Sirocco

Rachel shook her head. ‘No. Roger's playing golf this morning, and I've no plans to see him until this evening.’ If he turns up, she added to herself silently. After last evening's fiasco, he might conceivably expect her to make the next move.

‘Oh, well——’ Mr Black shrugged his rounded shoulders, ‘that's all right, then.’ He paused. ‘Though I must say that young man of yours seems to have a great deal of free time. Does he work at all?'

‘Of course he does!’ Rachel was indignant. ‘But, as he works for himself, he can choose his own hours.'

‘Hmm.’ Mr Black sounded unimpressed. ‘Running women's clothes shops, I suppose.'

‘Roger supervises the management, yes.’ Rachel rose to her feet. ‘Is this all, Mr Black? Do you want me to contact Mr Perry about the Latimer case?'

Mr Black's nostrils flared as he accepted the rebuff, but he made no comment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Fix an appointment for me to see him on Friday. Oh, and arrange to send Mrs Black some flowers tomorrow, will you? It's our anniversary, and I shan't have the time.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.’ Rachel's mouth grew wry. ‘Is that it, then?'

‘I think so.’ Mr Black looked at his watch. ‘And with fifty seconds to spare. I suppose I should congratulate you.'

Rachel's lips twitched. ‘That won't be necessary, Mr Black. I'll see you this afternoon, shall I? Or won't you be back?'

‘It rather depends what happens,’ replied her employer thoughtfully. ‘I'll give you my answer at lunchtime. I should know by then.'

Sophie Tennant appeared soon after Mr Black had left the building, slipping into Rachel's office with a conspiratorial smile on her face. ‘Guess what?’ she said, perching on the side of Rachel's desk. ‘Mr Rennison's asked me to have lunch with him. Do you think I should accept?'

Rachel pulled the letter she had been typing out of the machine and viewed it critically. Then she looked up at the girl draped decoratively over the corner of her desk. Sophie was eighteen, four years her junior, and just as young and susceptible as Rachel had been when she first came to work here. A pretty blonde, with blue eyes and a pink and white complexion, Sophie had attracted the eye of one of the junior partners, and Rachel wondered how she could tell her she had had to negotiate that particular obstacle herself four years ago.

‘He is married,’ she pointed out now, shuffling the letters waiting to be typed together. ‘I've met his wife. She's very nice.'

Sophie pouted. ‘You're telling me not to go, aren't you?'

‘No.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘That's for you to decide. I'm only saying that—well, it's not the first time he's tried to date one of the typists.'

‘So what?’ Sophie swung her heel impatiently against the side of Rachel's desk. ‘I came to tell you because I thought you might understand. Everyone else around here is ancient!'

‘I wouldn't exactly call Mary Villiers ancient,’ replied Rachel tolerantly, and Sophie grimaced.

‘She's twenty-six if she's a day! All the secretaries are old, except you. And once you've left, I'll have no one to talk to.'

‘Well, I'm not planning on leaving just yet,’ remarked Rachel drily. ‘I'm not giving up work when I get married, you know that.'

Sophie shrugged. ‘So you say. But what if you get pregnant? You won't have much choice then, will you?'

‘N-o.’ Rachel acknowledged the point, but she refrained from adding that it was unlikely. Roger had said several times that he didn't want to start a family immediately, and in any case, they had no proof that such a contingency was even possible. In spite of his modern outlook on make-up and clothes and furnishings, Roger was singularly old-fashioned when it came to relationships, and although he had taught her ways to please him without their going to bed together, they had never actually made love.

‘So what do you think?’ Sophie persisted. ‘I mean, it's only lunch. It's no big deal.'

Rachel shrugged. ‘So long as he remembers that.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, would you like it, if you were his wife? Is it fair to encourage him to cheat on her?'

Sophie sighed. ‘He is very attractive, isn't he?'

‘If you like ex-rugby players, I suppose he is.'

‘Oh——’ Sophie's smile came and went, ‘you're not much help. Haven't you ever been tempted to cheat on Roger? I know you've been going out with him for ages! Surely there've been occasions when some other man has attracted you.'

‘I don't think so.’ Rachel was crisp, her tone sharper because of the unwanted memory Sophie had stirred. ‘Look, I've got to get on. You'll have to make up your own mind. It's your life, not mine.'

