CHAPTER 1
A missile thudded on to the blackboard above Miss Sandra Clemow's head as she was writing on the classroom backboard and bounced to drop into her hair -- today the color was red.
Sandra turned and as expected all heads were studiously down and with these kids that was as rare as snow in mid-May.
"Close you books and look out the window and compose something in your minds that could possible amount to literary thoughts," she said, and sat on her chair and sulked. Her students failed to comprehend her mood and that was not surprising as they failed to comprehend many things. Most of them looked apprehensive.
Sandra, a New Zealander who'd taught English in several international schools for ex-pats, mostly American, had been head-hunted by an exclusive girl's school in Boston to fill a difficult to fill post -- a teacher of Victorian literature -- and had accepted the post because American residency privileges came with the position. She'd met the two-year condition to stay in that position tagged to her appointment when a new head mistress arrived and one of the several changes made to the curriculum was the elimination of Victorian literature. Sandra was transferred to the Math and Science Department under protest so resigned. And now, on this morning at the horror school in New York where she'd struggled to teach American contemporary literature to bottom-level students who's interest in the subject bordered on zero, Sandra decided she'd had America and would hitch across the country to LA and catch an aircraft home.
The experience in crossing the vast terrain had been astonishing colorful and interesting with some mini side-adventures and only a couple of nasty scares. She usually only hitched with mid-aged to elderly women but one could not always be choosy. This was one such occasion as it was hot, she was dripping and no one else had stopped for her.
Sandra stood at the open window ready to run.
"Yes, I am heading for LA."
"Well get in, this is your lucky day," said the suited dude with no tie. He looked arrogant and his suit was expensive as was his vehicle. "I have a beer in the cooler -- great day for a cold beer."
Sandra occasionally drank beer but this was a set-up for unwelcome attention, she was being lured. How did she know, well she didn't know did she? It had to be all about trust. Or the absence or erosion of it.
He had lovely green eyes. God girl, men with green eyes went after vulvas uninvited.
"No, I'm not married -- I'm divorced -- and I don't go to church or possess some sort of good conduct card. Yes I drink and play poker and I seduce women. But hear this: I don't molest women and anyway you look sweaty and therefore not for me. If you are coming you'll sit on a rug and stay away from me -- this suit is expensive. Get it?"
Sandra opened the door. Clearly the guy was interested more in his suit than in her.
The guy opened the trunk by remote. "My name is Nick and yours is...?"
"Sandra."
"Well Sandra, toss your pack into the trunk and fetch a couple of beers from the chiller unit."
"You're not permitted to drink and drive."
"I'll toss one back while parked here. Get it?"
"Yes, but you could toss in the word please?"
"Please, please, please Sandra. A beer before I expire. I'm not carrying water."
"But I am."
"Don't fuck up for me Sandra. I desire and long, flavorsome sip of quality beer."
"Yes sir, coming right up sir."
"Cut the sarcasm otherwise I'll begin liking you. Usually I have beautiful blonde women around me with brains the size of peas."
"Either that or they anticipate you expect them to be like that and be ready to open their legs."
"We have 200 miles to go Sandra and already I sense you and I am going to have some deep conversations. I like it. But right now get the fucking beers, PLEASE."
Well, well, she thought. A green-eyed smart-ass with a bit of character and unlike many Americans used the F-word normally in conversation. Handsome, well-heeled and possibly not a menace. This could be fun and he might take her around Hollywood if she was lovely to him; how lovely would depend how well he measured up.
The beer dripped down her throat like liquid gold. Sandra was sure no women's drink tasted that good, given the environment, and told him that.
Nick laughed and said good thinking. "I can think of another environment when a woman's drink comes to the fore -- a half-finished jug of Martini, soft music and dim lights when, as you put it, a woman is about to open her legs for me."
Sandra blushed and wished she'd not been so cheeky like that to a total stranger but he moved on instead of pressing for a comment.
"Your American is patchy, are you English?"
"No, try getting that brain of yours working." God, there she was being cheeky again.
"Australian?"
Sandra was quite surprised. "Actually next-door, New Zealand. Do you know it?"
"Never been there but we supply product there."
At the casual way he said product Sandra wondered if he meant sex aids.
