Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Savage Innocence
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS incredibly hot and airless in the attic. Despite its being a fairly cool July day outside, whatever sun there’d been in recent weeks seemed to have been trapped here in the roof void, and Isobel panted a little as she clambered over trunks and cardboard boxes that hadn’t seen the light of day for years.

It was her own fault, of course. She could have refused to do it—though she had to admit she hadn’t expected that clearing the house would prove such an arduous task. Sitting back on her heels, surveying the accumulation of what was little more than junk that had collected here over the years, she tried not to feel anxious. But she wondered if she hadn’t bitten off more than she could chew.

But there was no one else willing to do it. Marion wouldn’t dream of soiling her hands by climbing up here. Besides, as she was always telling Isobel, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to do all she had to do anyway. And Malcolm wouldn’t thank her if she gave what little time she had to sorting her late mother’s rubbish. Her husband saw little enough of her as it was.

Isobel, who taught at the local comprehensive, was assumed to be able to take a day off to deal with the aftermath of a family bereavement without any problem at all. If her classes had to be covered by someone else, or she got behind in her marking schedule, she’d have to deal with it. Marion had people depending on her, staff, whom she couldn’t possibly neglect to dispose of her mother’s things.

Isobel supposed it was true. As well as having a husband and an eight-year-old daughter, Emily, Marion also ran her own employment agency. She was always busy interviewing people or attending ‘important’ meetings. Isobel sometimes wondered why she’d bothered to get married at all.

Isobel wasn’t married, which she knew delighted Marion immensely. She knew little of her sister’s private life, of course, but the fact that Isobel didn’t have a steady boyfriend pleased her no end. Isobel’s best friend, Michelle Chambers, said it was because Marion was jealous of her. But why Marion should be jealous of her adopted sister didn’t seem to make much sense, in Isobel’s view.

Isobel thought Marion was basically unhappy. Despite her assertions to the contrary, she never seemed to enjoy her success. Isobel knew their mother had seen more of Emily than Marion had been able to, and the little girl was going to miss her grandmother terribly.

Mrs Dorland had died six weeks ago. She’d been suffering from a terminal illness for the past three years, so no one was actually shocked by her death. But, for all that, Isobel was amazed at the gulf her mother’s loss had left in her life. There was so much she hadn’t told her; so much she wanted to tell her now.

Although she’d initially put off Marion’s suggestion that the house should be cleared, she’d known that sooner or later she would have to do it. Their father had died some years ago, and although Isobel wasn’t married she no longer lived at home, which meant the house in Jesmond Dene was now empty. But she’d known that disposing of her mother’s belongings would be painful, and she’d waited until the emotional dust had settled before tackling the job.

Now, however, she didn’t have a choice. She was going away herself soon, and Marion was agitating about selling the house while the market was still buoyant. Isobel knew Marion’s share of the proceeds was earmarked for the business, and she wished she could insist that her sister had it all.

But the solicitor had been quite adamant on that point. Mrs Dorland’s will stated clearly that both her daughters should inherit in equal shares. As far as her mother was concerned, she’d never made any distinction between them, and Isobel had sometimes wondered whether that was why Marion had always worked so hard to gain her parents’ approval.

It had been easy enough arranging for the furniture to be dealt with. There were firms who specialised in house clearances and, apart from the one or two personal items Isobel had selected, everything else had been despatched to the saleroom.

It was not until Isobel had opened the trap door into the attic that she’d realised the enormity of her task. Unless they were willing to allow strangers to root around in family papers and suchlike, she would have to dispose of these old trunks and boxes herself. Despite the fact that all she’d discovered so far were old clothes and books and photograph albums, she couldn’t find it in her heart to just burn them, unseen. There might be something of value. She owed it to her mother’s memory to take the trouble to look.

All the same, she hadn’t expected it to be so hot up here. And the nausea that had troubled her earlier that morning was beginning to make her sweat all over again. If she didn’t get something to eat soon, she was going to start retching, and that was one consequence of her efforts she didn’t want to face.

She was crawling back to where the loft ladder pointed down to the first-floor landing when she saw the small dust-covered suitcase. It had been pushed away beneath one of the beams, and it was doubtful if she’d have seen it if she hadn’t been on all fours. As it was, she pulled it out, saying a not very ladylike word when the handle came away on one side and a screw scraped her finger. Then, tucking it beneath her arm, she climbed down to the landing below.

First things first, she thought, looping her curly hair behind her ears and descending the stairs to the ground floor. There was no food in the house, but she had brought a flask of coffee and some biscuits with her. Thank goodness, she thought weakly, stuffing a handful of arrowroot fingers into her mouth.

The nausea subsided, as she’d known it would, and, after pouring herself a cup of coffee from the flask, she carried the suitcase into the kitchen. Then, unlocking the back door, she stepped out into the watery sunshine and seated herself on the bench that circled the old apple tree.

This was where her mother used to sit in summer, she remembered sadly. And when she and Marion were schoolgirls, their father had hung a swing from one of its gnarled branches, but that had gone now. Even the blossom, that had flowered so incongruously, she’d felt, just after her mother died, had faded, the grass at her feet strewn with its decaying petals.

Sighing, she thrust her melancholy thoughts aside and turned to the suitcase. It was little more than the size of a briefcase, really, and Isobel couldn’t remember ever having seen it before. Perhaps it hadn’t belonged to her parents, she thought. Her grandparents had lived in the house before her father and mother were married, so it could have belonged to them. Whatever, it was unlikely to contain anything of importance. All her mother’s private papers had been kept by her solicitor.

She thought at first that the case was locked. Her first attempts to flick the twin catches met with no success. But a foray into the toolshed, which still contained some rusty tools and a broken lawnmower, unearthed an old screwdriver, and when she used this to pry at the catches, they gave in.

As she’d expected, the box was just another repository for papers. Letters this time, postmarked from an address in Cornwall, all of them at least twenty-five years old. Isobel frowned. She was not aware that her parents had known anyone who lived in Cornwall. If they had, neither of them had ever mentioned it to her. And she doubted that if Marion had known about it she’d have kept something like that to herself.

Unless…

She shook her head. Were these letters anything to do with her adoption? She knew virtually nothing about her real parents. She’d been told that her birth mother had been killed in a car accident just after she was born, and that as she’d been an unmarried mother, living alone, her baby had been taken into care. Isobel had always assumed that she’d lived in Newcastle, too, which was how the Dorlands had come to adopt her. Mrs Dorland had always wanted a large family, but after Marion was born she’d discovered she couldn’t have any more children.

Isobel wondered now why she hadn’t asked more questions about her adoption. She supposed the truth was that her mother had always got very touchy whenever the subject was broached. Isobel had been taught from an early age that she was lucky to be part of a proper family, and somehow asking about her birth mother’s background was ungrateful and disloyal.

Which probably had nothing to do with these letters, she decided, pulling off the elastic band, which had held them together, and studying the envelope with thoughtful eyes. It was addressed to her mother, she saw, and her nerves tightened, needlessly she was sure. She was regarding the letters far too seriously, she thought. They were probably from a friend her mother had known when she was young.

She felt a twinge of conscience as she pulled one of the letters out of its envelope. Perhaps she ought to wait and ask Marion what she should do with them. But then curiosity, and the knowledge that Marion had eschewed all interest in their mother’s effects, encouraged her to investigate further. After all, it was only her imagination that was giving them a significance they probably didn’t deserve.

