Shadowed Stranger. Carole Mortimer

did,’ he accused. ‘Well, I don’t need any hand-outs, Miss Castle,’ he told her furiously, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘So you can tell your mother—–’

      ‘No, Mr Howarth, you can tell her, when you return the dishes.’ She walked to the door, two bright spots of angry colour in her cheeks. ‘I’m certainly got going to tell her what an ungrateful swine you are!’ and she flung open the door.

      ‘Just a minute,’ he ground out, grasping her arm in exactly the same place as before, adding further bruises she was sure. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry to leave.’

      ‘But you said—–’

      ‘I didn’t ask you to leave.’

      ‘You were rude about my mother,’ she flared. ‘She was only trying to be friendly, and you threw her gesture back in her face.’

      ‘Okay, okay.’ He let go of her arm, running a hand round the back of his neck in a weary gesture, looking down helplessly at the casserole. ‘Maybe I was a little ungrateful.’

      ‘A little?’ she scoffed.

      ‘Okay, I was rude,’ he accepted with a sigh.

      ‘You were, very.’

      His mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile, the first lessening of his harshness that she had seen. ‘Don’t go over the top, Miss Castle,’ he drawled. ‘Just tell me what I have to do with this,’ he indicated the casserole, ‘to be able to eat it.’

      Robyn frowned. ‘You heat it up.’

      ‘How?’ he asked helplessly.

      She searched his hard face for any sign of mockery, but could see none. ‘You really don’t know how?’

      ‘I would hardly be asking if I did,’ he derided.

      ‘But I—You—Surely you must have been eating something in the time you’ve been here?’ She was incredulous at the thought of him not eating at all, although the whipcord leanness of him didn’t seem to indicate that he had been over-indulging.

      He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘The odd sandwich. And apples.’ He held up the apples he had brought in with him. ‘My dinner—I ran out of bread this morning.’

      Robyn shook her head. ‘That’s ridiculous! What are you trying to do, kill yourself?’

      Rick Howarth’s face darkened. ‘Mind your own damned business, Miss Castle,’ he rasped angrily, his features once again hard. ‘My eating habits are none of your concern.’

      ‘My comment wasn’t meant literally,’ she told him coldly, her head held high in challenge. ‘Although you don’t look well,’ she added daringly, waiting for the explosion.

      It didn’t come; his face was suddenly pale. ‘I don’t feel well,’ he admitted shakily, swaying slightly on his feet.

      Robyn rushed to his side, her arm going supportively about his waist. Although if he did pass out she would never be able to hold him up! ‘Sit down,’ she instructed firmly, envisaging an argument and not getting one as he pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. ‘When did you last eat?’ she asked concernedly.

      ‘I told you, I had the last of the bread this morning.’

      She really didn’t like the look of him, he was very pale. ‘How much?’ she probed.

      He shrugged. ‘One slice, I think.’

      ‘And before that?’

      ‘I had some apples yesterday,’ he said after a moment’s thought.

      Robyn sighed. ‘No wonder you’re feeling weak! I’ll heat up the casserole for you if you’ll just sit there.’

      His mouth twisted. ‘I wasn’t thinking of going anywhere.’

      She was conscious of him watching her as she moved about the kitchen, miraculously finding a saucepan, a plate and some cutlery. The cooker was a very old model, probably left here by old Mrs Bird who had last lived here. But at least the cooker worked, that was something.

      She turned round to find Rick Howarth still watching her, obviously completely recovered from the weakness that had suddenly washed over him. ‘Will you stop staring at me?’ she said irritably, muttering to herself as she burnt her finger on the rim of the saucepan. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ she accused crossly, backing away as he stood up to come towards her, very dark and overwhelming in the close confines of this small room.

      ‘Let me see.’ He held out his hand for hers.

      She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing.’

      ‘I want to see,’ he repeated firmly.

      Robyn thrust her hand at him, gritting her teeth as he took his time inspecting it. She surreptitiously watched him beneath lowered lashes. He really was a very handsome individual, so much so that it gave her the butterflies just to be near him. But there was a mystery about him, one that made her feel nervous of being alone with him like this. After all, she didn’t know the first thing about him.

      His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Just a superficial burn.’ He dropped her hand, his touch having been gentle but firm.

      ‘I could have told you that!’ She turned back to the cooker, her emotions disturbed as she served the casserole on to a plate before putting it down on the table.

      ‘Thanks.’ He sat down and began eating, slowly at first, and then with increasing appetite. ‘This is very good,’ he looked up long enough to say appreciatively.

      ‘I’m sure my mother will be glad to hear that,’ Robyn snapped sarcastically.

      He sighed. ‘Look, I’ve apologised—–’

      ‘No, you haven’t,’ she instantly contradicted, placing black unsugared coffee in front of him, having found an old tin kettle that she had boiled the water up in on the top of the cooker, but unable to find milk or sugar. The store-cupboard contained only coffee, the refrigerator was completely empty.

      ‘Maybe I haven’t,’ he accepted grudgingly. ‘But precocious kids—–’

      ‘Kid!’ she cut in indignantly, her eyes blazing.

      Rick Howarth smiled at her reaction, looking a lot less grim now that he had eaten something. ‘All right, schoolchildren of an indiscriminate age—–’

      She drew an angry breath. ‘I’m not a schoolgirl, Mr Howarth. I’m eighteen.’

      His gaze ran insolently over her slender body. ‘You aren’t very filled out for an eighteen-year-old.’

      ‘And you’re the scruffiest individual I’ve ever seen,’ she told him furiously, angered by his outspoken insults. She might not be voluptuous, but she had all the right curves in the right places—even if he was blind to them.

      ‘I am, aren’t I?’ he agreed with casual acceptance.

      ‘Yes!’ she snapped. ‘And your hair needs cutting too.’

      He sat back, his plate empty. ‘What are you like as a barber?’

      Her eyes widened to large violet orbs. ‘I’m not offering to cut your hair for you!’

      ‘I’m asking.’

      ‘But I—I don’t even know you!’

      His smile was mocking. ‘Do you have to know someone before you can cut their hair?’

      She was near exploding point at his audacity. ‘I came over here to return your money—Oh goodness,’ she groaned, ‘I haven’t given it to you.’ She took it out of her pocket and put it on the table. ‘I didn’t need it after all,’ she explained. ‘Besides, this was much too much.’

      He made no effort to pick up the money,