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‘But it’s much nicer here than it is in that café,’ Tara urged. ‘You’d have a lovely bedroom. Would you like to look at it?’ She began to scramble out of bed, and Phoebe restrained her firmly.
‘And I have a home, too.’ With a roof that leaks and wiring on the blink and a nosy landlord ‘Your father will soon find someone else to look after you.’
‘I don’t want someone else.’ Tara sounded rebellious and fractionally close to tears.
Phoebe took her hand. ‘Look, I came to say good night, not have a fight. Everything will work out, poppet. You’ll see.’
Tara pulled her hand away and turned over, burying her face in the pillow. ‘I don’t like being on my own,’ said a muffled voice.
Phoebe sighed soundlessly. ‘Listen, if you’re a good girl, and stop fussing, I’ll come and play Snakes and Ladders with you one day. If your daddy will let me, that is.’
A transformed and beaming face was lifted from the pillow. ‘Will you come tomorrow?’
‘No, I have to go to work. Besides,’ she added with a touch of sternness, ‘Saturdays and Sundays are your special time with your father, aren’t they?’
‘Ye-e-es.’ Tara wriggled a bit. ‘But he wouldn’t mind if you were there too.’
‘Oh, I think he might,’ Phoebe said lightly. And I certainly should. ‘Cuddle down now, and I’ll tuck you in.’
Tara obeyed. ‘You sound like a nanny,’ she said.
Phoebe bent and swiftly kissed a pink cheek. ‘That’s the easy part,’ she said.
She closed the door softly behind her, and started down to the floor below. All the doors were shut there too, but she could remember what the rooms were like, she thought, her footsteps faltering a little. Especially one of them. The one with the big four-poster bed with a canopy over it. The one she’d been taken to...
Out of the past, she could remember someone saying, ‘It looks like a bloody altar.’
And Tony’s voice drawling, ‘Then let’s supply the virgin sacrifice.’
She shivered violently, trying to blot out his voice as well as the more potent memories of his lips on hers, his hands moving over her, undressing her slowly...
‘Is something the matter?’ Dominic Ashton’s voice, speaking sharply, broke across her reverie.
She realised she was standing, rooted to the spot, outside his bedroom. He was at the top of the stairs, staring at her.
He said, ‘I’ve never heard that this house is haunted, but you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘No—no, I’m fine. I—I thought I heard Tara calling,’ she improvised rapidly.
He said abruptly, ‘I’ll sleep up there tonight, in case she needs anything.’
Phoebe walked ahead of him down to the hall. ‘You don’t think there’s a chance Cindy will turn up?’
‘I know she won’t,’ he said grimly. ‘You were quite right. She’s in hospital—and the boyfriend too. I’ve just been on to the casualty department at Westcombe. They had an accident on the bike—hurrying back for Tara, apparently.’
Phoebe gasped. ‘Are they badly hurt?’
‘Tom ligaments for him, and a broken collarbone for her. It could have been very much worse. I’ll call in there after I’ve dropped you off, with a dose of unpleasant medicine for the pair of them.’
She said quickly, ‘Don’t be too angry with her, please. She’ll know how stupid she’s been, and be feeling really bad about it. And anger’s such an awful thing—when you’re frightened and ashamed, any way...’ Her voice tailed into silence.
‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘That was certainly a cry from the heart.’ He held out her coat for her. ‘Do I really seem so formidable?’
‘I—I was speaking generally.’ Phoebe slid her arms into the sleeves and began to fumble with the buttons.
‘Were you?’ His grey gaze was searching. ‘I’d have said you had something very particular in mind, and—’
To her intense relief, his analysis was interrupted by a sharp peal of the doorbell.
Dominic Ashton’s brows rose. ‘Now, who can this be?’ he said, half to himself.
He went to the door and threw it open.
‘Darling.’ The woman who swept in with immense assurance was tall, with pale blonde hair swept back by a velvet Alice band. Her wine-coloured cape swirled around her. ‘Mummy and Daddy are having an impromptu drinks party—such fun—and—’ she gave a girlish laugh ‘—they’ve sent me over to scoop you up.’
