A Masterful Man
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Lindsay Armstrong
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CHAPTER ONE
DAVINA HASTINGS breathed a sigh of relief and unclenched her hands. She didn’t feel at home in small planes and the one she was in that had just landed was very small indeed. An eight-seater, it had seemed extraordinarily fragile to her to be flying across three hundred miles of the South Pacific from the Australian mainland to the island of Lord Howe. Fragile and cramped, so that she’d had to battle with claustrophobia as well as her other fears. Then, to compound matters, they’d had to descend through a storm to the airstrip—that was when she’d closed her eyes.
But, as the little plane zipped towards the terminal, she looked eagerly out of her window to gain some impression of Lord Howe, reputedly a gem of an island and a photographer’s paradise, only to see a mist-wreathed mountainside and driving rain.
‘Sorry about this, folks,’ the pilot said cheerfully. ‘The weather, I mean, but I can tell you this is an isolated front on its way to New Zealand and it should be fine as soon as it passes through, and it should do that quite quickly. Thank you for flying with our airline and I hope you all have wonderful holidays!’
Davina grimaced. From their conversation it had been apparent she was the only passenger not coming to this paradise on holiday, and for a moment she ardently wished that were not so. But a job was a job, and she squared her shoulders and took herself in hand as she prepared to disembark.
* * *
The terminal was tiny, she saw, as she ran through the rain. Then she was through the glass doors, brushing raindrops from her hair and shaking them from her jacket and blouse and she looked up, straight into the eyes of a tall man lounging beside the counter. And it was not hard to read, as their gazes caught and clashed, that he was looking her over in the way men did when they were mentally undressing a woman, and, although in a curiously sardonic way, giving her the benefit of his unasked for approval.
Davina looked away from those rather hard grey eyes expressionlessly yet she found she was inwardly fuming and wondered why—it was not as if it had never happened to her before. In fact, it sometimes gave her cause for amusement, the fact that she had the kind of figure that attracted a lot of attention, darkish fair hair, darker eyebrows, and violet eyes set in a classically oval face. Amused her because her pin-up exterior didn’t quite match her prosaic, practical, down-to-earth inner self and because if, as many men contrived to make her aware, she was the kind of girl they dreamt about, none of them had yet set her dreams alight.
But this is a bit different, she thought. For some reason or other, this man contrived to say that she might be good to bed but that would be the sum total of it—how dared he? Or did she imagine it?
She pondered for a moment longer, still determinedly looking the other way, then shrugged and decided she ought to make herself known to whoever had come to pick her up. But the little terminal was bustling and crowded now as resort employees gathered their guests and their luggage, the only staff member the airport boasted, apparently, was on the phone and no one appeared to be looking for a Davina Hastings, engaged as the temporary housekeeper for a Mr S. Warwick and his family.
So she collected her luggage and looked around again. The crowd was starting to thin and the tall man who had been leaning against the counter now had his back to her and his hands shoved irritably in his pockets as he scanned the retreating stream.
Then the pilot came in from the tarmac and, with a look of delighted recognition, came straight over to her. ‘Hi!’ he said. ‘Thought I might have missed you. Where are you staying? I wondered if we could have dinner together, I’m staying overnight.’
Davina groaned inwardly as she thought, Another one! But this one, in his smart navy uniform, at least looked engagingly friendly as he held out his hand—he also looked to be about her own age, which was twenty-five, and he went on ingeniously, as they shook hands, ‘It’s D. Hastings, isn’t it? I checked the passenger list and there was only one Hastings and you appeared to be the only one on your own, you’re also not wearing a wedding-ring so I thought, in those circumstances, you might not mind my asking!’
Davina glanced involuntarily at her left hand and opened her mouth, but before she could speak a deep growling voice said, ‘Hastings?’ And added with considerable biting annoyance, ‘Oh, for crying out loud—don’t tell me you’re Mrs Hastings!’
Davina turned slowly, but she knew who it was. And as their gazes locked for a second time, she realised his eyes weren’t entirely grey but had yellow flecks in them and that this man, whom she had a horrible feeling was Mr S. Warwick, was broad-shouldered as well as tall, was probably in his middle thirties and carried an aura of dynamism and, at this moment, angry power that struck out like a rapier. So that, despite wearing faded corduroy trousers and a bulky, nondescript sweater, despite having irregular features and windswept tawny hair and a tendency to freckles, you couldn’t fail to be aware that he was very much a man of the world and very used to getting his way...
