The Boss's Virgin

by Charlotte Lamb

  Before leaving she carefully turned off all the lights, checked she had her credit cards and chequebook, everything she might need. Fifteen minutes later she was in her car, driving away, being careful to take a route which would make sure she did not pass Randal’s car returning.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE weather had turned chill and misty by the time she reached the little estuary town of Maldon. The weather rolled in from the sea and was funnelled up the river. She parked in the car park behind the hotel and carried her case through the bar to check in. There were a few people drinking in the bar; they mostly seemed to know each other, which meant they were either local residents who drank here or they kept a yacht at Maldon, as many people did from London and the south of the country. As Pippa passed they all turned their heads to inspect her, some murmuring comment to companions. In the summer Maldon had many visitors, but at this time of year there were far fewer.

  While she was filling in the card handed to her by the small, trim receptionist, she was asked, ‘Will you be having dinner tonight, madam?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Pippa said, handing the woman the registration card.

  ‘What time?’

  Pippa glanced at her watch and was surprised by how quickly she had driven there, but then she knew the way through the winding marsh roads. She hadn’t had to consult a map or slow down to check sign-posts.

  ‘Eight-thirty?’

  ‘Certainly, madam. The dining room is on the left through the bar. Jim will take your bag upstairs for you.’

  A white-bearded old man popped up from an inner office and seized Pippa’s case, carried it up the wide, ancient, creaking staircase with Pippa following him, feeling guilty.

  He looked old enough to be her father. She hoped the case wasn’t too heavy for him.

  ‘This was an old pub, miss, till it was modernised and turned into a hotel,’ he told her. ‘Hundreds of years old. There was a pub here in the Middle Ages, I’m told. A lot of local people still treat it as their pub.’ He put her case down outside a door at the end of a short corridor and produced a key. ‘Here you are, miss. I hope you’ll be very comfortable in here.’

  She looked around curiously while the porter carried her bag inside. ‘TV, with remote control,’ he pointed out. ‘Hospitality tray, with tea and coffee, and if you want fresh milk contact Reception. The bathroom is on your right.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you.’ And tipped him.

  He saluted and was gone, leaving her alone. She was pleased with the room; it was spacious and a little old-fashioned, all chintz and oak furniture, which she found comforting. She unpacked, put her clothes away, found the hospitality tray, which bore a kettle, tea and coffee sachets and a cup, and made herself a cup of coffee.

  She drank it standing next to the window, which looked down through mist on to a quayside lined with rows of small boats. Now and again a figure moved through the mist, grey, wavering, insubstantial, like a living etching. There was the faint sound of footsteps and then the silence came back and nothing stirred except the gentle lapping of water at the quay steps.

  She had half an hour before her dinner. After that long drive she felt like a walk so she put on her jacket and went downstairs, crossing the bar again to go out on to the quay. The people drinking all watched her with the same unblinking curiosity.

  As she walked out of the hotel the mist swallowed her. From somewhere nearby she heard a church clock chime. That might be eight o’clock. She couldn’t go far or she would be late for dinner. Wandering along the quayside, she read the names of boats. The mist was thickening; she could barely see a hand in front of her face. Shivering, she drove her hands down into her jacket pockets. There was nobody else around; she could have been marooned on a desert island, or the last person alive on earth.

  A moment later, though, she heard footsteps behind her and glanced round. A tall shape loomed through the mist. She couldn’t see his face but she instinctively felt him staring at her, felt a strange prickle of threat. He began to walk faster, and panic flared inside her. She quickened her steps, too, almost running, and tripped over a lobster pot someone had left on the quay.

  Pippa sprawled headlong. The man behind ran to catch up and knelt down beside her. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

  Shock made her speechless. She turned her head to look up at him incredulously as she recognised the voice and face. Drops of pearly mist dewed his hair and brow and he was wearing a leather jacket zipped up to the neck.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she burst out. There was something of black magic about his appearance out of the mist when she had thought him safely miles away.

  Randal stood up, pulled her up beside him, his strong hands clasped around her waist. ‘Thought you’d given me the slip, did you?’ Dry mockery in his smile made her bristle.

  ‘How did you know where I’d gone?’ She was still having difficulty believing he was here. She tried to work out how he had followed her. ‘Did you see me leaving when you came back from getting petrol?’

  ‘I didn’t go to get petrol,’ he wryly admitted. ‘I was a bit suspicious about your sudden agreement to have dinner with me. I had the feeling you were planning something so I parked just down the road, behind some trees, where I could watch your cottage without you seeing me. I had a suspicion you would try to cheat, and I was right, wasn’t I? I saw you come out of your cottage and get into your car. When you drove out I followed at a discreet distance.’

  It was the same trick he had played when he waited for her to come out of her office and followed her to the bridal shop. She might have guessed he wouldn’t just go off to get petrol, leaving her the opportunity to escape before he returned.

  It dawned on her that he was still holding on to her. She slapped his hands down and took a step back.

  ‘Careful! You don’t want to end up in the water, do you?’ he said as she toppled on the edge. He took her wrists and pulled her towards him to safety.

