His hand reached out to touch her
arm. Freya looked up.

“Thank you.”

And then he kissed her on the cheek. A gentle touch of his lips on her skin. Freya gripped her keys hard, willing the pain of the metal biting into her soft flesh to prevent her raising a hand to touch where he’d kissed her.

His kiss hadn’t been about sex. Or lust. Or any of the things she’d experienced before. It was liking. It was gratitude.

And maybe, just maybe, it was a little about love.

Dear Reader,

As anyone who has visited my blog will know, it’s been a very tough time for me and mine. I’m sure that many of you reading this will also have known difficult times. Maybe you’re in one of those dark patches right now. And even when life is on an even keel there are still those days when you just feel completely frazzled and worn out, aren’t there? It’s because life can be tough that I believe time out to read a romance is so very important—one of those little treats that make everything seem more rosy and manageable somehow.

I love writing romance. I get to give my characters real problems and losses—the kind we all face—and then I give them the resolution we all desperately want for ourselves. I believe absolutely that life can change for the better in a moment, and there is nothing better than a “happy ever after.”

Thank God for Harlequin Romance® novels.

Much love,

Natasha

Wanted: White Wedding
Natasha Oakley

MILLS & BOON

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Natasha Oakley told everyone at her elementary school that she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mom bring her coffee at regular intervals—a drink she didn’t like then. The coffee addiction became reality, and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing or needed for “crowd control,” she loves to escape to antiques fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her Web site, www.natashaoakley.com.

“One of the best writers

of contemporary romance writing today!”

—CataRomance.com

“Ordinary Girl, Society Groom is one of those books

that keeps you guessing until the end.

It is very pleasing on so many different levels

that it will appeal to many. I sense awards

are in Ms. Oakley’s literary future.”

—Writers Unlimited

To Jenny, my editor.

Without your support and belief in me

this book would never have been written.

Thank you.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

FREYA bit down hard on the expletive hovering on the tip of her tongue and called again, her eyes raking the rows of old sofas and chests of drawers. ‘Hello?’

There was still no answer. No sound of anything in the cavernous building except the clip of her heels on the concrete floor. ‘Mr Ramsay? Anyone? Anyone at all?’ She came to a stop and looked back across the auction house.

She sucked in her breath and spun round to look again at the long line of caged cupboards piled high with knick-knacks. Where was everyone? The entire place was deserted.

Freya tucked her hands further into the depths of her sheepskin jacket and stamped her feet to get warmth back into her frozen toes. This was such a crazy way of doing business. There had to be someone whose job it was to speak to people like her. A porter? Wasn’t that the way it worked?

She hadn’t expected anything like Sotheby’s or Christie’s in a place like Fellingham, but this was plain ridiculous. Left to herself, she’d walk straight back out of here—and a casual trawl through the telephone directory would, no doubt, produce any number of more promising alternatives.

Except…

Her almost habitual frown snapped into place. Except Daniel Ramsay had somehow managed to convince her grandmother he was all things wonderful. Damn him!

Twelve years’ hard experience had taught her that anyone who gave the appearance of being ‘too good to be true’ was usually exactly that. The trouble was it would take something approaching the impact of World War Three to shift the elderly woman from her opinion of him now.

Freya pulled her hand out of her pocket and glanced down at her wristwatch. Where was he? She really wanted to see Daniel Ramsay for herself, gauge what kind of man he was, and preferably without her grandmother being there to witness it.

She stepped back, and her leg jagged against a box of china on the floor behind her. She swore softly and bent down to brush the dust off the fine black wool of her trousers.

What kind of place was he running here? Whatever the reality of Daniel Ramsay turned out to be, he was no businessman. His auction house was full of junk. Row upon row of it.

Freya looked round, her nose wrinkled against the musty smell. He couldn’t be doing more than scratching a living here…

She frowned. No doubt that was why he’d gone out of his way to befriend her grandmother. Stopping to chat and eat lemon drizzle cake whenever he had an hour free.

He’d certainly managed to inveigle himself very successfully. According to her grandmother, his prowess extended from the removal of mice to changing a lightbulb. And, of course, antiques. Apparently Daniel Ramsay knew everything there was to know about antiques…

Freya stamped her foot again as the cold bit at her toes. Looking at the sad specimens around her, she seriously doubted that. In her opinion his ‘gift’, such as it was, was in correctly reading an elderly woman who wanted shot of things she didn’t much value but which he knew would earn him a hefty commission.

Her eyes fixed on the green painted door with the small ‘Office’ sign on it. She gave her wristwatch another swift glance and then sidestepped the box, pushing her way passed a battered rocking horse.

