was a black and white half-timbered inn called the Grouse and Claret.
‘I thought we’d stop here for lunch,’ Michael said. ‘If you’re ready to eat, that is?’
‘Quite ready. I didn’t have any breakfast.’
‘Why not? Pushed for time?’
She shook her head. ‘To tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous.’
He found himself wondering about that rather naive statement. Had it been made for effect? To encourage him to think she was sweet and innocent?
When, his face cool and slightly aloof, he made no comment, she regretted her impulsive admission and wished she had simply said that she was hungry.
He drove through a stone archway into the cobbled yard of the inn, and, stopping by a stack of old oak beer barrels, came round to open her door.
Well, whatever faults he might prove to have, she thought as she climbed out, his manners, though quiet and unobtrusive, were flawless.
With the kind of surety that made her guess he had stopped here before, he escorted her through the oak door at the rear, and into a black-beamed bar where a log fire blazed and crackled cheerfully.
The bar, its low, latticed windows tending to keep out the sunshine, would have been gloomy if it hadn’t been for the leaping flames. It was empty apart from a broad-faced, thick-necked, cheerful-looking man behind the bar, and two old cronies in the far corner who appeared to be regulars.
The landlord’s hearty greeting proved Jenny’s supposition to be correct.
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Denver.’
‘Nice to see you, Amos.’
‘Me and the wife have been wondering if, the next time you came, Mrs Denver might be with you?’
Jenny saw Michael’s jaw tighten, but his voice was still pleasant and level as he asked, ‘And what made you wonder that?’
‘Why, the newspaper stories that you and ’er were getting together again. You must have seen them.’
‘I never look at the papers,’ Michael told him. ‘Half the stuff they print is suspect, to say the least. It pays not to believe a word.’
Amos grunted his agreement. ‘We might not have done, but it sounded as though it was Mrs Denver herself who had told the reporters.’
‘Well, whoever told them, there’s not a word of truth in it,’ Michael said shortly.
With an unexpected show of tact, Amos changed the subject to ask, ‘So what’s it to be? Your usual?’
At Michael’s nod he enquired, ‘And what about the young lady?’
‘Miss Mansell is my new PA,’ Michael answered the man’s unspoken curiosity.
Then giving Jenny a questioning glance, he asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’
As she hesitated, wondering what he would consider suitable, he suggested, ‘A glass of wine? Or would you prefer a soft drink?’
Fancying neither, and having noticed a sign over the bar that announced, ‘We Brew Our Own Ale’, she abandoned the idea of ‘suitable’ and said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d like half a pint of the home-brewed ale.’
‘An excellent choice,’ Amos said heartily. Then to Michael, who had managed to hide his surprise, ‘No doubt you’ve been singing its praises.’
‘I don’t need to,’ Michael answered gravely. ‘I’m convinced that Miss Mansell can read my mind.’
‘Dangerous thing, that,’ the landlord remarked with a grin as he drew two half pints of ale. ‘I’m only pleased my wife can’t read mine. Though, mind you, she makes up for it by reading my letters and going through my pockets…
‘Now then, you’ll be wanting a good hot meal?’
‘If that’s possible?’
‘It certainly is. My Sarah has her faults, but she’s an excellent cook. I can recommend the rabbit casserole and the apple pie. If the young lady wants something lighter, we can always run to a salad.’
Used to Claire, who had needed to rigorously watch her diet, Michael turned to Jenny and lifted a dark, enquiring brow.
‘The casserole and the pie sound great,’ she said, surprising him yet again.
‘Then make that two, please, Amos.’
Nodding his approval, Amos disappeared in the direction of the kitchen while, frowning a little, Jenny found herself having second thoughts.
Her new boss had obviously been a little startled by her robust choices, and she wondered if, in order to create a good impression, she should have gone for a more ladylike salad and a soft drink.
Oh, well, it was too late now to worry about it.
He carried both their glasses over to a table by the fire, and was about to settle Jenny in one of the comfortable, cushioned chairs when, seeing the firelight flicker on her face, he made to move it back. ‘That might be too close for you…’
‘No… No, it’s fine.’
Hearing the hint of surprise in her voice, he explained, ‘I suppose I got used to my ex-wife. She never liked to sit close in case the heat ruined her skin.’
When he said nothing further, deciding he was disinclined for conversation, Jenny turned her head and watched the leaping flames while she slowly sipped her drink.
Lifting his own glass to his lips, Michael found himself wondering why on earth he was talking about Claire, when for months he had done his best to avoid mentioning her name or even thinking about her.
Perhaps it was Amos’s revelations that had brought his ex to the forefront of his mind.
He had little doubt that Claire’s talk with the reporters had been deliberately staged. Though he was sure she no longer loved him, and probably never had, he knew that she couldn’t bear to let go any man that she had once considered hers.
But she was wasting her time. He hadn’t the slightest intention of taking her back. In the short time they had been married she had cuckolded him and almost succeeded in emasculating him.
Anything he had once felt for her had long since died, and when the divorce had been finalized, mingled with the pain and bitter disillusionment had been relief.
Unconsciously, he sighed, and with a determined effort he brought his mind back to the present.
His companion was sitting quietly staring into the fire. Watching the pure line of her profile, he noted that though she appeared to be at ease, she wasn’t nearly as composed as she looked.
He was still studying her surreptitiously when their food arrived, and he suggested, ‘Tuck in.’
It
