Separate Rooms

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘IS THIS man bothering you?’

The relaxed, vaguely transatlantic drawl cut Honey’s tirade off in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to come to this wretched party and Graham, as ever, was being a pain. But she’d imagined her voice had been pitched low enough not to carry, especially considering the volume of chatter. Registering the tide of scarlet that flooded Graham’s nicely put together features, she turned on one spiky heel to deliver a frosty comment and met speedwell-blue eyes in a tanned, fantastically masculine face and promptly forgot what she’d been going to say.

‘Well?’ One sable brow quirked upwards and Honey’s fingers tightened in a defensive reflex action as she clutched her unwanted glass of wine against her breast, feeling the cold shiver of the glass against the creamy flesh exposed above the scoopy neckline of her black silk dress.

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ she got out, her dark brown eyes still spitting temper. ‘Graham’s a friend and—’

‘If you screech abuse to your friends, I would hate to think what you do to your enemies,’ the stranger inserted smoothly, his mouth curling. And Honey turned back to Graham. Screech? Had she really? But Graham had disappeared into the crowd and she felt her shoulders loosen with relief. Good. She could make her excuses to Sonia and slope away. And the smooth voice drawled amusedly, ‘Feeling better now? Fine. The poor wimp’s slunk off to drown his sorrows so why don’t we two crash out of this rabble and have a quiet drink in one of the bars downstairs?’

The invitation was delivered in a take-it-or-leave-it tone that intrigued her, and she tilted her head on one side and back because he had to be well over six feet tall. Well over because she stood five six in her stockinged feet and tonight she was wearing four-inch heels. And no one, but no one, had ever called Graham Trent a wimp before. He was the town’s most eligible bachelor, his father one of the richest men in the area. He would be furious if he ever found out!

‘I don’t drink with strangers.’ She knew her eyes were full of laughter; she could feel it, and a little light amusement was a darn sight better than the heavy hassle Graham never failed to provide, and the wide rangy shoulders lifted just slightly beneath expensive grey suiting as the smooth dark voice confirmed,

‘But you think it might be marginally better than fighting with friends?’ He took her glass from suddenly unresisting fingers and put it on a wide window-ledge, those quite incredibly blue eyes smiling down into hers. ‘And if it makes you feel easier I’ll introduce myself. Ben Claremont, long-time buddy of Colin Watts. I’m a house guest with them for the next few weeks, which is why I couldn’t get out of this thrash tonight. And if we don’t make a run for it now Sonia’s going to grab us.’

Watching his tall, lithe body move effortlessly through the crowd, making it patently clear that he wasn’t bothered whether she went with him or not, Honey swallowed a grin and began to follow. Well, why not?

Besides, he had been right. Sonia the indefatigable would soon pounce on any guests who weren’t circulating, chattering and grinning to show they were having a whale of a time. And although Sonia had been a friend since schooldays Honey had never been able to understand why every year the Wattses hired the biggest function room in the town’s smartest hotel to throw an anniversary party. Everyone knew that the other three hundred and sixty-four days they were at each other’s throats!

In any case, Ben Claremont’s take-it-or-leave-it attitude intrigued her, she had to admit. She had been fighting men off ever since she had turned seventeen and it was refreshingly different to come across one who was quite obviously not bowled over by a curvaceous body, wicked brown eyes and a mane of fiery red hair!

She caught up with him at the head of the sweeping, thickly carpeted stairs and, apart from the way he dipped his glossy dark head in acknowledgement, he made no comment, merely matching his pace to hers as they descended the shallow staircase, the noise level receding to an opulent hush as he stood aside to allow her to precede him into the discreetly lit and elegantly furnished cocktail bar.

‘Make it two cognacs,’ Ben told a hovering waiter, then sat on the banquette next to Honey, his endless legs casually outstretched, his eyes frankly curious as he followed on, ‘What were you and your friend fighting about, Honey? He looked as if he wanted to strangle you.’

She gave him a level stare. Did he know her name, or had he simply been using a meaningless endearment? The only way to find out was to ask.

‘How did you know my name?’

‘Simple, I asked.’ The brandy balloons arrived on a silver tray and he extracted a note from his pocket, idly gestured the waiter away, his eyes never leaving hers as he drawled out a string of particulars. ‘Honey Ballantyne, twenty-six years old, dealer in antiques, with a sizeable shareholding in BallanTrent Components. And the dog-housed boyfriend is Graham Trent whose father has a fifty per cent holding in the said company. Right?’ His long mouth twitched, registering the black snap of her eyes. ‘And before you blow a gasket, Sonia volunteered the information. All I did was ask who you were. She tells me she’s your best friend.’

Oldest, but not best—Honey’s thoughts went off at a tangent. And trust her to give out her life history at the drop of an idle question. Sonia had always been a gossip, a stirrer, and the older she got, the worse she got. It came from having an empty life.

The silent spurt of temper he had so obviously noted was now under control and she leaned back, her eyes narrowing as she observed the way he cradled his glass, warming the liquid with his capable, well shaped hands. He looked supremely relaxed and at home with himself and she was glad he hadn’t been trying to sweet-talk her, using a meaningless endearment. She was tired of empty flattery from men who only saw her as a sex object. So far, this man seemed different from the many others who had tried to get her into bed and when he repeated, ‘Why were you and Graham fighting?’ she was sure enough of his impartiality to offer defensively,

‘He started it. Going on and on about Sonia’s and Colin’s fifth wedding anniversary party and how we’d be ninety years old before we got around to celebrating our first. I will not be pressured that way.’ Temper surfaced again, had her reaching for her glass, swirling the contents round and round the bowl. And Ben deduced disinterestedly,

‘I take it you’re in no hurry to name the day. How long have you been engaged?’

‘We are not engaged. Never have been and never will be.’ Honey gave a sagging sigh and sipped at her brandy, feeling the smooth, expensive liquid slide easily down her throat, beginning to unknot the bunch of tension lodged behind her breastbone. Then she asked with a sharp sidelong glance, ‘Why so interested?’

‘I’m not—particularly.’ His elegant shrug was indicative of indifference. And then he qualified, ‘At least, only in as much as I’m interested in people—what motivates them, why they act as they do in different circumstances.’

‘Oh?’ Her interest caught, Honey took another sip of the warming spirit and bestowed a slight smile. ‘Why? What are you—a social worker, a writer, maybe?’

‘Much duller.’ He returned her smile with a trace of wryness. ‘I’m Claremont Electronics. Much the same line as BallanTrent. Boring stuff, as I’m sure you’d be the first to agree.’

