Читать книгу Kiss Me Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 9

The lights from the Barley Mow, and the moon shimmering on the pond gave Dixie a clear view. It would be an easy walk to cross the Green and circle back to Miss Reade’s. The dry, well-trodden path skirted around the water’s edge and joined the lane near three tile-hung cottages with neat hedges and lighted front doors. Turning right, Dixie followed the curve of the lane.

Five modern, brightly lit houses caught her attention with glimpses of flickering TV screens and a woman filling a kettle at the sink. The path ended and the road narrowed past a clump of trees that cast ragged shadows over the lane. Something fast and warm scuttled inches from Dixie’s feet. Tempted to abandon what now seemed like a crazy moonlight hike, Dixie glanced back across the Green and realized the Barley Mow was a good hundred yards away. She had to be near Orchard House. She’d tramped this far. She wasn’t going back. If she walked in the middle of the lane, she’d avoid four-footed nocturnals and tree roots.

Then she heard the owls. Two of them, calling back and forth like a pair of feathered Harpies. Nothing like it to add a bit of atmosphere. She was alone, in the dark, on a deserted country lane, in a foreign country, looking for a house she’d never seen. Dixie willed courage, marched round the next curve, and stopped.

This was her house. She knew it.

She peered through high wrought-iron gates. A gravel path led past shadows of overgrown shrubs to a square brick house where moonlight flickered on long sash windows. Paint and rust flaked in her hands as she shook the gate. The chain clanked like Marley’s ghost, rattled and fell to the ground. Budging the gate took more effort. Either the gate had sunk or the drive risen in the past months. The hinges complained, but a few hard shoves opened it enough to slip in sideways.

Dixie stood on the gravel driveway and surveyed her property. Even in the dark, she could see she owned an elegant house. Eight double-hung windows were set in a beautifully proportioned façade, and four dormers rose from the roof. A dark shadow of a front door stood at the end of the uneven path ahead and the gravel drive circled behind the house. It could have been the set for Sense and Sensibility. And it was hers. Complete with moonlight.

In an upstairs window, on the far right a light flickered. It wasn’t moonlight.

A burglar.

And in her house.

Fired by righteous indignation, Dixie raced up the steps to the front door and tugged the iron loop of the bell pull. Loud chimes echoed through the silent house. Standing on the step, Dixie watched the light disappear and then…nothing. What did she expect? The burglar to answer the doorbell?

Even the owls had gone quiet. Nothing moved in the night. Dixie half-convinced herself she’d imagined the light when a door banged. Twice. A loud cussword echoed through the night quiet.

Cautious now, keeping to the overgrown grass, Dixie crept round the side of the house. It was a whole lot bigger than it looked from the front. Odd corners and shapes jutted out behind. A cluster of outbuildings huddled over by a high brick wall. Deep shadows hid everything except rough outlines and shapes, and patches of moonlight made an eerie checkerboard of the backyard. Dixie waited by the corner, watched and listened. A dark shape slunk across the yard.

The intruder continued his path between a clump of overgrown bushes. Fury burned away all her caution. “What are you doing in my house?” she called. The intruder didn’t stop to answer. One look behind and he fled across the grass and out through a side gate.

Dixie chased, racing through the gate, out into the lane and careened into a dark figure.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, too angry to consider fear.

“Dixie?” She knew that voice.

“Christopher? Christopher Marlowe? What are you doing here?” This was a bit much, first intruding on her dinner, then her property.

“Walking home. Are you alright? You’re shaking.” Strong hands gripped her shoulders.

That last bit was true. She shook from her knees to the shoulders he held. Dixie stepped back from his hands and looked sideways. They stood in a narrow, unpaved lane. Behind her loomed the high brick wall and ahead, distant lights from the new houses glimmered through the trees.

He stepped closer. “Something scared you. What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“Looking at my house.” Had he been the intruder? He’d been suspiciously close but he wasn’t breathing heavily. After that sprint across the garden, a marathoner would be wheezing. “You really live out this way? You said you lived by the station.”

“It’s a shortcut.” One hand went back to her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be wandering around here after dark. It’s not safe for a woman.”

