"Piffle! Zere are lost of other florists he can go to, though I must say his boss seems to regard zis hotel as his particular hunting ground. Ah, how wonderful to be hunted by a man like Lance Hammond!" Jacqueline's eyes rolled with ecstasy. "What wouldn't I give to be one of his girl friends — even if only for a week." She began to mince up and down the shop. "What presents I would receive! Jewels from Cartier, dresses from Dior and flowers for every single hour of ze day!" She swung round and looked at Rose mischievously. "It is a wonderful dream, is it not?"
"Yes," Rose said shortly. "And a pretty rude awakening you'd get too. He's never been known to stick to one girl longer than a month!"
"That is where you are wrong. Have you forgotten Enid
Walters?"
Rose frowned. She remembered hearing the name al- thought she could not remember in what context.
"Isn't she a socialite or something?"
The French girl nodded and placing a cellophane lid over the box of gladioli tied a silver bow across it to hold it in position.
"She's the only girl ever to dangle ze great Lance Hammond on a string. And how she dangle him! Cannes, St. Moritz, Deauville, London, New York — wherever zere's ze social set zere is Enid Walters. And for the past year wherever Enid Walters go, Lance follow."
"Well, he hasn't done much following for the past five weeks," Rose retorted.
"Zat is where you are wrong." The elfin French face was triumphant. "You do not read the gossip columns, Rose. Lance is crazy for Enid and she's arriving in Cannes today — and staying in our hotel. I bet they will be engaged before the end of the week."
"Well, we can look forward to having masses of flowers to deliver to her then," Rose said and picking up the box of gladioli carried it down the arcade, telling Jacqueline over her shoulder that she would deliver it herself.
Across the vestibule she went and disregarding the lift, mounted the stairs to the first floor suite occupied by Mr. Patton and his newest wife. He opened the door at her knock and took the flowers with a beaming smile. Fat and in his sixties, he was so much like the caricature of a worked-his-way-up-from-the-bottom American millionaire that Rose had to hide a smile every time she saw him.
"Thanks, my dear," he said with a broad accent as he took the flowers from her. "I was going to send a bellboy down to collect them. You shouldn't have bothered bringing them up yourself."
"That's perfectly all right," Rose said. "The bell-boys are rather busy this afternoon and I knew you wanted the flowers delivered before your wife got back from the hairdresser."
She backed away hastily before he could proffer her a dollar bill and was half way down stairs when she saw a commotion in the entrance. A crowd of people were gathered there and a bevy of page-boys marched across the lobby carrying a stack of pale pigskin cases. Following them was one of the most beautiful girls Rose had ever seen. She was tall and elegantly thin with smooth hair dyed a fashionable silver blonde and worn in the current smooth fashion, the ends wisping up in delicate fronds as it touched her shoulders. Although she had obviously just arrived there was no sign of the weary traveller about her, no speck of dirt on the simple yet beautifully cut white suit or white shoes that graced the narrow pointed feet. The procession reached the lifts and the girl stopped.
"If I'm on the first floor I might as well walk up," she said in a husky voice and, escorted by the under-manager, she moved towards the stairs. Quickly Rose hurried down them and as she passed the girl found herself staring into a pair of green, almond-shaped eyes fringed with dark lashes.
So this was the beautiful Enid Walters. Not a word of praise of her beauty had been exaggerated. No wonder Lance Hammond was in love with her. She was exactly the sort of girl Rose would have expected him to fall in love with — elegant, assured and moneyed. Wondering at the irrational resentment within her, Rose returned to the shop.
Every time the door opened she expected to see Alan, but when five o'clock arrived and he had still not come, she realized that his boss obviously did not intend to send flowers to any other girl now that Miss Walters had put in her appearance. Yet Alan had left her with the impression that he would be seeing her later that afternoon, and she was disappointed not to be meeting him again. Not that there was any truth in Jacqueline's suggestion that she and Alan Dawson were more than friends. As she had told the French girl, their friendship had only arisen from the fact that they were both English in a foreign country and more important, that they were both working for a living while their other compatriots were on holiday. Not that Alan was not attractive. He was, in fact, one of the few men she had met with whom she felt completely at ease, and in the last few weeks they had developed a camaraderie that had strengthened with the passing days.
