The Cinderella Factor Page 15

  He did not wait for a reply. It was just as well. Jo was dumbstruck.

  Sweetheart!

  Too-tall scarecrows with shoulders like a wardrobe didn’t get called sweetheart. But she did. She had. She hugged it to herself all through the day. After supper she could not concentrate on any of Patrick’s books because the word went round and round in her head. She could not stop smiling.

  It was a breathless night. The heat of the day had not been dispelled when the sun fell. Instead it seemed to stay around, baking the ground, making the stones of the garage sweat, keeping the air as still as an assassin waiting for his victim. And, of course, there was Patrick’s ‘sweetheart’ to keep her restless.

  In the end, Jo gave up on sleep. She slipped out into the garden and walked down to the fountain.

  It was there that she heard a sound. A sound she should not have been hearing. Hardly believing what was in her mind, Jo went soft-footed towards it. She peered round a trim box hedge and her heart sank.

  They were back, all right. They were not even bothering to keep their voices down. She could make out their dark figures distinctly, strolling up the back drive. And she had told them how to get in, Jo thought in dawning horror.

  She turned and pelted for the château.

  It was in darkness, but when she tried the back door was unlocked. The kitchen was empty. So, a cursory glance showed her, was the drawing room and the study. But she could make out a light in the conservatory. She ran down the corridor and pushed open the heavy glass door.

  She was still out of breath. ‘Patrick,’ she said urgently.

  He was reclining on a bamboo sofa, going through some papers in the light of a small table lamp. He stood up when she came in, his brows looking concerned.

  ‘What is it?’

  Jo blinked. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt. She had never seen him dressed so informally before. It made him look bigger, somehow, and powerfully attractive. The jeans flattered his long length. The shirt contrasted with his tan and threw into relief the muscles and sinews of arms, neck and shoulders.

  And this was the man she was in love with? She was crazy. She didn’t stand a chance!

  Her breathlessness was no longer due entirely to running. ‘Patrick,’ she said again, on a wavering note. ‘I should have told you when you came to garage the car but I forgot. I’m so sorry. I’ve done something awful.’

  He looked at her with an unfathomable expression for a moment. Then his mouth tilted quizzically.

  ‘How awful?’ he asked.

  Jo drew a deep breath and launched into full confession. ‘There were some girls here earlier. I took them back into Lacombe but…They asked me and…I told them how to get in by the back drive. I didn’t think. I’m so sorry.’

  She waited for one of his famous explosions. It did not come.

  ‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘And from your dishevelled state, I take it you’ve just bumped into them on the premises?’

  ‘Well, they’re only in the garden so far,’ Jo said fair-mindedly. ‘But I’m pretty sure they won’t stay there.’

  ‘So am I,’ agreed Patrick dryly. His eyes crinkled. ‘Stop hovering. You look like a neurotic stork. Sit down and let us think about this.’

  Jo sat on the very edge of a wicker chair. It was completely surrounded by trails of weeping fig, so that the brightly striped cushions almost looked as if they were placed directly on the vegetation. It was quite the most uncomfortable seat she had ever had in her life. She fixed her eyes on him anxiously.

  Patrick’s look was full of lazy appreciation. ‘Very Amazonian. All you need is a machete.’

  Jo looked down. She was wearing her sleeping shorts, and all of her scuffed, tanned legs showed. She blushed. Fortunately, Patrick was already turning away, reaching for a telephone behind a tub of lilies that looked as if they had tongues and teeth. Jo decided that she didn’t like exotic plants.

  ‘Simon?’ Patrick was saying into the phone. ‘You weren’t asleep, so stop moaning. Can you join me? I’m in the conservatory.’ There must have been objections from the other end because he said, ‘Yes I know. Never mind that now. Something’s come up. Rather a nuisance.’ He paused longer this time, to listen to the other’s reasoning. ‘Well, switch it through to here. Press the back slash and then dial—’ he looked at his phone ‘—twenty-eight. Soon as you can, please.’ He broke the connection and turned back to Jo. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said softly.

