Читать книгу Just Say Yes - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

IT WAS a glittery do, sprinkled with rich women in mahogany tans and diamonds and not much else, and paunchy men glistening in the heat, their ample middles girdled up in cummerbunds to hide the fact that their trousers were too tight after dinner.

Still, they were rich, they were going to spend their money in a good cause, and Georgia was just only too glad she was no longer part of that scene. She’d hated it—hated the entertaining for Brian’s clients, hated the strain and pressure he’d put her under, hated the false smiles and backstabbing bonhomie.

Matthew, on the other hand, seemed to fit right in, except that his dress suit fitted him to perfection, gliding over his broad shoulders and tapering elegantly to his narrow waist and neat hips. The shirt was stark white against his skin, and she would lay odds his bow tie was a real one, not a cheat on a bit of elastic.

He wasn’t sweating, either, and he looked comfortable and at ease talking to his numerous acquaintances. They’d been seated together at dinner, but she’d been monopolised by the man on her other side, and she’d hardly had a chance to talk to him.

Pity, but maybe a good thing. He was altogether too interesting for her peace of mind, and when he bent his head closer to some clinging little vine to hear her doubtless inane conversation, Georgia found herself smitten by a wild urge to club him over the head with the nearest chair.

Jealousy? Good grief! It was years since she’d felt anything, never mind jealousy! And over a total stranger! How perverse.

How worrying…

‘Georgia, my dear, you’re looking lovely!’

‘Thank you, Adrian. You’re too kind.’ She looked up into Adrian Hooper’s slightly glazed eyes and dredged up a smile.

He was the organiser of this shindig, a mover and shaker in local commerce, and she had a lot of respect for him. Unfortunately, he fancied her and it definitely wasn’t mutual. She deftly changed the subject. ‘It’s a good turn-out tonight—all the wallets bulging, I hope?’

He laughed. ‘One can only hope so, my dear.’ He edged closer, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. ‘By the way, was that Matthew Fraser I saw you with earlier?’

She was intrigued. ‘Yes—why, do you know him?’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of course I know him. Heavens, darling girl, everyone knows him! He’s—’

‘Adrian, old man, you’re hogging all the talent. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

Georgia’s heart sank. Adrian she could cope with, but this man was trying to see through her clothes and it was frankly a little embarrassing. Anyway, she wanted to hear more about Matthew—

‘Tim Godbold,’ the man said, sticking out his hand so Georgia had no option but to take it. ‘And you’re the famous Georgia Beckett. My dear, I’m delighted to meet you. Such talent as yours is rare indeed.’

‘You’re too kind,’ she said, scraping together a bright smile and wondering when he was going to release her hand from his damp and limpid grip. She eased it away and leant on the table behind her, discreetly wiping her palm on the heavy damask tablecloth. Yuck.

‘So what are you here for tonight, Mr Godbold?’ she asked, steering attention back to him.

‘Tim, please,’ he demurred with a laugh that she could only describe as intimate. Oh, Lord, she was going to be ill.

‘Tim,’ she said with a sickly grin. ‘What are you bidding for?’

Big mistake.

‘Besides you, of course,’ he said with that husky possessive laugh again, and looked around, ‘perhaps the membership of the Golf Club—I never play, but it’s a good club, I hear. And maybe the car valet, or the weekend for two in the hydro—if I could persuade someone to come with me, of course…’

Georgia, glass to her lips, took a gulp of wine by accident and began to cough. Another mistake. Tim Godbold’s damp and heavy hand descended on her shoulderblades with a possessive and intimate pat, totally ineffectual and utterly unnecessary. She waved him away, lost for words, and looked wildly around for a distraction.

Adrian had wandered off, doing his fundraiser’s bit, and Matthew was nowhere to be seen. Blast.

Help, though, was at hand. Mrs Brooks, the chairman of the charity, stood up and called everyone’s attention to the auction which was about to begin.

Georgia, hugely relieved and almost able to speak again, excused herself and went over to the podium, in case she was asked to explain what she was offering, but in the end she didn’t need to explain anything.

The auctioneer had been well primed. He banged his gavel to get everyone’s attention, launched into the sale and achieved some staggering sums for really quite silly things.

Then he reached the climax of his patter. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, now we come to our star prize of the evening. She’s a nationally renowned garden designer, she’s been invited by the Royal Horticultural Society to exhibit a show garden at the Chelsea Flower Show next year, and she’s very kindly offered a day of her most valuable time to help you realise the garden of your dreams.

