Rachel Lindsay - Love and Lucy Granger

by Rachel Lindsay

  Rachel Lindsay - Love and Lucy Granger

  Lucy Granger and Paul Harlow had no doubt about their love for one another. But he was a millionaire business tycoon and she was a very ordinary working girl.

  Would their love really be strong enough to stand up to all the differences between them — especially if things began to go wrong?

  CHAPTER I

  The taxi sped along the Embankment, its wheels hissing on sodden asphalt, its lights a watery blur in the driving gusts of rain. On the left lay the river, bordered with black, silent wharves, on the right deserted office blocks, lined with rows of skeletal trees. The driver swerved into a side street overhung with towering buildings and drew to a stop before a massive pair of bronze doors.

  'This seems to be the place, miss,' he called behind him.

  A girl in a long-skirted dress stepped on to the pavement, narrowly avoiding the swirling waters in the gutter. She clutched her stole closely around her shoulders and looked up with a shiver at the grim facade. No glimmer of light broke the immense bulk and the only sound to be heard was the moaning of the wind and the rain beating on the flags.

  'Are you sure this is the right address?' the driver asked.

  'Positive.' Lucy Granger tossed back a strand of pale hair that clung damply to her forehead. 'There's a big party going on somewhere inside, though you wouldn't think so by the look of it.'

  Another gust of wind moaned down the street and she quickly handed him his money, pushed open the bronze doors and stepped into an imposing marble foyer. To her surprise it was deserted and she stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. A row of lift doors faced her and she walked over to them, her uncertainty growing as she saw that none of them was working.

  Where on earth could the staff canteen be? She returned to the centre of the foyer and not for the first time that evening wished she had never agreed to come to the Christmas dance.

  It was only three months since she had started work as a secretary in the Advertising Department of Industrial Holdings, one of the largest groups of companies in the country. The job, though routine and dull, was well paid and, provided she could bear the tedium, might lead to something better. It would never be as mentally rewarding as the work she had done for her father, but at least it enabled her to earn a living. One day perhaps she might accept the offer she had received from another professor—a friend of her father's—but for the present she felt it better to do work that was so different from the technical research she had done that it would not bring back memories she was trying to forget. Her life lay ahead; bemoaning the past would in no way help the future.

  A sound caused her to turn and she saw a man in evening dress come through the main doors. Thank heavens someone else had arrived. As she watched him he turned sharp left down a corridor and, afraid he would disappear, she picked up her skirts and ran after him. The Advertising Department was not housed in this building, and when she had been told the dance was being held here, she had assumed there would be no difficulty in finding her way to it. How stupid she was not to have realized that the headquarters of Industrial Holdings would compare favourably in size to Buckingham Palace!

  The man ahead of her was now climbing some steps and she quickened her pace, reaching the first floor in time to see him disappear into a room at the fend of the corridor. Slowly she followed him, suddenly realizing that this could not be the way to the staff canteen. As she neared the door she recognized the deep buzz of male conversation and peering inside, saw some dozen men grouped round a board-room table, whisky glasses in hand. They were strangers to her and she guessed them to be senior executives of the company.

  The person she had been following walked over to greet a man at the head of the table who was in the act of lighting a cigar, and Lucy bit back an exclamation as she recognized the tall, spare figure of Paul Harlow, the Chairman and Managing Director. It was the first time she had seen him other than in newspaper pictures and she stared at him curiously, aware of a magnetism that made him stand out from everyone else.

  The glare of spotlights—modern lighting at its harshest —beat down on his head, highlighting pale brown hair and pale skin. Everything about the man was pale: the skin, the curiously light grey eyes and the long thin hands that were carefully cradling a match to the butt of his cigar. Yet though he was so ascetic to look at, she knew he was one of the most important men in the City, a financial genius with an almost inhuman drive and ambition.

  As though aware that someone was watching him, he lifted his head, and Lucy stepped back quickly. She knew she had come to the wrong place, yet she remained motionless, curious to see more of a man who until now had merely been an unknown figurehead.

