Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

Copyright

“You gave me an ultimatum. Either I marry you or we stop seeing each other.”

“It wasn’t an ultimatum!”

“We both know what you meant, don’t we? Either I marry you or you won’t sleep with me again.”

Kit stared back, her face clenched in misery and anger.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” she agreed. “I want a man who loves me enough to want to live with me, a man who loves me enough to be ready to make a commitment to me…. Obviously that man isn’t you!”

Dear Reader,

In this book I deal with the sin of Sloth. Sometimes when you’ve been under a terrible strain, it is vital to take time out, to let your physical and emotional bruises heal before getting back into life’s struggles.

But there’s another form of laziness. I picture this as the two-toed sloth, a comical, cuddly, furry animal, lumbering along a branch upside down, taking forever to get anywhere. It’s a rather lovable creature and we all know someone who is prone to move like that, refusing to hurry, or make decisions, reluctant to take responsibility, putting off until tomorrow what they should do today. You can hurt someone you love, who loves you, by being slow to show how you feel; you might even lose them altogether.

Charlotte Lamb

Hot Blood
Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE film ended suddenly and the house lights came up before Kit had time to pull herself together. She scrabbled in her bag for a handkerchief, her head bent so that her silvery hair half hid the tears streaming down her face.

She didn’t want anyone to notice her. She felt stupid, sitting here in floods of tears over an old black and white movie made before most of the audience had even been born!

Kit was a film buff, obsessed with the cinema and with the techniques of filming; it was her hobby. She had a camcorder and often spent a weekend filming landscapes or recording amateur productions at the little local theatre in town. She particularly loved old black and white films. They had so much more atmosphere; a tension and power that films shot in colour simply didn’t have, and possessed a sense of the past—nostalgia—which she found irresistible.

When the Classic Film Club had opened at this small cinema, once known as the Flea Pit but now modernised and given the grandiose name of the Imperial—although everyone still called it the Flea Pit—Kit had immediately become a member. She wasn’t so much interested in seeing the films themselves, which were mostly available on video now, but the club also had monthly lectures by film critics, directors, and actors; occasionally it even got hold of a rare old film which you wouldn’t get on video.

People began pushing past her, hurrying to get home or into the Chinese restaurant across the road, which was always busy at this time of night.

‘Excuse me!’ they said impatiently, and Kit struggled to her feet to let them get by, trying to make herself very small, which wasn’t difficult because she was only five feet two. She mumbled apologies, still clutching her handkerchief, pretending to be blowing her nose.

Only when the last one had filed past did she turn to follow, and that was when she realised that there was one other person still sitting in the row, in the seat next to her.

He was sitting sideways, arms folded, watching her, his long legs crossed, one foot swinging rhythmically, and he clearly had no intention of moving.

When their eyes met he murmured conversationally, as if they were old friends, ‘I haven’t seen a woman cry over a film for years. First time you’ve seen Camille?’

Kit felt herself go pink, and rather crossly nodded. Had he been watching her for long? She had been so engrossed in the film that she hadn’t even noticed who was sitting next to her.

Giving him a rapid inspection, for a disconcerting instant she felt she knew him. There was something distinctly familiar about the set of his head, the rough brown hair silvered here and there by time, and the smiling, charming blue eyes. Or did he just resemble someone else? Who? She frowned, trying to remember, but the fleeting recognition had slipped away. Oh, well, maybe she’d come up with a name later.

‘Is it the first time you’ve seen it too?’ she asked, curious about him. He didn’t look the type to love lushly romantic films, but then men could be deceptive. She had once had a short affair with a guy who had looked big and strong and dependable, and had been old enough to be all three, but had turned out to be tied to his mother’s apron strings, incapable of doing a thing for himself, and about as tough as a paper hankie.

He gave her a charming, lazy smile. ‘I can’t remember how many times I’ve seen Camille. I’m a big Garbo fan. Are you? I’ve seen all her films over and over again but this one is my favourite. Have you read the book or seen the opera?’

Kit laughed until she saw from his face that he hadn’t been joking. ‘You mean there really is an opera?’ she asked, her green eyes wide, glittering and sharp like shards of broken green glass in sunlight.

‘La Traviata—have you ever seen that?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’m not that keen on opera. I’ve never seen La Traviata, although I have heard the music quite often.’

‘Oh, you’d love this opera—same storyline, more or less, but even sadder and more romantic than the film—but that’s the music.’ He smiled, and she blinked at how good-looking that smile made him.

His hair might have been going grey but his features were spare and rugged and his eyes held charm. ‘Without music any film loses half its impact, don’t you agree? You can do without words, but music creates the mood.’

Kit nodded. ‘Absolutely. And they realised that right from the start of cinema. Even silent films were always accompanied by music—live music in that case, of course—a pianist or an organist. Even a trio, I gather, and—’

Behind them there was a meaningful cough, and Kit looked round and saw the cinema usherette, a pert blonde who wore a lot of make-up, impatiently tapping her foot and glaring. ‘Oh, sorry! Are we the last to leave?’

‘Yes, and we’re waiting to lock up! Are you coming, or shall we leave you here all night?’

The girl turned on her heel and flounced off and Kit got up, grimacing. ‘Oh, dear, she’s cross now.’

The man stood up too, and immediately towered over her, making Kit feel smaller than ever as she followed him up the steps into the brightly lit foyer where the manager was waiting to lock up behind them.

‘I was beginning to think you two planned to stay all night,’ he told them in irritable tones.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting; it was such a great evening’s entertainment,’ the tall man said, and gave him one of those smiles which changed his face. Kit watched the other man’s features relax, saw an answering smile.

‘Glad you enjoyed it, sir. We had an almost full house tonight; we always do for Garbo. Come again. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ they said, walking out through the big plate-glass doors which the manager locked behind them.

A cold March wind blew along the rain-wet street, and Kit shivered. Who would have thought that it was nearly spring? The passage of time had begun to depress her in recent years; it went too fast and she was worried by the speed with which the year flashed by. Am I getting old? she thought, and felt like breaking into a run, as though that would take her far away from such gloomy thoughts.

