Wicked Caprice. Anne Mather
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‘For a village pub, you mean?’ she suggested tartly, and he gave her a resigned look.
‘No. By any standards,’ he retorted, watching as she tasted hers. ‘Don’t be so defensive. I’m not an expert.’
‘Is that supposed to be a vindication?’ she exclaimed, though she couldn’t hide her enjoyment of the wine he’d chosen. ‘Are you one of those people who justify their—well, who say, “I know what I like”?’
‘Justify their ignorance?’ he countered at once, disconcerting her now. ‘Let’s stop insulting one another, shall we? Tell me where you worked in London.’
Isobel sighed. She had hoped not to have to discuss her job in London, or the reason why she had left. ‘As a matter of fact, I worked for Aychbourn’s,’ she admitted at last. ‘But I didn’t like it, so I left.’
‘Aychbourn’s? The auctioneers?’ He was impressed.
‘Mmm.’ Isobel wished they could get off the subject. ‘I’m not such a country bumpkin after all.’
‘I never thought you were!’ he exclaimed. ‘Aychbourn’s, eh?’ He frowned. ‘Did you ever meet a man called Charlie Ankrum?’
Isobel moistened her dry lips. ‘Mr Ankrum was my boss,’ she declared stiffly. She might have known Patrick Riker would know him. They were probably two of a kind.
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