Читать книгу The Secret Life Of Lady Gabriella - Liz Fielding - Страница 6

BENEDICT FAULKNER said nothing, but instead opened a drawer, extracted an identical pair and tossed them onto his desk.

Were broad shoulders and blue eyes enough? Ellie wondered. Could a man be a true hero if he didn’t possess a sense of humour?

It didn’t look good but, prepared to be fair—Emily B was not, after all, everyone’s cup of tea—she dropped the remains of his spectacles into her apron pocket and, bending over backwards to give him the benefit of the doubt, said, ‘I realize that Emily Brontë is not everyone’s cup of tea.’

‘Heathcliff,’he assured her, confirming this, ‘is psychotic, and Catherine Earnshaw is dimmer than a low energy lightbulb.’

A little harsh, she thought. But, rather than argue with him, she said, ‘But the passion? What about the passion?’

‘He’s psychotically passionate and she’s passionately dim?’ he offered.

Realising that this was a conversation going nowhere, she didn’t bother to answer but turned her attention to the book itself, and in a belated attempt to prove herself a trustworthy and useful addition to his household said, ‘This is a fine early edition, Dr Faulkner. It could be quite valuable.’

He glanced up at the shelf she was supposed to have been dusting, then shrugged.

‘It probably belonged to my great-grandmother.’ He offered no hint as to whether he thought that would make it a treasured possession, or thought as little of his great-grandmother’s taste as he did of hers. ‘The one who ran away with a penniless poet.’

It was odd. While he kept saying things that were certainly meant to crush her, Ellie found herself not only not crushed, but positively stimulated.

‘Like Elizabeth Barrett?’ she enquired. After all, if his great-grandmother had run away from a comfortable home, she’d probably had very good reason. A husband who didn’t have sense of humour, perhaps?

‘Was Robert Browning penniless?’

‘Would it have mattered?’

‘What do you think?’

Oh. Right. He was a cynic.

‘I think that, judging by the depth of dust up there, your great-grandmother was probably the last person to take a duster to the top shelf.’

To prove her point, she opened the book and then banged it shut, producing a small cloud of the stuff. The choking fit was not intentional, but it did go a long way to proving her point.

Dr Faulkner made no move to ease her plight—none of that back-slapping, or rushing for a glass of water nonsense for him. On the contrary, he kept a safe distance, waiting until she’d recovered, before he picked up the duster she’d dropped as she’d vainly sought to save herself and offered it to her.

Ellie used it to give the leather binding a careful wipe.

‘Books,’ she assured him, having clearly demonstrated the necessity, ‘should be dusted at least once a year.’

‘Oh? Is that what you were doing?’

Did his face warm just a little? Not with anything as definite as a smile, but surely there was the slightest shifting of the facial muscles?

‘Dusting?’ he added.

No, not warmth. Just sarcasm. He was a sarcastic cynic.

Without a sense of humour.

Fortunately, before she could say something guaranteed to leave her with a huge empty space where the roof over her head was meant to be, the clock on the mantelpiece began to chime the half-hour, and, genuinely surprised, she exclaimed, ‘Good grief! Is that right?’ She looked at her own wristwatch and saw that it was it fact ten minutes slow. ‘I lose all sense of time when I’m dusting a good book.’

‘Perhaps you should save your energies for something less distracting?’

‘No, it’s okay. I’m prepared to suffer,’ she assured him, wheeling the steps back into place. She didn’t actually feel much like climbing them, but she’d have to do it sooner or later, and it was a bit like falling off a horse—best to get straight back on. Or so she’d heard. ‘I hate to leave a job half done.’

‘Very commendable, but I’d be grateful if you’d save it for another day. I have calls to make.’

Ellie ignored him. She wasn’t about to scuttle off like one of his students put in her place. She’d been there, done that—although not, admittedly, with any lecturer who looked like Benedict Faulkner—and got the degree to prove it. Instead she concentrated on finishing what she’d started.

‘Are you going to be much longer, Miss March?’ he asked, as she worked her way along the shelf.

And that was a way of keeping his distance, too. Whoever called anyone under the age of fifty ‘Miss’ any more? Although, given the choice, she preferred it to ‘madam’.

