by Anne Mather
Nicola lit another cigarette, and said, as flippantly as she could: ‘If you must know, it was Jason Wilde.’
‘Jason?’ Louise raised her eyebrows. ‘But I thought he told me he was going back to Abrahm.’
‘He was. That is—he’s been back, and returned to England again.’
‘Why? Because you’d left?’
‘Sort of. It’s a complicated business.’ Nicola noticed the way Louise’s face had drawn in at this information, as though she was jealous. But she couldn’t be jealous, thought Nicola, incredulously. And yet it seemed that she was.
‘Anyway,’ Nicola went on, ‘it means I can go back to work for Sir Harold Mannering.’
Louise grimaced. ‘So he didn’t tell Sir Harold how you had insinuated yourself out there,’ she said.
Nicola didn’t like the word ‘insinuated’, but she let it go. ‘More or less,’ she agreed now. ‘At any rate, it’s sorted itself out.’
‘Good. I’m pleased.’ Louise shrugged. ‘As it happens, George got to know this afternoon that the house will be ready in a week’s time. So we’ll be leaving. I wanted to know you were settled before we left.’
Nicola let this go too. She had the feeling Louise didn’t much care about anybody but herself. But she enthused about the house, and agreed to go visiting as soon as they were straight. It was strange, listening to Louise talk about George so casually. A month ago his name was never mentioned.
Nicola sighed. Still, it was all over as she had said. Louise would settle down again, and the next time she got herself into trouble she could do her own extricating.
It wasn’t until later that the whole weight of her own problems descended on Nicola, and she wondered how she would live once they were gone.
CHAPTER TEN
NICOLA folded the last sheet of carbon into the sheaf of papers and inserted them into the typewriter. Then she opened the folder containing the information Sir Harold Mannering wanted transcribing and began to copy type. But her mind wasn’t on her work. Since returning to the offices of Inter-Anglia Oil she had found it increasingly difficult to concentrate and now that Sir Harold had returned from his trip to South America she knew her task would be even more difficult.
It was a month since her return from Abrahm, and she had resumed her position as secretary to Sir Harold Mannering three weeks ago. But, fortunately for her peace of mind, Sir Harold was in the process of planning a trip to Brazil and he had left only a couple of days after her return to work. Before he left he had not troubled her with any personal questions, and she had been grateful, but now he had returned and there was no doubt that sooner or later he would want to know the whole story. It didn’t matter that Jason hadn’t revealed their real relationship, she would still have to explain what had occurred and why.
She sighed, and opening a packet of cigarettes, placed one between her lips. After it was lit, she exhaled gratefully, and lay back in her chair. Everything should have been as normal by now. Louise and George had left for Coventry and were, as far as Nicola knew, settled there. Her life should have assumed its pattern, and she wished with a kind of desperation that she had never thought of going out to Abrahm. Had she accepted Michael’s defection calmly, she would never have met Jason Wilde, never have succumbed to his arrogant personality, and would certainly never have involved herself in this mess of intrigue.
She started guiltily as the buzzer on her desk made its insistent noise. Pressing down the button, she said: ‘Yes, Sir Harold?’
Sir Harold Mannering spoke charmingly to her: ‘Nicola, come in here a moment, my dear.’
Nicola replied in the affirmative, and releasing the button got to her feet. The summons that she had been waiting for had come. She had somehow known it was imminent. Sir Harold had been back a few days and all the urgent work awaiting him on his return had been attended to.
Knocking on the door of the inner office which opened from her own, she entered a room furnished in the manner of all offices, except that as these offices were newly constructed everything was glass and Swedish wood, and very modem. Sir Harold rose from behind his desk at her entrance, and indicated that Nicola should sit in the chair opposite him. Nicola managed a smile, and subsided into the chair, and holding her notebook rather obviously in her hand she pretended to be waiting for dictation. Sir Harold noticed this.
‘I’m sure you know it’s time we had a talk,’ he said quietly. ‘We haven’t talked since your return, what with one thing and another. I didn’t particularly want to go to South America, but I had no choice, and since I’ve been back there hasn’t been a moment until now.’
