Alan Hunt lay back in his deck chair above the fiord, bare-chested, browning his splendid, muscular torso in the August sun. He was a big, blond, strikingly handsome man. His age was just short of thirty.
From all around came cheerful holiday sounds—gay laughter, the splash of water, the thud of tennis balls, the putter of outboard motors, the creak of oars. Hunt, having risen early and swum for an hour, had no urge to join in the activity at the moment. But it made a pleasant and soothing background to his thoughts.
Presently, a deeper throb caused him to raise his head. The hotel launch was coming in with a new batch of guests from the mainland. As usual, it was pretty full. The hotel was on the itinerary of many package tours, and as most of the guests stayed only for a day or two there was always a busy two-way traffic across the fiord. This batch seemed much like any other—a lot of young people in lively groups, families with children, a few elderly couples … Then, as Hunt lazily looked them over, his eye was caught by a girl—and he suddenly sat up. She was standing between a middle-aged man and woman, pointing something out on the shore. What had caught Hunt’s attention was a head of glorious chestnut hair. He had always had a special weakness for redheads of that shade. He wondered what the rest of her would be like. He continued to watch as the launch drew in to the quay and the boatman made it fast.
He could see the girl better, now. As she stepped ashore, he sized up her points with a practised eye. Good legs, smashing figure. Hair wavy, and worn shoulder length. Good carriage, head held up. Medium height, graceful. A youthful twenty, he reckoned … Accompanied by parents.…
Passing Hunt’s chair on the way to the reception desk, she gave him an interested glance. Most girls did … At close quarters, she looked even more attractive. Dimples, he noted. Deep blue eyes—wonderful with that hair. Not much make-up but with her complexion and colouring she didn’t need much. No ring on her finger. Very fresh-looking. Untouched by hand, Hunt guessed. A succulent dish for someone. But not alas, for him.…
He felt more frustrated than ever. Back in the winter, when he’d booked this Norwegian trip, the prospect of a few days on his own at the Vistasund Hotel had seemed inviting. A hotel in a delightful island setting, magnificent seascapes, wonderful smorgasbord, swimming and water-skiing, boats of every kind for the asking, dancing in the evenings—and plenty of girls. Some of them certainly willing. He’d counted on that. Back in the winter, it had been a warming thought … But now, in his changed circumstances, it hadn’t seemed safe. A holiday affair could have repercussions—and he had too much at stake to risk getting involved … So, for nearly a week, he’d had to eye the goods instead of handling them. Not that any of the girls had been particularly inspiring—but one or two had looked possible. It had been a tantalising experience, and an unfamiliar one for Hunt. Probably, he thought, he’d have done better to cancel the trip in the spring, and ask for his money back … Still, he’d only another two days to go. He ought to be able to resist temptation for two more days—even with that lovely dish around.
The trouble was that he kept on running into the new girl, and each time he saw her it was like a high-voltage charge going through him.
She was in the lounge with her parents when he went in for an aquavit before lunch. They were all drinking orange squash. Dad, at close range, was a tall, spare, greying man in his late fifties—distinguished-looking in an austere sort of way. All his features had a drawn-out look—his high, narrow forehead; his thin nose; his long upper lip, which gave his face a severe and disapproving expression even in repose. He was wearing a dark suit of an old-fashioned cut, complete with waistcoat, and looked more like a chapel sidesman than a holiday-maker. Mum was plump and pleasant-faced, with snowy white hair that might once have been chestnut too. A striking enough pair in their way—but Hunt couldn’t help feeling it must have surprised them to produce such a wonder girl.
Mum, it appeared, was inclined to fuss. She was fussing now about the girl’s dress—a simple, summer affair in flowered blue linen. Hunt could see nothing wrong with it except that it revealed too little. Presently she started fussing about the funny eiderdowns she’d found on the beds, and wondering how they were going to get any sleep with no sheets or blankets to tuck in. She and Dad both had slight Midland accents. The girl had less of an accent—and less to say. She was, Hunt knew, aware of him. When she caught his eye, she smiled, a little wistfully. She looked as though she’d like to step out and have a bit of fun. “Watch it, boy!” Hunt told himself.
