Little Pink Taxi Page 3

  She fussed over the cushions again. ‘Perform.’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled, but it was so brief she thought she’d imagined it.

  ‘Over the years, this bed has proved a steady source of income for the McBrides. Any man whose virility was in need of a little … push could bring his wife here for a fee – a jar of whisky, a brace of pheasants, a good-sized salmon. Every mark on the bedposts represents a successful night.’

  She rearranged the cushions for the third time. ‘When he inherited the castle from his uncle, Geoff carried on with the tradition. We organise weddings here now, and people come a long way to … ahem … stay, in this bed.’

  ‘I’d be curious to read how you phrase your adverts,’ he said.

  Was it her imagination or were his lips twitching again?

  ‘We don’t need to advertise. In fact, Geoff doesn’t do any advertising. He can’t stand the press, and never allows photographers on the grounds. We get most of our guests from word of mouth.’

  She gasped as a thought crossed her mind. ‘I hope you’re not offended Lorna gave you this room. It’s not at all because she thought you needed … you know … extra help with …’

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was making a mess of this. ‘What I mean is that you were given this room because it has an en suite and the view over the loch is stunning, that’s all.’

  She opened her eyes and found him looking at her, deadly serious. Oh no, he was offended.

  ‘The bathroom is through there,’ she said quickly, pointing at the door in the corner of the room. ‘You’ll have to be patient with the shower, it’s a little unreliable. Now, I’ll let you get settled, and start on supper.’

  He put his leather holdall on the bed. ‘You don’t have to cook anything special for me. A salad or soup and a sandwich will be more than enough.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, really. Lorna prepared everything already. All I have to do is switch the oven on.’ And even she could manage that.

  She was acutely aware of his gaze following her as she walked out and couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief when she closed the door. Pressing her hands against her hot cheeks, she ran down the main staircase to the ground floor, then down the service stairs to the kitchen.

  She put the potato gratin and the venison stew in the oven, then laid out slices of smoked salmon on a platter together with buttered wholemeal bread and slices of lemon. Finally she uncorked a bottle of white wine and another of red. Hopefully the food and the wine would make him amenable and help him forget her faux pas about the bed.

  She piled up plates, cutlery and glasses on a tray, ready to take up to the dining room. The elegant oak-panelled room always impressed guests.

  ‘Can we not eat here?’ Petersen’s voice made her jump.

  ‘We never entertain guests in the kitchen,’ she objected.

  He had changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved dark grey jumper that made his shoulders look even broader than his coat and suit. He must have conquered the shower because his hair was damp and she breathed in the faint scent of lemon soap as he came closer.

  He sat at the table and poured some white wine out into the glasses. ‘I’m not a guest, remember?’

  She tightened her mouth. ‘So you say.’

  He held out a glass for her. She took it, her resolutions to be patient all but forgotten. ‘Can you at least tell me if the sale has been completed? Did you buy the whole estate or just the castle? What about the furniture and the artwork? There are many valuable paintings, hundreds of old books in the library, and lots of personal possessions.’ Not to mention her mother’s things, the memories, the laughter, and the echo of voices from the past.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupted coldly, ‘I can’t discuss any of McBride’s business with you. It would be unprofessional.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Santé.’

  Her anger flared again. ‘I do have a right to know what’s going on. I told you before, this is where I grew up, and where I live and where—’

  He pointed to the oven behind her. ‘Something’s burning.’

  She turned and her heart sank as clouds of smoke billowed out of the glass door. ‘Oh no!’ She slipped her hands into oven gloves before pulling out the gratin and the stew.

  ‘I might as well throw everything in the bin right now.’ She shook her head in disgust at the charred food. Lorna had probably spent hours preparing tonight’s meal and she’d ruined it. What’s more, there went her cunning plan to soften Petersen up with good food.

  ‘It’s only a few burned potatoes,’ he said, ‘and I’m hungry.’

  She looked up. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. Shall we have the starter?’

  They sat down and helped themselves to slices of smoked salmon. Rosalie nibbled at her food, drank a little wine and watched as he ate. The man had spoken the truth. He was hungry. He devoured most of the salmon and buttered bread in a few minutes.

  ‘How long have you been a taxi driver?’ he asked, when he had finished.

  ‘Four years next spring.’

  ‘That long? I wouldn’t think it was the kind of job anyone would enjoy doing for any length of time, especially a young woman.’

  She stiffened. ‘It’s a great job, the best job I’ve ever had, in fact – not that I’ve had many – and the only one I want.’

  ‘What’s with your boss’s pink obsession?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He smiled. It was a real smile this time. It warmed his eyes and softened the angles of his face. ‘Why does your boss insist on you dressing like a giant marshmallow and driving a pink taxi?’

  She narrowed her eyes and put her glass carefully on the pine table.

  ‘I happen to like pink very much.’

  His shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. ‘Nobody can like being around that much pink. And that name, Love Taxis, must make your life very difficult. I suspect you must get a lot of nuisance calls.’

