Читать книгу In The Billionaire's Bed - Sara Wood - Страница 10

‘ALL these keys!’ Grumbling, Zach was turning the huge bunch in his hand, trying to find the one that opened the main door.

‘It’s like this one,’ Catherine said with commendable patience.

Tiredly she lifted the rope line at her waist and selected Edith’s key from the others for comparison.

Zach stiffened. ‘You have a key?’ he barked in staccato consternation, as if she’d committed a crime. Or was about to.

‘I often came to see the previous owner,’ she explained, her spirits at an all-time low. ‘She gave me one to let myself in.’

Zach’s eyes narrowed and fixed on her like heat-seeking missiles.

‘Have you been in the house since she died?’ he shot out suspiciously.

Bristling, she regarded him with the level and reproving gaze of a Victorian schoolmistress confiscating jelly beans from a naughty child.

‘You mean have I nipped in to steal anything?’ she flung back haughtily. ‘Brass fittings? A marble fireplace or two? A staircase, maybe?’

‘It happens.’ He didn’t seem embarrassed by her bluntness. ‘Though I suppose you’re not likely to admit to theft.’

His audacity was breathtaking. Catherine inhaled deeply. It was that or hit him and she didn’t believe in violence.

‘I haven’t stolen anything. In fact, I haven’t set foot in the house since I found Edith in her bed,’ she informed him, the faint tremor in her voice betraying how painful that discovery had been.

‘You found her?’ He seemed to be on the verge of saying something—his sympathies, perhaps—but, thought Catherine darkly, he managed to stop himself in time from doing anything so remotely human. Instead, he grunted. ‘Hmm. I’ll have to take your word for it, then,’ he muttered, but his eyes lingered on her tremulous mouth thoughtfully.

‘Or you could ask around,’ she said, tightening her lips in a rare display of anger, ‘and then you’d learn that I don’t have a dishonest bone in my body!’

To her discomfort, he examined her with clinical detail, as if to check how honest her bones might be. His intense scrutiny brought a flush to her face and she lowered her startled nut-brown eyes to avoid his road-driller stare.

‘Don’t think I won’t do that,’ he snapped.

Her mutinous gaze flashed up to his again. ‘Can’t you read faces? Don’t you realise the kind of person I am?’

He seemed to flinch and withdraw into himself. The hard and impenetrable coldness he was projecting made her shiver, as if she’d stepped into cold storage.

‘I make it a habit never to trust anyone until I have overwhelming proof of their integrity.’

‘You must find it hard to make friends,’ she observed drily.

His gaze burned angrily into her. ‘I’d like that key,’ he growled.

With her own dark eyes conveying her scorn, she eased it off the cork float that had twice saved her boat keys from sinking to the bottom of the river.

OK. She’d blown it. But she wouldn’t be bullied. If standing up to this monster meant that she’d have to leave, then that would have to be her fate.

She had never disliked anyone before, always finding good in everyone she met. But this guy was without any decent characteristics at all.

And he owned Edith’s island! Conquering her misery, she tipped up her small chin in a direct challenge.

‘Take it.’ She thrust the key at him. ‘I won’t be needing it any more,’ she bit out, stiff with indignation.

‘Darn right you won’t,’ he muttered, taking it from her.

Tossing back her tumbling hair and with protesting cherry blossom falling from the ivy tie, she took an angry intake of breath. She felt close to breathing out fire and brimstone and melting Zach Talent where he stood!

‘No. You’re no Edith, breathing sweetness and light. So I doubt that I’ll be popping in to play gin rummy with you,’ she snapped, ‘or to help you patch your sheets or paint rainbows in the bathroom!’

Clearly astonished by her outburst, he hooked up an eyebrow and stared deeply into her defiant eyes—which rounded in confusion when she felt something go bump somewhere in the region of her heart. Shocked, she pressed a fluttering hand to her breast in bewilderment.

