i 530d83f9160d5231 (9 page)

‘There’s no rush. I can drive home afterwards... So what do you think? I’m told the Royal Caledonian serves a good dinner.’

No,
not there!’
Riona was plainly horrified by his choice.

His eyes narrowed at her reaction. ‘Why? Is there something wrong with the place?’

‘I... no... I should have said,’ she went on hastily, ‘I can’t have dinner anywhere. I’l be working, you see.’

‘Working?’ His brows lifted. ‘At night, too?’

‘Wel , yes,’ she confirmed shortly.

‘Teaching piano?’ he pursued.

‘I... that sort of thing,’ she hedged the real answer.

He looked suspicious, then asked with his usual directness, ‘You’re not seeing some man, are you?... Because if so, you don’t have to lie about it.

I’m not going to advertise the fact around Invergair.’

‘No, I am not,’ Riona ground back. ‘Though it’s hardly any of your business if I were,
Mr Adams.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded, ‘but I think poor old Angus might have something to say about it.’

‘Angus?’ she repeated blankly.

‘The boyfriend,’ he reminded her.

‘His name is Fergus,’ she corrected, temper rising, ‘and, as you don’t even know him, I don’t see why you should be concerned over his feelings.’

‘Cal it sympathy for a fel ow sufferer,’ he drawled in response.

Riona didn’t believe a word, but couldn’t resist pointing out, ‘Wel , accepting Fergus would be jealous of me seeing another man, I can’t think he’d be too keen on me going to dinner with you.’

‘True,’ he granted with a shrug, then went on infuriatingly, ‘Is that why you won’t come to dinner with me? You’re frightened of upsetting the

boyfriend?’

‘No!’ she burst out in exasperation. ‘I’ve told you. I’m working.’

‘I know what you told me,’ he drawled back, ‘I just feel you’re hiding something. The question is what.’

The nerve of him had Riona seething, but the accuracy of his suspicions kept her silent. She was hiding something. Nothing particularly bad, but

nothing she wanted him to know either.

‘Look, I have to go. Thanks for the lift.’ She jerked her arm out of his grip and scrambled out of the car.

He fol owed, a second or two later, but by then she’d nipped into the nearest shop, Melven’s bookstore, and, disappearing into a crowd of tourists, exited by the back door. She thought she heard him cal her name, and picked up speed, running the length of the al ey, before turning left, fol owed by an immediate right, almost losing herself as wel as him in the process.

It was al very sil y and dramatic, she thought later. She should just have admitted what she spent the evening doing.

She’d started teaching piano shortly after her grandfather’s death, and had obtained the night-time job through one of her pupils, Mary Mathieson.

The girl’s father managed the Royal Caledonian, the hotel where Cameron Adams had suggested they dine. It was one of the largest hotels in Inverness, with various public rooms, including a cocktail lounge that boasted a resident piano player. The latter had his evening off on a Thursday and that was where Riona came in. Between the hours of eight and midnight, she provided background music in this bar.

At first, she’d been nervous, but she’d soon realised few of the customers listened very closely or noticed her, tucked away in a far corner. She

didn’t much care for the bland music she had to play, but it paid wel enough and helped repay debts incurred during her grandfather’s il ness.

It was a busy day for her. Though she enjoyed giving the piano lessons, there were fairly lengthy walks between each appointment, and it was almost seven before she arrived at her boarding house. The owner was a friend of the Mathiesons and always kept a smal back room for Riona to use mid-week.

She also al owed Riona to leave her ‘performing dresses’ there. One was a black evening affair, with bootlace straps, a tight bodice and flaring skirt coming to a respectable knee-line. The other was a white version of the same. Riona felt neither dress was real y her, but she’d bought them cheap in a sale in a posh dress shop, and topped them with an old waterproof to walk the short distance to the Royal Caledonian.

She left the coat at Reception, then went to the cocktail bar; it was virtual y empty, as most guests were stil at dinner.

‘Hel o, love,’ the head barman, Eric, greeted her familiarly, ‘come to entertain the masses?’

‘Not quite.’ Riona scanned the bar and counted six people altogether: two customers, Eric and the three waiters who worked under him.