‘She’s more than qualified to design anything from a roof garden to a motorway service area, but her forte is the restoration of historic gardens—’

Out of the corner of her eye, Georgia saw Matt Fraser’s body straighten. She caught his eye, speculative and searching, and looked away—straight into the even more speculative eyes of Tim Godbold. He’d threatened to bid for her. Oh, Lord. She started to feel slightly sick.

‘And, of course, as it’s only April now there’s still plenty of time to get plants in and start seeing the fruits of your labours this summer, so come on, ladies and gentlemen, what will you bid me for a day in the company of the gorgeous Georgia Beckett?’

The bidding started at a nice sensible figure—nothing like what she charged for a day’s consultation in a garden, but enough as an opening bid. Then it started to rise, steadily at first, and then by larger increments. The other bidders dropped out one by one, and she watched in fascinated horror as Tim Godbold and Matthew Fraser battled for her across the room.

It was like some ghastly game of dare, she thought, each one throwing down a more outrageous bid, each determined to win. She hardly dared to look at them, Tim glassy-eyed and sweating slightly, Matthew with a grim line to his mouth that brooked no argument.

By the time it reached four times the real cost of her day’s work, she was getting distinctly uncomfortable. She was happy for the charity, but even so! It was only one day, for heaven’s sake! No designs on paper, no planting schemes—just a wander round and a quick chat, in essence. So what were the two men bidding for?

Then Matthew spoke up, cutting through the auctioneer with his strong, clear voice, throwing down his final bid like a gauntlet.

There was a ripple of shocked delight through the crowd, and all eyes swivelled to Tim Godbold. He dithered for a moment, then threw down his programme and stalked off.

She thought he was going to blow a fuse. She was certain she was. She closed her eyes, wondering if anyone actually did die of humiliation, and heard the auctioneer say, ‘Going once, going twice, sold to Mr Fraser.’ The gavel smacked down on the desk with a victorious thunk, and wild applause broke out.

‘My God, it is a slave auction,’ she muttered under her breath, and forced herself to open her eyes and smile vacantly at everyone.

Then Matt was at her side, taking her arm possessively and smiling down at her as if he’d bought her and not just eight hours of her time. He looked disgustingly pleased with himself, and she felt sick and more than a little angry.

She yanked her arm away. ‘What the hell was that little exhibition about?’ she stormed under her breath. ‘Wrangling over me like a couple of dogs over a—a—!’

He opened his mouth to speak, and she skewered him with a glare. ‘Don’t even think it,’ she growled.

‘I was going to say bone,’ he said mildly, and grinned. ‘Anyway, you should thank me.’

‘Thank you? Thank you! Are you mad? I thought I was going to die of embarrassment!’

‘Nonsense. Anyway, would you rather I’d let Tim Godbold get his sticky little paws on you?’

‘Maybe,’ she said unreasonably, trying not to shudder. ‘Perhaps he’s got a genuine need for a garden designer.’

He bent his head closer. ‘And perhaps he had his garden landscaped last year at enormous expense—rumour has it six figures.’

Her jaw dropped, and she snapped her mouth shut and looked away. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes, oh. And, for your information, I have a need. A very genuine need which I think you’re perfectly qualified to meet.’

Why did she get the feeling he wasn’t talking about gardens?

‘We’ll see,’ she said, and felt a little shiver of anticipation in amongst the rage. She’d been secretly hoping that the day she’d donated would lead to further work. Now she was wondering just what she’d let herself in for! Still, it could have been worse. It could have been Tim Godbold, she thought, and shuddered.

What was that expression the Victorians had used? A Fate Worse Than Death?

Yes. Matt Fraser, for all his faults, had to be better than that!

She was still bristling with temper, Matt realised. Oh, well. If he’d hoped for gratitude he was clearly doomed to be frustrated, but that was just too bad. He hadn’t liked the way Godbold was looking at her, not at all.

Had she heard the rumours about him? Probably not. A band struck up, and he turned to her with a smile, mouth opening to ask her for a dance, but she didn’t give him the opportunity.

‘I’d like to go home, please,’ she said, in a quiet voice that brooked no argument.

That suited Matt. He’d had a long day, and frankly if it hadn’t been for the enticing thought of holding Georgia in his arms, he would cheerfully have left the moment he’d written out his cheque.

