Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | A Trial Marriage

A Trial Marriage
Anne Mather






Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!



I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




A Trial Marriage

Anne Mather







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u685c2760-ae2f-59b4-9430-5a4dfa2f1757)

About the Author (#u27190b3e-8b2d-51fd-b1e0-86af906e912c)

Title Page (#u223f81f5-fb91-591b-926f-2baae6b52e19)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u2c6b0d84-4bee-512e-9b6c-4bf1e108b22c)


JAKE COURTENAY stood at the long windows of his first floor suite in the Tor Court Hotel, staring out broodingly over the harbour. In the height of summer, the quay was a hive of activity, with fishing smacks and pleasure boats and sailing craft all vying for space in the crowded inner harbour. But in November most of the sailing boats were shrouded with tarpaulin, and although a few hardy yachtsmen braved the autumn gales, most of their owners had packed up and gone away for the winter.

Jake’s mouth turned down at the corners. Who could blame them? Torquay in November was no seething Mecca of entertainment, and certainly had the choice been left to him, he would not have chosen this hotel. Of course, he could have stayed at the Boscombe Court in Bournemouth, or the Helford Court in Falmouth, or even the Fistral Court in Newquay, but they were all pretty much the same at this time of the year. His own choice veered more towards the Parkway Court in New York, or the Boulevard Court in Paris, and if he had to have sea air, then the Court Mediterranée in Cannes or the Court Italia in Juan les Pins was more to his taste.

But the choice had not been his. The specialist’s advice had been more than eloquent. Indeed, his words had been more in the nature of a dictate than an opinion. Complete rest for at least six months—no work, no travel, no business meetings, no hectic social gatherings, no alcohol—no stress.

Maxwell Francis was a friend, of course, as well as a very successful consultant to the rich and famous. He was used to high-powered business men, who lived on their nerves, and fed their ulcers with champagne and caviare. He was used to treating heart complaints and nervous disorders, brought on by the pressure of living always one step ahead of the rest.

The bite of it all was, Jake had never expected to need him. He had always felt a certain amount of contempt for people who cracked up under the strain. And he had always enjoyed his life. The tensions he had suffered had been quickly dispersed by the next obstacle in his path, and he had deliberately ignored the warning signals his overtaxed body was giving him. The string of Court Hotels was growing every year, and their reputation for good food and good service was the envy of his rivals in the field. His father’s dream had been realised, and the national reputation Charles Courtenay had handed on had been expanded by his son into an international one.

But owning hotels in all the major countries of the world required an immense amount of travelling, of entertaining, of sleeping on planes when he could no longer hold back the exhaustion that gripped him. He began to lose weight, he was drinking too much and eating too little, and inevitably the strain took its toll.

Even then he had fought against it. Sitting in business meetings, listening to his executives outlining their plans for the following year, he had suffered agonies over a loss of concentration, an inability to keep his mind on what was being discussed. Where once his head had been seething with ideas, every now and then a curious blankness invaded his brain, so that all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, and the table in front of him ducked and curved like a rolling ship at sea.

Maxwell had been perfectly understanding, but right from the beginning he had been adamant. If Jake didn’t slow up the pace of his living, he would kill himself. Strong words, particularly to a man who for all the forty-one years of his life had prided himself on his fitness. And naturally Jake hadn’t believed him; not then. Time enough to take a break when the Pearman deal was through, when the string of Pearman hotels had been added to the Court organisation.

It hadn’t worked out like that. For the first time in his life, Jake found himself unable to control the workings of his own brain. It was rather a case of the flesh being willing and the spirit being weak. That small, rather ugly mass of tissue inside his skull gave up the race and Jake found himself the victim of the disease he had so long despised.

He wondered when the pace of living had first begun to tell. When his marriage to Denise broke up, perhaps? And yet, even in those days, he had been working too hard. One of the reasons Denise had given for the irretrievable breakdown of their relationship had been his obsession for work, although she had been more than willing to enjoy the fruits of his labours. But she liked the high life, and when his work took him away from the jet-flight capitals she preferred, she had had few scruples about finding some other man to share her charms—and her bed.

Jake had been philosophical about her indiscretions. His own life was not so blameless at that time, and if Denise required that kind of stimulation, she could hardly object if he required the same. Until some obscure Italian prince came along and offered her his title as well as his fortune. The idea of being Princess Denise had appealed to her, and she had been able to overlook the fact that her Italian was at least forty years older than she was, and hardly able to stand the pace she set.

But that was Denise’s problem. For Jake’s part, he scarcely noticed her passing. Their association had drifted so far from any conventional marriage that he had mentally breathed a sigh of relief to be free again. It was a blessing they had had no children. But again, Denise had not wanted them, and although Jake had known his parents had been disappointed that he had not produced a son to follow in his footsteps, he himself knew how much a child of their marriage might have suffered. Nevertheless, after that, he had shared no lasting relationship with any woman. His work had filled his days—and his nights, as well.

And now he was here. A guest in one of his own hotels, identified to nobody except the hotel manager, Carl Yates, who was a personal acquaintance. This had been Maxwell’s idea, too, and he had to admit the consultant knew what he was doing. No one would look for Jake Courtenay here, and after that spell in the nursing home he had needed time to humanise himself again. The sense of panic which had epitomised the start of his illness had practically disappeared, but he knew, deep inside him, that the idea of returning to London and the hectic life he had led was still a terrifying prospect.

He drew his hands out of the pockets of the brown corded pants he was wearing and looked at them. The narrow bones showed through the brown skin, but they no longer trembled as they had before. With a sigh of impatience, he thrust them back into his pockets again, and moved away from the window.

It was late afternoon, and already lights were appearing across the harbour. It would be dark soon, and another long evening stretched ahead of him. His eyes flickered over the large square cabinet containing a colour television.

Television, he thought contemptuously. He was sick of television. In the past months he had watched everything from Coronation Street to The Book Programme, from Crossroads to Match of the Day. Everything except the news. That had been Maxwell’s stipulation. Avoid current affairs programmes and the news …

Jake’s face twisted bitterly. My God, he was like a child again, protected from anything which might upset or disturb him. To think he had come to this! Jake Courtenay—mental reject!

A knock at the door provided a momentary respite, but at his command only a waiter entered the room propelling a tea trolley. His afternoon refreshment! Jake pulled a note out of his pocket and handed it to the man with his thanks, although the idea of sitting here alone, drinking tea, was anathema to him. He had been here too long already and he was bored. Bored! A good sign perhaps, and yet anything more strenuous might have him weak and shaking in next to no time. It was galling!

The door closed behind the waiter and with a feeling of futility, Jake seated himself beside the trolley and uninterestedly helped himself to a cucumber sandwich. His appetite was still persistently absent, and food was no more than a rather annoying necessity to living. Living! An ironic humour curled his thin lips. Was this living? Or just existing? And what was at the end of it? Would he ever retrieve that enthusiasm for his work which had motivated his life? Without it, he was only half a man.

He rose from his chair again and went back to the window, a tall, rather gaunt figure in the close-fitting dark pants that moulded his lean hips, and a tawny-brown sweater. Strands of silky-smooth dark hair overlapped his collar at the back, liberally streaked with grey. These past few months had laid their mark upon him, and he knew that no one would mistake his age at present as they had done in the past. There were lines etched beside his mouth and nose which had not been there before, and his eyes seemed sunken into his skull. Yet for all that, he was a man who would always attract women, and the hooded depths of dark eyes still proved an irresistible lure.

Along the parade, several shoppers struggled towards the bus ranks, and the light from shop windows spread out across the harbour. There were cars streaming towards the outskirts of the town and Paignton beyond, the curve of the headland a mass of winking lights. His own car languished in the hotel garage, only to be used on very rare occasions. Driving, like everything else he enjoyed, had become a strain.

The grounds fronting the hotel were not extensive. A low stone wall divided them from the promenade beyond, and within the circle the wall provided a few stout palms spread their leaves among less exotic specimens of greenery. Floodlights had been installed among the shrubs so that in summer the Tor Court could hold its own with the other hotels that flaunted themselves after dark in a welter of coloured lights. But during the winter they went unused—except at Christmas.

Looking down, Jake had a first-rate view of the entrance, and as he desultorily scanned the road, he observed two of the other guests returning to the hotel. They were two women—one about his own age, or possibly a little older, the other much younger.