She’d ignore that. “Someone was there, in the house. I saw a light. He ran out this way.”

“And you thought it was me?”

How did she answer that one? She still did—halfway. “There’s no one else.”

“I promise it wasn’t me. I don’t wander around empty houses by torchlight.”

“You think I imagined it?” Let him dare answer yes.

“No. It’s probably some teenager braving out a dare. The house is supposed to be haunted. You likely interrupted some lad’s attempt at machismo. This time I am walking you home. You’re scared and it’s not wise to wander around after dark.”

She let him walk her back to Emily’s. Familiar with the path, he warned about roots and hazards hidden by the shadows. Crossing the edge of the Green, he took her elbow. “There’s a dip here, watch out,” he said. She stopped and explore with her foot. There was a hollow, deep enough to trip on but hidden by the grass.

“How did you know?” she asked, looking up at his pale face in the moonlight.

“I walk here all the time.”

Ten minutes later they stood by Emily Reade’s front gate. He waited. Surely he didn’t expect her to invite him in? He was going to be disappointed.

“Thanks for the escort. I think I can find the way next time.” She held out her hand.

A strong, cold hand grasped hers. “Take care, Dixie. I’ll be seeing you around.”

He waited at the gate as she walked up the path. Dixie turned and waved as she reached into her jeans pocket for the key. It felt warm after his fingers.

Without turning on her light, Dixie watched from her bedroom window as Christopher retraced his steps across the Green. Had he spoken the truth? Was that path by her house a shortcut to his? A few questions or a check on a map could answer that. She watched him halfway across the Green until his silhouette faded in the dark.

Christopher Marlowe paused in front of Orchard House and willed himself to think about the library inside. He wouldn’t think about its new guardian, her copper curls, her skin smooth as clotted cream, or the warm green eyes that glittered with intelligence.

Most of all he’d ignore the warm rich blood that coursed though her veins. Temptations like that could ruin everything. With her ancestry, she was more likely adversary than ally. He wouldn’t forget that. He’d learned that much in four hundred years.

“You’re an incompetent idiot! What this time? Scaredy cat frightened by a ghost? Give me strength!” Sebastian felt the blood rise up his neck as he snarled at James.

Pale eyes glowered back. “You try it! Nothing’s there. I’ve gone through that room twice.”

“Make it three times!”

“You try poking round that mausoleum in the dark. I’m not going back.”

A nasty chuckle vibrated in Caughleigh’s chest. “You will. I’m taking LePage round the property in the morning. It’ll be on the market by tomorrow afternoon. You’ve got one more night to find everything.”

“Or, dear Uncle?”

“Or you’ll find we’re not as benign as you thought. We can be quite nasty when roused and crossed. As the old ladies found out.”

That hit home. Sebastian smiled. He had James where he needed him.

“It’s beautiful.” Dixie ignored Caughleigh’s benevolent amusement. She’d need more than a morning to grasp the reality of owning such a house. Mysterious and eerie last night, the red brick glowed a welcoming warmth in the mid-morning sun. The cracked paving stones were worn, not hazardous, and the garden looked neglected, not sinister. But the elegance of the house remained, like a weary dowager resting her tired bones in the sun. “How old is it?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Hard to say exactly. Too heavy to be Georgian. Maybe Queen Anne. The local historical society might know something. I think it’s listed. The back is much older of course.”

Dixie held out her hand for the key; it was four inches long and weighed several ounces. The lock turned slowly but it clicked. Dixie grasped the dulled brass knob and pushed open the heavy black door.

A musty smell and cold, damp air hung about the wide shabby hallway. Dustcovers protected the heavy furniture but a film of dust covered the marble fireplace and obscured the windows. Cobwebs decorated the crystal chandelier and the banister rails. It didn’t take much to imagine mice nesting in the rolled up carpet by the wall. “Miss Haversham would feel quite at home here.”

Sebastian Caughleigh smiled. “Your aunts had a reputation for eccentricity.”

“Surely they didn’t live like this?” She remembered Gran’s obsessive spring cleaning and her insistence on linen napkins and polished glassware.

