Wild Melody (12 page)

seen to that. Now she felt confused, as if her whole scale of values had been

turned upside down by this witchcraft he had worked on her body.

Her eyes filled with tears, as she struggled vainly with her fastenings.

'Let me,' Jason spoke quietly.

'Don't touch me!' she breathed, her temper fighting for precedence over

guilt and confusion. He bent his head and turned abruptly away, thrusting

his hands into his pockets.

After a moment's hesitation, she pulled off the blouse altogether and

snatched up the black sweater she had worn earlier, tugging it over her head

with shaking hands. She could not look at him, and did not even want to

know if he was .looking at her. She still could not understand how she had

come so near to betraying all her carefully held principles—and with a man

like him. He must think that her feelings were as shallow as his own. He had

a low opinion of women anyway and she was forced to admit that it would

be difficult for anyone—even someone less cynical than himself —to

believe that she could still carry an aching heart for Jeremy and yet allow

another man to make passionate love to her.

She was suddenly afraid she was going to burst into tears, and she sank

down on the edge of the bed, covering her face with her hands. Her whole

body was still in turmoil from his caresses and the treacherous physical

weakness he had engendered was also affecting her emotions.

'Catriona,' he came and squatted in front of her, 'if you won't look at me, at

least listen.'

'You have nothing to say to me that I want to hear.' Her hands were pressed

so tightly over her eyes that little scarlet flames seemed to be flickering

inside her lids. 'And I hope I never have to set eyes on you again either!'

He gave an exasperated sigh. 'You can't forgive me for making you see the

truth about Jeremy, you stubborn little fool. You must have your illusion to

cling to despite all the evidence.'

'What do you know about truth?' Her voice trembled. 'At least what Jeremy

and I felt for each other was fine and clean, not like . . .'

Jason swore suddenly and violently, gripping her hands and dragging them

away from her face. Dazedly, she stared at him.

'Tonight,' he said, and his voice was too quiet, too controlled, 'tonight, I

nearly became your lover—there on that carpet or here on this bed. It

wouldn't have mattered much, and I know damned well it would have

mattered even less to you, so don't start carrying on as if I was some

despoiler of innocence. And no matter how you may delude yourself about

your feeling for my errant nephew, under your well- brought-up exterior,

my sweet, you are all woman, so stop punishing us both for something that

didn't happen anyway.' He paused. 'Or are you punishing me because it

didn't happen?'

Catriona wrenched her hand free and hit him hard acres - the face, then

stopped, appalled at what she had done and fearful that he might enact some

reprisal. Jason got slowly to his feet and stood looking down at her, his eyes

chips of glazing steel.

'Enjoy your punishment,' he said softly, and went from her. She heard the

outer door close behind him and hugged her arms convulsively across her

body, trying to suppress the long, deep shiver that ran through her.

The small hard shape of Jeremy's ring pressed into her flesh. He might

belong to Helen now, but his ring was hers and if she could no longer regard

it as a love token, then, at least it would be a talisman to keep her safe.

But from whom? a sly inner voice seemed to be asking. From Jason

Lord—or from herself? And to that Catriona could find no answer, either

then or in the long night that followed.

She still felt listless as she made her way to her new job the following

Monday morning. She and Sally had spent a quiet weekend shopping for

groceries and cleaning the flat, and on Sunday they had taken sandwiches

and had a picnic lunch in Hyde Park, followed by a drowsy evening playing

desultory Scrabble and watching television.

In many ways Catriona blamed herself for what had happened with Jason.

She acknowledged that she had wondered what it would be like to be in his

arms. Well, now she knew, and much good the knowledge had done her. At

least now she had proved to herself exactly what form his relationship with

a woman took, she thought bitterly. He had said some hard things about

Jeremy, but was he any better himself? At least Jeremy had never tried to

seduce her. If a small voice inside her pointed out that that was because she

had been on her guard against allowing any such situation to develop in the

past, she ignored it. She told herself resolutely that it was just as well she

had found out what Jason was before she got any silly ideas about him in her

head, although she didn't allow herself to specify the exact form her

'silliness' might have taken.

The most hurtful part of it all was that no mention of the word 'love' had ever

passed his lips. Catriona had always been led to believe that men with

seduction on their minds always told a girl they loved her first. She

supposed she should be grateful that Jason had enough respect for her

intelligence not to try such a well-worn subterfuge with her, but all it made

her feel was cold and empty.

She wondered about returning to Scotland, but what was there for her there?

She had no home now, and no job, both of which were available to her here

in London, even if peace of mind was not. It seemed as if one chapter of her

life had closed, but as yet she had no idea what the future could hold for her

apart from heartache.

Her rather sombre thoughts kept her occupied during the ride on the

Underground and the short bus journey which took her to the wide tree-lined

road where the house belonging to the Trust was situated. Catriona was glad

in a way that she had decided to take this job instead of plunging into the

hurly-burly of a big general office where her heart- sore condition might

have been more obvious and she might have become the object of unwanted

speculation by the other girls.

In spite of her emotional dejection, Catriona could not help enjoying the feel

of the sun on her face as she walked along or even feeling vaguely gratified

at the appreciative wolf whistles from a group of workmen busily

renovating a house, as they caught sight of her slim figure in the grey

pinafore dress and scarlet shirt.