He knew their names. Carl had told him who was staying in the hotel when he first arrived. They were a Mrs Faulkner-Stewart and her companion, Miss Lesley. Jake had seen them a couple of times already, in the hall of the hotel, and once in the restaurant, although mostly Jake took his meals in his own suite. However, now and then, he felt the need for companionship, and on those occasions he made his way to the restaurant, and suffered the agonies of feeling himself observed by a dozen pairs of curious eyes. That those occasions had so far been rare bore out Maxwell’s theory that any kind of mental stress would automatically retard his ultimate recovery.

Watching the two women now, although one of them could scarcely be termed as such, entering the gates brought a latent stirring of curiosity. The girl, she couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, he guessed, seemed young to be the companion of a woman of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart’s age, and he wondered at her apparent acceptance of the life she was leading. There were no young people of her age staying in the hotel, and the little he had seen of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart had not given him the impression that she was the most patient of women. But the girl seemed happy enough, and had even smiled at him in a friendly fashion in the lobby of the hotel when she passed him on her way out to exercise her employer’s poodle. Tall, and not too slim, with long chestnut-coloured hair which was inclined to curl at the tips, she could have no shortage of boy-friends, he mused, yet she seemed perfectly content to pander to the whims of a woman more than old enough to be her mother.

He realised his tea was getting cold and turned back to the trolley with wry impatience at his thoughts. What on earth did it matter to him if some young female found running around after a middle-aged harridan better than doing a worthwhile job of work? It was nothing to do with him. Besides, judging by the amount of jewellery Mrs Faulkner-Stewart wore, and the expensiveness of her furs, she could obviously afford the best of everything, and probably the girl took her for every penny she could make. The only inconsistent factor was why she had chosen to winter at the Tor Court instead of in Cannes or Madeira, or any one of a dozen other fashionable locations.

By the time he had finished his tea it was dark outside, and on impulse, he decided to go for a walk. At least that was one pastime which had not been denied to him, but he obediently put on his thick, fur-lined duffel coat before leaving the room. The cold was something else he had to guard against, although he refused to put on the marathon-length woollen muffler his mother had crocheted for him.

The lift took him down to the lobby where Carl was standing, talking to his receptionist. The manager lifted his hand in greeting, but Jake had no desire to get involved in conversation with him and with a brief acknowledgement, strode towards the revolving doors. His hand had reached out to propel them forward when he became aware of the girl who had been occupying his thoughts earlier approaching over the soft grey carpet, pulled along by the enthusiastic efforts of her employer’s black poodle.

He paused, and the second’s hesitation was enough to create a situation where it would have been rude of him to barge ahead without acknowledging her presence. He guessed she would use the baggage door to let the dog out, and with a feeling of compulsion, propelled it open and waited for her to pass through.

Anticipating his intention, she had quickened her step, and her shoulder brushed the toggles of his coat as she said a breathy: ‘Thanks!’ passing him to emerge into the cool, slightly frosty air. In a waist-length leather jerkin and dusty pink flared pants she seemed hopelessly under-dressed for the weather, but Jake inwardly chided himself for his concern. She was young—and healthy; an enviable condition!

He had expected she would go ahead, and was half disconcerted to find her waiting for him outside, firmly reproving the animal for misbehaving. She looked up and smiled when he came slowly down the steps to join her, and an illogical feeling of unease swept over him.

‘It’s a cold evening, isn’t it?’ she commented, shortening the dog’s lead, and falling into step beside him, and Jake was obliged to answer her.

‘Very cold,’ he agreed, a little stiffly, and she glanced sideways at him, obviously speculating about him, as he had about her earlier.

‘How long are you staying at the hotel?’ she asked, and he felt a momentary impatience with her curiosity.

‘Not much longer,’ he replied shortly, and halted, going behind her to cross the road. ‘I’m going this way,’ he added. ‘Good evening.’

The girl stopped beside him, however, and looked obligingly up and down the road. ‘I’m crossing, too,’ she told him, and he wondered if she knew how much he wanted to get away from her. He was angry with himself for getting into such a position, but angrier still with her for trying to pick him up like this. Had no one ever troubled to explain the facts of life to her? Didn’t she realise the potential dangers inherent in attaching oneself to men about whom she knew absolutely nothing? She was young, but she was not a child, he thought, irritably aware of the firm breasts outlined against the thin jerkin. Unless she was more knowledgeable than he knew. His lips tightened. This was one alternative, but somehow he didn’t care to draw those conclusions. Besides, girls these days had different sets of values.

The wide pavement edging the foreshore gave him plenty of scope to put a comfortable distance between them, but after releasing the dog she seemed quite content to stride along beside him, matching her steps to his, albeit with some effort.

‘You’re Mr Allan, aren’t you?’ she asked after a moment, and the alien designation fell strangely on his ears. Allan was his middle name—James Allan Courtenay—and it had seemed a good idea to use that and avoid possible recognition. But it still gave him a moment’s pause. He wondered how she knew his name, and decided he would have a few harsh words to say to Carl Yates the next time he saw him.

Now he merely nodded, pressing his hands more deeply down into the pockets of his duffel coat, and she supplied the answer to his unspoken question without even being aware of doing so.

‘Della—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart, that is—asked the receptionist who you were,’ she exclaimed casually. ‘Della always likes to know the names of the other guests. I hope you don’t mind.’

Jake glanced at her then, and the humorous mobility of her wide mouth inspired the distinct impression that she knew very well that he did mind. But he refused to justify her amusement by admitting the fact.

‘It’s no secret,’ he said abruptly, and she shrugged, tucking her cold hands into the slip pockets of her jerkin. The wind was tugging at her hair, however, and every now and then she had to lift a hand and push it back from her eyes and mouth. Strands blew against the sleeve of his coat, and their brightness irritated him.

For a few minutes they walked in silence, and then she spoke again: ‘My name’s Rachel—Rachel Lesley. I work for Mrs Faulkner-Stewart.’

Jake drew a deep breath, but made no comment, and all at once he was aware of a stiffening in her. Perhaps she was getting the message at last, he thought ruthlessly, and was totally unprepared for her attack when it came.

‘You’re not very polite, are you?’ she inquired, with cool audacity. ‘Why don’t you just tell me to get lost, if that’s the way you feel?’

Her words stopped Jake in his tracks, and he turned to stare at her angrily. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard what I said,’ she insisted, and he saw that the eyes turned belligerently up to his were flecked with amber, like her hair. ‘If you want to be alone, why not say so?’

Jake’s hands balled themselves into fists in his pockets. ‘I see no reason to state what must be patently obvious!’ he declared cuttingly, and her lips pursed indignantly.

‘I was only trying to be friendly!’ she retorted, and his lips curled contemptuously.

‘I suggest that—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart, if that is your employer’s name, ought to pay attention to her employee’s education, instead of probing into other people’s affairs! Then perhaps you’d know better than to go around picking up strange men!’

The girl gasped. ‘I do not go around picking up strange men! I felt—sorry for you, that’s all!’

Jake’s reaction to this was violent. That this girl, this child—for she was little more—should feel sorry for him! Didn’t she know who he was? Had she no conception to whom she was speaking?

But of course she hadn’t. So far as she was concerned, he was plain Mr Allan, and to her he must present a very different figure from the image he had previously taken for granted. This realisation was strangely reassuring, and in spite of his lingering impatience, his anger was dispersing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, with something approaching apology in his voice. ‘I—well, I’ve been out of touch with humanity for some time, and I seem to have lost the habit of civility.’

Immediately the girl’s face was transformed, and a wide smile gave it a beauty he had not previously observed. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, without rancour. ‘I guessed you’d been ill. You don’t look the usual kind of man who would choose to stay at the Tor Court at this time of the year.’

Jake wondered how to answer that. ‘No?’ he probed, with irony. Then: ‘I suppose not.’

The poodle provided a welcome diversion at that moment, making a noisy attack at a snapping Pekinese who was being dragged out of its way by its irate owner. The girl exclaimed: ‘Oh, glory!’ and darted forward to rescue the poodle’s collar, and her laughing apology to the red-faced woman in charge of the Pekinese brought an unwilling deprecation from her lips. Jake watched the exchange with reluctant admiration, and then realised he was wasting a perfectly good opportunity to make his departure. Curiously enough he was less eager to leave now, but the remembrance of what the girl had said still rankled, and ridiculous though it was he resented the feeling of being the object of anyone’s pity. That was something he could do without.

