Page 22 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“Oh, yes, George Foale. He does nice pictures. But have you heard about our famous artist?”
“No?” He looked interested.
“His name was Juan-Jorge Conejelo. He was Spanish, but he lived here with Vicky’s Aunt Molly in her cottage up at the top of Church Road. He painted a really weird portrait of her — it looked as if she was made of wood, but it sold for a fortune. He did sketches of quite a few other people in the village too. All women — I don’t think he drew men at all.”
Alex laughed. “A bit of a Don Juan, was he?”
“Who?” Oh, lord. Should she know that? Would he think she was stupid?
He just smiled. “Another Spaniard — a renowned seducer of women. At least according to Lord Byron.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t think our Juan seduced women. But the sketches were sold as well. They were bought by an art gallery in Spain.” Phew. If he had noticed her ignorance, he had let it pass. “One of them was of Kate’s mum,” she added as Kate came to their table to take their order. “Wasn’t it, Kate? I was just telling Alex about Juan-Jorge.”
“Oh, yes.” The older woman’s eyes danced. “Our gorgeous Spanish artist.”
Alex arched one dark eyebrow in amused question. “Gorgeous?”
Kate chuckled. “We found him on the internet. He really was very handsome. Lucky Molly! Anyway, what can I get you?”
“You have to have the scones,” Shelley insisted. “You can’t come to Devon and not have a proper cream tea. Oh, Kate, this is Alex Crocombe. He’s old Arthur’s grandson.”
“Really? Oh, it’s lovely to meet you. Arthur’s a real old rogue, but everybody loves him.”
“Thank you.” He rose to his feet to shake her hand.
“So how long are you staying?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet. My plans are quite flexible.”
“Well, I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Shelley was aware of the slight blush of pink that had risen to her cheeks as Alex slid back into the seat opposite her. She really would like him to stay.
Which was stupid. He’d said before that he might be staying a month or so, but she doubted that he’d stay much longer. He’d surely want to be at home with his family for Christmas.
But at least for this moment she could enjoy just sitting here chatting with him.
Mustn’t stare.Even though his face was so beautifully designed, with slanting cheekbones and a hard jaw, and those dark, dark eyes . . . Look at his hands instead. Beautiful hands, with strong wrists and long, sensitive fingers . . .
No, better to look out of the window.
The summer had been glorious, and though it was colder now the blue skies had lingered into October. The sun was sparkling on the sea, and far out beyond the bay a few white-sailed yachts were tacking down the English Channel.
“It’s certainly beautiful here,” Alex remarked.
“It is.”
Kate had brought a tray to their table, with a pretty teapot, milk jug and teacups, four scones, a ramekin of thick golden Devon cream and a small pot of jam. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” Alex surveyed the spread. “This looks good. Is it supposed to be cream first or jam first?”
Shelley laughed. “Cream first when you’re in Devon; it’s the other way round in Cornwall.”
“Ah! And they’re wrong, of course?”
“Of course! If you put the jam on first, the cream could slide off into your lap.” She picked up her knife, sliced her scone inhalf, and scooped a generous spoonful of cream onto it, then dabbed on a little jam. “See?”
