through the hollow caverns and reminding the house to whom it formally belonged. ‘Bandages, if you please, Baps!’
In the kitchen a table for three had been laid, silver cutlery and goblets for wine, through which Cato’s bungled efforts at winding the dressing blew like a storm. She wondered why they couldn’t eat in the dining room, before deciding it too might be in drastic need of her attentions. One of Susanna’s greatest incentives was the thought of hosting her infamous dinner parties here, sending out invitations, boasting the family glassware, the consummate queen of Usherwood.
Wait until her LA friends saw! They would be mad with jealousy.
‘Oh, let her go, Cato,’ Susanna said, wafting in. It was important she make her mark, show them all who was boss. ‘Someone can drive her, can’t they?’
‘Do pipe down, Mole,’ came Cato’s peeved response.
Susanna dropped on to a hard wooden bench and plucked an emery board from her purse. She was attending to her manicure when another woman, a fraction younger than Baps and decidedly more attractive, emerged from the scullery. She was slim, naturally pretty and her fair hair was wound in a knot.
‘I’m Caggie,’ she introduced herself, ‘house cook.’ She put out a flour-caked hand, which Susanna deemed rather disrespectful. Weren’t there rules about this sort of thing? When one met the Queen, for example, didn’t one wait to be presented, instead of sticking one’s grasping fingers out like a beggar clutching at coins?
‘Hello,’ said Susanna. She was accustomed to meeting new people and basking in the glow of her reflected celebrity—she was world-famous, after all—and was disturbed at how Caggie regarded her levelly, her green eyes spelling a challenge.
‘Caggie’s been here almost as long as me,’ supplied Baps. ‘She’s really wonderful; you’ll get to taste her best while you’re over. She’s been whipping up the most super treats ever since the boys were small.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be a far cry from the private chefs of Beverly Hills,’ said Caggie—a touch sarcastically, Susanna thought.
Was it her imagination, or did Cato’s gaze flicker just a moment too long over their new addition? She refused to entertain it: Caggie had to be flirting with fifty, and must spend her life elbow-deep in lard and gravy. She was tired, that was all. And anyway, once she and Cato were married they would be cutting both the women loose. Susanna would learn to cook herself, thank you very much, and if she needed extra help she would simply fly in Kaspar from her favoured bistro on Rodeo.
‘Back again so soon?’
Another voice joined them. It was serious as thunder.
Susanna turned.
Oh my. Oh my, oh my.
She ought to rise to greet him but found herself rooted to the seat. This was Charles Lomax? It couldn’t be. Where was the weedy boy Cato had conjured, trailing at his brother’s heels with a snivelling nose? The vision before her could only be described as a man: categorically and formidably a man. He was wildly dark, darker than Cato, even, with thick, muscular shoulders and hard black eyes. His face was brutally beautiful, a passionate structure beneath the shadow of a beard. His hair was a liquid, livid sable. He carried the scent of damp forest glades and burning wood.
Olivia stood. The mangled attempt at a bandage spooled to the floor.
‘Anyone would think you weren’t pleased to see me,’ Cato sneered.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ said Charles.
Cato pushed back the bench with an alarming scrape and sprang to his feet, his palms spread wide on the wood. ‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself,’ he spat. ‘Letting the place go to rack and ruin, risking a young girl’s life!’
The jet eyes landed on Olivia. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’ The girl spoke up. The wound had started to prickle with crimson and she clutched it to keep it hidden.
‘I’ll call for a taxi, shall I?’ Baps retreated, pulling Caggie after her.
‘We almost had a death on our hands,’ Cato hissed, ‘thanks to you and your lackadaisical attitude. Even after all these years do I still need to tell you how to run your affairs, old boy? Olivia here nearly wound up as road kill—if I hadn’t been so deft at negotiating that canyon of potholes who knows what might have happened?’
Charles was unmoved. ‘She looks all right to me.’
Susanna was gratified that, despite his brother’s looks, the Lomax charm had all gone in Cato’s direction.
‘I’m Susanna,’ she said, giving him her most winning smile.
He didn’t take his glare from Cato’s. ‘Would it be too much to hope you might arrive, for once, without the usual dose of drama?’
‘Please,’ Cato swiped back. ‘You’ve been thriving on drama for the past fifteen years.’
‘There’s only one of us who’s thrived.’
‘Is that so?’
‘That’s so.’
‘Do get over it, Charles,’ he blasted. ‘The rest of us have.’
Baps appeared, fingers knotted nervously at her waist. ‘A car is on its way.’
‘Thank you.’
Charles’ voice was shiveringly intense, deep and soft as the most exquisite of fucks, and Susanna was overcome with the desire to fling herself between the two brothers and have them each ravish her ferociously over the kitchen table, at the centre of which was a lamb casserole that was rapidly getting cold.
And then, something extraordinary happened. On Olivia’s way past, he seized her wrist and brought it towards him. The speed and seamlessness of the movement was utterly spellbinding. Wordlessly he pressed a rag against her skin and wound the lint, quickly, once and then twice and then it was done. It was horrifically sexy.
Bewildered, mumbling her thanks, Olivia shot from the room.
Moments later the front door slammed.
‘I’m going to bed,’ said Cato.
‘What about supper?’ Baps objected. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’
Cato stopped at a level with Charles, the top of his head a fraction shorter than his brother’s. ‘I can’t think why, but I seem to have lost my appetite.’
A thread could have divided the men’s chests: Cato’s lifted and fell with the hot breath of combat; Charles’ was utterly still. The silent war raged on.
Cato broke it, lips curling round the bitter shape of a single word: ‘Goodnight.’
Susanna gazed longingly at the casserole as her lover slipped from the room. A bowl of crispy golden potatoes sat next to it, sprinkled with rock salt and rosemary.
‘Come along, Mole!’ came a distant, urgent summons.
