Читать книгу Wicked Caprice - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 9

CHAPTER FOUR

ISOBEL sucked in her breath. ‘A business proposition?’ she echoed sceptically. ‘What kind of a business proposition?’

The man glanced up and down the high street. ‘Well, I’d prefer not to discuss it here,’ he remarked, his eyes returning to her face. ‘Your—assistant said it was your lunch break. It would seem to kill two birds with one stone if we ate together.’

Would it?

Isobel moistened her lips with a nervous tongue. ‘But—I don’t even know your name,’ she protested uneasily. ‘And, honestly, Mr—er—well, I don’t really think you’re interested in Caprice.’

Which seemed to imply he was interested in her, she realised unhappily as soon as the words were spoken. And she was fairly sure that that wasn’t the case at all. Whatever he had on his mind, it wasn’t the seduction of her rather too generous body. She’d seen him looking at her breasts, and she doubted he was attracted by their wholesome exuberance. Besides, like Richard, he was wearing a ring on the third finger of his left hand. His wife was probably one of those elegant clothes-horses, with angular bones and a narrow chest.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said firmly. ‘And my name’s...Hiker—Patrick Riker.’ He held out his hand, and she was obliged to take it. ‘There, now,’ he added, with a wry smile, ‘we’re properly introduced.’

Isobel managed a brief smile in return, but as soon as she could she pulled her hand away. It wasn’t that she didn’t like touching his flesh; on the contrary, his skin felt disturbingly intimate gripping her damp palm. But it was this, more than anything, that made her wary. She’d never felt so aware of another individual before.

‘So...lunch?’ he reminded her, holding her gaze with eyes that were green in some lights and hazel in others. The wind lifted a lock of dark hair and deposited it on his forehead. Patrick Riker—if that really was his name—pushed it back with long, olive-skinned fingers, drawing her attention to the length of the hair that brushed the virgin whiteness of his collar.

Only she suspected there was nothing remotely virgin about him. There was too much knowledge—too much experience—in that lean, intelligent face. He wasn’t strictly handsome; his features—high cheekbones, a narrow blade of a nose, a thin, almost cruel mouth—were too strong for that. But there was no doubt that he was attractive; she was sure that women must fall over themselves trying to capture his attention.

‘Well, I don’t usually eat lunch,’ she said at last, having no intention of telling him that she usually went home during her lunch break. All the same, it was quite pleasant to have to look up at a man. At five feet eight herself, it wasn’t usually the case.

‘Make an exception,’ he persisted, casting another swift glance along the length of the high street. ‘Oh—excuse me a moment. I have to speak to someone. Just wait here. This won’t take very long.’

Isobel sighed. This was becoming ridiculous. Why couldn’t he just accept that she didn’t want to have lunch with him? Just because he was used to getting his own way it was no reason for her to bolster his ego.

Her awareness of eyes boring into her back made her turn her head. Christine and her sister were peering around the tastefully designed pyramid of scented candles she’d just arranged that morning. Evidently they had seen him talking to her, and were watching eagerly to see what happened next. Well, they were going to be disappointed, she decided. She was not going to provide a peep-show for anyone.

Patrick Riker had crossed the pavement, and was presently leaning in the window of a large green limousine that was parked at the kerb. The driver of the limousine was a black man, she noticed unwilling. Was that the car Chris had spoken about—the swish vehicle she’d thought was a Rolls-Royce?

She wasn’t interested.

Jamming her teeth together, Isobel strode quickly to the first intersection. It had occurred to her that, as Patrick Riker didn’t know his way around Horsham, if she could disappear into a side-street she could very likely give him the slip. She might even be able to make her way home, if she used a roundabout route. It was annoying that she was having to do this, but she didn’t believe he wanted to speak to her about her business at all.

So what did he want to speak to her about? She tapped her foot impatiently as a delivery wagon took an inordinate amount of time to clear the junction. She wasn’t absurdly modest, but she wasn’t credulous either. He hadn’t bought the necklace because he fancied her. He was far too sophisticated for that.

