His Defiant Mistress. Кэрол Мортимер

with her, would be there before her, in case, as sometimes happened, he knocked off half an hour early to do a job for a friend.

      When the row of cottages had gone up for sale by sealed auction Harry’s circle of cronies at his local pub had fully expected some big company to demolish them and pack as many new houses as possible on the site. When the news had broken that a developer from London had snaffled the property there had been much morose shaking of heads in the Green Man—until the landlord had surprised his clients by reporting that the property developer was a young woman, and she was looking for someone local to work on the cottages. At which point Harry Sollers—semi-retired master builder, committed bachelor and misogynist—had amazed everyone in the bar by saying he might be interested.

      Sarah never ceased to be grateful that, due to Harry Sollers’ strong views on the demolition of perfectly good living accommodation, he’d agreed to abandon semi-retirement to help her turn the one-time farm labourers’ cottages into attractive, affordable homes. Gradually Harry had helped her sort out damp courses, retile the roofs, and deal with various basic faults shown up by the building survey. He had been openly sceptical about her own skills until he’d seen proof of them, but openly impressed when he first saw her plastering a wall, and completely won over the day she took a lump hammer to the boards covering up the original fireplaces.

      But from the start Harry had drawn very definite lines about his own capabilities, and told Sarah she would need to employ local craftsmen for specialised jobs. He’d enlisted his nephew’s experienced help with the cottage roofs, recommended a reliable electrician to do the rewiring, and for the plumbing contacted his friend Fred Carter, who soon proved he was top-of-the-tree at his craft. The houses had begun to look like real homes once the quality fittings were in place, but to his surprise Sarah had informed Fred that she would do the tiling herself, as well as fit the cupboards in both bathrooms and kitchens.

      ‘I’m good at that kind of thing,’ she’d assured him, without conceit.

      This news had caused a stir in the Green Man.

      ‘You might have to put up with a few sightseers now and again, boss, just to prove Fred wasn’t having them on,’ Harry had warned her.

      He was right. Harry’s cronies had come to look. But once they’d seen her at work they’d agreed that the city girl knew what she was doing.

      But much as she enjoyed her work there were days when Sarah felt low-key, and the next day was one of them—which was probably due to Oliver and his coaxing about the vacancy in his chambers. It was certainly nothing to do with the lobster, which had not, after all, given her nightmares. Nor, she assured herself irritably, was it anything to do with meeting Alex Merrick. She’d slept well and risen early, as usual. Nevertheless her mood today was dark. She would just have to work through it. Fortunately Harry was never a ray of sunshine first thing in the morning either, and wouldn’t notice. But for once she was wrong.

      ‘You’re early—and you don’t look so clever today,’ Harry commented.

      ‘I was out socialising last night,’ she informed him, and went on with the cupboard door she was hanging.

      His eyebrows shot up. ‘Who was the lucky lad, then?’

      Sarah sometimes joined Harry for a ploughman’s in the Green Man at lunchtime, where the clientele was mainly male. Some of the regulars were retired, and came out for an hour’s chat over a pint, but the younger set were mainly tradesmen of varying kinds on their lunch-breaks. Harry had put up with a lot of teasing from the old hands about his pretty young boss, but some of the new ones tried to chat Sarah up. The more enterprising among them had even asked her out, and it had taken all the tact she possessed to refuse in a way that made no dent in local egos, so she could hardly blame Harry for being curious about her night out.

      ‘Much as he’d love to hear himself referred to as a lad,’ she said, with her first smile of the day, ‘we were celebrating my escort’s sixty-fourth birthday. He’s in Hereford on business for a couple of days so he drove over to take me to dinner at Easthope Court last night.’

      He whistled, impressed. ‘I hear it’s pretty fancy there since it was done over—pricey too.’

      ‘Astronomically! I could have fed myself for a week on what Oliver paid for my meal last night. He comes down to check up on me now and then, convinced I’m starving myself to death, but usually all he asks of a restaurant is a good steak and a glass of drinkable claret.’ Sarah sighed, feeling a sudden need to confide in someone. ‘He’s a barrister by profession, Harry. He wants me to work in his chambers.’

      ‘Does it need building work, then?’

      ‘No.’ Sarah explained about the office job.

      ‘He thought you’d like that?’ Harry said, scratching his head. ‘Can you do typing and all the computer stuff?’

      She nodded. ‘After I left college I ran the office at my father’s building firm.’

      ‘You did a whole lot more than that, I reckon. Your dad taught you his craft pretty good.’

      ‘Thank you!’ Coming from Harry, this was high praise indeed. ‘By the way,’ she added casually, ‘I met someone called Merrick last night. Do you know him?’

      Harry grunted. ‘Everybody knows the Merricks. Old Edgar started off in scrap metal. A right old villain he was; so slick at making money you’d think he’d found a way to turn scrap into gold. His son George made an even bigger packet when he took over and started expanding. The family’s got a bit gentrified since Edgar’s day, with college education and all that. Easthope Court was one of their jobs. Lot of publicity at the time. Was it George you met?’

      ‘No. This one’s name was Alex.’

      ‘George’s son. Don’t know the lad myself, but word has it he’s a right ball of fire now he runs the show up here. I hear George is at the London branch these days.’ Harry’s lined blue eyes gave her a very straight look. ‘I hear a lot of things in the pub, boss, but I just listen. Nothing you say to me will go further.’

      ‘No need to tell me that, Harry!’

      He nodded, satisfied. ‘I’ll get on with the window frames in number four, then. You’re doing a good job there,’ he added gruffly, eyeing the cupboards.

      ‘Thank you!’ Sarah smiled at him so radiantly he blinked. ‘How about a snack at the Green Man at lunchtime? My treat?’

      ‘You’re on! Betty Mason bakes pasties on Wednesdays.’

      Sarah felt a lot better as she went on with her cupboard doors. She worked steadily throughout the morning, with only a short break for coffee, and got to her feet at last, back aching. She went to the door, put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing whistle.

      ‘Ready, Harry? I’m starving.’

      Harry chuckled as she scrambled into his pick-up.

      ‘What’s up?’ she demanded.

      ‘You don’t look much like a city girl these days, boss.’

      Sarah grinned as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘The great advantage of the Green Man is not having to prettify myself to eat there. But if you’re ashamed to be seen with me in my working clothes, Mr Sollers, I can always eat my pasty in the pick-up.’

      He guffawed. ‘Get away with you.’

      The knot of regulars in the bar greeted Sarah with their usual friendly acceptance, which put paid to the last traces of her blue mood.

      ‘Your boss let you out, then, Harry?’ called some comedian.

      ‘Reminded her it was Betty’s day for pasties, so I hope you lot left some for us.’ Harry hoisted Sarah up on a stool at the bar, and gave their order. Fred came to join them, to ask about their progress, and Sarah willingly obliged as she tucked into flaky pastry wrapped round a savoury mixture of meat and vegetables. When it struck her that she was enjoying it far more than the elegant