Книга - Living With Marc

Living With Marc
Jane Donnelly


Love thy neighbor?Things had a way of happening around Robin Johnson. She always seemed to be in the middle of some scrape or another! She could understand why the cool, discerning lawyer Marc Hammond should have reservations about hiring Robin as his great-aunt's companion. She was hardly the quiet and retiring type–but then, neither was his great-aunt!It looked as if Marc was going to have his hands full with Robin in the house. She was quite simply enough to drive any man to distraction!







Nothing much seemed to surprise Marc Hammond (#u5e92f335-c897-53c0-9fe4-b3c8dec23c27)About the Author (#ude07ec8e-b8d1-56ed-8db7-b5be25a8bcf8)Title Page (#ue18d8874-298d-592e-9c8b-f865983a030d)Chapter One (#ue12a2f36-7970-52a6-9c8d-a1066ac7f44f)Chapter Two (#u5b999b52-ca7e-5f02-b2b9-c013ee7cf694)Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Nothing much seemed to surprise Marc Hammond

Not much surprised Robin, either; she was used to the unexpected happening around her. Half the time she didn’t know why it happened, and most of the time she didn’t know how to deal with it.

Marc had said that she was a time bomb, but of all the men Robin had ever met, Marc Hammond was the one who seemed to pack so much dynamic energy that she couldn’t imagine life would ever be calm around him.


Jane Donnelly began earning her living as a teenage reporter. When she married the editor of the newspaper, she freelanced for women’s magazines for a while—and she wrote her first Mills & Boon romance as a hard-up single parent. Now she lives in a roses-around-the-door cottage near Stratford-on-Avon, England, with her daughter, four dogs and assorted rescued animals. Besides writing, she enjoys traveling, swimming, walking and the company of friends.




Living With Marc

Jane Donnelly







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

ROBIN had thought the day could not get worse, but when she saw who was sitting behind that desk she had to bite her lip hard or she would have shrieked with hysterical laughter. The sight of Robin was a shock to him too. It took a lot to shake Marc Hammond, but one of the heavy dark eyebrows raised a fraction as he gasped, ‘Good Lord!’

‘Good afternoon and goodbye,’ Robin gulped.

She was turning to leave when he asked, ‘Whatever made you imagine you’d be suitable for the job?’

Robin hadn’t exchanged a word with Marc Hammond for years. But the way he was putting her down now—a big man behind a big desk, so sure of himself in every way—brought back memories.

Last time she had seen him she’d been seventeen and tongue-tied. Now, a few years older, and after one heck of a morning, her self-control cracked. Rage flared in her, bright as her tumbling red hair, and she was across the room, gripping the edge of the desk, leaning over and facing him.

‘Because,’ she snapped, ‘the advert was for a companion-driver to an elderly lady and I reckon I’d be efficient on both counts, but I know you wouldn’t employ me any way, any time, so we have both wasted a few minutes.’

He was leaning back in his chair, chin in hand, watching her as if she was making a show of herself.

‘The old lady in question,’ he drawled drily, ‘has had more than enough excitement over the years. What she’s needing now is peace and quiet, and I don’t suppose there’s much of that around you.’

She should not have flared up. She should have stayed cool-headed. She made a belated attempt to retrieve a little dignity, straightening up, letting her hands fall to her sides, saying, ‘Sorry,’ although she had nothing to apologise to him for. ‘It’s been one of those days.’

‘Have a lot of them, do you?’ he enquired.

More than you, she thought. I bet not much goes wrong with your day, or your life. She shrugged. ‘Not too many. But no job, of course.’

‘No job.’

If he was doing the interviewing the old lady had to be somebody close to him. He’d never consider Robin, and she couldn’t have taken on work that might have kept her under Marc Hammond’s eye.

When he got up she remembered how tall he was. She was over average height herself, but as he came round the desk he was towering over her and she found herself backing towards the door. ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said.

‘No need. I know the way.’ The front door had been opened by a woman who looked like a housekeeper. The office where Marc Hammond had been waiting led off the hall, and Robin did not want him walking anywhere beside her. But he ignored her protests; he was seeing her out, and she bit back the urge to say, You don’t have to watch that I’m leaving empty-handed; I won’t pocket any of the silver.

The wide floor of the hall was of polished wood, there were rugs in dark jewel colours and the paintings all looked like pricey originals.

When Robin had turned from the road into a curving drive leading to a house with white pillars and three storeys of long white windows, she had thought, Wow!

The advertisement had had a phone number and she had been given this address. She hadn’t known who lived here but she had hoped it was the elderly lady who was advertising, because it had looked such a super place to work in. That, of course, was before she had known Marc Hammond was here. Now she couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.

He said nothing to her as they walked down the hall. He might have managed a goodbye when he’d opened the door, but just before they reached it somebody called, ‘Robin?’ and Robin whirled round as an elderly woman came tripping down the stairs with a wide, welcoming smile. ‘Robin? It is Robin?’ And the woman she knew as Mrs Myson threw her arms around her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I—I came about the job,’ Robin stammered.

‘You never. You did?’ She clasped her hands together and almost did a little dance. ‘But this is marvellous. Marc, how did you find her?’

Marc Hammond looked down on them both. ‘I didn’t,’ he said shortly. ‘Where did you?’

‘You mean she just came along?’ Mrs Myson had silver hair, beautifully styled, and an almost unlined face. Now her blue eyes sparkled as Robin explained.

‘I answered the ad in Friday’s paper. Are you the lady who needs a driver?’ Mrs Myson nodded. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘And I didn’t know you were Miss Johnson.’ Neither had Marc Hammond. There were lots of Johnsons around although none of them was related to Robin. If she had said ‘Robin Johnson’ instead of just ‘Johnson’ he would never have interviewed her.

‘I didn’t know you were looking for a job.’ Mrs Myson’s smile was mischievous. ‘Between you and me, I don’t really think there is a job, but now I know you’re interested I’m changing my mind.’ Her smile took them both in. ‘Well, isn’t this lovely?’

‘I’d put it another way.’ Marc Hammond was tight-lipped, unsmiling. ‘Where did you two meet?’

‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ the old lady said blithely. That wasn’t quite true.

‘Where?’ he persisted.

‘At the Sunday market,’ Mrs Myson said, and now she was holding both Robin’s hands. Getting the job that had been advertised would have been brilliant, because Robin liked Mrs Myson. But with Marc Hammond calling the odds her chances were nil.

The Sunday market was held weekly on the old airfield in countryside a few miles out of town. Anyone could hire a pitch and Robin often turned up to help an old schoolfriend. Amy was a single mother short on funds, who had a flair for sewing and ‘did’ local jumble sales, bought items cheaply then laundered and mended and sometimes restyled, and offered. very wearable clothes at very reasonable prices.

When Robin helped with the selling, trade always improved, because Robin jollied the customers. The market was popular; customers arrived from miles around. When Robin smiled at them most folk smiled back, and in no time she would be helping them find a bargain.

Mrs Myson had been on the charity stall the morning Robin had been buying a little china ballerina, for a friend’s birthday, from the bric-a-brac section. ‘I used to have red hair. Not as beautiful as yours, but red,’ the old lady serving had told her. Robin had liked her on sight. Her gaiety of spirit had made a little bond between them and Robin had looked out for her in the months that had followed.

