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The Vengeance Affair
Carole Mortimer
A marriage proposal because of vengeance…or love?Beau Garrett wanted a more peaceful existence. But the seemingly idyllic village of Aberton proved to be a hotbed of scandal and gossip–and Beau was the target!His "crime" was to employ female gardener Jaz Logan, branded by her mother's adulterous past. Soon Beau acted on his attraction to Jaz…and the poison pen letters started arriving.Just who was sending this cruel correspondence? Beau's solution was to propose that Jaz become his fiancée. But Jaz had always planned on marrying for love….



“I did try to warn you the other evening.”
“A little late, wouldn’t you say, when I’ve obviously already purchased the Old Vicarage?” he drawled.
“Just a little,” she conceded ruefully. “But don’t worry. If you intend on staying, you’ll soon get used to it.”
“Oh, I intend on staying,” he told her flatly. “But I also intend on living here in quiet seclusion, and have no intention of doing anything that will give the villagers cause to gossip about me,” he added grimly.
Perhaps now wasn’t the time to tell him that he wouldn’t actually need to do anything to be the subject of gossip; just his being here at all, a well-known television star, already had the inhabitants of Aberton agog with speculation as to why he had bought a house here. The last Jaz had heard—from the mailman this morning as he’d handed her her letters—Beau Garrett had come to the village to escape an unhappy love affair, when the woman in his life had left him following the car accident that had left his face scarred….
CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England and is the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written over ninety books for Harlequin Presents
. Carole has four sons—Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter—and a bearded collie called Merlyn. She says, “I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live on the Isle of Man.”

The Vengeance Affair
Carole Mortimer

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

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER ONE
‘OH!’ SHE came to an abrupt halt halfway across the moonlit terrace as a shadow moved out of the darkness only feet away from her, the pounding of her heart only lessening slightly as she recognized the man who stood there looking at her with the glittering eyes of a cat. She drew in a deep breath. ‘Shouldn’t the guest of honour be inside the house enjoying the party, rather than outside on the terrace—?’
‘Enjoying the peace and quiet?’ Beau Garrett finished harshly.
She had come outside herself in order to do just that. In fact, she had hoped that, once outside, she may just be able to slip quietly away without her hostess, Madelaine Wilder, being any the wiser. Bumping into the elusive guest of honour had not been part of her plan!
‘They’re looking for you inside,’ she told him pointedly.
‘Are they?’ he returned uninterestedly, his overlong hair a dark sheen in the moonlight, his features shadowed. ‘I’m hardly dressed for the role of guest of honour, am I?’ he rasped impatiently, the casual sweater he wore looking black in the darkness, as did his trousers. “‘Do pop in, I’m having a few friends over for drinks”.’ He mimicked a pretty fair imitation of Madelaine’s gushing voice. ‘There must be half the village in there.’ He nodded disgustedly in the direction of the audibly noisy house as people talked and laughed too loudly, their glasses chinking.
‘At least,’ she acknowledged, moving out of the shadows of the house to join him at the balustrade looking out over the garden, a garden sheathed in the mystery of March moonlight. ‘I hate to tell you this, but this is the third drinks party Madelaine has given to welcome you to the village of Aberton—you just didn’t appear at the first two!’
It was somehow easier to talk to this man in the covering of darkness, his sensuous good looks, the sheer masculinity of him that was so apparent on the small screen as he hosted the chat show that had been such a success for the last ten years, muted in the covering of darkness.
The grimness of his dark scowl wasn’t. ‘If I could have got out of this, without being completely impolite, then I wouldn’t have appeared at this one, either!’ he rasped.
If the way he occasionally ripped to verbal shreds his often controversial guests was anything to go by, then she didn’t think politeness was necessarily a part of this man’s character. In fact, it was the sheer uncertainty of what was going to happen each week on his live television chat show that made it so popular.
‘Poor Madelaine,’ she sympathized softly, knowing that the other woman’s heart was in the right place, even if somewhat misguided on occasion.
Beau Garrett gave a snort of dismissal. ‘You’re obviously a local too, so I’ll ask you the same question I’ve been asking all evening—the only reason I’m here at all! The garden at The Old Vicarage is a mess; who do you know who could do something with it?’
She gave a faint smile. ‘What answers have you already received?’
“‘Jaz Logan, old boy”,’ he mimicked. “‘Unorthodox but brilliant”.’
‘The major.’ She nodded.
“‘Jaz turned the chaos of my garden into wonderfully manageable order”,’ he mimicked again, just as distinctively.
‘That was Barbara Scott from the village shop,’ she guessed.
“‘Jaz is an absolute treasure”.’
‘Betty Booth, the vicar’s wife.’
‘And according to our hostess, “Jaz is a darling”,’ he finished with some disgust.
She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Good for Madelaine.’
‘No, wait a minute, I think I got that quote slightly wrong,’ Beau Garrett corrected harshly. ‘What she actually said was, “Jaz made something beautiful of my darling little garden”.’
She chuckled again; only Madelaine, bless her, could possibly describe the acre of land that surrounded this grand old house as a ‘darling little garden’.
‘So what appears to be the problem with the advice you’ve already been given?’ she prompted interestedly.
‘My “problem”, as you call it, is that this Jaz Logan sounds slightly effeminate to me,’ Beau Garrett bit out tersely. ‘The last thing I want is the Old English village cliché, masses of beds of pink flowers and roses around the door!’
‘Tell me, Mr Garrett—’ she turned to him frowningly in the darkness ‘—if you have so much contempt for village life, why on earth have you moved here?’
‘Surely that’s obvious?’ he rasped, at the same time turning so that the moonlight shone fully on the right side of his face, throwing into stark relief the livid scar that ran from brow to jaw, a lasting souvenir from the car accident that had almost killed him four months ago.
She would be lying if she didn’t inwardly acknowledge she was deeply shocked by the thought of the injury he had suffered to have received such a scar, but she forced her own expression to remain unemotional as she looked at it. She had a feeling, from the bitterness that edged everything he said, that the scars inside this man were much more destructive than the more obvious one on his face.
‘Not particularly,’ she shrugged dismissively. ‘Scars fade, Mr Garrett,’ she added gently.
‘So I’ve been told,’ he said bitterly. But not soon enough for him, his tone implied.
She looked up at him consideringly. ‘Tell me, Mr Garrett, have you ever lived in a village before?’
His gaze narrowed guardedly. ‘No…’
‘I thought not,’ she nodded. ‘Well, we’re a curious lot,’ she warned from experience. ‘If it’s “peace and quiet” you’re looking for, then you’ve come to the wrong place,’ she told him ruefully.
Beau Garrett moved suddenly, swinging violently away from her, his face once more in shadow. ‘I have no intention of satisfying anyone’s curiosity.’ The last word came out with suppressed scorn.
‘I wish you luck,’ she said quietly.
He became very still in the darkness, that very stillness all the more ominous because of his earlier impatience. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing really.’ She shrugged. ‘Except…’
‘Except?’ he prompted harshly.
