by Jill Mansell
Suddenly spotting a flicker of movement through the trees ahead, Bev froze and drew up her gun. Keeping it trained steadily in front of her, she held her breath.
Bugger, it was only a squirrel. She exhaled slowly.
‘Don’t move,’ whispered a voice behind her, and she felt the barrel of a gun being pressed into her back.
Oh, shit, thought Bev, furious with herself. Now I’m dead too.
‘Close your eyes,’ hissed the voice.
Bev closed her eyes and waited for the splat.
‘Turn around slowly.’
She turned, her boots squelching inelegantly in the mud, her breathing fast and shallow.
‘Keep your eyes shut. Don’t speak.’
Bev’s heart was racing like a train. She felt warm breath on her face, then a mouth tentatively brushing hers. Her whole body tingled in response—as it had never tingled before—and she found herself leaning forwards, desperate for more.
Heavens, so this was what they meant by war being an aphrodisiac…
‘You tart,’ said Johnnie, breaking away with a grin. ‘I could have been anybody.’
Bev smiled.
‘I recognized your aftershave.’
‘Can I tell you something?’
‘What?’
‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ countered Bev.
‘What?’
‘That thing you just did, the thing that vaguely resembled a kiss. Was that it, or is there more?’
‘Oh, there’s more,’ Johnnie promised. He brushed her wet hair away from her cheeks and thought how beautiful she looked. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind fraternizing with the enemy?’
Trembling, Bev put her arms around him and raised her mouth to his.
This time there was nothing tentative about the kiss. Johnnie slid his tongue into her mouth and she responded for all she was worth. Oh God, he was a fabulous kisser, he really was, and the way he was running his hands over her body, well, it was just too good an opportunity to miss—
WHUMMPPP! WHUMMPPP!
‘What the—?’ Johnnie gasped, jerking away and twisting round to see the explosions of scarlet paint running down his back. He gazed in disbelief at the pistol in Bev’s hand.
‘Bang bang, you’re dead,’ said Bev.
Chapter 55
Ahead of them, at the end of the sweeping gravel drive, the Manor House Hotel loomed out of the mist like a mirage in a desert. Only this was the reverse of a desert mirage. Water they had plenty of on such a damp, grey and increasingly chilly evening. But the sight of warm lights glowing welcomingly in windows, combined with the prospect of lounging in front of a crackling log fire sipping brandy and digesting a fabulous meal was too great to resist.
‘What do you think?’ Johnnie kept the engine ticking over. As if she was likely to say no.
‘Yes yes yes,’ Bev breathed. Warmth, heat, food, drink, all those unimaginable luxuries, in the most gorgeous of surroundings. A horrid thought suddenly struck her. ‘Oh no…’
‘What?’
‘Look at the state of us.’ She pulled despairingly at her hair and gazed at Johnnie’s crumpled rugby shirt and jeans. ‘They’re never going to let us in, not in a million years.’
Johnnie thought for a second; this clearly hadn’t occurred to him either. A few moments later he switched off the ignition, leaned across the car and took Bev’s face carefully between his hands.
Her muddy face, now free of foundation and blusher and powder and God-knows-what-else. Those bright eyes, minus all the layers of shadow and gunky mascara. That soft, oh-so-kissable mouth. And the hair the color of ripe corn, no longer sculpted into one of those don’t-touch-me chignon things but falling loosely around her shoulders.
God, he loved hair that just fell like that.
‘You look beautiful. You are beautiful,’ said Johnnie. ‘I knew you would be.’
This was so ridiculous Bev didn’t even try to argue. The man was clearly deranged.
‘We’re still not going to be allowed into the restaurant,’ she said sadly.
‘Maybe not.’ Johnnie swung open the driver’s door. ‘But they’ll let us have a room.’
***
‘Better now?’ he said forty minutes later when Bev emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel’s white velour dressing gowns.
