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Unwillingly, Zanna looked at herself. Her cheeks were still flushed and her eyes looked twice their normal size. Against her throat, the dark band of ribbon was a perfect foil for her creamy skin, while the neckline of her blouse revealed a tantalising glimpse of cleavage.
I look different, she thought with bewilderment. I don’t know myself.
In the mirror’s reflection, their eyes met.
He said softly, ‘Tell me, Miss Smith, does anyone ever call you Susie?’
She shook her head, the loosened hair swinging against her cheek. ‘Never.’ The word seemed squeezed from her taut throat.
‘Then tonight they will.’ His gaze held hers, steadily, almost mesmerically. Somehow she could not break the spell and look away, much as she wanted to. Much as she needed to. ‘Dance with me, Susie—please?’
She searched wildly for the crushing retort, the ultimate put-down that would salvage this ridiculous—this impossible situation. And instead heard herself say, against reason, against wisdom, even against sanity, ‘Yes.’
CHAPTER THREE
ALL the way across the green, Zanna could hardly believe that she was doing this.
I make my own plans, she thought. I’m the one in control. So how the hell am I on my way to some village hop, with a rustic grease monkey who has far too much to say for himself?
And who, whether she wished to acknowledge it or not, had far more than his fair share of sexual charisma, a voice in her head warned acerbically.
The kind of man that Suzannah Westcott would have shunned by miles.
But tonight, just for a few hours, she was leaving Zanna Westcott behind her. She was going to be Susie Smith instead, and find out, maybe, how the other half lived. And where was the harm in that? she argued with herself as she looked up at the velvety sky.
With the man walking at her side, that was where, returned the voice in her head, which refused, stubbornly and annoyingly, to go away.
Above the dark roofs the stars seemed close enough to touch, and a sliver of new moon was peeping round the church tower. Ahead of them, the hall was festooned with coloured lights, and music drifted on the faint breeze.
It was, to all intents and purposes, a night for lovers, she thought with unease. And if Jake had tried to take her hand, or put an arm round her waist, she knew she would have turned tail and fled back to the sanctuary of her solitary room at the pub. But he didn’t attempt even the most casual physical contact. For which, she told herself firmly, she was sincerely thankful.
And then they were inside the hall and people were calling greetings, their welcoming smiles mixed with friendly speculation as they looked at Zanna, and imperceptibly she began to relax. After all, she reasoned, there couldn’t be much danger in a room full of other people.
She hardly recognized the hall itself. In the space of a few hours all traces of the exhibition had been removed and the entire room decorated with more lights and swathes of silk flowers. Tables and chairs had been set out round the perimeter of the dance floor, and a three-piece band was playing on the platform.
It was like stepping back through a time-warp into another era—another planet, she thought, staring round her.
‘What were you expecting—the latest disco sounds?’ He didn’t miss a thing.
‘No—oh, no,’ she denied hastily. ‘It’s—quite a transformation, that’s all.’
Jake’s brows rose. ‘Then you did come to see the exhibition?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Of course,’ she countered lightly. ‘What else?’
He shrugged. Suddenly that hooded look was back. ‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’ He paused. ‘Did you actually buy any paintings?’
‘No—the one I wanted wasn’t for sale.’ She hadn’t meant to say that, she thought with vexation, and went on hurriedly, ‘In fact, most of them had been sold. The standard of work is absolutely amazing for such a small village. They must have a very good teacher.’
‘several. I believe.’ His tone was almost dismissive. ‘They also have a drama group, a gardening club and a choir, so you won’t go short on cultural activities.’
‘I won’t?’ She looked up at him, puzzled, and saw his mouth slant in a grin.
‘When you come to live here.’ he explained gently. ‘I thought you were planning to buy a house?’
‘Well, yes.’ She could have kicked herself. ‘But I gathered I was on a hiding to nothing over that.’
Jake shrugged again. ‘I suppose there’s always a chance—if you make the right offer,’ he returned. ‘As I said, the caretaker for Church House will be around later. You could always have a word with him. See how the land lies.’
‘Thank you, I certainly will.’ She made herself speak casually. ‘Is there some kind of local history group in the village, by any chance? I’d like to get to know a little more about the place before making any firm decision, you understand?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I understand perfectly.’ He paused. ‘I’ll gladly introduce you to a few people, but I can’t guarantee they’ll tell you what you want to know.’
