Free A Night on the Orient Express by Veronica Henry

meant you know damn well I don’t know who David Hockney is. Or don’t patronize me.
    ‘Can you deliver? Only I can’t really take it home on the back of my bike.’
    ‘Of course. Are you local?’
    He looked at her again. She blushed. He remembered her.
    ‘I’ve just rented Woodbine Cottage. On the Shallowford estate.’
    Imogen was surprised. Shallowford Manor had a number of cottages on its land. Her friend Nicky organised the rentals, but Nicky hadn’t mentioned Danny McVeigh renting one. Woodbine Cottage was gorgeous – totally unspoilt, nestling in its own little wood. It had once belonged to the gamekeeper, but there was no longer a shoot on the estate.
    ‘Gosh,’ Imogen heard herself saying. ‘How lovely.’
    Danny nodded. ‘It’s all right. But it needs a few bits and pieces to make it home.’
    Imogen found it hard to imagine Danny McVeigh calling anywhere ‘home’. Home was such a . . . homey word. It spoke of soft cushions and drawn curtains and flickering candles. She could only imagine Danny dossing. Sprawled on a sofa somewhere, his longs legs stretched out, a bottle of beer on the floor somewhere. Although he didn’t smell like a dosser. Now he was near to her, he smelled of fresh clean laundry and woodsmoke and still that trace of burnt orange.
    Imogen looked in astonishment as he pulled a wad of fifty-pound notes out of his pocket.
    ‘Um – there are money-laundering issues with that kind of cash, I’m afraid. I have to notify the relevant authorities—’
    He stopped counting the money for a moment with a sigh.
    ‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to sell anything.’
    ‘I’m just saying.’
    ‘Notify whom you like. I haven’t got a guilty conscience. This isn’t dirty money. I’ve earned it with my own fair hands.’
    Imogen looked down at his hands. Large, a little rough. Workman’s hands, but clearly used to counting money, his long fingers deftly sifting through the notes until there was a substantial pile on the table. ‘Do you charge extra for delivery?’ He held another fifty over the pile.
    Imogen flinched. ‘No. No, of course not.’
    He nodded and put the rest of the wad back in his pocket.
    ‘Will it be you bringing it?’
    She wasn’t sure why he was asking the question, or how it was relevant.
    ‘Probably not. I have someone who handles that side of things.’
    Well, she had Reg, her odd-job man, who did the odd bit of collecting and delivering for her, when she couldn’t leave the gallery.
    ‘Oh.’ He seemed disappointed. ‘Only I thought maybe you could tell me where to put it. I don’t know much about these things.’
    His gaze was intense. She felt rather awkward.
    ‘That’s a very personal decision.’
    He was making her nervous. He shrugged.
    ‘I just like the way you’ve made things look in here. It’s like . . . there’s nothing really in here but it feels . . .’ he spread out his hands, searching for a description. ‘Like somewhere you’d want to live.’
    Despite her wariness, Imogen felt pleased. She’d worked hard to make the gallery inviting, while not distracting from the artwork. Neutral, but with a touch of warmth and a few details that lifted it from sterile to a place that held your interest.
    ‘Well, it’s mainly about choosing the right paint. That dictates the atmosphere. And lighting. Lighting is very important.’
    ‘I’ve just got a naked lightbulb swinging from the ceiling at the moment.’ For some reason hearing him say ‘naked’ made her blush. ‘So you wouldn’t mind giving me some advice? I can pay.’
    ‘I’m not an interior designer.’
    ‘No. But you’ve got an eye. You know what to do. I can see that.’
    Imogen gazed at him, puzzled. Was this all part of the plan? To lure her away from the gallery so his dodgy relatives could break in?
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to get my mates to do the place over while you’re out.’
    Her cheeks burned. ‘I didn’t think that!’ she