THE heat in the centre of London struck her like a blow the moment she stepped out of the taxi. Her publishers had an office tucked away in a quiet and very exclusive mews, but the flowers in the smartly painted black and white tubs were rimmed with dust and looked tired.
She gave her name to the receptionist—a picture of glossy sophistication from her immaculately painted nails to her perfectly groomed hair. Once the sight of so much perfection would have automatically made her feel insecure, but now she could smile without envy at the other girl’s city patina and even feel a little sorry for her because she was cooped up here in the heart of the hot city, and because she was not going home to have dinner with Saul.
She only had to wait ten minutes or so before going in to see her editor, and she passed the time glancing at the impressive-looking dust jackets displayed in the reception area. The publishers her uncle had referred her to handled fiction work in the main—they had several well-known names on their list; one of their writers was a well-known thriller writer, another a political correspondent turned faction author.
‘Mrs Francis is ready to see you now.’
Dutifully Lucy followed the receptionist and was shown into a small office.
Beverley Francis was only small, barely five foot two, her dark hair touched here and there with grey.
She and Lucy’s uncle had been up at Oxford together, and she had the warm, but controlled, look of a woman secure in her position in life.
Shrewd brown eyes surveyed Lucy as she sat down.
‘You look tired, and I’m not surprised. Your uncle was telling me the other day that things haven’t been too easy for you since your father died.’
‘Oh they haven’t been too bad. There were one or two bumpy patches but we’re over them now.’
‘Umm… You’ve got your stepmother and the children living with you I believe?’
Lucy’s sensitive ears caught the faintly critical note skilfully hidden within the words, and automatically defended her father’s actions.
‘Fanny isn’t really emotionally capable of handling things alone at the moment…’
Looking at the finely-drawn features of the girl seated opposite her, Beverley Francis wondered a little at the thoughtlessness of a father who burdened a young woman with the welfare of his second wife and family. She had two stepchildren of her own—both married with families now—two girls whom she got on with very well indeed, but who by no stretch of her imagination could she see willingly taking on the role Lucy had been obliged to adopt.
‘Look, I’ve booked our table for one o’clock,’ she told Lucy, glancing at her watch. ‘Shall we go straight there and discuss everything over lunch?’
When Lucy agreed, she got up, collecting her handbag and a small notebook.
The purpose of Lucy’s visit wasn’t mentioned again until they had been served with their main course, the conversation over their first course having been confined to Lucy’s uncle and their days together at Oxford.
‘We’re really delighted with what you’ve done so far,’ Beverley told Lucy without preamble, watching the tension ease out of her face. ‘You do have a genuine natural flair for writing, Lucy. Of course there’s a certain amount of smoothing out to be done, but nothing too drastic, and I can certainly tell you that we want to go ahead and publish. How much work have you done on the next book?’
‘A lot of research, but very little else. I know what I’m going to put in it, and what main line the story will take, but I’m still mulling over the peripheral stuff—how much or how little I expand on the more remote family connections.’
Beverley listened closely whilst Lucy outlined her ideas for her second novel, interrupting occasionally to make a suggestion and to skilfully lead Lucy down by-lanes that hadn’t previously occurred to her.
By the time they had finished their lunch, Lucy felt fired with a new enthusiasm to get back to her work. It had suffered during her father’s illness and since then she had been too caught up with family affairs to give it the concentration it required—she had even begun to feel reluctant to go on at all. But now all that was banished and she was full of eagerness to get back to work. When she said as much to Beverley, the latter laughed.
‘That’s what good editors are for—to inspire their writers, not depress them.’
They had talked over the minor points Beverley wanted to raise on her existing manuscript and when she eventually left the office midway through the afternoon, Lucy felt buoyed up and exultant. The re-writing work required was minimal—a smoothing off process rather than anything else, as Beverley had intimated, which she was confident she could have done within the time limit Beverley had set.
It was late afternoon before she got to the station, but luckily she didn’t have long to wait for a train. As she got on to it she glanced rather guiltily at the glossy carrier over her arm. The silk suit she had seen in a Bond Street window had proved too much temptation to resist, the way the fabric clung to her body bringing vividly to mind her erotic imaginings of the night before. She would wear it tonight—for Saul.
The adrenalin which had pumped through her veins all afternoon increased its speed as the train slowed down for her station. She got out, her heart thudding furiously as she headed for her car.
