Sirocco

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Rachel laughed. ‘Not with this hair, I hope.’ She touched the unruly mass of dark-brown silk that refused to adhere to any current fashion and tumbled riotously to her shoulders. ‘I sometimes think I should have it all cut off, only Roger likes it this way.'

‘I bet he does!’ Jane pulled a face as she viewed her own mousy crop. ‘Besides, with your height you can carry it. Now, stop fishing for compliments and drink your coffee. I want to get washed up before I leave.'

‘Do you have an early class?’ asked Rachel, between sips. Jane taught history at the local comprehensive school, and did not have to face the morning rush into the city that her flatmate had ahead of her.

‘Not until ten,’ Jane replied comfortably, helping herself to more toast. Unlike her friend, she always ate a good breakfast, and her ample girth was proof of her weakness for food. ‘Are you sure you don't want anything to eat? You know what they say about eating breakfast ...'

‘I'll get a sandwich from the machine at break,’ Rachel assured her, putting down her cup and picking up the jacket of her suit. ‘Thank heavens it's not raining. At least the buses shouldn't be too full.'

Five minutes later, Rachel was walking along Oakwood Road to the bus stop. She never used her car for work; it was simply too impractical in the rush-hour traffic. Nevertheless, she was often tempted, particularly when the buses were packed and went by the stop without doing so.

It was a fine, sunny morning, with the promise of spring in the air. The daffodils were nodding their heads in Oakwood Gardens, and the grey squirrel that darted across the grass in search of food gave her spirits an unexpected lift. It would be March next week, she thought with some amazement, and the wedding was barely ten weeks away. Once she and Roger were married, his mother would have much less say in his affairs, and Mrs Harrington would have to accept that she was no longer the most important woman in her son's life. At present, she found it far too easy to divert Roger from the plans they had made, but once the wedding was over and Rachel was living at the apartment, Mrs Harrington would not be so welcome there.

Recalling how she had stormed out of Roger's apartment the night before, Rachel was reluctantly reminded of what had happened after. She had not found it easy to dismiss the incident from her thoughts the night before, and even now she felt herself tensing at the memory. Of course, she had soon recovered from the sense of panic that had gripped her at the time. Her unwilling interest in the man had been the natural sequel to the row she had had with Roger, and after all, their meeting had been highly unconventional. It was natural that she should have felt some curiosity about him, particularly bearing in mind his unquestionable good looks. Not that he had been handsome, as Roger was handsome, of course. The stranger's features had been much more irregular, harder, possessed of a harsh beauty that was more distinctively masculine. He had, she supposed, what was commonly known as sex-appeal, and that dominated his dark-skinned appearance ...

Irritated at the trend of her thoughts, Rachel joined the queue at the bus stop, her burst of lightheartedness evaporating. For heaven's sake, she thought impatiently, what was the matter with her? Why couldn't she forget about what happened the night before? It wasn't as if she was ever likely to see the man again. He was a stranger and he was not English, and she didn't know why she hadn't told Jane, so that they could have a giggle about it.

The solicitor she worked for, Arthur Black, was waiting for her when she arrived at the firm's offices in Fetter Lane, and his bustling presence succeeded in driving all other thoughts out of Rachel's head.

‘You're late,’ he remarked dourly, massaging the bald patch on the top of his head. ‘I did ask you to get here by a quarter to nine, Miss Fleming. It's now five minutes past, which leaves us only twenty-five minutes before my departure.'

‘I'm sorry,’ Rachel took off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ‘but the traffic was——'

‘—hectic, I know,’ he interrupted her shortly, disappearing into his own office. ‘It always is,’ he called, as she extracted her shorthand note pad from a drawer and gathered up several pencils. ‘I should have thought you could have anticipated that by now.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.'

Rachel grimaced and followed him into his office, shivering a little as the gas fire sputtered to reluctant life. The old building badly needed renovating, but the firm of Hector, Hollis and Black was unlikely to undertake it. They seemed to thrive on its sagging floors and dusty corridors, and even the offices of the principals were like Mr Black's office: poorly lit and shabby. Nevertheless, they were never short of briefs, and Rachel could only assume their clients imagined the exorbitant fees they paid were all swallowed up in their defence. Certainly they employed some of the best brains in the legal profession, and when Rachel first joined the firm as a junior typist she had been excited at the prospect of meeting such people. Now, however, the initial spark of enthusiasm had been somewhat doused. Working as Arthur Black's secretary for the past two years had helped her get things into perspective, and she no longer viewed the profession through rose-coloured spectacles. A law practice was not particularly exciting or romantic, as she had first imagined. It was mostly dull and repetitive, and only occasionally did she meet one of those charismatic characters, whose advocatory skills had made their names famous.

