‘Explained what? That half the town has got the two of us paired up together and married off on the strength of last week’s gold club do, an unwise comment he made at last night’s committee meeting, and one telephone call? He’ll think me certifiable. He’s a Londoner. He won’t understand. He’ll think—’
She stopped abruptly. What was it she was afraid of him thinking? That she was trying to force some kind of intimacy between them by fostering the gossip, by allowing it to run unchecked? But the gossip wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t the one who had singled him out at last night’s meeting… She wasn’t the one who had telephoned him… she wasn’t…
Oh, what was the use? Oh, what was the use in allowing herself to get all worked up about something over which she had absolutely no control? she reflected wearily; but as for tonight… well, she would soon make it plain to Ben that she wasn’t remotely interested in seeing his precious plans and that she certainly did not welcome the kind of high-handed attitude he had engaged in today, ringing up like that and behaving as though he had every right to claim her time. It would serve him right if she decided to leave the office early and go straight home. But she knew she would not do that. For one thing they didn’t normally close until five-thirty, and in her father’s absence she would have to remain here until that time.
When Liz left at four-thirty for a dental appointment, Miranda struggled with a willful impulse to close down the office early. In the end her conscience and training won, and she realised that she would have to stay until five-thirty.
However, what she could do was to make sure that she was ready to leave at five-thirty on the dot so that if Ben Frobisher was even a couple of minutes late he would have missed her.
As luck would have it, at twenty past five, just as she was getting ready to leave, the phone rang, and she was still dealing with the call when Ben walked into the office at five-thirty sharp.
When he saw that she was busy, he went and sat down discreetly out of earshot, picking up a magazine and studying it with apparent interest while she dealt with the caller’s query.
He wasn’t, she noticed darkly, carrying anything with him, and there was certainly no room in the soft leather blouson jacket he was wearing for him to conceal the large set of plans she had seen the previous night.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she apologised in a clipped voice as she replaced the receiver. It was good manners rather than genuine regret that made her apologise. In point of fact, she had been uncomfortably conscious as she’d replaced the receiver that the plastic had become rather damp where she had been holding it and that her fingers were stiff and tense. Why did he have to have this effect on her? she wondered bitterly as she kept her distance from him.
He had got to his feet as she replaced the receiver, and now he was walking towards her. Why was it that she was so aware of him, so conscious of his maleness, of his sexuality? She licked her lips nervously as she realised that she had been wondering what he would look like without his jacket and the shirt he was wearing beneath it, whether in fact his torso would be as firmly fleshed and tautly muscled as his lithe movements suggested, whether the thick dark hair on his head was mirrored on his body, and if so what it would be like to trace its path with her fingertips and with her lips.
Aghast at the direction of her own thoughts, she turned her back on him and demanded shakily, ‘The plans… Liz said you wanted to show them to me.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t have them with me, though. They are over at my place. I thought perhaps we could have dinner together, go over the plans and then I could pick your brains a little. I still haven’t found somewhere permanent to live and your father intimated to me that you’re the expert on your more outlying properties.’
Her father. Miranda ground her teeth. Why on earth she had ever agreed to her father’s request that she partner Ben at the golf club dance?
She opened her mouth to tell him that it was impossible for her to have dinner with him, and that she had no desire whatsoever to see his plans, but just as she did so a movement outside in the square caught her eye, and as she focused on it she saw that Ralph Charlesworth was walking determinedly towards the office.
Her heart sank. This wouldn’t be the first time that Ralph had used the excuse of wanting to discuss the purchase of a property with her to force her to endure his company. As a building contractor, he did occasionally buy property on a speculative basis, and she had felt obliged to deal as professionally with his spurious interest as she could, while ignoring the sexual innuendo of his conversation. Behind her she could hear Ben asking calmly, ‘Are you ready to leave or…?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m ready,’ she told him quickly, grabbing her coat and bag. Much as her brain warned her that it was not in her own best interest for her to spend any time at all in Ben Frobisher’s company and risk exposing herself to the emotional and physical impact he seemed to have on her, when it came to a choice between Ben and Ralph…
She gave a small shudder, as Ben opened the door for her and then waited while she locked it behind her.
As she fell into step beside Ben, she was acutely conscious of Ralph’s silent presence behind them, watching them.
She had assumed that Ben hadn’t seen Ralph, but as they crossed the square she realised she was wrong because he said quietly to her, ‘Charlesworth hasn’t been bothering you again, has he?’
She shook her head, and then remembered something she had forgotten in the busyness of the day. ‘I don’t think he’s very pleased about losing the contract for your conversion.’
‘He told you that, did he?’ Ben queried, his voice suddenly a little harder than it had been.
Whether by accident or design, Miranda didn’t know, but his car was parked next to her own, and as she removed her car keys from her handbag she told him truthfully, ‘No. I just happened to overhear him saying something to somebody else as I left the meeting last night. He was in the bar; he’d obviously been drinking. He wasn’t making any effort to keep his voice down and, while he didn’t specifically mention your name, I had the feeling from the threats I overheard that he was determined to pay you out for taking him off the contract. I could be wrong.’
‘Mm. Well, maybe… maybe not. As it happens, on the advice of the new contractors I have already organised for the house to be guarded at night when it’s empty. Apparently it isn’t uncommon in and around Bath for houses under conversion and empty to be stripped of their period detailings. There’s a thriving market in reclaimed authentic period fittings.
‘You know the place I’m renting?’ he queried as he turned to unlock his own car door.
Miranda nodded her head, and realised too late as he opened his car door and got inside that it was impossible now for her to tell him that she had changed her mind and didn’t want to see the plans.
* * *
THE COTTAGE he was renting was on the opposite side of the town from her own, but just as remote.
As she followed Ben’s car down the lane which led to it, she reflected that its vaguely shabby exterior betrayed the fact that it lacked a loving permanent inhabitant, and, once she had parked her car next to Ben’s and followed him inside, this impression was borne out by the appearance of the kitchen.
Like her own, it was a comfortably sized rectangular room, and also like her own it was warmed by a large Aga set in what must have been the original chimney breast, but there the similarities ended.
While her own kitchen had been lovingly planned to complemen
t the building’s ancient beams and low ceilings, this room had suffered the careless modernisation of an owner more intent on turning it into something that was strictly functional, rather than sympathetically taking into account the age and character of the building.
Stark white kitchen units, more suited to a modern streamlined flat, had been installed along two walls, and in the centre of the room, where Miranda had the heavy old scrubbed oak table she had lovingly rescued from a local sale-room, there was a glaringly out-of-place chrome and glass table and four equally unsuitable chairs.
Ben must have seen the expression on her face because he grimaced a little and agreed, ‘Not exactly in character, is it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Fortunately the sitting-room’s rather more pleasant and luckily there’s a good-sized table in there so that we can eat—’
He stopped as Miranda made a small sound in her throat.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked her.
‘I… well… when you said we’d have dinner, I assumed you meant that we’d be eating out,’ she was forced to admit.
The grin he gave her was almost boyish.
‘Ah, I see, you don’t trust my cooking, is that it? Well, you needn’t worry. Ma made a point of ensuring that we could all cook. Not that I’m any expert.’
Miranda swallowed hard, unwilling to admit that it wasn’t so much his cooking she feared as the thought of being totally alone with him, and even then it was not him she feared, but herself, or rather her reaction to him.
Despairingly she wished that she had stood by her initial decision to tell him that she was too busy to see the plans, but it was too late for that now.