Kiss of Hot Sun

  KISS OF HOT SUN

  Nancy Buckingham

  Chapter One

  The second time I knew for sure he was looking at me.

  Constantly the line of vision between us was blocked. Sweating Italian waiters, trays held high, pushed through the throng of laughing, chitchatting guests. But his eyes ignored these interruptions, and lingered upon me.

  Again I looked away quickly, strangely disturbed by that intent, penetrating, and very personal stare.

  It shouldn’t have been all that earthshattering for a man to be looking me over; especially not in Rome, and in the month of May! Just five days here had taught me not to give men so much as a milligram of encouragement.

  But this man wasn’t an Italian, he was British. I knew that from his clothes, his haircut, everything about him. And he was looking at me as if no one else in that huge, glittering salon existed. Only me.

  I tried hard to engross myself in the conversation of the group I was for the moment attached to. It was the usual party small talk of an international set—banal mediocrities processed by alcohol into gems of wit.

  It didn’t hold my attention. I glanced—casually, I hoped—across to the high graceful windows thrown open to a balcony and the cool night air.

  He was no longer there! Not beside the window. Not anywhere that I could see.

  I had a ridiculous sense of disappointment. Irritably, I began to wonder how I could detach myself from my unappealing companions.

  It was Monica who saved me. She came tripping over excitedly, cocktail glass held before her as a pathfinder. Close on her heels was a middle-aged man, quietly dressed; and as I guessed before he so much as opened his mouth, quietly spoken too.

  “Kerry, my pet,” Monica gushed. “I want you to meet my very dear friend, Sam Tracy.”

  “I sure am glad to know you, Miss Lyndon.” The handshake was firm, the American voice modulated with assurance. “Monica has been telling me all about you...”

  I came back at him in the frivolous mood of the party. “Not all, I hope!”

  He gave a polite little laugh. “She’s been praising you up to the skies.”

  “Kerry’s the very best assistant I’ve ever had,” Monica declared.

  “You’ve never had an assistant before,” I pointed out dryly.

  “Doesn’t that just prove what I’ve been saying?”

  Sam Tracy’s eyes shared the joke with me. But the possessive hand on Monica’s arm was evidence of his attachment to her. It didn’t surprise me. She was such a vital, alive personality that I wondered if any man could be entirely Monica-proof.

  I reckoned I’d been mighty lucky myself to meet up with Monica Halliday-Browne. For her, though, the circumstances that had brought us together were less happy, briefly clouding the blue sky of her life. Monica had become a victim of hives, and hated having her flawless skin marred by ugly red weals.

  She’d been put on to Dr. Malcolm Stewart just in time. In time I mean, before his own failing health forced him to retire. Dr. Stewart had a canny instinct when it came to difficult allergies, and in no time at all he’d nailed down feathers as the culprit. Being his secretary, I’d got to know Monica pretty well during her course of desensitising injections. The minute she learned that I’d be out of a job when the doctor quit working, she was full of sympathetic concern.

  “We’ll have to do something about that!” she cried.

  I was touched by her interest. Not that I was worried about the future—I was reasonably capable, and good jobs in London were plentiful. But right then, with my sister Annabel just married and prancing off to a new and exciting life in Canada, I was feeling a bit fed up. I yearned for something exciting to happen to me, too. The exotic Monica Halliday-Browne held out great promise.

  Monica apparently made a habit of doing the unexpected. Her career to date, punctuated by an occasional husband, had included running a marriage bureau in Rio de Janero and an English woollens boutique on the Costa Brava.

  The latest scheme, I gathered, was to write a book—a sort of textbook of Continental eating places. But being Monica she didn’t intend dealing with anything so mundane as food. Other people, she explained airily, had coped with that aspect. What she planned was to dig out the places with real atmosphere; places where you could expect to dine in intriguing company.

  “And you shall come with me as my assistant,” she announced.

  I was taken aback. “But what should I have to do?”

