IT WAS late on a wet, dark Sunday night when Sophie
Marlow, in a black, angry mood in keeping with the
elements, drove back from London to Gloucestershire. Her
mood deteriorated even further when headlights which
appeared in her rearview mirror on the turnoff from the
motorway stayed with her all the way to Long Ashley,
making her very edgy by the time the familiar boundary
walls finally came into view through the rain sheeting
down in the beam of her headlights.
Five entrances punctuated the walls, each with a small
lodge house, four of which were owned by the estate. One
of the these was Sophie's home, part of the perks of her
job as estate administrator and PA to the director and
general manager of Highfield Hall International, the
exclusive-use conference centre which had employed her for
the past four years. She counted the lodges off as she
drove along the narrow, curving road, and blew out her
cheeks in relief when the pursuing headlights suddenly
vanished from her rearview mirror. The car had turned in
at the only privately owned cottage, Ewen and Rosanna
Fraser's place. Odd they hadn't let her know they were
coming. She turned in at her own gateway at last, relaxing
when security lights switched on outside the cottage.
Sophie made a dash through the downpour to unlock the
front door and switched on the light in the narrow hall,
her spirits rising further at the welcome sight of her own
apricot walls and white painted plasterwork. Glen Taylor,
until recently the male presence in her life, had urged
her to paint the beautiful covings and dados black against
grey walls — worse still, to exchange her chintz and
watercolours for black leather and Japanese prints in
minimalist style totally alien to a Victorian cottage.
After today's disaster Sophie could only thank her lucky
stars she'd firmly refused to let him move in with her, as
he'd wanted.
With a shudder at the very idea, she dumped her bags down
and went to the kitchen to listen to her messages while
the kettle boiled.
"Hi, Sophie," said Stephen Laing, her boss. "Ewen Fraser
rang to say he's letting a friend stay at his cottage for
a while to finish a book. Name of Smith. I promised Ewen
you'd look after his pal well, so make time to pay a call
on him to confirm his requirements as to catering,
cleaning, etc. See you Tuesday."
Hoping he meant Murray Smith, one of her favourite
authors, Sophie listened to her second message.
"Hi, Sophie. Luce here. Ring me for a chat."
"Sophie!" said the last voice, which was male, familiar
and furious. "What the hell did you take off like that
for? Ring me. Now."
Not now. Not ever. Sophie glared balefully at the machine,
made a note to visit Ewen Fraser's tenant, but postponed
the call to her friend until next day. She made herself a
cup of tea and curled up on the sofa in her small sitting
room, feeling as though she'd survived some life-
threatening disaster. Glen Taylor, until recently head
chef at Highfield Hall, was a genius in the kitchen, with
the volatile temperament that went with the territory. But
today he'd overstepped the mark so far Sophie never wanted
to lay eyes on him again. Deep down, even in the
beginning, when he'd been at his most charming and
persuasive, she'd always veered away from something
unsettling about Glen; the indefinable something he
brought to the genius which had quickly made the Highfield
restaurant so renowned. Stephen Laing had been furious
when Glen threw up his job after only a few months to open
a place of his own in London.
"He'll find that working for himself is a different ball-
game, TV chef or not," Stephen told Sophie. "Glen may have
been cock of the walk here at Highfield, but in London
he'll be a very small fish in a huge, competitive pond. So
if you're wise you'll steer well clear of his business
affairs."
Sophie had great respect for Stephen Laing's acumen. And
common sense of her own. So today, when Glen had taken it
for granted she would not only sink her savings into his
new venture but also give up her job and her home and work
as his manager for free until the business got going,
she'd laughed in his face and refused. At first, Glen
hadn't believed her, so sure of her consent he'd thought
she was teasing, and tried to bring her round with sexual
persuasion which turned ugly when she remained obdurate.
"You'll come running back," he'd sneered, when Sophie
stormed out of his flat. "You're mad about me, and you
know it."
Mad to have had anything to do with him, thought Sophie,
seething. Glen's looks were a great success on television
cooking programmes. And in the beginning she had liked him
well enough. But today whatever lukewarm feelings she'd
had left for him had vanished entirely. Her mouth twisted
in angry distaste. She could see Glen Taylor all too
clearly now that their short relationship was over. He'd
made it plain from the beginning that he wanted her in his
bed. But it was obvious in hindsight that he'd felt equal
lust — possibly more — for her administrative skills.
To damp down the temper still boiling away inside her
Sophie went off to lie chin-deep in steaming bubbles, only
to groan in frustration when the doorbell rang the moment
she'd begun to relax. She jumped out of the bath, tied on
a towelling robe, twisted a towel into a turban round her
wet hair, and ran downstairs. Then came skidding to a halt
in the hall, suddenly afraid that Glen might have come
chasing down from London after her.
Afraid? Sophie squared her shoulders, opened the door a
crack as far as the safety chain allowed, and peered up
into eyes which were the only feature visible between the
brim of a dripping hat and the upturned collar of a caped
raincoat.
"Good evening," said the stranger. "Miss
Marlow?" 'Yes?" 'Sorry to disturb you. My name's Jago
Smith. I'm staying at the Frasers' place for a while."
Not Murray Smith, then. Pity. Sophie smiled politely. "How
do you do? Is there something you need?"
