The Secret Life of Lady Gabriella
Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to every woman

who ever picked up a duster or fell off a stepladder.

Especially if she fell on the man of her dreams.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

‘LADY MARCH?’

Ellie’s tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. This was such a mistake. She wasn’t a ‘lady’. She shouldn’t be here. She should own up right now…

‘I apologise for keeping you waiting,’ Jennifer Cochrane continued, ‘but there was a crisis at the printers I had to deal with.’

Unable to speak, Ellie attempted an answering smile. Even in her borrowed clothes, hair swirled up in a sophisticated style and wearing more make-up than she’d normally wear in a month, she’d been expecting someone to point a finger at her, shout ‘impostor’ the moment she’d stepped within the hushed portals of the offices of Milady magazine.

She’d never meant to take it this far.

Never expected to get this far.

Wouldn’t be here if the idea of her contributing saleable copy to a magazine aimed directly at ladies who, in between chauffeuring their offspring about in top-of-the-range 4x4s, lunched, gossiped and shopped hadn’t produced such howls of mirth at her writers’ group.

She’d set out to show them—show herself, maybe—that while she might miss the magazine’s target audience by a mile, she was professional enough to write whatever was required.

And she’d done it.

She’d read a dozen or so back copies of the magazine, looked for a gap that she could fill, and ‘Lady Gabriella’s Journal’ had been the result.

Written in the crisp, upper-class style of the magazine, she’d offered the jottings of the ‘perfect’ reader. Highlights in the life of a woman with three children, several well-bred and perfectly behaved dogs, and all the time in the world to devote to interior design, her garden, entertaining and sitting on worthy committees. ‘Lady Gabriella’ was, of course, married to a man with the means to pay for it all.

She’d actually enjoyed writing it, vicariously living a completely different life if only on paper. Having no trouble at all imagining herself the ‘lady of the house’ rather than simply caretaking the place during the owner’s absence.

Then, since she’d done the work, she’d submitted it to the magazine, enclosing some of her doodly drawings as an afterthought—an impression of the gothic turret that adorned one end of the house, the cat sitting in the deep embrasure of an arched window, a toddler (Lady G’s youngest)—expecting a swift thanks-but-no-thanks return in the self-addressed envelope provided for the purpose. She’d had enough of them to know the form. But if you didn’t try, if you didn’t pursue a dream, hunt it down until there was no breath left in your body, let chances slip by, then what was the point?

The letter, addressed to Lady Gabriella March, inviting her for a ‘chat’, should have been enough. She would show it to the writers’ group and take a bow, point proved. Except it wasn’t.

This was a never-to-be-repeated chance to talk to the editor of a famous, if fading, magazine—which was why she was here, in the office of Jennifer Cochrane, a woman of advanced years but formidable character, who had the style, diction and classic wardrobe—including the mandatory double row of pearls—of one of the minor royals. One of the seriously scary ones.

Transformed by her disapproving sister, Stacey, into Lady Gabriella March for the day, it took all her concentration to put down the cup she was holding without spilling the contents over the designer suit that Stacey—another formidable woman—had lent her for the occasion. To then stand up and cross the inches-deep carpet in precariously high heels—also her sister’s—without falling flat on her face.

Having left it too late to cut and run, she had no choice but follow through. Breathe…Concentrate, she told herself. One foot in front of the other, the walk functional rather than flirty. Sedate duchess rather than saucy domestic…

Having managed to negotiate the coffee cup and carpet without disaster, she offered her hand and said, ‘How d’you do, Mrs Cochrane?’

She was convinced she looked, and sounded, exactly like Eliza Doolittle at Ascot—just before she let slip the expletive…

Mrs Cochrane, however, appeared to notice nothing amiss in this performance, and offered her an unexpectedly warm smile, waving her away from the desk towards the more informal sofa.

‘We’re both busy women, Lady March, so I’m not going to waste time. I enjoyed the diary pieces you sent me. And the drawings you used to illustrate them.’

‘Really?’Oh, that wasn’t cool. But she’d never been face to face with an editor before, let alone had a ‘chat’ with one. She tried to restrain the idiotic grin, slow the heart-rate to something more stately. ‘Thank you.’

‘The drawings have a delightful spontaneity, as if you’d just doodled your thoughts.’

‘Oh, I did,’ she exclaimed, then inwardly groaned as Mrs Cochrane smiled. This was definitely not the way to do it…Then, in an effort to recover the situation, ‘I did plan to go to art school…’

Which was true. But common sense ran like a seam of iron ore through her family genes, and she’d seen the value of a good solid degree and a teaching qualification. Something practical that she could use all her life. Would fit around married life, children.

She shrugged—then wondered if a ‘Lady’, one with a capital L, would shrug—and left Mrs Cochrane to draw her own conclusions.

‘Clearly you chose marriage and children instead,’ Mrs Cochrane filled in for her, nodding and smiling with obvious approval. ‘Most young women seem to be leaving it so late these days.’

Fortunately she was looking at the drawings, spread across the low table in front of them, giving Ellie a moment to recover.

She picked one that was no more than a few lines suggesting the upraised bottom, the chubby legs of an infant almost ready to stand up and take her first steps.

‘This is Chloe? Your youngest child?’

Ellie looked at the picture. It was the daughter of one of the women she worked for in her ‘day’ job, drawn from memory without a thought.

How could she have done that?

‘Charming,’ Mrs Cochrane said, without waiting for an answer. Then, ‘I’m going to be frank with you, Lady March—’

‘Gabriella, please.’

‘Gabriella. I’ve been looking for someone who can write a regular lifestyle column for some time. It has been extraordinarily difficult to find a writer capable of finding just the tone our readers appreciate.’

Ellie was not entirely surprised to hear that; no one born since 1950 wrote that way.

‘There was always just a suggestion of the pastiche. A lack of sincerity.’ She smiled. ‘Sincerity is essential.’

‘Absolutely,’ she managed, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. Right now.

‘Of course I’m not interested in the rather dated diary format.’

Which was the sole reason she’d chosen it. And, from a point where she had been praying to whatever saint was supposed to be looking after the interests of neophyte writers to get on with sorting out that hole for her to disappear into, she was suddenly indignant. Why bring her all the way up to London for a ‘chat’ about her work, then tell her that it wasn’t what was wanted?

‘I’m looking for something less formal—something that will appeal to the younger generation of women we need to attract. Your writing has a lively freshness, a touch of irreverence that is quite striking.’

