Sharon Kendrick - Potent As Poison

The lift doors slid open, and she went in first, putting her hand out immediately to press ‘ground’ with one plain, unvarnished fingernail, but he had beaten her to it, his finger firmly on the ‘hold’ button as he stared down at her, his face shadowed so that the light eyes appeared darkly fathomless as they searched her face as if in pursuit of the answer to a question which only she knew.

She shivered; nerves, fear and excitement—yes, excitement—combined to make her slender body tremble. For no matter how much her logical mind told her that after everything that had happened she should no longer be affected in any way by this man, her body knew differently. Her body betrayed her, as it had betrayed her so long ago. Her reaction to this man had always been disturbingly unique, and some things, it seemed, never changed.

Mute, and mere feet away from him, she saw the sharp planes and angles of that ruggedly handsome face, and some soft yearning deep at the very heart of her cried out its request. Tell him , said the voice. This is the man you once loved—so tell him about his son. Tell him about Peter. And she trembled again. But then she saw him give a tiny nod of his head, as though her helpless tremble in response to his proximity was merely par for the course.

‘The signals you’re sending out are delightfully and intriguingly mixed,’ he murmured. ‘You seem unable to quite decide whether to tell me to go to hell or to give in to what you really want to do ...’

She saw the predatory light firing in the depths of those incredible eyes and she thought that he was moving towards her as though to kiss her. My God—he was ! And if he kissed her ...

She stepped back. His hand had left the ‘hold’ button, and she took the opportunity to press for the ground floor—and the lift purred into action.

She expected irritation on his part but there was none. Instead nothing but a kind of wry amusement, as though he were enjoying the silent tussle.

‘You like to fence, then?’ he queried. ‘That’s good. Because so do I.’

‘Evasive action was obviously called for,’ she said coldly.

He laughed. ‘Pity.’

‘Tell me,’ she enquired cuttingly, ‘do you always foist your attentions on perfect strangers?’

But he didn’t look at all offended as he shook his head. ‘That’s the peculiar thing,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t.’

And all of a sudden the game they were playing utterly sickened her. Here she was, almost flirting with a man who could, she realised—take away everything that she held dear.

The lift doors opened, and the commissionaire stepped forward.

‘Night, Mrs Carson,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Afraid you’ve just missed one.’

Rick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Missed what?’

‘My bus,’ said Elizabeth coolly.

‘Bus?’ Rick Masterton looked momentarily disconcerted. ‘But you have your own car, surely?’

She shook her head. She preferred the freedom of public transport, walking or taking a short bus ride to the Tube station, where at least she was able to work as she travelled home. Besides, parking was a nightmare. ‘No one drives in London,’ she said, forcing her voice to be airy.

‘Well, I do. My hire car is outside—you must let me give you a lift home——’

There was not, she realised, going to be a polite way of doing this. She turned to the commissionaire. ‘Frank?’ She smiled. ‘Please see Mr Masterton to his car—I have a couple of papers in my office which I have to go back for.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Carson.’

She turned her face to look into the darkly handsome face. ‘I’ll say goodnight, Mr Masterton.’ And Elizabeth held out her hand towards him.

He took it, in front of the commissionaire he played his part beautifully, but Elizabeth couldn’t miss the unmistakable glittering of irritation which fired at the depths of those incredible eyes.

ELIZABETH took the lift straight back up to her office, her hands trembling as she sat down at her desk and buried her head in her hands. ‘ Please , God—no,’ she muttered brokenly, when the door to the adjoining room was thrust open and there stood Jenny—an astonished look of horror on her face.

‘Mrs Carson!’ she exclaimed, as she hurried over. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said gently. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

Elizabeth looked up unseeingly, her eyes bright.

‘What is it?’ repeated Jenny. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

Elizabeth shut her eyes again briefly.

‘You need something ,’ said Jenny firmly.

Through a cotton-wool haze, Elizabeth heard the sounds of Jenny clattering around with bottles and glasses and moments later a glass of pale brown liquid was put into her hand.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘Brandy. Drink it.’

Normally calm, unflappable, in control—Elizabeth drained the glass like an obedient child, welcoming the warmth which licked at her stomach like fire.

Jenny sat down in the chair opposite, bolt upright, as though she were about to take dictation. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Whether it was the large shot of brandy on an empty stomach, or simply the need to unburden herself to someone, she didn’t know—but Elizabeth did want to talk.

Apart from John, she had entrusted the story to no one—for years she had been filled with a sense of shame at what had happened, but the shame had at times been punctuated with a fevered yearning for the man who had turned her from child to woman in a few short hours.

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s too—shocking.’

Jenny gave a sad smile. ‘I don’t think so, my dear. I brought up a child of my own out of wedlock, remember?’

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. ‘You mean you knew ...’

‘That your husband wasn’t Peter’s father? Yes, I knew. Oh, just from little things you said, really. I’ve been working for you for a long time, remember. You can trust me, you know.’

‘I know I can.’ There was a pause. ‘That man—Rick Masterton—was ...is ...’ She looked up, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. ‘ He’s Peter’s father, Jenny!’

She had expected some kind of appalled reaction, not Jenny’s slow and thoughtful nodding of the head.

‘That explains your behaviour,’ she said quietly. ‘But I don’t understand. Today, he didn’t seem to——’ her voice tailed off.

‘He didn’t recognise me,’ finished Elizabeth bitterly. ‘If anything was needed to convince me that I meant nothing to him, it was our little reunion today. Because there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition. That’s how much I really meant to Rick Masterton.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Jenny.

Elizabeth sighed as she started speaking, her voice very quiet, sounding as faraway as her thoughts. ‘It all began one summer evening, almost ten years ago,’ she said slowly, as the memories began to form. ‘I wasn’t Elizabeth then, I was Beth—and fresh out of the orphanage. I went to stay with a friend in London ...’

It had been one of those magical August summer evenings, the air warm, the ice-blue sky gilded with a golden haze from the sun, when the whole world had looked a gloriously happy place, and doubly magical for Beth, who had travelled down from Wales to stay with her friend Donna who had left the orphanage the year before to live and work in London.

‘I still can’t believe it!’ Beth had squealed fervently as she stared yet again at the slip of paper which listed her exam results.

‘Well, I can!’ retorted Donna. ‘And you deserve four “A” grades and your scholarship. Imagine! I said you were the brightest girl that they’ve ever had at the orphanage, didn’t I?’