His Pretend Mistress. Jessica Steele
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on second thoughts, since you can’t stand there nursing your wet frock to you the whole time, why don’t I go and find you a shirt to change into while you drink your tea?’
Mallon didn’t answer him but, discovering a certain decisiveness in him, she moved out of the way when he came near her on his way out. She was still in the same spot when he returned, carrying a shirt and some trousers, and even a pair of socks.
‘There’s a drying machine through there—that will eventually be a utility room,’ he informed her, and added, ‘There’s a lock on the kitchen door. Why not change while I go and check on a few matters?’
Mallon was in no hurry to change. She felt this man was being as kind as he knew how to be, but she wasn’t ready any longer to take anyone at face value. Eventually she went over to the kitchen door and locked it, presuming that, since the place was uninhabited apart from work hours Monday to Friday when the builders must traipse in and out of the place, it had been a good idea to be able to lock in the valuable kitchen equipment.
Quickly, then, Mallon made use of the towels. She was past caring what she looked like when, not long afterwards, her dress tumbling around in the dryer, she was warm and dry in the garments the man had brought her. She was five feet nine inches tall, but he was about six inches taller. She rolled up the shirt sleeves and to prevent the trousers dragging on the floor she rolled the legs of those up too—but she was stumped for a while as to how to keep them up. That matter was soon resolved when, her brain starting to function again, she vaguely recalled that some of the timber in the hall had been kept together by a band of coarse twine.
By the time she heard the stranger coming back, she had the largest of the hand towels wound around her now only damp hair, and was feeling a great deal better than she had.
She found a couple of cups and saucers, discovering in the process of opening various cupboards until she came to the right one that his sister, Faye, had not only organised the kitchen but had stocked it with plenty of tinned and packet foods as well.
Mallon had unlocked the kitchen door, and as the man came in she informed him, half apologetically for taking the liberty, ‘I thought I’d pour some tea before it became stewed.’
‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked by way of an answer, taking up the two cups and saucers and carrying them over to the large table. He pulled out a chair for her, but went round to a chair at the other side of the table and waited for her to take a seat.
‘Warmer, dryer,’ she replied, trusting him enough to take the chair he had pulled out for her.
‘Care to tell me your name?’ he asked when they were both seated. She didn’t particularly—and owned up to herself that she had been so thoroughly shaken by the afternoon’s happenings she didn’t feel at her sunniest. ‘I’m Harris Quillian,’ he said, as if by introducing himself it might prompt her to tell him with whom he was sharing a pot of tea.
‘Mallon Braithwaite,’ she felt obliged to answer, but had nothing she wanted to add as the silence in the room stretched.
He drained his cup and set it down. ‘Anything else you’d like to tell me?’ he enquired mildly.
Not a thing! Mallon stared at him, her deep blue eyes as bright as ever and some of her colour restored to her lovely complexion. She drew a shaky breath as she began to realise that she owed this man more than a terse No. He need not have stopped and picked her up. He need not have given her some dry clothes to change into. She acknowledged that it was only because of the kindness of Harris Quillian that she now felt warm and dry and, she had to admit, on her way to having a little of her faith in human nature restored.
‘Wh-what do you want to know?’ she asked.
He shrugged, as though he wasn’t all that much interested anyway, but summed up, ‘You’re a young woman obviously in some distress. Apparently uncaring where you go, apart from a distinct aversion to return to your last port of call. It would appear, too, that you have nowhere that you can go.’ He broke off to suggest, ‘Perhaps you’d like to start by telling me what happened at Almora Lodge to frighten you so badly.’
She had no intention of telling him anything of the sort. ‘Are you a detective?’ she questioned shortly.
He shook his head. ‘I work in the city. I’m in finance.’
From the look of him she guessed he was high up in the world of finance. Must be. To have this place rebuilt would cost a fortune. She still wasn’t going to answer his question, though.
He rephrased it. ‘What reason did you have for visiting Almora Lodge in the first place?’ Stubbornly she refused to answer. Then discovered that he was equally stubborn. He seemed set on getting some kind of an answer from her anyhow, as he persisted, ‘Almora Lodge is almost as out of the way as this place. You wouldn’t have been able to get there without some form of transport.’
‘You should have been a detective!’ She was starting to feel peeved enough not to find Mr Harris-financier-Quillian remotely kind at all!
‘What panicked you so, Mallon, that you shot out of there without time to pick up your car keys?’
‘I didn’t have time to pick up my car keys because I don’t have a car!’ she flared.
He smiled—he could afford to—he had got her talking. ‘So how did you get there?’
She was beginning to hate this man. ‘Roland Phillips picked me up from the station—three and a half weeks ago!’ she snapped.
‘Three…’ Harris Quillian broke off, his expression darkening. ‘You lived there?’ he challenged. ‘You lived with Phillips at Almora Lodge? You’re his mistress!’ he rapped.
‘No, I am not!’ Mallon almost shouted. ‘Nor was I ever!’ Enraged by the hostile suggestion, she was on her feet glaring at the odious Harris Quillian. ‘It was precisely because I wouldn’t go to bed with him that I had a fight with him today!’ A dry sob shook her and at the instant Harris Quillian was on his feet. He looked about to come a step closer, perhaps to offer some sort of comfort. But Mallon didn’t want any sort of comfort from any man, and she took a hasty step back. He halted.
The next time he spoke his tone had changed to be calm, to be soothing. ‘You fought with him?’ he asked.
‘Well, in truth, I don’t think he actually hit me.’ Her tone had quieted too. ‘Though I shouldn’t be surprised if I’m not nursing a few bruises in a day or two from the rough way he grabbed me,’ she admitted. ‘It was more me fighting him off, fighting to get free of him. He’d been drinking but he’d lost none of his physical strength.’
‘You managed to get free before…?’
‘Y-yes.’ Her voice was reduced to a whisper—she felt quite ill from just remembering. Then realised she must have lost some of her colour when her interrogator said, ‘It might be an idea if you sat down again, Mallon. I promise I won’t harm you.’
Whether he would or whether he wouldn’t, to sit down again suddenly seemed a good idea. Some of her strength returned then, sufficient anyway for her to declare firmly, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Harris Quillian resumed his seat at the other side of the table, then evenly stated, ‘You’ve had a shock. Quite an appalling shock. It will be better if you talk it out.’
What did he know? ‘It’s none of your business!’ she retorted.
‘I’m making it my business!’ he answered toughly. Just because he’d picked her up in a monsoon and given her shelter! He could go and take a running jump! ‘Either you tell me, Mallon,’ he went on firmly, ‘or…’ Mallon looked across at him, she didn’t care very much for that ‘or’. ‘Or I shall have to give serious consideration…’ he continued when he could see he had her full attention ‘…to driving you to the police station where you will report Roland Phillips’s assault…’
‘I’ll do nothing