‘Heaven.’ Pink, scented and still gently steaming, Bev collapsed on to the sofa and took the glass of wine he held out. Gosh, it was amazing how much more you appreciated a hot bath when you’d actually done something to earn it.
‘My turn now.’ Johnnie dropped the menu into her lap. ‘Choose what you want to eat, then ring down and let them know. By the time I’m back out, dinner will be here. Oh—and order another bottle of wine.’
He was lovely. Muddy, but lovely, Bev now realized. How could she ever have thought he was a pig?
By nine thirty, dinner had been cleared away and it was time to start making a move.
‘Two hours to get home,’ Bev groaned. ‘Work tomorrow. I bet I’ll ache like anything. Honestly, nobody’s going to believe it when I tell them what I did today.’
‘You were a star.’ Johnnie gave her arm a squeeze.
Uh oh, more physical contact. Bev felt her heart break into a gallop.
‘I still can’t believe I actually enjoyed it. You don’t mind, then, that I killed you?’
‘I forgive you.’ Johnnie was smiling, surveying her as if something was on his mind.
‘What?’ said Bev. Thump, thump, thumpety thump.
‘Nothing.’ He flapped his hand, embarrassed. ‘If I told you, it would only sound stupid.’
‘We’ve talked nonstop for the last three hours. Don’t clam up on me now!’ Bev twisted round, pulling her legs up under her and covering them with her dressing gown.
‘Er…’ Johnnie gestured discreetly in the direction of her cleavage.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Realizing she was now somewhat agape further up, Bev tugged the lapels together. ‘Anyway, carry on. You were saying?’
‘Well…just that sometimes you meet someone and you know that they’re the kind of person you could…you know…’
‘No, I don’t know,’ breathed Bev, beside herself with frustration. ‘Could what? Could what?’
Johnnie closed his eyes, feeling himself start to chicken out. God, he’d waited years for this moment and now he was about to lose his nerve. How bloody typical was that?
‘What I mean is, sometimes you meet someone and you can just picture how they’ll be in twenty years’ time.’ This was semi-chickening out. Veering away from what he’d meant to say, without changing the subject altogether. Oh well, that was allowed, wasn’t it? Better than starting to talk about the weather.
‘And?’ Bev gazed at him eagerly, her lips slightly parted. ‘Can you picture me?’
Johnnie smiled. ‘Oh yes. Bowling along in your Range Rover with a carful of Labradors and strapping, noisy, rugby-playing sons.’
Without warning, Bev burst into tears. How could be possibly have known that? It was her fantasy, four sons had always been her fantasy and she’d never told a living soul.
‘How many?’ The tears stopped as suddenly as they had appeared.
‘Three boys. And a baby daughter,’ said Johnnie, his smile broadening as he pictured them. ‘They’ll spoil her rotten, of course.’
‘I don’t believe in any of that psychic stuff,’ Bev said warily.
‘It isn’t psychic. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Only men aren’t meant to daydream about that kind of thing. Getting married and having kids isn’t a very macho thing to want.’ Johnnie pulled a face. ‘All we’re supposed to dream about is going out, getting wrecked
, and ripping the knickers off as many different birds as possible.’ He paused. ‘Preferably with our teeth.’
I’m not wearing any knickers, thought Bev, so you couldn’t rip mine off me.
Then she smiled a bit unsteadily, because this was possibly one of the happiest moments of her entire life.
‘So what are you saying?’
He gave her a long look.
‘You know perfectly well what I’m saying.’
Oh! Goodbye, dusty old shelf! Hello, lifetime of bliss!
‘It’s still early days,’ Bev felt obliged to remind him. Only one day, in fact. As if she cared a jot.
‘I know that. I’m just letting you know how I feel about you.’ Johnnie shrugged. ‘If by any chance you think you might feel the same, please, feel free to let me know. If, on the other hand, you still find me utterly loathsome, well, you can tell me that too.’
Slowly, Bev kissed him.
‘I don’t find you utterly loathsome.’
