Bridegroom On Loan

‘And the police dug up the garden.’

Flicking her eyes to the window, then back to him, a very hollow feeling inside, she whispered in shock, ‘They think you—killed her?’

‘Probably not, but her father insisted that she wouldn’t have just walked out. And the police have to cover all possibilities, don’t they?’

‘That’s what they said?’

‘Yes.’

A frown in her eyes, she returned her attention to the garden. ‘Why would her father think she wouldn’t walk out?’

‘He doesn’t like me, and he didn’t think I was good enough for her. He thinks me cruel.’

‘No,’ she denied without hesitation. Whatever else he might be, she would have staked her life on the fact that he wasn’t a cruel man. And how on earth could she not have known that all this was going on? People gossiped, started rumours… ‘Does everyone believe it?’ she asked. ‘That you killed her?’

‘I don’t know if they believe it or not, but mud sticks.’

‘But there’s no evidence—is there?’

‘No.’

‘But until she’s found…’

‘I’m under suspicion, yes.’

Genuinely concerned, she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Beck.’

With a deep sigh, he finished making his coffee. ‘I’ll see if I can find you somewhere else to stay until the roads are open.’

‘Why?’

‘I just told you why.’

Watching him, she gave a disturbed smile. ‘For my reputation, or yours?’ she asked softly.

‘Yours.’

‘Oh, I think my reputation can stand it. More to the point, does anyone else have a wood-burning stove?’

His mouth smiled. His eyes didn’t. ‘No, but you can’t stay here.’

End of discussion? He spoke so quietly, impassively, with no sign of the strain he must be under, and her staying here had nothing whatever to do with reputations.

‘Afraid I might ravish you?’ she asked huskily.

‘No, Carenza, I’m not afraid you might ravish me.’

‘I’d like to…Sorry,’ she apologised hastily, her face pink. ‘I sometimes have a very big mouth.’

‘To go with being a big girl?’

‘Yes.’ Being tall and rather generously made was the bane of her life. She’d always yearned to be tiny. Like Helena. No, not like Helena. Sigh deeper, she continued her contemplation of the ruined garden. ‘She was very beautiful,’ she murmured, and she had been. She’d only seen her the once—and once had been enough, she thought with a twisted smile. And no greater contrast to herself could ever have existed. Helena had been small and slender, perfection personified. Shoulder-length blonde hair that waved in exactly the right places. Wide blue eyes, a perfect nose…She’d watched from the window of the conference centre as Helena had tucked her hand into Beck’s arm, smiled at him. A woman sure of her own attraction. Sure of being loved. Carenza was statuesque, and her thick dark hair didn’t wave at all.

‘Is there anyone you need to let know where you are?’ he asked quietly.

She shook her head.

‘Just as well,’ he said with slight wryness, ‘because I have no way of contacting them for you. I don’t have a mobile.’

‘And I left mine on the hall table. I wasn’t going to be gone long: drive down and collect my notebook, drive home.’

‘Yes. The Aga doesn’t have a back boiler, but there should be enough hot water left if you want a shower,’ he continued. ‘Bathroom’s the first door at the top of the stairs.’ Hesitating a moment, he added, ‘Helena left all her clothes here, and although you might not want to wear her things there are whole drawers of new underwear, things she’d bought and never used. There’s no easy way to offer this, but you’re very welcome to take anything you need. It might take a while to find you somewhere else to stay. Her bedroom is next to the bathroom.’

‘Thank you. Clean underwear would be nice.’

‘Then help yourself. I’ll get us some breakfast.’

Nodding, she walked out and into the hall, and then up the stairs. She felt ragged and weak. And the strain of being alone with him until however long it took for him to find her somewhere else to stay was going to be enormous. And yet she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Halting outside Helena’s room, she hesitated. She’d have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t curious about the other woman’s bedroom. Not theirs, Helena’s. Maybe they didn’t sleep together, but in this day and age it was usual for engaged couples to do so, and Beck didn’t look like a man who was celibate. He looked as though he would be a very competent and gentle lover. Innovative, perhaps…And she really rather despised herself for wanting a man who belonged to someone else. For wanting a man who could be attracted to another woman when he was involved with someone else.

