Читать книгу Running From the Storm - Lee Wilkinson - Страница 8

‘HOLD on,’ he instructed, and squeezed past her. ‘Now then, put your free arm around my neck.’

She obeyed and, lifting her clear of the steps, he swung her up into his arms.

Though he was no stranger to women, he was unprepared for how the weight of her slim yet curvaceous body lying against his set his heart beating faster.

For her part, Caris felt distinctly awkward. Being carried was an unfamiliar sensation for a woman of five feet seven who weighed a hundred and thirty pounds and she was pleased they had the place to themselves so there was no one to stare.

After a moment or two the awkwardness passed. He bore her weight with such ease that by the time they reached the car she was starting to feel safe, protected and feminine, and to quite like the novel experience.

When she was settled on the front passenger seat, he crouched to pull off her sandal and examine her left ankle and foot. As his long fingers probed, she couldn’t prevent a wince.

He glanced up sharply.

‘It’s all right,’ she assured him.

His examination over, he reported, ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything broken, but it’s started to swell already, and it’s my guess that you have quite a nasty sprain.’

Then, his tone vexed, ‘I’m an absolute fool! I should have had more sense than take you down there in those heels.’

‘It isn’t your fault,’ she assured him quickly. ‘I should have had more sense than go down. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And it’s really not too painful.’

As she moved her foot experimentally, a stab of agony made her gasp, giving the lie to her words.

‘Take your stocking off,’ he instructed. ‘I’ve a first-aid box in the trunk.’

While he was gone, on the grounds that it was better to have bare legs than be odd, she took off both her stockings and put them in her purse.

He returned after a moment or two with the box and, having applied an analgesic spray and a crepe bandage, asked, ‘How does it feel now?’

‘Much better, thank you,’ she replied cheerfully as she slipped her sandals back on and swung her legs into the car.

‘That’s good. Though I doubt if you’ll be doing much serious walking for a few days.’

‘Oh Lord!’ In the excitement of the moment, she had given scant thought to her vacation.

‘I suppose I ought to warn Sam that I may not be able to join the group. But I don’t want to disappoint her unless I’m forced to.’

‘Then why not wait until we get to the restaurant?’ Zander suggested. ‘If you leave it for a while you may have a better idea of just how much of a problem the ankle’s going to be.’

‘You’re right, of course.’

When he had slammed the car door, he replaced the first-aid box and got behind the wheel.

As he drove, his thoughts were busy. It was odds on that her ankle would prevent her from joining a trekking party, but would she still want to join her friend in Catona?

He rather hoped not. Past experience told him she was already attracted to him, and he couldn’t wait to get her into bed.

With a lot of women it would have been easy—too easy, in fact. Most of them had been so over-eager he’d soon become bored and only too keen to bring things to an end.

But already he felt certain that this woman was different. Rather than being the worldly, extrovert, anything-goes type, she was quiet and self-contained and, beneath what he guessed was normally a cool, composed exterior, maybe even a little shy.

Suddenly he was looking forward to finding out, filled with anticipation at the thought of getting to know her a whole lot better. Of holding her in his arms and making love to her.

Smiling wryly to himself, he realized he hadn’t felt this interested and eager since he had been a lanky seventeen-year-old and really enamoured of the pretty girl who lived across the way.

By the time they reached their destination the sun had disappeared behind the wooded peaks, and the air was the clear piercing blue that in mountainous regions reigns briefly between sunset and dusk.

‘Here we are,’ Zander said as he came round to help her out. ‘Le Jardin Romarin.’

It was an old and picturesque building, with a jumble of pitched roofs and sloping gables. On each side of the stone steps leading up to the imposing entrance were tubs of spiky purple lavender and dark, glossy rosemary.

‘Careful now,’ he warned as she gathered up her purse and jacket and swung her feet to the ground.

Favouring her bad ankle, she stood up cautiously; so far so good. But when she tried to put weight on it she was unable to prevent an exclamation of pain. ‘Bad, huh?’ he said sympathetically.

‘I don’t think I can walk,’ she admitted.

‘Then put your arms round my neck.’

A sudden excitement surging through her, she obeyed, and once again found herself being swung up and held against a broad chest.

This time she felt less awkward about being carried, but was more affected by it.

She could feel the warmth of his body, the solidness of the bone and muscle she rested against, and, mingling with the clean masculine scent of his skin, the tangy aftershave he used.

