Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure (8 page)

The room was bare, except for the rug on the floor where Orlando had laid her, knelt over her as his hands had slipped over her body, trailing ecstasy as the angels above had looked down on them…

‘Excuse me, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Mrs Harper, would you?’

Rachel jumped. The voice at her elbow was incredibly well-bred, but decidedly frazzled. Turning round, she found herself looking into the face of a girl not much older than she was, but as different as it was possible to be. Sleek, elegant, sophisticated, she was the sort of girl you expected to see in the champagne bar of Harrods, surrounded by a group of matching friends called Henrietta and Lucinda.

She held out a beautifully manicured hand. ‘Sorry, I’m Lucinda. From Ice and Fire? The party planners?’

‘Oh—of course,’ said Rachel, blushing. For a moment the name of Lucinda’s business had thrown her. ‘I’m Rachel. I’m terribly sorry, but Mrs Harper won’t be coming today. She’s slipped on the ice and broken her ankle.’

In sympathy with Mrs Harper, Lucinda’s face fell. ‘Oh, knickers,’ she wailed. ‘This sodding weather! I was
so
counting on having someone to help. Half of our office are in bed with hellish flu, which means I’ve come on my own. I had to set off at some perfectly indecent hour, and I’ve had the most nightmarish journey—’

She was interrupted by a loud blast of Handel’s
Firework Music
from her huge designer handbag, and, glancing apologetically at Rachel, plucked out her mobile. As she turned away to speak into it Rachel had the chance to admire the exquisite cut of her black trouser suit, her shiny pale pink nails with their bright white tips. She looked capable and professional, Rachel thought enviously, pulling the sleeves of her beloved but decidedly distressed cashmere jumper down over her own plain hands.

With a vivid curse that was entirely at odds with the cut-glass tones in which it was spoken, Lucinda threw the phone back into her bag and turned to Rachel. ‘That was the florist,’ she said miserably. ‘All the flights out of the Channel Islands have been grounded this morning, so the flowers won’t be here.’

Rachel’s heart went out to her. ‘What you need is a good strong coffee,’ she said sympathetically, taking Lucinda’s arm. ‘Come with me.’

In the kitchen, Rachel uttered a silent prayer of thanks that she’d watched Orlando fill the kettle earlier and knew how to do it.

‘Thanks,’ said Lucinda gratefully, taking the mug of coffee. ‘You don’t know how much I needed this. You’re a lifesaver.’

Rachel smiled. ‘My pleasure.’ It was true. It was a pleasure to be doing something useful for once. ‘Just tell me what else I can do to help.’

‘Oh, don’t say that or I might just take you up on it,’ groaned Lucinda, reaching into the depths of her bag and pulling out some paracetamol. ‘I feel rotten.’

‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Rachel regarded her sympathetically over the rim of her mug. ‘Are you coming down with the flu, do you think?’

‘Let’s hope not. Or, if I am, let’s hope I can keep it at bay until this party’s in full swing.’ Lucinda suddenly looked a lot less confident, and Rachel could see that much of the glossy sophistication was just a veneer. ‘The thing is,’ she went on miserably, ‘the business is in a spot of bother, and this party could be make or break. I can’t afford to mess this up—it’s the perfect opportunity to get some new clients from amongst all these loaded financiers. That’s why I was banking on the capable Mrs Harper.’

‘I’m afraid I’m hardly capable, but I’ll do whatever I can to help,’ said Rachel apologetically.

Lucinda looked relieved. ‘Would you? I don’t suppose you could find a solution to the flower crisis, could you?’

Her arms were full of branches—some bare, some adorned with berries, some still covered in leaves the same coppery colour as her hair—her hands were scratched and torn, but she didn’t care, and her cheeks were flushed with cautious triumph. Following the lime avenue to its end, she’d discovered a gate in the wall and, with difficulty, pushed it open, hoping to find neat borders of well-behaved shrubs. Instead she had found a tangled wilderness.

She’d almost turned back, but the thought of letting Lucinda down, of failing, had made her persevere. She was glad she had.