“Miss Faith died almost two years ago, she tended to be the organizer. I’m afraid Miss Hope didn’t manage too well and the house has been empty since October.”

Sebastian strode from room to room like a zealous realtor. Dixie followed, collecting impressions: a wide, airy drawing room with faded pastel curtains, a dining room with a heavy, black oak table and exquisite pale wood paneling with a carved fireplace to match. The breakfast room looked out on an overgrown flower garden. A small parlor with worn modern furniture and an ancient TV looked like the Misses Underwood’s everyday room.

The kitchen was dark, low-ceilinged and several steps down from the rest of the house. “Much older,” Sebastian said. “They built the new house onto an old farmhouse.”

Upstairs were four bedrooms and another room filled with books from floor to ceiling. Dixie figured that must be the collection Christopher had referred to. A sixth room held an immense claw-footed tub, a pedestal washbasin large enough to bathe a small Doberman, and twin toilets with a double mahogany seat.

Dixie stared. “Why double toilets?”

Sebastian coughed. “Old-fashioned. You’d never see it nowadays. Whoever buys the house will have to modernize.”

“But worth it. With some money spent on it, this would be a beautiful house.”

“We need to get back. I promised the key to Mike Jenkins before lunch.”

Dixie wasn’t about to be hustled out of her own house. “I’m staying. He can meet me here.”

Those dark eyes almost popped. “Staying? There’s no water or electricity.”

“I can manage for a couple of hours.”

He frowned. “Fine. Drop the key by the office later.”

The house settled back into quiet as the noise of his engine faded. An hour of signing papers in his office had settled her possession of her property. She wanted time to herself to enjoy owning this wonderful house before she did the practical thing and put it on the market. How much would a house like this fetch? More than enough to buy and furnish a nice, sensible house back in South Carolina. She’d ask Mike whatever-his-name when he arrived.

He never turned up. But James did.

Busy removing dustcovers in the breakfast room, Dixie heard the front door open and footsteps cross the hall and start up the stairs. “Hi, I’m back here,” she called, assuming it was the realtor. She opened the door into the hall and James stared at her from the third step.

“You’re here?” he asked, gaping. Why shouldn’t she be? Hadn’t he heard of knocking on doors? “Don’t let me disturb you if you’re busy.” He took another step up.

“I won’t.” A half-dozen strides took her to the foot of the stairs. “Going somewhere?” she asked, one hand on her hip.

He squeezed out a laugh. “Sorry, I thought Uncle told you. I’m looking at the furniture. A friend of mine is interested in making you an offer.”

“I’m not interested in selling.” At least not to any friend of his.

That slowed him down. “Well…surely…I mean…”

“My furniture isn’t for sale.”

He stepped down. “If you change your mind, let me know.” He stood far too close to be polite in any language.

“It’s not for sale, and not likely to be in the near future.” Dixie held open the front door.

Even James couldn’t miss the heavy hint.

He held out his hand. Dixie took it out of common courtesy and wished she hadn’t when he squeezed. “See you at the Barley Mow tonight?”

Dixie grunted as she shut the door. Why had James just walked in? He’d seemed right at home. Was he used to coming and going? She shrugged and went upstairs. The bedrooms could wait, but she did want to look at her books. If Christopher was to be believed, her aunts had an interesting collection.

The book room proved too much for one afternoon. She’d come back tomorrow with a flashlight if she couldn’t get the electricity turned on. She looked around at the packed shelves, the stacks of books on the center table and the scattered footprints in the dust. Someone had been in here. Who? The person she’d seen, or imagined last night?

She looked at her watch. Her two hours had become four and no sign of Mike the realtor. She’d go back to Emily Reade’s and get a much needed shower and find somewhere other than the Barley Mow for dinner.

She walked around the backyard before she left. Tool sheds, half-collapsed coal stores, and an old washhouse spanned one side of the kitchen garden. The gate she’d run through last night stood open but she couldn’t close it. The wood at the bottom jammed on something. She hadn’t imagined those lights last night. A heavy, black flashlight lay in the ankle-deep grass.