She read the address at the top of the letter first: Tregarth Hall, Polgarron. Impressive, she though wryly, and, even though the letter was old, the quality of the paper was still evident. Then she noticed it started ‘Dear Iris,’ which was her mother’s name, and not Mrs Dorland. Her unease slackened, and she glanced at the bottom of the page. The signature was Robert Dorland. She grimaced. They were obviously from some relation of her father’s.

Wondering why that conclusion didn’t douse her interest, she turned back to the beginning. Dear Iris, she read again, and then went on. All the arrangements are now in place. Matty will bring the child to you on August 8th.

The child? Matty?

Isobel’s throat went dry, but she forced herself to read on.

I know you consider my actions reprehensible, but there is no way I can keep her even if I wished to, which I do not.

Isobel caught her breath, but she had to go on.

I trust George (her father, Isobel acknowledged tensely) will learn to live with it. He was always a sanctimonious devil, even in his youth, and, had it not been for your intervention, I am sure the child would have found no favour with him. Still, who am I to judge him? As George would say, I have made my bed, now I should lie on it. He never could forgive anyone’s weaknesses. Which is why, I suppose, my father left Tregarth to me, and not him. I doubt if we’ll be in touch again, dear Iris. My thanks and my best wishes for the future.

The air escaped from Isobel’s lungs in a pained rush, and the nausea she had defeated only minutes before attacked her again. This time there was no escape. She barely made it to the downstairs cloakroom before she was violently sick, and it was several minutes after that before she was able to drag herself to her feet again.

She felt chilled now. Whereas earlier she had been sweating in the heat of the attic, now goosebumps feathered her skin. She found the jacket she’d left hanging on the banister, and pushed her arms into the sleeves, clutching its warmth about her. But the chill she felt was as much psychological as physical, and it was some time before she could bring herself to return to the bench.

When she did, she found the dozen or so letters scattered in all directions. They’d tumbled from her lap as she’d rushed into the house, and, although she was tempted to toss the lot of them into the dustbin, she forced herself to pick them up again. Looking at the date of the postmarks on the envelopes, she discovered that the letter she’d been reading had been the last one to arrive. They must have been saved, one on top of the other, in reverse order, which was how she’d come to read the last letter first.

And that letter was dated August 1975, which was only a few weeks after she’d been born. According to her birth certificate, her birthday was the twelfth of July 1975, and it was highly improbable that her mother should have been involved with two babies at that time.

Which meant…? That this man, whoever he was, was her real father? That he’d got some poor girl pregnant and then reneged on his responsibilities towards her? Although George Dorland had always maintained that he had no relatives, it seemed obvious now that Robert Dorland must be his brother. His younger brother, by the sound of it. And instead of spending his early years in East Anglia, as he’d told his daughters, he’d actually been born in Cornwall instead.

Isobel swallowed, turning the other letters over in her hands. The last thing she wanted to do now was read them, yet she had to know how—why?—her own parents hadn’t brought her up.

From the tone of the letter she’d read, she thought she could guess at least part of the story. If anything the Dorlands had told her was true, then her mother must have died, as they’d said. But if she’d lived in Newcastle, claiming to be a single mother, how had Robert Dorland become involved with the baby? And who on earth was Matty? Isobel knew from what she’d been told that her real mother’s name had been Frances Parry.

She turned, somewhat apprehensively, to the earliest dated letter and drew the two sheets of paper out of the envelope. The address was the same: Tregarth Hall, Polgarron. And it both confirmed Robert Dorland’s identity and proved that Mrs Dorland had known him personally.

Dear Iris,

I am writing to you and not to that hidebound brother of mine because I’m hoping that what I have to tell you may strike a chord of sympathy in your heart. Ten months ago, I did something totally selfish and totally stupid. I betrayed Justine by having a brief fling with a young woman I met while I was in London, visiting my solicitor. Believe me when I say that I’ve regretted it ever since, and I had no intention of having anything more to do with the woman involved. Unfortunately, circumstances have contrived against me, and I now find that a child resulted from that reckless union. How do I know this? you ask. Because the child’s mother has now died, leaving the infant in my care. Not literally, of course. At least, not yet. At present, she is in the care of Southwark Social Services, but I have been contacted, as the child’s father, and I fear it’s only a matter of time before Justine finds out. You know how distressed she’s always been at not being able to have any children herself, and there’s no way I can confess the truth to her. I’ve thought of denying any knowledge of the woman, but who knows what other incriminatory evidence she may have left? No. It’s obvious that I’ve got to find an alternative home for the child, and, knowing how much you and George would have liked a larger family, I’m hoping you might agree to adopt your niece. Yes. In spite of everything, I know she is my daughter. I’ve seen her, and although her colouring is much darker than mine, the resemblance is there. Naturally, Justine must know none of this. Some other explanation must be found for your decision, but I’m sure we can work something out. What do you think? Will you do this for me? For Justine? For an innocent child? I beg you not to let me down.

Robert.

Isobel was shaking violently when she finished reading the letter. To think, all these years, when she’d believed she had no blood relations, she’d had an aunt, an uncle, a cousin—and a father! She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. Somehow it made a mockery of her life so far.

Why had no one ever told her? Why leave these letters for her to read when for more than twenty-five years she’d been kept in the dark? Surely her feelings had had as much relevance as Justine’s? As soon as she was old enough to understand the significance of what had happened, she should have been told the truth.

Stuffing the letter back into its envelope, she reached for the second, and the third, flicking through them with trembling fingers. There were fifteen letters in all, and, however reluctant she was to continue, she knew she had to read them all. Somehow she had to come to terms with what she’d learned, and the only way to do that was to try and understand why it had happened.

But the tenor of the letters changed after that first one. It soon became evident that this was because Robert Dorland’s plea had not met with universal approval. George Dorland had apparently refused at first to have anything to do with his brother’s problems, and, judging by the response his reaction had earned, there’d been no love lost between the two men.

Slowly, however, perhaps because of Iris’s intervention—Isobel would never know now—a compromise had been reached. However opposed to the idea her husband had been, Iris’s wishes had prevailed, and he had eventually agreed to adopt the child.

Herself, thought Isobel disbelievingly. She was the child they’d fought over, and, ultimately, she was the one who’d benefited. But at what cost? George Dorland had driven a hard bargain, and his agreement had entailed stringent conditions.

The first was that he’d never wanted to see his brother again. There would be no familial visits; no opportunity for Robert Dorland to secretly drool over his handiwork; to feel a sense of pride in the child he’d been prepared to give away.

The second was that Isobel herself was never to know the truth, which explained her ignorance. Whatever bitterness there’d been between the brothers had been reinforced by her adoption, and was obviously why George Dorland had always denied any connection with his past. And why she’d never been told she’d been born in London, instead of the north of England.

Spots of rain were dotting the knees of Isobel’s leggings by the time she’d snapped the elastic band back around the bundle of letters. Returning them to the case, she closed the lid, and got to her feet. It was odd, she thought, she felt entirely different now from the woman she’d been before she opened the case. Pandora’s Box, she thought painfully, as she walked back into the house. She should have burned the letters without reading them as her conscience had prompted her to do.

And yet…

She sighed. Why had her mother kept the letters? She suspected her father hadn’t been aware of it, which might account for the fact that the case had been hidden away beneath the beam. It seemed that as far as George Dorland was concerned, his brother had ceased to exist on the day the baby—herself—had been handed over. But Iris had been made of gentler stuff. Was that why she’d hung onto the letters all these years?