Blandly said, but Honey’s fine brows drew together. Had Sonia told him of the running battle between herself, her mother and Henry Trent, her deceased father’s partner? Could be. Which would explain his comment about boredom. But she’d heard of Claremont Electronics. And maybe that company and BallanTrent could be classed in the same breath, but only just. Claremont was world-wide, huge, and specialised in futuristic stuff, designing and manufacturing electronics for the space industry. A different and far classier kettle of fish... And if he was the Claremont, then, by all accounts, he was a near-genius...

‘So you’re not in love with young Trent and you have no intention of marrying him, am I right?’ The rich, comforting voice startled her out of her thoughts and she wrinkled her neat nose.

‘Got it in one. Only you try convincing him. I can’t. Ever since my mother and his father decided that their sole offspring should marry for the good of the company—all one happy family kind of stuff—he’s been driving me crazy. The trouble is,’ she confided on a gusty sigh, ‘he’s so old-fashioned and conventional. The business comes first. It must be secured because it provides not only a sizeable income but social standing, respect, if you like. And if Henry, his father, tells him that our marriage would be the best thing for the dratted business then that, as far as Graham is concerned, is that. Regardless.’

Honey swallowed the last of her drink and crashed the glass back on the table, her movements edgy again. Her temper, always volatile, was in danger of exploding from the pressure she’d been under just lately, from both Graham and her mother, and her mouth curled with derision when Ben put in equably, ‘Maybe he’s in love with you. Couldn’t you put his persistence down to that?’

‘Love!’ Honey’s voice rose several decibels, her magnificent eyes narrowing with scorn. ‘Graham loves BallanTrent, his self-image, and golf. In that order!’

‘Are you quite sure?’ The relaxed voice was smoky, amusement curling through it as the vivid blue eyes roamed from the unrestrained corkscrew twists of her fiery hair to the tips of her elegantly shod feet, taking in every point of interest in between. ‘Your mind is alert and bright, your face could be your fortune, and your body is quite definitely of the come-to-bed variety. And don’t get me wrong,’ he inserted at her suddenly suspicious, withering glare, his tone not altering in the slightest, ‘I’m speaking entirely as a non-involved observer.’

‘Oh.’ The frown between her eyes eased away. Just for a moment she had felt hot and bothered by the lazy sweep of his eyes, the tone of his voice, the things he had said. ‘Come-to-bed body’ sounded like things she had heard a score of times before and had taken the greatest exception to. But he had shown, all along, his impartiality, described his interest in the situation as merely academic. And even though his arm was stretched casually out along the back of the banquette, his fingers a mere twitch away from the naked, creamy skin of her shoulder, he hadn’t once tried to touch.

And his impartiality was back in force when he stated, ‘So you are not in love with young Trent and have no intention of marrying him to keep BallanTrent in the family, so to speak. You have repeatedly told him this, to no avail. I take it there is no one else?’ And, receiving the quick shake of her head with a tiny smile, he advised, ‘You’d better leave the area if you want to get him off your back.’

And Honey fumed, ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it!’

‘But not seriously.’

How astute. He seemed to know her a little too well for her liking. She got unhurriedly to her feet, smoothing the silky fabric over her curvaceous hips before reaching for her matching evening bag.

‘No, not seriously. Why should I? I’m happy here, my business is doing well. Why should I let myself be hounded out of town?’ A small, cool smile. ‘It’s been nice talking to you, but I think it’s time I left. Would you make my excuses to Sonia and Colin when you rejoin the party?’ No mention of Graham; he deserved no excuses. He would only see them as a type of apology for the way she had goaded, snarled and snapped at him earlier.

She had perhaps revealed too much to this stranger, this man with the clever, incredible eyes. She had always been too ready to trust people, to confide, rarely keeping her own counsel and never bottling her feelings up inside her where they could fester and do damage. A healthy attitude, maybe, but one that had sometimes led her into difficulties.

But not this time, she recognised as he accepted his dismissal with suave grace, walking with her into the foyer and asking, ‘Can I order you a cab?’

Relief that he had not, as many another might, insisted on seeing her home flooded her with unreasoning warmth. She gave him a generous unguarded smile, telling him, ‘Thanks, but there’s no need. I live over the shop, barely a stone’s throw away.’ She extended a fine-boned hand and felt his own close over it, his fingers warm and hard, the brief contact completely polite, no unnecessary and unwanted lingerings, prompting her to add, ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay with Colin and Sonia,’ and then, not knowing why she wanted to know, why there was this sudden reluctance to end the conversation, ‘Where is your home? I can’t quite place your accent. Canada? America?’

‘No place in particular.’ His shrug was barely noticeable. ‘I was born in England but since I finished my education—in the States—I’ve lived out of suitcases. There’s always been some place else to be.’

He looked and sounded bored. With her? Probably. So what? Time she left. One last small and, this time, controlled smile and then she turned on her spiky heels and walked through the revolving doors on to the Cop and made her way up the hill, breathing in the warm spring night air, pushing Ben Claremont right to the back of her mind as she turned into Stony Shut, her heels tapping on the cobbles, her heart lifting as it always did as her shop came into view, the light from the single street-lamp reflecting in the dozens of tiny glass panes of the frontage.

There were dozens of Shuts, or shoots, in old Shrewsbury town, narrow cobbled alleyways leading from one street to another, enabling the pedestrian who was familiar with the passages that riddled the town to get from one end of it to the other in record time. And Honey considered Stony Shut by far the prettiest, the tall, gabled and half-timbered buildings almost meeting overhead; and, apart from the addition of the street-lamp, it must look now as it had looked in medieval times.

Extracting her key from her bag, she let herself in and checked on the security system before threading her way through the overstocked shop. The amber security light gleamed softly against polished oak and rosewood and drew warm glints from her prized display of early pewter.

As always, she was tempted to linger, to gloat over all her lovely things, the things that were hers for such a short time. She always felt a pang when something was sold, which, she acknowledged with a small, self-deprecating smile, was a stupid attitude for a dealer to have. Or a shopkeeper, as her mother called her in that awful, denigrating tone she had taken to using of late.

Honey stopped smiling, checked the bolts on the door to the workroom at the rear of the premises and mounted the narrow, twisty staircase to her living quarters. Tomorrow was Sunday, the day she invariably spent with her mother. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

* * *

She was woken from a dream which featured a tall, dark man with speedwell-blue sleepy eyes by the insistent shriek of the telephone by her bed. Rolling over, she pushed the long mass of her rumpled hair off her face and fumbled for the receiver, muttering into it, ‘What the hell time do you call this?’ and heard the affected, breathy laugh, Sonia’s gushy voice.

