Sirocco. Anne Mather
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he added, moving into the room and immediately dwarfing it. ‘My name is Roche,’ he said it with a French accent, ‘Alexis Roche. Completely sober, as you will have observed.'
Rachel closed her eyes for a moment and then, aware of his sudden move towards her, quickly opened them again. ‘I—well—Mr Roche,’ she said awkwardly, casting another glance in Sophie's direction, ‘what can we do for you?'
He was silent for a moment, as if gauging the import of her question, but then, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, he said: ‘I telephoned you this morning. You refused to speak to me.’ He paused. ‘So—I am here. In person, as they say.'
Rachel moistened her dry lips. ‘Er—how did you get in? How did you find this office?'
The grey eyes narrowed between short thick lashes, whose ends were tipped with the same silvery bleach as his hair. ‘It wasn't difficult to get in,’ he essayed smoothly. ‘I merely came through the door, like everyone else. As to how I found this office—I asked.'
‘Who?'
Rachel was playing for time, desperately trying to find a way out of this without betraying their association to Sophie, who was listening to the exchange with ever-increasing interest. His explanation of finding her was too reasonable to be false. It was comparatively easy to walk into the building, particularly if one acted as if one was familiar with its rabbit-warren of halls and corridors. And anyone could have told him which office was hers. It wasn't a secret, after all.
‘I don't know who,’ he said now, with some impatience. ‘Some elderly man I met on the stairs. Is it important? I did not come here to find out where you worked, merely to invite you to have lunch with me.'
Rachel heard Sophie's sudden intake of breath and felt suddenly angry. He had no right to come here and behave as if they were old friends, she thought frustratedly. Just because he had told her his name it did not give him the prerogative to ask her out to lunch. She knew nothing about him. He knew nothing about her. She could be married for all he knew, and with this in mind, she raised her left hand to her throat to expose the obvious glitter of her engagement ring.
‘I'm sorry,’ she said—though if he had any perception, she thought aggressively, he would know that she was not—‘I'm afraid I can't accept your invitation. My—fiancé—wouldn't like it.'
Alexis Roche's gaze did not falter. ‘My invitation was to you, not your fiancé,’ he said, with impassive arrogance. ‘I should like to thank you, more fully than I did last night.'
His words were deliberate, Rachel was sure, and she wanted to die of embarrassment. She could just imagine how this was going to be relayed around the office, and every incriminating syllable was deepening the interest in Sophie's round blue eyes. The way he had used their encounter, they might have spent the night together for all the younger girl knew, and Rachel couldn't believe he was unaware of it.
Realising her only means of defence lay in attack, she gave up the unequal struggle to keep the facts of their meeting quiet. Turning, she gave Sophie a frosted smile before saying crisply: ‘Mr Roche and I met last evening, as I was leaving Roger's party. He—he wasn't feeling very well, and—and I offered to help him.'
‘Really?’ Sophie slid off her chair, her eyes never leaving Alexis Roche's face. ‘How exciting!’ She drew a little nearer. ‘Do you live in London, Mr Roche?'
He withdrew his gaze from Rachel with evident reluctance, and surveyed the younger girl with polite interest. ‘For the present,’ he replied, without explaining any further. Then: ‘Would you mind leaving us? I should like to speak to Miss Fleming privately.'
‘Oh, sure,’ agreed Sophie, nodding, just as Rachel burst out: ‘Don't go!'
But, after lifting her shoulders a little apologetically, Sophie hesitated only momentarily before obeying Alexis Roche's instructions, and Rachel watched with compressed lips as she edged towards the door. ‘I'll see you later,’ she murmured, pulling a rueful face, and Rachel stood there helplessly as her only protection disappeared.
Protection! The word had insinuated itself into her mind almost without her consciously seeking for it, and she clenched her fists impotently. She didn't need protection; he did. She felt so angry, she could have done him physical injury.
‘Will you please leave?’ she demanded now, walking towards the door and putting her fingers on the handle. ‘My boss will be back from lunch shortly, and he doesn't approve of us entertaining guests on the premises.'
Alexis Roche made no move to leave. Instead, he looked around the shabby office, his lips curling as he remarked: ‘I can't imagine you wanting to entertain anyone here. Is it always as dirty as this?'
Rachel caught her breath. ‘It's not dirty,’ she defended, even though she had thought the same many times. ‘It's—dusty, that's all. Law offices are like that. Solicitors often have to refer to cases from the past, and the records get old and musty sitting on the shelves. We know where things are, when we need them. That's the important thing.'
‘Haven't you heard of computers—and micro-technology?’ he enquired wryly, and Rachel expelled her breath on a gasp.
‘This is an old established firm,’ she replied shortly. ‘Our clients might not approve of their case histories being recorded on a computer. Besides,’ she added, not quite knowing why she was bothering to explain, ‘computers cost money, and——'
‘—and your clients would prefer their fees to be spent in their defence,’ he put in smoothly. ‘Very well, you've convinced me. Now will you allow me to buy you lunch?'
Rachel stared at him. ‘Mr Roche——'
‘You may call me Alex.'
‘Mr Roche, do you want me to call for assistance to have you ejected from this building? I can, you know. And I will, if you don't leave.'
Now he sighed, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The jacket was honey-coloured and complemented his dark tan, and she couldn't help the unwilling curiosity of wondering what nationality he was. He spoke French, and yet he didn't look French, if such a thing was possible. He was too tall, for one thing, and those cool grey eyes ...
Abruptly she halted her speculation, aware that he was still watching her with that narrow-eyed catlike appraisal. She hoped he wasn't able to read her mind. Its turbulent upheaval was in complete contrast to the calm and collected façade she was endeavouring to maintain.
‘Why won't you have lunch with me?’ he asked quietly. He glanced towards her desk. ‘You've eaten, perhaps? Very well, I will buy you a drink——'
‘Mr Roche, I don't accept invitations from strange men.’ Rachel hesitated, then added stiffly: ‘Now, will you leave?'
He frowned, his well-marked brows descending over eyes that were distinctly cooler now. ‘I am not a strange man, Miss Fleming. I have told you who I am. If you wish to know a little more of my family background, I can tell you that my father is in shipping and my grandfather owns land in Bahdan——'
‘I don't wish to know your family background, Mr Roche,’ exclaimed Rachel impatiently, though his final words had intrigued her somewhat. Bahdan. That was in the Middle East. It was one of those sheikdoms that had recently come into prominence, and if his father owned land there, he must be in oil.
Nevertheless, it was nothing to do with her, and drawing a deep breath, she pulled the door wide. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Roche,’ she said pointedly, evidently waiting for him to leave, and with another brooding frown, he finally accepted his dismissal.
But he paused in the doorway, close enough for her to smell the faint scent of some shaving lotion that hung about him, and to feel the heat of his body. ‘Until we meet again,’ he murmured, the fresh odour of his breath stirring the hair on her forehead and making her overwhelmingly aware of his alien attraction.
She didn't answer him, but with the door closed and her shoulders pressed against it she gave