Dangerous Interloper (Lessons Learned II Book 8; HQR Presents Classic) Read online

  No, she didn’t have anything specific in mind, she told the girl in the dress shop where she bought most of her clothes. A suit or separates, something smart, but perhaps not quite as businesslike as her normal choice of outfit.

  ‘I think we’ve got just the thing,’ the girl told her, smiling. ‘A range of separates made in Germany. Pricey, but very, very well-made.’

  When she showed Miranda the rail of separates she had in mind, Miranda had to admit that the clothes were beautifully made, and highly desirable. They were also, as she had said, expensive.

  ‘Look, why don’t you try this on?’ the girl suggested, producing a two-piece suit in cool cream wool. The jacket was long-sleeved with a slightly scooped neckline. It fastened with a double row of buttons and should really, the girl told her, be worn buttoned up without a shirt beneath it. The skirt that went with it was plain and straight, and the jacket was adorned with a variety of gold-coloured letters in metal.

  ‘It’s very different,’ the girl told her, ‘very simple and smart, and yet at the same time rather eye-catching.’

  ‘Very,’ Miranda agreed, eyeing the suit uncertainly. It was rather more high-profile than she had had in mind.

  ‘Try it on,’ the girl suggested again. ‘If you don’t like it, I’m sure we can soon find something else.’

  Uncertainly Miranda did so.

  The suit fitted perfectly, and as she stepped out of the cubicle and caught sight of her reflection in the mirrors she tensed in surprise.

  ‘It looks very good on you,’ the girl told her easily. ‘But if you don’t feel comfortable in it… I know it’s rather different from your normal taste, but you did say… I don’t want to pressure you into having something you won’t enjoy wearing.’

  Miranda gave a rueful smile. The suit might have been made for her, and, if the truth were known, once she had got over the shock of seeing her own reflection she had been forced to admit that the suit did look good on her.

  ‘It’s not going to be something I can wear too often,’ she murmured.

  ‘You mean people aren’t going to forget it!’ the girl laughed. ‘Well, if you like, after the wedding we could probably remove the gold letters which will make it rather less striking, and if you want to get rather more mileage out of it, well, I can show you some other things from the same range which will go with it.’

  In the end, Miranda couldn’t resist not only buying the suit, but in addition a smart bright red light wool jacket to wear over the cream skirt, another skirt in black, a silk shirt embroidered with bright red metallic and gilt hearts, and then, as a final act of defiant extravagance, a large cotton sweater and matching knitted jacket from the same range with American baseball motifs embroidered in gold, red and black on a background of the same cream as her original suit.

  She blenched a little as she paid the bill, but reminded herself that it was quite a long time since she had been so self-indulgent.

  It was only when she had left the shop and was looking for somewhere to have her lunch before looking for suitable shoes and a bag to go with her outfit that she acknowledged to herself that, while she had been trying on her new clothes, it hadn’t been so much their usefulness for her lifestyle that had motivated her but the thought of Ben Frobisher’s seeing her wearing them.

  She stopped in mid-stride, frowning crossly. She had thought she had left behind her the totally idiotic urge to dress to impress the male sex, or rather a specific member of it, when she left her teens.

  Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she paused, half tempted to go back to the shop and say she had changed her mind.

  Sighing faintly to herself, she told herself that she was being utterly and completely ridiculous. She had bought the clothes and she was just going to have to live with that fact.

  As she hurried into a small Italian restaurant, which was one of her favourites, she wondered a little wryly to herself how her father was going to react to her turning up for work wearing the very striking knitted sweater and jacket with its baseball motifs.

  She didn’t linger over her lunch. There were still shoes and a bag to buy, although that shouldn’t take long; she had discovered years ago that the most comfortable court shoes for her feet were a very plain style by Charles Jourdan which, despite their heels, could be worn all day long without causing either her feet or her legs to ache; she also had to find a hat.

  Their town was such that no one would ever dream of turning up for a wedding bareheaded. Even the bystanders, who gathered outside the church to watch the bride and groom emerging, were invariably dressed in their best, their heads sporting their ‘wedding hats’, and little as she relished the idea, as the bridegroom’s daughter she would be expected to wear a hat with a capital ‘H’.

  In the end, she found one in a small shop hidden down a side-street. Made of closely woven shiny black straw, it went perfectly with her suit, although when she saw the Frederick Fox label inside it her heart sank a little.

  On her return journey to her car she happened to pass a bookshop with a window-display of the latest bestseller by one of her father’s favourite crime writers. On impulse she went inside to buy it for him.

  There was a long queue for the till, and apparently some kind of problem with the equipment, since two girls were trying to change the roll of paper inside it and apparently not succeeding. As she waited Miranda glanced absently at the books to the side of her. A title suddenly glared out at her: ‘Your Dreams. Their Meaning and Interpretation.’

  Almost before she had realised what she was doing, she had reached for the book. She wasn’t going to buy it, of course. Such stuff was all nonsense. She would just look at it… flip through it while she waited for the queue to move. But, before she had barely opened the book, the fault with the cash register was rectified and the queue started moving so rapidly that, when she moved forward, Miranda discovered she was still clutching it.

