A Real Engagement

Then he lifted his head and held her a little away from him. ‘Maybe I don’t prefer brunettes after all,’ he said softly, and would have drawn her back to him, but Josie saw her opportunity at last. She gathered all her strength to push him away and delivered a stinging blow to his cheek.

He backed off, one hand to his face. He was breathing as fast as she was, and Josie tried to think of her plan to make him grovel but nothing occurred to her.

He said in angry exasperation, ‘What do you want here, then?’

Her knees were shaking and her throat was tight but she managed to say, with what dignity she could muster, ‘I came to ask you to turn on the water supply to my kitchen.’ She remembered that that was the first sentence in her grovel routine. Then he was meant to say, in surprise, Your kitchen? and she would take it from there.

To her surprise, he laughed. ‘Well, that’s a wonderful anticlimax. Now let’s have the truth—all of it. How did you manage to get in next door when it was locked up?’

He had missed his cue, but this would do as well—better, really. ‘I had a key to my own house, of course,’ Josie said loftily. Her hand encountered a chair behind her and she sat down on it rather quickly. The compelling eyes, fixed so relentlessly on her, were making her feel unnerved.

She said shakily, ‘I’m very tired. If you will please turn on the water I’ll go back and have a night’s sleep.’ She passed her hand wearily across her eyes.

He stood still, looking down at her darkly. Then he walked across the room and opened a door. When he came back he said, ‘I’ve turned the water on. I suppose I can’t throw you out tonight. But you’ll have to go first thing tomorrow morning. I don’t want squatters here.’

She braced her knees and walked to the door. She turned as she opened it. ‘I think you’re detestable,’ she said.

Outside it was quite dark. The sky was thick with stars, and the only sound was the constant loud chirping of the cicadas. That sound triggered the memory of a holiday in the little seaside resort of Boulouris, near Saint Raphael, with both her parents when she was about ten. Her mother had been so happy then. Josie didn’t want to think about what had happened afterwards.

She found her own front door, and, once inside, felt round for a light switch, making a mental note that she must buy a good strong torch. At last her fingers encountered the switch. She turned it on and was rewarded by a feeble light from an unshaded central hanging fitting, which was just enough to allow her to find her way across the room.

The tiny kitchen was even more inadequately lit, but she found the tap and turned it on. The water spurted out with such force that it splashed up from the sink and soaked the front of her dress. She muttered all the bad words she knew about the Enemy next door. It was all his fault. Oh, well, the dress would soon dry in the heat of the house. It was unbearably hot, and Josie wondered if she should keep the window in the sitting-room open to let in the cool evening air. But she decided not to risk insect bites.

Upstairs, she groped around both bedrooms to find switches, none of which yielded any light. She would have to sleep on the divan in the room below.

Downstairs in the kitchen again, Josie yawned hugely. What she really needed was sleep, but first she must eat something. She had bought some provisions in Menton, when the bus from Nice Airport had set her down there, and now she opened the plastic carrier and found a baguette, some butter, which had melted all over the bag, and a packet of cheese.

There were three mugs in one of the cupboards, and she chose the best of these, rinsed it and filled it with water. She pulled off hunks of bread and broke pieces of cheese from the packet. Her first dinner in her new house! She chuckled, refusing to feel disappointed. Everything could be put right, given time—and money. She wouldn’t think about the horrible man next door. He would leave her alone when he realised that she was really the owner of Mon Abri.

When she had finished all she could manage to eat, she refilled the mug and took it back to the sitting-room. She carried a small chair to the divan, to act as a bedside table, and on this she set the mug of water, her watch and a silver-framed snapshot of her mother, taken in the garden of their house last year. She picked it up and looked into the wan, lined face which had once been beautiful. ‘This is my new house, Mum dear. You should have come with me,’ Josie whispered, her eyes suddenly misty with tears. ‘But I don’t think you would have cared for it very much. Certainly not as it is at present.’

