Sinclair hunkered down beside her, looking concerned. ‘Hey, sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to finish you off.’
She turned a crimson, sweating face up to his. ‘I’m not—in your—class,’ she gasped.
‘You easily could be. Come every morning for a while. You’ll soon get into shape. Not,’ he added, with the smile that was no help to Rose in trying to breathe normally, ‘that there’s anything wrong with yours.’
She scrambled hastily to her feet, glad that her crimson face could hardly turn redder. ‘Time I got back to shower.’
‘Ah. You don’t care for personal remarks.’
She liked his a lot. Rose smiled non-committally as he fell in step beside her, wondering if he meant to see her back to the flat again.
‘I bring some kit and have a shower here sometimes when I’ve got lectures,’ he said casually. ‘If you do the same tomorrow we could have breakfast afterwards in the transport café down the hill.’
Rose felt a rush of excitement, wondering if this would be Con’s idea of progress. Not that it mattered. By this time, plan or no plan, Rose Dryden was totally committed to her crusade to make the lofty, uninterested-in-women James Sinclair fall in love with her. Nothing was going to persuade her from it until she either succeeded, or he told her to get lost.
‘If it doesn’t appeal to you, don’t worry,’ he said curtly, and turned away.
Rose came to with a start. ‘It appeals very much. I’d like that.’
‘Right, then,’ he said briskly. ‘See you in the morning.’
Rose passed acquaintances by unnoticed as she jogged back to the flat in a dream. Her reception committee was waiting impatiently, as usual, demanding every last detail of the encounter.
‘Wow,’ said Fabia in awe. ‘You’re definitely winning, Rose.’
‘But the prize is breakfast in a transport caff after slogging round the racetrack, not a candlelit dinner for two,’ Rose reminded her, deliberately prosaic to hide her elation.
‘Where Sinclair’s concerned,’ said Con, laughing, ‘it probably counts for the same thing.’
When Rose arrived at the stadium next morning, sports bag in hand, Sinclair was racing round the track at a speed that exhausted her to watch.
‘Hi,’ he panted, coming to a stop beside her. ‘Come on, a slow turn or two to warm up, then speed up a bit each circuit as you go along.’
When they took off round the track together Sinclair somehow managed to restrain his long stride to keep up with Rose as they ran, and to her surprise her technique improved so much with Sinclair for coach and pacemaker she even managed to stay upright when he called it a day at last and let her stop.
‘Into the shower,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t be long.’
Inside the deserted women’s section Rose swathed her hair in a towel and leaned into a spray as hot as she could bear, then towelled herself hastily, slapped on some of the body lotion Fabia had provided, zipped up a yellow hooded sweatshirt and wriggled into the clinging jeans. Con had ordered her to use eyeshadow and mascara, but Rose was so eager to rejoin Sinclair she didn’t bother. She loosened the braid, tied her hair back with a velvet ribbon and put some lipstick on as a gesture to the occasion. When she joined Sinclair outside her entire body simmered with excitement which increased when she saw the gleam of approval in his eyes.
‘If you feel as good as you look,’ he told her, taking her bag, ‘the run was a success.’
‘I feel great. And very hungry,’ she added, almost dancing along beside him as they hurried down the hill to the town.
The transport café was packed, and full of steam and the smell of frying, and Rose loved every last thing about it. Sinclair exchanged greetings with some of the long-distance drivers who formed the majority of the clientele, seated Rose in a corner near the fogged window, then without consulting her went off to collect their meal.
‘Bacon sandwiches—the staff of life,’ he announced as he returned with the food.
Rose, who rarely ate any breakfast at all, fell on her sandwich ravenously. ‘That was fabulous.’ She sighed, as they drank strong tea afterwards. ‘But if I lost any ounces on the track I’ve put them all back on now.’
‘Is that why you run? To lose weight?’ The assessing grey eyes scanned her from head to toe.
‘No,’ said Rose with complete truth. ‘I just want to get fitter, release the endorphins and so on. Isn’t that supposed to help the brain to function?’
