Rainbow for Megan

  Rainbow for Megan by Jane Corrie

  Megan had always looked on Alain as an older brother, so it was embarrassing for both of them when people began to link their names romantically. In an attempt to prove everyone wrong, Megan went to her good-looking boss for assistance—but only succeeded in making matters considerably more complicated than ever!

  PRINTED IN U.S.A.

  OTHER Harlequin Romances by JANE CORRIE

  1956—THE IMPOSSIBLE BOSS

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  Original hardcover edition published in 1976 by Mills & Boon Limited

  ISBN 0-373-02020-1

  Harlequin edition published November 1976

  Copyright iiD1976 by Jane Corrie. All rights reserved.

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  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.The Harlequin trademark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  CHAPTER ONE

  MEGAN SHAW'S wide grey eyes were fixed sombrely on the girl seated opposite her. Iris Markway was, as usual, immaculately turned out; she must, thought. Megan disparagingly, spend hours getting her war-paint on. Megan had never really liked Iris, four years her senior, and doubted whether she would ever have made a friend of her had she known her when they were both younger. Since Iris was a comparative newcomer to the small Wiltshire village Megan had been born in, the question was unlikely to be answered. When the reason for her visit was disclosed, Megan liked her even less.

  Iris went on in her slightly affected drawling voice. `Oh, Alain said it in a joking way, but I know he meant it, so for heaven's sake keep away from him and give him space to breathe.'

  Megan's eyes sparked. 'Keep away from him?' she repeated indignantly. 'Well ! Of all the..

  Iris got up leisurely and walked to the door. 'Well, someone had to tell you,' she said spitefully. 'I'm surprised you haven't taken the hint before now. If you must know, everybody thinks you're chasing him.'

  Megan stood looking at the closed door, then blinked hard and slowly shook her head, making the brown unruly curls bounce. Iris had said he had asked her to have a word with her !

  She sat down slowly. She wasn't chasing Alain. He had always seemed pleased to see her, had teased her as he always had. He couldn't think. .. . not after all these years. She'd looked on him as a brother—the brother she'd never had; anything else was simply ridiculous.

  She thought back to last summer when he'd come home during the vacation, and recalled two occasions when he'd said he wasn't going to a particular social event and she had not attended either. Later she had found he had attended. Megan gulped and the tears began to swell in her eyes. She had only wanted to make sure he wasn't lonely. And all the time he'd thought... She brushed her eyes impatiently. What a fool she'd been! Alain lonely? Why, half the female population for miles around would jump at the chance of his company. Well, as far as she was concerned he was welcome to date the lot of them ! Oh, she would keep away all right ! To think she had been so pleased that he was coming home for good this time, all studies over, and the knowledge he had learnt put to practical use on his farm on the village outskirts Just let him ask her how she was ! Megan fumed. That was if she let him get near enough to ask !

  She glanced at the clock, and with a determined expression went to the telephone. When connected, she asked Mr. Tilson the local grocer if the groceries were ready for Clock House. Megan had once done Mr. Tilson a favour by running them up to the farm, and had somehow got stuck with the job ever since. It was a natural request to make, as in the old days Megan had spent half her time on the farm. When she was told they were ready, she gave a small sigh of relief. Originally she had intended to take them up that afternoon; Alain wasn't due till one o'clock and she had hoped to see him. It was now almost twelve o'clock, so she would take them up now. That way she would avoid meeting him.

  Slipping her cardigan on, she went to get the car, calling out to her father that she wouldn't be long. She doubted if he heard her, for as usual he was engrossed in his work, and not in this century at all but back in the sixteenth, searching out data for his latest book. With a guilty start Megan remembered that she had not typed his latest notes for him, and was at least three chapters behind. As she started up the car, she told herself grimly that there was plenty of time now. She was lucky, really, there was so much to do in her capacity as secretary to her father, and helping out with research, plus all his correspondence. She drove steadily on down through the village.

  Mr. Tilson was talkative, and mentioned with

  twinkling eyes how the place would soon become livelier. Megan knew he was only teasing her, but it hurt just the same. Did everybody in the village think she was chasing Alain? If they did, it appeared no one took it seriously except Iris. She banged the box of groceries in the boot of the car. 'Careful,' warned Mr. Tilson, 'there's some delicacies in there.'

  Alain's housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, watched Megan deposit the box on the kitchen table. 'You're early,' she commented. 'He's not due till one. Are you staying on for lunch?'

  Normally Megan would have asked if it would be a bother, and equally normally Mrs. Smith would have replied, 'No trouble.' This time she looked at the small grey-haired woman, who rarely smiled, but was not half so intimidating as she looked; Megan knew a kindly nature lurked behind her blunt remarks. It was odd, Megan mused, that after all this time, it had never occurred to her that people might think.... She shrugged these thoughts away. There was only Iris's word to go by, and Iris was definitely biased where Alain was concerned. She answered Mrs. Smith's question. 'Er ... no, thanks, Mrs. Smith. I'm behind with Father's work and I must get up to date this weekend.' And that, she thought as she took her leave, would cover her for that weekend—if any remarks were made by Alain about her absence.