This was a stupid waste of her time. If the office door was unlocked she’d leave a note, asking him to call this afternoon.

Not perfect. Not what she’d hoped for. But better than nothing. And it was always possible she was worrying needlessly anyway. Perhaps Daniel Ramsay genuinely liked spending time with her grandmother and had no ulterior motive at all?

Only….

Freya’s eyes narrowed as her normal scepticism rose to the surface. Only that wasn’t very likely. Not in the least likely. She rapped with her knuckles on the closed office door, scarcely pausing before pushing it open. ‘Mr Rams…?’

His name died on her lips as she took in the threadbare rug and the muddle of…stuff. There was no other word to describe the eclectic mix of furniture and paintings. All of which would have been better consigned to a skip rather than an auction house.

What was going on here? Was this some kind of ‘lost and found’? Or a modern-day ‘rag and bone’ business?

She picked her way across the floor and stopped by the heavy oak desk, one part of her mind speculating how anyone could work in such disorder while the other questioned whether the elusive Daniel Ramsay would even be able to find a note left for him in the mess.

Freya let out her breath on a slow, steady stream and pulled her handbag from her shoulder. She set it on the desk, starting slightly as the telephone on the other side of it started to ring. Conditioned as she was to take all her calls within a few seconds, it set her teeth on edge to hear it echo off into the distance via a crude tannoy system.

She reached across to pull a pen from a colourful mug, starting as the office door banged violently against the wall.

‘Get that, will you?’

‘I’m—’

‘The phone. Take a message,’ a disembodied male voice shouted, followed by a grunt. ‘I’ll be through in a minute.’

‘I—’

‘Phone! Just answer the phone!’

For a brief second she wondered whether she’d inadvertently stepped into a farce, and then Freya shrugged, stepping over a pile of vinyl records and an old gramophone to reach the other side of the desk. What did it matter? And at least it would stop that infernal noise ricocheting about.

‘Ramsay Auctioneers,’ she said into the receiver, her eyes on the closed door.

‘Daniel? Is that you?’

Hardly. She rubbed a hand across her eyes, the humour of the situation finally reaching her. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ramsay isn’t available at the moment. May I take a message?’

‘Can you tell him Tom Hamber called, love?’

Her right eyebrow flicked up and she reached over the scattered papers for a pad of fluorescent sticky notes. In her real life she’d have paused to tell Tom Hamber she wasn’t his ‘love’. She might even have told him that while she could pass on a message, she was by no means certain she would…

‘Have you got that? You won’t forget?’

‘Tom Hamber called,’ she said dryly, drawing a box around the words she’d written. ‘I think I’ll manage to remember.’

‘Tell him I need to speak to him before midday.’

Freya added the words ‘before midday’ to the note, then turned at the sound of a loud crash. ‘I’ll leave him a note,’ she said into the receiver. Whether he actually found it really wasn’t her problem.

‘That’s it, love.’

She set the receiver back on its cradle, ripping the top note off the pile. One thing she was certain of: there was no way on earth she was going to let her grandmother sell anything valuable through this crazy set-up. She looked at the confusion on the desk and stuck the note firmly on the telephone.

‘Thanks for that.’

Freya turned and found she was looking up into a pair of brown eyes. Very definitely up. At five feet ten—more in heels—it wasn’t often she had to do that.

Why did that feel so good? Some deep Freudian something was probably at the root of it. He had to be at least six foot two. Quite possibly more. And those eyes…Dark, dark brown, and sexy beyond belief.

‘I was holding up one end of a table and couldn’t let go.’

Freya pulled her eyes away from his and wrapped her sheepskin jacket closely around her. ‘Right.’

‘Did you get a message?’

‘Yes. Y-yes, I did. Yes.’ The corner of his mouth quirked and she stumbled on, feeling as foolish as if she’d been caught drooling. ‘It was a Tom Hamber.’

‘Ah.’

‘He wants to speak to Daniel Ramsay before midday.’

‘I can do that.’

The most horrible suspicion darted into her head.

‘I’m Daniel Ramsay.’ He smiled, and Freya felt as though the floor had disappeared beneath her.

This couldn’t be Daniel Ramsay. From her grandmother’s conversation she’d conjured up a very different picture. Someone altogether more parochial. More…

Well…less, if she were honest. Much less. Truthfully, this Daniel Ramsay looked like the kind of man you’d quite like to wake up with on a lazy Sunday morning. A little bit rumpled and a whole lot sexy.

