She stumbled and he became aware of her and looked down, his eyes losing their remoteness.
"Anything wrong?"
"I was just thinking how well you dance."
"So do you," he replied. "We're probably the best couple on the floor."
She laughed. "Nobody could call you modest."
"Why should I be modest about something I know I do well? That would be stupid and insincere."
"And are you never insincere, Mr. Hammond?"
"Never, Miss Tiverton. Whatever I say I mean — at the time." He grinned. "But life's far too short for us to be so formal. I know your name is Rose and I think it suits you very well."
"Do you?" She lifted her eyes quickly and lowered them again. "Thorny, perhaps?"
"The most beautiful roses have thorns," he replied. "They need something to protect their loveliness from greedy hands. I should think you're full of thorns!"
Afraid that the conversation was getting out of her depth, she stared resolutely at the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket.
"Scared to look at me?" he asked, divining her thoughts.
"I'm not scared of any man, Mr. Hammond."
"Then call me Lance."
"Certainly," she said coolly. "As long as you don't think your fiancee will object."
At once the aloofness returned to his face. "Why should Enid mind? This is the twentieth century, not the eighteenth."
Aware that she had been put in her place, she was glad when the music reached a crescendo and stopped and Lance guided her off the floor. Enid gave her a bland smile, but there was no disguising the dislike in her eyes. Rose suppressed a shiver and turned to Alan and casually he edged her over to the side of the pool where hammocks and easy chairs had been set out.
"It's bound to be a little warmer here," he said dryly. "The atmosphere around our blonde bombshell was positively frigid!"
"She didn't like Lance dancing with me, did she?"
"She certainly didn't. But she was asking for a snub and she got it. If there's one thing Lance can't stand it's bad manners. And she seemed to have got her knife into you." He looked at her curiously. "You haven't met her before, have you?"
Rose moistened her lips. "What makes you ask that?"
"Merely that it's unlike her to let her real feelings show. She's always charming in front of Lance, yet with you I really saw the claws."
Rose shrugged. "Maybe she's just a natural cat!"
"Then you must blame it on your transformation. You look wonderful."
Rose was still too unused to compliments not to enjoy this one, but for an instant she could not help wishing it had been said by someone who was more to her than just a friend. Because she felt the thought was disloyal she smiled at Alan with unusual warmth.
"I'd feel wonderful too, if you could get me a drink. I'm absolutely parched."
"Yours to command," Alan said and disappeared towards the bar.
Rose settled back in her chair and spread her skirts, tapping her feet in time to the music.
"Come and sit by me," a lilting voice said and with a start Rose looked round to see who was talking. It was Diana Hammond. She was reclining on a hammock in the shade of a magnolia tree, the lantern in the leaves above her head throwing a soft pink light on her red-gold hair. Rose walked over and with a smile sat down next to her. Seen close, the woman still looked lovely, although the dress she wore was far too young for her age. Like the one she had been wearing when Rose first saw her, it appeared to be moulded to her body, showing every curve of what was still a remarkably beautiful figure. Yet, beautiful though it was, it did not have the pliancy and the fluidness of youth, but looked as if it had been maintained by a regime of continual dieting. It was probably dieting that gave delicate shadows to the eyes and accentuated the veins on the tiny hands. Unexpectedly Rose felt a pang of pity for this woman who, though she had everything dear to a woman's heart, still yearned for the one thing money and position could never give her — youth.
Inescapably Rose thought of her own mother, whose wrinkles had been disguised by laughter lines and who had been so busy worrying over other people that she had had no time to worry about her own passing years and had consequently remained eternally young.
Rose started as she realized she was being spoken to.
"Have I got a smut on my nose?" Diana Hammond asked. "You've been staring at me for the last five minutes."
"I'm sorry," Rose apologized. "I didn't mean to be rude."
"My dear, you weren't rude. I like being stared at and I'd be insulted if I weren't." She smiled disarmingly and Rose could not help liking her in spite of her artificial appearance, could not help wondering too how she would get on with her future daughter-in-law. Looking over to the dance floor she saw Enid and Lance together, the girl's hand caressing the back of his neck with intimate gestures.
Diana Hammond followed Rose's gaze, a thoughtful expression in her eyes.
"My little boy's going to have his hands full with that one," she murmured. "Thank goodness he can take care of himself. He certainly wouldn't be his mother's son if he couldn't!"
Somehow Rose doubted the truth of this remark as applied to Lance's mother, for in spite of her self-assured manner there was a certain lost quality about her that became apparent the moment she stopped talking.
Rose bit her lip. She was becoming far too fanciful and attributing to both the Hammonds emotions and affections they had probably never felt.
There was a light step beside her and looking at the ground she saw two patent leather shoes beneath immaculately creased trousers. There was something in the excessively pointed toes that made her heart beat faster, and even before she looked up she knew the owner of them was Tino Barri. He was staring rapturously at Diana Hammond.
"I have been looking all over for you," he said reproachfully. "I did not know you were hiding from me."
"Of course I wasn't hiding, you silly boy," Mrs. Hammond said, waving her hand. "But I was standing for hours greeting everyone and I'm tired. I'm not as young as you are, you know."