Before she could move, though, the tall man took hold of her coat collar and raised it so that it framed her face, sheltered her from the wind. She gave him a startled look, tensing at the feel of his gloved hands against her skin. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘You looked cold.’ His hands still in position on either side of her head, he bent towards her and murmured, ‘Fancy a Chinese meal?’

Kit’s green eyes widened. ‘You’re a fast worker! I don’t even know your name!’

‘Don’t be so Victorian!’

Oh, yes, he certainly had charm, she thought—a warm, lazy charm which showed most when his face was in motion, talking, laughing. He must have been a real drop-dead knockout when he was young. How old was he now? she wondered, eyeing him assessingly.

Younger than me, anyway, she decided. Not fifty yet. Getting on that way, but he looks good for his age. Men always did—that annoyed her whenever she thought about it. It was so unfair.

‘Like what you see?’ he asked, watching her watching him, his eyes bright as if he liked to have her looking at him.

‘I’m thinking about it,’ she told him tartly. She was no teenager to be swept off her feet by a stranger who tried to pick her up in a cinema! But she was flattered, she couldn’t deny it. Maybe he was short-sighted and thought she was much younger than she actually was?

Who are you trying to kid? she cynically told herself. She probably looked older than her years! Along with all the other advantages they had, men aged slower than women. They didn’t live as long, of course. Women tended to outlive them, but life did not compensate by letting women keep their looks into old age.

Time started in on you once you were in your forties, pencilling wrinkles in around your eyes and mouth, especially if you had ever smiled a lot, which seemed doubly unfair. Women with cold faces and cold hearts kept a smooth skin longer. If you were active, keen on skiing or sailing or just being out in the fresh air and sunshine, you paid for that too. I probably have skin like an old prune, she thought, remembering holidays in the sun, on boats and in Austria, skiing.

Oh, well, she had had a wonderful time during all those years, and she didn’t regret a minute of it, but she avoided mirrors these days.

‘Well, don’t take too long making up your mind,’ he drawled. ‘Sorry to rush you, and I don’t normally go this fast, but I don’t want to let you go before I get a chance to find out more about you and make sure I am going to see you again.’

Kit was breathless and, for once, wordless. I know who he looks like! she thought at that instant. Clark Gable. All he needs is a moustache.

He gazed down into her eyes and said softly, ‘I’ll start by telling you I’m Joe Ingram. I’m forty-two, divorced, heterosexual; I’ve lived in a lot of different places, in a lot of different countries, and I’ve only just moved here, but I’ve suddenly decided I’m going to love it.’

Kit gave him an incredulous look. ‘Is there anything wrong with your eyesight, Joe? For your information, I’m fifty-two—that’s ten years older than you! I’m also divorced, I have a son of twenty-six who’s married with two kids of his own, and my hair is silver where it used to be blonde.’

He put out a long forefinger and curled a strand of her hair around it. ‘It’s naturally silver? I thought you’d dyed it. It looks terrific—and you didn’t tell me your name.’

‘Kit—Kit Randall,’ she said slowly, staring at him. ‘Did you hear what I said? I’m ten years older than you.’

‘I’m not deaf; of course I heard you. I’m not hung up on age. Are you? That’s a very conventional attitude.’

‘This is a very conventional little town, Joe. Most small towns are very hot on traditions and conventions—at least, in England they are; and Silverburn is no different. I know—I’ve lived here all my life.’

It seemed a terrible confession as she said it; he was clearly sophisticated, cosmopolitan, experienced, the very opposite of her quiet, stay-at-home self. She had never had the urge to go away from this tranquil, beautiful corner of England with its hedged green fields, deep, shady woods and ancient villages.

This town was very old too, with houses from every period of English history—medieval, Elizabethan, Georgian, Victorian and modern—all muddled up together and yet merging into a graceful whole, weathered by time and use.

Silverburn was a tourist attraction because a famous eighteenth-century poet had been born here, whose house was on the pilgrimage map, particularly for Americans since his son had emigrated there after his death. Silverburn was also a friendly little town, with a strong sense of identity. The local population of the town was small enough to have the necessary community spirit; people grew up here and stayed, hardly ever moved away the way Kit had.

She felt lucky to have been born here; she was very happy with her life, and yet suddenly she wondered if she was going to bore him, if he was going to find her dull compared with other women that he must have known in all those other places in which he had lived.

Curious, she asked him, ‘What job do you do, Joe? Why have you lived in so many different countries?’

‘I’ve been a photographer for years, working on an international magazine, and freelancing of late. Now I’m writing my autobiography; it will be quite short, I think, because I’m not much good with words; it will just be a commentary to go with a collection of my best pictures.’

‘It sounds fascinating. Will I have seen any of your work?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. That’s enough about mewhat about you? You forgot to say if you’re free.’

She half wished she could say yes, she was, but she shook her head, her mouth level and regretful.

‘No, not really.’

He grimaced. ‘Sorry to hear that. I suppose you remarried after the divorce?’

‘No, I’m not married! And you ask too many questions!’ Suddenly angry, she began to walk away fast and he caught up with her.

‘Sorry if I upset you. Look, it isn’t really late! Come for a coffee across the street. Please.’

Kit hesitated, then a little reluctantly shook her head. ‘Sorry. I must get home.’

‘To a man?’

She looked all the way up at him, green eyes wide, startled and laughing. ‘You do believe in being direct, don’t you?’

‘No time to be anything else once you’re over forty!’

She laughed again. ‘True. No, I don’t live with anyone.’ As she heard herself say it she also heard an echo deep inside her—a sadness, a regret. She lived alone and she hated it more every day. She was lonely and she ached to have a real home again, someone to come home to, someone who cared whether she came home or not. It was dreary going back to a dark, empty flat and going to bed alone.

‘Then if there’s nobody waiting up for you, come and have a coffee,’ said Joe firmly, pushing his hand between her arm and her body and urging her across the street to where a new, modern coffee-bar was brightly lit and full of young people talking and laughing and drinking coffee.

Kit lagged behind, staring at all those intent, alive young faces and feeling out of it, old, left behind. ‘I really shouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know a thing about you.’

