were parts of his life he hated to remember, a darkness he sometimes met in his nightmares and which made him wake up in sweating misery. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what his life had been like; did he have any right to let that darkness touch her, even remotely?
Her grandfather would certainly object; he didn’t know Ambrose very well. Ambrose had made sure that nobody knew anything about his origins. His life had begun when he arrived in London, when he was twenty, much the age of this girl.
He had suppressed his background, buried the darkness where nobody could ever find it, but George Rendell was no fool. He would have no more luck in tracing Ambrose to his roots than anyone else had done during the past fifteen years, that distant past was too well hidden, but he would still have a good idea that Ambrose wasn’t a suitable man to be in his granddaughter’s life.
He’s right, too, thought Ambrose. I should stop this now. Before someone gets hurt. I’d hate to hurt her. I’d hate myself if I did. If I seduce her, sooner or later she’ll get hurt, when it’s all over.
His love affairs had never lasted long. There was no room for a full-time commitment in his life; he was too busy, his sex drive had to fit in with his over-busy schedule and women always wanted more than he could give them. They wanted stability, marriage, children.
He had always just wanted sex.
No, he couldn’t do it; an innocent like that needed someone of her own generation, a boy whose experience matched her own.
Sholto Cory? mocked a cold, inner voice—and, at the very idea of them together, jealousy hit him like an arrow in the dark. He shuddered. No, he’s too young; he wouldn’t appreciate her mixture of unaware sensuality and shining innocence the way an older man would. He would rush at her greedily and bruise that sweetness.
A girl like her needed gentler handling: patience, a slow introduction to the pleasure of sex, not to be grabbed and…
He groaned, flinging an arm across his face. Who was he kidding? The truth was, he couldn’t bear the idea of Sholto laying a hand on her. He wanted her for himself.
He called a florist next morning and sent Emilie roses; he wanted white ones but the girl ruefully assured him she could only manage either red or pale pink.
‘Pink, then,’ Ambrose said. ‘Two dozen.’
They arrived while Emilie was at work, and Mary put them into green glass vases for her and arranged them in the sitting-room.
‘That’s nice of him,’ her grandfather said, staring at them. ‘He certainly knows how to make a gesture.’
‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ Emilie said dreamily, touching a rose with gentle fingers. The petals were like cool velvet, their colour the delicate pale pink of mother-of-pearl.
The doorbell rang, Mary went to answer it; they heard her talking and then a male voice replying.
‘Sholto!’ Emilie said, and George Rendell grimaced.
‘That young man…What is he doing here at this hour? Have you asked him to dinner?’
‘No, I wouldn’t, without asking you first. You know that!’
‘If he stays long, we shall have to ask him, I suppose!’ George muttered, and stamped off to get himself a drink. He liked Sholto well enough, but the dinner party had used up all his hospitable feelings; he had been looking forward to an evening spent quietly at home with just Emilie for company.
Sholto came in, bringing a rush of cold air with him, and gave her a hopeful look. ‘Hi, I thought you might like to come and see a film—there’s a terrific thriller on at the moment.’
She sighed, wishing he hadn’t come. She was trying to avoid him at the moment; she still hadn’t got over that proposal during Ambrose Kerr’s Christmas party. Sholto had been far too insistent; he had scared her off.
‘I’m sorry, Sholto, I’m too tired tonight. I had a lot to do at work today.’
‘Oh, come on, Em,’ he said, his mouth sulky.
She had given in before when he looked like that, because she had felt guilty about refusing, but not this time. She firmly shook her head.
‘I want to get an early night; I have another busy day tomorrow.’
As she turned away her sleeve caught a small card which had been resting against one of the vases of roses; it fluttered to the ground and Sholto bent to pick it up.
Before she could stop him he had read it. He looked at the roses, scowling. ‘He sent you those? How many are there? There must be a couple of dozen…Pink roses in December? They must have cost an arm and a leg! Why did he send them? What the hell is going on, Emilie?’
EMILIE knew Ambrose was going to be at the board-meeting on Thursday morning at ten-thirty. She kept her eye on her watch and at about ten-twenty began her weekly job of first pruning and tidying up, then watering the plants on the windowsill in the office, while she threw an occasional casual glance out of the window at the car-park below. Other directors arrived, parked, went into the office block to make their way up to the board-room, but Ambrose was late.
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