‘Isobel—Miss Herriot!’

He had seen her. Even as she contemplated pretending she hadn’t heard his call, the powerful limousine swept by her, with only the driver on board. Already Patrick Riker’s powerful strides were eating up the ground between them. She could wait for him, or she could run. Somehow the latter seemed vaguely childish.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked when he reached her, and she looked at him with irritation in her eyes.

‘I thought I’d explained—I don’t have time to eat lunch,’ she said, preparing to cross the street. ‘Thank you for your invitation, but I’ve got more important things to do.’

‘More important than expanding your business?’ he asked, taking her breath away with the scope of his suggestion. ‘I’m in a position to offer you another outlet. In—Stratford, let’s say, if that appeals to you.’

Isobel swallowed. ‘Why?’

He looked a little taken aback at that, but he recovered quickly, and moved his shoulders in a dismissive gesture. ‘Why not?’ he countered. ‘It seems a worthwhile proposition.’ He paused. ‘We could discuss it at more length if you’d agree to join me for lunch.’

Isobel tried to think. ‘I—I can’t.’

‘Why can’t you?’

‘Because—’ she consulted the rather mannish watch on her wrist ‘—I’ve got to be back at the shop in half an hour. Chris—my assistant—only works part-time. I promised I wouldn’t be long.’

Which was at least partially true. Chris did only work part-time, and she had said she wouldn’t be long. But she had no doubt that Chris would understand if she was late. Particularly if she thought her employer was having lunch with him.

His hesitation was only momentary. ‘Dinner, then,’ he said, his lips thinning as if the idea was as alien to him as it was to her. ‘Have dinner with me this evening. I’d very much like to talk to you.’

Isobel hesitated now. Common sense advised her to refuse his invitation, but, deep inside, some rebellious instinct was urging her to accept. What did she have to lose, after all? It wasn’t as if she was in any danger of falling for him. She should take the opportunity to be wined and dined by an attractive man at its face value. At the least, she’d probably enjoy the meal, and it was always possible that he did mean what he said.

‘All right,’ she said, her tongue once again acting several seconds ahead of her brain. ‘Um—where shall we go? I’ll meet you.’ She cast her mind around. ‘There’s pub at Swalford called The Coach House. It’s only about a mile away. How about that?’

‘Sounds good.’ His expression softened. ‘But why don’t I pick you up? That way we can both have a drink.’

‘It’s all right. I don’t drink much anyway,’ declared Isobel hurriedly. She had no desire for him to find out where she lived. ‘I’ll meet you there at—at half past seven. Or is that too early for you? I can’t make it any sooner because the shop doesn’t close until six o’clock.’

‘No problem.’ The wind ruffled his hair again, and he swept it back with an impatient hand. ‘Until half past seven, then. I’ll be looking forward to it.’

Isobel smiled, but she didn’t make a similar claim. Now that the arrangements were made, she was suffering the usual feelings of doubt about her decision. Why had she agreed to meet him when she believed his motives were suspect? Somehow, the justification that she had nothing to lose no longer convinced her.

Isobel got home that evening later than she had anticipated. Several Japanese tourists, who had been visiting the monastery, had discovered the shop on the way back to the coach, and because of language difficulties their purchases had taken rather longer then she would have liked. Of course, they were charming people, and unfailingly polite, but by the time Isobel had ushered the last pair out of the door it was already quarter past six.

One way and another, it had been a frustrating day, she thought tensely, and it wasn’t over yet. She still had to decide what she was going to wear tonight, and the prospect of the evening ahead filled her with unease.

Still, she was committed to going, and according to Chris, who had insisted on hearing all the details, she should make the most of it. Whatever his motives, her young assistant had told her, Patrick Riker was the most exciting man she had ever met, and if Isobel wanted a substitute she’d happily go in her place.

Of course, that was out of the question, and Chris knew it. But that hadn’t stopped her offering Isobel advice on everything from the clothes she should choose to the make-up she should wear.

