The Questing Heart (7 page)

'I'd do worse things to get what I wanted,' Chris declared.

'You couldn't. Blackmail is despicable. Aren't you ashamed to badger a poor helpless girl with empty threats?'

'No,' he returned equably, 'and you're very far from helpless. But you are pigheaded and unreasonable. I'm doing you a kindness by saving you from your stupidity.'

'Calling me names is no way to placate me,' she told him, but her indignation was fading. She did not want at all to go back to Manchester. She knew her mother would greet her return with a scornful, 'I told you so.' Mrs Underwood regarded all foreigners with suspicion and declared to her daughter that the Riviera was a hotbed of vice. That neither Monica nor Chris were foreigners would make no difference. If they chose to live in such a place they must be tainted with the same evils as the natives. Her husband had tried to bring her round to a more enlightened view, but without any success. He would be more understanding of his daughter's situation, but it would not be easy to convince him that she had left of her own accord after the enthusiastic letters she had written to him to reassure him. It would mean lies and prevarications, which she loathed, for she could not bear to confess her folly.

But to stay with Chris in what she was well aware would be an equivocal position meant she must be able to trust him. She looked at him searchingly, seeking the real man behind the jester's mask. Imperious, impatient of obstruction, cynical but generous was the sum of her knowledge of him, a flimsy foundation upon which to build a relationship even though it were only a business one. He met her questing gaze without flinching, and said lightly:

'My dear girl, you're making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. If women will be so foolish as your late employer, it's impossible not to play them up, for me anyway. All I've actually done is to free you so that you can accept more congenial work—at least I hope you'll find it so.' He dropped his bantering manner and went on simply and seriously: 'If you can tell me honestly that you'd really rather go home than stay with me, I'll arrange it for you.'

His green-gold eyes were as unrevealing as glass as he held her gaze; they had a mesmeric quality like those of a snake. Like a fascinated bird ... the sparrow he had called her ... Clare was unable to look away and her resistance crumbled. Though his methods were questionable, he
had
put himself to considerable trouble to secure her services, and that was subtle flattery. The last thing she wanted to do was to return to England and never see him again.

'I can't condone what you've done,' she said uncertainly. 'But...' it came out in a rush, 'I don't want to leave you.'

Her wide grey eyes were expressing more than she meant to betray, and a flicker of something undefinable showed in his. For a tense second they gazed at each other in wordless communication, though Clare would have been at a loss to describe what was passing between them. Certainly at that moment a seed was planted in her that was to bear a bitter harvest. Chris broke the tension, dropping his eyes and seizing her hand.

'Let's shake on that,' he suggested in his normal light tones. 'And that being settled, we'll deal with the next item on the agenda. I've made an appointment for you at a hairdresser, and then we'll have to get you some more attractive clothes.'

She had forgotten that that was one of his conditions, and » she gave a small gasp.

'Mr Raines, you take my breath away!'

'I'm a fast worker,' he declared complacently. He glanced at his wrist watch. 'Your appointment is due in ten minutes. You've only just capitulated in time.'

Clare went out into the sunlight in a chaotic state of mind. The brush with Chris had shaken her and it had ended in her complete surrender. After all, though she disapproved of his actions, they had landed her where she wanted to be and it was absurd to be too sensitive about them. His interest in her appearance was causing her some qualms about his motives. He had been insistent that he was not interested in her sexually, so she could not understand why he was going to so much trouble to change her. The neat suit she was wearing, navy skirt and jacket with a white blouse, was good enough for Monica and should be good enough for him, but some authors cherished weird eccentricities, and she supposed this was one of his, though it seemed a little out of character. It would have been more gratifying to her vanity if he had questionable intentions and that would have added spice to her new post, but in spite of his eagerness to engage her, she feared that was not so. Perhaps when she had been groomed and dressed to meet his approval she might be able to penetrate his indifference. That was an exciting thought and reconciled her to falling in with his wishes, though she had no idea of how she would deal with the situation if it arose, but that was one of things about which she was anxious to learn.

