Blueprint for Love (Choc Lit) (2 page)

          All in all, if first impressions mattered, Gough Associates would be presented in a very bad light.

          Muttering to himself, he sped up as he rounded a bend in the road, then slammed on the brakes when something red flew into his field of vision. There was an awful screech as the Land Rover skidded along the wet tarmac and came to a stop almost sideways across the road. Heart thudding and with his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel, Jonathan stared out into the driving rain.

          In front of him, a small f
igure in red was standing stock-still, staring at him, wide-eyed, through the windscreen. It took him a moment or two, then Jonathan sprang into action. He jumped out of the car and ran to the person on the road.

         
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he yelled, more from shock than anger. ‘You could’ve been killed!’

          It was a woman, he saw that now. Petite, with short brown hair plastered to her skull and a rain-saturated scarf wrapped around her slender neck in a haphazard fashion, she looked like a drowned rat, although Jonathan had never actually seen one. She didn’t reply, but kept staring at the Land Rover and the high wheel arch which was only inches from her chest.

          Not knowing what else to do, Jonathan took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Are you okay? I didn’t hit you, did I?’

          Finally her eyes focused on him, big brown eyes like a deer’s, and she flung her arms around him, burying her head against his shoulder.

          ‘Oh ... oh, my goodness,’ she cried. ‘I thought this was the end!’

          Jonathan gently extricated himself from this strange creature, who was at least a head shorter than him, and held her at arm’s length, his hands still resting on her shoulders.

          ‘Trust me, you’re fine. I might be driving an old rust bucket, but the brakes are in perfect working order. I think we both got a bit of a fright, that’s all.’ He looked her up and down. ‘What a stroke of luck you were wearing that red coat; I don’t think I’d have seen you otherwise. Visibility is pretty bad.’

         
‘I’m sorry. My umbrella, it, er, blew out of my hand, and ... well, I didn’t see you coming.’

         
‘Not to worry, although if you want it back, you’ll have to traipse across that muddy field over there.’

          Jonathan inclined his head, and she looked in the direction he was nodding where the offending umbrella was dancing in the wind, almost as if it was challenging them to come and get it. Her eyes returned to his. Suddenly she smiled, and Jonathan experienced a peculiar jolt, as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

          A smile to rival the sun, he thought.

         
‘I’m wearing my best boots,’ she said, with a wry grin, ‘so I’ll give that a miss. It was an old umbrella anyway.’ As if she’d only just become aware of their closeness, she pulled away from his grasp and straightened her scarf.

         
‘Listen, er, can I give you a lift somewhere? It’s the least I can do after nearly sending you into the next world.’

         
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Her beaming smile was back. ‘I’m going to Combury Manor. Do you know it?’

         
‘Do I know it? I own it! You must be the new secretary.’

         
‘Oh? Yes, I suppose I am. Hazel Dobson. And you are…?’

         
‘Jonathan Gough, director of Gough Associates. Call me Jonathan.’ He held out his hand to shake hers. ‘I’ll explain why I’m late, but let’s get out of this rain first.’

          In the car, after he’d stowed her bags in the boot, Jonathan apologised that no one had met her at the station.
‘It was my partner, Tabitha’s job to pick you up today but she was called away urgently, and I wasn’t informed until later.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘Sometimes the communication between myself and the other architects doesn’t work so well. That’s why we need a secretary. Someone to tell us off if we forget something important.’

         
‘Tell you off, eh?’ She glanced about her in the Land Rover and, spotting the half-eaten apple on the back seat, sent him an impish grin. ‘Well, you might start by cleaning up your car.’

         
‘Point taken. It’s a bit of a tip, isn’t it?’ Jonathan reached back to pick up the apple, and tossed it out of the window.

         
‘But not by littering,’ she said sternly.

         
‘It’s 100% organic. I’m just planting another apple tree.’

          As he turned the key in the ignition, their eyes met again. Hazel Dobson was smiling, the sort of smile which reached all the way to her doe-like eyes, and Jonathan felt suffused by warmth. When he had to look away and concentrate on his driving, it was as if a spell had been broken.

          She was quiet while they drove, seemingly lost in thought, and it gave Jonathan a chance to study her out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t conventionally pretty. Aside from her unusually large brown eyes, she had pale pixie features, and her short brown hair, which was now drying off inside the car, was cut in a cool, modern style like that of so many other girls.

          Plain Jane, he thought, but immediately revised his opinion. There was something extraordinary about those pixie features. It was as if she’d just stepped out of a computer animated children's film; not quite real, but real enough to be believable. And her smile made her more alive to him than any other woman he’d ever met. He found himself strangely attracted to her and wondered what was going through her head right now, what she thought of him.

          Then he checked himself and focused on the road.

         
Don’t go there, Jonathan
.
Remember what happened last time.

Why does he have to be so good-looking? Hazel’s former boss had been very attractive – she might even have liked him if he hadn’t been so slimy – but he wasn’t a patch on the man beside her. Her heart fluttered a little when she appraised him under her lowered lashes, carefully without giving anything away.

          Jonathan Gough was tall and gangly, a bit on the thin side perhaps, with slender hands, brilliant blue eyes and a thatch of strawberry-blond hair flopping over his brow. He didn’t look anything like she’d imagined a successful and renowned architect to be. He wasn’t suave, sophisticated or dressed in a designer suit; instead, he seemed a little untidy and distracted, as if he needed someone to organise him. If his summary of her new job was anything to go by, ‘organising him’ would be one of her tasks.

