Secret Things and Highland Flings
TRACY CORBETT

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Tracy Corbett 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock

Tracy Corbett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008299491

Version: 2019-03-22

For Simon, thank you for helping me find my smile again. x

Table of Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Tuesday 29th May

Lexi Ryan wasn’t having the best of mornings. She’d managed to slice open her finger while chopping apricots for the muffins she’d baked first thing, and then she’d torn a contact lens and spent the next thirty minutes trying to locate the broken pieces in her eye. By the time she’d recovered and rushed down from the flat to open up her art gallery below, her finger was throbbing and her eye was bloodshot. Not exactly the composed and professional look she was aiming for.

She’d hoped wearing her favourite emerald-green fifties wrap-around dress might cheer her flagging spirits, but not even her love of vintage clothing was working today.

It was now lunchtime and things hadn’t improved. She had a pile of bills that needed paying and insufficient funds in her account to cover them. She’d phoned a few long-standing clients, hoping to encourage them into settling their accounts, but it had proved a fruitless exercise. Exceeding her overdraft limit this month was looking highly likely.

Concealing her agitation, she returned her attentions to her waiting clients. After all, she had a business to run. Stressing over her finances wouldn’t save her precious gallery from foreclosure, or prevent her from inflicting GBH on the annoying businessmen who couldn’t make up their mind between Livemont’s Scent of a Rose and Munch’s The Scream. Professionalism was called for.

‘Original?’ the older of the two said, pointing to the post-Impressionist masterpiece.

She joined them by the glass cabinet. Of course it’s an original, she was tempted to say. The Munch Museum grew tired of generating millions from displaying the Norwegian’s best-known expressionist work and decided to loan it to a small independent gallery in Windsor.

Except she didn’t say it, of course. She fought the urge for sarcasm, kept her smile in place and pointed to the index card. ‘All of the paintings displayed along this wall are copies,’ she said, refusing to catch the eye of the Woman at the Window in case she gave the game away.

‘Very good.’ He nodded manically, gesturing to the painting again. ‘Very good.’

‘I agree. They might not be originals, but they’re all exquisite works of art in their own right, painted by some of the country’s leading artists.’ She tried to dazzle them with a winning smile and brushed her blonde hair away from her face … except the plaster on her finger got stuck in her fringe, ruining the effect.

As she attempted to disentangle herself, the gallery door opened.

She glanced over, momentarily distracted by the sight of a huge bouquet of pink roses being carried through the doorway. And then she realised who was carrying the flowers and her day went from ‘mildly irritating’ to ‘catastrophic’ in an instant. It was her ex-husband.

The throbbing in her finger increased … until she realised she was gripping her hair.

She tried to regain her composure, but the sight of Marcus made that impossible. He was wearing a fitted shirt with black tailored trousers, looking tanned and relaxed, his beguiling smile enhanced by straight white teeth and deep brown eyes. He made quite an impact standing there, grinning, holding the flowers aloft like he was God’s gift. It didn’t stop her wanting to scream and throw a sharp object at his head, though.

She didn’t, of course. She hid her ensuing panic, smiled at her customers and said, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ then darted over to the doorway, her four-inch heels clicking on the tiled floor in time with her accelerated heart rate.

She hadn’t seen Marcus for over a year and although his sudden appearance in her gallery should be a complete shock, in truth she’d been expecting him.

It was hard to compute the range of emotions racing through her. He was as handsome as ever and looked younger than his thirty-four years. He smelt delicious too, a mixture of lemon and pine. Her heart ached a little at the reminder of what she’d lost.

Thankfully her head came to the rescue, absorbing the sight of his enticing smile but refusing to be taken in by it.

There’d been a time when he’d charmed her with his persuasive persona, showered her with gifts, and promised her a life filled with love, laughter and adventure. But that was before she’d discovered he wasn’t a decent, hardworking man but a prized rat who rarely told the truth. He’d played her one too many times for her to be fooled by his ‘charming-rogue’ routine. She was older and wiser now. A tougher nut to crack.

His opening gambit of, ‘Baby, it’s good to see you,’ was accompanied by him reaching for her like she was the answer to his prayers.

She lifted her hand, stopping him from hugging her. Breathing in his scent might tip the balance in favour of her hormones, derailing her motivation to draw blood.

It helped that his smile faded as he took in her attire. He’d never liked her in green. Tough. Unlike him, she couldn’t afford fancy new clothes and had to make do with items from her existing wardrobe.

‘Your hair’s shorter,’ he said, his eyes grazing over her appearance. ‘And what have you done to your eye?’

His disapproval helped to relax her. She’d almost forgotten how picky he could be. ‘What do you want, Marcus?’

A grin appeared. The glint in his eye was a reminder of all the times he’d tried to swindle her. ‘I wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.’ He offered her the flowers.

She refused to take them. ‘How’s Cindy?’

Mentioning his twenty-two-year-old PA had the desired effect. His smile instantly faded.

‘She’s still in Spain.’

‘Staying at the Finca, I presume?’

It still annoyed her that under Spanish law, their villa was excluded from UK insolvency laws. As such, his dodgy solicitor had managed to secure him ownership in the divorce. They’d purchased the place shortly after they’d married and spent two summers holidaying there – before his shady business dealings came to light and he ran off with his PA.

‘Lucky Cindy. Andalucía’s lovely in the spring.’

‘I didn’t come here to talk about Cindy.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t.’ But Lexi needed to feel more in control and reminding him of his girlfriend helped to do that. If she showed any weakness, he’d only take advantage. ‘Now, what is it you want? I have customers.’

He lowered the flowers. ‘I think you know why I’m here.’ He held her gaze. ‘You have something that belongs to me.’

‘And what would that be, Marcus?’ God, she hoped her left eye wouldn’t start twitching. She was a terrible liar. ‘Are you referring to your belongings following the house repossession? The bailiffs took most of it. As for the rest, I donated it to charity. I didn’t have room to store anything upstairs in the flat. Sorry.’

She wasn’t sorry at all. The bastard had buggered off and left her to deal with his mess. He should be grateful she hadn’t burnt his stuff.

‘What about my clothes?’

‘They’re boxed up in the storage basement below. Give me a forwarding address and I’ll send them to you. If you want them shipped to Spain you’ll have to pay yourself. My funds are somewhat depleted since the bankruptcy.’

‘I don’t believe that for a second.’ His gaze settled on the Woman at the Window. The sultry Italian temptress was hanging on the far wall, her astute dark eyes watching their exchange with interest. ‘You can still afford to buy valuable paintings.’

Trust him to notice. ‘Marcus, as you well know, I specialise in replicas, not originals. It’s a copy.’ Her eye immediately started twitching.

‘It doesn’t look like a copy.’

‘None of my paintings do, that’s why my business is so successful. A business that was severely jeopardised by your shady dealings.’ Attack was the best form of defence, she’d learnt.

He placed the flowers on the counter and went over to the painting. She watched him study the signature, which she’d carefully concealed behind a display card.

‘I remember you buying a preliminary sketch of this painting. We’d gone to London for the weekend and I’d got us tickets to see the Arsenal game, but you insisted we attend some fancy auction. It was always your ambition to own the original painting.’

She remembered the weekend well. It was supposed to be a romantic getaway … until she’d realised his idea of ‘romance’ was to take her to the blessed football. Stopping off at the auction had seemed only fair.

She followed him over. ‘You’re right, which is why I took the opportunity to display this copy when it was offered to me by an aspiring local artist.’ She’d rehearsed her answer many times, using a mirror to perfect her performance. She suspected Marcus didn’t believe her. He was too shady to be outwitted, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

He resumed looking at the painting. ‘I assume you found the holdall?’

And there it was. The bombshell she’d been waiting for.

She cleared her throat. ‘What holdall?’

His gaze remained fixated on the painting, so he didn’t see her left eye twitching like a malfunctioning washing machine.

He turned slowly to face her. ‘I think you know exactly what holdall.’

‘Like I said, I gave your belongings to charity.’ She walked off.

He caught her arm. ‘Let’s go down to the basement and check.’

She yanked her arm free. ‘I have customers. I can’t leave the gallery unattended.’

‘I’ll go then.’

No way was she letting him loose downstairs. Not that he’d find anything, but that wasn’t the point. ‘It’s locked.’

‘I have keys.’ He had the audacity to dangle them in front of her.

She tried to swipe them, but he moved his hand. ‘Keys that my solicitor has repeatedly asked you to return.’

He shrugged. ‘Change the locks if you’re that worried.’

‘I can’t afford to do that. The security system is highly sophisticated. It would cost a fortune to replace it.’

He took a step closer, a calculating glint in his eye. ‘Tell you what, I’ll hand over my keys once I have all of my belongings back.’ His expression turned menacing. ‘And that includes the holdall containing my money.’

Her cheeks became instantly warm. ‘Wh … what money?’

He laughed. ‘Oh, I think you know what money. I must say, I was surprised. Little Miss Perfect finally did something wicked.’ He tapped one of her large hoop earrings, making it sway. ‘You actually stole from me.’

One of the businessmen glanced over. Lexi waved and assured him everything was okay before refocusing on Marcus. His cruel taunting had dissolved any guilt she might have felt at scamming him. ‘What a shameful accusation, Marcus. I mean, who would steal from their loved one, right?’

He had the good grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I never stole—’

‘Yes, you did. You didn’t bank the sale proceeds for my Franz Gerste collection. Instead, you ran off to Spain with your PA and left me to deal with your mess.’

‘I never meant for that to happen. You don’t know the pressure I was under. The garage was going bust. People were chasing me for money. HMRC were on my back. Everything I tried made it worse.’

‘That doesn’t justify you running off with Cindy, of all people. A woman who thinks Liverpool is a country.’ Lexi didn’t normally slate other women; she liked to think of herself as an advocate for women, empowering each other. But that was before she’d been dumped unceremoniously for a women ten years her junior. It stung.

Marcus sighed. ‘She’s certainly not you.’ He looked almost wistful.

Lexi resisted the urge to yell, then why did you run off with her? Instead, she opted for, ‘You’re damned right she’s not,’ trying to salvage something of her bruised self-esteem.

