A Very Special Man

by Marjorie Lewty

  But first to get rid of the black polythene sack.

  The heavy bolt that she remembered had gone from the back door and in its place was a stainless steel gadget. One of these burglar-proof locks, she decided, and smiled. What was the use of a burglar-proof lock on the kitchen door when it was perfectly simple to climb through the pantry window, as she had just demonstrated?

  The lock proved fiddly. She turned it, pulled it, pushed it, all to no avail; the door remained firmly shut. After five minutes of fruitless effort she began to feel exasperated. Chloe was a girl who liked to finish a job once she had started it and it was frustrating to have cleared up all that mess in the pantry, only to leave it here in the kitchen instead. She gave the lock a last, unrewarding push and turned to look for some tool or hard object that might help.

  Then all thoughts of the matter in hand went out of her mind and she gave a gasp and stopped breathing altogether.

  Leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, one hand in the pocket of an elegant leather coat, dark eyebrows lifted questioningly in a long, intelligent deeply-tanned face, stood the most stunningly attractive man Chloe had ever seen in her life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For some crazy reason the first thing that flashed into Chloe’s mind was the lighthearted conversation with Jan the other day when she had catalogued the assets of the mythical man she might consider falling in love with.

  ‘Tall, dark and handsome,’ she had stipulated. ‘Rich and generous. Kind to children and dumb animals. Possessing a sense of humour.’

  ‘And sexy?’ Jan had added wickedly, to which Chloe had agreed.

  She stared at the man standing in the doorway as if she had rubbed a magic lamp and he had appeared in a puff of smoke. Tall? He must be well over six feet. Dark? As dark as a night without stars. Handsome? Whatever it was that made a man handsome, he had it. Rich, certainly. That coat he was wearing so casually, made of some supple, pale skin, had cost the earth. She had seen ones like it behind the plate-glass windows of exclusive men’s shops in Piccadilly and Regent Street.

  And sexy? She almost giggled. This man carried his masculinity with a certain swagger. It gleamed in the black eyes that were regarding her with cool arrogance; it flaunted itself in the wide, strong shoulders, the taut hips where the leather coat flared out just slightly from an elegantly hinted-at waist.

  She blinked herself back to sanity. The man was a perfect stranger, and anyway he was regarding her with something less than friendliness, however kind he might be to children and dumb animals.

  He glanced down at the sack and then up at her face. ‘May I enquire what the hell you think you’re doing?’ His voice matched the rest of him—the deep, resonant kind of voice that goes with height and broadness in a man. It also, Chloe thought, her temper beginning to sizzle, held a note of contempt. Well, she might look silly, lugging a black sack round the dusty kitchen of an empty house in the country, but she certainly wasn’t going to apologise. This man was presumably viewing the house, and she had as much right here as he had. If she kept her head she could pass off her situation without appearing an abject idiot before this annoyingly superior individual.

  Then something happened that threw her completely.

  Slowly, from behind the putty-coloured cord trousers of the man standing in the doorway, there stalked an enormous marmalade cat, tail erect and waving from side to side very slowly, whiskers fanning, sherry-coloured eyes impassive.

  ‘Orlando!’ squeaked Chloe joyfully. It must be Orlando. No other cat was so marvellously conscious of his own importance. ‘Oh, Orlando, I thought you might be dead!’

  She took a step forward and stopped abruptly. If she stooped to greet Orlando she would find herself on her knees before the man in the doorway, who was now regarding her as if he were looking at a lunatic.

  ‘Certainly not dead,’ he said, ‘although I admit to feeling just a touch puzzled. And you’ve got the wrong Shakespeare, you know. Orlando was As You Like It, wasn’t he? My name happens to be Benedict. Much Ado About Nothing,’ he added. ‘And now, perhaps you’ll be good enough to…’ He stopped and looked down.

  Orlando had sunk gracefully to his haunches and was delicately cleaning one front paw. ‘Ah, I get it now. You were greeting the cat.’ He leaned and stroked Orlando’s ear, and Orlando, rather surprisingly, submitted to his caress, even showed pleasure by rearing his back and rubbing himself sensuously against a long, lean leg encased in cord trousers.

