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The Mistress of His Manor
CATHERINE GEORGE


A bride for Arnborough Hall When Joanna Logan meets gorgeous gardener March Aubrey he makes her heart flutter. But then she’s shocked to discover that not only does March manage the gardens of Arnborough Hall, he owns the entire estate! This changes everything for sensible Joanna – she can never consider being Lady Arnborough, and all the pressure that comes with the title.She must douse the flames of passion. But this lord wants her to be much more than just mistress of his manor…









His eyes held hers. ‘Did you get my messages?’


‘Yes. But I didn’t want to speak to you.’ She shrugged. ‘I still don’t, Lord Arnborough.’

His mouth twisted. ‘It’s just a title, Joanna. I’m still the same man.’

‘Rubbish,’ she spat at him with sudden heat. ‘You’re the umpteenth Baron Arnborough. And I assume the “sort of flat” you live in is a suite of apartments roped off from the public at the Hall. No wonder you laughed when I said I’d like to marry the heir.’

‘All right, Joanna. If you mean that, there’s nothing more to say. I am who I am. Thank you for supper. Again. I’ll be on my way.’

Jo leapt up in consternation. ‘No. Please. Don’t go yet.’

‘Why not?’

She glared in him resentfully. ‘You could at least try a little more persuasion.’

Suddenly very still, March raised an unsettling eyebrow. ‘If I do resort to persuasion, Miss Logan, it might not be to your taste.’

‘Try me.’


Catherine George was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading which eventually fuelled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the UK. And, instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, and browse in antiques shops.





The Mistress

of His Manor


by




Catherine George











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)




Chapter One


LOW afternoon sunlight was so dazzling after the gloom of the grafting house he fished dark glasses from a pocket as he walked past the potting sheds and greenhouses to skirt a virtual traffic jam of loaded trolleys on the main concourse. Excellent. Business was good. Even better, one of the trolleys was manned by a very attractive girl. He heaved a sigh as two men joined her, one of them holding a toddler by the hand. Damn. Not single, then. And years younger than her husband. Lucky dog. As he drew level the girl gave him a smile that stopped him in his tracks.

‘Could you give us directions, please? We need winter-flowering pansies.’

‘Of course. I’ll take you there,’ he said promptly. Or anywhere she wanted.

‘Thank you.’ She bent to kiss the child’s cheek. ‘You go with Daddy and Grandpa, poppet.’

‘Come with you,’ the little girl said mutinously.

‘Darling, you’re a bit hot, and it will be even hotter where the pansies live, so ask Daddy to buy you an ice cream.’

The magic words sent the child towards her father, beaming.

‘I’ll meet you all at the main entrance afterwards,’ called the mother, and turned to her guide. ‘Right—sorry to keep you hanging about.’

‘No problem at all,’ he assured her, and led her on a shamelessly roundabout route. Her husband could spare her for a minute or two, he told his conscience. When they finally reached the colourful display of pansies he commandeered an empty trolley and took his customer on a conducted tour.

She gave him the smile again. ‘How beautiful. You have the most gorgeous plants here.’

‘You come here often?’ Hell—couldn’t he have come up with something better than that?

‘No. First visit. My mother trusted pansy selection to me. She wants every shade of pink on offer, plus yellow and white.’

‘No violet?’ he said, surprised.

‘Apparently not. Thank you for your help,’ she added, ‘but you must be busy. I can manage now.’

‘I can spare a few minutes.’ Or hours. ‘You choose; I’ll load up.’

He eyed her covertly as she made her choice, sure he’d seen her somewhere before. But for the life of him he couldn’t remember where or when. She was certainly a pleasure to look at as she moved from tray to tray to pore over the blooms. Nothing size zero about this lady. She was delectably curvy in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, with a sweater knotted by its sleeves at her waist. The straight, heavy hair curving in below chin level was the exact sheen and colour of the conkers it would soon be his interminable job to help clear up, but the eyes she turned on him were dark, almond-shaped, and bright with that traffic-stopping smile again.

‘There,’ she said with satisfaction as he put the last tray on the trolley. ‘Time to call a halt before I break the bank.’

‘Our prices are very reasonable,’ he assured her. ‘Competitive, at least.’

‘I’m sure they are. But we rather went mad today before I even started on the pansies. And now I must find my way back to the tribe. Thank you so much for your help.’

‘My pleasure,’ he assured her, and summoned a hovering assistant. ‘Show the lady where to pay and take her back to the main entrance, please.’

‘You’ve been a long time,’ said her father, Jack Logan, when Jo rejoined the others. ‘Madam here was getting restless.’

‘Sorry. It was a really long way to the pansies.’ She grinned. ‘Funny thing, though, the way back was really short.’

Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Led up the garden path, were you?’

‘Literally.’ Her eyes danced. ‘Which is flattering. My guide was very tasty under all that earth.’

‘Tired,’ wailed a small voice.

Her father smoothed the dark curls from the little face burrowed against his shoulder. ‘All right, Kitty-cat, let’s go home to Mummy. We’ve stowed the other plants in the car already, Jo. Are you staying on to look over the Hall?’

She hesitated, not sure she still felt like it, but then nodded. ‘After making a fuss about driving myself here to do just that, I may as well. I’ll leave my car here and walk over to see how the other half lives.’

‘I could stay with you,’ her grandfather offered, but she shook her head and kissed him lovingly.

‘You look tired. Go home with Jack and Kitty, and tell Kate I did my best with the pansy selection. I’ll ring later to see how she is.’

‘I just hope she spent the afternoon in bed, as promised,’ said Jack, frowning.

‘If you’d stayed there with her she might have done,’ said Jo. ‘Grandpa and I could have brought Kitty to buy the plants.’

‘The idea was to get Kate to rest.’

‘So put Kitty to bed for her, then make a nice little supper for two.’

He smiled. ‘That was my plan, Miss Bossy. Are you going to share it with us?’

‘No. After my tour of the stately pile I’ll drive straight home to my place and get an early night.’ Jo reached up to kiss the drowsy child, then with a wave to her men set off along a carriageway that wound through undulating parkland for a longer distance than she’d expected before it reached the crenellated gatehouse of Arnborough Hall.

She bought a guidebook, handed over the substantial entrance fee, and then walked along a paved pathway through green velvet lawns to cross a moat so wide the ancient house appeared to float in it like an enchanted castle.

‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the last tour of the day,’ said a steward, when Jo entered the Great Hall. ‘But if you care to look round on your own, please do. Your guidebook gives the route.’

‘Thank you. I’ll do my best not to trespass.’ Jo gazed with pleasure at the lofty ceiling and the suits of armour in niches in the high stone walls. ‘It’s such an impressive space, yet the comfortable furniture gives it the feel of a huge, welcoming drawing room.’

The woman smiled. ‘That’s exactly what it is. On special occasions the family use it to entertain. Please take your time. Forty minutes yet before we close, and you’ll find stewards everywhere to answer questions.’

‘Thank you.’ Jo was only too happy to explore alone. Guidebook at the ready, she started in the library to admire its wealth of books and a pair of magnificent terrestrial and celestial globes. The room smelt of old leather sweetened by potpourri, and she paused, frowning a little, sure she’d seen a room like this before. She had the same feeling in a small formal drawing room with gilded furniture, and again in a lofty dining room with a long table laid for a banquet. By the time she reached the ballroom she was convinced she’d visited Arnborough Hall in a former life, and indulged in a pleasant little fantasy—imagining herself twirling around in waltz-time under its magnificent chandeliers.

