Читать книгу Wicked Caprice - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

SHE didn’t look like the kind of woman he had expected.

Julian’s description of her had been fairly explicit, and it was hard to match up her portrayal of a vicious, self-seeking seductress with the slim, pale creature facing him across the counter.

‘Can I help you?’

Her voice was attractive, certainly, low and slightly throaty, and probably inclined to a breathless huskiness when her sexual needs were being met. Was she the kind of woman who just moaned her pleasure, or did she whisper erotic words of approval in Richard’s ear? Either way, it was hard to imagine his brother-in-law being interested in such a colourless female. In the past, his tastes had run in an entirely different direction.

‘Hmm...? Oh, yes.’

Patrick glanced quickly about him, realising that apart from himself the shop was empty. He had spent so long studying her appearance that the other customers had all been dealt with, and her question caught him unawares, his mind empty of the reason why he’d purportedly come into the shop.

‘Shells,’ he said hastily as the excuse he’d adopted to enter the establishment popped back into his mind. He’d seen a necklace of shells in the window and it had seemed a suitable item to select.

‘Shells?’ she echoed pleasantly. ‘You’re a collector of shells? Do you mean shells that have just been polished and are otherwise in their natural state? Or perhaps you like these abstract collages? They’ve proved very popular, actually.’

The square frame she had selected from the display behind the counter made Patrick cringe. The childish daubings of paint on shells, whose haphazard arrangement on a wooden backing looked more abstracted than abstract, appalled him, and he couldn’t imagine anyone finding its composition attractive.

‘Um...it was a necklace, actually,’ he said, casting a doubtful glance over his shoulder. ‘In the window. I thought it might suit my niece.’

Though he could never give it to her, he reflected ruefully. He could picture Jillian’s outrage if he turned up with a necklace bought from that woman’s shop. No matter that Susie might like it. Even considering doing such a thing would constitute a betrayal of the highest order in his sister’s eyes. Besides, there was always the possibility that Richard might recognise it, and Jillian would prefer her husband not to know she’d interfered.

‘Oh, yes. I know the one.’

With a smile, she came out from behind the counter and crossed the sales area to approach the window he’d indicated. As she passed, Patrick was assailed by the delicate aroma of her perfume, an odour that mingled what he thought might be lily of the valley and rosewater with the feminine warmth of her body.

He was also made aware of the fact that she moved with a distinctive grace for such a tall young woman, her hips swaying rhythmically as she strode across the floor, her full skirt swishing softly about her ankles. Her hair was plaited, a thick, glossy, toffee-coloured braid that bobbed about between her shoulderblades. It was almost the exact same colour as her eyes, he mused reluctantly, though her brows were darker, her lashes thick and straight.

She was also wearing boots, he saw as she bent to remove the necklace from the window—thick-soled boots, which Patrick would have considered more suitable for going hiking. Or perhaps mountaineering, he amended drily. Whatever else Richard had seen in her, he couldn’t have been attracted by the way she dressed.

‘Here we are,’ she said, straightening, and Patrick dragged his eyes away from the provocative cleft that had been revealed when she’d bent over. For all his dismissal of her charms, he had to admit there was something about her. Despite the shapeless clothes, she did possess a sensuality that wasn’t immediately apparent.

‘Thanks.’

He took the necklace from her, and was surprised by the jolt of awareness he felt when her slim hand brushed his. Concentrating his attention on the necklace, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d felt it too, though when he permitted himself a quick glance through his lashes she appeared to be as cool and composed as before.

‘It’s the last one,’ she said, and for a moment he couldn’t for the hell of him think what she was talking about.

‘The last...?’

‘Yes, the last necklace,’ she clarified smoothly. ‘I think people have mostly bought them for children. As you can see, the string isn’t very long.’

‘Yes.’

Patrick felt curiously perplexed. He was used to being in control of most situations, but for a moment there he had felt at a distinct disadvantage. It was the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, he told himself, and of this young woman, who seemed to bear little resemblance to the promiscuous hussy his sister had described. She could be everything Jillian had accused her of being—God knew, appearances were often deceptive—but had Richard succumbed to her wiles, or had she succumbed to his?

‘Do you like it?’

Once again, her question aroused a most unsuitable response inside him, and he felt a faintly amused impatience with himself for allowing his instincts to govern his head. For God’s sake, the woman wasn’t even pretty, and in those clothes she wouldn’t attract a second glance. Yet, for some strange reason, he was aware of her, in a way he hadn’t been aware of a woman for years.

