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One Reckless Night
Sara Craven
Once wasn't enough…Zanna Westcott was a successful businesswoman with a track record for ruthless takeovers and always putting business before pleasure. Jake Lantrell was pleasure… sheer unadulterated pleasure. Zanna's attraction to him scared her. Jake represented everything in life she had tried to avoid: love, emotion, sex. And so, after one reckless night of passion, Zanna had determined to forget her momentary indiscretion… .It wasn't so easy. Jake wanted more than a one-night stand. He was determined to show Zanna that there was something missing from her life - him!Sara Craven's 50th Book Sara Craven has sold over 17 million copies of her books throughout the world.


Cover (#u69db7e27-5b62-5358-8acb-e526bfdc7549)“I wouldn’t have said you were a girl for one-night stands, Susie.” (#ubb2d215b-2433-5e21-9e82-ca26205e2764)Letter to Reader (#u15ca5a72-334e-504a-911d-f0c7194c6337)Title Page (#uf523d296-3a83-5cac-9fe6-d6d662968643)CHAPTER ONE (#u835ab812-333e-598e-825b-967521459883)CHAPTER TWO (#ub68d2d4c-712a-55c6-90e4-fc09c557a405)CHAPTER THREE (#u452942b8-b40c-59aa-b409-84d8c5e3387f)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I wouldn’t have said you were a girl for one-night stands, Susie.”
“But then, in spite of all your research, you still don’t know a great deal about me,” Zanna parried.
Jake’s mouth quirked. “I’d have said we were intimately acquainted,” he drawled.
“You’re right, of course. I don’t usually behave as I did that night, and I don’t want to be reminded of it—or repeat it, either.”
“That was not what I was suggesting.... Have dinner with me tonight.”
It was more of a command than a request. “I’m busy....”
He tutted. “Playing hard to get, Susie?”
“Not before time, perhaps,” she said with cool irony. “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying about ships that pass in the night. I’d like to leave it like that.”
He shook his head. The dark eyes held hers almost mesmerically. “We didn’t pass, Susie. We collided.”
Dear Reader,
Is it really twenty-one years since I sent in that first script, so unversed in the ways of publishing that I forgot to include any return postage? In the event it wasn’t needed. Garden of Dreams emerged from the pile—somehow—and was published. I’d done it. I’d achieved the ambition I’d cherished since I was five years old. I was a real novelist.
I sat back to bask in my own glory, but not for long. A crisp editorial request for book number two “as soon as possible, please” soon wiped away the smug smile. Did they mean it? Was I really expected to ride that emotional roller coaster all over again with another heroine? Surely not.
Now fifty rides on, I still get the same thrill as I plunge into the unknown with a new cast of characters. I hope you share my pleasure. Thank you for keeping me company.


One Reckless Night
Sara Craven


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
ZANNA WESTCOTT walked into the sitting room of her hotel suite and shut the door behind her. For a moment she stood still, confronting the trim image reflected back from the mirror on the wall opposite from the sleek blonde hair, swept severely back from her forehead, and the uncluttered lines of the black business suit and crisp white shirt down to the slender dark-stockinged legs and small feet in low-heeled pumps. All cool, tailored control.
She took a deep breath, then, shattering the image, lifted an arm, punching the air in sheer exultation as her face splintered into a monkey grin of triumph.
‘I did it,’ she told herself aloud, her green eyes dancing. ‘I actually did it.’
She hadn’t been able to show her feelings in the hotel conference room just now as the deal had finally been agreed. The atmosphere had been too heavy, too laden with disappointment as yet another family-owned company went under the hammer.
Yet what had they really expected? She’d laid down the terms the previous afternoon, coolly and briskly, making it clear there was no room for manoeuvre, unfazed when the offer was rejected out of hand.
If they’d thought a twenty-five-year-old woman was a soft touch, they now knew differently, she thought.
She had smiled politely, outlined the probable alternatives, advised them to reconsider overnight and added with emphasis that she would require their final answer at ten o’clock the following morning.
As soon as she’d walked into the conference room the unhappy, resigned faces had told her all she’d wanted to know.
Reason had prevailed and Westcott Holdings had acquired another useful piece of property. Notched up another victory.
My victory, she thought. Alone and unaided.
Still smiling, she walked across to the phone and dialled her father’s private direct line at Westcott Holdings.
‘Sir Gerald Westcott’s office. How may I help you?’
Zanna’s lips tightened in disappointment as she heard the clipped tones of Tessa Lloyd, her father’s personal assistant. She said, ‘I’d like to speak to him, please, Tessa.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Westcott. Sir Gerald is in a meeting. He asked me to take any message.’
Zanna was tempted to shout childishly, I don’t want to leave a message! She wanted to speak to her father in person, to tell him about her achievement. Maybe this time to hear his voice soften with love and pride as he said, Well done.
She should have known there’d be a meeting, but all the same she’d hoped he’d be available. More fool me, she thought, feeling oddly—even absurdly—deflated.
Instead she said coolly, ‘I see. Then please tell him he now owns Zolto Electronics at a much lower price than we originally hoped.’
‘That’s excellent news, Miss Westcott.’ There was no great expression in the even tone. ‘I’m sure Sir Gerald will be delighted. I presume you’ll be returning immediately?’
That had been her intention, but there was something in the other woman’s tone, an assumption that she could simply be called to heel, which ignited an unwonted spark of rebellion in Zanna.
She said, to her own surprise, ‘Actually, no. I’m taking the rest of the day off. And the weekend,’ she added recklessly. ‘I’ll be back in the office on Monday.’
‘But, Miss Westcott.’ Tessa Lloyd sounded shocked. ‘I’m sure Sir Gerald will be waiting for a full report as soon as possible.’
‘I was told to leave a message,’ Zanna returned.
‘That’s the message I’m leaving. Goodbye, Tessa.’
She put the phone down firmly before any more protests could be formulated. Her father might think highly of Tessa Lloyd’s efficiency but she wasn’t particularly likeable, Zanna thought broodingly. And she guarded her employer like some jealous mother hen.
And now you’ve let her needle you into a forty-eigh-thour break that you don’t need and don’t know what to do with anyway, she chided herself crossly.
She glanced round at her suite, restlessly absorbing the opulently bland furnishings, the forgettable series of prints which adorned the walls, the overly tasteful arrangement of silk flowers on a gilt table against a wall.
Suddenly she felt stifled—almost claustrophobic.
Instead of telephoning she would go down to Reception and tell them she was staying on. This was a city, after all. It had a theatre, restaurants. She would plan herself an evening’s entertainment, make the appropriate reservations. There would be art galleries and museums she could visit during the rest of her stay. It would be fun. Or at least different, she amended, with a wry twist of the lips.
The foyer was busy when she emerged from the lift, and the receptionists standing in line at the long desk were all fully occupied. Zanna picked up one of the complimentary folders intended for tourists, detailing things to see and do in the area, and began to leaf idly through it.
A voice at her shoulder said quietly, ‘Miss Westcott.’
Turning with a start, she saw Henry Walton, the chairman of Zolto Electronics, his lined face tired and defeated.
He said, ‘I wanted to congratulate you, Miss Westcott. You have a bargain—as, of course, you know.’
‘Yes.’ Zanna lifted her chin, her expression challenging. ‘I hope there are no hard feelings.’
He shook his head with a faint smile. ‘No, that is too much to ask.’ He studied her for a moment, his eyes suddenly sharp and shrewd, giving her a glimpse of the man who had built up a company from a dream only to see it ultimately undermined by the recession.
