A Real Engagement
Marjorie Lewty
Two halves of a whole…Inheriting a house in the south of France was a wonderful surprise for Josie. After the loss of her mother, some time in the sun was just what she needed. But the other half of the villa belonged to architect Leon Kent–who firmly believed he had bought both halves!It seemed he had a temporary solution and, before Josie knew it, she was playing the part of his fiancée. The trouble was, the more she got to know Leon, the longer she wore his ring, the more she wished the engagement was for real….
About the Author (#uba73f42d-e308-512b-9ce0-ccccc86b783b)Title Page (#ucf17361b-ddfe-5995-8723-52d5ccce7152)PROLOGUE (#u9ee9cfe8-e8de-5390-b335-d74499d6ff46)CHAPTER ONE (#u8ab854cd-2fe0-540e-a2bf-2689307ccfc4)CHAPTER TWO (#u1deaecaf-d1da-5f7c-b27e-8e6afdd69b7d)CHAPTER THREE (#u1f1cca4d-552b-5131-a82b-04e343f8dbed)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Josie gritted her teeth
“I suppose I may be allowed to own a house at twenty-three?”
“Certainly. But not the house next door. And in case you’re going to say why not, it’s because I shall own it myself in a few days. I plan to restore the villa to its former glory, to take down the dividing walls and replan the rooms.”
“Really?”. Josie raised delicate eyebrows. Leon was so confident, so disgustingly sure of himself that it would be a pleasure to take him down a peg or two. But she mustn’t rush it.
Marjorie Lewty was born in Cheshire, England, and grew up between there and the Isle of Man. She moved to Liverpool and married there. Now widowed, she has a son who is an artist, and a married daughter. She has always been drawn to writing and started with magazine short stories, then serials and finally book-length romances, which are the most satisfying of all. Her hobbies include knitting, music and lying in the garden thinking of plots!
A Real Engagement
Marjorie Lewty
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PROLOGUE
IT HAD all begun that June morning, when Charles—her father liked her to call him Charles—had phoned to invite her to lunch. ‘I’m off to New York tomorrow, Jo, and there’s a small matter of business to be settled between us before I leave.’ She had guessed that it would have something to do with her mother’s will, details of which had not been finalised yet. ‘And I’ve got some news for you,’ Charles had continued, and his voice had sounded excited, almost euphoric. ‘Twelve-thirty at Claridge’s, OK? I’ll send Baker with the Rolls to pick you up.’ He hadn’t given her time to reply.
So, at twelve-thirty that morning, Charles Dunn’s shining Rolls Royce had transported her to Claridges, and now she was standing in the lounge looking for Charles, her tall, slim figure, russet curls and greenish-hazel eyes attracting covert glances from a party of men at a nearby table.
Charles was sitting at a small table with a bottle of champagne in a bucket beside him and two glasses on the table. He stood up with his charming smile as she joined him. He was putting on weight, she noticed, but he still looked as handsome as ever, immaculate in a grey pin-stripe suit with a camellia in his buttonhole. He kissed her affectionately on the cheek. ‘Hullo, poppet. You’re looking charming. I like that green dress; it’s new, isn’t it? Sit down and join me in a celebration.’
She smiled back at him. He was her father and she loved him, in spite of the misery he had brought to her poor, sad mother.
‘What are we celebrating, exactly?’ she asked, accepting a glass of champagne.
Charles looked slightly abashed. ‘I’m getting married. ’
Josie’s brows rose. ‘For the fourth time?’
He fiddled with the stem of his glass. ‘Well, you know how it is.’
She couldn’t help laughing. ‘I know how you are. OK, then, tell me all about it.’
Charles needed no encouragement. The story halted only briefly when they moved to the dining-room for lunch. Here, waiters glided noiselessly between tables where glass and cutlery gleamed on snowy damask cloths. Josie was hungry, and prepared to enjoy the smoked salmon with a promise of duckling to follow. Charles, however, only wanted to talk about his new love.
Josie had heard the same story twice before. The only difference was that this woman was American. Her name was Gabrielle and she was half-French. Divorced, of course, and very wealthy, Josie gathered. Not that that would matter much to Charles, whose thriving property business, together with various smaller concerns, had made him a very rich man. He must be already paying out large amounts of alimony. He was an incorrigible faller-in-love, she thought, half-amused and half-angry. But at least he married the girls. She hoped this one would last.
Charles said, ‘I’ve been trying to persuade her to marry me—she’s been staying in London with friends—and when she went back to the US I thought I’d lost her. But last night she phoned me to say yes. I’m over the moon, as you can imagine,’ he ended exultantly. ‘You’ll love Gabrielle; you couldn’t help it.’
Josie thought of her mother, whose life had been ruined by this Don Juan. But you couldn’t change people. She lifted her glass to him. ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy.’
‘Thank you, Jo, I know I will. I’ve found the right woman at last.’ Charles couldn’t keep off the subject of Gabrielle long, and the eulogy lasted all through lunch. Josie enjoyed the superbly cooked food, but she doubted if her father knew what he was eating.
But finally he seemed to remember why he had asked her to come. ‘A little matter between our two solicitors, Jo, concerning a property in the South of France I bought many years ago. I’ve always been intending to renovate it and put it on the market, but I’ve never got around to it. My agents down there have dealt with letting it out to visitors, but now I have a client who is interested in buying it “as is” and I’ve decided to sell.’
Seeing Josie begin to look a little puzzled, he went on quickly, ‘But my solicitor finds that the property is registered in your mother’s name, and so will have been transferred to you under her will. Are you with me?’
‘I think so,’ Josie said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Briefly, just fix things up with your solicitor and see that the deeds are transferred to my name. I can’t think why it was put into your mother’s name, but it was bought many years ago. It was probably done to escape some tax or other. Will you do this for me?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll see Uncle Seb and ask him to clear things up.’
‘Thanks a lot, my dear. I’m tidying up various odds and ends just now. If there’s any balance due to you my solicitors will see you right.’
He finished his coffee at a gulp. ‘Are you ready, Jo? Sorry to rush you. I’ve got an appointment at three, and I’m off to New York tomorrow, and I have a lot to get through before I leave.’
When she had seen Charles off, Josie phoned Uncle Seb’s office and made an appointment to see him when he finished with his last client. That gave her time to stroll down to the big stores in Oxford Street and do some shopping. She’d planned to give herself a couple of weeks’ holiday now that she had sold the family house in St John’s Wood. She’d go to Cornwall, perhaps; Cornwall would be lovely in June—not too crowded.
