Honeymoon Baby. Susan Napier
laughing reply died in her throat as the man lifted his head in a quick, predatory motion to stare up at the house. The sun flared off hair the colour of old gold and the black wrap-around sunglasses couldn’t disguise the distinctive jut of his high cheekbones and the hollow cheeks bracketing the unshaven chin. A wave of nauseating disbelief washed over her, making her knees sag against the kitchen cupboards.
Surely fate couldn’t be so cruel!
She clutched the vase to her stomach, slopping water onto the tiled surface of the bench, praying that her eyes were deceiving her.
Gravel crunched under his feet as he strode around to the back of the car and opened the boot. Faded jeans moulded long legs and lean hips, and a cream woollen jumper under the black hip-length leather jacket studded with snaps and zips completed the image of threatening masculinity. He hefted a suitcase out of the boot, moving with the easy confidence of a man in the prime of his life, at the peak of his virility...
And definitely no wild illusion.
‘Oh, God—!’
‘Jen, what’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost?’
Worse than a ghost. Much, much worse! She was staring into the face of grim reality. A nightmare complication to an already convoluted existence. A living, breathing reproach to her unquiet conscience.
She had thought him safely ensconced in London. What hellish coincidence had landed him here, in her own private little corner of the world?
Oh, God!
‘Jen, you’re not going to pass out on me, are you? Jen?’
Susie’s sharp anxiety penetrated her ringing skull, beating back the icy chills of disbelief which had frozen her brain. She shook her head violently, self-preservation screaming to the fore as she jerked back from the window.
‘No, I’m fine,’ she lied, grabbing the bunch of chrysanthemums and haphazardly stuffing them into the pottery vase.
‘Is it him? That man? Do you know him?’ Susie angled herself against the glass to watch him vanish around the corner of the sprawling bungalow, in the direction of the front porch. ‘If he’s bringing in his bag perhaps he’s not just cold-calling. Maybe there’s been a mix-up in the bookings. If he spoke to Paula on the phone—you know she’s not big on writing things down...’
At the mention of her mother Jennifer’s heart leapt in her chest. Thank goodness she wasn’t here! She and Aunty Dot had driven over to The Grand Chateau for a Gourmet Club luncheon at the hotel restaurant; they should be away for at least another hour.
There was a welcoming bark and the loud scrabble of claws on the wooden porch, and seconds later the harsh grind of the old-fashioned doorbell reverberated in the entranceway. To Jennifer it sounded uncannily like the knell of doom.
‘Uh, shouldn’t you go and see what he wants?’ suggested Susie when the bell rang a second time.
If the newcomer got impatient and tried the door, he would find that it wasn’t locked. He could just walk in, and then, and then...
Oh, God!
‘You do it,’ she blurted.
‘Me?’
Guests and potential guests were always dealt with by either Paula or Jennifer at their own insistence—the personal touch was a hallmark of Beech House. Susie’s job was only peripheral to the bed and breakfast business—helping run Paula’s afternoon cooking classes and delivering the jams, pickles and jars of edible and decorative preserved fruit, which she sold to stores as far away as Taupo.
‘I have to put these flowers in the Carters’ room. Mrs Carter complained that the vase of daphne that Mum put in there was too highly perfumed,’ babbled Jennifer, conscious of the feebleness of her excuse.
She couldn’t blame Susie for looking bewildered at her urgency over the floral arrangements. Mr and Mrs Carter had gone on a cruise on Lake Taupo for the day and wouldn’t be back until late evening.
‘Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’
The doorbell rang again and Jennifer flinched, splashing water from the crammed vase down the leg of her fawn trousers.
‘I do feel a bit sick,’ she admitted bluntly, grabbing at the straw. ‘Look, all you have to do is say that we don’t have any vacancies for the foreseeable future, and direct him to another B&B or one of the hotels. Don’t go into details. And don’t give him one of our new advertising leaflets; I haven’t decided how to use them yet,’ she tacked on hastily, remembering the glossy reprints that her mother had ordered as a surprise, with ‘Jenny Jordan and Paula Scott, proprietors’ in flowing bold type on the front.
‘But, how—?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Susie, I’m only asking you to answer the door, not perform brain surgery!’ she snapped.
Susie blinked, more surprised than offended by the implied insult. In the three months that she had worked at Beech House she had never known Jennifer be anything but kind, considerate and polite, if a little wicked in her sense of humour. Perhaps, though, a little moodiness was only to be expected from now on...
‘OK, OK—don’t get your hormones in a bunch.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll go...but, uh, what if he asks—?’
‘Just get rid of him!’
Jennifer bit her lip as Susie shot out of the kitchen, propelled by the low-voiced shriek. She was going to have to apologise, but later—when the immediate danger had passed and she had control of herself again.
Not wanting to compound her sins by being caught out in another lie, she forced her shaky legs into action, slipping through the dining and living rooms and sneaking out along the sweeping back verandah, leaving a faint trail in the thin mantle of volcanic ash. She let herself into the large double bedroom which was considered the best in the house for its unobscured view of Ruapehu. Closing the French doors on the icy southerly wind, she picked up the crystal vase with its artfully arranged sprays of daphne and replaced it with the flung together chrysanthemums.
She looked blankly around the room that she had tidied earlier. Should she wait in here until she heard his car leave? She eyed the door to the passage, which was slightly ajar. She longed to creep up to the sanctuary of her bedroom and bolt the door, but the narrow staircase to the converted attic was in full view of the front door.
She turned away, catching sight of her glazed expression in the old-fashioned mirror atop the dressing table. No wonder Susie had looked at her with such concern! She had never considered herself a beauty, but right now the too-square face with its too-sharp nose and slightly asymmetrical mouth was starkly plain—her dark brown hair, tumbling in careless waves to her shoulders, contrasting with a complexion as pale and waxy as the daphne blooms that she held in her hand. The bright red jumper that her mother had knitted the previous winter further accentuated her pallor, and snugly defined full breasts which trembled as if she had just run a marathon. With her left eyebrow twitching above the thin amber curve of her round spectacle frame, she looked like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Which was exactly how she felt.
The cloying sweetness of daphne clogged her nostrils as she paced. Why on earth was Susie taking so long to get rid of him?
A vivid picture of golden male confidence sketched itself in her head and she halted on a silent moan. What if Susie couldn’t handle it?
What if he chose to flex his insufferable arrogance and argue?
What if he exercised his brutal charm and insinuated himself over the threshold?
And what if his being here wasn’t simply a rotten piece of malignant bad luck?
She stared out at the smouldering mountain, so busy agonising over the possibilities that she didn’t notice the door to the hall swinging open until a squeak of the hinges made her stiffen.
‘Playing