Читать книгу Assignment: Single Man - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

FRAN hurried up the path, let herself in through the front door and took all the bags through to the kitchen, setting them down on the breakfast bar. By the time she’d done that, Josh was there, hobbling on his damaged leg, putting far too much weight through the external fixator and wincing with every step.

‘For heaven’s sake, sit down, you idiot,’ Fran said crossly. ‘What are you trying to do, put yourself back in hospital?’

She went over to him, taking his arm and helping him down onto the soft, squashy sofa. How she would ever get him out of it she didn’t know, but she’d cross that bridge when she got to it. In the meantime, he was eyeing the shopping bags like an addict waiting for his fix.

‘Coffee?’ he suggested hopefully.

‘Patience is a virtue,’ she said, probably sounding exactly like his mother, but she didn’t care. She pulled all the shopping out onto the worktop, found the coffee and the coffee-maker and put them together. Within moments the kitchen was filled with the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee, and Josh was sighing with relief. While it slowly dripped through the filter, she stuffed the shopping into the fridge and cupboards, found the mugs and opened the milk, just as the front doorbell rang.

Josh groaned gently. ‘Oh, hell, it’s my mother,’ he said under his breath.

‘Shall I tell her you’re in bed?’ Fran offered, but he shook his head.

‘Too late. She’s seen me. Just let her in,’ he said tiredly.

Mentally girding her loins, Fran walked calmly to the front door and opened it. A tall, elegantly dressed grey-haired woman stood there, and without a glance at Fran she swept through the door and went into the kitchen.

‘Joshua, what on earth are you thinking about! You should be in hospital, you silly creature.’

She buzzed his cheek with a kiss and perched on the edge of the sofa beside him, no mean achievement considering its squashiness. Then she turned and looked at Fran, eyeing her with only slight curiosity. ‘Have we met?’ she asked.

Fran opened her mouth to reply, but Josh got there first.

‘Mother, this is Francesca Williams, my new nurse. Fran, this is my mother, Isabel Hardy.’

Fran smiled and held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation the woman extended her hand and took Fran’s, her fingers cool and slender and beautifully manicured, quite unlike Fran’s workmanlike hands. Mrs Hardy, she decided, was one of those ‘ladies who lunch’.

‘How nice to meet you, Mrs Hardy,’ she said innocently. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Mrs Hardy said, eyeing her son thoughtfully. ‘Where did you say you came from, my dear?’

‘She didn’t. The nursing agency in town—and don’t patronise her, Mother. She’s an intelligent woman.’

Mrs Hardy opened her mouth a fraction, but Fran just smiled and went back into the kitchen area. So he thought she was intelligent? Smart man. ‘I’ve just put the coffee-machine on, Mrs Hardy. Can I get you a cup?’

Her elegant brow pleated. ‘Are you making him coffee? Is that wise?’

‘It’s fine,’ Fran assured her. ‘A little caffeine enhances the action of painkillers, and he’s had quite a difficult day, I think, what with one thing and another.’

Mrs Hardy was all ready to protest, but then Josh, obviously used to her, chipped in.

‘I knew you’d worry, Mother, which is why I engaged a professional, to set your mind at rest. She’s fully qualified, highly recommended, and she nags nearly as much as you do.’

Fran stifled a snort and poured the coffee. He thought she was a nag? She hadn’t even started yet! ‘Black or white and with or without?’ she asked blithely.

Josh, as she’d remembered, took his strong, straight and black, his mother white. Predictably, she produced a little packet of sweeteners from her bag and clicked one into her mug. Not for her the unnecessary calories of a spoonful of sugar, Fran thought with a suppressed smile.

She wondered what she was supposed to do with her own coffee. Take it below stairs to the servants’ quarters? She had no idea, but the sofa seemed rather full at the moment. She propped herself up against the worktop instead, cradled her mug in her hands and blew gently onto the top of it.

‘Don’t nurses wear uniforms?’ Mrs Hardy said after a moment, shooting Fran a suspicious look.

‘Only in fantasies,’ Josh said with a soft laugh, and his mother blushed furiously and swatted at his good arm.

‘You’re incorrigible!’

