Out of Control

She shut her eyes, shuddering in angry disbelief and recoil—what was she thinking? She was icy cold, yet she felt the trickle of sweat between her breasts and her throat was hot and raw.

She hardly knew what happened after that, but the minutes stretched past endlessly while she wished she could walk away, leave this place, be alone to brood. She couldn't face him; the very thought of meeting his eyes made her shiver.

Then she frowned, pulling herself up—why should she feel ashamed and guilty? Why should she want to avoid him?

He was the liar and the cheat, not her! She wasn't running away from a confrontation! She'd look him right in the eye and hate him openly. She wanted him to know what she thought of him; not that he would care, of course. He would probably be amused, no doubt he had thought it very clever to lie to her. He'd had his fun and she couldn't do a thing about it.

'Shall we go and have some tea?'

Liza started as Bruno turned to smile at her. She hadn't even realised that the game was over, the players leaving the field to enthusiastic applause, taking off their hard hats and laughing as they chatted to each other. Liza's eye followed G. K. Gifford bitterly.

'He had a good game,' Bruno said to his mother, and Liza listened to them talking about him casually, quite unaware of the explosive feeling Liza was hiding.

'At least he didn't break anything today,' Pippa Morris said, grimacing. 'One day he'll break his neck.'

Oh, please, let me be there! Liza thought, following them slowly through the drifting crowds on their way out of the held. Mrs Morris wasn't heading that way at all, though. She was making for a green marquee. A lot of other people were streaming into it, too, but there were free tables left when Bruno, his mother and Liza arrived.

Under the sloping canvas there was a mingled smell of trampled grass and flowers; tubs of geraniums and hydrangeas, pungent and fragrant, blue and red in white tubs.

Voices rose all around them; people laughed and chattered. Tea arrived; pots of Indian or China tea, cucumber sandwiches, scones and jam, cream, iced fancies or strawberry tarts.

'Where do your family live, Liza?' Pippa Morris asked, offering her a sandwich.

'Liza's parents are dead,' Bruno hurriedly said, his voice heavy with sympathy, and Liza felt herself flushing guiltily because she had never told him that her parents were dead, she had only let him assume it and hadn't corrected his mistake. It was a white lie, a lie of omission; but it was a lie none the less and she ought to so. She didn't, though, she took a sandwich and ate it in one bite because it was so tiny. Bruno's mother took .several and ate them daintily, nibbling.

Liza drank her tea and Mrs Morris asked, 'So you live alone?' and, 'Why did you stop modelling?' and, 'I'm told your agency is very successful.'

Liza answered quietly, accepted a strawberry tart, refused a scone, and watched Bruno's mother with reflective eyes. Mrs Morris was hostile at first, very antagonistic, eyeing her with cold dislike and suspicion, but slowly the ice thawed and she became curious. Perhaps Liza wasn't what she had been told to expect?

By her brother? What had he said about her to his sister? Did Pippa Morris know what he had done? Liza's backbone stiffened at the very idea of that conversation, I flare of red invading her cheeks.

'You built the agency all by yourself? Gracious, how very enterprising of you! Weren't you nervous of losing all your hard-earned money?'

'Terrified,' Liza said lightly, laughing. 'But never venture, never gain!'

Mrs Morris stared, eyes round. 'I suppose you're right, but I think I'd have been more cautious. Why do you think you've been so successful so soon? Because you've been a model yourself?'

'And know my market,' Liza agreed. 'I have high standards for my girls and it soon gets about—clients realise they won't get amateurs and they come back when they're satisfied.'

'Who manages the business for you?' 'I do," Liza said drily.

'You must be very clever. I don't think I could run a business.' Mrs Morris watched a newcomer walking to a nearby table and exclaimed, 'Oh, there's Lavender—I must just run and ask her how her daughter is. She's bedbound, you know, poor girl. Keeps miscarrying, so with this one the doctor advised total bed rest until the birth.'

Liza frowned, staring after Mrs Morris. That must be the Countess of Salop's mother. Liza liked the look of her; a small, plump woman in a flowered hat and a flowing pink dress. She had a kind face; her daughter would need that loving kindness. I wonder if she knows about her husband and Tawny? Liza thought grimly. How can he do it?

'Well, what do you think of her?' asked Bruno eagerly.

Liza looked blankly at him for a second, then realised what he meant and smiled back. 'She's not as alarming as I'd expected!'

'It was a bit hairy at first, but you've impressed her,' Bruno nodded. 'She probably envies you—she's never had a job in her life. I think she missed out on a lot, getting married so young and then running Hartwell for G. K.' He grinned at her. 'What about him? What did you think of him?'

Liza took a deep breath—if she told him the truth Bruno would look appalled and she was half tempted to do just that, but before she could open her mouth a voice drawled behind her.

'She seems to be lost for words.'

Bruno looked up and laughed. 'Oh, you changed quickly! Lucky you arrived when you did, before Liza got a chance to commit herself!'

'Isn't it?' the cool voice murmured and Liza felt him walking round her chair, she looked up—a long way up. His blue eyes were bright with mockery. She had been right—he thought it was funny. He was amused and pleased with himself. Damn him, Liza thought angrily. He had come down to check up on her in person; that was why he had been parked right outside her cottage so that she ran into the back of his car in the mist. He had been spying, and she wished she had made a complete write-off of his estate car. She would never have let him into her cottage if she had known his true identity.