WHEN the telephone rang on Saturday morning, Josie was having second, third and fourth thoughts about the advisability of a marriage of convenience to a man like Conan. Unfortunately, she discovered very quickly it was too late to get out of it. The caller was Zoe, her friend from work.
‘You sly dog, Josie! Migraine, my eye...’ Zoe’s voice echoed down the line. ‘What was it? A hot night of passion that spun over into the morning? But I do think you could have told me. I had no idea you were even going out with a man, let alone getting engaged.’
‘How did you know?’ Josie asked when she could get a word in, not at all sure who Zoe thought she was engaged to...
‘Oh, please, Josie. The engagement is announced between Miss Josephine Jamieson, only daughter of...blah, blah, and Mr Conan Devine Zarcourt, blah, blah, blah. It’s in this morning’s Times. Mind you, I didn’t know that Conan Zarcourt lived at Beeches Manor. And how come you never even mentioned him to me?’
Josie could not believe it. After listening to Zoe ramble on, and promising to tell her the full story at work on Monday, Josie finally put the phone down, and went looking for her father.
Five minutes later her worst fear was realised. With a bit of judicious questioning of her dad she’d discovered the Major had already prepared the announcement of her engagement to Charles the day he’d learned of his death. Then he had been so upset he had left Conan to see to all the arrangements.
Her father chuckled. ‘Obviously Conan has simply substituted his own name for Charles’s. You’ve got a good man there, Josephine—clever and quick-thinking,’ he remarked happily, and for the second time in two days she felt like hitting him.
Instead she went for a long walk across the fields to try and calm down. She could not blame her father; he belonged to a different generation. He had been over fifty when Josie was born, her mother forty-two. Her mother had died when she was ten, and right now Josie would have given anything to have her mother to talk to.
What she got was dozens of calls all day Saturday, congratulating her on her engagement. On Sunday, when news of Charles’s death appeared in the newspaper, quite a few of the calls congratulated her and then offered condolences too, saying the timing was unfortunate, but could not be helped.
By Monday evening Josie was spitting nails. She had spent a terrible day at work; Zoe had insisted on hearing the whole story, and Josie hated lying. Everyone in the Cheltenham law firm had congratulated her, including Mr Brownlow himself, and she had felt a complete fraud, especially when sympathy for the death of Charles was expressed.
When the doorbell rang at seven-thirty she stormed across the hall and flung open the door, ready to give Conan a blasting.
‘You! I’m surprised you dare show your face,’ she snarled, and almost slammed the door in his face.
‘Is that any way to greet your fiancé?’ Conan mocked. His dark eyes swept over her slender form with studied male appreciation, taking in her flushed, angry face and the tumble of black curls falling around her shoulders. His gaze lingered on her simple red sweater dress that clung to her every curve, then moved down to her shapely legs, to her feet encased in three-inch high-heeled black shoes, and then back to her face. ‘Very nice and very sexy,’ he murmured softly, a slow sensual smile tilting his firm lips.
She had forgotten how dynamic he appeared in the flesh. He exuded a raw animal magnetism which his casually tailored black suede jacket and hip-hugging moleskin trousers seemed designed to enhance. She had always thought him attractive, but tonight, with his black hair tussled by the evening breeze, there was a sense of power about him, a vitality that sent a frisson of fear down her spine.
‘Josie, either ask me in or let’s go.’
She blinked and, lifting her eyes, she caught the amusement lurking in the depths of his. He knew very well she was mad, and thought it funny.
‘Go...? I’d like to tell you where to go! What did you mean—?’ she began.
‘Josie, Josie, please. Not on the doorstep.’ And, brushing past her, he picked up her jacket and purse off the chair where she had placed them, and, with a hand at her back, urged her down the path to where his car was parked. ‘Here, put this on. November nights can be cold.’
She allowed him to slip her jacket over her shoulders and took her purse from his outstretched hand. ‘I want an explanation.’
‘Later.’ He opened the passenger door and gestured for her to get in the car. ‘I don’t believe in arguing and driving at the same time.’ Walking around to the driver’s side, he slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine.
Josie knew what he said made sense, so, silently fuming, she watched him drive the car along numerous country roads until he pulled up outside a small country pub called The White Swan.
‘This is the first pub I had a drink in as a boy,’ Conan remarked, turning in his seat to look at her in the dim light of the small car park. ‘I think you’ll like it; the food is good.’
‘If you say so,’ Josie said grudgingly, and felt for the car door.
‘Wait,’ Conan commanded, and caught her hand in his. ‘Say what you have to before we go inside.’ He was idly stroking her palm with his thumb as he spoke. ‘I have no intention of arguing with you while we eat.’
His touch was sending tiny quivers of sensation over her sensitive flesh and it took a supreme effort of will not to tear her hand away. But she could not afford to show him any sign of weakness. Conan would try any trick in the book to get his own way—and some he had personally invented, Josie was sure.
‘All right. Explain to me how the announcement of our engagement got in the newspaper so fast, and don’t bother lying, because I know.’
‘If you know, why ask?’ he mocked.
‘You know damn well what I mean.’
‘Don’t curse, Josie; I don’t like that in a lady.’
‘Tough, because you’re enough to make a saint curse,’ she shot back.