скачать книгу бесплатно
Complying with the good-humoured command, Johnny paused at the door. ‘He’s a good-looking guy, Lauren. Don’t you go falling for him.’ Lifting his hand in acknowledgement of Lauren’s thanks, he went on his way.
‘He won’t be here that long,’ Lauren declared.
‘Anyway, he’s probably married with half a dozen kids,’ commented Casey. ‘With looks like that some female must have snapped him up years ago.’
‘How old do you think he is?’ whispered Lauren. ‘I’d say—thirty-five?’
‘Could be,’ said Casey uninterestedly. He gestured her outside to the corridor.
‘Look, Lauren, I know we only met this evening, but I have to say sorry about my infantile behaviour at the party. I’d had more to drink than I’m used to. I do like you, honest.’ His smile, head on one side, melted away her irritation with him, then his face straightened. ‘And it worries me, you being alone with this guy from nowhere. I could stay a few hours, if you like, until he’s come round and been able to establish his identity?’
Lauren hesitated. The thought had been worrying her too. She’d told Marie that she might not enjoy being alone in the house, but she hadn’t bargained for such a mysterious companion.
Wouldn’t ‘intruder’ be a better word? her subconscious prompted. Had the dramatic collapse under the tree been one big act, a way of getting a bed for the night? After all, his surface appearance seemed dishevelled, and his backpack showed distinct signs of wear.
Lauren lifted her shoulders, returning to gaze down at the stranger. The half-light illuminated the planes and angles of his face, the lines from nose to mouth, the frown marks between his eyes. The jaw, around which was a considerable growth of stubble, was resolute, the forehead wide, only the hair still damp from perspiration, resisting the downward droop of his demeanour and curling into itself.
There was something in those features that was vaguely familiar, although for the life of her Lauren couldn’t recall ever having met him, or even having seen his photograph anywhere. She didn’t know why, but instinctively she felt it was a face she could trust.
‘I’ll be OK,’ she said softly to Casey. ‘It’ll only be for one night, after all. Tomorrow he’ll probably go on his way. Wherever that might be.’
‘We—ell…’ Casey was only partly reassured. ‘Could be he’s suffering from a mega-sized hangover.’
Lauren half agreed, although there had been no hint of alcohol on his breath.
In the dim light she gazed at the stranger. He appeared to be asleep. As she stared there arose inside her not even a trace of fear of him. If there had been any reason to be afraid of this man, surely her instinct would have told her, not letting her rest until at the very least she’d called the police?
‘I’ll be OK,’ she assured Casey again. ‘But thanks a lot for your offer.’
‘I’ll write down my phone number.’ He scribbed on a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘If you have any doubts about him at all, you can reach me here, at my digs. Only twenty minutes’ drive. Any time, remember, Lauren.’
On impulse, she did something that half an hour ago she would never have dreamt of doing where Casey was concerned. She reached up and kissed his cheek.
‘Thanks a lot,’ she said, and watched him colour with pleasure.
He wasn’t slow. He put his arms around her and placed a hard kiss against her lips, then lifted his hand as he left, whistling as he pounded down the stairs.
In the bedroom, Lauren wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared down at the backpack. If she looked inside, it would be a way, wouldn’t it, of discovering something about the man?
There was no discernible movement from him, so she found her flashlight and crouched down, unfastening straps, opening flaps and peering into the interior. There was a pocket tape-recorder, notebooks and pencils, lightweight clothes, plastic containers which rattled, envelopes containing letters. Eagerly she turned the beam of light onto the name of the addressee.
‘Brett Carmichael’, it read, ‘c/o PO Box No…’
The destination appeared to be somewhere m Africa. At least she had discovered his name, if not his mission.
It seemed that Johnny had been right in his guess that to acquire such a tan the man must have been in the tropics. So what were the events that had caused him to show up out of the blue—or, more correctly, she thought, out of the darkness—on the doorstep of Old Cedar Grange?
The bedclothes rustled and Lauren hurried to the stranger’s side. His eyes fluttered open, moving around as if he was trying to work out where he was. What was he thinking? Lauren wondered. Which room am I in—which dwelling—which country? Or even, for a man as good-looking as he was, Whose bedroom this time? Then she reproached herself for prejudging him His morals might be beyond suspicion. Perhaps he was wondering where his wife was, his family?
Lauren’s heart did the strangest dive at the thought, then surfaced with speed at her silent reprimand He meant nothing to her, this man from the shadows. How could he, when she knew nothing about him, when he’d only come into her life about thirty minutes ago?
