Room Service 1st Edition C M Steele

Visit to download the full and correct content document:

https://ebookmeta.com/product/room-service-1st-edition-c-m-steele/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Room Service 1st Edition C M Steele

https://ebookmeta.com/product/room-service-1st-edition-c-m-
steele/

Blade Steele Riders MC 8 1st Edition C M Steele Steele

CM

https://ebookmeta.com/product/blade-steele-riders-mc-8-1st-
edition-c-m-steele-steele-c-m/

Room Service 1st Edition Flora Madison

https://ebookmeta.com/product/room-service-1st-edition-flora-
madison/

Merciless Kings Boneyard Kings 1 1st Edition Becca

Steele C Lymari

https://ebookmeta.com/product/merciless-kings-boneyard-
kings-1-1st-edition-becca-steele-c-lymari/
Sam Steele a biography First Edition. Edition R. C.
Macleod

https://ebookmeta.com/product/sam-steele-a-biography-first-
edition-edition-r-c-macleod/

Using Computer Science in Military Service 1st Edition

Xina M. Uhl

https://ebookmeta.com/product/using-computer-science-in-military-
service-1st-edition-xina-m-uhl/

Lifemates The Conall Clan 3 1st Edition Donna Steele

Steele Donna

https://ebookmeta.com/product/lifemates-the-conall-clan-3-1st-
edition-donna-steele-steele-donna/

Awakened Magic Born of Light 3 1st Edition Raven Steele

Steele Raven

https://ebookmeta.com/product/awakened-magic-born-of-light-3-1st-
edition-raven-steele-steele-raven/

