‘Money, power, ambition.’

This time Jason’s smile almost reached his eyes as he went on, ‘Women will do anything for it. They frequently do.’

Kate refused to let this go unchallenged. ‘Haven’t you forgotten the most important emotion?’

He folded his arms and regarded her with interest. ‘And what is that?’

‘Love, Mr Warwick.’

Jason’s eyes flickered to hers. ‘I hadn’t forgotten. But that’s not an emotion. It’s a weapon.’

LIZ FIELDING was born in Berkshire and educated at a convent school in Maidenhead. At twenty she took off for Africa to work as a secretary in Lusaka, where she met her civil engineer husband, John. They spent the following ten years working in Africa and the Middle East. She began writing during the long evenings when her husband was working away on contract. Liz and her husband are now settled in Wales with their children, Amy and William.

Bittersweet
Deception

Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘SO? This is what the cook gets up to when the day is done?’ The velvet drawl was an essay in world-weary cynicism.

Kate Thornley, grasped firmly in the arms of one large, rather tipsy man, did not much care for the sardonic tone of this onlooker and would have told him so, if her lips had not been clamped tightly shut against a very determined assault.

Surely the wretched man could see the predicament she was in? She needed help, not an audience! How dared he stand there, watching, as if she were part of the entertainment?

‘Don’t mind me,’ he continued, and she heard his footsteps cross the kitchen floor. ‘Just carry on. I can wait.’

Incensed, Kate gathered herself for a second attempt at heaving off the sweaty weight pinning her against the sink. But the voice had finally penetrated the slightly fuddled brain of her molester and he abruptly released her. She staggered slightly, regained her balance and turned angrily on the man now leaning against the kitchen table to tell him exactly what she thought of him.

But the words turned to ashes on her lips as she recognised the owner of a pair of the darkest, most insolent eyes she had ever seen.

Scarcely beyond his thirtieth birthday, Jason Warwick was already a legend. The autocratic ruler of Magnum, a company he had founded ten years earlier and now the richest prize of the commercial television network, his acerbic wit and outrageous comments about women ensured that he was a favourite with late-night chat-show hosts and the bane of feminists, who seemed unable to ignore him and often made themselves ridiculous by baying for his blood. As the direct object of his derision, Kate knew precisely how they felt. Jason Warwick was impossible to ignore.

From photographs she had seen of him in the newspapers, always with some glamorous television hopeful draped languorously about him, she had never been bowled over by him, although she was well aware that she was in a minority of one. He was just too darkly handsome, too perfect.

Face-to-face she had to acknowledge that she was wrong. His appeal had nothing to do with good looks. His face had strength, a forceful energy, and his eyes had the power to hold her when she would much rather have looked away. To her complete mortification, Kate felt the slow spread of colour suffuse her cheeks.

‘Oh, it’s you, Jay. I just came down for…some—er…’ The man faltered and grinned stupidly.

‘Dessert?’ Jason Warwick offered, his mouth twisting slightly in a parody of a smile, but his eyes never left Kate’s.

‘Dessert? That’s a good one, Jay.’ And he laughed as he left the kitchen. ‘Cheerio, Kate. See you again. Soon,’ he added, with a wink, as if he had known her forever instead of meeting her for the first time ten minutes earlier when he had wandered into the kitchen claiming to need some aspirin.

Not if I see you first, Kate thought as anger deepened the hectic colour of her cheeks. It was galling enough to be found in such a compromising situation, but to be considered a willing partner to it was more than Kate could stomach. She touched the little brooch that had betrayed her name. Her sister had bought it for her and she always wore it. But after tonight, she would leave it at home when she was working.

She could normally handle the occasional amorous dinner guest who strayed into the kitchen without resorting to hysterics or violence, but she had mis-judged the man who until a moment before had been holding her in such a passionate embrace. An embrace Jason Warwick clearly assumed she had encouraged.

But one look was enough to persuade her that if she tried to explain what had happened, that sensual mouth would simply twist in a knowing parody of a smile and he would carry on thinking whatever he chose. Galling though it was to be the object of his unwarranted insolence, she knew she had done nothing to be ashamed of. Her only mistake was to believe the wretched man when he told her he had a headache. He had trapped her against the sink as she turned to get him a glass of water, demanding a kiss before he would release her and taking it, despite her insistent demand that he leave her alone. The man’s breath reeked of whisky and cigar smoke and she raised the back of her hand to her mouth in an attempt to rub away the disgusting taste.

‘Can I get you something, Mr Warwick?’ she asked, raising her chin a little. ‘Or have you come looking for a little dessert on your own account?’

‘If you’re looking for a replacement for Harry, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I never eat dessert.’

Kate’s dark brows shot up. ‘Never?’ she demanded, quite unable to resist this opportunity to retaliate. His own reputation where women were concerned wouldn’t bear too much scrutiny.

Acknowledging the hit, his mouth twitched into something that might, with encouragement, have turned into a smile. A very cynical smile. ‘Well, certainly not as often as the newspapers would have you believe.’

Kate placed her hand on a heart that was racing uncomfortably. ‘Are you telling me that the newspapers don’t always tell the truth?’ she asked, with complete seriousness.

‘Not always,’ he assured her, with equal gravity. ‘They tend to dwell on the sensational at the expense of probity. A habit they have in common with the female of the species.’

For just a moment she thought she had glimpsed something beyond the scorn, but she had clearly been mistaken. Kate shivered slightly at the chilling sincerity with which he spoke. ‘Perhaps you should improve the quality of your reading matter, Mr Warwick,’ she advised him. ‘And your women.’

‘I hardly think you’re in any position to offer advice on the good character of women,’ he said pointedly.

‘And you are?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, yes, Kate. I know exactly what makes a woman run. Money, power, ambition. They will do anything for it.’ And this time his smile almost reached his eyes. ‘They frequently do.’

She refused to let this go unchallenged. ‘Haven’t you forgotten the most important emotion?’

He folded his arms and regarded her with interest. ‘And what is that?’

‘Love, Mr Warwick.’

‘Love?’ He raised one dark expressive brow in a slightly puzzled expression. ‘Do you mean sex—Kate?’ Her cheeks fired under his raking gaze as he stretched out a long, well-shaped hand to lift the little brooch, read her name. She jumped as his fingers brushed lightly against her breast and, beneath her white wra-pover overall, her nipple hardened with such shocking immediacy that he could not fail to notice. His eyes flickered to hers. ‘I hadn’t forgotten. But that’s not an emotion. It’s a weapon.’