An expression of liquid warmth eased the tautness of his face and then was gone. But in that brief flash, when vibrant life lit smoky fires in his grey eyes and the corners of his firm mouth lifted with hungry desire, she felt as though she’d been felled by a thunderbolt.

After a breathless second, while something hot and visceral seemed to link them both in its fatal flames, he spun furiously on his heel to plunge the key into the keyhole with brute force.

Quivering, she stood gazing in horror at his broad and powerful back while he struggled irritably with the tricky lock. What had all that been about?

Sex, she thought—the answer nipping with alarming boldness into her head. She cringed with mortification. Quite unexpectedly, she had discovered that fierce passions lurked beneath Zach Talent’s granite exterior.

And, more shocking, within her, too. He was married! How could she?

The surging fizz of her blood, and the sense of danger and excitement which had electrified the air between them, was something she’d never known before. She had never believed such a force could exist—or that it might one day seek her out.

Love, she’d fondly imagined, would be a gentle, warm sensation. Like sinking into a deep bath. With love, would come the joy of eventually uniting with the person you trusted and adored above all other people. The union would be sweet and beautiful, a meeting of mind and body and soul. Two people expressing the totality of their love.

But she had been taken unawares by the effect of Zach’s raw, sexual attraction. Never had she expected to feel this harsh, primeval urge of nature that owed nothing to love and everything to pure, animal instinct. It was humiliating that she should. And, given the fact that she knew his marital state, it demeaned her.

It only showed her innocence, she thought wryly, that she could be so easily zapped into a quivering mess by a rogue City trader—who was also her unwitting landlord!

How silly to be affected. He certainly hadn’t known what he’d been doing, or that one unguarded and casual look from him could turn her insides out!

Men were supposed to think about sex every six seconds, she’d read. She supposed that she’d been in his eyeline at the time.

She made a face. How she pitied his wife! He’d be a terrible lover. He’d probably fit in his embraces between calls to New York and the London Stock Exchange!

Would he take his mobile to bed? she wondered, warming to her theme. Very likely, she conceded and her face relaxed into a broad grin at the thought of his wife’s fury at being interrupted by a discussion on High Fidelity bonds at a crucial moment.

Stifling a giggle, she was relieved to find that her pulses had stopped careering about in hysteria and that her body had calmed down after its peculiar insurrection.

It had been a blip in her hormonal activity. The result of Zach’s overwhelming good looks and perfect physique. Plus the frisson of being in close proximity with an Alpha male.

She was susceptible to superficial looks, it seemed. Well. If a man could ogle with impunity, so could she.

‘You’re smiling,’ he accused gruffly.

He had pushed the door open and was standing back, waiting for her to enter. With understandable caution she flicked her amused eyes up to his and was horrified to find herself immediately swimming for her life.

‘Isn’t it allowed?’ she retorted.

But her defiance was spoiled by a dismaying huskiness.

He shrugged. ‘Be my guest. But share the joke. Or is it on me?’ he asked suspiciously. And he searched around for bandits again.

She waved a deprecating hand.

‘Forget it. You wouldn’t understand!’

‘Try me,’ he said with underlying menace.

She read too much into that and found herself stupidly blushing.

‘Absolutely not!’

What did he mean by saying the joke might be on him? Why was he so wary of her motives? Desperate to hide her flushed face, she hastily bent to remove her shoes before heading for the farmhouse kitchen, glad to sit down and give her jellied legs some relief.

‘You do know your way around,’ he drawled speculatively, appearing in his stockinged feet.

Nice feet, she noticed. High arches. Crossing one leg over the other, he leant, dark and brooding, in the doorway. And a curl of excitement quickened her breath.

So she gritted her teeth and said nothing. All her energies were concentrated on controlling her wilful hormones in case their eyes met while his brain was connecting with his loins again.

‘Glad you made yourself at home,’ he added with dry sarcasm.