‘Lucy!’
Delight shocked through her as she recognised Saul’s voice. He was striding towards her, almost grinning at her, his smile so wide while she stood like someone transfixed and waiting for him to reach her.
‘I thought I’d come and pick you up—just in case you’d forgotten about our date.’
Forgotten? Her mouth curled into a smile at the absurdity of the thought. She had her own car parked only yards away and as she looked across at it, she regained enough sanity to ask breathlessly, ‘But how did you know what train I’d be on?’
Saul laughed, his voice faintly self-mocking as he drawled, ‘I didn’t, so I’ve met each one.’
The curve of his mouth invited her to share his amusement, but she couldn’t. She was too overwhelmed. Tears stung her eyes, her throat closing up with a mixture of delight and anguish. It had been years since anyone had cared enough about her to do such a thing—in fact the last person she could remember doing so was her mother.
‘Hey…’
The bulk of Saul’s body shielded her from curious passers-by, his hand gentle and protective as he turned her in towards himself, his eyes concerned and faintly shadowed as he looked down at her.
‘I’m sorry…’ What on earth must he think of her? Shame scorched her face. Some explanation was due to him, but what could she say apart from the truth?
‘You’ll think me a fool I know, but it’s just that it’s been so long since anyone cared enough for me to do something as crazy as that.’
She thought she heard him swear softly under his breath as his arms went round her, the solid strength of his body supporting her as he drew her against his warmth, her head seemed to fit perfectly in the curve of his shoulder, her eyes closing in blissful delight as she felt the light movement of his lips against her forehead.
Abruptly he released her, his eyes glowing darkly.
‘You’re making it very hard for me to remember that I told myself I’d take things slowly,’ he told her huskily.
‘I’d better make my own way home—I can’t leave my car here.’ It was torture to step away from him, her senses brought achingly to life by the look in his eyes.
‘Will an hour be long enough for you to get ready to go out?’
An hour? Being apart from him for more than five minutes would be sheer torture, but somehow she managed to nod her head and then walk away and get in her own car.
Later she decided it was a miracle she managed to drive home without incident. When she thought about it she could not remember a single thing about the drive, but she could remember how she had felt when Saul touched her, when he looked at her with that dark desire that made her blood pound and her pulses race.
As she stopped outside the Dower House he drove past her, sounding his horn and giving her a brief wave.
She collected her belongings and went inside. Suddenly an hour seemed far too short a time to get ready in. She was hot and sticky and in need of a shower. Her hair needed washing after the dustiness of the city. She had to ring the vicarage and check that all was well with the children.
She performed the last chore first, relieved to hear that all was going well.
‘In fact I was going to ask you if they could stay another night, they’re getting on so well with Amanda and Daniel.’
‘Well if you’re sure it’s no trouble?’
‘Not at all,’ Nancy reassured Lucy. ‘I’m enjoying it tremendously.’
They arranged that Lucy would pick them up on Thursday morning.
As she replaced the receiver Lucy realised with a tiny kick of pleasure that she would have a second night of freedom… a second night when… When what?
Betrayingly her body remembered the hard warmth of Saul’s against it, and putting shaking hands against her hot cheeks Lucy warned herself not to get too carried away.
The vibrant fuchsia pink of her outfit, so hard for someone with the paler eyes normally associated with her colouring to wear, looked stunning against the foil of her darker skin and richly warm eyes.
The summer had given her a good tan, at the same time highlighting her blonde hair, and the effect of the vivid silk against her warm brown flesh and Nordic pale hair had a visual impact that even she found faintly startling.
It was warm enough for her to go bare legged, a pair of high-heeled sandals emphasising the slender delicacy of her ankles.
At twenty she had been faintly podgy, but that puppy fat had soon disappeared, and in the anxiety of her father’s illness and subsequent death she had lost more weight—perhaps just a shade too much, she thought judiciously, studying the narrow flatness of her hips, and wondering anxiously if Saul would find such slenderness unfeminine.
She kept her make-up to a minimum, just the merest dusting of highlight across her cheekbones, its pinky tones echoed in her lipstick and eyeshadow. Perfume was something she rarely wore—her lifestyle made it unsuitable; she found it cloying during the daytime, and went out so rarely at night that she never bought any, but this evening she had filched some of Fanny’s bath oil—a perfume she did not recognise, Lutèce, but which now enveloped her in a delicately scented cloud.