‘It does it for me,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s part of my training. I should really have given up rugby for my finals’ year, but the season will be over soon; then I’ll channel all my energies into the last push to the exams.’
‘No more running?’ she said involuntarily.
Sinclair regarded her in silence for a moment. ‘If I gave it up,’ he said slowly, ‘I think I’d miss my morning run. Now.’
Rose gulped down the last of her tea and stood up, afraid he’d tune in to her excitement if she stayed a second longer. ‘Could I pay my share, please?’
‘No.’ Sinclair got up, smiling at her indulgently. ‘You can pay next time.’
Next time! Rose’s heart sang as she walked briskly up the hill with Sinclair, ignoring the awed, disbelieving looks of her peers as they recognised her companion. When they arrived at her entrance Rose thanked Sinclair for the meal and turned away quickly so he wouldn’t suspect how much she longed to linger, but he caught her arm.
‘Rose, wait a second. We’ve got another home match the day after tomorrow. Will you be there again?’
Again! So he had noticed her.
‘I don’t know. It depends,’ she said vaguely.
To her delight he looked slightly put out. ‘If not I’ll be running on Sunday, same as usual. Come and try for an extra circuit and I’ll buy you two bacon sandwiches this time to compensate.’
‘OK,’ she said casually, and forced herself take the stairs without a backward glance.
Con was full of admiration when she heard that Rose was neither turning up at the Saturday rugby game, nor going to the pub later on.
‘Good move. Fabia’s meeting Hargreaves at the Sceptre after the match, but I’ll go to the flicks with you instead, Rose,’ she added nobly.
‘In the afternoon, if you like. The Cameo’s showing one of those French films I’m supposed to like, so I’d better see it to impress Sinclair. But in the evening you have fun in the pub with Fabia and the others, as usual. I shall stay here and watch TV. Or even do some work.’ Rose grinned, her eyes dancing.
‘Clever little bunny! You don’t need teacher any more.’
‘I’m grateful for all the help I can get, but I do have the odd idea of my own, Con. Sinclair let slip that he noticed me at the match, and he definitely saw me at the pub, so this week I shall be missing from both. But I need you and Fabia and the rest there in force to make my absence marked. And a detailed report when you get back.’
During Saturday evening, while the comings and goings outside early on made it difficult to concentrate on a Shakespeare essay, Rose was almost sorry she’d had the self-control to stay behind while the others went out. But, quite apart from wanting Sinclair to note her absence, secretly Rose had worried that he might do no more than give her a casual wave anyway, if she’d turned up at the Sceptre. And no way was she willing to risk that.
‘Sinclair was there, right enough,’ said Con breathlessly, the moment she came through the door with Fabia. ‘Flushed with victory, after his usual star turn on the rugby pitch. He saw us arrive, and craned his neck to see if you were with us. Then afterwards he kept glancing over to our table to see if you’d put in a late appearance. It’s working, it’s working!’ She seized Rose’s hands and yanked her off the bed, whirling her round like a dervish until they collapsed in a heap with Fabia, laughing their heads off.
‘What are you two on?’ demanded Rose, giggling helplessly.
‘Adrenaline,’ gurgled Fabia, and eyed her with envy. ‘Damn. I wish I’d dra
wn Sinclair’s name out of the hat myself now.’
Con threw back her head with a yelp of laughter. ‘Come on, Fabe, can you honestly see yourself pounding round the track at dawn?’
Fabia joined in the laughter good-naturedly. ‘Not a chance. No man is worth that kind of effort.’
‘I rather enjoy the running now,’ confessed Rose. ‘It gives a terrific buzz.’
‘And ruins the mascara!’
‘Never wear any.’
Con patted her hand. ‘You don’t need it, anyway. Is Sinclair still treating you like a kid, by the way?’
Rose thought it over. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think he is.’
‘I bet he’s wondering where you are tonight, and who with,’ said Fabia with relish. ‘He’d never believe the truth.’
‘He’s about the only one who might,’ said Con. ‘Sinclair’s got tunnel vision when it comes to the study bit, according to our faithful researchers. Will and Joe give off gamma rays of hero-worship whenever his name is mentioned.’