  The surprised expression on Mrs. Smith's face did

  not go unnoticed by Megan. 'You're not staying, then?' she asked, then added, 'Oh, well, you'll be up later, I expect.'

  Megan's expression was grim as she started up the car. Mrs. Smith was in for a surprise, and so were a few other people if Iris was proved right. She was thankful that her father was too engrossed in his work to notice anything unusual—he would probably be grateful she had got down to catching up. She felt a rush of affection for him. Really, he was a dear, never upbraiding her for not keeping pace with him, only every now and again mildly enquiring how far she had got, and then only when he had promised to let the publishers have the book by a certain date. Megan would apply herself to the task, often working in the evenings to catch up, and had never let him down.

  She turned off the lane leading to Clock House, and noticed idly that the wheat was looking fine—it should be a good harvest. Driving steadily on, she passed Hanks Meadow, and her thoughts went back in time. It was here that Alain had give
n her that first walloping. In spite of her depression she had to smile. She had been a holy terror in these days, and had been caught assisting the local poacher to land a salmon when Alain had come across them. The poacher, thoroughly experienced in these matters, had dropped everything—including the salmon—at

  the slight sound of a snapping twig in the surrounding shrubbery; leaving Megan wondering why her newfound friend had found it necessary to desert her in such a hurry. She was not long left in doubt !

  Alain had been twenty-two then, and Megan fourteen. She hadn't spoken to him for days afterwards. Anyone else dishing out that treatment might have been forgiven by the tomboyish Megan, but Alain—her friend and confidant suddenly coming the heavy hand—was a bit too much to take. She frowned. Here she was, five years later, as mad with him now as she had been then.

  In an odd way she felt betrayed. She had never got on with girls of her own age; her mother had died when she was five, and the memories had slowly faded with time. With a kind but absentminded author father, Megan had had a slightly bohemian upbringing. Mr. Shaw's sister had come to keep house for them for a time, then to everybody's surprise had married the Vicar. By then Megan was sixteen, and able to look after her father, and she had not taken too kindly to the strict discipline imposed by her aunt, who had been determined that Megan should receive adequate instruction on how a young lady should conduct herself. It had not been a successful venture. Most of the time seemed to have been spent on lecturing Megan on her mode of dress, which was anything that happened to be handy When she

  was prevailed upon to wear a dress for a special occasion, instead of her beloved jeans, it would get torn, usually through climbing trees in answer to a challenge.

  So Megan had grown up trailing after Alain, who was the only one who had treated her as a being in her own right, the only one she had been able to talk to, with her father in a world of his own, and an aunt who continually scolded her. She realised now how Alain had taken pity on her. She sighed. As Iris had cuttingly put it, she was a big girl now. She felt immensely sad. She had never envisaged a time when he would turn her away. It was like someone in your own family telling you to go away, that they no longer need you; and it hurt, it hurt very much.

  She had just turned off the main road into the lane leading to the village, when she saw the car. There was no mistaking the bright red of his sports car. She knew he must have seen her, too, but she carried on as if she had not seen him. He had often accused her of daydreaming and said she was getting as bad as her father, particularly when they had an argument—he would think she was daydreaming now, she thought as she drove on through the village.

  There was a lump in Megan's throat as she neared her home. There had been no hooting to bring her out of her daydream and make her realise he was home. He must have been relieved that she hadn't spotted him. Iris had been right; she hadn't really believed it, but what had just happened was confirmation enough.

  Part of her understood. Alain was twenty-seven and would soon be starting to think about settling down. He was the last of his line and would naturally hope to have children. If he were courting, he would not want Megan around. Was it Iris? She shrugged. She could not see that as a successful association. Iris, was a beauty, there was no denying that, but she lacked a sense of humour and took herself too seriously. Well, whoever it was, Megan thought crossly, she wished he'd get it over with and settle down; things then might start to get back to normal.

  Letting herself into the house, she went through to the kitchen to prepare the midday meal. Only a snack was required as her father preferred to have the main meal of the day in the evening. Mrs. Jackson came in to do this; her aunt had arranged this when she had married, and the arrangement had never been altered. A morning help was also provided, a chore Megan could have taken on, but her father had thought she had enough to do in the secretarial line and argued that they could afford it.

