Carmichael's Return. Lilian Peake

was direct, almost speculative. He must have heard that vocal tremor and be trying to analyse its cause. He’d be clever if he found it, she thought ruefully, because she didn’t know that herself.

      ‘You’d allow me to stay another night?’

      ‘However long it takes for you to get well again.’

      Her words surprised even herself. The statement had almost been an open invitation to stay as long as he liked. Also, her own reaction was puzzling her. It had nothing to do with the man, she told herself, with the charisma he undoubtedly possessed even m an unfit state, the magnetism in his deeply intelligent eyes, the deep-down reflex action of her feminine responses to his masculinity every time he was near.

      No! It was because she was sorry for him—plainly brought low, as he was, by circumstances and illness. It was compassion, wasn’t it…? Wasn’t it? her brain persisted.

      An eyebrow arched. ‘You have it in your power to play hostess to an uninvited guest? Moreover, to someone who, twenty-four hours ago, you didn’t know even existed?’

      But she had known, hadn’t she? Although how, she could not explain at all.

      ‘If you mean would the owner mind if I took you in, I very much doubt it.’

      ‘As a paying guest?’

      Paying? The thought of payment hadn’t occurred to her. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Payment to the owner, not to me. I spoke to him earlier this morning and he seemed a very nice man.’

      ‘He did? Have you ever met him?’

      ‘How could I have? I only took over from Mane last night. Anyway, he’s her uncle—or quasi-uncle.’

      ‘Quasi.’ He rolled the word around his tongue. ‘I like that. Seemingly, almost, but not really.’

      Lauren smiled, glad that he appeared to be reviving a little. ‘You’re talking like a dictionary.’

      His own smile was faint. ‘Dictionaries and I are on very familiar terms.’

      So what was he? A teacher needing accurate interpretations? A lawyer requiring precise definitions? She didn’t like to ask, and anyway it was no business of hers. Even if he stayed a while, he would leave some time in the near future. After all, he had to earn a living somehow.

      Holding onto the chair, he rose carefully. ‘You could be right. Maybe I’m not in a fit condition to go anywhere.’ He had lost the hint of colour he’d seemed to gain from drinking the hot liquid.

      ‘Except—’ she pushed away her empty mug and stood too ‘—to bed.’

      His lips quirked. ‘My hostess is ordering me to bed? In other circumstances that might have been a promising start.’

      She could not help smiling into the silence that was left as he made his way upstairs, at the same time shaking her head.

      Now that he had gone, Lauren went up to the room she now regarded as her studio and attempted to bring some order to the various pieces of artists’ equipment that she used m her work.

      Pausing for a while, she leaned on the windowsill and gazed down into the gardens, admiring the colourful scene, her eyes drawn again to the terracotta heads that were placed at random across the wide-spreading grounds.

      The ring of the telephone interrupted her reverie, and she hurned downstairs to answer it before it disturbed the sleeping stranger.

      ‘Hi,’ said Casey, ‘everything OK? I wanted to call earlier, but I was sent out on an assignment.’ He really loves that word, Lauren reflected with a smile. ‘Has the man from nowhere been behaving himself?’

      ‘He couldn’t do otherwise,’ Lauren pointed out. ‘He’s still weak from the illness he’s had. Anyway—’ she frowned as her conscience pricked her ‘—last night I locked him in his room.’

      There was a burst of laughter from the other end. ‘Full marks to you, Lauren. What happened?’

      ‘You mean, when he discovered it?’ She could not tell him the whole truth. ‘He roared like a caged lion. Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, he’s in bed again.’

      ‘How long’s he staying?’

      ‘I—’ She hesitated, then decided to continue. ‘I more or less told him to stay for as long as it takes him to recover.’

      ‘You did?’ Casey seemed a little shocked. ‘How do you know you can trust him?’

      I trust him, she thought, but did not know why. ‘I just know I can,’ was her deliberately evasive answer.

      ‘Mmm, don’t always trust your womanly intuition. What’s his job, by the way?’

      ‘I haven’t discovered that much about him.’

      ‘We—ell, I guess he could be unemployed. What’s his name? Surely you know that.’

      ‘It’s Brett—Brett Carmichael.’

      There was a sharp intake of breath, then, ‘Hey, I’ve a hunch I’ve heard that name. Now…’ He seemed to be finger-drumming, and she guessed he was at his office desk. ‘This is going to be a tough one. First I’ll ask around, then I’ll look through back issues of newspapers—see if I can get a lead. Got to go, Lauren. I’ll call you if I get any info on that name. Right?’ He disconnected the call.

      

      The sky was a clear blue, drawing Lauren into the garden with her sketchpad. She wandered round the flowerbeds, deciding which blooms to draw. A brilliantly red fuchsia caught her eye, and she squatted on her folding stool and assembled her crayons alongside the pad on the large drawing board she used for support.

      Some time later a dragging sound caught her attention, and she turned to investigate. Brett was bumping a reclining garden chair and its extension across the lawn.

      ‘Please carry on,’ he said, unfolding it and arranging the sprung cushions, then attaching the footrest. ‘I helped myself—’ he indicated the chair ‘—hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

      ‘Feel free,’ Lauren commented airily. ‘Maybe the fresh air will help you throw off your trouble. Better than lying in a stuffy room.’

      ‘That’s what I figured.’

      He draped his length over the chair, arms folded, his legs stretching over the footrest. Lauren returned to her work, but the presence of the man seemed to have taken away her ability to concentrate. Nevertheless, she returned to her sketching, but, to her annoyance, the picture started to go wrong.

      Something in her subconscious mind was troubling her, and it had something to do with the man beside her.

      ‘That chair—where did you find it?’

      ‘In the shed.’

      The shed? She hadn’t even noticed yet that there was a garden shed. And surely it was locked? Marie’s uncle Redmund seemed to have a fixation about locking everything that could be opened.

      ‘Where did you find the key?’ she queried.

      A shoulder lifted. ‘In the kitchen, tucked away between the dresser and that ancient stove.’

      ‘Truly? You went searching?’ She smiled, but wondered if she should be worried instead. ‘You must be good at tracking things down. Maybe you’ve got a sort of magnet in your head, and the metal key gave out a magnetic field?’

      He gave a brief laugh, which made Lauren surmise that he was on the way to recovery. A small, irritating voice whispered, You don’t want him to get better too soon, do you? She told it to be quiet.

      ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he answered. There was a pause, then he said, ‘Much of my life is spent in getting to the core of things.’

      What do you do for a living? The