The Vengance Affair Read online

  'A little,' she allowed lightly. 'But, then, it always is in March,' she defended dismissively. 'Although it's the perfect time of year to clear and landscape a garden,' she added reassuringly.

  His mouth twisted mockingly. 'I believe you.'

  Jaz gave him a considering look. 'I can't believe you've really bought The Old Vicarage.'

  When the 'Sold' sign had gone up outside the old house a month ago everyone in the village had been agog with curiosity as to who could possibly have bought such a monstrosity. The house itself was big and old, very run-down, had stood empty for the last five years since the last people to rent it had moved out into one of the more convenient cottages on the edge of the village, claiming that the house was too big and draughty to keep warm, that the roof leaked, and the electric wiring and drainage systems were antiquated to say the least.

  Beau Garrett eyed Jaz speculatively now. 'Is there some reason why I shouldn't have done?'

  All of the above, Jaz would have thought.

  'It's very run-down,' she began tentatively.

  'The builder started work on that this morning,' he dismissed.

  Next!, his tone seemed to imply.

  'I would have thought it was very inconvenient for commuting to London,' Jaz obliged.

  This man's chat show had taken the prime-time ten o'clock spot on a Friday evening for the last ten years, mainly because of his decisive, informative interviews, but his dark, brooding good looks certainly hadn't done him any harm, either. But the village was a couple of hundred miles away from London, hardly within com­muting distance for a man who worked from a London studio.

  'Good,' came his uncompromising answer, his silver gaze palely challenging, his mouth thinning grimly.

  Jaz shrugged. 'Isn't it also a little big for just one man to live in? Unless, of course, you intend bringing your family up here, too,' she added as an afterthought. After all, two could play at this game...

  'I don't,' he answered unhelpfully. 'Now could we get back to the subject of your working on the vicarage garden?' It was made as a request, but the steely edge to his tone clearly told Jaz that he had no intention of discussing his private life with her. Or, indeed, with anyone else!

  That was fine with her; it was his private life, after all.

  She nodded. 'Well, as I've said, I'll call round this afternoon and we can discuss what needs to be done. After that, I can probably start working on it by—would Wednesday morning be okay with you?'

  'Fine,' he agreed tersely, turning to leave, and then pausing as he reached the door. 'I hope you're going to be more reliable than the builder—he should have started work a week ago!'

  'And he arrived this morning,' Jaz said admiringly. 'That's pretty good. You must have made a good im­pression on him.'

  Beau Garrett's mouth twisted ruefully. 'No—I just made a damned nuisance of myself by telephoning every day for the last week to find out when he was going to start work!'

  She laughed, standing up. 'Maybe village life is go­ing to suit you, after all, Mr Garrett,' she said appre­ciatively. 'You obviously know how to deal with un­reliable workmen,' she explained at his questioning look.

  'Knowing how to deal with them has nothing to do with it,' he bit out dismissively. 'I just don't suffer fools gladly.'

  Now that, even on such brief acquaintance, she could believe!

  But even so, Dennis Davis, the only builder for miles around, was well known for his lackadaisical attitude to turning up for jobs on time—in fact, Jaz had been wait­ing for weeks herself for Dennis to fix a leak on one of her shed roofs!

  She grinned sympathetically. 'I can assure you, Mr Garrett, that if I say I'll be with you at two-thirty this afternoon, then that's exactly when I will be there.'

  'Call me Beau,' he invited abruptly.

  Jaz felt the warm colour enter her cheeks, not sure she could take such a liberty—even when invited to do so—by this national television figure; it somehow seemed far too familiar with this distantly haughty man.

  'Jaz,' she returned uncomfortably. 'Two-thirty, then,' she added briskly.

  'Fine,' he accepted tersely. 'I'm out of coffee, so I thought I might call in at the village shop on the way home,' he added dryly, that hint of humour once again in those silver eyes. 'But I should have escaped by two-thirty.'

  Effectively telling Jaz that as well as being aware of the neat precision with which Barbara Scott liked to stack her shelves, she was also, predictably, the biggest gossip in the village; there was no way Barbara would easily relinquish the novelty of Beau Garrett's presence in her shop!

