The Cinderella Factor

The little parcel Mrs Morrison had asked her to collect from the farm bumped against the stone as she moved. Jo made a face, reminded. Well, perhaps there was something to wish for.

She could wish that she knew exactly where Patrick Taylor-Harrod was—and that he would not pop up like the demon king in a pantomime and spoil everything.

Crispin made him sound very demon king-ish: casual, arrogant, and quite without heart. Even Mrs Morrison, who was as fond of him as only a former nanny could be, admitted that no woman was safe from her Mr Patrick’s charm. Though she also claimed that was largely their own fault, because they flung themselves at him.

Not that Jo would have flung herself at him. Or that arrogant elder brother Patrick would have taken her up on her offer if she had, Jo thought dryly.

At the thought, her eyes lit with sudden laughter. Maybe there were some advantages to being a sexless maypole, after all. It sounded as if arrogant Patrick was used to an altogether higher class of sexual harassment than she could offer.

She peered over the edge of the bridge at her reflection. Years of living from hand to mouth had left her with dramatic hollows under her cheekbones and a chin as pointed as a witch’s, she thought disparagingly.

The water did not do justice to the depth and expressiveness of the strange greeny-brown of her eyes, of course. Nor did it reflect the long curling eyelashes or the exquisite softness of her skin. Jo would not have noticed if it had. All she saw was what she always saw when she could not avoid looking at her reflection. A stick-thin scarecrow with shoulders like a wardrobe. Carol had been right about that, at least.

Jo surveyed the dark rippling mirror dispassionately. She could not blame anyone for thinking she was a boy, she thought. And a boy she must stay—until Crispin came back.

She shook her shoulders and leaned further over the edge of the warm stone. The water looked inviting. And the sun was like an animal, a big friendly puppy, butting gently against the bare skin of her arms, saying, Come and play.

She had no swimsuit with her. She had not even owned one since primary school. But the little river was on private land, and the landscape was deserted. Wheelchair-bound Mr Morrison was resting, Mrs Morrison was waiting indoors for a phone call. Crispin was somewhere off the coast of Spain.

And it was a day made for swimming. Jo had not swum for years. Even then it had been in a municipal pool that smelled of chlorine. She had never swum in a river, with bees humming and the air full of the scent of grass and wild flowers.

It was irresistible.

Under a tangle of hazel bushes Jo found the narrow stone steps that spiralled down from the bridge. They were old and worn, covered in moss and lichen. She took off her shoes, feeling the warm moss under her toes in delight. Then she slipped down the curved stairs to the bank.

She lodged her package between the roots of a willow in deep shade, then quickly stripped off her clothes and left them where they fell. Her body was white and thin in the dappled shade. Thin, but tough, Jo thought cheerfully, shaking out her arms and dancing her bare feet in delight on the moss. Then she took a little run at the water and dived cleanly.

The dive made hardly a sound. But it was enough to alert the man.

He was leaning up against the bark of a willow on the opposite bank, completely hidden under the umbrella of its drooping branches. He had his hands in his pockets and his head bent. He was wearing a grim, bitter expression. At the faint splash, he looked up in quick offence.

This bridge was on private land! Nobody should be here! Behind his dark glasses, annoyance flickered uncontrollably.

Jo was unaware of the watcher. She was utterly caught up in the delight of the moment. She swam and turned and somersaulted in the water, laughing aloud with pleasure.

The man in the shadows watched, suddenly arrested.

She batted the surface of the water with her hands, making rainbow droplets fly up like a fountain. She shook her face in them, revelling in the sensation. Then she submerged completely and swam through the arch of the bridge.

The man took his hands out of his pockets and came to the edge of the bank, looking keenly after her. The fall of the willow would still have hidden him from Jo even if she had suspected that he was there. But she was enjoying herself too much to sense that she was being watched.

She streaked down to the bend in the river, where it was deeper and the water flowed faster. Then she turned in a neat dive and stroked lazily downstream again, on her back, looking at the clear sky through the tracery of overhanging leaves. She turned her head on the water to watch the bank dreamily. There were little patches of green-gold, where the sun streamed through unimpeded, areas of black shadow, like the cool place where she had left her clothes, and long stretches where the sun filtered through the trees as if it was creeping in round the edge of a mask, printing a sharp, delicate pattern of black lace on the turf.

