Fire Under Snow by Dorothy Vernon Page B

almost a duplication of Noel’s in a softer, feminine form. They just had to be his parents. She restored the photo frame to its original position, smiling softly to herself.
    There were two more doors apart from the one she’d entered by. One door would undoubtedly give access to his secretary’s office, the kindly sounding Miss Judith Brown whom she’d spoken to when she phoned in to try to find out where Jamie was staying. What was behind the other door had her guessing. A private washroom, probably, because there would be occasions when it would be necessary for him to change and freshen up after work before going on somewhere else. She resisted the temptation to find out and poured her tea.
    She was finishing her second cup when Noel arrived via one of the mystery doors. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and his shirt was immaculate, as if he’d just changed it. His hair was damp and unruly at the front, as if he’d just refreshed himself with a quick wash, more or less confirming that she was right in her surmise.
    â€œGoodness, girl! What are you hiding in here for? Wouldn’t you have been happier in the club with some life around you?”
    At one time, before she was scarred in the fire, the answer would have been yes. She would have fitted in admirably with the convivial crowd, enjoying their speculation as. to how importantly she figured in Noel’s life, just as she would have enjoyed being pulled up onto the stage to take part in the birthday celebration spot, which she knew was one of the club’s most popular features. In the old days she had reveled in being in the limelight and had mixed easily with people. She hadn’t known what it was to be shy, to want to hide oneself away out of sight. The scars had disappeared; there was no need to scuttle into a corner. She remembered the words of the surgeon who had operated on her: “One day you’ll walk out of the shadows. You’ll find your lost confidence.” In time she hoped to prove him right.
    She managed to smile up at Noel as she said, “Mr. Peters suggested I sit at your table, but I preferred to wait in here. You’ve got a lovely office.”
    â€œIt’s a suite, actually, with a mini-flat attached. It isn’t as large or as grand as my apartment, but it’s sometimes more convenient. I’ll take you on a conducted tour,” he said, pulling her to her feet and leading her across the room to the door, which he flung open to reveal a smaller office. “This is where my secretary sits.”
    â€œI thought that might be Miss Brown’s office,” she said carelessly, letting the name slip out, her concentration absorbed by the caressing thumb on the tender inside of her wrist.
    â€œHow do you know that my secretary is called Miss Brown?”
    It was a lightly aired query, and she made more of it by blushing furiously. “You said her name, didn’t you?”
    â€œI most assuredly did not.”
    â€œThen Shane must have mentioned her name.”
    â€œOh – Shane, is it? Did Shane take you on a conducted tour of these rooms?” he inquired, his eyes narrowing in displeased speculation.
    â€œNo, of course not. It wouldn’t be his place to do so. He said I could wait in your office and very kindly brought me some tea. Why are you looking at me like that? And why are you cross- examining me?”
    â€œI’m looking at you like this because you are a very beautiful woman. And I’m cross-examining you for the same reason. Shane took a shine to you on the night you went up on stage. Oh, I know he always makes a play for the girls in the birthday spot – that’s part of the show. It’s expected of him and it gets a laugh. But if I were to find out that he’d repeated his on-stage performance with you, I’d break his neck.”
    â€œHe was a perfect gentleman. His manner was impeccable. Yours is insulting. Even if he had