The Feisty Fiancée

CHAPTER FOUR

As IF to make amends for the cold, damp day yesterday had been, Sunday dawned bright and sunny. Yancie was up early and went to shower and dress.

She had no idea what time they were leaving and realised she should have asked Thomson last… Thomson? When had she started to think of him as Thomson? Feeling slightly staggered that her employer's first name rolled around so effortlessly in her thoughts, Yancie knew she had better watch her tongue. The chief of the whole shoot was just going to love it, wasn't he, if his mere driver went up to him with a `Where are we going to today, Thomson?' type of comment.

Yancie couldn't help but smile as she visualised the affronted expression on his face. But, no time for dawdling. If he wanted to be off straight away, she stood a very real chance of missing her breakfast.

She decided she felt comfortable with her hair up, so pinned it that way. But she left her name tag off, then went down for something to eat. She entered the hotel's dining room and at once saw Thomson, and realised she should have known that he hadn't got where he was by sleeping until midday.

She manufactured up a smile and went over to the table. He stood up and politely waited until she was seated before resuming his seat, but looked at her expectantly when, something very belatedly occurring to her, she exclaimed, `Oho'

'Oh?' he queried, and she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her.

'I'll move!' she said abruptly, reaching for her shoulder bag which she'd draped over her chair.

'You're not comfortable here?' he enquired smoothly.

'I've just realised I should be sitting somewhere else,' she said, getting up. `You should?"

'Do your drivers usually sit with you on these sort of trips?' she asked hurriedly. `Shouldn't I be sitting in some lowly corner?'

A muscle moved at the side of his mouth, as if she had amused him. But he didn't smile but, still in that same even tone, advised, `Sit down, Miss Dawkins; I just don't see you ever sitting in some lowly corner.'

She wasn't sure what she was supposed to make of that, but hesitated to sit down again. `This is embarrassing,' she mumbled.

'Not half as embarrassing as it would be for me if you took yourself off and sat yourself elsewhere,' he assured her.

Yancie sat down. More, she began to realise-as she ate her way through cereal, bacon and egg, followed by toast and marmalade because finding so unexpectedly that Thomson Wakefield, her taciturn employer, had a great deal of charm.

What else could it be but charm that had made him say he'd be embarrassed if she didn't breakfast at the same table? It wouldn't bother him a scrap if she moved to another table and left him sitting there. From what she knew of him, she'd have said he wouldn't give a hoot where she ate-or whatever table she left his to go and eat at. She could go and perch on the roof for all he cared.

They did not hang about once breakfast was over. But, on the road to London once more, Yancie started to discount entirely that she had for a moment thought Thomson Wakefield had an ounce of charm. He'd got his head stuck in some paperwork-plainly only needing a driver so he didn't waste precious working time by having to drive himself-and had barely moved himself to do more than grunt at her since then.

She glanced at him in the rear-view mirror-his eyes seemed to be focused somewhere at the back of her head. He flicked his eyes upwards-and gave her a sour look. Yancie studied the road up in front, and took pains not to look at her passenger again. Until, that was, about an hour later when the car phone rang.

Her eyes shot in panic to the mirror, and met his full-on. And, of course, he knew what her panic was about. Because, even as he was reaching for the instrument, he was enquiring, `Are you in if it's your mother?' Sarcastic swine!

Fortunately, he then gave his attention over to the telephone call, which was for him, and she was spared having to make any reply. All too clearly Thomson thought she was the one who had given her mother this telephone number-Yancie wasn't likely to tell him that she hadn't. He must never know that it had been Greville and that Greville Alford was her halfcousin. From there Thomson would quickly, and rightly, conclude it was only because of Greville that she had been taken on by Addison Kirk.

Yancie dropped her passenger off just after two. She would have been a little earlier but, as he had on the outward journey, Thomson had insisted she have a coffee break after a couple of hours of driving.

Yancie supposed she could have driven the Jaguar straight to the garage once she had said goodbye to her employer-no `Thank you very much, your driving is excellent', she noticed. On the other hand he hadn't told her-as she was sure he would if it were so-that her driving was lousy and that he'd be reporting it to her head of section. So, she must be thankful for small blessings.

Knowing her mother would be ringing round to trace her if she didn't turn up in answer to yesterday's summons, Yancie decided to drive over to see her mother first.

'You've taken your time!' was her greeting when she got there.

'I'm sorry, I…'

'Come and meet Henry; we've just finished lunch. And what's this I hear about you moving out?'

