Forty Things to Do Before You're Forty (3 page)

‘But I can't live there rent-free,' Annie insisted. ‘I'll have to pay something.'

‘There's no way I could even consider taking money from my best friend,' Portia tutted. ‘How about you keep an eye on the place for us when it's empty?'

And so that was the deal. While Buttersley Manor was empty, which was – shamefully – more often than it was occupied, Annie kept an eye on things. When visitors were due, she ensured it was cleaned and aired, the beds were made up, and the fridge and cupboards stocked. It was an arrangement that had worked well for five years. And one Annie was more than happy with. She loved living in the gatehouse. It was only two-bedroomed with a tiny kitchen and living room downstairs, but it was perfect for her and Sophie. They were very happy there – normally – except when questions about trips to Disneyland arose.

‘How about some fresh strawberries?' she beamed, desperate to make amends.

Sophie's little mouth stretched into a wide smile. ‘Can we dip them in melted chocolate?'

Annie rolled her eyes in mock despair. ‘I suppose so. But only if you promise not to feed them to Pip. However much he drools.'

‘I promise,' giggled Sophie.

Jake was exhausted. And hungry. It seemed an age since he'd eaten at the pub. Thank goodness he'd stopped off there before heading over to the manor. If he hadn't, he probably wouldn't have bothered with food at all. Inspiration had consumed him the moment he set foot through the door. Subsequently, he'd been writing solidly for the last four hours and now desperately needed some fresh air, a shower, and some sustenance. Leaning over the mahogany desk, he threw open the latticed windows and filled his lungs with the warm evening air. Instantly he felt better. But no less hungry. He really couldn't be bothered going out again. Besides, the handful of village shops he'd driven past earlier had most likely closed for the day. He would take a quick shower then go and root around in the kitchen. There might be something there he could nibble on.

While Sophie dipped her strawberries in the bowl of melted chocolate and Pip, their scruffy white Jack Russell, sat at her feet salivating, Annie wandered out to the garden to assess the weed situation. She loved her garden. It was small, but, like the cottage, had everything she needed: a well-kept lawn, a couple of flower beds, and a neat vegetable patch. She took a deep breath in, savouring the warm evening air laced with the scent of honeysuckle. She really was lucky living here and, despite Portia's cynicism and the lack of funds for Disneyland, really was content with her life. Who could ask for more? She had a wonderful, healthy daughter, a beautiful place to live, great friends and her own business. In spite of her grumbles about Lance, she wouldn't change a thing.

She tilted up her head to the clear blue sky and caught sight of a hawk. Her gaze followed the bird as it glided effortlessly through the air towards the manor, suddenly swooping down outside the open windows of the drawing room.
Open windows?
Ice-cold apprehension skittered through her. She'd been over to the manor that morning to check everything was in order. Aware it verged on the anal, she checked every morning when it was empty. The building was her responsibility, after all, and one she did not take lightly. She harboured a secret dread of going over one morning to discover a burst pipe and hordes of priceless antiques bobbing about in the water. Thankfully there had been no burst pipe that morning. There had been nothing untoward at all. And she'd received no word of impending visitors. Her stomach lurched. What if it were thieves? She wouldn't be surprised. The place was packed with priceless relics, valuable paintings and exquisite furniture. For her as a conservator, it was both a treat and an honour to be surrounded by such treasures on a daily basis. The P.S.'s though were completely unfazed. Despite much nagging from Annie over the years, they had still not bothered to have an alarm fitted. Well, there was only one thing for it, she determined, taking a deep breath in, she would have to go and investigate.

‘I'm just going over to the manor for a few minutes, Sophie,' she said, popping her head through the open kitchen window and, with a shaking hand, grabbing the key from the sill.

‘Okay,' muttered Sophie, still intent on her colouring-in.

