A Deal with Di Capua. CATHY WILLIAMS

her out.

      But the second she stood in front of that cottage, all her problems seemed to magically disappear.

      It wasn’t a large cottage, but what it lacked in size it more than made up for in charm. Rosie had wondered how far away it would be from Angelo’s house. She had wondered whether she would be able to see whatever mansion he owned towering in the distance, imposing an aura of permanent threat. She had known that, should that be the case, then she would never have been able to occupy it.

      In fact, it was impossible even to guess that the cottage was anywhere near any other residence. It was set back from the main road, which was little more than a quiet country lane, and bordered by a white picket fence. Rosie had always imagined that white picket fences were things only found in kids’ books. She was charmed by the reality of actually seeing one in the flesh and before even entering the cottage she spent a few minutes tracing the outline of it with her hand.

      She imagined that in summer the little front garden would be a riot of colour and the apple trees on either side would be heavy with fruit. Behind the cottage, the land stretched away into fields and a copse.

      It was idyllic. No wonder Angelo had reacted with rage and horror at the thought of her occupying it. Having fancied himself conned out of thousands by a conniving opportunist, he would have been seething at the prospect of her descending on what must be a very valuable slice of real estate which he considered belonged to him.

      With a little sigh, Rosie let herself into the cottage. She didn’t want to think about Angelo. She didn’t want to think of him storming down to Cornwall and blazing a furious trail through her flimsy defences. She was still trying to recover from the blistering effect he had had on her two weeks ago when she had encountered him at the funeral. Now, she just wanted to luxuriate in the tranquillity of her surroundings and determine the direction of her life.

      Inside the cottage was perfectly proportioned, but what captivated Rosie were the small touches that were all Amanda’s: the choice of curtain, the choice of big and squashy sofas and the colour of the paint on the walls, rose-pinks and yellows.

      She had wondered whether she would be spooked at walking into a house owned by her one-time friend, but she wasn’t. She strolled from room to room and reflected that, whatever the outcome of Amanda’s relationship with Angelo, she had managed to get what she had always dreamed of—a place close to the sea, decorated just the way she wanted, which was a style pinched from the occasional house magazine they used to drool over in their poky boxed houses on the council estate.

      She didn’t realise how long she had spent wandering through the cottage until her stomach began to rumble with hunger.

      Of course, she hadn’t thought to bring anything to eat with her. Fortunately, the fridge was completely empty. She didn’t think she would have coped had there been proof of her friend there. Had the place been cleaned after Amanda had died? Rosie thought it might have been. Perhaps James Foreman had seen to that. He hadn’t mentioned it, but he was just the sort of thoughtful, warm person who would have made sure the task was done in anticipation of her visiting.

      She would have to go out, although without a car she had no idea how that would be achieved, and she was actively deliberating whether to call a taxi back or not when the doorbell rang.

      Rosie froze instantly. It couldn’t be Ian. Could it? She realised with dismay that thoughts of him were never too far away. Just in case, she tiptoed to the front door and quietly secured the chain before opening the door a crack.

      Although it was only a little after five-thirty, it was already dark, a bottomless darkness quite unlike the darkness in London which was always punctuated with light from street lamps.

      Whoever her caller was, he was standing to one side, just out of direct sight. Panic flared through her. She struggled for reason and told herself that there was no way that Ian could be standing outside her front door. It just wasn’t possible! Yet, hadn’t he found a way into her house in London? She wished she had thought to bring something heavy from the kitchen—a frying pan; a rolling pin. Something she could use as a weapon. Even as those thoughts flitted through her head, she was aware that she was over-reacting. She realised just how threatened she had felt by Ian over the months, even though she had stoutly told herself that she had nothing to fear from a guy who was two inches shorter than her and a very slight build.

      “Well? Are you going to let me in, Rosie?” Angelo had not been to the cottage for a long time. In fact, he had only been there once, after he had allowed Amanda to have it, and then only to assess what renovations had needed doing. He had never been able to understand her reasons for demanding ownership when she had a perfectly good townhouse in London at her disposal, but then again he had never been one for the country life, despite owning his own country mansion. As investments went, it had served him well although he wouldn’t have chosen to live there if he had had a gun to his head. It was there to appreciate in value and occasionally to host large events that were workrelated. Three times a year, high-performing employees were treated to an all-expenses-paid weekend.

      “What are you doing here?” Rosie marvelled that she could ever have imagined her caller to be Ian when the most obvious candidate was Angelo. Her irrational fear disappeared to be replaced by something else, a darker and more dangerous emotion that made her heart begin to beat erratically in her chest. He had stepped out of the shadows and she felt ridiculously overwhelmed by his tall, powerful presence.

      “Didn’t I tell you that I wanted to be here when you decided to have a look at your ill-gotten legacy?” He placed his hand flat against the door. In truth, there had been no need to rush down to Cornwall, but the second he had heard her voice down the end of the phone he had had no choice. It infuriated him.

      “And why the latch?” he asked with silky sarcasm. “Left-over caution from having set up camp in a dump where it pays to make sure you know who your caller is before you open the door?”

      “You should have told me that you would be coming.” Rosie could hear the breathlessness in her voice, lurking just below the cool control she wanted to impose.

      “Why, when the element of surprise is so much more enjoyable? Now, open the door, Rosie. I don’t intend to spend the next hour having a conversation with you on the doorstep.”

      Reluctantly, Rosie unhooked the chain and opened the door, stepping aside so that he could brush past her into the hallway. She remained with her back pressed to the closed door, watching him warily as he looked around.

      She had no idea what to say. She wondered what was going through his head. The woman he despised was standing in the hallway of a house that wasn’t rightfully hers, given to her in the worst possible circumstances by someone who she hadn’t set eyes on for three years. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from his starkly handsome face and she flushed with embarrassment when eventually he finished his visual tour of the hallway and caught her staring at him.