‘You know a lot about me,’ he argued. ‘You know my name, how old I am, that I’m a lonely stranger here, and that I love Greta Garbo. And anyway, what on earth could I do to you in a coffee-bar full of other people?’

Kit was very tempted. But it would be reckless to accept—whatever he said, she knew very little about him.

Of course, she found him attractive. He had a powerful, firm body under his clothes—you could tell that just by the way he walked—and his eyes had a naughty twinkle, like a little boy’s. He obviously liked life, and she liked the way he dressed too—casually but with style, in good brown checked tweeds, a cream shirt, no tie, with a bright red silky scarf hanging round his neck inside his open camelhair winter coat. And he had such a charming smile.

But her small-town mind wouldn’t let her take the risk easily. How did she even know that Joe Ingram was really his name, or that he wasn’t married with three point five children? Yet she wanted to go on talking to him; she was enjoying his company and she was reluctant to say goodbye; she couldn’t deny it.

What can he do to you in a coffee-bar? she asked herself impatiently. Don’t be such an idiot.

‘So long as you let me pay for my own coffee,’ she finally said, and he grinned at her in amusement.

‘The independent type! Well, that’s fine by me. I’m certainly not going to argue.’

As they walked across the road she looked sideways at him, measuring his height beside her, a little daunted by it, and wondering if his overcoat was cashmere—nothing else looked that soft and fine, did it? The tweed suit was well-worn and a little shabby, yet it must have cost quite a bit when it was new.

‘Do you actually live in Silverburn?’ she asked him, and he nodded, glancing down at her.

‘I’ve just moved into a flat in Townwall Street.’

She stiffened and gave him another startled look as he held the door of the coffee-bar open for her. ‘Really? That’s where I live—I’ve got a flat on the first floor of the big new apartment block right next to the entrance to the new shopping centre.’

He halted, staring down at her. ‘Snap! My flat is on the top floor—number fourteen. What an amazing coincidence.’ His blue eyes were almost dark in the brighter lights.

Kit felt quite odd about it. She didn’t believe in fate but it was a very big coincidence that they should have run into each other in a cinema like that. Or was it? Had he seen her going in or out of the building? Had he followed her to the cinema tonight? Or recognised her in the cinema and deliberately picked her up like that?

She had thought he looked familiar, she recalled. She must have seen him without really noticing him. It hadn’t just been that fleeting, fugitive resemblance to Clark Gable that had struck her.

If he had told her he lived in the same block of flats she probably wouldn’t have agreed to have coffee with him; she would have suspected his motives. But she couldn’t get out of it now.

They found a small table right in the corner and sat down. The noise was deafening; a jukebox was playing near the bar and the other customers yelled at each other over the deep beat of rock music.

A young waitress chewing gum came over, pad in one hand, pencil in the other, and stared at them indifferently.

‘Yes?’

‘Two coffees, please,’ Joe said, smiling at her.

‘Anything else?’ She didn’t smile back, just chewed her gum.

‘No, thank you.’

The girl walked away. Joe gave Kit a wry grin. ‘Maybe we should have gone to the pub instead. It might not have been so noisy.’

‘Noisier tonight,’ Kit assured him. ‘There’s a darts match on; they’re playing their rival pub; it could get very nasty.’

‘You drink there?’ He looked surprised.

‘I sometimes eat my lunch there on weekdays-they do very good food. Doreen, the landlady, was at school with me.’

The waitress came back and dumped their coffees on the table. ‘Will you pay me now? We’re closing in fifteen minutes and we want to cash up the till.’

Kit began to get out her purse, but Joe had already given the girl a handful of coins. ‘Keep the change,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ she said, with the first flicker of a smile, and walked away again.

Kit offered him the price of her coffee. He shook his head. ‘You can pay next time.’

‘Who says there’s going to be a next time?’ But she put her purse back into her handbag.

‘I hope there will.’ He looked at her seriously and she looked down, flushing. He was giving her butterflies in her stomach, and it was a very long time since a man had done that to her. She didn’t know how to answer him.

After a pause he asked, ‘Do you have a job?’

‘I work for the local auctioneer, Keble’s.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I help in most departments. I take auctions, I price antiques and paintings, work on the accounts, even help with packing up items for posting if we’re short-handed.’

‘You must be very clever. Have you had years of training?’

‘Not exactly. I did an art degree before I got married, and my father ran an antiques shop, so I picked up quite a bit from him. I worked in the shop with him after I got married, to earn some extra money while my son was small.

‘I kept up my studies in the evenings, while Paul was asleep; I read a good deal and I took evening classes. I managed to get to London quite often to visit museums and art galleries. My husband was an expert in Oriental ceramics; he taught me a great deal too. I inherited my father’s personal collection of English furniture and porcelain when he died, so I suppose in one way or another I’ve been studying antiques all my life.’

Joe leaned his elbows on the table, sipping his coffee while he stared at her, his blue eyes narrowed and thoughtful. She stared back, prickling at the fixed nature of his gaze, and when he still didn’t speak said after a minute, ‘What? What?’

‘What what?’ he repeated, laughing.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked him crossly.

He put out a finger and flicked it down her cheek, his voice soft. ‘That your hair is like spun silver and when you’re full of enthusiasm your face lights up as you talk.’

She went pink. ‘Oh, stop it! I’m not a teenager to be flattered like that.’ She took a sip of her own coffee; it was lukewarm by now. It couldn’t have been very hot to start with.

‘How long have you been divorced?’

Another of his abrupt, direct questions. ‘Five years,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

‘I can’t even remember. She left me years ago—said she was sick of being married to a man she never saw, and I can’t blame her; I was always out of the country. She thought my job was dangerous, too.’

‘Was it?’

He laughed. ‘In a way—if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but luckily I never was. Oh, I had a few little accidents—broke a leg once, got shot in the shoulder, got blown off my feet and spent a few weeks with concussion and a touch of deafness in one ear—but—’

‘But nothing serious,’ Kit drily concluded for him, and he grinned at her, amusement in his blue eyes.

‘Well, I survived it all, let’s put it like that.’

‘Let’s,’ she agreed. ‘What on earth made you choose Silverburn to move to after this peaceful life of yours? Do you think you’re ready for the heady excitements of our bustling metropolis?’