Oh, heck. `You know about…'

'I tried to phone you this morning. I smelt something fishy when Ralph told me to try Delia's. He eventually told me you'd moved out, but wouldn't say where to. Delia was out when I rang her and I'd mislaid your car phone number-and I couldn't get Greville.' Thank goodness for that! `So, what happened to make you leave home? I told Ralph he should be ashamed…'

'It wasn't Ralph's fault!' Yancie cut in quickly. 'Um-the house just wasn't big enough for both Estelle and me, so…'

'She always was a stroppy madam. You should have… Ah, here's Henry!'

Her mother was all smiles suddenly, and although Henry Ottaway, a portly little man, was pleasant enough he didn't have Ralph Proctor's gentle manner. What he did have, however, was a Rolls outside, and, knowing her mother's propensity for spending, Yancie guessed her mother had run through Ralph's handsome settlement, and was now out to replenish her stocks. Yancie felt saddened that she should think that way-but years of knowing her mother had only endorsed that the only person Ursula Proctor would ever love was Ursula Proctor.

Yancie stayed and had tea with them then both her mother and her soon-to-be new stepfather came out to the car with her, her mother inspecting the registration plate, murmuring under her breath, `Ralph Proctor might have bought you a new one!'

The car was less than a year old! Yancie drove back to the home she shared with her cousins, her mother never ceasing to amaze her. Yancie had considered taking the Jaguar back to the firm's garage, but since Astra had a perfectly good spare garage going begging, and since Yancie would be one of the first in at Addison Kirk tomorrow, it hardly seemed worthwhile. Besides which, by taking the car home she wouldn't have to mess about with public transport.

Yancie had only just finished telling Fennia and Astra about her dinner with dear Charlie Merrett, when her half-cousin Greville, full of apologies, rang to speak to her.

'Don't worry, Greville.' She smiled down the phone to him. 'I'm sure you couldn't have done anything else.'

'You know your mother's tactics resemble water wearing away stone. I did hold out as long as I could. Did she reach you?"

'Yes-but it wasn't a problem,' Yancie quickly tried to assure him.

'That's good. I was hoping you'd either not be in the car when she rang, or be parked up somewhere. It was the tears that did it.'

'Tears?"

'I thought Aunt Ursula was about to break down in tears when she said how she'd tried everywhere.'

Poor Greville. He couldn't bear to see, or in this case hear, a woman in tears. `Apparently you had a terrific party,' Yancie swiftly changed the subject.

During the week that followed, Yancie was out and about driving many times. She chauffeured Mr Clements a couple of times, and other directors. And once her half-cousin Greville. But never did she drive Thomson Wakefield. She knew from other drivers that he'd been out and about, though.

It was every bit as if, having satisfied himself that she was a decent driver, Thomson had no further use for her services. And that slightly upset Yancie. She would go into work each day feeling quite excited about what the day might bring-and go home each evening feeling quite flat. Though she was positive that it had nothing to do with her not seeing Thomsonn that day.

Yancie spent a lacklustre weekend, and was driving the Jaguar after dropping her passenger on a local call the following Monday when the car phone rang. She pulled into the side of the road to answer it, and heard her mother's voice. Oh, crumbs; so much for her wishing this number would stay mislaid!

'Since you're already out and about, do you think you could come and pick me up?' No way! I'm working! But her mother didn't know that! `Where are you? I'm at home and my car's in for a service.'

Yancie started to frame her refusal, but then realised she could probably get to her mother's and drop her off where she wanted to go without a soul being any the wiser.

'I can pick you up,' she agreed. `Can you make your own way back?'

'I'm meeting your aunt Portia for lunch she can drive me home.'

Yancie put down the phone and raced over to her mother's home-only just remembering as her mother came out of the house that she was wearing a badge that proclaimed 'Yancie Dawkins, Transport Department, The Addison Kirk Group'. Swiftly Yancie unfastened her tag and stowed it away. But, while luck might have been with her on that occasion, it deserted her totally not long afterwards.

They were in the centre of London in the middle of slow-moving traffic with her mother in the front passenger seat and Yancie listening to her talking at length while at the same time watching the car in front. When suddenly and why she looked over to the pavement at that particular moment she never afterwards knew-but just as all the traffic halted, look across she did, just as a tall, dark-haired business-suited man came out from a building and, his glance searching, quite obviously ready to hail a taxi, he saw instead the Jaguar he'd been a rear-seat passenger in not two weeks ago. Oh, no! Of all the foul luck! Yancie wanted to look away, to pretend she hadn't seen him. Indeed, had the traffic been free-flowing, she might well have put her foot down and shot off.

