PENNY JORDAN - Rules Of The Game

It didn’t take her long to drive to Clare Lodge, the home her parents had bought shortly after their marriage. Set in the rolling countryside of the Cheviots the lodge commanded almost idyllic views of the hills. The approach road was unmade up and pot holed, but the Volvo was too used to it to do more than protest mildly, unlike the expensive foreign make sportscar which she only narrowly managed to avoid as it came racing down the lane towards her. Only by swerving almost into the ditch was there room for its driver to get past, and Vanessa had a blurred impression of dark hair before her attention was concentrated on maintaining control of her own vehicle.

The lane led only to Clare Lodge and the Manor House beyond, and she frowned wondering if the driver of the other car had merely lost his way or had had a definite mission down the muddy narrow track. The Manor House had been up for sale for over twelve months and before that had fallen into decay, occupied only by General Adaire, an eccentric, ex-army man who lived there alone after the death of his wife.

More out of curiosity than anything else, Vanessa drove past the gates of the lodge and headed towards the Manor House proper coming to an abrupt stop as she saw the padlocked gate and the ‘No trespassers’ signs. Where the old, faded ‘for sale’ notice had hung a new notice now stood, a bold ‘sold’ sticker plastered across it. Someone had bought the Manor.

Musing on who it could be and hoping it would not, as had been rumoured at one time, be a property developer intent on turning what had once been a gracious country house into a multitude of small flatlets, Vanessa reversed down the lane to the lodge. As its name implied it had once been the lodge to the Manor House, but had been modernised and extended from its original Tudor framework during the Edwardian era, when it had been occupied by the mother of the then incumbent of the Manor. Having known no other home Vanessa was fiercely devoted to the lodge. How much longer would they be able to keep it though if Gavin did not get the contract he was hoping for from Supersport? Yet another reason for her to tender her apologies to Jay Courtland. Surely her love for her home outweighed her discomfort at the thought of facing the man who had mocked her so sardonically in her brother’s studio?

Less than an hour later, showered and wearing a simple pale yellow linen suit she had bought on impulse in a boutique several weeks ago, she was driving the Volvo in through the gates of Supersport. She had visited the factory once before and as then she was struck by its general air of neglect and decay, hardly the image of a go-ahead competitive firm, she thought as she eyed the untidy loading bay and the rather decrepit vans waiting there.

The only space to park the Volvo was right next to … Her heart missed a beat as she studied the unmistakable lines of the exotic sportscar she had last seen coming down the road from the Manor. A brief glance at the personalised numberplate told its own story and her face flamed as she remembered their brief contretemps in the lane; JAC 1, the numberplate read and she wondered idly what the ‘A’ stood for as she forced herself to breathe evenly and deeply, summoning all her courage and composure for the interview ahead.

As she locked the car and walked towards the reception area she heard voices gradually coming nearer, and recognised Jay Courtland’s, much sharper and more authoritative than she remembered it. ‘All deliveries will be tendered out—at least until we get the factory working reasonably efficiently.’ Vanessa heard someone else objecting, but Jay Courtland cut ruthlessly through the objections announcing crisply that he had made up his mind and that he was not prepared to waste valuable time on discussing the matter further.

She had just reached the main door when the small party of men rounded the corner. There were five men altogether, Jay Courtland easily discernible; easily the most arresting, his lean, tall frame standing out from those of his fellows; tired-looking, business-suited individuals whom she recognised as the directors of the once family-run firm. Jay Courtland saw her first, and saying something to his companions left them to walk towards her.

‘Ah ha, it’s the lady who wants to photograph me in the nude,’ he mocked her with a taunting smile. ‘You’re nothing if not persistent, but you can hardly expect me to strip to the buff here, or was it bribery you had in mind this time?’ His glance rested provocatively on her breasts as he spoke, and the suit which had seemed eminently respectable and suitable when she put it on suddenly seemed to cling far too seductively to the curves of her body, the silk shirt she was wearing beneath it, far too revealing. Only pride and a certain grim determination not to let him rattle her prevented her from hugging the edges of her jacket protectively around her body, but as though he knew what was running through her mind Jay lifted his glance from her body to her flushed indignant face, laughter gleaming gold in his tawny eyes. ‘You know I can’t imagine you as a model somehow,’ he said softly, ‘You don’t strike me as a young woman who would docilely allow herself to be ordered what to do. Something tells me you prefer being the one who does the ordering. Is that why you prefer being behind the camera to being in front of it?’

This was the moment to tell him that she wasn’t Nadia, but just as she opened her mouth, the main doors opened and a slim, harassed looking man in his mid-forties hurried out, relief clearly evident in his expression as he saw Jay Courtland.

‘Jay, there you are. There’s a call for you about the new contracts we’re hoping to set up for Supersport. Will you …’

‘Tell them I’ll ring back in fifteen minutes will you Russell. I think this young lady has something to say to me that just won’t wait.’

Vanessa went scarlet as she felt the other man’s interested gaze skim over her, and then Jay was taking her arm and guiding her in through the open doors, down a carpeted corridor coming to an abrupt halt outside the farthest door. Thrusting it open he stood back so that Vanessa could precede him inside. The room still smelled of fresh paint and had obviously been re-decorated and refurnished. Her mouth twisted in a slightly bitter smile. Of course everything would have to be bright shiny new for the new owner.

As though he guessed what she was thinking Jay Courtland watched her mobile face for a few seconds before offering, ‘Packaging my dear Nadia, you of all people should know how important that is. How can we hope to persuade our buyers that Supersport’s products are the best if we try to sell them from grubby, tatty offices?’

‘Spend money to make money?’ Vanessa asked acidly. ‘I should have thought you already had more than enough of that commodity?’

‘A man can never have too much of any commodity he prizes,’ Jay told her sardonically, ‘and I learned young the value of money; the status and power it confers upon its owner.’

‘And that’s what you want? Status, power?’

‘Is that so wrong?’ He walked over to the row of modern cabinets with their smoked glass fronts and extracted a bottle and two crystal glasses. ‘The respect of our peers, isn’t that what all of us want?’

‘Respect can’t be bought,’ Vanessa told him defiantly.

‘You think not?’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘You think the Mayor would still be wanting to dine with me if I was still Jay Courtland, bastard orphan of this parish? Would I be enjoying the company of a beautiful woman like you if I was still the same Jay Courtland I was at fifteen?’ His eyes and mouth told her that he thought he knew the answer, and Vanessa realised for the first time how much bitterness there was concealed behind the mocking mask; the smooth urbanity with which he faced the world. How could she tell him that no matter what he had done in life he would always have been a man who commanded the attention of others, especially her own sex. He opened the bottle he had been holding in his hand, the popping of the cork alerting Vanessa to its contents. ‘Veuve Cliquot,’ he drawled as he poured the foaming clear liquid into the fluted champagne glasses. ‘Your favourite I believe.’