The Key Read Free

mantel and a fire roared in the grate—real, not one of those TV screen type efforts with a looped video of flames. I imagined I could hear it crackling and likened it to the sound my nerves might make if they were audible. Although I was Chantal Rossi, a little bit of Jane Smith remained. I’d have to fix that, make sure JS stayed firmly in the background each time I donned my super-sexy outfit. I’d kept the stockings on, and the heels, and had slid on a knee-length skirt and a short black jacket. The PVC corset looked like a top those younger ladies wore these days. Okay, I’d wondered if I was mutton dressed up as lamb, but had soon got over it once the raincoat covered the ensemble. I was seriously groovy, no doubt about it, up with the trends.
    A few men sat on high stools at the bar, gas-bagging—probably about the farm on the outskirts of Stanton if their clothes were anything to go by. Mud-encrusted green wellingtons, dirt-spattered jeans and checked shirts that were more suited to American cowboys than British farmers. Still, they weren’t my concern. I was looking for a man in a black suit with a tie like a tongue, and unless he’d gone to visit the toilet, he wasn’t there. All the tables were empty.
    I frowned. Had he even bothered to turn up, or was he one of those men who enjoyed women ringing him, but didn’t have the slightest intention of actually meeting those who’d called? I supposed I had a lot to learn playing this game. I’d be let down more often than not in the near future and couldn’t expect to meet Mr Right on my first jaunt out.
    “Ah, the raincoat.”
    I spun round at the unexpected sound of his voice, my focus immediately drawn to the bottom end of that red tie, then up the torso that filled the suit jacket and white shirt, to stare at his face. Oh, balls. He was absolutely delicious—something I hadn’t expected—and JS flung herself back into my body with tremendous force.
    He’s not going to be interested in you, Miss Plain Jane.
    “Oh,” I said, forgetting to be French. “It’s you.”
    “Yes. And you’re you.”
    He stared at me while I took him in, but not at any part of me except my face. I’d give him extra points for that. Dark-haired, his unruly mop very similar to mine but much shorter, he appeared, despite his snappy, well-pressed suit, to have just tumbled out of bed. His eyes—dreamy and light blue—were partially closed, as though he were assessing me and needed to concentrate. Or perhaps he was frowning, asking himself what the heck he was doing here with a cracked-up French woman who’d spoken of secret detectives and wearing anything he fancied?
    I blushed at the reminder of my earlier behaviour and resisted flapping my hand in front of my face to cool it down. That wouldn’t be very elegant or sultry, and that wasn’t the kind of thing he’d be expecting off the back of our phone conversation. A lady in control, who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to get it.
    Reminding myself that I was meant to be from the land of frogs’ legs, onions joined together by string, and black-and-white-striped T-shirts, I said, “Shall we go inside?”
    He nodded, some of his curls bouncing, and treated me to a brief smile that all but sent me boneless.
    “That would be the idea.” He smiled again, walking to the pub door, then pushed it open, holding it there so I could go in first.
    I slid past him—I say slid, because that’s what it had felt like—and waited in the centre of a well-worn red Oriental rug for him to join me. He closed the door, came abreast of me, and I caught a whiff of his aftershave. Well, that was a nice smell, one that went straight to my saucy area. I quietly cleared my throat and willed Chantal Rossi to come back to the fore. However, this was hardly the place for two people dressed as though they should really be in a trendy wine bar, and we stood out like two white cotton puffs in an otherwise grey-bellied cloudy sky.
    At