Carole Mortimer - Shadowed Stranger

And yet a village certainly wasn’t the best place to use as a hideout, a town was much better for obscurity, and Rick Howarth appeared to her to be intelligent enough to realise that. In a village the size of Sanford you couldn’t even sneeze without the neighbours knowing about it, and a newcomer aroused much attention; her own mother’s interest in Rick Howarth was evidence of that. Her mother wasn’t a nosey person, and yet even she seemed to have learnt a little about the new occupier of Orchard House.

But where was he? The house was empty, and yet he didn’t appear to be the type who enjoyed gardening. Did he look any type?

She returned to the kitchen, in a quandary about what to do. She couldn’t just leave the food here, he would wonder where it came from, and if she took the food back home her mother would want to know why. But she could have to wait ages for him to come back, she had no way of knowing—–

‘What the hell are you doing in here?’

Robyn swung round, paling as she saw Rick Howarth standing dark and dangerous in the doorway.

THE jar of marmalade she had been toying with slipped out of her hand and smashed on the tiled floor with a resounding crash, and she groaned as the sticky contents began to spread all over the floor. ‘Do you have a cloth?’ she asked desperately, going down on her hands and knees to begin picking up the bigger pieces of glass.

‘What the hell—–!’ Strong sinewy fingers came out and Rick Howarth grasped her arm roughly, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. ‘Are you stupid, girl?’ he rasped, looking down at her contemptuously as she struggled to be free.

Her head went back, her eyes flashing deeply violet in her anger. ‘Of course I’m not stupid, Mr Howarth,’ she snapped. ‘You just startled me, and I—I dropped the marmalade.’

‘I can see that.’ His mouth twisted.

‘Then you can also see that the floor is in a mess,’ she scorned.

He gave an impatient sigh before moving to the cupboard under the sink unit, taking out some ragged pieces of material and throwing them down on the table in front of her. ‘Here,’ he said abruptly, ‘help yourself.’

‘Thanks,’ she muttered, getting down on to the floor once again to wipe up the broken glass. It really was a mess—glass among the sticky concoction that was all that was left of her mother’s beautiful home-made marmalade.

‘I’m still waiting to find out what you’re doing in my home,’ he said tersely, his face a harsh mask, deep lines grooved beside his mouth.

He was no better dressed than he had been yesterday, the denims and shirt were still as disreputable, although the over-long dark hair looked newly washed, slightly waving as it grew low down over his collar.

‘I did knock,’ she told him resentfully. ‘And when there was no answer—–’

‘You just walked in,’ he finished coldly.

‘No!’ Robyn defended indignantly. ‘Well—yes. But it wasn’t quite like that!’

‘It never is.’ Rick Howarth’s mouth twisted contemptuously.

Colour flooded her cheeks at his rude manner. ‘I didn’t come here to be insulted—–’

‘If you didn’t violate people’s privacy perhaps you wouldn’t be,’ he snapped angrily, his eyes cold. ‘This is the second time in as many days that I’ve caught you on my property uninvited. Well?’ he quirked an eyebrow mockingly. ‘No comeback?’

Robyn bit her lip. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly, knowing she couldn’t deny the truth. ‘But—–’

‘Don’t go into lengthy explanations,’ he said dismissively, obviously bored by the subject—as he was probably bored with her! ‘Sufficient to say you were trespassing, the reasons don’t really matter. And today you’re doing it again, although you have some nerve actually entering the house.’

‘I told you, I—–’

‘You knocked and there was no answer,’ he scorned. ‘When that happens it’s the usual practice to go away and come back some other time.’

Robyn stood up at last, dropping the glass and sticky rags into the bin in the corner of the room. It was still sticky on the floor, but if Rick Howarth wanted it any cleaner he could damn well do it himself.

‘I was going away,’ she snapped. ‘I am going away, and I don’t intend coming back again—ever!’ She moved to the table, taking the lid off the tin. ‘I’ll just leave these with you,’ she slammed the dishes down on the table. ‘If you could return the crockery when you’ve finished with it I’m sure my mother would be grateful.’ She made a great clatter, deliberately so, as she put the lid back on the tin, just wanting to get away from this rude, ungrateful pig of a man.

He came over to look at the casserole and the pie. ‘What’s this?’ he rasped, his eyes narrowed.

Heavens, anyone would think they were trying to poison him! ‘What does it look like?’ she derided, sighing at his blank expression. ‘It’s food, Mr Howarth. Chicken,’ she indicated the deepest dish. ‘Apple,’ she pointed to the other one.

‘What’s it doing here?’

‘My mother thought you were in need of sustenance.’ She gave the impression that she personally couldn’t give a damn if he expired of starvation in front of her eyes.

His mouth tightened, his eyes glacial. ‘Your mother?’

‘Mrs Castle. She runs the village shop,’ Robyn explained with sarcastic patience.

‘Ah yes, I remember her,’ he nodded, his gaze sharpening. ‘And who gave her the impression that I looked in need of being fed?’

Once again colour stained her cheeks. ‘Well—I—–’

‘You did,’ he accused. ‘Well, I don’t need any hand-outs, Miss Castle,’ he told her furiously, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘So you can tell your mother—–’

‘No, Mr Howarth, you can tell her, when you return the dishes.’ She walked to the door, two bright spots of angry colour in her cheeks. ‘I’m certainly got going to tell her what an ungrateful swine you are!’ and she flung open the door.

‘Just a minute,’ he ground out, grasping her arm in exactly the same place as before, adding further bruises she was sure. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry to leave.’

‘But you said—–’

‘I didn’t ask you to leave.’

‘You were rude about my mother,’ she flared. ‘She was only trying to be friendly, and you threw her gesture back in her face.’

‘Okay, okay.’ He let go of her arm, running a hand round the back of his neck in a weary gesture, looking down helplessly at the casserole. ‘Maybe I was a little ungrateful.’

‘A little?’ she scoffed.

‘Okay, I was rude,’ he accepted with a sigh.

‘You were, very.’

His mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile, the first lessening of his harshness that she had seen. ‘Don’t go over the top, Miss Castle,’ he drawled. ‘Just tell me what I have to do with this,’ he indicated the casserole, ‘to be able to eat it.’

Robyn frowned. ‘You heat it up.’

‘How?’ he asked helplessly.

She searched his hard face for any sign of mockery, but could see none. ‘You really don’t know how?’

‘I would hardly be asking if I did,’ he derided.

‘But I—You—Surely you must have been eating something in the time you’ve been here?’ She was incredulous at the thought of him not eating at all, although the whipcord leanness of him didn’t seem to indicate that he had been over-indulging.

He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘The odd sandwich. And apples.’ He held up the apples he had brought in with him. ‘My dinner—I ran out of bread this morning.’

Robyn shook her head. ‘That’s ridiculous! What are you trying to do, kill yourself?’