He took her hand before she could move it. ‘I miss you.’

Ignoring the familiar warmth of his touch, she met his gaze. ‘Well, I don’t miss you, Marcus. I don’t miss being lied to, stolen from or cheated on.’

Far from being deterred, he saw this as a challenge. He’d always been seduced by things he couldn’t have. She’d suddenly become unattainable. Nothing turned Marcus on more than the temptation of a woman saying no to him.

He stroked the back of her hand. ‘You forget all the good times we had.’

‘You’re right, Marcus, I do. I’ve made a conscious effort to forget every single one of them.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Frankly, I don’t care what you believe. Now, please leave and don’t come back. I don’t want you in my life anymore. I’ve moved on.’

He was staring at her mouth like he used to when he was about to bedazzle her with his charms. ‘Christ, you’re sexy when you’re angry.’ He reached forwards to kiss her.

She pulled away. Jesus, his flattery skills had taken a dive.

‘I still love you, Lexi. You know that. We could be together again. Think of the fun we’d have.’ A glimmer of the old Marcus was back. A scheme forming in his mind as his eyes roamed over her body, no attempt to hide where his thoughts were headed. ‘We’d make a great team. You and me, hustling the world. I’m not angry you took my money. Actually, I admire you for it. I never thought you’d have the balls. Think what we could do with it? You’ve been a goodie two-shoes for too long. It’s time to unleash your inner bad girl.’

Words every woman longs to hear … not.

What an idiot Marcus was. What an idiot she was for marrying him.

She was about to tell him as much, when someone banged on the gallery door.

A tall man with thinning beige hair and matching raincoat was peering through the glass. He drew out an identity badge and held it up.

Oh, Christ, what now?

‘Who the hell is that?’ she said, praying it wasn’t the police. Not that she’d done anything wrong. Well, not much.

‘No idea, but I’m not hanging around to find out.’ Marcus shot over to the steps leading down to the basement before she could stop him.

She was about to go after him, when she realised she needed to deal with the official-looking man first. Not to mention her customers. Marcus wouldn’t find what he was looking for downstairs. He was a problem for later.

Unfortunately, she realised the businessmen had left. They’d obviously grown tired of being kept waiting. She’d missed out on a sale. Bloody Marcus!

The man in the raincoat stepped inside. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Alexia Aldridge,’ he said, tucking his glasses inside his worn coat.

She turned to him. ‘Well, you’ve found her. Although Aldridge was my married name. I’ve reverted to my maiden name of Ryan.’

He held out his name badge for her to read. ‘Brian Falk, investigating officer with the insolvency headquarters. I have a few questions.’

Jesus, hadn’t they quizzed her enough fifteen months ago? ‘Now isn’t a convenient time. My assistant isn’t in. Can you come back another day?’

‘This won’t take long.’ He obviously wasn’t going to leave.

With a sigh, she locked the door and flipped the closed sign. The sooner she answered his questions, the sooner he’d be gone. She needed to get Marcus out of her basement.

‘Follow me,’ she said, showing him into the back office. ‘Tea, coffee?’

He placed his briefcase on the floor and sat down. ‘Just water. Thank you.’

She went over to the kitchenette, trying to stem the rising feeling of panic. Why was he here? Did he know what she’d done?

Water slurped over the edge of the glass as she carried it over to him, her nerves betraying her. ‘So, how can I help you, Mr Falk?’

He put his glasses back on and laid his briefcase across his lap. ‘As you know, we’ve been looking into the matter of undeclared assets for you and your husband—’

‘Ex-husband.’

He peered over the top of his glasses.

‘We’re no longer married.’

‘My mistake.’ He removed a document from his briefcase. ‘Further evidence has come to light with regard to a life insurance policy taken out for you and your husband.’ He handed her a document. ‘Are you familiar with the policy I’m referring to, Mrs Aldridge?’

‘It’s Ms Ryan.’ She took the document from his outstretched hand. ‘And no, I’m not.’ She carried the document over to the table and sat down.

‘If you would care to look at the policy details and the withdrawal section on the back, you’ll see both documents bear your signature.’

She gazed down at the document in her hand, a document she’d never seen before. The Royal Sun Alliance policy appeared to have been taken out in August 2014, shortly after they were married. Both of their names were listed. Why the hell didn’t she know about this?

The investigator cleared his throat. ‘I note from your interview with Mr Dickens, the official receiver, on 9 February 2017, that this policy wasn’t mentioned as part of your marital assets. I wonder why that was?’

She stared at the document. ‘Because I never knew it existed.’

‘I find that a little hard to believe. After all, that is your signature on the policy, is it not? How do you account for that?’

‘I … I can’t. What I mean is, I’ve never seen this document before in my life.’

It was clear he didn’t believe her. He removed a pad from his briefcase and scribbled something down. ‘Are you quite sure? Forgetting about its existence would seem a little strange. Especially as you and your husband surrendered the policy shortly before the bankruptcy hearing.’

She felt something hard hit her in the chest. There was no way she’d have forgotten that. She lifted the document closer, studying the handwriting. ‘I … I don’t understand. How can a life insurance policy be cashed in if both parties are still alive?’

‘As I said, the policy was surrendered. The terms and conditions allowed for the refund of premiums paid into the account up until its cancellation. Surrendering the policy would have incurred hefty fees, but there would still have been a substantial payout.’

She stared at the document, trying to make sense of it. Had she really forgotten about it? Surely not. The print was tiny, the list of terms and conditions hard to distinguish, but true enough, there at the bottom of the page appeared to be her signature. She peered closer, trying to fathom why she couldn’t remember signing it. ‘And when did you say it was cashed in?’

He checked his notebook. ‘Third of November 2016.’

The text on the page blurred before her as tears filled her eyes. That was two weeks before Marcus had run off with Cindy. The familiar pain of betrayal settled over her. The realisation that Marcus had been defrauding her since the day they were married was a feeling like no other she’d experienced. She’d been convinced his illegal antics were solely linked to the financial problems of his used-car business. But this was premeditated. A deliberate action designed to scam his own wife. Jesus. Marcus really had been a cheat. In more ways than one.

Trying to contain her anger, she looked at the investigating officer. ‘This is not my signature.’

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Aldridge?’

‘My name is Ms Ryan … and I said, that’s not my signature.’ She flipped over the page, looking for the withdrawal section. There it was again, her signature … but not. ‘The reason I don’t remember taking out this policy, or cashing it in, is because I never knew it existed.’ She got up and handed him the papers.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you saying that your husband forged your signature?’

‘I … I suppose I am.’ She shrugged. ‘All I really know is that I didn’t sign it.’

He scribbled something down in his notebook. A few seconds ticked by before he looked up.

‘Have you been in contact with your husband recently, Mrs Ald … err … Ms Ryan?’

Her left eye began twitching again. She moved away and tore off a wodge of kitchen roll, wrapping it around her finger, which had started to bleed again. ‘Marcus and I are divorced, Mr Falk. He’s with someone else now and currently residing in Spain. Thanks to his incompetent finances and illegal business ventures, I lost my home and suffered substantial financial hardship.’ She glanced around the office. ‘My business is all that I have left.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’ He watched her carefully. ‘I asked whether you’d been in contact with him recently.’

Her cheeks started to burn. She had two options. Deny all knowledge and be rid of him or admit that her ex-husband was currently rummaging around in her storage basement looking for a holdall containing twenty-seven thousand pounds.

A more pressing thought struck her. ‘How much was the insurance pay-out?’

He paused before answering. ‘Twenty-seven thousand pounds.’

Oh, cripes!

Time slowed … and then sped up, causing her stomach to dip.

So that’s where the money had come from … She’d assumed it had come from the sale of her Franz Gerste collection. Only it hadn’t.

A mixture of anger and dread filled her gut. Once again, Marcus had shafted her. But she was equally annoyed with herself. That single momentary lapse of judgement nine months ago was coming back to haunt her. And now she was paying the price.

But she’d been in such a desperate place. She was still reeling from discovering that Marcus was sleeping with his PA and had a gambling addiction. And then the court bailiffs had turned up at her home to seize goods. She’d had to endure a humiliating court hearing, employ an expensive solicitor to argue the gallery’s exclusion from the bankruptcy and borrow money from her sister Tasha to pay for it.

She’d won her case, but every other asset had been sold to pay off Marcus’s business debts, leaving her with a frozen bank account, a poor credit rating and no home. All because Marcus’s business hadn’t been a limited company, leaving them personally and jointly liable.

And she’d accepted her fate. Through it all she’d been stoic and honest – she’d even assisted the official receiver in complying fully with the insolvency regulations. But the discovery that Marcus had failed to bank the money from the sale of her Franz Gerste collection had sent her over the edge.

When she’d gone to the house to collect the last of her belongings before the enforced repossession, she’d stumbled across a black holdall containing twenty-seven thousand pounds. All the promises she’d made to be trustworthy and law-abiding evaporated. She took the money and didn’t declare it.

Despite her overwhelming guilt, she’d reasoned that the money had come from her paintings. Paintings that belonged to the gallery so weren’t a joint asset and therefore shouldn’t have been included in the bankruptcy. But getting the official receiver to agree to that would have involved another expensive court hearing, which she couldn’t afford.

She’d considered using the money to pay off her debts, especially the money she owed to her sister, which she’d now cleared. But she’d decided against it. Mainly because she was still within the twelve-month bankruptcy period and the official receiver was monitoring her personal finances. He would have wanted to know where the money had come from and she hadn’t wanted to drag Tasha into her mess.

So, instead of declaring what she’d found, she’d kept quiet and used it to purchase the Woman at the Window painting. It was supposed to be an investment, compensation for her suffering. But however much she tried to justify her actions, she’d still broken the law. Not to mention using her art dealer credentials to cover her tracks and avoid any suspicion of money laundering.

And now an investigator was threatening to expose the one tiny chink in her otherwise flawless existence.

She needed time to think. She also needed to throttle her scumbag, cheating liar of an ex-husband, who was currently in her basement.

‘In answer to your question, Mr Falk, I’ve not been in contact with my ex-husband.’ The twitch in her left eye increased.

