Lee Wilkinson - Running From the Storm

‘You’re right, of course.’

When he had slammed the car door, he replaced the first-aid box and got behind the wheel.

As he drove, his thoughts were busy. It was odds on that her ankle would prevent her from joining a trekking party, but would she still want to join her friend in Catona?

He rather hoped not. Past experience told him she was already attracted to him, and he couldn’t wait to get her into bed.

With a lot of women it would have been easy—too easy, in fact. Most of them had been so over-eager he’d soon become bored and only too keen to bring things to an end.

But already he felt certain that this woman was different. Rather than being the worldly, extrovert, anything-goes type, she was quiet and self-contained and, beneath what he guessed was normally a cool, composed exterior, maybe even a little shy.

Suddenly he was looking forward to finding out, filled with anticipation at the thought of getting to know her a whole lot better. Of holding her in his arms and making love to her.

Smiling wryly to himself, he realized he hadn’t felt this interested and eager since he had been a lanky seventeen-year-old and really enamoured of the pretty girl who lived across the way.

By the time they reached their destination the sun had disappeared behind the wooded peaks, and the air was the clear piercing blue that in mountainous regions reigns briefly between sunset and dusk.

‘Here we are,’ Zander said as he came round to help her out. ‘Le Jardin Romarin.’

It was an old and picturesque building, with a jumble of pitched roofs and sloping gables. On each side of the stone steps leading up to the imposing entrance were tubs of spiky purple lavender and dark, glossy rosemary.

‘Careful now,’ he warned as she gathered up her purse and jacket and swung her feet to the ground.

Favouring her bad ankle, she stood up cautiously; so far so good. But when she tried to put weight on it she was unable to prevent an exclamation of pain. ‘Bad, huh?’ he said sympathetically.

‘I don’t think I can walk,’ she admitted.

‘Then put your arms round my neck.’

A sudden excitement surging through her, she obeyed, and once again found herself being swung up and held against a broad chest.

This time she felt less awkward about being carried, but was more affected by it.

She could feel the warmth of his body, the solidness of the bone and muscle she rested against, and, mingling with the clean masculine scent of his skin, the tangy aftershave he used.

Their faces were so near to one another that she could see the faint laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, and a small, vertical scar by the side of his mouth.

Such close contact sent a shiver of excitement through her, made breathing difficult, and set her heart beating faster.

The door was opened for them and, having climbed the steps seemingly without effort, he carried her into an elegant foyer-bar where a small party of people were enjoying a drink while they waited for their table.

Embarrassment washed over her, but when no one as much as glanced their way her discomfort faded.

Feeling her relax, Zander asked, ‘Satisfied I won’t drop you?’

Seeing her cheeks grow pink, and finding it a sweet amusement to tease her, he added wickedly, ‘Or are you starting to enjoy being carried?’

She was saved from having to answer by a sturdy, silver-haired man wearing a dinner jacket and black bow-tie who crossed the foyer to greet them.

‘Zander, nice to see you again, mon ami !’ he exclaimed jovially.

‘Nice to see you, Claude.’

With an unmistakable twinkle in his eye, the Frenchman asked, ‘Do I take it that you and madame are enjoying a lune de miel ?’

‘Unfortunately not. I’m afraid mademoiselle has hurt her ankle.’

Claude tutted his concern. ‘Then we will have to try and make up for it with one of our best tables and an especially good meal.’

He led the way through French doors to a rear veranda and over to a secluded table, beautifully set with a low centrepiece of apricot-coloured roses and a squat gold candle.

‘Now do please make yourselves comfortable.’

As soon as Caris had been settled in a chair, an attentive waiter relieved her of her jacket and whisked it away.

Nodding his approval, Claude went on, ‘I will send along a bottle of our best champagne, and if you care to leave the choice of menu in my hands …?’

After giving Caris a questioning glance and receiving her nod of agreement, Zander answered, ‘Thanks, Claude, we’ll be happy to.’

‘Then I will see that chef excels himself on your behalf. Oh, one last thing …’ Turning to Caris he asked, ‘Would mademoiselle like something to rest her injured foot on?’

A little flustered by so much attention, Caris said, ‘Thank you, but it’s really not necessary.’

With a smile and an inclination of his head, the Frenchman hurried away.

The lantern-hung veranda overlooked a steeply terraced garden with winding steps and secret paths, stone benches and pale statues in arbours. Water cascaded over tumbling rocks into fern-hung pools, and dark, glossy rosemary seemed to grow in every nook and cranny.

A solitary bright evening star and a velvety-blue dusk waiting in the wings made the scene seem magical, enchanted.

It set the atmosphere for the whole evening.

Having gazed her fill, Caris remarked, ‘This is a lovely place in a lovely setting.’

‘I rather hoped you’d like it,’ Zander admitted.

As she moved her foot into a more comfortable position he said, ‘Sure you don’t need a cushion? Raising it might help to ease the pain and prevent swelling.’

