Life’s a Game

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Lexa Harvey's winter sports holiday in the Swiss Alps is all she had hoped for: crisp mountain air, the trill of skiing, and the company of her devoted fiancé, detective Connal Douglas. But Lexa had reckoned without the disconcerting presence of the enigmatic, darkly handsome Nicolas Card, Both are experience skiers in a party of beginners and are drawn together by the lure of the highest peaks. Against her will Lexa finds herself falling helplessly in love with the mysterious stranger, and he with her. Before the end of the holiday course Lexa's life has been irrevocably altered.

Release date: June 26, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

On one of the white shining crests of the nursery slopes at Wengen a girl stood poised on her skis, drawing on a pair of fur gloves. Her face, browned by the sun and with a brilliant colour whipped into her cheeks by the keen wind, was wet with snow. Her brown curls and the gay orange woollen helmet which she wore were also powdered white. She had just been down to the bottom of the slope and collided with a tall man, and they had fallen together, laughing helplessly, because both of them were experienced skiers and these gentle slopes held no terrors for either of them.

Lexa Harvey had been the first to climb back to the summit of the slope and she was still laughing as she watched the snow-caked figure of the man who, with the sides of his skis stuck into the snow, firmly plodded up toward her.

‘Slow-coach!’ she sang out.

He looked up at her with more than ordinary admiration in his eyes. She was like a slim Eastern bird with her orange cap and scarf and the neat black skiing suit which showed the exquisite curves of her young body. He called up:

‘If you mock me, my child, there’ll be another collision. Wait a moment!’

Lexa laughed again. But this time she drew her breath in rather quickly and it was not exercise alone which was responsible for the galloping of her heart.

The tall man coming up toward her was not a particular friend of hers. Merely a chance acquaintance made in the hotel, where people who gathered for winter sports became friends in an hour or a day.

Lexa always made friends quickly wherever she was. She had a charming manner which drew people to her readily. A week ago, when she had first arrived at the hotel, she had noticed this man with some interest, perhaps because he was always alone and not like the others, one of a party. And perhaps because he was so unusually tall and had a face which would at once arrest any woman’s attention. A face not definitely handsome but interesting, alive, with hard, rather bitter lips and deep-set eyes that were full of knowledge, half cynical, half melancholy.

He spoke to Lexa in the bar, one evening, when she was waiting for her party. They always had cocktails when the sun went down and the dark, bitterly cold evenings commenced. She knew that his name was Nicholas Carden; that he lived in London, loved skiing, and was a fine exponent of the art, and came out to Wengen every winter. And that was all that she did know about him.

She supposed that she ought not to be interested in him at all. She was engaged to be married and she had come out to Switzerland with her fiancé, his mother, and sister.

But somehow she and Connal had not been quite so much in tune up here in the Alps as they had been in England. Of course Lexa was at home on skis and poor old Conn could do nothing but stagger about and fall painfully, this being his first year at winter sports, which fact did not help matters between them. Lexa felt that she had neglected him shamefully. Every morning this week she had left him and Jean, his sister, to practise on these slopes while she joined the parties who went up to Scheidegg for a day’s hard skiing. And Nicholas Carden seemed to have been perpetually at her side, as expert as herself and always the most charming and attentive companion.

Last night, during a dance, Conn had shown the first spark of jealousy.

‘Nobody would think you were engaged to me,’ he had grumbled. ‘And who the devil is that tall fellow of the saturnine countenance who is always hanging round you, anyhow?’

Lexa had laughed and answered:

‘We all become friends out here, my dear old Conn. Don’t be silly.’

He had said:

‘It’s because I love you so. I just can’t bear to see another fellow look at you. However, I suppose I’ve got to get used to it. That’s the worst of choosing such an attractive young woman for my future wife.’

It had been impossible for Lexa to be cross with Conn when he said things like that, although, somehow, she had resented his jealousy. And then her own resentment had worried her because she knew in her heart that if she was as much in love with Conn as he was with her, she would like him to be possessive.

She could see him in the distance with Jean. They were holding hands, trying to steer each other over the crisp, sparkling fields of snow. Dear old Conn! He was a darling with his handsome, boyish face, blue bright eyes, and hair which had a reddish tinge to it.