Mrs Myson was usually on the charity stall. She turned up for all sorts of good causes, from a country ravaged by war or drought or earthquakes to the local cats’ home. And although she was always cheerful Robin wondered if she had a lonely life outside her charity fund-raising.

If the old lady lived in this house and the powerful Marc Hammond was watching out for her, she was hardly alone, but Robin felt she would have quite enjoyed being Maybelle Myson’s companion. There was a refreshing spark of devilment in the old lady, and when Marc said, ‘You work on a charity stall?’ as if he couldn’t believe that Robin would be helping anybody but herself, Mrs Myson defended her indignantly.

‘Yes, Robin has helped on the stall.’ A couple of times when Robin had found Mrs Myson alone and busy she had given a hand. ‘And last week she helped us pack up when we had that cloudburst.’ Mrs Myson was still holding Robin’s hands. ‘You are taking the job?’

‘I’ve already been turned down.’ Robin smiled as she spoke because it was best to treat this lightly.

‘Why?’ Mrs Myson was bewildered, looking at Marc for an explanation.

‘The idea is to find you a congenial companion who can drive a car and keep an eye on you,’ he said wearily. ‘I know you think you could still ferry a raft up the Amazon but you need reminding that you are eighty-two years old, and I have no intention of letting you loose with a juvenile delinquent.’

‘What did you say?’ Robin glared; she couldn’t help it. ‘I am not a juvenile.’ Not even a teenager. Twenty years old today, and so far it had been the kind of birthday she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. ‘Nor am I a delinquent,’ she snapped. ‘I could sue you for saying that.’

‘Only if you got yourself a very good lawyer.’ That had to be a joke of sorts; Marc Hammond, head of Hammond and Hammond, was the smartest lawyer she was ever likely to meet.

Deadpan, she said, ‘Ha, ha.’ And Mrs Myson protested.

‘That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Marc. What’s so unsuitable about Robin? Why shouldn’t she be—’ she pulled a face as if this was a silly description ‘—a lady’s companion?’

He showed real exasperation for the first time, his voice suddenly harsh, ‘For God’s sake, look at her.’

Robin knew what he meant by that. Her hair was so bright a red that only those who had known her since she was a child believed that it was natural, and she wore it almost waist-length. But even when it was tucked away under a hat Robin Johnson was still a knockout. She had a model girl’s long-legged figure, with high cheekbones, a wide mouth and restless green eyes. Without deliberately doing a thing, Robin was a stirrer. Around her, life quickened and sometimes got out of hand.

She knew how she was looking now—her cheeks flushed and her eyes glinting, because Marc Hammond had that effect on her—but Mrs Myson seemed to see nothing wrong in her appearance. ‘I can’t believe you’d turn Robin down just because she’s young,’ Mrs Myson said.

Marc Hammond smiled at that. Cynically. And his voice was sarcastic, as he said, ‘I take back the juvenile; I’m sure Miss Johnson is old for her years.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ Robin muttered. She managed to get one hand free from Mrs Myson, who had a very firm grip for someone in her eighties.

‘But you still think she might be too hot to handle?’ Mrs Myson was teasing Marc and he was looking at her with amused tolerance.

‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘She certainly was last time.’

‘Last time?’ the elderly lady echoed.

‘When she worked for me,’ said Marc Hammond. ‘Briefly.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Mrs Myson was smiling. ‘This has to mean there was some sort of trouble.’

‘There would have been,’ he said drily, and Robin flared up.

‘Don’t make it sound as if I was robbing the till.’

There had been no tills in that office. Hammond and Hammond were the top law firm in town, the building they occupied was one of the most impressive, and Robin had arrived there as a trainee receptionist.

And had met Marc Hammond. She had seen him crossing the foyer—a tall, dark, strikingly good-looking man. He had come across, looked hard at her and welcomed her to the firm. She had gulped, feeling her breath catch in her throat, and she had still been holding her breath when he’d walked away. After that he hadn’t seemed to notice her at all until her first Friday.

Others had. A studious, bespectacled junior clerk had fancied her from the first day, and when Robin had had lunch with him he had gone back to the office on cloud nine. He’d even grinned at the husky biker in studded leather who had been leaning on the counter under the disapproving eye of the senior receptionist, until the biker had come over and knocked him flat.

The clerk’s first impression was that here was a homicidal maniac, and for the first time in his life, and probably the last, he started frantically to fight back.

Robin shrieked. She knew the biker. She had had a very brief fling with him and wanted no more. She yelled, ‘Stop it, you idiots,’ but the biker went on throwing the punches and, seeing blood, the receptionist gave a high-pitched scream that went on and on.

Hammond and Hammond was a law firm. Folk came into their offices carrying a load of grief and resentment, but there had never been a scene as physically violent as this, a rough and tumble between two men, fists and feet flying, and a girl with long flaming red hair dodging around screaming their names and trying to shove them apart.

When Marc Hammond came down the stairs Robin didn’t see him until he yanked the biker away and threw him through the door into the street. Jack was two hundred and ten pounds but he went out bodily, hardly touching the ground.

Then Hammond turned on his employees. ‘Right, you two—in my office,’ he said.

The receptionist was moaning now, staring at the spots of blood on Robin’s white shirt. There was more on the junior clerk because it was his nose which was bleeding, although it didn’t show up on his dark suit. He dug into his pocket for a tissue, trying to staunch the flow as they trailed after Marc Hammond, through a small, empty office into a large room with panelled walls and a huge desk with a black leather top.

Hammond closed the door and Robin thought that she and the clerk must look a wretched pair. Tony had realised he had been fighting with Robin’s boyfriend in front of Hammond himself and that this was probably going to cost him his job. His nose was sore, and he’d lost his glasses, so that he could hardly see. But he could see enough for Marc Hammond, still immaculate and cool as a cucumber, to look more formidable than a gang of roughnecks.

Robin was flushed and breathing fast, her hair all over the place, and miserably aware that most of this was her fault. The young man blinked, head ducked. Robin looked up at Marc Hammond and wondered if there was any way she could plead for her colleague.

‘You’d better clean up and go home for the day,’ he said.

‘Yessir,’ the clerk mumbled into his bloodstained tissue as he stumbled blindly out of the room.

Then Hammond turned his attention to Robin. There was a scorching feeling of danger about him. She could feel the heat burning her cheeks.

‘Has this kind of thing happened before?’ he was demanding.

She nearly said no. But once or twice it had, so she muttered, ‘Well—’

‘I thought so. Well, you might get a kick out of two men fighting over you but our clients don’t expect to walk into a blood bath when they come through the door.’

She was getting the sack. Aunt Helen had been right. ‘You’ll never keep a job there,’ she’d said when Robin had told her and Uncle Edward that she’d had an interview and was starting on Monday. This would be just what Aunt Helen had expected, but all through lunch the young clerk had been talking about his career prospects. He was so pleased to be working here.

‘What will happen to him?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’

‘I can believe that,’ Hammond drawled. ‘Somebody like Tony wouldn’t stand much of a chance if you moved in on him.’

That was not what she’d meant. She hadn’t made the moves. The first day she’d arrived he had asked for a date and gone on asking, but it was not until today she’d agreed just to have a sandwich with him. She said, ‘I meant the fight; Jack hit him first.’

