Читать книгу Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed - NATASHA OAKLEY, Natasha Oakley - Страница 8

IZZY put a plate of spicy crab cakes and salad in front of her sister. ‘So, tell me. What’s the matter?’ She sat down opposite Lydia and flicked back her softly waving hair. ‘I might have overdone the chilli in the dipping sauce, so go careful.’

Lydia took a mouthful of the crab cake. ‘This is fantastic.’

‘I know. It’s the Tobasco.’

‘You’re getting good.’

‘I’m a genius,’ Izzy said, smiling over the top of her glass of wine, ‘but that’s not why you’re here, is it? What’s happened?’

‘You mean apart from Wendy Bennington having a stroke?’

Izzy nodded. ‘Apart from that. Although it’s horrible for her, of course. I don’t mean it isn’t, but…’

The silence hung between them.

‘You’ve seen far worse things than an elderly woman having a stroke, Liddy.’

Which was true.

‘So, what’s bothering you?’

Lydia sighed and looked across at her younger sister, uncertain as to what it was that was nagging at her. It seemed to be a whole mixture of things twirling about in her head making her feel discontented. Irritated. That wasn’t the right word either.

It was as though she’d been travelling happily in one direction only to have it violently blocked off. Like a train being derailed, if you liked. Normally she’d have worked out a way to make it an opportunity, but…

Lydia winced. It didn’t feel like an opportunity. It felt—

She didn’t know what it felt like. There was something about seeing Wendy Bennington slumped in that doorway that had affected her deeply—and in a way she found difficult to understand. Instead of driving back to Hammersmith she’d rung Izzy and begged a bed for the night.

But why? Her sister was absolutely right when she said she’d seen and experienced so much worse.

In her nine years as a journalist she’d witnessed many terrible things. Not just death and injury, but mindless violence and examples of sadistic cruelty that defied description. Some days it was difficult to maintain any kind of belief in the innate goodness of human nature, but she’d trained herself to cope with it. She was inured against it all.

Almost.

Certainly detached. Lydia picked up her wineglass and sipped. It was as if a steel screen came down and kept her objective. It was the only way it was possible to do her job. She imagined it was similar to the way a surgeon worked. You could care, really deeply, but not so much that it prevented you from thinking clearly.

She looked across at Izzy, patiently waiting, her hands cradled around her wineglass. The only time in her life when she’d felt completely out of control was when she’d found Izzy unconscious. There would never, could never, be any event more terrible than finding her sister had taken an overdose.

She hadn’t felt detached then. That night she’d experienced emotions she hadn’t known she was capable of feeling. She’d believed Izzy would die and fear had ripped through her like lightning in a night sky. There’d been the sense of being utterly alone and desperately frightened. Not even the unexpected death of her parents had inspired such an extreme reaction.

The only thing that had kept her functioning, on any level, was the passionate hatred she felt for Steven Daly—the man responsible. Bitter anger had uncurled like a serpent within her. It had driven her. Had demanded retribution.

Looking at Izzy now, little more than two years on, it could almost have been a dream. She looked so young—and hopeful. Time was a great healer.

‘Well?’ Izzy prompted.

Lydia forced a smile. ‘I think it was the house,’ she said at last, trying to put words on thoughts she couldn’t quite catch hold of. ‘You’ve never seen anything like it. She lives in a cottage that time’s all but forgotten. All alone in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Perhaps she likes solitude? Some people do.’

‘It’s not that…It’s…’ Lydia frowned. ‘The cottage smells of damp and cat urine…and then there are all these frozen meals for one in the freezer. It’s so incredibly…sad. There’s no other word for it—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, no!’

‘What?’

‘I’d forgotten about the cat.’ Lydia put down her wineglass. ‘She’s got a cat.’

‘It’s not your problem, Liddy.’

‘But who’s going to feed it?’

‘Probably the irritating Nick Regan. It really isn’t your problem,’ Izzy repeated, taking in her sister’s expression. ‘If not him, there’ll be a neighbour.’

