Fire Under Snow (3 page)

“On your feet, then,” Jessica urged briskly. “Don't keep the man waiting.”

“What's the hurry? I'll wait until you go. It will be more seemly for him to join me then,” she replied inventively.

“Sorry, but we're not going yet,” Jessica said stoutly. “I've been through this before. Jamie Gray won't make his appearance until there's a healthy crowd in the foyer. In fact, we've time for another drink.”

Which, in turn, would give Noel Britton ample time to finish his drink and remove himself from the bar, and then her lie would be uncovered. A furtive glance told her that he had already finished too much of his drink for her liking.

She contemplated the follow-up of being found out. The girls might not think she'd told a lie. They might assume that Noel Britton had forgotten about her, in which case she would come in for a spot of good-natured teasing, which she wouldn't mind; but then, like the good sorts they were, they'd rally round and insist on her accompanying them to the foyer to meet Jamie. No!

She was on her feet in an instant. But even as she walked toward the bar she thought,
I must be out of my mind.
How could she carry this off? “I'll have that drink now, if it's all the same with you, Mr. Britton.” No. Too coy. The odds were that he would have forgotten her.
Oh, please, let him look up and recognize me as the petrified girl whose assistance he came to earlier; make him remember inviting me to his table for a drink afterward.

Her plea was not answered. No heavenly power was going to offer a helping hand, and it did not seem likely that she could look for earthly intervention, either. She was going to have to do this all by herself.

She was almost level with him now and still his eyes were directed away from her. A frown transformed his mouth to stone. His severe profile was not confidence-inspiring. It was an interesting face, but carved in this effigy of thought, bereft of the Galahad smile he'd given her earlier as he guided her to the steps leading to the stage and stripped of the amusement that had later brushed his features, it was an austere and forbidding face.

“Mr. Britton?” Oh, dear, surely she could do better than that scared whisper. “Mr. Britton?”

This time his chin lifted in response and his eyes fixed on her in cool regard. If there was no recognition, there was, mercifully, no blankness, either.

The back of her neck was burning with the knowledge that she was being closely watched by the rest of her party. She wasn't going to get down on her knees and beg for his attention.

The length and aggressiveness of her return gaze caused the faintest raising of his eyebrows. “Miss Marshall, I believe?” A smile that was closely related to a sneer curved his mouth. “I take it you've changed your mind about having that drink with me,” he said without surprise, as if he'd known all along that she would reconsider.

It would pain her to say yes. Any drink offered with such overbearing conceit would choke her. Yet the alternative of stalking off on an abrupt refusal and having to rejoin her friends was even more unpalatable.

She smiled, content to know that the girls would see only the smile and that its lack of sweetness could not be detected at this distance. “How can I possibly say no to such gallant enthusiasm. I'll have –” A mischievous look came to her eyes. “Now, let me see; what drink would most suitably fit the occasion? I know! A bitter lemon, please.”

A look of grudging respect flitted over his face as he grappled to understand her strange behavior. Girls who made the approach didn't normally use frost tactics. “Can we start again?” he said, sending her a smile that was on its way to being conciliatory. “It would give me enormous pleasure if you'd have that drink with me now, Miss Marshall.”

“Thank you, Mr. Britton. I'm delighted to accept. May I still have a bitter lemon, please, simply because I haven't got the head for stronger stuff and I like its tangy taste?”

He signaled the barman, and the drinks – her bitter lemon and his more potent choice – were placed before them promptly.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he inquired.

“Every minute of it. Well – almost,” she amended, in oblique reference to the part she'd been made to play in the audience participation spot, which she hadn't liked at all.

The look of intelligence that came to his eyes told her that he was on her wavelength. “And Jamie Gray? What do you think of him?”

“He's a very talented young man,” she replied guardedly.

Her lack of enthusiasm was noted without comment. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Not particularly.”

“That's a great pity. At closing time, to send him off to the States in good spirits, a party is being held for him here at the club. I was thinking of asking you to come as my guest.” A deliberate pause. “What about it?”

How cruel fate could be. He was the most exciting man she had ever met and she wished she could accept. Her reasons for avoiding Jamie earlier on still applied, and were even more pressing. If she couldn't bring herself to meet Jamie again after all this time under the kindly eyes of her friends, she certainly could not voluntarily let Noel Britton witness the event.

It irked her to admit it, but, from the moment he was pointed out to her, she had been too aware of him. From a distance his presence had agitated her pulse beat; his nearness had an even more disturbing effect. It jangled her pulse into a frenzy. It was an assault on her senses and not at all to her liking. She preferred to walk at a slow pace into friendship these days, having learned her lesson with Jamie. Take time to know a person, come to terms with their pet foibles and those small, human peculiarities.

Her instincts of self-preservation – the ones her let down over Jamie had made acute – rebelled at being tipped into the turbulent depths of a relationship, which was what she felt was happening then.

So perhaps it was just as well she had to say, “Sorry, no.”

“I gather you're not a Jamie Gray fan. There will be other personalities there – and
me
,” he said with emphasis, as if that were an irresistible temptation. As, indeed, it almost was. “Care to change your mind?”

“I – can't.”

“Can't?” Irritation crossed his face, indicating that
can't
was a word he refused to acknowledge.

She hadn't deliberately set out to thwart him. She thought about explaining that she couldn't attend the party with him because of her involvement with Jamie. If it had been a sealed and finished chapter in her far-distant past, she would undoubtedly have said something. But it was too painfully close and still tied her. It clung, like ivy to a tree, its poisonous tendrils choking her freedom. She had been a coward, turning her back on something unpleasant. How much wiser it would have been to contact Jamie ... see him and talk to him so that she would know in her mind that it was over between them. Perhaps there would be time to arrange a meeting before he went to the States, but it must be in private, not at a party in view of so many curious eyes.

