‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ Vanessa said innocently. The elderly lady, an archetypal twittering spinster, had taken a shine to the elusive new owner of Whitefield and would make a thorough nuisance of herself if she knew he was back in residence.
‘In that case I think I might take the Duesenberg out for a couple of hours,’ he said hastily. ‘You can give me the tour after lunch. If that fits in with your plans, of course.’
‘Of course, sir,’ she murmured dutifully, heaving an inward sigh of relief as she retreated into the safety of her usual, self-effacing role.
‘And don’t tell her I’m here,’ he scowled.
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘The woman is a human limpet.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
He gave her bland expression a coruscating glare. ‘Are you mocking me, Flynn?’
‘No, sir,’ she lied smoothly.
‘Good. Because I can tolerate a lot of things from my employees—insubordination included, if they’re good at what they do—but I don’t like being laughed at.’
It was definitely an order.
‘Nobody does, sir,’ Vanessa murmured judiciously. She had noticed that about him—his lack of laughter—it was what contributed to her impression of him as having a somewhat colourless personality. Although he was good-humoured to a fault, he rarely showed any spontaneity. His smile was more of a cynical twist than an expression of warmth. Little seemed to take him by surprise.
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