A Trial Marriage

CHAPTER TWO

RACHEL did not see him again for several days.

Even though she took to lingering for a few minutes in the lobby before taking Minstrel out for his evening walk, there was never any sign of the tall, dark man whose haggard features had begun to haunt her dreams. He never appeared at mealtimes, and in spite of Della’s attempts to draw the manager into conversation, Mr Yates seemed curiously loath to discuss the occupant of the first floor suite.

Rachel didn’t altogether understand her own interest in him. After all, he had shown in no uncertain manner that he did not welcome companionship, and he obviously regarded her as something of a nuisance in spite of his reluctant apology. But for all that, she had not mentioned their encounter to Della, and squeezed a small measure of comfort from the knowledge that her employer had not even spoken to him.

Her employer! Rachel grimaced at the thought, as she steered Della Faulkner-Stewart’s Mini into the parking area outside the hotel. Six months ago she would never have considered such an occupation, but circumstances could change so many things. Six months ago she had been dreaming of going to Oxford, of getting her degree. Until her father had contracted polio and died all in the space of three weeks, and her mother, dazed after so little sleep, had crashed her car into level crossing gates just as a train was passing. At least, that was the coroner’s verdict, though Rachel herself suspected that she had not wanted to go on living. She had been an only child, and she had always known her presence had never really been necessary. Her parents were complete unto themselves, and she had been at times a rather annoying encumbrance.

Nevertheless, the dual tragedy had left her stunned, and the solicitors’ subsequent information that apart from a couple of insurance policies, which would provide sufficient funds to pay all outstanding debts, she was penniless, had left her curiously unmoved.

That was when Della Faulkner-Stewart had taken over. She had been a school friend of Rachel’s mother’s, and although they had not seen her for some years, she had arrived in Nottingham for Mr Lesley’s funeral. That she was still in town when Mrs Lesley also died was, she said, a blessing, and she had insisted that Rachel should not attempt her final examinations at such a time. There was no hurry, she said. She herself needed a companion—her previous companion had taken the unforgivable step of getting married—and why didn’t Rachel come and live with her for a while? They could help one another.

In her numbed state, Rachel was only too willing to let someone else take responsibility for her. It wasn’t until some weeks afterwards, when she found herself at Della’s constant beck and call, that she began to appreciate what she had forfeited. But still, she had a little money of her own, and until she could afford to take her finals, she was persuaded that she could be a lot worse off.

Della’s husband was dead, too, and sometimes Rachel wondered whether that was why she had come to Nottingham in the first place. Perhaps she had hoped to persuade Rachel’s mother to take over the position as her companion, but Mrs Lesley had been too grief-stricken at that time to consider it. The truth was, Della was not the most considerate of employers, and although her husband had left her comfortably placed, she resented being without a man to care for her. Consequently, she spent little time at her London home, preferring to live in hotels, always in the hope of finding some man to take her late husband’s place. Her only stipulation was that he should be English. She despised Europeans, and seldom went abroad, preferring wholesome British food to what she termed as ‘foreign muck’.

Yet, for all that, Rachel was not actively unhappy. On the contrary, she was naturally a pleasant-natured girl, and apart from an occasional yearning for dreaming spires, she lived quite contentedly, prepared to wait another year or two before striking out on her own.

Now, she pulled the Mini into its space, calmed the excitable poodle behind her, and opened her door. As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, it was starting to rain, and she reached for Minstrel’s lead before allowing him to get out and possibly decorate her navy slacks with muddy paw marks. There was a strange car parked alongside the Mini, one which she had not seen before, and she studied its elegant lines before turning and walking towards the hotel. As she neared the entrance two men came out of the hotel, talking together, and her pulses quickened alarmingly when she recognised Mr Allan and another man.

That he had recognised her, too, there was no doubt, but she sensed his reluctance to acknowledge the fact. However, short of cutting her dead, there was nothing else he could do, and his lips curved in the semblance of a polite smile, while his eyes looked right through her. She wondered if he knew how that look affected her, and how her palms moistened when he said quietly: ‘Hello!’