‘My name is Gabriella,’ she reminded him. Her way of keeping her distance. All her friends, employers, called her Ellie. Gabriella was a special occasion name. Gabriella March was going to look very special embossed in gold on the cover of her first book. Then, having descended the ladder—this time in the conventional manner, one step at a time—she added, ‘And it’s Mrs. Mrs Gabriella March.’

He removed his spectacles and turned to face her. Now she had his attention. ‘Mrs? There are two of you?’

She stiffened. ‘No. Just me. If you find all that too difficult to remember, maybe you’d find Ellie easier.’

She could do sarcasm.

‘Ellie?’

‘There—that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

Unsurprisingly, he did not respond with an invitation to call him Ben, and she found herself wishing she’d left it at ‘Ellie’.

‘I’ll, um, leave you in peace, then. If there’s nothing else I can do for you?’

His look suggested that she had done more than enough, but he restricted his response to, ‘Nothing. Thank you…Ellie.’

She could tell that he’d had to force himself to use her name. Just what was his problem? It wasn’t as if she’d flirted outrageously with him. Good looking he might be, give or take a sense of humour, but she wasn’t about to throw herself at him. Not intentionally, anyway. Not if she wanted to continue to ‘live-in’—and it was quite possible that this was just a flying visit.

‘Help yourself to whatever you like from the fridge,’ she said. ‘Milk. Eggs…’ Then, when that didn’t elicit a grateful response—or any response at all…‘Right. Well, I’ll see you later, perhaps.’

Dr Benedict Faulkner easily managed to contain his excitement at the possibility.

Ellie forced herself to ignore the shabby rucksack that had been dumped in the kitchen. It was probably full of dirty washing, and her fingers twitched to get it into the washing machine, but she restrained herself.

Instead she wiped a smudge from the wooden drainer, rearranged a jug full of garden flowers she’d put on the windowsill, straightened a row of old boots in the mud room. She always found it hard to drag herself away from this house. It felt lonely, as if it needed her.

Which was plainly ridiculous.

What it needed, she thought, was a couple who would love it and cherish it and fill it with children. A proper family to bring life to silent rooms, children to play Chopsticks on the piano, build dens in the overgrown garden. A woman with time and love to lavish on it and turn it into a home. Someone like Lady Gabriella and the imaginary family with which she’d populated it during the last few months. Eight-year-old Oliver, six-year-old Sasha, little Chloe. And a shadowy masculine figure who was not the man she’d loved, married, lost—this was not his place—but someone utterly different, a man who, until now, she’d managed to avoid bringing into focus…

Enough. Time to go. She picked up her backpack, then paused to guiltily dead-head the bedraggled pansies in a dreary stone trough by the kitchen door—something else that looked as if the last person who’d taken any notice of it was Dr Faulkner’s great-grandmother.

Ben Faulkner stood at the arched gothic window of his study and watched as Ellie March struggled to mount a vintage sit-up-and-beg bike of the kind that his great-grandmother had probably ridden. The flighty one who’d read romantic fiction and caused a scandal.

If she’d been around today, he thought, she’d probably be wearing hip-hugging jeans, a cropped T-shirt and have a gold ring in her navel, too. Ellie March was not only a danger to any man who made the mistake of getting too close to the ladder she was perched on, but dressed like that she was a serious traffic hazard.

He closed his eyes, reliving the moment when he’d opened the study door and seen her whiling away the working day with her head in a book. It was as if time had somehow slipped back.

He shook his head at the stupidity of it.

Natasha had possessed an ethereal pale gold Nordic beauty that the more substantial, earthier Ellie March could never aspire to.

And Tasha would not have been wasting her time reading a nineteenth-century gothic romance, but Yevtushenko, or Turgenev. In Russian.

Yet, even while he’d known it was just an illusion, he’d still been drawn in. Like a moth to a flame.

Why couldn’t his sister just mind her own business? What arrangement had she tied him into? Whatever it was, he’d have to give the woman reasonable notice, time to find somewhere else.

It could take weeks, he thought, flexing his shoulder, easing the muscle he’d pulled as she’d felled him, then lain there, as warm and soft a handful of womanhood as any man could wish for, her hand against his heart, her hair brushing against his cheek, her scent tugging at buried memories.

He’d kept his eyes closed then, in a vain attempt to keep them from surfacing. He kept them closed now, hoping to claw them back, hold the moment.