‘And you love me for it.’ He glanced up at Fran and smiled. ‘Biscuits?’ he murmured hopefully, and she put her coffee down and took out the packet, neatly slitting the end of it with a sharp knife. Now what? Hand him the packet, or put a few out onto a pretty little plate?

Plate, she thought, in view of the mother. She opened cupboards until she found the side plates, placed a few biscuits onto one and set them down on the coffee-table in front of them.

‘Aren’t you having one?’ Josh asked her.

She shook her head. Once she started on the chocolate biscuits, she couldn’t stop, so it was easier not to start. ‘No, thanks,’ she said, deadpan. ‘I might outgrow my uniform. Anyway, I’m busy,’ she added, deciding she may as well begin preparing the supper as stand there and watch them.

Something reasonably light, she thought, considering his recent surgery, but on the other hand it needed to be tasty. A nice chicken casserole, perhaps. If she could find some, she’d sling in a bit of sherry or wine or something. She poked about the cupboards, looking for some herbs or even a bouquet garni, if she was extremely lucky, but she drew a blank. Ah, well, she’d stick them on her shopping list. She hadn’t expected to find them. Josh didn’t really need a bouquet garni to heat a ready meal in the microwave, she thought with a little smile.

‘Are you looking for something?’ he asked her.

‘Herbs,’ she said.

‘Not a chance,’ he grunted. ‘I told you, I don’t cook.’

No, she thought, you told me your mother didn’t cook. You never mentioned yourself, but it was no surprise.

‘No problem,’ she said lightly. ‘I’ll work round it for tonight.’

She would have been fine, of course, if he’d had stock cubes, but all she could find was ketchup and soy sauce. The casserole was going to be a strange one, she thought, but they’d live. While she chopped and peeled and sliced the vegetables, she kept an eye on Josh, and after a few minutes she noticed him starting to flag.

His mother was recounting some story from a bridge party, and his eyes were glazing. He glanced up and caught her eye, and his look spoke volumes. She put her knife down, washed her hands, dried them and walked over to Mrs Hardy, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

‘Mrs Hardy, I think it’s time for Josh to have a rest now, if you don’t mind,’ she said quietly but firmly.

Josh’s mother opened her mouth to protest, but Fran just smiled, and Josh, right on cue, leant back against the sofa and sighed only slightly theatrically.

Mrs Hardy stood up, leant over him and kissed his cheek. ‘You should have said, you silly boy. I didn’t realise you were tired. I’ll go now.’

Fran showed her to the door, closed it behind her and chuckled softly.

As she went back into the kitchen, Josh was laughing. ‘Very neatly done. I owe you one for that.’

Fran picked up her coffee, went over to the sofa and perched on the other end of it.

‘I meant it, really. You ought to have a rest.’

Josh shook his head. ‘I really don’t want to go to bed. I can’t sleep at night at the best of times. The last thing I need is to sleep so much during the day that the nights are completely endless.’

‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘but you really need to put that leg up.’

Fran stood up, took his coffee from him and, lifting both legs at the ankle, swivelled him round. He winced a little, but then sighed with relief and dropped his head back against the arm.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured. ‘Any chance of another coffee?’

‘OK, but it’s the last one. If you have any more you certainly won’t sleep tonight, and I really think you need to. Which reminds me, where am I sleeping?’

‘The guest room’s through there,’ he said, gesturing towards the hall.

Fran arched a brow. ‘I don’t think so. That’s miles from you. How will I know if you get into difficulties in the night?’

‘What kind of difficulties am I going to get into?’ he asked with a chuckle. ‘The mind boggles. Anyway, I thought I was going to sleep?’

‘You are,’ she said firmly, ‘and if I have anything at all to say about it, so am I, which means I can’t lie at the other end of the house straining my ears down the corridor in case you call for help. So, is there a closer room?’

He shrugged. ‘Not with its own bathroom, but the room next to me has a shower opposite.’

‘That’ll do fine,’ she said, and stood up. ‘Now, you settle back and rest and I’ll finish the supper.’

She went back into the kitchen and put all the ingredients together. At first he watched her, but then his eyelids started to droop and, as she’d anticipated, within moments he was asleep.

