Читать книгу The Boss's Forbidden Secretary - Lee Wilkinson, Lee Wilkinson - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

ROSS helped them both to more whisky, then, taking Cathy by surprise, observed, ‘You have the most beautiful and fascinating eyes.’

With a self-deprecating smile, he added, ‘But I’m afraid I’m telling you something you already know.’

Cathy had often wished that her eyes were the same deep blue as Carl’s, and her voice was a little unsteady as she admitted, ‘I’ve always considered that they were no particular colour, just nondescript.’

‘Far from it. Not only are they a lovely shape, but they seem to change colour with the light, as opals do. A moment ago they looked blue, now they look green and gold, like an April day.’

She might have thought he was merely chatting her up, but he spoke quietly, thoughtfully, as if he meant exactly what he said.

Watching her blush deepen, he said contritely, ‘But now I’ve embarrassed you.’ Then, smoothly changing tack, he asked, ‘Are you London born and bred?’

‘No, both my brother and I were born in Kent. We only moved to London when my parents—my father was a doctor and my mother a physiotherapist—got posts at one of the London hospitals.’

‘I see. Are either you or your brother in the medical profession?’

‘My brother trained as a physiotherapist, and I had hoped to be a doctor.’

Reaching to put a couple of fresh logs on the fire, he probed, ‘Hoped to be?’

‘I left school just before I was eighteen, when both my parents were killed in a plane crash.’

‘You and your brother weren’t involved in the crash?’

She shook her head. ‘No. To celebrate twenty years together they decided to go on a second honeymoon.’ Though she did her best to speak dispassionately, even after almost seven years the sense of loss still showed.

‘Is your brother older than you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, a year younger.’

‘That must have been tough,’ he said simply, but his face held compassion, as if he understood.

‘It was for a while, but we managed.’

Seeing that talking about it made her sad, he let the subject drop, asking instead, ‘Have you been to the Cairngorms before?’

‘No, but I’ve always wanted to. I love mountains.’

‘It’s a beautiful area,’ he agreed, ‘but, apart from on the fringes, relatively isolated. There are no roads in the heartland, I’m pleased to say, so it’s best seen on foot, on horseback or on skis…’

For a while he talked about Scotland, and his low, pleasant voice, combined with the meal she had just eaten, the warmth and the unaccustomed whisky, made her feel sleepy and contented.

She was just stifling a yawn when he asked, ‘Getting tired? If you want me to leave so you can go to bed…?’

Feeling bereft at the thought of him going, she denied, ‘No, no…I’m not really tired. It’s just the warmth of the fire…’

‘Well, when you do want me to go, don’t hesitate to say so.’

While the logs sparked and crackled and the blizzard raged outside, they talked idly, casually. But beneath the surface an unspoken, yet much deeper kind of communication was taking place.

Eventually, with evident reluctance, Ross rose to his feet, and remarked, ‘You’ve still got a fairly long drive tomorrow, so I really must go and let you get some sleep…’

Since her divorce, hurt and bitterly disillusioned, Cathy had steered clear of men, freezing off any that had shown the slightest desire to get too intimate.

But now the thought of Ross Dalgowan leaving made her heart sink, and she faced the fact that, though she knew virtually nothing about him, she wanted him to stay.

Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Oh, but I should feel guilty if you were uncomfortable when there’s more room here than I need.’

‘There’s absolutely no reason for you to feel guilty. Where I sleep really isn’t a problem. I’ve no objection to stretching out on one of the couches in the lounge.’

‘They’re much too short,’ she pointed out a shade breathlessly, ‘and you would have no privacy.’

Already he knew that this woman was different, special—not the kind he could lightly walk away from—and, remembering his decision to avoid emotional entanglements, he knew he should go. But very tempted to stay, to see what came of it, he hesitated.

Seeing that hesitation, she went on in a rush, ‘The bunk beds don’t look particularly inviting, but if you want stay in the suite—which you can do with pleasure—at least you’ll be able to shower and take off your clothes.’

‘The thought of not having to sleep in my clothes makes your offer practically irresistible,’ he told her with a grin.

‘Then stay.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’ To leave no doubt in his mind, she added, ‘The bathroom’s yours when you want it.’

Shaking his head, he told her, ‘Ladies first.’

While Cathy found her toilet bag and night things, he resumed his seat by the fire.

