Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Sirocco
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE man was slumped over the steering wheel of the car, evidently unconscious, and possibly in need of medical attention. The car itself was expensive—one of those powerful continental sports cars, with long silver wings—and from the look of it, it had not been involved in a traffic accident. On the contrary, it was parked sedately at the kerb, like any one of a dozen others parked in Kimbel Square—except that none of the others had an apparently senseless male reclining on the steering wheel.

Rachel stopped and sighed and glanced around her. But as was generally the case in such circumstances, she appeared to be the only pedestrian about at this particular moment, and she reflected rather wryly that if she had not decided to abandon Roger's party for personal reasons, she would not have found herself in this uncertain position. There were, inevitably, few people walking in the quiet London square at half-past eleven at night, and had her car been parked outside the building where Roger had his apartment, she would not have been one of them. As it was, she was faced with the uncomfortable awareness that if she ignored the man, he could conceivably lie there until morning before anyone else noticed him.

If only she had accepted Roger's offer to walk her to her car, she thought impatiently. Roger would have known what to do. But after the row they had just had, she had not felt capable of speaking civilly to him, and instead, she had flounced off without even saying goodbye. Of course, she could always go back there and get assistance, but the idea of approaching Roger again after the things they had said to one another did not bear thinking about right now, and her only alternative seemed to be the police station.

But where was the nearest police station? she wondered, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. Like pedestrians, police stations were few and far between in this fashionable district of London, and there was always the possibility that when she returned with help the car might have gone.

Sighing again, she cast another look about her. If she could only ascertain what was wrong with him, she thought, stepping nearer to the car. It was difficult to draw any real conclusions with a pane of laminated glass between them, and with a resigned shrug of her shoulders she touched the handle of the door. It was unlocked, and feeling distinctly like a criminal, Rachel swung it open.

The man did not stir, but in the illumination cast by the courtesy light, she was able to examine him more closely. He was, she surmised, in his late twenties or early thirties, with straight wheat-coloured hair that looked silver at present, and unusually dark skin. She guessed that either he was not English or he spent much of his life out of doors to account for his dark colouring, but as he was lying face-down on the steering wheel, it wasn't easy to make an accurate assessment. The watch on his wrist was made by Cartier, and his jacket, like the car and the gold bracelet on his other wrist, bore the imprint of wealth and influence. Other than that, she had no clues to his identity, and once again her eyes swept the Square searching for assistance.

But there was still no one else within calling distance, and bending down she put a tentative hand on his sleeve. As she drew nearer, she could smell the unmistakable tang of leather and good tobacco that drifted from inside the car—that, and something else, something Rachel was slow to identify, but which became evident when she shook his sleeve. A bottle rolled from his lap on to the floor of the car, and although she automatically bent to retrieve it, she guessed before she lifted it what it was.

Gin! she murmured to herself, staring at the bottle, which was almost empty. That the man might be blind drunk had seemed such an uncharitable conclusion, but now she gripped the bottle impatiently, strongly tempted to bring it down upon the unconscious man's head. He must be crazy, she thought scornfully, shaking her head. If a policeman strolled across Kimbel Square and observed him, he could face a criminal conviction. Being drunk in charge of a car was not consequent upon one actually driving the vehicle, and these days such offences were given the maximum penalty.

With a helpless shrug, she bent and pushed the empty bottle behind the front seat. It was nothing to do with her if he chose to invite prosecution, she told herself. But as she straightened, the man stirred and groaned, and her initial intention to close the door again was hindered when he slumped sideways towards her.

‘Oh, lord!'

His weight almost threw her off her feet, and she had to grasp the roof of the car to save herself and him. Luckily, she was quite a strong girl and she was able to use her knees to propel him back into his seat, but the rocking motion had aroused him and when she attempted to draw away, his hand fastened tenaciously about her wrist.

‘Bon sang!' he swore, in a muffled voice, confirming her opinion that he might not be English. ‘Qu'est-ce que vous ětes en train de faire?'

Trying rather unsuccessfully to pull her wrist away, Rachel realised belatedly that her efforts could be misconstrued. It was possible that he might think she had been trying to rob him, and she was glad she had interpreted the situation before trying to unfasten his tie or loosen his collar.

‘I was trying to stop you from falling out of the car,’ she declared now, albeit a little unsteadily as he lifted his head and looked at her. ‘I'm sorry—I thought you were ill. It serves me right for being so inquisitive.'

‘Ill?’ he echoed, speaking good English now, though with a slight accent overlaying his drawling tone. ‘How was I ill?’ His eyes grew sardonic. ‘Do you often open the doors of strangers’ cars?'

‘Of course not.’ Rachel shifted rather uncomfortably beneath his appraising gaze. ‘You were slumped over the wheel. I was—concerned.'

‘The good Samaritan!'

‘If you like.’ Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Now, will you let me go? It's late, and one of us has to work tomorrow.'

The man hesitated a moment and then, with a faint grimace, he let her hand free, flexing his shoulders against the back of his seat as if his unconventional repose had left him feeling rather stiff. Rachel didn't wait to find out. With an unwelcome sense of anticlimax, she started towards her car, only to halt uncertainly when the man's voice arrested her.

‘Wait!'

He had extricated himself from behind the wheel now, and was standing on the pavement, supporting himself with the roof of the sports car. He was taller than average, Rachel saw, and leaner than she had thought, judging from the width of his shoulders. He was attractive, too, his lean dark features contrasting effectively with his pale hair, and Rachel guessed she wasn't the first woman to think so. Hooded eyes, which could be any shade from grey to blue to hazel, acknowledged her hesitation, and the thin lips below the narrow cheekbones twisted mockingly.

‘What is your name?’ he asked, arching one dark brow. ‘I should know the name of my saviour. Without your intervention, I might have slept much longer, and to be found in that position could have been embarrassing.'

‘Slept?' Rachel's mouth compressed. ‘You weren't asleep! You were out—cold! You're lucky it was me and not a policeman who brought you back to consciousness.'

‘You think that?’ He left the car to walk towards her, moving easily, if slightly unsteadily. ‘You think I was—drunk, hmm? Isn't that what you mean by—out cold?'

Rachel glanced behind her. Her car was still some yards away along the pavement, and she instinctively measured the distance should she have to make a run for it.

Drawing the suede holdall hanging from her shoulder in front of her, Rachel wrapped her arms about it as she replied: ‘I found the bottle. On your knee?’ she prompted, with a mock sweet smile. ‘I'm sorry, but I don't buy that story about feeling sleepy and putting your head down.'

The man pushed his hands into his trouser pockets as he halted in front of her. ‘You didn't tell me your name,’ he reminded her tolerantly. ‘Let me guess—it's Pandora, isn't it?'

‘It's Fleming,’ she retorted, annoyed that he had not attempted to argue with her. ‘Rachel Fleming. Goodnight.'

‘One moment ...’ Once again he detained her, and she turned to look at him more coolly than she felt, irritatingly aware that her pulse rate had quickened. ‘I would like to explain.'

‘It's not necessary——'

‘I think it is.’ He inclined his head back to where the door of his car still gaped open. ‘I was not unconscious, as you seem to think. The bottle was not mine. I—took it from someone else.'

‘Oh, really?'