But no, Thomson Wakefield was looking straight at her-his glance taking in her flawlessly and expensively dressed passenger. He started to come over-and a riot of emotions played havoc in Yancie.

Without so much as a by-your-leave-and why would he?-Thomson opened the rear passenger door and got in. Her mother, never at a loss for words, was the first to speak. `Do you very much mind?' she demanded in cultured superior tones.

Yancie, her face scarlet with mortification, quickly found her voice. `Mother, let me introduce Thomson Wakefield. Thomson…' Oh, grief! Too late now. Yancie ploughed on. `My mother, Mrs Ursula Proctor.'

Yancie fully expected that at any moment now Thomson would pass some remark to the effect that he was commandeering the Jaguar and its driver and that since Mrs Proctor was not on the company's payroll would she mind vacating. But, much to Yancie's relief, not to mention surprise, she heard him do no more than exchange a few pleasantries with her mother.

'I thought I knew all of your friends, Yancie,' her mother ploughed deeper into her daughter's furrow of acute and deep embarrassment. And shrewdly, she commented, `Though your voice is familiar. Was it you who answered the phone when I rang Yancie on her car phone the other Saturday?'

'I believe it was,' he answered smoothly.

'You must be a frequent passenger in my daughter's car,' Ursula Proctor was just observing, when, to Yancie's undying gratitude, the traffic started to move again.

Her mother's lunch venue wasn't too far distant. Perhaps Yancie could manage to drop her off before any more damage was done.

Though how she was going to square it with Thomson Wakefield now her mother had made it clear that she thought the Jaguar belonged to her daughter, Yancie had no idea.

'Yancie is very generous with her lifts,' Thomson informed her mother evenly.

'Well, at least she's learned her lessons and has stopped loaning her car out to all and sundry,' Ursula Proctor carried on, thinking to add, `As you probably know, one of her friends wrote off her old car.'

'I didn't know that,' Thomson murmured, and Yancie, this simple lift taking on nightmare proportions, was glad that for once her mother didn't seem to have anything to come back with.

Yancie's respite, however, was short-lived because, as though only breaking to recharge her batteries, her mother was taking a look at her in relation to her own flawless appearance and the impeccable tailoring of the man they were giving a lift to, and as if ashamed, to Yancie's horror, she began holding forth. `Honestly, Yancie, you used to have more dress sense. You're always wearing that same drab suit! You were wearing it when you came to meet Henry the Sunday before last!' Thank you, Mother! It wouldn't take a genius, and Thomson Wakefield was no fool, to work out that after she'd dropped him off the other Sunday she, and the firm's vehicle, had done a bit of private motoring. But it was not over with yet-in fact, it got worse. `Living with Delia Alford is doing you no good at all!' her mother stated. Stop! Mother, please stop! But it was already too late. Their unexpected, uninvited guest, who was most able to put two and two together, was taking an interest.

'Delia Alford?' he queried pleasantly, more interested in discussing people than in drab uniforms, apparently.

'You've met Yancie's aunt Delia?' Ursula Proctor enquired a touch sharply, as if it was her right to be introduced to all her daughter's friends first.

No! No, he hasn't met her! Nor is he likely to. And, thank goodness, this is where you get out. Yancie pulled over to let her out, but before she could push the passenger door open and wish her mother a hasty goodbye Thomson Wakefield was saying smoothly, `I believe I may have met her-son.'

Yancie knew it was all over before her mother responded, 'Greville…'

'I'll have to go,' Yancie butted in quickly. `I'm illegally parked.' But why was she bothering? Thomson didn't need to hear anything more. He'd heard all he needed to hear. To prove it he left the rear of the car and went to open the front passenger door.

'Thank you,' her mother accepted elegantly, and with no idea of the problems she had just caused her daughter she wished them goodbye and went on her way.

What Yancie did not need was for Thomson Wakefield to take the seat her mother had just vacated. `I wouldn't want your mother to think we're not the best of friends,' he murmured blandly-and Yancie knew, as she pulled away from the kerb, that she was in for it.

But she needed this job-the best she could do was to try and bluff it out. 'Er-do I gather I'm-um-likely to be suspended again?' she went into battle, inviting a discussion on the subject.