Quite seriously he said, ‘I was sick of flying around the world, sick of wars and famines, sick of city life, very sick of daily tension. I wanted to get out into the English countryside, and I had an aunt who lived here once, when I was just a kid. I remembered it as a lovely town, full of old buildings and great shops, and close to some gorgeous countryside too—so I came to look it over and decided it would suit me down to the ground.’

The waitress was banging a saucepan on the counter. ‘Closing time!’ she yelled. ‘Go home, all of you!’

Grumbling, the other customers began to get up, put on coats, fasten their buttons, before drifting out into the night.

Joe and Kit followed. They were the last customers; the waitress locked up behind them.

‘Can I give you a lift? My car is parked over behind the cinema,’ Joe offered.

‘I came in my own car,’ Kit said, walking purposefully towards the same cinema car park. The street was almost empty now; the teenagers from the coffee-bar were running to catch a late-night bus, everyone from the cinema had gone home and there was very little traffic at this time of night.

The town was going to sleep, and she was very conscious of being alone with a stranger. It was an experience she had not had since her own teens, which were so long ago that it gave her vertigo to remember that far back.

Joe fell into step with her without haste, his strides longer. ‘How about dinner tomorrow? I’ll book a table in advance so we won’t have a problem. Have you got a favourite restaurant? I haven’t had time to check them all out yet; you’ll have to advise me.’

‘I’m rather busy, I’m afraid. Sorry.’ Kit reached her little red Ford and stooped to unlock the door, not looking at him. ‘Goodnight,’ she said quickly, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling the door shut.

He bent down and tapped on the window. She touched the button which made the glass slide down and looked warily at him.

‘What changed your mind?’ he asked, his face wry.

She decided to be as blunt in return. ‘I told you, I’m not free; I already have a man in my life.’

‘And it’s serious?’

‘Yes, it’s serious,’ she said, meeting his eyes levelly. ‘Goodnight.’

He had his hand on the glass and had to snatch it back as the window silently closed again. The engine started. Kit put her foot down and drove off, leaving him standing there, staring at her. Something in the way he watched her made the hair prickle on the back of her neck.

There was almost no other traffic about, so she was able to drive quite fast, yet as she drew up at the traffic lights at the end of the high street she saw a sleek black Porsche pull in behind her. Kit looked at it idly in her driving mirror, envying the style and potential speed, then stiffened as she recognised the driver. He raised a hand in greeting.

Kit waved back briefly, but her heartbeat had speeded up and she felt her nerves jumping as she drove on.

Oh, stop it! Of course he’s driving the same way; he’s going to the same block of flats, isn’t he? she told herself impatiently. What’s the matter with you? Does he look dangerous? She flicked another glance into the mirror to watch the Porsche following right on her tail.

Photography obviously paid well. His clothes looked expensive and his car certainly did. He must have earned a good deal if he could afford a Porsche! Was he famous? Should she have heard of him? She knew very little about anything outside her own chosen sphere of interest. Antiques were the only things she knew much about.

In her eagerness to get away from him, to get home, she was driving too fast. As she turned the next corner she almost hit another car coming out of a side road.

Tyres screeched, a horn blared, and Kit got a glimpse of a furious, alarmed face before the other car was lost from sight behind her. She slowed down after that and behind her the black Porsche slowed too.

She shot a look into her mirror and saw his reflection in it; the gleam of amused blue eyes, the cynical mouth. There was something about him—something disturbing; she had sensed it from the minute she’d set eyes on him but hadn’t been sure what it was she saw or felt.

She had thought she recognised him, and perhaps she had seen him before going in or out of the block of flats, or maybe it was just that faint resemblance to Clark Gable she had picked up on, but she suspected that she had also been reacting instinctively to the man himself. He had charm and he was attractive and he was certainly persistent—but there was a sense of threat from him too. He worried her, and she had enough emotional problems in her life already. She didn’t need another one.

The chief thing on her mind at the moment, though, was getting back home before he could beat her to it. She wasn’t going to relax until she was safely in her flat with the door locked.

The block of flats had an underground car park. Kit had always hated parking there at night, walking through the dimly lit vault of the basement to the lift to go up to her flat, and tonight was no exception. She was desperate to get there before the man driving behind her.

She shot down the steep slope, parked in her numbered space without worrying about doing it perfectly, jumped out, hearing the Porsche smoothly reversing into another space nearby, locked her car and ran for the lift as if she were training for the Olympics.

She was lucky. The lift doors opened as soon as she touched the button; she leapt inside and jabbed the button for her floor, silently praying that they would close before Joe Ingram could catch up with her.

The doors closed. Kit breathed a sigh of relief. The lift went up and stopped, the doors opened and she walked out, her keyring swinging from her finger, then she stopped dead in shock.

Joe Ingram was leaning on the wall, waiting for her. ‘What took you so long?’ his voice drawled, and he laughed at her stunned expression.

He must have run up the stairs but he wasn’t out of breath. It was Kit who was having to drag air into her lungs, her heart beating twice as fast as normal.

‘Look, can’t you get the message—?’ she began, but he interrupted.

‘I only wanted to say that if you ever changed your mind and wanted to see me again I’d give you my phone number,’ he drawled, looking amused, his blue eyes teasing, and she felt stupid. She had overreacted, so now she tried to sound calm and reasonable.

‘No, sorry; I won’t change my mind. Goodnight.’ ‘

At least take my card,’ he said, pushing a printed card into her hand.

She was tempted to drop it on the floor, but if she did he would probably only give her another one. Irritably she pushed the card into her coat pocket.

‘Is this a recent affair?’ he asked, his body casually at ease as he leaned on the wall. ‘I mean, how long have you known this guy?’

Very flushed and angry, she bit out, ‘Honestly, you take the biscuit! I’m not telling you all about my private life!’

‘I’m just trying to work it out. You aren’t living with him yet you say it’s serious, and tonight you were on your own—why wasn’t he with you? Does that mean it’s serious for you but not for him?’

