Читать книгу The Reluctant Groom - Emma Richmond, Emma Richmond - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

THE gardener wore a suit, the chrysanthemums their paper hats, her mother called, and Abby came running. Nothing changed. But it must, Abby thought with a sigh. It must. If her mother was to have any sort of life at all, things must change radically.

A crisis, her mother had said. Another one. In a moment of inattention, as she’d put it, she had let a man into her house to look at her late husband’s books. He’d made an appointment and everything, had had letters of reference, but he’d made her nervous. Abby must come home at once.

And so Abby Hunter had come home. She’d taken a week’s leave—much to the firm’s annoyance—and driven up straight from the office.

Climbing from the car, still dressed in her high heels and a suit as elegant as the gardener’s, she walked slowly up to the front door. Tall, slim, always immaculate, she had a cool, insolent beauty that most people found intimidating. Clear grey eyes surveyed a world she appeared to find wanting. Wavy blonde hair tied tidily at her nape, she looked the epitome of the modern woman. Although she wasn’t entirely sure, she thought with a dry smile, that modern women always came running when their mothers called. Her sisters were never summoned, only Abby. Admittedly Helen and Laura were both married and had very high-powered jobs, but even so...

The front door opened as she reached it, and her thoughts were abandoned. Examining her mother’s face for signs of renewed stress, and finding her no worse, she gave a small contained smile. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello, darling,’ her mother greeted her nervously. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘You aren’t,’ Abby denied gently. ‘But I do wish you wouldn’t look at me as though you think I’m about to smack you. It’s so very bad for my image.’

Irony entirely lost on her, her mother murmured apologetically, ‘Because you make me feel such a failure. Always in control, always efficient.’

‘Yes,’ Abby agreed quietly, and didn’t say, as she could have said, had so very many times wanted to say, that this was how she’d wanted her to be. Always responsible for her actions, always sensible and in control—which was why there was such a barrier between them. A barrier they had both made.

Stepping inside, she asked with the brisk efficiency she’d trained herself in, ‘So, where is he?’

Her mother’s face crumpled. ‘Don’t say it like that, Abby. Please don’t. I’ve been trying so hard.’

So had she. ‘I know,’ she sighed. Curbing her impatience, because she knew that most of her mother’s behaviour stemmed from grief, she gave her a quick hug, removed the feather duster she was carrying like a baton before her mother poked her eye out, and gently sat her on the hall chair. ‘Now, tell me.’

‘He came a few days ago,’ she began, ‘and he’s perfectly polite and everything, but—oh, Abby, I just can’t cope with him! I had to tell him about Daddy, and he didn’t know, and I really can’t stay home all day just to make sure he doesn’t steal the silver!’ she completed distressfully.

‘No,’ Abby agreed, knowing that it had absolutely nothing to do with silver. She knew her mother couldn’t bear to talk about her husband just yet, not even to Abby, and certainly not to a stranger who had obviously asked questions she was in no fit state to answer. But then, Abby wasn’t sure she was either. Her mother seemed to think that she was the only one grieving, but Abby was hurting too. She was also worried sick about the debts her father had left. And a letter that was beginning to give her nightmares.

Eyes lowered, hands twisted together, her mother continued quietly, ‘You’ll deal with him, won’t you, darling? You’re so much stronger than me, so much more—capable. You always deal with things so much better than I do.’

Yes, because she’d forced herself to. ‘Does he want to buy the books?’

‘I don’t know, but I really couldn’t sell them, Abby—’

‘No,’ she broke in, before her mother could make herself even more distressed, but she would have to force the issue soon. Something had to be sold to pay off the debts. The house, preferably, which was far too big for one person. But her mother wasn’t ready for that yet. ‘So, what, exactly, is he doing here?’

‘Just looking at books. He said he was a war historian—or something,’ she added vaguely.

‘You should have told him to come back later, when you were better. There surely can’t be any rush about it.’

‘I tried, Abby! I did try, but he has that look about him,’ she defended fiercely. ‘One of those people you find yourself promising things to!’

Vaguely alarmed, Abby demanded weakly, ‘What have you promised?’

‘Nothing! Truly. Well, only that he can stay as long as he likes.’

With a deep sigh, she asked fatalistically, ‘And how long did he say he would like?’

‘A week. Perhaps a week. He kept asking about your father!’

Oh, God, not another one, she thought in defeat. ‘Asking what, specifically?’ she ventured carefully.

