of hours and to be pleasant to him in the interests of family harmony, and yet at the same time reinforce to him her complete rejection of him as a man.
She had no idea why he had decided to make her the object of his pursuit. She had certainly given him no encouragement to do so. She found him detestable and felt thoroughly sorry for Susan Charlesworth. The next time she found herself going all maternal and gooey-eyed over someone’s baby, she might try reminding herself of how much she would loathe being married to a man like Ralph Charlesworth, she told herself wryly as she settled down to work.
She worked steadily all afternoon, reflecting that the influx of people into the area had certainly brought a dramatic increase in the firm’s business, and that if things kept on the way they were going her father would have to consider taking on another partner.
At half-past five her father himself rapped on her office door and opened it.
‘Don’t forget about tonight, will you?’ he asked her.
‘No. I promise I’ll be there.’
Just as he was about to leave she asked, ‘Doesn’t this Ben Frobisher have a wife? He’s in his thirties, isn’t he?’
‘Thirty-four, and no, he doesn’t have a wife. He’s never been married and seems to be quite content with his single state. A bit like you,’ he pointed out slyly, grinning at her when she glowered threateningly at him.
After he’d gone, she tried to concentrate on her work, but for some reason her thoughts kept sliding back to the man she had bumped into earlier and at last, in exasperation, she put down her pen and leaned her chin on her hand, frowning into space.
It was ridiculous to keep thinking about him like this. A stranger … a total stranger, who, for all the thoughtful interest she could have sworn she had seen glinting in his eyes, had made no attempt to make any capital out of the situation fate had thrown them into and suggest extending their acquaintance.
Not that she would have wanted him to come on to her in the manner of the likes of the Ralph Charlesworths of this world, she told herself hastily, but a subtle compliment and the suggestion that he would not have been averse to seeing her again …
For heaven’s sake, she derided herself, trying to dismiss him from her mind. She was a woman, not a teenager, and it wasn’t even as though she didn’t have a hundred better things to occupy her thoughts.
Tomorrow night, for instance, there was a meeting of the newly formed Committee for the Preservation of Local Buildings. She had been asked if she would like to be its president, but she had hastily declined, explaining that her other responsibilities meant that, although she would be an enthusiastic supporter of their work, she could not take charge of it and do it justice.
The others on the committee were all locals; Tim Ford, a local historian and schoolteacher, now retired; the vicar’s wife; Linda Smithson, the doctor’s wife; and a couple of others. Miranda was also due to attend another meeting the following night, to decide how best they could organise something within the town which would prove of sufficient interest to its youth to keep them from loitering boredly in the town square.
Yes, she had more than enough to occupy her time and her thoughts without allowing them to drift helplessly and dangerously in the direction of a man she didn’t really know and whom she was hardly likely to see again.
The trouble was, though … the trouble was that nature had seen fit to bestow her with a rather over-active imagination. Something which on occasions she found to be rather a trial, especially when she was trying to concentrate on promoting a cool and businesslike professional image.
Right now it was rebelliously insisting on coaxing her away from her work, and into an extremely unlikely but very alluring daydream in which, instead of releasing her so promptly and so courteously as he had done, the stranger had held on to her that little bit longer, had gazed deeply and meaningfully into her eyes until her whole body tingled with the sensual message of that look.
Almost without knowing she was doing it, she had closed her eyes and relaxed in her chair.
Of course, she would have tried to pull away, to convey with the cool remoteness of her withdrawal that she was not in the least impressed or flattered by his interest. And of course she would be able to look directly and unmovingly at the sensual curve of that very male mouth without feeling the slightest tremor inside her, even while she was aware that he was still holding on to her and that his gaze was fastened on her mouth in a way that in her daydream made her give a tiny sigh.
Of course he wouldn’t kiss her in broad daylight in the middle of the street. Of course he wouldn’t, couldn’t, but he could release her slowly and regretfully, so that his fingers held on to her arms as though he couldn’t bring himself to break his physical contact with her, and of course before he let her go he had made sure that he knew both her name and where he could get in touch with her.
‘Miranda. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’
Miranda jolted upright in her chair, opening her eyes as Liz came in.
‘I … I—er—wasn’t asleep,’ she told her guiltily. ‘I … I’ve … got a bit of headache.’
‘Oh, dear, and you’re going out to that golf club do tonight, aren’t you?’ Liz sympathised. ‘I hope it goes before then.’
Tell one lie and you had to tell a round dozen to back it up, Miranda reflected to herself half an hour later as she drove homewards. And what on earth had possessed her anyway? Allowing her mind to drift in that idiotic silly fashion. Good heavens, she had thought she was well past the stage of such idiocy. Daydreams of that kind belonged to one’s very early teens alongside fruitless dreams over thankfully out-of-reach pop stars.
She put her foot down a little harder on her accelerator. Well, tonight should bring her down to earth with a bump. She only hoped that Ben Frobisher didn’t prove to be too boring. No doubt he would talk about computers all night long, which meant she would hardly be able to understand a thing he was saying.
Her cottage was small and rather isolated, its timber frame sunk into the ground as though crumpling under the burden of its heavy stone roof.
When she had originally bought the cottage it had been little more than a shell. It had taken a good deal of work and research to transform it into the home it was now.
The setting sun harmonised with the soft colour of its peachy-pink-washed exterior walls. She had made the lime wash herself, and dyed it, using a traditional recipe and ingredients. That result had only been achieved after several attempts, but it had been well worth the effort she had put in.
Inside she had taken just as much care over the renovation of her small rooms and the purchase of the furniture which clothed them.
The back door opened straight into a square stone-flagged kitchen. The cat curled up on top of the Aga greeted her with a soft purr of pleasure.
‘You don’t fool me. I know it’s only cupboard-love, William,’ she told him as she scratched behind his ears.
There was no point in making a meal, not when she would be eating out later. A quick snack, a cup of coffee and then she would have to go upstairs and get ready to go out.
She made a wry face to herself. There were a dozen things she’d rather be doing tonight than playing the dutiful daughter and partner, but she had promised her father.
WELL her dress was hardly designer style, Miranda reflected, studying her image critically in her mirror, but then the golf club was not exactly the haunt of the beautiful people. Most of the members were around her father’s age, pleasant enough but inclined to be a little dull. She wondered cynically if their new client realised what he was letting himself in for, and then told herself that she was perhaps being a little unfair.
Biased