Family Ties The Conall Clan 2 1st Edition Donna Steele

Steele Donna

https://ebookmeta.com/product/family-ties-the-conall-clan-2-1st-
edition-donna-steele-steele-donna/
 Room Service
It’s Raining Men
C.M. Steele
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
 Copyrighted © 2021
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied
or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage or retrieval
system without written expressed permission from
the author, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, places, events, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination and are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover design: C.M. Steele
Cover Image: Deposit Photos
The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows
and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done
so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be
seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used
in an editorial fashion with no intention of
infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
This book is licensed for your personal
enjoyment. This book may not be re-sold or given
away to other people. If you would like to share this
book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading
this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not
purchased for your use only, then you should return it
to the seller and please purchase your own copy.
 Cassandra
A day of mishaps.
A convoluted plan.
A hot man in just a towel.
Yep, I’m in trouble.
Jamison
I watch her on camera, trying to determine her motivations, all
the while knowing mine. Little miss trespasser is going to learn that
I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I always get what I want. As
soon as she’s standing in front of me, my little criminal understands
she’s been caught.
But she doesn’t know I’m never letting her go.
 Chapter One
Cassandra
“Mom, just relax. It’s just a short vacation.” I tiptoe closer to
the front door because I’ll miss my flight battling with her.
“You don’t need a vacation.” I roll my eyes at her which makes
her angry as always, but she’s pushing my buttons. I don’t know why
I bother even seeing her because we end up getting into an
argument.
“I can’t stay here and find any peace and quiet. I want to sit on
a beach, let the sun hit my face, and read my books.” I have so
many on my TBR that I’m dying to scratch off. I keep promising
myself I will, but work and new books to add just keep my to-be-read
pile growing instead of shrinking.
She scoffs, tipping her nose up in the air so high I can see her
damn brain. “You mean that trashy garbage they pawn off as
literature?”
“When is the last time you picked up a book, Mother?” I snipe.
She might not pick up a book with sex in it, but she sure as hell can’t
get enough of those shows on Netflix that are all the rage and full of
lusty plots. Hell, she’s watched a bare-chested Henry Cavill many
times.
“Who has time to read? You’re wasting your life looking for the
perfect man. They don’t exist. Marry a man like your stepbrother.
Charles is good-looking enough, and I’m sure you can train him to
spoil you,” she says, patting my cheek before giving it a pinch. “You
could use some color.”
 “I don’t want someone like Charles.” She looks as if I said
something evil. I shake my head and pat her hand. “Anyway, I’m
going on vacation, not running away, so relax. You stress me out
more than work does.” And work most certainly tests my patience,
especially because I’m working for my handsy stepbrother. We met
four years ago just before I turned eighteen and we hardly spoke
until he hired me, so it’s not that taboo feeling that bothers me. It’s
the fact that I don’t find him the least bit attractive, interesting, or
even a decent human being. He’s the definition of arrogant and
sleazy.
“You’re overreacting, as usual. I’m telling you it’s stupid to go
all the way to Nowheresville for a vacation all alone. Anything could
happen to you.”
“I have three days to enjoy my time alone.” I check my new
waterproof watch. “I have to go. I’ll see you next week.” Or maybe
not at all. I’ve considered dropping everything here in Chicago to
move somewhere quiet so I can read and take it easy.
Having worked for Charles for the past two years, I’ve saved
as much as I could over those years as well as my inheritance from
my father to enjoy working when I feel like it and find my own path.
For the past decade, I’ve done everything by my mother’s decree,
including working for my stepbrother. I’m just twenty-two with no
fundamental skills other than hiding away from my mother’s
demands.
“Come back here, Sandy,” she shouts as I march out to my
Jeep Patriot. I ignore her because I’ve never liked being called
Sandy, and she knows it. Hell, she didn’t like it until Charles, my
shithead stepbrother, started calling me that. Then suddenly it’s such
a cute nickname. I gag every time I hear it.
My flight leaves soon, so I need to get my ass moving. I pull
out of her driveway, regretting that I came to say goodbye. I’ve
packed cash and my cards, keeping some in my luggage and some
in my purse. I have everything I need, including my tablet full of
brand-new reads to fill my time on the sandy beach.
Turning up my music, I send the incoming call to voicemail.
My mom needs a chill pill. Seriously, it’s not like she cares about me
personally, but what my behavior can do to her reputation. I turned
down three different Ivy League schools and enrolled in community
college just out of high school, thinking smart. I still don’t know what
the hell I want to be. Having graduated in December with a degree in
Business Administration to have something to work with while I
figured out my life. I’m seconds from quitting my job with Charles, but
I’ve held onto it to protect my mom’s feelings. Although, I’m not sure
why I bother; it’s obvious she doesn’t care about mine.
I rock out to some Imagine Dragons and let the tension roll off
me. Once I arrive at my apartment, I call a cab because I don’t do
any of those ride-share programs. There are way too many scary
stories for my liking. It comes rather quickly, giving me two hours to
get through check-in before my flight takes off.
After I’m all settled in, I take out my tablet and look at my book
list. I can’t decide what to read, so I turn on one of my games on my
phone while listening to music in my headphones. The time passes
as I try to build up my gardens, so much so that I nearly miss my call
for my flight. Settling in my seat, I put my phone into airplane mode
and listen to music, peacefully falling asleep.
The flight attendant wakes me as we prepare to make our
descent. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand and then get my
things ready while enjoying the view of the ocean. We touch down
outside Spring, Florida into a busy airport. I hope that most of these
people are staying here and not heading toward Spring. I check the
signs and follow them over to the luggage return to wait for all the
suitcases to come down, which seems like forever. People come and
go, taking their luggage, but my bag isn’t here. What the
motherfuck? Tapping the shoulder of one of the attendants, I ask, “Is
this everything?”
He looks at the luggage carousel and back to me, clearly
seeing that it’s bare. “It should be, Miss. Did yours not come down?”
“Nope.”
He gives me a nervous smile. I school my expression
because he probably can read the annoyance off my face. “You can
head over to that desk and speak with Roger. He’ll get you squared
away.”
“Thank you,” I grumble, trying to not take my bad mood out on
him. I take a breath and then walk over to the guy at the desk. “Hello,
Roger. That guy over there told me to see you about my missing
suitcase.”
“I’m sorry to hear that ma’am. Please fill out this form and
hopefully we’ll be able to get it in your hands by tonight.”
I nod and then I spend the next five minutes filling out a
missing luggage report and hand it over to the man. He reviews it
and works my nerves by asking me questions. This has been a day
from hell.
“Yes. I’ll be at The Jamison Hotel,” I confirm with the man at
the airport’s service desk. Roger seems nice, but I’m not in a
pleasant or forgiving mood. I nod and walk away before I say or do
something to show my true colors. Even though I’m sweet as pie
most days, I can turn into the damn devil if provoked, and that’s not
far away. I’m only in town for a few days to find some rest and
relaxation, and I’ve already gotten off on the wrong foot.
What I can’t understand is how they can lose my luggage on a
nonstop flight from Chicago to Florida? Something in my head
screams my mother has her hand in this.
I get in a cab and take the short trip to Spring, Florida. “Can
you take me to The Jamison Hotel in Spring?”
With a nod, he drives to the hotel. After paying my fare, I exit
the vehicle with just my purse. I do myself a favor and tuck my bag
close to me before someone robs me of that.
The hotel is gorgeous and large, but it’s not massive. I enter
the lobby to find it mostly empty. The receptionist at the desk gives
me a look as if she’s not ready to do her job. There’s a bitchy look to
it.
As I step up to the counter, the desk phone rings and she puts
her hand up to me, telling me to wait. Scanning the room to keep
from snapping on her, my heart and body freeze. Walking across the
lobby toward a hallway is a tall, sexy man in a charcoal grey suit that
fits his body perfectly, and I can’t take my eyes away. His profile
catches my attention, but then the clearing of a throat draws me
back to the lady at the counter.
I smile apologetically at her. “Excuse me, I’m checking in. My
name is Cassandra Tate.”
She clicks away then looks up at me with an arched brow.
“Sorry, but we don’t have anyone registered by that name.”
“What? I made the reservation a month ago.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have you in our database.”
“Please check again. Cassandra C-A-S-S-A-N-D-R-A Tate T-
A-T-E.”
“I know how to spell,” she hisses as she types away. “I told
you we don’t have you listed.”
“Well, do you have a room available?” I question, feeling a
sense of dread.
“The only one we have is the villa, but I’m guessing that’s out
of your price range.”
“How much is it?” I bite out, hating her snobby tone.
“Two thousand dollars a night.”
“What the hell? Is someone washing your ass for that?
Nevermind. Is there another hotel in town?”
“Sorry. There isn’t. Now, please, before you draw any more
attention to yourself. We like our town to remain peaceful. Perhaps
you should go back to wherever you came from. There are other
spring break resorts all over the state to look for men to sleep with.”
 “Perhaps you should learn not to be a cunt,” I retort before
spinning on my heel and leaving the hotel. I should call a cab back to
the airport, but I refuse to let them win. Instead I want to go enjoy the
beach.
First, I need something to eat. After you get past the large
hotel, you step into this small town that looks straight out of a movie.
“The Munch Box,” I read aloud, looking at the sign outside a
restaurant. “Yep, a small-town feel,” I mutter before walking in. I
wonder if Mr. Suit will show up. Is he in town for business? Vacation?
Does he work for the hotel? From my one stolen glance it’s clear he
commands attention.
I step inside and take a seat, but I suddenly find myself not
hungry. Grabbing an order of fries, I take them to go with a pop.
Walking down the quiet streets, catching the attention from the locals
as I snack, makes me nervous. When you live in a major city, no one
stares unless they’re going to say something. Here, I feel eyes all
over me. Do they not get a ton of visitors? They must. Their hotel is