‘Yes, really.’ He shrugged. ‘You will have noticed that it was uncapped. I intended to pour it away, but I was tired and I must have got into the car and flaked out.'

Rachel gasped. ‘You mean you're saying you hadn't been drinking?’ she exclaimed disbelievingly.

‘No.’ He lifted his shoulder. ‘On the plane I drank a good deal of wine, I think.'

‘On the plane?'

‘From New York,’ he explained levelly. ‘That was why I was so tired, I guess. It is more than twenty-four hours since I saw a bed.'

Rachel sighed, tempted to point out that the journey from New York took a lot less than twenty-four hours. But to do so would imply that she required further explanation, and in all honesty he had had no need to explain anything to her.

‘Well——’ she said now, forcing a polite smile, ‘it seems I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I'll be more wary in future——'

‘On the contrary ...’ His attractive mouth lifted. ‘You did what you thought was best, and indeed, had I been—unconscious, your assistance would have been most welcome.'

Rachel moved her shoulders. ‘Think nothing of it.’ Her eyes sought the security of her car. ‘I have to go.'

‘You must allow me to drive you home,’ he declared, dogging her steps with his, apparently indifferent to the fact that his car was just asking to be stolen. His hand restrained her arm once more. ‘Believe me, I am not drunk. You will be quite safe with me.'

Will I? thought Rachel cynically, aware of the strength in the hand curled about her flesh. Ridiculous as it seemed, she was instinctively aware that this man meant trouble, and although she had no reason to be alarmed, she reacted automatically against his undoubted magnetism. She was engaged to Roger. Just because they had had a minor upset there was no reason to feel this unwarranted attraction towards another man; particularly when that man was self-assured and wealthy and probably well-used to the adulation of the opposite sex.

‘I—my car is here,’ she got out at last, gesturing towards the Mini parked a few feet away. She freed herself determinedly and took the steps necessary to put some space between them. ‘Thank you, but I don't need a lift. Goodnight.'

He swayed back and forth on his heels and toes as Rachel clumsily forced the key into the lock. Her fingers were all thumbs, and she was half afraid he was going to come and take the keys and do the job for her. She could already see him squatting beside her, his lean hands reaching surely for her keys, brushing her hands, making her skin tingle as her flesh had tingled when he touched her ...

God! With a sigh of relief, the key fitted and turned, and she wrenched open her door and scrambled inside. Her legs seemed absurdly long all of a sudden, and she had to coil herself behind the wheel, searching for the ignition with the same hurried panic as she had used on the door. She need not have worried, however. The man did not move. He simply watched until she had negotiated herself out of the parking space, and then turned and walked indolently back to his vehicle.

‘I thought you were home early last night,’ remarked Jane drily, setting down the cup of tea she had brought on the table beside Rachel's bed. She viewed her friend's darkly-ringed eyes with a wry grimace. ‘Just after midnight, wasn't it? I know I didn't expect you until three, at least.'

‘Oh——’ Rachel dragged herself up on the pillows, giving the other girl a bleary-eyed stare. ‘I left the party early,’ she explained. ‘Roger and I had a row, and I walked out.'

‘I see. So that's the reason why you haven't slept.’ Jane grimaced. ‘What was it about this time? The usual thing?'

‘Mmm.’ Rachel lifted her teacup and took a gulp of the strong sweet liquid, wondering as she did so why she felt so guilty. It was true. She and Roger had had previous rows about their anticipated wedding, almost always concerning his mother's role in it, and just because that had not been the reason for her restless night it didn't mean she owed Jane any other explanation.

‘But surely he's realised by now that you're not about to let Mrs Harrington take charge of the arrangements,’ Jane exclaimed, moving about the room, drawing back the curtains and lifting a discarded pair of tights from the floor where Rachel had dropped them. ‘I mean, it's not as if you don't have any family, is it?'

‘No.’ Rachel shrugged. ‘But with my parents being divorced, she sees her opportunity to take control. Besides which, she doesn't consider my mother as a likely contender, and you know she disapproves of my father.'

‘Well ...’ Jane was reluctantly candid, ‘your father hasn't exactly endeared himself to your future in-laws, has he?'

‘No.’ Remembering the night of her engagement party, Rachel had to be honest, too. ‘But paying for a staff of caterers isn't exactly beyond his abilities, and I can handle all the details.'

‘I suppose she wants a terribly swish affair,’ said Jane thoughtfully. ‘To be charitable, she's probably only wanting to save you the trouble. After all, you have a job; she doesn't. Which reminds me, it's a quarter to eight.'

‘Quarter to eight?’ Rachel's eyes turned in horror to the clock on the bedside table, and swallowing the rest of her tea in a gulp she thrust her legs out of bed. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I did,’ Jane pointed out wryly, leaving the room. ‘Don't panic! I'll go and make the coffee while you get dressed. Do you want some toast?'

‘I won't have time,’ exclaimed Rachel, throwing off her cotton nightgown and grabbing a clean pair of panties from the drawer. ‘Mr Black is leaving for Chelmsford at half-past nine, and I promised I'd go in early so we could deal with his mail before he left.'

‘Oh, well,’ Jane was philosophical, ‘it's not as if he's likely to fire you. I sometimes wonder what he'd do without you.'

Rachel grimaced. ‘So do I, but I'd rather not find out,’ she retorted as she disappeared into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen of the flat, and Jane looked up from the morning paper with a faintly admiring smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you made it. And with five minutes to spare.'

Rachel shook her head. ‘Do I look all right?'

‘Don't you always?’ Jane's comment was not without a trace of envy. ‘Next time I come into this world, I'm going to be a blue-eyed brunette!'

Rachel laughed. ‘Not with this hair, I hope.’ She touched the unruly mass of dark-brown silk that refused to adhere to any current fashion and tumbled riotously to her shoulders. ‘I sometimes think I should have it all cut off, only Roger likes it this way.'

‘I bet he does!’ Jane pulled a face as she viewed her own mousy crop. ‘Besides, with your height you can carry it. Now, stop fishing for compliments and drink your coffee. I want to get washed up before I leave.'

‘Do you have an early class?’ asked Rachel, between sips. Jane taught history at the local comprehensive school, and did not have to face the morning rush into the city that her flatmate had ahead of her.

‘Not until ten,’ Jane replied comfortably, helping herself to more toast. Unlike her friend, she always ate a good breakfast, and her ample girth was proof of her weakness for food. ‘Are you sure you don't want anything to eat? You know what they say about eating breakfast ...'

‘I'll get a sandwich from the machine at break,’ Rachel assured her, putting down her cup and picking up the jacket of her suit. ‘Thank heavens it's not raining. At least the buses shouldn't be too full.'

Five minutes later, Rachel was walking along Oakwood Road to the bus stop. She never used her car for work; it was simply too impractical in the rush-hour traffic. Nevertheless, she was often tempted, particularly when the buses were packed and went by the stop without doing so.

It was a fine, sunny morning, with the promise of spring in the air. The daffodils were nodding their heads in Oakwood Gardens, and the grey squirrel that darted across the grass in search of food gave her spirits an unexpected lift. It would be March next week, she thought with some amazement, and the wedding was barely ten weeks away. Once she and Roger were married, his mother would have much less say in his affairs, and Mrs Harrington would have to accept that she was no longer the most important woman in her son's life. At present, she found it far too easy to divert Roger from the plans they had made, but once the wedding was over and Rachel was living at the apartment, Mrs Harrington would not be so welcome there.

