by Penny Jordan
There were the minutes of the last meeting to be gone through, and items on the agenda to be discussed. Mrs Mayers wanted to talk to them about her plans for the charity ball in England. They had done very well in the previous financial year, one of the committee members told them, raising a substantial sum to go towards the medical research being conducted at John Hopkins.
‘Money well spent,’ another one said, standing up and smiling at Mrs Mayers. Lark remembered that she had been introduced to him as one of the specialists working on the research.
‘We’ve now got to the stage where we can isolate the chromosome disorder which gives rise to the imbalance. The next stage will be to discover how we can determine whether that disorder has occurred in the growing foetus, and for that, I’m afraid, we need more money.’
Various suggestions were put forward on ways and means to raise such money. Lark diligently noted them all down in her best short-hand. The time flew so quickly that she was surprised when Mrs Mayers announced that they should adjourn for lunch.
As they sipped pre-lunch drinks, the table was cleared and relaid with gleaming silverware and starched linen. A centrepiece of roses was placed on the table, their perfume filling the air.
Over the leisurely lunch, Lark observed again how very skilled her employer was in dealing with other people. At three o’clock, she announced that she and Lark would have to leave as they had shopping to do.
Outside in the sunshine, Lark was once again very conscious of the difference in temperature between London and Boston. She felt terribly uncomfortable in her too-warm clothes and, as though she was aware of this, Mrs Mayers set off briskly in the direction of what she explained to Lark was an excellent store. No doubt it was, Lark recognised, boggling a little as she saw the famous name of Bonwit Teller up on the doorway.
In no time at all they were whisked upwards to the fashion departments, and Mrs Mayers had organised a bemused Lark into trying on a selection of pretty summer casuals. It was no use protesting that she didn’t need them or that they were too expensive. Mrs Mayers was determined to have her own way, Lark realised, emerging from the changing-room at her employer’s insistence to parade the outfits for her inspection.
They were lovely pastel skirts with flattering pleats that swung frivolously against her legs. Toning T-shirts in softest cotton, and lightweight tops in matching prints. Somehow or other she found herself agreeing that both the turquoise and the pink were so perfect for her colouring that she couldn’t possibly not buy them.
They made suspiciously little impact on the wad of dollar bills in her envelope. Just how many months’ wages was Mrs Mayers actually advancing her? Lark wondered wryly, as she handed over the cash and accepted the purchases.
‘Now a dress,’ Mrs Mayers announced firmly, ‘but not from here. I know just the place.’
Just the place turned out to be a very small and exclusive shop selling French and Italian fashions. Several dresses were produced for their inspection, but Mrs Mayers shook her head until she saw the drift of cornflower-blue silk over the assistant’s arm.
‘The colour is right,’ she announced decisively. ‘Let’s see it on.’
Lark protested that an evening dress, because that was exactly what it was, was something she was never likely to wear, and therefore a needless expense.
‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Mayers told her. ‘Of course you’ll wear it, probably when Hunter takes you out.’
Lark goggled at her.
‘He hasn’t asked me out,’ she protested.
‘Not yet, maybe, but he will,’ Mrs Mayers assured her. ‘I saw the way he was looking at you over lunch. Poor Hunter, he’d love to get married and have a family, but he’s very shy and conservative. I keep telling him that an English wife is just what he needs.’
Lark wondered if her employer was actually trying to matchmake. If so, she was surely doomed to failure. No man as conservative as she claimed Hunter Cabot was would ever consider marrying a woman with her kind of past.
‘Try the dress on,’ Mrs Mayers instructed her firmly, and Lark had little option other than to accede.
Of course, the dress fitted perfectly, almost as though it had been made for her. It had a brief bodice with tiny shoestring straps, the shell of the dress moulding her waist and hips, and finishing just on her knee. Sheer panels of cornflower-blue silk flared out from the waistline, whispering seductively when she walked.
