A woman’s voice could be heard clearly through the partly open door on his left, the words bitten off with furious precision. “Listen, you little leech. I’m telling you for the last time to lay off my private affairs. I’m sick of your snooping and prying, when you the think nobody’s watching.” Kincaid heard the sharp intake of the woman’s breath. “What I do in my off-hours is nobody else’s business, least of all yours. You’ve done well to get as far as you have, considering your background and your attributes.” The emphasis on the last word was scathing. “But, by god, I’ll see you stopped. You made a mistake when you thought you’d climb over me.”
“As if I’d want to!” Kincaid grinned in spite of himself at the intimation, as the second voice continued. “Get off it, Cassie. You’re a right cow. Just because you’ve wormed your way into the manager’s job doesn’t make you Lord High Executioner. Besides,” the speaker added, with what seemed to be a touch of malice, “you wouldn’t dare complain about me. I may not give a damn about your doings with the paying guests, but I don’t think they would quite fit with the corporate idea of country gentility, unless they’re thinking of recreating an Edwardian house party. I wonder how you’re going to manage this week. Musical beds?” The voice was male, Kincaid thought, but light and slightly nasal, with a trace of Yorkshire vowels.
Kincaid stepped softly backwards to the front door, opened it and slammed it forcefully, then strode briskly across the hall and tapped on the partially open door before peering around it.
The woman stood behind a graceful Queen Anne table which apparently served as a reception desk, her back to the window, hands arrested in the gesture of straightening a stack of papers. Her companion leaned against the frame of the opposite door, hands in his pockets, with a slightly amused expression on his face. “Hello. Can I help you?” the woman said, smiling at Kincaid with utter composure, showing no sign of the fury he had so recently overheard.
“Have I got the right place?” Kincaid asked tentatively.
“If you’re looking for Followdale House. I’m Cassie Whitlake, the sales manager. And you must be Mr. Kincaid.”
He smiled at her as he stepped forward into the room and set down his bag. “How did you guess?”
“Simple elimination, really. Sunday afternoon is our usual check-in time, and all the other guests have either already arrived or don’t fit the particulars your cousin gave us.”
“There’s nothing worse than being preceded by one’s reputation. I hope it wasn’t too damaging.” Kincaid felt surprisingly relieved. She hadn’t addressed him by his rank. Maybe his cousin Jack had managed to be discreet for once, and he could enjoy his holiday as an ordinary and anonymous member of the British public.
“On the contrary.” Her brows arched as she spoke, lending a flirtatious air to the polite reply, and leaving Kincaid wondering uneasily just what Jack might, after all, have said.
He studied Cassie Whitlake with interest. Hard-pressed, he’d judge her around thirty, but she had the sort of looks that make age difficult to assess. She was tall, as elegant as the curved lines of her desk, and striking in a monochromatic way. Her hair and eyes were the color of fallen oak leaves, her skin a pale cream, her simple wool dress a slightly more intense shade than her hair. It occurred to him that she must have chosen the mums in the hallway-they would complement her perfectly.
Throughout the exchange her companion had kept his casual stance, following the conversation with quick birdlike motions of his head. Now he removed his right hand from his pocket and came toward Kincaid.
‘I’m Sebastian Wade, assistant manager, or lackey to Lady Di here, depending on your point of view,” he said, offering his hand. He glanced quickly at Cassie, gauging the effect of his barb, then grinned at Kincaid as he shook his hand. There seemed to be genuine warmth in his greeting, and Kincaid found himself more drawn to Wade’s engaging maliciousness than to Cassie Whitlake’s polished cordiality. A slightly built man in his late twenties, Wade had butter-yellow hair, fashionably cut, and pockmarked skin over thin and rather delicate features. His eyes were unexpectedly dark.
Cassie moved quickly around her desk and disengaged Kincaid with a touch of cool fingers on his arm. “I’ll show you to your suite. Then when you’ve had a chance to settle in, I’ll give you a tour and answer any questions you might have.” Sebastian Wade lifted a hand to him in mock salute as Cassie led him from the room.
As Kincaid followed her into the hall he admired the way the soft fabric of her dress clung to the outline of her body. A hint of some sharp, musky perfume drifted back to him, not the sort of scent he would have expected from one so elegantly groomed. But he had been right about her height-her head was almost level with his own.
She turned back to him as she started up the stairs. “I think your suite is the best in the house. Such a shame for your cousin and his wife to have to cancel their holiday at the last minute. Fortunate for you, though,” she added, and again he heard the hint of archness.
“Yes,” Kincaid answered, and wondered for a moment how his kindly, guileless cousin had fared under Cassie Whitlake’s sophisticated onslaught.
At the top of the stairs he followed Cassie down a hall that ran toward the rear of the house, ending at a door adorned with a discreet, brass number four. Cassie unlocked the door with her own key and preceded him into the tiny entry. Kincaid couldn’t maneuver his bag through the small space without brushing up against her, and the smile she gave him was suggestive.
The entry opened into a sitting room in which Cassie’s hand was again evident in the decorating, at least in the choice of colors. The plush sofas and armchairs were a dull gold with rolled arms, buttons and fringes, the curtains were olive green, and the figured carpet combined the two in a fussy, geometric marriage. The whole room, which could have been lifted en masse from any middle-class department store showroom, gave an impression of solid, anonymous respectability.
The room’s saving grace was the French door at its far end. Cassie followed Kincaid as he crossed the room, set down his bag, and pulled open the door. They stepped out onto the narrow balcony together. Below them stretched the grounds and gardens of Followdale, leading his eyes up to the bulk of Sutton Bank rising in the distance.
“There’s the tennis court.” Cassie pointed down to his left. “And the greenhouse. We have croquet and badminton and lawn bowling, as well as riding and walking trails. Oh, and indoor swimming, of course. The pool is one of our star attractions. I think we’ll keep you occupied.”
“I’m overwhelmed.” Kincaid grinned. “I may have a nervous collapse trying to decide what to do.”
“In the meantime, I’ll let you get settled in. If you want to lay in some supplies, it’s only a few steps down the road to the village shop. There’s a cocktail party at six in the sitting room, so the guests have a chance to get acquainted.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t any experience with timesharing. Don’t the other guests already know each other, all of them owning the same week?”
“Not really. New people buy in all the time. Owners trade weeks, or use their time somewhere else, so you never really know who’s going to turn up. We have several first-timers this week, as a matter of fact.”
“Good. I won’t be the only novice, then. How many guests are there?”
Cassie leaned back against the balcony rail and folded her arms, patient with his tourist’s curiosity. “Well, there are eight suites in the main house, and three cottage-type accommodations in another building. You may have noticed it to your left as you drove up to the house. I’m using one of the cottages myself right now, the one at the far end.” Her spiel of facts and figures came effortlessly, her delivery as smooth as her voice.