by Anne Mather
‘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 te
levision 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
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.’