She bought three sundresses, and then took a taxi to Uncle Seb’s office. ‘Uncle Seb’ was Sebastian Cross of Cross, French and Abercrombie in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He had been her mother’s friend and solicitor for as long as Josie could remember, and was now hers. He had seen her mother through her divorce seven years ago and helped her through the bad time afterwards. Her mother had always relied on him and he had never failed to do all he could for them both.
When Josie was shown into his impressive office he greeted her affectionately and settled her into a comfortable chair opposite him at his big desk.
His shrewd grey eyes smiled at her. ‘I was going to phone to ask you to call in and have a chat about your property in France, Josie,’ he said, drawing a folder towards him.
‘My property? It isn’t mine; it’s my father’s. I’ve just had lunch with him and he asked me to have the deeds transferred into his name and let his solicitors have them.’
Sebastian frowned and drew some papers from the folder. ‘I don’t get this, Josie. Tell me exactly what he said.’
Josie had a good memory, and she recounted her father’s words accurately, adding, ‘He said if there was anything due to me his solicitors would see me right.’
Sebastian’s lip curled. ‘Very generous of him!’
Josie looked worriedly at him. She had always known that Charles and Uncle Seb didn’t get on. ‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong, do you? Charles seemed a little mixed up, but I’m sure he wouldn’t try to cheat me.’
Sebastian examined the papers before him. After a long pause he lifted his head and said, ‘Listen, Josie. I knew both your mother and your father, even before they were married, and I’m not at all mixed up about what happened. I’ve always handled your mother’s affairs, and I dealt with the transaction regarding the house in France on her behalf. Your house is one of two. The original owners had a large villa divided to make two quite separate houses. Soon after your parents were married the houses both came on the market at the same time. Your father wanted to buy them both and put them together again to make one large villa which he could sell at a good price. He bought the larger house, but there wasn’t enough in the kitty to buy both. It was early in his career and he didn’t want to approach his bank manager to ask for a larger overdraft. About that time your mother had a legacy from a godmother, and she used the money to buy the second, smaller house. I dealt with the purchase for her and the house was, of course, put into her name. It has always belonged to her. So, as you are the sole beneficiary under your mother’s will, the house belongs to you. We held the deeds at this office and they are at present away, being transferred into your name. You could, of course, sell the house to your father, but it wouldn’t be a little matter of “seeing you right”. It must be worth a good deal of money.’
Josie’s smooth brow was creased. ‘But I don’t understand. Why didn’t I know about it? Why didn’t Mother tell me?’
Sebastian sighed. ‘Your mother was no business woman. She left everything of that sort to Charles. She probably never gave the matter another thought—never even knew where the house was.’
Josie had been sitting forward, listening to all this, and now she lay back in her chair. ‘So I own a house in France! Marvellous! Where is it, Uncle Seb, and have you seen it?’
He nodded. ‘I saw the outside of it a couple of years ago when we were touring the South of France. It’s in the hills above Menton, which is a delightful town on the Côte d’Azur, about a mile from the Italian border.’
Josie clapped her hands. ‘It sounds heavenly. When can I see it?’
‘Any time,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been in touch with the agents down there, and they have had instructions to cancel any further lettings. So your house is now vacant. I gather that someone has bought the adjoining property. I hope you’ll have decent neighbours.’
‘Splendid,’ Josie said. ‘I’ll go down as soon as I can. I can’t wait to see my house.’
Sebastian frowned slightly. ‘Just a word of warning. I don’t know what sort of state you’ll find it in, after being let out all these years.’
‘I don’t care,’ Josie told him gaily. ‘So long as it has four walls and a roof, I can deal with everything else.’
Sebastian stood up and walked to a cupboard, murmuring about the optimism of youth. He took out a key, which he handed to her together with a note he scribbled on a pad. ‘This is the address of the house, Mon Abri, and the address of the agents in Menton.’
Josie stowed the key and the note carefully away in her shoulder bag as she walked to the door.
They stood together at the top of the stairs.
Josie said, ‘I’m so thrilled about this, Uncle Seb. It’s the nicest thing that has happened to me in years, perhaps the nicest thing ever. Thank you for everything.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘I promise to let you know what happens.’
‘Yes, do that, Josie. And if you want any help you know where to find me.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Josie told him, and with a little wave she ran down the stairs.
She didn’t know, of course, how Sebastian lingered on the landing, looking down at her, or how his clever eyes softened as he thought that every time he saw Josie she grew more lovely, more like her mother at that age. But Marion had been soft and clinging. Josie had a kind of gallant independence, with her frank look and her laughing eyes and the tilt of her head. She’d had a bad time, caring for her mother and trying to keep up her design work all these years, and she’d never had time for the fun that all girls expected. She deserved a break, and he hoped this new interest would give her one. She was very young, though, at twenty-three, to be taking charge of an unknown house in a foreign country. He hoped that all would go well with her.
Josie felt as if she was walking on air as she left Uncle Seb’s office. It was very hot and the rush-hour crowd, fighting its way irritably to bus or tube, seemed denser than usual, but she hardly noticed when a large, angular woman jostled her or when a fat, red-faced man stepped on her foot without apology.
Soon she would be away from all this, away from the poky two-room flat she was renting in a shabby old house in Bloomsbury. She would be in her own home—already she thought of it as home—on the Côte d’Azur, with the blue Mediterranean below.
When she reached her flat it felt hot and stuffy, and she opened the window, drew the curtains and made a pot of tea in the minuscule kitchen. She removed from the table in the sitting-room the design she’d been working on when Charles had phoned, put the tray down and got out a notebook and pencil. Then, with the excitement of a child planning for a holiday, she began to make a list, starting: 1. Give month’s notice and pay rent in lieu. 2. Visit bank and find out about travellers’ cheques. 3. Pack up everything and decide where I can leave it until I send for it. 4. Choose clothes to take—not more than will go into hand luggage. And so on until she reached the bottom of the pad.
Josie sat back to drink her tea. Yes, there was going to be quite a lot to do, but if she worked hard she would get through it in a few days. Then—off to Menton. She hugged herself. A week today she would be in Menton, breathing the tang of fresh sea air, starting out on a new life. She couldn’t wait to begin.
CHAPTER ONE
‘WHAT the hell are you doing here? Squatting? Que faites-vous ici? Allez-vous en—vite!’
The deep, angry voice sounded to Josie like thunder as it reached her through thick layers of sleep. She hated storms. She reached for the duvet, to pull it over her head. It wasn’t there. ‘Damn!’ she muttered. It must have fallen on the floor again.
She rolled over and put out a hand to the familiar bedside lamp. There was no lamp, no table beside the bed either. She opened her eyes wide in the darkened room.
