Carmichael's Return. Lilian Peake

‘What would you say was the owner’s particular interest? Mr Gard’s, I mean.’

      ‘History.’

      Lauren was a little taken aback by his lack of hesitation. ‘How do you know?’ she asked, and felt a little foolish when he glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

      Had the lingering doubts—doubts more than suspicion—that she still had of him shown?

      ‘By deduction—how else?’ was his faintly crushing reply, the sweep of his arm indicating the crowded bookshelves.

      She nodded, crossing to read the titles opposite. ‘Mr Gard must have wide interests. Plus a love of books, of course. But,’ she wondered aloud, ‘if he’s the wanderer he claims to be, I don’t know when he’d have the time to read them.’

      ‘Agreed.’ The word came succinctly from behind her. ‘Lauien?’

      A tingling shot up and down her spine at the sound of her name on his tongue. ‘Mmm?’

      She turned to find him at her shoulder, and the shock moved to sting that part of her anatomy. It worried her, this feeling she experienced whenever he was near. Hadn’t Johnny, Casey’s friend, warned her not to fall for him? A good-looking guy, he’d called Brett Carmichael that night, full of fever though the stranger had been. Johnny’s warning had been so right, she realised now. But when had heart ever listened to intellect?

      Her eyes sought his in question, and when his met hers there was a jolt inside her that almost knocked her off balance. It was his question, mundane as it was, that brought that balance back.

      ‘I need some means of transport. Is there a car showroom in the village?’

      He needed transport? He was leaving? She couldn’t bear the thought. Nor could she ask him without giving herself away.

      ‘There’s the local garage. They sell secondhand vehicles. I have to go to the store this morning. I could give you a lift.’

      He had moved, hands thrust into the pockets of his well-cut white casual trousers. His short-sleeved cotton shirt fitted well too, his tanned arms contrasting with its lemon colour. If he’d been living in the tropics, Lauren reflected, he would have needed light-coloured clothes for coolness, wouldn’t he?

      ‘OK, thanks.’ He answered casually, almost dismissively, like a man who had vowed never again to allow emotion to govern his thoughts, his life.

      He must have been badly hurt at some time, Lauren decided. And what else except by a woman? The idea of his ever having been so in love with a woman that she’d forced him to such a painful decision sent her heart into a dive, even as she tried to break its fall by berating it soundly.

      The phone rang distantly and she excused herself, dashing out of the library and picking up the extension in the kitchen just in case it was Casey with news.

      It was Casey. ‘First, how are things?’ he asked.

      ‘OK. Fine. He needs a car.’

      ‘Who doesn’t? Did you tell him about the village garage?’

      ‘I’m taking him there any minute. So what have you discovered?’ She had lowered her voice, hooking the door closed with her foot.

      ‘Not much. Nothing, in fact. I’ve asked around the local papers, and the not so local. One or two guys thought they’d heard the name, but couldn’t remember in what connection.’

      ‘He’s coming, Casey. Must go. Keep trying, won’t you?’

      ‘Will do. Keep smiling. Keep your distance—or rather, make him keep his.’

      ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ was her laughing rejoinder. ‘We might as well be on opposite sides of the globe.’

      ‘Good. Keep it that way. I’ll be in London for a couple of days,’ he added hurriedly, before ending the call.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      LAUREN drove Brett to the car showroom, then, with a wave, drove off towards the village centre to visit the grocery store. Glancing back through her driving mirror, she saw him nosing round one of the cars as the salesman approached.

      When she was paying for the goods at the checkout, the assistant, a local lady to whom she had introduced herself before, asked, ‘How do you like living in Mr Gard’s house?’

      ‘Just fine, thanks.’

      ‘We heard you had company.’

      Oh, dear, village gossip, Lauren thought, collecting her change and loading the goods into her shopping bag.

      ‘He’s a paying guest,’ she said, in what she hoped was a prim and proper tone as befitted a totally uninvolved landlady—which she was, wasn’t she? ‘He’s very quiet.’ You can say that again, she thought. ‘And is recovering very well from an illness he had when he arrived.’

      ‘Oh, good,’ the assistant returned with a smile. No suspicion there of any moral wrong-doing on anyone’s part, Lauren decided. Thank goodness. And nor was there any, she thought, leaving the store and stacking the shopping in her car.

      As she drove back past the garage she looked for Brett, but there was no sign. Her heart nearly stopped when she did see him. He was lounging, hands in pockets, against the bus stop sign. A bus was due, she knew that, but what was he doing going into the town?

      * * *

      Three hours later, a long, low, brand-new car drew up in the drive. Mouth open on a gasp, Lauren, from her workroom upstairs, watched her paying guest emerge from the driving seat and slam the door, turning to admire his purchase.

      She was overcome by an acute fear that this was the outside world putting its harsh foot in the door just before bursting in to destroy the fragile togetherness that had been forming between them.

      Withdrawing from her position at the window, she returned to the task of arranging her watercolours, hanging on convenient picture hooks those already framed.

      As swift footsteps took the stairs she stood back, heartbeats racing, pretending to admire her own handiwork. The door swung open and Brett stood there, a light in his eyes.

      ‘You’ve seen my new possession?’

      She nodded. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said, her voice coming out low-key in spite of her doing her best to sound as excited as he was. ‘It’s great. But—? Oh, of course— you’ve got it on hire.’

      ‘Nope. It’s mine. It’s OK—’ he smiled at her bewilderment ‘—I didn’t have to rob a bank to buy it.’

      Which surely meant that he might be a stranger come in from the cold—or rather, the heat, judging by his tan—but he certainly wasn’t poverty-stricken.