She leaned over him and he stared up at her, fixing his brown eyes on hers, holding them as if he was truly disorientated, and clinging to their reality like a drowning person to a rock.
Summoning a smile, she smoothed back his hair. It felt damp, and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she whispered. ‘Where have you come from and why are you here?’
He did not answer, but lifted his head, and then his powerful shoulders from the bed. Was he trying to get up?
‘No, no,’ Lauren urged, pushing him back. ‘You’re ill, aren’t you? You’ve got a fever…’
A fever? At least she could sponge him, couldn’t she?
‘Stay there,’ she ordered, hoping he was receiving her. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
Her words must have registered as he sank back weakly, his eyes closing again. When she returned with a bowl of tepid water, facecloth and towel, his eyes were still closed. He opened them again as she wrung the cloth and mopped his brow. He appeared to be watching her every action, as if trying to comprehend the reason for her ministrations.
She pulled back the bedcover, exposing his chest and seeing the dampness there. Without hesitation she sponged the whorls of hair, a curious excitement coursing through her as she felt the muscle and the latent strength of him hard beneath her touch.
Easing back his shirt and wiping his shoulders, her wayward fingers trembled to stroke his skin, and she had to rebuke their impudence fiercely before they condescended to return to their caring mode. She used the towel to dry him.
‘Name of Florence?’ came the hoarse question through faintly curving lips.
‘No, its L—’ Then she laughed. ‘No, and my surname’s not Nightingale. I’m Lauren—Lauren Halstead.’
An eyebrow lifted. ‘Folk in the village told me a girl called Mane lived here. Looking after the place for the absent owner.’
‘That was correct until approximately an hour ago. Now I’m in charge.’
He seemed to need time to assimilate the information.
‘Owner’s living abroad, they said?’
‘Right.’
The towel went on rubbing, moving still lower to push against his waistband. His arm swung down from his head, his hand clamping over hers ‘Oh, no, lady.’
Warmth swamped her cheeks—embarrassment mixed with anger. ‘What do you take me for, Mr Carmichael?’ The words burst from her as she tried to free her hand.
Beneath it, the hardness of his stomach muscles against the backs of her fingers was arousing all kinds of feelings which she had no intention of allowing to surface. They were letting her down, she fretted, fighting against her efforts to convey to him, stranger and unknown quantity that he was, that she was merely acting as an impersonal nurse and good Samaritan.
‘OK, I’m sorry.’ More alert now, he searched her face. ‘How the hell do you know my name?’
Lauren hesitated, annoyed with herself for her giveaway slip.
‘OK. Stupid me. You’ve searched my backpack.’ His shoulder lifted. ‘Natural enough, in all the circumstances, for you to want to know my identity.’
Not that she did know it, she reflected. A mere name told her nothing. He released her hand and she threw the towel aside, moving to the foot of the bed and looking down at him. His head sank back onto the pillows and his eyes closed.
‘Are you in pain?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘Yes and no. What happened to the rabble?’
‘The party guests? They’ve gone.’
‘That guy you kissed. Is he still here?’
‘I was only thanking him for his help with you. And I have every right to kiss who I like.’ Why was she suddenly so much on the defensive? This man, this passing stranger, merited no explanation from her. All the same, his comment implied that at the time he hadn’t been totally unaware of the events going on around him.
‘What kind of bug have you got?’ Lauren asked. ‘You collapsed outside. Did you know?’
‘I knew,’ he answered, so tiredly, so softly that she had to listen hard. ‘It’s a fever—name unpronounceable. Picked it up in my wanderings.’
She still did not know where he had ‘wandered’ from, or why he had chosen to ‘wander’ to Old Cedar Grange. But such questions, she felt, could wait until a more appropriate time. ‘Should I send for a doctor?’
‘No need.’ He gestured towards his bag. ‘I consulted a medic—of sorts. He gave me a potion. In my bag there are some tablets to deal with it. White ones. If you’d be so kind…’ His voice tailed off.
Lauren rummaged and found them, using the flashlight to read the label. ‘Take two with liquid, as required’, the instructions dictated.
‘I’ll get some water,’ she told him, and was soon back with a glass. She put it down and shook two tablets onto her palm, then went to the bedside and held them out with the water. He managed to support himself on an elbow and dispatched the medication, swallowing and sinking back muttering, ‘Thanks.’
He seemed cooler now, but plainly the fever still lingered, apparent in the flush of his cheeks, the faint layer of perspiration on his dark-shaded upper lip. His head fell to one side on the pillow, revealing the dark shadow all around his jaw. She wondered how long it was since he had shaved.
