CHAPTER TWO
Romily hardly had time to spare a thought for James Gordon over the next two busy weeks. Once or twice, when she was helping Gerald to decorate the bar—not in tartan but in a pleasant pale green wallpaper—she did remember his antipathy and wonder if he would do as he said and come down to see her; she wouldn't have been human if she hadn't thought about the incident, but he didn't phone or make any attempt to follow up the pass he'd made at her. Probably he did the same to every halfway good-looking girl he met, she thought wryly and put him out of her mind to concentrate on getting the hotel ready to open on time.
Her worries about her brother and sister-in-law's relationship happily seemed to be groundless. Admittedly, Carol started to panic because there was still so much to do, but her anxiety strangely made Gerald calmer and more capable. 'Don't worry,' he kept telling her. 'It will be all right.'
But these guests who're coming are Americans; they expect such a high standard. And if they're not happy, they'll tell their travel agent and we'll get a bad name before we start.'
'No we won't. They'll only have to sample Romily's cooking and they won't want to leave,' her husband soothed.
'But we've got to buy lampshades for their rooms yet and I've got to collect those curtains for the TV room from the cleaners in Inverness, and I still haven't finished making these cushion covers,' Carol said distractedly.
Romily exchanged a quick glance with Gerald and climbed down from the step-ladder she'd been using to hang the drapes on a half-tester bed. 'I'll go and get them for you, if you like. I wouldn't mind a look round Inverness; I haven't been there yet.'
'Oh dear, so you haven't. Yes, of course you must go. And stay and see a film or something. I'm sorry, we've been working you much too hard,' said Carol in immediate concern.
'I didn't mean that,' Romily protested, somehow feeling guilty for having said anything. 'Make a list of whatever you want in the town and I'll get everything I can.'
It would have been easy just to have changed into clean jeans and a sweater but Romily was a fashion- conscious girl and it seemed ages since she'd worn any decent clothes, so she put on a pair of leather boots and her new white coat bought for that winter, and with the main intention of impressing Richard. Romily had hardly worn it, but it was stupid just to let it hang in the cupboard because it reminded her of what might have been. Most of her clothes, anyway, she'd worn when she'd been out with Richard at some time or other. And some of them he'd even taken off her.
The day was cold but at least it wasn't raining. Romily got into her car which was still standing where she'd left it on the day she had arrived. She had some difficulty in starting the engine, but eventually it fired and she set off up the driveway and on to the road. It was one of the one-lane Highland roads which widened out into passing places every hundred yards and you had to go along it about three miles through heather-covered moorland before it reached another, larger road leading into Inverness, about ten miles away. There were a few other tracks leading off the narrow road, going up to foresters' huts and one or two hill farms, but Romily didn't pass any other vehicles as she drove along. She skirted a big pothole in the road and had only gone a few yards further when the car began to pull over to one side as the steering suddenly felt squashy under her hands.
'Oh, no, not a puncture!' Romily managed to reach a passing place and pulled up. She was right, the offside rear wheel was completely flat. 'Oh, hell!' Hopefully she looked round for a farmhouse or some other sign of habitation, but there wasn't a house in sight. And heaven knows how far the nearest garage is, she thought resentfully, even if she could walk there in her high heels. And it was nearly two miles back to the hotel, so that was out too. She looked wryly down at her white coat. So much for dressing up; she'd have been better off if she'd stuck to jeans. And she was wearing an equally good skirt underneath that she didn't intend to ruin by changing the wheel, but it seemed that she was going to have to if she wanted to get to Inverness.
Thinking that if she'd been in London she would have had half a dozen offers of help by now, Romily opened the boot and took out the spare wheel. That at least was OK, but she had a job to find the tools which had somehow been left loose and found their way down all sorts of crevices. She eventually found them and then took off her coat, the wind immediately striking at her and making her shiver.