‘I’m sure he did. I think Tony’s ego has been damaged enough for one week. We can forget him. The problem is you.’ She felt even younger than she was, standing there while he passed judgement on her. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll make your mark,’ he said drily. ‘But not in my firm. And I hope you don’t do too much damage to others on the way.’

She went downstairs to get her coat. The receptionist was dealing with a smartly dressed man and woman and avoided looking Robin’s way, and Robin thought that it was just as well they hadn’t arrived five minutes earlier. They didn’t look the sort to be impressed by a member of the firm having a punch-up with a biker.

Now, three years later, the biker had long gone. Robin might have passed the clerk in town since without noticing him, but they’d certainly never spoken another word to each other.

‘So what happened?’ Mrs Myson was wanting to know. She looked from Robin to Marc and he answered.

‘Three years ago, you were with us how long?’ He knew how long, Robin would bet. ‘Nearly a week, wasn’t it?’ She nodded and he told Mrs Myson, ‘Two of her admirers had a fight in the foyer.’

‘The office foyer?’

‘That’s the one.’

She crowed with laughter. ‘I never heard about it.’

‘We kept it quiet.’ His grin took the sternness from his face, making him look suddenly light-hearted. ‘We didn’t want rumours getting around that dissatisfied clients were beating up the staff. The only witness was Edna Hodgkiss, and you know what a soul of discretion she is.’

Mrs Myson wasn’t shocked; her eyes were twinkling. But Robin knew the joke was on her. At just seventeen she had wanted to crawl away. Now she would have said, I didn’t get a kick out of it. They’re a couple of morons, like a lot of the men I seem to meet, and that’s their problem, not mine.

Mrs Myson waved the matter away. ‘This happened years ago; it’s all forgotten by now, and Robin needs a job. You say I need a companion. Well, I’d like Robin.’

‘We’ve had much more suitable applicants, and you’ve turned them all down,’ said Marc Hammond.

‘I didn’t want them,’ said Mrs Myson. She nearly pouted, and Robin glimpsed the dazzling, demanding girl she must have been, and still was under the skin.

‘No way,’ he said implacably.

Robin pulled her other hand clear but Mrs Myson had her at once by the elbow and was smiling sweetly at Marc. ‘At least Robin must stay to tea.’

‘No, thank you,’ Robin said promptly. She would choke trying to swallow while he watched her.

‘With me,’ said Maybelle Myson. ‘I am allowed guests, aren’t I?’ That was another joke, and again he shook his head at her, a smile lifting the edge of a mouth that Robin would have likened to a rat-trap.

‘I’ll tell Elsie to bring up a tray,’ he said.

‘This way, my dear,’ said Maybelle.

As she followed the old lady up the wide staircase Robin didn’t have to look back to know that Marc Hammond was still standing in the hallway below, watching her. She could feel his eyes on her almost like a hand shoving her, so that she took every step carefully as if she might stumble.

She hadn’t realised the effect that meeting him again face to face might have on her. She would never forget how she was sacked; it had been so humiliating. But it was more than three years ago. Since then she had had her share of bad scenes and she had thought she was tough.

She was tough. She had had to be. She had learned as a child not to wear her heart on her sleeve or to show hurt or anger unless she was unbearably provoked. But Marc Hammond seemed to storm through her defences. She found herself almost holding her breath, until they reached the top of the stairs and she followed Mrs Myson into a room and the door closed behind them, shutting him out down in the hall.

This was a sitting room. Chairs and a long sofa were covered in pale blue silk. There were fresh flowers—an arrangement of freesias and roses. Their perfume filled the air. It was a delightful room.

Mrs Myson sat with her feet up on the sofa and Robin took a low stool. Mrs Myson began telling her about some of the other applicants for the job. Some of them sounded reasonable to Robin, although

Maybelle Myson had been dead set against every one—almost as prejudiced as Marc Hammond was against Robin, and Robin was the one she couldn’t have.

‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you turned up,’ Maybelle said.

‘He won’t let me stay,’ Robin pointed out.

‘We’ll see.’ Maybelle gave a little nod, and Robin wondered if the old lady would go against Marc Hammond’s advice. Perhaps he was here in a professional capacity, as her lawyer, although that was not at all how it had seemed.

‘Are you related?’ she asked. Maybelle could have been his grandmother

‘Marc’s grandmother was my sister,’ she said. ‘I’m his aunt—well, his great-aunt. We had no children. I would have liked a daughter, a granddaughter.’ Briefly she sounded wistful, then her eyes filled with tenderness. ‘But Marc has always been like a son to me. Better than most sons I hear about.’

There was a tap on the door and the woman who had let ‘Miss Johnson’ into the house came into the room carrying a tray. Maybelle Myson thanked her and she put down the tray on a side-table, pausing to give Robin a long, hard stare from head to foot before she went out.

The tray was laid with tiny sandwiches, a Dundee cake, cream, sugar and lemon, and a teapot, cups, saucers and plates in beautiful china.

Robin poured, and took lemon tea because the amber liquid and the lemon rind looked so pretty in the eggshell-thin white cup. She took a bite of cake, letting the crumbs melt on her tongue, listening to Maybelle Myson.

Until now Robin had known next to nothing about Maybelle. She was always well dressed and anyone could see she was a lady in the true sense of the word-but their talk had always been cheerful chatter—no heart-to-hearts or confidences. But somehow Robin had felt they were on the same wavelength in spite of an age gap of a couple of generations.

Now, as they took tea together, she listened enthralled while Maybelle talked, telling Robin she had been a widow for years. Her husband had been an engineer and they had travelled the world together. Marc Hammond was right; Maybelle Myson had had a life packed with adventure in far-away places.

Listening had Robin on the edge of her chair, because it was nearly like being there herself. One of Robin’s dreams was to really travel—not to holiday resorts but somewhere explorers and archaeologists went—and although Marc Hammond could stop her getting a job here he probably wouldn’t stop her keeping in touch. Or coming to tea, perhaps. Because the more she saw and learned of Maybelle Myson, the more she liked her.

Several times Mrs Myson had started to ask Robin about herself but Robin had answered briefly and got Maybelle back to her memories. They were fascinating and, to Robin, Robin’s own life was not. She would much rather hear how a bridge had been built over a raging river in a jungle than talk about herself. Although, after their second cup of tea and when most of the sandwiches had gone, Maybelle Myson said firmly, ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Robin asked.

‘Well, where do you live?’

‘At home. With my aunt and uncle. They’ve brought me up since I was five, when my mother died. She was my mother’s sister.’

Maybelle Myson said, ‘Like Marc’s grandmother and me.’ She went on gaily, ‘I always approve of aunts.’

You would not approve of mine, thought Robin, but she managed to keep her voice light and bright, asking, ‘Are you really eighty-two? You don’t took anywhere near that.’

She was not trying to flatter. Maybelle Myson could have knocked ten or more years off her age and got away with it easily, and now she said, ‘Thank you,’ and laughed. ‘Most of the time I feel, say, fifty-something, although there are days when I am every minute of my age, but don’t tell anyone that.’ Robin laughed with her. ‘How old are you, Robin?’ she enquired.

‘Twenty.’ Robin thought for a moment before she added, ‘Today,’ because it had been a grim birthday.

