by Liz Fielding
The idea gave her the kind of buzz she got from a real business deal, the kind involving millions of pounds, and suddenly she wanted to laugh out loud. ‘I say we have a deal, Mr Kavanagh,’ she said.
‘Fergus,’ he said, offering her his strong, long-boned hand to seal the bargain. ‘It had better be Fergus, don’t you think?’ Mischief sparked unexpectedly in the depths of those dark, still eyes. ‘If we’re to convince your mother, and anyone else who’s interested, that we are lovers.’
Veronica felt her cheeks heat up. It was one thing making plans in her head. Quite another to look a perfect stranger in the face while he said the word out loud. Lovers. Of course, that was what she had intended her mother to believe and he knew it. They were, after all, a little mature just to be holding hands.
‘Veronica,’ she said quickly, rather than reply to his question, but as she accepted his hand she wished she hadn’t thought of them holding hands in quite that way.
The tingle of awareness as skin touched skin, as his fingers closed about hers, was no figment of her imagination; there was an undeniable flare of excitement, of risk even, rare enough to trigger all kinds of built-in alarm systems. Not that they were necessary, she reminded herself. This was nothing more than a little mutual aid.
‘Veronica,’ he repeated.
‘Or Ronnie, if you prefer.’
‘Ronnie?’
‘It’s a nickname left over from school.’ From the look on his face she should have abandoned it there, along with her gym slip and hockey stick.
‘My sisters call me Gussie—when they think I can’t hear them,’ he admitted.
‘Do they?’ Her eyes widened. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
‘No more than Ronnie suits you.’
‘Oh.’ She had the feeling that something less formal would have been more appropriate if they had been lovers, but could not quite bring herself to say so. ‘Well, most people find my name rather a mouthful and try to shorten it.’
‘That’s no reason to make it easy for them. Veronica suits you. It’s a lovely name.’
She stared at him for a moment, unable to quite decipher his tone of voice. Was that a compliment? His face gave nothing away. She suspected that it never would … unless he wanted it to. She looked up, grateful for the interruption, as the steward approached with the bill for breakfast, quickly putting some money on the plate in order to forestall Kavanagh’s offer to pay for hers.
Having hijacked him, she knew she should offer to pay for both of them, but he would certainly refuse to allow her to do that, and she had no wish to cause any unnecessary awkwardness between them. It was beginning to occur to her that the possibilities for that were already legion. Instead, she looked out of the window at the bleak concrete retaining walls that lined the last mile or so of the track into London. ‘We’re nearly there.’
‘Where are you going? If we’re heading in the same direction, we could share a taxi.’
She turned back to face him. ‘I’m staying with a friend near Sloane Square. Just off the King’s Road.’
‘Is she going to the wedding, too?’
‘Well, yes—’
‘Then it might be a good idea if she sees us together,’ Fergus said. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Suzie Broughton, but I thought you had an urgent appointment with your tailor.’
‘He’ll wait.’ Irritating his tailor was a small price to pay for the enjoyment of this highly original woman’s company for a few more minutes. ‘As a matter of interest, what would you have done if I hadn’t been about to pick up a morning suit?’
‘Nothing.’ She smiled as his eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘I’m sure you’re more than capable of renting one without any help from me. If not, you wouldn’t be the man for the job.’
There was no answer to that. Or, at least, not one that immediately leapt to mind. Instead, he stood up and took his overnight bag from the rack. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked, turning to the Vuitton case. Without waiting for an answer, he lifted it down and stood it alongside his, remaining on his feet as the train slid into the station. ‘You know, it has occurred to me that we should spend a little time getting our stories straight. Where we met—that sort of thing. It wouldn’t do to contradict one another. If your mother is the least bit suspicious—’
‘Why should she be?’ She stood up, easing her lovely legs from beneath the table. She was tall, five-ten at least, and her dark, pencil-slim skirt stopped a long way short of her knees. She slid her arms into a matching jacket that skimmed her hips and stopped a few inches short of the hem of her skirt.
