The Cinderella Factor

by Sophie Weston

  Careful, she told herself, startled by the intensity of her instinct to smile back.

  ‘I will,’ he said gently. ‘But I will try not to get in your way.’

  He walked round the room. The pine floorboards were bare and unpolished. They thudded dully under his uneven steps. He was limping quite badly now, Jo saw.

  He stooped to look out of one of the triangular windows. Jo had put another jam jar of wild flowers and grasses on the window-sill. He touched a finger to a poppy petal.

  ‘You haven’t got much in the way of home comforts, have you?’ he remarked, looking round.

  The furniture had clearly been discarded from the house. It was clear why. It was also clear that Patrick had never seen the stuff before and was not best pleased to see it here now.

  ‘A sagging bed, a kitchen chair with the back missing and two jam jars full of weeds,’ he said, dismissing them with contempt. ‘I’m sure we can do better than that.’

  ‘I don’t want charity,’ Jo said, dangerously.

  ‘Ah, but we’ve already established that it’s what I want that counts,’ Patrick said calmly. ‘Don’t pout. This is nothing to do with you.’ A smile crinkled up the corner of his eyes suddenly. ‘You take what I give you and like it.’

  Jo muttered disagreeably. But she did not actually oppose him. She wanted the job too much. And anyway, although a roof over her head was a luxury, a mattress that was not made of lumpy horsehair would be an acceptable addition to it. Though her pride would not allow her to admit it aloud.

  He was turning over the few battered paperbacks she had picked up from the market. They were well-thumbed and showed evidence of their adventurous lives.

  ‘Books?’

  ‘I like them,’ Jo said simply.

  Patrick looked at the spines. ‘A catholic taste.’

  ‘I like stories with a world of their own,’ said Jo, defensive. ‘It’s good to forget your own world sometimes, no matter what people say.’

  He did not seem to despise her for it, as she’d half expected.

  ‘How right you are,’ he said with feeling. ‘And these are your escape routes?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Jo. ‘Escape routes are much more practical things. They are your contingency plans for when things get seriously bad. The books are for fun.’

  He was looking at her with an expression she could not interpret.

  ‘Did things get seriously bad often?’

  Jo laughed. ‘Often enough for me to know you always have to keep your exit route open.’

  Patrick said again, abruptly, ‘How right you are.’ Then, before she could answer, or register a protest, he said in a changed tone, ‘Window locks, I think, and a double door into the garage. We’ll padlock the main barn door, of course. Now, what about the old fire escape that used to be here?’

  And they were back to bickering about his design improvements again.

  He spent over an hour wandering around, testing beams above and boards below, turning on taps and tapping pipes. He did not write down a single thing, but it was evident that he was making some sort of list in his head. Jo did not doubt for a moment that he would remember everything he had decided. And do it, too.

  In the end, he flung himself down on the sagging bed. It squealed under his weight.

  He grimaced. ‘Not very good for the ego, that. You’d think you were overweight every time you sat down. It must have worried Crispin. He’s always agonising about whether he’s put on too much weight to ride that horse of his. I’m surprised he didn’t order you a replacement on the spot.’

  Jo shook her head. ‘Crispin didn’t come up here.’

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. ‘No? Then who moved you in? Mrs Morrison? I know George can’t have.’

  She shook her head again. ‘No one. There’s been no need. All the stuff was here. Mrs Morrison let me have sheets and a few other things.’

  ‘So I’m your first visitor,’ Patrick said softly. ‘I would have brought champagne if I’d known.’

  She was startled, and a little uneasy.

  ‘You’re not a visitor. As you pointed out, it’s your house. I’m the visitor if anyone is,’ she said lightly, trying to make him laugh.

  She did not succeed.

  ‘While you are here,’ Patrick said with emphasis, ‘this is your home. You ask who you want into it. And no one comes without invitation.’ And then he did laugh—at her expression. ‘Not even me after tonight, I promise. Though you’ll have to ask me back to get that champagne.’

  He stretched his leg a little, as if it was paining him.

