When they drew up at the lodge the scene was truly festive, with the glittering Christmas tree, coloured lanterns bobbing slightly in the freshening breeze and strings of fairy lights blinking and twinkling through the falling snow.
The muted sound of music and laughter and revelry issuing forth into the snowy night made it abundantly clear that the après-ski party was already well under way.
‘Isn’t it all lovely and festive?’ Cathy remarked as they drew up by the porch.
‘You wait until Christmas Eve. I’ve been told that every year there’s a Christmas Eve ball held in the main hall at Dunbar. Even the old laird, who apparently was a dour man, kept it up. A band comes all the way from Keiltullich, a firm of caterers decorate and provide a buffet supper, and it’s open house. Everyone from Beinn Mor, and all the locals for miles around, put on their glad rags and come.’
‘It sounds fun.’
‘I’ve no doubt it will be,’ he assured her as he helped her out.
As soon as they got inside, a red-coated Santa with the customary hat and white whiskers approached them. Well into the spirit of the part, and booming ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’, he was carrying a sack containing lucky-dip gifts.
When they had each drawn out a small, gaily wrapped parcel, they left them, along with their outdoor things and Cathy’s bag, in the nearby cloakroom.
When they returned to the party, Margaret and Janet spotted them and gave a friendly wave.
The two woman were talking, and as Carl headed in their direction Cathy heard Margaret say, ‘I’d half expected Lena to turn up. The last time I saw her she said she’d be visiting her father before Christmas… And you know what that means…’
Janet grimaced. ‘I can’t help but wonder if she’s still a bit in love with Ross. She can’t seem to let go, more’s the pity…’
Turning to smile at them both, Margaret said, ‘Hi! It looks like being a good evening. People are mixing well, and Kevin is into his stride as DJ…’
Through the open doors that led into the next room, Cathy could see that the floor had been cleared for dancing, and at the far end a dinner-jacketed Kevin was selecting disks to go into the player.
After chatting for a while, Janet and Margaret moved away to circulate, and, trying to put all thoughts of Ross and his ex-fiancée out of her mind, Cathy glanced around.
The majority of the women wore cocktail dresses, while the men tended to go for smart après-ski wear.
One or two couples were already dancing, while others sat and watched as they sipped their drinks.
In the foyer-cum-lounge the bar was doing a brisk business, and a substantial buffet had been set out on a series of trestle tables.
People were standing around in small groups, drinks in their hands, laughing and cheerful as they talked animatedly about the day’s skiing.
Listening to them as they compared the snow and weather conditions to previous holidays, it soon became obvious to Cathy that they belonged to a kind of skiing fraternity that met up each year.
From the look on Carl’s face, she could see that the talk and the camaraderie were meat and drink to him, and that he wanted nothing more than to be a part of this world.
As though becoming conscious of her gaze, he turned to her and suggested, ‘What about a dance?’
Well aware that he’d never cared much for dancing, she asked, ‘Wouldn’t you rather be with your skiing companions talking about the day’s excitements?’
He grinned wryly. ‘How well you know me. But it might look strange if we don’t have at least one dance together.’
The atmosphere of fun and gaiety was infectious and lifted her enough to make her say lightly, ‘In that case, let’s go.’
The music was a mixture of older and newer tunes, and they danced to a couple of lively numbers. As the last one ended, Carl suggested, ‘Would you like a drink? If I can get anywhere near the bar, that is.’
‘If you can, I’ll have a glass of dry white wine. But if there’s too much of a scrum, don’t bother.’
Then as he turned to go she added quickly, ‘By the way, there’s no need to hurry back. Circulate a bit—I’ll be fine.’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
He gave her a grateful look and disappeared into the throng.
She listened to the music for a little while, then rather than stand around like the proverbial wallflower she decided to make her way into the other room and sit—unobtrusively, she hoped—in front of the fire.