‘Put on some of that Champagne perfume,’ she’d suggested, mentioning the expensive Yves Saint Laurent fragrance her parents had bought her for her birthday. ‘And for goodness’ sake don’t put your hair in that braid. Leave it loose, for once. It suits you.’

Now, half an hour later, Isobel surveyed the pile of discarded garments lying on the bed with raw impatience. It was no use; she had nothing suitable for spending an evening with a man like him. She had thought her navy suit would do, but that looked incredibly formal, and her dresses were all cotton, and most of them had seen better days.

All she was left with were the full skirts and loose shirts she usually wore for working in. Most of the time, when she wasn’t wearing her long skirts or cotton dresses, she wore jeans and sweaters. But, like everything else she’d pulled out of her wardrobe, the jeans were worn and shabby. Her mother was right; she should spend more time on herself. But that wasn’t going to help her now.

With an irritated gesture, she snatched up the least boring item on the bed and put it on. As a matter of fact, it was also her least favourite garment, which was probably why it didn’t look as tired as the rest. It was a sleeveless pinafore, made of fine black cotton jersey, which she’d previously only worn with a T-shirt underneath. But tonight she allowed the spaghetti straps to rest on her smooth bare shoulders, the button-through bodice moulding the curves that she tried so hard to ignore.

She sighed. It was a warm evening, and despite her misgivings the dress was not unsuitable. But it was far more revealing than anything she had owned before, and she was about to tear it off again when someone knocked at her door.

‘Oh, damn!’ she groaned, hoping against hope that it wasn’t Richard. After the way she’d sent him away on Tuesday evening, it would be typical of him to turn up unannounced. She didn’t want to have to tell him she was going out with another man, particularly a man she hardly knew, and for whom she was making such a fuss.

She stood by her bed, hoping whoever it was would get the message and go away again, but, as before, the knocker was rapped once more. Of course, it could be her mother, she thought. It was almost a week since she’d seen either of her parents, and they were unlikely to hold her up, particularly if they thought she had a heavy date. Not that it was heavy, she reminded herself, but her mother wasn’t to know that.

Deciding she would have to see who it was, she ran hastily down the stairs. Because of the angle of the eaves, it was impossible to spy on the porch from the bedroom, and she could hardly peer through the living-room window and risk coming face to face with a stranger. She could have looked out of the window upstairs to see if there was a strange car parked in the lane. But as she had no garage herself she had to park at her gate, and visitors to the church sometimes used what free space was left.

Of course, she acknowledged as soon as she opened the door, she would have recognised Patrick Riker’s car if she’d seen it. Its width alone was making it very difficult for any other car to pass along the narrow lane, and its dark green elegance. was unmistakable. The man, too, was fairly unforgettable, propped rather indolently against her porch. He was still wearing the dark blue suit he had worn that afternoon, and in light of the fact that she’d arranged to meet him later on her lips tightened impatiently at his presumption.

‘Hi,’ he said, not at all put out by her obvious annoyance. ‘I was early, so I thought I might as well come and fetch you after all.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You look nice. And ready, too, if I’m not mistaken.’

Isobel knew a childish impulse to stamp her foot. He had no right to come here, no right to know where she lived—though she could guess who had given him her address. No wonder Chris had looked so smug when she’d announced she was having dinner with him. She probably already knew.

‘Well, I’m not quite,’ she stated now. ‘Ready, I mean.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you go on ahead? I can give you directions from here.’

‘Without you?’ he protested. ‘I’d rather wait.’ He looked beyond her, into the sun-dappled hall behind her. ‘I don’t mind.’

Isobel pressed her lips together. ‘As you like,’ she declared tersely, and shut the door in his face.

It was rude, perhaps, but she didn’t know him, she defended herself as she went back upstairs. Women were always being advised not to invite virtual strangers into their home. Besides, his—what? Chauffeur? Bodyguard?—was bound to get impatient. They could keep one another company. It wasn’t her fault he had changed the arrangements.

But the black dress would have to do, she conceded, with a sigh. She had no intention of changing again and giving him the impression she was fussy about what she wore. Some eyeshadow, a little mascara and a caramel-coloured lipstick achieved the effect she was seeking, and she finally picked up her hairbrush to try and subdue the sun-streaked tangle of her hair.