She felt a little mean when the younger girl had gone, realising her attitude had been governed by that unwelcome recollection. It was difficult for someone like Sophie to cope with the practised charm of a man like Peter Rennison. How could boys of her own age compete with his sophistication—and his Jaguar XJS?

It was almost lunchtime when the switchboard rang through to say there was a call for her. ‘Oh, that will be Mr Black,’ said Rachel at once, reaching confidently for her notepad, but Jennifer, the telephonist, demurred.

‘If it had been Mr Black, I'd have put him straight on to you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Or Roger either, for that matter. But this man won't give his name, and I thought I'd better ask you before putting him through.'

Rachel's mouth felt suddenly dry. ‘He—won't give his name?’ she echoed, and the telephonist went on:

‘He says it will mean nothing to you. Do you want to speak to him? Or shall I ask him to call back when Mr Black is there?'

Rachel was silent for so long that Jennifer asked whether she was still there, and pulling herself together she said she was. ‘Did—did he ask to speak to Mr Black?’ she asked at last, aware of a sudden tightness in her stomach, and Jennifer's response did nothing to alleviate her discomfort.

‘No. No, actually, he asked for you,’ the telephonist declared, obviously just comprehending that fact herself. ‘So what do I do? Shall I put him on? I must admit, he does sound rather dishy!'

Realising that whoever was calling, it was likely to cause a talking point in the office for days, Rachel came to a decision. ‘Tell him—tell him I'm out,’ she said quickly, feeling a hot flush run up her cheeks at the deliberate lie. ‘He's probably one of those freaks that call from time to time. Just get rid of him, will you, Jennifer?'

‘He did know your name,’ the other girl reminded her doubtfully. ‘He could be a friend of your father's. Or of Roger's.'

‘Then he'll have to get them to ring me,’ said Rachel, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘Don't worry about it, Jennifer. I'll find out later.'

‘Oh—all right.’ Clearly Jennifer was disappointed that she was not going to take the call, and Rachel was glad she had refused. She could just imagine Roger's reaction if he found out some strange man had been trying to ring her. And he might, bearing in mind the grapevine at Hector, Hollis and Black.

Mr Black himself rang a few minutes later and Rachel listened to his instructions with some abstraction. She was still trying to convince herself that the previous call had had nothing to do with what had happened last night, and it was difficult to concentrate on legal matters when her brain refused to function normally. It couldn't have been him, she told herself fiercely. He had no reason for getting in touch with her again. And in any case, how had he known where to find her? There must be dozens of Rachel Flemings in the greater London area.

‘Did you get that?'

Realising Mr Black was still speaking to her, Rachel was relieved to see that her hand had automatically taken down his instructions, even while her mind was occupied with other things. ‘You want me to take the Oliver file to Mr Rennison, and then go to Willis and Potter to collect some documents. Is that right?’ she ventured, and her employer agreed rather grudgingly that it was. ‘So long as you remember to tell Rennison I want that file back tomorrow,’ he added brusquely, before clearing his throat. ‘Damn this chest of mine! I think I'm getting a dose of bronchitis. Call Mrs Black, will you, and ask her to get a repeat prescription of my tonic from the chemist. I'd ask you to get it for me, but the chap in Cricklewood knows what I need.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.’ Rachel acknowledged his request and jotted it down. ‘Anything else?'

‘No, I don't think so. I should be back around four. Do you think you could stay until six this evening? I'd like these reports typing up before I leave the office.'

Rachel hesitated. Roger was supposed to be calling for her this evening and they were going to have dinner with some friends of his. But he wasn't coming until seven-thirty, and she would have plenty of time, even if she didn't leave the office until six. If he rang before she got home, Jane could explain.

‘Okay,’ she said now, ‘I'll stay until six. Is that everything?'

‘That's it,’ he agreed dourly. ‘Goodbye.'

Sophie appeared in the doorway as she was plugging in the electric kettle to make herself a cup of coffee in lieu of a meal, and Rachel arched dark brows in her direction. ‘What, no lunch?'

‘No.’ Sophie sidled into the room. ‘I told him I had another date. Can I stay in here with you? Just until he's left the building?'

