Substitute Fiancee Read online

  The long, low-ceilinged room, which was at the rear of the house, was cool and dim, and at first glance appeared to be empty. Then a tall, dark-haired man stepped in from the terrace and advanced to meet her.

  His back was to the light, his face in shadow.

  She had pictured the owner of Balantyne Hall as being on the wrong side of forty, an unprepossessing man, stiff and lacking warmth, whose only assets were wealth and position.

  Her first impression of this man was that he was quite young; her second, and even more unexpected, was that he was extremely attractive, with an air of raw power, of breathtaking masculinity.

  'Miss Holt? Welcome to Balantyne.' He held out a strong, well-shaped hand.

  As his fingers closed around hers she looked up into a lean, devilishly handsome face, with a long, mobile mouth and fascinating thickly lashed eyes.

  A face she knew and had thought never to see again.

  The shock was a severe one, making her heart start to race and every nerve tighten in rejection. What on earth was Blaze Rawdon doing here?

  His dark grey eyes mocking her confusion, he remarked, 'You look surprised to see me.'

  Somehow she found her voice. 'I thought you lived in the States.'

  'I do—at least for some of the time.'

  'I suppose you're here for the party?' She blurted out the first thing that came into her head.

  'You could say that.'

  Still holding her hand, he looked her over from head to toe. Then, turning her palm uppermost, he examined the graze, remarking sardonically, 'Dear me, you have been in the wars.'

  'I was about to get into a taxi at the airport when I was pushed over and my bag was snatched,' she explained a shade jerkily. Then instantly wished she'd kept quiet about the little incident.

  Level brows drawing together in a frown, he asked, 'Where was Varley when it happened? I understood you were meeting him?'

  So he knew about Kirk. Withdrawing her hand as soon as his grip would allow, she said, "There was a message to say he was delayed.'

  'Delayed? Dear me... So you came along to bravely hold the fort?'

  Thrown by the open mockery, she stayed silent.

  'How long will it be before he gets here?'

  'I'm afraid I don't know. But I'm sure he'll get here as soon as he can.'

  'It must be nice to feel so confident." Once again there was that unaccountable derision.

  Feeling totally out of her depth, she went back to practicalities. "The butler said Mr Balantyne was here.'

  Eyes glinting, Blaze agreed, "The butler's right.'

  It took a moment or two to sink in. Even then she couldn't believe it. How could Blaze Rawdon, the American businessman, be Edward Balantyne the English aristocrat?

  'You don't mean...?' She tried again. 'You can't be...'

  He smiled like a tiger. 'I assure you, I can.'

  Reeling under this second shock, she said weakly, 'I don't understand.'

  "There's some tea on the terrace.' He mimicked an Oxford accent. 'Come and have a cup while I explain.' A hand at her waist, he escorted her outside.

  That light but sure touch, and the easy way he dwarfed her five feet seven, made a shiver run down her spine.

  Three years apart and a bitter determination to put him right out of her mind had helped her to forget just how tall he was, what a powerful impact he had on her senses.

  Now she remembered. Only too well.

  Beyond the encircling drive, the ground sloped away, and the paved terrace, with its stone balustrade, overlooked a smooth sweep of green lawns.

  Waiting on a table in the shade of an umbrella was a teatray set with a silver teapot and delicate china.

  Blaze indicated a comfortable-looking reclining chair, which she sank into gratefully, and asked, 'Milk or lemon?'

  'Lemon, please.'

  She'd always thought of him as one hundred per cent American, and a city man. But, dressed with casual elegance and quite at home in this very rural setting, apart from a certain toughness he looked every inch the English country gentleman.

  Having poured the tea and handed her a cup, with wry self-mockery, he offered her a wafer-thin cucumber sandwich.

  When she politely refused he dropped into the seat next to hers, taking one himself and remarking ironically, 'I prefer sandwiches to sweet cakes, proving beyond doubt that I'm English to the core.'

  Still trying to gather her scattered wits,' she said, 'I thought you were a native New Yorker.'