With no time to follow the usual visitors’ route, she took a shortcut to a long gallery hung with her particular interest, the Hall’s valuable paintings, which included, so the guidebook told her, a rare portrait by Constable. The family portraits dated from as far back as the early Tudor period, and Jo studied each one at length. She spotted a possible Holbein, and farther on a Stuart Lely, and in the Georgian section her eyebrows rose when she found both a Gainsborough and a Lawrence. But she slowed to a halt under the Victorian portraits. The resemblance between the men of the family in the nineteenth century was not only marked, there was something familiar about them. She’d seen the distinctive features of the Victorian Lord Arnborough and his sons before somewhere. In that other life again? Creepy. She sighed as she checked her watch. Time was up.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ she apologised to the steward waiting to lock up in the Great Hall. ‘I should have started earlier. I had to miss part of it.’

‘Then do come again,’ said the friendly woman. ‘We have lots to offer in the run-up to Christmas, both here and at our garden centre.’

‘Thank you. I will. Goodbye.’

As Jo left the gatehouse she felt a leap of pleasure as she spotted a tall figure in the distance. Her hot gardener looked very different now, in clean, elderly jeans and a white T-shirt which clung to his broad shoulders and lean waist. His shaggy ink-black hair was damp round the edges, and he was minus the dark stubble and sunglasses. As he came close, smiling in recognition, she drew in a deep, surreptitious breath. His eyes were the dark amber colour she associated with lions. Hot was right. He scrubbed up really well.

‘Hello again,’ he said warmly. ‘You’ve been looking over the house?’

Jo nodded, smiling. ‘The others went straight home from the garden centre. I came under my own steam so I could look round the Hall afterwards.’

‘Will your husband have your little girl in bed by the time you get home?’

‘Actually that was my father, who looks far too young for the role, so I call him Jack. And Kitty’s my little sister. If you want the complete picture, the handsome older gentleman in the family group was my grandfather.’ To her delight a trace of colour showed along the knife-edge cheekbones.

‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said stiffly, then disarmed her with a grin. ‘On the other hand, the no husband part is good news—or is there some other contender lurking around somewhere?’

Jo laughed and shook her head. ‘No. I’m single.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Excellent—so am I! Let’s celebrate our single blessedness with a drink before you drive home.’

Jo blinked. ‘My word, you gardeners certainly don’t beat about the bush!’

He shook his head. ‘Life’s too short for that. So will you come? The Arnborough Arms is just down the road. I’m March, by the way.’ He held out a long brown hand.

She shook it formally. ‘I’m Joanna, and I’m thirsty, so the answer’s yes.’

‘Right, then, Joanna. If we cross the gardens at this point we can take a shortcut along a footpath.’

‘You obviously know the place well.’

‘Man and boy. Are you expected for dinner with your family?’

She shook her head. ‘I cooked lunch for them before we came, while Jack hovered around my mother—known to me as Kate, by the way—driving her mad by asking how she felt every few minutes.’

‘She’s under the weather?’

‘Expecting another baby soon,’ said Jo, sobering. ‘Lord knows how my father will cope this time—he was bad enough when Kitty was born.’ She pulled a face. ‘Sorry! Too much information.’

‘Not at all. You and your father have my sympathy.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled up at him. ‘By the way, I hope the pub boasts a comprehensive Ladies’ room. I feel a bit grubby. And you’ve obviously been home for a bath since I saw you last.’

‘Much needed,’ he said with feeling. ‘I’d been slaving away in the grafting house for hours.’ He took her by the waist to swing her over the stile at the end of the overgrown footpath. ‘Here we are: a couple of yards from the pub’s back door. Hang on a minute—I’ll have a word with the landlord.’

Jo watched as her new friend rapped at the closed door, then opened it to lean inside.

‘It’s not opening time yet?’ she asked, when he came back to collect her.

‘Open all day. I merely asked Dan if we could take over the back parlour to chat in peace. Otherwise you’ll get trampled on by people playing darts and so on.’

The pub was attractive, with black beams and white plastered walls. It was also deserted. Jo raised an eyebrow at her escort as he ushered her into a small room behind the bar. ‘Trampled on?’

‘Sure to be later,’ he said firmly. ‘So, what’s your fancy, Joanna?’

‘Grapefruit juice with lemonade and lots of ice, please.’

Their drinks were waiting on a table in a window embrasure when she rejoined March after her repair session.

‘I’ve been toiling all day, and I’m not driving, so I can indulge in a beer,’ he said, and raised his glass to her. ‘Your very good health, Joanna.’

‘Do you live near by?’

‘Just a short stroll, yes. How about you?’

‘An hour’s drive away.’ She sipped gratefully. ‘I was in need of that. Thank you.’

March leaned back, relaxed, his long legs stretched out. ‘What did you think of the Hall?’

‘It’s a glorious place. I don’t suppose the owner’s single by any chance?’ she said hopefully. ‘If so I’ll marry him and move in tomorrow.’

He laughed. ‘You liked it that much?’

‘It’s the atmosphere. Ancient though it may be, it feels like a home.’

‘Probably because the same family has lived there continuously from the fifteenth century.’

‘Really?’ She eyed him in awe. ‘What an incredible feat.’

‘Achieved because the succession swung from branch to branch a bit on the family tree, with the odd bridegroom taking on the bride’s family name to keep things going. Did you take a look at the portraits in the Long Gallery?’ he added casually.

‘Not all of them. My time ran out halfway through Victoria’s era.’

‘Oh, bad luck,’ he said, and sat back, relaxed. ‘So tell me, Joanna, what do you do with your life?’

She sighed. ‘You’ll laugh.’

His eyes gleamed again. ‘Why?’

‘Other men do.’

March sat erect. ‘I am not like other men,’ he assured her with grandeur, then eyed her speculatively. ‘Are you in entertainment of some kind?’

‘Nothing so exciting. Shortly after I qualified my father’s assistant left him to become a full time mother. He suggested I take over from her for a while until I decided what I wanted to do with my life. I liked the work from day one—still do—so there I am. Working for my father.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a builder.’ Which was true enough. Up to a point.

‘And you get on well together, obviously.’

‘Professionally we make a really good team.’ She smiled wryly. ‘But my private life worries Jack. At times he gets all patriarchal and heavy about wanting me to live at home with him and Kate.’

His lips twitched. ‘Why? Are you addicted to wild parties?’

‘I wish!’ She sobered. ‘No, actually, I don’t wish. I did that bit as a student. These days I lead a pretty ordinary life in my own little house near the park in town.’

March eyed her with respect. ‘Your father must pay you well, then.’ He threw up his hand like a fencer. ‘Sorry. Rude. Forget I said that.’

‘Actually, the house was a legacy. Where do you live?’ she asked.

‘In a sort of flat.’

Wondering what kind of money gardeners made—or didn’t—Joanna changed the subject. ‘Do you work every Sunday?’

‘When I’m needed, yes. But not so much from now on. Then in December it gets hectic again.’ He got up to collect her glass. ‘Same again?’

‘Yes, but it’s my round!’

‘I’ll bring you the tab.’ But when he came back with their glasses he handed her a menu. ‘How about supper before you drive home? Or do you have something else on tonight?’

‘No, not a thing.’ She smiled warmly. ‘Thank you. I’d like that. What’s on offer?’