  ‘But I’ve been so stupid. I’ve let you down.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’ His tone was gentle. ‘You were a little unwary, perhaps. It happens to all of us sometimes.’

  Jo felt guiltier than ever. ‘Don’t be kind to me, Patrick.’

  His eyes were pure gold in the soft light of the reading lamp. He looked at her for a moment without speaking, holding her gaze so that she could not look away.

  ‘Why not?’ he said softly.

  Jo could not answer. Her eyes widened wonderingly. The silence between them lengthened. A leaf fell from a plant somewhere and the dry little sound made her jump. But still Patrick sat looking at her with that mesmerising half-smile. Jo’s heart began to race.

  But then a dapper, balding man with bright eyes and rumpled hair bustled in. Simon Hatfield, Jo deduced, swinging round on her seat.

  ‘I hope your blasted extension system works. They said they’d ring me back tonight,’ Simon Hatfield said.

  Patrick stood up and went to a small bamboo cupboard that Jo had not noticed before. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask. Whisky, please.’

  ‘Jo?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve had enough hangovers for this week,’ she said ruefully.

  Patrick laughed aloud. ‘Grapefruit juice, then.’

  Simon’s eyebrows rose. Patrick introduced them swiftly and brought the drinks back to the bamboo table. Jo put his papers on the floor to make room for the glasses.

  ‘You,’ Simon told him, ‘are a horrible slave-driver. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m going to charge you a fortune for this, I’d tell you to call the office.’

  But he sat down and sipped his drink with a friendly smile.

  Patrick grinned. It was clear that they were friends. ‘You’re a fraud. You would kill for a week of Nanny Morrison’s cakes.’

  ‘You may have point,’ Simon agreed. ‘So, what’s this nuisance?’

  Patrick’s grin died. ‘Possible trespass.’

  Simon looked at Jo. His bright eyes were full of speculative interest. She blushed and tried to tuck her long, bare legs out of sight under the chair.

  ‘No, not Jo,’ Patrick said with a quick frown. ‘She works here. She saw the forces of darkness advancing. I want you to get rid of them for me.’

  ‘I draw the line at murder,’ Simon said peacefully. ‘At least while I’m notionally on holiday. If you want to prosecute for trespass get a French lawyer. I haven’t a clue what to do.’

  ‘Then think about it,’ Patrick advised. ‘I’ve had enough of being pursued by media groupies.’

  Simon looked weary. ‘Oh, another assault of the “My Night With the Stars” brigade?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘Well, we’ve seen them off before.’

  ‘And last time,’ said Patrick dryly, ‘it cost me my job and a lot of friends. Can we think about damage limitation this time?’

  ‘Sure.’ Simon’s smile was bland. ‘Just point out there’s a lady in residence,’ he said, with a wave in Jo’s direction. ‘Trophy’s already won. They go away. Easy. That’s my considered professional advice.’

  Patrick looked at Simon for inscrutable minutes. Jo thought that if she were Simon she would be shifting from foot to foot in growing discomfort. But the lawyer maintained his cheerful affability.

  ‘That’s your best shot?’ Patrick asked at last.

  He did not look at Jo at all.

  ‘That’s your best shot,’ Simon corrected. ‘Not
hing to do with me if you’re a lust object for every woman under ninety. I’m just telling you what makes sense. From my vantage point as an informed bystander.’

  Patrick’s brows twitched together in a line of black displeasure. He said curtly, ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Simon flicked at glance at Jo. ‘What’s your opinion—er—Jo? What would discourage you most if you’d managed to chase Patrick into his lair?’

  Jo shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine it,’ she said with fervour.

  For some reason that made Patrick frown even more blackly.

  ‘Jo’s my employee. I’m not tangling her up in my private disasters,’ he said sharply. ‘And I don’t need any advice that tells me otherwise.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Simon, showing signs of annoyance at last. ‘Then I’ll deal with the little matter of family support and you deal with this tinpot crisis in your own way.’

  They glared at each other for a fraught minute.

  Then Patrick gave a soft laugh. He shrugged quickly.

