Читать книгу One Reckless Night - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

DEFEATING an almost overwhelming impulse to break into a run, Zanna walked briskly, head held high, round the turn in the lane. Once she was sure she was safely out of sight she slowed down, making herself breathe deeply in an attempt to regain her faltering composure.

This was the second time in a couple of hours that she’d been made to feel disconcerted and on edge. And she didn’t like it, not one little bit.

Just what I needed, she thought with angry irony. A garage hand with attitude. The ideal end to a perfect day.

And she was determined it would be the end. She was already deeply regretting this sentimental detour. As soon as the car was fixed she would be off back to her city centre hotel and its mechanical civilities. At least she knew what to expect there.

However, the village, when reached, was certainly charming. The cottages which lined the road were stone built, many with thatched roofs and gardens bright with seasonal flowers. Aubretia tumbled in shades of purple and crimson over low front walls, and laburnum and lilac trees were already heavy with blossom.

The road itself led straight to the broad expanse of the village green. Apart from a railed-off cricket square in the middle, it was tenanted solely by a pair of tethered goats, who lifted their heads from their grazing to watch Zanna curiously.

She hesitated in turn, wondering what to do first and feeling ridiculously conspicuous.

On the face of it, there was no one else around. Emplesham seemed to be drowsing in the sunlight. But Zanna sensed, all the same, that from behind the discreetly curtained windows of the clustering cottages her arrival had been noted.

She decided, for reasons she could barely explain to herself, not to pinpoint Church House immediately. She’d behave like any other tourist who’d stumbled in off the beaten track. She was here, ostensibly, to look at an art exhibition, and that was what she would do.

The green was bordered on three sides, she saw, by more houses, a shop-cum-post office, a pub—whose sign announced it as the Black Bull and offered real ale, meals and accommodation—and the church, rising like a stately and benign presence behind its tall yew hedge. Apart from a narrow track beside the churchyard, which presumably led to the farm mentioned by her persecutor, there was no other visible egress.

The village hall stood on the opposite side of the green to the church, a wooden board fixed to its railings advertising the exhibition.

Zanna found herself in a small vestibule, where a woman in a flowered dress, seated behind a table, paused in her knitting to sell her an exhibition catalogue for fifty pence.

‘You’re just in time.’ Her smile was friendly. ‘The show ends today and we’ll soon be clearing the hall for tonight’s dance.’

‘Dance?’ Zanna’s brows lifted. Far from being asleep, Emplesham seemed to be the Las Vegas of the neigh bourhood, she thought caustically.

‘Oh, yes,’ the woman said cheerfully. ‘It’s become an annual event. We combine the art club’s exhibition with the church’s spring flower festival and make it a real celebration.’ She nodded towards the double doors leading into the hall. ‘I hope you enjoy the show—although there isn’t a great deal left for sale, I’m afraid.’

‘It really doesn’t matter,’ Zanna assured her politely. ‘I’ll just enjoy looking round,’ she added, not altogether truthfully.

Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the riot of colour and vibrancy which assaulted her senses inside the hall. Every possible hanging space was filled, and by work which was a thousand miles from the pallid water colours and stolidly amateurish still-lifes she’d been expecting.

Landscapes in storm and sunlight seemed to leap off their canvases at her as she trod cautiously round. She could almost imagine she could smell the scent of the grass and trees, feel on her face the wind that drove the heavy clouds.

There was a life section too, depicted robustly and without sentimentality, and, of course, the paintings of fruit and flowers which she’d been anticipating. But even here she was surprised, realising that she could almost taste the sharpness of the green apples arranged on that copper dish, that if she reached out a hand she might draw blood on the thorns of the full-blown roses spilling out of that jug. She would, she realised, have bought either of them—only they were already sold.

How in the world, she asked herself bewilderedly, could people in this small country district have learned to paint with such passionate exuberance? She found herself, absurdly, wanting to cheer.

One canvas stood alone on an easel towards the rear of the hall, as if deliberately set apart from the rest.

As she approached it the breath caught in Zanna’s throat. She thought, I don’t believe this—I don’t...

But she knew she wasn’t mistaken. The long, low house, hung with wisteria, bathed in sunlight, looked serenely back at her, just as it did in her precious photographs. Only the child playing in the garden was missing.

