‘But I want you to!’ the girl wailed.
‘Then I will. Don’t worry about feeding me—I can have all the accompaniments.’
‘Oh. Well, I could do you some veg in a curry sauce—would that do?’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t worry about me; cook what your father likes. It’s his birthday. How do I get there?’
Jane gave her the directions—somewhat haphazard, but hopefully she could unravel them in the dark.
‘What’s the phone number, in case I get lost?’
Jane rattled off the number, then added, ‘By the way, don’t tell him—it’s a surprise.’
It was raining, just to add insult to injury. Gavin had been understanding—to a point. ‘Had a better offer?’ he’d ribbed gently.
‘I’m sorry,’ she’d apologised. ‘Perhaps another time?’
His smile had been wry. ‘Yeah—maybe. Have a good evening.’
She felt she’d disappointed him, but there was no point in encouraging him if he had any ideas about their relationship. He was a nice man, but he didn’t do anything for her—unlike Robert—
‘Damn!’ She slithered to an undignified halt and reversed back, peering at the road sign. Was this it? No. Damn again. She drove on till she found a pub, then went in and asked the barman the way.
He yelled across the bar, ‘Hey, Fred, how d’you get to Ryder’s old place? Is that first left or second?’
‘Doc Ryder?’ Fred shrugged away from the wall by the dartboard, picked his teeth thoughtfully as he sauntered towards them and eyed Frankie with interest. ‘Goin’ there, are you?’
‘If I can find it.’
He nodded. ‘Back down to the bottom of the hill, turn right, go about two miles, first left, along about couple hundred yards or so on the right. Thatched place, it is. Old Tudor job—white gates.’
All eyes were on her, as if a woman visiting Robert Ryder was a rare and notable occurrence.
She forced a smile. ‘Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find it now.’ She made for the door, and was just opening it when Fred hailed her.
‘Hear his daughter’s home.’
She turned back slightly. ‘Yes.’
‘Good job, too. The mother’s not worth her weight in chicken sh—ah, manure.’
Amidst the ribald laughter she made her escape from the pub, running across the potholed car park in the slashing rain.
Just before she reached her car she put her foot into a pothole, jarred her ankle and splashed muddy water all the way up her clean tights. Swearing comprehensively and most satisfyingly under her breath, she slammed the car door, started the engine and drove back down the hill, along a miserable, rutted lane for two miles or more, until she was sure that Fred had got it wrong.
Then suddenly there was a little turning, an even smaller road, and on the right a low, thatched house with lights blazing a welcome from all the windows. There was an old-fashioned lamppost at the entrance, and in its warm glow she saw the name on the opened gate.
Freedom Farm …
IT WAS a lovely evening. Jane had gone to huge lengths to prepare a meal to remember, and Robert was obviously touched and very, very proud.
The fact that Robert clearly hadn’t been expecting her was obvious from the look on his face when he opened the door. However, he quickly recovered his poise, accepted the bottle of vintage port with a polite murmur of protest and then showed her through into the drawing room.
It was spotlessly tidy, a lovely, heavily beamed room with formal furniture and an air of expectancy. While Robert fetched her a drink she found herself looking round the room and trying to work out what was wrong with it, because it lacked something indefinable but very, very important.
Warmth? Not heat but warmth—love, perhaps. She sensed that it was a room not often used, a room where shared laughter and tender words never echoed, and so the walls were blank, waiting for history to carve itself into the atmosphere. Or recent history, at least. The aged walls and heavy oak beams were soaked in history, but it seemed suppressed, as if it needed the heat of passion to bring it all to life.
She sensed that Robert, too, was uncomfortable in there, as if there was another room, another place that was his retreat—a place where he would rather be. They had perched in there, sipping sherry and making stilted conversation, until Jane came in and announced that their meal was ready.
She was flushed a dull rose, and her cheek was adorned with a dollop of curry sauce, but her eyes were full of eager anticipation and dread in equal measure.
How wonderful, Frankie thought achingly, to have someone to try so hard to please you. The look in Jane’s eyes reminded Frankie of her brother’s wife, eager to please, nothing too much trouble.
And how wonderful, she thought, to have someone you wanted to please, be it father, husband—lover?
Jane ushered them through into the dining room and seated them at the worn and well-loved mahogany table, then served up the meal from the vast number of bowls and dishes that were laid out on its surface.
‘JJ, this looks wonderful,’ Robert said in astonishment, and the girl flushed with pride and caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
Heavens, what a pretty girl, Frankie thought, and then wondered how Robert would cope without the moderating feminine influence of a wife. Would he allow Jane any freedom to explore her budding womanhood?
She thought not—or not easily. He clearly adored her, and the thought of her turning into a woman with a woman’s needs and wants would torture him, Frankie was sure.
The food broke the ice a little. OK, the rice was a little cold, and Frankie had a sneaking suspicion that her ‘vegetable’ curry was a few frozen veg quickly boiled and then doused in the chicken curry sauce. But she decided that Jane’s sensibilities were more important than her own and ate it with every appearance of enjoyment, and gradually the conversation warmed and laughter trickled in.
‘So, how are you coping with the old bossy-boots?’ Jane asked her at one point with a wicked twinkle at her father. ‘Is he awful at work?’
Frankie grinned and studied him. ‘Awful? Only five days a week.’
‘You haven’t worked with him on Saturday and Sunday yet,’ Jane pointed out.
‘So I haven’t. I expect he’ll be even worse then, as it’s the weekend.’
Robert closed his eyes and gave a mock sigh. ‘Maligned, I am. I thought I’d actually been the perfect boss.’
Frankie chuckled. ‘Of course. I expect you’re really very kind under that grim and forbidding exterior.’
His eyes flew open and he studied her in genuine astonishment. ‘Grim and forbidding? Really?’
She relented. ‘No, not really. Mostly you’re quite civilised. You only bite if I’m particularly stupid or you’re particularly hungry.’
It was an unfortunate choice of words. Something flared in his eyes, and Frankie felt the heat scorch her cheeks. She dropped her head forward slightly and her hair swung down and screened her blush. Damn, what was going on? She’d thought she’d imagined the heat between them on her first night, when he’d brushed the crumb from her lip—but perhaps not?
She hadn’t lied, in fact. He had been a little grim and forbidding. Maybe this uninvited attraction was the