Now that, thought Phoebe, her own troubles forgotten in sudden relish, is something I’d really like to see. Dominic Ashton didn’t seem a man who’d ‘scoop’ easily.
He said courteously, ‘Good evening, Hazel. That’s very kind of you all, but I’m afraid I’m not available tonight. We’ve had a slight domestic crisis.’
‘Oh, dear.’ The newcomer’s rather prominent blue eyes focused on Phoebe, taking in her ordinary appearance and the elderly waxed jacket she was wearing. ‘Have I arrived at an awkward moment? Are you in the process of firing a member of your staff? I can wait in the car till you’ve finished.’
‘No,’ Dominic said pleasantly. ‘Actually that’s not it. This is Phoebe Grant, who doesn’t work for me in any capacity. Miss Grant, may I introduce you to Hazel Sinclair, who’s the daughter of some neighbours of mine?’
Phoebe murmured, ‘How do you do?’ and, in return, was given a bright smile which revealed very white teeth.
‘All the better to eat you with, Grandma,’ she said under her breath.
The social niceties concluded, Hazel Sinclair returned to her prey. ‘So what’s the problem, my pet? Is there anything I can do to help?’
He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Tara’s nanny’s made rather a fool of herself and ended up in hospital.’
‘Oh, these ghastly girls.’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘I really don’t know how anyone copes with them. And I have to say she always did seem rather—flighty to me. Now, what you want is an older woman, a nanny of the old school, who’d keep a firm hand on poor little Tara.’
‘Is that what you think she needs?’ Dominic asked mildly.
‘All small girls do, my dear.’ She tapped him roguishly on the arm. ‘Especially charmers like your Tara, who can twist their fathers round their little fingers. She’s a delight, but you must be careful not to—overcompensate for the fact you’re a one-parent family.’
‘I am aware of that,’ he said, a touch drily. ‘I thought until an hour or so ago that I’d got the balance about right. Until Miss Grant arrived to correct me, that is.’
‘Oh, really?’ Phoebe found herself subjected to a somewhat sharper scrutiny. ‘Are you some kind of social worker, then?’
‘No,’ Phoebe said. ‘I’m a waitress at the Clover Tea Rooms, in Westcombe.’
‘I see.’ Hazel Sinclair clearly didn’t. She gave a silvery laugh. ‘It’s not an establishment I’m familiar with, I have to say. Is it one of your haunts, Dominic? It doesn’t sound very likely.’
‘It isn’t,’ he said briefly. ‘But Tara likes it, apparently.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want to seem ungracious, Hazel, but I was just about to run Miss Grant back to Westcombe and then visit the hospital.’
‘Of course. I must be getting back myself. The first guests will be arriving.’ She smiled at him dazzlingly. ‘If you’ve time when you’ve completed all your errands of mercy, call round. So many people want to welcome you back after all this time. Besides, it’s essential for you not to be a hermit.’
‘I think I can promise that.’ He took the hand she’d archly extended and dropped a quick kiss on it. ‘Tonight just isn’t on, Hazel, but I’ll ring you next week and we’ll have dinner.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, darling.’ She bestowed a distinctly less radiant look on Phoebe. ‘Good night, Miss—er...?’
‘Grant,’ Phoebe supplied helpfully. ‘Clover Tea Rooms. Home-baking a speciality.’
As he closed the front door behind Hazel Dominic Ashton turned back to Phoebe with a wintry look.
‘You’re not quite as demure as you look, are you, Miss Grant?’
‘I don’t understand.’ Phoebe returned the look. ‘Is there a problem?’
There was a brief, oddly pregnant silence, then he said slowly, still staring at her, ‘Do you know, Miss Grant? I think there might be. I really think there might.’
He sighed, swiftly and sharply. ‘So—shall we go now?’
‘Please,’ said Phoebe. And thought, The sooner, the better.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS a largely silent journey. Dominic Ashton seemed lost in thought as he expertly threaded his powerful four-wheel drive through the lanes.
And Phoebe, sitting with her hands clenched tightly in her lap, was far too uncomfortably aware of his physical proximity to be capable of producing any intelligent topic of conversation to fill the void.
