Their Scandalous Affair. CATHERINE GEORGE
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the devil are you doing here again, Paul?’
‘Give me a break, Avery.’ His handsome face lit with a persuasive smile. ‘Let’s be civilised and have a chat and a drink—or coffee, if you’ve had one too many at the Angel. Though, God knows, alcohol was never a weakness of yours.’
She stared at him with distaste as he slurred his words in a way she knew from past experience meant it was he who’d had one drink too many. ‘How do you know I was at the Angel?’
‘I saw you in the car park when I was leaving the pub across the road. I always sneak off there after a duty dinner with the parents. Who was the man?’
‘What possible interest could that be to you?’
His face took on a hurt look. ‘Do you have to be so damn belligerent, Avery? I’m here to do you a favour. Let me come in.’
‘No way. Don’t do this, Paul. I don’t want you in my house—’
Before she could stop him he whipped the keys from her hand. He held her off as he unlocked the door, then cursed volubly as the burglar alarm sounded. ‘Turn the bloody thing off, Avery!’
‘No fear.’ She smiled as sirens wailed in the distance. ‘Better make yourself scarce, Paul, or I’ll shop you to the police. Mummy and Daddy would just hate that.’
He hesitated, but as the sirens grew nearer he gave her a malevolent glare and made an unsteady run for the gate, tripping in his hurry to get away. Avery punched in the code for the alarm, smiling scornfully as the sirens receded into the distance. Paul Morrell had drunk too much to tell the difference between a police car and an ambulance making for the local hospital.
Her smile vanished as her cellphone rang. ‘How did you get this number?’ she snapped.
‘By devious means,’ said a deep, lazy voice very different from Paul Morrell’s but instantly recognisable, even on short acquaintance.
‘Oh.’ Colour flew into her cheeks. ‘I thought you were someone else.’
‘This is Jonas Mercer. We met earlier,’ he added helpfully.
‘I know—I know. Sorry I snarled.’
‘Something wrong?’
‘Nothing at all. I’m fine. But how did you get my number?’
‘When you left your phone behind I did some research.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you mind, Avery?’
‘I suppose not,’ she said slowly, rather surprised to find she didn’t mind at all.
‘Good. We were interrupted before I could ask to see you again. Have dinner with me tomorrow night.’
Avery stood very still, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. It was a long time since she’d accepted an invitation from a man, to dinner or anything else. She shrugged. Maybe it was time she did.
‘I promise to save the crossword until we meet,’ said Jonas.
‘A generous offer!’
‘Is that a yes?’
Suddenly the prospect of dinner with Jonas Mercer seemed like the perfect antidote to her encounter with Paul Morrell. ‘Why not? Thank you. But not the Angel, please.’
‘Your town; your choice. Just tell me when and where and I’ll pick you up.’
But Avery wasn’t about to give her address to a complete stranger, even one as appealing as Jonas Mercer. ‘If you’ll appear at the back door of the Angel about seven I’ll chauffeur you to the Fleece. It’s not far.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be waiting. Sleep well, Avery Crawford.’
She found she was smiling as she scrambled eggs later. And when she finally went yawning up to bed she felt pretty sure there would be no problem with insomnia after talking to Jonas Mercer—which was interesting. The encounter with a man she’d once been in love with had upset her so much she’d expected to lie awake all night, yet a few words from a virtual stranger and she was on an even keel again.
Avery slept so well she woke late the next morning and rushed out without breakfast to drive into town. Her thriving business functioned in a small shop in a short row of others just like it in Stow Street, near the largest car park in town. Frances arrived just after her, in such a euphoric mood it was obvious the evening had gone well. But before Avery could demand every last detail the rest of her little team arrived and the phone started ringing. The working day was in full flow, and she was due at her first appointment of the day.
‘I could be a while, Frances,’ she said, on her way out. ‘Squeezing Pansy Keith-Davidson into her grandmother’s wedding gown will take some doing.’
‘We’ll all pray for generous seams!’ Frances grinned conspiratorially. ‘I’ll fill you in about last night over lunch.’
Avery’s appointment was with one of the wealthiest families in the neighbourhood. To her gratitude, she was pressed to coffee and pastries before embarking on an assignment so time-consuming it took up the entire morning.
‘Quite a challenge,’ she told Frances, when she finally joined her in the café in Stow Street for lunch. ‘The bride’s mother told me quite frankly that she’d had her heart set on yards of train and a designer label originally, but Pansy read some article in a bridal magazine and changed her mind at the last minute. Vintage numbers are the latest must have, and if the number once belonged to Grandma it wins the jackpot.’
‘Can we do something with the dress?’ said Frances.
‘Oh, yes. It’s a slinky satin number, in thirties Hollywood style, but darling Pansy’s been on a punishing diet, so with inserts by you and some camouflaging embroidery from me all should be well. Mummy didn’t turn a hair when I warned her about the cost involved.’ Avery grinned. ‘And Pansy was so thrilled with my ideas she begged me to make dresses for the six little bridesmaids she decided on only yesterday, would you believe? The snag is the time frame. Due to the bride’s U-turn we’ll have to get our skates on. The wedding’s next month.’
‘We’ll manage that, no problem. Nice morning’s work, boss!’
‘Now, then, enough shop talk.’ Avery leaned forward, eyes sparkling. ‘Tell me about last night.’
Frances smiled dreamily. ‘It was lovely. Philip’s such a charming man it’s amazing he’s been a widower so long. His married daughter made him answer the ad, and he’s delighted now that she did.’
‘So he should be. What does he do?’
‘Accountant.’
‘You liked him, obviously?’
‘I took to him on sight—probably because he was almost as nervous as me to start with. But over dinner we talked non-stop, and he’s asked me out again on Saturday.’ Frances smiled radiantly. ‘Thank you, Avery. I owe you.’
‘Actually, you don’t owe me a thing. I’m having dinner with Jonas Mercer, the man from the Angel bar, tonight.’
‘Really?’ Frances’s eyes widened. ‘My word, that’s something new! What advantage does he have over the local male population?’
‘The fact that he’s not local, probably. But he’s quite a charmer, too.’ Avery grinned. ‘I’ll go halves for the ad you put in the paper.’
Avery rushed everyone off the premises dead on time that night, to get home to give her hair time to dry into its natural mane of exuberant curls. She fussed over her face more than usual, and changed her clothes twice before settling on jeans and a velvet jacket, irritated that she was behaving like an adolescent, and even more so when she found she’d arrived at the Angel car park a minute early.
But Jonas Mercer was there before her, in a khaki reefer jacket and needlecord jeans which suited his lanky dimensions even better than