Recalling how she had stormed out of Roger's apartment the night before, Rachel was reluctantly reminded of what had happened after. She had not found it easy to dismiss the incident from her thoughts the night before, and even now she felt herself tensing at the memory. Of course, she had soon recovered from the sense of panic that had gripped her at the time. Her unwilling interest in the man had been the natural sequel to the row she had had with Roger, and after all, their meeting had been highly unconventional. It was natural that she should have felt some curiosity about him, particularly bearing in mind his unquestionable good looks. Not that he had been handsome, as Roger was handsome, of course. The stranger's features had been much more irregular, harder, possessed of a harsh beauty that was more distinctively masculine. He had, she supposed, what was commonly known as sex-appeal, and that dominated his dark-skinned appearance ...

Irritated at the trend of her thoughts, Rachel joined the queue at the bus stop, her burst of lightheartedness evaporating. For heaven's sake, she thought impatiently, what was the matter with her? Why couldn't she forget about what happened the night before? It wasn't as if she was ever likely to see the man again. He was a stranger and he was not English, and she didn't know why she hadn't told Jane, so that they could have a giggle about it.

The solicitor she worked for, Arthur Black, was waiting for her when she arrived at the firm's offices in Fetter Lane, and his bustling presence succeeded in driving all other thoughts out of Rachel's head.

‘You're late,’ he remarked dourly, massaging the bald patch on the top of his head. ‘I did ask you to get here by a quarter to nine, Miss Fleming. It's now five minutes past, which leaves us only twenty-five minutes before my departure.'

‘I'm sorry,’ Rachel took off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ‘but the traffic was——'

‘—hectic, I know,’ he interrupted her shortly, disappearing into his own office. ‘It always is,’ he called, as she extracted her shorthand note pad from a drawer and gathered up several pencils. ‘I should have thought you could have anticipated that by now.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.'

Rachel grimaced and followed him into his office, shivering a little as the gas fire sputtered to reluctant life. The old building badly needed renovating, but the firm of Hector, Hollis and Black was unlikely to undertake it. They seemed to thrive on its sagging floors and dusty corridors, and even the offices of the principals were like Mr Black's office: poorly lit and shabby. Nevertheless, they were never short of briefs, and Rachel could only assume their clients imagined the exorbitant fees they paid were all swallowed up in their defence. Certainly they employed some of the best brains in the legal profession, and when Rachel first joined the firm as a junior typist she had been excited at the prospect of meeting such people. Now, however, the initial spark of enthusiasm had been somewhat doused. Working as Arthur Black's secretary for the past two years had helped her get things into perspective, and she no longer viewed the profession through rose-coloured spectacles. A law practice was not particularly exciting or romantic, as she had first imagined. It was mostly dull and repetitive, and only occasionally did she meet one of those charismatic characters, whose advocatory skills had made their names famous.

‘I shall be in court most of the morning,’ Mr Black was saying now, after having dictated half a dozen letters and consigned an equal number for Rachel's personal attention. ‘But I shall ring the office immediately afterwards, in case there are any urgent messages. You will be here, I take it? You're not planning to go out for a meal?'

Rachel shook her head. ‘No. Roger's playing golf this morning, and I've no plans to see him until this evening.’ If he turns up, she added to herself silently. After last evening's fiasco, he might conceivably expect her to make the next move.

‘Oh, well——’ Mr Black shrugged his rounded shoulders, ‘that's all right, then.’ He paused. ‘Though I must say that young man of yours seems to have a great deal of free time. Does he work at all?'

‘Of course he does!’ Rachel was indignant. ‘But, as he works for himself, he can choose his own hours.'

‘Hmm.’ Mr Black sounded unimpressed. ‘Running women's clothes shops, I suppose.'

‘Roger supervises the management, yes.’ Rachel rose to her feet. ‘Is this all, Mr Black? Do you want me to contact Mr Perry about the Latimer case?'

Mr Black's nostrils flared as he accepted the rebuff, but he made no comment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Fix an appointment for me to see him on Friday. Oh, and arrange to send Mrs Black some flowers tomorrow, will you? It's our anniversary, and I shan't have the time.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.’ Rachel's mouth grew wry. ‘Is that it, then?'

‘I think so.’ Mr Black looked at his watch. ‘And with fifty seconds to spare. I suppose I should congratulate you.'

Rachel's lips twitched. ‘That won't be necessary, Mr Black. I'll see you this afternoon, shall I? Or won't you be back?'

‘It rather depends what happens,’ replied her employer thoughtfully. ‘I'll give you my answer at lunchtime. I should know by then.'

Sophie Tennant appeared soon after Mr Black had left the building, slipping into Rachel's office with a conspiratorial smile on her face. ‘Guess what?’ she said, perching on the side of Rachel's desk. ‘Mr Rennison's asked me to have lunch with him. Do you think I should accept?'

Rachel pulled the letter she had been typing out of the machine and viewed it critically. Then she looked up at the girl draped decoratively over the corner of her desk. Sophie was eighteen, four years her junior, and just as young and susceptible as Rachel had been when she first came to work here. A pretty blonde, with blue eyes and a pink and white complexion, Sophie had attracted the eye of one of the junior partners, and Rachel wondered how she could tell her she had had to negotiate that particular obstacle herself four years ago.

‘He is married,’ she pointed out now, shuffling the letters waiting to be typed together. ‘I've met his wife. She's very nice.'

Sophie pouted. ‘You're telling me not to go, aren't you?'

‘No.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘That's for you to decide. I'm only saying that—well, it's not the first time he's tried to date one of the typists.'

‘So what?’ Sophie swung her heel impatiently against the side of Rachel's desk. ‘I came to tell you because I thought you might understand. Everyone else around here is ancient!'

‘I wouldn't exactly call Mary Villiers ancient,’ replied Rachel tolerantly, and Sophie grimaced.

‘She's twenty-six if she's a day! All the secretaries are old, except you. And once you've left, I'll have no one to talk to.'

‘Well, I'm not planning on leaving just yet,’ remarked Rachel drily. ‘I'm not giving up work when I get married, you know that.'

Sophie shrugged. ‘So you say. But what if you get pregnant? You won't have much choice then, will you?'

‘N-o.’ Rachel acknowledged the point, but she refrained from adding that it was unlikely. Roger had said several times that he didn't want to start a family immediately, and in any case, they had no proof that such a contingency was even possible. In spite of his modern outlook on make-up and clothes and furnishings, Roger was singularly old-fashioned when it came to relationships, and although he had taught her ways to please him without their going to bed together, they had never actually made love.

‘So what do you think?’ Sophie persisted. ‘I mean, it's only lunch. It's no big deal.'

Rachel shrugged. ‘So long as he remembers that.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, would you like it, if you were his wife? Is it fair to encourage him to cheat on her?'

Sophie sighed. ‘He is very attractive, isn't he?'

‘If you like ex-rugby players, I suppose he is.'

‘Oh——’ Sophie's smile came and went, ‘you're not much help. Haven't you ever been tempted to cheat on Roger? I know you've been going out with him for ages! Surely there've been occasions when some other man has attracted you.'