Isobel frowned. She wondered if Marion had known anything about it. Did she remember her aunt and uncle, for example? Surely she’d have mentioned them if she had. And when their father died—and their mother—had anyone informed Robert Dorland? Always supposing he was still alive, of course. As the younger brother, it was reasonable that he might be.

The breath caught in Isobel’s throat at that thought. My God, she thought. Her father—her real father—could still be living in another part of the country. The implications of that conclusion were both thrilling and terrifying. Had Robert Dorland thought about her at all since he’d abandoned her? Goodness, he might not even know that his brother and his wife were dead.

But what if he did…?

She ran a protective hand across the slight mound of her stomach. Ever since she’d learned of her condition she’d been thinking that history always repeated itself. Like mother, like daughter, she’d thought, but without knowing all the facts. Now, the comparisons between them were even more pertinent. Except… She took a deep breath. She had no intention of putting Jared’s name on the birth certificate…

CHAPTER TWO

THE sound of the front door opening brought her round with a start.

She hadn’t been aware of leaving the door unlocked, but now she remembered that she hadn’t intended to be so long. And if she hadn’t opened the trap door into the loft, and realised the amount of work there was still to be done, she wouldn’t have been. With the living areas of the house empty of her mother’s belongings, she’d thought it was only a matter of tidying up.

How wrong she’d been.

‘Belle?’

The attractive male voice was achingly familiar, and, in spite of all the warnings she’d given herself these past weeks, Isobel’s heart leapt automatically at the sound. She knew it so well; knew every tone, every nuance, every sensual inflection. Which was why she had to get away, she thought, even though the knowledge pained her. There was no way she could avoid him if she continued to live at the apartment. Or in the area, she acknowledged wryly, even if a future without him in it looked abysmally black at this moment.

‘I’m here,’ she said, shedding her jacket onto the counter and emerging from the kitchen as Jared Kendall came strolling along the narrow hall. She forced herself to offer him a cool smile, even though she desperately wanted to run away from the temptation he represented. But she had to convince him that their relationship was over, and only by a show of total uninterest could she hope to arouse a similar response.

But God, it was hard, so hard, to disguise the fact that her feelings hadn’t changed. Just looking at him, knowing what they had once shared, turned every bone in her body to water. She didn’t want to care about him; she shouldn’t care about him; but she did. And it was that as much as anything that made her resent his coming here.

After the row they’d had two nights ago—the row she’d engineered—she’d been sure it would be several days before he’d attempt to see her again. If he ever did, she’d acknowledged honestly. There was just so much a man—any man—would take.

Yet now here he was, walking towards her with that loose-limbed gait that had always reminded her of the predator he represented. Tall, dark; if it wasn’t for the metal-framed spectacles riding on his nose, he’d be every woman’s fantasy, and even they only added to his appeal.

Though, to give him credit, he would have hated to think that that was so. Broad shoulders, lean hips, the muscles moving powerfully beneath his tanned skin, he had a toughness that didn’t just come from working a good part of his life outdoors. Not handsome, she conceded. His features were too strongly sculpted to fit that image, and one of the first things that had drawn Isobel to him was his total lack of vanity.

But now was not the time to be categorising all his good points, she thought impatiently. Somehow, however painful it might be, she had to make him see that what they’d had was over, finished; before he destroyed them both…

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, wrapping her arms about her midriff in an unknowingly defensive gesture, and Jared arched a sardonic brow.

‘Guess,’ he said drily, coming to a halt and regarding her with faint resignation. ‘If you start with the premise that I wanted to see you, you might come close.’

‘Don’t make fun of me.’

‘Okay.’ Jared pushed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘How about if I say I’m sorry?’

‘You’re sorry?’ Isobel was caught off guard. ‘What are you sorry for?’

Jared blew out a breath. ‘How the hell do I know?’ he exclaimed, revealing he wasn’t quite as controlled as he’d like to appear. ‘Anything, everything; whatever I’ve done to make you be like this.’

‘Like this?’ Isobel latched onto the words. ‘Like what? What am I like?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Jared turned sideways and rested his shoulders back against the wall. ‘You know what I mean. Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Oh, right.’ He turned his head and gave her a disparaging look. ‘So why are we having this argument? Answer me that.’

Isobel was quivering inside, but she had to go on. ‘I can’t help it if you don’t like the things I say,’ she declared coolly. ‘Just because you can’t accept that I might be getting bored with our relationship—’

‘That’s not true!’ He straightened away from the wall, his voice swollen now with anger. ‘Our relationship may be many things, not all of them good, I’ll grant you, but it’s never been boring!’

‘So you say.’

‘So I know,’ he corrected her harshly. He glared angrily at her, his dark eyes smouldering hotly behind the curved lenses of his glasses. ‘What is this, Belle? What’s happening? Who’s been getting at you, for God’s sake? Is it your sister? Has she said something to upset you?’

‘Why should you think I’d need any encouragement?’ Isobel managed to inject exactly the right amount of contempt into her voice. ‘Just because you can’t accept it, doesn’t mean it isn’t so.’

Jared wrenched off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. Then, taking a deep breath, he composed himself. ‘So—what are you saying? That you don’t think we should see one another again?’

Isobel felt as if her insides were being rent apart. ‘Um—well, yes,’ she said tightly. ‘I think it would be best for—for both of us. Our relationship isn’t going anywhere. And—and I’m not prepared to spend the rest of my life waiting for something that may never happen.’

Jared’s face was dark with anguish when she’d finished. Without his glasses, which were still dangling from his hand, he had a vulnerability that wasn’t evident when the lenses he wore to correct his short-sightedness were in place. It tore her heart just to look at him, and she wondered what malign fate had decreed that she and Jared should meet.

Which was why she had to go…

‘You knew,’ he began, his voice thickening with emotion as he spoke, ‘you knew I was married when we first began seeing one another. I—never made any secret of the fact.’

‘I know—’

‘So why are you so impatient now?’

Why, indeed?

Isobel had to steel herself against the almost overwhelming urge she had to go to him then, to comfort him, to tell him that, far from wanting to split them up, she needed him more now than ever. She loved him; she’d known that from the minute she’d backed into his car.

She remembered that day on the supermarket car park now, how he’d uncoiled himself from behind the wheel of the huge Mercedes and come around to see what damage her small Ford had done. She’d expected many things, but not amusement, and his lazy smile had robbed the moment of any sting. She’d been hooked by that smile and by the easy assurance of his manner. The fact that he was also the sexiest man she’d ever seen was just the icing on the cake.

‘Perhaps I’ve changed my mind,’ she blurted now. Anything to distract herself from her thoughts. ‘It was fun at first—’

‘Fun!’

‘But I’m not getting any younger. I’ve decided I—I want a normal life; a normal relationship. I want to get married. Have you thought of that?’

‘I think of it all the time,’ he retorted bitterly. ‘But I’m not free, am I? I thought you understood.’

‘I do.’

‘It doesn’t sound like it.’

‘Well, it wasn’t meant to sound like that,’ she mumbled unhappily. Her heart ached, and she gripped herself tighter. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, I bet you are.’

He shoved his glasses back onto his nose and thrust savage hands through his hair. His hair needed cutting again, Isobel noticed with unwilling tenderness, and there were streaks of grey among its silky dark strands. Were there more now than when she’d first met him? She hoped not, but there was no denying that their affair had taken its toll on both of them.

‘So…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Who is he? Do I know him? Please don’t tell me you’ve been seeing him behind my back.’