She shook her head. ‘It only hurts when I put weight on it, and the swelling seems to have stopped. Though I think you were right about the trekking.’

‘Then this might be a good time to call your friend and put her in the picture.’

She sighed. ‘Walking the Rowton Way is something Sam’s been really looking forward to.’

‘So what do you intend to do?’

‘Stay in Albany,’ Caris said decidedly. ‘I don’t want her to call it off on my account, which is what she’ll do if I’m in Catona and not able to go.’

Fishing out her mobile phone, she tapped in the number. After a moment or two she frowned. ‘I’m not getting any answer, which is odd … Oh, wait a minute, I have a text message from her.

‘Oh Lord, she has an even worse problem than I do. Her widowed mother’s been taken ill and she’s having to fly up to Boston to nurse her. She says to go on the trek without her, so I’d better let her know how things are …’

The text sent, Caris dropped the phone back into her bag. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘There’s no need to be. It had to be settled. But it’s a pity about your vacation.’

Hiding her disappointment, she said lightly, ‘Oh well, it can’t be helped. I’ll just have a quiet time at home.

‘If I get bored I can always go into the office or ask Kate to drop some work round. There’s always plenty to do.’

At that moment, the wine waiter approached wheeling a trolley. He stooped and with a click of his lighter lit the candle.

Then, having stationed the trolley to his satisfaction, he twirled the bottle of Dom Perignon in its ice bucket and began the little ceremony of opening and pouring the vintage champagne.

‘Go easy on mine,’ Zander said as the wine bubbled into the flutes. ‘I’ll be driving later.’

When the napkin-wrapped bottle had been replaced in the bucket and the waiter had moved away, Zander lifted his glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to us, Caris, and getting to know one another better.’

‘To us,’ she echoed.

Those fascinating green eyes of his fixed on her face. He remarked, ‘You have an unusual name. Who chose it?’

‘My mother.’

‘Caris,’ he murmured softly, making the word sound like a caress. ‘It suits you.’

As she sipped the champagne, emboldened by his toast and wanting to know more about him, she asked, ‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘I’m in the hotel business.’

Of course; she had wondered why the name seemed to be familiar. Now she recalled glancing through a society magazine and reading about the aristocratic Devereux family.

‘I thought I knew the name. Devereux Hotels are famous all over the globe. I read in one of the glossy magazines that it’s been a family concern for more than a hundred years.’

‘Yes. It all started with my great-grandfather, Gerald Devereux.’

‘Wasn’t he the younger brother of a duke?’

‘Yes, but he stopped using his title when he married an American and came to live in the States. Originally he set up his own merchant bank in London, then in the late eighteen-hundreds he acquired a hotel as a bad debt. That sparked his interest and as a business proposition he began to build more.’

‘So do you run the business?’

‘No, my father does.’

‘James Devereux?’

‘That’s right.’

The article had gone on to say that James Devereux, a multi millionaire who owned a chain of five-star hotels worldwide, had been happily married to the same woman for almost forty years.

His son, on the other hand, appeared to be a Casanova, noted for his many high-profile affairs and his ability to remain a bachelor despite the amount of women trying to catch him.

Zander was going on. ‘I’m an architect by training and inclination, so I spend a lot of my time designing and building new hotels or converting existing properties.’

‘In the States?’

‘Worldwide.’

‘Which means you do a lot of travelling?’

‘A fair amount.’

‘Lucky you. Do you have a favourite country?’

‘I have a soft spot for England,’ he admitted.

‘Then you know it well?’

‘Very well. I was born in London and I went to Oxford. You see, though my father is American by birth, my mother, who died last year, was English.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Caris said. ‘That is strange, though, as I have an American father and an English mother.’

‘So where were you born?’

‘A little market town called Spitewinter, on the Cambridgeshire border. My grandfather was the vicar there. I got my law degree at Cambridge University.’

‘What made you decide on law as a career?’

‘It was decided for me. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. You see, my father had hoped for a son to follow in hisfootsteps, but it wasn’t to be. My mother died when I was quite young.’

‘And your father never married again?’

Caris shook her head. ‘He’d adored my mother and he never really got over her death. He became morose and bitter.’

‘But you must have been a comfort to him.’

‘Quite the reverse, apparently. I was left in the care of various nannies and sent away to boarding school as soon as I was old enough to go. But, later on, when I proved to be reasonably bright, it became my father’s dearest wish that I should train to be a lawyer and join the firm.’

‘Why did you choose to go to Cambridge?’

‘Once again, the decision was made for me. Though my father is American born and bred, his family, as well as my mother’s, were originally from Cambridgeshire.’

‘How did they end up in the States?’

‘In the early eighteen-hundreds one of our ancestors emigrated and settled in New Jersey, but he sent his eldest son back to England to finish his education at Cambridge. Since then it’s become a kind of family tradition that in each generation the eldest son of the eldest son should go there.