Oriental Hotel

Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello

• Janet Tanner
  
• Dedication
  
• PART ONE
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• PART TWO
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• PART THREE
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  

Janet Tanner is a prolific and well-loved author and has twice been shortlisted for RNA awards. Many of her novels are multi-generational sagas, and some – in particular the Hillsbridge Quartet – are based on her own working class background in a Somerset mining community. More recently, she has been writing historical and well-received Gothic novels for Severn House – a reviewer for
Booklist
, a trade publication in the United States, calls her “ a master of the Gothic genre”.

Besides publication in the UK and US, Janet's books have also been translated into dozens of languages and published all over the world. Before turning to novels she was a prolific writer of short stories and serials, with hundreds of stories appearing in various magazines and publications worldwide.

Janet Tanner lives in Radstock, Somerset.

To Terry with all my love

As the executive jet approached the airfield, brilliant
July
sunshine made the white-painted fuselage glint like Alpine snow and turned the bright yellow Cormorant insignia painted on the tail-fin to sparkling golden fire.

On the flight deck, Stuart Brittain eased his long back into a slightly more upright position against the smooth leather of the pilot's seat and flexed strong tanned fingers on the controls.

He was enjoying himself; enjoying the feeling of dominance over the powerful, man-made bird and the depth of concentration necessary to bring her in to land safely. He piloted the jet whenever he could and never failed to gain pleasure from it – or from knowing that it belonged, along with the other assets of Cormorant Trading, to himself and his family.

Not even here at Bristol, where he had to be talked in by a radar controller, did he have any intention of handing over to Captain Nicholas Thorne, who was employed by Cormorant to fly the Lear jet. There were many things on his mind, both business and personal, most of them connected with this visit to England; but for the moment he was giving not a thought to any of them. Nick Thorne had been relegated to the co-pilot's seat and he, Stuart Brittain, was in control. And he intended to relish every second. His hazel eyes narrowed slightly as he listened to the disembodied voice of the radar controller and made the necessary adjustments.

Beneath him he could see the green Somerset countryside, the blue expanse of the Chew Valley Lake sparkling in the sunshine, the grey ribbon of road. The aerodrome was bounded to the north by raw, rough-hewn quarry walls; to the west, beyond the softly undulating hills, was the greyish water of the Bristol Channel.

‘On track, range half a mile from touchdown …' droned the voice of the radar controller and then the aerodrome was almost beneath his wheels, the main airport building startlingly white in the sunshine against the bright, fluttering flags and the kaleidoscope of vehicles in the car park. Runway Zero-Two-Seven stretched ahead of him, cutting a broad grey path through the green. He came in smoothly, with only the slightest bounce as wheels touched on tarmac, and as his speed slowed to a gentle taxi the exhilaration began to ebb in him.

It had been a long flight from Hong Kong and Stuart had been at the controls since the last fuel stop in Cairo. He had enjoyed every moment, but now it was time to cease being a jet pilot and resume the mantle of high-powered business. He could never forget for long that he was last in line of the Brittains of Cormorant – the Brittains who
were
Cormorant – one of the most powerful trading companies in Hong Kong, with fingers in so many pies that it sometimes seemed to Stuart he would lose count of them – banking, electronics, clothing, plastics and a network of imports and exports.

But he did not lost count. He did all that was expected of him and more: travelling the world to set up new contracts, opening a depot here or signing a take-over deal there. And if he did not gain quite the same thrill from executing business deals as he did from flying a jet, at least he had the grace to acknowledge his debt to the company. Without it there would be no private plane, no Porsche car, no racing yacht nor any of the other assets he enjoyed.

Only twenty-eight years old, Stuart Brittain was already something of a legend. Tall, with thick dark hair and a lean strong face, he was not particularly handsome – though many women would have been prepared to swear that he was – but there was something about the humorous mouth above a deeply cleft chin, the hint of amusement in the hazel eyes and the deceptively lazy strength which ensured that those who met him remembered him.