Stupid, stupid…

And yet there was a warmth in Ellie’s soft brown eyes that sparked and flared and stirred at something he’d thought long dead inside him. Something that he did not want resurrected.

Forcing himself to confront the reality, rather than some fantasy brought on by jet lag, he watched as she tried to scoot the bike into motion. She seemed to be having trouble, and as soon as she put all her weight on her leg she pulled up short, letting the bike fall. Then she aimed a heartfelt kick at it.

The kick was a mistake.

He was right, he decided, heading for the door. He should have turned around and walked away while he’d had the chance.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’d hurt your knee when you fell?’

Ellie had seen Dr Faulkner striding towards her on those long, fine legs, and her pain had been overridden by a flutter of pleasure that, had she had time to analyse it, would have brought a blush to her cheek. As soon as he opened his mouth, however, it was clear that he was no knight in armour riding to her rescue.

She lifted her shoulders a millimetre or two.

Okay, so she was no Guinevere, but even so a little sympathy would have been welcome, instead of the undiluted irritation that appeared to be his standard response to her.

What was his problem?

She hadn’t gone out of her way to get under his feet. On the contrary, he was the one who’d got under hers. He was the one who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, not her.

‘My mother taught me that discretion was the better part of valour,’ she said. ‘It seemed like an excellent moment to put her advice to good use.’

‘It might have been more useful if she’d warned you about the dangers of daydreaming at the top of ladders,’ he replied.

Ellie watched as he picked up the bike and propped it against the wall, out of harm’s way.

Hello! I’m here! Crumpled up on the driveway in agony—well, maybe agony was pushing it a bit, but still, it’s me you’re supposed to be picking up and—

Maybe not.

Having dealt with the bike, he turned to her.

‘Can you stand?’ he asked.

‘I’m going to have to, unless I plan on staying here all evening.’

She could do ‘you’re a dumb idiot’ responses, too.

Then, as she finally made a move, he said, ‘Wait!’ She looked up at him.

‘For what? Christmas?’

By way of reply, he offered her his hands.

Better. Especially as they were the kind of hands a romantic novelist expected of her hero. Broad palms. Long fingers. Wide thumb-tips. Not smooth, soft, like most academics, but callused, scarred with small cuts and abrasions. Dull red marks that looked as if they might have been burns.

It seemed almost wanton to place her own against them, but it was a gesture, one it would be rude to ignore, and she grasped them. He pulled her to her feet without making it look as if he was hauling a sack of coal from a cellar, making her feel for just a moment like some fragile heroine.

It was only the words that came out of his mouth that persistently spoiled the image.

‘How is it?’ he asked, finally getting even that bit right. ‘Your leg?’

‘Fine,’ she said, feeling no pain. Then, realising that she was staring up at him instead of testing her knee, she quickly said, ‘Thank you.’ And let go.

For a moment she thought it was going to be all right, but then she made the mistake of twisting around to get at her backpack, and gasped as pain shot through the joint.

‘That fine?’ he said, catching her elbow, taking her weight as the knee buckled.

‘Tricky things, knees,’ she said, catching her breath. It was the knee, not the man. She did not fancy him. She was not that shallow. She had standards, and they included kindness above sun-kissed hair and cheekbones that could slice cheese. ‘Great in a straight line, not so good for cornering. But it’ll be okay.’

‘Of course it will.’

Now, that, she decided, really was sarcasm.

‘Where were you going?’ he asked.

‘What? Oh, to the Assembly Rooms in the city centre. There’s a reception for the Chamber of Commerce.’

‘You’re a member of the Chamber of Commerce?’

She stared at him. Was he kidding? It was impossible to tell from his expression. ‘No,’ she replied, taking no chances. ‘I’m attending the reception in a professional capacity.’ Then, in the face of his blank expression, ‘I’m on waitress duty,’ she explained. ‘Drinks, canapés…’

‘Right.’ Those blue eyes swept over her in a thoughtful look. ‘The dress code, if you don’t mind me saying so, seems a little casual. What happened to the little black dress and white apron?’

‘For your information, Dr Faulkner, they’re in my backpack.’ Well, the modern equivalent, anyway. Black trousers and black shirt. ‘Along with the black stockings and suspenders,’ she added, tossing caution to the winds. There was only so much sarcasm a girl could take with a smile. ‘The police have forbidden me from wearing them when I’m riding a bike,’ she added, just to demonstrate that sarcasm was not a male preserve. ‘Speaking of which…’ she shrugged off her backpack and extracted her cellphone ‘…I’d better call a cab.’