‘I don't think so.’ Rachel was crisp, her tone sharper because of the unwanted memory Sophie had stirred. ‘Look, I've got to get on. You'll have to make up your own mind. It's your life, not mine.'

She felt a little mean when the younger girl had gone, realising her attitude had been governed by that unwelcome recollection. It was difficult for someone like Sophie to cope with the practised charm of a man like Peter Rennison. How could boys of her own age compete with his sophistication—and his Jaguar XJS?

It was almost lunchtime when the switchboard rang through to say there was a call for her. ‘Oh, that will be Mr Black,’ said Rachel at once, reaching confidently for her notepad, but Jennifer, the telephonist, demurred.

‘If it had been Mr Black, I'd have put him straight on to you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Or Roger either, for that matter. But this man won't give his name, and I thought I'd better ask you before putting him through.'

Rachel's mouth felt suddenly dry. ‘He—won't give his name?’ she echoed, and the telephonist went on:

‘He says it will mean nothing to you. Do you want to speak to him? Or shall I ask him to call back when Mr Black is there?'

Rachel was silent for so long that Jennifer asked whether she was still there, and pulling herself together she said she was. ‘Did—did he ask to speak to Mr Black?’ she asked at last, aware of a sudden tightness in her stomach, and Jennifer's response did nothing to alleviate her discomfort.

‘No. No, actually, he asked for you,’ the telephonist declared, obviously just comprehending that fact herself. ‘So what do I do? Shall I put him on? I must admit, he does sound rather dishy!'

Realising that whoever was calling, it was likely to cause a talking point in the office for days, Rachel came to a decision. ‘Tell him—tell him I'm out,’ she said quickly, feeling a hot flush run up her cheeks at the deliberate lie. ‘He's probably one of those freaks that call from time to time. Just get rid of him, will you, Jennifer?'

‘He did know your name,’ the other girl reminded her doubtfully. ‘He could be a friend of your father's. Or of Roger's.'

‘Then he'll have to get them to ring me,’ said Rachel, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘Don't worry about it, Jennifer. I'll find out later.'

‘Oh—all right.’ Clearly Jennifer was disappointed that she was not going to take the call, and Rachel was glad she had refused. She could just imagine Roger's reaction if he found out some strange man had been trying to ring her. And he might, bearing in mind the grapevine at Hector, Hollis and Black.

Mr Black himself rang a few minutes later and Rachel listened to his instructions with some abstraction. She was still trying to convince herself that the previous call had had nothing to do with what had happened last night, and it was difficult to concentrate on legal matters when her brain refused to function normally. It couldn't have been him, she told herself fiercely. He had no reason for getting in touch with her again. And in any case, how had he known where to find her? There must be dozens of Rachel Flemings in the greater London area.

‘Did you get that?'

Realising Mr Black was still speaking to her, Rachel was relieved to see that her hand had automatically taken down his instructions, even while her mind was occupied with other things. ‘You want me to take the Oliver file to Mr Rennison, and then go to Willis and Potter to collect some documents. Is that right?’ she ventured, and her employer agreed rather grudgingly that it was. ‘So long as you remember to tell Rennison I want that file back tomorrow,’ he added brusquely, before clearing his throat. ‘Damn this chest of mine! I think I'm getting a dose of bronchitis. Call Mrs Black, will you, and ask her to get a repeat prescription of my tonic from the chemist. I'd ask you to get it for me, but the chap in Cricklewood knows what I need.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.’ Rachel acknowledged his request and jotted it down. ‘Anything else?'

‘No, I don't think so. I should be back around four. Do you think you could stay until six this evening? I'd like these reports typing up before I leave the office.'

Rachel hesitated. Roger was supposed to be calling for her this evening and they were going to have dinner with some friends of his. But he wasn't coming until seven-thirty, and she would have plenty of time, even if she didn't leave the office until six. If he rang before she got home, Jane could explain.

‘Okay,’ she said now, ‘I'll stay until six. Is that everything?'

‘That's it,’ he agreed dourly. ‘Goodbye.'

Sophie appeared in the doorway as she was plugging in the electric kettle to make herself a cup of coffee in lieu of a meal, and Rachel arched dark brows in her direction. ‘What, no lunch?'

‘No.’ Sophie sidled into the room. ‘I told him I had another date. Can I stay in here with you? Just until he's left the building?'

‘You can have some coffee, if you like,’ Rachel offered casually. ‘I'm not going out today. I promised Mr Black I'd be here in case there were any urgent messages.'

Sophie grimaced, and after surveying the room for somewhere to sit, she found herself a comfortable place in the leather armchair in the corner. ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the earthenware beaker Rachel handed her. ‘This is cosy, isn't it? I wish I worked for one of the partners. Our office is as draughty as a wind tunnel!'

‘I know—I used to work there,’ Rachel sympathised, resuming her seat at her desk and propping her feet up on the waste paper basket. ‘Mmm, coffee: the saviour of the twentieth century!'

Sophie relaxed. ‘How long is it to the wedding? Your wedding, I mean. Didn't you say you were getting married at the beginning of June? Lucky thing! Have you decided where you're going to spend your honeymoon?'

Rachel looked down into her coffee cup. ‘Nothing's properly decided yet. Oh, we're getting married at the beginning of June, you're right about that. But Roger doesn't know whether he'll be able to get away at that time. We may have to postpone the honeymoon.'

‘What a shame!’ Sophie gave her a commiserating look. ‘Still, I suppose being together is the important thing, isn't it? Are you going to move into his apartment?'

Rachel nodded. ‘That's the idea.'

‘It is his own apartment, isn't it?’ Sophie was youthfully inquisitive. ‘His mother doesn't live there, does she?'

‘No.’ Rachel's smile was tolerant. ‘She has her own house in St John's Wood.'

‘I envy you, you know,’ remarked Sophie sighing. ‘Being able to give up work, if you want to. And not just because you're marrying Roger either. It must be nice to be rich.'

‘I'm not rich,’ exclaimed Rachel, laughing. ‘And I do have to work, believe me!'

‘But your father——'

‘My father doesn't support me,’ declared Rachel firmly. ‘If that's what you think, forget it.'

‘But he would if you asked him,’ said Sophie irrepressibly. ‘My father couldn't, even if he wanted to. He finds it hard enough to support the rest of the family!'

Rachel had no response to make to this, and for several minutes the two girls sat in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. For Rachel's part, she was thinking that Sophie had something she had never had, and that was a proper home life. Her own parents’ divorce when she was barely eight had left her at the mercy of aunts and boarding schools. Her mother had taken herself off to Australia with the salesman she had fallen in love with, and Rachel's father had found various excuses why he could not take care of his child. In consequence, until she was eighteen Rachel had seen very little of either parent, and only when her father discovered what a beautiful young woman she had turned out to be did he begin to appreciate the asset she might prove to his business dealings. But by then it was too late. Rachel had found employment with Hector, Hollis and Black, and her subsequent meeting with Jane Snowden, an older girl, who used to attend the same school, culminated in their taking the flat together as soon as Jane had completed her course at university.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Sophie at last, ‘I wish something exciting would happen to me!'

‘Like Peter Rennison?’ suggested Rachel drily, and the younger girl grimaced.

‘Well, he is handsome, you must admit. And I love that car of his, don't you?'

