Читать книгу In The Billionaire's Bed - Sara Wood - Страница 8

ZACHARIAH TALENT didn’t notice the sheet of bluebells which were generously trying to obliterate the woodland floor. In fact, he didn’t even register the existence of the wood itself.

Similarly, hedgerows passed by in a blur of white May blossom, while the verges quite fruitlessly boasted stately pink foxgloves, rising like rockets above the masses of buttery primulas.

City man from the top of his expensively cut dark hair to his polished black shoes, Zach remained oblivious to any of these rural delights.

‘Pretty countryside. Shame about the yokels. They’re dire, I can tell you. Look at that idiot,’ his PA remarked sarcastically, swerving to avoid a lone walker.

‘Uh,’ Zach grunted.

Without looking up from the laptop computer balanced on his knees, he continued to read off a succession of figures into his mobile phone, his trade-mark frown drawing his hard dark brows together.

‘Nearly there, Zach,’ the soignée Jane cooed breathily. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’

Sharply he put Hong Kong on hold and glanced at his PA. She flashed him a smile that seemed worryingly warm. Never one to mix business with pleasure, he met it with his habitual, emotionless stare, his grey eyes cold and forbidding.

Was it happening again? he thought bleakly. And, if so, why did the women he worked with always imagine themselves in love with him? It wasn’t as if he gave them any encouragement. Far from it. He couldn’t be more distant if he tried.

‘It’s just a house. Bricks and mortar. An investment,’ he said curtly.

‘Oh, it’s more than that!’ she declared, alarming him even further with the mingled look of rapture and slyness on her face. ‘It has real character. A home for a family.’ There was a significant pause during which his irritation level increased several notches and then, in the absence of any comment from him, Jane hurried on. ‘It needs modernising, of course. Better facilities all round. But the potential’s there. Huge, airy rooms to set off your elegant antiques and furnishings—and its grounds run down to the River Saxe—’

‘So you said,’ he interrupted, cutting off her estate agent eulogy in mid-flow.

Mentally noting that he might soon have to advertise for a new PA, Zach dealt with his ringing phone, bought a tranche of well-priced bonds on the Hong Kong market and closed a profitable deal on some utilities shares.

‘Have you any idea why Mrs Tresanton left you the house in her will?’ Jane ventured curiously when he’d wrapped the call.

‘No relatives. No one close,’ he replied in his usual curt manner.

But it had been a surprise and he still had no idea why Edith had favoured him. He wasn’t exactly the country type.

To avoid Jane’s unsettling dreamy expression, he looked out of the window and scowled because his headache was getting worse.

The scenery seemed to leap at him, demanding his attention. He had an impression of an explosion of greenery that was almost unnerving.

They were driving along a pot-holed lane beside the river which looked utterly still and so smooth that it could have been enamelled the same blue as the sky. Saxe blue perhaps, he thought idly. He remembered that Edith had often talked of its beauty and had nagged him to call. There’d never been the time, of course.

She had been a good client of his. Almost a mother to him. His mouth tightened in an effort to control the bitter memory of his own mother’s death seventeen years ago, a few months after his father had suffered a fatal stroke.

Odd, how overpowering his grief had been. He’d been eighteen then, but had barely known his parents. They’d both worked so hard for his betterment that he’d been a latch-key kid from the age of five and used to looking after himself. But when they’d died he’d suddenly become truly alone in the world.

Perhaps that was why he had become fond of Edith. Normally he didn’t get close to his clients, preferring to devote himself to managing their financial affairs as creatively and as securely as possible.

But Edith had been different. Although she’d mothered him with constant reprimands about his hectic work schedules, she’d also made him laugh with her odd, eccentric ways during their monthly meetings in London. And laughter was in short supply in his busy life.

‘I hope you like the house,’ Jane said a little nervously, parking her banana yellow Aston Martin on a small tarmac area beside the river. And more petulantly, ‘I just wish you’d checked it over first, before asking me to arrange for all your stuff to be moved in.’

‘No time free. Not with those back-to-back meetings in the States. I’m sure you’ve settled me in very well,’ he retorted crisply, leaping out and looking around for Tresanton Manor.

To his surprise, there was nothing to be seen but the placid river, some black duck things with white blobs on their foreheads, clumps of trees and bushes on a nearby island and stretches of unkempt fields. Apart from the rather piercing trill of birdsong the place seemed eerily quiet. The lack of traffic bothered him. It had implications.

‘So where is it?’ he demanded, feeling decidedly out of place in his sharply tailored business suit and fashionable purple shirt.

Jane teetered a little on her spindly heels, equally incongruous in her formal jacket and tight skirt. Tighter than usual, he suddenly realised. And…had she ever shown cleavage before? Help, he thought. Trouble ahead.

‘Er…the house is over the bridge.’ Meekly she indicated the narrow plank affair that led from the bank to the island.

Zach’s mouth fell open. He put a hand to his throbbing temple.