She felt a stab of pain because he had hit on the truth and it hurt. ‘Mind your own business!’ She wasn’t answering his questions, however close he came to guessing the truth. She had no intention of telling him anything more about herself; he already knew too much and she didn’t like the way he had chased her up here.

‘Don’t get cross, Kit,’ he said reproachfully.

‘I’m tired. Goodnight,’ she said, sidestepping him, not sure what she would do if he wouldn’t let her walk away. Her nerves jangled as she took her first step.

But he didn’t stop her; he just turned and watched her go, then said softly, ‘Do I need references?’

She ignored him. As she reached her door and put her key into the lock he said, ‘Goodnight, then, Kit. See you again soon!’ And then she heard the door to the stairs banging behind him, the sound of his feet running up the stairs.

Although Kit was tired and went straight to her bedroom, washed and was in bed in about ten minutes, she didn’t get to sleep for another half an hour.

She kept thinking about him, going over everything he had said to her, remembering every look on his face, every glance from those vivid blue eyes.

She had never met a man who had made such a deep impression at first sight and she hoped she would be able to put him out of her mind; she certainly meant to forget him as fast as she could. He wasn’t even her type.

She didn’t like men who played games in the way she sensed he did. How many other women had he chased the way he’d just chased her? What was his success rate?

It worried her that she had immediately been attracted to him without knowing a thing about him. It wasn’t like her; it was completely out of character. She had told him that she was the cautious type and it was true. Kit had always preferred to look before she leapt, even when she’d been young.

She and Hugh had known each other for years before they’d got married. She couldn’t blame the failure of their marriage on too much haste in the beginning. They had been teenagers when they’d met, and had taken six years to get to the altar. They had both been so very sensible. No doubt that was why, at the age of forty-five, Hugh had suddenly lost his head over a girl half his age and run off with her one night without warning.

For the first time in his entire life Hugh had acted on impulse, had let emotion rule him, and once Kit had got over the shock she had come to feel a certain sympathy for him. Their divorce had been entirely amicable and they had stayed friends—at a distance.

Hugh and his bride, Tina, had gone off to live in Germany, near Tina’s family. He now worked for a museum in Bonn, heading its ceramics department. He was brilliant at his job; he had a strong international reputation and could identify an object almost at a glance.

Hugh liked living in Germany, and he got on well with his colleagues. Cool-headed, logical, sensible in everything except the way he felt about his new wife, Tina, and their little blonde twin girls, aged two now, he was happier now than he had ever been in his life before.

Kit had met them all last summer when they’d visited England to see her son, Paul, and his family. She had been struck by how happy Hugh had looked and had been glad—she felt no bitterness towards him.

If she had really loved him she would have done, presumably—but had she? she wondered, yawning, and couldn’t be sure. She barely remembered the way she had felt in her teens. A very different emotion had blotted out everything that went before it, had made all other love pale into insignificance. Now she really understood her ex-husband in a way she hadn’t done before. When real love hit you everything else vanished.

But she wouldn’t think about that. She had to get some sleep. She had a busy day ahead tomorrow.

She thought about work instead, and slowly fell asleep.

Next day she was up very early. She showered, dressed in an elegant, pale coffee-coloured silk dress, blow-dried her hair into its usual style, had coffee, orange juice and a slice of toast, and at eight o’clock was waiting for Paddy and Fred to pick her up in their van, which was crammed so full of antiques that she had to sit squeezed into the front with them.

‘Sorry there isn’t much room,’ Fred apologised, so close that she was almost on his lap as he drove. ‘I brought everything I thought we might sell.’

‘And then some,’ said Paddy, grinning.

‘Well, you never know!’ Fred defiantly told her. He was a gentle giant of a man; over six feet, curly-haired, with broad shoulders and huge hands that were astonishly deft and sensitive.

By contrast Paddy was even smaller than Kit, barely five feet tall, tiny and fragile-looking, yet she had a muscular strength that belied her size, and could carry heavy furniture or packing cases for miles if required.

They weren’t married but they were planning a wedding in just six weeks and meanwhile were getting a home together in an old terraced cottage down near the river. Kit had often had supper there with them, helping out with their work on the cottage before they ate a meal together—usually a casserole slow-cooked in the oven by Paddy for hours.

They had hardly any furniture yet. They were both keen on do-it-yourself—Paddy was a marvel with a sewing machine and had made all the curtains and chair covers; Fred had done some of the plumbing, and was putting in a fitted kitchen and building a wall-to-wall wardrobe in the bedroom.

They worked on their future home at weekends, and of course their furniture was all antique—not necessarily very valuable, but always well made and handsome to look at. Paddy could pick up objects for a song and refurbish them—mending chair legs, replacing torn materials, French-polishing surfaces that had been scarred or rubbed away.

Kit’s partner, Liam Keble, was proposing to give them a Victorian bedroom set that he had noticed them coveting in the shop—tallboy, bed and dressing-table, all mahogany, in very good condition. Paddy and Fred had been over the moon when he’d told them it would be their wedding present.

Paddy had hugged Liam. Fred had kissed Kit, hugging her so enthusiastically that he had almost crushed her ribs.

‘I suppose Liam’s meeting us at the market?’ asked Paddy, breaking in on Kit’s thoughts.

She nodded. ‘I imagine so; he didn’t say he wouldn’t be there.’

He wasn’t saying anything to her at all but she didn’t tell Paddy that, although the other woman had undoubtedly noticed the atmosphere between the two partners.

Liam lived in an elegant Georgian house on the edge of town, a few minutes from the little village where today’s market was being held in an old school. The early Victorian building was sited beautifully, looking down over the village of Great Weatherby, and framed by trees and fields.

As they drove towards it Kit thought how wonderful it must have been for small children to start learning in such surroundings, where their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had all gone before them. No wonder local people had been up in arms over the loss of their school, but there had only been sixty-odd pupils, and however violently parents had protested they had been defeated by economics.

Now the children all went by bus to the next village, some three miles away, and the old village school was to be sold. In the meantime it was being used for a monthly market in antiques and secondhand furniture.

When Fred drove into the school car park the yard was already crowded with cars—mostly other dealers who had got there early.

Fred began moving the heavier items while Kit carried a box of lighter objects into the high-ceilinged old Victorian hall.

