His Convenient Marriage
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘CHESSIE—oh, Chess, you’ll never guess what they’re saying in the post office.’

Francesca Lloyd frowned slightly, but her attention didn’t waver from her computer screen as her younger sister burst into the room.

‘Jen, I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re not supposed to come to this part of the house, and especially not during working hours.’

‘Oh, nuts.’ Jenny perched on a corner of the big desk, pushing aside some of the neat piles of paper to make room for herself. ‘I simply had to see you. Anyway, The Ogre won’t be back from London for hours yet,’ she added airily. ‘I checked that his car wasn’t there before I came round.’

Chessie’s lips tightened. ‘Please don’t call him that. It’s neither kind nor fair.’

‘Well, nor is he.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘Besides, you may not need this job for much longer.’ She took an excited breath. ‘I heard Mrs Cummings telling the post mistress that she’s had instructions to open Wenmore Court again. And that means that Alastair’s coming back at last.’

Chessie’s fingers stilled momentarily on the keyboard. For a moment her heart leapt, painfully—almost brutally.

She kept her voice even. ‘Well, that’s good news for the village. The house has been closed up for far too long. But it won’t make much difference to us.’

‘Oh, Chess, don’t be silly.’ Jenny gave an impatient sigh. ‘It makes all the difference in the world. After all, you and Alastair were practically engaged.’

‘No.’ Chessie turned on her. ‘We were not. And you’ve got to stop saying that.’

‘Well, you would have been if his beastly father hadn’t sent him to business school in the States,’ Jenny retorted. ‘Everyone knows that. You were crazy about each other.’

‘And much younger, too.’ Chessie began typing again. ‘And a hell of a lot has happened since then. Nothing’s the same.’

‘Do you really think that would make any difference to Alastair?’ Jenny demanded scornfully.

‘I think it might.’ It still hurt to remember how the weekly letters had dwindled to one a month, and then petered out altogether before the end of their first year apart.

Since then, her only contact had been a brief note of condolence following her father’s death.

And if Alastair had known that Neville Lloyd had died, then he almost certainly knew the circumstances of his death, she thought, wincing.

‘God, you can be a real drag sometimes,’ Jenny accused. ‘I thought you’d be thrilled. I ran all the way home to tell you.’

‘Jen, we shouldn’t make assumptions.’ Chessie tried to speak gently. ‘After all, it’s been three years and a lot of water under the bridge. We’re not the same people any more, Alastair and I.’

There’d been a time when she’d rejoiced in those three words, she thought sadly. When they’d had meaning—even a future …

She squared her shoulders. ‘And now I’ve got to get on. Please don’t let Mr Hunter come back and catch you here again.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Jenny slid mutinously off the desk. ‘But how great it would be if Alastair asked you to marry him. Imagine being able to tell The Ogre what to do with his rotten job.’

Chessie stifled a sigh. ‘It is not a rotten job,’ she returned levelly. ‘It’s good, and well paid. It keeps food in our mouths, and a roof over our heads. And it allows us to go on living in our old home.’

‘As servants,’ Jenny said with intense bitterness. ‘Big deal.’ And she went out, slamming the door behind her.

Chessie sat very still for a moment, her face troubled. It was disturbing that even after all this time, Jenny had not been able to come to terms with the admittedly devastating change in their circumstances.

She could not seem to cope with the fact that Silvertrees House no longer belonged to them—or that the only part of it they were entitled to occupy was the former housekeeper’s flat.

‘Yet, why not?’ Chessie asked herself, wryly. ‘After all, that’s what I am—the housekeeper.’

‘I don’t want, or need, a lot of staff,’ Miles Hunter had told her at that first, fraught interview. ‘I require the house to be run efficiently, and without fuss, plus secretarial support.’

‘Meaning what, precisely?’ Chessie looked impassively back at her potential employer, trying to weigh him up. It wasn’t easy. His clothes, casually elegant, were at odds with the harshly etched lines of his face, accentuated by the scar that ran from his cheekbone to the corner of his unsmiling mouth. The cool drawl gave nothing away, either.

‘I use a very old portable typewriter, Miss Lloyd. I always have, but my publishers now require my manuscripts on computerised disks. I presume you can handle that?’

She nodded wordlessly.

‘Good. On the domestic side it will be up to you what additional assistance you require. I imagine you’ll need a daily help at least. But I insist on peace and quiet while I’m writing. I also value my privacy.’

He paused. ‘I’m aware this may be difficult for you. After all, you’ve lived at Silvertrees all your life, and you’re used to having the free run of the place. That, I’m afraid, can’t happen any more.’

‘No,’ Chessie said. ‘I—I can see that.’

There was another brief silence. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you may not wish to take the job on, but your lawyer felt it could solve a number of problems for both of us.’

The blue eyes were vivid against the deep tan of his thin face. ‘So, how about it, Miss Lloyd? Are you prepared to sacrifice your pride, and accept my offer?’

She ignored the note of faint mockery in his voice. ‘I can’t afford pride, Mr Hunter. Not with a young sister to support, and educate. I’d be more than grateful for the job, and the accommodation.’ She paused. ‘And we’ll try not to impinge on your seclusion.’

‘Don’t just try, Miss Lloyd. Succeed.’ He drew the file on the desk in front of him towards him, signalling the interview was ending. As she rose he added, ‘I’ll get my lawyers to draw up the necessary lease, and contract of employment.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ There was dismay in her voice. ‘It sounds a bit daunting. Couldn’t we have some kind of—gentleman’s agreement?’

His mouth seemed to twist harshly, or was it just the scar that gave that impression?

‘I’ve never been a gentleman, Miss Lloyd,’ he remarked. ‘And appearances are against you, too. I think it better to put things on a businesslike footing from day one—don’t you?’

And that, Chessie thought drearily, had been that. She was allowed to occupy the former housekeeper’s flat, with Jenny, for a peppercorn rent, as long as she continued to work for Miles Hunter.

At the time, desperate as she had been, bleak with guilt and grief over her father, it had seemed a lifeline. Too good a proposition to turn down.

Now, with hindsight, she wondered if she should have refused. Taken Jenny and herself far away from old memories—old associations.

But that would have meant finding a new school for Jenny just before an important exam year, and she’d been loth to create any more disruption in her sister’s life.

And at first it had seemed worth it. Jenny had done well, and was expected to go on to university in due course. She’d get a student loan, but it would still mean all kinds of extra expenditure.

So Chessie seemed contracted to several more years of transferring Miles Hunter’s starkly exciting thrillers onto the computer, and keeping his home running like the clockwork he demanded.

It had not, she reflected, been the easiest of rides. As she’d suspected at that first meeting, he wasn’t the easiest person in the world to work for. He expected consistently high standards, and could be icily sarcastic and unpleasant if these were not met, as several of the daily helps who’d come and gone could vouchsafe.

But while Chessie had adhered strictly to her own territory outside working hours, Jenny had not always been so scrupulous.

She’d made it plain she regarded Silvertrees’ new owner as little more than an interloper in what was still her own home, and this had led to trouble, and almost confrontation, on more than one occasion. And this had led to her coining the resentful nickname ‘The Ogre’ for Miles Hunter.

Chessie pushed back her chair, and wandered over to the window, beset by sudden restlessness.

Jenny could be disturbingly intolerant at times, she thought ruefully. It was true that she’d found her father’s disgrace and subsequent death traumatic in the extreme, but that was no longer a valid excuse. But her young sister bitterly resented the collapse of her comfortable, cushioned life.

She wanted things back the way they were—and that was never going to happen.

I’ve accepted it, Chessie thought sadly. Why can’t she?

And now Alastair might be returning and Jenny had seized on this as a sign that their circumstances were about to change for the better in some miraculous way.

Chessie sighed under her breath. Oh, to be that young and optimistic again.

As she had been once—when she and Alastair had been together, and the world and the future had seemed to belong to them.