Marion Dunn had liked everything neat and predictable, and when, eight years ago, her husband left her for a younger woman the shock had been too much for her. She had gone to pieces. When she’d received the final divorce papers she had collapsed. ‘My life is over,’ she had mourned. And sometimes Josie thought that was true. Every year her mother had suffered from some new ailment, and when a bad attack of flu had struck her last winter she had not had the strength to resist. She had developed pneumonia, and in spite of all Josie’s care had died six months ago, just after Christmas.

Josie put the photograph down again on the chair. She had loved her mother sincerely, and she missed her, but the years had shown her what resentment and self-pity could do to a woman if she gave way to them. Her mother had been so romantic, but women were more realistic now, the twenty-three-year-old Josie told herself confidently. They didn’t break their hearts over men.

It would be lovely to have a shower and wash off all the hot stickiness of the day, but the shower-room, like the other two rooms upstairs, was in darkness. She pulled off her clothes, draped the sundress over a chair to dry and left her bra and lacy pants on the floor, to be washed tomorrow when she had found out how to get hot water. Fortunately there was a tiny cloakroom beside the front door, and she washed her face and wiped wet hands over her hot body, drying herself with the small hand towel she had brought with her to use on the journey. She found a thin nightie in her bag and put it on, covering her body quickly.

Suddenly her cheeks flamed as she remembered that kiss. It had been a warning to her that her body could betray her so shamefully. But the Enemy was clearly a past master in the art of—she had been going to say ‘lovemaking’, but of course it had nothing to do with love. She must forget all about it.

She yawned. She would leave the centre light on; she wouldn’t feel quite safe in the dark. There was no bedcover, but she wouldn’t need it. She took a light gown from her bag and tucked it under the cushion that would serve as a pillow, in case it got cool in the night. Then, with a deep sigh, she stretched out on the divan. She’d have a lovely, undisturbed sleep.

She had expected to drop off to sleep immediately, but instead she found herself wondering what she was going to say to the Enemy next-door when she saw him in the morning. He didn’t believe that she owned the house. It was quite ridiculous that she had to convince him, but somehow she must do so. She remembered the strength of his arms when he held her, and felt again the weakness in her limbs. Oh, yes, if he chose to be nasty he could well evict her bodily, as he had threatened to do.

She had no actual proof of ownership, but she must be absolutely sure of it in her own mind. She had taken Uncle Seb’s word for it, but what if there had been some mistake? No, there couldn’t be. Uncle Seb couldn’t possibly be wrong. She would rely on him and ask for his help if she needed it. She wouldn’t be bullied by that hateful man next door. Mon Abri was hers, and she meant to keep it.

Closing her eyes on this firm resolution, she fell into a heavy sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

JOSIE’S hope for an undisturbed sleep was not realised. In the middle of the night she awoke with a start. Something cold and wet had crawled across her face. She sat up, her heart thumping. A snake? A lizard? With a cry of horror she made herself lift a shaking hand to brush it away, but her fingers encountered only water, and at the same moment a larger splash fell on her back and trickled coldly down her spine. More large splashes followed. She was wide awake now, and swung herself off the divan. Looking up, she saw that the ceiling had an ominous crack in it. At that moment the crack opened further, and the water that had been gathering behind poured down, straight on to the divan.

Josie grabbed her gown, but it was soaking. She lifted her bag, the photograph and her watch on to the table and pushed it to the other side of the room. They all seemed to have escaped the deluge up to now. She squinted at her watch and saw that it was twenty past two. There was only one urgent thought in her mind now—the water had to be turned off and the tap was in the next-door house.

Rummaging in her bag, she found an old pair of jeans she had brought with her for work in the garden. She pulled them on over her nightie and raced along the path to the next house. There was no reply to her loud banging, but she found that again the door wasn’t locked. She went in and felt around for a switch. The room was flooded with light. She yelled several times at the top of her voice ‘Help! Is anyone there?’ No reply. Josie looked uncertainly up the stairs. The man must be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Well, he was going to be rudely awakened.

At the top of the stairs there was a landing with four doors. One was partly open to disclose a bathroom. She banged on the other three doors in turn, shouting, ‘Help! Emergency!’

Still no response.