‘I shall be in court most of the morning,’ Mr Black was saying now, after having dictated half a dozen letters and consigned an equal number for Rachel's personal attention. ‘But I shall ring the office immediately afterwards, in case there are any urgent messages. You will be here, I take it? You're not planning to go out for a meal?'

Rachel shook her head. ‘No. Roger's playing golf this morning, and I've no plans to see him until this evening.’ If he turns up, she added to herself silently. After last evening's fiasco, he might conceivably expect her to make the next move.

‘Oh, well——’ Mr Black shrugged his rounded shoulders, ‘that's all right, then.’ He paused. ‘Though I must say that young man of yours seems to have a great deal of free time. Does he work at all?'

‘Of course he does!’ Rachel was indignant. ‘But, as he works for himself, he can choose his own hours.'

‘Hmm.’ Mr Black sounded unimpressed. ‘Running women's clothes shops, I suppose.'

‘Roger supervises the management, yes.’ Rachel rose to her feet. ‘Is this all, Mr Black? Do you want me to contact Mr Perry about the Latimer case?'

Mr Black's nostrils flared as he accepted the rebuff, but he made no comment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Fix an appointment for me to see him on Friday. Oh, and arrange to send Mrs Black some flowers tomorrow, will you? It's our anniversary, and I shan't have the time.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.’ Rachel's mouth grew wry. ‘Is that it, then?'

‘I think so.’ Mr Black looked at his watch. ‘And with fifty seconds to spare. I suppose I should congratulate you.'

Rachel's lips twitched. ‘That won't be necessary, Mr Black. I'll see you this afternoon, shall I? Or won't you be back?'

‘It rather depends what happens,’ replied her employer thoughtfully. ‘I'll give you my answer at lunchtime. I should know by then.'

Sophie Tennant appeared soon after Mr Black had left the building, slipping into Rachel's office with a conspiratorial smile on her face. ‘Guess what?’ she said, perching on the side of Rachel's desk. ‘Mr Rennison's asked me to have lunch with him. Do you think I should accept?'

Rachel pulled the letter she had been typing out of the machine and viewed it critically. Then she looked up at the girl draped decoratively over the corner of her desk. Sophie was eighteen, four years her junior, and just as young and susceptible as Rachel had been when she first came to work here. A pretty blonde, with blue eyes and a pink and white complexion, Sophie had attracted the eye of one of the junior partners, and Rachel wondered how she could tell her she had had to negotiate that particular obstacle herself four years ago.

‘He is married,’ she pointed out now, shuffling the letters waiting to be typed together. ‘I've met his wife. She's very nice.'

Sophie pouted. ‘You're telling me not to go, aren't you?'

‘No.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘That's for you to decide. I'm only saying that—well, it's not the first time he's tried to date one of the typists.'

‘So what?’ Sophie swung her heel impatiently against the side of Rachel's desk. ‘I came to tell you because I thought you might understand. Everyone else around here is ancient!'

‘I wouldn't exactly call Mary Villiers ancient,’ replied Rachel tolerantly, and Sophie grimaced.

‘She's twenty-six if she's a day! All the secretaries are old, except you. And once you've left, I'll have no one to talk to.'

‘Well, I'm not planning on leaving just yet,’ remarked Rachel drily. ‘I'm not giving up work when I get married, you know that.'

Sophie shrugged. ‘So you say. But what if you get pregnant? You won't have much choice then, will you?'

‘N-o.’ Rachel acknowledged the point, but she refrained from adding that it was unlikely. Roger had said several times that he didn't want to start a family immediately, and in any case, they had no proof that such a contingency was even possible. In spite of his modern outlook on make-up and clothes and furnishings, Roger was singularly old-fashioned when it came to relationships, and although he had taught her ways to please him without their going to bed together, they had never actually made love.

‘So what do you think?’ Sophie persisted. ‘I mean, it's only lunch. It's no big deal.'

Rachel shrugged. ‘So long as he remembers that.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, would you like it, if you were his wife? Is it fair to encourage him to cheat on her?'

Sophie sighed. ‘He is very attractive, isn't he?'

‘If you like ex-rugby players, I suppose he is.'

‘Oh——’ Sophie's smile came and went, ‘you're not much help. Haven't you ever been tempted to cheat on Roger? I know you've been going out with him for ages! Surely there've been occasions when some other man has attracted you.'

