Falling In Love
Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE March day had begun with showers and cool weather, but as Patrick Ogilvie walked across the bridge into the centre of York the sun came out and the air suddenly smelt of spring. He was about to walk into Laura’s office when he realised that the sweet scent came from the buckets of flowers standing on the pavement outside a florist’s shop across the street. On impulse he ran across and bought an armful: fragile white narcissi, great yellow daffodils and spears of deep blue hyacinth, their fragrance so strong that when he walked into the office block the receptionist in the lobby stared and sighed.

‘Oh...aren’t they lovely? Now I know it’s spring!’

He pulled a few of the flowers out of the armful and offered them to her, smiling.

‘I wasn’t hinting...’ she said, looking pink and startled, which secretly amused Patrick, who hadn’t expected to get such a reaction from her. Julia Wood wasn’t a girl, after all; she was a woman in her early thirties, dark and serious, with a warmly rounded figure. Julia had had to come back to work after years out of the workforce, because her husband had died young of a heart attack, leaving her with two children aged twelve and ten. At first she had been very shy and nervous, but she had been working here for six months now and Patrick had been fascinated to watch her self-confidence grow.

‘I know you weren’t hinting, Julia,’ he half teased. ‘I’ve got masses of them here, take them! And don’t forget to put them into water before they wilt, will you?’

She took the flowers, looking down at them with a dreamy little smile, but said anxiously, ‘I hope Miss Grainger won’t be cross when she hears you gave me some of her flowers, though! Is it her birthday?’

He shook his head. ‘No, that’s in July. I bought these because they meant spring had really started, and it’s been such a long winter. She won’t mind at all. In fact, I should have thought of it before—you ought to have flowers on your desk, it would make a good impression.’

Julia beamed. ‘Oh, that would be lovely. I think it would look good! Thanks, Patrick, you’ve made my day.’

He nodded. ‘Not at all. I won’t forget to mention it to her. It will be just the touch to make the clients feel welcome.’

He walked away, towards the lift, and Julia watched him a little wistfully. Just now he had reminded her of her husband: the quick smile, the kind gesture, the warmth. John had had all those; they were what she missed most—the little gestures which had made their life together such a happy one. Of course, he hadn’t been as good-looking as Patrick Ogilvie, not that that had mattered to her. She had loved the way he looked: his direct blue eyes and happy grin, his floppy brown hair, broad shoulders and the way he...

She broke off, eyes brimming, got up and fumbled to pick up the flowers Patrick had given her, her head bent to hide her face.

‘Fred, will you watch my desk? I’ve just got to put these in water,’ she said huskily as she ran to the cloakroom, just in time before the tears came.

Laura’s secretary, Anne, was working intently when Patrick walked into her office, but she broke off, looking up, her face lighting up at the sight of him. Women always smiled at Patrick like that; he was not merely accustomed to it, he expected it and would have missed it if he didn’t get those bright-eyed glances.

‘Good morning, Anne, how are you?’ Patrick asked as if he really cared, which he did. He liked people and it made him happy to know that all was well with them. If Patrick had a flaw it was that he preferred life on the sunny side and tended to avoid anyone who might depress him.

Anne never did. She told him gaily that she was fine, how was he?

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Is anyone with her?’ he added, looking at the door on the left which led into Laura’s office.

Anne shook her head. ‘No, but don’t go in yet—she’s talking on the phone and said she wasn’t to be disturbed.’

Patrick shrugged amiably, and took a seat on the edge of Anne’s desk. ‘You look very pretty today—new dress?’ he asked, running his blue gaze over her. ‘That colour is perfect for you; you should wear it more often.’

Anne’s flush deepened; she looked down, smoothing a hand over the pink wool dress, suddenly aware, under his gaze, that the way it clung to her breasts and hips made her thin body look far more feminine and that the colour warmed her sallow skin.

‘Thank you, Patrick.’ It was typical of him to notice and to comment; she secretly glanced at him through her lashes, sighing. If only he weren’t in love with Laura Grainger! Or if only she worked for him and could see him every day. That would be heaven.

She had been half in love with Patrick Ogilvie from the first time he walked into the office, but with Laura Grainger around Anne knew he would never look at anyone else. No man would. Laura Grainger was a knock-out: the sort of blonde men dreamt about. Popular myth had it that blondes were dumb. Not Laura. She was not only clever, she was street-smart, too. A devastating combination. No wonder she had been so successful at her job. Anne knew she would never get as far in the public relations field as Laura Grainger had—she was neither street-smart nor brainy—but she didn’t envy her boss’s success in work half as much as she coveted her boyfriend.

Anne had always loved tall men, and Patrick was a good six feet, not a spare ounce of flesh on him, with smooth dark brown hair and a charm that surely only a stone-hearted woman could resist. Anne couldn’t, anyway, especially when his face had that little-boy look it sometimes wore.

Every woman in the office block was crazy about Patrick Ogilvie, in fact. With all the attention and fuss he got, it wouldn’t have been surprising if he had been totally spoilt and selfish, but that was the most amazing thing about him. Patrick was warm-hearted, caring, kind and endlessly thoughtful. When Laura was busy, he did her shopping for her. Sometimes he even tidied up her flat and often cooked her meals. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

Anne liked her boss, but sometimes she wished Laura Grainger didn’t exist. Maybe then Patrick might look her way?

A buzz made Anne jump. Hurriedly, she flicked down a switch on the console of her desk. ‘Yes, Laura?’

‘I’ve finished my phone call, Anne,’ Laura Grainger’s clear, cool voice said. ‘Any messages?’

‘No, but—’

Laura didn’t give her a chance to finish that sentence. ‘I wonder why I haven’t heard from Barry yet? Oh, well, before I forget, Anne, I have to see Mr Eyre on Tuesday, ten o’clock. I’ll probably be there all morning and it might stretch into lunch. If I have another appointment, make sure it’s shifted to some other time, would you?’

‘Yes, of course. Laura, Patrick is here,’ Anne said, scribbling hurriedly on her pad with a frantic air.

‘Send him in, then get the Courtleys Agency on the line for me, will you?’ Laura’s voice was businesslike and didn’t alter at the news that Patrick was there. How could she be so casual when the mere mention of his name made Anne’s heart leap like a salmon fighting its way upstream?

Anne’s brown eyes wistfully watched Patrick depart, his long legs moving gracefully and fast, as though he couldn’t wait to see Laura. He didn’t even look back. Anne sighed, then the phone rang and she picked it up.

‘Dudley and Grainger Public Relations, Miss Grainger’s office. Mr Dale? Oh, yes. I’ll see if Miss Grainger is free to talk to you.’

Patrick was walking towards her desk when the phone rang and Laura automatically picked it up, flicking a look at him, her green eyes smiling, and mouthed ‘Hi!’ before saying aloud, ‘Who? Mr Dale? Yes, put him through. Hello, Mr Dale—have you found anything interesting for me?’