Saul was five minutes early, for which he apologised as she opened the door to him. It was a new sensation for her to have someone so eager for her company, so much so that part of her cautioned her against getting carried away, warning her that the emotion and desire she could read in Saul’s eyes could be as ephemeral as a daydream.
But there was nothing ephemeral about the way he smiled at her as he studied the lissom slenderness of her body before helping her into the car; nothing ephemeral about the touch of his fingers against her skin as he brushed against her arm when fastening her seatbelt.
His touch brought out a rash of goosebumps, the tiny hairs on her arm standing on end as she shook with a delicate shudder. She saw his eyes darken and his body tense as it responded to the signals of her own and felt desire flower inside her as she realised that he shared her need.
He had booked a table at a restaurant several miles away in a peaceful riverside setting.
Lucy knew it by repute but had never dined there before, and because it was only early in the week the dining-room was only pleasantly full.
When they didn’t have drinks in the bar but went straight to their table, Lucy thought that Saul must be hungry, but as she was studying the menu an ice bucket and champagne arrived.
‘As far as your book’s concerned, I don’t know yet whether this will be to celebrate or commiserate,’ he told her softly as the waiter filled their glasses with the foaming liquid. ‘But I certainly want to celebrate my good fortune in being here with you tonight, Lucy.’
The champagne slid coolly down her throat, fizzing intoxicatingly, the texture deliciously dry.
They drank to one another, and then to Lucy’s book, when she told him how well her meeting had gone.
She ordered melon sorbet to start with, followed by salmon, ridiculously delighted when Saul chose the same. It seemed a good omen that their tastes should be so much in accord.
Knowing the reputation of the restaurant Lucy was sure the meal was a poem of epicurean delight, but she barely registered it; she was too absorbed in Saul, in listening to him, in just simply watching him.
He caught her doing so once, their eyes meeting, locking in a way she thought belonged only to the world of films. Her heart seemed to stop completely, and then bound into ecstatic life as Saul reached across the table to curl his fingers round her own.
‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
His words echoed her own thoughts and she grimaced faintly. ‘I know… It seems faintly ridiculous.’
‘Ridiculous?’ He looked at her and then shook his head. ‘No. Miraculous, maybe… but ridiculous—never. I’ve waited a long time to feel this way about someone, Lucy, and now that I do I want to savour every moment of it… every second… We won’t rush things, grabbing greedily at sexual fulfilment before we’ve tasted all the delicate ancillary pleasures of courtship. I’m twenty-nine years old and I want more from this relationship than sex.’
‘More?’ Her voice sounded husky and unsure. What was he trying to say to her? ‘What sort of more?’
She watched him smile, knowing with an involuntary ache that no matter how long her life might be she would never forget the way he smiled.
‘Oh, commitment… permanence… That sort of more.’ He said it teasingly, but his eyes were serious. Her heart jolted and lurched within her.
‘I’m rushing you—something I promised I wouldn’t do. I don’t want to frighten you off. Let’s talk about your book.’
‘I want to talk about you,’ Lucy wanted to protest, but she felt too weak to argue, to do anything other than follow his lead. Was this love? This heady, almost delirious feeling that possessed her; this ridiculous happiness that invaded her simply because they were together?
It was late when they left the restaurant. Because he was driving Saul had insisted that Lucy finished off the champagne, and on top of the wine they had had with their meal and the brandy after it, it had made her feel faintly tipsy.
Sauls’ hand closed over hers as they walked to the car, his arms coming round her as they stopped beside it, his mouth warm as it feathered softly on hers.
The urge to cling to him and go on clinging almost overwhelmed her and she had to fight to remind herself that they were standing in a public car park, and to step away from him as his mouth completed its languorous exploration of hers.
‘Very wise,’ he teased softly, letting her go. ‘Otherwise I might have forgotten all my good intentions.’
‘Maybe that’s what I’d like you to do—somewhere more private.’ She could hardly believe the provocatively husky words had come from her tongue, but they had, and judging by Saul’s arrested expression and glinting eyes, he was nowhere near as shocked by them as she was herself. Quite the contrary.
‘One day, not very far from now, I’m going to remind you of those words,’ he promised her, releasing her to unlock the car door.
