The Mistress of His Manor. CATHERINE GEORGE

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      When her phone rang the moment she got in Jo was surprised—and delighted—to find her caller was March. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’re home.’

      ‘Just this minute. Thank you again for supper.’

      ‘A small return for your company, Joanna. Now I know you’re safe and sound I’ll let you get that early night. Until Tuesday, then. Goodnight.’

      ‘Goodnight—wait.’ But he’d rung off. So he was still plain March.

      Jo thought long and hard about her hot gardener while she got ready for bed. He was obviously well educated, with the speech patterns and the air of bred-in-the-bone assurance common to the old Etonians she’d met in college. March had obviously been schooled if not at Eton, at some similar place of learning. But it was equally obvious that he was down on his luck these days. Jo frowned, wishing now that she’d insisted on paying her share of the meal. She might work for her father, but like all his employees she was well paid. So to avoid any hurt male pride on Tuesday she would treat March to some home cooking.

      Feeding hungry male visitors was nothing unusual. Leo and Josh Carey, the twins who were her oldest and closest male friends, were both trainee doctors, and they worked such punishing hours at the local hospital they were only too glad to collapse at Jo’s kitchen table during an hour or two off and devour, either separately or together, whatever food she put in front of them.

      ‘Nice evening?’ said her father, when Jo arrived at Logan Development next morning.

      ‘Very pleasant. How’s Kate today?’ she added anxiously.

      Jack heaved a sigh. ‘Tired. The baby’s not giving her much rest at night.’

      ‘You either, by the look of you,’ she said with concern. ‘How about some coffee?’

      He patted her hand. ‘What would I do without you?’

      ‘Make your own coffee?’

      He chuckled. ‘So, tell me about this gardener.’

      She gave him a Cheshire Cat smile. ‘He’s a charmer. I like him.’

      ‘Charm,’ said her father darkly, ‘is not the most important qualification on a man’s CV. Are you seeing him again?’

      ‘Yes. Tomorrow night.’

      His eyebrows rose. ‘Are you, indeed? Does your mother know?’

      ‘Not yet. I’ll ring Kate later. Don’t worry, I’m a big girl now, boss.’ Jo smiled at him as she handed him a steaming cup, then made for her own office. ‘Time to get my nose to the grindstone.’

      Jack Logan gazed after her as he drank the coffee, still, after all these years, amazed by his luck with the women in his life. He frowned, wishing he’d paid more attention to the gardener who’d taken so long to show Joanna the pansies. He’d never considered himself a violent man, but he knew from experience that he was ready to inflict grievous bodily harm on any man that caused his daughter the slightest grief. And soon there would be another little Logan in the mix. Jack shivered and picked up the phone, wishing that the love of his life was safely through the birth.

      ‘Kate? Are you feeling better now, my darling?’

      Although she knew she looked good in the mannish white shirt and black velvet jeans, Jo felt surprisingly nervous as she waited for her dinner guest to arrive. The table in the small dining room was laid with her best china, plus silverware borrowed for the occasion. The wine was breathing, the Beef Wellington was ready and would rest happily until March arrived—if he was punctual. She grinned suddenly. Josh and Leo would tease her unmercifully if they saw her fussing like this. She’d cooked countless meals for them, and for her family, without turning a hair. But this was different. She was so deep in thought she jumped yards when the doorbell rang. She threw her apron on a chair, took in a deep breath, and went to open the door.

      March stood smiling down at her. His tanned face looked even darker against a white shirt, and his suit was the casual, unstructured kind that could have been either charity shop or Armani. But it was nevertheless a suit.

      ‘Hi,’ she said, wishing she’d worn a dress.

      ‘Hi, yourself. What a delightful house, Joanna!’

      ‘Thank you. Come in.’ She led him into the parlour and waved him to the sofa. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

      He eyed the small room with such admiration Jo’s heart warmed to him. ‘I’d better have something soft if we’re driving any distance. I wasn’t sure what you had in mind, but I put a tie in my pocket in case it’s somewhere formal.’

      ‘It’s not,’ she informed him. ‘Having boasted about my cooking, I decided to let you judge it for yourself.’

      His eyes lit up with the familiar gleam. ‘We’re eating here?’

      She nodded. ‘So, how about a beer? Or would you like a glass of the red wine breathing in the kitchen?’

      ‘Perfect.’

      ‘Good. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll fetch it.’

      ‘I’ll come with you and fetch it myself.’

      ‘There’s not much room,’ she warned.

      March followed her down the hall to her kitchen, recently refitted with plain white cupboards and a Belfast sink. Due to a frantic tidying session before her guest arrived the only notes of colour came from a potted cyclamen, a bowl of fruit, and the heap of prepared vegetables waiting for the pot.

      ‘Small, but perfect. And something smells wonderful,’ he added, sniffing the air.

      Jo smiled, pleased, and handed him a glass of wine. ‘There are some nuts and so on in the parlour. If you go back in I’ll deal with the vegetables. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

      ‘I’d rather stay here and watch.’ He leaned against the counter, looming large in the small space.

      ‘As you like.’ Long accustomed to an audience as she cooked, Jo wasn’t flustered by the eyes watching her so closely. Not much. ‘Right,’ she said at last, putting the lid on the steamer. ‘Just twenty minutes or so for the vegetables and we’ll be there. No first course, I’m afraid. Will you take my glass of wine too, please?’ She set a timer and took it with her as they went back to the parlour.

      Her guest eyed her with respect as he handed her wine over. ‘If you carry out your job as efficiently as you cook, your father’s a lucky man.’

      Jo smiled. ‘You haven’t tasted the food yet,’ she warned.

      ‘If it tastes half as good as it smells I’ll be happy,’ he assured her, and raised his glass in toast. ‘This is such a pleasure, Joanna.’

      ‘Have you been stuck inside all day again today?’ she asked.

      ‘No. I went on an in-depth tour of the gardens and grounds at the Hall, listening with attention as the tyrant in charge outlined his plans for next year.’

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