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‘No.’ Her flush deepened. ‘That’s a terrible thing to imply.’
‘It happens,’ he returned. ‘I was living with someone before the ill-fated assignment. We’d talked about marriage—made plans. When I came out of hospital and she saw me without my clothes for the first time, she didn’t want to know any more.’ He paused. ‘And that is a matter of pure fact—not a plea for sympathy.’
‘You’ve made it more than clear that sympathy is the last thing you want, Mr Hunter.’ She hesitated. ‘But I will have dinner with you—if that’s what you want.’
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you think you could bend another rule, and call me Miles?’
Chessie felt suddenly confused. This, she thought, is not right, and I should put a stop to it, here and now.
Instead, she heard herself say awkwardly, ‘Very well—Miles.’
He nodded gravely. ‘Absolutely the right decision. I’ll see you out by the car at eight.’
He limped across to the adjoining study and went in, closing the door behind him.
Chessie looked blankly at the computer. The screensaver had clicked on, and she was confronted by a series of coloured geometric patterns, endlessly changing shape as they whirled slowly in front of her.
I know, she thought, how they feel.
It was turning into a day for surprises, and she wasn’t sure she cared for any of them. Particularly the latest one.
Had she really committed herself to going to dinner with Miles Hunter? she asked herself incredulously.
She thought, Well, it’s too late to turn back now, and shivered as if she’d found herself on the edge of some nameless danger …
And that was a complete overreaction, she added flatly, probably brought on by reading too many thrillers by Miles Hunter. From now on, she’d switch to biographies about people who’d led very boring lives.
After all—and he’d said it himself—it was only a meal.
CHAPTER TWO (#ucf4fd579-dfc9-5445-b53e-67894fe09205)
‘THE Ogre’s asked you out to dinner?’ Jenny looked blank with disbelief. ‘And you’ve actually accepted.’ She shook her head. ‘God, Chessie, you must be out of your tree.’
Chessie shrugged defensively. ‘I don’t see why. Something marvellous happened for him today, and he wants to celebrate.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Jenny said derisively. ‘They’ve invented a mask for him to wear—like the Phantom of the Opera.’
Chessie stared at her, appalled. ‘What an utterly foul thing to say,’ she said slowly. ‘Miles is my boss, and we owe him a great deal, yet you can’t say one decent word to him, or about him.’
‘Owe him?’ Jenny’s face reddened. ‘What the hell do we owe him? He’s taken our home away from us, and he’s making us pay for it by treating us like drudges.’
‘Really?’ snapped Chessie. ‘Well, I haven’t noticed much drudgery from your direction. And if Miles hadn’t bought this house, someone else would have done so, and we’d have been out on our ears. There was no way we could keep it. Why can’t I get that through to you?’
Jenny looked mutinous. ‘Well, I still think we could have done something. I saw this thing on television the other day about small country house hotels. It was really cool. I bet we could have made a bomb with Silvertrees.’
‘In about twenty years, maybe,’ Chessie said levelly. ‘But Dad’s creditors weren’t prepared to wait that long for their money. And our present existence is like a holiday camp, compared with hotel-keeping. That’s a twenty-four-hour job.’
Jenny sniffed. ‘I still think it could have worked,’ she said obstinately.
Chessie was suddenly caught between tears and laughter. Extraordinary how Jenny, so clever at school, could have such a tenuous hold on reality at other times.
She wondered what role her sister had pictured for herself in this make-believe ménage. Acting as receptionist, no doubt, and arranging a few flowers. Because she couldn’t cook to save her life, and had never shown the slightest aptitude for housework either.
‘And, anyway—’ Jenny got down to the nitty-gritty of the situation ‘—if you’re going out tonight, what am I going to eat? I bet The Ogre hasn’t invited me.’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ Chessie agreed. ‘But you won’t starve. There’s some chicken casserole in the fridge. All you have to do is use the microwave.’
‘Hardly on a level with being wined and dined.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘And another thing—since when has The Ogre been “Miles” to you? I thought it was strictly, “Yes, Mr Hunter, sir.”’
‘So it was, and probably will be again tomorrow,’ Chessie told her calmly. ‘It’s just a meal, that’s all.’
I wonder how many times I’m going to say that before I convince even myself, she thought later as she reviewed the meagre contents of her wardrobe.
It had been a long time since she’d eaten in a restaurant. She’d been having lunch with her father, she remembered, hardly able to eat as she’d tried nervously to probe what had been going on in the company.
She could recall the uneasy questions she’d asked—the reassurances she’d sought.
Neville had patted her shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’ She could hear his voice now. ‘There’s nothing for my girl to worry about.’
