Wicked Caprice

‘I guess this is it,’ he remarked finally, turning into the car park of the The Coach House and parking beside an old Mercedes that had seen better days. For all it was quite early in the evening, there were quite a few cars already occupying the inn’s forecourt—an indication of the popularity of its bar food.

‘I hope you won’t find it a disappointment,’ murmured Isobel, barely audibly, as she acknowledged the incongruity of the limousine in these surroundings. But he’d heard her, and his lips twitched at the back-handed compliment.

‘I doubt if anything could disappoint me this evening,’ he assured her with equal ambiguity. Then, more gently, he asked, ‘Shall we go in?’

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_58bdc793-9d83-564a-a207-6c3e4f6ccb56)

A HAZE of tobacco smoke hung over the bar, but the dining area adjoined a flagged patio, and the doors had been flung wide to admit the evening air. There were tables on the patio, too, and Patrick allowed her to choose where she wanted to sit. Isobel opted for a table that was near the open doors but not actually on the patio, and Patrick went to get them a drink while she perused the menu.

She had chosen white wine to drink, and he came back with a glass for her and a bottle of imported beer for himself. Pulling out the wooden chair opposite her, he sank into it, accepting the menu she passed him and glancing carelessly at its contents.

‘I suppose this isn’t what you’re used to,’ she said a little awkwardly, despising herself for caring what he thought. She hadn’t instigated this meeting; he had. If he didn’t like her choice of venue, hard luck.

‘You don’t know what I’m used to,’ he countered, lifting his eyes from the menu. ‘Am I allowed to ask what you’re eating? Or is that a state secret?’

Isobel expelled her breath. ‘Lasagne,’ she said. ‘With a green salad to start.’ She licked her lips. ‘They make it on the premises. The owner’s wife comes from Siena.’

‘Ah.’ His eyes dropped back to the menu. ‘You don’t fancy a fillet steak, or anything carnivorous like that?’

‘Well, I’m not a vegetarian,’ she retorted, ‘if that’s what you’re implying. It’s not a vegetable lasagne. It does contain meat.’

‘All right.’ His tone was amused now. ‘I’ll have that too. And a bottle of claret, just to prove I’m not a cheapskate. I can imagine what my chauffeur would say if he knew I’d turned down the steak.’

Isobel looked up at him through her lashes, not quite sure what to make of that, and he grinned. She’d thought he was attractive before, but when his face creased into that infectious smile her heart seemed to skip a beat. Dear God, she thought uneasily, picking up her glass of wine and taking a rather unwary sip, Chris was right—he was devastating.

And dangerous.

He left to order the meal, which would be brought to their table when it was ready, and Isobel wondered when he’d get around to the reason why they had come. It was pleasant to delude herself with the thought that he found her company enjoyable, but, whatever else, he was married, and she had to remember that.

‘This is very nice,’ he said a few moments later, resuming his seat, and Isobel made the usual response.

‘It’s busier than this when the children break up for the summer holidays,’ she said, indicating the few empty tables. ‘There’s a caravan site not far from here, and the pub attracts a lot of evening visitors.’

Patrick nodded. ‘At the risk of sounding trite, do you come here often?’

‘Not often,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe half a dozen times a year.’ She wondered if she should go on, and then continued carefully, ‘I don’t go out a lot. I’m not a night person.’

Patrick’s eyes were too intent. ‘There’s no regular boyfriend, then?’

She caught her breath. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘And if I wanted to make it my business?’

‘You can’t.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘You’re married.’ She held up her head. ‘Don’t you think we ought to talk about why you’ve brought me here? Or was that just a ploy?’

‘How do you know I’m married?’ he probed, choosing the least appropriate thing she’d said, and Isobel looked down at her glass.

‘Does it matter?’ she asked uncomfortably, wishing she’d just made a simple refusal. ‘Oh—thank you,’ she said as the waitress appeared with their salads. ‘No dressing for me. This is fine.’

Patrick refused the dressing too, she noticed, and then moved immediately back into the attack. ‘It matters,’ he said softly, and she was aware of his eyes upon her. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m curious. Humour me.’

Isobel sighed. ‘You’re wearing a wedding ring,’ she said at last, tersely. ‘Now, can we get on with the food?’

‘It’s not a wedding ring,’ he insisted. ‘It was—once. But not any longer. I’ve been divorced for almost six years.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ He touched her hand as it rested on the table. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘If—if you say so, then of course I believe you. But, as I said before, I don’t think it matters either way.’

He caught his lower lip between his teeth. ‘Does that mean you wouldn’t go out with a married man?’

‘I—’ Isobel was essentially honest, and she had to admit that if he asked her she’d be tempted. ‘I—suppose not,’ she finished lamely, and he looked suddenly grim.

They ate the rest of their salad in silence, and she had the feeling that once again she’d said something he didn’t like. Did that mean that he was lying? Was he really married, after all? Or had her doubts communicated themselves to him, and he was shocked?

But no. She didn’t believe that. She sensed that she’d have to say something pretty outrageous to shock this man. So what was he thinking? What was causing that sudden darkness to etch his features? And why did she care anyway? She’d probably never see him again.

‘Did—er—did your niece like the necklace?’ she asked, eager to change the subject, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer her.

But then, after a pregnant pause, he said, ‘I haven’t given it to her yet. She—er—she doesn’t live in London.’

‘Is that where you live?’ she asked, deciding she had the right to ask some questions of her own, and after a moment he gave a resigned nod.

‘That’s right,’ he said, without expression. ‘But it’s good to get out of the city now and again.’

‘To Warwickshire?’ she prompted, and his features grew less tense.

‘Among other places,’ he agreed easily. ‘Do you travel much, Miss Herriot? Or do you prefer the rural life?’

Isobel found she resented his assumption that Horsham must encompass her whole world, and, as if glimpsing the conflicting emotions she was trying hard to suppress, he added gently, ‘It wasn’t a criticism. If you’re happy here, I envy you. I’ve been striving all my life to find true peace of mind.’

Isobel gave him a retiring look. ‘I think you’re patronising me.’

‘I assure you I’m not.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘Why not? It’s the truth.’ He paused. ‘As you get to know me better you’ll find I almost always speak the truth.’

‘Almost always?’

‘I’m in business,’ he said mildly. ‘There have to be exceptions. It wouldn’t do for me to reveal all my secrets.’

Isobel couldn’t resist a small smile. ‘What kind of business are you in?’

‘What kind of—?’ He broke off abruptly, before continuing rather less incredulously, ‘Um—this and that. I—buy and sell things, mostly. Here and overseas.’