Connal Douglas was a member of one of the oldest families in Scotland and typically Scottish. Staunch, steady, slow to move and act, but the type to make a wonderful friend and a loyal lover. Lexa had certainly been very much in love with him when they had become engaged two months ago. It was absurd, she thought, to doubt that she still loved him just as much. All the same, she felt that the holiday in Wengen was not the success that either of them had hoped for.

Nicholas Carden reached her side. She looked up at him and stopped thinking about Conn. That was what this strange, attractive man had been doing to her for the last week. Exercising some queer, subtle power which made her forget everything when she was with him except the man himself and what he was saying to her.

‘Sure you weren’t hurt when I ran into you?’ he asked her.

She shook her head, laughing.

‘Not in the least.’

‘I was responsible for the accident.’

‘We both were.’

‘I can’t think what we’re doing on these dull slopes, anyhow.’

‘It is boring,’ she confessed. ‘But I’m here to help my party – as you know, they aren’t very experienced on skis – and I’ve been rather selfish leaving them, and going up to Scheidegg.’

‘I’m afraid I’m glad,’ said Nicholas Carden. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have spent so many delightful hours in your charming company.’

‘You say very nice things,’ murmured Lexa.

‘Only to you.’

A deeper pink burnt Lexa’s cheeks. It was the first time he had ever paid her quite so audacious a compliment. How very tall he was! Her head barely reached his shoulder. He wore no hat. His head was black and smooth as a raven’s wing. He had a way of looking down at her through half-shut eyelids which was curiously disturbing. She felt suddenly frightened of herself, of him, of everything. She stared up at the intensely blue sky, at the fir trees and chalets on the mountain-side, crusted with shining snow, at the hotel, at the moving figures dotted all over the nursery slopes. Then her gaze picked out the familiar figure of Connal again. He was waving to her. She said quickly:

‘I must go. Good-bye.’

‘Oh, don’t go,’ said Carden quickly.

‘But I must. My – my fiancé is down there. I must join him.’

Nicholas Carden’s deep-set eyes narrowed almost to slits.

‘Ah, yes – the young Scot with the red hair. You’re engaged to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lucky man,’ said Carden softly.

Lexa laughed nervously.

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘So lucky that surely he can’t begrudge a poor lone bachelor like myself a few moments of your company?’

‘No – of course not – but –’ Lexa stammered and broke off.

The man beside her did not help her out. But his thin, bitter mouth curved into a queer smile. He thought, with secret satisfaction:

‘She isn’t really in love with her Scot –’

‘See you later,’ finished Lexa to hide her embarrassment.

‘Will you have some chocolate with me in the shop opposite the hotel?’ he said quickly. ‘At twelve o’clock?’

‘I don’t know that I can –’

‘I’ll wait there for you,’ said Nicholas Carden, and before she could speak again he thrust his ski-sticks into the snow, propelled himself forward and moved down the slopes away from her, gathering speed as he went. She looked after him, conscious of the strange grace of the man and his movements, despite his height. A little angrily she dug her own ski-sticks into the snow and skimmed down toward Connal and Jean. Really, Mr. Carden was absurd. How could he expect her to go and have chocolate with him? He should realise that she was with a party – that she must stay with Conn. But the brilliant expression which had transformed a pretty girl into a ravishingly beautiful woman when Nicholas Carden spoke to her, faded once she reached the side of the man whom she had promised to marry. She was quiet, preoccupied.

‘Hullo, Conn. Hullo, Jean,’ she said. ‘How are you getting on?’

Jean Douglas, a red-haired, plump, cheerful girl of nineteen and two years Lexa’s junior, grinned at her.

‘Oh, Lexa, it’s awful! I can’t stand up. I’m bruised in every part of my body.’

‘It’ll do her good,’ said Connal. ‘Get some of the fat down.’

‘Brute,’ said Jean.

‘You’ll soon learn,’ said Lexa.

‘So you say,’ said Connal. ‘But believe me, darling, my next holiday is going to be on my two feet and not on skis. I can’t stand up on the beastly things any better than Jean. How you skim down these dizzy heights like a bird, lord knows.’