There were some who, taking note of the fact that all the pursuits he enjoyed outside business were potentially lethal, murmured that he must have a death wish. Why else should he enjoy racing motor cars and power-boats, wind-surfing and hang-gliding, when most of his acquaintances preferred fast women, strong wine and the gambling table? But when this was put to him, Stuart only laughed. He certainly did not want to die – he enjoyed living too much. But he also enjoyed speed and danger, and with no one to please but himself saw no reason why he should not do exactly as he wished.

If he had had a wife and family, of course, it might have been different – and this was one of the reasons Stuart had avoided marriage. Freedom was important to him – the freedom to go where he liked and do as he chose. Cormorant was constricting enough; from the time he could walk and talk he had known the company was there waiting for him, a way of life he could never escape. And though he had grown to accept that, he had felt unable to face committing himself to marriage too.

Sometimes he felt a stab of envy for those of his friends who were happily married, it was true, but the mere thought of being accountable to one person for the rest of his life was enough to make him feel panic-stricken. For he firmly believed that marriage should be a commitment for life. He had seen too many failed marriages to want to risk this happening to him. And he had yet to meet, the girl who could make him want to commit himself so completely.

Helen, he supposed, had come closest to persuading him away from his bachelor state – Helen Shaw, who had joined Cormorant a year ago as personal assistant to his grandfather, Charles Brittain. She was bright, pretty and confident, good at her job, good with the people who mattered, good with everything in fact. Even after a long business meeting or a late session entertaining, she still looked perfectly turned out next morning, groomed and made-up like a model for
Vogue
magazine – every hair in place, nail varnish unchipped, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as if she had been in bed by ten. During the year she had worked for his grandfather, he had never known her to have to apologise for anything. Others made mistakes but Helen sailed confidently on.

If he was honest, Stuart thought, Helen's perfection was one of the things about her which he found slightly daunting. Everything she did was so perfectly measured; even when she was in his arms he felt that she was reacting to his kisses with her head and not her heart.

The jet was at a standstill now and on instructions from the control tower he turned her, taxiing gently towards the apron outside the airport buildings.

Beside him, Nick Thorne stretched luxuriously.

‘Well done! That was a good flight. Do you want me to take care of the formalities?'

Stuart nodded briefly. ‘Yes. Tell them we shall be here for two nights certainly, maybe three. Someone from Roydell Enterprises should be here to meet me, but you know what these business trips are. I doubt if we shall get down to any serious discussion until tomorrow. And while I'm in this pan of the world I have a little private business to attend to as well.'

In spite of the long flight, Stuart's voice was vibrant with barely suppressed energy and Nick Thorne threw him an amused glance. ‘Oh yes? For ‘‘private business''read ‘‘woman'' I suppose?'

It was Stuart's turn to smile. ‘It is a woman I want to see, yes, but it's not quite what you are thinking, my friend. In fact, it's not at all what you're thinking!'

‘And what would Helen think if she knew?' Nick asked wryly. ‘I thought she looked pretty grim when she saw you off, actually. She wanted to come along and keep an eye on you, I suppose?'

‘Probably,' Stuart said easily, but he was thinking: So Nick has noticed it too.

Lately he had been uncomfortably aware of a certain possessiveness in Helen's manner, though he had hoped he was mistaken. But certainly she had come up with a hundred and one good reasons why she should accompany him to Bristol and it had taken great firmness on his part to assure her she was not needed and that he could handle the deal with Roydell alone.

‘So who is this woman you want to see?' Nick asked curiously.

Stuart grinned. ‘It's a long story, Nick, far too long to tell you now. And to be honest, it sounds so far-fetched I doubt if you would believe me if I did tell you. But if you're still interested, I'll bore you with it on the way home. Now, to business! You'll deal with refuelling, won't you – and landing fees? Get an account – it could be anything up to a hundred English pounds and I don't want to run myself short of sterling.'

‘Don't worry, I can see to it,' Nick assured him. ‘And I shall look forward to hearing that story. OK?'