Whirlpool Page 3

  She heard the rustle of his suit as he walked past her.

  For some reason, she had a panicky instinct that he might touch or kiss her, and she swayed on her feet, her eyes closing. But he did not, and when her mind had cleared she was alone in the library.

  Whispering a curse bitterly, she turned and walked up to her single bed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KIRBY had loved Damian Holt ever since she could remember. There were so many kinds of love, she knew that. And she had felt most of them, at one time or another, for Damian.

  Kirby lay in bed, in the darkness, fully awake. Her mind was flooded with memories of Damian, memories that she’d kept under lock and key for six long years.

  As a child, she had worshipped him unquestioningly, innocently. Ten years older than the curly-haired little girl who’d begged to ride on his broad shoulders, Damian had shown a patience and an affection for his cousin that went beyond his years. They were actually only distantly related, but her parents and his had always been close, linked more by friendship than by the rather tenuous family connection.

  Neither Kirby nor Damian had brothers or sisters. Living in the name neighbourhood, with parents who were close, they had seen a great deal of each other as children.

  Or, to be truthful, it had been Kirby, as soon as she could toddle, who had sought out Damian Holt’s company whenever she could do so. She’d adored Damian from her earliest years.

  Of all the games adults devised for her, she’d loved Damian’s the best. Damian had that wicked sense of fun, that insight into the way her mind worked, that made every moment with him a fresh delight. No one had ever excited her the way Damian had done. No one had expanded her imagination in the same way, not even Mum and Dad. It was Damian who had brought her books to read, Damian who had taken her to the pantomime and the circus. And then, as she’d entered her teens, to the theatre and concerts.

  By that stage, her love for him was deepening into a new phase.

  As her womanhood emerged, Damian had become her beau ideal, her pin-up, her heart-throb. No one else could ever match his strength, his looks, his charm. By the time she was fifteen, she’d believed that she would never marry anyone but Damian. She loved him, and their destinies, as far as she was concerned, were inextricably entwined. It was just a question of waiting until she was old enough to be his wife.

  In his early twenties, Damian was finishing his business degree at Leeds University―getting the highest marks ever recorded, naturally―and thinking about starting his own company, backed only by his extraordinary brain and business sense.

  He’d done exactly that, floating a trading company in Braythorpe, which was still going strong. Damian’s brilliance had shone out like a beacon. In two years, he was on his way to becoming a rich man, and had more clients than he could deal with, When she’d left school at seventeen, equipped with basic but thorough secretarial skills, Damian had offered Kirby her first job as a typist in his office.

  The next eighteen months had been the happiest period of her life. She’d seen Damian eight hours a day, six days a week, had worked with him, talked to him, lunched with him, been within touching range of him, listening to his voice, feasting her eyes on his face and figure.

  Happiest, that was, in a qualified sense.

  There had also been a constant pain in Kirby’s life, a pain that had haunted her teenage years with increasing frustration.

  The pain of Damian Holt’s notable success with other women.

  There were dozens of them. Mostly of the sophisticated, poised type that made a rather shy adolescent girl feel as insignificant as a dried leaf in the wind. He’d never had a prolonged attachment to any of them; but then, he’d made no secret of the fact that he liked being free and footloose, and that he enjoyed female company―a lot of it.

  Why couldn’t he see how much it hurt her? Why did he never seem to think of her as an adult? He took her out, often, but it wasn’t the same, He never took her to nightclubs, for example, never took her to places where grown-ups had fun. He seemed almost unaware of her womanhood at times.

  The most agonising moments of all had been when Damian had confided his girlfriend problems to her. As though she weren’t involved. As though it wouldn’t affect her.

  She became determined to show him her womanhood. She’d succeeded in doing that, all right. But, as his awareness grew, it only widened the gulf between them, rather than bridged it. It was an awareness that kept her at arm’s length, and meant that the kisses and cuddles, the teasing and intimacy they had shared all their lives, became a thing of the past―even though she had never loved him more than she did now, with every fibre of her woman’s heart.

  The dreadful thought had started creeping into her mind that maybe it wasn’t going to work out the way she’d dreamed. That maybe she wasn’t destined to be Damian’s wife, after all.

  Kirby Bryant had drawn her share of attentive males. By eighteen, she’d developed beauty, and an alluringly feminine figure, and men automatically seemed to love her. Men other than Damian, that was. If she’d really wanted to go to nightclubs and dance-halls, there were queues of boys ready to take her. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She just wanted to be with Damian. Anywhere. Any time. Always.

  Until that day. Her eighteenth birthday. The day Damian had chosen to shatter all her dreams.

  She didn’t want to think about that, not now.

  Kirby sat up hi bed, putting the light on, and reached for the travelogue she’d picked out in the library downstairs. She had little interest in the text or the vivid pictures, but anything was better than the misery of her own thoughts right now. Anything to stop her thinking about Damian Holt, and his poised, beautiful fiancee.