Of course Maybelle said, ‘Twenty today? How lovely for you. You must be very happy.’ Robin kept on smiling although bitter laughter was churning inside her. ‘I was married before I was twenty,’ Maybelle reminisced. ‘He was so handsome.’ She got off the sofa and went to a drawer. Robin expected photographs and leaned forward, but she came back holding something in the palm of her hand.

‘Happy birthday,’ she said, and into Robin’s hand she dropped a heavy chain bracelet. Three chunky charms hung from the fastener-ring: a cross, an anchor and a heart. ‘Faith, hope and charity,’ said Maybelle. ‘With those you can’t go far wrong.’

It looked like gold, and a gift had been the last thing that Robin had expected. She felt tears welling in her eyes and blinked them away fiercely. She never shed tears in front of anyone, but after this morning, and after Marc Hammond, she was vulnerable to kindness and this was such a generous gesture.

‘That is so kind of you,’ she said. ‘I do appreciate it and it is beautiful, but of course I couldn’t take it unless—’ She bit her lip. This was awkward. ‘Is it gold? Is it as real as it looks?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then no, thank you. Please, I’d feel awful taking something this valuable.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Maybelle briskly, but when Robin shook her head and gave the bracelet back she took it, keeping hold of Robin’s wrist. ‘Well, try it on.’

There was no harm in that. It was weighty on Robin’s slim wrist. She had never worn anything like it before and it should surely have been an heirloom. She said again, ‘It’s beautiful but I can’t take it.’

Maybelle did her mischievous twinkle. ‘Wear it while you’re on duty.’

‘What? Oh, we can forget that. I’m not going to be on duty here.’ As she spoke she had a pang of regret because she could have been the right one for this job, given half a chance. Which she would not be getting from Marc Hammond.

‘Marc is going to make me have a driver,’ said Maybelle. ‘And a companion. A minder is what he has in mind. He’d wrap me in cotton wool if he could and sometimes that can be comforting.’

Sometimes it must be, thought Robin, who had never had a protector who did not ask more from her than he offered. ‘So,’ said Maybelle Myson, ‘we must bring him round to accepting you.’

‘He won’t.’

Robin was sure of that. The vibes between them had been as threatening as a collision course. When she was alone she would remember how he had looked and sounded, even the touch of him, although only his eyes had touched her, and she would shake inside.

But Maybelle couldn’t know this. Now she said, ‘We’ll go through my appointments for the next few weeks and show him how far I’ll be driving and tell him how useful you would be.’

‘We’re wasting our time,’ Robin said, and then asked, because she was curious, ‘If you’re the one who’s getting a companion why does it have to be his say-so?’

‘Because Marc’s the boss,’ Maybelle Myson replied cheerfully.

She was a thoroughly modern woman in all but age but Marc Hammond made the rules, although it was a tender bullying Maybelle Myson got. He thought she should be kept safe from the likes of Robin Johnson. But it would be his fault if Maybelle went on turning down the other applicants and driving herself. She was a menace on the roads and before Robin left here she would tell him that.

‘Your legs are younger than mine,’ said Maybelle. ‘Would you go downstairs? Through the first door on your left as you come into the house there’s a bureau, and in the top drawer of that, right on top, you’ll find a notebook with a red cover. Would you fetch it for me?’

‘Of course.’ Although going over Maybelle’s appointments wasn’t going to change Marc Hammond’s mind.

Robin ran down the stairs. She would have liked to linger and look at the paintings. There was one of blue horses that made her pause for a moment but she wasn’t on a sightseeing tour. The door was ajar and this looked like a dining room, dominated by a long oval mahogany table with chairs around it—lovely antique stuff—and a big carver chair at the head.

You could have a company board meeting in here, Robin thought, and she could imagine Marc Hammond sitting in the carver chair, the other chairs filled with folk, their faces turned towards him, drinking in every word while he issued orders and laid down the law. As this was a private house it was more likely that the dining room was used for dinner parties. Although Hammond would still be at the head of the table—as the host—the company would, instead, be guests having a wonderful time. He would be smiling and friendly and that was harder to imagine.

The bureau stood against the far wall, beside one of the long windows with their midnight-blue velvet curtains. It was smooth and polished in a warm, mellow wood inlaid with marquetry. She found the redcovered book in the top drawer. Then she stroked the top flap of the desk, tracing the pattern with her fingertips. The workmanship was incredible. There was a rose, every petal in a different shade of golden wood, and she breathed deeply, almost savouring a perfume.

Then she looked up from the marquetry rose to the photograph in a silver frame on top of the bureau, and all the sensuous pleasure of stroking the rose went in a flash. Here was Marc Hammond again, his dark hair springing back from a peak, his eyebrows heavy. If he lived in this house whoe the hell would need his photograph around the place? Even if he didn’t live here it wasn’t a face you’d be likely to forget.

She took a step back and glared at it—and he was looking straight at her, demanding, ‘What are you doing in here?’

Only, of course, it wasn’t the photograph asking. The man was framed in the doorway, coming into the room, and she was desperate to get away from him, out into the hall, so that she went in a rush and he caught her by the wrist as she tried to pass. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘What were you doing?’

She had the appointments book in her other hand. All she had to do was wave that at him but he was holding her and when she jerked instinctively his grip hurt, and for the second time this afternoon her blood pounded in her temples, so that she dropped the book and raised a hand and was within a hair’s breadth of hitting him across the face. For a split second his face swam in a red haze, but while she still had her hand held high her blurred vision cleared and she gritted her teeth. ‘Let...go...of...me.’

He didn’t let go. He held her wrist, but lightly now. ‘Nice bracelet,’ he said.

Of course he recognised it, and he thought she was wasting no time in cashing in on Maybelle’s generosity. She started to say, I’m not keeping it, but his voice overrode hers. ‘You didn’t know I lived here?’

So it probably was his house. ‘I did not,’ she said emphatically. ‘If I had done I wouldn’t have phoned and I certainly wouldn’t have turned up. I know you wouldn’t offer me a job after you threw me out for being a danger to junior clerks. By the way, whatever happened to what’s-his-name?’ She remembered Tony’s name but she drawled that instead, acting blase, as if the whole thing were hazy in her memory.

Marc Hammond said, ‘He’s doing nicely, thank you. You might have done him a favour. I doubt if he’s ever been in a fight over a girl since. You don’t seem to have changed much. Still very much the firecracker.’

Even if she had wanted the job she would have blown it by now, but she said, ‘You’re not going to believe this but I can’t remember the last time I lost my head, until this afternoon. It was quite a shock seeing you sitting there and realising what sort of treatment I’d let myself in for.’

He agreed, ‘It was a shock.’ He wasn’t holding her now but he hadn’t moved away. He was still too close for comfort, sending shock waves rippling up and down her spine. She picked up the book and told him, ‘Mrs Myson asked me to fetch this for her. What did you think I was doing—rifling the drawers to see what I could find?’

‘Something like that, from the speed you took off.’

She had panicked but she couldn’t say, I was trying to get away from you because you scare me. She said, ‘You grabbed me; I hate being manhandled.’

‘Sorry about that.’ He was not sorry. She could believe that he had never said sorry and meant it in his life.

‘What’s the book?’ he asked, and she held it so that he could read ‘Appointments’. ‘Now, why should she be needing that?’

‘Ask her,’ she snapped.

‘Showing you where she hopes you’ll be accompanying her?’