Rachel restrained an eagerness to respond, and replied lightly: ‘Hello, Mr Allan. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

He cast a challenging look at the older man beside him, as if daring him to contradict the statement, and Rachel’s gaze flicked over his companion. There was a resemblance between them, and she wondered if this was his father.

But clearly she was not to be introduced, and before she could think of anything else to say, the two men had passed her. She looked after them, biting her lips, and then entered the hotel ill-humouredly, mentally chastising herself for her foolishness.

What did she expect from him anyway? He was easily as old as her father had been when he died, and he regarded her as little more than a schoolgirl, obviously. Just because he evoked her sympathies …

But no. That wasn’t strictly truthful. He had the most incredibly sexy eyes, and in spite of his haggard appearance, he aroused the most wanton thoughts inside her. His attraction for her owed little to whatever illness had brought him here, and she knew that Della would have a fit if she guessed the fantasies Rachel was nurturing. But they were only fantasies, she told herself severely, dragging Minstrel into the lift after her, and showing an unusual lack of sympathy when she accidently stepped on his paw.

Della’s suite of rooms was on the second floor. She had reserved a lounge and a double room with bath for herself, as well as a single room for Rachel. Rachel was obliged to use the bathroom on that floor which served two other rooms as well as her own, but she didn’t mind. She invariably took her bath in the evening, while everyone else was in the bar enjoying pre-dinner drinks, and unlike Della she had felt little desire to mix with her fellow guests—until now.

When she and Minstrel entered the suite, Della called peevishly from the bedroom: ‘Rachel, is that you?’ And when the girl showed her face at the bedroom door: ‘You’ve been a long time.’

Della had had one of her headaches when Rachel went out. They were a persistent torment to her, she declared, although they came in very useful on occasion, when she wanted rid of Rachel for the afternoon.

Now, however, she levered herself up on the quilted counterpane, looking suitably wan in her lacy pink negligée. She was forty-three, and spent half her life trying to look younger, with the inevitable result of achieving the opposite. Her fine hair had been tinted so often that it looked like dried straw until it had been combed into its usual style, and her skin was paper-thin and veined from too much food and too little exercise. She treated Rachel with a mixture of envy and irritation, and disliked feeling at a disadvantage with anybody.

Now Rachel held on desperately to Minstrel’s lead, as he viewed the tempting expanse of soft cream carpet spread out before him, and explained: ‘I couldn’t find that particular brand of cream anywhere. I think Mr Holland must make it up for you.’

The frown which had momentarily creased Della’s brow cleared. ‘Oh, yes, dear, perhaps you’re right,’ she agreed complacently, relaxing back against the pillows. ‘He does tend to make a fuss of me, doesn’t he?’

Rachel reserved judgment, and struggling with the poodle asked: ‘Have you had tea?’

‘No.’ Della shook her head. ‘I’ve just been resting here since you went out.’

Belatedly, Rachel asked if she was feeling better, averting her eyes from the lurid jacket of the paperback novel that unexpectedly appeared beneath Della’s flowing skirts.

‘A little,’ her employer conceded reluctantly, quickly tucking the book out of sight, 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 Della was sufficiently recovered to come down for dinner, and Rachel, who had become used to taking her meals in her room, dressed for dinner with some trepidation. What if he was in the restaurant? Would he have noticed her long absence? Hardly likely, as he seldom ate in the restaurant anyway. But if he was feeling better …

She wore the chemise dress deliberately. It was flattering, she decided, and with her hair loose about her bare shoulders, she could hold her own—at least, with other girls of her own age.

But Jake Allan was not dining in the restaurant. The table he occasionally occupied was vacant, and the absence of cutlery indicated that it was not about to be used. Rachel’s lips compressed disappointedly, and Della, unusually alert after her period of isolation, narrowed mascaraed lids.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, glancing round curiously. ‘Is the Colonel trying to attract your attention again? He really is the most impossible old roué! I shall have a word with Mr Yates——’

‘Oh, please!’ Rachel shook her head nervously. ‘The Colonel isn’t even looking this way! I—I was just thinking, that’s all.’

‘What about?’ Della looked suspicious.

‘Nothing much.’ Rachel managed to distract her attention by opening the menu. ‘Oh, look! They’ve got your favourite food here. Tournedos! They must have known you’d be feeling better this evening.’

