by Sandra Field
‘You don’t believe he did?’
‘No, I don’t!’ She didn’t want to believe it. She wouldn’t believe it.
‘Well, whether you believe it or not, Jason’s behaviour leaves a lot to be desired. He’s obviously caused you a lot of heartache and brought you down.’
‘Jason isn’t to blame,’ she said again. ‘My father’s sudden death had come as a shock, and I was feeling very low when we met.
‘That’s what made meeting him so special and wonderful—’ She stopped speaking abruptly.
Gray’s mouth tightened, but all he said was, ‘You must have missed your father a good deal.’
‘I loved him dearly, and he was the only person who had ever really cared about me,’ she said simply.
‘He couldn’t have been all that old; what did he die of?’
‘A series of heart attacks.’ Her voice shook a little. ‘He was only forty-nine. But things hadn’t been going well for some time. He’d had a great deal of stress. A lot of financial problems to cope with.
‘The company’s profits had been falling steadily over a number of years. Then when one big deal went disastrously wrong, Bowman Ferris lost a huge amount of money.
‘In order to survive, Dad was forced to mortgage Elmslee. From then on things went from bad to worse. He did his best to hide it, but I knew he was having a desperate struggle.’
‘So that’s why you refused an allowance?’
‘I didn’t want an allowance.’
‘Which I suppose, in the circumstances, was just as well,’ Gray commented, frowning.
Suspecting a hint of censure, she hurried to her father’s defence. ‘Elmslee has never been cheap to maintain, Lisa was at an expensive boarding-school, and Helen too used to a life of luxury to cut down on her spending—’
‘While you went out to work.’
‘I wanted to,’ she insisted. ‘If we’d still been well off, I would have done the same…’
Gray said nothing, but she could sense his anger.
‘None of it was my father’s fault. He did his very best. Though Bowman Ferris was on the verge of bankruptcy when Dad died and Finance International took over, he’d made a deal to ensure there was enough money to continue to pay the mortgage on Elmslee, and also to provide Helen with a modest personal allowance.’
‘A bit hand-to-mouth when someone’s used to spending freely,’ Gray commented. ‘Which is no doubt why she decided to sell the manor.’
‘Dad did his utmost to protect his family and Elmslee,’ Rebecca said again.
‘But while Helen would presumably take care of Lisa, he’d made no provision for you.’
‘You knew how things were?’
‘Yes, I knew.’
Being one of Finance International’s top executives, of course he would know.
Her voice hoarse, she said, ‘And that was why you suspected me of trying to marry Jason for his money!’
He made no attempt to refute the charge. ‘I must admit that I did at first, but it—’
‘I hate you!’ she burst out.
Taking her hand, which was clenched into a tight fist, he said with infuriating calmness, ‘There’s no reason to get upset.’
‘I think there’s every reason.’
She tried to pull her hand free, but, refusing to release it, he began to straighten her fingers one at a time, kissing each one as he did so. ‘If you let me finish what I was saying…’
Knowing it was childish, but unable to prevent herself, she turned her head away.
‘Are you listening?’ he enquired silkily.
When she didn’t answer he put the tip of her index finger in his mouth and sucked.
Shivers running up and down her spine, she croaked, ‘I’m listening.’
‘I was about to say that it didn’t take me long to realise I was mistaken.’ Then, gently, ‘If you look at me, I might even apologise.’
Turning to look at him, she met his gaze and held it, even though she could feel her colour rising. ‘Go ahead,’ she invited, ‘apologise.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t look a bit sorry.’
He laughed. ‘Touché.’
Then, his eyes fixed on her mouth in a way that made butterflies dance in her stomach, he asked, ‘Now what would you like to do?’
‘Do?’ she echoed.
‘For entertainment, I mean. There’s a good selection of music, plenty of books, and a wide range of films.’