  ‘You’re right. I’m getting it out of proportion. Put it down to frustration.’

  Simon’s eyes rested briefly on Jo. ‘Oh, I do.’

  Patrick said hastily, ‘Another Scotch?’

  Jo said, ‘Family support?’

  Simon looked thoughtful. ‘I gather it was your idea? Patrick withdrew his application to adopt and offered to buy up some bombed-out buildings to house the whole group. In theory foreigners can’t own property. But we’ve worked out a wheeze whereby the people own it collectively. He will support them and arrange rebuilding. It’s a great solution.’

  Patrick was pouring drinks when Simon’s telephone rang. Simon flicked it open, spoke briefly, and listened for longer. Once he pulled a pen and leather-bound notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket and made a careful note.

  When he put the phone down he looked at Patrick soberly.

  ‘Congratulations. You own a village street.’

  Jo stared.

  Patrick was absolutely still. Eventually he said, ‘And that means?’

  ‘It means they stay together. Pavli gets to live with the Borec family. You can send in builders whenever you like. The Red Cross are happy to let their local man live there, too. They won’t monitor formally, but he’ll be around. So the warlords will think twice about trying to muscle in.’

  Patrick said nothing. He was very pale.

  Simon said in a slightly injured voice, ‘That’s the best I can do. I think it’s a damned good settlement. Much more than I expected, to be honest. That guy at the airport this evening must have been really impressed.’

  Patrick let out a great whoop. He scooped Jo up from the sofa and swung her round. ‘Simon, you’re a marvel. Jo, you’re a genius. Now we’re cooking with gas. When can we get started?’

  Simon broke into a grin. ‘Want to go and sign the agreement now? I can fax from the library, can’t I?’

  They went, still talking hard.

  Jo got up and began to move restlessly along the overhung pathways of the conservatory.

  The low reading lamp cast odd shadows, making the tall conservatory seem even taller and the hanging foliage somehow dark and vaguely menacing. In the silence after the men’s departure Jo became aware of the sound of water trickling. She traced it to a stone cherub on the far wall, out of whose mouth a desultory trickle of water played on a series of stone bowls beneath. She looked at the water lilies in the lowest bowl.

  He had listened to her. More, he had followed her advice. Her advice. No one had ever done that. He’d said she was a genius. Patrick Burns, who made a difference to the world, had said she was a genius.

  She realised she was trembling.

  I’m not just in love, she thought. I think I’ve just committed my whole life.

  It was exhilarating, but also a little frightening. She sat very quietly in her dark corner of the conservatory and let herself recognise that she was committed to Patrick Burns.

  Great swathes of headily scented, leathery leaved stephanotis twined round the pillar beside the artificial pools. They effectively hid from sight anyone standing by the little fountain. Unless, of course, you already knew there was someone in the conservatory and came looking for them.

  The girls who slid open the window at the end of the conservatory clearly did not know. They were talking in excited undervoices.

  ‘Lisa, are you sure…?’

  ‘Shut up and give me a hand.’

  There was the creak of windows being opened. One of the girls scrambled through and gave a shriek as she impaled herself on a spiky-leaved plant. At once there was silence.

  What do I do now? thought Jo.

  While she was still debating, the girl, reassured by the lack of reaction, had found a safer place for her feet and let herself down with a thump.

  The big glass door opened hastily.

  ‘Jo?’ said Patrick, from the doorway. ‘Are you all right?’

  Jo had her mouth open to answer, to warn him, when there was a small rush and the table lamp was extinguished. Patrick said her name again. And then there was a breathless little laugh, a patter of lightly soled feet and Patrick saying furiously, ‘Jo—what the hell—?’

  Jo did not need to use her imagination very much to know why his words were so sharply broken off. It was quite obvious from the murmurous little noises that Lisa was making.

  Oh, Lord, thought Jo. And he must have thought it was her, flinging herself at him in the darkness. She felt hot at the thought. Blundering, she started forward. She found the tumbled table lamp without difficulty. She righted it, her brain working rapidly. Immediate action was necessary. Another lady in residence, Simon Hatfield had said. Could she do it? What would Patrick say if she did? He might not, thought Jo, shivering a little, thank her for it. But Simon had said it would work. And Patrick wanted damage limitation.