As a first love, she supposed, it had been pretty near idyllic. A summer of walks, and car rides; of swimming and playing tennis, and watching Alastair play cricket. Of kisses and breathless murmurs. And promises.

In retrospect, all very sweet. And absurdly innocent.

Alastair had wanted her. There was little doubt about that, and to this day she didn’t know why she’d held back. Maybe it had been some unconscious reluctance to take the step that would have left her girlhood behind for ever, and made her a woman. Or, more prosaically, perhaps it had been the fear that it had only been her body that he’d really wanted. And that, having made the ultimate commitment, she would have lost him.

‘A man will tell you anything, darling, if he’s trying to get you into bed.’ Linnet’s husky voice, cloying as warm treacle, came back to haunt her. ‘Don’t make it too easy for him.’

Chessie had reacted with distaste at the time. But maybe the words had stuck just the same. Like so many of Linnet’s little barbs, she reflected ruefully.

And if the Court really was being re-opened, that would mean that Linnet would be back too, proving that every silver lining had a black cloud hovering.

In a way, it had been Linnet who had unwittingly drawn Chessie and Alastair together originally.

Sir Robert Markham, like Chessie’s father, had been a widower for several years. It had been popularly assumed in the village that if he remarried, his choice would be Gail Travis, who ran the local kennels, and whom he’d been escorting to local functions for the past year.

But one night at a charity ball he’d seen Linnet Arthur, an actress who, up to then, had made an erratic living from modelling, bit parts in soap operas, and playing hostess on daytime television game shows. Linnet, with her mane of blonde hair, perfect teeth, endless legs and frankly voluptuous body, had been decorating the tombola. And suddenly poor Mrs Travis had been history.

After an embarrassingly short courtship, Sir Robert had married Linnet, and brought her down to the Court.

The shock waves had still been reverberating when he’d given a garden party to introduce her to the neighbourhood. And Alastair, standing like a statue in the background, had clearly been the most shocked of all.

He’d disappeared during the course of the afternoon, and Chessie had found him sitting under a tree by the river, throwing stones into the water. She’d been about to creep away, convinced he’d wanted to be alone, but his face, white with outrage and misery, had stopped her in her tracks.

Over six feet tall, with chestnut hair, and good looks to die for, Alastair, three years her senior, had always been Chessie’s god.

Somehow, she’d found the courage to say, ‘Alastair, I’m so sorry.’

He glanced up at her, his brown eyes glazed with pain. ‘How could he?’ he burst out. ‘How could he have put that—bimbo in my mother’s place? God, Chessie, she even brings bimbos into disrepute.’

To her horror, Chessie found herself struggling not to laugh. Alastair noticed, and his own mouth twitched into a reluctant grin. After that Linnet was always referred to between them as ‘The Wicked Stepmother’, and they spent many enjoyable hours slagging off the time she devoted to her personal appearance, her horrendous schemes for redecorating the Court, firmly vetoed by Sir Robert, and her doomed attempts to establish herself as the lady of the manor.

After that, they devoted themselves to devising a range of eventual fates for her more ghoulish and grisly than even the Brothers Grimm could have imagined.

‘Thank God I’m going to university,’ Alastair declared eventually, with scornful resignation. ‘And I won’t be coming back for vacations, if I can help it.’

Chessie missed him when he went, but she was soon absorbed in her school work, planning ahead for a career in her father’s company.

It was three years before they encountered each other again. Chessie, newly returned from a month living as an au pair in France, had been asked to help on the white elephant stall at the church fête, held annually in the grounds of Wenmore Court, and one of the few village events with which the new Lady Markham sulkily allowed herself to be associated.

It was a blazingly hot afternoon, and Chessie was wondering when she could legitimately sneak off and go for a swim in the river, when Alastair halted beside the stall.

‘My God, Chessie.’ He was laughing, but there was another note in his voice too. ‘I’d hardly have known you.’

But I, she thought, the breath catching in her throat, I would have known you anywhere. Anywhere.

It was as if all her life until then had been geared for this one brilliant, unforgettable moment.

They stood there, smiling at each other, almost foolishly. Momentarily oblivious to everything and everyone around them. Then Alastair said quietly, ‘I’ll call you,’ and she nodded, jerkily, afraid of showing her delight too openly.

They were practically inseparable in those first weeks of reunion, talking endlessly. She’d just left school, and was preparing to join her father in the City the following September, initially as a junior dogsbody, styled personal assistant.

Alastair, they both presumed, would do the same—start learning the family electronics business from the bottom rung of the ladder.

The weather was hot, one perfect day spilling into another, and Chessie found herself spending a lot of time at the Court, where Linnet had managed to persuade her husband to install a swimming pool.

Until then, Chessie had been too insignificant for Lady Markham to notice, but she could hardly continue to ignore her when they were occupying adjoining sun loungers.

‘Hi,’ she drawled, eyes hidden behind designer sunglasses, and her spectacular figure displayed in a bikini one centimetre short of indecent. ‘So you’re Ally’s little holiday romance. How nice.’

Chessie bit her lip. ‘How do you do, Lady Markham?’ she returned politely, touching the languidly extended fingers.

‘Oh, Linnet—please.’ The red mouth curled into a smile. ‘After all, sweetie, we’re practically the same age.’

Back to the Brothers Grimm, Chessie muttered under her breath as she turned away.

She’d have preferred to avoid Linnet altogether during her visits, but this proved impossible. To Chessie’s embarrassment the older woman had immediately recognised the fact that she was still physically innocent, and enjoyed bombarding her with a constant stream of unwanted intimate advice, like poisoned darts.

But nothing Linnet could say or do had any real power to damage her happiness. Or her unspoken hopes for the future.

That came from a totally unexpected direction.

When Sir Robert announced that he was sending his son to business school in America, it was like a bolt from the blue. At first, Alastair seemed determined to fight his father’s decision, but when Sir Robert remained adamant, his mood changed to coldly furious acceptance.

‘Can’t you make him listen?’ Chessie pleaded.

‘It’s no use, darling.’ Alastair’s face was hard. ‘You don’t know my father when his mind’s made up like this.’

It was true that Chessie had only ever seen the genial, open-handed side of Sir Robert. This kind of arbitrary behaviour seemed totally out of character.

‘But I’ll be back, Chessie.’ He stared into space, his face set. ‘This isn’t the end of everything. I won’t allow it to be.’

And I believed him, thought Chessie.

She hoped it wasn’t some subconscious conviction that one day he’d return to claim her that had kept her here in the village. Because common sense told her she was crying for the moon.

If Alastair had been seriously interested in her, if it had been more than a boy and girl thing, then he’d have asked her to marry him before he’d gone to the States, or at least begged her to wait for him. She’d made herself face that a long time ago.

It had been obvious that everyone in the neighbourhood had been expecting some kind of announcement. And even more apparent that, once he’d departed, people had been feeling sorry for her. The sting of their well-meant sympathy had only deepened her heartache and sense of isolation.

As had the attitude of Sir Robert, who’d made it coldly clear that he’d regarded it as a transient relationship, and not to be taken seriously. While Linnet’s derisive smile had made Chessie feel quite sick.

She’d never realised before how much the other woman disliked her.

She’d wondered since whether Sir Robert, a shrewd businessman, had divined something about her father’s looming financial troubles, and had decided to distance his family from a potential scandal.

To widespread local astonishment, Sir Robert had announced his own early retirement, and the sale of his company to a European conglomerate. Following this, within a few weeks of Alastair’s departure, the Court had been closed up, and the Markhams had gone to live in Spain.

‘Joining the sangria set,’ Mrs Hawkins the post mistress had remarked. ‘She’ll fit right in there.’

But now, it seemed, they were coming back, although that didn’t necessarily mean that Alastair would be returning with them. That could be just wishful thinking on Jenny’s part, she acknowledged.

And Chessie hadn’t wanted to question her too closely about what she’d heard. For one thing, Jenny should not have been hanging round the post office eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. For another, Chessie didn’t want to give the impression she was too interested.