Annie hesitated for a moment. Should she ask the child to seek help if she wasn't back in five minutes? No. She didn't want to alarm her. After all, it was probably nothing. Nothing at all. Still, perhaps she'd better take her mobile, just in case. She snatched that up from the sill, too. Shoving the phone and key into her shorts' pocket, she sprinted over the lawn which separated the gatehouse from its lofty relative. She headed directly to the open windows of the drawing room. Standing on tip-toes, she peeped inside. To her immense relief there was no sign of any burglars. And it certainly didn't look like anything had been moved. Pinkington-Smythe family portraits still lined the walls. And the Chinese vase – which was worth more than her annual income – still had pride of place on the mantelpiece. Hmm. Maybe thieves had a system. Maybe they started from the top and worked their way down. Should she go and confront them? Or should she call Sid, the local policeman? Or was she overreacting? Perhaps the windows had blown open with a sudden gust of wind. From inside the house. Okay, so that scenario wasn't particularly likely, but she didn't relish the thought of making a fool of herself again in front of Sid. She still hadn't recovered from the embarrassment of last year's incident when she'd been convinced there was an intruder. She'd been so scared she'd locked herself in the loo. After a chaotic couple of hours searching, it turned out to be a pigeon. She wouldn't have blamed Sid if he'd fined her for wasting police time. No, this time she should at least ascertain whether or not someone
was
inside before summoning the law. She tugged her mobile out of her pocket and scrolled down to the number for the police station. Now, if she did find herself in a compromising position, all she had to do was press the green button and help would arrive in minutes. Relatively assured, she ran round to the front of the manor and up the steps to the front door. She turned the large iron handle. It was locked. Of course it was. If the thieves had a key they wouldn't have climbed in through the window. Her heart began to race. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. She fished the key out of her pocket, unlocked the door and slipped into the stone-flagged entrance hall. Closing the door, she pressed her back against it and listened for a noise – voices, furniture being moved, anything. There was nothing. Right. Well, maybe it was one guy working alone. That was much more manageable. Even so, perhaps it would be sensible to protect herself. Her gaze scanned the hall, landing on a suit of armour. She tiptoed over to it, slipped off the helmet and, with some wiggling, placed it over her own head. Then she moved over to the wall and unhooked a sword and shield. Right. Good. She was fully protected now. So where should she start her search? Upstairs. Yes, that was probably the best place. Summoning every ounce of courage, she placed one foot on the bottom step. And froze. She could hear footsteps. In the corridor to the right. Approaching footsteps. Her blood ran cold, her heart hammered and her legs turned to jelly. Unable to move, she watched in horror as a tall shadowy figure came into view. Oh my God! This was definitely no pigeon. This was a real-life burglar. She should press the green button on her mobile. But that would mean dropping the sword and the shield. Which she might need if he decided to attack her. Well, as she was holding the weapons, she might as well make use of them.

‘St-stay right where you are,' she stammered, turning towards him brandishing the sword and shield. ‘I'm calling the police.'

‘I, er, really don't think there's any need for that,' came a deep male voice.

‘Oh yes, there is,' countered Annie, flourishing the sword in what she hoped was a threatening manner. ‘And if you've got a gun, put it on the floor and kick it over here.'

She held her breath as he bent down and kicked something towards her. Ah ha! So he did have a gun. Thank goodness she'd had the foresight to relieve him of that. She'd known that watching all those American cop shows would prove useful at some point. Good move, Annie. Very good move. But, to her amazement, it wasn't a loaded pistol that landed at her feet, but a packet of digestive biscuits.
Biscuits?
Annie furrowed her brow. Who on earth would break into a manor and steal a packet of biscuits? Was nothing sacred where this criminal was concerned?

‘Where's your weapon?' she demanded.

‘I don't have one.'

Hmm. Annie squinted her eyes against the light. He definitely had something else in his hand. She cleared her throat, ‘Wh-what else are you holding?'

‘A carton of blackcurrant juice.'

Huh. So he considered himself some kind of joker, did he? Well, Annie wasn't in the mood for jokes. This was no laughing matter.

‘Breaking and entering is no laughing matter,' she huffed.

‘I couldn't agree more. But I had a key.' He stepped forward, into the pool of sunlight streaming in through one of the windows.