‘You can have some coffee, if you like,’ Rachel offered casually. ‘I'm not going out today. I promised Mr Black I'd be here in case there were any urgent messages.'

Sophie grimaced, and after surveying the room for somewhere to sit, she found herself a comfortable place in the leather armchair in the corner. ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the earthenware beaker Rachel handed her. ‘This is cosy, isn't it? I wish I worked for one of the partners. Our office is as draughty as a wind tunnel!'

‘I know—I used to work there,’ Rachel sympathised, resuming her seat at her desk and propping her feet up on the waste paper basket. ‘Mmm, coffee: the saviour of the twentieth century!'

Sophie relaxed. ‘How long is it to the wedding? Your wedding, I mean. Didn't you say you were getting married at the beginning of June? Lucky thing! Have you decided where you're going to spend your honeymoon?'

Rachel looked down into her coffee cup. ‘Nothing's properly decided yet. Oh, we're getting married at the beginning of June, you're right about that. But Roger doesn't know whether he'll be able to get away at that time. We may have to postpone the honeymoon.'

‘What a shame!’ Sophie gave her a commiserating look. ‘Still, I suppose being together is the important thing, isn't it? Are you going to move into his apartment?'

Rachel nodded. ‘That's the idea.'

‘It is his own apartment, isn't it?’ Sophie was youthfully inquisitive. ‘His mother doesn't live there, does she?'

‘No.’ Rachel's smile was tolerant. ‘She has her own house in St John's Wood.'

‘I envy you, you know,’ remarked Sophie sighing. ‘Being able to give up work, if you want to. And not just because you're marrying Roger either. It must be nice to be rich.'

‘I'm not rich,’ exclaimed Rachel, laughing. ‘And I do have to work, believe me!'

‘But your father——'

‘My father doesn't support me,’ declared Rachel firmly. ‘If that's what you think, forget it.'

‘But he would if you asked him,’ said Sophie irrepressibly. ‘My father couldn't, even if he wanted to. He finds it hard enough to support the rest of the family!'

Rachel had no response to make to this, and for several minutes the two girls sat in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. For Rachel's part, she was thinking that Sophie had something she had never had, and that was a proper home life. Her own parents’ divorce when she was barely eight had left her at the mercy of aunts and boarding schools. Her mother had taken herself off to Australia with the salesman she had fallen in love with, and Rachel's father had found various excuses why he could not take care of his child. In consequence, until she was eighteen Rachel had seen very little of either parent, and only when her father discovered what a beautiful young woman she had turned out to be did he begin to appreciate the asset she might prove to his business dealings. But by then it was too late. Rachel had found employment with Hector, Hollis and Black, and her subsequent meeting with Jane Snowden, an older girl, who used to attend the same school, culminated in their taking the flat together as soon as Jane had completed her course at university.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Sophie at last, ‘I wish something exciting would happen to me!'

‘Like Peter Rennison?’ suggested Rachel drily, and the younger girl grimaced.

‘Well, he is handsome, you must admit. And I love that car of his, don't you?'

Rachel shook her head. ‘It's all right.'

‘All right?' Sophie was beginning indignantly, when without warning the door opened and a man's tall figure appeared in the aperture.

For the space of a moment, Rachel thought it was Peter Rennison, come to check up on Sophie's immature excuse. She was in the process of finishing the coffee in her mug and her first glimpse was of a man's dark pants and suede boots set some inches apart. But as she lowered her cup and her eyes moved up over an expensive leather jacket covering an equally costly silk shirt and tie, her conviction weakened, and by the time she reached the determined curve of his jaw she was certain she knew who it was. Her eyes flew to his, to clear grey eyes set beneath brows several shades darker than his hair, which in this light revealed the streaks of sun-bleached lightness in its wheat-gold vitality, and her stomach contracted.

‘Good morning,’ he said, with cool assurance. ‘Or should I say good afternoon?’ He consulted the slim watch, whose leather strap encircled his wrist. ‘It is almost one o'clock.'

CHAPTER TWO

RACHEL exchanged a look with Sophie and seeing the avid expression on the other girl's face she inwardly groaned. Much though she liked her, Sophie was the last person she would have wished to be here at this moment, and she could already hear the gossip which would ensue from this encounter.

