Читать книгу Wicked Caprice - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

‘HE WENT to see her on Tuesday night. I know he did.’ Jillian’s voice was filled with outrage. ‘I thought you were going to speak to her, Patrick. You promised me you would.’

Patrick expelled a resigned breath. ‘How do you know he went to see her?’ he asked, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Did you follow him?’

‘Of course not.’ Jillian sounded indignant now. ‘But I did check the milometer like you told me to, and there was over a hundred miles more on Wednesday morning.’

Patrick cast the towel he had been using to dry himself aside and bent closer to the mirror to examine his overnight stubble. He had hardly got out of the shower when his housekeeper had come to tell him that Mrs Gregory was on the telephone. He’d half expected her to ring him last night, but it had been fairly late when he’d got back from Basle.

‘Well?’ Jillian was impatient. ‘Did you speak to her or didn’t you? For heaven’s sake, Pat, I’m getting desperate. Rich has never been so indifferent to my feelings before.’

‘Don’t you mean he’s never been so reckless before?’ suggested her brother drily, wishing he’d never agreed to get involved in this. ‘The very fact that you use the word “before” proves it. How many times does he need to be unfaithful to you before you come to your senses?’

Jillian sniffed. ‘I love him, Pat. You know that. I know he has his faults, but deep inside he loves me too.’

Patrick stifled a groan. In his opinion, Richard Gregory didn’t love anyone but himself. At present, he was enamoured of the rather colourless young woman Patrick had visited on Tuesday afternoon, but Patrick had no doubt that Isobel Herriot was just a passing fancy and that pretty soon there’d be some other contender for his brother-in-law’s affections. It wasn’t as if she was a raving beauty, or possessed any outstanding attribute that Patrick could see. She was simply a village shopkeeper, with a personal axe to grind.

Or at least that was what he’d told himself as Joe Muzambe had driven him back to town. His own unwelcome reactions to the woman he’d put down to a hormonal imbalance. He hadn’t seen Joanna in over a week, due to this problem with Richard and pressure of work. What he needed was an evening with his girlfriend, and time to expunge his sexual frustration. What he didn’t need was an aberrant attraction to Richard’s mistress, who was simply not his type.

‘Then why don’t you speak to him about it?’ he asked now, unaware that he was still avoiding answering her question until she repeated it. Then, ‘Yes. Yes, I saw her. You don’t have anything to worry about, believe me.’

Jillian’s hesitation was expressive. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked at last, and Patrick took another restraining breath.

‘I mean that I can’t imagine what—if anything—Rich sees in her,’ he declared at last. ‘She’s—insipid, Jill. A nonentity. I can only assume he’s in the mood for dowdy spinsters these days.’

Jillian uttered a cry. ‘Do you think that makes me feel any better?’

‘It should.’ Patrick was growing impatient. ‘Believe me, Jill, if you can just close your eyes for another couple of weeks, it’ll all be over.’

‘No!’

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I mean I can’t close my eyes to what’s going on right under my nose. You don’t know Rich as I do, Pat. This time I think he’s serious. He doesn’t have any time for me; he doesn’t have any time for the children. Susie’s beginning to notice. Just last night she asked me why Daddy doesn’t play games with them any more.’

Patrick closed his eyes. ‘You’re exaggerating.’

‘I’m not.’ Jillian sniffed again. ‘Anyway, what did you say to her? Did you tell her Rich was married? That he has a family who depend on him?’

‘I think she knows,’ admitted Patrick unwillingly, recalling that she’d mentioned Susie’s name. ‘As far as speaking to her goes, I’m not sure that would be an advantage. You could exacerbate the situation, if you see what I mean.’

‘I don’t see what you mean!’ exclaimed Jillian resentfully. ‘And it’s not as if you don’t have any power. What you’re really saying is that you don’t want to help me. That as far as you’re concerned she holds all the cards.’

‘No.’ Patrick’s jaw clamped, and he knew an uncharacteristic urge to hang up on her. This wasn’t his problem, he told himself grimly. God, why couldn’t she have married someone else?