‘Ravishing,’ Mrs Mayers pronounced when she came out of the fitting-room. ‘That colour is perfect for you. I knew it would be.’
There seemed to be no question that Lark was going to buy the dress, but she demurred when Mrs Mayers asked the assistant if there were shoes to match.
‘Please,’ she protested in an agonised whisper, ‘the dress is so expensive, I don’t even know if I can afford that, never mind shoes as well.’
‘I’m sorry, my dear. I’m bullying you, aren’t I?’ Mrs Mayers apologised with a smile. ‘That dress is so perfect for you, you must have it. Look, why don’t you let me buy it for you?’
Lark was horrified, and she was also in a very difficult position. She really had no option other than to take the dress and to insist on paying for it herself. She counted out the dollar bills with apprehension, pleased to discover that there was still a good quantity left. She had no idea exactly how long they would be staying in Boston, and she didn’t want to spend all her money on the first day.
It was well after four o’clock when they finally left the shop.
‘I think we’ll have afternoon tea at the Ritz, and then back to the house,’ Mrs Mayers suggested.
They got back at seven o’clock and, after an early dinner, Lark settled down to work. There were documents to be prepared in connection with the lunch-time meeting, and several lists of ideas Mrs Mayers had had consequent to the lunch.
The telephone in the study rang at ten o’clock. Lark picked it up automatically, and was surprised to hear an American male voice asking for her. It turned out to belong to Hunter Cabot, who was ringing to ask rather diffidently if she would like him to show her something of the area.
‘I know Mrs Mayers will be tied up with business for the next few days. I’m afraid I’m here to work, not to enjoy myself,’ Lark interrupted him. But Mrs Mayers, who was sitting at the other side of the desk, shook her head and mimed to Lark to hand her the receiver. Reluctantly, Lark did so.
‘Hunter, my dear,’ she heard her employer exclaim, ‘of course Lark is free to go out with you. Tomorrow? Yes, of course.’
She replaced the receiver with a smile. ‘Hunter will call for you at ten o’clock in the morning, Lark.’ She gave her a mischievous look. ‘You’ll find he’s extremely well informed about the Cape Iron area. I expect he’ll take you to the yacht club for lunch.’
‘But Mrs Mayers, I’m here to work,’ Lark protested, to no avail.
Her employer simply smiled and bent her head back over the papers she had been studying before saying calmly, ‘Lark, my child, the world won’t come to an end simply because you have a few hours off.’
* * *
Although she had not expected to do so, Lark found that she enjoyed Hunter’s company. When he forgot about being self-conscious, he was an interesting companion and, as Mrs Mayers had promised her, he was very informative about the area, as well he might be. His family had lived there for many generations.
Mrs Mayers had already told her that he was an extremely wealthy man, but he seemed almost frightened of giving that impression, Lark realised as she listened to him.
Did he think she might latch on to the fact that he was wealthy, and pretend an interest in him, purely for that reason? She felt mildly sorry for him. He was a very diffident man, lacking in self-confidence, and yet he wasn’t unattractive. He needed a woman who was kind and motherly to boost his self-confidence. As he showed her around the small village of Rockwell, she learnt that, like her, he had been orphaned young. He had been brought up by a grandfather who soun
ded as though he had been extremely remote, which probably accounted for his shyness, Lark reflected.
He didn’t work, having no need to do so, which explained why he was free to devote the whole day to her in the middle of a working week. But, even though Lark liked him, when he eventually drove her back to Mrs Mayers’ home and paused hesitantly before asking her if she would have dinner with him the following night, she had to fight against an instinctive impulse to refuse.
What was the matter with her? This was her chance to put the past behind her and start living a more normal life. Why was she so reluctant to go out with Hunter? It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that he wasn’t James, would it?
CHAPTER SIX
‘ARE you sure you don’t mind me having the evening off?’ Lark asked Mrs Mayers anxiously.
