Whirlpool Read online

  Whirlpool by Madeleine Ker

  "Old lovers make very good advisers."

  Or so Kirby Waterford's friends told her. However, Kirby--widowed a year earlier--wasn't sure she could trust

  Damian Holt's advice . . . or his motives. Damian was a wildly successful businessman, with a reputation for ruthlessness. He was also the man she'd loved as a teenager--not that they'd actually been lovers. He was the man who'd rejected and humiliated her... .

  But Kirby really had no choice. She needed Damian's help if Waterford Electronics, her late husband's company, was to survive. More than that, she needed his love if she was to survive!

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  MILLS & BOON and the Rose Device are trade marks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent & Trademark Office and in other countries.

  Published by

  Mills & Boon Pty. Limited

  3 Gibbes Street

  Chatswood, NSW 2067

  Australia

  First published in Great Britain 1992

  Australian copyright 1992

  New Zealand copyright 1992

  Philippine copyright 1992

  First Australian Paperback Edition July 1992

  Š Madeleine Ker 1992

  ISBN I 86386060 6

  Printed and bound in Australia by

  Griffin Paoerbacks. South Australia i..

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘READY, my love?’ Caroline Langton poked her head round Kirby’s bedroom door. ‘Gosh, you look ravishing!’

  Kirby Waterford smiled. A pretty, willowy woman in her forties, Caroline, was the undisputed leader of Braythorpe society. She had been widowed some five years ago, in the same way as Kirby, through a motor accident. Her husband had left her extremely wealthy. She had never re-married and, indeed, used her widow’s status as a kind of lure to maintain a coterie of orbiting males.

  During Keith’s lifetime, Caroline had been only a passing acquaintance of the Waterfords. But she was a compassionate and loving woman, and since Kirby’s own tragedy, a bare ten months earlier, she had been kindness itself.

  Kirby, in her turn, had been increasingly drawn to the older and wiser woman, who understood so exactly what she was going through. They were becoming close friends, and, though Kirby did no entertaining these days, invitations to Caroline Langton’s farmhouse were a regular occurrence. Weekends spent at Langton Farm―as this one was going to be―meant a great deal to her; they got her out of herself, away from the Lodge and its sad memories …

  ‘There are some people coming tonight whom I really want you to meet,’ Caroline told Kirby confidentially, linking her arm through Kirby’s as they walked downstairs together. ‘Exciting people.’ She glanced at Kirby’s face. ‘Now, don’t pull that face. You know that you have to start meeting new people.

  ‘I know,’ Kirby sighed. ‘I’m just a little tense tonight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, trouble at the factory. Ever since Keith died, we’ve had nothing but problems…’

  Caroline’s eyes were concerned. ‘Poor love,’ she sighed. ‘You shouldn’t have all these worries. Why Keith had to saddle you with that wretched factory, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Keith didn’t expect to die at forty-two,’ Kirby grimaced. ‘Anyway, I’ll tell you about it later, not now. I thought you said this was a party?’

  ‘So it is,’ Caroline smiled. ‘Tonight is for forgetting your troubles.’ They walked into the brightly lit drawingroom.

  It looked lovely, with a fire roaring in the grate, flowers everywhere, and the drinks trolley waiting hospitably for the guests. There seemed to be an awful lot of glasses, Kirby thought with a twinge. She loved Caroline’s company, but ten months after Keith’s death she was still terribly unsure of herself in big gatherings.

  Of course, Caroline’s approach-the sooner she got her life together, the better for her-was logical. It was just a very painful route to take.

  Caroline poured them both a glass of champagne, and they toasted one another with a smile, sharing the intimacy of two women who had both known bereavement.

  They had a lot in common.

  ‘Here’s to a good time tonight,’ Caroline said.

  ‘To a good time,’ Kirby agreed, smiling. The smile lightened the sadness that still haunted her velvet-brown eyes. Not conventionally beautiful, Kirby Waterford had the kind of face that most men found hard to forget, just as they found it hard to’ ignore the charm of her presence. She had a full, soft mouth to match the gentle eyes; her oval face, framed with dark, curly, lustrous hair, was poised on a slender neck, usually at a quizzical, almost challenging angle.

  Tonight she was wearing an evening dress of ruched green silk, in a shimmering emerald shade that did justice to her colouring. The neckline was modestly high, but it plunged rather daringly at the back to show an expanse of Kirby’s admittedly excellent figure. She did not have the angular height of a fashion model, but, as so often happened with petite women, her clothes always sat on her beautifully because of her very compactness.