“I think that’s everything for now, Miss LePage.”

Dixie smiled at the bank manager and the chief cashier. Her breath didn’t come clear enough to speak. With a couple of signatures, she’d just received ten times as much money as she’d earned since grad school. And that was only a beginning. “This is rather a surprise.” Rather a surprise! She was getting British. They were lucky she wasn’t dancing around like the sweepstake winners on TV.

“You’ll need to make some investment decisions.”

Dixie nodded. “I know. It’s just this will take some getting used to.”

“Of course.” The manager smiled, delighted to have her as a customer, no doubt. “Contact us when you’re ready. You have several options. With your non-resident status, there are some very attractive offshore opportunities.”

“How about I get back with you next week? Same time next Friday?” Dixie shuffled through her bag for her appointment book but she couldn’t find it. She took the business card he offered and scribbled a note on the back before tucking it in her pocket. She needed to get out of here and think.

Two buildings down High Street stood the Copper Kettle. Dixie chose a wheelback chair by the window, searched in vain for the elusive appointment book, decided she’d left it at Emily’s, ordered a pot of tea, and contemplated her future.

She had a small fortune in the bank and more to come after the sale of securities and the maturity of some bonds. More money than she’d imagined saving after a lifetime of work, and still more if she decided to sell the house.

It didn’t make sense. Gran had struggled with Social Security and the little bit Grandpa had left, while her sisters had sat on a stash. True, they hadn’t lived high on the hog; the house showed years of neglect. A couple of old scrooges. What else was new? Gran had despised them. “A pair of old witches!” she’d once replied to a teenaged Dixie’s questions about her English relatives.

A smart person would sell the house to the highest bidder, grab the money and take the first plane home. But where was home? She’d as good as blown her job. The man she’d loved had thrown her over for a richer (okay, not richer now!) woman with social connections. Her worldly belongings filled her neighbor’s garage and still left room for his lawn mower and workbench. And she didn’t possess a living relative on either side of the Atlantic. She’d give herself a month’s holiday. She had the money and a roof over her head. Why not stay awhile?

Sebastian Caughleigh’s face appeared distorted through the old bottle glass of the bow window. He took Dixie’s answering wave as an invitation. As he sat down on the chair he’d pulled out, Dixie suppressed a wave of irritation. She didn’t want to talk house, or money, or furniture. She wanted to luxuriate in financial independence.

“Fixed up things at the bank?” He signaled for the white-haired waitress. “Good to get it settled before you leave.”

“Pretty much. I’m going to take my time. Thought I’d stay a few weeks. Maybe a month or so.”

“Oh?” He frowned. Then smiled that smile. Did he practice in front of a mirror? “That will be nice,” he said. “Since you’re staying, would you like to meet some people this weekend? A couple I know, Janet and Larry Whyte—he’s in insurance—are having people over tomorrow. How about I pick you up round seven? We can go over for drinks, you’d meet some of the locals and have dinner.”

Why not? If she was staying awhile, it would be smart to get to know someone other than Emily and Smarmy James. “Sounds nice. I’d love to come. What does Janet do?”

“Janet?” Sebastian frowned.

“Janet Whyte, is she in insurance like Larry?”

“Oh no, she does something in one of the hospitals in Guildford.” He made her sound like a candy striper. He stretched out his long legs under the table and sipped his coffee. “Do you have plans for this afternoon?”

“Just exploring my house.” His legs shifted against hers. Dixie stood up. “Sorry to run but I’ve got things to do.”

The house was as cold as a damp towel and this was early May. What would it be like in November? Or February? But the hour she spent in the phone booth on the corner paid off. By four o’clock Dixie had electricity and water reconnected and a promise of telephone service in the next week or so. She’d also discovered the impossibility of cleaning house with cold water.

“Could you make sure the water heater’s working?” Dixie asked the service man from the electric board.

“You don’t have one,” he replied in the sort of voice used on a slow-witted child—or a foreigner. “That Aga of yours does the water.”

“That thing?” Dixie asked, looking at the cream-colored behemoth that filled the kitchen fireplace.