‘You think?’

‘There’s bound to be.’

Lydia relaxed. Of course there was. Wendy Bennington went abroad for long stretches of time. There were bound to be structures in place to take care of her pet. Lydia picked up her knife and fork. ‘You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just…’

Izzy smiled. ‘You really like this Wendy Bennington, don’t you?’

‘I hardly know her.’ Lydia cut a bite-sized piece off her crab cake. ‘We’ve spoken on the phone half a dozen times, no more. I’d never met her face to face.’ Until today—when she’d been confused and frightened. Nothing like the woman she’d been expecting. The image of her slumped in her bedroom doorway hovered at the front of Lydia’s mind.

‘But you like her. I can tell you do.’

Lydia paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Did that explain it? She certainly admired Wendy. Had been flattered and very excited at the prospect of writing her biography.

Izzy seemed to follow her thoughts. ‘There’s no reason to think you won’t still write the biography. Give it a few days and see how serious her stroke was. You might be surprised.’

‘I might,’ she conceded.

‘Perhaps that Nick Regan will phone you.’

Lydia pulled a face. ‘I’d be surprised at that. He didn’t like me at all.’

‘Why?’

‘No idea.’ Lydia thought for a moment. ‘It didn’t help that he found me standing on a flat roof, trying to get into the cottage through an upstairs window, but—’ she looked up as Izzy gave a sudden spurt of laughter ‘—I don’t think it was that.’

‘I can’t think why. Most people would think it odd.’

Lydia shook her head, a reluctant twinkle in her eyes. ‘It probably didn’t help,’ she conceded, cutting another mouthful off her crab cake, ‘but he really didn’t like me. At all. You know, eyes across a crowded room, instantaneous dislike. No mistaking it.’

‘Is he handsome?’ Izzy sat back.

‘That’s irrelevant.’

‘It’s never irrelevant.’

Lydia ignored her.

‘Well, is he?’

‘No.’ Even without looking up she could feel Izzy smile. She put down her fork. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Which means he is.’

‘It does not!’

And then Izzy laughed again. ‘He is, though. I searched for his name on the Internet while you were having your shower. He’s gorgeous. A bit like…what’s the name of that actor in…Oh, stuff it, I can’t remember. Regency thing. You used to have him as your screensaver.’

‘The actor from Pride and Prejudice? Nick Regan looks nothing like him!’ Lydia protested.

‘Not exactly, but a bit. He’s got the same brooding, intense expression. At least, this Nick Regan does. He’s an inventor. I think.’ She waved her hand as though it didn’t matter in the slightest. ‘Basically, he is Drakes, if you get what I mean. He owns the company and came up with the idea of the electrical component in the first place. Worth millions.’

Lydia frowned. ‘He can’t be. That’s Nicolas…’ Regan-Phillips. She closed her eyes. Damn it! It couldn’t be.

Could it? And, if so, what had he got to do with Wendy Bennington?

‘I’ve bookmarked it for you to see.’

‘I’ll look later.’

Could Nick Regan be Nicolas Regan-Phillips? Izzy must have made a mistake. A multimillionaire corporate businessman and a human rights campaigner—what could possibly link the two together?

The cottage had been securely locked up. Lydia moved the terracotta pot with very little expectation of finding the key beneath it—but there it was.

She clutched the small tin of cat food and bent to pick up the key. If the almighty Nicolas Regan-Phillips had anticipated she might return to the cottage he might not have put it back there. So much for his apparently awesome ability to read character, but at least the cat wouldn’t starve.

The back door opened easily. Izzy had laughed at her for deciding on making the thirty minute detour, but it felt like the right thing to do. How could she return to London knowing she could have done something to help Wendy but had chosen not to? And this was little enough.

‘Cat,’ she called softly. She set her handbag on the stainless steel draining board. ‘Cat, where are you? Breakfast time.’

