Hotel Mirador (8 page)

She said stiffly, “He’s not an unpleasant companion and he does happen to be half English.”

“He also has a father who’d go to some lengths to get him settled with a wife and a good living. I like Pierre and I can understand his ambitions for Tony, but I brought you here for a far different purpose.”

“You needn’t think I’ll lose sight of that, Mr. Ryland!” Dane remained cool and unperturbed. “I’m more concerned about Mike than you think, and I want results from your association with him.”

Sally’s usually even temper slipped slightly out of control. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Ryland? That I’m thinking of my own enjoyment before Mike’s needs? When I’m not with him am I supposed to sit twiddling my thumbs? Are you afraid I won’t earn my salary?
...”

“Don’t raise your voice to me, child,” he broke in sharply. “If you’re angry because I won’t encourage your friendship with Tony de Chalain, it’s too bad, and it doesn’t make any difference. Seeing that you’re impervious to the magic of Shiran, you shouldn’t find it too difficult to resist Tony. I want no entanglements—do you understand?”

She jumped up, but, even so, he seemed to be standing before she was. “I think you’re being beastly! If it weren’t for Mike, I’d tell you to keep your horrid job and all that goes with it. You’re detestable!”

His eyes narrowed, and glittered in the darkness. “Because I’m spoiling your first romance? That’s a typically girlish reaction.”

“Well, perhaps I’m typically girlish! I certainly couldn’t be as hard and one-track as you are. I don’t believe you ever think really deeply about anything except your soulless business propositions, and where Mike’s concerned, he’s just another proposition that has to be put back on to a sound basis. You generously spare him ten minutes a day, and order up someone who might be able to get him shipshape. You don’t really
care,
because it isn’t in you to care about anyone
...”

“That’s enough!”

But Sally was breathless and defiant. Without shoes she was tiny beside him, but she flung up at him a reckless spate of words. “You can’t frighten me, you big brute!
I’m on Mike’s side, and Tony’s, and I won’t be cowed. You sit back like some overlord and tell Tony he couldn’t run a plantation if he tried. At times you get nasty with Mike because he won’t make any effort for his own good. But if you cared to spare the time and a little feeling, you could help both of them tremendously. I don’t wonder you’ve never married, and never expect to. A man has to own a heart before he even thinks about such things!” He gripped her shoulders and was probably in a mood to shake her violently. But suddenly the pool was flooded with light from overhead lamps, and Maynier, the secretary, was hurrying across the grass. With an audible breath, Dane released her.

The secretary stuttered. “Monsieur, I have been looking for you. Mademoiselle Vaugard is in distress. Her voice has gone and she demands you and Dr. Demaire.”

“Her voice?” Dane sounded a little strange; the same note in any other man’s speech might have denoted a swift gathering of wits. “Is she in pain?”

“She is much disturbed, monsieur.”

“I’ll shove on a robe and go along to her suite.” Maynier bowed. “Mademoiselle is already in your sitting room, monsieur. She is lying on the couch.”

Dane shrugged. “All right, Maynier. I’m going up.”

He slipped a hand under Sally’s elbow and gripped, marched her across the lawn to the side entrance which led to the private staircase. They went up together and at the door to Sally’s suite they stopped, and he pushed open the door. Then, without a word, he walked on to his own suite.

Sally got out of her swim suit and into some underwear and a plain frock. She ordered a salad and some coffee, ate and drank absently and was cross with herself for feeling despondent. The tray was taken, and she put out the light and sat in the balcony.

Inevitably, she looked along towards that other balcony, and saw that the whole suite was in darkness. They had gone down to dinner; perhaps the woman had received one of those miracle injections to enable her to sing.

Sally thought back over the conversation with Dane, its light and rather exciting beginning, the swift deterioration into a one-sided slanging match. It had been wrong to speak to him like that, but she had stuck to the truth. He was too cold-blooded to care about people. Mike had to be helped because he was a cousin; every facility offered, no expense spared. Dane was generous in every way but the one that mattered most; he was too clever and aloof to give of himself.

