Читать книгу A Real Engagement - Marjorie Lewty - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

‘WHAT the hell are you doing here? Squatting? Que faites-vous ici? Allez-vous en—vite!’

The deep, angry voice sounded to Josie like thunder as it reached her through thick layers of sleep. She hated storms. She reached for the duvet, to pull it over her head. It wasn’t there. ‘Damn!’ she muttered. It must have fallen on the floor again.

She rolled over and put out a hand to the familiar bedside lamp. There was no lamp, no table beside the bed either. She opened her eyes wide in the darkened room.

Then she froze as she saw the huge figure looming up above her, and she knew she was having a nightmare. She tried to scream, but no sound came through her parched lips. The menacing figure did not move. Josie clutched her throat. She was icy cold and shaking all over.

Then at last the figure moved. There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the tiled floor, a creak as the shutters were folded back and a little light came into the room.

Josie pulled herself up. Her brain wasn’t working properly yet but she knew that this wasn’t a nightmare. There was a man in the room.

Indignation displaced fear. ‘How dare you?’ she croaked. ‘Get out of my room.’

Memory returned in a flash. She had been so tired, so hot after the long journey from London to the South of France, that when she’d found her house, Mon Abri, just behind Menton at last, and opened the front door into what seemed to be a sitting-room, all she’d been able to do was grope her way into the darkened interior, drag off her sundress and collapse on to a divan.

The man walked back and stood looking down at her. Josie was suddenly, sickeningly aware that she was wearing nothing but a lacy bra and minuscule briefs. With a gasp she leaned over the edge of the divan and groped feverishly for the sundress. It was damp and crumpled, and when she held it up in front of her it covered her rather inadequately, from her neck to her thighs.

‘Ah, what a pity!’ the man said softly, and Josie, now completely awake, felt more scared than she had ever done in her life.

‘Get out,’ she quavered.

‘That’s exactly what you are going to do. And what do you think you’re doing here anyway? Squatting? Or have you been watching my comings and goings and decided to display your—er—attractions?’ His arm shot out and he ripped the sundress away from her and dropped it on the floor again. ‘You’re wasting your time, my girl. I prefer brunettes.’

Josie gave a strangled gasp of fury. If only she could have got to her feet and delivered a hefty blow to whatever part of his body she could reach! But he was standing so close that if she had tried to stand up she would have had to touch him, and she dared not think what might happen then, in spite of his insulting rejection. What sort of a man was he, anyway? She glanced up at him, but he was standing with his back to the window, and, apart from the fact that he was tall and broad and dark, she couldn’t make out very much of him. He had an educated voice, but that didn’t mean anything.

Before she could think of a suitably cutting retort he was speaking again. ‘I don’t know why you’ve parked yourself here, or if you are expecting your young friends to join you,’ he said smoothly. ‘But, whatever the reason, I suggest that you get some clothes on and take yourself off, pronto. If you’re not out of here in ten minutes I’ll come back and remove you. I’m living in the next house, so I can watch your departure.’

With a final glance at her near-naked body he turned away and walked quickly out of the room, closing the front door behind him.

Josie swung her legs off the divan and stood up. Her knees felt like india rubber. For a full minute she stared at the closed door, seething with rage.

When Uncle Seb had warned her that she would have neighbours she hadn’t given any thought to the matter, but if this horrible man were to be her neighbour it was going to be disastrous. Had he got a family with him or was he here alone? If he was alone she couldn’t possibly stay.

Then she clicked her tongue impatiently. What was she thinking of? Her hazel eyes narrowed and her soft mouth hardened into a firm line. She certainly wasn’t going to let a pig of a man spoil her pleasure and excitement in taking over her new house on the French Riviera. To have to put up with neighbours at such close quarters was an unwelcome shock, but she told herself that it was just her bad luck that her first encounter with a neighbour should have been so upsetting.

Why had the beastly man been so abominably rude? She couldn’t imagine, but there was only one way to find out; confront him and demand an explanation and an apology. She smiled grimly as she pictured just how she would make him grovel.

Lifting her travel bag on to the divan, she rummaged through it and selected a clean sundress. Her hand encounted a packet of tea-bags in the corner of the bag. She pulled it out with a cry of delight. A cup of tea was just what she needed to revive her and boost up her energy to face her insolent neighbour.

Slipping the crisp blue sundress over her head, and running a comb through her russet curls, she surveyed the room for the first time. It was long and L-shaped, and bore all the evidence of summer-letting to visitors. There were two lumpy easy chairs, and a badly scratched dining-table with four dining-chairs in place. A huge sideboard stood against one wall and the divan on which she had been lying was pushed against the opposite wall, which must be the dividing wall between the two houses. There was a staircase leading up to the first floor and a door to the left of it, which would be the kitchen door.

The kitchen, when she had pulled back the shutters to let some light in, proved to be tiny. There was a sink and one tap, a worktop with a kettle on it, two or three cupboards, a few hooks on the wall, and that was all. She would have to change everything, she thought, but meanwhile—tea.

