Bride Required

Dee continued to look at him sceptically, but then she looked at all men that way now.

‘Look—’ he took out his wallet and produced a twenty-pound note ‘—I’ll pay for your time.’

‘You do think I’m cheap, don’t you?’ Dee wasn’t sure what the going rate for an afternoon quickie was, but she felt it should be more than that.

His eyes narrowed, displaying the first trace of anger. ‘I just want to talk to you. Nothing sexual. Believe me.’

The reassurance rang true, as did his glance, which travelled over her asexual clothing, thin, pallid face and cropped hair. Whatever this man wanted, it wasn’t her body.

Dee should have been pleased. She dressed this way specifically not to attract the opposite sex. But to have someone look at her quite so dismissively was offensive.

‘We can go to the nearest café and I’ll buy you and Rover a tea.’ His glance was warmer when it was directed at the dog.

‘Henry.’

‘Pardon?’

‘That’s his name,’ Dee informed him, wondering why she had.

‘Henry,’ he repeated, and put out a hand as the dog slowly lifted himself to a sitting position so he could be petted.

Dee watched as the stranger stroked her dog on the head and scratched him in exactly the right position behind his ears.

‘Sucker,’ she muttered to herself as the dog responded by licking the man’s hand and spoiled any chance of her claiming him to be fierce. Right from a puppy, he had been a slave for affection.

‘Henry!’ She glared at the dog until he subsided on stiff back legs.

‘How old is he? Eleven? Twelve?’ The man judged the dog by his movement.

‘Thirteen.’ Her eyes shaded with sad thoughts; it was a brief lapse before she added, ‘His teeth are still sharp enough.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ he conceded, but there was a definite smile in his voice. He knew dogs and realised this one was as likely to bite him as he was to win a greyhound derby. ‘He looks very mean and hungry.’

Dee understood it as sarcasm but chose to take it literally. ‘He’s never hungry! He gets fed fine.’

She glared at him as if he were an RSPCA inspector.

‘I can see that.’ His eyes travelled over the dog’s rounded flank, then switched their scrutiny to her. ‘It’s you who looks like you could do with a meal or two.’

‘Thanks.’ Dee pulled a face, recognising an insult when she heard one.

Nonetheless he was right. She skipped meals—sometimes because she had no option—and it showed.

He upped the price. ‘Thirty pounds, and you and Henry, here, can dine like royalty tonight.’

Thirty pounds was hard to resist. But Dee wasn’t a fool.

‘You’re going to give me thirty quid just to sit in a café and talk…? Stroll on, mate.’ Her tone was hard with disbelief.

Baxter didn’t blame her. He was beginning to think it a crazy idea himself. But, now he’d come this far and actually approached a girl, he had nothing to lose.

‘As I said, I have a proposition…call it a job if you like,’ he went on. ‘Unusual rather than dangerous, and emphatically not of a sexual nature… I’m not interested in young girls,’ he added on an unequivocal note.

That figures, Dee thought, admitting to herself—now that it was safe—that she had found him passingly attractive.

‘I read you.’ She defrosted a little to a fellow underdog.

‘I doubt it,’ he replied dryly.

‘Makes no odds to me, mate,’ she assured him. ‘Live and let live is my motto.’

‘Look, that’s not…’ About to correct any wrong impressions, Baxter decided not to bother. Why not leave her thinking it, if it was to his advantage?

‘Right, I choose the café,’ she suddenly conceded as she began to collect up her earnings and box her flute.

‘Right,’ he echoed.

She stood before adding, ‘Money up front, of course.’

Baxter looked at her outstretched hand, his eyes narrowing in distrust. If he gave her the money now, what was to stop her making a run for it?

He hesitated too long.

‘Forget it, then.’ She made to walk away.

He caught her arm. Not roughly, just to stop her. ‘All right. Half now, and half when we’ve talked.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Fifteen pounds was better than nothing if she decided to give him the slip, Dee considered.

Only he was thinking ahead of her. When he said half, he meant half. She watched him tear a twenty-and a ten-pound note down the middle and present her with the two halves.

Dee grimaced but took the money, and, shouldering her rucksack, picked up Henry’s lead.

Baxter noticed how laden she was. ‘I’ll take that.’ He relieved her of the flute case before she could protest. ‘And the rucksack if you like.’

‘Don’t bother.’ Dee could have read it as a gentlemanly gesture, but didn’t. ‘You have enough insurance with my flute.’

Insurance against her running away, she meant.

Baxter raised a brow. ‘Such scepticism in one so young… How young, by the way?’ For an awful moment he wondered if she might be too young. Who knew with these runaways? She talked as though she were thirty and her eyes were old with knowledge, but her skin was unlined.

‘How old do I have to be?’ she countered, suspicious again.

Baxter avoided a direct answer, and said, ‘Old enough to have a job.’

He could hardly say sixteen—the age of consent.

‘Yeah, well, I’m that all right.’ Only she couldn’t get one. The recession meant jobs were scarce for most young people—and non-existent for the homeless.