a woman of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart’s age, and he wondered at her apparent acceptance of the life she was leading. There were no young people of her age staying in the hotel, and the little he had seen of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart had not given him the impression that she was the most patient of women. But the girl seemed happy enough, and had even smiled at him in a friendly fashion in the lobby of the hotel when she passed him on her way out to exercise her employer’s poodle. Tall, and not too slim, with long chestnut-coloured hair which was inclined to curl at the tips, she could have no shortage of boy-friends, he mused, yet she seemed perfectly content to pander to the whims of a woman more than old enough to be her mother.
He realised his tea was getting cold and turned back to the trolley with wry impatience at his thoughts. What on earth did it matter to him if some young female found running around after a middle-aged harridan better than doing a worthwhile job of work? It was nothing to do with him. Besides, judging by the amount of jewellery Mrs Faulkner-Stewart wore, and the expensiveness of her furs, she could obviously afford the best of everything, and probably the girl took her for every penny she could make. The only inconsistent factor was why she had chosen to winter at the Tor Court instead of in Cannes or Madeira, or any one of a dozen other fashionable locations.
By the time he had finished his tea it was dark outside, and on impulse, he decided to go for a walk. At least that was one pastime which had not been denied to him, but he obediently put on his thick, fur-lined duffel coat before leaving the room. The cold was something else he had to guard against, although he refused to put on the marathon-length woollen muffler his mother had crocheted for him.
The lift took him down to the lobby where Carl was standing, talking to his receptionist. The manager lifted his hand in greeting, but Jake had no desire to get involved in conversation with him and with a brief acknowledgement, strode towards the revolving doors. His hand had reached out to propel them forward when he became aware of the girl who had been occupying his thoughts earlier approaching over the soft grey carpet, pulled along by the enthusiastic efforts of her employer’s black poodle.
He paused, and the second’s hesitation was enough to create a situation where it would have been rude of him to barge ahead without acknowledging her presence. He guessed she would use the baggage door to let the dog out, and with a feeling of compulsion, propelled it open and waited for her to pass through.
Anticipating his intention, she had quickened her step, and her shoulder brushed the toggles of his coat as she said a breathy: ‘Thanks!’ passing him to emerge into the cool, slightly frosty air. In a waist-length leather jerkin and dusty pink flared pants she seemed hopelessly under-dressed for the weather, but Jake inwardly chided himself for his concern. She was young—and healthy; an enviable condition!
He had expected she would go ahead, and was half disconcerted to find her waiting for him outside, firmly reproving the animal for misbehaving. She looked up and smiled when he came slowly down the steps to join her, and an illogical feeling of unease swept over him.
‘It’s a cold evening, isn’t it?’ she commented, shortening the dog’s lead, and falling into step beside him, and Jake was obliged to answer her.
‘Very cold,’ he agreed, a little stiffly, and she glanced sideways at him, obviously speculating about him, as he had about her earlier.
‘How long are you staying at the hotel?’ she asked, and he felt a momentary impatience with her curiosity.
‘Not much longer,’ he replied shortly, and halted, going behind her to cross the road. ‘I’m going this way,’ he added. ‘Good evening.’
The girl stopped beside him, however, and looked obligingly up and down the road. ‘I’m crossing, too,’ she told him, and he wondered if she knew how much he wanted to get away from her. He was angry with himself for getting into such a position, but angrier still with her for trying to pick him up like this. Had no one ever troubled to explain the facts of life to her? Didn’t she realise the potential dangers inherent in attaching oneself to men about whom she knew absolutely nothing? She was young, but she was not a child, he thought, irritably aware of the firm breasts outlined against the thin jerkin. Unless she was more knowledgeable than he knew. His lips tightened. This was one alternative, but somehow he didn’t care to draw those conclusions. Besides, girls these days had different sets of values.
The wide pavement edging the foreshore gave him plenty of scope to put a comfortable distance between them, but after releasing the dog she seemed quite content to stride along beside him, matching her steps to his, albeit with some effort.
‘You’re Mr Allan, aren’t you?’ she asked after a moment, and the alien designation fell strangely on his ears. Allan was his middle name—James Allan Courtenay—and it had seemed a good idea to use that and avoid possible recognition. But it still gave him a moment’s pause. He wondered how she knew his name, and decided he would have a few harsh words to say to Carl Yates the next time he saw him.
Now he merely nodded, pressing his hands more deeply down into the pockets of his duffel coat, and she supplied the answer to his unspoken question without even being aware of doing so.
‘Della—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart, that is—asked the receptionist who you were,’ she exclaimed casually. ‘Della always likes to know the names of the other guests. I hope you don’t mind.’
Jake glanced at her then, and the humorous mobility of her wide mouth inspired the distinct impression that she knew very well that he did mind. But he refused to justify her amusement by admitting the fact.
‘It’s no secret,’ he said abruptly, and she shrugged, tucking her cold hands into the slip pockets of her jerkin. The wind was tugging at her hair, however, and every now and then she had to lift a hand and push it back from her eyes and mouth. Strands blew against the sleeve of his coat, and their brightness irritated him.
For a few minutes they walked in silence, and then she spoke again: ‘My name’s Rachel—Rachel Lesley. I work for Mrs Faulkner-Stewart.’
Jake drew a deep breath, but made no comment, and all at once he was aware of a stiffening in her. Perhaps she was getting the message at last, he thought ruthlessly, and was totally unprepared for her attack when it came.
‘You’re not very polite, are you?’ she inquired, with cool audacity. ‘Why don’t you just tell me to get lost, if that’s the way you feel?’
Her words stopped Jake in his tracks, and he turned to stare at her angrily. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard what I said,’ she insisted, and he saw that the eyes turned belligerently up to his were flecked with amber, like her hair. ‘If you want to be alone, why not say so?’
Jake’s hands balled themselves into fists in his pockets. ‘I see no reason to state what must be patently obvious!’ he declared cuttingly, and her lips pursed indignantly.
‘I was only trying to be friendly!’ she retorted, and his lips curled contemptuously.
‘I suggest that—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart, if that is your employer’s name, ought to pay attention to her employee’s education, instead of probing into other people’s affairs! Then perhaps you’d know better than to go around picking up strange men!’
The girl gasped. ‘I do not go around picking up strange men! I felt—sorry for you, that’s all!’
Jake’s reaction to this was violent. That this girl, this child—for she was little more—should feel sorry for him! Didn’t she know who he was? Had she no conception to whom she was speaking?