Their faces were so near to one another that she could see the faint laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, and a small, vertical scar by the side of his mouth.

Such close contact sent a shiver of excitement through her, made breathing difficult, and set her heart beating faster.

The door was opened for them and, having climbed the steps seemingly without effort, he carried her into an elegant foyer-bar where a small party of people were enjoying a drink while they waited for their table.

Embarrassment washed over her, but when no one as much as glanced their way her discomfort faded.

Feeling her relax, Zander asked, ‘Satisfied I won’t drop you?’

Seeing her cheeks grow pink, and finding it a sweet amusement to tease her, he added wickedly, ‘Or are you starting to enjoy being carried?’

She was saved from having to answer by a sturdy, silver-haired man wearing a dinner jacket and black bow-tie who crossed the foyer to greet them.

‘Zander, nice to see you again, mon ami!’ he exclaimed jovially.

‘Nice to see you, Claude.’

With an unmistakable twinkle in his eye, the Frenchman asked, ‘Do I take it that you and madame are enjoying a lune de miel?’

‘Unfortunately not. I’m afraid mademoiselle has hurt her ankle.’

Claude tutted his concern. ‘Then we will have to try and make up for it with one of our best tables and an especially good meal.’

He led the way through French doors to a rear veranda and over to a secluded table, beautifully set with a low centrepiece of apricot-coloured roses and a squat gold candle.

‘Now do please make yourselves comfortable.’

As soon as Caris had been settled in a chair, an attentive waiter relieved her of her jacket and whisked it away.

Nodding his approval, Claude went on, ‘I will send along a bottle of our best champagne, and if you care to leave the choice of menu in my hands …?’

After giving Caris a questioning glance and receiving her nod of agreement, Zander answered, ‘Thanks, Claude, we’ll be happy to.’

‘Then I will see that chef excels himself on your behalf. Oh, one last thing …’ Turning to Caris he asked, ‘Would mademoiselle like something to rest her injured foot on?’

A little flustered by so much attention, Caris said, ‘Thank you, but it’s really not necessary.’

With a smile and an inclination of his head, the Frenchman hurried away.

The lantern-hung veranda overlooked a steeply terraced garden with winding steps and secret paths, stone benches and pale statues in arbours. Water cascaded over tumbling rocks into fern-hung pools, and dark, glossy rosemary seemed to grow in every nook and cranny.

A solitary bright evening star and a velvety-blue dusk waiting in the wings made the scene seem magical, enchanted.

It set the atmosphere for the whole evening.

Having gazed her fill, Caris remarked, ‘This is a lovely place in a lovely setting.’

‘I rather hoped you’d like it,’ Zander admitted.

As she moved her foot into a more comfortable position he said, ‘Sure you don’t need a cushion? Raising it might help to ease the pain and prevent swelling.’

She shook her head. ‘It only hurts when I put weight on it, and the swelling seems to have stopped. Though I think you were right about the trekking.’

‘Then this might be a good time to call your friend and put her in the picture.’

She sighed. ‘Walking the Rowton Way is something Sam’s been really looking forward to.’

‘So what do you intend to do?’

‘Stay in Albany,’ Caris said decidedly. ‘I don’t want her to call it off on my account, which is what she’ll do if I’m in Catona and not able to go.’

Fishing out her mobile phone, she tapped in the number. After a moment or two she frowned. ‘I’m not getting any answer, which is odd … Oh, wait a minute, I have a text message from her.

‘Oh Lord, she has an even worse problem than I do. Her widowed mother’s been taken ill and she’s having to fly up to Boston to nurse her. She says to go on the trek without her, so I’d better let her know how things are …’

The text sent, Caris dropped the phone back into her bag. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘There’s no need to be. It had to be settled. But it’s a pity about your vacation.’

Hiding her disappointment, she said lightly, ‘Oh well, it can’t be helped. I’ll just have a quiet time at home.

‘If I get bored I can always go into the office or ask Kate to drop some work round. There’s always plenty to do.’

At that moment, the wine waiter approached wheeling a trolley. He stooped and with a click of his lighter lit the candle.

Then, having stationed the trolley to his satisfaction, he twirled the bottle of Dom Perignon in its ice bucket and began the little ceremony of opening and pouring the vintage champagne.

