Fire Under Snow (4 page)

“I'm afraid not.”

“That's all right,” she said flatly, “I understand your predicament and I'm sorry for troubling you.”

“Don't ring off,” the gentle voice interposed quickly, giving Lorraine cause to wonder if the secretary had read an even more urgent message into her words than was justified. “I'll tell you what I'll do for you. Write a letter to Mr. Gray and send it care of me, Judith Brown, here at The Black Cat. I'll forward it on to him. I have all the information on file, including his forwarding address in the States. It will be no trouble to include your letter because there's bound to be other mail to send on to him. Will that be any help?”

“It's kind of you to suggest it, Miss Brown, and I'm very grateful, but not really. I'd prefer to contact him before he goes to America.”

“That's impossible. By now he's halfway across the Atlantic.”

He must have gone directly after the party. “I see. Thank you for telling me. I'll see him when he comes back. Thanks again for your kindness. Goodbye.” Lorraine put down the phone, feeling warmed by the concern shown by the unknown Miss Judith Brown. She hadn't sounded at all like the sort of young woman she thought Noel would choose for a secretary. Her voice was quite mature. Motherly. Even though her mission had been unsuccessful, she felt inordinately pleased.

It was obvious Miss Brown had jumped to the wrong conclusion, and Lorraine hoped she hadn't worried her. Thank goodness she wasn't in that kind of trouble. Nothing so imperative. This situation had remained static for three years. Another week or so wasn't going to make a lot of difference.

At finishing time she put the dust cover over her typewriter, not without a sense of relief. With so much outside the office to think about, her brain was functioning even less efficiently than usual. Typing wasn't the job she had been trained to do, and, as she didn't seem to have a natural aptitude for it, it required every scrap of her concentration.

She looked up to see Jessica standing by her desk. “Why don't you come to my place tonight, if you've nothing better to do, and listen to my new Jamie Gray record?”

“Another time, perhaps,” Lorraine replied. Hoping to soften her refusal, she added, “The truth is, I've got a date with –”

“With Noel Britton? You pulled it off!” Jessica said, anticipating too soon.

“ – a sachet of shampoo and a hairdryer,” Lorraine corrected.

But when she got home she delayed washing her hair and turned the television sound down so that she wouldn't miss hearing the telephone if it rang. The phone served all the apartments and was situated on the landing one floor below. Normally she wasn't alert for its ring. The absurdity of her hopes brought a faint smile to her lips. Did she honestly think there was the remotest possibility of Noel phoning her?

He had been in her thoughts all day, but it was doubtful that he would even remember her name, let alone wish to see her again. Yet, hearing the sound of the telephone, she still went to her door and hung over the banister rail in silly expectation at least half a dozen times before giving up. Next time it rang she ignored it. She was running the water into the washbasin to wash her hair when someone pounded on her door.

“Telephone for you, Lorraine.”

“Thanks,” she said, almost wrenching the knob off the door in her haste and racing down the stairs at breakneck speed before making herself slow her pace. It wouldn't do to sound breathless when she answered the phone.

She announced her name and could have wept when an instantly recognizable voice said, “It's me, Lorraine.”

“Hello, Aunt Leonora,” she said in surprise, because her aunt had phoned the day before to wish her a happy birthday and Lorraine had thanked her for her birthday gift, a matching set of luggage. Was there a hint there that a visit was overdue? Although they kept in touch fairly frequently by phone – about twice a week – her aunt must have something special on her mind to phone her two days in succession. “Lovely to hear from you so soon. Is everything all right?” she asked with a touch of concern.

“It is with me. I was wondering how things were with you. I won't beat about the bush. I've been reading all about Jamie in the morning newspaper, about his going to America and all that. It seems as though he's a big star now to receive such a splash.”

“Possibly there wasn't much else of news value. Oh, dear, I didn't mean that in the way it sounded. I'm not vindictive anymore. I'm pleased that Jamie's made it, but that's all I feel.”