All the things she’d done her absolute best to suppress…‘What I’d like to suggest to you is a regular contribution based on your own experiences of entertaining, household management, the small oddities of family life. Not a diary as such, more a conversation with the reader. A chat over coffee, or lunch with a friend.’

Everything about that sounded perfect—if she ignored the fact that she didn’t have a partner, let alone a husband and the charmingly precocious children she’d invented were an amalgam of those she’d encountered in her ‘day’ job—or at least their mothers’ sadly mistaken assessment of them. As for entertaining, the only effort she put into that was to call out for a pizza.

And what the heck was ‘household management’ when it was at home?

‘My proposal is this. An initial contract for six months at our usual rate, and then, if the readers respond as favourably as I anticipate, we’ll talk again. Does that interest you?’

This, Ellie decided, was about as close to her worst nightmare as it was possible to get. She’d finally got her first breakthrough, her first real recognition as a writer, and it was all based on lies.

She couldn’t do it.

‘I expect you’d like a little time to consider it?’ Mrs Cochrane said, when she didn’t immediately answer.

Could she?

‘Maybe you’d like to talk it over with your husband?’ she pressed.

‘My husband?’To hear the words, spoken so casually, left her momentarily floundering. ‘No,’ she finally managed. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

Sean, wherever he was, would be grinning like an idiot, cheering her on, saying, ‘You show them, Ellie. Take the balloon ride…’

Mrs Cochrane really liked what she’d written. She’d be doing the woman a favour if she said yes. And she’d be getting paid for writing on a regular basis—proof for her parents, her sister, that she wasn’t just chasing some will-o’-the-wisp daydream. She’d have something to show an agent, too. And she’d only be writing under a pseudonym of sorts, after all. People did that all the time.

Actually, maybe she wouldn’t even have to do that…

‘Perhaps,’ she suggested, ‘younger readers would be put off by the title? Maybe I should just write as Gabriella March?’

Please, please, please…

The other woman considered her suggestion for all of ten seconds before she shook her head. ‘Lady Gabriella has a touch of class.’ Then, ‘Is it your husband’s title, or a courtesy one?’

‘A courtesy one,’ she said, seizing on this. If it was just a courtesy title, it wouldn’t mean anything. Except that Mrs Cochrane was looking at her as if she expected more, and Ellie suddenly had the feeling that she’d just made a huge mistake, somehow given the wrong answer. But it was too late now, and having made the mental leap from ‘no way can I do this’ to ‘what’s the problem?’ she tuned out the voice of sanity.

Chances like this were once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, and no one knew better than she did that they had to be grabbed with both hands.

She’d worry about the children and the household management later. There were books. The internet…

As for her ‘husband’…

For a moment Ellie was assailed by such an ache of loneliness, loss. How could she do this…? Pretend…

‘Well, to business,’ Mrs Cochrane said, when it was clear she wasn’t going to add anything on the subject of her ‘title’, and by the time she’d explained the technicalities of a monthly column, the needs of word count, copy dates, etc, Ellie had recovered.

‘We’d like you to send two or three illustrations with each month’s column. Can you manage that?’

Illustrations were the least of her problems. She drew as she breathed—always had done—without even thinking about it.

‘We may not use them all, but it will give the art director a choice. Those will be paid for separately, of course.’

They would?

‘In fact, for your masthead, rather than a photograph of you, I’d like to use this drawing of your house.’

Her house.

That would be one she was house-sitting, for an absent aging academic who was studying some long-lost language in foreign parts.

‘That’s not a problem for you? Clearly you’ll want to keep a measure of privacy?’

‘No,’ she said. A problem would have been if Mrs Cochrane had wanted a photograph of her. That would have blown her cover on day one, and she doubted Mrs Cochrane would be amused to discover that Lady Gabriella, far from being a lady of leisure, was Ellie March, a very hardworking cleaning lady.

Her drawing, on the other hand, was no more than an impression. The turret, a window or two, a terrace. It could be anywhere.

‘I think that’s a great idea.’

‘Well?’ Stacey demanded, when she returned her suit and shoes. ‘What did she want?’

‘To offer me a contract to write a monthly lifestyle column for the magazine.’

Ellie took great satisfaction in watching her clever, successful older sister’s jaw drop.

It didn’t take her long to recover.

‘You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?’ Then, perhaps realising that was a little harsh, ‘I mean, it’s ridiculous. You don’t have a lifestyle. Let’s face it, you don’t even have a life.’

‘True,’ Ellie said, keeping her face straight with the greatest difficulty. ‘But you’re missing the point. I write fiction. I’ll make it up.’

‘Good book?’

A deep, velvety voice penetrated the cold, swirling mists of the Yorkshire Moors, jerking Ellie back into the twenty-first century.

Not an entirely bad thing.

She’d started the afternoon with the intention of giving the study a thorough bottoming. Keeping on top of the dust in the rambling old house she was ‘sitting’ while its owner was away was not onerous, but it did require a schedule or she lost track; today it was the study’s turn. Unfortunately, her attention had been grabbed by the unexpected discovery of a top-shelf cache of gothic romances, and she’d forgotten all about the dust.

But, then again, it was not entirely good, either.

Being startled while perched on top of a ladder was always going be risky. On a library ladder with an inclination to take off on its tracks at the slightest provocation, it was just asking for trouble. And trouble was what Ellie got.

Twice.

Losing her balance six feet above ground was bad enough, but her attempt to recover it proved disastrous as the ladder shifted sideways, taking her feet with it.

Too busy attempting to defy the laws of gravity to yell at the fool who’d caused the problem, she dropped her duster and made a desperate grab for the bookshelf with one hand—while clinging tightly to the precious leather-bound volume she’d been reading in the other.

For a moment, as her fingertips made contact with the shelf, she thought it was going to be all right.

She quickly discovered that she’d been over-optimistic, and that in lunging for the shelf—the laws of physics being what they were—she’d only made things worse.

Her body went one way; her feet went the other.

Fingers and shelf parted company.

Happily—or not, depending upon your point of view—the author of her misfortune took the full force of her fall.

If she’d been the waif-like heroine of one of those top-shelf romances—or indeed of her own growing pile of unpublished manuscripts—Ellie would, at this point, have dropped tidily into his arms and the fool, having taken one look, would have fallen instantly and madly in love with her. Of course there would have to be several hundred pages of misunderstandings and confusion before he finally admitted it, either to himself or to her, since men tended to be a bit dense when it came to romance.