Even so, he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder as he walked away between the cultivated borders, and felt a moment’s regret when he saw she had turned back towards the hotel. But only a moment’s. She was a nice kid, and probably he had judged her too harshly—after all, nowadays young people seemed to have few inhibitions about anything, and she had only been friendly, as she said—but it wasn’t in His interests to become too friendly with anyone at the hotel. No matter how nice people were, they always wanted to know everything about you, and that was something Jake wanted to avoid. Besides, he could imagine Mrs Faulkner-Stewart’s reactions if she thought her companion was becoming friendly with a man of his age. No matter how innocent an association might be, someone could always put the wrong interpretation upon it. He could almost see the headlines in the newspapers now: Middle-aged tycoon takes rest cure with schoolgirl! God, he shuddered to think of it. The poodle had provided him with a lucky escape, and in future he would ensure that his walks did not coincide with exercising the dog.




CHAPTER TWO (#u2c6b0d84-4bee-512e-9b6c-4bf1e108b22c)


RACHEL did not see him again for several days.

Even though she took to lingering for a few minutes in the lobby before taking Minstrel out for his evening walk, there was never any sign of the tall, dark man whose haggard features had begun to haunt her dreams. He never appeared at mealtimes, and in spite of Della’s attempts to draw the manager into conversation, Mr Yates seemed curiously loath to discuss the occupant of the first floor suite.

Rachel didn’t altogether understand her own interest in him. After all, he had shown in no uncertain manner that he did not welcome companionship, and he obviously regarded her as something of a nuisance in spite of his reluctant apology. But for all that, she had not mentioned their encounter to Della, and squeezed a small measure of comfort from the knowledge that her employer had not even spoken to him.

Her employer! Rachel grimaced at the thought, as she steered Della Faulkner-Stewart’s Mini into the parking area outside the hotel. Six months ago she would never have considered such an occupation, but circumstances could change so many things. Six months ago she had been dreaming of going to Oxford, of getting her degree. Until her father had contracted polio and died all in the space of three weeks, and her mother, dazed after so little sleep, had crashed her car into level crossing gates just as a train was passing. At least, that was the coroner’s verdict, though Rachel herself suspected that she had not wanted to go on living. She had been an only child, and she had always known her presence had never really been necessary. Her parents were complete unto themselves, and she had been at times a rather annoying encumbrance.

Nevertheless, the dual tragedy had left her stunned, and the solicitors’ subsequent information that apart from a couple of insurance policies, which would provide sufficient funds to pay all outstanding debts, she was penniless, had left her curiously unmoved.

That was when Della Faulkner-Stewart had taken over. She had been a school friend of Rachel’s mother’s, and although they had not seen her for some years, she had arrived in Nottingham for Mr Lesley’s funeral. That she was still in town when Mrs Lesley also died was, she said, a blessing, and she had insisted that Rachel should not attempt her final examinations at such a time. There was no hurry, she said. She herself needed a companion—her previous companion had taken the unforgivable step of getting married—and why didn’t Rachel come and live with her for a while? They could help one another.

In her numbed state, Rachel was only too willing to let someone else take responsibility for her. It wasn’t until some weeks afterwards, when she found herself at Della’s constant beck and call, that she began to appreciate what she had forfeited. But still, she had a little money of her own, and until she could afford to take her finals, she was persuaded that she could be a lot worse off.

Della’s husband was dead, too, and sometimes Rachel wondered whether that was why she had come to Nottingham in the first place. Perhaps she had hoped to persuade Rachel’s mother to take over the position as her companion, but Mrs Lesley had been too grief-stricken at that time to consider it. The truth was, Della was not the most considerate of employers, and although her husband had left her comfortably placed, she resented being without a man to care for her. Consequently, she spent little time at her London home, preferring to live in hotels, always in the hope of finding some man to take her late husband’s place. Her only stipulation was that he should be English. She despised Europeans, and seldom went abroad, preferring wholesome British food to what she termed as ‘foreign muck’.

Yet, for all that, Rachel was not actively unhappy. On the contrary, she was naturally a pleasant-natured girl, and apart from an occasional yearning for dreaming spires, she lived quite contentedly, prepared to wait another year or two before striking out on her own.

Now, she pulled the Mini into its space, calmed the excitable poodle behind her, and opened her door. As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, it was starting to rain, and she reached for Minstrel’s lead before allowing him to get out and possibly decorate her navy slacks with muddy paw marks. There was a strange car parked alongside the Mini, one which she had not seen before, and she studied its elegant lines before turning and walking towards the hotel. As she neared the entrance two men came out of the hotel, talking together, and her pulses quickened alarmingly when she recognised Mr Allan and another man.

That he had recognised her, too, there was no doubt, but she sensed his reluctance to acknowledge the fact. However, short of cutting her dead, there was nothing else he could do, and his lips curved in the semblance of a polite smile, while his eyes looked right through her. She wondered if he knew how that look affected her, and how her palms moistened when he said quietly: ‘Hello!’

Rachel restrained an eagerness to respond, and replied lightly: ‘Hello, Mr Allan. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

He cast a challenging look at the older man beside him, as if daring him to contradict the statement, and Rachel’s gaze flicked over his companion. There was a resemblance between them, and she wondered if this was his father.

But clearly she was not to be introduced, and before she could think of anything else to say, the two men had passed her. She looked after them, biting her lips, and then entered the hotel ill-humouredly, mentally chastising herself for her foolishness.

What did she expect from him anyway? He was easily as old as her father had been when he died, and he regarded her as little more than a schoolgirl, obviously. Just because he evoked her sympathies …

But no. That wasn’t strictly truthful. He had the most incredibly sexy eyes, and in spite of his haggard appearance, he aroused the most wanton thoughts inside her. His attraction for her owed little to whatever illness had brought him here, and she knew that Della would have a fit if she guessed the fantasies Rachel was nurturing. But they were only fantasies, she told herself severely, dragging Minstrel into the lift after her, and showing an unusual lack of sympathy when she accidently stepped on his paw.

Della’s suite of rooms was on the second floor. She had reserved a lounge and a double room with bath for herself, as well as a single room for Rachel. Rachel was obliged to use the bathroom on that floor which served two other rooms as well as her own, but she didn’t mind. She invariably took her bath in the evening, while everyone else was in the bar enjoying pre-dinner drinks, and unlike Della she had felt little desire to mix with her fellow guests—until now.

When she and Minstrel entered the suite, Della called peevishly from the bedroom: ‘Rachel, is that you?’ And when the girl showed her face at the bedroom door: ‘You’ve been a long time.’

Della had had one of her headaches when Rachel went out. They were a persistent torment to her, she declared, although they came in very useful on occasion, when she wanted rid of Rachel for the afternoon.

Now, however, she levered herself up on the quilted counterpane, looking suitably wan in her lacy pink negligée. She was forty-three, and spent half her life trying to look younger, with the inevitable result of achieving the opposite. Her fine hair had been tinted so often that it looked like dried straw until it had been combed into its usual style, and her skin was paper-thin and veined from too much food and too little exercise. She treated Rachel with a mixture of envy and irritation, and disliked feeling at a disadvantage with anybody.

Now Rachel held on desperately to Minstrel’s lead, as he viewed the tempting expanse of soft cream carpet spread out before him, and explained: ‘I couldn’t find that particular brand of cream anywhere. I think Mr Holland must make it up for you.’

The frown which had momentarily creased Della’s brow cleared. ‘Oh, yes, dear, perhaps you’re right,’ she agreed complacently, relaxing back against the pillows. ‘He does tend to make a fuss of me, doesn’t he?’

Rachel reserved judgment, and struggling with the poodle asked: ‘Have you had tea?’

‘No.’ Della shook her head. ‘I’ve just been resting here since you went out.’

Belatedly, Rachel asked if she was feeling better, averting her eyes from the lurid jacket of the paperback novel that unexpectedly appeared beneath Della’s flowing skirts.

‘A little,’ her employer conceded reluctantly, quickly tucking the book out of sight, and Rachel turned away to hide her amusement, saying: ‘I’ll just give Minstrel a drink.’