  She awoke the next morning with the book still in her lap, feeling tired and depressed. But a lively breakfast with Caroline soon cheered her up, and they spent a happy Saturday in one another’s company, doing some idle shopping in the morning, and in the afternoon going for a long walk across the grounds of Langton Farm, in the company of Caroline’s six assorted dogs. Although Caroline was never one to invite confidences, Kirby always found it easy to talk to her, not just about her loneliness, but about the problems brewing at the factory.

  There was one rebuke, however, she felt she had to deliver.

  ‘1 know you were being your usual kind self, but 1really wish you hadn’t said anything to Damian Holt about me or my problems.’

  Caroline stopped dead to blink at her friend. ‘Why on earth not? He seems quite willing to help—’

  ‘He isn’t the person I would have chosen to confide my troubles in.’

  ‘Have you something against him? Because you think he’s too ruthless―that business about the pollution clean-up claim?’

  Kirby smiled tightly. ‘Oh, Damian’s been involved with uglier cases than that. When you said he’d sold his soul to the devil, you were closer to the truth than you thought.’

  ‘Business is a very hard environment. A company director has to protect his shareholders from loss,’ Caroline said in a gentle voice. ‘It doesn’t mean he’s altogether corrupt.’

  ‘I know. But, in any case, my reasons are more personal. He and I were once … rather closer than we are now.’

  Caroline Langton’s expression became concerned.

  ‘Darling, I seem to keep putting my foot in it. I won’t ask what’s between you, but you were Keith’s wife for five years, so it must be well in the past by now.’

  ‘It is,’ Kirby said quietly.

  ‘Then don’t be too diffident. He’s the perfect man to advise you, and his being a relation is all the better. At least talk to him about the factory while he’s here in Yorkshire. Tell him the outline, anyway. He’ll give you the very best counsel.’

  Kirby’s normally sweet features tightened. ‘I don’t want to get entangled with him in any way at all. And I doubt whether he feels he owes me anything, either.’

  ‘Old lovers,’ Caroline smiled, stooping to
toss a stick for one of the dogs, ‘generally make very good advisers. In my experience, at least. Never mind him owing you anything, Kirby. Let him help, if he’s willing to.’

  She gave her friend a quick sideways glance from under her fringed scarf. ‘So. You and the great Damian Holt. I must say I approve of your taste! He’s one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever come across. I met him earlier this year, in London, and I was quite bowled over by him.'

  ‘Yes. He tends to cut a swath.’ They walked off the path, down into a rough pasture. The vast sky above them was a mackerel patchwork of clear blue and grey cloud, the wind flattening the grass and bracken like the rough smoothing of an invisible giant’s hand. The dogs, having scented a rabbit, were arrowing across the field, baying, howling or yapping according to breed.

  ‘He’s very different from Keith.’ Caroline was watching the dogs with thoughtful blue eyes. ‘Not that Keith wasn’t a marvellous person in almost every way. But Damian Holt is a different kettle of fish.’ She didn’t elaborate on that. ‘You must have been very young when you knew him.’

  ‘We stopped seeing each other when I was eighteen,’ Kirby answered tersely.

  ‘And you married Keith at nineteen,’ Caroline commented. ‘What did you think of Wendy Catchpole, that fiancee of his?’ she asked, almost inconsequentially.

  ‘She struck me as the perfect choice for him,’ Kirby said steadily.

  ‘Did she? I thought just the opposite.’

  ‘Well, she’s obviously wealthy, intelligent and self-confident,’ Kirby replied, ‘all things that Damian admires. She’s also very beautiful, and I thought she was quite charming last night. Why do you think she isn’t suitable?’

  ‘Because she’s not special.’ Caroline shrugged and smiled. ‘Don’t ask me to explain myself, because 1can’t.

  But Damian Holt is special, and she is not, for all her looks and money. She may even be clever, as you say, though I’m no judge of that, being a dunce myself. But she’s not clever enough to hold his interest for long. If they do get married, it won’t last. He needs someone special, as special as he is.’

  Kirby smiled. ‘So what exactly are the criteria for being special, Caroline?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. Some people just are special.

  Like Damian. Like you.’ She turned to whistle for the dogs, and they came panting back, tongues hanging rather shamefacedly at not having caught their rabbit.

  ‘Let’s get back and have some tea. I’m frozen.’

  ‘So am I.’ Kirby was silent, lost in thought as they walked back to the farmhouse, her soft mouth downturned at the corners.

  ‘I’ve asked them to come riding tomorrow,’ Caroline remarked casually as they reached the house.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Damian and Wendy. I thought the four of us might take the horses out across the dale if it’s fine, and have lunch in one of the village pubs. If not, we’ll try the dubious attractions of a hack along the lane, where it’s more sheltered.’

  Kirby’s heart sank into her shoes. She gave her friend an old-fashioned look. ‘Caroline!’

  ‘Don’t look like that. The horses need the exercise. It isn’t all that often we get four people under sixty in this house!’ Her eyes were sparkling as she took Kirby’s arm. ‘Come on. Hot buttered scones are calling.’

