Instant Fire. Liz Fielding

      ‘Perhaps you would get to the point, Mr Thackeray?’

      ‘The point, Miss Grant?’

      ‘You were looking for me. You’ve found me.’

      ‘Oh, the point!’ The smile died on his lips and his expression became quite still. ‘The point is this, Jo Grant. I came to ask the bearer of that name out to lunch. So? What do you say?’

      Jo drew her brows together in genuine surprise. ‘Lunch? Why on earth would you want to take me out to lunch.’

      He looked at her more intently. ‘You would find such an invitation surprising?’ he asked. There was a certain practised charm about him and she realised, with a slight shock, that he was flirting with her.

      ‘Of course I’m surprised. You don’t know me.’

      ‘True,’ he conceded. ‘And I have to own up to the fact that the Joe Grant I’m looking for weighs around fifteen stone, has a beard and is in his fifties. But I am very happy to accept you as his substitute.’

      Jo sat down rather suddenly. ‘No substitute at all, I’m afraid. But I’m the nearest you’re going to get. My father is dead.’

      ‘Joe’s dead?’ There was no disguising the shock in his voice. ‘But he was no age.’ He seemed genuinely upset and for a moment stared through the window. Then he looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘You’re Joe’s daughter? The one in the picture on his desk?’ He frowned. ‘But you were all spectacles and braces.’

      Jo remembered the dreadful picture in an old frame that had been almost buried among the clutter on her father’s desk. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I was. Poor Dad. I usually managed to avoid having my photograph taken, but that was a school job. There was no escape. Mum felt obliged to buy it but out of deference to my feelings she wouldn’t put it next to my sister’s.’

      ‘Really? Why was that?’

      ‘Heather has curls, straight teeth and twenty-twenty vision.’ She shrugged. ‘Dad took pity on me.’

      Measuring blue eyes regarded her with provoking self-assurance. ‘I’m certain you’d give your sister a run for her money these days, Miss Grant.’

      She smiled slightly. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Thackeray. Heather is still the family beauty. I had to make do with the brains.’

      ‘Poor you.’

      Jo stiffened. ‘I don’t require sympathy, Mr Thackeray,’ she blurted out, then coloured furiously at her stupid outburst as she saw the laughter lighting the depths of his eyes. This man was getting under her skin, breaking through the barriers she had erected as part of the price for her acceptance in a man’s world.

      ‘Your self-esteem still seems in need of a little propping up, if you don’t mind my saying so. But I have to agree that you have no need of sympathy from me, or anyone else.’ Before she could reply he had changed the subject. ‘Joe said you planned to follow in his footsteps. I thought he was joking.’

      ‘So did he, Mr Thackeray. By the time he realised his mistake it was too late to do anything about it.’

      ‘Did he try?’

      She remembered the pride on his face at her graduation, her mother’s delight. ‘Not very hard,’ she assured him.

      His look was thoughtful. ‘I see.’

      She had assumed he would take his leave once he had discovered that his errand was fruitless. Instead he folded himself into the chair at the side of her desk.

      ‘I’m very sorry to hear about Joe’s death, Miss Grant. What happened?’ There was a genuine concern in his face which brought the old familiar ache to her throat. She stared hard at the schedules on the desk in front of her until the dangerous prickling behind her eyelids was under control.

      ‘He was in his car. Apparently he had a heart attack.’ Jo dragged her mind back to the present and looked up. ‘It was three years ago.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve been overseas, working in Canada. I’ve been renewing some old acquaintances and when I phoned Redmonds’ office to ask for your father they said—’

      ‘It’s all right. A simple mistake. It happens all the time; I should have learned to be less prickly by now.’ She offered him her hand and a slightly rueful smile. ‘Joanna Grant.’

      His grasp was warm, the strong hand of a man you would want on your side. ‘Clayton Thackeray.’

      ‘Well, I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Mr Thackeray.’

      ‘Hardly wasted.’ His eyes were intensely, disturbingly blue, and she looked hurriedly away.

      ‘I’m not much of a substitute for Dad.’

      ‘I liked and admired your father, Joanna. But it occurs to me that lunch with you will be every bit as enjoyable. And you’re a great deal easier on the eye. Now that you’ve dispensed with the braces.’

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ she protested. ‘You don’t have to take me …’ He waited, his face betraying nothing. ‘I shouldn’t …’

      ‘Why not?’ he asked.

      ‘Because …’ There was no reason, apart from the fact that she wanted to go far too much for her own peace of mind.

      He smiled as if he could see the battle taking place inside her head. ‘Force yourself, Joanna.’

      ‘I …’ He still had her hand firmly clasped in his much larger one. ‘Thank you.’ She found herself agreeing, without quite understanding why. Except that she didn’t think he was the kind of man who ever took no for an answer.

      ‘My pleasure. I booked a table at the George on my way through the village. I’d planned to take your father there.’

      ‘Did you? Then I’d better change my boots.’ She put her head to one side and decided it was her turn to tease a little. ‘But you don’t have to impress me, Mr Thackeray. I’m just a site engineer. I usually have a sandwich down the pub.’

      Laughter produced deep creases around his eyes and down his cheeks. ‘I’m not looking for a job, Joanna. And my friends call me Clay. Do what you have to. I’ll wait in the car.’

      She kicked off her boots, slipped her feet into narrow low-heeled shoes and ran a clothes brush over her grey woollen trousers, wishing for once that she had a skirt to change into. Her soft cream shirt had been chosen more for comfort than style, but at least her sweater was a pretty, if impractical, mixture of pink and white. A gift from her Heather, her older sister, who ran a stylish boutique and never ceased in her attempts to add a little femininity to Jo’s wardrobe which tended to run to hardwearing clothes suitable for the site. She took down the calendar that hid the mirror, her one concession to vanity in this male world, and regarded her reflection with disfavour.

      Then she shrugged. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Jo,’ she told herself sternly. ‘He’s taking you out to lunch because he knew your father. Don’t get any silly ideas.’ She pulled a face at herself, but nevertheless Heather would have been pleased to see how long her little sister spent on her hair and make-up.

      Clay Thackeray ushered her into the car, opening the door and settling her comfortably before sliding into the driving seat. She was aware of interested eyes watching from every part of the site and knew that she would be teased mercilessly for the next few days by men opening doors with exaggerated politeness, offering her their arm on the scaffolding. They wouldn’t miss a trick.

      ‘It would be just the same if you were a man being picked up by a girl, you know. Probably worse.’ He reversed the car and turned into the lane.

      She laughed. ‘Do you read minds for a living?’

      ‘No, but I was a site engineer myself once.’

      ‘Were