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“You mean come and live in your new house?”
“Just until your tenant moves out. Or until we come to blows. Whichever happens soonest.” He looked at her astonished face in silence. “Are you ever going to say anything, Sassy?”
“Do you mean this, Luke?” she said hesitantly. “Wouldn’t I be.well.rather in the way sometimes?”
“When, exactly?”
She eyed him balefully. “When you say ‘Your place or mine?’ and the lady chooses yours, Luke Armytage. As you know perfectly well.”
“Two relatives sharing a house is not exactly front-page news, Sassy. No one would be surprised.”
CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and at a young age developed a passion for reading, which eventrally fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years living in Brazil, but on his later travels the schooling of their son and daughter kept her in the U.K. Instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romance novels. When not writing and reading, she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antique shops and walk the family’s Labrador dog.
Look out for Catherine George’s next book, The Baby Claim (#2048), available in August, wherever Harlequin books are sold.
A Rumoured Engagement
Catherine George
THE bright Tuscan sunlight was almost gone. When it became too dark to read Saskia let her book fall gently to the flagged floor, turned on the ‘hot’ tap with her toe until the water was warm enough, and sank back in surroundings picturesque enough to tempt any lingerer. The crimson roll-top art nouveau bath had a white interior and white claw feet, its eighteen-nineties elegance harmonising well with the ancient stone walls of the bathroom. Piles of white crimson-bordered towels lay near the bath on a gilt and wicker stool, and on the far wall a large, dim mirror in an ornate gilt frame reflected the last glow of sunset.
Saskia roused herself eventually to wash her hair, kneeling with the spray attachment turned on her head until the water ran clear, then stood up, thrusting the streaming hair from her face. And froze, arm upraised, as the door opened and a man stopped dead on the threshold, as though he’d walked into glass. He stared in shock for a split second, muttered an appalled apology and slammed the door shut. Heart hammering, Saskia let out a long, shaky breath, and leapt from the bath to wrap herself in a towelling robe. She swathed a towel turbanwise round her hair, then breathed in, squared her shoulders and sallied forth to confront the intruder.
He was outside on the terrace, tall and loose-limbed in jeans and a thin cotton shirt, tawny hair lit by the last glow of sunset, familiar in every detail. He turned from contemplation of the landscape to greet her with the wry, lopsided smile which most women, other than Saskia, found so irresistible.
‘Hello, little sister. I apologise humbly. I had no idea you were here.’
‘Likewise.’ Saskia eyed him militantly. ‘Mother didn’t say you were in the neighbourhood.’
‘Or you’d have given Tuscany a wide berth?’
‘Not at all,’ she retorted. ‘You frightened me out of my wits, that’s all. I thought you were an intruder.’
‘Which I am, of course. I should have checked with Marina.’ He looked over her shoulder into the large sparsely furnished room. ‘I take it Lawford is with you?
‘No, he’s not’
‘No?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I thought you two were more or less joined at the hip these days. During my last visit to Oxford, Marina seemed to think you’d found Mr Right at last.’
‘At last?’ Her eyes glittered coldly.
He leaned on one of the archways, arms folded. ‘You can’t deny an impressively long line of hopeful contenders for your fair hand in the past, Sassy. But I heard Francis Lawford was thought to be the lucky man.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ she snapped.
His green eyes opened in mock surprise. ‘I meant it quite literally, little sister. The man you choose will be fortunate indeed.’
Saskia eyed him suspiciously. ‘I never know when you’re being serious, Lucius Armytage.’
‘I know,’ he agreed affably. ‘All part of the Armytage charm. Now, before you cast me out into the night, would you mind very much if I had the bath I was after earlier on?’
‘You’ve as much right to a bath and bed here as me,’ she said grudgingly. Then, abruptly, as much to her own surprise as his, offered to provide supper. ‘I’ve made some pasta. There’s enough for two. You can share it, if you like.’
He stared at her blankly for a moment, then smiled. ‘I’d like that very much, Sass-Saskia,’ he amended hurriedly at her scowl. ‘Give me half an hour to wash off the picturesque dust of Tuscany and I’ll be the perfect supper guest.’ He sketched a mocking bow. ‘And provide the obligatory bottle, of course. I left a fair selection here on my last visit.’
Saskia