But her imagination could supply that, Zanna thought, exultantly noting that there was no red dot to say the painting was sold. In spite of everything, she’d been meant to come here. It was going to be a perfect day after all.

‘Do you need any help?’ The woman in the flowered dress had come up behind her.

‘I was looking at this.’ Zanna tried to sound casual. ‘I can’t find it in the catalogue, but I suppose it’s a local scene?’

The woman laughed. ‘Very much so. It’s the house across the green, next to the church. And it hasn’t been listed because it’s only on loan, I’m afraid.’

‘On loan.’ Zanna felt sick with disappointment.

The woman nodded. ‘It belongs to Mr Gordon, who actually owns Church House.’

‘I see.’ Zanna heard the despondency in her own voice and rallied, biting her lip.

What’s the matter with you? You bought Zolto Electronics this morning, she scolded herself. Why be so easily put off over an oil painting? Everything’s ultimately for sale, if the price is right.

Her mouth stretched in a smile Henry Walton might have recognized. ‘Well, perhaps he might consider a private offer.’

‘I hardly think so.’ The woman gave her an astonished look.

‘All the same, I’ll call round and ask,’ Zanna said with a shrug. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

‘But Mr Gordon isn’t here.’ A swift frown drew the woman’s brows together. ‘He spends most of the year abroad.’ She spread her hands in a gesture that was half-helpless, half-affronted. ‘You’d really be wasting your time in pursuing this.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Zanna said quickly as the woman turned away. ‘It’s just such a beautiful house. Has this Mr Gordon had it long? Do you know anything about the previous owners?’

There was a brief silence, then, ‘I believe the house passed through a number of hands before the present purchase was completed.’ the woman returned frostily. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance.’ And she walked away.

Visitors to Emplesham were apparently tolerated but not encouraged to push their luck by asking too many questions, Zanna thought ruefully as she followed the stiff figure out of the hall.

With a brief word of thanks, curtly acknowledged, she went out into the sunshine.

Occupied or not, Church House drew her across the green like a magnet. And this time she didn’t care who might be watching.

The gate opened noiselessly under her hand. A mossy path led between smoothly trimmed lawns to the front door. Apart from pigeons cooing in the neighbouring churchyard, and the hum of a bee roving in the flowering tub beside the door, everything was still.

It was as if the house were waiting for her, she thought, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. As if all she had to do was lift the heavy wrought-iron knocker and the door would open and she would be drawn inside.

But to find what? She didn’t even know, she acknowledged with a sigh.

Besides, all that really lay behind the half-closed curtains was someone else’s home. And a very elegant home too, from what she could glimpse, with expensive chintz, oak beams and the gleam of well-polished furniture not from this century.

He might be an absentee, but Mr Gordon was a careful owner, she thought. The house and garden were both being maintained in pristine condition, which gave their emptiness almost an air of pathos. Or was that simply what she wanted to think?

Sharply aware that she had no right to be prying in this way, but unable to resist the temptation, Zanna followed the path round to the rear of the house.

The kitchen window was rather more revealing. She could see a massive Welsh dresser, laden with blue and white china, an Aga, with a row of copper pans suspended above it, and a big farmhouse table with a bowl of fruit at its centre.

Also, she realised in shock, a used mug and plate, together with assorted crockery, and, pushed to one side, an upturned loaf on a chopping board, a butter dish and a pot of honey, as if someone had eaten a hasty breakfast and left without clearing away the traces.

Yet the house was supposed to be empty. Surely not squatters, she thought, dismayed, and then yelped in fright as a hand descended on her shoulder.

‘Having a good look round?’ enquired an all too familiar drawl.

Zanna swallowed hard before turning. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I told you I’d find you.’ He gave her that hooded look. ‘Although you do turn up in some surprising places. Are you just a snoop, or do you housebreak on the side?’

Zanna was furious to find she was blushing to the roots of her hair.

‘Please don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, dragging the remnants of her dignity around her. ‘The house seemed—empty. I thought it might be for sale.’

‘And you plan to make an offer they can’t refuse?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re going to be unlucky. I can promise you it’s not on the market.’

‘I’d prefer to discuss this with the owner.’ Zanna lifted her chin.

‘Who’s in America.’

‘Well, someone’s living there.’

