The Heat of the Moment Page 2

  Halfway up the stairs they met a young man coming down who smiled shyly and murmured, ‘Good evening.’ On the point of asking Connie who the person was, an elderly couple passed them on the head of the stairs, bowing an acknowledgement as they passed. Frances’s step lightened. So it was more like a hotel than a private house.

  Connie showed Frances into a bedroom whose only concession to colour was the blue of the curtains that edged the shuttered windows and the spread on the double bed. The furniture was all dark wood and the walls a continuation of the white roughcast of the lower hall. A large, framed portrait of a woman in a blue velvet gown whose tight lacing denied her any figure and whose hair was confined to a snood looked down on them with cold hostility.

  Frances shivered.

  ‘Dinner is at nine, si,’ Connie said and held up nine fingers.

  Frances smiled wondering what the little woman did for twelve o’clock! Nodding her understanding, Frances thanked Connie and closed the door softly behind her. Alone at last and so tired. Ignoring her luggage, she flung herself on to the bed and stared at the ceiling. How on earth was she going to convince that stupid man that she must be allowed to stay? For stay she must—the very thought of turning up on Martin’s doorstep so soon was just not on.

  She jumped when she realised she was falling asleep. Rolling from the bed, she stretched her arms and back gently, then flung open her suitcase and sorted through for something to wear for dinner. The people she had seen on the stairs were well dressed.

  She rummaged for a while then picked out a midnight-blue crinkle silk dress that she had splashed out for when she had been invited to an owners’ party after a particularly successful win two years ago. Might as well try to make a good impression.

  The bathroom was basic but satisfactory, with a plentiful supply of thick white towels and lots of hot water. After her shower, Frances dressed carefully, applying what little make-up she possessed. She decided to put her hair up in a complicated chignon that would hopefully add a little sophistication and help her already flagging confidence.

  Her watch allowed her exactly eight minutes to find the dining-room as she twirled in front of the cheval mirror, quite liking what she saw. The tight, sleeveless bodice of the dress defined her figure, usually swamped by the blouses and shirts she wore.

  Satisfied that she had done her best with her appearance, she left the room and went in search of the other guests. There must have been twenty people or more in the large room, whose double doors leading from the hall stood wide open, when Frances entered. There was a bar to the right of the doors and Frances had just picked up a small sherry when a booming noise fit to challenge the breaking of the sound barrier split across her ears nearly making her spill her drink.

  A warm chuckle close to her left ear made her swing round and match glances with a pair of laughing blue eyes in a rather ugly face with panhandle ears.

  ‘It is a bit much, senorita, but you get used to it.’

  Frances smiled back.

  ‘Is that the dinner gong?’

  ‘Si. May I escort you in to dinner?’

  He made a beautiful bow and offered her his arm.

  ‘Why, thank you, sir.’

  They were laughing as they followed the others into a long, refectory-like room whose wails were hung with an assortment of armoury and weapons from bygone days. People were seating themselves at the long, central table and Frances felt that the only things missing were the reeds on the floor and the dogs roaming around waiting for bones!

  The man, who had introduced himself as Gilbert de Sousa, found them places at the table and began explaining a little of the history of the ranch.

  ‘The first stones of the original house that stood here were believed to have been laid at the beginning of the sixteenth century by a Spanish conqueror in the army of Fernandez de Lugo when they took the island from the Guanches, the original natives of Tenerife. The house as you see it today was completed in eighteen-twenty-three by a Frenchman who had been a very successful pirate and was rewarded by the Spanish after giving help in the battle against Nelson in seventeen-ninety-seven. This was the battle in which your Lord Nelson lost his arm.’

  He gave her a wicked chuckle.

  ‘The Frenchman had many children from many wives, but one wife belonged to the Guanche people and she gave birth to a strong son. This son took and held the ranch for his own. The present owner is a direct descendant.’

  Gilbert was talkative and friendly and Frances decided that now might be a good time to put her own predicament before him.

  They had returned to the lounge with their coffee when Gilbert was called away to the telephone. Connie appeared beside the arm of Frances’s chair. ‘I take you to the senor now, si?’

  It sounded like a request but Frances wasn’t fooled for a second. This was an order.

  Putting on a winning smile she said, ‘Si,’ and following Connie’s lead went through a doorway at the rear of the hall and across a paved patio lit by heavy, old lanterns.

  The office, she noted when she entered it, was a maelstrom of modern technology. Amongst the mess sat the tall figure of Kane Harding, a deep frown scoring his brow and a twitch tweaking along his jawbone. Connie had disappeared.

  ‘Take a seat, Ms Gardiner. I hope your accommodation is to your liking.’

  He sounded as though he couldn’t care less whether she was comfortable or not, so she didn’t bother to answer. Instead, as a basically tidy person herself, she was horrified to see such chaos when with so much expensive machinery around it was totally unnecessary.

  ‘Why is there such a mess? Have you been burgled or something?’

  ‘No. We have not been burgled, Ms Gardiner. This is not England. The office is in this mess, as you call it, because my secretaries were more interested in painting their nails than attending to their work.’

