Linda Miles - Heading For Trouble!

‘That,’ he said mildly, ‘depends very much on the person.’ And he gave her an outrageously charming smile.

Morgan made the interesting discovery that a smile could have all the impact of a punch in the solar plexus—even when you were actually furious with the owner. The man was a public menace; she could feel her resistance crumbling, could actually feel the corners of her own mouth turning up in involuntary response to that look of extravagant admiration. It didn’t even seem to matter that she knew it was an act—she knew how ridiculous she must look beside Elaine, and still she felt herself warming to him.

She bit her lip fiercely and glared at him. He was here to be impressed by Elaine, not to flirt with Elaine’s sister.

‘Are you finished with your plate?’ she asked abruptly. While they had been scrapping everyone had finished eating. Escape was at hand.

Morgan turned to her stepmother. ‘You’ve been slaving for hours, Leah, and tomorrow will be just as bad. Go and lie on a sofa somewhere,’ she said firmly.

She stood up and began collecting the rest of the dishes and carrying them out to the kitchen.

Chairs scraped in the dining room; she could hear people moving towards the front room. Alone at last!

‘Here, let me give you a hand,’ said a voice behind her.

Morgan realised too late that she had walked into a pit of her own digging. But how could she have guessed that the monster killer ego would condescend to help with the washing-up? And now, just when she needed to think on her feet, that strange, stupid breathlessness had come back and she was distracted by an uncomfortable consciousness of his closeness.

The deep, drawling voice had spoken almost in her ear, and as she whipped around automatically to face him she found that they were only inches apart. Unbidden, the thought flashed through her mind that Elaine, raising her mouth to kiss him, had stood no closer than she was now. And she was taller than Elaine.

What on earth was the matter with her?

‘Don’t be silly; you’re a guest,’ she protested, backing away hastily.

‘I try to be a good one,’ he replied virtuously, and laughed at her sceptical look.

‘But you should be—that is, wouldn’t you rather talk to Elaine?’ Morgan began nervously stacking dishes in the sink and allowing hot, soapy water to rise around them.

‘Ah, Elaine. I take it that dazzling performance was for my benefit? Don’t look so horrified, Morgan; I said it was dazzling, didn’t I? More credit to her for making an opportunity for herself. But I can’t, offhand, think of a tactful way of telling her to consider herself auditioned, so I thought I’d come out here and make myself useful.’

‘Naturally you wouldn’t dream of saying anything that might cause offence,’ said Morgan.

‘Well, not without a studio audience,’ he said shamelessly. ‘Why don’t you let me wash while you dry, since you know where everything goes?’ His voice was not precisely gloating, but there was no doubt about it—he certainly thought that he’d won this round hands down. And now he had her where he wanted her—over the washing-up he would give her the kind of grilling which had tripped up people who were cleverer, wilier and more experienced at downright lying than she would ever be. Unless...

Morgan’s eyes swept rapidly round the kitchen. ‘Wash as you go’ was not a precept that Leah had ever taken to heart; every surface was piled high with pots, pans, mixing bowls and every conceivable implement which could be used in the preparation of a dinner for eight. The sink was now filled with the dinner dishes, as was the counter beside it. And this scene of chaos had given her an idea of breathtaking simplicity—and, it had to be said, outrageous bad manners. But at least it would save her from a tête-à-tête with Richard Kavanagh.

Morgan took a deep breath. She looked resolutely into the soapsuds; she didn’t dare look up at him. ‘It’s awfully nice of you,’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’ It was still not too late to back out.

‘Quite sure.’ He had tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and was already rolling up his sleeves. There was probably a warning somewhere in the contrast between his casual, trendy clothes and the lean muscle of the arms being laid bare; Morgan ignored it. So he thought he’d outflanked her, did he?

‘Well, if you insist,’ said Morgan, stepping away from the sink. She raised limpid eyes to his face. ‘We always leave things to drain,’ she explained in a matter-of-fact, helpful tone of voice. ‘It’s more hygienic than drying with a dish towel. You can just leave everything in the rack. Thanks very much for offering; I have had rather a long day. It’s terribly nice of you.’ She managed to meet his eyes with a straight face.

Once out of the kitchen, she stumbled down the hall, doubled over with laughter, hands clapped to her mouth, until she staggered at last to the coat-rack, buried her face in a coat, and howled.

When she had herself under control—more or less under control—Morgan returned to the sitting room to join the rest of the family.

‘Where’s Richard?’ asked Elaine in a discontented tone.

‘Oh, he insisted on doing the washing-up,’ Morgan said cheerfully.

‘What?’

‘He wouldn’t take no for an answer,’ Morgan added smugly.

‘Oh, my God,’ said Elaine in horror. ‘Well, I’d better go and give him a hand.’ She hastened out of the room.

And now, for the first time that evening, Morgan was able to relax. But as she picked up a magazine and leafed idly through it she was suddenly, wryly, aware of a faint sense of anticlimax.

She had actually got the better of Richard Kavanagh! But the problem was she couldn’t be there to savour her victory—to see his face as he tackled the washing-up, or was joined by Elaine, keen to score a few more points over the soapsuds. And, even worse, she found herself actually looking forward to his return from the kitchen. He wasn’t the kind to take defeat lying down; what would he do next?

Morgan reminded herself sternly that she wasn’t supposed to be crossing swords with him at all. In fact, looking back over the evening, she couldn’t understand what had got into her—she had meant to be so quiet and unobtrusive! She had promised Elaine to act conventionally. Where had it all gone wrong?

An image came to her of cool grey eyes, amusement lurking in their depths. He made me do it, she protested to herself. He deliberately set out to thwart me at every turn; was I supposed to take that lying down? And as for keeping him company in the kitchen... An older, more sinister image came to her—of those same grey eyes glittering in winter moonlight...

Everything he’d said at dinner showed that he hadn’t changed; the merciless predator who took pleasure in the hunt wasn’t far beneath the surface. She had to keep him from remembering her, and keep him from going anywhere near A Child’s Place. But that was no reason, she reminded herself, to jeopardise Elaine’s chances. As long as he stayed she must simply keep out of his way. From now on she would have to do better.

CHAPTER THREE

‘TELL me the story of Gareth again, Morgan.’

Morgan looked up from her unread magazine an hour later to find Ben standing beside her. ‘I can’t watch TV ’cos Sarah and Jenny are watching The Little Mermaid,’ he explained.

Morgan grinned at this flattering invitation. The little boy climbed onto the sofa beside her, and the two were soon lost in the story of the humble kitchen boy who came to the aid of a haughty lady. Each time the boy defeated a knight in battle the lady exclaimed that it was luck, and a shameful thing that a brave knight should be brought low by a dirty kitchen boy. And about a third of the way into the story the hairs rose on the back of Morgan’s neck, and she knew that Richard Kavanagh had come into the room.