The Boss's Virgin(15)

'Certainly, madam. The dining room is on the left through the bar. Jim will take your bag upstairs for you.'                       
       
           



       

A white-bearded old man popped up from an inner office and seized  Pippa's case, carried it up the wide, ancient, creaking staircase with  Pippa following him, feeling guilty.

He looked old enough to be her father. She hoped the case wasn't too heavy for him.

'This was an old pub, miss, till it was modernised and turned into a  hotel,' he told her. 'Hundreds of years old. There was a pub here in the  Middle Ages, I'm told. A lot of local people still treat it as their  pub.' He put her case down outside a door at the end of a short corridor  and produced a key. 'Here you are, miss. I hope you'll be very  comfortable in here.'

She looked around curiously while the porter carried her bag inside.  'TV, with remote control,' he pointed out 'Hospitality tray, with tea  and coffee, and if you want fresh milk contact Reception. The bathroom  is on your right.'

She smiled. 'Thank you.' And tipped him.

He saluted and was gone, leaving her alone. She was pleased with the  room; it was spacious and a little old-fashioned, all chintz and oak  furniture, which she found comforting. She unpacked, put her clothes  away, found the hospitality tray, which bore a kettle, tea and coffee  sachets and a cup, and made herself a cup of coffee.

She drank it standing next to the window, which looked down through mist  on to a quayside lined with rows of small boats. Now and again a figure  moved through the mist, grey, wavering, insubstantial, like a living  etching. There was the faint sound of footsteps and then the silence  came back and nothing stirred except the gentle lapping of water at the  quay steps.

She had half an hour before her dinner. After that long drive she felt  like a walk so she put on her jacket and went downstairs, crossing the  bar again to go out on to the quay. The people drinking all watched her  with the same unblinking curiosity.

As she walked put of the hotel the mist swallowed her. From somewhere  nearby she heard a church clock chime. That might be eight o'clock. She  couldn't go far or she would be late for dinner. Wandering along the  quayside, she read the names of boats. The mist was thickening; she  could barely see a hand in front of her face. Shivering, she drove her  hands down into her jacket pockets. There was nobody else around; she  could have been marooned on a desert island, or the last person alive on  earth.

A moment later, though, she heard footsteps behind her and glanced  round. A tall shape loomed through the mist. She couldn't see his face  but she instinctively felt him staring at her, felt a strange prickle of  threat. He began to walk faster, and panic flared inside her. She  quickened her steps, too, almost running, and tripped over a lobster pot  someone had left on the quay.

Pippa sprawled headlong. The man behind ran to catch up and knelt down beside her. 'Did you hurt yourself?'

Shock made her speechless. She turned her head to look up at him  incredulously as she recognised the voice and face. Drops of pearly mist  dewed his hair and brow and he was wearing a leather jacket zipped up  to the neck.

'What are you doing here?' she burst out There was something of black  magic about his appearance out of the mist when she had thought him  safely miles away.

Randal stood up, pulled her up beside him, his strong hands clasped  around her waist. 'Thought you'd given me the slip, did you?' Dry  mockery in his smile made her bristle.

'How did you know where I'd gone?' She was still having difficulty  believing he was here. She tried to work out how he had followed her.  'Did you see me leaving when you came back from getting petrol?'

'I didn't go to get petrol,' he wryly admitted. 'I was a bit suspicious  about your sudden agreement to have dinner with me. I had the feeling  you were planning something so I parked just down the road, behind some  trees, where I could watch your cottage without you seeing me. I had a  suspicion you would try to cheat, and I was right, wasn't I? I saw you  come out of your cottage and get into your car. When you drove out I  followed at a discreet distance.'

It was the same trick he had played when he waited for her to come out  of her office and followed her to the bridal shop. She might have  guessed he wouldn't just go off to get petrol, leaving her the  opportunity to escape before he returned.

It dawned on her that he was still holding on to her. She slapped his hands down and took a step back.