Why Sally should resent his self-sufficiency she did not know. It was ridiculous to care whether he had a heart or not, and futile to wish him different. She had a job to do here in Morocco, and she told herself that the sooner she completed it, the happier she would be. Upon which decision, she once more descended the private staircase to the grounds, and took a long walk. Such a long walk, in fact, that when she returned to the hotel it was nearly midnight, and many people were going upstairs to bed.

Sally came to the door she seldom remembered to lock, opened it and found that there were lights in the entrance hall and sitting room. Her heart fluttering queerly, she stood in the doorway between the two rooms and stared at the woman who sat enjoying a cigarette in one of the purple chairs.

The woman spoke first. “I have not dismayed you, I hope. You are Miss Yorke, I believe? I am C
é
cile Vaugard.”

Rather jerkily, Sally made some acknowledgement. She came farther into the room, felt herself tightening up as she waited for the other to say more.

Afterwards, she remembered thinking in that moment that this was not her lucky day.

CHAPTER FOUR

C
É
CILE VAUGARD smiled, a bewitching smile which showed beautiful white teeth between her curving red lips. Seated, she looked smaller, and with the wheat-blonde hair smoothed back in deep waves and secured by a jewelled comb, her rich dark lashes enhanced by mascara and her creamy neck encircled by a single row of pearls and diamonds, she was spectacularly lovely. Almost, one did not notice the deceptively simple white linen frock belted with black braid, the transparent slippers showing rosy pink toenails which matched her fingertips.

“I thought it was time we should meet,” she said in velvet tones. “You speak French?”

“A little—it’s not so good as your English.”

“But you have been able to make yourself understood in the souks?”

“Oh, yes. The Moors seem to be exceptionally intelligent.”

“They are also excellent
businessmen. For money, they wi
ll understand any language.”
Cécile
paused. “I would like us to understand each other, Miss Yorke, because I may be able to put you in touch with some work which will pay you more money than you have ever seen in your lifetime.”

“Really?” said Sally with caution. “I think you must have overestimated my abilities.”

“You are a masseuse, are you not?”

“Partly.”

“You have dealt with children?”

“More than with adults—yes.”

“Good. There is a Caid at the Kasbah of Nezam who has a small son in need of this therapy of yours. The child was a polio victim two years ago and he is left with some sort of trouble. He happens to be the Caid’s favorite son, but neither the Caid nor the mother will allow the child to take treatment in a clinic. They have had Moorish and French masseurs, but no one from England. How would you like to become a member of the Caid’s staff for perhaps six months? He would pay whatever you ask.”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible. I could no more guarantee to be successful than the others who have treated the child, and in any case, I’m already employed.”

“By Mr. Ryland—I know that.”

There was a brief silence, then Sally said politely, “You seem to have regained your voice, Mademoiselle Vaugard. Were you able to sing this evening?”

Cécile
shrugged gracefully. “It has happened before, but Dr. Demaire has the remedy. Yes, I sang. Dane told me afterwards that he has never heard me in better voice.” Which was strange, thought Sally; the fleeting laryngitis sounded as if it might have been bogus. What was this
woman really like, under the gloss? She was a beauty, of course, and women with undeniable beauty of feature are rare enough to know themselves unassailable by other women. They regard themselves as beings set apart, and consequently they are governed by their own elastic laws. Perhaps because she was a singer,
Cécile
nourished and cherished her looks; she was certainly intensely conscious of them.

Still polite, Sally said, “I would like to hear you sing some time.”

“When I arrived in Shiran I gave a concert at the Mirador. I shall do so once again before I leave—light opera, French ballades. At Le Perroquet they like the po
p
ular nostalgic songs, but I get tired of them.”
Cécile
sank further into her chair. “It was you I saw in the pool with Dane this evening, was it not?”

Faintly startled and still wary, Sally answered, “Yes, it was. My first dip since I’ve been here, as a matter of fact.”

“It was an arrangement between you—that meeting?”

“No, it was more or less accidental.”

“Yet you seemed to be very close and interested in each other as you sat on the side of the pool.”