“I wondered. Only you know if you've got him out of your system for good, and, whether you have or not, reading about him must bring back memories better forgotten.”

“I'm all right, Aunt Leonora.” It was the truth. Her heart was finally and irrevocably free of him. Even the bitterness had gone. For a long time she had been resentful. She could have saved her own skin. She had actually escaped from the fire unharmed, but she went back to help Jamie. That single action had changed her whole life. She had lost everything: Jamie; a wonderful job that had tested her resources, her energy, her intuition and personal flair to the limit of her capabilities so that she could forget that she got it initially on the merit of her looks. Her present job offered no challenges – and, therefore, no rewards – and she found it tediously boring. But her tediously boring job was not without compensations. Through it she had made friends with Jessica and the other girls, and this had resulted in her meeting with Noel. Was meeting Noel the reason why she no longer felt bitter? “I've seen Jamie –”

“
Seen
him?” her aunt gasped in amazement.

“Not to talk to,” she said quickly. “I told you I was going to The Black Cat last night with the girls from the office. What I didn't know was that Jamie was topping the bill. I watched him; I won't say I was unmoved because that would be a lie, but I didn't go to pieces. Afterward, the girls joined the crush waiting to see him. I didn't go with them. I wasn't brave enough to meet Jamie again after all this time with other people present. But I will see Jamie. I've got to talk to him – then it will be over.”

“That's my girl,” her aunt said in brisk approval, but there was still a faint stirring of anxiety in her voice as she asked, “Any chance of my seeing you in the near future?”

It would make a break, and she always enjoyed her aunt's lively company. She had sufficient days' holiday allowance left – so why the reluctance?

“I rather thought you were saying something when you bought me that gorgeous set of matching suitcases for my birthday. I'll try to make it soon,” she promised, hoping her lack of enthusiasm didn't show.

“That will be lovely. Give me some warning and I'll get a few days off work. We can do something, live it up a bit.”

It got around to Thursday again.

A full week had passed, with no word from Noel, before she finally admitted to herself that nothing was going to come of their meeting. She ought to have taken advantage of her aunt's invitation.

Ironically, after days of breath-held anticipation, after hesitating before stepping into her bath in case he chose to ring at just that moment and she had to keep him waiting, his phone call roused her from her bed.

“Do you realize it's almost midnight?” she accused when she'd swallowed her first startled reaction that it was Noel phoning her.

“Of course I do,” he retaliated sharply. “I've been phoning you on and off all evening. The damn line's been engaged. Who have you been speaking to all this time?”

“No one. The phone is not for my exclusive use. It's a public one that serves all the apartments.”

“I never thought of that. What a stupid arrangement.”

She felt her mouth curling up at his arrogance, although in honesty she admitted there might be another reason for her smile.

“I want to see you,” he announced abruptly. “Can I come over?”

“When?”

“Now, of course.”

“Out of the question. Visitors are frowned on at this time of night.”

“You'd be better off in jail.”

“Hardly. If I were in jail I couldn't get out.”

“That's a good point. See you at the main entrance in ten minutes.”

“I didn't mean –” What had she meant if not that? She frowned. “No. It's too late. I have to get up for work in the morning.”

“So do I.”

“Some people can exist on less sleep than others.”

“True,” he acknowledged. “Do you eat breakfast?”

“Well – yes.”

“Then regard it as an early breakfast. Ten minutes.”

“Where are you planning to ...” It was too late. He'd rung off.

She flew back up the stairs, the question poised in her mind as to where he could be taking her at this time of night unanswered. She slipped out of her dressing gown and dealt with the pearl buttons at the neck of her nightgown, still with little idea of what to wear. Noel was a man of the world. He surely wouldn't expect her to be dressed and made up for a select nightspot in ten minutes? Yet what other type of establishment would be open for meal service at this hour?