She had taken only a couple of steps when a tall, sturdily built man with brown receding hair and a pleasant, open face, appeared by her side.
He smiled at her somewhat shyly and said, ‘Good evening, Mrs Richardson.’
Recognizing him as Robert Munro, Dunbar’s estate manager, she smiled back and returned his greeting, adding, ‘But won’t you call me Cathy?’
‘I’d like to, if you’ll call me Robert.’
‘Agreed.’
His hazel eyes still a shade diffident, he went on in his soft Scottish brogue, ‘I just had a word with your husband, and he mentioned that he’d temporarily deserted you. As you don’t really know anyone yet, I thought it might be a bit lonely for you…’ Then in a rush he said, ‘I wondered if you’d like to dance?’
Thinking what a genuinely nice man he was, she agreed, ‘Yes, I’d love to.’
‘Would you mind very much if we wait a few seconds to see what the next song is going to be?’
‘Of course not.’
When an old favourite began, looking distinctly embarrassed, he confessed, ‘I’m afraid I’m not what you’d call a great dancer.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Cathy said quickly. ‘I’m not very good at it either, but let’s give it a go.’
Taking his hand, she urged him onto the floor. ‘There’s no need to do anything fancy. All we have to do is move to the beat.’
He pulled a comical face. ‘Somehow it seems harder than that.’
Laughing, she said, ‘It isn’t, I promise.’
At that instant she caught sight of Ross, looking devastatingly handsome in a well-cut dinner jacket. His eyes were fixed on them, and, feeling guilty for no reason at all, she wondered how long he had been standing there watching them both.
Her companion gave no sign that he had noticed that cold gaze, and, taking great care not to look in Ross’s direction, Cathy made an effort to dismiss him from her mind.
After a few seconds, Robert got the hang of the beat and gave quite a creditable performance.
‘There you are!’ Cathy exclaimed triumphantly. ‘What did I tell you?’
Looking greatly relieved, he admitted, ‘In a way it’s easier than ballroom dancing, but I’ve never had the nerve to try before.’
They stayed on the floor for another number and then a quickstep was announced.
With a sheepish grin, Robert said, ‘I’d love to keep on, but I have to warn you I’m not very good at ballroom dancing either. Though I know what I should do, I seem to have two left feet.’
Cathy, who had relaxed with this kind, unassuming man, said, ‘Well, I’m game if you are, and we’ll see who’s the first to tread on their partner’s toes.’
When they had circled the floor a couple of times without anything amiss happening, Robert beamed at her and said, ‘Thanks very much for all your encouragement. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.’ Then he added hastily, ‘But I don’t want to monopolize you, so promise you’ll tell me when you’ve had enough…’
‘I promise,’ she said gravely.
‘And of course there’s your husband to consider. I’d hate him to be angry with you.’
‘I can assure you he won’t be that,’ she said lightly. ‘In fact I’m quite certain he’ll be happy that you’re taking care of me.’
Partly because it kept her from having to make conversation— which could be uncomfortable and might involve lying—and partly because as a companion Ro
bert was easy and unthreatening, she, too, was enjoying herself, and she would willingly have danced with him all evening.
‘The next number,’ Kevin announced through the microphone, ‘will be a gentlemen’s “excuse me”.’
It was a modern waltz, and they had taken just a few steps, when a man tapped Robert on the shoulder.
Relinquishing his partner with a formal little bow, Robert made his way off the floor, and Cathy found herself face to face with a man she had never set eyes on before.
CHAPTER FIVE
HER first feeling was one of relief. Just for an instant she had feared the newcomer was Ross.
But this man was nothing like Ross.
Somewhere in his mid-thirties, she guessed, he was tall and beefy, good-looking in a florid, flashy kind of way, with dark wavy hair and bold blue eyes.
He held her much too close and smelt of whisky and expensive aftershave.
‘At last,’ he said, with a London accent and an unappealing brashness. ‘I’ve been waiting for a chance to get to know you.’