They were more than halfway back before the heated excitement had faded from her blood. She wanted him quite desperately, she recognised, to the extent that if he took her home with him now, she would willingly go with him.
The Dower House was reached all too quickly. Neither of them had spoken since getting in the car, but words had been completely unnecessary. As Saul brought the car to a halt, Lucy hesitated.
‘Do I get invited in for a nightcap?’
Her eyes flew to his face. Had he guessed how reluctant she was for the evening to end? As she met the look he turned on her face she knew that he had.
There was something subtly exciting about knowing that beneath the surface conventionality of the trite remark ran a deep and dangerously powerful current of desire, something exhilarating and faintly wicked in playing this game, to respond casually to his teasing comment and invite him in, as though almost bored by his suggestion.
The house was in darkness and as he followed her into the hall while she fumbled for the light switch she was intensely aware of him standing behind her. Her fingers reached for the switch, her mind tormenting her with vivid mental images of Saul reaching out towards her, turning her, enfolding her in his arms.
‘Having trouble?’
The calm casualness of his question was shatteringly down to earth. As his hand reached unnerringly for the switch, by-passing hers to do so, she wondered if she was suffering from some sort of self-delusion. There was nothing remotely lover-like in his voice now, or in the way he was looking at her.
At least there hadn’t been. She tried to swallow as she saw the look in his eyes and found that she couldn’t.
Her name was a tormented cry of wanting breathed against her lips, his mouth smothering any verbal response she might have made. One of them was shaking violently—or was it both of them?—the hot urgency of their kiss overwhelmingly intimate. It got harder and harder for her to breathe, but to tear her mouth from Saul’s was to die. Her body leaned on the strength of his, warmed and supported by it, frustrated by the barrier of their clothes. His mouth released hers, his tongue tip touching her full lips.
‘Coming inside with you was an idiotic idea,’ Saul whispered against her mouth. ‘I should have known what would happen.’
His words made her go cold with rejection.
‘You were the one who…’
‘I know… I know…’ The softness of his voice soothed her defensive protest. ‘I want you like hell, Lucy,’ he told her rawly, ‘And I know damn well that when I leave here I’ll spend the rest of the night lying awake wishing you were with me, but we’ve got to take it slowly before we become completely blinded by physical desire. I want to know you as a person as well as a woman. Does that make any sense to you?’
It made beautiful sense, humbling and disconcerting her, making her throat close up on a wave of emotional vulnerability.
‘I want more from you than sex,’ he added huskily, ‘Much, much more.’
He leaned forward, his mouth gently brushing first her eyes and then her mouth, and then he released her. Her eyes opened reluctantly.
‘Now, how about that nightcap, and while we’re drinking it we can reminisce about old times, and then, when I have drunk the cup of coffee you’re going to make me, I shall get up and say good night and go home to my lonely bed!’
And that’s the way it was. And later on, sleepless and too wound up emotionally and physically to care, Lucy was torn between the happiness of knowing that Saul wanted more for them than a relationship based only on sex, and an aching disappointment that his self-control was so resolute—far more resolute than her own, she acknowledged, feeling the heat beat up through her body once more as she re-lived his good-night kiss.
There had been a moment then when she had sensed that it would take very little to push him over the edge, to incite him to abandon caution.
His hand had touched her breast, unerringly finding its taut peak, and she had sighed her pleasure against his mouth, feeling in the fierce clench of his muscles and the slow, reluctant way he drew away from her, how difficult it was for him.
If she had refused to let him go they would have been lovers by now, but Saul was right; their relationship, their feelings and trust of one another were too new for them to plunge into the heady waters of passion together yet. Tonight they would be alone again.
She fell asleep on that thought, clutching it to her while her features curved into an expression of anticipatory bliss.
∗ ∗ ∗
Following her discussions with her editor, Lucy had decided to make use of her unexpected day of freedom from looking after the children working on her second novel.
After a skimpy breakfast of coffee and toast, all she could manage in her present highly emotional state, she collected her notebooks and portable typewriter and made her way to the main house.
Mrs Isaacs greeted her cheerfully as she went in the back way. ‘Mr Saul told me to expect you,’ she announced. ‘Said you would be working in the library, but that I was to make sure I dragged you away for some lunch. He’s had to go out himself, but he said to tell you he’d be back at twelve.’
