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Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Money couldn't buy happiness—or love

An ordinary hardworking girl, Rose enjoyed her job as a florist and found little to respect in the glamorously rich socialites who peopled the south of France. She couldn't understand the idle pleasure-seeking life-style of the wealthy— and more specifically, that of Lance Hammond, who seemed its prime example. Rose could honestly say that he was not her type—or at least she could until the day she met him…

CHAPTER ONE

ROSE TIVERTON placed the speckled pink orchids in a box, carefully fixed on the cellophane lid and tied a satin bow around it. Although she had been working as a florist for two years, she still indulged in daydreams about the recipients of the various bouquets she made up, and she could tell a great deal from the people who ordered them. The young man with a stammer who had bought a bunch of violets this morning had obviously intended to give them to his girl; the motherly looking woman who had hovered between daffodils and tulips had no doubt been buying them for her invalid husband, while the suave looking man in front of her now was no doubt a business executive intent on wooing his secretary!

"Thank you," the man said as he tucked the box under his arm. "I never

expected to find a florist open so late. It's a good thing too. If I'd forgotten my wife's birthday she'd never have forgiven me."

"I'm sure she'll adore them," Rose replied and watched the customer leave the shop.

"A secretary indeed!" she thought wryly as she bolted the door and pulled

down the blind. "The trouble with you, my girl, is that you let your imagination run away with you."

She began to clear the window of flowers, examining the bunches carefully before putting them into deep pails of water at the back of the shop. Then she sat down behind the counter and pulled a notebook towards her. Deciding what

flowers to purchase each day was no easy task, for not only did she have to consider the special orders that had to be made, but also whether any of the left over stock would still be saleable in the morning.

Occasionally she went to Covent Garden herself to do the buying, and though it meant rising at dawn in order to be in time for the first pick, it was an effort she enjoyed, for she loved to wander among the masses of flowers and plants, their scent triumphantly winning over the less pleasant odors that wafted in from neighboring premises.

However, Mr. Marks the proprietor usually went, for he preferred to leave Rose to run the shop. "Another year or two," he had said, "and I'll let you buy the place from me."

Rose glanced around her. Another year or two. Why, if she had the money she would open her own florist's immediately! There was so much she could do to this place if it were hers: specialize in small, inexpensive bouquets;

concentrate on certain types of plants and encourage people not to be

embarrassed at just buying one or two blooms if they could not afford to buy more.

She sighed, and walking over to the wash basin, began to powder her nose in front of the mirror. "I'm likely to be an old lady before I ever have a shop of my own," she thought. "And then I'll be looking for a young person to whom I can sell it!" The idea brought a smile to her lips and she smudged the lipstick she was trying to apply. With an exclamation of annoyance she rubbed it off and began again, peering closely into the mirror. Large grey eyes looked back at her from a small oval face which even after a long day still had the shiny quality of youth about it. It was a youthfulness at variance with the way she wore her hair, for it was long enough to reach her waist and was looped in a thick chestnut plait around her head. Many times Rose had toyed with the idea of cutting her hair short, but always at the last moment she hesitated,

reluctant to abandon the especial pleasure she received each night when the pins were taken out and her hair rippled over her shoulders like a curtain of mahogany.

She replaced the powder compact in her handbag, put on her coat and, taking a final look around, switched off the lights. In the far corner a cluster of rose petals gleamed pink and she picked them up and held them in her hand as she locked the door and walked down the road.

shivered and thrust her hands deep into her pockets, wincing slightly as her skin, chapped and sore, rubbed against the material. "One of the hazards of being a florist," she thought, for not even the most expensive cream could keep smooth hands that were continually dipping into ice-cold water and fondling rough stems. Not that she would change her job for any other; since she was a child she had been determined to work among flowers.

She turned into Duke Street and, shielded from the wind, slowed her pace, suddenly enjoying the crisp air. It had a tang of the sea about it and she was caught on a wave of homesickness for her father and the Devon village where she had been born.

She reached Oxford Street and stood on the pavement waiting for a gap in the stream of traffic. The line of buses and cars stopped to allow a taxi to turn

round, and Rose had one foot off the curb when she saw a black poodle picking its way in a leisure!y fashion across the road. She became aware of a woman or. the opposite pavement calling the dog, but the animal took no notice and had almost reached the curb when the taxi completed its turn and the traffic surged forward again. A blue car bore down on the poodle and, hardly aware of what she was doing, Rose jumped into the road and gripped the dog by the neck. There was a grinding of brakes and a tremendous jolt in the small of her back, followed by a searing pain which made the whole scene lose its focus. Slowly, as if there was a long way between herself and the pavement, she felt herself falling and then knew no more.

When Rose returned to consciousness white walls met her gaze and a light shone so brightly on her eyes that she closed them again.

"She's coming round," a voice murmured and Rose opened her eyes once more and saw the white of a nurse's uniform.

"Where am I?" she asked weakly.

"In hospital. But you're going to be all right. Just lie quiet now." "My head," Rose groaned. "I've a terrible pain in my head."

"I'm not surprised," the nurse said. "You went smack on the pavement before anyone had a chance to catch you. I'll give you something to make you sleep again and you'll feel much better when you wake up."

with it, memory returned to Rose so forcibly that she struggled to sit up. "The dog," she cried. "What happened to the dog?"

"Nothing happened to it, thanks to you," the nurse said. "And if you ask me, people have no right to let their animals run about loose like that. You could easily have been killed, you know, dashing into the traffic the way you did." Rose relaxed on the pillows and was no longer listening as she felt the prick of the hypodermic in her arm. The dog was safe and she was able to put it out of her mind.

When she awoke again it was morning and a doctor was standing by the nurse's side looking down at her.

'You're feeling better today, Miss Tiverton," he said, more as a statement than a question.

"Yes, thank you." Rose tried to sit up, but the walls seemed to close in on her and she fell back on the pillows again. "At least, I do as long as I keep still." "You'll feel dizzy for a while yet," the doctor said. "You were badly concussed, you know. We were expecting you to take even longer than you did to become rational again."

Rose stared at him in surprise. "How long have I been here then?" "Three days."

"Three days! I can't believe it. And how long will I have to remain here?" "Another week, I'd say, and then a fortnight convalescence somewhere…" "But that's impossible! I must get back to my job."

She tried to sit up but the movement caused such a sharp pain that she could not talk.

The nurse leaned forward and caught her wrist. "You must lie quiet, dear. You won't do yourself any good by getting excited. You had your insurance card in your handbag and Matron has already spoken to your employer."

"Everything's under control," the doctor interposed. 'You've nothing to worry about. Just take things easy and you'll be fine."

For the next few days Rose had no option but to do as she was told for she was not allowed any visitors. It was an edict that did not worry her for all she

longed to do was sleep. Even her natural curiosity seemed to have

disappeared, and it was not until the end of the week, when she was able to move her head without a continual stabbing pain, that she gave any thought to the fact that she was in an obviously expensive private room.

"I must have been seriously ill," she said to the nurse in charge of her. "Otherwise I'd have been in a public ward."

"Not with Mrs. Rogers paying the bill!" the nurse grinned.