Patrick opened his arms and let spring flowers tumble down all over her desk; their scent by now had been intensified by the central heating in the building and it filled the room with the fragrance of spring.

Laura looked down, startled, looked up again, her wide mouth curling in soundless laughter, and blew him a silent kiss.

‘Yes, quite right,’ she said into the phone.

Patrick walked round her desk, picking up a narcissus as he did so. He stood behind her, his slim body leaning on the back of her chair, and began stroking her clear-skinned face with the flower.

She gave a stifled snort of laughter.

‘Stop it! That tickles!’ she whispered, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand, pushing the narcissus away and then speaking into the phone. ‘No, I haven’t had time to look at what you sent me, Mr Dale. I’ve been too busy, but I’ll get round to it this evening.’

Patrick let the flower trail lightly down her chin to her throat, leaving a faint trace of golden pollen on her pale skin. When he began to stroke her breasts with it, his breathing quickening, Laura captured the narcissus and removed it from him, still talking calmly on the phone.

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve been looking for! When can I see it?’

Patrick gave an audible sigh and sat back on the edge of her desk, watching her profile, half wryly, half with passion. Her pale gold hair shone in the spring sunlight, a light, wild mass of curls framing her elegant, fine-boned face. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever see her eyes light up with the same passion he felt for her.

‘This afternoon?’ Laura said, frowning. She was very aware of the way Patrick was looking at her and knew him far too well not to know what he was thinking. She shouldn’t have stopped him touching her, just now; he had that hurt look in his eyes and Laura hated to feel she’d hurt him. ‘No,’ she said absently. ‘That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. Any time during the weekend would suit me better. Tomorrow? Yes, eleven o’clock, Saturday, at your office, then; thank you, Mr Dale.’

She hung up and turned to Patrick, her eyes a vivid green in the sunlight. ‘That was Dale, the estate agent; he says a new place just came on to the market, just what we want. Can you come on Saturday morning? We could see this cottage, then have lunch somewhere in the country.’

‘Good idea.’ Patrick nodded, brightening. ‘Where is this cottage? Far from York?’

‘Quite a drive, apparently, and it’s not a straight run. That’s why we’re meeting Mr Dale at his office in Malton; he’ll show us the way there, and take us over the cottage. He said you drive from Malton as if you were going back to York, then take the Castle Howard road, and it’s six or so miles further on from Castle Howard itself, right out in the country. It was a farm cottage once. It’s isolated—some miles from the nearest village—but the farm is just across a field, Mr Dale said.’

Patrick looked a little dubious. ‘Do we want somewhere that isolated? Is there a road to this cottage, or is it in the middle of a field? Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to have to drive miles every day to get milk and bread?’

‘If the farm is that close, we’ll be able to get our milk and eggs fresh every day, and no doubt we could buy other things from them.’

‘Did Mr Dale tell you the price?’

‘A little below our maximum figure!’ said Laura triumphantly, and he made a disbelieving noise.

‘Well, that’s a first! All the others Dale suggested were above our maximum.’

‘Exactly. But we’ve been disappointed too often—I’m not getting too excited until I see it.’ She absently glanced down at the spring flowers on her desk and began to laugh, throwing back her head. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, buying all those flowers, you crazy man? What am I supposed to do with them all?’ She bent her head to inhale their fragrance and her blonde hair fell in ringlets and coils all over her face. ‘Mmm...gorgeous; you do think of the nicest presents! I love them!’

‘Never mind them—how about me? You’re supposed to tell me that you love me!’

‘I don’t need to; you already know I do!’ Laura said, green eyes looking at him through her long hair.

He pushed the hair back from her face to kiss her. ‘I’m so crazy about you,’ he whispered passionately against her mouth, and his hand ran up her spine, pressing her closer, his body touching her.

Laura kissed him back, gently, clasping his face between her palms, but when his caresses became more heated she pulled back, rather flushed. ‘Not in the office, Patrick!’ she muttered. ‘If a client walked in it could be embarrassing!’

Patrick gave a little grimace. ‘I know, sorry, but...you go to my head. OK, shall we go to lunch?’

She gave him an apologetic look. ‘Darling, I’m sorry, but—’

‘Laura, we had a date—I’ve booked for lunch at the Apollo!’

‘I know, and I’m sorry,’ Laura said ruefully. ‘I just can’t spare the time. I have to talk to the agency and fix a shoot with these girls for next week and then talk to the photographer again. There’s been a lot to do today. Look, let’s ring up and cancel the table and eat lunch up here. I’ll send out for sandwiches and fruit and some coffee.’ She kissed him on the nose, hugging him. ‘And I’ll sit on your knee while we wait, how’s that?’

‘I see! Bribery and corruption,’ he said, laughing and relaxing again. ‘Sounds good to me, although I can think of something I’d like even better.’

‘Don’t you ever think of anything else?’ she asked, half exasperated, half amused.

‘Don’t you ever think of it at all?’ Patrick muttered, and wasn’t really joking; a silence fell between them and Laura gave him a stricken look.

‘Patrick! You know I love you! It’s just that I’m not as...well...I suppose as highly sexed as you are... Sex isn’t on my mind all day.’

‘It’s on mine whenever I see you,’ he said, huskily, sending a wave of regret through her.

‘Oh...I’m sorry, darling—if I—’

Anne buzzed her at that second. ‘I’ve got the agency on the line for you now,’ her voice said tinnily, and Laura couldn’t quite suppress a sigh of relief.

‘Right. Put them through, then go down to the snack bar across the street and get us sandwiches, fruit, and cans of diet cola out of the fridge. Then you can go to lunch.’

Patrick listened and watched her, his mouth wry. Sometimes he was jealous of her job, of this firm. Sometimes he felt afraid, suspecting that the job meant more to her than he did, got far more of her attention. His own work meant a lot to him, but Laura mattered ten times more. Since they’d first met she had filled his life until nothing else meant much to him. He wished she felt the same about him, but sensed that she didn’t. There was some sort of irony in that for Patrick, who had all his life been able to bowl women over and make them his devoted slaves.

He was twenty-nine, and until he’d met Laura he had had a wonderful time with a constantly changing succession of pretty girls. He had liked them all, but never fallen in love with any of them. Why, when he did fall in love, had he fallen like a ton of bricks for someone who was so cool and in command of herself? At times he almost felt Laura treated him more as a brother than a lover. Oh, she was affectionate, loving, almost indulgent with him, but the passion he felt for her was never reflected in her eyes when she looked back at him.

He wished she would agree to fix a date for their wedding. Once they were married he might feel more secure. He might stop being scared she would meet someone else.

The following morning Patrick woke up late, with all the symptoms of flu. He was shivering, his throat hurt and his head ached. After taking aspirin and deciding to skip breakfast, since his appetite had vanished, he gloomily rang Laura.

‘Oh, poor darling,’ she said with instant sympathy. ‘Shall I come round?’