‘Go easy on mine,’ Zander said as the wine bubbled into the flutes. ‘I’ll be driving later.’

When the napkin-wrapped bottle had been replaced in the bucket and the waiter had moved away, Zander lifted his glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to us, Caris, and getting to know one another better.’

‘To us,’ she echoed.

Those fascinating green eyes of his fixed on her face. He remarked, ‘You have an unusual name. Who chose it?’

‘My mother.’

‘Caris,’ he murmured softly, making the word sound like a caress. ‘It suits you.’

As she sipped the champagne, emboldened by his toast and wanting to know more about him, she asked, ‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘I’m in the hotel business.’

Of course; she had wondered why the name seemed to be familiar. Now she recalled glancing through a society magazine and reading about the aristocratic Devereux family.

‘I thought I knew the name. Devereux Hotels are famous all over the globe. I read in one of the glossy magazines that it’s been a family concern for more than a hundred years.’

‘Yes. It all started with my great-grandfather, Gerald Devereux.’

‘Wasn’t he the younger brother of a duke?’

‘Yes, but he stopped using his title when he married an American and came to live in the States. Originally he set up his own merchant bank in London, then in the late eighteen-hundreds he acquired a hotel as a bad debt. That sparked his interest and as a business proposition he began to build more.’

‘So do you run the business?’

‘No, my father does.’

‘James Devereux?’

‘That’s right.’

The article had gone on to say that James Devereux, a multi millionaire who owned a chain of five-star hotels worldwide, had been happily married to the same woman for almost forty years.

His son, on the other hand, appeared to be a Casanova, noted for his many high-profile affairs and his ability to remain a bachelor despite the amount of women trying to catch him.

Zander was going on. ‘I’m an architect by training and inclination, so I spend a lot of my time designing and building new hotels or converting existing properties.’

‘In the States?’

‘Worldwide.’

‘Which means you do a lot of travelling?’

‘A fair amount.’

‘Lucky you. Do you have a favourite country?’

‘I have a soft spot for England,’ he admitted.

‘Then you know it well?’

‘Very well. I was born in London and I went to Oxford. You see, though my father is American by birth, my mother, who died last year, was English.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Caris said. ‘That is strange, though, as I have an American father and an English mother.’

‘So where were you born?’

‘A little market town called Spitewinter, on the Cambridgeshire border. My grandfather was the vicar there. I got my law degree at Cambridge University.’

‘What made you decide on law as a career?’

‘It was decided for me. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. You see, my father had hoped for a son to follow in hisfootsteps, but it wasn’t to be. My mother died when I was quite young.’

‘And your father never married again?’

Caris shook her head. ‘He’d adored my mother and he never really got over her death. He became morose and bitter.’

‘But you must have been a comfort to him.’

‘Quite the reverse, apparently. I was left in the care of various nannies and sent away to boarding school as soon as I was old enough to go. But, later on, when I proved to be reasonably bright, it became my father’s dearest wish that I should train to be a lawyer and join the firm.’

‘Why did you choose to go to Cambridge?’

‘Once again, the decision was made for me. Though my father is American born and bred, his family, as well as my mother’s, were originally from Cambridgeshire.’

‘How did they end up in the States?’

‘In the early eighteen-hundreds one of our ancestors emigrated and settled in New Jersey, but he sent his eldest son back to England to finish his education at Cambridge. Since then it’s become a kind of family tradition that in each generation the eldest son of the eldest son should go there.

‘My father went. That’s where he met and fell in love with my mother. She was a law student too, but in her second year she was forced to leave when she became pregnant. They got married as soon as they knew, and I was born at my grandparents’ house in Spitewinter.

‘Shortly afterwards, my father graduated and took my mother and me back to the States with him. But it hadn’t been an easy birth—something had gone wrong—and she never fully recovered. After she died, he could scarcely bear to look at me. It was almost as if he blamed me for her death.’

‘I see,’ Zander said slowly. ‘But, now you’ve taken the place of the son he never had, presumably you’ve grown closer?’

Caris shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid you could never call the relationship I have with my father close.’

‘But you get on okay with him as a rule?’

‘Reasonably well, while I’m willing to be a dutiful daughter and not cross him.’

Zander frowned. ‘I find it difficult to believe he’s not proud of you.’

‘Perhaps he is, a little. But I’ve still got a long way to go to get where he wants me to be.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s his dream that one day I’ll become a top-class barrister.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

‘I wouldn’t have figured you as a barrister.’