‘Hmmm.’ He removed a business card from his pocket and stood up. ‘We’ll investigate your claims further, Ms Ryan. But perhaps you’d be good enough to contact me should you hear from him. We have several questions we’d like to ask Mr Aldridge.’

He wasn’t the only one.

He handed her the card. ‘Thank you for your time. Good day to you.’ He collected his briefcase. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

She followed him over to the door, trying to keep a neutral expression. ‘Good luck with your investigations.’

‘Luck has nothing to do with it, Ms Ryan. The truth will always out in the end.’

And that was what worried her.

She let him out, locking the door behind him. As fast as her heels would allow, she ran across the gallery showroom and charged downstairs. ‘Marcus? MARCUS! Did you forge my bloody signature?’

He was nowhere in sight.

He’d obviously been searching for the holdall, because his belongings were scattered on the floor, a trail of discarded clothes leading to the rear doors … which were left open. Bastard! She had a stack of valuable paintings stored down here, including a recent shipment from the Wentworth estate in Scotland, and Marcus had left the place unsecured. Arsehole!

And then she spotted his note next to the empty black holdall:

I WANT MY MONEY.

Chapter Two

Tuesday 29th May

Oliver Wentworth took the opportunity of his sister’s phone ringing to take a breather from playing the dutiful carer. The distress at witnessing his pregnant sister being trampled on by an irate Shetland pony had sapped all of his energy. Thankfully, apart from a fractured fibula, she and the baby had escaped relatively intact.

As his sister answered her phone, he listened to her attempting to calm her distraught husband, reassuring him she was okay and relaying the story of how she’d toppled over the feeding trough when the aptly named Goliath had upended her. Having spent several years trying for a baby, he couldn’t imagine Harry taking the news of his wife’s injury too well. Poor bloke.

When the conversation switched from Louisa’s health to declarations of love, Olly tuned out. He adored his sister, but he didn’t need to hear about the intimate details of her marriage.

Instead, he gazed out of the taxi window and admired the scenery outside.

Medical services were few and far between in the Highlands, so they’d ended up at the Broadford Hospital on the Isle of Skye. The treatment had been first-rate, but it was a slow drive back to Shieldaig, the lanes winding and narrow. At least it allowed him time to recover from the trauma of Louisa’s accident and absorb the sight of his heritage passing by bathed in the May sunshine.

Shieldaig was sixty-eight miles west of Inverness in the Wester Ross region of Scotland, a quaint village with a miniscule population but with a huge influx of visitors during the summer months. It was both beautiful and brutal. Mountainous landscape dominated the view, framing the expanse of lochs and villages nestled between. It was the stuff of postcards, picturesque and enticing. But it was also challenging – as many an inexperienced walker had discovered when attempting to conquer Beinn Eighe ill-equipped. Even more so as the area had a poor phone signal.

As an adult, he could appreciate the appeal of the rugged terrain, where land merged seamlessly into sky. But as a kid, he’d hated the place. It had been a prison. A punishment. A place from which he’d been desperate to escape. And although he still harboured painful memories from those early years, he was hopeful of finally shedding his dislike of the place and reconnecting with his siblings.

As the taxi driver negotiated the narrow lanes, Rubha Castle came into view. The grey stone construction sat ominously against its tranquil surroundings. It was strange to think this was his home. There’d been a castle on the site for over eight hundred years, but the Wentworth family had only been resident for four hundred. His grandfather had briefly opened the castle to the public during the Sixties, hoping it would generate an influx of cash, but closed it again when the venture failed to prove cost-effective. They still hired out the venue for weddings and special occasions, but it wasn’t enough to maintain its continuing upkeep – a current bone of contention between his two sisters.

As the current Earl of Horsley, Olly was expected to take over running the family estate, socialise with blueblood aristocracy and sit in the House of Lords – something he had absolutely no interest in doing. Thankfully, recent reforms had abolished automatic hereditary rights, so he was off the hook in terms of his peer duties. And Louisa was more than happy running Rubha Castle, so he was superfluous to requirements.

Okay, so he was the Edward VIII of the family. The wayward black sheep who’d shirked his ancestral duties in favour of chasing pipedreams. It had been his parents’ favourite accusation, thrown at him many times during his adolescence. And they’d been right, of course. Even as a kid he’d craved freedom, a desire to see what the world had to offer. But his departure from their lives at barely eighteen was entirely down to their doing, not his.

Louisa had just ended her call when the taxi bumped onto the bridge joining the castle with the mainland. The driver pulled up in front of the open portcullis but left the engine running, an indication that he wasn’t offering any assistance. Olly couldn’t blame him. Trying to manoeuvre an eight-months-pregnant woman with her leg in an orthopaedic boot out of a car wasn’t going to be easy.

With a sigh, Olly got out the taxi and went around to open the door.

Louisa smiled up at him, her green eyes rimmed with dark circles. ‘Are you feeling strong?’

He grinned. ‘Positively herculean.’

She laughed and took his hands but winced when he tried unsuccessfully to pull her from the vehicle. He could tell she was in pain, however much she tried to hide it. Louisa’s outward fragility concealed an inner strength that enabled her to cope with adversity. Which was just as well, considering the upbringing they’d had.

Assistance appeared in the form of Gilly Jennings scurrying across the courtyard, red-faced and panting. Technically, she was the hired help, a cook-cum-housekeeper, but she’d always been more of a ‘parental figure’, bossy but warm-hearted, filling the gap caused by their own parents’ coldness.

‘Och, you poor love,’ she said, reaching the taxi. ‘Here, let me help you.’

Olly was bumped out of the way. He was about to object, when he realised his seventy-year-old housekeeper had already eased Louisa out of the car, usurping him as primary carer.

He tried not to feel disgruntled. But then he remembered they’d survived without him for eleven years. They didn’t need him. It stung, but it was the price he had to pay.

He paid the driver and unloaded the wheelchair from the boot.

As they made their way across the inner courtyard, Gilly issued instructions, sending him ahead to open doors, clear the stairway and put the kettle on.

Suppressing his frustration at being ordered around, he did as he was told, knowing he was still ‘in the dog house’ and it would be a long time before anyone felt he’d made amends. Gilly only allowed him to push the wheelchair when they reached the steps leading into the west guard tower.

Shortly after Louisa and Harry had married, they’d moved into the private area of the main keep, near the grand banqueting hall and billeting room, which were used for events. In contrast, upon his return, Olly had been given a small room in the south-west wing, an area previously used to stable horses. That said it all, really.

Having deposited his sister in her bedroom, he went to make drinks.

He returned armed with sugary tea and shortbread biscuits, grateful for Gilly’s baking skills. He’d always had a sweet tooth.

On entering the bedroom, he heard Louisa yelp.

Gilly was trying to roll her onto her side. ‘Her back’s hurting,’ she said, continuing to push.

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, placing the tray on the Jacobean sidetable. ‘Move over, will you.’ He pulled up short when he saw the hurt look on Gilly’s face. He tried for an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Gilly. What I meant to say was, as my sister is currently the size of a small elephant, it might be better if I do it.’

Louisa threw a pillow at him.

Gilly laughed and stood back to allow him access. Disaster averted. He winked at Louisa, who normally didn’t carry an ounce of fat on her and would therefore forgive him for likening her to a large land mammal.

He eased her onto her side.

‘Look at you, being all tender and caring,’ Gilly teased. ‘Perhaps you should follow your sister’s example and get married yourself.’

He suppressed a shudder. ‘Not going to happen.’

‘Why ever not? A good-looking man like yourself shouldn’t have any trouble finding a lass.’

Finding one? No problem. Holding on to them? Another matter entirely. Of course, it didn’t help that he rarely stayed in one place long. But all that was about to change.

‘I’m sure the right girl’s out there,’ Gilly said, tucking in the bedsheet. ‘Although she mightn’t be too impressed by a man pushing thirty and yet to secure a proper job.’

And there it was, the scolding he’d been waiting for.

He didn’t need Gilly to tell him he was a waste of space. He was painfully aware of his shortcomings.

Emotionally, he still felt like an eighteen-year-old kid backpacking the world while scraping a living. Only he was twenty-nine now and still searching. For what, he wasn’t sure, but something was missing from his life, he knew that much. It was a sobering thought – one that depressed him – so he pushed the notion from his mind.

‘Still, you’re here now.’ Gilly handed Louisa a mug of tea. ‘It’s just a shame Lady Eleanor isn’t around to see it.’

Actually, it was a blessing. His mother had been the main reason he’d left home aged eighteen. He couldn’t stand the hypocrisy. All his life his parents had banged on about ‘protocol’ and ‘tradition’ and the need for ‘honesty’. They’d beaten him down with draconian rules and restraints, expecting him to behave in a suitable way for someone in his ‘elevated’ position. And yet the whole time they’d been two-faced liars.

He’d discovered this one night in 2007, when he’d stumbled across their illicit plan to falsify the provenance of a valuable painting. The painting was several hundred years old, but there was significant doubt surrounding its authenticity. So they’d created a set of false documents to make it look like it was an original work by renowned Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli.

Overhearing their conversation had been shocking and unbelievable. But the tipping point had come when he’d realised they’d managed to pass off one of his replica sketches as an original Albrico Spinelli, too. The sketch had sold ahead of the auction for several thousand pounds, creating a ‘buzz’ around the main painting and increasing its value.

He hadn’t known which had angered him most: the fact that his mother’s art tutelage and insistence on using genuine sixteenth-century materials hadn’t been about showing an interest in developing her son’s talent but a way of making money, or because they’d gone behind his back and made him complicit in their crime. Suddenly, it all made sense. The reason his mother had made him paint replicas wasn’t for his own benefit but so his parents could flog them and improve the family’s finances.

A huge argument had followed. His parents’ excuse? That it was a necessary evil to save Rubha Castle from financial ruin. They’d refused to apologise or admit any wrongdoing. Instead, they’d accused him of being selfish for not wanting to help the family. But how could he continue to paint when he knew his works were being created deliberately to defraud people? It wasn’t moral or right, not to mention a contradiction of their holier-than-thou principles. So any loyalty or admiration he might have felt for his parents’ so-called traditional family values had evaporated in that moment.