Davina blinked once, as she thought, so what? She said coolly, ‘I am Mrs Hastings, yes. Who are you?’
He didn’t answer immediately but he subjected her to a scathing reappraisal then said bitterly, ‘I don’t believe it! I told them I wanted a competent yet middle-aged, motherly sort of person, and what do they send me? Some aspiring film starlet who’s probably just waiting for the right B-grade movie so she can take her clothes off!’ he marvelled.
Two things happened simultaneously. Davina took a step forward with every intention of hitting him, and the pilot, who’d been looking almost comically confused, said hastily, ‘I say, Mr Warwick, sir—’
‘Get lost, Pete,’ S. Warwick said briefly. And, to Davina’s amazement, with a sheepish look, that was just what the pilot did.
‘I don’t believe this,’ she said through her teeth. ‘Who the hell are you? Anyone would think you own the island and have set yourself up as some kind of self-styled pasha able to make free with your insults and order people around as if they were dogs!’
S. Warwick raised an eyebrow. ‘I do own a fair slice of the airline, so you’ll have to forgive Pete for deserting you in your hour of need,’ he drawled and added, ‘Why aren’t you wearing a wedding-ring, Mrs Hastings? Or did the agency mislead me about that as well?’
‘They did not,’ Davina replied cuttingly. ‘I am a Mrs and whether I choose to wear a wedding-ring or not has nothing to do with you! I am also extremely competent at housekeeping and if someone needs mothering, I’m quite prepared to mother them—’ She stopped abruptly and her eyes narrowed. ‘But why mothering? Don’t tell me you’re divorced or you’re a single parent?’
‘I am neither, but then again I never told anyone that I was—could we be at cross purposes here?’
Davina frowned. ‘Does that mean to say,’ she said slowly, ‘that you have no living wife, or no wife living with you?’
He regarded her with enough scorn to wither most people but Davina didn’t even flinch as he said, ‘Let me try to set this straight in your mind, Mrs Hastings. I am not married and therefore, as night follows day, I don’t have a wife—do you think you’re able to understand it now?’
‘No mistress, de facto or whatever you like to call it?’ Davina merely enquired, refusing to be deterred.
‘No mistress, no live-in lover...no, none of those things. Why,’ he said in a voice loaded with mockery, ‘is it disturbing you to this extent, Mrs Hastings? Please, do explain.’
Davina set her teeth and said impatiently, ‘Because if someone needs mothering it’s got to be a motherless child...’ She stopped and glared at him. ‘Then I have to tell you I never work for single men, Mr Warwick,’ she said. ‘And I’ll even tell you why! Single men, be they widowers or whatever, for reasons best known to themselves, tend to regard housekeepers as fair game—which you yourself proved as soon as you laid eyes on me. So what we have here now is not that the agency misrepresented me to you, but you to me.’ She smiled, but not with her eyes; in fact they were as cold as ice. ‘They actually told me you had a wife and daughter. I wonder why they would have done that, Mr Warwick, since you’ve made it so obvious it’s not so?’
He was silent for a moment then a faint smile twisted his lips and he said smoothly, ‘It had to be a misunderstanding, I’m afraid. What I have is a stepmother and a half-sister all bearing the name of Warwick. So that anyone checking the names in the household would have come across a Mr Warwick, a Mrs Warwick—there’ll be two of those in fact, and a Miss Warwick aged eight. I would imagine that’s how things got garbled, Mrs Hastings, wouldn’t you agree? Moreover, the other Mrs Warwick is my grandmother—I wonder if you feel that array of woman-power on the scene is enough to keep you safe from the ravages of single men, Mrs Hastings? I’d be really interested to know.’
Davina stared at him and could have killed whoever it was at the agency who had ‘garbled’ things. Then she retorted, ‘And I’d be really interested to know how you would hope to get away with presenting a housekeeper who resembles a B-grade film starlet to your stepmother, your half-sister and your grandmother!’
‘Oh,’ he grinned, ‘they usually accept whatever I tell them to.’
