Edge of Paradise by Dorothy Vernon Page A

that, too?
    A sound at her side made her look up to see who her companion for the flight was going to be, and she saw with a mixture of amusement and dismay that it was the woman in the skimpy top and tight trousers. Paul Hebden certainly hadn’t arranged this. She would not meet with his approval at all!
    She had a clutter of possessions with her which she divided between the overhead baggage compartment and the floor, before turning her vivacious smile on Catherine.
    â€˜Hi! I’m Deirdre Patterson. What’s your handle?’
    â€˜Catherine Mason.’
    At first Catherine was reluctant to be drawn into conversation, but gradually Deirdre’s brash, extroverted charm began to take effect. Simply by looking into her face, Catherine knew that wherever she went, fun and laughter wouldn’t be far behind.
    â€˜I’m staying at the Ocean Beach Hotel,’ Deirdre said chattily. ‘Which hotel are you booked at?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she replied truthfully.
    She wasn’t normally forthcoming about her private affairs to strangers, but something in Deirdre’s expression told her that this had come out sounding too abrupt, as if she were deliberately withholding the name of her hotel in case the blond woman had thoughts of getting in touch with her once they were settled in.
    Not wanting to sound unkind, she said, ‘I really don’t know. I’m not on holiday. I’m going out to work. My employer will have made the arrangements and I’m expecting to be met at the airport.’
    Deirdre’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘I had you figured out as a rich society girl, hopping from one luscious holiday spot to another. Your clothes fooled me. I know—with your fantastic figure it’s obvious. You’re in the glamour and beauty business. You’re the editor of a glossy magazine. Or—better still—a top photographic model and you can afford to dress like that because you get a discount. Anywhere near the mark?’
    â€˜Not even vaguely close. I’m a down-to-earth shorthand typist and until now I’ve led a very mundane life. If someone had told me a week ago that I—’ There was something about this woman that encouraged confidences. Halting her runaway tongue, she said, ‘What about you, Deirdre? What sort of work do you do that pays well enough for you to take exotic holidays?’
    â€˜I’m a hair stylist and—no, the tips aren’t that good.’ The animation slid from her face, her buoyancy snapping as suddenly as if it had been severed with a knife. ‘I’m twenty-five years old. Since I was sixteen I’ve been going with this guy, and for the past three years or more I’ve been saving like mad to chip in with the mortgage. Then, out of the blue, he packed me in. I dried my tears and took a long hard look at him, and I said to myself, “Deirdre, love, you must be nuts. What can he give you except a houseful of kids and years of scrimping and saving and making do?” Surely I was born for better things than that? I asked myself why I should waste myself on someone who couldn’t give me the things I so richly deserved and told myself that it was about time I found someone who could. Snag was, there aren’t that many millionaires going begging where I live. So I had all this mortgage money in the bank and no other use for it, so I thought, why don’t I go where they are? I’ve been kicked, now it’s my turn. From now on I’m out for all I can get. I’ve got three weeks to find myself a rich husband, and I’m not too fussy whose husband he is. I suppose a nice refined girl like you is shocked by that,’ she concluded with a touch of defiance.
    â€˜Not so much shocked as concerned. Man-hunting has become a fashionable holiday pastime, but like a lot of other sports, it can be dangerous. I don’t think you’re as tough as you make out,