"Do not say that," Tino reproached. "You are young and beautiful."
"Oh Tino, don't be silly." The woman's voice was affectionate and eager. "How can I be young when my son's just announced his engagement?"
"I don't know how, but you are. There is no woman here to compare with you." He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "Come, let us dance."
Without a backward glance Diana allowed herself to be pulled up from the hammock and led on to the floor.
Rose was sickened by Tino's fawning admiration. The man had avoided looking directly at her and no wonder! She gave the hammock a sharp push with her foot and let it swing backwards and forwards.
"Gently old girl, or you'll make yourself seasick." It was Alan, coming towards her with a tall glass. "Try this. It's a Tom Collins."
Rose sipped it and together they sat and watched the dancers. A cool breeze trembled the leaves and the scent of flowers was heady. Responding to the mood, Alan sat closer, his arm around her waist. 'What could be more romantic?' she thought. A beautiful garden, a band playing soft music and a man's arms around her. She glanced at Alan's good-humored, open-looking face. What a pity it wasn't the right man!
She stood up. "Come on. I feel in the mood for dancing."
For the rest of the evening she barely had a chance to sit down. As Lance's secretary, Alan knew everyone present and the men made this an excuse for meeting the tawny- haired girl who was his partner. Rose was swung from one pair of arms to another and received compliments in almost every language under the sun.
At one a.m., remembering the early start to her day, she decided to" leave and went' into the house to fetch her wrap. It had been placed in one of the bedrooms and looked incongruous among the minks and sables which women managed to wear with aplomb even in the warmth of a Riviera night. Flushed with dancing, she tidied her hair and powdered her nose, then paused for a moment to look out of the window. How
beautiful the garden looked in the moonlight, the leaves dappled with fairy lights, in the background the sea shimmering like a carpet of jet.
"Admiring the view?" a cool voice asked behind her and Rose swung round to see Enid in the doorway.
"Yes," she answered. "It's lovely."
She moved to go out but Enid blocked her way.
"Don't go yet. I want to talk to you."
"What about?"
For an instant the girl seemed to hesitate, then she closed the door and leaned against it.
"Actually," she said slowly, "I was rather expecting you would want to talk to me."
Rose stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then the tensions in the face opposite, the anxiety in the eyes, communicated itself and she knew what had prompted Enid's spitefulness earlier in the evening. The girl was afraid of her. Afraid that she might tell Lance Hammond of the scene she had interrupted between his fiancee and Tino Barri.
"I don't know why you should think I have anything to say to you, Miss Walters," Rose said quietly. "Until tonight we hadn't met — except casually in the hotel."
The green eyes widened and Rose watched, hoping that Enid would leave well alone. But it was not to be. Additional reassurance was wanted, and each word uttered would put Rose more and more in the position of accomplice.
"Does that mean you're not going to say anything to Lance?"
"I'd rather we didn't talk about it," Rose answered.
"But I must! I can't go on like this, I've got to know if you're going to tell him."
No longer was Enid making any pretence to hide her fear. Her voice was shaking, her face pallid with it.
Could Lance mean so much to her then ? Rose wondered. And if so, why had she been kissing Tino Barri? With so much money of her own Enid had no need to marry for it and could well afford to keep a husband like Tino who was obviously out to marry wealth. But if so, why become engaged to Lance and be so obviously petrified lest he broke it off? There were no logical answers to any of these questions, unless of course Enid really did love her fiance and had merely been flirting with the Italian. Somehow Rose could not believe it, yet to pretend she did seemed the most diplomatic way of extricating herself from an embarrassing situation and, as she had said to herself earlier in the evening, why should she care about the Hammonds?
"Lots of women like to flirt," she said carefully. "I see a great deal of it in the course of my work. So much, in fact, that I never remember names or faces."
"I see," Enid gave a short laugh. "You're being careful in what you say, Miss Tiverton. I never expected you'd be so — so diplomatic"
"What you do is your business," Rose said. "But in future, if you don't want to antagonize anyone, don't go around being rude."
"I'm sorry," Enid replied, and sank down on the bed. "I was scared out of my wits."
"So I gathered," Rose said dryly and thankfully made her escape. But although she walked steadily from the room, by the time she reached the hall she was trembling so much that she had to lean against the banisters.
"There you are, Rose," Alan said as he came out of the drawing room. "I was just going to…" He stopped struck by her expression. "What's the matter? Are you feeling ill?"
"No," she said. "At least, I've got a bit of a headache."
"I'll get the car at once while you say goodnight."
Alan went out but Rose remained where she was, unable to face the prospect of seeing anyone at this moment. A hooter sounded and looking up she saw Alan's car at the front door and she hurried out to it.
She climbed in and leaning her head against the seat, closed her eyes and her mind to the scene she had just enacted with the woman Lance Hammond was going to make his wife.
CHAPTER SIX
THE wedding date for the Hammond marriage was set for September, although according to Alan, Enid had wanted to make it much earlier.