large, and it’s fully occupied—well, except the villas. Those babies
are pricey.
I walk down to a less crowded area and sit down on a bench.
My phone rings in my purse, so I set down my bag of fries and dig
for the damn thing. By the time I pull it out, the caller hung up. I
swipe my code to unlock it, only to have it ring again. It’s my mother.
Of course. I should have known.
“What, Mother?”
“Is that any way to talk to your mother?”
“Depends. Did you cancel my hotel reservations?”
 “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” her voice jumps an
octave, proving she’s a liar.
“You totally did. Where the hell did you think I’d sleep?” I
shout into the phone as I feel my blood boil.
“You could come home.”
“Oh my fucking God,” I scream, hanging up the phone and
tossing it in my bag before pulling out my tablet. I have to try to
control my temper. This is supposed to be a relaxing vacation.
Stalking toward the beach, I find myself going through an alleyway.
Of course, going down the wrong way in a place I’ve never been. I
take out my phone and hold it close just in case someone is lurking.
Seconds later, I’m clipped by a bicyclist. I fall to the ground
and then another man helps me to my feet. I start to thank him when
he cuts my purse. “Hey,” I shout. Going to give chase, I find that my
knee’s throbbing, and what’s worse is that no one could see it since
it happened in an isolated part right before the beach. “I can’t believe
this,” I hiss, slamming my hands down at my thighs. I’ve lived in
Chicago my entire life and have never been robbed. This vacation
has sucked ass.
At least I still have my phone. It’s one thing I’ve learned: never
carry everything together. Maybe I can call the airport to see if my
luggage has arrived. Checking the phone, I notice my battery’s
almost dead. I don’t have time to call and cancel anything before my
battery dies. Ugh. This is total bullshit.
I’m so over Spring. It’s now the worst season and town. I hold
back the tears I feel coming. I have to get away from this. My phone
buzzes again, and it’s Charles. I should answer and ask for his help,
but he told me not to go. My stepbrother believed it wasn’t safe to go
alone and promised to take me on a vacation next month, but I was
being stubborn because he’s always reminding me how much better
my life would be with him. It’s been that way for years and I hate it,
so I’ll suffer and figure something out.
I’m sure there’s got to be some charging ports. I’ve seen them
at hotels before. I dip into the pocket of my dress and remember I
have some spare cash in there.
“Now, where can I get a spare charger?” I look and think
about it. There’s a local grocery store. I rush down the street, but
then feel the pain in my knee again. Damn it, I walk gingerly to
Spring Grocery, hoping they have one for extremely cheap. As soon
as I get inside and find the section, I see I’m a dollar short. Fucking
hell. I grab something to snack on at least because my nerves upset
my stomach and I couldn’t finish my fries earlier.
Maybe I can find someone to help. People around here
appear kind, but then again, the bike assholes looked nice too. Shit,
let me not forget the registration desk chick. So far this small town
has been the most unfriendly place I’ve ever been.
I don’t know where I’m going, so the beach seems like the
most relaxing place. I power down my phone to save whatever little
juice I have left and walk aimlessly for what feels like forever. “The
view is gorgeous.” My body is feeling the exercise even though I
normally do an hour of cardio every day.
From the direction of the sun, I’d say I’ve been roaming for at
least a couple of hours. I’m feeling the heat intensify with every step
in the burning sand, so I search for some shelter. About ten feet from
me is a massive villa. It’s beautiful, and I wonder if they have a
phone charger I can borrow.
The entire back area of the beach house faces the ocean with
large glass patio doors. From my view, I don’t see anyone inside.
There’s no vehicle around here either, so I’m betting no one’s home.
I duck off to the side of the house and take shade under a large palm
tree that makes it at least ten degrees cooler.
Hopefully they’ll be here soon. For now, my plan is to relax,
but I can’t lie here forever, which means I’m going to have to call my
mother. I seriously dread asking her for help especially because
she’s the reason I’m in this spot in the first place. I don’t trust her, but
frankly I’m out of options.
At twenty-two, I shouldn’t have to rely on my parents, and
normally I wouldn’t. I feel tears fall from my eyes which pisses me off
because I’m not sad, I’m angry. I swipe them away and try my best
to chill.
I could call Charles too, but calling him means admitting
defeat. He would love to remind me that he’d been right about my
safety and I should have gone with him on vacation. As I consider
powering up my phone and making the call to Charles, I decide I
can’t handle his smugness. I’d rather die in the sand.
With my hands behind my head, I think about the only bright
spot in my awful day: the man in the suit. His muscles could be
made out through the material, and goodness—he was all man. I
bite my lip, thinking about how good he’d look out of it. I’m losing all
sense of decency apparently, but I still can’t shake the power that
exuded from him as he spoke to the other man. With a sigh, I relax
until I let my thirst and fatigue get the better of me and fall asleep.
A loud boom jolts me out of my sleep. “Oh no,” I cry out,
standing and sliding in the sand as the rain comes down hard.
Looking around, I see there’s a light on through the windows. A
deafening, thunderous roar followed by a spectacular display of
lightning has me dashing for the villa, hoping someone’s home now
and it’s not just automatic lights. I don’t know whose residence it is,
but I need to seek shelter and help. I knock, but no one answers.
Another lightning strike hits on the water. I tug at the sliding door and
surprisingly, it’s unlocked, and I walk in, calling out for assistance,
but no one answers. Perhaps it’s one of those time-shares.
I creep through the beach house, and then I see the phone
right on the table near the door. A notepad next to it says “The
Jamison Hotel.” Shit, but it looks like someone’s staying here. Didn’t
they say it was available? On the chair is a suit jacket. I call out and
get no answer. I shouldn’t be in here, but I don’t really have
anywhere else to go and the storm is too close for comfort. That last
lightning strike was more than enough for me. I’ve watched too many
nature shows to know it’s a bad idea to stay out in the open.
I walk into the living room and see a phone charger, so I throw
up a silent thank you. Luckily, it fits my phone and I plug it in while I
look around to see if someone’s here. I could have sworn a flash of
movement came from the porch. I reach the front door and open it.
Hmm…There’s a bag of food sitting on the mat. I bring in the bag so
it doesn’t get drenched as the rain shifts direction, soaking the deck.
I close the door and then turn, freezing immediately from the sight
before me.
 Chapter Two
Jamison
A tingling on the back of my neck takes me by surprise. I
shake it off and talk to Marco about the upcoming weather alert. As I
make my way to the meeting, I feel something pulling my attention.
Instead of checking it out, I decide to go into my meeting with the
maintenance man because we’re due to have some issues if the
storm tonight turns violent. Our backup generators have been
inspected last week, but bad weather can be dangerous to our
guests.
About ten minutes into the meeting, I can’t let go of that
feeling so I excuse myself, which takes them by surprise. I walk out
into the lobby, but there’s nothing going on. In fact, the lobby’s empty
except for my front desk manager, Nicole—a woman that I only keep
employed because there are very few women in town and she’s
good at her job. A pretty woman brings business. There’s no other
way to put it; even if it’s wrong, it’s the truth.
Although, I find her a bit too aggressive when it comes to her
platitudes toward me. She’s just as bad as the guests that she tries
to keep away from me. I get hit on at least once or twice a week
during Spring Break season, which starts next week.
Feeling frustrated, I return to the meeting which drags on, and
I can’t get the feeling out of my head that I’ve missed something
important. I walk up to Nicole and ask, “Did anything crazy happen in
the lobby today around the time I was here?”
 “Sorry, sir. I don’t remember anything special,” she practically
purrs, puffing her chest out, looking to get my attention. It’s nothing
new, but it’s getting out of hand. “Is there something I could take care
of for you?”
“No. Thanks,” I sigh. She doesn’t think I hear the huff she
gives me, but I do and make a mental note to have my guys keep
tabs on her. I could just see her trying to sneak into my villa.
My phone pings for my security at home, catching me off
guard. The cameras and silent alert go off as a woman crosses my
property line. I zoom in, and that racing tingle shoots through my
nerves. She was here earlier. I know it, feel it in my bones. Long,
dark brown hair with natural sun-kissed highlights frame her face as
the ocean breeze whips it around. She brushes it behind her ears,
but it just continues to come free.
I want to ask Nicole about this angel, but for some reason, I
don’t want to share my woman with anyone. I storm into the security
office just as Marco reaches me. “Sir, we have an issue at your villa.”
“I know. Leave it be,” I bite out, turning to Benson at the
security desk. “Take a break.”
“Um…I just got back.” He’s an honest guy and a good man,
but I don’t give two fucks at the moment.
“I said, take a break,” I bark out, repeating my orders.
“Okay,” he stammers, getting out of his seat as if the next
refusal will cost him his job. It will cost him more than that. I’m ready
to bust anyone’s head who keeps me from finding my woman. It’s
almost insane how my mood has shifted. In fact it most certainly is
crazy.
 “Watch the regular cameras. I need to check something,” I
mutter, taking a seat and pulling up the lobby feed that points from
behind the desk to the front of the lobby. Scrolling back to when we
should have been in the lobby, I anxiously glue my attention to the
screen. She’s standing at the front desk, waiting to be addressed
when she turns her head and stares in my direction. I knew it.
“Who are you, and what are you doing, you little trespasser?”
I ask, watching her for another minute, mesmerized by her beauty.
“Let’s go.” There’s a knock at the door, and Benson’s just on
time. I open it and let him in. “Come on, Marco. I need to go home.”
Addressing Benson, I add, “Keep an eye on Nicole and see that she
doesn’t give any other guests any attitude.”
“Yes, sir.” He nods and moves to the seat that I’ve just
vacated.
Marco and I quickly exit the hotel from an employee entrance
so I’m not accosted by the front desk, needing me for something. My
mind is singularly focused. “The young woman is the same on the
cameras,” he points out as a matter of fact. I knew he was watching
my screen.
“Yes, she is.”
“Is she why you’re acting peculiar?”
“Peculiar?”
“I mean, you’re never rude to anyone that works here, and
you nearly bit Benson’s head off and kicked him out of his station for
a minute of privacy. It’s not you, especially leaving this morning’s
meeting without an emergency.”
 “I suppose so, then. I have to know who she is.” I watch my
home cameras as Marco takes me from my hotel to the villa on the
other side. Normally, I would walk the short distance, but after seeing
