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Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
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him, walked across the floor to the small writing table in the seating area of the bedroom.
I stood with my back to him, composing myself. “I’ll start making my list,” I mumbled without turning around. I could not bear to look at him.
“See ya, Viv.” Jack slammed the door behind him and was gone.
I remained standing with my hands resting on the writing table, trembling, endeavoring to calm myself. And with growing horror I could not help wondering if Jack Locke had come back to America to commit a crime. Had he returned to murder his father? The mere thought of this sent a chill trickling through me.
I felt chilled to the bone for the rest of the day as I went about my chores, trying to keep busy. I put my papers in order, filed my notes, and labeled the tapes from my tape recorder. The moment I finished a story I categorized all of the relevant research material and put it away for safety, and now I welcomed doing this. It kept my mind occupied.
At the end of the afternoon, not long after Belinda had gone home, I lit the fire in the den, made myself a large mug of tea, and settled down in front of the blazing logs.
Not unnaturally, my mind was on Jack and that terrible thought I had had about him earlier in the day. I turned this over in my mind now. It was one thing not to care very much that your father was dead, but quite another to actually be joyful about it. Was Jack happy because he had detested Sebastian so much? Or was it because he was going to inherit all that money, all that power? I seriously doubted that power meant anything to him but certainly the money did. And people did kill for money.
I sat staring into the flames, endeavoring to squash my disturbing thoughts without much success. My mind kept turning on Sebastian’s death and Jack’s possible involvement in it. Paincide. There was nothing new about that. It was an old story, as old as time itself.
Suddenly I had the need to talk to someone about my worries; the problem was there really wasn’t anyone I thought I could trust. Per hops Christopher Tremain. Certainly he was the only person who I felt absolutely sure about. Kit was kind and wise, and he had proved to be a good friend to me.
I was nothing if not decisive, and so I reached for the phone on a nearby table, lifted the receiver, began to punch in the numbers for France. Then I stopped, reflecting for a minute, and finally put the receiver back in the cradle. My natural caution had taken over.
There was no way I could call Kit. That would not be right, not fair 46Barbara Taylor Brd to Jack, who had been my life4ong friend. We had grown up together and he was like a brother to me. And after all, it was only a suspicion on my part, nothing else. There was another consideration. Kit was not particularly kindly disposed toward the Lockes. He had taken an instant dislike to Jack the first time he had met him, and he frequently spoke of Sebastian in scathing tones.
I sighed under my breath, thinking of Kit. He was an American -painter of some renown, and about two years ago he had bought a property in the area where I lived in Provence. As we got to know each other better, we realized we had a lot in common and there was also a strong physical attraction between us. About a year ago we had be -come quite seriously involved with each other, and for some time now he had wanted me to marry him. I kept stalling. I loved Kit and we were compatible, but I wasn’t sure I could make the kind of commitment to him he needed and wanted. I suppose I balked at marriage: I had had my share of wedded bliss. Of course he was disappointed, but did not alter our relationship.
On several occasions, just before I had left for New York, Kit had tmh5
ode a couple of snide remarks about Sebastian, and he had even gone so far as to suggest that I was still in love with him. Foolish idea that was.
Now, on further reflection, I realized I could never talk to Kit about Jack. He was a good man, and very
I stood with my back to him, composing myself. “I’ll start making my list,” I mumbled without turning around. I could not bear to look at him.
“See ya, Viv.” Jack slammed the door behind him and was gone.
I remained standing with my hands resting on the writing table, trembling, endeavoring to calm myself. And with growing horror I could not help wondering if Jack Locke had come back to America to commit a crime. Had he returned to murder his father? The mere thought of this sent a chill trickling through me.
I felt chilled to the bone for the rest of the day as I went about my chores, trying to keep busy. I put my papers in order, filed my notes, and labeled the tapes from my tape recorder. The moment I finished a story I categorized all of the relevant research material and put it away for safety, and now I welcomed doing this. It kept my mind occupied.
At the end of the afternoon, not long after Belinda had gone home, I lit the fire in the den, made myself a large mug of tea, and settled down in front of the blazing logs.
Not unnaturally, my mind was on Jack and that terrible thought I had had about him earlier in the day. I turned this over in my mind now. It was one thing not to care very much that your father was dead, but quite another to actually be joyful about it. Was Jack happy because he had detested Sebastian so much? Or was it because he was going to inherit all that money, all that power? I seriously doubted that power meant anything to him but certainly the money did. And people did kill for money.
I sat staring into the flames, endeavoring to squash my disturbing thoughts without much success. My mind kept turning on Sebastian’s death and Jack’s possible involvement in it. Paincide. There was nothing new about that. It was an old story, as old as time itself.
Suddenly I had the need to talk to someone about my worries; the problem was there really wasn’t anyone I thought I could trust. Per hops Christopher Tremain. Certainly he was the only person who I felt absolutely sure about. Kit was kind and wise, and he had proved to be a good friend to me.
I was nothing if not decisive, and so I reached for the phone on a nearby table, lifted the receiver, began to punch in the numbers for France. Then I stopped, reflecting for a minute, and finally put the receiver back in the cradle. My natural caution had taken over.
There was no way I could call Kit. That would not be right, not fair 46Barbara Taylor Brd to Jack, who had been my life4ong friend. We had grown up together and he was like a brother to me. And after all, it was only a suspicion on my part, nothing else. There was another consideration. Kit was not particularly kindly disposed toward the Lockes. He had taken an instant dislike to Jack the first time he had met him, and he frequently spoke of Sebastian in scathing tones.
I sighed under my breath, thinking of Kit. He was an American -painter of some renown, and about two years ago he had bought a property in the area where I lived in Provence. As we got to know each other better, we realized we had a lot in common and there was also a strong physical attraction between us. About a year ago we had be -come quite seriously involved with each other, and for some time now he had wanted me to marry him. I kept stalling. I loved Kit and we were compatible, but I wasn’t sure I could make the kind of commitment to him he needed and wanted. I suppose I balked at marriage: I had had my share of wedded bliss. Of course he was disappointed, but did not alter our relationship.
On several occasions, just before I had left for New York, Kit had tmh5
ode a couple of snide remarks about Sebastian, and he had even gone so far as to suggest that I was still in love with him. Foolish idea that was.
Now, on further reflection, I realized I could never talk to Kit about Jack. He was a good man, and very
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