in the lee of a privet hedge and they all got out.
‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Richard.
But Ian was not happy. ‘This place is a kidnapper’s wet dream. Let me book you into the pub.’
But Richard waved the idea away. ‘You know the guy. I know the guy. Nobody followed us. Relax.’
‘But—’
‘Ian?’
‘Yes?’
‘Go inside and check it out. Do whatever you must. Then push off to the pub and don’t come back till morning.’
Ian threw his hands up. ‘Whatever you say, boss.’
The moment he’d disappeared into the house, Richard and Bella went into each other’s arms, kissing frantically.
‘You’re a dirty rotten tease,’ he said
‘Would you say rotten? I thought I was quite good.’
‘God, I want you.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Ian came back. He approached them with caution and a certain amount of throat-clearing.
‘No problem. The back door is rotten, so anyone could kick it in. I suggest you lock the door from the kitchen to the rest of the house. Everything else looks fine. And keep your pager with you at all times.’
‘Yus, h’officer.’
‘I’ll take the food in and then I’ll be at the pub. It’s a quarter of a mile further on. I can be here in three minutes, if you call.’
‘We won’t. And we’ll take the food in,’ said Richard firmly. ‘You push off and have fun.’
‘Likewise,’ said Ian. Heard what he’d said, clearly wished he hadn’t, slapped the key into Richard’s hand and left in disarray.
If he’d looked in his rear-view mirror he would have seen his delinquent charges hopping about, clutching their sides with mirth.
Richard wouldn’t let Bella help unload.
‘This is Man’s Work,’ he said, inflating his chest and beating it King Kong-style. But, rather to her surprise, he got her case, a carrier bag of food from Marks and Spencer and his own overnight bag indoors in record time.
He closed the door, locked it, pulled the rusty old curtain draught excluder across it and said softly, ‘Come here, you wicked tease. You’ve been taunting me for fifty-seven miles. Now you pay.’
‘Promises, promises.’
But neither of them could hold out any longer. Richard just about managed to shrug off his coat before Bella jumped at him, hauling at his sweater and shirt so that she could get her hands on his skin, kissing his throat, his ear, the hard jaw and soft hair. And then she reached his mouth.
She found the button at the top of his jeans.
‘Jesus!’
She leaned back in his arms. She was breathless and every nerve quivered. But she was still ready to challenge him.
‘Oh, sorry, do you want to unpack first?’
‘AAAARGH!’ he shouted, and went into full King Kong mode.
He picked her up and thundered up the narrow stairs, so that they shook. He hesitated, briefly, at the top.
‘Not the front,’ Bella managed. ‘Ian said. Nothing facing the road.’
So Richard plunged into the back bedroom and they fell together on to the bed, their clothes coming off in a tangle and falling where they were thrown.
A long lovely time later, Bella lay with her head against his shoulder and his arm wrapped round her, holding her close. She considered the strange shapes in the moonlit room.
‘Is that your shirt on the the lampshade? Heck, is it even a lampshade?’
‘As far as I remember, he said sleepily, ‘my shirt is somewhere on the stairs.’
‘Umm …’ She wriggled, remembering. ‘Think you could be right. So what’s that?’
He didn’t open his eyes. ‘No idea.’
She pummelled his ribs. ‘You could at least look.’
He opened one eye. Then the other. ‘No idea – hey, that’s not clothes. That’s a cat.’
‘It can’t be a cat.’
‘I can see whiskers,’ he said, really interested now.
He got out of bed – when had they got under the covers? – and, after carefully drawing the curtains together, put on the light.
‘Ow … ow!’ said Bella, pulling a pillow over her head to cover her eyes.
‘It is a cat,’ Richard said triumphantly.
She pushed the pillow away, to see him reach up – he was so tall, he could lay the palm of his hand flat against the low ceiling – and carefully remove something from the wildly swinging light fitting.
‘There,’ he said, lobbing it on to the bed.
Bella prodded it cautiously. But the fur was definitely fake and it felt more like a limp cushion than anything that had ever been alive.
‘I think you’ll find,’ said Richard in the tones of a connoisseur, ‘that it’s a nightdress case. Probably hand-made.’
‘You’re joking. Aren’t you?’
‘Nope.’
Bella picked the thing up cautiously and shook it out. He was right. It was