She put the casserole into the oven, and then went quietly down the corridor to the room next to his. It shared the same beautiful view, the king-size bed placed opposite the window to take full advantage of it, and she thought longingly of early mornings lying with a cup of tea, staring out across the river. What a fabulous way to start the day.

She turned down the bedspread and found the bed made up with soft, pure linen. Not for Josh’s guests the polycotton sheets of normal mortals, she thought with gentle irony, and the pillows and quilt felt like goose down.

She went back through the kitchen, checking on him as she went, but he hadn’t stirred and so, letting herself out of the front door, she went down to her car and retrieved her bag.

There were all sorts of things in her car, stuffed into the boot where she’d thrown them last night as she’d left London, but all she really needed was the bag. She looked down into her boot, at the carrier bags and boxes that were all she owned in the world, and with a little sigh she closed the boot lid, locked the car and went back into the house. She’d sort the rest out tomorrow.

She put the case in her room and unpacked it, and then went back to the kitchen. Josh was still sleeping, his lashes dark against his bruised cheeks, and she had a crazy urge to run her fingers over the short, dark hair. He looked vulnerable, younger with the lines of strain missing, and his mouth without the crooked grin looked soft and full and generous.

She looked down at his leg, at the pins locked to the metal bar that held the bone steady, the pins penetrating the skin and holding all the fragments in line. Judging by the number of pins, he’d been lucky not to lose it. It all looked healthy, though, she was relieved to see. The last thing he needed was a nasty infection.

Fran checked the casserole, but it was fine and didn’t need her attention. Suddenly at a loose end, she wandered out into the hall and studied the paintings which until now she’d only had time to walk past. They were beautiful, full of energy, very simple and yet astonishingly lively. They were obviously by the same person, and they were signed, but she couldn’t read the signature and even if she had been able to, it wouldn’t have meant anything to her. She’d never studied art, she simply knew what she liked—and she liked these.

She looked at the other doors in the hall and hesitated. She didn’t want to be nosy but on the other hand, it might not hurt to be familiar with the layout. At least, that was what she told herself as she turned the knob on the nearest door and entered the room.

It was the guest bedroom, of course, that he’d pointed out, more lavishly appointed than the one she’d chosen, but probably no more comfortable and without the fabulous view. She’d trade the luxury of the bathroom just for the view alone.

The next room was a library, stuffed with books, the shelves groaning. They were all real books, as well, battered old favourites as well as classics old and modern, some leather-bound, others tatty old paperbacks.

Eclectic taste, she decided, and wasn’t surprised.

Then there was the dining room, and finally, after the cloakroom, the last room off the hall, furthest from the kitchen and presumably the sitting room.

She turned the knob and went in, hesitating in the doorway. She reached for the light switch, because it was growing dark now and the curtains were all closed in here, but instead of the switch there was some strange panel.

‘It’s electronic,’ Josh said quietly behind her.

She spun round, her hand pressed her chest, guilty colour flooding her cheeks. ‘You gave me such a fright!’ she said with a breathless little laugh. ‘How did you creep up on me?’

He gave her his crooked grin. ‘Years of practice. Sorry. Here, let me.’

He hobbled towards her, wincing as he did so.

‘You should be in your wheelchair,’ she said in concern, ‘not walking around like this. It’s all right to hop from the chair to the loo, or even from the bed to the loo, but you really shouldn’t be wandering around unnecessarily.’

‘Are you going to nag me all the time?’ he asked her mildly, and she smiled.

‘Only if you make me,’ she told him. ‘Wait here while I get your chair.’

She hurried down to his bedroom, grabbed the chair and pushed it swiftly back into the hall. He sat down with a little grunt, and she propped his leg up on the sliding board and pushed him into the sitting room.

He reached up and tapped the keypad, and soft lights came out of nowhere and lit the room. Like the kitchen, it was vaulted, with windows on all sides to take advantage of the setting, but, unlike the warm and sunny-coloured kitchen, everything in there was very neutral and calm.

Like the hall, there was artwork everywhere, but not just paintings and drawings. In here, in addition to the pictures, there were bronzes on shelves, strangely tortured bits of twisted iron standing at one end, a plinth with a marble bust on it in the far corner—security here must be an absolute nightmare unless they were all copies, which she somehow doubted.