He took a swig of tea and dunked a biscuit, something his mother would never have permitted. He no longer cared.

He was by no means a saint. But even as a teenager he hadn’t been able to reconcile the knowledge that his parents were crooked. So he’d left home the moment he could, not returning for eleven years, even to attend their respective funerals.

He ate another biscuit.

The irony was that having fought so hard to lead his own life, ending up alone and abroad at eighteen had scuppered his dreams to become a renowned artist. Instead, he’d drifted from one country to another, fruit picking and bartending, ending up as the ‘drop-out’ his parents had predicted.

But after years of being estranged, he’d decided it was time to stop punishing his siblings for something that wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know about their parents’ shameful secret, only their charitable work in the community. So they’d never understood why he’d left, or what had kept him away so long. And he still couldn’t tell them. He never would. He’d just have to hope that in time they’d forgive him.

Louisa yelped, reminding him he was supposed to be playing nurse.

‘We need to elevate your foot,’ Gilly said, lifting Louisa’s booted leg with all the tenderness of a caber tosser.

‘I can manage, Gilly.’ The pain of a broken leg was clearly testing the bounds of his sister’s normal chirpy demeanour. ‘If you could pass me that pillow.’

He intervened. It was the brotherly thing to do. He might fall short in all other areas as far as family duty were concerned, but protecting his sister from a well-meaning Gilly was at least within his capabilities. He grabbed the pillow before Gilly could inflict further damage and eased it under Louisa’s foot. She mouthed him a ‘thank you’.

He touched her cheek, wondering how she’d managed to blossom into such a tender human being when their upbringing had been devoid of any real affection. Neither parent had been the warmest of people, but his mother’s cruel streak had been magnified by the untimely death of their father and the bitterness she held towards her only son. His siblings had taken the brunt of his mother’s meltdown, the knowledge of which only added to his guilt.

Despite not being close to his parents, he still felt a loss. Loss for not having had an adult relationship with either of them. Loss at being separated from his siblings for so long and loss for carrying a grudge around for eleven years that had slowly eaten away at his belief in the ‘happy ever after’.

He tucked his hands under Louisa’s arms and eased her upright.

She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes.

‘Are you in pain?’

She shook her head. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’

He frowned. ‘Get what?’

He never did find out. His phone rang.

He left Louisa in Gilly’s care, nicked another biscuit and ducked into the corridor to answer his phone. But when his older sister yelled, ‘Louisa’s had an accident?’ he knew his day wasn’t getting better any time soon.

He leant against the stone wall and braced himself for a bollocking.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

Sophie sounded pissed off, which was par for the course. If Louisa were a margarita, bursting with colour and flavour, her life garnished with a paper umbrella and bright red cherry, Sophie was the ice in the glass. An antidote to joy.

‘How come I got to hear about it from Gilly?’

‘Sorry, Soph. There was no phone signal at the hospital.’

‘And you couldn’t have gone outside?’ Her voice rose another notch.

‘I didn’t want to leave her alone. She was upset.’

‘But you don’t mind upsetting me? Cheers, Olly. Some brother you are.’

He let her rant; he deserved her wrath. And it wasn’t her fault she was bitter – it was the upshot of growing up in a loveless household.

When he’d returned to the UK, Louisa had welcomed him with an open smile and unadulterated joy at having him home. In contrast, Sophie’s reaction had been to slap his face, call him a bastard and refuse to talk to him for two weeks. He supposed her yelling at him was progress. It was painful, but at least she was talking to him.

‘Selfish … arrogant …’

‘You’re right, Sophie. I should’ve called you. No excuses.’

‘Too bloody right! I’ve been there for her, you haven’t. All through IVF, all through the miscarriages—’

He dropped his head against the cool stone wall. ‘I know and I’m sorry, but I want to make amends for that.’

‘Too effing late!’ This was followed by a series of more expletives.

Hearing Sophie swearing was like witnessing a Disney princess in a bar fight. She was tall and curvy, with long blonde hair and stunningly beautiful. She looked ‘expensive’, a real upper-class society girl. She was a freelance columnist for various fashion magazines and attended events with the who’s who of London society, where she smiled, charmed and spoke with a plummy accent. It was only behind closed doors that the façade slipped.

He took another bite of biscuit, waiting until she’d finished ranting.

It took a while.

Finally, she said, ‘Is she okay? Do I need to come up there?’

He swallowed. ‘I don’t think so. Gilly’s here and Harry’s planning to cut short his business trip. He should be back later tonight. And I’m here—’

‘Ha! For how long? You’re not exactly Mr Reliable.’

He smothered a sigh. ‘How many times, Soph? I’m not going anywhere.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’ She mumbled another expletive. ‘And if you are staying, make yourself useful and help us sort out the estate.’

‘Can’t we leave it to the solicitors?’

‘Which part of we’re running out of money don’t you understand? If we leave it to the solicitors we’ll have nothing left.’

He pushed away from the wall. ‘But I know nothing about probate. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.’

‘I’m not talking about probate. You need to persuade Louisa to sell Rubha Castle.’

Oh, no. This was one argument he wasn’t getting involved in. ‘You know I can’t do that. Rubha Castle’s Louisa’s home, it’s her livelihood. It’s where she wants to raise a family—’

‘We can’t afford to keep both properties. The terms of the will state we’re only allowed to sell one. If we get rid of the Windsor townhouse, it won’t solve our financial problems. Plus, I’ll be out on the streets. At least Louisa has an alternative. Harry’s family own half of Scotland, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. Or don’t you care?’

‘Of course I do. I just wish there was a way of keeping both.’ He rubbed his forehead, feeling as exasperated as Sophie sounded.

‘Well, there isn’t. Rubha Castle costs a fortune to upkeep. It no longer attracts many visitors and Louisa’s insistence on rescuing random animals is adding to the expense. If we sell it now we’ll get a decent return, but if we wait until it crumbles to the ground it’ll be worthless. It doesn’t make good business sense.’

‘But Louisa loves it here. She’d be heartbroken to sell. And you know how much she adores those animals.’

There was a weighted pause. ‘I know.’

Despite his sister’s determination to sell the castle, he knew she was worried about Louisa and didn’t want to cause her any distress. His youngest sister worked part-time for an animal charity, she’d built a life for herself in Scotland, she’d even married a local laird. She was a sensitive soul who was trying to rid herself of her own childhood demons by making Rubha Castle a ‘happy home’. Olly could understand that.

And so did Sophie, despite what she claimed.

‘I wish there was something we could do.’

Sophie sighed. ‘Did Louisa tell you her great plan?’

‘What plan?’

‘To sell Mother’s paintings. She’s sent them to an independent art gallery in Windsor for valuation.’

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The subject of art was a sensitive one.

‘I think she’s hoping they’ll sell for a shedload of dosh and solve our problems. I’ve no idea what their value is. The gallery owner asked for any preliminary drawings of the works to be sent over, but neither of us has any idea what those are. Do you?’

‘They’re the preparatory drawings an artist sketches before painting the main work.’ He frowned. ‘Why do they need preliminary drawings?’

‘Apparently, it helps to evaluate the paintings. Mother never sold anything during her lifetime, so it’s difficult to put a value on the work.’

Technically, that statement wasn’t true. His mother had sold a painting in 2007 for a whopping 1.7 million quid. But as the world at large, and in particular the French buyer of the painting, believed it to be painted by Italian Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli, Olly wasn’t about to correct that assumption. Especially as he was complicit in the crime – albeit unwittingly. If the truth ever got out about the painting’s real origins, the fallout would be immense. The family’s reputation was shaky enough. There was no way they could withstand the scandal of forged masterpieces, a lawsuit and a criminal investigation.

He shuddered at the thought.

Part of him worried that selling his mother’s paintings posthumously might be exposing them to overintense scrutiny. But they didn’t have a choice. And it’s not like she’d forged the Spinelli herself, was it? He had no idea who the real artist was, or how his parents had come into possession of the painting. But the point was, they needed cash, and he wasn’t about to stand back and let four hundred years of family history flush down the loo without a fight … no matter how averse he was to his relatives. His mother had been a bloody good painter. If he was right, her work was valuable. And, more importantly, finite in number. Nothing like a dead painter to inflate the asking price.

He rubbed his forehead, his mind returning to the present. ‘I think they’re boxed up in the billeting room somewhere. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find.’

‘By the way, Louisa found another painting hidden among Mother’s collection. It was boxed separately and covered in a dustsheet. It was a painting of a religious bloke reading from a scroll. It wasn’t like her other paintings, but Louisa thought the gallery might as well have it.’

Olly’s world skidded to an abrupt halt. His heart followed suit, banging into his ribcage, sucking all the oxygen from his brain.

He must have made a noise, because Sophie said, ‘Olly, what’s wrong? Is it a bad painting?’

A bad painting?

On the contrary, it was a bloody phenomenal painting.

It was the second forged Spinelli.

Shit!

Chapter Three

Later that day …

Lexi peered through the glass-fronted oven door to check on the development of her cupcakes. Unlike the problems associated with trying to run an art business and avoiding her ex-husband, baking never gave her headaches, inflated her overdraft or cheated on her with a younger woman. Plus, whipping up a batch of naughty treats gave her something to nibble on with her caramel latte. And boy, was she in need of a sugar rush tonight.

She removed her oven gloves and reset the timer.

Her sister appeared in the kitchen having selected The Five Satins ‘In the Still of the Night’ on their recently acquired jukebox, complete with crackling speakers and flashing disco lights.

‘So, what’s eating you?’ Tasha fixed Lexi with a frown. She was wearing her black mesh bodice dress with buckled sky-high stiletto boots, rendering her a good inch taller than her twin – even with Lexi in four-inch heels.

‘Who says there’s anything wrong? Maybe I’m fine. Maybe I’m so relaxed I’m—’

‘Baking.’ Tasha nicked one of the chocolate orange truffles cooling on the wire cake rack.

‘I bake all the time.’

