LOVE IS FOR THE LUCKY Page 8

  ‘You never eat much, full stop,’ scolded Annie, just as if Ros were Lucy’s age. ‘I ought to make sure you put a bit of weight on before Griff gets back—a man likes something to get hold of, you know.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t be going out with him again, so it doesn’t matter,’ she responded firmly. ‘Now, I’d better pop down home and see how things are. Where on earth am I going to find a plumber who’ll be prepared to come right out here? They’ll all be inundated with work at the moment.’ She retreated to the hall to fetch her qoat as she spoke, before Annie could question her further. She shrugged herself into her duffel coat and went back to the kitchen door. ‘I’ll see you later then. ‘Bye.’

  Annie’s expression spoke a thousand things—curi¬osity, sympathy, the urgent desire to sit her friend down and give her some wordly-wise advice about men. But the children were fidgeting to get down from the table, so she had to contain her soul in patience, and content herself with, ‘Mind how you go.’

  The cottage felt cold and damp, a dismal place after the noisy cheerfulness of Annie’s home. A quick in¬spection of the damage confirmed that it was going to need a major repair job. With a sigh she went back down to the hall and, setting the phone on her knee, she opened the directory and began dialling.

  A dozen calls later, she had still had no luck. Everywhere it was the same story—’Sorry, lass, it’s a bit out of our area.’ One or two suggested she try again in six weeks—she was tempted to enquire if they were anticipating a massive landslide to move Arnby Bridge twenty miles or so to the east.

  An unexpected knock on the door startled her. She put the phone down, and went to open it. A solid, grey-haired man in a well-worn but clean boiler-suit stood on the doorstep. ‘Miss ‘Ammond?’ he enquired

  92

  IJOVE IS FOR THE LUCKY

  politely. She nodded. ‘Understand you’ve had a burst, miss. I’ve come round to see what wants doing.’

  ‘Oh!’ Relief flooded through her as she opened the door wide to invite him inside. ‘Which firm are you from?’

  ‘Oh, we ain’t local, miss. We’re working on the old place up the hill.’

  ‘The Priory?’ she queried, puzzled.

  ‘That’s right. We’ve got a bit of a hold-up, see— waiting for deliveries—and the bloke that owns the place left a message to say as you’d got some urgent repairs, and to see what we could do.’

  Ros hesitated. ‘Well, yes, I have, but… if you’re sure it won’t inconvenience Mr Griffin at all?’

  ‘Oh no, miss. He’s gone abroad for a bit, so there’s no rush. We’ll be finished up there long before he gets back.’

  ‘I see. And… he did make it plain that I’ll be paying for the work myself?’ she questioned nervously.

  ‘He didn’t say anything about that, miss, but if that’s what you want to do, you’d best see the boss when he comes up. I’m just the foreman, see. Can I have a look upstairs, then?’

  ‘Oh… yes, of course. Come in.’ Still bemused, she followed him upstairs. That Griff should have taken the trouble to arrange this for her before he left! It was such a kind gesture, it almost made her want to cry.

  Ros had never found it so difficult to concentrate on her work. At least while she stayed at Annie’s she could make the excuse that there were too many dis¬tractions—if it wasn’t the children, trotting in and out and wanting to ‘help’, it was Annie fetching her a cup

  of tea and staying to chat. Though if she was per¬fectly honest with herself, none of those things could have really taken her mind off her work if she had wanted to get on with it.

  But even after she had returned home her progress was slow. To her relief, there was no difficulty about arranging to pay for the repairs to the cottage—she had felt she would have to refuse the offer if it had meant that Griff was paying. Fortunately the estimate was very reasonable, and the work only took a few days.

  Usually she could finish the first draft of a manu¬script in about three or four months, but as the weeks passed she was falling more and more behind schedule. She spent days walking over the windswept moors, wrapped up in her old duffel coat, enjoying the dismal melancholy of the weather and the landscape.