‘I don’t know! Just about him, what he was like...’

‘Did he know him?’

‘I don’t know, he didn’t say.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Turner, Sam Turner.’

Mouth pursed, eyes slightly unfocused, Abby murmured, ‘I’ve been through all Daddy’s papers, and there definitely wasn’t a mention of anyone with that name.’

‘Where is he now? In the study?’

‘No, he went out for his lunch. He makes me nervous, Abby.’

And when her mother got nervous, life became very, very complicated. Abby envisaged a very fraught week.

Eyes worried, her mother continued to stare up at her. ‘You will stay, won’t you? Oh, that will be my cab,’ she added in relief. Flustered, she got to her feet, hurried to pick up the suitcase that Abby hadn’t seen resting by the front door.

‘Cab?’ Abby echoed hollowly.

‘Yes. Didn’t you hear it? Just a soft toot, you know how they do.’

‘Mmm. Where are you going?’

‘To stay with Lena for a few days. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘No,’ Abby denied drily.

‘Oh, I thought I had. You will be nice to him, won’t you?’ she pleaded. ‘If he was a friend of Daddy’s...’

Bewildered, Abby asked, ‘I thought you said he was a stranger?’

‘Yes, but if Daddy wrote to him, he must have known him, mustn’t he?’

‘I suppose.’

‘I’ll ring you when I get there, just to let you know I’m safe.’ Pressing a hasty kiss on her daughter’s cheek, she opened the front door and hurried out.

Slowly following, still holding the feather duster, a small frown in her eyes, Abby watched the driver help her mother into the cab. James, the gardener, had now started on the front lawn, she noted absently. His jacket was draped carefully on a hanger suspended from the apple tree, a striped apron covered his pristine white shirt and knife-edge creased trousers.

Sam Turner must be something pretty exceptional if he could fluster her mother into leaving! Both she and her sisters had tried to get her to go away for a while after her husband had died, and she’d flatly refused. So, what was it about Sam Turner that could send her mother packing in such haste? she wondered as she watched her depart. And discovered the answer all too soon. As the cab drove out a man walked in. And, for the first time in her adult life, her heart leapt. Alarmed, she watched him walk towards her.

His shirt wasn’t pristine, and his trousers didn’t have a knife-edge crease, but then he could probably have worn a sack and not one woman on the planet would have cared. Tall, raw-boned, brown hair bleached by the sun, a proud nose, and cheekbones to hang your hat on. Mesmerised, Abby continued to watch him, and as he got closer she saw that he had piercing blue eyes that could probably stop an elephant in its tracks. Certainly she thought they might be able to stop her. She didn’t think she had ever met anyone so blatantly masculine in her entire life.

Defensive, on guard, she watched him glance at the gardener, and then back to Abby, who was still holding the feather duster. His face was quite expressionless.

She hoped hers was too.

‘And I suppose you’re the housekeeper,’ he stated mockingly. His voice was low, deep, and slightly husky. Like syrup over cobbles, she decided with a bewilderment that was entirely foreign to her nature. She could understand all too well why her mother had found herself promising things.

‘No,’ she denied, ‘the daughter.’ Fighting for the casual nonchalance that was her shield, her security blanket, she continued coolly, ‘But I will grant that a gardener wearing a suit is a little bizarre. You’re Mr Turner?’

His eyes narrowed slightly at her tone, and then he nodded.

Staring into blue, blue eyes, unable to look away, she thought she detected a sneer there. That, if nothing else, stiffened a decidedly weakening backbone. With the insolent smile that had been practised assiduously for over fourteen years, she queried, ‘You have identification?’

He gave a small derisive smile. ‘Mrs Hunter has already seen my papers.’

Irritated by his lethargy, she said sweetly, ‘I’m not Mrs Hunter.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘You are not Mrs Hunter. My papers are in the study.’

Arrogant and selfish, she decided, without any evidence to support it. A man used to getting his own way. A man who found common courtesy a waste of time. A man who put her heart at risk. Absurd. With a dismissive little gesture, she stepped back and invited him in. Closing the door behind him, she followed him into the study. He had the easy, fluid grace that some men are born with. Unhurried, precise.

Unzipping the document case that lay on the wide desk, he removed some papers and handed them to her. His face showed nothing of anything he might be feeling. Leaning back against the desk, he waited.