Ahead of her now, Easton Hall was a picture of English perfection, its ancient brick rosy against the stark, snow covered landscape. It was so beautiful, but there was something sad and empty about it—as if it knew that the best days, the happy times, were gone and there was only darkness ahead. Rachel wondered about all the previous generations of Wintertons who had lived and laughed and loved here; thought of family Christmases and summer afternoons with tea on the lawn, of parties like the one tonight in former years, when all the family would have been gathered…

Now there was just Orlando.

Her heart gave a painful twist inside her chest, as if it had been impaled on one of the thorny branches she carried. He seemed so isolated. She longed to draw him, and this magical house, back into warmth and light.

But of course, she thought sadly, dodging past the caterer’s vans and pushing open the front door with her hip, if anyone was to warm Orlando’s chilly heart or bring the smile back to his beautiful, hard face it wouldn’t be her.

It would be this Arabella.

She paused, struggling to keep hold of all the damp, tangled branches as she kicked off the ridiculous boots. But, though they were far too big for her, they stubbornly refused to come off, so that she was reduced to hopping madly on one foot, desperately shaking her leg in the air while trying not to fall over.

At last the boot flew from her foot and skidded across the tiled floor, coming to rest at the feet of the person standing there. The person she hadn’t noticed. The person who had just watched her stupid, ungainly embarrassing display and not stepped in to help.

Orlando.

‘My God,’ he said, in a cool, mocking voice. ‘Burnham Wood comes to Dunsinane. The question is,
why
? We have plenty of kindling and firewood in the kitchen yard.’

Scarlet with exertion and embarrassment, Rachel eyed him mutinously through her armful of spiky branches.

‘These are flowers for the tables,’ she said haughtily.

Orlando’s finely arched eyebrows shot up, eloquently communicating his scorn.

‘Really?’

Rachel dropped her gaze. How could anyone manage to get so many syllables out of such a short word? Pig. No wonder he was alone. It was because he was insufferable.

She hesitated for a moment, horribly aware of her mad hair and unmade-up face. Her nose was probably bright red from the cold, and she desperately wanted to blow it. She sniffed, loudly.

‘Yes, really. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ She took a step forward, intending to sweep past him in an attitude of preoccupation and importance, but she’d forgotten she was still wearing one Wellington, which gave her a madly lopsided gait. She stopped, fury and humiliation warring within her as she had no alternative but to try to lever it off with her other foot.

Orlando took a step towards her, his face perfectly impassive.

‘Can I help?’

It was too much. Desperate to end this humiliating encounter, and get as far away from him as possible, Rachel gave an almighty lunge to try and free her foot. Unfortunately as she did so she failed to step clear of the top of the boot and, unable to put her arms out, overbalanced.

He caught her effortlessly and set her back on her feet again. And then he stood back, snatching his hands away as if, instead of being chilled from the frozen garden, she’d been blistering hot.

‘Thanks,’ Rachel muttered stiffly, and, gathering the branches closer to her, resumed her progress across the hall, choking on the bitterness of the irony.

She had, after all, been the one to bring a smile back to Orlando Winterton’s face. Such a damned shame, she reflected savagely, that it had been one of such complete and utter contempt.

Rachel stood back and allowed herself a small moment of satisfaction.

She had tried something new, and she hadn’t failed dismally. With a spring in her step, she went to find Lucinda.

She was in the dining room, talking to one of the hordes of caterers who had been traipsing in and out all day, carrying vast platters of salmon and lobster, endless dishes of salad, and every kind of spectacular pudding imaginable. But, going into the room, Rachel felt her attention drawn away from the array of food laid out on the long tables by the rising hysteria in Lucinda’s voice.

‘I quite specifically asked you to supply the candles. It’s no good telling me now that you haven’t got them!’

‘I’m sorry.’ The caterer’s tone was firm. ‘That wasn’t the message we got. I double-checked myself this morning what we we’d been commissioned to supply, and candles weren’t on the list.’

‘So you’re trying to tell me—?’