Rose felt a sharp twinge of conscience. ‘I just hope he never finds out what we’re up to.’
‘He won’t. Neither of them knows him well enough for intimate little chats. Besides, we have enough relevant information by now.’ Con ticked off her fingers. ‘Sinclair comes from somewhere near Edinburgh, lives in digs here in the town, likes foreign films and excels at almost every sport—as if we didn’t know—but apparently he likes fishing, too, and holidays on Skye, and, of course, ambition is his middle name. There.’
‘When did you find all this out?’ demanded Rose.
‘I had to be dangerously sweet to Hargreaves on the way home from the pub to wheedle the home background out of him.’ Fabia batted her eyelashes. ‘I stopped short of surrendering my virtue, but only just.’
‘Good,’ said Con approvingly. ‘Keep him on the boil in case we need his help again. And don’t even try to look noble—you know perfectly well you fancy him.’
‘A good thing I do in the circumstances!’ Fabia pulled a face. ‘Though he’s now convinced I’ve got a crush on our hero. Not that it matters. Will told me tonight I don’t stand a chance in that direction, because Sinclair, I quote, “has no time to spare for girls”.’
‘Except at dawn’s early light for Rose,’ said Con, laughing.
CHAPTER THREE
NEXT morning Rose woke before the alarm went off, deeply depressed to find rain streaming down her window. Moving quietly to avoid disturbing the others, she got into her running gear, collected a yellow slicker from the hook behind the door, picked up her bag with the change of clothes, then shut herself in the bathroom for the rest of her preparations. She hurried out eventually into rain so heavy she was sure Sinclair wouldn’t bother to turn up. But when she got to the stadium he was there before her, tall and faintly menacing in hooded black until his teeth showed white in the smile she was beginning to know so well.
‘Hi. I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘I had my doubts,’ she admitted, smiling cheerfully in response. She eyed the water-covered track with apprehension. ‘Can we run on that?’
‘I vote we don’t in this weather.’ He took her bag. ‘I’ve got a suggestion.’
‘Bacon sandwiches with no run for starters?’ she said hopefully.
‘Something like that. But there’s a problem. The café doesn’t open this early on Sundays.’
‘Oh. Never mind,’ said Rose, swallowing her disappointment. ‘Some other time, then.’
‘I live in digs in the town,’ he said quickly, the faint trace of Scots in his accent more pronounced. ‘And I make a great bacon sandwich. My landlady’s away this weekend, babysitting, but she gives me the run of her kitchen.’
‘Does she do that for all her boarders?’
‘I’m her one and only.’ His expression was hard to make out in the gloom. ‘Will you join me for breakfast, Rose?’
Excitement swept through her like a tidal wave. ‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’
He smiled. ‘Come on, then, let’s make a run for it. We’ve got a way to go before you get anything to eat.’
‘And I thought I was let off for today!’
By the time they reached a crescent of solid Edwardian houses they were drenched. Sinclair unlocked the door of a house halfway along and hurried her into a mosaic-tiled hall, switched on lights and yanked off her dripping slicker.
‘Take your shoes off,’ he ordered, ‘then go straight up the stairs to the bathroom and get into some dry clothes.’
‘How about you?’ She panted.
‘I’ll strip off in Mrs Bradley’s bathroom down here—go on, hurry up. I’ll start grilling the bacon while you change. My room’s first on the right. Wait for me there.’
Wishing she could avoid getting sweaty and red-faced just once now and again in Sinclair’s company, Rose stripped off her outer clothes in a blessedly warm bathroom, then pulled on dry socks, old, comfortable denims and an outsize baggy white sweater which grew larger every time she washed it. She dismantled her damp plait, rubbed her hair dry with her own towel, rather than mar the immaculate ones on the rail, used a hairbrush vigorously, then added the usual token touch of lipstick to her mouth and packed her wet things in the bag.