  She broke free again. ‘Who do you think you are? James Bond? Why can’t you leave me alone?’ she broke out, trembling with rage. ‘The fact that I left like that should tell you I don’t want to see you. Ever again. Why don’t you take the hint, and stop harassing me!’

  ‘I’m not harassing you,’ he smoothly said. ‘I was worried about you, driving off in that state. You were upset over your ex-fiancé. And it was misty. You might have had a crash.’

  ‘But I didn’t!’

  He shrugged his wide shoulders gracefully. ‘No, you didn’t. But what on earth made you chose to come to a dead and alive hole like this?’

  ‘I like it. It’s peaceful.’ Shooting him a resentful look, she added pointedly, ‘Normally.’

  He smiled. ‘Have you booked into your hotel for dinner?’

  ‘Yes, and I must get back for it at once,’ she said curtly, and began to walk fast.

  Randal kept pace with her. ‘I’m staying there too.’

  Her heart sank, although she should have guessed. Where else?

  ‘We can have dinner together, after all,’ he triumphantly added.

  She considered refusing, for a moment, but knew he would somehow make sure he won the argument and felt too tired to fight him any more. He was the most maddening man she had ever met. He wouldn’t listen to her. If she ran he pursued her. He had ruined her life twice, and she had fled, but here he was again. She had a terrible suspicion that she was never going to be able to shake him off. Was she going to spend the rest of her life running away from him and being pursued?

  Inside the cosy warmth of the old hotel she hurried upstairs to take off her jacket and do something about her appearance, brushed her hair, renewed her makeup, staring at her reflection and horrified at the feverish brightness of her green eyes, the tremor in her mouth.

  He always had this effect on her. Could he see that? How could he fail to notice the way she was shaking?

  She turned away, shivering, then went downstairs again and found the dining-room.

/>   Randal was already seated at a table by the window overlooking the quay, a bottle of white wine chilling in an ice bucket beside him. He had shed his leather jacket and was wearing a dark jacket, a crisp white shirt and a blue silk tie. Her breath caught. Did he have to be so good-looking, so distinguished?

  He rose as she joined him. ‘There you are! I was beginning to think you had run off again.’

  She sat down opposite him and glanced through the menu, which was not extensive but sounded good; she decided to have melon followed by grilled sole with a salad. The waiter came to take their order, wrote down what she wanted first, then turned to Randal, who chose melon, steak and chips.

  When the waiter had gone Randal poured wine into her glass. ‘How long do you plan to stay here?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’ She sipped the golden wine and felt a little warmth come back into her veins. ‘Not long. I must go back soon and start planning. I have to write to the insurance firm, resigning, put my cottage on the market and start looking for another job.’

  ‘I’ll give you one.’

  She gave him a dry look. ‘No, thank you. I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Flushed, she looked down into her wine glass, playing with the stem. ‘Don’t they say, “Never go back”?’ She wished he would stop asking her these pointed questions; she didn’t want to think about the reasons for the way she felt. She didn’t know herself why she had these strong impulses, this desire to run from him and keep running.

  ‘Who’s they, anyway?’ he asked, watching her across the table with narrowed, searching eyes.

  She shrugged, looking up briefly, then down again, because she could not meet his lance-like gaze. ‘Oh…people.’

  ‘People with minds like train tracks. You should never make rules for life. Life is for living, spontaneously, on instinct. You don’t need rules. You’re not a machine, you’re a human being, a living organism.’

  She sipped more wine. ‘Talking about living spontaneously, I’ve been thinking I might get a job aboard—Paris, say.’

  There was a pause, then he asked flatly, ‘Is your French good enough for that?’

  ‘I speak a little, and if I’m living there I’d soon learn a lot more. And I’ve always loved the idea of living in Paris; it’s such a beautiful, exciting city.’

  Gravely, Randal said, ‘But you’d be a foreigner, far away from home—it wouldn’t be an easy life and you would have to speak French all the time. It can be difficult to be accepted into the local community. I’d think very carefully about going to work there.’

  The waiter returned with their first course: a whole ogen melon, with a lid carved out like petals, golden and ripe, chilled from the fridge, filled with a medley of soft fruit—cherries, peach, strawberries steeped in liqueur. Was it Kirsch? she wondered, rolling it round her mouth.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be this good,’ Randal said, tasting it too.

  ‘Neither was I,’ she admitted.

  ‘But you said you knew this place pretty well, had been here a few times.’

  ‘That’s true, but the food wasn’t this good when I ate here before. Maybe they have a new chef.’ She ate a cherry. ‘These must be imported; you won’t be able to get fresh cherries here for a couple of months. Tom and I picked cherries in Kent last June when we were staying at a farm. Of course, Kent cherries are pink and cream, not dark red, like these.’

  Randal’s face tightened, a frown drawing his brows together. ‘You know, what I can’t understand is why on earth you let yourself come so close to marrying him. Surely your common sense warned you it would be the biggest mistake of your life if you went ahead with it?’

  Defiantly, she retorted, ‘We could have been very happy! What do you know?’

  ‘You weren’t in love with him, and I suspect he wasn’t really in love with you, either! I didn’t get the impression he was sick with passion.’