The clothes in her wardrobe were sparse. She had preferred to save for quality items rather than spend her money indiscriminately on a jumble of cheaper garments. The gray suit teamed with a glimmer-of-pale-purple silk blouse just scraped by for dressy occasions while not looking out of place in less formal surroundings. She applied her makeup lightly with professional expertise. The trade she had so painstakingly and lovingly learned, and which she had been forced to give up, still had its uses. Usually she complemented the elegance of her suit with a more sophisticated hairstyle, but her hair, conditioned and shampooed earlier in the evening, was as slippery as silk and not to be managed in the few minutes at her disposal. It reached her shoulders, undulating gently to the contours of her face, a shining fall of gold that curved under naturally at the ends. The simplicity of the style gave her face a childish sensuality that was even more disturbing, more potent, them the sophisticated kind which came complete with its own protective hardness.

Checking her appearance, she saw that the flood of hair enhanced the fragility of her features, making her eyes appear larger than they actually were, vulnerable, curious eyes that shone with incredible clarity above the provocative curve of her cheek and the passionate and inviting fullness of her mouth.

She gave a gasp of astonishment. Until that moment of critical analysis, when she tried to see herself as Noel would see her, she had been blind to the picture of wanton enticement her face presented.

She snatched the shining strands back with her fingers, letting them fall loose again when she realized her hair was not responsible for the change. The look was still there. It came from within, born of thoughts she still barely acknowledged in relation to Noel Britton or, indeed, any man. She had never wondered before what it would be like to have the power to torment a man like Noel Britton out of his mind, drive him insane, inflict him with masculine urges he had no will and no wish to deny. She had always thought that girls who, by manner or by dress, set out to lay a trap of seduction deserved to be caught in the snare themselves.

Noel was waiting for her when she got downstairs, his long, lean frame nonchalantly propped against the expensive car parked at the curb. She descended the last few steps, conscious of the tensing of her own body as his eyes ran over it, his steely glance lingering in amused appreciation on the warm awareness coloring her cheeks before contacting her eyes in unmistakable speculation.

He touched her hair. “Nice. It suits you down,” he approved, and then he swung open the car door for her to get in.

She hesitated, her breath harsh in her throat. “Where are you taking me?”

Indolently, with no sense of haste, conveying a gesture of lazy possession, his hand curved to her waist. “It can't be your place, so it's got to be mine.”

“No.” She would have been shocked to know that only her mouth issued the denial; her eyes did not back it up.

“I won't push it.”

The triumphant sound of his laugh puzzled her too much for her to find appeasement in the seeming capitulation of his words. She looked to his eyes for guidance for her thoughts and saw by the mocking glint in them that he did not think it would be too long before he overcame her scruples and got her into his apartment and, ultimately, into his bed.

To her chagrin she realized the scrutiny was reciprocal and he was also using her eyes to read her mind. She put her hands up to her cheeks in a childish attempt to hide the revealing stain, but it didn't occur to her to veil her eyes by the simple expedient of looking down.

“I thought blushing was a dying virtue,” he said, drawing her hand away from her cheek, turning her fully into the beam cast by the street lamp.

“Virtue?” She laughed. “It's a curse.”

He lifted her hand, which was still in his keeping, and looked down at her fingers in dedicated thought. She knew, although she had never considered herself to have especially accurate instincts, that he was looking at their ringless state. The burn scars that had once marred them were no longer visible to any but the most discerning eyes.

“Anyone would think that you didn't trust me,” he said. “Is it something about me, men in general, or are you taking it out on all men for the misdeeds of one?”

She didn't know about trusting him; she did know it was the first time in three years that she had entrusted her hand into another's clasp without fighting the urge to snatch it away. “Take your pick,” she said haughtily in an attempt to cover her confusion. “The price of a meal buys you my company, not my life story.”

It was the kind of flip statement Jessica delivered so successfully, always managing to sound intelligent and amusing while making it cuttingly clear to the interrogator that trespass of her privacy was not permitted.