by Penny Jordan
'I think you're over-reacting a little, Miranda. Don't forget that people like Ben Frobisher are bringing new life to the area, new jobs... new opportunities.'
'New architecture,' Miranda murmured under her breath, unable to resist. Her father looked at her. 'You don't know what he intends to do with that house. He struck me as an eminently sensible man. I'm sure that he--'
'Sensible? And yet he still employed Ralph Charlesworth?'
Her father sighed. 'All right. I know you don't like Ralph Charlesworth; admittedly he isn't the most prepossessing of men, but he does have a good reputation as a builder. He's tough and he sticks to his contracts.'
Miranda shook her head, knowing that this was a subject on which she and her father would never agree. That was what made her job so enjoyable, though: the fact that they were so different... had views which were sometimes so conflicting. Her father admitted that since she had joined the firm their business had improved dramatically, and equally she was the first to concede that without her father's experience, his 'know-how', his tolerance, she would never have been able to branch out into testing ideas which were innovative and new.
They made a good team, she recognised as she smiled at him.
'Don't forget,' he warned her, 'about tonight; I've arranged for Frobisher to meet us at home, and we'll all set off from there. It will make things easier.'
'What time do you want me there?' Miranda asked him, giving in. She didn't live with her father, but had her own small cottage several miles outside the town.
'Half-past seven,' he told her. 'Helen is arriving at seven.'
Helen Johnson was a widow some five years younger than her father. They had become engaged at Christmas...and were getting married at the end of the month. They were then going on a month's cruise, leaving Miranda in sole charge of the business.
She liked Helen and was pleased that her father was remarrying. Her mother had always had a weak heart, and after a long period of illness had died several days after Miranda's twelfth birthday.
Miranda had missed her desperately; had gone through anguish, anger, fear and despair, had hated both her mother for leaving her and her father for letting her, but eventually she had begun to recover, and by the time she was in her late teens had become mature enough to understand that if she missed her mother so desperately then her father must feel even more alone. She had been twenty-one when her father had offered her her partnership in the business, and it was then that she had decided to find her own home, as much for her father's sake as her own. He was an attractive man, still only in his mid-fifties, and, although he never seemed to be interested in any of the women who pursued him, Miranda had felt that it was only fair to him not to burden him with a live-in grown-up daughter.
He had met Helen three years ago, when she had come into their offices to ask their advice on selling her large house following the death of her husband. What she wanted was to stay in the area, but in something rather smaller, she had told them.
It had originally been Miranda who had dealt with her, and who had convinced her to buy a very pretty Georgian house on the outskirts of the town, convenient for everything, and yet still quiet, with a pleasant garden and pretty views over the river and the surrounding countryside. Now she and Miranda's father were getting married and Miranda was delighted for both of them.
What did not delight her quite so much was the fact that Ralph Charlesworth's wife was Helen's niece.
Not that she had anything against Susan Charlesworth. In fact she considered her a very pleasant, if somewhat introverted woman. What she did not like was the fact that as Helen's niece she would be attending the wedding. Which meant that her husband would also be attending the wedding... which meant that she, Miranda, would be forced to endure his company for a number of hours and to be pleasant to him in the interests of family harmony, and yet at the same time reinforce to him her complete rejection of him as a man.
She had no idea why he had decided to make her the object of his pursuit. She had certainly given him no encouragement to do so. She found him detestable and felt thoroughly sorry for Susan Charlesworth. The next time she found herself going all maternal and gooey-eyed over someone's baby, she might try reminding herself of how much she would loathe being married to a man like Ralph Charlesworth, she told herself wryly as she settled down to work.
She worked steadily all afternoon, reflecting that the influx of people into the area had certainly brought a dramatic increase in the firm's business, and that if things kept on the way they were going her father would have to consider taking on another partner.
At half-past five her father himself rapped on her office door and opened it.
'Don't forget about tonight, will you?' he asked her.
'No. I promise I'll be there.'
Just as he was about to leave she asked, 'Doesn't this Ben Frobisher have a wife? He's in his thirties, isn't he?'
'Thirty-four, and no, he doesn't have a wife. He's never been married and seems to be quite content with his single state. A bit like you,' he pointed out slyly, grinning at her when she glowered threateningly at him. After he'd gone, she tried to concentrate on her work, but for some reason her thoughts kept sliding back to the man she had bumped into earlier and at last, in exasperation, she put down her pen and leaned her chin on her hand, frowning into space.
It was ridiculous to keep thinking about him like this. A stranger... a total stranger, who, for all the thoughtful interest she could have sworn she had seen glinting in his eyes, had made no attempt to make any capital out of the situation fate had thrown them into and suggest extending their acquaintance.
Not that she would have wanted him to come on to her in the manner of the likes of the Ralph Charlesworths of this world, she told herself hastily, but a subtle compliment and the suggestion that he would not have been averse to seeing her again...
For heaven's sake, she derided herself, trying to dismiss him from her mind. She was a woman, not a teenager, and it wasn't even as though she didn't have a hundred better things to occupy her thoughts.