‘Better not,’ he croaked. ‘Don’t want you to catch it. But it means I shan’t be able to come to see the cottage.’

‘Never mind, I’ll go, and report back to you later. Sure you don’t want me to come and hold your hand when I get back?’

He laughed hoarsely. ‘I’d love it, but I’ll probably sleep all day; I’m having trouble keeping awake.’

‘Best thing for you!’ she agreed. ‘Look after yourself, take plenty of liquids, and stay warm.’

She rang off after blowing him a kiss and ruefully looked out of the window. Typical. The weather was glorious, wouldn’t you know it? They could have had such a wonderful day. She took another look at the cloudless blue sky. Well, it would still be a very pleasant drive; far better to be out in the countryside on a day like this, instead of sitting around in an office!

Laura lived in a small apartment on the fifth floor of a modern block of flats a short walk from York Castle. She had a good view of the river from her sitting-room window. Her tiny bedroom looked out over roof-tops but gave her a glimpse of the world-famous medieval Minster.

She liked uncluttered rooms, with lots of space, so there was a minimum of furniture—only what she really liked and felt she needed. Most of it had been bought in antique shops or at sales over the years she had lived there, or had been given to her by a relative. Laura preferred to live with graceful old furniture which had been well loved for years before she owned it. Fortunately, she had generous relatives, most of them living in Yorkshire. Hers was a very close family; she saw them all often: her parents, who lived in a tiny village fifty miles away, her married sister in Harrogate, or one or other of her grandparents. Sometimes they came to York to visit her, especially her parents, who loved their visits to the city.

Laura always put them up in her flat, insisting on giving them the bedroom while she slept in her sitting-room on a couch, and she took them out to restaurants, to the theatre or a cinema. It gave her pleasure to see them enjoying themselves, but she knew that they were happy to get home again, back to the village where they had lived all their lives.

Laura missed the village, too, and the moorland landscape she remembered waking up to each morning. When she had inherited a large sum of money from an uncle a year or so back, she had decided to buy a cottage within easy driving distance of York so that she could spend weekends in the countryside. Of course, the landscape would be different—softer, less rugged than the one she had grown up with—but she wanted to hear birds singing, escape the everlasting sound of traffic and the smell of petrol fumes, go for Sunday morning walks across fields, through woods.

When she and Patrick had got engaged, he’d been delighted with the idea of a country home after they were married, because he was tired of living in the city, too, but since he worked from home, as a freelance artist, he wouldn’t be driving to York and back each day, and somewhere in the real countryside would also suit him better. He would sell his flat, and live entirely in the country, but Laura had decided to keep hers. It would be more convenient for her to live in York during the working week and her family would still be able to make their occasional visits to the city.

‘I can do any redecorating necessary. I prefer to do it myself—most decorators don’t have any taste,’ Patrick had predictably said.

‘That will save us money,’ she had agreed, and had been teased for her Yorkshire sense of thrift. ‘Well,’ she had defiantly retorted, ‘that’s how I was brought up! To count the pennies. You wouldn’t want a wife who chucks money around, would you?’

‘Certainly wouldn’t,’ he had grinned, then said, ‘Oh, it will be fun, Laura! During the week, in between doing my work, I’ll have lots to do around the house and garden, so I won’t be lonely, or miss you too much, and then at weekends we can make love and talk by the fire or in the garden! We’re going to have a wonderful life.’

Whenever Laura met old girlfriends she was usually appalled by the men they had picked. Most of them had husbands who, however attractive or pleasant they might seem, were stuck in the conventional male path—spoilt, thoughtless, domineering, expecting to be waited on hand and foot, to have a well-cooked meal on the table when they came home from work, their perfectly laundered shirts hanging in the wardrobe ready for them to put on each morning.

Her friends were always complaining about them. Yet they stayed with them, almost seemed proud of their behaviour. Laura found it baffling. Thank heavens Patrick wasn’t like that. He was a partner, not a master: good-looking, charming, but kind-hearted and easygoing too. He had a delightful personality and Laura had never met anyone, male or female, who didn’t like him, but he was also intensely practical and hard-working. He could cook better than she could, he loved to see his home looking spotless and spent hours every week doing housework, doing his own washing, ironing, even sewing on buttons if he lost one from a shirt.

She suddenly caught sight of a clock on a table; good heavens, was that the time? She ought to be on her way; traffic coming into York would be quite heavy soon.

She paused at the front door to check her reflection in the mirror hanging there. Her blonde hair was a tossing cloud of curls, her skin was smooth and dewy, her full mouth softly pink—but it was on her slanting green eyes that her stare stayed. Why was there that look in them? She couldn’t even define it, but she didn’t look like a rapturously happy woman, and she ought to! Life was showering her with everything she had ever wanted, so why did she feel so restless?

But she knew why! Patrick was everything she wanted a man to be, and yet...and yet she had never once felt the sort of overwhelming desire for him that she knew he felt for her.

Well, so what? she defiantly told her reflection. Did you have to feel like that to be in love? That might be one aspect of love, but it wasn’t everything. But her green eyes silently held the answer: isn’t it? Why did she feel this restless, unsatisfied need if it wasn’t important?

Is there something wrong with me? Why don’t I want Patrick the way he wants me? When he made love to her she always felt a sensual enjoyment, pleasure in the stroking hands and warm mouth, the gentle physical contact, but she had never once gone crazy, lost her head, ached for him, and it disturbed her. She knew it disturbed Patrick, too; and it hurt her to know she was hurting him, because she loved him. But was loving him enough?

If only she dared talk to her sister, or had a friend she trusted enough to ask, Am I just cold by nature? I’m not frigid, am I? What is the matter with me?

But maybe she had let herself get wound up over nothing; maybe she would change after she and Patrick were married, when they were alone all weekend in their cottage and the tensions of their engagement were over?

The telephone rang; she ran to pick it up. ‘Hello? Laura Grainger speaking.’

‘Laura, we’ve got a crisis!’ It was Barry Courtley’s voice, sounding agitated.

‘What now?’ she demanded, instantly alert. Why did she go on working with his model agency? He seemed to rush from one crisis to another; he was the most disorganised man! He could definitely learn a thing or two from Patrick!

‘The shoot at Castle Howard!’ panted Barry.

‘What about it?’

‘The girls will finish there at eleven-thirty and have to be back in York by twelve-thirty to start shooting in the Shambles by one, but their driver has broken down on the road and I can’t get another taxi out there in time. Saturday is always a busy day for them.’

‘Haven’t any of the girls got a car, for heaven’s sake? Why did you have to lay on a taxi?’

‘It’s safer,’ mumbled Barry. ‘Then they can’t plead they got stuck in traffic or their car wouldn’t start. The taxi goes round and picks them all up, drops them at wherever they’re shooting, then goes back for them...only this time the taxi broke down en route and there isn’t another free for ages.’

‘What about the photographer?’