'You don't think I should dismiss you?'

Well, as a matter of fact, no, I don't. `What have I done?' she asked innocently. `Well, apart from borrowing the firm's motor to visit my mother the other Sunday. And I'm sure you'll see that, since I had been working-and was quite pleased to,' she inserted hastily, 'that…'

Thomson spared her further complicated self-exonerating explanations by cutting in. `You forgot to mention on your application form-in the space that asks "Do any members of your family work for the company?"that you're related to one of the directors.'

He had her there. Attack. `I didn't know you took such a fine interest in your drivers' job applications.'

'With you, Yancie Dawkins, I've discovered it's as well not to take everything on face value.' What did he mean by that? `Was everything on your application form a lie?'

She wished she could remember! He'd obviously seen her application form more recently than her. 'Er-the address I gave is the right one.'

'Your aunt's address?'

Oh, hang it! `I'm not living with my aunt, I'm living with my cousins-er, Fennia and Astra. Greville's my half-cousin. He lives…' she broke off; she was rambling.

'I know where Greville Alford lives,' Thomson spared her coolly. But, shaming her, he went on, `Your mother believes you're living with your aunt.'

'I didn't tell her I was,' she defended, `I just didn't tell her I wasn't living with Ralph any more.'

A pause followed. A cold, icy kind of pause. `So that was a lie too, when you said you knew the theory of the facts of life, intimating you hadn't any experience…'

'It wasn't a lie!' she denied hotly-oh, grief, she wasn't doing herself any favours here getting cross. This was no way to go about keeping her job. But she followed his drift, and said more calmly, `Ralph is my stepfather.'

A few moments of silence ensued, but it didn't last for long before Thomson was questioning-though making it sound more like a statement-'You lived with him until recently?' He didn't wait for her to answer. `You left your stepfather's home around the time one of your friends wrote off your car.'

'No wonder you're the top man!' Yancie said sniffily.

'Your stepfather was angry and threw you out,' he went on as if she hadn't spoken.

'He did no such thing!' she denied. `Ralph wanted me to stay. He wants me to go back.'

'But you're refusing to go?"

'It's a pride thing.'

'Which is why you need this job.'

Now we're truly down to the nitty-gritty! It went without saying that Thomson was now fully aware that she had only got this job because she was related to Greville. 'Driving's about the only work I'm qualified for,' she confessed.

'What about housekeeping?' he enquired silkily.

Sneaky devil! She'd put on her job application that her previous job was as a housekeeper-she remembered that. `It was the truth!' she stated. `That is, I kept house for Ralph. It's a big house, too,' she added for a little extra importance. Well, she was in trouble here, and knew it.

'I don't doubt it,' Thomson Wakefield rejoined. `Your mother doesn't know you have a job, does she?'

'I think I can safely say my mother would throw a fit at the very idea of a daughter of hers working for a living,' Yancie replied, after so much deception glad suddenly to be honest. But, her heartbeat quickening all at once, she took her eyes off the road in front for a moment and turned to stare at him. `Are you saying I still have a job?'

Thomson Wakefield stared back at her, his expression giving nothing away. Then, music in her ears, `If you think you can bear the uniform,' he replied.

And as her heart rejoiced Yancie looked swiftly away. For a moment there, she felt so overjoyed she could have kissed him-and that would never do. Instead, she suddenly became aware of her surroundings-hadn't they been past that shop there twice before? `Where are we going?' she asked hurriedly, and, glancing at him, was sure she saw his lips briefly twitch before he abruptly told her to take him back to his office. She was late, of course, picking up her earlier passenger.

So as not to involve Greville in any prevarications on her behalf, she contacted him as soon as she could to say that Thomson Wakefield now knew that they were half cousins.

'Was he all right about it?' Greville asked.

Given that he'd all but pulled her back teeth in extracting from her all that there was to know! `He was very kind,' Yancie assured her cousin.

She supposed, when she thought about it, that Thomson had been kind. It was for certain he'd soon recognised that her mother didn't know she was working-and he could so easily have given her away, but hadn't. He could equally have tipped both of them out of the firm's vehicle, and driven off in it, but hadn't. Yes, he had a very kind streak in him.

Yancie drove him later that week. But forget kind. He was back to being the grouch she had first known. Treating the vehicle as an extension of his office, working away there, with barely a glance at her.