Tomorrow night, for instance, there was a meeting of the newly formed Committee for the Preservation of Local Buildings. She had been asked if she would like to be its president, but she had hastily declined, explaining that her other responsibilities meant that, although she would be an enthusiastic supporter of their work, she could not take charge of it and do it justice.
The others on the committee were all locals; Tim Ford, a local historian and schoolteacher, now retired; the vicar's wife; Linda Smithson, the doctor's wife; and a couple of others. Miranda was also due to attend another meeting the following night, to decide how best they could organise something within the town which would prove of sufficient interest to its youth to keep them from loitering boredly in the town square. Yes, she had more than enough to occupy her time and her thoughts without allowing them to drift helplessly and dangerously in the direction of a man she didn't really know and whom she was hardly likely to see again. The trouble was, though ... the trouble was that nature had seen fit to bestow her with a rather overactive imagination. Something which on occasions she found to be rather a trial, especially when she was trying to concentrate on promoting a cool and businesslike professional image.
Right now it was rebelliously insisting on coaxing her away from her work, and into an extremely unlikely but very alluring daydream in which, instead of releasing her so promptly and so courteously as he had done, the stranger had held on to her that little bit longer, had gazed deeply and meaningfully into her eyes until her whole body tingled with the sensual message of that look.
Almost without knowing she was doing it, she had closed her eyes and relaxed in her chair.
Of course, she would have tried to pull away, to convey with the cool remoteness of her withdrawal that she was not in the least impressed or flattered by his interest. And of course she would be able to look directly and unmovingly at the sensual curve of that very male mouth
without feeling the slightest tremor inside her, even while she was aware that he was still holding on to her and that his gaze was fastened on her mouth in a way that in her daydream made her give a tiny sigh.
Of course he wouldn't kiss her in broad daylight in the middle of the street. Of course he wouldn't, couldn't, but he could release her slowly and regretfully, so that his fingers held on to her arms as though he couldn't bring himself to break his physical contact with her, and of course before he let her go he had made sure that he knew both her name and where he could get in touch with her.
'Miranda. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.'
Miranda jolted upright in her chair, opening her eyes as Liz came in.
'I... I—er—wasn't asleep,' she told her guiltily. 'I... I've... got a bit of headache.'
'Oh, dear, and you're going out to that golf club do tonight, aren't you?' Liz sympathised. 'I hope it goes before then.'
Tell one lie and you had to tell a round dozen to back it up, Miranda reflected to herself half an hour later as she drove homewards. And what on earth had possessed her anyway? Allowing her mind to drift in that idiotic silly fashion. Good heavens, she had thought she was well past the stage of such idiocy. Daydreams of that kind belonged to one's very early teens alongside fruitless dreams over thankfully out-of-reach pop stars. She put her foot down a little harder on her accelerator. Well, tonight should bring her down to earth with a bump. She only hoped that Ben Frobisher didn't prove to be too boring. No doubt he would talk about computers all night long, whichmeant she would hardly be able to understand a thing he was saying.
Her cottage was small and rather isolated, its timber frame sunk into the ground as though crumpling under the burden of its heavy stone roof. When she had originally bought the cottage it had been little more than a shell. It had taken a good deal of work and research to transform it into the home it was now.
The setting sun harmonised with the soft colour of its peachy-pink-washed exterior walls. She had made the lime wash herself, and dyed it, using a traditional recipe and ingredients. That result had only been achieved after several attempts, but it had been well worth the effort she had put in. Inside she had taken just as much care over the renovation of her small rooms and the purchase of the furniture which clothed them. The back door opened straight into a square stone-flagged kitchen. The cat curled up on top of the Aga greeted her with a soft purr of pleasure.
'You don't fool me. I know it's only cupboard-love, William,' she told him as she scratched behind his ears.
There was no point in making a meal, not when she would be eating out later. A quick snack, a cup of coffee and then she would have to go upstairs and get ready to go out.
She made a wry face to herself. There were a dozen things she'd rather be doing tonight than playing the dutiful daughter and partner, but she had promised her father.
CHAPTER TWO
WELL her dress was hardly designer style, Miranda reflected, studying her image critically in her mirror, but then the golf club was not exactly the haunt of the beautiful people. Most of the members were around her father's age, pleasant enough but inclined to be a little dull. She wondered cynically if their new client realised what he was letting himself in for, and then told herself that she was perhaps being a little unfair.
Biased ... that was what he had called her. She stopped looking at herself, her eyes becoming soft and dreamy. Now, if she had been going out with him tonight, she wouldn't have been satisfied with her simple plain black dress and her mother's pearls, she reflected, not seeing as others did, that the slender elegance of her body somehow made the simple understatement of her plain dress all the more appealing and eye-catching in a way that would never have occurred to her. If anyone had told her that the silky swing of her hair, the soft sheen of her skin and the plain simplicity of her clothes all added up to a sensuality all the more effective because it was so obviously unstudied, she wouldn't have believed them, but it was true none the less. Tartly reminding herself that, since the object of her ridiculous daydreams had not appeared the least bit interested in her, it was pointless wasting her time fretting about the clothes she didn't have to wear if he asked her out, she clipped on her pearl earrings and picked up her bag.