‘Yeah, but you only bake large quantities of coronary-inducing confectionery when your stress levels are through the roof. You’re very predictable.’

‘Predictable?’ Lexi slumped against the sink. ‘That’s highly depressing.’

Tasha licked the chocolate-coated truffle. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Lexi sighed. ‘What’s there to say? I’m a thirty-two-year-old predictable woman who put her trust in a cheating gambler. I’m beyond help.’

‘This is true.’

Lexi glared at her twin. ‘Thanks.’

Tasha gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Trusting someone isn’t a flaw. You had a bad experience and got burnt. Shit happens. But you’ll get over it. Time heals and all that crap.’

Lexi rolled her eyes. ‘You should be a marriage guidance counsellor.’

‘It’s a gift, I know.’

‘Right at this moment it doesn’t feel like I’ll get over it. I no longer trust myself, let alone anyone else. My judgement is clearly abysmal.’

‘Only when it comes to men. In everything else you have impeccable taste.’ Tasha pointed to their latest acquisition. ‘Like that coffee table.’

‘Liar. You said it was a piece of crap.’

‘The mosaic tiling converted me. I couldn’t see how a fifteen-quid reject from eBay would complement your other eclectic pieces. I was wrong.’

‘Eclectic? Careful, Tasha, that almost sounded like a compliment.’

Tasha folded her arms. ‘I say it as I see it. This place needed a makeover, I was just too lazy to do anything about it.’

Which wasn’t true. Her sister’s desire for change had nothing to do with needing a makeover.

They’d inherited the three-storey townhouse when their grandmother had died ten years ago. It was situated within a stone’s throw of Windsor Castle, nestled in the cobbled side streets along with the other quaint shops and eateries. Their grandmother had run Elsie’s Teas & Treats for nearly forty years and she’d been a key figure in their lives growing up. She’d encouraged their individuality, wanting them to be independent, self-sufficient and resourceful women.

When she’d died, she’d gifted them the building in the hope they’d fulfil their desire of running their own businesses, which they had. They’d divided the space into two areas, with two flats above: one for sharing, the other for renting out. Below, they’d opened Tainted Love Tattoos and Ryan Fine Arts: two contrasting businesses, linked by a shared love of art.

The set-up had worked perfectly. As twins, they’d always been close, despite their differing personalities. In fact, most people didn’t even register they were identical. It was amazing how changing your hair colour and throwing in a few tattoos could mask the obvious. Lexi’s preference for lightening her hair and wearing colourful retro clothing contrasted with Tasha’s ebony hair and penchant for body art and metal piercings. But underneath the camouflage, they shared the same DNA. More than that, they were best friends. There was no one on the planet Lexi felt closer to than Tasha.

When she’d married Marcus and moved out of their shared flat, it had been a wrench leaving Tasha, but at least working next door had ensured their close bond remained. And when her marriage had broken down, it was Tasha who’d been there for her, insisting she move back into the flat. It was just like old times, the pair of them living together and being the emotional support they both needed.

Lexi watched her sister wipe chocolate from her black nail-polished fingers. ‘Thanks again for letting me move back in, Tash. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Luckily, you’ll never have to find out. Besides, you were having a meltdown. It was my duty as your loving sister to rescue you.’

‘And I appreciate it, really I do. But you didn’t have to let me loose with a paintbrush.’

‘Actually, I did. Even I could see this pad needed your style input.’

Another white lie. The flat had looked fine. The real reason Tasha wanted a change of décor was because of Harriette.

Tasha had only had one serious relationship before Harriette, a woman called Sara, whom she’d dated for two years. But the relationship had soured when Sara became clingy and jealous of Tasha and Lexi’s close bond. In the end, Sara left, claiming Tasha never put her first. Tasha was heartbroken.

Tasha had steered away from relationships for a few years, but then she’d met Harriette, who seemed like the real deal. She was funny, kind and brought a lightness to the relationship that balanced out Tasha’s tendency for melancholy. They made a great couple and Tasha adored her. So much so, Harriette moved into the flat and they spent months doing up the place and making a home together.

But then Harriette fell pregnant and returned to her ex-boyfriend, whom Tasha had no idea she was still seeing. Tasha was devastated. More than that, she felt betrayed, which manifested into rage, resulting in her smashing up the flat, destroying furniture and ripping up curtains and soft furnishings. Hence the need for a makeover.

Tasha had recovered, but there was a hardness to her now, as Marcus had discovered when Tasha had slashed his tyres. Not that she felt sorry for Marcus. But Tasha wasn’t someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of.

Tasha leant against the worktop. ‘Besides, this place is a damned sight better than that monstrosity of a mansion in Notting Hill. You never looked right there. This place is more you. Retro-chic.’ She inspected a chipped nail. ‘Marcus would hate it.’

Lexi grinned. ‘That’s part of the appeal.’

Tasha laughed, something she rarely did. ‘Talking of Dickwit, have you heard from him lately?’ She reached over for the bottle of orange liqueur Lexi had used for baking. ‘Christ, paint stripper’s more palatable than this stuff. We need something decent to drink.’

‘I meant to restock, but I ran out of cash. I’ll pop to the wholesalers on Friday. I’m planning a big shop.’ She untied her blue chequered apron.

Tasha looked appalled. ‘What have you got planned for Saturday, sorting through your sock drawer?’

Lexi threw the apron at her. ‘Make yourself useful, there’s a sink full of washing-up.’

Tasha grunted something unintelligible. ‘Fine, but then I’m heading to the off-licence.’

Lexi checked the progress of her cupcakes. ‘In answer to your question, my beloved ex is—’

‘Hang on.’ Tasha held up her hand. ‘If we’re going to discuss Scumbag, we need suitable background music.’ She went over to the jukebox. A few seconds later The Platters started up with ‘The Great Pretender’.

Lexi glared at her sister. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

‘Hell, no.’ Tasha came back into the kitchen. ‘If I’d wanted to be funny, I’d have chosen ‘I Could Have Told You’. Ole blue-eyes says it much better than I ever could.’

‘And with slightly less sarcasm.’

Tasha picked up the pink rubber gloves draped over the sink. With her kohl-black eyes and asymmetric bob, she looked the most unlikely of domestic staff. But then, she’d always been a contradiction, a cocktail of sweet and sour … only these days it was more sour than sweet. Heartbreak tended to do that to a person.

‘So, news on Scumbag? Please tell me he’s been kidnapped by guerrilla terrorists and is being held at gunpoint somewhere deep in the Amazonian jungle.’

The timer on the oven pinged. Lexi opened the oven door and removed her cakes. ‘You have a warped mind.’

‘Naturally.’

Lexi rested the baking tray on top of the oven. ‘Until today, I’d assumed Marcus was still in Spain with Cindy.’

‘And he’s not?’

‘He showed up at the gallery this morning.’

Tasha spun away from the sink, dripping foamy suds over the kitchen floor. ‘You’re kidding me? What did he want?’

Lexi refused to meet her sister’s inquisitive gaze. ‘Usual stuff. He’s sorry, he didn’t mean to hurt me … where’s his money. You know the pattern.’ She spoke quickly, hoping her sister wouldn’t catch on.

‘Where’s his money? What money?’

There was no point hiding anything from Tasha, she was too astute … which was why not telling her about taking the twenty-seven grand from the house was so stressful. ‘It turns out he surrendered a life insurance policy, which I knew nothing about. He forged my signature so he could cash it in. The official receiver’s got wind of it and wants the money returned. Twenty-seven thousand pounds.’

‘The little shit!’ Tasha threw the saucepan in the sink. ‘And Marcus thinks you have it? After everything he did, the guy’s lucky I don’t put a contract out on him.’

Lexi wondered if her sister was being serious. Some of Tasha’s customers at the tattoo parlour certainly looked capable of inflicting a knee-capping.

‘And even if you did have his filthy ill-gained money, as if you’d give it back after what he did. He virtually bankrupted you, jeopardised your business and hooked up with a woman who could’ve auditioned for the starring role in Barbie Does Dagenham!’

Lexi sighed. Tasha losing her rag wasn’t a surprise, but it was slightly puzzling as to why her sister was still so angry after all this time. Lexi had moved past wanting to dismember Marcus a long time ago. Well, mostly anyway. She still loathed what he’d done, the way he’d done it, but there were no active emotions left, just an overwhelming sense of sadness that settled over her when she dwelt on things too much.

Like the day they’d first met.

It was Valentine’s Day 2014 and she’d gone to London for an exhibition. She’d stopped off for a coffee on the South Bank and became aware of a man staring at her. The next thing she knew, he was sitting next to her, making her laugh and persuading her to join him for dinner. By the end of the evening, she was smitten. When he’d kissed her goodnight and told her she was the woman he’d been waiting for all of his life, her fate was sealed. A six-month whirlwind romance followed, filled with love, laughter and excitement. He lavished her with expensive gifts and took every opportunity to ‘flash the cash’, keen to demonstrate his wealth and back up his promises of a financially secure life. She never doubted his honesty or sincerity and ignored her sister’s concerns that he was ‘too good to be true’. They married in a registry office and for the first year everything was fine. But then he started disappearing for days on end, stressing over his used-car business and behaving strangely. He became secretive, moody and defensive when questioned. But it wasn’t until he cleaned out their savings account and ran off to Spain with his PA that she’d discovered the depth of his deception.

Seeing him today had been hard, a test of her resolve, but it had confirmed one thing: she no longer loved Marcus. Cindy was welcome to him.

But Tasha hadn’t finished ranting. ‘Money-laundering, scum-sucking wanker! Why the hell does he think you have his rotten money? Anyone with an ounce of sanity knows you’d never touch anything illegal.’

Lexi decided it was time to change topic. If her left eye started twitching it would be game over.

Although, why she hadn’t told Tasha about taking the money, she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t said anything at the time, because she’d genuinely believed the money was from the sale of her paintings. But now it looked like the money was from the insurance payout, what was her justification for continuing to keep quiet? Perhaps it was because she didn’t want to fuel her sister’s hatred of her ex-husband. Or, more likely, she didn’t want to risk Tasha’s disappointment in her. Because however she tried to justify it, she’d broken the law. She was a thief. No better than Marcus … Well, marginally better than Marcus, but equally guilty. Would her sister forgive her if she came clean? Based on her reaction to Harriette’s betrayal, she wasn’t sure.

