Husband-To-Be Page 2

  Rachel hurled herself at him in a tackle.

  In the ordinary way, of course, there was no way that Rachel could have brought down a man a good six inches taller and fifty pounds or so heavier than herself; but he was off balance, one leg raised, the better to stomp on William. They toppled to the ground with a momentum that made the floor shake.

  There was a moment’s dead silence.

  Out of the corner of her eye Rachel saw Joyce take back the box and scoop William into it.

  One worry taken care of. Well, at least she had his attention.

  ‘I understand you’re looking for a secretary,’ said Rachel.

  The man beneath her, who seemed to be a mass of solid muscle, shifted slightly, so that Rachel slid from his muscular back to the floor. It occurred to her, belatedly, that it might not have been the best moment to bring up possible employment.

  In a sudden, swift movement, he sat up and fixed her with an impossibly blue gaze. ‘A simple secretary by day… What’s your name?’

  ‘Rachel.’

  ‘A simple secretary by day, the scourge of criminals by night, Rachel, the Girl Spider, was to outward appearances like any other girl,’ he told her solemnly. ‘Little did her unsuspecting colleagues suspect that that demure exterior concealed a relentless crusader against all tramplers of the innocent and defenceless… I think I was thinking of someone with more conventional qualifications. Ever thought of working as a bodyguard?’

  He wasn’t her type, but Rachel couldn’t help but be warmed by the laughter in the blue eyes. He was laughing at her, but he could have taken it worse. And he hadn’t said no—at least, he hadn’t said anything that she had to take as no for an answer.

  ‘I’d rather be a secretary,’ she said eagerly. ‘And I’ve got lots of qualifications. I’m sorry I jumped on you, but I was afraid you’d kill William.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ The scornful voice was Olivia’s. ‘What the blazes were you doing carrying something like that around in a box? I could have been killed!’

  Rachel jumped to her feet, followed, with lazy grace, by her victim. ‘No, you couldn’t,’ she said crossly. Not even from The Glorious Suit would she take that kind of nonsense.

  ‘He’s a Mexican tarantula,’ she explained patiently. ‘So even if he did bite you it wouldn’t be dangerous, and he wasn’t going to bite you because he’d just been fed and was sleepy. You might have killed him, dropping him so carelessly. They’re very fragile, you know. Their bodies are just a brittle shell, so if you drop one it can crack and die.’

  Rachel scowled. ‘I think it’s a bit much to kill an innocent spider that wasn’t doing anyone any harm,’ she added irritably. ‘You wouldn’t kill a dog for being in the same room with you, even if it could bite. Why should William be any different?’

  Olivia came to take Mallett’s arm. He put it round her, and she nestled inside—rather implausibly, Rachel thought. ‘That’s nonsense,’ she said faintly. ‘I was terrified. Thank God you were here, Grant.’

  This touching scene was interrupted by Joyce, who said practically, ‘But Rachel’s perfectly right, you know. He’s not at all aggressive—a perfect lamb, really.’ By way of demonstration she took William carefully from the box and placed him coolly on the flat of her hand.

  Even now—jobless, and with a home still to find for William—Rachel could not help watching with a thrill of pride.

  She’d trained as a zoologist, then specialised for years in ecology. When she’d tried to leave the field the feed and supply shop hadn’t been her first, or her second, or even her fifth choice job. When Mr Morrison had had to go to Spain unexpectedly, however, she’d been staying with her aunt and had agreed to help out.

  In the owner’s absence Rachel had begun a sideline dealing in unwanted pets—creatures people had impulsively acquired and lost interest in, and which might otherwise have been abandoned. These had included several tarantulas, whose owners had got bored, and gradually Rachel had built up a small insect zoo.

  She’d discovered that nine out of ten people seemed to dislike spiders in degrees ranging from mild distaste to severe phobia—and this in a country where all spiders were harmless and only a few were even capable of piercing human skin.

  By her third week in the shop Rachel had been giving classes to people who wanted to overcome this, on the principle that anyone who could get used to a tarantula was unlikely to be worried by the odd spider in the bath. She’d even taken William to classes in local schools. The result was that the population of Blandings Magna was probably the freest of prejudice against spiders of any in the kingdom.