Catherine jumped up. ‘Oh! You must think I’m so rude. I’m sorry,’ she said hastily, remembering her manners. This was his home now. She fixed him with her dark chocolate eyes, suitably apologetic. ‘Forgive me,’ she murmured contritely. ‘It was force of habit.’

His intently focused stare was disconcerting. Something had happened to his mouth. It seemed to be fuller. Beautifully shaped. The tip of her tongue tasted her own lips as if in anticipation.

Wicked, wanton ideas flashed through her mind before she could stop them. Like putting her hands on his warm chest, standing on tiptoe and kissing those classically curved lips till he melted. Appalled beyond belief, she clamped down on the impulse ruthlessly.

Somehow she dragged her gaze away and lowered her thick lashes, sick to the stomach by her runaway feelings. She felt bewildered by what was happening to her strong sense of morality.

‘Habit? Does that mean you lived here at one time?’ he asked in a slow kind of slur, quite different to his earlier speech. And so sexy as to set her nerves jangling. ‘Or did you merely come to stay in the house?’

‘No.’ Hot and bothered, she struggled to regain the clarity of her voice. ‘I’ve never lived here. Though Edith asked me to, a few months after we first met.’

Zach looked puzzled. ‘And you refused?’

‘I like my independence,’ Catherine replied. ‘I’ve lived alone for ten years, ever since I was sixteen. Edith understood, once I’d explained. Our friendship wasn’t affected.’

‘Did you know she had an extensive portfolio?’ he shot out.

‘Not unless you translate that for me,’ she countered, annoyed by his City-speak. ‘I only learnt English and French at school,’ she added with rare sarcasm.

‘She was very wealthy,’ he drawled.

‘Really? Are you sure?’ she said in surprise. ‘She lived very simply.’

‘But she also owned this house and island,’ he pointed out.

‘Plenty of people live in big houses they’ve inherited—yet they’re as poor as church mice. Places like this cost a great deal to keep maintained. If you see someone like Edith making economies, turning worn sheets sides to middle and rarely buying any clothes, you assume they’re hard up,’ Catherine retorted.

His sardonic eyes narrowed. ‘Did she ever help you out financially?’

‘Certainly not!’ Catherine looked at him askance. ‘She wouldn’t ever have been so crass! I stand on my own feet. I’d never respect myself otherwise!’

‘But you were a frequent visitor and made yourself at home,’ he probed.

‘Yes. As a friend. When I called, I’d let myself in. Edith would be sitting there,’ she explained, indicating the comfortable pine armchair on the opposite side of the big table. ‘And I’d sit here.’

Her eyes were misty with memories when they looked up into his and met a blaze of answering fire.

There was a hushed pause while the air seemed to thicken and enfold them both. Catherine floundered. Some kind of powerful force was trying to draw her to him. She could hear the thudding of her heart booming in her ears.

Panicking, she lifted a fluttering hand to fiddle with her hair. The caress of his eyes, as she curled a strand around her ear, made her stomach turn to water.

At last he spoke, quietly and yet with a grating tone, as if something was blocking his throat.

‘If you knew her well, then you might be able to help me.’

‘Help you?’ she repeated stupidly, playing for time while her brain unscrambled itself and began to rule her body again.

Almost vaguely, he glared at his trilling phone, immobilised it and clipped it on to his belt. Then he took a deep breath.

‘Yes. But first I need a coffee,’ he announced, brisk and curt once more. ‘So, for a start, any idea where the kettle might be?’

‘On the Aga.’ Relieved to be involved in something practical, she pointed to the scarlet enamelled stove, one of Edith’s few extravagances. ‘I didn’t turn it off. I thought it would be best if it was cosy and welcoming in here, for whoever came to view the house.’

He looked at the kettle uncertainly, as if he didn’t know what to do with a piece of equipment that didn’t hitch up to an electric socket. She took pity on him, deftly filling the kettle with water and carrying it to the hob.

