Wicked Caprice. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ virtual strangers into their home. Besides, his—what? Chauffeur? Bodyguard?—was bound to get impatient. They could keep one another company. It wasn’t her fault he had changed the arrangements.

      But the black dress would have to do, she conceded, with a sigh. She had no intention of changing again and giving him the impression she was fussy about what she wore. Some eyeshadow, a little mascara and a caramel-coloured lipstick achieved the effect she was seeking, and she finally picked up her hairbrush to try and subdue the sun-streaked tangle of her hair.

      Chris had said not to put it in the braid, but she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to give her young assistant credit for anything. In the event, she secured it at her nape with a velvet scrunch band, aware that curling tendrils would soon escape the constriction and cluster about her temples and her neck.

      It was daunting to emerge from the cottage and lock her door with Patrick Riker’s eyes upon her. And his companion’s eyes, she appended tersely. She wasn’t used to being watched, and she didn’t like it. She was glad she had wrapped a black and white Paisley scarf about her shoulders. Although it was a warm evening, it didn’t make her feel so exposed.

      However, when she approached the car, she discovered that Patrick was alone. He emerged from behind the wheel to open the front passenger door for her, and she realised that for all her caution they were still to spend some time alone.

      ‘Where’s your—er—?’

      She faltered over the designation, and Patrick helped her out. ‘Joe?’ he asked. ‘His name’s Joe Muzambe. And I’ve given him the evening off.’ He closed her door and walked around to fold his length in beside her. He looked her way. ‘Is it a problem?’

      Put like that, it would have sounded rather churlish to object. Besides, it was less than a mile to Swalford. She could always get a taxi home if she thought he’d had too much to drink.

      She shook her head, feeling the recalcitrant strands of hair squeezing out of the band already. ‘I—assumed he’d be driving,’ she said, hoping that didn’t sound as if she’d expected it. It wasn’t as if she was used to riding around in expensive cars, with or without a chauffeur at the wheel.

      ‘Don’t you trust me?’ he asked, and she realised he had not been deceived by her reticence. ‘I know I can’t prove it, but you’re perfectly safe with me.’

      Of course she was.

      ‘I didn’t—that is, I hope you don’t think—’

      ‘What?’ His eyes were narrowed now. ‘What are you trying to say? That you don’t like me?’ He started the engine, his mouth curling into an ironic smile. ‘That’s all right. It’s not a prerequisite for doing business with someone.’

      Isobel took a deep breath. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

      ‘No?’

      His answer was hardly satisfactory, but the lane was clear of traffic, and he pulled away before she could say any more. Beyond the cottage the lane narrowed, before turning right into another lane that eventually intersected with the high street. It was not a well-known route, but Horsham was not a large village, and most roads ultimately led back to where you’d started. Nevertheless she had the feeling that he’d already checked it out before he even knocked at her door.

      ‘No,’ she said now, and added with a faint edge to her voice as he turned left along the high street, ‘You seem to know your way around.’

      The look he gave her was slightly wary, and she wondered what she’d said to arouse his distrust. It was a free country, for heaven’s sake, and for all she knew he might know the area better than she did. But she had the feeling he was a stranger. She was sure she’d have heard about him if he’d moved into the district.

      ‘I just follow the signposts,’ he remarked after a moment, and she had to admit there had been an arrow pointing towards Swalford at the junction.

      There was silence for a few moments after that, Isobel struggling desperately to think of something suitable to say. It wasn’t that she wanted him to think her particularly clever, but she didn’t want him to think she was stupid either. The trouble was, the men she usually went out with were locals, and she doubted Patrick Riker would be interested in the fact that they were having a drought.

      He drove fairly slowly through the village, but once out of the restricted area he allowed the car to find its own speed. The roads around Horsham were inclined to be a little twisty, so there was no question of racing, but he covered the three-quarters of a mile to Swalford in an amazingly short time.

      ‘I guess this is it,’ he remarked finally, turning into the car park of the The Coach House and parking beside an old Mercedes that had seen better days. For all it was quite early in the evening, there were quite a few cars already occupying the inn’s forecourt—an indication of the popularity of its bar food.

      ‘I hope you won’t find it a disappointment,’ murmured Isobel, barely audibly, as she acknowledged the incongruity of the limousine in these surroundings. But he’d heard her, and his lips twitched at the back-handed compliment.

      ‘I doubt if anything could disappoint me this evening,’ he assured her with equal ambiguity. Then, more gently, he asked, ‘Shall we go in?’

CHAPTER FIVE

      A HAZE of tobacco smoke hung over the bar, but the dining area adjoined a flagged patio, and the doors had been flung wide to admit the evening air. There were tables on the patio, too, and Patrick allowed her to choose where she wanted to sit. Isobel opted for a table that was near the open doors but not actually on the patio, and Patrick went to get them a drink while she perused the menu.

      She had chosen white wine to drink, and he came back with a glass for her and a bottle of imported beer for himself. Pulling out the wooden chair opposite her, he sank into it, accepting the menu she passed him and glancing carelessly at its contents.

      ‘I suppose this isn’t what you’re used to,’ she said a little awkwardly, despising herself for caring what he thought. She hadn’t instigated this meeting; he had. If he didn’t like her choice of venue, hard luck.

      ‘You don’t know what I’m used to,’ he countered, lifting his eyes from the menu. ‘Am I allowed to ask what you’re eating? Or is that a state secret?’

      Isobel expelled her breath. ‘Lasagne,’ she said. ‘With a green salad to start.’ She licked her lips. ‘They make it on the premises. The owner’s wife comes from Siena.’

      ‘Ah.’ His eyes dropped back to the menu. ‘You don’t fancy a fillet steak, or anything carnivorous like that?’

      ‘Well, I’m not a vegetarian,’ she retorted, ‘if that’s what you’re implying. It’s not a vegetable lasagne. It does contain meat.’

      ‘All right.’ His tone was amused now. ‘I’ll have that too. And a bottle of claret, just to prove I’m not a cheapskate. I can imagine what my chauffeur would say if he knew I’d turned down the steak.’

      Isobel looked up at him through her lashes, not quite sure what to make of that, and he grinned. She’d thought he was attractive before, but when his face creased into that infectious smile her heart seemed to skip a beat. Dear God, she thought uneasily, picking СКАЧАТЬ