by Liz Fielding
He closed his fingers around the key, removing his hand from hers as he straightened so that he was towering over her.
‘The will is my sole concern. The business is yours.’ Then, ‘Just don’t do anything…’ He stopped, obviously thinking better of what he’d been going to say.
‘Stupid?’
‘You might think I was going to say that but you’re going to have to torture me before I’ll admit it. You’re right. I definitely need to get some sleep. I’ll see you later, Francesca.’
As the outer door banged shut behind him, she flinched. What on earth was she doing, feeling sorry for him? He didn’t need her compassion. He didn’t need anything. He was Guy Dymoke.
Guy made it to Elton Street without falling asleep in the cab. That was because he was too busy storing up those moments when Francesca had reached out, touched his hand. As if she actually cared about him. But he had no illusions. She’d adored Steve and the only reason she’d consider marrying him was because he’d seen it as the only way to provide security for her and her army of dependants.
That’s why he’d forced himself to break contact first. Before she became embarrassed by a simple gesture of kindness. Might think he’d mistake it for a gesture of intimacy.
Connie was out but it didn’t matter. Breakfast had only been a pretence to stay with her. He was long past food and, realising that a shower would only wake him up, he went straight upstairs to the guest room and ran a bath. He needed to think about the best way to deal with the mess fate—and Steve—had thrown in his lap.
Clever Steve. He had known him so well. Known he’d look after his family come what may. But suggesting a marriage of convenience had meant he would now never be able to show his feelings for Francesca.
He’d marry her because it would be his joy, his honour, his dearest wish. But he could never tell her that.
She’d think he was saying it to make it easy for her. He’d never know if she was accepting him because she had no choice. Out of desperation.
Fran looked at the figures Guy had spent the night putting together for her. He was right. It wasn’t good, as he’d no doubt tell her again, in words of one syllable, over dinner.
No. Not dinner. Dinner suggested intimacy.
She’d give him nursery tea in the kitchen with Toby. And she smiled again as she remembered how good he’d been with her little boy. Became solemn again as she remembered Matty’s conviction that Toby would need him. Steven hadn’t been the best partner in the world, but he had been a good father. The truth was that he’d still been a little boy at heart himself, with that same see-it, want-it irresponsibility.
She dragged her mind back to the job in hand. The company was hers now and, if Guy would give her a little breathing space, she would make a success of it. She took off her jacket, found a brown warehouse-man’s coat to protect herself against the inevitable dust and switched on the lights in the small warehouse.
She’d heard Steven say often enough that the whole premise of importing fancy goods was to shift them as quickly as possible. Sell before you had to pay. Before the public lost its taste for the latest fad. The unforgiving strip lights immediately revealed why the company was in trouble.
She heard the door bang as someone arrived. ‘Claire? Jason?’
Jason appeared in the doorway. ‘Hello, Mrs…Miss…’
‘Miss Lang, Jason. But please just call me Fran.’
‘Oh, right. We weren’t expecting you.’
‘Unfortunately Brian Hicks has left and so have the temps. It’s just you, me—’ the door banged again ‘—and Claire,’ she said with considerable relief. ‘So, we’re going to have to do the best we can between us.’ She indicated the cartons that stretched into the darker recesses of the storage room. Calling it a warehouse was an exaggeration even in estate agent terms. ‘Have you any idea what all this stuff is?’
He shook his head. ‘It was all here when I started.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Okay. What I want you to do is make an inventory of all the stock and put a sample of each item on my desk.’
‘Everything?’
‘Yes, Jason. Everything. Along with a note of how much of each item we have.’
‘You want me to count them all?’ he asked, without bothering to disguise his lack of enthusiasm.
‘Not individually,’ she said, curbing her impatience. ‘The contents will be on the outside of the boxes.’ It would have to be done anyway, so that it could be valued for probate. The sooner the better.
‘Shall I put the kettle on first?’ he asked. ‘Steve usually—’
‘No. I want you to get started on the boxes. I’ll bring you some coffee.’ Later. ‘In the meantime will you look out for anything made from silk? From China?’
‘Two sugars,’ he said.
She was cheerfully brisk with the still red-eyed Claire, asking her if she knew where to find the documents for the car. And when she’d found them she set her searching for the paperwork to match the stock, so that she’d have some idea of how much everything had cost. She could have left it to the valuation consultant but since she didn’t know what else to do it gave her the impression she was doing something useful.
Steven’s nearly new car, she discovered, was, like everything else, leased rather than owned. She called the company and arranged with them to pick it up. It would be cheaper to take taxis everywhere. And a heck of a lot cheaper to go by bus.
‘What shall I say?’ Claire asked. ‘When people ring and want to know what’s happening?’
She didn’t know. There was an awful lot she didn’t know, she realised. ‘Leave a message on the answering machine saying that the office is closed until Monday due to a bereavement.’ That would give her breathing space. Time to think. Then, ‘Have there been many calls?’
‘Dozens. They’re all in the day book.’
‘I’ll take it home with me.’