‘Well, good,’ said Johnnie. ‘Phew,’ he mimed relief, ‘that’s a start.’
Bev glanced about her at the opulent oak-paneled bedroom with its beamed ceiling, antique fireplace and velvet-canopied four-poster.
‘Did you say you’d booked this room for the whole night?’
‘Had to. They don’t rent them out by the hour,’ he explained. ‘It’s not that kind of hotel.’
‘Seems a shame not to get our money’s worth then.’ Bev kissed him again, snuggling closer and allowing her hand to slip between the lapels of his dressing-gown. Shivering with pleasure as the silky dark hairs tangled beneath her fingers, she murmured, ‘I’m really glad you’ve got a hairy chest.’
Johnnie replied gravely, ‘I’m glad you’ve got a smooth one.’
Chapter 56
Miranda knew something weird was going on when she pulled on her baggy khaki trousers, stood up and promptly fell over.
‘You’ve got both legs in one trouser leg,’ Chloe pointed out. ‘You aren’t concentrating.’
No, she wasn’t. Instead she’d been thinking about Danny, who was due to arrive any minute now, listening out for the doorbell and wondering if she had time to quickly wash the gel out of her hair after all and go for the natural look.
Well, as natural as midnight-blue hair with magenta streaks could ever look.
Dragging her left leg out of her right trouser leg, Miranda realized with a sinking heart that the thing she most didn’t want happening was starting to happen all over again. It had been escalating over the last week, creeping inexorably up on her like a mischievous ghost, and there was no longer any getting away from it.
The Crush was back.
Concentrating this time, she put her left leg carefully into her left trouser leg, stood up and fastened the zip.
‘Look at you, with a waist.’ As Chloe gave her flat stomach an envious prod, the doorbell rang. ‘Ooh, that’ll be Danny. Excited?’
Miranda looked at her hectically flushed reflection in the mirror. Dammit, yes she was, but not for the reason Chloe thought. What was more, she really wished she wasn’t excited, because a raging crush on someone who doesn’t have a crush on you isn’t the coolest, most comfortable thing in the world to have.
The Return of the Crush, thought Miranda, biting her lip. Oh dear, and she’d been so sure it had gone for good when Miles had burst into her life. She’d been cured, oh yes, he’d been just what she’d needed to take her mind off Danny Delancey.
So it was irritating to say the least, having it make an unscheduled reappearance in her life now. Like an annoying old schoolfriend you’d rather hoped never to see again, popping up over the garden fence calling, ‘Coo-ee, we’ve just bought the house next door!’
***
Funny how you can walk into room quite effortlessly all your life, then all of a sudden it becomes a complicated procedure, fraught with difficulties.
Florence and Tom were in the sitting room, chattering to Danny, who had made himself comfortable at one end of the sofa. Miranda, dithering in the doorway, wondered where she should sit in order not to arouse suspicion. On the floor, close to Florence’s chair? Or—the double-bluff—on the sofa, right next to Danny?
And shall I glance at him, smile and say hi, or just ignore him? Which would be more casual? Help, I’ve forgotten what to do, I can’t remember how to be normal, oh, this is horrible—
‘Quick, sit down, it’s starting.’ Florence waved the TV flipper at the screen, upping the volume as the continuity announcer began to introduce the next program. Chloe, squeezing past Tom and Florence, lowered herself into the last empty armchair. Miranda sank cross-legged on to the carpet.
‘There’s plenty of room next to Danny,’ Florence protested.
‘I’m fine, I prefer it on the floor.’
The moment the words were out, Miranda regretted them. Florence and Tom sniggered like teenagers. Danny raised an eyebrow. Florence said to him, ‘Make a note of that in your diary.’
‘Sshh,’ Miranda said crossly. ‘I thought we were supposed to be watching this.’
‘And now,’ purred the continuity announcer, ‘a new documentary from the award-winning team of Delancey and Vale.’
‘I didn’t know you’d won awards.’ Chloe was impressed.
