Lee Wilkinson - Captive In The Millionaire's Castle

Used to Claire, who had needed to rigorously watch her diet, Michael turned to Jenny and lifted a dark, enquiring brow.

‘The casserole and the pie sound great,’ she said, surprising him yet again.

‘Then make that two, please, Amos.’

Nodding his approval, Amos disappeared in the direction of the kitchen while, frowning a little, Jenny found herself having second thoughts.

Her new boss had obviously been a little startled by her robust choices, and she wondered if, in order to create a good impression, she should have gone for a more ladylike salad and a soft drink.

Oh, well, it was too late now to worry about it.

He carried both their glasses over to a table by the fire, and was about to settle Jenny in one of the comfortable, cushioned chairs when, seeing the firelight flicker on her face, he made to move it back. ‘That might be too close for you…’

‘No… No, it’s fine.’

Hearing the hint of surprise in her voice, he explained, ‘I suppose I got used to my ex-wife. She never liked to sit close in case the heat ruined her skin.’

When he said nothing further, deciding he was disinclined for conversation, Jenny turned her head and watched the leaping flames while she slowly sipped her drink.

Lifting his own glass to his lips, Michael found himself wondering why on earth he was talking about Claire, when for months he had done his best to avoid mentioning her name or even thinking about her.

Perhaps it was Amos’s revelations that had brought his ex to the forefront of his mind.

He had little doubt that Claire’s talk with the reporters had been deliberately staged. Though he was sure she no longer loved him, and probably never had, he knew that she couldn’t bear to let go any man that she had once considered hers.

But she was wasting her time. He hadn’t the slightest intention of taking her back. In the short time they had been married she had cuckolded him and almost succeeded in emasculating him.

Anything he had once felt for her had long since died, and when the divorce had been finalized, mingled with the pain and bitter disillusionment had been relief.

Unconsciously, he sighed, and with a determined effort he brought his mind back to the present.

His companion was sitting quietly staring into the fire. Watching the pure line of her profile, he noted that though she appeared to be at ease, she wasn’t nearly as composed as she looked.

He was still studying her surreptitiously when their food arrived, and he suggested, ‘Tuck in.’

It looked and smelled so appetizing that, in spite of her previous misgivings, when a generous plateful was put in front of her Jenny obeyed.

It was every bit as good as the landlord had boasted, the tender meat served with small, fluffy dumplings, a selection of root vegetables, and rich, tasty gravy.

Michael noted that she ate neatly and daintily, but with a healthy appetite. After getting used to seeing Claire toy with a salad and then leave half of it, he found it a pleasure to lunch with a woman who obviously enjoyed her food.

The pie that followed was just as good, with light, crisp pastry, tangy apples cooked to perfection, and lashings of thick country cream.

When Jenny had finished the last spoonful, she sat back with a satisfied, ‘Mmmm…’

Watching her use the tip of a pink tongue to catch an errant speck of cream, he felt a sudden fierce kick of desire low down in his belly, and was forced to glance hastily away.

Since his divorce he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman, and that sudden, unbidden reaction threw him off balance.

Seeing she was looking at him, and hoping his tension didn’t show, he asked unnecessarily, ‘I take it you enjoyed the meal?’

‘It was absolutely delicious. I can quite see why you like to stop here—’

All at once she broke off, flustered, wondering if he’d thought her greedy.

She was trying to find some way to change what had become an uncomfortable subject when the landlord appeared to clear away the dishes and bring the coffee, sparing her the need.

‘A grand meal, Amos,’ Michael said heartily.

He sounded sincere, and, realizing that he too had enjoyed it, Jenny relaxed. Perhaps, because of what she saw as the newness and possible fragility of the relationship, she was simply being over-sensitive.

‘I haven’t tasted anything as good as that since I was here last.’

‘I’ll tell Sarah,’ the landlord promised. ‘She’ll be pleased.’

For a little while they sipped their coffee without speaking, and, a quick glance at her silent companion confirming that he was once again in a brown study, she seized the opportunity to watch him.

His dark hair was thick and glossy, still trying to curl a little in spite of its short cut, and, though he lacked either charm or charisma, his face was interesting, lean and strong-boned, with a straight nose and a cleft chin.

It was the kind of face that wouldn’t change or grow soft and flabby with age. At sixty or seventy he would look pretty much as he looked now.

His eyes were handsome, she conceded, long and heavy-lidded, tilted up a little at the outer edge, with thick curly lashes. His teeth too were excellent, gleaming white and healthy, while his mouth had a masculine beauty that made her feel strange inside.

Dragging her gaze away with something of an effort, she studied his ears, which were smallish and set neatly against his well-shaped head. A far cry from the large, sticky-out ears Laura had predicted.

Jenny was smiling at the remembered picture when he glanced up unexpectedly.

As he watched the hot colour rise in her cheeks, pointing to her guilt, she saw his eyes narrow.

He obviously thought she had been laughing at him, and, knowing how fragile a man’s ego could be, she braced herself for an angry outburst.

But, his face showing only mild interest, he suggested blandly, ‘Perhaps you’d allow me to share the joke?’

Seeing nothing else for it, she drew a deep breath and admitted, ‘I was smiling at the mental picture my flatmate had painted of what you, as a successful author, ought to look like.’

‘Oh? So what should a successful author look like?’

She repeated as near as she could remember word for word what had been said that morning.

His face straight, but his green eyes alight with amusement, he said quizzically, ‘Hmm… Large, pointed, sticky-out ears… So how do I compare? Favourably, I hope?’

She smiled, and, relieved that he’d taken it so well, dared to joke. ‘Not altogether. After seeing some old reruns of Star Trek , I’ve developed a passion for Mr Spock.’

Her lovely, luminous smile, the hint of mischief, beguiling and fascinating, hit him right over the heart, and for a moment that vital organ seemed to miss a beat.

Striving to hide the effect her teasing had had on him, he pulled himself together, and complained, ‘Being compared to Mr Spock and found wanting could seriously damage my ego.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, with mock contrition. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that.’

‘So you weren’t suggesting that my ears aren’t as exciting as a Vulcan’s?’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

‘I should hope not.’

His sudden white smile took her breath away and totally overturned her earlier assessment that he lacked either charm or charisma. Obviously he had lashings of both, hidden beneath that cool veneer.

All at once, for no reason at all, her heart lifted, and she found herself looking forward to the days and weeks ahead.

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