Husband For Real. CATHERINE GEORGE
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Skye.’ The last bit, a vital part of Con’s strategy, was her first real lie, and she gulped down some tea to cover the rush of guilty colour to her face.
‘Skye!’ exclaimed Sinclair. ‘When my father was alive we went there once a year. I love it there. How about you?’
‘I don’t remember much about it. I was quite young, and it rained a lot,’ said Rose, deliberately vague. ‘My father went fishing, and Mother and I visited woollen mills.’
‘Did your father do much fishing?’ he asked with interest.
‘Yes. When he could. Trout, like you.’ She went cold for a moment. ‘I saw the books on your shelves,’ she said hurriedly, and went on talking to cover her blunder. ‘Dad made the most beautiful flies. He’d sit with a special little vice at the kitchen table, listening to opera tapes while he created tiny works of art. I still have some of them. The fishing flies, I mean. His rods were sold.’
The grasp tightened. ‘You still miss him.’
‘I miss them both.’ Rose hesitated. ‘But it comforts me to know that they’re together.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘Yes.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Because I need to believe it.’
There was silence between them for a while.
‘My father died when I was twelve,’ said Sinclair abruptly.
Rose sat perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined he’d confide in her in return.
‘He died in his sleep,’ he went on. ‘When my mother woke up one morning he was just—gone. Dad was a workaholic with a heart problem. Fatal combination.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Rose tightened her fingers in sympathy.
‘When I was eighteen my mother married again. He’s a good man, and they’re happy together. But…’ he paused.
‘You feel left out?’
He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never thought of it in quite those terms, but, yes, I suppose I do. That’s why I applied for a college down here. I could have gone to Edinburgh or St Andrews, but I opted to get right away to leave the newlyweds in peace. I even took off for a year between school and college. Went backpacking round Australia.’
‘Sounds wonderful. I’ve never done anything adventurous like that,’ said Rose enviously. ‘Do you mind? That your mother remarried, I mean?’ Then she held her breath, afraid she’d trespassed.
But Sinclair shook his head. ‘No. I don’t mind at all. She waited until I was ready to leave home, though Donald would have married her long before then from choice. My mother was only fortyish when they finally tied the knot. And even in a son’s eyes a very attractive lady.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Donald’s a successful advocate, and a very self-contained sort of bloke, but it was obvious, even to me, that he was mad about my mother from the moment he met her. Still is. Mother sold our home when she moved in with him. His house is a big, rambling place, and there’s a room in it kept solely for me, but I can’t help feeling like a visitor there—’ He stopped dead, shaking his head.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t believe I’m telling you all this stuff. I don’t usually bore people rigid with my life history.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘You must be a very good listener, young Rose.’
Now, she thought reluctantly, would be a good time to leave. She detached her hand gently and got up. ‘I’d better leave you to your books. Thank you for breakfast, and—and for talking to me.’
Sinclair got to his feet and stretched, suddenly so overpoweringly male in the small room Rose felt a sudden urge to run, like an animal scenting danger.
‘The average man doesn’t need much persuading to talk about himself,’ he said wryly.
‘Average’ was the last word Rose would have applied to Sinclair. ‘I must go—or should I help you wash up first?’
He ruffled her hair, smiling. Like petting a puppy, she thought, resigned.
‘I’ve got a better idea. Stay and have some more tea. It’s still hissing down out there.’
Rose glanced at the window. ‘You’re right. OK. Then I really must get back.’
‘Rose, it’s only half-eight, and it’s Sunday. What’s the rush?’
‘I must be keeping you from your work.’
‘I’ve got the rest of the day for that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or is there someone waiting for you?’
He didn’t like the idea!
‘A playmate of my own age, you mean?’ she said, smiling.
‘Hell, Rose, you’re not that much younger than me,’ he said irritably, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Is there someone?’
Afraid he might wash his hands of her if she even hinted there might be, Rose shook her head. ‘No. Only my flatmates. And I doubt if they’re even awake yet.’
‘Right.’ He picked up the kettle. ‘You sit there for a minute, and I’ll go and fill this again.’
‘Can’t I wash the plates, or something?’
‘I’ll let you off as it’s your first visit. Next time you can do the catering.’
Next time! Rose sat deep in thought after he’d gone. It seemed Con might be right. It actually was possible to deliberately rouse a man’s interest. Though it was impossible to imagine James Sinclair as any woman’s slave. Nor falling madly in love with Rose Dryden, either, however faithfully she followed the plan of campaign. But he was definitely taken with her a little bit. Enough to invite her back here, and coach her on the track. Which was way beyond anything she’d expected.
When Sinclair came back he gave her a searching look as he plugged in the kettle. ‘Where were you last night, Rose?’
‘Working.’
He frowned. ‘A part-time job? Where?’
‘No job. I was writing an essay. I went to the Cameo in the afternoon, then caught up with some work afterwards. Why?’
‘I noticed you weren’t in the pub. I wondered if you were ill.’ He made two more beakers of tea, and handed her one.
She shook her head, full of secret jubilation. ‘Since I’ve taken up running again I’m fighting fit.’
‘I said you would be. So what film did you see?’
‘They were showing a re-run of Manon des Sources. It’s one of my favourites,’ she added, crossing mental fingers.
His eyes lit up with enthusiasm. ‘Mine too. I never managed to catch the prequel—what was it called?’
‘Jean de Florette. That’s on this week for three days—then it’s Belle du Jour,’ Rose added hastily, afraid she’d been too obvious. She sighed. ‘Catherine Deneuve is so beautiful.’
Sinclair shrugged. ‘Not my type. I prefer my women dark.’
‘Sounds as though you own a harem,’ said Rose flippantly, and drained her mug to avoid looking at him.
‘Your face is very expressive, Rose,’ he teased. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I just wondered if you had someone—a girl, I mean—back home. Which is absolutely none of my business, of course,’ she added in a rush, wishing she’d held her tongue.
‘I don’t have a woman back home, or anywhere else for that matter. The grapevine is absolutely accurate,’ he said mockingly. ‘I’ve got no time for girls.’
‘Which is a cue for this one to leave, if