‘You’re a little late.’ Then he smiled again, wiping his hands on the back of dark blue denim jeans, and the effect was intensified. ‘Not to worry. I get here about eight thirty, but I told the agency nine-thirty was fine.’

He held out a hand, and she automatically held out her own. His wedding ring flashed. Of course a man who looked like this one would be taken. They always were—even if they pretended not to be.

A familiar sense of dissatisfaction speared her. It was amazing how many men said they were separated when the only thing keeping them apart from their significant other was temporary geographical distance.

She was so tired of that. Tired of the game-playing.

Daniel bent down and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. ‘I’ve got the key to the inner office here. I’ll show you where everything is, and then I’ve got to drive out to the Penry-James farm.’

‘I’m not—’

He stood straight. ‘Which part didn’t you get?’

‘I understood you perfectly, but I’m not from any agency.’

‘You’re not?’

‘Merely a potential customer.’

His hand raked through his dark hair. ‘Hell, I’m so sorry! I thought—’

‘I was someone else.’ It didn’t take the mental agility of Einstein to figure that one out. It was vaguely reassuring to know he didn’t actively intend to run his business in such a haphazard way.

Sudden laughter lit his eyes, and she fought against the curl of attraction deep in her abdomen.

‘So you’re not the cavalry after all? Perhaps we’d better start over?’

‘Perhaps,’ she murmured, feeling unaccountably strange as his hand wrapped round hers for the second time. He had nice hands, she registered. Strong, with neatly cut nails. And a voice that made her feel as though she’d stepped into a vat of chocolate.

But taken, the logical part of her brain reminded her. And apparently the kind of man who, if he wasn’t actually preying on her grandmother, was certainly making the most of an opportunity.

‘You must have thought I was mad. Did Tom say what he wanted?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘I expect it’s about the quiz night next month.’ His smile widened and her stomach flipped over. Helplessly. ‘So, if you’re not from the agency, what can I do for you?’

‘Not me. My grandmother,’ she said, her voice unnecessarily clipped as she struggled to regain her usual control.

She took a deep breath and exhaled in one slow, steady stream, watching the droplets hang in the frosty air. ‘Is it always this cold in here?’

‘Not in summer.’ He moved away and bent to switch on a fan heater. ‘Then it can get quite unpleasant—’

‘It’s unpleasant now!’

He looked up, his brown eyes glinting with sexy laughter. ‘Because the window in here doesn’t open,’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken, completely unfazed. ‘It’s been painted over too many times.’

She bit back the observation that getting a window to open was something which could be easily fixed. Something that most certainly would be in any sensibly run business.

‘I suppose I ought to sort that.’

‘I would.’

He gave a bark of laughter. Startled, Freya looked at him. It had been a long, long time since anyone had dared laugh at her. She took in the faint amber flecks in his laughing eyes and swallowed, desperately willing her throat to work normally.

He was so entirely unexpected. She’d got one image of him entrenched so firmly in her imagination that this incarnation was difficult to adjust to. She tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear and felt the back of her hand brush against her crystal earring. It started swinging and jagged against the collar of her jacket.

‘How can I help your grandmother?’

Freya blinked. ‘She has a few items she’s interested in selling, and I’d like to have a professional evaluation of them.’

‘Can you bring them in?’

‘Not easily. There’s a chiffonier, a dining table—’

‘Then I’ll come out to her.’ He moved effortlessly past the piled boxes and sat behind his heavy desk, taking a pen from the same chipped mug she had.

‘Today, if possible.’

He nodded, his pen poised. ‘And you are?’

Freya hesitated. She wasn’t quite ready to tell him that. Not exactly, anyway. Three days in Fellingham and she’d already had more than enough of people’s reaction to her name. From the way their eyebrows shot up into their scalp she could only assume she’d gone down in local folklore as all things depraved.

It shouldn’t matter. Didn’t. But somewhere not so deeply buried her anger about that was still there. Nibbling away at her, despite all the success which had followed.

‘My grandmother’s Margaret Anthony. Mrs Margaret Anthony.’

His sexy eyes narrowed slightly. If she hadn’t been so attuned to people’s reaction to her she’d probably have missed it. Possibly even the beat of silence which followed. ‘Then that would make you Freya Anthony.’

‘That’s right.’

His strong fingers opened a large black diary and he wrote her grandmother’s name at the end of a long list. ‘It looks like it’ll have to be near five. I’m a little choked up today.’

‘That’s fine.’

He looked up and his eyes were no longer laughing. Something inside her withered a little more. He was a stranger to her, an ‘incomer’ to the area, and yet he’d already formed a poor opinion of her.