When she had showered, wearing a plastic cap to keep her hair dry, she cleaned her teeth and put on her nightdress.

Looking in the mirror while she removed the pins from her thick coil of fair hair and brushed out the long silken mass, she saw that her cheeks were a little flushed and her eyes were bright, as though something wonderful had happened to her.

Warning herself that she mustn’t get carried away, she pulled on her robe, tied the belt and, picking up her pile of clothes, returned to the bedroom.

Just the sight of him made her heart leap.

He was sitting staring into the fire as though lost in thought, the ruddy glow turning his face into the mask of an Inca god.

Putting her clothes beside her bag, she took a deep breath and told him, ‘Your turn now.’

He rose, his glance running over her slender figure in the clinging ivory satin. She saw his grey eyes darken to charcoal, then saw the little lick of flame that had nothing to do with the firelight.

For a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes, before, turning on his heel abruptly, Ross made his way into the bathroom, and a moment or two later she heard the shower running.

Finding her knees were trembling, she sank down in the chair she had occupied previously, while her thoughts tumbled over one another in a joyous confusion as she went over the events of the evening spent with Ross.

Some kind of magic had taken place, as though they had both been caught in a spell. He felt it, too, she was certain.

Then, like a dark cloud, came the doubts. Perhaps she was wrong, mistaken. She had been mistaken about Neil, about his feelings. After that fiasco, could she—dared she—trust her own judgement?

But she was quite a few years older now, and much less naive. And Ross was nothing at all like Neil. Apart from the physical attraction she felt, there was so much about him that drew her—a warmth, a sensitivity, a quiet inner strength, a reliability.

She didn’t hear him return, but some sixth sense made her glance up to find he was standing only a few feet away quietly watching her.

He was freshly shaven, his corn-coloured hair was still slightly damp and trying to curl, and he was wearing one of the navy-blue towelling robes that had been hanging behind the bathroom door.

‘Are you sure you’re happy about a perfect stranger sharing your suite?’ he asked.

Looking up at him, she spoke the exact truth. ‘You don’t seem like a stranger. I know it sounds incredible, but I feel as if I’ve always known you.’

He took a step forward, and stooped to brush a strand of hair back from her cheek.

She caught her breath.

His hands closing lightly around her upper arms, he lifted her to her feet. Gazing down at her, he said softly, ‘Yes, I was sure you felt the same rapport, the same sense of closeness. It was there when I looked in your eyes.

‘But though I’m certain we have something special going for us, it’s early days yet, so if you want me to use one of bunk beds…?’

She didn’t. But, too shy to say so outright, she bent her head and mumbled, ‘What do you want?’

He lifted her chin and studied her face.

A couple of hours in her company had confirmed his first impression that she was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

There was no trace of hardness or worldliness about her; instead mingled with a faint aura of sadness was a certain innocence, a sweetness, a vulnerability that touched his heart.

His voice a little husky, he said, ‘You can’t possibly not know. I want to hold you, to kiss you, to feel your naked body against mine. I want to take you to bed and make love to you until we’re both up there with the stars, then I want to sleep with you in my arms.’

All her life she’d been cautious, inhibited, and after her disastrous relationship with Neil she’d felt frozen through and through, certain she’d never feel the warmth of true love, the pleasure of being held in caring arms.

Now, however, her inhibitions gone—driven away by the unaccustomed whisky, perhaps?—she longed to reach out and take the happiness that this man seemed to be offering.

But suppose she was frigid, as Neil had charged?

Ross had been watching her face, the changing expressions, and now, with a slight sigh, he released her arms and stepped back.

His voice level, he told her, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take the couch…’

He was turning to walk away when she whispered, ‘Don’t go. Please, don’t go.’

‘I think I’d better.’ Wryly he added, ‘It might prove too much of a temptation if I slept on one of the bunks.’

‘But I don’t want you to sleep in the other room.’

‘Are you sure? A moment ago you looked seriously worried at the thought of me sharing your bed.’

‘No, no… It wasn’t that,’ she said. ‘But I…I don’t usually behave like this.’

‘I never thought you did. But, as I said, it’s early days yet, so if you’re not happy…’

‘I am happy,’ she assured him. ‘Please stay.’

With a little inarticulate murmur he rested his forehead against hers, melting her heart with the tenderness of the gesture, and bringing unexpected tears to her eyes.

As he lifted his head, twin teardrops escaped and trickled down her cheeks.