‘I don't think so.’ Rachel was crisp, her tone sharper because of the unwanted memory Sophie had stirred. ‘Look, I've got to get on. You'll have to make up your own mind. It's your life, not mine.'

She felt a little mean when the younger girl had gone, realising her attitude had been governed by that unwelcome recollection. It was difficult for someone like Sophie to cope with the practised charm of a man like Peter Rennison. How could boys of her own age compete with his sophistication—and his Jaguar XJS?

It was almost lunchtime when the switchboard rang through to say there was a call for her. ‘Oh, that will be Mr Black,’ said Rachel at once, reaching confidently for her notepad, but Jennifer, the telephonist, demurred.

‘If it had been Mr Black, I'd have put him straight on to you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Or Roger either, for that matter. But this man won't give his name, and I thought I'd better ask you before putting him through.'

Rachel's mouth felt suddenly dry. ‘He—won't give his name?’ she echoed, and the telephonist went on:

‘He says it will mean nothing to you. Do you want to speak to him? Or shall I ask him to call back when Mr Black is there?'

Rachel was silent for so long that Jennifer asked whether she was still there, and pulling herself together she said she was. ‘Did—did he ask to speak to Mr Black?’ she asked at last, aware of a sudden tightness in her stomach, and Jennifer's response did nothing to alleviate her discomfort.

‘No. No, actually, he asked for you,’ the telephonist declared, obviously just comprehending that fact herself. ‘So what do I do? Shall I put him on? I must admit, he does sound rather dishy!'

Realising that whoever was calling, it was likely to cause a talking point in the office for days, Rachel came to a decision. ‘Tell him—tell him I'm out,’ she said quickly, feeling a hot flush run up her cheeks at the deliberate lie. ‘He's probably one of those freaks that call from time to time. Just get rid of him, will you, Jennifer?'

‘He did know your name,’ the other girl reminded her doubtfully. ‘He could be a friend of your father's. Or of Roger's.'

‘Then he'll have to get them to ring me,’ said Rachel, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘Don't worry about it, Jennifer. I'll find out later.'

‘Oh—all right.’ Clearly Jennifer was disappointed that she was not going to take the call, and Rachel was glad she had refused. She could just imagine Roger's reaction if he found out some strange man had been trying to ring her. And he might, bearing in mind the grapevine at Hector, Hollis and Black.

Mr Black himself rang a few minutes later and Rachel listened to his instructions with some abstraction. She was still trying to convince herself that the previous call had had nothing to do with what had happened last night, and it was difficult to concentrate on legal matters when her brain refused to function normally. It couldn't have been him, she told herself fiercely. He had no reason for getting in touch with her again. And in any case, how had he known where to find her? There must be dozens of Rachel Flemings in the greater London area.

‘Did you get that?'

Realising Mr Black was still speaking to her, Rachel was relieved to see that her hand had automatically taken down his instructions, even while her mind was occupied with other things. ‘You want me to take the Oliver file to Mr Rennison, and then go to Willis and Potter to collect some documents. Is that right?’ she ventured, and her employer agreed rather grudgingly that it was. ‘So long as you remember to tell Rennison I want that file back tomorrow,’ he added brusquely, before clearing his throat. ‘Damn this chest of mine! I think I'm getting a dose of bronchitis. Call Mrs Black, will you, and ask her to get a repeat prescription of my tonic from the chemist. I'd ask you to get it for me, but the chap in Cricklewood knows what I need.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.’ Rachel acknowledged his request and jotted it down. ‘Anything else?'

‘No, I don't think so. I should be back around four. Do you think you could stay until six this evening? I'd like these reports typing up before I leave the office.'

Rachel hesitated. Roger was supposed to be calling for her this evening and they were going to have dinner with some friends of his. But he wasn't coming until seven-thirty, and she would have plenty of time, even if she didn't leave the office until six. If he rang before she got home, Jane could explain.

‘Okay,’ she said now, ‘I'll stay until six. Is that everything?'

‘That's it,’ he agreed dourly. ‘Goodbye.'

Sophie appeared in the doorway as she was plugging in the electric kettle to make herself a cup of coffee in lieu of a meal, and Rachel arched dark brows in her direction. ‘What, no lunch?'

‘No.’ Sophie sidled into the room. ‘I told him I had another date. Can I stay in here with you? Just until he's left the building?'

‘You can have some coffee, if you like,’ Rachel offered casually. ‘I'm not going out today. I promised Mr Black I'd be here in case there were any urgent messages.'