  She took hold of her fork and gripped the handle so hard her knuckles went white. ‘For your information I don’t have a boss. I run Love Taxis. The colour and the name were my idea.’ Much as she hated having to explain herself, she carried on. ‘I wanted to make people smile, bring a little cheer and happiness around here.’

  Petersen swirled the pale gold wine in his glass. ‘Pink for Rosalie, and Love for Heart. I get it.’ He looked up. ‘So you run the business? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. How many drivers do you have?’

  ‘One full-time, Duncan, plus me. I hire an extra driver during the tourist season.’

  ‘Does Duncan have to wear baby pink too?’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course not. Any pink will do.’

  He reclined on his chair and looked at the woman in front of him. Something was niggling at him – something about Rosalie Heart’s cab company.

  She stood up and collected the empty platter. ‘Will you try the stew and the gratin now?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She proceeded to place the two steaming hot dishes on the table, and started piling dried up meat and charred potatoes onto his plate. When it was as high as a molehill, he held his hand up.

  ‘I think that will do. Thank you.’

  ‘You said you were hungry and I need to get rid of the evidence. If Lorna sees the food in the bin, she’ll know I burnt it and she’ll be upset.’

  ‘I promise I won’t tell her.’ He bit into the meat, winced, then tried the potato gratin. It was dry and topped by a layer of cheese as tough as rubber, but he soldiered on.

  ‘I noticed you had an office in the stable block,’ he said, after a few mouthfuls.

  ‘That’s right. When Geoff lent me the money to start up my business four years ago, he had the stable block renovated for me.’ Rosalie smiled. ‘He lets me have the stable block free of charge, both for my office and a living space upstairs.’

  She chewed on her food for a minute and carried on. ‘To tell the truth, I don’t often use the flat. I
usually stay here, in my old room. I don’t really use the office either since Love Taxis’ main office is in Irlwick. It’s where the switchboard is, you see, and where my two part-time operators, Fiona and Fergus, work. That building belongs to the estate too. Geoff is the most generous man I’ve ever met. I only repay him what I can, when I can. Without him, I certainly couldn’t carry on.’

  ‘So Geoff – or rather, the Raventhorn estate – owns a share in Love Taxis?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not a share. The lot! I haven’t managed to repay him very much so far.’

  He studied her across the table. So he’d been right. Things were getting complicated.

  She looked at him, narrowed her eyes. ‘Why are you so interested in my cab company?’

  He didn’t answer but followed the play of emotions in her eyes as the truth dawned on her.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Now you’ve bought the estate,’ she said, ‘you also own Love Taxis, and you will close me down if I can’t repay my loan.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Of course he would close her down, whether she could repay the loan or not. That’s what he was here for. To put the estate in order and sell up what could be sold for a profit. The sooner he told her, the sooner she had time to get used to the idea.

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Rosalie stood up, and crossed her arms. ‘What exactly are you, Mr Petersen?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Her question shot straight to his heart and he spoke French without thinking. He’d asked himself that very same question far too often recently.

  ‘I mean, what business are you in?’

  He took a few moments to consider his answer. ‘Buying and selling property, mainly. My father and I buy failing businesses, factories, department stores, hotels …’ Realising he was talking about his father in the present tense, he stopped and reached out for his glass.

  He drank a sip of wine and carried on. ‘If we can, we turn them round before selling them on. If we can’t, we close them down and strip their assets.’

  ‘To make money.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why Raventhorn Castle? It’s not a business.’

  ‘I wasn’t party to the original deal with McBride, so I don’t know what attracted my father to this place,’ he conceded, ‘but I guess the potential for a hotel and holiday complex could make this place very attractive to investors.’

  She gasped. ‘A holiday complex, here?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You said you worked with your father, so yours is a family firm.’

  ‘It was at first. Then it grew.’ The truth was that it had grown far too big these past few years.

  ‘Is it a successful business?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then why should you care about Raventhorn? Can you not forget about us for a few months, give us time to work things out?’

  She looked at him. Her eyes were a deep, warm chocolate, so beguiling his mind went blank for a second.

  He cleared his throat. ‘It’s too late for that. The sale went through last week, and, believe me, McBride got a very generous price.’

  More than generous, in fact. Raventhorn had been vastly overpriced for a rundown estate, even if it included a castle, a wood and a loch, as well as a few acres of moorland – and now it seemed a pink taxi firm and a magic bed. According to the conveyance lawyers, his father had also shown unprecedented generosity in granting McBride’s wish to remain on the premises until the New Year.

  Rosalie got up and started pacing the floor. ‘I don’t just run a taxi business, you know. I help people. There are hardly any buses left around here – normal buses, not tourist ones. Thanks to my cabs, people can go to the doctor when they’re sick, to the supermarket for their weekly shopping. They can meet their friends at the toddler group, at the pub or the ceilidh.’

  ‘You make it sound like you’re running a community service.’

  Her face lit up. ‘That’s it exactly! Love Taxis is a community service. I don’t even charge proper fares because most people couldn’t afford them.’

  ‘That is no way to run a business. No wonder you can’t repay your loan.’