Rachel shook her head. ‘It's all right.'

‘All right?' Sophie was beginning indignantly, when without warning the door opened and a man's tall figure appeared in the aperture.

For the space of a moment, Rachel thought it was Peter Rennison, come to check up on Sophie's immature excuse. She was in the process of finishing the coffee in her mug and her first glimpse was of a man's dark pants and suede boots set some inches apart. But as she lowered her cup and her eyes moved up over an expensive leather jacket covering an equally costly silk shirt and tie, her conviction weakened, and by the time she reached the determined curve of his jaw she was certain she knew who it was. Her eyes flew to his, to clear grey eyes set beneath brows several shades darker than his hair, which in this light revealed the streaks of sun-bleached lightness in its wheat-gold vitality, and her stomach contracted.

‘Good morning,’ he said, with cool assurance. ‘Or should I say good afternoon?’ He consulted the slim watch, whose leather strap encircled his wrist. ‘It is almost one o'clock.'

CHAPTER TWO

RACHEL exchanged a look with Sophie and seeing the avid expression on the other girl's face she inwardly groaned. Much though she liked her, Sophie was the last person she would have wished to be here at this moment, and she could already hear the gossip which would ensue from this encounter.

Realising she had to say something, Rachel put her feet to the floor and stood up. ‘Er—can I help you?’ she asked, hoping against hope that he might get the message and not compromise her. Why on earth had he come here? What did he want? And how had he found her in such a short time?

‘I hope so,’ he said now, the grey eyes moving intently over her flushed face, and Rachel ran her moist palms down the seams of her skirt. She had forgotten how penetrating his gaze had been, and seen in daylight he was infinitely more disturbing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he added, moving into the room and immediately dwarfing it. ‘My name is Roche,’ he said it with a French accent, ‘Alexis Roche. Completely sober, as you will have observed.'

Rachel closed her eyes for a moment and then, aware of his sudden move towards her, quickly opened them again. ‘I—well—Mr Roche,’ she said awkwardly, casting another glance in Sophie's direction, ‘what can we do for you?'

He was silent for a moment, as if gauging the import of her question, but then, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, he said: ‘I telephoned you this morning. You refused to speak to me.’ He paused. ‘So—I am here. In person, as they say.'

Rachel moistened her dry lips. ‘Er—how did you get in? How did you find this office?'

The grey eyes narrowed between short thick lashes, whose ends were tipped with the same silvery bleach as his hair. ‘It wasn't difficult to get in,’ he essayed smoothly. ‘I merely came through the door, like everyone else. As to how I found this office—I asked.'

‘Who?'

Rachel was playing for time, desperately trying to find a way out of this without betraying their association to Sophie, who was listening to the exchange with ever-increasing interest. His explanation of finding her was too reasonable to be false. It was comparatively easy to walk into the building, particularly if one acted as if one was familiar with its rabbit-warren of halls and corridors. And anyone could have told him which office was hers. It wasn't a secret, after all.

‘I don't know who,’ he said now, with some impatience. ‘Some elderly man I met on the stairs. Is it important? I did not come here to find out where you worked, merely to invite you to have lunch with me.'

Rachel heard Sophie's sudden intake of breath and felt suddenly angry. He had no right to come here and behave as if they were old friends, she thought frustratedly. Just because he had told her his name it did not give him the prerogative to ask her out to lunch. She knew nothing about him. He knew nothing about her. She could be married for all he knew, and with this in mind, she raised her left hand to her throat to expose the obvious glitter of her engagement ring.

‘I'm sorry,’ she said—though if he had any perception, she thought aggressively, he would know that she was not—‘I'm afraid I can't accept your invitation. My—fiancé—wouldn't like it.'

Alexis Roche's gaze did not falter. ‘My invitation was to you, not your fiancé,’ he said, with impassive arrogance. ‘I should like to thank you, more fully than I did last night.'

His words were deliberate, Rachel was sure, and she wanted to die of embarrassment. She could just imagine how this was going to be relayed around the office, and every incriminating syllable was deepening the interest in Sophie's round blue eyes. The way he had used their encounter, they might have spent the night together for all the younger girl knew, and Rachel couldn't believe he was unaware of it.

Realising her only means of defence lay in attack, she gave up the unequal struggle to keep the facts of their meeting quiet. Turning, she gave Sophie a frosted smile before saying crisply: ‘Mr Roche and I met last evening, as I was leaving Roger's party. He—he wasn't feeling very well, and—and I offered to help him.'

‘Really?’ Sophie slid off her chair, her eyes never leaving Alexis Roche's face. ‘How exciting!’ She drew a little nearer. ‘Do you live in London, Mr Roche?'

He withdrew his gaze from Rachel with evident reluctance, and surveyed the younger girl with polite interest. ‘For the present,’ he replied, without explaining any further. Then: ‘Would you mind leaving us? I should like to speak to Miss Fleming privately.'

‘Oh, sure,’ agreed Sophie, nodding, just as Rachel burst out: ‘Don't go!'

But, after lifting her shoulders a little apologetically, Sophie hesitated only momentarily before obeying Alexis Roche's instructions, and Rachel watched with compressed lips as she edged towards the door. ‘I'll see you later,’ she murmured, pulling a rueful face, and Rachel stood there helplessly as her only protection disappeared.

Protection! The word had insinuated itself into her mind almost without her consciously seeking for it, and she clenched her fists impotently. She didn't need protection; he did. She felt so angry, she could have done him physical injury.

‘Will you please leave?’ she demanded now, walking towards the door and putting her fingers on the handle. ‘My boss will be back from lunch shortly, and he doesn't approve of us entertaining guests on the premises.'

Alexis Roche made no move to leave. Instead, he looked around the shabby office, his lips curling as he remarked: ‘I can't imagine you wanting to entertain anyone here. Is it always as dirty as this?'

Rachel caught her breath. ‘It's not dirty,’ she defended, even though she had thought the same many times. ‘It's—dusty, that's all. Law offices are like that. Solicitors often have to refer to cases from the past, and the records get old and musty sitting on the shelves. We know where things are, when we need them. That's the important thing.'

‘Haven't you heard of computers—and micro-technology?’ he enquired wryly, and Rachel expelled her breath on a gasp.

‘This is an old established firm,’ she replied shortly. ‘Our clients might not approve of their case histories being recorded on a computer. Besides,’ she added, not quite knowing why she was bothering to explain, ‘computers cost money, and——'

‘—and your clients would prefer their fees to be spent in their defence,’ he put in smoothly. ‘Very well, you've convinced me. Now will you allow me to buy you lunch?'

Rachel stared at him. ‘Mr Roche——'

‘You may call me Alex.'

‘Mr Roche, do you want me to call for assistance to have you ejected from this building? I can, you know. And I will, if you don't leave.'

Now he sighed, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The jacket was honey-coloured and complemented his dark tan, and she couldn't help the unwilling curiosity of wondering what nationality he was. He spoke French, and yet he didn't look French, if such a thing was possible. He was too tall, for one thing, and those cool grey eyes ...

Abruptly she halted her speculation, aware that he was still watching her with that narrow-eyed catlike appraisal. She hoped he wasn't able to read her mind. Its turbulent upheaval was in complete contrast to the calm and collected façade she was endeavouring to maintain.