Tucking the duster under her arm, she slowly unfolded the papers, and was extraordinarily aware that he was watching her, that he made her as nervous as he had made her mother. Forcing herself to concentrate, she quickly perused the letter of introduction from a Professor Wayne at Oxford, and then at a letter from her father inviting him to come. A wave of sadness washed over her as she stared at her father’s decisive signature, a stark reminder of the vigour he had once shown. Masking the pain, she reproved, ‘Not very comprehensive proof of your identity. They could be stolen. Don’t you have a current passport?’

‘Not with me.’

With no sign of the irritation she was feeling, she said, ‘Then you must at least see my need for caution. One can’t be too careful nowadays.’

‘No,’ he agreed. His eyes still held that hateful amusement, and a rather shrewd intelligence.

‘You won’t object if I check with this Professor Wayne?’

‘Feel free,’ he urged expansively.

She gave him a sweet smile. Perching elegantly on the edge of the desk, she picked up the phone and punched out the number at the top of the headed paper. Lethargic, at ease, tall, he watched every move she made.

Refusing to be intimidated, refusing to look away from eyes that burned, she spoke briefly with the person who answered the phone, and was put through immediately to Professor Wayne. She asked questions, he answered, and when he’d described Sam Turner she thanked him and replaced the receiver.

Blue eyes still clashed with grey.

‘Interested?’ he drawled.

‘No,’ she denied. ‘You aren’t my type.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Nor you mine. I imagine you like your men biddable, and not to answer back, Ms Hunter.’

‘Miss,’ she corrected. ‘And you would always answer back, Mr Turner. Wouldn’t you?’

He didn’t answer, merely continued to watch her, and then his gaze moved beyond her, and she refused to admit the relief that gave her. Following his glance, she saw that James was now pruning some bushes, and wearing his bright yellow rubber gloves. Bizarre he might be, but he was an excellent gardener. And if the house was sold, which it must be, eventually, then James would be out of a job. Unless the new owners took him on.

With a barely registered sigh, she got to her feet. ‘I’ll let you get on,’ she stated, with an abruptness that was almost insulting, ‘Please don’t touch anything else in the room. The desk is, naturally, out of bounds.’

‘Naturally,’ he agreed without inflexion.

‘And it’s mandatory that you wear gloves when touching any of the old documents. What hours do you keep?’ Without giving him a chance to reply, she glanced at her watch, because it was a great deal easier than looking at him, and announced, ‘It’s two-thirty now; shall we say nine until six?’

When he didn’t answer, she glanced up, and the expression in his eyes made her feel decidedly un-Abby-like.

‘Why the hostility?’ he asked mildly.

‘Caution,’ she corrected.

He inclined his head without taking his eyes from hers. ‘What was he like?’

‘Who?’

‘Mr Hunter.’

‘Kind. What are you like?’ she asked with remote hauteur.

His mouth twisted. ‘Not kind. I’ll let you know when I leave.’

Dismissed, she turned on her heel and walked out She felt ragged, routed, and a fool.

Not kind? Yes, she could believe that. And you promised yourself you would change Abby. That you would be nice to people. She knew she was acerbic when she was nervous, but that hadn’t been acerbic, she thought disgustedly, that had been venomous. Because she’d felt threatened.

Absently shoving the feather duster into the cupboard, she continued on and into the kitchen. ‘You’ll deal with him,’ her mother had said. And she would; of course she would. So why was her heart beating far too fast? Why did she feel—mangled?

Filling the kettle, because it was a usual thing to do, a normal thing to do, she put it on the gas to boil, and wondered what to do next. Never in her life had she not known what she was doing. No, that wasn’t strictly true. Once she hadn’t known.

Oh, for goodness’ sake pull yourself together, Abby, she berated herself. He’s only a man! You’ve been dealing with men all your adult life! Yes, only a man—with blue eyes to strip a soul bare.

Which might not be a bad thing. Her soul hadn’t seen the light of day in fourteen years.

Mask slipping, elbows cupped for comfort, she stood at the window and stared blindly into the garden. Miss Cool. Miss Efficiency. And it was all a lie. A great, big, whopping lie. Not that anyone would have known that. Not that anyone would have cared, she thought with a humourless smile. And only yesterday she’d promised that she would take a long, hard look at herself. Only if she did that, she thought, almost despondently, she didn’t think she would like what she saw.