He ran into her again at lunch as she surveyed, with the uncertainty of a newcomer, the magnificent “serve yourself” table that stretched almost the length of the dining-room. “What a lot of things to choose from!” she exclaimed to a woman next to her. “This is nothing,” the woman said. “At the last place I was at, we had forty-three different cold dishes alone!” Hunt moved in. “I’m an old hand,” he said, with a smile. “May I give you the lay-out …?” Courtesy and charm were his professional tools. He directed the girl to the fragrant hot dishes at one end of the table—the meat balls and fish balls and fried potatoes and stew; the cold sweets, plates, knives and forks at the other end; the fish dishes and hors d’oeuvres down one side of the board; the breads and cheeses down the other. “That fish in wine sauce is tasty,” he said, “and the rissoles in gravy are much better than they sound … I don’t advise the reindeer—it’s like gumboot.” The girl laughed, showing pretty teeth.
He saw her again after lunch, though briefly. He was sitting at an umbrella-shaded table in the hotel grounds, drinking coffee and sipping a liqueur, when she came strolling by, flanked by her parents like a prisoner under guard. Dad had got hold of a coloured brochure and was reading aloud about various trips they could take together in the hotel launch. As they drew level, Hunt caught a little of their conversation. The girl said, “What I’d really like to do is go out in one of those little sailing boats.” Mum said, “Oh, I don’t think I’d do that, dear, they don’t look very safe to me.” The girl said, “Mum, they’re perfectly safe—they’re like the one Sally and I took out on the Nene last summer, and I managed all right then.” Mum said, “That was a river, dear, and this is almost like the sea.” Dad weighed in judiciously. “I’m told the wind gets up very quickly in these fiords …” And the voices faded.
Hunt saw her once more that afternoon—out on the water. He was having his second swim of the day when she came rowing by, alone, in one of the hotel’s long, viking-type dinghies. Mum and Dad had evidently accepted that as a safe compromise—though they were watching her closely from deck chairs on the shore. The girl rowed well, Hunt saw. He also noticed that she had shapely arms, sun-tanned to a delicate gold, and thought how nice it would be if she were like that all over. She gave him a little smile of recognition as she passed. A charming smile, showing her dimples, but without self-consciousness, without coquetry. Just friendly … Hunt called out, “I’ll race you,” and went into a powerful crawl. For thirty yards he kept abreast of her. Then he laughed, and waved, and dropped back. It would be so easy to start something with her—and it was so tempting. But it really wouldn’t do.…
There was the usual lively dance session after dinner. The dancing took place on the cleared floor of the dining-room, where there was space for fifty couples—a gleaming area of polished pine much mutilated by stiletto heels. There were records for everyone’s taste, and most of the guests joined in. Those who preferred to watch sat in the lounge, which was on a higher level and railed off, like a ship’s quarterdeck. It was there, Hunt noticed, that the new girl was sitting with her parents, hemmed in by people, inaccessible without disturbance. There was no “Keep Off ” sign, but the message was clear. It wasn’t the girl’s message, though—Hunt was sure of that. She hadn’t put on a dress of midnight blue velvet to sit with Mum and Dad all evening. He decided to try for one dance. He’d danced with almost all the available girls at one time or another, distributing his favours evenly—so why not with the redhead? He waited for a waltz—there was nothing like a waltz for close work. Then, with quiet assurance, he made his way through the lounge, bowed to the parents, and asked the girl if she would dance. She glanced at her father before getting up, as though seeking permission. Dad looked at Hunt for a moment, then gave an Olympian nod. Hunt led the girl down to the dance floor and steered her quickly and skilfully to the far end of the room, where they were masked by other dancers.
“Having fun?” he asked her.
“I am now” she said, smiling.
Hunt looked down at her. She had a vivid mouth, barely touched with lipstick. Her hair smelt delicious. She danced with natural grace. Her body was firm, yet pliant. Her very simplicity was exciting. She was like a flower that hadn’t opened. A beauty unaware of her own attraction.
“What’s your name?” Hunt asked.
“Gwenda Nicholls.”
“Gwenda …? M’m—I like that. It’s unusual … Mine’s Alan Hunt.”
She nodded. “Have you been here long?”
“About a week.”
“Oh … Then I suppose you’ll be leaving soon.”
“In a couple of days.”
She was silent for a moment “It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?”
“Pretty good, yes.”
“It’s the loveliest place I’ve ever been in. All the colours, and the different lights—and everything so peaceful. I think it’s heaven.”