‘What did you come to the kitchen for, Mr Warwick?’ she asked, turning abruptly away. Until that moment, despite his almost unbelievable rudeness, she had felt in control of the situation. Had felt able to match anything he could throw at her. But she had been fooling herself. Her heart had been locked away for so long that she had failed to appreciate the dangerous spike of sexual awareness that had mingled with the buzz of anger.

‘Ice,’ he said simply, in reply to her question.

‘Ice?’

‘Ice. You know. Little cubes of frozen water. If it’s no trouble? But if you want to rush off and keep your appointment with Harry, just point me in the right direction and I’ll help myself.’

She wrenched open the freezer door and tried to remember that this man was a guest in her client’s house. ‘It’s no trouble,’ she said through gritted teeth as she grabbed a bag of ice and dumped it on the table, jabbing a hole in it, wishing it were him. She tipped some into a bowl, holding it out at the full stretch of her arm, unwilling to move any nearer, to risk further contact.

He made no move to take it. Instead he continued to regard her with a level, penetrating, oddly seductive stare that, despite her anger, or perhaps because of the flood of adrenalin rushing giddily through her veins, did something rather odd to her insides, flipping them over in a way that made her breath catch raggedly in her throat and her breast rise and fall rather too quickly.

Gripping the bowl more tightly in a desperate attempt not to betray the urgent increase in her pulse-rate, she lowered her eyes to the broad white expanse of his shirt-front, the top button unfastened to reveal his tanned throat, the silk tie long since pulled from its bow to hang loose about his neck. But he hooked his fingers under her chin, lifting her face until she could not avoid looking up at him. Five feet and four inches in her stockinged feet, she had a long way to look.

‘Is there something else you want, Mr Warwick?’ Her voice stuck somewhere in her throat and emerged as little more than a whisper.

For a long moment his dark eyes held her captive to a searching scrutiny, her apparently boneless legs his unwilling accomplices to this hijack. ‘Perhaps I’ve changed my mind about dessert,’ he said, at last.

Kate had thought she was angry, but now she was glad of the fury that lashed through her, restoring some semblance of sanity to her overheated body. Jason Warwick might be considered desirable by some women, but as far as she was concerned he was an arrogant, self-opinionated… She stopped. Forced a smile to her lips. Pride demanded a cool response.

‘What exactly did you have in mind, Mr Warwick?’ she asked. ‘A quick fumble, like your friend Harry?’ If she had thought she could shame him, she realised at once that she had made a mistake. Nothing about him changed, but his eyes sparked ominously as they scanned her face.

‘In all my life…Kate…’ he paused briefly to linger on her name, investing it with the power to insult ‘…I have never done anything even remotely the same as Harry Roberts.’ His voice was as smooth and cutting as glass. ‘I certainly wouldn’t be cheating on my wife with the hired help in someone else’s kitchen.’ She took a swift step backwards, away from the drugging touch of his fingers and for a moment she thought she had escaped him. But the table dug into her back and before she could turn away he had placed his hands, either side of her, making her his prisoner. ‘But then, I’m not married.’

‘So it’s all right?’ She was at his mercy. They both knew it, but she had had enough of lecherous men for one night. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Warwick, but I’m afraid you’re really not my type,’ she said, holding herself rigid, eschewing an unseemly struggle in an effort to retain some semblance of poise.

‘No?’ He raised one eloquent brow and shrugged slightly. Then, taking the bowl of ice from her hands and putting it on the table behind her, he said, ‘Shall we see?’ For him this was just a game, one in which his partners were always more than willing. So he waited, making no move to meet her halfway, apparently expecting her to stand on her toes and reach up to kiss him. Kate was damned if she would.

Yet she knew that kissing Jason Warwick would be a world away from being manhandled by his fellow dinner guest. Her racing pulse, the way her body quickened mindlessly to the warm masculine scent of him, the gentle pressure of his arms as they held her captive told her so, ringing alarm bells in her head. She had thought she was immune to such careless flirtation. Heartbreak was a painful vaccination, but it had served her well over three hard years.

But this man emanated a quite irresistible magnetism and, while her head was behaving rationally, she was only too conscious that her body was not. Her lips were hot and swollen as she imagined his beautiful, passionate mouth plundering them, and there was a trembling about her midriff at the thought of his hands about her waist, drawing her close…

She shivered convulsively. What on earth was happening to her? Sensible, down-to-earth, cold-as-ice Kate, who never let even the most devoted of her admirers within an arm’s length.

Agitated, stalling for time, she reached up to tuck a glossy black strand of hair behind her ear. Her lips parted nervously and she ran a cooling tongue across their surface. For a moment their eyes met and with a jolt like an electric shock she realised that he was angry. With her? For her apparently casual flirtation with Harry Roberts? That was surely ridiculous. Or was it with himself for so eagerly following suit?

Well, she thought, furious at his arrogant assumption that she was prepared to inflate his oversized ego a little further, he needn’t get himself into a bother about it. Her grey eyes turned steely and her naturally warm voice dropped several degrees below zero. ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to take my word for it that I have absolutely no desire to kiss you, Mr Warwick.’

For a moment he remained perfectly still, the slightest frown creasing his brow. Then with one swift movement his hand slid down her back and he held her against the long, hard length of his body, moulding her breasts, her hips to him, and her body quivered with a surge of longing for something she knew he could give her and in that moment she wanted more than anything in the world.

‘Liar,’ he grated out harshly. Before she could utter a protest, his mouth had staked its claim and it was too late. But in those long, blissful moments she didn’t care. As desire sparked through her like a lightning strike she knew, without the slightest shadow of doubt, that he was the most desirable man she had ever met.

Her response had nothing to do with thought, or common sense. Her lips parted to his coaxing as unthinkingly as she breathed. Her breasts, hard against the broad expanse of his dress shirt, tingled deliciously as heat flickered through her veins and she let herself drown in the sensual pleasure of his tongue, sweet on hers. The kiss seemed to go on forever, her breath rising in tempo to match his, her arms long since having found their way around his neck to draw him down to her.

