‘Hello.’ The girl behind the counter was regarding him with a rather avid interest, and although he wasn’t a conceited man he suspected that there was a certain covetousness in her gaze. ‘Are you looking for Issy?’ she asked, desecrating what Patrick had previously thought of as a very attractive name. ‘She’s in the back. I’ll get her. She was just about to go for lunch.
‘I—well—’
She was gone before he could stop her, and the young woman hanging onto the toddler gave him a reassuring look. ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘If only we could get rid of that wind. Still, it dries the clothes, and saves the electricity. That’s what my husband always says.’
Patrick smiled, and only someone who knew him rather better than she did would have known that his smile wasn’t genuine. ‘At least it’s fine,’ he managed smoothly, wondering why the English always talked about the weather. He looked down and saw that the little girl had snatched what looked like a handful of dried leaves out of an open barrel and was about to stuff them into her mouth. He nodded. ‘I think your daughter’s trying to tell you something. It’s lunchtime for her too, I guess.’
‘What? Ooh, Tracy!’ The young woman bent down and tipped the crushed debris out of her hand. ‘That’s pot pourri,’ she added, pronouncing it so that it rhymed with ‘hot fury’. ‘Aunty Chris will get into trouble if you’re naughty like that again.’
Patrick was turning away to prevent himself from grinning at the youngster, when Isobel came out of the room at the back of the shop. The other girl was following her, smiling and quirking her eyebrows at the woman with the toddler. He supposed Isobel must have told her assistant that he had come back to collect the necklace, but he couldn’t believe they got so few customers that his purchase was unique.
She was wearing a floral print today, a dress this time, but with a similarly long hem. As she came around the end of the counter and handed him a package, he saw that the heavy boots were still in evidence, together with a denim haversack over one shoulder, which added to her outdoor appearance.
‘There you are,’ she said, apparently undisturbed by the stares from the other women. ‘I’ve put a ribbon on it. I thought she might like it to look special.’
‘She?’
For a minute, Patrick was confused. The delicate aroma of her perfume had surrounded him again, and he was intensely conscious of the nearness of her body. The dress had short sleeves and a V neckline, and in the opening he could see the dusky hollow between her breasts. He could smell the faint heat of her skin, too, as she turned aside from him, her mission apparently completed.
‘Your niece.’
Her response drifted over her shoulder, and he struggled to pull himself together as what she had said suddenly made sense. ‘Oh, yes, my niece,’ he agreed mechanically, weighing the gift-wrapped package between his fingers. ‘Um—thank you,’ he added lamely. ‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’
Liar.
He knew, just as he’d known when he’d bought the necklace two days ago, that Susie would never see it. He supposed he could pretend he’d bought it elsewhere, but it was too big a risk to take. Besides, it wasn’t as if it had been expensive. He could have been stuck with a bill for a piece of jewellery if Isobel had worked for a goldsmith. As it was, he had his parcel and no further need to stay.
Or so she thought.
But what the hell could he do with the other two women watching his reactions so closely? What were they expecting? he wondered. What had she told them about him? He found that he resented the thought that she had apparently been discussing him with her young assistant. Had they been speculating about his identity? Or was it something more personal than that?
There was nothing for it but to leave. Even if he’d been inclined to ask to speak to her privately—in the back room, perhaps—he found the idea repulsive. He had no way of knowing how soundproof the walls of the room might be, and the thought of their discussion being overheard in the shop was too abhorrent to consider.
‘Was there something else?’
Isobel was waiting for him to go, and with a terse shake of his head Patrick strode towards the door. So much for his hopes of dealing with the matter swiftly, he thought.
Now he was going to have to think of an excuse to come back again.
He was stepping out into the sunlight when he realised she was behind him, and he suddenly remembered that the girl—Chris?—had said Isobel was just about to go for lunch. Which explained the ugly haversack, he supposed. Why couldn’t she use a handbag like anyone else?
He moved aside to hold the door for her, and although he sensed she didn’t welcome his assistance she was too polite to ignore the courtesy. ‘Thanks,’ she said, with a tight smile, and started off along the pavement. And, before common sense could prevent the gesture, Patrick caught hold of her arm.
‘Excuse me...’
‘Yes?’
Her response warned him she was not in the mood for any prevarication, and Patrick said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Um—I don’t suppose you’d consider having lunch with me? I’ve—got a business proposition I’d like to put to you.’
ISOBEL sucked in her breath. ‘A business proposition?’ she echoed sceptically. ‘What kind of a business proposition?’
The man glanced up and down the high street. ‘Well, I’d prefer not to discuss it here,’ he remarked, his eyes returning to her face. ‘Your—assistant said it was your lunch break. It would seem to kill two birds with one stone if we ate together.’
Would it?
Isobel moistened her lips with a nervous tongue. ‘But—I don’t even know your name,’ she protested uneasily. ‘And, honestly, Mr—er—well, I don’t really think you’re interested in Caprice.’
Which seemed to imply he was interested in her, she realised unhappily as soon as the words were spoken. And she was fairly sure that that wasn’t the case at all. Whatever he had on his mind, it wasn’t the seduction of her rather too generous body. She’d seen him looking at her breasts, and she doubted he was attracted by their wholesome exuberance. Besides, like Richard, he was wearing a ring on the third finger of his left hand. His wife was probably one of those elegant clothes-horses, with angular bones and a narrow chest.
‘You’re wrong,’ he said firmly. ‘And my name’s...Hiker—Patrick Riker.’ He held out his hand, and she was obliged to take it. ‘There, now,’ he added, with a wry smile, ‘we’re properly introduced.’
Isobel managed a brief smile in return, but as soon as she could she pulled her hand away. It wasn’t that she didn’t like touching his flesh; on the contrary, his skin felt disturbingly intimate gripping her damp palm. But it was this, more than anything, that made her wary. She’d never felt so aware of another individual before.
‘So...lunch?’ he reminded her, holding her gaze with eyes that were green in some lights and hazel in others. The wind lifted a lock of dark hair and deposited it on his forehead. Patrick Riker—if that really was his name—pushed it back with long, olive-skinned fingers, drawing her attention to the length of the hair that brushed the virgin whiteness of his collar.
Only she suspected there was nothing remotely virgin about him. There was too much knowledge—too much experience—in that lean, intelligent face. He wasn’t strictly handsome; his features—high cheekbones, a narrow blade of a nose, a thin, almost cruel mouth—were too strong for that. But there was no doubt