But how ridiculous. What did she expect? A passionate embrace in the middle of the street? Of course not. Their relationship wasn’t like that. They were far too sensible for that kind of thing. Their relationship was built of mutual aims, mutual respect, mutual goals. Rather disconcertingly as she headed back to the bank she remembered her mother once telling her nostalgically that she had fallen in love with her father the moment she’d set eyes on him; that she had known he was the one for her when he had rushed out into the road to rescue a kitten from under the hooves of the milk-man’s pony, daring both the milkman’s fury and the amusement of onlookers when he’d presented the rescued kitten to her with a courtly bow of his head and a whispered confession that he rather suspected he had split his jeans during his heroic dive to rescue the kitten, and would she please go and stand behind him so that he could get to his feet without completely losing his dignity.
To envisage Peter in such a situation was beyond the power of the most inventive type of imagination. Peter would have ignored the cat. He never liked getting involved in things which did not concern him. He would certainly never have bandied words with the milkman, and as for wearing old and worn jeans in danger of bursting their seams…A complete and utter impossibility—thank goodness. She would have been mortified in her mother’s shoes, to be aware of being the cynosure of all eyes…She shuddered and closed her eyes. She and Peter were perfect for one another—perfect. She was a very lucky woman—very lucky indeed.
So why did she feel so…so on edge?
It was Carter’s fault, of course. If he hadn’t come back into their lives, inveigling his way into her parents’ affections…She had disliked him even as a teenager, feeling intimidated by him. He had teased her, she remembered, making fun of her braced teeth and pulling at her plaits. She at fourteen had been mortified by his reaction to her, and had retaliated by whisking herself out of the room whenever he had walked into it, and refusing to address more than half a dozen words to him during his entire visit.
‘Not like your ma and pa, are you, cuckoo?’ he had tormented her, she recalled.
She had been hurt by that comment…hurt and confused, although she had not let him see it.
Well, this time it would be different. This time she was an adult with no need to feel intimidated. This time he would see how very different indeed she was from her foolish, too trusting parents.
CHAPTER TWO
NOT much further to go now. Only a handful of miles—thank goodness. There had been so many hold-ups on the motorway that the journey had taken rather longer than Elspeth had allowed for. It was still light—just, the sky overhead remarkably clear, the moon and stars just beginning to shine. Thank heaven it was June, with its long, light evenings. She hated driving in the dark, especially down the narrow, winding country lanes that surrounded her parents’ home.
As she pulled up at a set of traffic-lights, another car pulled up alongside her.
It was the sensation of someone looking at her, willing her to turn her head, that made her react instinctively, glancing sideways at the occupant of the other car—and immediately, angrily wishing she hadn’t been so foolish as its male driver grinned back at her.
Elspeth glared frigidly at him. These traffic-lights seemed to be taking forever to change, and she wasn’t used to being grinned at in that overly familiar fashion, especially not by strange men—especially not by a very large, very brown strange man wearing a short-sleeved shirt that was open almost to his waist, and a pair of disreputable shorts which revealed a pair of heavily muscled and extremely brown thighs.
At his age he ought to be beyond the stage of making unwelcome advances to unknown women, she decided bitterly, firmly refusing to give in to the temptation to cast him a second look, just to make sure he knew exactly how angry she was at his familiarity. He must have been closer to thirty-five than fifteen, but then he was obviously a particular type of the male species whom she most disliked: conceited, over-muscled—and boasting of those muscles by his state of undress—and driving one of those eye-catching, sporty little cars with its soft top down, its paintwork a bright and vibrant red. Just the sort of car that drew attention to its driver. Just the sort of car Peter would never ever consider driving—thank goodness. The lights changed and she waited hesitantly, giving him time to pull away. His type always loved to be first off the mark, and she was not anxious to draw up at the next set of lights alongside him. Thank heaven, after that she would be turning off the Chester ring road and heading for her parents’ home village.
But as she waited for the bright red car to move the traffic behind her signalled its impatience at her delay, and she realised that the red car had still not moved.
Feeling uncomfortable and unnerved, she put her own small car in gear, wincing a little as she underestimated the amount of clutch and shot forward in an ungainly and thoroughly inexperienced manner, galling in the extreme to someone who prided herself on her sensible, safe handling of her car.
As she glanced automatically into her rearview mirror, she saw to her horror that the reason the red car hadn’t moved was that its driver was now signalling to pull into her lane right behind her, and that the traffic, caught off guard by her kangaroo-like leap forward, had allowed him to do so.
Indignation rose in her throat. How dared he? Did he honestly think she was the kind of woman to be impressed by that sort of idiotic behaviour? Hadn’t he realised from the look she had given—that look of freezing disdain she had soon learned to hide her real feelings behind after that never-to-be-forgotten occasion when she had walked into the staff-room at the bank with her real emotions written all too clearly on her face? Did he actually think she would be flattered by his obvious pursuit of her?
Things like this simply did not happen in London, where the drivers were far too anxious to get to their destination to play these silly games. And she had never in her wildest imaginings believed that she would be involved in something so juvenile.
Well, he would soon get tired of showing off and pursuing her, once she had made it plain to him that she simply wasn’t interested. And once he realised she was turning off at the next set of lights he would soon return to the main stream of traffic.
By rights a man of that age ought to have far more serious matters on his mind than pursuing unknown women. If she had been of a less strong disposition, nervous and easily frightened, she could almost have been panicked into having an accident by his pursuit of her.
Men like that were a danger to the other traffic. By rights she ought to report him to the police, she told herself in annoyance as a peep in her mirror showed her that he was still behind her.
At least he had some sense, she noticed reluctantly. He was keeping a good safe distance between them, not trying to crowd up behind her.
Just as she approached them the lights turned to red, and, on an impulse she couldn’t entirely analyse, instead of indicating that she was turning right, she did nothing…Let him think she was going straight on. That way she would make sure that he didn’t pursue this stupid game any further. Although she was determined not to look in her mirror, she found that she was doing so. Simply out of habit, she assured herself. All good drivers kept an eye on the traffic behind them.
He had pulled up right behind her, and as she glanced into her mirror she saw to her fury that he was actually daring to smile at her a second time. A smug, self-assured smile, which said that he was quite sure that his insulting behaviour would be admired and welcome. She had a good mind to get out of her car and give him a piece of her mind. Arrogant, conceited creature…Couldn’t he see that she just was not the type of woman to be flattered by what he was