He’d talked loudly, and laughed a lot. Drunk a lot too. He’d seen some former business associates across the restaurant, and had waved to them expansively, beckoning them over, but they hadn’t come.
Even then that had seemed ominous, like the first crack in a dam, only she hadn’t dared say so. Hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge it could have been so. Longed for it all to have been her imagination.
She’d worn a plain cream linen shift, she remembered, with large gold buttons. That didn’t exist any more, sadly, and she had little else that was suitable for dining out in.
Most of her clothes fell into two categories, she realised regretfully. There was working (ordinary) and working (slightly smarter). In the end, she opted for a plain black skirt reaching to mid-calf, and topped it with an ivory silk chainstore blouse. The gilt earrings and chains that Jenny had given her for her last birthday made the outfit seem a little more festive.
She was in her early twenties and she felt a hundred years old. There were little worry lines forming between her brows, and the curve of her mouth was beginning to look pinched.
She usually wore her light brown hair gathered for neatness into a rubber band at the nape of her neck, but decided to let it loose for once, its newly washed silkiness brushing her shoulders.
The only eye-shadow she possessed had formed into a sullen lump in the bottom of its little jar. Jenny had some make-up, she knew, purchased from her scanty and infrequent earnings delivering leaflets round the village, but, under the circumstances, a request for a loan would go down like a lead balloon, so she just used powder and her own dusky coral lipstick.
As a final touch, she unearthed her precious bottle of ‘L’Air du Temps’ from the back of her dressing-table drawer, and applied it to her throat and wrists. When it was gone, there would be no more, she thought, re-stoppering the bottle with care.
The salary she was paid was a good one, but there was little money left over for luxuries like scent.
Jenny had won a scholarship to the school in the neighbouring town where she was a day girl, so Chessie had no actual fees to find. But there was so much else. The only acceptable sports gear and trainers had to come with designer labels, and the school had a strict uniform code too, which had been a nightmare while Jenny was growing so rapidly.
But her sister was going to have exactly the same as all the other girls. She’d been determined about that from the first. No ridicule or snide remarks from her peers for Jenny.
But no one said it was easy, she thought, grimacing, as she picked up her all-purpose jacket and bag.
She paused to take a long critical look at herself in the mirror.
Did she really look the kind of girl a best-selling novelist would ask out? The answer to that was an unequivocal ‘no’, and she found herself wondering why he hadn’t sought more congenial company.
Because, no matter what cruel comments Jenny might make, there was no doubt that Miles Hunter was an attractive and dynamic man, in spite of the scar on his face. And she wondered why it had taken her so long to realise this.
But then, she’d hardly regarded him in the light of a human being, she thought wryly. He was the man she worked for, and his initial rejection of her compassion had barred any personal rapport between them. He’d become a figurehead, she thought. A dark god who had to be constantly placated if she and Jenny were to survive.
She found herself thinking about the girl he’d told her about—the fiancée who’d ditched him because of his scars. Was he still embittered about this? Still carrying a torch for the woman who’d let him down when he’d most needed her support?
Could this be why, apart from the fan mail, which she dealt with herself, there were no phone calls or letters from women—apart from his sister, and his agent, who was in her late forties?
And could it also be why there was no love interest in his books—not the slightest leavening of romance?
He was a terrific writer, and the tension in his stories never slackened. Each book went straight into the bestseller lists after publication, yet if Chessie was honest she found his work oddly bleak, and even sterile.
But that’s just my opinion, she told herself ruefully as she let herself out through the side door. The thriller-reading public who snapped him up had no such reservations.
Besides, she didn’t know for sure that Miles had no women in his life. He was away a great deal in London, and other places. He could well be having a whole series of affairs without her being aware of it. Maybe he just liked to keep his personal life private—and away from the village.
He was waiting by the car. He was wearing beautifully cut casual trousers, which moulded his long legs, and a high-necked sweater in black cashmere. A sports jacket was slung across one shoulder.
He was staring at the ground, looking preoccupied and slightly cross, failing to notice her soft-footed approach.
He didn’t seem to be looking forward to a pleasant evening, thought Chessie, wondering if he was regretting his impulsive invitation. If so, she was sure she would soon know, she told herself philosophically.
She found herself hoping that Jenny hadn’t eaten the entire chicken casserole, because she might well be joining her.
She said, ‘Good evening,’ her voice shy and rather formal.
He looked up instantly, his eyes narrowing as if, for a moment, he had forgotten who she was. Then he nodded abruptly.
‘Punctual as always,’ he commented, opening the passenger door for her.
Well, what did he expect? Chessie wondered defensively as she struggled with her seat belt. She was hardly going to hang about coyly in the house, keeping him waiting.