‘It’l hot up later, I expect. Yesterday we were packed out—a crowd of Americans. Talk about brash!’ Eric wrinkled his nose. ‘Al Harvey

Wal bangers and vodka martinis. Stil , they know how to tip.’

Riona shook her head at him. She didn’t think it fair to make such a sweeping generalisation. Most American tourists she’d met had been warm,

friendly and genuinely appreciative of the beauty of the Scottish Highlands. If people like Eric cal ed them brash, it was often through envy of their sheer confidence in life.

Riona’s thoughts strayed to Cameron Adams as she considered how the reality of him had turned out to be so different from the crofters’

imaginings. When they’d first heard the estate had not been left to the most likely candidate—a second cousin who occasional y travel ed up from England—

but to an American great-nephew of whom they knew nothing, the general reaction had been consternation.

They had pictured this JR-like stranger parcel ing up the land, then auctioning it off by proxy. No one had thought for a moment he would arrive in person, like a breath of fresh air, with plans to regenerate the estate-plans that the old laird would never even have contemplated.

So why was
she
being so hostile to him? Was she an Eric, too—envious of his confidence, his vitality? She hoped not. She was disconcerted, yes.

And confused. And intimidated. Al of them and more, she admitted, as the image of his dark, handsome head sent a shiver down her spine.

‘Cold?’ Eric enquired solicitously. ‘You could do with one of my whisky specials. Let me—’

‘No, thanks.’ Riona turned down the offer promptly. If a few glasses of champagne could make her lightheaded, she didn’t want to think what one of

Eric’s ‘specials’ would do. ‘I need al my concentration to play,’ she claimed, and it drew a sceptical look from the barman.

‘The stuff you play—’ his face reflected scorn ‘—is music to ride elevators to.’

Riona pul ed a face back, but took no offence. ‘I play what the customers want. You know that.’

‘Aye, and I also know you’re squandering your talent,’ Eric declared with a sigh. ‘Anyone who can play classical like you do shouldn’t be wasting

her time on sentimental slush for a bunch of philistines to get drunk to.’

‘Music is music,’ Riona shrugged, regretting having shown off to Eric the week before. The bar had been literal y empty when she’d arrived and,

with no one to object, she’d played a favourite Chopin piece. Not a particularly difficult piece, but it had left the barman impressed.

‘Wel , it’s stil a waste,’ he stated with a clucking of his tongue, before going to serve a customer at the far end of the bar.

Riona took her chance to escape and went to sit down at the piano. She didn’t need any music; she just had to hear a song a couple of times and she could play it.

By ten the bar had fil ed up. As usual, her audience was hardly what might be termed attentive. Couples tended to be absorbed in themselves and

groups were often too noisy to notice the background music. It was only the occasional unattached male drinker who focused his attention on her, and then it was questionable if her playing was the attraction.

She had one tonight. She wasn’t aware of him until one of the waiters appeared with a drink for her.

‘You have an admirer,’ the grinning waiter, Tommy, announced as she ended a number and he presented her with a fluted glass of some colourless

liquid.

‘What is it?’ She sniffed at the sparkling drink.

‘Champagne, of course!’ Tommy tutted at her ignorance. ‘That’s what he asked for—the best champagne we serve. Do you want to know how

much it costs a bottle?’

‘Not particularly.’ Riona pursed her lips.

‘Wel , do you want to know which one he is?’ Tommy was clearly enjoying the situation.

‘Not in the least,’ she denied flatly.

Tommy stil continued, ‘He isn’t your usual medal ion man type. I mean, he’s relatively sober, for a start. And, going on the champagne, he’s not

cheap. So, if you want my opinion—’

‘I don’t—’ Riona put in futilely.

‘I’d explore the possibilities,’ Tommy advised with a wink, before taking himself off to serve other customers.

He left Riona muttering to herself as she placed the champagne, untouched, on the top of the piano. She felt no wish to explore any possibilities. She didn’t even want to know who her admirer was.

She spent the rest of the evening counting down the minutes to twelve when she closed up shop. The bar itself didn’t close until al the hotel residents had gone to bed, and that could be in the early hours.

It was stil fairly busy when she did eventual y finish. She passed a table of businessmen who were wel on their way to being drunk, and one cal ed out to her, but she kept walking. She guessed he might be the buyer of the champagne, and, having left it undrunk, she didn’t feel she owed him any conversation.

