Читать книгу Raw Silk - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 9

IT WAS Oliver Lynch. Even without the evidence of his superior height, she would have known it was him immediately. It was something she didn’t understand; something she certainly didn’t wish to consider. A kind of recognition in her bones that left her feeling weak.

Why he should have this effect on her, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she even liked the man. Their conversation on the terrace at Sutton Grange had left her with the uneasy impression that he could be totally ruthless if the occasion warranted it. And he’d had only contempt for Robert, of that she was very sure.

And now, here he was, invading the only place of sanctuary she had ever found. In a black shirt and black jeans, low-heeled black boots echoing solidly on the stone flags, he approached her, his expression mildly amused at her obvious disconcertment.

He appeared to be alone. A quick glance round the church assured her that the Chinese woman was not with him. So where was she? At the Grange? And why wasn’t he driving the Ferrari today, if the car outside was his?

But all these thoughts were secondary to her own unwelcome reaction to the man himself. Everything about him—from the perverse length of his hair to the lazy sensuality of his mouth—assaulted her senses. Even the way he moved was almost sinful in its grace and sexuality, and when he tucked his thumbs into the back of his belt his appeal was frankly carnal.

‘Hi,’ he said, and she wondered if he had recognised her as instantly as she had recognised him. Probably not, she decided tensely. He had to be aware of the effect he had on women.

‘Um—hello,’ she responded, rather offhandedly, wishing she had something in her hands—a vase or a bunch of flowers, for example—to give her a reason for being there. She’d hate him to think she’d followed him.

‘You’re right,’ he said, reaching the step that led up to the choir stalls, and resting one powerful hand on the rail. ‘It is a beautiful little church. I’m glad you told me about it.’

Fliss wished she hadn’t, but she took a steadying breath and moved out into the aisle. ‘We like it,’ she said, and for all her efforts to appear casual, she knew her voice sounded clipped. She swallowed. ‘Is—Miss Chen with you? I didn’t notice her car.’

‘My car—or at least the car I’ve hired—is outside,’ said Oliver, hopefully getting the message Fliss had been trying to convey. ‘And no: Rose isn’t with me. I drove down from London on my own.’

‘Oh.’

Fliss absorbed this with mixed feelings. She’d heard that Robert’s half-sister had found an apartment in London, that she intended to lease while she was in England. It obviously wasn’t practical for her to stay in an hotel, and although they’d stayed at the Moathouse in Market Risborough for a couple of nights they’d soon left the district. Besides, Robert said staying there had just been a ploy to get them into Sutton Grange. A successful ploy, as it had turned out. People were naturally less guarded in their own home.

And now, hearing Oliver say that he’d driven down from London confirmed that they were obviously still together. And why not? She was probably his meal ticket, for heaven’s sake. Whatever her father said, she believed Oliver Lynch was not just along for the ride.

‘That’s the house where you live, next door,’ he remarked, and Fliss was so relieved he hadn’t said anything controversial that she nodded.

‘The vicarage,’ she agreed, smoothing her damp palms over the seams of her trousers. ‘It’s old, too; though not as old as the church,’ she conceded.

‘And your father’s the vicar of Sutton Magna?’

‘Of Sutton Magna, Sherborne and Eryholme, actually,’ Fliss said, with an involuntary smile. ‘It sounds grand, but it isn’t really. Sutton Magna has the largest population.’

Oliver smiled, too, his thin lips parting over teeth as attractive as the rest of him. The smile—a genuine one this time—gave his lean features an irresistible charm and personality, and Fliss’s stomach quivered in involuntary response.

‘I suppose you spend a lot of time here,’ he said, and for a moment she was too dazed to understand what he meant. ‘In the church,’ he prompted, by way of an explanation. ‘I gather you act as your father’s deputy, as well as his secretary.’

Fliss wondered where he’d gathered that. Not from Robert, she was sure. Her fiancé hadn’t exchanged a civil word with the American, and she doubted she was a topic of conversation when Oliver and his mistress spoke together. If they did any speaking, she appended cattily …

‘Well, my mother’s dead,’ she told him reluctantly, bending to pluck a wilting bloom from the display of chrysanthemums that stood at the foot of the pulpit steps. ‘She died while I was at university.’

‘So you came home to look after your father,’ said Oliver, making no attempt to get out of her way. If she wanted to move into the body of the church, she would have to get past him. And with one foot propped on the step he was a formidable obstruction.

‘Er—well, he took my mother’s death rather badly,’ Fliss continued now, as much to keep their conversation on a fairly impersonal footing as to satisfy his curiosity. ‘She—she was quite young, you see, and a clergyman needs a wife.’

Oliver frowned, his dark brows drawing together above those pale, penetrating eyes. ‘So what will he do when you marry Hastings?’ he asked, and Fliss’s hopes of avoiding talking about her fiancé died a sudden death.

‘As Robert and I will be living in the village after we’re married, it shouldn’t be a problem,’ she declared, refusing to be any more specific than that. The fact that the Reverend Matthew Hayton had any number of village women all eager to assist him was not Oliver Lynch’s business. Nor that a certain widow from Eryholme was only waiting to be asked.