‘Well,’ said Danny, ‘mainly my Blue Peter badge.’
‘Let’s settle down now,’ the announcer lowered her voice, ‘for an absorbing hour of…Streetlife.’
***
‘That was brilliant,’ said Tom an hour later. He rewound the videotape to one of the interviews with Florence. ‘And she’s not bad either.’
‘To think I fantasized about being spotted by a Texan oil billionaire.’ Florence sighed. ‘What did I end up with instead? Some old pervert who gets his kicks dressing up as a vicar.’
Chloe, sticking up for Tom, said, ‘Only once.’
‘Ha, that’s all you know,’ gurgled Florence. ‘He hasn’t taken that cassock back to the hire shop yet.’
It hadn’t escaped Danny’s notice that Miranda wasn’t at all her old self. She was quieter these days, ill at ease in company and lacking her usual exuberance and wit.
He cornered her in the kitchen after the program, where she was making coffee.
‘Miranda, are you okay?’
Miranda flinched and shot an anguished glance in the direction of the door. Wouldn’t someone please like to rescue her? Please?
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’ve been different recently.’
‘Oh? I don’t think I have.’
Danny felt for her. She could barely bring herself to look at him.
‘Is it Miles?’
Miranda swallowed. So that was what he thought, was it? That she was still torn apart with grief.
She wasn’t. It was the end of September, ten weeks since the accident. She was over it now. And if that sounded brutal, she had, after all, only known Miles for a few short days.
Still, Danny didn’t need to know any of this, did he?
Miranda’s skin prickled with shame. It seemed a terrible thing to do, using Miles as an excuse for her odd behavior. Still, not nearly as terrible as the way she’d feel if Danny knew the real reason she was being odd. And Miles wouldn’t mind, would he? If he was watching me now, thought Miranda, he’d be roaring with laughter at the mess I’ve gone and got myself into.
Danny was still waiting for a reply. She shrugged and nodded and carefully measured coffee into the jug.
‘Yes, it’s Miles, but I don’t want to talk about it.’ Terrified that Danny was about to be sympathetic, she felt herself going hot again; she could sink low, but not that low. Hurriedly she added, ‘Just don’t be nice to me, okay? Let’s change the subject. How’s it going with that blond girl? Still seein
g her?’
Danny leaned against the fridge and folded his arms across his chest. He gazed at her thoughtfully for a second, then smiled slightly, his dark eyes softening.
‘Oh yes. I had dinner with her last night, as a matter of fact.’
Ah. Bugger. Changing the subject was all very well, but this wasn’t the reply she’d been expecting. Subconsciously, Miranda realized, she’d been rather pinning her hopes on something more along the lines of, ‘Blond girl? What blond girl?’ Accompanied, preferably, by a puzzled frown.
‘Dinner! Terrific!’ She plastered on a bright smile. ‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Her place, actually.’
Serves me right for asking, thought Miranda. Bravely she said, ‘Is she a good cook?’
Danny thought about this.
‘Pretty good. Well, she did one of those Cordon Bleu courses a few years ago.’
Oh well, haven’t we all?
And is she good in bed? No, no, mustn’t ask that, Miranda told herself, breaking into a light sweat. Phew, thank goodness she hadn’t actually said the words aloud. Talk about a dead giveaway—there were some questions you only ever asked a man if you were besotted with him, secretly or otherwise, and this was one of them. The other great no-no being, ‘So, I suppose you’re going to marry her?’
Uttered, needless to say, through gritted teeth.
Definitely mustn’t ask him that.
‘Right. Coffee.’ Light-headed with relief at having given those two a miss, Miranda leaned on the French press’s plunger, grabbed a pile of coffee cups and clattered everything on to a tray. She wondered if Danny had inveigled the title of the blond’s favorite childhood book out of her and surprised her with a copy, too. It was probably a standard ploy he used to win girls over and convince them how wonderful he was.
Footprints in the Snow, thought Miranda, tuh.
Idiot-Girl Rides Again, more like.