‘Oh, damn!’ she groaned, hoping against hope that it wasn’t Richard. After the way she’d sent him away on Tuesday evening, it would be typical of him to turn up unannounced. She didn’t want to have to tell him she was going out with another man, particularly a man she hardly knew, and for whom she was making such a fuss.
She stood by her bed, hoping whoever it was would get the message and go away again, but, as before, the knocker was rapped once more. Of course, it could be her mother, she thought. It was almost a week since she’d seen either of her parents, and they were unlikely to hold her up, particularly if they thought she had a heavy date. Not that it was heavy, she reminded herself, but her mother wasn’t to know that.
Deciding she would have to see who it was, she ran hastily down the stairs. Because of the angle of the eaves, it was impossible to spy on the porch from the bedroom, and she could hardly peer through the living-room window and risk coming face to face with a stranger. She could have looked out of the window upstairs to see if there was a strange car parked in the lane. But as she had no garage herself she had to park at her gate, and visitors to the church sometimes used what free space was left.
Of course, she acknowledged as soon as she opened the door, she would have recognised Patrick Riker’s car if she’d seen it. Its width alone was making it very difficult for any other car to pass along the narrow lane, and its dark green elegance. was unmistakable. The man, too, was fairly unforgettable, propped rather indolently against her porch. He was still wearing the dark blue suit he had worn that afternoon, and in light of the fact that she’d arranged to meet him later on her lips tightened impatiently at his presumption.
‘Hi,’ he said, not at all put out by her obvious annoyance. ‘I was early, so I thought I might as well come and fetch you after all.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You look nice. And ready, too, if I’m not mistaken.’
Isobel knew a childish impulse to stamp her foot. He had no right to come here, no right to know where she lived—though she could guess who had given him her address. No wonder Chris had looked so smug when she’d announced she was having dinner with him. She probably already knew.
‘Well, I’m not quite,’ she stated now. ‘Ready, I mean.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you go on ahead? I can give you directions from here.’
‘Without you?’ he protested. ‘I’d rather wait.’ He looked beyond her, into the sun-dappled hall behind her. ‘I don’t mind.’
Isobel pressed her lips together. ‘As you like,’ she declared tersely, and shut the door in his face.
It was rude, perhaps, but she didn’t know him, she defended herself as she went back upstairs. Women were always being advised not to invite virtual strangers into their home. Besides, his—what? Chauffeur? Bodyguard?—was bound to get impatient. They could keep one another company. It wasn’t her fault he had changed the arrangements.
But the black dress would have to do, she conceded, with a sigh. She had no intention of changing again and giving him the impression she was fussy about what she wore. Some eyeshadow, a little mascara and a caramel-coloured lipstick achieved the effect she was seeking, and she finally picked up her hairbrush to try and subdue the sun-streaked tangle of her hair.
Chris had said not to put it in the braid, but she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to give her young assistant credit for anything. In the event, she secured it at her nape with a velvet scrunch band, aware that curling tendrils would soon escape the constriction and cluster about her temples and her neck.
It was daunting to emerge from the cottage and lock her door with Patrick Riker’s eyes upon her. And his companion’s eyes, she appended tersely. She wasn’t used to being watched, and she didn’t like it. She was glad she had wrapped a black and white Paisley scarf about her shoulders. Although it was a warm evening, it didn’t make her feel so exposed.
However, when she approached the car, she discovered that Patrick was alone. He emerged from behind the wheel to open the front passenger door for her, and she realised that for all her caution they were still to spend some time alone.
‘Where’s your—er—?’
She faltered over the designation, and Patrick helped her out. ‘Joe?’ he asked. ‘His name’s Joe Muzambe. And I’ve given him the evening off.’ He closed her door and walked around to fold his length in beside her. He looked her way. ‘Is it a problem?’
Put like that, it would have sounded rather churlish to object. Besides, it was less than a mile to Swalford. She could always get a taxi home if she thought he’d had too much to drink.
She shook her head, feeling the recalcitrant strands of hair squeezing out of the band already. ‘I—assumed he’d be driving,’ she said, hoping that didn’t sound as if she’d expected it. It wasn’t as if she was used to riding around in expensive cars, with or without a chauffeur at the wheel.
‘Don’t you trust me?’ he asked, and she realised he had not been deceived by her reticence. ‘I know I can’t prove it, but you’re perfectly safe with me.’
Of course she was.
‘I didn’t—that is, I hope you don’t think—’
‘What?’ His eyes were narrowed now. ‘What are you trying to say? That you don’t like me?’ He started the engine, his mouth curling into an ironic smile. ‘That’s all right. It’s not a prerequisite for doing business with someone.’
Isobel took a deep breath. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘No?’
His answer was hardly satisfactory, but the lane was clear of traffic, and he pulled away before she could say any more. Beyond the cottage the lane narrowed, before turning right into another lane that eventually intersected with the high street. It was not a well-known route, but Horsham was not a large village, and most roads ultimately led back to where you’d started. Nevertheless she had the feeling that he’d already checked it out before he even knocked at her door.
‘No,’ she said now, and added with a faint edge to her voice as he turned left along the high street, ‘You seem to know your way around.’
The look he gave her was slightly wary, and she wondered what she’d said to arouse his distrust. It was a free country, for heaven’s sake, and for all she knew he might know the area better than she did. But she had the feeling he was a stranger. She was sure she’d have heard about him if he’d moved into the district.
‘I just follow the signposts,’ he remarked after a moment, and she had to admit there had been an arrow pointing towards Swalford at the junction.
There was silence for a few moments after that, Isobel struggling desperately to think of something suitable to say. It wasn’t that she wanted him to think her particularly clever, but she didn’t want him to think she was stupid either. The trouble was, the men she usually went out with were locals, and she doubted Patrick Riker would be interested in the fact that they were having a drought.
He drove fairly slowly through the village, but once out of the restricted area he allowed the car to find its own speed. The roads around Horsham were inclined to be a little twisty, so there was no question of racing, but he covered the three-quarters of a mile to Swalford in an amazingly short time.
‘I guess this is it,’ he remarked finally, turning into the car park of the The Coach House and parking beside an old Mercedes that had seen better days. For all it was quite early in the evening, there were quite a few cars already occupying the inn’s forecourt—an indication of the popularity of its bar food.
‘I hope you won’t find it a disappointment,’ murmured Isobel, barely audibly, as she acknowledged the incongruity of the limousine in these surroundings. But he’d heard her, and his lips twitched at the back-handed compliment.
‘I doubt if anything could disappoint me this evening,’