Since this was reality, and she was built on rather more substantial lines than the average heroine of a romance—who wasn’t?—she fell on him like the proverbial ton of bricks, and they went down in a heap of tangled limbs.

And Emily Brontë gave him a cuff round the ear with her leather binding for good measure.

‘Idiot!’ she finally managed. But she was winded by her fall, and the word lacked force. Ellie sucked in some air and tried again. ‘Idiot!’—much better—‘You might have killed me!’ Then, because he’d somehow managed to walk through locked doors into a house she was caretaking—as in ‘taking care of’—she demanded, ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’

Then, as her brain finally caught up with her mouth—and because burglars rarely stopped to exchange must-read titles with their victims—the answer hit her with almost as much force as she’d landed on him with.

There was only one person he could be.

Dr Benedict Faulkner.

The Dr Benedict Faulkner whose house she was sitting.

The Dr Benedict Faulkner who was supposed to be on the other side of the world, up to his eyes in ancient tribal split infinitives.

The Dr Benedict Faulkner who wasn’t due back for another nine months.

Now she had time for a closer look, it was obvious that he was an older incarnation of the lovely youth in a faded black and white photograph on the piano in the drawing room. The one she always gave an extra rub with the duster.

Older, but definitely not ‘aging’.

She’d somehow got this picture of him wearing tweeds and glasses, with the stooped and withered shoulders of someone whose life was spent poring over ancient manuscripts.

Not so.

It would seem that he had been either a very late surprise for his mother, or the offspring of a second, younger wife—because while he was wearing a tweed jacket, that was as far as the cliché went.

The man lying beneath her, it had to be said, could have stepped right out of the pages of one of her own romances. The ones that her own sister insisted on referring to as ‘fairy tales for grown-ups’.

She was being condescending—a little unkind, even. Stacey, a high-flying corporate lawyer, was so utterly practical and businesslike that it sometimes seemed impossible that they could be sisters—but Ellie was delighted with the description. Only dull, unimaginative people grew out of fairy tales. Didn’t they?

And falling on a man of such hero potential was pure fairy tale—although surely in the fairy tales it didn’t hurt quite so much?

Whatever.

Opportunities like this didn’t come her way often—make that never—which was why she should be making the most of it. Purely for research purposes. But typically, instead of lying dazed in his arms, her cheek pressed firmly against his accommodating chest, listening to his heart skip a beat as he appreciated the colour of her hair, the softness of her ivory skin, the subtle scent of the lavender furniture polish with which she’d been tending his furniture, she’d berated him like a fishwife.

She groaned and let her head sink back to his chest while she recovered her breath along with her wits.

This was no time to let her wits go wandering. It was a disaster! If he was home, he wouldn’t need her to house-sit; she wouldn’t have anywhere to live.

Worse.

She wouldn’t have his house to fire her imagination on a monthly basis for Milady.

Then, realising somewhat belatedly that he hadn’t responded to her less than ladylike reaction, or to her demand for identification, she took a closer look at him—no point pretending to swoon; even if he’d been conscious she’d completely messed up the fainting-violet moment—and the swirling confusion of thoughts and impressions coalesced into a single feeling.

Concern.

‘Dr Faulkner? Are you okay?’

He didn’t look okay.

His eyes were closed and he looked somewhat yellow. As if his colour had drained away under a light tan.

She knew she hadn’t killed him. Under her hand—which had somehow found its way inside his jacket, to lie flat against his chest—his heartbeat was as steady as a rock. It was, however, entirely possible that she, or more likely Emily’s solid leather-bound spine, had knocked him out cold.

‘Dr Faulkner?’

His mouth moved, which was encouraging, but no sound emerged. Which was not.

Fully prepared, despite her own close call—and a growing awareness of pain in various bits of her body—to leap heroically into Florence Nightingale mode, Ellie lifted her head to take a better look.

‘Where does it hurt?’

His response was little more than a grunt.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.’

‘I said,’ he repeated, eyes still closed, teeth tightly gritted, ‘that you don’t want to know.’

She frowned.

‘Just move your damned knee…’

‘What?’ Ellie leaned back, provoking a very audible gasp of pain. Belatedly realising exactly where her knee was lodged, she swiftly lifted herself clear, provoking another grunt as she levered herself up off his chest with her hands. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘But it was that or the…’ She managed to stop her runaway mouth before it reminded him about the knee.

Obviously at this point any fictional heroine worth her salt would have picked up her injured hero’s hand and held it clasped against her bosom as she stroked back the lick of dark honey-coloured hair that had tumbled over his high brow. Or maybe administered the kiss of life…

Confronted by reality, Ellie didn’t need telling that none of the above would be either appropriate or welcome, and so she confined herself to a brisk, ‘Is there anything I can do?’

The second the words were out of her mouth she regretted them, but Dr Faulkner manfully resisted the opportunity to invite her to kiss it better. Or maybe it was just that he needed all his breath to ease himself into a sitting position. He certainly took his time about it, as if fearing that any injudicious move might prove fatal.

She watched him, ready to leap to his aid should the need arise. It wasn’t exactly a strain. Looking at him.

He was—local damage excepted—far from doddery. Or old. On the contrary, Dr Benedict Faulkner’s thick, shaggy sun-streaked hair didn’t have a single grey hair, and she was prepared to bet that under normal circumstances his pared-to-the-bone features lacked the library pallor of the dedicated academic. As for the exquisitely cut fine tweed jacket he was wearing—and it did look very fine indeed, over a T-shirt and jeans worn soft with use that clung like a second skin to his thighs—it was moulded to a pair of shoulders that would not have been out of place in a rugby scrum, or stroking an oar in the university eight.

And, to go with the great hair and the great body, Dr Faulkner possessed a pair of spectacularly heroic blue eyes. Ellie—again from a purely professional stand-point—considered appropriate adjectives. Periwinkle? No, too girly. Cerulean? Oh, please…Flax? Not bad. Flax had a solid, masculine ring to it—but was it the right blue…?

‘What about you?’Dr Faulkner asked, breaking into her thoughts.

‘What about me?’ Ellie responded, as for the second time that day she was yanked back to reality.

‘Who the hell are you?’

So, he hadn’t been unconscious, then. Just in too much pain to move.

‘I’m Gabriella March. I work for your sister. Adele,’ she added. Who knew what damage she’d done? ‘She asked me to house-sit for you while she was away, since she wouldn’t be around to take care of things.’

‘House-sit? How long for?’

‘Twelve months.’

