Читать книгу Marriage On The Agenda - Lee Wilkinson, Lee Wilkinson - Страница 6

THE taxi skirted Hyde Park and dropped Loris Bergman outside the Landseer Hotel. Having paid the driver, she hurried inside and crossed the plush lobby to the Ladies’ Cloakroom.

When she had shaken the raindrops from her hooded cloak she gave that, and the small weekend case she was carrying, to the attendant, before glancing quickly in the mirror to check her image.

It was a bad enough crime to be so late for Bergman Longton’s St Valentine’s party, without her appearance being found wanting.

A small oval face with a pure bone structure, a wide, passionate mouth and almond-shaped eyes the colour of pale sherry, looked back at her. To others, her beauty was startling, but to Loris, with her total lack of vanity, familiarity had made her looks commonplace.

Satisfied that her long black hair and wispy fringe were tidy, and she looked cool and collected, she headed for the chandelier-lit ballroom.

The party was in full swing, with music and laughter and conversation. Some of the guests were dancing to a good-sized band, others milling about or gathered, glass in hand, in little groups.

A fair-haired, slimly built man, just under six feet tall and wearing impeccable evening dress, was standing alone in the background. His very stillness amongst the lively throng drew Loris’s attention. She had a fleeting sense of familiarity, a feeling that a long time ago she might have known him.

A second look convinced her she was mistaken.

If she had ever met this man, with his look of maturity and quiet strength, his unmistakable air of self-assurance, she would have remembered.

His stance was easy, relaxed, back straight, feet a little apart. A slightly cynical expression on his good-looking face, he was watching the other guests.

She was wondering who he was, and what he was doing at the gathering, when his brilliant, heavy-lidded eyes met hers.

Suddenly meeting that cool, ironic regard had the same impact as walking into an invisible plate-glass window. A sense of shock made her stop in her tracks while her heart began to beat in slow, heavy thuds.

As she stood, momentarily held in thrall, her mother’s voice said, ‘So there you are, at last…’

Tearing her gaze away from the stranger’s with an effort, Loris turned to the petite, dark-haired woman, whose still-beautiful face was marred by an irritable expression.

‘We were beginning to wonder where on earth you’d got to. Your father’s certainly not pleased.’

‘I told you I had a six-thirty appointment and would no doubt be late,’ Loris said patiently.

‘It’s utterly ridiculous on a Saturday night! And you didn’t say you’d be this late. The party’s more than half-over.’

Although her parents knew quite well that as an interior designer Loris frequently had to work unsociable hours, they always kicked up the same kind of fuss, treating her like a recalcitrant teenager rather than a confident, talented woman with a blossoming career.

‘Unfortunately Mrs Chedwyne who is a client I can’t afford to lose, wouldn’t be hurried, and when I did manage to get away I still had to go back to the flat to change.’

Refusing to let the subject drop, Isobel Bergman complained, ‘I don’t know why you don’t insist on people consulting you during normal business hours.’

Loris sighed. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I have to visit my clients’ homes at their convenience. Quite a number of them are out during the day. Some only have weekends or evenings free.’

‘Well, don’t be surprised if Mark’s furious. After all, it is a special party to celebrate the Cosby takeover, and it was your place to be by his side. He’s missed you.’

Spotting her fiancé on the dance floor entangled with a tall, vivacious blonde, Loris remarked tartly, ‘He doesn’t appear to be missing me at the moment.’

‘When you’re this late what can you expect? You should have been here to keep an eye on him. If you’re not careful some scheming little gold-digger will steal him from under your nose.’

Though Loris was well aware of Mark Longton’s tendency to be attracted by a pretty face, the notion that she needed to ‘keep an eye’ on him wasn’t a particularly pleasant one.

‘Don’t forget Mark Longton’s quite a catch,’ Isobel persisted. ‘A handsome, sexy man, still in his thirties, who runs a company and has money, isn’t to be sneezed at.’

‘I’m not interested in his money,’ Loris said flatly.

‘Well, you ought to be. Your father’s turned sixty, and if I can’t get him to change his will when he dies your stepbrother will get the lot and you’ll be left out in the cold…’

Simon, extrovert and loaded with charm, had always held pride of place in Peter Bergman’s affections and, knowing what she did know, Loris hadn’t been at all surprised by her father’s decision. But well aware that it had been a bitter blow to Isobel to learn that her husband’s son from his first marriage was to inherit everything, Loris said soothingly, ‘I really don’t mind if Simon does get the lot. I have a career I enjoy and—’

‘It shouldn’t be necessary for you to work. Your father could easily afford to give you an allowance—’

‘I’m twenty-four, not fourteen.’