Rose was puzzled. "I don't know a Mrs. Rogers. What's she got to do with it?" "She's the owner of the dog you saved. And what a state she was in! Couldn't do enough for you. She arranged for this room and said you were to have whatever you wanted. She's been in every day asking to see you and even brought the dog in the first time. You should have seen Sister's face!"

Rose smiled and closed her eyes.

"Now don't go to sleep again," the nurse said firmly. "Not when the doctor's allowing you your first visitor."

Instantly Rose was wide awake again.

"Why didn't you say so before? Who is it — Mr. Marks?"

"No. The dog's mother — Mrs. Rogers," the nurse said dryly and rustled out of the room.

The afternoon sun was pouring through the window, lighting up the red tints in Rose's hair and accentuating the paleness of her face when the nurse showed in a grey- haired woman wrapped from head to toe in mink. Her wrinkled hands as she pulled off her gloves glittered with diamonds, and when she

leaned over the bed a treble rope of exquisite pearls could be seen around the crepy neck.

"You must be Mrs. Rogers," Rose smiled and held out her hand.

"My dear, thank heavens you're better." The woman caught Rose's hand in hers and pressed it gently. "I can't ever thank you enough for saving my Benjy. No words on earth can do that. But when I think of what could have happened to you…" She shivered. "The very thought of it makes me ill."

"Well, nothing happened to me," Rose interrupted. "And in a few days I'll be perfectly well again."

Mrs. Rogers looked at her intently. "You're so pale and thin, my dear."

"I'm naturally thin, "and most people are pale when they've been in bed for a week."

"Maybe so," said the woman. "But what you really need is a nice holiday in the sun. And that's what you're going to get."

Rose looked mystified. "I don't understand."

"It's quite simple. I'll arrange for you to go on a Mediterranean cruise. I've already spoken to your employer and he says your job will be open for you whenever you're well enough." She patted Rose's arm with her beringed hand. "Now, I don't want any disagreement about it, my dear. It's the least I can do for you after what you did for me''

Rose's eyes filled with tears at the woman's kindness. "It's terribly good of you, but I can't possibly accept."

"Of course you can!"

"But I can't. I really mean it. I couldn't possibly take a reward for what I did." "It isn't a reward, my dear," Mrs. Rogers added quickly.

"That's what it seems like to me," Rose answered. "Anyway, my father lives in Devon — right by the sea — and I can go and stay with him."

Mrs. Rogers gathered her things together and stood up. "I won't argue with you any more. You're young and like all the young are obstinate. But old people can be obstinate too — as you'll find out for yourself when you get to

my age. I'll be back tomorrow and we'll talk about my plan then."

For the rest of the day and the following morning Rose pondered Mrs. Rogers' offer, but no matter from which angle she considered it she still found it an impossible one to accept. A Mediterranean cruise sounded ideal but to take it would put her under an obligation to someone who was practically a stranger. "If the poodle had belonged to a charlady I'd have been lucky to get a couple of oranges," she thought. "I certainly can't accept a cruise."

However when Mrs. Rogers arrived the following afternoon she made no attempt to persuade Rose to fall in with her plan.

"If your pride is involved there's no point in arguing with you," she said. "So I've got another suggestion which I think you'll find much more acceptable." The woman drew her chair closer to the bed and Rose listened with growing wonder to an offer she had never believed possible.

It appeared that Mrs. Rogers spent at least four months every year in the South of France and stayed at the Hotel Plage in Cannes. It was one of the most luxurious hotels on the Cote d'Azur and apart from having its own

perfumery, hairdresser's and gift shop it also had its own florist's. It was here that Mrs. Rogers proposed Rose should work!

"I know the manager very well indeed and I have already spoken to him on the telephone. He will be delighted for you to start work any time you wish. The job is by no means arduous," the old woman informed her, "and you would get the benefit of sunshine and sea air without putting yourself under an obligation to me."

"But why is the job vacant?" Rose asked.

"The woman who's been running it unexpectedly left to get married a week ago, and Monsieur Ferrier has not yet succeeded in replacing her. I've already spoken to your present employer and he thinks it would be too good an

opportunity for you to miss."

Rose's breath came out in a long sigh. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Of course," Mrs. Rogers replied triumphantly. "My late husband always used to call me the most managing of women!"

"I can see why," Rose smiled. "Tell me, how long would I have to stay in Cannes? I mean, would I be able to leave if I didn't like the job?"

"You arc perfectly free, my dear. All I have done is to procure you the offer. Once you're there you're completely on your own and if Monsieur Ferrier wants to give you the sack I won't be able to stop him."

Mrs. Rogers stood up. "Now then, it's all settled. You'll be able to convalesce at your father's home and as soon as you are fit enough to travel I'll make all the arrangements."

After her visitor had gone Rose gave herself up to thoughts of sunshine, long stretches of golden sand and the excitement of a new job in a glamorous setting. Whoever would have believed that saving the life of a poodle could lead to such a marvellous future?

CHAPTER TWO

IT was not until a fortnight after her accident that Rose boarded the Cornish Express at Paddington and within a few hours had exchanged the smoke-filled air of London for the bracing air of Devon.

As always, when she first saw the grey stone house where she had been born she felt a thrill of homecoming. People used to neat little whitewashed cottages with roses round the door might not like this one, yet it had something of more lasting value than the stereotyped prettiness of most country cottages. Mystery and romance seemed to imbue its very stones — stones which had stood for almost four hundred years and looked sturdy enough to stand for another four hundred. Even the garden, neglected and overgrown though it was, had a wild beauty that always tugged at Rose's heart, although she could not stop herself from heaving a sigh as she looked at the weed covered lawns and tangled

borders.

But it was the tall man with the lined face and thick iron grey hair who came to the door to welcome her who held Rose's attention.

"It's so wonderful to see you, Dad," she cried and flung herself into his arms. "You should have told me you'd had an accident," he said as he patted her shoulder. "It wasn't right of you to wait until you were out of the hospital."

"There was no point in worrying you."

"Even so —" He held her away from him and looked at her intently, his grey eyes extraordinarily like her own. "You look as if you could do with a few weeks down here. I hope this isn't going to be one of your usual rushed visits?"

"Certainly not. But let me come in and get settled, and I'll tell you all about it." "Of course. How stupid of me."

Keeping his arm over her shoulders he led her into the living room, and as soon as they had settled down on either side of the fireplace Rose told him of the job she had been offered in the South of France.

"It's a wonderful opportunity for you," her father said seriously. "I've always felt it a shame that you were cooped up in a little florist's in the back of

beyond."

"You can hardly call a mews turning off Grosvenor Square the back of beyond! And anyway, I'll still be working as a florist even if it is in France."

"Maybe so, but at least you'll have the opportunity of meeting some young men. Your mother was married and had had you by the time she was your age."

"I've never been in love," Rose said. "And I'm romantic enough to consider that love is the most important thing in marriage. After all, I saw the wonderful life you and Mother had and I wouldn't accept anything less."

"I don't want you to accept anything less," her father said gruffly. "But there aren't many marriages like your mother's and mine. She was a woman in a million."

