Colour the Sky Red Read online

  Colour the Sky Red

  By

  Annabel Murray

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  'I haven't asked you to explain anything,' Briony reminded him.

  'No. Unlike most women I know, you're strangely lacking in curiosity.'

  'Not really,' she admitted. 'I just don't feel it's any of my business.'

  'When I first walked into your shop and saw you,' Teale went on, still speaking musingly, 'the first thing that struck me was the likeness. And I thought, oh, God, no, not again. There can't be two in the world like that.' For a moment, there was such pain in his voice that Briony looked wonderingly at him. 'Those enormous blue eyes, the red curls, same shaped face. But there, thank God, I'm beginning to believe, the resemblance ends.'

  'I remind you of someone?' It wasn't hard to deduce. 'Who?'

  'My wife, my ex-wife. Charlene.'

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  First published in Great Britain 1988

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Annabel Murray 1988

  Australian copyright 1988

  Philippine copyright 1988

  This edition 1988

  ISBN 0 263 75980 6

  For Enid,

  my 'arty-crafty' friend.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was the quiet end of a quiet day. The little seaside town lay somnolent beneath the August sun. No breath of air came to stir the dust motes suspended along the beams that penetrated the window and filled the shop with its oppressive heat.

  Behind the counter, Briony Kent kicked off her flat, leather-thonged sandals and luxuriated in the coolness of the tiles beneath her feet. Nearly closing time. A sense of peace and contentment pervaded her whole being.

  'Right! Where is he?'

  The shop bell continued to vibrate with the violence of the tall man's entrance. Briony, interrupted in her task of adding up the day's takings, looked up with an abstracted frown to meet cold, grey eyes in a lean, angry face.

  'Sorry?'

  'Don't pretend not to understand!' His deep, gravelly voice vibrated around her. 'I'm not one to be deceived by large, innocent blue eyes and a pretty face. Where's Matthew?'

  Slightly nonplussed, Briony stared into the strongly masculine face. It wasn't a handsome face, by any means, but it was an interesting one—dark and brooding. Unexpectedly, despite his abrasive manner, she felt a leap of physical response to his unquestionable attraction.

  'Matthew Rawlinson?'

  'Who else?' Impatience marred his cultured tones.

  'He's not here.'

  'You don't deny he comes here—regularly?'

  'No, of course not. He…'

  'When will he be back?' Though the counter was between them, Briony felt menaced by the tall stranger. He bore all the aspects of violence scarcely held in check: a nerve twitched in the lean cheek, his broad shoulders were tautly held, his hands clenched.

  'I'm not sure. Tomorrow, maybe. Perhaps Wednesday.'

  'Not tonight?' He sounded disbelieving.

  'Not on a Monday. We don't…'

  'Got another love nest for Mondays, has he?'

  Briony slapped the account book down on the counter. She didn't have to put up with this.

  'Look! I don't know who you are or what you want with Matthew. But I do know what you're insinuating and I…'

  'And you're going to deny you're having an affair with Rawlinson!'

  'I do deny it!' Briony said with an emphatic toss of her red curls. 'Though what it's got to do with you…'

  'How much do you know about Rawlinson?' His voice lashed at her angrily.

  'Not much. Matthew doesn't discuss his private life.'

  'Hardly surprising.' The grey eyes were insolently assessing. 'I should imagine his mind's on other things. Such as five-foot nothing of blue-eyed redhead, with a waist my hands could span and a very kissable mouth, if your tastes run that way.' Something brooding in the atmosphere made it sound as though he found the prospect rather appealing himself, and Briony shifted uneasily, wishing she were not alone on the premises.

  Beneath the anger, she sensed a virile charm which, she suspected, had breached the defences of more than one feminine citadel. She was suddenly conscious that, because of the warm August day, she wore very little beneath her Indian cotton dress. Consequently, it moulded closely to her small but full breasts, and clung sinuously around her slender legs. She strove for dignity, unaware how the faint air of aloofness increased her attraction.

  'Look, Mr…?'

  'Munro. Teale Munro.'

  'Are you some kind of detective, Mr Munro?' He didn't look like her preconceived image of a private eye— seedy and furtive. Beneath the anger, his countenance was open and frank. He was too well dressed.

  'If I were, I'd scarcely be approaching you so directly. Oh, don't worry, Miss Kent,' he added with a touch of weary irony, 'you won't be featuring in any explicit photographs or in the courts. Nobody wants any scandal. Me least of all.'

  'How do you know my name?' she demanded.

  'Other people besides detectives ask questions. The lady in the antiques shop next door was most helpful.'

  She would be, Briony fumed. Especially if it seemed like a chance of casting aspersions on her neighbours' characters. Mrs Moss had never approved of Briony Kent and her partner. She claimed their proximity detracted from her own trade.

  'Are you going to tell me when and where I can find Matthew?' Teale Munro's impatient voice broke across her thoughts.

  'If I knew, I wouldn't tell you,' Briony retorted with spirit. 'How do I know you don't mean him any harm?'