She drew a deep breath, did a backward somersault into the weedy depths and disappeared. Instinctively, the man stepped out of the curtain of the willow, scanning the unbroken surface of the water.

Still unaware, Jo came up, shaking the water out of her hair and eyes, laughing. And it was then that she saw the bird, in a flash of emerald and blue, skimming the surface of the stream and flying away into the trees.

Jo went quite still. She stood where she was, the water up to her waist, tilting her head to watch the little creature. It had found a branch and was sitting there with whatever it had caught. She could make out the flash of a beady eye and the amazing jewel colours of the feathers.

She had heard of kingfishers. Seen pictures. But nothing had prepared her for this—this living iridescence, so small and yet so brilliant that it hurt the eyes. She held her breath.

Behind her, a voice said harshly, ‘Have you hurt yourself?’

Jo was so absorbed she was not startled, much less embarrassed by her nakedness. She was hardly aware of it, she was concentrating so hard.

‘Hush,’ she said, the softness of her voice failing to disguise the clear note of command. ‘That has to be a kingfisher.’

She was aware of movement behind her, as if whoever it was had been on the very edge of the bank and was now retreating a few paces.

‘Where?’ The voice was no less harsh, though this time it was scarcely above a whisper.

Jo raised a bare arm and pointed. Water fell from her fingers and elbow in a sparkle of silver.

‘You look like a statue in a fountain,’ the harsh voice said abruptly.

But Jo did not notice. The kingfisher was on the wing again. It streaked past them, a flash of sapphire and jade fire, and was lost in the foliage at the bend of the river.

Jo expelled a long breath.

‘Oh, wasn’t that wonderful?’she said, turning to face the voice.

It was a shock.

He was tall and slender, with an alarming air of compact, confident strength. He had a thin, proud face, which most women would probably call handsome. And his eyes were masked by the ubiquitous dark glasses. Jo registered all this in the blink of an eyelid and it left her unmoved.

And then he took his glasses off. And she froze to the spot as if he had cast a spell on her.

His eyes! They were deepset, under heavy brows. At first she thought they were black, then brown, then a strange golden yellow like old brandy. And they were staring at her as if she was an apparition from another world.

He was the first to speak.

‘Well,’ he said softly. All the harshness was gone, as if it had never been.

Jo shook her head a little, trying to break that mesmeric eye contact. Her ragged hair was plastered to her head, darkened to coal-black, all its red lights doused in the soaking it had received. The movement sent trickles of water from the rats’ tails down her shoulders and between her breasts.

‘I didn’t realise anyone was there,’ she said blankly.

At once she was furious with herself. Stupid, stupid, she thought. Of course you knew he was there—the moment he spoke. And of course you didn’t know before that, or you would not have been jumping about in the water with no clothes on.

Realisation hit her then. She gave a little gasp and plunged her shoulders rapidly under the water. But she couldn’t quite break the locking of their gaze.

He smiled a little. ‘I didn’t intend that you should.’

Jo digested that. ‘You were spying on me?’ she said, incredulous.

It did not seem likely, somehow; it was out of character with that haughty profile, she thought. Years of living on her wits had taught Jo to sum up people fast. She was not usually wrong.

His face reflected distaste. ‘Quite by accident.’

He sounded so weary that Jo flushed, as if it were she, not he, who was at fault. She was indignant.

‘How do you spy on someone by accident?’ she demanded hotly.

He smiled again, startling her. It was a sudden slanting of that too controlled, too uncompromising mouth and it changed his face completely. Suddenly it was not just other women who would have called him handsome. And more than handsome.

Disconcerted, Jo swallowed. And huddled deeper under the water.

He said, ‘I was here first. I saw you come down from the bridge. By the time I realised you were intending to strip off and leap into the water it was too late to warn you that you were not alone.’

‘Oh.’

He relented. ‘But I admit I watched you playing in the water. I suppose a gentleman would have gone away. But you looked so—happy.’