‘What?’ It was the second time she’d managed to grab his full attention. She was beginning to enjoy it. ‘You can’t seriously be planning to spend the evening on your feet? Surely they can find a replacement?’

‘I am the replacement,’ she informed him, as she scrolled through her fast-dial numbers. Waitressing at receptions was absolutely her least favourite job—including cleaning ovens. ‘And I can’t let Sue down.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Who is Sue?’

‘My best friend since playgroup, despite the fact that we’re total opposites…’ She found the number she was looking for and hit ‘dial’. ‘Which is why she’s the one running Busy Bees, while I’m the one she’s paying to smile and waft around gracefully with trays of drinks and canapés.’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Well, maybe wafting gracefully will be a stretch,’ she admitted. Then, ‘Damn, it’s engaged.’

As she hit ‘redial’, he said, ‘Leave it!’ And, in case she had any plans to ignore him, he wrapped those long and very strong fingers around both hand and phone, so that she could do nothing but blink.

How dared he?

She looked at his hand. Then at him.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

‘Stopping you from behaving like an idiot.’

That would cover it, she thought. However, since it was the only option open to her, she said, ‘I appreciate your concern, and if I had any choice I can assure you I wouldn’t be doing this.’ Then, when he didn’t seem convinced, ‘Truly. I had something much more interesting planned for tonight.’

For just a moment she thought he was going to ask her what, but he apparently thought better of it and instead said, ‘Very well, if you insist on going then I have no choice but to drive you there myself.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Oh, yes, Mrs March, I do.’

‘Ellie, please.’ Maybe she’d misjudged him…

‘But not before you’ve got some strapping on your knee.’

‘There’s no time for that. I’ll sort it out when I get there,’ she assured him, lying through her teeth. ‘A lift is more than enough—’

‘I’ll do it now,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll take you to the local hospital and let them do it.’ He didn’t wait for her to choose, which suggested he was a fast learner, but put his arm around her waist. It must have been shock that stilled the ‘get lost; I’ll take a cab’ retort that flew to her lips, and made redundant his follow-up, ‘How will you beat off burglars and mow the lawn if you’re laid up with a crook knee?’

Pressed against the soft weave of his jacket, his arm supporting her, she felt the words still in her throat. This, she decided, must be what being swept off your feet must feel like.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is ridiculous.’

‘I agree. You should be lying down with a cold compress on your leg. Maybe if I tempted you with something from my extensive library of gothic novels you might think again?’

He could tempt her, full-stop, she thought, shocking herself, as she looked up at him. Despite the sense of humour shortfall and the high-level bossiness. She must be a lot shallower than she thought. For once, however, she managed to keep her thoughts to herself; maybe discretion, once admitted, seeped into the mind and took over.

‘Any other time.’ She sounded breathless. Totally pathetic…

‘It’s a one-time offer,’he said. Then, reluctantly, ‘Oh, well, it’s your knee—’

‘Right.’ She swallowed, gathered herself. ‘So leave me to worry about it. Let’s go.’

‘The accident, however, was partially my fault—’

‘Partially?’

He shrugged. She felt the movement, rather than saw it. ‘All right, I’ll take full responsibility. But I don’t suppose kicking your bike improved matters.’

Oh…rhubarb-and-custard! But of course he’d seen her childish outburst, or he wouldn’t be standing here now, with his arm around her waist.

‘And as your employer, however unwittingly…’ make that ‘unwillingly’ she thought ‘…at the moment of impact, I’m going to have to insist on some rudimentary precautions. Just in case you’re unable to work for weeks and decide to sue me.’

‘Now who’s being ridiculous?’ There went the discretion, she thought, as he gave her a look that suggested it wasn’t him. ‘Really! I like living here.’ More importantly, ‘Lady Gabriella’ lived here; in fact she was doing a brilliant job of fixing the place up, if only on paper. Even she wasn’t mad enough to re-gild frames, actually plant the herb garden she’d planned, or paint the sagging summerhouse—another coat of paint would probably bring it tumbling down. ‘I love living in that ridiculous little turret.’

‘You do?’

He could have tried harder to disguise his regret.