‘Fine,’ he said, and started to manoeuvre them towards the door.

However they weren’t to get away with it. Mrs Brooks came sailing up with a big smile. ‘Georgia, darling, thank you! What a star! And Matthew—how kind of you to be so generous yet again, and after you said you couldn’t come, you naughty man! Now, you can do one thing more for me—start the dancing off, please.’

‘Just one, for the charity?’ Matt murmured to Georgia, and with a little sigh she smiled graciously at Mrs Brooks.

‘Just one, for the charity,’ she echoed, ‘and then I must go. I’ve been on site in London all day and I’m bushed.’

‘Bless you, darlings. And thanks again.’

She sailed off, another victim in her sights, and Matt turned to Georgia with a wry smile. ‘You could try not to look as if I’m going to murder you later,’ he teased, and she snorted softly.

‘How do I know you’re not?’

He chuckled. ‘You’ll have to trust me.’

‘Little Red Riding Hood made that mistake with the wolf, if I remember correctly. How big are your teeth?’

He bared them in a mock snarl, and she laughed, for the first time. Catching her in a weak moment, as it were, he took her gently by the arm and led her onto the dance floor, then bowed his head, a slight smile still playing round his lips.

‘Shall we dance?’

It was torture. Her body was soft yet firm, her back under his hand strong and straight, yet with the supple grace of an athlete. She held herself away from him a fraction, and he didn’t push it. Instead he held her lightly, waiting for the moment when the soft lights and romantic music made her weaken.

Others joined them, and someone bumped into them, jogging her against him so that her soft, full breasts pillowed gently against his chest. For a moment she resisted, then with a tiny sigh she settled against him. He nearly trod on her then, because she felt so good, so soft and warm and feminine, that he thought he would make an idiot of himself.

He’d never held her before. Wherever they’d met, under whatever circumstances, he would have remembered if he’d held her…

Then the music stopped, and with what could almost have been reluctance, she moved out of his arms.

‘Can we go now?’ she said, and he realised she’d just been leaning on him because she was tired. It was in her voice, in her eyes, in her whole body.

‘Of course.’ He retrieved her jacket from the cloakroom attendant, settled it round her shoulders and swept her quickly past all the people who suddenly wanted to talk to her.

Then he ushered her to his car and slid behind the wheel, pausing as he clicked his seat belt into place to study her face in the dim glow of the interior light.

‘You’re still mad with me,’ he said, just as the light faded down and switched off so that he couldn’t see her face. She didn’t reply, just sat there, staring straight ahead. He thought she was frowning.

Ah, well. He started the engine and pulled slowly out of the car park, heading for Henfield. She was silent for a few taut minutes, during which he could hear her brain working overtime—searching for the right acidic put-down, no doubt. Then suddenly she spoke, her voice quiet but full of suppressed emotion.

‘What do you want with me?’ she asked tightly. ‘I don’t even know who you are, and you start throwing around outrageous amounts of money for eight hours of me telling you what perennials to put in where!’

‘Don’t you mean telling me where to put them?’

She laughed, a brief gust of cynical humour which was quickly suppressed. ‘Whatever. I just felt embarrassed by the bidding—it all seemed to get suddenly very personal. I began to feel like a—a trophy or something.’

‘How perceptive of you,’ he said softly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her head swivel towards him. ‘Tim Godbold wanted you. He wanted to be able to say he’d had his garden landscaped by a Chelsea designer. And he had a more personal interest.’

‘Personal?’ she said coldly.

‘Yeah, personal. You know. Oh, come on, Georgia, don’t be naive! He’s not a nice man.’

‘I noticed.’

‘He has a reputation. There are rumours.’

‘Rumours?’

‘An attempted rape case. It was dropped—and the victim suddenly started spending rather a lot of money.’

She went very still. ‘He bought her silence?’

‘There was no proof. It just seemed a rather strange coincidence.’

She was quiet for a long while, and then with what seemed to him either utter foolishness or a great deal of courage, she turned towards him again and said, ‘And you? Are you a nice man? Or are you just a little more discreet?’

He laughed softly. ‘Both. And I really do need your help with my garden. But just to set the record straight, yes, I do have a personal interest in you—I think you’re fascinating, and I’d like to get to know you better. It’s up to you what you want to do about it. Unlike Tim Godbold, I’m actually going to give you a choice.’

