doing well, you say?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed, his cynicism more marked. ‘Ever since Helena disappeared, bookings have rocketed. Everyone wants to get a glimpse of the murderer.’
‘Except you aren’t.’
‘No, but people believe what they want to believe. And it’s very good for business. At the moment, to get a table, you would have to book three months in advance.’
‘And you have no idea where she might be?’
He shook his head.
Still picking idly at the rim of her mug, and without looking at him, she blurted, ‘Are you still engaged to her? I mean, were you, before she left?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Oh, no reason, I just…was trying to think of a reason why she might want to disappear. I wasn’t being nosy…Yes, I was,’ she corrected honestly, because she wanted to know about the impossibly beautiful Helena, about their relationship. Wanted to know why he had seemed so sad in November. Wanted to make it right. And how women did tend to fool themselves, she thought wryly, into thinking they were the only ones who could comfort. ‘You don’t think she’s dead?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘No concrete reason,’ he said as he got to his feet and collected their plates. ‘You will need to contact your insurance company.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were fully insured?’
She nodded.
‘But you will need a car to conduct your business, won’t you? Does the insurance cover for hire?’
‘Don’t know.’
He gave her a look of reproof. ‘Well, if it doesn’t, you can use the Land Rover,’ he offered as he scraped the plates into the bin, rinsed them off and put them into the dishwasher, and then he halted, gave a wry smile, and took them out again. ‘You get so used to the little luxuries of life,’ he murmured. ‘Like electricity.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, because she hadn’t considered it either.
‘The perishables from the fridge I’ve put in the garage where it’s colder. So, if you need milk when the current bottle’s finished, that’s where it is.’
She nodded and got up to dry the dishes he was washing. She felt almost stifled by his nearness, needed speech to cover the fact. ‘Won’t you need your car?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t go out much.’
‘Because of Helena?’
‘No, by inclination. And if I do need transport I can use Helena’s car.’ When he’d finished washing up, he walked across to the Aga. Using an oven glove, he bent to open one of the doors. Lifting the lid on something, he peered inside, stirred it, then closed the door again. She smiled. He didn’t look prissy, or silly, doing it, just like a very masculine man doing something he did rather a lot of.
‘Even when I find you somewhere else to stay, you might not be able to go home for a few days,’ he added quietly as he turned. ‘The road isn’t just blocked with one or two trees—whole stretches of the forest have come down. I don’t even think it’s a possibility that you would be able to walk into Horsham and hire a car. Or get the train. I have no idea if they’re running. In the meantime, if you need some privacy, there’s a spare room you can use.’ Putting down the oven gloves, he indicated for her to follow him and then showed her into the room next to Helena’s.
Now, this she liked, she decided. Navy blue walls and carpet, light plum-coloured paintwork that was picked up in the bedspread and curtains, and wooden furniture.
‘You can see the restaurant from here,’ he murmured as he walked across to the window.
You can also see the bed. Stop it, Carenza. She didn’t want an affair with a man who was engaged to someone else, even if he wanted it, which she didn’t think he did. She was quite sure that it was a reluctant attraction. And he was a man of strong will otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to stand in a bedroom with her and stare from the window.
Joining him, because there didn’t seem any other option, she felt the blood begin to pump in her veins as his arm brushed hers. ‘What’s your blood doing?’ she asked without thinking, and cursed her unruly tongue.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Nothing. Is that it?’ she added hastily.
‘Yes, the roof just beyond the trees.’
‘Not far to travel.’ Amazing how you could hold a conversation when your whole body was screaming. ‘I assume you go there every day?’
‘Every weekend; I only open Friday, Saturday and Sunday. And yes, I go there, because I do the cooking.’
‘A man of many parts. I didn’t know you were a chef.’ And if she didn’t get out of here right now she was going to touch him.
‘Self-taught.’ He sounded strained, and she jerked her head round to look at him. Found that he was watching her. His eyes had the grey luminescence of sunshine through cloud, she thought whimsically, and she wanted to reach out and trail her fingers along that determined jaw, touch her lips to his well-shaped mouth…
‘Don’t,’ he reproved huskily.
‘No.’ Snatching her eyes away, she stared determinedly out of the window. Forcing her voice to neutrality, she murmured, ‘I thought you were a marine archaeologist.’ There didn’t seem to be very much she could do about her pulse rate. This really was masochism.
‘I am.’
‘Lots of different hats. What else can you do?’
‘Whatever you want. No,’ he denied hurriedly. Hands curled into fists on the window sill, his voice sounded like metal strained through glass.
Fighting to maintain her own equilibrium, she leapt hastily into the breach left by his words. ‘You must be a very good cook, if it’s doing so well. People wouldn’t keep coming just to see a possible murderer if the food was lousy. You wouldn’t believe what I want.’
‘I would.’
Oh, God. Staring blindly at the roof of the building just visible through the trees, she stated determinedly, ‘Lucky the tornado didn’t cut through here.’
‘Tornado?’
‘That was what it felt like. A roaring, shrieking dervish that, if it hadn’t been for the tree anchoring me in place, might have taken me to—Oz. Beck?’
‘No.’ He responded fiercely to her unasked question and rapidly changed the subject. ‘You mentioned a dragon?’
‘What?’
‘Last night, you said…’
‘Oh.’