Then she froze as she saw the huge figure looming up above her, and she knew she was having a nightmare. She tried to scream, but no sound came through her parched lips. The menacing figure did not move. Josie clutched her throat. She was icy cold and shaking all over.
Then at last the figure moved. There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the tiled floor, a creak as the shutters were folded back and a little light came into the room.
Josie pulled herself up. Her brain wasn’t working properly yet but she knew that this wasn’t a nightmare. There was a man in the room.
Indignation displaced fear. ‘How dare you?’ she croaked. ‘Get out of my room.’
Memory returned in a flash. She had been so tired, so hot after the long journey from London to the South of France, that when she’d found her house, Mon Abri, just behind Menton at last, and opened the front door into what seemed to be a sitting-room, all she’d been able to do was grope her way into the darkened interior, drag off her sundress and collapse on to a divan.
The man walked back and stood looking down at her. Josie was suddenly, sickeningly aware that she was wearing nothing but a lacy bra and minuscule briefs. With a gasp she leaned over the edge of the divan and groped feverishly for the sundress. It was damp and crumpled, and when she held it up in front of her it covered her rather inadequately, from her neck to her thighs.
‘Ah, what a pity!’ the man said softly, and Josie, now completely awake, felt more scared than she had ever done in her life.
‘Get out,’ she quavered.
‘That’s exactly what you are going to do. And what do you think you’re doing here anyway? Squatting? Or have you been watching my comings and goings and decided to display your—er—attractions?’ His arm shot out and he ripped the sundress away from her and dropped it on the floor again. ‘You’re wasting your time, my girl. I prefer brunettes.’
Josie gave a strangled gasp of fury. If only she could have got to her feet and delivered a hefty blow to whatever part of his body she could reach! But he was standing so close that if she had tried to stand up she would have had to touch him, and she dared not think what might happen then, in spite of his insulting rejection. What sort of a man was he, anyway? She glanced up at him, but he was standing with his back to the window, and, apart from the fact that he was tall and broad and dark, she couldn’t make out very much of him. He had an educated voice, but that didn’t mean anything.
Before she could think of a suitably cutting retort he was speaking again. ‘I don’t know why you’ve parked yourself here, or if you are expecting your young friends to join you,’ he said smoothly. ‘But, whatever the reason, I suggest that you get some clothes on and take yourself off, pronto. If you’re not out of here in ten minutes I’ll come back and remove you. I’m living in the next house, so I can watch your departure.’
With a final glance at her near-naked body he turned away and walked quickly out of the room, closing the front door behind him.
Josie swung her legs off the divan and stood up. Her knees felt like india rubber. For a full minute she stared at the closed door, seething with rage.
When Uncle Seb had warned her that she would have neighbours she hadn’t given any thought to the matter, but if this horrible man were to be her neighbour it was going to be disastrous. Had he got a family with him or was he here alone? If he was alone she couldn’t possibly stay.
Then she clicked her tongue impatiently. What was she thinking of? Her hazel eyes narrowed and her soft mouth hardened into a firm line. She certainly wasn’t going to let a pig of a man spoil her pleasure and excitement in taking over her new house on the French Riviera. To have to put up with neighbours at such close quarters was an unwelcome shock, but she told herself that it was just her bad luck that her first encounter with a neighbour should have been so upsetting.
Why had the beastly man been so abominably rude? She couldn’t imagine, but there was only one way to find out; confront him and demand an explanation and an apology. She smiled grimly as she pictured just how she would make him grovel.
Lifting her travel bag on to the divan, she rummaged through it and selected a clean sundress. Her hand encounted a packet of tea-bags in the corner of the bag. She pulled it out with a cry of delight. A cup of tea was just what she needed to revive her and boost up her energy to face her insolent neighbour.
Slipping the crisp blue sundress over her head, and running a comb through her russet curls, she surveyed the room for the first time. It was long and L-shaped, and bore all the evidence of summer-letting to visitors. There were two lumpy easy chairs, and a badly scratched dining-table with four dining-chairs in place. A huge sideboard stood against one wall and the divan on which she had been lying was pushed against the opposite wall, which must be the dividing wall between the two houses. There was a staircase leading up to the first floor and a door to the left of it, which would be the kitchen door.
The kitchen, when she had pulled back the shutters to let some light in, proved to be tiny. There was a sink and one tap, a worktop with a kettle on it, two or three cupboards, a few hooks on the wall, and that was all. She would have to change everything, she thought, but meanwhile—tea.
She turned on the tap, but nothing happened except a faint gurgle. The water was evidently turned off. She got on to her knees and tried to find a tap under the sink. There was no tap, but her groping fingers encountered a pipe which seemed to run along the wall and disappear into the next-door house.
Josie’s smouldering rage burst into flames. The wretch must have turned off her water supply to make sure she could not stay here. Well, she would see about that.
With the light of battle in her large hazel eyes, she strode out through her front door to the door marked Maison les Roches, which must be the next house. There was no bell, so she knocked hard, which relieved her feelings slightly but bruised her knuckles. When there was no reply she pushed the door. It opened into what was evidently the main sitting-room, which was in better condition than her room next door. There were comfortable chairs, rugs on the floor and an elegant staircase on one side of the room. Its elegance was rather marred by the fact that the wall which divided the two houses seemed to push itself against the carved balusters. A small table with two chairs stood on the opposite side of the room and on it was—wonder of wonders—a steaming teapot, a jug of milk and one cup.
The delicious smell of freshly brewed tea was too much for Josie. Sitting down in one of the chairs, she poured a cup for herself, added milk and drank blissfully. That was better. Now she could give all her attention to defeating the Enemy.
Footsteps sounded above her head, and a moment later the Enemy appeared at the top of the stairs. Josie put down her empty cup and stood up, ready for battle.
The man evidently hadn’t seen her yet, and it was her first chance to get a good look at him. The light had been dim next door, but in here there were wall-fittings which lit up the room. He had obviously just had a shower. He wore khaki shorts and nothing else and his dark hair was flattened to his head and dripping on to his shoulders. He padded barefoot down the stairs, took the towel from round his neck and rubbed his hair vigorously.
A quick all-over glance showed Josie a tall, broad-shouldered man, probably in the mid-thirties. She had to admit that he was magnificently built, with the muscular body of an athlete. The towel he was wielding partly covered his face, but she could see his eyes. They were strange eyes, steel-grey with a darker rim round the irises.
He threw down the towel and looked round the room to see her standing beside the table. She met his eyes with a faint apologetic smile. ‘I’ve helped myself to a cup of your tea,’ she said. ‘I felt that you owed me that. There’s plenty left in the pot.’
He ignored her words. He stood quite still, but she saw the steely grey eyes narrow and his hands clench. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ he said, with the same soft contempt he had used before. ‘I thought I told you to clear out.’