It wasn’t the first time she had asked the same question, and her employer looked wryly at her and told her, ‘Lark, I’m quite sure that Hunter would be less than flattered if he could hear you. Of course I don’t mind, my dear. It will be the first evening you’ve had off since you started working for me. Where are you dining? Do you know?’
‘The Bostonian, I think.’
Mrs Mayers’ mouth twitched slightly. ‘An excellent choice. Hunter obviously wants to show you off. Everyone who’s anyone in Boston dines there,’ she explained to Lark. ‘What are you going to wear?’
There was only one thing she could wear—the new dress she had bought in Boston.
She prepared for her dinner date with reluctance, a reluctance she was hard put to it to give a name to. After all, it was not as though she was leaving Mrs Mayers alone for the evening; her employer had announced that she was dining with friends.
When had the peace and tranquillity she had expected to find in Boston, with the width of the Atlantic between herself and James, turned to dullness and boredom? When had she first begun to realise that she was mentally drawing comparisons between Hunter and James to the former’s disadvantage? Hunter was a nice man: kind, thoughtful, the kind of man whom she felt she could trust to believe in her implicitly, and yet compared with James…
But why should he be compared with James? What was she doing even thinking about James in the first place?
She tugged agitatedly at the zipper on her dress, and stepped in front of the mirror to study her reflection. It looked every bit as good on as it had done in the shop; the rich blue fabric flattered her colouring, the misty panels of her skirt floating out around her in the chill of the air-conditioning, while beneath them the pencil slim sheath of the underdress hugged her body.
The upper swell of her breasts was just visible above the provocatively cut neckline—discreetly, so Mrs Mayers had assured her when she had first tried the dress on. Now she was not so sure. The few hours she had spent sunbathing had given her skin a peachy glow, and she touched the slight swell of flesh uncertainly.
As Mrs Mayers had already pointed out, Hunter was very conservative. If he was indeed taking her to the Bostonian to show her off, he might prefer her to wear something a little more discreet, but what? This was the only evening dress she possessed.
Outside she heard a car coming up the drive. It was too late to start worrying about her appearance now. Hunter had arrived.
She picked up the jacket Mrs Mayers had insisted on lending her, letting her fingertips luxuriate in the soft pure mohair before she slipped it on. The off-white wool was a striking contrast to the richness of the cornflower-blue silk.
Mrs Mayers came out of her room as Lark reached the top of the stairs.
‘You look lovely,’ she told Lark approvingly.
‘You don’t think…’ Lark touched her neckline irresolutely. ‘I don’t want to offend Hunter.’
Mrs Mayers laughed. ‘My dear, no man worthy of the name would be offended by the way you look tonight. Far from it. If I were you, I’d worry more about making sure that Hunter brings you straight home,’ she added forthrightly, causing Lark to flush slightly.
Hunter was wearing a dinner suit. It suited his lanky frame, adding breadth to his shoulders.
‘Don’t keep her out too late,’ Mrs Mayers warned him as she waved them off. ‘She’s got to work tomorrow.’
Lark recognised the Bostonian Hotel from her brief tour of the city. It was set on the edge of the old market area, and going up the outside of the building in the glass lift with Hunter she was able to look down on the prettily illuminated area below them.
The restaurant was very busy, but the maître d’ bustled forward when Hunter gave his name, smiling welcomingly at them before showing them to a table for two.
As he pulled out the chair for her to sit down, Lark was conscious of the glances of other diners, and was glad that she had taken Mrs Mayers’ advice about her dress.
Without exception, the women around her were elegantly and expensively dressed, hair and nails gleaming with the gloss of expert care and the kind of life-style that allowed them the time and money to be able to pamper themselves. Unlike her, she reflected wryly, glancing at her own short, unpolished nails that only shone with their own healthy pink gleam.
A window ran the entire length of the restaurant, giving an impressive view of the city skyline.
A waiter brought menus and asked if they wanted a pre-dinner drink.
Lark refused, and Hunter, she noticed, asked only for spa water.