Realising she had to say something, Rachel put her feet to the floor and stood up. ‘Er—can I help you?’ she asked, hoping against hope that he might get the message and not compromise her. Why on earth had he come here? What did he want? And how had he found her in such a short time?

‘I hope so,’ he said now, the grey eyes moving intently over her flushed face, and Rachel ran her moist palms down the seams of her skirt. She had forgotten how penetrating his gaze had been, and seen in daylight he was infinitely more disturbing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he added, moving into the room and immediately dwarfing it. ‘My name is Roche,’ he said it with a French accent, ‘Alexis Roche. Completely sober, as you will have observed.'

Rachel closed her eyes for a moment and then, aware of his sudden move towards her, quickly opened them again. ‘I—well—Mr Roche,’ she said awkwardly, casting another glance in Sophie's direction, ‘what can we do for you?'

He was silent for a moment, as if gauging the import of her question, but then, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, he said: ‘I telephoned you this morning. You refused to speak to me.’ He paused. ‘So—I am here. In person, as they say.'

Rachel moistened her dry lips. ‘Er—how did you get in? How did you find this office?'

The grey eyes narrowed between short thick lashes, whose ends were tipped with the same silvery bleach as his hair. ‘It wasn't difficult to get in,’ he essayed smoothly. ‘I merely came through the door, like everyone else. As to how I found this office—I asked.'

‘Who?'

Rachel was playing for time, desperately trying to find a way out of this without betraying their association to Sophie, who was listening to the exchange with ever-increasing interest. His explanation of finding her was too reasonable to be false. It was comparatively easy to walk into the building, particularly if one acted as if one was familiar with its rabbit-warren of halls and corridors. And anyone could have told him which office was hers. It wasn't a secret, after all.

‘I don't know who,’ he said now, with some impatience. ‘Some elderly man I met on the stairs. Is it important? I did not come here to find out where you worked, merely to invite you to have lunch with me.'

Rachel heard Sophie's sudden intake of breath and felt suddenly angry. He had no right to come here and behave as if they were old friends, she thought frustratedly. Just because he had told her his name it did not give him the prerogative to ask her out to lunch. She knew nothing about him. He knew nothing about her. She could be married for all he knew, and with this in mind, she raised her left hand to her throat to expose the obvious glitter of her engagement ring.

‘I'm sorry,’ she said—though if he had any perception, she thought aggressively, he would know that she was not—‘I'm afraid I can't accept your invitation. My—fiancé—wouldn't like it.'

Alexis Roche's gaze did not falter. ‘My invitation was to you, not your fiancé,’ he said, with impassive arrogance. ‘I should like to thank you, more fully than I did last night.'

His words were deliberate, Rachel was sure, and she wanted to die of embarrassment. She could just imagine how this was going to be relayed around the office, and every incriminating syllable was deepening the interest in Sophie's round blue eyes. The way he had used their encounter, they might have spent the night together for all the younger girl knew, and Rachel couldn't believe he was unaware of it.

Realising her only means of defence lay in attack, she gave up the unequal struggle to keep the facts of their meeting quiet. Turning, she gave Sophie a frosted smile before saying crisply: ‘Mr Roche and I met last evening, as I was leaving Roger's party. He—he wasn't feeling very well, and—and I offered to help him.'

‘Really?’ Sophie slid off her chair, her eyes never leaving Alexis Roche's face. ‘How exciting!’ She drew a little nearer. ‘Do you live in London, Mr Roche?'

He withdrew his gaze from Rachel with evident reluctance, and surveyed the younger girl with polite interest. ‘For the present,’ he replied, without explaining any further. Then: ‘Would you mind leaving us? I should like to speak to Miss Fleming privately.'

‘Oh, sure,’ agreed Sophie, nodding, just as Rachel burst out: ‘Don't go!'

But, after lifting her shoulders a little apologetically, Sophie hesitated only momentarily before obeying Alexis Roche's instructions, and Rachel watched with compressed lips as she edged towards the door. ‘I'll see you later,’ she murmured, pulling a rueful face, and Rachel stood there helplessly as her only protection disappeared.

Protection! The word had insinuated itself into her mind almost without her consciously seeking for it, and she clenched her fists impotently. She didn't need protection; he did. She felt so angry, she could have done him physical injury.

