She swallowed convulsively as that same small voice in her head reminded her of the sheer magnitude of what was threatening them all. The loss of their home, the destruction of their remaining business venture, and personal disgrace for Simon—and all at the worst possible time, if there was ever a good time for such things to happen, she acknowledged wryly.
It was no good telling herself that it was all Simon’s own fault, and he’d have to find some remedy himself. She couldn’t leave him to sink if she could help him to swim. But she couldn’t sacrifice herself either.
Cal Blackstone’s words rang like hammer blows inside her brain. ‘I want you. Come to me …’
He’s just offered me the ultimate insult, she told herself, by presuming I’d even consider such a degrading suggestion. He’s misjudged me completely.
Yet he’d summed up some of her past reactions with disturbing accuracy, she recalled unwillingly. His comments about her marriage to Martin had been too close to the mark for comfort.
She shivered. What was she saying? She’d loved Martin, of course she had. He’d been sweet and safe and there, and she’d thought that was enough. She’d convinced herself that it was.
Only it wasn’t, she thought wretchedly. How could it be? And it was disaster for both of us.
On the day of his funeral, she’d stood in the small bleak churchyard in the conventional black dress of the widow, feeling drained of emotion, totally objective, as if all this tragedy were happening to some other person. She could even remember being thankful that the demure veiling on her equally conventional hat concealed the fact that she was completely tearless.
Then she’d looked up and seen Cal Blackstone staring at her. He’d been standing on the edge of the small crowd of mourners, but his head wasn’t bent in grief or common respect. There had been bitterness in the look he sent her, and condemnation, and overlying all a kind of grim triumph.
Don’t think I’ve given up, his glance had told her. This marriage of yours was just an obstacle which has now been removed. And now I’m coming after you again.
The knowledge of it had been like a blow, knocking all the breath out of her body. Involuntarily, instinctively, she’d taken a step backwards in instant negation, her foot stumbling on a tussock of earth.
‘Be careful, my dear!’ Her father had insisted on attending the ceremony with her, standing bareheaded at her side in the windswept graveyard, and she’d snatched at his arm for comfort and support as she’d done when she was a small girl, and a crowd of jeering boys had thrown earth and stones at their car.
Oh, I will, she’d promised herself silently. I’ll take more care than I’ve ever done in my whole life.
Aunt Vinnie’s letter offering her sanctuary had been, like Martin’s proposal of marriage, a godsend, a lifeline, and she’d snatched at that too, telling herself that Cal Blackstone would eventually resign himself to the fact that she was gone, and abandon his crazy obsession about her.
He wasn’t really serious about it, she’d assured herself over and over again. For heaven’s sake, he was never short of female companionship, so he wasn’t exactly single-minded about his pursuit of her, if she could call it that. He didn’t chase her, yet he always seemed to be there, like a dark shadow on the edge of her world, a winter storm threatening the brightness of her horizon.
If she went away, and stayed away, with luck he’d forget her, and get safely married to one of the many willing ladies he escorted. Time and distance would solve everything. That was what she’d thought. That was how she’d reassured herself.
But how wrong was it possible to be? Joanna thought broodingly, as she paced restlessly up and down. Cal Blackstone hadn’t just been making mischief and trying to alarm her, as she’d secretly hoped and prayed. He’d meant every word, and that warning look he’d sent her at Martin’s funeral had been nothing less than a stark declaration of intent.
And typical of his appallingly tasteless behaviour, she thought with a fastidious shudder, then paused, a hysterical bubble of laughter welling up inside her.
Why the hell was she worrying about something as trivial as the way he’d treated her as a widow in mourning, when he was now threatening her and her entire family with total humiliation and ruin?
While she’d thought herself safe in the States, Cal Blackstone had been busy ensnaring Simon in a web of financial dependency, both personal and professional. Then he’d sat back and waited, like the spider, for the unsuspecting fly to return …
But that was defeatist talk, she told herself in self-reproach. After all, if the fly struggled hard enough, even the strongest web could be broken.
She was halfway through a dinner she had no interest in eating when Simon eventually came in. He looked tired and anxious, and for a moment she was tempted to leave him in the peace he so clearly needed at least until the morning.
She let him talk for a while about Fiona and the labour pains which had so unaccountably subsided while he ate his meal.
Then she said quietly, ‘Don’t you want to know what happened this afternoon?’
He shrugged, his face adopting a faintly martyred expression. ‘I suppose so. To be honest, Jo, although his letter threw me when it arrived, I’ve been thinking about it while I’ve been hanging around at the nursing home, and, frankly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Things at work are picking up slowly. He’ll get his money back, and he’ll just have to be patient, that’s all. I hope you told him so.’
She picked up the coffee-pot and filled two cups with infinite care.
‘I didn’t actually get the chance,’ she said. ‘He didn’t come here to talk about work. It was your other debts he was concerned with. The ones you ran up at the casino, and the race-track.’
She watched him go white. There was a long, painful silence. Then he said very rapidly, ‘He told you that, but he had no right. He said there was no hurry. He knew I’d pay it all off if he just gave me time.’
‘How?’ She looked at Simon’s guilty, miserable face and knew that the question was unanswerable.
She nerved herself to go on. ‘He—he did mention the Craft Company in one context. He talked about the books—the accounts.’
‘What about them?’ Simon’s gaze was fixed on the polished dining table.
‘He said something about an independent audit,’ Joanna said, and stopped appalled as Simon’s cup dropped from his hand, spilling coffee everywhere.
‘Can he do that?’ The blue eyes were scared, imploring. ‘Can he, Jo?’
‘Is there some reason why he shouldn’t?’ She tried to speak evenly, but her voice trembled as she realised she had to face, to come to terms with the unthinkable.
He didn’t reply, just picked up his table napkin and began blotting up the coffee as if it were the most important thing in the world.
She said, ‘It’s true, then. There’s money missing, and you’re responsible.’
‘Whose bloody company is it anyway?’ he said, his tone mutinous, defensive.
‘Not yours to that extent. Simon, are you crazy?’
‘I had to do something. Fiona was miserable, and needed a break. She had her heart set on St Lucia. She’s never known what it is to be short of cash—she doesn’t understand.’
Joanna closed her eyes for a moment, trying to visualise Fiona’s reaction to the news that her husband had made them bankrupt and homeless. But her imagination balked at the very idea.
‘Go on,’ she said, with infinite weariness. ‘So you