by Anne Mather
Now he merely nodded, pressing his hands more deeply down into the pockets of his duffel coat, and she supplied the answer to his unspoken question without even being aware of doing so.
‘Della—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart, that is—asked the receptionist who you were,’ she exclaimed casually. ‘Della always likes to know the names of the other guests. I hope you don’t mind.’
Jake glanced at her then, and the humorous mobility of her wide mouth inspired the distinct impression that she knew very well that he did mind. But he refused to justify her amusement by admitting the fact.
‘It’s no secret,’ he said abruptly, and she shrugged, tucking her cold hands into the slip pockets of her jerkin. The wind was tugging at her hair, however, and every now and then she had to lift a hand and push it back from her eyes and mouth. Strands blew against the sleeve of his coat, and their brightness irritated him.
For a few minutes they walked in silence, and then she spoke again: ‘My name’s Rachel—Rachel Lesley. I work for Mrs Faulkner-Stewart.’
Jake drew a deep breath, but made no comment, and all at once he was aware of a stiffening in her. Perhaps she was getting the message at last, he thought ruthlessly, and was totally unprepared for her attack when it came.
‘You’re not very polite, are you?’ she inquired, with cool audacity. ‘Why don’t you just tell me to get lost, if that’s the way you feel?’
Her words stopped Jake in his tracks, and he turned to stare at her angrily. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard what I said,’ she insisted, and he saw that the eyes turned belligerently up to his were flecked with amber, like her hair. ‘If you want to be alone, why not say so?’
Jake’s hands balled themselves into fists in his pockets. ‘I see no reason to state what must be patently obvious!’ he declared cuttingly, and her lips pursed indignantly.
‘I was only trying to be friendly!’ she retorted, and his lips curled contemptuously.
‘I suggest that—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart, if that is your employer’s name, ought to pay attention to her employee’s education, instead of probing into other people’s affairs! Then perhaps you’d know better than to go around picking up strange men!’
The girl gasped. ‘I do not go around picking up strange men! I felt—sorry for you, that’s all!’
Jake’s reaction to this was violent. That this girl, this child—for she was little more—should feel sorry for him! Didn’t she know who he was? Had she no conception to whom she was speaking?
But of course she hadn’t. So far as she was concerned, he was plain Mr Allan, and to her he must present a very different figure from the image he had previously taken for granted. This realisation was strangely reassuring, and in spite of his lingering impatience, his anger was dispersing.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, with something approaching apology in his voice. ‘I—well, I’ve been out of touch with humanity for some time, and I seem to have lost the habit of civility.’
Immediately the girl’s face was transformed, and a wide smile gave it a beauty he had not previously observed. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, without rancour. ‘I guessed you’d been ill. You don’t look the usual kind of man who would choose to stay at the Tor Court at this time of the year.’
Jake wondered how to answer that. ‘No?’ he probed, with irony. Then: ‘I suppose not.’
The poodle provided a welcome diversion at that moment, making a noisy attack at a snapping Pekinese who was being dragged out of its way by its irate owner. The girl exclaimed: ‘Oh, glory!’ and darted forward to rescue the poodle’s collar, and her laughing apology to the red-faced woman in charge of the Pekinese brought an unwilling deprecation from her lips. Jake watched the exchange with reluctant admiration, and then realised he was wasting a perfectly good opportunity to make his departure. Curiously enough he was less eager to leave now, but the remembrance of what the girl had said still rankled, and ridiculous though it was he resented the feeling of being the object of anyone’s pity. That was something he could do without.
Even so, he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder as he walked away between the cultivated borders, and felt a moment’s regret when he saw she had turned back towards the hotel. But only a moment’s. She was a nice kid, and probably he had judged her too harshly—after all, nowadays young people seemed to have few inhibitions about anything, and she had only been friendly, as she said—but it wasn’t in His interests to become too friendly with anyone at the hotel. No matter how nice people were, they always wanted to know everything about you, and that was something Jake wanted to avoid. Besides, he could imagine Mrs Faulkner-Stewart’s reactions if she thought her companion was becoming friendly with a man of his age. No matter how innocent an association might be, someone could always put the wrong interpretation upon it. He could almost see the headlines in the newspapers now: Middle-aged tycoon takes rest cure with schoolgirl! God, he shuddered to think of it. The poodle had provided him with a lucky escape, and in future he would ensure that his walks did not coincide with exercising the dog.
CHAPTER TWO
RACHEL did not see him again for several days.
Even though she took to lingering for a few minutes in the lobby before taking Minstrel out for his evening walk, there was never any sign of the tall, dark man whose haggard features had begun to haunt her dreams. He never appeared at mealtimes, and in spite of Della’s attempts to draw the manager into conversation, Mr Yates seemed curiously loath to discuss the occupant of the first floor suite.
Rachel didn’t altogether understand her own interest in him. After all, he had shown in no uncertain manner that he did not welcome companionship, and he obviously regarded her as something of a nuisance in spite of his reluctant apology. But for all that, she had not mentioned their encounter to Della, and squeezed a small measure of comfort from the knowledge that her employer had not even spoken to him.
