Stranger by the Lake Read online

  “You there?” a voice called before I could make my presence known. It was Craig Stanton. It would be him, I thought miserably, brushing back my disheveled hair and smoothing my skirt.

  “I say, are you there?”

  “H—here,” I stammered.

  “Louder. I’ll have to locate you by the sound of your voice.”

  “Here!” I shouted.

  A few minutes later Craig Stanton strolled around the corner, a look of devilish amusement in his eyes. He cocked his head and grinned boyishly. He was still wearing the tight jeans and bulky white sweater, and I tried not to marvel at his stunning good looks: those sculptured cheekbones, that strong jaw, those magnetic blue eyes, and the dark brown hair that tumbled over his forehead in such rich locks. His virile male beauty disturbed me, and I was painfully conscious of my own state of dishevelment: green linen dress rumpled, hair spilling down untidily, cheeks flushed a bright pink. He chuckled, lips still curled in that maddening grin.

  “This is delightful,” he said. “It isn’t often one has an opportunity to rescue a maiden in distress.”

  “I don’t need rescuing, thank you. I-I was just taking a pleasant stroll——”

  “And I just happened to be on the terrace when I saw you stepping into the maze! Thought at the time it was a damned foolhardy thing to do, but I assumed you knew how to find your way about. When half an hour passed and you still hadn’t come out——”

  He paused. “Well,” he said huskily, “here we are—alone.” He lowered heavy lids over lazy blue eyes, turning it on full blast. Some women would have melted. I found it slightly ludicrous.

  “Do you try to seduce every woman you meet?” I asked, my voice pure acid.

  “Not all of them,” he said lazily. “Once in a while I let one or two slip by.”

  “Your conceit knows no bounds, Mr. Stanton.”

  He looked at me beneath drooping lids, blue eyes lazy and seductive. “We both know there’s going to be something between us,” he said. “Don’t fight it.”

  “My God! Where did you pick up that bit of dialogue?”

  “From your last novel, as a matter of fact. Norman said it to Lauren as they were standing in the ruined temple. Agatha insisted I read the book when she found out you were coming. I must say, it was quite revealing. One can learn a great deal about the author from the book——”

  “It was a work of pure fiction,” I said calmly.

  “The hero was very interesting, the kind of man women dream about. I gather you’ve done your share of dreaming.”

  “Nonsense. Heroes in romantic novels have to be dashing. I can assure you that if any man acted like that in real life a woman would laugh in his face.”

  “Indeed? You’re quite sure of that?”

  “Quite sure,” I said icily. “Shall we leave?”

  I gave him a cool, frigid stare. He frowned, lowering his brows. He looked rather angry, eyes dark, mouth turned down, as though he found it incredible that I hadn’t tumbled into his arms. Turning abruptly, he strode briskly down the aisle between the shrubs. I had to trot to catch up with him. He moved up and down the aisles with complete confidence, turning left and right and left again without the least hesitation, obviously familiar with every shift and change of its intricate pattern. I stumbled, almost crashing into a leafy green wall, but Craig Stanton didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as glance back. He moved quickly in that long stride, turning a corner and going out of sight. I was infuriated, but I ran like crazy, terrified at the thought of losing him. A few minutes later I stumbled out of the maze, incredibly relieved to see the open air again. Craig Stanton was waiting, arms folded across his chest.

  “Took your time, pet,” he said.

  “I almost lost you,” I snapped. “You’re hardly gallant, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Gallant? Guess I’m not. I’m a real man, you see, not one of your romantic heroes.”

  He gazed at me for a moment while I tried to compose myself. I loathed the man, I told myself, yet in all honesty I had to admit I wasn’t entirely immune to his charm. The charm was quite real and, combined with his good looks, quite formidable.

  “You’re an expert at handling fictional romance,” he said, “but I wonder how much you know about the genuine article.”

  “I hardly think I need lessons from you,” I retorted.

  “No?”