“Did we?” Sally recalled those few minutes and thought how deceptive appearances could be. “We were talking about other people.” Then she saw the hard glint in the other woman’s eyes, remembered something, and stiffened. “If you manufactured the lost voice to break it up, you needn’t have bothered, mademoiselle.”

“How dare you!” But
Cécile
’s tones remained smooth and without heat. “Yet I can see how you dare. Dane is English, so is this cousin of his whom you are to help. One cannot blame you for the ideas which naturally come to a woman’s mind in such circumstances. After all, you come from a dull country farm. You are hoping to find a husband, no?”

Why not be truthful? “I hope to marry some time,” Sally said, “but not in Morocco. As you remarked, the choice of Englishmen here is limited to Mr. Ryland, who couldn’t care less about women—and Mike Ritchie, who has a chip the size of an oak tree on his shoulder. I’m here purely on business.”

“That is something I cannot believe,” stated
Cécile
. “Always inside a woman there is hope of romance. Even the English are not immune, or your population would have declined long ago. I am a Frenchwoman, Miss Yorke
—
therefore I am shrewd and a realist. Some day, perhaps, I shall marry Dane Ryland.”

“Yes ... I thought you might.”

“So, naturally, I do not wish there to be small complications which might become big complications once
I
have left Shiran. You understand?”

“Perfectly. But I assure you I’m no threat to your plans.”

“While I myself am here, no. But Dane is fond of his cousin Mike. If you were to awaken that young man’s interest in life, Dane would be grateful enough to give you almost anything you might fancy. It is possible, Miss Yorke, that you might fancy Dane himself.”

“That’s almost funny,” Sally said with a smile. “Dane will marry whom and when he wants to. Nothing but his own inclinations will influence him. When do you leave Shiran, mademoiselle?”

“I have been here four weeks; there are still five weeks of my contract at Le Perroquet, and then I go to Casablanca for a month.” She paused. “You are thinking, no doubt, that as yet I have no need to concern myself about you?”

“You need never concern yourself about me,” said Sally disarmingly.

“But I take no risks.”
Cécile
’s expression was bland. “I am sorry for poor Mike, but I feel he would be safer in the hands of an older, uglier nurse. Also, it seems only fair that someone old and more experienced, someone who is ready for retirement on the bounty of Dane Ryland, should be chosen to give Mike the help he needs.”

Sally looked at the woman, found her oddly inscrutable. “I’m a little dense tonight,” she said. “Do you mind speaking more plainly?”

Cécile
, obviously, would have preferred to go on dealing in innuendo and suggestion. But once she had set herself a chore, apparently, she saw it through. Gently, she stretched her legs and flicked a speck from her skirt; then she looked across at Sally, who still stood near the carved dining table.

“I t
hink
you understand me very well, Miss Yorke. Against you personally, I have nothing at all. Also,
I
was in favor of Dane’s advertising for a physiotherapist in England. Please believe those two facts.”

“Very well. I believe them.”

“Bien.
It happens that you are young, you have a good English complexion and pretty hair. You are too slim for beauty and if you were a visitor here, a tourist, Dane would smile at you and forget you; that is his habit with young female guests of the hotel. But your situation is at once more intimate and more subtle. If you fail with Mike, Dane will dislike you; if you succeed, he will think there is more in you than really exists. It is human nature.”

“It’s a chance one is taking all the time, whatever one’s profession.”

“That is true, and if my home were here in Shiran, I would not count you important. However, I should prefer that you leave Shiran before I leave myself.”

“Good heavens, why?”

“I have already explained. You are probably as trustworthy as any other woman, but then I do not trust women any more than I would expect them to trust me. Here in the Mirador you are in the peculiar position of being as close to Dane as you might wish, and how am I to know whether you may not desire greater closeness as the days pass?”

Cécile
was breathtakingly logical; she bewildered Sally. “You’re not to know, of course,” she said. “I can only assure you that I’m here to work.”

“Your assurance is not enough,”
Cécile
replied sweetly. “But I would not wish you to suffer in any way. That is why I have suggested that I would introduce you to the Caid at Nezam. He has tremendous wealth and would pay you a fabulous sum even if you could improve his son’s physique only a little.”