‘Well...’ Jillian was obviously making no effort to hide the fact that she was upset—and disappointed in him. ‘I suppose I shall have to go and see her myself—’

‘You can’t do that.’ Patrick spoke through his teeth. Then, with great reluctance, he went on, ‘All right, all right, I’ll go and see her again. But I’m not making any promises. I’ll just put your point of view across and see what she says.’

‘You won’t put her out of the shop?’

Patrick gasped. ‘Put her out of the shop?’ he echoed. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Well, Shannon Holdings do own the leases on all those shops, don’t they?’ Jillian pointed out silkily. ‘If she wasn’t one of your tenants, Rich would have no excuse to go and see her.’

Patrick’s jaw sagged. ‘And you think that would stop him?’

Jillian gulped defensively. ‘It might.’

‘Forget it,’ said Patrick harshly. ‘Just leave it with me. As I say, I’ll see what I can do.’

With the phone safely returned to its hook, Patrick turned angrily towards the handbasin. Groping for his razor, he avoided meeting his eyes as he applied lather and scraped savagely at his beard. For God’s sake, he thought frustratedly, Jillian was sometimes more trouble than all his overseas operations put together. Or, perhaps more accurately, Richard was. He wondered what she’d say if he suggested getting rid of his brother-in-law instead.

He knew he couldn’t do it, of course. For all his faults, Richard was still family, and because, soon after he and Jillian had got married, he’d lost his position with a Japanese company due to their relocation to Taiwan Patrick had offered him the job.

It had been either that or suffer Jillian’s recriminations. She had been pregnant with their first child at the time, and any idea of moving to the Far East had been out of the question so far as she was concerned. She’d wanted to stay in England; she’d wanted to keep her home and be near her family. It would have been a hard man indeed who could have withstood her pleas.

And, although Patrick was regarded in some quarters as a hard man, he had accommodated her. Since their father had died some years ago, he’d been regarded as the head of the family, and it was a responsibility he hadn’t accepted lightly. Outside Shannon Holdings, it was the only responsibility he was prepared to shoulder. His ex-wife’s greedy machinations had convinced him of that.

He cut his chin with the razor, the blood welling crimson over his jaw. Dammit he swore angrily, swabbing it with a towel and scowling at the stain on the pure white cotton, why couldn’t Jillian solve her own problems? He had no desire to go back to Horsham, no desire to see Isobel Herriot again.

As luck would have it, he had a free morning. He hadn’t been expected to arrive back from the conference in Switzerland until today, and although his managing director would expect to see him at this afternoon’s meeting he had more than enough time to drive to Warwickshire and back again. All he had to do was pick up the phone and call Joe. In a little under an hour, he could be on his way.

Mrs Joyce had breakfast waiting for him, but apart from two cups of coffee and a slice of toast he barely touched it.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Mrs Joyce fussily, knowing that he usually enjoyed her blueberry pancakes, and Patrick gave her an apologetic smile.

‘I’m afraid I’m not hungry this morning, Mrs Joyce,’ he said, folding his copy of the Financial Times and getting up from the table. ‘Offer them to Joe when he gets here. I know he won’t turn you down.’

‘And have him suffering from indigestion all morning because he’s had to hurry them?’ Mrs Joyce rejoined tartly. ‘If he’s coming to pick you up, you know you’ll be waiting. And Mr Muzambe is nothing if not conscientious.’

‘Aren’t you all?’ murmured Patrick in an undertone, striking his thigh with the rolled-up newspaper as he walked out of the morning room. He didn’t have time to massage Mrs Joyce’s feelings. Right now he was fighting Jillian’s battles, and he still had a business to run.

A couple of hours later, as they approached the turn-off for Banbury and Stratford, Patrick put away the papers he had been working on since they’d left London and applied his mind to the interview ahead. He grimaced. Not that it hadn’t been on his mind ever since he’d spoken to Jillian, he admitted to himself irritably. His efforts to work on the journey were proof of that. He had read the last balance sheet at least half a dozen times.

