Page 43 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

The sleek dark-green Aston Martin skimmed around the roundabout at the top of Haytor Avenue and continued along the main road, before turning left down Church Road.

After almost a month under the hot African sun, Paul was craving a nice cold English beer. The Smugglers would be just about closing, but he could get a bottle of Doom Bar at the hotel.

And just maybe, Jess might be around. He was a little surprised at how much he had missed her.

It had been a good trip — interesting and worthwhile — but as always, he was glad to be home. He turned into the hotel car park and switched off the engine, unfastened his seatbelt and climbed out.

Neil, the relief night manager, was strolling out of the dining room with a plate of sandwiches as Paul walked in. The sounds of festive fun were spilling out of the ballroom.

“Wow! This lot are certainly getting into the Christmas spirit,” he remarked.

Neil laughed. “And this is only their first night. They’re nearly all in there.

There’s a few drinking coffee in the conservatory, and some have gone out for a walk.

It’s the same every year — each crowd gets wilder than the last one as it gets closer to Christmas.

Though I’m amazed they can move after eating all that dinner.

I’ve got a bit of the sirloin in these if you want one, or there’s some of Chef’s spiced ginger pudding and toffee sauce left. ”

“Mmm, I can smell it.” He sniffed the air appreciatively. “I’m surprised there’s any leftovers at all.”

He strolled over to the small bar in the lounge, nodded a greeting to the half-dozen guests still lingering in there, and grabbed a bottle of Doom Bar. Snapping off the top, he savoured the spicy aroma of hops and malt as he poured the amber ale into a glass.

“Is this the last lot?” he asked Neil, returning to the reception desk.

“Last but one. These leave on Sunday, then the next lot are here Monday to Thursday of next week. Then that’s it.”

“And then it’s full steam ahead for the renovations. Thanks,” he added as he took the proffered sandwich. “How’s it going in the annexe?”

“Pretty much nearly done. It’ll be ready for Saturday.”

“That’s good.” His sister’s wedding. It would have been a shame if they’d had to hold the reception somewhere else, with the hotel full of excitable T’n’T guests.

Then Alex had come up with the excellent idea of getting the large upstairs room in the annexe — which was going to be the hairdressers, spa and gymnasium — finished except for the fitting-out, and using that.

There was another surge of hilarity from the ballroom. “They’re supposed to be going down to the Eden Project tomorrow,” Neil remarked dryly. “I wonder how many of them will wake up in time?”

“Or wake up with the hangover from hell.”

Neil finished his sandwich. “Anyway, I need to do the night audit.”

“Can I come and take a look?” Paul asked. “With Mike leaving I’ll be getting more involved, so it would be useful to see how it’s done, in case I need to step in at any time.”

“Sure.” Neil picked up the rest of the sandwiches, and they both strolled through into the back office.

* * *

“Wow! It does look fantastic.” Jess leaned closer to study the images on Cassie’s laptop. “But it’s going to be freezing!”

Cassie laughed. “Well, it’s on the Arctic Circle, so I expect it will be.”

“Robyn’s going to love it,” Julia remarked.

“So will I. I’ve been dying to see the Northern Lights.”

“It’s really nice that you’re taking Robyn with you.”

“We couldn’t have left her out,” Cassie responded with a fond smile.

“It’s important that she doesn’t feel that me and Liam getting married changes things between her and her daddy.

Anyway, we’ll have a proper honeymoon next summer, when she’s had a chance to settle.

I’m thinking Hawaii.” She laughed. “Liam’s thinking Kazakhstan to see the Przewalski’s horses. ”

Julia rolled her eyes. “That would be interesting.”

“Wouldn’t it? Actually, I’m quite keen to see them too, but maybe not on our honeymoon.”

The Ellis’s family sitting room was warm and cosy, a log fire burning in the grate.

Diane was knitting, her feet up on the old cabin trunk that served as a coffee table, Hobo’s head resting on her lap.