‘He only has a small two-seater van; his equipment takes up most of the space in the back, and he has that hulking great assistant in the front with him. I’d go myself, but I’m due at my sister’s wedding in Durham at three; I’ve got to leave right away, then I thought of you...’

‘Oh, did you?’ she retorted. ‘I’m busy too, Barry! I’ve got better things to do with my time than play chauffeur to your girls!’

‘But you did say you were going that way this morning and might look in on the Castle Howard shoot!’ he protested, wounded innocence in his tones.

Laura had to admit that. Still frowning, she did some quick calculations. ‘Yes, OK, I’ll pick them up. How many girls was it? Four? Yes, I can just about squeeze them into my Mini. I have to be at Malton by eleven, and should be at Castle Howard at around eleven-thirty. The timing will be tight—I have to see a cottage—but supposing that we leave there at twelve...yes, I can do it. Will you be able to talk to the girls first?’

‘Yes, they’re going to ring me back.’

‘Well, tell them to meet me at the main gate, at eleven-thirty. Will they have much stuff with them?’

‘Clothes, make-up, shoes, the usual stuff. They might be able to stow some of that in the photographer’s van, if it helps.’

‘Well, I should have room in my car. Now, I’d better go or I’ll be late too.’

The drive to Malton was quite a rapid run, in spite of the traffic going from and coming to York, and she reached the estate agent’s office exactly on time. As she pulled up outside, the estate agent emerged, smiling.

Mr Dale was a broad, short Yorkshire man with a face like a well-weathered prune. He shook hands with a firm grip, giving her the grimace which passed for a smile with him.

‘Well, I think we’ve finally come up with exactly what you’ve been wanting, Miss Grainger. Nice little property, needs the odd job done to it, mind—lick of paint, some work on the roof—but it could be made very comfortable without costing an arm and a leg. It’s not an easy trip from here; do you want to come with me, or will you take your own car?’

‘I’ll take my own car, then I can drive straight back to York,’ she decided, and he nodded.

‘Follow me close, then, Miss Grainger; don’t get yourself lost. Remember, we’re turning off at the Castle Howard road.’

He was about to climb into his car, but she stopped him. ‘Mr Dale, I have to pick some girls up from Castle Howard on our way. It won’t take a minute; they should be waiting for us at the main gates.’

‘Work there, do they?’ he asked, looking interested.

‘No, they’re models; they’ve been working in the grounds, with a photographer.’

The drive back towards York was easier because the roads were not quite so crowded now. The road which led to Castle Howard had once been the private road of the family who owned the castle; they had built it in the days long before cars. About seven miles long, it ran across country, between green fields, and wasn’t busy, so they were able to drive fast. It was just after half-past eleven when they arrived at Castle Howard’s main gate, and to Laura’s relief the girls were waiting as arranged.

‘This is ace of you, Laura,’ a skinny black-haired girl said, clambering in beside her, folding her long, long legs somehow into the limited space available. The other girls climbed into the back and settled themselves, pushing and giggling.

Mr Dale had drawn up in front of Laura’s car and was waiting, watching in his driving mirror as the models one by one vanished into the little Mini. Laura could see his bemused expression in his mirror.

‘Thought we were going to have to walk!’ one of the girls in the back said. ‘Thanks, Laura.’

‘That’s OK, I was passing the gates anyway. All in? Then off we go.’ Laura waved to Mr Dale, who started his engine again and moved away with her car following him.

‘Barry’s such a skinflint,’ the black-haired girl said crossly. ‘He always books the cheapest transport—he gets block bookings for half the price and they send their oldest car or coach, and it’s always breaking down. I’m fed up with him—I’m moving to another agency down south as soon as I can get placed.’

The girls in the back made mocking noises. One of them drawled, ‘That’ll be the day! You’ve been saying that for as long as I can remember, Suzy.’

‘I mean it this time!’

‘Sure you do!’ the other girls drawled, and her friends in the back seat giggled.

‘It’s like driving around with a lot of kids; stop squabbling,’ Laura said, then ruefully realised that kids were what most of them were. Suzy was twenty-one now, Yasmin nineteen, but the others were mostly sixteen or seventeen.

Mr Dale had turned off the road now on to a rough, bumpy track between wire fences which clearly led eventually to a farm. Laura followed him; the car bumped and grated over ruts in the track. Laura hated to think what this was doing to her tyres. Surely this wasn’t the only road to this cottage?

Then she saw it and her green eyes widened, glowing. In one glance she saw that it was the sort of place she had always dreamt of living in. An old flint and stone-built cottage with a slate roof, set in a walled garden with an apple tree leaning over the gate, it stood alone with fields all round it, and Laura loved it at sight.

She pulled up behind Mr Dale’s car and got out, slamming her door. The models fell out, chattering excitedly.

‘Oh, isn’t it sweet? You going to buy it, Laura?’ Yasmin asked, walking with difficulty on the rough surface of the track in her stilt-like heels.

‘Is this where you and Patrick are going to live when you’re married?’ asked Suzy.

‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ cooed Yasmin. ‘You are lucky, Laura. Mind if we gatecrash the church? I’d love to see you getting married.’

‘I’ll send you an invitation,’ promised Laura, and the other girls excitedly chattered to her.

‘For all of us? Can we all come to the wedding? Oh, great, thanks, Laura.’

‘Want a bridesmaid?’ Yasmin asked wistfully. ‘I’ve never been a real bridesmaid. I dressed up as one, once, for that bridal shop advert—ever so pretty the dress was, sort of peach satin, lots of lace, too, and I carried a little round bouquet of creamy rosebuds with a silver foil backing. I kept it afterwards, got it hanging on my dressing-table; it dried lovely, the roses still smell nice. But I’ve never been a real bridesmaid.’

Two girls were tottering along the track, giggling. ‘Ooh, look, there’s cows in this field...black and white ones! Moo, moo, come here, moos! Look at them staring; what a hoot... I’ve never seen one this close, have you, Yaz? Come and look! Haven’t they got big heads...oh, look at that one’s tongue—all rough, like sandpaper...Hello, moos...’

Mr Dale watched them with a mixture of disbelief and indulgence. ‘No brains at all, have they?’ he murmured to Laura, who smiled and shrugged.

‘They’re nice girls, though, when you get to know them.’

At that instant a tractor turned out of one of the fields and chugged noisily towards them only to stop dead, the engine throbbing, while the driver stared at them with a dark scowl on his face.

He shouted something Laura couldn’t hear above the noise of his tractor, and waved his arms at them.

Mr Dale groaned.

‘What did he say?’ asked Laura, but before the estate agent could answer the tractor driver switched off his engine and shouted again, and this time they all heard what he said.

‘How many times do I have to tell you? Get off my land or I’ll set my dogs on you!’

The models shrieked and ran back towards the car.

‘His land?’ Laura asked Mr Dale. ‘I don’t understand; is this his cottage?’

