Fire Under Snow

by Dorothy Vernon

  FIRE UNDER

  SNOW

  Dorothy Vernon

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471311970

  Copyright © 1981 by Dorothy Vernon

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter One

  It all reopened so very quietly. When Lorraine’s friend Jessica asked her if she’d care to join a party of girls on a night out the following Thursday, she was delighted to accept. Thursday was her birthday, although neither Jessica nor any of the other girls in the office where they both worked knew this. Not wanting any fuss, she decided to keep the knowledge to herself, but she would secretly look on the outing as a birthday celebration.

  Lorraine’s appearance gave the impression of amazing self-confidence. It was an illusion, the opposite being more in keeping with the truth. The dainty perfection of her features and the allure of her slender yet shapely body failed to give her confidence. It had not always been so. Once she had been proud-walking, swinging through life with her chin high and fully aware of her exceptional beauty.

  Three years ago she had been involved in something that had caused her much distress; something she still couldn’t think about rationally, which had temporarily robbed her of her looks and seemed to have stolen her confidence for all time. It was odd, because she could look in a mirror and see that the scars that had marred her face were gone. Her hands were smooth and supple, no longer mutilated. Yet she couldn’t accept it. She still felt scarred and ugly. Perhaps subconsciously she didn’t want to accept it because handsome looks had become linked in her mind with a less handsome character. Jamie had had the face of an angel. To her deep grief she had found it to be a façade concealing a callous and indifferent nature. Jamie had proved himself to be a weakling and a coward. How was she to know, when she accepted Jessica’s invitation, that she was reopening that black chapter in her life?

  Even when Jessica named The Black Cat, a nightclub famed for attracting big-name artists, as their destination, no shadow fell to dull her happiness. Certainly no involuntary shiver of apprehension touched her as she mentally reviewed her wardrobe and decided the occasion called for an evening gown, a frivolity she’d had no cause to indulge in for a long time.

  Jessica, who adored spending money irrespective of whether it was her own or someone else’s, insisted on accompanying her on her spending spree. Again she was happy to have her friend’s company, thinking she would offer gentle guidance and practical assistance. She had failed to take into account, however, Jessica’s overwhelming personality. Later, on Thursday evening itself, when she zipped herself into the cling-fit jersey dress, she thought she must have been crazy to allow herself to be talked into buying it. She hadn’t taken much interest in her appearance at the time, allowing Jessica and the equally enthusiastic sales assistant to be her mirror. The dress, virginal white and classically simple, had appealed to her because of its unassuming quality when it was displayed on its dress hanger. Her body molded it into a different proposition altogether. It was a show-off dress, a dress that compelled the eye and refused to slink into obscurity, the kind of dress she would have worn with panache in the old days.

  The club was packed to suffocating capacity. She couldn’t even claim to be cold and had to relinquish her coat to the cloakroom attendant, along with the coats and wraps of her friends. Her eye caught the larger-than-life-size portrait of the star of the show. Her consternation about the dress was suddenly forgotten in the face of this new torment of infinitely greater magnitude. In any case, the dress didn’t look all that conspicuous in these surroundings. Amid so many slinkily and skimpily clad females, it was neither outrageous nor all that eye-catching.

  As they went in search of their table, Jessica touched her arm and asked in kindly concern, “Are you all right, Lorraine? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She hadn’t seen him yet, the ghost from her past. Catching sight of his picture like that had been sufficient to blanch her features.

  “I didn’t know that Jamie Gray was topping the bill.”

  “Really? How odd.” Odd that she didn’t know? Odd that it should have this effect on her? She must be careful. “The office has been buzzing with it and it’s been in all the newspapers. We were tremendously lucky to get tickets at such short notice. A cancellation, I believe.”

  “I’ve got all his records,” one of the girls said dreamily.

  “I’m so excited,” another said, “I don’t know how I’m going to wait until he comes on. He doesn’t make his appearance until the end of the second half of the show. They say he comes down among the audience and some girls even get to kiss him. I’ll die if he picks me.”

  “You’re too young to die,” Jessica said dryly, “so it’s probably just as well our table is so far back. He’ll never get past the she-wolves in the first three rows.”

  Lorraine let out a slow sigh of relief. A less pleased member of the party, Claire, said querulously, “Why couldn’t we have got a table at the front?”

  “Because we didn’t decide soon enough, silly. We only found out about” – Jessica’s eyes rested mischievously on Lorraine – “you know,” she said mysteriously, although Lorraine realized by the looks the others exchanged that she was the only one mystified.

  She sank lower in her seat. Surely they couldn’t have found out about that? She had changed her job and kept her past strictly to herself.