He responded with a word that suggested he was not noticeably impressed by his sibling’s thoughtfulness.

‘She expected you to be away for that long.’ Then, in case he took that as a criticism, ‘I’m sure you had a good reason for coming back early.’

‘Will a civil war suffice?’ Then, ‘If she’s away, why didn’t she ask you to house-sit for her?’

‘Oh, Adele let her flat. Those new places down on the Quay are snapped up by companies looking for accommodation for senior staff moving into the area. They’re so convenient…’ Then, because he didn’t look especially impressed by the inevitable comparison with his own inconveniently rambling house, she said, ‘Since she wouldn’t be around to keep an eye on this place and I was having landlord trouble, we did each other a favour.’

‘Are you one of her research students?’

‘What? Oh, no. I’m her cleaner. And yours, actually,’ she said. ‘At least I was before I moved in. It’s part of the deal now I’m living here. Adele is saving you money.’

‘What happened to Mrs Turner?’ he asked, apparently not impressed with the fiscal argument.

‘Nothing. At least, quite a lot—but nothing bad. She won the Lottery and decided that it was definitely going to change her life.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, good for her.’

Could the man be any more restrained?

‘Did you hurt yourself?’ he asked.

Hurt herself? Was he suffering from a memory lapse? Partial amnesia, perhaps? She had done nothing. The accident had been entirely his fault…

‘When you fell,’ he persisted, presumably in case she was too dim to understand. Not that he appeared to care very much. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t bring herself to blame him.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Maybe you should check?’ he advised.

‘Good idea.’ Ellie hauled herself to her feet and discovered that her left knee did hurt quite a bit as she turned. She decided not to mention it. ‘How about you?’

Dr Faulkner winced a bit, too, as he finally made it to his feet, and she instinctively put out her hand to help him.

He didn’t exactly flinch, but it was a close-run thing, and she made a performance of testing her own limbs, flexing a wrist as if she hadn’t noticed the way he’d recoiled from her touch.

‘Maybe you should take a trip to Casualty?’ she suggested. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Then, ‘So where is she? Adele.’

He sounded as if he might have a word or two to say to his sister about inviting someone he didn’t know to move into his house.

‘She’s bug-hunting. In Sarawak. Or was it Senegal? Or it could have been Sumatra…’ She shrugged. ‘Geography is not my strong point.’

‘Bug-hunting?’

Probably not quite precise enough for a philologist, Ellie thought, and, with a little shiver that she couldn’t quite contain, said, ‘She’s hunting for bugs.’ Which was quite enough discussion about that subject. ‘She’s away for six months.’ She made a gesture that took in their surroundings. ‘She wanted me to make the place look lived in. As a security measure,’ she added. ‘Turning lights on. Keeping the lawn cut. That sort of thing.’

‘And in return you get free accommodation?’

‘That’s a good deal. Most house-sitters expect not only to be paid, but provided with living expenses, too,’ she assured him, while trying out her legs to make sure they were in full working order, since she was going to need them later. The one with the twinge suggested that the evening was not going to be much fun. ‘And they don’t throw in cleaning for free.’

‘No, I’m sure they don’t.’ Then, having watched her gyrations and clearly come to the conclusion that she was a lunatic, ‘Will you live to dust another shelf, do you think?’

‘I appear to be in one piece,’ she told him, then gave another little shiver—and this time not because she was thinking of Adele Faulkner and her beloved bugs, or even because she was hoping to gain his sympathy, but at the realisation of how lightly she’d got off. How lightly they’d both got off. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing, creeping up on me like that?’ she demanded.

‘Creeping up on you? Madam, you were so wrapped up in the book you were reading I swear a herd of elephants could have stampeded unnoticed beneath you.’

Madam? Madam?

He bent and picked it up, holding it at a little distance, narrowing his eyes as he peered at the spine to see for himself what had held her in such thrall. ‘Wuthering Heights?’

His tone was as withering as any east wind blasting the Yorkshire Moors. Not content with practically killing her, he apparently felt entitled to criticise her taste in literature.

‘You can read?’ she enquired.

Ellie, rapidly tiring of his attitude, had aimed for polite incredulity. She’d clearly hit the bullseye—with the incredulity, if not the politeness—and as he turned his blue eyes on her she rapidly rethought the colour range.

Steel. Slate…

‘If someone helps me with the long words,’ he assured her, after the longest pause during which her knee, the good one, buckled slightly.

Then, realising what he’d said, it occurred to her that, despite all evidence to the contrary, he possessed a sense of humour, and she waited for the follow-up smile, fully prepared to forgive him and return it with interest, given the slightest encouragement. She wasn’t a woman to hold a grudge.

‘But I only bother if there’s some point to the exercise.’

No smile.

He patted his top pocket. ‘Did you notice what happened to my glasses?’he asked, handing her the book.

Ellie was sorely tempted to use it to biff him up the other side of his head, tell him to find his own damn glasses and leave him to it. But she liked living in this house. Actually, no. She loved living in this house. Especially when the owner was a long way away, out of the country, doing whatever it was that philologists did on research assignments.

There was something special about buffing up the oak handrail on banisters that had been polished by generations of hands. Cleaning a butler’s sink installed not as part of some trendy restoration project but when the house was new, wondering about all the poor women who’d stood in the same spot, up to their elbows in washing soda for a few shillings a week. Sleeping in the little round tower that some upwardly mobile Victorian merchant with delusions of grandeur had added to lend his house a touch of the stately homes.

What a pity Dr Faulkner hadn’t stayed wherever he’d been. Because, while his sister had been totally happy with the mutual benefits the arrangement offered, it was obvious that he was not exactly thrilled to be lumbered with a health hazard living under his feet. Or falling on top of him.

Maybe—please—he was on a flying visit. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Maybe—more likely—he wasn’t, and since the deal had been done on a handshake she didn’t have a contract, or a lease, or anything other than Adele’s word to save her from being thrown onto the street at a moment’s notice.

Belatedly, she held her tongue. And because it was easier—and probably wiser—than attempting to stare him down, she looked around for his glasses, spotting them beneath a library table stacked with academic journals.

They were the kind of ultra-modern spectacles that had no frame, just a few rivets through the lenses to hold them together, and as she scooped them up they fell to bits in her hand.

CHAPTER TWO

BENEDICT FAULKNER said nothing, but instead opened a drawer, extracted an identical pair and tossed them onto his desk.

Were broad shoulders and blue eyes enough? Ellie wondered. Could a man be a true hero if he didn’t possess a sense of humour?