  “Oh... er... advise me, and...” She waved her hands vaguely. “All sorts of things.”

  I knew perfectly well that she had manufactured her need of an assistant out of pure sweetness of nature. But a trip around Europe with Monica was just the sort of tonic I needed. I lulled my stirring conscience, and accepted the job hastily. Somehow or other I was determined to prove myself really useful to her.

  We started three weeks later by coming to Italy.

  The idea was to work on a comprehensive survey of the restaurants of Rome. So what were we doing spending an entire evening at a purely private party? Already I’d given up trying to find the logic behind Monica’s sudden impulses. For her, life had to be fun or there was no point in living.

  Monica swooped off to greet yet another of her numberless friends with Sam in close tow.

  At last I was alone, my attention free. But then, to my dismay, I caught the eye of Guido Zampini, fat and hairy and oilily unattractive. I watched him nod to his companions and start waddling across in my direction. As our host, I supposed I owed him something. But just then I didn’t choose to parry his smarmy compliments. I gave him a faint smile and turned quickly away, as if I hadn’t recognised his obvious intention.

  I swung back to face the spot where the dark-haired Englishman had been standing. Fancy going and disappearing like that, just when I needed him! Standing there eyeing me one minute, and then... gone!

  I’d forgotten I didn’t know him from Adam; forgotten we’d never so much as said ‘hallo’. My eyes began to search the room rather wildly.

  “Hallo!” The voice, soft and full of vibrant depth, came from six inches behind my ear.

  I bounced round, and it was as much as I could do not to yelp ‘Where have you been?’

  He was grinning down at me, much too cocksure of himself. “Were you looking for someone special?”

  I shook my head weakly. Usually, I’m not short of things to say.

  He wasted no time at all. “I’m Philip Rainsby. And you?”

  “Kerry Lyndon...”

  “Kerry! I like that. Could it be a bit Irish?”

  “Oh, way back. My maternal great-grandfather.”

  “And you’re on holiday...?” he finished.

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Oh...?”

  I was recovering my self-composure. I decided there was no harm explaining how I came to be in Rome, so I told him a bit about Monica.

  “Fascinating!” he said. “Getting a living out of having yourself a good time.”

  “And what brings you to Rome?” I asked. “Business or pleasure?”

  He looked straight at me. Was it still mockery that crinkled his eyes?

  “At the present moment,” he murmured softly, “it is pure, unadulterated pleasure.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He laughed suddenly and wrinkled up his nose. “I’m on a business trip.”

  “What line are you in?”

  I was trying to keep this conversation on a manageable basis. I had a powerful idea that Philip Rainsby was after just the opposite.

  He seemed reluctant to tell me about himself. “Well, if you must know, I’m in the highly romantic trade of selling electric switchgear.”

  “That’s nice,” I
muttered feebly. I couldn’t help a feeling of letdown. There was nothing in the world I knew less about, or cared less about for that matter. A man like Philip Rainsby should have been in a far more momentous kind of job.

  He took my arm suddenly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We’d known one another for about five minutes! Literally!

  “I’d prefer to stay, thank you,” I said, primly and quite untruthfully.

  “But it’s so hot and crowded. And everybody should see Rome by moonlight. When in Rome, you know...”

  “I doubt,” I replied carefully, “if even the Romans would countenance such exceeding rapidity.”

  He let go my arm to laugh. “Okay, Kerry—we’ll play it your way.”

  But as it turned out, he made most of the rules of the game. I struggled to hang on to the last shreds of my sanity. I’d never believed in love at first sight; I’d never believed in destiny. But tonight everything that had ever happened to me before was unimportant. The fact that I was a moderately intelligent girl, a daughter of the twentieth century, counted for nothing at all. I was living in a fairy story and I had just met my prince.

  I doubt if I spoke two words to any other person for the rest of the evening.

  When at last Philip delivered me back to the hotel in a taxi, he arranged to ring me in the morning.