As she stared, wondering what next, he looked at her again. ‘Please forgive my lack of manners. Put it down to how I feel. Nor have I thanked you for taking me in and helping to make me comfortable.’ He lifted his arm, frowning at his watch. ‘It’s hellish late. You must be tired.’
She smiled. T am, but—well, that’s OK.’
He nodded, lowering his lids again. For a while she stood there, studying his features anew—the wide mouth, the cleft chin, the sweeping strength of his jaw. His forehead was lined—a frown, even in sleep, creasing the skin between his eyes. There was character there, and resolution, and defiance, and surely a deep integrity?
Tiptoeing to the door, she glanced back. He had not stirred. Remembering Casey’s anxiety about her being alone and defenceless with a stranger present, she withdrew the key from the inside of the door and inserted it in the lock outside, turning it and pocketing it.
She could not deny that she was just a little concerned about her situation, however much her intuition might be telling her she would be safe with this man.
A small, relieved sigh escaped her as she made for her own room, settling down at last into a deep sleep.
* * *
She was wakened by the ringing of the telephone and swung from the bed. The morning sun was lighting the room. Was it Casey, concerned for her?
Quickly cutting off the shrill ring before it woke the stranger, she answered, ‘Yes?’
‘May I ask who that is?’ a man’s voice said. ‘I know it’s not Marie.’
‘No, I’m not Marie. And you are—?’
‘My name is Redmund Gard. You are…Lauren— Lauren Halstead?’
‘Oh, Mr Gard! Yes, I’m Lauren.’ She frowned. ‘How did you know?’
‘Ah, now. Marie, the young minx, contacted me here in my villa in the South of France. She and her fiancé had just upped and left, it seemed, leaving a young lady bearing your name in charge of my property over there. Hoped I didn’t mind, she said. To which I replied it was too bad if I did, wasn’t it?’
Oh, dear, Mr Gard. I honestly thought she’d consulted you about her intentions—although I must admit that she didn’t mention that she had. If you’d rather there was someone else here instead of me, I’ll advertise and—’
‘No, no, my dear. She gave me a sob story of how you would soon have been made homeless.’
‘That’s true, but—’
‘She also gave you a glowing reference—but then she would, wouldn’t she?’ He laughed and Lauren joined in. ‘However, if you are as pleasant and intelligent as you sound, stay by all means and take care of my house. You will take over the salary I’ve been paying her. I hope she told you that’
‘She did, but-’
‘I expect she has told you everything you need to know—about the security I had installed, the locks and bolts, not to mention the alarms?’
‘Yes, she did, Mr Gard.’
‘You’re aware that I’m not Marie’s true uncle, but that is how she addresses me? I would like to ask you to call me Uncle Redmund too. Would you mind?’
Lauren smiled. ‘Not at all—Uncle Redmund.’
‘Good. By the way, today I leave on my travels again. I never stay long in one place. I suppose you could say I’m a born wanderer. The older I get, the more I want to see of this wonderful world we live in. Oh, and in an emergency—a real emergency only—you can contact this number.’ It was a London telephone number. ‘Well, goodbye for now, Lauren. And take care—of yourself, as well as my house.’
‘Mr—Uncle Redmund,’ she began, ‘there’s a man—’ He had gone.
No sooner had she replaced the receiver than there came a great hammering, followed by a series of shouts.
The stranger! Oh, heavens, she had locked him in and he had just discovered it. She raced along to his room, then remembered she had put the key in her trouser pocket.
‘I’m on my way,’ she yelled, and skidded back to her room, quickly returning to free him.
‘For God’s sake, Miss Halstead,’ came a frantic voice, ‘a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’
She burst in, quite forgetful of the fact that she hadn’t had time to pull on a dressing gown and that her night attire was skimpy to say the least.
He confronted her, anger in every muscle-tough line of him, his short-sleeved shirt hanging loosely, his jeans replaced by briefs. He was pale and heavy-eyed, but it was the latent strength in his powerful maleness which triggered Lauren’s femininity into responding both agitatedly and excitedly.
She had to tear her eyes away. ‘I—I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you there’s an en suite—’
‘It’s locked, lady. It’s bloody locked.’
‘It can’t be. It—’ As in the rest of the house, the bathroom lock was old-fashioned and needed a key. She tried it. He was right.
‘You’re not telling me you don’t know where the key is?’
‘Just a minute.’ She dived back into her room, withdrew the key from her own bathroom lock and hopefully tried it in his. It fitted.
‘Thank God for that.’ He made his somewhat swaying way through the doorway.
‘I’m sorry—I really didn’t know.’