‘Nine-thirty, darling. I thought you were supposed to be an early riser.’

Levering herself up against the satin-covered pillows, Honey grumbled, ‘Weekdays I am. Sundays I ain’t,’ but her grumble was forgiving because she was always wide awake by eight on the one day a week she took off from business, even though she’d promised herself the luxury of a long lie-in. Maybe her dreams had made her restless, for some unknown reason...

‘So where did you and Ben get to last night?’ Sonia wanted to know. ‘Graham was furious when he found out you’d sloped away—I thought I ought to warn you. Mind you,’ she continued at her normal breakneck speed, ‘I don’t blame you. If I were a single woman I’d take off with Ben Claremont, no question. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

Was he? Honey’s thoughts strayed, looking back. Yes, she had to admit his looks were fantastic. Not as conventionally good-looking as Graham—but then who would be? she thought sourly—but he had masses more presence, and there was something significantly compelling about those assertive features, those brilliant blue eyes with the thick fringing black, black lashes...

‘And he doesn’t only excel in the looks department, either,’ Sonia was still gushing away. ‘According to Colin, he has a brilliant mind and, of course, he’s fabulously wealthy. I envy the woman who eventually ties him down—’

‘He’s not married?’ Honey got a word in sideways then wondered why she’d bothered. Ben Claremont’s marital status was no concern of hers.

‘No, and hands off! He’s my house guest, not yours!’ Sonia giggled. ‘I wonder if I could persuade Colin to take one of his precious fishing holidays? In Scotland. Or at the North Pole! No, but seriously—I just felt I had to warn you. Ben came back to the party and told me you’d gone home. You’d had a busy day and were developing a headache.’ Tactful, at least, Honey thought, glancing at her watch to discover the fingers marching towards ten o’clock. ‘And when I relayed the message to Graham he was absolutely furious! You’re going to have to come up with a good excuse for disappearing with Ben and making your apologies through him and not through Graham.’

‘Graham doesn’t own me,’ Honey pointed out sharply, not bothering to add that neither would he. It was a waste of breath. Graham made a point of acting as if she were his property. Which didn’t do her love-life much good—always assuming she had the time or inclination to get involved with anyone. She added quickly, before Sonia could dispute that statement, ‘Thanks for phoning but I must dash. If I’m late for Sunday lunch Mother will skin me alive.’

Late or early, Avril Ballantyne would give her a hard time today. Pointing out her foolishness—not to mention selfishness—in refusing to even consider accepting Graham’s persistent proposals, Honey thought despondently as she dressed in a softly gathered cream cashmere skirt, tan leather boots and a Cossack-style tawny over blouse, neatly belted around her small waist.

The minimum of make-up—just a smear of moisturiser and a slick of copper-toned lipstick—and she was ready. Leaving her hair loose—’all over the place’, her mother would call it—she hitched the narrow strap of her leather bag over her shoulder and made for the stairs. She had given up on trying to please her parent long ago because nothing she did ever seemed to be right. Her father, God bless him, had been just the opposite. She had been his ‘Princess’ and his death, when she was fifteen, had been the severest, most traumatic blow she had ever had to suffer. Even now, eleven years on, she still missed him.

The phone began to ring as she was halfway down the stairs and she hurried on down, making for the instrument at the rear of the shop. And if it was Graham, itching to vent his annoyance over what had happened last night she would tell him that she never wanted to set eyes on him again, in any conceivable circumstance, and that she would do as she damned well pleased with the BallanTrent shares her father had left her, sell them to whoever offered to buy if she felt like it! And fell over a gatelegged table in her hurry, scattering her display of Victorian pincushions, which gave her rising temper a rapid push upwards, made her voice growly as she snatched up the receiver and fulminated, ‘Well? What is it?’ to whoever.

‘My, my! Did you fall out of the wrong side of the bed, Honey?’

It was quite amazing how that smooth, drawly voice could soothe her. It was like pouring cool ointment on a sore place, she thought as her mouth twitched upwards towards a smile.

‘No. Over a table.’

‘No harm done?’ He sounded as if he cared. Her smile deepened.

‘Only to my dignity. What can I do for you?’

Too late, she regretted the loaded question then released the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding when he didn’t take the question as an innuendo and told her, ‘It’s about the problem you have, the one we were discussing last night. Sonia filled me in on it over breakfast this morning. She seemed to be under the impression that the pressure put on you by various people was too intense to be resisted forever, that you’d end up marrying Trent for the sake of a quiet life. And before you jump down my throat and tell me—probably with justification—to mind my own business, let me tell you that I’ve come up with a perfect solution to the problem.’

‘You have?’ Her smile deepened. There was no solution that she could think of, except for sticking it out and refusing to do a single thing she didn’t want to do. But she was perfectly willing to listen to what he had to say, even if it meant she was late. She had enjoyed his company last night, the way he’d listened as she’d let off steam, his comments both sensible and objective. It had been years since she’d talked problems over with anyone who hadn’t had some kind of personal axe to grind, a biased viewpoint. Not since her father had been alive. He had always encouraged her to bring her worries to him, to talk them out, showing her how to solve her problems logically, his loving kindness never failing to ease them out of the way, put them in their proper perspective.

‘But of course,’ the dark, velvety voice was assuring her now. ‘I’ll give you dinner tonight and put the solution to you.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Honey said with a regret that surprised her, considering she hardly knew the man and, in any case, knew his ‘solution’, whatever it was, would not be worth a row of beans. ‘I always spend Sunday with Mother.’ If she didn’t there would be hell to pay: constant phone calls complaining about loneliness, vague and unconfirmed illnesses—palpitations were the ‘in’ thing at the moment. ‘Can’t you tell me now? Or is it a state secret?’ she found herself teasing. Most unlike her.

‘Over the phone?’ His voice was a curl of amusement and she supposed he had a point. Sonia probably had her ear glued to a crack in the door at this very moment, straining to hear every word he was saying in case he let slip something gossip-worthy. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven this evening.’

Somehow, the arrogance of that statement didn’t annoy her as much as, on reflection, she felt it should and she merely reminded him, ‘You don’t know where I live.’

‘I’ll find out. And don’t stand me up,’ he warned lightly. ‘Or you’ll be missing out on an offer I might not be inclined to repeat.’

CHAPTER TWO

OFFER? What offer? What had he meant?

‘Sorry?’ Honey had to drag her mind away from that strange conversation with Ben and forcibly concentrate on what her mother was saying. For the second time, obviously.

