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CHAPTER THREE
    I T WAS a largely silent journey. Dominic Ashton seemed lost in thought as he expertly threaded his powerful four- wheel drive through the lanes.
    And Phoebe, sitting with her hands clenched tightly in her lap, was far too uncomfortably aware of his physical proximity to be capable of producing any intelligent topic of conversation to fill the void.
    'Only six weeks until Christmas,' and, 'Do you think we'll have snow before New Year?' were all she could think of, and she instantly discarded both of them. Silence was preferable to total banality.
    'Whereabouts in Westcombe?' he eventually asked abruptly as they approached the outskirts.
    'You can drop me in the High Street.'
    'I could also throw you in the river,' he observed icily. 'But, as I intend to take you to your door, let's drop the evasions and give me your address. It will save us both time and temper.'
    'Hawthorn cottage—twenty-nine, Rushton Street,' Phoebe said eventually, and mutinously.
    'Simplest solutions are always best,' he murmured, and her hands curled into fists.
    Hang in there, she adjured herself silently. A few more minutes and he'll be gone. And as soon as Debbie comes back to work you can go too—as far and as fast as .possible. And you'll never, ever have to see him again.
    As they drew up, she said, 'Thank you.'
    'I wish I could think you meant that.' He leaned forward, studying the narrow little house crammed awkwardly between its neighbours. 'Astonishing.'
    'I beg your pardon?' Phoebe felt herself bristling.
    'Granted.' He swung himself lithely out of the driving seat and went round to open the passenger door. 'I was thinking what a strange mass of contradictions you are.'
    'Well, please don't lose any sleep over it, Mr Ashton,' she snapped, ignoring the helping hand he'd extended as she scrambled out.
    'On the contrary,' he said softly. 'I have a strong feeling that you're going to cost me a lot of sleepless nights, Miss Grant.'
    Phoebe, shaken, and for once at a loss, gave him a fulminating look and stalked to her gate.
    As she opened it she heard, quiet but unmistakable, the creak of her front door closing. She stopped dead with a groan. 'Oh, no.'
    'I'll deal with it.' Dominic Ashton strode past her towards the shadowy figure hovering in the porch.
    Phoebe, close on his heels, heard a slight scuffle and a yelp. 'Oh, don't hurt him. It's my landlord.'
    'But he was coming out of your house.'
    'She's been complaining about a leak in the roof,' Arthur Hanson squeaked in breathless outrage. He was a thin man, balding, with a straggling beard. 'I came round to look at it.'
    'In the pitch darkness?' Dominic asked contemptuously. 'You haven't even got a flashlight.'
    'I decided to have a look in the loft first,' Mr Hanson said, with an attempt at dignity.
    'In Miss Grant's absence?' Dominic released his hold on the other man's collar.
    'He's always doing it,' Phoebe said wearily.
    'I have a right to conduct regular inspections.'
    'From now on, telephone Miss Grant and make an appointment.'As Mr Hanson scuttled off Dominic turned a frowning gaze on Phoebe. 'Has this been going on for long?'
    'Ever since I moved in.'
    'Then I strongly recommend you have the locks changed. He may be your landlord, but you have a right to your privacy.'
    He followed her into the hall, looking around him critically. Comparing it, no doubt, with North Fitton House. 'How much rent is he charging you?'
    Phoebe lifted her chin. 'Isn't that covered by the right to privacy you just mentioned?' she challenged.
    'It's not just idle curiosity. I have contacts in the private rental market,' he said. 'I'm sure you could get something better than this.'
    'It's perfectly adequate for my present needs,' she said stiffly.
    'And your job represents complete fulfilment too?' There was a note of faint derision in his voice.
    She shrugged defensively. 'I like my colleagues, and the customers are pleasant.'
    'Give or take the odd waif and stray.'
    'Tara was