The bowl of leftover cat food on the floor looked revolting. Lydia picked it up with two fingers and carried it across to a plastic swing-bin. ‘Why do people keep pets?’ she mumbled softly to herself, turning back to the sink and giving the bowl a swill out. ‘This is disgusting.’

‘To keep them company?’

Lydia gave a startled cry and whipped round.

‘Because they love them?’ Nicolas Regan-Phillips said, leaning against the kitchen doorway, looking much more like the photograph Izzy had found than he had the day before. He wore a sharp and very conventional pinstripe suit. Power dressing at its most effective.

And he was handsome. Her sister’s words popped into her mind and she silently cursed her. The resemblance to her favorite actor was really very superficial, but it was there all the same.

‘I—I came to feed the cat.’ Lydia turned away and pulled back the loop on the tin, irritated at the slight nervous stutter. Where had that come from? And, more importantly, why?

‘So did I.’ He placed a brown paper bag down on the draining board.

‘I hope you don’t mind that I—’ She stopped herself, swinging round to look up at him as a new thought occurred to her. ‘How did you get in?’

He held up a key. ‘Front door.’

‘Oh.’ Lydia cursed herself for the inanity of her reply. Of course he would have Wendy’s key. He would have needed it to lock up the cottage. What was the matter with her?

She carefully scooped out the contents of the tin with a spoon, aware that Nick continued to watch her. He made her feel uncomfortable, as though, perhaps, she’d been caught out doing something he considered wrong rather than the good deed she’d intended. ‘I suddenly remembered I’d seen a cat. I couldn’t leave it to starve,’ she said, glancing up.

He really did have the most inscrutable face. Normally she was good at picking up emotional nuances—but Nicholas Regan-Phillips seemed to short circuit some connection and she was left uncertain.

On balance he didn’t seem as angry as he’d been yesterday. More suspicious. She looked away. It probably wasn’t anything personal. He had a reputation for avoiding journalists and for protecting his privacy. Lydia swilled out the empty tin under the tap. ‘Does Wendy have a recycling bin?’

‘I imagine so.’

Lydia looked up in time to catch his swift frown. If she puzzled him she was glad. He certainly puzzled her. What had he to do with Wendy Bennington? She hadn’t managed to discover any connection at all. It was a mystery—and mysteries really bugged her.

‘Shall I leave this on the side then?’

‘I’m sure that’ll be fine.’

Lydia carefully placed the tin at the back of the draining board and rinsed the spoon. ‘How’s Wendy?’

There was a small beat of silence while, it seemed, he evaluated her right to ask the question. ‘Better than she looked yesterday.’

Lydia glanced over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.

‘She’s had a TIA. A mini-stroke, if you like. She’ll be fine.’ His mouth quirked into a half-smile. It was a nice mouth, firm and sensual. ‘No permanent damage, but she’s been told to make some life changes.’

‘That’s…fantastic.’

His smile broadened and something inside her flickered in recognition. ‘I’d love to hear you try and convince her of that.’

‘When will she be home?’

‘Well—’ he stretched out the word ‘—that depends on who you speak to. She’s broken her ankle. It’s a fairly simple break, apparently, and doesn’t need surgery, but…’

Lydia looked around her and then down at the uneven floor levels.

Nick followed her gaze. ‘Exactly. She’s not going to manage here for a few weeks, however much she’d rather be in her own home.’

‘No,’ Lydia agreed. She placed the clean bowl back on the floor and picked up the other one. ‘So, who’s won?’

‘The cards are stacked in my favour. I’m here to pick up Nimrod. Hopefully lure him in with food.’

Lydia emptied the water into the sink and put in some fresh. ‘That’s the cat?’

‘Nimrod, the mighty hunter,’ Nick agreed, moving away into the hall, his voice slightly muffled. ‘I gather his namesake was Noah’s great-grandson.’ He reappeared moments later, carrying a cat basket.