‘I was asking you, if you can be bothered to show an interest, whether you thought I’d enjoy a Mediterranean cruise more than my usual quiet three weeks in Bournemouth this year.’ Said with barbed patience.

Avril Ballantyne, a well preserved fifty, her expensively tinted pale brown hair worn in the style favoured by the older members of the royal family, clad in a well pedigreed lightweight tweed skirt topped by an oyster silk shirt, looked completely at home in her conventionally furnished luxury bungalow on the outskirts of town, the only jarring notes being the faint frown line between the hazel eyes, the permanently petulant droop of her mouth. Brought on, Honey guessed, by having a daughter who insisted upon being unsatisfactory.

‘Why not try the cruise?’ she suggested, feeling guilty and hating it. The least she could do while she was here was give her mother her undivided attention, forget Ben Claremont and his supposed solution to her problems and the offer that, apparently, was part of it. ‘It would make a change; you’ve been to Bournemouth for the last five years running.’

‘Well—’ the droop of the mouth became more pronounced ‘—it would be nice to have a change. But I’ve grown used to the permanent staff at my hotel in Bournemouth and I know the town like the back of my hand—all the decent shops and so forth. Little things like that are important when one is on one’s own.’

Honey swallowed a sigh and offered brightly, ‘Why don’t you ask Henry to go on the cruise with you? You’ve always got on well together and he hasn’t had a holiday since Moira died—and that was four years ago.’

‘Oh—’ Avril fluttered her beautifully manicured hands ‘—I don’t know whether I feel up to organising such a venture...’ and let her voice tail off into vague confusion.

Honey stared at her, her eyes wide. Her mother had a talent for organising everything and everyone around her that was almost unbelievable. She had turned it into an art form. The only thing she hadn’t been able to organise was the way Honey chose to run her life. And her mother picked herself out of her apparent distressed confusion, saying, ‘I don’t know why you should think Henry, not to mention myself, could begin to think about taking a holiday when your behaviour recently is hurting and worrying us so much,’ and Honey decided cynically that all roads led to Rome, didn’t they just, her mouth tightening as Avril ploughed on, ‘Henry simply can’t understand why you’re treating his son so badly. And frankly, my dear, neither can I. Any normal young woman would jump at the chance of marrying into the Trent family,’ she stated, her voice beginning to rise. ‘Graham has so much to offer. I can’t think what you’ve got against him. He’s exceedingly good-looking and very steady. He’d make a wonderful husband and father, and—’

‘I’m sure he would,’ Honey cut in, sick to death of the topic. ‘Only I don’t want him. Call me abnormal if it makes you feel any better. But I don’t love him.’ She was trying hard not to lose her temper, an exercise that was probably good for her soul, she tried to tell herself, and forced a bland smile as she rose to her feet, offering, ‘I’ll clear away the lunch things while you relax.’ Escaping to the kitchen to do the dishes would be easier to bear than listening to her mother going on and on about Graham, wouldn’t it just? ‘And then how about we go for a drive in the country? We could finish up with a meal out somewhere, my treat.’

Recalling the way Ben had said he’d pick her up at seven, she gave a tiny sigh. He had sounded so definite about it, so sure of her compliance. He’d have a long wait, but that wasn’t her fault. If he chose to disregard the way she’d explained about her regular Sunday visits to her mother then he couldn’t blame her if he had a wasted evening, could he?

Even so, there was an emptiness in her she couldn’t quite define as she tackled her usual Sunday afternoon chore but she plastered a warm smile on her face as she stowed the last of the dishes away and headed back to the lounge.

‘Ready? Where would you like to go?’ It was a lovely spring afternoon and anything would be better than sitting here enduring the inevitable disapproving monologues. A pootle round the countryside might take her mother’s mind off the way her only daughter chose to ‘work in a shop’, the way she obstinately refused to ‘settle down decently with Graham and do the right thing by her dear dead father’s company’. As if her father would have scorned her chosen career! He had always advised her to decide what she wanted and then go out and get it. And it was he who had taught her to love and respect the world of antiques, taught her to identify the excellent from the merely good, the acceptable from the dross.

‘I don’t feel like going anywhere.’ Avril laid aside her glossy magazine and put a plump hand on her bosom. ‘As you know, I haven’t been feeling well just lately—all this worry over the business...’ Her voice tailed off pathetically and Honey sighed and sank down on to the end of the over-stuffed settee.

‘The business is fine, as you very well know,’ she pointed out. ‘Henry and Graham see to that. Henry’s brainwashed you into thinking that the only thing that can hold it together is a marriage between your sole offspring. And the only thing that’s worrying you is my refusal to do as I’m told. That, and your desire to have a daughter who sits quietly at home, properly married to her husband’s career, bearing his children and entertaining his business colleagues and golfing cronies and ironing his bloody shirts!’ Her voice had risen and she made an effort to rein in her temper, explaining more quietly, ‘And the only thing that’s worrying Henry is the shares Dad left me. Henry himself holds fifty per cent and you and I the other fifty between us. And, at the moment, you never question any of his decisions and neither do I because I don’t know a component from a carpet sweeper. Your loyalty to his management will never be in any question, he knows that. But mine? Who knows? I might decide to sell my shares, mightn’t I? The premises next to my shop will be going on the market within the next month or so. I would like to expand. I need to expand—’

‘You wouldn’t!’ The powerfully indignant protest gave lie to the earlier excuses of ill health and Honey bit back a smile, shaking her head.

‘Only if I could find the right buyer, someone with BallanTrent’s best interests at heart. And admit it—’ she fixed her parent with a level look ‘—that’s what Henry’s so afraid of, isn’t it? He wants BallanTrent kept entirely under his control, in the family. That’s why he’s been bleating on about marriage for the last twelve months. Don’t forget, he told me himself that when—when, mind you, not if—Graham and I married the shares I own would come under his control because, as he piously pointed out, I had no knowledge of the business. And that,’ she ground out, aware that her volatile temper was threatening to explode, ‘would have been enough to make me dig my heels in and refuse to do any such thing—even if I had been head over heels in love with his dull son!’

The genuine sheen of tears in her mother’s eyes helped Honey back into a state of control and her voice was softer as she queried, ‘Were you and Dad in love when you married?’

‘Of course we were—what a thing to ask!’

‘And you were happy?’ Honey pressed, earning herself a tart,

‘Very. We had our disagreements, what couple doesn’t? But, in the end, they weren’t important.’

‘Because you loved each other,’ Honey made her point. ‘Would you really want to see me tied in a loveless marriage? Would you? And how long do you think it would last? We’d end up hating each other in no time at all.’