"I must say I was surprised Lance didn't agree," he remarked. "But he's adamant in wanting Mrs. Rogers at the wedding and she's gone on a cruise to Japan until the end of August."
"How strange to delay a wedding because of another woman," Rose said.
"That's Lance all over. Some of the happiest times he had as a schoolboy were at Helen Rogers' home and he's more concerned that she's at his wedding than his own mother. Enid didn't take too kindly to the wait, of course. She's eager to become Mrs. Hammond Jr."
Rose looked at the tablecloth. Alan had called to order his usual flowers for Lance and had persuaded her to slip out for a cup of coffee. Atlhough the wedding was still a long way off there were many things to prepare and Alan was slowly becoming inundated under a mass of detail.
"The affair is supposed to be a quiet one and yet the wedding list is already as long as my arm."
"Where will they live when they're married?" Rose asked.
"Lance has a house in London. I was hoping that once he settled down he'd stay in town and take over the business again. His uncle is running it at the moment."
"You're a bit idealistic if you expect marriage to change your boss," Rose said dryly. "He's a playboy and he'll always remain one."
Alan did not reply, and Rose stared out across the promenade. Couples were strolling by and beyond them on the beach the deck-chairs were full. How narrow the stretch of sand was, she thought. What was there about the Cote d'Azur that made people rush to it and hardly bear to tear themselves away again ?
She made a mark on the cloth with her spoon and noticed how brown her arms were against the whiteness of the linen. She was almost as dark-skinned as a native — indeed, when she went for an evening stroll by herself she was often accosted by gay young Englishmen or Americans on holiday, who would make improper suggestions to her in excruciatingly bad French. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she recalled the look on the face of one particularly persistent young man when she had told him exactly where he could go — in faultless English!
"What's the joke?" Alan asked suddenly.
She shook her head and stood up. "I must be getting back. The sunshine makes me forget I've a job to do."
"Well, you don't have to work on Sunday. So how about joining a party aboard the yacht? The invitation's endorsed by my boss — so that should make you happy."
Rose was taken by surprise and Alan read her silence as acceptance.
"I'll pick you up at ten. It's an all-day affair, so don't make any other dates!"
As she prepared a basket of freesias for a money-no- object customer, Rose wondered whether it would be wiser to ring Alan and say she could not go on Sunday and her hand was already on the receiver when she dropped it back into position again. Why should she allow Enid's presence to spoil her own pleasure? After all, she would love to spend the day on the gleaming yacht that was anchored outside Cannes Harbor.
"I will go," she said aloud. "And blow the consequences !"
"What did you say?" Jacqueline asked.
Rose hesitated. "Alan's invited me to spend Sunday on Lance Hammond's yacht."
"How lucky you are! If only my Philippe worked for a man like zat instead of in zees ridiculous hotel."
Rose smiled. "It wouldn't make you any richer."
"Maybe no, maybe yes. Peut-etre I would fall in love wiz a millionaire. Birds of a fezzer flock together, and ze rich always go where ze rich are. Ma foi, you have ze opportunity to find ze golden calf. Keel him quick!"
"I haven't met any golden calves," Rose said dryly.
Jacqueline looked unconvinced, and knowing there was only one way to end the conversation, Rose turned her back and concentrated on the bouquet she was making.
The holiday season was in full swing and there was a great deal to do. The demand for flowers was high and each morning she visited the flower market. It was the time of day she liked best and when Saturday dawned she was up even earlier than usual and drove in the hotel van along the winding streets to the back of the town. Cannes was deserted except for the occasional car, its occupants clad in evening dress, who were ret
urning back to their hotel or villa after a night spent gambling in the Casino or dancing in the small yet elegant cafes along the shore.
Even before she reached the flower market the scent of blooms made the air heady and she breathed in deeply all the strange aromas. How typically French was the scene! How difficult to confuse it with Covent Garden and the shouts of porters and the trundle of lorries and squeaky carts. Here the tempo was slower, and in the warm air the voices did not sound so shrill.
By now the flower farmers knew Rose enough to realize that she did not like bargaining. If she considered a price too high she would move to the next stall and nothing could persuade her to return to the previous one. Because of this the first price they gave her was the one that they would be willing to accept, and in this way she was able to do her buying much more quickly. Occasionally if she had time to spare she would wander through the food market, looking at the succulent cheeses, sometimes nibbling at a tasty sausage or biting at a piece of crisp bread. No, this could never be mistaken for Covent Garden!
When Rose reached the market this warm Saturday morning the sun had not yet risen over the hills and the harbor was shrouded in shadow, although far out on the water the Hammond yacht was caught in the first, early morning rays. Rose wandered from stall to stall, pausing occasionally to touch a delicate bloom. All too soon she had finished her buying and while her driver supervised the loading of the van she leaned against an upturned basket and watched the colorful scene. Suddenly she noticed a small cart rumbling towards her. She did not know the owner, who was an ancient crone with a face as lined as old leather. All she saw were the exquisite roses bunched tightly together: hundreds and hundreds of pink and scarlet heads.
The cart stopped and the old woman climbed down and smoothed her skirts. Rose walked over to her.
Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose Page 7