‘Just some general background would be fine,’ Zanna declared airily, and untruthfully. And someone who knew a child—a little girl called Susan. Someone to fill in some of the aching blanks in her own childhood.
The tempo of the music changed, became slower, more dreamy.
‘This is our waltz.’ Jake held out a hand, inviting her to join him on the dance floor. Zanna hung back, shaking her head, aware, suddenly, that her pulses had begun to thud erratically.
‘I really don’t dance.’
‘Didn’t you have lessons at your exclusive boarding school?’ he drawled.
‘Well—yes,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘But that was a long time ago.’
‘Then it’s time your memory was jogged.’ She was drawn firmly and relentlessly into his arms. ‘I lead—you follow.’
Which wasn’t a situation she was used to, as he was probably well aware, she thought, gritting her teeth. For the first few moments she felt totally awkward, her feet everywhere, her body stiff and unyielding in his embrace. But gradually she found herself responding to the rhythm of the music, as well as to her partner’s unspoken signals, as he guided her round the crowded floor.
As the final chords sounded she said stiltedly, ‘Thank you, I enjoyed that.’
‘All you need is more practice.’
‘I don’t think I know any dance teachers.’
‘Not at waltzing, Susie,’ he said quietly. ‘At living.’
There was a brief, startled pause, then she said thickly, ‘You have a hell of a nerve.’
‘Famous for it,’ he agreed, without any visible signs of remorse.
‘Damn you—I have a very good life.’
‘Crammed with all kinds of goodies, I have no doubt,’ Jake said expressionlessly. ‘But that isn’t what I mean.’
Zanna lifted her chin, giving him a look that had originated well north of the Arctic Circle.
She said, coolly and precisely, ‘You may be well-versed in the inner workings of motor vehicles—although that has still to be proved—Mr—er...’
‘Jones,’ he supplied cordially. ‘As in Alias Smith and...’
Zanna bit her lip hard. That was not the name he’d given previously, she thought thunderously, but it seemed wiser, under the circumstances, to ignore it rather than call the matter into question.
‘But I suggest you lay off the human psychology,’ she went on, raising her voice a semitone. ‘At that you’re a total amateur.’
‘As I imagine you are yourself, Susie. At least at the things that matter.’ He gave her an edged grin. ‘Now let’s go and get some drinks.’
‘No, thanks,’ Zanna refused curtly. ‘I think I’d rather go back to the Black Bull.’
He had the audacity to laugh. ‘Don’t sulk.’ And, as her lips parted in furious negation, he added, ‘And don’t fib either. Just think of what Reverend Mother would have said.’
‘How did you know I went to a convent?’ she demanded suspiciously.
His smile widened. ‘Call it a lucky guess.’ He paused. ‘Besides, if you run away now you could miss out on a guided tour of Church House. Isn’t that worth enduring my company for a little while longer?’
He took her hand in his and led her round the edge of the floor to a room at the rear of the hall where the bar had been set up.
Bill Sharman was burly, with a beard and an infectious laugh.
‘Now then, Jake,’ he said jovially, giving Zanna an appraising look. ‘What can I get you both?’
‘A cold beer, please.’ Jake turned a questioning eye on Zanna. ‘The same for you, Susie?’
‘I don’t drink beer.’ Nor did it seem politic to drink any more alcohol when she needed to keep her wits about her. Glancing round, she spotted with relief several large glass bowls, filled with some innocuous-looking ruby liquid and awash with sliced apples, pears and oranges, standing on a side-table. ‘But I’ll try the fruit cup,’ she added, ladling some into a glass.
‘A good choice,’ Bill Sharman said cheerfully. ‘Trudy’s special brew. No dance here would be complete without it.’ He paused. ‘My wife tells me you’re spending the night with us.’
‘Yes, it wasn’t exactly a planned visit, but my car broke down and it’s taking Jake longer to fix it than I’d hoped.’
There was an odd silence, then Bill said, ‘Ah, you’ll be old friends, then?’
To her surprise, she found herself flushing. ‘Not really. I...’
‘Actually, we only met this afternoon when she walked into the garage.’ Jake broke smoothly into her flustered words. ‘And as she was at a loose end tonight I invited her here.’