The burned child fears the fire, she thought wryly. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve once for Alastair already. This time, she would be more careful.

If there was a ‘this time …’

‘My God, Chessie, I’d hardly have known you.’

Was that what he’d say when—if—he saw her again?

Certainly, she bore little resemblance to the girl he’d known. The Chessie of that summer had had hair streaked with sunlight. Her honey-tanned skin had glowed with youth and health as well as happiness, and her hazel eyes had smiled with confidence at the world about her.

Now, she seemed like a tone poem in grey, she thought, picking at her unremarkable skirt and blouse. And it wasn’t just her clothes. The reflection in the window looked drab—defeated.

Yet any kind of style or flamboyance had not seemed an option in those hideous weeks between her father’s arrest for fraud and his fatal heart attack on remand.

She’d survived it all—the stories in the papers, the visits of the fraud squad, Jenny’s descent into hysteria—by deliberately suppressing her identity and retreating behind a wall of anonymity. Something she’d maintained ever since.

She’d expected to find herself a kind of pariah, and yet, with a few exceptions, people in the village had been kind and tactful, making it easy for her to adopt this new muted version of her life.

And working for Miles Hunter had helped too, in some curious way. It had been a tough and exacting time with little opportunity for recriminations or brooding.

In the last few months, she’d even managed to reach some kind of emotional plateau just short of contentment.

Now, thanks to Jenny’s news, she felt unsettled again.

She was about to turn back to her desk when she heard the sound of an engine. Craning her neck, she saw Miles Hunter’s car sweep round the long curve of the drive and come to a halt in front of the main door.

A moment later, he emerged from the driver’s seat. He stood for a moment, steadying himself, then reached for his cane and limped slowly towards the shallow flight of steps that led up to the door.

Chessie found she was biting her lip as she watched him. Her own current problems were just so minor compared to his, she thought, with a flicker of the compassion she’d never dared show since that first day she’d worked for him.

It was something she’d never forgotten—the way he’d stumbled slightly, getting out of his chair, and how, instinctively, she’d jumped up herself, her hands reaching out to him.

The blue eyes had been glacial, his whole face twisted in a snarl as he’d turned on her. ‘Keep away. Don’t touch me.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ She’d been stricken by the look, and the tone of his voice. ‘I was just trying to help …’

‘If I need it, I’ll ask for it. And I certainly don’t want pity. Remember that.’

She’d wanted to hand in her notice there and then, but she hadn’t because she’d suddenly remembered a very different exchange.

‘He had the world at his feet once,’ Mr Jamieson, their family solicitor, had told her when he’d first mentioned the possibility of a job, and staying on at Silvertrees. ‘Rugby blue—played squash for his county—award-winning journalist in newspaper and television. And then found himself in the wrong place at the wrong moment, when the convoy he was travelling with met a land-mine.’

He shook his head. ‘His injuries were frightful. They thought he’d never walk again, and he had umpteen skin grafts. But while he was in hospital recovering, he wrote his first novel The Bad Day.’

‘Since which, he’s never looked back, of course.’ Chessie spoke with a certain irony.

Mr Jamieson looked at her with quiet solemnity over the top of his glasses. ‘Oh, no, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘I think it likely he looks back a good deal—don’t you?’

And Francesca felt herself reproved.

She was back at her desk, working away, when Miles Hunter came in.

‘I’ve just seen your sister,’ he remarked without preamble. ‘She nearly went into the car with that damned bike of hers. Doesn’t it possess brakes?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Chessie said hurriedly, groaning inwardly. ‘But she does ride it far too fast. I—I’ll speak to her.’

Miles Hunter gave her a sardonic look. ‘Will that do any good? She seems a law unto herself.’

‘Well, I can try at least.’

‘Hmm.’ He gave her a considering look. ‘She seemed stirred up about something, and so do you. Has she been upsetting you again?’

‘Jenny does not upset me.’ Chessie lifted her chin.

‘Of course not,’ he agreed affably, then sighed impatiently. ‘Just who are you trying to fool, Francesca? You spend half your life making allowances for that girl—tiptoeing around her feelings as if you were treading on eggshells. I’m damned if she does half as much for you.’

Indignation warred inside her with shock that Miles Hunter, who invariably addressed her as Miss Lloyd, should suddenly have used her first name.

‘It’s been very difficult for her …’ she began defensively.

‘More than for you?’

‘In some ways. You see, Jenny …’ She realised she was about to say, Jenny was my father’s favourite, but the words died on her lips. It was something she’d never admitted before, she realised, shocked. Something she’d never even allowed herself to examine. She found herself substituting lamely, ‘Was very young when all this happened to us.’

‘You don’t think it’s time she took on some responsibility for her own life, perhaps?’ The dark face was quizzical.

‘You’re my employer, Mr Hunter,’ Chessie said steadily. ‘But that’s all. You’re not our guardian, and you have no right to judge. Jenny and I have a perfectly satisfactory relationship.’

‘Well, she and I do not,’ he said grimly. ‘When I suggested, quite mildly, that she should look where she was going, she called back that soon I wouldn’t have to bother about either of you. What did she mean by that?’

Chessie would have given a great deal to put her hands round Jenny’s throat and choke her.

‘I think perhaps you misheard her,’ she said, cursing silently. ‘What Jenny means is that she’ll be going to university in the autumn and—’

‘If her results are good enough.’

‘There’s no problem about that,’ Chessie said stiffly. ‘She’s a very bright girl, and they expect her to do well.’

‘Let’s hope that their optimism is rewarded. I can’t say that sharing a roof with her has been an unalloyed delight.’

Ouch. Chessie bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You haven’t a thing to apologise for. You haven’t the age or experience to cope with a temperamental adolescent. Wasn’t there anyone else who could have helped?’

She wanted to tell him sharply that she didn’t need help, thanks, but her intrinsic honesty prevailed. She said quietly, ‘I have an aunt on my mother’s side, but she didn’t want her family involved—and who can blame her? Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters,’ he said. ‘You’re a human being, although you do your best, most of the time, to pretend you’re some kind of robot.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I didn’t mean that.’ He paused. ‘Look, can I ask you something before I stumble into any more verbal disasters?’

‘If you want.’ Robot, she thought. Grey robot. That said it all.

‘Would you have dinner with me this evening?’

For the first time in her life, Chessie felt her jaw drop. ‘I—I don’t understand.’

‘It’s quite simple. It may not seem like it, but I’ve had a really good day. My agent has actually sold Maelstrom to Evening Star Films, and they want me to write the first draft of the screenplay, so there’s a slight chance of part of my original concept surviving.’

She saw his smile so seldom that she’d forgotten what a charge it could pack, lighting his whole face with charm, and turning his eyes to sapphire. Forcing her to startled acknowledgement of his attraction.

‘I’d really like to celebrate,’ he went on. ‘And as Maelstrom was the first book you were involved with, I’d be honoured if you’d join me.’

She continued to stare at him.

Finally, he said, ‘You do eat—don’t you?’

‘Yes—but …’

‘But what?’

Chessie moved her hands defensively. ‘It’s a kind thought, but I don’t think we should. After all, this is quite a small village.’

‘I was asking you to dinner,’ he said with studied patience. ‘Not to bed. If you want, I’ll put a notice to that effect in the parish magazine.’

Her face warmed. ‘I’m sure you find it all very parochial and amusing,’ she said. ‘But I’ve managed to establish that ours is strictly a working relationship, which is important as we live under the same roof. If I’m seen having dinner with you, people might assume—things have changed. And that could embarrass both of us.’

And I’ve lived through one lot of gossip and scandal, she added silently. I don’t relish the thought of any more.

‘I really don’t embarrass that easily.’ He sounded amused. ‘But I could always call in a builder, and have the communicating door between your flat and the rest of the house bricked up. That should silence the clacking tongues.’

‘I’m trying to be serious,’ she protested.

