Perilous Refuge

by Patricia Wilson

  She felt shaky inside. It was the first time she had ventured beyond the town since she had moved here after the divorce. She was uneasy, scared to leave Tansy, scared to step out into anything she did not know. Miles Gilford had taken all her confidence and it had been a long fight back. It was only now, as she prepared to travel with this hard, uncompromising man, to go to a city she did not know, to leave Tansy and Tina behind, that she realised she had not won the battle yet.

  He straightened up as Helen opened the door and came down the path. He was in a dark suit, an expensive looking sheepskin jacket open over it, but she didn't have the chance to inspect him closely. His eyes flashed over her swiftly, taking in very aspect of her appearance in a second. He opened the car door and settled her inside, taking her case and dropping it on to the back seat, and she felt crushed by the swift, all-encompassing glance. The dreadful urge came to her to ask if she would do, and she bit her lips together as he got in beside her and started the smooth, powerful engine.

  For a while he said nothing, but as they sped on in smooth silence he glanced across at her.

  'All right?' His quiet enquiry startled her and her eyes met his, blue and anxious.

  'Yes.'

  'Did you manage to make baby-sitting arrangements?'

  'My sister lives with me.' She didn't feel like talking.

  Inside she felt sick. The car, for all its size, seemed to be enclosing her, pulling her close to him, to the male power of him. Her eyes seemed to be drawn to the tautness of his thighs, his leg nowhere near her but seeming very close, Fear welled up inside and she tried to breathe deeply, to shake it off. There was a nauseous feeling of being trapped.

  'Are you afraid of flying?' She looked up at his soft question and he glanced across at her, a sidelong glance that made her sit up straight. He often looked like that, shooting a glance at her with shimmering grey eyes that seemed to strike at her nerve-endings.

  'No. I haven't flown for some time but I used to.'

  When she could be useful to Miles. 'Then what are you afraid of me?'

  'You know I'm not.' She was instantly on the defensive, her voice sharpened, and he drove in silence before he said, 'I know I'm supposed to think that, but sometimes I wonder.'

  'Don't wonder about me, Mr Maclean,' Helen said shortly. She felt him stiffen instantly and regretted her sharp voice. After all, she was with him for a day and a half. It was pretty stupid to go on to the attack right away. 'Sometimes...sometimes I worry about home, that's all,' she finished quietly.

  'I see. This sister, how old is she?' He seemed to relax and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  'Nineteen. She's very responsible. She...she had a bad time when she was in her final years at school and now she takes evening classes to get more A-Levels. She's good at languages. Next year she'll go to university.'

  'I see,' he murmured again. 'I understand your need to leave at five. And what happens to your arrangement when your sister goes away to university?'

  'I haven't thought about that yet,' Helen confessed.

  'No doubt something will come to me.' 'What happened to your parents?'

  'They died in a car accident. My sister was fifteen.' He nodded. 'So now you're the head of the family.' 'Yes.' She relapsed into silence, not quite sure how she had come to be telling him anything. One thing at least: the oppressive feeling of danger had drifted away, he didn't seem to be enclosing her any more. She wasn't sure how it had happened-maybe it was the dark sound of his voice. When he wasn't angry there was a velvet quality to it, as if it belonged to another person from the man she knew. She often hung on to the sound of his voice, remembering it afterwards.

  When he parked the car the wind was wild, catching Helen's smart hat and blowing it into the air. He fielded it with one long arm and handed it back, his eyes amused as he saw her thick braid, vividly black against the bright red shawl.

  'I'll take your case. You clutch the hat,' he suggested wryly and for a minute she was startled by the warmth in his eyes.

  She didn't have much time to consider it though because the plane was ready straight away and they were airborne before she had time to think. She was grateful for a cup of tea and closed her eyes for a minute as Ross Maclean ordered a black coffee and then settled down to his papers. Slowly she relaxed, feeling almost light-headed. Tension had been building for two weeks and she had to try to relax out of it. She knew perfectly well how migraine could hit her. It was a miracle she had survived this long.

  She took off her hat and after a while slept, totally unaware of the cold, hard eyes that glanced at her. The thick black braid had fallen over her shoulder, her lashes were curling against her smooth cheeks, dark and lustrous as the thick hair that framed her face. She was beautiful, innocent-looking, almost tragic as she rested back against the seat.

  His lips tightened. How deceptive appearances were.

  He knew that from past experience. He turned away impatiently and his attention was instantly on his papers, his mind alert only to figures and ideas. It would amuse him to see Claude Thiriet's face when he met Miss Andrews. She looked so defenceless. He would ooze charm and she would freeze him icily.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was an impressive hotel, and it was also quite obvious that Ross Maclean was known here. Things seemed to go smoothly for him always, Helen noted almost absently. She wasn't used to that. She was quite accustomed to hotels like this, though; big impressive hotels that cost too much, Miles the worse for drink, his cruel fingers digging into her, his fierce mutters 'Smile! Smile! Smile!'

