she began.
‘I’m glad you approve,’ he derided sarcastically.
With a little twitch of her lips, she halted before a large tapestry that hung above an old carved chest in the space between the next two doors. ‘A bit shabby,’ she added sadly, ‘but then it is rather old, I expect.’ When there was no answer, she looked round to find herself alone. The only indication of where he had gone was the muffled click of the door at the end. Hurrying towards it, she shoved it open and went into what was clearly his study. A very state-of-the-art study. Very modern, very functional, with, as far as she could see, every technological aid that had ever been invented.
‘I gather you work from home,’ she murmured as she continued to look round her.
He didn’t answer, merely seated himself behind a massive desk. But then he would need a massive desk; he was a massive man. It was nice to meet someone taller than herself.
Abandoning her evaluation of the room, she reverted to the subject in hand. ‘So, did you really not get my letter?’
‘I don’t read unsolicited mail.’
‘Not even out of curiosity?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘No.’ Linking his hands on the paper-strewn desk, he looked her up and down in a rather rude appraisal.
She stared back with humorous defiance. She knew exactly what he saw. A stork. Too tall, too thin; her strange-coloured hair would be even wilder than usual because it was wet. Even damp, it went into tight, impossible-to-comb curls. Her eyes were too light, lashes too dark, and her nose was probably red. Fine-featured, she wasn’t pretty but, at first glance, she was rather startling. She did not look like a gardener. Her eyes still alight with amusement, she headed for the linen-covered chair in the corner.
‘I do hope you aren’t intending to sit down in that muddy coat,’ he stated without inflexion.
‘And who made it muddy?’ she asked lightly as she removed it, looked around for somewhere to put it and, finding nowhere, folded it inside out and put it on the floor. As she sat down she curled her feet beneath her and stared at him once more. ‘Are you always this bad tempered?’ she asked curiously.
‘Yes, and only beautiful women can get away with being outrageous.’
‘Rubbish,’ she said dismissively. ‘Anyone can get away with being outrageous. People are so astonished at your crass cheek that they let you get away with it. And if you think this is outrageous, you should see me when—’
‘No, thank you,’ he interrupted. Holding out his hand, he waited.
She stared at his hand, then back to his face.
‘You have a copy of this letter?’
‘Well, of course I don’t have a copy!’ she denied in exasperation. ‘Why would I? It doesn’t work like that. I write, you respond…’
‘But, I didn’t.’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘There aren’t any buts. Why did you come?’ he asked bluntly.
Because I was desperate. But she couldn’t say that, could she? No. ‘I was in the area,’ she lied glibly. Still staring at him, examining his harsh, rather square-cut face, and those slate-grey, expressionless eyes, she said hopefully, ‘Coffee would be nice.’
‘I dare say it would, Miss…?’
‘James. Sorrel James.’ Her lips twitched slightly at the expression on his face. ‘Daft, isn’t it? But my mother was into horses at the time and I was born with brownish-orange hair.’
‘It’s still brownish-orange,’ he commented.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and I don’t know how you have the cheek to sneer at my name when yours is even more bizarre. At least people have heard of Sorrel. I mean, Garde isn’t exactly run-of-the-mill, is it? A family name?’
‘No, and I have no idea what my mother was into,’ he returned rudely, throwing her own words back at her.
She grinned. ‘Coffee?’
He stared at her for a moment. Genuine, or ingenious? he wondered. It might be interesting to find out exactly what little game she was playing. He depressed a button on the intercom. There was a faint squawk and he said quietly, his gaze still on Sorrel, ‘Coffee for two, please, Mrs Davies.’ Still watching her, he asked, ‘Why were you in the area?’
Lowering her lashes, she scratched absently at the mud on the knee of her trousers. Don’t tell lies, Sorrel. Tell the truth. ‘Actually, that was a lie,’ she confessed. ‘I drove down to see you.’ Looking up, she stared at him once more. ‘I want to do your gardens. I’m a lot stronger than I look,’ she promised in the face of his obvious scepticism. ‘And I’m very good. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘Won’t I?’ he asked flatly.
‘No.’
‘And do you normally seek people out? Knock on their doors?’
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted quietly.
‘How many times? Come in,’ he called when there was a faint tap at the door.
A rather worried-looking woman in her early fifties entered, carrying a tray. It was the woman who had answered the door to her earlier. She smiled rather nervously at Garde, gave Sorrel a curious glance and put the coffee on the corner of the desk.
‘Thank you, Mrs Davies—and, in future,’ he added in a voice that was guaranteed to terrify a timid heart, ‘if anyone else calls, I’m not in. Neither do you know where I am, or what I’m doing. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ Sorrel put in quickly, with a sympathetic smile for the other woman. ‘I told her I was an old friend.’
Eyes still on Mrs Davies, he said, ‘The same applies to old friends. Take their name and a contact number or address.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry.’ She gave another nervous smile and went out, closing the door softly behind her.
‘Bit harsh, weren’t you?’
He didn’t answer, merely waved his hand towards the tray, which Sorrel assumed meant she was to pour, and with a rather wry smile she got to her feet. ‘How do you take yours?’
‘Black.’
‘Figures.’
She poured his, then her own, adding a generous amount of cream and sugar, and then returned to her chair and stared at him. ‘You seem rather paranoid about your privacy,’ she commented. When he didn’t answer, merely returned her stare, she continued, ‘Because you’re—what? Famous? Wealthy? Important?’
‘No. How many times?’ he repeated.
With a comical little grimace, she confessed, ‘Well, none, actually.
