French Leave by Elizabeth Darrell Page A

this present one, when the charismatic Brigadier demanded her presence? Would she want him there in her absence? Would he want to be there on his own? If they shared a house it would be different. If they shared a house he would want them to marry and make it their home.
    His spirits dropped further. Until Livya was ready to make that commitment the situation would continue as it was now. He pushed his plate away moodily, appetite gone.
    â€˜And there was I thinking you had climbed a rung by tackling a chunk of pie. You’ll slip down again if you don’t finish it.’
    Clare Goodey held a plate bearing a small helping of vegetables and a minute lamb chop. ‘May I join you?’
    Max half stood, coming back from his gloomy thoughts. ‘Please do.’ He resumed his seat once she was settled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you over the pie.’
    Her smile seemed a little strained. ‘A bottom-rung companion is a better prospect than that jolly crowd of khaki-clad extreme youth on the other table.’
    He looked across at them. ‘I suppose we must have been like that five years ago. How soon that phase passes.’
    Her smile faded. ‘Oh God, a maudlin policeman. Maybe I should have fraternized with merry youth after all.’
    â€˜Prescribe a tonic, ma’am, and you’ll mark the difference.’ Even as he said it, Max recognized the boost to his mood she had made just by sitting opposite him. Her hair was fluffy from the shower, which softened her finely-moulded features, and she looked attractively fresh in a white linen tunic with a V-neck and pale blue stitching that matched her skirt.
    â€˜The only tonic I can prescribe out of surgery hours is to be found on a bar stool.’
    He watched her carefully separate the meat from the bone. Surely no more than a mouthful. ‘Sometimes you can grow even more maudlin on a bar stool.’
    Her blue gaze rose to meet his. ‘Not if you’re with a compatible companion.’
    â€˜No, not then,’ he said, wondering where this conversation was heading.
    She set down her cutlery. ‘How d’you feel about testing that theory?’ When he glanced towards the bar, she said swiftly, ‘Not in there. Don’t you know somewhere in town that would answer the purpose?’ Pushing away her plate, she got to her feet. ‘Let’s get shot of this place hung with paintings of men in scarlet uniforms killing and being killed, and mix with the living. What d’you say?’
    With surprise, he realized he was being chatted up by this decisive woman. ‘Fine with me. I’ll fetch my car keys.’
    â€˜I’ll fetch mine. It needs a decent run. Outside the side entrance in five.’
    She was off before Max could say anything more, but he went upstairs to collect his wallet, feeling brighter than he had all day since receiving Tom’s call on the river. He knew just the place for a quiet, reflective drink.
    The heat assaulted Max when he left the Mess by the door nearest to the car park, and it dawned on him that the riverside inn he had in mind would be full to capacity on a night like this. So would every other outdoor drinking place. And it would be hot, hot, hot. Maybe the mess bar was the best option.
    Clare appeared in an open two-seater that was clearly a classic. She noticed Max’s slight hesitation after her invitation to hop in. ‘Don’t say it,’ she warned. ‘Don’t even think it.’
    He did not say it, but he could not help thinking it as he stepped over the door and arranged his six feet three inches in the available space with the caution of a man about to dice with death. That notion was soon knocked on the head. Clare was a skilled and very careful driver, and the pleasure of open-air propulsion after the stifling interior of his own car completed Max’s sense of well-being.
    Once on the autobahn, he said, ‘Congratulations. You handle this beauty