Passion & Pleasure. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
house felt chilly as he went downstairs. It was barely seven o’clock, after all, and until he’d worked out how the central heating operated, he’d have to live with it.
But at least the place had central heating, he mused gratefully. These old houses often didn’t, but the previous owner had apparently demanded that comfort and he was glad.
Nevertheless, he would have to see about getting some decorating done. The heavy flock wallpaper on the stairs and the crimson damask in the main reception room would definitely have to go, and he needed a lot more furniture than the bed and the couple of armchairs he’d brought with him. The rest of his furniture was still in his London apartment and, until he’d definitely decided he was going to stay here, it would be staying there.
But this place was big enough for several living and bedroom suites and he couldn’t exist with what he had. He would have to visit a saleroom; an auction saleroom, perhaps. These rooms would not take kindly to modern furniture.
Thankfully, the kitchen faced east and already it was warm and bathed in sunlight. Like the rest of the house, it could do with some updating, but he decided he rather liked the rich mahogany units and the dark green porcelain of the Aga.
However, the Aga presented another problem and, rather than try to figure it out this morning, he started a pot of coffee filtering through the strong Brazilian grains he preferred and turned with some relief to the gas hob.
Pretty soon, the kitchen was filled with the appetising scents of hot coffee and frying bacon and he was glad his mother had suggested taking a box of groceries with him. Left to himself, he would probably have had to go out for breakfast and that was definitely not part of his plan.
The kitchen windows overlooked the gardens at the back of the property and he stood staring out at an overgrown vegetable plot as he drank his first cup of coffee of the day. There was such a lot to do, he reflected with a twinge of apprehension. Had he bitten off more than he could chew?
But, no. The whole idea was that he should be able to fill his days to the exclusion of all else. He didn’t want time to relax, time to think. Until he’d figured out whether he was ever going to feel normal again, simple manual labour was what he needed.
The sound of footsteps clattering across the paved patio outside brought his brows together in a frown. Dammit, he thought. No one was supposed to know he was here yet. He’d deliberately stowed the four-by-four in the garage to disguise his presence. Who the hell had discovered he’d moved in?
He moved closer to the windows and looked out. He couldn’t see anyone and that bothered him, too. He had heard the footsteps, hadn’t he? He couldn’t be starting having hallucinations. God, that would be the last straw!
He drew back, setting his coffee down on the pine-blocked table behind him. But as he moved to check on the bacon, he heard the footsteps again and a sick feeling of apprehension invaded his stomach.
There was no one there. He would have seen a shadow cross the window if anyone had really walked past. Which meant? Which meant what?
Swearing, he moved to the door and, flicking the lock, he yanked it open, all in one fluid motion. And disturbed a young girl who was squatting down beside what looked like a rabbit hutch, feeding dandelion leaves into the cage.
He must have frightened her, he thought, his own feelings of relief flooding his system with adrenalin. But it was good to know he wasn’t losing his mind as well as his—
He severed that thought and forced a rueful smile to his lips as the girl got hurriedly to her feet. Sufficient unto the day, he quoted grimly. He was alive, wasn’t he? And sane? Which was definitely a bonus.
‘Who are you?’
The words caught him unawares. That was his question, he thought, half resenting her presence of mind. She was looking at him as if he was the intruder, and he gave a rueful shake of his head.
‘My name’s Quinn,’ he said, humouring her. ‘Who are you?’
‘Um—Nancy,’ she answered, after a moment. ‘Nancy—Drew.’ And then, before he could comment on her name, a frown creased her childish features. ‘Do you live here?’
‘I do now,’ said Quinn drily. ‘Is that a problem?’
Nancy shrugged. ‘No,’ she conceded, but she sounded less sure of herself now. ‘That is—you don’t have a dog, do you?’
Quinn grinned. He couldn’t help himself. ‘Not at present,’ he replied, considering it. ‘Do you like dogs?’
‘I do.’ Nancy sounded doubtful none the less. ‘Grandad has a dog. A retriever. But he’s very naughty.’
‘Who, your grandad?’
Quinn couldn’t help himself and Nancy gave him a reproving look. ‘No!’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘Harvey. He used to chase Buttons all around the garden. He was terrified!’
‘Harvey?’ asked Quinn innocently and Nancy’s face took on a suspicious stare.
‘Buttons,’ she corrected him. ‘You’re teasing me, aren’t you?’
Quinn sighed. ‘Just a little.’ He paused. ‘Who’s Buttons?’
‘My rabbit,’ said Nancy, squatting down again and pointing to what Quinn now saw was a cage, as he’d thought. ‘Mummy said I ought to find another home for him. So I did.’
Quinn suspected her mother had not meant in someone else’s garden, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he hunkered down beside her and saw the white nose of what appeared to be quite a large rabbit nuzzling at the wires of its cage.
‘This is Buttons,’ went on Nancy, performing the introduction. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’
‘I guess.’ Quinn knew nothing about rabbits so his opinion was limited. ‘But isn’t his cage rather small?’
‘Mmm,’ Nancy agreed. ‘That’s why I used to let him out. But as I said—’
‘Harvey chased him,’ Quinn finished for her and Nancy nodded.
‘He doesn’t realise that Buttons is frightened of him.’
‘Well, dogs chase rabbits,’ said Quinn matter-of-factly. ‘It’s what they do.’
‘So—can he stay here?’ asked Nancy quickly, and Quinn got abruptly to his feet.
‘I—maybe,’ he said slowly. ‘If your mother approves.’
‘Oh, she doesn’t know,’ said Nancy airily, standing up, too. Then, more anxiously, ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’
Fliss had opened her mouth to shout Amy’s name again when she saw her. The door to the Old Coaching House was open and a man was standing on the threshold talking to her daughter.
A relieved breath escaped her. She hadn’t really been worried, she assured herself, but you heard such awful stories these days about children being abducted and Amy was only nine years old.
Nevertheless, she didn’t approve of her coming here without permission, even if Amy was naturally familiar with the place. She’d accompanied her mother often enough during school holidays and the like and she knew the grounds almost as well as her own garden.
But that didn’t alter the fact that things had changed now. Old Colonel Phillips was dead and, although she hadn’t heard about it, the Old Coaching House had apparently been sold. To someone Amy didn’t know, Fliss reminded herself, quickening her step. How many times had she warned her daughter not to talk to strange men?
The man became aware of her presence before her daughter did. His head turned and she got a swift impression of a hard, uncompromising face with dark, deeply tanned features. He was tall, that much was obvious, but there didn’t appear to be an ounce of spare flesh on his leanly muscled frame.
He looked—dangerous, she