  Jaz smiled appreciatively. 'You may just get used to village life, after all!'

  'Somehow I'm starting to doubt that,' he rasped dis­missively. ,

  Jaz stood at the doorway watching him as he strode purposefully to the black Range Rover parked in the muddy driveway, raising a hand in farewell as he drove away.

  But Jaz's smile faded as soon as he had gone, a frown marring her creamy brow as she returned to the problem of the pile of bills on her desk even while her thoughts actually remained on Beau Garrett's last comment.

  'Somehow' she very much doubted he would 'get used to village life', either.

  Which posed the question: what was he doing here in the first place?

  CHAPTER THREE

  'I'm so sorry I'm late!' Jaz burst out flusteredly as soon as Beau Garrett opened the door to The Old Vicarage in answer to her ring on the bell. 'I did start out in good time to arrive at two-thirty, but the van developed a puncture on the drive here, and I had to stop and exchange it for the spare wheel, and then—'

  'Slow down, Jaz,' he cut in mildly. 'And calm down, too,' he advised with a sweeping glance over her flushed face. 'You have dirt on your cheek,' he added softly.

  She raised an impatient hand to rub the spot where she thought the dirt might be.

  'The other cheek,' he told her ruefully. 'Look, come inside,' he added impatiently before she could transfer her attention to the other side of her face. 'The wash­room is through that door there.' He pointed to the left of the front door. 'The kitchen is at the other end of this hallway. Come through when you're ready,' he said dryly.

  This would have to happen to her today, Jaz fumed as she went to the washroom and scrubbed the dirt im­patiently from her cheek, and after assurances earlier to Beau Garrett that he could rely on her to be on time!

  She had been just half a mile away from The Old Vicarage when she realized the van wasn't responding properly, that it certainly wasn't going where she was steering it, pulling in to the side of the road to get out and discover that one of her front tyres was abso­lutely flat.

  The spare wheel didn't look much better, but at least it wasn't flat, although it had taken some time to get the punctured wheel off the van, the vehicle so old all the bolts seemed to have rusted up. And, as she had never changed a wheel in her life before...

  Although none of that changed the fact that she had arrived at Beau Garrett's home half an hour later than she had assured him she would.

  'I really am sorry I'm late,' she apologized again as she entered the kitchen a few minutes later, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway as she looked around the transformed kitchen.

  The last time she had seen this large room it had been as old and run down as the rest of the house, cracked lino on the floor, the kitchen cupboards of a particularly unattractive shade of grey, as had been the tiles on the walls, the work surfaces a depressing black, the range that provided heat as well as cooking facilities, old and temperamental.

  The lino had been replaced by mellow-coloured flag­stones, the kitchen units now a light oak, the kitchen tiles a bright sunny yellow, the new Aga an attractive cream, and—thankfully!—throwing out lots of heat.

  'Wow,' she murmured appreciatively. 'This looks re­ally great.'

  He turned from pouring coffee into two mugs. 'There was no way I could have moved in here with the kitchen the way that it was,' he dismissed, putting
the mugs, cream, and sugar down on the kitchen table before in­dicating for her to join him in sitting down.

  Jaz sat, some of her earlier flusteredness starting to fade in the warm relaxation of the transformed room. 'I don't blame you,' she nodded, adding cream to her mug. 'It always was a cold, uninviting room.' She took a grateful sip of her unsweetened coffee.

  'Always...?' Beau Garrett repeated softly as he sat in the chair opposite.

  Jaz looked up sharply; this man didn't miss much, did he? She really would have to start remembering that!

  'Hmm.' She gave a rueful sigh. 'I may as well tell you before someone else does; my grandfather was the last vicar to actually live in this house. The man who took over from him moved into the new vicarage at the other end of the village where the Booths now live. But I spent a lot of time here as a child,' she added flatly.

  'I see,' Beau Garrett murmured slowly.

  Jaz met his gaze unwaveringly. 'Do you?'

  'Not really.' He grimaced. 'But if I live here long enough I'm sure that one way or another I'll get to hear most of the local gossip,' he added with distaste.