It didn’t look good but, prepared to be fair—Emily B was not, after all, everyone’s cup of tea—she dropped the remains of his spectacles into her apron pocket and, bending over backwards to give him the benefit of the doubt, said, ‘I realize that Emily Brontë is not everyone’s cup of tea.’

‘Heathcliff,’he assured her, confirming this, ‘is psychotic, and Catherine Earnshaw is dimmer than a low energy lightbulb.’

A little harsh, she thought. But, rather than argue with him, she said, ‘But the passion? What about the passion?’

‘He’s psychotically passionate and she’s passionately dim?’ he offered.

Realising that this was a conversation going nowhere, she didn’t bother to answer but turned her attention to the book itself, and in a belated attempt to prove herself a trustworthy and useful addition to his household said, ‘This is a fine early edition, Dr Faulkner. It could be quite valuable.’

He glanced up at the shelf she was supposed to have been dusting, then shrugged.

‘It probably belonged to my great-grandmother.’ He offered no hint as to whether he thought that would make it a treasured possession, or thought as little of his great-grandmother’s taste as he did of hers. ‘The one who ran away with a penniless poet.’

It was odd. While he kept saying things that were certainly meant to crush her, Ellie found herself not only not crushed, but positively stimulated.

‘Like Elizabeth Barrett?’ she enquired. After all, if his great-grandmother had run away from a comfortable home, she’d probably had very good reason. A husband who didn’t have sense of humour, perhaps?

‘Was Robert Browning penniless?’

‘Would it have mattered?’

‘What do you think?’

Oh. Right. He was a cynic.

‘I think that, judging by the depth of dust up there, your great-grandmother was probably the last person to take a duster to the top shelf.’

To prove her point, she opened the book and then banged it shut, producing a small cloud of the stuff. The choking fit was not intentional, but it did go a long way to proving her point.

Dr Faulkner made no move to ease her plight—none of that back-slapping, or rushing for a glass of water nonsense for him. On the contrary, he kept a safe distance, waiting until she’d recovered, before he picked up the duster she’d dropped as she’d vainly sought to save herself and offered it to her.

Ellie used it to give the leather binding a careful wipe.

‘Books,’ she assured him, having clearly demonstrated the necessity, ‘should be dusted at least once a year.’

‘Oh? Is that what you were doing?’

Did his face warm just a little? Not with anything as definite as a smile, but surely there was the slightest shifting of the facial muscles?

‘Dusting?’ he added.

No, not warmth. Just sarcasm. He was a sarcastic cynic.

Without a sense of humour.

Fortunately, before she could say something guaranteed to leave her with a huge empty space where the roof over her head was meant to be, the clock on the mantelpiece began to chime the half-hour, and, genuinely surprised, she exclaimed, ‘Good grief! Is that right?’ She looked at her own wristwatch and saw that it was it fact ten minutes slow. ‘I lose all sense of time when I’m dusting a good book.’

‘Perhaps you should save your energies for something less distracting?’

‘No, it’s okay. I’m prepared to suffer,’ she assured him, wheeling the steps back into place. She didn’t actually feel much like climbing them, but she’d have to do it sooner or later, and it was a bit like falling off a horse—best to get straight back on. Or so she’d heard. ‘I hate to leave a job half done.’

‘Very commendable, but I’d be grateful if you’d save it for another day. I have calls to make.’

Ellie ignored him. She wasn’t about to scuttle off like one of his students put in her place. She’d been there, done that—although not, admittedly, with any lecturer who looked like Benedict Faulkner—and got the degree to prove it. Instead she concentrated on finishing what she’d started.

‘Are you going to be much longer, Miss March?’ he asked, as she worked her way along the shelf.

And that was a way of keeping his distance, too. Whoever called anyone under the age of fifty ‘Miss’ any more? Although, given the choice, she preferred it to ‘madam’.

‘My name is Gabriella,’ she reminded him. Her way of keeping her distance. All her friends, employers, called her Ellie. Gabriella was a special occasion name. Gabriella March was going to look very special embossed in gold on the cover of her first book. Then, having descended the ladder—this time in the conventional manner, one step at a time—she added, ‘And it’s Mrs. Mrs Gabriella March.’

He removed his spectacles and turned to face her. Now she had his attention. ‘Mrs? There are two of you?’

She stiffened. ‘No. Just me. If you find all that too difficult to remember, maybe you’d find Ellie easier.’

She could do sarcasm.

‘Ellie?’

‘There—that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

Unsurprisingly, he did not respond with an invitation to call him Ben, and she found herself wishing she’d left it at ‘Ellie’.

‘I’ll, um, leave you in peace, then. If there’s nothing else I can do for you?’

His look suggested that she had done more than enough, but he restricted his response to, ‘Nothing. Thank you…Ellie.’

She could tell that he’d had to force himself to use her name. Just what was his problem? It wasn’t as if she’d flirted outrageously with him. Good looking he might be, give or take a sense of humour, but she wasn’t about to throw herself at him. Not intentionally, anyway. Not if she wanted to continue to ‘live-in’—and it was quite possible that this was just a flying visit.

‘Help yourself to whatever you like from the fridge,’ she said. ‘Milk. Eggs…’ Then, when that didn’t elicit a grateful response—or any response at all…‘Right. Well, I’ll see you later, perhaps.’

Dr Benedict Faulkner easily managed to contain his excitement at the possibility.

Ellie forced herself to ignore the shabby rucksack that had been dumped in the kitchen. It was probably full of dirty washing, and her fingers twitched to get it into the washing machine, but she restrained herself.

Instead she wiped a smudge from the wooden drainer, rearranged a jug full of garden flowers she’d put on the windowsill, straightened a row of old boots in the mud room. She always found it hard to drag herself away from this house. It felt lonely, as if it needed her.

Which was plainly ridiculous.

What it needed, she thought, was a couple who would love it and cherish it and fill it with children. A proper family to bring life to silent rooms, children to play Chopsticks on the piano, build dens in the overgrown garden. A woman with time and love to lavish on it and turn it into a home. Someone like Lady Gabriella and the imaginary family with which she’d populated it during the last few months. Eight-year-old Oliver, six-year-old Sasha, little Chloe. And a shadowy masculine figure who was not the man she’d loved, married, lost—this was not his place—but someone utterly different, a man who, until now, she’d managed to avoid bringing into focus…

Enough. Time to go. She picked up her backpack, then paused to guiltily dead-head the bedraggled pansies in a dreary stone trough by the kitchen door—something else that looked as if the last person who’d taken any notice of it was Dr Faulkner’s great-grandmother.