As she walked in she heard a deep voice and her heart turned over instantly. Liam!

Her green eyes searched for him among the crowds of people milling about. He was standing beside one stall, picking up a delicate French clock which, even at this distance, she registered as nineteenth century and exquisitely enamelled. His black head gleamed in the watery sunlight streaming down from arched windows set high in the panelled walls.

Kit looked at him with pain and yearning, walking towards him, waiting for him to see her. They had quarrelled a week ago and Liam was still furious. How would he look at her today?

For two years he had been her entire life, but Kit wasn’t sure how much she meant to him, and it was eating her up.

‘How about dinner tonight?’ she suddenly heard him ask and stopped in her tracks, staring at the woman behind the stall that he was visiting.

‘Dinner?’ the woman repeated, smiling a curling little smile.

Kit had never seen her before. Slender, elegant, with dark red hair styled in light, waving ringlets, she had a pre-Raphaelite look to her, and a cool, acquisitive face too, with a witchy, pointed chin and sharp, cat-like yellowing eyes.

‘There’s a very good French restaurant in the market square in Silverburn,’ Liam murmured.

‘Is there? I love French food. I haven’t discovered many of the local restaurants since I moved here. I’d love to have dinner tonight, Liam.’

Kit felt sick suddenly. She can’t be much above thirty, she thought. She’s young and beautiful, and Liam is staring at her as if she’s what he’s been looking for all his life. I know that mesmerised look—I saw it in Hugh’s face when he fell for his blonde.

When Hugh had walked out on her for a younger woman it hadn’t hurt like this, though. Nothing in her life had ever hurt like this.

CHAPTER TWO

LIAM turned and saw Kit a second later. His smile died instantly to be replaced by a frown. She wasn’t surprised—he had been scowling at her for days—but it still saddened her, angered her too—how dared he look at her like that? It wasn’t she who was behaving like a spoilt child, wanting to have everything its own way. But then wasn’t that just like a man?

She looked at him with love and anger, wanting to smack him hard. His well-brushed black hair showed only fine streaks of silver although he was fifty himself now; it wasn’t fair, thought Kit, wishing she didn’t feel that deep surge of emotion just looking at him. Why did men retain their looks long after women’s had begun to fade? Liam didn’t look fifty. He was still lean and vibrant—a tall man with powerful shoulders, long legs and a lot of energy.

Paddy whispered to her, ‘Oops! Someone’s in a bad temper again! Whatever is the matter with him these days?’

Kit didn’t tell her. She couldn’t possibly have confided in Paddy—in anyone. The quarrel between her and Liam was too private to be talked about. It would be humiliating for anyone else to know about it.

Liam said goodbye to the woman he had been talking to and came over to them, his pale grey eyes glittering with ice as he held up his wrist and pointed to his watch.

‘What time do you call this?’

Kit pondered the question, staring at his gold Cartier watch, which she knew had been a twenty-first birthday present to him from his father thirty years ago. It was still as beautiful as it must have been then, but Gerald Keble had been dead for twenty years. Was that part of the power of antiques—that they outlasted those who had created them or owned them? Or was it more that they somehow carried the patina of the times they had lived through, their surfaces polished by love over generations?

‘Are we late?’ she began, pretending not to be sure of it, and Liam’s face tightened. He wasn’t fooled by her wide-open eyes and surprised expression. He knew her too well.

‘You know damned well you are! You should have been here half an hour ago! Every other stall was set up and doing business by half eight. Why weren’t you here? I was; I was here by twenty past eight—where were you?’

She abandoned innocence in favour of defiance. ‘Fred’s van can only do forty miles an hour when it’s loaded down with stuff, you know that! It might break down altogether if he pushed it.’

Fred and Paddy became very busy, not wishing to get drawn into the battle. They didn’t enjoy confrontation or argument; they liked life to be peaceful, and Kit sympathised—she would rather have had a peaceful life too, but Liam was making that impossible for both of them.

‘You should have left earlier!’ he accused.

‘We left early enough—but there was a lot of traffic on the road!’

‘You should have made allowances for that.’

It was never easy to argue with Liam; he had an answer for everything. She looked at him furiously, her green eyes glittering. ‘This is just wasting time! I’ve got better things to do than stand here bickering with you!’

As she turned away Liam tersely demanded, ‘Where were you all last night?’

She froze, staring up at him. ‘What?’

‘Don’t give me that innocent look! I know you weren’t home. I wanted to remind you to get here by half past eight. I kept ringing from six-thirty onwards but just got your answering machine. I left a couple of messages asking you to ring me back, but you never did.’

Fred and Paddy had discreetly deposited their loads on the empty stall and melted away back to the van to get some more of the items they had brought, hoping no doubt that by the time they got back here she and Liam would have stopped snarling at each other. Some hope!

Turning her back on him, Kit began to unpack some of the wrapped pieces in one of the boxes, setting them out carefully on the stall. She felt Liam glaring at her as she unwrapped a piece of art nouveau glass—a twisty candlestick in rainbow colours which had been allowed to run like melting wax.

Casually without looking at him, she said over her shoulder, ‘I went to the cinema club to see Garbo in Camille last night.’

‘Was it a midnight performance?’ he bit out.

‘Midnight performance?’ she repeated, baffled. ‘Of course not!’ She couldn’t actually remember what time she had got back to her flat, but it hadn’t been that late, surely?

She went on unwrapping porcelain, talking without looking at him. ‘I was back home by midnight! I didn’t check my answering machine; I forgot it was on so I didn’t think of switching it off, and this morning I was in such a rush, grabbing some coffee and toast, that I still didn’t remember to check to see if there were any messages. I went straight to bed as soon as I got home last night.’

‘Did you go alone?’ he asked, his tone as cutting as a knife going through silk.

Kit gave him an incredulous, angry stare. ‘To bed?’ She couldn’t believe he had asked her that. Hot colour rushed up her face—the scarlet of rage rather than embarrassment.

‘No, to the cinema!’ he bit out like someone snapping cotton between their teeth.

