Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

He gave Dixie a distinctly interested look as he turned to call the order through a hatch behind him.

      Dixie rested a foot on the rail of the bar and leaned on her elbows. Jet lag sapped her energy. Chauvinistic Brit lawyers didn’t help. Food might.

      “A pint of bitter too, Alf.” Sebastian turned to Dixie, “How about you? G and T? White wine?”

      She shook her head. “Guinness, please.”

      “Right you are.” Alf filled a heavy glass mug with great care, settling the head just right, rested the glass on a towel to take up the drips, then set it on a coaster advertising Merrydown Cider.

      Dixie sipped, drinking through the foamy head. The taste took her back to evenings on her grandmother’s lap, relishing the one sip Gran allowed. Something pinched deep in her chest at the thought. She took a deeper taste and met Alf’s questioning eyes. “Great,” she said. “Gran was right. It does taste better over here.”

      “That’s because your people mess with it, changing the alcoholic content and I don’t know what.” Alf wiped a couple of drips from the bar top. “Staying long, are you?”

      Caughleigh tapped her elbow. “We’ve got business to cover. Let’s sit in the conservatory.”

      Irritated, Dixie followed him. Suppose she’d preferred to stay at the bar. Had he thought about that? She had a hard time not making a face at his broad, pinstripe-covered shoulders.

      The conservatory looked out on green lawns, flowerbeds beginning to show bloom and a large jungle gym. Dixie sat down on the chintz-cushioned chair Sebastian held for her and set her drink on the wrought-iron table. They were alone except for a cat, curled up in sleep in a pool of sunshine. Dixie looked around at the faded roses on the upholstery, the polished tile floor, the geraniums on the windowsills and the mismatched wrought iron and mahogany furniture. Fashionable interior decorators would charge a small fortune to put together this look.

      Dixie’s arm brushed an immense, pink geranium as she turned in her seat. The sharp scent took her back to Gran’s piazza overlooking the Battery. And her reason for being here. “Sebastian,” she said, “I’d like to see my house after lunch.”

      He almost choked on a mouthful of bitter.

      “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he replied after he’d coughed into a linen handkerchief. “I only have one key. Mike Jenkins has it. I asked him to value the house. He’s a local estate agent, very reputable. I’d recommend him to handle the sale.”

      “Can’t you get it back?” Dixie looked across at his smooth, dark eyes. They didn’t quite meet hers.

      He took a slow sip from his beer. “How about in the morning? It gets dark early and the electricity’s turned off.”

      Alf arrived with two plates overflowing with salad, a slab of cheese, pickles, relishes, and a small loaf. The sight and smell of food reminded Dixie how long ago she’d eaten her last real meal. Plastic food on an airplane didn’t count.

      “You didn’t say how long you’re staying.”

      Dixie looked up from buttering a hunk of bread. “I’m not sure.” She hadn’t really thought about it.

      “I’ve booked you for bed and breakfast at Miss Reade’s. She’s here in the village. I’ll take you there after lunch.”

      He had, had he? “I’d planned on staying in my house.”

      Sebastian’s brows wrinkled. He smiled. He showed very white teeth. “Well, you could…but there’s no electricity or gas and the water’s turned off. I know how you Americans like your creature comforts.”

      “We do. But I’ve come quite a long way to see my property.”

      He put a lot of effort into his smile. His eyes weren’t half bad either. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do. The house isn’t habitable right now. Your great-aunts were the local eccentrics, I’m afraid. I think you’ll be more comfortable at Miss Reade’s. If not, there’s a good country hotel over in Bookham.”

      “I’ll stay in Bringham.” She hadn’t come this far to end up miles down the road.

      “Suppose I take you over to Miss Reade’s after lunch? Leave you to get settled, unpacked and whatever you ladies do. In the morning, we can meet at my office and sign a few things that need taking care of. I’ll have the key then. We can go over the house and find out what Mike Jenkins thinks.”

      Reasonable enough. Every muscle ached and her head throbbed. A whole pint on a jet-lagged stomach hadn’t been a good idea.

      Sebastian gave her a key for the front door of a tile-hung cottage by the Green. Miss Reade worked in Leatherhead and wouldn’t be home until six. He carried Dixie’s suitcase up to a floral-papered room in the eaves, explained the intricacies of the electric kettle in her room, and left after agreeing to meet her at ten in the morning.

      Overcoming the odd sensation of inhabiting the house in its owner’s absence, Dixie explored. This was her idea of an English country cottage: oak furniture, polished brass, open fireplaces, a spotless kitchen overlooking a neat back garden and a narrow, dark stairway hidden behind a door in the dining room. After hanging her clothes in the corner closet and placing the rest in the carved oak dresser, Dixie showered off the grime of travel and made a cup of coffee using the kettle and rose-decorated china in her room. Too weary to finish it, she crawled between the lavender scented sheets and slept the afternoon away.

      “What the Hades were you trying? I told you to stay out of my office!” Sebastian Caughleigh stormed through the door.

      James raised an eyebrow. “I wanted an eyeful of the American heiress.”

      “You already had one.”

      “No harm done then.” James lounged in the wingback chair.

      “No?” Sebastian sneered down at his nephew. “If you’d taken her wallet as you were supposed to, she’d have been delayed, maybe even gone home in disgust. Instead, she’s here and oh so very anxious to look over her property. I’ve stalled her until the morning. You’d better find what we need tonight. There must be enough of it to fill a van.”

      “I’ll find it. Trust me, Uncle.”

      “Trust you? I’m not that stupid!”

      James ignored that. He stretched his thin legs out towards the empty fireplace. “Where is our eager American now?”

      “Safely ensconced at Emily’s.”

      “How nice. Tuck away your newest opportunity in your inamorata’s cottage.”

      Sebastian sat in the opposite chair, rested his forearms on his thighs and snarled towards James, “A word of advice. Don’t fail. It could get difficult for you if you don’t succeed tonight. Remember whom you’re letting down.”

      “Such unkind words, Uncle. Threats even. You hurt my feelings. Maybe I won’t tell you what I took from Miss LePage.”

      “You will.”

      James reached into his pocket and hefted a small brown leather book. He made as if to toss it to his uncle, then pulled back his arm. “Interested?” He smiled at Sebastian’s outstretched hand.

      The hand stayed open. “Give,” Sebastian hissed. James tossed the book at him. Sebastian caught it and flicked the thin pages. “Her diary. Wonderful. Now we know when she plays bridge.”

      “More than that, Uncle. I had a good read while you were out courting her. It’s one of those ‘everything’ books—phone numbers, addresses, bank account numbers and every lunch date and dentist appointment since January. Without it she won’t be doing much telephoning or sending postcards to her pals back home.”

      Sebastian wrapped his fingers around the soft leather. It might make interesting reading but its loss was hardly