Sharon Kendrik - Potent As Poison

Nothing’s going to happen, she told herself. Nothing. In a few months he’ll be gone, and that will be that.

But she lay awake all night long, her face set with tension, blinking unseeingly at the moon-shadows on the ceiling, her mind fraught with images of Rick.

ELIZABETH’S bad night did little for her temper in the morning, and she found herself snapping at Peter more than once, something she rarely did. She was normally fairly calm where her son was concerned, and when she caught him looking at her curiously she decided to pull herself together, determined from that moment on to put away her groundless fears and to get on with life. Rick had had no part in her life for the past nine years—and there was no earthly reason why he should start now.

But what about Peter? prompted a little demon inside her head.

Peter is happy just the way he is, she told her demon tormentor fiercely.

The one good thing which had happened was that her voice had, thankfully, returned to normal.

She set off for the office to find that Jenny had already arrived; she gave Elizabeth a brisk smile and handed her a pile of correspondence, and Elizabeth breathed a small sigh of relief. Obviously Jenny was as good as her word, and last night’s confidences were not about to be dredged up this morning.

Elizabeth dictated for an hour then tackled a pile of paperwork. Then she took some calls, went out for a meeting with a client, and when she came back, Jenny was sitting at her word-processor, a wry smile on her face as she pointed to a bouquet of flowers which sat on her desk. ‘For you,’ she said succinctly.

Elizabeth stood stock-still. She had never received flowers, never in her life, unless you counted the single red rose which Rick had had delivered on the tray containing their champagne breakfast. And she knew without looking at the card that he had sent these flowers, although they couldn’t be more different from that simple red rose she had once so treasured.

These, she realised, were the flowers sent by a man whose tastes had matured; fragrant, subtle and lovely. There were big, squashy pale pink roses which contrasted beautifully with the clear blue of cornflowers. Peonies too, in a much darker pink. And dark green ivy nestling with the sweet-scented purple spears of lavender. A pink ribbon tied the stems together, and the whole effect was that the flowers had been freshly and casually picked in the country that morning, though this was an illusion, for Elizabeth had heard of the florist who had designed this, and knew that they charged a small fortune.

She reached down and picked up the card.

Despite the friction—or perhaps because of it—I enjoyed our encounter immensely. Have dinner with me tonight. Rick.

She crumpled the card in her hand and dropped it into the bin. She was irritated, both at the peremptory tone he’d used, and at her own brief but foolish response to his extravagant bouquet—of the sudden urge to bury her nose in the sweet perfume, to take them away to her office and arrange them lovingly in a vase. I should trample them underfoot, she thought bitterly, as common sense prevailed.

‘You can have the flowers, Jenny,’ she said abruptly. ‘Or send them downstairs to the typing pool.’

‘Are you sure?’ Jenny’s eyes were assessing. ‘They’re from Mr Masterton, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, they are, and yes, I’m sure—and if he rings—you can tell him——’

But her words were never to be spoken, for at that moment Paul Meredith, her boss, had strolled smilingly through the door.

‘Tell him what? Mmm—lovely flowers. Yours, Elizabeth?’

Elizabeth nodded.

There was a gleam in Paul’s eyes. ‘And may we know who they’re from?’

Elizabeth was reluctant to tell him, but she wasn’t about to start lying to her boss. ‘They’re from Rick Masterton,’ she said stiffly.

‘You obviously made quite a hit,’ he observed.

‘You sound surprised,’ said Elizabeth, a trifle waspishly.

Paul’s eyebrows rose. ‘The only thing that surprises me is why someone didn’t sweep you off your feet years ago. I’ve tried often enough!’

Elizabeth smiled. Over the years, Paul had frequently asked her out, but she had said no so often to him that she suspected he wouldn’t be able to cope if she gave him a positive answer! A divorcé, in his early forties, with an easygoing manner which carefully hid his astute business mind, Paul was an eligible man, but Elizabeth had no intention of dating her boss—that was simply asking for trouble, quite apart from the fact that she simply didn’t fancy him. I don’t fancy anyone , she thought gloomily. Except Rick.

‘So where are you having dinner?’

‘I’m not.’ She saw his perplexed frown. ‘Having dinner, that is.’ She turned to her secretary. ‘Please tell Mr Masterton that quite clearly, when he calls.’

Paul walked through into her office and Elizabeth followed.

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