Saul seemed to be doing a fair amount of ‘going out’ at the moment. On business connected with the house perhaps? As yet they had not talked about the Manor and Saul’s plans for it—they had been far too busy talking about more important things. He would have to sell it, of course, and finding a buyer might be difficult. The thought of the house going out of the family did cause her a faint pang, but it was only faint. Houses as large and old as this one was were too much of a burden for anyone less than a multi-millionaire to own and run. However, no doubt Saul would be anxious to settle his affairs and get back home to his job.
Ridiculously they hadn’t even discussed what he did for a living. A small smile touched her mouth. Whatever it was it was scarcely important as long as it made him happy. Everything he had said to her implied that when he did return to America he would ask her to go with him, and she knew that she would have some hard thinking ahead of her if he did. She had a responsibility to Oliver and Tara from which she could not wholly abdicate, but she was no suffering martyr and had no intentions of sacrificing her own happiness to assume the duties which should by rights be Fanny’s.
No, something could be worked out. It would have to be, she decided grimly, her full lips tightening briefly as she dwelt on the scenes that were likely to occur with her emotional stepmother. It didn’t matter what scenes Fanny caused; her love for Saul came first.
Love! The taste of the word made her go dizzy with pleasure. Her feelings for Saul had transformed her from a level-headed young woman into a starry-eyed child, full of wonderment and joy. Her hitherto sedate view of what happiness was had been totally overthrown. It was like discovering that the rare, shimmering mirage was real after all and moreover could be reached out to and touched.
Reluctantly she dragged her mind away from Saul and on to her work, and yet, as she concentrated on the outline for her second book, with maddening insistence her central male character kept appearing to her as Saul.
In the end she gave in to her desire to paint a verbal portrait of him, knowing when she had finished and read through what she had just written that she had breathed so much life into the character that no one could ever believe he was simply a work of fiction.
True to his promise Saul was back for twelve and she was out of her seat and halfway towards the library door the moment she heard his footsteps outside.
The phone rang while he was kissing her and he disengaged reluctantly, holding her within the curve of his arm as he picked up the receiver.
As she watched his mouth grew taut, his eyebrows drawing together in a faint frown.
‘OK Ma, I get the picture,’ he said abruptly at last. ‘But it’s impossible for me to get back right now.’
He was silent again, listening to whatever it was his mother had to say. His mother! Lucy had never met her father’s sister. Were they alike at all? What would she think of Saul’s involvement with her? Was she one of those impressively organised American matriachs who already had a suitable partner picked out for her son?
‘No, I don’t know how long I’ll be—as long as it takes.’ He listened again briefly, and then replaced the receiver.
‘Problems?’ Lucy asked him worriedly.
Her weight was supported against his body and she liked that, liked the feeling of permanence and safety that emanated from him. He felt as steady as a rock—and as hard. The thought briefly made her feel cold. Saul would be a dangerous man to cross, she recognised, seeing in the way he was frowning the irritation of a man used to making his own decisions about his life, without having them queried or crossed.
‘A hiccup in my stepfather’s business affairs and my mother wants me to return home to sort them out.’
He saw her faint frown and explained, ‘I work for him.’
That explained how he was able to take so much time off, Lucy realised, wondering again what it was that he did.
‘I’m an accountant—of sorts,’ he added curtly, and she realised that his work was not something he wanted to discuss.
‘Will you have to go back?’
‘Not right away.’
The tension in the muscles of his arm where it lay against her body comforted and yet alarmed her. He didn’t want to upset her by saying he might have to go, but she sensed that it was quite possible.
It was still too soon for him to ask her to go with him—at least as his lover—and she prayed feverishly that whatever the problem was at home, it would be solved without the necessity of him having to rush back.
‘Are you any closer to finding a buyer for this place?’ she asked him, trying to change the subject. Disposing of the Manor must be a burden to him when he obviously had so many responsibilities at home.
‘There are one or two possibilities,’ he told her cautiously, ‘but one always has to be aware as a foreigner that the locals might be trying to gain an advantage. How do you really feel about losing this place, Lucy?’ he asked her abruptly. ‘You must feel some attachment to it.’
‘Yes, but probably only in the way that you do,’ she agreed mildly. ‘After all it isn’t as though it really belongs…’ She broke off, appalled by her near indiscretion. How close she had been then to blurting out the secret of Oliver’s birth. She risked a look into Saul’s face, anticipating his curiosity, but instead his expression was curiously blank, his arm instantly slackening to release her.