He said, with a sigh, ‘Yes, you’re your father’s own daughter, Miss Westcott. And please don’t think I mean that as a compliment. Instead, I’m almost sorry for you.’ He inclined his head with a kind of remote courtesy and walked away.
Zanna stared after him, as shocked and winded as if he’d actually raised his fist and struck her.
It had been the quietest of exchanges yet she suddenly felt self-conscious, as if everyone in the hotel lobby had turned to look at her. As if she were suddenly naked under their censorious gaze.
Her sense of achievement, her plans for the evening ahead suddenly went by the board. She felt chilled and oddly uncertain.
‘May I help you?’ One of the receptionists was free, her brows raised enquiringly, her smile plastic and professional.
Zanna shook her head, then turned away, the edge of the folder still biting into her hand. Her immediate intention was to go back to her room. Instead, she found herself headed, almost running, for the main exit to the hotel car park.
With the thought, I’ve got to get out of here—I must...beating in her head like a drum.
The motorway service station was like any other. Zanna selected a plate of mixed salad and a pot of coffee and carried them to an empty table.
What an idiot, she thought with vexation, to have allowed that little encounter to push her off-balance like that. Normally she wouldn’t have leapt into the car and driven off without the slightest idea where she was heading.
And why was she so disturbed anyway? Being Gerald Westcott’s daughter—being recognized as such—was something to be proud of. Whereas there was nothing admirable in admitting defeat—in failing. That was a lesson she’d been taught since her earliest years.
Achievement—coming first—was the name of the game. Getting the best results at school. Knowing that less would only provoke some disapproving comment from the man she wanted so desperately to please. Any kind of second-best was unthinkable. Times were hard. You had to be tough. There was no room for sentiment in business.
This was the armour she dressed in each morning. The armour in which Henry Walton had found an unexpected and unwelcome chink.
How dared he feel sorry for her? she thought rawly. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. She had a flat overlooking the Thames, an expense account, a new car every year—and she’d just scored her first major negotiating success. She had everything going for her.
She gave a mental shrug as she sat down. Mr Walton had simply turned out to be a bad loser, which, although something of a surprise, was his problem, and she was a fool to let his remarks get to her. Although they’d certainly taken the edge off her triumph, she thought restively. Soured the day when she had totally justified her place on her father’s top team.
She was half tempted to change her mind and return to London, except it might be seen as a kind of climb-down, and the thought of Tessa Lloyd’s superior smile as she obeyed the tug on the leash cemented her determination to stay away, however briefly.
She still had the hotel’s information folder on the table beside her. She’d stop this aimless pounding up the motorway and find something positive to do for the rest of the day.
As she picked up the folder a pale green leaflet fluttered to the floor. Something about a series of spring art exhibitions in local village halls. Nothing she would normally have noticed. But as she bent to retrieve the paper the name ‘Emplesham’ seemed to leap out at her.
For a moment she was very still, staring down at it. Remembering.
Emplesham, she thought wonderingly. It hadn’t even occurred to her how close it must be.
Yet once she’d have known. And without any prompting either. When she was a child, she’d looked it up almost obsessively on the map, calculating the distance from London, from boarding school—from anywhere, she remembered, wincing—and promising herself that one day she’d go there. See the place where the mother she’d never known had been born. As if that, somehow, would bring her closer.
And now I’m actually in the neightbourhood, and if I hadn’t seen this leaflet I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, she told herself wryly.
It was evidence, she realised, of how far she’d grown away from that lonely, introspective little girl.
And perhaps that was how it should stay. After all, going to look at the outside of a house wouldn’t answer any of the questions which had bewildered and tormented her for so many years. The questions that her father, too racked by the grief of his loss, had always refused even to discuss.
After Susan Westcott’s death he had sold the house they had shared, and its contents, dismissed the domestic staff and moved to a new locality with his baby daughter, Suzannah. From then on, of course, she had been always known as Zanna, as if even the similarities in their names were too painful for him to contemplate.
There were no mementoes, no photographs anywhere, and no one the child could ask about her mother. The only reminder that Sir Gerald seemed able to tolerate was the strangely disturbing portrait of his wife kept in his study.
It had always worried Zanna. Nor was it really a likeness either. Above the vibrant swirl of her crimson blouse Sue Westcott’s face was a pale blur, the features barely suggested, apart from her eyes which seemed to burn with a wild green flame. Desperate eyes, Zanna had decided as she grew up. She’d found herself wondering whether her mother had known, somehow, how little time she had left to live. As a picture, it revealed little more.
And then on her eleventh birthday she’d received a small packet at her boarding school, the accompanying lawyer’s letter stating that her mother’s former nanny, Miss Grace Moss, had directed in her will that Zanna should be sent the enclosed.
It had been a small leather-bound photo album, full of ageing snapshots of people she didn’t know in clothes from bygone years, and for a moment Zanna had been bewildered as to why this stranger should have bothered.
Then she’d seen that the last few photographs were all marked ‘Church House, Emplesham’ on the back. The first one was dated—‘1950, Susan two days old’—and showed a woman in a neat dress and apron, presumably Nanny Moss, smiling in the wisteria-hung doorway of a long white house, with a tiny baby held protectively in her arms.
Others showed a small blonde girl playing among tall hollyhocks and delphiniums in a garden, or riding a tricycle, until finally a taller Sue had proudly showed off a new school hat and blazer.
Zanna had thought, Mummy, and her eyes had filled with tears. But she’d been grateful that she at last had something tangible to hold on to.
From that moment on the album went everywhere with her and became her most cherished possession, almost a talisman. But at the same time the way the bequest had been made had warned her, young though she was, that her father might not regard it in quite the same light, and that this was a gift to be kept secret, not shared with him.
She didn’t want him to be unhappy again, and the only times she had ever pressed him for information about her mother he had become so angry and upset that she’d been almost frightened. His unresolved pain and grief for his late wife was his one weakness. The only sign of vulnerability he’d ever shown.
All these years she’d kept the secret, she thought ruefully, and the album occupied an inside pocket in her bag even now. Her sole and private link with the past.
Zanna took it out and flicked through it while she ate her meal.
It was probably a wild-goose chase, but there might be someone in the village who’d remember the little girl at Church House, who could help wipe out the apparent vacuum that Sue Westcott had left in her wake.
At any rate, she would have to go and see.
After all, she argued, what do I have to lose?
Almost within minutes of taking the appropriate motorway exit she found herself in a maze of country lanes. The day was warm for late spring, and Zanna opened the sun roof and slung her jacket into the back of the car.
It wasn’t a fast journey. Every bend in the road seemed to reveal some new hazard—a tractor idling along, a group of riders on horseback, a pair of motorists who’d stopped to exchange the time of day, thereby blocking the lane completely.
Even the throb of the motorway traffic was extinguished by birdsong and the bleating of sheep. Zanna had the crazy sensation that she’d stepped backwards into some time-warp, where life moved at a different, slower pace.
Usually she would have been impatient, pushing herself and others, looking for a way round the obstacles in her path. But today she felt herself slowing in unison. She was aware that the tension was seeping out of her, that the sun and the warm breeze with its scent of hedgerows were bestowing a kind of benison.
Someone had once said that to travel hopefully was better than to arrive. For the first time she could understand that, and agree.
The Emplesham village sign was emblazoned on a huge circle of stone half-buried in long grass and hawthorn at the side of the road.
As Zanna passed it she began to realise that all was not well with her car. The engine note was not right. It seemed to have developed a kind of stutter, she thought with dismay. And then, without further warning, it died on her altogether.