She turned on the tap, but nothing happened except a faint gurgle. The water was evidently turned off. She got on to her knees and tried to find a tap under the sink. There was no tap, but her groping fingers encountered a pipe which seemed to run along the wall and disappear into the next-door house.

Josie’s smouldering rage burst into flames. The wretch must have turned off her water supply to make sure she could not stay here. Well, she would see about that.

With the light of battle in her large hazel eyes, she strode out through her front door to the door marked Maison les Roches, which must be the next house. There was no bell, so she knocked hard, which relieved her feelings slightly but bruised her knuckles. When there was no reply she pushed the door. It opened into what was evidently the main sitting-room, which was in better condition than her room next door. There were comfortable chairs, rugs on the floor and an elegant staircase on one side of the room. Its elegance was rather marred by the fact that the wall which divided the two houses seemed to push itself against the carved balusters. A small table with two chairs stood on the opposite side of the room and on it was—wonder of wonders—a steaming teapot, a jug of milk and one cup.

The delicious smell of freshly brewed tea was too much for Josie. Sitting down in one of the chairs, she poured a cup for herself, added milk and drank blissfully. That was better. Now she could give all her attention to defeating the Enemy.

Footsteps sounded above her head, and a moment later the Enemy appeared at the top of the stairs. Josie put down her empty cup and stood up, ready for battle.

The man evidently hadn’t seen her yet, and it was her first chance to get a good look at him. The light had been dim next door, but in here there were wall-fittings which lit up the room. He had obviously just had a shower. He wore khaki shorts and nothing else and his dark hair was flattened to his head and dripping on to his shoulders. He padded barefoot down the stairs, took the towel from round his neck and rubbed his hair vigorously.

A quick all-over glance showed Josie a tall, broad-shouldered man, probably in the mid-thirties. She had to admit that he was magnificently built, with the muscular body of an athlete. The towel he was wielding partly covered his face, but she could see his eyes. They were strange eyes, steel-grey with a darker rim round the irises.

He threw down the towel and looked round the room to see her standing beside the table. She met his eyes with a faint apologetic smile. ‘I’ve helped myself to a cup of your tea,’ she said. ‘I felt that you owed me that. There’s plenty left in the pot.’

He ignored her words. He stood quite still, but she saw the steely grey eyes narrow and his hands clench. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ he said, with the same soft contempt he had used before. ‘I thought I told you to clear out.’

‘Well, as you can see, I chose not to obey your order.’ She tried to sound mocking, but this had no effect on him. ‘I came to—’

She had no chance to finish the sentence. In three long strides he had crossed the space between them and a second later she was in his arms.

‘Oh, I know why you came.’ The grey eyes were only inches from her own alarmed ones, his mouth almost touching hers. ‘And if this is what you want you shall have it.’ His arms tightened around her and his mouth came down on hers.

He kissed her almost savagely, at the same time drawing her closer still against his hard body.

Josie had been taken completely by surprise, but now she managed to get her wits back. ‘No,’ she gasped against his mouth, struggling wildly. He was holding her so tightly against him that she couldn’t get her hands up between their two bodies.

The kiss went on and on. She kept her lips tightly closed but he forced them open. She had never been kissed like this before, never so intimately, and suddenly her body responded with a mad need to take part in this crazy emotion of anger, or lust, or whatever it was. She wanted to press herself against him, to kiss him back as intimately as he was kissing her, to dig her nails into his smooth, warm back. A few moments of weakness possessed her, and she thought she was going to faint.

Then he lifted his head and held her a little away from him. ‘Maybe I don’t prefer brunettes after all,’ he said softly, and would have drawn her back to him, but Josie saw her opportunity at last. She gathered all her strength to push him away and delivered a stinging blow to his cheek.

He backed off, one hand to his face. He was breathing as fast as she was, and Josie tried to think of her plan to make him grovel but nothing occurred to her.

He said in angry exasperation, ‘What do you want here, then?’

Her knees were shaking and her throat was tight but she managed to say, with what dignity she could muster, ‘I came to ask you to turn on the water supply to my kitchen.’ She remembered that that was the first sentence in her grovel routine. Then he was meant to say, in surprise, Your kitchen? and she would take it from there.

To her surprise, he laughed. ‘Well, that’s a wonderful anticlimax. Now let’s have the truth—all of it. How did you manage to get in next door when it was locked up?’

He had missed his cue, but this would do as well—better, really. ‘I had a key to my own house, of course,’ Josie said loftily. Her hand encountered a chair behind her and she sat down on it rather quickly. The compelling eyes, fixed so relentlessly on her, were making her feel unnerved.

She said shakily, ‘I’m very tired. If you will please turn on the water I’ll go back and have a night’s sleep.’ She passed her hand wearily across her eyes.

He stood still, looking down at her darkly. Then he walked across the room and opened a door. When he came back he said, ‘I’ve turned the water on. I suppose I can’t throw you out tonight. But you’ll have to go first thing tomorrow morning. I don’t want squatters here.’