She gave another shrug. ‘What people don’t know they will simply make up.’ And she should know!
He gave a scornful snort as he walked over to the door. ‘Let them!’
‘Oh, they will,’ she assured him softly, remaining on the terrace as he let himself back into the noisily crowded house, with the obvious intention of making his excuses and leaving.
But if Beau Garrett thought he had seen the last of her, either, then he was sadly mistaken.

CHAPTER TWO
‘WHY didn’t you tell me when we met at Madelaine’s on Friday evening that you work for Jaz Logan?’
She looked up from the bills scattered across the desk in the less-than-tidy room that passed as an office at the garden centre, completely unsurprised that Beau Garrett was the first customer of this less-than-busy Monday morning. In fact, she had been expecting him…
She shrugged. ‘You didn’t ask.’
Irritation twisted the scar on his face. ‘I don’t suppose I did. But I would have thought, as I actually asked you about the man, that you might have volunteered the information,’ he added accusingly.
She grinned unabashedly as she sat back in her chair. ‘Something else you should know about village life; we’re always curious to know about others, but rarely volunteer information about ourselves. Anyway,’ she added determinedly as he would have spoken, ‘it’s actually worse than you thought.’ She stood up, wiping a dirt-smeared hand down her worn denims. ‘You see, I don’t work for Jaz Logan—I am Jaz Logan.’ She held her hand out in formal greeting.
Beau Garrett made no effort to take that proffered hand. Instead his silver-grey gaze moved over her with deliberate slowness, from her muddy wellington boots pushed into dirty denims, her over-large blue jumper, ragged at the sleeve ends, with a hole in one elbow, that critical gaze finally coming to rest on her face and the long ebony hair that had been blown about earlier by the strong wind blowing as she worked outside.
Despite hours spent outside in all weather, her skin remained creamy magnolia, her chin determinedly pointed, mouth wide and smiling, her nose small and snub above the fuller top lip, deep blue eyes fringed by lashes as dark as her hair, the latter worn long and in a shaggily unkempt style—it looked like that most of the time anyway, so Jaz just left it that way!
“‘Unorthodox but brilliant”,’ Beau Garrett murmured derisively. ‘I take it by that remark that the major meant it’s unusual to find a female landscape gardener?’
Jaz smiled. ‘The major is a little old-fashioned,’ she excused, not in the least offended by the remark.
“‘Capable of turning chaos into order”,’ Beau Garrett continued dryly.
She shrugged. ‘If you happen to frequent the well-stocked village shop, you’ll see that Barbara is something of a perfectionist when it comes to order.’ Even the cans of soup daren’t be out of line on her shelves!
“‘An absolute treasure”,’ he derided.
Jaz nodded. ‘Betty never has a bad word to say about anyone. But don’t forget the “darling” remark,’ she reminded him cheerily.
He didn’t look impressed by her own recall of their conversation on Friday evening, in fact that dark scowl was back on those mesmerizingly handsome features.
Maybe she should have told him who she was the other evening, but at the time it had been interesting hearing other people’s opinions of her without the inhibition of knowing she was the one being discussed. Although she didn’t somehow think Beau Garrett would be too impressed with that excuse!
Seen in the clear light of day like this, that scar on his face was much more noticeable, a livid red mark against the otherwise paleness of his skin. Not that the scar detracted from his attractiveness in the least, he just looked even more dangerously piratical.
Although from the challenging glitter in those silver-grey eyes she had a feeling Beau Garrett wouldn’t appreciate being told of that particular observation!
But that scar apart, he had to be one of the most handsome men ever to grace the small screen; aged in his late thirties, possibly early forties, well over six feet in height, lithely masculine, the slightly overlong dark hair flecked with grey at his temples, his chin square and determined in the bold handsomeness of his face.
Was it any wonder that Madelaine, only forty-five herself but widowed for the last eight years, had been eager to invite him over for drinks; not only had it been a feather in the other woman’s cap to be the first in the village to socially entertain the celebrity who had decided to appear in their midst, but Beau Garrett had to be the likeliest husband material to appear in the village for some time. If ever!
Not being a great fan of television, or those gossipy magazines that seemed so popular nowadays, Jaz had no idea whether or not this man was married. But one thing she did know just from looking at him; those lines of bitterness beside his eyes and mouth didn’t auger well for any woman showing a matrimonial interest in him.
Thank goodness Jaz didn’t count herself amongst that number. She was far too busy keeping her garden centre and landscape gardening business going to have any time for love herself, let alone a husband and children.
“‘Jaz”?’ Beau Garrett finally prompted dryly.
Her mouth tightened, her cheeks flushing slightly. ‘Short for Jasmina,’ she said with disgust. ‘Although I wouldn’t advise you to ever call me that,’ she added tersely. ‘The last person who did still has the bruises to prove it!’
Humour softened the harshness of his features. ‘I feel the same way about Beauregard.’ He grimaced. ‘Parents have a lot to answer for, don’t they, when it comes to the choice of names for their poor, unsuspecting children?’
They certainly did—and Jaz wasn’t sure she didn’t feel more sorry for him than she did herself. Beauregard, for goodness’ sake!
She nodded. ‘If I ever have a child of my own I’m going to call it either Mary, if it’s a girl, or Mark, if it’s a boy—if only because there’s absolutely nothing you can do with plain, solid names like that!’
Beau Garrett frowned. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that it says “J Logan and Sons” on the sign outside the garden centre?’
‘My father,’ she supplied abruptly. ‘His name was John. But there aren’t any sons. Just me,’ she eyed him challengingly. ‘The “and sons” was my father’s idea of a joke.’
‘I see,’ he murmured, obviously not seeing at all. ‘You said “was”?’ He looked at her with narrowed eyes.
She gave a brief inclination of her head; for someone not brought up in a village, this man was doing a very good job of extracting information himself! ‘My father died three years ago when I was twenty-two and fresh out of college. I just left the sign up because—well, because it’s always been there,’ she finished lamely, but knowing that wasn’t really the reason she had left the sign as it was.
It served as a reminder. Of what, she wasn’t quite sure. But one thing she did know, every time she looked at that sign she felt a new resolve to make a success of this gardening centre.
‘And your mother?’ Beau Garrett prompted softly.
Her mouth twisted humourlessly. ‘I don’t think she appreciated the joke, either—she walked out on my father and me when I was just seventeen!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he bit out abruptly.
‘Oh, don’t be,’ Jaz dismissed hardly, moving to sit back behind her desk. She had no intention of telling him that her mother hadn’t left alone. Or that she and her lover had been killed in a car accident in the South of France three months later. ‘You know, Mr Garrett—’ she looked up at him assessingly ‘—you’re very good at this. No wonder your television show is so successful if you get your guests to talk about themselves in this same candid way!’ She hadn’t discussed her mother, or the fact that she had left her father and herself, for longer than she could remember, and yet a few minutes into conversation with this man and she seemed to have told him half her life history!
But if she didn’t want to pursue that subject any further, then Beau Garrett seemed to share her view, his expression having tightened bleakly, his eyes glittering silver. ‘Perhaps we should get back to the subject in hand,’ he rasped. ‘You already know the problem, the question is, do you have the time to do something with the wildness of The Old Vicarage garden?’
