Shadowed Stranger. Carole Mortimer
looking on anxiously.
‘What’s happened?’ Robyn whispered to her mother, knowing that her father wouldn’t welcome such a question. Having to do any sort of mechanical work on the van was guaranteed to put her father in a bad mood.
Her mother grimaced. ‘It broke down on the delivery this afternoon. Your father had to get Mr Jeffs to help him push it back here.’
‘Oh dear!’ She could imagine her father’s fury. ‘Has he been working on it long?’
‘About two hours,’ her mother told her softly. ‘Your dinner is in the oven. Your father and I will eat later.’
‘Where’s Billy?’
‘Out delivering the groceries for us on his bike.’
Her eyes widened. ‘The van broke down on the way to deliver the groceries?’
‘Mm,’ her mother nodded. ‘Billy’s been out delivering since he got home from school.’
Robyn’s father appeared from under the van, his face smeared with oil. ‘Hello, love,’ he muttered. ‘Pass me that spanner, Barbara. The one at your feet,’ he added tersely as she hesitated.
‘I think I’ll go in and have my dinner,’ Robyn whispered to her mother.
She smiled understandingly. ‘I should.’
‘Barbara, the spanner!’
‘All right, Peter,’ she said patiently, handing it to him.
‘I’ll be in in a moment,’ she told Robyn.
Her mother’s steak and kidney pie melted in the mouth; it was a favourite with Robyn. Her mother came in as she was washing up her used crockery.
‘Everything all right?’ Robyn asked.
She smiled. ‘I think your father is just about finished. Billy’s just got home too, so I think we might be able to have our meal now.’
Robyn frowned. ‘There’s still one box of groceries here.’
‘Oh yes, that’s Mr Howarth’s.’
‘Mr Howarth’s …?’ she echoed in dismay.
‘Mm.’ Her mother heated up the gravy. ‘Billy didn’t think you would mind taking that one over.’
‘Well, I do! I don’t want to go over there, Mum,’ she said pleadingly. ‘I—I didn’t like him very much.’
‘Don’t be silly, dear, he’s very nice. He came over with these today,’ she indicated the carnations in the vase in the window. ‘Besides, Billy has to get his homework done now. And it won’t take you five minutes.’
‘Oh, all right,’ Robyn agreed grudgingly. ‘Just give me a few minutes to change.’
She checked the contents of the box on the way over to Orchard House, finding quite a few easily prepared meals. Well, at least he was going to start eating now. Her mother had also put in an individual steak and kidney pie. Robyn shook her head; her mother was never happy unless she was trying to fatten someone up.
Rick Howarth answered her knock today. ‘Well, well, well,’ he drawled mockingly. ‘If it isn’t Little Miss Castle!’
She gave him an impatient glare. ‘I brought your groceries.’
‘I’d given up on them,’ he held up the apple he had been eating.
‘Here you are,’ she held out the box towards him.
‘My father had a little trouble with his delivery van.’
He made no effort to take the box from her, opening the kitchen door wider for her to enter, which she did, reluctantly, shooting him a suspicious glance as he closed the door behind her.
‘I’m not staying,’ she told him stiffly, once again unnerved by him.
His eyes were narrowed to grey slits. ‘Why aren’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t want to be accused of snooping again.’
His mouth twisted. ‘So you hold grudges, do you?’
‘Certainly not!’ Her eyes flashed her indignation. ‘I just didn’t think you liked company.’
‘I don’t,’ he acknowledged abruptly. ‘Or at least, I didn’t.’
Her eyes widened, some of her resentment leaving her. ‘Are you saying you don’t mind my being here?’
‘Exactly.’ He threw the half eaten apple in the bin, holding up the steak and kidney pie. ‘What do I do with this?’
Robyn took it out of his hand, flicking the switch on the cooker and putting the pie inside. ‘I know what I’d like to do with it,’ she said vehemently. ‘And it isn’t anything pleasant.’
‘I didn’t think it would be,’ Rick Howarth said dryly.
‘Well, I can’t believe you’re so helpless.’ She peeled a couple of potatoes from the box and put them on to cook. ‘You look so—so—well, capable,’ she finished lamely.
‘Oh, I am,’ he leant back against the sink unit, ‘at some things. Cooking isn’t one of them.’
‘Neither is ironing, by the look of you,’ she grimaced at his clean but creased shirt.
He looked down at it too. ‘They turn out this way from the launderette.’
‘That’s because they should be ironed afterwards,’ she sighed. ‘They look expensive shirts too.’
‘Do they?’ his tone was distant. ‘It never occurred to me.’
Once again he had clammed up when she had got too personal. ‘Well, they do,’ she persisted stubbornly, wondering at her own nerve. This man had shown her more than once that he didn’t like any sort of interference from her, any reference of a personal nature. ‘You should iron them before wearing them,’ she added.
‘Are these ready yet?’ He lifted up the lid of the saucepan to look at the potatoes.
‘No!’ She angrily replaced the lid. ‘What on earth do you do here all day on your own?’ she asked with exasperation.
His expression became remote, his eyes cold. ‘This and that,’ he evaded tautly.
Robyn sighed. ‘Why are you so secretive?’
‘Why are you so nosey?’ he rasped.
She drew in a ragged breath, looking very young and vulnerable in a fitted light blue tee-shirt—one that definitely showed her curves!—and a navy blue and white cotton-print skirt, her short blonde hair newly washed, her face bare of make-up.
Rick Howarth was obviously aware of her youth too, his eyes narrowing ominously. ‘I must be insane,’ he muttered. ‘Or desperate,’ he added disgustedly.
‘Why?’ she asked in a puzzled voice, realising his mood had changed yet again. He certainly was a moody person!
‘Wasting my time talking to an eighteen-year-old,’ he answered bluntly.
Robyn gasped, paling at his intended insult, her hands shaking as she clenched them at her side. ‘You’re not only rude,’ she quavered, ‘you’re deliberately hurtful too!’ She ran to the door, intending to make her escape before she made a fool of herself.
‘Robyn—–’
She swung round, her bottom lip trembling precariously. ‘It’s all right, Mr Howarth,’ she choked, her look defiant. ‘I’ll leave and save you the trouble of wasting any more time.’
‘Robyn …’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I’m thirty-six. Do you know what that means?’
‘That