Then, after glancing at the odd assortment of objects that Jason was laying out on her desk—paper fans, pottery frogs that no one but a mother could love, some particularly hideous lamps—she packed up all the stuff that Guy had left for her and, leaving them to get on with the inventory, took the public transport alternative home. It was cheap but endless, and she was anxious to get back to the house and take another look at that Chinese document. Get it translated.
Although, if the rest of the stock was anything to go by, it wasn’t going to be anything to get excited about.
She dumped her bag in the hall and ran upstairs, stripping off her jacket, unzipping her skirt as she went, eager to get on. She’d have to rethink her working wardrobe, she realised. Dark suits and silk shirts were out for the time being. She didn’t have to impress Jason and Claire, and she’d be much more useful wearing the kind of clothes in which she could help shift and unpack boxes.
She stepped out of her skirt and tossed it on the bed with her jacket and slipped the buttons on her shirt. Then, pulling a face at the state of the cuffs after just a few hours, she crossed to the bathroom to dump it into the laundry bin.
At which point Chinese characters became the very last thing on her mind.
CHAPTER SIX
FRANCESCA’S heart stopped. Guy had fallen asleep in the bath. His arm was hanging over the edge, his fingers brushing against the floor. The tension had flowed out of his face and his long, elegant limbs were totally relaxed and, for the first time since he’d come home, she caught a glimpse of the man who had looked at her across a crowded restaurant bar and made her feel as if she was the only woman in the world.
Her gaze drifted down the length of his body, then stopped, transfixed momentarily on what might just have been the movement of water caused by his breathing, or a stirring of something much more dangerous. Her heart kicked back in, racing to catch up as she forced herself to return to his face, certain that he’d be watching her, his eyes mocking…
But no, he was still fast asleep. He looked so much younger, so much more approacha
ble with the harsh lines smoothed from his face. So much more vulnerable…
She really should wake him. If he’d come home and got straight into the bath—although why he was in her bath was a mystery—the water would be cold, but she could scarcely reach out and touch him on his tanned, broad shoulder or stroke back the hair clinging damply to his forehead…
She swallowed.
What she had to do was back out of the bathroom right now. Very quietly collect her clothes and, once dressed and safely downstairs, she could bang a door or shout to see if Connie was about and leave it to him whether he decided to climb into bed—and presumably that would be her bed, too—or come downstairs.
Guy’s first thought was that he must be dreaming. Nothing new there. He dreamed of her all the time, but never before when he’d been lying naked in the bath, with Francesca, clad only in a bra that would stop traffic and a thong that left him in no doubt that the money she spent on bikini waxing was well spent, standing near enough to touch.
Never had it been this real.
His second thought was that if this was a dream, why would the water be cold? That really wasn’t fair…
Even so, it was taking every ounce of willpower to remain perfectly still, keep up the pretence that he was asleep so that she could gather her wits and retreat in good order. That way they could both pretend this had never happened. Preferably before the water began to heat back up…
She took a step back, her gaze fixed on his face, ensuring that he did not open his eyes…
Then, very carefully, she took another one. And caught her elbow an eye-watering blow on the edge of the door. At which point there was no need for further pretence.
‘It’s usually wiser to look where you’re going,’ he said.
‘Is that right?’ she snapped. ‘Well, thanks. I’ll be sure to remember that for the next occasion I find a man in my bath.’
‘I was simply trying to be helpful.’
He wanted to be more than helpful. He wanted to go to her and put his arms around her and kiss the pain away. Hold her so that she would forget everything. Know only him.
He doubted that she’d appreciate the thought, let alone the gesture. Besides, she was clutching her left elbow with her right hand and was bent almost double, a position which was doing indescribable things to her cleavage which, cold water notwithstanding, left him in a position where concealment was the only option.
‘You were just pretending to be asleep, weren’t you?’ she demanded, glaring at him.
He thought of denying it. Decided against it.
‘I thought it might save us both considerable embarrassment,’ he said somewhat thickly as he attempted to summon up a memory of the months he’d once spent in the Antarctic. Cold. Freezing cold. Frostbite cold… ‘I have to admit, I didn’t expect you to take quite so long over your retreat.’
‘I was just…’ she forgot about her elbow long enough to make a vague gesture as she sought some kind of explanation ‘…taken by surprise. That’s all.’
‘So was I, but in my case it was excusable.’
‘Excuse me? I offered you the guest room.’
‘And?’
‘Which is at the end of the hall,’ she cut in. ‘With its own small, but perfectly adequate bathroom.’ Then, ‘Why didn’t you lock the door?’
‘It never occurred to me. In the field there isn’t a door. At home there isn’t anyone to keep out.’ Struggling to maintain his composure in the face of extreme provocation he said, ‘Look, would you pass me a towel?’
‘Get it yourself!’
‘Fair enough.’ He’d tried. A man could only do so much… But as he sat up, water cascading from him, she latched on to the flaw in that arrangement and said, ‘No, wait! I’ll do it.’ And she pulled a towel down from a stack on the shelf and passed it to him, looking pointedly the other way as he stood up, wrapped it firmly about his waist and stepped out of the tub.