‘Mainly salads on a Sunday evening. I can vouch for the ham. Trish, the landlord’s wife, roasts it herself.’

Jo had eaten so little of the lunch she’d cooked for her family the prospect was suddenly very appealing. ‘Then ham salad it is, please! But only if we go Dutch,’ she added firmly.

She waited until March had strolled off to place their order, then to put her mind at rest rang Kate.

‘Two Trish specials coming up,’ March informed her as she put her phone away.

Jo smiled at him. ‘I’ve just had a word with my mother, who feels better now, which means I can enjoy my meal. I was so worried about her at lunch that for once I didn’t eat much.’

‘Are you a good cook?’

‘Yes.’

He laughed. ‘No false modesty, then.’

She grinned. ‘Not a shred. I’ve always liked cooking. I’m good at it. How about you?’

‘I won’t starve, but it’s not my favourite pastime.’

‘That’s obviously gardening.’

To her surprise he shook his head. ‘I merely follow orders from the tyrant who oversees the grounds at the Hall.’

‘Is he elderly and curmudgeonly?’

‘No. He’s youngish and highly qualified—also the brain behind the garden centre.’

‘So when he says jump you jump?’

‘More or less. I’ve learnt a lot from him. Especially about roses.’

‘I was told they’re quite a feature here.’

March nodded. ‘And not just in the gardens at the Hall. We sold a lot of them in bush form at the garden centre today, ready to put in for next year. You must come back in high summer, when the roses are at their glorious best. Though Ed underplants them with all manner of things to create colour and form in the beds all year round. He’s an artist with colours. Did you look round outside?’

‘I didn’t have time.’

‘Come back tomorrow and I’ll beg an hour off to give you a tour.’

Jo grinned. ‘Is that some kind of spin on showing me your etchings?’

He let out a snort of laughter. ‘No. Though I do have an etching or two you could look at some time. But only when I know you much better.’

Jo chuckled, then looked up in anticipation as the landlord appeared with plates arranged and garnished with artistry. ‘This looks wonderful!’

‘Enjoy your meal,’ said the man, pleased, and exchanged a look with March. ‘The place is filling up, so just give me the nod if you need anything.’

The salads were accompanied by a platter of rustic bread which looked so appetising Joanna’s stomach growled. ‘Oops—sorry!’

March grinned. ‘Never mind the apologies—dig in. I’m starving.’

‘This is delicious,’ said Jo, tasting the ham. ‘Do you eat here a lot?’

‘Not as often as I’d like. But I indulge on a Sunday evening like this sometimes.’

‘It must be good to have a meal put in front of you if you’ve been working all day!’

He nodded. ‘Do you cook for yourself every night? Or do you have a succession of hopeful swains ready to wine and dine you?’

‘Afraid not,’ she said with regret. ‘I have friends I eat out with on a fairly regular basis, but most nights I rustle up something in my little nest, or I yield to persuasion and eat with Kate and Jack. Sometimes my grandfather as well.’

‘Does he live with your parents?’

‘No. He won’t budge from his own house. And, despite constant nagging from my father, I won’t budge from mine, either ‘

‘He’d like you under his eye at home?’

Jo nodded. ‘Fortunately Kate refuses to support Jack on this. She appreciates my need for a place—and a life—of my own.’

March’s lips twitched. ‘While your father harbours dark thoughts about what you get up to in your little house!’

‘Nothing tabloid-worthy,’ she assured him. ‘I just like having friends around—male or female—without his eagle eye on the proceedings. Would you fancy being watched all the time?’

‘No,’ he said, sobering, and eyed her empty plate in approval. ‘You enjoyed that?’

‘Absolutely—it was delicious. I’d quite like some coffee, please, and then I must be on my way. Monday tomorrow, and Jack demands punctuality from his employees, whether related or not.’

Rather to Jo’s surprise, March gathered up their plates himself and took them over to the bar when he ordered their coffee. As he eased into the seat again he leaned back at an angle to look into her face. ‘I’ve enjoyed this enormously, Joanna. Let’s do it again in some other location. Soon.’

She eyed him, taken aback. ‘When?’

‘I imagine tomorrow is probably rushing it a bit—how about Tuesday evening?’

She blinked. ‘That soon?’

The intent leonine eyes held hers. ‘After my session with you and the pansies I envied the man I took for granted was your husband,’ he said, startling her. ‘So when our paths crossed again I seized the day when I found you were unattached. As any man in his right mind would. So, then, Joanna—I’ll see you on Tuesday.’

‘Well—yes, all right,’ she said warily.

‘Excellent. Give me your telephone number and tell me how to get to your place. I’ll pick you up at seven.’ He glanced up. ‘Dan’s signalling. I’ll just fetch our coffee. As you can hear, it’s busy out there.’

When he got back March sat close enough for Jo to feel conscious, suddenly, of muscular tanned arms, and the scent of soap and warm man. Odd. None of this had registered before. But now March had made it clear this was to be no one-off occasion, she felt physically aware of him as the attractive male specimen he undoubtedly was.

‘Doesn’t anyone else use this parlour?’ she asked.

‘Not much on a Sunday.’

She eyed him militantly as she sipped her coffee. ‘Right, then. How much was the bill?’

‘Your turn to pay on Tuesday,’ he said promptly.

‘In that case don’t expect Michelin stars!’

‘The food is irrelevant,’ he said dismissively. ‘It’s the company that matters.’

‘I’ll give it some thought.’ She sighed as she glanced at her watch. ‘I really must go.’

‘I’ll walk you to your car.’

‘I’m afraid it’s parked all the way back at the garden centre.’

‘All to the good. Longer walk.’

She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Though not much longer than the trek you took me on to find the pansies!’

His eyes gleamed unrepentantly. ‘I swear I don’t make a practice of kidnapping married ladies. I persuaded myself that a few innocent minutes in your company hardly counted as adultery.’

Her lips twitched. ‘Surely adultery has to be consensual?’

‘No idea. That’s one sin I’ve never committed.’

‘Do tell about the others!’

‘On Tuesday,’ he promised.

Joanna sent her compliments to the chef when she said goodnight to the landlord. Outside in the starry darkness she shivered a little, and March helped her into her sweater, then took her hand as they walked down the quiet road leading to the garden centre.

‘In case you stumble in uncharted territory,’ he said lightly.

‘Now we’ve left the pub behind it’s so quiet here,’ she commented, enjoying the contact.

‘Too quiet sometimes. Occasionally I need a fix of city lights.’

She looked up at him. ‘You live alone?’

‘Yes, Joanna,’ he said amused. ‘As I told you, I’m single.’

‘You could be living with your mother,’ she suggested cheekily.

‘She died some years ago; my father more recently.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Joanna squeezed his hand, full of sympathy for anyone who lacked parents. ‘Thank you for the meal, March. I enjoyed it—and the evening—very much.’

He smiled down at her as they reached her car. ‘So did I. A pity you have to go home so early.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven on Tuesday.’

In her car mirror Jo could see March standing under the overhead light, watching her out of sight. She drove home in a thoughtful mood. It was useless to pretend she hadn’t been delighted with everything about the entire evening, including March’s demand to repeat it so soon. The unruly hair and easy laid-back manner—and those eyes—appealed to her strongly. He’d been so easy to talk to she’d been more forthcoming about herself than usual. Nevertheless, she had an idea that a very strong personality lay behind the effortless charm. No Jekyll and Hyde stuff—just a feeling that there was far more to him than met the eye—like a surname, she thought suddenly. Or maybe March was his surname. She’d forgotten to ask.