Rachel laid a hand on Lucinda’s arm. She could feel her shivering violently.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll go out and get some. The table arrangements are all done, so I’ve got nothing else to do.’

Lucinda turned to face her. She was deathly pale, but spots of bright colour burned high up on her cheeks.

‘Would you?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘That would be fantastic.’

Rachel drew her away from the caterer, lowering her voice. ‘Lucinda, you look dreadful.’

‘I feel dreadful,’ she said through chattering teeth. Two fat tears slid down her cheeks. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Go to bed,’ said Rachel resolutely. ‘You have to. You’re obviously awfully unwell.’

‘But I can’t!’ There’s still so much to do!’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Rachel put her arm around her. Lucinda was burning hot and, crying in earnest now, virtually unrecognisable from the sleek, capable-looking girl who had so intimidated Rachel earlier. ‘The caterers can sort out the drinks, and I’m going to buy candles right now. But you can’t drive back to London like this.’

‘No, I know…’ She sighed, looking up at Rachel with puffy eyes. ‘My godmother lives about ten miles from here, just beyond the next village. I’m sure she’d put me up.’

‘Phone her,’ ordered Rachel. ‘I’ll drop you off on my way into town.’

‘Hadn’t you better check with Lord Ashbroke?’

Rachel was about to say yes, but then she remembered the contemptuous look he had given her earlier, and his attitude of terrifying remoteness. ‘I’m sure he’s far too busy to be disturbed.’

‘You’re wonderful,’ said Lucinda gratefully, giving her a weak hug.

Rachel smiled sadly.

That, unfortunately, was a matter of opinion.

She felt strange; oddly light-headed, and the sensation of the close-cropped hair at her nape brought an involuntary smile to her face in the warm fug of the car. She had gone into the hair-dresser’s completely on impulse as she’d hurried by on her search for candles, and had found herself seated in front of the mirror before she’d had time to think about what she was doing.

The face that had looked back at her had been pale and childlike. Her eyes had always been her best feature—large, as clear and warm as amber, and inherited from her father, her mother had once told her in disgust—but they gave her face a frightened look.

And as she’d sat there the words she had said to Orlando last night came back to her.
I’m tired of being afraid. I want to be brave…

She’d taken a deep breath and heard herself saying ‘Take it all off, please.’

Now, she glanced into the driving mirror, angling her head for a better view of herself. The hairdresser, horrified at the sacrilege of butchering such luxuriant hair, had flatly refused to give her a short crop, persuading her instead into the idea of a choppy, layered bob, cut closely into the curve of her skull at the back and angling sharply downwards, following the line of her jaw to finish in longer, spiky layers at the front.

It felt glorious. She slid her hand into the front, pushing it backwards, loving the way it stayed put now the weight of it had gone.

Only now did she appreciate what a weight it had been. Described by the PR people as being ‘integral to the brand’, her heavy hair had been entangled with the weight of expectation and responsibility. It had oppressed her and, while defining her image, it had stopped her from being herself.

She was free of all that now—in every way. It was as if Orlando Winterton had broken all the chains that had anchored her to her past with the same casual ruthlessness with which he and his fellow pilots torched pianos.

It was only natural that she should feel drawn to him, she thought sadly. It was inevitable, stemming from the same psychological imperative that made newly hatched ducklings bond with the first creature they saw when they emerged from the egg. He was the first person who had listened to her, the first person she felt had ever really
seen
her—seen through the image and past her porcelain-pretty face.

It was just such a damned shame he was in love with someone else. Suddenly she gave a gasp as the road ahead narrowed. She slammed her foot on the brakes, but too late, too sharply, and she felt the car glide across the icy road, completely out of her control. For a moment everything was suspended as in slow motion she watched the low wall ahead getting closer, brighter in the beam of the headlights…

And then there was a crunch, a jolt, a shattering of glass, and semi-darkness as the headlight on one side went out.

In the sudden thick silence Rachel let out a shaky laugh.

That bloody bridge again.

Which just went to show that knowing where the dangers lay didn’t stop you falling right into them.