‘Why won't you have lunch with me?’ he asked quietly. He glanced towards her desk. ‘You've eaten, perhaps? Very well, I will buy you a drink——'

‘Mr Roche, I don't accept invitations from strange men.’ Rachel hesitated, then added stiffly: ‘Now, will you leave?'

He frowned, his well-marked brows descending over eyes that were distinctly cooler now. ‘I am not a strange man, Miss Fleming. I have told you who I am. If you wish to know a little more of my family background, I can tell you that my father is in shipping and my grandfather owns land in Bahdan——'

‘I don't wish to know your family background, Mr Roche,’ exclaimed Rachel impatiently, though his final words had intrigued her somewhat. Bahdan. That was in the Middle East. It was one of those sheikdoms that had recently come into prominence, and if his father owned land there, he must be in oil.

Nevertheless, it was nothing to do with her, and drawing a deep breath, she pulled the door wide. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Roche,’ she said pointedly, evidently waiting for him to leave, and with another brooding frown, he finally accepted his dismissal.

But he paused in the doorway, close enough for her to smell the faint scent of some shaving lotion that hung about him, and to feel the heat of his body. ‘Until we meet again,’ he murmured, the fresh odour of his breath stirring the hair on her forehead and making her overwhelmingly aware of his alien attraction.

She didn't answer him, but with the door closed and her shoulders pressed against it she gave way to a sudden fit of shivering. It was the draught from the corridor, she told herself. The cold from outside came straight up the stairs. Yet she had never noticed it before, and although the door was closed, she was still shaking.

Sophie didn't appear again that afternoon, and Rachel was relieved. She supposed that sooner or later she would have to give a more detailed explanation, but the longer that was put off, the easier it would be.

Mr Black arrived back soon after four as he had predicted, and the rest of the day was spent in typing up the reports of the hearings he had attended. With her hands flying busily over the keyboard and her brain engrossed with other people's problems, Rachel had little time to worry about her own, and it was not until she was leaving the building that she felt a certain sense of apprehension. But no one was waiting for her. She made her way to the bus stop without incident, and on the journey home she occupied herself with wondering whether Roger had called in her absence.

Jane had a cup of tea waiting for her when she entered the flat. Rachel had rung her friend earlier to explain that she was working late, and now Jane regarded her sympathetically as she kicked off her boots and flopped on to the couch in the living room.

‘Rough day?’ she asked, automatically picking up the boots and putting them away. ‘You look tired. Did Roger ring?'

‘I gather from that he hasn't rung here,’ commented Rachel, bending to rub her aching instep. ‘No, he didn't ring. I suppose if he doesn't turn up, I'll have to ring him. Steve and Laura are expecting us this evening.'

‘He'll turn up,’ said Jane carelessly. ‘Particularly as Steve and Laura are his friends, not yours. He won't want them to think there's anything wrong.'

‘You could be right,’ Rachel grimaced. ‘Er—there haven't been any other calls for me, have there?'

‘Who? Your father?’ Jane shook her head. ‘No.'

‘I wasn't thinking of my father, actually,’ said Rachel, deciding to confess. ‘I—er—I had a visitor at the office today. A man I met late last night. I just wondered how he'd found out where I worked.'

‘A man? What man?’ Jane was, intrigued. ‘Someone you met at Roger's party? Hey, that's not why he's mad at you, is it? Because you went off with someone else?'

‘No.’ Rachel sighed. ‘It was after I left the party I met him.’ Briefly, she explained what had happened, omitting to mention her own disturbing reactions to Alexis Roche. ‘He—he turned up at lunchtime. I thought perhaps he might have rung here first.'

‘Not that I know of.’ Jane pulled a wry face. ‘So who is he? What's he like? You say he's French?'

‘I said he spoke French at first,’ said Rachel, not wanting to go into details. She had thought quite enough about Alexis Roche as it was. ‘I don't know anything about him.'

‘But why did he go to the office?'

Rachel bent her head. ‘To ask me to have lunch with him.'

‘He did?’ Jane whistled. ‘And did you?'

‘Of course not.’ Rachel looked up at her friend half indignantly. ‘How can you ask?'

Jane shrugged. ‘Well, he's obviously made an effort to find out all about you.’ She paused. ‘Is he good-looking?'

‘I really couldn't say.’ Rachel got to her feet abruptly and deposited her empty cup and saucer on the nearest table. ‘I'm going to have a bath. If Roger rings, let me know, will you?'

Jane's eyes twinkled. ‘All right. And what if anyone else rings?'

‘I'm out,’ said Rachel brusquely, walking towards the door. ‘And stop looking like that! It wasn't at all funny, believe me. Sophie Tennant was in the office when he turned up, and you know what she's like! It'll be all round the office tomorrow.'

Jane's expression softened. ‘So what? You've done nothing wrong, have you? Oh, go and get your bath. I don't want to have to entertain Roger because you're not ready.'

Soaking in the bath, Rachel managed to get things into perspective. She was overreacting, she knew it. It was perfectly reasonable that Alexis Roche should come to thank her for what she had done, even if he had been less than grateful the night before. No doubt he had regretted his behaviour and wanted to make amends. And as for asking her out to lunch—well, men had asked her out to lunch before without arousing such a strong sense of indignation. It was her awareness of his physical attraction that had made her behave as she had, and he could not be held responsible for that.

Nevertheless, there remained the niggling worry as to how he had found her. As she dried herself and dressed, in the cream shirt and slacks she had laid out before her bath, she could not explain that particular puzzle, however the sound of the doorbell dispelled all other considerations. Holding her breath, she waited for Jane to answer the door, and presently she heard the familiar sound of Roger's voice in the living room. Only then did she relax, putting a final touch of eyeshadow at the corners of her eyes before putting down her brush and going out to meet him.

Her first, infuriating impression was of how pale Roger looked compared to Alexis Roche, but hard on the heels of this came the more apposite realisation that he was nervous. He was a little above medium height and stockily built, and it was unusual to see him in anything but a confident position, however right now he looked distinctly uneasy.

‘Hello, Ray,’ he said, running uncertain fingers through the dark strands of his hair, and although she normally disliked his diminutive use of her name, Rachel was too relieved at his apparent diffidence to give it a second thought.

‘Hello, Roger,’ she responded, as Jane melted away into the kitchen, and shaking his head he moved towards her.

‘I'm sorry,’ he exclaimed, taking her shoulders and drawing her unresistingly towards him. ‘About last night, I mean. I was rotten, wasn't I? I've thought about it all day, wondering if you got home okay, wondering if you forgave me ...'

Suppressing the thought that if he had been so worried about her, why hadn't he rung, Rachel allowed him to cover her mouth with his. His kiss was warm, affectionate, a balm to her troubled emotions, and she responded to it eagerly. But although she linked her arms about his neck and parted her lips invitingly, Roger drew back after the briefest of caresses, murmuring: ‘Jane,’ with irritating insistence.

‘Jane's not in the room,’ protested Rachel impatiently, but although Roger assured himself of this fact, he did not pursue their embrace.

‘Laura and Steve are expecting us,’ he reminded her firmly, tightening the knot of his tie and adjusting the jacket of his suit. ‘We can talk later. Are you ready?'