As he joined her she caught a hint of his cologne, slightly musky and obviously expensive.
‘I thought we’d try The White Hart,’ Miles said as he started the engine. ‘I hear the food’s good there, if you don’t mind the village pub.’
‘Not at all.’ Neither Chessie’s clothes nor her confidence were up to a smart restaurant. ‘Mrs Fewston’s a marvellous cook. Before she and her husband took over the Hart, she used to cater for private dinner parties. In fact, I think she still does, sometimes.’
‘I shall have to bear that in mind. It’s time I did some entertaining.’ He sent her a swift, sideways glance. ‘Well, don’t look so astonished. I can’t go on accepting hospitality without returning it.’
‘Er—no.’ Chessie rallied. ‘And Silvertrees is a great house for parties.’
‘It’s also a family house,’ he said laconically. ‘As my sister never fails to remind me.’ He paused. ‘I think that’s a hint that I should invite her and her blasted kids to stay.’
‘Don’t you like children?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve never had much to do with them. Actually, Steffie’s are great, although she calls them the monsters,’ he added drily.
If it hadn’t been for that land-mine, he might have been married with a family of his own by now, Chessie thought. She tried to imagine it, and failed.
But that was so unfair, she reproached herself. She was behaving just like Jenny. Because she’d never known the man he’d once been. The man who’d enjoyed everything life had to offer—who’d played sport, and laughed, and made love.
And the chances were she’d never have encountered him anyway.
Miles Hunter, the award-winning journalist and hard-hitting television reporter, would have been based in London. He wouldn’t have been interested in a large, inconvenient house on the edge of a sleepy village. He’d have been where it was all happening—where he could pack a bag, and be off whenever a story broke.
He would probably never have contemplated becoming a novelist until circumstances had forced him to rethink his life completely.
Yet, here they both were. And together …
The White Hart was a pleasant timbered building, sited near the crossroads outside the village. A former coaching inn, it was always busy. Jim Fewston was as knowledgeable about wine as his wife was about cooking, and that kept the people coming. Tonight was no exception, and the car park was almost full when they arrived.
‘Just as well I booked a table,’ Miles commented as he slotted the car with expertise into one of the few available spaces. ‘Although it would seem that not everyone’s here for the food,’ he added drily.
She followed his glance, and saw movement in a car parked on its own under the shelter of some trees. Glimpsed shadowy figures passionately entwined, and hurriedly looked away.
‘What an odd place to choose.’ She tried to match his tone.
‘Not if you’re having an illicit affair.’ Miles shrugged. ‘Presumably any corner will do.’
In the bar, Chessie drank an excellent dry sherry, and Miles a gin and tonic as they studied their menu cards.
Many of the people already there were local and known to her, and she’d been greeted cordially when she’d arrived, although a few of the greetings had been accompanied by slyly speculative glances.
But that was only to be expected, she thought as hunger drove out self-consciousness.
She chose watercress soup, and guinea fowl casseroled with shallots in red wine, while Miles opted for pâté, and steak cooked with Guinness and oysters.
“‘Do you come here often?” is the usual opening gambit in this situation,’ Miles commented sardonically as the waitress disappeared with their order. ‘But I’m well aware that you don’t, so what do you suggest as an alternative topic?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She played with the stem of her glass. ‘I think my social graces are rusty with disuse.’
‘And I doubt that I ever had any.’ His mouth twisted in faint amusement. ‘It promises to be a silent evening.’
‘I’m quite used to that.’ Tentatively, she returned his smile. ‘Jenny spends most of her time in her room, studying for her exams, so I’m accustomed to my own company.’
‘People tell me solitude is a luxury,’ Miles said after a pause. ‘But I’m not sure it works so well as a way of life.’ He paused. ‘What’s your sister planning to do when she leaves school?’
‘She’s applied to read natural sciences, but I don’t think she has any definite ideas about an ultimate career yet.’ She thought she detected a faintly quizzical expression in the blue eyes, and hurried on defensively. ‘But it’s early days, and she doesn’t have to make any hasty decisions.’
She leaned back against the comfortable red plush of the bench seat. ‘I had to struggle every inch of the way at school, but learning seems to come easily to Jenny.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Miles said politely, after another pause. ‘There’s a good St Emilion on the wine list, or would you prefer Burgundy?’
‘No, the Bordeaux would be fine.’ She remembered with a pang a holiday she’d once spent with her father, exploring the vineyards of south-west France. It had been a magical time for her, even though he’d constantly fussed about Jenny left behind with her aunt’s family, and made a point of phoning her each evening.
‘There it is again,’ Miles said quietly, and she looked at him in startled question.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That expression of yours—like a child who’s just heard Christmas has been abolished.’