Feeling like an intruder, she pushed open the door. White. Everything was white. Drapes, bedlinen, carpet, even the furniture was white. The only colour was an ornate, and probably very expensive, turquoise glass lamp. Taking a deep breath, she slowly opened one door of the fitted wardrobe—except it wasn’t a wardrobe, it was a small, walk-in closet. Clothes hung neatly to either side, all covered in plastic. Evening clothes, day clothes, smart, casual. Shoe racks held all her footwear. All neatly paired. Handbags were tucked beside them. Her own wardrobe looked as if the army might have been holding manoeuvres in there. To actually find a pair of shoes involved taking everything out from the bottom of the wardrobe and then stuffing it all back in. Shoes she never wore, shoes that no longer fitted…Looking at all this, she was embarrassed, and vowed that never, ever would she let anyone else look in her wardrobe. Best clear it out in case she disappeared.

Don’t tempt fate, Carenza.

Backing out, she closed the door. She would just borrow some underwear, she decided. Helena’s clothes wouldn’t have fitted her anyway. Opening each drawer in the tall cabinet that stood by the window, she stared at all the tiny frilly triangles that seemed to constitute Helena’s underwear. Glancing down at her own ample proportions, she laughed. She might just get into a thong. Selecting one, she shut the drawer and escaped from all this glamour.

Removing her jacket, she hung it over the rail at the top of the stairs and walked into the bathroom, which was a great deal more than functional. White granite had been moulded to form the basin, flow smoothly into the bath, and then up to form the shower. A vision in white modernity, as though it had been carved from snow. An ice sculpture. Gold fittings, bottle-green tiles and floor. Almost a shame to use it, really.

A curved groove in the granite allowed the glass door for the shower to be slid easily into place, and with a wry smile for all this sybaritic luxury she stripped off. There was no sign of Helena’s toiletries on the glass shelves, so she used Beck’s.

Had the relationship been in trouble? she wondered as she rubbed her hair as dry as she could and then dressed. Had her disappearance come as a surprise? It wasn’t something she felt she could ask because she really didn’t know him all that well. Only knew that he had the ability to make her heart beat faster, induce fantasies, even after she’d known he was engaged. Her infatuation had been extraordinarily foolish considering the contrast between herself and Helena. Beck obviously went for the pocket Venus type…So why, then, was he attracted to herself? As unlike Helena as it was possible to be? Tall, with brown hair and eyes, legacy of a Greek great-grandmother, busty, definitely hippy—exotic, someone had once said, but she couldn’t see it. Never saw her own quicksilver smiles, or the flashes of amusement in her dark eyes.

Tilting her head to one side, she wondered what she was really like. A contrary sort of person, she decided, one moment serene, the next a flurry of energy and enthusiasm. She also tended to say what she was thinking, which wasn’t always wise. Neither was it wise to stay in the house of a man you were very strongly attracted to. A man you wanted to touch. Constantly. And she’d lingered too long.

Quickly washing out her own underwear and hanging it on the towel rail, she gave a wry smile. Her underwear was pretty but definitely big. Big knickers, big bra, not something Beck would be used to.

With a little shake of her head for thoughts that really didn’t matter, she walked out. The smell of frying reached her as she descended the stairs, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

He turned as she entered the kitchen, eyes sombre. ‘Hungry?’

‘Very.’

‘Good. The tea’s made, only needs pouring.’

Whilst she poured the tea into the two mugs, he dished up eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato and fried bread.

‘Tuck in,’ he ordered as he placed the meals on the table.

They ate mostly in silence, and when they’d finished both sat, staring down into their tea. She couldn’t think of anything to say, nothing that might not have thorns on it, anyway.

‘I’m not much good at small talk,’ he eventually apologised quietly.

She smiled. ‘Neither am I. Did I thank you for rescuing me?’

‘No thanks were needed.’

She lapsed back into silence, and then asked quietly, ‘Where’s Spanner? I never see him around.’

‘Spanner?’ he echoed softly. ‘He died.’

‘I’m sorry. Shall you get another dog?’

‘No.’

Because his life was still unsettled? Because he might have a murder charge hanging over his head? ‘Why Spanner?’ she asked curiously. ‘It seems an odd name for a dog.’

‘Because when I found him as a tiny, abandoned puppy he was trying to chew a nut off a piece of scrap metal.’