‘Yes, and ring for tea, will you, dear?’ called Della after her. ‘I’ll be out directly.’

The door was closed and Minstrel offered a glum yelp. But since the disastrous occasion a few days ago, when he had cleared his mistress’s dressing table of a large collection of cosmetic jars and bottles, he had not been welcome in her room.

Rachel got Minstrel’s dish and filled it from the hand basin in her room. The dog drank thirstily, and through its noisy gulps she rang room service. Afterwards, she wandered over to the windows, looking out rather absently. She wondered when she would see Mr Allan again, or indeed if! How long was he staying? And where was his wife? A man like him was bound to be married, but why wasn’t she with him if he had been ill?

The arrival of the tea, and Della’s subsequent emergence from her room, left little room for further speculation on the matter, and it was not until she was lying in her bath later that evening that Rachel allowed her mind to drift back to the afternoon’s encounter. What did he really think of her? Did he think of her at all? Or was she just a rather annoying adolescent in his eyes? Perhaps he thought she was oversexed and provocative! Rachel reached for the sponge, and began soaping it liberally. Perhaps she was, she thought irritably. But she had never been troubled with such ideas before.

The usual arrangement was that Della went down to the cocktail bar before dinner and shared in the casual conversation of her fellow guests, while Rachel tidied the suite, fed Minstrel, and had her bath. Then, later, they would meet up again in the restaurant and share a table for dinner. After dinner, a few of the guests made up a four for bridge, and as Della enjoyed cards she was invariably included. That was Rachel’s cue to do as she liked, but this usually comprised a walk with Minstrel, followed by television and bed, in that order. Occasionally she had agreed to a date with a member of the hotel staff; but these were few and far between, preferring as she did the comparative luxury of reading in her own room, briefly free of Della’s fads and fancies.

This evening, however, Rachel felt restless, and after spending longer over her toilette than she normally did, she was late for dinner. She had hesitated a long while over what she should wear. After discarding the chemise dress she had planned to wear in favour of velvet pants and an embroidered smock, she had eventually returned to her original choice, deciding she was being silly in imagining it mattered either way. The chemise was long and made of white sprigged cotton, a ribbon tie beneath her breasts accentuating their fullness; but it was definitely not the sort of dress an older woman would wear, and that was why Rachel had hesitated over wearing it. But she was not an older woman, and there was no use wishing she was.

The lift seemed grindingly slow as it descended to the lower floors, and Rachel was biting her lips impatiently when it stopped at the first landing. Then she stepped back nervously, her cheeks darkening with hot colour when she saw the man waiting to get into the lift. His own expression was less easy to define, but after only a moment’s hesitation he stepped inside, joining her in the suddenly overpoweringly confined atmosphere of the square cubicle. In a navy suede suit and a matching shirt, the heavy duffel coat overall, he reduced the proportions of the lift alarmingly, and she was stiflingly conscious of the masculine odour he emanated. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly in her agitation, the nipples visibly hardening beneath the sprigged cotton.

If he was aware of her excitement, he gave no indication of the fact, and his polite: ‘Good evening!’ was as impersonal as ever. But she had not been this close to him before, and she could see a muscle jerking beneath the shaven beard shadowing his jawline. Perhaps he was not as indifferent to her as he would have her believe, or was it nerves that caused that betraying spasm?

Then, as if impatient with the way she was watching him, he looked at her, and that straight uncompromising stare turned her knees to jelly. It was as well the skirt of her gown covered her legs, or their quivering infirmity would have been visible to his gaze.

‘I—are you going down to dinner?’ she stammered, needing the release of conversation, but he shook his head with wry impatience.

‘I’ve had dinner,’ he told her flatly, and her arms slid round her waist in an instinctively defensive gesture.

‘I’m late,’ she volunteered, and then the lift had reached the ground floor, and the doors were rolling back.

He stood back to allow her to precede him, and she went ahead jerkily, wishing she wasn’t always at a disadvantage with him. If only she had had Minstrel with her, she might have stood a chance of going with him, wherever he was going. But that was purely wishful thinking.

He followed her out of the lift, and then, as if aware of her thoughts, he said: ‘No dog today?’

‘No.’ Her smile was fleeting.

His mouth curled. ‘I like your dress.’

The colour in her cheeks deepened again. ‘Thank you.’

His lips twitched, and then, as if regretting the impulse to compliment her, he turned away. ‘Enjoy your dinner.’

Rachel watched him cross the lobby and disappear through the revolving doors with clenched frustration. Now why had he said that? Did he really like her dress, or was he feeling sorry for her now? Whatever! He had gone, and she had to go and face Della’s undoubted irritation because she was late.

But as she crossed the lobby towards the restaurant, Carl Yates’ voice hailed her. The young manager of the Tor Court would stir a few hearts himself, she thought inconsequently, although she herself didn’t go for husky Vikings with shoulder-length blond hair.

‘Oh, Miss Lesley,’ he said now, his roving eyes revealing a deepening interest. ‘Mrs Faulkner-Stewart asked me to get her tickets for the concert at the Conservatory.’ He waved a white envelope. ‘Will you give them to her?’

‘Thank you.’

Rachel took the envelope, wondering why he had chosen to give her the tickets. Normally he used bell-hops to run his messages for him, and he must know that Della was always to be found taking dinner at this time.

‘You’re looking particularly attractive this evening, Miss Lesley,’ he continued, with the assurance of a man not accustomed to being rebuffed. ‘I didn’t know you knew Jake—Allan.’

Rachel’s smile was forced. ‘I’ll give Mrs. Faulkner-Stewart the tickets,’ she said, and gained a certain malicious satisfaction from his chagrin as she sauntered into the restaurant.

Della had not waited for her. She was already half-way through her smoked salmon, and she took the envelope Rachel proffered with unconcealed annoyance.

‘I don’t pay you to loiter about in hotel lobbies, Rachel!’ she stated, in audible tones, and Rachel couldn’t help reflecting, as she reached for an olive, that pride always came before a fall.

Even so, as she lay in bed that night, she found herself reliving those moments in the lift. So—his name was Jake. At least she could thank Carl Yates for that small piece of information. Jake Allan? Yes, she liked it. It suited him.

During the following days, Rachel had little time to herself. Della took to her bed with a stomach disorder the morning following the encounter in the lift, and her fretful demands kept her companion on her toes. There was not even the evening bridge sessions to break the monotony, and apart from those occasions when she managed to slip out of the hotel on the pretext of exercising Minstrel, Rachel was kept busy. She told herself that it was just as well, that time would put things into a better perspective, but the truth was she grew more and more anxious to see him as each day passed. She even began to worry about him, wondering if he had been taken ill again, and whether anyone was looking after him. But there was no one she could ask, apart from Carl Yates, and she had no desire to alert him to her interest. So she ran Della’s errands, read to her when she felt like it, looked after Minstrel, and generally made herself useful, trying, not very successfully, to enjoy her life as she had always managed to do.

Towards the end of the week Della was sufficiently recovered to come down for dinner, and Rachel, who had become used to taking her meals in her room, dressed for dinner with some trepidation. What if he was in the restaurant? Would he have noticed her long absence? Hardly likely, as he seldom ate in the restaurant anyway. But if he was feeling better …

She wore the chemise dress deliberately. It was flattering, she decided, and with her hair loose about her bare shoulders, she could hold her own—at least, with other girls of her own age.

But Jake Allan was not dining in the restaurant. The table he occasionally occupied was vacant, and the absence of cutlery indicated that it was not about to be used. Rachel’s lips compressed disappointedly, and Della, unusually alert after her period of isolation, narrowed mascaraed lids.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, glancing round curiously. ‘Is the Colonel trying to attract your attention again? He really is the most impossible old roué! I shall have a word with Mr Yates——’

‘Oh, please!’ Rachel shook her head nervously. ‘The Colonel isn’t even looking this way! I—I was just thinking, that’s all.’

‘What about?’ Della looked suspicious.

‘Nothing much.’ Rachel managed to distract her attention by opening the menu. ‘Oh, look! They’ve got your favourite food here. Tournedos! They must have known you’d be feeling better this evening.’