She gave an exaggerated shrug and he said, ‘She’s stubborn as a mule. She’s found something wrong with everybody so far, so how have you managed to get her demanding you and nobody but you?’

‘We have red hair in common,’ Robin said silkily.

‘What?’

‘She had red hair, didn’t she?’

‘Copper-coloured.’

‘Not like mine?’

‘Not in the least like yours. You could set a house on fire.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘Only to an arsonist.’

This was a crazy conversation.

‘And hair isn’t the only fiery thing about you, is it?’ he said, and she shrugged again because there wasn’t much else she could do. There was no point in saying again that today she had been at her fieriest and most stupid. But she had something serious to say before she went.

‘You should make her have a driver because she shouldn’t be driving herself. I was in a car just behind her a couple of weeks ago, coming out of the old airfield from the market, and you know how busy that road is at weekends, and she shot straight out into the traffic like a bat out of hell. I’ve seen her have near-misses more than once; she’s heading for a serious pile-up.’

She thought his skin whitened under the tan as if she had struck a nerve, or a memory. Then he said, ‘You’ve got a licence, of course?’

‘Of course.’ Was he considering her?

‘I’d want to see it.’

‘Of course.’ It was a clean licence and that would surprise him.

‘At least there’d be somebody around who could use a phone if she needed help.’

‘I think I could manage that,’ she drawled. She had forgotten she didn’t want the job. Maybelle was a danger on the roads and Robin would never forgive herself if the old lady had an accident that she might have prevented. And she liked Maybelle; being her companion-driver could be fun.

Being around Marc Hammond would be far from funny, but when he said, ‘Come on,’ and led the way upstairs she followed.

Maybelle was still sitting on the sofa with her feet up. She seemed pleased when Robin and Marc walked in together, as if this had to mean they were getting along. Robin wondered what would happen if she told Maybelle, We nearly came to blows just now. My wrist could be bruised and I was halfway through a swing to sock him across the face.

If she had hit him Marc Hammond would probably have thrown her out of the house bodily, as he had chucked out Jack the biker three years ago. He might look like the well-bred gentleman—expensively dressed, impeccably groomed—but Robin was convinced that he could turn in a flash into the toughest street fighter she had ever encountered.

‘Thank you, dear.’ Maybelle took the appointments book from her as Marc Hammond seated himself in a winged easy chair, his long body stretched out, strong hands resting on the arms. Robin sat down again on the little stool. He was relaxed and she tried to give the impression that she was too.

‘Did Robin tell you why I wanted this?’ Maybelle asked him.

‘You tell me,’ he said.

But he had guessed right and as she explained, ‘To show you how useful Robin could be—I’ll be doing a lot of driving,’ he nodded. ‘I think it was meant to be,’ said Maybelle, encouraged. ‘What were the odds against Robin arriving here just when I needed her?’

‘It’s a small town,’ Marc Hammond said drily. ‘The odds against somebody local seeing the “Situations Vacant” in local papers can’t be that high. It’s a slight coincidence that you’ve met before, but hardly fate taking a hand.’

Robin said nothing. Sitting low, fingers linked over her knees, the bracelet gleaming on her wrist, she waited for what Marc Hammond. was going to say next, because now he was looking at her. ‘Another thing,’ he said. ‘I would prefer this to be a living-in arrangement; how would you feel about that?’

‘That would suit me perfectly.’ She had expected to go from here to call on a friend and ask her for a bed for the night. A living-in job would solve that problem. Even with the prospect of Marc Hammond being under the same roof.

‘When could you start?’ Maybelle was taking this conversation as Marc’s grudging consent and was anxious to get everything settled.

‘Right away,’ said Robin.

‘Today?’ That was fine by Maybelle.

‘Yes,’ said Robin.

‘Where have you been living?’ Marc asked.

He hadn’t thought she would want to live in, on duty twenty-four hours more or less, and her enthusiastic response had increased his misgivings. He noticed that Robin didn’t answer at once.

Her tongue licked her lips as if they were dry and it was Maybelle who said, ‘Robin lives with her aunt and uncle. She has done since she was very young.’

‘And now she wants to leave?’

Why not? Nearly everyone left their childhood home. And Robin said, ‘Well, yes, I think it’s time I did,’ and smiled at Maybelle because she had a sickening feeling that if she met Marc Hammond’s piercing eyes he would know what had happened this morning—every move, every word. ‘I’m twenty,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s time?’

‘Twenty today,’ said Maybelle. ‘It’s Robin’s birthday, so isn’t this a red-letter day?’

‘There’s another coincidence,’ said Marc. ‘And that, I presume, is a birthday present.’ He meant the bracelet, and he probably thought she had lied about her birthday so that the old lady would find something pretty, and possibly valuable, to give her.

‘Want to see my birth certificate?’ Robin asked with heavy sarcasm.

‘Not at the moment,’ he said blandly, and Maybelle hastily changed the subject.

‘And Robin is staying.’ Marc wouldn’t go back on that now.

‘That is how it looks.’ He was reluctant but resigned. ‘I’m not happy about the situation; you both know that. I don’t consider her suitable.’

This time Robin glared back at him and wished she could say, And I don’t want any job where there’s a risk of coming into contact with you. But she did want the job—for practical reasons and because she liked Maybelle, and there was satisfaction in getting the better of Marc Hammond. Deep down he must be fuming at the idea of the wild child he’d thrown out of his offices moving into his home.

It wouldn’t last, of course, and that was what he was implying when he said, ‘But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now.’ He meant he would be waiting for an excuse to dump her again. And something probably would happen because something usually did.

Robin heard herself laugh scornfully. ‘You won’t give me the benefit of the doubt. You were against me from the first day I was working for you, before there was any trouble at all. All you said was “Good morning; I hope you’ll be happy here,” but I knew what you were thinking.’

He almost laughed himself. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re sharp enough, I’ll grant you that. I thought, We’ve got a time bomb here—and a few days later there was blood on the floor.

‘As I’ve already said, you don’t seem to have changed. You’re still trouble on a short fuse and there had better be none of it around Maybelle. So watch it, Miss Robin Johnson, because I shall be watching you and I rarely miss a trick...’


CHAPTER TWO

ROBIN said, ‘Fair enough.’ It wasn’t fair that Marc Hammond should turn up when things could have been fine without him, but that was life.

‘So I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, and uncoiled himself out of the winged armchair, and once he was out of the room Robin felt her spirits rising and her strained smile become relaxed and real.

Maybelle Myson’s smile was gleeful. ‘We’ve done it, haven’t we? Isn’t this splendid?’

‘Isn’t it just?’ said Robin. She would be out before long—he’d see to that—but for now it was an enjoyable break for both of them.

‘First of all, your salary.’ Mrs Myson named a figure. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Great. Yes, thank you,’ said Robin. It was very fair indeed, especially as she would be living in, and, it seemed, she was living in starting now, because Mrs Myson asked her if she wanted to stay tonight and she said, ‘Yes, please.’

‘You’ll have to let your family know.’

‘I’ll phone,’ Robin said, although she couldn’t speak to Aunt Helen yet and Aunt Helen always answered the phone.

They went through a few pages of the appointments book. ‘Not much tomorrow,’ said Maybelle. ‘I have to go to an animal-rescue centre in the morning. The rest of the day’s free. I’ve some friends coming round in the evening.’