Chapter Two


WHEN she turned into Park Crescent later, Jo felt her usual rush of pleasure as she drew up outside her house. As simple as a child’s drawing, its white walls glimmered under the street lamp, and a welcome shone through the fanlight over the blue door, due to her father’s insistence on security lights. Until she’d been old enough to live here alone the house had been let out to tenants, but the moment the final lease had terminated Tom Logan had begun redecorating the entire house for his adored granddaughter, delighted that she’d chosen to revert to the original paint colours she’d helped choose for it in her teens.

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.’

‘Did you contribute any ideas?’

‘Several. Who knows? Ed may even use some of them.’

Jo laughed. ‘He’s obviously very full of himself, this horticultural genius.’

March shook his head. ‘Genius, yes, but Ed’s not full of himself at all. He just loves his work. So, what have you done today?’ he added.

‘I’ve been chasing up suppliers and contractors.’ She pulled a face. ‘Much smoothing over was necessary. The boss was a bit abrasive yesterday.’

‘And you won them over?’

‘Of course—you catch more flies with honey!’ She jumped up as her alarm went off. ‘Time to put dinner together.’

He got up quickly. ‘I’ll come with you.’

Joanna shook her head. ‘At this stage I work better alone. Why don’t you read the paper for five minutes until I call?’

March opened the door for her. ‘I’d be only too happy to help.’

‘I may take you up on that later.’

Left alone, March took a look round the room, hoping to learn more about Joanna from her taste in literature. An alcove alongside the fireplace held an eclectic mix of classics, large illustrated books on fine art, and rows of paperback bestsellers with the accent on gruesome crime. No romantic fiction. He pulled out a dog-eared anthology of poems, and grinned as he saw the flyleaf. Joanna Sutton, Form 3A. He put it back and moved on to the watercolour studies grouped on two of her walls. He nodded, impressed. The subtle tints were exactly right for the understated charm of the room.

March turned as the door opened. ‘I was just admiring your artwork.’

Joanna smiled. ‘Good, aren’t they? All local scenes. A talented friend of mine painted them. Right, then, come with me—dinner is served.’

In the small dining room candles flickered in crystal holders to highlight the central platter of colourful vegetables surrounding a golden-crusted Beef Wellington.

‘What a wonderful sight,’ said March in awe.

‘Do sit down.’ Jo filled their glasses, then took up a carving knife. ‘I should have done this in the kitchen, but I wanted you to see my creation in all its glory first.’

‘Glory is the right word,’ he agreed, as she served him a substantial slice of rare beef encased in perfect crisp pastry.

‘Help yourself to the rest,’ said Joanna. She served herself, then sat down and held up her glass. ‘Happy eating.’

March raised his own. ‘To the beautiful chef.’

They fell on the food with equal enthusiasm. ‘I enjoy my own cooking,’ she admitted. ‘My artist friend, Isobel James, cooks great meals. But, unlike me, by the time she gets them to the table she can never eat much herself.’

‘This is superb,’ said March indistinctly. ‘It would be tragedy if you couldn’t eat it. What’s the bit between the meat and pastry?’

‘Duxelle of mushrooms. Nice, isn’t it?’

‘Nice? It’s glorious!’

‘Have some more.’ Joanna got up to serve him.

‘Who taught you to cook like this?’ March asked. ‘Your mother?’

Joanna shook her head. ‘I learned this kind of thing from Molly Carter, who used to be Jack’s cook and housekeeper before he married Kate. Molly owns a restaurant in town these days.’

‘I’ll take you there next time, then,’ said March promptly, and grinned at the look on her face. ‘Or am I breaking the speed barrier again?’

‘Not exactly.’ She smiled. ‘But let’s enjoy this evening before we move on to the next.’

‘Enjoy is the word.’ He applied himself to the rest of his dinner. ‘Tell me more about yourself, Joanna. I noticed several books on art on your shelves.’

‘I did Fine Art in college for a while.’

‘Where?’

‘Oxford.’ She put down her knife and fork and drank some wine.

‘Weren’t you happy there?’

Her face shadowed. ‘In the beginning I loved it, but it didn’t work out for me. So at the end of the first year I left the dreaming spires and came back here to take a business course at the local technical college.’

March eyed her with respect. ‘That must have been a big adjustment after Fine Art at Oxford.’

‘It certainly was.’

‘It must have helped to have this house to get back to?’

She shook her head. ‘I had to wait for the tenant’s lease to expire before I could move in.’

‘You lived with your parents until then?’

‘For almost a year.’ She smiled at him wryly, her eyes bright in the flickering candlelight. ‘I’d been away at school since I was eight, and went straight from there to Oxford. No gap year for me. So, much as I love my parents, it was quite an adjustment to live permanently at home in Mill House.’ Hey, watch it, she warned herself, and collected the plates to change the subject. The man was so easy to talk to she’d be telling him all her secrets if she wasn’t careful. Not her usual policy with someone she knew so little. Or even with people she knew well. She smiled brightly. ‘I didn’t have time to make a pudding, but I can give you cheese with home-made biscuits—another of Molly’s recipes.’

March got up, curious about the shutter she’d suddenly pulled down between them. Ignoring her protests, he picked up the heavy platter to follow her into the kitchen.

He was obviously someone used to doing things for himself, noted Jo, and it was making her more and more curious about him. ‘Just leave it on the counter,’ she told him. ‘I don’t put this in the dishwasher.’

‘I’m good at washing up. Let’s do it now.’

She shook her head. ‘If there’s a next time, you can do it then.’

‘Next time,’ he said, moving closer, ‘I’ll take you out to dinner. But,’ he added deliberately, ‘I’ll insist on washing up the time after that. Shall I take the cheese in?’

‘Thank you. I’ll make some coffee.’ Glad to be alone for a moment, Jo frowned while the coffee-maker did its thing. She liked this relaxed, self-assured man very much, but the way he took so much for granted was a bit unnerving. She smiled wryly. On the other hand it was only human to feel gratified when a man of March’s calibre made it so plain he was interested in her.

‘I couldn’t resist trying your biscuits,’ he confessed when she rejoined him. ‘You’re a very talented cook, Joanna. Have you ever thought of it as a career?’

She pulled a face. ‘Lord, no. When I came back here after—after Oxford, I worked for Molly that summer, then did weekends and holiday periods for her when I started the new course. So I know what fiendishly hard work it is. I enjoy a little social entertaining now and then, but that’s as far as it goes.’

‘Who do you entertain?’

‘Josh and Leo Carey mostly—twin brothers I’ve known for years. And I don’t exactly entertain them—just feed them whenever they’ve got an hour off. Then there’s Isobel, the artist whose work you liked. We met at a party when we were thirteen, and we’ve been firm friends ever since. She lives in an attic flat above the art gallery she manages in town.’

March looked at her steadily. ‘But no boyfriend for you, Joanna?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘If there were you wouldn’t be here tonight.’

‘Point taken. But you’re a pleasure to look at, gainfully employed, you own a jewel of a house—and you cook like an angel.’ He spread his hands. ‘Why hasn’t some man snapped you up long since?’

Joanna kept her eyes on the coffee she was pouring. ‘Because I don’t want to be snapped up.’

‘Is that written in stone?’ He took the cup she handed him. ‘Because be warned, Joanna. I intend to know you better. Much better.’

