Читать книгу Pale Orchid - Anne Mather - Страница 7

THE WIDE-BODIED JET taxied into its unloading bay, and the extending arm of the disembarking gangway was fitted into position. Across the tarmac, another plane was just taking off, its wings dipping to starboard as it executed the manoeuvre which would take it out across the blue waters of the Pacific, skirting the beach at Waikiki before heading back towards California.

Watching the American Airlines jet climb into the late afternoon sky, Laura Huyton wished, with an urgency bordering on desperation, that she could be aboard that plane, heading back to San Francisco, and on to London. Seven thousand miles was a long way to come to face probable humiliation, and she wondered if she would have set out so confidently if she had known where her quest would lead her.

Most of the other passengers waiting to disembark were holidaymakers, bound for one or other of the many excellent hotels Honolulu boasted. Some, unlike herself, were only stopping off in Oahu, en route for other islands in the Hawaiian group, but all of them, it seemed to Laura, were looking forward to their arrival. There had been a definite air of excitement in the aircraft, ever since it left San Francisco, and the stewardesses in their long Polynesian dresses added their own particular colour to the trip.

‘This your first visit to Hawaii?’ inquired the rather stout matron, who had been sitting beside her all trip, and who had tried on several occasions to engage Laura in conversation—without any success.

‘No.’

Laura’s response was monosyllabic, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to talk about Hawaii; she didn’t want to be here; and had it not been for a brutal trick of fate, she doubted would ever have come here again.

‘You’ve been before then?’ persisted the woman, as the door to the plane was opened and passengers started to block the gangways in their haste to disembark.

‘Yes.’ Laura slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and gathered together the book and magazines she had bought to read on the journey. Then, feeling obliged to say something, if only to get the woman to move out of the aisle seat, she added briefly, ‘I used to work here some years ago. It’s not a place you forget.’

‘Absolutely not,’ exclaimed her inquisitor enthusiastically, getting to her feet, and although she would obviously have liked to continue this discussion, she was compelled to move ahead. ‘Have a good time,’ she added, as Laura slipped into the queue some spaces behind her.

‘I intend to.’ Laura allowed a small smile that gave her pale features animation. A good time, she reflected ruefully, was the last thing she was likely to have; but that was her problem and no one else’s.

The pretty Polynesian girls who waited in the arrivals hall had almost exhausted the supply of flower garlands they handed out to holiday visitors. The leis, as they were called, were very popular with tourists, and Laura could still remember her delight when, on her first visit to the islands, she had received the symbolic welcome. Today, however, she sidestepped the smiling throng and hurried on down the escalator, to take her seat on one of the articulated buses, which transported passengers between the arrivals hall and the terminal buildings.

By the time she had collected her luggage from the carousel and summoned a cab, the sun was sinking and, giving the address of the small hotel she remembered, just off Kalakaua Avenue, she settled back to enjoy the ride. Through the open windows of the cab, the air was deliciously warm and pungently familiar. Even before they crossed the Kapalama Canal, she could smell the Dole Canneries, and the water tank, painted to resemble a pineapple, rose like a huge yellow dome, sprouting its prickly stalk.

To her right, the less attractive aspects of the island’s economy gave way to the waving masts of the yacht marina. Dozens of sailing craft, from modest dinghies to ocean-going schooners, were moored in the basin, and Laura couldn’t help but wonder if Jason still owned his schooner. Not that it had any relevance, she assured herself impatiently, determinedly turning her attention to the exotic elegance of a floating restaurant moored at the quay. How Jason Montefiore might or might not be conducting his private affairs was no concern of hers.

The cab was approaching Kalakaua Avenue, and Laura gazed out at the towering hotel blocks. There seemed more than she remembered, even the ‘Pink Palace’, as the Royal Hawaiian Hotel used to be called, was overshadowed now by the looming curve of the Sheraton. But the market place was still there, where Jason had once bought her a string of real pearls and the engraved gold medallion, she still carried in her handbag.