As he turned away from her he said evenly, ‘How delightfully British you are at times, Lucy. I see that you do after all consider me something of an interloper here.’
She was horrified by the way he had misinterpreted her words. ‘No… no, Saul,’ she appealed to him. ‘You’re quite wrong. I don’t see you as an interloper at all.’
‘But neither do you see me as the rightful owner here, is that it?’
What could she say? Legally he was the rightful owner, but she knew he did not have the soul-deep feeling for the place that her father had had and which he had passed on to Oliver, in whom she sensed the same emotion, young though he was. But how could she break the promise she had made to her father and tell Saul this? And what good would it do anyway? Saul might even think she was trying to manipulate him into doing something for Oliver.
When she was silent he laughed shortly, turning round to glare at her as he said harshly, ‘What a pity you didn’t fulfil your father’s hopes for you, Lucy, and marry money.’ He saw her expression and jeered softly. ‘Oh come on, surely you aren’t going to tell me you don’t know? Even my mother knew, although she flatly refused to help him when he asked her to launch you on the American season and introduce you to a few potential millionaires. The days are gone when they were willing to part with their money in exchange for an aristocratic wife. No doubt he was hoping that your wealthy husband would buy this place from me after his demise, thus securing it for his grandchildren.’
Lucy was completely stunned by what he was saying. He was making it up, he must be; her father had never once said a word of this to her.
‘You think I’m lying don’t you?’ Saul demanded almost savagely. ‘Well I’m not—ask my mother. I think you were about seventeen when your father made his first approach.’
Seventeen! Lucy thought back weakly. Fanny had still been married then. And who knew? Perhaps her father, who had always had a penchant for crazy schemes, had dreamed up something along the lines Saul was suggesting.
‘I don’t think you’re lying Saul.’ She said it quietly so that he wouldn’t mistake the conviction in her voice. ‘It sounds just like the sort of thing my father would do. If I seemed disbelieving it was because he never mentioned any of this to me. I know he hoped Fanny would give him a son; and as you say he was almost obsessed with the idea of keeping the house for his own heirs.’
‘Almost?’ Saul derided bitterly.
‘Very well then, totally.’
A certain bleakness shadowed her eyes as she remembered how she had suffered from her father’s obsession. A sensitive child, it had not taken her long to recognise that she was not the child he had wanted—not a son.
As though he knew her thoughts Saul gave a kind of groan and came towards her, taking her in his arms, holding her fiercely.
‘Forgive me. I had no right to say any of those things to you. The plain fact is that I’m jealous—jealous of the loyalty you give your father—and half scared to death that I’ll have to go home before I can persuade you to come with me.’
His admission soothed away the hurt. She turned her face up eagerly, her lips parting in soft invitation.
It was a long time before he released her, his voice faintly shaky as he asked, ‘Do I take it that that means that you would come?’
‘Anywhere—with you,’ Lucy told him, sighing the words against his throat, her eyes closing in bliss as she tasted the masculine flavour of him. It was true. She would follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked it of her. It was too late for pretence now. She was deeply, crazily in love with him—he was the only thing that mattered and if he left her now she thought she might go crazy with the agony of losing him. It was a novel sensation for her, and one that would once have terrified her, but which she now revelled in, knowing that she wasn’t alone, that he shared her feelings.
Over lunch he told her a little more about his stepfather, explaining that he was in his seventies and in rather poor health. ‘My mother adores him, although you’d never realise it. He has two daughters from his first marriage and five grandchildren; my mother’s always complaining that it’s time I produced some, too.’
‘And your father,’ Lucy pressed. Do you see much of him?’
‘A little. He lives in Boston now. He married the daughter of a newspaper magnate and he has a second family. Everything’s very amicable but in many ways I feel closer to Harry. After all, he was the one who was there during the time I was growing up. He paid for me to go to college and later on to qualify as an accountant—housed and fed me, gave me a job. In fact he was far more of a father to me than my own ever was—and made a better job of it, I suspect, when I see my two half-brothers. My father’s a workaholic. Always was and always will be. That’s what led to my parents’ divorce in the first place.’
He went on to tell her about the old winery his parents had bought in California and the lifestyle they lived there, and when he excused himself after lunch, explaining that there were some phone calls he had to make, if only to set his mother’s mind at rest, Lucy made her way back to the library feeling that she now knew far more about him.