‘Well, as you can see, I chose not to obey your order.’ She tried to sound mocking, but this had no effect on him. ‘I came to—’
She had no chance to finish the sentence. In three long strides he had crossed the space between them and a second later she was in his arms.
‘Oh, I know why you came.’ The grey eyes were only inches from her own alarmed ones, his mouth almost touching hers. ‘And if this is what you want you shall have it.’ His arms tightened around her and his mouth came down on hers.
He kissed her almost savagely, at the same time drawing her closer still against his hard body.
Josie had been taken completely by surprise, but now she managed to get her wits back. ‘No,’ she gasped against his mouth, struggling wildly. He was holding her so tightly against him that she couldn’t get her hands up between their two bodies.
The kiss went on and on. She kept her lips tightly closed but he forced them open. She had never been kissed like this before, never so intimately, and suddenly her body responded with a mad need to take part in this crazy emotion of anger, or lust, or whatever it was. She wanted to press herself against him, to kiss him back as intimately as he was kissing her, to dig her nails into his smooth, warm back. A few moments of weakness possessed her, and she thought she was going to faint.
Then he lifted his head and held her a little away from him. ‘Maybe I don’t prefer brunettes after all,’ he said softly, and would have drawn her back to him, but Josie saw her opportunity at last. She gathered all her strength to push him away and delivered a stinging blow to his cheek.
He backed off, one hand to his face. He was breathing as fast as she was, and Josie tried to think of her plan to make him grovel but nothing occurred to her.
He said in angry exasperation, ‘What do you want here, then?’
Her knees were shaking and her throat was tight but she managed to say, with what dignity she could muster, ‘I came to ask you to turn on the water supply to my kitchen.’ She remembered that that was the first sentence in her grovel routine. Then he was meant to say, in surprise, Your kitchen? and she would take it from there.
To her surprise, he laughed. ‘Well, that’s a wonderful anticlimax. Now let’s have the truth—all of it. How did you manage to get in next door when it was locked up?’
He had missed his cue, but this would do as well—better, really. ‘I had a key to my own house, of course,’ Josie said loftily. Her hand encountered a chair behind her and she sat down on it rather quickly. The compelling eyes, fixed so relentlessly on her, were making her feel unnerved.
She said shakily, ‘I’m very tired. If you will please turn on the water I’ll go back and have a night’s sleep.’ She passed her hand wearily across her eyes.
He stood still, looking down at her darkly. Then he walked across the room and opened a door. When he came back he said, ‘I’ve turned the water on. I suppose I can’t throw you out tonight. But you’ll have to go first thing tomorrow morning. I don’t want squatters here.’
She braced her knees and walked to the door. She turned as she opened it. ‘I think you’re detestable,’ she said.
Outside it was quite dark. The sky was thick with stars, and the only sound was the constant loud chirping of the cicadas. That sound triggered the memory of a holiday in the little seaside resort of Boulouris, near Saint Raphael, with both her parents when she was about ten. Her mother had been so happy then. Josie didn’t want to think about what had happened afterwards.
She found her own front door, and, once inside, felt round for a light switch, making a mental note that she must buy a good strong torch. At last her fingers encountered the switch. She turned it on and was rewarded by a feeble light from an unshaded central hanging fitting, which was just enough to allow her to find her way across the room.
The tiny kitchen was even more inadequately lit, but she found the tap and turned it on. The water spurted out with such force that it splashed up from the sink and soaked the front of her dress. She muttered all the bad words she knew about the Enemy next door. It was all his fault. Oh, well, the dress would soon dry in the heat of the house. It was unbearably hot, and Josie wondered if she should keep the window in the sitting-room open to let in the cool evening air. But she decided not to risk insect bites.
Upstairs, she groped around both bedrooms to find switches, none of which yielded any light. She would have to sleep on the divan in the room below.
Downstairs in the kitchen again, Josie yawned hugely. What she really needed was sleep, but first she must eat something. She had bought some provisions in Menton, when the bus from Nice Airport had set her down there, and now she opened the plastic carrier and found a baguette, some butter, which had melted all over the bag, and a packet of cheese.
There were three mugs in one of the cupboards, and she chose the best of these, rinsed it and filled it with water. She pulled off hunks of bread and broke pieces of cheese from the packet. Her first dinner in her new house! She chuckled, refusing to feel disappointed. Everything could be put right, given time—and money. She wouldn’t think about the horrible man next door. He would leave her alone when he realised that she was really the owner of Mon Abri.
When she had finished all she could manage to eat, she refilled the mug and took it back to the sitting-room. She carried a small chair to the divan, to act as a bedside table, and on this she set the mug of water, her watch and a silver-framed snapshot of her mother, taken in the garden of their house last year. She picked it up and looked into the wan, lined face which had once been beautiful. ‘This is my new house, Mum dear. You should have come with me,’ Josie whispered, her eyes suddenly misty with tears. ‘But I don’t think you would have cared for it very much. Certainly not as it is at present.’
Marion Dunn had liked everything neat and predictable, and when, eight years ago, her husband left her for a younger woman the shock had been too much for her. She had gone to pieces. When she’d received the final divorce papers she had collapsed. ‘My life is over,’ she had mourned. And sometimes Josie thought that was true. Every year her mother had suffered from some new ailment, and when a bad attack of flu had struck her last winter she had not had the strength to resist. She had developed pneumonia, and in spite of all Josie’s care had died six months ago, just after Christmas.
Josie put the photograph down again on the chair. She had loved her mother sincerely, and she missed her, but the years had shown her what resentment and self-pity could do to a woman if she gave way to them. Her mother had been so romantic, but women were more realistic now, the twenty-three-year-old Josie told herself confidently. They didn’t break their hearts over men.
It would be lovely to have a shower and wash off all the hot stickiness of the day, but the shower-room, like the other two rooms upstairs, was in darkness. She pulled off her clothes, draped the sundress over a chair to dry and left her bra and lacy pants on the floor, to be washed tomorrow when she had found out how to get hot water. Fortunately there was a tiny cloakroom beside the front door, and she washed her face and wiped wet hands over her hot body, drying herself with the small hand towel she had brought with her to use on the journey. She found a thin nightie in her bag and put it on, covering her body quickly.
Suddenly her cheeks flamed as she remembered that kiss. It had been a warning to her that her body could betray her so shamefully. But the Enemy was clearly a past master in the art of—she had been going to say ‘lovemaking’, but of course it had nothing to do with love. She must forget all about it.