‘No, no, it belongs to a lady who’s lived here for years.’

‘Then what does he mean, his land?’

Mr Dale didn’t answer. He was looking nervous. The tractor driver had jumped down, was striding towards them, long, muscled legs rapidly covering the ground. Laura tensed with an instant hostility. He was everything she disliked in a man. Tall, broad, with thick, windswept black hair, he certainly couldn’t be accused of charm or good looks. His face rugged, powerful, he had a jaw she recognised as belligerent, even at a distance, and piercing grey eyes glittering with rage.

‘Ooh...’ giggled the models, clustering behind Laura, as if for protection. ‘He looks real mad, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.’

‘Don’t know about that! Wouldn’t mind at all, actually!’ Yasmin whispered and set them all shrieking with laughter, which didn’t soften the lines of the man’s angry face.

‘Who is he?’ Laura hurriedly asked Mr Dale, who crossly muttered back,

‘Josh Kern. He owns the farm, all this land...’ His voice broke off as the dark man reached them and stopped, his legs apart in a threatening stance.

Mr Dale was not the nervous type, but Laura saw his throat move convulsively as he swallowed.

‘For the last time, will you get off my land?’ snarled Josh Kern.

Mr Dale stood his ground, facing up to him. ‘Mr Kern, you don’t own this cottage, and the owner has been using this right of way for many years, as you know perfectly well.’

‘There’s no right of way; this is a private road, and I’m taking legal steps to establish that fact!’ Josh Kern snarled. ‘Now, get these women out of here, and don’t come back!’

Laura bristled. ‘I came here to see this cottage, Mr Kern, and as you don’t own it you can’t stop me!’

He slowly swung his head in her direction, his grey eyes full of menace.

‘Don’t be so sure about that, whoever you are.’

‘She’s Laura Grainger,’ Yasmin told him, her face flushed with the excitement of the conflict, and determined to get his attention. She wasn’t frightened. In fact, this was her idea of fun, watching an angry man bellowing at someone, especially a man this sexy. It beat hanging around waiting to be photographed any day!

She was disappointed, however. Josh Kern ignored her. He went on staring narrowly at Laura, from her clouds of blonde curls and full pink mouth to her long, slender legs and tiny feet, his cold eyes contemptuous.

‘Who are all these people, Dale? Actresses?’ he bit out, flicking a glance over the other girls with the same distaste.

‘Models,’ Mr Dale growled.

Josh Kern’s mouth tightened. ‘Models!’

The girls posed for him, smiles inviting.

His face tightened. ‘My God! Are they all planning to move in here? Not if I can stop it. Listen to me, Miss...whatever your name is...if you’re the one who might buy this place... Did Mr Dale explain that this cottage really belongs to my farm? That it was given to someone, not sold, and that I want it back? I hoped to get it back legally, because there was no legal conveyance, just a scribbled paper saying the cottage was a gift, but the court upheld it. Then I tried to buy it back, but my offer was refused although it was far more than the cottage is worth on the open market. The present owner insists she’ll only sell to someone else. Anyone else, so long as it isn’t me, apparently!’ His eyes flashed. ‘Apparently, I can’t force her to sell it back to me...’

Clearly, thought Laura, he wished he could!

He went on fiercely, ‘But I can refuse to let anyone who buys the place use my land as an access road, so be warned! If you do buy Fern Cottage you’ll be buying yourself a lot of trouble.’

‘Don’t you threaten me!’ Laura bit back at him, her head up and her green eyes very angry.

‘I’m not threatening, I’m warning,’ Josh Kern said very softly, and something in that dark face made her skin turn cold.

The other girls gazed, transfixed, their eyes wide and incredulous.

Laura knew how they felt; this man was not someone you could ignore or forget. He had such penetrating eyes; in his rage they turned silvery, as though white-hot.

Mr Dale cleared his throat and nervously suggested, ‘Shall we go and look round the cottage now, Miss Grainger?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, her eyes still held by Josh Kern’s menacing stare.

‘I meant every word,’ he said in that soft, dangerous voice, and she believed him. He had the look of a man who always meant what he said.

Maybe she should forget any idea of buying Fern Cottage?

CHAPTER TWO

‘HE CAN’T do anything to stop us using his road! If someone lived in that cottage for years and used his road all that time then that makes it a legal right of way,’ Patrick said on the phone later that day when Laura rang him to report on the cottage.

‘That’s what Mr Dale said. He told me to ignore the threats; there was no way we could be denied access if we bought the cottage.’

‘Mind you,’ Patrick said thoughtfully, ‘this farmer chap...what did you say his name was?’

‘Josh Kern,’ said Laura, investing the name with scorn.

Patrick gave a hoarse crow of amusement. ‘Josh Kern! How could I forget that? But seriously, darling, he could make life rather awkward, couldn’t he? I wonder if it’s worth it to go ahead? Do we want to find ourselves in the middle of a war with our neighbours?’

‘I’m not being frightened off by some hulking great brute of a farmer huffing and puffing at me!’

‘I can’t imagine you being scared, even by a hulking great brute.’ Patrick laughed, then more seriously added, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to take him on, darling. Damn this flu; why do illnesses always come at such inconvenient times? From what you say about the cottage it’s just what we were looking for, and the price is way below what we would have expected. We should have guessed there would be snags. What did you say to Dale?’

‘That you’d have to see the cottage before we could give him a decision, so we have time to think about it. I’m glad your headache’s better, even if your throat sounds worse. Shall I come round tomorrow morning and cook you some lunch?’

‘I don’t want you to catch this, Laura. Better not come over. I’m not hungry, anyway. I’m drinking lots of fruit juice and I ate an orange just now. I’ve got plenty of eggs and cheese; I can always whip up an omelette if I do get hungry.’

Wryly, she said, ‘And your omelettes are ten times better than mine! In fact, anything you cook is ten times better.’

He laughed, but didn’t deny it. Instead he yawned, then said, ‘Sorry, darling...I’ve been sleeping on and off all day, but I still seem very tired.’

‘Then I’ll let you get back to sleep,’ she said. ‘Get well soon; I miss you.’

She put the phone down and stared out of the window at the busy York street below. Yes, it was a pity Patrick hadn’t been with her. Maybe then that man wouldn’t have talked to her, looked at her, the way he had. Her face ran with scarlet, remembering Josh Kern’s contemptuous eyes as he’d looked her up and down. She could never remember meeting anyone she disliked more; it had been like running into a stone wall. Her whole body still ached with the shock of it.

‘Who does he think he is?’ she had demanded of Mr Dale after Josh Kern had climbed back on to his tractor and driven away.