          Heat rose to her cheeks when she recalled how she’d flung herself into his arms. Okay, it was the shock that had made her do it, but even so. And then she’d proceeded to grin like a monkey at everything he said. Why couldn’t she be more aloof?

          She wished she was one of those girls who always stayed cool, but instead she was ruled by her emotions and would often speak without thinking first. Well, she’d have to find a way to keep them in check this time.

          Otherwise, this could get complicated, and complications were the last thing Hazel needed right now.

CHAPTER TWO

When they drove through the wrought-iron gates to Combury Manor, Hazel’s misgivings were replaced by awe. The rain had subsided to a proper Norfolk drizzle, and the red brick
building could be seen in all its splendour against a sliver of blue sky. Three storeys high, with gabled wings on either side of the main house, a balustraded roof and an imposing front porch with twisted columns, it had a grand but welcoming air about it.

         
‘What a beautiful house! I’m going to love working here!’ she exclaimed without thinking, then felt her cheeks heat up when she realised how gauche she must sound.

          Jonathan didn’t seem to have noticed. He pressed a remote control which lay on the dashboard, and the gates closed behind them.
‘I hope so. Our last admin person retired a few weeks ago, and it hasn’t been easy finding a replacement. Probably because we’re tucked out of the way like this.’ He cast her a sideways glance. ‘I hope the isolation won’t get to you; most young women would want to be nearer to Norwich, I should think.’

         
‘Not at all. I was never much of a townie. My flatmate was forever out partying, while I preferred being at home.’ She laughed. ‘She probably thought I was the most boring person ever.’

         
‘Boring? Surely not.’

          Hazel felt Jonathan’s eyes on her as he parked the Land Rover just outside the front porch, and her neck prickled with self-consciousness. He was having a peculiar effect on her, and she racked her brains for a safer subject.

          ‘Combury Manor is built in the Jacobean style, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Although the porch looks more Georgian or Palladian with those columns.’

         
‘You have a good eye. Most people would’ve said Elizabethan. It was built in 1659 by a wealthy lace-maker, a man who’d worked himself up in the industry. His grandson added the porch later, I believe. It seemed appropriate when I bought it because, like the lace-maker, I started my company from scratch, and now there’s eight of us. Nine, including you.’

          He got out of the car and moved around to the other side where he opened the door for Hazel and held an umbrella over her. She blushed furiously at the gentlemanly gesture, something she wasn’t used to, and busied herself with her handbag to hide her embarrassment.

          ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, as she got under the shelter of his umbrella. ‘You’re very kind.’

         
‘You’re soaked to the skin, and it’s my fault. What sort of employer would I be if I didn’t at least try to make amends?’

          Hazel didn’t have an answer to that. Sheltering her against the drizzle, Jonathan saw her safely to the porch, handed her the umbrella, then returned to the car to fetch her bags. She took the opportunity to study the porch area, which projected about nine feet out from the main building. Above the doorway, a coat of arms and monogram was carved into the stone – presumably, the industrious lace-maker must have been knighted later – and over the twisted columns on either side of the wide door were two robed, mythological figures in niches.

          From what she could see, the building and grounds were well-maintained, with
neatly-clipped holly hedges on either side of the house enclosing the gardens at the back, and carefully pruned oak trees, now devoid of leaves, lining the drive.

          It must cost a fortune to maintain, she thought. Jonathan’s company might be thriving, but surely no one, no matter how successful, could afford to buy a place like this unless there was family money involved. Hazel felt as if she was in the presence of royalty.

          ‘You own all this?’ She couldn’t suppress the note of wonder which had crept into her voice.

         
‘Mm, yes and no.’ Jonathan grimaced. ‘The building society has the greatest stake in it, obviously, and my father owns a part of it too. The outbuildings – in other words, the stables, workshops, and such – are used by small companies, so I get some rental income from that, and the whole of the ground floor of the main building is taken up by the company. My partner, Tabitha, has a share in that.’

         
‘Oh.’ Hazel wondered what, precisely, he meant by the word ‘partner’. Was this Tabitha person his girlfriend, or fiancée perhaps? She knew that nowadays many couples chose not to marry, although that concept was completely alien to her.

          Balancing her bags, Jonathan opened the door for her with a wry grin.
‘Did you think I was rich?’

          That was exactly what she had been thinking.
However, she didn’t want him to get the impression that she was after him, whether he was rich or not –she wasn’t, absolutely not! – so she merely shrugged.

         
‘It’s not every day you get to meet the lord of the manor.’

          Jonathan laughed.
‘I’m no lord. I’m just an ordinary man who likes to work in beautiful surroundings. Ah, there’s Mrs Whitmore, my housekeeper. Come and say hello.’

          A middle-aged woman, with a soft grey perm and a cook’s apron, appeared at the foot of a large staircase as they entered the grand hallway. She smiled when she saw Hazel, then her expression changed to a look of utter dismay.

          ‘Oh, my word! Look at you! Soaked to the skin, you poor thing. Mr Gough!’ She turned to her employer with a frown.

         
‘I know. I should’ve been there on time. Sadly I wasn’t, and Hazel Dobson here decided to walk.’

          Mrs Whitmore was clearly a formidable woman, and Hazel felt a little sorry for Jonathan; technically it wasn’t his fault she’d been rained on.
‘It’s nothing,’ she assured the older woman. ‘If I can just go somewhere and change, I’ll be fine.’

         
‘Of course,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I’ll show you to your room and let you get settled, then we can discuss practical matters later.’