Her skin prickled. He had come very close and was watching what she did. Slightly flustered by the invading infusion of heat in her body, she lifted the hob lid, put the kettle on the boiling plate then hurried over to the dresser.

As she lifted down the mugs her hand faltered and she stared blindly into space, thinking of the countless times she and Edith had chatted together at this very table.

‘I’ve had groceries delivered,’ Zach announced crisply, rummaging in the cupboards. ‘It’s a matter of finding them. Coffee do you as well?’ He waved an expensive pack of ground coffee at her, only then noticing her mournful face. ‘What’s the matter?’

Catherine bit her lip and unearthed Edith’s cafetière, selecting an herb tea for herself.

‘I miss her,’ she said softly, her eyes misting over again. It was odd. She rarely cried. But her emotions had been tested to the limit over the past ten days. And especially during the past hour. ‘I miss her more than I could ever have imagined,’ she blurted out.

‘Hmm. You were very close, then?’

The low vibration of his voice seemed to rumble through her body. She shuddered, thinking that if this man ever turned his attention to a woman and opened up his emotions, she wouldn’t have a chance.

‘We were like mother and daughter. I was devastated to—to find her,’ she whispered, making a hash of spooning the aromatic coffee into the pot.

The spoon was taken from her hand. For a moment their fingers were linked: warm, strangely comforting. Horrible flashes of fire attacked her loins and she snatched her hand away in appalled fury, turning her back on him and feeling stupidly like bursting into tears of utter shame.

‘Mother and daughter,’ Zach repeated in a voice rolling with gravel. She heard him suck in a huge breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s obvious that her death has touched you deeply.’

She hunched her slight shoulders and could only nod. She didn’t want to break down in front of this hard-hearted stranger. But losing her beloved Edith, with all her merry, wacky ways, plus the prospect of never seeing the island again, just made her want to wail.

‘I—I came to check on her every day. We’d have breakfast together,’ Catherine mumbled painfully. She was torturing herself and she didn’t know why she was confiding in someone she disliked so much, only that she had to do so. ‘She made wonderful bread. We’d lather it with butter and home-made jam or marmalade and watch the birds demolishing our fat balls.’

Zach looked puzzled. ‘Your what?’

‘Fat. Impregnated with nuts and seeds,’ she said listlessly. ‘We melt the fat, stir in the nuts and so on and pour the mixture into pots till it sets. We—I—’ she stumbled, ‘—only provide seed now.’

‘Really?’

Feeling forlorn, Catherine gazed at the trees outside the window, adorned with bird feeders. Two long-tailed tits were currently availing themselves of the facility.

‘Yes. You need to vary the food, depending on the time of year and whether the birds are nesting,’ she advised absently.

‘And you’ve been coming over here and doing this ever since Edith died,’ he remarked with disapproval.

Dumbly, she nodded. ‘Someone had to,’ she mumbled, sensing that the birds would have to fend for themselves through the winter in future.

‘You won’t, of course, be doing that again,’ said Zach sternly, confirming her worst fears. ‘I value my privacy and I don’t want people wandering about my land, particularly when I’m not here.’

She looked up, her eyes wide and watchful.

‘Won’t you be living here all the time, then?’

He grimaced as if he’d rather find a convenient cave in the Himalayas.

‘No.’

‘You don’t like it, do you?’

‘Not much.’

Presumably the wife had bought the house without his knowledge. What an odd thing to do. Unless his wife was the one with the money.

‘Poor Edith,’ she said quietly. ‘She often said she had great plans for this place when she’d gone. But she’d never tell me what she meant. I didn’t even know it was on the market.’

‘It wasn’t. She left it to me in her will.’

Catherine’s mouth fell open in amazement. ‘You?’ she gasped. ‘I don’t believe it! You weren’t even at her funeral—’

‘I don’t go to them,’ he said, with an odd tightening of his mouth.

There had been an ostentatious wreath, Catherine remembered, a sharp contrast to the country flowers she and her boating friends had placed on the coffin. The florist’s card bore just one word. ‘Farewell.’ Not the most heartfelt message she’d ever seen, but typical of someone like Zach. And now she was intrigued.