‘Of course.’ Her own tone matched his in crispness, determined to get this conversation back on the footing of two strangers discussing a business transaction. ‘Would you like me to call round this afternoon and give you a quote on time and cost?’
He arched dark brows. ‘Don’t you have to check your diary or anything like that first?’
She met his gaze unblinkingly. ‘No.’
Those brows rose higher. ‘Or need to know exactly what work I want done?’
Her mouth twisted wryly. ‘I thought we could discuss that when I call round this afternoon.’
The mocking humour returned to those pale grey eyes. ‘Business a little slow at the moment, is it?’ he drawled dryly.
In truth, business, in the middle of March, was almost non-existent!
It was too early in the season for any of her regulars to need their lawns or flower-beds tended, and the flowers and plants she had been carefully nurturing in the greenhouses. To add to that, she had nothing in the books for the landscape gardening side of the business. In fact, if she managed to get a down payment from Beau Garrett for the work he wanted done, she might actually be able to pay off one or two of the bills that were piling up on her desk!
‘A little,’ she allowed lightly. ‘But, then, it always is in March,’ she defended dismissively. ‘Although it’s the perfect time of year to clear and landscape a garden,’ she added reassuringly.
His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘I believe you.’
Jaz gave him a considering look. ‘I can’t believe you’ve really bought The Old Vicarage.’
When the ‘Sold’ sign had gone up outside the old house a month ago everyone in the village had been agog with curiosity as to who could possibly have bought such a monstrosity. The house itself was big and old, very run-down, had stood empty for the last five years since the last people to rent it had moved out into one of the more convenient cottages on the edge of the village, claiming that the house was too big and draughty to keep warm, that the roof leaked, and the electric wiring and drainage systems were antiquated to say the least.
Beau Garrett eyed Jaz speculatively now. ‘Is there some reason why I shouldn’t have done?’
All of the above, Jaz would have thought.
‘It’s very run-down,’ she began tentatively.
‘The builder started work on that this morning,’ he dismissed.
Next!, his tone seemed to imply.
‘I would have thought it was very inconvenient for commuting to London,’ Jaz obliged.
This man’s chat show had taken the prime-time ten o’clock spot on a Friday evening for the last ten years, mainly because of his decisive, informative interviews, but his dark, brooding good looks certainly hadn’t done him any harm, either. But the village was a couple of hundred miles away from London, hardly within commuting distance for a man who worked from a London studio.
‘Good,’ came his uncompromising answer, his silver gaze palely challenging, his mouth thinning grimly.
Jaz shrugged. ‘Isn’t it also a little big for just one man to live in? Unless, of course, you intend bringing your family up here, too,’ she added as an afterthought. After all, two could play at this game…
‘I don’t,’ he answered unhelpfully. ‘Now could we get back to the subject of your working on the vicarage garden?’ It was made as a request, but the steely edge to his tone clearly told Jaz that he had no intention of discussing his private life with her. Or, indeed, with anyone else!
That was fine with her; it was his private life, after all.
She nodded. ‘Well, as I’ve said, I’ll call round this afternoon and we can discuss what needs to be done. After that, I can probably start working on it by—would Wednesday morning be okay with you?’
‘Fine,’ he agreed tersely, turning to leave, and then pausing as he reached the door. ‘I hope you’re going to be more reliable than the builder—he should have started work a week ago!’
‘And he arrived this morning,’ Jaz said admiringly. ‘That’s pretty good. You must have made a good impression on him.’
Beau Garrett’s mouth twisted ruefully. ‘No—I just made a damned nuisance of myself by telephoning every day for the last week to find out when he was going to start work!’
She laughed, standing up. ‘Maybe village life is going to suit you, after all, Mr Garrett,’ she said appreciatively. ‘You obviously know how to deal with unreliable workmen,’ she explained at his questioning look.
‘Knowing how to deal with them has nothing to do with it,’ he bit out dismissively. ‘I just don’t suffer fools gladly.’
Now that, even on such brief acquaintance, she could believe!
But even so, Dennis Davis, the only builder for miles around, was well known for his lackadaisical attitude to turning up for jobs on time—in fact, Jaz had been waiting for weeks herself for Dennis to fix a leak on one of her shed roofs!
She grinned sympathetically. ‘I can assure you, Mr Garrett, that if I say I’ll be with you at two-thirty this afternoon, then that’s exactly when I will be there.’
‘Call me Beau,’ he invited abruptly.
Jaz felt the warm colour enter her cheeks, not sure she could take such a liberty—even when invited to do so—by this national television figure; it somehow seemed far too familiar with this distantly haughty man.
‘Jaz,’ she returned uncomfortably. ‘Two-thirty, then,’ she added briskly.
‘Fine,’ he accepted tersely. ‘I’m out of coffee, so I thought I might call in at the village shop on the way home,’ he added dryly, that hint of humour once again in those silver eyes. ‘But I should have escaped by two-thirty.’
Effectively telling Jaz that as well as being aware of the neat precision with which Barbara Scott liked to stack her shelves, she was also, predictably, the biggest gossip in the village; there was no way Barbara would easily relinquish the novelty of Beau Garrett’s presence in her shop!
Jaz smiled appreciatively. ‘You may just get used to village life, after all!’
‘Somehow I’m starting to doubt that,’ he rasped dismissively.
Jaz stood at the doorway watching him as he strode purposefully to the black Range Rover parked in the muddy driveway, raising a hand in farewell as he drove away.
But Jaz’s smile faded as soon as he had gone, a frown marring her creamy brow as she returned to the problem of the pile of bills on her desk even while her thoughts actually remained on Beau Garrett’s last comment.
‘Somehow’ she very much doubted he would ‘get used to village life’, either.
Which posed the question: what was he doing here in the first place?

CHAPTER THREE
‘I’M SO sorry I’m late!’ Jaz burst out flusteredly as soon as Beau Garrett opened the door to The Old Vicarage in answer to her ring on the bell. ‘I did start out in good time to arrive at two-thirty, but the van developed a puncture on the drive here, and I had to stop and exchange it for the spare wheel, and then—’
‘Slow down, Jaz,’ he cut in mildly. ‘And calm down, too,’ he advised with a sweeping glance over her flushed face. ‘You have dirt on your cheek,’ he added softly.
She raised an impatient hand to rub the spot where she thought the dirt might be.
‘The other cheek,’ he told her ruefully. ‘Look, come inside,’ he added impatiently before she could transfer her attention to the other side of her face. ‘The washroom is through that door there.’ He pointed to the left of the front door. ‘The kitchen is at the other end of this hallway. Come through when you’re ready,’ he said dryly.
This would have to happen to her today, Jaz fumed as she went to the washroom and scrubbed the dirt impatiently from her cheek, and after assurances earlier to Beau Garrett that he could rely on her to be on time!
She had been just half a mile away from The Old Vicarage when she realized the van wasn’t responding properly, that it certainly wasn’t going where she was steering it, pulling in to the side of the road to get out and discover that one of her front tyres was absolutely flat.