  ‘In the meantime, what do you offer evening visitors who have walked themselves off their feet?’

  ‘There’s lemon tea,’ Jo said doubtfully. ‘Or coffee. But it’s only instant, I’m afraid. And no milk.’

  ‘Lemon tea let it be.’

  He watched her while she filled a small saucepan with water in the galley area and put it on to boil. She was aware of it, and became all fingers and thumbs, nearly dropping the thick china mugs Mrs Morrison had lent her when she moved in. She made the infusion and brought it over to him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Patrick moved to take it and grimaced involuntarily with pain. Jo watched with concern as he hauled himself round into a more comfortable position, propped up against the iron bedstead, his leg stretched out in front of him on the bed.

  ‘How did you hurt yourself?’ she asked, taking her own mug and sitting on the floor propped against the wall.

  He looked surprised. ‘Don’t you know?’

  Jo sniffed. ‘Until today, I didn’t think I needed to know one thing about you.’

  Patrick laughed, his eyes dancing in spite of the lines of pain round his mouth.

  ‘That’s put you in your place, Burns.’

  She did not apologise.

  He said, excusing himself, ‘I’m not all vanity. You see, so many people come up to me in the street because they know me, I forget there are places and people who don’t.’

  Because they knew him? Who was he, for heaven’s sake? She would not ask. She would not.

  ‘Then I’m doing you a double service,’ Jo returned smartly.

  One eyebrow flicked up in quick comprehension. ‘Not only looking after my cars but also cutting my ego down to size?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remind me to be grateful,’ he murmured.

  ‘It will be very good for you,’ she said with conviction. ‘Are you going to tell me how you hurt yourself? Or is it my assignment for the week to look it up in the public library?’

  He winced. ‘I’m not that vain. It was very simple. I was reporting in a war zone and I got in the way of a sniper’s fire.’

  A reporter! So that was what he was. Now she knew what he did at Mercury Television. And now she knew why Maddie Kaufman had thought he was a celebrity worth trapping. ‘My Night with Dracula’ indeed, thought Jo.

  She was impressed, though she wasn’t going to show it.

  ‘Then shouldn’t you be resting instead of climbing around barn roofs?’

  ‘It was weeks ago,’ he said dismissively.

  It didn’t look it.

  ‘But it’s taking a long time to heal?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said curtly. ‘Just can’t break into a sprint too often.’

  He didn’t like that, Jo saw. He tried to sound as if he didn’t care, but the light tone could not quite disguise the smouldering frustration underneath.

  ‘Does that matter?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘It’s my job. I work in war zones.’ A muscle worked in his jaw. He was still curt. ‘Being able to run kind of goes with the territory.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, he was grinning. ‘It’s no good keeping your exits open if you can’t get to them. And fast.’ He glinted a look down at her. ‘I’d have thought you’d understand that.’

  He was teasing her. Jo found, to her surprise, that she could tease him back
.

  ‘Yes, I do. So we have something in common, after all,’ she said, in mock astonishment.

  He smiled straight into her laughing eyes, a long golden look that set her quivering even before she had time to register what he was doing.

  ‘Oh, we have a lot more in common than that,’ he said. ‘Wait and see.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AT ONCE alarm flared. Careful, that inner voice said urgently.

  Jo looked down into her mug of lemon tea until her eyes ached.

  She knew Patrick did not take his eyes off her face all the time. She felt agonisingly uncertain of herself, of him, of the whole situation. Jo was not used to feeling uncertain. It was horrible. Her brows twitched together fiercely.

  ‘You look very fierce,’ Patrick said, amused. ‘Have I offended you?’

  Jo did not look at him. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she muttered.

  ‘Don’t you?’ It was gently mocking.

  Jo blushed harder than ever. She could feel her long legs trembling, stretched out before her. Her whole body felt hot.

  ‘No.’ She decided candour was best and met his eyes, half reproachful, half defiant. ‘You said you didn’t want me here. You sounded as if you meant it. I thought you were going to kick me out. You talk as if you still might. And yet, here you are—’ She broke off in confusion.

