Beyond the gateposts, the drive sloped away quickly between pine trees, and with a shrug she locked the car and with her handbag slung over one shoulder, descended the steep gradient. She could see the roof of a house between the branches of the trees, and as she got nearer she saw it was a split-level ranch-style building whose stonework blended smoothly into its back-drop of fir and silver spruce. A porch provided shelter as she rang the bell, and she stood back from the entrance as she waited, admiring the view away to the right where the dipping rays of the sun turned the sails of a yacht on the horizon to orange flames of colour. Only the wind was a little chilly now, striking through the fine wool of her violet jersey suit.
The door had opened without her being aware of it; and she turned to face cold grey eyes set beneath darkly-arched brows. Expertly streaked blonde hair was drawn smoothly into a chignon on the nape of the woman’s neck, while the elegant navy overall she wore bore witness to the fact that she had been interrupted while she was baking.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ Caryn hid her nervousness in a smile. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’ The woman, Caryn guessed she must be about thirty, said nothing, just continued to stare inquiringly at her, and she hurried on: ‘I’m looking for a house called—Druid’s Fleet. Do you—’
‘Who is it, Marcia?’
The impatient male voice from somewhere inside the house was vaguely familiar, and the woman turned automatically towards the sound. Caryn, half afraid she was about to close the door in her face, exclaimed: ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve come at an inconvenient moment, but—’
She broke off abruptly as a man appeared behind the woman. For a moment she was too shocked to do anything but stare at him, but perhaps he was used to the effect his appearance had on girls. And why not? Those harshly etched sardonic features, vaguely haggard in appearance, were apparently capable of mesmerising his viewers, and Loren had told her he got more mail than any other interviewer in his field. For all that, he was taller than she had expected, and his lean body showed no signs as yet of the dissipations he indulged in, and considering she knew he was at least forty, his corn-fair hair showed little sign of grey. Of course, he was deeply tanned from his last assignment in East Africa, the one Loren had kept all those cuttings about, and his hair was no doubt bleached by the sun, thus disguising any unwelcome signs of encroaching age, but in his dark mohair business suit, he didn’t look a day over thirty-five.
Recovering herself, Caryn realised both he and the woman were looking at her now, and colouring hotly, she said: ‘Mr Ross?’ annoyed to find her voice trembled a little as she spoke.
‘Yes?’ He sounded impatient now, and she felt resentful that he should. After all, she had not expected to find him here. Come to think of it, what was he doing here?
‘I—I’ve been looking for your house, Mr Ross,’ she said carefully, unwilling to say too much in front of the woman, and his expression suddenly changed.
‘Hey!’ he exclaimed, his impatience disappearing as swiftly as it had come. ‘You’re not from the agency, are you? My God! I never thought they’d send anyone so promptly.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got to be at the studios in half an hour. Can you wait till I get back?’
Caryn opened her mouth to protest that she was not from any agency, and then closed it again. Why not, if it served the purpose? She could easily explain her subterfuge when they spoke privately together.
‘Druid’s Fleet?’ she ventured, avoiding a direct reply, and he shook his head.
‘This is Druid’s Fleet,’ he explained apologetically. ‘I guess you saw the old sign on the gatepost. I keep that there to discourage unwelcome sightseers. That’s who we thought you were.’
‘Oh.’
Caryn was taken aback, and the woman, Marcia, gave Ross a curious look. Then Tristan Ross was inviting her in, and feeling only slightly guilty, Caryn stepped inside.
She found herself in a large open hall, with stairs leading both down and up. The floor was polished here, heavy wood blocks with a gleaming patina, that were an attractive foil for the skin rugs that enhanced its aura of age. There was an antique chest supporting a bowl of creamy yellow roses, and matching silk curtains billowed in the breeze beside the archway that led through to the dining room.
As Caryn followed Tristan Ross down the steps which led into the main body of the house, she was aware of Marcia coming behind her, and speculated on her relationship to the master of the house. His girl-friend, perhaps; or his mistress, she mused rather bitterly. He seemed to like to have a woman about the place. Loren had discovered that.
He led the way into a magnificent sitting room with long windows that looked out over the estuary. A padded window seat invited relaxation, or there were two squashy velvet couches, one either side of the stone fireplace, matching the heavy apricot velvet of the floor-length curtains. A coffee-coloured carpet fitted every comer, and the casual tables set around the room in no way encroached upon the feeling of space the room engendered.
Ross halted in the middle of the room and turned to face her. ‘Have you eaten?’
Caryn shook her head, but hastened to add that she wasn’t particularly hungry.
‘Nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘Marcia will see you get something that appeals to you, and I’ll be back in about two hours. I’m sorry about this, but I did warn the agency—’
‘It’s all right, really.’ Caryn didn’t want to get involved in discussions about the agency right now. ‘I—I don’t mind waiting.’
‘Very well.’ He raised his eyes to Marcia who was standing in the doorway. ‘Can I leave it to you to see that Miss—Miss—’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, you didn’t give me your name.’
Caryn thought quickly. ‘Er—Mellor,’ she got out jerkily. ‘Susan Mellor.’
She thought his eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he was walking swiftly across the room again, past her to the door. ‘Look after Miss Mellor, will you, Marcia?’ she heard him say quietly, and then she heard him mount the steps again to the front door. It closed behind him a few moments later, and she was alone with her unwilling hostess.
The silence that followed his departure was broken only by Caryn smoothing moistened palms down her skirt. Then she faced Marcia with an apologetic smile.
‘There’s really no need to go to any trouble on my account. I—er—I honestly am not very hungry.’
Marcia considered her silently, and it was unnerving. What was wrong with the woman? Caryn thought impatiently. Why didn’t she say anything?
‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked, and then realising how pointed that sounded, added: ‘I mean—it’s a very beautiful place to live, isn’t it? I love Wales. I used to come here as a child. We used to camp on the Gower peninsula …’
Marcia inclined her head, as if in acknowledgement of Caryn’s words, and then turned and walked away, across the lower hall and down two steps and through another door. Leading where? Caryn wondered. The kitchen, probably. What a taciturn creature she was! As if she couldn’t have said something!
Left to herself, she relaxed somewhat. Well, she was here, and she was within reach of her goal. Or at least within sight of it. And she had been given two hours grace to augment her defences.
She walked across to the windows and admired the view. Then her eyes dropped to the terraced garden that fell away beneath her, and to the wooden flight of steps which led down to the boathouse. Loren had said there were thirty-seven steps, and she had had plenty of time to count them. Dangerous for a child perhaps, but that was not her problem.
Dropping her handbag on to the padded chocolate-brown cushions of the window seat, she half knelt beside it, feeling