‘Great name,’ she said, smiling at the incongruous sight of a city gent with rustic cat basket.

‘Certainly appropriate. He’s something of a killer cat. Wendy picked him up as a stray a couple of years ago, only he turned out not to be so much a waif as a con artist. If it moves, Nimrod will hunt it. There never was a cat more suited to life in the wild.’

Lydia laughed. ‘Good luck getting it into that thing then,’ she said with a gesture at the cat basket.

‘So Wendy’s warned me,’ he said, setting it down on the kitchen table.

She rinsed her hands under the tap. ‘I’m glad it’s all sorted. It suddenly occurred to me, after I’d left, that you might forget about…Nimrod. I was going to contact you today.’

‘How?’

She looked up, surprised by the abrupt single word question. ‘It wouldn’t have been too difficult. A call to your company…’

His nod was almost imperceptible, but she could see his attitude towards her change. ‘I thought you didn’t know who I was.’

‘I didn’t, but you have an Internet presence—’

‘And you checked.’

Lydia thought of Izzy and smiled, deciding that she wouldn’t tell him that her description of him had inspired her sister with a burning fascination to discover who had managed to rile her so much. There’d been little enough information to find, nothing he could object to.

He was thirty-six and divorced. His only child, a daughter, lived with her mother and he was hugely successful at what he did. Nothing particularly unusual in any of that.

‘Do you always pry into other people’s business?’

‘Pretty much.’ She looked about her for a towel on which to dry her hands. ‘It’s an occupational hazard. But, this time, you’ve got to acknowledge I was invited to pry.’

‘Not by me.’

‘By Wendy.’ She turned to face him. ‘Though I dispute the use of the word pry.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you?’

‘She’s led an amazing life. Don’t you think it’s in the public interest to have that properly chronicled? What she’s achieved, particularly for women, is amazing.’

‘I think what’s deemed to be “in the public interest” is stretched beyond belief,’ he said dryly, ‘but that’s not to undermine what Wendy has achieved.’

‘Can’t argue with that, I suppose—but I’m not here as a representative of any tabloid paper. Wendy will have complete control over what I write about her and, as long as it’s truthful, I’ve no problem with that.’

‘No?’

‘Absolutely not.’

She sounded aghast, but Nick knew better. Confronting Lydia Stanford was like coming up against a snake in the grass. You could never trust her. Never.

Very early in her career she’d worked undercover to highlight the ill treatment of the elderly in care homes and, while you couldn’t question the validity of her findings…you had to be suspicious of her ability to lie. And lie convincingly enough for colleagues to trust her.

Wendy might be impressed by her ability to stick to her purpose, of owning a cause and staying with it, whatever the personal cost—but he suspected a different motivation lay at the heart of it. He suspected her only cause was herself—Lydia Stanford. And where was the virtue in that?

She carefully folded the towel and threaded it back through the loop. ‘So how do you know Wendy?’

‘You don’t give up, do you?’

Lydia smiled, her eyes the colour of topaz. Warm and beguiling. ‘It’s usually easier to give in and tell me what I want to know.’

He turned away as though that would stop him being drawn in. ‘She’s my godmother.’

‘Really?’

‘I have the rattle to prove it.’

She laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made him wish she was a different woman—and they were in a different situation. He ran an irritated hand through his hair. He’d been celibate for far too long. That rich throaty chuckle was exactly what could make him forget who and what she was.

‘Actually, that’s a lie. She didn’t give me a rattle. I received two engraved napkin rings and a boxed china bowl and plate set from the other two.’

‘And from Wendy?’

‘A copy of the Bible, the Koran and the complete works of William Shakespeare.’

He watched the way her eyes crinkled into laughter. She was dangerous. You could easily relax in her company, forget that she used anyone and everyone near her to further her career—even a vulnerable sister.

People often described him as ruthless, but he would never have taken something so intensely personal and used it to advance his career. Lydia Stanford might claim that her sister had made a complete recovery, but he doubted it.