Davina compressed her lips, and said with suppressed violence, ‘Do you really believe I could work for you now? No, Mr Warwick, you may be able to walk all over your female relatives but it would be a grave mistake to think I was in that category. I’ll go straight back.’ And she turned away, as much because she was actually trembling with rage as with disgust.
‘You can’t,’ S. Warwick said after a moment’s thought.
‘Can’t what?’ Davina queried, still turned away from him.
‘Go straight back,’ he said mildly.
That caused her to turn to him and say coldly, ‘Of course I can go back—what do you mean?’
He observed her taut stance and the fact that the rain had caused her abundant hair to start to curl, then his gaze once more wandered over her figure, taking in things like the straight-cut beige linen jacket she wore over a now damp white silk blouse and slim white linen trousers, her beautiful narrow hands and the only ring she wore, a small gold signet on her little finger, her elegant flat beige leather shoes and her matching soft leather travelling shoulder-bag. Then his eyes rested briefly on her camera case before coming back to examine the smooth, faintly tanned skin exposed by the V of her blouse...
Which was when Davina said furiously, ‘Now look here, Mr Warwick—’
‘Of course you can go back,’ he murmured then, looking amused. ‘You just can’t go straight back.’
‘I...’ Davina narrowed her eyes then glanced outside at the airfield. ‘Are you telling me there are no more flights today?’
‘Precisely,’ he agreed.
Davina swore beneath her breath. ‘Well, I presume there’s somewhere I can put up for the night.’
‘There is—’
‘Other than with you,’ she said pointedly.
He withdrew one powerful hand from his pocket and gestured amiably. ‘There are actually four hundred beds on the island; I’m sure we could find you one. Or, it crossed my mind that you might be interested in...dispelling my first impressions of you, Mrs Hastings.’
‘Dis... If you mean what I think you mean by that—’ her eyes flashed ‘—I—’
‘Proving to me that you’re not a rather gorgeous, exotic creature who is totally unsuited to housekeeping is what I meant,’ he said gravely. ‘In other words, commencing your employment with me.’
‘I thought I told you that was out of the question—’
‘You did. But as I’m having second thoughts, why don’t you?’ And he looked at her with total, bland innocence.
Davina opened and shut her mouth several times before she was able to articulate her thoughts, a process S. Warwick watched with very polite attention. Finally, she said, ‘Are you inviting me to believe that it would be possible for you to prove to me that you’re not one of the most arrogant, unpleasant, insulting men I have ever met? A thorough bastard,’ she said gently, ‘to put it even more simply?’
He laughed and said one single word. ‘Yes.’
‘No—’
‘Oh, come now, Mrs Hastings,’ he said with a sudden rather weary and irritable lift of his shoulders. ‘We got off on the wrong foot, can’t we just leave it at that? Do you expect an apology—is that it? If so, I apologise—’
‘Don’t bother—’
But he overrode her in suddenly even, clipped tones. ‘Look, if you must know, there would be few men immune from the sight of you running towards them in an open jacket and a white silk blouse that was getting wet.’ A wicked little glint lit his eyes as Davina glanced down hastily and dragged her jacket closed. Then he continued drily, ‘It’s a fact of life I suspect, but I do apologise for my—momentary lapse in good manners or whatever the hell you like to call it. The other thing is, while I may have been a bit unfair in my remarks about B-grade movies, you just don’t look like a housekeeper and I would take issue with anyone who tried to tell me otherwise!’ He continued, with a returning flash of irritation, ‘So. Yes, I admit I let myself vent my annoyance rather brutally on what I perceived as a muck-up which is the last thing I can afford at present. You are not, however,’ he said precisely, ‘in any danger of being regarded as fair game in my household, I give you my word.’
‘And why should I believe a thing you say?’ Davina countered, but was struck by the odd little thought that she did... Why? she wondered. Because so ungracious an explanation and apology had absolutely nothing else going for it but the ring of truth? Perhaps...
And then, to make matters worse, S. Warwick said nothing more, nothing about there being any number of people who could testify to his word being his bond, just nothing. He simply stood there regarding her indifferently, but with that latent impatience and irritability not far away.
Davina tightened her mouth in exasperation and swung round with a toss of her head, only to stop still, arrested, as she stared through the glass doors that led to the car park on the other side of the terminal from the airfield. The rain had stopped and the sky partially cleared and her eyes widened and her lips parted as she looked her fill, then she turned back to the tall man and said huskily, ‘Those mountains—what are they?’
