The Longest Pleasure

With her attention concentrated on the approaching receptionist, she was unaware of a man who had been drawn to the doorway of the adjoining bar by the sudden buzz of speculation. A tall man, dressed in tight-fitting woollen pants and a black leather jacket, he surveyed the newcomer with grim concentration for a moment, before abandoning his stance and starting purposefully towards her.

The two men reached her simultaneously, and Helen, suspecting his motives, turned to give the second man a freezing look. However, her intentions received a sudden reversal. Even as her astonished eyes registered who it was, the receptionist identified him, and his polite: ‘Is this the young lady you were waiting for, Mr Fleming?’ left no room for manoeuvre.

‘Helen,’ he acknowledged unsmilingly, his expression impossible to read. Then, turning to the hotel employee, he added smoothly: ‘Yes. This is Miss Michaels, Trevor. And we’ll have that soup now, if you don’t mind.’ Ignoring Helen’s indignant face, he glanced around before indicating a table at the far side of the lounge. ‘Over there. Speed it up. We don’t have much time.’

The young man didn’t wait to check if these arrangements suited Helen, she saw to her fury. He simply grinned her way before hastening off towards the kitchens, and she was left to confront the one man she least desired to face.

‘You have a nerve!’ she exclaimed in an undertone, still overwhelmingly aware of their audience, but Rafe seemed unperturbed. With supreme indifference, he gripped her upper arm and guided her across the room to where a table was waiting, practically pushing her into the depths of the armchair beside it before taking the settee opposite.

Helen glared at him, but his clear green gaze was more than a match for her sparkling resentment. Settling himself more comfortably against the cushions, he rested one booted ankle across his knee, surveying his surroundings critically before returning his attention to her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she accused, wondering what he would do if she attempted to leave. It was a temptation to find out, but she loathed making scenes, and she very much suspected Rafe would have no qualms about humiliating her.

‘What do you think?’ he responded now, the thick, sun-bleached lashes that fringed his eyes narrowing his gaze, and she gave an impatient shrug.

‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,’ she retorted, keeping her voice down with difficulty. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the Blue Boar was your kind of habitat. Isn’t it rather old-fashioned for someone with your tastes?’

‘You don’t know what my tastes are,’ remarked Rafe without heat, and Helen was furiously aware that he was handling matters better than she was. ‘Here’s the food. I hope your animosity won’t prevent you from enjoying it. It’s usually rather good.’

The receptionist served them himself, setting down earthenware bowls of a thick chicken soup, and a napkin-lined basket filled with warm bread rolls. There were creamy curls of butter in an earthenware dish, set beside wooden salt and pepper shakers, and a generous jug of steaming coffee, with cups and saucers made at the local pottery.

‘Is everything all right, Mr Fleming?’ he asked, after checking that the rolled napkins contained the correct amount of cutlery, and Rafe nodded.

‘Thanks,’ he acknowledged briefly, pressing a note into the young man’s hand, and although Helen would have preferred to pay for her own meal, she could hardly say so, not just then.

In fact, the soup was delicious, and Helen was too hungry to spite him by not eating. Besides, she doubted he would care, one way or the other. Whatever his reasons for being here—and it appeared he had been waiting for her—there would be time enough to consider them after the meal was over. For the moment, the fact that she had left that morning without breakfast seemed to have most significance, and she felt sure she would find it easier to deal with him once the emptiness inside her had been filled.

The coffee was just as she liked it, strong and black, but she added a spoonful of sugar to take away any bitterness. As she poured herself a second cup, she noticed Rafe had eaten rather less enthusiastically than she had, and although he had drunk one cup of coffee, he made no attempt to pour a second.

She had shed her parka as they ate, but now Helen shouldered her arms back into it, feeling considerably warmer than she had before. It had been warm enough in the car, but outside it was decidedly chilly, and she had no doubt that if it stopped snowing it would probably start to freeze. Which reminded her of the number of miles she still had to cover and, looking at Rafe, she arched her dark brows: ‘May I go now?’ she inquired coolly.

‘Are you still driving that sports car?’ he asked, without really answering her question, and Helen seethed.

‘If it’s any business of yours!’

‘It is.’ Rafe wiped his mouth on the napkin and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘You’ll never make it to Castle Howarth in a sports car. The roads beyond Yelversley are practically impassable to any vehicle without a four-wheel drive. You can leave your car here. I’ll take you myself.’

‘You won’t!’ Helen came instinctively to her feet, and then, aware that once again she was drawing attention to them, she added huskily: ‘Why can’t I just—follow you, if you insist on escorting me? I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been driving for years!’

Rafe shrugged. ‘Like I said, the roads are impassable. Now—do you want a lift, or don’t you? You can always take a room here, if you’d prefer to wait and see if there’s any improvement tomorrow.’