‘I’m sure Graham’s very fond of you,’ Avril defended. But there was a cornered look in her eyes that made Honey believe she was at last beginning to win her parent round. But Avril fluttered her hands and grumbled, ‘I simply can’t understand why you’re so against him, that’s all. I can think of half a dozen young women who would be only too happy to be his wife.’

The conversation had gone full circle and Honey was in no mood to endure any more. She knew from experience that when her mother was in this mood she wouldn’t let the subject rest and wondered, fleetingly, if Graham had reported the quarrel they’d had last night back to his father and if Henry had been on the phone to Avril this morning, grumbling about her daughter’s lack of good sense and grace.

She got to her feet and collected her bag. If she stayed any longer she would lose control of her temper and, no matter how much her mother sometimes irritated her, she didn’t want a fight on her hands.

‘As you don’t feel up to doing anything this afternoon, I’ll go back and get on with some paperwork,’ and managed to keep her smile pleasant, her voice light as she countered Avril’s snippy,

‘But you always stay on for supper,’ with,

‘Usually, not always. I do have a business to run. I’ll phone you in the week.’

Guilt and relief waged a battle as she drove back into town but by the time she’d parked her car in the lock-up she rented and walked the few hundred yards back to Stony Shut relief had won. She would not be made to feel guilty because she had walked away from a fight in the making, or because she refused to contemplate marriage to a man she didn’t much like, let alone love.

She threw herself into the backlog of paperwork with a will and only stopped to make herself a pot of tea and carry it down to the desk she used at the rear of the shop, picking up the phone to remind Fred Wilson that she would be gone before he arrived at nine in the morning, on her way to a country house sale in Cheshire.

Giving herself a moment’s grace, she sipped her hot tea and reflected, as she often did, on how lucky she’d been to find Fred. A year ago, almost to the day, he—and his wife, Mary, she was to discover—had walked into the shop carrying a Georgian sofa-table between them. He was a big, blunt-featured man in his fifties, and his first words had been a no-nonsense, ‘How much?’

‘You want to sell?’ Honey was already casting her eyes over the clean, graceful lines, noting that one of the legs was not original. However, the piece had been beautifully restored, the repair difficult to spot unless one knew what to look for, and, if the price was right, she had a customer who was looking for just such a table.

Her pleasure was not even slightly dented by the middle-aged man’s blunt, ‘We wouldn’t have humped it halfway across town if we hadn’t.’

‘The piece is yours?’

It was a question that had to be asked but she instinctively knew the couple were honest and quite forgave the man’s growled, ‘Well, it didn’t fall off the back of a lorry.’

‘Fred—really!’ his faded companion admonished, her worried eyes on Honey’s as she explained, ‘My husband has always collected antiques and, well, as he was made redundant eighteen months ago, we thought we ought to part with some of them.’ Fred gave her a withering glare but she met it without flinching, stating, ‘There’s no point being proud, is there? Anyway, the house is bulging at the seams; we could do with a bit more space.’

And more money in the bank, Honey thought sympathetically. The proud Fred would be unlikely to find employment at his age when so many younger men were desperately seeking work too.

Straightening up from her inspection, she offered a price that was as generous as she could viably make it, telling them, ‘It’s the best I can do. I suppose you know the table’s been restored at some stage of its life? But the quality of the work is such that it doesn’t affect the value too much. I don’t suppose you know who restored it?’ There was always a slim chance that they did, that they—in more affluent days—had commissioned the work. The restorers she used weren’t altogether reliable and, just lately, their prices had begun to soar. So if—

‘Fred did.’ There was real pride in his wife’s voice. ‘It’s been his hobby for years—buying damaged antiques and doing them up. He’s always been good with his hands.’

‘In that case—’ Honey gave the blunt-featured man a huge grin ‘—why don’t I make us all a cup of tea and we can discuss business?’

Which was how the talented Fred Wilson had come to work for her, performing his magic in the workroom at the back of the shop, looking after the customers for her on the days when she attended sales. She didn’t know what she would do without him now...

Returning her cup to her saucer, Honey gave her attention back to her work. Soon deeply engrossed, the tapping on the shop door didn’t impinge at first, but when it did her mouth went dry. Looking beyond the circle of light shed by the desk lamp, over the dark shapes in the dim body of the shop, she could just make out the black silhouette of a threateningly large male outside the small-paned windows.

She should have turned on the interior lights ages ago, activated the alarm system, she thought uselessly, then took herself in hand. Felons didn’t knock to announce their presence, fool! she told herself. She got to her feet, reaching for the light switch, and remembered.

Ben. Of course. Despite what she had told him he had said he would come at seven. And he had. A rapid glance at her watch confirmed the time and she was smiling idiotically as she went to let him in. Relief. She was just pleased she hadn’t a weirdo, or something worse, on her hands. That was all.

‘So you changed your plans, after all. Sensible lady.’

His smile was as smooth as cream as he walked through the door and waited while she shot the bolts home. And in case he got the wrong idea, believed she’d done so for the pleasure of sharing a meal with him, she explained coolly, ‘I wasn’t expecting you, actually, not after what I’d said. I left Mother sooner than I’d intended because if I’d stayed we’d have been at each other’s throats.’

One dark, well defined brow drifted upwards. ‘Your unspeakable silliness regarding the gorgeous Graham, no doubt?’

‘Something like that.’ Honey relaxed enough to offer him a wry smile. He had a calming effect on her and, although he was a virtual stranger, she felt more at ease in his company than with anyone else she knew. And she watched, her brown eyes warm, as he strolled among her things, lingering in front of her collection of early pewter displayed on a sixteenth-century carved oak chest.

‘You have some fine pieces,’ he approved at last. ‘You can tell me how you came to get started over dinner.’

No mention of his promised solution to the problem of Graham, she noted drily. Not that anything he could have dreamed up would have helped, of course, but knowing that it had been an excuse to date her left a nasty taste in her mouth. She had, in the past, been dated by experts, men who had, in various ways, let it be known that they regarded dinner for two as an unobstructed pathway into her bed. This man was smoother than most, though, more devious. But his intentions had to be the same.

The disappointment was so intense that the withering look she gave him took even her by surprise and her voice was frozen acid as she refused.

‘I’m working. I have no plans to go out to dinner.’

His mouth twitched.

‘You still have to eat and we don’t need to go out. In fact, it’s probably better if we stay here, we have so much to talk about.’

‘We have?’ Honey’s mouth curled cynically. The few dates she’d been misguided enough to invite into her home hadn’t been into conversation. But the derisory tone of her voice rolled off him as if it had never been there in the first place and his long, strong fingers were already unfastening the buttons of his obviously tailor-made soft leather jacket.

