Counterfeit Honeymoon

  Counterfeit Honeymoon

  By

  Julia Anders

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Published by

  Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

  New York, New York 10017

  Copyright © 1980 by Julia Anders

  ISBN: 0-440-11138-2

  First printing—December 1980

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Does anyone in this department speak Italian?"

  Lynne Delevan had never intended to become an office typist but despite that fact, or maybe because of it, since she was grimly determined to give value for the salary she needed so desperately, she was concentrating so hard on her work that she didn't hear Mrs. Pringle's words.

  Mrs. Pringle repeated over the clatter of typewriters, "I'm requested to ask if anyone in this department speaks Italian."

  The second time the words penetrated Lynne's consciousness. She looked up. "I speak Italian."

  Mrs. Pringle spoke into the phone for a moment, then stood up and said to Lynne, "Come with me, please."

  Lynne laid her work aside and followed her department head out of the room. She supposed that a letter needed translating or something of the sort, though as far as she knew the Corey Company was a strictly British firm and didn't deal in imports or exports. Still, Lynne had been working here for only six months and was a very small cog on the wheel, so there was no reason to suppose she knew even a fraction of what went on.

  As they walked toward the lift, Mrs. Pringle seemed to be casting a critical eye over Lynne, for all the world, Lynne thought indignantly, as if she were checking to see if my hem is the right length or if I have a button missing.

  The lift door swished closed. "You are wanted in the Upper Office," Mrs. Pringle announced.

  Lynne's blue eyes widened. No wonder Mrs. Pringle had been giving her such an odd look. None of the underlings ever had business up on the top story, where the executive offices were. Only the company president, Jason Corey, his directors, and a handful of their sleek, superefficient secretaries ever went up to the Upper Office, where according to the jokes bandied about below, even angels feared to tread.

  They passed through an outer reception office into an antechamber. Behind a desk with a wooden name-plate bearing the name "Madelaine Cheney" sat one of the most elegant creatures Lynne had ever seen in a business office. Her short auburn hair was a perfectly sculptured coif. Her frock was deceptively simple. Her pale complexion glowed with a pearly translucence. She could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty.

  "This is Miss Delevan," Mrs. Pringle said in a hushed tone.

  Madelaine Cheney glanced down at a paper on her desk. "Lynne Delevan. Typing pool." Her voice was clear and her words concise. "Come with me, please. Mr. Corey will see you." She nodded a brisk dismissal to Mrs. Pringle as Lynne gasped.

  Mr. Corey will see you. Why on earth would Jason Corey want to see anyone personally about an Italian translation?

  Miss Cheney touched a button; Lynne could hear a low buzz from what she thought of as the Inner Sanctum, and then the door swung open.

  Jason Corey was seated at a desk with windows behind him so that she could not see him clearly at first.

  "This is Miss Delevan," Miss Cheney announced.

  He rose. "Ah, yes, the lady who is going to help us."

  Somehow Lynne's mind suddenly went into a turmoil. She had been braced to meet an ogre, but at that moment he seemed so much less a forbidding personage than she expected that she felt almost giddy. He had risen to greet her, which after all was only common courtesy, but somehow she had pictured him as being more lordly and imperious, sitting while his subjects stood. Then, too, there seemed to be a note of genuine warmth in his voice, which made him seem more human.

  Miss Cheney unobtrusively guided her forward and then she could see his face. Previously she had only caught a glimpse of him from a distance, striding purposefully out of the building to a waiting car. Now she thought he looked younger than she had imagined, surely not more than thirty-five, perhaps less. He had a thin, aristocratic nose, and lips shaped in a curve that might have labeled him too handsome had they not been so firm and determined. His shoulders were not especially broad under the perfectly tailored suit, but they gave an impression of great strength.

  His hooded gray eyes caught her attention. Then, as she took another step forward, she could see lines on his face that made him seem less young, worry lines around the eyes and mouth, and yet they were not deeply etched, only shadowy lines, as if from recent, transitory troubles.

  "I understand you speak fluent Italian."

  "Si, Signore." She began a flood of words in demonstration.

  He held up a commanding hand to stop her and immediately the impression of warmth and courtesy vanished. "That's hardly necessary," he said. "If I understood the language, I wouldn't need you, would I?"

  She felt an angry flush on her cheeks. She had been right earlier. Imperious was the word for him.

  "You scarcely look Italian with that ash-blond hair," he said. He managed to make it sound like an accusation.

  Annoyance made her abandon caution. "Many women bleach their hair, Mr. Corey," she said coolly. "Also there are many blond Italians. However, as it happens I am English, and this is my natural color. I have studied Italian for many years."

  His eyebrows rose, whether in annoyance at her impertinence or surprise that a lowly office girl would have studied Italian, she could not tell.

  "I assume you will be available for overtime work— at suitable recompense?"

  The words formed a question, but his tone made it an order. She would have liked to refuse, but there was the hateful burden of her debt to Uncle Simon to consider. Yes, she would be available for overtime work, whether she liked the idea of kowtowing to this martinet or not.

  "Where do you live?" he asked abruptly. "In Kensal Green."