The spare wheel didn’t look much better, but at least it wasn’t flat, although it had taken some time to get the punctured wheel off the van, the vehicle so old all the bolts seemed to have rusted up. And, as she had never changed a wheel in her life before…
Although none of that changed the fact that she had arrived at Beau Garrett’s home half an hour later than she had assured him she would.
‘I really am sorry I’m late,’ she apologized again as she entered the kitchen a few minutes later, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway as she looked around the transformed kitchen.
The last time she had seen this large room it had been as old and run down as the rest of the house, cracked lino on the floor, the kitchen cupboards of a particularly unattractive shade of grey, as had been the tiles on the walls, the work surfaces a depressing black, the range that provided heat as well as cooking facilities, old and temperamental.
The lino had been replaced by mellow-coloured flag-stones, the kitchen units now a light oak, the kitchen tiles a bright sunny yellow, the new Aga an attractive cream, and—thankfully!—throwing out lots of heat.
‘Wow,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘This looks really great.’
He turned from pouring coffee into two mugs. ‘There was no way I could have moved in here with the kitchen the way that it was,’ he dismissed, putting the mugs, cream, and sugar down on the kitchen table before indicating for her to join him in sitting down.
Jaz sat, some of her earlier flusteredness starting to fade in the warm relaxation of the transformed room. ‘I don’t blame you,’ she nodded, adding cream to her mug. ‘It always was a cold, uninviting room.’ She took a grateful sip of her unsweetened coffee.
‘Always…?’ Beau Garrett repeated softly as he sat in the chair opposite.
Jaz looked up sharply; this man didn’t miss much, did he? She really would have to start remembering that!
‘Hmm.’ She gave a rueful sigh. ‘I may as well tell you before someone else does; my grandfather was the last vicar to actually live in this house. The man who took over from him moved into the new vicarage at the other end of the village where the Booths now live. But I spent a lot of time here as a child,’ she added flatly.
‘I see,’ Beau Garrett murmured slowly.
Jaz met his gaze unwaveringly. ‘Do you?’
‘Not really.’ He grimaced. ‘But if I live here long enough I’m sure that one way or another I’ll get to hear most of the local gossip,’ he added with distaste.
She was sure he would too. One way or another.
‘How did your visit to the shop go this morning?’ she changed the subject abruptly.
He gave a rueful smile. ‘Pretty much as predicted. Although, thankfully, I was saved after about fifteen minutes of fending off Mrs Scott’s increasingly personal questions by the arrival of another customer!’
Jaz nodded, smiling. ‘At which time you gratefully beat a hasty retreat.’
‘Very hasty,’ he confirmed grimly.
‘I shouldn’t worry about it too much,’ Jaz advised lightly. ‘Once you’ve lived here twenty years or so they’ll lose interest!’
‘Oh wonderful!’ he said with feeling. ‘Somehow village life isn’t quite as I imagined it would be.’ He gave a disgusted shake of his head.
‘Birds twittering in the hedgerows, children playing happily on the village green, neighbours chatting happily to each other over the garden fences?’ Jaz guessed teasingly.
‘Something like that,’ he confirmed dryly.
‘Oh, it can be like that,’ Jaz assured him. ‘Not usually in March, though. Too cold,’ she grinned. ‘And beneath the birds twittering, the happy children playing, neighbours chatting, you’ll find there is always the underlying gossip that binds us all together.’
‘The latter I can quite well do without,’ Beau Garrett assured her hardly.
She shrugged. ‘I did try to warn you the other evening.’
‘A little late, wouldn’t you say, when I’ve obviously already purchased The Old Vicarage?’ he drawled.
‘Just a little,’ she conceded ruefully. ‘But, don’t worry, if you intend staying, you’ll soon get used to it.’
‘Oh I intend staying,’ he told her flatly. ‘But I intend living here in quiet seclusion, have no intention of doing anything that will give the villagers cause to gossip about me,’ he added grimly.
Perhaps now wasn’t the time to tell him that he wouldn’t actually need to do anything to be the subject of gossip; just his being here at all, a well-known television star, had the inhabitants of Aberton agog with speculation as to why he had bought a house here. The last Jaz had heard, from the postman this morning as he handed her her letters, Beau Garrett had come to the village to escape an unhappy love affair when the woman in his life left him following the car accident that had left his face scarred.
That may be true, Jaz really had no idea, but somehow she doubted it was any more accurate than the rumour that he was here to research a book! What sort of book, and what sort of research, she couldn’t imagine, having heard from Beau Garret himself of his desire to be left in peace and solitude, but she had no intention of adding fuel to that particular fire by confiding that knowledge with anyone else, her answers to the postman noncommittal to say the least.
‘Perhaps we should go and look at the garden now?’ she suggested briskly, deciding enough had already been said concerning the speculation about him in the village.
‘The jungle, I call it.’ He stood up. ‘Although I am hoping that one day I’ll be able to call it a garden,’ he added wryly as they walked outside.
He was right, it was more like a jungle, Jaz realized with a heavy heart, years of rubbish accumulated in grass that was thigh high, overgrown with weeds, several of the trees in need of cutting down completely, and the greenhouse, once so lovingly tended by her grandmother, almost falling down, every pane of glass broken.
Looking at it Jaz couldn’t help remembering how in previous years she had played in this garden, built dens in the bushes, eaten picnics with her grandparents on the smooth green lawn, sat on the swing beneath the apple tree dreaming of a time when she would have her own home, her own apple tree with its swing, and children laughing as they played on it.
Now, at twenty-five, she had come to believe those dreams would never be more than that…
‘A disaster, isn’t it?’ Beau Garrett rasped disgustedly.
Jaz gave herself a mental shake; she was here to do a job, not wallow in the past. ‘Not really,’ she assured him crisply. ‘I’ll need to clear all the rubbish before we can actually begin putting it in any order, but I think most of it is salvageable.’
‘You have more optimism than I do, then,’ he dismissed with a shake of his head. ‘Sometimes I wonder what on earth I thought I was doing taking on a place like this!’ he muttered almost to himself.
Jaz turned to look at him. ‘Searching for your own piece of paradise?’ she suggested huskily, knowing that being back here again, after all these years, had affected her more deeply than she cared to admit. ‘My grandfather always said that you have to find contentment inside yourself before you can appreciate any other happiness in your life.’ And she had known all about discontent…
‘Did he really?’ Beau Garrett rasped harshly, his aloofness of Friday evening returning with a vengeance as he looked down his arrogant nose at her.
Jaz turned away, her cheeks flushed as she realized she had stepped over some imaginary line. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I wasn’t necessarily referring to you,’ she finished lamely, knowing it was being at The Old Vicarage again, her own memories, that had prompted the comment. And it hadn’t been directed at Beau Garrett at all, but at herself…
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He turned away abruptly. ‘Are you still available to start on Wednesday morning?’
‘Yes, of course—’
‘Then consider yourself hired,’ he bit out curtly. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind…? I have some other things I need to do this afternoon.’
