The Longest Pleasure. Anne Mather
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in the huge hearth, and several people were clustered about the chintz-covered settees, drinking tea or coffee, or eating some of the delicious sandwiches the management provided for guests only requiring a snack meal.
Helen hesitated on the fringe of the group, wondering if she really had the time to wait for sandwiches. There was no sign of the waitress, and while it would have been pleasant to relax in front of the fire, she was apprehensive of becoming stranded.
She was also aware that her appearance had attracted an undue amount of attention. Not caring much for anything beyond keeping dry and warm, she had dressed in a black jumpsuit and long leather boots, with a knee-length orange parka overall. It was its vivid colour which was attracting attention, she decided, ignoring the fact that to the residents of the quiet hotel she herself was an exciting diversion. With her pale skin showing just a hint of becoming colour, and her smoky-purple eyes shadowed with anxiety, she was quite startlingly beautiful, without the silky richness of her hair to add to her individuality. In the conservative surroundings of the Blue Boar’s panelled lounge, she was as alien as an exotic bird of paradise, and it was difficult to ignore so many curious faces.
At that moment, she caught the eye of the hotel receptionist, and with a smile of acknowledgement, he came out from behind his desk to walk towards her. At last, she thought, looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. If he could just tell her how long it would take to get something to eat, she could decide then whether or not she had the time.
With her attention concentrated on the approaching receptionist, she was unaware of a man who had been drawn to the doorway of the adjoining bar by the sudden buzz of speculation. A tall man, dressed in tight-fitting woollen pants and a black leather jacket, he surveyed the newcomer with grim concentration for a moment, before abandoning his stance and starting purposefully towards her.
The two men reached her simultaneously, and Helen, suspecting his motives, turned to give the second man a freezing look. However, her intentions received a sudden reversal. Even as her astonished eyes registered who it was, the receptionist identified him, and his polite: ‘Is this the young lady you were waiting for, Mr Fleming?’ left no room for manoeuvre.
‘Helen,’ he acknowledged unsmilingly, his expression impossible to read. Then, turning to the hotel employee, he added smoothly: ‘Yes. This is Miss Michaels, Trevor. And we’ll have that soup now, if you don’t mind.’ Ignoring Helen’s indignant face, he glanced around before indicating a table at the far side of the lounge. ‘Over there. Speed it up. We don’t have much time.’
The young man didn’t wait to check if these arrangements suited Helen, she saw to her fury. He simply grinned her way before hastening off towards the kitchens, and she was left to confront the one man she least desired to face.
‘You have a nerve!’ she exclaimed in an undertone, still overwhelmingly aware of their audience, but Rafe seemed unperturbed. With supreme indifference, he gripped her upper arm and guided her across the room to where a table was waiting, practically pushing her into the depths of the armchair beside it before taking the settee opposite.
Helen glared at him, but his clear green gaze was more than a match for her sparkling resentment. Settling himself more comfortably against the cushions, he rested one booted ankle across his knee, surveying his surroundings critically before returning his attention to her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she accused, wondering what he would do if she attempted to leave. It was a temptation to find out, but she loathed making scenes, and she very much suspected Rafe would have no qualms about humiliating her.
‘What do you think?’ he responded now, the thick, sun-bleached lashes that fringed his eyes narrowing his gaze, and she gave an impatient shrug.
‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,’ she retorted, keeping her voice down with difficulty. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the Blue Boar was your kind of habitat. Isn’t it rather old-fashioned for someone with your tastes?’
‘You don’t know what my tastes are,’ remarked Rafe without heat, and Helen was furiously aware that he was handling matters better than she was. ‘Here’s the food. I hope your animosity won’t prevent you from enjoying it. It’s usually rather good.’
The receptionist served them himself, setting down earthenware bowls of a thick chicken soup, and a napkin-lined basket filled with warm bread rolls. There were creamy curls of butter in an earthenware dish, set beside wooden salt and pepper shakers, and a generous jug of steaming coffee, with cups and saucers made at the local pottery.
‘Is everything all right, Mr Fleming?’ he asked, after checking that the rolled napkins contained the correct amount of cutlery, and Rafe nodded.
‘Thanks,’ he acknowledged briefly, pressing a note into the young man’s hand, and although Helen would have preferred to pay for her own meal, she could hardly say so, not just then.
In fact, the soup was delicious, and Helen was too hungry to spite him by not eating. Besides, she doubted he would care, one way or the other. Whatever his reasons for being here—and it appeared he had been waiting for her—there would be time enough to consider them after the meal was over. For the moment, the fact that she had left that morning without breakfast seemed to have most significance, and she felt sure she would find it easier to deal with him once the emptiness inside her had been filled.
The coffee was just as she liked it, strong and black, but she added a spoonful of sugar to take away any bitterness. As she poured herself a second cup, she noticed Rafe had eaten rather less enthusiastically than she had, and although he had drunk one cup of coffee, he made no attempt to pour a second.
She had shed her parka as they ate, but now Helen shouldered her arms back into it, feeling considerably warmer than she had before. It had been warm enough in the car, but outside it was decidedly chilly, and she had no doubt that if it stopped snowing it would probably start to freeze. Which reminded her of the number of miles she still had to cover and, looking at Rafe, she arched her dark brows: ‘May I go now?’ she inquired coolly.
‘Are you still driving that sports car?’ he asked, without really answering her question, and Helen seethed.
‘If it’s any business of yours!’
‘It is.’ Rafe wiped his mouth on the napkin and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘You’ll never make it to Castle Howarth in a sports car. The roads beyond Yelversley are practically impassable to any vehicle without a four-wheel drive. You can leave your car here. I’ll take you myself.’
‘You won’t!’ Helen came instinctively to her feet, and then, aware that once again she was drawing attention to them, she added huskily: ‘Why can’t I just—follow you, if you insist on escorting me? I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been driving for years!’
Rafe shrugged. ‘Like I said, the roads are impassable. Now—do you want a lift, or don’t you? You can always take a room here, if you’d prefer to wait and see if there’s any improvement tomorrow.’
Helen pressed her lips together. ‘How did you know I’d come this way?’ she exclaimed resentfully. ‘I could have gone via Andover.’
‘It was an educated guess,’ he replied, connecting the two sides of his jacket and running the zip half up his chest. His eyes were disturbingly intent. ‘As there was a white-out warning for the Andover road, it was reasonable to assume you’d choose the A30.’
‘Even so…’ Helen was not convinced. ‘What made you think I’d come in here?’
‘Your daily woman said you’d left without breakfast,’ retorted Rafe surprisingly, and Helen gasped.
‘You rang my apartment this morning?’
‘To tell you not to come,’ agreed Rafe, stepping round the settee and gesturing towards the exit. ‘Shall we get moving? It may be that we’ll both have problems before we get there.’
Helen shook her head, but she was obliged to follow him. The snow had become a little too thick for comfort, and if she was honest she would admit