Instant Fire. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Must you?’ He frowned, then shrugged. ‘Of course you must. And I’m delaying you.’ He turned for the door.
‘Clay, why did you come here this morning?’
He paused for a moment, his knuckles white as he gripped the door-handle, as if debating with himself. When he looked back it was with a deadly and earnest force. ‘I thought we might have dinner at the cottage tonight,’ he said. His eyes were unreadable.
She didn’t stop to think. It was already far too late for thinking. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, the words barely escaping her throat.
She stood in the hall for a long moment after he had left, then, gathering her wits, she turned to get ready for work. Her eyes fell on the letter and impatiently she tore it open. Clay had been right, the offer had indeed been increased. His apparent omniscience gave her a ridiculous burst of pleasure.
Clay arrived on the stroke of seven and Jo picked up the soft leather bag that held everything she might need. She locked the door behind them and opened her bag to drop in the key, then turned to see him watching her.
‘Got everything?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her cheeks were warm as she turned to follow him down the stairs to the waiting car.
The cottage was beautiful and very old, built of narrow autumn-coloured bricks, with a drunken pantile roof where a pair of fantail doves, golden in the evening light, were flirting. The garden had been neglected, but already work had begun to restore the stone pathways and a dilapidated dovecote. He helped her out of the car and for a moment she just stood and took it all in.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘I’m glad you like it. Come and see what I’ve been doing inside.’ Her heart was hammering as he led her up the path and opened the door, standing back to let her step across the threshold and into the hall.
The floor had been newly stripped and repolished and a jewel-rich Persian rug lay before them. She dropped her bag at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Hungry?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Not very. Will you show me round?’
‘The grand tour?’ He laughed. ‘It won’t take very long.’
The colour in her cheeks deepened slightly. She just needed a little time to gain her bearings. It would have been so much easier if they had gone out somewhere first. Good food, wine, eased the way.
‘This is the study.’ His voice made her jump. He opened a door on the left and led the way into a square room littered with wallpaper off-cuts. ‘I’ve been trying to decide which paper to use.’
Glad of something positive to think about, Jo picked up various samples and held them against the wall. ‘I like this one,’ she said, finally.
‘That’s settled, then.’
She spun around. ‘But … it’s your choice.’
‘Yes. I know.’ He held the door to let her through. ‘That’s the cloakroom. Storage cupboard,’ he said carelessly, as they passed closed doors. ‘And this is the morning-room.’
‘This is a cottage on a rather grand scale,’ she said, admiring the use of yellow and white that would reflect the morning sun. She walked across to a pair of casement windows and opened them, stepping out into the garden. ‘You’re on the river!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ She walked quickly down to the small mooring with its tiny dock.
‘There’s a boathouse behind those shrubs, but the roof has collapsed.’
‘Will you rebuild it?’
‘Maybe. Is it warm enough to eat out here, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes! I’ve a sweater in my bag.’ Once again the betraying heat stained her cheeks at this reminder.
‘Go and get it while I organise the food.’
‘You haven’t finished the guided tour,’ she said quickly. Then wished she hadn’t.
‘We’ve the whole evening. Don’t be so impatient, Joanna. You’ll see everything, I promise.’
She stood for long moments in the hall, making an effort to bring her breathing back under control. It was idiotic to be so jumpy. She was grown up. Twenty-four years old. She found the cloakroom and splashed cold water on to her face. Her eyes seemed twice their normal size in the mirror, the grey abnormally dark. ‘Come on, Jo,’ she told her reflection. ‘You want this man so much it hurts.’ If only he would make love to her, all her nerves would be swept away. But it was almost as if he was going out of his way not to touch her.
He had spread a cloth under a willow tree, its curtain providing a cloak of privacy from the passing boats, and was uncorking a bottle.
‘Mrs Johnson has done us proud,’ he said, as she settled on the rug beside him.
‘Mrs Johnson?’
‘She cooks, cleans, looks after me like a mother hen.’
‘Oh.’ Jo wasn’t sure she liked the idea of an unknown woman cooking a seduction feast, wondering how many times she had done it before.
He handed her a glass of wine and touched the rim with his own. ‘To Love.’
‘Love—?’
‘‘‘‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’ So I did sit and eat.’’’ He solemnly offered her a crab bouchée.
She quickly took one, but it seemed to fill her mouth and stick there. He topped up her glass and she drank nervously. For a moment he watched her, then he toyed with his food.
‘How’s Charles Redmond these days?’
‘Charles?’ She frowned. ‘Of course, you must know him. He’s made a good recovery by all accounts.’
‘Will he retire, do you think?’
‘I doubt it. The company is his life.’ She was so glad of something ordinary to talk about, she didn’t stop to consider that her boss was a very odd topic of conversation in the circumstances. She even began to enjoy the food. At last, though, the late May sun had dipped behind the trees and the temperature dropped sharply.
‘Come on, you’re shivering. I’ve kept you out here far too long.’ He caught her around the waist and hurried her indoors. ‘This way.’ Clay led the way through a door to the right and turned on a lamp which softly illuminated the drawing-room. The floor was richly carpeted in Wedgwood-blue and a large, comfortable sofa was set square before the fireplace. Behind it stood an eighteenth-century sofa table. A well-rubbed leather wing-chair flanked the hearth. The only modern touch was the hi-fi equipment tucked away in an alcove. He bent and put a match to the fire. ‘Warm yourself. I won’t be a moment.’
Jo stood in front of the large open brick fireplace, watching the flames lick around the logs, wondering, with a sudden attack of nerves, if she was being an absolute fool. She had prided herself on her detachment, her ability to hold herself aloof from the idiotic disenchantment and pain she had seen her friends put themselves through. She had her job, her career to keep her content. Now here she was, in danger of falling into the same dangerous trap.
‘Joanna?’ His voice pulled her back to him and she understood then, as they stood side by side in the flickering firelight, just why people made such fools of themselves. Clay solemnly handed two glasses to her and, not once taking his eyes from hers, opened a bottle of champagne and allowed the golden bubbles to foam into them.
He raised his glass in silent homage to her. Jo sipped the champagne, hardly conscious of the bubbles prickling her tongue; only the heightened sensation of expectancy seemed real. The tiny nerve-endings in her skin were all at attention, tingling with nervous excitement, and quite suddenly she was shaking. Clay rescued her glass and stood it on the