was very wealthy,’ he drawled.
‘Really? Are you sure?’ she said in surprise. ‘She lived very simply.’
‘But she also owned this house and island,’ he pointed out.
‘Plenty of people live in big houses they’ve inherited—yet they’re as poor as church mice. Places like this cost a great deal to keep maintained. If you see someone like Edith making economies, turning worn sheets sides to middle and rarely buying any clothes, you assume they’re hard up,’ Catherine retorted.
His sardonic eyes narrowed. ‘Did she ever help you out financially?’
‘Certainly not!’ Catherine looked at him askance. ‘She wouldn’t ever have been so crass! I stand on my own feet. I’d never respect myself otherwise!’
‘But you were a frequent visitor and made yourself at home,’ he probed.
‘Yes. As a friend. When I called, I’d let myself in. Edith would be sitting there,’ she explained, indicating the comfortable pine armchair on the opposite side of the big table. ‘And I’d sit here.’
Her eyes were misty with memories when they looked up into his and met a blaze of answering fire.
There was a hushed pause while the air seemed to thicken and enfold them both. Catherine floundered. Some kind of powerful force was trying to draw her to him. She could hear the thudding of her heart booming in her ears.
Panicking, she lifted a fluttering hand to fiddle with her hair. The caress of his eyes, as she curled a strand around her ear, made her stomach turn to water.
At last he spoke, quietly and yet with a grating tone, as if something was blocking his throat.
‘If you knew her well, then you might be able to help me.’
‘Help you?’ she repeated stupidly, playing for time while her brain unscrambled itself and began to rule her body again.
Almost vaguely, he glared at his trilling phone, immobilised it and clipped it on to his belt. Then he took a deep breath.
‘Yes. But first I need a coffee,’ he announced, brisk and curt once more. ‘So, for a start, any idea where the kettle might be?’
‘On the Aga.’ Relieved to be involved in something practical, she pointed to the scarlet enamelled stove, one of Edith’s few extravagances. ‘I didn’t turn it off. I thought it would be best if it was cosy and welcoming in here, for whoever came to view the house.’
He looked at the kettle uncertainly, as if he didn’t know what to do with a piece of equipment that didn’t hitch up to an electric socket. She took pity on him, deftly filling the kettle with water and carrying it to the hob.
Her skin prickled. He had come very close and was watching what she did. Slightly flustered by the invading infusion of heat in her body, she lifted the hob lid, put the kettle on the boiling plate then hurried over to the dresser.
As she lifted down the mugs her hand faltered and she stared blindly into space, thinking of the countless times she and Edith had chatted together at this very table.
‘I’ve had groceries delivered,’ Zach announced crisply, rummaging in the cupboards. ‘It’s a matter of finding them. Coffee do you as well?’ He waved an expensive pack of ground coffee at her, only then noticing her mournful face. ‘What’s the matter?’
Catherine bit her lip and unearthed Edith’s cafetière, selecting an herb tea for herself.
‘I miss her,’ she said softly, her eyes misting over again. It was odd. She rarely cried. But her emotions had been tested to the limit over the past ten days. And especially during the past hour. ‘I miss her more than I could ever have imagined,’ she blurted out.
‘Hmm. You were very close, then?’
The low vibration of his voice seemed to rumble through her body. She shuddered, thinking that if this man ever turned his attention to a woman and opened up his emotions, she wouldn’t have a chance.
‘We were like mother and daughter. I was devastated to—to find her,’ she whispered, making a hash of spooning the aromatic coffee into the pot.
The spoon was taken from her hand. For a moment their fingers were linked: warm, strangely comforting. Horrible flashes of fire attacked her loins and she snatched her hand away in appalled fury, turning her back on him and feeling stupidly like bursting into tears of utter shame.
‘Mother and daughter,’ Zach repeated in a voice rolling with gravel. She heard him suck in a huge breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s obvious that her death has touched you deeply.’
She hunched her slight shoulders and could only nod. She didn’t want to break down in front of this hard-hearted stranger. But losing her beloved Edith, with all her merry, wacky ways, plus the prospect of never seeing the island again, just made her want to wail.
‘I—I came to check on her every day. We’d have breakfast together,’ Catherine mumbled painfully. She was torturing herself and she didn’t know why she was confiding in someone she disliked so much, only that she had to do so. ‘She made wonderful bread. We’d lather it with butter and home-made jam or marmalade and watch the birds demolishing our fat balls.’
Zach looked puzzled. ‘Your what?’
‘Fat. Impregnated with nuts and seeds,’ she said listlessly. ‘We melt the fat, stir in the nuts and so on and pour the mixture into pots till it sets. We—I—’ she stumbled, ‘—only provide seed now.’
‘Really?’
Feeling forlorn, Catherine gazed at the trees outside the window, adorned with bird feeders. Two long-tailed tits were currently availing themselves of the facility.
‘Yes. You need to vary the food, depending on the time of year and whether the birds are nesting,’ she advised absently.
‘And you’ve been coming over here and doing this ever since Edith died,’ he remarked with disapproval.
Dumbly, she nodded. ‘Someone had to,’ she mumbled, sensing that the birds would have to fend for themselves through the winter in future.
‘You won’t, of course, be doing that again,’ said Zach sternly, confirming her worst fears. ‘I value my privacy and I don’t want people wandering about my land, particularly when I’m not here.’
She looked up, her eyes wide and watchful.
‘Won’t you be living here all the time, then?’
He grimaced as if he’d rather find a convenient cave in the Himalayas.
‘No.’
‘You don’t like it, do you?’
‘Not much.’
Presumably the wife had bought the house without his knowledge. What an odd thing to do. Unless his wife was the one with the money.
‘Poor Edith,’