Isobel’s jaw dropped. ‘Who?’

Jared closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Belle…’ he said, and she could hear the edge of violence in his voice. ‘Don’t do this to me. You know perfectly well who I mean. This man—this paragon—the one who can give you everything I can’t.’

‘There is no one else.’

The words were out before Isobel could give any thought to what she was saying. Her denial had been instinctive, and she saw Jared’s eyes open again and focus on her with piercing intensity.

‘Do you mean that?’ He gripped the back of his neck with a bruising hand. ‘Or is this what they mean by letting me down lightly?’

Isobel shook her head. Despite the fact that it would be so much easier to pretend that there was someone else, she couldn’t do that to him. ‘It’s the truth,’ she said huskily, and then, unable to go on looking at him without revealing what she was trying so hard to hide, she turned back into the kitchen behind her.

Had she known he would follow her? She hardly knew any more. After the morning she had had, she was in no fit state to make any reasoned assessment about anything. Besides, if she was honest she would admit that she had never needed his strength and his commitment more than she did right now. Only he hadn’t offered her any commitment, she reminded herself painfully, and she was a fool if she thought he ever would.

She sensed he was behind her even before he touched her. Where he was concerned she had always had a sixth sense, a sensory perception, that she’d used to tell herself proved that their relationship was meant to be. It was as if some energy arced between them, an electrical spark, that was as much spiritual as it was physical, so that when his hands cupped her neck she couldn’t prevent the little moan of despair that escaped her. And when his tongue found the pulse that was racing behind her ear, she could only tip her head to one side to facilitate her own destruction.

‘God, Belle,’ he groaned, his breath cool against her hot skin, and the passion in his voice stroked her flesh with sensual fingers. ‘Don’t do this to me.’

At that moment it was beyond her capacity to do anything more than stand there, feeling the heat of him at her back, and trying like mad not to lean into him. But it was too much. His teeth had fastened on the skin of her neck now, skin that was the colour of thick cream, and which he had always insisted was just as rich and smooth, tugging the soft flesh into his mouth. There’d be a mark there now, she knew it, but she would willingly have stripped all the skin from her bones if it would have pleased him. She loved him. Ah, God, she was crazy about him. He had no idea what it was costing her to leave him.

His hands slid down her arms to her hands, linking their fingers together. Then, with just the slightest pressure, he urged her slim body to mould itself to his, his legs parting so that she was instantly aware of his arousal against her bottom. She was a tall girl herself, and Jared had always said they fitted one another perfectly.

She trembled then, and, sensing her weakening state, Jared uttered a muffled oath as he turned her towards him. Cradling her face between his palms, he stroked the faint shadows that had only recently appeared beneath her eyes with his thumbs, before tilting her head to his.

‘I need you,’ he said unsteadily, and she believed him. Their relationship would never have survived as long as it had without the friendship that had flowered between them. This past year had been the happiest time of her life, and if that damned her soul for all eternity, given the chance she’d do it all again.

He bent to kiss her, their mingled breaths causing the lenses of his glasses to film over, and Isobel lifted her hand to remove them. Her lips parted under the increasing pressure of his mouth, and when his tongue plunged deeply into that moist void, she clutched his glasses as if they were the only stable thing in a wildly unstable world.

Jared’s hands moved down her back to her hips, bringing her more fully against him, the thrust of his erection nudging the junction of her thighs. His fingers shaped the rounded swell of her buttocks, finding the cleft that divided them easily through her thin leggings, and causing Isobel to arch helplessly against his insistent strength.

‘I want you,’ he told her thickly, his words barely audible as his mouth returned to hers with more urgency, and although she knew she was playing with fire, she wound her arms around his neck.

‘Not here,’ she got out jerkily, as her only concession to her departing sanity, but Jared seemed intent on proving to her that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

‘Why not?’ he demanded, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of her man-size tee shirt to find the softness of her bare flesh. He stroked her midriff with caressing hands, before seeking the unfettered freedom of her small breasts. ‘It’s what I want; it’s what we both want.’

‘No—’

‘Yes.’ He teased the sensitive nipples that swelled against his palms, and then peeled her tee shirt upward, exposing the rosy areolae to his possessive gaze. ‘God, Belle, you can’t stop me now!’

One hand curved along her thigh, bringing her leg up around his hips and lifting her off her feet. Realising what he intended to do, Isobel wrapped her other leg about his waist. It brought the sensitive place between her legs even closer to the taut seam of his trousers, and she was hardly aware that he’d carried her into the kitchen until he set her on the lip of the counter. Then, while she put his glasses aside and rested back on her hands, he peeled the close-fitting leggings down to her ankles.

When he spread her thighs and moved between them, she was more than ready for him, and her breathing quickened when the thickness of his erection probed her moist core.

But, just as she was giving herself over to the treacherous delight of feeling him a part of her again, he swore softly and drew back. ‘Damn, I don’t have anything with me,’ he muttered. He groaned. ‘I don’t normally go to work with a pocket full of—well, you know what I mean.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Isobel’s words were frantic, revealing how hopelessly eager she was, and Jared stared at her with dark, tormented eyes. ‘Do you mean that?’ he asked unsteadily. ‘Is it the right time of the month or something?’

‘Or something,’ she agreed weakly, remembering another occasion when she had assured him that it was safe to take the risk. Of course it hadn’t been so, which was why…

But she didn’t want to think about that now, and, reaching down, she guided him towards her aching flesh. ‘Just do it,’ she said, and as she’d expected—as she’d known— Jared was not immune to such flagrant provocation, and he sighed with pleasure as he surged into her wet sheath.

‘God, Belle,’ he moaned, as her muscles tightened around him, and because she was no longer in control of herself, or her emotions, Isobel cupped his face in her hands and brought his open mouth to hers.

She thought she might have been content then just to know he was there, buried deep inside her, but as soon as he began to move she knew that being there wasn’t enough. She wanted more, she wanted him, she wanted all of him, and his breathing grew hoarse and laboured as the irresistible demands of the flesh drove him to take them both to a glorious climax.

They came together, and Isobel felt the exquisite heat of Jared spilling his seed inside her. There was nothing to touch it. She sighed. The blissful union of male meeting female, skin to skin, flesh to flesh. The ripples of their lovemaking left them both shuddering in the aftermath, and Isobel would have liked nothing better than to spend the rest of the afternoon here or at her apartment, with Jared, repeating their closeness again and again.

But a chilling sense of reality returned when Jared bestowed one last lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth, and then drew away from her. While he fastened his trousers, she shuffled awkwardly off the edge of the counter, and bent to haul her leggings, and the bikini briefs he’d pulled down with them, up her legs.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked huskily, watching her, and she was warmed by the look in his eyes which told her he had been as reluctant to break their embrace as she was.

But that didn’t alter the situation, and, making the excuse of needing to use the bathroom, she slipped into the cloakroom next door.

A glance at her reflection didn’t help either. No one looking at her flushed face and swollen lips could be in any doubt as to what had been going on, and she wished she’d brought her make-up with her. Her hair, lustrous chestnut hair, which she usually wore short these days in an effort to quell its urge to curl, was a tousled mass about her creamy features. She looked—wanton, she thought unhappily. Which was not the image she’d wanted to convey.

She stayed in the cloakroom as long as she dared, and when she emerged she found Jared waiting for her in the kitchen. His hips were propped against the counter, where he had just made such passionate love with her, his arms folded across his broad chest, his glasses back in place.

