“Follow me.” About the Author Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright
“Follow me.”
“We’ll go and ring the rescue services for your car,” Jemima told him.
“I can’t see you, never mind follow you,” Sam said bitterly.
Oh, dear. She reached out her hand and groped for his, coming up against a hard masculine thigh and—oops!
“What the hell are you up to?” he yelped, jumping backward.
She giggled before she could stop herself. This whole thing was in danger of deteriorating into farce. “Sorry. I was trying to find your hand to lead you to the house,” she explained lamely.
She reached out again, and after a second of distrustful silence she felt his fingers contact hers.
Caroline Anderson has the mind of a butterfly. She’s been a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, she once ran her own soft furnishing business, and has now settled on writing. She says, “I was looking for that elusive something. I finally realized it was variety, and now I have it in abundance. Every book brings new horizons and new friends, and in between books I have learned to be a juggler. My teacher husband, John, and I have umpteen pets, two horse-mad daughters—Sarah and Hannah—and several acres of Suffolk that nature tries to reclaim every time we turn our backs! When I’m not writing, walking the dogs or waging war on the garden, I’m often driving around Suffolk behind the wheel of an ancient seven-and-a-half-ton horse lorry. Variety is a two-edged sword!”
A Funny Thing Happened…
Caroline Anderson
To Gill and Russell Darbyshire, who have
been a fount of vital and not-so-vital information! Without them this book would not have been the same. Thanks, guys !
CHAPTER ONE
‘TYPICAL! Now where do I go?’
Sam opened his window and a blast of snow worthy of the Arctic plastered itself on his face. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes, ignoring the stinging bite of the blizzard in a vain attempt to see the sign.
Useless. It was obliterated by the snow, flying horizontally and sticking itself to every available surface—including him. Still, he was pretty sure he knew the way...
He pressed a button and the window slid noiselessly back into place, shutting out the howling wind. He brushed the snow off his sweater and sighed. There was always the option of getting out of the car, of course, but just now it had about as much appeal as crawling naked through a trough of maggots.
Possibly less.
He glared balefully at the now white window. ‘I thought it was supposed to snow at Christmas, not in February,’ he growled, and peered through the windscreen. With the supremely effective heater on full and the wipers doing their nut, it was just about possible to see through it—to the white-out beyond.
‘Brilliant,’ he sighed. ‘Just brilliant.’
His car radio automatically searched for local traffic information, and would override the CD player, but there was nothing, so he sat back and listened to Verdi and waited for the snow to ease. It took about half an hour, but by then it was almost dark and the howling, shrieking wind was still blowing the snow.
‘Might as well give it a go,’ he muttered. He eased the car forward, testing the traction control for the first time in the soft, thick snow, and to his relief it pulled slowly away. He could feel the automatic system checking the power to the wheels, giving them just enough to move and not enough to slip.
He smiled grimly. He’d bought a car with traction control because he was sick of being stuck on construction sites, but there had always been enough big blokes around to shove the car out if necessary.
Here, though—here he was totally reliant on the car’s ability, and although it had passed this test, for the first time he began to have serious reservations about arriving at his grandparents’ farm tonight and in one piece.
He was only able to move at a slow crawl because the snow was blowing off the field to his right and drifting onto the lane, and then suddenly the hedge on the right thickened up and he was able to put his foot down a bit.
‘Progress, finally,’ he muttered. He passed a farm on his left, a little cluster of brick and flint barns and red-tiled roofs next to a cottage that had seen better days. Tatty though it was, it looked welcoming, he thought. The lights were on and it looked cosy—a warm haven in this suddenly inhospitable landscape. Even the farm buildings looked cosy, with lights blazing in the barn and the yard outside.
Humanity.
He left the lights behind and was swallowed up in the eerie darkness, and he shivered, suddenly feeling very alone.
How odd. He was sick of people, sick of crowds of sycophantic hangers-on and idiots with grandiose ideas and no common-sense. Indecisive idiots, for the most part. He hadn’t been able to get out of London fast enough.
So why on earth did he feel lonely now just because there was no one about? He cast one last longing glance at the little farm in his rear-view mirror as he went round the corner.
Not a good idea.
He hit the snow drift at the end of the hedge at twenty miles an hour and came to a grinding halt, his nose inches from the steering wheel, his chest crushed by the seat belt pre-tensioner. He sat back and glared at the drift.
‘Well, I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies,’ he muttered. ‘I could have been looking at an air-bag.’
And he had traction control. No problem. He put the car into reverse—and listened in defeat to the grinding of the wheels.
‘Damn!’ He thumped his hands on the steering wheel and glared at the snow. It was piled up over the bonnet, the wind even as he watched piling it higher—and on his side it was hard up against the door.
He tried again to reverse out, but it was pointless. After several fruitless attempts even Sam admitted it was pointless. Traction control or not, he was stuck.
Perhaps the