“Yup,” he replied, shifting his tool belt. “One of the originals, that is. Looks like a prewar one to me.” Which war? The one with the colonies? “’Course, you could get it converted. Be a lot easier if it ran on gas or oil.” He showed her the location of the meter at the back of the cupboard under the stairs, behind mops, brooms, an antique vacuum cleaner and a pair of wooden skis, and the location of the fuse box in the basement. “Need to get the place rewired,” he warned her as he left.

Dixie stared at the Aga in the empty kitchen. She’d barely come to terms with the china sinks and wooden draining boards, to say nothing of the open fireplaces in every room and the absence of any form of furnace. Now it seemed she heated water on a stove. Would she have to chop down trees to get a decent shower? Her great-aunts had a fortune in the bank and lived like pioneers. If she had a phone, she’d call Sebastian Caughleigh and insist on selling the house before Monday.

“Hello. Mind if we come in?”

Dixie opened the door to her acquaintance from the car park.

“Oh, it is you,” she said. “I knew it had to be. I’m Emma Gordon, your neighbor, just across the way.” Her head nodded towards the new houses on the other side of the lane. “And this is Sally Smith.”

The second woman smiled. “Welcome to Bringham. Thought we’d pop over and see if there’s anything we can do.”

“Have you any idea how to get that thing going?” Dixie pointed to the lurking Aga.

They had.

A search through the outbuildings discovered a shed of what looked like coal but which the others called “anthracite.” Emma ran home for charcoal and a box of three-inch-long matches. “Swan Vestas,” she explained. “They’re easier for things like this.”

Dixie took her word for it.

Lifting what Dixie imagined must be a cooking surface, they tipped in a bucket of anthracite, a good couple of handfuls of charcoal and a few twists of paper. Satisfied the fuel had caught, Emma dropped the lid back and smiled. “Give it a couple of hours and you’ll have it going. My mum had one. Just top it up twice a day. It’ll be brilliant in the winter.”

Dixie decided not to stay long enough to find out.

Emma went home a second time and returned with a large, brown teapot, a bottle of milk and a tin of gingerbread. “You look as if you need it,” she said, setting everything on the kitchen table.

Dixie didn’t argue, but felt a stiff gin might do even better.

“Staying to sell the house?” Sally asked.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d take a month or so to decide.”

“It’ll be nice to have someone living here,” Emma said. “Ian and I worried about vandalism or squatters.”

“Vandals?” Dixie asked, remembering Wednesday night. “Have you seen anything odd?”

Emma shrugged. “Lights sometimes. The villagers say the old ladies haunt it. More likely local yobs out on a lark.”

“I thought I saw a light, the night before last.”

“You were here after dark?” Emma seemed either impressed or horrified.

“Just strolled by. Admiring my property, I suppose.”

“It is a beautiful house,” said Sally, “or will be after a lot of work. It’s a shame they let it go so, but it must have been hard for two old ladies on a fixed income.”

Dixie wasn’t about to tell the level the income had been “fixed” at. It still gave her shivers when she thought about it.

“I’d be careful around here at night. It’s a bit lonely. Get good locks if you’re staying.” Emma sounded like Gran. “And let Sergeant Grace know. He’ll keep an eye on things. The police house is on the left, past the church.”

Between the two of them, they’d have her life organized—but it didn’t feel like an intrusion. They were two women concerned about a third being alone. They knew the neighborhood and Dixie sensed she’d need friends if she stayed.

After they left, Dixie ran the geriatric vacuum over the ground floor and took down all the drapes and heaped them on the backseat of her car. She’d find a cleaner in the morning and get in touch with the locksmith, and Stan Collins. She’d need the car for at least another month.

With the windows clear, the house seemed lighter and airier. Tomorrow she’d open all the windows and let out the mustiness of the years. She found herself back in the low-ceilinged kitchen. The room fascinated her. With small windows overlooking the kitchen garden, it seemed another world from the spacious drawing room and paneled dining room. The world of servant and mistress perhaps? Except her great-aunts had lived alone. Before, when Gran and her sisters had been girls, things must have been different. Dixie imagined rosy-cheeked parlor maids and a plump cook seated around the scrubbed pine table.