The suitcase containing the letters she had been examining earlier—and which she had almost forgotten in the heat of their mating—was lying on the counter at his back, and he tipped his head towards it in obvious enquiry.

‘Whose is this?’

Recognising the tension in his casual query, Isobel wondered if he thought it was hers. A hysterical sob rose in her throat at the unknowing irony of that suspicion, but she managed to fight it back, and, sliding her long fingers into the sides of her hair, she lifted her shoulders in a dismissing gesture.

‘It was my mother’s.’

Jared’s dark brows drew together. ‘Your mother’s?’ he echoed. ‘I thought you’d got rid of all your mother’s stuff.’

‘I thought so, too.’ Isobel took a deep breath. ‘That was before I looked in the loft.’

‘The loft? Here?’ Jared glanced towards the ceiling. His eyes darkened. ‘You haven’t been crawling around in the loft on your own?’

Isobel gave him a retiring look. ‘Someone has to do it,’ she said drily.

‘Not on your own,’ retorted Jared, evidently disliking the proposition. He flicked back his cuff and looked at the plain gold watch on his wrist. ‘Dammit, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting with Howard and Ross Cameron at half-past one.’

‘And it wouldn’t do to keep your father-in-law waiting, would it?’

Isobel couldn’t resist the mocking comment, and she saw the look of real pain that crossed his face. ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he conceded flatly. ‘Particularly as he can probably smell you on me,’ he said, straightening away from the bench, and Isobel felt instantly ashamed.

‘Um—you could take a quick shower,’ she offered, gesturing towards the stairs. ‘I think there’s an old towel still up there—’

‘Did I say I cared?’ Jared demanded, coming to slide caressing hands over her shoulders. He angled his head to rest his forehead against hers. ‘Dammit, Belle, I don’t want to go.’

She didn’t want him to go either, but even thinking such a thought was breaking every promise she’d made to herself, and she knew she had to stop wishing for miracles. They didn’t happen, and somehow she had to get over it—get over him—and move on.

Move on…

God, how cold that sounded. Isobel felt the prick of unshed tears burning behind her eyes and she knew she had to make him go before he started suspecting that something was seriously wrong.

‘I’ll see you tonight, right?’ he murmured, kissing her again, but Isobel shook her head.

‘Not tonight,’ she said, through dry lips. ‘I—I’ve got too much to do. I’ve got to finish here, and then I’ve got some marking—’

‘You’re not going into that loft again,’ said Jared harshly. He tipped her face up to his. ‘Promise me you won’t go up there unless someone else—preferably me—is with you.’

Isobel expelled an unsteady breath. ‘I—all right,’ she agreed, deciding that, whatever else was left up there, Marion’s husband would have to move it. She forced a smile. ‘You’d better go.’

‘Okay.’ Jared released her without further protest and started towards the door. ‘I’ll ring you,’ he said, pausing at the end of the hall, and then, with an irrepressible grin, he let himself out of the door.

She cried after he’d gone. She told herself her hormones were responsible, that ever since she’d found out what was wrong with her she’d been in a state of emotional turmoil, but she knew she was just fooling herself. She wasn’t crying because she was pregnant. She was crying because he’d never know.

Then, as she went to the sink to bathe her eyes with cool water, her gaze alighted on the suitcase again. And suddenly she knew what she was going to do. She’d planned on leaving Newcastle, but until now she’d had no clear idea of where she was going to go. The little money she’d saved and her share from the sale of the house would support her until she found a regular job, and she considered herself lucky to have an occupation that was not confined to any one area. Oddly enough, she’d thought of moving south and west, and now she knew her destination. She was going to Cornwall, to a town not too far distant from Polgarron, wherever that was. And she was going to do her best to find out what kind of man her father was—or had been…

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN someone knocked at the door of her apartment that evening, Isobel’s heart leapt into overdrive. She was expecting Michelle, but it was too early for her, and she wondered how she’d explain her friend’s arrival to Jared if it was him. When she’d told him she couldn’t see him, it had been because she’d planned to spend the evening packing things that would be put into storage until she found somewhere else to live. Michelle had agreed to help her, despite her own misgivings about Isobel’s decision.

But when she eventually opened the door, she found her sister waiting on the landing outside. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t in,’ remarked Marion tersely, brushing past her into the living room. She loosened the jacket of her black business suit and glanced about her impatiently. ‘What’s going on?’

Isobel closed the door, a frown drawing her dark brows together as she followed Marion into the room. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, her pulse palpitating at the thought that Marion might have somehow found out about what she intended to do. A quick glance assured her that she’d disposed of all the evidence. So long as her sister didn’t go into the spare bedroom, she appeared to be safe.

‘You were going to call at the agency after you’d finished at the house,’ Marion reminded her shortly, and Isobel breathed a little more easily. After reading Robert Dorland’s letters, and the disturbing emotions aroused by Jared’s visit, she’d forgotten all about the promise she’d made to her sister.

‘I—forgot,’ she said lamely now, and Marion regarded her with scarcely concealed irritation.

‘How could you forget?’ she exclaimed, subsiding onto a braided sofa. ‘You knew I’d promised to give the keys to the estate agent this afternoon.’

‘Yes, well…’ Isobel sighed. ‘There’s a problem.’

‘A problem?’ Marion looked sceptical. ‘You haven’t found something structurally wrong with the house, have you?’

‘No.’ Isobel shook her head. ‘Why should you think that?’

Marion shrugged, and then, when it became apparent that Isobel expected an answer, she clicked her tongue. ‘If you must know, Malcolm saw Howard Goldman’s son-in-law going into the house at lunchtime,’ she said shortly.

‘Oh.’ Isobel felt the heat in her cheeks, and she turned away towards the kitchen. ‘Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Or something stronger? I think I have some sherry. And beer, of course—’

‘Nothing, thanks.’ Marion’s lips were tight. ‘You do know the risk you’re taking, don’t you, Isobel?’ She shook her head. ‘If Elizabeth Kendall finds out…’

‘She won’t.’ Isobel pushed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. She’d had a shower when she got back from the house and deliberately changed her clothes in an effort to forget what had happened. ‘In any case, we were talking about something else—’

Marion ignored her. ‘I thought you told me you’d finished with Jared Kendall.’

Isobel felt a flare of indignation at her sister’s careless intrusion into her private affairs. She and Jared had been seeing one another for over six months before Marion had found out about their relationship, but ever since she had she’d been warning Isobel of the dire consequences, not just to her, but to Marion’s agency, if Howard Goldman discovered the truth.

‘Let’s leave it, shall we?’ Isobel suggested flatly, and, as if sensing she was on shaky ground, Marion contented herself with sniffing her disapproval. ‘I was talking about what I found in the loft.’

‘The loft?’ She had Marion’s attention now. ‘What’s the loft got to do with anything?’

‘It’s full of junk,’ said Isobel evenly. ‘At least, that’s all I thought it was.’

‘What do you mean?’

Marion looked genuinely puzzled, and Isobel walked across the room and extracted the bundle of letters from the suitcase she’d left hidden behind an armchair. Handing her sister the letter she’d seen first, she said, ‘Read that.’

Marion frowned, handling the envelope as if its evident age and discoloration offended her sensibilities. ‘What is it?’

‘Read it,’ urged Isobel, endeavouring to control her impatience, and Marion pulled a face as she extracted the letter.