Using the slight downward slope, Zanna steered the car onto the verge and applied the hand brake. She said under her breath, ‘I don’t believe this.’ It was as if the damned thing had become suddenly bewitched as it crossed the village line. Although that, of course, was nonsense.
She could see roofs and the church tower only a couple of hundred yards away. There’d be help there, or at least a telephone, she decided. She locked the car and began to walk down the lane, only to see ahead of her, as she rounded the first corner, a small garage and workshop.
Thank goodness for that, at least, she thought as she picked her way between the limited selection of secondhand cars on the fore court and entered the workshop.
She could hear music playing—one of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, she recognized with slight in-credulity—but could see no one. She moved forward uncertainly and nearly stumbled over a pair of long denim-clad legs protruding from under a car. And not just any car, she realised. It was a classic Jaguar—by no means new, but immaculately maintained.
A portable cassette player near the legs was presumably the source of the music.
Zanna raised her voice above it. ‘Could you help me, please?’
There was no response, so she bent down and switched off the cassette.
She said, on a crisper note, ‘Excuse me.’
There was a brief pause, then the owner of the legs disentangled himself from beneath the car and sat up, looking at her.
He was tall and lean, his mane of black curling hair shaggy and unkempt. From a tanned face dark eyes surveyed her expressionlessly. His T-shirt and jeans were filthy with oil. He looked, Zanna thought with faint contempt, like some kind of gipsy.
Still, any port in a storm, she consoled herself, with a faint sigh. And if someone was actually allowing him to work on a car like that, he couldn’t be totally incompetent.
He said, ‘Consider yourself excused.’ His voice was low-pitched, with a faint drawl and a barely detectable undercurrent of amusement.
Zanna stiffened slightly, needled by his continuing and lingering scrutiny. He would, she thought, know her again. She looked back at him coldly, registering in her turn a beak of a nose that had clearly been broken at some time, a cool, thin-lipped mouth and a chin with a determined tilt. An image not as easily dismissed as she’d first assumed.
She said briefly, ‘My car has broken down.’
He shrugged. Through a rip in his shirt his shoulder looked very brown. ‘It happens,’ he returned laconically. ‘My commiserations.’ And he moved as if to slide back under the Jaguar.
‘Just a moment,’ Zanna said with a snap, and he paused enquiringly. She took a breath. ‘I’m not looking for sympathy. I’d actually like you to fix it—if it’s not too much trouble,’ she added witheringly.
‘Now that’s the problem.’ His face was solemn, but under their heavy lids she could swear his eyes were dancing. ‘I am rather busy already. As you can see.’
‘Yes, but I have an emergency,’ Zanna said impatiently. ‘And this is a garage.’
‘Ten out of ten for observation.’
‘And you operate a call-out service,’ she went on. ‘It says so on the board outside.’
He wiped his hands on a piece of rag. ‘I’ll say this for you—you’re persistent,’ he remarked flatly. He slowly uncoiled himself and stood up. It seemed to take for ever. Zanna had always considered herself a reasonable height, but he towered head and shoulders above her.
Oddly intimidated, she found herself taking an involuntary step backwards. Her heel slipped in a patch of oil and she stumbled.
‘Careful.’ His hand shot out and gripped her arm to steady her.
‘I’m all right,’ she snapped, shrugging herself free and receiving a frankly sardonic look in return.
‘Well, you could have fooled me,’ he drawled. ‘Are you always this nervous?’
No, of course she wasn’t, and her overreaction to what had only been, after all, a fleeting contact vexed her.
She shrugged. ‘I’m just—anxious about my car.’
He sighed. ‘What seems to be the problem with it?’ he asked, without enthusiasm.
“The engine made a stuttering noise and just—stopped,’ she said rather lamely.
The firm mouth quirked. ‘Did it, now? Well, I suggest you go back to the poor thing and take a good hard look at the petrol gauge.’
Zanna gasped. ‘I filled the tank before I left the motorway,’ she said stonily. ‘And I can do without the patronising remarks.’
His face hardened. ‘Just as I can do without the aggravation. Try one of the motoring organisations, lady. They’re obliged to be pleasant.’
Zanna bit her lip. ‘But that could take hours,’ she objected. ‘Whereas you’d only have to walk up the road.’ She drew another breath. ‘Look, whatever the going rate is, I’ll pay you double.’
‘There speaks the complete autocrat.’ There was no doubting the amusement in his voice now, or the accompanying touch of contempt. ‘I have news for you, sweetheart. Market economy notwithstanding, not everyone’s for sale.’
‘With an attitude like yours, I’m surprised you have a business at all,’ Zanna retorted hotly. ‘Or do they take whatever they can get in this backwater?’
‘Pretty much,’ he said. ‘Although I understand they’ve stopped flogging the peasants and selling their children into slavery.’ The dark eyes swept her from head to foot again. ‘However, if it’s such a dump, why are you honouring it with your presence.’
‘I’m not,’ she denied curtly. ‘I’m just passing through.’
‘An interesting trick,’ he said. ‘Especially as the road comes to a dead end at Hollins Farm. Maybe you should trade the car in for a juggernaut, if you plan to drive over it. Or even an amphibious vehicle,’ he added reflectively. ‘Ted Hollins has a duck pond.’
For the first time in years she was tempted to the schoolgirl rudeness of sticking her tongue out at him, but managed to restrain herself. She simply could not afford to alienate him further.
Smile as if genuinely amused, she ordered herself through gritted teeth. ‘Actually,’ she said, with studied brightness, ‘I’ve come to see the art exhibition.’
His brows lifted. ‘It’s a very local affair. No Picassos or Van Goghs. You won’t need your American Express.’ He paused meditatively before adding, ‘But I guess it’ll keep you occupied while I’m looking at your car.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was glacial and his grin widened.
‘Keys?’
Reluctantly Zanna dropped them into his outstretched hand.
He nodded and walked past her into the sunlight with an easy, long-legged stride. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Needled by his casual dismissal, she hurried after him. ‘Where, exactly?’
He swung round and looked at her. The dark eyes seemed to burn suddenly into hers. He said softly, ‘Oh, I’ll find you.’
It could have been a threat. It might have been a promise.
But for one startling, inexplicable moment, the breath caught in her throat and her pulses juddered in a strange mixture of excitement and something bordering on panic. She nodded abruptly, then turned away and began to walk towards the village.
And she knew, before she’d gone fifty yards, that if she glanced back over her shoulder she would find him watching her.
CHAPTER TWO
DEFEATING an almost overwhelming impulse to break into a run, Zanna walked briskly, head held high, round the turn in the lane. Once she was sure she was safely out of sight she slowed down, making herself breathe deeply in an attempt to regain her faltering composure.
This was the second time in a couple of hours that she’d been made to feel disconcerted and on edge. And she didn’t like it, not one little bit.
Just what I needed, she thought with angry irony. A garage hand with attitude. The ideal end to a perfect day.
And she was determined it would be the end. She was already deeply regretting this sentimental detour. As soon as the car was fixed she would be off back to her city centre hotel and its mechanical civilities. At least she knew what to expect there.
However, the village, when reached, was certainly charming. The cottages which lined the road were stone built, many with thatched roofs and gardens bright with seasonal flowers. Aubretia tumbled in shades of purple and crimson over low front walls, and laburnum and lilac trees were already heavy with blossom.
The road itself led straight to the broad expanse of the village green. Apart from a railed-off cricket square in the middle, it was tenanted solely by a pair of tethered goats, who lifted their heads from their grazing to watch Zanna curiously.
She hesitated in turn, wondering what to do first and feeling ridiculously conspicuous.