He kissed them away softly, before touching his lips to hers.

She was still trembling from the delight of that kiss when he drew her close and kissed her again.

Contact with his firm, muscular body turned her very bones to jelly, and she melted against him, her lips parting helplessly beneath the light, yet masterful pressure of his.

With a little murmur of satisfaction he deepened the kiss while he unfastened her robe and slipped it off her shoulders, letting it puddle at her feet.

As he kissed her, his hands moved over her seductively, tracing her slender hips and buttocks through the thin satin of her nightdress before moving up again to the soft curve of her breasts.

Feeling her body’s instinctive response, he cupped the weight of one breast in the palm of his hand and rubbed his thumb over the firming nipple.

He heard her soft gasp, and, slipping the satin straps from her shoulders, he sent the nightdress to join the robe at their feet. Then, taking one pink, velvety nipple in his mouth, he teased its fellow between his finger and thumb.

For a while, with a skill and delicacy that Neil had totally lacked, he pleasured her, before pulling back the covers and lifting her onto the bed.

He was standing looking down at her, admiring her flawless skin, the firm, beautifully shaped breasts, the enticing flare of her hips, and the long, slender legs, when she opened dazed eyes.

Smiling down at her, he discarded the towelling robe, switched off the bedside lamp, and, stretching out beside her, with hands and mouth he explored her body, finding every erogenous zone and producing the most exquisite sensations, the kind of singing pleasure she had never known before.

He whispered softly how beautiful she was, how desirable, how much her body delighted him, while he brought her to a fever pitch of wanting.

Just for an instant when he moved over her she felt a touch of panic. Suppose she couldn’t respond? Suppose he was disappointed?

But as though sensing her fear, he kissed her gently, reassuringly, and the panic died.

Then in the flickering firelight, while the blizzard beat at the window panes with frozen fingers, he made love to her, tenderly, passionately, so that she was caught up and carried along by the wonder of it.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined love could be like this, and after a climax of such intensity that she thought she might die, she slowly drifted back to earth to lie in a blissful haze.

After a while, her breathing and heart-rate returned to something approaching normal, and she became aware that his fair head was pillowed on her breast.

She lay quietly, savouring the pleasure of it, until he stirred and lifted himself away.

At this point Neil had invariably turned his back, leaving her cold and unsatisfied, with a leaden feeling of depression, of failure, as though the fault was hers.

And though this time she was warm and satisfied, the remembrance of that failure was descending like a fog when Ross leaned over her and, taking his weight on his elbows, kissed her mouth deeply, tenderly.

Then, his lips wandering over her face and throat, punctuating the words with soft, baby kisses, he told her how infinitely desirable she was, how warm and responsive, and how much he had enjoyed making love to her.

His words and his kisses dispersed the miasma as sunlight dispersed mist, and, her heart light, her spirits rising, for the first time in her adult life she felt happy, fulfilled, like a real woman.

He turned on his back, and, as though he didn’t want to lose contact, he gathered her to him and, his body half supporting hers, settled her head on the comfortable juncture between chest and shoulder.

She lay contentedly, enjoying the strong beat of his heart beneath her cheek, the feel of his skin against hers, the clean male smell of him and the scent of his aftershave.

Never in her wildest imaginings could she have visualized all her dreams coming true like this. To have an unspoken longing, a tenuous hope, a hidden desire become wonderful reality so fast seemed almost unbelievable.

He was everything she had ever wanted in a man, and she thanked fate for the snowfall that had brought him into her life.

Though she wanted to stay awake for a while to savour the magic of it all, in the blink of an eye she was asleep—deeply, dreamlessly.

Some time during the night Ross awakened her with a kiss and a soft caress, and they made love again.

For Cathy it was a rocket trip to the stars, and when it was over she lay in his arms, blissfully happy, and once more thanked fate for bringing him into her life.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her once more was that now their instant and mutual attraction had become so serious so quickly, over breakfast she must explain about Carl and the deception she’d agreed to.

She could always ask him to keep it to himself until Carl had managed to prove his worth and was able to tell his employers the truth…

In the early hours of the morning she started to dream. She was lying contentedly in bed in the arms of her lover, while they made wonderful plans for their future together.

Then in her dream she heard the urgent shrill of a phone, and, summoned away, her lover left her side.

Cold and bereft, she wept soundlessly, heartbroken, until he returned and she felt the brush of his lips as he kissed her softly.