When the meal was over, the elderly Colonel Della had been grumbling about earlier approached their table. He subjected Rachel’s cleavage to minute inspection, and then turning to Della exclaimed gallantly. ‘Good to see you back, my dear. Game hasn’t been the same without you! You will be joining us this evening, I hope.’

Della’s indignation melted beneath such outright flattery.

‘I’ve missed our little get-togethers, too, Colonel,’ she assured him coyly. ‘And I know it’s no fun playing with three and a dummy hand.’

The Colonel’s wicked old eyes flickered over Rachel again. Then he turned his attention to what Della was saying: ‘What? Oh, yes. Well, as a matter of fact, dear lady, we managed to persuade one of the other guests to join us yesterday evening. You’ve probably seen him around. A Mr Allan.’

Rachel managed to control the start the Colonel’s words had given her, and concentrated on her hands curled tightly together in her lap, as Della answered: ‘Mr Allan!’ Her interest was evident. ‘Oh, yes. I know who you mean, Colonel. But …’ She paused, obviously searching for words to disguise her real feelings. ‘He seems such a—quiet man. Always keeping himself to himself.’

‘Yes.’ The Colonel was losing interest in the conversation. ‘So you’ll be joining us later?’

‘Of course.’ Della moistened her upper lip. ‘Will—er—will Mr Allan be joining us this evening?’

The Colonel shook his head, and unable to catch Rachel’s attention, started to move away. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Only played because I bullied him into it. See you later, dear lady.’

After the Colonel had gone, Della made a little sound of excitement. ‘Imagine that! Him playing cards. It’s interesting to know he’s not as unapproachable as he appears. Isn’t it?’ Rachel didn’t answer. ‘Isn’t it?’ she repeated.

Rachel forced herself to look up, but all she could think was that last night, when she had passed through the lobby on her way out to take Minstrel for his walk, Jake Allan had been only a dozen yards away, in the lounge, playing bridge! It was infuriating!

‘You—you seem very concerned,’ she said at last, biting back her own frustration.

Della sighed irritably. ‘Well, why not? He is the most interesting man in the hotel, after all!’

Rachel licked her lips. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course. Don’t you? Oh no, of course you wouldn’t. He’s much too old for you. Carl Yates is more your scene. I’m surprised you don’t make any overtures there. He’s obviously more than willing.’

Rachel flushed, as much for what Della had said about Jake Allan as her remarks concerning Carl Yates. But happily her employer only saw what she wanted to see, and right now she was no doubt plotting how she could corner her quarry, and invite him into her circle.

After several cups of coffee, Della left her to go and join her cronies, and Rachel walked disconsolately across the hall. A large television was playing away to itself in the viewing room, but she preferred the smaller set in her room to its huge impersonality. Further along was the bar where residents mixed with casual customers, but the idea of entering its smoky atmosphere did not appeal to her either.

She was on the point of turning towards the lift when Carl Yates came strolling towards her from the reception area. Seemingly unabashed by her unwelcoming frown, he said: ‘All alone?’

Rachel gave him a cool stare. ‘It certainly looks like it, doesn’t it?’

He moved his head in silent acknowledgement of the barb. ‘I gather you’re not a bridge fanatic.’

‘No.’

Rachel would have gone past him, but he spoke again: ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

She halted, and turned to look at him. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Why not?’

She hesitated, tempted to brush him off without a second thought, but out of the corner of her eye she suddenly saw that Jake Allan had just entered the hotel and was crossing the lobby towards them. If she walked away now, he would no doubt stop to speak to the manager, and she would have no opportunity of speaking to him herself.

‘I—er—I don’t drink,’ she averred, mentally measuring the narrowing distance between herself and Jake Allan.

‘I’ll buy you a tomato, juice, then,’ suggested Carl eagerly, but before she could reply a shadow fell across them. Carl turned half impatiently, to see who dared to interrupt them, but quickly schooled his features when he recognised the man. Rachel was impressed. Whoever Jake Allan was, he certainly had the power to bring Carl to attention.

‘Good evening,’ he said, his dark gaze flickering over Rachel with ruthless detachment. ‘Good evening, Carl.’

Carl nodded and smiled, shifting rather awkwardly. ‘Did you enjoy your walk, Mr Allan?’

Mr Allan! Rachel raised her dark eyebrows. What had happened to the casual use of the man’s Christian name?

‘Very much,’ Jake Allan was saying now, with a slight upward lift of his mouth. ‘Is dinner over?’

Carl nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Some minutes ago. Er—the game’s begun.’

‘Good.’ Jake’s dark eyes shifted to Rachel again. ‘How are you, Miss Lesley? I haven’t seen you about the hotel for some days.’

Rachel’s knees resumed their unsteady wobbling. ‘I—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart has been—indisposed. I’ve been taking care of her.’

‘Very well, I’m sure,’ he conceded with faint mockery. He flicked an assessing look in Carl’s direction, as if summing up the situation. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

Rachel cast a dismayed look at Carl, and then, stumbling over the words, exclaimed: ‘Are you going upstairs?’ And at his nod: ‘So am I. Er—goodnight, Mr Yates.’

The young manager’s lips tightened, but there was nothing he could do, and Rachel’s heart was pounding as she quickened her step to keep up with Jake as he strode towards the lifts. Both lifts were in operation at that moment, and they were forced to wait for one to make the descent to the ground floor. It was an awkward few moments, not relieved when Jake said suddenly: ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

Rachel’s cheeks burned. ‘Done—what?’

Jake gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘Yates will get the wrong impression.’

Rachel quivered. ‘I’m not worried.’

‘Perhaps I am.’

She sighed. ‘But why?’ she implored. ‘I was on my way up to my room when he stopped me.’

Jake ran a hand round the back of his neck, and tugged the hair at his nape. He was wearing a leather overcoat this evening, and the wine-coloured fabric accentuated the sallow cast of his skin. His long legs were encased in dark green whipcord, and Rachel had great difficulty in preventing herself from staring at the narrow welt of brown flesh that appeared between his black nylon sweater and the low belt of his pants when he stretched.

The lift arrived, and Rachel preceded him inside. They had it to themselves as before, and Jake pressed the button for the first floor. He didn’t look at her as they were borne upward, and it took only seconds to cover the few feet to his landing.

The doors slid open and Jake took a step forward, but while Rachel was contemplating going up to her room and giving in to the tears that were threatening, he stopped and said: ‘What do you plan to do for the rest of the evening?’

Rachel swallowed convulsively. ‘What do I—why, watch television, I suppose.’

His stare tore her nerves to pieces. ‘And if I offered an alternative?’

‘Wh—what alternative?’

He sighed, as if becoming impatient with himself as well as her. ‘What’s your name? Rachel? Rachel—do you know how old I am?’

She shrugged uncertainly. ‘Thirty-eight, thirty-nine …’

‘I’m forty-one. How about you?’

She shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Nearly nineteen.’

‘Eighteen!’

‘All right. Eighteen.’

He raised his eyes heavenward. ‘I must be out of my mind!’

Without another word he stepped out of the lift, and the automatic mechanism set the doors gliding closed. Unable to prevent herself, Rachel pressed the button to open the doors again, and stepped through them, feeling a sense of inevitability as they closed behind her, and the lift whined away upward.

Jake, who had been striding along the corridor towards his apartments, glanced over his shoulder as he heard the lift depart, and his brow furrowed angrily when he saw Rachel standing there. He halted abruptly and came slowly back to her, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.

Rachel shook her head, unable to voice what she had thought. ‘I—I can use the service stairs,’ she stammered, and he uttered a word she scarcely understood.

‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘If anyone sees you on this floor——’

He broke off expressively, and her lips trembled. ‘That would never do, would it?’ she burst out, unable to prevent the words in her humiliation.

Jake’s dark eyes raked her savagely. ‘All right, all right,’ he snapped. ‘If you don’t care, why should I?’ He spread a mocking hand towards his door. ‘Come into my parlour!’

Rachel pressed her lips together. ‘Couldn’t we—couldn’t we have a drink together?’

‘I thought I heard you telling Yates you didn’t drink?’ he countered.

‘I don’t. Not much, anyway.’

‘Nor do I. My—doctor won’t allow it.’

This last was said with heavy sarcasm, and she guessed it had not always been so.

‘We—we could have a coffee …’ she ventured, but he shook his head.