‘Only six weeks until Christmas,’ and, ‘Do you think we’ll have snow before New Year?’ were all she could think of, and she instantly discarded both of them. Silence was preferable to total banality.
‘Whereabouts in Westcombe?’ he eventually asked abruptly as they approached the outskirts.
‘You can drop me in the High Street.’
‘I could also throw you in the river,’ he observed icily. ‘But, as I intend to take you to your door, let’s drop the evasions and give me your address. It will save us both time and temper.’
‘Hawthorn cottage—twenty-nine, Rushton Street,’ Phoebe said eventually, and mutinously.
‘Simplest solutions are always best,’ he murmured, and her hands curled into fists.
Hang in there, she adjured herself silently. A few more minutes and he’ll be gone. And as soon as Debbie comes back to work you can go too—as far and as fast as possible. And you’ll never, ever have to see him again.
As they drew up, she said, ‘Thank you.’
‘I wish I could think you meant that.’ He leaned forward, studying the narrow little house crammed awkwardly between its neighbours. ‘Astonishing.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Phoebe felt herself bristling.
‘Granted.’ He swung himself lithely out of the driving seat and went round to open the passenger door. ‘I was thinking what a strange mass of contradictions you are.’
‘Well, please don’t lose any sleep over it, Mr Ashton,’ she snapped, ignoring the helping hand he’d extended as she scrambled out.
‘On the contrary,’ he said softly. ‘I have a strong feeling that you’re going to cost me a lot of sleepless nights, Miss Grant.’
Phoebe, shaken, and for once at a loss, gave him a fulminating look and stalked to her gate.
As she opened it she heard, quiet but unmistakable, the creak of her front door closing. She stopped dead with a groan. ‘Oh, no.’
‘I’ll deal with it.’ Dominic Ashton strode past her towards the shadowy figure hovering in the porch.
Phoebe, close on his heels, heard a slight scuffle and a yelp. ‘Oh, don’t hurt him. It’s my landlord.’
‘But he was coming out of your house.’
‘She’s been complaining about a leak in the roof,’ Arthur Hanson squeaked in breathless outrage. He was a thin man, balding, with a straggling beard. ‘I came round to look at it.’
‘In the pitch darkness?’ Dominic asked contemptuously. ‘You haven’t even got a flashlight.’
‘I decided to have a look in the loft first,’ Mr Hanson said, with an attempt at dignity.
‘In Miss Grant’s absence?’ Dominic released his hold on the other man’s collar.
‘He’s always doing it,’ Phoebe said wearily.
‘I have a right to conduct regular inspections.’
‘From now on, telephone Miss Grant and make an appointment.’
As Mr Hanson scuttled off Dominic turned a frowning gaze on Phoebe. ‘Has this been going on for long?’
‘Ever since I moved in.’
‘Then I strongly recommend you have the locks changed. He may be your landlord, but you have a right to your privacy.’
He followed her into the hall, looking around him critically. Comparing it, no doubt, with North Fitton House. ‘How much rent is he charging you?’
Phoebe lifted her chin. ‘Isn’t that covered by the right to privacy you just mentioned?’ she challenged.
‘It’s not just idle curiosity. I have contacts in the private rental market,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you could get something better than this.’
‘It’s perfectly adequate for my present needs,’ she said stiffly.
‘And your job represents complete fulfilment too?’ There was a note of faint derision in his voice.
She shrugged defensively. ‘I like my colleagues, and the customers are pleasant.’
‘Give or take the odd waif and stray.’
‘Tara was hardly that.’ She paused. ‘Please don’t let me keep you, Mr Ashton. You must be keen to get to the hospital. I don’t know when visiting hours end...’
‘There’s plenty of time.’ His mouth curved in amusement. ‘You’re not very subtle, Miss Grant. Or very hospitable,’ he added. ‘Considering I’ve driven you home, and got rid of a pest for you.’
‘I didn’t ask you to do either.’ Phoebe jiggled the sitting-room light switch in increasing irritation. ‘I don’t need your help, Mr Ashton. I can handle my own affairs.’
