Page 22 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

She stiffened. “I’m not hiding. I’m . . . just cleaning the windows.”

“So I see.” His voice was warm with gentle amusement. “Aren’t you going to join the party?”

She shook her head. “That . . . wouldn’t be allowed. I’m staff.”

“So? So are Lisa and Jess.”

“They’re management, office staff,” she protested desperately, wishing he’d go away before she made a fool of herself by blushing. “I’m just a chambermaid.”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “That sounds like inverted snobbery.”

“Yeah, only someone who’s never had to worry about losing their job would say a thing like that.”

“Fair enough.” He smiled, a smile that did funny things to her insides. “Can I at least get you a slice of birthday cake? No one can object to that. I paid for it, so I can give it to whoever I like.”

She hesitated, then conceded reluctantly. “Okay, thank you.”

He grinned, satisfied. Shelley watched as he strolled back to the buffet table and collected two plates of cake and two glasses of wine. But as he turned to bring them back out to the conservatory, Lisa spotted him.

“Hi. Where are you off to with . . . Oh, hi, Shelley. What are you doing hiding out there? Come on in and join the party.”

“I already invited her.” Alex slanted her look of teasing amusement. “She said it wasn’t allowed.”

“What? Oh, don’t be silly. Come and wish Arthur a happy birthday.”

Shelley hesitated, but reluctantly joined them. Arthur spotted her at once and beamed broadly. “Ah, here’s another pretty girl come to wish me a happy birthday. Come and get some cake, my luvver.”

She smiled warmly. “I’ve got some, thank you. Happy birthday, Mr Crocombe.”

“Arthur. Call me Arthur, my luvver,” he insisted, reaching for her hand.

“Arthur.” On an impulse she bent and kissed his papery cheek. “Happy birthday.”

He chuckled richly. “And I’m going to have a whole lot more of ’em. You just wait and see!”

“I’m sure you will.”

She drew back discreetly, taking a careful sip of her wine — she didn’t want to risk it going to her head.

She was very aware of Alex beside her. Were the little shivers running through her bones because of his closeness, or because she was worried that someone would notice and comment that she shouldn’t be here?

Arthur was holding court again with his stories of times long past.

“Then there was Bill Bamfield — Squadron Leader William Frederick Bamfield, DFC and Bar, to be correct. He were an Ace, flew Hurricanes. Shot down eleven till he got shot down hisself over Normandy in forty-four. Blinded, he was.”

Shelley was fascinated. “He’s got a very good memory,” she murmured to Alex.

“He has, though this is the first I’ve heard about the Second World War. Mostly he loves telling stories about doing his National Service and the Korean war. He remembers every detail of that.”

“And there was Chalkie White and Clive Darrow.” Arthur was pausing only to pick up crumbs of his birthday cake. “Crew mates, they was. Their Lancaster got shot up badly on a bombing raid over Berlin. The pilot managed to limp it home, but the undercarriage was stuck and it crashed on landing.”

Alex turned to Lisa. “I was just wondering . . . Are there any old papers from those days?”

Lisa frowned and shook her head. “Not that I know of. They’ve probably all been sent back to the Ministry of Defence.”

“I’m not talking about official records or anything like that. But photos, diaries . . . ?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s some old boxes down in one of the storerooms, full of papers and things,” Shelley suggested. “There might be something in there.” She dug deep to find her confidence. “I can show you where it is.”

Alex turned to Lisa. “Is there a key?”

“I’ll get it.”

The basement was reached by an old door behind the kitchen, and a steep flight of stairs. At the bottom was a long, narrow corridor with a stone floor, lit by stark fluorescent strips in the ceiling, one of which was flickering as if ready to go out.

There were several wooden doors down each side, all in need of a coat of paint. Shelley stopped at one of them. “It’s this one.”

Alex fitted the key into the lock and opened the door.

“It’s a bit dusty in here,” Shelley warned. “And there are spiders.”

“Never mind.”