Just beyond the imposing towers of the Hyatt Regency, the cab turned into a side street and a hundred yards down, past an intersection, came to a halt outside the modest façade of the Kapulani Reef Hotel. Laura climbed out, dragging her suitcase after her, and handed over the necessary dollars. Thank goodness she had remembered the name of this place, she thought, looking up at its faded exterior. The paint was chipping on the balconies, and the sun had yellowed its colour-washed walls. But so far as she knew, its reputation was still intact, and one of the girls at the agency used to recommend it. Of course, that was more than three years ago now, but it could not be helped. Hotels in Waikiki were expensive, and those Jason had taken her to were quite beyond her means. The Kapulani used to be both clean and reasonable, and she did not have a lot of choice in the matter. Besides, with luck, it might only be for a couple of nights.

She had ‘phoned ahead from San Francisco, and she was expected. A polite receptionist had her sign in, and then a Chinese porter was summoned to take her to her room. The lift transported them three floors up to room number 409, and Laura felt obliged to tip the man, even though his manner was anything but friendly. Still, he had carried her suitcase, she reflected, as she took a proper look at her surroundings.

It was clean and neat, she had to admit, the bed one of the wide divans she had become used to during the time she had worked in Honolulu. There was a chest of drawers and a fitted closet, a round glass-topped table and a chair, and the ubiquitous colour television, standing by the open balcony doors. There was also a telephone, the one object Laura most wanted to see, but she put her immediate impulses aside and walked into the adjoining bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later she emerged, considerably cooler and fresher after a shower. Wrapped in a towel, she threw her soiled clothes on to the chair, and then rescued the key to her suitcase from her handbag and deposited the case on the bed.

There was a definite disorganisation to the contents of the suitcase, but it couldn’t be helped. For the past three days, she had thought little about her appearance, and the garments she had packed with reasonable care in London, were now muddled beyond belief. That they were not more creased was due to the resiliency of modern fabrics, and she drew out the short-sleeved shirt and pants that were first to hand.

Running a brush through the fine silky hair, that she generally plaited and wore in a single braid for working purposes, Laura contained her impatience and walked out on to the balcony. It was getting dark, but the air was as soft and velvety as a moth’s wing. The temperature stayed balmy most of the time, only becoming hot and sticky in the summer when the wind called the kona blew. Usually, the climate was perfect, a delicious blend of sun and trade winds, that made the islands a garden paradise.

Away to the right, Laura could hear the sound of the surf, as it creamed along the shoreline, and she was tempted to leave what she had to do until the morning and go for a walk along the beach. It would be so nice to forget her troubles for a while, and enjoy the exotic beauty of her surroundings. But then, the memory of Pamela, lying in the hospital in San Francisco, returned to haunt her, and putting the brush aside, she quickly threaded her hair into its neat queue.

Crossing the room to where the ‘phone sat, on the low bureau beside the bed, Laura reflected that even that image was not as disturbing as the scene which had met her eyes on her arrival in San Francisco. If she hadn’t responded to Pamela’s ‘phone call so promptly, if she hadn’t ignored Pierce’s complaints about her ingratitude, and taken the first available flight from London, she might never have found her sister alive. As it was, Pamela had been unconscious, the terrible meaning of the empty bottle of sleeping tablets on the table beside her, telling their own tale. Laura shivered, even now. Without her unexpected intervention, Pamela would be dead—and all because of Mike Kazantis.

Before picking up the ‘phone, she reached for her bag, and drew out the handful of letters she had found scattered about her sister’s body. Without them, she might never have learned the name of the man who had caused her sister so much heartbreak. Pamela could have refused to tell her. Indeed, at first, she had denied any connection between the letters and her attempted suicide. But when the doctors at the Mount Rushmore Hospital had informed Laura that her sister was pregnant, she had immediately understood the situation.

Of course, Mike Kazantis’s name would have meant nothing to Pamela. It was less than two years since she had applied for a nursing post in Sausalito, and her work with the elderly, and very rich, Mrs Amy Goldstein, had seemed far removed from the commercial success of Jason Montefiore.

Naturally, after her own experiences in the United States, Laura had tried to persuade her younger sister not to leave England. But short of explaining exactly why she had returned to London, there was little she could say; and besides, it had seemed unlikely that Pamela would make the same mistakes.

Laura shook her head now, and reached for the ‘phone. It was not a situation she had ever expected to have to deal with. When she was making her arrangements to accompany Pierce to the Camargue at the beginning of March, Pamela had been writing, saying how happy she was, and there had been no mention of her relationship with Jason’s brother-in-law. Had she known he was married? Was that why she had not mentioned his name to her sister? The little Laura had read of his letters, gave no evidence one way or the other. All that was clear was that the letters had ceased, approximately six weeks ago. The most recent postmark was March 14th, and Laura had had no difficulty in making the association.