‘How much further?’ he asked, more for something to say than anything else, and Joe Muzambe looked into the rear-view mirror and fixed him with a thoughtful look.

‘Ten—twelve miles, maybe,’ he answered, transferring his attention back to the road. ‘Is this another fleeting visit, or will you be having lunch with the lady?’

Patrick scowled. ‘How do you know it’s a lady I’m going to see?’

‘I heard,’ replied Joe impassively, slowing for a roundabout. ‘Mrs Gregory isn’t always fussy about keeping her voice down.’

‘No.’ Patrick conceded the point, aware that whatever was said between them would go no further. ‘Let’s hope I have some success this time. I don’t want to make this journey again. I’ve got to go to the States on Monday, and I’m not going to have any more time.’

Joe bowed his bullet-shaped head. In common with a lot of young men of his age, he wore his head shaved, and that, combined with his broad shoulders and powerful physique, was enough to deter any would-be kidnapper. Patrick had had his share of threats, like any man in his position, and Joe served as both chauffeur and bodyguard—and confidant, on occasion.

‘Does that mean you won’t be having lunch in Horsham?’ Joe ventured, accelerating past a pair of cyclists, and Patrick gave him an impatient look.

‘Yes, it does,’ he said shortly, aware that Joe was bearing the brunt of his ill humour. ‘Dammit, this isn’t a social call.’

Joe shrugged, too used to his employer’s moods to be put out. Besides, normally Patrick Shannon was an excellent employer, and it was only when his sister got on his back that other people suffered.

Meanwhile, Patrick was brooding over what to do about the shell necklace. All right, he had bought the damn thing, but he had never intended to return to collect it. OK, Isobel Herriot hadn’t been what he had expected, and just for a few moments there she had briefly laid siege to his senses, but that was all it had been—a momentary aberration. The very idea of him and his brother-in-law sharing the same taste in women was ludicrous—apart from the very real emotions Jillian would feel if he told her he had been attracted to the woman too.

There wasn’t a space to park in the high street this morning, so Patrick had Joe drop him off near the craft shop, and arranged to meet him outside the shop in fifteen minutes.

‘In the car?’ asked Joe, pushing his luck, and Patrick’s eyes narrowed.

‘In the car,’ he agreed, stepping out onto the pavement. ‘If you can find somewhere to park, get yourself a cup of coffee, right?’

‘Right, boss,’ agreed Joe sardonically, and Patrick’s lips twitched at his attempt at humour. Bloody hell, he thought irritably, this was an impossible situation. He should have spoken to Richard first, not his mistress.

The trouble was that speaking to Richard was a little like trying to catch raindrops in your hands. Just when you thought you’d caught one, it slipped away through your fingers. Patrick had spoken to Richard before, and his brother-in-law had made promises he’d never had any intention of keeping. He knew that so long as Jillian wanted him Patrick didn’t stand a chance.

Caprice.

As he’d done on that other occasion, Patrick looked in the shop window before venturing inside. Apart from a child and its mother, who appeared to be talking to someone behind the counter, the shop was empty.

Oh, well, he thought, he didn’t have time to wait any longer. When Joe brought the car back, he intended to be waiting, whether his mission was accomplished or not.

A bell rang as he pushed open the door, and a handful of wind chimes rustled in the breeze. His entry attracted the attention of both the women by the counter, and the child regarded him solemnly, its thumb pushed into its mouth.

It only took a moment to realise that neither of the women was Isobel Herriot. He had hardly expected her to be the young mother anyway, but the girl behind the counter looked like a teenager. His spirits plummeted, the determination that had driven him through the door bringing a resigned droop to his mouth. He might have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing ever was.

‘Hello.’ The girl behind the counter was regarding him with a rather avid interest, and although he wasn’t a conceited man he suspected that there was a certain covetousness in her gaze. ‘Are you looking for Issy?’ she asked, desecrating what Patrick had previously thought of as a very attractive name. ‘She’s in the back. I’ll get her. She was just about to go for lunch.