With a curse, Romily hitched up her skirt and bent to loosen the wheel nuts, but they were stuck tight and she had to put an attachment on the tool and stand on it before she could get the first one loose. As she was doing so another car came round the bend behind her and stopped a few feet away.
'Don't you know you could break an ankle doing that.' James Gordon remarked as he got out of his car and strolled up to her.
Romily frowned at him. 'The nuts are jammed so light it's the only way I can loosen them.' She became aware of his eyes travelling appreciatively up her legs and quickly stepped back on to the ground and pulled her skirt down. 'How about exerting a little masculine strength and undoing them for me? Just to save me breaking an ankle, of course.'
He gave a lazy grin. 'Well, they are extremely shapely ankles; I should hate to see one in plaster.' And he walked over to look at the wheel, then squatted down to loosen the nuts, his strong wrists having little difficulty with them. He fixed the jack in place and then looked up at her. 'Er—I take it the handbrake is on?'
Romily gave him a cool look. 'I do know how to change a wheel!'
With a raised eyebrow he said in mock admiration, 'You city girls, so independent! I expect you'd like to finish the job now that I've loosened the nuts lor you.' And he began to straighten up.
'Oh, I wouldn't dream of depriving you of your good deed for the day. Besides, I expect it makes you feel good to come to the rescue of ladies in distress.'
James laughed. 'An answer for everything, haven't you?' But he bent once again to change the wheel.
Going round the other side of the car, Romily gave a quick look to make doubly certain that she did have the handbrake on, then wiped her hands on a paper tissue before putting her coat on, glad to get back into its protective warmth.
'There, that should do it.' James tightened the last nut and stood up. 'Don't forget to get the puncture mended as soon as you can.' He put the wheel in the boot, then went over to his own car to get a rag and stood looking at her as he wiped his hands. 'Going far?'
'Into Inverness.'
'You pass a garage on the way in. They should be able to fix it for you while you do your shopping.' He smiled. 'You know, you still haven't told me your name.'
'Haven't I? Sorry. It's Romily Bennion.'
His hands stilled. 'Bennion?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'The couple who own Abbot's Craig now are called Bennion, aren't they?' he asked, his blue eyes intent on her face.
'Yes. Gerald Bennion is my brother.'
Slowly, he began to wipe the dirt off his hands again. 'I see. I didn't realise.' For a moment he sounded slightly abstracted, but then he said, 'Have you got much to do in town?'
'Quite a bit. Carol—that's my sister-in-law—has quite a lot she wants me to get. But I was forgetting; you know her, don't you?'
Again his eyes seemed to be fixed on her face. 'I think we have met a few times, but it was a long time ago. Why, did she say we knew each other?'
If she answered that truthfully Romily would have to admit that she'd talked about meeting him, but for some perverse reason she didn't feel like giving him that satisfaction, so she merely said, 'I don't believe they've ever mentioned you; I just thought that as you were next-door neighbours you were bound to have known one another.'
James gave an easy laugh. 'The two places are over a mile apart—hardly next door! And it's quite possible not to run into one another for months on end. I don't think I saw Carol's father during the last three years of his life.'
He seemed to find this perfectly natural, but to Romily it sounded distinctly odd—or an
ti-social. But perhaps people didn't mix very much in the Highlands. Although this particular man didn't appear to be very anti-social, in fact it was pretty obvious that he at least mixed with female company. Almost as if to prove her point, he gave her one of his devastatingly charming smiles and said, 'If you're going to be in Inverness all day, how about having lunch with me? I have some business to do this morning, but we could meet about one, if that would suit you.'
Romily hesitated, recognising a danger signal, but then gave a mental shrug. So what? She didn't know anyone else around here and one lunch couldn't do any harm. Besides, she was curious about him. But only as a person, not as a man. 'All right. Where?'
'I'd better meet you at the Tourist Information Office; you'll find it easily enough. And I'll follow you to the garage in case you have another puncture.'
'OK. Thanks.'
