CHAPTER TEN
Saffron woke up to discover that a thick cover of snow masked the gardens and surrounding countryside. Because the house wasn't used regularly her father normally only employed help on a temporary basis, but someone came in every week to check that everything was in order and it was no problem for Saffron to switch on the central heating.
While the house was heating up she decided to telephone her father, but to her dismay when she lifted the receiver it was to discover that the line was dead. The nearest phone box was three miles away at a crossroads. She had always wondered who had sited it there, miles away from anywhere. She shrugged, deciding that She would ring the exchange from the callbox on her way back from the village where she would have to go to buy food.
The snow was deeper than she had first thought; the Rolls was heavy despite the power-assisted steering, and her arms were aching by the time she reached the village.
There was only one general food store plus a butcher's, but Saffron managed to buy everything she wanted. It started snowing again as she drove back to the house. Just as she came up to the crossroads, a car turned the corner too fast, accelerating wildly towards her down the steep hill. There was barely time for her to brake and manoeuvre the large car to the side of the road, and she sat in stunned disbelief as the driver of the other car flashed past her, either not realising or not caring how nearly he had caused an accident. Once she had recovered a little Saffron tried to turn the Rolls back on to the road, but the back wheels slid helplessly on the snow. With a sinking feeling she realised that she wasn't going to be able to move it, and worse, the car was slowly slipping backwards down the hill. Pulling on the brake, she climbed out to survey her situation, her heart plummeting downwards as she realised that she was going to have to leave the Rolls and walk back to the house on foot.
At least she could make her phone call to the London office asking them to let her father know where she was. She could also ring the local garage to get them to come out and tow the Rolls away.
Still shaken from the close brush with the other car, she walked to the phone box, searching in her purse for change.
She picked up the receiver, frowning when there was no reassuring purr, but it was only after she had jiggled the buttons up and down several times that she realised that this phone, like the one up at the house, was out of order. Thoroughly cross, cold and tired, she collected her shopping from the car and started to walk, not along the road, but cutting across the fields, knowing it would save her time.
She had dressed casually for her drive to the village—cord jeans, fashion boots, a fur jacket her father had bought her the previous Christmas; attractive and warm clothes for shopping in Knightsbridge, but hardly protection enough for a cross-country hike in below-zero temperatures, and before she had covered even half the distance her feet were numb, her legs aching from the unaccustomed exercise. The icy wind that had sprung up chilled her face, and her expensive leather mittens did nothing to protect her fingers, and yet despite her discomfort she plodded determinedly on, until at last the stone wall surrounding the gardens of the house came into sight. She let herself in via a small door in the wall and trudged tiredly round to the back door.
The house felt blissfully warm after the cold outside, and she went upstairs to run herself a bath, trying the telephone once more before she took her purchases into the kitchen. The phone was still dead, and Saffron bit her lip. At least the Rolls wasn't likely to be a hazard to any other traffic using the road, and Bart, her boss, knew she was down here. Poor Daddy, the Rolls was his pride and joy, she only hoped the phone would be fixed in time for her to rescue it before he returned from New York. The walk had given her an appetite; and for the first time since the trial she found she was actually enjoying the thought of food—but first a warming bath!
There was a forgotten bottle of bath oil in the cupboard and she poured it generously into the water, watching it turn pale green and foam. The water enveloped her in a warm, perfumed cloud, and she relaxed into it, shivering as her body remembered against her will how she had felt when Nico touched her, how her body had yielded and responded. No matter how much she tried to force herself to forget, the memories refused to die. She towelled her skin roughly, hoping to dispel the sensuality rising up inside her, then wandered into her bedroom to collect clean clothes. She pulled open a drawer which revealed neatly folded summer tops put there after her holiday in the Caribbean, her attention suddenly caught and held by the masculine shape of a cotton shirt. Slowly she unfolded it, staring at it, as memories flooded back. It was Nico's shirt. She had found it in her room after they had made love, and put it on. She lifted it to her face, holding it as though it still retained the scent and feel of his body, hers an aching mass of pain. Before she could deny herself the pleasure she pulled it on. It drowned her, but she didn't care. It had belonged to Nico; he had worn it. She was just brushing her hair when she heard someone banging on the front door.
For a moment surprise held her frozen, then she put down the brush and hurried. to the stairs, forgetting that she was still wearing the shirt, her legs long and slender beneath the tails. Someone had probably driven past, seen lights on and knowing the house should be empty was calling to check that everything was all right. Country people were like that. She opened the door, the reassuring words dying on her lips as her father shouldered his way past her, brushing snowflakes from his coat, his face tired and drawn, as he paused and then turned, speaking to the man still emerging from the car parked in front of the house.
'It's okay, Dom,' she heard him call. 'She's here, and safe ... God, Saffron, when we saw the Rolls I nearly had a heart attack!'
'But, Daddy, what are you doing here? How did you know…'
'Dom rang me from London to say that he'd called at the penthouse and you weren't there. He rang Bart, who told him that you were coming down here. I was already on my way back, so we drove down together. I tried to ring you and couldn't get through.' His eyes rested soberly on her face and Saffron had no need to ask why he had driven all the way down to Surrey simply because he couldn't raise her on the phone. His anxiety and grief was etched all over his face.
'Oh, Daddy!' Her voice suddenly became tart as ,she glanced towards the still open front door. 'Your friend Dom seems to have been very busy— couldn't he simply accept Bart's word for it that I was down here?'
'Oh, don't blame Dom,' her father told her. 'I asked him to keep an eye on you. I must say when I saw the Rolls ...'
'Mmm, I was hoping to recover it before you got back.' Briefly Saffron explained what had happened. There were sounds of activity from outside and she realised that all she had on was a man's shirt, decent enough perhaps, but overtly sexy for all that, and she hurried towards the stairs, not wanting to be caught in such garb by her father's friend.
She didn't make it. She had just reached the first step when she heard the door slam, and her father saying in a curiously strai
ned voice,
'It's okay, Dom, she's fine.'
'I'm relieved to hear it.'
So cool and formal—and yet she knew that voice as well as she knew her own. She turned on the stairs, her face as white as her borrowed shirt, her lips trying to form a name and yet trembling so much that all she could manage was a stifled protest before a roaring black void swallowed her up as she heard her father exclaiming anxiously, 'God, I should have warned her ... prepared her, but I was so terrified that she'd done something silly...' and then there was nothing, nothing but darkness, and a fear that she must be going mad, because the man her father had called 'Dom' was surely Nico. Nico who was dead; Nico who had kidnapped and humiliated her; Nico whom she loved; Nico, who simply could not be a man called Dom who watched her with cold dark eyes and wore a formal business suit much like her father's,, his dark hair smoothed into order, his mouth impatient and angry.
'Daddy?'
'He's gone—back to London.'
Nico! So it hadn't been a dream! Saffron opened her eyes slowly. She was lying on her own bed in her father's house, everything familiar and safe; everything but the man leaning against the window, his face in shadow, his stance poised and alert.
'I think it's time you and I had a talk.'
Hysteria welled up inside her. He had let her think he was dead; he had masqueraded as her father's friend; he had made love to her and broken her heart, and now he thought they should talk!
She turned away from him, hunching her shoulders childishly.
'Don't speak to me!'