She rang the club first, guessing that as it was after six o’clock Jason was most likely to be there. If he was in Honolulu, of course, she reflected, crossing her fingers. There was no absolute guarantee. Just her own recollection of his movements, and the fervent hope that this trip to Hawaii had not been a fool’s errand.

A man answered, a man whose voice she didn’t recognise, and adopting her most confident tone, she asked to speak to Mr Montefiore. ‘It’s a personal matter of some urgency,’ she explained, hoping that by mentioning the personal nature of her call, the man would at least be curious.

‘Just a minute,’ he said, and the line went dead, indicating she assumed that she had been dealt with by a switchboard, and that her call was receiving more serious attention. Come on, come on, she urged impatiently, running first one, and then a second, moist palm over the knees of her trousers. Jason wasn’t the Pope, after all. What on earth could be taking so long?

‘Yes?’

Another male voice had taken the place of the switchboard attendant, and Laura tried to identify the brusque address. It wasn’t Jason, that much was certain, but there was something vaguely familiar about that clipped inquiry.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said again, swallowing her uncertainty. ‘I—er—I’d like to speak to Mr Montefiore, please. This—this is Laura Huyton.’

‘Laura!’ The voice definitely exhibited surprise now, and the warmer vowels gave her her first clue.

‘Phil?’ she ventured, and hearing his swift intake of breath: ‘Phil Logan? Yes, it’s me; Laura.’ She took a gulp of air. ‘Is Jason there?’

‘Where are you, Laura?’ Without answering, he turned the question against her. ‘You sound pretty close. Are you here, in Oahu?’

Laura hesitated, and then she replied resignedly, ‘Yes. I arrived a couple of hours ago. Phil, I need to speak to Jason urgently. If he’s there, I’d appreciate it if you’d get him to the ‘phone.’

There was silence for a few seconds, and then Logan spoke again. ‘Does Jason know you’re coming?’ he inquired, his tone almost imperceptibly cooler now. And at her swift denial, ‘What are you doing in Honolulu, Laura? I have to tell you—I don’t think Jason will agree to see you.’

Laura’s lips compressed. ‘What I’m doing here I’ll tell Jason, and no one else,’ she retorted. ‘Don’t you think you should at least give him a chance to refuse? It is important. You can tell him that.’

Again the silence stretched between them, and Laura could feel the nerves in her stomach tightening unpleasantly. She had eaten little since that morning, and the hollow feeling she was experiencing was partly due to her emptiness. But, she couldn’t deny a certain irritation at the attitude Phil Logan was adopting, and although she knew she had no right to expect anything of Jason, she resented being thwarted by one of his employees.

‘I can’t ask Jason to speak to you, because he isn’t here,’ Logan announced at length, and Laura expelled her breath on a sigh.

‘You mean—he’s at the apartment?’

‘Mr Montefiore doesn’t live in Honolulu any more, Laura,’ he responded reluctantly, his deliberate use of Jason’s surname creating a barrier even a fool could not overlook; and Laura was no fool. ‘He … er … if you’d like to give me the address of the hotel where you’re staying, and your ‘phone number, I’ll pass your message on. That’s the best I can do.’

Laura’s jaw quivered, and she clamped her teeth together to arrest the weakness. But it was anger, not emotion, that caused her breathing to quicken and the blood to run more thinly through her veins. How dare Phil Logan behave as if she was some pitiful hanger-on, desperate for a hand-out? she thought furiously. When had she ever treated him with anything less than courtesy, even when she had been living in Jason’s luxurious penthouse and Logan had been pulling beers in the nightclub bar?

‘Thanks,’ she said now, deciding there was no point in pursuing her frustration with him. ‘I’m staying at the Kapulani Reef Hotel. It’s on Haleiwa Avenue—’

‘I know where it is,’ responded Logan swiftly, evidently taking it down, and Laura contained her resentment at his tone.

‘Room 409,’ she added, just for good measure, and then rang off before he could make some comment about her choice of accommodation.

But with the receiver replaced on its cradle, Laura found that she was shaking. Somehow, she had never expected Jason’s employees to treat her like a pariah. Phil Logan had acted as if Jason had thrown her out, instead of the way it really was. Was that what Jason had told his men? That he had thrown her over?