‘I do.’ The house inspired her. ‘Why would I do anything to put that at risk?’ Then, in a moment of inspiration, ‘Besides, Adele is my employer, not you.’

‘Since I own the house, that’s debatable.’

‘I know nothing about that. My agreement is with her, so I couldn’t sue you, could I?’ His eyes narrowed, and it occurred to her that she might have accidentally hit on the perfect delaying tactic. ‘Maybe you should talk to her about it?’ she suggested.

‘I will.’

You can try, she thought. One of the reasons his sister had wanted someone responsible in the house was because she didn’t want to be bothered with long distance emergencies such as frozen pipes, or squatters, or tiles blowing off in a gale.

Didn’t want to be bothered full-stop. In fact she’d made it perfectly clear that she thought her brother should sell the place and buy something modern and easily run, like her.

Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that she’d imagined Dr Faulkner as some half-witted old bloke, lost in his books.

‘Look,’ she said, checking her watch, because it was so hard to think when she was looking at him, ‘if we don’t make a move right now, I’m going to be late.’

‘Then the sooner you stop arguing,’he said, ‘the better.’

With his arm about her waist she was very up-close-and-personal indeed, and his eyes warned her that she was testing his patience.

‘Who’s arguing?’ she asked. Not that he’d bothered to wait for her to humour him. Instead, with one arm he lifted her clear off the ground so that, dangling at his side, her only option was to fling her own arms around his neck and hang on as he carried her through the front door, down the hall and into the kitchen.

Maybe ‘swept off her feet’ was an exaggeration, but if he had done that it would have been hideously embarrassing. Far too reminiscent of being carried over the threshold.

Besides, it was a terrific neck.

Strong, with smooth skin and a soft mane of silky hair that brushed against her bare arm. He smelt good, too. Nothing fancy, just a tweedy, leathery, totally male smell. There was no doubt about it, the man was solid hero material. He just needed to lighten up, smile once in a while.

He lowered her onto a hard kitchen chair, held her there for a moment, presumably concerned that she might spring to her feet and make a bid for freedom.

He didn’t just have amazingly blue eyes, she realised, but seriously wonderful eyelashes, too.

‘First-aid kit?’ he prompted.

‘Umm?’ Then blushed furiously as she realised that it wasn’t him hanging on to her. On the contrary, she was the one with her arms still around his neck, clinging on like a limpet. ‘Oh. It’s under the sink,’ she said, using one of her arms to wave in that direction. ‘A red box with a white cross…’

She managed to keep her mouth tightly closed as he sorted through the contents, found a crêpe bandage. Watched curiously, but still in silence, as he fetched a bottle of water from the fridge, filled a bowl with it. Then he dropped in the bandage.

Oh, no…

‘You’re not coming near me with that!’

‘No?’ He poked at the bandage to make sure it was thoroughly soaked in the icy water, then glanced at her. ‘I thought you liked living here.’

She shouldn’t have told him that, she realised belatedly. Knowledge was power. If he knew how important it really was he could use it to make her do anything.

Okay, not anything…

Although, actually, if he smiled…

‘Can you get out of those jeans without help?’he asked.

What?

‘Or would you prefer me to cut up the leg?’ He held up a small pair of scissors and snipped graphically at the air with them.

‘Your choice,’ he prompted.

‘No!’It wasn’t just the fact that they were her favourite jeans that made her capitulate. Annoying as it was to have to admit it, she knew he was right. She’d never last five minutes in the scrum of a Chamber of Commerce reception without some kind of strapping on her knee. She wouldn’t be doing it at all if Sue hadn’t been desperate. It was her Writers’ Circle night, and she was going to miss the first half of the meeting.

‘Give me a minute,’ she said, snapping open the button at the waist, pausing for him to turn around, give her a little privacy in which to wriggle them over her bottom.

He just waited for her to get on with it, and maybe she was being unnecessarily coy. Once they were off, they were off…Her legs would be bare and, since she was wearing a crop top, her knickers were going to be on show.

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved that she’d opted for comfortable, sensible white knickers, or sorry that she wasn’t wearing her barely there special occasion scarlet thong that might just have brought a blush to his cheeks and made him regret being quite so bossy.

She let her jeans crumple in a heap around her feet, but she didn’t dare kick them away and risk doing any more damage.

