The Boss's Virgin by Charlotte Lamb (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

of will to resist him, but if she did surrender tonight she was going to despise herself tomorrow.

‘Okay, I won’t be long.’

She stood there, listening to his departing footsteps, the front door closing, his car door opening and slamming again, the engine firing and then the sound of his car moving away, before she moved herself.

First she ran upstairs, found a suitcase and packed in a hurry, then she changed into jeans and sweater, carried her suitcase downstairs and put on a warm sheepskin jacket hanging in the hall. She had no idea where she was going, but she had to rush, to get away before he got back.

She knew a small hotel in Maldon, on the Thomas estuary; she had been there before. She looked up the number, rang them, booked a single room, then after hanging up she put down water and a saucer full of dried food for Samson, who had vanished again, through his catflap in the kitchen door. He could come and go as he chose, so he would be okay for a couple of days. In any case, she knew he visited several other houses nearby, where he got fed and cosseted. Cats were self-sufficient and independent.

Before leaving she carefully turned off all the lights, checked she had her credit cards and chequebook, everything she might need. Fifteen minutes later she was in her car, driving away, being careful to take a route which would make sure she did not pass Randal’s car returning.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE weather had turned chill and misty by the time she reached the little estuary town of Maldon. The weather rolled in from the sea and was funnelled up the river. She parked in the car park behind the hotel and carried her case through the bar to check in. There were a few people drinking in the bar; they mostly seemed to know each other, which meant they were either local residents who drank here or they kept a yacht at Maldon, as many people did from London and the south of the country. As Pippa passed they all turned their heads to inspect her, some murmuring comment to companions. In the summer Maldon had many visitors, but at this time of year there were far fewer.

While she was filling in the card handed to her by the small, trim receptionist, she was asked, ‘Will you be having dinner tonight, madam?’

‘Yes, please,’ Pippa said, handing the woman the registration card.

‘What time?’

Pippa glanced at her watch and was surprised by how quickly she had driven there, but then she knew the way through the winding marsh roads. She hadn’t had to consult a map or slow down to check sign-posts.

‘Eight-thirty?’

‘Certainly, madam. The dining room is on the left through the bar. Jim will take your bag upstairs for you.’

A white-bearded old man popped up from an inner office and seized Pippa’s case, carried it up the wide, ancient, creaking staircase with Pippa following him, feeling guilty.

He looked old enough to be her father. She hoped the case wasn’t too heavy for him.

‘This was an old pub, miss, till it was modernised and turned into a hotel,’ he told her. ‘Hundreds of years old. There was a pub here in the Middle Ages, I’m told. A lot of local people still treat it as their pub.’ He put her case down outside a door at the end of a short corridor and produced a key. ‘Here you are, miss. I hope you’ll be very comfortable in here.’

She looked around curiously while the porter carried her bag inside. ‘TV, with remote control,’ he pointed out. ‘Hospitality tray, with tea and coffee, and if you want fresh milk contact Reception. The bathroom is on your right.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you.’ And tipped him.

He saluted and was gone, leaving her alone. She was pleased with the room; it was spacious and a little old-fashioned, all chintz and oak furniture, which she found comforting. She unpacked, put her clothes away, found the hospitality tray, which bore a kettle, tea and coffee sachets and a cup, and made herself a cup of coffee.

She drank it standing next to the window, which looked down through mist on to a quayside lined with rows of small boats. Now and again a figure moved through the mist, grey, wavering, insubstantial, like a living etching. There was the faint sound of footsteps and then the silence came back and nothing stirred except the gentle lapping of water at the quay steps.

She had half an hour before her dinner. After that long drive she felt like a walk so she put on her jacket and went downstairs, crossing the bar again to go out on to the quay. The people drinking all watched her with the same unblinking curiosity.

As she walked out of the hotel the mist swallowed her. From somewhere nearby she heard a church clock chime. That might be eight o’clock. She couldn’t go far or she would be late for dinner. Wandering along the quayside, she read the names of boats. The mist was thickening; she could barely see a hand in front of her face. Shivering, she drove her hands down into her jacket pockets. There was nobody else around; she could have been marooned on a desert island, or the last person alive on earth.

A moment later, though, she heard footsteps behind her and glanced round. A tall shape loomed through the mist. She couldn’t see his face but she instinctively felt him staring at her, felt a strange prickle of threat. He began to walk faster, and panic flared inside her. She quickened her steps, too, almost running, and tripped over a lobster pot someone had left on the quay.

Pippa sprawled headlong. The man behind ran to catch up and knelt down beside her. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

Shock made her speechless. She turned her head to look up at him incredulously as she recognised the voice and face. Drops of pearly