A Summer of Secrets (17 page)

‘Right. The spare’s fine,’ he informed her, appearing at the window again, and rolling up the sleeves of his light-blue shirt. At the impressive muscles this action revealed, she tried not to gawp. ‘Do you want to hop out and I’ll get her jacked up?’

Portia really didn’t want to hop out. She felt safe in the car. Confident in the knowledge that, by merely pressing a button and closing the window, she could block out the rest of the world. And Jed Carr. Except she couldn’t. Not with his jacket on the seat beside her. The jacket that held the scent of his aftershave. The jacket she wanted to reach out and touch again. But she couldn’t do that, either. Because even she thought that would be verging on the ludicrous. And if Jed witnessed her engaging in such behaviour, he’d no doubt think her even more unstable than he probably did now.

She slanted him a glance as he continued hovering. What had he said? Oh, yes. That he wanted her to hop out of the car. Oh, God. She was going to have to. Despite the fact her legs had turned to cotton wool. With a racing heart, she pushed the button that, with a healthy clunk, released the locks. No sooner had she done so than Jed yanked open the door.

‘Bach, eh?’ he said, as Portia scrambled out. ‘Pure genius. Can’t get enough of the
Concerto for Two Violins
.’

Recalling the rock music blasting from his car the first time he’d bowled up at Buttersley Manor, Portia furrowed her brow as she came to stand alongside him. Of all the people who loved
Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins
, she would never have imagined Jed Carr being one of them.

‘Bet you didn’t have me down as a classical music fan,’ he chuckled, as if reading her mind. ‘I have what is known as an eclectic taste in music. Bon Jovi – now they’re genius, too. What about you?’

What about her? Standing beside him, drinking in the smell of his aftershave, trying not to gawp at his muscled arms, Portia would’ve been hard-pushed to recall her name, never mind anything else.

‘What kind of music do you like?’ he asked. ‘Apart from our German friend?’

‘Oh, er, all sorts,’ she blustered, praying he didn’t press her for details. If he insisted on changing her tyre, she’d rather he just got on with it than force inane chit-chat. Thankfully, he didn’t press. Instead, he knelt down at the car and began messing about with the jack. Portia’s gaze landed on his firm butt, showcased in jeans. What would it be like to dig her nails into that as he –?

‘Have you got an old rag or something?’ he asked, jolting her out of her completely inappropriate reverie.

Jesus. What was happening to her? Obviously it was so long since she’d had sex that her body was rebelling. In a way even she didn’t recognise.

‘I, um, think I have some tissues somewhere,’ she replied, cringing inwardly at how pathetic that sounded. He’d no doubt think her a complete bimbo. Which she wasn’t. Any other day she would have changed her own bloomin’ tyre. Well, that would teach her to submit to feelings of woe. She should’ve bitten the bullet and got on with it instead of wallowing in self-pity. Now, the whole ordeal had been made a bazillion times worse by not only having to deal with Jed, but being made to feel like a helpless female.

So evidently unimpressed had Jed been by her tissue reply that he didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, before Portia’s frazzled brain had computed what was happening, the new tyre was in place, the old one in the boot.

‘Right. That’s that, then,’ he announced, wiping his hands on a handkerchief that had miraculously appeared from somewhere. So engrossed had she been in her reverie, she’d failed to notice its origin.

‘Well, er, thanks very much,’ she replied, unable to recall a moment in her life when she’d felt quite so awkward. What should she do now? Slip him a few quid? Bit silly given his obvious financial status. Offer to take him for a drink? Heavens, no. Her nerves couldn’t stand it. She had no idea why this man had such an effect on her, but she didn’t like it. It made her feel vulnerable; out of control; completely and utterly out of her comfort –

‘Think you owe me a drink,’ he said, in that spooky way he seemed to have of reading her mind.

Just when she thought she’d crashed into every possible emotion in the last thirty minutes, her stomach now began churning with a mixture of dread and excitement. In equal measure. She really couldn’t go for a drink with him, though. She was already a wreck. Another thirty minutes in his company and she could internally combust, leaving behind nothing but a mound of smouldering flesh.

‘I’m really sorry, but I can’t,’ she said, contorting her features into what she hoped was a regretful expression. ‘Another time, maybe.’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he said, his twinkling dark gaze setting off another swarm of butterflies in her gut.