Rose felt like a trespasser when she ventured into Sinclair’s room. There were piles of books everywhere. The sizeable table he used as a desk had obviously been cleared of them to make room for a large wooden tray set with tea-things, but books lay in stacks under it, and on shelves and on the floor either side of a big sofa. To her relief there was no bed. He obviously slept somewhere else. Through the rain sluicing down the big window at the back of the room Rose could see a drenched garden backing onto gardens in the street behind. Pleasant on a better day. And she envied him the room, which was three times the size of hers at the flat. She put her bag down and went to look at his books. Her aunt maintained that you could tell a lot about people from their taste in reading. But there was little to be learned from Sinclair’s collection, which was all textbooks, bar a couple of volumes on fly fishing.
Rose turned guiltily as Sinclair came in with a platter of sandwiches. ‘You were quick!’ she exclaimed, hoping he couldn’t tell how shy she felt now they were alone together.
Sinclair switched on a couple of lamps and plugged in a kettle. ‘I put everything ready before I went out. I just had to light the grill and abracadabra, everything was ready in no time.’ He handed her a length of kitchen paper in lieu of a napkin, and gave her a plate with two sandwiches on it, then made a pot of tea and sat down on a straight chair at the table and began to eat. Rose munched in silence for a lengthening interval, wishing she could think of something brilliantly clever to say.
‘What’s the matter, Rose?’ he asked bluntly.
Her eyes met his with candour. ‘I was just thinking that this isn’t what I expected when I started out this morning.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d prefer the transport café?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then don’t look so scared. I’m perfectly harmless.’
She grinned involuntarily. ‘So I’ve heard.’
He glared, his eyes suddenly wintry. ‘And just what have you heard, little girl?’ he drawled, ice in every word.
Rose blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Only that you’re more interested in getting a double first than chasing after girls.’
His eyes softened. ‘True enough. My surplus energies expend themselves on the track and the rugby pitch. The rest goes into this lot here.’ He waved a hand at the encroaching books, then gave her the slow smile which made her insides dissolve. ‘The rumours about my sexual preferences are false, by the way, in case you’re wondering, spread in my first year by a female who resented my lack of interest.’
‘I wasn’t wondering,’ she assured him blithely, and began on her second sandwich with more relish.
‘Why not?’
Rose regarded him steadily. ‘Because
it’s none of my business.’
Sinclair stared back in surprise. ‘You’re very blunt. Want some tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ He filled a beaker, added a splash of milk and handed it to her, pleasing Rose enormously because he’d remembered how she liked it.
‘So you don’t care whether I’m gay or not?’ he demanded.
‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘I fail to see why race, religion or sexual leanings should matter when it comes to friendship.’
Sinclair leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees as he peered down into her face. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Rose gave him a crooked little smile. ‘Wet behind the ears I may be in your eyes, but I have my beliefs.’
‘Your parents fostered them?’
Her face shadowed. ‘They began the process, but they died when I was fourteen. I live with my aunt. Minerva holds strong views on everything, so I suppose I’ve taken some of them on board myself without even realising it.’
Sinclair got up, seeming taller than usual to Rose from her seat on his sofa. He took her mug and plate from her and put them on the tray, then to her astonishment he sat beside her and took her hand.
‘Would you like to tell me about your parents?’ he said gently.
Rose gave him a startled, sidelong glance, deeply conscious of the hard, warm hand grasping hers. Then after a moment’s hesitation she told him about the joyrider who’d put an end to her parents’ lives one afternoon on a narrow country road in Warwickshire.
‘They were on their way to fetch me from school.’ Rose bit her lip. ‘For a long time I just couldn’t accept that they were gone, even after I went to live with my aunt. Minerva owns a bookshop in a small town in the Cotswolds, and after—after the accident I moved into the flat over the shop with her.’
‘Poor little kid,’ said James quietly. ‘It must have been tough for you.’
‘I won’t pretend it wasn’t. But I’ve been fortunate, too. My father was a lot older than Minerva, so I look on her more as friend than aunt now I’m older. And I still have my memories of a happy childhood, and the holidays I spent with Mother and Dad.’ Feeling horribly guilty, she recalled herself to the matter in hand. ‘We even went to Scotland once, to Skye.’ The last bit, a vital part of Con’s strategy, was her first real lie, and she gulped down some tea to cover the rush of guilty colour to her face.
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