On the face of it, there was no one else around. Emplesham seemed to be drowsing in the sunlight. But Zanna sensed, all the same, that from behind the discreetly curtained windows of the clustering cottages her arrival had been noted.
She decided, for reasons she could barely explain to herself, not to pinpoint Church House immediately. She’d behave like any other tourist who’d stumbled in off the beaten track. She was here, ostensibly, to look at an art exhibition, and that was what she would do.
The green was bordered on three sides, she saw, by more houses, a shop-cum-post office, a pub—whose sign announced it as the Black Bull and offered real ale, meals and accommodation—and the church, rising like a stately and benign presence behind its tall yew hedge. Apart from a narrow track beside the churchyard, which presumably led to the farm mentioned by her persecutor, there was no other visible egress.
The village hall stood on the opposite side of the green to the church, a wooden board fixed to its railings advertising the exhibition.
Zanna found herself in a small vestibule, where a woman in a flowered dress, seated behind a table, paused in her knitting to sell her an exhibition catalogue for fifty pence.
‘You’re just in time.’ Her smile was friendly. ‘The show ends today and we’ll soon be clearing the hall for tonight’s dance.’
‘Dance?’ Zanna’s brows lifted. Far from being asleep, Emplesham seemed to be the Las Vegas of the neigh bourhood, she thought caustically.
‘Oh, yes,’ the woman said cheerfully. ‘It’s become an annual event. We combine the art club’s exhibition with the church’s spring flower festival and make it a real celebration.’ She nodded towards the double doors leading into the hall. ‘I hope you enjoy the show—although there isn’t a great deal left for sale, I’m afraid.’
‘It really doesn’t matter,’ Zanna assured her politely. ‘I’ll just enjoy looking round,’ she added, not altogether truthfully.
Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the riot of colour and vibrancy which assaulted her senses inside the hall. Every possible hanging space was filled, and by work which was a thousand miles from the pallid water colours and stolidly amateurish still-lifes she’d been expecting.
Landscapes in storm and sunlight seemed to leap off their canvases at her as she trod cautiously round. She could almost imagine she could smell the scent of the grass and trees, feel on her face the wind that drove the heavy clouds.
There was a life section too, depicted robustly and without sentimentality, and, of course, the paintings of fruit and flowers which she’d been anticipating. But even here she was surprised, realising that she could almost taste the sharpness of the green apples arranged on that copper dish, that if she reached out a hand she might draw blood on the thorns of the full-blown roses spilling out of that jug. She would, she realised, have bought either of them—only they were already sold.
How in the world, she asked herself bewilderedly, could people in this small country district have learned to paint with such passionate exuberance? She found herself, absurdly, wanting to cheer.
One canvas stood alone on an easel towards the rear of the hall, as if deliberately set apart from the rest.
As she approached it the breath caught in Zanna’s throat. She thought, I don’t believe this—I don’t...
But she knew she wasn’t mistaken. The long, low house, hung with wisteria, bathed in sunlight, looked serenely back at her, just as it did in her precious photographs. Only the child playing in the garden was missing.
But her imagination could supply that, Zanna thought, exultantly noting that there was no red dot to say the painting was sold. In spite of everything, she’d been meant to come here. It was going to be a perfect day after all.
‘Do you need any help?’ The woman in the flowered dress had come up behind her.
‘I was looking at this.’ Zanna tried to sound casual. ‘I can’t find it in the catalogue, but I suppose it’s a local scene?’
The woman laughed. ‘Very much so. It’s the house across the green, next to the church. And it hasn’t been listed because it’s only on loan, I’m afraid.’
‘On loan.’ Zanna felt sick with disappointment.
The woman nodded. ‘It belongs to Mr Gordon, who actually owns Church House.’
‘I see.’ Zanna heard the despondency in her own voice and rallied, biting her lip.
What’s the matter with you? You bought Zolto Electronics this morning, she scolded herself. Why be so easily put off over an oil painting? Everything’s ultimately for sale, if the price is right.
Her mouth stretched in a smile Henry Walton might have recognized. ‘Well, perhaps he might consider a private offer.’
‘I hardly think so.’ The woman gave her an astonished look.
‘All the same, I’ll call round and ask,’ Zanna said with a shrug. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’
‘But Mr Gordon isn’t here.’ A swift frown drew the woman’s brows together. ‘He spends most of the year abroad.’ She spread her hands in a gesture that was half-helpless, half-affronted. ‘You’d really be wasting your time in pursuing this.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Zanna said quickly as the woman turned away. ‘It’s just such a beautiful house. Has this Mr Gordon had it long? Do you know anything about the previous owners?’
There was a brief silence, then, ‘I believe the house passed through a number of hands before the present purchase was completed.’ the woman returned frostily. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance.’ And she walked away.
Visitors to Emplesham were apparently tolerated but not encouraged to push their luck by asking too many questions, Zanna thought ruefully as she followed the stiff figure out of the hall.
With a brief word of thanks, curtly acknowledged, she went out into the sunshine.
Occupied or not, Church House drew her across the green like a magnet. And this time she didn’t care who might be watching.
The gate opened noiselessly under her hand. A mossy path led between smoothly trimmed lawns to the front door. Apart from pigeons cooing in the neighbouring churchyard, and the hum of a bee roving in the flowering tub beside the door, everything was still.
It was as if the house were waiting for her, she thought, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. As if all she had to do was lift the heavy wrought-iron knocker and the door would open and she would be drawn inside.
But to find what? She didn’t even know, she acknowledged with a sigh.
Besides, all that really lay behind the half-closed curtains was someone else’s home. And a very elegant home too, from what she could glimpse, with expensive chintz, oak beams and the gleam of well-polished furniture not from this century.
He might be an absentee, but Mr Gordon was a careful owner, she thought. The house and garden were both being maintained in pristine condition, which gave their emptiness almost an air of pathos. Or was that simply what she wanted to think?
Sharply aware that she had no right to be prying in this way, but unable to resist the temptation, Zanna followed the path round to the rear of the house.
The kitchen window was rather more revealing. She could see a massive Welsh dresser, laden with blue and white china, an Aga, with a row of copper pans suspended above it, and a big farmhouse table with a bowl of fruit at its centre.
Also, she realised in shock, a used mug and plate, together with assorted crockery, and, pushed to one side, an upturned loaf on a chopping board, a butter dish and a pot of honey, as if someone had eaten a hasty breakfast and left without clearing away the traces.
Yet the house was supposed to be empty. Surely not squatters, she thought, dismayed, and then yelped in fright as a hand descended on her shoulder.
‘Having a good look round?’ enquired an all too familiar drawl.
Zanna swallowed hard before turning. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I told you I’d find you.’ He gave her that hooded look. ‘Although you do turn up in some surprising places. Are you just a snoop, or do you housebreak on the side?’
Zanna was furious to find she was blushing to the roots of her hair.
‘Please don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, dragging the remnants of her dignity around her. ‘The house seemed—empty. I thought it might be for sale.’
‘And you plan to make an offer they can’t refuse?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re going to be unlucky. I can promise you it’s not on the market.’
‘I’d prefer to discuss this with the owner.’ Zanna lifted her chin.
‘Who’s in America.’
‘Well, someone’s living there.’
He slanted a glance towards the window and the betraying clutter inside. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s a resident caretaker.’
‘Good. Then he’ll be able to give me Mr Gordon’s address.’ She put a snap of emphasis on the name.
‘You have been busy.’ The dark eyes looked her thoughtfully up and down. ‘But you’ve got a fair wait ahead of you. He has a day job.’
