Читать книгу Separate Rooms - Diana Hamilton - Страница 6

OH, BUT he was a cool customer... Cool and calculating. Honey slammed the door of the lock-up and huddled deeper into her raincoat, dragging the hood up over her bright head.

Today had been a total waste of time. Too many London dealers had gathered at the country house sale, outbidding her on each and every item she had wanted. And spring had done a U-turn, making the day gloomy with chilling rain. And, more annoying still, she hadn’t been able to drag her mind away from Ben Claremont and his crazy proposal.

Crazy or calculating?

A man would have to be out of his mind to propose a paper marriage to a woman he hadn’t known existed until twenty-four hours ago. Out of his mind or on to a good thing!

But what? What could he gain from such a marriage? Honey simply couldn’t begin to guess. Her shoulders hunched against the rain, the high heels of her boots beating an angry tattoo on the cobbles, she turned into Stony Shut and for once the warm glow of light coming from the windows of her shop failed to take the edge off her aggravation.

If only she could stop thinking about him, about his odd proposal, about the way he’d simply said goodnight, politely thanked her for the meal and walked away leaving a thousand and one questions racing round her brain.

It wasn’t as if she had any intention of accepting his insane offer of a ‘solution’—even if he had been serious about it, she grumbled at herself. So why couldn’t she get it, or him, out of her mind?

‘Honey—’ The masculine voice was thin and irritated and she lifted her head, screwing her eyes up against the rain and groaned a disgusted protest. Graham. All she needed right now was Graham.

He was approaching from the other end of the Shut and even in the gloom of the wet afternoon she could see his face was pinched and tight, almost completely eradicating his film-star good looks. He looked about as pleased with life as she was, and if he’d come to ask her to apologise for her behaviour on the night of Sonia’s party he would have a long, long wait.

She was nearer the shop premises than he, and dived into the shelter of the doorway, waiting for him, her teeth clamped together, her hands on her hips, like a warrior defending her kingdom. But his peeved expression had to have more to do with the way the rain had slicked his hair to his head, was dripping off the hem of his stuffily styled shortie car-coat and soaking his trousers than any of her numerous—to him—shortcomings. Because his tone was conciliatory in the extreme as he peered into her bristling brown eyes and told her, ‘I’ve come to bury the hatchet, old thing.’

‘Wow! Make my day. What have I done to deserve such a treat?’ she growled, willing him to go away. All she needed right now was a hot soothing bath, a nice cup of tea and the opportunity to unknot her mind. But sarcasm was wasted because Graham stepped into the shelter of the doorway with her, stoically smiling.

‘Don’t be like that, sweetheart. That spat the other night was as much my fault as yours, I freely admit it. So let’s put it behind us, shall we?’ The film-star smile flashed again, the effect slightly diminished by the drop of rainwater on the end of his too perfect nose. ‘I’ve booked a table for two at the Crown. I would have given you more warning but when I phoned this morning that odd-job man of yours said you’d be out all day. I just dropped by on the off-chance you’d be back—otherwise I would have left a message.’

‘I don’t—’

‘I won’t come in just now,’ he cut across her, as if an invitation to do just that had been extended. ‘Must dash. But I’ll pick you up at eight.’

‘No.’ Honey recognised that look in his eyes. It meant he was about to honour her with one of his totally unremarkable kisses. She backed away, knocking into the shop door, her voice tight with temper as she spat, ‘You don’t give up, do you? I won’t have dinner with you tonight, or any other night. So why don’t you go back home and tell your father to keep his nose out? I won’t marry you, because I don’t want to. And, if you think about it, you don’t really want it either.’

But he was still smiling, as if she were a bad-tempered child who didn’t know what she was talking about. Still advancing, too. And she had nowhere to go but into the haven of her shop and she was already fumbling for the door-latch when it swung open behind her, sending her toppling into a strong pair of arms—another kind of haven.

‘You always fall into my arms so beautifully, my angel. That’s just one of the things I love about you.’ The relaxed and slightly amused tone of Ben’s voice calmed her and the strong arms around her body warmed her, dispelling the memory of the chilling rain. Graham’s face was a picture of outrage and she closed her eyes because Graham’s face was not what she wanted to see, and nestled her head into that broad, accommodating, soft-leather-clad shoulder. And heard his voice assume a cool toughness. ‘Is there anything we can do for you? The premises are about to close and, as you can see, my fiancée needs to get out of her wet things.’

