Читать книгу Falling In Love - CHARLOTTE LAMB - Страница 4

THE March day had begun with showers and cool weather, but as Patrick Ogilvie walked across the bridge into the centre of York the sun came out and the air suddenly smelt of spring. He was about to walk into Laura’s office when he realised that the sweet scent came from the buckets of flowers standing on the pavement outside a florist’s shop across the street. On impulse he ran across and bought an armful: fragile white narcissi, great yellow daffodils and spears of deep blue hyacinth, their fragrance so strong that when he walked into the office block the receptionist in the lobby stared and sighed.

‘Oh...aren’t they lovely? Now I know it’s spring!’

He pulled a few of the flowers out of the armful and offered them to her, smiling.

‘I wasn’t hinting...’ she said, looking pink and startled, which secretly amused Patrick, who hadn’t expected to get such a reaction from her. Julia Wood wasn’t a girl, after all; she was a woman in her early thirties, dark and serious, with a warmly rounded figure. Julia had had to come back to work after years out of the workforce, because her husband had died young of a heart attack, leaving her with two children aged twelve and ten. At first she had been very shy and nervous, but she had been working here for six months now and Patrick had been fascinated to watch her self-confidence grow.

‘I know you weren’t hinting, Julia,’ he half teased. ‘I’ve got masses of them here, take them! And don’t forget to put them into water before they wilt, will you?’

She took the flowers, looking down at them with a dreamy little smile, but said anxiously, ‘I hope Miss Grainger won’t be cross when she hears you gave me some of her flowers, though! Is it her birthday?’

He shook his head. ‘No, that’s in July. I bought these because they meant spring had really started, and it’s been such a long winter. She won’t mind at all. In fact, I should have thought of it before—you ought to have flowers on your desk, it would make a good impression.’

Julia beamed. ‘Oh, that would be lovely. I think it would look good! Thanks, Patrick, you’ve made my day.’

He nodded. ‘Not at all. I won’t forget to mention it to her. It will be just the touch to make the clients feel welcome.’

He walked away, towards the lift, and Julia watched him a little wistfully. Just now he had reminded her of her husband: the quick smile, the kind gesture, the warmth. John had had all those; they were what she missed most—the little gestures which had made their life together such a happy one. Of course, he hadn’t been as good-looking as Patrick Ogilvie, not that that had mattered to her. She had loved the way he looked: his direct blue eyes and happy grin, his floppy brown hair, broad shoulders and the way he...

She broke off, eyes brimming, got up and fumbled to pick up the flowers Patrick had given her, her head bent to hide her face.

‘Fred, will you watch my desk? I’ve just got to put these in water,’ she said huskily as she ran to the cloakroom, just in time before the tears came.

Laura’s secretary, Anne, was working intently when Patrick walked into her office, but she broke off, looking up, her face lighting up at the sight of him. Women always smiled at Patrick like that; he was not merely accustomed to it, he expected it and would have missed it if he didn’t get those bright-eyed glances.

‘Good morning, Anne, how are you?’ Patrick asked as if he really cared, which he did. He liked people and it made him happy to know that all was well with them. If Patrick had a flaw it was that he preferred life on the sunny side and tended to avoid anyone who might depress him.

Anne never did. She told him gaily that she was fine, how was he?

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Is anyone with her?’ he added, looking at the door on the left which led into Laura’s office.

Anne shook her head. ‘No, but don’t go in yet—she’s talking on the phone and said she wasn’t to be disturbed.’

Patrick shrugged amiably, and took a seat on the edge of Anne’s desk. ‘You look very pretty today—new dress?’ he asked, running his blue gaze over her. ‘That colour is perfect for you; you should wear it more often.’

Anne’s flush deepened; she looked down, smoothing a hand over the pink wool dress, suddenly aware, under his gaze, that the way it clung to her breasts and hips made her thin body look far more feminine and that the colour warmed her sallow skin.

‘Thank you, Patrick.’ It was typical of him to notice and to comment; she secretly glanced at him through her lashes, sighing. If only he weren’t in love with Laura Grainger! Or if only she worked for him and could see him every day. That would be heaven.