When finally he held her away from him Kate stared up at him, dazed, every inch of her pulsing with the sort of arousal that until that moment she would have dismissed as the feverish and overworked imagination of the adolescent mind, and a stifled sound came from somewhere deep in her throat.

‘Your word, like any other woman’s, Kate, is worthless.’ The sharp edge to his voice jolted her roughly back to the reality of the kitchen, the edge of the table at her back, the humiliation of having been kissed by a total stranger as if one of them was going to war. And the certain knowledge that it had been a demonstration. Nothing more. The blanked-out expression in his eyes could mean nothing else. And how could she protest? She had told him she didn’t want to kiss him and he had called her a liar. Her lips had betrayed her and proved him right.

‘I said I didn’t want to kiss you, Mr Warwick,’ she said, her voice hoarse from a throat aching with misery. ‘And that was the truth. I didn’t say I wouldn’t enjoy it.’ That was what made it so awful. At least Harry’s fumbling attempt at a pass, horrible though it had been, had had a kind of honesty about it.

Jason Warwick had simply set out to prove a point. Whether he had gained any pleasure from kissing her it was impossible to say. His brown eyes had a natural warmth that disguised the apparent coldness of his soul. Only a vein, beating furiously at his temple, suggested any feeling, any emotion.

For a moment he stared at her, then with a fierce oath he turned away and strode from the kitchen.

‘Mr Warwick,’ she called, a little unsteadily, as he reached the doorway. He paused, but didn’t turn. ‘You’ve forgotten your ice.’

The telephone rang and Kate, deep in concentration adding a row of figures, jumped, lost her place, sighed and lifted the receiver. ‘Kate Thornley,’ she said.

‘Good morning, Miss Thornley.’ Kate returned the greeting, instantly recognising the silvery tones of Lady Maynard, one of her favourite clients, despite the fact that it was Tisha Maynard’s kitchen that had been the scene of the appalling encounter with Jason Warwick.

‘Miss Thornley, I wonder if you would be kind enough to spare me an hour today?’

‘Of course. What kind of party are you planning?’

‘Not a party. I’d rather not discuss it on the telephone.’

Kate stared at the telephone. That sounded ominous. Surely the man hadn’t said anything about finding her in Harry Roberts’ arms? Jason Warwick hadn’t exactly covered himself with glory. ‘I’m free at eleven-thirty. Would that be convenient?’

‘I’ll expect you then.’

Kate replaced the receiver and went into her bedroom to change into something more suitable than jeans for the forthcoming interview. She opened her wardrobe door and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She had the clear, almost translucent skin that often went with black hair. Only her cheeks were blushed delicately with pink, throwing her full mouth into vivid relief. For days after Jason Warwick had kissed her it had seemed swollen, heated, and she had been unable to bear to look at herself in a mirror. She laid a light finger on her lower lip and the pressure instantly brought his powerful image into sharp focus, and with it the memory of an urgent desire he had jolted free from its cage of ice.

‘Damn him!’ she swore, and reached for her one serious business suit.

It was precisely eleven-thirty when she rang the front doorbell of Lady Maynard’s Belgravia house, and she was immediately shown into the drawing-room.

‘How good of you to come at such short notice, Miss Thornley.’ Lady Maynard, a tall, graceful figure, her fair hair somewhat faded, but her dark eyes still remarkably bright, extended a beringed had. ‘Please sit down.’ Kate perched sedately on the edge of an exquisite sofa and waited. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I have a business proposition to put to you, Miss Thornley.’

‘A business proposition?’ she repeated faintly. Until that moment she had not realised how tense she had become, convinced that she would have to defend herself in the face of unjust criticism. In freelance catering, where she was invited into homes and offices, reputation was everything. ‘What kind of business proposition?’

‘I would like to engage your professional services exclusively, that is full-time, for the next six months.’ The woman raised a hand to stall Kate’s expected protest. ‘I have no doubt that your business in London is booming. You are a wonderful cook, and, more to the point, a splendid organiser. I can assure you that I have employed enough people who called themselves caterers to appreciate that.’ She paused. ‘Shall I go on? Please tell me if you are booked up so far ahead that I’m wasting my breath.’

Kate, only too aware of the sharp reminder on her desk from the bank manager about the state of her overdraft and the way bookings had fallen in the past few months, particularly for lucrative business lunches as people tightened their belts, barely hesitated. ‘Please go on.’

‘Have you ever been to Norfolk, Miss Thornley?’

‘Norfolk?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘People say it’s flat and maybe it is, but the light is wonderful and it has enormous skies. I live between Norwich and the coast with my nephew. At Fullerton Hall.’ Her eyes were as sharp as needles. ‘Maybe you have heard of it?’

Kate shook her head. ‘No.’

Lady Maynard was not offended, but nodded as if rather pleased. ‘Well, it’s not so grand as Blickling, although it’s just as old.’ She took a booklet from the table beside her, a visitor’s guide, and handed it to Kate. ‘It’s being opened to the public very shortly.’

Kate looked at the photograph on the front cover. It was very beautiful and, despite Lady Maynard’s remark, grand enough, with twin towers at each end of the fa$cLade and enormous brick chimneys, similar to those she had seen on a visit to Hampton Court. ‘It’s lovely.’ She looked up, somewhat at a loss, and said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Heating must be a bit of a problem.’

‘Yes, my dear, it is.’ Lady Maynard laughed. ‘I knew you would be just right for the job. You’re not the sort of girl to get carried away by the romance of working in an Elizabethan manor. You see the problems. That’s good.’

‘I’m sorry…?’

‘We have a sort of tearoom in the old coach house, which was perfectly adequate when we just opened the gardens once a month during the summer. But I’ve decided to use the Edwardian conservatory to provide somewhere rather more comfortable and offer a really special afternoon tea to tempt new visitors. Now, would you consider taking on the task of organising it, running it for the first season and training a local girl to take over from you?’

Under normal circumstances she would simply have turned it down, eager to concentrate on her own business. But these weren’t normal times. Sitting at her desk, going through the figures, Kate faced the hard truth that the six-month contract she had been offered would answer all her immediate worries.

Particularly the problem of her sister’s school fees. She had been banking on a scholarship for this year, but it hadn’t happened.

Kate felt again the sharp tug of compassion as Sam had thrown her arms about her and cried. ‘I did try, Kate. Really I did.’