‘I think not.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have no intention of inciting that Draconian guardian of yours by creating gossip of that kind.’

Rachel caught her breath. ‘Della’s not my guardian. She’s my employer. I’m over age. I can do what I like.’

‘And what do you like, I wonder?’ he demanded grimly. ‘Oh, Rachel, why me? Why not Carl—or that handsome wine waiter—or practically anyone, for that matter!’

Rachel took an involuntary step forward. ‘You do—like me?’

His lips twisted. ‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘I like you.’

Turning away, he pulled his keys out of his coat pocket and inserted them in the door to his suite. As he did so, two elderly women came along the corridor towards them, their curiosity sharpening as they recognised Rachel. A quick exchange of glances indicated the direction of their thoughts, and their reproving: ‘Good evening, Miss Lesley!’ brought the hot colour to her cheeks.

Jake ignored them, pushing open his door and switching on the light just inside. Then he turned, leaned against the frame, waiting until Rachel looked at him again.

‘Well?’ he said, as her eyes followed the two women’s progress to the lift. ‘Wouldn’t you like to go with them?’

Rachel hesitated only a moment, and then shook her head, walking determinedly towards him, and preceding him into a luxuriously furnished lounge. The door closed behind her, and only then did she feel relief from the disapproving eyes she had felt boring into her back.




CHAPTER THREE (#u2c6b0d84-4bee-512e-9b6c-4bf1e108b22c)


AT least her surroundings were reassuring. This had to be the best suite in the hotel, she thought. Della’s rooms were not like this, and the green and gold pattern of the carpet was reflected in the long curtains and matching cushions. A self-coloured hide suite looked soft, and squashily comfortable. There were several small tables, as well as a television, as big as the one downstairs, and the dining table, in the window embrasure, commanded a magnificent view over the lights of the harbour.

While she looked around, assuming an interest in the concealed lighting above the ceiling moulding, Jake took off his overcoat and slung it carelessly over a chair near the door. Then he moved to stand before the huge marble fireplace, obsolete now, since the introduction of central heating. Against its veined beauty his profile had a dark, forbidding quality, and a momentary sense of panic gripped her.

‘Regretting it already?’ he inquired dryly, and she looked up at him defensively.

‘No.’

‘Who were those women?’

‘Acquaintances of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart,’ replied Rachel offhandedly. ‘You have a wonderful view——’

‘Will they tell her where you are?’

Rachel sighed frustratedly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re not worried?’

‘No!’

He moved his shoulders in a gesture of dismissal, and her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the lean muscularity beneath the fine material. ‘If you insist …’ he commented carelessly. Then: ‘Tell me about Mrs Faulkner-Stewart? Is she some relation of yours?’

‘I’ve told you. She’s my employer,’ replied Rachel stiffly.

‘Only that?’ He seemed surprised. ‘An unusual occupation for a girl of your age.’ He paused. ‘And generation.’

Rachel sighed. ‘She was a close friend of my mother’s. When—when my parents died within a few weeks of one another, Della looked after me.’

‘But surely that wasn’t what you intended doing with your life,’ he probed. ‘A girl like you. Had you no ambitions of—an academic nature?’

Rachel nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, I was planning to go to university. But—what with Daddy and Mummy dying … Della said it was better to give myself time to get over it.’

‘And in so doing provide her with a ready-made companion.’

‘It wasn’t as callous as that,’ she protested. ‘Who knows? I might have failed the exams.’

‘Do you intend to try again? Next year, for example?’

‘Perhaps. If I have enough money.’

‘Money.’ His echoing of her word was almost a sneer. ‘Ah, yes. Everything revolves around money, doesn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she declared indignantly.

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘So you’re a romantic, on top of all else,’ he drawled sardonically. ‘What a novelty!’

Rachel bent her head. ‘Do you want rid of me?’

The expletive he uttered made her flinch. ‘Such a remark does not deserve an answer!’ he snapped. ‘Come off it, Rachel. You’re not dealing with some callow youth who needs that kind of immature invitation!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean—coyness doesn’t suit you!’ he retorted coldly, lifting one suede-booted foot to rest on the iron fender surrounding the hearth. ‘Like I said before—I must be out of my tiny mind!’

‘If—if that’s the way you feel …’

Rachel turned abruptly away, her nerves unable to stand any more of this biting double-talk. She had started this; it was up to her to finish it.

But before she had taken a couple of steps, he moved with surprising agility, interposing himself between her and the door, his fingers closing painfully round the soft flesh of her upper arm. She tried to pull away from him, alarmed by the smouldering look in his eyes, but he jerked her back against him, and she felt the hard length of his body against hers. His arms went round her, sliding across her flat stomach, propelling her closer, so that for the first time in her life Rachel could feel the throbbing heat of his desire.

‘You have no conception of how I feel,’ he protested roughly, bending his head to brush her neck with his tongue.

Rachel’s panic began to subside. ‘I—I thought you were angry with me,’ she stammered.

‘I am,’ he retorted unsteadily. ‘I shouldn’t be holding you like this, and you shouldn’t be letting me.’

‘Why not?’ Her mouth was dry, and she moistened her lips as his hands slid up over her rib-cage to cup her breasts.

But she knew. She had read books, and her instincts warned her that she was playing with fire. Yet she couldn’t help herself. She wanted him to hold her, and the thin material of her chemise was no barrier to the way her breasts responded to his touch, swelling and hardening beneath his experienced fingers.

‘Oh, Jake …’ she breathed chokingly, using his name without thinking, and with a muffled oath, he twisted her round in his arms and covered her mouth with his.

A thousand stars seemed to explode in her head at the touch of his lips, and she clung to him desperately as the room swung giddily about her. She realised with a pang that she had never been kissed before this moment. The boyish embraces she had endured had never felt like this, and the muscled hardness of his thighs made her overwhelmingly aware of what she was inviting.

He released her lips to bury his face in her neck, his hands tangled in her hair, and she realised he was trembling. There was a heady intoxication in the knowledge that she could arouse him in this way, and her hands burrowed beneath his sweater, finding the slightly damp skin of his back. He was so hard and male and virile, and she pressed herself closer against him, delighting in the strength of his legs against hers.

But suddenly, with a stifled oath, Jake set her free, turning away from her violently, raking back his hair with unsteady hands. He put the width of the couch between them, and then turned to look at her through tormented eyes. Rachel was shocked by his pallor, the way his eyes seemed to have sunk further into his head, and she stared at him anxiously as he made an obvious effort to behave normally.

‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘What’s wrong?’

Jake made a negative gesture. ‘I think you’d better go.’

‘Jake——’

He turned his back on her, resting his hands on the mantel above the hearth. ‘God, I need a drink!’ he muttered. Then: ‘Don’t make it any harder than it already is, Rachel. Just go!’

‘But why? Why? What have I done?’ She was confused. ‘Are you still angry with me?’

He sighed, casting a contemptuous look in her direction. ‘I think you know better than that,’ he told her heavily. He straightened, staring up at the hunting scene pictured above the fireplace. ‘I suppose I should apologise. But you asked for it.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Jake, don’t say things like that!’ she implored wretchedly. ‘I—well, I’m sorry if I—if I did something wrong, but I’ve never——’

‘That’s just it!’ he declared savagely. ‘You’ve never. But I have. And I wanted to, but God help me, I can’t!’

Rachel’s face flamed. ‘Why—why not? Or—or is that what’s wrong with you?’

A faint wave of colour entered his cheeks at her words, and she was horrified at her own audacity in voicing them. ‘Is that what you think?’ he demanded.

Rachel quivered. ‘I don’t know, do I?’

He was breathing hard. ‘Well,’ he ground out harshly, ‘not to my knowledge. But I’m not such a swine as to take advantage of a girl young enough to be my daughter!’

Rachel caught her lip between her teeth. ‘That’s what you say …’

He made a bitter sound, dragging the palms of his hands down over his thighs. ‘If you must know, I had a breakdown! I went to pieces. Couldn’t work—couldn’t sleep!’ His lips curled. ‘I was a wreck. But not impotent!’

Rachel pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. ‘I—I suppose what you’re really saying is, I—I’m not very good at it, am I?’

Jake stared at her frustratedly, and the intensity of his stare achieved its usual breath-stopping effect. Then he said flatly: ‘All right—no. You’re not very good. You’re much too inexperienced.’

