style="font-size:15px;"> Breathing was painful, but she fought for her control. His cold, speculative gaze seemed to be warning her that he had not forgotten their last meeting, and as if to reinforce this impression, his hand rose and touched the little scar.
He said softly, ‘And you, Courtney? What brings you back here? A trip down memory lane?’
The question was bland enough, but there was something in the way he said it, something about the way his eyes narrowed slightly which alerted her suspicions.
He’d said he was in the area, which sounded casual enough—and yet … Three years ago he had vanished out of their lives completely, and now, when Hunters Court was for sale again, he was back. Was it just a coincidence? Surely it must be, yet the Porsche suggested affluence, as did the dark supple leather of the car coat which hung from his shoulders, and the rollneck cashmere sweater beneath it.
She made herself speak lightly. ‘Pure nostalgia, I’m afraid, which is invariably a mistake. I didn’t expect to find anyone else here.’
His brows rose sardonically. ‘No? A desirable residence like this? I would have thought there’d have been a queue forming.’
Courtney smiled brightly. ‘Perhaps there is. I wouldn’t know.’
Her mind seemed to be running in circles like a mouse on a wheel. There was a growing conviction within her that Blair’s questions were only casual on the surface. But surely he, of all people, could not seriously be interested in buying Hunters Court. She was just being over-imaginative. She had to be. Because the thought of Blair Devereux, the nephew of the man who had ruined her father, living in her old home was even more intolerable than Monty Pallister’s plans for the house.
‘But all the same, you wouldn’t keep away.’ Blair was smiling too, but the smile hadn’t reached his eyes. ‘It’s not really surprising, I suppose. After all those generations of Lincolns living here, the place must have the pull of a magnet for you all.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But it isn’t ours any more, and I don’t forget that.’
She was issuing a warning of her own, reminding him of everything which lay between them, the abyss which the sordid aftermath of betrayal and embezzlement had created. The girl whom he’d teased with a summer kiss in this very garden no longer existed. She was older now and infinitely more wary. For a short while, she had allowed herself to forget that she didn’t really like Blair Devereux because she had been frankly dazzled by his sexual magnetism, but that would never happen again.
Yet it didn’t stop her wanting to remove herself from his orbit with the speed of light. Apart from anything else she had an uneasy feeling that she ought to get back to the cottage and tell Rob what had happened. He wouldn’t be happy to know that Blair was back in the vicinity, even if it was only a brief visit.
He was always bad news, she thought, and he won’t have changed.
She summoned the bright smile again. ‘Well, I must be going. I have a lot to do this morning.’
‘Is that a fact?’ He consulted an expensive-looking gold wristwatch. ‘I was thinking perhaps we could have lunch together.’
She was taken aback at that. He had unmitigated gall even to suggest such a thing, she thought furiously. He was the last person she’d ever wanted to meet again, and she’d have thought he felt exactly the same about her.
She said calmly, ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then how about dinner? I’m staying at the White Hart.’
Courtney stiffened slightly. That was more bad news. She’d hoped he was just passing through. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid.’
‘Clearly you’re a busy lady.’
And what did he think? That she’d spent the last three years sitting like faithful Penelope waiting for him to come back? She wanted to laugh in his face, but if he was prepared to maintain this veneer of civilised conversation, then so would she.
She said, ‘I manage to keep occupied. Well, goodbye, Blair. I hope you enjoy the rest of your—holiday.’
‘It’s certainly begun well.’ He smiled slightly. ‘It’s always pleasant to meet old friends.’
Friends? she wanted to shout at him. We were never friends. And now we’re enemies, and you know it.
The last time they had met she had screamed her hatred at him. There had been no smiles and civilised words then. They had been adversaries, and the scar was proof. And instinct told her that they were adversaries still.
She had to walk past him to reach the gate, for a moment she held her breath as if he might put out a hand and take hold of her. If he did, then all the smiles and polite nothings would shatter like glass, and she would fight him like a tigress. He would have other scars to add to his collection, but of course, he didn’t try and touch her, and she felt herself give an infinitesimal sigh of relief as she reached the gate.
She half-turned, lifting a hand in acknowledgment and farewell, and Blair said softly, ‘Remember me to your family.’
Just for a moment he let the mask drop, and she was appalled at the expression she saw in his eyes. Whatever he’d come there for, it wasn’t to build any bridges, and she was scared. Geoffrey Devereux was dead, and her father was an invalid, and she’d thought that the worst that could happen was over, but now she wasn’t so sure.
She walked back to the car, trying not to run because he might be watching, and her heart was thudding, and her palms felt clammy. The routine of starting the car helped steady her a little, and when she finally emerged on to the road she turned in the opposite direction away from the village, and drove for about a mile before pulling off into a parking space.
She switched off the ignition and wound down the window, breathing slowly and deeply, relishing the scent of the crisp clean air. Any notion she might have had that Blair was making overtures because he wanted to forgive and forget had been laid to rest for ever.
It was a ludicrous situation, because by any reckoning, her family were the injured parties in the whole tragic, sordid business. But Blair had never seemed to take that into account. She clasped her hands on the steering wheel and leaned her forehead on them.
Blair had come to Hunters Court that night to demand that Geoffrey Devereux be given bail. Looking back, she could understand his motive. He must have known that his uncle had a weak heart, and that the upset of being in custody could endanger him, but what she could not forgive was that he seemed to blame her father for not wishing to intervene. Blair clearly felt that if James Lincoln offered to put up the bail for his erstwhile partner, then the police might drop their opposition, and when her father was unwilling, he had exploded into near-violence.
Courtney shivered as she remembered that terrible evening. She had been drawn to the study by the sound of raised voices, and when she had gone in, had found herself in the middle of a confrontation.
There had been all kinds of raw and savage emotion in the air, and although she hadn’t completely understood it all, she’d been frightened nevertheless, and quick to spring to her father’s defence. Because he wasn’t making a very good job out of defending himself, just sitting in his chair while Blair stood over him, his whole attitude one of naked aggression.
Courtney