‘I know, my love. It’s not a reflection on your dancing. They just feel…’ She didn’t continue. She didn’t need to. Samantha was only fourteen, but she had come to terms with what being deaf meant. And deep down she had to sympathise with the dance academy’s reaction. They had given her a place when others wouldn’t even audition her and they were delighted with her progress. But there were so many deserving, talented girls…

It had all been there, tactfully concealed between the lines of the letter informing her that there could be no help with fees this year. With impaired hearing it would be that much harder for Sam. Beautiful, graceful, talented though she was, it was always going to be so much harder for her.

‘Will I have to leave?’ Sam’s voice had quivered slightly. Kate knew if her answer had been yes, her young sister would have taken it bravely. But she had already had to take so much in her short life and she deserved her chance. More than deserved it.

Instead Kate had held her by the shoulders, looked her straight in the face and made her a promise. ‘You won’t have to leave, my love. It would have been great to have had some of your fees paid, but we’ll manage.’ How, she didn’t know. But manage they would, even if she had to take in washing. Her sister’s brilliant smile was reward enough.

She glanced around her now. She hadn’t told her sister about the offer she had received for the flat from her neighbour whose sister wanted to live close by. Until now there had been no point. And it would be a wrench to part with the home they had shared for three years. But with Sam away at dance school for more than half the year, it was ridiculous to keep it. They could manage with something much smaller.

And if she took the job at Fullerton Hall, she would have no expenses for at least six months. Breathing space. The first in a long time. And time to decide on the way forward. She wouldn’t be losing touch entirely. She would still have her column in the London Evening Mail. Maybe she would even have a little time to think about the cookery book she had been collecting ideas for ever since she could remember. She picked up the telephone. There was no point in keeping Lady Maynard waiting for her answer. She would go to Norfolk as soon as Sam’s Easter holidays were over.

It was their last night in the flat. Sam was already packed for school and, apart from essentials that she couldn’t manage without, her own belongings were boxed up to be stored with their furniture.

Kate had cooked a special dinner and now they were draped lazily over the sofa, while Sam zapped through the televison channels looking for something interesting. She paused on a chat-show and for a moment there was a close-up of the host, laughing at something his guest had said. Then the camera panned and suddenly his face was there, in front of her. Jason Warwick. And every nerve-ending jerked to attention.

It was two weeks since the dinner party but almost instinctively her hand flew to her lips. Then he smiled, not as he had smiled at her, but with warmth and humour, and she gave a soft groan of anguish.

The man had held her for a few brief moments, but in that time he seemed to have imprinted himself somehow on to the surface of her skin. Even remote, untouchable like this, her body vibrated to him, and if she put out a hand she must surely be able to push back the thick dark lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead…

Sam said something, but she barely heard; her eyes were fixed upon the screen, wondering that so brief an encounter could unleash such powerful emotions. Emotions she had locked firmly away when she had taken on the responsibility of providing for her sister. When David had issued his ultimatum and it seemed that her life had come to an end.

He hadn’t been like Jason Warwick. David was fair, blue-eyed with an almost irresistible charm. Almost. But when it hadn’t worked, that last evening they spent together, when teasing and tender kisses wouldn’t move her, she had seen a different side of him. The cold, hard practical man. And she had learned her lesson well. All her love was reserved for Sam these days. They had each other, and while her sister needed her that would be enough.

And practical David had turned his blue eyes and his charm in another direction and was married within the year to a girl with parents who could provide financial support for his business, and no burdensome younger sister whose passion for dancing drained away every spare penny. A younger sister who could dance like an angel but whose hearing had been gradually deteriorating since the car accident that had killed their parents.

That had been three years ago, and no one had been able to reach her since. Until a bored, cynical man, with the reputation for breaking the heart of any girl foolish enough to let him, had decided to teach her a lesson and kissed her until, like some latter-day fairy-tale prince, he had brought every frozen emotion painfully back to life. She shivered a little. She had never liked fairy-tales.

Kate’s grey eyes narrowed as she regarded her tormentor. ‘Do you think he practises his smile in front of a mirror?’ she wondered out loud, her mockery a desperate attempt to destroy his power to disturb her. ‘You know, Sam, like a dancer limbering up at the bar? Twenty smiles suitable for old ladies.’ She tried on a patronising smile to amuse her sister. ‘Twenty serious expressions enlivened by a twitch of the mouth, like so. Twenty…’ She blinked angry with herself for allowing him to get under her skin, but not quite able to resist watching him. Then she coloured self-consciously at her sister’s knowing smirk.

The chat-show host smiled slyly at his guest. ‘Come on now, Jay,’ he urged with his deceptively mild Irish lilt. ‘Own up. You don’t really expect to find a woman these days who’s prepared to conform to your oft-vaunted ideals?’

The camera closed in on him. How it loved the moulded bones of his face, she thought, as he raked long fingers through that unruly lock of hair. He regarded his inquisitor intently.

‘I have never made a secret,’ he said, with perfect seriousness, ‘of my belief that women have two functions in life. One is in the kitchen. The other in bed.’ The camera switched to the audience as it roared its approval, the men in agreement, the women apparently in hope. He acknowledged them with a slight bow. ‘As you see, they don’t object to either occupation.’

‘Oh, God,’ Kate said faintly. She felt suddenly quite sick.

‘Which do you consider the most important, Jay?’ his host prompted with devilish glee.

Jason Warwick’s face split to reveal a row of strong, white teeth. ‘I find the two combine quite naturally.’ He looked straight into the camera and Kate felt his eyes were focussed only on her and she moaned softly. ‘There seems to be an affinity between food and sex…’

There was a sudden stillness in the studio. The Irishman cleared his throat. ‘Are you telling us that you’ve found a woman who can cook?’ Getting no immediate answer, he added wickedly, ‘As well?’ He glanced at the audience, milking the laughter. ‘It must be serious, then?’

A flash of irritation crossed Jason Warwick’s face, but he quickly recovered himself, lounging back in his chair, a quixotic smile firmly in place. ‘Serious? My dear fellow, when have I ever been serious about anything?’

The other man laughed. ‘Not about women, that’s for sure. Are you going to tell us who she is?’ Kate, white-faced, held her breath.