‘Oh.’

‘And you? Is business good?’

‘So-so. I’ve just finished a large commission. Barn conversion. I opened a small shop in Croydon.’ She grinned, then qualified, ‘I’m renting out a small area in a wallpaper and fabric shop. I persuaded the owner that it would be good for his business. When people came in to buy decorating materials, he could steer them in my direction. Or, alternatively, if they came to see me, I could make my selections from his stock.’

‘Sounds a good arrangement.’

‘Mm, seems to be working OK. And your days of inactivity will soon be over,’ she teased. ‘A few more weeks and the conference centre will be finished. You’ll be able to go to work.’

He gave a small, rather cynical smile. ‘I already do go to work. The restaurant is doing very well.’

‘Restaurant?’

‘Yes. Why the look of surprise? Don’t I look as though I could run a restaurant?’

‘No. Yes. I don’t know,’ she denied lamely. ‘Just that…Well, I don’t know,’ she laughed. ‘I assumed you were waiting to run the conference centre.’

‘No, neither will I run it when it’s finished. I shall put in a manager.’

‘Oh,’ she murmured inadequately. She didn’t know him at all, did she? She’d made a lot of assumptions about him, about his lifestyle, daydreamed a lot of exciting possibilities, but the simple fact remained that his life was none of her business. Nor ever could be whilst he was still engaged to Helena. Realising the silence had gone on too long, she murmured, ‘And it’s doing well, you say?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed, his cynicism more marked. ‘Ever since Helena disappeared, bookings have rocketed. Everyone wants to get a glimpse of the murderer.’

‘Except you aren’t.’

‘No, but people believe what they want to believe. And it’s very good for business. At the moment, to get a table, you would have to book three months in advance.’

‘And you have no idea where she might be?’

He shook his head.

Still picking idly at the rim of her mug, and without looking at him, she blurted, ‘Are you still engaged to her? I mean, were you, before she left?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Oh, no reason, I just…was trying to think of a reason why she might want to disappear. I wasn’t being nosy…Yes, I was,’ she corrected honestly, because she wanted to know about the impossibly beautiful Helena, about their relationship. Wanted to know why he had seemed so sad in November. Wanted to make it right. And how women did tend to fool themselves, she thought wryly, into thinking they were the only ones who could comfort. ‘You don’t think she’s dead?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘No concrete reason,’ he said as he got to his feet and collected their plates. ‘You will need to contact your insurance company.’

‘Yes.’

‘You were fully insured?’

She nodded.

‘But you will need a car to conduct your business, won’t you? Does the insurance cover for hire?’

‘Don’t know.’

He gave her a look of reproof. ‘Well, if it doesn’t, you can use the Land Rover,’ he offered as he scraped the plates into the bin, rinsed them off and put them into the dishwasher, and then he halted, gave a wry smile, and took them out again. ‘You get so used to the little luxuries of life,’ he murmured. ‘Like electricity.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, because she hadn’t considered it either.

‘The perishables from the fridge I’ve put in the garage where it’s colder. So, if you need milk when the current bottle’s finished, that’s where it is.’

She nodded and got up to dry the dishes he was washing. She felt almost stifled by his nearness, needed speech to cover the fact. ‘Won’t you need your car?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t go out much.’

‘Because of Helena?’

‘No, by inclination. And if I do need transport I can use Helena’s car.’ When he’d finished washing up, he walked across to the Aga. Using an oven glove, he bent to open one of the doors. Lifting the lid on something, he peered inside, stirred it, then closed the door again. She smiled. He didn’t look prissy, or silly, doing it, just like a very masculine man doing something he did rather a lot of.

‘Even when I find you somewhere else to stay, you might not be able to go home for a few days,’ he added quietly as he turned. ‘The road isn’t just blocked with one or two trees—whole stretches of the forest have come down. I don’t even think it’s a possibility that you would be able to walk into Horsham and hire a car. Or get the train. I have no idea if they’re running. In the meantime, if you need some privacy, there’s a spare room you can use.’ Putting down the oven gloves, he indicated for her to follow him and then showed her into the room next to Helena’s.

Now, this she liked, she decided. Navy blue walls and carpet, light plum-coloured paintwork that was picked up in the bedspread and curtains, and wooden furniture.