‘Oh.’ Zanna bit her lip.
He was still watching her. ‘However, if you really want to meet him, he’ll be at the dance tonight.’
‘The dance?’ she repeated with amused incredulity. ‘I don’t intend to hang around that long.’
‘You may have to,’ he said laconically. ‘You seem to have picked up some dirt in your petrol. I need to strip down the carburettor.’
‘Hell’s bells,’ Zanna muttered. ‘How long is that going to take?’
There was a pause, then, ‘It’ll be ready in the morning.’
‘Oh.’ Zanna made no attempt to hide her dismay. She wanted to abandon this ridiculous trip down Memory Lane and get back to civilisation. ‘You couldn’t possibly finish it tonight?’ she urged.
‘I’m sorry.’ His tone held no regret at all that she could hear. ‘You see, I’m going to the dance.’
‘But of course.’ She glared at him. ‘Please, don’t allow my convenience to stand in the way of your social engagements.’
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t.’ He actually had the nerve to grin at her. ‘I suggest you book a room at the Black Bull. Tell Trudy that I sent you.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice froze. ‘I’m sure I can manage without your assistance.’
‘Fine.’ He turned to leave. ‘Just don’t offer to buy the place,’ he tossed back at her over his shoulder. ‘It’s been in the family for generations.’
Zanna, standing rigidly, waiting for the click of the gate to confirm his departure, realised with shock that her hands had clenched tautly into fists.
What the hell was the matter with her? She could handle a boardroom full of angry men, so how was it this—this peasant could get under her skin so easily?
Because I allowed it, she admitted with angry bewilderment. It’s almost as if I’ve been bewitched since I got here. First the car—now me.
She snorted with self-derision and began to walk slowly back to the front of the house.
She had come to Emplesham to see her mother’s old home, and all she’d achieved was an odd feeling of dissatisfaction, bordering almost on desolation.
Yet what had she really expected? To step back in some time-warp and find Susan Westcott waiting for her? Surely she wasn’t such a fool.
Maybe the lesson she’d come here to learn was that she’d gain nothing by raking over the past. Perhaps that was why her father had stripped himself of all reminders of his brief marriage.
Just as soon as the car’s fixed I’m out of here, she promised herself grimly. And without a backward glance either.
Trudy Sharman was a large, smiling woman, with greying blonde hair pinned into an untidy knot on top of her head.
‘A room for the night’s no problem. The tourist season hasn’t started properly yet.’ She nibbled the end of her pen. ‘But I can only offer you a restricted menu for dinner. You see...’
‘Everyone’s going to the dance,’ Zanna supplied resignedly.
Mrs Sharman laughed. ‘Well, yes. My husband’s doing the bar and I’m catering. We won’t be getting much trade here, so we’ve given most of the staff the night off.’ She sent Zanna a faintly anxious glance. ‘I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Zanna made herself smile reassuringly. ‘I’ll have some sandwiches in my room and an early night.’
‘Oh, we can do better than that.’ Mrs Sharman looked scandalised. ‘I said “restricted” not “non-existent”. There’s beef and mushroom casserole, lamb cutlets, or I can recommend the fish pie. And you’ll be coming to the dance, surely?’
Zanna shook her head. ‘I—I don’t dance. And, anyway, I’m hardly dressed for a social occasion. But the fish pie would be lovely,’ she added brightly.
‘Shall we say seven o’clock, then?’ Mrs Sharman selected a key from the row of hooks behind her desk. ‘Just in case you change your mind about the dance,’ she added vaguely.
Zanna bit back a sharp retort and followed her upstairs in silence. She had to admit, however, that her room was charming, with the blue and white sprigged pattern on the wallpaper repeated in the curtains and frilled bedcover. The bathroom was only tiny, but well equipped. A small wicker basket on a table beside the bath offered a tempting range of soaps, scented bath oils and shampoos, and there was a courtesy robe in dark blue towelling hanging behind the door.
Zanna found it all totally irresistible. As soon as she was alone she filled the deep tub with steaming water, added jasmine oil, pulled off her clothes and sank gratefully into the luxurious perfumed depths, feeling the tensions ease out of her.
When she’d finished soaking, she used the hand-spray to shampoo her hair, then, wrapped in the towelling robe, rinsed out her scraps of silky underwear and hung them on the heated rail to dry.
Then she stretched out on the bed and reached for the telephone. First she rang the Grand Vista hotel, directing them to hold her room for two more nights, then called her own answering machine to see if there were any messages.
Her father’s voice, irritable and slightly hectoring, was on the line. ‘Zanna? Where are you? What the devil are you playing at? Call me back at once—d’you hear, my girl?’
To hear was normally to obey, Zanna realised as she replaced the receiver. But not this evening. Maybe not even tomorrow. Just for once she was off the hook, and she intended to enjoy the sensation for as long as possible.
There was a selection of books on the night-table, including—joy of joys—a Dick Francis she hadn’t read.
That’s my company for the evening sorted out, she thought with satisfaction, instantly closing her mind against the sudden intrusive image of a dark, mocking face and a pair of hooded eyes.
What on earth is the matter with me? she asked herself, in profound irritation. And couldn’t find an answer that gave her any satisfaction at all.
By the time her dinner was served her hair was dry, and so was her underwear. She redressed herself reluctantly, longing for a change of clothes, then brushed her hair severely off her face, confining it with a ribbon in its usual style before descending to the bar.
To her surprise she found it quite crowded, with cheerful, chattering people clearly there for pre-dance drinks. But a swift, wary glance told her that her bête noire was not among them.
When it was her turn to be served, she ordered a dry sherry.
‘Trudy’s laid your table in the snug,’ the barmaid told her, carefully handing her a brimming schooner. ‘She thought it would be a bit quieter in there.’
Zanna carried her drink through the doorway indicated. It was a small room, cosy, with high-backed settles and polished oak tables. A small fire of sweet-smelling apple logs had been kindled in the hearth, dispelling the faint chill of the evening.
Only one table was laid for a meal, but two places had been set, with a bowl of freesias and a single candle burning in a stylish glass holder. There was, moreover, a bottle of Chablis waiting in a cooler.
Zanna, viewing these preparations in total bewilderment, heard the door squeak open behind her—presumably to admit Mrs Sharman with her meal.
‘There’s been some mistake,’ she began. ‘I didn’t order any wine...’
‘It’s a peace-offering.’
The voice she knew at once. Only too well. But as she swung round to face him, her expression freezing into annoyance, a surprised gasp escaped her parted lips rather than the haughty dismissal she’d been framing.
Clean-shaven, with that dark mane of hair neatly combed, he looked almost prepossessing. His clothes— the well-fitting dark trousers, the pale grey jacket that might almost be cashmere, the classic white shirt and the silk tie in sombre jewel colours—all bore the hallmarks of Italian designer wear. And the aroma of engine oil had been exchanged for the discreet scent of a very up-market cologne.
In fact, more than prepossessing, she realised with shock, as a strange awareness shivered along her nerve-endings. He was dangerously attractive.
That faintly mocking grin hadn’t changed, however. And Zanna had noticed before what beautiful teeth he had.
‘Lost for words?’ he enquired lightly. ‘That must be a novelty.’
‘Well, yes.’ Zanna drew a breath. ‘I—I hardly recognized you,’ she added lamely.
‘Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, his face suddenly serious. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘I’d like to make amends.’
She felt her heart thump painfully, as if in warning. ‘That’s really not necessary.’
