HELEN had never been so nervous in her life.
The starkness of her surroundings did not help, of course.
This was, after all, the London headquarters of
Restauration International — an organisation supposedly
devoted to historical conservation projects.
She'd expected panelled walls hung with works of art,
antique furniture, and possibly a Persian carpet.
Something with the grace and charm of the past.
Instead she'd been greeted by a receptionist with
attitude, and dumped in this glass and chrome box with
only a water cooler for company as the long, slow nerve-
racking minutes passed.
And although she had to admit that the arrangement of
canvas slats that formed her chair was surprisingly
comfortable, it couldn't make her feel at ease mentally.
But then, in this life or death situation, what could? Her
hands tightened on the handle of her briefcase as she ran
a silent check on the points she needed to make once she
came face to face with the directors of Restauration
International.
They're my last hope now, she thought. Every other source
has dried up. So I need to get it right.
Suddenly restless, she walked across to the cooler and
filled a paper cup. As she moved, she saw the security
camera become activated, and repressed a grimace at the
idea that unseen eyes at some control point might be
watching her.
"Look businesslike," her friend Lottie had advised
her. "Get out of those eternal jeans and put on a skirt.
Remember you're making a presentation, not mucking out the
ruins. You've had a lot of help over this," she added with
mock sternness. "So don't blow it."
And Lottie was quite right, Helen thought soberly. So many
people had rallied round with quite amazing kindness.
Checking the draft of her written report and making
suggestions. Providing quick facelifts to the outside
buildings and grounds with painting and weeding parties,
in case the committee came to see the place for
themselves. And even offering films of various events held
at Monteagle over the past couple of years to use in the
video, itself the result of a favour that had been called
in by Lottie.
But now, at last, it was all down to her. She'd taken her
friend's advice and put on her one good grey skirt,
teaming it with a demure white cotton blouse and her
elderly black blazer. Hopefully they wouldn't look too
closely and see the shabbiness of her attire, she thought.
Her light brown hair — which badly needed cutting and
shaping, when she had the time and the money — had been
drawn back severely from her face and confined at the nape
of her neck by a black ribbon bow, and there were small
silver studs in the lobes of her ears.
Not much there for the hidden spectator to criticise, she
thought, resisting the impulse to raise her cup in salute.
She made the trip back to her chair look deliberately
casual, as if she didn't have a care in the world and
there was nothing much riding on the coming interview.
Only my entire life, she thought, as her taut throat
accepted the cool water. Only everything I care most about
in the world now at the mercy of strangers.
Apart from Nigel, of course, she amended hastily. Somehow
I have to convince them that Monteagle is worth saving.
That I'm not going to give up the struggle like my father
and Grandpa and watch the place slide into total oblivion.
Or, worse still, into the hands of Trevor Newson.
She shuddered at the memory of the fleshy, complacent face
awaiting with a smile the victory that he thought was
inevitable. Counting the days until he could turn
Monteagle into the gross medieval theme park he'd set his
heart on.
It had been those plans, as outlined to her, that had sent
her on this last desperate quest to find the money for the
house's urgently needed repairs.
All the other organisations that she'd doggedly approached
had rejected her pleas for a grant on the grounds that
Monteagle was too small, too unimportant, and too far off
the normal tourist trails.
"Which is why it needs me," Trevor Newson had told
her. "Jousting on the lawns, pig roasts, banqueting in the
great hall…" His eyes glistened. "That'll put it on the
map, all right. The coach parties will flock here, and so
will foreign tourists once I get it on the internet. And
don't keep me waiting too long for your answer," he
added. "Or the price I'm offering will start to go down."
"You need not wait at all," Helen said with icy
civility. "The answer is no, Mr Newson."
"And now you're being hasty," he chided in the patronising
tone she so resented. "After all, what choice have you
got? The place is falling down around you, and it's common
knowledge your father and grandfather left little but
debts when they died."