  She was sure he would too. One way or another.

  'How did your visit to the shop go this morning?' she changed the subject abruptly.

  He gave a rueful smile. 'Pretty much as predicted. Although, thankfully, I was saved after about fifteen minutes of fending off Mrs Scott's increasingly personal questions by the arrival of another customer!'

  Jaz nodded, smiling. 'At which time you gratefully beat a hasty retreat.'

  'Very hasty,' he confirmed grimly.

  'I shouldn't worry about it too much,' Jaz advised lightly. 'Once you've lived here twenty years or so they'll lose interest!'

  'Oh wonderful!' he said with feeling. 'Somehow vil-lage life isn't quite as I imagined it would be.' He gave a disgusted shake of his head.

  'Birds twittering in the hedgerows, children playing happily on the village green, neighbours chatting hap­pily to each other over the garden fences?' Jaz guessed teasingly.

  'Something like that,' he confirmed dryly.

  'Oh, it can be like that,' Jaz assured him. 'Not usually in March, though. Too cold,' she grinned. 'And beneath the birds twittering, the happy children playing, neigh­bours chatting, you'll find there is always the under-lying gossip that binds us all together.'

  'The latter I can quite well do without,' Beau Garrett assured her hardly.

  She shrugged. 'I did try to warn you the other eve­ning.'

  'A little late, wouldn't you say, when I've obviously already purchased The Old Vicarage?' he drawled.

  'Just a little,' she conceded ruefully. 'But, don't worry, if you intend staying, you'll soon get used to it.'

  'Oh I intend staying,' he told her flatly. 'But I intend living here in quiet seclusion, have no intention of doing anything that will give the villagers cause to gossip about me,' he added grimly.

  Perhaps now wasn't the time to tell him that he wouldn't actually need to do anything to be the subject of gossip; just his being here at all, a well-known tele­vision star, had the inhabitants of Aberton agog with speculation as to why he had bought a house here. The last Jaz had heard, from the postman this morning as he handed her her letters, Beau Garrett had come to the village to escape an unhappy love affair when the woman in his life left him following the car accident that had left his face scarred.

  That may be true, Jaz really had no idea, but some­how she doubted it was any more accurate than the rumour that he was here to research a book! What sort of book, and what sort of research, she couldn't imag­ine, having heard from Beau Garret himself of his desire to be left in peace and solitude, but she had no intention of adding fuel to that particular fire by confiding that knowledge with anyone else, her answers to the post­man noncommittal to say the least.

  'Perhaps we should go and look at the garden now?' she suggested briskly, deciding enough had already been said concerning the speculation about him in the village.

  'The jungle, I call it.' He stood up. 'Although I am hoping that one day I'll be able to call it a garden,' he added wryly as they walked outside.

  He was right, it was more like a jungle, Jaz realized with a heavy heart, years of rubbish accumulated in grass that was thigh high, overgrown with weeds, sev­eral of the trees in need of cutting down completely, and the greenhouse, once so lovingly tended by her grandmother, almost falling down, every pane of glass broken.

  Looking at it Jaz couldn't help remembering how in previous years she had played in this garden, built dens in the bushes, eaten picnics with her grandparents on the smooth green lawn, sat on the swing beneath the apple tree dreaming of a time when she would have her own home, her own apple tree with its swing, and chil­dren laughing as they played on it.

  Now, at twenty-five, she had come to believe those dreams would never be more than that...

  'A disaster, isn't it?' Beau Garrett rasped disgustedly.

  Jaz gave herself a mental shake; she was here to do a job, not wallow in the past. 'Not really,' she assured him crisply. 'I'll need to clear all the rubbish before we can actually begin putting it in any order, but I think most of it is salvageable.'

  'You have more optimism than I do, then,' he dis­missed with a shake of his head. 'Sometimes I wonder what on earth I thought I was doing taking on a place like this!' he muttered almost to himself.