‘Sure.’ The fingers stilled and, for some unknown reason, she couldn’t tear her eyes from them. He had beautifully crafted hands. They mesmerised her. ‘If it’s any help, I could go out for a takeaway.’

His afterthought was softly considerate and Honey denied throatily, ‘No. There’s no need.’ And watched those fingers deal with the remainder of the buttons and swallowed hard. Somehow, she seemed to have committed herself to spending time with him, cooking for him, inviting him against her better judgement into the sanctuary of her home.

She didn’t quite know how it had happened.

Leaving him to wander around her overstocked showroom, she activated the security system then turned and watched him, her head on one side. Had he really tried to figure out a solution to the problems she was facing from her mother, Graham and Henry? And if he had, why had he bothered? She was simply a woman he had met at a party, he hardly knew her at all, so why should any problems of hers be of the remotest interest to him?

Or had he simply used it as an excuse to get her on her own? And if he had, it shouldn’t worry her. She knew how to signal a pretty formidable ‘hands off’ message. She’d had plenty of practice. Besides, he hadn’t shown the tiniest flicker of sexual interest last night...

‘You need more space.’ Ben eased himself between a jewellery showcase and a mahogany bachelor chest, that unique, relaxed smile of his softening his utterly masculine features and Honey smiled back because with this man she couldn’t help it.

‘Tell me something I don’t already know. Shall we go up?’ And she was still smiling as she led the way up the twisty stairs and he was just as easy to talk to as she remembered from the night before because by the time they had finished the pasta with tomato sauce he had helped her prepare in the tiny kitchen she had told him her life story, such as it was.

Blabbermouth, she sniped at herself, but was too relaxed to be really annoyed with the way her tongue ran away with her. But so far he hadn’t told her a single thing about himself and she leaned back in her chair as he divided the remaining Côtes du Rhone between their two glasses, determined to remedy the situation.

‘So what brings you to this neck of the woods?’ she asked, easing her boots off beneath the table. ‘You tell me Colin’s an old friend—you must have a lot of catching up to do to be staying with them for weeks on end.’ She couldn’t have stood to be Sonia’s house guest for a few days, let alone a few weeks, old friend or not. She was not a peaceful person to be around; she never stopped talking, for one thing.

And Ben must have read her thoughts because the smile he gave her was like a secret shared, then he stretched out his long legs beneath her table and told her, ‘I’m setting up a production unit in the new industrial park on the edge of town. I like to take charge of the whole operation personally. Colin offered me bed and board and I took him up. I’ve spent too much time in hotels.’ He picked up his glass and drained the remaining contents and Honey grabbed her cue.

‘I would have thought you’d have got around to having a home of your own by now. You sound as if you could be described as a person of no fixed abode.’ She was fishing, she knew that. But she was curious. He knew everything there was to know about her, or almost, and she knew next to nothing about him. And she didn’t know why, but she wanted to know everything.

But he appeared not to have heard her comments. Slewing round on his chair, he ran his eyes over the room. Fairly large, heavily beamed, three small casement windows overlooking the Shut, the stone hood of the fireplace finely carved with strange heraldic beasts. And he said, ‘If you moved out of here you could use this room at least as a second showroom. And presumably you have a bedroom? Large enough to act as a third?’

He turned the full and shattering force of his sleepy sapphire-blue eyes on her and Honey’s readily volatile mood swung from relaxed enjoyment to blistering contempt. As a hint it was definitely unsubtle. Did he really think she was about to invite him into her bedroom, invite his opinion on its suitability as an extra showroom? Did he think she was that stupid or that eager to round the evening off in the way most men seemed to take for granted?

‘I don’t think my shortage of space is your problem, do you?’ She gave him a ferocious look, her fingertips drumming on the table. ‘And while we’re on the subject of problems, what was the grand solution you were supposed to have dreamed up?’ Snapping brown eyes challenged lazy blue and she saw his mouth twitch and wanted, quite desperately, to hit him, her ruffled feelings not much soothed by the even tenor of his drawled,

‘Do you always fly off the handle so easily, Honey? Did you really imagine I introduced the subject of your bedroom because I couldn’t wait to leap on you? Nothing, I solemnly assure you, was further from my mind. I was simply making conversation.’

Which should have soothed her but somehow didn’t. Apart from the annoyance of finding he could read her mind he was telling her he didn’t find her remotely attractive, that wild horses wouldn’t drag him into her bed. But that shouldn’t make her feel all turned inside-out, should it? On the contrary, it should be reassuring, making his company nice and safe and comfortable. Ever since she’d turned seventeen her dates hadn’t been able to keep their hands off her, so it was really something to find a man who didn’t find her sexually attractive, who was interested in her chosen career, who preferred to talk rather than cavort between the sheets.

So why did she feel so...piqued?

And her voice was gritty as she came back, beginning to gather the dishes, ‘Let’s forget the polite conversation bit, shall we? Why don’t you toss that solution at me, then leave?’ She made an elaborate display of consulting her wristwatch, almost dropping the plates in the process, saving them by a whisker, adding pointedly, ‘I have to make an early start in the morning.’

‘Marry someone else.’ He took the stack of plates from her, putting them gently back down on the table. Which was astutely self-protective of him, she fumed to herself. The utter stupidity of his so-called solution had sorely tempted her to hurl the china at his head.

But the bubbling beginnings of temper abated to a simmer and then disappeared altogether. It had nothing to do with the mesmeric quality of his glittering, vivid blue eyes, she assured herself. She was at last learning to handle her volatile temper, that was all. And there was almost a smile in her voice as she told him, ‘I can see such an action on my part forcing our Graham to back off for good.’ She flopped down in the chair she had vacated and watched him begin a leisurely pacing of the room. ‘However, as there’s no one around I want to marry the idea’s a bit of a non-starter, wouldn’t you say?’

He had reached the casement windows and his lean, tall, black-clad body was dominantly silhouetted against the cream velvet curtains and he turned slowly on the balls of his feet, his features almost austere in the dim lighting as he trod slowly back to where she sat, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, emphasising the narrow, sexy cut.

Suddenly, Honey’s mouth went dry and her heart tripped over itself. He looked, as he paced towards her, like a dangerous animal intent on its prey. But the brief and unprecedented moment of girlish trepidation was wiped out of existence as he offered quietly, ‘Marry me.’ Then dropped into the chair opposite hers and smiled slowly into her pale-skinned, open-mouthed face, raising one hand in a tacit command to silence as the gradual beginnings of a scornful flush crept up from her neckline. ‘It would be a mere formality, you understand. A piece of paper to get Graham Trent finally off your back. And over just as soon as you deemed it safe to be available again. I’m willing, if you are,’ he added in a cool, flat voice. ‘Think about it. The offer will be open for another twenty-four hours.’

