Sara Craven - Act Of Betrayal

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVENpublished her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

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TITLE PAGE Act of Betrayal Sara Craven www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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COPYRIGHT

THE traffic was heavy all the way, but that was how it always turned out when you were in a hurry, Laura thought, drumming her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

She was running late already, but perhaps the meeting at the works would go over time. It was certainly important enough to do so.

She glanced at her watch, with a brief sigh. She wished Uncle Martin had given her more notice, but from his secretary’s agitated call, she’d gathered he’d had very little warning himself. And supplying delicious lunches for important clients at the works was part of her job, as well as a challenge, so she couldn’t complain. Besides, she remembered herself drily, clients rarely came quite as important as Tristan Construction.

The traffic lights changed, and she let in the clutch and drove on towards the industrial estate where Caswell Carpets had their main works and offices.

She ran through the menu in her mind as she drove. Watercress soup to start, followed by pheasant in a red wine sauce, all plucked from the freezer and packed in cartons in the boot. To follow, the strawberries she’d just collected from the local market garden served with crème Chantilly.

She hoped the Tristan directors would be suitably impressed. She also wished they’d chosen some other day for their visit. She’d had plans of her own, including a visit to the hairdressers, she thought, giving herself a swift disparaging glance in the driving mirror. She could probably have managed it too if Celia had only agreed to give her a hand with the lunch, but she had learned a long time ago that her cousin’s model-girl prettiness concealed a selfishness which more than matched the charm she worked at so determinedly.

Clad in brief shorts and a minimal suntop, Celia had been bound for the garden to sunbathe, and she’d refused, smilingly but totally, to accompany Laura to the works instead.

‘Honestly, sweetie, I’d be less than useless,’ she’d protested. ‘That microwave oven you persuaded Daddy to install frightens me to death. Anyway, you were only going to have your hair trimmed, and you can do that any time.’

‘Of course,’ Laura said without irony. ‘I just thought you might want to help, as there’s a panic on.’

Celia waved a languid hand. ‘There’s always a panic on.’

‘Perhaps,’ Laura said rather drily. ‘But this time it’s Tristan Construction.’

‘Am I supposed to know who they are?’

Laura gave her a resigned look. ‘I think you should,’ she said crisply. ‘They’re only the customers who could stop Caswells sliding any further into the red this year. They’ve got two major building projects in this area—offices and flats—and the carpeting contracts are up for grabs. Naturally, your father wants first grab.’

Celia’s lack of concern about the fluctuating fortunes of the company never ceased to surprise her. Or was her cousin deliberately closing her eyes to the present difficulties Caswells was suffering, she wondered. Celia didn’t like unpleasant facts, and never had. To her Caswells was as firm and unshakable as the Rock of Gibraltar, and she preferred to ignore the fact that other companies, many of them older established than Caswells, and leaders in their fields, had gone to the wall in the present recession.

Laura supposed her cousin couldn’t wholly be blamed. She had always been encouraged to think of herself as a rich man’s daughter. Uncle Martin had indulged her since the day she was born, and the only thing she had done since leaving school that even approached work was redesigning the interior decor of the large house they all lived in. Celia’s tastes leaned towards the opulent, to Laura’s regret, but Uncle Martin regarded his home as a showcase for the company, and seemed well pleased with her efforts.

‘Then I hope he gets it,’ Celia yawned. ‘Feed them well, won’t you, darling. Oh—and Laurie, you will change, won’t you? Put on something decent?’

‘I don’t actually wait on table, you know.’ Laura felt a little curl of anger deep inside her, as she glanced down at her simple denim skirt and short sleeved top. ‘I’m not on public display to the customers. I spend all my time in the kitchen.’

Celia gave a graceful shrug. ‘Just as you please. But isn’t it enough to behave like a drudge? You really don’t have to look like one as well.’

Her words still rankled with Laura as she turned into Caswells main gate, returning the salute from the security man.

She knew she was being a fool to allow it, especially when she should be inured to Celia’s little ways by now, and particularly when her affection and gratitude to her uncle made her suffer them in silence anyway. He had been endlessly kind to her, giving her a home during that most difficult part of her young life when her parents had been killed in a motor crash in France.

And later, when her life fell apart again, he’d helped her to pick up the pieces, and she would always be grateful for that. Always. And if it meant tolerating Celia’s waspishness and selfishness, then she would do so.

Nevertheless, she had changed into a neat navy cotton shirtwaister, despising herself for doing it even as she fastened the buttons.

She pulled into the executives’ car park, and braked, swearing mildly under her breath. She had no official parking space, but a place was always left for her, and today it was occupied by a long sleek Jaguar.

Laura, staring frustratedly at it through the windscreen, supposed it must belong to one of the Tristan directors. She didn’t recognise it anyway, and now she had to resign herself to driving round to the rear of the building, and taking all the food up the stairs to the boardroom floor, instead of using the reception lift, and the brawny arms of George the commissionaire.

It was fast turning out to be one of those days, she decided ruefully.

It took three journeys, and she was flushed and a little breathless as she unpacked her cartons and switched on the oven, and checked unobtrusively that the waitresses had laid the dining room table correctly.

She’d hulled and washed the strawberries, and was layering them in a glass bowl with the crème Chantilly, when the kitchen door almost burst open, and Mrs Ferguson, her uncle’s secretary came in at the run.

‘Oh, you’re here.’ Fergie looked more flushed than Laura did herself, and sounded agitated. ‘So you didn’t get the message. I was afraid of that. I should have ‘phoned myself—made sure.’