‘You don’t think I have the brains?’

‘Such a thought never entered my head. It’s just that I’ve always considered a top-class barrister must have a certain hardness, the ability to remain detached, uninvolved emotionally.

‘I can easily believe you’re level-headed and clever but, though I still don’t know you well, I have a gut feeling that you’re too tender-hearted to make it a comfortable profession.’

‘Now should I be flattered or insulted?’ she wondered aloud.

He laughed. ‘Please, take it as a compliment.’

At that moment their first course arrived. It proved to be a very tasty lobster bisque, and apart from an occasional remark they fell silent as they did justice to it.

It was followed by a tender steak served with a delicious cheureuil sauce, and they ended with a fruit and cream cheesecake that was light as a dream. As soon as their plates had been whisked away, the attentive waiter brought coffee, chocolates and a small trolley holding a selection of liqueurs.

‘Which would you prefer?’ Zander asked. ‘Brandy? Cointreau? Benedictine?’

‘I like Benedictine,’ Caris admitted. ‘But as I’ve already had at least two glasses of champagne I’m not sure if it would be wise.’

‘Well, as you won’t be driving, I can’t see the harm. And it may help you get a good night’s sleep in spite of the ankle.’

Taking that as a yes, the waiter poured a generous amount of Benedictine into one of the glasses. Then with the bottle poised he enquired, ‘And for you, sir?’

Zander shook his head. ‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

When the waiter had departed, with no need for small talk they sipped their coffee in companionable silence, looking out over the dusky garden.

A warm evening breeze drifted by, carrying with it the fragrance of roses, lavender and the haunting scent of rosemary.

With a sigh, Caris turned to her host and said, ‘That was the best meal I can ever remember having.’

In the flickering candlelight, Zander smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

He had good teeth—nicely shaped, gleaming white and healthy—and his mouth was beautiful, she thought, the top lip ascetic, the fuller lower lip more sensuous.

She was still staring, caught by the sexiness of it, when he added approvingly, ‘It’s a pleasure to have dinner with a woman who appreciates good food and doesn’t want to chatter all through the meal.’

Floating on cloud nine, happy that he seemed to like her company and hadn’t found her silence dull, Caris glowed.

She already knew that she would always remember this lovely, romantic evening. An evening she never wanted to end.

But her father was a hard taskmaster; for the past few weeks, needing to get things done before her vacation, she had worked far into the night most nights and slept badly in consequence.

Now tiredness was starting to catch up with her, made even more soporific by too much alcohol; she found herself having to stifle a yawn.

Zander noticed at once. ‘About ready to go?’ he queried. ‘It’s getting late and you look tired.’

‘Yes, I’m ready.’ She managed a smile.

But after such a wonderful evening to return to her lonely apartment with its empty fridge and stripped bed seemed like a complete anti-climax, and her heart felt like lead.

‘Or perhaps you’d rather not go home tonight? It won’t be much fun going back to an empty apartment so late, especially with an injured ankle and no holiday to look forward to …’

Surprised by the way he had picked up so accurately what she was thinking and feeling, she asked, ‘How long have you been psychic?’

‘So I guessed right? You don’t want to go home?’

As lightly as possible, she said, ‘I don’t have much choice now I’m not going to Catona.’

‘Why not spend the night at my house?’

As her head came up, he added, ‘I ought to make it clear that this isn’t an indecent proposal. But as you don’t want to go home—’

Horrified in case he thought she had been angling for an invitation, she broke in sharply. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just couldn’t.’ Uncomfortably, she added, ‘I didn’t mean to sound as if I was …’

On her wavelength immediately, he heaved a mock sigh. ‘That’s a pity. I was rather hoping you wanted my company as much as I wanted yours. However, if you don’t, there’s always the river.’

Smiling in spite of herself, she said, ‘I just didn’t want you to think I was—’

‘I didn’t think anything of the kind. But, if by any chance I had, I assure you I would have been extremely flattered. So do come.’

‘I really couldn’t put you to so much trouble,’ she protested thickly.

‘It’s no trouble. Hallgarth has a perfectly good guest room, which my housekeeper always leaves made up, and we can be there in less than half an hour.’

Persuasively, he added, ‘Say yes, and after you’ve enjoyed a good night’s sleep we can have breakfast together before I take you home.’