She snorted softly. ‘And I suppose I should be grateful.’

‘Don’t force yourself.’ He felt a prickle of irritation. He’d just spent an outrageous amount of money to rescue her from that slimy toad, and if he’d been expecting gratitude, he was obviously not going to get it.

He turned into her drive, cut the engine and looked across at her in the harsh glare of her outside light, his irritation growing. ‘Look, forget anything personal. You owe me a day in the garden. I suggest for both our sakes we get it over with as quickly as possible.’

She stiffened, drawing in a quick breath as if he’d hurt her feelings. Good. About time. She’d given his a fair old battering. ‘OK. When do you want me to look at it?’

‘Did you have a date in mind?’

‘Well—this week or next I’d earmarked for it, really.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Oh! But—I haven’t got a babysitter—’

‘Well, if there’s no alternative you’ll have to bring them with you. There are plenty of people kicking about at home who can entertain them if need be.’ He crossed his fingers, hoping Mrs Hodges wouldn’t have decided to go to town for the day with her daughter.

‘I don’t even know where you live,’ she said.

‘Heveling—it’s easy to find. Here—have a card.’

He pressed it into her hand, all thoughts of kissing her goodnight now flying out of the window along with his tenuous grip on his temper. He leant across instead and pushed open her door. ‘What time tomorrow?’

‘Um—nine?’

‘Fine.’

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then gave him a wary smile. ‘OK. And you’re sure it’s all right to bring the children?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK.’ She got out of the car and paused, obviously struggling with her better nature, then gave him a wry grin. ‘Thanks for tonight.’

He snorted, but chivalry prevented him from driving off until he’d seen her close the front door behind her, then he reversed carefully off her drive and went home.

At least the dog would be pleased to see him!

‘Well?’ Jenny said, studying her with avid interest. ‘Did they sell you?’

Georgia laughed wryly. ‘Did they ever. Jenny, I thought I was going to die. This awful, slimy man and Matthew started bidding for me against each other. I was so embarrassed.’

‘Oh, my goodness. Did it get all terribly personal?’

‘Just a bit. Tim Godbold was all but drooling—’

‘Tim Godbold! Not the Tim Godbold?”

Georgia groaned. ‘Probably. Don’t tell me you’ve heard of him?’

‘Well of course I have! It was all over the papers! He tried to rape that girl—a temp working in his office. Made her work late and tried it on. It all fell flat because she suddenly decided not to testify.’

Which backed up Matt’s story. She suddenly began to feel very grateful to him. ‘Anyway, Matt won, and I’m going to look at his garden tomorrow,’ she said, and glanced down at the card in her hand.

Her eyes widened, and she realised her mouth was hanging open. She snapped it shut, closed her eyes and opened them again. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said weakly.

‘What? What is it?’

‘He lives at Heveling Hall,’ she told Jenny. ‘That must be why his name seemed familiar. Oh, blast. He lives at my favourite house in the whole world, and he wants me to tell him what to do with the garden!’

‘Well, that’s great,’ Jenny said, beaming. ‘Isn’t it?’

Georgia thought over all the horrible things she’d said to him, and what she’d since found out about Tim Godbold, and felt sick.

‘I hope so,’ she murmured. ‘I may, on the other hand, have just thrown away the opportunity of a lifetime.’

Saturday dawned bright and clear, a lovely mid-April day. She woke the children at eight, told them they were going out for the day to Matthew’s house and was greeted with howls of protest.

‘I wanted to play with Tom!’ Joe wailed. ‘We were going to play football!’

‘An’ you thaid Emily could come!’ Lucy added, bursting into tears.

Oh, Lord, who’d be a mother? ‘Listen, kids, it’s OK. You’ll love it. He lives at Heveling Hall.’

The noise ceased abruptly. ‘Heavenly Hall? Really?’ Joe said, eyes wide. Lucy for once was speechless.

‘Really,’ Georgia told them. ‘So come on, let’s have you up and dressed and having breakfast in ten minutes, please. I don’t want to be late.’

She left them rushing about searching for their clothes, and went downstairs. She had to check her post and pay a couple of bills. Doing that left her rather short for the month, and although she had all the kudos of the Chelsea Flower Show coming up, preparing for it was going to take a humungous amount of time and effort—and while she was worrying about that, she couldn’t be earning money on normal commissions.