She looked doubtfully at the three doors. She had to find the man, and fast. Choosing the middle door, she opened it and snapped on the light. She’d been lucky in choosing the right room, but only at this moment did she wonder if the man was here alone. She saw with relief that the hump in the bed belonged to one body only. His face was half-buried in the pillow, and a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. There was a sheet covering the lower half of his body but the top half was naked. Josie hoped he was wearing pyjama trousers, but this was no time for maidenly modesty. She walked across the room and grabbed his shoulder with both hands, shaking it as hard as she could. His skin felt warm and slightly moist under her fingers, and the muscles stiffened in resistance to pressure. At last he opened his eyes and blinked up at her in the light.

‘What the devil...?’ he muttered.

‘Wake up!’ she shouted. ‘Go down and turn the water off—now—or we’ll be flooded out.’

He blinked again, and focused on her face. ‘You!’ he growled. ‘Look here, I’ve had just about enough of—’

She gave him another shake. ‘Never mind what you’ve had enough of. Come down and turn the water off or we’ll both be drowned.’ She didn’t know whether the crack in the ceiling would reach to both houses, but that didn’t matter. It was her own house that was suffering at the moment.

He levered himself up in the bed. ‘What?’ he shouted angrily.

Josie gathered all her patience. ‘Flood,’ she said, slowly and clearly. ‘Water. Coming through the ceiling. Come down and turn the tap off.’

She seemed to have got through to him at last. He threw back the sheet and got out of bed. Josie was relieved to see that he was wearing pyjama trousers. Cursing under his breath, he stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Josie followed and waited for him at the bottom of the stairs. When he came out of the kitchen he glared at her and said nastily, ‘Well, I’ve turned off your water. What sort of game are you playing? First you want the water on, then you want it off. Is it your idea of a joke?’ He evidently hadn’t taken in all she had told him.

‘You’d better come and look,’ she said, turning towards the door.

He stood where he was. He obviously wasn’t a man who liked to be given orders. But as she reached her sitting-room Josie heard his bare feet padding along behind her.

Inside, the tiled floor was awash. Thank goodness she’d put her bag and the other things out of harm’s way on the table.

The man was close behind her. ‘What happened, exactly?’ he said irritably, just as if she was responsible. ‘What were you doing to cause this?’

‘Don’t be idiotic.’ Josie had completely lost her temper with him. ‘Look up there,’she added dramatically, pointing to the widening crack in the ceiling.

He looked up, frowning darkly. Then he splashed across the floor and examined the crack. Water had stopped pouring and was now merely dripping. He pulled the divan out of the line of fire and turned back to her. ‘How did you find out what was happening down here?’ he asked.

Josie said, ‘I was sleeping on the divan and I was dripped on.’

‘Why on the divan? What’s wrong with the bedrooms?’

She sighed heavily. ‘Do I have to go through this third degree? Briefly, none of the rooms upstairs has lights. The bulbs must have expired. I don’t happen to carry a storm lantern round with me.’

Without another word he ran up the stairs and was down again in about half a minute. ‘You’re right,’ he said, joining her at the table. And then, wearily, ‘Well, you’ll have to finish your night’s sleep in one of my spare rooms.’

‘No,’ Josie snapped.

‘Now who’s being idiotic?’ the man said. ‘You can’t sleep here.’

‘Of course I can. I can feel my way into one of the beds upstairs. Or perhaps you could lend me a torch?’

He picked up her bag. ‘No,’ she squealed, hastily pushing the silver-framed photograph into it and slipping the bracelet of the watch on to her wrist.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Come along.’ He put a hand on her back to urge her to the door. ‘Good Lord, you’re soaking wet, girl.’

Josie hadn’t had time to find a sweater before she rushed for help. Now she realised that the top of her thin nightie must have taken most of the first drips of water before she escaped. She also realised that his hand was still spread out on her back. She tried to twist away, but he was pushing her relentlessly to the door.

‘I’ll be OK,’ she muttered.

He ignored that. ‘Everything can wait until morning,’ he said, and now he sounded very tired. ‘I want the rest of my sleep even if you don’t. No, don’t argue. I’ve no intention of pouncing on you; you needn’t worry about that.’

She shrugged and gave in. He was much too strong to fight with.