CHAPTER THREE

OH, BUT he was a cool customer... Cool and calculating. Honey slammed the door of the lock-up and huddled deeper into her raincoat, dragging the hood up over her bright head.

Today had been a total waste of time. Too many London dealers had gathered at the country house sale, outbidding her on each and every item she had wanted. And spring had done a U-turn, making the day gloomy with chilling rain. And, more annoying still, she hadn’t been able to drag her mind away from Ben Claremont and his crazy proposal.

Crazy or calculating?

A man would have to be out of his mind to propose a paper marriage to a woman he hadn’t known existed until twenty-four hours ago. Out of his mind or on to a good thing!

But what? What could he gain from such a marriage? Honey simply couldn’t begin to guess. Her shoulders hunched against the rain, the high heels of her boots beating an angry tattoo on the cobbles, she turned into Stony Shut and for once the warm glow of light coming from the windows of her shop failed to take the edge off her aggravation.

If only she could stop thinking about him, about his odd proposal, about the way he’d simply said goodnight, politely thanked her for the meal and walked away leaving a thousand and one questions racing round her brain.

It wasn’t as if she had any intention of accepting his insane offer of a ‘solution’—even if he had been serious about it, she grumbled at herself. So why couldn’t she get it, or him, out of her mind?

‘Honey—’ The masculine voice was thin and irritated and she lifted her head, screwing her eyes up against the rain and groaned a disgusted protest. Graham. All she needed right now was Graham.

He was approaching from the other end of the Shut and even in the gloom of the wet afternoon she could see his face was pinched and tight, almost completely eradicating his film-star good looks. He looked about as pleased with life as she was, and if he’d come to ask her to apologise for her behaviour on the night of Sonia’s party he would have a long, long wait.

She was nearer the shop premises than he, and dived into the shelter of the doorway, waiting for him, her teeth clamped together, her hands on her hips, like a warrior defending her kingdom. But his peeved expression had to have more to do with the way the rain had slicked his hair to his head, was dripping off the hem of his stuffily styled shortie car-coat and soaking his trousers than any of her numerous—to him—shortcomings. Because his tone was conciliatory in the extreme as he peered into her bristling brown eyes and told her, ‘I’ve come to bury the hatchet, old thing.’

‘Wow! Make my day. What have I done to deserve such a treat?’ she growled, willing him to go away. All she needed right now was a hot soothing bath, a nice cup of tea and the opportunity to unknot her mind. But sarcasm was wasted because Graham stepped into the shelter of the doorway with her, stoically smiling.

‘Don’t be like that, sweetheart. That spat the other night was as much my fault as yours, I freely admit it. So let’s put it behind us, shall we?’ The film-star smile flashed again, the effect slightly diminished by the drop of rainwater on the end of his too perfect nose. ‘I’ve booked a table for two at the Crown. I would have given you more warning but when I phoned this morning that odd-job man of yours said you’d be out all day. I just dropped by on the off-chance you’d be back—otherwise I would have left a message.’

‘I don’t—’

‘I won’t come in just now,’ he cut across her, as if an invitation to do just that had been extended. ‘Must dash. But I’ll pick you up at eight.’

‘No.’ Honey recognised that look in his eyes. It meant he was about to honour her with one of his totally unremarkable kisses. She backed away, knocking into the shop door, her voice tight with temper as she spat, ‘You don’t give up, do you? I won’t have dinner with you tonight, or any other night. So why don’t you go back home and tell your father to keep his nose out? I won’t marry you, because I don’t want to. And, if you think about it, you don’t really want it either.’

But he was still smiling, as if she were a bad-tempered child who didn’t know what she was talking about. Still advancing, too. And she had nowhere to go but into the haven of her shop and she was already fumbling for the door-latch when it swung open behind her, sending her toppling into a strong pair of arms—another kind of haven.

‘You always fall into my arms so beautifully, my angel. That’s just one of the things I love about you.’ The relaxed and slightly amused tone of Ben’s voice calmed her and the strong arms around her body warmed her, dispelling the memory of the chilling rain. Graham’s face was a picture of outrage and she closed her eyes because Graham’s face was not what she wanted to see, and nestled her head into that broad, accommodating, soft-leather-clad shoulder. And heard his voice assume a cool toughness. ‘Is there anything we can do for you? The premises are about to close and, as you can see, my fiancée needs to get out of her wet things.’

Which brought Honey’s eyes flying wide open again, and she could swear her heart actually stopped beating for whole seconds. And it wasn’t a reaction to the words Ben had said, oh, no, just a frantic need to see how Graham took that ‘my fiancée’ bit.

If he actually believed she was engaged to this suave stranger then surely he would drop his own pursuit, the desire to fall in with his father’s wishes and marry the woman the cunning old man had picked out for him. It might work, it just might work, and if it did she would treat Ben to the best meal the Crown could offer, the best champagne too, by way of celebration.

But luck wasn’t riding with her because Graham’s face had gone black with temper and his voice was more incisively confident than she had ever heard it before as he bit out, ‘As you said yourself, Honey—’ he invested her name with a kind of disgust ‘—I don’t give up. And there’s no way I’m going to let some smooth-talking Yank take my woman.’ His eyes snapped with a ferocity she wouldn’t have believed him capable of as he swung on his heels and delivered his parting shot, ‘And you’d better believe it. Both of you.’

‘Oh, heavens!’ Honey’s bright head burrowed more deeply into Ben’s wide shoulder, the tangle of her damp curls brushing his tough jawline. She might well have stayed there forever had he not gently put her aside, she recognised with a grumble of self-disgust when he brushed drops of water from his jacket and said wryly,

‘Quite a determined guy you’re up against there.’ Then, his eyes taking in the rain-darkened corkscrew twists of her hair, her dripping raincoat and sodden boots, he told her crisply, ‘Time to get out of those wet things,’ and closed the shop door behind them, flicking the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and dropping down the latch.

‘Any luck today?’ Fred ambled through from the rear of the premises, his craggy face bright with interest because usually, after a sale, they drank mugs of tea together and discussed the treasures she had found. But not today.

‘No, nothing.’ Honey shook her head regretfully. ‘The big boys from London were there en masse. I didn’t stand a chance.’