‘Don’t forget I used to come to winter sports with Daddy when I was a child.’

‘Well, I’m no good,’ said Connal morosely and pulled a pipe from his tunic pocket and stuck it between white, strong teeth. ‘I think I’ll give it up and take to curling.’

‘Oh, Conn, don’t let it beat you!’ said Lexa.

He lit his pipe and looked at her quizzically through the cloud of smoke.

‘You’ve got plenty of fellows to escort you round the dizzy heights, my sweet.’

‘But we’ve come out here to be together, she said.

He pitched a burnt match into the snow, put out a hand, and squeezed her arm. His blue, frank eyes were soft.

‘Darling! But I don’t want to spoil your fun. You know how to ski – you must carry on.’

‘Wasn’t that Mr. Carden who was with you just now?’ put in Jean. ‘He skis so well and I do think he’s attractive, don’t you, Lexa?’

‘Hm!’ said Lexa, and her thick lashes suddenly veiled her wide grey eyes from Connal. But he with the swiftness and intuition of a man in love saw her expression before she could veil it from him. For a moment everything went black before him. He thought:

‘My God, does she find him so attractive?’

Then Lexa’s gay, sweet voice said:

‘Would you like to skate for a bit, Conn, my dear?’

His vision cleared. He told himself not to be a jealous fool. He looked at his wrist-watch and said:

‘It’s a quarter to twelve. Think I’ll go in and find mother.’

‘I’ll come,’ said Jean. ‘I’m exhausted.’

‘I’ll come too,’ said Lexa, but she found herself thinking: ‘Nicholas Carden will be waiting for me in the chocolate shop –’

‘You like being out the whole morning – I shouldn’t come in yet if I were you,’ said Connal.

‘Well, perhaps another few minutes –’ said Lexa.

Brother and sister took off their skis, shouldered them, and moved away together arm-in-arm. Lexa stood still for a moment. A child in a red suit came skimming down the slopes in front of her like a small bright bird, screaming:

‘Achtung.’

Lexa’s grey eyes followed her fiancé’s figure until it was lost from view. And then – with a queer fatalistic look in her eyes – she skimmed over the snow reaching the main street ahead of Connal and Jean, and made her way to the shop where she knew Nicholas Carden was waiting.

In the chocolate shop, Carden sat at a small table smoking, watching the crowds pass by the window, watching and waiting for the figure of the only woman he had ever met who had made him regret that he was a bachelor. Why Lexa Harvey attracted him so vitally he did not know. But the attraction was there, and because other women in his life had meant so little, Lexa, was beginning to mean too much. She was engaged. He knew perfectly well that he ought to ‘lay off,’ as the Americans called it, because of that Scottish fiancé of hers. But he had never been very scrupulous, and when he wanted a thing he took it. He was not going to even try to fight against his desire for Lexa Harvey just because she belonged to somebody else.

When he saw her enter the shop he gave a slow, satisfied smile and rose to greet her.

Lexa looked at him feeling rather like a naughty child who has run out of bounds.

He found her altogether delicious. She had removed her cap and the nut-brown curls, wet with snow, framed the vivid young face charmingly! She had the most beautiful and expressive mouth he had ever seen. The touch of rouge, accentuating the perfect bow, was the only make-up she used.

‘Nice of you to come,’ he murmured and ordered chocolate for them both.

Later, when Lexa was stirring a little mountain of whipped cream into the rich sweet liquid in her cup, Nicholas Carden looked at her across the table and said:

‘Did you ask permission before you came?’

‘No,’ she said a little angrily. ‘Of course not.’

‘I thought perhaps you were so old-fashioned that you wouldn’t do this sort of thing without asking leave.’

‘I’m not married yet, you know,’ said Lexa.

Nicholas Carden’s thin lips took on their most sardonic curve.

‘Once you’re married, do you intend to remain firmly attached to the side of your lord and master?’

Her cheeks flamed. There was something rather insolent about this man and she wanted to rebuke him, and yet could find no words.’ At last she said:

‘You sound as though the whole thing is a sort of joke.’

He raised his brows.

‘What’s a joke?’

‘My – my engagement and marriage. You laugh at everything – sneer at everybody –’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s just my way.’