Getting up from the bed, she walked nervously across to the open windows, rubbing her palms against the unexpectedly chilled flesh of her upper arms. So much for speaking to Jason tonight, she thought bitterly. He might not even get the message. If she didn’t hear from him within the next twenty-four hours, she would have to think of some other method of finding him. But how? Logan hadn’t even told her where he was living. He could be on the mainland for all she knew. Over two thousand miles away, and as remote as he had ever been.

She supposed she ought to go downstairs and find the coffee shop. Maybe, with something to eat and several cups of coffee inside her she would feel more capable of handling the situation. Right now, she had the horrible suspicion that her journey had been a waste of time, and she couldn’t help remembering that Pierce had threatened to fire her if she didn’t return within the week.

Stepping out on to the verandah, she rested her hands on the iron rail and looked down at the street below. There were few people walking, but there were plenty of cars using the connection between Kalakaua Avenue and Kapiolani Boulevard; long expensive limousines, driven by the more affluent members of the community, through to topless beach buggies, rattling along at a reckless pace.

But Laura hardly saw them. She was thinking about Pierce and his objections to her trip. Of course, he had not known before she left exactly what she would find in San Francisco, any more than she had. Even so, when she had ‘phoned him from Pamela’s apartment after her sister had been taken to the hospital, he had not shown a lot of sympathy. Pierce Carver was used to getting his own way, and that did not include losing his secretary at a significant point in his latest book.

Laura sighed. As the author of some fifteen novels, and popularly regarded as the doyen of psychological thrillers, Pierce would survive, whatever happened. Pamela might not. For the next few days, he would have to persevere with the dictaphone he had acquired some years ago, and if that was not satisfactory, he would no doubt make other arrangements. Whether those ‘arrangements’ would involve her dismissal, Laura could not be absolutely sure. Pierce was artistic and temperamental, and he tended to say things in anger he did not actually mean. Not that she considered herself indispensable, of course. No one was that. But she had worked for him for almost three years, and she knew his idiosyncrasies so well.

She remembered his dismay when she had told him about Pamela’s ‘phone call. ‘But you can’t just walk out on me, Laura,’ he had wailed. ‘We’re at the most crucial stage of the book. Whatever slough of despond your sister has got herself into cannot—simply cannot—be allowed to interfere with your obligations to me. Heavens, the girl’s not a child, is she? She’s over twenty-one. You’re her sister, not her mother!’

There had been more of the same, but Laura had had no time to listen. She had been too busy making ‘phone calls of her own, to the airport, to the mini cab service, and packing her belongings, to give him her undivided attention. She was sorry she had to leave him in the lurch. She knew how he depended upon her. But Pamela depended on her, too, and the apprehension she felt about her sister over-ruled her remorse.

She was so relieved they had been in England when the call came through. For the past four weeks, she had been staying in Aix, at the villa in Provence, which Pierce had rented to write his latest novel. Had he not grown bored with his surroundings, had he not felt the need for a change of scenery, he would not have suggested flying back to London, and there was no doubt now he regretted his decision to return home.

‘You know how much I enjoy our sessions,’ he had protested, when the issue of the dictaphone had been raised. ‘Without your reactions, how will I know if I’m on the right track?’

‘You managed perfectly well before I came on the scene,’ Laura had pointed out swiftly, but in so doing, she had given Pierce the opening he was looking for.

‘So I did,’ he had remarked acidly, folding his arms as he was prone to do in moments of stress. ‘So I did. Beware I don’t decide I can manage without you. There are plenty of out-of-work secretaries simply panting to take your place!’

He was right. Laura knew that; and it had been with a certain amount of trepidation that she had told him she was taking a week’s leave of absence with or without his consent. Pierce could be vindictive at times, and he might just decide to be awkward. She could only hope he would find it less easy to choose a replacement than he imagined, and that absence would achieve what reasoned argument could not.

With a feeling of anxious frustration, Laura abandoned this particular line of thought, and walked back into the bedroom. The hospital, she thought suddenly. She ought to ring the hospital and find out how Pamela was progressing. It had been eight o’clock, San Francisco time, when she last made an inquiry, and despite the doctor’s assurance that her sister would pull through, her mental state was so precarious, Laura couldn’t quite believe them.

