Roberta Leigh - Too Young To Love Read online

  He did so and then watched with pleasure as she moved to the mirror to brush her hair.

  This part of her toilet never took long, for she had only to comb it smooth and let nature do the rest. It lay round her shoulders in a toffee-gold cloud, the ends curling under. Carefully, she darkened her eyelashes, applying more mascara than usual, then colouring her mouth a vivid pink.

  "I must remember to give you your mother's jewellery," her father said. "Everything she had was left to you." He hesitated. "I would like you to know that my marriage to Helen will make no difference to the - er - financial arrangements I've made for you. When I die - "

  "Please don't talk about it." She was embarrassed. "It isn't necessary."

  "Yes, it is. Your mother had a considerable fortune of her own and this was put into a trust for you. My own money will also come to you in due course - apart from the proper provision for Helen - though if I have any other children it would be divided equally between you."

  "I don't need any of it," she replied.

  "You may not need it, Sara, but you're still my child." He went to the door and turned for a final look at her.

  "Enjoy yourself, my dear, and don't give Gavin too hard a time." He saw her eyes widen. "I noticed the sparks between you," he teased. "Don't let them burst into flames."

  The door closed and Sara stared at it, more concerned with what he had said about his own future than hers. It was hard to think of him starting another family without feeling jealous, even though she knew that children was one way cementing this May/December marriage. She tried to visualise Helen as a mother and shook her head, then, annoyed by her critical objectivity, she picked up a chiffon cape and left her room.

  As she went down the stairs Gavin Baxter came out of her father's office and stood by the bottom step waiting for her. He wore a fawn-coloured dinner jacket which emphasised his bronze skin and black hair. He could more easily have passed for a Spaniard than an Englishman, and she remarked on it as she came abreast of him.

  "I have a Cornish mother," he said, "and the Cornish have a polyglot ancestry. I number several well-known pirates among my forebears."

  "You could pass for one yourself."

  "I feel a bit like one tonight." He opened the front door and guided her to his car.

  "Why?" she asked as she slipped into the front seat.

  "Because I feel I'm taking you out against your will — abducting the beautiful damsel, so to say."

  "I'm sure you're far too much of a gentleman to ape your dear departed relatives."

  "Don't be too sure of that," he said darkly, and took his place behind the wheel. He drove with speed and Sara was glad of her seat-belt, for the traffic was fierce and French in its temper.

  "Where are we going?" she asked.

  "To a little place in the suburbs. They have the best Italian food in Paris."

  "Italian food!"

  "Since Helen has acquired a marvellous French chef, I felt you might like a change from French cooking."

  "I would," she said, and was surprised he had been perceptive enough to recognise it. "Do you live with your brother-in-law?" she asked.

  "We share a large apartment on the Left Bank. Often we don't see each other except at the Embassy."

  "Do you only have one sister?"

  "Three," he replied. "But I'm the only son, so the effort of retrieving the family fortunes rests on me!"

  "You won't make a fortune in the Diplomatic Service," she remarked.

  His teeth flashed in a smile. "I should have gone into big business, shouldn't I?"

  "That was rather rude of me, wasn't it?" she murmured.

  "Yes, it was. But don't worry about it. I forgive you."

  "I wasn't apologising, Mr. Baxter, merely stating a fact."

  He chuckled. "You really are a naughty little girl!"

  Angrily she stared out of the side window, giving a nervous start as his fingers touched her bare arm.

  "Don't try to open the car door while we're moving at speed, Miss Claremont, because you'll hurt yourself."

  "I have no intention of jumping out. I've been obliged to go out with you and I intend to weather the evening as best I can."

  "Don't make it stormy weather. I'm susceptible to chills!"

  She tossed her head and her hair swung back from her face to show the graceful stem of her neck. He made no more conversation and was silent as they drove through the dusk-filled streets. At last he stopped in a narrow cobbled road lined with old houses and small shops. One of the shops had been turned into a restaurant, its bow- fronted windows draped with red curtains. Inside it was unpretentious but clean, with some dozen tables covered with red cloths, straight-backed wooden chairs with red velvet squabs and cheery lighting.

  A plump woman greeted them, her face breaking into a smile as she recognised the man. This was followed by a spate of Italian too fast for Sara to follow, though she was able to guess from it that this was the patrona and that her husband - who was the cook - was at this very moment preparing the meal which the signore had rung up in the morning and ordered for tonight.

  "This morning you didn't know I would be coming out with you tonight," Sara commented as they took their places at a table in the corner.

  "I'm a great gambler!"

  "I wouldn't have come with you if it hadn't been for my father. Then what would you have done?"

  "There are lots of fish in the sea," he said laconically.

  "You're very rude, Mr. Baxter."

  "I thought you liked it, Miss Claremont."

  "You know I don't."

  "Then why not be friends?"

  "I wasn't the first one to be rude," she reminded him. "You talked down to me the first time we met."

  "Due to shock," he said, and leaned back in the chair to survey her. "Your father led me to believe his little girl was coming home from school and in I walked to find a soignee and sophisticated beauty. I'm afraid my reaction was a defensive one."