But then of course he had. What was she thinking? She knew Fellingham’s vicious network had gone into overdrive, and it didn’t take much imagination to guess what he must have heard about her.

‘Has she thought any more about selling her vases?’

‘She’s thought about it.’

‘And?’

Freya held his gaze, meaning to intimidate. She could do that. She’d always been able to do that. ‘I’m going to make sure she gets the best possible price for them. I understand an undamaged pair can be quite valuable.’

‘Can be. You just need two collectors who badly want to own them.’ Daniel stood up. ‘I think she could confidently expect to get a thousand for them.’

‘And in London?’

He shrugged, completely unfazed by the question she’d shot at him. ‘Possibly more. But the internet is narrowing the gap. Dedicated collectors search online.’

‘I wasn’t aware you had much of a website here.’

‘It’s in development.’

‘But very early stages,’ she said dismissively. ‘So not much use yet.’ Freya lifted her jacket collar and snuggled down into the warmth.

It didn’t matter what he thought of her. The only thing that mattered was her grandmother, and she was going to do anything and everything to see she wasn’t hurt or cheated. Not by him or anyone. ‘I’ll tell my grandmother to expect you.’

Daniel nodded. ‘As near to five as I can make it.’

‘We’ll both be there.’ She gave him a swift smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, before picking up her bag and walking out of the office.

CHAPTER TWO

SO THAT was the notorious Ms Anthony. Daniel watched the swing of her hips as she left…because he couldn’t help it. She had the longest legs. The kind that would wrap around you twice. Then he listened to the sound of her ridiculous heels clipping on the concrete floor until it faded to nothing. He shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets.

Not exactly what he’d been expecting Fellingham’s very own bad girl to be like. Interesting.

He carelessly tossed his pen back into the orange and red mug. Freya was a great name for her, though. If he’d ever taken a moment to think about it, he’d have thought someone who was named after the Scandinavian goddess of love and beauty ought to look pretty much like she did.

Daniel fingered the tag on the Gabrielle cream plush Paddington Bear that was destined for the twentieth century sale later in the month. Margaret Stone’s wayward granddaughter would need to be beautiful to have lived one fraction of the life village gossip attributed to her.

He hadn’t expected her to so obviously exude class, though. Hell only knew why not. He’d known all about her Audi Roadster within minutes of it driving into the village. He shouldn’t have been surprised by the skilfully highlighted blond hair and the designer clothes.

‘Dan?’

He turned.

‘We’ve got a problem.’ His porter rested his hand on the doorframe. ‘The blonde bombshell wants Pete’s van moved. It’s blocking her car in.’

‘Damn!’

‘She’s being quite vocal about it.’

‘I just bet.’

The porter gave a rare grin. ‘I told her the driver had gone for breakfast and wouldn’t be back for twenty minutes or so, but she’s not having none of that. Says my time might be worthless but hers isn’t. She wants it moved right now.’

Somehow he didn’t find it difficult to accept that Freya Anthony expected things to happen when and where she wanted. One imperious click of her manicured fingers and Daniel had no doubt the world habitually fell where she wanted it to.

‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘You’ll have to. She’s spitting fair to blow.’

Daniel smiled. The image Bob was creating was all too indicative of what he expected Ms Anthony would do when the world didn’t bend to her will.

‘She’s one that likes things to happen yesterday, I reckon.’

‘Okay, I’ll sort it.’ Daniel glanced down at his watch and grimaced. There couldn’t be much more that could go wrong today. He seemed to have been running behind from the minute he’d opened his eyes this morning.

‘Nice looking woman, though, ain’t she?’

Yes—if you liked the kind of woman who would eat you up and spit you out.

He stepped out onto the forecourt, pausing for a minute to gauge how blocked-in her car was. The faint hope he’d had that it might be possible to guide her past faded as he took in how far Pete had driven the van in.

Daniel walked towards her. ‘I’m sorry about this.’

‘Just get it moved.’

He looked back at Bob. ‘See if you can find Pete and get the keys—’

‘You don’t have a spare set?’

‘Why would I? It’s not my van,’ he replied calmly, taking in the angry flash of her blue eyes. Then he turned back to Bob. ‘I think you’ll find him in Carlo’s. If not he’ll have gone on to that place in the arcade for one of their all-day breakfasts.’

The older man nodded and ambled off towards Silver Street. Beside him, Freya made a small guttural sound of pure irritation.

‘It shouldn’t be too long,’ Daniel offered. ‘Would you like to wait inside?’

‘What’s the difference? It’s as cold in there as out here.’

‘You’re welcome to use the phone if you need to call someone,’ he added seamlessly.

‘I’ve got a mobile.’

