When the Devil Drives (13 page)

hat. 'Isn't it charming?'

'It's amazing,' Cal returned. 'How on earth did a thing that size get up

those stairs?'

'It didn't. When the late Mr Osborne bought it, he had it taken to

pieces, then reassembled
in situ,
as it were.' Mr Morris sounded as

proud as if he'd carried out the task single-handed. 'It now counts as a

fixture, and provision has been made in the asking price.' He patted

one of the carved and polished posts. 'To remove it would destroy the

whole romantic character of the room.'

'Oh, we wouldn't want to do that.' Cal turned to Joanna. 'Would we,

my love?'

There was a sudden burning ache in Joanna's throat. Avoiding the

cynical amusement in Cal's smile, she moved out on to the landing.

'May I see the other rooms, please?'

There was another fair-sized bedroom, a tiny box- room, and a

bathroom gleaming in ivory and turquoise. Then they followed Mr

Morris downstairs, and inspected the small walled garden at the back

of the cottage.

The fragrant aroma of coffee greeted them on their return.

'Please help yourselves to cream and sugar.' Mrs Osborne passed

round the cups. 'Is there any further information I can give you?'

'It might be helpful if we knew what your own plans were,' Cal

suggested. 'The kind of time-scale we're considering.'

'I can move at any time—in fact the sooner the better. I'm joining my

sister in Eastbourne. We've always been great friends, and she's

finding her large flat something of a burden these days.' Mrs Osborne

paused. 'We have both been fairly recently widowed, you

understand.'

'Yes.' Cal's face was grave as he glanced around him. 'It must be a

wrench to give up such a lovely home.'

'Yes,' Mrs Osborne acknowledged with a faint sigh. 'Jim put an

immense amount of time and effort into making it as perfect as

possible for our retirement. That bed, for instance.' Her cheeks

pinkened slightly. 'He searched high and low for one. He was

absolutely determined—said it reminded him of the hotel where we'd

spent our honeymoon. And, when he found it, he spent months

repairing and restoring it. It was a real labour of love.'

'That's quite obvious,' Cal said gently. 'Was he a local man?'

'Oh, yes. He was born and brought up in this valley, and always

planned to come back here eventually. It was a dream we shared,

although I'm from the south of England myself. But the doctor has

warned me that another Yorkshire winter will play havoc with my

bronchitis.' Mrs Osborne smiled rather sadly.

/

There was a pause, then she went on, 'I know I'm being ridiculous and

that it's really none of my business, once the sale has gone through,

but I asked the estate agents to try and find me a purchaser who would

like the cottage as it stands, and not want to make too many changes.

Stupidly sentimental, of course...'

'And you'd like some kind of guarantee from us as potential

purchasers,' said Cal. He smiled at her. 'I can state quite categorically

that we shan't be contemplating anything more drastic than some

minor redecoration.' He glanced towards Joanna. 'Isn't that right,

darling?'

Joanna pushed her cup away and stood up, grating the legs of her

chair across the tiled kitchen floor.

'I think we've taken up enough of Mrs Osborne's time,' she said, her

voice sounding to her own ears strained and unnatural. 'We—we do

have other places to see.'

The look Cal sent her held surprise tinged with anger as he too rose to

his feet. 'Of course.' He shook hands with Mrs Osborne. 'We'll be in

touch.'

Joanna was thankful to be outside in the sunlight. She took deep gulps

of the crisp air as she crossed the street to her car. Cal got there before

her.

'Where do you think you're going?' His voice was steely. 'And what

the hell was all that about?'

'Do I really have to spell it out?' Joanna dug savagely into her bag for

her car keys.

'Yes, you do.' Cal put a restraining hand on her arm. 'We could look at

everything on the market within a radius of fifty miles, and not find

anything of similar quality, and you know it.'

'I'm sure you're right. However, I also know there's no way I could

live in that cottage.'

'Well, we're not going to argue about it in the street,' Cal said grimly.

'I could do with some food. We'll talk over lunch at the King's Head.'

'I'm not hungry.' Joanna tried to wrench herself free.

'Then you can watch me eat.' His tone was inexorable. 'Stop making a

spectacle of yourself, or I'll carry you there, and give the whole

village something to gossip about, not to mention Alan Morris, whose

eyes are nearly popping out of his head as it is.'

Mutinously Joanna walked beside him the couple of hundred yards to

the pub. A savoury waft of cooking greeted them as he pushed open

the door and ushered Joanna, past the muted sound of voices and the

click of dominoes from the taproom, into the lounge-bar. The King's

Head was a strictly traditional pub, furnished in a way that hadn't

changed for twenty years. It served hand-pulled ale, and good,

homely food, and several of the tables were already occupied.

Cal settled her in a quiet corner, then bought himself a pint, and

brought Joanna a glass of white wine.

'I don't drink when I'm driving,' she told him tautly.

'Very commendable, but at the moment you look in need of some

kind of stimulant. You're as white as a sheet.' He paused. 'What's

upset you? Surely not all that talk of widowhood?'

To her shame, Joanna realised she hadn't given that aspect of the

conversation a second thought. It was almost as if Martin had never

existed, she thoughtwith angry guilt. Nevertheless, she grasped at the

lifeline Cal had thrown her.

'Naturally I found it distressing,' she said shortly. 'Although I'm sure

you'd prefer to believe I have no feelings whatsoever.'

'On the contrary,' he said softly, 'I have every reason to know that

your emotions—and passions— are all alive and well. Although how

they ever concerned poor old Martin is something we'll have to

discuss one of these days. Now drink your wine, and tell me what

really caught you on the raw.'