She had been half in love with Patrick Ogilvie from the first time he walked into the office, but with Laura Grainger around Anne knew he would never look at anyone else. No man would. Laura Grainger was a knock-out: the sort of blonde men dreamt about. Popular myth had it that blondes were dumb. Not Laura. She was not only clever, she was street-smart, too. A devastating combination. No wonder she had been so successful at her job. Anne knew she would never get as far in the public relations field as Laura Grainger had—she was neither street-smart nor brainy—but she didn’t envy her boss’s success in work half as much as she coveted her boyfriend.

Anne had always loved tall men, and Patrick was a good six feet, not a spare ounce of flesh on him, with smooth dark brown hair and a charm that surely only a stone-hearted woman could resist. Anne couldn’t, anyway, especially when his face had that little-boy look it sometimes wore.

Every woman in the office block was crazy about Patrick Ogilvie, in fact. With all the attention and fuss he got, it wouldn’t have been surprising if he had been totally spoilt and selfish, but that was the most amazing thing about him. Patrick was warm-hearted, caring, kind and endlessly thoughtful. When Laura was busy, he did her shopping for her. Sometimes he even tidied up her flat and often cooked her meals. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

Anne liked her boss, but sometimes she wished Laura Grainger didn’t exist. Maybe then Patrick might look her way?

A buzz made Anne jump. Hurriedly, she flicked down a switch on the console of her desk. ‘Yes, Laura?’

‘I’ve finished my phone call, Anne,’ Laura Grainger’s clear, cool voice said. ‘Any messages?’

‘No, but—’

Laura didn’t give her a chance to finish that sentence. ‘I wonder why I haven’t heard from Barry yet? Oh, well, before I forget, Anne, I have to see Mr Eyre on Tuesday, ten o’clock. I’ll probably be there all morning and it might stretch into lunch. If I have another appointment, make sure it’s shifted to some other time, would you?’

‘Yes, of course. Laura, Patrick is here,’ Anne said, scribbling hurriedly on her pad with a frantic air.

‘Send him in, then get the Courtleys Agency on the line for me, will you?’ Laura’s voice was businesslike and didn’t alter at the news that Patrick was there. How could she be so casual when the mere mention of his name made Anne’s heart leap like a salmon fighting its way upstream?

Anne’s brown eyes wistfully watched Patrick depart, his long legs moving gracefully and fast, as though he couldn’t wait to see Laura. He didn’t even look back. Anne sighed, then the phone rang and she picked it up.

‘Dudley and Grainger Public Relations, Miss Grainger’s office. Mr Dale? Oh, yes. I’ll see if Miss Grainger is free to talk to you.’

Patrick was walking towards her desk when the phone rang and Laura automatically picked it up, flicking a look at him, her green eyes smiling, and mouthed ‘Hi!’ before saying aloud, ‘Who? Mr Dale? Yes, put him through. Hello, Mr Dale—have you found anything interesting for me?’

Patrick opened his arms and let spring flowers tumble down all over her desk; their scent by now had been intensified by the central heating in the building and it filled the room with the fragrance of spring.

Laura looked down, startled, looked up again, her wide mouth curling in soundless laughter, and blew him a silent kiss.

‘Yes, quite right,’ she said into the phone.

Patrick walked round her desk, picking up a narcissus as he did so. He stood behind her, his slim body leaning on the back of her chair, and began stroking her clear-skinned face with the flower.

She gave a stifled snort of laughter.

‘Stop it! That tickles!’ she whispered, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand, pushing the narcissus away and then speaking into the phone. ‘No, I haven’t had time to look at what you sent me, Mr Dale. I’ve been too busy, but I’ll get round to it this evening.’

Patrick let the flower trail lightly down her chin to her throat, leaving a faint trace of golden pollen on her pale skin. When he began to stroke her breasts with it, his breathing quickening, Laura captured the narcissus and removed it from him, still talking calmly on the phone.

