Sirocco

‘Did you do that, Hassim?’ Alexis Roche enquired lazily, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. He lifted his shoulders carelessly, without waiting for a reply. ‘My only intention was to offer you a lift, Miss Fleming.'

‘Well, I don't need a lift,’ retorted Rachel, finding herself free at last and rubbing the arm which Hassim had gripped so purposefully. ‘And you had no right to send me those roses. When I want flowers, my fiancé will buy them for me!'

Alexis Roche shrugged, a gesture which seemed to imply a mixture of indifference and regret, and taking the box from Hassim, he tossed it carelessly to the ground. ‘My apologies, he said, as Rachel gazed aghast at the scattered blooms. ‘I thought you might like them. But it is of no matter.'

Rachel caught her breath. ‘You're not going to leave them there?'

‘Why not?'

Drops of rain were sparkling on the artificially-silvered lightness of his hair, and as she looked up at him, Rachel knew an unwelcome quickening of her pulses. He was the most sexually disturbing man she had ever met, as well as being the most unpredictable. For a heart-stopping moment she wondered what he would have done if she had thanked him for the roses, and the prospect of bringing an unguarded smile to those thin lips caused a sudden painful constriction in her stomach.

‘They'll die,’ she said now, forcing herself to think only of the flowers, and he pulled a wry face.

‘As do we all, Miss Fleming,’ he responded, without expression. ‘You are getting wet. Don't let me detain you.'

Contrarily, Rachel hesitated. ‘The roses ...’ she ventured uneasily. ‘You won't leave them like this?'

‘No?’ Alexis Roche swung open the car door behind him. ‘Don't concern yourself. They are nothing.'

‘But they are!’ Rachel sighed. ‘Please ...'

Alexis Roche paused. ‘I will make a bargain with you. Hassim will rescue the roses if you allow me to take you home.'

Rachel gasped. ‘You're not serious!'

‘Deadly serious,’ he retorted mockingly, and she looked down at the wilting roses with a helpless sense of impotence.

‘Why should you want to take me home?’ she exclaimed at last. ‘We hardly know one another.'

‘That can be remedied,’ he remarked, his grey eyes holding her with disruptive consequences.

‘I—no! I mean—you can't. We can't.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘Why are you doing this?'

‘I wanted to see you again,’ he replied simply. Then: ‘What is your decision?'

‘I—I——’ Rachel looked down at the roses again, and then up into his dark face. Unbidden came the memory of Roger's voice on the phone, the impatience he had exhibited, his supreme arrogance in believing that no other man was likely to send her flowers, or indeed, that she might be willing to accept them. And suddenly she found herself saying: ‘All right. All right, you can take me home. So long as you rescue the roses.'

Inside the car, she immediately regretted her impulsive action. The flowers were not that important. What she was really doing was something which she knew would make Roger extremely angry if he found out. And she had no wish to examine any other motives which might have elicited her reckless behaviour ...

Hassim quickly restored the scattered roses to their box and Alexis Roche climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce beside her after giving the chauffeur his orders. ‘Flat 3, Oakwood Road, Kilburn, isn't that right?’ he remarked, brushing a film of rainwater from his sleeves, and Rachel remembered that she still didn't know how he had found her.

‘That's correct,’ she agreed, edging away from the depression his weight had made in the soft leather. ‘How did you find out? I didn't give you my address, and the telephone is in Jane's name.'

‘Jane?'

‘My flatmate.’ Rachel was glad of the darkness to conceal her expression. ‘I assume you didn't contact the police.'

‘Well, only indirectly,’ he assured her casually. ‘I took the number of your car and a friend of mine identified you.'

Rachel stared at his profile, and now she wished she could see his expression. ‘You took my number! But——'

‘—you thought I was drunk, I know.’ He turned his head towards her. ‘I told you I wasn't.'

Rachel shook her head. ‘Even so, they wouldn't know where I worked.'

‘Ah——’ His lips parted, and she guessed he was amused by her persistence. ‘In that instance I had to rely on Hassim. He visited your apartment and spoke to a—Mrs Bently, am I right?'

Rachel sighed. Of course! Mrs Bently. Why hadn't she thought of that? The woman who came in twice a week to clean the flat was always there on Wednesday mornings, which would account for the fact that Jane knew nothing about it.

‘She had no right to give your—your—Hassim that information,’ she said now, and he inclined his head.

‘I would agree with you. She had no way of knowing what his intentions might be.'

‘No.’ But Rachel could imagine the middle-aged charlady, faced with a man of Hassim's proportions, having little desire to argue with him. ‘I—I shall speak to her.'

‘Do that.’ Alexis relaxed against the upholstery beside her. ‘But don't entirely blame her. Hassim can be very persuasive.'

‘Hassim ...’ Rachel couldn't prevent the question. ‘Is that an Arabic name?'

‘Hassim was born in Bahdan,’ Alexis agreed smoothly. ‘His father was my grandfather's bodyguard for many years.'

Rachel frowned. ‘And—and is he your bodyguard?'

‘My grandfather likes to think so.'

Rachel drew her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Your grandfather?’ she probed, unable to resist. ‘Not your father?'

‘No.’ He expelled his breath lazily. ‘My father does not have so many enemies.'

Rachel was intrigued, but realising she was allowing herself to be diverted, she turned determinedly to the window. It wasn't her concern, she told herself severely. His background was nothing to do with her. After this evening, she was unlikely to see him again. Men like Alexis Roche did not waste their time with girls who showed so overtly that they were not interested.

‘Will you have dinner with me?'

His unexpected request brought her head round with a start, and she gazed at him disbelievingly. ‘Have—dinner with you?'

‘This evening,’ he confirmed, without emphasis. ‘I'm familiar with various eating places in London, or alternatively we could eat at my house.'

‘Your house?’ Rachel felt incredibly slow-witted, but somehow she had never expected him to have a house in London. Paris, perhaps; or Nice; but not London.

‘My house,’ he conceded smoothly, unbuttoning his overcoat. ‘My chef is quite efficient. The food would be good, I assure you.'

‘I'm sure it would.’ Rachel knew a helpless feeling of unreality. ‘However,’ she endeavoured to speak normally, ‘it's completely out of the question. I'm having dinner with my fiancé.'

‘Tomorrow evening, then,’ he said flatly, lifting his shoulders in an indifferent gesture. ‘Hassim will pick you up at seven o'clock and bring you to Eaton Mews. We can decide then what to do.'

‘No!’ Rachel gazed at him frustratedly now. ‘No, you don't understand. I can't—I won't have dinner with you, ever. I'm engaged. I don't do that sort of thing.'

‘What sort of thing?’ She could see the pale glitter of his eyes even in the shadows of the car.