Not for the first time, Dixie wished Gran had talked about her youth. She’d always evaded any questions and discouraged Dixie’s curiosity. “Life’s good here,” she’d say. “Don’t shovel up history.” When a teenaged Dixie wanted to visit Gran’s sisters on a much discussed, but never accomplished, backpacking tour of Europe, Gran shook her head. “A pair of nasty, spiteful old hags. You don’t even want to know about them.”

“Is that book intended to repulse the world in general or just Chadwick?” Christopher smiled down at her. He could melt glass marbles with that smile.

“It didn’t work with you, did it?”

“Did you intend it to?”

A tougher woman wouldn’t have smiled back or felt a flush of warm pleasure when he rested his hand on the back of the chair opposite and said, “May I?”

At least he asked this time. She nodded, trying not to grin.

“Don’t let me interrupt your supper,” he said. “How is it?”

Dixie looked down at the cauliflower cheese she’d ordered in a spirit of adventure. “Surprisingly good.” She picked up her fork. She hadn’t been aware of putting it down.

“How are things with the house?” He leaned one arm over the back of his chair and stretched out his legs. He didn’t nudge knees like Sebastian had, but his feet posed a hazard to passersby.

“Fine. I’ve got water and electricity connected, and a promise of a phone. I’ve learned how to light an Aga, and met two neighbors. Quite a day, in fact.” And so different from any other day in her life so far.

“You’ve moved in?”

“Not yet. But I plan to. Maybe next week.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

“Why pay for bed and breakfast when I own a whole house? Plus, if I’m in the house, it might discourage nocturnal visitors. Remember Wednesday.”

“You’re certain someone was there? It could have been moonlight on the windows. Or shadows.”

“The man in the moon doesn’t drop a flashlight heavy enough to figure as a murder weapon.” She looked straight at him. Did having only one good eye double the emotion he showed? Dark brows creased almost to touching. They even caused his eye patch to shift. Was he angry? Worried?

“If you’re sure about finding the torch, you’d better tell the police.”

“That’s what Emma said but it seems a lot of fuss.”

He shook his head. “Fuss or not, report it.”

He’d gone from suggesting to ordering in ten seconds. What next? “I will in the morning. If I get around to it.”

“What’s wrong with now? Sergeant Grace is right over there.”

Dixie turned. A gray-haired uniformed policeman leaned against the bar.

“I’ll get him.” Christopher was halfway back before she thought to object.

“Evening, madam. I’m Sergeant Grace. Mr. Marlowe here says you’ve had a spot of bother.” He pulled a chair up to the table, flipped open a notepad and took her name and address. “Orchard House, eh? Well, well, what’s been going on?”

Dixie resigned herself to recounting the whole story. In the retelling, it sounded like the fevered exaggerations of jet lag.

Sergeant Grace didn’t think so. He listened, nodded, and asked when she planned on moving in. “Well, well,” he flipped the notebook shut. “Seems to me you’d best get good locks if you plan on staying. Probably some yobs with nothing better to do, but it never hurts to be careful. Miss Hope, she claimed someone was trying to break in. Of course, she was getting frail at the end.” He stood up. “I’ll ask the patrol cars to drive by once in a while. Just to keep an eye on things. Give us a ring if anything else happens.”

She would, if she ever got a phone.

Sergeant Grace left. Christopher didn’t. He seemed settled until closing time. “Feel safer with the law on the alert?”

“I like the idea of a car driving by. Discourages unwelcome visitors.”

A slim, white finger circled the rim of his glass. “Would I be included in that description? I’m serious about looking over the library.”

Smiles like his should be illegal. “No harm in looking.”

“I’ll be over in a couple of days. Can I get you another drink?”

“Thanks, but I’m driving home.”

When she stood up, he followed her out. “Scared I’ll get lost?” One hand rested on the roof of her car, the other closed the door for her and curled round the open window edge. Immaculately manicured nails appeared chalk white against the dark paintwork. It had to be a trick of the moonlight.