‘Yes to both, as it happens!’ she snapped back. What was he suggesting—that she had gone out with someone else last night? Was having an affair? He was reacting with possessive jealousy, yet he kept saying that he didn’t want to own her or have her own him. Why didn’t he make up his mind? He was the most contradictory, bewildering man she had ever known.

‘Really?’ His mouth twisted cynically, disbelievingly.

She hated the way he was looking at her. ‘Believe it or not, just as you like! It doesn’t bother me,’ she muttered. ‘Look, are you going to stand there and watch me working? Would it be too much to ask you to help?’

His face tight, he took a set of six French silver dessert spoons out of the box and put them down on the stall in a prominent place, his long fingers automatically caressing even in his temper. Liam loved beautiful things; he and Kit had that in common, which was why their partnership had worked so well until now.

He had inherited the auction rooms from his father, Gerald Keble. He had worked for the firm ever since he’d left university with an art degree two years after Kit had graduated. Kit had been engaged to Hugh by then and hadn’t quite made up her mind what she was going to do for a career. She had worked in her father’s shop until she’d got married and had her son, and even while she was running a home and taking care of Paul she had still managed to work part-time for her father during his lifetime.

It wasn’t until later that she’d begun working with Liam, but she had always known him through the auction rooms which she and her father had frequently visited to buy objects for their shop. His family—on both sides—had lived in Silverburn for centuries; their names, many covered in moss and fading, were carved on rows of graves in the old churchyard behind St Mary’s, the medieval church which stood on the top of the winding high street, as were those of Kit’s ancestors.

Neither of them came from rich or powerful stock. They were descended from shopkeepers and market traders, farm labourers and wagoners—the ordinary working people of this little English town over many generations.

‘I saw Mrs Walton, the vicar’s wife, just now,’ Liam murmured as he set out a Waterford crystal rose bowl on the stall. ‘She told me she saw you last night coming out of the cinema with what she described as a very attractive man, much younger than you!’

Kit swallowed, going a furious shade of fuchsia. She should have known that someone was bound to notice her with Joe. This was a small town-anyone who had lived here for years knew almost everyone else; nothing you did was ever missed and people were always curious, and always talked about anything they saw or heard. You couldn’t hope to keep a secret here.

That was, paradoxically, one of the things she loved about the place for all that it made her cross too; there was no chance of being forgotten or ignored here, of leading a lonely existence. You were part of the community whether you liked it or not and your entire life was an open book. That might have had a down side but it also made you feel good; you knew you belonged.

‘I may have come out with him—I didn’t go in there with him!’ she said irritably, and then her heart suddenly began to beat like an overwound clock.

Was Liam jealous? The idea made her mouth go dry. Jealousy would mean that he cared—really cared. Or would it? He could just resent her showing signs of interest in someone else, even though he made it clear that there was no future for her with him. Men could be very dog-in-themanger.

‘Oh, I see,’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘You picked him up inside, did you?

‘“Picked him up”?’ she repeated, very flushed. ‘I did nothing of the kind!’

He looked at her with a curling lip, contempt in his eyes, in his voice.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you? Don’t you realise that a woman of your age is taking a stupid risk talking to a strange man in a cinema—especially if it’s someone much younger than you? Mrs Walton said she was sure he wasn’t even forty yet!’

Indignantly Kit said, ‘Well, Mrs Walton’s as wrong about his age as she is about most things! You’d think a vicar’s wife would have more to do with her time than spread gossip. Joe’s forty-two, as it happens! Not that much younger than me!’ She had told Joe that she was much older than he was, but she didn’t enjoy knowing that other people had thought the same thing.

Liam faced her, his eyes narrowed and hostile. ‘Ten years younger, Kit! If it was the other way around, if you were ten years younger than him, it wouldn’t matter so much but—’

‘Why is it OK for a man to go out with a much younger woman but not the other way around?’ she seethed, remembering the beautiful redhead he had been talking to—apparently it was OK for him to ask her out although she was twenty years younger than he was. ‘If Joe doesn’t mind me being older, what business is it of yours?’

His hard grey eyes glittered. ‘You seem to know a lot about him. He wasn’t a stranger, then? You’d met him before? How long have you known him?’

‘What is this—the Spanish Inquisition?’

Liam coldly demanded, ‘Why don’t you want to talk about him? What have you got to hide?’

‘I just don’t like being grilled as if I were a murder suspect! As it happens, Joe lives in my apartment block.’ She wasn’t telling him the absolute truthnot because she was ashamed of it but because with Liam in his present mood she wasn’t going to admit that she had let Joe pick her up in the cinema. She still couldn’t believe it herself; even as a teenager she had never been one to strike up instant relationships.

But so what? It wasn’t a crime, and Joe had been nice; she had been in no danger from him. She had known that from the minute they had got into conversation.

‘He’s a neighbour of yours?’ Liam repeated, his frown etching heavy lines in his forehead. ‘Have I seen him?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He’s just moved here.’

‘Where from?’

‘Well…London, I suppose.’

‘You suppose? You mean you don’t know where he came from?’

‘He seems to have lived all over the world, but I think he was based in London.’

‘You think? Well, what does he do for a living?’

‘He retired recently—’

‘Been sacked, you mean!’ interrupted Liam roughly. ‘If he’s only forty he can hardly have retired! He’s lost his job—and he’s lying about it. I don’t like the sound of that.’

Kit was getting angrier. ‘Don’t make such snap judgements! You’ve never even set eyes on him. He used to be a photographer on an international magazine, covering wars and revolutions, but he got tired of the life and gave up his job. He wasn’t sacked or made redundant. He wanted to stop travelling, settle down somewhere; he’s writing his autobiography.’

Liam’s brows shot up. ‘He’s what? Writing his autobiography? He has to be kidding. You’re very naïve if you swallowed that! Only famous people write their autobiographies—is he famous?’ His voice was hard with sarcasm. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Joe Ingram.’

‘Joe Ingram?’ Liam’s face changed, his eyes surprised. After a moment he said roughly, ‘Well, I’ve heard of him. He got some sort of award last year for a photo of a dying soldier in an African street. It was a damned good picture—black and white. I saw it in an exhibition in London.’ There was a pause, then he reluctantly muttered, ‘I must say I was impressed.’ He looked as if he hated to admit it.