“It’s certainly fun being on an island,” Hunt said. “You probably haven’t seen much of it yet … There are lots of little winding paths through the heather, most of them ending in rocky coves.”
“How lovely—I’m dying to explore … It’s all so different from what I’m used to.”
“What are you used to?”
“Brickworks and chimneys, mostly. I don’t mean we live among them, but you can always see them … I live in Peterborough—Dad works in the Council offices … Have you ever been there?”
“I think I drove through it once.”
“That’s the best thing to do with it,” she said. “I hate all towns—I don’t know how people can bear them … If I ever get the chance I shall live in the country.”
“What do you do in Peterborough?”
She made a face. “I’m a shorthand typist.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Not much … I work in a solicitor’s office, and it’s rather dull. There’s just me and Miss Harris—she’s a middle-aged woman who’s been there donkey’s years—and we hardly see a soul.”
“Why don’t you change to something else?”
“Well, I have thought of it, but the solicitor’s a friend of Dad’s, and Mum likes it because the office isn’t too far away and I can go home for lunch … What do you do?”
“I’m a salesman,” Hunt said.
“What do you sell?”
“I’ve sold practically everything in my time. It’s caravans, at the moment.”
She nodded. “I should think you’d be rather a good salesman.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, you’ve got the right sort of voice—quiet, and sort of coaxing.”
He laughed. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “Can I coax you?”—but he thought better of it. No point in a neat gambit when there was no chance of a follow-up. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Anyway, I get by.”
“You’re on your own here, aren’t you?” “Yes.”
Gwenda glanced across at Mum and Dad.
“I wish I was.”
The music stopped. Hunt gave the girl’s body a slight squeeze, and released her. “Thank you,” he said. “That was most enjoyable.”
He took her back to where her parents were sitting. Gwenda introduced him. He made polite conversation for a moment or two—about the hotel, the island, the trips. Then he asked to be excused.
Well, that’s it, he told himself. That’s about the ration. It was a shame, because the girl had obviously taken to him—and she’d make a delicious snack. But all the signals were at danger. She was inexperienced, romantic, probably longing for a steady boy friend. Mum was probably looking for a son-in-law. Dad certainly wasn’t the man to see his daughter trifled with. Both were watchful. It just wouldn’t do. Prudence, boy, prudence! And maybe a cold shower … After all, there were lots of lovely women in the world—and in a few months, with luck, he’d be able to take his pick.…
He had a couple of drinks in the bar and an interesting chat with a man from Leeds who said he’d won thirteen thousand pounds on the pools a year ago and had since turned it into eighteen thousand. Hunt was always fascinated by money and what you could do with it—especially money that hadn’t been earned by hard work. He talked and listened for half an hour, picking up several useful tips. Then he went upstairs to write a letter.
His room, like all the single ones, was on the top floor of the building, at the back. It was small but comfortable, with a well-sprung bed, a writing-table, an easy-chair and plenty of reading-lamps. The daytime view from the window, over calm fiords and low, purple islands, was superb. After dark, a luminous glow from the water still gave a sense of space. Hunt opened the french doors and stepped out on to his little iron balcony, sniffing the fragrant air. The sky, he saw, had become overcast, but the night was pleasantly mild. Quiet, too, except for the strains of music coming from the dining-room below. The dancing usually went on till after midnight, and the time was still only a little after ten.
He was about to go back in and start his letter when a light clicked on in the room next door and a girl came out on to the neighbouring balcony. Even in the shadows, he recognised her at once. It was Gwenda Nicholls.
“Well, hallo again,” he said. He didn’t have to raise his voice—the ends of the balconies were only a few feet apart. “I’d no idea we were neighbours.”
“Nor had I,” she said. She didn’t look at all displeased.
“You’ve left the dancing early.”
“Mum was tired after the journey—she’s taken Dad off to bed.”
“So you had to come to bed too?”
She hesitated. “Well, in a way … They don’t really like me dancing. Especially if they’re not there to keep an eye on me.”
“You’re not serious?”
“I’m afraid so. My parents are Baptists, you see—not the strictest sort but—well, old-fashioned about things … Dad’s very keen on temperance, and not playing games on Sundays—he’s always writing letters to the papers about it … He doesn’t actually stop me dancing, but he doesn’t really approve.”
