Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

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СКАЧАТЬ LePage prayed for patience. A train strike! Just her luck! And all because she’d listened to her travel agent, who insisted the train was the best way to travel in England. “Fast, easy, and none of the problems of driving on the wrong side of the road.” She’d tossed over a paying job and flown across the Atlantic on the strength of two letters and a phone call only to find herself stranded. She’d come out of curiosity, the promise of a sudden inheritance, and the prospect of being on a different continent from the man who’d made a fool of her, and was now stuck.

      Dixie’s plan B: to hire a car and drive the thirty or so miles, might have worked. But half the population of Southern England beat her to it. Her attempts to call Mr. Caughleigh, the lawyer, didn’t go too well either. She lacked the necessary small change or a phone card. Resisting the temptation to smash the receiver into the wall, she muttered heavenward.

      “Having trouble?” a smooth, very proper British voice asked.

      Dixie turned and stared at the bluest eyes she’d seen since her ex-fiancé. “It’s these stupid phones. There are no proper instructions!” This was unfair, she knew. Directions came in half-a-dozen languages.

      “Oh!” Blue Eyes laughed. “American, are you?” What was so amusing about that? “Use your credit card. You do have one, don’t you?” His long arm reached too close beside her and a manicured finger pointed at familiar logos. If she hadn’t been so wound up, she’d have noticed them herself.

      Mr. Caughleigh, or “Corly” as the secretary said it, wasn’t in. “He’ll be in about nine-thirty. I’ll tell him you called, Miss LePage.” So much for thinking he could help her.

      “Need a ride?”

      Blue eyes had lurked while she called. “No, thank you.”

      “I’m driving into Surrey, perhaps I could drop you somewhere?”

      She remembered Gran’s warnings about white slavers hovering around train stations. Airports made a good modern equivalent. “Thank you, I’m fine.” She made to walk away.

      “Don’t trust me?” The idea seemed to amuse him.

      “No.” She’d never again trust a Norse god with moussed hair, a plastic smile and shallow blue eyes. She’d learned that much.

      The smiling clerk at Travelers’ Aid suggested she take a coach to a place with the improbable name of “Leatherhead,” a short distance, he claimed, from Bringham. Dixie’s image of something out of a Regency romance didn’t last long. The coach proved to be nothing more exotic than a long distance bus. The so-called “express” bus made a dozen stops in a couple of hours. Dixie vowed to walk next time. Shoot, there wouldn’t be a next time. She should have taken the lawyer’s advice and let him sell the house and send her the proceeds. She settled back in the surprisingly comfortable seat and shut her eyes. Time to catch up on lost sleep.

      “I’m sorry but I think you’re in my seat.” Dixie blinked. The reincarnation of Miss Marple half-smiled at her.

      Dixie’s neighbor settled with a flurry of packages and a gracious smile and chatted for the next hour. Or rather nattered on while Dixie listened to details of Miss Marple’s married son, his wife’s taste in kitchen decor and her grandsons’ success in football. Dixie knew enough to know she meant soccer, however she did learn that Leatherhead was one word.

      “Here’s your stop, the same as mine,” her neighbor announced and Dixie found herself and her suitcases on the sidewalk.

      “Someone picking you up?” her companion asked.

      “I thought I could get a taxi.” Truth was, she hadn’t thought beyond the bus ride and had no idea how far she still had to go. “I’m going to Bringham.”

      “Bring’em,” she said and Dixie made a mental note to remember to swallow the ‘h’ like everyone else. She held out a wrinkled but surprisingly strong hand. “I’m Ida Collins. My son will give you a lift. He lives near Bringham. Stanley,” she said to the man who’d appeared on the sidewalk with a young boy. “This young lady needs a ride to Bringham. No sense in her wasting money on a taxi.”

      Stanley took this in his stride. Maybe his mother foisted strangers on him all the time. “If it’s not too much trouble….” Dixie began. She figured she’d be safe. Rogues and abductors wouldn’t have a small boy trailing behind them.

      Stanley grinned. “Nah. We live in East Horsley, it’s on the way.”

      “I’ve got luggage.”

      “We’ve plenty of space. I brought the Rolls. Mum likes it.”

      Stanley, with his blue jeans and zippered windbreaker didn’t quite fit the Rolls-Royce image, but the coach hadn’t matched her imagination either. “Thanks, I’m really grateful. My name’s Dixie LePage.” She held out her hand.

      He took it. “How do you do? Stanley Collins. You’ve met my mum, Ida, and here’s Joey.”

      Dixie smiled at a small boy, complete with freckles, Dallas Cowboys’ sweatshirt, and a Chicago Bulls’ cap. “Hello,” he said through a wad of chewing gum.

      Settled on the butter-soft leather upholstery, Dixie appreciated why Ida liked the Rolls. “Beautiful car,” Dixie said, eying the rosewood dashboard and the soft carpet.

      She’d said the right thing. Stanley beamed. “Best one we have. We keep it for weddings mostly—and picking up Mum,” he added with a chuckle.

      Dixie’s jet-lagged mind clicked. “You rent it out?”

      “Right you are! Collins Car Hire. That’s me. If you ever need a car…”

      “I do. Like now. You have regular cars?” She leaned over the high seat back, wide awake at the prospect of transportation.

      Stanley grinned. “What’s a regular car? I’ve a nice little Metro on the lot and a Fiesta due back in Saturday.”

      “I’ll take whatever you have today.” Dixie would have handed over her plastic money there and then.

      Stanley chuckled. “You Americans make up your minds quickly.”

      “I made up my mind hours ago. The airport rental companies couldn’t deliver.”

      Stanley grinned. “Cheers then! Let me drop Mum and I’ll take you down to the shop.”

      The Metro turned out to be a small, red car—stick shift, but Dixie could handle that.

      Stanley called Joey over to look at her license. South Carolina driver’s licenses were an obvious novelty here. For her address, she gave the one Mr. Caughleigh had written, Orchard House, Bringham. “That’s all I have. No street or number I’m afraid.”

      Stanley’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair. “You’re living at Orchard House? You bought it or renting or something?”

      “I’ve inherited it. It was my great-aunts’.”

      “Sheesh!” Stanley muttered between tight lips, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “You’re an Underwood?” He made Underwoods sound like roaches.

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