bed loose because it was slightly damaged.
Jago Marsh’s orders, no doubt, she told herself. Not quite his image, a bed like this, and certainly no love nest for someone named after a plastic doll. No, he’d want something emperor-sized with black satin sheets...
And stopped there, wrenching herself back to reality.
What the hell do you know about men and what they want? she asked herself with derision.
When you’ve only been kissed with real passion once in your life—and that was by the wrong man because he was angry.
Aware her heartbeat had quickened, she went back to the window and unfastened it, pushing it open to dispel the faint mustiness in the air.
As she turned, she noticed an easel, together with a stack of portfolios and even canvases leaning against a wall, and remembered what Jago had said about storage.
She was sorely tempted to have a look at them and see if his painting was as good as his drawing, but restrained herself with an effort. Like so much else in his life, it was none of her business.
Calling to the plumber that she’d be next door, she went reluctantly into the room designated as Barbie’s, which seemed the only furnished room in the house. There was a round table holding a pink-shaded lamp, a neat chest of drawers, a small armchair upholstered and cushioned in moss green, a sheepskin rug, and of course the bed—brand-new and double-sized, its mattress still in its protective wrapping. As was the bedding, the sheets pale pink and the quilt and pillow cases white, sprigged with pink rosebuds, with matching curtains already hanging at the window.
‘Very romantic,’ she muttered, as she tore off the wrappings, nearly breaking a nail in the process.
She made up the bed with the precision of a mathematical formula, checked the fitted wardrobe in one corner for hangers, then put soap and towels in the old-fashioned bathroom across the passage.
‘Lot of space in that dressing room,’ observed the plumber as he emerged from the master suite. ‘How about a bath as well as a shower because there’s plenty of space? And what about fittings—chrome or gold?’ He paused. ‘And I’ve brought some tile samples on the van. Italian—top of the range.’
‘They sound lovely,’ said Tavy. ‘And I’ll ask Mr Marsh to contact you about the rest.’
‘It’s usually the lady that decides that kind of thing.’ He grinned at her. ‘Doesn’t he trust you?’
Colour rose in her face. ‘I shan’t be living here. I’m simply the project manager.’
His glance was frankly sceptical as he turned away. ‘Just as you say, love.’
The tile samples went to fill another gap on the shelves and Tavy was just adding the queries about bathroom fixtures and fittings to the email she planned to send Jago, when the doorbell rang, only to sound another prolonged and more imperious summons as she reached the hall.
Patience is a virtue, she recited under her breath as she threw open the front door, only to come face to face with Fiona Culham.
‘And about time,’ Fiona began, then halted, staring. ‘Octavia? What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Working,’ said Tavy. ‘I lost my job so Jago offered me another.’
The other girl’s eyes narrowed. ‘Presumably your father has somehow convinced him that charity begins at home.’ She took a step forward. ‘Now, if you’ll be good enough to stand aside, I’d like a word with him.’
‘I’m afraid Jago—Mr Marsh—isn’t here, Miss Culham. He’s away on business.’
‘But he must have left a contact number.’ Fiona walked past her into the hall. ‘You can give me that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tavy said politely. ‘But I’ve been instructed it’s for my use only.’
Fiona gave the slightly metallic laugh that Tavy hated. ‘Aren’t you getting a little above yourself? This must be your first day in the job.’
‘Yours too, I believe.’
There was a simmering silence, then Fiona said, ‘I suppose I can leave a message.’
‘Certainly. I’ll get my notebook.’
‘I’d prefer a sheet of paper.’ Fiona took a pen from her handbag. ‘And an envelope, please.’
Tavy nodded. ‘I’ll get them for you.’
As she reached the office, the telephone was ringing, the caller being the electrician with a preliminary quotation which he would confirm in writing.
Tavy made a note of the details, collected the stationery and returned to the hall, only to find it empty. For a moment she thought that Fiona had got tired of waiting and left, then the sound of footsteps alerted her and she saw the other girl coming down the stairs.
‘I needed the bathroom,’ she announced. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
‘I would have shown you...’
‘Unnecessary.’ Fiona’s smile held an odd satisfaction. ‘I’ve been a visitor here so many times, I know the place like the back of my hand.’
She wrote swiftly on the paper, folded it and put it in the envelope, sealing it with meticulous care before handing it over. ‘I must emphasise this is strictly confidential.’
Tavy nodded. ‘There’s a lot of it about,’ she said, and received a venomous look in return.
‘Then, on that understanding, let me strongly advise you to keep your mouth shut—because, if you don’t, you’ll find that coming here has been a terrible mistake.’ Fiona paused. ‘Just a friendly warning.’
The door safely closed behind the unwelcome visitor, Tavy leaned back against the heavy timbers for a moment, taking a calming breath. If that’s friendly, she thought, I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of hostile.
The Jacksons were wrong, she told herself grimly. Fiona and Mrs Wilding are a match made in heaven.
But—I will not let her get to me.
And on that heartening note, she went back to the office and began devising a spreadsheet to keep track of the renovations on a daily and weekly basis.
She broke off for a brief chat with the heating engineers before they left, the new boiler installed, then locked the door behind them and returned to the computer, glad that the house was now quiet and concentration not such a problem.
For the next hour or so she sat totally engrossed, the evening sun pouring through the window.
With a brief sigh of satisfaction, she aimed the mouse at ‘Print’ then paused, aware of a noise that was not just the creaks and groans of an old house settling around her but, instead, sounded uncannily like footsteps approaching.
Tavy froze, staring at the door. But I locked up, she thought, swallowing. I know I did.
But you forgot to shut the window in the master bedroom, a small voice in her head reminded her. And a clever thief would have no problem at all—apart from finding something to steal.
Picking up the phone, she went to the door. She called loudly, ‘Whoever you are, I’m not alone. We’ll count to three, then call the police.’
‘Instead of the police, try an ambulance,’ an acerbic voice returned. ‘Because you’ve just shocked the hell out of me.’ And Jago came down the passage towards her, a shadowy figure in a grey linen suit and collarless white shirt.
Tavy sagged against the door frame. ‘You,’ she said gasping. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
‘I had some work I wanted to finish.’
‘How industrious,’