Читать книгу A Forbidden Temptation - Anne Mather - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

GRACE WAS ANGRY.

She knew she shouldn’t have let herself be persuaded to come here with Sean, but what could she do? Apart from the obvious misconceptions it created, she didn’t like arguing with him in public. With Jack Connolly looking on, she felt hopelessly embarrassed. He was not the kind of man to be fooled by Sean’s lies.

The trouble was her parents expected her to marry Sean, and they would certainly have suspected something was wrong if she’d refused to come with him. For now she had to accept the situation. But she refused to let Sean make a fool of her.

It had been so different in the beginning. When she’d first met Sean, she’d been fascinated by his easy charm. Okay, she’d been young, and naïve, but that was in the days when she’d taken everything he said as gospel; when just being around such a popular older student had given her a feeling of pride.

How wrong she had been.

Her first mistake had been bringing him to meet her parents. With Sean’s promises of easy money, her father had been persuaded to mortgage the pub to help finance Sean’s fledgling website.

Grace had tried to stop him. Even though she’d believed she was going to marry Sean, she’d known the website was a huge gamble and her father knew little about websites or their uses.

But Tom Spencer hadn’t listened to her. He’d thought he was investing in her future and she’d loved him for it. But even then she’d had some sleepless nights worrying about what would happen if the website failed.

And it had. Like so much else where Sean was concerned, the dream hadn’t equalled the reality. Even now, her parents had no idea that Sean had lost their money. Which was why Grace had to do everything in her power to get it back.

Even if it meant lying about her relationship with Sean.

Her parents were still labouring under the illusion that Sean was only staying in London to advance his business. She knew they thought she should have stayed with him, but Grace had had enough. She’d stopped short of telling them about the scene that had finally ended their relationship. Until her mother had recovered her health, she couldn’t lay that on them, as well.

She’d let them think that she had been homesick. When the sickness she had felt had been of a different order altogether.

But Sean knew their affair was over. And if she had her way, soon she’d never have to see him again.

But now, here they were, standing in Jack Connolly’s doorway, and she for one would have liked to turn around and go home. It was obvious Connolly didn’t want them here. And she couldn’t exactly blame him. So why didn’t Sean get the message and put an end to this embarrassing stand-off?

Unfortunately, their host seemed to realise his manners just as Grace was searching for the words to get them out of this.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Come in.’ And he moved behind them to close the heavy door.

Grace was still wondering why Sean had wanted to come here, anyway. What was it he’d said: that Connolly had lost his wife in a car accident a couple of years ago and that this was his first opportunity to offer his condolences to the man? Grace had had to accept it when he’d strung that line to her father, but she’d have said Sean was the last person to offer sympathy to anyone. Unless there was something in it for him, she appended with the bitter knowledge of hindsight.

Or was she judging him too harshly?

And then she remembered another titbit he’d offered. Apparently Jack Connolly had inherited some money from his grandmother and that was how he’d been able to buy this place. Sean’s take on it—or rather the one he’d offered her father—was that Jack had wanted to get away from the pain of familiar places. He’d moved to Northumberland to find a place to lick his wounds in peace.

Having met Jack now, Grace took that with a pinch of salt. Whatever he was doing in Northumberland, he didn’t look like a man who had any wounds to lick. He seemed perfectly self-sufficient, and far too shrewd to need anyone’s sympathy.

She hadn’t forgotten the way he’d looked at her when he’d first seen her. It hadn’t been the look of a man who was drowning in grief. On the contrary, if she and Sean had still been together, she would have considered it offensive.

Were all men untrustworthy? she wondered. She didn’t think so, but she had no doubt that Jack Connolly wasn’t to be trusted, either.

It annoyed her that he was also drop-dead gorgeous. Even the thick stubble of a couple of days’ growth of beard on his chin couldn’t detract from the stark male beauty of his face.

His skin was darkly tanned, as if he’d been spending time in a sunnier climate. But, according to her father, he’d been living here throughout all the renovations he’d made to the house.

Unruly dark hair tumbled over his forehead and brushed the neckline of his sweatshirt. Thin lips below hollowed cheekbones only added to his sensual appeal.

They crossed the hall and entered a well-lit living room. Whatever she thought of Connolly himself, there was no denying the man had taste. Pale walls, dark wood, much of it antique from the look of it. And a Persian carpet on the floor that fairly melted beneath her feet.

Grace headed for the windows. Despite the attractive appointments of the room, she was fascinated by the view. It was stunning. And familiar. It was still light outside, and she could see the rocky headland curving away, grassy cliffs beyond a low stone wall falling away to dunes.