that little beauty sneaking onto my private beach as if she didn’t see
the signs that said this area was off limits and under surveillance, I
had to get there as soon as humanly possible. We pull into the drive,
and I tell Marco to take a hike. I’m not afraid of the petite little thing. If
she’s like any of the women I’ve met in my life, she wants to find a
way to sneak in my bed. As pissed as I should be, I’m not.
Surprisingly, I’m intrigued—very intrigued.
“She could be trying to find a reason to get a hold of your
assets,” he reminds me. It’s not the first time I’ve had little women
looking to get my attention, but I’m not a fool. I sent them packing
with nothing but a warning to keep off my property. Hell, sometimes, I
left it to Marco to handle. I’m a billionaire and I live a quiet yet busy
life that doesn’t involve distractions until now.
“She can have them,” I grunt under my breath.
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. My little trespasser isn’t going
to get anything that isn’t coming to her.” I smile and wave my hand
off. “Have a good night, but first, pick up my dinner. I’d like enough
for two tonight. I plan on having a guest,” I say with a devious smirk.”
He nods and turns on his heel back to my Mercedes. He probably
thinks I’m crazy, but he’s wise enough not to say shit. “Oh, and
Marco, please just leave it on the porch.”
“Yes, Jamison.” He nods and leaves. We’ve known each other
for three years, and he’s the best I’ve ever had work for me.
 Now to the business of my sleeping beauty. She’d fallen
asleep under the largest palm tree by the house, wisely protecting
her porcelain skin from the sun. I hope she used some sunblock on
her perfection because I’d really hate for her to burn.
I step out back and watch for a few minutes, cataloging her
beauty. Greedily, I snap a couple of pictures on my phone and
admire her beauty. Her lips are slightly parted as she lets out the
softest bit of a snore. I itch to scoop her up and carry her to my bed
and let her sleep in the cool comfort of central air. My eyes rake over
her, thinking she’s exposing too much.
What if it wasn’t me who found her sleeping, but some sick
fuck? Who am I kidding? I am a sick fuck. The second I saw her, I
knew I wanted to do every wicked thing I could to her. I’d run my
hands down her long, sandy brown hair and drag her mouth to mine,
crushing it in a deep kiss until she confessed her reasons for
sneaking onto my property.
As I imagine tracing my hands down her body, I notice the
scrape on her knee. It’s fresh. Looking around, I don’t see anything
but her phone. I pick it up off the sand while doing my best to be
quiet. Stepping away, I power it on. It’s nearly dead, but I have a
charger for it in the house. I’ll make sure to leave it in plain sight.
Just as it comes to life, a text message comes in. Sandy,
where are you? Call me. Text me. The message is from a bastard
named Charles. Her name is Sandy. I wonder if it’s short for Sandra,
or maybe something else, but I don’t want to call her Sandy. That
bastard killed it for me.
 Snarling, I consider my reply because I sure as fuck don’t
want her to answer this fuck head, but the damn thing beeps and
shuts off. Son of a bitch. I want to wake her up and demand she tell
me who this guy is. Instead, I set her phone down and shoot a text to
Marco.
I need to hit the gym. Keep an eye on the back. Let me
know if she moves.
Yes, sir. Food in an hour.
Good. Thanks.
I hit the home gym, knocking the heavy bag around until I let
the searing jealousy leave my bones. Once I’m done, I check on
sleeping beauty. She’s still out cold, which is good for now. After my
shower, I’ll make sure to carry her inside before I interrogate the
criminal who stole my fucking heart. The one I didn’t know I had.
Marco doesn’t message me, which means my pearl is about
to be dug out of the sand the second I get out of the shower. I enter
the bathroom and lean my phone on the sink so I can see if she
moves. Making my shower quick, I scrub off the sweat, but I’m not
fast enough. It starts storming, and my girl is on the move. Marco
pings my phone several times, so I pop out and wrap a towel around
my waist. I make it to the front hall to see my sweet girl with the food
bag in her hand.
She stops in place, staring at me with wide eyes. “Hello,
sweetheart. What have you got there?”
She raises the bag to eye level. “Room service?” Her
response sends fucked-up images to my brain.
 Her mouth parts into a perfect circle and thoughts of her on
her knees flood my mind, making my dick jerk under the towel and
grabbing her attention. She licks her lips, and I’m about to nut on
myself. “As tempting as that idea is, I’d like to know why you’re in my
home before I fuck your pretty lips.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about?” She flusters,
turning bright pink.
“Don’t play games with me, sweetheart. Why are you creeping
through my house?” I press my hands on my hips, which is probably
not the smartest decision because her eyes go back to my cock
which it likes very much.
“Honestly, I didn’t know anyone lived here. I was seeking
shelter. I promise I’ll leave. I’m going to call my—”
I can’t let her finish and say his name, so I interrupt. “You’re
not leaving yet. It’s storming out there. Besides, you’re soaking wet.”
Taking her hand, I drag her toward my bedroom, but then she nearly
stumbles, and I remember her injured knee. Swiftly, I scoop her up in
my arms.
“Oh my goodness. You don’t have to carry me.”
“You’re hurt, sweetheart.” I set her on the vanity and pull out
the first aid kit from the drawer under her legs. “How did that
happen?” I ask as I wipe her scrape with an alcohol swab. She
pauses to answer because I’m sure it stings. “I’m sorry. The
antibiotic cream won’t hurt.”
She smiles at me, and that does something to my insides.
Little miss has me so wrapped around her finger and she doesn’t
even know it. “I’m Cassandra, by the way.” Cassandra. Perfect.
 “I’m Jamison Cain. Tell me what happened to your beautiful
leg?”
“On my way to the beach I was knocked down by a bike
messenger and then mugged by another man.”
“What?” I’m shaking with anger, squeezing the tube a little
hard. “Son of a bitch. I’m sorry.” I jump up and grab a washcloth to
try to clean up the mess that landed on the floor.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” I growl. The thought of someone hurting her,
making her feel violated and vulnerable, sends violent thoughts
through my head. I grab a fluffy towel.
“Can I take a fast shower? I know I shouldn’t during a storm,
but I haven’t showered since this morning. Damn it, I don’t have my
suitcase either.”
“Where’s that?”
“Lost, according to the airport.”
I press a Band-Aid to her scrape, followed by my lips. “My
mother always said a kiss makes it better.” She turns pretty pink
again and I choke on my need, swallowing it before I give in and
taste her lips. Clearing my throat, I add, “I’ll get you something to
wear and leave it on the bed while I get dressed.”
“I can’t believe how wonderful you’re being to me after I broke
into your home. You’ve made my terrible day so much better.”
Her genuine happiness and vulnerability hit me hard. “Okay.
Jump in the shower and I’ll get everything set up out here, and don’t
worry. There’s a spare bedroom.” She blushes so prettily that I regret
mentioning it because she belongs in my bed for the rest of my days.
This sudden fascination tripled the second I held her in my arms and
has only amplified with every change in her expression. Her face is
extremely expressive and beautiful.
“Thank you.”
I help her down and then leave her to shower, needing
another one for me turned all the way to arctic cold.
Quickly, I slip on some shorts and a tee before grabbing her a
pair of my boxers and my favorite tee, which I’m sure are going to
float on her, but the vision of her in my clothes is tightening my
shorts to the point of pain. I adjust my cock that doesn’t want to walk
away from the beauty in my shower. I force myself to go in the living
room and grab the food she brought in. I set it up on the coffee table
because I want the excuse to keep things intimate on the sofa.
Gathering silverware, I come back and set it down. My
bedroom door opens, and I brace myself for her appearance.
“Jamison, can I say that I love that shower?” Fuck me. My dick jerks
hard.
I turn around, and I’m nearly floored. She looks like a dream,
a wicked fantasy, in my clothes. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,
Cassandra. Take a seat, dig in before it gets cold, and I’ll get us
something to drink. I have wine, soda, or water.”
“A water would be great.” I gingerly walk into the kitchen,
trying to get my cock to relax, but I don’t think he’ll go down until he
gets some relief between her legs.
When I come back, I do my best to avoid looking at her and
set the water down.
 “Thank you,” she says after chewing her food. Damn,
Cassandra’s cute while she’s eating as well. We eat in silence for a
few minutes, although, I can’t say I tasted anything. My focus has
been on her lips, feeling irrationally jealous of the food she’s
consuming.
“Do you normally have so much food delivered?” she asks
after swallowing another bite of her cheeseburger.
“No, but I hoped you’d come knocking on my door,” I confess.
I hadn’t meant to be so honest, but I don’t think I can lie to her.
“What?” She sets down her food and looks at me with an air
of suspicion.
“I have security cameras that are activated when someone
crosses the private property line. I saw you taking a nap under my
favorite tree and decided to make sure I had dinner for two.”
“I didn’t mean to trespass.” A blush spreads over her cheeks,
making me feel like a blood-thirsty vampire, ready to devour her. I’ve
lost my appetite for any meal that isn’t Cassandra.
I take a sip of water before I speak. She has to know that
she’s welcome. “It’s fine. As soon as I saw you, I had to meet you.”
“Oh. That’s the first time you noticed me?”
“Yes. Why? I know it’s crazy.”
“Oh. It’s just a bunch of strange and awful circumstances that
landed me on your property.”
“Can you please elaborate?”
“First, my luggage was lost at the airport, and when I went to
check into the hotel that I booked last month, I no longer had a
reservation. There were no rooms left except the villas, and I wasn’t
spending that kind of money for a room. No offense.”
“That’s not offensive. They’re for large gatherings or wealthy
people trying to get away. It’s not something we’d offer to a single
guest.”
“Oh, okay. So then I left and picked up some French fries,
didn’t eat most of them because my mother called and let me know
she’s the asshole who canceled my reservation so I would come
home.”
“What a fucking—” I stop myself before I say something evil
about her mother even if the bitch has a serious problem when it
comes to me.
“Yes, she is. I hung up on her and then started walking away
when I ended up down an isolated alleyway, and then I was mugged.
So, you see, I’ve had one hell of a day. I only wanted to find
somewhere to charge my phone and get out of the rain. I’m really
sorry that I saw you in your towel.”
“Thanks. I guess.” I pretend to be offended which makes her
blush so damn prettily.
“Oh shoot. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean you’re super-hot,
but I invaded your privacy.”
“No, it’s fine, baby. You can look at me in a towel all you want.
Although, I’ll have to spank your pretty ass if you end up in someone
else’s home and see them unclothed. Fuck, I’d have to kill them,” I
mutter that part to myself, so I don’t look entirely crazy.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Car à ton cœur je pensais—
Sans rien dire... Sans rien dire...."

