Savage Obsession

CHAPTER ONE

She should never have married him. She'd been such a fool to even consider the possibility that it could work. Such a damned fool!

Beth's small fists beat uselessly against the broad window-ledge and a sudden hot spurt of tears blurred the view of South Park's magnificent gardens. Clamping her teeth together, she turned from the window and back into the body of her bedroom. No time to weep, no time to begin the battle to overcome the shock that left her coldly aching inside, no time to try to come to terms with what she had seen, what she had heard.

So maybe tonight's dinner party was a blessing in disguise, she informed herself drily. Acting the part of the woman Charles Savage had married—the perfect hostess to his business colleagues, people who could be useful to him—would help her to hide the pain.

But she knew that small, frigid consolation was nothing but a chimera when she met the mute misery in her reflected green eyes. How could she begin to come to terms with the knowledge that Zanna Hall, the woman who had been the ob­sessive love of Charles's life, was here again? Obviously at his invitation, and, what was worse, so much worse, complete with their illegitimate two-year-old son, the fruit of their passionate, ill-fated affair!

For a moment the shocking intensity of the pain she had kept under control since her miscarriage three months ago threatened to pull her slender frame apart, but she conquered it, denied it, before it reached the intolerable level that would leave her useless, fit for nothing.

Compressing the sweet curve of her mouth, she lifted a comb, frowning at the slight tremor of her hand, and dragged it through her straight dark hair, setting the elegant bob to rights. She would do what she always did at this time when they were enter­taining. Stick rigidly to routine, that way she might be safe, come through the advancing ordeal with her dignity intact.

Dignity, or at least the show of it, was all she had. She certainly had no pride or self-respect to hold on to. She never had, not where Charles was concerned. Couldn't have done, or she never would have agreed to marry him.

Deliberately closing her eyes to that degrading piece of self-knowledge, she walked briskly out of the room and made her way to the kitchens. Check with Mrs Penny on progress in the kitchen. Their guests would begin to arrive at any moment now. Rooms were ready. Business discussions would go on through most of the weekend. Two wives tagging along this time, needing to be entertained to­morrow while the men were incommunicado. Gentle tours of South Park's gardens always went well, especially so in this glorious June weather. Tea on the terrace, idle female chit-chat, maybe a drive down to the village in the morning to look at the Norman church, the picturesque remains of the abbey.

And never a hint of what she was going through, what she was feeling.

Entering the enormous kitchen, Beth was greeted by the scent of freshly chopped herbs and Mrs Penny, who had been cook-cum-housekeeper at South Park—apart from one brief and fateful ab­sence three years ago—since Charles's parents had lived here, said grumpily,

'As if there isn't enough to do!' She was doing something unnecessarily vigorous with a fish kettle and her small shrewd blue eyes were snapping as she glanced sideways up at Beth. 'You do know, ducky, as how that madam is back? Walked in as large as life demanding tea to be sent to the study, milk and biscuits for the nipper. Dead spit he is, too. Shameless, I call it.'

Rigidly, Beth turned to inspect the freshly pre­pared vegetables put ready on the butcher's block. So Mrs Penny had picked up the unmistakable likeness between father and son. It was, after all, quite unmissable.

Trying to will the stiffness out of her neck and shoulders, she fastened her eyes on the various pans. No point in advertising her misery and hu­miliation. Fresh peas, courgettes, tiny potatoes and baby broad beans, all picked from South Park's walled vegetable garden early this morning, but her interest was feigned, doing nothing at all to block out Mrs Penny's relentless tirade.

'And when I went to collect the tray, not ten minutes ago, she was still there and telling me, if you please, how she'd come to stay. "I'd like you to prepare a room for me, Mrs Penny," she said—all bossy, like, "and one for Harry, of course." That's the nipper. Nice little lad, he looked, and it's not his fault, is it? Can't hold that against him, poor brat. And I told her straight, I did. "I'm afraid as how I'm much too busy, Miss Hall. It is still Miss Hall, isn't it?" And she never contradicted, said oh, no, she'd gone and married Tom or Dick—or Harry's dad!' As if to emphasise her extreme busyness, she stamped to the sink and turned the tap on a head of lettuce. Shouting above the gush of water, she declared, 'I can't think what that man of yours is about, giving her houseroom, that I can't! She's been nothing but trouble, that I do know!'