‘Tasha, calm down. I told Marcus to take a hike and I explained to the investigator that I had no knowledge of the insurance policy. I’m sure once he looks into it he’ll realise I’m telling the truth, and they’ll go after Marcus and not me.’

‘They bloody better had. If I ever get my hands on Marcus—’

‘Tash, let it go.’

‘But—’

‘Seriously, I’ve had enough. What with dealing with money problems, being investigated and then seeing Marcus again, I’m shattered. And I still haven’t sorted through the shipment from the Wentworth estate. I know you mean well, but can we please discuss this another time?’

Tasha sighed. ‘Fine.’ She didn’t look happy. ‘What do you need?’

‘Help me sort through the shipment, and then we’ll be free to eat cake, drink liqueur and make voodoo dolls of Marcus to stick pins into. Okay?’

‘My kind of evening. Lead the way.’

It was still light outside. The May sunshine was reluctant to call it a night, but Lexi flicked on the lights as they descended the stairs leading to the thermostatically controlled storage basement below the gallery. The chill tickled her skin. It was welcome after baking in a hot kitchen.

She caught the eye of the Woman at the Window propped on an easel and smiled. She’d relocated the painting after Marcus had visited. It was a shame not to display such a beautiful piece of art, but Lexi wasn’t taking any chances. The Italian temptress was staying out of harm’s way.

‘Remind me again whose paintings these are?’ Tasha tore off the protective wrapping from the crates.

‘Eleanor Wentworth.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘You wouldn’t have. She never sold anything during her lifetime. But she’s dead now and her daughter has asked me to evaluate her work. She’s also asked me to catalogue and value the art collection at Rubha Castle in Scotland.’

Tasha binned the discarded sheeting. ‘Are you going to accept?’

‘I wish I could. The castle is centuries old. I can only imagine the art they must’ve collected over the years. But how can I with everything that’s going on at the gallery? The business won’t repair itself. Especially not now Marcus is back on the scene.’

‘Even more reason to accept.’ Tasha used a Stanley knife to cut through the plastic safety strips. ‘Marcus is only back to cause trouble. My advice? Get as far away from his sorry arse as possible.’

‘What about the gallery?’

‘You have an assistant, don’t you? Ask Mel to cover while you’re away. She’s more than capable.’

It was true – Mel was proving to be a good investment. She was studying for an art degree and working part-time around her lectures. The university year had concluded, so maybe she’d be available to cover for a few weeks.

Tasha binned the plastic strapping. ‘The break’ll do you good. Whereabouts in Scotland is it?’

‘Somewhere deep in the Highlands.’

Tasha looked incredulous. ‘You’ve been offered an art gig in a castle in the Highlands and you’re not sure you want to go? Are you batshit crazy?’

Lexi laughed. ‘Maybe.’

‘There’s a fee involved, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the possibility of further commission if they decide to sell any of the collection?’

‘I guess.’

‘Then it’s a no-brainer. Take the job and go up to Scotland. Mel and I can run the gallery. And you can focus on forgetting about Scumbag and the investigators hounding you for money.’

‘You’d do that for me?’

Tasha jimmied off a crate lid. ‘Like you even have to ask.’

Could she accept? It certainly sounded like the dream commission. And she’d never been to Scotland. Marcus had insisted they holiday at the villa in Spain.

‘So you think I should go?’

‘As long as you promise not to run off with a Gerard Butler lookalike because you’ve been enticed by what’s under his kilt.’

Lexi laughed. ‘That I can promise. I’m off men for good.’

Tasha grimaced. ‘God, me too.’

‘Idiot.’ She kissed her sister’s cheek. ‘I’ll give it some serious consideration.’

‘Good.’ Tasha removed the bubble wrap from the crate. ‘Right, what have we got?’

Lexi lifted a canvas and held it up.

It was a portrait of a middle-aged man leaning against a large ornate desk. He looked relaxed, his pale eyes smiling over the top of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with such tenderness it spoke volumes about the relationship between artist and subject. All the paintings were reputedly of similar style, portraits of the Earl of Horsley’s family at various stages of their lives. The paintings had struck a chord with Lexi, which is why she’d agreed to exhibit the work when she’d seen the photos.

As well as specialising in replicas, she occasionally freelanced for a few museums and private collectors helping to value and catalogue their work. She’d also started mentoring new up-and-coming artists, wanting to diversify her collection. The combination of collecting copies of the masters along with discovering new talent was proving an exciting development.

She angled the painting so her sister could see it. ‘What do you think?’

Tasha tilted her head. ‘Fine, if you like family portraits. Too elitist for my liking.’

‘Maybe, but I like the contrast between conventionality and intimacy.’

Tasha shrugged. ‘Still looks like some posh git with too much money to me.’

Lexi replaced the painting. ‘Philistine.’

‘Excuse me? I have a degree in fine art.’

‘I know, I was there, remember?’

‘Just because I choose skin as my canvas, doesn’t mean it’s not art.’

‘I agree.’

Tasha was by far the more talented sister. With a shared love of art and an unwillingness to be separated, they’d both won places at Oxford Brookes to study fine art. But whereas Lexi had gone on to study for an MA at The Courtauld Institute in London so she could focus on evaluating and selling art, Tasha had attended the Tattoo Training Academy in Essex. The result was two slightly unconventional outcomes but two highly successful businesses … Well, one successful business and Lexi desperately trying to hang on to the other, thanks to her cheating ex-husband.

Tasha frowned. ‘Hang on. There are twenty paintings here, but only nineteen listed.’

Lexi checked the list. ‘That’s strange. If I go through them, can you check for the corresponding listing on the inventory?’

‘Sure.’ Tasha picked up a pen. ‘Fire away.’

‘Okay. So we know the first painting is the middle-aged man.’ Lexi placed it to one side. ‘The second painting is a child’s portrait.’ She viewed the reverse of the canvas. ‘Thomas Elliott-Wentworth, aged nine, garden scene, fifteen-inch dark wood frame.’

Tasha made a note.

Lexi systematically went through each painting, casting her eye over the quality of the work. The more she saw, the more she warmed to the artist. The intimacy of the poses, the awkwardness of the human form had been captured perfectly.

Tasha ticked off each painting as she went through the collection. ‘That’s everything on the list.’

Only one remained.

Lexi picked up the last painting. ‘This must be our stowaway.’

After removing the protective sheet, she placed the nineteen-inch frame on an easel and stood back to look.

When Tasha swore, she knew she wasn’t the only one startled by what had been uncovered. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Finally, Tasha came over. ‘Is that Renaissance?’

‘Looks like it.’

Tasha let out a slow whistle. ‘It has to be a fake, right?’

Logically, Lexi would have to agree. The chances of it being genuine were almost non-existent and yet every artistic instinct she possessed screamed that it wasn’t.

‘Can you tell if it’s real?’

‘Perhaps, but I’d have to carry out a series of tests. I’d need the owner’s permission.’

‘What’s your gut telling you?’

‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to make a quick assessment.’ Lexi tried to switch off the art fanatic in her and view the painting through critical eyes. ‘The frame clearly isn’t as old as the canvas, so it’s been replaced,’ she said, pointing to the main body of the painting. ‘In contrast, the canvas has evidence of multiple repairs and restoration, which is hard to fake.’

She searched out her magnifying glass and ultraviolet fluorescent wand. After switching off the lights, she waved the purple light over the painting, her skin prickling with nervous excitement. ‘There’s an intricate pattern of spiderweb cracks covering the surface.’

‘So we know it’s old.’

Lexi’s pulse quickened. ‘Really old. Look at the long, confident brushstrokes. Most fakes are revealed by a sense of hesitation, an effort to replicate rather than create.’ She studied the canvas through the magnifying glass.

Tasha peered closer. ‘What do you see?’

‘Shiny pigments, indicating the use of lead whites, and possible traces of azurite and smalt infused in the paint during the 1600s.’ She pointed to the detailing on the cloth around the old man’s neck. ‘Can you see the way the minerals dance on the surface, like the sun sparkling off the ocean?’

‘Very poetic.’

Lexi switched the lights back on. ‘Judging by the thickness of paint and swirling brushstrokes, the paint has been applied with a palette knife instead of a brush.’ She handed Tasha the magnifying glass. ‘The style is very distinctive.’

Tasha studied the canvas through the magnifying glass. ‘So if this is a fake, then whoever painted it really knew their stuff.’

‘A master in his or her own right. Without further lab tests on the paint I couldn’t be sure, but they don’t appear to have made a single obvious mistake.’

They both descended into silence. It was Tasha who broke it.

‘So, this is either a really good forgery …’

‘Or it’s an original Albrico Spinelli.’

Tasha let out a low whistle. ‘Fuck me!’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Chapter Four

Wednesday 30th May

Less than two hours after receiving the news that the forged Spinelli had already been packed up and sent to a gallery in Windsor, Olly had boarded the overnight sleeper and was now heading out of London, bound for Berkshire. If he’d had more time he could have formulated a better plan, one that didn’t involve him running out on his injured sister. But he’d been forced into a knee-jerk response.

Having grabbed an overnight bag, he’d given Louisa the lame excuse of ‘needing to see Sophie urgently’ as explanation for leaving her and bolted from the castle. Her tearful concerns that he wouldn’t return had nearly been his undoing. Thankfully, Harry had arrived back from his business trip and the distraction of being reunited with her husband had diverted Louisa’s attentions, allowing Olly to escape.

Although how he planned to deal with the problem in hand, he didn’t know. But he had bigger things to worry about. Like where he was going to sleep tonight.

He hadn’t realised Sophie was staying with friends in Central London. So not only was his lie already unravelling, but he also had no place to stay. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a key?

He could have called Sophie and begged her to return. But then he’d have to explain why he was in Windsor, and Sophie was a lot more astute than Louisa and harder to fob off. It was better she didn’t know.