'Careful! You don't want to end up in the water, do you?' he said as she  toppled on the edge. He took her wrists and pulled her towards him to  safety.                       
       
           



       

She broke free again. 'Who do you think you are? James Bond? Why can't  you leave me alone?' she broke out, trembling with rage. 'The fact that I  left like that should tell you I don't want to see you. Ever again. Why  don't you take the hint, and stop harassing me!'

'I'm not harassing you,' he smoothly said. 'I was worried about you,  driving off in that state. You were upset over your ex-fiancé. And it  was misty. You might have had a crash.'

'But I didn't!'

He shrugged his wide shoulders gracefully. 'No, you didn't. But what on  earth made you chose to come to a dead and alive hole like this?'

'I like it It's peaceful.' Shooting him a resentful look, she added pointedly, 'Normally.'

He smiled. 'Have you hooked into your hotel for dinner?'

'Yes, and I must get back for it at once,' she said curtly, and began to walk fast.

Randal kept pace with her. 'I'm staying there too.'

Her heart sank, although she should have guessed. Where else?

'We can have dinner together, after all,' he triumphantly added.

She considered refusing, for a moment, but knew he would somehow make  sure he won the argument and felt too tired to fight him any more. He  was the most maddening man she had ever met. He wouldn't listen to her.  If she ran he pursued her. He had ruined her life twice, and she had  fled, but here he was again. She had a terrible suspicion that she was  never going to be able to shake him off. Was she going to spend the rest  of her life running away from him and being pursued?

Inside the cosy warmth of the old hotel she hurried upstairs to take off  her jacket and do something about her appearance, brushed her hair,  renewed her make-up, staring at her reflection and horrified at the  feverish brightness of her green eyes, the tremor in her mouth.

He always had this effect on her. Could he see that? How could he fail to notice the way she was shaking?

She turned away, shivering, then went downstairs again and found the dining-room.

Randal was already seated at a table by the window overlooking the quay,  a bottle of white wine chilling in an ice bucket beside him. He had  shed his leather jacket and was wearing a dark jacket, a crisp white  shirt and a blue silk tie. Her breath caught. Did he have to be so  good-looking, so distinguished?

He rose as she joined him. 'There you are! I was beginning to think you had run off again.'

She sat down opposite him and glanced through the menu, which was not  extensive but sounded good; she decided to have melon followed by  grilled sole with a salad. The waiter came to take their order, wrote  down what she wanted first, then turned to Randal, who chose melon,  steak and chips.

When the waiter had gone Randal poured wine into her glass. 'How long do you plan to stay here?'

'I haven't decided yet.' She sipped the golden wine and felt a little  warmth come back into her veins. 'Not long. I must go back soon and  start planning. I have to write to the insurance firm, resigning, put my  cottage on the market and start looking for another job.

'I'll give you one.'

She gave him a dry look. 'No, thank you. I don't think that would be a good idea.'

'Why not?'

Flushed, she looked down into her wine glass, playing with the stem.  'Don't they say, "Never go back"?' She wished he would stop asking her  these pointed questions; she didn't want to think about the reasons for  the way she felt. She didn't know herself why she had these strong  impulses, this desire to run from him and keep running.

'Who's they, anyway?' he asked, watching her across the table with narrowed, searching eyes.

She shrugged, looking up briefly, then down again, because she could not meet his lance-like gaze. 'Oh … people.'

'People with minds like train tracks. You should never make rules for  life. Life is for living, spontaneously, on instinct. You don't need  rules. You're not a machine, you're a human being, a living organism.'

She sipped more wine. 'Talking about living spontaneously, I've been thinking I might get a job aboard-Paris, say.'

There was a pause, then he asked flatly, 'Is your French good enough for that?'

'I speak a little, and if I'm living there I'd soon learn a lot more.  And I've always loved the idea of living in Paris; it's such a  beautiful, exciting city.'