  Joyce had been so nervous of spiders that she’d sworn it was wrecking her marriage—she’d had Jack inspect every room before she went in, to make sure the coast was clear, had been paralysed with fear if a spider appeared in the bath, had hardly been able to go into the cobwebby attics and cellars where some of the best antiques turned up. And now look at her! No, come what might, Rachel knew she’d used her time well.

  Olivia did not reply. She was still cowering against Mallett’s muscular chest. Rachel was capable of being endlessly patient with people with genuine phobias, but she had spent too much time with them not to know the difference between the real thing and a fake. The woman’s original shock had been real, but now she seemed to be quite coolly turning it to her own purposes.

  ‘It’s all right, darling.’ Mallett stroked the blonde hair, his voice gentle; whatever her scepticism about Olivia, Rachel gave him full marks for his treatment of someone he thought genuinely terrified. ‘You probably weren’t in any danger, but I know they can be horrible to look at.’ He glanced at Joyce. ‘We take your point, but I think it might be better if you put him back in the box.’

  It seemed to Rachel that the conversation was drifting away from the subject of real importance. ‘I’d be a wonderful secretary,’ she told him. ‘You just said you couldn’t find one. Why couldn’t I be yours?’

  Olivia burst into scornful laughter.

  ‘I’m afraid I need someone familiar with scientific terminology,’ Mallett said tactfully. ‘It goes beyond the ordinary secretarial skills.’

  ‘But I am familiar with scientific technology. I—I studied biology at school,’ said Rachel. Perfectly true, as far as it went. If she went any further and told him about all her degrees and research papers she knew what would happen: she’d find herself standing thigh-deep in a swamp before you could say Jack Robinson.

  ‘He also needs someone with a rather different style of presentation,’ Olivia said sarcastically.

  This was a subject dear to Rachel’s heart. ‘Well, naturally I wouldn’t dress like this for the office,’ she said. ‘I’d wear a suit. One like yours would be just right.’

  Olivia’s eyes widened, and then she gave a rather malicious smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she drawled. ‘Karl is such a genius. I’ll give you the number of his showroom; maybe you can drop in next time you’re in Paris.’

  Rachel flushed as the implication of this sank in. ‘Well—maybe I’d have to settle for a cheap imitation,’ she said gallantly.

  ‘Could be,’ Olivia said coolly. She glanced at Joyce. ‘Well, thanks for showing us round.’ Her eyes fell pointedly to the box in which William was once again immured. ‘I don’t think we’ll be needing those chairs, but I’ll let you know. Come on, Grant.’

  Mallett gave Rachel a wink. ‘Chin up,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the right job will come along.’

  The door closed behind them with a tinkle.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry; I lost you a sale, didn’t I?’ said Rachel.

  Joyce shrugged. ‘Well, probably, but they’re lovely chairs—I’d hate to think of them wasted on her. The thing is, though, what on earth is Driscoll going to say?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  RACHEL knew what Driscoll was going to say. He was going to say she should apply for another research grant, and stand full-time in a swamp, or for a lectureship, and just stand i
n swamps doing fieldwork in the summer. He was going to say that if she didn’t want an academic career there was plenty of work in the private sector. He was going to bring up again his old idea of setting up an ecological consultancy together as part of an environmental assessment team.

  Rachel knew she should be grateful. After all, you heard such terrible stories about men who didn’t like women to be their intellectual equals. Driscoll, to do him credit, took her career as seriously as he took his own.

  He’d been thrilled by the prizes she’d won as an undergraduate, thrilled by the industry sponsorship she’d won for her doctoral research, thrilled by the awards her work had won. He’d collaborated with her lots of times when she’d been asked to help with environmental assessments relating to her area of expertise. He’d always insisted that she should be as dedicated and single-minded about her work as he was about his own, constantly developing a track record of publications, papers at conferences and consultancies.