  He stepped over to me and laid his hands on my shoulders, looking down into my eyes. The smile curled lightly on his lips, and his eyes gleamed with intolerable amusement. I stood rigid, far too aware of his nearness, far too disturbed by those heavy hands kneading the flesh of my shoulders. His face was inches from my own, and I could see the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth where he had cut himself shaving. I felt totally helpless, hypnotized by the man. He raised one hand and curled his fingers around my chin, tilting my head back.

  “We’ll see,” he said quietly.

  He pulled me into his arms, holding me loosely, and I didn’t make any attempt to struggle. He looked deep into my eyes for a moment before leaning down and fastening his mouth over mine. The kiss was casual, not at all passionate, but it was effective nevertheless.

  “Lesson number one,” he said.

  I drew my arm back and smashed my palm against his cheek, putting all I had into the slap. He looked stunned, eyes wide, mouth parted. Then he threw back his head and burst into gales of hearty laughter.

  “You’ve got good reflexes,” he said.

  Locks of dark brown hair had fallen forward, almost covering his forehead. He brushed them aside and rubbed his cheek.

  “Now if I were one of your” heroes,” he said, “like Norman, for example, how would I react? Let me see—ah, yes——”

  He took hold of my wrist and swung me into his arms again, holding me in the curve of his arm. His second kiss was as casual as the first, and as effective. I gathered his hair in my fingers, intending to jerk his head back. Instead, I slipped my hands down, placing the palms flat on his back. I could feel his muscles tense under the bulky sweater. Craig Stanton got the response he wanted, and then he released me, smiling a smug smile.

  “I hope you’re satisfied with yourself,” I said angrily.

  “Oh, I am,” he replied lightly. “You’re not laughing. You’re supposed to laugh in my face, remember?”

  He folded one arm across his waist, extending the other toward me. He leaned forward, executing a mocking bow, for all the world like an Edwardian dandy.

  “Farewell, fair maiden,” he teased.

  “Go to hell!” I cried.

  He walked away, heading for the house. I stood watching him, furious, of course, loathing his arrogance, yet disturbed by those other reactions that were as real as my rage. He was far away now, moving toward the terrace. He had an attractive walk, as though he owned the world, and the sun seemed to gild his dark hair with bronze highlights. He strolled on across the terrace and into the house through the opened French windows. I thought about the dinner party Aunt Agatha had planned for this evening. I wondered if I should wear my sexy violet-blue silk cocktail dress.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As it happened, I didn’t wear the dress after all. Aunt Agatha and I spent the remainder of the afternoon talking about things that had happened to us since our last meeting. I told her about my flat in London, my friends, my publisher, and she chatted volubly about the Gordon papers, describing the search she and Craig were making. By the time I finally got to my room, my whole attitude about the incident in the maze had changed. I realized that I had acted like a bloody fool and decided that cool dignity would certainly be the best policy to employ towards Craig Stanton. I fingered the sexy dress for a moment, rubbing the violet-blue silk between my fingers, then took down a dress of crushed golden-brown velvet. It would be far more appropriate.

  Nevertheless, I took great pains with my appearance, spending almost half an hour on my hair. I arranged it in an elegant French roll, a string of pearls entwined in th
e carefully stacked waves. The result was extremely flattering. Applying subtle brown shadow on my lids and a suggestion of coral to my lips, I stood back to examine myself. The dress had a modest neckline, long sleeves and form-fitting bodice, the full skirt falling in velvety folds to my knees. I looked quite unlike the hysterical ninny who had acted such an idiot this afternoon. In the warm golden glow of the oil lamps, I looked, in fact, frightfully sophisticated. Craig Stanton wasn’t going to think me an inexperienced schoolgirl tonight.

  Taking one of the oil lamps, I left the room. It was after seven thirty, and we would dine at eight. The corridors were dark and gloomy, but I was prepared for that. I knew my way about now and certainly didn’t intend to go traipsing into the east wing. Still, I wished I had had the foresight to leave few lamps scattered about along the way. The lack of electricity might be romantic, but it hardly helped relieve the gloom. The light of my lamp flickered on the walls, making dancing gold and black patterns, and I had to restrain a shudder as I passed the east wing. I walked rapidly, my high heels tripping along on the carpet, the dancing shadows following me as I turned down the main hall and reached the head of the staircase.