‘He knows who he is! He’s Josh Kern of Kern House, and he owns all this,’ Mr Dale had said drily, waving an arm around in a circle. ‘Four hundred acres of good farm land, half arable; last year he had a fairish crop of barley, but he runs stock, too. A good dairy herd—Friesians. He’s starting to run sheep on the hill up there too now, I gather. That’s new. His father never had sheep, never did much with that land, except a bit of rough shooting. Plenty of rabbits and some game birds up there—I’ve shot with him in the past. Not much use for anything else, that land, old Jack Kern always said; not worth clearing the gorse and heather, but upland sheep can live on very little. Josh Kern’s a canny chap; he’s done some controlled burning up there, rid the land of most of the scrub, and ploughed it up.’

Mr Dale looked respectfully and wryly after the farmer, who was disappearing into another field. ‘Aye, Josh works like a demon himself, and he gets good work out of his men—he expects his land to work, too.’

‘If you ask me, he expects too much!’ Laura muttered, still angry after the encounter with Josh Kern. ‘And he isn’t threatening me and getting away with it!’

‘Good for you, then,’ said Mr Dale, looking rather relieved. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t let Josh scare you away.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Has he scared many would-be buyers away?’

Mr Dale didn’t answer. He pretended not to hear her, watching the girls, who, now that all the excitement was over, had tripped, giggling and chattering, into the cottage garden.

‘Eeh...like a flock of starlings, aren’t they?’ Mr Dale said, beaming after them. ‘Well, now, Miss Grainger, shall we go inside and look round?’

Laura followed him, but she wasn’t going to let him drop the subject of Josh Kern.

‘Was it his father who sold this cottage to the present owner?’ she asked the estate agent, who looked reluctantly at her, as he unlocked the front door.

‘Jack Kern didn’t sell it to her, he gave it,’ he said at last, rolling an expressive eye, and Laura’s brows shot up.

‘Gave it?’

‘Oh, aye,’ he said, waving her past him into the cottage. The models surged in after her and spread out around the ground floor of the cottage like spilt marbles, running from room to room, shouting to each other.

Mr Dale gestured around them. ‘The current owner had this porch hallway built on to the front of the cottage. The front door used to open right on to the parlour—that was how they built them a couple of hundred years ago. Through here, miss. There were two little rooms downstairs which have been knocked into one big one.’

Laura walked into the sunlit room and looked with pleasure at the rough stone walls, the arched fireplace with a blue slate hearth, the polished floorboards on which lay a few scattered blue and white rugs. There was a minimum of furniture—dark blue velvet curtains, a couch upholstered in matching material, piled with white and blue cushions, an armchair by the fire, covered in the same velvet, a writing desk, and a couple of bookcases on either side of the fire.

‘It’s a bit stark, to my taste,’ Mr Dale apologised.

Laura gave him a quick look and didn’t tell him that it was exactly to her own taste. ‘Has it always been like this? Or did the present owner...what did you say her name was?’

‘Forest,’ he said. ‘Mrs Joanna Forest. Yes, she tells me she had the cottage modernised when she moved in twenty years ago. It had been a bit of a mess—it was a farm cottage since it was built, used by the head cowman. No money had ever been spent on it before. First thing she did was strip off all the old wallpaper, and then the plaster, laid the actual stone walls bare, the way they are now. Did it all herself, she said. Quite a job for a woman.’ His face was wryly knowing. ‘But then she didn’t have anything much else to do.’

‘She didn’t have a job?’ Laura was fascinated. She felt she would like Mrs Forest, judging by her taste. She wondered how old the woman was, and what she looked like? Why had she decided to sell the cottage?

‘Depends what you mean by a job,’ Mr Dale said, winking at her. ‘She was...let’s say...a friend...of old Jack Kern, Josh’s father, who died a year ago.’

‘Oh,’ Laura said, eyes widening. ‘Oh, I see.’ So that was why Josh Kern didn’t like her?

Lowering his voice, Mr Dale said, ‘Aye, I’m not one to gossip, but it’s common talk around here—you’d hear the tale in any pub for miles. Everyone knew what was going on. He visited her here every evening, they say. Never slept up at the farmhouse, if you get my meaning. What his wife thought of that, nobody ever found out. Nell Kern’s the grim and silent type...’

‘His wife was still living with him?’

‘Oh, aye. Nell’s still there now, running the house for Josh. There’s just the two of them living there now. A wonderful housekeeper, Nell—people swear by her cooking, too—but that marriage never worked. Not that she’s bad-looking. Even now she’s what I’d call a handsome woman. In fact, when we were young, Nell Bevan could have taken her pick of men around here. I didn’t have the brass to make her an offer, but I had my eye on her, I tell you! Jack Kern was thought a very lucky man to get her. What went wrong nobody’s sure, but...well, who knows what goes on inside a marriage? They just weren’t happy together, it seems.’

The other girls surged into the room. ‘Oh, the kitchen’s lovely, Laura—come and see!’ They caught her hands and pulled her after them.

‘My wife was taken by it too when she came round with me,’ said Mr Dale, following. ‘She likes to have a peer at places I’m selling. Very interested in houses is my Doris. And the kitchen was her favourite room in this house.’

Laura loved it, too. Like the sitting-room it had been stripped back to the stone walls, and the fittings were all of golden, polished pine which shone in the sunlight. It was surprisingly spacious and was obviously intended for use as a dining-room, too, judging by the large pine table and chairs set out by a long window at one end.

But even while she looked around, smiling, part of her mind was busy with what Mr Dale had told her about the family background, which explained Josh Kern’s hostility. No wonder he had resented his father’s gift of this cottage to the woman who had usurped his mother’s place.

‘Now upstairs,’ said the girls and stampeded off with Laura and Mr Dale in the rear.

‘I suppose there’s no doubt that the cottage does belong to this Mrs Forest?’ Laura asked him and he shook his head.

‘No, don’t you worry about that...you won’t have any legal problems.’

Laura gave him an uncertain look. ‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Certain. Don’t worry. Josh was just trying to scare you off; take no notice of his threats. He can’t legally deny you access to this place, and he knows it. I promise you, Mrs Forest’s title has been tested in court; there are no problems.’

He might be telling her the strict truth, but Laura still had doubts about the wisdom of going ahead with buying the cottage.

He saw her expression and grimaced. ‘Look, frankly, miss, it did look as if there might be a problem with it because when he gave the cottage to her old Jack Kern didn’t do it through his lawyer, daft old beezer. I suppose he didn’t want any talk. Not that he had a chance in hell of stopping talk! Not around here. Breath of life to them, a juicy scandal. Anyway, Jack just wrote her a letter—very private letter, too, a love letter—saying he was giving her this cottage so that she could either live here, or sell the cottage, to provide for her future.’

Laura frowned. ‘Just a letter? But surely that isn’t a legally binding document?’

‘Aye, it was, the way he phrased it. It was like a codicil to his will, you see. The lawyer had that, but Jack’s letter was dated later than the will, so it was a legal codicil, and Jack had left a sealed letter with his lawyer which said the same thing. Well, when Jack died, Josh Kern challenged her right to the place. She stayed on here until the court found in her favour, because she was afraid that, if she left, Josh Kern would take possession and she would never get it back. The court decided in her favour, and then she moved out and asked me to sell the place for her.’