When she arrived at the Trust, identifiable by a small shabby board nailed to

one of the gate pillars, she was a few minutes early so she had time to look

the building over before she went in. It was a large house, even from the

front, and she could see it extended well into the grounds at the rear. There

was a prevailing air of shabbiness, in spite of the obvious fact that someone

had recently been busy with a paintbrush. Even her untrained eye could spot

missing slates and chimney stacks that needed re-pointing. Catriona sighed,

remembering what an uphill job it had been to keep Muir House sound and

weatherproof, quite apart from in good decorative order. She went up the

wide stone steps to the front door, which stood ajar and peeped into a large

un- carpeted hall. Somewhere she could hear the murmur of voices and the

rattle of cups and cutlery, but she could not identify which of the several

doors that opened off the hall the noise was coming from.

To her left, a wide flight of stairs, also uncarpeted, led upwards to a long

landing, while ahead of her a dark- seeming passage led to the back of the

house.

Catriona hesitated, then called, 'Is anyone there?' a little tentatively.

'Hang on. I'm coming!' a man's voice called in reply. One of the doors on the

left of the hall opened and a young man appeared. He was of medium height

and stocky build, wearing paint-stained corduroy trousers and an ill-used

dark green sweater. He carried a tea towel in one hand and had another

tucked round his waist like an apron.

'You've caught us washing up, I'm afraid,' he said. 'Can I help you?'

'I'm Catriona Muir.' She fumbled in her shoulder bag and produced the card

from the agency.

He smiled delightedly at her. 'That's great. To be honest, I wondered

whether—but never mind. Come on in.'

He crossed the hall and flung open the door opposite, ushering Catriona into

a large sunny room that looked as if it had been recently hit by an

earthquake. The main furniture was two massive old-fashioned dining room

tables which had been extended to their fullest limits. One of them carried

an equally old-fashioned-looking black typewriter. There were files

everywhere, especially upside down on the floor, Catriona noted with a

feeling of resignation, and more files protruded untidily from the open

drawers of two big wooden filing cabinets. A white cupboard, used to store

stationery, also stood open and in turmoil.

Catriona turned to look at her companion. His lips quirked ruefully. 'I'm not

very well organised, I'm afraid,' he said with" devastating understatement.

'I'm Andrew Milner, and if you want to just walk out of here and forget

about it, I shall quite understand.'

Catriona managed a faint smile. 'Oh, I don't think I'm likely to do that.'

'The typewriter came out of the-Ark, I think,' he went on rather sadly. 'And

we haven't a photo-copier, just an old duplicator that spits ink at you when

you least expect it.' He looked doubtfully at her clothes.

'Well—perhaps there's an overall somewhere, if I have to use the thing,'

Catriona suggested.

'Yes, of course. I'm sure Jean would . . . well, you'll be meeting her shortly

anyway. You must think I'm mad telling you all this, but the truth is that

your predecessor had very different views of what an office should be like.

She stuck it for three days, which I suppose was good of her under the

circumstances, but there were—problems.'

'Well, I've got" something to tell you, Mr Milner.' Catriona began to jut her

chin, then decided it wasn't necessary after all. 'I've only ever worked as a

secretary before for my aunt back in Scotland, so I may not live up to your

requirements.'

His smile was cheerful and not diffident at all. 'Oh, but I think you will,' he

said. 'In fact, I think I'd prefer someone who isn't just filling in time between

executives.'

Catriona smiled too and put her handbag down on the table. 'Where would

you like me to start?'

'Well, first of all—it's Andrew, please, not Mr Milner. And I hope you don't

mind being Catriona. We try and cultivate a pretty informal atmosphere at

the Trust—all part of the work we're doing. And the next thing is probably

this.' He dived into the stationery cupboard and emerged holding a jar of

coffee and a bag of sugar. 'There's a gas ring over there and the kettle is full,'

he told her. 'I'll go and get the milk.'

Over steaming mugs of coffee, he told her more about the work of the Trust

itself and how it had been originally set up.

'James Henderson was a tremendous character, very down-to-earth and

humorous, but full of compassion as well. He knew exactly what he wanted

for this place, but unfortunately he died before it really got off the ground,'

Andrew said regretfully. 'The Trust is now administered by his widow, Mrs

Alice Henderson. I daresay you'll be meeting her soon.' The note of

constraint in his voice was not lost on Catriona.

'Who uses the centre?' she asked as they left on a tour of the building.

Andrew shrugged.

'Almost anyone needing a shelter of some kind. Homeless families,

unmarried mothers, battered wives, teenagers who have left home for some

reason, husbands or wives who have done the same. Sometimes we find out

why, often we don't.' He gave her that warm smile again. 'And if they don't

volunteer, we don't pry.'

He hesitated, then went on, 'There's a social work side to it, but I'm not

pushing that at the moment. Soon, I hope to start building up case histories

and try to do some sort of study to find what kind of pressures make people

break loose. But I had to wait until I could get someone in the office that I

could trust, and that the residents could also trust. Some of them are here for

quite some time and continually changing faces in the office make them

wary. Jean who looks after the housekeeping side and myself have been here

since the centre opened.'

As they toured the building, Catriona could not help noticing the dilapidated

state of many of the rooms and their furnishings.

'I suppose money is always a problem?' she asked shyly, not wishing to

seem too critical of something she had not fully come to grips with.

'We're more fortunate than many organisations because we have a regular