Ben Faulkner stood at the arched gothic window of his study and watched as Ellie March struggled to mount a vintage sit-up-and-beg bike of the kind that his great-grandmother had probably ridden. The flighty one who’d read romantic fiction and caused a scandal.

If she’d been around today, he thought, she’d probably be wearing hip-hugging jeans, a cropped T-shirt and have a gold ring in her navel, too. Ellie March was not only a danger to any man who made the mistake of getting too close to the ladder she was perched on, but dressed like that she was a serious traffic hazard.

He closed his eyes, reliving the moment when he’d opened the study door and seen her whiling away the working day with her head in a book. It was as if time had somehow slipped back.

He shook his head at the stupidity of it.

Natasha had possessed an ethereal pale gold Nordic beauty that the more substantial, earthier Ellie March could never aspire to.

And Tasha would not have been wasting her time reading a nineteenth-century gothic romance, but Yevtushenko, or Turgenev. In Russian.

Yet, even while he’d known it was just an illusion, he’d still been drawn in. Like a moth to a flame.

Why couldn’t his sister just mind her own business? What arrangement had she tied him into? Whatever it was, he’d have to give the woman reasonable notice, time to find somewhere else.

It could take weeks, he thought, flexing his shoulder, easing the muscle he’d pulled as she’d felled him, then lain there, as warm and soft a handful of womanhood as any man could wish for, her hand against his heart, her hair brushing against his cheek, her scent tugging at buried memories.

He’d kept his eyes closed then, in a vain attempt to keep them from surfacing. He kept them closed now, hoping to claw them back, hold the moment.

Stupid, stupid…

And yet there was a warmth in Ellie’s soft brown eyes that sparked and flared and stirred at something he’d thought long dead inside him. Something that he did not want resurrected.

Forcing himself to confront the reality, rather than some fantasy brought on by jet lag, he watched as she tried to scoot the bike into motion. She seemed to be having trouble, and as soon as she put all her weight on her leg she pulled up short, letting the bike fall. Then she aimed a heartfelt kick at it.

The kick was a mistake.

He was right, he decided, heading for the door. He should have turned around and walked away while he’d had the chance.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’d hurt your knee when you fell?’

Ellie had seen Dr Faulkner striding towards her on those long, fine legs, and her pain had been overridden by a flutter of pleasure that, had she had time to analyse it, would have brought a blush to her cheek. As soon as he opened his mouth, however, it was clear that he was no knight in armour riding to her rescue.

She lifted her shoulders a millimetre or two.

Okay, so she was no Guinevere, but even so a little sympathy would have been welcome, instead of the undiluted irritation that appeared to be his standard response to her.

What was his problem?

She hadn’t gone out of her way to get under his feet. On the contrary, he was the one who’d got under hers. He was the one who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, not her.

‘My mother taught me that discretion was the better part of valour,’ she said. ‘It seemed like an excellent moment to put her advice to good use.’

‘It might have been more useful if she’d warned you about the dangers of daydreaming at the top of ladders,’ he replied.

Ellie watched as he picked up the bike and propped it against the wall, out of harm’s way.

Hello! I’m here! Crumpled up on the driveway in agony—well, maybe agony was pushing it a bit, but still, it’s me you’re supposed to be picking up and—

Maybe not.

Having dealt with the bike, he turned to her.

‘Can you stand?’ he asked.

‘I’m going to have to, unless I plan on staying here all evening.’

She could do ‘you’re a dumb idiot’ responses, too.

Then, as she finally made a move, he said, ‘Wait!’ She looked up at him.

‘For what? Christmas?’

By way of reply, he offered her his hands.

Better. Especially as they were the kind of hands a romantic novelist expected of her hero. Broad palms. Long fingers. Wide thumb-tips. Not smooth, soft, like most academics, but callused, scarred with small cuts and abrasions. Dull red marks that looked as if they might have been burns.

It seemed almost wanton to place her own against them, but it was a gesture, one it would be rude to ignore, and she grasped them. He pulled her to her feet without making it look as if he was hauling a sack of coal from a cellar, making her feel for just a moment like some fragile heroine.

It was only the words that came out of his mouth that persistently spoiled the image.

‘How is it?’ he asked, finally getting even that bit right. ‘Your leg?’

‘Fine,’ she said, feeling no pain. Then, realising that she was staring up at him instead of testing her knee, she quickly said, ‘Thank you.’ And let go.

For a moment she thought it was going to be all right, but then she made the mistake of twisting around to get at her backpack, and gasped as pain shot through the joint.

‘That fine?’ he said, catching her elbow, taking her weight as the knee buckled.

‘Tricky things, knees,’ she said, catching her breath. It was the knee, not the man. She did not fancy him. She was not that shallow. She had standards, and they included kindness above sun-kissed hair and cheekbones that could slice cheese. ‘Great in a straight line, not so good for cornering. But it’ll be okay.’

‘Of course it will.’

Now, that, she decided, really was sarcasm.

‘Where were you going?’ he asked.

‘What? Oh, to the Assembly Rooms in the city centre. There’s a reception for the Chamber of Commerce.’

‘You’re a member of the Chamber of Commerce?’

She stared at him. Was he kidding? It was impossible to tell from his expression. ‘No,’ she replied, taking no chances. ‘I’m attending the reception in a professional capacity.’ Then, in the face of his blank expression, ‘I’m on waitress duty,’ she explained. ‘Drinks, canapés…’

‘Right.’ Those blue eyes swept over her in a thoughtful look. ‘The dress code, if you don’t mind me saying so, seems a little casual. What happened to the little black dress and white apron?’

‘For your information, Dr Faulkner, they’re in my backpack.’ Well, the modern equivalent, anyway. Black trousers and black shirt. ‘Along with the black stockings and suspenders,’ she added, tossing caution to the winds. There was only so much sarcasm a girl could take with a smile. ‘The police have forbidden me from wearing them when I’m riding a bike,’ she added, just to demonstrate that sarcasm was not a male preserve. ‘Speaking of which…’ she shrugged off her backpack and extracted her cellphone ‘…I’d better call a cab.’

‘What?’ It was the second time she’d managed to grab his full attention. She was beginning to enjoy it. ‘You can’t seriously be planning to spend the evening on your feet? Surely they can find a replacement?’