“Dixie,” he said, his face a pale oval in the night, “don’t explore anymore at night. This may not be New York or Atlanta, but things happen. That house has been empty for months. If you do move in, change the locks.” A half-smile quivered around his mouth. “I suppose I sound like Uncle Christopher?”

No. He wasn’t the least avuncular. “It’s not that, but you’re the third person today to suggest I change the locks.”

“Might be good advice.” She couldn’t argue. She agreed.

Christopher watched the taillights disappear down the lane. So, she planned on moving in, claiming her property, and discouraging unwelcome visitors. She had guts to match her beauty, but no notion what she was taking on. He’d have his work cut out.

If he had any sense he’d leave. Now. But he couldn’t. He had to see that library and Dixie would invite him in.

Dixie! Dixie LePage could be his downfall—if he let her. He wouldn’t. He was stronger than any mortal, even one with auburn hair, green eyes like polished glass, a smile that scrambled his senses, and warm, sweet blood coursing through her veins.

But he wanted her and he’d never dare have her.

“Staying then?” Stan Collins asked.

“Just a month or so. Until I get things straight.” She’d taken an hour off from scrubbing to drive over to Horsley and extend her rental agreement.

“It’s booked for a weekend in June. If you’re still here then, I’ll give you another one. Just a weekend switch, okay?”

Dixie agreed and scribbled a reminder on a notepad she’d bought in the village. A search through her belongings hadn’t turned up her organizer. They agreed on a special rate for a long rental.

“Just don’t start driving to Scotland on weekends,” Stan warned.

She promised not to, and drove home to her mops and scrub brushes.

Sebastian’s Jag purred to a halt outside Emily’s front gate. Glancing from her bedroom window, Dixie smoothed the linen skirt of her business suit. The loan of Emily’s iron had improved its appearance, and an electric blue silk blouse she’d found at Maude’s in the village completed her outfit. After a day of scrubbing in jeans, it felt great to be dressed up.

Downstairs, Emily and Sebastian faced each other like a pair of bristling porcupines. Dixie wondered if she’d need body armor to walk between them. Emily stood back and grunted some comment that could have been a wish for a pleasant evening. As the front door closed behind them, Dixie felt a warm hand on the small of her back, propelling her towards the car.

“That color really suits you,” Sebastian said. “It really looks wonderful. Not everyone can wear it, but you have just the right hair and skin.” His breath on her neck felt even warmer than his fingers. Dixie hoped he’d keep both hands on the steering wheel.

The Whytes lived in a converted barn six or seven miles towards Guildford. Forty-odd people filled the high-ceilinged living room—not exactly the “drinks with some of the locals” she’d expected.

“How do you do?” A beaming, red-faced man clasped her hand in his enormous paw. “Glad you came.”

In a whirl of introductions, Dixie heard and forgot a dozen names. With a gin and tonic plus extra ice—two cubes just wasn’t enough—in hand, she looked around the Whytes’ living room at the wrought iron chandeliers, the polished floor with hand-woven rugs, the stone chimney that rose two stories and what had to be an original Warhol soup can over the sofa. Insurance must pay well.

Glancing around the room, Dixie looked at all the people she didn’t know and felt terribly alone. Why in the name of heaven had she left Charleston, home and security? She longed for a familiar face. As if in answer to prayer, she glimpsed her neighbor, Emma, through the crowd. Sebastian was deep in conversation about some plan to widen a road. Dixie crossed the room to Emma.

Christopher smelled her, sweeter and fresher than any other mortal here, the minute she entered the house. He hadn’t expected her, and seeing her with Caughleigh puzzled him. Until now, he’d known what Caughleigh wanted. How did Dixie fit in? Was she pawn or partner? Christopher rattled the ice cubes in his glass and watched Dixie stroll across the room to Ian Gordon’s wife.

At least the beautiful American had sense to distance herself from Caughleigh. Did she know what he was? He stifled the urge to cross the room, grab her and warn her of the risks Sebastian Caughleigh spread around. He’d let a pretty face drag him into trouble once before. Never again. He’d learned something in four centuries. He didn’t need, want nor care for any mortal woman, no matter how warm her smile or sweet the murmur of blood under her creamy skin. She’d bring him nothing but trouble and he carried a miasma of disaster. The only person worse for her was Sebastian Caughleigh—or Chadwick.