He ticked off on his fingers. "You've got the rent from
the grazing land and a bit of income from the handful of
visitors who come when you open the place up each summer,
and that won't get you far. In fact, it's a wonder you've
hung on as long as you have."
He gave a pitying shake of the head. "You need to sell, my
dear. And if you really can't bear to leave and move away
I might even be able to offer you some work. These
tournaments used to have a Queen of Love and Beauty
presiding over them, apparently, and you're a good-looking
girl." He leered at her. "I can just see you, properly
made-up, in some low-cut medieval dress."
"It's a tempting offer," Helen said, controlling her
temper by a whisker. "But I'm afraid the answer's still
no."
"Ghastly old lech," Lottie had commented. "Better not tell
Nigel, or he might deck him." She'd paused. "Is he going
with you to confront this committee?"
"No." Helen had resolutely concealed her
disappointment. "He's incredibly busy at work right now.
Anyway," she'd added, "I'm a grown up girl. I can cope."
As Nigel himself had said, she recalled with a pang. And
maybe she'd simply taken too much for granted in counting
on his support today. But they'd been seeing each other
for a long time now, and everyone in the area presumed
that he'd be fighting at her side in the battle to save
Monteagle.
In fact, as Helen admitted to no one but herself, Nigel
had been pretty lukewarm about her struggles to retain her
home. He wasn't a poor man by any means — he worked in a
merchant bank, and had inherited money from his
grandmother as well — but he'd never offered any practical
form of help.
It was something they would really need to discuss — once
she got the grant. Because she was determined to be self-
sufficient, and, while she drew the line at Mr Newson's
theme park, she had several other schemes in mind to boost
the house's earning power.
Although lately they hadn't had the opportunity to talk
about very much at all, she realised with a faint frown.
But that was probably her fault in the main. Nigel's work
had kept him confined to London recently, but she'd been
so totally engrossed in preparing her case for the
committee that she'd barely missed him.
What a thing to admit about the man you were going to
marry!
But all that was going to change, she vowed remorsefully.
Once today was over, win or lose, it was going to be
permanent commitment from now on. Everything he'd ever
asked from her. Including that.
She knew she was probably being an old-fashioned idiot,
and most of her contemporaries would laugh if they knew,
but she'd always veered away from the idea of sex before
marriage.
Not that she was scared of surrender, she thought
defensively, or unsure of her own feelings for Nigel. It
was just that when she stood with him in the village
church to make her vows she wanted him to know that she
was his alone, and that her white dress meant something.
On a more practical level, it had never seemed to be quite
the right moment, either.
Never the time, the place, and the loved one altogether,
she thought, grimacing inwardly. But she couldn't expect
Nigel to be patient for ever, not when they belonged
together. So why hold back any longer?
She was startled out of her reverie by the sudden opening
of the door. Helen got hurriedly to her feet, to be
confronted by a blonde girl, tall and slim, with endless
legs, and wearing a smart black suit. She gave Helen a
swift formal smile while her eyes swept her with faint
disparagement.
"Miss Frayne? Will you come with me, please? The committee
is waiting for you."
"And I've been waiting for the committee," Helen told her
coolly.
She was led down a long narrow corridor, with walls
plastered in a Greek key pattern. It made her feel
slightly giddy, and she wondered if this was a deliberate
ploy.
Her companion flung open the door at the far end. "Miss
Frayne," she announced, and stood back to allow Helen to
precede her into the room.
More concrete, thought Helen, taking a swift look around.
More metal, more glass. And seven men standing at an
oblong table, acknowledging her presence with polite
inclinations of their heads.
"Please, Miss Frayne, sit. Be comfortable." The speaker,
clearly the chairman, was opposite her. He was a bearded
man with grey hair and glasses, who looked Scandinavian.
Helen sank down on to a high-backed affair of leather and
steel, clutching her briefcase on her lap while they all
took their places.
They looked like clones of each other, she thought, in
their neat dark suits and discreetly patterned ties,
sitting bolt upright round the table. Except for one, she
realised. The man casually lounging in the seat to the
right of the chairman.