  She was surprised. "Why defensive?"

  "In case you got under my guard," he said softly.

  "I can't imagine you letting any woman do that."

  " I haven't done until now." He did not elaborate and she pretendcd to look around her, glad when the patrona came over to them with a bread basket. She informed them that the first course would be ready in a few moments and offered them an aperitif on the house. Sara felt Gavin Baxter's eyes on her and shook her head.

  "Just wine for me, please."

  He nodded but accepted a whisky for himself and sipped it slowly, his long hand cradling the glass. Sara tried to think of those hands on the control stick of an aircraft and would have liked to talk about that part of his life. But she was not sure if it would bring back unhappy memories lor him. There was nothing else she could think of saying and she remained silent, tongue-tied and embarrassed because she was. It was not like her to be lost for words, for all her life she had been surrounded by people who had made her feel welcome. But with this tall, debonair man she could think of nothing to say that would amuse him.

  "You look very beautiful tonight, Miss Claremont."

  "Do stop calling me that!"

  "But you are beautiful."

  "I mean 'Miss Claremont'."

  "You didn't like it when I called you Sara," he pointed out.

  "Because I hadn't asked you to. But now I am."

  "Thank you, Sara, and I hope you will call me Gavin."

  "I've never known anyone of that name."

  "It's the only unique thing about me!"

  She was sure this was not true, but did not say so, for he was sufficiently conceited. "Where were you before you came to Paris?" she asked.

  "In London and then Helsinki."

  "You've had a meteoric rise. Most people don't make First Secretary so quickly."

  "Put it down to my great influence," he said, straight- faced.

  She was not sure if he was teasing but would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her doubt. "What f
uture ambitions do you have?" she enquired.

  "For you to smile at me as if you mean it!"

  The answer was unexpected and it was all she could do not to comply immediately with his request. He really was a disconcerting man. "I do wish you would be serious."

  "I am serious. I want to be friends with you, and that means I must make you forget how inauspiciously we began. Look on tonight as our first meeting." He held out his hand. "Good evening, Sara Claremont. I'm Gavin Baxter. How do you do."

  She smiled and quickly touched her hand to his.

  "You look even more beautiful when you're relaxed," he said. "I must see what I can do to make you relax with me all the time."

  Embarrassed, she looked away from his intense blue gaze, glad to see steaming plates of cannelloni set before them. It was the most delicious she had tasted: the pasta home-made and filled with a delicate farce of ham and veal, topped by a creamy sauce. This was followed by thin slices of liver fried in butter and served with a tangy green salad and the meal concluded with luscious flaky pastry filled with whipped cream and raspberries.

  By the time coffee came, Sara's antagonism towards her escort was beginning to dissolve, due as much to the excellent meal as to Gavin's charm, from which she deliberately tried to hold herself aloof.

  It was ten o'clock before they drove towards Montmartre. Here the streets were noisy, music blared and people jostled one another on the sidewalk, but the discotheque they finally entered was unexpectedly quiet, the music soft and languorous, the couples young and all appearing to be in love, if the way they clasped each other as they danced was anything to go by.

  If Gavin noticed her staring he made no comment, and as soon as they had left their things at the table he led her on to the floor. For a brief instant he stood next to her without touching her. There was so much intimacy in his glance that she trembled, then his arms drew her close and her trembling ceased as she fitted her steps to his. He was an easy and effortless dancer, moving with none of the tenseness she had anticipated. Normally Sara found her dancing partners uninspiring, not allowing her to offer any of the intricate steps she had learned at the dancing c lasses she had attended. But Gavin was different; he danced as if he thoroughly enjoyed it, using his body as a violinist used the bow of his violin. Sara gave herself up to the pleasure of movement; her skirt floated around her and her hair splayed out across the top of his jacket as her cheek rested on his. Because she was so close she could not see his expression, but she felt the smoothness of his skin and the hard bone of his cheek. She moved her head slowly and saw his crisp black hair skimming the collar of his white shirt. He wore his sideburns unusually long and she was surprised her father allowed it. But then one would not lightly give orders to a man like Gavin.

  For nearly half an hour they danced, then Gavin led her back to the table.

  "Coffee, Sara, or something long and cool?"

  "Both," she said, and he smiled and gave the order. Almost at once tall glasses of fresh fruit juice were set before them and she sipped hers and wrinkled her nose with pleasure, for it was a delicious concoction of peach and grape.

  "You're an excellent dancer, Sara. Most English girls aren't."

  "Nor are most Englishmen!"

  "I think they consider it indecent! You can put the blame for my prowess on to my Cornish ancestors."

  "Cornwall is part of England," she protested. "Or do they want Home Rule too?"

  He grinned and, standing up, pulled her back on to the dance floor, moving his hands slowly down her back to clasp her waist.

  "In that dress you look as if you should be dancing in Giselle," he murmured.

  "One of the Wilis?" she questioned. "Or Giselle herself?"

  "I see you know your ballet."

  "All part of a finishing school education!"

  "What else did they teach you there?"

  "How to be a lady," she said demurely.

  "I'm sure they wouldn't have to teach you how to be a woman," he said huskily. "You do that automatically."

