style="font-size:15px;"> Another step. ‘My hands were up.’
‘You startled me.’
He was eyelevel now, their bodies separated by the painting. ‘You stabbed me.’
After a long-drawn-out pause, where they both stared into each other’s eyes, she turned and hurried up the remaining two flights. ‘Stay by the doorway. I don’t want you bleeding over my carpet.’
Her perfume hung in the air, playing havoc with his ability to think rationally. He had to shake himself out of his trance. Who was playing whom here?
The door at the top of the stairwell opened into a residential dwelling. The space was open-plan and painted soft white with a few period pieces of furniture, including a jukebox. Mark Rothko artwork hung on the walls, providing a splash of colour. It was a mixture of modern and retro, like the owner. A stretch of worktop was decorated with elaborate cupcake stands and boxes of Tupperware.
What he wouldn’t do for a sugary snack. He hadn’t eaten all day.
The woman came back to the stairwell and shoved a handful of kitchen towels at him. ‘Hold that against the wound and sit where I can keep an eye on you.’ She pointed to a barstool and then fetched a first-aid kit, stretching up to reach it from the cupboard above.
His eyes were drawn to her shapely legs and he was hit by another wave of dizziness. Christ, how much blood had he lost?
When she turned back, she caught him staring. ‘Don’t get any funny ideas.’
Before he could reassure her that he wasn’t interested in anything other than getting his painting back, their eyes met and something hit him hard in the solar plexus. He immediately squashed the feeling. He was here to save his family. Not flirt with a cute woman.
Seemingly flustered, she busied herself making tea, using a proper teapot. She carried the bone china cup over to him and placed it on the worktop.
He raised an eyebrow at the cherry blossom design that matched her blouse but refrained from comment.
She opened the lid on her first-aid box. ‘Roll your sleeve up.’
He flinched when he saw a bottle of witch hazel. ‘Will this hurt?’
She tore open an antiseptic swipe. ‘For a burglar you’re not very brave, are you?’
‘I told you, I’m not a burglar.’
‘Oh, that’s right, you’re …?’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Remind me again?’
‘Oliver Wentworth. Louisa Musgrove’s brother.’
She laughed. ‘Of course you are.’
He might have enjoyed hearing her laugh if she wasn’t laughing at him. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Let’s just say, I have my doubts.’
‘Then phone Louisa and ask her.’
‘Oh, I intend to. But for now, stop complaining and let me look at your arm.’
He did as asked, making a mental note to phone Louisa and prewarn her. The wound was smeared with blood, but not as ragged as he’d feared. Her face was so close he could see a few freckles on her nose. She smelt nice. Floral.
‘It might need stitches,’ she said, frowning. ‘I’ll patch you up temporarily, but you’ll need to visit A & E.’
He took a sip of tea. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t read anything into it. I’d do the same for anyone.’
She cleaned the wound and covered it with a dressing. Throughout, he sat perfectly still, his eyes switching between her and the Tupperware on the side. He wasn’t sure which was more enticing.
Eventually, she reached over and handed him the container. ‘Honestly, men and their stomachs.’
He helped himself. ‘These are delicious,’ he said, trying to charm her with a smile.
‘Cake is all that’s on offer.’ She rolled down his sleeve and turned away. ‘Time for you to leave.’
‘You’re right.’ He got off the stool. ‘I have another three break-ins scheduled for tonight.’
She swung around so sharply she knocked the first-aid kit off the counter.
He bent down to retrieve the box. ‘It was a joke.’
She glared at him. ‘Funny guy.’
He placed the first-aid kit on the side. ‘I really am sorry for frightening you. Despite appearances, I’m a very trustworthy person.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Pillar of the community, I’m sure.’ She walked over to the stairwell and held the door open. ‘Just out of interest, what painting was sent here by mistake?’
He avoided eye contact. ‘Nothing special. Just a random painting of an old bloke.’
‘Right. So not valuable, then?’
‘Worthless.’
She nodded. ‘I wonder why you took the trouble to come all this way to retrieve it then. Surely it would’ve been easier simply to phone me and ask for it to be returned.’
He closed his eyes. He was an idiot.
Without another word, she headed downstairs. It didn’t take a genius to work out she’d already discovered the painting.
He followed her down.
‘Not to worry,’ she said, reaching the bottom. ‘I’m heading up to Rubha Castle in the next few days to evaluate the rest of the family’s collection. I’ll happily take the painting with me and return it to the family, if that’s what they wish.’ She held the rear door open for him.
Well, that was something.
‘Thank you,’ he said, holding out his hand in an attempt to repair the damage he’d inflicted on both his reputation and her gallery. ‘I appreciate that.’
She ignored his offer of a truce. ‘No problem.’
‘And thanks for the tea and cake.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘And not calling the pol—’
The door slammed shut in his face.
So much for trying to ‘charm her’. Far from retrieving the painting without arising any suspicion, he’d managed to cast even more doubt over the honesty of his family. And got stabbed in the process. Good one.
To top it all, he was now stranded in Windsor without a place to stay.
Sighing, he collected his rucksack from behind the bins and mulled over his options. His arm was throbbing, he looked a bloody mess and he couldn’t imagine he’d be welcomed at the prestigious Castle Hotel in the high street. And then he remembered
