A Holiday Fling (4 page)

Plato twined around her ankles insinuatingly. "Are you saying it’s supper time?" She bent and scratched his head. "If Greg and I decide to have a fling for old times’ sake, you won’t be able to sleep on the bed for a few nights."

The cat blinked his luminous golden eyes complacently. Even if he was briefly exiled from the bed, he would still be there after Greg left.
"Mrrrowr?"

She smiled wryly and scooped him into her arms, carrying him toward the kitchen. Her career was in decline and her private life a desert, but feline hunger was eternal.

Chapter 3

Greg emerged wearily from customs at Heathrow. Rather than take Jenny up on her offer of a ticket, he had used his frequent flyer miles for a business-class seat that made the long flight from Los Angeles almost bearable. Since Jenny had said he’d be picked up, he glanced around, looking for a driver with a sign that said marino.

He was dodging around a woman when a familiar husky voice said, "Have I changed that much, Greg?"

Startled, he looked down and saw Jenny’s vivid blue eyes under a stylish drooping hat. Her shining dark hair was pulled back and tied with a scarf that matched her blue and green sweater, and she wore little if any makeup. The effect was casually elegant, in an unobtrusive way that wouldn’t draw unwanted attention.

Damn, he’d forgotten the power of those eyes at close range. Just looking at her made his heart accelerate and his palms cramp. Afraid he was staring like an idiot, he said, "You do incognito pretty well."

"I try." She took his arm with easy friendliness and began guiding them through the airport crowds. "When you got your Oscar, I saw that the beard was gone, but you’ve taken off quite a chunk of hair since then, haven’t you? This is a nice length for you."

He fought down the impulse to run his fingers self-consciously through the expensive haircut he had acquired the day before. Though handsome was out of his range, he could manage presentable. "I got tired of being taken for a terrorist. With straight black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin, I attracted way too much attention at airports."

"I can see how that would be a nuisance. You do look rather Mediterranean, which makes sense if your ancestors are Italian."

They had never discussed family backgrounds all those years ago. "Only my great-grandfather was Italian. The rest of me is American mutt. The first Marino married an Irish girl, their son fell for a Lithuanian, my mother is Scottish and Norwegian, and there’s some Cherokee in there somewhere, too."

"Americans are so
interesting
. I’m boring old English with a bit of Welsh."

"No woman who can talk to anyone about anything is ever boring."

She glanced up, pleased and surprised. "That’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received."

"I suppose being told you’re gorgeous must get old."

She shrugged, some of her brightness dimmed. "Looking good is part of my business. A tool of the trade. Now let’s escape from this hive."

Towing his wheeled suitcase, he followed Jenny into a chilly, overcast morning. Yup, he was in England, and Jenny’s lush hand-knit sweater was not merely decorative.

Her car turned out to be a sleek, classy S-type Jaguar. He wondered if she’d picked the blue color to enhance her eyes.

After they stowed his luggage, she beeped the doors open. "Mind the dragon."

"I beg your pardon?" He bent to climb into the car, and found a huge, snarling dragon head glaring at him from the passenger seat. "You brought a chaperone?"

Jenny laughed as she knelt on the driver’s seat and transferred the head to the backseat. "Sorry, I should have moved this earlier, but I was running late. I’ve been borrowing costumes for our production. Traditionally mummers wore disguises, often just strips of fabric or paper sewn all over regular clothing. Rather like a giant ragged chicken. Since we want spectacle, I drafted my friend Will, who’s a set designer. He found all kinds of splendid costumes in theatrical attics."

Greg settled into the passenger seat, feeling weird to be on the left side of the car and not have a steering wheel in front of him. "You don’t mind messing with the play’s authenticity?"

"This is folk art, not Shakespeare. There are hundreds of regional variations, and they evolved over time. Upper Bassett has a very old tradition of mummers’ plays, so I cobbled together some original scripts and tossed in whatever else I thought would make the production amusing." She settled into her seat, her legs shapely in well-tailored navy slacks. "I do hope you’re not horribly allergic to cats. If you are, I’ll have to book you into an inn instead of my cottage."

"I haven’t an allergy to my name." For which Greg was grateful. The closer he stayed to Jenny, the better. "I love cats. There were more cats than kids in the house where I grew up. I’d have a couple now if I didn’t travel so much."

"Oh, good. Since that’s the case, would you mind if I let Plato out? He finds his carrier demeaning. He’s a good fellow and won’t cause trouble."

"By all means free the philosopher," Greg said cordially.

Jenny reached between the bucket seats to lift a padded carrier from the floor. When she opened it, a large gray cat oozed onto the console between the seats and regarded Greg balefully. He had a massive head and attitude to spare.

Since male cats could be possessive about female owners, Greg realized he had better try to make friends with this one. He held out his hand for the cat to sniff. "Pleased to meet you, Plato. If I’d known, I would have brought a piece of the salmon I had for dinner somewhere around Greenland."

A pink tongue ran over his fingertips, raspy as a wood file. Drawing on a childhood surrounded by felines, Greg began scratching Plato’s head, adjusting tempo and pressure until the cat closed his eyes and began to purr. "He rumbles like a lawn mower."

Plato walked onto his lap—heavily—turned three times, then lay down, his chin on Greg’s knee. "I seem to have passed inspection."

"I’m impressed." Jenny snapped her seat belt shut. "Usually Plato sneers at passengers and sprawls across the backseat."