At two o’clock he put his head round the door and announced that he had some papers he wanted to catch the post and that he intended to drive into Winchester to make sure they did.
‘Mrs Isaacs is leaving us something cold for supper and I’ll bring some steaks back with me,’ he told her, coming into the room to draw her up into his arms and kiss her thoroughly.
‘You know,’ he muttered seconds later, sensually nuzzling the tender skin of her throat, ‘in view of the developments at home, I’m beginning to wonder if a long, slow courtship’s such a good idea after all… particularly when there’s nothing, but nothing, I’d like more right now that to take you to bed.’
She couldn’t control the quiver that ran through her and knew when he laughed softly that he had felt it, too, and knew its origins.
‘Very flattering,’ he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. ‘I’m almost tempted not to bother with the post.’
‘Mrs Isaacs is still here,’ Lucy pointed out demurely, but her eyes were a deep sparkling brown, her skin flushed with colour, her body melting, eager for all that he was promising.
‘Later,’ he growled mock-threateningly as he released her. ‘Later I’ll make you sorry for that—when she isn’t here to protect you.’
They kissed again lingeringly and then he was gone, leaving her to pick up the remnants of her shattered control and try to work.
At three o’clock, long before she had expected Saul back, Lucy heard a car.
Curiosity drove her from her chair to the window, her mouth compressing slightly as she saw Neville extricating himself from the driver’s seat of his sports car.
At thirty-one his face showed the manner of man he had become: greedy, grasping and selfish in the way that only the weak could be. Lucy knew that her uncle was bitterly disappointed in his son. Not so much in the way he ran the business—Neville was an astute businessman although his methods weren’t those of his father; no, it was his inner moral code—or lack of it—that most hurt her uncle. Sometimes Lucy felt that Neville almost enjoyed hurting others.
He smiled as he saw her, the calculating ingratiating smile that told her he must want something. Neville had wanted many somethings from her over the years, but now she was immune to the shallow charm he turned on so effortlessly, tolerating him only for the sake of her uncle.
He came in via the drawing-room french window and would have embraced her if Lucy hadn’t adroitly avoided him.
‘Our colonial cousin nowhere in evidence I see?’
The sarcastic twist to his lips as he referred to Saul infuriated Lucy but caution urged her to hold her tongue. Neville had always been remarkably clever about recognising weakness in others and then turning it to his own advantage.
‘Have you come down to see him?’ She kept her voice carefully neutral, noting that Neville had left the french windows open.
‘Sort of. But I wanted to have a chat with you first.’
Again that winning smile. Once she had made the mistake of aligning herself with Neville against Saul, and she would never totally forgive herself for that mistake, but she was careful not to allow any of her distaste to show in her face, saying lightly instead, ‘I’m flattered.’
‘Oh no you’re not,’ Neville told her softly. ‘You hate my guts.’ He smiled coldly at her stunned expression. ‘Whatever else you might be you’re no actress, cos, but you do owe me a favour and I’m calling it in.’
‘The recommendation to Bennett’s that they read your manuscript,’ he reminded her mockingly. ‘Surely you don’t think anyone would have paid it a blind bit of notice otherwise?’
What was he implying? Lucy looked at him suspiciously.
‘OK, I’m sure the book’s well enough written, but well written books are a hundred a penny—you know that. Without my father’s pull, it would never have got past the first read—if it had made it that far.’
There was enough truth in his statement to make her hesitate to deny it. There were hundreds of other writers far more skilled than she was herself—she knew that, but she had been lucky enough to have an entrée into the publishing world. Even so…
‘What sort of favour Neville?’ she demanded sharply.
‘Nothing too painful,’ he assured her, giving a soft, satisfied laugh as she capitulated. ‘Some business friends of mine are interested in buying this place—at the right price of course.’ He saw her expression and laughed softly, ‘Oh come on, Lucy, don’t give me that look. All I want you to do is to drop a word in old Patterson’s ear that you’ve heard of someone who’s interested in buying the place. He thinks a lot of you—he’s always had a soft spot for you. As far as we know no one else is interested in buying.’
‘So why go about making your offer in such an underhand way?’ Lucy asked hotly. ‘Why not approach Saul openly and honestly?’
Neville laughed jeeringly. ‘Oh come on—you know the answer to that. He’d never sell this place to us if he knew I was involved.