When the meal was over, the elderly Colonel Della had been grumbling about earlier approached their table. He subjected Rachel’s cleavage to minute inspection, and then turning to Della exclaimed gallantly. ‘Good to see you back, my dear. Game hasn’t been the same without you! You will be joining us this evening, I hope.’

Della’s indignation melted beneath such outright flattery.

‘I’ve missed our little get-togethers, too, Colonel,’ she assured him coyly. ‘And I know it’s no fun playing with three and a dummy hand.’

The Colonel’s wicked old eyes flickered over Rachel again. Then he turned his attention to what Della was saying: ‘What? Oh, yes. Well, as a matter of fact, dear lady, we managed to persuade one of the other guests to join us yesterday evening. You’ve probably seen him around. A Mr Allan.’

Rachel managed to control the start the Colonel’s words had given her, and concentrated on her hands curled tightly together in her lap, as Della answered: ‘Mr Allan!’ Her interest was evident. ‘Oh, yes. I know who you mean, Colonel. But …’ She paused, obviously searching for words to disguise her real feelings. ‘He seems such a—quiet man. Always keeping himself to himself.’

‘Yes.’ The Colonel was losing interest in the conversation. ‘So you’ll be joining us later?’

‘Of course.’ Della moistened her upper lip. ‘Will—er—will Mr Allan be joining us this evening?’

The Colonel shook his head, and unable to catch Rachel’s attention, started to move away. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Only played because I bullied him into it. See you later, dear lady.’

After the Colonel had gone, Della made a little sound of excitement. ‘Imagine that! Him playing cards. It’s interesting to know he’s not as unapproachable as he appears. Isn’t it?’ Rachel didn’t answer. ‘Isn’t it?’ she repeated.

Rachel forced herself to look up, but all she could think was that last night, when she had passed through the lobby on her way out to take Minstrel for his walk, Jake Allan had been only a dozen yards away, in the lounge, playing bridge! It was infuriating!

‘You—you seem very concerned,’ she said at last, biting back her own frustration.

Della sighed irritably. ‘Well, why not? He is the most interesting man in the hotel, after all!’

Rachel licked her lips. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course. Don’t you? Oh no, of course you wouldn’t. He’s much too old for you. Carl Yates is more your scene. I’m surprised you don’t make any overtures there. He’s obviously more than willing.’

Rachel flushed, as much for what Della had said about Jake Allan as her remarks concerning Carl Yates. But happily her employer only saw what she wanted to see, and right now she was no doubt plotting how she could corner her quarry, and invite him into her circle.

After several cups of coffee, Della left her to go and join her cronies, and Rachel walked disconsolately across the hall. A large television was playing away to itself in the viewing room, but she preferred the smaller set in her room to its huge impersonality. Further along was the bar where residents mixed with casual customers, but the idea of entering its smoky atmosphere did not appeal to her either.

She was on the point of turning towards the lift when Carl Yates came strolling towards her from the reception area. Seemingly unabashed by her unwelcoming frown, he said: ‘All alone?’

Rachel gave him a cool stare. ‘It certainly looks like it, doesn’t it?’

He moved his head in silent acknowledgement of the barb. ‘I gather you’re not a bridge fanatic.’

‘No.’

Rachel would have gone past him, but he spoke again: ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

She halted, and turned to look at him. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Why not?’

She hesitated, tempted to brush him off without a second thought, but out of the corner of her eye she suddenly saw that Jake Allan had just entered the hotel and was crossing the lobby towards them. If she walked away now, he would no doubt stop to speak to the manager, and she would have no opportunity of speaking to him herself.

‘I—er—I don’t drink,’ she averred, mentally measuring the narrowing distance between herself and Jake Allan.

‘I’ll buy you a tomato, juice, then,’ suggested Carl eagerly, but before she could reply a shadow fell across them. Carl turned half impatiently, to see who dared to interrupt them, but quickly schooled his features when he recognised the man. Rachel was impressed. Whoever Jake Allan was, he certainly had the power to bring Carl to attention.

‘Good evening,’ he said, his dark gaze flickering over Rachel with ruthless detachment. ‘Good evening, Carl.’