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Zanna swallowed hard before turning. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I told you I’d find you.’ He gave her that hooded look. ‘Although you do turn up in some surprising places. Are you just a snoop, or do you housebreak on the side?’
Zanna was furious to find she was blushing to the roots of her hair.
‘Please don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, dragging the remnants of her dignity around her. ‘The house seemed—empty. I thought it might be for sale.’
‘And you plan to make an offer they can’t refuse?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re going to be unlucky. I can promise you it’s not on the market.’
‘I’d prefer to discuss this with the owner.’ Zanna lifted her chin.
‘Who’s in America.’
‘Well, someone’s living there.’
He slanted a glance towards the window and the betraying clutter inside. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s a resident caretaker.’
‘Good. Then he’ll be able to give me Mr Gordon’s address.’ She put a snap of emphasis on the name.
‘You have been busy.’ The dark eyes looked her thoughtfully up and down. ‘But you’ve got a fair wait ahead of you. He has a day job.’
‘Oh.’ Zanna bit her lip.
He was still watching her. ‘However, if you really want to meet him, he’ll be at the dance tonight.’
‘The dance?’ she repeated with amused incredulity. ‘I don’t intend to hang around that long.’
‘You may have to,’ he said laconically. ‘You seem to have picked up some dirt in your petrol. I need to strip down the carburettor.’
‘Hell’s bells,’ Zanna muttered. ‘How long is that going to take?’
There was a pause, then, ‘It’ll be ready in the morning.’
‘Oh.’ Zanna made no attempt to hide her dismay. She wanted to abandon this ridiculous trip down Memory Lane and get back to civilisation. ‘You couldn’t possibly finish it tonight?’ she urged.
‘I’m sorry.’ His tone held no regret at all that she could hear. ‘You see, I’m going to the dance.’
‘But of course.’ She glared at him. ‘Please, don’t allow my convenience to stand in the way of your social engagements.’
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t.’ He actually had the nerve to grin at her. ‘I suggest you book a room at the Black Bull. Tell Trudy that I sent you.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice froze. ‘I’m sure I can manage without your assistance.’
‘Fine.’ He turned to leave. ‘Just don’t offer to buy the place,’ he tossed back at her over his shoulder. ‘It’s been in the family for generations.’
Zanna, standing rigidly, waiting for the click of the gate to confirm his departure, realised with shock that her hands had clenched tautly into fists.
What the hell was the matter with her? She could handle a boardroom full of angry men, so how was it this—this peasant could get under her skin so easily?
Because I allowed it, she admitted with angry bewilderment. It’s almost as if I’ve been bewitched since I got here. First the car—now me.
She snorted with self-derision and began to walk slowly back to the front of the house.
She had come to Emplesham to see her mother’s old home, and all she’d achieved was an odd feeling of dissatisfaction, bordering almost on desolation.
Yet what had she really expected? To step back in some time-warp and find Susan Westcott waiting for her? Surely she wasn’t such a fool.
Maybe the lesson she’d come here to learn was that she’d gain nothing by raking over the past. Perhaps that was why her father had stripped himself of all reminders of his brief marriage.
Just as soon as the car’s fixed I’m out of here, she promised herself grimly. And without a backward glance either.
Trudy Sharman was a large, smiling woman, with greying blonde hair pinned into an untidy knot on top of her head.
‘A room for the night’s no problem. The tourist season hasn’t started properly yet.’ She nibbled the end of her pen. ‘But I can only offer you a restricted menu for dinner. You see...’
‘Everyone’s going to the dance,’ Zanna supplied resignedly.
Mrs Sharman laughed. ‘Well, yes. My husband’s doing the bar and I’m catering. We won’t be getting much trade here, so we’ve given most of the staff the night off.’ She sent Zanna a faintly anxious glance. ‘I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Zanna made herself smile reassuringly. ‘I’ll have some sandwiches in my room and an early night.’
‘Oh, we can do better than that.’ Mrs Sharman looked scandalised. ‘I said “restricted” not “non-existent”. There’s beef and mushroom casserole, lamb cutlets, or I can recommend the fish pie. And you’ll be coming to the dance, surely?’