‘Thank you for helping me out. I appreciate it,’ she bumbled, clambering back into the car, desperate to put some distance between the two of them. ‘I’ll, er, see you around.’

Jed closed the car door and leant on the rim of the open window. ‘You certainly will,’ he said, with a cheeky wink.

Portia’s face flushed scarlet. ‘Well, bye then,’ she said, struggling to find the slot for the ignition key, her hands were shaking so much.

‘Bye.’

Without wasting another moment, Portia located the key slot, started up the engine and pulled out of the car park, relief seeping through her as she watched the image of Jed watching her grow smaller. It was only when she wound up the window a few minutes later and breathed in the scent of his aftershave that she realised his jacket was still on the passenger seat.

***

Jed had to hand it to Portia Pinkington-Smythe. She was one cool customer. Although something about her behaviour today told him she maybe wasn’t quite as cool as he’d originally thought. Still drop-dead gorgeous, she’d looked tired, washed out. And she’d seemed on edge, revealing just a hint of vulnerability. The whole package had served to make her even sexier than usual. God. When she’d been gazing at him through the open car window, it had been all he could do not to grab hold of her, pull her to him, and snog the face off her. And when she’d stood beside him, he’d had to prattle on about all sorts of random stuff to prevent the images cantering through his head of her endless legs wrapped around him in all kinds of inventive positions.

Not that Jed was usually so horny. Naturally, like any red-blooded male, he loved attractive women, but they just hadn’t featured much in his life. He hadn’t had time. Far too occupied with work. He’d had a couple of “relationships” – if you could call them that. His last one, and also his longest – with a hairdresser called Tammy – had lasted three months, Jed bringing a swift end to the partnership when her true – and very murky – colours had been revealed. Money had been the only thing that interested Tammy. Lots of it, and preferably none she’d earned herself. That had been at least six years ago and, apart from the odd one-night stand, there hadn’t been anyone else since.

Which was why this magnetic attraction to Portia Pinkington-Smythe had hit him with all the impact of a steel-enforced medicine ball. This was a woman who, he suspected, had lived the life of a spoilt, pampered princess. A million miles away from his life, where he’d grafted for every single penny. He didn’t have a clue about Portia’s family history. He didn’t care. All he wanted from her – apart from a tumble in the sack – was Buttersley Manor. He could make a fortune transforming it into luxury apartments. Young executives would be stabbing each other in the back for them. Not only from Harrogate, but from Leeds, too. He’d do such a good job, they’d be worth the commute.

But first, he had to get his hands on the building. And he could only do that by persisting with Portia. This was business. And, as Tony used to say, you can’t mix it with pleasure. No, he would shelve all thoughts of bedding the woman and concentrate on his business objective: the manor. And to satisfy his lustful cravings he’d have a night out with the lads. Hook up with a classy bird in one of Leeds’ trendy wine bars. He’d never had a problem before. And once he’d got sex out of his system, he’d be able to focus clearly again.

Chapter Thirteen

Jenny’s last date with Len – when they’d enjoyed a very pleasant stroll around the village – had, thankfully, gone much better than dinner at Aubergine. Or at least it had until they’d ended the evening with a drink at the Duck Inn, which, again because of the glorious evening, had been packed to capacity, with bodies spilling over onto the pavement outside. A small group of parents from the school had been there. Jenny had merely intended exchanging a few pleasantries with them as she and Len squeezed past, but Len evidently had other ideas. Much to her astonishment, he somehow managed to infiltrate the group, leaving Jenny with no choice but to do the same. While she’d wallowed in embarrassment, Len had seemingly been in his element. Jenny had been relieved when the group had dispersed, muttering something about having to get back to relieve their babysitters.

‘Well, that was pleasant, wasn’t it?’ he remarked, as they slipped into a couple of just-become-vacant seats. ‘I do think it’s important to get to know people in the area, don’t you?’

Jenny knocked back the last of her martini and lemonade. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve never lived anywhere else.’

‘And, frankly, why would you want to?’ Len exclaimed. ‘As far as I can see, Buttersley has it all. An affluent area, with a young, professional demographic, surrounded by fabulous countryside. What more could you ask for?’