  As she watched the toast, it occurred to Megan that this argument no longer applied. The last manuscript had been rejected, accompanied by a long letter from the publishers regretting their decision not to

  accept his latest work. His previous book had not sold the required amount to make publication profitable, etc. The trouble now was finding a publisher who handled the type of work Mr. Shaw specialised in. As an historian he was hardly apt to produce a bestseller. There had been a steady sale of his work in the past, but things were getting tighter in the commercial world, as everywhere else, and the likelihood of finding another publisher was very slim indeed. The manuscript was now doing the rounds of likely firms, and Megan had got to the point of dreading the post these days, for all too often it would be returned.

  She sighed as she buttered the toast. Everything seemed to happen at once. A few weeks before the publisher's letter arrived, another letter containing even more daunting news landed on Mr. Shaw's desk. A firm he had invested in heavily had crashed overnight and little could be salvaged. She had broached the subject of getting a job to help out, but her father had said there was plenty of time, they had had setbacks before.

  Preparing her father's tray, Megan thought sadly of how she had planned to seek Alain's advice. Her father was no business man, and she recalled Alain's earlier doubts about this particular firm, now justified. She straightened her shoulders. Alain didn't want to know any more. She would have to tackle this on her own.

  After lunch, she settled down in the guest room that he had converted into an office for her as the typing disturbed her father's concentration. As she typed away, she wondered if the history of the fells would fare any better than its predecessor, but very much doubted it. When she went downstairs to make a pot of tea at four o'clock, she heard voices coming from her father's study and paused as she went past. At first she thought it was Alain, and felt a surge of gladness, but as she listened to the different intonations she felt sharp disappointment. It was not Alain but someone she did not know. She moved on to the kitchen and proceeded to make the tea, adding an extra cup for the unknown visitor.

  The man talking to her father rose when she entered the study. He was dark and well-built, tallish, and in his early thirties, Megan guessed. He was also very sure of himself, she noted, as he stood waiting for the introduction while she deposited the tray on the desk.

  `This i my daughter,' Mr. Shaw said. 'Megan, we have another author in our midst. Ray Hallett, alias Vernon Hood.'

  Megan held out her hand and smiled a welcome. She had heard of Vernon Hood, who hadn't? The most successful thriller writer of the day. 'Are you here incognito?' she enquired, thinking that there had

  been no gossip in the village. It would be a topic that would set the Women's Institute alight.

  He smiled, showing even white teeth. Megan decided he was a bit too blasé for her liking, but he was extremely good-looking and would have no trouble, she thought, in attracting the opposite sex. At the thought of the unattached females in the village, between Alain and this charmer there ought to be some interesting times ahead. Megan wanted to giggle.

  He answered her question. 'At the moment, yes, and I'd like to keep it that way. However, I have no doubt the news will filter out, especially when I refuse to join local affairs.' He grinned.

  Accepting the tea Megan gave him, Mr. Shaw said, `Well, you can ask her now. I've no objection, she's been threatening to get a job for weeks.'

  Megan's brow raised as she asked whether Mr. Hallett took milk and sugar. He did, then explained, `I'm seeking secretarial help. I heard about your father and came to ask his help in getting someone.'

  Megan frowned. She didn't like being thrown at the man; for all she knew she might be entirely unsuitable. `There are agencies in Salisbury,' she said, 'I'm sure they could find someone for you.'

  Ray Hallett watched her with those knowing brown eyes of his. 'Don't you want the job ?' he asked bluntly.

  Flushing, Megan answered hurriedly, 'I only thought it fair to give you a chance to look round. You don't know
if I'll be suitable or not, do you ? And you might not like to tell me,' she added honestly.

  `Works both ways,' he said smilingly. 'You may not take to my way of working. What do you say to a trial period for both of us?'

  There was not much Megan could say to a proposition like that. It would have looked downright rude if she had refused. Whether she liked it or not, it appeared, she now had a job. A short discussion took place, and Megan was surprised at the hours he wanted her to put in—three in the morning, and two in the afternoon. The salary also shook her—she had never dreamt of earning that much a week.

  `You'll find you earn it,' Ray Hallett warned her. `I'm a bit of a slavedriver.'

  It was arranged she should start work the following Monday. He had bought The Foxes, a house two miles out of the village, and that, Megan mused, would make him Alain's nearest neighbour. She couldn't help wondering what Alain would think of him and decided they wouldn't get on. She didn't know why she was so sure about this, but she was.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SUNDAY passed quietly for Megan and her father. It was decided between them that they would not mention their money worries to Alain. Megan knew her father was a proud man. 'He'll only offer to bail us out,' he commented.

  For reasons of her own, Megan wholeheartedly agreed with this decision. Ray Hallett's offer had come as a windfall—a much-needed one. It would give them the breathing space they required until they had got over the hump. 'Mind you, Meg, if you don't like the job you say so,' advised her father. 'We'll get by. I've several publishers in mind.'

  Planting a kiss on his bald pate, Megan said, 'I'm quite looking forward to it,' which was not quite truthful, as she was dreading the first few days.