Whenever he had a free afternoon he would pick her up at the hotel and take her out for a snack or a drink, and a couple of times he had managed to leave Lance Hammond early enough to invite her out to dinner. But their conversation had so far ranged over unimportant topics and she had the impression he was an unhappy man and wary of going too deeply into any relationship.
She was putting the finishing touches to a corsage of orchids when the shop bell tinkled behind her. Believing it to be Jacqueline returning from her coffee break she did not bother to look up until she heard a cough. With a quick murmur of apology she turned and found herself staring into a pair of mocking blue eyes. They were the most vivid blue she had ever seen and set in a face as handsome as that of a Viking. Lance Hammond! Tall and narrow hipped, his broad shoulders and great height seemed to dwarf the florist's shop, while his tanned skin and gleaming blond hair made the very flowers insipid. Rose had seen many pictures of the heir to the Hammond Supermarkets but none of them had prepared her for her actual sight of the man, and she would not have been human had she been unmoved by his male arrogance and good looks. Seen close, there was more than a hint of stubborness in the square chin, and the mouth, which in his pictures was always smiling, was now set in a determined line. Realizing she was gazing at him like a love-sick schoolgirl, she blushed and hurriedly bent her face to the blooms she was holding.
"I'm's-sorry," she stammered. "I didn't hear you come in. Can I help you?"
A blond eyebrow raised. "Oh, so you speak English. I was beginning to wonder whether I'd have to bang a couple of drums before I got some service here!"
Rose turned red. "I'm sorry. But when you came in I thought it was my assistant. What can I do for you?"
He looked around the shop and moved over to stare more closely at a large bowl of gardenias. He kept both his hands in the pockets of his tight fitting navy slacks and beneath a short sleeved tan shirt she saw the ripple of the muscles along his shoulders.
"I want some flowers for Miss Walters," he said quickly. "The best you have. What do you suggest?"
Rose glanced around the shop. The gossip-mongers must be right this time. No man would come and personally order flowers for a girl unless she meant something special to him.
"I'm afraid you've left it rather late for me to make up a really nice bouquet," she explained. "Our best blooms have already gone."
"A bit early, isn't it?" he said impatiently. "If you've got no flowers you should shut up shop."
"I didn't say we haven't any flowers," Rose said coldly. "Merely that I don't think we've the sort of flowers you want."
His eyebrows went up again. "Am I so extraordinary in wanting something decent?"
Realizing that to answer him might precipitate an argument, Rose said in her most gentle voice: "Why don't you try Marcelle's? They're a hundred yards down the road on the left."
"I know quite well where Marcelle's are," he said, "but I particularly wanted you to make the bouquet for me. Alan says you do the best arrangements along the Riviera." He rubbed his hand across his chin. "Suppose I cut some flowers from my mother's garden — she has a villa a few miles along the coast. Would you make them up for me?"
"Of course," Rose replied. "But you appreciate I can't gu
arantee how it will look. I mean I don't know the sort of flowers you'll bring back."
"Then come and choose them for me."
Before Rose could reply Jacqueline came in, stopping with an exclamation as she recognized their customer.
Lance Hammond smiled at her with his much vaunted charm. "You've returned at just the right time. I'm going to borrow your fellow worker for an hour, so you'll have to stand in for her."
'"I'm going to Mrs. Hammond's villa to pick some flowers," Rose said quickly. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Leaving her assistant staring wide-eyed after her, Rose followed the man out of the hotel to the white convertible Cadillac that stood at the entrance. He took his place at the wheel and the porter rushed forward to open die door for Rose. Hardly had she settled herself in the white leather seat when Lance Hammond started the engine and they raced down the Croissette as if they were the only car on the road. Rose drew a deep breath. To think she was driving beside the great Lance Hammond himself! Wonders would never cease.
