Tempted by Trouble (3 page)

The deep breath was unnecessary. The door was opened by a teenage girl who was a vision in black. Black hair, black dress, black painted fingernails.

‘Yes?' she demanded, with manners to match the clothes. ‘What do you want?'

‘A word with Lovage Amery?'

‘What about?'

‘Tell her it's Sean McElroy,' he said. ‘She'll know.'

She shrugged. ‘Gran, it's for you!' she shouted, hanging onto the door, keeping him on the step with the kind of stare that would frighten a zombie. Gran? ‘No…'

She waited, expressionless.

‘Tall, dark hair, hazel eyes? No one's grandmother,' he added.

The green eyes in her deadpan face narrowed suspiciously. ‘You want Elle?'

‘Do I?' Elle?

‘She's at work. She won't be home until late.'

‘In that case, I'll come back tomorrow,' he said.

‘Make it before eleven. She starts work at twelve,' she said, making a move to close the door.

‘What is it, Geli?'

Sean looked beyond the black-garbed teen to the source of the voice. Walking towards him was the girl in Basil's photograph, over forty years on. Her hair had faded to grey and these days she wore it up in a soft chignon, but the eyes, even without the heavy fridge of false eyelashes, were unmistakable.

‘It's okay, Gran. He doesn't want you, he wants Elle.'

‘I hadn't realised there was more than one Lovage Amery,' Sean said quickly, bypassing the teen in favour of her grandmother, who was undoubtedly the intended recipient of Basil's envelope. ‘Did Elle explain to you about Rosie?'

‘Rosie?' she asked, confused. Which answered that question. ‘Who's Rosie?'

‘Not who, what. The ice cream van?'

‘Oh, that. I wondered where it had come from. Is it yours?'

‘No…' This was even harder than talking to Elle. ‘I left a letter for you,' he prompted. ‘From Basil?'

‘Basil?' She took a step back, the graceful poise crumpling along with her face. ‘No,' she whispered. ‘He wouldn't. He mustn't. Bernard will be so angry…'

‘Gran…' The girl, a protective arm around her grandmother, gave him a furious look and, for the second time that day, the front door of Gable End was shut firmly in his face.

 

Freddy stopped her with a touch to her arm. Elle's instincts were to pull away, but she reminded herself that he'd known her and her family since she was eighteen. That it was avuncular rather than familiar. He was, after all, old enough to be her uncle if not her father.

‘There's a big party at the corner table, Elle. They've got drinks and should have had enough time to sort out what they want to eat by now. Will you take care of them?'

Only one of the backup staff had turned in and it had been non-stop since she'd arrived before six. She was due a break, but that wasn't going to happen and she pasted on a smile, took her book from her pocket and said, ‘Of course, Freddy.'

The large round table in the corner could take up to a dozen people and it was full, which might mean a decent tip. Or a lot of work for nothing much. You could never tell.

Smile, Elle, smile, she told herself as she approached the
table. ‘Are you ready to order?' she asked. ‘Or do you need a little more…'

The words died away as she looked around the table and found herself face to face with Sean McElroy and her knees, already feeling the pressure from nearly three hours of non-stop action, momentarily buckled.

Since yelling at a diner, demanding to know why he'd dumped Rosie and run, would not improve her chances of a decent tip, she braced her knees, cleared her throat, said to no one in particular, ‘If you need a little more time I can come back.'

‘No, we're ready,' the man nearest to her said, acknowledging her with a smile before going around the table, so that she could keep her eyes on her notepad. Everything went smoothly until they reached Sean McElroy. ‘Sean?' he prompted.

‘Sorry, I can't make up my mind. I'm rather tempted by the chicken in a herb crust. Can you tell me exactly what the herbs are? Elle,' he added, proving that his vision was twenty-twenty too, since he could obviously read her name badge across the table.

So much for hoping to avoid another encounter with those blue eyes.

She looked up to find them fixed on her, his expression suggesting that she had some explaining to do which, under the circumstances, was some nerve.

The woman beside him, slender, cool in a linen shift of such simplicity that it had to have cost a mint, straight blonde hair shining like something out of a shampoo advert, turned to look at him and, instantly sensing that there was more going on than just a discussion about food, frowned.

‘I thought you were going to have the steak, darling. You always have the steak,' she added, declaring herself in possession.

‘Do I? I hadn't realised I was so boring, darling,' he said, keeping his eyes fixed resolutely on Elle. The ‘darling' had sounded like an afterthought. Maybe the woman noticed
that too, because she followed his gaze to Elle and her frown deepened.

