SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Satan's Contract

Shaun’s broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorway as he stood for a moment on the threshold, the slightly sardonic curve to his mouth suggesting that he was faintly amused by the stir he was creating. Pippa heard her father’s hissing intake of breath, and moved swiftly to intervene, crossing the room to greet the newcomer with a smile of easy welcome.

‘Good afternoon. Thank you for coming. Can I offer you some sherry? Or something stronger, perhaps?’

Those hazel-brown seemed to regard her with a hint of cool mockery. ‘Thank you—sherry will do, so long as it’s not too sweet.’

‘Oh, no—this one’s quite dry,’ she assured him. ‘My mother has the sweet one.’

He slanted a speculative glance in that direction. ‘So I see,’ he murmured, a flicker of quizzical amusement passing behind his eyes. ‘Is she planning to go through the whole bottle?’

Pippa flushed slightly. ‘I expect so,’ she acknowledged wryly. ‘I don’t know how she can stand the stuff myself—it tastes like syrup.’

‘Each to their own taste,’ he responded drily. ‘I trust you’ve fully recovered from your fall this morning?’

Her smile wavered slightly, but she managed to keep it in place. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she responded lightly. ‘It was such a stupid thing to do, riding like that in the lane. I was lucky it was no worse.’

Now there was no mistaking the mockery. ‘The luck was all mine,’ he taunted, letting his eyes slide deliberately down over the ripe swell of her breasts beneath the silk of her blouse.

She caught her breath, her cheeks flushing a deep pink—she hadn’t expected him to be so blunt as to remind her of that. She turned to the solicitor, struggling to maintain her composure. ‘Mr Gibbons—some sherry?’

A heavy tread warned of her father’s approach. ‘Couldn’t wait five minutes to get your feet under the table, could you, Morgan?’ he grated belligerently. ‘Come to take inventory, to see we don’t remove anything we’re not entitled to, have you?’

Shaun turned slowly, his level brows lifted in sardonic question. ‘I’m quite sure you wouldn’t do anything like that,’ he responded, those hazel-brown eyes—the living image of Gramps’s—glinting with mocking humour. ‘I imagine it would constitute theft.’ He slanted an enquiring glance at the solicitor. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘Oh...quite,’ that embarrassed gentleman confirmed quickly.

‘You’d better not start counting your chickens,’ Sir Charles advised in a blustering tone. ‘The battle’s not over yet.’

‘On the contrary—Mr Gibbons advises me that there should be no difficulty in obtaining letters of administration. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks. And if you have any ideas of attempting to intervene,’ he added, his voice menacingly soft, ‘I really would advise you to think again.’

Sir Charles had turned an ominous shade of purple, ready to explode. Pippa was acutely conscious that everyone in the room was listening to the conversation with undisguised interest—everyone except her mother, whose attention was focused solely on the remaining sherry in her bottle. Her plaintive voice cut inconsequentially into the taut silence.

‘Charles, you really will have to bring up some more of this Oloroso,’ she declared, her careful diction not quite concealing the slur in her voice. ‘I really can’t think where it all goes.’

Someone tittered with embarrassed laughter, and Pippa closed her eyes for a brief moment, wishing devoutly that the ground could just open up and swallow her. With a snort of rage, Sir Charles turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door viciously behind him.

‘Oh...’ Lady Corbett blinked, startled. It had finally impinged on her blurred consciousness that something was amiss, but she wasn’t at all sure what it was. She glanced around rather anxiously, afraid that she might have committed some faux pas . ‘I...I didn’t necessarily mean right now...’ she protested vaguely.

Shaun’s eyes still held a faintly mocking smile. He handed his glass back to Pippa. ‘I guess I’ve already overstayed my welcome,’ he drawled, an inflexion of sardonic humour in his voice. ‘Mr Gibbons, if you happen to be going my way, I’d sure appreciate a lift.’

‘Of...of course.’ The solicitor looked as if his tie was too tight.

‘Thank you. Well, good afternoon, Miss Corbett.’ The smile was blandly polite. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. I look forward to meeting you again.’

For a moment Pippa could only stand rooted to the spot, staring after him as he left the room. But then suddenly it seemed as if she had been released from some strange spell, and, putting down the tray of sherry glasses on a convenient table, she ran out after him.

‘Shaun—wait!’

Halfway across the panelled hall he paused, glancing back, one eyebrow lifted in mocking enquiry.

She hesitated, awkwardly wondering how to follow up on her impulsive action. ‘I just...I wanted to apologise for what my father said to you this morning,’ she stammered. ‘It was quite abominable of him.’

The hard glint in his eyes as he subjected her to a lazy appraisal seemed to turn her blood to ice. ‘Well, Miss Corbett—this sudden change in your attitude towards me is very interesting,’ he taunted in that soft, laconic drawl. ‘What brought it on, I wonder? Trying to play your grandmother’s game?’

She stared up at him, bewildered. ‘I...I don’t know what you mean?’

‘Don’t you?’ His eyes hardened perceptibly. ‘The Corbetts never have had any time for anyone whose breeding didn’t match their own—unless they found themselves in need of funds. Your grandmother was more than willing to prostitute herself by marrying my father for his money—maybe it’s occurred to you to do the same.’

His words struck her like a slap in the face. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she protested, furious. ‘I wouldn’t touch you with a barge-pole!’

He laughed softly, taking her chin between his fingers and turning her face up to study it from several angles, as if she were one of the chattels of the estate he had just inherited. ‘Not bad,’ he murmured with an air of cool detachment. ‘The pedigree is unmistakable, of course—every inch a Corbett. It could be quite interesting to break you to bridle.’

She slapped his hand away. ‘You won’t get the chance!’

‘No?’ Those hazel-brown eyes were regarding her in amused speculation. ‘We’ll see. It would be good to take a little revenge on your family.’ A hard edge had crept into his voice. ‘Your grandmother’s behaviour prevented my father from ever supporting my mother properly—she had to struggle by on a pittance until the day she died. That’s something I won’t ever forget or forgive. And I’ve never been allowed to get to know him, either—the last time I saw him was more than fifteen years ago, at my mother’s funeral.’

‘Well, whose fault was that?’ Pippa retorted, refusing to let herself be swayed. ‘You chose to go off to Canada—’

‘Because it was more than obvious that I was a constant thorn in the old witch’s side—for which she made my father pay with every breath he drew.’

‘My grandmother died six years ago,’ she pointed out, cool blue eyes regarding him with disdain. ‘You could have visited after that.’

His eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I tried,’ he said. ‘I came to England two years ago with just that intention, but Charles wouldn’t let me into the house.’

She laughed in scorn. ‘If you’re trying to tell me you couldn’t have got past my father...!’

He lifted his eyebrows in faint surprise. ‘What do you suggest I should have done? Knocked him down? I must admit I considered it, very seriously.’