"I always like songs about flowers, don't you?" queried their hostess of
the world.

And "Here you are at last," her husband remarked to Cyprian before
Muriel's curving lips could make the most of that joke; "you really should
not spoil Ferlie."

"She is such a highly-strung child," the Hon. Mrs. Porter volunteered

languidly, waving a gold-tipped ostrich feather, though, had she stopped to
consider the matter, she would have discovered that she was cold in her
chair near the door.

"Never yet," said Colonel Maddock, who adopted the criticizing

privileges of an unofficial uncle in the house, "have I met the fortunate
mother whose children were not exceptionally highly-strung. What does the
term mean exactly?"

"That they need a disciplined existence," said Mr. Carmichael. "All

these modern methods of making things easy for children are wrong. Life is
not easy. They must be fitted to overcome difficulties."

"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control!" mocked Muriel, with

accusing eyes on Captain Wright who was trying to press her hand behind
the music-stand. "I cannot bear a man, particularly, without self-control; and
the child is father to the man—in Ferlie's case."

Cyprian dejectedly decided that he had let himself go, rather, at the
scene of the proposal. She had looked so infinitely desirable.

"Ferlie was frightened," he said, rather lamely. "I think, perhaps, the
servants——"
 "There!" cried Mrs. Carmichael. "What did you tell Robin about
English servants?"

"You should discipline her out of being frightened," declared Muriel.

"Why make it easy for a child to go to sleep with night-lights and such
nonsense? Think of all the insomnia she will have to battle against in future
years. Let her learn to overcome——"

Mr. Carmichael was looking so stiff that his wife intervened.

"Dear Muriel! You do talk such nonsense. Robin did not mean that."

"No?" Muriel turned limpid eyes on Cyprian. "And what line did you
take with her?"

"We talked a little," he said, blinking quickly at the carpet, "and

presently she fell asleep. I must thank her for affording me the excuse to get
rid of a slight headache."

"I thought you were not yourself at dinner," said Mrs. Porter forgivingly.
"You are fond of children?"

"No," said Cyprian, somewhat bluntly. He was not fond of children.

"Really! Ferlie is so devoted to you."

"She is about the first child I have ever addressed, and will probably be
the last."

"If she were a normal specimen, the first time you addressed her would
have been the last," said Muriel, "I have heard you doing it. I am glad when
you are with me you talk down to my level, Cyprian. I have not Ferlie's
pristine trust in dictionarial expressions. I should imagine that you were
swearing at me half the time."

"I think he talks very good English," said Mrs. Carmichael kindly. "We
none of us speak enough like books these days."
 Mabel Clement who, during the greater part of the evening had been
scrutinizing Muriel and Captain Wright with a view to working them into
her new satire, "The Man-Eater," came out of a frowning wilderness of
thought, wherein the others had completely forgotten her, to say that the
ideal language, as yet unborn, should consist merely of a riot of sound,
expressing the emotion it was required to convey.

"Our spelling is execrable, our grammar clumsy, and the elegant diction
of the one-time popular novelist of the Jane Austen calibre was affected in
the extreme. Life is too short for these chains of superfluous sentences, and
far too short for us to master all the tongues of Babel before we can test the
mentality of other nations. It should be possible to invent a tongue, common
to all, conveying to the brain, by sound, what it is desired to express."

"Let's begin to invent it now," Muriel suggested rapturously: "Colonel

Maddock! Whu-u! Why! Whu-u-u! Isn't my meaning perfectly clear?" She
tilted her flower-face up to his, drawing in her breath in a series of staccato
jerks.

The Colonel grinned down amiably as he inhaled the fragrance of a

delicate hair-wash.

"I know!" Captain Wright bawled triumphantly from his corner: "she
wants a drink!"

In the storm of merriment which followed, Mabel Clement smiling

resignedly, retired again into the fastness of her soul, while Cyprian crossed
the room to a tray containing, Eastern fashion, several long bottles and a
syphon.

While the party were breaking up in a fizzling glitter of glasses, Mrs.

Carmichael drew close and gently touched his sleeve. Then and there the
memories were blotted out of occasions when he had wondered how a
clever man like Carmichael stood her! Madonna-sweet, her smile at that
moment.

"Wait a bit after the others leave," she said in an undertone; "Robin and
I have been wondering about your plans. And I want to consult you over
Ferlie's school."

The note on which the last word was spoken broke in two. When she
and her husband returned to Burma they would be minus encumbrances.
Subtly conveying her own need of a little sympathy in the only idiom she
knew, Mrs. Carmichael remained unaware that in so doing she represented
to Cyprian the beauty of the Essentially Feminine.

She kissed Muriel "Good night," reflecting cattily how boring women's
kisses must seem to her after ... and staved off the Colonel's last broad
approach to the forthcoming pleasure-cruise in the yacht.

"Good night, Mrs. Porter."

"Good night, dear. Such a pleasant... Yes, thank you, that is my vanity
bag, though at my time of life you may well be wondering ... and Muriel
with a Vinolia complexion has no business to own such a thing."

"Robin, will you... Ah! Here is the parlour-maid...."

A low-murmured plea from Captain Wright, whose arms encircled

Muriel's cloak.... The diamond glitter of answering eyes....

Good night.... Good-night.

CHAPTER II

"Seems almost a pity," said Mr. Carmichael.

His wife looked her grey-eyed agreement.

"The one post promises security for life, a fixed salary...."

"And is so eminently your line, Cyprian."

 "At the moment," said Cyprian, "a secure haven and a tranquil time to
brood upon my good fortune in it are the last attractions the world can offer
me. I feel restless. I know I am probably being a fool but, since my mother
died, there is nothing that need prevent me from being a fool if I so desire."

Mrs. Carmichael had a feeling that any young man who rounded off his
sentence with, "if I so desire" at this stage of his career, was intended by
Heaven for a University donship and not the vicissitudes of a miner's
existence. She was quite right.

"The Company which has offered you the post of Secretarial Manager
and What-Not of its—er—machinations," went on Mr. Carmichael, "will, in
all likelihood, burst before the year's end and leave you stranded. The
Burmese mines are overdone and I hardly believe in this new discovery and
your avaricious expectations. What is promised? Rubies?"

"I got such a pretty aquamarine straight from the Mogok mines once,"
murmured his wife, "through a friend who ..."

"You won't find any rubies, ten to one," warned Robin.

"But I may find something else again which is of even more importance
to me," said Cyprian.