The callousness of his statement robbed her of what little composure she had left. ‘Then—then why pretend it’s anything else?’ she cried tearfully, and appalled at her lack of self-control, she turned towards the door.

‘Rachel!’ His tone stopped her, containing as it did a reluctant reassurance. ‘Rachel, I am sorry, believe me. But I am too old for you.’

She swung round again, searching his features for some sign of his real feelings. ‘You’re not old,’ she exclaimed.

‘I think we both know I am,’ he said evenly. ‘And what is more, if your employer learns that you’ve been here, I run the risk of being blacklisted by the management.’

Rachel bent her head, her hair tumbling with unknowing sensuality about her shoulders. ‘I don’t believe you care what the management think,’ she retorted.

He sighed. ‘Well, accept that I care what happens to you,’ he said.

Her eyes lifted, seeking his. ‘Do you?’

‘Enough not to want to ruin your life,’ he responded crushingly. ‘But thank you for the compliment.’

‘What compliment?’

He gave her a crooked smile. ‘It’s good for my morale to know that a beautiful girl wasn’t averse to my kissing her.’

‘Oh, Jake!’

She took a step towards him, but he shook his head firmly, and she halted again.

‘Go to bed, Rachel,’ he told her roughly. ‘You’ll thank me for this one day.’

Rachel didn’t answer him. She just stood looking at him with all the hurt fervour of her untried youth, and he flung himself down on to the couch, closing his eyes against the unconscious allure of her.

‘Go away, Rachel,’ he said, and she had no choice but to obey him.

In her own room again, Rachel paced miserably about the floor. What a disastrous affair it had been! The brief elation she had felt in his arms had quickly evaporated in the aftermath, but although she knew she ought to feel grateful to him for not despoiling her innocence, she didn’t feel that way. She ached with the longings he had aroused inside her, and when she closed her eyes she could see nothing but him—his sardonic face, the long narrow fingers, and the lean muscular strength of his body. She would have stayed with him, if he had asked her to, if he had wanted her to; she would have been a willing pupil …

She was scarcely conscious of the passage of time, but a spell must have elapsed before Della came knocking at her door. Not knowing at first who it might be, Rachel quickly switched on the television and went to answer it without any of the coolness she would have liked to have possessed. The older woman’s probing stare was denigrating.

‘You haven’t taken Minstrel for his walk,’ Della stated accusingly, and Rachel blinked.

‘Minstrel?’ she echoed dazedly.

‘Yes, Minstrel.’ Della looked at her suspiciously. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ She looked beyond her into the room. ‘Have you been asleep or something? It’s half past ten, and Minstrel hasn’t had his walk. In consequence, I’ve had to call room service to come and clean up the mess.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Rachel shook her head helplessly. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late. I—I suppose I must have fallen asleep.’ She coloured at the deliberate lie. ‘I—I was watching television.’

‘Huh!’ Fortunately Della was too annoyed to notice the momentary hesitation. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you remember a dog needs exercising!’ she declared. ‘You’re not exactly worked to death, are you?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’ Rachel really was, not least because the last thing she wanted now was a row with Della. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘See that it doesn’t!’

Without even saying goodnight, Della marched away, every generous curve of her over-indulged body quivering with indignation.

Rachel closed the door again and breathed a deep sigh. She knew Della well enough to know that she had not heard the last of the matter. Her carelessness and lack of gratitude would be brought up on every occasion until her employer was satisfied that she was dutifully repentant.

Rachel didn’t sleep well, which was hardly surprising in the circumstances. Her over-stimulated body would not let her rest, and Della’s angry remarks had not in any way relieved her. Then a warm wind sprang up towards dawn which made the presence of the heating system almost unbearable.

At eight o’clock, she was up and dressed, and letting herself into Della’s suite she retrieved the excitable poodle for an early outing. Minstrel showed his gratitude by smothering her in wet doggy kisses, the abrasive lick of his tongue a balm to her troubled spirit.

The sea-front was almost deserted and as the tide was out, she went down on to the damp sand, letting Minstrel off his leash to chase madly after gulls and sandpipers searching among the debris of seaweed on the shoreline. The wind was mild, blowing as it did from the south-west, and she breathed deeply, feeling its riotous fingers through her hair.

Back at the hotel, Della was preparing to go down for breakfast. She viewed Minstrel’s sandy paws without enthusiasm, and said: ‘Don’t let him loose in here. The management apparently take a dim view of clearing up after animals.’

Accepting the implied criticism for what it was, Rachel pushed Minstrel into the bathroom and closed the door. ‘I have said I’m sorry, Della. About last night, I mean. I—I don’t know how I forgot the time.’

‘No, well, nor do I,’ remarked Della severely. ‘However … I’m going down for breakfast. Are you coming?’

Aware of Della’s reproving regard for her appearance, Rachel shook her head.

‘I’ll tidy up first,’ she said, and satisfied, Della left her to go downstairs.

When Rachel entered the dining room some fifteen minutes later, Della was wading through scrambled eggs and bacon. Rachel knew her employer preferred to start the meal without her. That way, Rachel’s own choice of grapefruit and toast did not jar so obviously with Della’s more liberal demands. She seated herself at the table and by the time her grapefruit had been consumed they were ready to start on the toast together.

Buttering the bread, Rachel could not prevent her thoughts from dwelling on what Jake might be doing at this moment. Ever since she got up, she had determinedly put all thoughts of him out of her mind, but now, with Della’s mouth briefly silenced by food, she was unable to halt the flow of emotion that engulfed her. She went over again what he had said in minute detail, wondering about the illness which had sent him here, wondering why she felt this increasing attraction towards a man who was, as he had said, undoubtedly too old for her.

She crunched impatiently at her toast, returning the Colonel’s impudent stare with less animosity than usual, and earning herself a wink from that quarter. She looked away irritably, annoyed that he should imagine she was interested in him, and Della caught the angry tightening of her lips.

‘What’s the matter with you this morning?’ she inquired, pouring herself more coffee. ‘Just because I had to chastise you about Minstrel, there’s no reason to get huffy.’

‘I’m not—huffy.’ Rachel reached for her own coffee cup, and then almost choked on its contents when the two women she and Jake had encountered on his landing the night before entered the dining room and approached their table.

Della watched her with evident impatience, and then smiled disarmingly as the two women stopped beside her. ‘Good morning.’ she said, and indicated Rachel’s discomfort with a casual wave of her hand. ‘These young people! They’re always in such a hurry.’

They both regarded Rachel without sympathy, and she wished she could dissolve into the floorboards at their feet. Then one of them said:

‘Did you have a good game last evening, Della? I heard that you and Colonel Jameson made quite a killing.’

Della flushed with pleasure. ‘Well—not exactly,’ she demurred modestly ‘But we did do rather well.’

‘Yes.’ The other woman’s eyes flickered over Rachel, recovered now and watching the interchange warily. ‘What a pity your companion doesn’t play cards. We might make up another table with Mr Allan.’

Rachel’s hands clenched together in her lap as Della said: ‘I didn’t know he played until the Colonel mentioned it. But he seems to keep very much to himself, doesn’t he?’

The two women exchanged a glance and Rachel waited for the explosion their revelations would ignite. But instead of exposing her, they agreed with Della, and then excused themselves to move to their own table.

Rachel breathed a silent sigh of relief, but Della’s next words were hardly reassuring:

‘I’m thinking of giving a small dinner party tomorrow evening, Rachel Just myself and the Colonel, and one or two others. I wonder if Mr Allan would care to join us?’

The rest of the morning passed in a rather one-sided discussion of whether Mr Yates would allow Della to use one of the smaller reception rooms for her dinner party. She got rather excited at the prospect of presiding over her own dinner table again, and it was as well that she was too absorbed with her own plans to notice Rachel’s white features.

During the afternoon, Rachel escaped from the hotel and made her own way to the dunes, some distance from the town itself. She would have welcomed Minstrel’s company, but for once Della had decided she would exercise the poodle, and had given Rachel permission to do what she liked for the afternoon. Perhaps she had seen Jake taking his solitary walks, Rachel speculated miserably. Perhaps Della hoped she might encounter him while she was out with the poodle.