Al she wanted to do was get back to the boarding house and flop into bed. She col ected her coat from Reception and, shrugging it on, walked down

the entrance steps. It was dark now, but street-lights lit her path home along the river. It was a relatively short distance, and Riona didn’t see the need for a taxi.

She didn’t realise she was being fol owed until a voice cal ed out, ‘Hey, wait up, darling... and I’l walk you home.’

She turned to find one of the drunken businessmen a few paces behind her. He was a balding, paunchy forty-odd-year-old, with a sway in his step

and an even sil ier grin on his face. He looked harmless enough.

‘It’s al right,’ Riona said, as he closed the gap. ‘I haven’t far to go.’

‘Must walk you home,’ he repeated, catching hold of her arm. ‘Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking alone. Lots of nasty characters about.’

Riona was beginning to realise that as he leered whisky fumes in her face. ‘Real y, I’d prefer to walk by myself.’

‘Why...? Don’t you trust me?’ His tone switched from playfulness to bel igerence rather easily. ‘What do you think I’m going to do? Drag you down

an al ey or something?’ he added with a laugh that rang a sour note.

‘Of course not.’ Riona told herself not to panic and tried to force a smile. ‘I just don’t want to put you to any bother.’

‘It’s no bother,’ he echoed, and, giving her a look that made Riona wish she’d buttoned her coat, repeated, ‘pretty girl like you... Which way?’

Riona pointed to the other side of the road, and found herself narrowly missing an oncoming car as he ushered them across. Then, as they started

walking along the riverbank, away from the brighter lights, she began to get a little scared.

She stopped in front of a large house, and said, ‘Wel , thanks for walking me home.’

He didn’t release her arm, saying instead, ‘This is where you live?’

She nodded.

He looked up at the unlit house. ‘Doesn’t look like anybody’s in.’

‘I—er—my parents wil be in bed,’ she lied awkwardly.

He leered at her again. ‘Then you can invite me in... for a coffee.’

‘I...no...I can’t real y. They might wake up.’ She tried and failed to extricate her arm from his hold.

‘Wel , we can at least go round the back,’ he went on. ‘How about it?’

‘What?’ Riona couldn’t believe he could be suggesting what she thought he was suggesting.

‘You and me, darling,’ he grunted, ‘round the back.’ And, before Riona had a chance to respond, he made a grab for her.

For a moment she was too shocked to react, as a clumsy hand grasped at her breast and squeezed, then the next moment he was pushing her hard

against the garden gate and trying to kiss her. She lashed out wildly, with arms and legs, prepared to slap and kick until he let her go.

But Riona discovered, as many women had before her, that a man’s drunken strength was far greater than a woman’s. If he swore as her foot made

contact with his shin, it only made him madder. He dragged her body against his and placed a sweaty palm over her mouth when she would have screamed.

‘You like it rough, do you?’ He actual y smiled as he read the panic in her eyes, and, using his other hand, pul ed up her dress.

Riona could do nothing. She stood there, gagging, retching, screaming inside. She felt herself being lifted up, pushed through the gate, then al of a sudden fal ing free. She tried to scream, but, though her mouth was no longer covered, the sound dried up in her throat. She waited for his weight to slump on her, and instead saw him jerk backwards.

There was an arm locked round his throat, dragging him backwards, and it took Riona a moment to realise someone had come to her rescue. She

stayed where she was, slumped against the garden gate, and heard, rather than saw, the crack of knuckles on bare flesh, the grunt of breath as a blow hit the stomach, then the echo of running feet on the pavement in retreat.

When a figure reappeared to kneel before her, she cringed, and a voice softly assured, ‘It’s me, Riona. You’re OK. He’s gone. You’re OK. It’s

me.’

The voice was wonderful y familiar, and she raised her eyes in disbelief. But it was him, real y him, and she gave a cry of relief as Cameron

Adams’s arms wrapped round her. She clung to him, crying, shaking, releasing al the fear that had kept her locked in silence during the attack.

He held her to him, saying nothing, until her tears had turned to dry sobs, then he gently lifted her from the step and drew her coat back round her now torn, dirty dress. He brushed the hair back from her face and asked, ‘Can you walk?’