  There was nothing else for it now. She would have to buy it. Self-consciously she presented it to the cashier with her other purchase, but the girl was totally uninterested in what she was buying, being intent on dealing with the long queue.

  Once outside the shop, Miranda wondered why on earth she hadn’t simply taken the book back and replaced it on the shelf. All right, so she would have lost her place in the queue… but so what?

  Well, it was too late now. Just as well it hadn’t been very expensive.

  On her way home she detoured to call on Helen and show her her wedding outfit.

  ‘It’s fabulous,’ Helen approved. ‘And so nice to see you buying something young and flirty.’

  ‘Flirty?’ Miranda stared at her.

  ‘Well, not flirty exactly,’ Helen corrected herself. ‘More… more…’

  ‘Eye-catching,’ Miranda supplied drily for her.

  ‘Yes. That’s it… eye-catching. By the way, has your father mentioned to you that we’ve invited Ben Frobisher to the wedding?’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ Miranda told her repressively, adding firmly, ‘Helen, all this gossip that’s been going around about the two of us is just that, you know—gossip.’

  ‘Well, yes. I know that. But… well, at the golf club do I couldn’t help noticing how interested he was in you.’

  Ben, interested in her? Helen was letting her imagination and her own romance with her father go to her head.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she told Helen dismissively. ‘It was business, that’s all.’

  ‘Really?’

  The look Helen gave her made Miranda wonder a little uncomfortably if Helen too had heard about that kiss, and if so…

  ‘I really must be going,’ she told her hastily, scooping up her purchases and heading for the door.

  * * *

  SHE SPENT WHAT was left of the daylight working in her garden, happily digging and weeding as she marvelled at the perseverance and strength of nature, crooning away contentedly to herself as she recognised, among the growing perennials in her border, familiar o
ld friends.

  The delphiniums she had bought and so carefully nurtured all through the previous summer, protecting them from the attentions of the voracious slugs which seemed to inhabit her border, were making good strong plants, repaying her care and attention with their new growth, and there were the granny’s bonnets, just a froth of blue-green leaves at the moment, but later in the year their impossible fine stems would carry the delicate nodding heads of the pretty trumpet-shaped blue and pink flowers.

  When it started to grow dusky, she realised she had stayed out far later than she had intended. She was grubby and tired, and no doubt by tomorrow her back would be aching, but right now she felt more relaxed and in harmony with herself than she had in a long time.

  She was still humming under her breath when she kicked off her wellingtons and walked into the kitchen. On the table in front of her was the book she had bought.

  She tensed and stared at it, all the joy and peace draining out of her.

  If she had any sense she would throw it away right now. But for some reason she didn’t. Instead, she skirted the table as though the book were about to pounce on her and hurried upstairs to shower and get changed.

  She would make herself a light meal, and then she would settle down for a nice relaxing evening. An evening which she was not going to allow to be invaded by any disruptive thoughts about Ben Frobisher.

  With this thought in mind after her shower, she changed into a soft loose top and an old pair of jeans and went downstairs to make herself a meal.

  While she ate it she studied one of her gardening books, and as always was both depressed and uplifted by the photographs in it of wonderfully perfect gardens, where design and nature flowed harmoniously into one another.

  She was just wondering if she could perhaps have a pergola running the width of her garden, dividing it into two and providing a luscious, rose-scented bower for her to enjoy during the summer months, when someone knocked on her door.

  Frowning, she went to see who it was, glancing at the clock as she did so. It was just gone ten; rather late for visitors.

  Keeping the safety-chain fastened, she opened the door and then froze as she saw Ben Frobisher standing outside, his face illuminated in the light from the doorway. He looked, she noticed anxiously, as though he had been involved in some kind of minor accident or a fight.

  ‘Ben! What…?’

  ‘I’m sorry, did I startle you?’ he apologised as he saw the shock in her eyes.

  She had automatically started to open the door properly, and as he stepped inside he told her, ‘I had to call round, if only to thank you for your timely warning.’

  ‘My warning? What warning?’

  ‘About Charlesworth,’ Ben reminded her as she closed the door behind him.

  There was a rip on the sleeve of his jacket, she noticed, the kind that looked as though it might have been caused by a sharp object, such as a knife. She shivered sickly.

  ‘I’ve been in London for the last few days,’ Ben was telling her. ‘I only got back late this afternoon. I went home and then I decided to go round and see how they were getting on with the conversion. Just as well I did,’ he added grimly. ‘I’d barely arrived there. In fact, I was upstairs checking something when four youths broke in through the back door. I heard the noise they were making, and rushed downstairs to find one of them about to hit Rob James, the security watchman, with a heavy piece of wood. When they realised he wasn’t there on his own, I think it put the wind up them a bit. Two of them ran off straight away. The others…’ His mouth compressed. ‘One of them had a knife, the other… Well, there was a bit of a struggle, and unfortunately both of them got away. There was nothing to indicate that Charlesworth was responsible, of course, but in view of what you overheard…’

  Miranda shivered. She had heard stories… rumours… vague whispers that one of the reasons Ralph had become so successful so quickly was because of his way of getting rid of any competition by using threatening tactics of violence or damage to property and possessions. As far as she knew, no one had ever been able to prove anything against him, but that did not stop the rumours from circulating.