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve been looking for! When can I see it?’

Patrick gave an audible sigh and sat back on the edge of her desk, watching her profile, half wryly, half with passion. Her pale gold hair shone in the spring sunlight, a light, wild mass of curls framing her elegant, fine-boned face. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever see her eyes light up with the same passion he felt for her.

‘This afternoon?’ Laura said, frowning. She was very aware of the way Patrick was looking at her and knew him far too well not to know what he was thinking. She shouldn’t have stopped him touching her, just now; he had that hurt look in his eyes and Laura hated to feel she’d hurt him. ‘No,’ she said absently. ‘That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. Any time during the weekend would suit me better. Tomorrow? Yes, eleven o’clock, Saturday, at your office, then; thank you, Mr Dale.’

She hung up and turned to Patrick, her eyes a vivid green in the sunlight. ‘That was Dale, the estate agent; he says a new place just came on to the market, just what we want. Can you come on Saturday morning? We could see this cottage, then have lunch somewhere in the country.’

‘Good idea.’ Patrick nodded, brightening. ‘Where is this cottage? Far from York?’

‘Quite a drive, apparently, and it’s not a straight run. That’s why we’re meeting Mr Dale at his office in Malton; he’ll show us the way there, and take us over the cottage. He said you drive from Malton as if you were going back to York, then take the Castle Howard road, and it’s six or so miles further on from Castle Howard itself, right out in the country. It was a farm cottage once. It’s isolated—some miles from the nearest village—but the farm is just across a field, Mr Dale said.’

Patrick looked a little dubious. ‘Do we want somewhere that isolated? Is there a road to this cottage, or is it in the middle of a field? Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to have to drive miles every day to get milk and bread?’

‘If the farm is that close, we’ll be able to get our milk and eggs fresh every day, and no doubt we could buy other things from them.’

‘Did Mr Dale tell you the price?’

‘A little below our maximum figure!’ said Laura triumphantly, and he made a disbelieving noise.

‘Well, that’s a first! All the others Dale suggested were above our maximum.’

‘Exactly. But we’ve been disappointed too often—I’m not getting too excited until I see it.’ She absently glanced down at the spring flowers on her desk and began to laugh, throwing back her head. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, buying all those flowers, you crazy man? What am I supposed to do with them all?’ She bent her head to inhale their fragrance and her blonde hair fell in ringlets and coils all over her face. ‘Mmm...gorgeous; you do think of the nicest presents! I love them!’

‘Never mind them—how about me? You’re supposed to tell me that you love me!’

‘I don’t need to; you already know I do!’ Laura said, green eyes looking at him through her long hair.

He pushed the hair back from her face to kiss her. ‘I’m so crazy about you,’ he whispered passionately against her mouth, and his hand ran up her spine, pressing her closer, his body touching her.

Laura kissed him back, gently, clasping his face between her palms, but when his caresses became more heated she pulled back, rather flushed. ‘Not in the office, Patrick!’ she muttered. ‘If a client walked in it could be embarrassing!’

Patrick gave a little grimace. ‘I know, sorry, but...you go to my head. OK, shall we go to lunch?’

She gave him an apologetic look. ‘Darling, I’m sorry, but—’

‘Laura, we had a date—I’ve booked for lunch at the Apollo!’

‘I know, and I’m sorry,’ Laura said ruefully. ‘I just can’t spare the time. I have to talk to the agency and fix a shoot with these girls for next week and then talk to the photographer again. There’s been a lot to do today. Look, let’s ring up and cancel the table and eat lunch up here. I’ll send out for sandwiches and fruit and some coffee.’ She kissed him on the nose, hugging him. ‘And I’ll sit on your knee while we wait, how’s that?’

‘I see! Bribery and corruption,’ he said, laughing and relaxing again. ‘Sounds good to me, although I can think of something I’d like even better.’

‘Don’t you ever think of anything else?’ she asked, half exasperated, half amused.

‘Don’t you ever think of it at all?’ Patrick muttered, and wasn’t really joking; a silence fell between them and Laura gave him a stricken look.