Which brought Honey’s eyes flying wide open again, and she could swear her heart actually stopped beating for whole seconds. And it wasn’t a reaction to the words Ben had said, oh, no, just a frantic need to see how Graham took that ‘my fiancée’ bit.

If he actually believed she was engaged to this suave stranger then surely he would drop his own pursuit, the desire to fall in with his father’s wishes and marry the woman the cunning old man had picked out for him. It might work, it just might work, and if it did she would treat Ben to the best meal the Crown could offer, the best champagne too, by way of celebration.

But luck wasn’t riding with her because Graham’s face had gone black with temper and his voice was more incisively confident than she had ever heard it before as he bit out, ‘As you said yourself, Honey—’ he invested her name with a kind of disgust ‘—I don’t give up. And there’s no way I’m going to let some smooth-talking Yank take my woman.’ His eyes snapped with a ferocity she wouldn’t have believed him capable of as he swung on his heels and delivered his parting shot, ‘And you’d better believe it. Both of you.’

‘Oh, heavens!’ Honey’s bright head burrowed more deeply into Ben’s wide shoulder, the tangle of her damp curls brushing his tough jawline. She might well have stayed there forever had he not gently put her aside, she recognised with a grumble of self-disgust when he brushed drops of water from his jacket and said wryly,

‘Quite a determined guy you’re up against there.’ Then, his eyes taking in the rain-darkened corkscrew twists of her hair, her dripping raincoat and sodden boots, he told her crisply, ‘Time to get out of those wet things,’ and closed the shop door behind them, flicking the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and dropping down the latch.

‘Any luck today?’ Fred ambled through from the rear of the premises, his craggy face bright with interest because usually, after a sale, they drank mugs of tea together and discussed the treasures she had found. But not today.

‘No, nothing.’ Honey shook her head regretfully. ‘The big boys from London were there en masse. I didn’t stand a chance.’

And Ben put in from right behind her, ‘Just as well. You couldn’t cram another teacup into this place and still have room for customers to browse.’ He edged past her, making a production of it as if to prove his point. ‘Get those wet clothes off and take a hot shower while I brew coffee. We’ll lock up, Fred, if you want to call it a day.’

Bossy, she thought as she watched him stride to the twisty staircase at the back of the showroom. But there was no resentment there, just an unusual willingness to allow someone else to take charge for once. Someone? Or just this one man?

She shrugged unconsciously and lifted long sweeping lashes to meet Fred’s twinkling eyes.

‘There goes a man who’s used to getting his own way. It comes naturally, and it shows,’ he said with the same lack of resentment.

In fact, Honey noted, his expression was thoroughly approving and she brushed wet, wrinkled hair out of her eyes and asked weakly, ‘Just how long has he been here?’

‘Long enough to get the business straightened out.’ Fred was already reaching for his ancient sheepskin coat. ‘He thinks you should move out and make your flat over to extra display areas. Forget the idea of buying up the next-door premises—the structural alterations to throw the two properties into one would totally destroy the character of both. I agree with him.’

‘Really.’ Honey’s voice was withering as she watched her right-hand man shrug into his coat. Ever since they’d heard that the adjacent property was due to come on the open market they’d avidly chewed over the possibilities of acquiring it, expanding the business—always presuming she could raise the capital. And now, just because some sort of bossy nomad had wandered in off the street, Fred had, in his mind, evicted her from her cosy home. So where was she supposed to live? Move in with her mother? Heaven forbid!

She would have reminded him that this was her property, her business, and she—and no one else—would decide what was done. But her sharp little tongue was silenced by Fred’s jaunty, ‘See you tomorrow, then. Pity about the sale. Night.’

‘And goodnight to you, too!’ Honey sniped at the already closing door, then turned slowly on her heels, the damp cloth of her raincoat making her shiver. What the hell? Nothing to get in a stew about. It hadn’t been a good day, that was for sure, and the unpleasant encounter with Graham, out there in the driving rain, had been the last straw.

All she needed to recapture her normal optimism was that hot shower and a hot drink. And if Ben wanted to produce the drink why should she argue? Just so long as he didn’t offer to scrub her back!