‘I—well—’

She was gone before he could stop her, and the young woman hanging onto the toddler gave him a reassuring look. ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘If only we could get rid of that wind. Still, it dries the clothes, and saves the electricity. That’s what my husband always says.’

Patrick smiled, and only someone who knew him rather better than she did would have known that his smile wasn’t genuine. ‘At least it’s fine,’ he managed smoothly, wondering why the English always talked about the weather. He looked down and saw that the little girl had snatched what looked like a handful of dried leaves out of an open barrel and was about to stuff them into her mouth. He nodded. ‘I think your daughter’s trying to tell you something. It’s lunchtime for her too, I guess.’

‘What? Ooh, Tracy!’ The young woman bent down and tipped the crushed debris out of her hand. ‘That’s pot pourri,’ she added, pronouncing it so that it rhymed with ‘hot fury’. ‘Aunty Chris will get into trouble if you’re naughty like that again.’

Patrick was turning away to prevent himself from grinning at the youngster, when Isobel came out of the room at the back of the shop. The other girl was following her, smiling and quirking her eyebrows at the woman with the toddler. He supposed Isobel must have told her assistant that he had come back to collect the necklace, but he couldn’t believe they got so few customers that his purchase was unique.

She was wearing a floral print today, a dress this time, but with a similarly long hem. As she came around the end of the counter and handed him a package, he saw that the heavy boots were still in evidence, together with a denim haversack over one shoulder, which added to her outdoor appearance.

‘There you are,’ she said, apparently undisturbed by the stares from the other women. ‘I’ve put a ribbon on it. I thought she might like it to look special.’

‘She?’

For a minute, Patrick was confused. The delicate aroma of her perfume had surrounded him again, and he was intensely conscious of the nearness of her body. The dress had short sleeves and a V neckline, and in the opening he could see the dusky hollow between her breasts. He could smell the faint heat of her skin, too, as she turned aside from him, her mission apparently completed.

‘Your niece.’

Her response drifted over her shoulder, and he struggled to pull himself together as what she had said suddenly made sense. ‘Oh, yes, my niece,’ he agreed mechanically, weighing the gift-wrapped package between his fingers. ‘Um—thank you,’ he added lamely. ‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’

Liar.

He knew, just as he’d known when he’d bought the necklace two days ago, that Susie would never see it. He supposed he could pretend he’d bought it elsewhere, but it was too big a risk to take. Besides, it wasn’t as if it had been expensive. He could have been stuck with a bill for a piece of jewellery if Isobel had worked for a goldsmith. As it was, he had his parcel and no further need to stay.

Or so she thought.

But what the hell could he do with the other two women watching his reactions so closely? What were they expecting? he wondered. What had she told them about him? He found that he resented the thought that she had apparently been discussing him with her young assistant. Had they been speculating about his identity? Or was it something more personal than that?

There was nothing for it but to leave. Even if he’d been inclined to ask to speak to her privately—in the back room, perhaps—he found the idea repulsive. He had no way of knowing how soundproof the walls of the room might be, and the thought of their discussion being overheard in the shop was too abhorrent to consider.

‘Was there something else?’

Isobel was waiting for him to go, and with a terse shake of his head Patrick strode towards the door. So much for his hopes of dealing with the matter swiftly, he thought.

Now he was going to have to think of an excuse to come back again.

He was stepping out into the sunlight when he realised she was behind him, and he suddenly remembered that the girl—Chris?—had said Isobel was just about to go for lunch. Which explained the ugly haversack, he supposed. Why couldn’t she use a handbag like anyone else?

He moved aside to hold the door for her, and although he sensed she didn’t welcome his assistance she was too polite to ignore the courtesy. ‘Thanks,’ she said, with a tight smile, and started off along the pavement. And, before common sense could prevent the gesture, Patrick caught hold of her arm.

‘Excuse me...’

‘Yes?’

Her response warned him she was not in the mood for any prevarication, and Patrick said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Um—I don’t suppose you’d consider having lunch with me? I’ve—got a business proposition I’d like to put to you.’