‘No.’ In close-up she could see the fine line etched into his cheek that might have creased when he smiled. He wasn’t smiling now. ‘She knows who she is. Don’t you, Kate?’

Kate made a small sound in the back of her throat and Sam screamed with laughter. ‘Kate Thornley, I do believe you’ve been keeping secrets. Did the gorgeous Jason Warwick creep up behind you when you were up to your elbows in the dishwater? Is that why you can’t take your eyes off him?’

Aware that her face had gone a sickly, betraying white, she rubbed her cheeks. The teasing remark had been just a little too close to the truth for comfort. ‘I don’t wash up, Sam. People who can afford to hire me have machines to wash the dishes.’ She forced a smile. ‘Isn’t it time you were in bed? It’ll be a long day tomorrow.’

Sam disappeared into the kitchen for some milk and Kate turned once more to stare at the screen. Why had he done that? Used her name? It left her feeling exposed. She stood up and snapped the off button. She would be glad to get away to Norfolk. Flat and peaceful, and two hundred miles away from Jason Warwick.

CHAPTER TWO

THE soft burble of the alarm woke her instantly and Kate lay quite still, for a moment uncertain where she was. Then, remembering, she flung back the cover and leapt from her bed. The room was as pretty in the early sunlight as it had been welcoming in lamplight, with its delicate cream and pink wallpaper and ivory lace floor-length curtains.

She pushed them back now and stared once more across the park to the serene vista of a lake and beyond it, on a slight rise, a small Grecian temple. Fullerton Hall was all so much larger than she had imagined, so much grander, and yet not the least bit daunting.

Her first impression had been of warm brick, flowers and, despite the carved stone beasts that defended the footbridge to the entrance, of welcome as the house had smiled at her, rose-pink in the dying sunshine of a fine April evening. It had quite taken her breath away.

She flexed her toes against the thick carpet, stretched and luxuriated in the simple pleasure of a hot shower without for once having to worry about the electricity bill. Then, dressed in jeans, a soft cream shirt and a fine rose sweater that reflected a blush on to her pale translucent skin, she found her way down the back stairs to the kitchen. It was warm and comfortable but Kate didn’t linger, eager instead to explore the gardens nearest to the house before beginning work.

The kitchen door led to a small courtyard paved with bricks and brightened by tubs of early tulips. A hand pump next to a covered square brick wellhead had been recently painted black, as had the wrought-iron gate let into the old brick wall almost hidden by an ancient wistaria vine.

Kate opened the gate and stepped down into the walled kitchen garden. Neat, well-raked gravel paths edged with low-growing herbs divided beds planted with early vegetable crops and tender salad plants being coaxed under cloches.

She bent to crush a few leaves of lemon thyme between her fingers, breathing in the scent. ‘This,’ she told a watchful robin, ‘is going to be this cook’s paradise.’

‘Then perhaps you’d better be a little careful what you pick if you venture into the orchard.’

Kate spun around, shock sending her pulse-rate into overdrive. Jason Warwick was standing in the gateway in the wall, and regarding her inscrutably down his long, not quite straight nose. For one brief moment she dwelt on the agreeable picture of an angry fist breaking it.

‘My name is not Eve, as you already know, and it’s the wrong time of year for apples,’ she declared vigorously as she rose, trying to ignore the athletic grace of his figure and the way his well-cut beige cord trousers clung to his hips. She concentrated on the safer area of his chest concealed under a soft wool shirt of a deeper shade. Then she averted her eyes. There was nothing safe about Jason Warwick, and it would be a grave mistake to think he was less deadly in casual clothes than in the black broadcloth and starched linen he had been wearing on their previous encounter.

‘Your name is of considerably less interest at this moment than why you’re trespassing in my garden,’ he replied evenly, but she was not deceived. He was angry.

But he had met his match. ‘Your garden indeed! I’m not the one trespassing. You are. This house belongs to Lady Maynard.’

‘Does it, now?’ The touch of amusement that twisted his lips made her vaguely uneasy but, hands on hips, she stood her ground as he towered over her. ‘You’re nearly right. But since Tisha Maynard is my aunt and this is my home, I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.’

‘You are Tisha’s nephew?’

His eyes narrowed at her use of his aunt’s given name. ‘I don’t know what tale you’ve told my aunt to inveigle your way in here. Whatever it is, you’d better make your excuses and leave.’ He took a step forward and grasped her firmly by the arm. ‘Right now.’ He turned and began to walk back to the kitchen, his fingers digging into her flesh as she resisted.

She ignored the pressure of his fingers on her arm, only fleetingly wondering why it was possible to dislike a man and everything he stood for yet still be aroused by him. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said. But even as the words left her lips she knew it was too horribly possible that Jason Warwick was the nephew Lady Maynard had so casually mentioned, although she couldn’t understand how anyone could be casual about owning such an obnoxious relative. Perhaps that was the reason she hadn’t bothered to mention who he was.

His face darkened as she dug her heels in. ‘Don’t make it worse by pretending not to know. What on earth do you think you’re doing here?’

‘Perhaps you should ask your aunt, Mr Warwick, before you start flinging accusations about.’ She pulled her arm free and tugged at her sweater, then wished she hadn’t as his eyes lingered on the outline of her breasts.

‘Oh, I’ve a fair idea what you want. But if you think because I kissed you once, you’ll be a welcome addition to my household, you are mistaken. This is my family home. I share it with my aunt. When I’m here, Kate, I sleep alone.’

‘You must be glad of the rest,’ she snapped back. ‘I certainly won’t be disturbing you. I had no idea you would be here.’

He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. She knew he was tall. In the close confinement of Tisha Maynard’s kitchen, his height had commanded attention. But here, in the early-morning garden, there was something so physical about him that she instinctively stepped backwards. His hand shot out and caught her wrist, preventing her further retreat. ‘You expect me to believe that?’ His fingers tightened and he shook her slightly, like a naughty puppy. She couldn’t believe the gall of the man.

‘Is it so impossible?’ she demanded. ‘Or is your ego so inflated that you believe every woman you kiss can’t wait to leap into bed with you? Let me tell you,’ she continued, with reckless abandon and an equal disregard for the truth, ‘I’ve been kissed by men just as accomplished as you!’ His eyes gleamed and she fervently wished she had chosen her words more carefully. Her intended put-down had somehow developed into a compliment of sorts.