It was colder now, and although the chill air was refreshing, Rachel was shivering by the time she boarded the bus back to town. She remained in her seat long after the bus had stopped at the harbour station and eventually the conductor came along the aisle to ask her whether she was feeling well.

‘What?’ Rachel stared at him without comprehension for a moment, and then realisation dawned. ‘Oh—oh, yes. I’m fine. Sorry!’

Colouring hotly, she followed him off the bus, and was aware that his eyes followed her as she hurried along the esplanade towards the hotel. She entered the lobby with her head down, and started violently when a hand closed firmly round her suede-clad arm.

‘Rachel!’ Jake’s low voice was disastrously familiar, and she looked up at him defensively, unconsciously arming herself against his unwelcome attraction. ‘Are you all right?’

He was no less disturbing to her peace of mind, and she was frightened by the knowledge that he could do this to her without any apparent self-involvement. She had never before experienced the emotions he could arouse in her, and the desire to throw herself into his arms was as potent as it was foolish. His fingers gripping her arm were painful, but she revelled in the sensation.

‘Rachel!’ When she made no immediate effort to answer him, he spoke again, glancing impatiently round the lobby, aware that no encounter in such public surroundings went unnoticed. ‘Rachel, where have you been?’

‘Walking.’ She tried to pull herself together. ‘I—how are you? It’s a cold afternoon, isn’t it? My hands are froz——’

‘Rachel!’ He said her name again as if he couldn’t bear this time-wasting small talk between them. ‘God, we can’t talk here! Come with me! We’ll walk along the front.’

But now Rachel found the strength to pull herself away from him, and moving her shoulders in a careless gesture, she said: ‘I’m sorry, Mr Allan, I can’t stop now. Della will be wondering where I am. I’ll see you some other time, I expect——’

‘Rachel!’

The smouldering darkness of his eyes had its usual effect on her knees, but she forced herself to move away from him, keeping a polite smile glued to her lips. She must not make a fool of herself now, not here, and she was very much afraid she might if he said anything more.

The distance to the lift stretched before her like the Gobi desert, but at last she was within the enclosing portals of the small cubicle which would lift her to the comparative safety of her own room. The last thing she saw as the doors closed was Jake standing where she had left him, staring after her, a curiously vulnerable expression on his lean features, and the tears overspilled her eyes.

Fortunately Della was downstairs, taking tea, and only Minstrel was there to share her misery. He was remarkably understanding for once, sensing her unhappiness and nuzzling against her comfortingly.

She managed to make some excuse to Della not to join her for dinner that evening, and had a sandwich brought up to her room. Exercising Minstrel was another matter, but although she looked about her nervously as she crossed the lobby with the poodle, there was no sign of the man who had accosted her earlier. Carl Yates was at the reception desk when she returned, however, and while she wished she could avoid him his undoubted admiration was a salve to her bruised spirit.

‘Mrs Faulkner-Stewart has got all her arrangements made for tomorrow evening,’ he told her casually, after making the excuse of fondling the animal to hinder her progress. ‘That means you’ll be free for the evening, doesn’t it?’

‘I expect so,’ Rachel answered cautiously, disentangling the poodle’s lead from around her jean-clad legs. ‘Stand still, Minstrel!’

Carl straightened. ‘I wondered if you’d come out with me,’ he murmured, low enough so the girl at the reception desk could not hear him. ‘How about it?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I—well, I don’t go out much,’ she said awkwardly.

‘Perhaps you should,’ he suggested, his usual assurance daunted. ‘You need a change.’

Rachel made an apologetic gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I—I’m not sure what Mrs Faulkner-Stewart will want me to do.’

‘Then let me know,’ remarked Carl at once, seizing on her indecision. ‘We could go to a club I know. Have a meal … dance. There’s no need to make a booking at this time of the year.’

Rachel wanted to refuse, but something stopped her, and with a half-reassuring smile she left him, walking away towards the lift without giving him chance to say anything more.

Della was waiting for her next morning when she entered the suite to take Minstrel for his pre-breakfast gallop along the beach. It was unusual for the older woman to be up and dressed so spontaneously, but the reason for her eagerness was soon made apparent.

‘About tonight’s dinner party——’ she began, and Rachel resigned herself for a long monologue. ‘There’ll be eight of us in all. The Colonel, of course, and Mr and Mrs Strange. Then, there’s Miss Hardy and Mrs King …’

Rachel tucked her trembling hands into the pockets of her jeans. She scarcely knew the Stranges, who were the second half of the bridge four. An elderly couple, they always seemed engrossed in their game, and paid little attention to anyone who didn’t play. But the names of the two women who had seen her with Jake still had the power to send a shiver of apprehension down her spine. Nevertheless, it was Della’s next words which caused her the most distress:

‘And finally myself … and Mr Allan! Yes,’ this as Rachel’s lips parted involuntarily, ‘he’s agreed to join us. Isn’t that wonderful? I expect we’ll have a bridge tournament later, now that we have eight players.’

Rachel turned away, pretending to search for Minstrel’s lead, anything to conceal her tormented expression from Della’s probing gaze. How could he, she thought despairingly, how could he? And why now? When in the past he had avoided contact with anyone?

‘Well?’ Della expected some response. ‘Haven’t you anything to say? Like—congratulations, for example?’

‘Congratulations?’ Rachel echoed blankly, schooling her features. ‘I’m afraid I——’

‘You know what a recluse Mr Allan has been,’ exclaimed Della irritably. ‘Don’t you think it’s significant that he’s agreed to join my dinner party?’

‘Oh, I see.’ Rachel strove for control. ‘I—well, yes. You—you’ve been very fortunate.’

‘That’s what Miss Hardy said,’ remarked Della, frowning. ‘Although I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that myself. After all, it’s obvious he’s a man of the world, well used to the society I can offer. It’s natural that as two—sophisticates—in what is without question an unsophisticated gathering, we should have certain things in common.’

Rachel grasped Minstrel’s lead like a lifeline. ‘You—you could be right,’ she managed tightly. ‘I gather you won’t be—needing me this evening.’

‘No. No.’ Della could afford to be expansive. ‘You go ahead and do whatever you want to do, my dear.’ She paused. ‘I’ll want you to do my hair beforehand, of course, but after that …’

Rachel nodded. ‘All right. Now, shall I take Minstrel for his walk?’

Della looked as if she would have liked to say more. She was probably put out by a lack of interest on her part, thought Rachel wearily, but she couldn’t pretend an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. Her whole being throbbed with indignation at this deliberate attempt on Jake’s part to show her the differences between them, not only physically but socially, and she despised herself for still feeling the pain of his betrayal. It was like he had said. They were worlds apart, and no doubt Della would be willing to satisfy him with far more success than she had had.

She half hoped she would see Jake as she took Minstrel out of the hotel, but of course she didn’t. The only person she encountered was Carl Yates, and on impulse she did something she would never have done otherwise. She deliberately attracted his attention, and when he came to join her she said:

‘Is your offer still open for this evening, Mr Yates?’

‘Carl,’ he averred. Then: ‘You know it is.’

‘Good.’ Rachel’s lips found smiling a difficult task. ‘What time shall we leave?’

Carl inclined his head towards her. ‘Seven? Seven-thirty?’

‘We’d better make it seven-thirty,’ she said, remembering Della’s hair. ‘I’ll meet you here, shall I?’

Carl nodded. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Rachel kept her smile in place, and strolled away, with what she hoped was casual assurance, towards the doors, but once outside the cold air against her hot face brought a flush of anxiety to her cheeks. She hoped Carl wouldn’t think she was forward. She had never done anything like this before. Somehow, since meeting Jake Allan, she had done a lot of things she had never done before.




CHAPTER FOUR (#u2c6b0d84-4bee-512e-9b6c-4bf1e108b22c)


DELLA dressed with extra care for her dinner party. Her gown of oyster pink chiffon floated about her plump figure with a flattering lack of definition, and the jewels that surrounded her neck, and hung with such vulgarity from her ears and fingers, denoted a richness seldom seen at the Tor Court. Her coiffure must be right, too, and Rachel’s fingers were aching by the time she had twisted and coaxed Della’s coarse hair into a becoming style.

‘You really are getting rather good,’ Della complimented her grudgingly when she had finished, turning her head this way and that to view the style from all angles.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/anne-mather/a-trial-marriage/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.