by Pamela Kent
FLIGHT TO THE STARS
Pamela Kent
Junior typist and millionaire’s son—it seemed an unlikely romance right from the start. Then Melanie discovered she had a rival for Rick—the beautiful Diane Fairchild, who seemed to have all the advantages and no sense of fair play!
CHAPTER ONE
Melanie was pulling on one of her gloves when the lift gates swung open, and Rick Vandraaton strode out into the corridor.
She had seen him earlier that day, when he had been doing an unusual tour of inspection with half the hotel staff following at his heels—or so it had seemed. And it was obvious that he was in no sweeter mood now than on that other occasion. His Indian black hair, with the tendency to fall lankly across his forehead, looked as if his impatient fingers had ruffled it many times, and his brow was lowering. His square jaw looked both mutinous and sullen.
And then he caught sight of her, as she backed hastily up against the wall.
“You’ll do!” he exclaimed, astounding her. “I remember you did some letters for me once, and you weren’t too bad. Come on, and don’t let’s waste any more time!”
Melanie frankly gaped. She was wearing a pastel green suit with white accessories, and an enormous pouch handbag was tucked underneath her arm. The charm of her appearance was more than sufficient to counterbalance the temporary look of stupidity, but she was certain Rick Vandraaton scarcely noticed her. And she was just as certain that the fact that she had been about to leave the hotel background behind her for a few hours’ well-earned off-duty would have meant nothing at all to him if she had ventured to mention it.
Jake Crompton, the assistant manager—who, incidentally, wouldn’t normally have noticed her at all—proved that he shared this conviction by throwing her a warning wink.
“Don’t argue,” he urged in an undertone. “Just do whatever you’re told, and do it without looking awkward about it!”
Whereupon she fell into submissive step behind them; and as the corridor was very thickly carpeted, and her heels were very high—stiletto, in fact—she staggered once or twice in the thickness of the pile, and the two men in front of her took such enormous strides that it was difficult for her to keep up. And then at last they were grouped before a door of orchid paleness, with a gleaming brass bell-push and a letter-box, almost exactly like the door of a villa or a flat. On the other side of it Melanie saw for the first time a brief staircase leading upwards to Rick Vandraaton’s own particular penthouse, high above the waving green trees that filled London’s squares.
Melanie could feel the coolness that came at them as they entered, and she could see the curtains stirring in the reviving breeze. They were curtains that cascaded before a wide wall of glass, and they were pearl-grey and gleaming like the orchid-mauve door. The sycamore woodwork matched the damask-covered couches and deep chairs, and the carpet was grey as storm-clouds.
A manservant appeared from the kitchen, and Rick ordered:
“Bring drinks!”
But Crompton said primly, “Not for me, Rick! And when Vandraaton’s eyes went to Melanie the assistant manager answered for her. “The girl is here to work.”
“Oh, of course!” But Rick’s eyes glinted mockingly. “However, something long and cool, with ice in it, won’t prevent her from working efficiently—possibly even more efficiently!” And he issued an order to the servant.
Melanie removed her gloves. It really was a very hot July afternoon, and her fingers felt damp. Vandraaton’s eyes returned to her with curiosity, and that restless impatience that she had seen in them many times before, even although she wasn’t supposed to be aware that he was in her near vicinity.
“Why are you all dressed up like that?” he asked dryly.
She explained simply that she had been going off duty.
“And you wanted to impress the boy friend? Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to forget about off-duty for a few hours,” his cynical mouth curving unpleasantly, and with a definite suggestion of inflexibility. “And your friend will have to cool his heels on the corner—if he’s waiting on the corner!”
“I wasn’t intending to meet a boyfriend, Mr. Vandraaton,” she disabused him of the idea with perfect politeness.
“No?” Once again the flickering glance at her, that took in the beech-brown hair curling brightly under the little hat; the pale skin that went with her hair, the darkly-lashed grey eyes, and even the neatness of her footwear. And then, as if as a subject for scrutiny she palled upon him very quickly, he looked away and accepted his drink. “Well, whatever you were going to do, you’ll have to do it another time, because at the moment you’re badly needed. Tell her about it, Jake,” he requested with indolent languor, and lay back in his chair and lighted himself a cigarette.
Jake Crompton obeyed, but with all the dignity that he felt sat well on an assistant manager of such a vast and fabulous hotel as the Nonpareil— one of London’s newest and most lavish erections.
“It’s like this. Miss Blake,” he explained, his light eyes dwelling upon her with more than a touch of condescension. “Mr. Vandraaton is flying to New York in a couple of days’ time, and Miss Merryweather, who would normally accompany him, is unable to do so. Miss Drake, who is, as you know, in charge of Reception, did mention you as a likely substitute, but I’ll confess I personally consider you’re a little young.” His bleak, white-toothed smile was an attempt to conciliate her in case she should feel affronted. “However, we ran into you just now while you were waiting for the lift, and Mr. Vandraaton seems to be of the opinion that you will do. He says he tried you out once before.”
“I remembered your red hair,” Vandraaton interposed coolly, about as relaxed as a coiled watchspring in his smoke-grey chair. “And the fact that you could read back your own shorthand notes with reasonable ease. And unless I’m confusing you with someone else your typing wasn’t too bad, either.”