  Jaz turned to look at him. 'Searching for your own piece of paradise?' she suggested huskily, knowing that being back here again, after all these years, had affected her more deeply than she cared to admit. 'My grand­father always said that you have to find contentment inside yourself before you can appreciate any other hap­piness in your life.' And she had known all about dis­content...

  'Did he really?' Beau Garrett rasped harshly, his aloofness of Friday evening returning with a vengeance as he looked down his arrogant nose at her.

  Jaz turned away, her cheeks flushed as she realized she had stepped over some imaginary line. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I wasn't necessarily referring to you,' she finished lamely, knowing it was being at The Old Vicarage again, her own memories, that had prompted the comment. And it hadn't been directed at Beau Garrett at all, but at herself...

  'It doesn't matter.' He turned away abruptly. 'Are you still available to start on Wednesday morning?'

  'Yes, of course—'

  'Then consider yourself hired,' he bit out curtly. 'Now, if you wouldn't mind...? I have some other things I need to do this afternoon.'

  Jaz didn't 'mind' at all, felt an overwhelming urge to get away herself, had reminisced quite enough for one afternoon, thank you!

  'You'll need a quote for how much the work is going to cost—'

  'Just do it,' he rasped, obviously impatient for this conversation to be over now. 'And send me the bill.'

  'Er...' She grimaced, too embarrassed now to quite be able to meet that silvery gaze. 'I'll need to have a skip delivered to take away all the rubbish, and then there's—'

  'Jaz, if you need a deposit to cover those costs then why don't you just ask for one?' Beau Garrett cut in impatiently.

  'Because I hate asking people for money, that's why!' She felt stung into replying, glaring up at him, all her earlier feelings of sympathy towards him evap­orating in the face of his arrogant rudeness.

  'Then it's no wonder that the tyres on your van are so bald they develop punctures, your business is obvi­ously falling down around your ears, and the clothes you're wearing would make a scarecrow look well dressed!' he came back scathingly before striding back into the kitchen.

  Jaz stared after him, too stunned by the suddenness of the attack to find an immediate reply.

  The fact that every word he spoke was the truth cer­tainly didn't help!

  The van was old, left to her on her father's death, as was the run-down garden centre. As for her clothes... she couldn't remember when she had last been able to afford anything new.

  But for Beau Garrett to have said th
ose things to her...!

  'I'm sorry,' he spoke softly behind.

  Jaz had stiffened at the first sound of his voice, blink­ing back the tears now, determined he shouldn't see that he had made her cry with the hurtful things he had said to her.

  'Jaz—'

  'No need to apologize for telling the truth,' she as­sured brightly as she turned to face him, blue eyes not quite meeting those probing silver ones.

  He shook his head, his sigh heavy. 'I'm a little—I shouldn't have taken out my bad temper on you,' he rasped with a self-disgusted shake of his head.

  Jaz moistened dry lips before speaking. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have spoken so personally to you, either.' She grimaced. 'It's this place. I—' she sighed, her frown pained. 'I'd forgotten.'

  'Forgotten what?' Beau Garrett looked at her com-pellingly.

  Jaz found herself caught and held by the intensity of that silvery gaze, feeling a little like a rabbit must do when caught in the glare of a car's headlights; trapped, mesmerized, totally unable to move.

  But at the same time her own instinct for privacy came to the fore, giving her the impetus to break that gaze even as she gave a dismissive laugh. 'Nothing of any importance,' she assured him lightly.

  He looked for a brief minute as if he would like to argue that point, but as Jaz continued to look at him unblinkingly he finally gave a rueful shrug. 'Here.' He held a cheque out to her. 'That should cover any initial expenses you may have.'

  A glance at the amount written on the cheque he gave her told Jaz that it would probably cover the cost of all of the work to be done here, not just the initial expenses.

  Pride warred with necessity inside her—and it was necessity that finally won out. After all, she would do the work, and it would probably cost as much as this, so it wasn't as if she were taking the money under false pretences. Besides, accepting it would mean that, as well as being able to pay off most of the more pressing bills, for a change she would also be able to eat more than either baked beans, or tomatoes, on toast!

  The thought of a nice roast chicken for her dinner was enough to make her mouth water. And her pride seem petty.