She seemed to lead a full and pleasant life; Robin had been mistaken in wondering if she might be lonely. She had plenty of friends, but at her age someone should be seeing that she didn’t overtire herself, put too much strain on her heart.

I could do that, Robin thought. I’d have loved a grandmother like you. I could take care of you if he’d let me.

When it began to grow dusky Robin switched on a lamp which bathed the room in a mellow glow, and suggested, ‘Shall I take the tray down? Can I get you anything?’

‘We’ll have supper later, but perhaps a glass of milk.’

Robin carried the tray downstairs towards the back of the house, opening what looked like the kitchen door.

It was a big room, a model modern kitchen so far as equipment went, but also with an old Welsh dresser that reached to the ceiling and with a scrubbed-topped table. The woman called Elsie sat at the table and Marc Hammond lounged against a worktop on which a coffee percolator was bubbling away.

He had taken off his jacket and was in shirtsleeves with his tie loosened. His throat had the same deep tan as his face and Robin thought his arms and his chest would have too. She couldn’t imagine his being pale and soft-skinned anywhere.

He was relaxed now, but the coffee looked black and bitter enough to fuel his brain while he worked all through the night.

‘I’ll take that.’ Elsie jumped up and took the tray from her, quickly, as if she was afraid that Robin might drop the good china. She put the tray on the table and looked at Marc Hammond with beady, bright eyes.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said. ‘She’s Maybelle’s choice.’

Elsie stared at Robin then. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I? I thought that when I let you in.’

‘Around town, probably,’ said Marc. ‘She’s a girl who gets noticed.’

‘Are you an actress?’ There was a theatre company locally.

‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Marc.

‘No, I’m not,’ Robin said.

‘You’re going to be driving Miss Maybelle?’ Elsie was not happy about that. Her mouth was pursing into worried lines.

‘That’s the idea. And generally making sure that she behaves herself,’ said Marc.

Robin waited for Elsie. to ask, That who behaves herself? But Elsie only sighed deeply and said, ‘Well, I suppose anybody’s better than nobody. Miss Johnson, is it?’

‘Robin,’ said Robin, hiding a wry smile, and Elsie looked as if that was a name she could hardly believe either.

‘May I have a glass of milk for Mrs Myson?’ asked Robin.

Elsie took a glass from the dresser and poured milk from the fridge, enquiring as she handed over the glass, ‘She’s stopping upstairs, is she?’ and when Robin said she didn’t know the housekeeper went on, ‘I’ll bring her supper up in about half an hour; will you be staying?’

‘Robin has been persuaded to live with us,’ Marc drawled. ‘She’s taking up her duties right away. You will be moving in tonight, will you?’

‘Yes, please,’ Robin said sweetly, and thought, Is that meek enough for you?

‘Well, I never,’ said Elsie.

He held the kitchen door open and they went into the hall together, Robin carrying the glass of milk, he with a large cup of very black coffee. As he turned into the room where he had interviewed her she saw the papers on the desk and asked impulsively, ‘You don’t want any typing done or anything?’

‘No, thank you.’ He turned that down flat. ‘Nothing on that desk concerns you,’ he said.

Trying to show him she was not a dead loss was a waste of time. She knew the papers were confidential and she said coldly, ‘I wouldn’t be snooping.’

‘You won’t be getting the chance.’

He shut the door behind him and she said, ‘I hope the coffee scalds you,’ but not loudly enough to be heard through a closed door.

When Elsie arrived with a tray—soup and a little fish—Mrs Myson said, ‘You’ve met Robin; you know she’ll be staying with us?’ Elsie said she did, and Mrs Myson pondered, ‘Which room, do you think?’

‘Next one along?’ Elsie suggested. Mrs Myson was happy about that and Elsie took Robin along to the next door on the landing.

It was a pretty room—curtains, bedspread and wallpaper in co-ordinating pastel florals, and a small shower room leading off. The window overlooked lawns and what, in the gathering gloom, seemed to be a large garden. Elsie stood in the doorway and asked, ‘Will this do for you?’

‘It’s lovely!’ Robin exclaimed, and from Elsie’s expression it was as though she had expected Robin to be less enthusiastic.

‘Right, then,’ said Elsie. ‘I’ll leave you to it’

A couple of hours later Robin was back in her room. Mrs Myson kept early nights. She had found Robin a new toothbrush and produced a white lawn nightdress. Then she’d said goodnight and hoped Robin would sleep well.

With no luggage Robin was glad to find the toiletry basics of toothpaste and soap in the shower room. She had no change of clothing, no make-up except for a lipstick and a comb in her purse, and she would have to go back tomorrow and collect some of her belongings.

She showered and put on the nightgown and sat at the window in the darkness, revelling in a quietness that wrapped comfortingly around her like the big, fluffy white towel she was huddling in.

She hadn’t phoned home. When Mrs Myson had asked, ‘Is this all right with your family?’ she had said yes as if she had made the call.

She didn’t want to go back tomorrow either. Some time she had to, because all the little she owned was there. But tomorrow Aunt Helen would probably be waiting for her, and the next day, while Wednesday was Aunt Helen’s bridge night. She never missed that. On Wednesday Uncle Edward would be home alone and Robin could say goodbye to him in peace while she packed.

Mrs Myson had said that tomorrow morning she would advance her a month’s wages, and that would be enough to buy essentials and clothes to carry Robin over. Every day here, if all went well, Robin would be feeling stronger and calmer. When she went back there would be no screaming if she could postpone it until Wednesday evening.

Marc Hammond was walking in the garden below. There was just enough moonlight to see him, and this time his presence was no surprise. He was probably needing a breath of fresh air by now, and if it had been Robin’s garden she too would have walked there alone at night, revelling in the silence and clearing her mind.

She was sure that that was what he was doing, coming slowly towards the house. She kept well back, watching the dark figure approaching in the shadows down there. If he walked right under her window she could drop something on him. A pink lustreware bowl of pot-pourri, on the window-ledge, would be just perfect.

She would have enjoyed that immensely, but it was only a glorious fantasy. He couldn’t see her but when he glanced up at the house she almost fell back into the room, as though he could see in the dark, and scrambled into her bed, between the cool sheets.

If something did fall on him out of the sky she wondered if it would surprise him. Well, it would of course, but how much? Nothing much seemed to surprise Marc Hammond. Not much surprised Robin either; she was used to the unexpected happening around her. Half the time she didn’t know why it happened, and most of the time she didn’t know how to deal with it. He’d said that she was a time bomb, but of all the men she had ever met Marc Hammond was the one who seemed to pack so much dynamic energy that she couldn’t imagine life would ever be calm around him.

The difference was that he could handle trouble. In court he had the reputation of rarely losing a case, of being a born fighter, a born winner. But he’d lost the little tussle with Maybelle today. A stubborn old lady had got her own way and that made Robin smile.

Just for a moment she hugged herself, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Then she sobered rapidly, because what on earth was there to grin at in having Marc Hammond lined up against her?

She knew where she was as soon as she woke. She had slept soundly and if she had dreamed she couldn’t remember. But she remembered where she was and what had led up to her being here, and she was going to be so careful today. She wanted to keep this job, and from here on it wouldn’t be Robin’s fault if things didn’t work out.

