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He pulled up outside her home with a jolt of brakes and a screech of tyres which sent her toppling forward, almost hitting the windscreen. She recovered, fumblingly undid her seatbelt and turned to get out. Gil's hand shot out, seized her arm in an iron grip.
'I'm not marrying you!' he snarled. 'Do you understand? Whatever happens, however bad the publicity, I am not being stampeded into a shotgun wedding.'
CHAPTER NINE
Her father opened the door before Caro reached it.
'What time of night do you call this? What's going on
between you and Martell? I know I told you to be nice
to him, but I didn't mean '
She wouldn't, couldn't let him finish that sentence. 'Be quiet, Dad!' she shouted, still anguished by the last thing Gil had said to her. Surely he didn't really believe she had rung that photographer in the hope of making Gil marry her? Hurt, ashamed, full of self-hatred, she turned it all on her father, her grey eyes glittering with tears. 'You had no right to ring my friends, checking up on me as if I were a schoolgirl—asking where I was, who was with me... Didn't it occur to you what sort of rumours you might start?'
'Don't you talk to me like that, my girl!' Fred muttered, his brows heavy. 'I was worrie
d about you, after
Amy rang-- '
'Amy rang you?' she repeated, eyes widening. 'You didn't ring Amy, then?' That put a different complexion on it.
'No, she rang me.' Her little outburst had oddly done something to calm her father's temper. He was watching her as if puzzled, and Caro knew she was acting unusually; she had never defied her father before, never shouted at him, they had always had a good relationship. 'She woke me up, in fact,' Fred expanded. 'I'd gone to bed at half-past ten, I was tired. It must have been around one in the morning when Amy rang.'
'I know, I'm sorry I forgot, it won't happen again,' Caro promised, but her mind was busy with other thoughts. Was it Amy who had tipped off the photographers? But why? What possible motive could she have? Surely Amy hadn't been jealous over Gil? Well, not that jealous, anyway. Not jealous enough to do such a spiteful thing to her oldest friend? Caro drank some of the weak, milky tea, and yawned. She was so tired she could cry.
'Off to bed with you!' her father said with rough affection, now completely back to his usual good-tempered self. He took her empty cup. 'You're dead on your feet. As it's Sunday morning, you can sleep as late as you like, though.'
'Goodnight, Dad,' she said, yawning again, yet once she was in bed she couldn't get to sleep because she kept remembering the events of the night. It had been a crowded night; she shut her eyes with a muffled groan, mentally reliving it. She hadn't believed herself capable of such desire; she was hot just thinking about it. She had practically thrown herself at him. How could she have acted that way? Her father had looked at her so strangely, as though reading something in her face. Did she look very different? She felt it.
She gave up trying to sleep at about eight-thirty. Her father was nowhere to be seen; he was probably catching up on his lost night's sleep. Fred had always been able to nap whenever it suited him. Caro took a cool shower, dressed in a blue tracksuit, without bothering to put on make-up or do more than brush her hair back, then went jogging through the park. There were rarely many people about at that hour on a Sunday; a few dog-walkers, a few children and the odd jogger, like herself, loping along the wide paths between the grass and trees.
This morning the spring air had the sparkle of champagne; the lake gleamed very blue below the blue sky, there was dew on the lawns, and distances had a gentle bluish haze which held deep tranquillity.
None of which matched the turmoil inside herself, but she had learnt to outrun her demons so she set a steady pace around the lake, head up, body moving rhythmically, and while she ran she thought about her problems, all of which in the end came down to one man. Gil Martell. Her life had been peaceful until she met him; now it was like living in the eye of a storm and she didn't know what to do about it, or what she wanted to do about it.
She drew level with the park entrance near her home after her first lap of the lake, and out of the corner of her eye caught sight of a familiar shape. Her heart missed a beat, then she laughed at herself. London was full of Rolls-Royce limousines. Gil would be in bed at this moment, fast asleep.
She ran on, her skin glowing with the exercise, and was several hundred yards further on when she heard someone behind her shouting.
Caro instinctively glanced back, and saw Gil, in jeans and a white sweater, coming after her at speed, his long legs covering the ground faster than she could. He was waving a crumpled newspaper, he was obviously in one of his rages, and her heart sank.
'I want to talk to you!' he shouted. 'Stop running!'
But she ran faster, the adrenalin pumping round her body. She should have known she couldn't outrun him. He caught up with her on a lonely stretch of the path, out of sight of the lake, behind some great beech trees, and grabbed her by the waist, forcing her to stop.
The breath sobbing in her lungs, Caro leaned on him. Gil was out of breath, too. His black hair tossed in the wind, his freshly shaved skin full of colour, he glared down at her.
'Where on earth do you get your energy? You were up half the night, like me. I feel dead, but here you are, jogging in the park at about ninety miles an hour.'
'I was doing a very easy pace until you started chasing me! And what are you doing here now anyway!'
'I couldn't sleep,' he said shortly, and she looked down, watching him through her lashes, wishing she knew him better, understood him, could guess what he was thinking.
'Neither could I.' He had made an admission. So did she, and they looked at each other in silence for a moment, their breathing fast, but then Gil's black brows met and he pushed the crumpled newspaper at her.
'I got up and made myself some coffee, started to read the Sunday papers, and saw this.'