‘You were the lilies,’ she said.

‘I was the lilies,’ he confirmed.

Catherine’s eyes widened. Knowing Edith as she did, it seemed inconceivable that Zach and the old lady could have any point of contact!

‘How would Edith ever know someone like you?’ she wondered aloud.

‘I run an investment company. I was her financial adviser and I managed her money.’

She nodded. That made sense. But Edith wouldn’t have liked him enough to entrust her precious island to his smooth, City hands!

‘Why would she give the island to you?’ she asked in confusion. ‘You’re the last person on earth—’

She clamped her lips together. She’d said too much.

‘You’re right,’ he said, his mouth curling in wry amusement. ‘I don’t understand either. For some wacky reason known only to Edith, she wanted me to live here.’

‘But you must already have a house!’ she declared, visualising an opulent mansion with four swimming pools and obsequious servants tugging their forelocks like crazy.

‘No. A flat in London.’

And that, she thought, would suit him perfectly. Something in stainless steel with furniture that looked stylish but was hell to use, something in a smart and expensive district.

‘Well, you can’t want this island!’ she argued.

‘You’re right. I don’t.’

For a moment, Catherine felt a glimmer of hope. He’d off-load it on to someone else—someone more empathetic—and she’d have a better chance of persuading the next owner to let her stay.

‘I see,’ she said, perking up considerably. ‘You’ll put it on the market, then.’

‘I don’t discuss my business,’ he replied cuttingly.

Suitably rebuked, Catherine nodded, still delighted that their acquaintance would probably be short and sour.

‘I don’t blame you,’ she confided. ‘The path gets horribly muddy in the winter. You can see what it’s like now, even with the few showers we’ve had recently. And of course you’re very isolated here.’ She remembered the wheat grass. ‘No city amenities. A distinct lack of exotic food.’

He gave her a thoughtful and searing look which suggested he knew exactly what she was up to.

‘But despite all these problems, you…love it all,’ he observed in a low tone.

Her eyes rounded. ‘How do you know that?’

There was a pause, during which she noticed the increased rise and fall of his chest.

‘The way you looked at the bluebells.’ Apparently about to say something else, he cleared his throat instead.

‘You noticed them, then?’ she said drily.

‘In passing.’ Zach tilted his head to one side and gave her another speculative look. ‘If you were as close to Edith as you claim,’ he mused, ‘why didn’t she leave you the house and land?’

Catherine smiled, thinking of her conversation with the old lady.

‘Oh, she said she was planning to do that. But I told her I didn’t want it,’ she answered solemnly.

He gave a snort of disbelief. ‘I find that hard to accept,’ he said scathingly.

‘It was a practical decision. How would I afford to run it?’ she argued.

‘With her money, of course.’

‘But I didn’t know she had any!’ Catherine protested.

‘Odd that she didn’t tell you,’ he mused.

‘I didn’t give her a chance. I told her that I’d rattle around in Tresanton Manor on my own and feel lonely. And my friends might not come and visit me any more.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’re ordinary people and they’d feel intimidated,’ she said simply.

‘You could have sold it.’

She stared, uncomprehending. ‘What would be the point in being given a house and then immediately offloading it?’

‘Are you deliberately being provocative, or are you financially naïve?’ he marvelled sarcastically. ‘The point is that you would have made a lot of money.’

Money. It obviously ruled his life. Acquisitions, material possessions, they were all he saw, all he knew. Odd that she was so attracted to him. Perhaps it was the magnetism of opposites. Even now, alienated by his cold obsession with wealth, she felt an undeniable feral thrill from his extreme masculinity.

But where to start, to explain her philosophy of life? He wouldn’t understand it for a moment. His eyebrow hooked up cynically as though she must be lying because she hadn’t come up with an explanation. That galvanised her to give him one.