Her employer! Rachel grimaced at the thought, as she steered Della Faulkner-Stewart’s Mini into the parking area outside the hotel. Six months ago she would never have considered such an occupation, but circumstances could change so many things. Six months ago she had been dreaming of going to Oxford, of getting her degree. Until her father had contracted polio and died all in the space of three weeks, and her mother, dazed after so little sleep, had crashed her car into level crossing gates just as a train was passing. At least, that was the coroner’s verdict, though Rachel herself suspected that she had not wanted to go on living. She had been an only child, and she had always known her presence had never really been necessary. Her parents were complete unto themselves, and she had been at times a rather annoying encumbrance.
Nevertheless, the dual tragedy had left her stunned, and the solicitors’ subsequent information that apart from a couple of insurance policies, which would provide sufficient funds to pay all outstanding debts, she was penniless, had left her curiously unmoved.
That was when Della Faulkner-Stewart had taken over. She had been a school friend of Rachel’s mother’s, and although they had not seen her for some years, she had arrived in Nottingham for Mr Lesley’s funeral. That she was still in town when Mrs Lesley also died was, she said, a blessing, and she had insisted that Rachel should not attempt her final examinations at such a time. There was no hurry, she said. She herself needed a companion—her previous companion had taken the unforgivable step of getting married—and why didn’t Rachel come and live with her for a while? They could help one another.
In her numbed state, Rachel was only too willing to let someone else take responsibility for her. It wasn’t until some weeks afterwards, when she found herself at Della’s constant beck and call, that she began to appreciate what she had forfeited. But still, she had a little money of her own, and until she could afford to take her finals, she was persuaded that she could be a lot worse off.
Della’s husband was dead, too, and sometimes Rachel wondered whether that was why she had come to Nottingham in the
first place. Perhaps she had hoped to persuade Rachel’s mother to take over the position as her companion, but Mrs Lesley had been too grief-stricken at that time to consider it. The truth was, Della was not the most considerate of employers, and although her husband had left her comfortably placed, she resented being without a man to care for her. Consequently, she spent little time at her London home, preferring to live in hotels, always in the hope of finding some man to take her late husband’s place. Her only stipulation was that he should be English. She despised Europeans, and seldom went abroad, preferring wholesome British food to what she termed as ‘foreign muck’.
Yet, for all that, Rachel was not actively unhappy. On the contrary, she was naturally a pleasant-natured girl, and apart from an occasional yearning for dreaming spires, she lived quite contentedly, prepared to wait another year or two before striking out on her own.
Now, she pulled the Mini into its space, calmed the excitable poodle behind her, and opened her door. As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, it was starting to rain, and she reached for Minstrel’s lead before allowing him to get out and possibly decorate her navy slacks with muddy paw marks. There was a strange car parked alongside the Mini, one which she had not seen before, and she studied its elegant lines before turning and walking towards the hotel. As she neared the entrance two men came out of the hotel, talking together, and her pulses quickened alarmingly when she recognised Mr Allan and another man.
That he had recognised her, too, there was no doubt, but she sensed his reluctance to acknowledge the fact. However, short of cutting her dead, there was nothing else he could do, and his lips curved in the semblance of a polite smile, while his eyes looked right through her. She wondered if he knew how that look affected her, and how her palms moistened when he said quietly: ‘Hello!’
Rachel restrained an eagerness to respond, and replied lightly: ‘Hello, Mr Allan. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
He cast a challenging look at the older man beside him, as if daring him to contradict the statement, and Rachel’s gaze flicked over his companion. There was a resemblance between them, and she wondered if this was his father.
But clearly she was not to be introduced, and before she could think of anything else to say, the two men had passed her. She looked after them, biting her lips, and then entered the hotel ill-humouredly, mentally chastising herself for her foolishness.
What did she expect from him anyway? He was easily as old as her father had been when he died, and he regarded her as little more than a schoolgirl, obviously. Just because he evoked her sympathies …
But no. That wasn’t strictly truthful. He had the most incredibly sexy eyes, and in spite of his haggard appearance, he aroused the most wanton thoughts inside her. His attraction for her owed little to whatever illness had brought him here, and she knew that Della would have a fit if she guessed the fantasies Rachel was nurturing. But they were only fantasies, she told herself severely, dragging Minstrel into the lift after her, and showing an unusual lack of sympathy when she accidently stepped on his paw.
Della’s suite of rooms was on the second floor. She had reserved a lounge and a double room with bath for herself, as well as a single room for Rachel. Rachel was obliged to use the bathroom on that floor which served two other rooms as well as her own, but she didn’t mind. She invariably took her bath in the evening, while everyone else was in the bar enjoying pre-dinner drinks, and unlike Della she had felt little desire to mix with her fellow guests—until now.
When she and Minstrel entered the suite, Della called peevishly from the bedroom: ‘Rachel, is that you?’ And when the girl showed her face at the bedroom door: ‘You’ve been a long time.’
Della had had one of her headaches when Rachel went out. They were a persistent torment to her, she declared, although they came in very useful on occasion, when she wanted rid of Rachel for the afternoon.