Under normal circumstances, common sense would have insisted that she should say no and mean it. But too much alcohol had swamped both her usual reserve and her inhibitions. If truth be told, she was curious to see his house.

After a brief hesitation, she threw caution to the winds and agreed, ‘Very well, I’ll come.’

He smiled, a white, attractive smile that creased his lean cheeks and made her heart give a little lurch. ‘That’s good.’

Watching her stifle yet another yawn, he signalled to the waiter to bring her jacket, adding, ‘If I don’t get you home soon, you’ll be fast asleep.’

When he had paid the bill and added a generous tip, he lifted her into his arms.

At that moment Claude appeared and beamed at them. ‘I hope you have enjoyed a good meal and had a pleasant evening?’

‘We can answer a resounding yes to both those questions,’ Zander told him.

‘Then you must both come again as my guests.’

‘We’ll look forward to it.’

Their thanks and goodbyes said, they made their way out to the car.

When Caris was settled in the front passenger seat, Zander got behind the wheel and fastened both their seatbelts. In a matter of seconds they had left the lighted restaurant behind them.

Only when they were travelling down a deserted, tree-lined road, their headlights groping through the darkness like the luminous antennae of some insect, did she have second thoughts about the wisdom of what she was doing.

After all, it was far from sensible behaviour to go off into the blue with a man she scarcely knew, a man who, though he had talked about a housekeeper and a guest room, had a reputation as a Casanova.

As though he sensed her sudden unease, he glanced sideways at her in the weird, unearthly light from the dashboard.

‘Something wrong?’

‘No, not really …’ she mumbled.

‘I thought you might perhaps be regretting your decision to come?’

Her silence effectively answered his question.

‘What are you afraid of? That I might turn out to be a homicidal maniac?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then you’re scared I’ll twirl an imaginary moustache and whisk you off into the woods like some pantomime villain?’

‘Hardly.’

‘But that’s closer to the mark?’

Once again her silence spoke for her.

He sighed. ‘I frankly admit that if you do want to share my bed I’ll be delighted. But, if you don’t, then you’ll be as safe as if you were in a nunnery.’

Though his tone was quizzical, her every instinct told her that he spoke the exact truth.

More seriously, he went on, ‘If I haven’t managed to set your mind at rest, and you really don’t trust me, say so at once and I’ll be happy to turn round and take you home.’

‘I do trust you. Implicitly,’ she added.

‘Thank you for that.’

He drove in silence for a while, then as they took the road that climbed steadily into the mountains he slanted her a glance.

She was asleep, her thick lashes making dark fans on her high cheekbones, her lovely mouth slightly parted. She looked both alluring and vulnerable, and he felt a strong urge to stop the car and kiss her.

When they reached Hallgarth and drew up in the pool of light cast by the porch lantern, she was still sound asleep.

Reluctant to disturb her, he left her where she was while he took her case and holdall up to the pleasant but seldom-used guest room.

Returning to the car, he lifted her out carefully and carried her up the hickory staircase. Laying her down on the bed, he removed her sandals before settling her dark head on the pillow and pulling up the lightweight duvet.

He had half-expected her to stir and open her eyes, but she remained soundly asleep until he finished his ministrations and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

When Caris awoke, she opened her eyes to a large, pleasant room with light modern furniture and apricot walls. A room that was totally strange to her.

Two long windows hung with fine muslin curtains looked out over well-tended lawns and colourful flowerbeds to a group of white wooden chalet-type buildings. Through a vine-hung trellis she could just glimpse the blue waters of a swimming pool.

For a moment or so she was at a complete loss, with no idea where she was or how she had got there.

Then it all came rushing back—the magical evening she had spent with Zander and his invitation to spend the night at his house.

So that solved the mystery of where she was; she was in Zander Devereux’s guest room. But the combination of tiredness and alcohol had zonked her so completely that she had no recollection of the journey, or of arriving here.

She was still wearing her dress, and her jacket was hung neatly over a nearby chair. Her evening bag was lying on the bedside table.

She must have his housekeeper to thank.

Wondering how long she had slept, she looked at her watch a little blearily and found it was mid-morning.

She still felt slightly muzzy from the unaccustomed drink, but a refreshing shower would help to clear her head and set her to rights.

Galvanized into action, she pushed back the duvet and swung her feet to the floor.