Yancie went home with Thomson on her mind a lot. And felt all fluttery in her chest the next day when she happened to be in Kevin Veasey's office when Veronica Taylor rang down for a car for Thomson.

'Shall I?' Yancie offered, available.

'He wants Frank to do this run,' Kevin smiled.

'Fine,' she smiled back-and felt unbelievably hurt.

She did not drive him for several days after that, and was sure she didn't give a button. Then, on Wednesday of the following week, Kevin Veasey told her she would be driving the Jaguar and Mr Wakefield tomorrow to a late afternoon meeting in Staffordshire. It was, she fully owned, ridiculous to feel so cheered. Quite, quite ridiculous.

'Did I hear Kevin say you were going north tomorrow?' Wilf Fisher waylaid her half an hour later.

'You did,' she replied, and felt so extraordinarily pleased with life just then that when he asked her if she would mind dropping a parcel of wool oddments off at his mother's home-Mrs Fisher apparently knitted blankets in her spare time, and was always short of wool-Yancie was happy to oblige. `Your mother's home is quite a bit out of my way,' she qualified, `but if I'm to wait any length of time I'd be glad to drop it in for you.'

Wilf was all smiles, Yancie was all smiles; she really did like her job, she decided. To be out and about. Some people must like office work but she was glad she didn't have to do it.

That some people thrived on office work was borne out the next day when Yancie collected her passenger. A grunt for a greeting was all she got. And, once installed in the back of the Jaguar, Thomson Wakefield undid his briefcase, buried his nose in his paperwork, and Yancie didn't hear another grunt from him until she pulled up outside one of their subsidiary companies.

'I'll be finished here at six. Have a rest and something to eat,' he ordered. Yes, sir, anything you say, sir. She had something better to do! Their eyes met, and Yancie could only suppose he must have picked up a gleam of defiance in her eyes, because he questioned bossily, `Yes?'

Yancie had no idea why his manner should rattle her so, but, `Yes,' she agreed-bubbles to that-striving for a meek note.

What was it about him? she wondered as she headed out of Staffordshire and into

Derbyshire. He had managed to upset her from day one. She wouldn't have got so riled, had any other board member suggested she take a rest and have something to eat. But then, he hadn't suggested, but told. Perhaps she wasn't any good at taking orders. She really must try and get this being employed sorted out.

Wilf Fisher's mother was expecting her, and was very pleased to see her. 'You'll stay for a cup of tea and a piece of cake?' she asked as Yancie handed over the large, bulging plastic sack. To please Mrs Fisher, whom, it appeared, had made the cake especially for her, Yancie said she'd love a cup of tea and a piece of cake, and chatted to her for about half an hour.

She was on the point of leaving, however, and was in fact making her goodbyes, when Mrs Fisher suddenly asked if she was going anywhere close to the nearby supermarket.

'I'm sure I must be,' Yancie obliged.

She shouldn't, Yancie knew as she sped down the motorway to Staffordshire, have wandered around the supermarket with Mrs Fisher. But, for goodness' sake, surely she wasn't expected to leave the old dear to carry all that shopping back on her own!

The only trouble now, of course, was that there was no way that she was going to be able to pick up sir at six. He'd have her hide, she knew it. He'd be kept waiting-and she'd like to bet that no one ever kept him waiting.

It was ten past six now, and there were miles to go yet. She glanced at the petrol gauge, and found fresh cause to worry. Oh, grief, she was driving again on empty! She normally spent her waiting time filling up and checking her vehicle was ready for the return journey. Only she hadn't this time-and she dared not stop now. She remembered the last time a petrol gauge had registered empty, and how that time she'd come close to disaster. She'd been visiting Mrs Fisher that time too. Perhaps the Fisher family were a jinx on her.

She made a vow there and then to let Wilf Fisher deliver his own parcels in future. Though in fairness it wasn't anybody's fault but her own. She was late because she'd stayed for tea and cake-so all right, Thomson Wakefield had ordered her to take refreshment-he just hadn't expected she'd trip into the next county to carry out his instructions, that was all.

Thomson had been around the last time she'd been rushing back from Derbyshirehe'd been angry then; he'd be furious now. Oh, help, half past six-he'd skin her!

It was ten to seven when Yancie pulled up to collect her employer. She could see at once that he was not a happy man. She opted to stay in the driver's seat-the sooner she got started, the sooner she'd get him back to London.