‘Very well,’ she said, flicking a speck of dust from her fingers. ‘But I can’t imagine why you would think…’

Her voice trailed away as she began to read. Watching her expression, Isobel soon became convinced that what she was seeing was as much of a shock to Marion as it had been to her. Her sister looked up once, when she was about halfway through the letter, and gave Isobel a disbelieving stare, but she waited until she’d reached Robert Dorland’s signature before making any comment.

‘Do you think this has something to do with you?’

Isobel shrugged. ‘Don’t you?’

Marion looked down at the letter again. ‘How would I know? Who is this Robert Dorland? Some relation of Daddy’s, I suppose.’

‘His brother,’ Isobel told her. She flicked through the other letters she was holding. ‘I’ve read all of these, and that one was the last.’

Marion held out her hand. ‘Can I read them?’

‘Of course.’ Isobel handed them over. ‘But not now. I—well, I’m expecting somebody.’

Marion’s expression tightened. ‘Not Jared Kendall?’

‘No, not Jared,’ agreed Isobel wearily. ‘Though if he was coming here, it would be nothing to do with you.’

‘It would if his father-in-law found out I’d known about it, and done nothing to try and put a stop to it.’

Isobel caught her breath. ‘Marion, you’re not my keeper.’

‘No, but Howard and Elizabeth are friends,’ declared Marion, fitting the letter back into the envelope. ‘We’ve even had dinner with them occasionally.’

‘Very occasionally,’ remarked Isobel drily. Howard Goldman and the Rimmers happened to belong to the same golf club, and Marion had been trying for years to cultivate the right kind of social circle. So far their contact with the Goldmans had been restricted to charity dinners and the like, but Marion had ambitions.

‘Nevertheless—’

‘Nevertheless, nothing,’ said Isobel shortly. She squared her shoulders. ‘Did you know anything about this?’

‘This?’ Marion held up the letter. ‘No. How could I?’

‘You’ve never heard of Robert Dorland?’

Marion was indignant. ‘Isobel, I was only three years old when Mum and Daddy adopted you.’

‘Yes.’ Isobel acknowledged what she’d already accepted herself. ‘So what do you think I should do?’

‘Do?’ Marion blinked. ‘What do you mean? What do I think you should do? What can you do? These letters are—what? Twenty-five, thirty years old?’

‘I’m only twenty-six, Marion.’

‘Oh, yes. Right.’ Marion pulled a wry face. ‘Well, it hardly matters now.’

Isobel dropped down into the armchair opposite. ‘Don’t you think so?’

‘How could it? This man—this Robert Dorland—is probably dead by now.’

‘He might not be.’

‘No.’ Marion conceded the fact with ill grace. ‘But what are you going to do? Turn up on his doorstep and expose the secret he’s been keeping all these years: you!’

‘He is my father.’

‘Is he?’

‘Of course he is.’ Isobel stared at her. ‘Surely you don’t think he’d have gone to all that trouble if—’

‘Oh, I’m sure he thought he was your father,’ declared Marion dismissively. ‘But your mother was hardly a paragon of all the virtues, was she? I mean—’ Her lips twisted, and Isobel could almost see what she was thinking. ‘Getting involved with a married man! How do you know she wasn’t lying about your paternity in the hope of making a better life for herself?’

‘Because Robert Dorland wouldn’t even have known he had a daughter if she hadn’t been killed,’ retorted Isobel tersely. ‘For pity’s sake, Marion, what are you implying here?’

‘Well, you don’t know anything about her, do you? She could have been—well, anything.’

Isobel sprang to her feet. ‘I think you’d better go now.’

‘Oh, Isobel, don’t be so melodramatic.’ But Marion got to her feet anyway, clearly aware that she had overstepped the mark. ‘All right. Maybe I’m not being very—sympathetic about her, but you know I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just my way.’

‘Yes.’ Isobel knew Marion’s ways very well. She snatched the bundle of letters out of her sister’s hands and folded them within her arms. ‘Well, I don’t think you’ll be needing these,’ she said, stepping aside so that Marion could walk towards the door. She took a breath. ‘Oh, and here are the keys,’ she added, lifting them off the table by the door. ‘But you’ll have to get Malcolm or somebody else to clear out the rest of the junk. There’s far too much for me to handle.’

‘Isobel…’

Marion tried again to placate her sister, but Isobel had had as much as she could take for one day. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, guiltily, aware that she was planning to leave town without giving her sister her new address. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

Marion took the keys and left, but after she’d gone Isobel found herself in tears again. Dammit, she thought, what was wrong with her? The sooner she got out of Newcastle the better.

She’d barely dried her eyes before Michelle arrived. Her friend came into the apartment looking at Isobel with anxious eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’

Isobel sighed. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘Jared Kendall,’ said Michelle disgustedly, taking off her jacket. ‘Honestly, Issy, I thought you were going to be sensible about him.’

‘I am being sensible.’

‘Oh, right.’ Michelle flicked her neck with a sardonic finger. ‘So what’s this? A mosquito bite?’

Isobel covered the mark Jared’s teeth had made with defensive fingers. ‘Jared hasn’t upset me,’ she denied. ‘It was Marion, if you must know.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Michelle flopped down onto the sofa, spreading her ample bulk over both cushions. ‘So what’s she done now?’

Isobel hesitated. ‘I found some old letters in the loft today.’

‘Big deal.’ Michelle pulled a face. ‘Isn’t that what you usually find in lofts? Old papers; old letters; junk? What’s that got to do with the green-eyed monster?’

‘The letters were from my father.’

‘So?’

Isobel sighed. ‘My real father!’

Michelle frowned. ‘Your real father?’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you didn’t know who your real father was.’

‘I didn’t. Until today.’ Isobel looked doubtful. ‘It turns out he was my father’s brother.’

‘Are you serious?’ Michelle’s blue eyes were wide. ‘Holy Moses! And they never told you?’

‘They didn’t tell anyone,’ said Isobel unhappily. ‘My father—my adoptive father, that is—made that a condition when he agreed to take me.’

Michelle still looked confused. ‘But I didn’t know your father had a brother.’

‘Nor did I.’

‘And your real mother—?’

‘She’s still dead.’ Isobel looked wistful now. ‘It turns out that when she was killed the authorities discovered that she’d named Robert Dorland as—as my father.’

‘Robert Dorland?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So where is he now?’

‘I’m not sure. At the time the letters were written, he was living at somewhere called Tregarth Hall in Polgarron. That’s in Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall?’

‘Mmm.’ Isobel nodded. ‘It turns out I was born in London, not Newcastle.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ Michelle was amazed.

‘Of course, the facts of—of my adoption are the same. My mother was still unmarried at the time I was born. Her—association with my father was very brief.’

She was feeling weepy again now, and when she turned away to go into the kitchen Michelle sprang up from the couch and went after her. ‘Hey,’ she said, putting her arm about the other woman’s shoulders. ‘It’s nothing to cry about. At least you know who you are now.’

‘Do I?’

‘Sure you do.’ Michelle sighed, searching for the right words. ‘Are you telling me Marion knew about this all along?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Isobel drew away from her, pulling a tissue out of the box she kept on the counter and blowing her nose before going on. ‘She seemed as shocked as me.’

‘Then, what—?’

‘Oh, it was something and nothing,’ said Isobel tiredly. ‘She suggested that Robert Dorland might not be my father after all. That my mother might just have used his name—’

‘To what advantage?’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Isobel eagerly. ‘I mean, if she hadn’t been killed, he would never have known.’

‘Precisely.’ Michelle snorted. ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t let her upset you. As I’ve said many times before, she’s a jealous cow.’