  Probably that single-mindedness was what she admired most about him. Driscoll was so mature about everything. He didn’t seem to mind the horrible boredom you had to put up with if you wanted to climb the academic ladder, or wanted to carve out a niche for yourself as a consultant. He just accepted mind-numbing specialisation as the price you had to pay for being a professional, whereas somehow Rachel never had got used to it.

  She’d enjoyed her first research project, as an undergraduate, when she’d done a study of a bed of reeds and its inhabitants. Then it had won a prize, and then it had turned out that she was supposed to go on doing specialised population studies for the rest of her life, sometimes in a mangrove swamp, sometimes in the pampas, but always in a little area of research that she was supposed to make her own. All the other things she’d loved about zoology would be things of the past, unless she was lucky enough to teach a course on one some day. The main business of her life would be an expert on standing in swamps and counting what turned up there.

  Rachel stared unseeingly down at the carrier bag in which William’s box was now concealed. Driscoll just didn’t seem to realise that she wasn’t cut out for a scientific career the way he was. She would be perfectly happy to go with him to whichever university gave him a permanent job—just as soon as he got a permanent job. Then she would find something interesting to do, and leave Meals on Wheels for Mosquitoes behind her.

  Meanwhile she had to convince him that there was something else she was really cut out for, or he’d start nagging her to publish some more research, or, worse, actually do some more research. Confound Grant Mallett. He needed a secretary. She’d be perfect for the job. Why couldn’t he see that?

  Still mulling over this problem, she sneaked into her aunt’s house by the back door, tiptoed upstairs to her room and put William’s box in the closet. Naturally she couldn’t keep him without consulting her aunt, but the subject was a delicate one; she just had to find the right moment.

  That this was not the right moment was clear as soon as she’d traced her aunt to the kitchen. ‘Men!’ cried Aunt Harriet in disgust, chopping vegetables amid chaos. ‘Your uncle!’ she added darkly, ferociously dicing an onion. ‘Would you believe that he could decide to bring someone home for dinner on a Friday night, without warning, when he knows I do my weekly shopping on Saturday? What, I ask him, am I supposed to feed this guest? Dog food au gratin? “Oh, anything will do,” is the helpful reply. “He’s used to roughing it!” Roughing it!’ The blade smacked solidly down on the chopping-block.

  Rachel devoted herself to putting together a salad. Perhaps this was not quite the time to mention another unexpected guest.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘How should I know?’ Aunt Harriet asked belligerently. ‘I just cook here.’ She began morosely sautéing the onion in a skillet. ‘Some man who wants your uncle to do some renovations,’ she added dourly.

  An hour later a respectable supper was on its way to being ready. Aunt Harriet seemed to want to brood over the finishing touches in solitude; Rachel retired to the front room to leaf through the fashion pages.

  ‘This spring, keep it simple,’ was the reassuring advice.

  ‘No fuss, no frills; perfect cut says it all. The shift, in bright white or fire-engine red, with a pair of strappy sandals…’

  Rachel glanced gloomily down at her faded jeans, then back at the picture, where the model sat on a bar stool in a dazzling white shift—a snip at three hundred and fifty pounds. According to her magazine, you could wear it anywhere, but Rachel knew you couldn’t. That was what she liked about it. No one in her right mind would pay that kind of money for a dress, slip on a pair of strappy sandals and wade out into a stream to stain its hem with phytoplankton. It was a dress that demanded respect; wear it and no one would expect you to do anything more energetic than shop for another pair of strappy sandals.

  Rachel was distracted from these wistful thoughts by the sound of two sets of footsteps approaching down the front walk. ‘Such a shame,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I’m afraid she wasn’t feeling well.’

  Rachel sat up as if shot. If only she’d known! Another chance at the perfect job, and here she was, still in her Spiderman T-shirt…

  But the door to the sitting room had opened. ‘Rachel, Mr Mallett will be staying to dinner,’ Uncle Walter explained. ‘Mallett, my niece, Rachel.’

