Home through the Dark by Anthea Fraser Page A

eyes met, I bit my lip to hold back a startled exclamation. It was the man who had paid me such marked attention at the hotel. Dutifully Sarah brought him across. She was saying, “I’m not sure if you know anyone here, Mr. Sinclair, but may I start by introducing Colonel and Mrs. Bligh, and Miss Ginnie Durrell.”
    I caught the quick, instantly suppressed flicker of surprise that crossed his face. Had he thought I was someone else? His hand was hard and horny, his clasp firm. “I believe I saw – Miss Durrell last week, at the George,” he said smoothly. “How do you do? Colonel –”
    I moved over to rejoin Moira Francis, who was hemmed in a corner with the photographers, my mind racing to collate this latest development, but before I had made any progress Mr. Sinclair followed me over.
    â€œI hope my appearance wasn’t too unpleasant a shock,” he murmured in my ear. “Your jaw dropped a good three inches!”
    â€œI’m sorry. I was just –”
    â€œAdmittedly I had the advantage over you. I overheard you giving your address at the hotel, and when Mrs. Foss invited me round ‘to welcome a new neighbour,’ I knew of course whom to expect.” He paused. “I’m afraid I may have startled you last night, at the window.”
    I flushed, remembering my headlong flight. “Not really, but I was still recovering from feeling my way round from the garage, and to look up and see a figure silhouetted –”
    â€œMy apologies; I was just closing the window.” He lifted one eyebrow in a way that reminded me of Stephen Darby at his most sardonic. “Are you afraid of the dark then, Miss Durrell?” Again the slight hesitation over my name as his eyes went thoughtfully to the hand with which I was holding my glass. I followed their direction and saw to my confusion that there was still a clear, white band round my finger where Carl’s ring had been.
    Defiantly I raised my eyes to his. It was no damn business of his what I chose to call myself. In the meantime his lazy question still hung on the air between us.
    â€œNot exactly afraid,” I answered crisply, “but I do prefer to be able to see what I’m doing, not to mention what other people are!”
    He gave a short laugh. “Point taken. But if you’re really nervous about parking your car at night, I’d be pleased to do it for you.”
    I looked at him for a moment but his eyes met mine blandly, innocently.
    â€œThat’s very kind,” I said at last, “but I don’t intend to be out late again for a while.” I turned back to the group beside us.
    â€œI’m afraid I couldn’t afford your prices, Donald!” Moira Francis was saying with a smile.
    â€œBut, my dear, I’m sure we could come to an arrangement, especially for a friend. It would be a pleasure. We used to consider ourselves quite exclusive, but the people who have the money nowadays, you just wouldn’t believe!” He turned to his companion. “Did I tell you, duckie, that Mr. Bruce phoned about the proofs? And you’ll never begin to guess where we’re to send them! To the Picardy!”
    My hand jerked out of control and the drink spilled down my dress. I was hardly aware of Mr. Sinclair’s exclamation, though I took the clean handkerchief he handed me and automatically dabbed at my skirt. Robin Kershaw was still marvelling at this piece of news, so it didn’t seem too inappropriate to enquire a little shakily, “The Picardy? What’s that?”
    His eyes, limpid, grey and long-lashed, flickered in my direction. “My dear, the most ghastly place! A sleazy hotel out on the Amesbury road.” He giggled. “The kind of place where most rooms are let by the hour, if you know what I mean. You can imagine the shock it was – the girl whose portrait we took was supposed to be his daughter!”
    My head was