The atmosphere became charged with sadness and Rose stifled a sigh. What a tragedy it was that her mother had died so unexpectedly. Her parents had been an ideal couple, for Marion Tiverton had combined a strong sense of fun with an equally strong maternal instinct, while Desmond Tiverton, a brilliant historian, had just enough of the little boy in his make-up to give scope to his wife's all-embracing protectiveness. And it had certainly been all-embracing, Rose mused, remembering the innumerable stray animals that had found refuge in their home. It was from her mother she had inherited her love of animals and flowers and from her father her strong sense of independence. It

was strange to think that it had been her mother's trait that had resulted in her being here now and recuperating from an accident and the independence which she had inherited from her father that had resulted in her taking a job in

Cannes rather than accepting a cruise. She yawned and stood up.

"I'm not as strong as I thought I was," she apologized. "The journey's knocked me for six and I think I'll go to bed."

"A good idea, poppet. I'll bring you up some supper later on."

Rose climbed 'the narrow stairs to her room and, too weary to do more than cursorily wash her face and hands, climbed into bed. She was almost asleep when her father came in with a tray and she ate the cold meat and salad and drank the large cup of steaming hot chocolate. As soon as she had finished she flopped back on the pillows and the next instant was sound asleep.

She did not awaken till morning and the air coming in through the window was so warm that she pushed the bedclothes off and padded over the floor to look at the view. It was as beautiful as ever, the rolling green fields, the steep drop of the cliffs and the restless, tumbling sea.

From downstairs came the sound of crockery and she knew her father was making breakfast. Although he was cared for by a daily woman, Desmond Tiverton was extremely domesticated and had little need of anyone to take care of him. He was too self-sufficient in fact, and had he not been so might have married again instead of living alone. At forty-eight her father was still young enough to look forward to more happiness, Rose thought, yet after his wife's death he had given up his job of history master at a public school in order to retire to his beloved Devon and devote himself to writing historical books. True, they had brought him a great deal of prestige, but they had brought him very little else.

"Not that I've any need for money," he had told her on one occasion. "I've an insurance policy that will go to you and I've enough for my own needs."

Hearing the object of her thoughts clattering heavily up the stars, Rose hurriedly slid back into bed and made herself ready to receive the breakfast tray.

that followed. As though reproaching her for going elsewhere to seek warmth and sunshine, the sky was cloudless and the spring sun instead of being watery pale had an unusual summer intensity that tanned her fair skin.

"If you don't come back from Cannes with a millionaire in tow," her father said as he drove her to the station to catch the train, "I'll feel that fate is looking on you most unkindly."

"She'd probably be looking on me unkindly if she gave me a millionaire," Rose laughed. "From the few rich young men I've seen coming into our florist's I'd just as soon be a working man's darling!"

It was on a note of laughter that she waved her father goodbye and after she had watched his tall figure recede on the platform she settled back in her seat and gave herself up to thoughts of the future.

As soon as Rose reached her small flat in London she telephoned Mrs. Rogers, who immediately invited her over to dinner.

"In fact," the woman said, "if you get all your things packed my chauffeur will call for you and then you can spend the night here and go straight to the

airport in the morning."

Realizing it would be churlish to refuse Rose accepted the invitation, and as the street lamps came winking on in the dusk of evening, she drove across London in a purring Rolls Royce to the Mayfair flat where Mrs. Rogers lived.

The first welcome she received as she entered the hall was of a small black body launching itself into her arms and a hot tongue licking eagerly at her chin. "There you are," Mrs. Rogers cried as she came out of the drawing room.

"Benjy knows it was you who saved his life. Look how pleased he is to see you!" Rose hugged the poodle and then turned to her hostess. "It was kind of you to ask me to come."

"Nonsense! I'm enjoying your excitement. It's almost as if I were going instead of you."

"But surely there's nothing to stop you going away?" Rose asked in surprise, and could not help glancing at the elegantly furnished drawing room in which she found herself.

"That's the trouble," Mrs. Rogers answered. "It's knowing that you can do everything you want that takes away all the excitement. If I'd had to work for what I wanted I might get a thrill out of it," Mrs. Rogers sighed. "It seems wrong not to be grateful for what I have, doesn't it?"

Beginning to understand something of the boredom that could come from having too much time on one's hands as well as too much money, Rose did what she could during the evening to entertain her hostess with an account of her own working life, and told in great detail of her occasional visits to Covent Garden and the way Mr. Marks used to hunt for flower bargains.

"Your job sounds as if it's been a lot of fun," Mrs. Rogers said as she led Rose to her bedroom. "But you'll soon meet a nice young man and give up all

thoughts of a career."

"That's what my father said," Rose answered. "But I wouldn't want to give up my career for any man. I love working with flowers and I'd hate to be cooped up in a kitchen."

"Maybe you'll be another Constance Spry," Mrs. Rogers laughed.

"I'm not talented enough for that," Rose said seriously, and as she undressed and climbed into bed she couldn't help wishing she were more clever. There was something monotonous in being an average sort of person, particularly if one was sufficiently unaverage to resent being so!

'If I were really brilliant no one would think it strange that I preferred a career rather than a marriage. Yet even

Dad, who's emancipated enough goodness knows, still clucks over me like a mother hen when he envisages me remaining a spinster for ever.'

She closed her eyes and rubbed her toes over the hot water bottle. Excitement would not let her relax and she began to analyse herself, probing deep in a way she had rarely done before. What exactly was she looking for in a

marriage? Real love, deep love, love in the tradition of the great romantics? There was that dread word romantic again. What was it she had been called at school — Romantic Rosie! Even now she blushed at the thought, for in this era of rock 'n' roll, of beatniks and weirdies, romance as she envisaged it was

outdated. "But I'd never marry a man unless I came first in his life,' she vowed. 'And if I find them in the future to be as cynical and philandering as

I've found them in the past, then I'll remain a Miss for ever!' It was on this threat that she finally fell asleep.

Rose left London Airport the next morning. It was her first flight and she could not help a tremor of nervousness as she climbed the aluminum steps and

boarded the Nice- bound Viscount aircraft. There was such an unhurried calm about the stewardess who welcomed her aboard that her fears diminished and she watched fascinated as the signal for takeoff was given. Safety belts were fastened and they taxied across the tarmac to the runway. The noise of the engines was deafening and as they raced over the ground it seemed as if her eardrums would burst. There was a gentle swaying movement and suddenly they were airborne, rising so swiftly that almost before she realized it the trees and the houses looked like toys and the cars became black dots crawling

across ribbon roads.

Even though she had not been conscious of being afraid, Rose found that her hands were damp and she rubbed them surreptitiously on her skirt before undoing her safety belt. She glanced round at the other passengers. Some were talking, some were writing and others were already asleep, completely oblivious of the wonderful panorama through which they were flying. Never before had Rose realized that clouds could take on so many different shapes and colors, for it seemed as though she were passing through a veritable fairyland. Here was a castle of palest pink, there a clump of dark grey trees, here again a grotesque figure tinged with yellow, ahead an illumined mountain of shimmering white.

