the mechanic told him cheerfully as he sprayed the stubborn wheel-nuts and waited for the lubricant to take effect. ‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself a nasty chill there.’
It was another half an hour before the wheel was finally changed, the wheel-nuts proving recalcitrantly stubborn but eventually coming free.
Thanking the mechanic, Brad climbed back in the car and restarted the engine.
Claire glanced uncertainly at the kitchen clock. Where was Brad? She had assumed, obviously erroneously, that he was going to be back in time for dinner but it was after nine now and she had long since disposed of the meal she had prepared for him.
When Brad hadn’t returned when she had expected she had been tempted to phone the office, but she had reminded herself fiercely that he was simply her lodger and that was the only relationship between them—the only relationship she wanted there to be between them.
It hadn’t been easy to ignore the mocking laughter of the inner voice that had taunted her, Liar, but somehow she had made herself do so. If she’d wanted or needed any confirmation that what had happened between them this afternoon was something that Brad very definitely did not want to take any further, she had surely had it in the very fact that he had delayed his return for so long.
Don’t run away, he had told her, but perhaps, like her, he too had been caught up in the intensity of the moment, suspending normal, rational judgement and reality.
Hannah had been round earlier to leave her a book that she had promised to lend her on traditional Edwardian rose gardens; she would make herself a hot drink and go and sit down in the sitting room and look at it, Claire promised herself. She had just settled down when she saw the headlights of Brad’s car. Uncertainly she bit her lip, not sure whether to stay where she was or go and greet him.
As his landlady, she ought perhaps at least to check to see if he wanted anything to eat. She was not really sure what the mode of behaviour should be between landlady and lodger—where one drew the line between a presence that was welcoming and one that was intrusive.
It was time to feed Felicity, she reminded herself, and if she didn’t appear Brad might think… might assume…
What? she asked herself grimly. That she was afraid… embarrassed… self-conscious? Well, he would be right on all those counts. She did feel all those things and more—much more, she acknowledged, her body suddenly growing hot as she had an unnervingly vivid memory of the way his mouth had felt on hers—his body, his…
Swallowing hard, she reminded herself that, no matter what she felt, she did have a responsibility as his landlady to make at least an attempt to behave in a businesslike manner towards him.
Irene would certainly have something to say to her if she learned that Claire had left him supperless. As she got up and walked towards the door Claire heard Brad walk into the hall and sneeze—once and then again.
Frowning now, she opened the door, her eyes widening in shock as she saw his coatless, damply dishevelled state.
‘Brad, what on earth…?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘There was a problem with the car and I had to wait for them to get a breakdown truck out to me. I should have let you know, but I had no idea how long they were going to be.’
A problem. Her heart thumped anxiously against her chest wall. ‘Not an accident?’ she protested. ‘You—’
‘No, not an accident,’ he assured her. ‘I had a flat tyre, that’s all, but unfortunately—’ he paused for another volley of sneezes, visibly shivering as Claire looked on in appalled consternation—’I tried to change it myself and got soaked,’ he told her ruefully, his teeth suddenly chattering.
‘You’re soaked,’ Claire told him. ‘And frozen. You’d better go upstairs and have a hot shower. I’ll make you a drink and something to eat.’
Had she got any cold or flu remedy in the house? Claire wondered, listening anxiously as she heard Brad pause halfway up the stairs for another fit of obviously feverish sneezing.
He was going to be lucky if all he got away with was a bad chill, she recognised as she hurried into the kitchen to fill the kettle and look through the drawers to try to unearth the old hot-water bottle she always kept handy for cold sufferers. In these centrally heated days it probably wasn’t necessary but somehow it made one feel better, Claire acknowledged. Sally certainly insisted on having it whenever she went down with a cold.
A brief check on the high shelf where she kept her medicines revealed the patent aspirin-based remedy which Sally always swore worked for her. Expelling a small sigh of relief, Claire picked it up. She had no doubt whom Irene would blame if Brad did become ill.
He was used to a much better regulated climate than theirs, she reminded herself as she added some brandy to the mug of coffee that she had made him. He would, perhaps, be better off going straight to bed and keeping warm there rather than coming down for something to eat. She could easily take him a tray of food upstairs.
His bedroom door was ajar when she went up with the coffee but, recalling what had happened the last time she had walked into his room, she paused, knocking and calling out uncertainly.
‘Brad…?’
His husky ‘Come in’ confirmed her earlier suspicions about the state of his health.
‘I’ve brought you some coffee,’ she told him, and added, ‘And I’ve put some brandy in it, so…’
‘Wonderful,’ Brad praised her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing the towelling robe she had seen him in before. As he reached out to take the coffee from her Claire saw to her concern that his face already looked hectically and feverishly flushed.
‘I think you might be running a temperature,’ she warned him gently.
‘I think you’re probably right,’ Brad agreed. He was beginning to feel decidedly unwell. As a boy he had been very susceptible to frighteningly severe chest infections brought on by any kind of exposure to a cold or flu virus, but fortunately over the years he seemed to have developed a better immunity to them. Until now, he acknowledged, already recognising the signs of a return of his childhood symptoms.
‘You ought to have something to eat,’ Claire told him, ‘but I don’t think you should come back downstairs; you look—’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Brad interrupted her stoically. ‘A good night’s sleep and a couple more of these…’ he told her, pointing to the brandy-laced coffee she had brought him.
‘I could make you an omelette,’ Claire offered, but he was shaking his head.
‘I don’t think I could,’ he told her ruefully. ‘My throat…’ He touched the tender area, wincing as he felt the tell-tale swelling of his glands.
‘I’ve got some aspirin,’ Claire said, but Brad shook his head again. ‘I’m allergic to it,’ he told her wryly. ‘Look, I promise you, I’ll be fine.’
The concern he could see in her eyes made him realise how tempting it would be to exaggerate his symptoms. If he hadn’t been feeling so damn ill and weak there would have been a lot he could have done with that warm, womanly anxious look.
As