Beth knew perfectly well why Charles was giving Zanna houseroom, but it was something she couldn't bear to think of right now so she replied repressively, with unconscious and ironical truth, 'I'm sure Mr Savage has his reasons.'

And Mrs Penny snorted irrepressively,

'Don't you "Mr Savage" me, ducky! Charlie-boy it's always been, since I first came to work for his folks when he was ten years old. And Charlie-boy it always will be!'

Beth shuddered. She wished she had Mrs Penny's confidence, her sense of belonging—come what may. At one time, blessed with the power of love, with the blind hope of youth, she had possessed all that. Possessed the determination to force her darling Charles into loving her, truly loving her, sure that, given time, he would forget that wild, turbulent, ill-fated passion that had been his ob­sessive love for Zanna Hall.

Fool.

Forcing a smile, she said as lightly as she could, 'If everything's under control, I'll go and wait for the first of our guests. It's late enough to forget about tea. Charles will offer drinks. I'll go and root him out.'

But she didn't. Of course she didn't. She had been on her way to do just that, guessing he'd be in his study because, half an hour before, as she'd been putting the final touches to the dinner table, she'd heard his car.

Nowadays, he no longer bothered to announce his arrival. Their marriage had degenerated into a distant thing, both coolly polite on the surface be­cause anything else would have been unthinkable, but withdrawing from each other, the tide of their relationship inexorably ebbing.

Approaching the study, she'd painted the tiny, impe

rsonal smile on her face, almost habitual now because she'd promised herself that she would never allow him to see just how much pain and distress his physical and mental movement away from her gave. For him to even guess at the passionate love she still bore him would be unproductive, would probably dismay and disgust him into retreating still further from the rocky shores of their marriage. She'd grown into the habit of biding her time, waiting, hoping, being all that he needed her to be and no more. Never anything more. Not now.

The study door had been ajar, just a little, and her hand had been upraised to push against the smooth wood when that husky, horribly remem­bered voice had stopped her in her tracks. She would never forget Zanna's siren tones. Not even if she lived to be a hundred. And at first it hadn't made sense; nightmares rarely did, did they? Because Zanna had broken away three years ago, or nearly, leaving Charles devastated, living in brooding isolation at South Park, a meaty subject for gossiping village tongues. So she couldn't have returned, could she? She couldn't be saying,

'I had to come to you again, darling. That ill-begotten marriage is finished now. Over. And I won't pretend I'm not glad—I can't be that much of a hypocrite. Besides, our son needs to get to know his father, you won't deny that. As a single parent I've given Harry all the love in the world, but he still needs his father.'

Instinctively, Beth's hand had eased the door open, just a little, the reflection of puzzled dis­belief in her deep green eyes changing to shock as they took in the picture that would be printed on her retinas for all time.

Zanna, as flamboyantly lovely as ever, her red-gold hair curling bewitchingly around her heart-stopping features, Charles, hovering above her as she lounged back in one of the leather-covered armchairs, the stern, hard features softened to an expression that Beth hadn't seen for months. Was never likely to see again outside of tormenting dreams. And the child.

Around two years old. Playing on the floor with a paperweight in his chubby little hands, banging the smooth glass temporary toy gleefully down on the thick carpet, oblivious to the vibrations that were making the air above his innocent head hum. Oblivious of his true parentage, for now. Of the remarkable family resemblance, the raven hue of that silky hair, the deep, deep grey of the black­-fringed eyes, the cast of the features that would, in time, be an almost mirror-image of the man whose eyes were now fastened on him with all too naked longing.