Christopher leaned against the chimney breast, watched Emma pull Dixie into a group of young women and imagined the conversation about babysitters, window cleaners and the best place to get a manicure this side of Guildford.

“Admiring the rich American heiress?” Larry Whyte sipped from the inevitable Scotch as he smiled at Christopher. “Watch out! I think Sebastian Caughleigh has set his sights on her.”

“Really?” That thought alone made him want to join the fray. “What about professional detachment and ethics?”

“We’re talking about Sebastian Caughleigh.” Larry chuckled. Christopher wasn’t amused. “There’s something about Americans,” Larry went on. “They’ve got so much energy. All bounce and bubbles. She’d be a nice toss in the sack. I rather envy Sebastian, but don’t tell Janet.”

Christopher wanted to force Larry’s bulbous nose into his Scotch until he bubbled. He wanted to pin him against the chimney and bash his face into the rough-cut stone. He wanted to wipe the complacency off his shiny face. But that sort of behavior raised eyebrows in the stockbroker belt, so he drew in his breath and his fury. His fist closed. Tight. He felt cold and wet on his cuff and realized he’d snapped the stem of his glass.

“You run a cleaning business?” Dixie asked, catching a comment in the conversation.

Sally nodded. “Want an estimate?”

“As soon as you can.”

“How about Monday morning?”

Dixie couldn’t wait. Today had shown the ineffectiveness of one woman, one mop to clean the grime of years. Sally had a cleaning business. Dixie definitely needed it.

“Let’s try the goodies,” Emma suggested and Dixie followed her to the buffet. A plate of vegetables and a bowl of hummus caught Dixie’s eye. She dipped a square of pita bread into the creamy paste. Delicious! She took a second piece, reached into the bowl, and brushed another hand, a pale hand with long, manicured nails buffed to milky whiteness. She knew those fingers. Her hand froze but her eyes gazed up at a leather eye patch.

He smiled and her stomach slipped halfway to her knees. His eyes shone and her stomach went the rest of the way. Heart racing, she straightened, left the bread in the dish and held out her hand. “Hello, this is a surprise.”

“That’s a village for you. Always meeting the same people.”

“Is that a disadvantage?”

His full lips quivered at the corners. “Not this time.”

“This time you can enjoy the evening. You don’t have to rescue me from James.”

“Not from James,” he replied and glanced over at Sebastian, who was still talking road widening. “You came with Caughleigh?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You could always leave with me and set the village talking.”

“Better not add any more to the gossip mill. I never realized how fascinating Americans are until I came here.”

“There’s not been much to talk about since your aunts died.”

“Great-aunts.”

They’d wandered from the table to the fireplace. Dixie leaned back against the stone but Christopher grabbed her upper arm. “Careful,” he warned.

Dixie barely heard him, between goose bumps from the cool touch of his hand and shock at the pile of broken glass she’d almost impaled her elbow on. “What ratbrain left that there?”

“Guilty,” he replied. “I hoped to hide the destruction. It could get me blacklisted from the dinner party circuit.”

“I won’ tell.” She couldn’t help it. Eyes like his had to be smiled at. And his mouth—that didn’t bear thinking about. He was a man she’d met in a pub, for goodness sake. She knew nothing about him. She wasn’t going to fantasize about him. She’d be sensible. “Did you drop it?”

“What?”

“The glass you tried to conceal.”

“Just squeezed it too tight.”

That was crazy. Dixie took both his hands in hers and turned them over. “You didn’t even cut yourself and that glass broke in a dozen pieces.”

“I’m Superman,” he said, stepping closer and closing her hands inside his cool grasp.

Dixie looked up at smooth, pale skin and parted lips and a smile that sent her stomach south.

“There you are. I thought you’d disappeared on me.”

Dixie jumped at Sebastian’s voice and dropped Christopher’s hands. She heard a sharp hiss that wasn’t Sebastian’s.

“Three minutes longer, she would have,” Christopher said.