Kit wished that she had seen it; it must have been good if it had impressed Liam; it wasn’t easy to impress him. She wasn’t surprised to hear that Joe had been very successful in his job, though—not only because he had told her that he was writing his autobiography but because there had been something assured and confident about the man himself. Joe was easy in his own skin; he had done a great deal, seen a lot of the world and found out about himself too, she suspected; found out enough to know what he wanted from life.

So many people led blinkered lives, blind to what they were doing or why—lives of fantasy, unaware of themselves or conscious of making the wrong choices. Discovering that you had taken a wrong turning in your life and firmly changing course was the act of an adult in touch with his own inner self.

That was what Hugh had done when he’d met Tina. He had turned his back on his entire existence until that moment and gone off bravely to a new life. Kit admired her ex-husband for that and didn’t blame him. You only had one life. You had to live it for yourself, not other people; it did nobody any good if you wasted your entire life being unhappy. In fact, your unhappiness seeped into the lives of those around you and made them unhappy too.

‘Joe’s publishing a series of photos in his book; maybe that will be one of them,’ she thought aloud.

‘You’ve never mentioned him before,’ Liam said slowly, watching her. ‘How long have you known him?’

She gave him a quick, evasive glance and shrugged. ‘Oh, not long.’

Her mind raced feverishly—what was going on? Why was Liam so angry? Why all these hostile questions? She had known him most of her life, just as she had her husband. Kit’s world was a small one; the people in it rarely altered year by year, day by day, and she liked it like that. She was comfortable with herself and her world.

Yet Liam was still mysterious to her, his re sponses and emotions as indecipherable as some ancient script scratched on a primitive artefact. You could sometimes make out a line here or there, but the meaning of the whole defeated you. In fact she was sure that he did not want her to know too much about him; sometimes she even thought that he was afraid of her getting too close. But why?

Paddy and Fred came back and began setting out the furniture they had just carried into the hall. Paddy set to work, energetically giving a plainly decorated eighteenth-century country linen chest a final polish to make it shine under the strong lights of the hall. Fred checked that each item was marked with the price, to forestall arguments with customers, and made sure that the more expensive pieces were placed well to the back of the stall for safety’s sake. You often got light-fingered customers looking for small, portable objects to walk off with while your attention was distracted by someone else. You had to have your wits about you, working in an antiques market.

‘Paddy, look after the stall; we’re going for a cup of coffee,’ Liam said brusquely, grabbing Kit’s arm as she opened her mouth to argue.

A moment later he was pulling her towards the exit and out into the watery gleam of March sunlight. Across the street from the village school stood the Blue Lion, a solidly built gabled pub from the eighteenth century.

This was where all the antiques dealers and their customers gathered for a traditional English breakfast on these cold mornings. The back room of the pub where the landlady cooked bacon and egg and made crisp golden toast and hot, strong coffee or tea was as crowded as usual. There were no free tables.

‘We’ll take our coffee outside, Mrs Evans,’ Liam told the landlady, who handed him two brimming mugs.

‘Sit in the snug, dear,’ she said, glancing quickly from one to the other of them. ‘Too cold to go outside.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling down at her, and she went pink with pleasure.

Flirt! thought Kit bitterly, watching him turn on the charm that could make her own head spin on her shoulders.

The snug bar was a small, red-plush-upholstered room with a counter shining with highly polished brass. Liam put down the mugs of coffee on a black marble-topped table and sat on one of the red plush seats, stretching out his long legs as Kit sank down next to him.

‘Why have we come over here?’ she asked.

‘To talk without witnesses.’ He turned towards her, his profile hard. ‘Let’s have the truth, shall we? Are you dating Joe Ingram to stick a knife in me?’

She drew a long, shaky breath. ‘What are you talking about?’

His voice was angry. ‘You know damned well what I’m talking about! A few days ago you asked me to marry you and I was honest enough to tell you that I never wanted to get married again. I thought you were adult enough to take the truth, but I guess women never are.’

Face burning, she angrily said, ‘I did not ask you to marry me! All I said was were we going to get married some time or did you intend to go on for ever the way we’ve been for the past year?’

His mouth twisted cynically. ‘Don’t play games with words, Kit. You asked me if I was going to marry you, and I had to tell you no. That was when the wall went up and you suddenly started looking at me as if you hated me.’

Face distant, she said, ‘I was frank with you too, Liam. I’m sick of living alone; I want someone else there, someone to share things with, someone to come home to every day.’

‘Was that the only reason you slept with me—to get me to marry you?’

She bristled, glaring at him. ‘Don’t be so insulting! I thought we had a real relationship; I thought you cared about me.’

‘I do! That has nothing to do with getting married—’ He broke off, staring at nothing, his brow corrugated, then muttered, ‘Look, Kit, I gave you my reasons the other day. I asked you not to take my answer personally—’

Incredulously she interrupted, ‘How else can I take it, for heaven’s sake? You want me to sleep with you but you don’t love me enough to marry me. I take that very personally.’

His voice rough, he said, ‘I never wanted to hurt you, Kit. That’s the last thing I want to do. Please believe that. This isn’t about you, it’s about me. I prefer to live alone; I don’t want to live with anyone, not ever again.’

‘Weren’t you happy with Claudia?’

She had never once asked him about his dead wife or their relationship; she had realised early on that Liam did not want to talk about any of that. She had felt a door close in her face every time she’d mentioned Claudia.

Now there was a long silence, then Liam said tersely, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t discuss her with you of all people.’

She flinched at his tone—it was like a slap in the face. It pushed her away, denied her the right to ask him questions. This was why she felt so uneasy about their relationship. There were areas of his life that he would not talk about, and while he locked her out of his most private thoughts how could she really understand him, or feel she really knew him? What sort of man hid himself from someone he had known most of his life?

‘What do you mean…me of all people?’ she asked in pain.

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his temples as if he had a headache. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kit—isn’t it obvious?’

‘I’ve talked to you about Hugh; I don’t keep secrets from you.’

‘Hugh’s alive. Claudia is dead. It wouldn’t be fair to her.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.