‘How long have you been working at the hotel?’
‘How long—? Max!’ she murmured frustratedly. ‘What on earth does that have to do with anything?’
A great deal, if his suspicions were correct. But he wasn’t about to alarm her by telling her any of that.
‘I would just like to know,’ he came back evasively.
January gave an impatient sigh. ‘About seven months, I think,’ she told him irritatedly. ‘Yes, it would be seven months,’ she confirmed. ‘I started some time in May. But what—?’
‘That’s all I wanted to know,’ he cut in briskly, his thoughts racing.
Seven months. Seven attacks. What had seemed like an outrageous suspicion on his part now took on a much more sinister turn.
‘Max—’
‘I promised it would only be the one question, January,’ he told her brightly. ‘Enjoy what’s left of the evening!’ He rang off before she could question him any further.
As no doubt she had wanted to do! But there was no way he could confide in January concerning the suspicions he now had about Peter Meridew. That would only alarm and distress her.
Which left him in a position of wondering what to do now!
Of course he could just be overreacting. Could be reading things into situations that simply weren’t there. After all, it had been six women who were attacked previously; only Josh was the exception.
Could Max seriously go to the police with his suspicions, or should he just bide his time a bit longer? Even if time wasn’t something he had a whole lot of!
One thing he knew for certain, any thoughts he might have had about returning to America in the near future were now put on indefinite hold; he had no intention of going anywhere until this situation was well and truly sorted out!
Until he knew that January was safe…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘STILL here?’ January greeted Max rudely when she arrived at work on Thursday evening and found him once again sitting at the bar. ‘Don’t you have any little old ladies to throw out of their homes into the snow?’ she added challengingly. ‘Evening, John,’ she greeted more warmly as she walked over to the piano.
Her mood had alternated between annoyance and puzzlement since Max’s telephone call yesterday evening, the former usually winning out, her resentment at his wanting to know where she had been far outweighing any puzzlement she might feel concerning the strange unrelatedness of that single question he had asked her.
‘And a good evening to you, too, January,’ Max drawled as he turned on his bar stool to watch her. ‘And, unless I’m mistaken, there isn’t any snow left for me to throw the little old ladies onto; it’s all melted away!’
‘Your boss intends turning Hanworth Manor into a hotel and health club!’ she returned scathingly, March at last having come with the information they wanted. ‘This is Yorkshire, Max, not the south of France!’
His brows rose over mocking blue eyes. ‘You don’t think the people of Yorkshire are into health and beauty?’
‘On the contrary, I’m sure that they are,’ she snapped. ‘I just don’t think your boss has studied the climate in this area too well. The snow a couple of days ago is typical for this time of year!’
A hotel and health club, with luxury accommodation, as well as a gym and indoor swimming pool, the pièce de résistance an eighteen-hole golf course—of which, according to March’s information on the preliminary proposal, their farm stood smack in the middle!
Max shook his head. ‘This is all just speculation on your part, January—’
‘Actually, it isn’t,’ she told him with satisfaction; March’s information came ‘from the horse’s mouth’, so to speak. Not that she intended telling Max that—he and, from the little she already knew of him, Jude Marshall were not men to let the situation rest there if they were to find out someone was leaking information concerning the plans for Hanworth Manor. ‘You’re going to meet quite a lot of local opposition to the idea, you know,’ she added challengingly.
Although she wasn’t too sure that would actually be the case…
Unemployment here was quite high, and the health and country club promised employment for quite a lot of people in the area. Although that was something else she didn’t intend telling Max!
‘Headed by the Calendar sisters, no doubt,’ Max drawled wryly.
‘No doubt,’ she echoed tauntingly. ‘Somehow I don’t think our cows and sheep will welcome the idea of having golf balls whistling past their ears as they try to graze!’
Max’s gaze narrowed warningly. ‘Perhaps we should talk about this some other time—’