  “Good and early,” he said. “And we’ll fix something exciting to do.”

  “But not for either lunch or dinner,” I reminded him. “Monica will be needing me then.”

  I doubted it actually. Monica hadn’t up till now shown all that much devotion to duty. But I had to play it fair and be around in case she wanted me.

  Philip’s eyes held mine, staking his claim. I refused to be tempted.

  He grinned ruefully. “All right, I won’t interfere with your work. As a matter of fact I ought to be doing some myself.”

  We hung about in the hotel lobby, not wanting to part.

  I was conscious of the night porter’s bored interest, but I didn’t care.

  At last Philip took both my hands in his. “Good night, Kerry darling. Until tomorrow.”

  Upstairs, I glanced into Monica’s room. She wasn’t back yet, and I was glad. I didn’t want to talk to her just then. I tumbled happily into bed, and slept and dreamt the night away. I came to when Monica burst into my room, and threw back the curtains to reveal broad sun-soaked daylight.

  “Eight o’clock, Kerry my pet,” she carolled gaily. Nothing could dampen Monica’s zest for living. She seemed to possess the physical resources of a bouncing teenager, rather than a woman pulling forty—and on a pretty long rope at that.

  She was flitting around in a chiffon negligée like some gorgeous orange butterfly.

  “Now tell me, Kerry, how did you like my Sam?”

  “Very much,” I said honestly. I wished I could match her by asking how she liked my Philip.

  “Sam’s always been after me,” she said complacently, perching herself on the edge of my bed. Somehow she managed to loll comfortably and stay straight-backed at one and the same time. “I met him just before I married Michael, you know.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes pet, my third husband. The wedding was all fixed, you see, so there was nothing I could do about it at the time. I always preferred Sam, though.”

  It was no good trying to apply ordinary standards to Monica Halliday-Browne. She was a law unto herself. By now I’d learned to give up being astonished. I just took her as she came.

  “So what happened?” I asked cautiously.

  Monica reached across and picked up my bedside phone, asking for room service. “Caffe e latte, caro mio,” she trilled. She replaced the receiver delicately, and regarded me with a wicked glint in her blue-green eyes.

  “The Michael episode,” she remarked with firm dismissal, “is over and done with. Sam is back in my life now—for good.”

  That did take me by surprise. “For good?”

  Monica had the grace to colour slightly. But through the flush her eyes shone with delight.

  “Sam has asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted.”

  “Oh Monica, how lovely!” I was genuinely pleased for her, because she was so obviously pleased for herself. And I had liked Sam.

  “I’m flying to the United States with him tomorrow.”

  My background didn’t allow for such frivolity. Dad had been a small town doctor, and my mother had run our home with calm, unruffled order. I still couldn’t adjust to the idea of dropping all your plans at a moment’s notice. I couldn’t easily keep pace with this off-with-the-old-and-on-with-the-new malarky.

  All I could manage was a weak repetition of Monica’s words. “Flying to the States tomorrow?”

  “Yes Kerry, and we’ll be married by evening. I must get my outfit over here, before we leave.”

  I floundered around a bit. “But Monica, have you really thought what you’re doing...?”

  “My pet, I’ve thought of little else for simply hours.” She regarded me seriously. “Marriage is a big step in a woman’s life—I ought to know that.”

  Only then did it hit me that I too was going to be affected by Monica’s impetuous decision. Why did it have to happen now, just when Rome had become the most desirable city in the whole world? Why did this exciting new life have to fold up on me without warning?

  I suppose my gloomy face gave me away.

  “What is it, Kerry?” Monica asked anxiously. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. But I couldn’t entirely keep the self-pitying misery out of my voice.

  Monica jumped up and bent over the bed to put her arms round me. “Darling, how could I have been so beastly? Full of myself, my own happiness, and not a thought of you!”

  “It’s all right,” I muttered.

  “But it’s not all right! I persuade you to come out here, and then just up and quit.”