She yawned. She would leave the centre light on; she wouldn’t feel quite safe in the dark. There was no bedcover, but she wouldn’t need it. She took a light gown from her bag and tucked it under the cushion that would serve as a pillow, in case it got cool in the night. Then, with a deep sigh, she stretched out on the divan. She’d have a lovely, undisturbed sleep.
She had expected to drop off to sleep immediately, but instead she found herself wondering what she was going to say to the Enemy next-door when she saw him in the morning. He didn’t believe that she owned the house. It was quite ridiculous that she had to convince him, but somehow she must do so. She remembered the strength of his arms when he held her, and felt again the weakness in her limbs. Oh, yes, if he chose to be nasty he could well evict her bodily, as he had threatened to do.
She had no actual proof of ownership, but she must be absolutely sure of it in her own mind. She had taken Uncle Seb’s word for it, but what if there had been some mistake? No, there couldn’t be. Uncle Seb couldn’t possibly be wrong. She would rely on him and ask for his help if she needed it. She wouldn’t be bullied by that hateful man next door. Mon Abri was hers, and she meant to keep it.
Closing her eyes on this firm resolution, she fell into a heavy sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
JOSIE’S hope for an undisturbed sleep was not realised. In the middle of the night she awoke with a start. Something cold and wet had crawled across her face. She sat up, her heart thumping. A snake? A lizard? With a cry of horror she made herself lift a shaking hand to brush it away, but her fingers encountered only water, and at the same moment a larger splash fell on her back and trickled coldly down her spine. More large splashes followed. She was wide awake now, and swung herself off the divan. Looking up, she saw that the ceiling had an ominous crack in it. At that moment the crack opened further, and the water that had been gathering behind poured down, straight on to the divan.
Josie grabbed her gown, but it was soaking. She lifted her bag, the photograph and her watch on to the table and pushed it to the other side of the room. They all seemed to have escaped the deluge up to now. She squinted at her watch and saw that it was twenty past two. There was only one urgent thought in her mind now—the water had to be turned off and the tap was in the next-door house.
Rummaging in her bag, she found an old pair of jeans she had brought with her for work in the garden. She pulled them on over her nightie and raced along the path to the next house. There was no reply to her loud banging, but she found that again the door wasn’t locked. She went in and felt around for a switch. The room was flooded with light. She yelled several times at the top of her voice ‘Help! Is anyone there?’ No reply. Josie looked uncertainly up the stairs. The man must be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Well, he was going to be rudely awakened.
At the top of the stairs there was a landing with four doors. One was partly open to disclose a bathroom. She banged on the other three doors in turn, shouting, ‘Help! Emergency!’
Still no response.
She looked doubtfully at the three doors. She had to find the man, and fast. Choosing the middle door, she opened it and snapped on the light. She’d been lucky in choosing the right room, but only at this moment did she wonder if the man was here alone. She saw with relief that the hump in the bed belonged to one body only. His face was half-buried in the pillow, and a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. There was a sheet covering the lower half of his body but the top half was naked. Josie hoped he was wearing pyjama trousers, but this was no time for maidenly modesty. She walked across the room and grabbed his shoulder with both hands, shaking it as hard as she could. His skin felt warm and slightly moist under her fingers, and the muscles stiffened in resistance to pressure. At last he opened his eyes and blinked up at her in the light.
‘What the devil...?’ he muttered.
‘Wake up!’ she shouted. ‘Go down and turn the water off—now—or we’ll be flooded out.’
He blinked again, and focused on her face. ‘You!’ he growled. ‘Look here, I’ve had just about enough of—’
She gave him another shake. ‘Never mind what you’ve had enough of. Come down and turn the water off or we’ll both be drowned.’ She didn’t know whether the crack in the ceiling would reach to both houses, but that didn’t matter. It was her own house that was suffering at the moment.
He levered himself up in the bed. ‘What?’ he shouted angrily.
Josie gathered all her patience. ‘Flood,’ she said, slowly and clearly. ‘Water. Coming through the ceiling. Come down and turn the tap off.’
She seemed to have got through to him at last. He threw back the sheet and got out of bed. Josie was relieved to see that he was wearing pyjama trousers. Cursing under his breath, he stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Josie followed and waited for him at the bottom of the stairs. When he came out of the kitchen he glared at her and said nastily, ‘Well, I’ve turned off your water. What sort of game are you playing? First you want the water on, then you want it off. Is it your idea of a joke?’ He evidently hadn’t taken in all she had told him.
‘You’d better come and look,’ she said, turning towards the door.
He stood where he was. He obviously wasn’t a man who liked to be given orders. But as she reached her sitting-room Josie heard his bare feet padding along behind her.
Inside, the tiled floor was awash. Thank goodness she’d put her bag and the other things out of harm’s way on the table.
The man was close behind her. ‘What happened, exactly?’ he said irritably, just as if she was responsible. ‘What were you doing to cause this?’
‘Don’t be idiotic.’ Josie had completely lost her temper with him. ‘Look up there,’she added dramatically, pointing to the widening crack in the ceiling.
He looked up, frowning darkly. Then he splashed across the floor and examined the crack. Water had stopped pouring and was now merely dripping. He pulled the divan out of the line of fire and turned back to her. ‘How did you find out what was happening down here?’ he asked.
Josie said, ‘I was sleeping on the divan and I was dripped on.’
‘Why on the divan? What’s wrong with the bedrooms?’
She sighed heavily. ‘Do I have to go through this third degree? Briefly, none of the rooms upstairs has lights. The bulbs must have expired. I don’t happen to carry a storm lantern round with me.’
Without another word he ran up the stairs and was down again in about half a minute. ‘You’re right,’ he said, joining her at the table. And then, wearily, ‘Well, you’ll have to finish your night’s sleep in one of my spare rooms.’
‘No,’ Josie snapped.
‘Now who’s being idiotic?’ the man said. ‘You can’t sleep here.’
‘Of course I can. I can feel my way into one of the beds upstairs. Or perhaps you could lend me a torch?’
He picked up her bag. ‘No,’ she squealed, hastily pushing the silver-framed photograph into it and slipping the bracelet of the watch on to her wrist.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Come along.’ He put a hand on her back to urge her to the door. ‘Good Lord, you’re soaking wet, girl.’
Josie hadn’t had time to find a sweater before she rushed for help. Now she realised that the top of her thin nightie must have taken most of the first drips of water before she escaped. She also realised that his hand was still spread out on her back. She tried to twist away, but he was pushing her relentlessly to the door.
‘I’ll be OK,’ she muttered.
He ignored that. ‘Everything can wait until morning,’ he said, and now he sounded very tired. ‘I want the rest of my sleep even if you don’t. No, don’t argue. I’ve no intention of pouncing on you; you needn’t worry about that.’