‘Patrick! You know I love you! It’s just that I’m not as...well...I suppose as highly sexed as you are... Sex isn’t on my mind all day.’

‘It’s on mine whenever I see you,’ he said, huskily, sending a wave of regret through her.

‘Oh...I’m sorry, darling—if I—’

Anne buzzed her at that second. ‘I’ve got the agency on the line for you now,’ her voice said tinnily, and Laura couldn’t quite suppress a sigh of relief.

‘Right. Put them through, then go down to the snack bar across the street and get us sandwiches, fruit, and cans of diet cola out of the fridge. Then you can go to lunch.’

Patrick listened and watched her, his mouth wry. Sometimes he was jealous of her job, of this firm. Sometimes he felt afraid, suspecting that the job meant more to her than he did, got far more of her attention. His own work meant a lot to him, but Laura mattered ten times more. Since they’d first met she had filled his life until nothing else meant much to him. He wished she felt the same about him, but sensed that she didn’t. There was some sort of irony in that for Patrick, who had all his life been able to bowl women over and make them his devoted slaves.

He was twenty-nine, and until he’d met Laura he had had a wonderful time with a constantly changing succession of pretty girls. He had liked them all, but never fallen in love with any of them. Why, when he did fall in love, had he fallen like a ton of bricks for someone who was so cool and in command of herself? At times he almost felt Laura treated him more as a brother than a lover. Oh, she was affectionate, loving, almost indulgent with him, but the passion he felt for her was never reflected in her eyes when she looked back at him.

He wished she would agree to fix a date for their wedding. Once they were married he might feel more secure. He might stop being scared she would meet someone else.

The following morning Patrick woke up late, with all the symptoms of flu. He was shivering, his throat hurt and his head ached. After taking aspirin and deciding to skip breakfast, since his appetite had vanished, he gloomily rang Laura.

‘Oh, poor darling,’ she said with instant sympathy. ‘Shall I come round?’

‘Better not,’ he croaked. ‘Don’t want you to catch it. But it means I shan’t be able to come to see the cottage.’

‘Never mind, I’ll go, and report back to you later. Sure you don’t want me to come and hold your hand when I get back?’

He laughed hoarsely. ‘I’d love it, but I’ll probably sleep all day; I’m having trouble keeping awake.’

‘Best thing for you!’ she agreed. ‘Look after yourself, take plenty of liquids, and stay warm.’

She rang off after blowing him a kiss and ruefully looked out of the window. Typical. The weather was glorious, wouldn’t you know it? They could have had such a wonderful day. She took another look at the cloudless blue sky. Well, it would still be a very pleasant drive; far better to be out in the countryside on a day like this, instead of sitting around in an office!

Laura lived in a small apartment on the fifth floor of a modern block of flats a short walk from York Castle. She had a good view of the river from her sitting-room window. Her tiny bedroom looked out over roof-tops but gave her a glimpse of the world-famous medieval Minster.

She liked uncluttered rooms, with lots of space, so there was a minimum of furniture—only what she really liked and felt she needed. Most of it had been bought in antique shops or at sales over the years she had lived there, or had been given to her by a relative. Laura preferred to live with graceful old furniture which had been well loved for years before she owned it. Fortunately, she had generous relatives, most of them living in Yorkshire. Hers was a very close family; she saw them all often: her parents, who lived in a tiny village fifty miles away, her married sister in Harrogate, or one or other of her grandparents. Sometimes they came to York to visit her, especially her parents, who loved their visits to the city.

Laura always put them up in her flat, insisting on giving them the bedroom while she slept in her sitting-room on a couch, and she took them out to restaurants, to the theatre or a cinema. It gave her pleasure to see them enjoying themselves, but she knew that they were happy to get home again, back to the village where they had lived all their lives.

