allowing her time to collect her wits and calm her taut nerves. 'I could never be a secretary.' The girl was still harping on the same subject. 'I think I'd hate it. I mean, being cooped up in an office all day long, taking orders… I'd be hopelessly bad at it, anyway. Wouldn't I, Chris?' she continued, without pausing for breath.

  Ariel turned around, in sudden panic. As far as she could see, there was no one else in that enormous room.

  'Uncle Chris,' Daria raised her voice slightly, putting a mocking stress to the avuncular title. 'Don't skulk there. Come and meet her. She looks terribly sophisticated but I think she's very sweet. You'll adore her.'

  'That's enough, Daria.' Ariel caught her breath as Chris Donahue's attractive voice came floating in from nowhere. 'Now get out of here and don't come back unless you bring some coffee with you.'

  After a second of confusion, Ariel identified the direction of that mellow, lazy voice as coming from the paved patio which she could now see beyond the glazed wall.

  He was wearing shabby fawn-coloured jeans and an outsize, flamboyant Montana jumper. The casual elegance of the seasoned jet-setter clashed with, yet curiously enhanced the strong clean lines of the hard face, the unruly thick mane of tawny, sun-bleached hair, and the weather-beaten complexion which spoke of a man who preferred the freedom and challenge of the outdoor life to the pampered existence of the idle rich.

  Tall and long-legged, he was leaning with a typically athletic grace against the white-painted trellis, studying her calmly. His uncompromising expression showed neither hostility nor any sign of recognition.

  'You will have a cup with me, won't you?' she heard him say, arrogantly refusing to defeat the distance between them by raising his voice.

  The casual greeting she had prepared stuck in her throat. All she could muster was a weak, nervous smile.

  'Am I to interpret that silence as a marked dislike for coffee?' he said after a short pause as he detached himself from the supporting trellis and walked back into he lounge with a carelessly graceful stride. 'Or would you prefer tea, perhaps? Or, better still, would you rather join me in something stronger?' he pursued, waving a tumbler of undiluted Scotch in her face, mockingly aware of her tongue-tied condition.

  'Come on, Chris.' Daria came to her help. 'Can't you see you're intimidating the girl?' She turned to Ariel, smiling at her reassuringly. 'Don't let him bully you. He's only trying to frighten you off. The truth is that he'd rather not have anyone. You would like coffee, Miss Stewart, wouldn't you?'

  The patronising attitude of the well-meaning girl shook Ariel out of her momentary awkwardness. 'I'd love some, thank you,' she said calmly, and the girl darted out of the room, promising it wouldn't take her a minute.

  Ariel turned back to the man, and waited for him to make the first move. It was always the best strategy with arrogant bullies of his sort, she had found out.

  Well, Chris Donahue could play the game just as well as she could. Polite and overtly bored, he just stood there, relaxed and loose-limbed, his deep blue eyes travelling indifferently over her body.

  'May I sit down?' she blurted, almost rudely, when she could no longer stand that cool, assessing look.

  'Oh yes, you certainly may. I've had enough time to admire your very impressive outfit. You didn't really think that I wouldn't recognise you in that new guise, did you?'

  Fortunately, she was already seated when he uttered the last words, otherwise she would have collapsed. Her startled eyes met his as she began to stammer: 'Re-recognise me?'

  'In case you have forgotten,' he said softly, mocking her. 'We have been introduced before. A couple of weeks ago, at the Mayfair Restaurant. Except that on that occasion you didn't look like a very upmarket Sloane Street commercial. More like a dishevelled street-urchin. Is that why you refused Paul Andrews's invitation to join us for lunch?'

  Her rigid body sagged slightly in a confusion of relief and heart-piercing disappointment. As a matter of fact she had seen him several times over the last few months, making a point of turning up wherever he had been expected, but then, as now, she always encountered the same blank look of a total stranger. She was nothing to him but another pretty face. 'I'm sorry, Mr Donahue. I didn't think you'd remember me,' she said tightly. 'And just for the record, I didn't try to come here under a guise. I was just trying to create a good first impression… I mean, second impression.'

  If she hoped to break the ice by her easy banter, she soon had to admit defeat. He listened to her, his face shut, his eyes expressionless, making no effort to ease the first moments of the interview. Desperately, she had to go on chatting. 'I mean, I thought I'd better dress the part. I am supposed to apply for a job as a… a secretary, after all.'

  'Are you now?' Again she tried to read a hidden meaning behind his lazy enquiry. His face revealed nothing.

  'Of course I am. Didn't Paul Andrews explain?'

  'Oh yes, he certainly did. According to the old man, he's entrusting me with his most cherished possession: a production secretary who is au fait with all the well-hidden secrets of script-writing and highly intelligent and experienced to boot. Are you?'

  'Yes.' It was gratifying to see some response registered on that handsome, bored face. He was obviously taken aback by her unabashedly arrogant, short reply.

  'Well, you're certainly not short of confidence.'

