Guilty. Anne Mather

of honey, looked back at her warily, and she allowed a small smile to touch the corners of her mouth. Compared to her daughter, she was very small change indeed, she thought ruefully. So why try and pretend otherwise?

      The hardest part was going downstairs again. She entered the living-room cautiously, steeling herself to meet knowing smiles and shared humour, but it didn’t happen. Although Julie was stretched out in front of the fire her mother had lit when she’d come home, Jake wasn’t in the room, and Laura’s expression mirrored her surprise.

      ‘He’s gone to lock up the car,’ remarked Julie carelessly, extending the empty glass she was holding towards her mother. In a fine suede waistcoat over a bronze silk blouse, and form-fitting black ski-pants, she was as sleek and indolent as a cat—and her attitude said she knew it. ‘Get me another Scotch, will you? I’m badly in need of sustenance.’

      Laura caught her lower lip between her teeth, but she took the glass obediently enough, and poured a measure of malt whisky over the ice that still rested in the bottom. Then, handing it back to her daughter, she said carefully, ‘Is this wise? Drinking spirits so early in the evening?’

      ‘What else is there to do in this God-forsaken place?’ countered Julie cynically, raising the glass to her lips, and swallowing at least half its contents at one go. She lowered the glass again, and regarded her mother through half-closed lids. ‘So—what do you think of Jake? Pretty dishy, isn’t he? And he tastes just as good as he looks.’

      Laura couldn’t help the frisson of distaste that crossed her face at her daughter’s words, and Julie gave her an impatient look before hauling herself up in the chair. ‘I hope you’re not going to spend the whole weekend looking at me with that holier-than-thou expression!’ she exclaimed, using the toe of one of her knee-length boots to remove the other. Then she held out the remaining boot to her mother. ‘Jake is tasty. Even you must be able to see that. Even if your criterion for what might—or might not—be sexy is based on that wimp Mark Leith!’

      ‘Mark is not a wimp,’ began Laura indignantly, and then, realising she was defending herself, she broke off. ‘I—gather you didn’t enjoy the journey here. I believe Friday evenings are always busy.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Free of her boots, Julie moved her stockinged feet nearer the fire. ‘You could say that.’ She shrugged. ‘I hate driving in the rain. It’s so boring!’

      ‘Even with Jake?’ enquired Laura drily, unable to resist the parry, and Julie gave her a dour look from beneath curling black lashes.

      ‘You still haven’t told me what you think of him,’ she retorted, returning to the offensive. And Laura wished she had kept her sarcasm to herself.

      ‘I’m hardly in a position to voice an opinion,’ she replied guardedly, escaping into the kitchen. To her relief, the fish was simmering nicely, and the strawberry shortcake had defrosted on the window ledge. At least checking the food and setting out the plates and cutlery distracted her from the more troubling aspects of her thoughts, and it was only when Julie came to prop herself against the door that Laura fumbled with a glass, and almost dropped it.

      ‘Would you like to know how we met?’ Julie asked now, making no effort to assist her mother with the preparations, and, deciding it was probably the lesser of two evils, Laura nodded. ‘It was in Rome actually,’ Julie went on. ‘D’you remember? I told you I was going there about six weeks ago, to shoot the Yasmina lay-out. Well, Jake’s father—Count Domenico, would you believe?—sits on the boards of various governing bodies, and this ball had been organised to benefit some children’s charity or other. Harry got an invitation, of course, so we all went. It promised to be good fun, and it was.’ Her lips twisted reminiscently. ‘Oh—Jake wouldn’t have been there if his mother hadn’t raked him in to charm all the women, so that they’d get their husbands to contribute more generously than they might have done. But he was; and we met; and the rest is history, as they say.’

      Laura managed a smile. ‘I see.’

      ‘Yes.’ Julie studied the liquid residing in the bottom of the glass she was cradling in her hands. ‘Events like that are not really his thing, you see.’ She looked up again, and her eyes glittered as they met her mother’s wary glance. ‘I intend to change all that, naturally.’

      ‘You do?’

      Laura didn’t know how else to answer her, but then the sound of the front door closing made any further response unnecessary. Julie turned back into the living-room to speak to the man who had just come in, and Laura bent to lift the casserole out of the oven.

      She knew she would have to join them shortly, of course. Although she generally ate at the pine table in the kitchen, the room was scarcely big enough for two people, let alone three, which meant she would have to pull out the gatelegged table at one end of the living-room.

      However, before she had summoned up the courage to leave the comparative security of the kitchen, Jake himself appeared in the doorway. He had shed his leather jerkin, somewhere between entering the house and coming to disrupt her fragile composure, and as he raised one hand to support himself against the lintel Laura was not unaware of the sleek muscles beneath the fine silk of his shirt.

      ‘I’ve left the car parked behind yours beside the house,’ he said, and she noticed how the drops of rain sparkled on his hair. He wore his hair longer than the men she was used to, and where it was wet it was inclined to curl. Otherwise, it was mostly straight, and just brushed his collar at the back. ‘Is that OK?’ he added softly, and Laura realised rather flusteredly that she hadn’t answered him.

      ‘What…? Oh—oh, yes,’ she said hastily, taking a tablecloth out of a drawer, and starting towards him. Then, realising he was blocking the doorway, she halted again, and waving the cloth at him, murmured, ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

      Jake frowned, but he didn’t move out of her way. ‘Can’t we eat in here?’ he suggested, looking about him with some appreciation. ‘This is cosy.’ He nodded at the begonias on the window ledge. ‘Did you cultivate those?’

      ‘Cultivate? Oh…’ Laura glanced behind her, and then nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I enjoy gardening. You wouldn’t notice today, of course. I think the rain has even beaten down the daffodils.’

      ‘The rain!’ Jake grimaced. ‘Oh, yes, it is certainly raining. It reminds me of home.’

      ‘Home?’ Laura frowned. ‘But I thought—–’

      ‘You thought that the sun always shines in Italy?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Oh, no. Like the fog in London, it is somewhat overrated.’

      Laura felt herself smiling in return, but then, realising she was wasting time, and the meal was almost ready, she caught her lower lip between her teeth.

      ‘Um—do you really think we could eat in here?’ she ventured, not at all sure how Julie would respond to such a suggestion, and then her daughter appeared behind Jake. Sliding possessive arms around him from behind, she reached up to rest her chin on his shoulder, before arching a curious brow at her mother.

      ‘What’s going on?’

      ‘Your mother was going to serve the meal she had prepared in the other room,’ Jake interposed swiftly. ‘I thought we should eat in here. I always enjoyed eating in the kitchen, when I lived at home.’

      ‘Yes, but how big was the kitchen you used to eat in?’ countered Julie, turning her head deliberately, and allowing her tongue to brush the lobe of his ear. ‘Not like this rabbit hutch, I’m sure. I bet there were acres and acres of marble tiles, and dressers simply groaning under the weight of copper pans.’

      ‘I don’t think it matters how big the room is,’ Jake retorted, displaying a depth of coolness she had clearly not expected. He moved so that Julie had either to move with him, which would have been clumsy, or let him go. She chose the latter, and stood looking at him with sulky eyes. ‘It’s the room where the cooking is done. That’s what’s important. The smell of good food isn’t enhanced by wasted space.’