‘You’re condemning me to eat alone in the opposite corner?’ There was a smile behind the plaintive words. ‘I was thinking of Trudy as well, you see,’ he went on beguilingly. ‘How much easier it would be for her if we shared a table.’
Somehow he made it sound all so reasonable—so impossible to refuse.
Without quite knowing how, Zanna found herself facing him across the freesias. And, as if at some unseen signal, Mrs Sharman bustled in with the first course.
Their meal began with watercress soup, served with a swirl of cream. Zanna had thought she would have no appetite, but she finished every drop.
‘Good?’ her companion queried, with a smile across the flickering candle-flame.
‘Better than that.’ Zanna put down her spoon with a sigh. ‘I was expecting just fish pie.’
‘Not from Trudy’s kitchen. Even though it’s officially closed tonight she has her pride, and you’re a resident so must therefore be cherished.’
‘And what’s your excuse?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m a lonely bachelor who has to forage for himself, so she takes pity on me once in a while.’
If he was lonely, Zanna thought wryly, then it had to be through his own choice. Or perhaps he was simply too busy trying to maintain a small business to organise a private life as well.
That was something she could understand. She’d acted as hostess for her father times without number, but she couldn’t remember, she thought with bewilderment, the last time she had dined à deux with a man.
Few, if any, of the men who’d sought her company had passed muster after Sir Gerald’s rigorous vetting.
‘You’re my daughter, Zanna,’ her father had constantly reminded her. ‘My heiress. How can you ever be sure if it’s you they want or my money?’
It was a lesson which had gone home, however much it might have hurt.
But this time there was no real risk involved, she assured herself. Because the man facing her across the table had no idea who or what she was. And she firmly intended to keep it that way.
As if picking up some unspoken cue, he said, ‘We’ve never actually introduced ourselves, have we?’
‘No.’ Zanna’s mind worked quickly. ‘I’m Susan,’ she announced. ‘Susan—er—Smith.’
‘Really?’ The firm mouth quirked slightly. ‘How unusual. And I’m Jake.’ He paused. ‘Jake—er—Brown,’ he added, with sardonic emphasis.
Zanna felt her cheeks pinken, but she made herself meet his glance with apparent unconcern. After all, what did it matter? she comforted herself. They were ships passing in the night. Nothing more. And she had no more wish to know his real identity than to reveal her own.
The arrival of the next course relieved the awkwardness of the moment. The fish pie more than lived up to its recommendation. Under jts creamy mashed potato and cheese topping, cod, smoked haddock and prawns jostled for precedence in a delicious creamy sauce, and then, to finish with, there was a sumptuously rich chocolate mousse with a wicked undercurrent of brandy.
Jake led the conversation throughout the meal, but he kept to general topics, touching lightly on places of interest in the locality and leading on to the success of the exhibition. Nothing on a personal level, she noted with relief.
Finally Trudy brought excellent coffee and a smooth Armagnac.
Who could ask for anything more? Zanna wondered as she leaned against the high back of the wooden settle, cradling the goblet in her hand and contemplating the flames leaping around the sweet apple logs.
‘Don’t get too comfortable.’ His smile reached her across the candle-flame, sending a faint, troublous shiver down her spine. ‘I’m claiming the first waltz.’
She sat up with a startled jerk. ‘But I’m not going to the dance.’
‘Why not? There’s nothing else to do tonight.’
‘I don’t dance.’
‘I’ll teach you.’
‘And I’m not dressed for it,’ she added swiftly.
‘You could be—with a few adjustments.’ He rose and came round the table to her side.
Stunned, Zanna felt him release the ribbon holding her hair.
‘Now that is so much better,’ he said softly as the blonde strands fell forward to curve round her face.
He reached down, almost in the same movement, and undid the top button of her blouse.
Her hand lifted swiftly to check him as the blood stormed into her face. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Only this.’ With total insouciance he tied the ribbon round her exposed throat in a neat bow, then lifted her to her feet, making her face the mirror over the fireplace. ‘So, Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.’
Unwillingly, Zanna looked at herself. Her cheeks were still flushed and her eyes looked twice their normal size. Against her throat, the dark band of ribbon was a perfect foil for her creamy skin, while the neckline of her blouse revealed a tantalising glimpse of cleavage.
I look different, she thought with bewilderment. I don’t know myself.
In the mirror’s reflection, their eyes met.
He said softly, ‘Tell me, Miss Smith, does anyone ever call you Susie?’
She shook her head, the loosened hair swinging against her cheek. ‘Never.’ The word seemed squeezed from her taut throat.
‘Then tonight they will.’ His gaze held hers, steadily, almost mesmerically. Somehow she could not break the spell and look away, much as she wanted to. Much as she needed to. ‘Dance with me, Susie—please?’
She searched wildly for the crushing retort, the ultimate put-down that would salvage this ridiculous—this impossible situation. And instead heard herself say, against reason, against wisdom, even against sanity, ‘Yes.’
CHAPTER THREE
ALL the way across the green, Zanna could hardly believe that she was doing this.
I make my own plans, she thought. I’m the one in control. So how the hell am I on my way to some village hop, with a rustic grease monkey who has far too much to say for himself?
And who, whether she wished to acknowledge it or not, had far more than his fair share of sexual charisma, a voice in her head warned acerbically.
The kind of man that Suzannah Westcott would have shunned by miles.
But tonight, just for a few hours, she was leaving Zanna Westcott behind her. She was going to be Susie Smith instead, and find out, maybe, how the other half lived. And where was the harm in that? she argued with herself as she looked up at the velvety sky.
With the man walking at her side, that was where, returned the voice in her head, which refused, stubbornly and annoyingly, to go away.
Above the dark roofs the stars seemed close enough to touch, and a sliver of new moon was peeping round the church tower. Ahead of them, the hall was festooned with coloured lights, and music drifted on the faint breeze.
It was, to all intents and purposes, a night for lovers, she thought with unease. And if Jake had tried to take her hand, or put an arm round her waist, she knew she would have turned tail and fled back to the sanctuary of her solitary room at the pub. But he didn’t attempt even the most casual physical contact. For which, she told herself firmly, she was sincerely thankful.
And then they were inside the hall and people were calling greetings, their welcoming smiles mixed with friendly speculation as they looked at Zanna, and imperceptibly she began to relax. After all, she reasoned, there couldn’t be much danger in a room full of other people.
She hardly recognized the hall itself. In the space of a few hours all traces of the exhibition had been removed and the entire room decorated with more lights and swathes of silk flowers. Tables and chairs had been set out round the perimeter of the dance floor, and a three-piece band was playing on the platform.
It was like stepping back through a time-warp into another era—another planet, she thought, staring round her.
‘What were you expecting—the latest disco sounds?’ He didn’t miss a thing.
‘No—oh, no,’ she denied hastily. ‘It’s—quite a transformation, that’s all.’
Jake’s brows rose. ‘Then you did come to see the exhibition?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Of course,’ she countered lightly. ‘What else?’
He shrugged. Suddenly that hooded look was back. ‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’ He paused. ‘Did you actually buy any paintings?’
‘No—the one I wanted wasn’t for sale.’ She hadn’t meant to say that, she thought with vexation, and went on hurriedly, ‘In fact, most of them had been sold. The standard of work is absolutely amazing for such a small village. They must have a very good teacher.’
‘several. I believe.’ His tone was almost dismissive. ‘They also have a drama group, a gardening club and a choir, so you won’t go short on cultural activities.’
‘I won’t?’ She looked up at him, puzzled, and saw his mouth slant in a grin.
‘When you come to live here.’ he explained gently. ‘I thought you were planning to buy a house?’