All through her schooldays her teachers had bemoaned her tendency to daydream. She had thought in the last few years that she had finally outgrown it. Now it seemed she had been over-optimistic.
It took her just over half an hour to drive to her father's house on the other side of town. Helen's car was already parked in the drive, and when Miranda went up to the front door it was Helen who opened it to her. At her father's insistence she still had a key for her old home, but she only used it when he was away on holiday, just to check that the house and its contents were safe.
Helen kissed her and greeted her warmly. She wasn't as tall as Miranda, a still-pretty fair-haired woman of fifty, whom Miranda doubted anyone could ever have disliked. She had a natural warmth, a genuine compassion for humanity that Miranda could only describe as a very special kind of motherliness, and that made her wish sometimes that her father had met her earlier and that she could have had the benefit of her compassion and love during her own difficult teenage years, although she was honest enough to admit that, had her father met her then, she would probably not have responded well to her and would have been inclined to be jealous and possessive of her father.
'Dad not ready yet?' Miranda queried as she closed the door behind her.
'You know your father,' Helen said humorously. 'He says he can't find his cufflinks.'
Miranda laughed. 'It's just as well you're organising everything for the wedding. How's it going by the way? Have you found the outfit yet?'
Helen had complained to her only the week before that she had still not found an outfit she liked enough to wear for the supposedly quiet church wedding organised for the end of the month.
'No, I haven't. I've decided that I'm going to have to have a day in Bath or maybe even in London.' Helen pulled a face. 'I'm dreading it. I loathe city shopping.'
They chatted easily together for a few minutes while they waited for Miranda's father to come downstairs.
Just as he did so, they heard a car coming up the drive.
'This will be Ben Frobisher!' her father exclaimed, hurrying towards the door and opening it.
As she heard the sound of male footsteps crunching over the gravel, Miranda slipped discreetly into the shadows at the rear of the hall so that she would have a good view of her partner for the evening, without his being similarly able to observe her.
She watched as he mounted the steps and came forward into the light, and then her heart turned over with shock, and she stared with open disbelief, closing her eyes and then opening them again; but no, she wasn't daydreaming; it was the stranger, the man she had bumped into earlier on. He was standing there, calmly returning her father's handshake, turning to smile warmly at Helen, his dark hair shining cleanly and healthily beneath the light, his tall broad-shouldered body moving easily within the elegant confines of his dinner suit, his eyes as familiarly and perceptively grey as she had remembered as they swept the shadows.
'Miranda, come and meet Ben,' her father called out to her, forcing her to move forward, to extend her hand and to force her lips into what she hoped was a sophisticated and cool smile.
'Actually Mr Frobisher and I have already met.' His handshake was firm, if brief.
'Ben, please,' he corrected her.
'You two know each other?' Miranda heard her father saying curiously. 'But, Miranda, you never--'
'We met by chance earlier on today. At the time your daughter was escaping from the depressing sight of my desecration of what she informed me had once been a fine old Georgian building.' His eyebrows lifted humorously as he smiled at Miranda. 'She was a little—er—angry, and I didn't think it wise to introduce myself.'
'Oh, Miranda is one of the leading lights of our newly formed Committee for the
Preservation of Local Buildings,' Miranda heard her father saying while to her own fury she could feel her face flushing.
'It isn't quite as bad as you seem to think, you know,' Ben Frobisher told her, still smiling at her, adding, 'In fact, why don't you give me an opportunity to you? Let me show you the plans I've drawn up.'
'By Ralph Charlesworth?' Miranda demanded scornfully, letting her temper and her embarrassment get the better of her.
The whole evening was going to be a complete disaster. She could tell that already... Of all the humiliating things to have happened... had he known who she was when...? But no, he couldn't have.
'No, not by Charlesworth, as it happens.'
That made her focus on him and then immediately wish she had not done so, as she was subjected to the fully dizzying effect of meeting that level grey gaze head on.
It was like running full tilt into an immovable object, she reflected, the effect just as instant and even more of a shock to the system. Her heart was beating too fast; she was fighting not to breathe too quickly and shallowly. She felt slightly dizzy and thoroughly bemused. It was totally unfair that he should affect her like this.
'I'm sure Miranda would be delighted to see them,' she could hear her father saying heartily at her side. 'Wouldn't you, Mirry?'
Wouldn't she what? she wondered muzzily, somehow or other managing to force herself to respond with a brief inclination of her head and a rather wobbly smile.
'I'm delighted that you were able to join us tonight, Ben!' Miranda heard her father exclaiming. 'They're a good crowd at the club.'
Behind her father's back, Miranda grimaced slightly to herself and then flushed wildly as something made her look up and she saw that Ben Frobisher was watching her.
'And you, Miranda,' he enquired politely, 'do you play golf?'
Her father answered for her, chuckling.
'Not Mirry. She doesn't have the patience. She plays tennis, though ...'
'Tennis. It's becoming very fashionable at the moment.'