  At the time, Aunt Leonora had wanted her to make her home with her in Kittiwake Bay, but she had resisted the temptation to go to the cottage for some “home spoiling,” knowing it was best for her to cling to her independence. She had been hurt, yes. But she would survive. She had to. In a way she had been glad that her father hadn’t lived to witness the tragedy. And yet, as her mother had predeceased her father by several years, it had thrown an unfair burden on Aunt Leonora, her mother’s sister, who was young enough in outlook to be her contemporary and who had been her mainstay, her devoted companion and friend.

  She would never have got through those dark days without her. She had a lot to be grateful to her for. Never once had she said, “I told you so,” although it must have crossed her mind that, had Lorraine listened to her counsel, the tragedy wouldn’t have happened. Aunt Leonora had seen through Jamie from the first, and she had advised her to tread with caution. But twenty, as she had been then, isn’t noted for being a cautious age. Her youth, coupled with an impulsive and headstrong nature, made it inevitable that she follow the dictates of her heart and suffer the consequences.

  It did not help that her heart had played her false. It had not been as totally committed as it had led her to believe. It had healed before her pride. It had been a bitter healing, a destroying healing, taking her sweet and trusting nature and leaving her with an unattractive wariness that was often taken for aloofness. She found it difficult to respond to kindly overtures and didn’t blame people for not bothering with her. She was deeply i
ndebted to Jessica for persevering with her friendship.

  Jessica was a beautifully uncomplicated, forthright type of girl. The same age as Lorraine – twenty-three – she had taken her under her wing, indoctrinating her in office matters, helping her to find a small, reasonably priced apartment.

  When she first met Jessica the scars had been very much in evidence. Meeting new people at that time was always an ordeal. They reacted in one or more of the following ways: with horror, with embarrassment or with feigned indifference. Not so Jessica. “What happened? Were you in a car crash, fire, or what?” No revulsion, no embarrassment, just kindly interest.

  “A fire.”

  “I take it you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Not anymore. I don’t want to rake over the dead ash. I want to forget.”

  “He must have been a rat.”

  “Who must?”

  “You’re telling me there isn’t more to it than you’re giving out? If I poked around in the ashes, it’s a certainty I’d find some guy at the heart of the matter.”

  “I evicted him from my heart some time ago.”

  “If you say so,” her friend had replied, a disbelieving look on her face.

  She came back to the present to hear Jessica say, “I like to get here early. You can see who’s coming in. Don’t look around” – giving the cue for a swivel of heads because not one of them, including Lorraine, could resist the provocative temptation of sneaking a look – “but here comes Noel Britton.”

  “Who is Noel Britton?” Lorraine asked.

  “The owner of this nightclub and also the head of the N. J. Britton Recording Company. He operates under the Best of Britton label and he’s got Jamie Gray, plus the cream of the recording artists, under contract.”

  “Impressive,” Lorraine conceded.

  “His achievements? Or the man himself?” Jessica challenged. “And the only Mrs. Britton is his mother.”

  He was tall, standing head and shoulders above most men, with a lean, loose-limbed virility that would dress well in casual jeans but could never look more impressive than now in immaculate evening clothes. His thick black hair had a blue sheen under the wreathing cigar and cigarette smoke. His features were strong – hard was the word that flung itself into her mind – the deeply suntanned skin tight over the angular bones, the hint of sensuality about the mouth providing no saving grace as it added to the impression of strength rather than detracting from it.

  He was smoking a cigar. He drew it from his lips and a perfect ring formed above his head. It took just the time his steel-gray eyes rested on her for Lorraine to know that the smoke halo was not symbolic of sainthood. His glance, without warmth and filled with contempt at being stared at by a party of girls, was more searing than the flames that had scarred her flesh three years ago. How could a passing stranger have this effect on her? How could she feel so scorched?

  Now that his patronizing eyes were turned from her, her own unashamedly followed his descent down a series of steps – the back tables were set on raised levels to provide a better view of the stage – until he reached his off-center, front table.

  The resident band took over from the canned music that had been blaring from the loudspeakers. The compère’s opening gags were corny, predictable and definitely risqué, yet were delivered in a pleasing style that obviously made him a well-liked figure at The Black Cat. Or “The Mucky Moggy,” as he, Shane Peters, called it.

  He wisecracked for several minutes, warming up the crowd, and then vacated the stage as the Kittens, The Black Cat’s tall, leggy dancing troupe, bounded on stage to wolf whistles as skirts flounced up to show a frilly garter or a peep of white thigh above a black stocking top. A female vocalist came on next, then a comedian, followed by the return of Shane Peters to introduce the audience participation spot.

  Anyone who had a birthday, retirement, wedding anniversary and so forth to celebrate, and whose name had been previously handed in to reception, was invited to go up on the stage for a chat and to receive a bouquet of flowers or a bottle of champagne. As the spotlight centered on those called up, Lorraine was pleased she hadn’t mentioned that it was her birthday to Jessica. It was just the sort of thing Jessica reveled in, and she would have been hard pressed to resist the temptation of giving in her name.