Eyes unfocused, she thought back over her life, or at least the last fourteen years of it. She had known for a long time now that she was living a life she no longer wanted, a life that didn’t belong to her. A life that was as unsatisfactory as it was sterile. Engaged to a man who was suitable, but unloved, employed as a junior member of a law firm, which she hated. So why had it taken her so long to admit it? She had no idea.

Fourteen years ago she’d deliberately made herself into someone she wasn’t meant to be, whether from pride, or anger, or lack of self-worth didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she had done it. Herself. Deliberately. And fourteen years in anyone’s book was far too long to live a lie. She had defended her vulnerable heart with a false image until that image was no longer false. And people believed it. Believed what you wanted them to believe. As Sam Turner was believing it. But how did you go back? She wasn’t even sure she could remember who she had been, only that it had been the antithesis of what she was now.

Glancing down at her engagement ring, she slowly removed it and put it in her pocket. She would telephone Peter tonight and tell him it was over. And when she went back to work she would give in her notice.

‘You couldn’t afford a sauna?’ a dry voice asked from behind her.

Whirling round, she stared at Sam Turner, and only then became aware that the kitchen was full of steam—and now tension. She would not let this man unstring all her new-found resolves. He was capable of it; she knew that instinctively. ‘No,’ she agreed with cool derision. ‘The plantation failed this year. So sad, there were so many things we wanted.’

‘Bananas?’

‘Nuts. You wanted something?’

His lips twitched. Infinitesimally. ‘Coffee. Mrs Hunter said to make myself at home,’ he informed her with dry mockery as he took two cups from the cupboard. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Both,’ she murmured, because telling him she could make her own would make her look the fool, not him. Feeling a fool was one thing. Looking one was entirely another. Face kept carefully expressionless, she queried silkily, ‘And what other home comforts have you adopted, Mr Turner?’

He slanted her a look over his shoulder, and smiled. ‘Which would you like me to adopt?’ he parried.

‘None,’ she denied, and refused to look away from blue eyes that seemed positively glacial. She had always treated men as tools. Useful tools. Her behaviour and attitude had been honed to perfection over the past fourteen years. Don’t think, don’t feel, just act. She was doing it now, and perhaps that was just as well. Now was not the time to revert to what she had once been, even if she knew who that person was. This man offered a definite threat to her peace of mind, and threats, right now, she certainly did not need. Anyway, you couldn’t change your personality in a few moments of reflection, she decided. She needed peace and time to do that. She would change gradually; the only need now was to be careful. This wasn’t a man to be cowed, or threatened. Her wits were sharp; his, she suspected, would be sharper.

‘Which one are you?’ he asked, with an indifference that was maddening.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Taking his time, taking milk from the fridge and adding it to the coffee, he replaced the milk before he answered. ‘I merely wondered which one you were. It’s of no consequence.’

Assuming he was talking about daughters, she said shortly, ‘The youngest. Thank you,’ she added as he handed her her coffee.

‘You’re welcome. Like to grind men beneath your high heels, don’t you?’

‘Always,’ she agreed without pause. ‘Do you wish to be ground, Mr Turner?’ she was horrified to hear herself asking.

He merely smiled, and mockery rode his features like a horse on a fairground ride.

Trying to get control back into her own hands, she asked abruptly, ‘Where do you come from?’

‘Not far,’ he answered unhelpfully as he leaned back against the sink to sip his coffee.

Eyes on his face, refusing, utterly refusing, to look away, she borrowed some of his own mockery. ‘And you work with this Professor Wayne at Oxford?’

‘You didn’t ask him?’ he mocked.

‘No.’

‘Tsk, tsk.’

Eyes like flint, she warned, ‘Be very careful, Mr Turner. The decision to let you work here can easily be revoked.’

He looked as though he couldn’t care less one way or the other. At ease, unruffled as he continued to survey her. She had an almost overwhelming desire to throw her coffee at him.

‘How long had your father been collecting war memorabilia,’ he asked casually.

‘Since he was a young man, I believe.’

‘It’s a very extensive collection.’

‘It’s also very valuable.’

She badly wanted to sit, but that would put her at a disadvantage, and that she didn’t want. ‘How did you meet? He never mentioned you before he—died.’

He lowered his lashes, stared down into his coffee, and said quietly, ‘We didn’t.’

‘But you wanted to?’

‘Yes. Your mother said he died six months ago?’

‘Yes, heart attack,’ she said dismissively, because it was something she didn’t even want to think about, let alone talk about. And maybe he was more sensitive than she gave him credit for, because he didn’t—thankfully—pursue it.