She braced her knees and walked to the door. She turned as she opened it. ‘I think you’re detestable,’ she said.

Outside it was quite dark. The sky was thick with stars, and the only sound was the constant loud chirping of the cicadas. That sound triggered the memory of a holiday in the little seaside resort of Boulouris, near Saint Raphael, with both her parents when she was about ten. Her mother had been so happy then. Josie didn’t want to think about what had happened afterwards.

She found her own front door, and, once inside, felt round for a light switch, making a mental note that she must buy a good strong torch. At last her fingers encountered the switch. She turned it on and was rewarded by a feeble light from an unshaded central hanging fitting, which was just enough to allow her to find her way across the room.

The tiny kitchen was even more inadequately lit, but she found the tap and turned it on. The water spurted out with such force that it splashed up from the sink and soaked the front of her dress. She muttered all the bad words she knew about the Enemy next door. It was all his fault. Oh, well, the dress would soon dry in the heat of the house. It was unbearably hot, and Josie wondered if she should keep the window in the sitting-room open to let in the cool evening air. But she decided not to risk insect bites.

Upstairs, she groped around both bedrooms to find switches, none of which yielded any light. She would have to sleep on the divan in the room below.

Downstairs in the kitchen again, Josie yawned hugely. What she really needed was sleep, but first she must eat something. She had bought some provisions in Menton, when the bus from Nice Airport had set her down there, and now she opened the plastic carrier and found a baguette, some butter, which had melted all over the bag, and a packet of cheese.

There were three mugs in one of the cupboards, and she chose the best of these, rinsed it and filled it with water. She pulled off hunks of bread and broke pieces of cheese from the packet. Her first dinner in her new house! She chuckled, refusing to feel disappointed. Everything could be put right, given time—and money. She wouldn’t think about the horrible man next door. He would leave her alone when he realised that she was really the owner of Mon Abri.

When she had finished all she could manage to eat, she refilled the mug and took it back to the sitting-room. She carried a small chair to the divan, to act as a bedside table, and on this she set the mug of water, her watch and a silver-framed snapshot of her mother, taken in the garden of their house last year. She picked it up and looked into the wan, lined face which had once been beautiful. ‘This is my new house, Mum dear. You should have come with me,’ Josie whispered, her eyes suddenly misty with tears. ‘But I don’t think you would have cared for it very much. Certainly not as it is at present.’

Marion Dunn had liked everything neat and predictable, and when, eight years ago, her husband left her for a younger woman the shock had been too much for her. She had gone to pieces. When she’d received the final divorce papers she had collapsed. ‘My life is over,’ she had mourned. And sometimes Josie thought that was true. Every year her mother had suffered from some new ailment, and when a bad attack of flu had struck her last winter she had not had the strength to resist. She had developed pneumonia, and in spite of all Josie’s care had died six months ago, just after Christmas.

Josie put the photograph down again on the chair. She had loved her mother sincerely, and she missed her, but the years had shown her what resentment and self-pity could do to a woman if she gave way to them. Her mother had been so romantic, but women were more realistic now, the twenty-three-year-old Josie told herself confidently. They didn’t break their hearts over men.

It would be lovely to have a shower and wash off all the hot stickiness of the day, but the shower-room, like the other two rooms upstairs, was in darkness. She pulled off her clothes, draped the sundress over a chair to dry and left her bra and lacy pants on the floor, to be washed tomorrow when she had found out how to get hot water. Fortunately there was a tiny cloakroom beside the front door, and she washed her face and wiped wet hands over her hot body, drying herself with the small hand towel she had brought with her to use on the journey. She found a thin nightie in her bag and put it on, covering her body quickly.

Suddenly her cheeks flamed as she remembered that kiss. It had been a warning to her that her body could betray her so shamefully. But the Enemy was clearly a past master in the art of—she had been going to say ‘lovemaking’, but of course it had nothing to do with love. She must forget all about it.

She yawned. She would leave the centre light on; she wouldn’t feel quite safe in the dark. There was no bedcover, but she wouldn’t need it. She took a light gown from her bag and tucked it under the cushion that would serve as a pillow, in case it got cool in the night. Then, with a deep sigh, she stretched out on the divan. She’d have a lovely, undisturbed sleep.

She had expected to drop off to sleep immediately, but instead she found herself wondering what she was going to say to the Enemy next-door when she saw him in the morning. He didn’t believe that she owned the house. It was quite ridiculous that she had to convince him, but somehow she must do so. She remembered the strength of his arms when he held her, and felt again the weakness in her limbs. Oh, yes, if he chose to be nasty he could well evict her bodily, as he had threatened to do.

She had no actual proof of ownership, but she must be absolutely sure of it in her own mind. She had taken Uncle Seb’s word for it, but what if there had been some mistake? No, there couldn’t be. Uncle Seb couldn’t possibly be wrong. She would rely on him and ask for his help if she needed it. She wouldn’t be bullied by that hateful man next door. Mon Abri was hers, and she meant to keep it.

Closing her eyes on this firm resolution, she fell into a heavy sleep.