  I heard someone knocking on the front door as I went downstairs, and turning down the landing I saw the nurse, Mildred, opening the door for a man. Tall white candles burned in half a dozen candelabra, illuminating the hall with a bright golden light. The man stepped inside and Mildred closed the door behind him. Poor thing, she was wearing an unfortunate dress of blue-gray velvet, the nap worn and shiny, the cut impossibly old-fashioned. Her. mousy brown hair was worn in an untidy bun, a gold barrette clipped on as an afterthought. Her pathetic attempt at elegance only emphasized her ugliness, and I found it rather touching. With her slumped shoulders and clumpy black shoes she looked like something out of an old horror film.

  “And how’s the patient today?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mildred whined. “She won’t let me do for her. I tried to make her take her pills, but——”

  “I’ll talk to her,” he said pleasantly, smiling warmly. “And who is this?” he added as I walked towards them.

  “Susan Marlow,” I said. “Agatha’s niece. You must be Dr. Matthews.”

  I set my oil lamp down on a table. The man nodded, still smiling.

  “Right,” he said, extending his hand. He gave my hand a firm, hearty shake, and I could feel the energy and vitality of the man as he squeezed. Mildred shuffled away, disappearing into one of the rooms, leaving the two of us together.

  “Agatha told me you were coming,” he said, “although I didn’t expect you so soon. I hope now that you’re here you’ll help us keep her in line.”

  “Is my aunt really ill?” I inquired.

  “No, not seriously—nothing to be alarmed about. She just needs to slow down a bit, needs to get more rest, take her vitamins. The flu left her rather weaker than she imagines, and she insists on charging about like a sergeant major on maneuvers. I hoped Mildred would be able to subdue her somewhat, but——” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you’ll be more successful.”

  “I’ll certainly try,” I replied.

  Dr. Paul Matthews was in his early forties, one of those ruddy, robust men who was a walking advertisement for his profession. Quite tall, he was solidly built, with broad shoulders and a large frame. His features were rough-hewn: square jaw, wide, rather sensuous mouth, large nose, and heavy brows over dark brown eyes. Deeply tanned, his face was lined and stamped with character, and his hair was golden-bronze, more red than brown, very thick and wavy. He was the kind of man who immediately inspires confidence, who exudes strength and purpose. Dressed in a formal black suit with a poorly knotted black bow tie above a gleaming white shirtfront, he looked rather uncomfortable. I imagined he would feel more at home in stout boots and an old tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows.

  “I must say,” he remarked, “your photographs hardly do you justice.”

  “You’ve seen photographs of me?”

  “On the dust jackets of your books,” he explained. “Agatha has given me copies of all of them—which I’ve read, incidentally, and enjoyed enormously. You’re remarkably talented, Miss Marlow, as well as being quite a fetching young woman.”

  “I can see why your patients love you,” I said, pleased by his gallantry. The man was so large, so hearty, with undeniable warmth. I wondered how he had managed to stay single. He was everything a woman could hope for in a man. He was not really handsome, I thought, but he had an overwhelming magnetism, that rare quality that show people called great presence.

  “Oh, I’m quite severe with them,” he replied. “Have to be firm, you know, keep the upper hand. Don’t believe in coddling them. If you were one of my patients, I wouldn’t dream of complimenting you. I’d treat you with the proper severity.”

  “I’m sure I’d love it,” I said, smiling.

  “Let’s hope you never have occasion to find out,” Paul Matthews said. His voice suited him perfectly: it was rich and deep, rather harsh, the voice of a big man full of self-confidence.

  “I believe Aunt Agatha plans to meet us in the grand drawing room,” I said. “Shall we go?”