He slanted a glance towards the window and the betraying clutter inside. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s a resident caretaker.’

‘Good. Then he’ll be able to give me Mr Gordon’s address.’ She put a snap of emphasis on the name.

‘You have been busy.’ The dark eyes looked her thoughtfully up and down. ‘But you’ve got a fair wait ahead of you. He has a day job.’

‘Oh.’ Zanna bit her lip.

He was still watching her. ‘However, if you really want to meet him, he’ll be at the dance tonight.’

‘The dance?’ she repeated with amused incredulity. ‘I don’t intend to hang around that long.’

‘You may have to,’ he said laconically. ‘You seem to have picked up some dirt in your petrol. I need to strip down the carburettor.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ Zanna muttered. ‘How long is that going to take?’

There was a pause, then, ‘It’ll be ready in the morning.’

‘Oh.’ Zanna made no attempt to hide her dismay. She wanted to abandon this ridiculous trip down Memory Lane and get back to civilisation. ‘You couldn’t possibly finish it tonight?’ she urged.

‘I’m sorry.’ His tone held no regret at all that she could hear. ‘You see, I’m going to the dance.’

‘But of course.’ She glared at him. ‘Please, don’t allow my convenience to stand in the way of your social engagements.’

‘Don’t worry, I shan’t.’ He actually had the nerve to grin at her. ‘I suggest you book a room at the Black Bull. Tell Trudy that I sent you.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice froze. ‘I’m sure I can manage without your assistance.’

‘Fine.’ He turned to leave. ‘Just don’t offer to buy the place,’ he tossed back at her over his shoulder. ‘It’s been in the family for generations.’

Zanna, standing rigidly, waiting for the click of the gate to confirm his departure, realised with shock that her hands had clenched tautly into fists.

What the hell was the matter with her? She could handle a boardroom full of angry men, so how was it this—this peasant could get under her skin so easily?

Because I allowed it, she admitted with angry bewilderment. It’s almost as if I’ve been bewitched since I got here. First the car—now me.

She snorted with self-derision and began to walk slowly back to the front of the house.

She had come to Emplesham to see her mother’s old home, and all she’d achieved was an odd feeling of dissatisfaction, bordering almost on desolation.

Yet what had she really expected? To step back in some time-warp and find Susan Westcott waiting for her? Surely she wasn’t such a fool.

Maybe the lesson she’d come here to learn was that she’d gain nothing by raking over the past. Perhaps that was why her father had stripped himself of all reminders of his brief marriage.

Just as soon as the car’s fixed I’m out of here, she promised herself grimly. And without a backward glance either.

Trudy Sharman was a large, smiling woman, with greying blonde hair pinned into an untidy knot on top of her head.

‘A room for the night’s no problem. The tourist season hasn’t started properly yet.’ She nibbled the end of her pen. ‘But I can only offer you a restricted menu for dinner. You see...’

‘Everyone’s going to the dance,’ Zanna supplied resignedly.

Mrs Sharman laughed. ‘Well, yes. My husband’s doing the bar and I’m catering. We won’t be getting much trade here, so we’ve given most of the staff the night off.’ She sent Zanna a faintly anxious glance. ‘I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to.’

‘It’ll be fine.’ Zanna made herself smile reassuringly. ‘I’ll have some sandwiches in my room and an early night.’

‘Oh, we can do better than that.’ Mrs Sharman looked scandalised. ‘I said “restricted” not “non-existent”. There’s beef and mushroom casserole, lamb cutlets, or I can recommend the fish pie. And you’ll be coming to the dance, surely?’

Zanna shook her head. ‘I—I don’t dance. And, anyway, I’m hardly dressed for a social occasion. But the fish pie would be lovely,’ she added brightly.

‘Shall we say seven o’clock, then?’ Mrs Sharman selected a key from the row of hooks behind her desk. ‘Just in case you change your mind about the dance,’ she added vaguely.

Zanna bit back a sharp retort and followed her upstairs in silence. She had to admit, however, that her room was charming, with the blue and white sprigged pattern on the wallpaper repeated in the curtains and frilled bedcover. The bathroom was only tiny, but well equipped. A small wicker basket on a table beside the bath offered a tempting range of soaps, scented bath oils and shampoos, and there was a courtesy robe in dark blue towelling hanging behind the door.