‘Have you, now? Well, I suggest you pick one of them out of a hat and go right back to the lucky winner. You’re not wanted here.’

‘Is that so? Perhaps you should check with Lady Maynard first. Maybe she has other ideas.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me.’ It was not an invitation she felt capable of refusing.

‘Lady Maynard has just signed a six-month contract with me. And she was the one who insisted that there should be a no-break clause. She didn’t want me to change my mind.’ She paused briefly. ‘I can’t imagine why she thought I might.’

He ignored the gibe. ‘Six months?’ He frowned. ‘What on earth…?’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll just have to come up with some particularly heart-rending reason for leaving. She won’t stop you even if you signed a hundred no-break clauses. I promise,’ he added fervently.

‘Why should I do that, Mr Warwick? I’m extremely happy with the arrangement.’ That was true as far as it went. But Tisha Maynard, in her throwaway comment about a nephew, had not thought fit to mention who he was, or she would never have come within a hundred miles of Fullerton Hall.

‘That could change. Very quickly.’ His eyes blackened as they insolently travelled the length of her, from narrow feet encased in immaculate white trainers, by way of slender legs and a tiny waist—a figure that, dressed in jeans, might be described as boyish by the careless onlooker—to a face that certainly could not. A full, sensuous lower lip, a nose as straight as an arrow and fine grey eyes that were flashing angry warning signals that any man would ignore at his peril. But Jason Warwick wasn’t any man. He eventually arrived at the smooth coil of shining black hair that crowned her finely shaped head.

It was a look calculated to insult, to put a rocket under the blood-pressure of any woman with half an ounce of spirit, and he raised a pair of well-marked brows, inviting her response, clearly expecting an explosion that would wreck any chance of her staying. No contract was that watertight.

But he had no idea how much she needed this job. That despite her one slip from reality in his arms, she had three years of hard-won self-control to call upon.

Kate Thornley refused Jay Warwick’s invitation to self-destruct and retaliated in kind, forcing herself to return the slow, assessing examination that he had subjected her to and making very sure he understood exactly what she was doing.

She lacked his experience in these matters and therefore followed his example by beginning with his feet. They were large. Beautifully shod in hand-tooled leather, but at least a size eleven. His legs were long, and from the way the material stretched across his thighs, powerful. His hips and waist were temptingly lean and for a moment her gaze lingered, before almost reluctantly she allowed her gaze to continue over the widening chest to square, broad shoulders.

Her impulsive challenge faltered as she reached the hard, uncompromising line of his jaw and his mouth twisted into a knowing smile. As she met his eyes, her mouth dried.

‘Jay? I thought I heard your car.’ The tap of an ebony cane across the brick courtyard and the swift scuff of paws announcing the arrival of Tisha Maynard and her rather scruffy little terrier smashed the threads of tension that had momentarily bound them like a web of finely spun glass. ‘I didn’t expect you until later, darling.’ She offered her cheek to be kissed. ‘I’m so glad you’ve introduced yourself to Miss Thornley.’ She turned to her. ‘Did you sleep well, Kate?’

‘Yes, thank you, Tisha,’ she said, conscious of Jay Warwick’s eyes burning into her. ‘My room is very comfortable.’

‘Well, if there’s anything you want, just ask.’ She turned back to her nephew. ‘I’ve managed to persuade Kate to come and run the new tearoom for us. She’s a wonderful cook and an excellent organiser. She cooked the last time you dined with me.’

‘I know. We—’ his gaze flickered over Kate ‘—bumped into one another. What new tearoom?’

‘In the conservatory. I would have told you before, but you’ve been so busy with your bid for the new radio station. Besides, you said not to bother you with the details.’

‘Miss Thornley is rather more than a detail. Surely you have more than enough staff?’

‘No one with Kate’s talent for organisation.’

‘I’m sure she has many talents,’ he said ambiguously. ‘What exactly is she going to organise here?’

His aunt, apparently unaware that his conversation was being conducted on two levels, explained what Kate would be doing. ‘So you see, Jay, you needn’t worry about a thing.’

‘Of course not. Who drew up the contract?’ he asked, casually. ‘These things need to be done properly.’

‘My solicitor handled it quite as easily as yours could have done. Just because I’m old, it doesn’t mean I’m foolish, Jay.’

His face softened slightly. ‘I never said you were foolish, Tisha…’ He did not go on, apparently unwilling to destroy her pleasure in her plans, but his aunt sensed his hesitation.

‘But?’ she demanded, a little testily. ‘I suppose you think you could have done it all a great deal better?’ Kate held her breath as for a heartbeat he seemed to weigh his own feelings against hurting his aunt.

‘Of course not.’ He avoided Kate’s eye. ‘You’re a clever woman and it’s a lovely idea.’

Mollified, Tisha Maynard smiled at them both. ‘Why don’t you take Kate for a walk around the garden before breakfast, Jay? She’s full of plans.’

‘Is she?’ He glanced at her then. ‘Then a walk it will be. Come along…Kate. I can’t wait to hear just what you have in mind.’ He held out his hand, nothing in his manner to betray the warning in his eyes as they met hers. Reluctantly she surrendered her arm to him and he tucked it under his.

The sun was higher. A blackbird was perched on the wall serenading them. Jay Warwick had given way in the face of his aunt’s eagerness for her plans, clearly unwilling to upset her by betraying his own displeasure. Everything should have been perfect. But that would have been too easy. She didn’t think he would be quite so gentle with her, and her heart was pounding furiously as she was insistently propelled along a path dissecting the formal gardens, closely flanked by the tall, dangerous figure of her nemesis.

‘There’s really no need to escort me, Mr Warwick,’ she said, finally breaking the silence. ‘I’m sure I can find my own way.’

‘I like to stretch my legs after a long drive.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘I assure you I have no immediate plans to ravish you in the rhodedendrons.’

‘It never occurred to me that you would,’ she said. ‘Unless of course the one-to-a-bed rule only applies inside the hall?’

‘If you were considering putting it to the test, I would advise against it.’

‘You’re really quite safe, I promise,’ she said flippantly, firmly ignoring the thought that if he had been intent on ravishment, she wasn’t totally convinced that she would be able to resist him. It was infuriating.