‘And, for once, I’m trying to be frivolous, not with any conspicuous success,’ he added drily. ‘Can’t you look on the invitation as an expression of gratitude—an additional bonus? Anyway—’ he cast her a frowning but all-encompassing glance ‘—you look as if you could do with a square meal. You could rent out your collar-bones as saltcellars.’

‘Thank you,’ Chessie said with something of a snap. ‘But I don’t think—’

‘Precisely,’ Miles interrupted flatly. ‘Don’t think. Do something on impulse for a change. It’s only a meal, for heaven’s sake.’ He paused, his face hardening. ‘Or do you find my physical appearance distressing? Because I can assure you all the worst scars are hidden.’

‘No.’ Her flush deepened. ‘That’s a terrible thing to imply.’

‘It happens,’ he returned. ‘I was living with someone before the ill-fated assignment. We’d talked about marriage—made plans. When I came out of hospital and she saw me without my clothes for the first time, she didn’t want to know any more.’ He paused. ‘And that is a matter of pure fact—not a plea for sympathy.’

‘You’ve made it more than clear that sympathy is the last thing you want, Mr Hunter.’ She hesitated. ‘But I will have dinner with you—if that’s what you want.’

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you think you could bend another rule, and call me Miles?’

Chessie felt suddenly confused. This, she thought, is not right, and I should put a stop to it, here and now.

Instead, she heard herself say awkwardly, ‘Very well—Miles.’

He nodded gravely. ‘Absolutely the right decision. I’ll see you out by the car at eight.’

He limped across to the adjoining study and went in, closing the door behind him.

Chessie looked blankly at the computer. The screensaver had clicked on, and she was confronted by a series of coloured geometric patterns, endlessly changing shape as they whirled slowly in front of her.

I know, she thought, how they feel.

It was turning into a day for surprises, and she wasn’t sure she cared for any of them. Particularly the latest one.

Had she really committed herself to going to dinner with Miles Hunter? she asked herself incredulously.

She thought, Well, it’s too late to turn back now, and shivered as if she’d found herself on the edge of some nameless danger …

And that was a complete overreaction, she added flatly, probably brought on by reading too many thrillers by Miles Hunter. From now on, she’d switch to biographies about people who’d led very boring lives.

After all—and he’d said it himself—it was only a meal.

CHAPTER TWO

‘THE Ogre’s asked you out to dinner?’ Jenny looked blank with disbelief. ‘And you’ve actually accepted.’ She shook her head. ‘God, Chessie, you must be out of your tree.’

Chessie shrugged defensively. ‘I don’t see why. Something marvellous happened for him today, and he wants to celebrate.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Jenny said derisively. ‘They’ve invented a mask for him to wear—like the Phantom of the Opera.’

Chessie stared at her, appalled. ‘What an utterly foul thing to say,’ she said slowly. ‘Miles is my boss, and we owe him a great deal, yet you can’t say one decent word to him, or about him.’

‘Owe him?’ Jenny’s face reddened. ‘What the hell do we owe him? He’s taken our home away from us, and he’s making us pay for it by treating us like drudges.’

‘Really?’ snapped Chessie. ‘Well, I haven’t noticed much drudgery from your direction. And if Miles hadn’t bought this house, someone else would have done so, and we’d have been out on our ears. There was no way we could keep it. Why can’t I get that through to you?’

Jenny looked mutinous. ‘Well, I still think we could have done something. I saw this thing on television the other day about small country house hotels. It was really cool. I bet we could have made a bomb with Silvertrees.’

‘In about twenty years, maybe,’ Chessie said levelly. ‘But Dad’s creditors weren’t prepared to wait that long for their money. And our present existence is like a holiday camp, compared with hotel-keeping. That’s a twenty-four-hour job.’

Jenny sniffed. ‘I still think it could have worked,’ she said obstinately.

Chessie was suddenly caught between tears and laughter. Extraordinary how Jenny, so clever at school, could have such a tenuous hold on reality at other times.

She wondered what role her sister had pictured for herself in this make-believe ménage. Acting as receptionist, no doubt, and arranging a few flowers. Because she couldn’t cook to save her life, and had never shown the slightest aptitude for housework either.

‘And, anyway—’ Jenny got down to the nitty-gritty of the situation ‘—if you’re going out tonight, what am I going to eat? I bet The Ogre hasn’t invited me.’

‘No, he hasn’t,’ Chessie agreed. ‘But you won’t starve. There’s some chicken casserole in the fridge. All you have to do is use the microwave.’

‘Hardly on a level with being wined and dined.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘And another thing—since when has The Ogre been “Miles” to you? I thought it was strictly, “Yes, Mr Hunter, sir.”’

‘So it was, and probably will be again tomorrow,’ Chessie told her calmly. ‘It’s just a meal, that’s all.’

I wonder how many times I’m going to say that before I convince even myself, she thought later as she reviewed the meagre contents of her wardrobe.

It had been a long time since she’d eaten in a restaurant. She’d been having lunch with her father, she remembered, hardly able to eat as she’d tried nervously to probe what had been going on in the company.

She could recall the uneasy questions she’d asked—the reassurances she’d sought.

Neville had patted her shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’ She could hear his voice now. ‘There’s nothing for my girl to worry about.’

He’d talked loudly, and laughed a lot. Drunk a lot too. He’d seen some former business associates across the restaurant, and had waved to them expansively, beckoning them over, but they hadn’t come.

Even then that had seemed ominous, like the first crack in a dam, only she hadn’t dared say so. Hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge it could have been so. Longed for it all to have been her imagination.

She’d worn a plain cream linen shift, she remembered, with large gold buttons. That didn’t exist any more, sadly, and she had little else that was suitable for dining out in.

Most of her clothes fell into two categories, she realised regretfully. There was working (ordinary) and working (slightly smarter). In the end, she opted for a plain black skirt reaching to mid-calf, and topped it with an ivory silk chainstore blouse. The gilt earrings and chains that Jenny had given her for her last birthday made the outfit seem a little more festive.

She was in her early twenties and she felt a hundred years old. There were little worry lines forming between her brows, and the curve of her mouth was beginning to look pinched.

She usually wore her light brown hair gathered for neatness into a rubber band at the nape of her neck, but decided to let it loose for once, its newly washed silkiness brushing her shoulders.

The only eye-shadow she possessed had formed into a sullen lump in the bottom of its little jar. Jenny had some make-up, she knew, purchased from her scanty and infrequent earnings delivering leaflets round the village, but, under the circumstances, a request for a loan would go down like a lead balloon, so she just used powder and her own dusky coral lipstick.

As a final touch, she unearthed her precious bottle of ‘L’Air du Temps’ from the back of her dressing-table drawer, and applied it to her throat and wrists. When it was gone, there would be no more, she thought, re-stoppering the bottle with care.

The salary she was paid was a good one, but there was little money left over for luxuries like scent.

Jenny had won a scholarship to the school in the neighbouring town where she was a day girl, so Chessie had no actual fees to find. But there was so much else. The only acceptable sports gear and trainers had to come with designer labels, and the school had a strict uniform code too, which had been a nightmare while Jenny was growing so rapidly.

But her sister was going to have exactly the same as all the other girls. She’d been determined about that from the first. No ridicule or snide remarks from her peers for Jenny.

But no one said it was easy, she thought, grimacing, as she picked up her all-purpose jacket and bag.

She paused to take a long critical look at herself in the mirror.

Did she really look the kind of girl a best-selling novelist would ask out? The answer to that was an unequivocal ‘no’, and she found herself wondering why he hadn’t sought more congenial company.

Because, no matter what cruel comments Jenny might make, there was no doubt that Miles Hunter was an attractive and dynamic man, in spite of the scar on his face. And she wondered why it had taken her so long to realise this.

But then, she’d hardly regarded him in the light of a human being, she thought wryly. He was the man she worked for, and his initial rejection of her compassion had barred any personal rapport between them. He’d become a figurehead, she thought. A dark god who had to be constantly placated if she and Jenny were to survive.