Neither of his companions asked what that was. He went on slowly:

"Some force outside myself seems to be urging me away from England for
the present. I fear the facetious would describe me as a quitter, but, for
certain natures, it is always safest to quit ... temptations. I have never dared
to do anything else myself, and a superficial peace at Oxford just now
would multiply mine unbelievably, though I am sensible of the honour done
me by their offer of the appointment."

"You are only twenty-eight, are you not?"

"Yes. For a humble tutor and lecturer to get such a chance..."

"Free house and garden," chirped Mrs. Carmichael, seeing womanly

visions and dreaming womanly dreams, "and with prospects of becoming a
master in time. What a pity..."

She knew, alas, that Muriel would refuse to be dazzled.

"Well, since you seem to have made up your mind to throw up a good
thing for a doubtful one"—Mr. Carmichael never wasted time on vain
regrets—"I agree that your science and geological knowledge will be
invaluable to your employers and I had better tell you what I have seen of
the district."

The talk drifted into generalities, and Mrs. Carmichael began to price
Ferlie's winter coat and remind herself to impress it upon the matron at
Peter's school that Peter was really an Exceptional Boy. She believed in a
private appeal to the only woman in an establishment full of unimaginative
men. Pictured the red-roofed bungalow in Rangoon without the children's
toys annoying her husband in the verandah. Remembered all the other
Colonial mothers and wondered why that made the pain worse instead of
better. Rejoiced that she had, at least, got the better of Robin in the matter
of Ferlie's education. None of your hard modern schools, over-developing
brain and body at the expense of femininity. Reaction must set in soon on
this count, and Muriel Vane was nothing if not a warning. There could come
a revival of the old-fashioned home-school, where it was so fortunate that
the kind Miss Maynes had welcomed the thought of having Peter for the
holidays.

They could not have agreed to take just any boy, they had told her—in
fact none had, up to date, been offered them—but, in the circumstances,
"Why, it is really our duty, dear Mrs. Carmichael."

Yes, Lady Vigor's daughter had always remained with them and,
naturally, they had taken her to the seaside. How impossible, thought
Ferlie's mother, to have entrusted Ferlie or Peter to Aunt Brillianna.

Brillianna Trefusis, a maternal aunt of Robin's, who was, nevertheless,

not more than five years his senior, was an eccentric lady who travelled a
great deal, spoke boldly and wore a disconcerting air suggesting that life
amused her. And she did not go to church!
 Mused Ferlie's mother, it was all very well for the men-folk to content
themselves with prayer by proxy, reaping where their loyal wives had sown,
but if the women were also to desert the old and tried paths to that Better
Land, Far, Far Away, the chances were that the Judgment would fall due
before anyone had reached those Eternal Bowers, and the travellers find
themselves shooed into Outer Darkness to the tune of "Depart, ye Cursed!"
And Ferlie was so responsive to her surroundings: Aunt B. could easily
have raised doubts in her mind as to the authenticity of Lazarus and Jonah,
and when once you began to pick and choose...

"No, I am afraid she is still out in the park, Cyprian. What's that?
Crystallized apricots? Oh, but you really shouldn't. I could give them to her
when she comes in.... Well, if you will ... she's sure to be near the pond.
Thank you, Peter is quite well. So odd! He says his form master asked him
where he had learnt the secret of perpetual motion. Such a silly sort of thing
to say to a child."

Cyprian had never met the exiled Peter, on the occasion of whose swift
banishment he had first recognized a kindred spirit in the Ferlie, white-
faced and dumb, presented to him in the Carmichaels' drawing-room with
the motherly rebuke, "And, Cyprian, this is the one I intended to ask you to
be godfather to, only Robin put me off, insisting that you would not know
what the term meant."

He visualized Peter, after winning his sister's confidence, as a wiry

mortal of nine summers, permanently unlaced boots and an enquiring
expression; this last suggesting a soul too perfectly in tune, if not with the
Infinite, at least with the Infinitely Annoying, as connected with problems
of Eternal Research, for the peace of mind of those in charge of him.

"Isn't it funny, when you come to think of it"—thus Mrs. Carmichael

when Cyprian had gone—"that a woman's 'No' can alter the whole course of
a man's life?"

"Not nearly so thoroughly as can a woman's 'Yes,' believe me. He is

jolly well out of that one."
 "The trouble is that you can't persuade him of it. Such an ideal situation
for him, Robin. A free house and garden..."

"Nice Society," went on Robin, a little grimly, "church bells within ear-
shot, so that one can imbibe atmospheric religion from an arm-chair, and
the golf-links closed on Sunday. But you're right: it would have suited him
—in the end. If ever I saw an Oxford don in embryo, it is Cyprian."

"He's so Nice," his wife lingered over the word. "One realizes at once
how high-principled..."

"Oh, he's all that ... and he listens to the Abbey organ regularly."

"Simple and obtuse," Linda Carmichael continued. "And she's quite

heartless. Do you know, Robin, sometimes she behaves almost as if she
were not a lady."

Mrs. Carmichael couldn't understand why Robin sniggered at this

superlative condemnation.

"She wants the Man-with-the-Stick," he briefly summed up Muriel.

Mrs. Carmichael did not pursue that idea. It was so bluntly lowering to
the dignity of Womanhood as to make her feel mildly uncomfortable. There
were wife-beaters in the slums—very sad—but she always closed fastidious
eyes to the thought that among Us, also, the thing called Human Nature
could betray itself in crude unmentionable ways.

Exploited as it might be in these days, Human Nature always seemed to

her to have an undressed sound.

Her own marriage had been a reticent affair: separate dressing-rooms

and so on.

There was something about Muriel, though her father's first cousin was
an Earl, which reminded one of the pictures kept in the house because they
were classical but which one did not look at very closely and hung in
darkish corners of the landing. Necessary to Art but hardly to Life.
 * * * * * *

While Cyprian was laying in stocks of quinine, dark glasses and thin
pyjamas, and the Carmichaels were busily embracing relations whom they
never set eyes on except at the "Ave atque Vale" occupying the two separate
ends of their four-yearly "leaves," and while Peter was interesting himself
in illicit Natural History during class hours, and Ferlie in members of her
own sex as a regiment, in class and out, Muriel was brooding over her
bones and finding them tasteless.

She came out of her bath one morning after washing her hair and,
having given the damp cloud a desultory rub with a large fluffy towel,
tossed that shield from her and paused before the long pier-glass.

"And God, who made that body for delight"—

She quoted under her breath—

"Should there have stayed and left a perfect thing,

Nor added to your loveliness a soul.
So had He spared you sharpest suffering;
Dark waves of night that o'er your spirit roll.
And sobs which shake you through the lonely night...."

Where had she read the words? Some literary magazine. Author? Hamilton
Fyffe? Was it? Or Fyfe? Remembered she had thought that clever when,
very young, she came across it. Someone had scrawled against the margin,
"I fear me Fyffe is very inexperienced. No woman without a soul has held a
man for long."

Did she want to hold any man for long? Did she ever want to "fall in
love"? What bosh it all was—this thirst of milk-blooded girls for the soul-
mate.

"It's positively terrifying to see Truth naked," remarked Muriel to her

own white reflection. Or was it not better to be free from mental corsets—
as well as the ordinary sort? She raised herself on tiptoes, clasping her
rounded arms above her head as the thought rippled into merriment across
her face: "If Cyprian were my husband and came in now, accidentally, he
would apologize and flee, and be too much of a gentleman even to mention
it again on our meeting later. He's the type of man who would never forget
that though its wife was its wife she was still a 'lady'."

Footsteps, and a knock at her door disturbed these cogitations. A known

voice greeted her through it.

"May I come in, Muriel?"

"Oh, is that you, Twinkle? Yes, so far as I'm concerned you can come in.
Better leave your gentleman-friend outside on the mat though—for his sake,
not for mine."