Betrayal was painful—acutely painful—and when it came so close to home it was difficult to ever recover from it. He had personal experience of it and her Anastasia Wilson jacket was a visual reminder.

Better to remember how that betrayal had felt. Better to remember how much pain the woman who’d decreed that jacket should be in precisely that caramel colour had inflicted. It didn’t matter that it exactly picked out a shade in Lydia Stanford’s long hair. Or that it accentuated a narrow waist and visually lengthened her legs.

It was a warning. And only a fool would ignore it.

‘Have you read them?’

‘What?’ He brought Lydia back into focus. Her lips parted into a smile, showing her even teeth. The woman was stunning. Like a sleek lioness. A mixture of sunshine and fire.

‘Have you read them all yet? The Bible, the Koran and the complete works of Shakespeare?’

‘By the age of thirty-two.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘I’ve never used the napkin rings, though,’ he returned and was rewarded by the same sexy laugh. Hell, it did something to his insides that didn’t bear thinking about.

He closed his hand round the handle of the cat basket. ‘Have you seen Nimrod?’

‘Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll come in for food some time. He can’t have had anything to eat since yesterday morning.’

Nick glanced down at his wristwatch. ‘He’ll have to do it in the next twenty minutes or I’ll be out of time.’ He strode over to the back door and called.

‘Do cats come when you call?’

He looked over his shoulder. ‘No idea.’ Lydia was smiling, bright eyes ready to laugh and, God help him, he wanted to laugh back.

‘Look, why don’t you let me try and catch Nimrod? I can stay until he comes in for food.’

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that. I—’

‘Why ever not?’ She shook back her hair. ‘You’re obviously busy and I’m on holiday.’

‘On holiday?’

Her smile twisted. ‘I should be in Vienna. I flew back when I heard Wendy wanted me to write her biography.’

‘You broke off your holiday?’ He couldn’t quite believe it. What a pointless gesture. His godmother would have been more than happy to wait. There was nothing so important about the precise timing of this meeting which meant it couldn’t have been postponed.

‘Guilty as charged. Over-developed work ethic.’ She smiled, but this time it didn’t have the same effect. Nick could see a different face.

It was none of his business whether or not Lydia Stanford chose to curtail her holiday, but it reminded him of Ana. Still, four years after she’d left, he thought about her most days. There were reasons for that, of course. Good reasons.

In the three years they’d been married Ana had never taken a holiday. Had never turned off her cellphone. It was a price she’d been prepared to pay to achieve her goals. He couldn’t deny she’d been totally honest about that from the very beginning, and at the start he’d admired her for it.

Presumably Lydia Stanford would agree that that kind of commitment was necessary. They were wrong.

‘I’ve got the laptop in the car. I can work here and drive Nimrod over to you later.’ She looked across at him. ‘It’s not a problem.’

Nick glanced down at his watch. It was tempting to accept her offer. He had back-to-back meetings scheduled for the morning and paperwork that really needed looking at after that, besides squeezing in a visit to the hospital. But to accept meant…

She seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t take it as an endorsement of your godmother’s choice of biographer.’ She met his eyes. ‘By the way, what is your problem with me?’

‘Have I said there’s a problem?’ he countered.

‘You haven’t needed to. It’s obvious.’

He hesitated. ‘Wendy is capable of making her own decisions. In fact, she would strongly resent my interference in what doesn’t concern me.’

Even in his own head his reply sounded pompous and formal. Famed for his ‘tell it like it is’ approach to business, how had he become so verbally challenged when confronted by a beautiful…?

What was she? Not a blonde or a brunette. Richer than a blonde and lighter than a brunette.

‘I don’t believe that for a minute.’

He looked up.

‘Oh, I believe Wendy doesn’t like interference in her business. I’m like that myself, but—’ her eyes met his ‘—but I don’t believe you don’t tell her what you think. I’ve seen you two together, remember.’

He felt a small muscle pulse in his cheek. ‘I don’t want her hurt.’