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE was in indefinable magic, Rose thought, about driving in an open car with the breeze blowing in one's face. As they left Cannes and bowled dizzily along the steep, winding roads of the Corniche their speed increased until they seemed to be taking corners on two wheels. She clung to her seat and from the corner of her eyes saw Lance Hammond glance at her.
"Nervous?" The hint of mockery in his voice compelled her to lie.
"Not at all."
"Good. Then I can go a bit faster!"
He was true to his word and as they tore round the bends, Rose thought each second was going to be her last. The wind was now tearing at her hair in fierce gusts and hairpins fell on to her lap. Hurriedly she slipped them into her pocket and then kept her hands hidden there, lest he should notice their trembling. She would lie rather than let him know she was afraid!
At last, when she felt she could bear it no longer they began to lose speed and the long-nosed car swung between wrought-iron gates and along a wide drive-way flanked with cypresses. To one side lay a blue-tiled swimming pool and beyond it stood a palatial pink-walled villa, its wide verandah dotted with gaily colored chairs and tables. The car stopped with a squeal of brakes and Lance turned to Rose, looking at her flushed face for a moment without speaking.
"You're the first girl I've met who doesn't seem to mind getting her hair blown about in the wind," he said at last, and reaching out, touched the coil of chestnut hair which was lying halfway down the back of her head. "I've never seen such long hair before. Is it all yours?"
"Certainly," she said sharply, and jumping out of the car took the pins out of her pocket and fixed the plait into position again, conscious that he was watching her intently. The familiar act of pinning her hair into position restored her composure and when next she spoke her voice was matter of fact.
"In the rush I'm afraid I forgot to bring my secateurs or a basket to carry the flowers."
"Never mind. I'll fix you up here."
He preceded her on to the verandah but as he reached the top he stopped so suddenly that Rose, directly behind him knocked against his side. She followed his gaze and saw why he had halted to abruptly. At the far end of the verandah stood a chaise-longue and on it lay a figurine of a woman in a sheath dress. Even from a distance the vivid blue of her eyes told Rose that this was Lance's mother, although in every other respect they could not have been more dissimilar. Where the son was tall and blond and arrogant, the mother was diminutive with the personality of a humming bird. Her hair was cut short and dyed a brilliant red-gold. It curled over her forehead and clung closely to the delicate shell-like ears on the lobes of which winked outsize diamonds.
But it was not at his mother that Lance Hammond was staring, but at the man bending over her. Medium-sized, he had the black hair and olive skin of a Latin and it was with Latin effusiveness that he was holding out a fullblown rose to the woman who was gazing adoringly up at him.
"Wear it in your hair, mia cara," he was saying. "And your beauty will make it fade by comparison with yourself. I shall —"
He stopped as Lance walked forward, the expression of chagrin that flitted across his face instantly giving way to a smile. Lance ignored him and moving over to his mother lifted her small, scarlet-tipped hand and pressed it to his lips. "Hello, Didi."
"Hello, darling." She turned to the dark man at her side. "I believe Lance could even give you points on gallantry, Tino."
"He's had a great deal of experience," Tino said smoothly.
"Not more experience than you have," Lance said equally smoothly, "although I can't see you wasting any of it on your mother."
Tino frowned but before he could answer Diana Hammond swung her feet to the ground and stood up.
"Really, Lance, here am I complimenting you on your gallantry and you haven't even introduced me to your new girl friend."
"She isn't a girl friend. I came to pick some flowers from your garden and Miss er… er… is a florist."
Lance disappeared into the villa and Diana Hammond looked at Rose and giggled like a schoolgirl.
"Well, I'm sure, Miss Er… you'd like to get on with your job. But first perhaps you'd care to tell me your name."
"Rose Tiverton."
"Rose Tiverton. How English! I thought you didn't look French. Come and sit down and have a drink."
"I'd rather not if you don't mind," Rose replied. "I'm in a hurry to get back."
"Oh very well." Feeling she had done her duty as a hostess, Diana Hammond lost interest and waving her hand vaguely in the direction of the lawns resumed her seat on the chaise-longue and gave all her attention to the man at her side.