‘I still don’t understand why you’re in here,’ she said, not letting the matter drop. The fact that she was wearing next to nothing herself had obviously slipped her mind. ‘Connie wouldn’t have put you in my room. And why didn’t you leave your clothes all over the floor to warn me that you were here, like any normal man?’
‘Because I hung them up.’ He reached over her head and unhooked his clothes from the back of the door.
‘You’re housetrained?’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ he said. Right at that moment, the civilised veneer of the modern man was being strained to breaking point and he was using the armful of clothes to disguise the fact. ‘But I have lived in some places where clothes left lying on the floor are an open invitation to the kind of creatures you wouldn’t want to share with. It gets to be a habit.’
‘You’ll make some woman a great husband,’ she said. Then clearly wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
‘I believe it takes rather more than the ability to hang up your own clothes. Being in the same country for at least fifty per cent of the time would seem to be fairly high up on the list.’
‘I know a lot of women who’d be delighted with that arrangement.’
‘Is that right? Then since I don’t usually manage to spend more than ten per cent of my time in London you’ll be the envy of your friends, won’t you?’
‘You don’t think I’m actually going to tell anyone?’ Then quickly, ‘Even if I was prepared to contemplate marrying you.’
‘You’ve married for someone else’s convenience. I don’t see why you’d find it so difficult to marry for your own.’ Then, realising that probably wasn’t the best way to convince her, he said, ‘Look, I’m sorry for intruding on your space, but Connie wasn’t in when I arrived and since this was the guest room the last time I stayed here I assumed it still was. Don’t you use the master suite?’
‘No—’ Then, ‘Well, yes. Of course. But—’
But it had been Steve’s sickroom. She’d nursed him in there. She probably never wanted to go into that room again.
‘I’m sorry. That was incredibly stupid of me. Obviously you wouldn’t want to sleep in there.’
‘No…’ Her mouth made the shape, but no sound emerged. She cleared her throat. ‘No.’
‘Maybe I could have it redecorated for you? When you’re ready. If that would help.’
‘What’s the point? It’s just temporary. I’ll be looking for somewhere else just as soon as I’ve got the business sorted out.’
He wanted to tell her to stop being so stupid. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her and tell her that he’d move heaven and earth to keep her safe in the home she loved. His body was way ahead of his mind and he made a move towards the door, needing to put an end to this torture. She still didn’t move.
‘I imagine that’s where I’ll find a razor, then?’ he prompted, not prepared to get any closer. There was altogether too much naked flesh in a confined space to risk that. ‘Across the hall?’
She frowned, as if coming back from somewhere inside her head. ‘Oh, yes. And Steven’s clothes. Please do help yourself to whatever you like…’
And that was when she realised that she was somewhat underdressed to offer that kind of invitation. Underdressed full stop. And blushed all the way down to her toes.
‘A clean shirt. Socks,’ she rushed on. ‘There’s a new toothbrush in the cupboard under…’
‘Thank you. I’ll find it.’
‘Right, I’ll go and, um…’ She made a vague gesture at her figure, indicating that she was going to put some clothes on, changed her mind about drawing further attention to herself halfway through and, practically falling over her feet, made a rapid retreat, this time face forward to avoid further disaster.
As he waited, giving her time to clear the room, he realised he should have asked her how her elbow was doing. Unfortunately, the quick flash of her smooth, golden backside as she’d finally turned and fled had knocked it clean out of his mind.
Francesca didn’t hang arou
nd to ask whether Guy was going to continue his nap or would prefer to go downstairs and have something to eat. She just grabbed the first clothes that came to hand and bolted. And, having gathered up the paperwork she’d brought back from the office, she shut herself away in the study.
Her jeans were the comfortable baggy fit cut that she’d worn when Steven wasn’t around to grumble that she looked untidy, the top something loose and equally figure obscuring. It felt disloyal somehow—even in the last couple of weeks, when he’d hardly been able to lift his head, he’d still wanted to see her looking like his ‘princess’—but it was too late to think about changing. Too late to think about obscuring anything, too.
Guy had seen everything there was to see while she’d stood there talking to him as if they were at a cocktail party, instead of quietly retreating the minute she’d realised that the bathroom was occupied.
In retrospect it was so obvious that she should have simply turned around and walked out. She couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to just stand there, gawping like a complete idiot. Or maybe she could, she just didn’t want to think about it too hard. Maybe she should stop thinking about it now.
She definitely shouldn’t be thinking about that moment when she’d seen the flash of anger burn in his eyes, the involuntary movement of his hand when she’d rejected his offer to redecorate the master bedroom. As if it was something he needed to do to make up for his blunder over mentioning it.
In fact her best plan would be to go out, she decided. Right now. And, grabbing Steven’s briefcase—she’d put everything back in so the Chinese stuff had to be in there—she checked the landing to ensure that the way was clear and then went quietly downstairs to find Connie and tell her about their guest.