LITMIR.BIZ

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and Rachel turned away to hide her amusement, saying: ‘I’ll just give Minstrel a drink.’

      ‘Yes, and ring for tea, will you, dear?’ called Della after her. ‘I’ll be out directly.’

      The door was closed and Minstrel offered a glum yelp. But since the disastrous occasion a few days ago, when he had cleared his mistress’s dressing table of a large collection of cosmetic jars and bottles, he had not been welcome in her room.

      Rachel got Minstrel’s dish and filled it from the hand basin in her room. The dog drank thirstily, and through its noisy gulps she rang room service. Afterwards, she wandered over to the windows, looking out rather absently. She wondered when she would see Mr Allan again, or indeed if! How long was he staying? And where was his wife? A man like him was bound to be married, but why wasn’t she with him if he had been ill?

      The arrival of the tea, and Della’s subsequent emergence from her room, left little room for further speculation on the matter, and it was not until she was lying in her bath later that evening that Rachel allowed her mind to drift back to the afternoon’s encounter. What did he really think of her? Did he think of her at all? Or was she just a rather annoying adolescent in his eyes? Perhaps he thought she was oversexed and provocative! Rachel reached for the sponge, and began soaping it liberally. Perhaps she was, she thought irritably. But she had never been troubled with such ideas before.

      The usual arrangement was that Della went down to the cocktail bar before dinner and shared in the casual conversation of her fellow guests, while Rachel tidied the suite, fed Minstrel, and had her bath. Then, later, they would meet up again in the restaurant and share a table for dinner. After dinner, a few of the guests made up a four for bridge, and as Della enjoyed cards she was invariably included. That was Rachel’s cue to do as she liked, but this usually comprised a walk with Minstrel, followed by television and bed, in that order. Occasionally she had agreed to a date with a member of the hotel staff; but these were few and far between, preferring as she did the comparative luxury of reading in her own room, briefly free of Della’s fads and fancies.

      This evening, however, Rachel felt restless, and after spending longer over her toilette than she normally did, she was late for dinner. She had hesitated a long while over what she should wear. After discarding the chemise dress she had planned to wear in favour of velvet pants and an embroidered smock, she had eventually returned to her original choice, deciding she was being silly in imagining it mattered either way. The chemise was long and made of white sprigged cotton, a ribbon tie beneath her breasts accentuating their fullness; but it was definitely not the sort of dress an older woman would wear, and that was why Rachel had hesitated over wearing it. But she was not an older woman, and there was no use wishing she was.

      The lift seemed grindingly slow as it descended to the lower floors, and Rachel was biting her lips impatiently when it stopped at the first landing. Then she stepped back nervously, her cheeks darkening with hot colour when she saw the man waiting to get into the lift. His own expression was less easy to define, but after only a moment’s hesitation he stepped inside, joining her in the suddenly overpoweringly confined atmosphere of the square cubicle. In a navy suede suit and a matching shirt, the heavy duffel coat overall, he reduced the proportions of the lift alarmingly, and she was stiflingly conscious of the masculine odour he emanated. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly in her agitation, the nipples visibly hardening beneath the sprigged cotton.

      If he was aware of her excitement, he gave no indication of the fact, and his polite: ‘Good evening!’ was as impersonal as ever. But she had not been this close to him before, and she could see a muscle jerking beneath the shaven beard shadowing his jawline. Perhaps he was not as indifferent to her as he would have her believe, or was it nerves that caused that betraying spasm?

      Then, as if impatient with the way she was watching him, he looked at her, and that straight uncompromising stare turned her knees to jelly. It was as well the skirt of her gown covered her legs, or their quivering infirmity would have been visible to his gaze.

      ‘I—are you going down to dinner?’ she stammered, needing the release of conversation, but he shook his head with wry impatience.

      ‘I’ve had dinner,’ he told her flatly, and her arms slid round her waist in an instinctively defensive gesture.

      ‘I’m late,’ she volunteered, and then the lift had reached the ground floor, and the doors were rolling back.

      He stood back to allow her to precede him, and she went ahead jerkily, wishing she wasn’t always at a disadvantage with him. If only she had had Minstrel with her, she might have stood a chance of going with him, wherever he was going. But that was purely wishful thinking.

      He followed her out of the lift, and then, as if aware of her thoughts, he said: ‘No dog today?’

      ‘No.’ Her smile was fleeting.

      His mouth curled. ‘I like your dress.’

      The colour in her cheeks deepened again. ‘Thank you.’

      His lips twitched, and then, as if regretting the impulse to compliment her, he turned away. ‘Enjoy your dinner.’

      Rachel watched him cross the lobby and disappear through the revolving doors with clenched frustration. Now why had he said that? Did he really like her dress, or was he feeling sorry for her now? Whatever! He had gone, and she had to go and face Della’s undoubted irritation because she was late.

      But as she crossed the lobby towards the restaurant, Carl Yates’ voice hailed her. The young manager of the Tor Court would stir a few hearts himself, she thought inconsequently, although she herself didn’t go for husky Vikings with shoulder-length blond hair.

      ‘Oh, Miss Lesley,’ he said now, his roving eyes revealing a deepening interest. ‘Mrs Faulkner-Stewart asked me to get her tickets for the concert at the Conservatory.’ He waved a white envelope. ‘Will you give them to her?’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Rachel took the envelope, wondering why he had chosen to give her the tickets. Normally he used bell-hops to run his messages for him, and he must know that Della was always to be found taking dinner at this time.

      ‘You’re looking particularly attractive this evening, Miss Lesley,’ he continued, with the assurance of a man not accustomed to being rebuffed. ‘I didn’t know you knew Jake—Allan.’

      Rachel’s smile was forced. ‘I’ll give Mrs. Faulkner-Stewart the tickets,’ she said, and gained a certain malicious satisfaction from his chagrin as she sauntered into the restaurant.

      Della had not waited for her. She was already half-way through her smoked salmon, and she took the envelope Rachel proffered with unconcealed annoyance.

      ‘I don’t pay you to loiter about in hotel lobbies, Rachel!’ she stated, in audible tones, and Rachel couldn’t help reflecting, as she reached for an olive, that pride always came before a fall.

      Even so, as she lay in bed that night, she found herself reliving those moments in the lift. So—his name was Jake. At least she could thank Carl Yates for that small piece of information. Jake Allan? Yes, she liked it. It suited him.

      During the following days, Rachel had little time to herself. Della took to her bed with a stomach disorder the morning following the encounter in the lift, and her fretful demands kept her companion on her toes. There was not even the evening bridge sessions to break the monotony, and apart from those occasions when she managed to slip out of the hotel on the pretext of exercising Minstrel, Rachel was kept busy. She told herself that it was just as well, that time would put things into a better perspective, but the truth was she grew more and more anxious to see him as each day passed. She even began to worry about him, wondering if he had been taken ill again, and whether anyone was looking after him. But there was no one she could ask, apart from Carl Yates, and she had no desire to alert him to her interest. So she ran Della’s errands, read to her when she felt like it, looked after Minstrel, and generally made herself useful, trying, not very successfully, to enjoy her life as she had always managed to do.

      Towards the end of the week

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