Zanna shook her head. ‘I—I don’t dance. And, anyway, I’m hardly dressed for a social occasion. But the fish pie would be lovely,’ she added brightly.
‘Shall we say seven o’clock, then?’ Mrs Sharman selected a key from the row of hooks behind her desk. ‘Just in case you change your mind about the dance,’ she added vaguely.
Zanna bit back a sharp retort and followed her upstairs in silence. She had to admit, however, that her room was charming, with the blue and white sprigged pattern on the wallpaper repeated in the curtains and frilled bedcover. The bathroom was only tiny, but well equipped. A small wicker basket on a table beside the bath offered a tempting range of soaps, scented bath oils and shampoos, and there was a courtesy robe in dark blue towelling hanging behind the door.
Zanna found it all totally irresistible. As soon as she was alone she filled the deep tub with steaming water, added jasmine oil, pulled off her clothes and sank gratefully into the luxurious perfumed depths, feeling the tensions ease out of her.
When she’d finished soaking, she used the hand-spray to shampoo her hair, then, wrapped in the towelling robe, rinsed out her scraps of silky underwear and hung them on the heated rail to dry.
Then she stretched out on the bed and reached for the telephone. First she rang the Grand Vista hotel, directing them to hold her room for two more nights, then called her own answering machine to see if there were any messages.
Her father’s voice, irritable and slightly hectoring, was on the line. ‘Zanna? Where are you? What the devil are you playing at? Call me back at once—d’you hear, my girl?’
To hear was normally to obey, Zanna realised as she replaced the receiver. But not this evening. Maybe not even tomorrow. Just for once she was off the hook, and she intended to enjoy the sensation for as long as possible.
There was a selection of books on the night-table, including—joy of joys—a Dick Francis she hadn’t read.
That’s my company for the evening sorted out, she thought with satisfaction, instantly closing her mind against the sudden intrusive image of a dark, mocking face and a pair of hooded eyes.
What on earth is the matter with me? she asked herself, in profound irritation. And couldn’t find an answer that gave her any satisfaction at all.
By the time her dinner was served her hair was dry, and so was her underwear. She redressed herself reluctantly, longing for a change of clothes, then brushed her hair severely off her face, confining it with a ribbon in its usual style before descending to the bar.
To her surprise she found it quite crowded, with cheerful, chattering people clearly there for pre-dance drinks. But a swift, wary glance told her that her bête noire was not among them.
When it was her turn to be served, she ordered a dry sherry.
‘Trudy’s laid your table in the snug,’ the barmaid told her, carefully handing her a brimming schooner. ‘She thought it would be a bit quieter in there.’
Zanna carried her drink through the doorway indicated. It was a small room, cosy, with high-backed settles and polished oak tables. A small fire of sweet-smelling apple logs had been kindled in the hearth, dispelling the faint chill of the evening.
Only one table was laid for a meal, but two places had been set, with a bowl of freesias and a single candle burning in a stylish glass holder. There was, moreover, a bottle of Chablis waiting in a cooler.
Zanna, viewing these preparations in total bewilderment, heard the door squeak open behind her—presumably to admit Mrs Sharman with her meal.
‘There’s been some mistake,’ she began. ‘I didn’t order any wine...’
‘It’s a peace-offering.’
The voice she knew at once. Only too well. But as she swung round to face him, her expression freezing into annoyance, a surprised gasp escaped her parted lips rather than the haughty dismissal she’d been framing.
Clean-shaven, with that dark mane of hair neatly combed, he looked almost prepossessing. His clothes— the well-fitting dark trousers, the pale grey jacket that might almost be cashmere, the classic white shirt and the silk tie in sombre jewel colours—all bore the hallmarks of Italian designer wear. And the aroma of engine oil had been exchanged for the discreet scent of a very up-market cologne.
In fact, more than prepossessing, she realised with shock, as a strange awareness shivered along her nerve-endings. He was dangerously attractive.
That faintly mocking grin hadn’t changed, however. And Zanna had noticed before what beautiful teeth he had.
‘Lost for words?’ he enquired lightly. ‘That must be a novelty.’
‘Well, yes.’ Zanna drew a breath. ‘I—I hardly recognized you,’ she added lamely.