A thickset, handsome girl entered languidly, took in the situation at a

glance and sat down upon the unmade bed.

"You are a One!" Her voice drawled richly. "I suppose I can smoke
while you dress?"

"Puff away! I'll have one too while I finish my air-bath. It fills me with
optimism to take it in front of the glass."

Twinkle ran critical eyes over this unbashful nymph.

"You're all right," she said candidly. "A bit thin. Thinking of posing as
an artist's model?"

"Glory! It never occurred to me."

"It's a possible treatment for your complaint, my dear."

"What do you mean?" A deepening of the carnation tint on Muriel's soft

cheek.

Twinkle did not appear to notice.

"Enough eyes on your tout ensemble to satisfy even your thirst for
admiration. The joy of seeing, say, thirty individuals all occupied in
reproducing your beauty for general display in some gallery. After-results ...
qui sait? The artist's model...."

"Meets artists," finished Muriel, recovering herself: "I am out after

bigger game. I had thought of going into training on your lines."

"The stage is over-stocked with people seeking auditions who have not
the slightest talent," warned Miss Ruth Levine, commonly known as
Twinkle, probably because it was the most unsuitable nickname that could
possibly be found for her. "You might prove a happy exception."

"I'd get a walking-on chorus part, at any time," Muriel confidently

assured her, "with nothing to do but kick and use my eyes."

"M-m! You've been reading some reliable literature, wherein the pure-
hearted Gladiola Trevelyan, who is only on this degrading beat in order to
supply calves' foot jelly for little cripple sister Winnie at home, finds the
young earl's card in her dressing-room. In real life you'll discover it is the
son of the local butcher who leaves his in a Rolls Royce and that the
marquises' cheques are to be mistrusted more often than honoured."

"Truly enough, gold paint can disguise a lead coronet. We've one in our
family—my second cousin's. Anyone is welcome to him for me. Money I
must have, Twinkle, or I may as well commit suicide."

"You are doing that by inches while you waste time emptying old
pocket-books."

"My little weakness," admitted Muriel frankly. "I take what comes
while keeping my eyes on the final goal."

"What the devil is your goal? One man or several?"

"You are an honest woman," laughed Muriel. "I don't mind confessing
for your private ear, that I simply do not know." She flung herself face
downwards on the tumbled satin quilt, cupping her face in her pink palms.
 "To look it in the face: I have seen marriage at close quarters and found
it distinctly uninspiring. Father and Mother! My God! How they bore one
another! They try to go their separate ways and yet cling to a snarling
respectability."

"Why don't they get a divorce?"

"Too expensive. Besides, there is no just cause or impediment. I could

forgive them if either had risen to a guilty passion. But that would have
smirched the family escutcheon, you see; merely being rude to one another
doesn't. Then they have not got me off their hands yet. Dad would sell me
to the highest bidder to-morrow. I am marketable stock for some degenerate
duke with no age-limit, provided he is rich. Not so easy to find, eh? As for a
love-match with an impecunious captain, whose inspiriting moustache
bristles to touch one's holy hand before the ring adorns it and, a year later,
remains quiescent against one's immovable lip-salve—well, I ask you!
Every Sweet Young Thing thinks her matrimonial drama will be acted to
muted violins in 'Just a little love, a little kiss,' and is perfectly prepared to
'Give him all her life for this.' Now, I'm not."

"The alternative is a profession. Mannequin?"

"Golly! Not enough men in it. And your Model idea would have to be
carried out in dark secrecy. Mother would poison me!"

"You carry out a number of things in secrecy with complete success."

"Pff! Not what you think. I know my market value."

Twinkle's dark gaze became fixed and speculative. "Any of your folk
ever died in an asylum?" she enquired suddenly.

"I suppose you are being funny. But, as a matter of fact, my

grandmother's sister did, and there was an uncle, who gore-ily cut his throat,
of unsound mind. Why? Do I look as if I meditated such a drastic solution
of my problems?"

Twinkle decisively knocked out her cigarette and stood up.

 "Never mind.... Curiosity, I guess."

Muriel became dimly interested in this dispassionate friend's

disapproval of something.

"Do I fill you with disgust?"

"No—with pity," was the unexpected reply. "You don't understand what
you are up against, Muriel. But I've seen types like you before; and they are
born, not made."

They went out together, presently.

"I have only got till lunch-time," warned the actress. "Matinee at two.
Performance again at 8.30. A dog's life!"

"You wouldn't change with me!"

"Holy snakes! I would not!" Her vehemence startled, for the moment, in
one so remotely calm. She pulled herself together as quickly. "No, I am
fitted for my job. Some day I shall be the Big Noise all right."

Muriel glanced at the sure, emotionless face. Not pretty; La Gioconda,

refined and Semiticized—if one might use the word. Beautifully tinted
eyes, heavy lidded and calculating, not for gain, but as if their owner were
perpetually weighing up the world and did not, like Brillianna Trefusis, find
it at all amusing.

That Twinkle's distrait attitude at Marshall's silk-stocking counter was

due to Muriel's own looming future the latter never guessed.

"I've seen 'em"—so ran the thoughts of the Jewess—"always devoid of

natural feeling at the start, but unable to live without a man's eye upon
them. The market value of passion glibly at the tongue's end. Never
sentimentally eroto-maniacal; better if they were. Then, suddenly, the day
when the craving for admiration merges into sex-realization. No actual
desire perhaps, for the love of an individual: no realization of Love in the
abstract as a desirable thing. A sudden startled awakening and, with neither
religion nor moral sense behind.... If one could warn ... but there is always
the chance that I am misreading her and am utterly in the wrong. She's no
'modern' product anyhow."

"Musings without method," remarked Muriel, having lingered to reduce

the youth at the ribbon-counter to a state of drivelling imbecility with her
smile: "Are you meditating upon some subtle gesture for your great act that
will bring the curtain down in a storm of sobs more soul-satisfying than
applause?"

"I was simply letting my mind run wild on the subject of heredity as a
factor in folks' lives. There are few things admitted heredity now except
those which are sexual, and I was wondering how far the psycho-analysts
had really got going on that subject, apart from the sex-chart. One has heard
of hypnotism as a cure at early stages for ... some things."

"If I went to a hypnotist to be cured of anything," said Muriel, "what's

the betting the gentleman in the chair would find the positions reversed and
himself masquerading as victim?"

"I have no doubt you'd do your damnedest," said Ruth, dryly.

* * * * * *

It was not long before Cyprian sailed for the East.

Captain Wright, temporarily insane, though he was the only one who
did not know it, began to drink at unusual hours. Muriel had taken three
months to sicken of him and considered him exceedingly ungrateful. Weak.

Cyprian had shown himself much stronger. He went down to Ferlie's

school to say good-bye to her.

"Like an uncle to the child, you know," her mother had told the Misses
Mayne; who beamed over the avuncular visit, brooding on the Degrees and
reflecting what a good thing it might be should he recommend the school
while in the East.
 "You will come back soon?"

"It will seem very soon, Ferlie."

"You promise, Cyprian?"

Nothing had ever succeeded in getting a respectful prefix out of Ferlie,

though Mrs. Carmichael was uneasy lest the Misses Mayne should not feel
quite happy over the familiar mode of address.

"Of course I promise. And I'll write if you will."

"I'll write," said Ferlie, "when I have things to say." A sensible

resolution which might be more widely adhered to.

Cyprian carried away with him the memory of delicate hands, laughing
eyes and a poignantly sweet voice ... a memory which left the same ache as
does a solitary aloof star on a summer evening.

But always it was followed by the haunting comfort of Ferlie's clinging

arms.

CHAPTER III

"French is to be talked from the time the rising-bell rings in the morning
to the time the dressing-bell rings for supper at night."