"He probably doesn’t like sharing with dragons." Greg settled back, watching Jenny from the corner of his eye as she expertly maneuvered the car out of the airport and onto the motorway. He had a phenomenal memory for images, and one whole mental file folder was devoted to Jenny. The dimples that flashed when she smiled from the heart. The shadowed hollow above her collarbone. The arc of dark lashes against her cheek as she had slept beside him.

But he had filmed and met plenty of beautiful women, and could picture none of them so well. Though his photographer’s eye had made him susceptible to beauty, it was Jenny’s self that made her special. Direct, funny, and intelligent, she would have been irresistible no matter what she looked like.

Resist her
. He was here to work and have fun, not try to seduce his hostess. Her tycoon boyfriend would probably be underfoot most of the time. Or maybe he was off on some business trip, from which he’d return in a Rolls-Royce filled with roses to shower on Jenny’s beautiful head.

But a man could dream...

* * *

Greg awoke from his doze to find that the motorway had been replaced by a narrow two-lane road winding through picturesque hills. The landscape was quilted with fields, hedges, and dry stone walls, and veils of mist transformed the scene into the setting for a sword and sorcery fantasy. It was a perfect backdrop for the world’s most beautiful driver and a philosopher cat that had him pinned down as thoroughly as his seat belt.

Moving carefully so as not to disturb Plato, he straightened and rolled kinks out of his shoulders. "Sheep," he said happily. "Plump, photogenic sheep munching their way across the meadows. So much nicer than freeways and road rage."

Jenny smiled. "Whenever I come to the cottage, I can feel the knots unwinding mile by mile. The Cotswolds are far too trendy these days, yet there’s still something timeless and authentic about these hills. They’re magical. Of course, I’m prejudiced, having grown up here."

He studied her elegant profile. The droopy hat had been tossed into the backseat, where it hung rakishly from one of the dragon’s ears. Her sculpted cheekbones might have been designed to make a photographer weep. "Definitely magical."

Jenny slowed the Jaguar at a sign declaring that they were entering the village of Upper Bassett. Moving at a sedate pace, they passed cottages and shops of honey-gold stone. At the small town square, they turned right into Church Street.

"Saint Michael’s and All Angels," Jenny said as they drove by a beautifully proportioned church that appeared to have been standing there since the beginning of time. A quarter of a mile beyond, she turned into a narrow driveway. "Home, sweet home. Frightfully twee, isn’t it?"

Greg caught his breath. Framed by trees and with the square church tower in the middle distance, the cottage belonged in a calendar of England. Despite the season, pansies and other hardy flowers bloomed lavishly, defying the overcast sky. Warm-toned local stone was roofed with immaculately groomed thatch, and a thatch goose raced whimsically along the ridgepole, just out of reach of a pursuing thatch fox. "If twee means so lovely it’s unreal, this is twee. An American’s dream of a perfect cottage."

Her voice softened. "Church Cottage is so candy box pretty that some of my over-sophisticated friends tease me about it, but I love the place anyhow. The cottage was practically falling down when I bought it. Years of work were needed to fix everything the way I wanted."

"Beauty should never be sneered at merely because it’s obvious. How many spectacular sunsets has the world known? They’re still beautiful." Greg draped Plato over his shoulder while he undid the seat belt with one hand and climbed from the car. "Is the inside equal to the outside?"

"Better—the plumbing and heating actually work. It’s the chief advantage of having to do major renovations." Jenny swung from the car and collected Plato so Greg could take his bags from the trunk. "I imagine you’ll want to attend this afternoon’s rehearsal, but do you want to rest for a couple of hours first?"

He smothered a yawn. "Good idea. Maybe then I’ll be awake enough to figure out what I have to work with."

The front door opened into a large living area with a stone fireplace, a dining table at one end, and a kitchen beyond. Exposed beams and worn, lovingly polished floors gave a sense of great age, while country antiques, mellow oriental rugs, and overstuffed furniture provided a comfort that reflected Jenny’s own hospitable nature.

Plato came alive and scrambled down from his mistress’s arms to head for his food dish. After Jenny fed the cat, she led Greg up the narrow staircase and along the short upstairs hall to a bedroom decorated in soothing shades of blue and white.

"Here’s the guest room. I managed to tuck a small private bathroom under the eaves, but mind your head when you use it—the ceiling isn’t very high. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll wake you in time for a bite to eat before the rehearsal." She hesitated, then added, "And Greg—thanks for coming."

After she left, Greg studied the church tower that rose above the trees. He felt as if he’d fallen into an English movie. Miss Marple would amble by any minute now.

Yawning again, he pulled off his boots, jacket, and sweater, then crawled under the blue duvet, glad he’d agreed to come. The perfect woman, a perfect cottage, and a project that was purely for fun. The only shortcoming was that he was in the guest room.

But it was a
nice
guest room.

* * *

"Greg?" Jenny tapped on the door, then called his name again. Still no answer. Cautiously she opened the door and peered into the bedroom. Her guest was sprawled across the bed on his stomach, his dark hair tousled and his chin bristling with whiskers.

She studied him thoughtfully, unprepared for the rush of affection she felt. He was everything she remembered, and more. When they had worked together all those years ago, his appearance had been pleasant but undistinguished. Maturity had carved lines of humor and authority in his face. Even asleep, he looked like a man who was good at what he did, and comfortable with that fact.

The duvet had slid to his waist, revealing his T-shirt-clad torso. He had filled out nicely over the last dozen years. In his early twenties he’d been gangly, but years of handling heavy equipment had added muscle. Altogether, he was quite delectable, and very dear.