  As it turned out, Sunday was a fine autumn day, windy and far from warm, but with few clouds in the sky, and an invigorating tang in the air. Damian and Wendy arrived before lunch, Damian in denims and an old outdoor jacket, the same sort of outfit that Kirby herself was wearing, and Wendy in expensive and elegant riding gear that looked as though it had never been used.

  Kirby had been dreading the afternoon, and her tension made her even more curt and hostile towards Damian than on Friday night. She could hardly wait to get mounted, and release some of her depression in exercise.

  Caroline’s horses were fine animals, though none got much exercise these days. They were strong, enthusiastic mounts, and the ride, down from the farm through Braydale, named after the river Bray that eventually ran through Braythorpe town, was upliftingly beautiful.

  Despite her comments about Wendy Catchpole yesterday, Caroline was obviously making an effort to be pleasant to the girl this afternoon, and rode at her side, encouraging her to talk about her background, her career, and her general likes and dislikes.

  Riding a little ahead, Damian and Kirby were far less talkative―Kirby especially silent, since riding out with Damian brought back memories of other rides, long ago.

  They weren’t memories she wanted or welcomed. Any conversation they had was stilted and formal.

  ‘The air’s so clean and pure out here,’ Damian sighed in satisfaction. ‘London air always smells of traffic. I miss the country.’

  ‘Yes. You always were one for the simple life,’ Kirby commented sweetly.

  They crossed the river, rode along a quiet B-road for a mile or so, and then cut across open moorland towards the pretty little Dales village of Wetherton.

  The uncluttered horizon gave Kirby a sudden need to spread her wings. She urged her horse into a brisk canter, determined to leave some cobwebs behind her. Damian kept pace with her, a dark figure on a dark horse a few yards to her side. Half wanting to shake him off, half wanting to challenge him, she allowed the canter to turn into a gallop.

  It wasn’t the most sensible thing to do, as the dense purple heather made it impossible to see any holes or obstacles in her path, but Kirby was drinking in the exhilaration, revelling in the feel of the wind in her hair and the surging horse between her thighs as they picked up speed.

  Damian, riding the big bay, easily outpaced her, and she found herself chasing him, spurred on by the mocking grin he flashed her over his shoulder. Careering down the hillside, she felt the blood coursing in her veins, sparkling like champagne. The rush of the wind, the drumming of hoofs, filled her senses. Eventually, the grim line of a drystone wall brought their headlong rush to a halt, but she was laughing with sheer pleasure as she reined back beside Damian, her horse blowing and snorting as though it had relished that sprint as much as its rider.

  ‘Bee get under your saddle?’ he enquired in amusement.

  She twisted to look back over her shoulder, and realised that she was alone with Damian in rather a lot of North Yorkshire. Wendy and Caroline, keeping their sedate pace, were almost half a mile behind them, two dots against the glorious grey and purple of the hillside.

  ‘We’d better wait for the others,’ she panted.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Wendy isn’t all that good a horsewoman.’

  ‘What, with that beautiful outfit?’ Kirby couldn’t help asking maliciously. Her oval face was flushed, her hair in a chestnut tangle. She sent Damian an ironic glance from bright brown eyes. ‘You ought to be at her side, then, in case she falls off. Or something.’

  ‘She won’t fall off at that pace.’ He was watching Kirby with those dark blue eyes. Under this big autumn sky, they had taken on an ultramarine glow that made Kirby’s heart lurch inside her breast. ‘You look as though you needed that gallop,’ he said.

  ‘I did.’ She leaned forward to pat her mount’s sweaty neck in approval. ‘I don’t get to ride a horse all that often these days.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh…various reasons. Like not having anyone to ride with.’

  ‘You should think about remarrying,’ he said calmly.

  They were walking the horses along the wall, sheltered from the wind in its lee.

  She flashed a glance at him. ‘Just in order to get a riding companion? No, thanks.’

  ‘There are other reasons for marrying.’

  ‘How would you know?’ she asked pointedly. ‘You’ve never tried it. I have.’

  ‘True,’ he admitted. His lean, strong body moved in the saddle with the grace of poetry. ‘I don’t need to ask whether your marriage to Keith was happy.’

  ‘No,’ she replied with off-putting curtnes
s, ‘you don’t.’

  ‘But 1will, anyway.’ His teeth glinted whitely in a quick smile. ‘Was it happy?’

  ‘Blissfully happy,’ she said shortly. ‘Keith was a wonderful husband.’

  ‘So you can recommend marriage as an institution?’

  She knew he was laughing at her. ‘Providing you choose the right partner,’ she said stiffly. ‘And you seem pretty sure you’ve done that.’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ he repeated. He was riding on the outside, still watching her. ‘You’ll be twenty-five this December, won’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘Quite an old lady,’ she said with a dry smile.

  ‘Wait until you reach thirty-five.’ His deep voice was husky. ‘As a matter of fact, you’re far more lovely now than you were at eighteen.’