‘I won’t.’

And, strangely, he believed her. There was an innate honesty in those rich eyes that made him want to trust her. Was that how she worked? Was it a highly cultivated technique which persuaded the unsuspecting to share their innermost secrets?

‘If you slander her in any way I’ll sue you.’

She didn’t flinch. ‘An authorised biography is just that—authorised.’ Then her face softened. ‘You really love her, don’t you?’

‘She’s a special lady.’

‘So I gather.’ Lydia slipped her arms out of her jacket and placed it over the chair by the table. ‘You can trust me. Where do you want me to take Nimrod to? Do you have a housekeeper to receive him?’

A housekeeper. A nanny. A daughter.

He didn’t trust her. Not with one atom of his body. If he left Lydia in the cottage she would, no doubt, look around. She’d open drawers and search through Wendy’s possessions. But then, Wendy herself had argued that she’d nothing to hide.

Let her search.

‘My housekeeper is Mrs Pearman. Christine Pearman.’ It felt as if he’d lost some unspoken battle. ‘Did your research on me extend to knowing where I live?’

As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted his phrasing of them. Lydia Stanford was doing him a favour. Even if she did have an unacknowledged agenda of her own.

‘You weren’t that much of an interest, but I’m sure I can find out with a couple of phone calls if you want to make it a game.’

He’d deserved that, Nick thought as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his card case. ‘It’s a ten, fifteen minute drive from here. No more.’ He scribbled down the address. ‘I’ll ring Christine and let her know to expect you. You’ll need to phone up to the house when you arrive and they’ll open the gates.’

Lydia took the card and looked down at it.

‘If you need to leave before Nimrod puts in an appearance, I’d be grateful if you’d leave a message with my secretary and I’ll come back this evening. The number’s on the front. It’s a direct line through to her. I don’t want you to feel you have to sit here for hours.’

She turned the card over. ‘It’s not a problem.’

‘No, well…thank you.’

Her eyes flashed up. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’ll lock the front door. If you leave the key beneath the flowerpot…’

‘No problem,’ she said again.

There was nothing left to do. ‘The cage is here.’ He pointed at the cat basket.

‘Yes.’

It was just leaving that was the problem. It was walking back down the hall and shutting the door.

Trust. This was about trust. About leaving her alone in Wendy’s cottage.

Or was it? There was the suspicion that this was about more than that. There was something about her golden aura that touched him. He knew it—and he was almost certain she did.

Danger. Fire. And Lydia Stanford. Like the Holy Trinity they belonged together.

‘Thank you.’

‘Give Wendy my…’Love. She’d been about to say love. Hardly appropriate for a woman she didn’t know. ‘Best wishes.’

His hand went to his tie. ‘I’ll do that.’

Lydia made herself smile. She didn’t know what was going on here. There were undercurrents she didn’t understand. ‘Perhaps she’ll ring me when she feels…ready?’

‘I’m sure she will.’

And then he left. Awkwardly—and she had no idea why. Why was it she felt so uncomfortable round Nicholas Regan-Phillips? It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to men with influence and money. She was.

She heard the front door click shut and gazed about Wendy Bennington’s tired kitchen. What the heck was she doing? And, more importantly, why was she doing it?

It was true, what she’d told Nicholas Regan-Phillips, she did have the time. This was her holiday.

Nicholas Regan-Phillips. What a mouthful of a name. Nick Regan. His Nick Regan suited him far better.

Lydia filled the old limescale encrusted kettle and set it on the gas hob. It was just so out of character for her to have agreed to kick her heels in such a place.

Why would she do that? This wasn’t her problem.

But Nick Regan was, that little voice that sat some way to the left of her shoulder whispered. He was arrogant, rude, supercilious…and sexy. Lydia searched around for a coffee mug. Bizarrely, Nick Regan was very, very sexy—and he was probably the reason she’d agreed to stay.

Now, if Izzy knew that…