  He scowled. "That's the wrong end of London." His scowl reminded her of old Maestro Bertelli and the reminder set up an automatic inward quaking. The wrong side of London! How dare he? And then, because she hated herself for allowing him to make her tremble inside in fear of criticism, she said recklessly, "Well, I really wanted a house in Mayfair, but I'll have to wait till I get a rise in salary. I'm about a pound a week short of being able to afford the house I had my eye on." Miss Cheney would never do anything so uninhibited as to gasp, but, standing next to her, Lynne perceived that she was exuding waves of disapproval.

  Jason Corey ignored her sarcasm, just as if she hadn't spoken. "It will be quicker if my driver drops you at Harrods to pick up what you need—a change of costume, a dinner dress, night things. Don't take longer than thirty minutes. Johnson will be needed elsewhere today. Miss Cheney will give you a cheque." He paused. "Perhaps it would be better if you went with her and took a taxi back, Maddy."

  Lynne was standing speechless, so dumbfounded that words would not come. Clothes! Night things! What did he think she was? She would give him a good piece of her mind!

  He was already back at the work on his desk. Of all the infuriating creatures. To make such a suggestion—not even a suggestion, almost a command—and then calmly dismiss her as if he never so much as questioned her answer.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the efficient Miss Cheney was smoothly pu
lling her out of the room. The door closed silently behind them, and Lynne turned furiously to the older woman, only to see that she had pushed a button on her intercom and was speaking into it. "Have Johnson bring Mr. Corey's car at once, please," she said crisply. To Lynne, as she took her purse out of a drawer, she said, "Come along."

  "Miss Cheney," Lynne sputtered, "I don't know what this is all about or why you and Mr. Corey should imagine I'm going anywhere in his car where I'll need night clothes, but I can tell you—"

  "Keep your voice down," Miss Cheney said authoritatively as they crossed the reception room. When they were in the lift, she turned to face Lynne. "You are going to Longridge, Mr. Corey's house in the country, where you will try to provide some assistance in his behalf. If it has crossed your mind that he has designs on your virtue, all I can tell you is that you are behaving like a foolish child who's been seeing too many cheap films. Now pick up your purse and coat, but don't stop to chat."

  Somehow Lynne found herself swept out of the building and into a black limousine that was drawn up to the curb. Miss Cheney gave an order to the driver, and the car moved out into the flow of traffic. Lynne took a deep breath and turned to her companion. "Now, would it be too much to ask what this is all about?"

  "As I told you, you are to go to Longbridge, where you will remain for several days—as long as you are needed. Mr. Corey is leaving for Scotland this afternoon. His nephew, who speaks no English, is staying at Longridge. It is with regard to his nephew that your fluency in Italian is expected to be of service."

  Lynne's eyes grew wide. She had allowed herself to be calmed by Miss Cheney's words in the lift, almost ashamed of having imagined there was anything wrong with Jason Corey's insistence that she go to his home for an indefinite stay. She had been trying to tell herself that she was just, as Miss Cheney had said, being a foolish girl. But this was even worse. Expected to be of service in regard to his nephew!

  "What do you think I am? A common call girl?" she asked with quiet fury.

  Miss Cheney turned contemptuous eyes on her. "No, I think you are an extremely tiresome, nonsensical child with exaggerated notions of your own charm. Oh, I'll grant that you have a lovely complexion, fine eyes, and a mouth that could be pretty if you weren't always pulling it into absurd expressions of indignation. But do you honestly think so highly of yourself as to imagine that a man like Mr. Corey would raid the typing pool for female companionship—for himself or his nephew?"

  Lynne suddenly felt terribly gauche. She knew she was blushing madly. "But—" she began.

  "In point of fact, Mr. Corey has interests elsewhere. And his nephew is five years old."

  Lynne subsided completely, feeling very small. "If you'd only explained—"

  "If you'd only come down off your high ropes long enough to let me. Surely you are aware that Mr. Corey's brother was killed in a car crash three weeks ago. I'm sure it must have been downstairs gossip at the time."

  Lynne frowned, shaking her head. "I hadn't heard. I was ill with flu and missed a week's work about that time. I'm sorry."

  "Morgan Corey lived in Turin with his Italian wife. They were on holiday in Spain with their son when the crash occurred. Morgan was killed instantly, his wife critically injured. Mr. Corey went to Spain to bring his brother's body home for burial. The wife was in a hospital in Madrid, too ill to be moved. Her parents were on a world cruise somewhere in the South Pacific and couldn't get back immediately, so Mr. Corey brought his nephew back to Longridge."

  "The problem is that Mr. Corey's nephew is turning the house upside down. He won't eat; he cries all the time. Now the cook is threatening to quit. Mr. Corey's domestic tranquility is being seriously threatened."

  "The poor child," Lynne murmured. "Who can blame him for crying? His father and mother suddenly vanished. And only five years old. Hasn't it occurred to anyone that it's natural for him to be upset?"

  "Of course it has, but no one can communicate with him and no one can cope."

  "And that's where I come in," Lynne said.