She shrugged and gave in. He was much too strong to fight with.
In the next house he led her upstairs and into one of the bedrooms. Switching on the light, he said, ‘There you are,’ and yawned. ‘Now, find something dry to put on and get into bed. I’ll bring you a cup of tea. You look as if you need it.’
His eyes passed dismissively over her as she stood, shivering, in the middle of the room, her hair lank and the thin nightie clinging revealingly to the top part of her body. She must look a sight, but it wasn’t kind of him to remind her of it. ‘Don’t make tea specially for me,’ she said, biting her lip to stop her teeth chattering.
‘Of course not,’ he said, and went out of the room.
Josie pulled off the jeans and the damp nightie and found another nightie in her bag, one that wasn’t at all revealing. Slipping it over her head, she went along to the bathroom next door. She looked longingly at the modern shower, but that would have to wait until the morning. So she washed her face and hands and towelled her hair. Then she returned to the bedroom.
She was too tired to take in any details of the room, but the rugs were soft and the double bed was blissfully comfortable as she crawled into it and propped herself up against the pillows. She was looking forward to the cup of tea, however ungraciously it had been offered.
A few minutes later there was a tap at the door and the man appeared, bearing a mug, which he put down on the bedside table.
‘Thank you,’Josie said, ‘And thank you for taking charge of things. You’ve been kind.’
His lips turned down. ‘Enlightened self-interest, it’s called,’ he said enigmatically. He switched on the bedside lamp. ‘Don’t you want your photograph beside you? I saw you pushing it away lovingly into your bag.’
She almost laughed. He must imagine that the photograph was of some boyfriend—or even a husband. She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. And let him make what he could of that.
He looked rather hard at her, but didn’t press the point. ‘There’s a lock on the door,’ he said, ‘and by the way, what’s your name?’
‘Josie,’ she said. ‘What’s yours?’
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. Then he said, ‘Leon.’ He walked across the room, switched off the light and opened the door. Then without another word he went out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him.
A charming host! Josie thought with a grin, but at least he had brought her some tea.
She sat up in bed and sipped it, relishing the feeling of the hot liquid slipping down her throat and spreading heat through her whole body. She hadn’t known she was so cold.
She finished the tea, put the mug on the table, switched off the bedside lamp and snuggled down into the soft bed.
After the hard lumpiness of the divan it felt heavenly. This time she was sure she would sleep undisturbed, and she didn’t bother to get up to lock the door. She pulled the light duvet up to her chin, yawned luxuriously and was asleep almost immediately.
Josie had her uninterrupted sleep at last. She woke to see sunlight making bright thin lines along the shutters. When she consulted her watch she saw that it was half-past seven. Getting out of bed, she crossed the room and opened the door a crack. The next door was wide open, and from below came the sounds of a man in the kitchen—various thumps and clatters. Her gown had suffered the fate of the divan, but the bathroom was only next door so she grabbed a pair of shorts and a white top and sprinted along the passage. She decided against a shower, just had a quick wash, and had just got into her clothes when there was an enormous crash from below followed by loud expletives. She smiled to herself, and had started to dry her hair when there was a loud banging on the door and Leon’s voice saying, ‘May I come in? I need a bottle of antiseptic from the cupboard.’
Josie heard the urgency in his voice and, pushing back her damp curls, opened the door. Leon was wearing jeans cut off at the knee. The rest of him was bare and his left hand was covered m blood. He grunted his thanks and began to rummage awkwardly in the wall cupboard with his right hand.
Josie had taken a course in first aid when she was looking after her mother, and she took charge immediately. ‘Put your hand under the cold tap,’ she instructed in her best ward-sister’s tone. ‘I’ll find the antiseptic.’
He did as he was told with surprising meekness, holding on to the side of the bowl with his other hand. ‘Bread knife,’ he explained weakly. He looked very pale.
Josie found a bottle of iodine and a new roll of bandages in the cupboard, and, lifting his forearm by the elbow, saw that a deep gash down the side of his hand was bleeding freely. She cut off a length of bandage with the scissors provided and made it into a thick pad, which she pressed firmly over the wound, glancing again at his face. She saw that he was paler still.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m OK.’ He swayed on his feet as he spoke.
Josie pulled the bathroom stool behind him, still holding on to the pad. ‘Sit down and get your head between your knees. Lower than that.’ She pushed his head down further. How thick and crisp his dark hair was under her fingers, she thought, letting her hand remain on his neck. His skin was bronzed, except for a paler line where his hair had been clipped at the nape. She had a mad urge to lean down and put her lips against it. She stood up quickly, trembling inside. The sheer physical magnetism of the man was dangerous. She must be very careful or she might make a fool of herself. She cringed as she remembered his look of cynical contempt when he’d thought she was trying to seduce him. That had been a misunderstanding, but it had shown, only too plainly, what he thought of an unwanted advance from her sex.
After a few minutes he sat up, and she was pleased to see the colour coming back into his face. Very carefully she lifted a corner of the pad. ‘Oh, good,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The bleeding has almost stopped. ‘I’ll put some iodine on, so hold your breath.’
He didn’t even wince when she applied the antiseptic, although it must have stung horribly. She found lint to cover the wound and then bandaged the hand firmly. ‘There you are,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘You mustn’t use your left hand much or you’ll become a hospital case if the bleeding starts again.’
He looked up at her as she cleaned the wash-basin and tidied the cupboard. ‘You’re very professional,’ he said. ‘Are you a nurse?’
She shook her head, putting the scissors back in their case. ‘No, but I looked after my mother, who was a semi-invalid and always having accidents of one sort or another. She died some months ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘But I appreciate your expertise. I make a fool of myself where my own blood is concerned, but I don’t seem to react to other people’s blood. There’s a question for a psychiatrist.’
Josie smiled. ‘We’d better not go into that. Now, come down when you feel like it and I’ll see what I can do with the bread knife.’
In her bedroom, Josie put on sandals and ran a comb through her curls. She was smiling as she ran downstairs. She seemed to have formed some sort of understanding with the man, and that would make things much more pleasant if they were to be neighbours.
The kitchen was large and modern, nothing like her poor affair next door. She was suddenly aware that she hadn’t given a thought to the chaos in Mon Abri since last night, but that would have to wait.
Leon had evidently been trying to cut a stale baguette into slices for toast, using a plate instead of a wooden board. Naturally, the bread had slipped on the plate, which was now lying in fragments on the floor. ‘Men!’ she muttered.
She found a brush in the cupboard and brushed up the pieces of broken plate, then carefully washed the bread knife. Then she cut more slices of baguette, which she put in the wide-mouthed toaster. She made one cup of instant coffee and set the small round table with one plate and knife, butter from the fridge and three different kinds of jam.