Jaz didn’t ‘mind’ at all, felt an overwhelming urge to get away herself, had reminisced quite enough for one afternoon, thank you!
‘You’ll need a quote for how much the work is going to cost—’
‘Just do it,’ he rasped, obviously impatient for this conversation to be over now. ‘And send me the bill.’
‘Er…’ She grimaced, too embarrassed now to quite be able to meet that silvery gaze. ‘I’ll need to have a skip delivered to take away all the rubbish, and then there’s—’
‘Jaz, if you need a deposit to cover those costs then why don’t you just ask for one?’ Beau Garrett cut in impatiently.
‘Because I hate asking people for money, that’s why!’ She felt stung into replying, glaring up at him, all her earlier feelings of sympathy towards him evaporating in the face of his arrogant rudeness.
‘Then it’s no wonder that the tyres on your van are so bald they develop punctures, your business is obviously falling down around your ears, and the clothes you’re wearing would make a scarecrow look well dressed!’ he came back scathingly before striding back into the kitchen.
Jaz stared after him, too stunned by the suddenness of the attack to find an immediate reply.
The fact that every word he spoke was the truth certainly didn’t help!
The van was old, left to her on her father’s death, as was the run-down garden centre. As for her clothes…she couldn’t remember when she had last been able to afford anything new.
But for Beau Garrett to have said those things to her…!
‘I’m sorry,’ he spoke softly behind.
Jaz had stiffened at the first sound of his voice, blinking back the tears now, determined he shouldn’t see that he had made her cry with the hurtful things he had said to her.
‘Jaz—’
‘No need to apologize for telling the truth,’ she assured brightly as she turned to face him, blue eyes not quite meeting those probing silver ones.
He shook his head, his sigh heavy. ‘I’m a little—I shouldn’t have taken out my bad temper on you,’ he rasped with a self-disgusted shake of his head.
Jaz moistened dry lips before speaking. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken so personally to you, either.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s this place. I—’ she sighed, her frown pained. ‘I’d forgotten.’
‘Forgotten what?’ Beau Garrett looked at her compellingly.
Jaz found herself caught and held by the intensity of that silvery gaze, feeling a little like a rabbit must do when caught in the glare of a car’s headlights; trapped, mesmerized, totally unable to move.
But at the same time her own instinct for privacy came to the fore, giving her the impetus to break that gaze even as she gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Nothing of any importance,’ she assured him lightly.
He looked for a brief minute as if he would like to argue that point, but as Jaz continued to look at him unblinkingly he finally gave a rueful shrug. ‘Here.’ He held a cheque out to her. ‘That should cover any initial expenses you may have.’
A glance at the amount written on the cheque he gave her told Jaz that it would probably cover the cost of all of the work to be done here, not just the initial expenses.
Pride warred with necessity inside her—and it was necessity that finally won out. After all, she would do the work, and it would probably cost as much as this, so it wasn’t as if she were taking the money under false pretences. Besides, accepting it would mean that, as well as being able to pay off most of the more pressing bills, for a change she would also be able to eat more than either baked beans, or tomatoes, on toast!
The thought of a nice roast chicken for her dinner was enough to make her mouth water. And her pride seem petty.
‘Thank you,’ she accepted huskily as she stuffed the cheque into her denims pocket. ‘Eight o’clock on Wednesday morning, then.’
He winced as the sound of banging could be heard from the front of the house, Dennis still in the process of putting up the scaffolding in preparation of repairing the roof when Jaz arrived a short time ago. ‘Make it nine o’clock,’ Beau Garrett suggested. ‘If the place is going to be like a building site for the foreseeable future, I might as well arrange it so that I have some peace in the mornings, at least until after nine o’clock!’
Having accepted and been present at Madelaine’s drinks party last Friday, peace was something Jaz didn’t think this man was going to find too much of in the immediate future. Every other hostess in the village, from Barbara Scott at the shop to Betty Booth, the pretty young wife of the vicar, was going to be inviting him to lunch or dinner. Invitations, if he didn’t want to cause offence, he would find it hard to refuse, having accepted Madelaine’s.
Although somehow Jaz didn’t think Beau Garrett particularly cared whether or not he offended people!
Oh, well, that was his problem. Her own, more immediate concern was cashing his cheque so that she might have some money herself for a change.
‘That’s fine with me,’ she agreed lightly, hesitating as she turned to leave. ‘I should keep an eye on Dennis, if I were you,’ she added with a rueful grimace. ‘He has a habit of setting up the scaffolding and then forgetting to come back to start the job.’
Beau Garrett’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘Not this one, he won’t.’
No, he probably wouldn’t, Jaz conceded inwardly as she went back out to her van. Even work-shy Dennis must have already realized that Beau Garrett wasn’t a man to cross.
Something she had better remember herself if she wanted to keep her own job at The Old Vicarage.
If only just being here didn’t bring back such vivid memories for her. Memories she would much rather forget.

CHAPTER FOUR
‘WHAT the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Jaz turned frowningly at the sound of Beau Garrett’s furious voice, struggling to hold a rather large rock in her arms as she did so. ‘Sorry?’ The wind was strong this morning, whipping her hair into her face and eyes, so that she looked at him through the screen of her tousled hair as he strode purposefully down the garden towards her.
‘I said,’ he grated much closer to her, reaching out to take the rock from her arms and drop it disgustedly into the wheelbarrow beside them, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’ His eyes glittered silver as Jaz was finally able to brush the hair from her eyes and look at him.
And then wished she hadn’t.
Not that he wasn’t worth looking at, virilely attractive in faded denims and a navy-blue sweater to keep out the cold. But the anger she could see in his face, that scar shown in stark relief, were enough to make her take a step backwards.
She moistened wind-dry lips. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not throwing these rocks away—’
‘I don’t care if you smash them to pieces and scatter them to the wind,’ he cut in harshly. ‘What I want to know is why you’re picking them up in the first place!’
Jaz’s apprehension at his obvious anger turned to confusion. ‘Exactly what I told you I would do,’ she answered slowly. ‘Clearing away all the debris so that I can see what we have to work with.’
She had arrived at The Old Vicarage just over an hour ago, Beau Garrett obviously out when she’d got there: his Range Rover had been missing from the driveway, and there had been no answer to the ringing of the doorbell, only Dennis up on the roof industriously hammering away.
So Jaz had simply let herself into the garden by the side gate, had already half filled the skip at the side of the house that had been delivered yesterday, with old bicycles and other rubbish that had no practical use. In fact, she couldn’t imagine how an old bath could possibly have found its way amongst the weeds; as far as she was aware, apart from the kitchen, Beau Garrett hadn’t yet started on the redecorating of the other rooms in the house. But she had dumped that into the skip along with the other accumulating rubbish.
Beau Garrett’s expression was darkly disapproving. ‘I presumed when we agreed that you would do the work that you would have someone to help you.’
Jaz raised dark brows. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as a labourer of some kind to do the heavy work,’ he bit out impatiently.
