Wicked Caprice

‘You don’t know what I’m used to,’ he countered, lifting his eyes from the menu. ‘Am I allowed to ask what you’re eating? Or is that a state secret?’

Isobel expelled her breath. ‘Lasagne,’ she said. ‘With a green salad to start.’ She licked her lips. ‘They make it on the premises. The owner’s wife comes from Siena.’

‘Ah.’ His eyes dropped back to the menu. ‘You don’t fancy a fillet steak, or anything carnivorous like that?’

‘Well, I’m not a vegetarian,’ she retorted, ‘if that’s what you’re implying. It’s not a vegetable lasagne. It does contain meat.’

‘All right.’ His tone was amused now. ‘I’ll have that too. And a bottle of claret, just to prove I’m not a cheapskate. I can imagine what my chauffeur would say if he knew I’d turned down the steak.’

Isobel looked up at him through her lashes, not quite sure what to make of that, and he grinned. She’d thought he was attractive before, but when his face creased into that infectious smile her heart seemed to skip a beat. Dear God, she thought uneasily, picking up her glass of wine and taking a rather unwary sip, Chris was right—he was devastating.

And dangerous.

He left to order the meal, which would be brought to their table when it was ready, and Isobel wondered when he’d get around to the reason why they had come. It was pleasant to delude herself with the thought that he found her company enjoyable, but, whatever else, he was married, and she had to remember that.

‘This is very nice,’ he said a few moments later, resuming his seat, and Isobel made the usual response.

‘It’s busier than this when the children break up for the summer holidays,’ she said, indicating the few empty tables. ‘There’s a caravan site not far from here, and the pub attracts a lot of evening visitors.’

Patrick nodded. ‘At the risk of sounding trite, do you come here often?’

‘Not often,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe half a dozen times a year.’ She wondered if she should go on, and then continued carefully, ‘I don’t go out a lot. I’m not a night person.’

Patrick’s eyes were too intent. ‘There’s no regular boyfriend, then?’

She caught her breath. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘And if I wanted to make it my business?’

‘You can’t.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘You’re married.’ She held up her head. ‘Don’t you think we ought to talk about why you’ve brought me here? Or was that just a ploy?’

‘How do you know I’m married?’ he probed, choosing the least appropriate thing she’d said, and Isobel looked down at her glass.

‘Does it matter?’ she asked uncomfortably, wishing she’d just made a simple refusal. ‘Oh—thank you,’ she said as the waitress appeared with their salads. ‘No dressing for me. This is fine.’

Patrick refused the dressing too, she noticed, and then moved immediately back into the attack. ‘It matters,’ he said softly, and she was aware of his eyes upon her. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m curious. Humour me.’

Isobel sighed. ‘You’re wearing a wedding ring,’ she said at last, tersely. ‘Now, can we get on with the food?’

‘It’s not a wedding ring,’ he insisted. ‘It was—once. But not any longer. I’ve been divorced for almost six years.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ He touched her hand as it rested on the table. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘If—if you say so, then of course I believe you. But, as I said before, I don’t think it matters either way.’

He caught his lower lip between his teeth. ‘Does that mean you wouldn’t go out with a married man?’

‘I—’ Isobel was essentially honest, and she had to admit that if he asked her she’d be tempted. ‘I—suppose not,’ she finished lamely, and he looked suddenly grim.

They ate the rest of their salad in silence, and she had the feeling that once again she’d said something he didn’t like. Did that mean that he was lying? Was he really married, after all? Or had her doubts communicated themselves to him, and he was shocked?

But no. She didn’t believe that. She sensed that she’d have to say something pretty outrageous to shock this man. So what was he thinking? What was causing that sudden darkness to etch his features? And why did she care anyway? She’d probably never see him again.

‘Did—er—did your niece like the necklace?’ she asked, eager to change the subject, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer her.

But then, after a pregnant pause, he said, ‘I haven’t given it to her yet. She—er—she doesn’t live in London.’

‘Is that where you live?’ she asked, deciding she had the right to ask some questions of her own, and after a moment he gave a resigned nod.

‘That’s right,’ he said, without expression. ‘But it’s good to get out of the city now and again.’

‘To Warwickshire?’ she prompted, and his features grew less tense.

‘Among other places,’ he agreed easily. ‘Do you travel much, Miss Herriot? Or do you prefer the rural life?’

Isobel found she resented his assumption that Horsham must encompass her whole world, and, as if glimpsing the conflicting emotions she was trying hard to suppress, he added gently, ‘It wasn’t a criticism. If you’re happy here, I envy you. I’ve been striving all my life to find true peace of mind.’

Isobel gave him a retiring look. ‘I think you’re patronising me.’

‘I assure you I’m not.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘Why not? It’s the truth.’ He paused. ‘As you get to know me better you’ll find I almost always speak the truth.’

‘Almost always?’

‘I’m in business,’ he said mildly. ‘There have to be exceptions. It wouldn’t do for me to reveal all my secrets.’

Isobel couldn’t resist a small smile. ‘What kind of business are you in?’

‘What kind of—?’ He broke off abruptly, before continuing rather less incredulously, ‘Um—this and that. I—buy and sell things, mostly. Here and overseas.’

‘Here?’ She frowned. ‘As in Horsham?’

‘I meant here in England,’ he replied. ‘But you didn’t answer my question: do you prefer the country life?’

‘I suppose I must.’ Isobel hesitated, and then went on reluctantly, ‘I lived in London for a time. After I’d got my degree. But it didn’t work out, and I came back here.’

She guessed he was curious about what she had done while she’d been living in London, but the return of the waitress with the wine forestalled any questions. ‘The lasagne is just coming,’ she said, removing their salad plates, and Patrick poured two glasses of the rich dark liquid and took a sip.

‘Mmm, that’s good,’ he said, pushing Isobel’s glass towards her, and she wondered if she was only imagining the condescension in his tone.

‘For a village pub, you mean?’ she suggested tartly, and he gave her a resigned look.

‘No. By any standards,’ he retorted, watching as she tasted hers. ‘Don’t be so defensive. I’m not an expert.’

‘Is that supposed to be a vindication?’ she exclaimed, though she couldn’t hide her enjoyment of the wine he’d chosen. ‘Are you one of those people who justify their—well, who say, “I know what I like”?’

‘Justify their ignorance?’ he countered at once, disconcerting her now. ‘Let’s stop insulting one another, shall we? Tell me where you worked in London.’

Isobel sighed. She had hoped not to have to discuss her job in London, or the reason why she had left. ‘As a matter of fact, I worked for Aychbourn’s,’ she admitted at last. ‘But I didn’t like it, so I left.’

‘Aychbourn’s? The auctioneers?’ He was impressed.

‘Mmm.’ Isobel wished they could get off the subject. ‘I’m not such a country bumpkin after all.’

‘I never thought you were!’ he exclaimed. ‘Aychbourn’s, eh?’ He frowned. ‘Did you ever meet a man called Charlie Ankrum?’

Isobel moistened her dry lips. ‘Mr Ankrum was my boss,’ she declared stiffly. She might have known Patrick Riker would know him. They were probably two of a kind.

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