His eyes gleaming green as any cat’s between dense lashes, he added hopefully, ‘Or perhaps you’d like to join the—’
‘No, I wouldn’t!’ she broke in sharply, remembering the luxurious bedroom, with its double bed and the coverlet turned down ready.
Face straight, eyes dancing with suppressed laughter, he asked, ‘Sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
He sighed. ‘Oh, well, if you don’t fancy the idea…But I thought you might find it interesting to join Captain Connelly in the cockpit for a while. Enjoy a bird’s-eye view of flying.’
‘Oh…’
Stroking a fingertip down her hot cheek, he asked, ‘Or did you think I meant something else?’
‘No, of course not,’ she denied hurriedly.
He clicked his tongue in reproof. ‘How can you lie like that? You thought I meant the Mile-High Club.’
‘That’s what you intended me to think,’ she burst out indignantly. ‘And don’t bother to deny it!’
‘I promise I won’t even try.’
‘I wish you’d promise to stop teasing me!’
‘I’m afraid I can’t. I find it almost irresistible. You rise to the bait so nicely…
‘By the way, if you want to change your mind…’
‘About what?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Going into the cockpit…’
Knowing it might be the only chance she would ever get, she said, ‘I would like to take a look.’
Captain John Connelly, a nice-looking, middle-aged man with iron-grey hair and bushy eyebrows, greeted their entrance with equanimity.
‘Good to see you, Mr Gallagher.’
‘Nice to see you, John.’
Leaning negligently against the cockpit door, he made the introduction. ‘This is Miss Ferris, who has been working at our London branch.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Ferris.’ Indicating the copilot’s seat, he added, ‘Take a pew.’
‘Thank you.’ Feeling a little strange, she eased herself into the seat, and looked through the cockpit window. All she could see ahead was clear, uninterrupted blue, while beneath them a few white cotton-wool clouds floated serenely.
‘How’s it going?’ Gray asked.
Captain Connelly made an O with his thumb and index finger. ‘Flying conditions are excellent. We should be in Boston well on time. Would you like to take over for a while?’
So Gray was a pilot too, Rebecca thought. Then wondered why she was surprised. Already she felt sure that he was the kind of man who could do or be anything he chose.
‘No, thanks, I’ve some work to catch up on,’ he answered easily. ‘But first I thought Miss Ferris might like some idea of how you fly a jet.’
‘To be absolutely honest, this thing virtually flies itself…’
While Rebecca listened with unfeigned interest, Captain Connelly explained how the aircraft’s controls worked and what the various instruments and gauges were for.
‘Piloting a plane must be stimulating,’ she remarked at length.
‘Admittedly it’s never dull, but like any other job it becomes routine after a time.’
When they had chatted for a while, in spite of finding it all fascinating, Rebecca was forced to smother a yawn.
Gray, who seemed to miss nothing, asked, ‘About ready to make a move?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks, John,’ he addressed the pilot. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’
Rising to her feet, Rebecca added her thanks to Gray’s before followi
ng him from the cockpit.
‘You look tired,’ he remarked as they made their way aft.
‘I am tired,’ she admitted, feeling as though she could sleep for a week.
‘Well, as you know there’s a perfectly good bed, and it will be several hours yet before we land at Boston. In fact having a nap might not be a bad idea. It’ll certainly help with the time difference.’
‘Then I will, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. When I’ve caught up on some work, I might even…’ He paused.
When, remembering his remark about her rising to the bait, she studiously ignored his attempt to tease her, he went on, ‘Take a short nap myself. But don’t worry, the couch is quite comfortable.’
He gave her a come-hither look. ‘Unless you should change your mind about joining a fairly exclusive club. If you do, just let me know.’
Smiling, she answered serenely, ‘Thanks, but I won’t change my mind.’
‘You’re learning.’ He sounded regretful.
In the bedroom, finding the blinds were already pulled down over the windows to keep out the light, Rebecca stripped off to her undies, and, stretching out on the bed, pulled up the lightweight cover.
