Sirocco

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.

‘You know,’ she persisted. ‘Go out with other men. It—it wouldn't be fair.'

‘Not even if you want to go out with another man?’ he queried softly, and her skin prickled. ‘Not even then?'

‘But I don't—I haven't—oh, this is Oakwood Road. I'm home.'

‘Wait.’ His hand stayed her as she would have got out of the car, and she quivered as Hassim left his seat to walk round the bonnet and swing open her door. ‘Your roses,’ he murmured, putting the box into her hands, and Rachel was still trembling when the luxurious limousine drew away.

Rachel's father rang on Sunday morning.

‘How about having lunch with me?’ he suggested, after learning that Jane had gone to Worthing to spend the day with her parents, and Rachel was happy to agree. Spending time alone was not good for her in her present frame of mind, and she was ready and waiting when Charles Fleming rang the doorbell.

Her father was a man in his late fifties, to whom the years had not always been kind. His propensity for the good life had finally made a permanent mark upon his fleshy features, and the pouches beneath his eyes seemed more pronounced than when Rachel had last seen him.

Nevertheless, as they went down to his car, she decided he had not deserved the way her mother had treated him, and although she knew there had been faults on both sides, his age and accessibility had tended to influence Rachel in his favour.

They drove out to Windsor and had lunch at a hotel overlooking the river. At this time of year the waterway was not particularly attractive, but the customers taking lunch were more interested in the food. They had homemade pâté, and roast beef, and finished the meal with cheese and coffee, and it was not until they had reached this stage that Charles betrayed the real reason for his invitation.

‘How is that boy-friend of yours getting along?’ he enquired, surprising Rachel by his question, as he and Roger had never had much liking for one another.

‘He's fine,’ she said now, ignoring the slightly hollow feeling her words evoked. ‘But we—er—we're having some difficulties over the arrangements for the wedding. Roger's mother wants to take over everything, and I've explained you and I can organise the reception.'

‘Organise?’ Charles frowned. ‘You mean pay, I suppose?'

‘Well—yes. And arrange where it's to be, of course. And choose my dress and Jane's.'

‘Hmm.’ Her father nodded, pouring the last dregs of the bottle of wine he had ordered into his own glass and viewing it thoughtfully. ‘Well, you know, my sweet, it might not be a bad idea to let Mrs Harrington have her way——'

‘What?'

‘—as she's so set on it. I mean, it's not as if your mother was here to take offence. I'd have thought you'd have welcomed a—a woman's touch. It's obvious Roger's mother thinks the world of you.'

‘It's not obvious at all!’ Rachel was indignant. ‘I don't know why you're saying this. You don't like Mrs Harrington—you've said so. And you've never shown any particular love for Roger, if it comes to that!'

‘Now, now ...’ Her father patted her hand, glancing about them half anxiously, as if afraid their conversation might have been overheard. ‘Don't go getting upset. All I'm saying is that perhaps you should consider it. They are going to be family, aren't they? Families should stick together.'

Rachel gasped. ‘You mean you won't give me your support?'

‘Well ...’ Charles drew out the word consideringly, ‘it isn't as simple as that, Rachel. Things are pretty tight at present. Money's scarce. We're in the middle of a recession, and it isn't always possible to do all the things we'd like to do.'

‘What are you saying?'

Charles Fleming sighed. ‘Don't look at me like that! I'm your father, Rachel. It's not my fault if certain investments I've made haven't yielded the profit I expected.'

‘You mean—you're having financial difficulties?'

‘Temporarily. Only temporarily,’ her father assured her firmly. ‘But you can see, can't you, that this isn't exactly the right time to come to me for money. As a matter of fact—well, I did wonder—that nest-egg your grandmother left you—is there any chance of you being able to lend me a couple of hundred?'

Rachel sucked in her breath. ‘Lend you——'

‘Just for a week or two,’ put in her father earnestly. ‘I've got what they call a “cash flow” problem.'

‘And two hundred pounds will help?’ said Rachel incredulously.

‘For the time being,’ agreed her father. ‘It's just a little problem, but I need cash for entertaining and so on.'

‘I thought you used credit cards,’ said Rachel, frowning, and her father gave an impatient exclamation.

‘Don't you trust me, Rachel?’ he demanded. ‘I've never asked you for anything before, have I? Surely it's not such a momentous decision.'

Rachel bent her head. It was true; he had never asked her for money before. But until she was twenty-one, the five thousand pounds her grandmother had left her had been held in trust, and it was only six months since her birthday.

‘How much did you have in mind?’ she asked now, and her father breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Could you make it—five hundred?’ he suggested tentatively, and Rachel lifted her head to gaze at him in disbelief.

‘You said a couple of hundred,’ she reminded him, but Charles Fleming was not deterred.

‘Two hundred, five hundred, what's the difference?’ he exclaimed carelessly. ‘You'll have it back in a few days. Shall we say five per cent?'

Rachel blinked. ‘Five per cent?'

‘Interest,’ said her father, patting her hand. ‘Can't have you losing by this, can we?'

Rachel flushed. ‘I don't want any interest, Dad. I—when do you want it? I can write you a cheque now, if you like.'

‘Oh, no,’ his hand imprisoned hers, ‘not a cheque. I—er—I'd prefer cash, if that's all right with you.’ He gave her a winning smile. ‘Easier all round, don't you know? Don't want the old tax man getting his nose into this transaction, do we?'

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘I'll get the money tomorrow lunchtime. Do you want me to bring it to your office?'

‘No. No, I'll meet you.’ Charles looked thoughtful. ‘Shall we say—on the Embankment, near Temple Station, at one o'clock?'

Rachel shrugged, feeling suddenly depressed. She had thought her father had asked her out for lunch so that they could be together, but now it seemed all he had wanted was a handout. She sighed, remembering the things Roger had said about her father; that he was a fool and a womaniser, that his business dealings were not always honest, and that she was lucky her parents had split up when they did, thus removing her from his corrupting influence.

She sighed then, determinedly putting these thoughts aside. She was being silly, she told herself. The fact that her father was asking her for a loan was no reason to jump to the conclusion that Roger had been right all along. It was the first time he had come to her, and she was his daughter, after all. Who else should he turn to?

‘Temple Station,’ she agreed now, reaching for the meal check. ‘And I suppose I'd better handle this, too.’ She managed a smile. ‘As you're having a cash flow problem!'

For several days the subject of their wedding was carefully avoided by both Rachel and Roger. Rachel met her father on Monday lunchtime and handed over the five hundred pounds, and this was something else she did not discuss with her fiancé. She knew Roger would make some scathing comment if she confessed the truth to him, and she didn't want to create any more dissention when matters were so strained between them.

At the office she had to run the gauntlet of a certain amount of teasing. Sophie was back at work, and had lost no time in coming to see her friend to ask about the mysterious stranger. The fact that Rachel had refused to discuss the affair had not made a scrap of difference to her. She had her own ideas concerning Alexis Roche, and although Rachel refused to participate, Sophie perpetually found some way to bring his name into her conversation. In consequence, the female washroom buzzed with gossip, and when the story of the roses somehow found its way to feminine ears, Rachel had no choice but to concede that it was true.

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