‘She sounds like the type of woman who takes a keen interest in your affairs,’ he said, more to distract himself from her legs than for any genuine concern that they would be found out.
Veronica grinned. ‘If you mean nosy, Fergus, just say so. You won’t be far from the truth.’ He simply smiled, deep creases adding character and warmth to his face, but he had a point. The potential for disaster suddenly seemed endless, and she looked up at him. ‘Are you quite sure you want to go ahead with this?’ she asked. ‘I should warn you that she’s a hard woman to fool, and I’d really hate to cause you any embarrassment.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Veronica. I’ve brought up two younger sisters; I’m impossible to embarrass. Besides, I am at least as eager for your aid as you are for mine, possibly more so. If you knew Dora and Poppy, you’d understand why,’ he added feelingly. ‘Why don’t we take time out for coffee and I’ll tell you all about them?’ She didn’t exactly leap at the offer, Fergus noticed. ‘Or perhaps you’re too busy this morning?’
Veronica was old enough to recognise when she was being offered an escape route. Fergus Kavanagh looked every inch a gentleman, and clearly he had the instincts of the breed. Her hesitation was unworthy of him. Unworthy of her. ‘I’d love to, but once I’ve dropped my things off at Suzie’s I have to get to the hairdresser’s.’
He felt the desperate urge to say something absolutely crass, such as her hair was perfect already, but he restrained himself. If the lady believed she needed a hairdresser, he was well aware that nothing on earth would convince her otherwise. Instead, he smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s not a problem. We’ll simply parry all awkward questions with an enigmatic smile.’
‘I don’t think that will work on my mother.’
‘You’d be surprised. If she quizzes me, just follow my lead.’ She looked doubtful. ‘It’ll be fine.’ She was rocked against him as the train came to a standstill, and as Fergus held her arm briefly to steady her, her scent seemed to steal over him. Sophisticated, cool, distinctively floral. He searched his memory in an attempt to place the flower, but for the moment it eluded him … ‘Just fine,’ he repeated.
‘If you say so. It’s a little late to exchange detailed biographies, although maybe we should have a mutual exchange of faxes before your sister’s wedding?’ she offered.
Putting a stop to any suggestion that they might meet and get their stories straight in the meantime?
Maybe.
But he didn’t argue. Her swift move to forestall any move he might have made to pay for her breakfast had not gone unnoticed, and she had stooped to pick up her bag before he could do it for her. Miss Veronica Grant was clearly a lady who took equality seriously.
Then Peter appeared with her hatbox, and Fergus was able to demonstrate his own commitment to equality—at least to the extent that he was unfazed by such feminine trivia. Poppy and Dora had knocked all that rubbish out of him long ago.
‘Thank you, Peter, I’ll take that.’ He exchanged the hatbox for a discreetly palmed banknote. ‘Have a pleasant weekend.’
‘And you, sir.’
‘Are you going to see the Rovers play on Saturday?’ he asked.
‘Never miss a game, sir,’ Peter replied, without batting an eyelid. ‘Goodbye, Miss Grant.’
‘Goodbye, Peter. I’ll be in touch.’
‘What an old rogue,’ Fergus said as they crossed the p
latform to the taxi rank.
Veronica laughed. ‘Don’t be hard on him. He probably thinks he’s playing Cupid.’ Even as she said the words she wished she could call them back, but whether he hadn’t heard her above the noise and bustle of the station, the loudspeaker announcements, or whether he had decided it would be wiser not to respond, Fergus simply opened the cab door for her and stood back to let her climb aboard.
‘Chelsea,’ he said, glancing back at Veronica. She supplied the address and he closed the door and folded himself into the seat alongside her.
‘Are you really sure about this, Fergus?’ Veronica turned to him as the driver eased the cab out of the station and into the traffic. ‘If you wanted to change your mind, I would quite understand.’
‘After all the trouble you’ve gone to? Not to mention parting with a ticket to the most important sporting occasion of the year.’