‘But why?’ exclaimed Isobel blankly. ‘She’s the success of the family, not me.’

‘Well, obviously she doesn’t think so,’ retorted her friend shrewdly. ‘It must have been a sickener for her when she found out about you and Jared. I mean, doesn’t she spend all her time trying to insinuate herself with the divine Elizabeth?’

‘Don’t say that.’ Isobel couldn’t allow Michelle to ridicule Jared’s wife. ‘Life hasn’t been easy for Elizabeth, you know that.’

Michelle grimaced. ‘I know what she wants everyone to believe,’ she remarked drily. ‘But, okay. I won’t say anything bitchy about Mrs Kendall if you’ll stop getting mopey over Marion’s maliciousness. Hell, she’s probably afraid you’re going to go looking for him.’

Isobel frowned. ‘Why should that bother her?’

‘Come on.’ Michelle was impatient now. ‘What was that address you just told me? Tregarth Hall? That doesn’t sound like a semi in a nice, but unspectacular, part of town.’

Isobel stared at her. ‘You’re saying you think my father might be a—a wealthy man?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Michelle, shrugging as she opened Isobel’s fridge. ‘Ah, wine,’ she noted approvingly. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Isobel sniffed again, but her mouth tilted a little at her friend’s good-humoured common-sense. ‘I don’t want any,’ she said, helping herself to a can of Coke. ‘It’s all yours.’

Michelle lifted the bottle out of the fridge and looked for the corkscrew. ‘So you’re really going through with this, then?’

Isobel looked down at her stomach. ‘You mean the baby?’

‘I mean the baby,’ agreed Michelle, pouring herself a glass of Chardonnay. ‘Does Marion know about that?’

‘Heaven forbid!’ Isobel spoke fervently. ‘She’d say, Like mother, like daughter.’

‘Mmm.’ Michelle headed back into the living room. ‘And you’re still determined that Jared doesn’t need to know either?’

Isobel nodded vigorously. ‘It was never meant to happen, Michelle. You know that. It’ll be better for all of us when I go away.’

‘Well, if you want my honest opinion, I think he’s bloody lucky to have known you,’ declared her friend staunchly. ‘I hate to say anything good about the bastard, but he hasn’t had the happiest of marriages with the—with Elizabeth, has he?’

‘No.’ Isobel’s throat was tight.

‘And, contrary to what you say, I think he would do something about it, if he knew.’

‘What? Get a divorce? I don’t think so. Apart from the fact that Elizabeth’s disabled, it’s common knowledge that he was driving the car when the accident happened.’

Isobel was getting emotional again, and Michelle apparently decided it was time to back off. ‘Who knows?’ she said lightly. ‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, I guess.’ She sank down onto the sofa again, and took a sip of her wine. ‘So…what are you going to do about the letters?’

Isobel perched on the chair opposite. ‘What do you think I should do?’

Michelle arched improbably thin eyebrows. ‘How should I know?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But I guess, looking at you now, that you’ve got a plan in mind.’

‘I had,’ admitted Isobel ruefully. ‘Now, I’m not so sure.’

‘Why not?’

Isobel bit her lip. ‘I had thought of looking for somewhere to live near—near Polgarron.’

‘Ah. And?’

‘Well, if your suspicions are true, and he—does have money, I don’t want him to think I’m looking for him now because I think he—owes me something.’

‘He does.’

‘Michelle!’

‘He does, dammit. You are his daughter.’

‘If it’s true.’

‘Do you doubt it?’

‘No.’

‘There you are, then.’ Michelle was triumphant. ‘I suggest we drive down the first weekend of the holidays.’

Isobel caught her breath. ‘You’ll come with me?’

‘And see you settled? What else?’

‘Oh, Michelle, thank you.’ Isobel went and gave her friend an impulsive hug. ‘I thought I’d have to go on my own.’

‘How are you going to haul all your stuff in that match-box of yours?’ demanded Michelle, disparaging Isobel’s car with affectionate familiarity. ‘No, we’ll take the estate car. Phil can manage with my car for a few days, and we’ll leave your car in our garage until you’re settled. Then, you can either come back for it or get a local garage to deliver it for you.’

Isobel shook her head. ‘Won’t Phil object?’ Michelle’s husband was a sales rep and used the estate car to carry demonstration equipment.

‘As I say, he can make do with the Peugeot. Honestly, he won’t mind.’

‘But your holiday—’

‘We’re not going away until the third week in August,’ exclaimed Michelle impatiently. ‘Stop making obstacles where there aren’t any. With a bit of luck, you’ll be installed in your new place before we go away. Hey—’ she laughed ‘—after you move, Phil and I will have a permanent holiday home in the West Country, won’t we?’

‘The West Country.’ Isobel echoed the words with a shiver of apprehension. Despite the news about her father, and the gratitude she felt towards Michelle for her help and understanding, she couldn’t forget what she was leaving behind. ‘It sounds so far away.’

‘It is far away,’ said Michelle mildly. ‘I thought that was the idea.’

Isobel heaved a sigh. ‘It is, of course, but—’

‘You’re going to miss me. I know,’ said Michelle drily, but when Isobel turned pained eyes in her direction, she shook her head in knowing resignation. ‘You’ve got to forget him, kid. You said yourself there’s no future in it.’

‘That doesn’t stop me wishing—’ Isobel cut herself off before she could finish the damning sentence and swung around towards the spare bedroom. ‘Come on. Let’s get started with the packing. It’s only two weeks to the start of the summer holidays.’

CHAPTER FOUR

JARED dropped his hard hat onto the seat beside him, and rested his head against the soft leather upholstery. It had been a long, hot day and the hair at the back of his neck was damp with sweat. He needed a drink and a shower, not necessarily in that order, and then the prospect of spending the rest of the evening with the only woman he cared anything about.

Isobel…

But that wasn’t going to happen. He scowled as he started the engine of the powerful Mercedes, barely acknowledging the salute of the security guard who was on duty at the gate of the building complex. Elizabeth had a dinner party for her father planned that he’d promised to attend. Instead of changing into jeans and a tee shirt and picking Isobel up for a bar-meal at some country pub, he was obliged to put on a dinner jacket and spend several hours talking to people he didn’t even like.

He sighed. That wasn’t absolutely true. Many of his in-laws’ acquaintances were friends of his, too, and if he could have counted on looking at Isobel across the candlelit dinner table he’d have been content.

He was actually working on a plan to take her away for a few days. There was an architects’ conference in Paris in August, and the prospect of several days—and nights—with Isobel caused his trousers to become unpleasantly tight. Dammit, they’d never spent a whole night together. He couldn’t wait to wake up with her beside him.

The trouble was, while it was comparatively easy to find excuses for going out in the evenings, it was much harder to explain a night’s absence. And, lately, Isobel had been finding excuses for not seeing him in the evenings either. On two or three occasions recently she’d turned him down in favour of other commitments, and, while he knew she had some crazy idea of breaking up with him, he also believed she was as helpless as he was to destroy what they shared.

His lips twisted. It was his own fault, after all. No one had forced him to marry Elizabeth. He’d gone into their relationship with his eyes open, and if the knowledge that as Howard Goldman’s son-in-law he might be given the opportunity to gain recognition for his work had not been unpleasing to him, it had definitely not been the sole reason he’d made Elizabeth his wife.