Lucy knew that Neville spoke the truth. On the surface his request seemed perfectly feasible… and yet… ‘What is it exactly you want me to do?’ she asked him suspiciously.
‘I just want you to have a word with old Patterson and find out if anyone else is interested and if so…’
‘You said they weren’t,’ Lucy reminded him sharply, watching him shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. She didn’t trust Neville; his request, on the surface so reasonable, seemed to her to be just an excuse, a front to hide his real purpose behind, but unless she played along with him a little she would have absolutely no chance of discovering what that purpose was. And she wanted to find out because instinctively she knew it threatened Saul.
‘Come on Lucy, you owe me a favour.’
Normally she would have reminded him that it had been his father who had helped her to find a publisher, but now she kept silent, pretending to consider for a few seconds.
‘Well?’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ she fibbed, smiling at him, ‘but first of all I want to know exactly what’s going on.’
He looked so satisfied that Lucy knew she had been right to distrust him. Alarm leapt along her veins as she contemplated his gloating expression.
‘Well… why not,’ he agreed grinning at her. ‘After all, you’ve got about as much love for our wild colonial usurper as I have myself, haven’t you?
‘There’s a whisper in the City that the Government are planning to build a new armaments place down here. I picked it up in my club from an old school chum. They haven’t fixed on a site as yet, but it’s odds on that it will be within a couple of miles or so of this place. There’s a lot of money going into it, and lots of top brass involved.
‘All those people stuck down here are going to want somewhere to let off steam and enjoy themselves, and that’s where this place comes in. If we could get it at the right price, we can turn it into a hotel-cum-sports complex to outclass any in the country. We’d make a real killing, especially if we can buy it off little ol’ Saul for peanuts. And that’s where you come in, my love. A word from you to Patterson will almost guarantee that we can get the place at a knock-down price, especially if you told him that you were involved as a shareholder—which you could be. If I know my uncle’s solicitor he’ll be thinking that you’re getting a pretty raw deal out of the estate.’
His words came very close to the truth, her father’s solicitor had never approved of what her father had done and had said so. He was also very fond of her and would no doubt be prepared to look favourably on a request from her, but she felt sure that Neville misjudged him when he hinted that he might put her interests before Saul’s. The solicitor was far too honourable and honest for that, but she was not going to tell Neville that.
What frightened her most was the knowledge that, if there were no other buyers, Saul could well be forced to part with the house at a knock-down price to Neville and his business friends, leaving them to make a good deal of money out of their acquisition.
‘Well, Lucy, what do you say?’ His voice had dropped caressingly as he came to stand beside her, both of them framed in the light from the french window as he pulled her into his arms. Lucy had to fight against flinching away from him, praying that he wouldn’t guess at her real feelings. For Saul’s sake she mustn’t betray to Neville what she was feeling, at least until she had had the chance to tell Saul what he planned. Who knew, she thought feverishly, her mind chasing round in frantic circles, perhaps, with his stepfather’s business acquaintances, he might be able to raise enough money for such a conversion himself?
‘For old time’s sake? Remember what a fool we made of him that summer? Wouldn’t you enjoy doing it all over again?’
Urging herself to play for time, Lucy swallowed her loathing of all that her cousin was suggesting and said huskily, ‘Perhaps.’
‘Of course you would. This place should have been yours, not his. You’ll use your charm to get round him then?’ he asked, referring once more to the solicitor. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Her voice sounded breathless, strangled by her dislike of what she was doing and her panic that Neville might guess that she was lying.
‘You’d better leave,’ she cautioned him. ‘Saul will be back soon.’
He frowned and then nodded his head.
‘Perhaps you’re right. How long do you think it will take you to bring him round? A couple of days?’
Him? Once again Lucy realised Neville was talking about the solicitor. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll give you a ring.’
‘Umm. I’ll give you a ring the day after tomorrow to see what progress you’ve made.’
She had to force herself to stand still when he kissed her, loathing the feel of his mouth against her own. But at last she was free, her mind and stomach both churning hopelessly as she watched Neville disappear through the french window. Seconds later she heard the roar of his car engine fade into the thick silence.
Dear God, she hoped that Saul would be back soon. There was so much she had to tell him. She couldn’t work, not now, so instead she went back to the Dower House intending to shower and change for the evening.