‘I am the replacement,’ she informed him, as she scrolled through her fast-dial numbers. Waitressing at receptions was absolutely her least favourite job—including cleaning ovens. ‘And I can’t let Sue down.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Who is Sue?’

‘My best friend since playgroup, despite the fact that we’re total opposites…’ She found the number she was looking for and hit ‘dial’. ‘Which is why she’s the one running Busy Bees, while I’m the one she’s paying to smile and waft around gracefully with trays of drinks and canapés.’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Well, maybe wafting gracefully will be a stretch,’ she admitted. Then, ‘Damn, it’s engaged.’

As she hit ‘redial’, he said, ‘Leave it!’ And, in case she had any plans to ignore him, he wrapped those long and very strong fingers around both hand and phone, so that she could do nothing but blink.

How dared he?

She looked at his hand. Then at him.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

‘Stopping you from behaving like an idiot.’

That would cover it, she thought. However, since it was the only option open to her, she said, ‘I appreciate your concern, and if I had any choice I can assure you I wouldn’t be doing this.’ Then, when he didn’t seem convinced, ‘Truly. I had something much more interesting planned for tonight.’

For just a moment she thought he was going to ask her what, but he apparently thought better of it and instead said, ‘Very well, if you insist on going then I have no choice but to drive you there myself.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Oh, yes, Mrs March, I do.’

‘Ellie, please.’ Maybe she’d misjudged him…

‘But not before you’ve got some strapping on your knee.’

‘There’s no time for that. I’ll sort it out when I get there,’ she assured him, lying through her teeth. ‘A lift is more than enough—’

‘I’ll do it now,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll take you to the local hospital and let them do it.’ He didn’t wait for her to choose, which suggested he was a fast learner, but put his arm around her waist. It must have been shock that stilled the ‘get lost; I’ll take a cab’ retort that flew to her lips, and made redundant his follow-up, ‘How will you beat off burglars and mow the lawn if you’re laid up with a crook knee?’

Pressed against the soft weave of his jacket, his arm supporting her, she felt the words still in her throat. This, she decided, must be what being swept off your feet must feel like.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is ridiculous.’

‘I agree. You should be lying down with a cold compress on your leg. Maybe if I tempted you with something from my extensive library of gothic novels you might think again?’

He could tempt her, full-stop, she thought, shocking herself, as she looked up at him. Despite the sense of humour shortfall and the high-level bossiness. She must be a lot shallower than she thought. For once, however, she managed to keep her thoughts to herself; maybe discretion, once admitted, seeped into the mind and took over.

‘Any other time.’ She sounded breathless. Totally pathetic…

‘It’s a one-time offer,’he said. Then, reluctantly, ‘Oh, well, it’s your knee—’

‘Right.’ She swallowed, gathered herself. ‘So leave me to worry about it. Let’s go.’

‘The accident, however, was partially my fault—’

‘Partially?’

He shrugged. She felt the movement, rather than saw it. ‘All right, I’ll take full responsibility. But I don’t suppose kicking your bike improved matters.’

Oh…rhubarb-and-custard! But of course he’d seen her childish outburst, or he wouldn’t be standing here now, with his arm around her waist.

‘And as your employer, however unwittingly…’ make that ‘unwillingly’ she thought ‘…at the moment of impact, I’m going to have to insist on some rudimentary precautions. Just in case you’re unable to work for weeks and decide to sue me.’

‘Now who’s being ridiculous?’ There went the discretion, she thought, as he gave her a look that suggested it wasn’t him. ‘Really! I like living here.’ More importantly, ‘Lady Gabriella’ lived here; in fact she was doing a brilliant job of fixing the place up, if only on paper. Even she wasn’t mad enough to re-gild frames, actually plant the herb garden she’d planned, or paint the sagging summerhouse—another coat of paint would probably bring it tumbling down. ‘I love living in that ridiculous little turret.’

‘You do?’

He could have tried harder to disguise his regret.

‘I do.’ The house inspired her. ‘Why would I do anything to put that at risk?’ Then, in a moment of inspiration, ‘Besides, Adele is my employer, not you.’

‘Since I own the house, that’s debatable.’

‘I know nothing about that. My agreement is with her, so I couldn’t sue you, could I?’ His eyes narrowed, and it occurred to her that she might have accidentally hit on the perfect delaying tactic. ‘Maybe you should talk to her about it?’ she suggested.

‘I will.’

You can try, she thought. One of the reasons his sister had wanted someone responsible in the house was because she didn’t want to be bothered with long distance emergencies such as frozen pipes, or squatters, or tiles blowing off in a gale.

Didn’t want to be bothered full-stop. In fact she’d made it perfectly clear that she thought her brother should sell the place and buy something modern and easily run, like her.

Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that she’d imagined Dr Faulkner as some half-witted old bloke, lost in his books.

‘Look,’ she said, checking her watch, because it was so hard to think when she was looking at him, ‘if we don’t make a move right now, I’m going to be late.’

‘Then the sooner you stop arguing,’he said, ‘the better.’

With his arm about her waist she was very up-close-and-personal indeed, and his eyes warned her that she was testing his patience.

‘Who’s arguing?’ she asked. Not that he’d bothered to wait for her to humour him. Instead, with one arm he lifted her clear off the ground so that, dangling at his side, her only option was to fling her own arms around his neck and hang on as he carried her through the front door, down the hall and into the kitchen.

Maybe ‘swept off her feet’ was an exaggeration, but if he had done that it would have been hideously embarrassing. Far too reminiscent of being carried over the threshold.

Besides, it was a terrific neck.

Strong, with smooth skin and a soft mane of silky hair that brushed against her bare arm. He smelt good, too. Nothing fancy, just a tweedy, leathery, totally male smell. There was no doubt about it, the man was solid hero material. He just needed to lighten up, smile once in a while.

He lowered her onto a hard kitchen chair, held her there for a moment, presumably concerned that she might spring to her feet and make a bid for freedom.

He didn’t just have amazingly blue eyes, she realised, but seriously wonderful eyelashes, too.

‘First-aid kit?’ he prompted.

‘Umm?’ Then blushed furiously as she realised that it wasn’t him hanging on to her. On the contrary, she was the one with her arms still around his neck, clinging on like a limpet. ‘Oh. It’s under the sink,’ she said, using one of her arms to wave in that direction. ‘A red box with a white cross…’

She managed to keep her mouth tightly closed as he sorted through the contents, found a crêpe bandage. Watched curiously, but still in silence, as he fetched a bottle of water from the fridge, filled a bowl with it. Then he dropped in the bandage.