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured mechanically; but her pulses were pounding. New York...? Was she imagining things, or had Mr. Crompton really mentioned New York, and the possibility of her acting as a substitute for Miss Merryweather? But that would mean accompanying Richard Vandraaton to New York! Richard Vandraaton, the son of the multi-millionaire owner of the hotel, who was accustomed to the smooth efficiency of the experienced Miss Merryweather, and was almost certainly mixing her, Melanie, up with someone else. And, in any case, she had never been abroad before. Not even across the Channel on a day trip to France!
New York!...
Rick’s eyes studied her with amusement, as if the blank bewilderment in her eyes was a source of entertainment.
“You look slightly taken aback, Miss Blake,” he commented. “Didn’t you know Miss Merryweather was getting married? An ill-advised step, but there it is. I’m going to lose a valuable secretary because Cupid has been flinging a few darts.” The unfeeling mockery between his thick black eyelashes repelled her a little, just as his mocking tone repelled her. “And I’ve got to replace her with someone else. I’m not suggesting you could fill the post permanently, but you’ll do for a few weeks—or a few months. And, more important than anything else, you can get down to something that’s got to be done straight away, in a hurry.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts’, Miss Blake!” The hard mouth looked almost ugly with that overriding impatience he seemed to find it next door to impossible to control. “You don’t suppose I feel like working hard in this temperature, do you?” He ran a finger round inside his crisp white collar, and tugged at his tie, as if they both vexed him. “I didn’t know you went in for heat-waves over here, but apparently you do—sometimes! And this happens to be a particularly inconvenient time, because I’ve got to catch up on a lot of back stuff and dictat
e and have typed a detailed report, in addition to catching the plane the day after tomorrow. So if you don’t feel you can be of any real use—and I mean real use!” grimly “—you’d better say so at once, and we’ll scour London for someone else. Get on to one of those agencies who occasionally supply the right article...”
“B-but, Mr. Vandraaton!” she ventured to interrupt despite his warning.
He stood up and started to pace about the room, and his movements were those of a caged panther. He was an extraordinary lean man, lean and wiry and graceful, and he was by no means typically American—that is to say, not modern American. His high cheekbones and his slightly slanting eyes—sloe-black—and his hard mouth and lank hair brought one word leaping to the front of Melanie’s mind. Reservations ... There were Indians confined to reservations in America who probably looked less as if their forebears had worn feathered head dresses and brandished tomahawks than he did. And not even a Savile Row tailor, and the most expensive shirtmaker and so forth in the business, had been able to banish that suggestion of animal impatience from his straight, hard body.
Melanie knew that he played polo magnificently, and that he had sailed his own yacht across the Atlantic. That he could never be deceived about horseflesh, and maintained a regular string of horses at his Berkshire home—which was merely a rented home, but famous for week-end parties—in addition to his polo ponies. And having once seen him riding in the Row she knew that he could become part and parcel of a horse. He drove a long, sleek Jaguar at hair-raising speed, and had recently been involved in a car smash. But he had escaped unscathed, and with a clean license, because it hadn’t been his fault. Nothing was ever his fault that was a matter of precision and skill and nerve. He never lacked nerve, and he could apply himself wholeheartedly to anything that appealed to him. But when it came to looking after his father’s hotel in London—the hotel that had cost the earth, and could have been the pride of any man’s heart—he had slipped up so badly that every separate member of his staff could have vouched for his complete lack of interest, and the good fortune that was his because his supporters were unusually capable. Capable and trustworthy, and safe to be left to deal with things in their own sweet way.
He didn’t seem to have any normal business instincts. Board Rooms offended him, ordinary office confines irked him, and he wasn’t a very good mixer—unless they were people he wanted to mix with. Very rich elderly ladies with poodles and lots of unjustifiable complaints infuriated him, and he forgot that they were important to the smooth running of the Nonpareil. And even young, impressionable women didn’t always meet with the right sort of response from the highly selective American. His women friends were “hand-picked”, and one of them at least looked like qualifying for the role of Mrs. Rick Vandraaton.
She was a beautiful blonde, and English; and the hotel had been buzzing with rumours about her for weeks. Her family was irreproachable—indeed, her standing could hardly have been more satisfactory from the point of view of a man with money looking around for something a little more solid and worthwhile to ally it to. And the glossy magazines loved reproducing her endless photographs and the attempts of various artists to depict her perfect features. Everyone in the hotel, to say nothing of their mutual friends, was daily expecting an announcement of an engagement, but Rick was keeping everyone on tenterhooks and withholding the titbit of news. One day it almost certainly would be released, but in the meantime Rick was not hurrying himself; and owing to the slightly perverse streak in his nature was no doubt enjoying the mounting curiosity.
He paced up and down in front of Melanie, and his restless movements began to make her feel a little dizzy, particularly as they seemed to churn up the warm air. And then he paused and looked hard at her, and he said, as if amongst other sensations she aroused in him she also irritated him acutely:
“Don’t call me Mr. Vandraaton! And, whatever you do, don’t call me ‘Sir’. We don’t do that sort of thing in the U.S. If you’re going to work for me, it’ll have to be Rick. And by the same token you, of course, will cease to be Miss Blake!”