But after half an hour Rose too grew tired of watching the nending, ever-changing cloud shapes and she was glad when the stewardess brought round hot drinks and sandwiches and handed her some magazines. Quicker than she had thought it possible they were droning over France, going ever farther

south until far below she caught her first glimpse of the Mediterranean, a wondrous vista of lapis-lazuli. Once again she fastened her seat belt and once more was caught up on a wave of fear as the plane jokingly descended. There was the whine of wheel flaps going down, the change in the tempo of the

engines, a high pitched scream of brakes and then they were rolling across the tarmac at Nice Airport.

The moment she stepped out of the plane Rose felt the sun beating on her with brazen fingers and she immediately took off her coat and unbuttoned as much of her sweater as decency allowed. Then she followed the rest of the

unintelligible blare.

Any knowledge she had possessed of French completely disappeared and when the Customs official spoke to her she stared at him blankly. He smiled and addressed her in English, and the moment he did so her fear evaporated. Indeed, as she took stock of her surroundings she realized there were more English people around her than French, and it was not until she was in an old-fashioned taxi bowling along the road towards Cannes that she got the feeling she was actually outside her native shores. It was not so much the landscape, which bore a striking similarity to Devon and Cornwall, but a certain

atmosphere in the quality of the air and above all in the scents that wafted to her nostrils: perfume of strange looking flowers mixed with suntan oil, garlic and coffee.

Any feeling that she might still be in England was finally abandoned when they were clear of Nice itself and tearing at a furious pace along the winding cliff road.

"No driver could get away with this in England," she thought indignantly, and clutching the edge of the seat vowed she would never go in a French taxi again. "Lentement!" she said loudly to the driver. "Lentement,'s'il vous plait!"

"Oui, oui," said the man and turned to grin at her, showing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. Then to show that he understood her clearly, he pressed his foot even harder on the accelerator.

Only when they reached Cannes and the Promenade des Anglais did they slow down, this due in the main to the preponderance of other cars. Rose glanced eagerly around her. Although it was still early in the season the narrow strip of sand was crowded with gaily colored umbrellas and deck- chairs, while scores of people strolled leisurely by or sipped a drink at one of the many cafes lining the right-hand side of the road. On the right-hand side too lay the hotels, each one more resplendent than the last. There was the gleaming bulk of the

Martinez, the turrets of the Carlton and then, set back in a carpet of mossy green grass, the most glittering hotel of them all — the Plage.

They drove gently into the drive and Rose could not help a pang of fear at the sight of the vast terrace running the entire front length of the building and dotted with tables at which sat groups of holiday-makers sipping drinks served to them by scarlet jacketed waiters.

The car drew to a stop and two page-boys stepped smartly forward. One

deposited her cases on a trolley while the other took hold of the travelling case she was carrying.

"I'm not a guest here," she told him in French. "I've come to work in the florist's shop. Perhaps you could take me to Monsieur Ferrier?"

"O.K.," he said in broken English with a strong American accent. "I show you to Monsieur Ferrier tout de suite."

Nervously she followed him through the swing doors to the lobby. The hotel was even more vast than it appeared from outside, the ceiling high and

vaulted, the walls of gleaming marble with here and there elegant pedestals on which reposed displays of flowers.

'If I'm supposed to do the flower arrangements here as well,' Rose thought, 'I won't get much chance to serve in the shop!'

She had no more than time to glance curiously around her before the page-boy led her past the reception desk, past the three gilt cages that served as lifts and down a narrow red-carpeted corridor to a room at the far end. He knocked at the door and with a flourish opened it.

A middle-aged man seated at a desk stood up and came round it instantly, both arms held out in greeting.

"Miss Tiverton? I'm very happy to see you. You had a good journey, I trust?" Without waiting for her reply he turned to the pageboy. "See that Miss

Tiverton's luggage is sent to her room. I'll take her up there myself in a moment." He waited until the door had closed and he and Rose were alone. Then he beckoned her to sit down and resumed his own seat.

He was not the sort of manager Rose had expected to find at the Hotel Plage, for he looked more like an Agatha Christie detective, being short and portly with florid cheeks and a pointed, waxed moustache.

"Mrs. Rogers has spoken to me at great length about you," he said. "I'm sure you will fit very well into our regime here."

"I hope so," Rose said. "But I really haven't much idea of what I'm supposed to do. Mrs. Rogers was very vague."

The tips of Monsieur Ferrier's moustache lifted in what Rose was to realize was his only intimation of a smile.

"Mrs. Rogers is only vague when it suits her. If she wants to she can be most terribly precise. And she was very precise about you!"

"I had a proper training," Rose said quickly, "and then I worked at —"

"I know all your background," Monsieur Ferrier said hastily. "Besides, Mrs. Rogers' recommendation is enough. Indeed, we only take people to whom we are recommended. In a hotel like this it can be dangerous to employ the wrong sort"

Seeing Rose's mystified expression he elaborated. "The people who stay here are among the richest and most exclusive in the world, and people of that type are not always careful of their possessions or how they spend their money. Many girls would like to work here for they see it as the Open Sesame to a glittering future. For my part, I only see a job here as a job. We are not a marriage bureau but a hotel!"

Rose burst out laughing. "I know exactly what you mean. But you needn't worry about me."

"Please, Mademoiselle. I was not suggesting anything of the sort. I was merely explaining that if it had not been for Mrs. Rogers we would not have taken you. But since you are her protegee it is more than good enough for me."

"Do you know her very well?"

"But of course. Her husband was a founder member of this hotel and she is still a large shareholder."

Rose digested this news in silence. It explained how the job had become available so fortuitously!

Monsieur Ferrier stood up. "First I will show you the florist's and then I will show you your room. You can have a couple of days rest and if you would be ready to start work by Friday — the weekend is always our busiest time — it will be in accordance with me."

good enough to get me the job, but I wouldn't want you to keep me here for any reason other than that I was good enough."

A gleam of admiration lightened his eyes, but without any comment he led her back to the foyer.

On the other side of the lifts was a wide arcade that Rose had not noticed before. Here were the shops of the Hotel de la Plage; the hairdresser's, the chemist's, the gift shop, the perfumery and in the middle a double window with a magnificent display of blooms.

"This is the florist's," said Monsieur Ferrier unneccessarily, and pushed open the door.

A thin girl of about her own age came forward as they entered and Rose was introduced to her assistant, Mademoiselle Jacqueline Roussel. "But please call me Jacky," the girl said.

Rose liked her immediately, but they had no time to exchange more than a few words, for the manager was already leading her down the arcade again to the lifts. They went up to the top floor and along the innumerable corridors until they reached a corner room at the back.

"It has no view of the sea."

"but it has an excellent view of the mountains."

"It's beautiful," she said sincerely. "I never expected anything as magnificent as this."

"Most of our staff rooms are much smaller," came the dry reply. "But Mrs. Rogers especially asked me to give you this one."

Rose knew better than to comment on this and she thanked him and watched him go.

Alone in the bedroom she relaxed for the first time that day. What a strain it was to come to a new job in a strange land! And even more of a strain to know that it was influence that had got her the job in the first place. 'Not that it's going to be an easy one,' Rose thought as she remembered die lavish window display and the vast bouquets that she had seen dotted around the hotel itself. 'It looks as if I'll have to work harder here than I did with dear old Mr. Marks!'

