Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

it, but he said a man never knows when he might have to defend himself or someone else.”

“I didn’t know that insurance investigators needed to carry weapons.”

“Depends on how valuable the stolen or destroyed items are, or how involved the agents are in tracking them down. There’s always the possibility of a confrontation. And it’s not always an individual. For lack of a better word, ‘gangs’ of crooks plan some pretty complicated heists—and some are real bad guys.”

“Now you’re using proper crime lingo.” She laughed softly and shook her head.

Ben crossed his arms and continued to lean on the door, his eyes fixed on hers. He thought she might have been wearing what she slept in and noticed the pleasure he felt while examining her tousled hair, lack of makeup, and baggy pants. He shot her a rather seductive smile, and feeling slightly embarrassed, she was compelled to end the conversation and escape his gaze. She quickly told him about the coffee waiting for him, along with the scones and oatmeal. Before he could say anything else she made a hasty retreat down the hall and into her room.

* * *

Once behind the closed door, Ana shed the baggy pants she had found in the closet, perhaps a garment left behind by a previous guest. Next came the satin slip and the cardigan she had pulled over it before going downstairs. She lingered in the shower, wondering what the day would bring. Freshly washed and combed, Ana pulled out jeans and the gem-encrusted tee shirt from her suitcase and quickly dressed. Her one pair of comfortable shoes seemed appropriate for the kind of day she expected, so she slid into them, tied the laces and stopped before the mirror. I’ve already been exposed bare-faced, so why bother with it, she thought, but then settled for a wee bit of mascara and swipe of rose pink lipstick.

Curious about what Ben was up to, she returned to the kitchen, where she found him reading a newspaper, his spoon suspended over a bowl. Steam rose from the mug beside it, and a few crumbs on the table were all that remained of a scone.

Sensing her presence, he looked up, put down his spoon and said, “You always seem to clean up well. Was it a shower that took the tiredness off your face?”

“Must have been,” she answered. “But I feel a bit too ‘casual’ for your parents. I’ll need to change before they come back.” She wandered to the window, and speaking toward the glass panes, she added, “At least you didn’t comment on my shirt again.”

Ben laughed, yet said nothing. Ana turned back and came to join him. A note lay open on the table, and she could easily read what was written. Edith had wanted everyone to know that she had gone to the shops and would be back in time to prepare their ‘tea’—an English reference that Ana had learned meant dinner. She looked over at Ben and saw that he had almost finished what seemed to have been a very large serving of oatmeal.

This surprised her and she couldn’t help but comment. “I haven’t had oatmeal since I left home. I’m a bit surprised to see you eating it, evidently with gusto.”

“It’s best to indulge Mum’s need to ‘mother’ me. You don’t want to see her reaction if she comes back from London and sees it sitting there on the stove, all congealed and cold.” He waited for her to respond, but her answer was only a smile. Not quite through with the subject, he continued, “When I was a kid, this was breakfast—every day. Even if it was Christmas, or Pancake Day, we had oatmeal first.”

“What in the world is Pancake Day?”

“It’s part of Lent. Before Ash Wednesday there’s Shrove Tuesday, and in the UK it came to be called Pancake Day. It’s a day of feasting before the penitential requirements of Lent that start the next day, Ash Wednesday. Comprende?” Ana nodded, and then motioned with her hand for him to continue. “Shrove comes from the old English word ‘shrive,’ which means to confess. People are supposed to evaluate what in their life needs changing. You’re probably more familiar with the French version—Mardi Gras. And I’m sure you know that’s French for Fat Tuesday—again with the food.”

Ben stood, finished his coffee in one gulp, and took his dishes to the sink, where he rinsed them along with Ana’s and put them in the dishwasher. Then he contemplated the pan of oatmeal still sitting over simmering water on the big Aga range. “Are you sure you don’t have room for just a little?” he asked.

“No thanks. Maybe tomorrow,” she answered politely, and he carried the pan to the sink, dumping the remainder down the drain before turning on the disposal. “Mum will think we ate it all. Just as well. It will save a lecture.”

Ana shook her head in mock disapproval, all the while continuing to enjoy everything he did and everything he said. She realized the moment had arrived for planning the day and wondered if they would lounge about, sit in the sun perhaps, read books, surf the net—or even sneak out for a walk. Or if one wanted to be practical, might this be a perfect time to return to the interview— the task that had put everything in motion? After all that had happened, it would be difficult to return to the intended basic format: a hint about his next book, his hobbies—his women. She hesitated to ask him about the latter, but her curiosity grew with every hour they spent together. It seemed valid to her that she learn whether or not there was someone in his life. Just because he flirted with her a little didn’t mean there was no one else. She knew how men could be—knew too well. Those questions had to be worked into the conversation, but she was truthful enough with herself to realize that the answers weren’t