Yet inside her head a cold, still voice asked remorselessly . . . could they? Would she ever be happy again now that she knew how much her family money meant to Paul? Had he ever loved her? Had it always been her fortune alone that attracted him? A man who was deeply in love did not change so much so fast. All this time he must have been pretending . . . lying to her, acting.
How had she been so hoodwinked, so blind to how he really felt?
11
Cathy’s alarm didn’t wake her because she was already awake. She had slept very little all night and was lying in bed staring bleakly at the light filtering through her curtains when her alarm shrilled. She stopped it and got out of bed, her body heavy and dull, her mind much the same. She had never felt less like getting up. This was going to be a day to be endured rather than lived through, but there was no point in hiding in bed, she had to face what was coming, so she walked like a zombie into the bathroom.
As she left her room ten minutes later she had a sudden wild hope that it had all been a bad dream, that yesterday hadn’t happened, there was no Czech girl in the house, claiming to be her sister. She stopped to listen at the room next door to her own, her heart beating fast, and then shut her eyes with a muffled groan as she heard a movement.
After a long breath, she tapped on the door. ‘Can I come in?’
There was a pause, as if the girl inside was startled, then Sophie said in a husky voice, ‘Yes. Of course,’ then, ‘Good morning,’ as Cathy opened the door. Sophie was out of bed, standing beside an open wardrobe in the dressing-gown Cathy had lent her. She had obviously had a shower. Her blonde hair was damp, her feet bare and pink.
‘How are you this morning?’ Cathy could see she looked much better than she had last night; she had some colour in her face, anyway. ‘Did you sleep well?’ She tried to keep the irony out of her voice but her mind was full of it.
‘Yes, thank you, I hope you did.’ Sophie sounded like a little girl trying to be grown-up. Had she picked up on the real feelings inside Cathy? ‘I was looking for my clothes,’ she went on, looking around the room. ‘I can’t find them.’
‘Nora has washed them, they were in such a mess, damp and very muddy where you fell on the wet road last night – you couldn’t have worn them. You’re my size, more or less; come back to my room and pick out something to wear.’
Sophie’s eyes glistened, close to tears. ‘You’re very kind. I’m sorry, I’m giving you a lot of trouble.’
‘Yes, you are,’ Cathy bluntly said, but somehow no longer wanted to shout at her, hit at her. Sophie looked so helpless; those were real tears, not pretence, and, face to face, Cathy couldn’t help believing that this woman was sincere, totally genuine, was not lying. It was bewildering.
‘But lending you clothes is not part of the problem,’ she added. ‘I have a lot of clothes, and you’re very welcome to borrow some. You’d better hurry, we have a breakfast date.’
Sophie instantly paled, alarm in her eyes. ‘With the senator?’
Cathy hated the fear in her face and felt a wave of anger again. She had no cause to look like that. As if Papa would . . . She flinched away from the thought of what he would or wouldn’t do. Someone had tried to run Sophie down last night, she couldn’t deny that, she had witnessed it with her own eyes. But what had it to do with Papa? It had probably been some total stranger, crazy or drunk, who, having accidentally knocked her down the first time, had decided to finish the job to do away with the only witness. It couldn’t be anything to do with Papa.
Yet . . . why had his men burst in here last night to get Sophie? She shivered, remembering those moments before Paul arrived. She had felt so helpless.
How long had they been trailing Sophie? Had the driver of that car been one of Papa’s people? What orders had Papa given them? Oh, they had claimed they were just trying to stop a dirty-tricks campaign Sophie was part of, and Cathy wanted to believe that version of events, but it wasn’t easy. Once upon a time she wouldn’t even have considered the idea of her father killing anyone – or ordering someone else to kill. She knew, though, that he had to be tough to survive in the world of Washington politics; weak men went to the wall. She had lived with political realities all her life – she understood. To get to the top you had to be strong, even ruthless – but murder? That was something else again.
Abruptly, she told Sophie, ‘No, Steve’s coming.’
Sophie instantly lit up like a Christmas tree, her eyes shining with candles. ‘Steve? He’s here?’
She’s in love with him, Cathy thought; I knew she was, and he is obviously nuts about her, I picked that up just on the phone and he didn’t deny it when I asked him. So it’s mutual, and I’m not a dog in the manger. I didn’t want Steve that way, so I’ve no right to complain if he turns to someone else – but did it have to be her? I wonder, did he fall for her before he heard her story about being my sister? Does he think he sees some likeness? Or am I being a simple, hometown bitch?
Irritated with herself, she said brusquely, ‘He’ll be here in ten minutes, which is why we have to hurry. He’s staying across the road at the Green Man, he’s coming across for breakfast with us. You had better come to my room and choose something to wear.’
Sophie followed her back to her own room and watched as Cathy threw open her wardrobe.
‘What takes your fancy?’
Sophie hesitated, staring at the array of expensive, beautiful clothes and unable to reach out and take any of them. ‘You choose for me. Just jeans and a sweater would be fine.’
Cathy ignored that, pulling out a cool almond-green wool dress with a silver belt and holding it up against her. ‘This colour would suit you, it’s perfect for a blonde but I always look washed-out in it. Do you like it?’
Sophie smoothed a hand over the soft material. ‘I love it – are you sure you don’t mind? It looks expensive.’
‘I only wore it once. I’m sure it will fit you perfectly, we’re much the same size. Wait a second.’ Cathy hunted for lingerie; a lacy white bra, matching panties, a filmy slip in a very pale green, and dropped them all on the bed. ‘I’ll be downstairs, when you’re ready. Don’t take too long, will you?’
Before going downstairs, she paused outside the room she knew Paul had used the previous night, but there was no sound from him and she was afraid to tap on the door, afraid of how he might look at her, dreading coldness in his eyes, a distance between them growing, growing, until it became a gulf.
Had he slept much? She hadn’t; she had drifted in and out of restless, uneasy, anxious sleep, in and out of dreams she didn’t want to remember. She had cried a lot. Her eyes were still hot and sore from weeping so much; she had bathed them with cold water several times but it hadn’t done them much good. They ached; she put a cold fingertip on them and felt the heat radiating out from deep inside her eye-sockets.
While she was with Sophie she had relied on her long training in how to behave in public, how to keep your temper, however provoked, how to smile and smile even when you wanted to kill. So she had, somehow, been calm and polite to this girl who had come out of nowhere, without warning, and blasted her life apart the way a man with a gun blew away a pheasant.