pans suspended above it, and a big farmhouse table with a bowl of fruit at its centre.
Also, she realised in shock, a used mug and plate, together with assorted crockery, and, pushed to one side, an upturned loaf on a chopping board, a butter dish and a pot of honey, as if someone had eaten a hasty breakfast and left without clearing away the traces.
Yet the house was supposed to be empty. Surely not squatters, she thought, dismayed, and then yelped in fright as a hand descended on her shoulder.
‘Having a good look round?’ enquired an all too familiar drawl.
Zanna swallowed hard before turning. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I told you I’d find you.’ He gave her that hooded look. ‘Although you do turn up in some surprising places. Are you just a snoop, or do you housebreak on the side?’
Zanna was furious to find she was blushing to the roots of her hair.
‘Please don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, dragging the remnants of her dignity around her. ‘The house seemed—empty. I thought it might be for sale.’
‘And you plan to make an offer they can’t refuse?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re going to be unlucky. I can promise you it’s not on the market.’
‘I’d prefer to discuss this with the owner.’ Zanna lifted her chin.
‘Who’s in America.’
‘Well, someone’s living there.’
He slanted a glance towards the window and the betraying clutter inside. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s a resident caretaker.’
‘Good. Then he’ll be able to give me Mr Gordon’s address.’ She put a snap of emphasis on the name.
‘You have been busy.’ The dark eyes looked her thoughtfully up and down. ‘But you’ve got a fair wait ahead of you. He has a day job.’
‘Oh.’ Zanna bit her lip.
He was still watching her. ‘However, if you really want to meet him, he’ll be at the dance tonight.’
‘The dance?’ she repeated with amused incredulity. ‘I don’t intend to hang around that long.’
‘You may have to,’ he said laconically. ‘You seem to have picked up some dirt in your petrol. I need to strip down the carburettor.’
‘Hell’s bells,’ Zanna muttered. ‘How long is that going to take?’
There was a pause, then, ‘It’ll be ready in the morning.’
‘Oh.’ Zanna made no attempt to hide her dismay. She wanted to abandon this ridiculous trip down Memory Lane and get back to civilisation. ‘You couldn’t possibly finish it tonight?’ she urged.
‘I’m sorry.’ His tone held no regret at all that she could hear. ‘You see, I’m going to the dance.’
‘But of course.’ She glared at him. ‘Please, don’t allow my convenience to stand in the way of your social engagements.’
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t.’ He actually had the nerve to grin at her. ‘I suggest you book a room at the Black Bull. Tell Trudy that I sent you.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice froze. ‘I’m sure I can manage without your assistance.’
‘Fine.’ He turned to leave. ‘Just don’t offer to buy the place,’ he tossed back at her over his shoulder. ‘It’s been in the family for generations.’
Zanna, standing rigidly, waiting for the click of the gate to confirm his departure, realised with shock that her hands had clenched tautly into fists.
What the hell was the matter with her? She could handle a boardroom full of angry men, so how was it this—this peasant could get under her skin so easily?
Because I allowed it, she admitted with angry bewilderment. It’s almost as if I’ve been bewitched since I got here. First the car—now me.
She snorted with self-derision and began to walk slowly back to the front of the house.
She had come to Emplesham to see her mother’s old home, and all she’d achieved was an odd feeling of dissatisfaction, bordering almost on desolation.
Yet what had she really expected? To step back in some time-warp and find Susan Westcott waiting for her? Surely she wasn’t such a fool.
Maybe the lesson she’d come here to learn was that she’d gain nothing by raking over the past. Perhaps that was why her father had stripped himself of all reminders of his brief marriage.
Just as soon as the car’s fixed I’m out of here, she promised herself grimly. And without a backward glance either.
Trudy Sharman was a large, smiling woman, with greying blonde hair pinned into an untidy knot on top of her head.
‘A room for the night’s no problem. The tourist season hasn’t started properly yet.’ She nibbled the end of her pen. ‘But I can only offer you a restricted menu for dinner. You see...’
‘Everyone’s going to the dance,’ Zanna supplied resignedly.
Mrs Sharman laughed. ‘Well, yes. My husband’s doing the bar and I’m catering. We won’t be getting much trade here, so we’ve given most of the staff the night off.’ She sent Zanna a faintly anxious glance. ‘I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Zanna made herself smile reassuringly. ‘I’ll have some sandwiches in my room and an early night.’
‘Oh, we can do better than that.’ Mrs Sharman looked scandalised. ‘I said “restricted” not “non-existent”. There’s beef and mushroom casserole, lamb cutlets, or I can recommend the fish pie. And you’ll be coming to the dance, surely?’
Zanna shook her head. ‘I—I don’t dance. And, anyway, I’m hardly dressed for a social occasion. But the fish pie would be lovely,’ she added brightly.
‘Shall we say seven o’clock, then?’ Mrs Sharman selected a key from the row of hooks behind her desk. ‘Just in case you change your mind about the dance,’ she added vaguely.
Zanna bit back a sharp retort and followed her upstairs in silence. She had to admit, however, that her room was charming, with the blue and white sprigged pattern on the wallpaper repeated in the curtains and frilled bedcover. The bathroom was only tiny, but well equipped. A small wicker basket on a table beside the bath offered a tempting range of soaps, scented bath oils and shampoos, and there was a courtesy robe in dark blue towelling hanging behind the door.
Zanna found it all totally irresistible. As soon as she was alone she filled the deep tub with steaming water, added jasmine oil, pulled off her clothes and sank gratefully into the luxurious perfumed depths, feeling the tensions ease out of her.
When