In the next house he led her upstairs and into one of the bedrooms. Switching on the light, he said, ‘There you are,’ and yawned. ‘Now, find something dry to put on and get into bed. I’ll bring you a cup of tea. You look as if you need it.’

His eyes passed dismissively over her as she stood, shivering, in the middle of the room, her hair lank and the thin nightie clinging revealingly to the top part of her body. She must look a sight, but it wasn’t kind of him to remind her of it. ‘Don’t make tea specially for me,’ she said, biting her lip to stop her teeth chattering.

‘Of course not,’ he said, and went out of the room.

Josie pulled off the jeans and the damp nightie and found another nightie in her bag, one that wasn’t at all revealing. Slipping it over her head, she went along to the bathroom next door. She looked longingly at the modern shower, but that would have to wait until the morning. So she washed her face and hands and towelled her hair. Then she returned to the bedroom.

She was too tired to take in any details of the room, but the rugs were soft and the double bed was blissfully comfortable as she crawled into it and propped herself up against the pillows. She was looking forward to the cup of tea, however ungraciously it had been offered.

A few minutes later there was a tap at the door and the man appeared, bearing a mug, which he put down on the bedside table.

‘Thank you,’Josie said, ‘And thank you for taking charge of things. You’ve been kind.’

His lips turned down. ‘Enlightened self-interest, it’s called,’ he said enigmatically. He switched on the bedside lamp. ‘Don’t you want your photograph beside you? I saw you pushing it away lovingly into your bag.’

She almost laughed. He must imagine that the photograph was of some boyfriend—or even a husband. She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. And let him make what he could of that.

He looked rather hard at her, but didn’t press the point. ‘There’s a lock on the door,’ he said, ‘and by the way, what’s your name?’

‘Josie,’ she said. ‘What’s yours?’

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. Then he said, ‘Leon.’ He walked across the room, switched off the light and opened the door. Then without another word he went out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

A charming host! Josie thought with a grin, but at least he had brought her some tea.

She sat up in bed and sipped it, relishing the feeling of the hot liquid slipping down her throat and spreading heat through her whole body. She hadn’t known she was so cold.

She finished the tea, put the mug on the table, switched off the bedside lamp and snuggled down into the soft bed.

After the hard lumpiness of the divan it felt heavenly. This time she was sure she would sleep undisturbed, and she didn’t bother to get up to lock the door. She pulled the light duvet up to her chin, yawned luxuriously and was asleep almost immediately.

Josie had her uninterrupted sleep at last. She woke to see sunlight making bright thin lines along the shutters. When she consulted her watch she saw that it was half-past seven. Getting out of bed, she crossed the room and opened the door a crack. The next door was wide open, and from below came the sounds of a man in the kitchen—various thumps and clatters. Her gown had suffered the fate of the divan, but the bathroom was only next door so she grabbed a pair of shorts and a white top and sprinted along the passage. She decided against a shower, just had a quick wash, and had just got into her clothes when there was an enormous crash from below followed by loud expletives. She smiled to herself, and had started to dry her hair when there was a loud banging on the door and Leon’s voice saying, ‘May I come in? I need a bottle of antiseptic from the cupboard.’

Josie heard the urgency in his voice and, pushing back her damp curls, opened the door. Leon was wearing jeans cut off at the knee. The rest of him was bare and his left hand was covered m blood. He grunted his thanks and began to rummage awkwardly in the wall cupboard with his right hand.

Josie had taken a course in first aid when she was looking after her mother, and she took charge immediately. ‘Put your hand under the cold tap,’ she instructed in her best ward-sister’s tone. ‘I’ll find the antiseptic.’

He did as he was told with surprising meekness, holding on to the side of the bowl with his other hand. ‘Bread knife,’ he explained weakly. He looked very pale.

Josie found a bottle of iodine and a new roll of bandages in the cupboard, and, lifting his forearm by the elbow, saw that a deep gash down the side of his hand was bleeding freely. She cut off a length of bandage with the scissors provided and made it into a thick pad, which she pressed firmly over the wound, glancing again at his face. She saw that he was paler still.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m OK.’ He swayed on his feet as he spoke.