The sea was calm at present, reflecting the reddening clouds that marked the sun’s descent. Lights glinted in the cottages that spilled down the hillside to the harbour and the small marina, the distant cry of gulls a lonely mournful lament.

The outer door slammed and Jack Connolly strode into the room to join them.

‘You’ll have to forgive the way I look,’ he said ruefully, flicking a hand at his paint-stained pants. ‘I’ve been on the boat all day and I haven’t had time to change.’

‘A boat? You’ve got a boat?’ Sean was enthusiastic. ‘Hey, what’s it like to be a millionaire?’

Grace, hearing Sean’s words, felt her stomach sink within her. Oh, God, why hadn’t she asked him how much Jack had inherited? Why had she simply assumed it would be a moderate sum?

What price now his condolences for Jack’s wife and his grandmother? Jack’s supposed grief had been forgotten. Sean had simply used it as an excuse to get her here.

Jack, to his credit, didn’t call Sean on it. ‘Let me offer you both a drink,’ he said. His eyes shifted to Grace as she reluctantly turned from the window. ‘What would you like?’

Well, not you, she thought childishly, disturbed in spite of herself by those heavy-lidded dark eyes. What was he really thinking? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

‘Got a beer?’

Sean didn’t wait for her response, but Jack apparently had more respect.

‘Um—just a soft drink for me, please,’ she said, remembering she was starting a new job the following day. The last thing she needed was to have to face her boss with a fuzzy head.

‘A soft drink?’ Sean rolled his eyes at Jack. ‘Can you believe this woman was brought up in a pub and she doesn’t like beer?’

The twitch of Jack’s lips could have meant anything. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said and disappeared out of the door.

It was only as Grace heard the faint squeaking sound as Jack crossed the hall that she realised his feet had been bare.

She looked at Sean then, but he only raised his eyebrows in a defensive gesture.

‘What? What?’ He glanced away to survey the huge comfortable sofas and armchairs, the heavy bookshelves and inlaid cabinets with an envious eye. ‘Some place, eh? I bet this furniture is worth a fortune. Aren’t you glad you came?’

‘Uh—no.’

Grace could hardly bear to look at him. She should have refused to come here. Sean was a pathological liar. She’d known that, but she’d also not wanted to cause an argument and endanger her mother’s health.

‘A millionaire’s pad,’ went on Sean, when she didn’t elaborate. He turned his attention to a picture hanging on the wall behind him. ‘Hey, this is a Turner! Can you believe that?’

Grace didn’t want to talk about it. Whatever way you looked at it, she was here under false pretences, and she didn’t like it. God knew, she didn’t care about Jack Connolly or his money. He couldn’t solve her problems.

Jack came back at that moment carrying two bottles of beer and a glass of cola.

‘Please—sit,’ he said, setting Grace’s glass on a low polished coffee table where several expensive yachting magazines were strewn in elegant disarray.

Deliberately? Grace didn’t think so. Despite the little she knew of the man, she didn’t think Jack Connolly would care what other people thought of his home.

Jack put Grace’s glass on the table and, to his relief, Grace seated herself on a plush velvet sofa beside the coffee table. And Sean, after accepting his beer from Jack, did the same.

‘Hey, great place you’ve got here,’ he said, waving his bottle around with a distinct lack of regard for the safety of its contents. ‘Where’d you get all this stuff? It looks expensive.’

Jack propped his hips against a small bureau he’d picked up in an auction room and said, ‘A lot of it was my gran’s. The rest I bought and restored myself.’

‘No way!’

Sean stared at him, and Jack could see the disbelief in the other man’s gaze.

‘Yes way,’ he said and took a mouthful of his beer. ‘It seemed a shame to get rid of it.’

Sean shook his head. ‘Since when have you been a furniture restorer, man? You’re an architect. You design houses, shopping centres, schools, that sort of thing.’

‘Yeah, well—’

Jack didn’t want to get into his reasons for doing what he’d done, but Sean wouldn’t let it go.

‘Oh, I get it,’ he said. ‘Now you’ve got private means, you don’t need a job.’

Jack bit back the retort that sprang to his lips and said instead, ‘Something like that.’ He took another gulp from his bottle. ‘Beer okay?’

‘Oh, yeah. It’s cold.’ Sean nodded. ‘Just the way I like it.’

Then he glanced suggestively at Grace. ‘Well, beer, anyway.’

Grace cringed. Why couldn’t Sean just drink his beer and stop being so crass? It was so embarrassing.

And, as if he’d sensed her discomfort, it was Jack who came to her rescue.