  The man looked up at Chloe. ‘I thought his name was Fred. That’s what the good lady at the cottage told me.’

  So that was where Orlando had taken up residence now—with Mrs Croker! Chloe hesitated. ‘Well—er—yes, but…’ Orlando’s name had been Fred originally. The Colonel had christened him Fred on the day he walked into the house, half-starved and nearly wild, and made his home here. But Chloe and Jan had called him Orlando. Explanations, she thought vexedly, were likely to get somewhat involved. ‘He looks like Orlando, the cat in the story books, doesn’t he?’

  The man straightened, raising dark eyebrows. ‘Probably. I don’t read many story books myself.’ Chloe wasn’t a small girl, but he seemed to tower above her. ‘To return to our previous topic, may I ask exactly what you are doing here?’

  She didn’t care for his tone. It wasn’t exactly aggressive but it wasn’t friendly either. She lifted a nicely-rounded chin. ‘I’m not making off with the swag, if that’s what you’re thinking. Merely doing the house a good turn by clearing out the—er—perishables left behind by the last occupants.’ She wrinkled her straight little nose fastidiously. ‘It was high time they were removed from the pantry—and “high” is the operative word. Apart from that,’ she added loftily, ‘I was just on the point of doing what you are doing yourself. Viewing a house that’s up for sale.’

  He shook his head, unsmiling. ‘But it isn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t what?’

  ‘Isn’t up for sale. It’s sold—to me. All completed and paid for and I’ve just picked up the keys from the solicitors.’ He jingled them in his pocket. ‘So perhaps…’

  Chloe stared at him blankly. ‘But the For Sale notice is still up by the gate. I naturally thought…’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that myself when I drove in, and stopped to have a look. When you go out again you’ll find the Sold Subject to Contract covering plate in place. The wind must have dislodged it.’

  ‘Oh,’ murmured Chloe. She was beginning to see that she was in danger of making a fool of herself. If this man were indeed the owner of the house he would have every right to insist on knowing why she was here and how she had got in, and that was something she didn’t care to explain if she could avoid it.

  ‘Well, please accept my apologies for trespassing, or whatever I’m doing,’ she said coolly, ‘and of course I’ll leave at once.’

  She moved in the direction of the hall. She could at least go out by the front door, in a dignified manner, however she might have come in. But he was barring her way and he made no attempt to stand aside.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. Her urge to get away had brought her up short, within inches of the elegant leather coat. She was so close that she could smell the subtle leathery smell, and suddenly she felt a quiver run along her nerves. It was embarrassing to be so near a complete stranger. She took a hasty step backwards and looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

  He didn’t stir. He said smoothly, ‘Won’t you do me the favour of finishing what you’ve begun? With my help, naturally. I ought to have noticed the condition of the pantry when I went over the house, I suppose, but a mere man is inclined to overlook such details.’ He glanced vaguely at the sack lying by the back door.

  Chloe shrugged. ‘I was going to put it out in the dustbin, but there’s a patent lock on the door and I couldn’t open it.’

  ‘Let me try.’ He stepped past her and with a couple of deft twists the lock snapped back. He dumped the sack in the dustbin outside, came back and closed the door behind him
. Then, deliberately, he locked it and tested it. Flicking the dust off his hands he looked at Chloe and said blandly, ‘One can’t be too careful. People break into empty houses.’

  She met his look with one of dislike. He was obviously getting at her; trying to goad her into an explanation. If he would make a small joke of the whole matter it would be a civilised gesture and save her dignity. But he wasn’t smiling.

  Goodness, though, she had to admit he was rather stunning, however uptight he might be! A long, intelligent, deeply-tanned face; near-black hair that curled very slightly behind his ears; a wide mouth set in a deprecating line as if he weren’t expecting very much from anyone; the faintest hint of a cleft in a firm chin. But it was his eyes that held her. Black eyes with a liquid shine in them, fringed with thick lashes, were regarding her suavely.