She finished her bitter lemon and set the empty glass down on the bar counter. Jessica and party had gone, she noticed, so it was safe for her to leave. Rising from her stool, she said, “Thank you for the drink. If you'll excuse me, I'll say good night.”

“How do you propose to get home?”

“By taxi. I'm going to phone for one now.”

“I'll drive you,” he said in an authoritative voice that brooked no argument.

Not that she'd any desire to argue. She enjoyed being helped into her coat, the brief, deliberate touch of his fingers on her bare arm, the casual intimacy of his hand on her elbow as he escorted her out to his car. Tomorrow – who knew? This moment was hers.

Next morning she woke to a feeling of shivery delight. In her sleep-bemused state it was some moments before she could trace the source of her happiness back to her meeting with Noel Britton the night before.

She refused to accompany him to the party that was being given for Jamie because of her previous involvement with the star, not because of any desire to pique Noel Britton's interest – but she had a strange feeling that by turning down his invitation that was just what she'd done.

If Jessica knew that she'd turned down the chance of going to a very select party and mingling with the famous, not to mention Jamie Gray, she'd say that Lorraine ought to be certified. Just as well she had no intention of telling Jessica about that or ...

If she didn't make a move she was going to be late for work. She found it difficult to be brisk and orderly with only half a mind, which was all she could give to her various morning tasks: showering, brushing her teeth, getting dressed, making and eating her breakfast of coffee and toast, preparing sandwiches and selecting an apple for her lunch.

The defecting part of her mind was still on last night's dream happening. Had Noel Britton really driven her home? Had his restraining hand prevented her from getting out of the car? Had he taken her into his arms, sliding his hands under her coat, kissing her on the mouth with explosive passion before she could demur? It was effected so quickly and, for all its haste, with such smoothness and expertise that she was knocked off balance. It was like being hit by the rushing force of a tidal wave as she was drawn totally into a kiss that was like none she had ever known. In consequence, the trespass of his hands went unchecked for several seconds. The crazy thing was it didn't seem like the kind of trespass her body had previously objected to and had perfected its own way of dealing with: a frigid backing away that had repulsed the most ardent suitor. Until that moment she hadn't known the meaning of the word ardor. It came as a shock to realize that for the first time in her life she was in a man's arms. In the coffee-break gossip sessions, she had heard the other girls giggling over “losing control” and had thought it very weak-minded of them. Now she knew otherwise. The strength of mind she had prided herself on possessing had only been tested by the callow fumblings of boys. In Noel Britton's hands her flesh yielded and, in body language, asked for more.

“You don't waste much time, do you?” she had chided, dragging his too-familiar fingers from her breast and tearing from her mind the degrading thought that it had been shaped to fit in his hand.

“Life's too short.” His laugh had an undertone of hoarseness that suggested he was not altogether unmoved himself, even though casual sex-play must be commonplace to him. “You're a cool lady. No pretend-hysterics or fake accusations. ‘How dare you! This is outrageous!' ” he mimicked in the nearest his deep voice could get to a feminine pitch. “Just a firm put-down. You surely can't condemn a guy for trying?”

“No.” She'd gone along with that, liking the note of apology in his tone, thinking perhaps that, although it was a routine seduction, the rebuff might be something of a novelty. The majority of girls would be more than willing to dance to whatever tune a man of his exceptional looks and wealth chose to play. On the other hand, she disagreed strongly with his verdict. “Cool lady” was not an apt description.

She had leaned forward, taking hold of his hands for safety's sake, and kissed him on the cheek before saying, “Good night. Thank you for the lift home,” and leaping agilely out of the car.

Perhaps, she thought, chewing on the burnt edge of her toast because straying minds and perfect rounds of golden-brown toast are not compatible, that hadn't been very bright of her. A girl with more guile, a girl with
any
guile, would have hung about to give him the chance to suggest another meeting.

Did she want to see him again? Does a newly hatched chick want to go back into its shell despite the perils it faces in this strange new world? Of course she wanted to see him again!

At lunchtime she ate her sandwich in record time and left the office on the pretext of having some shopping to do. She foiled Jessica's wish to accompany her by saying it was supermarket shopping – bread-and-butter purchases didn't appeal to Jessica – and made the break while her friend's interest was on the wane.

Apart from not wanting Jessica with her in view of what she intended to do, she didn't want another session of how marvelous, wonderful, stupendous and terrific Jamie Gray was up close. Jessica had been so taken with him that she had forgotten to ask her how she had got on with Noel Britton, although she would doubtless remember her lapse. Lorraine knew she could prepare herself for a full-scale interrogation. Jessica – anybody – was welcome to Jamie. The sooner she rid her life of him the better. She could only do this, know it was quite final, by seeing him again.

With this intent, she made for the nearest public telephone box. She set a pile of coins by the coin box and systematically began to dial around the top hotels. Even in his less affluent days Jamie had always had a taste for high living. He had said that he would turn his back forever on second-rate lodging houses and stay only in the best hotels if ever he made it big.

She drew a blank all the way around. Jamie wasn't registered in any of the hotels she tried. As a last resort she decided to phone The Black Cat. She thumbed through the telephone directory for the number and was confused to see several numbers. She dialed the top one and was nonplussed to hear a voice – mercifully female – say, “Mr. Britton's office. This is his secretary speaking. May I help you?” she added when Lorraine didn't speak up.

She ought to have known that the top man would have the top number and supposed she should be grateful that Noel himself hadn't answered.

“I hope so. Could you please tell me where Jamie Gray is staying?”

“I'm sorry. It's against the rules to divulge such information.”

“I thought it might be,” Lorraine replied resignedly. “I'm not a fan. It's a personal matter, and it's vital that I contact him as soon as possible. You couldn't make an exception, could you?”