Cathy said nothing, and after a moment he went on, his voice over-loud, ‘I haven’t seen you around, and with a face and figure like yours I would certainly have remembered if I had.’
When she remained silent and aloof, he persisted, ‘My name’s Nigel Cunningham. What’s yours?’
‘Cathy,’ she answered reluctantly.
‘Which party are you with, Cathy?’
‘I’m not with any party,’ she said with cool politeness. ‘I work here.’
‘Do you, indeed? What’s your job? I hope it’s being nice to the male guests.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘So what do they pay you for?’
Already disliking him intensely, and willing the dance to end so she could escape, she said as civilly as possible, ‘I work in the office.’
‘Doing what? Keeping the boss-man happy?’
‘Sitting in front of a computer.’
‘A looker like you! What a waste of talent.’
He was slurring his words slightly, and she realized with a sinking heart that he’d already had far too much to drink.
A covered, glassed-in veranda ran along the rear of the lodge, and because the room was fairly full and growing over-warm, one of the French windows that led onto it had been propped open.
Starting to feel hot and agitated, Cathy was welcoming the flow of cooler air when her dancing partner exclaimed, ‘Hell’s bells! Are they trying to freeze us out?’ Then with a confident leer he said, ‘Never mind, baby, stick with me and I’ll keep you warm.’
Holding her even closer, he let his hand slip down from her waist to cup one buttock.
Bearing in mind that he was almost certainly a guest, she bit back the urge to pull away and smack his face and said through gritted teeth, ‘Will you please keep your hand where it belongs?’
Giving her a little squeeze, he asked thickly, ‘Why so stand-offish?’
‘Mr Cunningham, will you please do as I ask?’
‘Come on, it’s the festive season.’
Unwilling to cause a scene, she stopped dancing and said in a low, angry voice, ‘For the last time, will you let go of me?’
‘You don’t really mean that,’ he wheedled.
‘I certainly do mean it.’
‘Relax, baby—’
Seeing that words were useless, she pulled herself free and, making her way through the couples still dancing, headed for the door.
A crowd of revellers with drinks in their hands were blocking the doorway, laughing uproariously at some story one of the group was telling.
Rather than trying to push her way through, she sheered off and circled the edge of the room until she reached the open French window.
Slipping through it, she moved a little way along the lantern-strung veranda. Though she could still hear the music, she was beyond the range of the main lights and out of sight of anyone in the room.
Tables and chairs had been placed at intervals, and at either end of the veranda a glowing space heater took off the worst of the chill for any hardy souls who wanted to spend a few minutes admiring the view.
But so far there had been no takers, and Cathy had the veranda to herself.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she drank in the cooler air as she stood and stared through the glass at the snow-covered foothills and the magnificent backdrop of higher mountains.
Snow was still falling steadily, piling up against the panes, shrouding the trees and bushes and weighing down the green boughs of the pines—boughs that were starting to heave and thrash about in the rising wind.
Ever since she was a child Cathy had loved all aspects of the weather, and it was such a beautiful, exciting scene that for a short time she forgot the distasteful little incident that had driven her out there.
Then an arm snaked around her waist, and that hated voice said in her ear, ‘Playing hard to get, huh? Come on, baby, that doesn’t cut any ice with me. Loosen up…’
‘Let me go!’
Pulling away, she tried to push past him, but he grabbed hold of her and, his voice thickening, muttered, ‘You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen and I need you to be nice to me…’
Then he was kissing her, his lips hot and wet and rubbery, his breath reeking of whisky, his hands all over her.
‘Damn you, let her go.’ Though quietly spoken, the words cut like a lash.
A second later Cathy was abruptly released as her unwanted admirer was plucked away.
Shuddering, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she found herself looking into Ross Dalgowan’s angry face.
Bearing in mind the semi-drunken state he was in, Nigel Cunningham’s recovery was fast. Bristling, he demanded belligerently, ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’
‘You.’ Both Ross’s tone and his manner were uncompromising. ‘Now, get out of here, before I’m tempted to break your neck.’