  He shook his head. 'I was born here, at Balantyne Hall, the son of Sir Edward Balantyne. My father was a quiet, austere man who disliked the social whirl; my mother was a beautiful New York butterfly, fun-loving and gregarious. They met at the Waldorf and, proving that opposites attract, fell in love at first sight.'

  His mouth twisted. 'Their marriage, which must have been doomed from the start, was hailed by the media as the love-match of the decade. I was born a year later and christened Edward Blaze. Proving, if proof was needed, that a rift already existed, my father always referred to me as Edward while my mother called me Blaze.

  'When I was eight my mother took me to the States for a holiday, and we stayed there. My father wanted me back, and a long, bitter battle was fought in the courts. My mother accused him of mental cruelty, and swore that he treated me harshly. With the help of some smart lawyers hired by my maternal grandfather, and a sympathetic judge, my mother won.

  'After the divorce she married John Rawdon, who adopted me. This time she chose more carefully, and the marriage was a happy one.

  Two years ago my real father died a lonely, embittered man. He had never married again and had no other children. He left Balantyne Hall and the entire estate to me, expressing a wish that I should revert to using the name Edward Balantyne.

  'I felt, in the circumstances, it was the least I could do...'

  Derisively, he added, 'And the moral of the story is, never marry for love. It's the most treacherous of all emotions... And speaking of marrying...' Leaning towards her, he picked up her left hand—a slender hand, with long, tapering fingers and polished oval nails—and studied the modest ring. 'Who's the lucky man?'

  'Kirk Varley.'

  'Really?' Blaze raised a dark brow. 'I would have expected the owner of a jewellery firm to have produced something a little more...shall we say...lavish?'

  Fran sprang to her fiancé's defence. 'Kirk only gave it to me just before he left for his business trip. He said I could choose something bigger and better when he got back.'

  'And will you?' '

  She lifted her chin. 'I'm quite happy with this. I don't need anything bigger and better.'

  'Most women want a ring they can be proud of.'

  Recalling the magnificent ruby that Melinda Ross wore, Fran bit her lip before retorting, Tm proud of this. It proves Kirk loves me and—'

  'I would have said it proves quite the opposite,' Blaze broke in smoothly. 'In my opinion, if he loved you he would have taken a great deal more care.'

  Moving the ring around between his forefinger and thumb, he added contemptuously, 'I've seen better rings come out of Christmas crackers. And it doesn't even fit.'

  Her clear grey-green eyes sparkling with fury, she snatched her hand away. 'Do you make a point of being deliberately rude to your guests?'

  'Not as a rule.' He sounded unmoved by her anger. 'But in the circumstances I don't think it will be possible to treat you as an ordinary guest.'

  Before she could ask him what he meant, he changed the subject to ask, 'So when is my necklace being delivered? When I spoke to Varley he assured me it would be tonight.'

  'That's right,' she agreed evenly, though her heart had started to beat faster.

  Blaze said flatly, 'The security firm I hired say they know absolutely nothing about it.'

  Fran tried to put a bold face on it. 'Wasn't the agreement simply that Varleys were to be responsible for its safe return?'

  'Not altogether. The agreement was that Ra
yburn Security, who delivered it to Varleys, would collect it from them and return it here. Varleys were to be responsible for the arrangements and the timing. Instead of keeping to that, I find Varley hasn't even contacted the firm. I want to know why not.'

  She swallowed hard. 'Kirk made other plans.'

  'Without consulting me?'

  'He said if there was likely to be a problem he'd clear it with you...'

  'Big of him.'

  'But he was certain there wouldn't be.'

  Blaze's brilliant dark eyes narrowed. 'So what were these other plans?'

  Convinced now that he would be furious if he discovered the truth, she played for time. Tm sure Kirk will explain everything when he gets here.'

  'You seem to have great faith in him. I only hope it's justified.'

  Remembering the way her bag had been snatched, she shuddered inwardly, before answering firmly, 'I'm sure it is.'