‘How long were they married?’

‘My, my,’ she murmured, ‘we are nosy, aren’t we? And yet I wouldn’t have said you were a man for idle chat, Mr Turner.’

He slowly raised his lids, stared at her once more. His mouth was smooth, entirely persuasive. ‘What would you have said?’

Off balance for a moment, she quickly rallied. ‘I wouldn’t,’ she denied. ‘You hold no interest for me at all. But let’s see...Helen and Laura arrived here when they were six. They’re thirty-four now, which means...’

“‘Arrived here”?’

‘Which would make it twenty-eight years ago,’ she continued, as though there had been no interruption. ‘And my parents were married two years before that . . .’

‘Arrived here?’

‘We were all adopted, Mr Turner.’

He still continued to stare at her, but she was fascinated to see that his eyes now seemed veiled.

‘Does that answer your question?’ she asked with slight impatience.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. Straightening almost abruptly, he added, ‘I’d better get on.’

‘With?’ she asked. ‘Which particular aspect?’ she persisted when he didn’t answer.

‘Nothing specific.’ Taking his coffee, and the tension, with him, he walked out.

Curious. In her experience, people were always specific. People with a passion for whatever—history, warfare, cigarette cards—usually bored on about their chosen subject, or became animated, enthused, so why not Mr Turner? And why the sudden change from mockery to tension?

Forcibly dismissing him from her mind, because she had other more pressing problems than Sam Turner, she walked over to the sink and poured the over-strong coffee away. Going out to her car, she collected her case and took it up to her room to unpack.

Removing her jacket, she took the engagement ring from her pocket and sat on the bed to examine it. It was a beautiful ring, expensive, but not given with love. Peter had become engaged to her for the same reason she’d become engaged to him. Expediency. She would have graced his home, been able to talk intelligently to his clients, guests, whatever, and he would have made a fitting escort for herself. Both families had thought it an excellent match. And maybe it was, but she wanted something more than expediency. More than being sensible.

It’s a start, Abby, she assured herself. It was definitely a start. Opening her bag, she zipped the ring inside, with the letter her father had left—and that she really must do something about. She couldn’t keep putting it off with the excuse that she didn’t have time.

Irritated, unsettled, she walked to the window, stared down at the grounds. Late October, and yet the sun was as warm as a summer’s day. The house must be sold. Must. But how to persuade her mother? She didn’t want to hurt her more. She wasn’t an unkind girl, despite the impression she continued to give. Especially to Sam Turner, who thought she was into heel-grinding. Maybe she was. Not that it mattered what he thought. Sam Turner was an irrelevance.

So why did he persist in staying in her mind?

The next morning she dressed in elegant tailored trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. It was not, she insisted to herself, because she was trying to impress Sam Turner. She simply didn’t have casual clothes. The image she presented to the world didn’t permit it, and that, she thought, as she let him in, was one of the most absurd aspects of the whole charade. You took it too far, Abby. Way, way, too far.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked quietly as he entered the house.

‘No,’ she denied automatically, and then paused, because it would have been nice to have laughed at her absurdities with him, told him what she had been thinking, but the moment was lost as he strolled into the study.

‘Coffee?’ she asked him.

He turned, raised an eyebrow in mocking surprise, and she thought she could have cried for his disbelief at her common courtesy. A courtesy that would not have been extended last week. Would she only be able to change with people who did not yet know her? People she had not yet met?

‘Well, do you or don’t you?’ she asked, reverting to type.

‘Please. I have it black.’

Walking out, she went to make it.

Own fault, Abby. Yes. But then, he wasn’t a man to make things easy, was he? If she had been a sweet, simple soul, he would probably still have mocked, and that simple soul would have been embarrassed.

Scowling, she made his coffee and took it through.

Half the books were out of the bookcase and piled haphazardly on the desk. Hands braced, he was staring at a map that was spread out on top of them. ‘I hope you’re intending to put them back,’ she reproved as she found a place for his coffee.

He didn’t bother to answer, for which she could hardly blame him, but for some reason needing to goad, because he was at her father’s desk, because he was an intruder—because he had blue eyes, for all she knew—she extended an elegant finger and rested it on the map. ‘Sevastopol. The site of the siege.’

He looked up—and the most alarming thread of tension leapt between them.