The mouth was a thin line again. Not so much harsh, Jo thought in sharp recognition, as holding down a pain of the soul that was scarcely endurable. She knew something about that.

She said gently, ‘It’s the place. Anyone would be happy here.’

His eyes held hers. There was a little silence. For a moment even the bees stilled in the summer air. He shook his head slowly, as if this time he was the one under a spell—and trying desperately to break free.

‘Only if you’re very young.’

Jo thought of those years—in shabby rooms when she’d had some money, sleeping in bus shelters and an old boat-house by a canal when she hadn’t. Of cold, and intermittent hunger, and the need to stay painfully alert against theft and worse. The longing for a bath. The loneliness. The need to stay lonely because you never knew who you could afford to trust.

‘I’m not that young,’ she said dryly.

He looked up, arrested. Then seemed to pull himself together. He almost shrugged.

‘You look about sixteen.’

‘Nineteen. But experience speeds up the clock.’ And she looked at him very straightly.

Something seemed to stir, shift in his eyes. Something—she did not know what—half physical sensation, half a strange emotion that made her want to abandon good sense and laugh and cry at once, seemed to wake in Jo in answer. Bewildered, she knew she had never felt anything like it before. All she knew was that it reached out to whatever was waking in him.

Then, like a snake striking, it arced between them. Eyes widening in shock, she realised it had taken him by surprise as much as it had her. He looked shaken.

Jo gasped and sat down suddenly on the riverbed. The water closed over her head. She thought the man winced. She saw his head go back as if at a blow. But she was too busy expelling water to be sure.

When she came up she was spluttering. She shook the water away and looked at him. He was hunkered down on the bank. But now he was laughing.

It changed his face completely, emphasising those startling good looks. It made him look like a fully paid-up heartthrob, she thought sourly, rubbing water out of her eyes.

In some ways it was a relief that the grim look had gone. So had that electric awareness. That should have been a relief too. Yet, if she was honest, Jo did not know whether she was glad or sorry. On the whole, she thought, it was probably just as well.

And yet…And yet…

He said, ‘Hadn’t you better come out and get dry? You don’t look very safe.’

Putting her disturbing reflections away from her, Jo shook her damp head vigorously. ‘I’ll have to run around to get dry,’ she warned him cheerfully. ‘No towel.’

The man’s look of amusement deepened.

‘An impulse bathe, then?’

She looked guilty. ‘I just saw the water and couldn’t resist.’

He shook his head. ‘Dangerous.’ But he was still laughing.

Jo liked him laughing at her. She decided to tease him back. ‘Giving in to your impulses is dangerous?’

‘Usually.’

He stood up and shrugged off his dark jacket. He was wearing a soft navy shirt underneath, open at the neck. Without bothering to undo the buttons, he hauled it over his head and held it out to her.

‘There you are—dry yourself on that.’

His chest was a lot paler than his face. There was a dusting of dark hair along the ribs. Jo’s mouth dried. This sudden nakedness seemed to give off a primitive heat. And he looked so strong.

She stepped back, but the water resisted. The little river seemed to be pushing her towards him. She fought not to look. She did not know why. It had something to do with getting herself back under control.

Am I out of control, then?

Despising herself, she said hurriedly, ‘That’s very kind of you, but I don’t need it. Really.’

‘You might not,’ he said with wry self-mockery. ‘I’m not sure how much of your running around to get dry my self-control could take.’

‘Oh,’ said Jo, completely taken aback.

So the awareness was still there after all. Just coated lightly with good manners. Jo did not know a lot about manners, but she was certain that this man knew all there was to know. He had decided they were civilised strangers meeting in unusual circumstances. And he had almost convinced her that was all they were. Almost.

Her eyes fell. She felt shamefaced, yet oddly excited.

‘Go on—take it,’ he said. ‘In weather like this, I can certainly spare it.’

She nodded, not lifting her eyes. As quickly as the water would allow, she waded forward and took it from him. Their fingers did not touch.

Was that because it was me being careful not to touch? Jo wondered. Or was it his decision? And was that good manners? Or something else?