  She pulled herself together. ‘I’ll be on my way, then.’ She was dismayed to hear that her voice sounded high and squeaky. This encounter had been more of a shock than she had realised. ‘Sorry again, and all that.’ She made a move to the door.

  He lifted a hand. ‘Hold on a bit! As I have all the available keys myself—or so my solicitors told me—I think you owe it to me to tell me just how you managed to get in. “Breaking and entering” is the legal term, I believe.’

  She felt a chill run down her back. ‘You wouldn’t…’ she gasped.

  His eyes passed unhurriedly, almost insolently, over her from the toes of her high boots to the bobble on top of her white furry cap. Then he shook his head. ‘I doubt if I’d make the charge stick. You’re not anyone’s idea of a lady burglar.’ Very slowly, the long mouth twitched at the corners and the black eyes began to glitter as if little devils were dancing in them.

  Chloe let out her breath. So the man was human after all! Well, she supposed she owed him an explanation, as it was his house. She would make it as brief as possible, but tell enough of the truth to convince him. Then, perhaps, he would let her go.

  She didn’t smile back. She stuck her fists deep in the pockets of her tweed jacket and lifted her chin. ‘The explanation’s quite simple, I used to live here years ago. My mother was housekeeper in the house and I grew up here. Coming back was just an impulse. I had time to put in while my car was being serviced in Kenilworth—I saw a bus coming along—and here I am. I meant to take a look from the outside, naturally, but when I saw that the house was empty and for sale I couldn’t resist walking up the drive to have a closer look, just for old times’ sake.’

  ‘I’m still curious about why you were inside the house—and how you got in.’

  Chloe was simmering with rage, but her voice was commendably cold as she said, ‘There was no difficulty at all. The larder window was hanging open and inside there was all this food and it had been there far too long. It seemed like an insult to the old house, leaving it in that state. It was always kept so clean and neat when we lived here,’ she added pointedly.

  He ignored that and said, ‘So you climbed in through the window?’ The little devils were dancing in his eyes again. ‘I’d like to have witnessed that.’

  She said in a tone she hoped was crushing, ‘I should advise you to have the catch repaired as soon as possible. May I go now, please? I’ll leave by the front door if you've no objection.’

  He stood aside with a gesture that could only have been mocking; but that small sweep of the hand seemed to come naturally to him. There was a touch of the aristocrat about him. As she walked past him into the hall her arm brushed against the supple pale leather of his coat and she felt a quick response run along her nerves, a man-woman response that took her completely by surprise.

  For a moment she saw nothing of the familiar hall, and was only aware of the quickened throb of her pulses. It was ridiculous and rather frightening, this immediate awareness of a complete stranger. Merely what was called body chemistry, of course, and maybe it had something to do with missing Roger. She would have to keep on reminding herself that she had finished with men, and falling in love, for some considerable time to come.

  She focused her eyes on the hall. It was bare and dusty, the tiled floor badly needing a scrub and the windows a clean. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling. ‘You’ve bought yourself a good deal of tidying-up, haven’t you?’ she said as he came up behind her, ‘but I’m sure you’ll have it looking super in no time at all,’ she added politely. And then, with a little sigh, ‘It’s a beautiful old house.’

  They walked together to the front door. ‘Yes, I thought so too,’ he said. ‘It’s no Palladian mansion, but it has character, that’s why I bought it.’

  He opened the front door. There was a long, sporty-looking car in a fashionable olive green colour standing on the gravel outside. It matched the man himself, Chloe thought. It was a trifle flamboyant, a little larger than life, with its black hood and its racy, wicked-looking lines.

  ‘It’s beginning to rain,’ he said. ‘Did you say your car was in Kenilworth? How do you propose to get there?’

  ‘The way I came. Walk to the end of the lane and pick up a bus.’ She put one foot out on the step.