‘The crust consists of fine wholemeal breadcrumbs,' Elle rattled off quickly, ‘and a mixture of fresh herbs including parsley, lemon thyme, a touch of sage, seasoned and bound together with egg.'

‘No
lovage
?' he asked.

Well, she'd seen that one coming. Was ready for it. ‘No lovage, no basil.' She waited, pencil poised.

‘A pity. I'll have the salmon.'

She made a note, moved on. It was just another table, she told herself as she brought a jug of water, went around the table with a basket of warm rolls.

‘Roll, madam?' she asked the blonde.

She shook her head.

She moved on ‘Roll, sir?'

Sean looked up, his face so close to hers that she could see a thin jagged scar just above his eyebrow. Had he fallen off his bike when he was little? Been cut by something? Been hand-bagged by some woman he'd seriously annoyed?

He took his time deciding, then, when she'd finally picked out his choice with the tongs and she was congratulating herself on keeping her cool when all she wanted to do was crown him with them, he murmured, ‘Tell me, Lovage, who is Bernard?' At which point the roll shot out of the tongs, knocked over a glass of water and in the confusion most of the rolls landed in his lap.

‘One would have been sufficient,' he said, rescuing the basket and picking warm bread out of his lap, while she scrambled on the floor for the rest.

‘Fetch fresh rolls, Elle. Quickly as you can.' Oh, no, Freddy
would
have to be looking… ‘And replace this glass,' he added, handing it to her. ‘I'm so sorry, everyone. Can I offer you fresh drinks? On the house, of course.'

‘How about a fresh waitress. Someone in control of her hands. And her eyes,' the girl in the linen dress suggested,
pointedly brushing away a few drops of water. ‘My dress is ruined.'

‘There is nothing wrong with the waitress,' Sean said as Freddy mopped up the spill, straightened the table.

‘We can all see what
you
think of her—'

‘The accident was entirely my fault,' he continued, speaking to Freddy, ignoring the woman at his side. ‘And there's no need for fresh drinks. We're fine.'

Sean watched Lovage—Elle—Amery walk away and discovered that he wanted to go with her. Take her hand and walk out into the dusk with her. Walk across the village, along the towpath by the Common. Walk her home and kiss her on the step, ask her out on a date, just like they did in the old days.

‘What did you say to her?' Charlotte demanded, intensifying the feeling.

‘I asked for the roll with pumpkin seeds,' he replied.

‘And you certainly got it,' someone chimed in. Everyone laughed except Charlotte.

‘I don't believe you. You were flirting with her from the moment she came to the table,' she accused.

Sean realised that the restaurant owner was still hovering. Listening. ‘If I was, then I am one hundred per cent to blame, because she certainly wasn't flirting back.' He forced himself to smile at the man. ‘We're okay, really. Thanks.'

It was a dismissal and he took the hint, leaving them to their meal. Another waitress brought a fresh glass, a new basket of rolls, and served their meal, but he only had eyes for Elle as she weaved with drinks and trays of food between smaller tables on the far side of the room.

Reassigned out of the danger zone by the restaurant manager and no doubt happy to go.

What on earth had got into him?

He'd just taken his seat at the table when he'd looked around the room and seen her, hair restrained in a French plait, luscious curves neatly encased in a black shirt and trousers, a long black pinafore tied with strings around her waist.

She'd been laughing over a friendly exchange with a family she was serving at another table and he'd experienced another of those breath-stopping moments, just like the one he'd had when she'd opened the door to him.

He should have guessed this was where she worked.

There were a fairly limited number of jobs where she'd be working at this time of night, or on a Sunday lunchtime. A late-night garage, a twenty-four hour supermarket or a restaurant. And the Blue Boar—a rambling restaurant with bed and breakfast facilities for businessmen—was within walking distance of Gable End.

As he'd watched her, he saw the guy who'd shown them to their table, the one who'd come to see what the fuss was about, stop her with a hand to her arm as she'd passed him.

It looked familiar. Possessive.

As did the way the man's eyes had followed her as she came towards their table.

It was none of his business, he told himself. None at all. But then she'd looked up, seen him, and he just hadn't been able to stop himself.

 

Elle walked into the kitchen the following morning, gritty-eyed, heavy-limbed, late after a restless night with a head full of pink ice cream vans and blue-eyed men, to find it blissfully silent.

Sorrel had presumably walked her grandmother to church before going on to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi at the Blue Boar. And Geli would be doing an early turn, dog walking at the animal sanctuary.