‘You can see the restaurant from here,’ he murmured as he walked across to the window.

You can also see the bed. Stop it, Carenza. She didn’t want an affair with a man who was engaged to someone else, even if he wanted it, which she didn’t think he did. She was quite sure that it was a reluctant attraction. And he was a man of strong will otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to stand in a bedroom with her and stare from the window.

Joining him, because there didn’t seem any other option, she felt the blood begin to pump in her veins as his arm brushed hers. ‘What’s your blood doing?’ she asked without thinking, and cursed her unruly tongue.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing. Is that it?’ she added hastily.

‘Yes, the roof just beyond the trees.’

‘Not far to travel.’ Amazing how you could hold a conversation when your whole body was screaming. ‘I assume you go there every day?’

‘Every weekend; I only open Friday, Saturday and Sunday. And yes, I go there, because I do the cooking.’

‘A man of many parts. I didn’t know you were a chef.’ And if she didn’t get out of here right now she was going to touch him.

‘Self-taught.’ He sounded strained, and she jerked her head round to look at him. Found that he was watching her. His eyes had the grey luminescence of sunshine through cloud, she thought whimsically, and she wanted to reach out and trail her fingers along that determined jaw, touch her lips to his well-shaped mouth…

‘Don’t,’ he reproved huskily.

‘No.’ Snatching her eyes away, she stared determinedly out of the window. Forcing her voice to neutrality, she murmured, ‘I thought you were a marine archaeologist.’ There didn’t seem to be very much she could do about her pulse rate. This really was masochism.

‘I am.’

‘Lots of different hats. What else can you do?’

‘Whatever you want. No,’ he denied hurriedly. Hands curled into fists on the window sill, his voice sounded like metal strained through glass.

Fighting to maintain her own equilibrium, she leapt hastily into the breach left by his words. ‘You must be a very good cook, if it’s doing so well. People wouldn’t keep coming just to see a possible murderer if the food was lousy. You wouldn’t believe what I want.’

‘I would.’

Oh, God. Staring blindly at the roof of the building just visible through the trees, she stated determinedly, ‘Lucky the tornado didn’t cut through here.’

‘Tornado?’

‘That was what it felt like. A roaring, shrieking dervish that, if it hadn’t been for the tree anchoring me in place, might have taken me to—Oz. Beck?’

‘No.’ He responded fiercely to her unasked question and rapidly changed the subject. ‘You mentioned a dragon?’

‘What?’

‘Last night, you said…’

‘Oh.’

‘You were right in its path?’

‘Yes. I was terrified.’ Explaining quickly all that had happened in a voice that was too fast and really rather breathless, she added, ‘And my reactions were far too slow.’

‘Your reactions saved your life,’ he corrected.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. This was madness. ‘Was anyone killed, do you know?’

He shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard any news, and Doug…’

‘Doug?’

‘Local police, and he wasn’t telling, even if he knew. All I know with any certainty is that it cut a great swathe through the forest towards Handcross. I told him you were here.’

She nodded, gave a little shiver.

‘Come on, you’re probably still in shock. Why don’t you go and sit by the fire?’

No, she wanted to deny, I’m not in shock. But then, he knew that, didn’t he? Knew she was fighting her feelings for him. Feelings that hurt. Because they were futile. She knew that. She really did know that. Following him out, she grabbed her jacket off the banister. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk. Go and look at your restaurant. I can get my notebook from the conference centre at the same time.’

‘I don’t have an umbrella…’

‘It doesn’t matter. Rain won’t hurt me.’

‘It will make you very wet.’ Walking across the kitchen, he opened a cupboard and removed a raincoat. ‘Use this.’

Reluctantly taking it, she asked hesitantly, ‘Was it…?’

‘Helena’s, yes. She hardly ever wore it.’

With a meaningless smile, she put it on. The sleeves were too short, the back too narrow, but she supposed it would keep the worst of the wet off. Pulling up the hood, she walked out.

Feelings were the damnedest things, weren’t they? Hit you without warning, scrambled you up…And she didn’t want to be wearing Helena’s raincoat.