Quite deliberately he let the silence stretch out between them. She could be as difficult as she liked, but she wasn’t going to get a reaction out of him. After a moment it seemed she made a conscious decision to relax. Though by other people’s standards she was still as tense as a bowstring.

Spoilt, he thought, watching the small frown disappear from the centre of her forehead. A woman who’d had her own way far too often and easily. She spun round on her ice-pick-thin heels and walked over to perch half a buttock on the low brick wall behind her car.

His eyes travelled to the sleek grey Audi he’d heard so much about. ‘Nice car.’

‘I like it.’

Daniel smiled. It was a ‘statement’ car, not one chosen simply to get you from A to B. It was a car which would always be noticed. Would inspire envy. She had to know that. Would surely have anticipated the reaction it would produce when she drove it into the village. Even in Fellingham, which had its fair share of London money.

It made him wonder whether this was all some kind of game to her. Did she like the idea of wafting back to her old stamping ground and giving the gossips something to talk about?

Because they were talking. Everything she did and said would be dissected. Everywhere she went…

Did she even care?

Daniel took in the dark smudges under her eyes and the tight hold to her mouth. She cared. He had no idea how he knew that so certainly. ‘How long are you planning on staying?’

‘I’ve not decided.’

‘Nice to have the freedom to choose.’ Daniel sat down on the wall beside her, perversely determined to make her speak. ‘Is Margaret still planning on moving to a warden-controlled place?’

He was aware of the slight hunch to her shoulders and the short delay before she replied. ‘Quite possibly.’ Then, ‘You know, you really don’t need to wait with me.’

‘It’s not a problem.’

‘I’m sure—’ She broke off with a swift frown. ‘Bob, was it?’

Daniel nodded.

‘Well, I’m sure Bob will manage to find the driver of that thing,’ she said, pointing at the white van, ‘and get it moved some time before lunch. You go on doing whatever it is you need to do.’

Daniel stretched out his legs. ‘Pete’s on his break, so you’re going to need me to reverse it. Unless…you’re happy to do it yourself?’

‘I’ve no problem with that.’

He fought down an unexpected desire to laugh. She’d do it. A vehicle she didn’t know, and a tight bend out on to a narrow road…

He’d kind of like to see that. It was a shame Bob would refuse to hand over the keys. Pete would have him lynched if there was even the slightest scratch put on his baby.

‘Pete might have a problem with it. That’s his pride and joy.’

‘Then why make the suggestion?’

Fair question. Why had he? Daniel studied her face for a moment.

Because he liked to see the challenging tilt of her chin, the determination in a face that otherwise looked as if it could be the model for a porcelain doll…

Freya Anthony had the darkest lashes of any woman he’d ever seen. Though maybe they looked like that because her skin was so fair. Purple smudges beneath blue eyes. Intelligent eyes. Guarded.

Hurt.

He recognised that because he’d felt it. There was always an unspoken connection between people who knew what it was to suffer.

Daniel shook his head. An affinity between two souls who knew life wasn’t perfect. Could never be perfect. And for some reason he knew this carefully packaged blonde understood that. She knew it with the same bone-deep certainty he did.

‘If we’re going to be sitting here a while, shall I bring us out a couple of coffees?’

‘No.’ Then, as though some semblance of politeness was dragged out of her, ‘I’m not thirsty, but that’s no reason for you not to go and get one for yourself if you’re determined to babysit me.’ She stood up and tapped her foot against the tarmac.

Daniel’s eyes travelled to the caramel suede of her boot, the impatient movement of her foot. ‘No problem. I’ll just sit here and wait with you.’

‘How long have you known my grandmother?’

The question surprised him. Or rather the antagonistic tone of it did. He shrugged. ‘A few years—’

‘How come?’

His eyes moved back up to her face, taking in the pinched look. Daniel sat back as far as the wall would allow. What exactly was her problem? Something had really got under her skin. And that something appeared to be him.

Maybe she was the possessive sort? Perhaps she wasn’t happy to discover Margaret had filled the void left by her family, if not well at least adequately?

‘Margaret takes an interest in other people’s lives,’ he said slowly. ‘People like her for it.’ He watched her process that—make some kind of judgement. Her foot moved again, and she spun round so he couldn’t see her face.

‘How much longer is this Bob going to be? This is completely stupid.’

‘That’ll depend on how difficult Pete’s been to find.’

Her head snapped round, her long earrings swinging. ‘I’ve got things I need to be doing.’

Daniel felt a smile twitch at the side of his mouth. Unreasonable and spoilt was the only way to describe Freya Anthony’s behaviour.

