Guilty - Anne Mather

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in the provincial life,’ Jake informed her carelessly. ‘She doesn’t care for fields, and trees, and rolling vineyards. Only in what they produce.’

      Laura swallowed. ‘That’s a little harsh—–’

      ‘Is it?’ Jake’s eyes were enigmatic. ‘How do you know I don’t feel the same?’

      She didn’t, of course. And on the evidence she had so far, she had little reason to believe otherwise. And yet…

      ‘I—really think I must go and get dressed,’ she insisted, moving towards the door. ‘Er—if you’d like another cup of tea, help yourself. I—won’t be long.’

      She made her escape before he could say anything else. And, as she went up the stairs again, she realised she was trembling. For heaven’s sake, she thought impatiently, what was wrong with her? It wasn’t the first time she had had a conversation with a strange man, and certainly he had given her no reason to feel this consuming sense of vulnerability in his presence. It wasn’t as if he’d made a pass at her or anything. He’d been a perfect gentleman, and she was behaving like a silly spinster. For God’s sake, she told herself, locking the bathroom door and taking a good look at herself in the mirror, she was too old and too jaded to be attractive to a man like him. Even if Julie had not been on the scene, there were probably dozens of women like her, waiting to take her place. She was just a middle-aged housewife, with a pathetic lust for something she had never had.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      SO MUCH for her efforts to move quietly earlier, Laura reflected half an hour later, having made as much noise as possible as she’d got dressed. Even though she had slammed drawers, rattled hangers, and dropped a make-up bottle on to the dressing-table, Julie hadn’t stirred. She was curled languorously in the middle of the bed, and nothing her mother could do would wake her.

      Of course, she could always take her by the shoulders, and shake her daughter awake, Laura considered grimly. After all, Jake was Julie’s guest, not hers, and she should be the one to entertain him. But that particular alternative was not appealing. The girl was probably tired, and it wasn’t fair to deny her the chance to catch up on her sleep.

      The reasons why Julie might be tired were less easy to contemplate. Even though she had denied them the chance to sleep together at the cottage, Laura had no doubt that Jake had slept at Julie’s apartment in London. And although her experience of sexual relationships was fairly negligible, she had a more than adequate imagination.

      The brush she had been using on her hair slipped out of her sweaty fingers, and landed on the carpet, and she glanced round, half apprehensively, at the bed. But Julie slumbered on, undisturbed by her mother’s vapid fantasies, and, clenching her teeth, Laura wound the silky mass around her hand, and secured it on top of her head with a half dozen hairpins.

      She was a fool, she told herself irritably. This simply wasn’t the time to have a mid-life crisis, and the sooner she pulled herself together, and started acting her age, the better.

      She went downstairs a few minutes later, slim and workmanlike, in an unfussy cotton shirt, and her oldest jeans. As soon as breakfast was over, she was going to make a start on the garden, and, if Jake Lombardi didn’t like it, it was just too bad. Maybe he would have more luck in waking Julie than she had had. He was unlikely to want to spend the rest of the morning on his own, but it really wasn’t her problem.

      However, when she entered the kitchen, she found Jake wasn’t there. The teacups had been washed and dried and left on the drainer, but there was no sign of her visitor. He had either retired to his room—and she certainly hadn’t heard him come upstairs—or he had gone out. The latter seemed the most likely, but she couldn’t help remembering that he had had no breakfast.

      Still, it was only half-past seven, she discovered, looking at her watch. She wondered what time he usually had breakfast. Later than this, she was sure. But she wondered where he had gone all the same.

      Conversely, now that she was on her own, she found she didn’t know what to do. It was too early for gardening. If Mrs Langthorne, next door, saw her in the garden at this hour, she would wonder what was going on. After all, she wasn’t a professional gardener, just a rather enthusiastic amateur. And enthusiastic amateurs didn’t start digging up weeds at half-past seven!

      She sighed, feeling definitely peevish. This was Jake’s fault, she thought, needing someone to blame. If he hadn’t come down so early, she would probably still be in her dressing-gown, having another cup of tea, and trying to do the previous day’s crossword in the newspaper. That was what she usually did on Saturday mornings. But today, her whole schedule had been thrown off-key.

      She was making a desultory inspection of the fridge, when the back door opened, and Jake came in. And with him came the delicious scent of newly baked bread.

      ‘Miss me?’ he asked incorrigibly, depositing a carrier-bag on the table, from which spilled plain and sweet rolls, scones, and a crisp French stick. ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a selection.’

      Laura stared, first at the table, then at him. ‘But—where—–?’

      ‘The bakery,’ declared Jake, pulling a chair out from the table, and flinging himself into it.

      Laura’s brows drew together. ‘The—village bakery?’

      ‘Where else?’

      ‘But—Mr Harris doesn’t open until nine o’clock!’

      ‘No?’ Jake gave her a quizzical look. ‘Well, I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re implying.’

      ‘Of course, I’m not implying that, but…’

      Laura was lost for words, and, taking pity on her, Jake leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. ‘He was just getting his delivery,’ he explained, with a disarming grin. ‘And I—persuaded him to let me be his first customer. He didn’t mind. I mentioned your name, and he was happy to oblige.’

      Laura shook her head. ‘But—I hardly know the man.’

      ‘No. He said that, too.’ Jake’s eyes were warm with humour. ‘You should patronise the local shops. They depend on your custom.’

      ‘I do.’ Laura was indignant. ‘Well, the general stores anyway. I usually get my bread there.’

      ‘Pre-packed, no doubt,’ remarked Jake drily, and she bridled.

      ‘It’s good enough for me,’ she retorted shortly, ignoring the mouth-watering smell of the warm rolls. ‘I don’t find food a particular fetish. I eat to live, that’s all. Not the other way about. As you probably noticed last night.’

      Jake’s features sobered. ‘Now what is that supposed to mean?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Laura refused to say anything else she might regret later, but Jake was on his feet again, and his height and the width of his shoulders dwarfed her slender frame.

      ‘Come on,’ he said, and, although his tone was pleasant, his expression was less so. ‘What about last night? What am I supposed to have noticed? I said the meal was good, didn’t I? What else was I supposed to say?’

      ‘Nothing,’ said Laura again, half turning away from him, and fiddling with the teapot on the drainer. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did. It—it was just a defensive reaction, that’s all.’

      ‘And why do you feel the need to be defensive with me?’ demanded Jake, evidently unprepared to give up so easily, and Laura sighed.

      ‘I don’t know—–’

      ‘Don’t you?’ Now it was her turn to look at him with unwary eyes.

      ‘I beg your—–?’

      ‘Don’t,’ he said harshly. ‘Don’t say that again! Ever since I got up this

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