Laura missed the village, too, and the moorland landscape she remembered waking up to each morning. When she had inherited a large sum of money from an uncle a year or so back, she had decided to buy a cottage within easy driving distance of York so that she could spend weekends in the countryside. Of course, the landscape would be different—softer, less rugged than the one she had grown up with—but she wanted to hear birds singing, escape the everlasting sound of traffic and the smell of petrol fumes, go for Sunday morning walks across fields, through woods.

When she and Patrick had got engaged, he’d been delighted with the idea of a country home after they were married, because he was tired of living in the city, too, but since he worked from home, as a freelance artist, he wouldn’t be driving to York and back each day, and somewhere in the real countryside would also suit him better. He would sell his flat, and live entirely in the country, but Laura had decided to keep hers. It would be more convenient for her to live in York during the working week and her family would still be able to make their occasional visits to the city.

‘I can do any redecorating necessary. I prefer to do it myself—most decorators don’t have any taste,’ Patrick had predictably said.

‘That will save us money,’ she had agreed, and had been teased for her Yorkshire sense of thrift. ‘Well,’ she had defiantly retorted, ‘that’s how I was brought up! To count the pennies. You wouldn’t want a wife who chucks money around, would you?’

‘Certainly wouldn’t,’ he had grinned, then said, ‘Oh, it will be fun, Laura! During the week, in between doing my work, I’ll have lots to do around the house and garden, so I won’t be lonely, or miss you too much, and then at weekends we can make love and talk by the fire or in the garden! We’re going to have a wonderful life.’

Whenever Laura met old girlfriends she was usually appalled by the men they had picked. Most of them had husbands who, however attractive or pleasant they might seem, were stuck in the conventional male path—spoilt, thoughtless, domineering, expecting to be waited on hand and foot, to have a well-cooked meal on the table when they came home from work, their perfectly laundered shirts hanging in the wardrobe ready for them to put on each morning.

Her friends were always complaining about them. Yet they stayed with them, almost seemed proud of their behaviour. Laura found it baffling. Thank heavens Patrick wasn’t like that. He was a partner, not a master: good-looking, charming, but kind-hearted and easygoing too. He had a delightful personality and Laura had never met anyone, male or female, who didn’t like him, but he was also intensely practical and hard-working. He could cook better than she could, he loved to see his home looking spotless and spent hours every week doing housework, doing his own washing, ironing, even sewing on buttons if he lost one from a shirt.

She suddenly caught sight of a clock on a table; good heavens, was that the time? She ought to be on her way; traffic coming into York would be quite heavy soon.

She paused at the front door to check her reflection in the mirror hanging there. Her blonde hair was a tossing cloud of curls, her skin was smooth and dewy, her full mouth softly pink—but it was on her slanting green eyes that her stare stayed. Why was there that look in them? She couldn’t even define it, but she didn’t look like a rapturously happy woman, and she ought to! Life was showering her with everything she had ever wanted, so why did she feel so restless?

But she knew why! Patrick was everything she wanted a man to be, and yet...and yet she had never once felt the sort of overwhelming desire for him that she knew he felt for her.

Well, so what? she defiantly told her reflection. Did you have to feel like that to be in love? That might be one aspect of love, but it wasn’t everything. But her green eyes silently held the answer: isn’t it? Why did she feel this restless, unsatisfied need if it wasn’t important?

Is there something wrong with me? Why don’t I want Patrick the way he wants me? When he made love to her she always felt a sensual enjoyment, pleasure in the stroking hands and warm mouth, the gentle physical contact, but she had never once gone crazy, lost her head, ached for him, and it disturbed her. She knew it disturbed Patrick, too; and it hurt her to know she was hurting him, because she loved him. But was loving him enough?

If only she dared talk to her sister, or had a friend she trusted enough to ask, Am I just cold by nature? I’m not frigid, am I? What is the matter with me?

But maybe she had let herself get wound up over nothing; maybe she would change after she and Patrick were married, when they were alone all weekend in their cottage and the tensions of their engagement were over?

The telephone rang; she ran to pick it up. ‘Hello? Laura Grainger speaking.’

‘Laura, we’ve got a crisis!’ It was Barry Courtley’s voice, sounding agitated.