Besides, she wouldn’t thank him for ruining her social life. She was probably partying at some swanky venue with one of the numerous men she dated but that no one ever met. Sophie kept her family and friends separate. Having done the same, he could hardly complain.

It was late afternoon by the time he walked up the hill to where Windsor Castle sat proudly overlooking the town centre. It was a far cry from the rustic and remote Rubha Castle – the epitome of a royal residence, with its manicured lawns and troops of guards wearing impressive red coats and busby hats, proudly protecting the crown. Hordes of tourists mingled outside, snapping photos and trying to get the unresponsive guards to smile.

He checked his directions and walked past the statue of Queen Victoria. He found himself in the old medieval area of the town, the lanes narrow and cobbled. The crooked houses either side dated back to the 1600s, but they’d all been converted into souvenir shops, cafés and taverns. But it was the dwellings ahead that drew his attention.

Tainted Love Tattoos looked classy and discerning, with a neon sign that glowed in the window advertising ‘Room to Let’. Handy.

Of course, the place of real interest was next door: Ryan Fine Arts.

Now he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. If it were any other painting he’d simply walk in there, introduce himself, explain that there’d been a mix-up and ask for the painting to be returned. But it wasn’t any old painting.

According to the website, the owner of Ryan Fine Arts had a degree in the history of art. There was no way she wouldn’t recognise a Spinelli. The Cursed Man had been missing for nearly three hundred years, so if it suddenly turned up now it would be a huge deal. News that the family who’d sold The Sacrificial Woman were found to be in possession of its sister painting would hit the headlines. Especially if that painting turned out to be fake. The French buyer of the first painting would probably sue, the Wentworth family would lose both properties, his parents would be labelled crooks, his siblings shamed and four hundred years of family history would be wiped out.

The secret he’d spent the last decade running away from would be exposed.

There was no way he could let that happen. He had to get that painting back without raising suspicion. How the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know.

He decided a little reconnaissance was required before formulating a plan. He needed time to think.

The front of the gallery was mostly glass, displaying a few works in the window. Good-quality pieces, mounted against a soft white background, indicating the owner knew their stuff. Of course, it was a classy joint. When Louisa had searched for a gallery to take their mother’s collection, she’d done her research. She wouldn’t have proceeded unless she was confident the curator was professional and a genuine art-lover. Which was great as far as selling their mother’s legitimate paintings was concerned, but bad news when trying to outsmart an expert.

Had the owner discovered the painting yet? And if she had, would she be fooled into thinking it was real, or would she simply assume it was a copy? Any decent curator would carry out a series of checks before making an assumption. It would take a while to scrutinise the materials used in the work, especially a sixteenth-century piece. They’d need to analyse the canvas and formulate a paper trail back to the artist. His mother had been thorough and had managed to fool the experts back in 2007, but whether her efforts would dupe current testing methods remained to be seen.

He noticed a side alley next to the art gallery. It led to a service area at the rear of the property. It was empty apart from a row of refuse and recycling bins. The large industrial doors leading to what looked like the gallery’s storage facility were ajar. The lights were on, indicating someone was working inside.

His heart rate increased. The painting might still be in its crate. Undiscovered. Supposing he could sneak inside and remove the painting without anyone ever knowing he’d been there? There’d be no need for elaborate explanations or lying.

So why did he feel so nervous? He normally enjoyed bending the rules. He’d spent his entire life fighting conformity, deliberately pushing boundaries, mostly to annoy his parents. Not exactly original behaviour. He didn’t need Freud to analyse his reasoning. But contemplating stealing a painting was hardly the same as boyish mischief.

But then he reminded himself the painting was already his. His family’s, at least. He was merely retrieving lost property. He wasn’t trying to con anyone, or cause anyone suffering. This was a mop-up job. A necessity to keep his family scandal-free, solvent and out of jail. All valid reasons intended to make the task easier, justify his actions and ease the guilt of deception. It wasn’t working.

He decided to take a closer look.

Dumping his rucksack behind one of the bins, he crept up to the doors. It was quiet inside. The rational voice in his head told him he was crazy for even contemplating entering, but the desire to retrieve the painting overrode logic. With a pounding heart, he checked the coast was clear and went inside.

The space was painted white. It was also chilly. He couldn’t see any unopened crates, but the walls contained rows of racking, so he went over. He discovered numerous quality copies of the classics. At least, he assumed they were copies. Botticelli, Raphael, Rubens, even Shouping and Cézanne. He liked the mix. It was unpredictable, random. But there were no signs of his mother’s paintings.

He spotted a smaller painting displayed on an easel. He read the card pinned to the wooden frame: Woman at the Window, circa 1510–1530, Italian, North. He peered closer. It was bloody good, the brushwork exquisite …

‘Stay where you are.’ The sound of a woman’s voice made him jerk forwards, knocking the painting off the easel. ‘Don’t you dare move another muscle.’

Shit. He’d been sprung.

He turned slowly, opening his arms in a suitably submissive gesture.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see, but it wasn’t the gallery owner brandishing a Stanley knife. He recognised her from the website. In her photo she’d looked serious and businesslike. She certainly hadn’t been wearing a Fifties-style circle skirt with a cherry-patterned blouse and bright red lips. Far from looking old-fashioned, she looked like something out of one of Sophie’s style magazines.

She walked towards him, shaking her mass of pale blonde hair away from her face. ‘Wh … what do you want with that painting?’

‘What painting?’ He hadn’t found it yet. And then he realised she was talking about the Woman at the Window.

Her eyes darted nervously between him and the canvas on the floor. ‘Don’t play dumb. Who sent you?’ She edged closer, her hand visibly trembling. ‘My ex-husband?’

Ex-husband?

He bent down to retrieve the painting. ‘Listen, I—’

‘I said don’t move!’ She lunged forwards at the same time he held up his hands. He watched in horror as the knife sliced through the arm of his T-shirt and imbedded itself into his right bicep.

As she pulled the knife away, a splatter of red landed on the white tiled flooring.

She screamed.

He wanted to scream himself. The pain was excruciating.

The room began to sway. Flickering lights clouded his vision. He was vaguely aware of a rushing sound in his ears and then he dropped to his knees.

The woman rushed over. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’ She looked frantic, torn between wanting to help him and steering well clear. ‘I need to call the police.’

‘Don’t call the cops,’ he pleaded, the blood from his arm smearing across the white tiled flooring.

She picked up the Woman at the Window and clutched it to her chest. ‘You were trying to steal my painting.’

He staggered to his feet. ‘I wasn’t. I have no interest in that painting.’ Which was entirely true … he was after a different painting. ‘Please don’t call the police.’

She waved the Stanley knife at him. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’

He lifted his hands, blood running down his right arm. ‘I’m really sorry if I frightened you.’ He opened his palms. ‘But I’m not here to cause trouble.’

She didn’t look convinced. Her pale complexion had drained of colour. She began to sway. Was she about to faint, too?

‘Are you okay?’

‘Funnily enough, no. A man just broke into my gallery, attacked me and tried to steal one of my paintings. I am far from okay.’

Indignation overrode contrition. ‘Hey, I didn’t attack you. And I didn’t break in – the doors were open. And I’m the one who’s bleeding.’ He pointed at his arm.

‘Well … what did you expect?’ She leant against the wall. ‘You were trespassing. Now get out, or I will call the police. And you can tell whoever sent you I haven’t got it. They’re wasting their time.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Haven’t got what?’

‘Don’t play dumb.’ She tried to sound tough, but her voice shook. ‘I won’t be intimidated. You hear me? You tell Marcus I’m made of sterner stuff.’ Her legs buckled.

‘You’re in shock. Let me help you—’

‘Get away from me.’ She batted his hand away. ‘If you think I’m—’

‘Hey, I was only trying to help.’

‘I don’t need any help from you, thank you.’ She backed over to the stairwell, taking the painting with her. ‘And stay … stay there. You can’t be trusted.’

Things were spiralling out of control.

‘Look, I don’t know why you think I’m after that painting, but I’m not.’

She hugged the painting tighter.

‘My name’s Oliver Wentworth. I’m here because my sister Louisa Musgrove sent you a painting by mistake.’

She froze. ‘Your sister?’

‘The collection from Rubha Castle? She sent you our late mother’s art collection, but another painting was included that shouldn’t have been. I’m here to retrieve it.’

She frowned. ‘And why should I believe you? You could be anyone. A con artist. A fraudster. Show me some ID.’

Why hadn’t he thought to bring ID? ‘I don’t have any formal ID, but I’m telling the truth. I was going to explain, but when I got here the place was empty, so—’

‘You thought you’d walk in and help yourself?’ She looked incredulous.

He shrugged. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘Do you make a habit of just taking things? I mean, is there anything else you’d like while you’re here?’ Her tone had morphed into sarcasm. ‘A lift home, perhaps? A couple of paintings on your way out? A cup of tea?’

‘Actually, tea sounds great.’ He took a step back when she glared at him. ‘Loss of blood. You can’t throw me out like this.’

She opened her mouth and then hesitated, as if her mind had changed direction. She looked conflicted. She also looked as cute as hell. But he was smart enough to know mentioning that wouldn’t do him any favours.

A beat later, she went over and closed the external doors. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ she said, heading upstairs.

He followed. ‘Is that a yes?’

He took her silence as an affirmative.

The staircase was narrow. When her foot caught on a loose bit of carpet and she stumbled, he reached out to grab her waist. ‘Don’t faint on me, there’s not enough room. And besides—’

‘Let me guess?’ She swung around to face him. ‘You’re the one who’s bleeding?’

He was about to apologise for the umpteenth time, but then noticed the challenge in her expression. The colour had returned to her cheeks and she no longer looked so shaky.

Maybe he needed a different approach. If he couldn’t steal the painting back, maybe he could charm her into giving it to him instead.

He tried for a boyish grin. ‘Technically, I’m the victim here. ABH … use of a lethal weapon.’

Her blue eyes widened. ‘It was self-defence.’

He came up a step. ‘I’d surrendered.’

‘You were trespassing.’

Another step. ‘My hands were up.’

‘You startled me.’

He was eyelevel now, their bodies separated by the painting. ‘You stabbed me.’

