Free A Night on the Orient Express by Veronica Henry Page A

protested.
    ‘I’ve got a house of my own for the first time in my life. I want it to look the part.’ He looked at her, suddenly defiant. ‘I’ve always wanted something from here. A real painting. A work of art. Something that someone has created.’
    Imogen wasn’t sure what to say. She was taken aback by his honesty. And rather touched.
    ‘Well, you’ve definitely chosen well. I’m impressed.’
    He held her gaze, frowning slightly.
    ‘I’m surprised you’re still in Shallowford. You always seemed like you had a future, when we were at school.’
    She didn’t even think he’d noticed her when they were at school.
    ‘I’m not going to be here for much longer. My grandmother’s selling the gallery.’
    ‘So what are you going to do?’
    ‘I’ve got plenty of options.’
    ‘I bet you have. A girl like you must have a lot of contacts.’
    She couldn’t quite discern what he was implying. Whether he was being genuine or sarcastic. She busied herself with the paperwork. She didn’t want to discuss her future, with him or anyone else. ‘I’ll bring some paint charts over with me when I bring the picture over, if you like.’ Why on earth had she said that? She wanted to get rid of him. He was making her feel awkward, with his perspicacious remarks. His scrutiny that she didn’t understand. Why start hitting on her now, twelve years later? If he was hitting on her. She simply couldn’t tell what his game was. She wrote out the receipt, then put it in an envelope and handed it to him.
    ‘How would tomorrow do? Some time in the afternoon?’
    ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Here’s my number. Call me if it changes.’
    He handed her a card. Danny McVeigh, Security Solutions, it read. He grinned as she took in the irony.
    ‘Classic poacher-turned-gamekeeper, eh?’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a free consultation. Any time. Though I suppose it’s too late. But just so you know, those cameras you’ve got are rubbish. Any burglar worth his salt would have them deactivated in a nanosecond.’
    He left her staring from the card to the cameras, speechless. The door shut behind him. She felt unsettled. He’d left her with a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t identify – a mixture of nerves and fear and . . .
    She turned away sharply. She knew what the feeling was. She remembered it from that night all those years ago, clinging onto him on the back of his bike.
    It was desire.
    In the end, decorating advice didn’t really come into it, although Danny had by now, on Imogen’s suggestion, painted his living room a deep greeny-grey and installed some halogen lamps, while Imogen had ended up as naked as his former lightbulb.
    Now, however, after a few months together, it seemed as if that was all it was: a bit of decorating advice in return for a tumble or two. Imogen walked back into the restaurant. It was just a fling, she told herself. She didn’t mean anything to Danny McVeigh. Of course he didn’t want to come and join her friends for her birthday. That would indicate some kind of commitment. It would mean their relationship meant something. Appearing in public would rubber-stamp them. Conversely, there was no risk attached to a pleasurable but meaningless and clandestine romp on the rug in front of his fireplace.
    She tried to block out the image, because it kindled something inside her. Lust, of course, but also something more lasting and pervasive. Hope, perhaps? Hope that their passion meant something more than simultaneous orgasms.
    How could it? It was silly of her to read anything more into it than simple animal attraction. He was a McVeigh. That’s all they understood. Even if he had done well for himself, with a business that was thriving and making good legitimate money, it was still McVeigh blood running through his veins beneath the veneer of respectability he had managed to achieve. She’d heard him on the phone to both clients and employees – a man who knew how to