‘Edith knew my views on living simply,’ she said with quiet passion. ‘I wouldn’t want more money than I knew what to do with. Besides, I’d worry like mad if I had money invested in the stock market.’

‘Think of all the new clothes you could have had,’ he suggested.

‘I have all I need! If I want something like a winter coat, I work extra hours. I already have a home that means a great deal to me. I truly have everything I want. Why should I rock the boat by changing my circumstances? I could end up very unhappy and out of my depth. Edith knew me well enough to know that quality of life is more important to me than material possessions. She accepted that because it was her philosophy too.’ Catherine smiled fondly.

Clearly baffled, he shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘No,’ she said with a gentle sorrow. ‘I don’t suppose you do. But… Supposing I had accepted her offer. It would have changed the way people regard me, especially if she’d left me all her money too. As I said, my friends would have been ill at ease in the manor and very conscious of the differences in our situations. If I bought them a round of drinks in the pub, they might think I was being patronising. If I didn’t, they’d think I was mean. You can’t win. When someone’s financial circumstances change, the attitude of people around them changes too. I have good friends, people I am very fond of,’ she said, gazing up at him earnestly. ‘I don’t want to lose their unquestioning friendship. It means everything to me.’

‘Living in an expensive house you’d soon make new friends,’ he remarked cynically.

‘Exactly! They would be drawn by my apparent wealth,’ she cried with heartfelt passion. ‘That’s the last thing I want! My friendships are genuine. People like me for who I am, not what I am or how much money I’ve got. We do one another favours, which makes for a wonderful sense of community and protection. I am very happy and I’d be a fool to jeopardise that happiness. I explained all this to Edith and she realised that I already had…my…paradise.’

Her voice had faltered towards the end of the sentence. Any moment now and it could be Paradise Lost.

The kettle began to sing. Just in time, she managed to stop him from lifting it and burning his hand. Unfortunately her dash to the stove meant that they ended up body to body, his arms wrapping around her protectively when she cannoned into him.

‘Hot,’ she babbled breathily, her flapping hand indicating the kettle. But all she could feel was the fiery furnace of his chest. The frantic beating of her imprisoned heart. She was too shocked to move.

‘Hot. I see,’ he murmured, his mouth a sinful curve as his head seemed to bend low to hers.

Scorn laced her eyes. Another married man on the make, ready for any opportunity. Buster, she thought, your six seconds are up.

‘I’ll make the drinks,’ she snapped, glaring at him.

The grey eyes chilled. The sinful curve disappeared and she was abruptly released.

‘You do that.’

With elaborate care she filled the cafetière and placed it on the table. Then she added hot water to the herbal tea bag and slid, subdued, into her chair again.

Her pulses were galloping like a herd of wild horses. The man was so packed with rampant male hormones that he was a danger to her self-respect. She had to get away.

Her heart sank. That meant she must broach the subject of her mooring without any further beating about the bush.

She’d hoped to prepare the ground by chatting in a companionable way so that he felt at ease with her, and therefore more inclined to let her stay. But, she thought gloomily, a leisurely approach was out of the question now.

‘Have you thought of a reason for wandering about my island?’ he asked sardonically before she could come up with her opening line.

Her shoulders slumped. Not the most promising of starts.

‘Edith let me moor my boat on the far side,’ she began, deciding on a full frontal attack.

‘What kind of a boat?’ The frown was working hard as he pulled a pack of painkillers from inside his jacket and popped out two pills. ‘Do you row over here from the village or something?’

Catherine wondered if his bad temper was due to his headache. He’d been rubbing his head a lot, she recalled.

‘It’s a narrow boat,’ she explained. ‘I live on it.’

His face was a picture. Hastily she took advantage of his astonishment.

‘I was wondering, if temporarily—’

‘No.’

She blinked. ‘You haven’t heard what I was about to say!’

‘I’m not stupid. I make my living by putting two and two together. You want to continue the arrangement. The answer’s no.’