Romily got into her car and started off again, driving more carefully than she would normally have done if James's big car hadn't been behind her, but she reached the garage safely and turned into it, James giving her a toot on his horn as he swept by. Afterwards, she followed the detailed instructions that Carol had given and found the central car park and the shops she wanted without difficulty. Compared to London, Inverness was a doddle, there was so little of it, just one new shopping precinct and a few streets around it, and most of those seemed to contain more Highland souvenir shops than anything else.
As she did her shopping, making several trips back to the car to leave the purchases, Romily was aware of people turning to look at her, and realised that she was more smartly dressed than most of the girls she saw. But then there were only a few fashion shops in the town, nowhere near as many as there were in only one street in Central London. Although she didn't know it, Romily also drew people's eyes to her because of her tall, slim figure and attractive good looks. Whereas in London she would hardly have stood out among the thousands of good- looking girls who lived and worked there, here she rated more than a second glance from both men and women.
She had already noted the Tourist Information Office and at five to one made her way towards it. James was already there, waiting outside, on the other side of the street. He saw her almost at once and watched her as she walked with a brisk stride, her head held high and her coat swinging loosely from her shoulders. Even on this dull day her hair had the sheen of a rich new chestnut straight from the shell, and there was an aura of youth and vitality about her that made him the envy of several men who saw her go across to meet him.
He reached to take the parcel she was carrying from her. 'You didn't buy very much.'
'Oh, but I did. I took everything else back to the car.'
She fell into step beside him as he began to walk towards the High Street. 'What do you think of Inverness?' he asked her.
Romily shrugged. 'It's OK, I suppose.'
'Which means you're not impressed. I shall have to show you the castle and King Duncan's well.'
Her mind cringing at the thought, Romily said, 'Look, I've seen the Tower of London and St Paul's Cathedral, OK? That's enough to last anybody a lifetime.'
James burst into laughter, causing several people to turn round and look at them. 'You Philistine! What did you come to the Highlands for, if you don't want to see the place?'
Letting that one go, Romily quickly changed the subject. 'Where are we going to eat? Is it far?'
'No, just down that road over there.' Putting a firm hand under her elbow, James guided her across the busy High Street.
Immediately they were across Romily freed her arm and moved away from him. She had liked being treated like a piece of fragile porcelain once, but now she preferred to make her own way, even if it was only across the street.
'Here it is: the first wine-bar in the Highlands. I hope the cooking comes up to your standards.'
It was a pleasant enough place on two levels and it had the usual wine-bar arrangement of asking for what you wanted at the counter and carrying it back to your table yourself. The food was quite good, though, and there was a choice of two or three hot dishes as well as several salads. They started with soup which was welcome after walking around in the cold, and James ordered a bottle of wine to go with it.
'You didn't answer my question,' James reminded her as he filled her glass. 'What brought you up to Scotland?'
Romily frowned; she'd thought she'd ducked that one, but she said offhandedly, 'When my brother decided to turn Abbot's Craig into a hotel he needed a cook, so he asked me to join them.'
'And do you have much experience?'
She gave him a cool look. 'I won't poison the guests, if that's what you mean.'
He grinned. 'Not at all. I just wondered if this was your first professional job as a cook.'
'No, I've worked in other places. And I do have all the necessary diplomas.'
'Where did you work?'
'In London.' Romily took a sip of her wine and deliberately changed the subject. 'I'm surprised they don't have any traditional Scottish dishes on the menu here. Have they all died out? Carol doesn't know any, but then she never did much cooking when she lived in Scotland before.'
'No, she wouldn't have. Her father kept two or three servants.'
Romily looked at him in quick surprise; from the way he'd spoken before it had seemed that he hardly knew Carol's family, and yet he knew how many staff they had employed. But he was speaking again and the thought went out of her head. 'As for traditional dishes, Scotland has dozens of them, everything from bannocks to Arbroath smokies.' He grinned at her look of incomprehension and explained, 'That's oatcakes and smoked haddock to you Sassenachs.'