  She chastised herself over and over for her fool¬ishness. Jordan Griffin had women swooning over him wherever he went—one more would be just tedious. She had been no more than a game to him, to while away a few dull days. As soon as he had gone, he had forgotten all about her. If she had nurtured any crazy idea that he might write, maybe even ring her, dis¬appointment set in like the wet spring as the weeks turned to months.

  By the middle of June the weather had started to improve, and she had come to the conclusion that if she was going to find the inspiration she needed to finish her book, she was going to have to get away from Arnby Bridge for a while.

  It seemed a shame to spend the loveliest season of the year confined in the grey streets of London, but

  London was the only place she could do the research she needed. So she invited herself to stay with her old schoolfriend Shelley for a few weeks, and the warm summer days were spent within the hallowed portals of the British Museum reading-room.

  It was cool and shaded in the vast, circular library. The small sounds of footfalls and pipe-scraping were absorbed by the banks of books that lined the walls right up to the glass dome of the roof. High up there the sun was shining, but down in the well of the room, among the catalogues and reading desks, the muffled quiet had a dreamlike quality that made it difficult to sustain any clarity of thought. She had doodled more than she had written this morning, and a mild headache was nagging behind her eyes.

  Suddenly she became aware of an intrusion, a firmness of step, a briskness of movement. Heads turned, eyes stared disapprovingly. Ros glanced up— and felt the blood drain from her face. Strolling casu¬ally around the ring of catalogue shelves in the middle of the room, his whole presence jarringly at odds with the refined academic atmosphere, was Griff.

  He was wearing a rather scruffy pair of jeans and a black and white sleeveless T-shirt emblazoned with the name of the Los Angeles Raiders football team. His skin was deeply tanned, defining the powerful muscles in his arms in a way that made her mouth dry. He was glancing down each radiating aisle of desks, his commanding height giving him an advan¬tageous view.

  What on earth was he doing here? And how had he got past the invincible security men in the lobby? Surely he didn’t have a reader’s ticket—who would

  have sponsored him? And yet it was almost unheard of for them to allow a member of the public in without one.

  Instinctively she tried to shrink down behind her pile of books. But he had seen her, and was coming towards her, a purpose in his stride that confirmed that this was no coincidence. She had almost for¬gotten the way he walked, with those long, lazy strides, as coolly self-assured as a lion pacing out his territory.

  He perched himself on the edge of her desk, and that famous smile curved his mouth. ‘Hello, stranger,’ he greeted her, in that familiar laconic drawl.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘HELLO,’ she replied steadily, reaching for one of the largest books and pretending to study the index. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for you,’ he countered with unnerving di¬rectness. ‘Annie said I’d find you buried in here. How about lunch?’

  Just like that? As if all he had to do was snap his fingers, and she would immediately drop everything else and do what he wanted? No—she was not going to let him walk back into her life like this and turn it upside-down again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she answered with admirable composure. ‘I’m rather busy.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat some time,’ he pointed out reasonably.

  ‘I’ve got sandwiches.’

  He laughed softly, shaking his head. ‘Am I still in disgrace for behaving so badly the last time we met? I had hoped I might have redeemed myself for that.’

  She had to admit, when Jordan Griffin turned on the charm, it would be a
hard heart indeed that could resist him. Reluctantly she returned his smile. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘When I’ve finished what I’m doing…’

  He nodded, satisfied. ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘Fine.’

  But he made no move to leave. After a few minutes, she was forced to say, ‘Look, I can’t concentrate with you sitting there watching me. If you want me to come, you’ll have to wait outside.’

  He grinned, and stood up. ‘All right. But don’t be long,’ he warned, a teasing light in his eyes.

  But there was no way she could go back to her work now. She sat for a while, staring blindly at the books in front of her, her mind a cauldron of emotions. Part of her was dizzy with happiness that he was back, and that he had actually come to find her. But another part was devoutly wishing that she could find a back door to slip out of, that she could run away and never have to see him again.

  Damn the man, she thought viciously as she closed her books. Why had he come to find her? She had just been starting to get over the last episode, to con¬vince herself that the attraction had all been on her part, that he had merely been responding out of kindness, to avoid hurting her feelings. But now…?