She dropped the envelope and van keys she'd retrieved from the hall drawer onto the kitchen table, then opened the back door.

The sun poured in, bringing with it the song of a blackbird, the scent of the lilac and she lifted her face to the sun, feeling the life seep back as she breathed in the day. Breathed out the unpleasantness of last night. That girl with Sean McElroy might have been beautiful, elegant and polished, but beauty
is as beauty does, at least that was what her grandmother always said.

She suspected that beauty like that could, and did, do whatever it pleased and Sean McElroy was clearly happy to let her.

Freddy had moved her to another table after the incident with the rolls. He had been quick to reassure her that he didn't blame her for what happened but, after all, the customer was always right.

It should have been a relief.
Was
a relief, she told herself. Between Sean and his girlfriend, someone would undoubtedly have had their dinner in their lap.

She had enough on her plate sorting out Rosie, without that kind of trouble. But not before she'd had a cup of tea and got some solid carbs inside her, she decided, picking up an elastic band from the bowl on the dresser and fastening back her hair.

She opened the bread bin.

Nothing but crumbs. And a shake told her that the cereal box on the table was empty.

She was on her knees hunting through the cupboards for the packet she'd bought the day before when a shadow cut off the sunlight.

It was too soon for her grandmother or Sorrel and she looked up expecting to see Geli, ready for a second helping of breakfast before going into Maybridge with her friends. And out of luck because the empty box on the table
was
the one she'd bought the day before.

But it wasn't Geli.

The silhouette blocking out the light was that of Pink Van Man himself, but only momentarily, since he didn't wait for an invitation but walked right in before she could ask him what the heck he thought he was doing.

A fast learner.

S
EAN
M
C
E
LROY
looked so much bigger, so much more dangerous now that she was on her knees. Maybe he was aware of that because he bent to offer her a hand up, enveloping her in a waft of something masculine that completely obliterated the scent of the lilac.

Old leather, motor oil, the kind of scents unknown in an all female household, and she found herself sucking it in like a starving kitten.

Her eyes were level with a pair of narrow hips, powerful thighs encased in soft denim, closer to a man—at least one she wanted to be close to—than she'd been since she'd said goodbye to her dreams and taken a job working unsocial hours.

‘How did you get in?' she demanded.

‘The gate was open.'

Oh, great. She nagged about security but no one took her seriously. Except, of course, it wasn't about that.

Leaving the gate open was Geli's silent protest against Elle's flat refusal to take in any more four-footed friends, no matter how appealing. Why bother to shut the gate when there was no dog to keep off the road?

She shook him off, cross, hot and bothered. ‘It's not an invi
tation for anyone to walk in,' she snapped, standing up without assistance.

‘No? Just as well I closed it then,' he said. ‘It could do with a new lock.'

‘I could do with any number of new things, Mr McElroy. The one thing I
don't
need is an old van. Can I hope that your arrival means you've realised your mistake and have come to take her home?'

‘Sorry,' he said.

‘You don't look it.' He wasn't smiling exactly, but she was finding it hard to hold onto her irritation.

‘Would it help if I said that I honestly believed you were expecting her?'

‘Really?' she enquired. ‘And what part of “Go away and take Rosie with you” didn't you understand?'

He ignored the sarcasm. ‘I thought that once you'd opened the envelope it would make sense.'

‘So why are you here now?'

He shrugged. ‘I'm not sure. Just a feeling that something's not quite right. Did Basil leave a note?' he asked, nodding in the direction of the envelope. ‘I'm a bit concerned about him.'

‘But not about me, obviously. Your little stunt last night could have cost me my job. Did you enjoy your salmon?' she accused.

‘I have to admit that the evening went downhill right after you dumped a basket of hot rolls in my lap,' he said.

‘I hope you're not expecting an apology.'

‘No. I take it you didn't get the message I left for you?'

He'd left a message? She shook her head. ‘We were rushed off our feet last night. I didn't hang around to chat.'

‘No?' There was something slightly off about the way he said that.

‘Would you?' she asked. ‘After six hours on your feet?'

‘It depends what was on offer.'

She frowned and he shook his head. ‘No, forget it. I'm sorry if you got into trouble but you have to admit that while you
might not know Basil, the name Bernard certainly makes you all jump.'

‘All?'

‘Your grandmother nearly passed out when I asked her if she'd had Basil's letter,' he explained.

‘Gran? Are you telling me that you came back here yesterday? After I'd gone to work?'