'That's the kind of thing I want,' Romily said eagerly. 'Where can I find someone who knows all those dishes?'
'You seriously want to know?' James's left eyebrow rose slightly as if he didn't quite believe her.
'Yes, of course. The people who will be staying at the hotel will mostly be tourists; I think they'll appreciate having real Scottish dishes on the menu. Don't you?'
'I'm sure they will. Can't you get the recipes from a book?'
'I suppose so,' Romily admitted, 'but it's much better to talk to someone who's made them, if you can. You learn all the little tips that way.'
After looking down at his plate for a moment, James lifted his head and said, 'Maybe I do know someone who might be able to help you—our old cook. She's retired now and lives with her grandson in a cottage near the castle. If I asked her, she would probably talk to you, but whether she would pass on any of her culinary secrets, I don't know.'
'That's marvellous,' Romily said eagerly. 'When can I talk to her?'
He laughed. 'Tomorrow, if you like. What time are you free in the evening?'
'I could probably get away about eight.'
'All right, I'll meet you at the top of the lane leading down to Abbot's Craig at eight and take you to meet her.'
'OK. Thanks.' Romily was a little puzzled by his not offering to come down to the house to pick her up, but then remembered that he was so against turning the place into a hotel. Maybe it was better that he didn't run into Carol or Gerald in case he couldn't resist letting them know his views and they had a row.
They talked then of other things, of the climate, the growth of the tourist industry and the lack of night life for young people. And leading quite casually it seemed from this, James said, 'I suppose you had quite a busy social life in London, or did you have to work every evening?'
'No, I did a sort of shift; some weeks I worked in the evenings, others during the day.'
'So you had plenty of opportunity for dates?'
Romily picked up her glass and drank. 'Yes, I suppose so,' she said shortly. 'Could I have some more wine, please?'
'Of course.' James filled her glass again and she noticed that he had good hands, long-fingered and strong, the nails well-manicured. 'And didn't you mind leaving all that behind? Your boyfriends, I mean. Or don't you have a current boyfriend?'
She raised cha
llenging eyes to meet his. 'I hardly think you're really interested in my social life, Mr Gordon.'
'James,' he countered her. 'And you're wrong— I'm beginning to be very much interested in your— social life,' he told her softly, his blue eyes taking up the challenge and holding hers in a steady gaze.
Instinct told her to give him an immediate brush- off, but there was something in that returned look that made her hesitate until it was too late. Her eyes dropped. 'No,' she said quietly, 'I don't have anyone.'
Maybe she gave something away in her tone, because he gave her a quick, assessing look, but then started talking about the local theatre. 'And there are very good theatre and concert facilities at Pitlochry,' he went on.
'Is that near here?'
'No, it's further south. You can go to a concert there and travel back the same night, but I find it more comfortable to stay overnight.' He paused. 'You will be getting a day off once the hotel gets going, won't you?'
But that was going too far too fast for Romily. Repressively, she said, 'I very much doubt it. The cooking will be entirely in my hands, so unless there's a few days when we don't have any guests I shall be working every day.'
'That sounds like slave labour. I'm sure there must be a law against anyone working seven days a week.'
Romily gave a small smile of amusement. 'Not in the hotel trade. But we're only doing breakfast and evening dinner, so I shall probably have a few hours off during the day.'
'Good, then maybe we'll be able to do this again some time.'
'Oh, but I…' Her hasty refusal died when she saw only casual politeness in his face and realised that she was seeing him again tomorrow anyway. 'Perhaps,' she returned offhandedly.
'When do you intend to open?'
'At Easter. We have four couples booked in for that weekend.'
'That's in less than two weeks, isn't it? Will you be ready in time?'
'Oh, yes,' Romily answered in a completely assured tone, but with her fingers crossed under the table. 'We're just putting the finishing touches to the flat Carol and Gerald have converted for their own use.'
Sally Wentworth - Tiger in His Lair Page 3