‘Are you suggesting we become lovers?’ she said bluntly.

March drained his cup and set it down with a click. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘I had to ask.’

‘Well, now you have. And, since we’re calling a spade a spade here, I won’t pretend the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.’ His eyes speared hers. ‘But that’s not my reason for being here tonight. I came to enjoy your company, so relax. I don’t have any shortcuts to paradise in mind right now. These twins you mentioned,’ he added. ‘Since they eat here regularly, I take it neither of them aspires to a closer relationship with you?’

Joanna shook her head, kicking herself for bringing the subject up. ‘They’re like brothers. I’m very fond of them, but they irritate me sometimes, too.’

‘Because they’re men?’

‘Right.’ She smiled crookedly. ‘The only man I know who never irritates me is my grandfather.’

‘Not your father?’

‘Jack’s too dictatorial not to irritate me sometimes, but I love him just the same.’

‘Fortunate man.’ March raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘So, Joanna, where do we stand, you and I?’

She thought it over. ‘I’d like us to be friends,’ she said cautiously.

‘Then we will be. Your house is a surprise,’ he added, stretching out his long legs.

‘In what way?’

‘Because you look like modern woman personified I expected contemporary furnishings and abstract art.’

Jo chuckled. ‘Anachronism in a nineteenth century house, March. Besides,’ she added, ‘this is how the house was when it was made over to me. I helped Kate choose the paint colours and some of the furnishings eleven years ago. When I was thirteen,’ she said demurely, ‘in case you’re wondering. But the chairs and some of the other pieces in the house belonged to the aunt who left it to Kate. How about you?’ she added. ‘Is your place all minimalist and leather?’

‘God, no—anything but!’ March’s eyes fastened on hers. ‘So. Now it’s established that my intentions are honourable, when can I see you again?’

‘Next week?’

March jumped up and pulled her to her feet and into his arms. ‘This weekend,’ he said firmly, and planted a kiss on her lips. He raised his head to look into her eyes, then kissed her again. ‘Saturday. Make a reservation for two at your friend Molly’s.’

Jo nodded rather than trust her voice.

He smiled triumphantly. ‘Good. I’ll ring you to find out the details. And now I’d better leave—before you change your mind.’

‘I won’t. How about some more coffee before you go?’ she suggested, surprised by how much she wanted him to stay a while.

‘Wonderful idea,’ he said, as he opened the door for her, giving thanks that he hadn’t frightened her off by kissing her. It had been a risk worth taking.

To Jo’s relief March did not follow her to the kitchen, which gave her time to recover from the kisses which, though brief, she could still feel like a brand on her mouth. He turned with a smile as she returned to the parlour with two mugs of coffee.

‘Your taste in literature is unexpected, Joanna.’

‘Ah, but I keep the cookbooks in the kitchen, and my romances and Georgette Heyers lurk upstairs in my little study! I enjoy a happy ending as much as any other female.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ He took one of the mugs, impressed to find his coffee was black with a touch of sugar. ‘Perfect. You’re a very efficient hostess.’

‘Molly says the details are important, so I try to remember the various tastes of my guests. Not,’ Jo added wryly, ‘that it matters with the Carey twins. They eat whatever I put in front of them.’

March returned to the sofa. ‘You’ve known them a long time?’

‘Ten years or so. I met them at a very sad time in my young life, and they were a huge help.’

‘What happened?’

She looked at him for a moment. ‘Like your etchings, that’s best left until I know you better.’

‘Which,’ he informed her very deliberately, ‘you will do. And sooner rather than later—Miss Sutton.’ He grinned at her startled look. ‘I investigated your taste in poetry just now. Your name was on the flyleaf.’

‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Which reminds me: I still don’t know your other name.’

He drained his coffee mug and stood up. ‘It’s Aubrey. And now I really must go. I have a lot to do tomorrow.’

‘Back in the grafting house again?’

‘No. The weather forecast is good for the next week, which means I’m on grass-cutting detail while the weather holds.’

Jo stared at him in awe. ‘It’s your job to cut all that grass?’

‘Afraid so.’ He grinned. ‘Did you imagine I got this tan in Barbados?’

She eyed him in sudden doubt. ‘Look, we don’t have to go to Molly’s on Saturday. There are other places to eat—I could even drive to your local again.’

‘Absolutely not. It’s too far for you at that time of night.’ He moved closer. ‘Joanna, I swear I can spring for dinner for two with no problem—even at your friend Molly’s establishment.’

She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, March.’

‘But you did,’ he said promptly. ‘You wounded my male pride. So kiss it better, please.’ He took her in his arms and tipped her face up to his. ‘Just a nice, friendly kiss between friends to say you’re sorry.’ But when their lips met the kiss heated to a long way short of mere friendly before he finally released her.

‘Thank you again, Joanna,’ he said, in tones very different from his usual lazy drawl. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Drive safely.’




Chapter Three


JOANNA cleared away in thoughtful mood. So he was March Aubrey. While he thought she was Joanna Sutton. Which she had been—at one time. But to explain would mean taking March into confidences about her adoptive parents. Far too personal with someone she’d known such a short time. Perhaps she should go back to Arnborough Hall Nurseries and make a few discreet enquiries before she got too involved. Because involved she was likely to be if she went on seeing March Aubrey on a regular basis. She hadn’t been kissed like that in a long time. Or ever.

Jo gave a sigh of relief later as she slid into the beautiful sleigh bed which had been part of Kate’s legacy from her aunt who, though single all her life, had probably not, according to Kate, been a maiden aunt. Definitely not, thought Jo, stretching. A bed like this was made for lovers. Which was why she made sure no male guest ever laid eyes on it. But the sudden thought of sharing the bed with March Aubrey was so unsettling she arrived at Logan Development next morning with shadows under her eyes.

‘The gardener kept you out late last night?’ said her father affably.

‘No,’ she said with truth.

‘Did you have a good meal?’

‘Yes.’ Also truthful. ‘How’s Kate this morning?’

Jack’s eyes, rimmed with darker marks of fatigue than hers, met hers unhappily. ‘She’s very tired. A man feels so bloody helpless at times like this—not to mention guilty. Which,’ he added hastily, ‘is hardly something to discuss with my daughter.’

‘Jack,’ she said gently. ‘Stop worrying. Loads of women have babies in their forties these days.’

‘I know, but because it’s my woman it doesn’t help.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘All right. Let’s get to work. What’s first up in the diary?’

The diary was full and the day was hectic. Jo was glad. It helped keep her mind off March. But only temporarily. When she got home a van marked with the logo of Arnborough Hall Nurseries was parked near her house. A young man emerged from it, eyeing her hopefully as he held out a giant sheaf of flowers.

‘Miss Joanna Sutton?’

‘Yes.’ More or less.

‘These are for you.’

‘How lovely. Thank you.’ Jo let herself into the house as the van drove away, eager to read the card tucked into the blooms.

With my thanks. Until Saturday. March.

As if she needed reminding. Jo eyed the extravagant bouquet in disapproval, hoping March had been given a discount at the nurseries for something so pricey. It was also a long way for delivery, which added to the expense. She must make it plain on Saturday that extravagant gestures like this were unnecessary. A text to say thank you for the meal would have done. Jo arranged the flowers in a tall ceramic pot, set the spectacular result on the floor under the parlour window, and then sent a text of thanks to March, before hurrying upstairs to exchange her office suit for jeans and sweatshirt. After that it was straight back out to drive to Mill House and play with Kitty, then take over bathtime duty while their parents enjoyed a peaceful predinner drink together.