  'What's going on here, Paul—a private orgy?' The man she had followed was speaking. 'I thought the party was upstairs?'

  'So it is. But I felt we could do with a couple of whiskies before going up to face the masses.' Paul Harlow's voice was as cool and precise as his appearance, the accent Oxford, the tone faintly drawling.

  'You sound as if you're not looking forward to it.'

  'I'm not.' Harlow brushed a speck of ash from his shirt-front with a fastidious movement. 'I'd sooner face half a dozen board meetings than have to dance with giggling typists.'

  'You'd better not let them hear you say that!' a burly, white-haired man intervened. 'They love the chance of seeing all the top brass at close hand.'

  'Maybe they do, but I don't find it flattering to be the Sir Galahad of the typing pool! Just between ourselves I find this dance the biggest bore of the year.'

  Her cheeks flaming, Lucy swung round and ran down the corridor, intent only on escape. How dared Paul Harlow talk about his employees with such contempt I So he found the dance a bore, did he? Probably considered it a waste of his valuable time to talk to people who had to slog a week to earn what he probably spent on cigars in a day!

  She was so angry that she was in the foyer before she became aware of her surroundings, and she stopped to catch her breath.. Footsteps rang out behind her and she turned, half afraid that the fury of her thoughts .night have communicated themselves to Paul Harlow himself! But the man who appeared was an elderly commissionaire.

  ' Lost your way, miss?'

  ' I'm afraid so.'

  ' You came in at the wrong entrance. This is the way to the directors' offices. If you don't mind a bit of a walk I can take you through this building into the right one.'

  Lucy followed him through a labyrinth of corridors until she found herself in another, smaller foyer, facing a further row of lifts.

  ' Any of these will take you to the top,' he said. ' You won't get lost once you're there.'

  In a few seconds Lucy was whirled to the fifteenth floor, and stepping out of the lift was overwhelmed by the mass of people and the noise. Leaving her coat in the cloakroom, she made her way into the canteen which had been transformed for the evening into a passable imitation of a Venetian garden. Her eyes roamed over the dancers, but there were none she recognized and she was beginning to wonder whether she would ever see anyone she knew when an elderly man disengaged himself from the throng and came over to her. It was Mr Goodhew, an account executive in her department.

  ' Miss Granger?' he said uncertainly. ‘ It is Miss Granger, isn't it?'

  Lucy blushed and thought how gratified Meg would be with the success of her experiment—Meg, the plump and cheerful schoolteacher with whom she had shared her flat in Bloomsbury since her father's death. They had been discussing what Lucy should wear for the dance and Meg had looked dolefully at the modest wardrobe laid out for her inspection.

  ' Really, Lucy, your clothes are hopeless! If I had y
our looks and figure, I wouldn't hide them the way you do.'

  ' I'm not hiding them,' Lucy had protested. ' I just can't be bothered. I'd much rather buy a book than a dress.'

  ' Buying books won't help to put a wedding ring on your finger 1 Honestly, a new dress won't bankrupt you and neither will a visit to a decent hairdresser. I won't let you go on ruining that fabulous hair of yours!'

  Even when it was screwed back in an uncompromising bun Lucy's hair had the gleam of wild silk, but now that it was freed from confining pins it floated round her heart-shaped face in a silver-gilt cloud, giving her skin the glow of pink alabaster and adding, in some mysterious way, to the depth of her violet eyes. No wonder Mr Goodhew could not stop staring at her…

  ' What on earth have you done to yourself?' he asked.

  ' I'm not wearing my glasses,' she replied, ' and I've undone my hair. I normally wear it pinned back. It makes the colour less obvious.'

  Mr Goodhew, looking as though he wished he could shed some of his fifty .years, came a step nearer.

  ' It's the colour I'd like to feature in our new campaign for Farmer's Friend Margarine.'

