Читать книгу Captive In The Millionaire's Castle - Lee Wilkinson, Lee Wilkinson - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

WATCHING her big brown eyes sparkle, Michael thought afresh how lovely she was.

He had been in Jenny’s company now for several hours, and ought to be getting used to her beauty, almost taking it for granted.

But he wasn’t.

In fact, just the opposite.

The fascination the first sight of her had aroused was still there, and growing stronger.

Which was bad news.

The last thing he wanted or needed was to be attracted to his new PA. That would be the ultimate irony, as Paul would be quick to point out.

That morning, when Paul had phoned to find out the result of the interview and Michael had admitted that Jennifer Mansell was on a month’s trial, Paul had been quietly jubilant.

‘I’m sure that in spite of all your doubts she’ll prove to be just what you need.’

‘We’ll see,’ Michael said cautiously. ‘It depends on what kind of woman she turns out to be, and how I get on working with someone else.’

Paul grunted. ‘Well, of course I can’t answer for the latter, but, so far as Miss Mansell’s concerned, I’ve heard nothing but good about her.

‘Though I’ll keep my ear to the ground, just in case, and if I do hear anything further I’ll let you know. In the meantime stop being such a misogynist and give the poor girl a chance.

‘She’s known to be good at her job, and, as I said before, I don’t think she’s the kind to throw herself at you. If by any chance she does, for heaven’s sake take her to bed. It might be just what you need to turn you back into a human being.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ Michael said dryly, ‘but I’ve had my fill of women.’

Now he found himself wondering how he would react if Jenny Mansell did throw herself at him.

So far she’d given not the slightest sign of wanting to do any such thing. Rather, she had trodden warily, as though negotiating a minefield, looking anything but comfortable whenever the conversation showed signs of straying into the more personal…

Becoming aware that time was passing, he swallowed the remains of his coffee and remarked, ‘If you’re ready, we really ought to be on our way.’

Jenny, who had been sitting quietly watching his face, wondering what he was thinking, said, ‘Yes, I’m quite ready.’

‘There would be no hurry if we didn’t need to be over the causeway before the tide turns.’

His words reminded her of her earlier doubts about the advisability of being so isolated, and perhaps some of that uncertainty showed on her face because, frowning, he queried, ‘Is there something wrong?’

She hesitated. If she did still have doubts, common sense told her she should voice them now, before it was too late…

He was watching her face, concerned that for some reason she was going to back out at the last minute, and his voice was tense as he demanded, ‘Well, is there?’

She lifted her chin, and, knowing that she was going anyway, regardless of doubts, answered, ‘No, there’s nothing wrong.’

‘Then perhaps you’d like to freshen up while I pay the bill? I’ll see you back at the car.’

As Jenny washed her hands and tucked a stray hair or two into the silky coil she rationalized her decision by telling herself that, having come this far, had she confessed to doubts he would have had every right to be angry.

She had a feeling that, in spite of his offer of a month’s trial period, he hadn’t been particularly keen to engage her in the first place, so he might have been glad of the opportunity to send her packing back to London.

Then not only would she have missed her chance to stay on Mirren, but it would have meant losing a job she’d really wanted without even starting it, and never seeing Michael Denver again.

The latter shouldn’t really matter.

But somehow it did.

Though she was too aware of him to be altogether at ease in his company, she wanted the chance to get to know him better, to find out for herself just what kind of man he was, what made him tick.

When she made her way outside, he was waiting to settle her into the passenger seat.

The sun, though low in the sky, was still shining, but already the air seemed chillier, less clear, promising the onset of an early dusk.

‘How long before we get to Mirren?’ she asked as they left the Grouse and Claret behind them and headed for the coast.

‘Half an hour or so.’

Unwilling to ask direct questions, she suggested innocently, ‘Perhaps you could tell me something about the island?’

‘What do you know already?’

‘Apart from what I saw on that one short visit, and what you’ve already told me, nothing, really. I only know that it’s always fascinated me.’

‘Well, it’s roughly nine miles long by three wide. The higher ground is interspersed with pasture land, and, apart from some stands of pines, the only trees are the ones around Slinterwood.

‘Because the island has fresh water springs, it’s been inhabited for centuries, and for most of that time it’s been home to a rare breed of sheep similar to merinos, prized the world over for their fine, soft wool.

‘These days a lot of the farmland has been turned into market gardens, which produce organic fruit and vegetables for the top London hotels.’

With a slight grin, he went on, ‘At the risk of sounding like a guidebook, I’ll just add that on the seaward side there are some pleasant sandy coves, ideal for summer picnics and swimming.’

‘It sounds lovely.’

‘It’s certainly picturesque.’

She waited, hoping he’d tell her more about his connection with the island, and about the family who owned it.

But he changed the subject by remarking, ‘One good thing about travelling at this time of the year is that there’s not too much traffic.’

There proved to be less as they approached their destination. Even in high summer this part of the coast was relatively quiet, and now the coastal road was deserted in both directions as they joined the rough track that led down to the causeway.

Glancing at the water, Michael remarked, ‘The tide must have turned some time ago.’

‘How can you tell?’ she asked.