‘Well, yes.’ She could have kicked herself. ‘But I gathered I was on a hiding to nothing over that.’
Jake shrugged again. ‘I suppose there’s always a chance—if you make the right offer,’ he returned. ‘As I said, the caretaker for Church House will be around later. You could always have a word with him. See how the land lies.’
‘Thank you, I certainly will.’ She made herself speak casually. ‘Is there some kind of local history group in the village, by any chance? I’d like to get to know a little more about the place before making any firm decision, you understand?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I understand perfectly.’ He paused. ‘I’ll gladly introduce you to a few people, but I can’t guarantee they’ll tell you what you want to know.’
‘Just some general background would be fine,’ Zanna declared airily, and untruthfully. And someone who knew a child—a little girl called Susan. Someone to fill in some of the aching blanks in her own childhood.
The tempo of the music changed, became slower, more dreamy.
‘This is our waltz.’ Jake held out a hand, inviting her to join him on the dance floor. Zanna hung back, shaking her head, aware, suddenly, that her pulses had begun to thud erratically.
‘I really don’t dance.’
‘Didn’t you have lessons at your exclusive boarding school?’ he drawled.
‘Well—yes,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘But that was a long time ago.’
‘Then it’s time your memory was jogged.’ She was drawn firmly and relentlessly into his arms. ‘I lead—you follow.’
Which wasn’t a situation she was used to, as he was probably well aware, she thought, gritting her teeth. For the first few moments she felt totally awkward, her feet everywhere, her body stiff and unyielding in his embrace. But gradually she found herself responding to the rhythm of the music, as well as to her partner’s unspoken signals, as he guided her round the crowded floor.
As the final chords sounded she said stiltedly, ‘Thank you, I enjoyed that.’
‘All you need is more practice.’
‘I don’t think I know any dance teachers.’
‘Not at waltzing, Susie,’ he said quietly. ‘At living.’
There was a brief, startled pause, then she said thickly, ‘You have a hell of a nerve.’
‘Famous for it,’ he agreed, without any visible signs of remorse.
‘Damn you—I have a very good life.’
‘Crammed with all kinds of goodies, I have no doubt,’ Jake said expressionlessly. ‘But that isn’t what I mean.’
Zanna lifted her chin, giving him a look that had originated well north of the Arctic Circle.
She said, coolly and precisely, ‘You may be well-versed in the inner workings of motor vehicles—although that has still to be proved—Mr—er...’
‘Jones,’ he supplied cordially. ‘As in Alias Smith and...’
Zanna bit her lip hard. That was not the name he’d given previously, she thought thunderously, but it seemed wiser, under the circumstances, to ignore it rather than call the matter into question.
‘But I suggest you lay off the human psychology,’ she went on, raising her voice a semitone. ‘At that you’re a total amateur.’
‘As I imagine you are yourself, Susie. At least at the things that matter.’ He gave her an edged grin. ‘Now let’s go and get some drinks.’
‘No, thanks,’ Zanna refused curtly. ‘I think I’d rather go back to the Black Bull.’
He had the audacity to laugh. ‘Don’t sulk.’ And, as her lips parted in furious negation, he added, ‘And don’t fib either. Just think of what Reverend Mother would have said.’
‘How did you know I went to a convent?’ she demanded suspiciously.
His smile widened. ‘Call it a lucky guess.’ He paused. ‘Besides, if you run away now you could miss out on a guided tour of Church House. Isn’t that worth enduring my company for a little while longer?’
He took her hand in his and led her round the edge of the floor to a room at the rear of the hall where the bar had been set up.
Bill Sharman was burly, with a beard and an infectious laugh.
‘Now then, Jake,’ he said jovially, giving Zanna an appraising look. ‘What can I get you both?’
‘A cold beer, please.’ Jake turned a questioning eye on Zanna. ‘The same for you, Susie?’
‘I don’t drink beer.’ Nor did it seem politic to drink any more alcohol when she needed to keep her wits about her. Glancing round, she spotted with relief several large glass bowls, filled with some innocuous-looking ruby liquid and awash with sliced apples, pears and oranges, standing on a side-table. ‘But I’ll try the fruit cup,’ she added, ladling some into a glass.
‘A good choice,’ Bill Sharman said cheerfully. ‘Trudy’s special brew. No dance here would be complete without it.’ He paused. ‘My wife tells me you’re spending the night with us.’
‘Yes, it wasn’t exactly a planned visit, but my car broke down and it’s taking Jake longer to fix it than I’d hoped.’
There was an odd silence, then Bill said, ‘Ah, you’ll be old friends, then?’
To her surprise, she found herself flushing. ‘Not really. I...’
‘Actually, we only met this afternoon when she walked into the garage.’ Jake broke smoothly into her flustered words. ‘And as she was at a loose end tonight I invited her here.’
‘Splendid,’ Bill approved, almost too heartily. ‘Great stuff. Have a wonderful evening.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled back at him. ‘And the fruit cup is delicious.’
It was, too, the flavours of the fruit mingling coolly and fragrantly with a hint of spice. Cinnamon? she wondered as she sipped again. And nutmeg, perhaps? It was difficult to tell, she decided, downing some more in the interests of scientific research.
Jake took the glass from her hand and placed it with his own on a convenient window-ledge.
‘Come and dance,’ he invited softly.
This time it was a slow foxtrot, and Zanna was astonished to find how quickly she picked up the steps. She was almost sorry when the tempo changed completely to a rollicking Gay Gordons, a progressive version, where she found herself being whirled round by a succession of different partners, leaving her laughing and breathless as the music ended with a triumphant flourish.
She looked instinctively to see where Jake was and saw him standing at the side of the dance floor, talking to a pretty redhead who was openly and unashamedly devouring him with her eyes.
Which was fine by her, thought Zanna, swallowing the remains of her fruit cup and starting back to the bar in search of a refill. Of course it was. Jake belonged to Emplesham, after all. He had a life here which would continue long after she was gone and forgotten.
A strange pang of something like regret assailed her at this thought, and was instantly suppressed.
Because she had a life too. A very different life from those led in this backwater, she told herself robustly. A life where she was needed—where she mattered.
She pinned on a resolute smile for Bill Sharman. ‘Dancing’s thirsty work,’ she said, plying the ladle.
‘Always was,’ he agreed, raising one eyebrow. ‘Take it easy if you’re not used to it.’
‘I’m fine,’ she returned airily. ‘Having the time of my life.’
Which, somehow, did not include watching Jake being eaten alive by pretty girls with red hair. An unwelcome realisation if ever there was one.
Dismissing it, she held out some money for her drink, but Bill shook his head.
‘That’s our contribution to the festivities—Trudy’s and mine. There’s no charge.’
They’d opened one of the side-doors, and she stepped through it and out into the cool darkness, fresh with the scent of newly mown grass. She stood, sipping her drink and looking up at the sky.
The new moon was still there, a pale silver crescent above the trees. The breeze lifted her loosened hair, brushing it against her cheek, the nape of her neck, like a caressing hand.
She moved uneasily, aware that she was shivering—not with cold but with a strange, unfathomable excitement.
You could wish on the moon, she thought hazily, remembering the old childish superstition. And if you turned a piece of silver over in your hand and bowed three times your wish would come true. But she had nothing to wish for.
And she knew, even as the thought took shape in her mind, that she was lying to herself.
She recognized with sudden, shocking clarity exactly what she would wish for—if only she dared...
She thought, I want this night never to end. I want to go on being Susie. I want...
And she stopped there, her mind closing against the unspoken, unutterable plea. All the breath seemed to leave her body in one gigantic, soundless gasp. She could feel the coins clenched in her hand, biting into her flesh.