  Guests were starting to arrive, and a party of four people in elegant evening dress were being ushered into the brightly lit drawingroom. ‘And here,’ Caroline said with satisfaction, ‘are the very people 1want you to meet . Come along, darling.’

  She took Kirby’s arm and stepped forward, not noticing that Kirby was rooted to the spot, and almost spilling her glass of champagne as a result.

  ‘Kirby,’ she protested, ‘wake up, darling. Kirby?’ She peered at her friend with quick concern. ‘Kirby, what is it?’

  Kirby was white and motionless. Of the four people who’d just come in, three were perfect strangers. But the fourth needed no introduction.

  It had been a long time. A long time since she had last seen Damian Holt. An even longer time since their paths had diverged irrevocably, once and for all.

  There was a blaze of recognition in the slate-blue eyes, a moment of stillness that had told her Damian had no more expected to see her here than she had expected to see him.

  Then he moved forward, eyes hiding whatever emotion had been in them. ‘Kirby! It’s been years. How are you?’

  Her throat was too tight to reply. As with many very handsome men, the years were dealing more than kindly with Damian Holt. He was bronzed and tough-looking, getting more devastatingly attractive than ever as he reached his later thirties, and he possessed an impact that no woman could ever be indifferent to. Kirby’s heart swooped like a kite inside her as she felt his warm fingers close around her own.

  Caroline Langton was staring at Kirby’s strained face in puzzled concern. ‘I had no idea you two knew one another.’

  ‘We’re related, as a matter of fact,’ Damian said easily, his voice deep-timbred. ‘Distant cousins. But we haven’t met for three years. Or has it been four?’

  ‘I haven’t been c
ounting,’ Kirby said, finding her voice at last. With a poise she could never have mustered in the old days, she disengaged her hand from his warm grasp, and forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘You look prosperous, Damian. London evidently agrees with you.’

  ‘It does.’ Damian’s piercing eyes were assessing Kirby with deliberate curiosity. ‘The last time we met was at Grace’s wedding, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she replied tautly.

  He weighed up her face, her rapier-taut poise. ‘Four years have made a big difference to you.’

  ‘Not to you. You haven’t changed at all.’ She put a biting, deliberate emphasis on the words.

  ‘But then, I take pride in not changing,’ he replied with a smile. ‘Did you expect otherwise?’

  Kirby felt the old pain flicker along her veins. So he imagined she was still swooning over him! ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t expect otherwise.’

  Damian glanced around the room. ‘Where’s Keith, by the way? I’d like to say hello to him.’

  Kirby felt as though a knife had been twisted into her heart. ‘You haven’t heard, then,’ she said in a strained voice.

  Damian frowned. ‘Heard what? Has something happened to Keith?’

  It was Caroline who answered for Kirby, who seemed unable to answer him. ‘Keith is dead, Damian,’ she explained gently. ‘He was killed in a car crash earlier this year.’

  Damian’s face lost all expression, and Kirby saw the colour of his eyes visibly darken. A stranger might barely have noticed; it was only because she knew Damian’s face better than any other human being’s that she felt the depth of his shock. For a moment he seemed frozen.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, very softly. His eyes made them the only two people in the universe, and she felt herself sway. ‘Please forgive my blundering stupidity.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive. How were you to know? I didn’t put notices in the London papers. Only in the Yorkshire ones.’

  ‘You should have told me, Kirby,’ he said quietly.

  She dropped her eyes from his, and shrugged. ‘Perhaps I should have done. I’m sorry. But Keith wasn’t really a friend of yours.’

  ‘No. But you were.’ He let the words sink in for a moment. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Ten months ago,’ she said. ‘On the motorway. A lorry went out of control, and crossed the central reservation. Dozens of cars were involved. Keith was on his way to Manchester, with one of the managers. The other man was driving…’ Kirby felt the swelling grief threatening her composure. She forced herself to look up at Damian.

  ‘At least it was very quick. He didn’t suffer. They were both killed instantly.’

  Damian nodded. He was making none of the conventional noises of sympathy and condolence. But then, Damian Holt was not a conventional man. ‘I remember that accident. I didn’t pay attention to the names. You seldom do.’

  ‘Not until it’s your husband. I saw it on television, as a matter of fact. The early evening news. I didn’t even think of Keith, until the police came to the door…’ She took a breath that was slightly unsteady.

  ‘However, I’m sure this isn’t a suitable topic for a dinner party. We’re being very rude to your friend.’

  ‘Yes, I must introduce you to Wendy.’ He turned to the woman standing beside him. ‘Darling, you’ve heard me talk about my cousin Kirby? Now you’re going to meet her. Wendy, this is Kirby Waterford. Kirby, I want you to meet Wendy Catchpole, my fiancee.’