But it was a goodbye kiss.

She put her arms around his neck and tried to keep him, to make him stay, but as though she was embracing a wraith he slipped from her grasp and walked away, and in the way that dreamers do she knew he was gone for ever.

Still, she searched for him everywhere, through strange, empty rooms and on every busy street, scanning faces as they went past, and in despair stopping anyone who looked remotely like him.

Then she saw him walking just ahead of her and, filled with joy, she ran after him and caught his arm. But when he turned to face her it was Neil and, his eyes cold and uncaring, he pulled his arm free and pushed her roughly away.

Though the disturbing dreams went on, they grew vague, hazy, until eventually she fell into a more settled slumber.

From then on she slept deeply, until her brain finally stirred into life and struggled to free itself from the clinging cobwebs of sleep.

But even when she was almost awake, she was aware of a lingering feeling of sadness and loss.

Opening her eyes, she found herself in a strange room. It was a split second before memory kicked in, and she recalled everything that had happened the previous night. The unexpected snow, meeting Ross, the instant attraction that had flared between them and the delight and magic they had shared.

Her spirits soaring, a smile on her lips, she turned towards him.

But the place beside her was cold and empty. If she smoothed the sheets and plumped up the pillow the last traces of him would be gone and it would be hard to believe he had even existed.

Pushing the gloomy thought away, she glanced at her watch. Almost eight-thirty.

He was probably shaving.

She clambered out of bed and, pulling on her robe, headed for the bathroom. But even before she tapped on the door the utter stillness convinced her that he wasn’t there.

When she opened the door, the two towelling robes hanging side by side and the absence of his clothes confirmed the fact that he was gone.

He must be having breakfast.

But why hadn’t he awakened her so they could breakfast together?

Her heart grew cold.

Had she been mistaken after all? Had Ross—despite his caring words—seen her simply as a one-night stand? A casual bed partner that he felt nothing for?

Turning away, she saw the note on the floor—a small, flimsy page torn from a pocket diary and almost hidden by the quilt. It must have fluttered off the bedside cabinet.

She picked it up with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. Though obviously hurried, the writing was firm and decisive. It said simply:

You were sleeping so soundly it seemed a shame towaken you. Thank you for last night. You were a delight. Mrs Low will explain why I’m having to rush off. Have a safe journey up to Luing, and I’ll see you as soon as I possibly can. Ross.

She hadn’t told him exactly where she was staying, so unless Luing was a very small place how would he find her? She desperately wanted him to. But if he turned up asking for a Miss Richardson, it could cause problems. Oh, if only she had explained about Carl…

But perhaps he hadn’t gone yet. She might be in time to catch him…

She showered quickly, brushed her hair and coiled it neatly, then, having put on fresh undies and the fine wool suit she’d worn the previous day, she hurried along to the breakfast room.

But it was empty apart from an elderly couple who were just on the point of leaving.

As they exchanged a civil good morning, Mrs Low came busily in.

‘Ah, there you are, Miss Richardson,’ she exclaimed. ‘Perfect timing. Mr Dalgowan said if you weren’t down for breakfast by nine o’clock I was to call you.’

‘Has he gone?’

‘Oh, yes, he left before five-thirty. I was barely up myself. I understand he’d had a phone call from home in the early hours of the morning to say there was some kind of emergency…’

It must have been the phone ringing that had started her off dreaming, Cathy realized, and sighed. If only she had awakened properly and been able to talk to him before he left.

But Mrs Low was going on. ‘The poor man didn’t even stop for a bite to eat, he just swallowed a cup of coffee and went, saying he’d be sure to see you as soon as may be. Luckily a warm front followed the blizzard through, so instead of freezing the snow has turned to slush, which means the main roads should be clear.

‘Now, what would you like for breakfast? We’ve bacon and eggs, or a pair of nice kippers?’

A mixture of excitement and apprehension over what the day might bring robbing her of her appetite, she said, ‘Just coffee, please.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘Quite sure, thanks.’

When Mrs Low had gone, Cathy walked to the window and looked out.

Though the garden was still mostly covered with white there were several dark patches where the snow had already gone, and the trees and bushes were bare and dripping.

As Mrs Low had said, the main roads should be clear, so Ross would be well on his way home by now. But where was home?