  She walked briskly through the lofty marble halls of the museum, and out into the summer sunshine. He was sitting on the steps, leaning against one of the massive pillars. He stood up when he saw her, and gave her a smile of such genuine warmth that her heart lurched.

  ‘That was quick,’ he approved.

  ‘Well, once you’d interrupted me I couldn’t get my concentration back,’ she grumbled, not quite trusting herself to relax with him.

  He laughed—that low, rich laugh that she liked so much. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised cheerfully. ‘Where do you fancy going for lunch?’

  ‘There’s quite a decent pub round the corner that does real ale and a ploughman’s lunch,’ she suggested.

  He glanced at her in surprise. ‘Is that all you want?’ She nodded. ‘OK, lead on. I don’t know this part of town. I’m in your hands.’

  It was a lovely sunny day—the sort of day to be strolling over the moors, not cooped up in the middle of the city. They managed to dodge through the heavy traffic on Southampton Row, and cut through the side roads to a small pub that Ros knew. It was decked with window-boxes and hanging baskets full of flowers, there were a couple of tables outside on the cobbled pavement, with bright sunshades, and they were early enough to find them still unoccupied.

  ‘This is nice,’ approved Griff, drawing out a chair for her. ‘What will you have?’

  ‘I’ll have a half, please. But…are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit inside?’ she added diffidently. ‘I mean… someone might recognise you out here.’

  He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Not many people recognise me now,’ he told her. ‘Especially this side of the Atlantic.’

  ‘Oh? I’m not the only one, then?’

  ‘Not by a long way,’ he confirmed good-humouredly, and strolled into the pub to fetch their drinks. She sat back in her seat, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the warm sun. Whatever had kept Griff in America for so long, it seemed to have been resolved to his satisfaction. He seemed somehow more… relaxed. That hard edge of cynicism that had been so noticeable before had softened a little.

  He came out with a tray bearing their glasses and two very substantial ploughman’s lunches. ‘Now, isn’t

  this better than soggy sandwiches in that fusty old museum?’ he asked her with a teasing smile.

  ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ she conceded, feigning reluc¬tance. ‘How did you get in there, anyway? Bribe the guards?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he protested, laughing. ‘I simply engaged them in a rational discussion, and they agreed that my request was perfectly reasonable.’

  ‘How long did that take you?’ she enquired drily.

  ‘Oh, not too long.’

  Ros chuckled with laughter. So the irresistible Griffin charm could even work on the granite men who guarded the nation’s literary treasure-house!

  It was very pleasant sitting out there. Traffic was banned from this narrow street, and the cool, full-flavoured beer was very refreshing. The pub was getting busy, people were spilling out of the sur¬rounding offices to take their lunch breaks, and Ros couldn’t help noticing how many of the girls took a second glance at Griff. Not that they seemed to recognise him—it was just something about him that drew the eye.

  ‘When did you get back from America?’ she asked.

  ‘At the weekend. Do you know, it was really nice to get back—I really felt as if I was coming home.’

  She studied him covertly from beneath her lashes. Every line of his face had been etched into her memory, but memory had conjured only a shadow of that magnetic aura that surrounded him. It was like some elemental power, stronger than gravity itself. It took all her will-power to continue the conversation in the same friendly, neutral vein, and ask, ‘Have they finished the work on your house yet?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve had the stable-block converted into a re¬cording studio, so I’ll be able to work from home in future.’

  ‘You’re going to make records there?’ she enquired with interest.

  ‘Yes. That’s why I’ve come down to London, to have a look at a couple of acts I might be interested in signing. What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Nothing, I…’ He had caught her off balance. She had already decided that in the remote possibility that he should suggest taking her out, she would politely decline on the grounds of having too much to do. But she hadn’t been ready for the question, and now she had trapped herself.

  ‘Good. I’ll pick you up at about eight, OK? Dinner first, and then we can go on to the club and have a look at these kids.’

  ‘Oh, I’m really not sure..