‘She moved away out of the area?’ asked Laura, walking into the main bedroom at the front of the cottage.

‘She’s living in Salisbury with a widowed sister.’ Mr Dale looked around with more approval. ‘Now this is my favourite room—very pretty.’

Laura looked at the cream wallpaper sprigged with pink, the curtains in pale pink wool, the frilled pink lampshades on the small bedside tables on each side of the double bed, which had a cream coverlet. The deep-piled carpet was cream, too. It was a very soothing, ultra-feminine room.

‘When will she move her furniture out?’ asked Laura, as Mr Dale showed her the en suite bathroom leading out of the bedroom.

‘She’s taken what she wanted, all her personal things—letters, photographs, ornaments. But she didn’t want the furniture. I’m to sell it in auction, unless whoever buys the cottage wants it. I got the feeling she wanted to shut the door on it all, forget her years here.’

Suddenly Laura was moved, her green eyes filling with sympathy. ‘She may regret that later.’

‘She may, that’s what I told her,’ he said in his gruff voice, his weathered face blank. ‘But she didn’t change her mind.’

Laura looked around her, sighing. ‘Well, if I do eventually buy it, I’d like the furniture—and I’d always let her have it back if she did change her mind later. It seems terribly sad to turn her back on twenty years of her life!’

‘That’s very kind of you, miss. So, what do you think, then? Going to buy it?’

‘I like it, Mr Dale,’ Laura cautiously said, ‘but you’ll appreciate that my fiancé must see it before we make a decision. As soon as he is well enough we’ll come back to look at it again. I’ll ring you within the week, I expect.’

He nodded, not surprised. ‘Aye, well, remember I’ll be showing other clients around it in the meantime, and it is a bargain, especially fully furnished. Don’t wait too long, Miss Grainger.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as my fiancé is better.’ Then she had called the models, who had come trooping out from other rooms.

‘Back in the car, girls; we’ll have to hurry to get back to York in time for your second session!’

‘Bye bye, Mr Dale,’ the girls chirped, waving scarlet-tipped fingers at him, and he had grinned back at them appreciatively.

‘Nice to meet you, girls.’ Then he shook Laura’s hand in his bone-scrunching way, nodding at her. ‘I’ll hope to hear from you soon, then, Miss Grainger, and don’t you fret about Josh Kern. His bark is worse than his bite.’

She hoped so. His bark was quite bad enough. A thought occurred to her and she asked, ‘By the way, did he say he had offered to buy the cottage?’

‘No, he made an offer, and she refused it.’

‘Why? Was it too low?’

‘No, he offered a good enough price.’ Mr Dale paused, frowning. ‘I forgot to tell you, with all the harassment we got from Josh...there is a covenant on the cottage, to the effect that whoever buys it must not resell to Josh Kern while Mrs Forest is alive.’

Startled, Laura stared. ‘That can’t be legally binding, surely?’

‘If you don’t sign the covenant, she won’t sell, and if you do sign the covenant it’s legally binding,’ said Mr Dale with one of his shrewd grimaces.

Laura had forgotten to tell Patrick about that. She must remember to tell him tomorrow when she rang. It might make a difference to his decision; such a binding agreement might be a problem later if they wanted to sell and couldn’t find a buyer.

They might then wish they could sell to Josh Kern, although Laura was already feeling very sympathetic towards Mrs Forest’s desire to keep him out of the property. It would give her a lot of pleasure to do anything that annoyed Josh Kern.

She only hoped she wouldn’t see much of him, if she and Patrick did decide to buy Fern Cottage. She bit her lower lip. Why pretend she wasn’t sure? She wanted the place. She had loved it on sight, and when she’d seen the beautifully restored interior she had wanted it badly. If someone else bought it before Patrick could see it she was going to be very disappointed.

In fact, it was exactly a week before she and Patrick drove out along the Castle Howard road again, and Mr Dale had been too busy, he said, to come with them, so he had given them the key to the cottage and left them to view the place alone.

‘Lucky he was busy. I much prefer to view a house without having an agent hovering about trying to push us into a quick decision,’ Patrick said cheerfully as they turned on to the rough track which led to the cottage.

Laura was driving, but her concentration wasn’t quite as fixed as usual. She kept looking across the fields on either side, her body tense, half expecting Josh Kern to appear at any moment. She had a shrewd idea why Mr Dale had been too busy to come out here again. She felt the same: she would rather not face Josh Kern again, even with Patrick there. In fact, having Patrick there somehow made it more nerve-racking, because Josh Kern didn’t look as if he would use violence against a woman. His face had been contemptuous and hostile, but she hadn’t actually been afraid of him. But Patrick was a man, and she sensed that Josh Kern’s rules would be very different with another man.

He might well push Patrick into a fight, and, much as she loved him, Laura knew Patrick was no fighter and never had been; he wasn’t a coward, he just lacked aggression. He believed in negotiation, not confrontation, discussion, not argument. Patrick was a reconstructed man, wanting to live peacefully in the world, in harmony with his friends and his woman.

Laura’s mouth curled in a little smile as she looked sideways at him, and Patrick caught that glance and asked, ‘What? What are you smiling at? Tell me the joke.’

‘I was just thinking how much I love you,’ she said, leaning over to kiss him.

Just as their mouths touched, a horse leapt over a hedge right next to the car.

Laura gave a sharp cry, instinctively ducking her head. Patrick went white. Out of the corner of her eye, Laura saw the big black animal leap over the bonnet, tucking its hooves neatly under it as it sailed across in front of the windscreen. She had to admire the precision of the jump and the way the horse swung round on landing and galloped on down the lane before slowing, turning, and coming back towards the car at a slow trot.

‘Is that...?’ Patrick whispered in a dazed voice.

‘Yes,’ Laura grimly said. ‘That’s him. Josh Kern.’

‘He must be out of his mind!’ Patrick’s hands were not quite steady and he still looked pale.

‘Way out,’ she agreed, scrambling out of the car as the black horse came to a halt next to it. Laura stared angrily up at the rider, her green eyes glittering with the resentment of someone who had just had a physical shock.

‘You madman!’ she yelled at him. ‘What a crazy, dangerous thing to do!’

‘How was I to know your car was parked there?’ Josh Kern drawled, smiling with mockery in a way that told her he had known very well that their car was there before he jumped, and that, what was more, he’d recognised it from her last visit. ‘When I’m riding over my own land I don’t expect to find trespassers hiding behind every hedge,’ he added smoothly.

Very flushed, Laura snapped, ‘I’d have thought that, even if you didn’t care whether or not you killed us, you’d have minded killing your horse. Or don’t you think animals matter?’

His smile went. ‘If I’d thought for an instant that my horse might get hurt I wouldn’t have taken that jump!’ he bit out, and she believed him.