‘What now?’ she demanded, instantly alert. Why did she go on working with his model agency? He seemed to rush from one crisis to another; he was the most disorganised man! He could definitely learn a thing or two from Patrick!

‘The shoot at Castle Howard!’ panted Barry.

‘What about it?’

‘The girls will finish there at eleven-thirty and have to be back in York by twelve-thirty to start shooting in the Shambles by one, but their driver has broken down on the road and I can’t get another taxi out there in time. Saturday is always a busy day for them.’

‘Haven’t any of the girls got a car, for heaven’s sake? Why did you have to lay on a taxi?’

‘It’s safer,’ mumbled Barry. ‘Then they can’t plead they got stuck in traffic or their car wouldn’t start. The taxi goes round and picks them all up, drops them at wherever they’re shooting, then goes back for them...only this time the taxi broke down en route and there isn’t another free for ages.’

‘What about the photographer?’

‘He only has a small two-seater van; his equipment takes up most of the space in the back, and he has that hulking great assistant in the front with him. I’d go myself, but I’m due at my sister’s wedding in Durham at three; I’ve got to leave right away, then I thought of you...’

‘Oh, did you?’ she retorted. ‘I’m busy too, Barry! I’ve got better things to do with my time than play chauffeur to your girls!’

‘But you did say you were going that way this morning and might look in on the Castle Howard shoot!’ he protested, wounded innocence in his tones.

Laura had to admit that. Still frowning, she did some quick calculations. ‘Yes, OK, I’ll pick them up. How many girls was it? Four? Yes, I can just about squeeze them into my Mini. I have to be at Malton by eleven, and should be at Castle Howard at around eleven-thirty. The timing will be tight—I have to see a cottage—but supposing that we leave there at twelve...yes, I can do it. Will you be able to talk to the girls first?’

‘Yes, they’re going to ring me back.’

‘Well, tell them to meet me at the main gate, at eleven-thirty. Will they have much stuff with them?’

‘Clothes, make-up, shoes, the usual stuff. They might be able to stow some of that in the photographer’s van, if it helps.’

‘Well, I should have room in my car. Now, I’d better go or I’ll be late too.’

The drive to Malton was quite a rapid run, in spite of the traffic going from and coming to York, and she reached the estate agent’s office exactly on time. As she pulled up outside, the estate agent emerged, smiling.

Mr Dale was a broad, short Yorkshire man with a face like a well-weathered prune. He shook hands with a firm grip, giving her the grimace which passed for a smile with him.

‘Well, I think we’ve finally come up with exactly what you’ve been wanting, Miss Grainger. Nice little property, needs the odd job done to it, mind—lick of paint, some work on the roof—but it could be made very comfortable without costing an arm and a leg. It’s not an easy trip from here; do you want to come with me, or will you take your own car?’

‘I’ll take my own car, then I can drive straight back to York,’ she decided, and he nodded.

‘Follow me close, then, Miss Grainger; don’t get yourself lost. Remember, we’re turning off at the Castle Howard road.’

He was about to climb into his car, but she stopped him. ‘Mr Dale, I have to pick some girls up from Castle Howard on our way. It won’t take a minute; they should be waiting for us at the main gates.’

‘Work there, do they?’ he asked, looking interested.

‘No, they’re models; they’ve been working in the grounds, with a photographer.’

The drive back towards York was easier because the roads were not quite so crowded now. The road which led to Castle Howard had once been the private road of the family who owned the castle; they had built it in the days long before cars. About seven miles long, it ran across country, between green fields, and wasn’t busy, so they were able to drive fast. It was just after half-past eleven when they arrived at Castle Howard’s main gate, and to Laura’s relief the girls were waiting as arranged.

‘This is ace of you, Laura,’ a skinny black-haired girl said, clambering in beside her, folding her long, long legs somehow into the limited space available. The other girls climbed into the back and settled themselves, pushing and giggling.

Mr Dale had drawn up in front of Laura’s car and was waiting, watching in his driving mirror as the models one by one vanished into the little Mini. Laura could see his bemused expression in his mirror.