She found herself thinking about the girl he’d told her about—the fiancée who’d ditched him because of his scars. Was he still embittered about this? Still carrying a torch for the woman who’d let him down when he’d most needed her support?

Could this be why, apart from the fan mail, which she dealt with herself, there were no phone calls or letters from women—apart from his sister, and his agent, who was in her late forties?

And could it also be why there was no love interest in his books—not the slightest leavening of romance?

He was a terrific writer, and the tension in his stories never slackened. Each book went straight into the bestseller lists after publication, yet if Chessie was honest she found his work oddly bleak, and even sterile.

But that’s just my opinion, she told herself ruefully as she let herself out through the side door. The thriller-reading public who snapped him up had no such reservations.

Besides, she didn’t know for sure that Miles had no women in his life. He was away a great deal in London, and other places. He could well be having a whole series of affairs without her being aware of it. Maybe he just liked to keep his personal life private—and away from the village.

He was waiting by the car. He was wearing beautifully cut casual trousers, which moulded his long legs, and a high-necked sweater in black cashmere. A sports jacket was slung across one shoulder.

He was staring at the ground, looking preoccupied and slightly cross, failing to notice her soft-footed approach.

He didn’t seem to be looking forward to a pleasant evening, thought Chessie, wondering if he was regretting his impulsive invitation. If so, she was sure she would soon know, she told herself philosophically.

She found herself hoping that Jenny hadn’t eaten the entire chicken casserole, because she might well be joining her.

She said, ‘Good evening,’ her voice shy and rather formal.

He looked up instantly, his eyes narrowing as if, for a moment, he had forgotten who she was. Then he nodded abruptly.

‘Punctual as always,’ he commented, opening the passenger door for her.

Well, what did he expect? Chessie wondered defensively as she struggled with her seat belt. She was hardly going to hang about coyly in the house, keeping him waiting.

As he joined her she caught a hint of his cologne, slightly musky and obviously expensive.

‘I thought we’d try The White Hart,’ Miles said as he started the engine. ‘I hear the food’s good there, if you don’t mind the village pub.’

‘Not at all.’ Neither Chessie’s clothes nor her confidence were up to a smart restaurant. ‘Mrs Fewston’s a marvellous cook. Before she and her husband took over the Hart, she used to cater for private dinner parties. In fact, I think she still does, sometimes.’

‘I shall have to bear that in mind. It’s time I did some entertaining.’ He sent her a swift, sideways glance. ‘Well, don’t look so astonished. I can’t go on accepting hospitality without returning it.’

‘Er—no.’ Chessie rallied. ‘And Silvertrees is a great house for parties.’

‘It’s also a family house,’ he said laconically. ‘As my sister never fails to remind me.’ He paused. ‘I think that’s a hint that I should invite her and her blasted kids to stay.’

‘Don’t you like children?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve never had much to do with them. Actually, Steffie’s are great, although she calls them the monsters,’ he added drily.

If it hadn’t been for that land-mine, he might have been married with a family of his own by now, Chessie thought. She tried to imagine it, and failed.

But that was so unfair, she reproached herself. She was behaving just like Jenny. Because she’d never known the man he’d once been. The man who’d enjoyed everything life had to offer—who’d played sport, and laughed, and made love.

And the chances were she’d never have encountered him anyway.

Miles Hunter, the award-winning journalist and hard-hitting television reporter, would have been based in London. He wouldn’t have been interested in a large, inconvenient house on the edge of a sleepy village. He’d have been where it was all happening—where he could pack a bag, and be off whenever a story broke.

He would probably never have contemplated becoming a novelist until circumstances had forced him to rethink his life completely.

Yet, here they both were. And together …

The White Hart was a pleasant timbered building, sited near the crossroads outside the village. A former coaching inn, it was always busy. Jim Fewston was as knowledgeable about wine as his wife was about cooking, and that kept the people coming. Tonight was no exception, and the car park was almost full when they arrived.

‘Just as well I booked a table,’ Miles commented as he slotted the car with expertise into one of the few available spaces. ‘Although it would seem that not everyone’s here for the food,’ he added drily.

She followed his glance, and saw movement in a car parked on its own under the shelter of some trees. Glimpsed shadowy figures passionately entwined, and hurriedly looked away.

‘What an odd place to choose.’ She tried to match his tone.

‘Not if you’re having an illicit affair.’ Miles shrugged. ‘Presumably any corner will do.’

In the bar, Chessie drank an excellent dry sherry, and Miles a gin and tonic as they studied their menu cards.

Many of the people already there were local and known to her, and she’d been greeted cordially when she’d arrived, although a few of the greetings had been accompanied by slyly speculative glances.

But that was only to be expected, she thought as hunger drove out self-consciousness.

She chose watercress soup, and guinea fowl casseroled with shallots in red wine, while Miles opted for pâté, and steak cooked with Guinness and oysters.

“‘Do you come here often?” is the usual opening gambit in this situation,’ Miles commented sardonically as the waitress disappeared with their order. ‘But I’m well aware that you don’t, so what do you suggest as an alternative topic?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She played with the stem of her glass. ‘I think my social graces are rusty with disuse.’

‘And I doubt that I ever had any.’ His mouth twisted in faint amusement. ‘It promises to be a silent evening.’

‘I’m quite used to that.’ Tentatively, she returned his smile. ‘Jenny spends most of her time in her room, studying for her exams, so I’m accustomed to my own company.’

‘People tell me solitude is a luxury,’ Miles said after a pause. ‘But I’m not sure it works so well as a way of life.’ He paused. ‘What’s your sister planning to do when she leaves school?’

‘She’s applied to read natural sciences, but I don’t think she has any definite ideas about an ultimate career yet.’ She thought she detected a faintly quizzical expression in the blue eyes, and hurried on defensively. ‘But it’s early days, and she doesn’t have to make any hasty decisions.’

She leaned back against the comfortable red plush of the bench seat. ‘I had to struggle every inch of the way at school, but learning seems to come easily to Jenny.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Miles said politely, after another pause. ‘There’s a good St Emilion on the wine list, or would you prefer Burgundy?’

‘No, the Bordeaux would be fine.’ She remembered with a pang a holiday she’d once spent with her father, exploring the vineyards of south-west France. It had been a magical time for her, even though he’d constantly fussed about Jenny left behind with her aunt’s family, and made a point of phoning her each evening.

‘There it is again,’ Miles said quietly, and she looked at him in startled question.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That expression of yours—like a child who’s just heard Christmas has been abolished.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Chessie pantomimed dismay. ‘How wimpish. I’ll try and look more cheerful from now on.’

‘Are all your memories so painful?’

She gave the pale liquid in her glass a fierce and concentrated stare. ‘How did you know I was—remembering?’

‘An educated guess—having attended the same school myself.’ He finished his gin and tonic. ‘Want to talk about it?’

She shook her head. ‘What can anyone say? One minute you’re riding high. The next, you’re flat on your face in the mud, not knowing whether you’ll ever get up again. That’s my personal angle. The rest I’m sure you read in the newspapers at the time. They didn’t leave many stones unturned.’

He said gently, ‘It would have been difficult to miss.’ He watched her for a moment. ‘Well—aren’t you going to say it?’

‘Say what?’

‘That your father was entirely innocent, and, but for his untimely death, he’d have cleared himself of all charges.’

Chessie slowly shook her head. She said bleakly, ‘If he’d lived, I think he would still have been in jail. In many ways, his death was a mercy for him. He’d have hated—hated …’

She stopped, biting her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being very boring. This is supposed to be a celebration, not a wake.’

He said quietly, ‘I would not have asked if I hadn’t wanted to know, Francesca.’

But why did he want to know? she wondered as she drank some more sherry. Now that they were out of their working environment, maybe he felt he had to make conversation that didn’t concern the current script or the purely domestic details either.