‘Ah.’ Jaz straightened knowingly, realizing that her five feet four inches in height were far from imposing. ‘A man, you mean?’
‘Well, of course I mean a man,’ he came back with barely constrained irritation. ‘I had no idea that you intended doing all this heavy work yourself.’
‘Mr Garrett—’
‘Beau,’ he snapped.
‘Beau,’ she complied with a nod. ‘Apart from old Fred at the garden centre, I don’t have anyone working for me. I’m a one-man band—’
‘One-woman band,’ he corrected grimly.
‘And that’s the problem,’ she guessed ruefully.
‘Of course that’s the problem!’ he snapped. ‘I can’t possibly allow you to collect all this rubbish up and carry it out to the skip—’
‘I’m using a wheelbarrow,’ she pointed out practically.
‘Wheeling it out to the skip, then,’ he corrected with no show of a lessening of his impatience.
She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘I realize I’m not very big, but I’m really quite strong, you know.’
His gaze raked over her scathingly, obviously not at all impressed with her height or her size-ten frame. ‘You may be,’ he allowed skeptically. ‘But there’s no way I’m going to let you clear all this lot on your own.’ He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed all the rubbish still scattered about the weed-engulfed garden.
And there was no way that Jaz was going to use some of the precious money he had given her in order to hire a labourer for a couple of days to help with the clearance! Especially when she knew she was perfectly capable of doing it herself.
‘I’ll help you,’ Beau told her dryly as he seemed to read at least some of her thoughts.
But hopefully he couldn’t read the ones she was having now!
Beau Garrett, television star, urbanely elegant man, always voted in the top five in the ‘sexiest men on television’ poll that came out each year, was going to shift stones and debris like some common labourer?
Worse—he was going to shift stones and debris like a common labourer alongside her!
She may have given up any interest in love and marriage, but that didn’t mean she was immune to men, that she couldn’t be totally aware of one in a sexual way. As she was totally aware of Beau Garrett…
Top five ‘sexiest men on television’ be damned—this man was too lethally attractive for his own—or anyone else’s!—good.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea—’
‘Why not?’ he rasped impatiently.
Jaz had no intention of telling him the real reason ‘why not’ the truth being that, dressed in disreputable denims and a ragged sweater, her face hot and sweaty from lifting heavy weights, she felt about as feminine as one of the rusted bicycles she had thrown in the skip!
Not that she thought a man like Beau Garrett would have looked at her twice even if she were looking her best, but she still had her pride, even if he did think she made ‘a scarecrow look well dressed’.
No matter how determined she may have been on Monday afternoon not to let him see how hurt she had been by that insulting remark, it had definitely hit a raw nerve…
She shrugged. ‘My insurance wouldn’t cover any injuries you—’
‘Insurance be damned,’ Beau Garrett cut in scathingly. ‘This is my garden, and as such my rubbish, and if I choose to help clear it away then that’s my problem, not yours.’
Jaz could clearly see the challenge in his gaze. ‘I’m not sure an insurance company would see it quite that way—’ She broke off, knowing her protests to be completely wasted as he moved determinedly to pick up one of the larger stones that littered this particular corner of the garden.
‘Where could all these rocks have come from?’ he muttered disgustedly as he dumped it into the wheelbarrow.
‘My grandmother’s rock garden…?’ she suggested with a grimace.
‘I should have guessed!’ Beau shot her a rueful glance as he continued to load the rocks into the barrow.
‘Mmm,’ Jaz nodded, blue eyes glittering mischievously. ‘She was very fond of her rock garden.’
He paused before bending to pick up another rock, one dark brow raised over mocking grey eyes. ‘Are you going to help or just stand there watching me all day?’
Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. ‘Sorry. I—I just can’t believe you’re actually doing this.’ She gave a dazed shake of her head even as she moved to pick up one of the smaller rocks.
‘Believe it,’ he muttered through clenched teeth as he dumped another huge rock none-too-gently on top of the others. ‘Besides…’ he straightened, running his hands down his denim-clad thighs to remove the dirt ‘…you don’t seriously think, now that I’ve seen you’re managing here alone, that I could just calmly go back into the house and read the newspaper, do you?’ His expression was grim.
Jaz gave a shrug. ‘You could always try pretending that you hadn’t seen me.’
‘No,’ he bit out, ‘I couldn’t.’ A frown furrowed his brow as he looked down at all the rocks still remaining on the ground. ‘If we put all these in the skip there won’t be any room for anything else.’
‘Oh, but they aren’t going in the skip,’ she assured him happily.
His frown deepened. ‘In that case, what do you intend doing with them?’
‘Don’t worry.’ She laughed. ‘I’m not the sort to steal them to use for another job!’
Beau gave a disgusted shake of his head. ‘I didn’t for a moment think that you were!’
Jaz grinned. ‘Then, in answer to your question, I’m going to store them in the greenhouse.’
He gave a grimace. ‘The last time I looked in there it was full of cigarette butts and empty beer cans; I think some of the local kids have been using it to hold small parties!’
‘Already disposed of in the skip,’ she assured him, prevented from wheeling the barrow over the garden to the greenhouse as Beau neatly took over the handles.
‘And exactly why are we keeping these particular rocks?’ he prompted impatiently, barely breathing hard from the effort of lifting the heavy weight across the garden.
‘So that I can eventually make another rock garden.’ Jaz studiously ignored his disapproving frown as she helped transfer the rocks to the greenhouse. It was what he was paying her for, after all!
‘Right,’ he acknowledged self-derisively.
They worked in companionable silence, after that. Well…as companionable as it could be for Jaz when she was aware of everything about him, from his tousled dark hair, lithe body, to the long muscular length of his legs.
If anyone had told her a week ago that she would be working alongside Beau Garrett, of all people, she would have laughed in their faces!
‘Time for a coffee break, I think,’ he decided crisply ten minutes later when the rocks were neatly stacked in the greenhouse.
‘Oh, but—’ She broke off her protest as he looked at her down the length of that arrogant nose. No doubt that look had as equal success in silencing the guests on his television programme!
‘Coffee break. Now. In the house,’ he bit out succinctly.
She quirked dark brows derisively. ‘Will Dennis be joining us too?’
Beau’s mouth twisted scathingly. ‘Hardly.’
She shook her head. ‘Then you have no need to worry about me, either. I brought a flask of coffee with me in the van,’ she assured him.
And then felt totally embarrassed by the admission. Although why she should do so she had no idea; she always took a flask of coffee and a packed lunch when she was off working for the day. And thanks to Beau Garrett’s cheque she had been able to put something a little more interesting than jam in the sandwiches!
‘Save it for later,’ he dismissed uninterestedly, not waiting for her reply before striding off towards the house.
Because he was used to being listened to and obeyed, Jaz guessed ruefully as she trailed along reluctantly behind him. She was afraid he would have to get used to a much slower response if he intended remaining in Aberton.
Although not this time, Jaz allowed self-derisively, feeling slightly guilty as she could still hear Dennis working up on the roof, but quite happy to drink a cup of coffee herself if it was the same brew Beau had made for her on Monday.