  ‘You’re going to get very wet,’ he said casually. ‘You’d better wait for me, I’m going that way myself and I can give you a lift. I’ll only be a few minutes; I just want to lake a preliminary look round the house for any major work that may need doing. Come to that, why don’t you walk round with me? Or would nostalgia bite too deep?’

  ‘Oh, that would be-—’ She broke off, because she had nearly said, ‘That would be super.’ Which it would; there was nothing she would love more than to see over the old house again. But something seemed to be warning her that it would be wiser to get away from this disturbing stranger as quickly as possible. She had the oddest feeling that in some way he meant trouble for her, and she had had quite enough trouble with Roger to last a long time, thank you very much.

  ‘I don’t know if I…’ she tried again, and saw that he was laughing at her.

  ‘Empty house—dangerous stranger—is that what you’re thinking?’

  She flushed, because in a way that was exactly what she was thinking.

  He nodded gravely. ‘Very natural! But I took your word for it when you assured me that you weren’t a burglar. Won’t you believe me when I tell you that I’m not—er—whatever it was that you were thinking?’

  When she still hesitated he seemed to lose interest. He shrugged. ‘Well, please yourself, I’m going on a tour of the premises.’ He turned and walked up the stairs. Chloe found herself wondering what his profession could be. He moved lightly for such a big man, with a tensile strength, like an athlete. Or a matador, she thought with an inward grin. He’d look good in a swinging cloak. But what would a matador be doing, buying a picturesque old house in the heart of England?

  Somewhat to her surprise she found herself following him. Even the dust and bareness couldn’t disguise the graceful curve of the staircase, with its delicately-wrought iron balustrade. It led up to a narrow gallery which enclosed the hall below on three sides, and Chloe caught up with the new owner as he leant on the rail, looking down into the tiled hall.

  He showed no surprise that she had changed her mind and followed him. ‘I like this arrangement,’ he mused. ‘This is the reason why I first fancied the house. There’s something about it that reminds me of the courtyards at home.’ He glanced at her and tossed in as an afterthought, 'Spain. I happen to be one quarter Spanish.’

  So the matador idea hadn’t been so far out, after all! Even one quarter Spanish would explain the darkness of the man, the arrogant way he carried his body. Chloe’s university course in modern languages had taken her to Europe for several long periods, staying with families, absorbing their language and customs. She had been three times to Spain and had grown familiar with the way the young men, even the humblest of them, looked supremely conscious of their aristocratic birth, and the insolent challenge of their masculinity.

  She looked down into the tiled hall. ‘Yes, of course.
It is like a patio. I’d never thought of that.’

  He glanced carelessly at her. ‘You know Spain?’ He was merely being polite, of course. He would no doubt lake one look at her and label her ‘tourist’. Everyone went to Spain on package holidays these days, and she was well aware that her neat tweed suit and angora cap didn’t suggest anything more ambitious and glamorous than a couple of weeks in Benidorm, all in.

  ‘I’ve been there,’ she said, but she doubted if he was even listening. His dark eyes were thoughtful and absorbed. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘I’m sure we can make something good of all this.’

  She wondered what ‘something good’ meant. A rich man’s toy? A weekend retreat for himself and his smart town friends? With his general air of wealth and importance she could hardly believe he needed the house as a home. On that count at least, she decided with an ironic twist to her lips, he would fall short of that mythical ideal man she had dreamed up.

  She left him leaning on the rail and walked quickly round the upstairs rooms. The five bedrooms leading off the gallery had no memories for her. One large room had been the Colonel’s bedroom, but the others had remained empty except when the Colonel’s family came to visit. But the three smaller rooms at the end of a short passage were full of memories. The one overlooking the orchard had been her mother’s bedroom and the one opposite was the room Chloe had shared with Jan until Jan married. The largest room of the three, which looked over the rose garden, had been their own sitting room, warm and cosy and untidy—very different from the Colonel’s drawing room downstairs, where everything had been kept in polished order, the way he liked it. She stood at the window now, looking out, and could almost see him taking his evening stroll below, erect and soldierly still, with his white moustache and his malacca walking-cane, and her eyes were suddenly misty.