not?’ He headed towards the kitchen, eschewing the walking stick but taking it slowly. Despite what the doctors had said, putting pressure on the foot had seemed to encourage a healthy immunity to the pain and discomfort. A day spent sitting in a car had now made him realise how tender it still was and he scowled at the limitations of a body that had never in his life let him down before.
Sophie closed the door quietly behind her and counted to ten. She reminded herself that she had to be polite. As the odious man had pointed out, he was paying her bills.
‘Aren’t you tired?’ She followed him into the kitchen and avoided his question by going down a different route. Watching from the kitchen door, he didn’t look tired. In fact, he didn’t strike her as the sort of man who ever succumbed to something as routine as exhaustion, but he wasn’t walking properly. ‘I know that trip down from London can be a killer, especially when there’s traffic around. Although I guess you travelled down by train. I didn’t notice any car parked outside.’
‘Big house for one person, or were you living here with someone else?’
Sophie drew in a deep breath and kept trying to smile. ‘Big house for a single man to rent, or are you intending to bring down someone else to keep you company?’
Theo turned and looked at her, one hand on the bottle, the other slowly drawing out the cork. His impression of her was deteriorating by the second. Added to the unacceptable insolence, he could sense simmering just beneath the surface a stubbornness that was only thinly disguised by the stiff smile on her face.
‘I mean…’ Sophie continued hastily, stepping into the kitchen and sitting down at the table, the old, worn pine table that had seen a thousand meals and school books and, later on, art work and designs ‘…Cornwall is very popular with families…Do you have a family, Mr Andreou?’
Theo yanked out the cork and poured two glasses of wine.
‘There is no need to call me Mr Andreou. The name is Theo.’ He placed a glass in front of her and was relieved to sit down and give his foot a rest.
‘And will you be bringing your family down at some point, Mr And…Theo? Or do you prefer to have solitude for your writing?’ Sophie sipped the wine and decided that she had made a good choice. She didn’t know too much about it, but obviously going for the most expensive bottle in the off licence had been a good idea.
‘I beg your pardon?’ About to deliver a short, sharp sermon on which subject she would do well to avoid, Theo was caught on the back foot by her remark. Did the woman seriously imagine that any single man renting a cottage by the sea was automatically a writer?
‘I asked whether you planned on bringing…’
‘I have no family, Miss Scott.’
‘Right.’
‘You were asking about…my writing…?’
‘Yes. I just wondered whether you rented the cottage because you needed to be on your own to write.’ She took another gulp of the wine. Meeting the man’s gaze was next to impossible. Those fabulous eyes were doing weird things to her.
‘And you think I am a writer because…?’
‘Because Johnny told me. I’m sorry. I realise that it’s none of my business. Actually, I should be on my way.’ She half stood up.
‘Sit back down!’
Sophie literally jumped at the command and glared at him. ‘Shouldn’t writers be a bit more sensitive?’ she snapped. Politeness flew out of the window as did the last residue of her patience. ‘Shouting at people is no way to behave, Mr Andreou! And, I tell you this right now—if you intend to act in that manner, then I shall have no option but to withdraw the services of Catherine and Annie. They’re both sweet-tempered girls and I won’t have you yelling at them!’
It was one of those extremely rare moments in Theo’s life when he was literally lost for words.
He was a man who had become accustomed to saying exactly what he wanted and to having his orders followed. Indeed, there was rarely any need for him to even raise his voice. He spoke and others obeyed. It was as simple as that.
He looked at her rising colour and knew that the best thing he could do would be to tell her to go. She was too abrasive, too outspoken, and a personality clash was the last thing he either needed or felt inclined to deal with.
‘You haven’t finished your wine, Miss Scott,’ he countered mildly. ‘Why don’t you finish it and tell me who this Johnny character is? I don’t approve of having my personal life discussed behind my back. Gossip is something I have little time for.’
Sophie clasped the edge of the table and breathed deeply. How many times could one person count to ten before it lost its value as a calming mechanism? How dared he imply that she was a gossip?
She sat back down as calmly as she could manage. ‘I don’t gossip, Mr Andreou.’
‘Theo. I told you.’
Sophie ignored the interruption. ‘John Taylor is the man at the estate agency who arranged this letting. Apparently the lady working on your behalf informed him that you would be here to do a bit of writing. He thought it useful to let me know because he knew that I was reluctant…Well, let’s just say that it was important for me to know that you weren’t going to be the sort of tenant to wreck the house. There have been a few incidents here over the years where houses have been let to people in the movie industry and damage has been caused by wild parties and the like. So we weren’t gossiping about you. It was an exchange of factual information.’
Theo smiled at the thought of Gloria protecting his identity. But writer? He wondered what sort of books he would be interested in writing.
‘What sort of books do you write?’
‘Ah. Thrillers, as a matter of fact.’
Sophie felt curiosity reluctantly creep under her skin. ‘What sort of thrillers? You must write under a pseudonym…’
‘Perhaps thrillers isn’t quite the right description for my…ah…books…’ Theo said. As conversations went, it was bizarre but strangely liberating not to be typecast as the formidable and extremely powerful businessman deserving of the greatest respect, if not downright fear. ‘More factual accounts of people who have been in life-threatening situations. Right now I am working on something to do with black runs.’
Sophie could make sense of that. The man exuded an air of danger. It seemed fitting that he would write about lives lived on the edge.
‘Must be very exciting for you—making a living doing what you love—writing about the things that interest you. Much more stimulating than some boring office job somewhere in the city!’ She thought of the boring office job which she had been compelled to take. Her father might have been interested in all manner of medical things but his passion for invention had turned out to be more than an amusing hobby to keep his brain ticking over. He had, it turned out in the messy wake of his death, poured money into his obsession with creating any manner of things, helped struggling scientists and inventors and literally travelled the breadth and width of the country over the years, going to various science shows and turning small overnight trips into week-long stops. And spending money with the absent-minded innocence of someone quite