Though he’d talked about being born on the edge of the Cairngorms and had said he knew Luing well, he hadn’t told her exactly where he lived. So there was no way she could get in touch with him.

Once again she wished fervently that she had explained about Carl. But she hadn’t. And now it was too late.

When her coffee arrived, Cathy said, ‘I’d like to make a start as soon as possible, so if you can let me have the bill?’

‘Mr Dalgowan took care of that,’ Mrs Low told her. ‘He’s a fine young man, good-looking and generous to a fault…’

‘How well do you know him?’ Cathy asked.

‘He stayed here in the autumn when his car broke down. Charlie and he got talking and discovered they had some mutual friends. He promised to call in and see us next time he was passing.’

‘Do you know exactly where he lives?’

Looking somewhat surprised at the question, Mrs Low answered vaguely, ‘The name of his house just escapes me, but it’s on the edge of the Cairngorms, a few miles from Luing, I believe…

‘Oh, excuse me, I think I hear the phone ringing. In case I’m not around when you leave, I’ll say goodbye now. Have a safe journey…’ She hurried away and a moment later the ringing stopped.

As soon as Cathy had drunk her coffee, she went along to her room and packed her night things and toilet bag, before taking the ring she would need to wear from her handbag.

It was her mother’s wedding ring—Neil had taken Cathy’s when he’d left, along with everything else he could lay his hands on. Because of the distinctive engraving it had been amongst the pitifully few belongings that had been returned to Cathy and Carl after the plane crash.

Slipping the wide gold band chased with lover’s knots onto the third finger of her left hand, she discovered it was quite loose. Which meant she must be careful not to lose it before she could find some way to make it a better fit.

With a sigh, and one last look around the room that held such happy memories, she pulled on her coat and hurried out to the four-wheel drive.

Though the damp air felt chill, the snow had melted and slid off the roof and windscreen, and a watery sun was trying to shine. She stowed away her bag, climbed into the car and started the engine.

The drive was still slushy, and the car slid a little on the humpback bridge, but as soon as Cathy reached the main entrance she found the road was clear in either direction.

It proved, in many ways, to be an enjoyable journey. She was making reasonably good time and the scenery en route was picturesque.

Towards lunchtime she looked for somewhere to have a sandwich and a hot drink, but, unable to find anywhere suitable, she pressed on.

Then just north of Blair Brechan she took the wrong road, and it was late afternoon when, with fresh snow falling, she neared her destination.

Luing turned out to be a tiny hamlet with a backdrop of wonderful scenery. It was made up of a hill farm, five whitewashed cottages and an old grey kirk huddled together at the junction where three narrow roads converged.

The rotting remains of what had obviously once been a signpost lay forlornly on its side, one arm in the air and partially covered by snow.

Uncertain which road to take, Cathy was hesitating when a man wearing a heavy mac and a deerstalker appeared with a spaniel at his heels.

Rolling down the window, she called, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Beinn Mor.’

‘You’ll be wanting the road straight ahead, lassie, and it’s a mile or so farther on.’

She thanked him gratefully and set off on the final lap of her journey.

On her left the road—little more than a lane—was edged with pine trees, and soon on her right an old stone wall came into view and began to meander alongside the road.

After about a mile and a half she came to a pair of massive stone gateposts topped with snarling lions that seemed to forbid entrance. In contrast, the black wrought-iron gates were drawn back, open wide in welcome.

Alongside the entrance a dark green board with gold writing announced that she had reached Dunbar Estate and the Beinn Mor Hotel and Ski Lodge.

Snow was falling softly, gently drifting down as if it were in no particular hurry, as she drove up the winding drive. It was starting to get dark, and the long, low building that came into view was a blaze of lights.

Though she had been warned that the Scots celebrated New Year more than Christmas, it was a lovely Christmassy scene that met her eyes.

Yule tide lanterns on long poles had been placed at intervals, swags of greenery adorned the porch, and a tall, beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in a massive pot to one side of the entrance.

When she drew up on the forecourt, the heavy oak door opened and Carl—who had obviously been watching for her—appeared, a tall, slim woman with blonde hair by his side.

As Cathy got out into the cold, crisp air that smelt of frost, he hurried over.

For the first time since Katie had left him he looked excited and happy, and, despite the difficulties she knew lay ahead, Cathy rejoiced at the sight of him.

‘Darling, it’s great to see you.’ He gave her a hug and, his lips close to her ear, whispered, ‘Everything’s going wonderfully well. I hope you remembered the ring?’