  Miss Cheney nodded. "It's a pity he didn't learn English, but Morgan wanted to improve his Italian so they always used that language at home. Since they were in a lively social set, the child spent much of his time with a nursemaid who spoke no English."

  The car drew up to Harrods. "We'll try to make this brief, Johnson," she said. "Mr. Corey said half an hour, but I think we might stretch it to forty-five minutes."

  Lynne could understand why Miss Cheney was a good executive secretary. Without a wasted word or motion, she had Lynne in a dressing room with a saleswoman bringing dinner dresses for her to try on and two others dispatched to search out nightwear, underclothes, and a skirt and sweater set. "Something conservative," she had said. The navy blue crepe slid over her head and Lynne regarded herself in the mirror. It was a nicer dress than she'd ever owned. Not exciting, perhaps, but the expensive cut seemed to bring elegance to her slender figure.

  "That should do," Miss Cheney decided. "If I might be permitted," the saleswoman said, having returned with another dress. "Perhaps this might suit the young lady's coloring better."

  Miss Cheney was about to refuse but the skirts had not arrived yet, and Lynne had given such an audible gasp of pleasure when she saw the delectable shade of periwinkle blue, that she changed her mind and nodded. "Go ahead. Try it."

  Lynne couldn't believe the image in the mirror. She had never worn anything so lovely in her life. It was cut along the lines of the robes worn by medieval princesses, close-fitting through the midsection, showing off Lynne's trim waist, and then cleverly flaring in soft folds. The sleeves were long; it was a perfectly proper dress, and yet somehow beautifully romantic.

  "You can see what the color does for her eyes," the saleswoman said, "and if she would wear her hair loose, like this—" She released two of the pins at the sides and the ash-blond hair tumbled softly around Lynne's face.

  A series of expressions crossed Miss Cheney's usually controlled face—surprise, speculation, and finally a kind of wry amusement. "We'll take that one," she decided.

  Lynne gasped. "But I couldn't. It must be terribly expensive. Besides, I don't understand why I even need a dinner dress to be a sort of baby-sitter."

  "Who knows what may turn up?" Miss Cheney said enigmatically. "Mr. Corey won't be in Scotland long. It's possible that dinnertime will be the only chance he has to talk to you about his nephew. Perhaps he'll have guests and need you to make an even number at table." Her look of slightly malicious amusement was back, though Lynne couldn't understand why. "Just remember, anything's possible, and you must be prepared. And he did specify a dinner dress."

  When the other clothes were brought, she quickly chose a skirt and sweater set in a clear coral and a daytime frock of pale gold-beige, almost the color of Lynne's hair. The plain brown robe and underthings she simply agreed to as they were brought, without giving Lynne a chance to try them on, asking that everything be wrapped and delivered to the front entrance immediately.

  "Evening slippers, and that should do it," she said. "Come along; don't dawdle."

  "Dawdle?" Lynne said in amazement. "It usually takes me longer than this to choose a new blouse."

  "Ah, but the difference is that today we don't have longer to spend. When a decision must be made quickly, you'll find it usually can be done."

  The car was waiting when they reached the entrance. Madelaine Cheney leaned into the car and put something into Lynne's hand. "This is just a little personal gift from me. For luck."

  Before Lynne even had time to stammer out a surprised thank you, she had slammed the door and the car was moving.

  She opened the package to find a small atomizer bottle of perfume. What an unexpected thing for the cool, efficient Miss Cheney to have done!

  Lynne leaned back and closed her eyes. This had certainly been one of the most confusing days of her life. She hoped she could help the poor child at Longridge—Tonio was his name, Miss Cheney had said— but for his o
wn sake, not his hateful uncle's.

  It was strange how in that first moment she had warmed to him. He had seemed—just for an instant-charming and very human. And then between one second and the next, he had revealed himself as autocratic and dictatorial, ordering her around with no thought whatever for her feelings.

  She wondered if he had recognized her outrage and known what her suspicions were. Probably he had and didn't care, not as long as she did as she was told, calmed his nephew, and prevented his cook from leaving. Did he even care about the boy, or was he just concerned that his household continued to run smoothly?

  She decided he was probably completely heartless and she hated him—all the more because of that first minute in which her judgment of him had proven so wrong.

  Nevertheless, she would do her best for the little boy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As the big car slowed to a crawl, passing through a pretty little village, Lynne leaned forward and asked Johnson how much farther to Longridge.

  "About twenty minutes, miss."

  Suddenly she had butterflies in her stomach. She sat back and took three deep breaths the way Maestro Bertelli had always told her to do.

  It was funny how Jason Corey's scowl had brought Maestro Bertelli back so clearly, and the memory of her inward quaking when she feared she had displeased him. He had always been very strict with her but only because he had wanted her to be the best. He had never doubted that she would be.

  She couldn't remember a time when she didn't know she would be a singer. Her parents had told her she sang little tunes before she could talk clearly. One of her earliest remembered joys was of listening to the phonograph records from her father's collection —his one extravagance.

  Her dear father—so much older than her mother, but always so gentle and loving. He was a musician, too, an amateur but gifted cellist. He and a group of friends had spent Sunday afternoons playing chamber music for their own pleasure.