Hunt tut-tutted. “How old are you, for heaven’s sake?”
“I was twenty last week.”
“It’s fantastic. In this day and age.”
“That’s what I think. I keep telling them I’m much too old to be treated like a child.”
“Can’t you do anything about it? Talk them round?”
“Well, I do try—we have terrible arguments at home … Rows, almost … The thing is, I’m really fond of them and I know they’re fond of me—so it’s difficult. They honestly think I still need looking after and protecting … But I get very fed up, always being asked where I’m going and what I’m going to do and who with and having to be in by ten o’clock and all the rest of the stupid rules … After all, most girls of my age do pretty well as they like, don’t they?”
“They certainly do,” Hunt said.
“Mum’s the worst—she will go on at me all the time. We get on each other’s nerves like anything … I think we’d both be better off if I left home and got a job somewhere else, but she won’t hear of it. I will in the end, I’m sure, but it’ll take some doing … What I really want to do is go and look after children in the country.”
“Sounds a jolly good idea,” Hunt said—though he couldn’t have cared less about her future. He was much more interested now in her present. It had dawned on him, while she’d been talking, that the fates had played straight into his hands and that he needn’t resist temptation any more. All the omens had suddenly become favourable. By a wonderful stroke of luck he’d been given a room adjacent to hers, both of them with balconies; the ideal set-up for a safe and secret intrigue, a Casanova’s dream. The girl was in a state of near-rebellion over her “lock up your daughter” parents, so she wasn’t at all likely to blab. She was venturesome, eager for a fling, thirsting for experience—and she liked him … The perfect frame of mind … And in less than a couple of days he was due to leave. It should be a cinch.
He thought so even more a few minutes later, when it began to rain.
“Blast!” he said. “Now we’ll have to go in … Just when we were getting to know each other.”
Gwenda looked disappointed, too.
“Anyway,” he said, “I really ought to write a letter.…” But he didn’t move.
Neither did Gwenda. “I suppose you’re writing to your girl friend,” she said,
He shook his head. “No such luck … To my mother.”
“You mean you haven’t got a girl friend?”
“Not so far … I guess I’m too choosy … Look, you’re getting awfully wet, you really ought to go in.”
“I suppose so …”
He half turned—then stopped, as though a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Of course, I could step across to your balcony and we could go on talking inside … But perhaps you wouldn’t like that.” Gwenda looked at the gap—and at the ground, forty feet below. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Who wouldn’t?—I’d be over in a jiffy … Still, I’m sure your parents wouldn’t approve. I’d better write my letter.”
Gwenda hesitated. “You really think it’s safe?”
Hunt eyed the gap. It was well over four feet across—a long stride. But he’d never been averse from taking a calculated risk if the prize was tempting enough. “Piece of cake,” he said.
“Well—all right … Just for a minute.”
“Is your door locked?”
“Yes.”
Hunt glanced down, and to right and left. The rain had driven everyone indoors; there was no one in sight. “Here I come, then …” He swung a leg over the side of the balcony, then the other. For a moment he stood poised on the ledge, looking at Gwenda, smiling. Then, with a long, measured leap, he gained a foothold and grabbed the rail of Gwenda’s balcony at the same instant. She gave a gasp of relief as he climbed over. “Easy,” he said—though it hadn’t been. He followed her into her room. It was a replica of his own, except that everything was arranged the other way round
He grinned at her. “I bet you’ve never done anything like this before,” he said.
She shook her head. “I certainly haven’t And considering we only met to-day, it seems a bit crazy”
“But that’s what makes it such fun, don’t you think? Anyway, one can live a lifetime in a day.” Hunt swivelled the soft chair round for her, and seated himself on the hard one. “How I wish you’d come here a week ago.”
“Do you?”
“It would have made all the difference to me, I can tell you … Of course, there’s been plenty to do—I won’t pretend it’s been dull … But having someone around that one likes is what really matters.”
“I thought a lot of the girls here looked very attractive.”
“H’m … Not by my standards—especially now I’ve met you. You’re terrific—do you know that …? But I’m not talking about looks, I’m talking about liking … Somehow, you’re different—I don’t know what it is. I thought so the moment you came off the boat. The way you walked, the way you hold your head—everything about you … It’s personality, I suppose.”
“You’re not exactly short of personality yourself,” Gwenda said, the dimples appearing.
