Free Running From the Storm by Lee Wilkinson Page B

ground but, screened by mature trees, it wasn’t visible until she had rounded the last bend in the drive.
    Though she had visited it several times in the past few weeks, it still had the ‘wow’ factor, and when she drew to a halt on the paved forecourt she paused to gaze her fill and imagine what it must be like to live there.
    It was built of old mellow stone, a perfect example of a period manor house but in miniature. Its barley-sugar chimneys were creeper-entwined, many of its mullioned windows partially obscured by delicate trails of ivy, and its walls were festooned with scented honeysuckle and climbing roses, the early ones already in bloom.
    It was utterly and completely charming. Had Caris been a multi-millionairess …
    But she wasn’t and never would be, she reminded herself wryly. She was just an ordinary woman with a job to do, so she’d better gather her wits and do it. She was a good hour early, so she would have ample time to take another look at all the relevant details before Michael Grayson got there.
    Rather than staying in the car, she would go into the house and work in the kitchen. So long as she kept an eye on her watch, she could be outside in plenty of time to greet her client.
    The air was heavy and oddly still, as if it were waiting with bated breath for the coming storm, but the rain was holding off and a few rays of weak sun were struggling to shine through a break in the clouds. She hoped it was a good omen.
    Leaving her own set of keys in the ignition and her mac on the passenger seat, she picked up her briefcase and bag and made her way across the forecourt to the studded oak door.
    Above the stone lintel of the door was a riot of sagging wisteria, and damp trails of it touched her neck as she selected one of the heavy, ornate keys from the big bunch that was weighing down her shoulder bag and let herself into the hall.
    It had beautiful linenfold panelling, a big stone fireplace and polished oak floorboards, stippled now with light and shade. At one end was a minstrels’ gallery, while at the other an oak staircase rose to a landing with long, tracery windows.
    There were still some pieces of furniture scattered about and one or two mediocre paintings in heavy frames hung on the walls.
    Crossing the hall, Caris opened the door to the large living-kitchen. With its black beams and inglenook fireplace, it was one of her favourite rooms. She always felt the past was present there, like some friendly ghost.
    Towards the end of his long life, Gracedieu’s previous owner had lived in this room and it was still fully furnished with an oak table and chairs, a period coffee table, two comfortable-looking armchairs, several sheepskin rugs and, incongruously, a modern divan bed on castors.
    Huge cupboards held piles of household goods and linen, and a black stove stood in the fireplace with a stack of split logs on either side.
    Crossing to the table, she put her belongings down and went to open a window a crack to let in some fresh air.
    A riot of pale cream roses clambered damply up the outer wall and over the stone sill. Breathing in their haunting fragrance, she sat down at the table, opened her briefcase and started to go through the documents it contained—Or, rather, tried to.
    The scent of the roses brought back vivid memories of Owl Lodge and the roses there, and instead of the printed pages all Caris could see was the past more real in her mind than the present …
    Once she had agreed to stay the night at Owl Lodge, she had been beset by doubts.
    It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Zander. The awful truth was, she wasn’t at all sure she could trust herself.
    Though she was certain that he wouldn’t try to force her in any way, he was a red-blooded man; suppose he turned up the heat? If he touched her, kissed her, would she be able to resist him?
    But her youthful mistake had taught her a lot. After having been badly burnt once, surely she would have enough self-respect and pride,