The man shook his head, spraying raindrops so liberally he
dodged back quickly into the shadows. "No thanks — at
least not right now. But Ewen advised introducing myself
right away, to show I'm not squatting illegally."
"I already knew about you, Mr Smith," she assured him. "A
message was waiting for me when I got home just now."
The eyes dropped to her bare feet. "I should have rung
instead of barging in like this. My apologies."
"Not at all. Did Ewen mention that I'm the estate
administrator? I can arrange for anything you
need." 'Thank you. Perhaps we could discuss that tomorrow?
At a time convenient to you, of course."
Odd, thought Sophie. All she could see was a pair of eyes,
but something about the stranger appealed to her.
Strongly. "I usually finish about six-thirty," she said,
after a pause. "Perhaps you'd call round then."
"Better still, I could give you a drink at Ewen's place."
Sophie thought it over for a moment, then nodded. "Right.
About seven, then."
He touched a finger to his hatbrim, said goodnight and
sprinted down the path through the downpour. Sophie closed
her front door, refastened the chain, and for the first
time since she'd lived at Ivy Lodge slammed the
substantial bolt into place. Glen's fault. Today he'd
succeeded in making her physically afraid for the first
time in her life. Cursing herself for letting him have a
key, she added a change of locks to her check-list for
next day. Just in case.
First thing next morning Sophie told the startled
receptionist that she was permanently unavailable to Glen
Taylor if he should ring. Then as usual she began her day
by changing the closed circuit television tape before
sorting the mail, and afterwards made a start on the
dictation tape Stephen had left for her. While she worked
she dealt with a constant stream of phone calls, one of
which, as was often the case, was a routine request to
land a helicopter. She confirmed that the helipad and
surrounding area would be free at the requested time, sent
a memo to all heads of department to inform them when the
helicopter would be landing, then gave lunch in the staff
restaurant a miss to hurry home through the rain to meet
the locksmith.
Afterwards, feeling much happier with a new set of keys in
her possession, Sophie went back to the Hall to collect
her messages from Reception. In her office she discarded
two from Glen, unread, and settled down to return the
others. Due to constant interruptions from the phone it
took her the rest of the afternoon to complete the minutes
of a meeting she'd taken the previous Friday, but at last
she was able to take advantage of Stephen's absence to
leave on time for once. Grateful, as always, for not
having to commute, she walked home through an evening no
longer full of rain, but dark enough to keep her to the
main, floodlit walkways.
When Sophie arrived home there were more furious messages
from Glen, who was savage with rage after being ignored
all day. The theme of all three messages was the same. He
would forgive her if she did what he wanted. Otherwise she
would be sorry.
Sophie was already sorry. Sorry she'd ever met him. She
rang Lucy to give her the news, by this time able to laugh
when her friend described Glen Taylor in words so graphic
that Sophie's ears burned.
"You're well shot of him," said her friend forcefully. "I
could never understand what you saw in him. I know he's a
genius with a frying pan, and all that, but I can only
suppose he's even more inspired in bed."
"Frying pan! Glen would blow a fuse if he heard that one."
"I was always afraid he would, you know." 'He almost did
yesterday. But don't worry, he won't get the chance again."
After Lucy rang off Sophie raced through a shower and
dried her hair at top speed. Afterwards, dressed in black
trousers and a sweater the same russet shade of her hair,
she made sure all her new locks were secured, belted on a
long black trenchcoat, collected umbrella and torch and
set off for the cottage Ewen Fraser had inherited from his
great uncle.
The door opened the moment she rang the bell, to reveal
Jago Smith under the hall light, smiling in welcome.
Sophie's answering smile was warm for a split second. Then
it died abruptly. Her heart gave a sickening lurch as
recognition stabbed her like a knife. Without the raincoat
and hat of the night before Jago Smith was revealed as
tall and slim-hipped in a vivid green wool shirt and
outrageously tight jeans, his dark waving hair a frame for
a good-looking, confident face she remembered only too
well.
"Good evening, Miss Marlow. Come in." Unaware of the shell-
shock his visitor was suffering, he ushered her into a
sitting room identical to her own in size and shape, with
comfortable sofas, shelves full of blue and white
porcelain, walls literally covered with pictures, and on a
small table a tray with glasses and a bottle of wine
flanked by a crystal dish of nuts. "Let me take your coat
and give you a drink."
Sophie pulled herself together. "No thanks," she said
shortly. "I can't stay. If you'll just tell me what you
need, I must get back."
His grey eyes narrowed. "In which case, rather than waste
your time, Miss Marlow, I could have phoned and saved you
the walk over here tonight."
A better idea all round if only she'd recognised him the
night before. Sophie took a notebook from her bag and got
down to business. "But since I am here, Mr Smith, I'll jot
down a few details. I can arrange cleaning, laundry, even
catering if you want. The restaurant at the Hall is
excellent, but if you prefer to eat here they'll send food
over."
"So Ewen told me," he said, his eyes trained on her
face. "The cottage is still reasonably tidy for the time
being, mainly because I'm working upstairs in the Frasers'
spare bedroom. But a quick blitz from someone now and then
would be good. But only for an hour or two. I can't
concentrate with someone in the house."
"I'll arrange for one of the cleaners to come and chat
with you," said Sophie, avoiding eye contact. "You can
work out what you want, laundry included, even food-
shopping if you want."