He was about to turn right round and get out when Mason waved and called him from the bar, and he reluctantly made his way across the pub, trying to avoid bumping into the revellers.
‘What are you drinking?’ Mason asked.
‘I’ll have half a bitter. Thanks.’ Stefan frowned and scanned the room. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s a hen party and Bandanamama, Red Moss’s answer to Bananarama,’ Mason replied with a grin. ‘Do you recognise any of the singers?’
Stefan looked at the three women properly this time. They were all wearing dungarees and stripy tops, and bandana scarves. He recognised Rachel, the tallest of the three. He had never before seen the red-haired woman who was jumping around so energetically she seemed to be on springs. The third, in the far right, almost hidden by the Christmas tree and holding a blue feather duster was…
‘Cassie?’
How had he not seen her straight away? Her blonde hair gleamed, piled up on top of her head in a messy bun. Her red lipstick emphasised her rosebud lips, her flawless skin glowed under the spotlights. Her red bandana was tied around her slim neck. He swallowed hard. She looked pretty and fun, and so sexy she didn’t need to be singing about Venus, flames and desires for his heart to do a little flip and his body to grow hard. What bad luck! He had spent most of the last week trying to avoid the woman and fight the pointless attraction he felt for her, only to run into her tonight.
He swallowed a mouthful of beer, and cleared his throat. ‘What’s with the feather duster?’
Mason laughed. ‘No idea, but I hope they stop soon. My ears can’t take much more.’
Both men flinched as Rachel’s voice hit a very high-pitched note. ‘I see what you mean,’ Stefan said. He ordered steak and chips at the counter, and Mason found them a free table in the back room where most of the elderly customers seemed to have retreated. If the singing was still loud, at least they could talk. More importantly, he couldn’t see Cassie and could forget the lustful thoughts she awakened inside him – feather duster or not.
The music stopped as the barmaid brought his meal over.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I eat,’ Stefan said, picking his fork up.
‘Not at all. Actually, I’m feeling a bit peckish myself,’ Mason answered as Stefan tucked into his chips. ‘I’ll order something at the bar too, and get us more drinks.’
The seaside air and the long walk along the beach at Allonby had made Stefan ravenous and he wolfed down his meal in ten minutes. He was putting his knife and fork back onto his empty plate when Cassie’s voice resounded behind him.
‘Stefan! Mason said you were here.’
His shoulders tensed. He would have to talk to her after all…
He pushed his chair back, stood up and turned to face her.
She looked even more tempting close up. Her eyes were huge and moody and her skin smooth and flawless. She glanced at the table, pointed to his empty plate with her feather duster, and pursed her lips – her perfect, kissable lips.
‘If I had known you’d rather have chips at the pub, I wouldn’t have spent an hour making lasagne for your tea.’
‘Ah. Sorry. Stopping here was a spur-of-the-moment decision.’
She shrugged. ‘Never mind. It’ll keep until tomorrow.’
He nodded again, stuck for something to say. ‘The singing was… interesting,’ he said, cursing himself for sounding so dense.
Her cheeks coloured. ‘You don’t have to pretend. I know what you think of my voice… It was awful.’
‘Your friends seemed to like it.’
She laughed. ‘After a few of Big Jim’s cocktails, they would sing and dance to anything.’
They stood in front of each other without speaking for what felt like a long, awkward minute, so to break the silence, he asked, ‘What’s with the feather duster?’
She ruffled the blue feathers with her fingers and smiled. ‘That’s another of Rachel’s brilliant ideas. She wants me to tickle people to make them laugh and put them in a good mood. Personally, I don’t think it’ll work. Perhaps you could be my first guinea pig.’ A mischievous smile appeared on her lips, and dug dimples so cute in her round cheeks a flash of pure lust coursed through him.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked in a voice even more croaky than usual.
‘Testing Rachel’s theory.’
The tip of the feather duster caressed his face, his throat. His whole body tensed and hardened, but he resisted taking a step back.
‘You’re wasting your time. I’m not ticklish.’
She lowered the feather duster and shrugged. ‘Too bad… Ah well, the night is young and I’m sure there will be plenty of ticklish people around I can cheer up.’
Mason walked back into the room, a plate of chips in his hand. ‘Sorry I was so long. The girls are looking for you, Cassie. The minibus has arrived to take you to the restaurant.’
‘Very well. Gentlemen, I wish you a pleasant evening.’ Turning to Stefan, she added, ‘It’s going to be a long night, so I’ll come to Belthorn in the afternoon, if that’s all right with you.’
He clenched his jaw. ‘I already told you that you don’t need to come every day and I can—’
‘Manage perfectly well on your own,’ she finished with a tutting sound. ‘Yes, you said that before, and I said that I had a job to do.’
She winked, and with a last flourish of her feather duster, turned round and walked out, swaying her hips in the most enticing manner. He swallowed hard. Who would have known that dungarees could be so sexy?
‘I don’t know about you,’ Mason remarked as he sat down, ‘but I’d rather stay away from Cassie and her feather duster tonight. I don’t want to disgrace myself and fall about in fits of giggles if she tickles me.’
Stefan nodded but it wasn’t giggling helplessly he was worried about if Cassie tickled him again with her feather duster – it was not being able to resist the urge to yank her to him and to kiss her.
The thunder of machine gunfire hit the plane. The wind burned his face. He tasted the smoke billowing from the engine, and terror gripped his insides as the plane spiralled through the clouds and the ground loomed closer. He was going to die. He was already dead…
He woke up with a start and sat up so fast he banged his head against the headboard. Sweat stuck his T-shirt to his chest, his heart galloped hard and fast and panic dried his throat. As his eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness, he made out the outlines of the furniture, the curtains and the paintings on the wall opposite, and fear loosened its iron grip. He wasn’t in a SPA 3 plane falling to his death. He was at Belthorn, safe in bed.
He rubbed his face hard and drew in a deep breath. It wasn’t the familiar nightmare that forced him to relive over and over again the trauma of his helicopter bursting into flames in front of him, but it was almost as harrowing. That was what André Vaillant and his comrades must have experienced day in, day out, as they flew their planes over the battlefields of Northern France over a hundred years before.
Vaillant… Why was he unable to stop thinking about the man?
He got up, dragged on his jogging pants over his boxer shorts, put on a fresh T-shirt and a sweatshirt and, his breath steaming in the freezing cold house, he went downstairs to make coffee and light a fire.