‘Mount Lidgbird and Mount Gower,’ he said without a glance or a thought. ‘Why?’
She swallowed. ‘Would you mind if I photographed them? With that rainbow across them? Would there be a better vantage point?’
He frowned. ‘Of course, but—’
‘I don’t think I’ve seen anything as spectacular and when I’m not moonlighting as a housekeeper I’m a passionate amateur photographer, you see. Mr Warwick,’ she said with sudden decision, ‘to be honest I doubt very much that you and I could work together in any sort of harmony, but I’m afraid I can’t leave Lord Howe as soon as I’d planned—I need to photograph those mountains. So if we could postpone this discussion for a little while and if you could just direct me to a suitable spot before that rainbow fades, I’d be very grateful.’
* * *
Mount Gower and Mount Lidgbird, forming the southern end of Lord Howe Island, were not that high as mountains go, but what they lacked in height they made up for in many ways, Davina discovered, as she stood without her shoes on a wet grassy point opposite them. Dark, sheer and austere and rising straight out of the sea, with a threatening sky behind them and a rainbow shimmering across them, they quite took her breath away. White water boiled around their bases and all sorts of sea birds wheeled and called in a late afternoon frenzy about their craggy faces. And all this in the middle of this vast ocean, she thought, hundreds of miles from anywhere—I feel like Captain Cook! That’s the only thing lacking: a tall ship threading its way through the reef...
And so absorbed was she, as she set up her tripod and started photographing, that it wasn’t until with a sigh she took her last shot that she realised S. Warwick was standing a few paces away watching her thoughtfully.
‘Oh. Thank you—the light’s fading now so I won’t take any more. I do appreciate your driving me here; you probably think I’m quite mad!’ She telescoped her tripod and started to pack her camera away. ‘Uh...’ She looked around a bit blankly.
‘You were going to say—what now?’ he suggested with a trace of irony.
‘Well.’ She grimaced. ‘Yes...’
‘How about a drink?’
‘Oh, I—’
‘Don’t argue, Mrs Hastings,’ he returned. ‘Just do as you’re told. We still have a discussion to conclude—I think it’s the least you owe me.’
Davina hesitated, but there was little she could do; there was no one about, no buildings that she could see, nothing but wild and wonderful Lord Howe and the South Pacific. So she climbed back into S. Warwick’s unusually well-sprung Land Rover.
* * *
They didn’t drive far, towards the base of Mount Lidgbird in fact and they did pass one guest-house before he turned off the narrow road on to a side track and they came to a small compound of houses in a valley.
‘Is this it?’ she enquired.
‘This is it.’
‘It’s very—lonely,’ she commented.
‘It would take you about twenty minutes by bike to ride to the community hall, the so-called centre of the island,’ he commented.
Davina said no more as she alighted and followed him through a stand of tall Norfolk pines towards the main house. And she had to admit that it was a lovely house built entirely of timber with two stories and a steeply pitched roof. She also noted that the front door was unlocked as she followed him through and she gasped with pleasure because, even in the fading daylight, she was presented with another marvellous view through wide glass windows of Mounts Lidgbird and Gower.
‘Which is entirely why,’ S. Warwick said, ‘I chose this lonely spot.’ And he waited a few moments before switching on some lights, thereby negating the view.
‘I see,’ Davina said a little lamely as she looked around and couldn’t fail to be further impressed. From where they were standing, two steps led down to a large living-area and the wall of windows with their marvellous view, and it was all panelled in a deep, rich wood with shining wooden floors. Grouped at one end were three long, plump sofas around a large glass and forged-iron table. The sofas were covered in a shadowy chintz print in colours of pink and green and the forged iron was tinted an old, soft green that matched. In the other direction was a dining setting, again a glass and forged-iron table surrounded by eight chairs. There were a few occasional tables with lamps, and chairs scattered around, a beautiful Chinese carpet between the two settings and the whole impression was one of space, elegance and comfort.
She looked up and saw a soaring ceiling with a gallery running round it and guessed the bedrooms, or some of them, led off it, and she was just looking around for a staircase when he said, ‘Sit down, Mrs Hastings. What would you like to drink?’
Davina hesitated again, which he took note of and said witheringly, ‘I don’t plan to make you drunk for the purposes of seduction in this lonely spot, believe me.’