  His voice was full of anger.

  ‘Didn’t anyone check them out for you?’

  ‘I’m a busy man.’ He spoke clearly and slowly as though to a child. ‘When I hire someone to do a job I expect them to do it.’

  ‘And you want a man to come and sort this out?’ She could not keep the surprise out of her voice.

  ‘What is so strange about that?’

  ‘Well, considering what percentage of women in the world today are tidying up after men I would hazard a guess that your chances of getting a man to tidy this lot up were pretty thin. No wonder you didn’t take up my references. Martin said you were snatching at straws.’

  ‘Well, I certainly got the short end with you, didn’t I?’

  If anyone had told Frances an hour ago that she would be standing here arguing with this man, she would not have believed them. Now he stood up and Frances gulped, suddenly aware of what she had done. The green eyes had narrowed and turned dangerously still. Frances was frozen as his gaze dropped slowly down the length of her body and back to her hair.

  ‘You took a lot of trouble dressing tonight. I wonder why.’

  Frances’s face burned at the innuendo.

  Through gritted teeth she said, ‘I wish you luck with all your mess here, Mr Harding.’

  She rose from the chair to make a grand exit but his hand on her upper arm jerked her back. His eyes glittered with gem-like hardness as he spoke. ‘Do you have a man at home?’

  ‘That is none of. . .’

  ‘Do you?’ he asked again.

  Frances could feel herself pale with fright.

  ‘No, I do not if it is any of. . .’

  ‘Then who is this Martin you refer to?’

  ‘My employer.’

  ‘Will he give you a reference?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you leave to apply for this job?’

  ‘I’d been ill. I needed a change.’

  His hand dropped from her arm.

  ‘Give me a number for this Martin, who, Martin?’

  ‘Truscott, Martin Truscott.’

  Frances proceeded to
give out the number of the racing stables then hovered in the background. He gave her a pointed look then signalled that she should leave the room, before turning back to the telephone on the desk.

  Frances sat on the tiled edge that surrounded the fountain. The moon shone through the leaves of the trees that grew in the patio, casting moving shadows over the mosaic floor. A gentle breeze rocked the tips of the trees as they brushed the overhanging wooden balconies of the upper rooms. She was confident that Martin would give her the necessary references but to what extent would they influence this dreadful man’s decision about her future? Knowing she still wanted the job despite the unpleasantness of her possible employer gave the waiting a touch of desperation.

  Trailing her fingers through the water, a stately goldfish rubbed its belly over them. She was delighted at this gesture but try as she would the fish refused to repeat the pleasure.

  Thanks to Gilbert de Sousa, she now knew that the ranch consisted of a stud, where Kane bred horses for three-day eventing, a school, for horsemasters, who came from all over the world to train and learn the Harding way to success. The people she had met in the house were those horsemasters and would stay for periods of six weeks at a time. Gilbert was the chief instructor at the school.

  From Gilbert she had also learned that Kane had his own house and stables on the far side of the ranch where he worked out with his horses between shows. So all things considered, his absence when he was competing, his distance from the office when he was home and the fact that he expected his secretary to work on their own initiative, the job was looking more attractive by the minute. She was convinced she could keep it if only he would give her the chance.

  When she looked up, he was standing in the open doorway of the office, watching her. He walked towards her, hands pushed down in his trouser pockets.

  ‘I’m going to Brazil tomorrow. If you can have this mess tidied up by the time I return, the job is yours.’

  ‘Right.’

  He was on his way back to the office when he stopped and turned. ‘What illness did you say you were recovering from?’

  Frances’s heart missed a beat, then did a mad tattoo.

  ‘Pneumonia. The English weather, you know. I needed a change of climate.’

  It sounded ridiculous.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked, trying to distract him. It worked.

  ‘Five, possibly six days, quite long enough for you to prove yourself here, Ms Gardiner.’

  Throwing the comments over his shoulder, he entered the office and shut the door with a heavy thud.

  Beaming like a Cheshire cat, Frances made her way back through the house and up to her room. She would astound him with her efficiency upon his return and the job would be hers.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the cold light of morning and having woken to grey skies and a miserable drizzle, the feelings of last night’s euphoria had curled up and died. Too late for breakfast and reluctant to seek out Connie and ask for coffee and toast, Frances now stood in the chilly office and surveyed the task before her. With a sigh she sat down at the desk she had seen Kane occupy the night before and glanced through some of the documentation that littered the top.

  There were breeding charts, calendars, work schedules and holiday rosters to pin up on the wall; the computer, printer and keyboard were all stacked on top of one another and pushed back into a corner; a fax machine had run out of paper and a photocopier that Frances was sure would give out a messy copy. On the floor were two overflowing wastebins and a crisscross of wires to trip over.

  By lunch time, the papers on the desk top had been sorted into separate piles, the paper bins emptied and the wires re-routed to safer positions. The fax machine was once more ready for use and the photocopier, as though to lighten Frances’s depression, had given out a perfect copy.

  The rain had stopped and the clouds disappeared and the only sound coming through the open door was the water tinkling in the fountain.