Automatically circumnavigating fallen branches, whole trees, she sighed. She felt exhausted. And don’t, don’t, she cautioned herself, read anything into the fact that they had separate bedrooms. Lots of couples slept apart for one reason or another; it didn’t mean they weren’t in love. Didn’t mean he didn’t miss her dreadfully.

‘Not that way, miss…’

Turning with a start, she gave a lame smile to the young policeman behind her.

‘Electricity cables are still down,’ he explained.

Remembering the blue sparks of the night before, she nodded.

‘Although the power has been turned off. And there are a lot of unstable trees. Where were you headed?’

‘Nowhere,’ she denied. ‘Just having a look. My car’s somewhere around. Grey hatchback,’ she added helpfully. ‘Was a grey hatchback.’ And stupidly, idiotically, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘Only just hit me, I suppose…Sorry,’ she apologised again as she realised the unintended pun.

‘The grey car with the tree across it?’ he asked in astonishment.

‘Yes.’

‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘You were lucky to get out.’

‘Yes, but not unaided. A Mr Beckford rescued me.’ And the policeman’s face changed. Because he was a suspected murderer? she wondered. She couldn’t think of any other reason. Unless he didn’t have a licence for his restaurant; or tax for his car. ‘I’m staying with him,’ she added defiantly, ‘until the roads are clear.’

‘You’ll be Miss Dean, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘He asked me to see if I could find alternative accommodation for you. He’s…’

‘I know what he is,’ she interrupted. ‘And I know what you think he is. And you’re wrong. I’d better get back. How long before the road is open? Do you know?’

‘Won’t be today…And I don’t think he’s anything,’ he reproved, ‘and he knows as well as I do that it isn’t wise for a young lady to stay with a gentleman who—might be vulnerable.’

‘Sorry,’ she apologised for the third time. ‘But I work for him…’

‘And you’re naturally protective,’ he finished for her. ‘All I’m saying is, be careful.’

‘I will.’

Turning away, she was aware of him watching her, and felt despair wash through her. If she was going to leap to his defence every time someone said something even slightly suspect, it wouldn’t be long before the whole area would know she was in love with him. No, not in love, she denied forcefully to herself. She didn’t know him. You couldn’t be in love with someone you didn’t know. Could you? But she did know he hadn’t killed his fiancée. Do you, Carenza? How very clairvoyant of you. Kicking irritably at a tree branch, she pulled the wide hood back in place and held it with both hands.

Coming out on to a small slip-road, she turned along it. Branches littered the surface, together with sundry other rubbish. A car hub-cap, a black plastic sack, a child’s woollen glove, and a sieve, all blown there by a capricious wind, she supposed. A few yards further on was his restaurant. And this she liked. No fancy name or sign, just a long stone building that had been left as it was meant to be. A plaque by the main door said simply, ‘The Barn.’

There was no menu board, nothing at all to say what it was. A no-frills establishment with excellent food? A small red car was parked to one side, with, thankfully, no damage.

Hands still holding her hood in place, she walked along the side and peered in one of the leaded windows. No fancy tablecloths, no fancy lamps, just good quality wooden tables and chairs. It was too dim inside to see very much else and so she walked round to the other side, and saw Beck. Hands shoved into his pockets, he was staring rather grimly at the wall to one side of the small terrace that presumably, in the summer, allowed diners to eat outside.

Moving quietly to join him, she too stared at the wall. ‘Mur’ had been sprayed in black paint. A discarded aerosol can lay below it.

He glanced at her, then returned his attention to the wall.

‘Not very nice,’ she commented quietly. ‘There’s only one word I can think of off hand that begins with “mur”.’

‘Yes.’

‘And either they were interrupted or the storm frightened them off.’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t seem very surprised, or shocked.’

‘No, it happens with rather boring frequency.’

Turning to look at her, he said almost sombrely, ‘You look like a very wet pixie.’

‘Troll,’ she corrected. ‘I’m too big for a pixie.’ Turning abruptly away, she said over her shoulder, ‘I’ll go and get my notebook.’

She was aware of him following her as she walked in the general direction of the conference centre. There was a separate road she used when she came, and so she’d never been in this part of the grounds before.

‘This way,’ he indicated quietly, and she turned and followed him along a small track that eventually came out on the road. A hundred yards further on was the conference centre. It had once been a dower house on what had been a large estate, and she was now helping to convert it to hold conferences.