And now, because Matt Fraser had bid so much for her, she felt morally obliged to give him more time than had been agreed, even though her initial reaction had been to tell him to take a flying leap and to reimburse him.

Good job she hadn’t followed up on that one! She simply didn’t have enough money in the world to pay him back for that grand gesture.

Oh, well, no doubt he could afford it.

The children came flying downstairs, laces undone, hair unbrushed, eyes wide. ‘Doeth he really live at Heavenly Hall?’ Lucy asked excitedly. ‘Really, truly?’

‘Really, truly. Here—this is his card.’

She showed the children the card Matt had given her last night, and Lucy, whose reading was not getting off to a tremendous start, waded through the words laboriously. ‘Wow,’ she whispered, awed.

‘Come on, breakfast,’ Georgia said, taking the card back and filing it in her purse. ‘We need to go.’

He was right, it was easy to find—particularly if you often took this detour in order to drool over it, Georgia thought. The children called it Heavenly Hall because when she was younger Lucy hadn’t been able to remember Heveling, and it had become their pet name for it.

Well-named, to boot. It was gorgeous, soft and mellow and beautiful, and Georgia’s hands against the steering wheel felt prickly with anticipation.

And now she was doing what she’d never thought to do, turning onto the drive with its pretty cast iron bridge, crossing the little river that bordered the road and going up the gravel sweep to the side of the house.

The children tumbled out of the car, excited and yet over-awed all at once, and Georgia followed more slowly, her eyes scanning the building hungrily.

Soft rose-pink bricks, mellow with age, soared up towards the sky, punctuated by the gleaming white of freshly painted windows. An ancient wisteria clothed the end wall nearest her, its drooping pale lilac panicles and bright green leaves in gentle contrast to the smothered wall. Old urns spilling over with ivy bracketed the steps leading to the door, and with one last glance round she called the children to her side and rang the bell.

A huge cacophony of noise erupted on the other side, and she heard a firm command and the noise subsided to a whine. Then the door swung open and Matt stood there, dressed in jeans and a freshly pressed white shirt, looking younger and sexier and more edible than a man had any right to look.

Georgia struggled for something sane to say, but it wasn’t necessary, because by this time the children had met the dog and were in raptures.

She eyed it a little worriedly. ‘It is all right, I take it?’

A hand dropped onto the dog’s shaggy grey head, just by his hip, and Matt smiled. ‘He’s a pussy-cat. His name’s Murphy. He’s an Irish wolfhound.’

‘To keep you in order—how appropriate,’ Georgia said without thinking, and he tipped back his head in the sunlight and laughed.

‘Come on in—I’m having breakfast. Join me. Have you eaten?’

‘Yes,’ she told him.

‘But we’re still hungry,’ Joe said hopefully.

‘Joe!’

‘Only a bit,’ Lucy added diplomatically, but Matt didn’t seem worried.

‘Come on, then. Don’t want the toast to get cold.’ And he led them down the hall, past doors Georgia was dying to stick her head round, and into a big, bright kitchen at the back of the house.

It was clearly a work in progress. Wires dangled here and there, the walls were patched and filled, and frankly it was a mess. Most people would have pulled out all the old cupboards and refitted it in an instant.

Georgia thought it was lovely just as it was, with its mismatched units and chipped white butler’s sink, because it had a huge table in the middle of the floor, with a pile of newspapers, toast, butter and so forth at one end and a fat ginger cat curled up on it at the other.

Georgia would have given her eye-teeth for a table like that.

For room to have a table like that, for heaven’s sake!

Lucy rushed straight for the cat and mauled it, and the cat, to its eternal credit, did nothing in retaliation, but simply began to purr ecstatically.

‘Coffee?’ Matt said, brandishing the pot, and a fragrant aroma of real, fresh coffee wafted towards her. She nearly drooled.

‘Thanks. I never get round to making real coffee,’ she confessed.

‘I only do at the weekends, but something has to be sacred.’

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and she began to relax. Maybe she’d imagined his bad temper last night.

But she hadn’t. He settled the children down on chairs with toast and homemade jam, and handed Georgia her coffee, holding onto the mug as she took it.

She looked up at him and met his eyes, thoughtful and tinged with what looked like regret.

‘About last night—I’m sorry things got off to a bad start. Can we try again?’

Relief flooded her—though whether relief at having another chance at a restoration project to die for, or at having another chance with Matt, she wasn’t sure.