  ‘There’s more to life than balance sheets and fat bank accounts. There’s helping people, belonging to a community, looking after your friends and family. If you don’t understand that, then despite all your money, you and your father lead a very sad life.’

  Her words swirled and echoed around him, inside him.

  He looked at her and said quietly, ‘My father died in a helicopter accident a few weeks ago. In fact, purchasing Raventhorn must have been one of the very last business deals he made.’

  Her face drained of all colour, she lifted her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

  The phone started ringing in the hall upstairs.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ she said, before hurrying out of the kitchen.

  He finished his glass of wine and thought about what she’d just said. He didn’t know what it meant to belong. He’d been brought up by a succession of nannies, then sent to boarding school in England when he was five. After that, he had studied at a top university in the States and at one of Paris’s ‘Grandes Ecoles’. Even though he’d managed the Petersen office in Paris for the past twelve years and enjoyed living in the French capital, he’d never felt at home there, or anywhere else, either. He closed his eyes.

  No, that wasn’t totally true. There was one place where he’d once felt at home. On his grandfather’s farm, on the windswept North Jutland coast of Denmark, in a past so distant it often felt as unreal as a dream.

  He grabbed hold of the bottle of wine and the two glasses before going after her. It was a shame about Rosalie’s taxi business but it couldn’t be helped. His job wasn’t to sort out the mess McBride had made of his finances, but to make a profit for Petersen and Son.

  She slammed the phone down and walked into the drawing room. It was another call from an annoying call centre – at least she supposed it was, since nobody ever talked at the other end. It was happening more and more often, so often that Geoff had recently decreed they wouldn’t answer the landline any longer.

  She paced the floor of the drawing room, but what she really wanted to do was scream in frustration. When would she learn to think things through before opening her mouth? By insulting Petersen and his father just then, she had probably ruined any chance of saving her business. She had also been terribly insensitive. Marc Petersen’s grief would still be raw, and she had unwillingly added to it with her thoughtless words.

  She turned to the door when she heard his footsteps in the corridor. He placed their glasses and the bottle of wine on a small table and faced her. The reflection of the flames from the fire danced in his eyes. He didn’t look angry or upset at all.

  She took a deep breath and stepped towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry for what I said earlier. It was wrong of me. I shouldn’t be so judgemental of the way you run your life, or your business. And I am sorry about your father. You must be terribly sad.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Surprised by the calmness of his tone, she looked up. His face was composed, his eyes cold and devoid of any emotion.

  ‘McBride really should have told you about the sale. He should also have made sure your taxi business was safe and all transactions conducted above board.’ He paused. ‘You should warn your staff about redundancies.’

  She gasped. ‘No, I can’t tell them anything just yet!’

  She moved away to stare at the flames in the fireplace. The reality of what was happening suddenly hit her. It wasn’t only the locals who relied on her. She had responsibilities towards her staff too. Duncan, her driver, had two young sons to support and his wife Brenda, who worked Saturdays at the bakery in Irlwick. Her two switchboard operators needed the income she provided too. Fiona was a talented, but struggling, artist, and Fergus hardly managed to scrape a living with what she was paying him on top of his pension. His wife Mario
n was Raventhorn’s cleaner, so they could both be out of a job soon.

  How could an outsider like Petersen understand how important Love Taxis was around here? If only he could see her at work …

  She drew in a breath. Of course! There was the solution.

  ‘Come with me tomorrow,’ she said.

  He shook his head, looking shocked. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Give me just one day. You can’t do much here anyway since Geoff is in hospital.’

  He sighed. ‘Spending the day with you wouldn’t influence my decision. I only take figures and accounts into consideration when I examine a business’s viability.’

  She put her hand on his forearm, gazed into his cool grey eyes. ‘Please. I want to show you what I do, how vital my cab service is for Irlwick.’

  He tensed under touch. ‘Miss Heart, I don’t think you understand. Your taxi firm isn’t what my company is about, no matter how important you feel it is. I would never consider investing in something so …’ He frowned, seemingly lost for words.

  ‘Small? Insignificant?’ she offered. ‘It may be small on paper, but it’s invaluable for our town.’ Her fingers squeezed his forearm. She felt his muscles tense again and heat rise from his body.

  ‘Just one day,’ she insisted, fluttering her eyelashes in a last attempt to sway him. If that didn’t move him, she’d shed a tear or two.

  He gave her one of his cold stares. ‘Please spare me your feminine wiles, Miss Heart, and don’t even think about crying. It won’t work on me.’

  How did he guess what she’d planned to do? So everything was lost, just like that. Her home, her business, her whole life … Very real tears now blurred her vision and pearled at the corner of her eyes.

  He drew in a breath, and shrugged. ‘Oh, all right. I really don’t know why I’m agreeing to this. I’ll come with you for the day.’

  She sighed with relief. ‘Thank you. Thursdays are always busy, with the toddler group in the morning and the dance at the Four Winds Hotel in the evening. You’ll be impressed when you see what we do, how we help local people, and how—’

  ‘Don’t get carried away. It won’t change my mind.’