Helen pressed her lips together. ‘How did you know I’d come this way?’ she exclaimed resentfully. ‘I could have gone via Andover.’

‘It was an educated guess,’ he replied, connecting the two sides of his jacket and running the zip half up his chest. His eyes were disturbingly intent. ‘As there was a white-out warning for the Andover road, it was reasonable to assume you’d choose the A30.’

‘Even so…’ Helen was not convinced. ‘What made you think I’d come in here?’

‘Your daily woman said you’d left without breakfast,’ retorted Rafe surprisingly, and Helen gasped.

‘You rang my apartment this morning?’

‘To tell you not to come,’ agreed Rafe, stepping round the settee and gesturing towards the exit. ‘Shall we get moving? It may be that we’ll both have problems before we get there.’

Helen shook her head, but she was obliged to follow him. The snow had become a little too thick for comfort, and if she was honest she would admit to a certain relief at not having to drive any further on her own. All the same, she resented the arrogance with which he had made himself responsible for her safety. She would like to have told him she didn’t need anything from him, but for the present, it seemed, she had no choice but to do as he suggested.

Rafe unlocked the door of a dark green Range Rover which was also parked in the hotel yard, and then said: ‘Give me your keys?’

‘Why?’

Helen was unwilling to be more amenable than she had to, and Rafe’s nostrils flared. ‘All right,’ he said, opening the door of the Range Rover and climbing indolently behind the wheel. ‘Get your own luggage then, but be quick about it. As you can see, the conditions are getting impossible. And I have no intention of spending the night trapped in here just because you choose to be awkward.’

Helen’s jaw clamped, but she had brought this on herself. With ill-grace, she slipped and slid across the yard, almost losing her balance as she lifted her bags out of the Porsche, and then struggled back again to deposit them on the back seat.

‘Is that all?’ inquired Rafe drily, viewing the two suitcases and the navy-blue canvas hold-all with a sardonic eye. ‘You don’t believe in travelling light, do you?’

‘Is it any of your business?’ snapped Helen, casting one last regretful look at the sleek little sports car, now becoming submerged beneath the unabating blizzard. Her lips tightened as she turned back to observe his comfortable vehicle. ‘Does this belong to the estate? It’s quite an improvement on the Land-Rover your father used to drive.’

‘It’s mine,’ remarked Rafe in a laconic tone as he reversed out of the space the Range Rover had occupied, and swung the wheel towards the road. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. I bought it myself.’

‘With money my grandmother gave you, I suppose,’ retorted Helen tartly, still smarting from having to carry her own cases, and Rafe cast her a brief look.

‘With money she paid me,’ he amended, with an inclination of his head. ‘I’ve worked for the old lady for the past three years. Naturally, I was paid a salary.’

‘Worked!’ Helen was scathing. ‘I can think of other names for it!’

‘As I can for the allowance she made you,’ conceded Rafe, revealing a discomfiting familiarity with her grandmother’s affairs. ‘Now, shut up, there’s a good girl! I’ve got enough to do here keeping us moving.’

‘Don’t patronise me!’

Helen fairly flung the words at him, but Rafe ignored her. As he had said, the treacherous conditions left little room for error, and although she was tempted to tell him exactly what she planned for him right there and then, common sense warned her to wait until she was on her own territory. She had plenty of time to deal with him. He would soon learn the difference between a gullible old lady and an astute young one.

CHAPTER THREE (#u27f0c2c2-352b-5eac-bcc5-64d1489e55cd)

OUTSIDE the town, the lowering skies made headlights a necessity, even in the middle of the day. Such traffic as there was could only move at a snail’s pace, and although the Range Rover would have had the advantage, the crawling stream of vehicles made overtaking impossible.

Yelversley was still some fifteen miles away when Rafe turned right on to a side road which, though being blessedly free of other traffic, was obviously more hazardous. Helen, who did not recognise any of the names on the partly obliterated signpost gave Rafe a wary look and, as if relenting, he explained:

‘We can get on to the Castle Howarth road if we cut through Farnham Woods,’ he told her evenly. ‘With a bit of luck, the snow won’t have drifted among the trees. It may be a bit rougher, but it should be a damn sight quicker.’

Helen lifted her shoulders. ‘If you say so.’

‘A concession?’ Rafe’s mouth took on a mocking slant. ‘Do you want to take a turn at driving?’

‘No, thanks.’

Helen looked away from his humorous expression, unwillingly aware that even with the advantage of being able to control all four wheels she would not have wanted the responsibility. She didn’t want to admit it, but she knew that if Rafe hadn’t come to meet her, she would never have got this far. As it was, she realised that for all her dislike of the man, she had complete confidence in his abilities, and if anyone could get her to Castle Howarth, it had to be Rafe.

Of course, he knew the area so much better than she did, she consoled herself defensively. He had lived here most of his life, whereas she had spent her formative years at boarding school and left home as soon as she gained her maturity.