LITMIR.BIZ

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we’ve agreed I’m not much of a wife. Look, I can do it. I can get Mrs Milton and her sister to come up—as I’ve done before on Dalkeith.’

      ‘Then do it,’ he said curtly. ‘What do you want to know?’

      ‘When they’re arriving, when they’re leaving, who they are and just what kind of a weekend you have in mind!’

      ‘Why, the kind of weekend Dalkeith is famous for, Lucy,’ he said blandly. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. There’ll be four guests and Sasha.’

      She stared at him then forced herself to relax. ‘Well, if they come on Friday afternoon, we’ll have an informal dinner, a buffet and a simple evening—music, cards and so on. Saturday, a picnic at the creek, some sightseeing around the place, some target shooting or archery, a little gentle croquet for the ladies, then a formal dinner to which I could invite some locals.’ She considered. ‘Yes, I could invite the Simpsons, and Miles Graham for Sasha! That should even things up.’ Her eyes glinted. ‘Then on Sunday morning a late breakfast, and they can do what they like until they leave after lunch.’

      ‘And you and Mrs Milton and her sister can cope with all that?’ he queried.

      Lucy shrugged. ‘They’ve got it down to a fine art. Mrs Milton does the cooking, although a lot of it is prepared beforehand, and her sister makes the beds, tidies up, waits on table et cetera. It’s all in the preparation, Justin. So long as you feed people really well, the rest seems to take care of itself.’

      ‘It’s Tuesday today, Lucy,’ he warned.

      ‘That gives me three full days, Justin,’ she said wearily. ‘Besides, I think I need a challenge,’ she murmured, and propped her chin on her hands.

      He regarded her steadily then said quietly, ‘You’re making things awfully hard for yourself, Lucy.’

      ‘No, you’re making them hard for me, Justin.’

      ‘I hesitate to labour this point, but if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be here.’

      ‘Perhaps. But I might have felt I’d gone down in a fair fight—who knows?’

      ‘How are you going to handle us in front of these people?’

      She blinked, then grinned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that—yet.’ She sat up suddenly and tossed the thick plait she’d braided her hair into over her shoulder. ‘Do you mean we’ll have to put on a loving show?’

      ‘It’s not unexpected in newly-weds,’ he observed.

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘And I don’t expect I’d take kindly to being made a fool of,’ he added without the least emphasis, yet a curious underlay to his words that made her nerves prickle oddly. Perhaps it was something in his eyes as well, as they rested on her.

      She opened her mouth, closed it then said with dignity, ‘It’s not a pre-requisite to... I mean, some of the people I’ve known who really were in love didn’t...sort of flaunt it.’

      ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed. ‘What I’m trying to get at is, are you prepared to be sensible or are you going to cook up something like yesterday to advertise to the world that we’re not in love?’

      Lucy pursed her lips. ‘I might just be normal and let them work it out for themselves,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think you can expect much more from me, Justin.’

      ‘When you say normal, do you mean you’ll include me in your come hither—?’

      ‘I don’t do that,’ she cut in sharply.

      ‘Perhaps you don’t realise you’re doing it. Perhaps it’s second nature now. Didn’t you notice Robert Lang going weak at the knees when you smiled at him yesterday?’ He lifted a dark eyebrow at her.

      Lucy set her teeth.

      He waited then gathered his plate and took it over to the sink.

      ‘I can’t help how I smile!’ she said in a goaded sort of voice at last.

      ‘No, but with a bit of age and maturity you should be able to use it with discretion. Otherwise you could find yourself in a situation you might find hard to handle one day.’

      Lucy tossed her head and stood up, with not the slightest idea, as he came back to the table, what he had in mind. ‘Like this,’ he said softly, standing right in front of her so she had to tilt her head back, and taking her in his arms as her eyes widened. ‘In the position of being kissed by your sworn enemy.’

      Her lips parted. ‘Justin...’

      But he ignored both the look in her eyes and the incredulity in her voice, and held her closer so she couldn’t help being aware not only of the feel of his hard, muscled body against her own but of the faint tang of aftershave and sheer maleness about him—and finding it curiously heady, like some primitive assault on her senses. This both stunned her slightly and made her less able to cope with what followed. A searching, not particularly deep kiss to which she didn’t respond particularly yet which didn’t exactly repel. It was really strange, she reflected afterwards. It was as if her body had gone languid and her mind was suspended above her, recording and storing the event, monitoring her own reactions but, above all, searching for his.

      And when he lifted his head at last she blinked once then stared into his eyes, with her heart in her mouth suddenly at what she might see.

      What she did see was the way he narrowed his eyes immediately, and then the little laughter-lines beside them creased. ‘Well, Lucy,’ he said wryly, ‘you have got that down to a fine art, haven’t you?’

      She licked her lips and said huskily, ‘What do you mean?’

      His hands slid down her back to her waist and he lifted her off her feet and moved her away, and steadied her but didn’t take his hands away. ‘The art of kissing and giving nothing away at the same time.’

      A tinge of pink came to her cheeks and a pulse beat at the base of her throat, a pulse of anger as it happened. ‘If that’s not exactly what you did, I’ll eat my hat,’ she retorted, and removed herself from his grasp but sat down almost immediately.

      ‘Then why are you so cross?’ He leant against the corner of the table and folded his arms.

      ‘Perhaps I’m tired of having it continually pointed out to me what a femme fatale I am.’ She picked up the lid of the sugar bowl and replaced it not gently. ‘And if that was a warning of the deluded sort you were issuing yesterday—’

      ‘It was a warning to behave yourself this weekend, Lucy.’

      ‘Listen, Justin!’ Her eyes were a deeper, decidedly stormy blue now.

      ‘No, you listen to me, Lucy.’ He unfolded his arms and pinned one of her wrists to the table as her hand wandered towards the sugar bowl again, and he lifted her chin in his other one, also not gently as she resisted stubbornly. And his eyes were a cold, hard grey as he said, ‘You can fight me all you like in private, but not in public, because if you do, I’ll retaliate, believe me, in a way you wouldn’t like at all, and in a way that will make your little war look like child’s play. Do we understand each other?’

      

      It was Mrs Milton who broke into Lucy’s reverie. Mrs Milton came in daily and Lucy was still sitting at the kitchen table where Justin had left her, staring into space, as she arrived.

      ‘Morning, Miss Lucy,’ she said brightly and placed a parcel on the table. ‘There’s those sheets that needed mending.’

      ‘Oh!’ Lucy jumped. ‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Milton—sorry, I was miles away. How are you?’

      ‘Fine, love. Miles away where?’ Mrs Milton poured herself a cup of coffee.

      Lucy grimaced. ‘Are you doing anything this weekend? You and your sister?’

      ‘No.

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