  The spotlight ran across the room to pinpoint a pretty dark-haired girl who was on a night out to celebrate her forthcoming marriage. She stood up and waved before going up on the stage. Next came a newly engaged couple who went up holding hands, happy smiles on their faces. A camera clicked to record their proud moment. A silver anniversary pair followed them, also sweetly holding hands.

  “And now we have a birthday girl,” Shane Peters announced. “A young lady by the name of Lorraine. Where are you, Lorraine?”

  Lorraine – no surname. Even as she stiffened, she told herself she was being silly. Someone else who was called Lorraine was also celebrating her birthday. Even so, she held her breath as she waited for him to call out the table number so that the spotlight could pick out the birthday girl.

  The table number was the one she was sitting at. Her worst fears founded, her eyes flashed to Jessica, whose smug smile proclaimed her the culprit. How could she do this to her? How had she found out? The spotlight swooped and drenched her in its beam.

  “I think our birthday girl is shy. How about a round of applause to encourage the little lady?”

  Shane Peters said, putting his own hands together.

  The other participants had all been good sports; every one of them had cheerfully entered into the spirit of the thing. There was no way she could gracefully duck out of this ordeal. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said to Jessica in a muttered aside as she rose to her feet.

  The spotlight marked her progress down the steps. She held her chin high and kept her eyes front until she reached the stage. It was raised, obviously mounted by steps. Everyone else had seemed to know automatically the point to make for. In her acute self-consciousness she was less perceptive and faltered. ,

  “To your left, Lorraine,” Shane Peters instructed.

  Even as her brain worked out which way was left, a hand like an electric charge cupped her elbow, guiding her the right way. She looked up to thank the man who had jumped to her rescue, and the words dried in her mouth. Yet why was she surprised to see it was Noel Britton? Hadn’t the instinctive reaction of her skin to his touch identified him as the disturbing stranger?

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  He nodded curtly in acknowledgement, but his steel-gray eyes were kindly and not contemptuous. His hand left her elbow, leaving her feeling strangely deserted and alone even though Shane Peters’s hand was reaching down to assist her the rest of the way.

  “Don’t be nervous. Shane will look after you.”

  From a distance, by his style of dress and the way he did his hair, the show’s compère could be mistaken for a much younger man. Close up, it was a shock to realize that his age couldn’t be much short of fifty.

  “That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing. Isn’t she a little firecracker, folks? I understand it’s your birthday today. How old are you, darling?”

  “Twenty-three.” He was holding the microphone too far away, and it came out as a whisper.

  “Speak up, darling. I can’t hear you.”

  “Twenty-three.” This time he brought the microphone up close and she appeared to be shouting.

  “That’s a lovely age to be. I wish I were twenty-three. Still” – his eyes danced with mischief – “I can wait.”

  He gave the cue to the stagehand to come on with a bouquet of flowers, which he took from the youth and handed to Lorraine. “Happy birthday, darling. Do I get a little kiss?” he inquired impishly.

  She knew she was being maneuvered for laughs, but she wasn’t quick enough to do anything about it. He had deliberately put the flowers in her hands at an awkward angle. He leaned forward to kiss her and stopped. “This could be dangerous,�
� he said, carefully pointing the stalks the other way. The audience loved it. They rocked in their seats with laughter. Shane Peters bent to kiss her and squeezed her hand in token apology as if to say, “It’s only a bit of fun.” Then she was allowed to leave the stage.

  A hand came up to assist her down the steps. The tingle in her fingertips told her it belonged to Noel Britton.

  Once again she thanked him for his kindness.

  He said, “Would I be right in thinking you feel too much in the public eye as it is and that it would prolong the agony if I invited you to my table for a drink?”

  “Yes, you would be right.”

  “Later, perhaps?” he said, his left eyebrow flaring in speculation.

  “I think not. Thank you all the same, Mr. Britton.”

  “You have the advantage of me.” Her green-flecked eyes challenged that. No one would ever have an advantage over Noel Britton. “I know you are called Lorraine, but I don’t know your full name.”

  Smiling coolly, she said, “That’s all right. I do.”

  He wasn’t used to women withholding things from him. Their names ... their bodies. The hand that had provided welcome assistance down the steps now was unwelcomely tight around her arm, a steel trap that would not free her until she gave him what he wanted.

  There was no other way. She could have stood up against his greater physical strength and his iron will, but, as if the odds weren’t already weighted in his favor, he had on his side the enthralled attention of every eye in the club, or so it seemed to Lorraine as she squirmed in embarrassment.

  She surrendered her name with a dignified lift of her pointed little chin. “Lorraine Marshall.” It secured her release. As she walked away from the tall, distinguished-looking figure, it was not all the other eyes she was most conscious of, but his eyes. Gray eyes that had regarded her with undisguised interest. Were they following her now to derive the last scrap of amusement? The cruel clamp on her arm had provided the clue. He was the type who would delight in this kind of taunting.