The Colour Of Midnight. Robyn Donald

in the world that he had no need to prove himself, a man accustomed to command, he extended an imperative hand. Well, he was stronger than she. With a mental shrug, Minerva passed him the pack that had accompanied her around the globe; in his leanly elegant hands it seemed a battered, cheap thing.

      ‘This used to be a jumble of rooms,’ he said, leading her through a door into an airy passageway that looked on to the courtyard. ‘It’s now garages and offices and mud-room. This doorway leads into the house proper.’

      Up three steps, another wide hall stretched in front of them. He opened a door halfway down. ‘Here’s the kitchen,’ he said.

      It was superb. Checking it out with an authoritative eye, Minerva saw that it had been newly renovated and set up for entertaining. Not just the occasional dinner party, either. The French range had enough capacity to feed a hundred, and there was a big old wood range too, crackling softly to itself and giving off a very pleasant heat. Clearly she’d found the source of the unexpected warmth throughout the house.

      ‘Do you think you can manage the stoves?’ Nick asked.

      ‘No problem,’ Minerva said reassuringly, trying to project a brisk, businesslike manner.

      Of course her hair chose that moment to slip from its knot at the back of her head and slither down her back. Nick’s gaze followed its downward passage until it reached her waist. Beneath the thick fringe of his lashes his eyes gleamed suddenly, something in that hooded scrutiny setting Minerva’s cheeks aflame.

      Turning away, she caught the fine, flyaway mass in two hands and ruthlessly anchored it in a knot at the back of her head, forcing the combs into the slippery, silky strands.

      So much for her effort to be composed and matter-of-fact!

      ‘I’ve cooked on everything from a campfire to a hotel range,’ she told him firmly, trying to regain ground.

      ‘Of course.’ The cool eyes scanned her flushed, averted face. His uneven smile held more than a hint of mockery. ‘You don’t look like my idea of a chef.’

      ‘Because I haven’t got a white hat on? I only wear one in hotel kitchens.’ Retreating behind a mask of expertise, she asked crisply, ‘What foods do you dislike?’

      ‘None. I’ll eat anything you put in front of me provided it isn’t too sweet.’ He glanced at the thin watch on his strong wrist. ‘We’ll talk about my tastes later, after I’ve shown you the rest of the house and your room.’

      A large tabby cat strolled casually in through the door, looked around with the air of one at home, then headed straight for him.

      ‘This is Penelope,’ he said, bending down to scratch her in exactly the right place behind her ears. ‘Her official job is to keep any mice down.’

      Minerva liked cats. This one, with its ineffable air of sleek self-respect, gave the huge kitchen a friendly, comfortable air. Purring, Penelope displayed herself sinuously about Nick’s ankles, then, when he stood up, leapt gracefully on to a stool and looked expectantly at Minerva.

      She laughed softly. ‘Wait until dinner,’ she said. ‘And if I ever see you on the bench—watch it.’

      The cat gave her a disgusted stare, yawned ostentatiously and settled down to wash its ears.

      ‘Don’t you like cats?’ Nick asked.

      ‘Love them, but with a cat it’s always wise to establish right at the beginning who’s boss. Penelope and I will get on very well, don’t worry.’ She stroked the blunt head, asking, ‘What’s your dog’s name? The one you were carrying on your horse?’

      ‘Rusty.’

      Minerva’s brows shot up. ‘That’s funny. I’d have bet money on him being black and white, without a speck of brown.’

      ‘And you’d have won. I didn’t name him,’ he said, that half-smile softening his features.

      ‘Who did?’

      ‘The man who bred him. I’ve always assumed he was colourblind.’

      ‘Does he come inside?’ she asked. ‘Rusty, I mean.’

      His eyebrows lifted. ‘No, he’s a farm dog.’

      So farm dogs were not pets. You learn something new every day, she told herself.

      ‘I used to have a Labrador who did come inside,’ he said, ‘but Stella didn’t like dogs, so when he died I didn’t get another.’

      There was a chilling lack of emotion in his tone, in his face, when he said his dead wife’s name. It was as though she meant nothing to him. Or perhaps, Minerva thought slowly, as though he still couldn’t bear to think of it, as though the only way he could cope was to tamp the emotions down.

      ‘And what is the horse’s name?’ she asked quickly.

      His brows lifted but he said readily enough, ‘Silver Demon.’

      Something in her expression must have given her away, because an answering amusement glimmered in his eyes. ‘I didn’t name him, either. Pretentious, isn’t it?’

      ‘It suits him,’ she said solemnly, smoothing the soft fur behind Penelope’s ears to hide the flutter that smile set up somewhere in the region of her heart.

      He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t. Although he’s a stallion he’s as placid as a gelding, which is why he’s here. We don’t breed horses at Spanish Castle, so there’s no place for a temperamental stallion, or mare, for that matter; this is a working station.’ He paused, then added without expression, ‘He doesn’t come inside, either.’

      When Minerva laughed he watched her with an arrested expression, almost as though a laughing woman was a novelty. The amusement died in her throat. Abruptly, Nick turned towards the door. Answering the unspoken summons, she left Penelope in charge and followed him from the kitchen.

      ‘I’ll take you round the ground floor first,’ he said, ‘so you know your way about, then I’ll show you your room.’

      The homestead was magnificent, furniture and fabric and the house itself combining to make a harmonious whole. The last room they went into was a splendid dining-room where an eighteenth-century mahogany table was set off perfectly by buttercup-coloured walls and a huge painting that should have been incongruous, a modern South American acrylic of the jungle. Yet the lush, almost naïve picture set off the big room and its elegant, traditional furniture with style and wit.

      Gazing around, Minerva asked, ‘Who decorated the house? It’s brilliant.’

      ‘My mother.’

      Was his mother still alive? Yes, Stella had written of a tall, charming woman who had married again. ‘She has great talent.’

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Although most of the furniture was in the house, she re-organised the place to within an inch of its life as well as choosing the colours and the materials. In her day it wasn’t done for a young woman to have a career, but she’d have been a success as a decorator. She lives in Singapore now with her second husband, and is having the time of her life redoing his house and garden.’

      The stairs led to a passage lit by an arched window above the staircase and a large double-hung window at the other end of the house. More pictures were displayed along the walls, some by artists Minerva thought she recognised, some unknown, but all chosen with discernment and the passion of the true connoisseur.

      ‘Did your mother collect the pictures?’ she asked, looking at one particularly impressive oil of a woman on the beach.

      ‘Some. My grandparents and great-grandparents bought some, and I’ve added to them.’

      ‘They have...’ Struggling for a way to express her feelings, she could only say lamely, ‘They seem to go to together, to make up a whole.’

      ‘Perhaps because we’ve only ever bought what we really