It was, its delicious aroma quickly filling the warmth of the kitchen. Jaz crossed the room with sock-covered feet to sit at the table, having left her muddy boots outside on the step.
‘Mmm, that smells good,’ she accepted gratefully as Beau placed the steaming mug on the table in front of her. ‘Er—I wasn’t being rude before when I made that remark about you shifting the rocks,’ she began awkwardly. ‘It’s just that the last time I saw you it was on public television, interviewing Catherine what’s-her-name, the Oscar-winner.’
He stiffened, his expression bleak, his eyes glittering hardly. ‘A beautiful lady,’ he allowed tightly as he moved away to get his own coffee.
‘Very.’ Jaz nodded, frowning as he kept the rigidness of his back turned towards her.
She hadn’t intended to annoy him by mentioning his television programme—although from his suddenly frosty manner that’s obviously what she had succeeded in doing!
‘Mr—Beau,’ she amended as he turned that silver glare on her. ‘I’m sorry if I—’
‘Life is going to become extremely tedious over the next few weeks if you keep apologizing every ten minutes!’ he bit out tautly, a humourless smile curving his lips as he looked at her challengingly.
Once again Jaz felt the embarrassed colour in her cheeks. Even if she was completely aware that Beau Garrett had deliberately turned the tables on her…
Beau was giving her a considering look now, further enhancing that blush in her cheeks. ‘You have a look of Catherine yourself, you know,’ he finally murmured slowly.
‘Yeah—right!’ She came back with the same scornful comment she had heard from a friend’s teenage son a couple of weeks ago.
Although her smile wavered, and then disappeared completely as she found no answering humour in Beau Garrett’s face.
She continued to frown at him for several long minutes, and Beau silently returned the steadiness of her gaze. ‘You were just trying to change the subject,’ she finally accused dryly.
‘True,’ he acknowledged unabashedly—nothing in his expression to confirm or deny his reference to her resembling the beautiful actress.
Not that Jaz had taken him seriously for a moment; with her wild dark hair and make-upless face, her clothes ready for the ragbag, she bore absolutely no resemblance to the beautifully elegant actress who appeared so strikingly on the big screen. It had merely been said as a ploy to distract her from her remark concerning Beau’s television programme.
Although she still had no idea what the problem was with her mentioning something that was obviously so successful…
She sighed heavily. ‘I think the Catherine Zeta-Jones remark was a little mean of you,’ she grimaced.
‘Coffee break over,’ Beau decided abruptly. ‘And I wasn’t being in the least “mean” with the Catherine Z J remark,’ he added mockingly, that rapier-sharp gaze narrowed on her flushed face now. ‘It’s your mouth, I think,’ he said slowly—just when Jaz had decided she really couldn’t stand his all-seeing scrutiny a moment longer! ‘The top lip is a perfect bow, the bottom lip sensuously full.’
A perfect bow…? Sensuously full…!
Her next movement was purely instinctive, her tongue moving moistly across that perfect bow and sensuously full bottom lip, her breath catching in her throat as she saw that Beau Garrett’s gaze was riveted on the movement.
She may be twenty-five in years, but in experience she was a mere babe-in-arms. Especially where a man of Beau Garrett’s charisma was concerned! There had been few dates in her teen years, even fewer in her twenties, and she couldn’t remember anyone who had ever looked at her with such frankly male appraisal. It wasn’t comfortable.
She gave a dismissive shake of her head. ‘I think you need to get your eyesight checked!’
The smile he gave at this remark was the most genuine Jaz had ever seen him give, revealing even white teeth, grey eyes gleaming warmly, taking years off him as he looked almost boyish.
Wow! Jaz allowed inwardly, finding herself the mesmerized one now.
Which wasn’t going to do her, or anyone else, any good whatsoever!
Beau gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘Are you suggesting that I’ve become short-sighted in my old age?’ he drawled ruefully.
Old age! When he smiled like that he definitely only looked in his late thirties, and rakishly attractive to boot. Too much so for her peace of mind!
She quickly drank down her cooling coffee before standing up noisily, not quite meeting his gaze now. ‘Time I got back to work,’ she mumbled awkwardly.
‘Jaz…?’ he murmured softly as she hurried across the room to the door.
She paused, drawing in a controlling breath, drawing back her shoulders before turning to face him. ‘Yes?’ she prompted tautly.
He walked softly across the room to stand in front of her, his gaze questioning now. ‘I’m sure I can’t be the first man to tell you how beautiful you are—’
‘Now you’re going too far!’ She frowned in rebuke, disappointment her main emotion.
She had actually been starting to like him, appreciated rather than resented his old-fashioned view that shifting rocks was ‘a man’s work’. But now he was just being deliberately cruel.
‘Thanks for the coffee, Mr Garrett, but the entertainment’s over; I’m going back to work,’ she told him abruptly before turning away.
Strong fingers dug into her upper arms as he reached out to hold her firmly in front of him, his gaze searching as she glared up at him resentfully.
Living in the village had been far from easy since her mother had run off, village people, as Jaz knew to her cost, having long memories. But she had been born here, had no intention of being driven out of her birthright because of the viciousness of some of the gossip. And, with time, it had lessened, finally fading almost completely; she certainly didn’t need Beau Garrett, a complete stranger to the area, coming here and tormenting her in another way!
His frown had turned to puzzlement now. ‘Jaz—’ He broke off as a knock sounded on the back door.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’ Without waiting for an answer to his call, Dennis, the builder, opened the door to look expectantly into the room.
Where, Jaz knew, she and the famous Beau Garrett were standing far too close for two people who were supposed to be relative strangers!

CHAPTER FIVE
BILLS, bills, nothing but— What…?
Jaz’s hand shook as she held the single sheet of paper, staring disbelievingly at the single sentence printed there. Only four words, but, nevertheless, those four words had the impact on her that they were obviously supposed to.
‘Like mother, like daughter’.
Like mother, like daughter—except Jaz was nothing like her mother. Nothing!
She flung the letter down onto the cluttered desk-top in the garden-centre office where she had been opening her post, before standing up to pace restlessly, her gaze returning again and again to that unsigned letter.
What did it mean? In what way was she supposed to be like her mother?
The envelope, she suddenly realized. It would have a stamp on it with the time and place of postage, plus the address would have to have been written there too.
No, the address had been printed by computer too—so much for her amateur sleuthing! And there was no postage stamp on it. Which meant it must have been delivered by hand.
Jaz recoiled from the thought that it might have been someone local who had sent the anonymous letter to her, her stomach churning with distaste that she might actually know someone capable of doing this.
But what other explanation was there? The letter had been laying on the floor with all the other letters delivered while she’d been out at work all day, gathered up in their number and opened in all innocence of its contents.
‘Anyone here?’
Jaz easily recognized that voice, moving quickly to gather up the letter and its envelope, to push them into the top drawer of the desk just as Beau Garrett let himself into the office.
‘Yes?’ she prompted slightly breathlessly, standing protectively in front of the desk—as if she thought that damning letter were going to leap out of its own volition and present itself to this man!