‘Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, his face suddenly serious. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘I’d like to make amends.’
She felt her heart thump painfully, as if in warning. ‘That’s really not necessary.’
‘You’re condemning me to eat alone in the opposite corner?’ There was a smile behind the plaintive words. ‘I was thinking of Trudy as well, you see,’ he went on beguilingly. ‘How much easier it would be for her if we shared a table.’
Somehow he made it sound all so reasonable—so impossible to refuse.
Without quite knowing how, Zanna found herself facing him across the freesias. And, as if at some unseen signal, Mrs Sharman bustled in with the first course.
Their meal began with watercress soup, served with a swirl of cream. Zanna had thought she would have no appetite, but she finished every drop.
‘Good?’ her companion queried, with a smile across the flickering candle-flame.
‘Better than that.’ Zanna put down her spoon with a sigh. ‘I was expecting just fish pie.’
‘Not from Trudy’s kitchen. Even though it’s officially closed tonight she has her pride, and you’re a resident so must therefore be cherished.’
‘And what’s your excuse?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m a lonely bachelor who has to forage for himself, so she takes pity on me once in a while.’
If he was lonely, Zanna thought wryly, then it had to be through his own choice. Or perhaps he was simply too busy trying to maintain a small business to organise a private life as well.
That was something she could understand. She’d acted as hostess for her father times without number, but she couldn’t remember, she thought with bewilderment, the last time she had dined à deux with a man.
Few, if any, of the men who’d sought her company had passed muster after Sir Gerald’s rigorous vetting.
‘You’re my daughter, Zanna,’ her father had constantly reminded her. ‘My heiress. How can you ever be sure if it’s you they want or my money?’
It was a lesson which had gone home, however much it might have hurt.
But this time there was no real risk involved, she assured herself. Because the man facing her across the table had no idea who or what she was. And she firmly intended to keep it that way.
As if picking up some unspoken cue, he said, ‘We’ve never actually introduced ourselves, have we?’
‘No.’ Zanna’s mind worked quickly. ‘I’m Susan,’ she announced. ‘Susan—er—Smith.’
‘Really?’ The firm mouth quirked slightly. ‘How unusual. And I’m Jake.’ He paused. ‘Jake—er—Brown,’ he added, with sardonic emphasis.
Zanna felt her cheeks pinken, but she made herself meet his glance with apparent unconcern. After all, what did it matter? she comforted herself. They were ships passing in the night. Nothing more. And she had no more wish to know his real identity than to reveal her own.
The arrival of the next course relieved the awkwardness of the moment. The fish pie more than lived up to its recommendation. Under jts creamy mashed potato and cheese topping, cod, smoked haddock and prawns jostled for precedence in a delicious creamy sauce, and then, to finish with, there was a sumptuously rich chocolate mousse with a wicked undercurrent of brandy.
Jake led the conversation throughout the meal, but he kept to general topics, touching lightly on places of interest in the locality and leading on to the success of the exhibition. Nothing on a personal level, she noted with relief.
Finally Trudy brought excellent coffee and a smooth Armagnac.
Who could ask for anything more? Zanna wondered as she leaned against the high back of the wooden settle, cradling the goblet in her hand and contemplating the flames leaping around the sweet apple logs.
‘Don’t get too comfortable.’ His smile reached her across the candle-flame, sending a faint, troublous shiver down her spine. ‘I’m claiming the first waltz.’
She sat up with a startled jerk. ‘But I’m not going to the dance.’
‘Why not? There’s nothing else to do tonight.’
‘I don’t dance.’
‘I’ll teach you.’
‘And I’m not dressed for it,’ she added swiftly.
‘You could be—with a few adjustments.’ He rose and came round the table to her side.
Stunned, Zanna felt him release the ribbon holding her hair.
‘Now that is so much better,’ he said softly as the blonde strands fell forward to curve round her face.
He reached down, almost in the same movement, and undid the top button of her blouse.
Her hand lifted swiftly to check him as the blood stormed into her face. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Only this.’ With total insouciance he tied the ribbon round her exposed throat in a neat bow, then lifted her to her feet, making her face the mirror over the fireplace. ‘So, Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.’