She switched on the light — more fluorescent strips. An old copper boiler lay on its side in the corner, there were a couple of deckchairs with torn canvas seats, the floor was covered with a litter of old rubbish, and the place smelled of ancient dust.

“Here’s the boxes.”

At the back of the room a haphazard pile of cardboard boxes was stacked against the wall.

They certainly looked old enough to date from the war years, being rubbed ragged at the edges, and some of them showing from the faded printing on their sides that they had once held bars of carbolic soap or tins of Spam.

He eased his fingers into one of the torn cartons. Inside, he could see the edge of what looked like a photo album. “Ah, this could be interesting.”

He opened the top. The carton was jammed with a random selection of papers, notebooks and photo albums, as if someone had just cleared out some drawers or filing cabinets and stuffed everything into the box.

He tugged at one of the albums until it came out.

There were pages of black-and-white photos of young men, some with bandages on their hands and faces, some with the puckered scars of healing injuries.

Some were sitting on beds in pyjamas, but most wore their service uniforms. There were snaps of them standing round a piano for a sing-song, with nurses in their uniforms too.

And some of them were recognisably taken on the terrace of the hotel, with the bay in the background. The Carleton had done its bit.

He pulled out another album, filled with similar photos. “I’d like to show these to my grandpa.”

Shelley smiled warmly. “He’ll love them.”

She leaned over to see the pictures, her hair brushing against his cheek. A soft scent — her shampoo or her skin — drifted to him. The impulse to kiss her almost knocked him off his feet, but he forced himself to pull back . . .

“Argh!”

She jerked back suddenly, bouncing off the stack of cartons and into his arms. He caught a breath — had she sensed . . . ? But it wasn’t what he had feared. A black spider bigger than his thumbnail was crawling on her shoulder.

“Wait . . .” Carefully he cupped his hand, flicked the spider into it, and set it down on a broken stepladder leaning against the wall.

She laughed, her eyes dancing. “Oh, lord! I’m not really scared of spiders. It just made me jump!”

Her face was inches from his, her lips parted, those pretty blue eyes gazing up into his . . . It would have taken more will power than he possessed to resist. And as his mouth met hers, she wasn’t resisting either.

* * *

Shelley felt as if her bones were dissolving into warm honey. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, curving her body against his as his fingers tangled in her hair.

This had to be a dream . . . Except it wasn’t. Those strong arms around her were real, and that warm, tender mouth on hers was real. The subtle scent of his skin — sandalwood and something uniquely male — was real.

His tongue swept sensuously over the sensitive inner membranes of her lips, then sought the sweet depths within, stirring the heat in her blood. How could she never have known that kisses could be like this? It felt like magic . . .

But then, abruptly, he lifted his head and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend . . .”

Opening her eyes, she glared up at him, the melting honey boiling to hot lava. “You’re sorry? Oh dear. You kissed the chambermaid by mistake? Well, pardon me for breathing the same air as you . . .”

She had to escape. But as she moved to shove past him, he caught her arm.

“No. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry because I didn’t intend for the first time I kissed you to be in a dusty old storeroom full of litter and spiders.

” He laughed in wry self-mockery. “I imagined it would be on the beach, in the moonlight, with the sound of the waves whispering over the sand.”

She stared up at him. Could she believe a word of it? As she hesitated, he smiled, tipping his head down and laying his forehead against hers.

“What I’d really like to do is take you out to dinner, then stroll along the beach and see what happens. Would you like that? Please say yes.”

“I . . . ah . . .” She let go of the breath she had forgotten she was holding. “Yes . . . Yes, okay then.”

“Good.” The smile in his eyes could melt any defences she had. “Look, let’s take a couple of these albums up to show my grandpa. He’ll be ready to go home soon, then I’ll pick you up at seven . . .”

“No, not tonight.” Panic surged briefly. “I . . . um . . .”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, okay. Tomorrow.”

“Good.” He tucked the albums under his arm, and took her hand. “Come on, let’s take these up to Grandpa.”