As she was taking out the toast Leon appeared in the doorway. In spite of his injured hand he had managed to dress neatly in jeans and a cream silk shirt. His springy dark hair was brushed tidily. He really was very good-looking, Josie thought. She said, ‘I’ve made some toast. Was that what you were trying to do?’
He nodded and sat down at the table. ‘Are you going to join me?’
‘Yes, if I’m invited,’ Josie said.
‘The least I can do,’ he said. ‘Please sit down and join me for breakfast.’
She put an extra knife and plate on the table, made a mug of coffee, and sat down opposite him. She found that she was extremely hungry, and munched toast and apricot jam ravenously. She glanced apologetically at Leon, who was having some difficulty because of his tightly bandaged hand. She knew better than to offer to cut up the toast for him. He wasn’t the kind of man who would tolerate nannying. ‘Sorry I’m being a pig,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember when I had a proper meal.’
‘Carry on,’he said, sitting back in his chair and eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘Where did you come from yesterday?’ he said.
‘From London,’ Josie said. ‘I bought some basic food in Menton, before I took a taxi up here, but by the time I’d found my house I was too hot and tired to eat, so I just flopped down on the nearest flat surface.’ She pulled a face and added, ‘Until you disturbed me so ungallantly.’ She laughed lightly. If they could share a joke that would put the embarrassing incident in its true perspective.
But there was no laughter, not even a smile in the strange grey eyes as he regarded her narrowly. ‘What gives you the idea that Mon Abri belongs to you?’ he enquired.
Josie choked on a piece of toast. She had begun to like this man, to think that he liked her, that they would be able to talk together rationally. But his tone and the way he had framed his question made it an insult.
‘I resent that. I certainly own Mon Abri. What right have you to question it?’ She spoke calmly, but danger signals flashed in the hazel-green eyes.
He frowned, puzzled. ‘How old are you, Josie?’
She kept her temper with an effort. ‘I really don’t see what my age has to do with the matter, but, if you must know, I’m twenty-three.’
He stared at her, dark brows raised. ‘Well, well, I was a long way out. When I first saw you, stretched out on the divan, I took you for about fifteen—one of a party of youngsters who were wandering about the world. I expected to see your friends joining you, setting up a squat in this pleasant place. Then, when you walked into my house and drank my tea, and smiled seductively at me—’
‘I didn’t smile seductively,’Josie broke in furiously.
‘And smiled seductively at me,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘I upgraded you to a higher age group—say seventeen or eighteen at the most. Yes, yes—’ he held up a hand as she opened her mouth to speak again ‘—I’m aware that I was mistaken about your intentions. But I don’t think I can be blamed for that. I must say I thought again when you saved me from bleeding to death just now, but twenty-three! No, I shouldn’t have guessed that It makes a difference.’
Josie gritted her teeth. ‘I suppose I may be allowed to own a house at twenty-three?’
‘Certainly. But not the house next door. And in case you’re going to say why not, it’s because I shall own it myself in a few days. I plan to restore the villa to its former glory, to take down the dividing walls and re-plan the rooms.’
‘Really?’ Josie raised delicate brows. He was so confident, so disgustingly sure of himself, that it would be a pleasure to take him down a peg or two. But she mustn’t rush it. ‘More coffee?’
‘Please.’ He pushed his mug across the table. He was not looking at her now. He was staring out of the window. No doubt planning what he was going to do with her house when he obtained it. He had a surprise coming to him, Josie thought, grinning to herself.
He pushed back his chair jerkily and got to his feet. ‘Let’s go outside and talk this over. Open air clears the head.’
‘Are you implying that my head needs clearing?’ she demanded acidly.
‘Don’t be silly.’ He grasped her arm and yanked her to her feet unceremoniously. ‘Bring the coffee and we’ll sit on the terrace.’
Josie had already discovered that he was a man who got his own way, by superior strength if necessary, and that it was a waste of time to argue. She shook off his hand. The touch of his fingers on her bare arm disturbed her. Oh, dear, if she had to battle with a man in the way of business, why couldn’t he have been as lacking in sex appeal to her as were the other men who had appeared in her life from time to time. Except Roger Ward, of course, and he had been married. She filled the two mugs again and followed Leon outside.
There was a white-painted table and chairs at the end of the terrace, where tendrils of vine hung down, making a kind of arbour. Josie thought she must get a similar table for her own end of the terrace.
Leon held out a chair for her politely and took the other one himself. ‘This is better. Now, let’s get things straight. My name is Kent—Leon Kent, practising architect. You seem to think you own the house next door. I am convinced that I am on the verge of becoming owner myself.’ His expression changed. There was no amusement in the strange grey eyes now. His mouth was hard as he added, almost under his breath, ‘And I mean to have it.’
Josie stared at him, and a wriggle of fear twisted in her stomach. She was going to have a fight on her hands, for she certainly wasn’t going to be bullied into parting with her house, not on any terms.
‘Why do you want the house anyway?’ he went on. ‘What do you propose to do with it?’
‘Live in it.’
‘Just as it is?’
‘Of course not. I intend to refurbish it to my own designs.’
‘You’re an interior designer?’
‘That’s what I want to be.’
He looked back at her, and his tone was reasonable now as he said, ‘Will you explain your claim to the house?’
Stormy hazel-green eyes looked straight into his. ‘I don’t have to answer that question. But as it’s such a simple answer I’ll tell you. It was left to me in my mother’s will. If you don’t believe me you can have it confirmed by my solicitor, Sebastian Cross of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I have his phone number. Satisfied?’ she added defiantly.
He had been frowning as he listened. Now his frown deepened. ‘I must get in touch with my own solicitor before I answer that question,’ he said. ‘There’s something very funny going on and I mean to get to the bottom of it.’
Josie thought of her conversation with Uncle Seb and remembered uncomfortably that she, too, had wondered if there had been some mistake. She said, ‘May I ask the name of the person who promised to sell the house to you? Was it by any chance Charles Dunn?’
Dark brows rose. ‘Yes, it was, although I can’t imagine how you could have guessed. He’s an old colleague; I’ve worked with him for some time. You’re not suggesting that he has been conning me to get a better price for the house?’
‘Certainly not,’ Josie said indignantly. ‘Charles would never knowingly let a friend down.’
There was a silence, and his eyes narrowed as they watched her face. Then he said, his eyes still on her face, ‘You seem to know him very well.’
‘I should,’ Josie said. ‘He’s my father.’
Leon’s dark brows shot up. His eyes opened wide. She saw that she had really amazed him. Then, with a hint of suspicion in his voice, he asked, ‘Why didn’t I know you before, then, when I visited Charles at his home?’