Taking an aggressive step forward, Cunningham jeered, ‘Let’s just see you try!’ No doubt made reckless by the drink, he aimed a punch at the other man’s jaw.
He was as tall as Ross and several stone heavier, and if the punch had connected it might have done some considerable damage.
But Ross sidestepped neatly and it swung harmlessly past his ear.
Carried forward by the impetus, Cunningham went sprawling heavily, ignominiously, on the wooden floor of the veranda.
Struggling to his feet, he lunged at his adversary.
The next minute he found himself propelled backwards by a single hand and pushed none too gently against the wall.
Sobered somewhat by the ease with which he had been bested, but not yet ready to admit defeat, he snarled, ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about! What harm is there in a little kiss? Damn it, there’s bunches of mistletoe hanging all over the place.’
His voice glacial, Ross pointed out, ‘That wasn’t just a Christmas kiss under the mistletoe, as well you know.’
‘Well, what if it wasn’t? She’s enough to tempt any man to try his luck.’
‘So you were “trying your luck”?’
‘What if I was? If the lady was willing to have some fun, what business is it of yours?’ Then, light dawning, he said, ‘Oh, I see, you fancied your own chances and you’re jealous!’
Ignoring the accusation of jealousy, Ross said coldly, ‘Perhaps “the lady” failed to tell you that she’s employed here?’
Desperate to escape the unpleasant little scene, Cathy was edging towards the French windows when Ross ordered grimly, ‘Stay where you are. I want a word with you.’
As he had moved to block her way, she had little choice buttoobey.
‘Well, what if she is employed here?’ Cunningham demanded. ‘She told me she works in the office, so she wasn’t on duty.’
‘Whether she was “on duty” or not isn’t relevant. It’s Beinn Mor’s policy not to allow members of the staff to fool around with the guests at any time.
So leave her alone.’
‘Policy be damned!’ he blustered. ‘There was no problem last year, and I’ve paid good money to come here again and have some fun. So don’t imagine you can come along dishing out orders.’ Then with rising indignation he demanded, ‘Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?’
‘My name’s Dalgowan, and I happen to be the owner of the Dunbar Estate, and that includes the Ski Lodge. So you’d better listen to me when I tell you to keep well away from Mrs Richardson, otherwise—’
‘Mrs Richardson?’
‘Oh, yes. But no doubt that wouldn’t worry a man of your type.’
‘She never said a word about being married,’ Cunningham protested.
Ross reached for her left hand. ‘Heavens above, man, can’t you see—’ He broke off abruptly, and a white line appeared round his mouth.
Following his gaze, Cathy realized with a shock of horror that her left hand was bare. Her mother’s ring had gone.
Dropping her hand, Ross turned back to Cunningham and said crisply, ‘As Mrs Richardson forgot to wear her wedding ring, I accept that what happened just now may not have been entirely your fault. However, let me give you some advice: if you want to enjoy the rest of your stay, you’d better tread your shoes straight, otherwise…’
He left the threat unfinished, but Cunningham, who had clearly had enough, turned and shambled away.
As he reached the French windows, he rallied enough to say with what dignity he could muster, ‘I suppose you realize that after being spoken to in that manner, I’ll never come here again.’
‘Which is just as well,’ Ross informed him flatly. ‘You wouldn’t be welcome.’
When the other man had disappeared from sight, Ross, his face set, turned to Cathy and, his voice quietly furious, said, ‘I warned you not to get up to any tricks with the guests, and then I find you kissing one of them.’
Shivering now, partly with cold and partly with stress, she objected, ‘I wasn’t kissing him. He was kissing me.’
‘A fine distinction.’
‘It’s the truth.’
Lifting a level brow, he said sardonically, ‘So you’re asking me to believe that you were more sinned against than sinning?’
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