One Reckless Night. Sara Craven
here. First the car—now me.
She snorted with self-derision and began to walk slowly back to the front of the house.
She had come to Emplesham to see her mother’s old home, and all she’d achieved was an odd feeling of dissatisfaction, bordering almost on desolation.
Yet what had she really expected? To step back in some time-warp and find Susan Westcott waiting for her? Surely she wasn’t such a fool.
Maybe the lesson she’d come here to learn was that she’d gain nothing by raking over the past. Perhaps that was why her father had stripped himself of all reminders of his brief marriage.
Just as soon as the car’s fixed I’m out of here, she promised herself grimly. And without a backward glance either.
Trudy Sharman was a large, smiling woman, with greying blonde hair pinned into an untidy knot on top of her head.
‘A room for the night’s no problem. The tourist season hasn’t started properly yet.’ She nibbled the end of her pen. ‘But I can only offer you a restricted menu for dinner. You see...’
‘Everyone’s going to the dance,’ Zanna supplied resignedly.
Mrs Sharman laughed. ‘Well, yes. My husband’s doing the bar and I’m catering. We won’t be getting much trade here, so we’ve given most of the staff the night off.’ She sent Zanna a faintly anxious glance. ‘I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Zanna made herself smile reassuringly. ‘I’ll have some sandwiches in my room and an early night.’
‘Oh, we can do better than that.’ Mrs Sharman looked scandalised. ‘I said “restricted” not “non-existent”. There’s beef and mushroom casserole, lamb cutlets, or I can recommend the fish pie. And you’ll be coming to the dance, surely?’
Zanna shook her head. ‘I—I don’t dance. And, anyway, I’m hardly dressed for a social occasion. But the fish pie would be lovely,’ she added brightly.
‘Shall we say seven o’clock, then?’ Mrs Sharman selected a key from the row of hooks behind her desk. ‘Just in case you change your mind about the dance,’ she added vaguely.
Zanna bit back a sharp retort and followed her upstairs in silence. She had to admit, however, that her room was charming, with the blue and white sprigged pattern on the wallpaper repeated in the curtains and frilled bedcover. The bathroom was only tiny, but well equipped. A small wicker basket on a table beside the bath offered a tempting range of soaps, scented bath oils and shampoos, and there was a courtesy robe in dark blue towelling hanging behind the door.
Zanna found it all totally irresistible. As soon as she was alone she filled the deep tub with steaming water, added jasmine oil, pulled off her clothes and sank gratefully into the luxurious perfumed depths, feeling the tensions ease out of her.
When she’d finished soaking, she used the hand-spray to shampoo her hair, then, wrapped in the towelling robe, rinsed out her scraps of silky underwear and hung them on the heated rail to dry.
Then she stretched out on the bed and reached for the telephone. First she rang the Grand Vista hotel, directing them to hold her room for two more nights, then called her own answering machine to see if there were any messages.
Her father’s voice, irritable and slightly hectoring, was on the line. ‘Zanna? Where are you? What the devil are you playing at? Call me back at once—d’you hear, my girl?’
To hear was normally to obey, Zanna realised as she replaced the receiver. But not this evening. Maybe not even tomorrow. Just for once she was off the hook, and she intended to enjoy the sensation for as long as possible.
There was a selection of books on the night-table, including—joy of joys—a Dick Francis she hadn’t read.
That’s my company for the evening sorted out, she thought with satisfaction, instantly closing her mind against the sudden intrusive image of a dark, mocking face and a pair of hooded eyes.
What on earth is the matter with me? she asked herself, in profound irritation. And couldn’t find an answer that gave her any satisfaction at all.
By the time her dinner was served her hair was dry, and so was her underwear. She redressed herself reluctantly, longing for a change of clothes, then brushed her hair severely off her face, confining it with a ribbon in its usual style before descending to the bar.
To her surprise she found it quite crowded, with cheerful, chattering people clearly there for pre-dance drinks. But a swift, wary glance told her that her bête noire was not among them.
When it was her turn to be served, she ordered a dry sherry.
‘Trudy’s laid your table in the snug,’ the barmaid told her, carefully handing her a brimming schooner. ‘She thought it would be a bit quieter in there.’
Zanna carried her drink through the doorway indicated. It was a small room, cosy, with high-backed settles and polished oak tables. A small fire of sweet-smelling apple logs had been kindled in the hearth, dispelling the faint chill of the evening.
Only one table was laid for a meal, but two places had been set, with a bowl of freesias and a single candle burning in a stylish glass holder. There was, moreover, a bottle of Chablis waiting in a cooler.
Zanna, viewing these preparations in total bewilderment, heard the door squeak open behind her—presumably to admit Mrs Sharman with her meal.
‘There’s been some mistake,’ she began. ‘I didn’t order any wine...’
‘It’s a peace-offering.’
The voice she knew at once. Only too well. But as she swung round to face him, her expression freezing into annoyance, a surprised gasp escaped her parted lips rather than the haughty dismissal she’d been framing.
Clean-shaven, with that dark mane of hair neatly combed, he looked almost prepossessing. His clothes— the well-fitting dark trousers, the pale grey jacket that might almost be cashmere, the classic white shirt and the silk tie in sombre jewel colours—all bore the hallmarks of Italian designer wear. And the aroma of engine oil had been exchanged for the discreet scent of a very up-market cologne.
In fact, more than prepossessing, she realised with shock, as a strange awareness shivered along her nerve-endings. He was dangerously attractive.
That faintly mocking grin hadn’t changed, however. And Zanna had noticed before what beautiful teeth he had.
‘Lost for words?’ he enquired lightly. ‘That must be a novelty.’
‘Well, yes.’ Zanna drew a breath. ‘I—I hardly recognized you,’ she added lamely.
‘Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, his face suddenly serious. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘I’d like to make amends.’
She felt her heart thump painfully, as if in warning. ‘That’s really not necessary.’
‘You’re condemning me to eat alone in the opposite corner?’ There was a smile behind the plaintive words. ‘I was thinking of Trudy as well, you see,’ he went on beguilingly. ‘How much easier it would be for her if we shared a table.’
Somehow he made it sound all so reasonable—so impossible to refuse.
Without quite knowing how, Zanna found herself facing him across the freesias. And, as if at some unseen signal, Mrs Sharman bustled in with the first course.
Their meal began with watercress soup, served with a swirl of cream. Zanna had thought she would have no appetite, but she finished every drop.
‘Good?’ her companion queried, with a smile across the flickering candle-flame.
‘Better