Liz Fielding: Instant Fire

Clay regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, but didn’t pursue the subject. Instead he summoned the waiter and asked for the bill. ‘Now, about dinner. Where shall I pick you up?

Surprise that he should want to see her again made her laugh a little uncertainly. ‘There’s no need, Clay, really. It was very kind of you to take me out to lunch, but—’

‘I didn’t bring you here to be kind.’ He leaned forward. ‘I still want to kiss you, Jo Grant. You were the one who stipulated being wined and dined first. Of course, perhaps you’ve changed your mind.’ His eyes glinted wickedly. ‘In which case I’ll be happy to oblige right now.’

‘I didn’t …’ Joanna bit back the denial and stood up. It was a ridiculous conversation and she had no intention of prolonging it. Clay rose and she smiled, graciously, she hoped. ‘Please don’t let me rush you.’ She offered Clay her hand and he shook it solemnly. ‘Thank you for lunch. I won’t trouble you for a lift. I can get a taxi back to work.’ She moved swiftly across the dining-room, making for the pay-phone in Reception, where she searched furiously in her bag.

‘Can I offer you some change?’ He was leaning against the wall, watching her.

‘No, thank you,’ Jo said coldly. Then, as she realised that she had none, she changed her mind. ‘Yes,’ she snapped.

‘It’ll be at least ten minutes before one comes,’ Clay said, gently, offering her a handful of silver coins. ‘Why don’t you want me to take you?’

She refused to meet his eye. Selecting a ten-pence coin, Jo fiercely punched in the number of the local taxi service listed by the phone.

‘Don’t you want me to kiss you?’ he asked, seriously. ‘I rather thought you did.’

The phone was ringing in her ear. ‘Keble Taxis, how can I help you?’

‘I should like a taxi to collect me from the George as quickly as possible, please,’ Jo said, studiously ignoring the man at her side.

‘We’re rather busy at the moment,’ the girl told her. ‘It’ll be twenty minutes.’

‘Twenty minutes!’

Clay took the phone from her hand and spoke into the receiver. ‘We’ll leave it, thank you.’ He hung up. ‘I can’t have you late for work, can I? Not a dedicated career-woman like you. You’ll be quite safe, I promise.’

Before she could protest further he had opened the door and swept her towards the car. Settled against the worn leather, Jo was aware of a certain breathlessness. On site, except for visits from the project manager, she was in control. But she had somehow lost that control when Clay Thackeray had walked into her office. The word safe was completely inappropriate. He was a dangerously disturbing man.

They didn’t speak as they sped along the country lanes and it was with a certain relief that Jo saw the site earthworks appear above the hedge. Clay pulled into the yard and stopped. She tried to escape but he was faster, catching her hand as she moved to release the seatbelt, holding it against his chest so that she could feel the steady thudding of his heart.

‘Now you have to decide, Jo Grant.’

Jo glared at him. ‘You promised!’

‘Did I?’ He challenged her softly. ‘I remember saying that you would be safe. I didn’t specify what I would keep you safe from.’

How could such open, honest eyes hide such a devious nature? she fumed. ‘In that case I’ll get it over with now, if it’s all the same to you.’ Ignoring the fact that they had the rapt attention of the site staff, she closed her eyes and waited. A soft chuckle made her open them again. Clay was shaking his head.

‘Round one to you, ma’am. On points.’ He leaned across and pushed open the door for her. For a moment she sat, completely nonplussed. ‘Well? Are you going to sit there all afternoon? I thought you were in a hurry.’

‘Yes.’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Thank you again for lunch,’ she said, auto-matically.

She climbed from the car and walked quickly across to her office, firmly refusing to give in to the impulse to look back.

It was Thursday before he phoned. A whole week.

‘Joanna?’ Her heart skipped a beat as the low voice spoke her name.

‘Clay?’ she echoed the query in his voice, but ruefully acknowledged that the man knew how to play the game. She had been on tenterhooks all week, expecting him to turn up at the site every moment. The mere glimpse of a grey car was enough to send her heart on a roller-coaster. But he hadn’t come and she had called herself every kind of fool for refusing his invitation to dinner. And then called herself every kind of fool for wanting to get involved with him. He was completely out of her reach. She hadn’t the experience to cope with such a man. She hadn’t the experience, full stop.

‘How are you, Joanna?’ She could almost see the cool amusement in those eyes.

‘Fine, thank you. And you? Are you enjoying your holiday?’

‘Not much. I’ve been in the Midlands all week on business. But you could change all that. Have dinner with me tonight.’

‘Have all your old girlfriends got married while you’ve been away?’ she parried, a little breathlessly, not wishing to seem too eager.

He chuckled. ‘Most of them. It has been nearly seven years. Will you come?’

‘I …’ For a moment there was war between desire and common sense. Desire had no competition. ‘I’d love to.’

IT WAS late when Jo finally parked the car behind the old house in the nearby market town of Woodhurst. She let herself into the first-floor flat that she had rented for the duration of the job and dumped her shopping on the kitchen table.

She wasted very little time in the shower and quickly dried her hair, a thick, dark blonde mop, streaked with pale highlights from so much time spent out of doors. There had been a time when she had wondered what it would be like to have curls like her sister, but had long since accepted the fact that they weren’t for her. Her nose was a little too bold and her mouth overlarge. Curls, a kindly hairdresser had told the fourteen-year-old Joanna as he’d cut away the disastrous results of Heather’s attempt to provide the missing locks with a home perm, were for those girls whose face lacked character. She hadn’t believed him, even then, but these days she was content with a style that needed little more than a cut once every three weeks to keep it looking good.

Satisfied with her hair, she spent a great deal longer than usual on her make-up and painted her nails pale pink. Tonight she was determined to be Joanna Grant. Jo the site engineer could, for once, take a back seat.

She had few evening clothes and she hadn’t needed to deliberate on what she would wear. She stepped into a floating circle of a skirt in pale grey georgette and topped it with a long-sleeved jacket in toning greys and pinks with a touch of silver thread in the design. She fastened large pale pink circles of agate twisted around with silver to her ears and regarded the result with a certain satisfaction. It was quite possible, she thought, with some amusement, that, in the unlikely event they should bump into any of her colleagues tonight, they would be hard pressed to recognise her.