Another martini and lemonade, Jenny resisted saying, wondering if that was the first time in almost fifty years on the planet she’d had a conversation with anyone who used the word “demographic”.

A couple of days later, Jenny found herself back in Harrogate, fully armed with the intention of purchasing more new attire to beef up her now pitiful wardrobe. She really did have to smarten herself up. Every time she met the immaculate Len she felt increasingly like a bag lady. How did anyone manage to turn out so perfectly groomed all the time? Obviously, the look required a great deal of effort. Effort she should be making more of. But the problem was, every time she slipped on a potential new purchase and studied her reflection in the dressing-room mirror, her resolve waned. And she knew why: the chance of her looking nice in anything at this size was as likely as her mother ice-skating down the Nile. Which meant there was only one thing for it: she wouldn’t buy anything until she’d slimmed down. To a size twelve. No – a size ten. And if by then her few remaining clothes had been reduced to rag-like status, she only had herself to blame. Fortified by this new resolution, she thrust the unwanted garments at the hovering sales assistant and marched out of the shop.

‘Like to help the dog rescue kennels?’ a female voice asked the moment Jenny set foot on the high street.

So lost in her latest musings was she that Jenny jerked to an immediate halt.

‘All the money is used at the local branch,’ a girl with mousy, shoulder-length hair, spectacles and a badge bearing the name “Candi” informed her.

‘Oh. Right. Yes, of course I’ll help,’ blustered Jenny, fishing around in her handbag for her purse. Locating it, she tugged out a five-pound note and pushed it into the collecting tin.

‘Thanks ever so much.’ The girl flashed a smile that lit up her entire face, making her look quite pretty. ‘We’re full to capacity at the moment so every penny helps. And if you’re interested in rehoming, or know anyone who might be, here’s a flyer with details of the poor things looking for someone to love them.’

She shoved a folded piece of paper into Jenny’s hand and, before Jenny had a chance to inform her that she had no intention of rehoming a dog, nor did she know anyone else who might, the girl turned to the small boy at her side, evidently itching to add his handful of change to the collection tin.

Jenny pushed the paper into her handbag and, deciding she deserved a treat to celebrate her new weight-loss resolution, headed for the nearest coffee shop. She found a table in the window overlooking the high street and ordered a milky latte and a cherry scone – well, there was no point starting her diet today. She’d already wolfed down two chocolate bars on the drive over. No, tomorrow. She would definitely start tomorrow. And she would add in some exercise, too. Sit-ups and some of those lunge things. She’d get toned up. Like Len’s glamorous friend, Ria, who no doubt spent hours every day honing her body. Well, Jenny could do the same. And she would. Starting tomorrow.

Intent on conjuring up low-fat recipes, it was only when a lycra-clad man with a Labrador jogged past the window that Jenny recalled the flyer Candi from the rescue kennels had given her. Her recipe-conjuring having progressed no further than cabbage soup, and in the absence of any other reading material, she retrieved the paper from the depths of her bag and smoothed it out on the table. Both sides were crammed with photos of dogs, annotated with a little summary of their history and character. Jenny’s eyes immediately landed on the tiny picture squeezed into the bottom corner, almost as if it had been an after-thought. It showed a medium-sized shaggy dog of indeterminate breed.

Harriet
, the accompanying sentence stated,
is twelve years old and has been in kennels for two years since her owner died. She is very shy and likes going for walks.

Two baleful eyes stared at Jenny from what could only be described as an “unusual” face.

What had the girl said? That these poor animals were looking for someone to love them? Well, Jenny knew all about that. But she couldn’t possibly get a dog. She didn’t know the first thing about them. And what about her mother? She’d be apoplectic if Jenny appeared with a canine companion. Her gaze slid again to Harriet’s photo, and the words
been in kennels for two years.

Pushing aside her scone, Jenny shoved the flyer back in her bag, tossed a five-pound note on the table, and hurtled out of the café as if her life depended on it.

‘I wanted to get here before anyone else took her,’ she informed the man at the kennels. She’d driven there at breakneck speed, confident in her assumption that any vigilant members of the police force would forgive her misdemeanour. Who, after all, could resist poor Harriet?