Elsie met her in the hall when she came downstairs. ‘I take up her tea eight o’clock most mornings,‘ said Elsie. It was ten to eight now. ‘There’s tea in the kitchen and he wants to see you in the garage.’

‘Marc?’

‘Of course.’

What did he want with her now? He had agreed yesterday to take her on trial, and the trial had hardly started yet so she must still be in the clear, unless he had decided he couldn’t have her in the house after all.

She had butterflies in her stomach as she went from the kitchen across the narrow passage to a door that led into the garage.

There was plenty of room in there for two cars. Furthest away was Marc Hammond’s dark red Mercedes. The door of Mrs Myson’s car was open and Marc Hammond stood beside it. ‘You wanted to see me?’ she asked.

‘Yes. This is the car you’ll be driving.’

Mrs Myson’s, of course. He got in on the passenger side and leaned over to open the door for the driver, and she gulped. ‘Am I chauffeuring you?’

He said wearily, ‘You don’t imagine I’ll let you take the wheel with her until I’ve seen for myself how you handle a car? And I’ll want to see that licence.’

She got in reluctantly. ‘Of course you will,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to take my word for anything.’ She must not snap. She must stay cool and speak civilly.

‘Put it down to my lifestyle,’ he said. ‘I don’t take much on trust.’

He would be a poor lawyer if he did, but this was personal, and, considering she didn’t get that much practice, she was a good driver. She’d show him she could ferry Maybelle Myson safely and without fuss wherever she wanted to go.

She checked the controls. Five-gear manual; she’d learned on one of those. She was not as composed as she would have liked to be; she was slightly psyched up, so that her cheeks were flushed and she had to remember to breathe slowly.

She didn’t have to look at him though. She would keep her eyes on the road and concentrate on her driving. He pressed the button to open the garage doors and she turned on the ignition, went into gear, braked in front of the garage and moved smoothly up the curved drive to the entrance. She stopped there to check the road. Morning rush-hour traffic was streaming past. It could be a little while before there was a safe opening and she sat, hands on the wheel. ‘Which way?’ she asked.

‘Into town.’ Good, she thought; it would be easier to slip into the traffic than to cut across it.

But suddenly she was hit by a staggering jolt of physical awareness of the man sitting beside her. Being in the same room as Marc Hammond was traumatic enough. In a car the nearness of him hit her so hard that she nearly reeled from it.

She was fiercely conscious of the length and the strength of his body. It felt as if he was leaning across her and it was his arm, not the seat belt, holding her down, his hand on her breast.

‘Waiting for your favourite colour?’ he drawled, and there must have been times she could have moved out if she hadn’t been so poleaxed. There was a gap now and she fumbled the controls, jerking and juddering into the traffic stream, and she heard him sigh at that.

She was on a straight road, going along by the river, heading for the roundabout just outside the town, She kept a steady speed and a safe distance behind a red car, but she was gripping the wheel so tightly that her knuckles whitened. She imagined she could hear him breathing. She couldn’t, but she could smell the faintest tang of aftershave that seemed to be going right to her head, and the heavy breathing was her own.

She tried to block him out but that didn’t work. Just by sitting close to her, his eyes rarely leaving her, he was turning her into a gibbering wreck. She had never felt such an urge before to beg, Leave me alone...give me space...

‘Elsie hasn’t met you before, has she?’ he asked her.

‘No, I’m sure we haven’t met.’ She was surprised that her voice sounded nearly normal.

‘Just seen you around and wondered who you are?’

‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘She could have seen your photograph in the Herald.’

Approaching the roundabout, traffic slowed to a snail’s pace, and she nearly bumped the red car in front. She braked just in time and stared stonily ahead.

Earlier this summer there had been a festival of sound and light in the old airfield—a three-day rave with enough noise and excitement to annoy some of the more conventional locals. And when New Age gatecrashers had turned up, and the police had had to deal with the hassle, there had been enough action to fill several pages in the local weekly.

Robin had gone along that day with friends, for the music. They’d paid for their tickets, danced and enjoyed themselves, and Robin, who was gorgeous to look at and a graceful dancer, had caught the eye of a press photographer. Although she and her group had been well away from the skirmishing her picture was taken and she hadn’t realised that.

There had been no names given in the caption on the front page but there had been Robin Johnson, hair flying, making—in one of Aunt Helen’s favourite phrases—‘a right spectacle’ of herself.

Everyone seemed to have seen it. Marc Hammond obviously had, and probably believed that Robin had been stoned out of her mind, although she had never touched drugs in her life.

She went very slowly round the roundabout. She wasn’t driving well but she was taking special care, and she had enough spirit to enquire tartly, ‘Do you keep my press cuttings?’

There was only that photograph but it sounded blasé, and he said, ‘If I’d known Maybelle was going to take this unaccountable fancy to you I might have done. Or at least followed your progress. It wouldn’t have been difficult. You must stand out wherever you go.’

So do you, she could have told him. I’ve seen you when you haven’t seen me, and got out of the way before you looked round because you always make me want to run.

They were in the high street now and she asked, ‘Shall I drop you at the office?’

She wondered who would remember the few days she’d worked there when she drew into the car park to put Marc Hammond down, but he said, ‘Go onto the motorway.’

‘How far are we going?’

‘I’m not abducting you.’

It was nerves that made her gulp, ‘No danger of that while I’m at the wheel.’

He said drily, ‘No danger any time.’

He made her feel stupid. She couldn’t rid herself of the stress that was turning into creeping paralysis, so that, by now, she was driving like a nerve-racked learner. All through town cars were jostling for position, slowing down as passengers jumped out, then gaining speed again, all in fits and starts, and her hands and feet were clumsy. She could feel sweat on her forehead, and the palms of her hands were slippery, as he sat beside her, saying nothing, not even in body language, when she screeched a gear change.

She had driven through this town and manoeuvred slickly with the rest of them. She had never had an accident. But this morning she was waiting for a crash to happen, and yet she was supposed to be a natural driver.

Uncle Edward had taught her. Not in this town, where they might have been recognised, but waiting for Aunt Helen to be out of the way then driving to other towns, like conspirators, with Robin tucking her hair under a headscarf, giggling while she did it.

Uncle Edward had got her through the test and since then she had driven him sometimes when he was alone, and had driven friends’ cars. She loved driving. Well, she had done until this morning, but this trip was drawn-out torture.

Somehow she managed to get through town and onto the motorway without scraping Mrs Myson’s car. She was going by the book, trying to pretend it was her driving test again, although with Marc Hammond in the seat beside her it felt more like that old Arabian tale—the executioner with you while you carried a brimming chalice through the streets. One drop spilt and you were dead. One wrong move and the chop.

She stayed in the slow lane for just over a mile and she thought, At this rate this could go on for hours. She enjoyed speed and she was safe at the wheel. She pulled out when she could, and she put her foot down, and the engine purred as she took them up to the legal limit.

But she was still jumpy, and when a box shifted on the seat behind she half turned her head. The car swerved slightly and a driver alongside gave a furious honk on the horn.

Marc put a quick, steadying hand over hers on the wheel and said, ‘Let’s live,’ and she jerked as if she had been burned. Then she snatched her hand from his and the words shot out.

‘Oh, God, you make me so nervous.’