If ever..

‘It’s pretty,’ he said now, the word springing obviously to mind, and she nodded in agreement.

‘I think so,’ she agreed. ‘These fan-shaped shells are so delicate. I love that shade of pink. It would be impossible to produce it artificially.’

‘Mmm.’

Patrick was noncommittal, aware that by admiring the necklace he was making it doubly hard to reject it later. After all, he hadn’t come here to admire the merchandise; he was supposed to be finding out what she wanted from Richard. In Jillian’s opinion, she had to have a price. Richard’s women always did.

‘You don’t like it?’

His doubts, albeit of a different nature, had communicated themselves to her, and she tilted her head to look up at him. Immediately, he was aware of the purity of her profile, of the cheekbones that gave her face such a good basic structure, and the mouth, which had parted slightly in enquiry.

He wanted to taste that mouth, he realised in a horrifying revelation. He wanted to crush it, and shape it with his tongue, and suck the full lower lip into his mouth. He wanted to see if she tasted as good as she smelled, and if that delicate pink tongue, presently trapped between two rows of white teeth, was as moist and juicy as it appeared...

He drew a steadying breath. For God’s sake, he chided himself as his trousers felt uncomfortably tight all of a sudden. What the hell was the matter with him? He hadn’t realised he was so desperately in need of sex.

Assuming an interest in a colourful display of quilts, he succeeded in putting some space between them. ‘It’s not that,’ he said, realising he hadn’t answered her question. ‘I just don’t know if Susie...if she would like it.’

‘Susie?’ She’d latched onto the word, and he cursed himself for using his niece’s name so thoughtlessly. ‘A colleague of mine’s daughter is called Susie too. It’s a nice name, isn’t it? Is it short for Susannah?’

‘No.’ It was, but he wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Um... it’s just Susie, actually. Not an abbreviation. Her... parents chose it. Her grandmother’s name is the same.’

‘I see.’

He wondered if she did. He hoped not. Nevertheless, he had gone over the top with the explanations, and if he’d regretted using Susie’s name before he felt doubly impatient with himself now.

Something had to be done to divert the conversation, and, smoothing the fabric of one of the quilts between his thumb and forefinger, he cast what he hoped was a casual glance over his shoulder. ‘Is this what you call patchwork?’

‘That’s right.’ His enquiry had achieved what he least wanted; it had brought her after him, and he was intensely aware of her now, hovering at his elbow. ‘Actually, they’re made by an old lady who’s almost crippled with arthritis. But her needlework is exquisite, don’t you agree?’

As Patrick had no idea what was required to make one of the padded spreads, he merely nodded his approval, and moved on to a table piled with soft toys. At least here he could be more knowledgeable; the stuffed menagerie was obviously attractive, the prices mirroring the small-shop status, yet in no way diminishing the toys’ appeal.

‘They’re handmade too,’ she murmured as Patrick admired a pair of rabbits. ‘In fact, everything we sell is handcrafted. We provide an outlet for people who wouldn’t otherwise have anywhere to sell their goods.’

Jillian hadn’t told him that. But then, why would she? She wasn’t interested in the aims of the business, just in its proprietor... or was that proprietrix? Anyway, just because this young woman was doing her bit to help the independent producer it didn’t make the situation any more acceptable. She might be regarded as a saint by her suppliers and still live an execrable private life.

‘Has the shop been open long, Miss—Miss—?’ He stopped, as if he didn’t already know her name by rote.

‘Herriot,’ she inserted quickly. ‘Isobel Herriot. And I opened the shop almost five years ago.’ She paused. ‘Why?’

‘Just curious,’ he answered smoothly, a smile erasing any suspicion. ‘You’ve got quite a choice of items. I wondered how you managed to sustain your stock.’

‘Oh...’She shrugged her slim shoulders, and against his will his eyes were drawn to her chest. For such a slim young woman she had rather full breasts, and the way they moved beneath the gauze shirt she was wearing made him wonder if she wore a bra. ‘It was a struggle to begin with. But we’re getting there now, I think.’