She said nothing, and neither did he, just watched her for her reaction and waited.

He was going to have a long wait. She felt rendered speechless, totally overawed by the astonishing investment that must have gone into this room, at the size and scale and scope of his collection, not to mention the beauty of each individual piece. Or most of them, anyway.

‘Well?’

Fran shrugged, a helpless lift of her shoulders. ‘What can I say? I know nothing about art, but I’m not stupid. How much do you pay a year in insurance?’

He gave a low chuckle. ‘You don’t want to know. Anyway, that’s beside the point. What you think of them?’

‘The pictures? They’re lovely, all of them, and I love the bronze sculptures and the marble bust. I’m not sure about the twisted iron.’

His mouth kicked up in a smile. ‘Nor am I. They’re by a college student I’ve been sponsoring. I said I’d display them for her.’ He pointed to the shelves in the alcove beside the fireplace. ‘That’s probably my favourite, the girl sitting on the edge of the shelf with her leg hanging down. She’s a limited edition, and I was lucky to get her. She’s by an artist-cum-farmer from Devon, a guy called Tom Greenshields. Unfortunately he’s dead now, but he had an amazing talent—so tactile. Touch her, see what I mean.’

Fran did, running her fingers down the cool bronze, over the fine slope of the figure’s shoulders and the gentle swell of her hips. She had one knee drawn up and her chin rested on it, and she was beautiful. Even her toes seemed real and solid and in proportion. Fran sighed softly under her breath. How wonderful, to have such talent, and how lucky to be in a position to collect such beautiful works of art.

‘You’re a very lucky man,’ she murmured, and dropped her hand to her side.

‘I know. I’ve worked hard but I’ve had some good breaks, although I must say the last few don’t quite qualify.’

His grin was self-deprecating, and infectious. She stopped feeling jealous of him and decided to content herself with enjoying his lovely surroundings while she could. That in itself was a privilege.

‘Come on, let’s take you back into the kitchen and check the casserole,’ she said, with a return to her usual briskness. Without waiting for Josh to comment, she turned him round and wheeled him up to the light switch, watched as he tapped it and the lights faded away, and then took him through into the kitchen.

‘I hope that’s going to taste as good as it smells,’ Josh said, sniffing appreciatively.

‘I shouldn’t think there’s the slightest chance,’ Fran said with a laugh. ‘I had to make do with only about half the ingredients. Still, it won’t kill us.’

He tipped his head round and grinned up at her. ‘I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance of a glass of wine, is there?’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t buy any.’

His grin widened. ‘If that’s the only objection, I can easily overcome it. There’s a cellar downstairs full of bottles of wine.’

‘You probably shouldn’t have more than one,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Is that glass or bottle?’ His eyes twinkled mischievously and she stifled a smile.

‘Glass.’

‘You’re such a killjoy,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Still, one’s better than nothing. You’d better go down and choose one.’

She threw up her hands in horror. ‘Not a chance! I know even less about wine than I do about art.’

‘Well, I can’t go down there like this, so it’s you or nobody, blossom. You could always take it back and bring up another one if it’s not a good choice.’

And that was that. He pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen, and she wheeled him over, set the brakes and went down the stairs to the lower floor.

‘Turn right,’ he instructed, ‘and open that door. Now, red or white?’

She went back to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. ‘Pass. It’s got chicken, carrots, potatoes, onions, ketchup and soy sauce. You tell me.’

He muttered something that she didn’t hear, and grinned. ‘Try the red—on the right as you go in, about three or four along and the same up from the bottom. It should be a burgundy.’

She pulled a bottle out and peered at the dusty label.

‘Côte du Rhone,’ she called up to him.

‘That’ll do,’ he replied, and she closed the door behind her and went back upstairs, handing it to him.

‘OK?’

‘Should be fine. Perhaps I ought to educate you while you’re here,’ he said with a conniving grin, but it didn’t fool her.

‘Nice try. Right, let’s get you away from the top of the stairs before you fall down and break your neck.’

He sighed, cradling the wine on his lap as she turned him away from the top of the stairs and closed the door, then he handed it to her. ‘You’d better open it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’d be much use with one hand.’

