be fine once she’d had a good night’s sleep.
The en suite bathroom was richly furnished, matching the bedroom, its warm colours comforting and restful. Jessie changed her mind about the shower and turned on the taps to fill the huge old-fashioned claw-footed tub.
She hadn’t had time to unpack, but the bathroom was well stocked and she helped herself to a dollop of a deliciously woody-scented bath gel. Then, leaving the door wide open so that she could hear Bertie if he cried, she fastened her hair up in a band and slipped beneath the foam.
‘You’re sure you don’t need help?’ The DCC was deeply embarrassed that his officers had arrested Patrick Dalton for housebreaking. The man was not only a well-known barrister but one of the youngest ever to have been appointed Queen’s Counsel. It had been an honest mistake, but Mr Dalton wasn’t known to be forgiving of mistakes made by the police.
‘I think I can handle it. But thanks for the offer. And as for last night, well, if you don’t tell anyone, I promise I won’t.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Mr Dalton.’
‘I know.’
Disconcerted by such bluntness, he said, ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come in and explain the situation to Miss Hayes?’
‘I think I can handle it. And I’ve always got yesterday’s newspaper if she needs convincing.’ The headline gave him no pleasure, but the photograph had convinced the local plod that he wasn’t a villain. It would certainly come in useful if he needed to convince Miss Jessie Hayes of that fact.
Patrick tucked the newspaper under his arm and took his bag from the young constable. His head was throbbing but he walked briskly up the steps to his front door. He didn’t ring the bell. He knew that would be the sensible thing to do, but if the lady put the chain on the door and refused to let him across the threshold he would be in an awkward situation.
Somehow he didn’t think he’d ever live it down in the Inns of Court if he had to resort to the law to remove an unwanted tenant. Which was why he wasn’t going to risk it. Instead he waited until the police car had pulled away from the kerb and then let himself in.
The alarm was set this time. He set down his bag, tossed yesterday’s evening paper on the hall table and punched in the code. There was no instant cry of outrage.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ he called.
No reply. He made his way, cautiously, down to the kitchen, which had been restored to some semblance of normality.
He took in the painfully familiar sight of soaking baby bottles and for a moment, just a moment, was transported back ten years. Then the cat stropped against his legs. Scrub normality, he thought as he grimly made his way back up through the house. But there was no sign of his tenant. Apart from a milky footprint in the hall.
Maybe she was out. Taking the baby for a walk.
He realised he’d been holding his breath for far too long and he made a conscious effort to relax as he picked up his bag and climbed the stairs, determined on a shower and eight hours’ sleep.
He was brought up sharply by the sight of the small cot standing beside the bed. Then he turned away, promising himself he’d have it folded and standing by the front door before she got back. Have a cheque and a van waiting. Maybe she’d be reasonable.
He thought about the determined way she’d been holding the cricket bat, even though she’d clearly been scared witless, and decided it was unlikely. But it was worth a try.
He kicked off his shoes, tugged his shirt over his head as he stepped through the bathroom door, tossing it with practised aim into the laundry basket. Then he turned and came to an abrupt halt.
Jessica Hayes was lying back in the bath, damp chestnut curls clinging softly around her forehead and cheeks, islands of soft foam offering nothing but the minimum of decency to cover the enticing curves of her naked body.
Last night he’d been confronted by a harridan with a cricket bat. Minus the owl-like spectacles and the frown, she looked quite different. And totally vulnerable. It was a sight to soften the hardest of hearts.
His was well known to be made of tempered steel; he found it easier if people believed that. But, even so, if a man was going to come home and find a woman in his bathtub, he acknowledged, he’d have to go a long way before he found anyone who filled it quite so fetchingly.
However, he could quite understand that, viewed from her perspective, the situation wouldn’t seem quite as pleasurable.
On the contrary, he was certain that the only reason she wasn’t screaming her head off right this minute was because she was fast asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
PATRICK took a step back. Morally, he was perfectly within his rights to be in his own bathroom. He hadn’t let his house. Jessie Hayes was the one who had no right to be there. She might have signed a lease, but he couldn’t believe she’d really thought his house belonged to an eighteen-year-old girl whose idea of elegance was purple hair and a stud through her nose. All she had to do was look around her. The evidence, to anyone with half a brain, was obvious.
Unfortunately, the tabloid press wouldn’t bother about that. The slightest hint of this situation and people would be dredging up the past and conversations would grind to a halt when he walked into a room—not, this time, because people didn’t know what to say, but because they were saying too much.
That crack on the head must have been a lot harder than he’d realised, or he’d never have got himself into such a predicament. Finding a naked woman in his bath, though, had a way of concentrating his mind on the basics, and now he had just one objective in view: to get himself out of the house without her ever knowing he’d been in it.
Except his shirt was in the laundry bin. He had others, but if she saw it—and she would see it the minute she dropped her towel in there—she’d know…
He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, not for a second, certain that even a blink would wake her. But she hadn’t stirred. She was dozing peacefully, her eyes closed—dark, sea-coloured eyes, he remembered, not quite green, not quite blue, like the Mediterranean in a good mood. Then he wondered how he’d noticed such a thing in the mayhem of last night. Through the owl-like spectacles.
Maybe while she was lying on top of him, his subconscious volunteered, helpfully. He backed away from the thought, yet with the image before him he could instantly recall the warmth of her body against his, the feel of her hair as it brushed against his cheek. It tingled now, as he remembered, and he raised his hand as if to brush away an unwelcome sensation; then snatched his fingers back before they could.
Her lips were slightly parted, soft and pink and innocent of lipstick, and her arm was draped over the edge of the bath, totally relaxed by the warmth.
The tempered-steel jacket about his heart buckled slightly.
Then, as the drifting islands of foam moved, he saw the tiny tattoo of a ladybird on her thigh. And his body stirred, responding without hesitation to an overload of stimulation. The shock of it fixed him to the spot, his mind spinning with thoughts of a warm mouth beneath his, a warm body ready for love, and he gasped out loud as he realised that it wasn’t a memory but this woman he was responding to.
She