Rachel shrugged and went to collect a warm tweed jacket to wear over her shirt and slacks. If only Roger wasn't so conscious of what other people might think, she thought irritably, checking the silky swirl of curls about her shoulders. Still, at least they were not at odds with one another. She ought to be grateful for that.

The evening spent with the Curtises should have been pleasant enough, but Rachel found she wasn't enjoying herself. Perhaps if she and Roger had been alone it would have been better, she thought. As it was, she was conscious of what had been said the night before, and conscious also of the fact that although Roger had apologised for his behaviour, he had not said anything about retracting his words. There was still the prospect of who was to arrange the wedding to resolve, and she wished she had put her pride aside and rung him this morning before he left for Sunningdale.

Driving back to the flat later, she determined to have it out with him, and taking a deep breath, she said: ‘We've been avoiding the subject all evening, but we have to talk about the wedding, Roger.'

‘I know.’ He took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance her way. ‘I suppose that's why you've been so quiet, isn't it? I just wish you wouldn't involve other people in our affairs.'

Rachel blinked. ‘Involve other people?’ she echoed faintly. ‘I don't understand.'

‘I think you do.’ Roger was precise. ‘Last evening you walked out of the apartment, without even wishing our guests goodbye, and tonight you've done your best to make Steve and Laura feel uncomfortable.'

Rachel gasped. ‘How?'

‘Well, you've hardly opened your mouth all evening.'

‘You and Steve were talking. I was listening.'

‘You could have talked to Laura. Steve and I were talking about work. It can't have been of much interest to you.'

‘On the contrary,’ Rachel was indignant, ‘I was interested. After all, when we're married I'll expect you to discuss your work with me. Just as you do with your mother.'

‘My mother is my business partner,’ exclaimed Roger impatiently. ‘That's hardly the same thing.'

‘So you would rather I talked about knitting and cooking with Laura?'

‘Of course. They are the things women usually talk about, aren't they?'

‘No.’ Rachel dug her nails into her palms in an effort to control her temper. ‘Not these days, anyway. We talk about all sorts of things, and knitting and cooking are not my strong points.'

‘Laura's an excellent cook.'

‘I know it.'

‘So perhaps you should get some pointers from her.'

Rachel trembled. ‘Laura Curtis is an anachronism, Roger. She has no conversation at all outside domestic matters. All she thinks about is her home and her husband, and the child she's expecting.'

‘So?’ Roger was not prepared to concede. ‘What's wrong with that?'

Rachel tried to calm herself. ‘I thought you said we wouldn't be having any children—not immediately, anyway.'

‘We won't.’ Roger shrugged. ‘But that doesn't mean you can't show an interest in such things.'

‘Roger, I did show an interest. We talked about quotes female matters close quotes for fully an hour! After that, I just dried up.'

‘And you showed it.’ Roger snorted. ‘I was embarrassed.'

‘Were you?’ Rachel's lips tightened. ‘I'm afraid I didn't notice.'

‘Obviously not.’ He swung off the main thoroughfare into Oakwood Road. ‘Still, that's not really relevant to the real bone of contention between us, is it?'

‘No.’ Rachel looked down at her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. ‘Have you made up your mind about the wedding arrangements?'

Roger sighed, drawing the TR7 in to the kerb outside the Victorian apartment building where Rachel and Jane had their flat. ‘I should be asking you that question,’ he said levelly. ‘It really is up to you, I suppose. I just wish you would consider my mother's offer, that's all.'

‘I have considered it.’ Rachel made a determined effort to appeal to him. ‘Darling, can't you understand? I don't want your mother interfering in something which is essentially the bride's prerogative.'

‘I think it's supposed to be the bride's parents’ prerogative,’ remarked Roger pedantically. ‘And as we both know, your parents are unlikely to care how it's carried out.'

Rachel pressed her lips together. ‘Roger, if it's only a question of paying for a reception, my father can do that. As to the other arrangements—my dress, and so on—I do have friends, you know.'

‘But Mother wants this to be a special occasion,’ persisted Roger. ‘She wants to make it easy for you, can't you see that? She could book the reception, organise the food, arrange about the cake; and as for yours and the bridesmaid's dresses—well, we are in business, aren't we?'

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘I only want one bridesmaid, Roger, and that's Jane.'

‘Jane!’ Roger was scathing. ‘For heaven's sake, Ray, do you want to make the whole affair look ridiculous? Jane's fourteen stone if she's an ounce! What kind of a bridesmaid would she make?'

Rachel seethed. ‘The very best kind,’ she declared tautly. ‘I wouldn't dream of leaving her out—simply because your mother has some idea of having a troop of little flower girls to follow me out of church!'

‘There you go again!’ Roger's jaw jutted. ‘Just because Mother wants you to look your best, you're determined to thwart her. Why? Why, for heaven's sake? Sandra's little girls would look delicious in pink satin!'

‘Delicious!’ Rachel's lips curled. ‘Can you hear yourself, Roger? I don't want our wedding to be remembered because of its pretty appearance! Marriage is a serious commitment. It's a serious occasion. And I want Jane to be a witness, because she's the best friend I've got.'

‘Perhaps you should be marrying Jane, then,’ declared Roger childishly, and Rachel knew a blinding moment of anger.

‘Perhaps I should,’ she retorted, thrusting open her door and getting out. ‘Don't bother to come in. There's no point in us discussing this any further.'

‘Aw, Ray——’ Roger leant across the front seat, calling after her. ‘Ray, I didn't mean it. Come back! We haven't even kissed goodnight.'

‘Call me tomorrow,’ replied Rachel, over her shoulder, and she heard the car roar away as she inserted her key in the door.

The following day was Friday, and Rachel went to work with a feeling of resignation. Still, she consoled herself, whatever was said, the weekend was close enough to dispel any rumours, and perhaps by Monday someone else might have done something noteworthy.

As luck would have it, Sophie was absent, and one of the other typists, who came to deliver a message from Mr Hollis, explained that her mother had called to say she was full of cold.

‘It's that draughty office,’ agreed Rachel sympathetically, nevertheless relieved to be free of any further explanations for the present, and the other girl nodded in agreement.

Even so, it was not one of Rachel's better days. Mr Black was in a foul mood, due no doubt to the fact that his wife had forgotten to collect his tonic from the chemist, and his chest had worsened accordingly, and Peter Rennison's appearance just before lunch did not improve matters.

Putting down the file Rachel had had one of the typists deliver to him the previous afternoon, he leant familiarly over her desk, inhaling the clean fragrance of her hair. ‘Do I have you to thank for Sophie's sudden aversion to my presence?’ he enquired, bending to switch off her machine so that she could not continue typing. ‘It seems the poor girl has really taken fright. She hasn't even turned up to work this morning.'

Rachel bent and determinedly switched on her typewriter again. ‘Sophie is sick, Mr Rennison,’ she replied politely. ‘Was there something else you wanted? I'm afraid Mr Black has a client with him at the moment.'

Peter Rennison straightened. ‘Cool collected Rachel,’ he remarked sarcastically. ‘Do you ever let your hair down? Emotionally, I mean?'

Rachel did not answer him, and infuriated by her lack of attention, he exclaimed: ‘I pity that poor devil you're marrying! Does he know what a frigid little madam you are? Or maybe he doesn't care. I hear he's quite a mother's boy. Is that true?'

