Anne Mather - Leopard In The Snow

The man finished pouring the tea, added milk, and handed the cup to her. “If it’s important to you,” he conceded dryly.

Helen gasped. “You mean you would ask a complete stranger to share your house without caring what that person’s name was?”

“Perhaps I consider the kind of person one is rather more important than one’s name,” he suggested, continuing to look at her, his eyes unblinking. “For example, I don’t need to know your name to know that you’re a rather headstrong young woman who doesn’t always take the advice that’s offered to her.”

Helen flushed. “How can you know that?” she exclaimed scornfully.

He shrugged. “It’s unusual, is it not, to find a young woman like yourself driving alone in conditions like these and apparently, as you’ve admitted you have suitcases with you, prepared to stay somewhere.” He frowned. “You may have arranged to meet someone, of course, and yet you seem unconcerned at being delayed overnight.”

Helen sipped her tea. “Women have been known to make journeys alone, you know,” she retorted.

“In conditions like these? It’s not usual.”

“I – I may be a working girl – a representative of some sort.”

“Who’s lost her way?”

“Yes.”

“Possible. But not probable.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think you are a working girl.”

Helen uttered an impatient exclamation. “Why not?”

“The way you spoke to Bolt. As though you were used to having people run about after you.”

Helen sighed. She had the feeling that in any argument with him she would come out the loser. And he was offering her his hospitality, after all. Perhaps she could be a little more gracious in accepting it. It wasn’t like her to behave so cattily. But something about him brought out the worst in her.

“All right,” she conceded at last. “So I’m not a working girl. As a matter of fact, you’re right. My name is Helen James. I’m Philip James’ daughter.”

“Should that name mean something to me?” he enquired, somewhat sardonically. She noticed he did not take tea but helped himself to a sandwich after she had refused. “I’m afraid I’m rather – out of touch.”

He smiled and for a moment he looked years younger. Helen’s lips parted. His face! Something about his face was familiar. She had seen it before – she was sure of it. But where? And when? And in what connection?

Forcing herself to answer his question even while her brain turned over the enigma endlessly, she said: “My father is Sir Philip James. His company won an award for industry last year. Thorpe Engineering.”

The man shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Helen felt impatient. “And you? You haven’t told me your name?”

“Tell me first what you’re doing here – miles from the kind of civilization I’m sure you’re used to.”

Helen bit her lip. “As a matter of fact I – needed to get away on my own for a while. I needed time to think and my father will never dream of looking for me here.”

The man frowned. “You mean – you’ve run away?”

“Hardly that. I left my father a note. He doesn’t have to worry about me.”

“But he will.”

“Perhaps.” Helen moved uncomfortably. “In any event, none of this need concern you. I’m only grateful that you came along as you did. I could have been in real difficulties if you hadn’t.”

“You could. You could have died out there – in the snow.” His voice was low-pitched and for a moment Helen felt a tingle of remembered apprehension. “It was very foolish of you to let no one know where you were going. Don’t you realise that your car could have been buried for days before anyone found it – or you? Tell me, why was it so important that you should get away?”

Helen felt indignant. “I don’t think that’s any business of yours.”

“Nonetheless, I am curious. Satisfy the curiosity of one who no longer inhabits the world you come from.”

Helen stared at him. What a strange thing to say! Surely even the remoteness of this district in winter did not cut one off completely from the outside world. Unless one chose it to be so … She shook her head.

“My father wants to run my life for me,” she said slowly. “But I’m twenty-two – and possibly too independent, as you implied. We – disagreed over a small matter.”

“I don’t think it can have been such a small matter to bring you more than two hundred miles in the depths of winter, Miss James, but never mind. I respect your desire to keep your personal affairs private.”

Helen’s mouth turned down at the corners. It was hardly a concession. Leaning forward to replace her empty cup on the tray, she said: “And you? Don’t you find it lonely living here, miles from anywhere, with only Bolt for company?”

The man’s thick lashes veiled his eyes. “I’m a most uninteresting individual, Miss James. Can I offer you more tea?”

Helen declined, pressing her lips together impatiently. “Why are you avoiding answering me?” she demanded.

“Was I doing that?” His tone was mild, but his tawny eyes were watchful.

“You know you were.” Helen sighed, a frown drawing her dark brows together. “I know your face from somewhere. I’m almost sure I’ve seen you before – either in the flesh or on film!”

“You’re very flattering,” he mocked. “Isn’t that usually the male’s prerogative?”

Helen was annoyed to find that he could embarrass her. It was a new experience for her. “You know what I mean. I have seen your face before, haven’t I?”

The man seemed bored by her assumption. He rose abruptly to his feet, pausing a moment to rub his thigh as though it pained him. Then he walked with his uneven gait across to the long windows and drew heavy wine-coloured velvet curtains over the frosted panes. Helen saw, in those moments before the world outside was hidden from view, that it was already dark and the driving flakes of snow filled her with a disturbing sense of remoteness. She should have asked for help in starting her car again instead of accepting the man’s hospitality, whoever he was, she thought uneasily. With his directions, surely she could have driven to some small hotel or guest house. But she soon dismissed these thoughts from her mind. She was being ridiculously fanciful in imagining that there was anything sinister in the assistance being offered to her, and besides, she ought to be grateful – he had virtually saved her life!

He turned back to her. “Bolt shouldn’t be long with your cases, then he’ll show you where you’re to sleep, Miss James. I have an evening meal at about eight o’clock. I trust you’ll join me.”

Helen shifted in her seat, a feeling of irritation replacing apprehension. He was clearly determined not to answer her questions. Her sudden movements caused the cheetah to raise its head and stare at her. The eyes turned in her direction were curiously like its master’s, and tales of witches and warlocks and their familiars flashed through her brain. Who was this man who lived in such splendid isolation – who walked with a limp – who kept a wild beast for company? She had an absurd notion that she must have succumbed to the cold and collapsed out there in the snow and this was some fantastic nightmare preluding death …

She started violently at the horrific twist of her thoughts and the cheetah allowed a low growl to escape from its powerful throat. The man came towards them then, murmuring reassuringly to the animal, his eyes on Helen’s troubled countenance.

“Is something wrong, Miss James?” he enquired, his voice as soft as velvet with an underlying thread of steel.

Helen shook her head, looking almost desperately about the lamplit room. It was a most attractive room, she had to admit, and not at all the sort of surroundings to inspire unease. It had a masculine austerity, an absence of anything frivolous, but that was only to be expected. There were hunting trophies on the panelled walls, swords in their scabbards and antique guns, and several pieces of ornamental design which Helen recognised as being valuable. The room gave an impression of quiet quality and distinction, and although some of the appointments bore the marks of well-use, they did not detract from its air of comfortable elegance. Whoever he was, he was not a poor man, but why he should choose to live as he did was beyond her comprehension. Was he a painter, a sculptor, an artist of some sort? Who else desired such a solitary existence?