His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All

There was also a bistro-type restaurant which turned out to be only open in the evenings, but Caz declared that was unimportant and headed for the solitary pub overlooking the breakwater.

‘The Smuggler’s Chair.’ Tarn looked up at the swinging sign above the door. ‘That’s a strange name.’

‘And it goes with a strange story.’ Caz had to bend to negotiate the low entrance. He guided Tarn down a tiled passage and through a door with ‘Fisherman’s Catch’ painted on it.

She found herself in a wood panelled room, with old-fashioned settles flanking tables set for lunch, several of which were already occupied.

Caz ordered a white wine spritzer for her and a beer for himself, and they took the remaining table by the window.

The menu was chalked on a board, offering Dover sole, hake, crab and lobster, but they agreed to share the special, a seafood platter served with a mixed green salad and crusty bread.

‘So tell me about the Smuggler’s Chair,’ Tarn said when their order had been given.

‘Well, in the bad old days, the village had a reputation for being involved in free-trading,’ Caz said. ‘And cargoes from France were regularly landed here.

‘The leader of the gang used to come here to drink quite openly—apparently he had an eye for the landlord’s daughter—and he always sat in the same chair by the fire.

‘An informer told the Excisemen who organised a surprise raid. When they burst in, there was this man sitting in the chair with his pipe and his pint pot, just as they’d been told. They ordered him to stay still, but he reached into his coat, and thinking he was going for his pistol, they shot him.

‘However, when they searched the body, they found government papers authorising him to compile a secret report on the local free trade. It seems the smugglers had their own informers, and were expecting his visit.

‘Which is why, when he arrived at the inn, he was made welcome—and offered the best chair by the parlour fire.’

‘Nasty.’ Tarn wrinkled her nose. ‘What happened to the gang leader?’

Caz shrugged. ‘Got away, scot-free, and presumably found somewhere else to drink, complete with some other obliging wench.’

‘And the chair?’

‘Oh, that’s allegedly still here in the other bar, but it seems no-one fancied using it after the shooting in case the Excisemen returned and made a second mistake, so it was always left empty, and the story got around that it was haunted, and that doom and disaster would pursue anyone reckless enough to sit there. Even these days, it’s given a wide berth.’

Tarn laughed. ‘You surely don’t believe that.’

‘I heard the story at a very impressionable age,’ Caz said solemnly. ‘My parents used to rent a house nearby for the holidays. The then landlord used to offer a fiver to anyone who’d take the risk. I gather it’s currently gone up to a hundred quid, but still no takers.’

Tarn took a reflective sip of her spritzer. ‘It’s quite a reward—just for sitting down. I think I might try it.’

Caz put down his glass. ‘No.’ The negative was sharp and held a note of finality.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said laughing. ‘It probably isn’t even the same chair.’

‘Possibly not,’ Caz agreed. ‘That doesn’t change a thing.’

Tarn gave a provocative whistle. ‘Palmistry, now superstition,’ she marvelled teasingly. ‘I would never have believed it. But you were quite right,’ she added. ‘This is certainly a voyage of discovery.’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ he returned. ‘If you sit in the smuggler’s chair and lightning fails to strike, you’ve ruined a perfectly good legend forever, and it’ll be the landlord’s curse you need to watch out for if you spoil his trade.’

‘The pragmatic response,’ Tarn said lightly. ‘I’m disappointed. But I suppose you’re right.’

‘Besides,’ Caz went on thoughtfully. ‘Disasters I can well do without.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘But I’d be the one to suffer.’

‘Not any more,’ he said. ‘What happens to you, happens to me. That’s the way it is, lady.’

Tarn looked down at the table, her heart hammering. Dear God, she said silently, please don’t let that work both ways. Not this time.

The seafood platter was piled high with prawns, mussels, oysters, cockles, spider crabs and crayfish, and came with finger bowls and a pile of paper napkins.

Sharing it with him should have been a problem, an intimacy she could have done without, but in some strange way it was fine, even enjoyable, as if they’d been doing it all their lives.

And, at the same time, it was messy, funny and totally delicious.

Of all the meals we’ve eaten together, she thought suddenly, this is the one I shall always remember. And stopped right there, because she didn’t want any memories of him to take, alone again, into the next chapter of her life. Because she couldn’t afford that kind of weakness.

They decided to forego the desserts, choosing instead a pot of good, strong coffee.

‘Shall we take a walk along the beach before the tide turns?’ Caz suggested, as he paid the bill.

There was flat sand beyond the pebbles and shingle, and the sea was just a murmur, its surface barely ruffled by the breeze. Tarn drew the clean air deep into her lungs as she lifted her face to the sun, wondering at the same time how things would be if nothing existed but this moment.

‘So, tell me what you did in New York.’ He spoke softly, but his question brought her sharply back to reality. Because it was clear he expected to be answered.

She shrugged. ‘I suppose—pretty much what I do now.’

‘Your editor was sorry to lose you.’

‘I owe her a lot.’ Especially for that reference.

‘Will the job be waiting for you—if you go back?’

‘That or another one. I’ve rarely been out of work.’ She didn’t want the interrogation to continue, so she bent, slipping off her loafers. ‘I’m going to find out if the sea is as inviting as it looks,’ she threw over her shoulder as she headed for the crescent of ripples unfolding on the sand.

‘I warn you now—it will be cold,’ Caz called after her, amused.

‘You can’t scare me. I’ve been to Cape Cod,’ she retorted, speeding into a run.

He hadn’t been joking, she discovered. The chill made her catch her breath and stand gasping for a moment, but an ignominious retreat back to the beach was out of the question for all kinds of reasons. So she waded in a little deeper, finding that it grew more bearable with every step, until eventually it bordered on pleasure.

However, it was also bordering on the turn-ups of her linen pants, which was not part of the plan at all, so she opted for discretion over valour and walked slowly back to the shore.

Caz looked at her, shaking his head in mock outrage. ‘Crazy woman.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Chicken!’

‘But not a chicken risking pneumonia. Or with wet feet and no towel.’ Before she could stop him, he picked her up in his arms and carried her up the beach, scrunching over the pebbles before setting her down on a large, flat rock. ‘I prefer my seas warm, like the Mediterranean or around the Maldives.’

He produced a spotless white handkerchief from a pocket in his chinos and unfolded it. ‘I’m afraid this is the best we can do.’ He dropped to one knee in front of Tarn and began to dry her feet, slowly, gently and with immense care. ‘Like blocks of stone, as my old nanny would have said. Even your nail polish has turned blue.’