‘Surely, if you’re going to sell—?’

‘All the more reason to get rid of any illicit vagrants who call in whenever the fancy takes them.’

Her face flamed at the description. ‘But it’s—!’

‘No.’

Her mutinous gene seemed to assert itself. ‘Why?’ she demanded, her eyes blazing with anger.

Zach’s gaze dropped, his thick black lashes a heart-stopping crescent on his cheeks as he pushed down the cafetière plunger slowly then poured out the coffee, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma.

‘Nobody would buy this place with itinerants tied up to its banks. And while I’m still here I want privacy and security. I’m not likely to get that with you camping out in the reeds and thinking you can treat my island like your own garden, to visit whenever you feel like it,’ he replied irascibly.

Catherine thought gloomily that it was just as well she hadn’t mentioned the chickens or the vegetable plot.

‘You wouldn’t know I was there,’ she persisted.

He looked her up and down. There was almost a dry amusement in his expression, although she doubted that his mouth cracked into a smile more than once a year.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said, as cold as the Arctic. ‘The answer’s no. Get used to it.’

The cracked ice eyes tried to freeze her resolve over the rim of the mug. She’d never heard such a definite refusal in her life. But what did she have to lose?

‘I can understand your reservations, but think of the advantages,’ she coaxed, all soft sugar and reason. ‘I could keep an eye on things while you’re away—’

‘Forget it,’ he snapped, swallowing both pills with a gulp of coffee. ‘I’ll install an alarm system.’

She winced, imagining sirens wailing across the peaceful countryside and emptying it of animal life for ever.

‘OK.’ She sighed. ‘Your position is clear. Nevertheless, I think I’ll wait and see what your wife has to say,’ she told him, playing her last, desperate card.

‘You’ll have a long wait,’ he muttered.

She frowned. ‘I don’t see why. She’s been here several times already. Everyone’s seen her. She drives a yellow car and she supervised the men in the removal van—’

‘Word does get about,’ he drawled.

‘That’s because the removal men didn’t get a tip,’ she said tightly. ‘They went into the local pub for a much-needed drink and complained that your wife was tight-fisted—considering they had to trudge across the bridge and through the orchard with everything you own!’

‘I’ll rectify that. But your gossips shouldn’t jump to conclusions,’ he shot back. ‘She’s my PA, not my wife. I’m divorced.’

Somehow she managed to stop herself from declaring that she wasn’t surprised. Her fingers played with the handle on her mug. The woman with egg-whisk hair had been a long shot, but a possible ally, nevertheless. Now her last hope was gone. Her body slumped a little in the chair.

‘There’s no way I can persuade you to let me live here till the new owner takes over?’ she begged in a small voice. ‘You see, I’ll lose my business if I can’t work from my boat—’

‘Wait a minute!’ His frown was ferocious. ‘I had the impression that you were asking to moor here occasionally. You’re talking about a permanent arrangement?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted meekly. ‘I’ve been here three years, you see. It would mean nothing to you, to let me tie up, but it would be everything to me. My whole livelihood would go if I have to leave. I have people who rely on me for regular—’

‘That’s your problem, not mine. I want you gone. See to it.’

Catherine rose to her feet, wondering what he would look like with half a pint of blackcurrant tea poured over his head. But dignity stayed her hand.

‘Very well. I’ll go,’ she said coolly. ‘But when it’s known how you’ve treated me, it will be your problem, too.’

‘Is that a threat?’ he growled.

She shrugged. ‘I just know what the local people are like. Treat them with courtesy and respect and they’ll go to the ends of the earth for you. Treat them or their friends badly…’ She shook her head as if he was making a huge mistake. ‘I just hope your plumbing doesn’t fail, or that you ever need help in the garden.’

And she stalked out before he could reply. Despite her bravado, she was shaking from the confrontation. And miserably she faced up to the fact that she was on the brink of leaving her beloved Tresanton Island for ever.