‘Thought we were going to have to walk!’ one of the girls in the back said. ‘Thanks, Laura.’

‘That’s OK, I was passing the gates anyway. All in? Then off we go.’ Laura waved to Mr Dale, who started his engine again and moved away with her car following him.

‘Barry’s such a skinflint,’ the black-haired girl said crossly. ‘He always books the cheapest transport—he gets block bookings for half the price and they send their oldest car or coach, and it’s always breaking down. I’m fed up with him—I’m moving to another agency down south as soon as I can get placed.’

The girls in the back made mocking noises. One of them drawled, ‘That’ll be the day! You’ve been saying that for as long as I can remember, Suzy.’

‘I mean it this time!’

‘Sure you do!’ the other girls drawled, and her friends in the back seat giggled.

‘It’s like driving around with a lot of kids; stop squabbling,’ Laura said, then ruefully realised that kids were what most of them were. Suzy was twenty-one now, Yasmin nineteen, but the others were mostly sixteen or seventeen.

Mr Dale had turned off the road now on to a rough, bumpy track between wire fences which clearly led eventually to a farm. Laura followed him; the car bumped and grated over ruts in the track. Laura hated to think what this was doing to her tyres. Surely this wasn’t the only road to this cottage?

Then she saw it and her green eyes widened, glowing. In one glance she saw that it was the sort of place she had always dreamt of living in. An old flint and stone-built cottage with a slate roof, set in a walled garden with an apple tree leaning over the gate, it stood alone with fields all round it, and Laura loved it at sight.

She pulled up behind Mr Dale’s car and got out, slamming her door. The models fell out, chattering excitedly.

‘Oh, isn’t it sweet? You going to buy it, Laura?’ Yasmin asked, walking with difficulty on the rough surface of the track in her stilt-like heels.

‘Is this where you and Patrick are going to live when you’re married?’ asked Suzy.

‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ cooed Yasmin. ‘You are lucky, Laura. Mind if we gatecrash the church? I’d love to see you getting married.’

‘I’ll send you an invitation,’ promised Laura, and the other girls excitedly chattered to her.

‘For all of us? Can we all come to the wedding? Oh, great, thanks, Laura.’

‘Want a bridesmaid?’ Yasmin asked wistfully. ‘I’ve never been a real bridesmaid. I dressed up as one, once, for that bridal shop advert—ever so pretty the dress was, sort of peach satin, lots of lace, too, and I carried a little round bouquet of creamy rosebuds with a silver foil backing. I kept it afterwards, got it hanging on my dressing-table; it dried lovely, the roses still smell nice. But I’ve never been a real bridesmaid.’

Two girls were tottering along the track, giggling. ‘Ooh, look, there’s cows in this field...black and white ones! Moo, moo, come here, moos! Look at them staring; what a hoot... I’ve never seen one this close, have you, Yaz? Come and look! Haven’t they got big heads...oh, look at that one’s tongue—all rough, like sandpaper...Hello, moos...’

Mr Dale watched them with a mixture of disbelief and indulgence. ‘No brains at all, have they?’ he murmured to Laura, who smiled and shrugged.

‘They’re nice girls, though, when you get to know them.’

At that instant a tractor turned out of one of the fields and chugged noisily towards them only to stop dead, the engine throbbing, while the driver stared at them with a dark scowl on his face.

He shouted something Laura couldn’t hear above the noise of his tractor, and waved his arms at them.

Mr Dale groaned.

‘What did he say?’ asked Laura, but before the estate agent could answer the tractor driver switched off his engine and shouted again, and this time they all heard what he said.

‘How many times do I have to tell you? Get off my land or I’ll set my dogs on you!’

The models shrieked and ran back towards the car.

‘His land?’ Laura asked Mr Dale. ‘I don’t understand; is this his cottage?’

‘No, no, it belongs to a lady who’s lived here for years.’

‘Then what does he mean, his land?’

