he murmured. ‘Any chance of another coffee?’
‘OK, but it’s the last one. If you have any more you certainly won’t sleep tonight, and I really think you need to. Which reminds me, where am I sleeping?’
‘The guest room’s through there,’ he said, gesturing towards the hall.
Fran arched a brow. ‘I don’t think so. That’s miles from you. How will I know if you get into difficulties in the night?’
‘What kind of difficulties am I going to get into?’ he asked with a chuckle. ‘The mind boggles. Anyway, I thought I was going to sleep?’
‘You are,’ she said firmly, ‘and if I have anything at all to say about it, so am I, which means I can’t lie at the other end of the house straining my ears down the corridor in case you call for help. So, is there a closer room?’
He shrugged. ‘Not with its own bathroom, but the room next to me has a shower opposite.’
‘That’ll do fine,’ she said, and stood up. ‘Now, you settle back and rest and I’ll finish the supper.’
She went back into the kitchen and put all the ingredients together. At first he watched her, but then his eyelids started to droop and, as she’d anticipated, within moments he was asleep.
She put the casserole into the oven, and then went quietly down the corridor to the room next to his. It shared the same beautiful view, the king-size bed placed opposite the window to take full advantage of it, and she thought longingly of early mornings lying with a cup of tea, staring out across the river. What a fabulous way to start the day.
She turned down the bedspread and found the bed made up with soft, pure linen. Not for Josh’s guests the polycotton sheets of normal mortals, she thought with gentle irony, and the pillows and quilt felt like goose down.
She went back through the kitchen, checking on him as she went, but he hadn’t stirred and so, letting herself out of the front door, she went down to her car and retrieved her bag.
There were all sorts of things in her car, stuffed into the boot where she’d thrown them last night as she’d left London, but all she really needed was the bag. She looked down into her boot, at the carrier bags and boxes that were all she owned in the world, and with a little sigh she closed the boot lid, locked the car and went back into the house. She’d sort the rest out tomorrow.
She put the case in her room and unpacked it, and then went back to the kitchen. Josh was still sleeping, his lashes dark against his bruised cheeks, and she had a crazy urge to run her fingers over the short, dark hair. He looked vulnerable, younger with the lines of strain missing, and his mouth without the crooked grin looked soft and full and generous.
She looked down at his leg, at the pins locked to the metal bar that held the bone steady, the pins penetrating the skin and holding all the fragments in line. Judging by the number of pins, he’d been lucky not to lose it. It all looked healthy, though, she was relieved to see. The last thing he needed was a nasty infection.
Fran checked the casserole, but it was fine and didn’t need her attention. Suddenly at a loose end, she wandered out into the hall and studied the paintings which until now she’d only had time to walk past. They were beautiful, full of energy, very simple and yet astonishingly lively. They were obviously by the same person, and they were signed, but she couldn’t read the signature and even if she had been able to, it wouldn’t have meant anything to her. She’d never studied art, she simply knew what she liked—and she liked these.
She looked at the other doors in the hall and hesitated. She didn’t want to be nosy but on the other hand, it might not hurt to be familiar with the layout. At least, that was what she told herself as she turned the knob on the nearest door and entered the room.
It was the guest bedroom, of course, that he’d pointed out, more lavishly appointed than the one she’d chosen, but probably no more comfortable and without the fabulous view. She’d trade the luxury of the bathroom just for the view alone.
The next room was a library, stuffed with books, the shelves groaning. They were all real books, as well, battered old favourites as well as classics old and modern, some leather-bound, others tatty old paperbacks.
Eclectic taste, she decided, and wasn’t surprised.
Then there was the dining room, and finally, after the cloakroom, the last room off the hall, furthest from the kitchen and presumably the sitting room.
She turned the knob and went in, hesitating in the doorway. She reached for the light switch, because it was growing dark now and the curtains were all closed in here, but instead of the switch there was some strange panel.
‘It’s electronic,’ Josh said quietly behind her.
She spun round, her hand pressed her chest, guilty colour flooding her cheeks. ‘You gave me such a fright!’ she said with a breathless little laugh. ‘How did you creep up on me?’
He gave her his crooked grin. ‘Years of practice. Sorry. Here, let me.’
He hobbled towards her, wincing as he did so.
‘You should be in your wheelchair,’ she said in concern, ‘not walking around like this. It’s all right to hop from the chair to the loo, or even from the bed to the loo, but you really shouldn’t be wandering around unnecessarily.’
‘Are you going to nag me all the time?’ he asked her mildly, and she smiled.
‘Only if you make me,’ she told him. ‘Wait here while I get your chair.’
She hurried down to his bedroom, grabbed the chair and pushed it swiftly back into the hall. He sat down with a little grunt, and she propped his leg up on the sliding board and pushed him into the sitting room.
He reached up and tapped the keypad, and soft lights came out of nowhere and lit the room. Like the kitchen, it was vaulted, with windows on all sides to take advantage of the setting, but, unlike the warm and sunny-coloured kitchen, everything in there was very neutral and calm.
Like the hall, there was artwork everywhere, but not just paintings and drawings. In here, in addition to the pictures, there were bronzes on shelves, strangely tortured bits of twisted iron standing at one end, a plinth with a marble bust on it in the far corner—security here must be an absolute nightmare unless they were all copies, which she somehow doubted.
She said nothing, and neither did he, just watched her for her reaction and waited.
He was going to have a long wait. She felt rendered speechless, totally overawed by the astonishing investment that must have gone into this room, at the size and scale and scope of his collection, not to mention the beauty of each individual piece. Or most of them, anyway.
‘Well?’
Fran shrugged, a helpless lift of her shoulders. ‘What can I say? I know nothing about art, but I’m not stupid. How much do you pay a year in insurance?’
He gave a low chuckle. ‘You don’t want to know. Anyway, that’s beside the point. What you think of them?’
‘The pictures? They’re lovely, all of them, and I love the bronze sculptures and the marble bust. I’m not sure about the twisted iron.’