‘Mummy’s going to buy a baby soon,’ announced Kitty, when Jo was helping her into her pyjamas.

Oh, boy. As far as Jo knew the subject hadn’t been mentioned to Kitty before. ‘How wonderful,’ she said brightly, lifting her onto her lap. ‘You’ll like having a baby brother or sister.’

‘Mmm.’ Kitty sighed as she snuggled close. ‘But I can’t choose.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Jo carefully, smoothing the dark curls. ‘Either one will be lovely.’

‘That’s what Daddy said. Will you read me a story?’

‘Of course I will. The one about the little bear?’

‘I wish I’d gone with you on Sunday,’ said Kate later, over supper. ‘But it’s such a trek to Arnborough. I’ve never been to the new garden centre there—nor, oddly enough, to the Hall itself. Is it worth a visit, Jo?’

‘Definitely. Fabulous old house, dreamy gardens—you’d love it. I’m going back myself some time, to see the bits I missed. I got there too late to see everything.’

‘Because she took so long to choose your pansies,’ Jack told his wife. ‘We were about to send out a search party by the time she got back.’

‘I wasn’t that long,’ protested Jo, laughing. ‘And you must admit they were first-class plants, Kate. They look fabulous in those stone troughs.’

‘Don’t they just! Grandpa put them in for me.’ Kate shot a look at her daughter. ‘So, are you seeing this gardener of yours again?’

‘Yes. Saturday. I’ve made a reservation at Molly’s.’

‘So Molly gets to meet him before we do,’ commented Jack. ‘You’d better bring him here some time, too, so we can look him over.’

‘No,’ said Jo flatly.

‘Why not?’ asked Kate mildly. ‘Are you ashamed of us?’

‘No, of course not.’ Jo got up to collect plates. ‘You’re just not up to it right now, Kate. Besides, if he comes here and sees this place, and the penny drops about Logan Development and so on, it could embarrass him.’

‘Or,’ said Jack with edge, ‘he might think he’s landed in the honey pot.’

Jo glared at him. ‘Always a possibility. Either way, I won’t be inviting him home to meet the family any time soon. Thanks just the same.’

Jo couldn’t get her father’s words out of her head when she was in bed that night. March, who lived in a ‘sort of flat’, had been impressed enough by her place. Heaven knew how he’d react to huge, spacious Mill House, which Jack had restored so magnificently that articles on it featured in magazines. Jo sighed. She wanted March to like her for herself, not for any expectations he might think she had. She’d been down that road before. She tossed and turned restlessly as she remembered how quick he’d been to veto a return visit to the Arnborough Arms. He obviously didn’t want her back on his home ground, either.

It was a trying week. Jack’s honey pot syndrome occupied her so much that at one stage Jo even considered ringing March to cancel. But then she’d have to explain why. To her surprise—and mounting disappointment—she heard nothing from March all week. When he finally rang her on the Friday evening she tensed, sure he was about to pre-empt her and do the cancelling himself.

‘How are you, Joanna?’ he asked.

‘A bit weary. End of the week and all that. How about you?’

‘Very tired of grass. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’

‘On what?’

‘For waiting until now to ring you. Are you impressed by my restraint?’

‘Yes,’ she said, laughing, suddenly so happy to hear that deep, drawling voice she didn’t care why he liked her as long as he did. ‘Deeply impressed.’

‘Did you miss me?’

‘Yes.’

There was silence for a moment. ‘I wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘if you realise how that makes me feel.’

‘Pleased, I hope.’

‘Massive understatement.’

‘That’s nice. I booked with Molly by the way,’ she added. ‘Seven-thirty for eight.’

‘Good. I’ll be with you at seven.’

‘Do you have more grass to cut before you come?’

‘No, thank God. Hand weeding tomorrow.’

‘No day off after all that grass?’

‘Not a chance. Nor do I want one. The time would drag too much until I see you again. What will you do with your Saturday morning?’

‘Kate has insisted that Jack play a round of golf with Grandpa tomorrow, to de-stress, so to make sure he does that I’ll keep her company and play with Kitty—who now knows about the baby. I think she hankers after a little sister.’

He chuckled. ‘How about you?’

‘I just want a healthy baby and my mother in good shape.’

‘Amen to that! Goodnight, Joanna.’

‘Goodnight, March.’

Next day Jo played with Kitty for most of the morning, as planned, then ate the sandwich lunch Kate made for them. When Jack and her grandfather arrived, Jo put up with more teasing about her date, then drove off to do some food shopping, and took a detour on the way home to have a word with Molly. The restaurant was ideally situated, halfway along a sidestreet of exclusive shops, with a solitary initial ‘M‘ in gold on the glass door. Having timed her visit until well after the lunchtime rush, Jo smiled at the handsome man who came hurrying to greet her.

‘Molly in the back?’

‘As always.’ Angelo kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You are very beautiful today, Joanna.’

‘Thank you, Angelo. So are you.’

He grinned and kissed his fingers to her as she went through to the spotless kitchen, where Molly Carter was directing her minions through preparations for the evening’s menu like a general readying troops for battle. She looked up with a broad smile.

‘Hi! So who are you bringing here tonight, then, love? Is it a celebration? Don’t tell me you’re marrying one of the twins!’

Jo shook her head, grinning. ‘I’d have to marry both of them, and I don’t think that’s allowed. It’s not a celebration tonight. Just dinner for two.’

‘I know that!’ said Molly impatiently. ‘But is your date a man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Do I know him?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. I don’t know him that well myself.’

Molly checked the stock one of her crew was making, then looked up at Jo, her eyes narrowed. ‘Nice?’

‘Very. So I want something special. What have you got?’

‘All my food is special,’ retorted Molly. ‘But the sea bass is exceptional, and the saddle of lamb had such a good slug of gin in the marinade the meat will melt in the mouth.’ She frowned. ‘Why don’t you cook a meal for him yourself? Lord knows I taught you well enough.’

‘I did that last week. Beef Wellington.’

‘Showy, but reliable. Did he like it?’

‘He certainly ate a lot of it.’ Jo hesitated. ‘The thing is, Moll, he thinks my name is Sutton, and for now I want him to keep thinking that. So has Angelo booked me down as Logan?’

Molly eyed her quizzically. ‘What are you playing at, my girl?’

‘I’d just rather my date didn’t know I was Jack’s daughter—for a while, anyway.’

‘Ah! You want to be loved for yourself, not Daddy’s cash. All right. I’ll brief Angelo and ask him to reserve one of the parking spaces outside. Now, tell me, how’s Kate?’

By the time the doorbell rang that evening, prompt to the minute at seven, Jo had changed her dress once, her earrings twice, and persuaded herself that she would be happy in the redsoled black shoes which added five inches to her height and a touch of glamour to last year’s little black dress. She took in a deep breath, then opened it to smile at March, who was even browner of face than before, but with hair newly trimmed, and impressive in a formal dark suit.

‘Good evening, Miss Sutton.’ He gave her a comprehensive look from head to toe and bent to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘You look delectable.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, and closed the door. ‘I really must thank you again for the flowers. They were very extravagant, but I won’t scold you this time.’

He frowned as he followed her into the parlour. ‘You don’t like flowers?’

‘Of course I do, but you shouldn’t have gone to such expense. A text to say thank you would have been quite enough.’