  ‘Please. I’d like to have your opinion—someone outside the business, listening to them just as a casual listener to the radio might.’

  ‘I don’t really listen to the radio much,’ she demurred.

  ‘Even better. Come on, you can spare me one evening, can’t you?’ he coaxed.

  Put like that, it seemed churlish to refuse—es¬pecially after he had helped her out with the repairs to her cottage. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘I’d better get back to work now, though,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve a lot to get through.’

  ‘OK.’ He stood up with her as she rose to her feet. ‘Where are you staying?’ She scribbled Shelley’s ad¬

  dress on a scrap of paper, and gave it to him. ‘Eight o’clock, then. Don’t be late.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘But who are you going out with?’ Shelley wanted to know. ‘I didn’t know you knew any men in London. Where did you meet him?’

  Ros shrugged her shoulders with an assumption of indifference. ‘He’s just a chap that lives in Arnby. He’s in London on business, and I happened to bump into him in the British Museum.’

  ‘So what’s his name, then?’

  ‘Griff.’

  Shelley’s eyes widened, and Ros’s heart sank. She might have guessed that Annie would have burned up the phone lines between Yorkshire and London with the news of the new arrival at the Priory. ‘You don’t mean Jordan Griffin?’ she breathed. ‘Oh, wow! Is he coming here to pick you up?’

  Ros conceded a reluctant nod.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ Shelley fell backwards on to the bed in a spectacular faint. ‘Oh, quick—he’ll be here any minute. I’ve got to make myself look stunning!’

  Ros smiled wryly as her friend scrambled off the bed and ran across the corridor to her own room. ‘What’s Graham going to think?’ she enquired, re¬ferring to Shelley’s husband.

  ‘Oh, phooey to Graham!’ declared Shelley blithely. ‘It’s not every day I get to meet the man of my dreams.’

  Ros smiled wryly at her own reflection in the mirror. The man of her dreams—how true! If only he had remained there! It was a very dangerous flesh-a
nd—

  blood man that she was dining with tonight. A shimmer of heat ran through her as she remembered the things that had happened the last time they had met.

  She had done her best to make herself look pre¬sentable. She hadn’t brought any suitable clothes to London with her, so that afternoon she had aban¬doned her dry old books—how on earth could she work, anyway?—and gone shopping down Oxford Street.

  She had only intended to buy herself one dress, but she had found a fabulous boutique, and somehow… well, one thing had led to another. She had had to take a taxi home. Half the things were still on the bed—silk blouses, and a long velvet skirt, and piles of gloriously frivolous lace underwear.

  She was wearing a very smart trouser-suit, black, with a fine gold lurex thread running through the fabric. Beneath she had on a simple little black silk vest-top, and Shelley had lent her a slender gold ser¬pentine chain to wear around her throat. If only she could do something with her hair! Impatiently she tugged the brush through the thick curls.

  The sound of the doorbell turned her to stone. ‘That’s him!’ she heard Shelley cry excitedly as she raced down the stairs. She heard the front door open, and then voices in the hall—Shelley’s excited, Griffs smooth and charming. If she didn’t hurry, she told herself with a twist of self-mocking humour, she might find her friend had stolen him from under her nose.

  He was looking cool and relaxed, in white trousers and a pale grey shirt, with a narrow pink tie, loosely knotted. He had rolled the cuffs back over his strong

  brown wrists, and as he smiled up at Ros she felt her heart flip over.

  ‘Hi! You’re looking good,’ he complimented her casually.

  ‘Thank you. I… I wasn’t sure what to wear. Is this all right?’

  ‘Sure. Come on, I’ve a cab waiting.’ He flashed one of his devastating smiles at Shelley, leaving her squirming with delight as he led Ros out to the taxi.

  Shelley lived in Stockwell, south of the river, and as Ros had expected they drove north, crossing Chelsea Bridge—her favourite of all the London bridges, with its elaborate cast-iron parapet and Victorian lamp-posts. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked curiously as they turned into the Kings Road.