‘Only if you’re a football fan,’ she pointed out, looking away again.
‘Veronica?’ She seemed to be transfixed by the back of the cab driver’s head. ‘You’re not really getting cold feet about this?’
‘No, but—’
But? But what? She was the answer to his own personal prayer and he wasn’t going to let her get away now. ‘Then it must be something else. Could it be that, on closer inspection, you have decided that I’m not quite up to your mother’s high standards?’ he enquired.
For the second time that morning a blush tinged her cheeks as, horrified, she swung round to face him and declared, ‘Good heavens, no! You’re absolutely perfect.’ The blush, if anything, deepened. ‘If we had more time to get our story straight. But—’
He’d had enough of ‘buts’. ‘Perfect? I don’t believe that anyone has ever called me that before,’ he said, before she could think of some other reason why they should call the whole thing off. He’d seen her face when she’d realised that mentioning Cupid had been a serious mistake, and he was beginning to suspect that the cool blonde was not quite as cool as she would have him believe. It made her boldness all the more interesting.
Of course, it could just be that, having hijacked him with all the subtlety of a double-glazing salesman with his foot in the door, she now felt obliged to give him a chance to change his mind. The personal equivalent of the ‘statutory cooling off period’. It was generous of her, but he was not about to take advantage of her offer; once she was in his debt he was certain that she would keep her side of the bargain, and her presence at his side was beginning to make the prospect of Dora’s wedding positively enjoyable.
‘Then that’s settled. Now, we have as long as it takes the driver to reach Sloane Square to make up some delightful nonsense about how we met … unless you’d rather be utterly outrageous and tell the truth?’
‘The truth?’
‘That you bribed the dining car steward on the eight-fifteen to sit me at your table and then proceeded to proposition me quite shamelessly?’
‘It’s a thought,’ Veronica replied, with a swift sideways glance.
‘It has the advantage that no one in their right mind would believe it,’ he pointed out.
Veronica was used to being in control, but it seemed that Fergus was too. She didn’t think she should make it quite that easy for him. ‘I don’t think I’m prepared to take the risk. But we could try it on your sisters if you like,’ she offered.
Fergus grinned. ‘Ouch.’
‘Any time.’
‘So, how did we meet?’
‘Well, I suppose it’s quite plausible that we should have met on a train coming up to town,’ she pointed out. ‘You do it regularly; I do it at least a couple of times a month.’
‘Over breakfast?’
Veronica had a very strong suspicion that Fergus Kavanagh was teasing her. She refused to be teased. ‘Why not? I usually have breakfast on the train,’ she said boldly. ‘And, since we both live near Melchester, what could be more natural than that we should meet again at somewhere of mutual interest?’ She paused, waiting for him to offer a suggestion.
‘At a concert?’
‘You’re a music lover?’
‘I’m a patron of Melchester City Orchestra.’
‘That’s keen,’ she admitted.
‘Or the museum? Have you seen the Kavanagh Room?’
She hadn’t, but there had been a piece in the local newspaper when it had been opened recently. ‘The one with all those bits of Greek pot?’ she offered.
‘Sherds,’ he corrected. ‘Potsherds.’ Then, ‘My mother was an archaeologist. She left her “bits of pot” and her papers to the museum along with the money to house them. It’s taken a while to build, but the new annexe is worth a visit.’ He paused. ‘If you like bits of pot.’ She wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to laugh or not, he realised. ‘What are your interests, Veronica?’ he asked, rescuing her.
‘I visit friends. Ride when I have the opportunity—’ Fergus smiled. ‘What?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing, it’s just something Dora said …’ He stopped as the taxi turned a corner and drew up in front of a small but charming house. ‘We appear to have arrived.’ He opened the cab door, helped her out and then carried her hatbox and suitcase to the front door, where he put down the suitcase and proceeded to ring the bell.
‘There’s really no need to wait,’ Veronica said.
‘I thought we’d already agreed that I was a gentleman,’ he replied. ‘Suppose your friend is not at home? You’d be left on the doorstep with your luggage.’