‘You are cynical.’

‘Perhaps. I look upon life as a game.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ said Lexa. ‘I think it’s very serious.

‘It becomes more serious when I look at you,’ he said on a changed voice. ‘And I wouldn’t laugh at you for anything in the world.’

She hastily sipped her chocolate and burnt the tip of her tongue in the effort. This man had a way of embarrassing her which she found both disturbing and frightening yet curiously exciting, too.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ came his slow, rather husky voice. ‘Don’t be cross with me.’

‘I’m not cross.’

‘Then tell me about yourself. Why are you called Lexa? It’s a most unusual and intriguing name.’

‘It was my mother’s name. She was Russian – it’s really short for Alexia.’

‘Ah!’ said Nicholas softly. ‘So you’re half Russian! That accounts for a lot.’

‘For what?’

‘Your personality – the shape of your face – your walk. You’re much too vivid, too brilliant, too graceful to be wholly English. You have the rather high cheek-bones of the Slav – and just something which shows your Russian blood in spite of your English colouring.’

Lexa gave a nervous little laugh and bent over her chocolate again. This man was very observant of every detail. Not like Conn. It wouldn’t enter Conn’s head to talk about the contour of her cheek-bones or the grace of her figure. He might think these things, but he hadn’t the power of expression.

‘I don’t believe you’re wholly English, yourself,’ at length she said, looking up at Carden.

‘No, I’m not. Perhaps my Christian name suggests something to you.’

‘Nicholas is Russian.’

‘Yes. I, too, had a Russian mother.’

‘Oh!’ breathed Lexa. ‘How queer! So we have that in common.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and added: ‘I knew there was something.’

They talked earnestly, forgetting that time was slipping by and that the chocolate was growing cold. He wanted to know everything about her, and she told him what little there was. Her life on the whole had been uneventful. Her mother had died while she was still at school. Her father had retired from the Army, and a maiden aunt had brought her up. Her time had been divided between boarding-school, a London house, and a shooting-box in Scotland which her father used to visit religiously as soon as grouse-shooting began.

She had been fond of him, and his death last year had been a great grief to her. But it was the clever, beautiful Russian mother, whom she missed most and had loved passionately.

She could rarely talk about her mother as she talked, now, to Nicholas Carden. But she felt that he, with the same wild blood running in his veins, would understand.

‘I can look back now,’ Lexa said, ‘and remember how unhappy mother was. She married my father because he was so much in love with her, and he never left her until she said “yes.” But their temperaments clashed. He was the typical British sportsman. She was all fire and poetry – and a little tragic. She used to tell me wonderful stories of St. Petersburg before the war and the court of the Czar. She used to weep over me. She just never fitted in with English life, poor darling, and finally she died of pneumonia when I was thirteen and a half.’

‘And you,’ said Carden, ‘have more of your mother than your father in you. You, too, are full of fire and poetry.’

Lexa gave a nervous little laugh.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I was brought up by Daddy and Aunt Grace and given a very English education.’

‘And now you’re going to do what your mother did and marry a very English man.’

‘Scottish,’ she corrected him.

‘Is that going to satisfy you?’

She suddenly caught her breath.

‘Oh – I – why not?’ she stammered.

Nicholas Carden sat back in his chair and gave his most sardonic smile.

‘Never mind. Tell me more about yourself.’

‘There’s nothing more to tell. I met Conn when we were up in Keith last August.’

‘He lives in Scotland?’

‘No, in London. His father is a Judge. You may know the name – Robertson Douglas.’

‘Ah!’ said Nicholas under his breath. ‘Justice Robertson Douglas, eh? Yes, I know quite a lot about him.’

‘And Conn is in the C.I.D. He’s frightfully keen – it’s a queer profession, but he always wanted to be a detective and everybody thinks he’ll become quite a famous one. He’s done some useful work for Scotland Yard already.’

Nicholas Carden sat still. The sardonic grin had gone. His face looked as though it was carved out of granite. But he said quietly:

‘So the Scottish fiancé is in the C.I.D., is he? As you say, it’s a queer profession.’

‘And what about you? You haven’t told me anything about yourself.’

The thin brown face of the man retained . . .