of the stairs that Rachel knew led to the kitchen. She had heard the heavy door slamming, and her thin face broke into a smile when she saw their visitor.
‘Well, well! It never rains but what it pours,’ she exclaimed, beaming at Rachel. ‘What a night to arrive, to be sure! You’ll be thinking we have nothing but bad weather up here.’
‘I know you don’t,’ Rachel assured her, smiling, and handing over her coat. ‘How are you, Mrs Armstrong? You’re looking well. The weather doesn’t seem to disagree with you.’
‘Ah, Maisie was born and bred to it,’ Robert remarked, making for the stairs. ‘Come along, Rachel. I’ll show you your room before supper. I’m sure you’d like a few minutes to wash your hands and comb your hair.’
Blessing his understanding, Rachel nodded eagerly. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, looking anxiously at Jaime’s mother, and Liz made a deprecating gesture.
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she exclaimed, but there was a faint trace of tension in her expression. ‘Come down to the sitting room when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you.’
Rachel nodded, and suppressing the desire to hurry, she followed Robert up the stairs.
A landing circled the hall on two sides, with corridors running in either direction, to the two wings of the house. Built at the end of the last century, when economy of dimensions was not at a premium, Clere Heights was a rambling, spacious building, with two floors above ground level and one below. The second floor rooms were smaller than those on the first floor, meant in the initial instance to accommodate a full quota of servants, but Rachel knew from her previous visits that these were seldom used now. The Shards, who had lived in the house for the last thirty-five years, had made certain modifications, adding central heating and bathrooms, and updating the electrical system, but the character of the place had not been altered, and Rachel had always been happy here. But that was because she had been with Jaime, she thought tightly now, closing her mind to the coming encounter.
Robert led the way along the corridor that gave access to the south wing of the house, and opened the door into a spacious apartment, that sprang to life when he switched on the lamps. The soft green carpet underfoot was reflected in green and gold curtains and a matching patterned bedspread, and Rachel recognised the dark oak furniture from her visit two years ago.
‘Remember it?’ enquired Robert, setting her case on the ottoman at the foot of the square bed, and Rachel nodded mutely, too overcome to speak. ‘We thought you’d like to be in here,’ he added, depositing her hold-all on the bed. ‘Take your time, and acclimatise yourself. Maisie’s supper won’t spoil for a few minutes’ waiting.’
‘Thank you.’
Rachel’s gratitude was evident in the unusual brightness of her eyes, and Robert hesitated a moment. ‘You don’t change, do you, Rachel?’ he said thoughtfully, giving her a rueful smile. ‘You’re still the beautiful enigma, aren’t you? The only girl I ever knew who beat Jaime at his own game. I guess that cool exterior drove him to distraction. I only wish he’d met you before Betsy got her claws into him.’
This was too close to the bone, and as if he knew it, Jaime’s father turned away. ‘See you soon,’ he said, raising a hand as if in apology, and closed the door swiftly, before she could respond.
Left alone, Rachel drew a deep breath before surveying her domain. She still felt weak, and somehow defenceless, and her own reflection in the long wardrobe mirrors didn’t help. It had been a mistake to wear dark colours, she decided. The dark brown silk shirt, and the matching pants that flared at the knee above long suede boots, had looked fashionably businesslike back in London. New they looked drab and unfeminine, robbing her face of all colour, and accentuating the hollows in her cheeks.
Still, she had no time to change now, and carrying her toilet things into the adjoining bathroom, she quickly washed her face. Her skin felt cold, but inside she felt as if she was burning up, and she lifted one of the yellow hand-towels and held it to her face for a few minutes, staring into the haunted green eyes that confronted her. Dear God, how was she going to go through with this? she asked herself silently, then thrust the towel aside before emotion got the better of her.
She had believed she was alone. She had never dreamed that the running water might have provided a screen for someone to enter her room undetected, and when she first glimpsed the dark figure, propped in the open doorway to the bathroom, she started as if she had seen a ghost. But it was no ghost who straightened at her involuntary gesture, who regarded her through narrowed mocking eyes, and she felt as if a sudden blow had just been delivered to her solar plexus.
‘Hello, Rachel,’ he greeted her equably. ‘I thought it would be easier if we got this over in private. I’m sorry if I startled you, but I didn’t like to interrupt your evident absorption in your appearance.’
HIS SARDONIC WORDS had a steadying effect, reminding her as they did of their last interview. He had been mocking then, and scathing too, and violently angry, although he had tried hard to control it, and a feathering of anticipation ran over Rachel’s skin at the memory of how it had ended.
‘What do you want, Jaime?’ she enquired now, making a display of leaning close to the mirror again, smoothing a delicate finger over the curve of her eyebrow. ‘I should have thought any contact we have to have could be more suitably expressed in the presence of your parents, and I see no reason for us to exchange anything more than the time of day.’
She spoke coolly, controlling the tendency her voice had to quiver a little, and felt quite pleased with her efforts. He should not imagine their previous relationship gave him any prior rights where she was concerned, and it was better to make her position clear, right from the start.
‘You think that, do you?’ Jaime’s voice was low and flat, devoid of expression, concealing his feelings. ‘So we’re to behave like strangers, are we?’
‘We are strangers,’ she retorted, realising she could not go on avoiding looking at him. ‘I told you—I never knew you. Now, if you don’t mind—’
She moved then, as if to go past him, but he was standing squarely in the doorway, and her downcast eyes could not avoid the sight of his booted feet, set slightly apart, with the narrow base of the walking stick that he favoured on his right.
Her eyes moved upward almost involuntarily then, over the cream-coloured corded pants, that enclosed his hips like a second skin, over the dark green shirt he was wearing, the neckline unbuttoned to reveal the brown column of his throat, to the swarthy features of his lean dark face, that she remembered so well. She was a tall girl herself, but he had always been taller, easily six feet, with a lean, muscular body, that owed its hardness more to the tough life he led than to any particular prowess in physical sports. He was not a particularly handsome man. Like his body, his face had a toughness that denied simple good looks. But he was attractive—how attractive, Rachel knew only too well, and the hooded depths of his eyes and the sensual twist of his mouth had an appeal that was purely magnetic. She had felt that magnetism once, she could even feel it at this moment, but now she knew the selfish nature that lay behind that sexy exterior, and despised herself for allowing even a trace of the old charisma to disturb her.
‘Will you let me pass?’ she demanded now, fixing her gaze on the central button of his shirt. ‘I want to put on