And Ben put in from right behind her, ‘Just as well. You couldn’t cram another teacup into this place and still have room for customers to browse.’ He edged past her, making a production of it as if to prove his point. ‘Get those wet clothes off and take a hot shower while I brew coffee. We’ll lock up, Fred, if you want to call it a day.’

Bossy, she thought as she watched him stride to the twisty staircase at the back of the showroom. But there was no resentment there, just an unusual willingness to allow someone else to take charge for once. Someone? Or just this one man?

She shrugged unconsciously and lifted long sweeping lashes to meet Fred’s twinkling eyes.

‘There goes a man who’s used to getting his own way. It comes naturally, and it shows,’ he said with the same lack of resentment.

In fact, Honey noted, his expression was thoroughly approving and she brushed wet, wrinkled hair out of her eyes and asked weakly, ‘Just how long has he been here?’

‘Long enough to get the business straightened out.’ Fred was already reaching for his ancient sheepskin coat. ‘He thinks you should move out and make your flat over to extra display areas. Forget the idea of buying up the next-door premises—the structural alterations to throw the two properties into one would totally destroy the character of both. I agree with him.’

‘Really.’ Honey’s voice was withering as she watched her right-hand man shrug into his coat. Ever since they’d heard that the adjacent property was due to come on the open market they’d avidly chewed over the possibilities of acquiring it, expanding the business—always presuming she could raise the capital. And now, just because some sort of bossy nomad had wandered in off the street, Fred had, in his mind, evicted her from her cosy home. So where was she supposed to live? Move in with her mother? Heaven forbid!

She would have reminded him that this was her property, her business, and she—and no one else—would decide what was done. But her sharp little tongue was silenced by Fred’s jaunty, ‘See you tomorrow, then. Pity about the sale. Night.’

‘And goodnight to you, too!’ Honey sniped at the already closing door, then turned slowly on her heels, the damp cloth of her raincoat making her shiver. What the hell? Nothing to get in a stew about. It hadn’t been a good day, that was for sure, and the unpleasant encounter with Graham, out there in the driving rain, had been the last straw.

All she needed to recapture her normal optimism was that hot shower and a hot drink. And if Ben wanted to produce the drink why should she argue? Just so long as he didn’t offer to scrub her back!

As she went to her bedroom she could hear him moving around in the kitchen. She would have liked to ask him to leave but couldn’t rake up the energy. The long day, the frustration of the sale, the nasty knowledge that Graham wasn’t about to abandon his pursuit—even though Ben had said they were engaged—had sapped her strength.

So she wouldn’t think about any of it. Not now. After her shower, after Ben had taken himself off, would be soon enough.

Divesting herself of her wet clothes, she tugged on a short scarlet silk robe, belting it securely at the waist and padded out of her room—meeting Ben in the tiny passageway. Suddenly, for no reason she could think of, she felt her face go as red as the silk that clung to every curvaceous line of her body. But he didn’t even seem to see her. He looked straight through her as he imparted briskly, ‘Good girl. I’ll have dinner ready in half an hour.’ He almost smiled. ‘Come as you are, no need to dress for the occasion.’

Huh, she snorted to herself as she shed her robe in the privacy of the tiny bathroom. No need to dress. Come as you are! Was that a build-up to a pass, or wasn’t it! Her face going hot, she rushed to bolt the door and immediately felt silly. He hadn’t even seemed to see her out there, and he certainly hadn’t subjected her to the lascivious slide of the eyes that meant he was mentally undressing her. She had been on the receiving end of just such looks for years now and was perfectly capable of recognising them.

Annoyed with herself for her mental over-reaction, she stepped into the shower and allowed the soothing spray of hot water to relax her and was almost tempted to do as he had said—present herself for dinner in her robe—but thought better of it and pulled on a pair of washed-out jeans topped by a baggy sweatshirt in a faded shade of black that seemed to emphasise the paleness of her skin, the delicate lines of her triangular face and the wildness of her rough-dried, shoulder-length vivid red hair.

Though what he had found to cook was beyond her. She knew for a fact that her fridge was empty, the store cupboard shelves bare of the makings of a meal. She had been too busy just lately to be bothered about such trifles as grocery shopping.

So the aroma of sizzling steak coming from the kitchen was a complete surprise, as was the sight of Ben Claremont with a tea-towel tied around his lean waist, his strong angular features frozen in a mask of concentration as he flipped the meat over then slid it back beneath the grill.

Then the mask dissolved into a smile of such warmth that Honey found her breath snatched away, her voice just for once totally lost as he put a cup of steaming coffee in one of her hands, a small measure of brandy in a tumbler in the other.

‘Go and warm through by the fire.’ He gave her an absent-minded push, turning her round, his hands on her shoulders, very briefly, not lingering. He surely didn’t appear to be the mauling type, she thought in a haze. True, he had held her quite intimately when she’d fallen into his arms as the door to the shop had opened, but that had been purely for Graham’s benefit, a physical back-up to his roundabout announcement that they were an engaged couple. He had certainly lost no time in putting her aside as soon as the other man had stumped away in a rage.

And it hadn’t been Ben’s fault that Graham had taken the so-called engagement news as a direct challenge. He had tried to help her. So she wouldn’t bristle at him because he had taken over, pushing her out of her own kitchen, giving orders.

Besides, she would find it impossible to be angry. He had an uncanny knack of soothing her. Well, some of the time. Like now, with the fire he had made burning brightly in the hearth, the flames throwing dancing shadows and splashes of glowing colour over the ancient carvings on the stone hood, the hot coffee and tiny sips of brandy relaxing her.

The table they’d used last night was already set with two covers. He’d certainly been busy while she’d been taking that shower and when he entered with a platter of steaming steak with fresh asparagus on the side, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm, she smiled at him dreamily and uncurled languorously from the squashy armchair at the fireside.

It was nice, for a change, to be cosseted. No one had done so since her father had died; no one had petted her or really cared about her and what she wanted, or treated her as if she was important, special to them. Not even her mother. Especially not her mother! Avril had only been interested in having a daughter who would conform to her ideas of what a daughter should be. Honey’s personal wishes were disregarded if they didn’t dovetail with Avril’s—as witnessed by the endless arguments over her decision to set up in business on her own, by her refusal to do the sensible thing and give it all up to marry Graham!

The sound of the cork popping, the crisp foam of bubbling magic into cold crystal reminded Honey of her earlier intention to treat him to a celebratory drink and, a quirky smile playing around her mouth, she seated herself at the table, spread her napkin over her lap and told him, ‘Thanks for trying to give Graham the red light. It’s a pity it didn’t work, but you can see what I’m up against.’

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