He’d joined Goldman Lewis as a very junior draughts-man after getting his degree, and from the beginning he’d been aware of Howard Goldman’s daughter watching him every time she came into the office. Elizabeth was easy on the eye, and he wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t been flattered by her attention, but he’d never expected anything to come of it.

That it had had been more due to Elizabeth than himself. Young architects with big ideas were ten a penny, and he’d naturally assumed that Elizabeth would marry someone with a far different pedigree than his own. He’d actually hesitated before accepting that first invitation to a party at the Goldmans’, unsure what her father would make of one his junior employees fraternising with the boss’s daughter.

In fact, Howard Goldman had encouraged the relationship, but it hadn’t been until they were married that Jared had found out why. Dazed by the speed with which he’d been promoted from a minor employee of the firm to a member of the family, Jared hadn’t looked for reasons. He’d been far too busy congratulating himself on his good fortune to search for motives for his success.

His life with Elizabeth, however, had soon proved how naïve he had been. The woman he’d known far too fleetingly before the wedding bore little resemblance to his new wife, her black moods and violent depressions demonstrating that whatever feelings she had expressed for him before they were married, she could barely tolerate him now.

Within a few months, Jared had realised that Elizabeth’s reasons for marrying him had had nothing to do with love or sex. She’d no longer been interested in him except as a means to pacify her father, and Jared had begun to understand that marrying him had been a way to get Howard off her back. The old man had confided in him before the wedding that his dearest wish was that his daughter should give him a grandchild, and, with Elizabeth approaching her thirtieth birthday, he’d been losing hope that she’d ever find a husband. Now that they were going to get married, he’d assumed Elizabeth would be proud to grant his wish.

How wrong he’d been.

Jared’s lips compressed. Elizabeth’s agenda had been totally different from her father’s, from his own. She’d known all about his background before the wedding: the fact that his parents were dead, that he’d been brought up in a series of foster homes until he was sixteen and he’d run away to London, that there’d been little love of any kind in his life. He’d had to steel himself against his emotions; he’d been hurt too many times in the past to trust anything to change. He’d worked at a handful of jobs to earn the money to go to college, determined to get the qualifications necessary to get a decent job. And when he’d passed all his exams he’d returned to the north-east.

To a job with Goldman Lewis.

He sighed now. Elizabeth had apparently believed he’d be so grateful to her for what her father could do for him that whatever she did, however she behaved, he wouldn’t object. She’d been sure he’d do nothing to jeopardise his privileged position, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. For more than half his life already he’d been forced to do what other people—often strangers—told him, and he’d had no intention of allowing it to happen again.

Yet it had.

He scowled. He’d tried so hard to save the marriage, he remembered bitterly. He’d even convinced himself that he must be to blame for Elizabeth’s change of attitude towards him, and when she’d suggested that their relationship might benefit from being given a little space, he’d happily agreed to her spending the weekend at a health farm with one of the women she played golf with.

The call that had shattered all his illusions had come on a Sunday morning. Jared had been sprawled on one of the sofas in the living room, the Sunday papers scattered around him in disarray. He’d actually been anticipating his wife’s return with some enthusiasm, hoping against hope that whatever it was that had brought them together might still have the power to promote a reconciliation.

The call had killed any feelings he’d still had for her. It had been from a clinic in London. To begin with, Jared had assumed Elizabeth must have given him the wrong information. She’d said the health farm was in Northamptonshire, and as these places sometimes called themselves clinics, Jared had assumed he’d made a mistake.

He hadn’t.

The young woman who’d contacted him—a very junior nurse, he’d learned later—had explained that there’d been a complication. She’d said that the operation Mrs Kendall had had the previous afternoon hadn’t gone as satisfactorily as Dr Singh had anticipated.

Jared had been stunned. He hadn’t known Elizabeth needed an operation and he’d briefly blamed himself for his ignorance. And when he’d expressed his concern the young nurse had taken pity on him, assuring him that his wife was in no danger, that the termination had been successful.

Jared had heard the rest of what she’d said in numbed disbelief. He hadn’t wanted to hear that Elizabeth had developed an infection immediately after the operation, or that she wouldn’t be able to return to Newcastle for a few days. His revulsion that she should do such a thing, without even telling him, had been all he could think about, and he’d been hard pressed to be civil to the girl who’d broken the news.

Of course, Elizabeth had never expected him to find out. As he’d discovered afterwards, the clinic was supposed to be totally confidential, and it was only the fact that a new—and very inexperienced—nurse had been on duty when Elizabeth had expressed her concern about the delay, and had taken it upon herself to call the number Elizabeth had given when she’d booked in, which had given the game away. Elizabeth herself had been a little groggy at the time, or she’d never have made such a stupid mistake. She’d have waited until she was well enough to call him herself, and given some other excuse for not returning home.

Jared didn’t know how he’d got through the rest of that day or the days that followed. His first impulse had been to pack his bags and be out of there before his wife got back, but he’d wanted to see her first, to tell her what he thought of her, and that had been a mistake. When Elizabeth had got back she’d been still weak and shaken, but not too weak to remind him of the effect his intended actions would have on her father. The infection she’d developed after the abortion meant there could be no second chances, and the thought of Howard finding out that his daughter would never give him a grandchild was not a prospect Jared had wanted to face.

He’d been brought brutally back to earth when Howard had reminded him of the dinner he and Elizabeth were expected to attend in Alnwick the following evening. Howard had been invited, but it had clashed with another engagement he had in the city, and because these days Jared often acted as his deputy, the Kendalls had been invited in his stead.

The arrangements had been made weeks before or Jared wouldn’t have hesitated in turning the invitation down. But to do so would have created questions he had not yet been ready to answer, and for Howard’s sake he hadn’t made any complaint.

Only when Elizabeth had insisted on driving home after the dinner had Jared objected. Knowing he’d had a thirty-mile drive ahead of him, he had drunk tonic water all evening, whereas Elizabeth had had several glasses of wine. She wasn’t fit, he’d said coldly, expecting her to get out of the driving seat, but instead she’d started the engine, and he’d had no doubt she’d intended to leave him behind in the car park of the hotel.

He remembered grabbing the passenger door and jumping in beside her. The alternative would have been to let her drive off, leaving him to have to explain his plight to those who had still not emerged from the hotel.

It had been at a notorious bend in the road that the car had appeared to go out of control. Jared’s stomach still roiled at the memory of jarring gears and squealing tyres, and the horrifying image of an enormous truck bearing down on them. He’d wondered since then whether Elizabeth hadn’t had some crazy notion of killing herself and him, but he’d grabbed the wheel out of her hands and wrenched the car back from imminent disaster. Nevertheless it had lost too much traction, and he’d felt the wheels skidding over an icy patch on the road. There’d been no way to prevent the vehicle from mounting the kerb before it had lurched headlong into a ditch.

He didn’t recall much after that, until he’d woken up in hospital the following day with two broken legs and a mild concussion. Howard had been sitting by his bed when he’d awakened, and for a moment he’d been sure the older man was there to break the news that Elizabeth was dead.

But Elizabeth hadn’t been dead. Though she had been badly injured. Howard’s reasons for keeping vigil by his son-in-law’s bedside, however, had been to ensure that Jared would take the blame for the accident. Though he hadn’t been sure then who had been at the wheel at the time of the crash—they’d both been flung out on impact—he’d wanted to protect his daughter’s reputation. And the reputation of the firm, Jared had added silently. If Elizabeth had had to face charges of dangerous driving as well as having been drunk at the wheel, it would have proved a juicy piece of gossip for the press.

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