So was he, thought Patrick irritably, wishing he had never agreed to come here. Dammit, the girl was screwing his brother-in-law, and he was acting as if that circumstance turned him on. It didn’t. He despised Richard and he despised her for putting his sister’s marriage in jeopardy. Not to mention risking their children’s happiness. Ten-year-old Susie and her brother Nigel, who was six, didn’t deserve to be treated as if their lives were of no account.

His eyes hardened. ‘Do you own the shop, Miss Herriot?’ he enquired, keeping his tone neutral, and she gave a rueful sigh.

‘In such a prime position?’ She grimaced. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. No, my new landlord is the colleague I was telling you about. The one who has a daughter called Susie—Susannah.’

‘Ah.’

Patrick acted as if he didn’t already know that Shannon Holdings had recently acquired the lease on the row of small businesses that fronted this side of the high street in Horsham-on-the-Water. Situated almost midway between Stratford-on-Avon and Stow-on-the-Wold, the little Cotswold village of Horsham attracted a lot of passing trade. But it was also true that many people came to Horsham for its own sake, visiting the old Norman church, and the monastery, where a delicious foaming mead had been made for more years than anyone could remember.

‘Of course,’ she went on, almost absently, ‘there’s going to be an increase in the rents. Old Mrs Foxworth, who used to own the Foxworth estate, let the tenants rent these properties for a pittance, so long as the buildings were kept in good repair. It was a kind of noblesse oblige, I suppose, and we’d all begun to think it would go on indefinitely. But the people who’ve bought the estate—some London company, I believe—obviously won’t feel so charitable. How could they? They don’t know us. Richard says he’ll do his best to put our case forward, but we don’t hold out much hope.’

Patrick endeavoured not to show his true feelings. ‘Richard?’ he echoed politely. He bit into the inner flesh of his lower lip. ‘Your new landlord—I remember.’

‘Well, he isn’t exactly our new landlord,’ she explained, and the faintly terse edge to her tone seemed to indicate that she had realised she was discussing private matters with a stranger. ‘Rich—Mr Gregory, that is—is just an employee of the company.’ Her nostrils flared in sudden impatience. ‘And I don’t see what he or anyone else can do.’

Patrick found himself resenting the way Richard had represented himself to her, but that was the least of his troubles. How well did she know his brother-in-law? And what exactly had Richard promised to do?

Choosing his words with care, Patrick laid the shell necklace on the counter. ‘You sound as if you have a champion, at least,’ he remarked guardedly. ‘Have you known this Mr—ah—Gregory long?’

‘Not long.’ Her tone was clipped now, and he was very much afraid he’d overplayed his hand. She lifted the necklace, cradling it in fingers that were long and vaguely artistic. ‘Have you made a decision?’

Patrick blinked. ‘Oh—about the necklace,’ he said, aware that she was looking at him a little warily now. ‘Um—yes. Yes, I’ll have it.’ He examined the price tag and pulled out his wallet. ‘Perhaps you could wrap it for me. I’ll be back this way in a couple of days and I’ll collect it then.’

‘I can wrap it now,’ she said, and he was racking his brains for a suitable excuse for her not to do so when a group of elderly American tourists entered the shop.

‘Thursday,’ he said, throwing a couple of notes onto the counter. ‘I can see you’re going to be busy, and I can wait.’

With the door closed behind him, Patrick breathed a little easier, though why he should imagine that by returning to the shop two days hence he might learn any more about her relationship with Richard he didn’t know. He could hardly come right out and ask her, even if that was what Jillian would have him do. But then, Jillian wanted him to threaten the girl with God knew what kind of retribution if she continued to have an affair with her husband, and she was aware of the kind of leverage he could bring to bear if Isobel Herriot refused to do as he said.

His car was parked further along the high street, and, opening the rear door, Patrick slid into the back of the Bentley with some relief. ‘Let’s go, Joe,’ he said, when the impassive Muzambe turned to give him a questioning glance. ‘Portland Street first, and then home.’

Joe Muzambe put the big car into gear, switched on the indicator, and pulled out into a gap in the stream of traffic passing through the village. ‘You don’t want to stop at Mrs Gregory’s?’ he asked, with the familiarity of long service, and Patrick, dragging a file of papers from his briefcase, gave him a retiring look.

‘No, I do not,’ he replied, aware that the chauffeur was referring to the fact that they’d pass within a couple of miles of Jillian’s house on their way back to town. ‘I don’t have anything to tell her,’ he added, with an irritation that was directed as much at himself as at his sister. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, can we get going? I want to do some work.’