Summer Of Love. Marion Lennox

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       CHAPTER THREE

      JO HAD A truly excellent bath. It was a bath she might well remember for the rest of her life.

      Finn had taken her to the section of the castle where Mrs O’Reilly had allocated him a bedroom. He’d opened five doors, looking for another.

      At the far end of the corridor, as far from Finn’s as she could be, and also as far from the awesome bedroom they’d found by mistake—it had to have been her grandfather’s—they’d found a small box room containing a single bed. It was the only other room with a bed made up, and it was obvious that was the room Mrs O’Reilly wanted her to use.

      ‘We’ll make up another,’ Finn had growled in disgust—all the other rooms were better—but the bed looked good to Jo. Any bed would look good to Jo and when they’d found the bathroom next door and she’d seen the truly enormous bathtub she’d thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

      So now she lay back, up to her neck in heat and steam. Her feet hurt when she got in, that was how cold they were, but the pain only lasted for moments and what was left was bliss.

      She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing at all.

      She thought of Finn.

      What manner of man was he? He was...what...her third cousin? Something removed? How did such things work? She didn’t have a clue.

      But they were related. He was...family? He’d defended her like family and such a thing had never happened to her.

      He felt like...home.

      And that was a stupid thing to think. How many times had she been sucked in by such sweetness?

      ‘You’re so welcome. Come in, sweetheart, let’s help you unpack. You’re safe here for as long as you need to stay.’

      But it was never true. There was always a reason she had to move on.

      She had to move on from here. This was a flying visit only.

      To collect her inheritance? This castle must be worth a fortune and it seemed her grandfather had left her half.

      She had no idea how much castles were worth on the open market but surely she’d come out of it with enough to buy herself an apartment.

      Or a Harley. That was a thought. She could buy a Harley and stay on the road for ever.

      Maybe she’d do both. She could buy a tiny apartment, a place where she could crash from time to time when the roads got unfriendly. It didn’t need to be big. It wasn’t as if she had a lot of stuff.

      Stuff. She opened her eyes and looked around her at the absurd, over-the-top bathroom. There was a chandelier hanging from the beams.

      A portrait of Queen Victoria hung over the cistern, draped in a potted aspidistra.

      Finn had hauled open the door and blanched. ‘Mother of... You sure you want to use this?’

      She’d giggled. After this whole appalling day, she’d giggled.

      In truth, Finn Conaill was enough to make any woman smile.

      ‘And that’s enough of that,’ she said out loud and splashed her face and then decided, dammit, splashing wasn’t enough, she’d totally submerge. She did.

      She came up still thinking of Finn.

      He’d be waiting. ‘Come and find me when you’re dry and warm,’ he’d said. ‘There’s dinner waiting for you somewhere. I may have to hunt to find it but I’ll track it down.’

      He would too, she thought. He seemed like a man who kept his promises.

      Nice.

      And Finn Conaill looked sexy enough to make a girl’s toes curl. And when he smiled...

      ‘Do Not Think About Him Like That!’ She said it out loud, enunciating each word. ‘You’ve been dumb enough for one day. Get tonight over with, get these documents signed and get out of here. Go buy your Harley.’

      Harleys should be front and foremost in her mind. She’d never thought she’d have enough money to buy one and maybe now she would.

      ‘So think about Harleys, not Finn Conaill,’ she told herself as she reluctantly pulled the plug and let the hot water disappear. ‘No daydreaming. You’re dry and warm. Now, find yourself some dinner and go to bed. And keep your wits about you.’

      But he’s to be trusted, a little voice said.

      But the old voice, the voice she knew, the only voice she truly trusted, told her she was being daft. Don’t trust anyone. Haven’t you learnt anything by now?

      * * *

      He heard her coming downstairs. Her tread was light but a couple of the ancient boards squeaked and he was listening for her.

      He strode out to meet her and stopped and blinked.

      She was wearing jeans and an oversized crimson sweater. She’d lost the make-up. Her face was a smatter of freckles and СКАЧАТЬ