As she went to her bedroom she could hear him moving around in the kitchen. She would have liked to ask him to leave but couldn’t rake up the energy. The long day, the frustration of the sale, the nasty knowledge that Graham wasn’t about to abandon his pursuit—even though Ben had said they were engaged—had sapped her strength.

So she wouldn’t think about any of it. Not now. After her shower, after Ben had taken himself off, would be soon enough.

Divesting herself of her wet clothes, she tugged on a short scarlet silk robe, belting it securely at the waist and padded out of her room—meeting Ben in the tiny passageway. Suddenly, for no reason she could think of, she felt her face go as red as the silk that clung to every curvaceous line of her body. But he didn’t even seem to see her. He looked straight through her as he imparted briskly, ‘Good girl. I’ll have dinner ready in half an hour.’ He almost smiled. ‘Come as you are, no need to dress for the occasion.’

Huh, she snorted to herself as she shed her robe in the privacy of the tiny bathroom. No need to dress. Come as you are! Was that a build-up to a pass, or wasn’t it! Her face going hot, she rushed to bolt the door and immediately felt silly. He hadn’t even seemed to see her out there, and he certainly hadn’t subjected her to the lascivious slide of the eyes that meant he was mentally undressing her. She had been on the receiving end of just such looks for years now and was perfectly capable of recognising them.

Annoyed with herself for her mental over-reaction, she stepped into the shower and allowed the soothing spray of hot water to relax her and was almost tempted to do as he had said—present herself for dinner in her robe—but thought better of it and pulled on a pair of washed-out jeans topped by a baggy sweatshirt in a faded shade of black that seemed to emphasise the paleness of her skin, the delicate lines of her triangular face and the wildness of her rough-dried, shoulder-length vivid red hair.

Though what he had found to cook was beyond her. She knew for a fact that her fridge was empty, the store cupboard shelves bare of the makings of a meal. She had been too busy just lately to be bothered about such trifles as grocery shopping.

So the aroma of sizzling steak coming from the kitchen was a complete surprise, as was the sight of Ben Claremont with a tea-towel tied around his lean waist, his strong angular features frozen in a mask of concentration as he flipped the meat over then slid it back beneath the grill.

Then the mask dissolved into a smile of such warmth that Honey found her breath snatched away, her voice just for once totally lost as he put a cup of steaming coffee in one of her hands, a small measure of brandy in a tumbler in the other.

‘Go and warm through by the fire.’ He gave her an absent-minded push, turning her round, his hands on her shoulders, very briefly, not lingering. He surely didn’t appear to be the mauling type, she thought in a haze. True, he had held her quite intimately when she’d fallen into his arms as the door to the shop had opened, but that had been purely for Graham’s benefit, a physical back-up to his roundabout announcement that they were an engaged couple. He had certainly lost no time in putting her aside as soon as the other man had stumped away in a rage.

And it hadn’t been Ben’s fault that Graham had taken the so-called engagement news as a direct challenge. He had tried to help her. So she wouldn’t bristle at him because he had taken over, pushing her out of her own kitchen, giving orders.

Besides, she would find it impossible to be angry. He had an uncanny knack of soothing her. Well, some of the time. Like now, with the fire he had made burning brightly in the hearth, the flames throwing dancing shadows and splashes of glowing colour over the ancient carvings on the stone hood, the hot coffee and tiny sips of brandy relaxing her.

The table they’d used last night was already set with two covers. He’d certainly been busy while she’d been taking that shower and when he entered with a platter of steaming steak with fresh asparagus on the side, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm, she smiled at him dreamily and uncurled languorously from the squashy armchair at the fireside.

It was nice, for a change, to be cosseted. No one had done so since her father had died; no one had petted her or really cared about her and what she wanted, or treated her as if she was important, special to them. Not even her mother. Especially not her mother! Avril had only been interested in having a daughter who would conform to her ideas of what a daughter should be. Honey’s personal wishes were disregarded if they didn’t dovetail with Avril’s—as witnessed by the endless arguments over her decision to set up in business on her own, by her refusal to do the sensible thing and give it all up to marry Graham!

The sound of the cork popping, the crisp foam of bubbling magic into cold crystal reminded Honey of her earlier intention to treat him to a celebratory drink and, a quirky smile playing around her mouth, she seated herself at the table, spread her napkin over her lap and told him, ‘Thanks for trying to give Graham the red light. It’s a pity it didn’t work, but you can see what I’m up against.’