‘I called in on my way to the Blue Boar. I did tell the skinny vampire that I'd come back this morning,' he said.

‘Geli…' She smothered a grin. ‘I haven't seen her this morning. I've only just got up. What did Gran say?'

‘She wasn't exactly coherent, but I think the gist was that Bernard wouldn't allow her to receive a letter from Basil. She seemed panic-stricken at the thought.'

‘Well, that's just ridiculous. Bernard was my grandfather but he's been dead for years,' she told him.

And yet there was obviously something. It was there in the letter.

‘Tell me about him,' she said.

‘Basil?' He shrugged. ‘I don't know much. He's just an old guy with two passions in his life. Rosie and poker.'

‘He's a gambler? Are you saying that he puts Rosie up as surety for his bets?'

‘He'd never risk losing Rosie,' he assured her. Then added, ‘Which is not to say that if he got into trouble some of his playing partners wouldn't take her in lieu if they could get their hands on her.'

‘So, what are you saying? That you've been appointed getaway driver and I've been chosen to give her sanctuary?'
It…not she.
She was doing it now. But it explained why Basil had gone to the bother of registering her grandmother as Rosie's keeper.

‘That's about the gist of it,' he admitted, stretching his neck, easing his shoulders.

‘Don't do that!' she said as his navy polo shirt rippled, offer
ing a tantalising promise of the power beneath the soft jersey. Talk about distraction…

Sean frowned. He didn't have a clue what she was talking about, thank goodness.

‘Does he disappear regularly?' she asked before he had time to work it out.

‘I wouldn't know. I'm his landlord, not his best buddy. But he garages Rosie with me and I was in London when he took off and he couldn't get in. It would seem that his need to disappear was too urgent to wait until morning.'

‘So, what? He dropped a note through your letter box asking you to bring her here?'

‘I'm sorry about that,' he said, looking slightly uncomfortable, no doubt thinking that she was taking a dig at him for doing the same. ‘I assumed that once you'd read whatever was in the envelope you'd know what to do.'

What to do?

It got worse, she thought, suddenly realising exactly what this was all about.

‘I'm sorry, Sean, but if you've come here expecting to be paid your rent, you're out of luck. I don't know Basil Amery and, even if I did, I couldn't help you. You're going to have to sell Rosie to recover your losses.'

‘Sell Rosie? Are you kidding?'

‘Obviously,' Elle said, back to sarcasm. ‘Since she's Basil's pride and joy.'

‘You don't sound convinced.'

‘I can think of more important things to lavish your love on. I mean, how would you react to someone you've never heard of expecting you to run an ice cream round for him?'

Sean thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘Why don't I put the kettle on? I make a mean cup of coffee.'

‘I haven't got any coffee,' she said, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Tea, then,' he said, picking up the kettle, filling it and turning it on. He took a couple of mugs off the dresser and since
the tea bags were stored in a tin with ‘TEA' on the front—life was complicated enough without adding to the confusion—he found them without making a mountain out of a molehill. So far, he was doing better than either of her sisters ever managed. ‘Milk, sugar?' he asked, dropping a bag in each mug.

She wanted to tell him to go and take the van with him, but he was right. They needed to get to the bottom of this.

‘Just a dash of milk.'

Was there any milk?

‘How about sugar? You've obviously had a shock.'

‘Of course I haven't,' she said, pulling herself together. ‘This is some kind of weird mistake. It has to be.'

They weren't the most conventional family in the world, but they didn't have secrets. Quite the contrary. Anyone would give him chapter and verse…

He glanced back to her.

‘What are you so scared of, Elle?'

‘I'm not scared!'

‘No?'

‘No!' She'd faced the worst that the world could throw at her, but he was right, something about this put her on edge and, seizing on the fact that the kettle hadn't come on to divert his attention, she said, ‘You have to give the plug a wiggle.'

He wasn't diverted, just confused, and she reached behind him.

‘Don't!' Sean said as he realised what she was doing. He made a lunge in her direction, but not in time to stop her. There was a bit of a crackle and a tiny shock rippled up her arm, then the light came on and the kettle began to heat up noisily.

Her cheeks lit up to match but the rush of heat that invaded her body, starting at the spot where his hand was fastened over hers was, fortunately, silent.

Or maybe not.

Maybe the hammering of her pulse in her ears was so loud that Sean could hear it too, because he dropped her hand so fast that you'd have thought she was the one with dodgy wiring.

Without a word, he took a wooden spoon from the pot by the stove, used the handle to switch off the kettle and then removed the plug from the socket.

