station—escape—and this, of course, was what it had led to. Something else she could lay firmly at Darius Maynard’s damned door, she thought, fuming.
She could use her mobile, she supposed. Send out an SOS to Uncle Hal or Ian to come to her rescue, but that, apart from leaving her looking like an idiot twice in one day, wasn’t exactly the upbeat, triumphant return to Willowford that she had planned.
Better, she thought, grimacing, to start hiking, and as she reached for the door handle, she saw in her mirror the jeep come round the corner, drive past her, then pull in a few yards ahead.
She felt a silent scream rise in her throat, as Darius Maynard got out and walked back to her.
No, no, no! she wailed inwardly. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible.
‘Having problems?’
‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘Just—collecting my thoughts.’
‘Pity you didn’t collect some petrol while you were about it,’ he commented caustically. ‘I presume that was your purpose in the filling station, rather than renewing our acquaintance in that unique manner. And that’s why you’re stuck here?’
‘Whatever,’ Chloe returned curtly, loathing him. ‘But I can cope.’
‘Presumably by drilling for oil in the adjoining field. However, God forbid I should leave a damsel in distress.’
‘Especially when you cause most of it.’ She made her voice poisonously sweet, and he winced elaborately.
‘Giving a dog a bad name, Miss Benson? Inappropriate behaviour, I’d have thought, for someone with her eye on a vet.’
She bit her lip. ‘It happens that Ian Cartwright and I are engaged.’
‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Does he know that?’
‘What the hell do you mean?’ Chloe demanded furiously. ‘We’re engaged and we’ll be married by the end of the summer.’
‘You know best,’ he said softly. ‘But I do hope you’re not mistaking a girlhood crush for the real thing, Miss Benson. You’re no longer a susceptible teenager, you know.’
She said in a small choked voice, ‘How dare you? How bloody dare you? Just get out of here and leave me in peace.’
‘Not without lending a kindly hand to a neighbour,’ Damian retorted, apparently unperturbed. ‘The jeep is diesel as I’m sure you remember, but I do have a petrol can in the back, and a brisk walk back to the filling station in the sunshine should do wonders for your temper.’
He paused. ‘So, do you want it, or would you prefer to wait for the next chivalrous passer-by, yes or no?’
She would have actually preferred to see him wearing his rotten can, jammed down hard, but she bit her lip and nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Boy, that must have hurt.’ His grin mocked her, before he turned and strode back to the jeep, lean-hipped and lithe.
He hadn’t changed, she thought with sudden bewilderment, watching him go. The past seven years didn’t seem to have touched him at all. Yet how was that possible?
No conscience, she thought bitterly. No regret for the havoc he’d caused. The ruined lives he’d left behind him.
She picked up her jacket from the passenger seat, and let herself out of the car. As she unfastened the boot, Darius came back with the can. He glanced down at the array of luggage and whistled.
‘My God, Willowford’s own Homecoming Queen. You really do mean to stay, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She placed her jacket carefully across the top-most case, smoothing its folds as she did so. Hiding, she realised with annoyance, the fact that her hands were shaking. ‘I have every reason to do so.’
‘But I don’t.’ His mouth was smiling but his eyes were hard as glass. ‘Is that the hidden message you’re trying to convey?’
‘As you said, it’s none of my concern.’ She held out her hand for the can. ‘I’ll make sure this is returned to you.’
‘By courier, no doubt.’ He shrugged. ‘Forget it. I have others. And now, I fear, I must tear myself away.’ He walked towards the jeep, then turned.
‘I wish you a joyful reunion with your family and friends, Miss Benson,’ he said softly. ‘But as for that peace you mentioned—I wouldn’t count on it, because you’re not the peaceful kind. Not in your heart. You just haven’t realised it yet.’
He swung himself into the jeep and drove off, leaving her staring after him, her heart pounding uncomfortably.
‘You’ve lost weight,’ said Aunt Libby.
‘That is so not true.’ Chloe hugged her again. ‘I’m the same to the ounce as I was a year ago. I swear it.’
She looked round the big comfortable kitchen with its Aga, big pine table and tall Welsh dresser holding her aunt’s prized collection of blue-and-white china and sighed rapturously. ‘Gosh, it’s wonderful to be home.’
‘No-one forced you to go away,’ said Aunt Libby, lifting the kettle from the Aga and filling the teapot. Her tone was teasing, but her swift glance was serious.
Chloe shrugged. ‘They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. You know that. Besides it’s been an education, seeing how the other half live.’
‘The village will seem very dull after Millionaires Row.’
‘On the contrary, I know for sure where I belong.’ Chloe paused. ‘Has Ian called? I took your advice and rang him to say I was arriving.’
‘I think he was out at Farsleigh today. It’s a bad reception area.’ Her aunt passed her a plate of raisin bread.
‘Heaven,’ said Chloe, as she took a slice, smiling to conceal her disappointment over Ian. ‘Is this the Jackson equivalent of the fatted calf—to welcome home the prodigal?’ And paused again, taking a deep breath. ‘So, how is everything and—everyone?’ She tried to sound casual. ‘Any major changes anywhere?’
‘Nothing much.’ Mrs Jackson poured the tea. ‘I gather Sir Gregory is making progress at last, poor man.’ She sighed. ‘What a tragedy that was. I’m not a superstitious woman, but it’s almost as if there’s been some dreadful curse on the Maynard family.’
Chloe stared at her, the flippant retort that there was and that she’d seen it alive and well an hour ago dying on her lips.
‘What do you mean?’
Mrs Jackson looked surprised. ‘Well, I was thinking of Andrew, of course, being killed in that dreadful accident.’
Chloe’s cup clattered back into its saucer. ‘Andrew Maynard—dead?’ She stared at her aunt. ‘Never!’
‘Why, yes, dear. Surely you saw it in the papers? And I told you about it in one of my letters.’
Had