“Well, I hope I’m not … Tell me, what are you planning to do to-morrow?”
“I think we’re going on the round trip in the launch.”
“Oh …” Hunt pretended to be disappointed—though it suited him very well. The less he saw of her publicly from now on, the better. “In that case,” he said, “I think I’ll fix up to do some fishing … But we’ll have some time together to-morrow evening, won’t we?”
“We could …”
“And perhaps we could see some more of each other when we get home? I move around quite a bit in my job—I could easily look in at Peterborough. If you’d like me to, that is.”
“It would be rather nice.”
“I’ll write my address down and give it to you before I go … Heavens, just listen to that rain!”
“Oughtn’t you to go back before it gets worse?”
“Yes, perhaps I’d better …” He’d prepared the ground now—there was no point in staying longer. If they went on talking, the girl would probably want to know more about him, which would mean a lot of tedious invention … He got up, stretching out his hands and drawing Gwenda up too. “You are so pretty,” he said. “Would it be taking advantage of you if I kissed you good night?”
She smiled. “I don’t think so.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her mouth. She kissed him back—tentatively at first, then with growing passion. His appetite for her sharpened—but prudence held him back. At this rate, to-morrow would arrive to-night!—and she wasn’t ready for the whole works yet. Besides, it would mean a day of danger before he left. He drew away, gazed for a moment into her eyes, tenderly touched her hair. Overcome, it seemed, by an emotion he found it hard to express. “You’re sweet,” he said. “Really sweet … Good night, darling. Sleep well.”
“Be careful,” she whispered after him.
He looked out cautiously. All was quiet, except for the downpour. The gap he had to cross was uninviting now, but he didn’t hesitate. If he broke his neck, he thought wryly, it would be in a good cause. He climbed the rail, measured the distance, braced himself—and in one long stride he was safely back. From his balcony, he blew a farewell kiss to Gwenda. Inside the bedroom, he grinned cheerfully to himself. Everything had gone according to his expectations. The girl, unnaturally deprived of male company and eager for love, had already fallen for him. He’d swept her off her feet—practically hypnotised her with his assurance and charm. And because he’d behaved well, she’d have no reason to distrust him to-morrow. It was going to be a cinch.
He still had his letter to write. He sat down now at the table and quickly dashed it off. It ran:
Dearest Susan,
Only another two days and I’ll be on my way back to you! I can’t tell you how I’m counting the hours. I’ve missed you terribly, darling, every minute of the time. This hotel isn’t a bad place and the scenery is grand, but I find myself mooning about thinking of you and not really wanting to talk to anyone, which you’ll agree isn’t like me. I suppose it’s just a part of being in love—not being interested in anyone else. The truth is that nothing’s the same without you. I keep thinking what a wonderful time we could have had here together, swimming and boating and sunning ourselves and living the kind of active, outdoor life we both like so much. It seems a real shame that you couldn’t come, though I do see one can’t take a new job and then immediately ask for a holiday. But with luck this will be the last time we’ll be separated, darling. What a marvellous thought!
I hope you got all my earlier letters. I picked your last one up at Stavanger and I laughed no end at your description of the Rally. You really are a bit of a madcap. Yes, I remember old Carson. Isn’t he the chap who hit a tree while he was fastening his safety belt?
I’ll ring you the moment I get back. What I’d really like to do is catch a plane—but I suppose that would be extravagant. I’m sure your father would think so. Please give him my warm regards, and your mother. I hope her sciatica is better.
All my love, darling—and see you soon.
Alan
Before he turned in, Hunt went downstairs and posted the letter in the hotel box. One way and another, he thought, it had been a well-spent evening.
The skies had cleared by morning. The fiord was blue again, the sun warm and bright. Hunt made a point of going down late to breakfast, to give time for the launch party to leave on their all-day trip before he showed himself.
He spent the morning swmiming and sun-bathing with a gay group at the diving-board. In the afternoon he borrowed a rod and a boat and went fishing in the Sound. He was around when the launch party got back at five o’clock, and he gave Gwenda a little wave and a conspiratorial smile as she came ashore. At dinner he stopped for a moment by the Nichollses’ table and asked politely if they’d had a good day. After dinner he allowed himself one dance with Gwenda, holding her close to him, telling her how pretty she looked and how much he liked her dress, gazing meaningfully into her eyes, softening her up. He’d see her later, he whispered, as they separated—and her eager nod told him that she’d been thinking of little else all day. Afterwards he danced with several other girls, just to show that he wasn’t singling anyone out Then he retired to the bar to plan his final tactics. He’d never felt in a better mood. He was thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the chase and the challenge of the hazards.