‘Yes, I’m wearing it,’ she whispered back.

Giving her another grateful hug, he said in his normal voice, ‘Come and meet Mrs Bowan… I’ll do the unpacking later.’

An arm around her, he escorted her to where the blonde woman waited beneath the shelter of the porch.

At close quarters Cathy could see that, though she wasn’t strictly speaking beautiful, she was very attractive, with good features, light blue eyes and naturally blonde hair. She was also much younger than Cathy had expected.

Carl introduced the two of them. ‘Darling, I’d like you to meet Mrs Bowan… Margaret, this is my wife, Cathy.’

‘It’s very nice to meet you…Cathy.’ Then, with an apologetic smile, Margaret added, ‘I’m so sorry, but I’d got it into my head that your name was Katie.’

So, at some time, no doubt during his first interview and before the break-up, Carl must have mentioned that his future wife was called Katie.

Feeling horribly guilty that she was deceiving this nice, friendly-looking woman, Cathy murmured, ‘How do you do, Mrs Bowan?’

‘Oh, call me Margaret, please. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Now, come on in out of the cold and we’ll have a nice cup of tea before Carl takes you over to your flat.’

Pushing open the door, on which a holly wreath entwined with scarlet ribbons hung, she ushered them into a warm, nicely decorated lobby-cum-lounge.

Two soft leather couches, several armchairs and a couple of low tables were grouped in front of the blazing fire.

On the left at the far end was a semicircular bar with a scattering of high stools, and on the right a polished reception desk.

Behind the desk, going through a sheaf of papers, was a pretty young woman with dark curly hair.

‘This is Janet Muir,’ Margaret said. ‘She helps to run the place. I don’t know what I’d do without her… Janet, this is Cathy, Carl’s wife…’

Once again Cathy cringed inwardly, but, murmuring an acknowledgement to the friendly greeting, she returned Janet’s smile.

‘Have you time to join us for a cup of tea?’ Margaret asked the other woman.

Janet shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d better finish what I’m doing.’

Opening a door to the right that said ‘Private’, Margaret led the way into a small but cosy room where a teatray had been set on a low table in front of the hearth.

‘This is our sitting room, and through there is our bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen. As you can guess, it’s a bit cramped.

‘My brother, who owns the Dunbar Estate, would be only too happy for us to live in the main house, but when the lodge and the log cabins are full, as they are at the moment, we feel that we need to be here on the spot, just in case there are any problems. Do take your coat off and sit down.’

Waving them to a couch in front of a cheerful fire, she sat down opposite and smiled at them both, before asking, ‘So what kind of journey did you have?’

Her mouth so dry with nerves that she could hardly speak, Cathy managed, ‘It was very good on the whole. Though I was rather surprised to run into snow quite so soon.’

Reaching to pour the tea, Margaret said, ‘Yes, we’ve had several quite heavy falls already this season, which of course is good for the skiing, if not for travelling… Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

When she had handed them a cup of tea each, she offered a plate of homemade cake. ‘Janet makes the best fruitcake you’ve ever tasted.’

Unsure whether she could swallow it, Cathy declined, but, with an appreciative murmur, Carl accepted a piece.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing, S—’ On the verge of saying Sis, he pulled himself up short and changed it to, ‘Sweetheart’.

‘It certainly smells delicious,’ Cathy said and, wishing she was anywhere but where she was, added, ‘But I’m not really hungry.’

Margaret smiled at her. ‘In that case, as we’re all invited to have dinner at Dunbar tonight, it would make sense not to risk spoiling your meal.’

Then in a heartfelt voice she added, ‘We’re so pleased and relieved to get a nice married couple like you. Last season was an absolute nightmare. Unfortunately, André, the ski instructor we hired, proved to be a real Casanova. We had several complaints from women, and one from an irate husband, who found André and his wife together in one of the ski huts. She swore that André had lured her there, and her husband threatened us with legal action.’

Refilling their cups, she went on, ‘We decided there and then that in the future we would only consider a married couple. So earlier this year, before the season started, we took on a couple who said they were married and gave their names as Mr and Mrs Fray. But we soon discovered that they weren’t married at all, and each considered themselves free to roam, so we felt justified in asking them to leave…’

Her face burning, Cathy didn’t know where to look. This was proving even worse than she had imagined.