He stopped, and she was forced to do the same. He regarded her thoughtfully, gold glints sparking in the depths of velvet brown eyes. ‘Perhaps you should be more concerned for your own safety.’ Then, ignoring her sharp intake of breath, he regained possession of her elbow and continued to propel her down a broad gravel path flanked on either side by the black skeletal shapes of ancient standard roses. This was hardly the pleasant walk in the garden that she had envisaged when she set out first thing. She attempted to shake free. But his grip was deceptively firm. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think, Kate, that because I have decided not to interfere with Tisha’s plans I am happy about them.’

‘I did get the hint of a feeling that you weren’t too happy.’

‘I believed I had scotched this particular bee in her bonnet. Presumably that’s why she chose to go behind my back. She is a stubborn old woman and can’t bear not to get her way. Clearly things are too far advanced to stop without causing her a great deal of distress. So be it.’ He glanced at her. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘I arrived last night.’

‘I see. Then you have very little time. I hope your much-vaunted powers of organisation are more than myth, because the house is opening in less than two weeks.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, it will keep you fully occupied. Not that there are many opportunities to flirt with the dinner guests here.’

Only the whiteness above her lip betrayed the effort it was taking Kate to keep her voice even, her expression bland. ‘Perhaps I can have your assurance that the dinner guests won’t flirt with me? Even those that live here?’

For a moment she thought she had taken him by surprise but he recovered so quickly that she couldn’t be certain. ‘At Fullerton Hall, Kate, I make the rules.’

She gave a little gasp. ‘I have a few of my own and top of the list concerns—’

‘You really are not in any position to dictate terms,’ he interrupted, ‘if there’s a no-break clause in your contract.’

‘Top of the list,’ she repeated, furiously, ‘concerns…’ This time there was no interruption, just the sudden certainty that she was about to make an utter fool of herself.

‘Well?’ he prompted, impatiently.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Insisting that he promise not to kiss her in the kitchen, or anywhere else for that matter, might just put ideas into his head regarding the simplest way to rid himself of her.

‘This way, Kate.’ He pushed open a pair of ornamental gates flanked by high formal yew hedges and guarded by a bronze wolf with a hungry leer. Jay patted the beast affectionately and then stepped through and on to the grassy path. Kate hesitated and he looked back.

‘“Enter these enchanted woods, you who dare.” Do you dare, Kate?’

She regarded him levelly. ‘What could there possibly be to fear, Mr Warwick?’

In answer, he took her arm and led her along a narrow path knee-deep in bluebells. ‘It’s the possibility of danger that makes life interesting, Kate.’ There was a resolute intensity about the man. ‘We all need to take risks, or how will we know we are alive?’

He stopped and glanced down at her and frowned slightly. His arm was still linked in hers, holding her close on the narrow path, and above the heady scent of the flowers she could smell the warmth of his body, good cloth, leather. Every nerve-end was tingling, polarised by his presence, drawing her under his spell. Each moment this close to him was a risk and he was right. She could never remember feeling quite so vividly alive.

He continued to regard her for a moment with a slightly puzzled expression, then abruptly glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time to start work, Kate. You can begin by cooking me some breakfast.’

‘You’d better take me back, then, Mr Warwick. I can’t have you passing out from hunger in “these enchanted woods”. It would be too bad if you were spirited away by a passing fairy.’

‘There are things far more dangerous than fairies in the woods, Miss Thornley. Innocent-looking young women who look as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, for one.’

Kate felt the hot colour burning her cheekbones. ‘How do you like your eggs?’ she demanded, finally managing to wrench her arm from his. Presumably because he was no longer interested in holding it.

‘Cooked,’ he said, and smiled slightly. ‘And on a plate, in case you had any more unconventional plans for them.’ He opened the door for her and followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’ll eat in here. With you.’

Kate wrapped herself in an apron and went into the pantry for a bowl of eggs. ‘Cooked on a plate,’ she muttered angrily to herself. Kate put some bacon in a pan and placed it on the Aga rather firmly. Damn Jay Warwick, she thought angrily to herself, then applied herself to the task of providing the wretched man with breakfast. She added a couple of rashers of bacon to the pan. The early morning walk had sharpened her appetite and she smiled ruefully.

At least if she was eating it would give her something to do with her hands. Strangling the world’s favourite bachelor wouldn’t win her any friends on a jury. The door opened behind her but she made no indication that she heard, instead giving her total attention to the perfect execution of her eggs.

‘That smells good.’

‘I’m a very good cook.’ She dished up the food and placed it on the table, marvelling at the steadiness of her hand. She met his eyes.

‘I know. Sit down and eat your breakfast.’ He pulled out a chair for her. He had capitulated so suddenly that she didn’t quite believe it, and she hesitated. He regarded her steadily for a moment, then shrugged. ‘If Tisha wants a teashop in the conservatory, Kate, she shall have it, but you’re up against a deadline and you don’t know your way about. It will take our combined efforts to make it work.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you have much time to spare for such minor details.’

‘In this case, I shall have to make the time. As soon as we’ve had breakfast we’ll look at the conservatory and work out exactly what has to be done.’

They spent an hour in the conservatory and the time flew by as Jay listened intently to her ideas, his lateral manner of thinking offering solutions that might never have occurred to her.

‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked, as they made their way back to the kitchen in search of coffee.

‘Write a shopping list and then let my fingers do the walking.’

‘Don’t you think you should consider a little market research?’

‘Market research?’

‘I normally employ a company to do it for me, but in this case I’m sure we could manage it between us.’

‘And what will it entail?’

‘A look at the opposition. There are a couple of tearooms in Oulton Market. I have to go out but I’ll pick you up here at about a quarter to four.’

‘But…’ He had already moved on. She hurried after him. ‘Why don’t you take your aunt?’

‘My aunt employed you to advise her and, since you are being paid handsomely for your expertise, I intend to take full advantage of your knowledge. Now if you’ll excuse me I have some phone calls to make. I won’t be in for lunch.’ He didn’t wait for her reply and she was left standing open-mouthed in the hall.

Catching sight of herself in a mirror, she shut her mouth quickly. ‘Watch it, Kate,’ she warned her reflection, and pulled a face at herself.