She didn’t dare analyse it. She simply smiled. ‘That sounds good,’ she murmured, and with a wink he released the coffee and turned away, just in time to see the ginger cat licking a huge lump of butter off the edge of Lucy’s toast.

‘Scally, you wicked cat,’ he scolded, and scooped the cat off the table. It yowled in protest, but he put it out of the back door and shut it again firmly. ‘He’s such a thief. Let me get you more toast,’ he said, taking the licked piece out of Lucy’s hand and slinging it in the bin.

‘I didn’t mind,’ Lucy said, slightly wide-eyed. ‘I like Thcally.’

‘And I’m sure he likes you—especially when you let him share your breakfast—but he’s too fat. He’s supposed to be outside catching mice, not in here stealing butter.’

Georgia stifled a smile and watched Matt dealing with the children. He seemed a natural with them, and she wondered if he had any of his own—perhaps living with an ex-wife?

The thought gave her a strange pang of something she didn’t care to analyse. It was much too soon in their relationship to have pangs of anything!

A woman bustled in and was greeted with enthusiasm by the dog, tail and tongue lashing furiously. ‘Oh, Murphy, stop it,’ she said affectionately, scrubbing her spitty arm on her skirt. ‘Right, Matthew, what did you want me to do?’

‘Entertain the troops. I think food should do the trick for a minute, but then I’ll leave it up to you. Georgia, this is Mrs Hodges. She’s my housekeeper. Mrs Hodges, this is Mrs Beckett, and these are her children Joe and Lucy.’

Georgia looked at the pleasant-faced, maternal woman greeting her children with a smile, and felt relieved. She looked as if she could cope easily with two youngsters for a couple of hours, and that meant she could go and get on with what she was here for—namely that gorgeous garden.

‘Shall we take our coffee and wander round? Then I can tell you what I know as we go.’

‘Sure.’ She stood up, scooping up her mug, and followed him.

He didn’t go outside, to her surprise, but led her out into the hall, and up a graceful, curving staircase to the upper floor. What on earth is he doing? she thought with a little flutter of panic.

He reached a door, stretching his hand out for the knob, and she thought again of that Fate Worse Than Death. Oh, my God, he’s going to take me into his bedroom and seduce me while his housekeeper looks after my children! she thought with a hysterical giggle bubbling in the back of her throat.

Then he threw open the door and led her into the remains of an elegant drawing room, shabby now and tired but once glorious, and paused in front of a great mullioned window overlooking the garden.

‘That’s the problem,’ he said thoughtfully.

Georgia marshalled her hysterical and somewhat crazy brain, and peered down into—nothing.

A walled garden, almost square, with an area of flat and tatty grass interrupted by molehills and thistles, and around the edges the straggling remains of a rose garden almost totally submerged in weeds.

‘That,’ he said deadpan, ‘is a formal parterre.’

She lost it. The giggle fought its way up, battling all the way, and erupted in a shower of sound that echoed round the room and left her feeling silly.

Until she saw his smile. ‘You see my problem? You see why I needed you? Especially when I found out that the restoration of historic gardens was your forte.’

Georgia looked again, and in her mind’s eye she could see the outline of an old knot garden, neat little hedges arranged in complicated and stylised knots with spaces filled with scented herbs. Designed to be viewed from above, the intricate and lovely garden had been long stripped out and destroyed.

She stared again at the unkempt grass. ‘Restoration?’ she said weakly.

He shrugged and smiled. ‘Perhaps recreation would be a more appropriate word. Come on—I’m going to take you a bit higher, so you get a better look.’

And he turned and retraced his steps.

‘You’re going down,’ she said, confused.

He threw a grin back over his shoulder. ‘Only for a moment. Then we go right up.’

Even more confused, she followed him. He went via the kitchen, putting his mug down on the draining board. There was no sign of the children or Mrs Hodges or the dog, she thought absently, trailing after him into the sunshine and across a courtyard to a cluster of farm buildings.

Perhaps they were going to climb a grain hopper, she thought, but there wasn’t one, and he was heading for a barn—just an ordinary, big black Suffolk barn. She was more puzzled than ever. Whatever was he doing?

Then he flicked a catch, dropped his shoulder against the edge of a huge sliding door in the side of the barn and pushed, and Georgia, who absolutely definitely didn’t like heights, felt suddenly terribly uneasy…