Settling The Score

‘Then why isn’t he here?’

‘He’s flying over from Hong Kong. He works there. He’ll arrive tomorrow morning. The wedding’s not until three, so there will be plenty of time.’

‘Cutting it a little fine, isn’t he? What if he’s delayed?’

Romy shrugged. ‘He won’t be.’

‘What do you mean, “He won’t be”?’

‘Just that Mark says that when Dominic says he’ll do something then we are to consider it done.’ She coughed, her nostrils filling with the smoke from her mother’s cigarette, which hung in a foul-smelling grey fog in the hotel room. ‘It’s so smoky in here!’ she spluttered, flapping her hand around in an effort to dispel it.

‘It’s a dump!’ retorted Stella, looking around the room with a grimace.

‘It is not a dump!’ protested Romy automatically.

‘Why we’re staying here I simply don’t know!’ shrilled Mrs Salisbury. ‘Not when your husband-to-be owns the biggest house in the entire county.’

Because Romy had put her foot down very firmly—that was why! She suppressed a shudder as she tried to imagine her mother and Mark’s mother sharing the same house, even for one night! ‘You get your freedom here,’ she said, looking meaningfully at the overflowing ashtray and the half-empty bottle of wine.

Though perhaps if Stella had been treated to the rather abstemious hospitality of the formidable Mrs Ackroyd, then she might have applied the brakes a bit. And subsequently have been in a better state for tonight’s party!

Romy sighed, wishing that the ceremony was already over, and it was just her and Mark.

And?

She swallowed.

It was normal to feel pre-wedding nerves, perfectly normal—she had to accept that. And Mark was so very proud of the fact that she was a virgin.

‘So many girls aren’t these days,’ he had told her fondly, planting a tender kiss on her long neck. ‘That’s why I want to keep you pure and innocent for as long as possible!’

Romy impatiently pushed another lock of hair off her suddenly hot face. ‘I’m going out for a while!’ she told her mother abruptly.

‘Out? Now? But you can’t! What about the party?’

‘The party isn’t for hours,’ answered Romy, with an oddly detached kind of calm. ‘And I’m afraid I’ll have little stomach for it if I sit around here watching you get steadily sozzled. So why don’t you order up some black coffee, Mum, and try to get a little sleep?’

Barely registering her mother’s amazement at the fact that she had answered her back, Romy left the hotel room without a backward glance.

She hesitated outside the door, not quite sure where she intended going. A walk, perhaps. Yes, that was it! A walk in the brilliant July sunshine—that might help her shake off this curiously unsettled mood. Besides, there was nothing else for her to do except fill in the empty hours.

Everything was ready and waiting for the Big Day. The white tulle dress was hanging in the wardrobe swathed in thick plastic. The white satin shoes were lined up neatly below, and frothy little flounces of white lace underwear lay in neat, snowy piles.

Romy automatically quickened her step as she walked towards the smaller lift at the end of the tenth-floor corridor, instinctively avoiding the main lift. Lots of the wedding guests were also staying at the hotel and she didn’t want to run into any of them. Because for some reason Romy couldn’t face talking, not to anyone, not just now...

She pressed the button and waited, and presently the lift doors jerked open and she stepped inside, pressed the button for the ground floor and it began its descent.

On the seventh floor the doors opened and a man entered, a man so drop-dead gorgeous that Romy actually blinked distractedly as she stared at him.

He stared right back—so intently and with such a piercing expression in a pair of exceptional silver-grey eyes that all Romy’s usual defences crumbled, and she was left feeling curiously exposed and vulnerable.

Hastily she started studying the carpet with the kind of avid interest she usually reserved for the gossip column in her favourite newspaper!

But, try as she might to concentrate on the swirly red and gold pattern, she found herself unable to stop observing him from out of the corner of her eye, even though she pretended not to.

He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and was impressively tall, with hair which was as dark as coal. He had powerfully built shoulders and his skin was lightly tanned, so that it made a flattering contrast against the pale linen suit he wore.

But it was his face which was truly remarkable—angular and hypnotic, its hard, flat planes casting intriguing shadows. The mouth was a contradiction, in that it had full, curved lines which hinted at an experience Romy did not dare dwell on, but already there was a hard, cynical twist in place. And that was surprising in one so young, she thought fleetingly.

He looked up and caught her peeping, and his grey eyes flicked over her with unashamed interest. He gave a brief, knowing smile, before turning his attention back to the folded-up copy of the financial paper he was carrying.

Romy couldn’t concentrate. Or, rather, she could—but on one thing and one thing alone.

That man!

As the lift continued its descent she found herself so acutely aware of his presence that it was almost painful. But then he was an exceptionally good-looking man, she reasoned, and her reaction was perfectly natural. Just because she was getting married the next day, that did not mean that she would never find another man attractive!

Nevertheless, she found herself praying that the lift would quickly reach its destination.

It did—but it was not the one she had been counting on! In between floors five and six it made a sickening kind of screeching noise and then juddered to a deafeningly silent halt.

Nervously, Romy lifted her hand and started jabbing at the button several times, but the lift remained stubbornly stuck, and when she dared to look up at the man it was to find him observing her, a wry smile on his lips making her quickly revise her earlier opinion of him. Not exceptionally good-looking, she concluded, but outrageously good-looking!

‘And you thought that this kind of thing only happened in films, didn’t you?’ he said.

Romy didn’t answer, just continued to punch away at the lift button with a desperation she did not quite like to analyse.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ he observed, in that same deep and drawling voice, ‘bashing the thing is likely to do more harm than good!’

‘Then what do you suggest I do?’ she snapped back.

He raised a lazy black brow. ‘You could try pressing the alarm button,’ he suggested.

Now why hadn’t she thought of that?

Feeling more than a bit of a fool, Romy did just that, disappointed and yet not surprised when nothing happened.

He moved forward and began studying the buttons, pressing each one experimentally at first and then trying different combinations, like someone struggling to find the right password on a strange computer. But, no matter what he did, the lift remained stubbornly still.

The man frowned. ‘Could be the electrics, I suppose, as the alarm isn’t working either,’ he commented thoughtfully. ‘Although we still have light, so maybe the mechanism is on a completely different circuit.’

For some reason, his calm assurance infuriated her. And so did the fact that she couldn’t understand a word he was saying!

‘Is that all you can say?’ she demanded, her voice rising with every word. ‘Standing there wittering on about electrics when we’re stuck in this lift--alone!’

‘Not alone. Together,’ he corrected her, and gave her a narrow-eyed look. ‘And if you continue to get hysterical—’

‘I am not getting hysterical!’