It was only a short distance to the hairdressing salon, and Chris left her there saying he would return for her when she was ready. Clare's hair was cut, shampooed and styled to fit closer to her head, and she had to admit the result was much more effective than her former loose locks. It showed the delicate shape of her head and jaw. With some trepidation she asked for the bill, but was told that Monsieur had settled that. When Monsieur arrived she was shown to him with pride and he professed himself delighted.

'I was sure your face and neck were beautifully structured,' he told her when they regained the street. 'Now I can see I was right. You please my ascetic taste, my dear, which is all for good simple shapes.'

The visit to a modiste was more of an ordeal. Christopher seemed well known to the Directrice, who greeted him as an old friend, calling him, 'Monsieur Krees.' Clare supposed vaguely that his familiarity with costumiers and hairdressers was somehow connected with his work for the stage, though as far as she knew he had never had a play produced in London. He certainly seemed very knowledgeable about feminine gear. He told Madame la Directrice that Clare was a cousin from the country, whose parents, knowing he was a man of the world, had asked him to advise her upon the choice of some quiet but chic dresses suitable for her job as a hotel receptionist that she had just obtained.

'Young girls have such appalling taste,' he declared with the wicked gleam in his eyes that Clare was beginning to know so well.

Madame said she understood ... perfectly, and her sly look roused Clare's indignation. When the woman departed to fetch some clothes, she demanded why Chris found it necessary to invent such lies.

'If I told her you were my secretary you know what she'd think,' he returned coolly.

'She thinks it already,' said Clare.

'But she's not sure,' Chris insisted. 'You look more like a cousin than the girls she usually sees me with.'

The implication did not please Clare at all, and she wondered where he found the money from to buy clothes for his women; it seemed to her a shocking instance of his extravagance, if nothing worse.

Madame returned with an armload of dresses and to Clare's discomfiture Chris demanded that she appear before him in each one she tried on. Her cheeks burned with mortification, but Madame took it as a matter of course. She discussed Clare's appearance with hini over her head without consulting her at all, as if she were a lay figure. Their conversation was in French, and Clare only restrained her protests because she doubted if she could make them understood in that language. The dresses for day wear they finally selected were in a new material,
eau-de-soie,
but without the stiffness of the old watered silk, and were, Clare noted with satisfaction, drip-dry. They were very plain but beautifully cut, one blue, one pink and one green, with wide white turn-down collars and cuffs above the elbow on the short sleeves. To go over them she was provided with an off-white silk coat, loose-fitting, which Chris decided would be comfortable for travelling, and a white wide-brimmed hat. Almost as an afterthought an evening gown was added to the collection, in coppery shot silk.

'We must be prepared for all occasions,' he said in French.

Clare who had been looking for non-existent price tags, was feeling worried; the clothes looked expensive.

'I don't need that,' she declared.

'You may,' he insisted, and addressed himself to Madame.

Clare left in her new outfit wearing the pink dress and leaving her old things to be packed and sent to the hotel. She had to admit that her reflection had shown her a totally different personality from the grey sparrow of Monica's day. The bright colour brought a fresh glow to her skin and made her eyes look brighter. The slim lines of dress and coat caused her to appear lissom and elegant, too much so for a mere secretary, and her grey eyes were questioning as she searched Christopher's enigmatic face.

Out in the street, he said: 'Now I know how Pygmalion felt.'

'Who on earth was he?' Clare asked, finding the remark irrelevant.

'The Greek guy who created a statue that was brought to life.'

'I fail to see the connection.'

'Don't be dim. I've turned a brown sparrow into ... well, something worth looking at.'

'Don't forget my primary function is to manipulate your typewriter ... if you have a typewriter,' she told him acidly, for her worry was increasing. 'I don't know how I'm going to pay for all that trousseau, and I can't let you.'

'I don't intend to. I'll take the amount out of your first month's salary.'

She looked at him aghast. 'But, Chr ... Mr Raines, it'll take all of it and more!'

'Have you anything else to spend it on, little miser?'