Very similar, in fact, to the way his daughter behaved when he vetoed something or other ‘everyone else’ was doing. Only Mia was fifteen, and had considerably more excuse for behaving like a brat than a woman in her late twenties…however beautiful.

Oh, hell! The thought of his daughter had him reaching inside his coat pocket for his phone. He’d forgotten to turn it back on, which meant her school wouldn’t have been able to contact him if…

What did he mean if they tried to call? Given the morning they’d had, it was an inevitability. It was a little over three years since Anna had died, and he’d never missed his wife as much as he did right now.

Anna would have known what to do. She’d have had one of those mother/daughter chats the ‘How to Deal with your Teenager’ books suggested.

But Mia might not have been behaving the way she was if Anna hadn’t died… Daniel closed his eyes against the thought. Things were the way they were. They just had to be got through in the best way possible.

It wasn’t what he’d have chosen. None of it was as he’d chosen—

A bleep alerted him to a missed call. Damn it!

He looked up, and Freya waved an impatient hand towards him. A fatalistic sense of foreboding settled on him as he pushed the button that would let him hear the message. It was brief, and very much to the point. Daniel pulled a hand across the back of his neck.

‘Trouble?’

He turned. ‘I need to make a call.’ Cold wind whipped at the fine blonde hair she’d loosely clipped up. He shouldn’t really leave her sitting here alone, waiting for goodness only knew how long. Daniel hesitated before his priorities slipped into their habitual pattern. ‘I’m sorry, I really do—’

‘It’s fine.’

His hand bounced his phone. ‘It’s my daughter’s school—’

‘It’s fine,’ she repeated, and for the first time her eyes lost their hard, combative edge.

It was so dramatic a change that it cut through his preoccupation.

‘If I have to wait for Pete to finish his break, then that’s what I’ll have to do.’

Daniel studied her eyes, looking for some kind of explanation for such an abrupt change of manner. ‘I’ll—’

‘See you at five,’ she finished for him, returning to sit uncomfortably on the wall.

‘Thank you. I really appreciate that.’

Freya climbed into the driver’s seat and leant across to reach into the glove compartment of her car, pulling out some lip balm.

She hadn’t done that well. Any of it. Not only had she not really been able to gauge what sort of man Daniel Ramsay was, she’d probably done more harm than good. After witnessing her behaviour today, he probably thought her grandmother needed protection from her.

Nothing about this visit was going as she’d planned. She unclipped the twisted silver barrette, throwing it on the passenger seat, and ran her fingers through her hair. What exactly was she so cross about anyway?

For all she knew Daniel Ramsay was a genuinely kind man, trying to make a go of a small country auction house. He’d seemed kind. After all, how many men in her London circle would drop everything to go running when their daughter’s school rang?

That didn’t take very much thinking about. None. She didn’t know anyone like that.

She shut the glove compartment with a hard shove. It was the fault of this wretched place. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from behaving badly. Maybe because that was what everyone was expecting from her? Who knew what the psychology was? Whatever it was, she was certainly living down to their expectations.

Steve, the driver of the white van, walked past her car, sparing her only the briefest of glances. No doubt this morning’s performance would be added to the canon of her supposed misdemeanours. Only in this case she was more than a little guilty.

Freya bit her lip. Why had she ever thought coming back here was a good idea? Okay, so she’d thought her physical presence might deter her dad more effectively than the knowledge she was watching from a distance, but there was more to it than that.

So many complex reasons bound up together. The fact was, this whole approaching thirty thing had taken on a life of itself. It felt almost like a life crisis. At least it would if she didn’t hope to live considerably longer than sixty years.

Now she had something to prove—to herself if no one else. She would not run back to London like a dog with its tail between its legs simply because other people didn’t like her. Been there, done that, had the battle scars to prove it.

But being back in Fellingham did make her feel as judged as before. And after twelve years she honestly hadn’t expected it to feel like that. She could feel everything unravelling. All her hard-won peace of mind.

Statements like It’s so important to feel no residual anger towards anyone or anything no longer seemed to make sense. What did it mean when you actually unpicked it?

She was angry—really angry. How about One’s past must not be allowed to determine one’s future? Wasn’t that what her therapist had said?

It was all total rubbish. Freya turned the key in the ignition. Clearly Dr Stefanie Coxan had no first-hand knowledge of what it was like to live in a gossipy little place like Fellingham.

Of course one’s past shaped one’s future. Even if you managed to draw a black line under the grotty bits, pieces of it still steeped through and stained whatever came after.