  Lucy laughed, but her reply was forestalled by a sudden lessening of the conversation around them. Following the direction of everyone's head, she saw the tall, spare figure of Paul Harlow framed in the doorway, by his side a pretty, red-haired girl in a magnificent white dress. Fleetingly she wondered if it were Harlow's fiancee, but almost before the thought had time to form Mr Goodhew murmured: 'That's his sister Cynthia. He's devoted to her.'

  Lucy nodded, her eyes turning again to the Chairman. Behind him came the other men she had seen in the board-room. His' suite', she told herself drily, for there was something royal about the way he progressed through the room: a king surrounded by his courtiers being greeted by his humble subjects. Seeing him smile and stop occasionally to speak to someone he recognized, it was difficult to believe this was the same person who had earlier described the evening as a bore. Certainly there was no hint of boredom on his face now.

  Lucy looked again from the self-contained man to the dainty figure beside him. 'No one would think they were brother and sister.'

  ' Half-sister actually,' Mr Goodhew said. ' Same father but different mothers.'

  ' I'm surprised she isn't married yet,' a girl behind them remarked. 'With those looks and the Harlow money she could easily be a countess.'

  'Even a princess,' Lucy replied, 'as long as she' doesn't object to an Italian husband.'

  ' She mightn't,' Mr Goodhew said drily, ' but Mr Harlow would. I understand he's rather strict with her.'

  ' Probably wants to make sure she's married for love and not for money,' the other girl murmured. . ' Paul Harlow won't have that difficulty,' Lucy said. 'No one could ever marry him for love!'

  Mr Goodhew looked at her curiously. ' Most girls of your age find him extremely attractive. A millionaire many times over and still only thirty-five!'

  Lucy shrugged. ' I think there's something inhuman about a financial genius.'

  By this time Paul Harlow had reached the directors table, and as he sat down, dancing resumed. Lucy was commandeered by Mr Goodhew, but when the music changed a young man cut in and pulled her away. He was not given much chance to show her off, for they had only gone round the floor once when someone else cut in. Lucy enjoyed the triumphant feeling of being wanted and, eyes sparkling, silver-gilt head held high, she whirled from one pair of arms to another. Forgotten were the hurtful remarks she had overheard Paul Harlow utter. Tonight she was having her first taste of success and nothing could spoil it. Bless Meg for her advice. Tomorrow she would buy a complete new wardrobe!

  There was a sudden unexpected roll on the drum and the Master of Ceremonies announced a Paul Jones. Lucy was overcome by her usual shyness and made to leave the floor, but one of the girls from the office caught her arm and dragged her to join the inner circle of girls standing self-consciously together. The men looked less sheepish and Lucy caught a few admiring glances aimed in her direction. The music started and the two circles began to move. Lucy wondered who her partner would be and held her breath as a tubby little man drew alongside, expelling it again as he safely passed her by. Abruptly the music stopped and she found herself opposite a fair, broad-shouldered man.

  ' My name's Barry Davis,' he said as he swung her into a samba.

  ' Lucy Granger,' she responded. ' I work in Publicity.'

  She waited for him to supply his own department, but he shook his head. ' I don't work for Industrial Holdings—at least not normally, though I'm doing some work for them tonight.'

  Lucy laughed. ' Don't tell me Harlow's arranged for male hostesses!'

  ' He didn't, as a matter of fact, but it would have been a very good idea if he had! I can't bear to see pretty girls standing like wallflowers because there aren't enough men to go round.' He drew her a little closer. ' What I'm really here for is to take photographs.'

  At the mention of the word ' photograph ' she gasped. ' How awful of me! I should have recognized your name at once.'

  ' I don't see why. I'd much rather people recognized my work.'

  ' But I know it awfully well. You're a marvellous photographer, Mr Davis. Next to Carder-Bresson I think you're '

  The music changed again and she was forced to break off in mid-sentence.

  ' See you later!' he called, and moved back to rejoin the outer circle.

  Still thinking of the photographer, Lucy was not aware that the music had stopped again and looking casually to see who her next partner was, she almost collapsed as she recognized the thin figure of the Managing Director.