‘So what are you doing these days?’ he asked, addressing himself to the other man. ‘Still inventing computer games for that Japanese company?’

‘Well, no. As a matter of fact, I don’t work for Sunyata any more. I’ve been doing some consulting until I can get my own website off the ground. We can’t all have your advantages, can we, Jack?’

Jack blew out a breath. How the hell was he supposed to answer that? He just wished this uncomfortable interview were over.

Forcing a smile to his lips, he met Grace’s unwilling gaze with a feeling of resignation. But he pressed on, anyway. ‘How about you, Grace?’ he asked.

‘Grace has a law degree,’ broke in Sean before she could say anything. There was pride in his voice, despite the lingering touch of animosity he’d revealed before. ‘She used to work for the Crown Prosecution Service.’

‘Really?’ Jack was impressed.

‘Not that there are jobs like that up here,’ Sean went on bitterly. ‘Grace has had to put her career on hold.’

Grace sighed. ‘I’m very happy with the job I’ve got,’ she averred shortly. ‘Can we talk about something else?’

‘But you, working for an estate agent!’ Sean was scathing. ‘You know you can do better than that.’

‘Sean!’

Grace stared at him with warning eyes, and, as if realising he wasn’t doing himself any favours, Sean grimaced.

‘It’s a living, I suppose,’ he conceded. ‘I may even try to find myself a job in Alnwick, too.’

Grace shook her head disbelievingly, but Sean’s expression didn’t change.

‘Well, I could,’ he insisted annoyingly. ‘I might enjoy a change of scene.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Grace knew he was being deliberately provocative. Was it all for Jack Connolly’s benefit? The last thing she wanted was for Sean to move up here.

But as if sensing what she was feeling, Sean reached out and took her hand.

‘You know how I feel about you, don’t you, baby?’ he crooned, bestowing a lingering kiss on her knuckles. ‘I know we’re having a few problems right now, but once you’re back in London...’

Grace gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not going back to London, Sean.’ She’d told him she wanted to stay near her parents, but he refused to believe it. She’d also made it clear that they could remain in touch—in the hope of recovering her parents’ money, although he didn’t need to know that—but any relationship between them was over. Did he think that by talking like this in front of Connolly he’d convince her to change her mind?

Meanwhile, Jack stifled a groan. If Sean and his girlfriend were having problems, he didn’t want to hear about it.

And despite Sean’s mournful expression, he didn’t think Grace was too thrilled about it, either.

Or was that only wishful thinking?

And, if so, where had that come from?

Grace had succeeded in pulling her hand away now. For want of something else to do, she wrapped both hands round her glass and concentrated on the cola fizzing away inside.

She’d known Sean was selfish, but his behaviour was unforgivable. He was supposed to be sympathising with Jack, but he hadn’t even mentioned his wife’s death.

Taking a sip of her drink, she put her glass down and got to her feet.

‘We should be going, Sean,’ she said firmly.

Sean swallowed another mouthful of his beer and stood up also, leaving the bottle teetering on the edge of one of the sailing magazines.

Aware of the obvious dangers, Grace had to steel herself not to lean down and rescue it before it fell over and sprayed sticky liquid over the table and the rug below.

Instead, she moved towards the door, avoiding Connolly’s narrow-eyed appraisal, desperate to get out of there before Sean could embarrass her again.

But unfortunately he wasn’t quite finished.

Looking at Jack, he said, ‘We’re going to have a proper catch-up, old buddy.’ He tried to catch Grace’s arm, but she’d already moved out of his reach. ‘How about next weekend?’ he added. ‘I’ve got to go back to London tomorrow, but I’ll try to get up again on Friday evening. What do you say?’

‘Well...’

Jack was non-committal. The last thing he wanted was another awkward interlude like this.

‘I’d like to tell you my ideas about developing the website,’ Sean continued. ‘It might be something you’d be interested in. I’d be glad to give you all the details.’

Grace wanted to groan.

She’d been half afraid Sean had been about to bring that up earlier on. As soon as he’d heard that Jack was living in the village, Sean’s intentions had been clear.

Jack straightened away from the bureau. He was watching them both through those narrowed eyes, his absurdly thick lashes veiling their expression.

She thought she could guess what he was thinking. He knew exactly what was going on here. She just hoped he didn’t think she had any part in it.

‘Yeah,’ he said at last, without enthusiasm, and, in spite of being innocent of any wrongdoing, Grace could feel the colour pouring into her face. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Grace crossed the hall, wondering how she could have been foolish enough to believe Sean thought of anyone but himself. All she’d succeeded in doing was making herself look equally avaricious, to a man who probably regarded both of them with contempt.