  Nervously she stiffened and he gave her a gentle shake. "Don't be scared of me, Sara, I'm only flirting with you."

  "I'm not scared," she said, but knew that she was, for he was clever and experienced and she was young and foolish; how foolish she was only beginning to recognise. She must take a hold of herself; she mustn't allow the insidious beat of the music to infiltrate her emotions. She was simply spending an evening with her father's First Secretary who was only taking her out because it was the diplomatic thing to do.

  "I'm glad your father made you come with me tonight." His words gave the lie to her thoughts. "It means I'm the first man to take you out since you've left school."

  She pulled slowly back to look up at him. "Does that make you something special?"

  "I hope so. They say a girl never forgets her first man."

  Her face flamed with colour and she quickly lowered her head. "That remark doesn't usually apply to a date!"

  "Hut I meant it to," he said quickly. "I didn't intend it as… Heck, I'm getting into deep water!"

  His discomfiture eased her own and she giggled. "You'd better be careful what you say to me in future."

  "I enjoy being honest with you, Sara. But if you find it embarrassing, I'll try not to be!"

  "I like honesty," she said. "I hate people who pretend." She gave him a provocative look. "I suppose that's what you mostly do?"

  "Of course. I'm a diplomat, remember?"

  She laughed. "My father is always honest. I can't imagine him being evasive or lying."

  "He's neither. That's why he's so successful. When he says something, people know they can believe it. He's wasted in Paris. The French adore a bit of intrigue and your father isn't cut out for it."

  "But Helen loves it here." Sara was sorry immediately she had spoken, she was afraid the words gave her away.

  "Helen would love anywhere where she can be the queen bee," he replied. "She adores dressing up and showing off."

  "What's wrong with that?" Sara asked defensively.

  "Nothing, and I'm not criticising your beautiful step- mama." He whirled her round before he spoke again. "I'm glad you're good friends. I think your father was worried in case you wouldn't be."

  "Even if I hadn't liked her I would have done my best to bide it," she said. "My father deserves to be happy. My mother was ill for several years before she died and he didn't have an easy life."

  Gavin made no comment and, glancing up at him, Sara saw a brooding look on his face. It vanished the instant he felt her eyes on him and his lips moved in a smile, his teeth white in the darkness of his face.

  "Why are we wasting time talking about other people when we should be talking about ourselves? There's so much I don't know about you, Sara. What have you been doing with yourself for the last eighteen years?"

  "Growing up," she said so promptly that he laughed aloud and twirled her wildly around the floor.

  It was two o'clock when they drove home through the quiet streets, empty save for a few dustcarts and a strolling gendarme or two. At the Embassy door Gavin lightly touched his lips to her wide brow.

  "I'm glad you didn't wait for the summer term before leaving Mademoiselle Rose's," he said softly. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here for the month of June."

  "What's special about June?"

  "The fact that it's June in Paris and you'll be here to share it with me."

  "That sounds like a song lyric," she smiled.

  "You make me feel lyrical." He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.

  She felt the warmth of his mouth on her knuckles and knew a strong urge to turn her hand and place her palm against it. Quickly she snatched her hand away, and saw he misinterpreted the gesture as one of fear.

  "Goodnight, Gavin, and thank you for a lovely evening."

  "The first of many, I hope." As the guard opened the door he stepped into the hall with her. "Will I have to employ your father's help the next time I ask you out?"
/>   "Try it and see."

  "Very well. There's no time like the present." His fingers were cool on her arm. "Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night, and the night after that too, if we aren't tied up officially?"

  "I'd like to have dinner with you tomorrow," she said carefully.

  "But you won't commit yourself further?"

  "A lady never commits herself!"

  His laugh echoed after her as she sped up the stairs, and it remained in her ears as she undressed and climbed Into bed.

  Paris in June. Paris in June with Gavin Baxter. It could well be a month she would remember all her life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Though Sara warned herself to be wary of Gavin's considerable charm, the more she held herself aloof from it the more aware she was of it. She had to concede that he was not deliberately setting out to captivate her, for he was equally charming to the other women at the Embassy: the bevy of efficient and for the most part extremely attractive girls who worked as secretaries and clerical staff. Being charming came as naturally to Gavin as breathing. He was also unaware of his devastating good looks, for she never saw him glance at himself in a mirror as he passed one or make any gesture to show he was conscious of his appearance. He was, she concluded, a man of natural talent and personality, smiled upon by the gods and given a handful of gifts where one alone would have been sufficient to set him on the road to success.

  "He'll go far," her father echoed one evening, a few days after Gavin had gone to Copenhagen to attend a conference. "I'm glad you like him, Sara. I wasn't sure he would let you."

  "Let me?"

  "Well, he's used to your fair sex making a play for him and when he wants, he can be prickly and standoffish."

  "Why should he be prickly with me?" she asked.

  "Because you're an extremely pretty female and an extremely rich one."

  "But — "

  "And because Gavin has no money other than his salary."

  She thought of the beautiful flat he shared with his brother-jn-law, to which he had taken her last week. "Maybe not rich in our terms," she murmured, "but he has a lovely home."