Hot Blood. CHARLOTTE LAMB

face lights up as you talk.’

      She went pink. ‘Oh, stop it! I’m not a teenager to be flattered like that.’ She took a sip of her own coffee; it was lukewarm by now. It couldn’t have been very hot to start with.

      ‘How long have you been divorced?’

      Another of his abrupt, direct questions. ‘Five years,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

      ‘I can’t even remember. She left me years ago—said she was sick of being married to a man she never saw, and I can’t blame her; I was always out of the country. She thought my job was dangerous, too.’

      ‘Was it?’

      He laughed. ‘In a way—if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but luckily I never was. Oh, I had a few little accidents—broke a leg once, got shot in the shoulder, got blown off my feet and spent a few weeks with concussion and a touch of deafness in one ear—but—’

      ‘But nothing serious,’ Kit drily concluded for him, and he grinned at her, amusement in his blue eyes.

      ‘Well, I survived it all, let’s put it like that.’

      ‘Let’s,’ she agreed. ‘What on earth made you choose Silverburn to move to after this peaceful life of yours? Do you think you’re ready for the heady excitements of our bustling metropolis?’

      Quite seriously he said, ‘I was sick of flying around the world, sick of wars and famines, sick of city life, very sick of daily tension. I wanted to get out into the English countryside, and I had an aunt who lived here once, when I was just a kid. I remembered it as a lovely town, full of old buildings and great shops, and close to some gorgeous countryside too—so I came to look it over and decided it would suit me down to the ground.’

      The waitress was banging a saucepan on the counter. ‘Closing time!’ she yelled. ‘Go home, all of you!’

      Grumbling, the other customers began to get up, put on coats, fasten their buttons, before drifting out into the night.

      Joe and Kit followed. They were the last customers; the waitress locked up behind them.

      ‘Can I give you a lift? My car is parked over behind the cinema,’ Joe offered.

      ‘I came in my own car,’ Kit said, walking purposefully towards the same cinema car park. The street was almost empty now; the teenagers from the coffee-bar were running to catch a late-night bus, everyone from the cinema had gone home and there was very little traffic at this time of night.

      The town was going to sleep, and she was very conscious of being alone with a stranger. It was an experience she had not had since her own teens, which were so long ago that it gave her vertigo to remember that far back.

      Joe fell into step with her without haste, his strides longer. ‘How about dinner tomorrow? I’ll book a table in advance so we won’t have a problem. Have you got a favourite restaurant? I haven’t had time to check them all out yet; you’ll have to advise me.’

      ‘I’m rather busy, I’m afraid. Sorry.’ Kit reached her little red Ford and stooped to unlock the door, not looking at him. ‘Goodnight,’ she said quickly, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling the door shut.

      He bent down and tapped on the window. She touched the button which made the glass slide down and looked warily at him.

      ‘What changed your mind?’ he asked, his face wry.

      She decided to be as blunt in return. ‘I told you, I’m not free; I already have a man in my life.’

      ‘And it’s serious?’

      ‘Yes, it’s serious,’ she said, meeting his eyes levelly. ‘Goodnight.’

      He had his hand on the glass and had to snatch it back as the window silently closed again. The engine started. Kit put her foot down and drove off, leaving him standing there, staring at her. Something in the way he watched her made the hair prickle on the back of her neck.

      There was almost no other traffic about, so she was able to drive quite fast, yet as she drew up at the traffic lights at the end of the high street she saw a sleek black Porsche pull in behind her. Kit looked at it idly in her driving mirror, envying the style and potential speed, then stiffened as she recognised the driver. He raised a hand in greeting.

      Kit waved back briefly, but her heartbeat had speeded up and she felt her nerves jumping as she drove on.

      Oh, stop it! Of course he’s driving the same way; he’s going to the same block of flats, isn’t he? she told herself impatiently. What’s the matter with you? Does he look dangerous? She flicked another glance into the mirror to watch the Porsche following right on her tail.

      Photography obviously paid well. His clothes looked expensive and his car certainly did. He must have earned a good deal if he could afford a Porsche! Was he famous? Should she have heard of him? She knew very little about anything outside her own chosen sphere of interest. Antiques were the only things she knew much about.

      In her eagerness to get away from him, to get home, she was driving too fast. As she turned the next corner she almost hit another car coming out of a side road.

      Tyres screeched, a horn blared, and Kit got a glimpse of a furious, alarmed face before the other car was lost from sight behind her. She slowed down after that and behind her the black Porsche slowed too.

      She shot a look into her mirror and saw his reflection in it; the gleam of amused blue eyes, the cynical mouth. There was something about him—something disturbing; she had sensed it from the minute she’d set eyes on him but hadn’t been sure what it was she saw or felt.

      She had thought she recognised him, and perhaps she had seen him before going in or out of the block of flats, or maybe it was just that faint resemblance to Clark Gable she had picked up on, but she suspected that she had also been reacting instinctively to the man himself. He had charm and he was attractive and he was certainly persistent—but there was a sense of threat from him too. He worried her, and she had enough emotional problems in her life already. She didn’t need another one.

      The chief thing on her mind at the moment, though, was getting back home before he could beat her to it. She wasn’t going to relax until she was safely in her flat with the door locked.

      The block of flats had an underground car park. Kit had always hated parking there at night, walking through the dimly lit vault of the basement to the lift to go up to her flat, and tonight was no exception. She was desperate to get there before the man driving behind her.

      She shot down the steep slope, parked in her numbered space without worrying about doing it perfectly, jumped out, hearing the Porsche smoothly reversing into another space nearby, locked her car and ran for the lift as if she were training for the Olympics.

      She was lucky. The lift doors opened as soon as she touched the button; she leapt inside and jabbed the button for her floor, silently praying that they would close before Joe Ingram could catch up with her.

      The doors closed. Kit breathed a sigh of relief. The lift went up and stopped, the doors opened and she walked out, her keyring swinging from her finger, then she stopped dead in shock.

      Joe Ingram was leaning on the wall, waiting for her. ‘What took you so long?’ his voice drawled, and he laughed at her stunned expression.

      He must have run up the stairs but he wasn’t out of breath. It was Kit who was having to drag air into her lungs, her heart beating twice as fast as normal.

      ‘Look, can’t you get the message—?’ she began, but he interrupted.

      ‘I only wanted to say that if you ever changed your mind and wanted to see me again I’d give you my phone number,’ he drawled, looking amused, his blue eyes teasing, and she felt stupid. She had overreacted, so now she tried to sound calm and reasonable.

      ‘No, sorry; I won’t change my mind. Goodnight.’ ‘

      At least