Yet he could have picked something less personal. Music, maybe, or cinema.

What did a man and a woman talk to each other about over dinner and a bottle of wine? She was so totally out of touch. And nervous.

She hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since Alastair. The dates she’d gone out on in London had been totally casual and uncommitted. She couldn’t think of one man out of all of them she’d wanted to see again, let alone know better.

And since London, of course, there’d been no one at all.

Until tonight—which naturally didn’t count, she reminded herself swiftly.

It was a relief when the waitress came to say their table was ready. The soup and pâté, when they arrived, were so good that it was really only necessary to make appreciative noises and eat.

So Chessie made appreciative noises, and ate.

She and Miles had been put in one of the smaller rooms off the main dining room. It was panelled and candlelit, and intimate, with all the tables set for two. Even the flower arrangements were small, presumably to allow diners to gaze unimpeded into each other’s eyes.

The Fewstons must have a romantic streak, Chessie thought, buttering her bread roll, still warm from the oven. But it had led them severely astray this time.

She’d have settled for a wall of delphiniums and hollyhocks to shelter behind. Or even a privet hedge.

While their plates were being changed, Chessie hurried into speech, asking about the film script, and what would be involved in adapting the book.

It wasn’t just an excuse to find an impersonal topic, she told herself. She was genuinely interested, and after all she was going to be closely involved in the project.

But what next? The weather? Would it be a hot summer, and was it really the greenhouse effect?

Brilliant, she thought. What a conversational ball of fire you are, Chessie, my dear.

‘Am I really such a difficult companion?’ Miles leaned back in his chair, the blue eyes hooded.

Rocked back on her heels, Chessie took a gulp of wine, feeling her face warm with sudden colour.

‘No, of course not,’ she managed. Although he could be a mind-reader.

‘Perhaps I should have told you to bring a notebook, and dictated a few letters between courses,’ he went on. ‘You might have felt more at ease then.’

‘I doubt it.’ She put down her glass. ‘I still don’t understand what I’m doing here.’

‘You’re eating an excellent meal,’ he said. ‘Which you haven’t had to prepare, cook, and wash up after.’

‘And that’s all there is to it?’ She felt oddly breathless.

‘No, but the rest can wait.’ The cool face was enigmatic, the scar silver in the candlelight. ‘May I refill your glass?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Chessie covered it with a protective hand. ‘Something tells me I need to keep a clear head.’

His smile mocked her. ‘I haven’t seduction in mind, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘It never crossed my mind.’

‘How incredibly pure of you,’ he murmured. ‘Considering the amount of time we spend alone together, have you really never wondered why I’ve never made a pass at you? Or do you think my scars have rendered me immune from the normal male urges?’

She bit her lip. ‘I don’t suppose that for a moment. But I took it for granted that passes were out because of our situation—the terms of my employment. And because …’ She paused.

‘Yes?’ Miles prompted.

She swallowed. ‘Because it would be—inappropriate behaviour, and tacky as well. The amorous boss and his secretary—that’s a cliché, and you don’t deal in clichés,’ she added in a rush.

‘Thank you—I think,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Yet it was our—situation that I wanted to discuss with you.’

‘Have you decided to sell the house?’ Her last exquisite mouthful of guinea fowl turned to ashes in her mouth. Suddenly she was contemplating the prospect of being homeless and back on the job market at the same time.

It had always been a possibility, she supposed, yet just lately—stupidly—she’d allowed herself to feel settled. Safe even.

‘Absolutely not.’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘What gave you that idea? Didn’t you hear me say I was planning to do some entertaining?’

‘Yes—I’m sorry.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose insecurity makes you paranoid.’

‘I can appreciate that.’ He put down his knife and fork, frowning slightly. ‘That’s part of the reason I want you to consider a change in your terms of employment.’

‘A change?’ Chessie was puzzled. Her contract with Miles had been carefully and meticulously defined. There were no obvious loopholes or room for manoeuvre. ‘What kind of change?’

He drank some more wine, the blue eyes meditative as he studied her across the top of the glass.

He said, ‘I thought we might get married.’

Chessie had a curious feeling that the entire world had come to a sudden halt, throwing her sideways. The subdued hum of conversation and laughter around them faded under the swift roar of blood in her ears.

Her whole body was rigid as she stared at him, lips parted in astonishment as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last in a voice that seemed to have travelled vast distances across space and time. ‘I don’t think I quite understand.’

‘It’s perfectly simple. I’ve just proposed to you—asked you to become my wife.’ He sounded totally cool about it—unbelievably matter-of-fact. ‘Look on it, if you want, as a new kind of contract.’

He was mad, she thought dazedly. That was the answer. Completely and totally insane. Suffering some kind of delayed shell-shock.

Her lips moved. ‘Marriage is—hardly a business arrangement.’

‘I’d say that depends on the people involved.’ His gaze was steady. ‘Considering our individual circumstances and problems, marriage between us seems a sensible idea.’

He paused. ‘You need more stability and security than you currently enjoy, and I’m going to require a hostess as well as a housekeeper. I think we could work out a perfectly satisfactory deal.’

‘Just like that?’ Her voice sounded faint. She still could not believe what was happening.

‘No, of course not,’ he said with a trace of impatience. ‘I don’t want an immediate answer. But I’d like you to give my proposal some coherent and rational thought before you reach any decision.’

Coherent? she thought. Rational—when applied to this? The words were meaningless.

‘Judging by your reaction, this has been a bit of a thunderbolt,’ he went on.

‘Yes.’ Chessie swallowed. ‘You—could say that.’ She spread her hands in an almost pleading gesture. ‘I mean—we hardly know each other.’

‘We work together every day, and we live in the same house. That’s not exactly a casual acquaintance.’

‘Yes—but …’ She fought for the right words, and lost. ‘Oh, you know exactly what I mean.’

‘I think so.’ His face was sardonic. ‘You’re still pondering the lack of amorous advances.’

‘It’s not that—or not totally, anyway.’ She pushed her glass at him. ‘I will have some more wine, please. I seem to need it.’

She watched him pour, his hand steady. He was completely calm, she thought incredulously. Detached, even. But how could that be, when he’d just turned her world upside down?

She hurried into speech again. ‘There’s never been anything remotely personal between us—not until now. Yes, we’ve seen each other every day, but we’ve never talked about anything but work, and problems to do with the house.’ Mostly created by Jenny, she realised with a pang. Then—oh, God—Jenny.

‘Has this shift in our relationship plunged you into some kind of trauma?’ he drawled. ‘I didn’t intend that.’

‘No—but it’s all so sudden.’ She stopped, grimacing. ‘Hell, now I sound like the heroine of a bad historical novel.’

‘And highly sensible of the honour I’ve just done you.’ It was his turn to pull a face. ‘Only I don’t think you are, by any means. You look more winded than appreciative.’

‘Being hit by a thunderbolt doesn’t usually call for appreciation,’ Chessie said with something of a snap. ‘What did you expect—that I’d fall into your arms?’

‘Hardly. You’d damage the crockery.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘If you’re saying you’d have preferred a conventional courtship, then I can only apologise. But we’ve always had a reasonable working relationship, and our marriage would simply be an extension of this. So I thought the pragmatic approach would have more credence than hearts and flowers.’

Chessie said with difficulty, ‘It doesn’t—worry you that we’re not in love with each other?’

‘You forget I’ve been down that path once already. I can’t speak for you, of course.’ His face was expressionless. ‘Is there anyone?’

She shook her head. ‘No—not any more.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. ‘So it would be just a business arrangement—not a real marriage at all.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Initially, anyway.’

Her heart thudded in renewed shock. ‘But later …?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ The blue eyes met hers directly. ‘Ultimately, we might think again.’ He paused. ‘But any alteration in the terms would only be by mutual agreement.’

‘I—I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then say nothing. Not yet. Just think about it, and take as long as you need. I promise I won’t pressure you.’

