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Authors: Sara Craven
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the front door. Dealing with it was a simple process. All junk mail in the bin, all invitations to speaking engagements declined, all business correspon¬dence opened and date stamped, and any personal letters placed unopened on Miles' desk.
Normally she hardly spared these a second glance, but today she found herself noticing that one of them came in an expensive cream envelope, with unmistakably female handwriting. And recalling that a similar item had arrived the previous week...
Oh, for heaven's sake, she adjured herself irritably. Anyone would think I were genuinely engaged to the man. Whereas nothing has changed. There is no personal rela¬tionship, and absolutely no reason for me to be in the least curious. And certainly not jealous.
And she added the cream envelope to the neat pile on the tray.
When the coffee was ready, Chessie carried the tray to the study and tapped lightly on the door. But there was no sound at all, not even the clatter of typewriter keys, so, after waiting a puzzled moment, she opened the door and went in.
The room had changed a great deal from her father's time, and she had never ceased to be glad of that. When the house had gone on the market, most of its contents had already been sold, leaving only the bare essentials. Miles had brought his own furniture, and had had Silvertrees re¬decorated too.
That, Chessie recalled wryly, had been one of the early bones of contention with Jenny, who couldn't be mollified even by the total refurbishment of their own accommoda¬tion.
But she herself had felt it right that the new owner should cut as many links with the past as possible. Stamp his mark on his new home.
The room was much lighter and more workmanlike these days. Different books stood on the shelves that lined the walls, and that also held his stereo system and CD collec¬tion. A massive leather Chesterfield occupied pride of place in front of the fireplace.
The big imposing desk had gone, and Miles worked in¬stead at a very ordinary table set by the window. His chair, however, had been specially made for him, with extra sup¬port for his spine.
Normally, he was at work by now, busy at the small portable typewriter that had accompanied him to so many places in the world.
'I thought you'd have had the latest thing in laptops,' she'd said once in the early days.
His mouth twisted. 'And how do you recharge batteries, Miss Lloyd, when there is no electricity?' He ran his fingers over the sturdy frame of the portable in a curiously caress¬ing movement. 'This once belonged to my father, and he gave it to me when I got my first job in journalism. And I'll go on using it until the last spare part and the last ribbon have vanished from the earth. It's been my lucky talisman.'
'Not always lucky,' she said slowly, thinking of the mined road.
He shrugged, the blue eyes cool and meditative. 'We both survived, didn't we?'
But this morning, the chair was empty, and the typewriter hidden under its cover. Chessie set the tray down on the table, feeling bewildered. She organised Miles' appoint¬ments diary, and there was nothing that would have taken him away from the house at this hour.
Perhaps he was ill, she thought apprehensively, remem¬bering Jenny's comment about food poisoning. But, if so, surely he'd have asked her to send for a doctor.
The room was very still, bathed in early summer sun, but the quality of its stillness told Chessie suddenly that she wasn't alone.
She trod quietly across the room and looked over the high back of the Chesterfield. Miles was stretched out on its cushions, eyes closed, and his breathing soft and regular.
Well, Chessie thought, astonished. Another first.
She tiptoed round the sofa, and stood watching him for a moment. He was wearing the same clothes that he'd worn the previous night, indicating that he hadn't been to bed at all.
He looked much younger asleep, she realised with an odd pang, and almost vulnerable. The harsh dynamism of his features was
Normally she hardly spared these a second glance, but today she found herself noticing that one of them came in an expensive cream envelope, with unmistakably female handwriting. And recalling that a similar item had arrived the previous week...
Oh, for heaven's sake, she adjured herself irritably. Anyone would think I were genuinely engaged to the man. Whereas nothing has changed. There is no personal rela¬tionship, and absolutely no reason for me to be in the least curious. And certainly not jealous.
And she added the cream envelope to the neat pile on the tray.
When the coffee was ready, Chessie carried the tray to the study and tapped lightly on the door. But there was no sound at all, not even the clatter of typewriter keys, so, after waiting a puzzled moment, she opened the door and went in.
The room had changed a great deal from her father's time, and she had never ceased to be glad of that. When the house had gone on the market, most of its contents had already been sold, leaving only the bare essentials. Miles had brought his own furniture, and had had Silvertrees re¬decorated too.
That, Chessie recalled wryly, had been one of the early bones of contention with Jenny, who couldn't be mollified even by the total refurbishment of their own accommoda¬tion.
But she herself had felt it right that the new owner should cut as many links with the past as possible. Stamp his mark on his new home.
The room was much lighter and more workmanlike these days. Different books stood on the shelves that lined the walls, and that also held his stereo system and CD collec¬tion. A massive leather Chesterfield occupied pride of place in front of the fireplace.
The big imposing desk had gone, and Miles worked in¬stead at a very ordinary table set by the window. His chair, however, had been specially made for him, with extra sup¬port for his spine.
Normally, he was at work by now, busy at the small portable typewriter that had accompanied him to so many places in the world.
'I thought you'd have had the latest thing in laptops,' she'd said once in the early days.
His mouth twisted. 'And how do you recharge batteries, Miss Lloyd, when there is no electricity?' He ran his fingers over the sturdy frame of the portable in a curiously caress¬ing movement. 'This once belonged to my father, and he gave it to me when I got my first job in journalism. And I'll go on using it until the last spare part and the last ribbon have vanished from the earth. It's been my lucky talisman.'
'Not always lucky,' she said slowly, thinking of the mined road.
He shrugged, the blue eyes cool and meditative. 'We both survived, didn't we?'
But this morning, the chair was empty, and the typewriter hidden under its cover. Chessie set the tray down on the table, feeling bewildered. She organised Miles' appoint¬ments diary, and there was nothing that would have taken him away from the house at this hour.
Perhaps he was ill, she thought apprehensively, remem¬bering Jenny's comment about food poisoning. But, if so, surely he'd have asked her to send for a doctor.
The room was very still, bathed in early summer sun, but the quality of its stillness told Chessie suddenly that she wasn't alone.
She trod quietly across the room and looked over the high back of the Chesterfield. Miles was stretched out on its cushions, eyes closed, and his breathing soft and regular.
Well, Chessie thought, astonished. Another first.
She tiptoed round the sofa, and stood watching him for a moment. He was wearing the same clothes that he'd worn the previous night, indicating that he hadn't been to bed at all.
He looked much younger asleep, she realised with an odd pang, and almost vulnerable. The harsh dynamism of his features was
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