Ignoring her daughter’s protest, Isobel rushed on, ‘Seriously, I’d never have married him if I’d known he’d turn out to be such an old skinflint.’

It was a familiar complaint, and one that Loris had learned to studiously ignore.

‘He’s even talking about giving up the London flat and semi-retiring to Monkswood.’

‘A lot of people work from home these days, and it would make it a lot easier to run the estate.’

‘Well, I don’t want to be stuck in the country the whole week. I’d go mad. But your father only thinks of himself, never of me. Weekends are bad enough—’ Isobel continued to complain ‘—unless we’re having a house party… By the way, I hope you remembered to bring some things?’

Loris and Mark were joining the weekend house party at Monkswood, the Bergmans’ country estate which bordered on the village of Paddleham.

‘Yes, I remembered.’

As the dance ended and the floor cleared, both women looked for Mark’s tall, thickset figure, but he was nowhere to be seen.

‘There’s still plenty of food on the buffet if you want to eat?’ Isobel suggested.

Loris shook her head. ‘I had a sandwich before I went to keep my appointment.’

‘Well, I could do with something. This latest diet is much too severe…’

At forty-seven, Isobel waged a continuous, and mainly losing, battle against the extra pounds that middle-age had piled onto her once-slim figure.

‘And I’m convinced the pills they gave me with it are making my migraines worse,’ she grumbled, as she disappeared in the direction of the buffet.

A waiter approached with a tray of champagne and, accepting a glass with a word of thanks, Loris sipped the well-chilled wine while her gaze travelled over the assembled company.

As she scanned the crowd, instead of Mark’s heavy, slightly florid face, with its thick black brows and dark eyes, she found herself looking for a stranger’s lean, tanned face, with clear-cut features and light, penetrating eyes.

A sudden fanfare called for the assembled company’s attention, and Loris watched as her father, her fiancé, and a thin, balding man, went up onto the dais in front of the band. Sir Peter Bergman, stocky and tough-looking, with shrewd blue eyes and iron-grey hair, stepped forward and held up his hand for silence.

‘Most of you already know that Bergman Longton and the American giant, Cosby, have been planning to amalgamate. I’m delighted to announce that that has now taken place, and William Grant—’ he drew the thin, balding man forward ‘—one of Cosby’s top executives, is here with us tonight to celebrate the event.’

There was a burst of applause.

‘This merger will make us one of the largest and, we confidently expect, one of the most successful companies in our particular field. We have decided to rename the UK part of our combined companies BLC Electronics.’ He raised his glass. ‘May BLC go from strength to strength.’

There was more enthusiastic applause, and the toast was drunk.

As the three men left the dais they were momentarily swallowed up by a surge of people wanting to shake their hands and offer congratulations.

When the excitement had died down and the crowd began to disperse, Peter Bergman and William Grant walked away together, talking earnestly.

Mark glanced towards where Loris was standing, striking in an aquamarine dress that clung to her slender figure. She smiled and moved in his direction, but his face was cold, and he turned away to join the woman he’d been dancing with earlier.

Stunned by the rebuff, Loris stopped in her tracks. Admittedly she was very late, but she had warned Mark in advance that she might be.

Still, she felt a certain amount of guilt, and if it hadn’t been for the blonde, who was laughing up at him, she would have gone over and apologised.

But uncertain of his reaction—Mark could be very unforgiving when something displeased him—she hesitated, having no wish to be humiliated in front of the other woman.

As she stood wondering how to retrieve the situation, a special St Valentine’s waltz was announced. ‘…at the conclusion of which, gentlemen, you may kiss your partner.’

Surely Mark would come over to her now?

But without hesitation he offered his hand to the blonde.

Biting her lip, Loris was about to walk away, when a low, attractive voice, with just a trace of an American accent, asked, ‘Will you dance with me?’

Turning, she found herself looking into a lean tanned face, with a straight nose, a cleft chin, and a mouth that was firm, yet sensitive. A very masculine mouth that sent tingles through her, a mouth she could only describe as beautiful.

Again she got that illusory feeling of having once known him, a haunting sense of recognition, without being able to place him.

