Third Strike by Zoe Sharp

behavior. I waited a beat longer. If I was totally off base, all I’d done was make an ass of myself. But, if not …
    Then, numbly, she shuffled forwards and allowed herself to be engulfed in a big daughterly hug, when the most physical contact she’d initiated in years was a chaste hello/good-bye kiss to her powdered cheek. She vibrated with tension in my arms. I put my mouth very close to the pearl stud in her ear and murmured, “Where are they?”
    If that was possible, she stiffened, as though I’d suggested something indecent, and pulled back. Then her eyes swiveled, very deliberately—towards the staircase and back. Towards the drawing room and back.
    “Darling,” she said, her voice croaky. She cleared her throat. “Um, how wonderful to see you. What a nice surprise! I’m afraid I—I can’t really offer you lunch or—”
    “Oh, gosh, we couldn’t possibly put you to all that trouble at such short notice,” I interrupted gaily. “Besides, I promised darling Nicky I’d show him a real country pub.” I gave a tinkling little laugh. “He’s fully expecting a bunch of yokels with straw in their mouths and string round their trouser legs. I’ve told him he’s more likely to rub shoulders with the same stockbrokers here that he does up in Town.”
    My mother stepped out of my embrace and turned to Sean, who’d been waiting politely for us to finish our show of familial affection.
    “Mrs. Foxcroft, it’s such a pleasure,” he said, in that kind of drawling, slightly bored upper-class voice you can’t escape from in the trendy parts of Soho. “I’ve heard so much about you.” He grasped my mother’s arms and made a production of air-kissing her on both cheeks. I thought she was going to faint. “And now that I’ve met you, all I can say is that you must have had your daughter when you were awfully young.”
    My mother flushed and preened automatically, a knee-jerk response to the heavily ladled charm. Then she threw me an utterly confused look and stumbled back a pace.
    “We just thought we’d stop off for a nice cup of tea, then we’ll be on our way,” I said deliberately, moving forward to take her arm. “And perhaps one of your scrummy cakes? I’ve been telling Nicky what a total angel you are in the kitchen.” I glanced at Sean with a huge smile and added wickedly, “Mummy’s buns are absolutely to die for.”
    Sean’s expression froze momentarily as he fought for control over it, then relaxed into courteous attention. “Oh I’m sure they are,” he murmured, and threw me a warning glance. Don’t push it. This is not a game.
    Trust me. I know.
    “Oh, er, well, please do come through,” my mother said, any double entendres going straight over her head. She pushed open the door to the drawing room and led us inside.
    I don’t know quite what I’d been expecting, but the sight that greeted me wasn’t it. The only occupant of that starchily formal room was a tall blond woman, who sat on the sofa with her legs gracefully arranged, her long shins slanted alongside each other, knees pressed demurely together.
    She had apparently been flicking through the pages of the magazine that lay open on her lap— The Field, if the photo spread of gundogs was anything to go by. When we walked in she put the magazine aside and glanced up with nothing but polite inquiry on her strong-boned face.
    I took one look at the way she emptied her hands and knew she was a player.
    “Oh, gosh, Mummy, we didn’t realize you had visitors,” I cried, going all aflutter. “How awfully rude of us!” I bounded forwards, closing rapidly on the woman on the sofa. My intention was to overcrowd her but she unfolded her legs and got to her feet faster than I’d hoped.
    “Awfully rude of us,” I repeated, having to lift my gaze to look her in the eye as I pumped her hand with a purposefully limp grip. The short-sleeve dress she wore showed off lean, well-defined muscles, but, even close-up, her face bore no