  Kirby heard a roaring in her ears, and she swayed dizzily, her arm brushing Caroline’s. Damian’s fiancee.

  Wendy Catchpole was classically attractive, with a tall and graceful figure. She had wide, rather cold green eyes and long blonde hair. ‘Damian has mentioned you, Kirby,’ she said with regal condescension. ‘You’re just as pretty as he said you were.’

  Kirby somehow kept her empty smile in place. ‘Thank you. Nice to meet you, Wendy. Excuse me, please.’

  She turned, and walked away to greet some acquaintances who were just arriving. She knew she was being very rude, but she’d simply had to move, or risk collapsing in a ridiculous faint. Her head was still swimming…

  Damian’s fiancee.

  She could feel Damian’s eyes on her back, .and heard Caroline murmur something in a low voice, no doubt making the usual excuses: She’s not really over it yet…still hates to talk about it…needs time to recover…

  She forced herself to smile, shake hands, kiss cheeks, make small talk to friends. The soul, she was thinking, doesn’t bear wounds the way the body does. If it did, hers would have been a criss-cross of silvery scars, each one bearing the name of Damian Holt. She’d thought he couldn’t hurt her any more, but she’d not bargained for the idea of his marrying …

  Right now, her criss-crossing of ancient scars were aching and bleeding in a dozen tender places. Pains she’d thought long-since dormant were awakening into life.

  The last time they had met had been at a wedding, in London, not long after her own marriage to Keith.

  She and Damian were cousins, in a distant way of speaking, and they had both attended Grace’s wedding out of family reasons. They had spoken, briefly, during the reception.

  Just polite how are yous and what have you been doings, nothing significant at all.

  She’d had Keith with her then, and his presence at her side had enabled her to cope almost relaxedly with the stress of seeing Damian again. Keith had known a fair bit about her and Damian, and Kirby had almost welcomed the chance to show her new husband just how well she’d got over her crush on her gloriously handsome, brilliant, alluring cousin.

  Damian and Keith …

  Damian had been her whirlpool. And Keith had been her rock. In that awful black period after Damian had gone out of her life, Keith Waterford had offered her his support, and then his love, and she had clung to both with the undiscerning eagerness of a drowning woman.

  If only he were here tonight! She was longing for his calm, his support beside her.

  But she would never have Keith’s support again.

  Sitting opposite Damian at Caroline’s glittering table during dinner, Kirby felt her nerves twisted to breakingpoint, keeping her as tense as a duellist. Damian was talking wittily and easily, as he’d always been able to do. But he wasn’t talking to her. She was just there, another of the guests.

  John MacIntyre, an elderly man who’d been a friend of Keith’s, leaned over to Kirby. ‘Kirby, darling, you’ve been as quiet as a mouse all night. What’s this I hear about you wanting to sell the Jaguar?’

  ‘I’d like to change it,’ Kirby nodded. ‘I’d like to get something much smaller.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think a smaller car suits a single woman better. That’s all.’

  ‘You could always get a chauffeur if you don’t like driving, you know.’

  ‘That would only be more ostentatious, which is what I’m trying to avoid.’

  ‘But you have a position to maintain, Kirby,’ John MacIntyre said. ‘The Jaguar is the right sort of car for you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied lightly.

  ‘If I had a Jaguar, I’d never sell it,’ Wendy Catchpole commented from the other side of the table, turning her crystalline eyes to Kirby. ‘Daddy makes the firm buy him the latest model every year.’

  Kirby’s oval face remained impassive, though her lids drooped slightly over her velvet-brown eyes. ‘I’m sure a Jaguar suits a man in your father’s position. It just isn’t my style. Not now. It’s too big.’

  And it reminded her too much of Keith, though she couldn’t say that. Every time she got into its leather-scented driving seat, she was reminded of his absence, of the fact that she was in his place.

  Without him.

  Her husband had loved the car. He’d bought it only a few months before his death, but he would have understood her desire now for something smaller and less ostentatious. He would have laughed, and shaken his head.
You’ll never change, he would have said.

  Underneath the glamour and the beauty, you’ll always be the quiet Yorkshire lass I fell in love with. And in his grey eyes she would have seen the loving indulgence that said, Anything you want, my darling, anything at all.

  She suddenly found she was fighting back tears, and cursed her weakness.

  ‘What about you, Damian?’ Caroline asked him with a smile. ‘Wouldn’t a nice big Jag suit your image as a top company director? Or has the devil already bought you a Rolls?’

  ‘With parking the way it is in London,’ Damian replied, ‘I couldn’t run either. Not even with the devil’s help. I have a Porsche.’