But in the event it hadn’t been quite as bad as she had expected. Jay Warwick had a first-class business brain. His meteoric success in the cut-throat world of television was testament to that. And having made his decision to let her stay—and she was in no doubt that if he had wanted her to go he would have found a way to get rid of her—he had obviously decided to establish a reasonable working relationship. In the interests of keeping Tisha happy. She took herself off to the pantry to make an inventory of baking tins. It was a soothing, monotonous job, requiring total concentration.

‘You’re very quiet, Miss Thornley.’ Jay Warwick changed gear as the road straightened and glanced across at her.

‘I didn’t realise I was expected to provide witty conversation as well as cook.’

‘Only if you feel up to it.’ He approached a tricky stretch of road and gave it his full attention and so missed the infuriated glance she threw at him. The road narrowed as it approached the small town of Oulton Market and Jay was forced to wait for a slow-moving tractor before he could park in the market square. Before she could release her seatbelt he was round the car and opening the door for her.

‘Now,’ he said, briskly, ‘We have the Copper Kettle and Martha’s Kitchen to choose from.’ He indicated two tearooms that gleamed at one another across the square. ‘Or should we try both?’

‘Oh, in the interests of market research I’m sure we should. Although it might look a little odd.’

‘And since presumably we’ll have to eat something, it could also prove rather fattening.’

She allowed her eyes to drift down his lean figure. ‘I don’t think so. Unless you’re trying to tell me that you run five miles a day and play squash three times a week?’

‘I get the feeling you would relish the idea of my suffering, Kate. But you’re quite right, I’m naturally skinny.’

‘Fishing for compliments won’t work with me, Mr Warwick. You already know what a very attractive man you are.’

‘You’re getting careless. That was almost a compliment.’

‘Was it? I can assure you it wasn’t meant to be.’

He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I begin to see why Tisha was impressed so with you. Which reminds me that she asked me to pick up a prescription for her.’

As they walked across the square to the chemist, Kate became increasingly aware that they were the centre of attention.

‘You’re attracting rather a lot of interest,’ she said, finally.

‘Not me. These people have known me all my life. You’re the one arousing local curiosity. You’re not quite my usual style, you see, so I’m afraid you’ll be the subject of ill-informed speculation over dinner-tables throughout the parish tonight.’ The idea did not appear to amuse him.

‘I imagine you’re referring to your famous weakness for leggy blondes? Surely they don’t get invited to Fullerton Hall? The sleeping arrangements are somewhat restricted. And I would have thought they preferred to stay a little nearer the bright lights.’

‘Would you?’ He pocketed the prescription and turned an expressionless gaze upon her. Then a touch of derision touched his smile. ‘The fortitude of some girls would probably amaze you. They’ll do anything to get on television. Even sleep alone.’ She swallowed hard as he took her arm and headed for Martha’s Kitchen. Apparently satisfied with the impression he had made, he handed her a menu. ‘What can I offer you?’

Kate had not needed to look at the menu, using it only as a shield to recover her composure. ‘A scone, please with fresh cream and raspberry jam.’

‘Is that all?

‘For the purposes of market research, Mr Warwick, it will do well enough.’ The waitress brought their tea. ‘I’ll pour, shall I? I don’t imagine you’ve had much experience with all those willing ladies eager to pander to your every whim.’

He bared his teeth at her as she poured two cups of tea. The waitress returned with their scones and Kate considered the offering.

Jay took the cup she handed to him and raised an enquiring brow as she broke the scone open, sniffed it, then pushed the plate away. ‘Well?’ he asked, slightly startled by this performance.

‘This is a mass-produced scone. It could be purchased in a packet in any supermarket and will last for days.’

‘Isn’t that good?’

Kate propped her elbows on the table and leaned her face on her hands. ‘That is a matter of opinion, Mr Warwick. But it isn’t what Tisha has in mind, and if this is the kind of stuff you’re prepared to offer your customers you certainly don’t need me.’

Jay Warwick regarded her over the edge of his teacup. ‘I thought we’d already established that.’

Kate stiffened. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ she said, furious with herself for being lulled into a false sense of security. If she was the one to crack, his aunt could hardly blame him.

He produced a note and, dropping it on the table, rose to his feet. ‘How long do you think you will be able to stand it?’

‘As long as you can dish it out,’ she retorted.

His smile was grudging. ‘Have you seen enough? Or should we check up on the Copper Kettle?’

‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr Warwick. At Fullerton Hall, as I’m sure you already know since you seem to be quite bright, you’ll have a captive audience. And this place, at least, offers no incentive to escape.’

‘That was nearly another compliment,’ he said, a little brusquely, opening the car door for her. ‘Aren’t you afraid it will go to my head?’

Kate glanced up at him as she tucked her seatbelt into place. ‘I’m sure an ego as large as yours can handle it.’

His eyes darkened and she saw with a sudden shock that she had made him angry. ‘Damn you,’ he said, and shut the door with rather more force than was necessary and turned away.

‘Jay!’

He narrowed his eyes against the slanting sun and cursed softly under his breath. ‘Hello, Mike.’

‘I didn’t realise you were home.’ A man, a little above average in height and with soft brown hair, hurried across the square towards them. He glanced in the car at Kate and then, pointedly, at Jay.

Jay performed perfunctory introductions. ‘Kate Thornley, Mike Howard.’

Mike offered Kate his hand through the window. ‘Hello, Kate,’ he said warmly, his eyes riveted on her face.

She took the proffered hand and found it held firmly. ‘Hello, Mike,’ she said and swallowed a smile as a warning shadow crossed Jay Warwick’s face.

‘Miss Thornley is organising the catering at the house,’ he said coolly. ‘We’re opening in a couple of weeks.’

‘You’ve decided to go ahead, then?’ Admiration lit the other man’s eyes as he regarded Kate. ‘Quite an undertaking. When’s the big day? I shall certainly make an effort to be there.’ He had addressed himself to Kate, but it was Jay who answered.

‘It will be advertised.’ He made an impatient move and Mike Howard reluctantly surrendered Kate’s hand.

‘I’d better let you get on, then. I’m sure you’ve a lot to do. I’ll see you again soon, Kate.’

She smiled rather more warmly than she might normally have done as he waved and walked away across the square.

‘He’s the estate agent for the National Trust in this area,’ Jay told her, as he climbed into the driving seat. ‘In case you wanted to make a note.’ There was something about the way he said it that made her look up.

‘I might,’ she said.

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