‘Suzie’s expecting me.’
‘Any one of a number of emergencies might have called her from home,’ he pointed out.
‘Suzie does not have emergencies—’ she began, and as if to confirm her words there was the sound of footsteps approaching the door. ‘You see?’
‘I do.’ And he offered her the hatbox.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it.
‘It was my pleasure.’ And once her hands were fully occupied he leaned forward to cradle her cheek lightly in the curve of his palm. ‘In fact, I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a journey on the eight-fifteen more.’
Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn’t move, and as the door began to open he bent to kiss her lightly on the mouth. He could have warned her, he probably should have warned her, but he knew that she would have instinctively backed off so that the impact would have been lost.
She might believe it would be easy to fool her friends that they were lovers. He was not a man to leave such things to chance; the briefest of kisses would convince far more than words. At least, he had intended the briefest of kisses. Somehow it didn’t quite turn out quite that way.
Veronica might appear as cool as frosting on a glass, but her lips were unexpectedly warm, offering the kind of welcome a man would be hard put to it to refuse; it was the kind of heat that came from inside, simmering on hold, waiting for the right moment to boil over.
It was like eating hot ice cream. Sweet. Unexpected. Something he had to try again just to be sure that his senses were not playing tricks on him.
They were not playing tricks, and, as the kiss went on and on, he knew the answer to the question he had pondered earlier on the train. There would be no slow, overnight defrost with this lady. She was definitely a volcano. Dormant, perhaps. Snow-capped, even. But beneath that serene surface he was convinced lay a molten core. And as he finally, reluctantly, straightened, to look down into a pair of startled silvery eyes, he had a fleeting impression that until that moment she had not been aware of it herself.
He closed the hand he had laid against her cheek, grazing it briefly with his knuckles before turning to smile at the young woman standing open-mouthed in the doorway.
‘Hello,’ he said, offering his hand, ‘you must be Suzie. Fergus Kavanagh.’ Suzie Broughton, for once in her life utterly speechless, allowed her fingers to linger in his. ‘Forgive me for dropping Veronica and running, but I should be somewhere else right now.’ He turned back to Veronic
a. She had not moved, quite possibly had not breathed, since he had kissed her. Rather the way he had felt when she had dropped her little bombshell in the train. They should be even. Except that his own oxygen intake wasn’t quite what it should be. ‘I’ll pick you up here at one-thirty,’ he told her, and, without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked quickly down the steps.
‘Who was that?’ Suzie demanded as the cab pulled away from the kerb.
Veronica regarded Suzie’s wide eyes and eager expression with a sinking feeling. When she asked, ‘Who was that?’ she didn’t mean his name. Fergus had introduced himself, so she already knew his name. What Suzie wanted was a rundown of his family background, details of his eligibility, preferably with a copy of his bank statement attached, and every last detail of their relationship from the moment they’d first met until this very minute.
Suzie Broughton had been her very best friend from the day they had started nursery school together, and she considered such information to be her right.
Veronica groaned inwardly. What on earth had she done? She had to be crazy to think she could get away with this kind of deception.
Then she considered the alternative. Being endlessly polite to the procession of Hooray Henrys her mother would have starred on the guest list—a guest list provided by the bride’s mother for that express purpose—as likely husband material.
No. This was not the moment for an attack of faintheartedness. Besides, if she could fool Suzie, she could certainly fool her mother and the legion of aunts and cousins who would undoubtedly have been drafted in to remind her at every conceivable opportunity that time was marching on.
‘Well?’ Suzie demanded, when she didn’t immediately reply.
‘You mean you don’t know?’ Veronica asked, with every appearance of surprise, as she handed her friend the hatbox to keep her busy, and give herself a few seconds for thought while she retrieved her suitcase from the doorstep. ‘I’m shocked, Suz. I thought you were up to speed on every eligible bachelor this side of Hadrian’s Wall.’ Then she grinned. ‘Both sides of it, come to think of it.’