She barely had time to register that the bed and the pillows were the essence of comfort, before she was fast asleep.
Something touching her cheek made her stir. She put up a hand to brush it away, and, encountering another hand, opened her eyes.
Gray was standing by the bed, smiling down at her.
‘Feeling better?’
Her sleep had been sweet and dreamless, and for the first time in weeks she felt completely refreshed.
‘Much better, thank you.’ Peering at her watch, she exclaimed, ‘No wonder! I’ve slept for hours.’
‘You must have needed to. Now, how about a nice cup of tea?’
On the bedside table was a tray set with fine china tea things and a plate of biscuits.
‘Sounds wonderful.’ Pushing herself into a sitting position, she dragged the coverlet up with her and trapped it under her arms.
Appearing amused by her modesty, he reached for the teapot. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please.’
Noticing there were two cups and saucers, she asked, ‘Are you joining me?’
‘Are you inviting me to?’
‘What if I say no?’
‘Then I’ll take mine in the lounge,’ he answered cheerfully, and, filling two cups, handed her one.
‘Thank you.’
He waited.
She held her breath while she counted to ten.
Picking up his own cup, he was about to turn away, when she asked demurely, ‘Please won’t you join me?’
His green eyes gleaming, he sat down on the edge of the bed and turned to face her.
Suddenly he was much too close for comfort. She could feel his muscular thigh pressing against her leg through the thin coverlet.
Heat rose in her body, and her heart began to race in the most disconcerting manner.
She was trying to ease her leg away a fraction without making it obvious, when he queried silkily, ‘I’m not crowding you, I trust?’
Realising too late that she couldn’t hope to win, and wishing she hadn’t deliberately set out to tease him, she fought back, ‘No, not at all.’
His ironic little salute acknowledged a worthy opponent, before he observed, ‘We’ll be landing at Logan Airport in about twenty minutes, so I’m afraid there’s no time to continue our game.’
With a feeling of relief, she said, ‘Then we’ll call it a draw, shall we?’
‘Not at all,’ he disagreed, and, taking her hand, kissed the palm.
Her stomach plunged as though she’d stepped off a very high building.
‘I’ve found it most entertaining,’ he added, ‘and I look forward to resuming later.’
She could only hope that either he didn’t mean it, or when ‘later’ came he would have forgotten all about it.
Logan International Airport was only three miles from the centre of Boston, and, coming in to land in fine, sunny weather, they had an excellent view of the city built on the peninsula formed by the Charles river and Fort Point Channel.
‘It looks fantastic,’ Rebecca exclaimed.
‘You’ve never been to Boston before?’
She shook her head.
‘Do you know much about it?’ he queried.
‘Only what every schoolgirl remembers, that the seaport was founded by the Puritans in 1630 and outpaced its rivals to become the largest British settlement. Apart from that one bit of history, very little. I suppose you know it well?’
‘Fairly well.’
‘And you like it?’
‘Yes, it’s a fascinating mixture of colonial and cosmopolitan, history and high-tech.
‘On one hand, up-to-the-minute expressways carry endless streams of traffic, while on the other, the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Beacon Hill have a picturesque, turn-of-the-last-century look and feel.’
‘It sounds charming. I’d love to see it.’
‘When we’ve checked into our hotel and got rid of the luggage, I’ll be happy to show you around.’
Peering from the plane window, she asked, ‘Whereabouts are we staying?’
‘At the Faneuil, which is in downtown Boston,’ Gray told her. Adding humorously, ‘The streets there are a driver’s nightmare. Rather than following the usual grid system, they appear to have been laid out by the colonial cattle…’
When their taxi drew up outside the Faneuil—a period hotel with a handsome façade—a short, dapper man with dark hair and glasses appeared.
‘Mr Gallagher, how nice to have you back.’
‘Thanks, Benson. Nice to be back.’
