Sandra Marton - Mistresses - Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds

‘Eve? Dammit—answer me—is that you?’

To her dismay he halted almost directly beneath her, breathing heavily. Thank God she wasn’t wearing anything bright that might give her away if he thought to look up. She felt dizzy, and suddenly remembered to breathe. She didn’t want to faint and flatten him with the proof of her presence.

‘What the hell…!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Look—whoever you are, you’re not in trouble for trespassing, if that’s what you’re worried about!’ he called, his voice rasping with controlled impatience. ‘Come on out—I’m not going to hurt you…’

He fell silent until the hush of leaves stirring in the gentle seaward breeze was shattered by the muffled shrill of a cellphone. An angry curse floated up into the boughs as he ripped the phone out of the inside pocket of his buttoned jacket.

‘Yes! What…? No—I put down the phone and got distracted for a moment…No, no, of course it’s not—you’re right; we need to get this settled now…’ Her eyes hunted for the sight of him as he wheeled in a half-circle one last time and then began retracing his steps. ‘Sorry…we’ll pick up at the clause we left off and go through it point by point…just let me put my hands on that contract again—’

Regan remained frozen for a few minutes after she had listened to his retreat. When she was certain that his words weren’t just a cunning ruse to flush her out, she uncramped her limbs and began to climb down with a great deal more care than she had tackled the ascension, thankful that her skirt was cut on an A-line rather than tight around her knees and that she had no pantyhose to snag.

She hit the ground with a groan of relief and bent to brush the bark and twigs off her clothes and legs, and straighten the seams of her skirt. She was retucking her blouse into her waistband when a prickle on the back of her neck made her swing around, her heart pattering like that of a baby bird who’d fallen out of its nest.

A thin, gangly youth, with hair the colour of used rope straggling to his shoulders and round, wire-framed glasses that accentuated the boniness of his face, stood watching her from the bushes.

Regan nervously flicked her hair behind her ears and pinned on a reassuring smile. ‘Hello. Where did you come from?’

And more importantly—how long had he been there? She bit her lip. Had Adam grabbed a handy accomplice for the chase?

He didn’t smile back at her, his brown eyes unnervingly intense. ‘Hi.’

‘Do you live here?’ she asked brightly, scraping at the sticky residue of pine-sap on her reddened palms.

He pushed his hands into the pockets of his baggy khaki shorts, hunching his thin shoulders under the plain white T-shirt. ‘Nah.’

He looked at the scratches on her legs. ‘What were you doing up that tree?’

Her mind went blank. ‘I…thought I saw an interesting bird,’ she improvised. Heavens, how low she had sunk—now she was even lying to children! Although judging from the squeak and scrape of his breaking voice he wasn’t really a child any more. In his early teens, she estimated.

‘What kind of bird?’

‘Uh, I don’t know…that’s why I wanted to get a closer look.’ She tried another smile.

‘Didn’t you know someone was calling for you?’

‘No—were they?’ She rounded her eyes innocently. ‘I must be hard of hearing. Who was it—do you know?’ she asked, hoping she might find out enough to plan herself a disaster strategy.

His light brown eyes looked innocently back. ‘Big or small?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The bird you saw, was it big or small?’ he wanted to know.

‘Big,’ she said firmly.

‘What colour was it?’

‘Well…brown, I suppose.’

‘Light brown or dark brown?’

‘Both,’ she said desperately. ‘Sort of speckled.’

‘Flying or perching?’

‘It flew and landed in the tree, then it perched,’ she said through clenched teeth.

‘What colour legs did it have?’

She looked at him incredulously. ‘Who do you think you are, James Bond?’ she joked.

‘Are you talking about the ornithologist or the spy named after him?’ he responded, and suddenly she knew that the weedy adolescent look was extremely deceptive.

She had tossed him a condescending comment, expecting its subtlety to be totally over his head, and he had fielded it with precocious dexterity. He knew very well she had been stringing him a line because he had been the one spinning it into a noose!

She folded her arms defensively across her chest. ‘I’m surprised anyone of your generation knows where Ian Fleming got the idea for his character’s name.’

He shifted his weight, sifting his battered sneakers amongst the fallen leaves. ‘I read a lot.’

‘So did I at your age, except I wasn’t allowed to read Ian Fleming,’ she said wryly.

‘How old do you think I am?’

‘Is this another guessing game?’ She sighed at his steady stare. ‘Fourteen,’ she said, adding a year to her best estimate for the sake of his young male ego.

‘Fifteen,’ he corrected gloomily.

‘Oh…well, what I said actually still goes,’ she consoled him. ‘My mother thought the Bible was the only book worth reading. Novels were a big no-no in our house.’

His thin face took on an expression of sheer horror. ‘You weren’t allowed to read any fiction at all?’

She shrugged. ‘Not at home. I used to keep a stash in my locker at school, though.’

‘But that’s censorship! You should have told her that she couldn’t violate your rights like that,’ he said, showing he was a true child of the modern age. ‘I’m allowed to read anything I like.’

‘Lucky you. I guess your mother must be a real liberal, huh?’

‘I don’t know. Clare lives in America. My parents divorced when I was born, and I stayed with Dad.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’

She was taken aback. ‘Well…I’m sorry because you didn’t have your mother there when you were a baby,’ she said, stepping gingerly.

‘Why? Don’t you think that men can single-parent as well as women?’

Regan rolled her eyes. She had a feeling that this gangly youth might well best her in a debate. A question seemed to be his favourite form of reply.

‘Look, I really have to go.’ She couldn’t believe she had stood here chatting when Adam might already be back on the prowl. She had to find out what he was doing here and whether it was going to be possible to avoid him. If he was just a visitor maybe she could keep out of the way long enough for him to think he had made a mistake…

‘Sir Frank and Mrs Harriman are probably wondering where I am.’ She hesitated, looking around.

‘The house is back that way.’ He pulled his hand from his pocket and pointed over her left shoulder.

‘Thanks.’ She still hesitated.

‘If you turn right when you get to the bark track behind that tree big fern you’ll come out of the bush by the front flower garden,’ he added.

She gave him a sharp look, but his thin face was telling her nothing. If he was willing to help her, he surely couldn’t be in league with Adam.

‘OK—thanks again. Bye…’

‘See you around,’ came the laconic reply.

She paused, looking over her shoulder. ‘Will you?’

‘Probably.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m Ryan.’

She wondered what test she’d passed that he was willing to honour her with the information so far stubbornly withheld. ‘I’m Regan. I’m here to help Mrs Harriman organise her granddaughter’s wedding.’

Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t respond and she offered him a cheerful wave and went on her way.

She discovered that her trust in him was justified, and five minutes later she was politely greeting Hazel Harriman in the drawing room at the front of the house and apologising for the state of her hands.