She reversed out into the narrow country lane and, without stopping to analyse why, turned her car towards Kilbury. Post-war bungalows still lined the entrance to the village, followed by a rash of 1930s semis, many carefully extended beyond recognition.

She took the left-hand turn towards Church Lane, the second right into Wood End Road, and bit down a wave of pure loathing as Kilbury Comprehensive School appeared from behind a row of Leylandi.

Squat. Ugly. Built of breeze blocks some time in the 1970s, when it had seemed a good idea to make everything square and functional. She slowed her car down to a stop as large droplets of rain spotted the windscreen.

There’d been nowhere on earth she’d been more unhappy. Nothing to do with the school, of course. Now, with hindsight, she could see that. Everything that had tortured her had been from within. But at the time it had been just another thing to kick against. Something else to resent.

Freya glanced down at her watch and restarted the engine. There was no point in sitting here remembering how unhappy she’d been. If she’d hoped seeing it again would lay some ghosts to rest she’d been kidding herself. If anything it felt as if she’d stirred a few up.

Freya turned the car round in a lay-by and headed back along the main road towards Fellingham. She set her windscreen wipers going and flicked on her headlights to compensate for the overall gloom.

It was strange to be driving along this road. It was all so familiar, and yet not. The red telephone box had been replaced by one of those see-through boxes. The pub at the end of the lane had changed from the Pheasant to the Plough.

But most things were the same.

Presumably the school bus still took this route. Still left at 7:25 a.m. from the bus stop opposite the garage, still took a lengthy detour through Westbury and Levingham before looping round to Kilbury.

She slowed at the crossroads and glanced over at the brick-built bus shelter which had been her escape route. It hadn’t taken too much ingenuity to slip out through the changing rooms, cross behind the bike sheds and then walk down the main road to this bus stop. From there it had been a twenty-minute ride into Olban and all the diversions of a big town.

And it seemed times hadn’t changed much. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a teenage girl in school uniform, turning away from the wind to light a cigarette.

As she pulled away from Pelham Forest it crossed her mind to wonder whether she should have stopped. But then what would she have done? Or said?

You couldn’t just pick up stray adolescents. There were laws against that type of thing. And if that girl was anything like she’d been at the same age she’d have given her a mouthful for interfering in what didn’t concern her.

But…

Freya glanced in her rearview mirror, softly biting her lip. Maybe she ought to ring the school? She debated with herself for all of thirty seconds. She couldn’t do it. It would feel like a betrayal. Honour among thieves, and all that.

From the distance she heard the slow rumble of thunder. Moments later there was a crack of lightning.

Freya glanced again in her rearview mirror but she’d driven on too far to be able to see what the teenager’s reaction to the storm was. It was one hell of a day to have picked to bunk off school.

It was all too easy for her to imagine how that girl must be feeling. And how cold. Freya swore softly and steeled herself to go back and check the teenager was at least okay.

At the next junction she performed an illegal U-turn and drove back up the other way. It was one thing not to want to deliberately get someone into trouble, quite another to drive off leaving them wet and miserable.

The light from her headlights picked up the rain, now coming down like stair-rods. Despite it, the girl stepped straight out and lifted her thumb—which certainly made it all much easier. Freya gave quiet thanks that she didn’t have to get out of the car. She slowed and came to a stop.

‘You in trouble?’ she asked, opening the window with the push of a button.

‘The bus is late and I’ve got an appointment in Olban.’ The girl took a drag on her cigarette. ‘Are you going that way? I could use a lift.’

Rain slipped in through the opened window, darkening the suede of Freya’s jacket. One glance at the teenager showed she was faring much worse. Her khaki coat was sodden, and her hair, dragged back in a tight ponytail, hung limply down the back of her neck.

‘What time’s your appointment?’ Freya asked, mentally reviewing her options. Now she was here she wasn’t at all sure what she was going to do.

‘Twelve-fifteen. I’m meeting my mum at McDonalds.’

And she believed that just about as much as she wanted a hole in the head. ‘Can I ring her? To check she doesn’t mind me giving you a lift?’

‘She won’t mind.’

‘I’d like to ring her anyway.’

‘My phone’s died,’ she said, with a jut to her chin, then brushed a long strand of sodden hair off her cheek.

‘We can use mine.’

‘I can’t remember her number.’

Freya’s hands moved over the steering wheel. Hell, this kind of thing never happened to her in London. For one thing she was always too busy to notice if anyone was out of place.

Damn it! She really should have just rung the school. They could have checked their records and she could have driven back to Fellingham guilt free.