He looked down his nose at her with hauteur, which was not, she saw with dismay, meant as a joke. ‘Enough for you, possibly, but not for me. I was simply expressing my appreciation.’

‘Oh, dear, I’ve offended you again.’

‘Yes.’ He moved closer, the hauteur heating to a predatory gleam. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

She backed away. ‘If I kiss you better I’ll ruin all my hard work!’

‘Which would be a shame.’ He ran a finger down her cheek. ‘Apply the necessary balm later. When I bring you home.’

‘I’ll consider it. Would you like a drink?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll save myself for a glass of wine over dinner. Does your friend Molly keep a good cellar?’

‘Her front-of-house man sees to that side of the business. The restaurant has quite a name for its wine list.’

‘Then, if my lady is ready, shall we?’ March smiled at her, and Jo smiled back, amazed, now, that she had even thought of cancelling their evening.

Outside, March handed Jo into an E-type Jaguar so far from its first youth it was almost a museum piece.

‘You’ve had this a long time?’ she commented as they headed for town.

‘Since I was old enough to drive.’ He patted the steering wheel. ‘Temperamental sometimes, but I love her just the same. Now, give me directions, please.’

March was impressed when he saw the reserved sign in a parking place right outside the restaurant.

‘So you’ll be able to keep an eye on her all evening,’ teased Jo as March helped her out.

‘Certainly not. I shall be keeping my eye—both eyes—on you,’ he assured her as they entered to a warm welcome from Angelo.

‘Joanna, cara!’ He gave her his usual double kiss.

‘Hi, Angelo, this is March Aubrey.’

‘Good to meet you,’ said March, holding out his hand.

‘Piacere,’ said Angelo, shaking it enthusiastically. ‘Welcome.’ He led them to one of the twin bay windows, and seated Joanna with a flourish at the last unoccupied table in the buzzing restaurant.

‘I shall send someone to give you menus, but do not order drinks. Champagne waits ready chilled for you. On the house, with Molly’s compliments,’ he added.

‘How lovely—do thank her for us,’ said Joanna.

‘VIP treatment,’ commented March, impressed, as Angelo went off to summon a waiter.

‘Partly because I used to work here,’ Jo informed him. ‘And partly to impress the first-time customer who’s paying tonight.’

‘Is that still worrying you, Joanna?’

‘No. So stop looking down your nose at me.’

He grinned and sat back as a waitress put a carafe of water on the table, slid menus in front of them and then gave way to a waiter bearing champagne in an ice bucket. March looked on with approval as the man held the cork and twisted the bottle, and achieved a perfect wisp of smoke instead of a loud pop.

‘What do you recommend, Joanna?’ asked March, when they were left to study the menus.

‘I’ve never eaten any meal here that was less than delicious,’ she told him, fervently hoping that tonight would be no exception.

Eventually they both chose crab soufflé tarts to start, followed by the gin-tenderised lamb, and as they sat back to enjoy their champagne Angelo appeared with an amuse bouche—a liqueur glass of iced tomato consommé.

‘Enjoy your meal,’ he said, and retreated to his post to keep an expert eye on the crowded room.

‘That packed quite a punch,’ remarked March, eying the empty glass with respect. ‘A hint of vodka?’

Jo nodded. ‘And a pinch of cayenne—maybe even chilli.’

‘Augurs well for the rest of the meal.’ March raised his champagne glass in toast. ‘What shall we drink to?’

‘Friendship,’ she said firmly.

He smiled and touched his glass to hers. ‘Close friendship.’

To Jo’s relief the meal was everything she had hoped for. When Molly joined them at the end of it, bearing petit fours to accompany their coffee, March rose to thank her for the champagne, and said, with complete sincerity, that the only meal he’d enjoyed as much in recent memory had been Joanna’s Beef Wellington.

‘Why, thank you,’ said Molly, her face flushed with pleasure. ‘I taught her well, didn’t I?’

Molly stayed chatting for a while, then left to talk with the other diners on her way back to her domain.

‘You see now why I refused pudding,’ said Joanna, eyeing the selection of petits fours.

‘She’s quite a surprise,’ said March, watching Molly’s progress.

‘Because she’s small and blonde?’

‘No, because she’s so young.’

‘Molly must be thirty-three or so now. But she’s always had tunnel vision about owning her own restaurant.’ Joanna smiled. ‘Her success was never in doubt, according to Jack.’

‘He was right. Is a full house the norm here for a Saturday night?’

‘It’s the norm most nights—and Christmas is frantic. Molly does a sideline in seasonal corporate parties and so on, but she would never let me help out at those.’ Jo pulled a face. ‘She kept me firmly in the kitchen, so I refined my cooking skills instead of getting my bottom pinched. Though things rarely get out of hand. Molly’s a terror if anyone hits on one of her girls—or boys, if it comes to that.’

March smiled. ‘And what role does Angelo play?’

‘Peace-keeper. He’s the arch-soother of ruffled feathers—including hers. And don’t be fooled by the movie star looks. He’s got a great head for business, plus an encyclopaedic knowledge of wine. He’s also her partner in private.’

“And that works?’

‘Like a charm. Even Molly admits he’s the one person who can handle her.’

March glanced over to the bar, where Angelo was laughing with some departing customers. ‘You’re right about the looks.’

‘He’s also really loving and funny. They suit each other.’ Jo smiled at him. ‘Shall we have more coffee at home?’

March rose with alacrity. ‘I’ll just settle up.’

As she chatted to Angelo, Jo couldn’t help noticing that March paid the not inconsiderable amount, including a sizeable tip for the staff, in cash, instead of the usual credit card. Not that she would spoil things by mentioning it.

On the way home she couldn’t help wondering if he meant to seize her the moment they were through her door, demanding balm for the wound she’d dealt to his pride earlier. But March merely took her key to unlock her door, then followed her to the kitchen to watch while she made coffee.

‘That was a superb meal,’ he commented. ‘Your friend Molly’s right up there with the best in chef terms. And yet you say she worked for your father before she struck out on her own?’

‘Yes. Jack took her on straight out of catering college. She says she honed her skills on him.’

March hefted the tray to follow her to the parlour, but before he could start doing sums about Molly and her father Jo preempted him with a question of her own.

‘Do you have any siblings, March?’

He took the coffee she offered him and sat down. ‘One sister a couple of years my junior, married to a film producer, and a brother several years younger,’ he added, sobering.

‘Is he a gardener, too?’

‘No.’

Jo waited, but when he said nothing more she drank her coffee in silence, trying not to feel offended.

‘He was in a car accident when he was in college,’ said March at last.

‘Was he badly hurt?’

‘Severe concussion, broken jaw and a mangled leg. The driver got off with a few cuts and bruises, loss of licence and a charge of dangerous driving. He was lucky to get away with a heavy fine instead of a custodial sentence.’

Jo eyed him with compassion. ‘That must have been terrible for you.’

‘I don’t want another phone call like the one I received that night,’ he agreed fervently. ‘When my father and I got to the hospital my brother was delirious, muttering wildly about some friend through the metal clamp holding his jaw together. The driver had been sedated, so I couldn’t check with him, but the police assured me that no one else had been in the car. By the time he was better Rufus had no recall of the accident at all, so I didn’t bring the subject up again.’

‘What happened afterwards?’ asked Jo, her heart thumping.