Though first, as if to deliberately keep her waiting this time, Thomson Wakefield took a slow, methodical walk all around the car, every bit as though checking to see how many dents she had put in it. Sauce! Anyone would think she went around having accidents-there wasn't so much as a scratch on the Jaguar.

Eventually he opened a rear door and got in. Yancie saw it as her cue to prostrate herself at his feet. Fat chance! But, `I'm sorry,' she began-she owed him that much. Only he didn't want to hear the rest of it.

'Save it!' he snarled.

Yancie was happy to. She had just discovered she had more of an aversion to lying to him than she'd realised. Although, in reality, she hadn't any idea what she could have added to her apology that wouldn't implicate Wilf Fisher. But in any event Wilf hadn't exactly held a gun to her head. She could have, and should have-of course-told him to post his mother the wool parcel, though it had been more of a sackful than some small, neat parcel.

Suddenly Yancie became aware that she must have missed a turn somewhere. Where had the town gone? By now she should be in a lit-up area heading towards the motorway. Instead she was in a dark, tree-lined area with no sign of a motorway. In fact, the road she was travelling on seemed to be getting narrower and narrower. And where was all the traffic? There was none. She was in the middle of nowhere with not so much as a streetlamp about, leave alone another vehicle. Oh, grief!

'You do know where you're going?' enquired a nasty, disgruntled voice from the back.

And Yancie found she could still conjure up the occasional lie-when desperate. `I know a short cut,' she answered, hoping he would think she was taking the short cut. Icy silence was her answer.

Shame about him. He who liked to work the whole of the time. It was much too dark to see to read paperwork, much less make a few pencilled notes. Though it wouldn't surprise her if any minute now he didn't get out his tape machine and start dictating letters for Veronica Taylor to type back in the morning.

Then it happened. The engine cut out. Oh, no! How could she have forgotten? The Jaguar slowed to a stop. The silence behind her was deafening. `I…' she found her voice, slightly strangulated though it sounded '…because of my rush-er-my fault,' she added hurriedly,"my fault entirely. I-um-didn't fill up with petrol.'

Silence again; she imagined her disgruntled employer was counting up to ten. She was not flavour of the month, she knew that much anyway when, his voice holding several degrees of frost, he ordered, `Then perhaps you wouldn't mind filing up with petrol now.'

Yancie was getting seriously fed up with him. `Where from?' she asked, a touch snappily, she had to own.

'You tell me-I thought you knew this ` `short cut".'

Swine, pig, toad! He knew full well she had been lying. `There's a petrol can in the boot,' she hinted. Bubbles to it, if anybody was going for petrol, it was going to be him, not her.

'I'll see you when you get back,' he stated charmingly.

'Me? '

'It was your lot who wanted equality of the sexes,' he pointed out, quite fairly, she knewbut it didn't endear him to her any. `On your way.'

Silently calling him all the foul names she could think of, Yancie got out of the car and opened up the boot. Everything neat and tidy-car rug, first-aid kit. Ah, there it was. She took the can for petrol from the boot and, on a spirit of the moment, took the car rug as well.

She closed the boot, and went and opened the rear passenger door and tossed the car rug inside. `I may be some time,' she said in the manner of Captain Oates-who had gone and had never come back. She thought she heard a sound that might have been a smothered laugh-but she didn't believe it.

She closed the door and looked aboutthere was nothing to see! Which way? Well, she wasn't going back the way they had come. If there had been a petrol station in the last five miles she'd have noticed it, remembered it, she felt sure of it.

She liked walking, Yancie told herself as she headed in the direction the car had been facing. So, okay, she was wearing two-and-ahalf-inch heels and the road was getting more rutty than tarmacked by the minute. Where the dickens was she? Not on any main road, that was for sure. Oh, help, she'd nearly fallen over then.

Yancie concentrated on walking in a straight line-only the road wasn't straight; she went round a bend, knowing she was out of sight of the car, not that Wakefield could see her in the dark-not that he'd be watching. He'd be too busy dictating something or other into that infernal machine.

What was that? She heard a sound, and then another in the trees to her right, and swallowed down fear. Don't be a sissy; country dwellers hear those sorts of noises the whole time.

The sound came again, to her left this time. It was so dark, and she was scared, and as the sound came again she knew she definitely hadn't imagined it. There it was again, behind her this time-she hurried up her pace, her mouth drying.