  Oh no, it couldn't be! But it was. He inclined his head towards her and she moved forward. His hand was cold in hers and he held her so stiffly that she remembered the loathing in his voice when he had mentioned the Annual Dance. She writhed at the thought of being an object of his bored condescension and wondered what he would say if she suddenly told him she knew exactly how he felt.

  ' I hope you're enjoying yourself,' he said suddenly, his voice even more drawling than she had remembered.

  ' As much as you are, Mr Harlow,' she said. ' You seem to take Saturnalia very sadly.'

  He stumbled and then looked at her quizzically, as though aware for the first time that he was holding a flesh-and-blood girl in his arms and not some wax figure.

  ' I hope you're not comparing our dance to a Roman orgy, Miss—er '

  ' Granger,' Lucy said, and felt her colour rise. ' On the contrary, Mr Harlow, this is a magnificent party and I assure you we're all terribly grateful.'

  ' You don't sound it.' His tone was dry, but his expression was still remote.

  ' Oh, but I am. I can just imagine what a bore you find it being the idol of the typists' pool and having to make conversation with the masses.'

  Again she felt him stumble, but he was too much in control of himself to show surprise.

  ' I enjoy our Annual Dance very much, Mi§s Granger. I'm sorry you should think otherwise.'

  The Lucy of old would have made no reply, but the new Lucy, delighted with her appearance, heady with success, said:

  ' I don't merely think so, Mr Harlow, I know so. You weren't particularly careful what you said in the boardroom. But then perhaps you don't bother dissembling when you're among your own'—she hesitated—' your own class!'

  This time her remark went home and a tinge of pink coloured his cheeks.

  ' I wasn't anticipating an eavesdropper,' he said slowly. ' I don't know what you do for Industrial Holdings, Miss Granger, but whatever it is your talent is wasted. You should be a gossip writer for one of the dailies!'

  Lucy turned scarlet, but before she could say anything the Paul Jones started again and she was pulled back into the circle of girls. How could she have behaved so badly? She was as ill-mannered as Harlow had been. She was so busy castigating herself that she danced the rest of the Paul Jones in a daze, and only when the music came to a flourishing stop did she retu
rn to the present and the knowledge that she could not stay here any longer.

  Intent on escape, she pushed her way to the edge of the floor and had reached the exit when Mr Goodhew loomed in front of her.

  ' There you are, Miss Granger. I've been telling my wife about you.'

  Lucy was forced to stop and. smile at the sallow-faced woman at his side.

  ' I hope you'll stay at our table for supper,' Mr Goodhew went on. ' That's the next little item on the agenda.'

  ' I was—I was going home,' Lucy stammered.

  'Home? My dear young lady, you can't do that, You're the success of the evening. My wife and I have been watching you. Now I insist you join us.'

  Lucy had no option but to accept, for even as he spoke there was a roll on the drums and white-capped waitresses with trays appeared as if by magic.

  ' We'd better help ourselves at once,' Mr Goodhew said, and led the way to the buffet.

  Everyone else had the same idea and in the crush Lucy was separated from them. Balancing a plate of food in one hand and a glass of Chablis in the other, she looked around to see where they were.

  A tipsy young man jostled against her and the wine trembled in her hand and would have fallen if someone had not reached out and taken it.

  ' Thank you,' she said and, looking up, gave a smile of pleasure as she saw Barry Davis.

  ' You're just the girl I've been looking for,' he exclaimed. ' Follow me.' He led the way to an alcove which was miraculously free except for some photographic equipment clustered against the wall. ' Sit here and don't move. I'll be back in a minute.'

  True to his word he soon reappeared with another plate of food, a glass and a full bottle of wine.

  ' Only the best is good enough for someone who com pares me to Cartier-Bresson,' he grinned. ' Got any more compliments handy?'

  ' Lots. But surely you don't need me to tell you any? You're at the top of the tree, Mr Davis.'

  ' Only a little tree. There are bigger ones on the horizon.' He poured himself some wine. ' How come you know about Cartier-Bresson?'