So ran Rule 9, at St. Dorothea's Home School for Girls. It was relaxed
on Saturdays at twelve after the hour in the gymnasium.

At ten minutes to twelve the gloomy cavern, known as the Glory Hole,
rang with noise which, according to the ancient series of L. T. Meade's
school-stories, stocking the library, should have been punctuated with
"silvery ripples of girlish laughter." It wasn't. The parrot-house at the Zoo
would have been nearer the mark. A harassed prefect presided, noting the
names of people who insisted on forestalling the cuckoo-clock.

"Parlez-vous Français, Margery, ou je dirai Mademoiselle."

"Ma foi! N'est-ce pas que c'est douze heures?"

"Le cuckoo a cuckooé, je suis positive."

"Doris, vous sotte-ane, c'est ma place que vous prendre."

Moods and tenses were blandly ignored at St. Dorothea's outside the
actual French class.

"Naw," denied Doris, resolutely blocking the partition wherein she had
thrust her own gym shoes. "Je partage cet morceau de le shelf avec Ferlie."

"Mais, avant Ferlie, j'ai avez baggé!"

This last effort could not pass muster even on a Saturday.

"Margery, 'bag' n'est pas Français et c'est argot. Prenez un point de

conversation."

"Mais si je fait cela je ne peut pas jouez hockey. Soyez une sport,
Mary."

There was an understanding that whosoever lost six marks during the
week for failing to observe Rule 9 was relegated to the ranks of the
crocodile, with the junior class of all, after lunch, instead of being permitted
to join in the usual Saturday games.

Margery was a constant offender; and the Fourth Form A. were to play
the Fourth Form B.!

"Si vous ne jouerez pas, ce sera un tiroir," prophesied Ferlie

ingeniously, after pausing an instant to consider the French for a "draw" at
hockey.
 The clock whirred. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

"Thank God!" said Margery Craven, piously.

The prefect fled, pretending not to hear.

"I thought you weren't playing either, Ferlie?"

"I am not—that's why I said if you can't play centre-forward in my place

the A's will be about level with the B's. You and I combined give the A's the
advantage."

"Why isn't Ferlie playing?" asked Doris Martell.

"Don't you know?" and Margery's air was fraught with mystery. "The
co-rrespondent from Far Cathay has asked—and obtained—permission to
take the Favourite of the Upper Fourth to the Zoo."

"Lucky little beast!"

"How long is he going to stop in England, Ferlie?"

"Only six months this time. Father and Mum never take such short
leave, but Cyprian has had malaria..."

"It's a beautiful name," mused Doris with upturned eyes. "No wonder
she blushes!"

"Silly ass!"

"What beats me," said Margery, "is how Martha and Mary allow Ferlie
to gad about with a genuine trousered male in an expensive tailored suit and
all the appurtenances thereof. Because even if he does look forty he's not
really your uncle, is he, Ferlie?"

"No, thank the Lord! I shouldn't feel nearly so comfy with him if he
were."
 "She confesses to feeling comfy with him," Margery informed the
others. "Brazen hussy! And she a 'Sunlight Fairy'!"

Ferlie forgot Cyprian in a sudden righteous indignation. "You shut it,

Margery! Lot of grinning shriekers! Thought yourselves very funny, didn't
you? You wouldn't laugh if it were your mess."

For Ferlie's instinctive courtesy, rooted in a horror of hurting people's

feelings and combined with a certain dreamy trustfulness in human nature,
characteristic of her, had landed her in a false position which, during the
past week, had been the joke of the school.

A dean's wife, far-famed for excellent work among the business girls of
the suburbs, and convinced that the road to salvation for all budding
womanhood lay via the fold of a Purity Society organized by her, had now
conceived the idea of interesting the girls' schools in a campaign of mutual
prayer and interchange of friendly letters with these unknown female
correspondents of the working-class, all virgin pilgrims up the Hill of
Difficulty, pledged not to permit male travellers to carry their bundles nor
waste their time in frivolous communications. The Misses Mayne, generally
known to their pupils, in terms of disrespectful affection, as "Martha" and
"Mary," approved of the plan and accorded the dean's wife half an hour one
Sunday afternoon, following Bible Class, to set forth her appeal for
supporters in the school.

At the close of an earnest address she had suggested that any of them
willing to join the League and correspond with another young woman,
forlornly in search of true friendship, would hold up a hand.

Ferlie, having arrived late from an imperfectly learnt collect, happened

to be sitting at a front desk, eschewed by early arrivals as too nearly under
the eye of Martha for perfect ease. Not having paid particular attention to
the proceedings, but gleaning from the speaker's tense expression that
something was expected of the school—possibly a penny a week to the
Blind Babies' Fund—she mechanically raised her hand, wondering the
while whether there would be time after the Zoo to take Cyprian to that new
tea-shop where you could always get hot dough-nuts, fresh and jammy.
Hers was the only hand raised. The role of "Sunlight Fairy," by letter, to a
factory girl did not appeal to the Margeries and Dorises of the Upper
Fourth, and the senior school members were struggling with finishing
exams and wanted no extra correspondence thrust upon them in their scant
leisure. Had she only known it, the dean's wife was about the fourth of a
series of well-meaning women that term obsessed with schemes for
benefiting England's blossoming womanhood. To put it coarsely, St.
Dorothea's had "had some."

Margery was the most interested in Ferlie's future radiance as a "Fairy."

The dean's wife, impressed by such single-minded strength of character, had
invited her to tea and presented her with a blue card depicting a rising sun
shooting an inquisitive searchlight on the face of a worried-looking young
woman wending her way up a crowded thoroughfare either in quest of true
friendship or a factory.

"And it's quite time you began," said Margery severely, at the
termination of Ferlie's bitter harangue.

The bell for the reading of the week's marks interrupted them; following
which rite a strong smell of Irish stew combined with apple pudding, in the
hall, did duty for a lunch menu.

And, "I will not eat the bottom bit of my suet to-day," Margery resolved
in a fierce whisper as they filed to their seats.

The conversation over the gravied onions made about four times the
volume of sound as on a French day.

The Misses Mayne, one at each end of the long table, beamed
indulgently. "Martha," the practical one, who was also the junior of the two
sisters, confined her remarks to the state of the hockey field and reminders
that stockings were to be changed immediately on the team's return.

"Mary" brightened life at her post by little reminiscences of the ways in

which she had spent her Saturdays at school, "when hockey for girls was
quite out of the question, my dears," and the Magic Lantern, with views of
foreign countries in colours, existed still as a delirious mid-term treat.
 All went contentedly until the last helping of apple pudding had been
served out, and then Mary settled her glasses and allowed her kindly faded
eyes to rest on one particular plate.

"Now, Margery"—a sudden hush followed the raising of the gentle

tones—"are you going to conquer that pudding or are you going to let that
pudding conquer you?"

The luckless Margery, who had brought an empty paper bag to lunch
with felonious intent, started guiltily and reddened to the forehead.

"You know it is by overcoming—always by overcoming—the

weaknesses in ourselves that we develop into worth-while members of the
world's community," Mary continued.

"Or by coming it over other people," muttered Ferlie, sympathizing with

Margery's sensations towards the grey mound of suet pushed to one side of
her plate.

"It—it always makes me feel sick, Miss Mayne," faltered Margery

hysterically.

"Imagination!" came from Martha's end of the table. "How can good
wholesome food make anyone feel sick?"

Margery's mouth took an obstinate curve. She was not going to be

intimidated by Martha, anyhow.

That lady, with twenty years' experience of Margeries behind her,

probably sensed rebellion and decided the moment had arrived for brisk
disciplinary methods.

"Eat it up, Margery, and don't be foolish," she said.

Margery sat very still.

The rest of the table did not want to witness her downfall, nor seem, by
respectful silence, to approve the idiosyncrasies of Martha and Mary. Why