Footsteps! She could have sworn she heard footsteps behind her. Fear gripped her. Here she was, half petrified, while that smug swine Wakefield was comfortably ensconced under a car rug to keep out the chill. Here was she, ploughing through… Her palms went moist… Those were definitely footfalls she'd heard. Somebody was creeping up behind her.

She hurried up her step. Keep calm, keep calm. She heard a twig snap not too far away-and then the sound of rapidly approaching feet! Yancie tossed away the petrol container she was carrying and took off.

She did not get very far. Because suddenly, close by, a voice called, 'Yancie, you idiot, it's me!' and she halted in flight. Halted, turned, took a pace, and cannoned straight into Thomson Wakefield-and hit him.

'You pig!' she yelled, her control shot, feeling a mixture of relief and anger that he could so frighten the daylights out of her. Anger with herself that she could be so weak, so pathetic as to be scared-and to indeed feel every bit the idiot he had called her.

'Shh-it's all right,' Thomson attempted to calm her.

She was not to be calmed. `How dare you sneak up on me?' she yelled, and punched him again, hitting his shoulder. She might have hit him a third time, but he had taken hold of her arms and anchored them to her sides-about the only way to stop her practising on him for a world-title fight.

'Shh…' he said softly again. `I didn't mean to scare you. I…'

'Well, you did!' she raged, but owned shee was feeling much, much better.

'I'm so, so sorry,' he apologised handsomely, and, now that she had stopped hitting him, had one arm around her. Instinctively Yancie leant her head against his chest, feeling better still and comforted, when, as if to hold her there, Thomson placed a hand to the back of her head. And Yancie felt all at once strangely at peace-as if this was where she should be.

But somewhere in her mind she knew that she should break away before Thomson pushed her away. Yet she didn't seem able to move, and he didn't seem in any hurry to let her go.

'You're very kind,' she said against his chest.

'You really were scared, weren't you?' he teased.

'You mean to say nobody ever accused you of being kind before,' she actually heard herself laugh-and once more began to feel back in charge, and the Yancie Dawkins she had always known herself to be. She took a step back, and he let go of her. `I threw the petrol can away,' she said, somehow knowing that she would never forget those wonderful soothing moments when Thomson Wakefield had held her against him to comfort her. 'We'll never find it; it's much too dark.'

'Suddenly you're "we",' he answered, telling her if she didn't know it that he had no intention of scrabbling around looking for it.

'So,' she said, `since you're the brains of this outfit, what do you suggest I do?'

'Go to the farm, and see if they can help out.'

'What farm?"

'Didn't you see the lights?'

'You're taller than me.'

'I'll come with you,' he said. She wasn't arguing-she'd had enough of wandering around pitch-black, deserted country roads on her own.

It was quite a way to the farm and she instinctively took hold of Thomson's arm when they left the road, crossed a field and trod ankle-deep in mud. She didn't quite fancy going splat on her face. He didn't seem to objecthe didn't shrug her hand off anyhow. In fact, he really was as kind as she'd said, talking to her quietly as they went, seeming more considerate of the fright he'd given her than bothered that his day's work was ending up with him up to his trousers in quagmire.

Yancie was growing to like him more and more as they trudged on to the ever nearing lights shining from the farmhouse. By the time they were knocking on the farmhouse door, she had decided that she was definitely never, ever, going to lie to him again.

'I'm sorry to trouble you…' Thomson began when someone came to the door, and Yancie's heart was warmed when the farmer not only supplied them with some petrol, but insisted on driving them back to their car.

Yancie gave her own thanks to the farmer and left Thomson talking to himm as they emptied the fuel into the petrol tank.

She was in the driving seat when the farmer drove off. She started the engine and it purred into life. Then, while she waited for Thomson to get into the back seat of the car, to her surprise, he came and opened the driver's door.

'I'm driving,' he said.

'No, you're not!' she argued-she was the driver. `And it's cold with the door open.'

The interior light stayed on. Thomson studied her. `I could pull rank, or I could physically move you.'

Yancie considered her options. `You're saying you're fed up and you want to go home and you don't want me to take you on any more short cuts?'

He just looked at her. In any other circumstances she had an idea he might have laughed. But suddenly she was contrite. He'd had a long day, she'd had a long day-and they were both tired. Without saying another word she got out and went round to the other side, opening the front passenger door, absently tossing her shoulder bag from the front passenger seat to the rear.

They were driving along before it suddenly occurred to her to ask, `Was I supposed to sit in the back?' Thomson didn't answer, but half turned, a trace of amusement on his mouth before he gave his attention back to the road.