  She had been the front for Miles so often as he'd struggled to project a wealthy image, an image he was certain would bring in business to a failing firm. She had dressed up carefully and smiled brilliantly at people, knowing that she would suffer for it later if she didn't. She was used to things going wrong, the bills that were more than he expected, always her fault, tightly suppressed anger in public until even the waiters knew. It was like stepping back in time, except that things didn't go wrong with Ross Maclean. His wealth and power were real, his easy authority bringing instant attention.

  'Miss Andrews?'

  He was looking at her curiously, waiting for her, the keys in his hand, and she pulled herself sharply to the present, following him to the lift, still feeling detached but quivering with nerves all the same.

  'Do you feel all right?' He looked at her closely and she gripped her hands tightly together, meeting his gaze with enquiring eyes and a small, cool smile.

  'Perfectly.' Her brisk voice had his eyes narrowing slightly and any momentary concern was instantly banished. He nodded curtly.

  'As it's still early, we can get breakfast. I have a few things to do so I've ordered something in my room, I've also ordered for you. As there's no choice, I didn't consult you. A Continental breakfast doesn't leave much room for manoeuvre.'

  'Thank you. I didn't eat before I left home.'

  'I assumed as much.' He stopped by her door and handed her the small case. 'We have a meeting at lunchtime and another this afternoon. This evening is a social necessity. For now, though, you're free, although I would prefer it if you did not leave the hotel. I may have to get in touch with you.'

  'I'll unpack and rest,' Helen promised, letting herself into her room and almost at once sinking to the bed.

  She could hardly believe that the door was locked, that she had the key. So greatly had this trip brought back the past that she almost expected to see Miles striding in, see the cruelty in his eyes, hear him blaming her for his current failure. She shuddered and began to unpack. She wasn't sure if this was therapeutic or a torture, but she felt pretty secure that nothing would go wrong. Ross Maclean was across the wide corridor, his room almost opposite.

  She glanced at herself in the mirror, amazement on her face. What was she thinking? Ross Maclean didn't make her feel secure, far from it. Since his arrival she had been more on edge than she had felt for all of two years. He represented about as much security
as a tiger.

  Helen changed into a soft, coffee-coloured dress for lunch. She had matching shoes and a thick chocolate-coloured belt enclosing her small waist. After a certain amount of consideration, she left her hair in the braid, hanging beyond her shoulders. With high heels it somehow added to her height and gave her confidence. She made up carefully, using her favourite perfume, something she never used at work where perfume seemed out of place.

  She hadn't realised there would be two meetings during the day and she felt a trifle gleeful that at the last minute she had added another outfit to her case. She was making a point on the subject of clothes and she knew it. Maybe he would feel embarrassed at offering to buy her some? She doubted it though. He would probably be speculating about where she had acquired them. His opinion of her was all too clear.

  He rang through and then called for her, his gaze going over her slowly as she opened the door. His eyes seemed to be smokily grey, softer than they had looked before, and for a minute she had a feeling of unaccustomed warmth, as if something gentle had touched her. Nothing gentle ever touched her, unless it was Tansy patting her face in a sleepy manner. The feeling held her transfixed, although he never smiled.

  'A very disturbing housekeeper,' he murmured in a rather self-derisory tone. 'I apologise.'

  Helen's face flushed softly and his lips tilted in the semblance of a smile then.

  'Better and better. We'll go down before you undergo another startling change. Got your notebook?'

  'Yes.'

  'Of course,' he murmured wryly. 'What prompted me to ask, I wonder? I imagine that little bag is filled to the brim with office paraphernalia.'

  'One notebook, one pencil,' Helen managed quietly.

  There was something about him that had put her off her stride, some subtle change in his manner, a warmth that made her feel vulnerable. She was suddenly intensely aware of him, an awareness she had never before felt with any man. It brought a haunting purple shadow to her eyes, a tingling to her skin as he took her arm.

  She understood. his change of attitude when she saw the guests they were entertaining to lunch-all men. Her heart sank and for a moment she stopped quite still. Remembrance came, nauseatingly sharp, the past whirling back again.

  She was supposed to charm them. That was why he needed her. Why had she never thought of it? That was why he had been so insistent about clothes. History did repeat itself after all. His gentleness had been deliberate, to get her started. He was more subtle than Miles, naturally, he was more intelligent, and he couldn't beat her afterwards. She felt quite sick.

  'For heaven sake, what's wrong with you?' he muttered as she stood transfixed. 'How many times do I have to ask before you tell me? If you're ill then say so now and I'll send you back to your room. I could manage without you at a pinch.'

  'I'm not ill,' Helen said quietly, standing as straight as a rod. 'You don't have to manage without me, Mr Maclean. I'm quite used to this sort of thing.'

  'A wide selection of men? Please don't enlighten me,' he snapped, his previous warmth gone instantly. 'Just do what you came to do; after all, it's part of your job.'

  'Yes. I can see that now,' Helen murmured, turning her face away when he glanced down at her angrily. He didn't get the chance to make any other remark because his guests were waiting, at least two of them looking intently at Helen.