She walked over to the window and pushed back the shutters, staring in delight at the vista ahead. The sun was already beginning to set and long shadows cast their purple fingers over the mountains. Never had she seen so many different shades of green, from muted leaf to dark cypress. Although the sunlight was mellow the rays were still hot, and she drew the shutters again and stepped back into the bedroom.

The furniture was sycamore, the pale wood lending an illusion of space and light, while the bathroom was larger than any Rose had ever seen. Quickly she unpacked, changed into another dress and went downstairs. She had forgotten to ask Monsieur Ferrier where the staff dining room was, but one of the clerks at the reception desk was going off duty and he led her down to the basement floor and a large, plainly furnished room with scrubbed wooden tables and hard chairs.

"Not good to look at," he said with a smile, "but the food is excellent and you will get here the left-overs of what the dining room had yesterday. If you like to join me I would be delighted."

She accepted his offer and found him a pleasant if slightly boring companion. He had been working at the hotel for four years and was leaving at the end of the season to accept a job as chief receptionist at a hotel in Switzerland. But he served to introduce her to some of the other staff as they came in, although Rose still remained the only woman among them.

"The linen keepers and the various housekeepers from each floor go off duty at eight in the evening and will have their supper at home, but you will meet

them all here at lunch time tomorrow. The other people who work in the shops go to their own homes too and the only staff to use the dining room at night are us receptionists and the head waiters. If you wish you could probably arrange to have your meals served in your room. It would just mean giving a few francs to one of the boys."

Rose decided she would do this in future, for though not shy she did not relish the prospect of dining each evening among a crowd of strange young men. The food itself was faultless but she declined coffee and going back to her room for a coat, decided to walk along the promenade. Although it was warm the air had a tingle that one only found by the seaside, and it fanned her

cheeks and ruffled the tendrils of hair on the nape of her neck. A few times she was conscious of the eyes of some of the male passers-by. One or two smiled

at her but with true English reserve she stared straight ahead, annoyed with herself for blushing.

At night the promenade was almost as crowded as it had been earlier in the day. The terraces of the hotels were just beginning to fill with diners and Rose glanced at her watch. It was after nine, yet obviously on the Riviera people dined late. And no wonder! The majority of them were gambling till dawn, unlike Rose, whose day would begin when theirs was just ending.

She was tired by the time she had walked the length of the promenade but she resisted the urge to take a taxi back to the hotel. Luxury spending, it seemed, could be quite catching and she slowly strolled back the way she had come. The same page-boy who had showed her to her room on arrival was now working the lift.

"What time do you go off?" she asked him. "Twelve o'clock."

"Isn't that rather late for you?"

He shrugged. "This is Dino's job, but it's his wedding anniversary tonight — the first one — and he's paying me to take over for him."

"You should be in bed and asleep at your age," Rose admonished.

The only reply she got was another shrug. They drew up at her floor and he opened the lift gate.

"I wait for you to come down?"

"I'm not coming down," Rose replied, surprised. "I'm going to bed."

His round eyes widened in astonishment. "But the evening's just starting. Look, Mees." He extended a small wrist on which was strapped a large watch. "Ees only ten o'clock!"

"Even if it were seven o'clock I should still go to bed," she laughed. "I'm tired." "You're too young to be tired!" came the cheeky reply and clanging the gate

shut behind him, he disappeared as the lift descended to the ground floor again.

Rose was still smiling at this retort as she let herself into her room.

'I can see I'll have to change my habits or I'll be looked on as a freak,' she thought as she undressed. 'But freak or not, I've come here to work and I mustn't let myself forget that.'

CHAPTER THREE

WITH a sigh of relief Rose closed the glass fronted door of the shop and made her way out of the side entrance of the hotel down to the beach. It was lunch time and there were few people about so that she was able to commandeer a vacant deck-chair. Jean, the attendant in charge of the beach, recognized her and watched with interest as she slipped out of her cotton dress to reveal the brief white bikini that had been her first purchase out of her salary.

"You having sandwiches again?" he said as he padded over to her and squatted down on haunches burned nut brown by the sun. "Ees not good to eat

sandwiches all ze time. You should 'ave a proper lunch."

Rose grinned. "If I had a proper lunch as well as a proper dinner I'd end up as fat as a pig."

"You're not ze type," Jean said, "and sandwiches are not 'ealthy. Me, I leev on fruit and Coca-Cola!"

"I wouldn't call that particularly healthy either." Rose laughed outright this time. "Anyway, I have a proper meal in the evening. And the weather's always too wonderful for me to go and stick myself in a dining room for two hours." Jean shrugged and murmuring that she would get used to the sun in time, padded away to collect the used towels left behind by some holiday makers. Rose contentedly munched a couple of crisp rolls filled with delicious cheese and then finished off the meal with a golden peach almost the size of a

grapefruit. The sea sounded softly in her ears and the sun seeping through her already tanned skin gave her such a sense of well-being that she would have been content to remain where she was for ever. She folded her empty lunch packet and lay back on the deck-chair. There was a lot to be said for the two

hours which French took for their lunch-time break; although it meant having to start work earlier and finishing later than one did in England it at least gave her the chance to get the best of the sunshine at a time when the beach was at its quietest.

Since she had arrived, nearly five weeks ago, her lunch- time activities had followed the same pattern. She was always promising herself something different: to explore the town, take a fiacre along the coast or go window

shopping. But it was always too hot and so each day at noon found her on the same spot on the beach.

She rolled over on her stomach and propping her chin on her hands gazed down at the glistening grains of sand. The little florist's tucked away in the mews off Grosvenor Square seemed part of another life, as she herself seemed to be another person. She would never have believed that her job here could be so different from the one in London. Although she had an assistant she was expected to do everything herself — and that included keeping all the main rooms of the hotel supplied with flowers. But as she was allowed a perfectly free hand with the buying of the blooms, this was easier than it sounded for if money was no object it was half the battle in keeping vases and baskets well filled and beautiful. To begin with she had gone each morning to the flower market and had found it fascinating to watch the barrows and vans lumbering in from the mountains. Within a short space of time she had established

friendly relations with everyone and had realized that the flower sellers

regarded the hotels as their main source of income. For this reason they did not try to cheat her, for they realized that if she once stopped buying from them they would find it extremely difficult to produce another client who would give them the same vast order each day.

By the end of the third week Rose was so well known that she had no need to go to the market each day and was able to rely on a couple of the largest sellers to send her the pick of their crop. This enabled her to start work in the shop much earlier than usual and by eleven o'clock each morning all the

baskets of flowers in the main rooms of the hotel were denuded of their dead blooms and topped up with fresh ones. In most of the rooms flowers were an unremarked part of the decor, but in the main hall and on the buffet tables in the dining room she took great pains to see that the display did her justice and she was delighted when Monsieur Ferrier complimented her on them.

"I took you because of Mrs. Rogers," he said one morning in a burst of

bonhomie, "but I'm willing to keep you here on your own merits. No doubt at all!"

From the manager of such a hotel this was praise indeed and Rose was considerably warmed by it.