Nicola placed her notebook resignedly on the desk in front of her. ‘Yes, Sir Harold,’ she said, rather stiffly.
Sir Harold frowned. ‘Now, come along, Nicola, don’t be frigid with me. You know very well that I expected something of this trip to Abrahm.’
Nicola sighed. ‘I know, I know. And I’m sorry. But—well, Jason just doesn’t want to know.’
‘I can’t believe that.’ Sir Harold seated himself opposite her and lit a cigar. Drawing on it deeply he went on: ‘When Jason came home here there was little question that he was involved with you, and seriously so. But he told me some story about you being jealous about another woman—somebody called Ellison, or something like that. At any rate, it was you and not he who had caused the rift, just as everything was developing nicely.’
Nicola was thankful to Jason for his tactful handling of that situation, but Sir Harold’s words had involved her in a situation for which she was simply not prepared.
‘I’m afraid Jason and I are just not compatible, after all,’ she replied, flushing. ‘All I seemed to do out there was cause him a lot of unnecessary bother.’
Sir Harold made an angry exclamation. ‘Nicola, this doesn’t sound like you at all. So subdued and spiritless! What’s happened to you, girl? Has the hot sun of Abrahm dried up all the hot blood in your veins?’
Nicola managed a smile. ‘Oh, really, Sir Harold, I’d rather not discuss it.’
Sir Harold’s fist thundered down on the table and she looked up in surprise. ‘Honestly, Nicola, you infuriate me! A couple of months ago you couldn’t wait to get out to Abrahm, you said you were dying to see Jason again. You were supposedly madly in love with him, and now—Good God! You’re acting as though it was some milk-and-water affair that never got off the ground. I don’t believe it! I just don’t believe it! I know Jason—and I know you, and if he’s been messing around with some other woman, then damn me! it must have been when you were quarrelling with him.’ He got impatiently to his feet. ‘If you’d seen him in here the day he couldn’t lay hands on you, you’d have realized how stupid a word like “incompatibility” is! Have you any idea of the risks he ran trying to locate your whereabouts?’
Nicola stared at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you? Didn’t he tell you he went to see Sheikh Mohammed? He said he did.’
‘Oh, yes, he told me that.’
‘But not in detail, I’ll be bound. He made me promise not to broach this trouble about you leaving Abrahm like that, without contacting anyone, but dammit all, Nicola, I’ve got to mention it. Jason went through Sheikh Mohammed like a dose of salts!’
Nicola pressed a hand to her throat. ‘How—how do you mean? I—I thought Sheikh Mohammed explained how he had taken me along the coast to Tripoli and had me flown home from there. How else did Jason know I was back in England?’
Sir Harold leant on the table, facing her. ‘As I understand it, your precious Sheikh wouldn’t say a word, not until Jason practically took him apart with his bare hands. Do you have any conception of the dangers to the company he ran by attacking Sheikh Mohammed like that? We could have been thrown out of the country—our equipment forfeited! And all because of you! As it was, all Jason got out of him was that you were to be found in England and if Jason hadn’t found you I think Sheikh Mohammed would have suffered a fate worse than death!’
‘Oh, heavens! I didn’t know that.’ Nicola shook her head. ‘How terrible! So—so what has happened? I mean—has the company been forced out of Abrahm—or has Jason apologized—or what?’
‘Jason? Apologize to Mohammed? You must be joking! No, as it happens things have been pretty quiet since then, ominously so. Any moment I’m expecting a telephone call to say that there’s been more trouble.’
Even as he spoke the telephone rang, and Nicola lifted the receiver automatically, almost afraid of what she might hear. But it was merely one of the other directors wanting to speak to Sir Harold, and she handed him the receiver and rose to go.
‘Wait!’ Sir Harold put his hand over the mouthpiece so that their conversation would not be overheard. ‘I’m flying out to Abrahm at the end of the week. Do you want to come with me?’
