Free No More Lonely Nights by Charlotte Lamb

paralysed.
    My imagination has run mad, she thought, laughter in her throat as she realised what she had been thinking. At that moment, Cass turned his head, still dark-browed, and snapped, ‘What’s funny?’
    ‘I am,’ she said, and he stopped scowling and looked surprised.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Never mind, something I was thinking.’ She looked at the speedometer and winced. ‘Do we have to drive at this speed?’ The car was touching ninety although it ran so smoothly that she hadn’t realised it until then.
    ‘Yes,’ he said coolly.
    ‘Soothes the savage breast, does it?’
    Her mockery made him laugh. ‘Something like that.’
    ‘It may be doing you a power of good, but it makes me feel sick,’ Sian said frankly, and he grimaced.
    ‘Sorry about that. I was miles away.’
    Sian could guess where, but carefully said nothing. He took his foot off the accelerator, and the speed began to fall. Sian gave a faint sigh of relief and he grinned wryly at her.
    ‘That’s better, is it?’
    ‘Sixty-five is bearable,’ she said, leaning back in her seat and relaxing.
    ‘We’re only half an hour from London,’ he told her a moment later. ‘In time for lunch—will you let me give you lunch? I owe you a lunch at least, wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘That’s OK,’ she said, meaning that he didn’t owe her anything and there was no need to buy her lunch, but he misunderstood, either deliberately or because he really didn’t get what she meant.
    ‘Fine, why don’t we eat at a pretty little riverside pub I know? It’s a lovely day and the landlord is a friend of mine. The place will be packed out, but he keeps a couple of tables in his garden for friends on fine days. It’s quite an experience—Danny was a jazz musician—he can play anything you care to name—and while he was travelling up and down the country doing gigs he taught himself to cook like an angel. You won’t get better food in London.’
    ‘What’s the pub called?’ she asked, wondering how he had met a jazz musician who cooked like an angel. Of course, there was no point in being curious about him or his life because after today they weren’t going to be meeting.
    He talked about the pub for several minutes, then asked her, ‘How long have you been in journalism?’
    Sian realised he was only making polite conversation, but she answered him because anything was better than sitting next to him, brooding over the weird effect he had on her, or sensing him brooding over Annette. At least he wasn’t doing that while he chatted about jazz and Fleet Street.
    ‘Ever since I left school and joined the local newspaper,’ she told him.
    ‘You’ve done well to get this far!’ he commented, eyeing her speculatively. ‘You must be good or you wouldn’t be working in Fleet Street at your age. You can’t be much more than twenty-three or four.’
    She laughed. ‘How flattering! Try twenty-five.’ Almost twenty-six, actually, she thought, but why be utterly frank with him? Somehow twenty-five didn’t sound as old as twenty-six, although she couldn’t quite say why.
    He shrugged. ‘That’s still pretty young.’ He grinned suddenly at her. ‘I speak from experience. I can give you ten years.’
    She had guessed his age, but he looked younger at times. He was very fit, very lean; his body had the suppleness of a much younger man. She secretly assessed him, her eyes flicking down over him, then up again. As her gaze reached his face, she found him watching her, his mouth crooked with amusement. Sian went red and looked away, burning with embarrassment.
    ‘Well?’ he murmured teasingly.
    ‘Well what?’ She was furious because, for all her efforts to sound cool, she knew her voice was husky.
    ‘Do I pass?’
    She hesitated, torn between rage and laughter, then gave in and laughed. ‘Oh, you’d do, on a dark night,’ she said, and he laughed too, his head thrown back and his laughter open and full of enjoyment.
    Sian was still very hot, and