She flicked the tip of her tongue round dry lips. ‘And if I decide—no? Will I find myself out of a job?’

‘Do I seem that vindictive?’

She reddened. ‘No—no, of course not.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Very well. I’ll—consider it.’

‘Good.’ His smile was swift, without a trace of mockery this time. ‘Now shall I tell them to bring the dessert menu?’

‘No, thanks.’ Chessie doubted whether she could force another mouthful of food past her taut throat muscles. She pushed back her chair. ‘Just coffee, please. And will you excuse me?’

The ladies’ cloakroom was fortunately deserted. Chessie ran cool water over her wrists in a vain effort to quieten her hammering pulses.

She didn’t look like someone who’d just been poleaxed, she thought, staring at her reflection, although her eyes were enormous, and there was more colour in her cheeks than usual.

But nor did she look like the future wife of Miles Hunter.

But then she wasn’t really going to be a wife at all, she reminded herself, absently sifting her fingers through the bowl of pot pourri on the vanity unit, and savouring its fragrance.

Her present duties were being extended—that was all. Her change of status would permit her to sit at the opposite end of that beautiful oak dining table when there were guests, but little more.

She supposed he would expect her to move out of the flat, and live in the main house again.

She might even get her old bedroom back—for a while.

Initially. That was the word he’d used. But he’d also said ‘ultimately’, she thought, her heart beginning to pound unevenly. And what then?

She was shaking all over suddenly, her mind closing off in startled rejection.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I couldn’t. I’ll have to tell him here and now that it’s impossible.’

But she’d promised to consider his proposal, and she’d have to pretend to do so at least.

But she could not marry him. Not in a million years. Not even if Alastair never came back …

Chessie drew a deep, trembling sigh. There—she’d faced it at last. She’d allowed herself to admit the existence of the dream—the little foolish, groundless hope that had been growing inside her ever since she’d heard Jenny’s news.

And how ironic that Miles should have chosen today of all days to present her with his own plan for her future.

‘It never rains but it pours.’ That was what Mrs Chubb, their current and longest-serving daily help would say.

Her little laugh turned into a groan. Once she’d told Miles her decision, it would be impossible for her to stay on at Silvertrees. In spite of his assurances, it would make things altogether too awkward.

There was a temping agency in the nearby town. She would make enquiries there, and then trawl through the letting bureaux for the cheapest possible flat.

Oh, why had Miles done this to her? she asked herself with something bordering on despair. Things had been fine as they were, and now everything was ruined again. And it wasn’t as if he even wanted her.

Although that was something to be grateful for, at least. Because what would she have done if he had ever made a move on her?

Before she could stop herself, for one startled, stunned moment, she found she was imagining herself in Miles’ arms, breathing the musky scent of his skin, feeling his mouth move on hers, coaxing her lips apart. His lean, long-fingered hand grazing her skin in a first caress …

Chessie came gasping back to reality, like a diver reaching the surface of some deep lake. Every inch of her body was tingling. Inside the silk shirt, her small breasts were burning, the nipples hardening helplessly.

Her eyes were green, like a drowsy cat’s, she thought, gazing at herself in horror. Her lips, parted and trembling.

There was no way she could return to the table like this. Or he would know. And then she would be totally lost.

Oh, God, she thought frantically. What’s happening to me? And what am I doing to myself?

And could find no answer that made any sense at all.

CHAPTER THREE

IF I don’t go back to the table soon, thought Chessie, combing her hair for the umpteenth time, Miles will be sending out a search party.

Her skin no longer scorched her, but she was still shaking inside, and her hand felt too unsteady to renew her lipstick.

The cloakroom door opened, and two girls came in, giggling together. Chessie was aware of the curious glances they sent her as they passed by.

She thought, I cannot go on hiding like this.

As she walked reluctantly back towards the dining area, she was waylaid by Jim Fewston. ‘Evening, Miss Lloyd. Hope you enjoyed your meal.’

‘The food was delicious,’ she assured him. But as for enjoyment …

‘And how’s that young sister of yours?’ He shook his head. ‘These days—they grow up before you know it.’

‘Yes,’ Chessie said. ‘I suppose they do.’

‘Sometimes,’ he went on. ‘they can be a little too grown-up for their own good.’

Suddenly, Chessie was uneasy. Up to then she’d thought Mr Fewston was just being the jovial landlord. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I hope she wasn’t too put out the other night. In a strange pub, she might have got away with it, but I’ve known her all her life, as you might say, and I know she’s not eighteen yet.’

He paused. ‘The local police are down on under-age drinking like a ton of bricks, and I’m not prepared to risk my licence. I don’t care for the lad she was with either, so

when she started pushing her luck, and asking for vodka and tonic, I had to ask them to leave.’

He sighed. ‘I’m sure you understand my position, and no hard feelings either way.’

‘I don’t think I understand much at all.’ Chessie shook her head. ‘Are you saying that Jenny has been in here trying to buy alcohol? I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken.’

‘No mistake, Miss Lloyd.’ His voice was kind, but firm. ‘Why don’t you ask her, my dear? Often a quiet word is all that’s needed. I know it can’t be easy raising a girl of that age when you’re only a slip of a thing yourself, but this is something that wants nipping in the bud. And I’d keep an eye on her boyfriends, too,’ he added with a touch of grimness.

‘But Jenny has no boyfriends.’ Chessie’s protest was bewildered. ‘She doesn’t even go out at night. She’s in her room, studying.’

‘Not every night, Miss Lloyd, and other publicans will tell you the same. I suggest you make enquiries.’ He gave her a polite nod, and went back into the bar.

She stood for a moment, staring after him dazedly, trying to assimilate what he’d told her. To make some sense of it. Jenny, she thought. Jenny?

As she made her way back to the table she saw that their waitress had brought the cafetière. But she didn’t move away immediately. She was smiling and talking as she rearranged the cups and cream jug, bending over the table towards Miles as she did so. Fiddling with the collar of her blouse, Chessie realised, and pushing back her hair.

My God, she thought incredulously. She’s coming on to him. She really is. And he’s not exactly brushing her off either. He’s leaning back in his chair, amused, but taking the whole thing in his stride.

It brought home to her once again just how little she really knew about the way in which Miles Hunter conducted his private life. In fact the entire evening had awoken all kinds of uncertainties she could well have done without.

She found herself moving forward more quickly, and the girl, noticing her approach, gave one last smile then hurried away.

As Chessie sank into her seat Miles glanced across at her, his brows snapping together interrogatively. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Not a thing.’ Chessie summoned a smile of her own. ‘I was just thinking how attentive the service is here.’ She could hear the waspishness in her voice, and groaned inwardly. The last thing she wanted was to sound jealous or proprietorial in any way.

But Miles, fortunately, seemed oblivious to any undercurrents.

‘Your friends run a smooth operation,’ he returned. ‘But that doesn’t alter the fact that there’s something the matter. What is it? Are you ill?’

‘No—really.’ She swallowed. ‘But it’s getting late. Would you mind if we just paid the bill and left?’

‘Yes, I think I would,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Whatever Jenny’s been up to, it can wait until we’ve completed our first meal together in a civilised manner. In fact, I suggest you have a brandy. You look as if you need it.’

Indignation swamped her. ‘Why should it be anything to do with Jenny?’

‘Because that’s what that stricken look of yours inevitably means.’ His glance challenged her to deny it. ‘Will you have that brandy?’

Biting her lip, she nodded silently.

‘Good.’ Miles gave her a faint smile as he signalled to the waitress. ‘Rushing off in all directions won’t solve a thing.’

‘It’s so easy for you,’ she said bitterly. ‘Jenny is not your responsibility.’

‘Not at the moment, certainly.’ He saw the swift colour flood her face, and his smile widened sardonically. ‘Which, I suppose, is your cue to tell me that you wouldn’t have me if I came gift-wrapped.’

