we are.’ Quinn’s voice, holding a quiet satisfaction, broke into her thoughts.
Peering through the dense, smothering curtain of fog, Elizabeth could just make out that they were turning into Hawks Lane.
Unwilling to let Quinn know exactly where she lived, she had intended to get out of the car on the main road, and walk the hundred yards or so home. But now it was too late.
‘What number is it?’ he enquired casually.
‘Fifteen,’ she answered reluctantly. ‘It’s just past the second lamp.’
As the big car slipped down the mews like a grey ghost through the grey fog, she fumbled in her bag for her key.
When they drew up outside Cantle Cottage, she said hurriedly, ‘Thank you very much for bringing me home… You needn’t get out. If you drive straight on there’s a turning space in about fifty yards.’
Ignoring her words, he switched off the engine and slid from behind the wheel. A moment later he was holding open her door.
In her haste to escape she stumbled and dropped the key, and heard it tinkle on the cobbles.
A hand beneath her elbow, Quinn steadied her and stooped to retrieve it.
She wondered how on earth he’d see to find it. But a moment later he was opening the door and ushering her inside.
As she switched on the wall lights and, half blocking the doorway, opened her mouth to thank him again, he calmly walked past her.
Before she knew what was happening he had closed the door against the swirling fog and was helping her off with her coat.
Having hung it in the alcove, he turned and, seeing the panic in her grey eyes, asked innocently, ‘Something wrong?’
Enunciating carefully, she said, ‘I’m grateful to you for bringing me home, Mr Durville, but I wasn’t planing to invite you in… As I said earlier, it’s been a tiring evening and I’m in need of some sleep.’
She was moving to re-open the door when his fingers closed around her wrist, his grip light but somehow relentless.
As she froze, he suggested silkily, ‘Before you throw me out, I think the least you can do is offer me some coffee.’
That mocking ‘before you throw me out’ echoing in her ears, and knowing only too well there was no way she could make him leave until he was good and ready, she agreed stiffly, ‘Very well.’
When he released her wrist, Elizabeth made herself walk in a controlled manner towards the kitchen. But somehow it still felt like a rushed escape.
Deciding instant would be quicker, she part filled the kettle and, her hands unsteady, spooned dark roast granules into a cup.
He’d always liked his coffee black and fairly strong, with just one spoonful of sugar. As soon as it was ready, she picked it up and hurried back to the living room.
The chintz curtains had been drawn across the casement windows, the standard lamp was lit, and the living-flame gas fire, which stood in the inglenook fireplace, had been turned on.
Quinn had discarded his evening jacket and loosened his bow-tie, and looked alarmingly settled and at home in shirt-sleeves, sitting on the settee in front of the leaping flames.
‘Thank you.’ He accepted the cup, and queried, ‘Aren’t you having one?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not thirsty.’
Giving her an upward glance from between thick dark lashes, he used his free hand to pat the settee beside him. ‘Then come and sit by me.’
She had been intending to sit well away from him, but after a moment’s hesitation, deciding it would be quicker and easier to take the line of least resistance, she obeyed, leaving as much space as possible between them.
If only he’d drink his coffee and go!
As though she’d faxed him the thought, he took a sip, and remarked, ‘You must have extrasensory perception.’
When she looked at him blankly, he explained, ‘You appear to know exactly how I like my coffee.’
Thrown into confusion, she lied, ‘I must have been thinking of Richard. That’s how he takes his… So it’s just as well your tastes coincide.’
‘It surprises me that a man who likes his coffee black would automatically put cream into other people’s.’
Too late she recalled the creamy coffee that Richard had provided. ‘He knows I take cream,’ she said, and prayed that Quinn would let the matter drop.
Her prayer was answered.
With a slight shrug, he set his cup down on the oval coffee table, and looking around the low-ceilinged room with its white plaster walls, black beams and polished oak floorboards, commented, ‘This is a real gem of a place. How long have you been living here?’
‘About nine months.’
‘You struck lucky. It isn’t often something like this comes up for rent.’
‘It isn’t rented.’
‘Ah!’ Softly he observed, ‘If one’s romantically inclined, it must make an ideal love-nest.’
‘If you’re implying that Richard comes here—’ Realising that she was playing into his hands, she broke off abruptly.
‘Doesn’t he?’
‘Certainly not! Except to pick me up occasionally.’
Raising a dark brow, Quinn pursued, ‘But he did set you up here?’
‘He did no such thing!’
Quinn made no attempt to hide his scepticism. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anyone on a secretary’s salary, even if it’s an exceptionally good one, to be able to buy a place like this.’
‘I didn’t buy it. Emily Henderson, the writer I’d worked for for several years, asked me to take care of it…’
After living in a cramped and dingy bedsit above a seedy video shop, having the opportunity to move into Cantle Cottage had seemed like a miracle.
‘She’s gone to Australia for a year to stay with her son and his family,’ Elizabeth added flatly, and wondered why she was taking the trouble to explain.
But she knew only too well why. It was a hangover from the past, when Quinn had so badly misjudged her. Well, the past was long gone, she reminded herself briskly, and she no longer had to justify anything.
Frowning, as though he could read her thoughts, he harked back, ‘So where do you and Beaumont meet when you have your…shall we say…trysts? Obviously not his apartment… And I can’t see the family home being at all suitable.’
Losing her temper, she snapped, ‘And I can’t see what makes where we meet any of your business.’
