Anne Mather - Wicked Caprice

‘No,’ she said now, and added with a faint edge to her voice as he turned left along the high street, ‘You seem to know your way around.’

The look he gave her was slightly wary, and she wondered what she’d said to arouse his distrust. It was a free country, for heaven’s sake, and for all she knew he might know the area better than she did. But she had the feeling he was a stranger. She was sure she’d have heard about him if he’d moved into the district.

‘I just follow the signposts,’ he remarked after a moment, and she had to admit there had been an arrow pointing towards Swalford at the junction.

There was silence for a few moments after that, Isobel struggling desperately to think of something suitable to say. It wasn’t that she wanted him to think her particularly clever, but she didn’t want him to think she was stupid either. The trouble was, the men she usually went out with were locals, and she doubted Patrick Riker would be interested in the fact that they were having a drought.

He drove fairly slowly through the village, but once out of the restricted area he allowed the car to find its own speed. The roads around Horsham were inclined to be a little twisty, so there was no question of racing, but he covered the three-quarters of a mile to Swalford in an amazingly short time.

‘I guess this is it,’ he remarked finally, turning into the car park of the The Coach House and parking beside an old Mercedes that had seen better days. For all it was quite early in the evening, there were quite a few cars already occupying the inn’s forecourt—an indication of the popularity of its bar food.

‘I hope you won’t find it a disappointment,’ murmured Isobel, barely audibly, as she acknowledged the incongruity of the limousine in these surroundings. But he’d heard her, and his lips twitched at the back-handed compliment.

‘I doubt if anything could disappoint me this evening,’ he assured her with equal ambiguity. Then, more gently, he asked, ‘Shall we go in?’

CHAPTER FIVE

A HAZE of tobacco smoke hung over the bar, but the dining area adjoined a flagged patio, and the doors had been flung wide to admit the evening air. There were tables on the patio, too, and Patrick allowed her to choose where she wanted to sit. Isobel opted for a table that was near the open doors but not actually on the patio, and Patrick went to get them a drink while she perused the menu.

She had chosen white wine to drink, and he came back with a glass for her and a bottle of imported beer for himself. Pulling out the wooden chair opposite her, he sank into it, accepting the menu she passed him and glancing carelessly at its contents.

‘I suppose this isn’t what you’re used to,’ she said a little awkwardly, despising herself for caring what he thought. She hadn’t instigated this meeting; he had. If he didn’t like her choice of venue, hard luck.

‘You don’t know what I’m used to,’ he countered, lifting his eyes from the menu. ‘Am I allowed to ask what you’re eating? Or is that a state secret?’

Isobel expelled her breath. ‘Lasagne,’ she said. ‘With a green salad to start.’ She licked her lips. ‘They make it on the premises. The owner’s wife comes from Siena.’

‘Ah.’ His eyes dropped back to the menu. ‘You don’t fancy a fillet steak, or anything carnivorous like that?’

‘Well, I’m not a vegetarian,’ she retorted, ‘if that’s what you’re implying. It’s not a vegetable lasagne. It does contain meat.’

‘All right.’ His tone was amused now. ‘I’ll have that too. And a bottle of claret, just to prove I’m not a cheapskate. I can imagine what my chauffeur would say if he knew I’d turned down the steak.’

Isobel looked up at him through her lashes, not quite sure what to make of that, and he grinned. She’d thought he was attractive before, but when his face creased into that infectious smile her heart seemed to skip a beat. Dear God, she thought uneasily, picking up her glass of wine and taking a rather unwary sip, Chris was right—he was devastating.

And dangerous.

He left to order the meal, which would be brought to their table when it was ready, and Isobel wondered when he’d get around to the reason why they had come. It was pleasant to delude herself with the thought that he found her company enjoyable, but, whatever else, he was married, and she had to remember that.

‘This is very nice,’ he said a few moments later, resuming his seat, and Isobel made the usual response.

‘It’s busier than this when the children break up for the summer holidays,’ she said, indicating the few empty tables. ‘There’s a caravan site not far from here, and the pub attracts a lot of evening visitors.’

Patrick nodded. ‘At the risk of sounding trite, do you come here often?’

‘Not often,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe half a dozen times a year.’ She wondered if she should go on, and then continued carefully, ‘I don’t go out a lot. I’m not a night person.’

Patrick’s eyes were too intent. ‘There’s no regular boyfriend, then?’

She caught her breath. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘And if I wanted to make it my business?’

‘You can’t.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘You’re married.’ She held up her head. ‘Don’t you think we ought to talk about why you’ve brought me here? Or was that just a ploy?’

‘How do you know I’m married?’ he probed, choosing the least appropriate thing she’d said, and Isobel looked down at her glass.

‘Does it matter?’ she asked uncomfortably, wishing she’d just made a simple refusal. ‘Oh—thank you,’ she said as the waitress appeared with their salads. ‘No dressing for me. This is fine.’

Patrick refused the dressing too, she noticed, and then moved immediately back into the attack. ‘It matters,’ he said softly, and she was aware of his eyes upon her. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m curious. Humour me.’

Isobel sighed. ‘You’re wearing a wedding ring,’ she said at last, tersely. ‘Now, can we get on with the food?’

‘It’s not a wedding ring,’ he insisted. ‘It was—once. But not any longer. I’ve been divorced for almost six years.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ He touched her hand as it rested on the table. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘If—if you say so, then of course I believe you. But, as I said before, I don’t think it matters either way.’

He caught his lower lip between his teeth. ‘Does that mean you wouldn’t go out with a married man?’

‘I—’ Isobel was essentially honest, and she had to admit that if he asked her she’d be tempted. ‘I—suppose not,’ she finished lamely, and he looked suddenly grim.

They ate the rest of their salad in silence, and she had the feeling that once again she’d said something he didn’t like. Did that mean that he was lying? Was he really married, after all? Or had her doubts communicated themselves to him, and he was shocked?

But no. She didn’t believe that. She sensed that she’d have to say something pretty outrageous to shock this man. So what was he thinking? What was causing that sudden darkness to etch his features? And why did she care anyway? She’d probably never see him again.

‘Did—er—did your niece like the necklace?’ she asked, eager to change the subject, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer her.

But then, after a pregnant pause, he said, ‘I haven’t given it to her yet. She—er—she doesn’t live in London.’

‘Is that where you live?’ she asked, deciding she had the right to ask some questions of her own, and after a moment he gave a resigned nod.

‘That’s right,’ he said, without expression. ‘But it’s good to get out of the city now and again.’