He was younger than his colleagues — early to mid-
thirties, Helen judged — with an untidy mane of black hair
and a swarthy face that no one would ever describe as
handsome. He had a beak of a nose, and a thin-lipped,
insolent mouth, while eyes, dark and impenetrable as the
night, studied her from under heavy lids.
Unlike the rest of the buttoned-up committee members, he
looked as if he'd just crawled out of bed and thrown on
the clothing that was nearest to hand. Moreover, his tie
had been pulled loose and the top of his shirt left undone.
He had the appearance of someone who'd strayed in off the
street by mistake, she thought critically.
And saw his mouth twist into a faint grin, as if he'd
divined what she was thinking and found it amusing.
Helen felt a kind of embarrassed resentment at being so
transparent. This was not how she'd planned to begin at
all. She gave him a cold look, and saw his smile widen in
sensuous, delighted appreciation.
Making her realise, for the first time in her life, that a
man did not have to be conventionally handsome to blaze
charm and a lethal brand of sexual attraction.
Helen felt as if she'd been suddenly subjected to a force
field of male charisma, and she resented it. And the fact
that he had beautiful teeth did nothing to endear him to
her either.
"Be comfortable," the chairman had said.
My God, she thought. What a hope. Because she'd never felt
more awkward in her life. Or so scared.
She took a deep breath and transferred her attention
deliberately to the chairman, trying to concentrate as he
congratulated her on the depth and lucidity of her
original application for a grant, and on the additional
material she'd supplied to back up her claim.
They all had their folders open, she saw, except one. And
no prizes for guessing which of them it was, she thought
indignantly. But at least she wasn't the object of his
attention any longer. Instead, her swift sideways glance
told her, he seemed to be staring abstractedly into space,
as if he was miles away.
If only, thought Helen, steadying her flurried breathing.
And, anyway, why serve on the committee if he wasn't
prepared to contribute to its work?
He didn't even react when she produced the videotape. "I
hope this will give you some idea of the use Monteagle has
been put to in the recent past," she said. "I intend to
widen the scope of activities in future — even have the
house licensed for weddings."
There were murmurs of polite interest and approval, and
she began to relax a little — only to realise that he was
staring at her once again, his eyes travelling slowly over
her face and down, she realised furiously, to the swell of
her breasts against the thin blouse. She tried to behave
as if she was unconscious of his scrutiny, but felt the
betrayal of warm blood invading her face. Finally, to her
relief, the dark gaze descended to her small bare hands,
clasped tensely on the table in front of her.
"You plan to marry there yourself, perhaps, mademoiselle?"
He had a low, resonant voice which was not unattractive,
she admitted unwillingly, still smarting from the overt
sensuality of his regard. And his English was excellent,
in spite of his French accent.
She wondered how he'd taken the section of her report
which stated that the fortified part of Monteagle had been
built at the time of the Hundred Years War, and that the
Black Prince, France's most feared enemy, had often stayed
there.
Now she lifted her chin and met his enquiring gaze with a
flash of her long-lashed hazel eyes, wishing at the same
time that she and Nigel were officially engaged and she
had a ring to wear.
"Yes," she said. "As a matter of fact, I do, monsieur. I
thought I might even be the first one," she added with a
flash of inspiration.
Of course she hadn't discussed this with Nigel, she
reminded herself guiltily, but she didn't see what
objection he could have. And it would make the most
wonderful setting — besides providing useful publicity at
the same time.
"But how romantic," he murmured, and relapsed into his
reverie again.
After that questions from the other committee members came
thick and fast, asking her to explain or expand further on
some of the points she'd made in her application. Clearly
they'd all read the file, she thought hopefully, and
seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.
The door opened to admit the tall blonde, bringing coffee
on a trolley, and Helen was glad to see there was mineral
water as well. This interview was proving just as much of
an ordeal as she'd expected, and her mouth was dry again.
When the blonde withdrew, the Frenchman reached for his
folder and extracted a sheet of paper.