His thickly lashed eyes, she saw at close quarters, were sea-green rather than the silvery-grey she had thought them to be. Their impact was just as devastating, making her pulses start to race and her breath come faster, so that it took a moment or two to steady herself.

Though part of her wanted to dance with this fascinating stranger, Loris was well aware that accepting his invitation would only serve to exacerbate things.

Despite the fact that Mark had a roving eye himself, since she’d agreed to marry him he’d proved to be both jealous and possessive, hating her to so much as look at any other male.

Bearing that in mind, she was seeking a polite way to refuse when, noting her hesitation, the man by her side asked sardonically, ‘Scared that Longton won’t approve?’

So he knew who they both were.

‘Not at all,’ Loris denied crisply. ‘I…’ She broke off as Mark and his partner circled past, close as Siamese twins.

Catching her companion’s eyes, she saw the unspoken derision in their clear, green depths.

To hell with it! she thought with a spurt of anger. Why should she refuse? Mark had chosen to dance with someone else, and what was sauce for the gander…

She knew by now that if anyone failed to stand up to him he simply walked all over them and, though she hated any kind of discord, she had no intention of being a door-mat when they were married.

‘I’d love to dance with you,’ she finished firmly.

He smiled at her, a smile that lit his eyes and made little creases at each corner of his mouth. His teeth were excellent, white and healthy and gleaming.

She judged him to be around thirty years old and, wondering why such a relatively young, attractive man appeared to be here alone, she moved into his arms.

His hold light, but far from tentative, he steered her smoothly onto the floor. He was a good dancer, and they danced well together, their bodies fitting.

Mark, heavily built and well over six feet tall, dwarfed her slight five feet four inch frame, but this man was about six inches taller than herself, and her high heels brought their eyes almost on a level.

Meeting those brilliant eyes made her strangely breathless and, needing to say something, she remarked, ‘You’re aware that I’m engaged to Mark, so you must know who I am?’

‘I do indeed. You’re Loris Bergman.’

Something about the way he spoke made her say coolly, ‘As I don’t know your name, you have the advantage of me.’

‘I’m Jonathan Drummond.’ He volunteered no further information.

The name was unfamiliar. Though she was almost convinced they hadn’t, she felt compelled to ask, ‘Have we ever met before?’

‘If we had, I would have remembered,’ he replied.

‘So how do you know me?’ she asked curiously.

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Most of the people here, I imagine.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sure they all know the lucky woman who has one of the big bosses for a father and the other for a future husband.’

‘You sound as if you disapprove?’

‘It seems like an eminently suitable arrangement to keep all the money and power in the same family.’

‘Money and power have nothing to do with it.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘Then why are you marrying Longton? Apart from the fact that he’s a divorcé and much too old for you, he’s not a particularly nice character.’

‘Being a divorcé isn’t a crime, and he’s only thirty-nine.’

‘I notice you haven’t defended his character.’

‘As that’s only your opinion, it didn’t seem necessary.’

‘Neither have you answered my question.’

‘We happen to love each other.’

At that moment Mark came into view. His partner’s arms were round his neck, and he was saying something in her ear.

‘He has a strange way of showing it.’

‘I’m afraid he’s angry with me for being late.’

‘Has he any right to be?’

‘Some, I suppose,’ she answered honestly.

In response to Jonathan Drummond’s raised brow, she briefly explained the circumstances.

Coolly, he said, ‘As Longton was pre-warned, I don’t see any justification for him behaving like a spoilt child. Do you?’

Challenged, without thinking how it might sound, she spoke the truth. ‘Not really. That’s why I’m dancing with you.’

‘I see. Tit for tat. I guess it was too much to hope that you actually wanted to.’

As he finished speaking the dance ended, leaving Mark and his partner standing close by.

As couples began to kiss, Jonathan Drummond waited quietly, making no move.

Mark glanced in Loris’s direction and, seeing that she was watching him, bent to kiss the blonde, who responded with enthusiasm.

Vexed by such deliberate provocation, Loris slid her palms beneath the lapels of her companion’s dinner jacket and raised her face invitingly.

For a moment he stood perfectly still, then, taking her wrists, he lifted her hands away. ‘I don’t care to be used,’ he said coldly.

‘I-I’m sorry, she stammered, feeling cheap and foolish. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Oh, I think you did. Goodnight, Miss Bergman.’

As she stood unhappily and watched him walk away, Isobel appeared by her side. ‘Your father and I are leaving now.’