She held the shirt high out of the water and waded back to the other bank. Putting one hand on the bank, she vaulted lightly up onto it and disappeared among the trees. The shirt was linen, soft against her tingling skin. In fact, her whole body was tingling, her bones, muscles and nerves and all.

Ridiculous, Jo told herself. Because of a man I’ve never seen before and won’t again?

But she fluffed up her damp hair before she climbed back up the stone steps and emerged into the sunlight.

He was waiting for her. He had strolled along the bank and up the other set of steps. Now he was leaning on the stone coping, looking upriver.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Jo said, approaching softly.

Even more ridiculous, now that she had her clothes on she felt shy. It was crazy. She was never shy. And she had talked to him without constraint when he’d surprised her cavorting naked in the stream. So why this crushing embarrassment now?

With a great effort she met his eyes and gave him what she hoped was a friendly smile without complicated shadows. From his wry look she wasn’t sure she had succeeded.

She thought suddenly, There’s a game going on here. He knows how to play it and I don’t.

But all he said was, ‘Yes, beautiful. It’s also private. How did you find your way here?’

‘Oh, I’ve been to the farm,’ Jo said, with a wave at the distant farmhouse.

‘Ah. The old back drive. I see.’

‘No one uses it,’ she assured him, blushing at the criticism she detected. ‘I was sure I was alone.’

‘So was I,’ he said with a sharp sigh. ‘It seems we were both wrong.’

It occurred to her that he might have wanted to be alone with his thoughts. That harsh voice had not sounded happy. Suddenly she felt less shy.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said with quick contrition. ‘I know what it’s like to want to get away from people. Were you fishing or something?’ she added, remembering Mr Morrison’s daily pilgrimages to the other river.

‘No. Not fishing. Thinking. Trying to work out what to do—’ He broke off, gritting his teeth.

Jo recognised that look. ‘Ouch,’ she said, with sympathy.

He gave a fierce shrug, as if he were angry with himself. ‘I can normally find my way through things. But this time—there are just too many people getting in the way.’

Jo nodded. ‘Been there,’ she said, with feeling.

He was glaring at some unseen enemy. ‘I doubt it,’ he said impatiently.

She bit back a smile. ‘You’d be surprised.’

He looked at her then. In fact he swung round on her, and the fierce look went out of his eyes.

‘What?’

Jo was running her fingers through her wet hair.

‘Other people have always been my biggest problem,’ she said wryly and—to her own amazement—without bitterness. ‘You just have to go round them. Or turn and face the enemy.’

‘You’re very wise for nineteen.’ He sounded startled.

She shrugged. ‘I told you. Experience puts a lot of extra miles on the clock.’

He leaned against the parapet, the curious golden-brown eyes searching her face.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said slowly. Almost as if he were thinking of something else.

Jo remembered The Furry Purry Tiger: those warm eyes that lured and lulled the tiger’s victims. Look deep into my eyes, my dears. Can you resist me?

She gave a gasp and took two sharp steps backwards.

And the spell was broken.

The man looked at her frowningly. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ he said in quite another tone. ‘A student on some exchange?’

Jo realised for the first time, with a start, that he knew she was a girl. It was like a douche of cold water. Her face went blank.

The Morrisons spoke to her and about her as if she was a boy. The kindly farmer’s wife accepted her as a boy. When she went into the bank, the bored counter clerks treated her as a boy.

And now here was someone who had the most precise and irrefutable evidence that she was a girl. And that she was English. If he asked in the neighbourhood the local people would recognise the English factotum looking after the château’s antique cars, all right. And this stranger was now able to tell them that she was not everything they had thought.

Jo went cold.

‘Sort of,’ she muttered.

‘And where did you learn about turning to face the enemy?’ he asked in an idle tone.

Jo bit her lip, hardly paying attention. How could she have been such a fool? How could she?

‘On the road, mostly,’ she said absently.

Perhaps if she told him she was just passing through…

The black brows flew up. ‘On the road? What does a student study on the road?’

Jo could have kicked herself. Yet another unwary detail let slip because she wasn’t thinking clearly. This man was dangerous—or at least the effect he seemed to be having on her was dangerous. At this rate, she would talk herself right out of her magical new job.