‘Rufus had been doing a Fine Art course, so the neurologist encouraged him to paint as therapy. It worked. When he was well enough my sister took him off to Italy to convalesce, and Rufus decided to resume his studies there instead of returning to Oxford. He’s very talented. But for him that entire night, the events that led up to it, and most of his stay in hospital still remain a complete blank.’ March thrust a hand through his hair, frowning as he saw the look on her face. ‘I’m sorry, Joanna. I didn’t mean to put a damper on our evening.’

‘Did you search for this friend you mentioned? Do you think he was to blame?’

‘No. I simply thought if I could set Rufus’ mind at rest about the friend it would help him recover.’

She braced herself. ‘What was the name he kept repeating?’

‘Joe Logan.’

Although she’d known, deep down, what his answer would be, the words struck her like a blow to the heart.

March eyed her with concern. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m afraid that’s me.’ She met his eyes bravely. ‘I’m Jo Logan.’

‘What?’ March stared blankly.

‘I’m Jo Logan,’ she repeated unhappily.

‘You said your name was Sutton!’

‘No, I didn’t. You saw that in my school book. Sutton was the name of my adoptive parents. When I was thirteen they died, and I came to live with Kate. When she married Jack Logan I took his name.’

March’s eyes suddenly hardened. ‘So you knew Charles Peel, the driver?’

Jo nodded miserably. ‘Oh, yes, I knew Charlie. He was my boyfriend at the time. I was supposed to be in the car that night, too, but I wouldn’t set foot in it because Charlie was well over the limit. As usual. I did everything I could to make him see sense, even fought him physically for the keys, but we had such a blazing row he pushed me away and roared off in a rage to pick up a friend. I knew his friend as Red…’ Jo halted, biting her lip.




Chapter Four


‘THAT was the name my brother went by at Oxford.’ March shook his head as though to clear it. ‘You, of all people, are Jo Logan? My God! It never occurred to me that the missing link was a girl.’ He took in a deep breath, his eyes suddenly arctic. ‘After the accident I went to see the driver. But Charles Peel categorically denied knowing any man called Joe Logan—which was true, of course. You are not a man.’

‘I don’t blame you for feeling angry,’ she said unhappily.

‘I’m not angry, exactly. I just wish it hadn’t been you,’ he said harshly. ‘In the end the police decided not to press charges, and young Peel was utterly frantic with anxiety about my brother, and so desperately guilt-ridden and penitent we felt he’d been punished enough.’

Jo smiled cynically. ‘Charlie always did really great penitence.’

March frowned as he resumed his place on the sofa. ‘That’s very cold.’

‘I speak from experience.’ She gave a mirthless little laugh. ‘If you’d tracked me down I would have given you a rather different take on the accident. I wondered why Charlie asked if anyone had been in touch with me. He tried to convince me that he’d turned over a new leaf. He even cried and swore he was on the wagon for keeps. But he’d done the dramatic penitent act before, so I didn’t believe him.’ Jo took in a deep breath. ‘I haunted the hospital for a while, for information on how Red—your brother—was doing. I knew I couldn’t get in to see him, but one of the girls on my staircase in college had a relation in Admissions there, who made enquiries for me and reported back. I was desperate to go home, but there was no way I could leave Oxford until I knew Red had been discharged.’ She paused to look at March. ‘Though I have no idea why he was muttering my name. I didn’t know him very well. We weren’t even in the same college.’

He shrugged. ‘He seemed convinced you’d been in the car and injured, even killed. I suppose I should have asked later, but I was so damned relieved when he started getting better I couldn’t risk prodding his memory into life in case it put him back to square one. And of course I knew there’d been no one else in the car.’

She shivered. ‘I suffered agonies of guilt afterwards because I’d failed to get Charlie’s keys away from him,’

‘Were you in love with him?’ asked March, surprising her.

Jo thought it over. ‘It’s hard to believe now,’ she said wearily, ‘but I thought I was at the time.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘I was straight out of a girls’ school. Charlie was quite a bit older. If you met him you know he was rather good-looking. My head was turned when he singled me out. At first I thought his drinking was the usual student stuff, but it soon became obvious that Charlie was well on the way to becoming an alcoholic.’

‘Were you lovers?’

Jo flushed. ‘Not a word I would use. We did sleep together once or twice, but it was the first time for me and not—not very successful. All my fault, according to Charlie.’

March mouth tightened. ‘The idiot’s drink problem was to blame, not you. What happened to him afterwards?’

‘I refused to return his calls after the accident, so he wrote to me eventually, saying he’d dried out in some clinic. He was starting work at Peel Plastics, a small company owned by his father. Charlie loathed the idea, but knew he had no hope of graduating after what had happened.’ Jo’s eyes dulled. ‘Neither had I. He’d put an end to all possibility of that for me as well as himself.’

‘And you wanted to graduate?’

‘Of course I did! It was what I’d worked so hard for at school, and Jack and Kate were so proud when I got to Oxford.’ Her mouth twisted in disgust. ‘But I blew the whole thing. Someone made of sterner stuff than me would have stopped blaming Charlie, I suppose, and knuckled down to get a degree. But the whole Oxford experience was ruined for me—academically and every other way.’

March nodded slowly. ‘It’s dawned on me at last why you looked familiar the first time I spotted you. I must have seen you outside the hospital.’

‘Very probably. I was there often enough.’

He frowned. ‘When I referred to you as Miss Sutton, why the hell didn’t you put me right there and then?’

Jo’s colour rose. ‘I had my reasons.’

He was silent for a while, eyeing her closely. ‘Your name is Logan and your father is Jack. Would he, by any chance, be the moving force behind Logan Development?’

Her chin lifted. ‘Yes.’

‘Ah. Not just a builder, but a well-known developer and conservationist.’

‘Yes.’

His eyes speared hers. ‘You obviously didn’t want me to know that your father is a wealthy man.’

Jo flushed guiltily. ‘Do you blame me? It was my main attraction for Charlie. And for some of the male students on my business course.’

March eyed her in a silence that grew so prolonged and unbearable Jo was ready to scream by the time he broke it. ‘So you were afraid a mere jobbing gardener like myself might also get ideas about the little rich girl?’ he drawled, the words like shards of ice. He got to his feet, looking down his nose at her with such hostility she shrivelled inside. ‘We haven’t known each other long, but in my supreme vanity I thought you might have trusted me more than that. Have no fear. I’m not interested in your father’s wealth—nor in you any more, if that’s what you think of me,’ he added bitterly. ‘Goodbye.’

Goodbye? Jo listened in numb disbelief as March walked out of the room and out of the house. At the growl of his car engine, mortified colour rose in her face. So that was that, then. Finding out that she was Jo Logan had damped down March Aubrey’s ardour pretty sharply. And, to top that, her reason for keeping her wealthy background secret had enraged him so much he had transformed into an implacable, arrogant stranger right before her eyes.

Jo got up early next morning, feeling like death warmed up. Her bathroom mirror confirmed that she looked like it. After a shower followed by hot coffee there was slight improvement, but Sunday lunch at Mill House was a prospect she just couldn’t face for once.

‘I’ve got the sniffles, Kate,’ she fibbed. ‘So I won’t come round for lunch. A cold is the last thing you need right now.’

‘Oh, darling, what bad luck. How did it go last night?’

‘Very well,’ lied Jo. ‘My date was impressed. Molly was on top form.’

‘Good. But I hate to think of you alone and sneezing today,’ said Kate, sounding worried.




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