Slipping away, unseen and unheard, she had made it to her bathroom in time to part with her lunch and had then forced herself to confront the unbelievable, the shock and pain of knowing that Zanna was back, complete with the son Charles had longed for.

Following the break-up of his tempestuous re­lationship with Zanna, Charles had married her, Beth, not exactly on the rebound but with a cool calculation that had almost taken her breath away.

He had wanted a wife, a child to inherit—several children, in point of fact. And she, Beth, was suitable, had proved herself capable, in Mrs Penny's absence, of running South Park like clockwork and, as an added bonus, acting as his hostess when he entertained business contacts, stepping into the shoes Zanna had vacated.

His proposal had hit her like a bomb, and she had been suffering from shell-shock when she'd ac­cepted, must have been to have ignored the well-meaning advice of her parents and Allie, her best friend and business partner. But still sufficiently in control of her wits to keep him in ignorance of the way she felt about him.

A man of his urbane sophistication, possessing the drive and ambition that had wrested the family-owned communications business out of the undis­tinguished dust of failure and planted it firmly back on its feet, would have thought her a fool of the first water if she'd leapt into his arms and con­fessed that she'd loved him from afar ever since she'd been a starry-eyed teenager! That most of the village girls had yearned over the darkly brooding good looks of Charles Savage of South Park, the unattainable, the impossibly sexy Charles. That those other girls had grown out of the state of in­fatuation, had found real, attainable men-friends, but that she, Beth Garner, had done no such thing, had loved him always, could see no end to that love.

The arrival of the first of the weekend guests had Beth thrusting her misery to the back of her mind, and, as if by telepathy, Charles was there, by her side, no hint in his steely gunfighter's eyes of the emotion he must have felt when he met his son for the very first time.

Or had it been for the first time? she wondered tormentedly as he smiled at her over the head of one of the visiting wives, the slight curve of his mouth doing nothing to bring warmth to those narrow, steely grey eyes, but doing everything to bring that bittersweet stabbing pain to the pit of her stomach.

This overriding sexual awareness of him was something she was going to have to school out of existence, she recognised with a hopeless anguish that was down to the fact that she had been trying to accomplish just that ever since he had made it plain that he was no longer interested in the physical side of their marriage.

She saw him suddenly frown, those smokily un­readable eyes probing hers, and she said quickly, far too brightly, 'Why don't I show you to your room, Mavis? I just know Charles is about to offer Donald a drink, and—'

'I rather think they'd both appreciate the chance to freshen up,' Charles cut in smoothly, lifting the two pieces of expensive luggage and ushering his guests towards the stairs, tossing back over his shoulder, 'The others should be here at any moment, they're arriving together. Wait, would you, darling?'

No, thanks, Beth thought sickly as his tall, leanly supple body disappeared round the bend in the staircase. He probably wanted to break the news of the arrival of the principal guests—his former lover and their son—in private. It wouldn't be the type of information he would want to impart in front of a houseful of business associates!

Well, that was his problem. She mounted the stairs quickly, intent on gaining the privacy of her own room. As far as Charles was aware, she didn't know Zanna and Harry were here. And, stupidly, she had the craziest feeling that until he actually spoke of their presence she didn't really have to face up to it.

It was something too awful to be faced, she thought jaggedly as she neared the head of the stairs, trying to ignore the knowledge that Charles must have contacted Zanna, told her that his ill-considered marriage to little Beth Garner had ir­retrievably broken down. Was over. Finished. The conversation she had overheard had made that much clear.

Had he pleaded with his former lover? Confessed he hadn't been able to get her out of his system?

Unwanted questions prodded at her mind, like a tongue probing an aching tooth, increasing the pain, her head awash with unwelcome conjectures as she took the corridor that led away from the guest wing and down to her own room.

And what had been Zanna's reaction? Easy. No problem in working that one out. She'd probably regretted the break-up as much as he had, her pride keeping her away until it had been too late to do anything about it because by the time she had dis­covered she was expecting his child he had married his temporary housekeeper!