LITMIR.BIZ

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      She wanted to thank him, and instead she said inanely, ‘They’ve gone.’

      ‘Naturally,’ he said coolly. ‘Are you disappointed?’

      His English was faultless, without even a trace of an accent, she thought in the few seconds before the meaning of his words got through to her.

      ‘You must be out of your mind!’ she flared at him.

      ‘I must?’ His brows rose. ‘And what about you—roaming the back streets of a strange town? Do your parents know where you are?’

      ‘I’m not a child.’ Infuriatingly her voice trembled. ‘And I’m here with my employer.’

      ‘Employer?’ He studied her for a moment, and a smile touched his mouth that flicked her, unaccountably, on the raw. ‘My apologies. I didn’t think you were old enough to be a—working girl. But the way you’re dressed should have given me a clue, I suppose. What are you—an actress or a model?’

      He was laughing at her. He had to be, although she couldn’t read even the slightest trace of humour in his voice. Instead, there was a cold cynicism which chilled her.

      ‘I’m a sort of secretary,’ she said quickly, trying to still her sense of annoyance, reminding herself that she had to be grateful to him. ‘And I ought to be getting back. I’ll be missed by now.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said drily. ‘Well, Miss Sort-of-Secretary, and what do your duties consist of, precisely? Can you type?’

      ‘A little,’ Christina said, her bewilderment increasing with every moment that passed. After all, he had come to her rescue of his own volition. She hadn’t even called for help, so why was he behaving in such a hostile manner?

      ‘Only a little? But then I suppose your talents really lie in other directions?’

      For a moment, Christina remembered the advertisement she had drafted in her own mind days ago in the back kitchen of the cottage, and a rueful grin lifted the corners of her mouth.

      ‘I suppose you could say that,’ she admitted, then cast a distracted glance at her watch. ‘Heavens—the time! Can you—would you be kind enough to direct me to the Hotel de Beauharnais? I thought I was heading there, but I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.’

      ‘What an admission,’ he said satirically. ‘You know, you aren’t running true to type at all.’ He put out lean brown fingers and cupped her chin, lifting her face so he could study it more closely. The insolent assurance of his touch unnerved her, and she jerked her chin away.

      ‘Please don’t do that,’ she said, making a perceptible effort to stop her voice from trembling again. ‘I—I don’t like to be touched.’ She hesitated. ‘I know I should have said so before, but I don’t know how to thank you for—for coming along when you did. I really was so frightened. If you hadn’t been there, I—I can’t bear to contemplate what might have happened.’

      ‘You’d have had your handbag snatched,’ he informed her mockingly. His smile widened, as her startled disbelieving gaze flew to his face. ‘Poor Sort-of-Secretary. Expecting to be another rape statistic when all they wanted was your money!’

      Their eyes met and held. To her horror, Christina realised she was near to tears. The shock of her recent experience coupled with this incomprehensible attitude on the part of the stranger who had aided her was having a devastating effect on her emotions. More than anything else, she wanted the refuge of her hotel room.

      ‘I didn’t know what to think.’ She lifted her chin with unconscious dignity. ‘Situations like this are rather new to me. Now, if you could show me the way to the Beauharnais.’

      ‘Just follow the scent of affluence,’ he advised sardonically. ‘Actually you’re not too far away. You want the next left turning, and the second right after that, but unless you know them these back streets can seem like a maze. Next time you want to play tourist, stick to the boulevards. At least the people you meet there will know the rules of the game.’

      With a brief nod, he turned away and continued on down the street. Christina watched him go, aware that her heart was thumping in an erratic and totally unprecedented manner. She told herself that she was glad to see him go, to be free of that disconcerting silver gaze and bewilderingly barbed tongue. She was thankful that he had not offered to accompany her to the hotel, she told herself defiantly, and if he had done so, she would have refused his offer.

      No matter how odd his manner, his directions were reassuringly accurate, she found a few minutes later as she emerged into the square and saw the opulent colonial lines of the Beauharnais confronting her. She quickened her steps, instinct telling her that Mrs Brandon’s rest would have ended long ago and that her absence would have been noticed.

      She crossed the trottoir quickly, swerving between the laughing, chattering groups of people making a more leisurely return to the hotel for dinner, followed by an evening’s entertainment. For a brief moment she felt envy stir within her. Her time here was so brief, and tomorrow she would set out for a very different existence on Ste Victoire, with no very clear idea what, if anything, she had to look forward to. She shook her head impatiently, tossing back her hair. She mustn’t think like that, she chided herself. It was the chance of a lifetime, and she was just allowing the afternoon’s experience to upset her unduly. After all, here she was back safe and sound, with only her pride bruised a little—and that was a condition she had learned to live with.

      As she approached the hotel’s imposing portico, she noticed that a group of tourists had gathered at one side of it, and were obviously watching something that was taking place in the shade of one of the tall columns which decorated the entrance.

      She hesitated for a moment, then deciding she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb in the matter of lateness, threaded her way through the group to see what was interesting them all so closely. It didn’t at first glance seem to be too impressive. A tall, lanky Negro with grizzled hair was crouching on the ground, tossing what appeared to be chicken bones in front of him. In front of him, a matronly-looking woman with blue-rinsed hair was also crouching, oblivious of the damage the dusty ground was doing to an expensive suit. As Christina paused, she got to her feet, brushing her skirt almost absently, an expression of mingled alarm and delight on her plump good-natured face. She took the arm of a well-dressed man standing behind her and they moved away. As they passed her, Christina heard the woman say, ‘But that was truly amazing, honey. He knew everything …’ Oh, she thought, as comprehension dawned, a fortune-teller.

      Momentarily, she lingered, waiting to see who his next client would be from the laughing jostling little throng that surrounded him, but no one seemed very willing to step forward. The man waited, leaning his back against the column, his calm liquid eyes travelling speculatively round the group as if there was all the time in the world. He made no effort to tout for custom, Christina noticed curiously. With a feeling of anti-climax she began to back away and to her alarm felt someone grasp her arm.

      ‘Now then, little lady.’ A plump, bespectacled man in brightly coloured sports shirt and slacks beamed at her. ‘Why don’t you try your luck?’

      The people round him agreed enthusiastically and in spite of her protests, Christina found herself being pushed to the forefront of the crowd. She was blushing with annoyance and embarrassment. She wasn’t altogether averse to having her fortune told and she knew—of course she did—that it was all harmless fun, yet at the same time she was reluctant to take part in what amounted to a public performance. It must be her day for finding herself in situations that were none of her making, she told herself philosophically as she squatted obediently in front of the fortune-teller and added some coins to the battered tin at his side. She didn’t know what to do—whether or not to extend her palm for him to read, but in fact he seemed totally oblivious of her presence. All his attention seemed to be concentrated on the small pile of bones he was tossing in his hands. She waited rather uncomfortably, feeling that she was making a fool of herself for the second time that day, and that she did not want to be told that she would soon make a long

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