The night staff at Mount Rushmore were reassuring. Pamela had had a reasonably good day and she was sleeping. The toxic level of her blood was falling, and if her psychological report proved satisfactory, she might be allowed to go home in a couple of days.

‘There’s no physical danger then?’ Laura persisted, remembering articles she had read about toxic hepatitis and stomach bleeding.

‘It seems unlikely,’ replied the charge nurse smoothly. ‘I think your sister’s mental state is what we need to monitor. You do realise, don’t you, she could always try this again?’

She realised, Laura reflected tensely, replacing the receiver. That was why she was here, in Honolulu. That was why she had agreed to contact Jason, on her sister’s behalf. Naturally, she hadn’t told Pamela of his relationship to Mike Kazantis, but after her sister confessed that Mike was no longer using the address he had put on his letters, there had seemed no alternative but to ask Jason’s assistance. She had reassured Pamela with the conviction that if Jason could help, he would, but she had not really believed it. Still, she was prepared to do anything to take that look of desperation from her sister’s face, and if it meant humbling herself before Jason Montefiore—and his brother-in-law—she would do it.

Unable to stand the inactivity any longer, Laura gathered up her bag and left the room. It was obvious Jason was unlikely to call this evening. Even if he got her message, which was by no means a foregone conclusion, he would evidently be in no hurry to contact her. If Phil Logan’s attitude was anything to go by, he might not even acknowledge her call, and the prospect of having to tell Pamela she had failed was not something she wanted to contemplate.

The coffee shop was crowded and deciding she couldn’t stand to wait, Laura left the hotel and headed towards the floodlit brilliance of Kalakaua Avenue. After the comparative quiet of her room, Waikiki’s main thoroughfare was decidedly noisy, but she welcomed the activity to numb her anxious brain.

Finding a fast-food establishment, she ordered a burger and some coffee, and then carried her tray to a plastic booth and tried to swallow the sandwich. It wasn’t easy. She realised belatedly a bowl of soup or some salad might have gone down more smoothly, but it was too late now to have second thoughts. Picking sesame seeds from the roll, she wondered if Phil Logan would tell her how she might get in touch with Mike Kazantis if Jason’s whereabouts were verboten. Or had he orders to avoid any awkward inquiries? It was always possible that Jason had known of Mike’s involvement with her sister, and obviously he would not want his sister to be upset. Laura cupped her chin on one hand. Whatever happened, it was unlikely that either Mike or his wife lived in the islands. Mike worked for Jason’s father, and so far as she knew, Marco Montefiore’s interests did not encroach on his son’s territory.

Laura’s lips twisted. How on earth had Pamela got herself involved with the Montefiore family? The brief conversation she had had with her sister had not elicited that kind of information. Besides, so far as she knew, Pamela did not know of Mike’s connection with the Montefiores, and it was possible, that as Mrs Goldstein’s private therapist, they could have met socially. Even if her sister had known the truth behind Laura’s own break-up with Jason, she could still have become infatuated with Kazantis. There was nothing to connect him with Laura’s abortive liaison, and if Kazantis had known of the association, he was unlikely to mention it to Pamela, for obvious reasons.

Pushing the burger aside, Laura lifted the plastic beaker containing her coffee and thoughtfully sipped the fragrant brew. American coffee was always so good, she mused inconsequently. Even the unimaginative container could not spoil the taste of its contents.

Gazing blindly out through the open doors on to the busy street beyond, she wondered again what she would do if her efforts to reach either Jason or his brother-in-law proved useless. And why—even if by some chance she did get to speak to Jason—did she think he might be able, or willing, to help her? What did she really expect him to do? What could he do? Mike Kazantis was his sister’s husband. Surely, it was the height of arrogance to believe he might put Pamela’s well-being before that of Irene.

It seemed an insoluble problem, and her brain ached with the effort of trying to solve it. She was not at all convinced that approaching Mike Kazantis was the right thing to do. If Pamela had been more reasonable, if she had been prepared to go back to England, as soon as she was fit, Laura was sure they would have found a way to sort things out. One parent families were not so unusual these days, if Pamela wanted to keep her baby. And if not, there were always adoption agencies eager and willing to find the child a good home.