Sophie grimaced, and after surveying the room for somewhere to sit, she found herself a comfortable place in the leather armchair in the corner. ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the earthenware beaker Rachel handed her. ‘This is cosy, isn't it? I wish I worked for one of the partners. Our office is as draughty as a wind tunnel!'

‘I know—I used to work there,’ Rachel sympathised, resuming her seat at her desk and propping her feet up on the waste paper basket. ‘Mmm, coffee: the saviour of the twentieth century!'

Sophie relaxed. ‘How long is it to the wedding? Your wedding, I mean. Didn't you say you were getting married at the beginning of June? Lucky thing! Have you decided where you're going to spend your honeymoon?'

Rachel looked down into her coffee cup. ‘Nothing's properly decided yet. Oh, we're getting married at the beginning of June, you're right about that. But Roger doesn't know whether he'll be able to get away at that time. We may have to postpone the honeymoon.'

‘What a shame!’ Sophie gave her a commiserating look. ‘Still, I suppose being together is the important thing, isn't it? Are you going to move into his apartment?'

Rachel nodded. ‘That's the idea.'

‘It is his own apartment, isn't it?’ Sophie was youthfully inquisitive. ‘His mother doesn't live there, does she?'

‘No.’ Rachel's smile was tolerant. ‘She has her own house in St John's Wood.'

‘I envy you, you know,’ remarked Sophie sighing. ‘Being able to give up work, if you want to. And not just because you're marrying Roger either. It must be nice to be rich.'

‘I'm not rich,’ exclaimed Rachel, laughing. ‘And I do have to work, believe me!'

‘But your father——'

‘My father doesn't support me,’ declared Rachel firmly. ‘If that's what you think, forget it.'

‘But he would if you asked him,’ said Sophie irrepressibly. ‘My father couldn't, even if he wanted to. He finds it hard enough to support the rest of the family!'

Rachel had no response to make to this, and for several minutes the two girls sat in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. For Rachel's part, she was thinking that Sophie had something she had never had, and that was a proper home life. Her own parents’ divorce when she was barely eight had left her at the mercy of aunts and boarding schools. Her mother had taken herself off to Australia with the salesman she had fallen in love with, and Rachel's father had found various excuses why he could not take care of his child. In consequence, until she was eighteen Rachel had seen very little of either parent, and only when her father discovered what a beautiful young woman she had turned out to be did he begin to appreciate the asset she might prove to his business dealings. But by then it was too late. Rachel had found employment with Hector, Hollis and Black, and her subsequent meeting with Jane Snowden, an older girl, who used to attend the same school, culminated in their taking the flat together as soon as Jane had completed her course at university.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Sophie at last, ‘I wish something exciting would happen to me!'

‘Like Peter Rennison?’ suggested Rachel drily, and the younger girl grimaced.

‘Well, he is handsome, you must admit. And I love that car of his, don't you?'

Rachel shook her head. ‘It's all right.'

‘All right?' Sophie was beginning indignantly, when without warning the door opened and a man's tall figure appeared in the aperture.

For the space of a moment, Rachel thought it was Peter Rennison, come to check up on Sophie's immature excuse. She was in the process of finishing the coffee in her mug and her first glimpse was of a man's dark pants and suede boots set some inches apart. But as she lowered her cup and her eyes moved up over an expensive leather jacket covering an equally costly silk shirt and tie, her conviction weakened, and by the time she reached the determined curve of his jaw she was certain she knew who it was. Her eyes flew to his, to clear grey eyes set beneath brows several shades darker than his hair, which in this light revealed the streaks of sun-bleached lightness in its wheat-gold vitality, and her stomach contracted.

‘Good morning,’ he said, with cool assurance. ‘Or should I say good afternoon?’ He consulted the slim watch, whose leather strap encircled his wrist. ‘It is almost one o'clock.'

CHAPTER TWO (#uf311a7d5-a251-5939-b292-1868b4692d9e)

RACHEL exchanged a look with Sophie and seeing the avid expression on the other girl's face she inwardly groaned. Much though she liked her, Sophie was the last person she would have wished to be here at this moment, and she could already hear the gossip which would ensue from this encounter.

Realising she had to say something, Rachel put her feet to the floor and stood up. ‘Er—can I help you?’ she asked, hoping against hope that he might get the message and not compromise her. Why on earth had he come here? What did he want? And how had he found her in such a short time?

‘I hope so,’ he said now, the grey eyes moving intently over her flushed face, and Rachel ran her moist palms down the seams of her skirt. She had forgotten how penetrating his gaze had been, and seen in daylight he was infinitely more disturbing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ 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.