what Sam would say if he found out.
He eventually found a car park just off the market square. And, because most people were heading home, he had no problem in finding a space. Then, hauling his woollen overcoat out of the back seat, he locked the car and pocketed the keys, pushing his hands deep into his coat pockets as he trudged back towards the cathedral.
A bell tolled and he realised it was already half-past five. It had taken him longer to find her house than to drive from Scotch Corner to Ripon. And he still had about a five-hour journey ahead of him, if he was planning to reach London tonight.
Fortunately, it was a dry evening, though it was cold. The wind swept along these narrow streets, and his hip and leg became stiff and taut with pain. He should have stayed with the car, he thought. Walking any distance in his present state was madness. And all to see a woman he barely knew.
He found Richmond Road without much difficulty. It was a street of semi-detached houses, and it was still light enough for him to see number 24. He glanced at the note he’d stuffed in his pocket. It said number 24b. But there was no 24b. No 24a, either. Had she given Mrs Ferguson a false address?
He frowned. Then, deciding the only thing he could do was knock at number 24 and ask for directions again, he opened the front gate and walked up the path. That was when he saw the intercom pinned to the wall beside the door. It had been too dark for him to see it before. Evidently 24b was an apartment; likewise 24a.
He cast a glance at the windows. There were lights upstairs, so someone was home. But was that apartment 24a or 24b? He wouldn’t know until he rang the bell.
‘Yes?’
The voice that answered his summons was unmistakable. Liam disliked the way it danced along his nerves and curled its way around his heart. For God’s sake, what was the matter with him? Even Kayla had never made him feel like this.
‘Rosa?’ His voice was a little hoarse suddenly. ‘It’s me, Liam Jameson. May I come up?’
Silence. Liam wondered what he’d do if she refused to speak to him. Break down the door? Walk away? He hoped he didn’t have to make that decision.
‘Push the door,’ she said at last, and with a feeling of relief he heard the sound of the buzzer that released the latch.
Inside it was dark. He could just make out a hallway, leading to the back of the house, and a flight of stairs to the first floor.
As if she thought he might have some doubts about which apartment was hers, a light suddenly shone down from the top of the stairs. Rosa was standing on the landing above, looking down at him, and with a deep intake of air he closed the door and started up.
She looked different, he thought, and then realised she’d had her hair cut. Now it swung about her shoulders, still a fiery mass of curls, but softer, more feminine. She was wearing loose-fitting black trousers and a green blouse of some silky material that tipped off one shoulder as she moved. She looked good, he thought grimly. Too good to be spending the evening watching the television. Alone.
His leg stiffened as he mounted the stairs, and for a moment he couldn’t move. Hoping she wouldn’t notice, he said tightly, ‘Sorry if I’m intruding.’
Rosa frowned, and he was almost sure she was going to comment on his momentary paralysis. But then he was able to move his leg again, and she stepped back into the lighted doorway behind her. ‘You’re not intruding. Come in.’
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