But Pamela had not been reasonable. Her unwilling return to consciousness to find her sister at her bedside and, it transpired, in possession of all the facts of her case, had elicited an entirely different response. ‘There must be some mistake,’ she had insisted, the faith she had lost so drastically returning now that Laura was there to listen. ‘Mike wouldn’t just abandon me. He wouldn’t! Something must be wrong. Perhaps he’s been taken ill, or had an accident. If only there was someone we could ask. Someone who could give us a clue to his whereabouts. Is there no one you know, Laura? No one you met while you were over here?’

Whether Pamela knew exactly what she was asking, Laura had no idea. Certainly she had never confided the true facts of her relationship with Jason Montefiore to her sister. But perhaps Pamela sensed, or suspected, that there had been more to Laura’s abrupt return to England than the casual explanation that she had grown tired of living so far from London. Whatever, Laura had felt compelled to use what influence she had to try and set her sister’s mind at rest, and that was why she was here in Hawaii, facing the increasing conviction that she was wasting her time.

The situation seemed hardly brighter in the morning. Laura had not slept well, and after ringing the hospital and ensuring herself that Pamela was still making progress, she considered what her next move should be. She could ring the club again, she supposed, although the prospect was not one she favoured. Besides, only the cleaning staff were likely to be there at this hour of the morning, and none of them would risk their jobs by giving out private information. And perhaps she was being overly pessimistic anyway. Jason might telephone. There was still time.

The telephone rang while she was in the shower, but although she dashed out of the bathroom to take the call, a towel wrapped hastily around her dripping body, it was an early morning call meant for someone else. ‘Aloha, this is your wake-up service,’ announced the mechanical voice, and Laura slammed down the receiver, feeling the painful ache of tears behind her eyes.

Dressed again, in the cotton pants and shirt she had worn the evening before, she stood in front of the mirror to plait her hair. She had no particular desire to look at her reflection, the evidence of the disturbed nights she had spent since Pamela’s call a visual depressant. But she couldn’t help assessing her appearance with Jason’s critical eyes, and her conclusion was not flattering. Too tall, too thin, and too plain, she thought bitterly, wondering, not for the first time, whatever it was he had seen in her. She was certainly nothing like the girls who had worked in his club or hung around the bar, hoping to attract his attention. They had all had one thing in common: an unswerving faith in their own desirability, whereas Laura had always doubted her appeal.

She sighed now, her hands falling limply to her sides. From the very beginning, she had been bemused by Jason’s interest in her, and perhaps that was why he had succeeded where other men had failed. If she had not been so naïvely flattered by his attentions, she might have recognised him sooner for what he was, instead of learning too late how easily she had been deceived.

She shook her head. It was too late now to change the past. And in spite of her experiences, she had succeeded in making a new life for herself with Pierce. There had actually been days when she had not thought about Jason Montefiore and the devastating influence he had had on her. Until Pamela’s ‘phone call, that was, and the inescapable connotations it had aroused …

It was barely eight o’clock when she went down to the coffee shop and ordered some coffee. The menu didn’t interest her, but realising that starving herself would help no one, she chose scrambled eggs and toast. Trying to do them justice, she surveyed her fellow diners enviously. How nice it would have been to have nothing more momentous on her mind than what bikini she would wear to the beach, Laura mused wryly. With her pale skin, she was definitely a rarity, and it was not a distinction she enjoyed.

After the waitress had taken away her half-eaten plate of eggs, Laura sipped her third cup of coffee and wondered what she ought to do now. She supposed she should stay around the hotel, if only to be on hand should Jason make an attempt to contact her. On the other hand, if he had not ‘phoned by lunchtime, she could surely discount his doing so, and then she would have to decide whether or not to try the club in person.

Her decision made, she told the receptionist at the desk she was expecting a call, and then joined the other holidaymakers congregating beside the small pool. Seated in the shade on a padded lounger, she made an effort to appear as nonchalant as the other guests, but she was acutely alert to the paging call of the receptionist’s voice.

From time to time, a lissom Polynesian girl, dressed in a flowered bikini, with a matching kanga looped about her waist, came to offer cocktails, fruit drinks or coffee. But Laura always refused her lilting inquiry, and when a shadow fell across her for the fourth time, she lifted her head impatiently.

‘Thank you, I don’t want …’ she was beginning rather tersely, when her throat dried and the words choked to silence in her mouth. ‘Heavens—Jason!’ she got out disbelievingly, scrambling hastily to her feet, but her knees felt ridiculously unsteady as she faced the man across the width of the lounger.