Loris pulled herself together and, knowing how her mother loved social occasions, asked, ‘I thought the party went on until twelve?’

‘It does, but it’s almost eleven now, and with such heavy rain your father thought we should get started. Most of our guests came to Monkswood last night and are settled in, but one couple weren’t due to arrive until this evening.’

Fretfully, she added, ‘It’s all a bit of a mess. If I’d realised earlier that this company party coincided with our house party I’d have done something about it. But by the time I discovered the muddle over dates it was too late and I—’

‘Is Simon there?’ Loris tried to stop the flow.

‘No, he’s staying in Oxford with some friends. I presume you’ll be driving down with Mark as soon as the party’s over?’

‘I suppose so,’ Loris said uncertainly.

‘You mean he’s still with that blonde creature? Yes, I see he is. She’s probably after his money… Well, you’ve only got yourself to blame. All in all you’ve managed to make a real mess of the evening.’

‘It’s not entirely my fault,’ Loris protested. ‘If Mark had been a little more understanding…’

‘When have men ever been understanding?’

‘I’m sure some are.’

‘Well, not the macho ones like Mark and your father.’ Obviously wondering if she’d said too much, Isobel added hastily, ‘Though who wants to be married to a wimp?’

‘Not me.’ For the first time that night, Loris smiled.

Peter Bergman thrust his way through the crowd and addressed his wife. ‘About ready?’

‘I only have to get my coat.’

Giving his daughter a look of extreme displeasure, he asked brusquely, ‘I suppose you realise you’ve spoilt the entire evening? Have you any idea just how angry and disappointed Mark is?’

‘He’s made it quite plain,’ she answered wearily.

‘Then it’s up to you to apologise. And as soon as possible.’

‘Do,’ Isobel urged as she prepared to follow her husband. ‘Otherwise they’ll both sulk for the rest of the weekend and it’ll be murder.’

Loris was surprised by her mother’s caustic observation. Though Isobel frequently criticised her husband, she had never been known to admit to even the slightest imperfection in her future son-in-law.

‘You may well be right,’ Loris admitted as she kissed the proffered cheek.

‘I expect we’ll be in bed before you get to Monkswood, so I’ll see you in the morning. By the way, you and Mark have your usual rooms.’ Isobel hurried away.

Knowing that the only possible chance of saving what was left of the weekend would be to get her apology over as quickly as possible, Loris began to look for her fiancé.

She finally spotted him standing, tall, dark, and powerful-looking, apparently bidding goodnight to some people who were leaving early.

Though he was still what most people would have called ‘a fine figure of a man’, she noted, with almost a feeling of betrayal, that his black, crinkly hair was showing signs of grey, his jawline had lost its firmness, and he had the beginnings of a paunch.

Relieved to find the blonde was nowhere in sight, she hurried over, and said quickly, ‘Mark, I’m terribly sorry I was so late. I know you have every right to be angry with me, but please don’t let it spoil the weekend.’

His brown eyes showing no signs of forgiveness, he snapped, ‘The party’s almost over. Isn’t it a bit late for apologies?’

‘I would have told you I was sorry straight away if you’d been alone.’

‘Pamela’s a beautiful woman, don’t you think?’

When Loris said nothing, knowing he was just rubbing it in, he added, ‘She comes from the States. Her father is Alan Gresham, the American newspaper magnate, which makes her heir to the Gresham millions.’

‘How nice.’

So her mother was wrong. It wasn’t Mark’s money the blonde was after.

‘She’s made it quite obvious she fancies me.’

Loris’s lips tightened in distaste. ‘Don’t you find her just a bit blatant?’

‘She certainly knows her way around,’ he said admiringly. ‘And she’s not the sort to say no, which makes a nice change.’

So it wasn’t just her late arrival he was punishing her for. Her refusal to go to bed with him was a good part of it.

In the three months they had been engaged Mark had been fairly pressing, and several times, deciding she was being stupid in holding back, she had almost given in.

He was a handsome, virile man, and she had little doubt that he would make a good lover. Yet each time when it came to the crunch, perhaps still inhibited by the past, she had changed her mind.

Understandably, this had enraged Mark, who had sulked for days. He would be perfectly normal with everyone else, but only address her when he absolutely had to, and then be brief and glacial.

Reading the signs, Isobel had once said seriously, ‘I know sleeping together is almost the norm these days, but I think you’re right to hold back until the wedding ring’s on your finger.’