‘Over…?’ With difficulty he mastered his shock. ‘You’re not telling me that the house is on…an…island?’ he asked with cold incredulity.

Jane looked at him in panic. ‘Zach! You must have read the deeds! Tresanton Manor and Tresanton Island—’

‘No!’ He glared. How could she have ever thought this place was suitable? ‘That’s what I employ you for. To summarise everything. To identify the crucial points. And I think I’d call an island a crucial point, wouldn’t you? Where’s the road across?’ he rapped out.

‘There isn’t one,’ Jane replied in a small voice. ‘We have to walk from here—’

‘We what…? I don’t believe this!’ he muttered. ‘You expect me to park my Maserati here in the open—when I eventually get it back from the garage—to be vandalised by any idle yob who passes?’

‘I don’t think it’s that kind of area…’ Jane began nervously.

‘Every area is that kind!’ Zach muttered, thoroughly disenchanted with Edith’s house already. He could imagine what it would be like, stuck here on a wet wintry day with his bored son, unable to walk straight from an integral garage into the warmth of a welcoming house. Hell. Now what? He’d promised Sam a house with a garden. ‘I can’t stay here. I’ll have to hunt for something else,’ he added.

‘But you can’t do that, remember?’

Zach groaned. He recalled Edith’s peculiar requirement, which had seemed typically nutty but acceptable at the time:

…bequeath Zachariah Talent my house and all its contents, to live in for at least a year, otherwise the house is to be given to the first person he sees when he sets foot on the island.

Unbelievable. The milkman could end up owning two million’s worth of real estate! If there was a milkman in this uninhabited outback, he thought sourly.

‘OK. So I’ll come just on weekends and camp out,’ he growled.

He couldn’t disappoint Sam. But this wasn’t what he’d had in mind at all. He wanted proximity to burger bars, cinemas and zoos. How else did you entertain an eight-year-old?

‘Jane!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘What the devil are those scruffy boats doing there?’ he demanded, an extraordinary depth of disappointment making him want to lash out at anyone and anything.

She followed his scowl which directed her to the huddled boats, further down-river.

‘Canal boats. Or are they called narrow boats? I believe Inland Waterways allows them to tie up there,’ she replied helpfully.

Zach’s mouth hardened like a trap. They’d be a security risk. Slowly he scanned the area, his expression becoming grimmer as he realised that Jane had also conveniently omitted to tell him that the house was in the middle of nowhere. The jagged pains in his head increased.

This was an unbelievable mess! He’d made a terrible mistake in delegating something this important!

Cursing himself for letting Jane handle everything, he was pragmatic enough to know that there wasn’t much he could do for now.

All right. He’d grit his teeth and use the house on weekends for the required year, but no way was he going to rest until there were decent paths and safety rails to stop his son from falling into the river.

Nor was he going to live permanently on an island where goodness knew who could easily leap from a boat and merrily rob him of his entire art collection.

‘Get on to the garage and have my car delivered here as soon as possible,’ he rapped out. ‘I’m dealing with this mess personally, so cancel any engagements till further notice. I’ll e-mail you with the improvements that I decide will be necessary before the house goes on the market. And find me something more suitable in the meantime where I can live and secure my valuables. In a city. Near restaurants. A gym. Theatres. Understand? Keys!’ Peremptorily he held out his hand, knowing he was being unreasonably curt. ‘Please,’ he growled as the flustered Jane fumbled anxiously in her bag.

She was a good PA. But ever since she’d viewed Tresanton Manor there had been a light in her eye that had boded ill. She was ready to nest and he was in her sights. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to choose sofas and curtains with anyone ever again.

Choking back an urge to rant and rail that his plans had gone awry and his son was unlikely to bond with him in this rural hell, he grabbed his laptop, bade Jane a curt goodbye and strode over the bridge, wondering with some desperation if he would ever win his son’s love.

He’d been banking on this house to help achieve that goal. And only now did he realise how important it was to him that he was loved by his child. Of course, he’d talked about his son’s indifference to Edith, but he’d never let her know how deeply he was hurt. Or even admitted it to himself.

He felt a heavy ache in his heart. Pain tightened his mouth and burned in his charcoal eyes. One day his son would hug him, he vowed, instead of treating him with cool reserve.

Women he could do without in his life. All the ones he’d met socially had rung up pound signs in their eyes when they knew who he was.

And none of the women he’d dated had been able to cope with the realities of his hectic work-load. Nor had his ex-wife. But he wanted to give his son financial security, and you didn’t get rich—or stay rich—dancing attendance on females and taking them out shopping.

In a thoroughly bad mood at the collapse of his dreams, he stomped along the muddy path, occasionally ducking his head to avoid being attacked by the boughs of apple trees. You didn’t have such problems with pavements.

He couldn’t understand why Edith had thought she was doing him a favour by forcing him to live here for a year. How could she call this place a paradise? he wondered grumpily.

And then he noticed the woman.