'Yes,' she said, looking across the street with unseeing eyes. 'My father has been working short time and I send half my earnings home.'

She had not wanted to disclose that fact; it was why she had been so insistent upon prompt payment and why losing her job with Monica could have been so disastrous. She really had no right to take any chances, and if Chris had not forestalled her she would probably, have ended by turning him down.

'But you can't send money out of the country.'

'It's arranged, through a bank.'

'Poor little Sparrow,' Chris said softly. 'Don't bother about the clothes. Regard them as a uniform supplied by your employer.'

She had to laugh. 'You're very ingenious, as you said, and very generous, but I can't accept so much from you.'

Christopher must be very much better off than he had led her to suppose. They argued for a while and effected a compromise. She would pay him back half the value of the clothing in instalments.

'Thus ensuring that you'll continue to work for me until you're clear of debt,' he told her cheerfully.

'Didn't I say I didn't want to leave you?'

'You don't know me very well, do you, darling? There may be some shocks in store for you.'

'You've given me a few already, but I daresay I'll be able to cope,' she returned. 'One can't judge authors like ordinary people.'

'Madame Monique tried hard not to appear ordinary, but I don't diink she and I have much in common.'

'You're alike in both being supreme egoists,' she said bluntly, for she was still rattled by his domineering behaviour in the dress shop.

'Or appallingly vain?'

'You've said it, not I, but I've yet to discover what you've got to be vain about.'

She looked at him expectantly, hoping to needle him into telling hgr what he had achieved, but all he said was:

'That you'd be able to judge in due course.'

He left her at the entrance to her hotel, telling her that the rest of the day was free for her to do what she liked. They would be leaving for Italy next morning in his car. The retreat for which they were bound was up in the mountains there.

'I've been meeting too many old acquaintances here,' he told her. 'A friend has lent me a place where I can work without distraction. Once we're settled in, I'll put you through it, my darling.'

'Okay,' she was unalarmed. 'The sooner I'm doing something to earn my money the better I'll be pleased.'

There was one more episode to close that most eventful day. In the evening, bored with her own company and finding the hotel close, Clare went out for a stroll along the Promenade des Anglais. She found that whereas on former occasions nobody had noticed her if she went out alone, her changed appearance brought her some unwelcome attentions, which though gratifying in a way were embarrassing. Trying to ward off an importunate young Frenchman, she was rescued by a fatherly personage with an unmistakable Northern accent.

'Leave t'lass alone,' he said sternly to her follower. 'Come along o' me, miss, I'll see you home.'

She thanked him gratefully.

'Nay, lass, I've daughters of my own, but you shouldn't be wandering about by yourself at night. These furrin towns be full of rapscallions. Have you no one to take care of you?'

She explained that she was on her own and had come out without thinking. He told her he was on holiday with 't'missus but she had gone to bed, exhausted with sightseeing; they came from Lancashire. This put him on common ground with Clare ai)d they chatted eagerly as they walked along. Pointing to one of the huge hotels, Mr Preston, for that was his name, remarked:

'There's high life for you, lass. Folk with more brass than sense.'

A party was coming out of the hotel, evidently seeking some night spot after a late dinner. The women were wearing glamorous evening gowns, the men accompanying them were elegant. Suddenly Clare gave a gasp. With a gorgeous redhead upon his arm, Christopher Raines had come out on to the pavement. Up to now she had only seen him casually dressed, but tonight he had changed into a white suit, with pale blue tie and blue socks. Coat, vest and trousers were beautifully cut, fitting his slim graceful figure with the precision that only a master tailor can achieve, but his head and face were unmistakably that of Christopher Raines. Somehow in that outfit he looked vaguely familiar, though Clare was certain she had never seen him until the night she had met him at Monica's. The redhead, swathed in green chiffon and very decolletee, was laughing up into his face provocatively, and his long mouth was curved in sardonic amusement. This was a Chris Clare had not yet encountered, an elegant sophisticated squire of lovely women, for the redhead was lovely in a voluptuous manner.