She lifted her position again on the sand and looked out over the sea, her gaze turning to the right and the harbor full of yachts. Streamlined and beautiful, the vessels looked as redolent of wealth as their owners, most of whom, living aboard, were in the habit of taking their evening aperitifs on the terrace of the Hotel Plage.

Casually clothed, all sporting expensive tans, they exuded an aura of well-being and self-satisfaction that came from knowing nothing could ever go wrong with their particular world. Sometimes when she closed the shop at

seven-thirty or eight o'clock in the evening — she always had to keep open late for last-minute bouquets — she would slip out on the terrace for a quick look at the people and was fascinated to find that though they hailed from different countries, their money seemed to clothe them with the same air, so that until one heard them speak it was difficult to tell the nationality of one well groomed person from another. She knew that many times they would spend on an

evening meal what she herself earned in a week, while if they went to the Casino they could easily lose in one hour what she had to work a year to

attain. Small wonder that she could not help an occasional pang of envy and a desire to be a part of their world if only for a short space of time.

"Why the sigh?" asked a voice above her head and looking up Rose saw a red-headed young man grinning at her.

"Alan! What are you doing here?"

"The same as you." He flopped down beside her, stretching his long thin legs out in front of him. "No matter how hard I try I still can't get brown. All I do is turn a dreadful lobster pink!"

She laughed. "Don't worry about it. We can't all be sun-gods like your illustrious boss."

For a moment the smile left his face. "You don't like Lance Hammond, do you?" Rose shrugged. "I've never met him, but I certainly don't like what I've heard about him or what he stands for."

"Of course I don't," she said quickly. "What a silly thing to say. If you hadn't been working for him I'd never have met you."

Alan grinned. "That's the nicest thing you've said for a long while! Meeting you was one of the benefits I got out of working for Lance."

"I should imagine you get quite a few disadvantages too," Rose said dryly. "Going around with him all the time people are inclined to think that birds of a feather flock together."

"I work for the man," Alan retorted. "I'm not his bosom pal."

He made himself more comfortable on the sand. "Not that I'd take another job even if I had the chance. I've been Lance's aide-de-camp for the last five years and I like him. Famous and rich people always get talked about, Rose. You should take what you hear about them with a pinch of salt."

She shrugged. "You're very loyal, Alan, and I admire you for it."

"Oh come now, you don't even know Lance. What is there you don't like about him?"

"Just say I'm always suspicious of exceptionally handsome men. And I don't really go for blonds. Apart from which, even you can't defend his reputation with women. Why, it's impossible to open a newspaper without seeing his

name in all the gossip columns. It wouldn't be so bad if he just had a couple of girl friends, but he seems to have a couple of dozen all at the same time. And he changes them as often as he does his ties!"

"Miaow, miaow!" Alan laughed. "I never knew you were such a pussy cat." "I'm not," she protested. "After all, you come into the shop almost every day to order flowers for all the beautiful girls along the Riviera."

"I still don't see anything wrong in that. I'd probably do the same if I had my boss's money." He looked across at the harbor. "Although the first thing I'd buy would be a boat like his. I guess that's one of my main reasons for staying with him."

Rose followed Alan's gaze to the gleaming white yacht moored just outside Cannes Harbor. It was rocking gently in the breeze, its chromium glistening in the sunshine.

"I suppose the crux of it," she said simply, "is that I just don't like playboys. And even you can't deny that's what Lance Hammond is?"

She straightened and looked at Alan who, eyes closed, was basking in the sun. Seen in swimming trunks he was even thinner than he appeared when dressed in causual slacks ad open-necked shirt, and his face, relaxed in repose, showed a bony sensitivity and artisticness.

Although she had never asked his age she judged him to be in his early thirties, probably the same age as the man for whom he worked, although there the similarity ended. For while Lance Hammond had been born with a silver — indeed a golden — spoon in his mouth, Alan Dawson from the little he had told her about himself had had to fight to achieve everything he had. She knew he came from a working class background and that he had won a

scholarship to Oxford where he had first met Lance Hammond.

"We lost touch during the war," he had told her one evening when he had asked her to dine at one of the small cafes along the Croissette, "but after I was demobbed I got a job at the head office of one of the grocery stores. And it was while I was attending a supermarket conference that I met Lance again. I won't ask if you've heard of the Hammond Supermarkets — you'd have to be deaf and blind not to have done!"

Rose nodded, reluctant to break the train of Alan's thoughts, and he had then continued his reminiscences, telling her how Lance had offered him a job in his own organization and then asked him to live with him as his private secretary. "Of course, it means I do a lot of fetching and carrying for him," Alan

continued, "and sometimes I feel more like a nursemaid than a secretary, but the job has its compensations and one day, when Lance really gets down to work, I hope to take up a decent executive position. The trade of the future lies in the supermarkets, Rose, but there's still a great deal of work to be done in educating the housewife to think this way."

After that the conversation had become general rather than particular, although from time to time Alan had regaled her with little anecdotes of his employer who appeared, the more Rose heard of him, to be interested solely in spending money rather than earning it.

Not that Lance Hammond had to worry about earning any money, she thought, as she stood up and slipped her dress over her shoulders. His father had left

him considerably more than a million pounds when he had died as well as a chain of grocery stores that ran the length of the country. Not all the

extravagances of Lance or his mother Diana Hammond could dissipate such a fortune, for as fast as they spent it, the money rolled into the tills. Rose

tightened the gold kid belt around her small waist and slipped her feet into leather thong sandals. A flurry of sand descended on Alan's face and he wrinkled his eyelids and sat up.

"Hey, what's the rush?"

"I'm a working girl," she grinned. "It's time to open the shop. I suppose I'll be seeing you this afternoon as usual?"

He grinned back at her. "To date, I've got to order two bouquets and a corsage. I'll be in to see you later."

Rose waved him goodbye and made her way over the beach and up the narrow steps to the promenade. The Croissette was still almost deserted, but the

terraces of the hotels were crowded with loungers and the small cafes were doing a roaring trade selling omelettes, bacon and eggs and French fried. She crossed the road and ignoring the main entrance, walked down the side turning and through the arcade to the shop. She unlocked the door and switched on the lights and had just slipped on her pale blue overall when Jacqueline came in.

"Zat Philippe!" the girl grumbled. "If 'e ees so jealous now we are engaged, 'eaven knows what 'e will be like when we are married. Do you know 'is latest order? I am not to go into the staff dining room for lunch unless 'e is zere!" "What's so wrong with that?" Rose smiled.

"Everyzing." Jacky lifted her hands in despair. " 'Alf ze time 'e does not bother wiz any lunch and when 'e does slip down it ees only for 'alf an hour."

"He's ambitious," Rose agreed. "But don't forget he's working hard because of you. He'll be the chief cashier here within another couple of years."

-"Much good it will do me," the girl grumbled as she put on her overall. "Work, work, work. All ze time it is work. When the evening comes 'e is too tired to dance, too tired to talk, even too tired to make love — ma foi! Zat is ze end!"