It was the first time her mother had ever broached the question of sex and, wondering if she had somehow guessed what had happened with Nigel, Loris had asked, ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because Mark’s the sort of man who, when he’s got what he wants, might well lose interest and start to look elsewhere…’

Like Nigel.

‘Of course once you’re his wife it won’t matter so much. After one divorce, I imagine he’ll be fairly discreet.’

Profoundly disturbed by what her mother was suggesting, Loris had said, ‘You sound as if you think he’ll stray.’

‘Don’t most men? And I can’t imagine a man like Mark being satisfied with one woman.’

Seeing her daughter’s expression, Isobel had added, ‘After all, what does it matter? You’ll have money and position, a good lifestyle. Mark seems generous enough. Unlike your father.’

‘I don’t happen to want that kind of marriage,’ Loris had said quietly.

‘Well, of course I could be totally wrong.’ Isobel had hastily backed off. ‘Mark is getting to the age where he might be ready to settle for the faithful husband bit…’

Becoming aware that Mark was waiting for a response to something she hadn’t heard, Loris said, ‘Sorry?’

‘I merely remarked that if you’re jealous of Pamela, you know what to do about it.’

‘But I’m not jealous,’ Loris denied calmly.

Looking distinctly put out, Mark asked, ‘Then why did you rope in that wimp to dance with you?’

‘I didn’t “rope him in”. He asked me.’ Remembering Jonathan Drummond’s quiet self-assurance, his firm refusal to be used, she said, ‘And I certainly wouldn’t describe him as a wimp.’

Eyes narrowing, Mark queried, ‘Had you met him before?’

‘No.’

‘Did he know who you were?’

‘Yes.’ Remembering his comments about Mark, she added, ‘I gather you and he know each other.’

Mark looked down his nose. ‘I’d hardly say know. I’ve seen him knocking around the offices.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Just some Johnny-come-lately. He’s over from the States with the Cosby crowd.’

Of course. She recalled that his attractive voice had had a slight American accent.

‘What does he do exactly?’

‘No idea,’ Mark said dismissively. ‘He’s sat in on most of the meetings, but I gather he’s there in some minor capacity. Secretary or PA to one of the executives, or something of the sort. Why do you want to know?’

Unwisely, she admitted, ‘I found him interesting.’

Looking at her as if she’d lost her senses, Mark echoed, ‘Interesting?’

‘He seemed unusually cool and self-possessed. Very much his own man.’

Mark snorted. ‘Though he had the infernal cheek to ask you to dance, I noticed he didn’t have the nerve to kiss you.’

‘I don’t think it was lack of nerve.’

‘Then he probably remembered his place.’

‘Remembered his place?’

‘Well, he’s definitely not in our league.’

‘I wasn’t aware we had a league.’ Her voice was as brittle as ice.

Sounding human for the first time, Mark said wryly, ‘I thought you came over to apologise, not pick a quarrel.’

‘I did. I’m sorry, Mark. Let’s not talk about Jonathan Drummond.’

‘Drummond, that’s his name. I’ll keep an eye on him from now on.’

‘What do you mean by “keep an eye on him”?’

‘Just that. It strikes me he could get too big for his boots.’

Well aware that Mark could be quite petty if he took a dislike to anyone, Loris wished she’d said nothing about Jonathan Drummond.

Wanting to change the subject, she asked lightly, ‘So, now I’ve apologised for being late, are we friends again?’

Ignoring the question, he went off at a tangent. ‘You do realise that when we’re married you’re going to have to give up this ridiculous job. I refuse to have my wife working all hours.’

‘I won’t be working all hours.’

‘You are at the moment.’

‘Only because I have to pay an exorbitant rent for my flat.’

‘You could have gone on living at home.’

‘I didn’t want to.’ Her desire to be independent had made her move as soon as she was able to support herself.

She made an effort to placate him. ‘Once we’re married the financial pressure will ease and I’ll be able to choose just a few special clients.’

‘When we’re married you won’t need any clients.’

‘But I want to work.’

‘I flatly refuse to let any wife of mine go about telling other people how to decorate their homes. It reflects badly on me. You must see that.’

‘But what will I do all day?’

‘Whatever it is that other rich men’s wives do.’

Loris, who was about to argue, thought better of it. ‘Well, I’m sure we don’t need to discuss it just at the moment.’