“You’re actually
urging me to walk out on Mike?”

“There will be someone else for him.”

“But I happen to be interested in his case, and anyway, I couldn’t just back out. Mr. Ryland would have a terrible opinion of me.”

“You care about his opinion?”
Cécile
demanded.

“Yes, I do,” Sally said bluntly. “He brought me over from England—paid my expenses and gave me one of the best suites in the hotel
...”

“Which is another reason,”
Cécile
broke in sharply, “why you should give up this job with him. He has treated you wrongly from the beginning, and you have naturally exaggerated in your mind your own importance. Anyone with your kind of training could help Mike!”

“Perhaps, but I happen to be the one who was engaged.”

“You can tell Dane that you feel it is impossible for you to succeed with Mike.”

“No. I wouldn’t do it—not for all the money in Morocco! Quite apart from a personal pride in my job, I feel that now I’ve begun to help Mike I can’t let up. I’d like to see the little boy you spoke about and I’d be very willing to do what I could for him, without payment, but I was engaged for Michael Ritchie and for the present he has to come first.”

“So!” Patently,
Cécile
was astonished and displeased “You are the first girl I have ever met who is not interested in collecting a dowry. Yet your parents cannot be rich or you would not do such exhausting work.”

Unwittingly, Sally made a fatal mistake. The idea of an English girl not daring to think about marriage till she had a dowry was comic, and she laughed slightly.
Cécile
gave her a long penetrating glance from the dark eyes which were an unmistakable indication of her true coloring, and stood up. She had tightened like a steel spring and there was a tigerishness in her expression.

“So our customs amuse you, Miss Yorke. That is good, for you will not find much else that is funny while you are here. I was prepared to arrange this thing on a friendly basis, so that you would actually gain a good deal of money even if you lost a little of your treasured pride. But you are merely amused, and from such as you it is something I will not tolerate!”

By now, of course, Sally was distressed. “I’m terribly sorry, mademoiselle. I didn’t mean to offend you. Surely you’ve smiled occasionally at English customs? We’re a very odd race.”

But
Cécile
was not to be mollified. “Will you do as I ask—give up this task with Michael Ritchie in favor of far better financial prospects with the Caid?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

Sally waited uneasily for an ultimatum that did not come.
Cécile
’s curved lips became a thin line, the thick dark lashes came down over glittering eyes and the Frenchwoman turned and walked, with grace and without haste, from the suite.

Sally let out a long breath which must have been imprisoned for some time. Puzzled and apprehensive, she slipped the catch across on the outer door and went through to her bedroom, where she undressed, automatically and full of thought.

On the face of things,
Cécile
’s reasoning was fantastic. She had gone along with Dane for two or three years, meeting no competition or at least well able to handle any that came her way. She knew herself beautiful and desirable, could probably have married well a dozen times in the past few years, and yet only a few minutes ago she had spoken as if she regarded Sally Yorke as a rival!

Sally got up from the chair where she had been peeling off her stockings and took a look at her features. Fairly regular but small-boned, a pleasant whole, but that was all. And her figure hadn’t a fraction of the allure of
Cécile
’s—-too gangling and countrified. What had got into the woman?

Sally analyzed and reflected, shook her head. Innocently, she had overlooked one important detail.
Cécile
was thirty
-
one—ten years older than the girl from England who might do quite a lot to earn Dane’s gratitude.

* * *

For a few days Sally’s life was quiet, her visits to Mike Ritchie just a little rewarding. Mike had tied himself into such tight knots that loosening off was a slow and painful process, but there came a morning when he smiled at Sally in spite of himself, and the following morning he agreed to see Tony de Chalain; the first meeting between the two young men was rather strained, but that particular fence had been surmounted.

Then, only the day after that, Sally came upon Mike sitting in his bougainvillaea-entwined veranda, and he was wearing khaki shorts and a silk shirt. This was a departure indeed. It meant that Mike was at last willing to have Sally look at his leg.