  She looked daggers at him. ‘You don’t know Tom; he’s a good man.’

  ‘Good, but boring. Oh, come on, Pippa, you know he would never set the world on fire. How could you have been happy with him? Unless all you were looking for was a nice, quiet, comfortable life with a man who wouldn’t ask for too much from you.’

  She finished her melon and sat back, glowering. ‘Will you please stop talking about it?’

  ‘Maybe that really is what you want? A man who won’t expect too much?’

  Her skin was burning; she resented his comments. ‘Look, thanks to you, my marriage is off so there’s no point in discussing it any further, is there?’

  ‘I’m just trying to work out your motivation,’ he calmly told her, and she clenched her hands into fists on her lap, wanting to punch him.

  ‘Mind your own business, will you? If I need a psychiatrist, I’ll go and see one. I don’t want you doing amateur work on my head.’

  ‘You need to do some thinking! You’re one of the most mixed-up women I’ve ever met! You have no idea about what goes on inside you, do you?’

  She was about to snap back at him when the waiter appeared to take their plates away, so she closed her mouth and looked down while the man refilled their glasses. Pippa was startled to see she had drunk most of the white wine she had had in her glass. She had drunk it without realising what she was doing. It was strange; she had rarely before drunk much wine.

  Maybe it was another way of running, fleeing from Randal Harding. She needed to muffle her senses, dull her nerve-ends. Escape.

  She didn’t want to think about what she needed to escape from.

  As the waiter went away again Randal’s supple, powerful hand stretched across the table to move the low vase of flowers between them so that he could see her more clearly.

  ‘I’d like you to come with me to see my son—will you?’

  Surprised, she looked up, green eyes wide, hesitated. ‘I’m sure he would rather be alone with you. He must miss you, even if he does like the school.’

  ‘I want him to know you, and I want you to know him.’

  She stared at him, biting her inner lip. ‘Oh. But…why…?’

  ‘Johnny rarely if ever sees his mother. I think he needs women in his life; I don’t want him to grow up in an all-male world. It isn’t healthy.’

  She couldn’t argue with that. She believed children needed two parents—she knew she had needed, longed for that. ‘But surely you have a sister? Or another female relative?’

  She knew so little about him; his marriage had been a towering wall between them, and she had seen nothing beyond that.

  Impatiently, he said, ‘Why don’t you want to meet my boy?’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t it’s just that I…’ Her voice trailed off. How could she tell him she was afraid to meet his son in case she grew fond of him? The child had already lost his mother; it would be cruel to let him get used to her, herself, only for her to vanish too one day.

  ‘What?’ he demanded relentlessly, those grey eyes boring into her like lasers. He wasn’t giving up, and she didn’t have the energy for another fight, so with a sigh she gave in.

  ‘Oh, very well.’ It was easier to agree now and make some excuse when the time came than to go on arguing.

  He gave her that warm, charming, triumphant smile. She regarded him dryly, understanding the triumph. He loved to win. That much she did know about him.

  ‘Good girl,’ he approved. ‘I’m sure you’ll like him.’

  ‘You’ve never told me much about him. What’s he like?’

  ‘Me,’ he said, with self-satisfaction. ‘He’s very like me.’

  Sarcastically she murmured, ‘Oh, well, I’m sure he’s gorgeous, then.’

  Randal looked at her through his lashes with an intimate, mocking amusement, making her heart knock at her ribcage; she expected him to make some tart come-back, but at that moment their main course arrived and they began to eat.

  They spoke very little; she wondered if he was silent be
cause he had achieved his objective in getting her to agree to meet his son, and no longer had much to say. That would be typical of him; he was a very focused man, concentrated on getting his own way.

  When they had finished their main course Randal asked if she would like a pudding, but she shook her head.

  ‘If I eat any more I’ll never be able to sleep tonight.’

  He nodded. ‘I won’t have anything else, either. Coffee?’

  ‘No, that might keep me awake, too.’ It was half past ten by then, and she couldn’t stop yawning, so she was sure she would sleep, but coffee might be a mistake.

  ‘Tired?’

  She yawned again, nodded. ‘Sorry. It has been a fraught day. I’ve used up all my energy.’ She rose. ‘I must get some sleep; I’ll have a lot to do tomorrow. I’ll go home, write to the insurance company and resign, and tell them I’m selling my home, then I must talk to an estate agent and put the cottage on the market.’

  They walked up the wide, creaking stairs together a few minutes later. ‘What time shall we have breakfast?’ he asked, and she looked at him impatiently.

  ‘You have it whenever you like!’

  ‘I want to have it with you,’ he said in a coaxing voice, giving her that smile.

  ‘How do I know what time I’ll wake up? I didn’t ask for a wake-up call. I may sleep late.’ They arrived at her door. Her key in her hand, she faced him, chin up. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, turning away.

  She breathed a little easier; she had had an uneasy feeling he might not go too readily and had been nerving herself for a fight. He turned the corner in the corridor and his footsteps faded. Putting the key in the lock, she opened the door and began to go into her room. A second later Randal was inside too and the door was shut. She hadn’t even heard him coming.