It was shortly before eleven when he crossed to Gwenda’s room. At once he took her into his arms. “It’s been such a long, long day,” he said. Gwenda sighed, and nestled against him. She didn’t seem at all nervous about having him there. Just happy.…
She looked even happier when, a few minutes later, he produced a piece of paper with his address on it—Flat 5, Esmeralda House, Brighton. “Do write to me when you get home, won’t you?” he said. “And I’ll write to you. What’s your address?” He jotted it down on an old envelope—19 Everton Road, Peterborough. “Good … And I’ll get up there as soon as I can.”
They sat on the bed then, and kissed, and talked. Hushed, delightful talk—but mostly kisses. Hunt saw how Gwenda’s eyes kept searching his, as though she couldn’t believe that this miracle was happening to her. Yes, she’d fallen for him, all right.
Suddenly he said, “Why, I was almost forgetting—I brought something along to celebrate with …” He fished a small bottle out of his pocket. “Gin and Italian—I got them to mix it at the bar. I hope you like it.”
“I don’t think I ever tried it,” Gwenda said. “I hardly ever drink … Dad would be furious.”
“Well, he’s not here now, and you’re a big girl.… We’ll have to take turns with your tooth glass, I’m afraid.” He fetched the glass, and poured a drink for her.
She tried it, cautiously. “It’s a bit strong,” she said. “It’s nice, though.”
“I thought you’d like it. Leave me a drop, will you …” She laughed and handed him the glass, which he refilled.
“You know,” he said, “it’s going to seem a very empty world to-morrow. Especially to-morrow night. I’ll be thinking of you, alone here …” Tenderly, he stroked her hair. “I do believe I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“Alan, you can’t have … It’s absurd.”
“Why—because we only met yesterday? People do, you know—love at first sight. It often happens—and I think it’s quite the most romantic way … What about you, Gwenda? You like me a bit, don’t you?”
“You know I do … I wish you weren’t going.”
“Let’s not think about that. Let’s think how wonderful it will be when we see each other again. Let’s think of the future.…” He poured more drink into the glass. “Here’s a toast—to our next meeting, and may it be soon!”
They drank in turn, kissing between sips. When the drink was all gone they kissed again, clinging together in a long and passionate embrace.
“You’re lovely,” Hunt said. He drew her down beside him. “So warm, so soft.… I’d like to stay like this with you. I’d like to be with you for ever …”
He sought her mouth again. His hand strayed over her breasts. She shivered, clinging to him. The hand strayed further. “No,” she said, “no …”
“But darling … I love you.”
“No.… Oh, Alan, don’t …”
“I’ll be careful—ever so careful. Gwenda, I love you—I really do … I want you …”
For a moment, she fought him. Hunt’s hand was ready to move, to clamp down brutally on her mouth if necessary, stifling any scream. But it wasn’t necessary. The old magic worked. With a sigh that was half a sob, she relaxed.
They said their private good-byes in the morning, across the gap of the balconies. Gwenda was subdued, a little shy, a little lost in a new world—but not unhappy. Hunt said the right things. He loved her deeply, he’d soon be writing to her, they’d soon be meeting. He could hardly wait for the day.… Then, as though with a great effort, he tore himself away.
He packed quickly, and carried his bag to the quay. Gwenda was already there. He put the bag down with the luggage of the other passengers, and went into the office to pay his bill.
When he returned, Gwenda had disappeared. The boatman was waiting to cast off the ropes. There were a dozen other passengers travelling, and the usual knot of guests to wave them good-bye. Hunt went aboard. He could see Gwenda’s father in the crowd, but there was still no sign of Gwenda. Perhaps, Hunt thought, she’d found the actual parting more of an ordeal than she could face. Anyway, it didn’t matter. It was all over now. She could write to Flat 5, Esmeralda House, till her arm dropped off, but the letters would never be delivered—since, as far as Hunt knew, there wasn’t such a place.
It had been a good trip, after all. One more attractive virgin notched up—and a clean getaway.