Leopard In The Snow. Anne Mather

      “You could. You could have died out there – in the snow.” His voice was low-pitched and for a moment Helen felt a tingle of remembered apprehension. “It was very foolish of you to let no one know where you were going. Don’t you realise that your car could have been buried for days before anyone found it – or you? Tell me, why was it so important that you should get away?”

      Helen felt indignant. “I don’t think that’s any business of yours.”

      “Nonetheless, I am curious. Satisfy the curiosity of one who no longer inhabits the world you come from.”

      Helen stared at him. What a strange thing to say! Surely even the remoteness of this district in winter did not cut one off completely from the outside world. Unless one chose it to be so … She shook her head.

      “My father wants to run my life for me,” she said slowly. “But I’m twenty-two – and possibly too independent, as you implied. We – disagreed over a small matter.”

      “I don’t think it can have been such a small matter to bring you more than two hundred miles in the depths of winter, Miss James, but never mind. I respect your desire to keep your personal affairs private.”

      Helen’s mouth turned down at the corners. It was hardly a concession. Leaning forward to replace her empty cup on the tray, she said: “And you? Don’t you find it lonely living here, miles from anywhere, with only Bolt for company?”

      The man’s thick lashes veiled his eyes. “I’m a most uninteresting individual, Miss James. Can I offer you more tea?”

      Helen declined, pressing her lips together impatiently. “Why are you avoiding answering me?” she demanded.

      “Was I doing that?” His tone was mild, but his tawny eyes were watchful.

      “You know you were.” Helen sighed, a frown drawing her dark brows together. “I know your face from somewhere. I’m almost sure I’ve seen you before – either in the flesh or on film!”

      “You’re very flattering,” he mocked. “Isn’t that usually the male’s prerogative?”

      Helen was annoyed to find that he could embarrass her. It was a new experience for her. “You know what I mean. I have seen your face before, haven’t I?”

      The man seemed bored by her assumption. He rose abruptly to his feet, pausing a moment to rub his thigh as though it pained him. Then he walked with his uneven gait across to the long windows and drew heavy wine-coloured velvet curtains over the frosted panes. Helen saw, in those moments before the world outside was hidden from view, that it was already dark and the driving flakes of snow filled her with a disturbing sense of remoteness. She should have asked for help in starting her car again instead of accepting the man’s hospitality, whoever he was, she thought uneasily. With his directions, surely she could have driven to some small hotel or guest house. But she soon dismissed these thoughts from her mind. She was being ridiculously fanciful in imagining that there was anything sinister in the assistance being offered to her, and besides, she ought to be grateful – he had virtually saved her life!

      He turned back to her. “Bolt shouldn’t be long with your cases, then he’ll show you where you’re to sleep, Miss James. I have an evening meal at about eight o’clock. I trust you’ll join me.”

      Helen shifted in her seat, a feeling of irritation replacing apprehension. He was clearly determined not to answer her questions. Her sudden movements caused the cheetah to raise its head and stare at her. The eyes turned in her direction were curiously like its master’s, and tales of witches and warlocks and their familiars flashed through her brain. Who was this man who lived in such splendid isolation – who walked with a limp – who kept a wild beast for company? She had an absurd notion that she must have succumbed to the cold and collapsed out there in the snow and this was some fantastic nightmare preluding death …

      She started violently at the horrific twist of her thoughts and the cheetah allowed a low growl to escape from its powerful throat. The man came towards them then, murmuring reassuringly to the animal, his eyes on Helen’s troubled countenance.

      “Is something wrong, Miss James?” he enquired, his voice as soft as velvet with an underlying thread of steel.

      Helen shook her head, looking almost desperately about the lamplit room. It was a most attractive room, she had to admit, and not at all the sort of surroundings to inspire unease. It had a masculine austerity, an absence of anything frivolous, but that was only to be expected. There were hunting trophies on the panelled walls, swords in their scabbards and antique guns, and several pieces of ornamental design which Helen recognised as being valuable. The room gave an impression of quiet quality and distinction, and although some of the appointments bore the marks of well-use, they did not detract from its air of comfortable elegance. Whoever he was, he was not a poor man, but why he should choose to live as he did was beyond her comprehension. Was he a painter, a sculptor, an artist of some sort? Who else desired such a solitary existence?

      And then a framed photograph on the wall behind the bureau caught her eye. She couldn’t distinguish every detail from where she was sitting, particularly in this shadowy light, but what she could see was enough to realise that it was the blown-up picture of a car smash, a violent pile-up of men and machinery that churned up the road and threw fragments of metal into the dust-choked air. It was not a coloured photograph, but its perception was such that the ugliness and savagery of the crash were brutally unmistakable.

      Her shocked gaze shifted to the man who was now standing so stiffly beside the couch. The tawny eyes were hard and narrowed and she knew he had intercepted her revealing concentration on the photograph. She also knew why he was suddenly so aloof. He had guessed that her earlier suspicions regarding his identity were suspicions no longer. He had been one of the drivers involved in that ghastly crash. But it had been no ordinary pile-up. It had taken place about six years ago, on the Nurburgring in Germany …

      “I know who you are,” she said, slowly, wonderingly. She got to her feet. “You’re – Dominic Lyall, the racing driver!”

      The stiffness went out of his lean body and he leant against the back of the couch, supporting himself with his palms on the braided tapestry cushions. “I am Dominic Lyall, yes,” he conceded wryly. “But I’m no longer a racing driver.”

      “But you were.” Helen stared at him. “I remember my father talking about you. He admired you tremendously before – before –”

      “Before the crash?” His tone was bitter. “I know.”

      “But he thought – I mean –” She broke off, her brows drawn together in perplexity. “It was generally assumed – well, you disappeared. My father said – lots of people said –” She moved her shoulders uncomfortably, leaving the words unsaid.

      “It was thought that I was dead?” He was ironic. “Oh, yes, I’m quite aware of that rumour. My injuries were extensive, and it suited me to foster such a belief. There’s nothing more pathetic than a fallen idol who still tries to hog the limelight.”

      “But it wasn’t like that,” Helen protested. “The crash was a terrible accident. No one was to blame. The publicity –”

      “Did I say I blamed myself?” he interrupted her, his voice cool and cynical.

      “No. No, but –” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “My father was such a fan of yours. He still has some pictures of you in his study. And there were thousands of others like him. Do you think it was fair to allow them to assume that you were dead?”

      Dominic Lyall straightened, one long brown hand massaging his hip. “Do you think I’m not entitled to any privacy simply because for a time I lived in the public eye, Miss James?”

      Helen didn’t know how to answer him. “I wouldn’t presume to make judgements, Mr. Lyall. All I’m saying is that it seems a pity that a talent such as yours should be denied to other aspiring drivers.”

      His