The three men had gone up to Dartmoor to help with the early lambing and were likely to be out all night.

“Anyone for another cup of coffee?” Julia asked as Cassie closed the laptop.

“Not for me, thanks.” Jess glanced at her watch. “It’s gone eleven — I’d better be getting back. See you soon.”

“Goodnight, then.” Julia hugged her. “Mind how you go.”

Jess laughed. “Like I’ve got a long walk.”

“But the weather’s vicious out there. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got snow.”

“What, down here? I didn’t think it ever snowed in South Devon.”

“Oh, it does occasionally, and not just on Dartmoor.” Diane’s needles clicked as she turned a row. “We had a good fall a few years ago, though that was in January.”

“It would be great to have a white Christmas.” Jess shrugged herself into her coat, wrapped her thick woolly scarf around her neck, and pulled her bobble hat well down over her ears. “Right, I’m ready to face whatever the weather can throw at me.”

The weather certainly was vicious. A damp, icy wind was blowing in from the North Atlantic, the sort that seemed to hit you in the face no matter which way you turned.

Fortunately, it was not much more than a hundred yards to the hotel. As she turned into the car park, she smiled at the tall Christmas tree beside the steps, its coloured lights winking red, gold, blue and green.

And then she saw the sleek dark-green car parked in the corner. Dammit, Paul was back. She hadn’t realised it would be today. She wasn’t ready . . .

But she didn’t have to see him yet, she decided. Walking quickly, she crossed to the staff entrance, let herself in, and climbed the stairs to the staff quarters on the top floor.

All was quiet up here. There were only a few live-in staff at the moment, and they would probably have already gone to bed. She wasn’t ready for bed yet, though.

In the staffroom she made herself a cup of coffee, then flopped into the least lumpy armchair and flicked on the television. A bit of light comedy would be a distraction.

She’d had plenty to distract her this past month.

They’d been hectic, with the Turkey-and-Tinsel groups filling the hotel.

There had been endless little wrinkles to sort out — extra pillows requested, a dripping tap which had turned out to simply not have been turned off properly, queries about what time the excursion to Exeter or Dartmoor or the Heligan Gardens was setting off, even though it was all detailed in the programme in their rooms.

But for five years she’d dealt with ‘What cc is this bike?’ when it was stated right there on the windscreen sticker.

‘Do you have this helmet in red?’ when they’d had half a dozen colours apart from red on the shelf.

And ‘Two hundred and fifty quid for a bike lock? That’s a bit steep.

’ You’re riding a Kawasaki Ninja H2 — that’s twenty-five grand’s worth of bike.

You want to put a cheap lock on it and have someone nick it?

And most annoying of all, ‘Is there a man I can speak to?’ After that, she could cope with a few mildly anxious septuagenarians.

So Paul was back.

She’d hoped that these few weeks without him being around would have given her the chance to regain her equilibrium, that by now she’d be able to keep him safely in the ‘friend’ zone.

But ‘safe’ and Paul Channing weren’t words you would usually hear in the same sentence.

She forced herself to focus her attention on the television, chuckling with laughter as one of the guys on the comedy show went into one of his famous rants.

His target was people putting their dustbins out and blocking the pavement.

“Don’t they ever walk down a street themselves?

Don’t they notice that people have to step out in the road, risking getting knocked down by some lunatic driver who thinks a speed limit is just a suggestion?

” His conclusion was that offenders should be hanged.

* * *

“Well, that’s it.” Neil saved the night audit and closed down the computer. “Okay?”

Paul nodded. “Looks straightforward enough. Hopefully I won’t have to do it too often.”

“Want any more sandwiches? A coffee?”

“No, thanks. It’s gone midnight. I think I’ll be getting home.”

“Right. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

Some of the guests were still carousing in the ballroom. He smiled to himself as he pulled on his overcoat and stepped out into the night. Pausing at the top of the steps, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

Neil had switched off the Christmas tree lights and the white floodlights that lit the frontage of the hotel. There was just a security light above the door and a single streetlamp in the lane, so most of the car park was in shadow.