Josie pulled the bathroom stool behind him, still holding on to the pad. ‘Sit down and get your head between your knees. Lower than that.’ She pushed his head down further. How thick and crisp his dark hair was under her fingers, she thought, letting her hand remain on his neck. His skin was bronzed, except for a paler line where his hair had been clipped at the nape. She had a mad urge to lean down and put her lips against it. She stood up quickly, trembling inside. The sheer physical magnetism of the man was dangerous. She must be very careful or she might make a fool of herself. She cringed as she remembered his look of cynical contempt when he’d thought she was trying to seduce him. That had been a misunderstanding, but it had shown, only too plainly, what he thought of an unwanted advance from her sex.

After a few minutes he sat up, and she was pleased to see the colour coming back into his face. Very carefully she lifted a corner of the pad. ‘Oh, good,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The bleeding has almost stopped. ‘I’ll put some iodine on, so hold your breath.’

He didn’t even wince when she applied the antiseptic, although it must have stung horribly. She found lint to cover the wound and then bandaged the hand firmly. ‘There you are,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘You mustn’t use your left hand much or you’ll become a hospital case if the bleeding starts again.’

He looked up at her as she cleaned the wash-basin and tidied the cupboard. ‘You’re very professional,’ he said. ‘Are you a nurse?’

She shook her head, putting the scissors back in their case. ‘No, but I looked after my mother, who was a semi-invalid and always having accidents of one sort or another. She died some months ago.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘But I appreciate your expertise. I make a fool of myself where my own blood is concerned, but I don’t seem to react to other people’s blood. There’s a question for a psychiatrist.’

Josie smiled. ‘We’d better not go into that. Now, come down when you feel like it and I’ll see what I can do with the bread knife.’

In her bedroom, Josie put on sandals and ran a comb through her curls. She was smiling as she ran downstairs. She seemed to have formed some sort of understanding with the man, and that would make things much more pleasant if they were to be neighbours.

The kitchen was large and modern, nothing like her poor affair next door. She was suddenly aware that she hadn’t given a thought to the chaos in Mon Abri since last night, but that would have to wait.

Leon had evidently been trying to cut a stale baguette into slices for toast, using a plate instead of a wooden board. Naturally, the bread had slipped on the plate, which was now lying in fragments on the floor. ‘Men!’ she muttered.

She found a brush in the cupboard and brushed up the pieces of broken plate, then carefully washed the bread knife. Then she cut more slices of baguette, which she put in the wide-mouthed toaster. She made one cup of instant coffee and set the small round table with one plate and knife, butter from the fridge and three different kinds of jam.

As she was taking out the toast Leon appeared in the doorway. In spite of his injured hand he had managed to dress neatly in jeans and a cream silk shirt. His springy dark hair was brushed tidily. He really was very good-looking, Josie thought. She said, ‘I’ve made some toast. Was that what you were trying to do?’

He nodded and sat down at the table. ‘Are you going to join me?’

‘Yes, if I’m invited,’ Josie said.

‘The least I can do,’ he said. ‘Please sit down and join me for breakfast.’

She put an extra knife and plate on the table, made a mug of coffee, and sat down opposite him. She found that she was extremely hungry, and munched toast and apricot jam ravenously. She glanced apologetically at Leon, who was having some difficulty because of his tightly bandaged hand. She knew better than to offer to cut up the toast for him. He wasn’t the kind of man who would tolerate nannying. ‘Sorry I’m being a pig,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember when I had a proper meal.’

‘Carry on,’he said, sitting back in his chair and eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘Where did you come from yesterday?’ he said.

‘From London,’ Josie said. ‘I bought some basic food in Menton, before I took a taxi up here, but by the time I’d found my house I was too hot and tired to eat, so I just flopped down on the nearest flat surface.’ She pulled a face and added, ‘Until you disturbed me so ungallantly.’ She laughed lightly. If they could share a joke that would put the embarrassing incident in its true perspective.

But there was no laughter, not even a smile in the strange grey eyes as he regarded her narrowly. ‘What gives you the idea that Mon Abri belongs to you?’ he enquired.