After a long-drawn-out pause, where they both stared into each other’s eyes, she turned and hurried up the remaining two flights. ‘Stay by the doorway. I don’t want you bleeding over my carpet.’

Her perfume hung in the air, playing havoc with his ability to think rationally. He had to shake himself out of his trance. Who was playing whom here?

The door at the top of the stairwell opened into a residential dwelling. The space was open-plan and painted soft white with a few period pieces of furniture, including a jukebox. Mark Rothko artwork hung on the walls, providing a splash of colour. It was a mixture of modern and retro, like the owner. A stretch of worktop was decorated with elaborate cupcake stands and boxes of Tupperware.

What he wouldn’t do for a sugary snack. He hadn’t eaten all day.

The woman came back to the stairwell and shoved a handful of kitchen towels at him. ‘Hold that against the wound and sit where I can keep an eye on you.’ She pointed to a barstool and then fetched a first-aid kit, stretching up to reach it from the cupboard above.

His eyes were drawn to her shapely legs and he was hit by another wave of dizziness. Christ, how much blood had he lost?

When she turned back, she caught him staring. ‘Don’t get any funny ideas.’

Before he could reassure her that he wasn’t interested in anything other than getting his painting back, their eyes met and something hit him hard in the solar plexus. He immediately squashed the feeling. He was here to save his family. Not flirt with a cute woman.

Seemingly flustered, she busied herself making tea, using a proper teapot. She carried the bone china cup over to him and placed it on the worktop.

He raised an eyebrow at the cherry blossom design that matched her blouse but refrained from comment.

She opened the lid on her first-aid box. ‘Roll your sleeve up.’

He flinched when he saw a bottle of witch hazel. ‘Will this hurt?’

She tore open an antiseptic swipe. ‘For a burglar you’re not very brave, are you?’

‘I told you, I’m not a burglar.’

‘Oh, that’s right, you’re …?’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Remind me again?’

‘Oliver Wentworth. Louisa Musgrove’s brother.’

She laughed. ‘Of course you are.’

He might have enjoyed hearing her laugh if she wasn’t laughing at him. ‘You don’t believe me?’

‘Let’s just say, I have my doubts.’

‘Then phone Louisa and ask her.’

‘Oh, I intend to. But for now, stop complaining and let me look at your arm.’

He did as asked, making a mental note to phone Louisa and prewarn her. The wound was smeared with blood, but not as ragged as he’d feared. Her face was so close he could see a few freckles on her nose. She smelt nice. Floral.

‘It might need stitches,’ she said, frowning. ‘I’ll patch you up temporarily, but you’ll need to visit A & E.’

He took a sip of tea. ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t read anything into it. I’d do the same for anyone.’

She cleaned the wound and covered it with a dressing. Throughout, he sat perfectly still, his eyes switching between her and the Tupperware on the side. He wasn’t sure which was more enticing.

Eventually, she reached over and handed him the container. ‘Honestly, men and their stomachs.’

He helped himself. ‘These are delicious,’ he said, trying to charm her with a smile.

‘Cake is all that’s on offer.’ She rolled down his sleeve and turned away. ‘Time for you to leave.’

‘You’re right.’ He got off the stool. ‘I have another three break-ins scheduled for tonight.’

She swung around so sharply she knocked the first-aid kit off the counter.

He bent down to retrieve the box. ‘It was a joke.’

She glared at him. ‘Funny guy.’

He placed the first-aid kit on the side. ‘I really am sorry for frightening you. Despite appearances, I’m a very trustworthy person.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Pillar of the community, I’m sure.’ She walked over to the stairwell and held the door open. ‘Just out of interest, what painting was sent here by mistake?’

He avoided eye contact. ‘Nothing special. Just a random painting of an old bloke.’

‘Right. So not valuable, then?’

‘Worthless.’

She nodded. ‘I wonder why you took the trouble to come all this way to retrieve it then. Surely it would’ve been easier simply to phone me and ask for it to be returned.’

He closed his eyes. He was an idiot.

Without another word, she headed downstairs. It didn’t take a genius to work out she’d already discovered the painting.

He followed her down.

‘Not to worry,’ she said, reaching the bottom. ‘I’m heading up to Rubha Castle in the next few days to evaluate the rest of the family’s collection. I’ll happily take the painting with me and return it to the family, if that’s what they wish.’ She held the rear door open for him.

Well, that was something.

‘Thank you,’ he said, holding out his hand in an attempt to repair the damage he’d inflicted on both his reputation and her gallery. ‘I appreciate that.’

She ignored his offer of a truce. ‘No problem.’

‘And thanks for the tea and cake.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘And not calling the pol—’

The door slammed shut in his face.

So much for trying to ‘charm her’. Far from retrieving the painting without arising any suspicion, he’d managed to cast even more doubt over the honesty of his family. And got stabbed in the process. Good one.

To top it all, he was now stranded in Windsor without a place to stay.

Sighing, he collected his rucksack from behind the bins and mulled over his options. His arm was throbbing, he looked a bloody mess and he couldn’t imagine he’d be welcomed at the prestigious Castle Hotel in the high street. And then he remembered the advert in the tattoo parlour’s window. He’d try there. Plus, it meant he could keep an eye on the gallery and ensure the owner did as promised and took The Cursed Man back up to Scotland.

It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best he could come up with tonight.

He backtracked to the front of the building. Tainted Love Tattoos had closed for the night, but the lights were still on inside. He cupped his hand and peered through the glass. A woman was sitting at a table. When he tapped on the glass, she looked up. He pointed to the sign hanging in the window.

She stood up. He could see she was wearing a tight black skirt with matching corset, fishnet stockings and a pair of black patent shoes. The heels alone looked capable of causing serious damage. Around her neck she wore a black choker with tiny rubies hanging from one side that looked like droplets of blood from a puncture wound.

Bloody hell. Talk about intimidating.

She walked towards him, her onyx eyes blinking from beneath her Pulp Fiction hairdo. She released the bolts on the door and opened it. For a good few seconds she just looked at him, not saying a word.

Unable to take the silence any longer, he said, ‘I was wondering about a room for the night?’

She didn’t respond.

He pointed to the sign. ‘It says you have a room to let.’

She leant against the doorframe. ‘I know what it says.’

‘Right.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘Do you have a vacancy?’

She eyed him cautiously. ‘You on the run?’

He shook his head.

‘What’s with the arm?’

He followed her gaze. The dressing was already soaked with blood. ‘I fell off my bike.’

Her expression indicated she didn’t believe him. ‘No drugs.’

He frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

She sighed. ‘As in, I don’t want anyone shooting up on my premises. Comprendo?’

He tilted his head to one side. ‘You remind me of someone.’

‘Fascinating. You want a room, or not? Forty quid a night, two fifty per week, seven hundred for the month. Cash. No tenancy agreement. No refunds. Payment upfront.’ She narrowed her gaze. ‘Food not included. Phone off limits. Touch my stuff and you’ll die a slow and painful death.’

He visibly swallowed. ‘Good to know.’

‘We got a deal?’

He scratched his head and then shrugged. ‘Deal.’ He held out his hand.

She ignored him and stepped back to allow him inside. She locked the door behind him. Should he be worried?

‘Sit,’ she said, pointing to a black leather chair that wouldn’t look out of place in a dentist’s surgery.

‘Excuse me …?’

Placing her hands on her hips, she stared at him. ‘You’re contaminating my sterile working environment. I don’t appreciate threats to the safety of my clients’ well-being.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m a softie like that.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I can tell.’ He sat down, fearful of what might happen if he didn’t.

She pulled out a first-aid kit. He was struck by a sense of déjà vu.

‘HIV positive?’

He blinked up at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

She sighed and then repeated very slowly, ‘Are you HIV positive?’

‘Oh, right. Err … no.’

‘Hepatitis B?’

He shook his head.

‘Any other diseases I should know about?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’ He tried not to stare at the tattoo on her left breast, a dagger piercing a heart. ‘Shouldn’t we get to know each other a little first?’

She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. ‘I’m not one for small talk.’

‘I’ve noticed.’ He watched her peel away the bloodied dressing applied by his previous first aider. ‘You know what you’re doing?’

She dropped it into a sanitised disposal unit. ‘My job dictates I draw blood. Occupational hazard.’

‘I imagine you’re very good at it.’

She almost smiled. ‘Funny guy.’

The way she’d said ‘funny guy’ gave him another strong sense of déjà vu. There was something oddly familiar about this woman. But if they’d met before, he’d definitely remember. She wasn’t the kind of woman a man forgot.

He looked around the parlour. In contrast to the white gallery next door, this place was jet black. There was a sign on the wall that read: THINK BEFORE YOU INK. It was hung next to the image of a naked woman with a creeping vine entwined around her torso.

‘Your designs are exquisite.’

She rubbed something over his cut that stung. ‘I know.’

Modest, too. He winced when she pulled the edges of the cut together and taped it.

Unlike the woman who’d tended to him a few minutes earlier, this nurse wasn’t offering cups of tea or homemade cakes. Still, if it enabled him to get his painting back, he didn’t care.

He looked up at her. ‘I may need the room for a couple of nights, if that’s okay?’

She tightened the strapping. ‘Money upfront.’

He tried to breathe through the pain. ‘No problem. Just the room, you understand?’

She snapped off the latex gloves and placed her hands either side of his head. ‘I unnerve you, don’t I?’

Instinctively, he pushed back against the chair. ‘Hell, yeah.’

‘Relax, sweetie.’ She patted the side of his face. ‘You’re not my type.’ She straightened and held out her hand. ‘Money.’

‘Money, right.’ He got out of the chair and removed his wallet. ‘Thanks for the first aid.’ He handed her the cash.

She took the money and tucked it into her corset. ‘Keep the wound covered. Bleed over my equipment and you’ll—’

‘… die a slow and painful death. Yeah, I remember.’ He pocketed his wallet.

A faint smile played on her lips. She turned and walked away, the sway in her hips disturbingly hypnotic. ‘Follow me.’

He did as he was told. He suspected his landlady wasn’t quite as scary as she made out. But then, he’d never been smart where women were concerned.

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