  'I know what I'm good .at, Mr Donahue.' The words were hardly out of her mouth before she realised that he could read a double meaning into them. She blushed, furious with herself. That impulsive tongue of hers always landed her in the most embarrassing traps. Her position was weak enough without offering Chris Donahue further ammunition to taunt her with. She forced her eyes to stare back at him, defiantly.

  To her surprise, he didn't respond to the unintended challenge. 'Your name, I take it, is Ariel?' he asked, casually.

  She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the next hurdle. 'Ariel Stewart,' she said.

  'Like The Tempest Ariel?' She nodded. 'Unusual name,' he said after a short pause. 'But I'll settle for it. Well, good morning, Ariel.'

  And then, unpredictably, he smiled.

  Her heart leaped to her throat as the smile transformed the closed, uncompromising face, lighting up the watchful eyes and softening the ragged, handsome features to reveal humour, generosity and warmth. Trapped by its deceptive charm, Ariel responded with a radiant guileless smile of her own which very rarely failed to win her instant affection.

  It was the wrong tactic. As if resenting his momentary lapse, his smile tightened slightly and his voice resumed a cooler, practical shade. 'I don't go
for office hours. I'll expect you to work at the oddest times which may mean moving in with me. Perhaps even go away from London. You'll be out of circulation for three months at least. Can you take it?'

  'I can if you can,' she answered, hardly daring to believe her ears. The job, it seemed, was hers before the battle had even started. 'Just tell me where, when and what.'

  'How about why?' he broke in.

  'Oh, I know why. For some odd reason, you want to adapt your novel yourself.'

  'Is that so unusual?'

  'Well, yes.' Ariel was off in the familiar world of her professional life. 'Most novelists prefer to plunge into their next novel instead of ploughing over the old one. Unless they need the money, which you obviously don't. You're a rare exception. I wonder why.'

  'So there is a "why", after all.' His voice was soft, but Ariel, still glorying in her easy victory, was deaf to the warning bell.

  'All right, then,' she plunged in. 'There is. But I wouldn't presume for a moment that you're ready to trust me with it.'

  'How perceptive,' he congratulated her. 'So you don't mind being cooped up with me for several months? I warn you, it'll be only the two of us till we're finished. I work—and live, in total seclusion.'

  'Of course,' she responded coolly, refusing to be baited by the deliberately coarse insinuation behind his last words. 'Where do you usually find it?'

  'Here, among other places… when I'm not invaded by my family. It'll be your job to keep them off my back.'

  'Oh, but—' She spoke out unthinking and stopped. 'I mean, yes of course.'

  He was too quick for her. 'What were you going to say, Ariel?'

  It was useless denying her unguarded reaction: 'I thought… That is, Paul Andrews said you might want to work on your yacht.'

  'Would you like that?' he asked, the irony in his voice branding her as the sort of person who would be impressed by such jet-setting symbols.

  'Oh, very much.' She kept her own voice sweet and innocent. 'I love the sea and I've been sailing our yacht ever since I can remember but I haven't had a chance to do so for three years now so naturally the idea appeals to me.'

  'I see.' He grinned, acknowledging her subtle way of telling him that, like him, she was quite used to such luxuries. 'If that's the case, don't you think you ought to leave the job to someone who obviously needs the money more than you do?'

  'No, I don't.' She bristled. It was the same old, trite argument against the bored little rich girl which she had had to contend with all her life. 'I would only leave it to someone who can do the job better. When do you want me to start?' She firmly put in her question before he could pursue the subject any further.

  He didn't persist. 'How long will it take you to untangle yourself out of your other commitments?' He answered with a question.

  Without thinking she answered: 'I've already done that. I'm free to start whenever you wish.'

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes once more shut in a cool, speculative look. 'You were that sure you'd get the job?'

  'Well, I was right, wasn't I?' she chuckled, still unsuspecting.

  'Were you now?' Something in his voice wiped the easy smile off her lips. Her eyes rose to scan his face and suddenly she was reminded of Paul Andrews's warning: Chris Donahue could certainly see through people like a laser beam.

  You little fool, she scolded herself furiously. The man had been toying with her all along, testing her, pretending to be taken in by her charm. She had been had!

  'You mean, you don't want me?' she blurted, too mortified to notice the double meaning which could be applied to her question.

  'I suppose that's exactly what I mean.'

  She tried to control the quaver of deep disappointment. 'You haven't even bothered to ask about my qualifications, my experience…'

  'Oh, I don't doubt those for a second. You're good. I'm quite happy to take your word for it,' he reassured her pleasantly. 'The trouble is that I don't trust you.'

  'May I… may I know why?'

  'Certainly,' Chris Donahue answered, readily. 'Because you're a schemer, and not a very subtle one at that. You would have applied for any old job, even if I advertised for a chambermaid. I don't know nor do I care to know what you were hoping to gain by it, but I do know one thing, darling.' His voice was light and pleasant, and the smile still devastatingly charming. Only the dark blue eyes mocked her coldly, as he concluded, relentlessly: 'It's not the job you're after. It's me.'

