Temporary Parents. SARA WOOD
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away. I think we must leave.’
Feeling as if a lighted fuse was burning inside her, she dragged her jacket on, grabbed her study folder and pushed books into a plastic carrier bag.
‘I’m ready.’
They all trooped downstairs with their respective loads, and the two men, bristling like rival dogs, packed the dark-chocolate Range Rover which Max had arrogantly left parked on the pavement. Fred screamed in protest at his disturbed routine until Laura cooed to him and threw the night cover over his cage.
‘Say your goodbyes,’ Max ordered curtly, his head stuck under the bonnet, checking the oil level.
Luke drew her into the shop out of sight behind the pasty display. Lord! she thought shakily. She’d be eating Cornish-baked ones in a few hours!
‘You going to be OK? He said a couple of days—’
‘No trouble. I’ve got his measure,’ she pretended. ‘And I’m sorry to muck you about. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘I know that,’ reassured Luke. ‘I’ll be thinking of you. The kiddies need you more than I do. And if you want a friendly ear...’ he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and brought out a card. ‘This is my home number. My wife’ll be only too glad to chat. She’s one in a million, Laura. You can trust her to understand.’
‘Thanks. You’ve been terrific.’
She reached up and gave him a hesitant kiss on the cheek, and hurried out, wondering if she’d ever regain complete control of her legs again.
Max, ever the superficial gentleman whatever his mood, was holding open the car door for her. It was on the driver’s side. Tucking Luke’s card into her jacket pocket, she looked at him questioningly.
‘I have to make a few calls while we’re going along,’ he explained.
He took her elbow, and she wondered what had made his voice so husky and laced his eyes with...pain? That couldn’t be right—unless he felt nervous about looking after two children. She hoped he was in for a steep learning curve.
‘You drive,’ he prompted.
Laura dragged her mind back to his request. ‘I can’t!’
He was staggered. ‘You...can’t...drive?’
‘It’s not that unusual, surely? I came here straight from home when I was eighteen, remember?’ she replied huffily. He was acting as though driving was essential for anyone who wanted to be regarded as belonging to the human race! ‘You don’t need a car in London. It’s almost stupid to have a car in London. There was never the need.’
‘Hell.’
He stalked around to the passenger side and waited while she struggled up the high steps, flashing, she was sure, a long length of leg.
Not that it would look at all enticing, she remembered with a silent groan. It would have been taken up almost entirely by a ragged ladder, and she wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or dismayed.
They were through Kensington and Chiswick and on the M4 before she’d even steadied her pulses. Max had always been a masterful driver. With every mile they clocked up, his mood lifted a little further and he stopped scowling.
Laura found herself watching how he handled the vehicle, admiring his confidence and quick reactions. He didn’t get angry when other drivers vacillated or invented their own versions of the Highway Code, but dealt decisively with each situation as it came up. He’d be good in a crisis, she thought absently. She stored away that information without knowing why.
‘OK,’ he said, easing himself comfortably in his seat as he cruised past everything in sight. She didn’t like the sound of that OK. There was an air of resolution about it. She gripped the edge of her seat and was surprised when all he said was ‘Lunch.’
‘Are we stopping?’ she asked, confused.
‘It’s in the glove box. I asked Luke to put something in a bag for us.’
Laura cautiously flicked the catch and extracted a ‘Saucy Sandwich’ carton. Two Cornish pasties, smoked salmon on brown bread sandwiches—probably with lemon—chocolate éclairs and an assortment of chocolate bon bons.
‘My favourites! Good old Luke,’ she exclaimed fondly.
‘To hell with Luke. Feed me,’ Max ordered, concentrating on the road.
She sighed audibly, like a martyr forced to do yet another penance, and thrust the pasty in the general direction of his face.
‘Break off bits,’ he instructed.
Driving seemed to take up all his attention. She’d never seen anyone so intent on the traffic before. Certain that this was part of some game he’d devised, she deliberately passed him a chunk of the crimped end which was just pastry and no filling.
Keeping his eyes on the road, he lifted his hand from the steering wheel and closed it over hers, like Ronald Coleman accepting a cigarette from Bette Davis in an old black and white movie.
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