Now, however, she levered herself up on the quilted counterpane, looking suitably wan in her lacy pink negligée. She was forty-three, and spent half her life trying to look younger, with the inevitable result of achieving the opposite. Her fine hair had been tinted so often that it looked like dried straw until it had been combed into its usual style, and her skin was paper-thin and veined from too much food and too little exercise. She treated Rachel with a mixture of envy and irritation, and disliked feeling at a disadvantage with anybody.
Now Rachel held on desperately to Minstrel’s lead, as he viewed the tempting expanse of soft cream carpet spread out before him, and explained: ‘I couldn’t find that particular brand of cream anywhere. I think Mr Holland must make it up for you.’
The frown which had momentarily creased Della’s brow cleared. ‘Oh, yes, dear, perhaps you’re right,’ she agreed complacently, relaxing back against the pillows. ‘He does tend to make a fuss of me, doesn’t he?’
Rachel reserved judgment, and struggling with the poodle asked: ‘Have you had tea?’
‘No.’ Della shook her head. ‘I’ve just been resting here since you went out.’
Belatedly, Rachel asked if she was feeling better, averting her eyes from the lurid jacket of the paperback novel that unexpectedly appeared beneath Della’s flowing skirts.
‘A little,’ her employer conceded reluctantly, quickly tucking the book out of sight, and Rachel turned away to hide her amusement, saying: ‘I’ll just give Minstrel a drink.’
‘Yes, and ring for tea, will you, dear?’ called Della after her. ‘I’ll be out directly.’
The door was closed and Minstrel offered a glum yelp. But since the disastrous occasion a few days ago, when he had cleared his mistress’s dressing table of a large collection of cosmetic jars and bottles, he had not been welcome in her room.
Rachel got Minstrel’s dish and filled it from the hand basin in her room. The dog drank thirstily, and through its noisy gulps she rang room service. Afterwards, she wandered over to the windows, looking out rather absently. She wondered when she would see Mr Allan again, or indeed if! How long was he staying? And where was his wife? A man like him was bound to be married, but why wasn’t she with him if he had been ill?
The arrival of the tea, and Della’s subsequent emergence from her room, left little room for further speculation on the matter, and it was not until she was lying in her bath later that evening that Rachel allowed her mind to drift back to the afternoon’s encounter. What did he really think of her? Did he think of her at all? Or was she just a rather annoying adolescent in his eyes? Perhaps he thought she was oversexed and provocative! Rachel reached for the sponge, and began soaping it liberally. Perhaps she was, she thought irritably. But she had never been troubled with such ideas before.
The usual arrangement was that Della went down to the cocktail bar before dinner and shared in the casual conversation of her fellow guests, while Rachel tidied the suite, fed Minstrel, and had her bath. Then, later, they would meet up again in the restaurant and share a table for dinner. After dinner, a few of the guests made up a four for bridge, and as Della enjoyed cards she was invariably included. That was Rachel’s cue to do as she liked, but this usually comprised a walk with Minstrel, followed by television and bed, in that order. Occasionally she had agreed to a date with a member of the hotel staff; but these were few and far between, preferring as she did the comparative luxury of reading in her own room, briefly free of Della’s fads and fancies.
This evening, however, Rachel felt restless, and after spending longer over her toilette than she normally did, she was late for dinner. She had hesitated a long while over what she should wear. After discarding the chemise dress she had planned to wear in favour of velvet pants and an embroidered smock, she had eventually returned to her original choice, deciding she was being silly in imagining it mattered either way. The chemise was long and made of white sprigged cotton, a ribbon tie beneath her breasts accentuating their fullness; but it was definitely not the sort of dress an older woman would wear, and that was w
hy Rachel had hesitated over wearing it. But she was not an older woman, and there was no use wishing she was.
The lift seemed grindingly slow as it descended to the lower floors, and Rachel was biting her lips impatiently when it stopped at the first landing. Then she stepped back nervously, her cheeks darkening with hot colour when she saw the man waiting to get into the lift. His own expression was less easy to define, but after only a moment’s hesitation he stepped inside, joining her in the suddenly overpoweringly confined atmosphere of the square cubicle. In a navy suede suit and a matching shirt, the heavy duffel coat overall, he reduced the proportions of the lift alarmingly, and she was stiflingly conscious of the masculine odour he emanated. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly in her agitation, the nipples visibly hardening beneath the sprigged cotton.
If he was aware of her excitement, he gave no indication of the fact, and his polite: ‘Good evening!’ was as impersonal as ever. But she had not been this close to him before, and she could see a muscle jerking beneath the shaven beard shadowing his jawline. Perhaps he was not as indifferent to her as he would have her believe, or was it nerves that caused that betraying spasm?
Then, as if impatient with the way she was watching him, he looked at her, and that straight uncompromising stare turned her knees to jelly. It was as well the skirt of her gown covered her legs, or their quivering infirmity would have been visible to his gaze.
‘I—are you going down to dinner?’ she stammered, needing the release of conversation, but he shook his head with wry impatience.
‘I’ve had dinner,’ he told her flatly, and her arms slid round her waist in an instinctively defensive gesture.