Maybe she should show it to him? Maybe if she could share it with someone it wouldn’t seem quite so—
Ridiculous, she instantly told herself irritably. It was unpleasant—unbelievably so, if she were honest with herself!—but not anything that concerned this man. Certainly nothing she could ‘share’ with him, or anyone else.
Beau frowned across the room at her. ‘Are you okay?’
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to relax as she smiled at him reassuringly. ‘Of course.’
His frown didn’t alter. ‘You’re looking a little pale…?’
Jaz gave a dismissive grimace. ‘I’m probably hungry. Besides,’ she added ruefully, ‘I’ve just received the electricity bill!’
Beau gave a derisive smile. ‘That would do it.’ He nodded understandingly. ‘And talking of hungry—I’m just on my way out to the pub for dinner. I saw your light on, and wondered if, like me, you felt like giving cooking a miss for this evening?’
Jaz stared at him. Had Beau Garrett just invited her out to dinner? Albeit the pub at the other end of the village…
Yes, he had. And she could easily guess the reason for it!
They hadn’t parted on too friendly terms earlier today, Jaz making good her escape from the kitchen with Dennis’s timely arrival. And she had left promptly at five o’clock without speaking to Beau Garrett again.
The man obviously felt guilty about his teasing earlier today!
He raised mocking dark brows at her lack of response. ‘Pub. Food,’ he enunciated slowly. ‘My treat,’ he added as she continued to look at him without speaking.
That last remark evoked a response, her cheeks colouring angrily. ‘I’m not in need of anyone’s charity, Mr Garrett,’ she snapped waspishly. Least of all yours, her tone clearly implied.
His expression darkened irritably. ‘And I’m not in the business of offering anyone charity—Miss Logan,’ he bit out harshly. ‘Merely suggesting we eat dinner together, and as such ensuring that you have enough strength to shift another load of junk from my garden tomorrow!’
She deserved his impatient anger, and she knew it; she was just feeling shaken, and not a little sensitive, from receiving that anonymous letter.
But what was it, after all? Amateur hour, that’s what it was. Probably just some kid who liked playing with his computer and had read too many Agatha Christies than was good for him!
‘Besides,’ Beau Garrett added abruptly, ‘I hate eating alone.’
When he put it like that…!
Jaz gave a heavy sigh, relaxing slightly. ‘Sorry if I sounded ungrateful,’ she grimaced. ‘Dinner at the pub sounds wonderful,’ she accepted gracefully.
It would also give her time and distance from that horrible letter. And when she got back later this evening she would throw the thing straight in the bin.
‘Do you have time to wait while I change out of these old clothes?’ She had actually changed out of her working clothes when she’d got in half an hour ago, but these faded denims and one of her father’s old jumpers, although clean, were almost as disreputable.
Beau gave a decisive shake of his head. ‘You look fine. And I’ve been assured that they do “a marvelous steak” at the pub,’ he added more practically.
Jaz moved to pick up her heavy coat, laughing softly at his perfect imitation of Barbara Scott at the village shop. ‘Did you ever think of taking up acting?’ she prompted interestedly after locking up and following him out to the Range Rover.
‘Never!’ he assured with a barely suppressed shudder. ‘Did you never think of doing something other than follow in your father’s footsteps?’
Jaz gave him a considering look, that look cut short as the interior light of the powerful vehicle clicked off overhead. ‘Saved by the light,’ she drawled. ‘And, no, I never considered doing anything else. I love gardening, love collecting the seeds, nurturing the seedlings, seeing them grow into beautiful blooms. My grandmother—the designer of the rock garden,’ she reminded dryly, ‘she loved it too. You might say it’s in the blood,’ she added teasingly. And then felt the chill of ice in her veins.
As that anonymous letter had already stated, she was her mother’s daughter too!
No, she wasn’t, Jaz decided just as firmly. Her mother had been flighty and irresponsible, but most of all self-centred; none of which Jaz believed herself to be.
‘But you didn’t properly answer my question,’ she prompted Beau pointedly.
He gave her a brief grin. ‘No, I didn’t, did I?’
And he wasn’t going to do so, either, his tone clearly implied.
Oh, well, if he didn’t want to talk about himself, that was his choice, Jaz shrugged inwardly. Although he was singularly different from any other man she knew if that really were the case; on the few dates she had accepted over the years those men couldn’t seem to talk about anything else but themselves!
Date? Having a meal at the local pub with Beau Garrett couldn’t be considered a date. She—
‘What are you thinking about now?’ Beau gave her a sideways glance as he drove the short distance to the pub.
‘Nothing,’ she dismissed, warm colour in her cheeks; there was no way she could tell this man what she had been thinking.
She still had no idea whether Beau Garrett was married or not. But she did know that, even if he wasn’t, she certainly wasn’t the type of woman to attract him. He was much older, not just because he was aged in his late thirties or early forties, but because he had far more experience of life than her. His arrogantly aristocratic good looks put him well out of her league. And for years he had been at the centre of the world of television, surrounded by beautiful and sophisticated women. Jaz well knew that, despite his earlier teasing words, she had neither of those attributes.
‘You aren’t having dinner with a married man, if that’s what’s bothering you,’ Beau drawled derisively.
‘How did you do that?’ she gasped.
‘It really wasn’t that difficult, Jaz,’ he assured her mockingly. ‘You asked me the other day whether my “family” would be joining me.’ He gave a dismissive shrug, turning the Range Rover into the pub car park before turning off the engine to turn in his seat, his expression grim. ‘I was married once, but that was over years ago,’ he bit out harshly. ‘I haven’t been a monk since, but there’s no one currently in my life.’
‘You really don’t need to tell me any of this.’ Jaz couldn’t quite meet his gaze, her cheeks coloured hotly now.
‘No, I don’t,’ he acknowledged abruptly, opening the door and getting out of the vehicle. ‘But I thought you might like to know anyway,’ he added scornfully. ‘Bearing in mind your warnings that this is a small village and people like to talk.’
Jaz followed slowly. She had wanted to know his marital status, certainly didn’t want to have dinner with a married man, even as innocently as this was; there had been enough talk about her family over the years without her adding to the gossip. But it somehow felt uncomfortable to know that a man as sophisticated as Beau had been all too aware of her misgivings.
She could comfort herself by claiming she was out of practise in these things, but as she had never been in practise in the first place…!
‘I must seem extremely unsophisticated to you,’ she muttered as the two of them walked towards the warmth of the pub.
‘Refreshingly naïve,’ Beau corrected lightly, reaching forward to open the door for her.
For naïve read gauche and silly, Jaz accepted heavily as she stepped into the tastefully lit and furnished pub, a glowing warmth giving off by the log fire at one end of the room.
Beau looked around him interestedly. ‘I didn’t know places like this really existed,’ he murmured appreciatively.
‘Ye Olde Country Pub.’ Jaz nodded smilingly. ‘I’m told that the beer’s quite good too,’ she added derisively.
‘Hey, give me a break; I’ve lived in London for the last thirty-nine years!’ Beau chided as they made their way through the crowded room to a table closer to the fire.

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