Startled, she looked quickly back at the map. ‘I always think it such a shame,’ she said quickly, ‘that everyone focuses on the Charge of the Light Brigade and not on the reasons behind it all. On the pretext of a quarrel between Russia and France over guardianship of the Holy Places in Palestine, a war was started.

‘And the fact,’ he stated softly, ‘that Turkey invaded Moldavia.’

‘Yes.’ She needed to get out of here.

‘You’re being unusually forthcoming,’ he continued, in the same mesmerisingly soft voice.

‘Oh, I’m always forthcoming,’ she heard herself say, ‘Just not usually in the direction people expect. Enjoy your coffee.’

Without waiting for a reply, she walked out. He followed.

Heart hammering against ribs that suddenly felt too fragile to enclose it, shoulders tense, she quickened her pace.

‘Do you have a lover?’

Shocked, she halted, took a deep breath, and walked on. ‘No,’ she managed. ‘Do you?’

‘No. You forgot the biscuits.’

She halted again. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Biscuits,’ he repeated. ‘Your mother always gave me biscuits.’

‘Did she?’ she asked stupidly. Feeling the heat of him at her back, she hastily moved on and pushed into the kitchen. ‘How very kind of her.’

‘Mmm.’

Turning, she warily watched him open the cupboard and remove a packet of chocolate chip cookies. He opened the packet and held it towards her.

She shook her head.

Eyes on hers, he took out a biscuit and began to slowly eat it. She couldn’t for the life of her take her eyes away from his mouth. A small crumb clung to his lower lip and she shuddered, turned quickly away.

‘It can be arranged,’ he said softly.

Heart thumping, a shiver of awareness tingling her nerves, and not even pretending to misunderstand, she shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Why? You’re attracted.’

‘You’re an attractive man,’ she agreed, and couldn’t believe that her voice didn’t even quiver. No man had ever spoken to her like this. Men had always given her a wide, wary berth. Except for Peter, who was very much like her. Did he wear a mask? she suddenly wondered.

Taking a deep breath, she turned—and found him gone. Nerves unstrung, she let all her breath out on a sigh. It could be arranged, could it? Arranged for him to kiss her...? No. Shutting off a thought that thoroughly unnerved her, she walked out to see if the post had arrived. But for the rest of that day she was troubled by uncertainty, feelings of—longing.

The next day was worse. For her, anyway. Probably because she’d spent half the night thinking about him, she thought disgustedly. And why on earth did it feel as though it was taking enormous courage just to take his coffee and biscuits in? She could almost taste the tension in herself.

Shoving open the study door, she found him standing at the bookcase, idly running his finger down some of the titles.

She gave a quick glance at his broad back, and turned to leave.

‘I imagine he travelled a lot, he said casually without turning.

‘My father? I don’t know about a lot,’ she denied. ‘Certainly he went to Russia.’

‘Perhaps before you were even born.’

With no idea where this was leading, she shrugged. ‘Maybe. I know very little about his early life.’

He still didn’t turn, merely continued his idle perusal of the bookcase. ‘He was a solicitor, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Who’d foolishly speculated on the stock exchange, and then taken out a massive loan to cover his debts.

‘How old was he when he died?’

‘Sixty-two. Helps with your research, does it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘To know his background?’

‘Thanks for the coffee.’

‘And biscuits,’ she added as she walked out. ‘Don’t forget the biscuits.’

What had all that been about? Feeling unsettled, she returned to the kitchen. There had been far too many men of late arriving at the house asking questions about her father. She didn’t need Sam Turner joining the list. How could such a kind, caring, efficient man as her father have left things in such a muddle? Admittedly he presumably hadn’t known he was going to have a heart attack, but even so she would never have said he was a fool. Then there was the letter he’d left instructions for her to deliver. To Gibraltar, of all places. She hoped that wasn’t another debt, but she suspected it was, which was why she’d been putting off delivering it. She would wait until the house was sold, then she would go to Gibraltar.

Sick to death of thoughts and worries that wouldn’t leave her alone, and needing something to do, she walked into the village to get something for her dinner.

She didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon, and he left without telling her. Perhaps he was avoiding her. Certainly it would be best to avoid him. It didn’t stop her from thinking about him though. And wondering.

The next morning when she let him in, he was terse. No familiar mockery in his blue eyes, just a nod of greeting and straight into the study. Tension drifted in his wake.