  ‘Sitting on your bed and drinking your tea. Without so much as an invitation, either,’ he teased.

  She made an abrupt, half-angry gesture.

  ‘That’s nonsense. It’s your house.’

  There was a little silence. Then he said levelly, ‘I told you. As long as you’re here, this is your space.’

  Jo shook her head violently. That was a trap she knew she must not fall into. Get too attached to places, and people, and you broke your heart when you had to leave them.

  ‘No,’ she said with determination. ‘I have no place.’

  He shifted sharply. She heard the bed creak and looked up. She was shocked by the look of agony on his face. She forgot her resentment as if it had never been. She forgot that her legs were trembling and that there was a strange sweet turbulence inside her whenever he spoke. She even forgot to be wary.

  ‘You are in pain,’ she said, her voice gentling.

  He shrugged, looking annoyed. ‘It’s nothing.’

  But Jo did not think it was nothing when it could drain all the blood from his face, leaving the bones stark against the tanned skin.

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘It’s in the diary,’ he said indifferently.

  ‘Have you got any medication for the pain? Can I get it for you?’ she said in quick concern.

  ‘Don’t fuss. I’m perfectly all right.’

  He was so sharp that Jo jumped. Her eyes snapped. ‘Well, excuse me for breathing.’

  He tightened his mouth, displeased. Jo glared right back at him.

  After a moment, he said curtly, ‘It’s nothing. My leg stiffens up when I drive. I may have done too much today.’

  ‘You mean you weren’t sensible. So now you take it out on other people?’

  His eyebrows flew up. ‘I don’t like to be reminded, I admit.’

  ‘You get spitting mad,’ Jo corrected dispassionately. ‘And nasty with it.’

  ‘Do you think I owe you an apology?’ There was more than a hint of unholy laughter in his voice.

  Jo was not going to let it beguile her. She stuck her chin in the air. ‘At the least. And not for the first time.’

  He laughed aloud at that.

  ‘Again,’ he agreed, his mouth twitching. He put his mug down on the floor and began to rise with an effort. ‘I’d better go, before I put myself beyond the pale.’

  ‘Leaving me without my apology,’ Jo said in a resigned voice. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ She stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans and fixed him with an evil look. It was a challenge.

  He limped to the door. Then turned.

  ‘Don’t look like that. I apologise. I apologise. Hell, I said you could stay, didn’t I?’

  Jo was implacable. ‘And you’ll let someone else do the driving tomorrow?’

  But he did not find that so amusing. ‘Take some advice, kid. Quit while you’re ahead.’

  Jo said nothing, looking mulish.

  ‘You’re very young, aren’t you?’ he said, almost to himself.

  For some reason she did not contradict him. Normally she would have retorted that you grew up fast on the road, that she was more mature that people double her age. But for some reason, in the soft twilight of her attic, alone with Patrick Burns, she was silent.

  He gave a sigh, unexpectedly harsh. ‘So was I, once. Thought I could change the world. Long ago, Jo. Too long ago.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come here?’

  Without a thought, without any of her usual alert wariness, she went to him. She put her grubby paw in his. He looked down at their clasped hands. His was immaculately kept, long-fingered, strong; hers delicately shaped but dirty and covered with scratches. He ran a thumb along one of the shallow tears, beaded with blood.

  ‘You’ve torn the skin. I’ll have to take care not to drive you into a bramble bush again,’ he mused.

  Jo remembered. She shivered, involuntarily. He felt the tremor in their fingers’ ends.

  ‘You must take more care of yourself,’ he said softly.

  And raised her dirty little hand to his lips.

  Jo felt herself go scarlet. She jumped and pulled her hand away, furious with herself.

  Patrick’s eyes darkened. He bent towards her. Something very vulnerable began to beat high and hard in Jo’s throat. She didn’t like it. Vulnerability was very bad news; the worst.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said in a strangled voice.