The black horse tossed its head as if in agreement with its master, shifting its feet, the hooves scraping on flint in the track, and Laura was glad there was a car between them. The horse, like the man, was a big brute.

Laura looked from the horse to its master, whose beige-jodhpur-clad thighs effortlessly controlled the animal without needing to use the reins which lay loosely in his tanned hands. Open-necked shirt, dark tweed hacking jacket, a black riding hat on his black hair, polished black leather boots knee-high, Josh Kern belonged against this background—the rolling fields, the stone walls, and elms just coming into leaf. Laura had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, and couldn’t account for it. Or was it just that he looked so much at home here, and she and Patrick didn’t?

Aware of her scrutiny, Josh Kern’s sardonic grey eyes wandered over her coolly, from her blonde head to her small, delicately shod feet.

She and Patrick were going to a wedding after lunch, that afternoon, and Laura was elegantly dressed in a cream silk suit with gold buttons—an outfit from a young British designer, in classical style, the skirt straight-fitting, with a little pleat at the back, the jacket tight-waisted, with long sleeves. In honour of the occasion, she had tied her blonde hair on top of her head in a gold bow, letting it fall in a shower of ringlets around her face.

From Josh Kern’s expression he wasn’t impressed. No doubt he, too, was thinking that she was from the city, she didn’t belong around here. She saw his mouth twist, then he lifted his stare to meet her eyes.

‘You’re the model who came last week,’ he said, pretending surprise, although she was certain he had recognised her car and that was why he had jumped his black horse right over the bonnet.

‘I’m not a model! I don’t know where you got that idea,’ she told him sharply.

He shrugged. ‘Something Dale said, I think. Yes, he said you were all models.’

‘The girls with me were all models; I’m not one!’

‘No?’ His eyes went wandering again. ‘You look like a model to me.’

She knew it wasn’t intended as flattery. Josh Kern had made his views on models very plain when she was here before. All the same, under his assessment, a little flush crept up her face, especially when his gaze lingered on her long, slender legs.

‘Very chic,’ he drawled, and she felt Patrick stiffen next to her, resenting the personal nature of the remark.

Josh Kern hadn’t so much as acknowledged Patrick’s presence yet, even by looking in his direction. No doubt, Laura thought, he found her an easier target, an idea which made her bristle from head to foot like a cat that is having its fur stroked the wrong way.

‘So what do you do if you aren’t a model?’

‘I’m in public relations,’ she curtly told him, and he raised his brows in sardonic enquiry.

‘I’ve often wondered what that meant—are you some sort of journalist?’

‘No,’ she said coolly, aware that he was making fun of her, but taking his question totally seriously. ‘My firm is a buffer between a client company and the public, or the media. I deal with the Press, TV, radio, on behalf of the company, or arrange for publicity for them—when they’re launching a new product, for instance—smooth their way, make their lives easier, entertain overseas buyers for them.’

‘Ah, I see,’ he murmured, his mouth twisting cynically. ‘So that was why you had a carload of model girls with you? Were you all going off to “entertain” some overseas buyers the other day? I hope you gave them a good time.’

The insult made her flush hotly, and Patrick lost his temper. ‘Now look here, Mr Kern,’ he burst out, ‘that’s enough! You’re being damned rude...’

Josh Kern turned his dark head, and stared at him with icily arrogant indifference.

‘And who the hell are you?’ He took in Patrick’s appearance with a dismissive flick of the eyes, noting that he was dressed as formally and elegantly as Laura, in a smooth pale grey suit, expensively tailored, a crisp white shirt and a dove-grey silk tie, his black shoes shining like mirrors.

‘I’m Patrick Ogilvie, Laura’s fiancé! And I resent your tone, Mr Kern!’

Josh Kern flicked a look at Laura. ‘You’re going to marry him?’

‘Yes,’ she snapped, tense as she waited for what he might say next.

What he did was laugh. In a way that made her burn with rage. He looked Patrick up and down again, his black brows signalling contempt and amusement.

‘Now, he has got to be a model!’

Patrick went red.

‘I’m an artist, as it happens!’ If he had ever thought she was exaggerating her description of Josh Kern, Laura thought, he certainly wouldn’t after this! The man was living up to everything she had said about him.

‘An artist? Not a model?’ Those black brows shot up, signalling disbelief. ‘You amaze me. But I bet you work for glossy magazines, or do the artwork for an advertising firm.’

‘I’m freelance; I do whatever I’m commissioned to do, Mr Kern,’ Patrick said with dignity, refusing to apologise for his work or himself, and, proud of him, Laura moved to his side and slipped her hand through his arm, leaning on him. Patrick glanced down at her and then looked back at Josh Kern, his face smoothing out into courtesy again.

‘I’m sorry you dislike the idea of having us living in the cottage, Mr Kern. I realise the circumstances are difficult for you, but be fair—it’s hardly our fault that the owner doesn’t wish to sell it back to you.’

Josh Kern’s face tightened and darkened, but he didn’t say anything when Patrick paused to let him.

After a moment, Patrick went on quietly, ‘Somebody is going to buy the place, you know. Sooner or later. You might as well accept the idea.’

Josh Kern’s teeth parted and he bit out, ‘Like hell. I can’t stop you buying this place...’ His narrowed stare shot from Patrick to Laura, glittering and dangerous. ‘But, believe me, you aren’t going to enjoy living here!’

Laura’s head went back, her blonde curls blowing in the spring wind, her eyes defiant. ‘If you keep threatening us, you’ll find yourself in trouble with the police, Mr Kern!’

‘Threatening you? I wasn’t threatening you,’ he lied blandly. ‘I was warning you. About the inconvenience you’re going to suffer when I put my grids across the track.’

‘Grids?’ she repeated, thrown by that word. ‘What do you mean, grids?’

‘Cattle grids,’ he coolly said. ‘I have a very valuable herd of cows and I don’t want them straying off my land, so I’m having gates put up at the end of our private road and there will be a wide cattle grid in front. I should have done it before, but we’re so far off the beaten track that I hadn’t thought it was necessary, but now I think I will have to get it done without delay.’

‘That won’t inconvenience us,’ Laura told him. ‘I’ve often driven over cattle grids; my car can cope with them, and so can Patrick’s. As for the gates, you’ll still have to allow us free access. It will be very expensive for both sides if you make me prove my rights in court, but I will, believe me, if I have to!’

He didn’t argue with that, just murmured, ‘It will take weeks to do the work on the road, by the way. Sorry about that; there will be quite a mess.’

She laughed scornfully. ‘What? A set of gates and a cattle grid? I wouldn’t have thought so. Unless you deliberately drag it out, just to make life difficult!’

His hard mouth mocked her. ‘Well, you know country workmen—they never hurry themselves. Amazing how long they can take to do one simple little job. And the ground is pretty rocky there; they’ll probably have to use pneumatic drills, I expect, which will be noisy for you, especially as they start very early in the morning. Crack of dawn, probably.’

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