Whatever. Tea had been his idea.

But he wasn't done. Having disconnected the kettle, he began opening the dresser drawers.

‘Excuse me!'

He held up a screwdriver he'd found in the drawer that contained bits of string, paper bags, the stuff that didn't have any other home.

‘It's beyond help,' she told him. ‘It's just…' worn out, past its use by date, just plain old ‘…vintage. Like Rosie.'

‘It's nothing like Rosie,' he said, ignoring her protest as he set about taking the plug apart. ‘Rosie is not an accident waiting to happen.'

‘That's a matter of opinion,' she retorted.

‘No. It's a matter of fact. She's completely roadworthy or I wouldn't be driving her.' He looked up. ‘And I wouldn't have brought her to you.'

‘No?' Then, realising just how rude she was being, she blushed. ‘No, of course not. Sorry…'

‘No problem.'

‘I'm glad you think so,' she said, only too aware of the envelope that was lying on the kitchen table with all the appeal of an unexploded bomb.

The Amery family had lived at Gable End for generations. This was the house Grandpa had been born in and it was marked with traces of everyone who'd ever lived there.

Their names were written in the fly-leaves of books that filled shelves in almost every room. Were scratched into the handles of ancient tennis racquets, stencilled onto the lids of old school trunks in the attic.

Their faces as babies, children, brides and grooms, soldiers, parents, grandparents, filled photograph albums.

There was no Basil.

Okay, there were gaps. Photographs fell out, were borrowed, lost.

Or had some been removed?

Gran had recognised the name. According to Sean, she hadn't acted in the slightly silly, coy way she did when some man from the pensioners' club chatted her up, and they often did because she was still beautiful.

She'd nearly passed out, he'd said. Panicked. And then there was Basil's letter. He'd mentioned Bernard and referred to him as ‘my brother'. The connection was definitely there. Maybe she just didn't want to believe it.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the envelope—no one called her a scaredy-cat—and tipped the contents out onto the table so that he could see that she wasn't trying to hide anything.

‘Here's Basil's letter,' she said, offering it to Sean, who was leaning against the dresser, still poking about in the plug with the screwdriver. ‘You'd better read it,' she said, thrusting it at him before turning her attention to the notebook.

On the first page, where a printed note said
‘In case of loss, please return to:'
the word ‘ROSIE' had been written in block capitals, along with a mobile phone number. Presumably belonging to the phone on the table.

It was a page-a-day diary, she discovered, as she riffled through the pages, hoping for some clue. To the man. To his whereabouts.

There were appointments with names and telephone numbers by them. The occasional comment. Quotes by the famous, as well as Basil's own wry or funny comments on the joys of ice cream. There were only a couple of recent entries.

‘He's written “RSG” on yesterday's date. Underlined. Do you know anyone with those initials?'

He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.

‘That's it, apart from “Service, Sean” written in the space for last Friday. Are you a mechanic? There's a collection of
vintage cars at Haughton Manor, isn't there? Do you take care of them?'

‘They come under my care,' he said. ‘Basil asked if I'd change Rosie's oil, run a few basic checks to make sure everything was in good shape since he had some bookings. His back has been playing him up,' he added, almost defensively. Doing little jobs on the side that his boss didn't know about? Not her concern.

‘How much does he pay you?' she asked. The last thing she needed was an elderly—vintage—vehicle that required high level, high cost maintenance, but she didn't appear to have much choice in the matter. The mystery remained, but the connection between Basil and her family appeared to be proved.

He shrugged and a smile teased at the corner of his mouth, creating a tiny ripple of excitement that swept through her, overriding her irritation, and it occurred to her that a man like Sean McElroy could be seriously good for her state of mind.

‘Basil prefers to give payment in kind,' he said.

‘Ice cream?' She looked at him. The narrow hips, ropey arms. Her state of mind and all points south. ‘How much ice cream can one man eat?'

‘Fortunately, I don't have to eat it all myself. He brought Rosie along to a family birthday party fully loaded with ice cream and toppings. The brownie points I earned for that were worth their weight in brake liners.'

‘Family? You have children?'

‘No. The party was for my niece. Half-niece.' He shrugged. ‘I have a complicated family.'

‘Don't we all,' she said wryly. ‘But that's a lot of ice cream for one little girl's birthday.'

‘It was a big party. My family don't do things by halves,' he said.

‘No?' They had that in common, only in her case it tended to be dramas rather than celebrations. ‘How do you know him?'