‘Will you please leave?’ she demanded now, walking towards the door and putting her fingers on the handle. ‘My boss will be back from lunch shortly, and he doesn't approve of us entertaining guests on the premises.'

Alexis Roche made no move to leave. Instead, he looked around the shabby office, his lips curling as he remarked: ‘I can't imagine you wanting to entertain anyone here. Is it always as dirty as this?'

Rachel caught her breath. ‘It's not dirty,’ she defended, even though she had thought the same many times. ‘It's—dusty, that's all. Law offices are like that. Solicitors often have to refer to cases from the past, and the records get old and musty sitting on the shelves. We know where things are, when we need them. That's the important thing.'

‘Haven't you heard of computers—and micro-technology?’ he enquired wryly, and Rachel expelled her breath on a gasp.

‘This is an old established firm,’ she replied shortly. ‘Our clients might not approve of their case histories being recorded on a computer. Besides,’ she added, not quite knowing why she was bothering to explain, ‘computers cost money, and——'

‘—and your clients would prefer their fees to be spent in their defence,’ he put in smoothly. ‘Very well, you've convinced me. Now will you allow me to buy you lunch?'

Rachel stared at him. ‘Mr Roche——'

‘You may call me Alex.'

‘Mr Roche, do you want me to call for assistance to have you ejected from this building? I can, you know. And I will, if you don't leave.'

Now he sighed, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The jacket was honey-coloured and complemented his dark tan, and she couldn't help the unwilling curiosity of wondering what nationality he was. He spoke French, and yet he didn't look French, if such a thing was possible. He was too tall, for one thing, and those cool grey eyes ...

Abruptly she halted her speculation, aware that he was still watching her with that narrow-eyed catlike appraisal. She hoped he wasn't able to read her mind. Its turbulent upheaval was in complete contrast to the calm and collected façade she was endeavouring to maintain.

‘Why won't you have lunch with me?’ he asked quietly. He glanced towards her desk. ‘You've eaten, perhaps? Very well, I will buy you a drink——'

‘Mr Roche, I don't accept invitations from strange men.’ Rachel hesitated, then added stiffly: ‘Now, will you leave?'

He frowned, his well-marked brows descending over eyes that were distinctly cooler now. ‘I am not a strange man, Miss Fleming. I have told you who I am. If you wish to know a little more of my family background, I can tell you that my father is in shipping and my grandfather owns land in Bahdan——'

‘I don't wish to know your family background, Mr Roche,’ exclaimed Rachel impatiently, though his final words had intrigued her somewhat. Bahdan. That was in the Middle East. It was one of those sheikdoms that had recently come into prominence, and if his father owned land there, he must be in oil.

Nevertheless, it was nothing to do with her, and drawing a deep breath, she pulled the door wide. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Roche,’ she said pointedly, evidently waiting for him to leave, and with another brooding frown, he finally accepted his dismissal.

But he paused in the doorway, close enough for her to smell the faint scent of some shaving lotion that hung about him, and to feel the heat of his body. ‘Until we meet again,’ he murmured, the fresh odour of his breath stirring the hair on her forehead and making her overwhelmingly aware of his alien attraction.

She didn't answer him, but with the door closed and her shoulders pressed against it she gave way to a sudden fit of shivering. It was the draught from the corridor, she told herself. The cold from outside came straight up the stairs. Yet she had never noticed it before, and although the door was closed, she was still shaking.

Sophie didn't appear again that afternoon, and Rachel was relieved. She supposed that sooner or later she would have to give a more detailed explanation, but the longer that was put off, the easier it would be.

Mr Black arrived back soon after four as he had predicted, and the rest of the day was spent in typing up the reports of the hearings he had attended. With her hands flying busily over the keyboard and her brain engrossed with other people's problems, Rachel had little time to worry about her own, and it was not until she was leaving the building that she felt a certain sense of apprehension. But no one was waiting for her. She made her way to the bus stop without incident, and on the journey home she occupied herself with wondering whether Roger had called in her absence.

Jane had a cup of tea waiting for her when she entered the flat. Rachel had rung her friend earlier to explain that she was working late, and now Jane regarded her sympathetically as she kicked off her boots and flopped on to the couch in the living room.