She shook her damp hair, spraying droplets on his powerful naked chest. She saw his muscles contract as the water made contact and her heart gave a funny little lurch. Concentrate, she told herself. Concentrate!

‘Life,’ she said flippantly.

He frowned.

‘I’ve heard about the university of life. But I’ve never heard of anyone selecting it,’ he said dryly. ‘What happened? Drop out of college?’

Jo gave a little laugh that broke. Her ruined education was one of the things that hurt most.

‘Never got that far,’ she said briefly.

The frown did not lift. ‘Why not?’

She shrugged. ‘Oh, this and that.’

‘The open road looked more attractive?’

She thought about the night she had finally run away. Since then she had occasionally slept in railway stations and not had enough to eat, and there had been one or two hairy moments. But no one had set out to beat her senseless because he was in a bad temper and drunk. No one was going to, ever again.

‘The open road looked more attractive,’ she agreed quietly.

‘On your own?’

She hesitated.

‘Not any more?’ he interpreted.

Jo shrugged.

He was persistent. ‘Boyfriend pushed off?’

Jo said carefully, ‘Mark is staying with some people he knows.’

‘So it was you who decided to keep on moving?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Not much choice. They only had room for one, and Mark had first claim.’

His mouth twisted. ‘So he’s found himself a billet. Where does that leave you? Have you found somewhere to stay?’

Jo was unnerved by his curiosity. It stampeded her into an uncharacteristic lie.

‘Not round here,’ she said quickly.

‘In one of the towns, then? How did you find your way to the river here? Just out for a day’s picnic in the country?’

‘Yes.’

She sounded curt and he looked surprised.

But she had told enough lies here. She did not want to contaminate this beautiful place, this moment, any more. For some odd reason she did not want to lie to this man, either. She began to edge away.

‘Can I drive you somewhere? To join your friends, perhaps?’ he said. ‘I left my car on the road.’

‘No,’ she said, horrified.

But a bit of her mind noted that he seemed to be passing through, that he was not one of the locals who could inadvertently expose her deception. It was a relief.

His eyebrows flew up. She had sounded almost rude, Jo thought in despair.

‘I mean, no, thank you,’ she corrected herself.

‘Hey,’ he said, half gentle, half affronted, ‘you don’t have to be afraid of me. If I were that sort of villain I’d have already jumped on you.’

Jo winced. ‘Sorry.’

Her voice was constrained, almost sulky. She hated it. She didn’t want this man to think she was sulky. But it was better that he knew nothing more about her.

She went on hardily, ‘I know where I’m going, and I’m not in any hurry.’

He looked at her searchingly. ‘You’ll be all right on your own?’

Her chin lifted. ‘I always am.’

He gave a wry smile. ‘I guess you are. Well, no more skinny-dipping, hmm? Not when you’re on your own, anyway.’

‘You mean, no more impulses,’ Jo corrected him with a touch of bitterness.

His eyes narrowed. ‘That would be a pity.’

Her head came up, suspicious.

He added, with quite unnecessary emphasis, almost as if he were reminding himself of something, ‘At your age, I mean.’

She gave a little awkward nod. ‘Okay.’

‘And where will I find you?’

Alarm flared. Her head reared up again.

‘What do you mean, find me?’ she demanded sharply

‘You’re walking off with my shirt,’ he pointed out, amused. ‘It’s rather a favourite. I’d like it back sometime.’

‘Oh!’ Jo looked down at the damp, crumpled linen she was still clutching. She thrust it at him. ‘Here.’

This time their fingers did touch. He caught her hand and held it strongly. If he pulled it back to his body she would touch that warm naked chest with its dusting of hair and its steadily beating heart—and its frightening strength.

Jo’s mouth dried. She stood very still.

He did not carry her hand to his body.

‘Where are you staying?’ he said again. This time it was not casual.

Jo was mute with misery. But she didn’t dare tell him. A whole summer with a roof over her head, a job, close to Mark. She couldn’t put it at risk. She couldn’t.

When she met his eyes, her own were swimming in tears. She who never cried. She shook her head, denying him. It was the most difficult thing she had done in a long time.