Weddings Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

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      ‘Michael Armstrong, Private Investigator.’ She pulled in her lips as she tried not to smile. Pumping Aunt Lucy for information wouldn’t have been difficult. His big problem would have been getting her to stop so that he could get away and use it. She cleared her throat. ‘I really do have to go…shopping… Are you going back to the cottages?’

      ‘I have to. The shelves. You?’

      She nodded. ‘See you later, then. Do you want me to bring food?’

      ‘No. I’ll cook.’ He led the way down the stairs. ‘Or we could go out. We haven’t had a date since…’ his eyes darkened ‘…since I gave you that table.’

      She flushed. ‘It’s okay. You can cook,’ she said, rather more crisply than she was feeling. She was feeling that another moment under those grey eyes and she’d melt.

      He was smiling slightly as he opened the door for her, as if he knew it. He probably did. ‘You’re sure you don’t need any help with the hooks and eyes?’

      ‘I’m a big girl, Mike,’ she said, stepping through into the courtyard, glad of the shade to cool her down. ‘I’ve been dressing myself since I was four years old.’

      ‘So? You learn to do it yourself and you get this terrific sense of accomplishment, which is just great. Then you learn that it’s fun to let someone help. Which is a whole lot better.’

      ‘Just as long as it’s not Jake?’

      ‘You’ve got it.’ He stepped out after her. ‘Come on, I’ll take you over to meet Sarah. She makes exciting clothes. I wanted to bring you here…’ He let that go. ‘I’ll bet she’d even be able to find you a suede purple miniskirt if you’re still feeling reckless.’

      ‘But no black leather,’ she said, refusing to admit how she was feeling at that moment. The sudden charge of desire was making all that sensible, let’s-get-this-right determination dissolve, melt away under the jump-start flash of his hot grey eyes.

      ‘Purple leather would be okay.’ He grinned. ‘With matching knee-high boots.’

      Willow thought that if Sarah had anything remotely resembling that particular combination in her boutique, she might just toss her good intentions to the four winds and let herself be recklessly, irredeemably tempted.

      Amaryllis stopped them as they passed the door of her tiny emporium, and handed Willow a small carrier. ‘They’re candles. You’ll need them tonight.’

      ‘Will we? How do you know?’

      ‘Trust me. I’m an aromatherapist.’

      Willow glanced uncertainly at Mike. ‘That’s what she says. Actually, she’s a witch,’ he said, almost believing it. There was something about Amy that always made Mike vaguely uneasy. He had the feeling that she knew it and that it amused her. ‘But she’s right. You can trust her. She knows everything.’

      He took the bag, opened it. There were a dozen or so candles made to float in a dish, or a pond. Willow peered over his shoulder and sniffed appreciatively.

      ‘What is that?’

      ‘Palmarosa,’ Amy told her. ‘To alleviate emotional disharmony. And Rose otto, to soothe negative feelings.’

      ‘If the electricity goes out we’ll need all of that,’ Mike said. ‘Any suggestions regarding food?’ he asked drily. He glanced at Willow. ‘Or we could still eat out?’

      ‘Smoked salmon,’ Amy suggested. ‘Avocado. Peaches.’ She never took her eyes off Willow and, after a slight pause, she smiled and added, ‘Dark chocolate.’

      Willow sighed with pleasure. ‘I’m not arguing with that.’

      Maybe it was the scent of the candles, or Willow’s eager anticipation of her favourite foods, picked with unerring accuracy by his unsettling tenant, but Mike found himself smiling, too. ‘If we have a power cut tonight, Amy, I’ll look out for you flying home on your broomstick.’

      ‘Actually, Mike, I usually take the bus.’ Her brows twitched mischievously in Willow’s direction, then she bent to pick up a small black cat that appeared at her feet.

      Mike left Willow with Sarah and, after a visit to the nearest supermarket, he headed back to the cottages. His slightly euphoric mood was dashed by the discovery that Jacob Hallam had returned from London and was now upstairs with Emily, keeping his promise to help with the decorating.

      ‘Hello, Mike. Willow not with you?’ he asked casually, as he paused to recharge his roller. Casual wasn’t fooling Mike. The man had one reason and one reason only for giving up his time this way.

      ‘She’s shopping. I didn’t expect you today. Aunt Lucy said you were up in town.’

      ‘I was. Turn your back for a minute and someone starts a takeover rumour.’ Mike stared at him. He was that Jake Hallam? Software magnate at twenty-five… ‘But, hey, what’s a rumour when kids need a place like this.’

      ‘You didn’t have to rush back, we’d have managed.’

      ‘Really? You don’t appear to have been doing that well according to the Evening Post.’

      ‘Oh, great. What are they saying? No. Don’t tell me—’

      ‘I thought I’d better fill him in on the details,’ Emily said, adding pointedly, ‘that you and Willow have holed up here while you sort things out.’

      ‘Are you sorting things out?’

      ‘We’re getting there. Which is why I know you’ll understand why I’d be grateful if both of you were somewhere else when the sun goes down.’

      Jake lifted the roller from the tray, but paused before applying it to the wall. ‘You’ve got it. In fact if you get it right I’ll stand as godfather to your first-born.’

      There was an element of challenge in that statement that Mike couldn’t let pass. ‘And if I get it wrong?’

      He grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll ask you to return the favour.’ Mike didn’t think, he reacted, slamming Jake back against the wall. ‘Hey, mind the paint—’

      ‘You mind your own damned paint. And I’ll mind Willow.’

      Pinned against the wall, Jake just grinned. ‘Good reflexes. It’s a pity your brain isn’t working at the same speed.’

      ‘What?’ The red haze cleared and Mike took in with horror the way his hands were bunched around the man’s shirt front. The mess he’d made of the newly painted wall.

      ‘I was just kidding, Mike. Anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m not the settling-down type.’

      He released the man. ‘Emily…Jake…I’m so sorry.’

      But Emily was grinning, too. He couldn’t understand why they found it so funny. ‘Don’t be. I love it when a man isn’t afraid to show exactly how he feels about a woman.’

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