  His expression wry, Blaze said, 'Tell me, Francesca, when did you start working for Varley?'

  Only too glad to leave the subject of the necklace, she answered, 'At the beginning of last August.'

  'How did you become a jewellery designer?'

  'I took a special two-year course at the Welbeck College of Art.'

  Frowning, he admitted, 'I would never have associated you with that kind of thing.'

  'But you did know I was redesigning the necklace. You must have known. You weren't at all surprised to see me.'

  'Yes, I knew. When Melinda first mentioned your name she also showed me a magazine article about you, entitled, "A Designing Woman". There was a picture...'

  He studied her thoughtfully. 'Why the sudden switch? You were a dedicated businesswoman when I knew you.''

  'Designing was something I'd always been interested in and had a flair for.'

  It was the truth. But not the whole truth. Three years ago, her world in ruins, she had needed a complete and drastic change. A metamorphosis.

  She had been twenty-three then, and working in the City for a firm of market analysts. A woman in a man's world, with a job she had competed for and won fair and square against strong male opposition.

  Then Blaze had taken over the company to add to his growing empire.

  She had been leaving a little late one Friday evening when a malfunctioning lift had trapped them between floors.

  As the lift had juddered to a halt he had pressed the alarm button and turned to smile reassuringly at her.

  Recognising him immediately, she might have felt tongue-tied and overawed if there hadn't been such an instant rapport.

  After identifying her, he had asked about her job, seeking, her opinion on company policy and on some of the problems they were facing before moving on to more personal topics.

  Normally fairly shy and reticent, something about him had made her sparkle, had made her prettier, wittier than she was.

  They had struck sparks off each other.

  By the time they'd been released, some three-quarters of an hour later, they had been talking with an ease that had amazed her when she thought about it later.

  As soon as the lift had settled jerkily into place and the doors had slid open Blaze had thanked the engineer and, taking Fran's hand, said with smiling authority, 'Now, as you're much too beautiful to starve, I intend to feed you before I take you home.'

  His words, and the fact that he'd thought her beautiful, had bowled her over, and she had made no attempt to refuse.

  Indeed, she had already been lost. Dazzled. Aware that her life had changed—channelled from the safe and predictable into something a great deal more dangerous and exciting.

  Just one look from those grey eyes, so dark yet so brilliant, had destroyed all her previous inaccessibility. Just one touch from those skilled and experienced hands had turned her strongly held beliefs upside down.

  His charm, his assurance, had stripped away her defences then, as later they would strip off her clothes.

  At first it had been like a fairy tale, full of magic and enchantment and a singing happiness. Loving him had seemed so natural, so right, something she had been born to do.

  All her mother's oft-recited woes, the carefully instilled fear and caution, had been forgotten. His passion and his obvious joy in her had made her inhibitions and repressions vanish like morning mist dispersed by the warmth of the sun.

  He had made her first time so easy. So wonderful. Lying with him had been like a wanderer coming home, something she had longed for all her life without realising it.

  He'd been a caring and tender lover, and his every touch had added to her pleasure until the driving force of his body had brought her an exquisite delight, a rapturous bliss that had excelled her wildest dreams. Then his arms had been her heaven, his shoulder the perfect pillow for her head... No! No! She mustn't remember. She never let herself remember.

  Gasping like a swimmer who had been under water too long, she looked up and met grey eyes that had darkened almost too black, as if he too had been reliving the past.

  Somehow she dragged her gaze away and looked at her watch. Her voice sounding as if it didn't belong to her she remarked with as much conviction as she could muster, 'I don't suppose Kirk will be much longer. Whatever delayed him, hopefully he'll be on the next plane.'

  'Hopefully.' With a twisted smile, Blaze added, 'But I won't hold my breath.'

  Fran was profoundly disturbed by that smile, by, the growing certainty that there was something odd going on, something she didn't begin to understand.