  Mallett stopped for an instant in the door, then came forward, his face alight with laughter. ‘We met earlier this afternoon,’ he said. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ Polite, conventional words—but the brilliant blue eyes really did seem to be sparkling with delight. It occurred to Rachel that if she’d gone by his reputation she’d have expected someone hardbitten, cynical, world-weary. People had actually tried to kill him—yet he seemed to regard life as something arranged for his own amusement.

  ‘Isn’t that nice?’ said Uncle Walter. ‘Well, you’ll just have to entertain each other—Rachel’s fiance can’t be here either. I’ll just see if I can appease your aunt, dear—see if Mr Mallett would like a drink.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Rachel politely.

  ‘Scotch and water. I didn’t know you were engaged,’ said Mallett, dropping into a chair and crossing impossibly long legs in front of him.

  ‘We’ve only just met,’ Rachel pointed out.

  ‘True enough. Who’s the lucky man?’

  ‘There’s a picture of him,’ said Rachel, handing him the drink.

  Mallett took it. He glanced at the picture, which showed Driscoll, with black-rimmed glasses and black hair neatly parted, in a graduation photo, and burst out laughing. ‘You’re not marrying him?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Of course I am.’ Rachel glared at him.

  ‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s mild-mannered Clark Kent. You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Driscoll is a first-rate researcher,’ said Rachel. ‘Not that it’s any business of yours. I applied for a job as your secretary; I did not ask for your advice on affairs of the heart.’

  Mallett raised a preposterous eyebrow; he still seemed to regard the whole thing as a joke. ‘You seem to have the most extraordinary ideas of how to run your life,’ he commented. ‘I’ve only known you a couple of hours and even I can see this Driscoll isn’t up to your weight. And, as if that isn’t enough, you have the peculiar idea that you want to be a secretary. Can’t you find an opening as a liontamer?’

  ‘If I weren’t too polite,’ countered Rachel, ‘I might ask why you were planning to spend the rest of your life with a clothes-horse.’

  He grinned. ‘But naturally you’re too polite. There’s a lot more to Olivia than meets the eye. Anyway, you’re just going by my reputation, which is highly exaggerated.’ The happy-go-lucky face was suddenly, unexpectedly serious. ‘But you’re right, of course—it is a departure. It’s time I settled down.’

  He took a sip of his drink, then gave her a rueful grin. ‘The thing is, I’ve never settled to anything—something always comes up. I w
as going to be a scientist, you know—went off to Brazil to do an MA on sugar cane and soil erosion, suddenly this land-rights dispute blew up. Well, naturally I couldn’t sit on the sidelines. Finally I got kicked out of the country.

  ‘So my supervisor came up with another topic, and I went off to Malaysia—same result. Finally he got fed up with pretending I was going to finish a thesis. One thing led to another—I’ve made a fair amount of money over the years, and got a few people out of hot water, but you can’t go on that way indefinitely. That’s why this science park will be so great. We can give facilities to a lot of innovative inventors, see if they can’t come up with solutions to some serious problems.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Rachel.

  Mallett shook his head. ‘The thing I can’t get over is the way some people stay out of trouble,’ he said. ‘Everybody’s heard of me, but what does it all add up to? The man I really admire is someone you’ve probably never heard of—R. K. V. Hawkins. Amazing guy. No heroics—just an incredible record of solid research that no ecologically respectable company can afford to ignore.’ He finished his whisky and set it down. ‘Funny we never ran into each other, really—we’ve been in a lot of the same places.’

  Rachel Katherine Victoria Hawkins opened her mouth and shut it again. She knew what would happen. She would tell Grant Mallett that he’d met the man of his dreams—and, next thing she knew, it would turn out he had a swamp he wanted her to go and stand in because the mosquitoes were looking run down.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t heard of him,’ she said truthfully.

  Before Mallett could say any more about his hero, Aunt Harriet and Uncle Walter came in to announce dinner. The small group quickly filed into the dining room, and the discussion rapidly moved to the subject of the innovations to be introduced at the hall.

  Rachel listened with gathering interest. The science park sounded a wonderful idea—she found herself positively drooling at some of the facilities Mallett wanted to provide. And the maddening thing was that she thought she probably would be perfect to coordinate and liaise at this end while Mallett travelled back and forth to London.