Mr Dale didn’t answer. He was looking nervous. The tractor driver had jumped down, was striding towards them, long, muscled legs rapidly covering the ground. Laura tensed with an instant hostility. He was everything she disliked in a man. Tall, broad, with thick, windswept black hair, he certainly couldn’t be accused of charm or good looks. His face rugged, powerful, he had a jaw she recognised as belligerent, even at a distance, and piercing grey eyes glittering with rage.

‘Ooh...’ giggled the models, clustering behind Laura, as if for protection. ‘He looks real mad, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.’

‘Don’t know about that! Wouldn’t mind at all, actually!’ Yasmin whispered and set them all shrieking with laughter, which didn’t soften the lines of the man’s angry face.

‘Who is he?’ Laura hurriedly asked Mr Dale, who crossly muttered back,

‘Josh Kern. He owns the farm, all this land...’ His voice broke off as the dark man reached them and stopped, his legs apart in a threatening stance.

Mr Dale was not the nervous type, but Laura saw his throat move convulsively as he swallowed.

‘For the last time, will you get off my land?’ snarled Josh Kern.

Mr Dale stood his ground, facing up to him. ‘Mr Kern, you don’t own this cottage, and the owner has been using this right of way for many years, as you know perfectly well.’

‘There’s no right of way; this is a private road, and I’m taking legal steps to establish that fact!’ Josh Kern snarled. ‘Now, get these women out of here, and don’t come back!’

Laura bristled. ‘I came here to see this cottage, Mr Kern, and as you don’t own it you can’t stop me!’

He slowly swung his head in her direction, his grey eyes full of menace.

‘Don’t be so sure about that, whoever you are.’

‘She’s Laura Grainger,’ Yasmin told him, her face flushed with the excitement of the conflict, and determined to get his attention. She wasn’t frightened. In fact, this was her idea of fun, watching an angry man bellowing at someone, especially a man this sexy. It beat hanging around waiting to be photographed any day!

She was disappointed, however. Josh Kern ignored her. He went on staring narrowly at Laura, from her clouds of blonde curls and full pink mouth to her long, slender legs and tiny feet, his cold eyes contemptuous.

‘Who are all these people, Dale? Actresses?’ he bit out, flicking a glance over the other girls with the same distaste.

‘Models,’ Mr Dale growled.

Josh Kern’s mouth tightened. ‘Models!’

The girls posed for him, smiles inviting.

His face tightened. ‘My God! Are they all planning to move in here? Not if I can stop it. Listen to me, Miss...whatever your name is...if you’re the one who might buy this place... Did Mr Dale explain that this cottage really belongs to my farm? That it was given to someone, not sold, and that I want it back? I hoped to get it back legally, because there was no legal conveyance, just a scribbled paper saying the cottage was a gift, but the court upheld it. Then I tried to buy it back, but my offer was refused although it was far more than the cottage is worth on the open market. The present owner insists she’ll only sell to someone else. Anyone else, so long as it isn’t me, apparently!’ His eyes flashed. ‘Apparently, I can’t force her to sell it back to me...’

Clearly, thought Laura, he wished he could!

He went on fiercely, ‘But I can refuse to let anyone who buys the place use my land as an access road, so be warned! If you do buy Fern Cottage you’ll be buying yourself a lot of trouble.’

‘Don’t you threaten me!’ Laura bit back at him, her head up and her green eyes very angry.

‘I’m not threatening, I’m warning,’ Josh Kern said very softly, and something in that dark face made her skin turn cold.

The other girls gazed, transfixed, their eyes wide and incredulous.

Laura knew how they felt; this man was not someone you could ignore or forget. He had such penetrating eyes; in his rage they turned silvery, as though white-hot.

Mr Dale cleared his throat and nervously suggested, ‘Shall we go and look round the cottage now, Miss Grainger?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, her eyes still held by Josh Kern’s menacing stare.

‘I meant every word,’ he said in that soft, dangerous voice, and she believed him. He had the look of a man who always meant what he said.

Maybe she should forget any idea of buying Fern Cottage?