Feeling embarrassed, Rose wandered along the verandah and had almost reached the end when Lance came out through the french windows carrying a flat-bottomed basket and an outsize pair of secateurs. He handed them over and led her along the side of the house to the back. Here the garden faced the mountains and had been allowed to grow wild. Masses of scarlet bougainvillea climbed the pale pink walls while the flowerbeds were a mass of wild color.
"It's wonderful," she breathed.
"You've seen nothing yet," he answered and led her down some stone steps to a green archway. She stepped through and stopped, enchanted by the beauty that met her gaze. Roses of all colors nodded their heads to the deep blue sky. Roses such as she had thought grew nowhere but in England, each color more exquisite than the one before, each bloom larger and more lovely.
"I never knew roses could be like this," she whispered.
"They cost my mother a fortune," Lance said coolly. "Didi has a special English gardener to take care of them." He touched a bud. "But I don't only want to pick roses. I think there are other flowers equally nice."
"I don't," Rose said. "Although I shouldn't really say so, being a florist. Maybe it's because I'm named after them."
"Really," he said. "Are you called 'Peace' or 'Flaming Beauty'?"
She went scarlet. "My name is Rose," she replied and turning her back on him began to pick some flowers.
He watched for a moment in silence and then tiring, walked back up the steps. "I'll be on the terrace when you've finished and I'll take you home."
She nodded and made her way deeper into the garden. The next half hour was one of sheer delight. She had seen flowers as beautiful as these, but never before had she had the pleasure of picking them, and she strolled from bush to flowerbed and from flowerbed back to bush in an ecstasy of enjoyment.
She was laden with blooms when at last she returned to the verandah to see it was deserted. The chairs were empty and even the whisky glasses which she had earlier noticed on one of the tables had been cleared away. She glanced at her watch and saw it was almost six-thirty. The sky was already deepening into dusk and the air was soft and damp. She heard footsteps behind her and turning, was delighted to see Alan.
"My luck's in," he grinned. "Lance has to change for a party and he's asked me to take you b
ack. He also hopes you'll be able to deliver the bouquet to Enid before she leaves her suite tonight."
"That was the whole object of my coming here," Rose said stiffly and felt a pang of annoyance that Lance Hammond had not spared the time to take her back to the hotel himself. Realizing she was being irrational she pushed the thought away and smiled with unusual warmth at the man by her side.
"I didn't know Mr. Hammond lived here," she said. "I thought he stayed on his yacht."
"He lives anywhere the fancy takes him." Alan caught hold of the heavy basket of flowers and led her back to the car.
"Do you follow him around?" she asked as they drove out of the drive and along the winding road back to Cannes.
"Yes," he said. "It's part of my job. For nine months of the year we chase the sun and the rest of the time we chase the snow!"
"Doesn't he ever work?"
"Sometimes. And when he does, he's darned good. He's got a fine brain if he could be persuaded to use it more often. If he marries I hope he'll settle down and give up jaunting around. The trouble is that unless you really have to work for a living it's hard to knuckle down to it."
Rose's thoughts wandered to Enid Walters. Some how she could not see the tall blonde socialite allowing her husband to knuckle down to anything other than a round of pleasure. In that she was probably well suited to Lance Hammond.
'What a waste of a man,' Rose mused. 'Idling away his time like a loafer. He's handsome, though, but not my type. Definitely not my type!'
"Hey!" Alan said. "That's the second time I've spoken to you. What are you thinking?"
She started guiltily and then, as she felt his gaze on her, touched the flowers in her lap.
"I was just thinking how to make the bouquet," she said, and spent the rest of the journey wondering what had prompted her to lie.
In the days that followed, Rose found it difficult to put Lance Hammond out of her mind and she scanned the gossip columns of the local papers with as much avidity as Jacqueline. She could have satisfied her curiosity by talking about him to Alan, but she was loath to do so; indeed loath to put into words an interest of which she felt ashamed.
Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose Page 4