Zanna found it all totally irresistible. As soon as she was alone she filled the deep tub with steaming water, added jasmine oil, pulled off her clothes and sank gratefully into the luxurious perfumed depths, feeling the tensions ease out of her.

When she’d finished soaking, she used the hand-spray to shampoo her hair, then, wrapped in the towelling robe, rinsed out her scraps of silky underwear and hung them on the heated rail to dry.

Then she stretched out on the bed and reached for the telephone. First she rang the Grand Vista hotel, directing them to hold her room for two more nights, then called her own answering machine to see if there were any messages.

Her father’s voice, irritable and slightly hectoring, was on the line. ‘Zanna? Where are you? What the devil are you playing at? Call me back at once—d’you hear, my girl?’

To hear was normally to obey, Zanna realised as she replaced the receiver. But not this evening. Maybe not even tomorrow. Just for once she was off the hook, and she intended to enjoy the sensation for as long as possible.

There was a selection of books on the night-table, including—joy of joys—a Dick Francis she hadn’t read.

That’s my company for the evening sorted out, she thought with satisfaction, instantly closing her mind against the sudden intrusive image of a dark, mocking face and a pair of hooded eyes.

What on earth is the matter with me? she asked herself, in profound irritation. And couldn’t find an answer that gave her any satisfaction at all.

By the time her dinner was served her hair was dry, and so was her underwear. She redressed herself reluctantly, longing for a change of clothes, then brushed her hair severely off her face, confining it with a ribbon in its usual style before descending to the bar.

To her surprise she found it quite crowded, with cheerful, chattering people clearly there for pre-dance drinks. But a swift, wary glance told her that her bête noire was not among them.

When it was her turn to be served, she ordered a dry sherry.

‘Trudy’s laid your table in the snug,’ the barmaid told her, carefully handing her a brimming schooner. ‘She thought it would be a bit quieter in there.’

Zanna carried her drink through the doorway indicated. It was a small room, cosy, with high-backed settles and polished oak tables. A small fire of sweet-smelling apple logs had been kindled in the hearth, dispelling the faint chill of the evening.

Only one table was laid for a meal, but two places had been set, with a bowl of freesias and a single candle burning in a stylish glass holder. There was, moreover, a bottle of Chablis waiting in a cooler.

Zanna, viewing these preparations in total bewilderment, heard the door squeak open behind her—presumably to admit Mrs Sharman with her meal.

‘There’s been some mistake,’ she began. ‘I didn’t order any wine...’

‘It’s a peace-offering.’

The voice she knew at once. Only too well. But as she swung round to face him, her expression freezing into annoyance, a surprised gasp escaped her parted lips rather than the haughty dismissal she’d been framing.

Clean-shaven, with that dark mane of hair neatly combed, he looked almost prepossessing. His clothes— the well-fitting dark trousers, the pale grey jacket that might almost be cashmere, the classic white shirt and the silk tie in sombre jewel colours—all bore the hallmarks of Italian designer wear. And the aroma of engine oil had been exchanged for the discreet scent of a very up-market cologne.

In fact, more than prepossessing, she realised with shock, as a strange awareness shivered along her nerve-endings. He was dangerously attractive.

That faintly mocking grin hadn’t changed, however. And Zanna had noticed before what beautiful teeth he had.

‘Lost for words?’ he enquired lightly. ‘That must be a novelty.’

‘Well, yes.’ Zanna drew a breath. ‘I—I hardly recognized you,’ she added lamely.

‘Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, his face suddenly serious. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘I’d like to make amends.’

She felt her heart thump painfully, as if in warning. ‘That’s really not necessary.’

‘You’re condemning me to eat alone in the opposite corner?’ There was a smile behind the plaintive words. ‘I was thinking of Trudy as well, you see,’ he went on beguilingly. ‘How much easier it would be for her if we shared a table.’

Somehow he made it sound all so reasonable—so impossible to refuse.

Without quite knowing how, Zanna found herself facing him across the freesias. And, as if at some unseen signal, Mrs Sharman bustled in with the first course.

Their meal began with watercress soup, served with a swirl of cream. Zanna had thought she would have no appetite, but she finished every drop.

‘Good?’ her companion queried, with a smile across the flickering candle-flame.

‘Better than that.’ Zanna put down her spoon with a sigh. ‘I was expecting just fish pie.’