‘If you’ll come this way, sir, madam.’
A single snap of his fingers summoned a bellboy, smartly uniformed in red and gold, who collected their luggage and followed the little party at a respectful distance.
They took the lift up to the second floor, where, having crossed an inner lobby, the manager opened one of the doors with a flourish.
‘As you requested, you have a suite of rooms overlooking the garden—a central sitting-room with a bedroom and bathroom either side…’
Correctly interpreting Rebecca’s quick glance, Gray whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t worry, you can always keep yours locked at night.’
When he’d shown them round, murmuring, ‘I hope your stay, short as it is, will be a pleasant one,’ Benson bowed himself out.
After the bellboy had deposited their luggage, pocketed a handsome tip and departed, Gray turned to Rebecca and suggested, ‘If you want to freshen up, I’ll give you a knock in about ten minutes, shall I?’
She nodded. ‘Please.’
He disappeared into his own bedroom, closing the communicating door quietly behind him.
Rebecca followed suit, and, glancing around at the understated but evident luxury, wondered uneasily how much all this was costing and who would be picking up the bill.
Finance International presumably. She only hoped Philip Lorne never got to hear about it.
She had just washed her face and hands and unpacked what she thought she might need for the night, when the knock came.
‘How are you doing?’ Gray’s voice enquired.
She opened the door. ‘All ready.’
‘In that case, let’s go.’ He sounded so full of joie de vivre that she felt her spirits rise.
He had changed his short coat for a well-cut leather jacket and looked both elegant and sexy.
‘There’s a bistro just round the corner, so I suggest we have a bite to eat first.’
Suddenly finding she was hungry, she agreed, ‘That sounds great.’
‘Like French food?’
‘Love it. Apart from snails and oysters, that is.’
‘I can agree as far as snails go, and I admit to preferring my oysters smoked.’
La Renaissance looked f
airly ordinary, with narrow, high-backed booths and an unpretentious decor. But Rebecca soon found that the food, though simple, was out of this world.
As, sitting side by side, they ate bowls of thick garbure blanche, he asked, ‘So what would you like to see, apart from Beacon Hill?’
‘Will we have time for anything else? I thought you had a business appointment?’
‘It’s a business dinner, to be precise, scheduled for eight o’clock at the Faneuil.’ He stopped speaking as the waiter came to take away their bowls, and serve iced glasses of coupe martuxa.
The raspberry sundaes were delicious, and Rebecca had almost finished hers, when she noticed that Gray’s eyes were fixed on her mouth in a way that made her toes curl.
His intention was clear, but before she could do anything to deflect it, he leaned towards her and licked the corner of her mouth.
Though it was over in a split-second, the erotic little gesture transfixed her. It was as openly sexy as if he’d reached across and unbuttoned her blouse.
As she sat quite still, her spoon poised in mid-air, he explained, ‘A tiny flake of raspberry.’
Then, as though nothing untoward had happened, he ordered coffee and calmly turned the conversation back to sightseeing.
‘When we’ve had a look at Beacon Hill, if you’re up to walking four kilometres, we could follow the Freedom Trail.’
Still struggling to regain her equilibrium, she asked huskily, ‘The Freedom Trail?’
‘It’s marked by a red line that runs along the city’s sidewalks and links sixteen important sites in the history of Boston and America. One of the best known is Paul Revere’s house, the oldest in the city. There’s also a statue—the Ride of Paul Revere.’
‘Of course! We were taught about his famous midnight ride to warn his fellow revolutionaries of the approach of British troops from Boston.’
He smiled at her, a slow smile that started in his eyes before it reached his lips. ‘There you are, that’s another piece of history you remember.’
Gray, she soon discovered, was an interesting and stimulating companion, and the afternoon proved to be most pleasurable. She loved the old-world charm and atmosphere of Beacon Hill, and the narrow, cobblestoned streets, gas-lit at night, that ran down to the river.