Shortly afterwards they stopped to fill up with petrol and Yancie stayed with the front seat. She felt right there. And if Thomson didn't want her sitting next to him, then she full well knew he wouldn't mince words to tell her so.

'Where did you get to this afternoon?' he asked conversationally when they were on their way again.

'Where?' she questioned in return, playing for time, her decision to always tell him the truth soon under attack.

'There were an additional sixty miles on the milometer.'

'Trust you to take a note,' Yancie accused stiffly, knowing she still hadn't got the hang of this being employed lark, though having an idea she shouldn't be answering back. But really!

'I didn't intentionally,' Thomson answered, quite civilly, she felt, considering she was all snappy and snarly.

'You have a brain that automatically registers numbers?"

'Quite often without me being aware of it,' he agreed. `So, left with time on your hands, you decided to go and take tea with one of your friends from nursery school who happens to live barely thirty miles distant?'

Yancie by then was forming the opinion that he didn't really want to know, and started to like him afresh that he seemed, by chatting to her in this conversational way, to want to make amends for previously scaring the living daylights out of her.

But, although she hadn't been having tea with one of her old friends, she had been having tea with someone. And, very conscious of his clever brain, Yancie didn't want him prying further when who knew?-she might in advertently let the name `Fisher' slip-and from there she might get Wilf into trouble. So, `No,' she said briefly, `I didn't.'

'Then you must have been visiting your sister.'

She laughed. `I don't have a sis…' She stopped laughing.

'You don't?' he questioned evenly. `You mean there's no little Miranda-Cassandra?'

Oh, help! Yancie took a glance at him. She thought she might see him looking angry. But no, if anything he looked amused that she had been so neatly tripped up. And it was then that she knew that he had known all along that she didn't have a sister. All the time she'd been trotting out that tale about her niece leaving her inseparable toy behind, he had known she had neither sister nor niece. That she had been lying her head off.

'I confess,' she owned up-what choice did she have? `I'm an only child. But,' she hurried on, still desperate to keep her job, `I will never, ever, lie to you again.'

She held her breath-was it goodbye time? Thomson glanced at her. `Promises, promises,' he said. Yancie breathed again.

Some while later she recognised they were nearing the smart area where Astra's father's flat was… `I should be driving you home,' she said hurriedly.

'You've had a long and-trying-day,' he answered kindly.

And Yancie was quite taken suddenly by the fact that this man she was sitting beside had not barked at her once in the last couple of hours. She was still feeling a little bemused by his kindness when, Thomson having read her address once, apparently, and with his photographic memory filed it away, he pulled the car up outside her home.

She vaguely recalled she had a shoulder bag in the back somewhere, and stretched an arm back, connected with it, but in pulling it over she accidentally clipped Thomson on the ear with it.

Oh, my word, he was not amused. But unfortunately, at the what-the-hell-are-you going-to-do-next kind of look he threw at her, Yancie very nearly collapsed.

Oh, help, she could feel a fit of the giggles coming on. It was his pained expression that triggered it. She laughed; he didn't. She strove hard for control-it was a wasted effort. Thomson got out of the car. Think of something awful. She couldn't.

He came round to the passenger door and Yancie got out of the car, her eyes brimming with merriment. She coughed down another giggle as she struggled for control.

Oh, my giddy aunt, she would have sworn she hadn't had a fit of the giggles since she and her cousins had been at boarding-school. But, as she stood on the pavement with him, so Yancie knew she was fighting a losing battle with her giggle-muscles.

She was still swallowing down laughter, or trying to, when Thomson, standing there silently studying her, found the cure. `You're stupid!' he gritted exasperatedly. And when that only seemed to make her explode into more giggles he did no more than catch hold of her and, his head starting to come nearer, he kissed her.

There was not a glimmer of laughter about Yancie when he pulled back to look down at her. Satisfied, as she just stood there and stared at him, Thomson, without so much as a goodnight, turned and walked away.

Walked away and left her with a wild mixture of emotions raging in her. He started up the Jaguar and drove off, but Yancie didn't move. She had known Thomson had a wonderful mouth, but had never thought to experience it against her own.

Yet, while it had not been a lover's kiss, or even a friend's kiss, it was a kiss that seemed to shatter all she knew. Her heart, her mind seemed to be in uproar. She felt breathless, dizzy-and had the craziest notion that-if she didn't know better-she'd have said she had fallen in love with him!