She lifted her chin. 'I've just told you.'

Cal shook his head. 'That was an afterthought, and we both know it.'

He studied her for a moment. 'You were on edge from the moment

Morris showed us that bed. Don't tell me it's brought on an attack of

bridal nerves?'

'I'm not planning to be a bride. Your intentions to me are quite

different, as you've made more than clear.' She set down her wine

glass with a jerk, spilling some of the liquid on to the table.

'Is that what's troubling you?' His brows lifted in amused disbelief.

'You want a proposal of marriage?'

'No.' Joanna kept her voice low but vehement. 'For God's sake, you

heard her—what she said about it. "A labour of love", she called it.

You could tell the kind of relationship they'd had—that it had been

good—and right. The whole cottage breathed it. And that's what she

thought about us. She assumed that we—loved each other too, that we

were looking for a real home together. She had no idea of the actual-

disgusting truth. I felt ghastly. A sham—a total hypocrite.'

There was a pause. 'I think you're overreacting,' Cal said with a slight

frown.

'Perhaps,' she said. 'But I've no intention of degrading everything the

Osbornes created with the sordid arrangement you're forcing me into.'

She took a breath. 'I will not live in that house, or sleep in that bed

with you!'

'An ultimatum, no less,' Cal remarked mockingly. 'Do you really

think you're in a position to issue one?'

'I neither know nor care.' Joanna's voice was low and angry. 'I mean

it. If I have to share a roof with you at some stage, it won't be that

one.'

There was another, even longer pause. 'Then we'll just have to find

somewhere else,' said Cal, shrugging. 'I've got details of several other

properties in the area.'

She stared at him. She was still angry, but mingled with the upset was

a curious sensation, almost like disappointment. She hadn't expected

him to give way so easily. She'd wanted—what? Cal to fight with

her— persuade her—override her protests. She wasn't sure.

He was speaking again. 'I'll talk to the agents, and call you later.'

'Oh, spare me, please,' Joanna said tautly, and got to her feet. 'I'm

going now.'

Cal rose too, his frown deepening. 'Without anything to eat?'

'I'm really not hungry.' Even to her own ears her tone sounded

brittle-edged.

'Then just stay.' His eyes met hers. He held out his hand. 'Stay and talk

to me.'

The hum of conversation around them seemed to fade to some

impenetrable distance. They seemed to exist in a vacuum—in a small,

still world of their own, the walls of which were contracting—closing

in on her. Suddenly it seemed difficult to breathe.

'No, thank you,' she managed at last out of a dry throat. 'I do have

some semblance of a life of my own, and I'd like to lead it while I still

can.'

He laughed. 'How you do like to dramatise yourself, my sweet! Run

away, if you must. I don't intend to keep you in chains.'

Not visible ones, she thought, as she turned away without replying

and began to walk to the door. But there were unseen shackles

beginning to weigh her down, and she was scared. Scared out of her

wits.

It was simple to contemplate freedom when she was away from him,

she thought, as she went up the street to her car. When they were

apart, she could make all kinds of resolute plans for getting the better

of him— for evening every old score, and inflicting an ultimate

crushing defeat.

Saint Joanna, she thought in self-derision. Saviour of the Chalfonts.

Yet when Cal was there, she was ashamed to admit even secretly to

herself, how easily he could dominate her. How increasingly difficult

it was becoming to defend not just her body but her heart and mind

against him.

She slid into the driving seat and dragged the seat belt across her,

fastening it clumsily, resisting an impulse to rest her head against the

steering-wheel and bawl her eyes out.

It was the cottage that made her feel like this, she thought, giving it a

fulminating look as she started the engine. It must be. It had

altogether too much charm, too much atmosphere for her peace of

mind.

She'd begun, even in that short visit, to want it too much.

She hadn't felt at all like that about the flat she'd shared so briefly with

Martin, she thought, wincing. But then it hadn't belonged to them.

They'd rented it from his aunt on a temporary basis, while, ostensibly,

they looked for a house of their own.

Now, at last, she'd found the home of her dreams, only to have to

relinquish it in the same breath.

Dear God, she thought, shivering, but it had been terrifyingly easy to

imagine herself living there, setting her own seal on the place.

Arranging copper pans on the wall-rack in the kitchen, placing bowls

of fresh flowers on the deep window-sills, reading, curled up on her

own sofa, watching winter logs burn on the wide hearth. All kinds of

seductive images.

And—most of all—waking in that bed created for lovers—not alone.

She missed a gear, suddenly, clumsily, and heard the engine groan in

response.

Because she hadn't been alone in any of those dreams, she realised,

her throat closing painfully. Always there'd been someone else there

beside her, taking her hand, tucking a flower into her hair, laughing as

the sparks from a fallen log flared up the chimney. Someone turning

to her—there for her, his smile reflected in her eyes. Always

someone...

A car horn blared, signalling that, in her reverie, she'd drifted too near

the centre of the road. Guiltily Joanna lifted a hand in

acknowledgement as an indignant face glared at her from behind an

oncoming windscreen. She pulled the car into the next lay-byand

stopped, her heart thumping rapidly and unevenly.

It wasn't just the fact that she could have caused an accident that was

unnerving her.

It was the realisation that the figure who shared her dreams was not

just an anonymous faceless someone. He was one man, and one

alone. The lover at her side had a face, and a name, and the

knowledge, the certainty of his identity made her whole body

tremble.

Because Cal Blackstone belonged to nightmares, not some weak,

bizarre dream of love. He brought fear, not hope. Cold-blooded