  Lisa was saying, ‘Hi, gorgeous. You took a rain check at the office party, remember? And now I’m here to deliver. Oh, Patrick, Patrick…’

  Patrick said, in a voice like an ice cap, ‘Lisa from Reception. What did I do to deserve this?’

  Jo made her decision.

  She knew what to do. She knew how it had to look to be convincing. Just think of Jacques and Anne Marie, she told herself. And keep a seat belt on your heart!

  Quickly, Jo ran her fingers through her soft locks, mussing them into what she hoped would look like the disorder of a disturbed embrace. She hauled her old tee shirt out of her shorts and pushed it so that it fell off one shoulder. She kicked off her soft shoes.

  Then she turned on the light and went towards them, yawning artistically. She looked—or she hoped she looked—like a girl ready and waiting to make enthusiastic love with her lover. In her imagined scenario Patrick was returning to continue where he’d left off. All she had to do was make it plain to Lisa that there was no room in his life for anyone else.

  They were both staring at her. Lisa had her arms tight round Patrick’s neck. He was straining away from her embrace. In the shock of the sudden light her arms fell reluctantly. Patrick looked frustrated—and furious. When he saw Jo, his mouth fell open.

  Jo felt a flutter of nervousness in her stomach. She quelled it. She was taking Simon Hatfield’s professional advice, she reminded herself. She contrived another yawn and her eyes met Patrick’s.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t hear you come in. I fell asleep,’ she said, hoping it sounded intimate enough.

  He said nothing. Well, at least he hadn’t repudiated her yet, Jo thought, trying to look on the bright side.

  She looked at Lisa and gave her a cheerful grin—the sort of grin that the lady in possession would be likely to give an intruder who offered no contest. At least, she hoped so.

  ‘Hi. Back again?’

  Lisa was looking stunned. She was very pretty, Jo noted—not for the first time.

  ‘Yes. I wanted— I mean, I thought—’

  The girl’s eyes
slid up to Patrick’s austere profile.

  Jo stepped up to Patrick, slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. It was unyielding. She hoped it did not look as harshly unwelcoming as it felt.

  Experimentally, Jo turned her face against the material of his shirt, like a stroked cat. It made Patrick’s shoulder muscles stiffen, but he did not protest.

  The scent of the shirt and his body under it was disturbingly familiar. Swallowing, Jo tried to repress the little shivers of excitement which were threatening to destroy her concentration.

  From her vantage point against his shirt Jo smiled at the girl, who had stepped awkwardly away. ‘Did you leave something behind?’

  Patrick drew a deep breath. Jo felt his chest rise under her cheek.

  ‘You said you didn’t come into the house,’ the girl said accusingly.

  Patrick seemed to make a decision. He put his arm round Jo’s waist.

  She could not help herself. She gave an involuntary shiver, as if he had touched a nerve. Something deep inside her fluttered into vibrating life.

  Patrick said, quite gently, ‘I can’t see that our private arrangements can be of interest to you, Lisa.’ He took Jo’s hand and held it against his heart, looking down at her tenderly.

  Jo’s breath almost stopped in her throat. Oh, when he played a part, he played it wholeheartedly, she thought, startled. Never mind Lisa, he almost had Jo believing that it was love looking at her out of those amber eyes, inviting her to drown herself in emotion.

  It might even be true. Only—how could she tell? The man was sex on a stick; beautiful girls climbed into strange houses to get at him. He looked at Jo with more affection than anyone else she had ever known. He hugged her. He kissed her hand. But he was a demonstrative man. He hugged Nanny Morrison, too.

  Oh, how did you know what a man like that was feeling?

  She managed a tremulous sigh. It was not entirely play-acting.

  Lisa looked from one face to the other. Her mouth tightened. Suddenly, she did not look so pretty any more. She said hoarsely, ‘You’re lying.’