One Bride Required!. Emma Richmond

      Mike laughed. ‘Give in,’ he urged his friend. ‘You appear to have met your match, and I have to go. Nice to have met you, Miss...?’

      ‘Langrish,’ Nash supplied helpfully as he steered Mike back towards the path, without allowing him to say anything further.

      ‘Talk about “speed the parting guest”,’ he complained humorously. ‘Not that I blame you; she’s stunning!’

      ‘Yes, she is. A phoenix who falls into the ashes rather than rises from them. That’s her name,’ he explained at Mike’s frown.

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘She was born in a fire—well, not precisely, but there was a fire in the next-door apartment whilst her mother was in labour. She arrived just as the firemen were carrying out the stretcher.’ And he wanted her with a fierce desire that was almost frightening. ‘How knowledgeable is she?’

      Halting again, Mike gave his friend a silent scrutiny before asking, ‘Not sure about her?’

      ‘I’m not sure about anybody. You have heard of bar tracery?’ he queried lightly.

      ‘Er...’

      Nash laughed. ‘Inigo Jones?’

      ‘Now, that I can tell you. He was one of England’s first great architects.’

      ‘Professor Morton? She apparently trained under him.’

      ‘Yes, and certainly he’s reputable.’

      ‘Good.’

      ‘As if you didn’t know.’ Mike grinned. ‘Knowing you as well as I do—or as well as anyone is ever likely to—I imagine you’ve checked her out down to what colour nail varnish she uses.’

      ‘Was she wearing nail varnish?’ Nash queried innocently. ‘I didn’t notice.’

      ‘Liar.’

      Reaching the gate, they both turned to stare at the Manor. ‘Had the surveyor’s report in yet?’ asked Mike.

      Nash shook his head.

      ‘And will you live here when it’s restored—if it’s ever restored?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Heard from Chrissie?’ he asked casually.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Mind my own business?’

      ‘Mmm.’

      With a faint smile, he strolled towards his car. ‘Perhaps someone ought to tell her she has fierce competition,’ he added slyly. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll get some ideas down on paper and let you have them in a few days. Let me know if you need a demolition expert,’ he called back. ‘Or a chaperon.’

      As the car drove away, and with nothing of his thoughts showing on his face, Nash turned to see Phoenix picking her way back along the rutted path.

      Reaching the front door, he was just in time to catch her as she tripped over the step. And he wanted to kiss her.

      She moved hastily away from his supporting arm, avoided all eye contact.

      ‘Still falling over, I see,’ he murmured softly.

      ‘Yes.’ She didn’t look awkward, or embarrassed about it, just accepting. Because she was so used to falling over things that it no longer held any importance? A fact of life, he wondered, like being left-handed?

      ‘You should have worn flat shoes,’ he reproved mildly.

      ‘I know,’ she agreed, her gaze fixed on the top of the staircase. ‘I was interviewing the Mayoress and there wasn’t time to change. I wonder why they covered it up?’

      Momentarily off balance, he glanced at the wall at the top of the staircase and back to Phoenix. ‘The window?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Window tax?’ he offered, not very knowledgeably.

      She shook her head. Opening her notebook, fumbling for her glasses, which were hanging on a cord round her neck, she began to write. ‘I won’t touch anything else...’

      ‘Won’t you?’ he asked softly. ‘Pity.’

      ‘Don’t,’ she said, her voice agitated. ‘You’ll need to reveal the window.’

      ‘You reveal it.’

      ‘No, I...’

      ‘You know you yearn to. Pretend I’m a stranger. Pretend this is the first time we’ve met. I wish it was,’ he added.

      ‘Don’t,’ she pleaded again.

      Turning, she tried to brush past him. He easily caught her, held her before him. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered softly.

      ‘No.’ Struggling free, she took two steps back, eyes still lowered.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because you aren’t what you seem, Nash. You never were.’

      No, he wasn’t what he seemed.

      ‘You’re ruthless and single-minded and you wear the face of a fool.’

      ‘A fool?’ he queried softly.

      ‘All right, a face of calmness and curiosity and gentleness,’ she substituted, almost crossly. ‘And it’s a lie. It was always a lie.’

      ‘And that bothers you?’

      ‘No,’ she denied, obviously untruthfully.

      ‘Good, but I really do need someone to tell me what I’m doing. Professor Morton will be cross if you don’t,’ he persuaded humorously when she didn’t answer. ‘And you won’t have to see much of me.’

      ‘I don’t want to see anything of you.’

      He gave a small smile for her petulance. ‘You’re a big girl now, Phoenix, surely capable of dealing with an old reprobate like me.’

      Finally looking up, she asked quietly, ‘Are you an old reprobate?’

      ‘No,’ he said. And every time he moved nearer she moved away. Eyes always averted. ‘It would enhance your reputation,’ he encouraged. ‘And I don’t imagine you find bar tracery every day of the week.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then why not take a stab at it? If you’d had anything else on you wouldn’t have come here, would you? And jobs like this aren’t exactly run-of-the-mill, are they?’

      ‘No.’

      Watching her for a moment, the way her hair fell over one shoulder, the soft curve of her mouth, he finally asked, ‘Can we really not meet as friends? We’re different people now. And no less aware of each other than we were ten years ago,’ he added softly.

      ‘Stop it,’ she reproved, her face agitated. ‘And if you expect to pick up where you left off...’

      ‘I don’t.’ Would like to, he thought, and wasn’t even surprised at how much he meant it. ‘I’ll pay you the going rate. I really do need your professional opinion on how to restore it.’

      Conflicting emotions showing clearly on her face, professional interest against personal feelings, she glanced almost wistfully towards the hidden landing window.

      ‘Think of the bar tracery,’ he persuaded softly. ‘Think of my entablatures.’

      She gave a faint smile, and he felt unbelievably tender. And relieved. Never in his life to date had he ever had to persuade a woman to trust him. Neither had he wanted to. Until now.

      ‘But do, please, try to remember,’ he added, with a smile in his rather nice grey eyes, ‘that I do need plaster on my walls. That I do need bedrooms,