  'You don't,' the man said grimly. 'It would serve him right if I did break his neck for him. And now, if you don't mind, I'll just take a look around, to satisfy myself you're telling the truth.'

  'But I do mind!' Courageously, Briony planted herself in front of him as he moved towards the door that connected the shop and living quarters. 'Unless you're a policeman with a search warrant, you've no right.'

  For a moment, she thought he might thrust her aside. But then the shop bell rang again. This time, Briony was relieved to see the short, plump, sari-clad figure of her partner, carrying a large cardboard box filled to overflowing.

  'OK,' Teale Munro said grimly. 'You win this time. But I'll be back. Tell Matthew Rawlinson that.'

  As the door slammed behind him, Briony sank into a chair. Her legs were shaking too much to hold her up. With a sigh of relief, Promilla Kadri dumped the box she carried on the c
ounter and raised an enquiring brow.

  'What was all that about?' The large, liquid dark eyes and brown face were concerned. And, when Briony had enlightened her, she said, 'I did warn you something like this could happen one day.'

  'Don't rub it in,' Briony said ruefully. But this time Promilla might be right, she thought. The arrival of the somewhat mysterious Matthew Rawlinson on their horizons did look like causing trouble.

  He'd turned up one day in June. Predictably, it was raining outside. Useless rain, Briony called it. Not an honest-to-goodness, get-it-over-with downpour, but a fine, persistent drizzle that hung over land and sea and looked set in for the day. Not exactly a day to tempt window-shoppers, Briony would have thought. It was miserable. And the man looked miserable as he stood, shoulders hunched against the weather, with his face almost pressed to the window, looking in at the display. It was a nice display. Briony had only just arranged it that morning. But it scarcely warranted such intent study in such weather. His thin raincoat was already soaked. The turned-up collar framed a thin, pale, bearded face with large, melancholy eyes. Always soft-hearted, Briony felt sorry for him.

  'He looks half drowned,' she said. 'And he doesn't look well. Shall I ask him in?'

  'Why not?' Promilla Kadri smiled. 'You usually do. Though the last one took fright. He thought you were trying to sell him something. You and your lame dogs,' she continued a little anxiously as Briony moved purposefully to the door. 'I just know some day one of them will turn out to be trouble.'

  'Would you like to shelter inside?' Briony asked the man. Even she was surprised by the alacrity of his response.

  'May I? I was trying to make up my mind to come in and ask you something.' He was older than she'd thought from her first sight of him. Fortyish. He was well spoken, but there was a slight hesitancy in his speech, not quite a stutter; and a nerve twitched restlessly in one cheek. As he spoke, he peeled off his sodden raincoat, revealing shabby cords and a baggy T-shirt. His bare feet were encased in open-toed and very wet sandals.

  'I'll put the kettle on,' Promilla said with a resigned sigh. Briony's lame dogs were never allowed to depart without refreshment of some kind. Most recipients of her goodwill were passing vagrants, but there was something slightly different about this one.

  'You wanted to ask a question,' Briony reminded the man.

  'Yes, if you're sure I'm not being a nuisance. You're not too busy?'

  'Now, do we look busy?' Briony laughed as she indicated the empty shop. 'A wet Monday morning doesn't bring many customers our way. Sit down, won't you?'

  Despite the chair she offered, the man seemed less interested in asking his question than in inspecting his surroundings. He surveyed the well stocked shelves and wall space with intent eyes that looked too large for his thin face. It would be even thinner, Briony thought, without the moustache and beard and frame of overlong hair.

  'Are you keen on art?' she ventured after he had spent several minutes in silent contemplation before a large canvas—a seascape that embodied the colour and atmosphere of the Devonshire coastline.

  'Mmmn,' he said non-committally. He moved on. 'Nice place you have here. Do you do much business?'

  'Yes, in the holiday season we get a lot of passing trade. Even out of season, there's a fairly regular turnover. People buy their birthday and Christmas gifts from us. Then, of course, we travel to craft fairs all over the country. Sometimes further afield.'

  Briony was faintly amused. He was dressed like everyone's idea of an impoverished artist. She suspected he was engaged in a form of market research—to find out what demand there might be locally for his own work, perhaps. She didn't remember having seen him before. Maybe he was new to the district. A lot of craft workers moved into tourist areas, hoping to make a business out of their talents. It wasn't that easy. Many had tried and failed. But he looked so pathetically vulnerable, she hadn't the heart to tell him that outright.

  'We sell a lot of work on commission. Local artists and craftsmen bring us their finished products. If they're up to the standards we set for the shop, we display them for a month. Perhaps you have something you'd like us to sell for you?'

  'No.'

  Promilla came through from the back of the shop, carrying a tray. She handed round large mugs of coffee and generous slices of her own home-made cake. Briony decided it was time for introductions.

  'I'm Briony—Briony Kent,' she offered. 'This is my friend and partner, Promilla Kadri.' She looked at him expectantly.

