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“Interested?” Sam drawled About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright
“Interested?” Sam drawled
“No,” Abby 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?”
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 your father like?”
“Kind. What are you like?” she asked with remote hauteur.
His mouth twisted. “Not kind.”
EMMA RICHMOND was born in Kent, England, during the war, when, she says, “farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed—reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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.