She smiled cheekily. ‘I don’t know, what with not being able to get down the stairs to your wine cellar and not being able to take the cork out of the bottle, you’re a bit stuffed really without my goodwill, aren’t you?’

‘Just don’t shake it around,’ he advised, eyeing the wine like an anxious parent. ‘I know it’s pretty much plonk, but it’s quite decent plonk and it deserves to be treated better than lemonade.’

She rolled her eyes, but set the bottle down carefully, found the corkscrew and opened it.

‘Well, you managed that all right for somebody who doesn’t know anything about wine,’ he said, watching her with the corkscrew.

Fran laughed. ‘Just because I don’t know anything about wine doesn’t mean I can’t open the bottle. What now?’

‘Now you leave it to breathe, until we’re ready to eat. Let me smell the cork.’

She put the bottle down and turned and studied him. ‘Are you really that desperate?’ she said with a grin.

‘Cheeky. I’m just making sure it’s not corked.’

‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. You look a bit better for your rest,’ she said, remembering her role. ‘Maybe you should go back on the sofa with your legs up and take it easy until supper’s ready. Have you got a telly you can watch to help you chill?’

Josh nodded. ‘There’s one in that cupboard,’ he said, pointing at the corner by the table. ‘I’d rather listen to music, though.’

‘Whatever,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Just so long as you rest.’

Needless to say, his choice in music was interesting. She handed him a remote control, and he aimed it at a little keypad on the wall. Moments later music flooded the room. He chose something modern and instrumental by nobody she’d ever heard of, but the beat was compelling and she found her foot tapping to the music as she prodded the casserole and prepared the vegetables.

Every now and again she glanced his way, but he was lying back on the sofa with his eyes closed, his left leg bent up and his foot tapping in time with hers, and he didn’t notice her.

It gave her a chance to study him while the vegetables were cooking, and she had to admit he was a fine specimen, easily as good as she’d remembered. Broad shoulders, lean hips, well-muscled legs—at least, the left one was. The right one was suffering a bit at the moment, but no doubt it would recover. She glanced back to his face, and found him looking at her. Soft colour flooded her cheeks and she turned back to her vegetables.

‘You’re still alive, then?’ she teased.

‘Ten out of ten,’ he replied, turning the music down. ‘How’s supper?’

‘Done. Where do you want to eat?’

‘Here?’

So she boned the chicken and cut it into little chunks, poured him a glass of wine and propped him up a bit, then handed him the plate on a tray. ‘Heaven knows what it will be like, I make no guarantees.’

‘Very wise. I never guarantee anything—that way nobody is ever disappointed.’

Fran didn’t believe him for a moment. For instance, there was the art student he’d sponsored and her strange, tortured sculpture in the other room. She thought about that as she ate her supper—astonishingly palatable, considering—and thought there was a great deal more to this man than met the eye.

She sipped the wine and wondered if it was hideously expensive or if it was just Josh’s company and the fact that she had found herself somewhere to live and an income for the short term at least that made everything seem better.

He swirled his glass, sniffed the wine and sipped it, and set it down with a nod of satisfaction. ‘Good choice, for a self-confessed philistine,’ he said with a grin. ‘The casserole’s good, too. If you didn’t nag so much, you’d be perfect.’

High praise, indeed. She bent over her plate so that her hair fell forward and disguised the colour in her cheeks, horribly conscious of his eyes on her.

‘You need to learn to take a compliment,’ he said softly.

‘Lack of practice,’ she told him.

‘Now you’re fishing.’

She didn’t bother to follow that one up. There was no point. It had been so long since anybody had paid her a compliment of any sort that she couldn’t remember it.

‘Fran?’

‘Leave it, Josh, it’s not important.’

She kept her eyes fixed on her supper, and after a moment she heard the scrape of his fork against the plate again. It wasn’t over, though. Even on such short acquaintance, she knew him better than that, and he would return to the subject, she’d stake her life on it.

Thank goodness it would soon be time to settle him down for the night, and she could go into that lovely room with a book from the groaning shelves in his library and just be herself. She needed the job, but more than that she needed time to recover, time to put herself back together and let herself heal.

Maybe then she’d be able to take a compliment and dare to believe it.