  There were four men, three of them obviously from the Middle East, in spite of their lack of flowing robes. The fourth man was French, middle-aged but still handsome, and they all stood as Ross Maclean took her arm and led her to the bar. The introductions were swift and friendly and Helen hardly had the time to take in all the names before he was turning to her.

  'My secretary, gentlemen.'

  'Does she have a name?' Claude Thiriet looked at her with sleepy, sensuous eyes and Ross Maclean answered. 'Helen,' he said quietly.

  Not that it should have surprised her. She wasn't likely to get much charming done if they had to call her Miss Andrews. They were to call her Helen and flirt with her. She was to respond and lull them into an attitude that would make it easy to get a contract signed. She was bitterly disappointed in him. He hadn't looked as if he needed this sort of thing, though perhaps all businessmen were the same. She was hardly experienced enough to know. Embarrassment and misery just engulfed her.

  Settled to lunch, Helen found herself close to Ross Maclean, and after the soup talk turned to business. She had taken care to keep her eyes as much on her food as possible because it didn't take much intuition to fathom the looks she was getting from the Frenchman and from one of the other guests. It was a relief to hear figures being bandied about, products being discussed.

  'Do you want me to take notes, Mr Maclean?' she asked hopefully, wishing she had big spectacles of a forbidding variety. So far she had given small wan smiles in the direction that was obviously expected, but she was finding it too hard to take and didn't know how she would face anything more that was needed.

  'Whenever you think it necessary, Helen. I leave it to you. We'll sort things out later.' He sounded very impatient and no doubt she had said the wrong thing but she took out her notebook and pencil all the same and put them handy on the table.

  'Is this beautiful creature usually so formal or is this for our benefit?' Claude Thiriet asked. ''Mr Maclean" sounds a little too cold to be true.'

  He glanced at them suggestively and Ross Maclean's voice had an icy edge.

  'Helen is the ... perfect secretary. I can't imagine managing without her.'

  Helen tensed. She could tell from the hard voice that Ross Maclean was angry, that he had expected more from her than formality.

  'Even though you are "Mr Maclean"? My secretary calls me cheri.'

  'And what does your wife call you?' The icy edge was more pronounced but Claude simply shrugged.

  'She calls me cheri also. I have a way with women.' Helen smiled brilliantly even though her face threatened to stiffen and set like that, and Claude Thiriet's eyes looked more seductive than ever. She dared not glance anywhere else and she had little time after that. Ross Maclean conducted business at such a fast and furious rate that she hardly had time to eat.

  After lunch the meeting broke up, arrangements being made to meet at four-thirty, and Helen trailed miserably after her hard-faced boss as he motioned her in the direction of the lift.

  'Now we'll sort out all that before this afternoon swamps us.' He stopped outside his room, his glance disparaging as Helen hesitated nervously.

  'You're perfectly safe, Miss Andrews,' he snapped. 'I have a suite, bedroom, bathroom and sitting-room. A girl with your social ability should have nothing to fear. You won't get any further than the sitting-room. We revert to formality now. I know you prefer it with me.'

  She didn't reply and he motioned her inside his small but impressive suite, leaving her no time for nerves. She was here to work and work she did! He simply drove on like a dynamo, snapping out questions, dictating notes and keeping her so busy that she never raised her head.

  'Right, that's about it,' he rasped later, glancing at his watch. 'Come downstairs at four and I'll be in the bar. I'll show you where we go from there.'

  'Yes, Mr Maclean.' She felt greatly subdued, not entirely sure of her role, and he stopped her as she reached the door.

  'Perhaps you could bring yourself to call me Ross?' he enquired caustically. 'After all, I believe it was Jim for your former boss. With Thiriet insisting on being called Claude I hardly like to remain so formal. I feel like a rather formidable stepfather of the Victorian era.'

  'You...you want me to call you ... ?'

  'Ross. Go on, say it. It won't bite.'

  'Ross, then,' Helen murmured, her face flooding with colour.

  'There!' he drawled sardonically. 'It's quite easy really. Cheri won't be necessary.'

  'Or even remotely possible!' Helen snapped. She banged the door as she left, but she was in her own room with the door locked before he could do anything about that.<
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  Helen didn't know quite what to do about the afternoon session. She seemed to have done everything wrong at lunchtime. One thing was sure, whatever she did he would be annoyed. She couldn't really understand why. It seemed to her fairly obvious that she had two functions here. So what was he so cross about? Maybe she should have acted more flirtatiously right from the first? The trouble was, she couldn't. She had never been able to do that sort of thing. Miles had told her she was a frigid little bitch, unable to respond to any man, not even capable of pretending it. No doubt Ross Maclean thought similar things.

  She was surprised to find him reasonably affable when she went down again at four. After much thought she had decided to change in view of the fact that she had brought the clothes with her. She wore a wrap-over dress in red jersey. Maybe he would think she was overdoing it a bit, or maybe he would think she was being insolent after his remarks about clothes. She couldn't win anyway, so what was the point of trying?