Rachél looked up at him then, the wide blue eyes sparkling with contempt between their fringe of silky black lashes, and the man knew a frustrated sense of contrition. ‘Hell, I'm sorry, Rachel,’ he muttered, leaning on the desk again. ‘But you drive me crazy, do you know that? I wouldn't give a damn about any of the girls if you'd agree to go out with me.'

Rachel sighed and shook her head. ‘You're married, Mr Rennison. And I'm engaged. I—please don't ask me again.'

‘Don't bet on it,’ he responded, conceding defeat for the present and walking towards the door. ‘You tell that bloke you're marrying he'd better make you happy, or he'll have me to deal with!'

Rachel couldn't suppress an unwilling smile as he left the office, and she cupped her chin on one hand and stared disconsolately into space. She couldn't help thinking that if Roger had been more like Peter Rennison she might feel more sure of him, instead of harbouring the suspicion that his mother's feelings would always come first.

She was still sitting there in a daydream when the door opened again, and this time Mr Hodges, the caretaker, came into the office. To her surprise, he was carrying a long white box which he set down on her desk, and she gazed at it in wonder as he gave her his grudging smile.

‘This came for you, Miss Fleming,’ he said, touching the white ribbon which encircled it. ‘Aren't you going to open it? Looks like flowers to me.'

‘And to me, Mr Hodges,’ said Rachel eagerly, abandoning her daydream for an unexpectedly welcome reality, and tearing off the ribbon, she displayed the box's contents.

It was full of roses, pure white roses, as fresh as the moment they were picked from the bush. Long-stemmed, some starting to open their petals, others little more than ivory buds, they spilled their fragrance into the dusty atmosphere of the office, and as Rachel gazed at them, a lump came into her throat.

‘They must have cost someone a pretty penny,’ remarked Mr Hodges drily, bending his head to enjoy the bouquet. ‘Must be more than a couple of dozen of them in there. Roses in February! What next?'

Rachel lifted all the roses out, looking for the card which she was sure must accompany them. But there was none. Just the pure white roses in their pure white box, eloquent enough of the meaning behind them, she decided.

Mr Hodges was lingering, and eager to get on the phone to Roger, Rachel thrust one of the delicate blooms into the old man's hand. ‘A buttonhole,’ she said, smiling, and the caretaker took his dismissal happily, tucking the stem through his lapel.

Her first attempt to reach Roger was not successful. He was not in his office, his secretary told her, and realising it was lunch time, Rachel agreed to call back. Then, collecting a couple of empty milk bottles, she filled them with water and deposited the roses in them, discovering as she did so that he had indeed sent her twenty-four.

‘Two dozen,’ she murmured to herself, as she made her lunchtime cup of coffee. He had never done anything like that before. Which made it all the more appealing, revealing as it did his desire to really mend the breach between them.

She eventually got through to Roger at a quarter to three, and although he came on the line, she could tell at once that he was not pleased to be disturbed.

‘Rachel, I've got the buyer from Streetline with me at the moment,’ he exclaimed, evidently involved in making a sale. ‘Could we talk tonight, do you think? Come to the apartment. We can talk there.'

‘All right.’ Rachel squashed her disappointment that she was not to have more time to thank him right now. ‘I—I just wanted you to know, I love them.'

There was a pause, and then Roger asked half irritably: ‘What was that?'

‘The roses,’ said Rachel urgently. ‘I love the roses. Thank you for sending them. It was a—a wonderful thought.'

‘Wait a minute ...’ Clearly Roger was fighting a losing battle with his curiosity, ‘what are you talking about? What roses? I didn't send any roses. They must be for somebody else.'

Rachel noticed he didn't say from somebody else, and for the first time she wondered how Mr Hodges had known they were for her. There had been no indication on the box, no card, as he had seen. She shook her head bewilderedly. If Roger hadn't sent them, who had?

The answer was too outrageous to be true. In spite of his professed affection for her, Peter Rennison would never do something as incriminating as send flowers, and in any case, what other man of her acquaintance could afford to spend so much money on two dozen roses? It had to be someone to whom twenty-five or thirty pounds meant very little; someone who wore Italian leather jackets and Cartier watches, and treated a Lamborghini Countach with casual indifference ...

‘Is that all?'

Realising Roger was still waiting for her response, Rachel pulled herself together. ‘What? Oh, yes—yes,’ she murmured unhappily. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you, Roger. Goodbye.'

‘Until later,’ he inserted, reminding her of her promise to go to his apartment, and nodding her head, she added: ‘Until later,’ in a low unenthusiastic voice.

When she rang Mr Hodges’ small office to enquire about the roses, he was quite definite that they were hers. ‘A gentleman brought them,’ he said, sniffing down the phone. ‘For Miss Fleming, Miss Rachel Fleming. Now you know there are no other Miss Flemings in the building, let alone a Miss Rachel Fleming.'

Rachel sighed. ‘The man——’ She paused. ‘What was he like?'

‘I dunno. Foreign-looking. Tall and dark——'

‘Dark, did you say?'

‘—wearing a kind of chauffeur's uniform.'

‘Oh!’ Rachel's brief moment of uncertainty fled. ‘Oh, well, thank you, Mr Hodges. I'm very grateful.'

With the receiver restored to its rest, there remained the problem of what she was going to do with them. Her first instincts were to leave the roses in the office, but to do so would evoke exactly the kind of interest she most wanted to avoid. And besides, Mr Black would not appreciate their presence. He would probably say they aggravated his asthma, and with the weekend coming, it wasn't fair to leave them to die. She would have to take them home and hope to goodness Roger did not question her too thoroughly as to their sender's identity. She could always pretend they had been delivered by mistake, but no one knew to whom they really belonged.

In consequence, she emerged from the building that afternoon carrying the white box in her arms. Against the dark material of her double-breasted jacket, it was distinctly noticeable, but happily it was raining and the other girls were in too much of a hurry to get home to pay her any attention. It was a little cumbersome, too, coping with its length and the copious wedge of her shoulder bag, but she gasped indignantly when it was suddenly lifted out of her grasp.

‘Permettez-moi, mademoiselle,' said a rather gutteral French voice, and she looked round in surprise to find a man in chauffeur's uniform at her elbow.

‘I beg your pardon——’ she began, more because she was astounded at his effrontery than at his use of another language, and the man, whose harsh features were not altogether reassuring in the half light, bowed his head apologetically.

‘Forgive me,’ he exclaimed, his English overlaid by a heavy accent, ‘but I am here to escort you, mademoiselle. You wish me to carry your bag, also?'

‘No.’ Rachel was vaguely alarmed by his intrusion. In the fading light of an early evening, it was disconcerting to be accosted when there was no one she knew to come to her assistance, and while she suspected Alexis Roche was behind this, she didn't want to get involved with him either. ‘I——’ She looked regretfully at the box of roses in his arms, and then, realising she could hardly claim them in the circumstances, she shook her head. ‘No, I don't need any help, thank you. Excuse me, I have a bus to catch.'

‘Ah, mais non.’ To her dismay, his hand curled round her sleeve, gripping her gently, but firmly, in the kind of grasp she knew would tighten like a vice if she tried to get free. ‘Monsieur Roche is waiting for you, mademoiselle. Come with me. It is not far.'

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