  ‘Did you call in the police?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes, but, as they told us, there is really very little they could do. What I have done is arrange to get in another night watchman and to make sure that all the doors have proper security-locks on them.

  ‘It makes my blood run cold to think what might have happened if I hadn’t been there. One man against the four of them wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

  ‘No,’ Miranda agreed gravely. She was still feeling slightly sick inside as she realised how easily Ben could have been hurt… or worse.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ben commented. ‘I shouldn’t have come barging in here like this, but I suppose I’m still so hyped up over the whole thing that I needed to talk it over with someone, and since you were the person to warn me about Charlesworth in the first place…’

  ‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ Miranda suggested. Tiny vibrations of shock were convulsing her body. ‘I’ll make us both a drink.’ As he followed her into the kitchen an unpleasant thought struck her.

  Could it be partially her fault that Ralph was trying to get at Ben, and not solely because he had lost the contract?

  Ben was right behind her as she walked into the kitchen. She turned round immediately to ask him if she was in any way to blame, but the impulsive words were never spoken as the bright light of the kitchen revealed to her the blood drying on the cut on his face.

  Without even thinking about what she was doing, she reached out instinctively to touch it, her eyes huge with pain and anxiety as her fingers trembled against it.

  ‘You’re hurt.’

  The words trembled in the silence between them.

  ‘Not really; it’s just a scratch.’ Ben’s voice was equally strained, unsteady, his speech slow and almost slurred.

  She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but suddenly she was standing so close to him that she could feel the too-rapid thud of his heart, feel the heat coming off his skin.

  ‘Miranda.’

  As he whispered her name, drawing out every syllable, his arms came round her. It was like coming home, like finding peace. It was… it was like knowing that she had found a haven she had wanted all her life.

  ‘He might have killed you.’

  The words hurt her throat. She knew that she was trembling violently, that her eyes, her voice, must be betraying her to him, but she couldn’t check the emotions filling her.

  ‘No.’

  The denial was soft but firm. He lifted her hand from his face and carried it to his lips gently kissing her palm, making her tremble again, but not this time with fear.

  ‘Miranda…’

  His hands were framing her face, his thumbs making gentle circular caresses against her skin. One of them touched her mouth, rubbing against her lower lip. He was looking right down into her eyes, and she could see the heat that burned in his, knew with a savage kick of sharp awareness that he wanted her, that in his heightened emotional state his adrenalin-fuelled anger had given way to physical desire.

  As his thumb slowly caressed her bottom lip he bent his head towards her. She closed her eyes, clinging dizzily to him, shuddering beneath the force of the sensations engulfing her as his tongue touched the moist softness of her mouth.

  Held in his arms, tightening around her, she felt his muscles contract; felt the increased thud of his heart; felt her own body’s response.

  While he kissed her she clung to him, returning each passionate embrace, jettisoning caution and self-preservation, feeding the desire that burned so hotly in him with her eager response to him.

  As he kissed her he made a soft male sound of pleasure deep in his throat and then shifted the weight of his body from one foot to the other, pressing her intimately against him. Instead of recoiling in rejection of his arousal, Miranda found that she was actually trying to move closer to hi
m, arching her spine and moving her hips, but even her awareness of how dangerously she was behaving, even the knowledge that she had never behaved so wantonly, so foolishly in her whole life wasn’t enough to stop her.

  Ben’s hands slid roughly down her body, shaping her hips then cupping her bottom, pulling her urgently into the heat and intimacy her senses so achingly sought.

  It was an appeasement of the ache inside her of a kind, but it was not, she recognised tormentedly, enough. Not anywhere near enough.

  While she was still trying to understand where it had come from, this need that burned so uncontrollably within her, Ben was kissing her throat, muttering words she could not distinguish into her skin, setting off small explosions of sharp pleasure where she felt the moist heat of his mouth on her flesh.

  She was still clinging to him, but now, somehow or other, her hands were inside his jacket, pressed hard and flat against his shirt.

  She heard Ben mutter something she couldn’t comprehend, and then abruptly he was easing some space between them. While her deprived senses were still battling to accept the torment of losing her intimate physical contact with him, he was wrenching open the buttons on his shirt, seizing her hands, pushing them inside the unfastened garment and placing his own over them as he closed his eyes and shuddered visibly.

  As he let go of her wrists and drew her back in his arms, he urged her, ‘Touch me, Miranda. You can’t know how much I want to feel your hands on my skin… your mouth…’

  She shuddered herself, not sure if it was the heated erotic contact with his bare flesh that was responsible for her own fierce upsurge in desire, or his husky passionate demands.

  When he kissed her he groaned beneath his breath, his muscles straining against her, his skin so hot and damp where she touched him. She could feel the hardness of his nipples beneath her palm. When she moved her hand against him, he breathed in sharply, his breath rattling in his throat.

  ‘Oh, God, Miranda.’

  His hands were beneath her own top now, sliding round her ribcage, moulding the eager softness of her breasts, freeing them from the constriction of her bra.