Pulling a face, she went to make the coffee, and then left it on the desk without comment

He was filling up her mind to the exclusion of everything else, she thought distractedly. And for why? He was derisive, mocking, not at all the sort of man she liked or felt comfortable with. So why couldn’t she get on with anything? She’d been going to clear out the kitchen cupboards, clear out her bedroom, throw away all the years of accumulated rubbish. No, not rubbish; she’d cleared that out fourteen years ago. But there were still clothes there that no longer fitted. Books. All the things she’d really needed she had moved to her flat in London. So do it, Abby! But she wasn’t in the mood.

She heard him go out at lunchtime, and without meaning to, without a plan, she found herself walking into the study. Found herself thinking about his offer. Which had probably now been withdrawn.

She wasn’t very experienced with this flirting business, if indeed he had been flirting. In fact, she wasn’t experienced at all. All those years pretending to be Miss Cool hadn’t left any opportunity for flirting. She was probably the only twenty-eight-year-old virgin in the history of the planet! And she didn’t want to be. Not that she was ashamed of it or anything; there had never been anyone she’d wanted to make love to until now. He would probably make a very good lover... Yes, she agreed thoughtfully. But not for her. The man was ruthless.

She rested her hand on one of the books that still littered the desk; it came away covered in dust. How long since anyone had cleaned properly in here? And if the books were dusty, what on earth was the bookcase like?

Without stopping to think, she dragged the stepladder in from the hall cupboard and stood it next to the tall bookcase. She could get it done before he came back. He was usually gone an hour.

Collecting a duster, she climbed up and promptly sneezed. Muttering to herself as she slowly swept the dust into a pile, she didn’t hear the door open, and so when he spoke, asked her what on earth she was doing, she gave a little scream of surprise, and lost her balance.

Strong hands circled her waist and she was lifted down. He didn’t release her. Just stared into her up-tilted face—and tension didn’t just shimmer between them, it positively glowed.

‘You’re usually gone an hour,’ Abby accused breathlessly.

‘I wasn’t hungry,’ he answered simply. Eyes direct and bright, he searched her face. ‘So, what were you doing?’

‘Looking for hidden treasure.’

‘Find any?’

‘No.’

‘No,’ he agreed. Idly fingering a strand of hair, aware of the shiver she gave, he gave a slow, self-mocking smile. ‘Your mother said you were clever,’ he pronounced quietly.

Her mother said too much.

‘An ice maiden, cool and in control—with a silky soft voice to make a man grovel.’

Grovel? Oh, boy. ‘But not you,’ she pronounced huskily.

‘No. Not me.’ Eyes riveted on hers, he asked intimately, ‘How cool are you, Abby?’

He was going to kiss her, she thought in panic. Almost in panic. But she didn’t struggle free, didn’t do any of the things she would have expected herself to do. The opposite, in fact. Moving her eyes to his mouth, feeling almost unable to help herself, she kissed him—and the most enormous rush of emotion whirled through her. Nothing in her life had ever prepared her for that. Nothing.

Disorientated, almost uncomprehending, she whispered dazedly, ‘Not cool at all. I want everything.’

Everything was what she almost got. His own kiss, without a murmur, without preliminaries, was searing. He dipped his head and kissed her with a harsh, bruising intensity that wrenched the world out of kilter. He wasn’t gentle. She didn’t want him to be. Excitement laced through her as he turned her, held her against the bookcase, and continued to kiss her with a mastery that left her light-headed and dizzy.

Clutching him tight, she kissed him back with a desire she found as astonishing as it was exhilarating. His arms were strong, and hard and tight, his mouth practised. A kiss to remember for the rest of her life. She could feel his heart against hers, the strength of his thighs, the spiralling, mounting feeling of utter belonging.

And then he thrust her away.

Hands gripping her shoulders hard, fingers digging into her flesh. She was shocked to awareness by eyes as brightly blue as a summer sky that, astonishingly, held a blazing anger.

‘Sam?’ she whispered in alarm.

‘No,’ he denied raggedly.

Uncomprehending, body aching, needing more, eyes fixed desperately on his, she slid her hands to his warm chest.

‘Abby!’

With a little jerk, not in the real world at all, she turned her head, stared at her mother standing in the doorway.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she demanded. She sounded absolutely scandalised. ‘You’re engaged!’

‘Engaged?’ she queried dazedly.

‘Yes! Where’s your ring?’

Glancing at her left hand as though she didn’t know what her mother was talking about, she murmured, ‘I took it off. Sam and I—’

‘No,’ he broke in. Lifting his hands, breaking all contact, he stepped back. ‘No,’ he repeated.