She bit her lip and shrugged. ‘All right. I’ll have a brandy and soda, thank you. But—’
‘But you don’t entirely trust me yet,’ he filled in for her with a certain malicious humour.
Davina cast him a speaking look and walked calmly down the two steps towards the sofas. But she did say over her shoulder, ‘No, I don’t. As to whether I could ever like you, I have the gravest possible doubts about that, too, Mr Warwick.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it,’ he replied as he opened a tall, beautiful antique oak cabinet and pulled forward two glasses. ‘You wouldn’t be alone and we need see very little of each other.’
Davina tossed her head and sat down facing the view and presently he handed her a glass and sat down opposite her.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Would you care to tell me what you meant about being a photographer when you weren’t moonlighting as a housekeeper?’
Davina sipped her drink then said wryly, ‘An unfortunate choice of words. What I meant was that photography is...what I would like to be my chosen career, but it’s not a career I make much money from, yet, so from time to time I do the other thing I’m good at which is temporary housekeeping. It’s an ideal combination, actually, and—’ she paused and looked levelly at him ‘—should you still be worried about that term moonlighting, I’ve been thoroughly vetted by the agency—they have very high standards and they’ve checked me out from top to bottom, so you can rest assured I won’t be pinching the silver or anything like that. I also have a degree from a technical college in catering—does that help you, Mr Warwick?’
He lay back and looked at her meditatively. ‘So, you’ve decided to do the job,’ he said idly, at last.
Davina shot him a cold little look. ‘No, I haven’t, not yet. I was merely trying to make the point that I’m trustworthy and respectable.’
‘It still seems to be an odd combination,’ he mused, unperturbed. ‘It also—’ he looked down at his glass and frowned ‘—indicates a preference for a gypsy sort of lifestyle—how come?’
‘Just the way I am, I guess,’ she said blandly.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘And then there’s the jump from catering college to photography.’
She said nothing but sipped her drink again.
‘And how come,’ he pursued, ‘if you’re so determinedly a “Mrs” you don’t wear a wedding-ring?’
‘I thought I told you, that’s my business—’
‘Well, not really.’ S. Warwick sat forward. ‘I mean, were you—moonlighting as a married woman, for example, for reasons best known to yourself,’ he said with soft satire and smiled a sort of tigerish little smile, ‘it could be my business too.’
‘I fail to see why.’
‘I’ll tell you—because if you were misrepresenting yourself in one thing, you could do so in others, despite being vetted from top to bottom.’
Davina grimaced. ‘I still fail to see in what way it could affect this job. As a matter of fact, were I moonlighting in this respect, it would probably be to protect myself from—’
‘All those ubiquitous single men that abound in the land? Ah! Is that the case, then?’
Davina stared at him with her nostrils flared. ‘Unfortunately, no,’ she said tautly and reached for her bag, then her purse from which she pulled a small gold object and slid it on to her left hand. ‘There,’ she said. ‘My legitimate wedding-ring, and if you’re right about one thing, Mr Warwick, the only misrepresentation involved is that I’m no longer married. But I believe I’m perfectly entitled to claim to be a Mrs, despite that small fact, and if you must know,’ she went on in a goaded sort of voice, ‘I do use the ring and the title when I’m on these kinds of jobs just in case I need the protection of them.’
‘But you don’t normally wear the ring.’
‘How do you know?’
He shrugged. ‘I noticed that the tan on that hand was unbroken. Did you forget to put it on?’
‘Yes. Will you please drop the subject!’
‘Why?’ he said lazily. ‘Surely you can tell me if he’s dead or alive or has merely divorced you?’
‘All right, we’re divorced.’
‘Why?’
Davina stared down at her wedding-ring, her expression frozen then she raised her remarkable violet eyes and was not to know how bitter and sombre they were as she said, ‘If you really want to know, he thought I was a frigid bitch—among other things.’ She sat forward and put her unfinished drink on the table. ‘I’ll go now. I would hate to impose on you any further, so if you could call me a taxi, I’d be grateful.’
S. Warwick considered her for a moment before he said, ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Hastings, I am unable to do that.’
‘Why not? Look here.’ Davina’s voice rose a little shakily. ‘I—’
‘Only because there are no taxis on the island,’ he said.