As she studied the menu, she listened to snatches of conversation, fascinated by the brief glimpses it afforded into other people’s lives.
‘This place is Boston’s top restaurant,’ Hunter told Lark importantly. ‘The food here is the best in the city.’
Privately, Lark had preferred the European elegance of the restaurant at the Ritz Carlton where Mrs Mayers had held the meeting and taken her after their day in the city, but she was too tactful to say as much to Hunter, who so obviously wanted her to be impressed.
The menu was in French, with vaguely nouvelle cuisine undertones. They both ordered and, while they waited for their first course to arrive, Hunter started to talk about his work for the charity.
This was the first time Lark had ever actually talked to a man under thirty who was so wealthy that he did not actually work for a living.
For all his inherited wealth, Hunter was no playboy type, intent on filling his time with a rich man’s amusements. He obviously took his work for the several charities with which he was involved seriously, and yet Lark could not help contrasting his life-style with that of James.
Hunter, pleasant though he was, was a mere shadow when compared to the substance and male energy that was James.
She heard Hunter say something about a boat, and realised that he was inviting her out on it. Hastily she reminded him that she was in Boston to work, softening her refusal with a promise that she would check with Mrs Mayers to see how busy they were going to be.
After dinner, Hunter asked her if she would like to go on to a club. Lark shook her head. She had enjoyed the evening in a mild sort of way, but she had no desire to prolong it.
Hunter drove her straight home, hesitating only momentarily when it became obvious that Lark wasn’t going to invite him in.
He made no attempt to touch her or to kiss her, and she wasn’t quite sure how she would have reacted if he had.
It was still only quite early, a little after half-past ten; Americans didn’t like dining late. Mrs Mayers was still out, it was the Hennessys’ night off, and she felt far too wide awake to even think of going to bed.
Instead she unlocked the terrace door and stared down the flight of stone steps that led to the beach. The sea had always fascinated her, and now, with the ocean’s vastness clothed in darkness, the sound it made as it caressed the rock face was pleasurably soothing.
At the bottom of the steps she slipped off her high heels, her toes curling as they felt the cool rasp of the sand. There was enough light for her to see the cream heads on the breakers as they rolled in.
She sat down on a
boulder, watching them, almost mesmerised by their movement, trying to count them to see if it was true that a seventh wave was always higher, and then losing count as she became absorbed by the sheer power.
Perhaps that was why, when she first saw the male figure emerging from the ocean, she could only sit and stare, transfixed like some latter-day Greek maiden confronting the human form of the sea-god Poseidon.
As he strode through the foam, he pushed his hands through his wet hair, sending silver droplets cascading over his shoulders and torso.
Fascinated, she observed the powerful play of his muscles, fluid and sleek, each movement coordinated and sure.
He came out of the water and shock coursed through her as Lark realised that he was naked.
She stood up hurriedly, dislodging a small shower of stones, and realised her folly. He turned his head, and she knew that he had seen her.
She couldn’t breathe; there was a painful constriction in her chest, a tightness that wasn’t quite a pain, and that had something to do with the quick, shallow beat of her heart.
He was coming towards her. She wanted to turn and run, but she couldn’t, the boulder was in her way. Instead she averted her head, praying that the darkness would cover the scorching blush suffusing her skin.
Unlike her, he didn’t seem to be the slightest bit embarrassed by his nudity. Where she would have cowered away, tried to hide herself, he seemed totally unconcerned, proud almost.
‘Good evening, Lark.’
She had known, of course, exactly who it was right from the start, but she refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge the amusement in his voice as he made the formal greeting. If only her heartbeat would slow down to normal, she might be able to ask him exactly what he was doing here… Although, of course, he did have every right to be here; it was his mother’s home, after all.
She could almost feel his presence now; the delicate nerve-endings under her skin quivered with her awareness of him, every muscle in her body strained under her determination not to turn her head and look at him.