‘Are you going to take me?’ The girl took another drag on her cigarette and then dropped it to the ground, twisting the ball of her foot on it. ‘I won’t smoke in your car. And I’ve got a plastic bag in here,’ she said, lifting her schoolbag forward. ‘I can lay it across the seat if you’re worried about your leather.’

Freya fought the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. This girl was only a beginner in delinquency. Way back when, she wouldn’t have said anything like that. She’d have been more inclined to smoke if she thought it would shock, and the idea of protecting a car seat just wouldn’t have occurred to her.

‘I can give you a lift, but I need to ring your school and ask them to contact your mum. I need her permission.’

‘Don’t bother.’ The girl turned back towards the shelter, her shoulders braced against the wind.

‘You know hitch-hiking is dangerous,’ Freya offered, wincing at words she knew would achieve nothing. ‘I might be anyone.’

The girl looked over her shoulder. ‘But you’re not. You’re Freya Anthony. I’ve seen you before.’

‘Have you?’

‘And everyone’s talking about you.’

Ah. Why did that still have the power to surprise her? ‘Do I get to know your name?’

‘Do I get a lift?’ she countered.

It was a little like looking into a mirror. Albeit one that had the ability to turn back time. There was something else, too. Some sense that she’d seen this girl somewhere before. Maybe it was nothing more than the ghosts of her youth haunting her. Reminding her.

‘It’s pouring down out here, and I’m wet.’

‘I…’ Freya was momentarily distracted by a bright light shining in her rearview mirror. She looked up and then over her shoulder as a silver estate car bore done on her.

The girl swore, and Freya turned in time to see her duck out of sight. What the—?

The lights were switched off and a car door slammed behind her. Freya swung round in her seat and she watched, amazed, as Daniel Ramsay stormed over towards the shelter.

Oh…my…goodness. She made the connection surprisingly slowly. Somehow it had never occurred to her that a man the age of Daniel Ramsay would have a daughter as old as this one. But that had to be it. Every line of his body screamed his anger.

His dark eyes met hers briefly, but his attention was on the belligerent teenager. Fascinated, she watched the confident, mouthy girl turn into a sulky, quiet one. Freya deliberately looked away, and carefully re-zipped the inner pocket of her handbag.

She felt a strange pang of envy watching the two of them. No one had ever come looking for her. Certainly not her dad. Not ever. It would have meant a lot if he had. If just once he’d put her first. Freya brushed an irritated hand across her eyes. It had been such a long time since she’d allowed herself to be so affected by thoughts like that. It didn’t matter.

Not any more.

Her parents were her parents. They’d done the best they could and that was that. One’s worth must come from inside oneself. She only wished she could believe that…on some level other than a cerebral one.

‘Ms Anthony?’

Freya looked up.

‘Is that yours or hers?’ he asked abruptly, his voice edged with anger and his eyes on the cigarette butt on the kerb.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The cigarette?’

His voice was like steel…and she instinctively reacted against it. Who did he think he was, to be talking to her like that? She glanced at his daughter, standing sullenly behind him, and caught the appeal for help in her eyes. It was fleeting. Barely there before it was gone. And Freya couldn’t do anything but respond to the sense of kinship she felt.

‘You have a problem with that?’

His brown eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Actually, plenty. But if you want to sabotage your chances of living into old age so be it.’ He turned his head. ‘Mia, get in the car. Now. I said now!’

The teenager allowed herself a quick glance of gratitude towards Freya before doing as she was told. It was amazing how much ‘attitude’ she still managed to exude. Even the slam of the door spoke volumes.

Freya turned back to look at Mia’s father, feeling a little guilty.

He took a moment, seemingly trying to gain some control. ‘That wasn’t helpful. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but—’

‘I—’

‘—if she’d actually got into your car I’d have seriously considered charging you with abduction.’

‘I—’

‘I suggest, in future, you mind your own business,’ he said, stepping back from her car and heading towards his own.

Freya sat, a little stunned at his attack. She felt as though she’d been verbally cut off at the knees. And people said she had a tongue dipped in vitriol.

She wouldn’t care to be in Mia’s shoes right now, she thought as she caught a glimpse of Daniel’s expression as he drove past. There was a price to being loved, it seemed. Because she didn’t doubt he was motivated by that.

Even so…he’d had no business talking to her like that. Slowly she reached down for the ignition to start the engine.

Surely it had been a tad disproportionate? She’d known from his reaction to her name earlier that he’d heard something of her history, but what exactly did he think she’d want with a truanting teenager? Did he honestly imagine she went around the country finding disaffected girls to turn into mini versions of her?

After starting the engine, Freya pulled away from the kerb. The sooner she got out of this spiteful little place the happier she’d be.

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