Rose closed her ears to the torrent of French that followed. Regularly each week Jacqueline would burst into a tirade against the fiance she adored and regularly each week there would be tears and recriminations ending with Philippe dashing into the shop and pulling Jacqueline into his arms regardless of Rose's presence. Indeed, on one occasion he had even disregarded a

paunchy American who had come in to buy some roses, although the American had taken it in exceptionally good part, merely remarking that the heat of such ardour might wilt the flowers!

"You're not listening to me," Jacky accused.

"I don't need to," Rose answered good-naturedly. "I've heard it so many times before. Now be a good girl and start on the bouquets for Suite II."

"What one is that?"

Rose hurried over to the desk at the back of the shop and consulted a list. "It's the Marchesa de Santos. She wants two baskets in her drawing room, one in the lobby of her suite and another in her bedroom. The color scheme must be pink and blue and she doesn't like too much greenery. Then when you've finished that there's the bouquet to do for Mrs. Patton. Her husband will be in to collect it himself in about an hour and a half.

"That man spends a fortune on flowers," Jacky grumbled as she set to work. "I have been here since I was fifteen, and I've already seen him with three

different wives! One year I'm expecting all of them to come here without Mr. Patton and hold a conference! That should be an interesting one to attend." Rose made no comment, although as she began to crush the stems of some roses she could not help musing on the glimpses she had had of the lives of the guests in the hotel. It was certainly not a mere cliche to say that money did not bring happiness, for she had seen more unhappiness in her five weeks here than she had seen in the time she had spent in Grosvenor Square. At least in London she had had a passer-by trade and although many of the

clients had been the wealthy inhabitants of Mayfair there had also been a good sprinkling of office workers from the nearby buildings and shops. But in the hotel the trade was mainly from the residents, and what spoiled people most of them were! Bored by having too much money, satiated with too much

pleasure, the only excitement they could engender in their lives was a false one based on artificial standards; illicit love affairs under the very noses of husbands and wives, the gaming tables and continual gossip, gossip, gossip.

For the rest of the afternoon the two girls worked continuously and as the baskets of flowers were finished they were taken up to the suites by the page-boys.

"Your young man hasn't been in yet," Jacky said as she carefully placed two dozen gladioli into a long white box.

"If you mean Mr. Dawson, he isn't my young man," Rose said.

Jacky smiled slyly. "He comes here every day and Philippe and I saw you having dinner together ze other night."

"He's English and so am I," Rose said. "That's why he asked me out. And as for him coming here every day, well that's part of his job."

"Piffle! Zere are lost of other florists he can go to, though I must say his boss seems to regard zis hotel as his particular hunting ground. Ah, how wonderful to be hunted by a man like Lance Hammond!" Jacqueline's eyes rolled with ecstasy. "What wouldn't I give to be one of his girl friends — even if only for a week." She began to mince up and down the shop. "What presents I would receive! Jewels from Cartier, dresses from Dior and flowers for every single hour of ze day!" She swung round and looked at Rose mischievously. "It is a wonderful dream, is it not?"

"Yes," Rose said shortly. "And a pretty rude awakening you'd get too. He's never been known to stick to one girl longer than a month!"

"That is where you are wrong. Have you forgotten Enid Walters?"

Rose frowned. She remembered hearing the name al- thought she could not remember in what context.

"Isn't she a socialite or something?"

The French girl nodded and placing a cellophane lid over the box of gladioli tied a silver bow across it to hold it in position.

"She's the only girl ever to dangle ze great Lance Hammond on a string. And how she dangle him! Cannes, St. Moritz, Deauville, London, New York — wherever zere's ze social set zere is Enid Walters. And for the past year

wherever Enid Walters go, Lance follow."

"Well, he hasn't done much following for the past five weeks," Rose retorted. "Zat is where you are wrong." The elfin French face was triumphant. "You do not read the gossip columns, Rose. Lance is crazy for Enid and she's arriving in Cannes today — and staying in our hotel. I bet they will be engaged before the end of the week."

"Well, we can look forward to having masses of flowers to deliver to her then," Rose said and picking up the box of gladioli carried it down the arcade, telling Jacqueline over her shoulder that she would deliver it herself.

Across the vestibule she went and disregarding the lift, mounted the stairs to the first floor suite occupied by Mr. Patton and his newest wife. He opened the door at her knock and took the flowers with a beaming smile. Fat and in his sixties, he was so much like the caricature of a worked-his-way-up-from-the-bottom American millionaire that Rose had to hide a smile every time she saw him.

"Thanks, my dear," he said with a broad accent as he took the flowers from her. "I was going to send a bellboy down to collect them. You shouldn't have bothered bringing them up yourself."

"That's perfectly all right," Rose said. "The bell-boys are rather busy this afternoon and I knew you wanted the flowers delivered before your wife got back from the hairdresser."

She backed away hastily before he could proffer her a dollar bill and was half way down stairs when she saw a commotion in the entrance. A crowd of people were gathered there and a bevy of page-boys marched across the lobby

carrying a stack of pale pigskin cases. Following them was one of the most beautiful girls Rose had ever seen. She was tall and elegantly thin with smooth hair dyed a fashionable silver blonde and worn in the current smooth fashion, the ends wisping up in delicate fronds as it touched her shoulders. Although she had obviously just arrived there was no sign of the weary traveller about her, no speck of dirt on the simple yet beautifully cut white suit or white shoes that graced the narrow pointed feet. The procession reached the lifts and the girl stopped.

"If I'm on the first floor I might as well walk up," she said in a husky voice and, escorted by the under-manager, she moved towards the stairs. Quickly Rose

hurried down them and as she passed the girl found herself staring into a pair of green, almond-shaped eyes fringed with dark lashes.

So this was the beautiful Enid Walters. Not a word of praise of her beauty had been exaggerated. No wonder Lance Hammond was in love with her. She was exactly the sort of girl Rose would have expected him to fall in love with — elegant, assured and moneyed. Wondering at the irrational resentment within her, Rose returned to the shop.

Every time the door opened she expected to see Alan, but when five o'clock arrived and he had still not come, she realized that his boss obviously did not intend to send flowers to any other girl now that Miss Walters had put in her appearance. Yet Alan had left her with the impression that he would be seeing her later that afternoon, and she was disappointed not to be meeting him again. Not that there was any truth in Jacqueline's suggestion that she and Alan Dawson were more than friends. As she had told the French girl, their friendship had only arisen from the fact that they were both English in a

foreign country and more important, that they were both working for a living while their other compatriots were on holiday. Not that Alan was not attractive. He was, in fact, one of the few men she had met with whom she felt

completely at ease, and in the last few weeks they had developed a camaraderie that had strengthened with the passing days.

Whenever he had a free afternoon he would pick her up at the hotel and take her out for a snack or a drink, and a couple of times he had managed to leave Lance Hammond early enough to invite her out to dinner. But their

conversation had so far ranged over unimportant topics and she had the impression he was an unhappy man and wary of going too deeply into any relationship.