‘No.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘You asked me to think it over, and I will.’ After all, she reasoned, she needed a breathing space to find a new job—a new flat. And she needn’t feel too badly about it either. Judging by tonight’s performance, he’d have little trouble finding a replacement when she turned him down.

‘Hopefully it will have the added bonus of diverting your mind from Jenny, too.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you’ve discovered she isn’t the saintly, single-minded scholar you took her for.’

‘School used to mean everything to her.’ Her voice was tired.

‘I expect it did—while she was healing. It was safety—security, and she could use her studies to block out what was going on in the real world.’ Miles shrugged. ‘But the young recover fast, and now she’s ready to rebel.’

He leaned forward. ‘Face it, Francesca. Jenny’s bright, but she’s also spoiled, and brimming with resentment. Something had to give.’ He smiled brief thanks at the blushing waitress as she put Chessie’s brandy on the table, then reached for the cafetière. ‘Cream and sugar?’

‘Just black.’ Desolation had her by the throat. ‘I’ve failed her, haven’t I?’

‘Of course not. But you’re not experienced enough to see the warning signs, and impose sanctions in time.’ He handed over her cup. ‘So, instead of revising, she was cavorting round the neighbourhood, right?’

‘Apparently. The light was on in her room, and she used to play music all the time.’ Chessie shook her head. ‘It never occurred to me to check she was actually there. And, all the time, she was out, trying to con vodka and tonics out of unsuspecting landlords. With some fellow that Jim Fewston doesn’t approve of.’

Miles raised his eyebrows. ‘At least she’s not drinking alone. It could be worse.’

She gave a small, wintry smile. ‘I think it’s about as bad as it gets.’

‘Then you’re being naïve.’ He spoke gently. ‘But I do understand that you need to see Jenny and talk to her about it, so, as soon as we’ve drunk our coffee, I’ll take you home.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was subdued. ‘I—I’m sorry that I’ve spoiled your celebration.’

‘I promise that you haven’t spoiled a thing.’ He smiled at her. ‘On the contrary.’

He thought she was going to accept his proposal, Chessie realised as she drank her coffee. And, on the face of it, she had every reason to do so. Marrying Miles would provide her with the kind of security she could dream about otherwise.

He obviously saw it as a practical solution to both their problems. The same cold-blooded approach he brought to his novels, she thought bitterly. And although you were swept along by the sheer force of the action, you were invariably left feeling slightly cheated at the end.

But I can’t cheat him, she thought, swallowing. And I won’t cheat myself either. We both deserve better from life. And we don’t have to settle for second-best, just because we’re both still hung up on other people.

She studied him covertly under her lashes, wondering what the girl he’d loved had been like. Attractive, if not actually beautiful, that was certain. A trail-blazer, probably, bright and sharp, with bags of energy, sexual as well as emotional. And demanding high standards in every aspect of her life, including the physical attraction of the man she’d chosen to share it. But ruthless when he’d failed to satisfy her criteria.

She jumped, startled, when he said softly, ‘You’re looking bereft again. I think we’d better go.’

While he was at the cash desk, dealing with the bill, Chessie wandered out into the reception area, and stood looking without seeing at the display of watercolour landscapes by local artists that were featured there.

It was the sudden wave of fragrance in the air—half forgotten, but haunting—commingling the scent of some heavy sweet perfume and Sobranie cigarettes that alerted her to the fact that she was no longer alone. And that the newcomer was known to her.

She half turned, arranging her face into polite pleasure, expecting to greet an acquaintance, and stopped dead, staring with incredulity at the woman framed in the archway that led to the bar.

She was eye-catching enough, her lush figure wrapped in a silky leopard-skin print dress, and a black pashmina thrown carelessly over her arm.

Violet eyes under extravagantly darkened lashes swept Chessie from head to toe in an inspection bordering on insolence. Full red lips parted in a smile that combined mockery with a hint of malice.

‘Well, well,’ Linnet Markham said softly. ‘If it isn’t the little Francesca. Now, who would have thought it?’

‘Lady Markham.’ Chessie swallowed. ‘Linnet. So you’re back.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Linnet drawled. ‘I’m sure the local grapevine has been working overtime.’ She strolled forward. ‘But I’m astonished to find that you’re still around. I’d expected you to have made a fresh start somewhere a long way from here—where you’re not known.’

Chessie flushed. ‘Fortunately not everyone agrees with you. And I needed to provide stability for my sister.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Linnet said reflectively. ‘The sister. She was the pretty one, if my memory serves.’

‘Indeed,’ Chessie agreed quietly. ‘And with brains, too. In fact, you’d hardly credit that we were related.’ She paused. ‘Is Sir Robert here with you?’

Linnet’s smile developed a slight rigidity. ‘No, he’s still in London. I came down ahead to oversee arrangements at the house. You simply can’t rely on staff,’ she added, dismissing the faithful Mrs Cummings with a wave of her hand. ‘I’ve booked into a hotel for a couple of nights. I just popped into the Hart for a drink for old times’ sake.’

‘I didn’t realise it was a place you visited.’

Linnet shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s always been a good place to see people, and be seen.’ She paused. ‘But I’d have thought it way above your means,’ she added, eyeing Chessie’s blouse and skirt. ‘Or are you working here as a waitress? You never really trained for much, did you? And you wouldn’t have any real references either—working for your father.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Nor anywhere decent to live. I presume Silvertrees House had to be sold.’

This, Chessie thought detachedly, was quite definitely the evening from hell. She lifted her chin. ‘Yes, of course, but I happen to work for the new owner, and we still live there. I keep house for him, and do his secretarial work.’

‘Well, that sounds a cosy little arrangement,’ Linnet purred. ‘You’ve certainly fallen on your feet. So, who is this paragon who’s taken you on?’

Chessie hesitated. ‘I work for Miles Hunter, the thriller writer,’ she said reluctantly.

‘Hunter?’ The violet eyes sharpened. ‘But he’s a bestseller, isn’t he? You see his books everywhere. He must be worth an absolute fortune.’

‘He’s very successful,’ Chessie agreed, wincing inwardly at the older woman’s crudity.

‘And charitable to waifs and strays too, it seems.’ Linnet’s voice was cream spiced with acid. ‘How did you manage it?’

Chessie shrugged, trying to control the temper boiling up inside her.

‘He needed someone to run things for him,’ she returned shortly. ‘I was available.’

‘I’m sure you were.’ Linnet gave a small, tinkling laugh. ‘However, I don’t advise you to start getting any foolish ideas this time. No girlie crushes. Because not everyone’s as understanding as Alastair.’

Chessie felt her whole body jolt with shock as if she’d been physically struck. Her nails curled into the palms of her hands. Over Linnet’s shoulder, she saw Miles emerging from the dining room, pausing to lean on his cane as he slotted his wallet back into his jacket.

She said, ‘Thanks for the warning, Linnet, but it really isn’t necessary.’

She went to Miles, sliding her arm through his with deliberate possessiveness, and giving him a radiant smile.

‘Darling, may I introduce Lady Markham, who’s just come back to live at Wenmore Court? Linnet, this is Miles Hunter.’ She paused quite deliberately. ‘My fiancé.’

Miles did not move, but the sudden tension in his body hit her like an electric charge.

Later she would hate herself, and she knew it, but now the expressions chasing themselves across Linnet’s face made it all worthwhile. Or nearly.

Linnet, however, made a lightning recovery. ‘Congratulations.’ She held out her hand to Miles, along with a smile that lingered appraisingly, and frankly approved.

My God, Chessie thought bleakly. First the waitress, now Linnet. Am I the only woman in Britain not to have registered his attraction on some personal Richter scale?

‘So, when did all this happen?’ Linnet went on.

‘Tonight,’ Miles returned, his face impassive. ‘We’ve been having a celebratory dinner. You’re the first to know.’

‘How marvellous,’ Linnet approved fulsomely. ‘I’m sure you’ll both be fabulously happy.’ She paused. ‘When’s the big day? I suppose you’ll marry locally?’

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