  On the verge of asking point-blank for an explanation, she chickened out, her nerve failing. Whatever it was, she would wait for Kirk to arrive and let him handle it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN THE meantime, however, she had to cope alone. It was a daunting task, made infinitely worse by the trauma of the past.

  If she'd had the faintest idea that Blaze Rawdon and Edward Balantyne were one and the same, no power on earth would have induced her to come.

  But, as she hadn't, there was nothing to do but make the best of it. That thought in mind, Fran sought for a relatively safe topic of conversation.

  'I'd understood your fiancée would be here?'

  'While I was away Melinda found the country too quiet for her. She's been spending her time between Manchester and London, shopping for her trousseau.

  'She was planning to drive from town and get here mid-afternoon. But, as you've probably noticed yourself, she's invariably late.' His little smile was tolerant.

  Stretching long legs, he added idly, 'You've met her several times. What did you think of her?'

  'She's beautiful.'

  'Did you like her?'

  Melinda had been open, friendly and vivacious, and, in spite of her apparent lack of principles, Fran had found it impossible to dislike her.

  Now she answered honestly, 'Yes, I did.'

  'Most people do. As far as men go, that's understandable, but women usually get on well with her. Which surprised me at first, until I realised that though she has her faults she isn't bitchy. Unlike Sherrye...'

  Sherrye...

  Fran still reacted to that name with a feeling of dread and bitter shame. Though it had been three years ago, that ugly and degrading little scene was still fresh in her mind.

  The usual Monday morning meeting had started, but for once her mind hadn't been on the business in hand. Gloriously happy, secure in the knowledge that Blaze loved and wanted her, her thoughts had gone back to the previous night.

  'I have to go to Hong Kong Monday evening,' he'd told her regretfully. 'But I'll be back on Friday, and we'll enjoy a quiet few days in the Cotswolds.'

  Smiling to herself, Fran was anticipating all the pleasure in store when the double doors of the conference room were flung open and a tall, strikingly beautiful woman with black hair and a vermilion mouth stormed in.

  Ignoring the rest of the people grouped round the long table, she singled Fran out and hurled a string of abuse at her, calling her names that made her ch
eeks burn.

  Taken aback by the suddenness of the attack, from a women she had never met and of whose existence she had been completely unaware, Fran sat flushed and mute while the shrill voice ranted on.

  'Believe me, I've no intention of letting some two-bit nobody try to steal my fiancé while my back's turned. I know he took you to Paris for the weekend, but don't think for one goddamned minute he's serious about you. He's just been having a fling...

  'See this?' She thrust a huge diamond solitaire under Fran's nose. 'Blaze is mine, and now I've joined him he won't want you hanging around... Do I make myself clear?'

  Turning on her heel, she said over her shoulder, 'If you've got any sense you'll go now, and save him the trouble of having to get rid of you...'

  Hips swaying, she walked away, leaving a stunned silence behind her.

  'Who the hell was that?' one of the startled analysts asked.

  His neighbour, Don Rogers, apparently better informed than the rest, answered, 'Sherrye Kaufmann. Our new boss's fiancée, would you believe? I bumped into them a couple of times when I was in New York earlier this year.'

  'She seems to be a first-class bitch.'

  'If you knew Rawdon as well as I do, you'd keep opinions like that to yourself,' Don warned.

  'Now he's in charge, if you get on the wrong side of either him or Miss Kaufmann you may find your position here becomes intolerable.'

  With that reminder, all eyes turned to the remaining protagonist, who was still sitting shocked and dazed.

  Becoming aware that she was now the focus of attention, Fran glanced around to find her peers were judging her.

  Some were surprised, some curious, one or two—including her own PA—were sympathetic; the remainder were frankly condemning. She had caused her immediate boss and the company as a whole trouble and embarrassment, not only by her actions but by being so publicly humiliated.

  Gathering together the reports that lay on the table in front of her, she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, a slim, businesslike figure in a navy blue suit and white blouse.

  Shoulders squared, chin held high, addressing her own departmental head, she said steadily, 'Please accept both my apologies and my resignation.'