The late afternoon sun was pale and golden and the tall maritime conifers which lined the coastal road leading to the hotel gave the place a very European flavour.
But Drew’s words came back to haunt her as she approached the hotel. This had been where Marco had brought her. Where she, foolish girl that she had been, had sealed her fate—her head turned by expensive wine and extravagant gestures.
Yet she had passively agreed to let Drew book her a room here, without bothering to challenge his assertion that she wouldn’t find one anywhere else. Was that simply because she was exhausted from travelling, or because she had always found the force of his character too much to withstand? Maybe he thought that a night at the Westward would unsettle her enough to make her leave as abruptly as she had arrived.
She eased her foot off the accelerator, seriously tempted to go and search out a place advertising bed and breakfast.
But a little B and B was bound to have a curious landlady. Someone who might know her, and her history. At least this place was big enough to provide the privacy and the solitude she craved—if only for tonight, until her turbulent emotions had settled themselves down.
She drove in through the gates of the Westward and parked the car, immediately noticing how the surrounding grounds had been spruced up. The gardens and flower-beds didn’t just look immaculate—they looked as if they’d been lovingly re-created by someone with an instinctive eye for colour and harmony.
The hotel had been built as a private home at the end of the last century and stood overlooking the bay, silhouetted against the intense light which glittered in off the sea. It had always been an impressive building, but its star had been on the wane when Shelley had left.
Now she could see that money and love had clearly been lavished on it since her last visit—for the once crumbling brickwork had been righted, the paintwork replenished, and tired-looking guttering replaced.
It would not have looked out of place in any of the most upmarket European resorts, she decided as she carried her bags into the main hall, where the light spilled rich, royal colours through stained glass onto the polished wood floor.
The woman behind the reception desk looked up and smiled and Shelley was even more taken aback. Even the receptionists seemed to have had a revamp! This one had dark, glossy red hair and the luminous pale skin which sometimes accompanied it—accentuated by the iris-blue suit she was wearing. She looked about the same age as Shelley but there all similarity ended—because her well-groomed serenity couldn’t have provided more of a contrast to the crumpled sight that Shelley must have made.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘I’m Shelley Turner,’ she answered, wondering why she found herself suddenly feeling ever so slightly intimidated. She was used to quiet luxury. She looked around. There was no sign of Drew, and she didn’t know whether to be glad or sad. Should she mention him by name? ‘Did a man—?’ Now how stupid did that sound? ‘I believe someone may have tried to reserve a room for me?’
‘Yes, they did, Miss Turner,’ said the woman smoothly, without even bothering to look down at her reservation list. ‘You’re in the Lilac Suite. Shall I have someone take you straight up there?’
‘Suite?’ Shelley squeaked. The Westward had gone decidedly upmarket if it was now providing suites! ‘I didn’t want a suite! Nothing grand—just a room for the night, that’s all.’
‘I’m afraid that was the only one available.’ The woman shrugged apologetically. ‘Of course, if there’s a problem with that, I can speak to—’
‘No, there’s no problem.’ She was dying to ask for a price list, but didn’t dare. She’d stayed in enough plush places with Marco to know that if you had to ask how much something cost, then that implied you couldn’t afford it! And, no matter how much it cost to stay at the Westward, she could certainly afford one night.
The woman gave a polite, professional smile. ‘Then I’ll have someone show you upstairs, shall I, Miss Turner?’
‘Yes, please.’
A porter took her bags and led the way up the curving staircase and right along to the end of a portrait-strewn corridor, where he flung open a pair of double doors. Shelley peered over his shoulder and became aware of a room which was softly glowing in pale shades of pinkish-violet. Slinky, sensuous and decadently sumptuous. She blinked.
This? In Milmouth?
‘The Lilac Suite, miss.’
She fumbled around for a tip.
‘That’s very kind of you, miss. Will you be wanting anything else?’
‘Not at the moment, thanks. What time is dinner?’