  Gilbert was at the lunch table when she arrived and left off talking to his neighbour to signal to Frances there was an empty seat on his other side.

  ‘So you are to stay with us, good.’

  He smiled as he pulled out the seat for her.

  ‘Please may I introduce you to Prudence Baker, another instructor at the school. Prudence,’ he said turning to the woman on the right, ‘this is Senorita Frances Gardiner, who our good boss thought was a man.’

  His face crinkled with laughter, and Prudence smiled sympathetically.

  ‘Please call me Pru, everyone else does. That must have been some meeting at the airport when his lordship discovered he’d hired yet another female. I’m surprised you got this far.’

  Later, as they sat on the verandah drinking their coffee and waiting for Gilbert to join them, Pru explained that she wasn’t needed again until three when the afternoon school started.

  ‘Nothing moves around here in the heat of the day.’

  ‘You must see it all before you can hope to understand the business,’ Gilbert insisted as he came out to join them, ‘and you must meet all the staff. It is all very well meeting the horsemasters but they come and go. Most of the staff have been here for many years. Some were even born here on the ranch. Do you ride?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The spontaneous lie startled her. Where had it come from, then, oh, well, she was there as a secretary. There was no need to admit to being a jockey. That would really put them off.

  ‘A great pity, senorita. It is the best way to see the ranch.’

  ‘Please, call me Fran, all my friends at home do.’

  Half an hour later, they took an open-topped Jeep and she was grateful she had taken time to change into shorts and shirt and plait her long hair. The sun was very hot still and Gilbert made her wear a flat-topped hat with a wide brim. The whole ranch took on a magical quality as they left the white-washed buildings behind and headed up a steep hillside track.

  The great Mount Teide floated on a cloud before them as they breasted the hill. Frances gasped at the illusion for in fact the mountain was in the far distance, at the centre of the island. Gilbert turned the Jeep so that they were facing back the way they had come and now the view changed again and they were gazing down into the valley of Aguere.

  ‘From here you can see the whole ranch.’

  Gilbert began to point out the buildings. There was the main house with its white walls and red-tiled roof, three barns of stabling, two riding schools, a well-laid-out cross-country course, a jumping paddock and a training run. On the far side of the valley there was a citrus orchard and grazing, another stable block and a house.

  ‘Is that Mr Harding’s house?’ she asked.

  ‘No, they belong to the stud. Senor Kane’s home is behind those trees on your right.’

  They returned to the property and Frances was introduced to Julio Perez, the stud groom, also Eduardo Vives Salvador and Maurice Beckworth, both of whom were instructors under Gilbert. Grooms too numerous to remember also appeared though Gilbert did assure her she would get to know them all in time.

  She discovered in the days that followed that she was to be the co-ordinator of all the differing aspects of the ranch. Gilbert, Julio and Connie all brought their financial accounts, time schedules, and numerous problems to her office and three out of the next five evenings were spent working very late.

  It came as quite a shock when she woke one morning and discovered it was Saturday, the day Kane Harding was due home and the day she would find out whether or not she had a permanent job.

  Mist and drizzle hung around until mid morning and Frances hoped it wasn’t an omen for her meeting with Kane Harding. She swiped the duster over the cleared surface of the desk for the hundredth time. The backlog of work had been sorted, dealt with, filed and keyed into the computer. Walls were now bare of all but the two prints she had picked up at La Laguna when Gilbert had taken her for a look around the town.

  Connie had seen the p
rints and insisted that her grandson would frame them for her, so the pictures now hung in beautiful pine frames, Frances’s pride and joy along with her newly-acquired miniature rose and a broad, glossy-leafed plant that looked as though it might well reach the ceiling some day.

  Her watch showed twelve-fifty-five so Harding or no Harding she was going to go to lunch. She had adapted well to the new lifestyle, rising early and working through until one o’clock, then resting through the early afternoon before starting work again at three.

  The evening meal wasn’t until nine and Frances had been working right up until the last minute, giving herself just enough time to shower and change. Gilbert had noticed and objected, telling her that the other secretaries had all finished at six.

  Now, as she stood in front of the dressing-table mirror in her room and rolled up the long plait of hair, pinning it to the top of her head, she looked at the newly-emerging cheeks instead of hollows and the faint blush of tan that had replaced the drawn white look she had arrived with. The blue linen dress was belted in to her tiny waist and she shook the folds of the skirt to discourage any creasing.

  Well, Mr Harding, she thought, as she fastened her small locket at her throat, I have done my best and if it is not good enough for you, then you deserve what you get in my place.

  With a last look in the mirror, she slipped her feet back into the blue sandals, tucked a handkerchief beneath her watch strap and with head high went down to lunch. One or two people greeted her as she sat down then all eyes turned to the doorway as Kane Harding arrived with a group of people.

  Frances caught her breath. He certainly didn’t look like the same man she remembered from the previous week. He dominated the room at that moment with the casual ease of accustomed acclaim and was without doubt the most attractive man she had ever seen. His height gave him advantage over his company and he scanned the room quickly as he listened to what they had to say. His glance locked momentarily on Frances then his full attention was given to the woman by his side.