A noise to his left. A fox? A badger? No — someone was curled up on the ground beside the bushes, moaning softly. Someone in a red dress, with long blonde hair — almost certainly one of the Turkey-and-Tinsel crowd.

“Are you . . . ?” There really wasn’t much point asking if she was okay — she was lying in a pool of her own vomit. Oh lord, please — not food poisoning! But as he bent over her, the smell of alcohol almost made him throw up himself.

“Come on then, lass. You can’t stay here. You’ll freeze to death.”

She mumbled something incoherent, but let him heave her to her feet.

She was young — probably early twenties — and she’d have been quite pretty if she didn’t have mascara smudged down her cheeks and her lipstick smeared.

There was a long streak of vomit down her dress, and one side of her hair was caked with it. Delightful.

“Let’s get you inside and clean you up.”

“No, no . . .” She tried to pull away from him as he turned her towards the front doors. She shook her head and stumbled over her own feet. “No’ inside. Don’ wan’ ’em t’see me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Does.” She looked panicked. “Had a big row. A great big row.” She swung her arm around wildly. “Wiv his ma . . . She don’ like me. Not good enough for ’im.” She started to cry, sobbing between hiccups. “Don’ wan’ ’em t’see me.”

Well, he could understand that, given the state she was in. He tried not to breathe in too deeply. “Okay, we can go in the back way.” His arm around her waist to hold her up, he coaxed her across the car park to the staff entrance, and up the stairs. “What’s your room number?”

“Uh . . . ?”

“Your room number,” he repeated patiently. “Do you remember it?”

She blinked up at him, her eyes clearing for a moment. “Um . . . twenty-eight. Uh — two-o-eight.”

“Right.”

With some difficulty he got her up to the second floor and through the service door to the guest corridor. Keeping his fingers crossed that it was the right room, he opened the door with his pass-key and managed to get her inside. She collapsed on the bed, moaning in misery.

He regarded her with a wry grimace. She needed to get out of that dress and into the shower to get cleaned up. “Look, I need to get someone to come and help you.” He didn’t know if maybe Jess or someone might be up in the staff quarters.

“No . . .” She shook her head, then moaned again. “Don’ wan’ anyone t’see me like this. Been sick.”

“Yes, you have. So you need to get a shower, clean up your hair.”

“No . . .” The young woman had sat up, reaching round awkwardly to try to undo the zip of her dress, but then she gave up and flopped down on the bed again.

“Sheesh!” He shook his head in exasperation. How many times had he put a drunken teammate to bed? And once or twice he’d had been put to bed in the same state himself.

Unfortunately, by now she was completely out of it. Afraid that she might be sick again while he was looking for a female member of staff, he lifted her feet onto the bed and placed her on her side. Then he went to get a towel from the bathroom to put under her head.

“Here, this’ll . . .”

Abruptly, the door burst open and a very angry young man erupted into the room.

“What the . . . What’s going on in here?” His fists were clenched, his eyes blazing with fury. “That’s my wife, you bastard.”

“Really? Well, you should have taken better care of her.” His voice was cool, patient. “She’s had too much to drink, she’s thrown her guts up, and now she’s passed out.”

“And you were going to . . .”

“Come off it, mate.” The words were like water off a duck’s back.

He’d had far cruder insults than that thrown at him on the football field.

“I don’t know about you, but my taste doesn’t run to having sex with unconscious females who smell of alcohol and sick.

” The girl on the bed moaned and rolled over, mumbled something and snored loudly.

“She was upset. She said you’d had a row. ”

The guy shook his head, frowning. “Nothing serious. Just my mother . . .”

“It was serious to her. So be nice to her, eh? She seems like a good kid.”

The guy was staring at him. “You’re . . . you’re Paul Channing, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.” And before the guy could make up his mind whether to throw a punch or ask for his autograph, he got himself out of the room.