She was tempted to throw her coffee cup at him. ‘Are you accusing me of being a liar?’ She was shaking with rage.
‘Calm down, Josie. I was merely asking a reasonable question. You needn’t answer if you don’t want to.’
She drew in a long breath. The beastly man. He always won an argument. She said, in what she hoped was a dignified voice, ‘I seldom see my father these days, although we get along very well when one or other of my stepmothers is out of the way.’ Her lips curled expressively.
‘I see,’ Leon said slowly. ‘When you told me your mother had died recently, I thought...’ He left the words in the air.
Josie shook her head. ‘Oh, no, my parents were divorced years ago. Charles has married and divorced again twice since then.’ She smiled tolerantly. ‘One side of Charles is a born romantic, always seeking the right woman, although the other side is a keen business man.’
‘Well, I hope he was in his business mode when he sold me Mon Abri, but I’ll have to have some further information. There must have been some slipup somewhere.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll go and phone my solicitors now, and then we shall know for sure which of us is the owner of the house.’
As Josie began to stand up he said, ‘No, don’t go away. This concerns both of us.’
He went into the sitting-room through the open French window and Josie listened to him dialling, her hands clenched tightly together.
If he came back and insisted that he was right and she was wrong, she would—What would she do?
CHAPTER THREE
THE call to London seemed to take a long time, and Leon’s side of it consisted mainly of, ‘Yes,’ and, ‘No, I see,’ and ‘Yes, I understand.’ But finally he said goodbye, and Josie heard the click of the receiver being replaced. There was a long silence after that, until she felt like screaming. But at last he came back on to the terrace and sank into his chair.
‘Well?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Not very satisfactory,’ he said. ‘The three lots of solicitors are all trying to trace what happened about twenty years ago, and it seems that until Charles comes back there is no way they can finalise anything. He is not expected for several more days, and apparently he’s gone to ground in America and can’t be contacted. So,’ he said, summing up, ‘it seems that we have to wait until he arrives.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve been thinking—how would you like to move to a hotel until things are straightened out? Mon Abri isn’t fit to live in at present.’
‘I shouldn’t like it at all,’ Josie said flatly.
He nodded. ‘Somehow I didn’t think you would. Well, here’s another idea. I took a fortnight off to come down here and get my builders started, but I’m happy to treat this next week as a holiday. How about you? Shall we call off the fight about Mon Abri for a week? I intend to make contingency plans for putting the two houses together again. You can help me with ideas, and you might also amuse yourself by thinking up schemes for interior decoration. It might be a waste of effort, if my plans come to nothing, but at least it would be good practice for you. What do you think?’
Josie was torn between making an angry refusal and a sneaking feeling that what he suggested would be rather wonderful. And he was right. It would be good practice for her to have the opportunity of watching a top architect at work. She smiled to herself. It was funny how you could always find arguments for doing what you wanted to do.
‘Well?’ Leon was watching her from lowered lids.
She sighed. ‘I suppose if I don’t want to be awkward I’d better agree. But it doesn’t mean that I give up my claim to Mon Abri,’ she added.
He said piously, ‘Oh, I’m sure it doesn’t. Neither do I give up the expectation that it will soon be mine.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘Why are you so keen to get it? Are you going to lose a fat fee from a rich client if you don’t?’ Perhaps he wanted to bring his wife and family here. Surely he would tell her if that were so.
He shook his head. ‘No, no rich client involved.’
‘You want it for yourself, then, not professionally?’ She looked away, holding her breath.
She was remembering a time at college, when she had fallen passionately in love with Roger Ward, one of the lecturers. It had never amounted to much on his side—merely an occasional lunch and a kiss that thrilled her when he gave her a lift home in his car—but when he told her he was leaving at the end of term—the next week—she had had wild hopes that he would write to her and ask her to meet him. Then she had heard on the grapevine that he was married, and she had suffered all the agony of heartbreak, although she had had to realise in the end that she had built it all up from her own dreams. But the pain had been real enough, and she wouldn’t like to repeat the experience. And now she had to commit herself to spending the next week in the company of a man who had already stirred feelings that were certainly not made up from foolish dreams.
Leon answered her question. ‘Well, for my family.’
His family! No explicit mention of a wife. But she had to know. ‘Are you married?’ she said.
‘Married! Good Lord, no. My numerous family is quite enough to cope with, without a wife to complicate things.’
She felt a curious lightness, and a laugh bubbled up as she said, ‘I see. So that’s why you want a large house?’
‘Exactly,’ he said, but there was no answering laugh, not even a smile. He wasn’t going to talk about his family but that didn’t matter. Her most important fear had been laid to rest.
‘As a matter of fact, I know both houses quite well. I stayed here some years ago. There was an English family living here then. Delightful people called Martin. I sprained my ankle walking up in the hills near Gorbio, just the other side of Menton. They found me and very kindly brought me back here and looked after me for a couple of weeks. They had a small daughter of about eight or nine, and a married son living in Mon Abri. I saw them often during my holidays here, but we lost touch about eight years ago. I must try to find out where they are and if they are still in France.
‘So you see,’ Leon went on, ‘when Charles told me he was selling the two houses I knew it was just what I’d been looking for and began to plan how I would put them together. Perhaps you may forgive me for greeting you with—er—rather less than courtesy at our first meeting.’ He gave Josie a hopeful smile.
She made no response and turned her head away from him. She hadn’t forgiven him yet; it was something she needed to remember as a sort of armour against him now he was choosing to show her a dif- ferent side of his character.
‘No? Well, never mind, we’ll put all that behind us and be friends for just one week. Friends for a week, Josie?’
His grip was strong, and he held her hand much longer than was necessary. ‘Good,’ he said warmly. She wished she could believe that he liked her, which was what his smile told her. But she had to be careful. She looked into his grey eyes and reminded herself that they could change to narrow steel blades that could cut with sarcasm or bitter contempt.
Leon stood up. ‘If you’re going to stay in Mon Abri it will need some attention,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and have a look at it.’ He took her hand and they walked across the terrace together. Inside the sitting-room, he stared at the crack in the ceiling. ‘It might merely be a faulty joint,’ he said. ‘If so, I could probably fix it myself. There’s a ladder in the outhouse next door; I’ll go and fetch it.’
Josie’s heart missed a beat as she had a horrible vision of Leon falling and lying senseless beside her. She put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ she said firmly. ‘I refuse to let you climb a ladder and open up that wound in your hand again. It’s “enlightened self-interest”, to use your own words. What would happen if you “came over all peculiar” at the top of the ladder? I can deal with a cut hand but not a broken leg.’
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