As if sensing the danger, George crossed to the stove, hooked his finger through the mash and tasted it.

‘Not bad for a first effort,’ he said.

‘Not bad? I’ll have you know I’ve eaten in some of the finest restaurants in London and that stands comparison with the best.’

‘Which restaurants?’

Annie had reeled off the names of half a dozen of the most expensive restaurants in the capital in her absolute determination to impress him before she realised that she was giving away rather more than she’d ever intended.

He lifted a quizzical brow. ‘What was that you were saying about modesty?’

She pulled a face. ‘No point in being coy. Of course you’d only get a tiny spoonful.’

‘The more you pay, the less you get,’ he agreed, taking a second dip in the potato. ‘Maybe that’s why you’re so thin. You’d have been better occupied doing a little home cooking and saving your money for a more roadworthy car for your getaway.’

She rapped his knuckles sharply with a spoon and having scooped the potato into a serving bowl, bent to put it in the warming oven.

George regarded her thoughtfully for a moment before he shrugged and said, ‘How long has your friend had that sorry heap?’ he asked.

‘Are you referring to Lydia’s pride and joy? Only a week or two,’ she said, concentrating on straining the carrots and peas. Then, realising that it wasn’t an idle question, ‘You’ve found something else?’

‘I don’t suppose there’s the faintest chance that she bought it from a garage that offered her some kind of warranty?’ he asked.

‘No. She bought it from a woman who was going to use the money to take her grandchildren on holiday for Christmas.’

Lydia had been eager to tell her all about the one careful lady owner when she’d offered to lend it to her. Pride of ownership coming through loud and clear as she’d explained that, although her car wasn’t new, it had been well cared for.