Nicola hesitated, stared at him longingly, and then shook her head. ‘I—I don’t think so, thank you,’ she replied uncomfortably. ‘After all, it’s all over now. Me—Jason—everything. It’s no good trying to kindle flames where none exist.’
Sir Harold looked as though he was about to argue, but obviously the director on the other end of the line was beginning to object to the delay, and with an angry dismissal, he started to talk to his colleague.
For the rest of the day, Nicola lived in a misery of longing. If only she could have gone out to Abrahm with Sir Harold, how wonderful that would have been. But she could not go running after Jason like that. If he had cared anything about her, why didn’t he tell her so that day at the flat, instead of making ambiguous remarks which could not be taken seriously?
She sighed. Of course, she had given him no encouragement really, no reason for him to imagine she might conceivably be interested in him, particularly now as he had learned the real reasons for her trip to Abrahm. He might easily imagine that now that Louise had gone back to George, she would reunite with Michael again.
She sighed, and paced unhappily about the flat. She was home now, and still no happier about her feelings. If only he had given her a little encouragement, anything on which to base her hopes or fears. His comment about her having achieved her objective could mean anything. It could so easily mean that he was agreeable to her telling Louise something that was simply not true, just to save her face.
The night she spent was the longest she had ever known. She barely slept and was up at six, making herself coffee when the telephone rang. Frowning, she went to answer it, and found Sir Harold Mannering on the other end of the line.
‘Nicola, is that you? Have I got you out of bed?’
‘No, I was up.’ Nicola frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’ Even as she said the words, an awful premonition of disaster swept over her. ‘Is it Jason?’
Sir Harold was swift to reassure her. ‘No, nothing like that. But disturbing none the less. Nicola, there’s been a revolt in Abrahm. The Gitana office phoned in half an hour ago. The army have taken control of the country, and deposed the Sheikh!’
‘Oh, lord!’ Nicola sank down weakly on to a chair, visions of gun battles that she had seen on television newsreels flooding her brain. ‘How terrible! What about the—the—team?’
‘That’s what I’m phoning about. As far as I can gather it’s been a bloodless coup and no one is hurt. But naturally, the communications are all dislocated, and it will be some time before order is restored. I’m ringing you because obviously this will appear in the late editions of the papers and I didn’t want you to be alarmed on Jason’s behalf. As you are, aren’t you, Nicola? Deny it now, if you can!’
Nicola could not deny it. To imagine Jason injured or worse was anathema to her.
‘Are—are you still going out to Abrahm at the end of the week?’ she asked unevenly.
‘No, today, but don’t imagine you can change your mind and go now. I wouldn’t take you into such a situation! Hell, anything could happen.’
‘But—but I can’t stay here,’ murmured Nicola tremblingly. ‘Oh, Sir Harold, don’t make me!’
Sir Harold uttered a stifled curse. ‘For God’s sake, Nicola, don’t cry. Look. Get dressed and get over here and we’ll talk about it, right?’
Nicola agreed, and rang off; with shaking fingers she dressed and did her hair, and without bothering to wear any make-up she went out and grabbed a taxi. Sir Harold lived in an apartment in Belgravia, and it was here she directed the driver. Sir Harold was a widower, his wife had died some eight years previously, and Nicola knew that despite her denials at the time Jason was baiting her about her boss, she could have achieved almost anything with Sir Harold. It was only her supposed involvement with Jason that had forestalled his advances. Of course, he was much older than she was, already into his fifties, but he was a very impressive figure of a man and many a girl envied her her position as his secretary.
The taxi halted at the block of apartments and Nicola paid him hastily, and ran up the steps and into the building. A lift transported her to the penthouse, and soon she was ringing Sir Harold’s doorbell.
Sir Harold’s butler, Lewis, opened the door. He preferred the designation of butler, Sir Harold had told her, but actually he performed a great number of duties that did not come into that sphere.
‘Come in, Miss King,’ he said, smiling politely. ‘Sir Harold is expecting you.’
Sir Harold Mannering was in the huge lounge, pacing about restlessly smoking his usual cigar. He smiled warmly when he saw her and stopped his pacing to come to her side.
