A Trial Marriage

‘Oh, please!’ Rachel shook her head nervously. ‘The Colonel isn’t even looking this way! I—I was just thinking, that’s all.’

‘What about?’ Della looked suspicious.

‘Nothing much.’ Rachel managed to distract her attention by opening the menu. ‘Oh, look! They’ve got your favourite food here. Tournedos! They must have known you’d be feeling better this evening.’

When the meal was over, the elderly Colonel Della had been grumbling about earlier approached their table. He subjected Rachel’s cleavage to minute inspection, and then turning to Della exclaimed gallantly. ‘Good to see you back, my dear. Game hasn’t been the same without you! You will be joining us this evening, I hope.’

Della’s indignation melted beneath such outright flattery.

‘I’ve missed our little get-togethers, too, Colonel,’ she assured him coyly. ‘And I know it’s no fun playing with three and a dummy hand.’

The Colonel’s wicked old eyes flickered over Rachel again. Then he turned his attention to what Della was saying: ‘What? Oh, yes. Well, as a matter of fact, dear lady, we managed to persuade one of the other guests to join us yesterday evening. You’ve probably seen him around. A Mr Allan.’

Rachel managed to control the start the Colonel’s words had given her, and concentrated on her hands curled tightly together in her lap, as Della answered: ‘Mr Allan!’ Her interest was evident. ‘Oh, yes. I know who you mean, Colonel. But …’ She paused, obviously searching for words to disguise her real feelings. ‘He seems such a—quiet man. Always keeping himself to himself.’

‘Yes.’ The Colonel was losing interest in the conversation. ‘So you’ll be joining us later?’

‘Of course.’ Della moistened her upper lip. ‘Will—er—will Mr Allan be joining us this evening?’

The Colonel shook his head, and unable to catch Rachel’s attention, started to move away. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Only played because I bullied him into it. See you later, dear lady.’

After the Colonel had gone, Della made a little sound of excitement. ‘Imagine that! Him playing cards. It’s interesting to know he’s not as unapproachable as he appears. Isn’t it?’ Rachel didn’t answer. ‘Isn’t it?’ she repeated.

Rachel forced herself to look up, but all she could think was that last night, when she had passed through the lobby on her way out to take Minstrel for his walk, Jake Allan had been only a dozen yards away, in the lounge, playing bridge! It was infuriating!

‘You—you seem very concerned,’ she said at last, biting back her own frustration.

Della sighed irritably. ‘Well, why not? He is the most interesting man in the hotel, after all!’

Rachel licked her lips. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course. Don’t you? Oh no, of course you wouldn’t. He’s much too old for you. Carl Yates is more your scene. I’m surprised you don’t make any overtures there. He’s obviously more than willing.’

Rachel flushed, as much for what Della had said about Jake Allan as her remarks concerning Carl Yates. But happily her employer only saw what she wanted to see, and right now she was no doubt plotting how she could corner her quarry, and invite him into her circle.

After several cups of coffee, Della left her to go and join her cronies, and Rachel walked disconsolately across the hall. A large television was playing away to itself in the viewing room, but she preferred the smaller set in her room to its huge impersonality. Further along was the bar where residents mixed with casual customers, but the idea of entering its smoky atmosphere did not appeal to her either.

She was on the point of turning towards the lift when Carl Yates came strolling towards her from the reception area. Seemingly unabashed by her unwelcoming frown, he said: ‘All alone?’

Rachel gave him a cool stare. ‘It certainly looks like it, doesn’t it?’

He moved his head in silent acknowledgement of the barb. ‘I gather you’re not a bridge fanatic.’

‘No.’

Rachel would have gone past him, but he spoke again: ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

She halted, and turned to look at him. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Why not?’

She hesitated, tempted to brush him off without a second thought, but out of the corner of her eye she suddenly saw that Jake Allan had just entered the hotel and was crossing the lobby towards them. If she walked away now, he would no doubt stop to speak to the manager, and she would have no opportunity of speaking to him herself.

‘I—er—I don’t drink,’ she averred, mentally measuring the narrowing distance between herself and Jake Allan.

‘I’ll buy you a tomato, juice, then,’ suggested Carl eagerly, but before she could reply a shadow fell across them. Carl turned half impatiently, to see who dared to interrupt them, but quickly schooled his features when he recognised the man. Rachel was impressed. Whoever Jake Allan was, he certainly had the power to bring Carl to attention.

‘Good evening,’ he said, his dark gaze flickering over Rachel with ruthless detachment. ‘Good evening, Carl.’

Carl nodded and smiled, shifting rather awkwardly. ‘Did you enjoy your walk, Mr Allan?’

Mr Allan! Rachel raised her dark eyebrows. What had happened to the casual use of the man’s Christian name?

‘Very much,’ Jake Allan was saying now, with a slight upward lift of his mouth. ‘Is dinner over?’

Carl nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Some minutes ago. Er—the game’s begun.’

‘Good.’ Jake’s dark eyes shifted to Rachel again. ‘How are you, Miss Lesley? I haven’t seen you about the hotel for some days.’

Rachel’s knees resumed their unsteady wobbling. ‘I—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart has been—indisposed. I’ve been taking care of her.’

‘Very well, I’m sure,’ he conceded with faint mockery. He flicked an assessing look in Carl’s direction, as if summing up the situation. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

Rachel cast a dismayed look at Carl, and then, stumbling over the words, exclaimed: ‘Are you going upstairs?’ And at his nod: ‘So am I. Er—goodnight, Mr Yates.’

The young manager’s lips tightened, but there was nothing he could do, and Rachel’s heart was pounding as she quickened her step to keep up with Jake as he strode towards the lifts. Both lifts were in operation at that moment, and they were forced to wait for one to make the descent to the ground floor. It was an awkward few moments, not relieved when Jake said suddenly: ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

Rachel’s cheeks burned. ‘Done—what?’

Jake gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘Yates will get the wrong impression.’

Rachel quivered. ‘I’m not worried.’

‘Perhaps I am.’

She sighed. ‘But why?’ she implored. ‘I was on my way up to my room when he stopped me.’

Jake ran a hand round the back of his neck, and tugged the hair at his nape. He was wearing a leather overcoat this evening, and the wine-coloured fabric accentuated the sallow cast of his skin. His long legs were encased in dark green whipcord, and Rachel had great difficulty in preventing herself from staring at the narrow welt of brown flesh that appeared between his black nylon sweater and the low belt of his pants when he stretched.

The lift arrived, and Rachel preceded him inside. They had it to themselves as before, and Jake pressed the button for the first floor. He didn’t look at her as they were borne upward, and it took only seconds to cover the few feet to his landing.

The doors slid open and Jake took a step forward, but while Rachel was contemplating going up to her room and giving in to the tears that were threatening, he stopped and said: ‘What do you plan to do for the rest of the evening?’

Rachel swallowed convulsively. ‘What do I—why, watch television, I suppose.’

His stare tore her nerves to pieces. ‘And if I offered an alternative?’

‘Wh—what alternative?’