  “But...”

  She wasn’t listening. Pacing away from me now, over to the window and then back, Monica was lost in thought. Once again she was feverishly making plans for me. “Of course, pet, you won’t have to worry about the financial aspect. Would three months—no, six months in lieu of notice be okay? And your plane ticket back to London.”

  It was incredibly generous of her, and I couldn’t possibly accept so much. “But it’s not that,” I said sadly. “I don’t want to go back to London.”

  “Well then, you shan’t.” I swear that right then Monica was thinking more about my predicament than her own wedding.

  The waiter came in with the coffee, Monica tossed him a brilliant though abstracted smile, and he departed well pleased with himself.

  Suddenly Monica stopped prowling and snapped her fingers in the air. “I’ve got it! Adeline Harcourt.”

  “Who’s she?” I asked. Very dimly the name echoed in my mind, but I couldn’t pin it down.

  Monica regarded me with pity. “Not to have seen Adeline Harcourt as Lady Macbeth is not to have lived.”

  “Oh, she’s an actress?”

  “She was, my pet. One of the truly greats. But of course she was rather before your time. Dear Adeline must be well into her seventies by now.” Monica picked up the phone again, jigging it impatiently. “Get me Miss Adeline Harcourt,” she said in English. “She’s staying at the Prima Astoria—I think.”

  I lay back and waited, reckoning I’d learn quicker that way than trying to probe the mystery of Monica’s mind.

  It never seemed to take her long to get put through on the phone. In a few seconds she was chirping, “Adeline... oh darling, did I wake you?”

  The receiver quacked, and Monica held it a distasteful three inches from her ear. “Well, never mind—the damage is done now, isn’t it? Listen darling, I’ve got just the person to help you run that great guest house of yours.”

  The quacking was quieter now, and I could almost imagine a puzzled note to it.

  Monica plunged in again. “But of course you ne
ed an assistant, Adeline. Why should you slave away all the while, now you’ve reached a time of life when you should be taking it easy... No, I did not mean you’re ancient, darling. But let’s face it, with all your money, why should you...?”

  I was fearfully embarrassed. Obviously, Monica was selling me hard to this unknown woman. She herself had made a job for me, and she refused to see why someone else shouldn’t do the same.

  I shook my head at her, frowning and gesticulating fiercely. Monica chose not to notice, casually turning her back on me.

  “But darling, Kerry is absolutely... She’s been my assistant for simply... of course I’d like to keep her myself, only how can I...?”

  There was a pause; then Monica continued in a little rush. “Oh, didn’t I explain, darling? I’m going to marry Sam Tracy. Yes, after all this time...”

  It went on for some minutes. Feeling helpless, I poured the coffee and had time to drink it before she’d finished talking.

  Monica put down the phone in triumph. “You’re to go and see Adeline before lunch—one o’clock, she said.”

  “But how can I? There isn’t any job, is there? She doesn’t want me.”

  Monica merely smiled smugly. “Oh, I think she will. You just go along and talk it over with her, my pet. You can’t refuse me that.”

  I wasn’t in a mood to argue any more. I badly wanted to remain in Italy, and after all, Adeline Harcourt had agreed to see me.

  Monica swallowed half a cup of coffee, and floated out of my room. I looked at my watch. Eight-forty.

  What, I wondered, had Philip meant by good and early? Would he ring about nine?

  I decided to be ready and waiting for his call, so I jumped out of bed and bathed and dressed in a hurry. But not too quickly—I put some concentrated care into the final polish...

  I stuck to my room, close beside the phone. By nine-thirty the heat of the day was coming up, and some of my polish was losing its sparkle.

  By ten-thirty I was feeling pretty limp. I abandoned the phone long enough to go to the bathroom for another wash, and then re-applied my make-up.

  By eleven I’d almost given up. Fighting off despair, I went over and shut the windows. Why had I thought Rome a gaily bustling city? It was just plain noisy!