“Yes, Mr. Van—I’m sorry!” She moistened her lips. “I’ll try and not offend again.”
He smiled, and for the first time she was able to see what beautiful hard white teeth he had—far more beautiful, and far more intriguingly regular, than the toothpaste smile of Jake Crompton.
“I’ll forgive you the occasional lapse. And, by the way, what’s your Christian name?”
“Melanie.”
He repeated it.
“I like the sound of it. It’s got an old-fashioned flavor. Well, Melanie...” He became brisk and businesslike again, as if the flavor of her name, palled as quickly as her looks. “Do you think you could stick the pace? Do you think you could be of any use to me?”
She wanted to tell him that she had a mother and two young sisters whom she would at least like to consult before she agreed to fly off into the blue with him, but it didn’t look as if his patience would be sufficient to permit him to listen to her. So instead she said:
“I could—try.”
He frowned.
“I won’t take you if you’ve got to try. I’ve already explained to you that there’s work to be done—masses of it!” From his sudden wry look the thought of such a concentration of work was hardly pleasant. “Have you a passport?”
She had to admit that she hadn’t.
“Then we’ll have to get one rushed through for you.”
He turned away, and reached for yet another cigarette. No wonder, she thought, that the tips of those fingers were nicotine stained.
“Your salary will be doubled while you’re in America,” he told her, as if there was no longer any doubt about whether or not she would accompany him. “And all your expenses will be paid, of course.” He stared through the wall of glass at the tubs of flowers and exotic shrubs that made up a brilliant roof-garden. “It’s quite an opportunity for you, you know, if you’ve the sense to realize it.” His eyes swung round to her again. “I hope you’re grateful for being selected?”
“Why—why, yes.” She couldn’t say “Rick,” so she left it at that, and deep down inside her gratitude was really beginning to expand and grow until it took entire possession of her. Her eyes glowed, and the color rose like a tide to her face and neck. What an opportunity! Even her mother would say she was foolish if she hesitated over grasping it, and her two young sisters would say she was quite mad. Quite, quite mad! “I’ll endeavour to give satisfaction,” she managed breathlessly.
Rick Vandraaton let his eyes linger on her for several penetrating seconds; and then for the second time he smiled at her slightly one-sidedly—an amazingly attractive smile in spite of the crookedness.
“You’d better,” he warned her. “Or I’ll have no compunction about firing you out on your ear.” Then he made what was obviously a supreme effort and became nervously brisk. “Get your coat off and we’ll start work without delay. There’s a typewriter in the next room, and you can use that. I can even provide you with a notebook. Now...”
Jake Crompton rose, and looked for the first time rather coolly amused.
“I’ll go,” he said, and moved towards the door.
He was wearing a beautifully tailored light grey suit, and his silk tie was discreetly knotted. He could hardly have struck a more elegant note, and behind his amusement there was the suggestion that he was deliberately humoring a spoilt child. As he passed behind Melanie’s chair he rested a hand lightly on her shoulder.
“Don’t let him kill you with work, my dear,” he warned. “In his present mood he’s quite capable of forgetting you’re human.”
Rick’s mouth tautened noticeably.
“I don’t wish to appear inhospitable,” he snapped, “but until you do remove yourself we can’t get on.”
Jake’s smile remained unruffled, good-tempered and amiable, and just before he disappeared Rick called after him with a narrowing of the eyes: “Go and be charming to the
ladies, my dear Jake. How I wish I had your unfailing ability to be just that!”
But as he slumped into the chair behind his cluttered desk he didn’t look as if he had the remotest desire to be charming, or even pleasant, to anyone.
CHAPTER TWO
Hours later, Melanie just managed to stagger to a telephone, and put through a call to her mother, who ran a small poultry farm in Kent.
She had no clear idea how the hours had passed since she thought she was going off duty, but had been peremptorily ordered to work instead, but she knew that she had crowded a great deal into them. A great deal of visible effort in the shape of an endless report that lay waiting for her new employer on his desk.
He had callously gone off and left her to it once he had finished dictating and giving her instructions; since then no one had disturbed her, and no one had inquired whether she minded missing both tea and dinner. It was much too late to bother about food when she reached the telephone, but even so her mother thought there was a note of excitement in her voice.
“What did you say, darling? This line seems to be rather indistinct. And isn’t it a little late at night for you to be ringing?”
Melanie went on talking croakily about her trip to America, and at last, to her relief, her mother grasped the situation. She also grasped that there was absolutely no time for Melanie to pay her family a visit.
“Of course I understand, darling. And of course you couldn’t refuse! ... It’s what you always wanted, anyway, isn’t it? A chance to see something of at least one other country. And since you can’t get down to us I’ll bring up anything you need for packing tomorrow.” Melanie almost sighed with relief, her mother was so helpful. But then, she always was helpful, despite the burdens that pressed on her. “You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?” An anxious note crept into the maternal voice. “And let us know just where you are, and what you’re doing?”
