are for you, then. They should have arrived earlier—bit of a problem with the greenery.’
Joss thanked him, and gave him a tip. The box held a sheaf of yellow roses on a bed of leaves. Fig leaves, she realised, her heart hammering. ‘From Adam’, said the card, and Joss buried her face in the blooms, suddenly engulfed in the memory of a hard, possessive body taut with desire, of skilled, caressing hands and gratifying, devouring kisses… She shivered, eyes tightly shut for a moment, then took in a deep, steadying breath, blotting out the memory by sheer strength of will. Then she closed the door and locked away a year of her life.
Her new home occupied the upper floor of an Edwardian house in a picturesque terrace of identical houses in varying states of restoration and repair. It was much smaller than the flat in Notting Hill, but it would need less furniture, had a separate front door and private stairs, a forecourt to park the car, and, best of all, left Joss in possession of a sizeable sum of money. Part of this would go to Peter, to cover his half of the deposit on the expensive Notting Hill flat he’d insisted on, due to its superior architecture and fashionable address. But Joss had paid off the mortgage.
Once the removal men had gone Joss telephoned for a pizza, then rang Anna to give her the new phone number.
‘I wish I could be there to help,’ said Anna. ‘Has Peter taken time off to give you a hand?’
‘No,’ said Joss, taking a deep breath. ‘Look, Anna, are you busy? I’ve got something to tell you.’
Joss put the phone down later, feeling drained. Anna had blown her top, said a great many uncomplimentary things about Peter Sadler, congratulated Joss on being rid of such a poisonous rat, then offered to drive up to London that minute to provide a shoulder for her friend to cry on.
Joss had refused affectionately. ‘I’ll soon get used to being single again. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, Anna.’
‘I do worry,’ said her friend stormily. ‘Hugh was right. He never liked Peter. Anyway, did you enjoy the party?’
‘Of course I did. By the way, who was that very tall man I saw with you when people were leaving?’
‘Which one? I hadn’t met half of Hugh’s friends before.’
‘I think this one was more a friend of a friend.’
‘Shall I ask Hugh?’
‘No, don’t bother. Anyway, I must go. My lunch has arrived.’
Once she’d eaten her pizza, Joss locked up and went shopping for furniture. She ordered a comfortable sofa and pair of tables to hold her lamps, chose a restored brass bed, and arranged for delivery. Then she turned her attention to food. Her unexpected guest had demolished all the provisions bought to tide her over the move. Which was hardly surprising. There was a lot of him to keep fuelled. Joss thrust groceries in a basket at random, controlling a shiver at another memory of Adam’s naked body. Making love with him, she told herself trenchantly, had happened purely because he’d materialised in her life at a time when she desperately needed to feel wanted and desirable again. And though Adam had fulfilled the need, with success so spectacular it overshadowed anything experienced with Peter, she had no intention of seeing him again.
When she got back to the flat Joss put the food away in the new fridge, then collected some tools together and began putting up her bookshelves, allowing herself to admit, at last, that her relationship with Peter had been foundering for some time. He had been all too accurate about their love-life, if she were brutally honest. It had been non-existent on a physical plane for a long time, and his failure to win the Athena contract had merely given him the excuse to break their engagement. But not the bottle to do it face to face. His dismay had been almost laughable when she’d turned up before he could sneak away.
At first Joss had been consumed with hurt and anger. Then fiercely grateful for the work which filled her life. She worked long, irregular hours as a freelance journalist, and regularly filled in for staff on holiday, or sick, or away on special assignments. Her free time had rarely coincided with Peter’s, something he’d fiercely resented. And there’d also been the burning question of a family. She had been adamant about waiting until he earned enough money for her to work less, and do more from home. And though he’d said he was agreeable Peter had obviously lied. As she should have realised. Everything Peter wanted he wanted right now.
Her eyes hardened. In the unlikely event that she ever considered a relationship with a man again she would make sure their aims were mutual. Her experience with Peter had taught her a salutary lesson. Any man in her future must fit certain requirements. He would be older, for a start, equally ambitious, and so successful in his own career he wouldn’t resent hers. Joss smiled cynically. If such a paragon existed he was certain to be married anyway, to a stunningly beautiful woman who was a perfect wife and mother and ran her own thriving business while helping with the children’s homework and producing cordon bleu dinners for twelve.
Joscelyn Hunter’s interest in journalism had first begun when she’d edited the school magazine, which had fired her with such enthusiasm she’d found a job working at weekends and as holiday relief on the local morning paper. She’d started out as a messenger, then progressed to researcher, and soon begun bombarding the editor with so many stories and features he’d eventually accepted one, and she’d never looked back. She had been in her element mixing with journalists, so interested in all aspects of the job she’d made contacts which had won her a full-time job on the same paper, after she had a degree in modern languages and a year’s post-graduate course in journalism under her belt.
At first Joss had loved her job, and with undiminished enthusiasm had covered law courts, local government, industry, the arts and a variety of local events. She’d interviewed a wide range of people, from local members of parliament, county councillors, businessmen, victims of tragedy, to schoolchildren and celebrities of all kinds. But after three years or so Joss had begun to feel inhibited by parochial bias. She’d lusted after a job on a national paper, and in her spare time had regularly submitted features to London dailies. When her efforts had begun to be accepted she’d taken the plunge and left for the capital, where her experience, coupled with the right qualifications and a willingness to work long, irregular hours, had won her jobs as a freelance, doing shiftwork on some of the national dailies.
Joss had set off for London with her father’s blessing and a small legacy left by her mother. But soon afterwards the Reverend George Hunter had died, shortly before his retirement, leaving a grief-stricken Joss without a base in the Warwickshire village of her birth, other than her constant welcome from Anna’s family. But her visits to the Herricks had been few and far between since her relationship with Peter, who had never fitted in with them. Now he was gone she could please herself, and would definitely drive down to Glebe House for lunch one day soon, Joss decided, preferably on one of the Sundays likely to drag a bit from now on.
Once she was settled in the new flat Joss steeled herself to forget Adam—and Peter—and soon found she quite enjoyed living alone. Her job absorbed most of her time, as usual, but now she could suit herself about what time she finished, with no reproaches when she got home, late and tired, to someone expecting her to cook supper and iron shirts. There were definite advantages to being single again.
As a change from reporting on press conferences, demonstrations, or whatever event the news editor wanted covered, one day Joss was told to dig out information about ancestral homes hired out by their owners for corporate entertaining, and spent time consulting with the Daily Post library and electronic database to discover which aristocratic personalities and properties were likely to be most newsworthy.
‘We’ve got some mail for you,’ said Carrie