  'Matthew,' he said. 'Matthew Rawlinson.' He continued to prowl as he drank his coffee, and munched on the cake as though he hadn't eaten for a week. He stopped before the canvas that had interested him earlier. 'How much would something like this fetch?'

  'It's priced at five hundred pounds,' Briony told him.

  'That much?' He was obviously impressed. He moved on, came to a flight of roped-off stairs. 'What's up there?'

  'The studio,' Promilla told him. 'We don't just run a shop. We work up there when the shop's closed, and occasionally we take students. Evening classes. We have the occasional one in summer, but it's mostly through the winter months.'

  'Students?' Suddenly the dark eyes were very much alert in the pale face. 'You mean, you teach people to paint?'

  'Among other things. We also have a pottery out back,' Briony explained. 'We do fabric design as well. In fact, between us we cater for most forms of art and craft.'

  Matthew Rawlinson returned yet again to the painting which seemed to exert a peculiar fascination over him.

  'Could you teach me to paint like that?'

  'Not exactly like that,' Briony protested, then at his downcast look, she added, 'I mean, there's no merit in acquiring someone else's style. If you have any talent, you could be taught to develop your own. Have you done any painting at all?'

  'Some,' he admitted, 'but nothing like that.'

  'Would you like to see the studio?' Briony asked. 'We have a permanent exhibition of paintings and craftwork up there. It isn't usually open on a Monday, but if you're interested…'

  He nodded and was close on her heels as she unhooked the rope and led the way upstairs. The studio was vast. Consisting of several rooms knocked into one, it occupied a similar floorspace to the shop and living quarters below it. The air was heavy with the scent of paint and turps. More paintings hung on the walls. Several easels stood at one end of the room, holding paintings in various stages of execution. Matthew paid particular attention to these.

  'And at this end,' Briony told him, 'Promilla takes her students for all kinds of fabric work, from the actual pattern design through to dressmaking, patchwork, collage, anything you care to mention.' But Matthew was interested only in the paintings.

  'So you're the artist?'

  'Artist, potter, sculptor.'

  'Any of your own work here?'

  'The picture you were looking at downstairs is one of mine.'

  'I suppose you charge for lessons? How much?'

  Briony looked at his shabby clothing, then into anxious brown eyes and halved her normal fee. A look of relief flooded his face.

  'When can I start?'

  'Tomorrow night?' Briony was touched by his eagerness. She knew Promilla was going to call her all kinds of a fool. But it wouldn't be the first time she'd lowered her rates. Besides, if Matthew Rawlinson had no talent he wouldn't last long. And if he had talent it would be criminal not to help him develop it.

  Now, two months later, Matthew was still attending regularly, and Briony had no doubt of his talent and enthused daily to her friend. But Promilla, while admitting his work to be exceptional, expressed concern. The colours on his palette were harsh and unconventional. In his landscapes, vivid red skies predominated. There was a kind of frenzied desperation to his brush strokes that was reminiscent of Van Gogh at his most disturbed.

  'There's something about him that worries me, Briony. I'm not sure what it is. But I'll tell you frankly, I don't like the idea of you being alone here with h
im when I'm away on buying trips.' Briony was so keen to help her new student that she allowed him to use the studio at will. She never knew quite when he would turn up. But he never came again on a Monday.

  'He's just a bit eccentric,' Briony reassured her. 'A lot of artists are.' She laughed. 'I sometimes think I'm a bit eccentric myself!'

  Now Promilla was looking at her friend with concern.

  'That Munro man really got to you, didn't he? If we were the drinking kind, I'd prescribe a stiff whisky. As it is, I think I'd better put the kettle on.'

  Briony picked up the heavy cardboard box and followed her through to the kitchen.

  'I'm all right. I don't think I was in any danger except, perhaps, of losing my temper.' She hated conflict. 'Phew, this box is a weight! Did you have a good day?'

  'Splendid. I'll let you have a gloat in a minute.' The two girls shared a taste for Victoriana and 1920s memorabilia, and Promilla had been to an auction sale in the next county. 'You can guess who was there, of course?'

  'Mrs Moss from next door?'

  'The same. She wasn't pleased when I walked off with some of the best pieces.'

  'So she'll be feeling even more vindictive towards us.' Briony revealed the fact that Teale Munro had been making enquiries about them. 'She's probably hoping he knows something to discredit us, so we'll have to move.'

  'Not a chance,' Promilla said cheerfully as she handed Briony a mug of tea. 'Our consciences are totally clear. The woman's unreasonable. It's not as if we sell antiques. And not everyone can afford to give antiques as gifts. If the silly woman looked at it sensibly, she'd realise we're of mutual benefit. And, with trade as it is, there's room for both of us in Gwinvercombe. I've never regretted moving here, have you?'

  'Never,' Briony confirmed.

  Her friendship with Promilla Kadri was of some ten years standing. Promilla was six years older than Briony. They'd met originally in London, when Briony had been an art student. They'd bumped into each other, literally, in an antiques shop in Camden Passage. During apologies and subsequent conversation they'd discovered many mutual interests and taken a liking to each other.