‘Sam?’ Confused, bewildered, she held out one hand to him.

He ignored it. Snatching his document case off the desk, he walked out.

‘Sam!’ She would have run after him, but her mother caught her arm, held her back.

‘I knew he was trouble. I just knew it! I shouldn’t have left you. Abby! You can’t go after him!’

‘Yes, I have to...’ Trailing off, barely aware of her mother’s grip on her arm, she stared at the closed front door, then back to her mother. ‘Why was he so angry?’ she whispered.

‘You were kissing him,’ her mother exclaimed, as though she had never encountered such a thing before.

‘Yes.’ And he would be back, she reassured herself. Of course he would.

‘He isn’t what I want for you,’ her mother wailed despairingly. ‘Peter...’

‘Not now, Mum,’ Abby interrupted distractedly. ‘I’ll take your case up.’

Grabbing her mother’s case, she hurried upstairs. Dumping it on the bed, she just stood there, eyes almost blank. Why? she wondered. Why had he been so angry?

Needing a few minutes on her own, unable to face her mother just yet, she walked to the window, stared blindly down. Why? But he would be back. Of course he would. Unconsciously rubbing her fingers over her mouth, eyes still blank with shock and disbelief, she closed her eyes to recapture the moment he’d kissed her. She could feel it still, the urgency, the need... And if her mother hadn’t come home just then, would he still have left?

She didn’t understand. Had he left because he thought she was engaged? Well, she could tell him tomorrow, explain...

‘Abby?’ her mother called tentatively up the stairs.

‘Coming,’ she answered automatically.

Walking away from the window as though in a dream, she went downstairs, found her mother in the kitchen.

‘I’ve made some tea...’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Abby . . .’

‘How was your trip?’ she asked quickly, to forestall any questions about Sam.

‘Eventful,’ she sighed. Eyes worried, she watched her daughter. She’d never seen her like this. ‘Don’t get involved with him, Abby,’ she pleaded. ‘He isn’t safe.’

‘Safe?’ she echoed.

‘Yes. I knew someone like him once. All energy and excitement. But it doesn’t last, Abby. Peter’s the right one for you.’

‘No,’ she denied gently. ‘He isn’t.’

‘But you don’t know this man!’

‘No, but I want to,’ she admitted quietly. ‘How was Lena?’

‘Fine.’ Carrying the teas over to the table, she sat, waited until Abby had sat opposite. ‘She thinks I should sell the house.’

Attention finally captured, she stared at her mother, tried not to hope too hard. ‘And?’

‘And I think so too. Oh, Abby,’ she exclaimed tiredly, ‘I thought your future was secured. I was so pleased when you got engaged.’

‘I don’t love him,’ Abby said quietly.

‘Well, you can’t love Sam! You barely know him!’

‘No. What happened to the man you were in love with?’

Her mother flushed, fiddled with her spoon. ‘He went off with someone else. It was a long time ago.’

‘But you still remember the hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t you love Daddy?’

‘Of course I loved him!’

‘But it wasn’t the same, was it?’ she asked silently. Because you never forgot your first love. Perhaps that was all it was with her. Sam could have been, could still be, her first love. If he came back. ‘Do you really feel you can sell the house?’ she asked gently.

‘Yes. It’s too big for one, and we need to pay the debts, don’t we? The loan companies won’t wait for ever, and the interest is crippling.’

‘Yes, but...’ Reaching for her mother’s hand, she gently squeezed it. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ Taking a deep breath, she continued bravely, ‘I’ve seen a bungalow, and it’s near to Lena... Best to make a new start. And it will solve all our problems, won’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Some of them. And Sam would be back. Of course he would.

They sat up talking long into the night, making plans, and in the morning, when Sam didn’t come, Abby tried to be philosophical about it, and failed. She went to the estate agents, put the house up for sale, went with her mother to look at the bungalow she liked, prayed that Sam wouldn’t turn up in her absence. She never knew whether he did or not. Certainly he didn’t come the next day, or the one after that.

There had been no note, no explanation; he’d just left as he had arrived. Abby didn’t know his address, didn’t know how to contact him. Professor Wayne didn’t know where he lived, barely even knew him, and the Vehicle Licensing Authority, who had presumably issued his driving licence, wouldn’t tell her.

A man from nowhere. A man she couldn’t get out of her mind. One kiss wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.