Tempted by Trouble. Liz Fielding

      ‘Not a what, a who. I have a delivery for Lovage Amery.’

      Oh, no …

      Back to earth with a bump.

      She hadn’t ordered anything—she couldn’t afford anything that would require delivery—but she had a grandmother who lived in a fantasy world. And her name was Lovage, too.

      But all the questions tumbling out of her brain—the what, the who, the ‘how much?’ stuff—hit a traffic jam as his smile widened, reaching the parts of her that ordinary smiles couldn’t touch.

      Her pulse, her knees, some point just below her midriff that was slowly dissolving to jelly.

      ‘If you’ll just take this …’

      She looked down and discovered that this delectable, sinewy package that had those drooling hormones sitting up and begging for whatever trouble he had in mind was offering her a large brown envelope.

      The last time one of those had come calling for ‘Lovage Amery’ she’d taken it without a concern in the world, smiling right back at the man offering it to her.

      She’d been younger then. About to start college, embark on her future, unaware that life had yet one more sucker punch to throw at her.

      ‘What is it?’ she asked, regretting the abandonment of the rubber gloves. Regretting answering the door.

      ‘Rosie,’ he said. As if that explained everything. ‘You are expecting her?’

      She must have looked as blank as she felt because he half turned and with a careless wave of the envelope, gestured towards the side of the house.

      She leaned forward just far enough to see the front of a large pink and white van that had been backed up towards the garage.

      She stared at it, expecting to see some disreputable dog sticking its head out of the window. She’d banned her sister from bringing home any more strays from the rescue shelter. The last one had broken not only their hearts, but what remained of their bank balance. But Geli was not above getting someone else to do her dirty work.

      ‘Where is she?’ she asked. Then, realising this practically constituted an acceptance, ‘No. Whatever Geli said, I can’t possibly take another dog. The vet’s bills for the last one—’

      ‘Rosie isn’t a dog,’ he said, and now he was the one looking confused. ‘That’s Rosie.’

      She frowned, stared at the picture of an ice cream sundae on the van door, little cones on the roof, and suddenly realised what she was looking at.

      ‘Rosie is an ice cream van?’

      ‘Congratulations.’

      Elle frowned. Congratulations? Had she won it in one of the many competitions she’d entered in a fit of post-Christmas despair when the washing machine had sprung a leak on the same day as the electricity bill had arrived?

      Surely not.

      She hadn’t had any warning of its arrival. No phone call. No letter informing her of her good fortune. Which was understandable.

      This would have to be the booby prize because, desperate as she was, she wouldn’t have entered a competition offering a second-hand ice cream van as first prize.

      She wouldn’t have entered one offering a new ice cream van, but at least she could have sold it and bought a new washing machine, one with a low energy programme—thus dealing with two problems at once—with the proceeds.

      While unfamiliar with the latest trends in transport, even she could see that Rosie’s lines were distinctly last century.

      Already the sorry owner of an ancient car that had failed its annual MOT test with a list of faults a mile long, the last thing she needed was to be lumbered with more scrap.

      ‘Congratulations?’ she repeated.

      ‘You appear to have twenty-twenty vision,’ he teased.

      ‘A very old ice cream van,’ she pointed out, doing her best to ignore the gotcha grin, the faded black T-shirt clinging to those enticing shoulders and figure out what the heck was going on.

      ‘Actually, she’s a nineteen sixty-two Commer ice cream van in her original livery,’ he said, without a hint of apology. On the contrary, he seemed to be under the impression that it was a good thing.

      ‘Nineteen sixty-two!’

      It beat the wreck in the garage, which had rolled off the assembly line when she was still in primary school, by thirty years. That was a stripling youth compared to Rosie, which had taken to the road when her grandmother was still in school.

      ‘The old girl’s vintage,’ Sean confirmed. ‘She’s your Great-Uncle Basil’s pride and joy, but right now she’s in need of a good home.’

      As he said this, he looked over her shoulder into the house, no doubt intending to emphasize the point.

      He didn’t visibly flinch but the hall, like the rest of the house, was desperately in need of a coat of paint. It was also piled up with discarded shoes, coats and all the other stuff that teenagers seemed to think belonged on the floor. And of course, her rubber gloves.

      That was the bad news.

      The good news was that he couldn’t see where the carpet had been chewed by the dog that had caused them all so much grief.

      ‘Vintage,’ she repeated sharply, forcing him to look at her instead of the mess behind her. ‘Well, it would certainly fit right in around here. There’s just one small problem.’

      More than one if she was being honest and honestly, despite the fact that the aged family car had failed its annual test and she was desperate for some transport, she wasn’t prepared to take possession of a vehicle that was short on seats and heavy on fuel.

      Walking, as she was always telling her sisters, was good for you. Shaped up the legs. Pumped blood around the body and made the brain work harder. And they all had a duty to the planet to walk more. Or use public transport.

      She walked. They used public transport.

      There was absolutely no chance that either of her sisters would consider using the bike when it meant wearing an unflattering helmet and looking, in their words, ‘like a dork’ when they arrived at school and college, respectively.

      ‘Which is?’ he prompted.

      She didn’t bother him with the financial downside of her situation, but kept it simple.

      ‘I don’t have a Great Uncle Basil.’

      Finally a frown. It didn’t lessen the attraction, just made him look thoughtful, studious. Even more hormone-twangingly desirable.

      ‘You are Lovage Amery?’ he asked, catching up with the fact that, while she hadn’t denied it, she hadn’t confirmed it either. ‘And this is Gable End, The Common, Longbourne.’

      She was slow to confirm it and, twigging to her reluctance to own up to the name, the address, he glanced back at the wide wooden gate propped wide open and immovable for as long as she could remember. The letters that spelled out the words ‘Gable End’ were faded almost to nothing, but denial was pointless.

      ‘Obviously there has been some kind of mistake,’ she said with all the conviction she could muster. Maybe. Her grandmother might well know someone named Basil who needed somewhere to park his ice cream van, but he wasn’t her uncle, great or otherwise. And, even if she’d wanted to—and she didn’t—she had no time to take on an ice cream round. End of, as Geli was so fond of saying. ‘Please take it away.’

      ‘I will.’ Her relieved smile was a fraction too fast. ‘If you’ll just help me get to the bottom of this.’

      ‘Some kind of muddle in the paperwork?’ she offered. ‘Take it up with Basil.’

      ‘It’s