‘Splendid,’ Bill approved, almost too heartily. ‘Great stuff. Have a wonderful evening.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled back at him. ‘And the fruit cup is delicious.’
It was, too, the flavours of the fruit mingling coolly and fragrantly with a hint of spice. Cinnamon? she wondered as she sipped again. And nutmeg, perhaps? It was difficult to tell, she decided, downing some more in the interests of scientific research.
Jake took the glass from her hand and placed it with his own on a convenient window-ledge.
‘Come and dance,’ he invited softly.
This time it was a slow foxtrot, and Zanna was astonished to find how quickly she picked up the steps. She was almost sorry when the tempo changed completely to a rollicking Gay Gordons, a progressive version, where she found herself being whirled round by a succession of different partners, leaving her laughing and breathless as the music ended with a triumphant flourish.
She looked instinctively to see where Jake was and saw him standing at the side of the dance floor, talking to a pretty redhead who was openly and unashamedly devouring him with her eyes.
Which was fine by her, thought Zanna, swallowing the remains of her fruit cup and starting back to the bar in search of a refill. Of course it was. Jake belonged to Emplesham, after all. He had a life here which would continue long after she was gone and forgotten.
A strange pang of something like regret assailed her at this thought, and was instantly suppressed.
Because she had a life too. A very different life from those led in this backwater, she told herself robustly. A life where she was needed—where she mattered.
She pinned on a resolute smile for Bill Sharman. ‘Dancing’s thirsty work,’ she said, plying the ladle.
‘Always was,’ he agreed, raising one eyebrow. ‘Take it easy if you’re not used to it.’
‘I’m fine,’ she returned airily. ‘Having the time of my life.’
Which, somehow, did not include watching Jake being eaten alive by pretty girls with red hair. An unwelcome realisation if ever there was one.
Dismissing it, she held out some money for her drink, but Bill shook his head.
‘That’s our contribution to the festivities—Trudy’s and mine. There’s no charge.’
They’d opened one of the side-doors, and she stepped through it and out into the cool darkness, fresh with the scent of newly mown grass. She stood, sipping her drink and looking up at the sky.
The new moon was still there, a pale silver crescent above the trees. The breeze lifted her loosened hair, brushing it against her cheek, the nape of her neck, like a caressing hand.
She moved uneasily, aware that she was shivering—not with cold but with a strange, unfathomable excitement.
You could wish on the moon, she thought hazily, remembering the old childish superstition. And if you turned a piece of silver over in your hand and bowed three times your wish would come true. But she had nothing to wish for.
And she knew, even as the thought took shape in her mind, that she was lying to herself.
She recognized with sudden, shocking clarity exactly what she would wish for—if only she dared...
She thought, I want this night never to end. I want to go on being Susie. I want...
And she stopped there, her mind closing against the unspoken, unutterable plea. All the breath seemed to leave her body in one gigantic, soundless gasp. She could feel the coins clenched in her hand, biting into her flesh.
The temptation to turn them over, to obey the ritual and accept whatever fate decreed would follow, was almost overwhelming.
Almost—but not quite. From some corner of her mind a remnant of sanity intervened to save her, reminding her precisely who she was and what, in fact, he was.
A total stranger, she thought stonily, gulping the sweetness and the pain of the night back into her starved lungs. A stranger, moreover, light years removed from her in background and aspiration. Someone she wouldn’t have given a second glance to in her busy London existence. Someone she’d been unwise to allow anywhere near her. Someone already well aware of the effect he had on women, as his redheaded admirer could probably attest.
She gave the moon one last look. You pathetic fool, she told herself savagely, and she turned to go back into the hall.
Only to yelp in fright as she cannoned into a tall figure standing behind her.
He steadied her without particular gentleness. ‘This is getting to be a habit. What the hell are you doing out here?’
‘Moongazing,’ she said. Her voice sounded odd, as though it didn’t belong to her. ‘I—I needed some fresh air.’
‘Trudy’s punch tends to have that effect,’ he said grimly. ‘Bill told me you’d been back for seconds.’ He took the empty glass from her hand and shook his head. ‘This stuff should carry a government health warning. Not to mention all the other things you drank during dinner.’