  The words echoed in cold, lazy contempt through the vast room.

  Ariel surfaced out of her momentary freeze to find that she was up on her feet. Humiliation and a helpless fury deadened all other feelings. Whatever he might have meant to her in the past, she now felt nothing but loathing for that conceited, suspicious stranger who was facing her with that bored, disdainful smile.

  'Even if you were right, Mr Donahue,' her voice was tight with dislike, 'this interview has certainly changed my mind. Sorry for having taken so much of your time. Goodbye.'

  As if taking her final word as a cue, the door swung open, and Daria marched in with a coffee tray. 'I hope it's all right,' she announced cheerfully, totally impervious to the strained atmosphere in the room. 'I used your new coffee-maker but I might have put too much coffee in. I brought hot water to thin it down if it's too strong.'

  She practically pushed Ariel's rigid body back on to the sofa and thrust a cup of coffee into her hand and insisted she tasted it. Then, having taken a sip from her step-uncle's cup to check the result for herself, she now flopped happily on the sofa beside Ariel, clearly intending to join in on the interview.

  'Well, is she in?' she attacked her uncle and immediately turned on Ariel, ignoring her furious silence. 'Have you discussed salary yet? You mustn't be modest, you know. Chris is disgustingly generous, so he deserves to be exploited. Don't worry, though. He'll make you earn every penny of it, believe me.'

  The girl was either incredibly insensitive or a very clever manipulator but she had somehow managed to break through Ariel's debilitating rage and tickle her sense of humour. It was almost as if her younger self, that carefree, slightly dizzy tropical island waif, came back to revive her confidence in herself. She no longer cared whether she got the job or not. But she was damned if she would let this disagreeable bully of a writer chase her away with her tail between her legs.

  'And you will let me try on that thing you're wearing, won't you? I think we're the same size,' Daria was chirping on, blithely. 'My mother keeps insisting on buying me the most ridiculously boring clothes but I'm sure I'd be a knock-out in that.'

  'Cut it out, Daria!' Chris Donahue barked.

  'Haven't you finished yet?' the girl asked, pouting. 'You've been grilling the poor girl for over fifteen minutes now.'

  'That's none of your business,' her step-uncle answered drily. 'Don't try to be cute now, Daria!'

  'Oh, come off it, Uncle Chris—'

  'Get out!' he exploded at last.

  In deep admiration Ariel watched the laughing eyes brim with instant tears and the impish face crumple into a clown mask of utter dejection, as the red-headed brat stood up and made her slow, despondent retreat to the door. The girl had a brilliant comic talent and Ariel couldn't hold back her mirth, hard as she tried to keep a solemn face.

  Her breathless silvery laughter rippled through the still room, drawing two startled pairs of eyes in her direction.

  Daria stopped and turned around. For a moment she gaped open-mouthed at the cool, elegant woman who had been transformed by that wonderful, irrepressible laughter into someone as young and dizzy as herself; and then, she joined in. If took both girls several seconds before it dawned on them that they had exactly the same laughter: breathless, silvery, and quite enchanting.

  They stopped laughing and stared at each other in stunned incredulity and then, struck by the odd coincidence of their similar laughter, they gave way to a renewed wave of spontaneous, uncontrollable giggles.

  Chris Donahue was forgotte
n. Neither girl was aware of the haunted expression which darkened the hard, lean face, and the troubled look in the blue-black eyes which kept roving, unblinking, from one laughing girl to the other. Suddenly, as if tormented beyond endurance by the silver sound, he stood up abruptly and walked out through the French doors into the large patio outside.

  The laughter died on Daria's face, instantly replaced by a deeply troubled look which revealed the sensitivity and depth behind the frivolous facade. Silently, she threw Ariel a warning glance and tip-toed out of the room.

  Ariel remained seated, her dark eyes deep with understanding and pain fixed on the tall, rigid figure out on the patio. He looked so alone, so far away… utterly lost. Her heart went out to him but she knew better than to offer sympathy or help to that proud man. She waited a few minutes and then poured fresh coffee into his cup and joined him outside.

  'Your coffee.' She put it on the small patio table, her voice cool and matter-of-fact. 'It was getting cold.' He didn't seem to hear her.

  The chilly wind was ruffling her short hair as she waited, staring out into the early spring landscape of the Heath to avoid the look of naked torment which darkened the handsome face.

  His voice was calm and low when he spoke again. 'Do you live in London?'

  'I do now,' she answered, still not daring to look at him. 'I came here three years ago.'

  'Where from?'

  'From the Seychelles Islands,' she said tightly. 'St Patrick.'

  'I know the Seychelles quite well but I don't think I've ever been to your particular island.'

  'It's very small, practically uninhabited,' she began to explain, but his intent blue eyes, narrowly focused on her pale, unguarded face, robbed her of words.

  They stared at each other, their bodies far apart, yet their eyes locked as if in a physical contact. For once, there were no shields of polite coolness, no defences of mockery or dislike. They were stripped open to each other, unafraid to expose their vulnerability.,