The temptation to turn them over, to obey the ritual and accept whatever fate decreed would follow, was almost overwhelming.
Almost—but not quite. From some corner of her mind a remnant of sanity intervened to save her, reminding her precisely who she was and what, in fact, he was.
A total stranger, she thought stonily, gulping the sweetness and the pain of the night back into her starved lungs. A stranger, moreover, light years removed from her in background and aspiration. Someone she wouldn’t have given a second glance to in her busy London existence. Someone she’d been unwise to allow anywhere near her. Someone already well aware of the effect he had on women, as his redheaded admirer could probably attest.
She gave the moon one last look. You pathetic fool, she told herself savagely, and she turned to go back into the hall.
Only to yelp in fright as she cannoned into a tall figure standing behind her.
He steadied her without particular gentleness. ‘This is getting to be a habit. What the hell are you doing out here?’
‘Moongazing,’ she said. Her voice sounded odd, as though it didn’t belong to her. ‘I—I needed some fresh air.’
‘Trudy’s punch tends to have that effect,’ he said grimly. ‘Bill told me you’d been back for seconds.’ He took the empty glass from her hand and shook his head. ‘This stuff should carry a government health warning. Not to mention all the other things you drank during dinner.’
Zanna stiffened. ‘I hope you’re not implying...’
‘I’m stating a fact.’ His arm was like a band of steel round her waist as he guided her back into the hall. ‘From now on it’s orange juice for you, Susie, if you want to be fit to drive in the morning.’
She hung back, glaring at him. ‘Maybe I should just go back to the Black Bull and sleep it off.’
He snorted impatiently. ‘You’re really keen to be on your own again, aren’t you?’
No, she thought. Suddenly I’m not any more. and it scares me. I want to feel safe again—self-sufficient and sate—like I did yesterday, and all the days before that.
Aloud, she said stiltedly, ‘Look, I’m sure you had plans for tonight-people you wanted to meet here.’ She could see the redheaded girl watching them avidly from the other side of the room. ‘I must be spoiling things for you. If you’ll just introduce me to this caretaker friend of yours, I can leave you. to enjoy your evening.’
He looked at her for a moment, his brows drawn together in a frown, then he sighed abruptly. ‘Don’t run out on me, Susie. At least, not yet.’
The music had started again, another slow, beguiling waltz, and before she could think of a viable excuse Jake had swung her effortlessly into his arms and back onto the floor.
‘Relax.’ he said laconically into her ear as she stiffened. ‘Stop fighting me—and the world.’
His arms tightened, drawing her close against him. She felt the warmth of him penetrating through the layers of clothing to her own skin and beyond. Felt the frozen, frightened core hidden deep within her begin, unbelievably, to dissolve away, leaving something unknown, new and vulnerable in its place.
She knew that she should not—could not allow this to happen. That suddenly the danger she’d sensed was all around her, pressing on her, and that she had no one but herself to blame.
She knew also, and more disturbingly, that she wanted to press closer still. To bury her flushed face in the curve of his shoulder and breathe the unique male scent of him. To feel the harsh pressure of his lean, muscular body against her breasts, her belly, her thighs. To spread her hands against the powerful breadth of his back and reach up to touch the thick silky hair curling gently at the nape of his neck. To feel his mouth touching hers.
The need was bone-deep and desperate, but she knew she had to fight it if she was going to walk away from him tomorrow unscathed. As she had to do, she reminded herself.
She said, with a little nervous laugh, ‘Actually, you could be right about the alcohol. I—I didn’t realise. Maybe I should go back and sleep it off. As I have to drive tomorrow.’
There was a silence, then he said levelly, ‘Fine. I’ll get your jacket.’
Having him walk her back across the moonlit green wasn’t part of the plan at all.
She hung back. ‘I hardly need an escort. There can’t be many hidden perils in this village.’
‘Who can tell?’ His tone was brusque. ‘Anyway, I’m not prepared to take the risk.’
But the risk was all hers, Zanna thought numbly as he helped her on with her jacket. And the only real danger was right here beside her. Because no amount of punch, however lethal, could account for the way her blood seemed to sing in her veins, for the throbbing awareness of every sense, every nerve-ending in her body, as they started out through the scented darkness together.
She stumbled on a tussock of grass and instantly his arm went round her. ‘Careful.’
‘Oh, hell, my shoe’s come off.’ She scrambled frantically round with a stockinged foot.
‘And it’s not even midnight yet.’ There was amusement in his voice. ‘Keep still, Cinderella, and I’ll see if I can find it.’
‘We need a torch.’ Standing on one leg made Zanna feel undignified as well as giddy.
‘Something Prince Charming lacked too.’ Jake came back to her side. ‘I’ll continue the search later, when I have one, Susie. But in the meantime...’
Before she could utter a word of protest, he swung her up into his arms as easily as if she were a featherweight and carried her across the grass.
When she could speak, she said icily, ‘Put me down, please.’
He lowered her to the ground with almost insulting promptness. ‘Are you planning to hop the rest of the way?’
‘Of course not,’ she snapped, angrily aware of her racing pulses.
‘Then stop turning a problem into a crisis.’ He picked her up again, without ceremony, and set off.
‘You think you have an answer for everything,’ she said bitterly.
‘I often wish I had.’ She felt him lean forward to release the catch on a gate and looked round in swift alarm.
‘But this isn’t the Black Bull.’
‘Full marks for observation, Susie.’ He carried her up the path, then deposited her gently on the mat while he reached into his pocket for some keys. ‘You did say you wanted to look round Church House? Well, now’s your chance.’
‘But what right have you...?’ Her voice trailed away into stunned silence. Then, ‘My God,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s been you all the time, hasn’t it? You’re the caretaker. You’ve just been stringing me along all evening.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it.’
‘I hope,’ he said, gravely, ‘that you’re not going to reproach me, my dear Miss Smith, for not being entirely honest with you?’
His words seemed to hang in the air like a warning as he pushed open the front door, and turned to her. ‘Would you like me to lift you over the threshold?’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Zanna said stormily. ‘I’d like to go back to the inn.’
‘And so you shall.’ His voice was almost soothing as he urged her into the hallway. ‘Just as soon as we’ve had some coffee.’
‘I don’t want any bloody coffee.’
‘Well, I do, so tough.’ He opened a door, switched on lights, and Zanna found the house taking shape, coming to life before her just as she’d always imagined. In spite of herself she felt interest, excitement building inside her.
‘And I’d take off that other shoe,’ Jake added over his shoulder, walking into the kitchen. ‘You don’t want a sprained ankle to add to your other woes.’
‘At least you admit they exist.’
‘I imagine I’m responsible for most of them—in your eyes anyway.’ He filled a kettle and set it on the Aga to boil. ‘And while we’re on the subject I may as well confess that I finished your car this afternoon. It’s working perfectly again and I parked it at the Bull before I met you for dinner.’
Zanna stared at him, shoe in hand, momentarily mute with outrage. But only momentarily. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me this earlier?’
‘Because I had this perverse compulsion to dance with you, Susie. To see you smile. To discover if there was a softer layer under all that autocracy and aggression.’
‘Don’t think I’m flattered by your interest,’ she almost spat back at him. ‘I presume, now that you’re curiosity’s been satisfied, I’m free to get out of this dump?’
‘Not immediately.’ He collected pottery mugs from the dresser and spooned coffee into them. ‘Unless, of course, you actually want to lose your licence?’
The fact that his comment was quite justified did not improve Zanna’s temper.

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