Jack’s eyes were drawn to the unconsciously sensuous sway of Grace’s hips as she headed towards the exit. The low-rise waistband of her jeans exposed a tempting glimpse of very fair skin. And, although he couldn’t be absolutely certain, he thought she had a small tattoo etched in the hollow of her spine.

She glanced back once and their eyes met, and Jack felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He had no right to be staring at the girl, no right to be thinking thoughts about her he’d believed he’d never have again.

But, no matter what restrictions he might put upon his conscience, he couldn’t deny she was a very sexy lady...

* * *

Grace left the Bay Horse with a feeling of relief.

It was good to be home; good to be staying with her parents again. But it had been an extremely frustrating day.

In her room at the pub, the noise from the bar had been penetrating. She wasn’t used to the social atmosphere of the Bay Horse these days. And even with the television playing, she could still hear the rumble of men’s voices, the shouts of laughter, the sound of car doors slamming in the parking area outside.

And because of this, she intended to find herself other lodgings. Her parents would be disappointed, no doubt, but she was used to living on her own.

Besides, getting herself a small apartment would prove to her parents that she was serious about leaving London. It might also help to get Sean Nesbitt off her back.

It was a pleasant evening, and she’d decided to take a walk. Her mother was resting. Since her bout with breast cancer and the subsequent course of chemotherapy, Mrs Spencer was easily tired and rested often. Evidently the sounds of the pub didn’t trouble her.

Grace chose to walk down to the harbour. She hadn’t visited the quayside since her return and it used to be a favourite haunt of hers. She was hoping it might help to put the problems of the day into perspective.

She’d wasted the morning at an old vicarage not far from Rothburn, waiting for a client who hadn’t shown.

Then, in the afternoon, she’d had to fend off the advances of a property developer.

William Grafton, who was in his late forties, had expressed an interest in some dilapidated cottages that were for sale on the coast. It was an isolated spot, but he’d said he thought they might be suitable for conversion to holiday lets. The area was a Mecca for birdwatchers and other naturalists, and accommodation was limited.

Now, however, Grace wondered if that had only been a ploy. He’d come into the agency to see her boss, but as soon as he’d recognised Grace he’d switched his attention to her.

She shook her head. Had he really thought she might be interested in him? A married man, moreover, who was old enough to be her father?

Grace had found herself wondering if she was cut out to be an estate agent, after all. Maybe she should try to find a job in a library or doing research. Something that tested her academic rather than her people skills.

Pulling the hairband out of her hair, she tipped back her head to allow the mass of red-gold curls to tumble about her shoulders.

Gosh, that felt good. Even the headache that had been probing at her temples for the past hour was eased by the removal of the confining band.

She hadn’t realised it before, but she was still tense from having to deal with William Grafton. The man was a menace, she thought, irritably. Mr Hughes could speak to him next time he came into the agency.

The trouble was he was also a friend of her father’s. And a patron of the Bay Horse. And as he was a client of the agency, she had to avoid offending him on three counts.

Leaving the forecourt of the pub, she started down the hill towards the seafront. Rothburn now had a thriving marina, catering to all kinds of leisure craft.

Was this where Jack Connolly kept his boat?

The thought came out of nowhere and she hurriedly flicked it away. She’d reached the quayside now, and she refused to let thoughts of Jack Connolly spoil the evening for her.

The area wasn’t busy. The fishing quay was littered with lobster pots and wooden boxes, evidence of the sale that had been held there earlier in the day. But there were few people about.

The marina itself was separated from the working side of the operation by a stone pier. It ran out to a small lighthouse that marked the entrance to the harbour. Rows of slips provided mooring for a surprising number of vessels; small yachts and sailing dinghies rubbing shoulders with larger, ocean-going, craft.

Grace had always liked the idea of sailing. When she was younger, she used to tell her father she was going to be a fisherman herself when she grew up.

Until he’d taken her out on one of the small trawlers and the swell had made her sick.

She half smiled at the memory and exchanged a greeting with an old man sitting on one of the capstans, smoking his pipe. She’d known the man since she was a toddler, she realised. That was the thing about Rothburn: everybody knew who you were.

Resting her arms on the railings that ran along one side of the pier, she scanned the boats moored in the slips with more than a casual eye.

She refused to acknowledge she was curious about the kind of boat a man like Jack Connolly might own. Probably the most expensive, she thought ruefully. Like that gleaming cruiser, with at least three decks.

‘Looking for something?’