Dishonourable Proposal

Jake let her go abruptly, and for a moment she was hopelessly disorientated—she had not heard her father enter the room. She flushed scarlet, and hastily adjusted her jacket. Jake, damn him, was standing a foot away without a hair out of place.

'Thank God you two are still friends,' her father said with feeling. 'I know I can trust you to look after Katy.'

'Don't be silly, Dad, I can look after myself,' she burst out impetuously.

'Yes, well, maybe, but Jake here is a fine man, and my one regret in this bloody mess is that I didn't seek his help months ago. I'm too far under now to get out, but I know Jake will do the best he can for us.'

For himself, Katy thought bitterly. Was her father really such a fool, so blind, as to trust Jake?

'I promise, David, I will save as much of Meldenton as I can,' Jake said suavely, his dark eyes flashing a brief message of triumph at Katy before he centred his attention on her father. 'And now you must excuse me— I have another appointment.'

Jake stopped, his hand on the doorknob; across the room their eyes clashed, and she saw the knowing smile of masculine triumph in his. He was perfectly aware he could elicit a sexual response from her with one kiss. His dark eyes challenged her to deny him. 'Damn him!' she swore under her breath; she hated him, but she could not hold his gaze and, lowering her head, she pretended a terrific interest in the table-top...

'I'll see you later, Katy. Ciao.' And with a casual wave of a hand he left.

With Jake gone, Katy turned jaundiced eyes upon her father. It was obvious he had been hitting the whisky bottle—she could smell the fumes from two feet away. She sighed; he had been drinking a lot over the last few weeks. Another sign of trouble she had ignored.

Suddenly the enormity of what had happened threatened to overwhelm her and she felt moisture sting her eyes. Deep down in some secret part of her she had nursed the forlorn hope that maybe she was wrong about Jake, and he was the honourable man she had first thought him, but she could fool herself no longer.

She crossed to her father and linked her arm in his. 'Come on, Dad, I'll drive you home. We may as well take the rest of the day off.' And, unless she became Jake's mistress, the rest of their lives off, she thought bitterly.

She blamed herself—she should have paid more attention to her father in the past. If only she had visited him more often, if only she had insisted on being involved in the business, if only she had not let Jake and Monica chase her away... 'If only' was the most futile expression in the English language, she thought morosely, and, taking her father's car-keys, she slid into the driving seat of the Jaguar. She waited while her father settled into the passenger-seat, started the engine and drove off.

'I'm sorry, Katy, terribly, terribly sorry. I betrayed your trust, my own little girl, my family.'

Katy listened with scant attention to her father's ramblings, concentrating instead on driving through the heavy London traffic. She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally reached the town house, and parked the car. 'Have a drink with me, Katy. I don't want to be on my own today. A wake for Meldenton China, hmm?'

The defeated tone of her father's voice hurt her more than she wanted to admit, and, scraping up the semblance of a smile, she agreed. Jake's ultimatum was thrust to the back of her mind. For the first time in her life her father appeared to need her. It was ironic that he had to be virtually destroyed and half drunk before admitting the fact.

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She followed her father into the study, and stopped, her eyes widening in surprise. Her mother's portrait was hanging over the ornate mahogany mantelpiece. Monica had removed it when she was in residence, and Katy wondered who had replaced it. Surely not her father?

Her father noted the direction of her gaze and with a half-smile he walked to the drinks cabinet and filled two crystal glasses with Glenfiddich whisky. He returned to her side and held out one glass. She took it from his hand and, raising it to her lips, took a large swallow. Dear God, she needed it...

'Lydia was a beautiful woman, Katy. You are very like her. She was the only woman I ever loved.'

Katy turned astonished eyes to her father. She had actually been feeling some sympathy for him, but his blatant lies were a bit too much for her to stomach. Walking over to a large leather chesterfield, she sank down into its welcoming depth. She had not forgotten her father's girlfriends, or Monica, his second wife, though he seemed to have conveniently done so, she thought wryly.

She watched him drain his glass, and immediately refill it. Agreeing to share a drink with him had not been such a good idea, and she wished she were back in her own apartment. Her head ached abominably, and the drink on her empty stomach was doing her no good at all.

'I don't suppose you remember, but when we were first married we lived in this house, and we were happy. You were three when we decided the town was no place for a child, and you and Lydia went to my father's house in Cornwall. We were happy there as well, at least for a while. I can remember you running down the path to meet me every Friday evening. I would pick you up in my arms and twirl you around, and you laughed; always you laughed...'

Katy smiled. He was maudlin, but he was right.

'And then she had to meet that bitch Fiona, the artist.'

'Auntie Fiona, I've never seen her in years,' Katy murmured, almost to herself.

'No, by God! I made damn sure of that.'

Katy shot her father a puzzled glance. He was once more filling his glass. 'Don't you think you have had enough?' she prompted.

'Enough? I've had enough, all right, more than any man should have to endure. I caught them, you know.'

Suddenly Katy realised her father was talking about the past in a way he had never done before. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. He was seated at his large oak desk, staring at the drink in his hand, his lips moving, but she had to strain to catch what he was saying.

'It was our eleventh wedding anniversary that weekend. I had felt something was wrong for some time, and I could not understand what it was. So that week I left London on the Thursday. I wanted to surprise Lydia—a long weekend in Paris or something like that.