‘Not from Trudy’s kitchen. Even though it’s officially closed tonight she has her pride, and you’re a resident so must therefore be cherished.’

‘And what’s your excuse?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m a lonely bachelor who has to forage for himself, so she takes pity on me once in a while.’

If he was lonely, Zanna thought wryly, then it had to be through his own choice. Or perhaps he was simply too busy trying to maintain a small business to organise a private life as well.

That was something she could understand. She’d acted as hostess for her father times without number, but she couldn’t remember, she thought with bewilderment, the last time she had dined à deux with a man.

Few, if any, of the men who’d sought her company had passed muster after Sir Gerald’s rigorous vetting.

‘You’re my daughter, Zanna,’ her father had constantly reminded her. ‘My heiress. How can you ever be sure if it’s you they want or my money?’

It was a lesson which had gone home, however much it might have hurt.

But this time there was no real risk involved, she assured herself. Because the man facing her across the table had no idea who or what she was. And she firmly intended to keep it that way.

As if picking up some unspoken cue, he said, ‘We’ve never actually introduced ourselves, have we?’

‘No.’ Zanna’s mind worked quickly. ‘I’m Susan,’ she announced. ‘Susan—er—Smith.’

‘Really?’ The firm mouth quirked slightly. ‘How unusual. And I’m Jake.’ He paused. ‘Jake—er—Brown,’ he added, with sardonic emphasis.

Zanna felt her cheeks pinken, but she made herself meet his glance with apparent unconcern. After all, what did it matter? she comforted herself. They were ships passing in the night. Nothing more. And she had no more wish to know his real identity than to reveal her own.

The arrival of the next course relieved the awkwardness of the moment. The fish pie more than lived up to its recommendation. Under jts creamy mashed potato and cheese topping, cod, smoked haddock and prawns jostled for precedence in a delicious creamy sauce, and then, to finish with, there was a sumptuously rich chocolate mousse with a wicked undercurrent of brandy.

Jake led the conversation throughout the meal, but he kept to general topics, touching lightly on places of interest in the locality and leading on to the success of the exhibition. Nothing on a personal level, she noted with relief.

Finally Trudy brought excellent coffee and a smooth Armagnac.

Who could ask for anything more? Zanna wondered as she leaned against the high back of the wooden settle, cradling the goblet in her hand and contemplating the flames leaping around the sweet apple logs.

‘Don’t get too comfortable.’ His smile reached her across the candle-flame, sending a faint, troublous shiver down her spine. ‘I’m claiming the first waltz.’

She sat up with a startled jerk. ‘But I’m not going to the dance.’

‘Why not? There’s nothing else to do tonight.’

‘I don’t dance.’

‘I’ll teach you.’

‘And I’m not dressed for it,’ she added swiftly.

‘You could be—with a few adjustments.’ He rose and came round the table to her side.

Stunned, Zanna felt him release the ribbon holding her hair.

‘Now that is so much better,’ he said softly as the blonde strands fell forward to curve round her face.

He reached down, almost in the same movement, and undid the top button of her blouse.

Her hand lifted swiftly to check him as the blood stormed into her face. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Only this.’ With total insouciance he tied the ribbon round her exposed throat in a neat bow, then lifted her to her feet, making her face the mirror over the fireplace. ‘So, Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.’

Unwillingly, Zanna looked at herself. Her cheeks were still flushed and her eyes looked twice their normal size. Against her throat, the dark band of ribbon was a perfect foil for her creamy skin, while the neckline of her blouse revealed a tantalising glimpse of cleavage.

I look different, she thought with bewilderment. I don’t know myself.

In the mirror’s reflection, their eyes met.

He said softly, ‘Tell me, Miss Smith, does anyone ever call you Susie?’

She shook her head, the loosened hair swinging against her cheek. ‘Never.’ The word seemed squeezed from her taut throat.

‘Then tonight they will.’ His gaze held hers, steadily, almost mesmerically. Somehow she could not break the spell and look away, much as she wanted to. Much as she needed to. ‘Dance with me, Susie—please?’

She searched wildly for the crushing retort, the ultimate put-down that would salvage this ridiculous—this impossible situation. And instead heard herself say, against reason, against wisdom, even against sanity, ‘Yes.’