Annie could see him clearly now. And what she saw caused the breath to whoosh from her lungs, the sword and shield to flop to her side, and all her blood to rush to her head. Bathed in the golden sunlight he looked like some kind of Greek god; a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered Adonis in faded blue jeans and a navy V-necked T-shirt. For a few brief seconds she was rendered speechless. And senseless. And a lot of other things ending in –less that she really couldn't think of at that particular moment. His jet-black hair, with just the hint of a wave, was dripping wet. He was obviously fresh from the shower. An image of him
in
the shower crashed into her mind, causing her already shaking legs to almost cave beneath her. She made a grab for the bannister in order to steady herself as she attempted to eradicate the image. His
actual
presence was unsettling enough. To add fantasy to the equation was really not helpful. He did, though, look vaguely familiar. Was this the man who'd asked her for directions earlier? So intent had she been on her running, she'd paid him scant attention. Which now seemed completely ludicrous. She must need her eyes testing. Badly. How else could she not have noticed those sculpted cheekbones, that strong stubble-covered jaw, and those twinkling dark eyes? Oh my God! She was practically salivating. Which was pathetic. And besides, he might have a key but that didn't mean he wasn't a burglar.

‘Are you a burglar?' she asked. The question came out more like a strangled squeak.

He snorted with laughter. ‘No. Are you?'

‘Of course not,' she snapped. ‘I'm the caretaker.'

‘I thought so.' He nodded pensively, one side of his deliciously sensuous mouth curling upwards. ‘The uniform gives it away.'

Uniform?
What uniform?

‘Would you, er, like a hand with your helmet?' he continued, pointing to her head whilst plainly doing his utmost not to laugh.

Confusion engulfed Annie. ‘Wh-what?'

‘Your helmet.'

What on earth was he-? Oh no. She was still wearing the helmet from the suit of armour. As if she didn't look ridiculous enough.

‘No thank you,' she huffed. Swamped in mortification, she put down the sword and shield, placed a hand either side of the helmet and attempted to tug it off. It didn't move.

‘Here, let me help.'

Before Annie had a chance to protest, he set down the carton of juice, and his long legs took the few strides necessary to bring him directly in front of her. He was so close she could smell his citrusy shower gel mixed with his own masculine scent. Through the gap in her helmet her eyes were directly level with the V of his T-shirt from which a few dark hairs were visible. She watched, mesmerised, as a drop of water fell from his head and landed on the bare skin at the V, before trickling down under the T-shirt. To her dismay, she had to summon every ounce of willpower not to slide her hands under the T-shirt to explore exactly where the drop had gone.

‘Ready?' he asked.

Ready? For what?
Surely he didn't know what she was thinking. He couldn't possibly mean-

Before she knew what was happening, in one deft movement he pulled the helmet from her head.

‘There you go.' He handed it to her, then stepped back.

Annie attempted to ignore the bizarre wave of disappointment that engulfed her at the distance now between them.

‘Thanks,' she muttered, avoiding eye contact, as a deep flush crept up her neck. What on earth was happening to her? She didn't know what it was but she had to get a grip. Take control of the situation. Or at least try and control something – starting with the hurricane of lust that was swirling around her. She tilted up her chin and met his gaze. Bad idea! No sooner had she looked into his eyes than she immediately wished she hadn't. They were exactly the same shade of navy-blue as his T-shirt, framed by long dark lashes and sparkling with humour. The devastating combination set off a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

‘Look, maybe we should start again,' he said, holding out his hand to her. ‘I'm Jake. Jake … Sinclair.'

Annie gawped at the large tanned hand. The thought of touching it made her dizzy. But she couldn't just stand there like a plank.

‘Annie Richards,' she said, aware of her blush deepening and a strange swirling sensation sweeping over her the moment she placed her hand in his. So light-headed was she, she thought she might swoon. Not that she made a habit of swooning. She had never swooned in her entire life. But perhaps that was because she'd never met such a devastatingly drop-dead gorgeous male in her entire life.

‘I'm an old friend of Jasper's,' he continued. ‘He offered me the use of the manor.'

Did he now?
Well, trust Jasper to forget to tell her. Not that Annie was surprised. While Portia verged on the academically brilliant, her brother – despite an education costing more than the national debt of some countries – had never been the brightest bulb in the many Pinkington-Smythe chandeliers.