‘No, there are more important things to sort out.’ He put an arm around her waist.

‘Such as what?’

Bending his head, he said in her ear, ‘I’ve had more than enough of your stalling. I want you to sleep with me tonight.’

‘But we’re at Monkswood.’

‘All the rooms have a double bed. Either you come to me, or let me come to you.’

‘No. I couldn’t. Not in my parents’ house.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Loris. They need never know if you don’t want them to. And even if we shared a room openly I know your father wouldn’t mind. After all, we are going to be married. Oh, come on! You’re living in the twenty-first century, not Victorian times.’

‘Yes, I know, but I still don’t feel comfortable about it.’

‘Then come back to my flat with me now, and we’ll go on to Monkswood afterwards.’

About to make the excuse that she wasn’t in the right mood, she hesitated. Perhaps it was time she cut herself free from the past.

With today’s sexual freedom there was little real justification for holding back, and Mark was clearly getting to the end of his patience.

She had opened her mouth to agree when he muttered angrily, ‘Look, Loris, I’m warning you. This time I don’t intend to take no for an answer.’

Hating to be pressured in this way, she felt her temper flare, and she snapped, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to.’

Perhaps if he’d used his not inconsiderable charm, he might have succeeded in talking her round, but, in a mood for confrontation rather than conciliation, he threw down the gauntlet. ‘Damn it, if you won’t come back to my flat with me, I know someone who will.’

‘I suppose you mean Pamela?’

His smile was an unpleasant combination of smugness and threat. ‘She’ll come like a shot, and I might just ask her.’

‘Why don’t you?’ Loris said coldly, and, chin held high, stalked away.

Going to the Ladies’ Cloakroom, she sat on one of the pink velvet chairs, staring blindly into the gilt-edged mirror while a trickle of women began to collect their coats.

The St Valentine’s party was almost over, and as far as she was concerned the whole thing had been a total disaster. Had she known what trouble her being late would cause she would have cancelled her appointment, even if it had meant losing a client.

As it was, she’d displeased her father, made Jonathan Drummond think badly of her and, on this special night for lovers, thoroughly upset Mark.

Thinking of the promising moment that had suddenly metamorphosed into an unpleasant flare-up, she gave a deep sigh. Of course he wouldn’t do as he’d threatened. The only reason he’d flaunted his conquest of the blonde had been to add weight to his demands, and his ultimatum had been caused by a build-up of anger that had needed to find an outlet.

But it was ironic to think that if it hadn’t been for him jumping in too soon they would have been on their way to his flat by now. Perhaps, rather than reacting in the way she had, it would have been better if she’d controlled her temper and agreed to go, regardless.

Once they were lovers the tension between them would ease. They could go back to being happy and enjoying each other’s company, rather than Mark, frustrated and resentful, quite often spoiling things by sulking.

She sighed deeply.

But it wasn’t too late. She could always find him and apologise yet again. Tell him she’d changed her mind, she would go with him.

Joining a short queue, Loris collected her belongings. Then, slipping her evening bag into one of the deep pockets of her cloak, she put the cloak over her arm and, case in hand, made her way into the crowded foyer.

She was scanning the throng for Mark when she noticed the blonde. Wearing an expensive-looking fur coat, Pamela was heading for the exit. As she reached it Mark, who had obviously been waiting for her, stepped into view. An arm around her waist, he escorted her through the heavy glass doors.

For a second or two Loris was shocked into stillness, then, a combination of anger and dismay making her heart beat faster, she pushed her way outside.

It was still raining hard, and she was just in time to see, through the downpour, Mark’s silver Mercedes spray water from beneath its wheels as it pulled away from the entrance.

A gusty wind was driving icy rain beneath the hotel’s brown and gold canopy but, oblivious to the cold and wet, she stood as if stunned, staring after the car.

‘Suppose you put this on before you get saturated?’

Taking her cloak, Jonathan Drummond placed it around her shoulders and pulled the big, loose hood over her dark hair.

He himself was bare-headed, wearing only a short car-coat with the collar turned up.

‘Let me have this.’ He relieved her of the case.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. Then, unencumbered, began to walk towards a line of waiting taxis drawn up on the forecourt.

Reading her intention, he stopped her. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find they’re all prebooked.’

‘Oh,’ she said blankly.

Putting his free hand beneath her elbow, he urged her towards a modest white Ford saloon. ‘Jump in and I’ll drive you home.’