"To the Canterbury City Council in fact."
"You mean the Christchurch City Council in Canterbury."
He grinned and finished his beer and went to toss it out the window.
"Don't you dare, our precious land is not to be used as a refuse dump. Hand that to me -- and that stupid childish test about my knowledge of New Zealand was pathetic. Go check my rear outside pocket in my backpack where you'll find my American and New Zealand passports establishing my identity."
"Sorry. You are aware I picked you up, so am certain of nothing about you."
"God, how can you be apologetic and offensive in the same sentence?"
Nick started the car and grinned, "This is going to be one hell of a road run to LA."
They talked and talked with a great many laughs and Sandra knew Nick was taking a more than casual interest in her and once he even reached across and gently stroked her cheek without saying anything. Very strange.
As they began descending on the last leg towards the carpet of bright lights Sandra, exhausted from three weeks on the road, fell asleep. She stirred when she felt herself being carried and then Nick's reassuring voice telling her to sleep on.
Sandra awoke in the morning and stared at the ornate ceiling. She was in a hotel.
There was a knock at the door and she said brightly, "Come in."
A middle-aged woman entered followed by a woman about twenty-eight, Sandra's age, carrying a breakfast tray.
"This is lovely. Where is Mr...um?"
"Mr Love ma'am. He goes to work at 6:00. Pass Miss Sandra her tray Belinda. We apologize for the use of your first name but Mr Love had forgotten your surname."
"Men have a habit of doing that, don't they?" Sandra laughed and thought the women looked horrified.
"I'm Mrs Roberts and Belinda is Miss Rice and I assure you Mr Love doesn't forget names. Obviously he has entered into a relationship with you without knowing your name."
"I did invite him to read my passports."
"You have more than one passport? Are you a special agent?"
"No, I'm a hitchhiker. Please tell me the name of this hotel?"
Both women looked at her disbelievingly.
"It's Crago Mansion, Miss Sandra, Mr Love's home and you are in the Princess room in the guest wing. Mr Love has brought home, countless women -- we are too polite to count -- since his marital break-up and none have ever been invited to stay the full night and none have ever seen the Princess room. Please take this envelope and buy clothes. Belinda will accompany if you wish; she is very modern and knows all about style."
"Thank you Belinda, yes please. What on earth is this -- it's hundreds of dollars?"
"My instructions were to give your $3000 to spend on clothes and to get a lot done to your hair. Miss Sandra, you are either a special agent or a dispossessed princess. There can be no other explanation. None at all."
"What an arrogant tart," Sandra snapped and when Belinda moved to smother a laugh Sandra said kindly, "Loosen up when you're with me Belinda. Now tell me what's this all about?"
"You were in a state of exhaustion when Mr Love brought you in last night."
"I was travel weary, long, long days on the road and tramping off to see some of the natural sights. So why am I here?"
Belinda colored and said she'd rather not say.
"Come on Belinda, cough up. I don't have to slap you around do I? Er, that's me just kidding."
"The only explanation I have is Mr Love is besotted with you. You must have pleased him enormously."
"Belinda, I can tell you I don't think I'm anything exceptional at sex and I deny I've had sex with Mr Love, er Nick. Although I was deeply asleep, when I woke up I would have known somebody had had sex with me, wouldn't I?"
"This conversation is making me nervous."
"Belinda, I need someone around me I can trust. If you were asleep, even drunk, and were shafted you'd know when you woke up? The truth please."
"It's happened twice and I knew -- I had to clean up and walked with that familiar slightly stretched feeling."
"Exactly. Do you believe my denial?"
"Absolutely."
Belinda was asked to make a hair appointment but when drying Sandra's back after the guest emerged from the bath said Sandra might have to wait days for an appointment time.
"Call a salon and say you wish to make a time for today for a hair restyling and re-coloring for Mr Nick Love's sister. Give the phone number. They'll say they'll get back to you as they will wish to check out the phone number."
"But this is improper."
"Just a teeny lie Belinda but I'm not going to tell Nick how I managed to get a same-day hair appointment and you're not and as sure as hell the salon is not going to phone him to say they'll done his sister's hair."
"Very well but it won't work."