After removing the bandage and cautiously trying out her injured ankle, she found it was less painful than she had expected and she could just about walk on it with care.

The pale grey carpet was soft as smoke beneath her bare feet as she crossed to where her luggage had been placed on a low chest.

When she had found her toilet things and a change of clothing, she made her cautious way to the sumptuous en suite bathroom, with its mirrored walls and off-white carpet.

There she found a luxurious bathtub and shower, and on a glass shelf an array of toiletries, towels and a pair of folded bathrobes.

By the time she stepped out of the shower the hot water had done its work; her head had cleared and she was feeling altogether brighter.

Wearing one of the bathrobes, she brushed her teeth and blow-dried her long hair, leaving it loose around her shoulders before returning to the bedroom.

Having donned clean undies, a silky dress that echoed the turquoise, green and gold of a tropical sea, and flat-heeled sandals, she swapped her evening bag for her handbag, which she’d put in her holdall, and repacked her case.

Then, leaving her bag and a lightweight jacket on top of the case, she ventured onto the landing. She was suddenly filled with excitement and anticipation at the thought of seeing Zander again. She made her way down the graceful curve of stairs to a spacious hall, with doors leading off on either side.

Right at the far end, through a partially open door, she could see a small but well-equipped gym but it appeared to be empty.

Everywhere was silent and, with no one about to ask, she went to the nearest door and tapped lightly on it.

She struck lucky the first time. Her knock was answered by Zander’s voice calling, ‘Come in.’

Wondering if he would have the same powerful impact she recalled from the previous evening, she walked into an office full of state-of-the-art technology.

Looking fresh and strikingly attractive in an olive-green silk shirt, short-sleeved and open at the neck, he was sitting behind a desk working with a laptop. A lock of his thick blond hair, which was parted on the left and cut fairly short, hung over his forehead.

When he glanced up, and those eyes met hers—those fascinating green eyes—she found it difficult to breathe.

Which effectively answered her question.

Rising to his feet, he brushed back the stray lock and, with a smile that stopped her breath completely, said, ‘Ah, so you’re up. When I checked on you a little while ago, you were still sleeping soundly. How are you feeling this morning?’

Somehow she dragged air into her lungs and managed, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Seeing him start to shut down the computer, she added in a rush, ‘Please don’t stop work on my account.’

‘I’ve done all I need to do. How’s the ankle?’

‘Oh, much easier.’

He frowned. ‘It still looks a little swollen. I’d better put another bandage on it. But first I presume you could do with a drink of some kind?’

‘I certainly could,’ she admitted.

‘Can you make it through to the kitchen without too much discomfort?’

If she said no, he would carry her; just the thought of being lifted and held in his arms again made her feel almost lightheaded.

Pushing aside temptation, she assured him, ‘Oh yes, I can manage quite well so long as I’m careful.’

As they crossed the hall he slipped a hand beneath her bare elbow, sending shivers running up and down her spine.

He seemed even taller than she remembered, and somehow his height and the mature width of his shoulders, his sheer masculinity, made her feel dainty and feminine.

The kitchen at Hallgarth was large and airy, with all mod cons, its open windows letting in the sunshine and fresh mountain air.

Comfortable and homely, it was fitted out like a farmhouse-style living-kitchen, with hickory furniture and an open range, which at the moment was partially screened by a vase of flame-blue delphiniums and pale-pink scented roses.

Caris had half-expected his housekeeper to be there, but they seemed to have the place to themselves. Wondering about it, she asked, ‘Does your housekeeper live in?’

‘Mrs Timmins lives over the garage. But it’s her weekend off. I hope you don’t mind?’

Flustered to realize he must be the one who had put her to bed, she stammered, ‘Well, n-no, I … No, of course not.’

He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I realize it would have been much more circumspect if my housekeeper had been here, but she’s gone up to Buffalo to visit her family.’

Straight-faced, but with a gleam in his eye that suggested he was teasing, he went on, ‘If in the circumstances you feel seriously compromised …’

Caris was about to deny any such thing when he finished, ‘You can always marry me.’

His words made her heart give a little jump. Managing a laugh, she said with determined lightness, ‘That seems a little drastic.’

‘You mean you’ll settle for less?’

‘I’ll settle for a cup of coffee.’

He sighed. ‘Well, if you change your mind about marrying me, just let me know.’