reluctant smile. “You know very well that Michael Freeman and I are just friends.” She sighed. “It's nothing like that. He was – well – he was different.”
“And older,” commented Julie wryly. “Heavens, he must be thirty-five, at least!”
Ruth tucked a long strand of silvery hair behind her ear. “That's no great age.”
“To us it is. Ruth, you're only twenty-one. You couldn't possibly be interested in someone as old as that –”
“I didn't say I was.”
“I know, but – but anyway –”
“Anyway, what? Is he married or something?”
“Not as far as I know. I think his work is all that occupies him. He has no home in England now, that's why he's staying with us for a while.”
“I see.” Ruth smiled, liquid green eyes appealing. “Stop looking so concerned, Julie. Can't I even show an interest in the man?”
Julie shook her head. “He's got no money – other than his salary, of course.”
Ruth sighed. “Does that matter?”
“To your father, it might.”
“Lord, Julie, why? I'm not involved with him, am I?”
“No,” Julie conceded. “But I know that look in your eyes. I've seen it before. Don't!“
“Don't what?”
“Just – don't! That's all.”
Julie looked round the room, trying to reassume an interest in the proceedings. The record player was still pounding out beat music at a deafening rate, and their conversation had gone almost unnoticed. Julie wished it had never taken place at all. She liked Ruth so much, she was very fond of her, but she knew of that rebellious streak in her nature which had so often landed her in trouble at school. She had always been a popular girl, popular with staff and pupils alike, but apart from Julie, Ruth would be the first to admit that her closest friends were among members of the opposite sex. Tall and slender, able to look elegant in the most casual of clothes, Ruth attracted men like a magnet.
But Julie blamed Ruth's father for that trace of irresponsibility in her make-up. Joseph Farrell was a self-made millionaire. Ruthlessly he had striven to lift himself out of the obscurity of a back-street shop in Liverpool, to his present position as owner of a string of supermarkets. Money had been his god, and nothing had been too good for his family. When his wife died thirteen years ago, soon after their move to London, he had channelled all his affections towards his only daughter and he had doted on her, giving her anything she had ever wanted.
Strangely enough, Ruth had not been spoiled, at least not by money. She was a warm, generous-hearted girl, and if she grew to expect anything from life it was that people should like her. Invariably, she was right. It was a gift, Julie supposed now, but one which might create difficulties as she grew older.
Julie's own background had been vastly different. Her family had never been wealthy, not in the way Joseph Farrell was wealthy, but she supposed that socially they were more acceptable. And because of this, although she was only a few months older than her friend, Julie often felt an acute sense of responsibility towards Ruth, perhaps because she had no mother of her own to turn to.
Now she turned back to Ruth, and said: “Shall we go and get some supper? I could certainly appreciate a long cool glass of something refreshing.”
“If you like,” Ruth was agreeable, and she tucked her arm through Julie's as they made their way to the buffet tables set out in the adjoining room. “It's been a super party. I'm glad you asked me for the weekend. I don't think Papa would have agreed to me driving home from Wiltshire in the early hours of the morning.”
“Well, not with Michael Freeman, at any rate,” remarked Julie dryly. “By the way, where is he at the moment?”
Ruth looked round. “Mike? Oh, he'll be about somewhere,” she replied vaguely. “He's not driving back to town tonight, you know. He's booked a room at the pub in the village.” She glanced at the broad masculine watch on her slim wrist. “I just hope they don't lock their doors at midnight, or poor Mike will have had it!”
Julie chuckled. “He can always bed down on the sofa. I don't suppose Mummy would mind. It's happened before. Are you driving home in the morning, or staying for lunch? If you stay, I thought we might go riding.”
“I'll stay, if I may,” exclaimed Ruth at once. “Who knows, I may even get to be introduced to the Venezuelan oil executive!”
“Oh, Ruth!” Julie stared at her friend in exasperation. “I thought you'd forgotten about Patrick!”
Ruth's mouth quirked appealingly. “Now, how could I do that?” she teased laughingly.
Even so, as she prepared for bed later that night, Ruth pondered the unexpected amount of curiosity she felt towards Julie's father's cousin. Perhaps it was the fact that they had not actually been introduced that intrigued her so. Or maybe it was that alien air about him. The unusual tan, the look of experience that was seldom present in the faces of the young men she normally associated with.
Whatever it was, she looked forward to the morning with increasing expectancy, glad of the diversion to stimulate an otherwise dull Sunday.
She was awake quite early the next morning, and after a swift shower she dressed in a sleeveless ribbed sweater and narrow purple trousers that flared at the ankle. Her hair, thick and straight and shoulder-length, she left loose as usual, scooping it behind her ears with a careless hand.
It was only a little after nine as she descended the stairs to the wide hall below, but already a young maid was busily engaged in the lounge removing dirty ashtrays, and generally tidying up after the party. She answered Ruth's greetings with a polite smile, and then went on with what she was doing as Ruth walked to the long windows and looked out on to the frosty Wiltshire countryside.
Julie's father owned land, and although these days he had to do much of the estate work himself, it was a comfortable existence. This house, for instance, was almost three hundred years old, greatly modernised, of course, but maintaining the aura of the past. A county seat, Ruth supposed it would once have been called, but nowadays such titles meant little or nothing.
She turned to ask the maid about breakfast and found she had disappeared. Sighing, she hunched her shoulders and thrust her hands into the hipster waistband of her trousers. She knew Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook. She supposed she could go and ask her about something to eat.
The decision made, she walked quickly across the empty lounge again, emerging into the hall just as a man was about to enter. They almost collided, and his hands grasped her upper arms to steady her, cool and hard against her warm skin.
“I'm sorry –” she was beginning with an apologetic smile, when she realised who he was.
“I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going,” he assured her quietly, his voice deep and masculine, his breath warm on her face. His hands fell to his sides.
“You're Mr. Hardy, aren't you?” Ruth interjected, her eyes on his lean dark face. “I saw you last night with Julie's father.”
Patrick Hardy frowned. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss – Miss –?”
“Farrell. Ruth Farrell. I'm a friend of Julie's. She invited me for the weekend.”
“I see.” His smile was faintly mocking. “Well, how do you do, Miss Farrell? I'm sorry, but I don't know any of Julie's friends these days. When I went abroad she was still at school.”
“Yes. You work in Venezuela, don't you?” Ruth held his gaze. “Something to do with oil. It sounds very interesting.”
Patrick Hardy's eyes narrowed. “Not for the layman, I can assure you.”
“No, but what you do – I mean, I expect it's very technical,