  For a moment he looked as if he was going to argue. Then he shrugged and straightened, letting it go.

  ‘You’re right. I should go.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Mrs Morrison will have dinner ready, and I have calls to make before I eat.’

  Jo nodded hard, a little too quickly.

  ‘Good night,’ she said. It sounded muffled.

  Patrick opened the door and went out onto the staircase. He looked back, hesitating.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked her with a searching look.

  Jo found it easier to breathe once he was outside the door.

  She said, with irony, ‘I have been up to now. It’s been very peaceful.’

  His smile was wry. ‘Then you shall have your peace back.’

  He limped down the stairs without another word.

  Jo went out onto the staircase to watch him go. She felt as if she wanted to call him back. Yet it was a relief of sorts when he was gone. But, then again, he left a void…

  What is happening to me? thought Jo. I don’t do nonsense like this!

  At the foot of the stairs, he turned and looked up at her.

  ‘I meant it, you know. You will be quite safe here. Safe and…’ he hesitated ‘…undisturbed.’

  She met his eyes. There was a message there. Jo nodded slowly.

  She felt impatient with herself. It was not that she was inexperienced, exactly. Her instincts had led her safely through years of living among vagrants, the bewildered and the dispossessed, and she trusted her judgement with people like that.

  But with Patrick Burns she was in new territory. He had a quick, subtle mind. Worse, his sense of power was so innate that he was almost unaware of it. She knew nothing about men like that, Jo thought.

  So—did she want to?

  Because she could. That was clear. If she invited him back. Was she going to invite him back?

  He saw her hesitation. ‘I won’t invade again,’ he said deliberately.

  Jo swallowed, her chin lifting instinctively.

  Patrick’s mouth twisted.

  ‘Your territory. You must have some decent locks, I insist on that. But you’ll keep the keys,’ he promised. ‘I won’t set foot over the threshold again.’ His eyes
were very steady. ‘Until you ask me.’

  It was such an accurate echo of what she had been thinking that Jo jumped. Was he a mind-reader?

  Patrick misinterpreted. ‘Not very flattering,’ he murmured. ‘You might, though. You never know.’

  Jo’s face shuttered. There was a moment’s tense silence. Then Patrick gave an odd laugh and a quick, graceful shrug.

  ‘No, maybe you’re right,’ he said lightly. ‘Anyway, your choice from now on.’

  He gave her a nod and limped across the garage and out into the evening shadows.

  Jo went slowly back into her sanctum. She closed the door and leaned her back against it. She felt as if she had just been interrogated by an expert and wasn’t quite sure what she’d given away.

  He had been concerned for her safety, she reminded herself. He had not threatened her. Hell, he had been a whole lot more scary in the study, when he’d first recognised her. So why did the bedsit feel suddenly dangerous?

  It was as if it had been her secret lair and wasn’t secret any more.

  The room was hot after the stifling heat of the day. Jo had left the windows shut against the sun, but the air was redolent of the summer in the meadows beyond. She recognised it. But there was another scent, too, now—a new one she did not recognise. Jo sniffed, wandering round the room. It was strongest by the bed, a complicated cocktail of starched linen and aromatic herbs and brandy. It was the last, sharp and expensive, that made her realise at last what it was.

  Oh, yes, her secret lair had been well and truly invaded. Would it ever feel hers again?

  She went to bed among pillows that smelled of Patrick Burns’s cologne. It did not make for peaceful dreams.

  Patrick limped back to the château. The stars were brilliant in the June sky, but he did not look at them. He was furious.

  What an idiot he was. The girl had looked terrified.

  He caught himself. No, not terrified. On reflection, he didn’t think a lot terrified Jo Almond. But there was no doubt that she had wanted him gone just now. She had gone still, like an animal scenting danger. He hated the thought that he had done that to her.

  His own fault, of course. He should never have kissed her hand. What on earth had possessed him?

  He kicked the pedestal of an ornamental urn and staggered crazily. Double damn! He just couldn’t get used to the way this leg kept letting him down.