‘Don’t look so alarmed, Nicola,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be alarmed about.’
Nicola shook her head. ‘I’m sorry I look such a mess,’ she said, indicating her attire of pants and anorak, hastily donned. ‘I don’t know what Lewis will think of me!’
Sir Harold looked down at her as though he enjoyed doing so. ‘You look all right to me,’ he said gently. ‘Come and sit down. Lewis has prepared us some coffee, and there’s even breakfast if you want it.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not hungry,’ she exclaimed, but she allowed him to lead her to the couch and they sat down together.
‘So you want to come out to Abrahm?’
Nicola stared at him. ‘Can I?’
Sir Harold shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ then as Nicola would have protested, he went on: ‘Wait! I’m flying out this morning, via Palermo in Sicily. If you want to come with me, as far as Palermo, you can. At least that way I can fly back tonight and tell you what’s going on.’
‘You’re flying to Gitana? But will there be any transport?’
‘I’m using the company jet. We’ll come down in Palermo to refuel! Well?’
Nicola could have hugged him. ‘Oh—oh, of course. You knew I’d say yes. Oh, Sir Harold, I don’t know how to thank you.’
Sir Harold gave a rather wry smile. ‘You do know,’ he said softly. ‘Either marry this arrogant brute, or me!’
Nicola’s eyes widened. ‘Why, Sir Harold—’ she began.
‘I know—I know. I’m too old,’ he muttered, fingering a strand of her silky hair.
‘No, I wasn’t going to say that,’ smiled Nicola, putting her hand over his. ‘I’m grateful, that’s all.’
* * *
Nicola sat on the balcony of the suite Sir Harold Mannering had taken at the hotel just outside of Palermo. The view was magnificent, encompassing a pineclad hillside, interspersed with the brilliance of blossoms below which a shoreline melted into the blue Mediterranean. It was early evening, and a string of lights edged the coastline, while the sound of Sicilian music drifted upward from a club on the waterfront.
It was all so calm and peaceful that she ought to have been relaxed and contented, but instead she listened intently for the drone of aircraft coming in to land or the sound of a car’s engine accelerating up the steep road to the hotel.
Getting up, she walked into the room behind her and helped herself to a cigarette. Somehow she had imagined Sir Harold flying to Gitana, obtaining information, and flying straight back, but it was almost thir
ty-six hours since he had left, and there had been no word from him. Every time the telephone rang when she was in the lounge downstairs she expected the receptionist to call her, but no summons ever came, and her nerves were as taut as violin strings.
Deciding she might as well take a shower before dinner, she went into the bathroom, locking the door behind her and stripping off her clothes. The water here was icy and she moved under the spray vigorously, trying to instil well-being into her body. Then, wrapping herself in a bath-towel, she emerged into the lounge again. She was drying her hair with another towel when there was a sharp knock at the door.
Nicola sighed. What now? She walked resignedly across to open it, keeping herself hidden behind the panels. ‘Yes?’ she was saying expressionlessly, when her whole being suffused with heat. ‘Jason!’ she gasped disbelievingly.
Jason was standing outside looking tall and lean and attractive in a lightweight grey suit, the close-fitting trousers accentuating the muscular strength of his legs. He didn’t say anything at once but stood looking at her as she endeavoured, not very successfully, to hide her dishevelled appearance. Then, with deliberate ease, he pushed open the door and entered the room, so that she wrapped her arms around herself to secure the concealing towel.
‘Well?’ he said at last. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
Nicola didn’t know what to say. She felt hopelessly out of her depth. Jason was much too disturbing a man for her to be entertaining when a bath-towel was her only attire.
‘Er—will—will you wait while I put some clothes on? she whispered uncomfortably.
Jason’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘What if I say no? What if I say I like you as you are?’ he muttered, rather huskily.
Nicola felt as though her legs were turning to water. ‘Oh—please,’ she murmured unsteadily. ‘Just give me a minute.’
Jason lifted his shoulders. ‘All right.’