LITMIR.BIZ

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a good-looking one too, and you’ll be mixing with men with the blood of the conquistadores in their veins. Have you thought about that?’

      Rachel lifted an arched eyebrow. ‘I always thought they were more interested in gold than in personal conquests,’ she said. ‘And I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, you know. I’ve been working in the theatre—remember?—and they call me the Ice Maiden.’

      ‘Lot of damned nonsense,’ Sir Giles rumbled. ‘And written by that fellow who was supposed to be keen on you. What happened? Did you quarrel?’

      Rachel was silent for a moment. One could not tell one’s devoted and old-fashioned grandfather the truth—that Leigh’s article had been prompted by nothing more than sexual pique, because he’d suddenly discovered he was not as irresistible as he’d always thought.

      She’d liked Leigh, and frankly enjoyed the kudos of being seen with one of Fleet Street’s youngest and most attractive show business columnists. And eventually, inevitably there had started to be more to it than that. He’d become more than attractive. He’d begun to be necessary to her. Afterwards when she could think about it clearly and rationally, she could see what he had done—how clever he had been. He’d always known she wouldn’t be a pushover like most of his girl-friends, so he’d played the game her way, making his approach a gentle, almost insidious one, even making her believe, God help her, that he was falling in love with her.

      She had even invited him down to Abbots Field for the weekend, although it had not been a great success, as she was the first to admit. Leigh’s elegant boutique-bought clothes and slightly raffish charm had seemed out of place against the quiet gracious lines of the old house, and although Sir Giles had behaved with perfect correctness, Rachel knew all the same that he was not impressed with Leigh. It had been a disappointment, but not, she had told herself optimistically, an insurmountable one. Grandfather and Leigh had to be given a chance to come to terms, occupying as they did, two very different worlds.

      But there had been no opportunity for that. The following weekend Leigh had invited her to go away with him, to meet his family, he’d said. She’d accepted gladly, but then the doubts had begun. His manner had changed subtly, for one thing, and then for someone travelling home for the weekend he didn’t seem altogether sure of the route. And when they arrived at the secluded cottage, and found it deserted, she knew, and dismissed all Leigh’s too-fluent excuses about mistaken dates. The cottage wasn’t his home. He’d simply hired it for the weekend. He’d admitted as much eventually, amused at her dismay, but clearly confident of his ability to win her over and persuade her to stay there with him as his mistress.

      ‘But I don’t want it to be like this,’ she’d cried at last. ‘It’s dirty—it’s sordid—and if you loved me, you wouldn’t want it like this either.’

      The memory of his laughter still had the power to make her cringe as if something slimy had left a trail across her skin. That, and the things he had said to her which had killed any feelings she’d had for him—the first sweet stirrings of desire that he’d roused in her—stone dead.

      The Ice Maiden article had appeared two weeks later under his byline. It was skilful, even humorous, but Rachel recognised as she’d been meant to do the sting in the tail, and knew that, at a time when female sexuality was being exploited in the theatre, she was being written of as shallow, naïve and frigid. Everyone knew of her relationship with Leigh, and would assume that he knew what he was talking about.

      Only his spite had misfired. A role in a television play that she’d not expected to get was suddenly offered to her, and for the first time in her career she was almost overwhelmed with work. Her agent, who had groaned over the Ice Maiden article, was surprised and delighted, and her success had helped in some way to relieve the ache Leigh’s treachery had caused her.

      ‘Yes,’ she said quietly at last, aroused from her painful reverie by the knowledge that her grandfather was becoming restive, ‘you could say that we—quarrelled.’

      Sir Giles grunted. ‘Well, he’s no great loss to you, my dear. I can’t say I took to him. Strange sense of values he seems to have.’

      She nodded silently, a feeling of desolation striking at her.

      In the weeks which followed she had lived up to the image that Leigh had bestowed upon her, holding aloof from all emotional attachments, pretending that she preferred her own company, learning to conceal the harsh facts of her own loneliness. At least, she had tried to console herself, she had Grandfather and Mark to rely on. But then had come that terrible night at Abbots Frields, and it seemed as if Mark too had deserted her.

      Rachel gave herself an impatient little shake and sat up, studying her surroundings. The streets the taxi was passing through seemed to combine a multitude of styles with glass skyscrapers springing up next to buildings of the old Spanish colonial tradition, and the elaborate façades of public buildings and churches. It could be an intriguing place, she decided, perched high on its Andean plateau and it was a pity that she had not more time at her disposal to explore. Perhaps after she’d made contact with Mark and persuaded him to return to England with her, there might be a brief opportunity then, she thought hopefully.

      The scenery was changing as they left the more commercial districts behind and entered the purely residential area. There was no sign here of any poverty or decay in these gracious mansions with their velvet lawns and fountain-bedecked gardens. It all spoke of peace and tranquillity and the solid comfort that money can bring. And the Arviles family were part of all this, she realised, as the taxi turned into one of the smooth curving drives.

      It was a charming house, low and rambling, a fragrant creeper burgeoning with pale pink blossoms cascading down to the ground beside the front door as Rachel knocked. She had told the taxi to wait for her. If Mark was there, she told herself hopefully, he might pack and come with her straight away. They could drive to the airport and pick up the next flight out.

      When the door opened she was confronted by a stout woman in a dark dress covered by a white apron, who regarded Rachel with a doubtful frown. Relying on the Spanish phrase book she had bought at the airport, Rachel asked if she might speak to Señor Arviles. For a moment she was afraid that she had not made herself understood, for the woman frowned a little as if puzzled, but she held the door open for Rachel to enter.

      The entrance hall was large with a coolly tiled floor. Rachel followed the maid to a large salón at the back of the house, where it was intimated she should wait. It was beautifully furnished and the chairs looked comfortable as well as luxurious, but Rachel felt too restless to sit down and compose herself. Her headache was worse too, and she felt an odd dizziness.

      I’m a fool, she thought. I should have rested and had something to eat before I came here. But the thought of food, hungry though she was, was suddenly and grossly unappealing, and she was thankful when the door behind her opened, diverting her mind from her own physical discomfort.

      A small, rather plump woman came in, followed by a young girl. The physical resemblance between them was too pronounced for them to be anything but mother and daughter, but where the girl was dressed with a demure and expensive simplicity, the older woman had a stunning and moneyed elegance. She wore black, and there was a discreet glitter of diamonds on her hands and at her throat, and she smiled rather uncertainly at Rachel.

      The girl stepped forward. ‘You asked for my father,’ she said in heavily accented English. ‘I regret that he is not here. My mother wishes to be of assistance, but she speaks no English. How can we help you, señorita?’

      ‘My name is Rachel Crichton.’ Rachel paused. ‘I was hoping that my brother might be here—or that you might know where he was?’

      She had to wait while the girl translated what she had said for the Señora, and then Señora Arviles came forward with both hands outstretched. Rachel only understood about one word in ten of what she was saying, but she knew she was being made welcome, and she smiled in response.

      The girl came forward too, her lips curving piquantly. ‘So you are the sister of Marcos. I am Isabel. He has mentioned

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