Apparently unmoved by the sight of her naked limbs, he eased them over her feet, tossed them over a nearby chair, and then lifted her injured leg, propping her foot against his leg while he prodded her knee, all the time watching her face to see if she flinched. But, given sufficient time to compose herself, she could keep a straight face, too. She needed it when, apparently satisfied that there was no serious damage, he used the icy bandage to bind her knee with deft efficiency.

It seemed that the shoulders weren’t just for show; he strapped up her leg with the skill of a man who knew all the moves.

‘How does it feel?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. It’s numb with cold.’

‘An hour from now you’ll be wishing it was still that way. Can you walk on it?’

She gripped his hand, hauled herself up, took a stiff-legged step. ‘It would seem so. Good job, Doc.’

The look he gave her suggested that he did not appreciate the ‘Doc’, but he let it go. ‘It’ll help, although you’ll probably find “wafting” rather difficult.’ He picked up her jeans, offered them to her. ‘I’ll bring the car to the door while you struggle back into these.’

Ellie abandoned the jeans; since she wasn’t cycling, she might as well save time by changing now. She stripped off the little crop top to reveal her favourite white lace push-’em-up bra. Such a pity it was her knee she’d strained; she’d have liked to see how straight a face Dr Faulkner could have kept with her ‘wench’ boobs in his face as he’d strapped her shoulder…

Grinning idiotically at the thought, she hauled her black waitressing trousers and shirt from her backpack. It was only when she was all buttoned up and ready to go that she turned—very carefully—and saw Benedict Faulkner standing in the doorway. She’d assumed he’d wait in the car for her.

Just how long had he been standing there?

‘You were lying about the stockings and suspenders, then?’ he said, his face straighter than a ruler.

‘I charge extra for them,’ she said, walking stiff-leggedly to the door, ‘and the Chamber of Commerce is cheap…’ She stifled a gasp. ‘I was expecting Adele’s Morris Minor,’ she said. It had been tucked up during her absence, in her brother’s garage. Unlike this stunningly beautiful vintage sports car. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘I left it with a colleague while I was away.’

‘Someone you trust, obviously?’ she said as, unable to bend one leg, she was reduced to flopping backwards into the low seat, then lifting her stiff leg into the car.

‘Obviously.’

‘The fact that you took the time to reclaim it suggests you’re going to be around for a while.’

‘I stayed with her for a couple of days while I caught up on sleep,’he said. ‘But you’re right. I won’t be going anywhere in the next week or two.’

Her.

She had oddly mixed feelings about that. She concentrated on the ‘oh bother’ variety, and spent the regrettably short ride into the city dwelling miserably on the horrors of flat-hunting.

‘What time shall I pick you up?’ he asked, as he pulled up in front of the Assembly Rooms.

‘What? Oh, there’s no need for that,’ she said, opening the door, then belatedly realising that, while flopping backwards had worked to get into the car, she was going to need rather more help getting out. ‘I’m going on to a meeting next door,’ she said, as he climbed out, walked around the car. ‘At the library. I’m sure someone will give me a lift home.’

Having offered her a hand, he made no immediate move to help her out. Instead he said, ‘How sure?’

Actually, very sure, but with his hand wrapped around hers she seemed to have trouble in breathing.

Taking her hesitation as not-very-sure-at-all, he repeated the question. ‘What time shall I pick you up from the library?’

‘We, um, usually go down the pub afterwards,’ she managed.

‘Your life is one social whirl, Ellie.’

‘What can I say?’

‘If you’re ever going to get out of this car, I’d suggest you tell me what time I should pick you up at the library.’

She was torn between fury at his dictatorial manner and a certain undeniable pleasure at the idea of being collected from the meeting by a dishy man in a seriously good-looking car.

Besides, he was right. She was entirely at his mercy. If he didn’t help her out of the car she’d be stuck there with him all evening. Or, more accurately, he’d be stuck with her.

Oh, the temptation…

Dismissing the idea as unworthy—and because she was already late—she said, ‘Okay, Doc, you win.’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Just…Ben.’

‘Ben. Nine, then. At the library.’

Satisfied, he eased her from the car and saw her safely up the steps and inside the Assembly Rooms. It was only then that she allowed herself a self-satisfied little grin. First objective achieved. He’d asked her to call him Ben.

Her next target was a smile. Entirely for his own good, naturally…