on the edge of the shelf with her leg hanging down. She’s a limited edition, and I was lucky to get her. She’s by an artist-cum-farmer from Devon, a guy called Tom Greenshields. Unfortunately he’s dead now, but he had an amazing talent—so tactile. Touch her, see what I mean.’
Fran did, running her fingers down the cool bronze, over the fine slope of the figure’s shoulders and the gentle swell of her hips. She had one knee drawn up and her chin rested on it, and she was beautiful. Even her toes seemed real and solid and in proportion. Fran sighed softly under her breath. How wonderful, to have such talent, and how lucky to be in a position to collect such beautiful works of art.
‘You’re a very lucky man,’ she murmured, and dropped her hand to her side.
‘I know. I’ve worked hard but I’ve had some good breaks, although I must say the last few don’t quite qualify.’
His grin was self-deprecating, and infectious. She stopped feeling jealous of him and decided to content herself with enjoying his lovely surroundings while she could. That in itself was a privilege.
‘Come on, let’s take you back into the kitchen and check the casserole,’ she said, with a return to her usual briskness. Without waiting for Josh to comment, she turned him round and wheeled him up to the light switch, watched as he tapped it and the lights faded away, and then took him through into the kitchen.
‘I hope that’s going to taste as good as it smells,’ Josh said, sniffing appreciatively.
‘I shouldn’t think there’s the slightest chance,’ Fran said with a laugh. ‘I had to make do with only about half the ingredients. Still, it won’t kill us.’
He tipped his head round and grinned up at her. ‘I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance of a glass of wine, is there?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t buy any.’
His grin widened. ‘If that’s the only objection, I can easily overcome it. There’s a cellar downstairs full of bottles of wine.’
‘You probably shouldn’t have more than one,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Is that glass or bottle?’ His eyes twinkled mischievously and she stifled a smile.
‘Glass.’
‘You’re such a killjoy,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Still, one’s better than nothing. You’d better go down and choose one.’
She threw up her hands in horror. ‘Not a chance! I know even less about wine than I do about art.’
‘Well, I can’t go down there like this, so it’s you or nobody, blossom. You could always take it back and bring up another one if it’s not a good choice.’
And that was that. He pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen, and she wheeled him over, set the brakes and went down the stairs to the lower floor.
‘Turn right,’ he instructed, ‘and open that door. Now, red or white?’
She went back to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. ‘Pass. It’s got chicken, carrots, potatoes, onions, ketchup and soy sauce. You tell me.’
He muttered something that she didn’t hear, and grinned. ‘Try the red—on the right as you go in, about three or four along and the same up from the bottom. It should be a burgundy.’
She pulled a bottle out and peered at the dusty label.
‘Côte du Rhone,’ she called up to him.
‘That’ll do,’ he replied, and she closed the door behind her and went back upstairs, handing it to him.
‘OK?’
‘Should be fine. Perhaps I ought to educate you while you’re here,’ he said with a conniving grin, but it didn’t fool her.
‘Nice try. Right, let’s get you away from the top of the stairs before you fall down and break your neck.’
He sighed, cradling the wine on his lap as she turned him away from the top of the stairs and closed the door, then he handed it to her. ‘You’d better open it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’d be much use with one hand.’
She smiled cheekily. ‘I don’t know, what with not being able to get down the stairs to your wine cellar and not being able to take the cork out of the bottle, you’re a bit stuffed really without my goodwill, aren’t you?’
‘Just don’t shake it around,’ he advised, eyeing the wine like an anxious parent. ‘I know it’s pretty much plonk, but it’s quite decent plonk and it deserves to be treated better than lemonade.’
She rolled her eyes, but set the bottle down carefully, found the corkscrew and opened it.
‘Well, you managed that all right for somebody who doesn’t know anything about wine,’ he said, watching her with the corkscrew.
Fran laughed. ‘Just because I don’t know anything about wine doesn’t mean I can’t open the bottle. What now?’
‘Now you leave it to breathe, until we’re ready to eat. Let me smell the cork.’
She put the bottle down and turned and studied him. ‘Are you really that desperate?’ she said with a grin.
‘Cheeky. I’m just making sure it’s not corked.’
‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. You look a bit better for your rest,’ she said, remembering her role. ‘Maybe you should go back on the sofa with your legs up and take it easy until supper’s ready. Have you got a telly you can watch to help you chill?’
Josh nodded. ‘There’s one in that cupboard,’ he said, pointing at the corner by the table. ‘I’d rather listen to music, though.’
‘Whatever,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Just so long as you rest.’
Needless to say, his choice in music was interesting. She handed him a remote control, and he aimed it at a little keypad on the wall. Moments later music flooded the room. He chose something modern and instrumental by nobody she’d ever heard of, but the beat was compelling and she found her foot tapping to the music as she prodded the casserole and prepared the vegetables.
Every now and again she glanced his way, but he was lying back on the sofa with his eyes closed, his left leg bent up and his foot tapping in time with hers, and he didn’t notice her.
It gave her a chance to study him while the vegetables were cooking, and she had to admit he was a fine specimen, easily as good as she’d remembered. Broad shoulders, lean hips, well-muscled legs—at least, the left one was. The right one was suffering a bit at the moment, but no doubt it would recover. She glanced back to his face, and found him looking at her. Soft colour flooded her cheeks and she turned back to her vegetables.
‘You’re still alive, then?’ she teased.
‘Ten out of ten,’ he replied, turning the music down. ‘How’s supper?’
‘Done. Where do you want to eat?’