Chris had said not to put it in the braid, but she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to give her young assistant credit for anything. In the event, she secured it at her nape with a velvet scrunch band, aware that curling tendrils would soon escape the constriction and cluster about her temples and her neck.

It was daunting to emerge from the cottage and lock her door with Patrick Riker’s eyes upon her. And his companion’s eyes, she appended tersely. She wasn’t used to being watched, and she didn’t like it. She was glad she had wrapped a black and white Paisley scarf about her shoulders. Although it was a warm evening, it didn’t make her feel so exposed.

However, when she approached the car, she discovered that Patrick was alone. He emerged from behind the wheel to open the front passenger door for her, and she realised that for all her caution they were still to spend some time alone.

‘Where’s your—er—?’

She faltered over the designation, and Patrick helped her out. ‘Joe?’ he asked. ‘His name’s Joe Muzambe. And I’ve given him the evening off.’ He closed her door and walked around to fold his length in beside her. He looked her way. ‘Is it a problem?’

Put like that, it would have sounded rather churlish to object. Besides, it was less than a mile to Swalford. She could always get a taxi home if she thought he’d had too much to drink.

She shook her head, feeling the recalcitrant strands of hair squeezing out of the band already. ‘I—assumed he’d be driving,’ she said, hoping that didn’t sound as if she’d expected it. It wasn’t as if she was used to riding around in expensive cars, with or without a chauffeur at the wheel.

‘Don’t you trust me?’ he asked, and she realised he had not been deceived by her reticence. ‘I know I can’t prove it, but you’re perfectly safe with me.’

Of course she was.

‘I didn’t—that is, I hope you don’t think—’

‘What?’ His eyes were narrowed now. ‘What are you trying to say? That you don’t like me?’ He started the engine, his mouth curling into an ironic smile. ‘That’s all right. It’s not a prerequisite for doing business with someone.’

Isobel took a deep breath. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘No?’

His answer was hardly satisfactory, but the lane was clear of traffic, and he pulled away before she could say any more. Beyond the cottage the lane narrowed, before turning right into another lane that eventually intersected with the high street. It was not a well-known route, but Horsham was not a large village, and most roads ultimately led back to where you’d started. Nevertheless she had the feeling that he’d already checked it out before he even knocked at her door.

‘No,’ she said now, and added with a faint edge to her voice as he turned left along the high street, ‘You seem to know your way around.’

The look he gave her was slightly wary, and she wondered what she’d said to arouse his distrust. It was a free country, for heaven’s sake, and for all she knew he might know the area better than she did. But she had the feeling he was a stranger. She was sure she’d have heard about him if he’d moved into the district.

‘I just follow the signposts,’ he remarked after a moment, and she had to admit there had been an arrow pointing towards Swalford at the junction.

There was silence for a few moments after that, Isobel struggling desperately to think of something suitable to say. It wasn’t that she wanted him to think her particularly clever, but she didn’t want him to think she was stupid either. The trouble was, the men she usually went out with were locals, and she doubted Patrick Riker would be interested in the fact that they were having a drought.

He drove fairly slowly through the village, but once out of the restricted area he allowed the car to find its own speed. The roads around Horsham were inclined to be a little twisty, so there was no question of racing, but he covered the three-quarters of a mile to Swalford in an amazingly short time.

‘I guess this is it,’ he remarked finally, turning into the car park of the The Coach House and parking beside an old Mercedes that had seen better days. For all it was quite early in the evening, there were quite a few cars already occupying the inn’s forecourt—an indication of the popularity of its bar food.

‘I hope you won’t find it a disappointment,’ murmured Isobel, barely audibly, as she acknowledged the incongruity of the limousine in these surroundings. But he’d heard her, and his lips twitched at the back-handed compliment.

‘I doubt if anything could disappoint me this evening,’ he assured her with equal ambiguity. Then, more gently, he asked, ‘Shall we go in?’