‘I wonder why?’ he said, but it was because he crowded her, knocking her off an even keel, and that was something else that was not fair. ‘Turn at the next exit and go back,’ he said, and she was so sure she’d failed the test and had nothing more to lose that there was an immediate improvement in her driving.

It was not up to her usual standard but she was giving an adequate performance and he said nothing. Neither did she, until she was driving into the garage. Then she said, ‘Do I get a little list telling me why I’ve failed?’ as if she didn’t care, although, of course, she did.

‘No,’ he said, ‘but don’t put in for your advanced test.’ That was nearly a joke. ‘I suppose you’re better than she is. Not that that’s saying much.’

He wasn’t sending her packing yet, although he was rating her pass a very near thing. She got out of the car as he climbed into the Mercedes and drove smoothly away up the drive, stopping to check the road. She stepped outside before the garage doors closed and she watched him now, and thought how she would love to hear a good loud thump and crunch when he did turn out of the drive. It didn’t happen, of course, and, shut out of the garage, she went through the side-gate to the back of the house.

It was a big garden—a wilderness tamed and tended, the turf cropped to velvet softness, flowers in irregular beds, trees growing in a copse. She would almsot have worked here for nothing to have had the freedom of this garden, with the old red-brick wall around it and the seat under the horse-chestnut tree.

The back door led into the kitchen, where Elsie was sitting at the table with a man about her own age and a younger woman. The man had a mug of tea, the women had willow-pattern cups in front of them, and Elsie said, ‘This is Robin. She’s going to drive Miss Maybelle around. Morag and Tom.’

Tom looked like a gardener and Robin said, ‘That is a beautiful garden.’

‘Aye,’ said Tom.

‘She’s in the breakfast room,’ said Elsie. ‘She said to tell you as soon as you got back. Been with Marc, have you?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin. If it had been less of an ordeal she would have said he had been checking her out as a driver, but she had made such a mess of that that she didn’t want to talk about it.

‘First door down,’ Elsie said, and as she went out of the kitchen Robin saw them all lean forward, putting their heads together, and she was sure they would all start talking about her.

Mrs Myson was sitting at a table near a window overlooking the garden. She had two opened letters and she looked up, smiling, as Robin walked in. ‘Tea or coffee?’ she said.

‘What have you got?’

‘Tea.’

‘That would be nice.’ The cups and pot were here. There was muesli, toast, marmalade, and that was fine. Anything would have been good with the garden out there and Mrs Myson sitting opposite instead of Aunt Helen.

As she sipped tea Robin said, ‘I’ve just had a driving test. He wanted to be sure I was safe.’

‘I’m sure you passed with flying colours.’

‘I only just passed. I really am quite a good driver but I didn’t do so well this morning. I was nervous.’

Mrs Myson seemed to understand that. ‘Marc can be overpowering and he is a very good driver himself. He’s a rally driver.’ It wouldn’t have surprised Robin if he’d been a racing driver. ‘He pilots a plane too,’ said Mrs Myson.

Robin said gaily, ‘He must take some keeping up with. How do his girlfriends manage?’ She wasn’t really interested, just joking.

Mrs Myson’s eyes danced. ‘Often they don’t, but they try, my dear, they try.’ Her laughter was infectious and Robin laughed with her.

After breakfast, with Mrs Myson in the passenger seat, Robin was an excellent driver. She judged her speeds, foresaw other drivers’ antics, gears slipped in smoothly and she even found parking spaces.

The first stop was the cat rescue centre, home of the woman who ran the accounts, to deliver a box of tinned cat food. Mrs Myson stayed in the car while Robin knocked on the front door and handed in the box to a plump woman with a pussy-cat smile.

‘This will be very welcome,’ said the woman, and waved to Mrs Myson, sitting in the car at the kerbside. ‘Thanks ever so much,’ she called, and said to Robin, ‘She’s a wonderful woman.’

‘I think so,’ said Robin.

After that she drove Mrs Myson around the country lanes until lunchtime, when they stopped at a thatch-roofed pub called the Cottage of Content. Neither had been there before but the name was inviting, and inside there were dark beams and white ceilings and walls, and they had a very good vegetable soup and fluffy omelettes.

When they’d finished their coffee Robin asked, ‘Do you want to go home now?’

Mrs Myson shrugged. ‘I suppose so, unless you’ve any other suggestions.’

‘Well, I would like to do some shopping.’ She had a month’s wages in advance in her purse. ‘I need some make-up, and I thought, perhaps, a dress.’

‘What a good idea,’ said Mrs Myson. ‘Broadway has some nice shops; we’ll go there.’

As they left the dining room more than one head turned to watch the tall, aristocratic old lady and the tall, beautiful girl.

They took their time wandering up and down the main road of the tourist town. They stopped to look into windows of antiques shops, art galleries, upmarket boutiques. Robin bought inexpensive make-up, undies and a T-shirt, then spotted a dress that seemed reasonably priced in a window and asked, ‘What do you think?’

‘Let’s see it,’ said Mrs Myson.

It was just what Robin wanted—simple and stylish, drop-waisted, a perfect fit that rested lightly on her hips, in a silky material in a coppery shade. In the same shop she bought a pair of low-heeled black patent leather pumps, and when she went to pay was told that Mrs Myson had done so already.

This had to stop. After the bracelet this was all it needed to convince Marc Hammond that Robin was a grabber. She said, ‘Oh, no!’ but Mrs Myson had already left the shop and the car was only a few minutes away.

Robin said, ‘I can’t let you do this,’ when she caught up with her. ‘I must pay myself.’

‘We’ll talk about it later.’

Later Robin would hand over the money to Mrs Myson and say thank you, but it was getting late and high time that Robin was driving her home. In the car Robin asked, ‘Are you all right? This hasn’t been too much for you?’

‘I’ve really enjoyed myself,’ said Mrs Myson. ‘Some very enjoyable things have happened to me this afternoon. In the dress shop the manageress said to me, “What a pretty girl your granddaughter is.”’

‘Oh!’ Robin found herself blushing. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I was flattered.’ Mrs Myson laughed delightedly. ‘And when we were walking along almost every man we passed turned to look again. I saw them reflected in the windows.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Robin.

‘You’re used to it,’ Mrs Myson teased, ‘but it’s a long time since it happened to me. Women always turn and stare when I’m with Marc but today the men did, and if they thought I was your grandmother perhaps they thought, That’s where she got her good looks from.’

Robin suspected that the old lady was talking nonsense to stop her arguing about the bill in the dress shop, but it was fun, and although Robin was determined to settle that account later the journey passed in listening to a chat show on the radio, with Mrs Myson saying every five minutes or so, ‘Don’t they talk a load of rubbish, these politicians?’

The Mercedes was in the garage when Robin backed her car in. ‘Marc’s home,’ said Mrs Myson happily, and all the fizz went out of the day for Robin. The door from the garage going into the side-passage was unlocked, and they came into the house through the kitchen.

‘We’re home,’ Mrs Myson called, and Elsie came down the stairs at the same time as Marc Hammond came into the hall.

‘You haven’t been overdoing it?’ Elsie sounded accusing and Mrs Myson smiled.

‘We’ve had a lovely time. We went shopping in Broadway.’

‘So I see,’ Marc Hammond said wryly. Robin was carrying two large red shiny bags with ‘Sandra’s’ in black flowing script across them. ‘Not for you, I imagine.’





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