man’s bedroom! That was certainly enough to block off all thoughts of some other man. And that was without his overbearing attitude and all that followed. The arrogant…
Varnie calmed down. Johnny. She must keep that clever brother, but—as his father said—often without a grain of sense, to the forefront of her mind. He did not deserve her consideration after what he had done; how dared he hand over his key to her property and invite his boss to use the place as his own? But Johnny did so love his job, and wanted desperately to keep it, and he was her brother and, as her brother, the rights and wrongs of it just didn’t come into it.
That being so, Varnie decided she must make the best of a bad job. She did not want Beaumont in her house, but since, she reluctantly faced, she could not throw him out if Johnny was to keep his job, she would allow him to stay—and only hope it wouldn’t be for more than a day or so.
She pulled up her car to the side of the house and started to extract the groceries while at the same time deciding that, since it looked as though she was going to have to put up with him, she might as well be nice to Beaumont. No, not Beaumont—Leon.
He came into the kitchen just as she placed her first three carriers down on the kitchen table. ‘You took your time!’ he opened curtly.
She felt her hackles go on the incline. Be nice. Be nice. She smiled. ‘I met a friend. We had coffee,’ she replied pleasantly, and was about to add that she’d have brunch ready in next to no time when he butted in—a habit of his she had noticed and didn’t very much care for.
‘You know someone here?’ he questioned sharply.
She very nearly slipped up and said of course she did, that she had spent all her childhood holidays here. In time, she remembered. ‘I did tell you I’d been here before,’ she stated quietly.
‘With Metcalfe?’
‘Naturally. He—um—rented this place before.’
‘How well do you know him?’ Leon Beaumont was interested in knowing.
Oh, you’d be surprised. She toyed briefly with the idea of confessing that Johnny was her brother, her stepbrother, but only briefly. Her being here, skivvying, was her attempt to prove to Leon just how very efficient his assistant was. How, when Mrs Lloyd could not make it, his resourceful and worthwhile assistant had speedily found a replacement to cook and clean for him. Besides, this man didn’t take favours. No, she definitely could not tell him that his assistant was her brother. So, in answer to his question of how well she knew him, she had to settle for, ‘Very well.’
‘You and he are an item?’
‘No!’ she answered, more sharply than she’d meant.
‘You’ve slept with him?’ he questioned shortly.
‘Do I ask you whom you’ve slept with?’ she retaliated. The sauce of it!
‘So you have?’
A childhood memory—a sweet childhood memory—of her being very upset one time. A stray cat had been run over just outside. She had been horrified and dreadfully tearful. She had been awake in the night, sobbing, and Johnny had come from his room—he’d have been about eight at the time. ‘Don’t cry, Varnie,’ he’d begged, and had climbed into her bed and cuddled her better. They had both dropped off to sleep. Who could help but love him? She smiled at the fond memory. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I’ve slept with him.’
‘Obviously not a lasting experience,’ Leon Beaumont answered with a dismissive kind of a grunt—inferring, she felt, that his assistant had dumped her when he had grown tired of her.
‘Perhaps you’ll feel sweeter when you’ve got something in your stomach,’ she said nicely—lead shot came to mind.
He gave her a nasty look and wandered away, and in between stowing the shopping Varnie cooked him bacon, eggs and beans. In the hope that his arteries were clogging up, she added a piece of fried bread.
The meal was almost ready when she went to lay a place in the dining room. Beaumont came out of the study and saw her with the tray in her hands. ‘I’ll eat in the kitchen,’ he decided, and she was sure he only said it to be difficult. Still, if he wanted to eat with what he thought was the hired help, who was she to say he couldn’t?
She had thought the meal would be eaten with not a word being exchanged. But, sitting at one end of the scrubbed-top kitchen table, a cloth hastily thrown over it, he at the other end, she had barely cut into her bacon when to her surprise he enquired, ‘Where do you come from?’
Varnie popped a morsel of bacon in her mouth, and under cover of chewing it, and emptying her mouth before speaking, cogitated on her answer. Had Johnny, during the miles he had driven him around the country, told him anything at all about his family? Or had Beaumont been occupied with work the whole of the time?
‘Gloucestershire.’ She decided to risk it. Her brother had lived in London for some years now.
‘Where did you meet Metcalfe?’ he wanted to know.
‘He stayed at a hotel I worked at one time.’ And she’d thought she hated liars!
Though of course Johnny had stayed at the hotel. But why wouldn’t he? Their parents had owned it. Leon Beaumont opened his mouth to ask another question she was sure she wouldn’t want to answer either, but she butted in first. It made a change.
‘Talking of staying, how long were you thinking of staying on here?’ she asked, and felt herself go a touch pink. She saw his glance on her delicate colouring, saw his glance go to what had once been described as a very kissable mouth, and she hated him when he ignored her question and made an observation instead.
‘You’re looking guilty about something?’ he questioned grimly. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing!’ she denied hotly. ‘Honestly, you’re the most, most…’ she got stuck for a word ‘…most I’ve ever met!’ Oddly then, his lips twitched, as though she amused him. Though his smile never made it. Abruptly she dragged her eyes from his well-shaped mouth. ‘It was a quite innocent question,’ she defended. ‘I like to know where I am. If I have some idea of how long you intend to be here, then I’ll have some idea of what to do with regard to the catering arrangements.’ She was starting to feel a fool. ‘Just how long are you staying?’ she demanded. As if she expected an answer! She didn’t get one.
‘I’m on holiday,’ was as much as he revealed. And that annoyed her.
‘It’s November! Why can’t you holiday abroad like everybody else?’ she snapped, exasperated.
‘I’ve done the “abroad” bit,’ he answered, and while she was wondering what the penalty was for fratricide—she felt like murdering her brother—Beaumont went silkily on, ‘You’ve got something against my holidaying here?’
Who am I to complain? I’m only the skivvy! This was helping Johnny keep his job? ‘No, of course not,’ she swallowed her ire. ‘I feel very lucky that Johnny…’ Bother, she should have said John. Too late now. ‘Er—Johnny Metcalfe thought of me when he wanted emergency cover. It’s just that I should hate to let him down should a job offer come before your—um—holiday is over. Naturally I’d honour my contract with John Metcalfe first. He was insistent that I didn’t let you down…’ Oh,
