Anne Mather - Wicked Caprice

Of course, that was out of the question, and Chris knew it. But that hadn’t stopped her offering Isobel advice on everything from the clothes she should choose to the make-up she should wear.

‘Put on some of that Champagne perfume,’ she’d suggested, mentioning the expensive Yves Saint Laurent fragrance her parents had bought her for her birthday. ‘And for goodness’ sake don’t put your hair in that braid. Leave it loose, for once. It suits you.’

Now, half an hour later, Isobel surveyed the pile of discarded garments lying on the bed with raw impatience. It was no use; she had nothing suitable for spending an evening with a man like him. She had thought her navy suit would do, but that looked incredibly formal, and her dresses were all cotton, and most of them had seen better days.

All she was left with were the full skirts and loose shirts she usually wore for working in. Most of the time, when she wasn’t wearing her long skirts or cotton dresses, she wore jeans and sweaters. But, like everything else she’d pulled out of her wardrobe, the jeans were worn and shabby. Her mother was right; she should spend more time on herself. But that wasn’t going to help her now.

With an irritated gesture, she snatched up the least boring item on the bed and put it on. As a matter of fact, it was also her least favourite garment, which was probably why it didn’t look as tired as the rest. It was a sleeveless pinafore, made of fine black cotton jersey, which she’d previously only worn with a T-shirt underneath. But tonight she allowed the spaghetti straps to rest on her smooth bare shoulders, the button-through bodice moulding the curves that she tried so hard to ignore.

She sighed. It was a warm evening, and despite her misgivings the dress was not unsuitable. But it was far more revealing than anything she had owned before, and she was about to tear it off again when someone knocked at her door.

‘Oh, damn!’ she groaned, hoping against hope that it wasn’t Richard. After the way she’d sent him away on Tuesday evening, it would be typical of him to turn up unannounced. She didn’t want to have to tell him she was going out with another man, particularly a man she hardly knew, and for whom she was making such a fuss.

She stood by her bed, hoping whoever it was would get the message and go away again, but, as before, the knocker was rapped once more. Of course, it could be her mother, she thought. It was almost a week since she’d seen either of her parents, and they were unlikely to hold her up, particularly if they thought she had a heavy date. Not that it was heavy, she reminded herself, but her mother wasn’t to know that.

Deciding she would have to see who it was, she ran hastily down the stairs. Because of the angle of the eaves, it was impossible to spy on the porch from the bedroom, and she could hardly peer through the living-room window and risk coming face to face with a stranger. She could have looked out of the window upstairs to see if there was a strange car parked in the lane. But as she had no garage herself she had to park at her gate, and visitors to the church sometimes used what free space was left.

Of course, she acknowledged as soon as she opened the door, she would have recognised Patrick Riker’s car if she’d seen it. Its width alone was making it very difficult for any other car to pass along the narrow lane, and its dark green elegance. was unmistakable. The man, too, was fairly unforgettable, propped rather indolently against her porch. He was still wearing the dark blue suit he had worn that afternoon, and in light of the fact that she’d arranged to meet him later on her lips tightened impatiently at his presumption.

‘Hi,’ he said, not at all put out by her obvious annoyance. ‘I was early, so I thought I might as well come and fetch you after all.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You look nice. And ready, too, if I’m not mistaken.’

Isobel knew a childish impulse to stamp her foot. He had no right to come here, no right to know where she lived—though she could guess who had given him her address. No wonder Chris had looked so smug when she’d announced she was having dinner with him. She probably already knew.

‘Well, I’m not quite,’ she stated now. ‘Ready, I mean.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you go on ahead? I can give you directions from here.’

‘Without you?’ he protested. ‘I’d rather wait.’ He looked beyond her, into the sun-dappled hall behind her. ‘I don’t mind.’

Isobel pressed her lips together. ‘As you like,’ she declared tersely, and shut the door in his face.

It was rude, perhaps, but she didn’t know him, she defended herself as she went back upstairs. Women were always being advised not to invite virtual strangers into their home. Besides, his—what? Chauffeur? Bodyguard?—was bound to get impatient. They could keep one another company. It wasn’t her fault he had changed the arrangements.

But the black dress would have to do, she conceded, with a sigh. She had no intention of changing again and giving him the impression she was fussy about what she wore. Some eyeshadow, a little mascara and a caramel-coloured lipstick achieved the effect she was seeking, and she finally picked up her hairbrush to try and subdue the sun-streaked tangle of her hair.

Chris had said not to put it in the braid, but she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to give her young assistant credit for anything. In the event, she secured it at her nape with a velvet scrunch band, aware that curling tendrils would soon escape the constriction and cluster about her temples and her neck.

It was daunting to emerge from the cottage and lock her door with Patrick Riker’s eyes upon her. And his companion’s eyes, she appended tersely. She wasn’t used to being watched, and she didn’t like it. She was glad she had wrapped a black and white Paisley scarf about her shoulders. Although it was a warm evening, it didn’t make her feel so exposed.

However, when she approached the car, she discovered that Patrick was alone. He emerged from behind the wheel to open the front passenger door for her, and she realised that for all her caution they were still to spend some time alone.

‘Where’s your—er—?’

She faltered over the designation, and Patrick helped her out. ‘Joe?’ he asked. ‘His name’s Joe Muzambe. And I’ve given him the evening off.’ He closed her door and walked around to fold his length in beside her. He looked her way. ‘Is it a problem?’

Put like that, it would have sounded rather churlish to object. Besides, it was less than a mile to Swalford. She could always get a taxi home if she thought he’d had too much to drink.

She shook her head, feeling the recalcitrant strands of hair squeezing out of the band already. ‘I—assumed he’d be driving,’ she said, hoping that didn’t sound as if she’d expected it. It wasn’t as if she was used to riding around in expensive cars, with or without a chauffeur at the wheel.

‘Don’t you trust me?’ he asked, and she realised he had not been deceived by her reticence. ‘I know I can’t prove it, but you’re perfectly safe with me.’

Of course she was.

‘I didn’t—that is, I hope you don’t think—’

‘What?’ His eyes were narrowed now. ‘What are you trying to say? That you don’t like me?’ He started the engine, his mouth curling into an ironic smile. ‘That’s all right. It’s not a prerequisite for doing business with someone.’

Isobel took a deep breath. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘No?’

His answer was hardly satisfactory, but the lane was clear of traffic, and he pulled away before she could say any more. Beyond the cottage the lane narrowed, before turning right into another lane that eventually intersected with the high street. It was not a well-known route, but Horsham was not a large village, and most roads ultimately led back to where you’d started. Nevertheless she had the feeling that he’d already checked it out before he even knocked at her door.