Oh, no…

‘You’re not coming near me with that!’

‘No?’ He poked at the bandage to make sure it was thoroughly soaked in the icy water, then glanced at her. ‘I thought you liked living here.’

She shouldn’t have told him that, she realised belatedly. Knowledge was power. If he knew how important it really was he could use it to make her do anything.

Okay, not anything…

Although, actually, if he smiled…

‘Can you get out of those jeans without help?’he asked.

What?

‘Or would you prefer me to cut up the leg?’ He held up a small pair of scissors and snipped graphically at the air with them.

‘Your choice,’ he prompted.

‘No!’It wasn’t just the fact that they were her favourite jeans that made her capitulate. Annoying as it was to have to admit it, she knew he was right. She’d never last five minutes in the scrum of a Chamber of Commerce reception without some kind of strapping on her knee. She wouldn’t be doing it at all if Sue hadn’t been desperate. It was her Writers’ Circle night, and she was going to miss the first half of the meeting.

‘Give me a minute,’ she said, snapping open the button at the waist, pausing for him to turn around, give her a little privacy in which to wriggle them over her bottom.

He just waited for her to get on with it, and maybe she was being unnecessarily coy. Once they were off, they were off…Her legs would be bare and, since she was wearing a crop top, her knickers were going to be on show.

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved that she’d opted for comfortable, sensible white knickers, or sorry that she wasn’t wearing her barely there special occasion scarlet thong that might just have brought a blush to his cheeks and made him regret being quite so bossy.

She let her jeans crumple in a heap around her feet, but she didn’t dare kick them away and risk doing any more damage.

Apparently unmoved by the sight of her naked limbs, he eased them over her feet, tossed them over a nearby chair, and then lifted her injured leg, propping her foot against his leg while he prodded her knee, all the time watching her face to see if she flinched. But, given sufficient time to compose herself, she could keep a straight face, too. She needed it when, apparently satisfied that there was no serious damage, he used the icy bandage to bind her knee with deft efficiency.

It seemed that the shoulders weren’t just for show; he strapped up her leg with the skill of a man who knew all the moves.

‘How does it feel?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. It’s numb with cold.’

‘An hour from now you’ll be wishing it was still that way. Can you walk on it?’

She gripped his hand, hauled herself up, took a stiff-legged step. ‘It would seem so. Good job, Doc.’

The look he gave her suggested that he did not appreciate the ‘Doc’, but he let it go. ‘It’ll help, although you’ll probably find “wafting” rather difficult.’ He picked up her jeans, offered them to her. ‘I’ll bring the car to the door while you struggle back into these.’

Ellie abandoned the jeans; since she wasn’t cycling, she might as well save time by changing now. She stripped off the little crop top to reveal her favourite white lace push-’em-up bra. Such a pity it was her knee she’d strained; she’d have liked to see how straight a face Dr Faulkner could have kept with her ‘wench’ boobs in his face as he’d strapped her shoulder…

Grinning idiotically at the thought, she hauled her black waitressing trousers and shirt from her backpack. It was only when she was all buttoned up and ready to go that she turned—very carefully—and saw Benedict Faulkner standing in the doorway. She’d assumed he’d wait in the car for her.

Just how long had he been standing there?

‘You were lying about the stockings and suspenders, then?’ he said, his face straighter than a ruler.

‘I charge extra for them,’ she said, walking stiff-leggedly to the door, ‘and the Chamber of Commerce is cheap…’ She stifled a gasp. ‘I was expecting Adele’s Morris Minor,’ she said. It had been tucked up during her absence, in her brother’s garage. Unlike this stunningly beautiful vintage sports car. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘I left it with a colleague while I was away.’

‘Someone you trust, obviously?’ she said as, unable to bend one leg, she was reduced to flopping backwards into the low seat, then lifting her stiff leg into the car.

‘Obviously.’

‘The fact that you took the time to reclaim it suggests you’re going to be around for a while.’

‘I stayed with her for a couple of days while I caught up on sleep,’he said. ‘But you’re right. I won’t be going anywhere in the next week or two.’

Her.

She had oddly mixed feelings about that. She concentrated on the ‘oh bother’ variety, and spent the regrettably short ride into the city dwelling miserably on the horrors of flat-hunting.

‘What time shall I pick you up?’ he asked, as he pulled up in front of the Assembly Rooms.

‘What? Oh, there’s no need for that,’ she said, opening the door, then belatedly realising that, while flopping backwards had worked to get into the car, she was going to need rather more help getting out. ‘I’m going on to a meeting next door,’ she said, as he climbed out, walked around the car. ‘At the library. I’m sure someone will give me a lift home.’

Having offered her a hand, he made no immediate move to help her out. Instead he said, ‘How sure?’

Actually, very sure, but with his hand wrapped around hers she seemed to have trouble in breathing.

Taking her hesitation as not-very-sure-at-all, he repeated the question. ‘What time shall I pick you up from the library?’

‘We, um, usually go down the pub afterwards,’ she managed.

‘Your life is one social whirl, Ellie.’

‘What can I say?’

‘If you’re ever going to get out of this car, I’d suggest you tell me what time I should pick you up at the library.’

She was torn between fury at his dictatorial manner and a certain undeniable pleasure at the idea of being collected from the meeting by a dishy man in a seriously good-looking car.

Besides, he was right. She was entirely at his mercy. If he didn’t help her out of the car she’d be stuck there with him all evening. Or, more accurately, he’d be stuck with her.

Oh, the temptation…

Dismissing the idea as unworthy—and because she was already late—she said, ‘Okay, Doc, you win.’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Just…Ben.’

‘Ben. Nine, then. At the library.’

Satisfied, he eased her from the car and saw her safely up the steps and inside the Assembly Rooms. It was only then that she allowed herself a self-satisfied little grin. First objective achieved. He’d asked her to call him Ben.

Her next target was a smile. Entirely for his own good, naturally…

CHAPTER THREE

ELLIE’S pleasure was short-lived. The reception was noisy, crowded, and went on well beyond eight. By the time she’d helped clear up and got to the library it was nearly nine, and most of the members had already decamped to the pub.

Diana Sutton, the group’s secretary, who was already locking up, was sympathetic. ‘Bad luck. Never mind, come and have a drink. We’re celebrating. Gary’s sold a short story and Lucy’s sold an article to Women’s World. The one she wrote when we did that magazine exercise.’

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.