She was putting the finishing touches to a corsage of orchids when the shop bell tinkled behind her. Believing it to be Jacqueline returning from her coffee break she did not bother to look up until she heard a cough. With a quick

murmur of apology she turned and found herself staring into a pair of mocking blue eyes. They were the most vivid blue she had ever seen and set in a face as handsome as that of a Viking. Lance Hammond! Tall and narrow hipped, his broad shoulders and great height seemed to dwarf the florist's shop, while his tanned skin and gleaming blond hair made the very flowers insipid. Rose had seen many pictures of the heir to the Hammond Supermarkets but none of them had prepared her for her actual sight of the man, and she would not have been human had she been unmoved by his male arrogance and good looks. Seen close, there was more than a hint of stubborness in the square chin, and the mouth, which in his pictures was always smiling, was now set in a

determined line. Realizing she was gazing at him like a love-sick schoolgirl, she blushed and hurriedly bent her face to the blooms she was holding.

"I'm's-sorry," she stammered. "I didn't hear you come in. Can I help you?" A blond eyebrow raised. "Oh, so you speak English. I was beginning to wonder whether I'd have to bang a couple of drums before I got some service here!" Rose turned red. "I'm sorry. But when you came in I thought it was my assistant. What can I do for you?"

He looked around the shop and moved over to stare more closely at a large bowl of gardenias. He kept both his hands in the pockets of his tight fitting navy slacks and beneath a short sleeved tan shirt she saw the ripple of the muscles along his shoulders.

"I want some flowers for Miss Walters," he said quickly. "The best you have. What do you suggest?"

Rose glanced around the shop. The gossip-mongers must be right this time. No man would come and personally order flowers for a girl unless she meant

something special to him.

"I'm afraid you've left it rather late for me to make up a really nice bouquet," she explained. "Our best blooms have already gone."

"A bit early, isn't it?" he said impatiently. "If you've got no flowers you should shut up shop."

"I didn't say we haven't any flowers," Rose said coldly. "Merely that I don't think we've the sort of flowers you want."

His eyebrows went up again. "Am I so extraordinary in wanting something decent?"

Realizing that to answer him might precipitate an argument, Rose said in her most gentle voice: "Why don't you try Marcelle's? They're a hundred yards down the road on the left."

"I know quite well where Marcelle's are," he said, "but I particularly wanted you to make the bouquet for me. Alan says you do the best arrangements

along the Riviera." He rubbed his hand across his chin. "Suppose I cut some flowers from my mother's garden — she has a villa a few miles along the coast. Would you make them up for me?"

"Of course," Rose replied. "But you appreciate I can't guarantee how it will look. I mean I don't know the sort of flowers you'll bring back."

"Then come and choose them for me."

Before Rose could reply Jacqueline came in, stopping with an exclamation as she recognized their customer.

Lance Hammond smiled at her with his much vaunted charm. "You've returned at just the right time. I'm going to borrow your fellow worker for an hour, so you'll have to stand in for her."

'"I'm going to Mrs. Hammond's villa to pick some flowers," Rose said quickly. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Leaving her assistant staring wide-eyed after her, Rose followed the man out of the hotel to the white convertible Cadillac that stood at the entrance. He took his place at the wheel and the porter rushed forward to open die door for Rose. Hardly had she settled herself in the white leather seat when Lance Hammond started the engine and they raced down the Croissette as if they were the only car on the road. Rose drew a deep breath. To think she was driving beside the great Lance Hammond himself! Wonders would never cease.

CHAPTER FOUR

THERE was in indefinable magic, Rose thought, about driving in an open car with the breeze blowing in one's face. As they left Cannes and bowled dizzily along the steep, winding roads of the Corniche their speed increased until they seemed to be taking corners on two wheels. She clung to her seat and from the corner of her eyes saw Lance Hammond glance at her.

"Nervous?" The hint of mockery in his voice compelled her to lie. "Not at all."

He was true to his word and as they tore round the bends, Rose thought each second was going to be her last. The wind was now tearing at her hair in fierce gusts and hairpins fell on to her lap. Hurriedly she slipped them into her pocket and then kept her hands hidden there, lest he should notice their trembling. She would lie rather than let him know she was afraid!

At last, when she felt she could bear it no longer they began to lose speed and the long-nosed car swung between wrought-iron gates and along a wide drive-way flanked with cypresses. To one side lay a blue-tiled swimming pool and beyond it stood a palatial pink-walled villa, its wide verandah dotted with gaily colored chairs and tables. The car stopped with a squeal of brakes and Lance turned to Rose, looking at her flushed face for a moment without speaking. "You're the first girl I've met who doesn't seem to mind getting her hair blown about in the wind," he said at last, and reaching out, touched the coil of

chestnut hair which was lying halfway down the back of her head. "I've never seen such long hair before. Is it all yours?"

"Certainly," she said sharply, and jumping out of the car took the pins out of her pocket and fixed the plait into position again, conscious that he was

watching her intently. The familiar act of pinning her hair into position restored her composure and when next she spoke her voice was matter of fact.

"In the rush I'm afraid I forgot to bring my secateurs or a basket to carry the flowers."

"Never mind. I'll fix you up here."

He preceded her on to the verandah but as he reached the top he stopped so suddenly that Rose, directly behind him knocked against his side. She followed his gaze and saw why he had halted to abruptly. At the far end of the verandah stood a chaise-longue and on it lay a figurine of a woman in a sheath dress. Even from a distance the vivid blue of her eyes told Rose that this was Lance's mother, although in every other respect they could not have been more

dissimilar. Where the son was tall and blond and arrogant, the mother was diminutive with the personality of a humming bird. Her hair was cut short and dyed a brilliant red-gold. It curled over her forehead and clung closely to the delicate shell-like ears on the lobes of which winked outsize diamonds.

But it was not at his mother that Lance Hammond was staring, but at the man bending over her. Medium-sized, he had the black hair and olive skin of a Latin and it was with Latin effusiveness that he was holding out a fullblown rose to

the woman who was gazing adoringly up at him.

"Wear it in your hair, mia cara," he was saying. "And your beauty will make it fade by comparison with yourself. I shall —"

He stopped as Lance walked forward, the expression of chagrin that flitted across his face instantly giving way to a smile. Lance ignored him and moving over to his mother lifted her small, scarlet-tipped hand and pressed it to his lips. "Hello, Didi."

"Hello, darling." She turned to the dark man at her side. "I believe Lance could even give you points on gallantry, Tino."

"He's had a great deal of experience," Tino said smoothly.

"Not more experience than you have," Lance said equally smoothly, "although I can't see you wasting any of it on your mother."

Tino frowned but before he could answer Diana Hammond swung her feet to the ground and stood up.

"Really, Lance, here am I complimenting you on your gallantry and you haven't even introduced me to your new girl friend."

"She isn't a girl friend. I came to pick some flowers from your garden and Miss er… er… is a florist."

Lance disappeared into the villa and Diana Hammond looked at Rose and giggled like a schoolgirl.

"Well, I'm sure, Miss Er… you'd like to get on with your job. But first perhaps you'd care to tell me your name."

"Rose Tiverton."

"Rose Tiverton. How English! I thought you didn't look French. Come and sit down and have a drink."

"I'd rather not if you don't mind," Rose replied. "I'm in a hurry to get back." "Oh very well." Feeling she had done her duty as a hostess, Diana Hammond