  Paul Matthews took my arm and led the way. The grand drawing room was much larger than the one leading onto the terrace. The walls were covered with richly embossed dark blue paper, and two tremendous chandeliers hung from a dark ivory ceiling, candles burning, crystal pendants reflecting spokes of rainbow-hued light. The carpet was rich purple, the draperies heavy beige satin embroidered with gold. There were antique white tables, chairs upholstered in blue and violet, two long white sofas. Craig Stanton stood at the enormous white marble fireplace, prodding the crackling logs with a long black poker. He looked up as we came in.

  “Matthews,” he said, giving a curt nod. He didn’t acknowledge my presence.

  “Stanton,” Paul Matthews said, returning the nod. “How are you?”

  “Healthy,” Craig said, and I sensed immediately that the two men did not care for each other.

  “Aunt Agatha hasn’t come down yet?” I inquired.

  “She’s gone to fetch Althea. They’ll be here shortly. Mildred’s gone to help Cook with last-minute preparations. Any more questions?”

  “I say, Stanton,” Paul protested. “You needn’t be so rude.”

  “Was I being rude?” Craig asked, lifting one eyebrow. He gave a wry smile. “Perhaps I was. I’ve spent the last half hour lighting all these damned candles. Somebody should set a fire under those people at the power plant. Frightfully inconvenient having no electricity.”

  “I think the candlelight is charming,” I said.

  “It certainly becomes you,” he replied. He tossed the compliment out as though it were a rather shabby bone, his attitude nullifying the words. I tried not to show my anger.

  “Care for a drink?” Paul inquired, moving over to a silver cart laden with various bottles and decanters. “Sherry?”

  “Scotch,” I said, “if there is any. Straight, please.”

  Craig Stanton smiled at this, as though I were a child playing at being a grown-up. He was formidably handsome in his dress clothes: the black pants narrow, the white shirt ruffled down the front, the black bow tie at a rakish angle. His loosely cut jacket was dark maroon, embroidered with black silk flowers. As is frequently the case, the fancy clothes merely emphasized his virility, pointing it up and making it all the more apparent. He might have stepped right out of a spinster’s dream.

  Paul Matthews handed me my drink. I thanked him, flirting just a little. If I had hoped to make Craig notice, it was wasted effort. He had turned back to the fire, viciously jabbing at the logs with the poker. Paul Matthews sipped his drink, the glass looking shockingly fragile in his big brown hand. He was not the sort of man to be at ease in a drawing room, I thought, too robust, too vital to be quite comfortable among all the elegant trappings.

  “Are you working on another book?” he asked.

>   “I’ve just finished one,” I replied. “I’ll begin the next as soon as my holiday is over.”

  “Another thriller?”

  “Naturally,” Craig Stanton interrupted. “With lots of romance. She’s an authority on romance.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said stiffly, giving him a furious glance, “it will be primarily an historical novel about young John Gordon’s attempt to abduct Mary Queen of Scots during the early days of her reign. He was quite a dashing figure, and she was a beautiful young widow at that particular time.”

  “Sounds like a fascinating idea,” Paul replied, nodding.

  “My editor likes it,” I said. “It has all the elements of good fiction: a beautiful heroine, an attractive, irreverent young hero, a rowdy period of history. Of course I’ll have to include all those embellishments my fans have come to expect—suspense, chills, narrow escapes. That will mean taking a few liberties with the facts, but that’s a novelist’s prerogative.”

  “Naturally,” Craig said. “Facts aren’t all that important.”

  “I suppose you’ve done a lot of research?” Paul inquired, deliberately ignoring Craig’s remark.

  “Oh yes, I’ve spent hours in the reading room of the British Museum, and I’ve collected a great many books on the subject——”

  Dr. Matthews and I began to discuss historical research. Craig Stanton listened, his manner condescending, a rather smug look on his face. He was, of course, an expert on the subject, but he chose to remain silent, going over to the cart to mix a drink, prowling around the room like a graceful animal in captivity. His movements distracted me, and I found it hard to concentrate on what Paul was saying. I was relieved to hear footsteps in the hall and see my aunt come in with the much-mentioned Althea.