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.

The Forbidden Mistress
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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

O LIVER was standing staring out of the long plate-glass windows of his fourteenth-storey office when the intercom on the desk behind him emitted a low buzz.

Sighing, he turned away from the view of the rain-wet Newcastle streets and strode across the wide expanse of dark blue broadloom to depress the button that connected him with his secretary next door. ‘Yes?’ he said shortly, not welcoming the interruption, and Mrs Clements cleared her throat before replying.

‘It’s your brother, Mr Ferreira,’ she said, momentarily stunning him into silence. ‘I told him you were busy, but he insists that you’ll see him.’ She paused. ‘Will you?’

Oliver was still getting over the fact that his brother had had the nerve to come here when he heard the altercation in the outer office. Thomas Ferreira would resent being subjected to any delay and a moment later Oliver’s door swung wide. A tall broad-shouldered man stood belligerently on the threshold with the diminutive figure of Mrs Clements hovering anxiously behind.

‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded, his fair good-looking features flushed with angry colour. ‘Do I need an appointment to see you these days, Oliver? I know it’s a while since we’ve spoken to one another, but for God’s sake, lighten up, can’t you?’

Oliver released the button of the intercom and straightened away from the broad slab of granite that topped his desk. Ignoring his brother, he looked beyond his stocky frame to the nervous figure of his secretary. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Clements,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I know you did your best not to let him in.’

Mrs Clements clasped her hands together. ‘You won’t forget you’ve agreed to see Mr Adler at four o’clock, will you, Mr Ferreira?’

‘He won’t forget,’ stated Thomas rudely, taking charge of the door. ‘And I don’t intend to keep him long, so don’t look so worried. I’m only his brother, not the tax inspector.’

Mrs Clements ignored that comment and managed to wedge herself between the closing door and its frame. ‘Is there anything I can get you, Mr Ferreira? Some tea or coffee, perhaps?’

‘So long as it’s not a bottle of Scotch,’ Thomas interposed caustically, but Oliver disregarded the younger man and said politely, ‘Some tea, Mrs Clements, if it’s not too much trouble?’

‘Of course it’s not too much trouble.’ Thomas mocked the woman’s reply as he closed the door and rested for a moment against the mahogany panels. ‘Honestly, Oliver, surely you know that woman would walk on hot coals, if you asked her.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Most women would, for that matter.’

‘But not all,’ observed Oliver, feeling a momentary twinge of bitterness in his gut. Then, his dark eyes narrowing impatiently, ‘What do you want, Tom? As you just heard, I don’t have a lot of time.’

Tom’s response was to leave the door and walk towards his brother’s desk, pulling out one of the upright leather chairs used by visitors and lounging into it. ‘Let’s wait until the tea comes, shall we?’ he suggested tightly. ‘I’d prefer it if old Clements wasn’t a party to what I have to say.’

Oliver suppressed his irritation. ‘Mrs Clements is perfectly trustworthy,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to worry that she’ll gossip about anything she hears.’

‘Even so…’ Tom shrugged, looking about him. ‘I’d forgotten what a view you have from this office,’ he continued obliquely. ‘I bet you missed it, too, when you were holed up at the Abbey.’

Oliver’s nostrils flared and he was tempted to eject his brother from the office forthwith. But to do so would arouse more questions than answers and, until he’d heard whatever Tom had to say, he decided to contain his wrath.

But that didn’t alter the way he felt about seeing him again. It had been almost four years since they’d had a serious conversation and, although he resented his gall in coming here, he couldn’t deny a certain curiosity as to why his brother was here.

Yet, perhaps it was time that they put the past behind them. They’d been good friends when they were boys before Tom’s treachery, and the collapse of Oliver’s marriage, had driven them apart. The fact that it had been as much Sophie’s fault as his brother’s that the marriage had broken down was something he’d had to live with. After all, she had been his wife, while Tom had been a free man.

Of course, that still didn’t alter the fact that he would find it hard to trust his brother again. Oliver’s divorce from Sophie had been painful and destructive and for months the only respite he’d found was at the bottom of a glass. Tom’s snide comments about the bottle of Scotch and his reference to Oliver’s stay at Blackstone Abbey—a well-known centre for those needing an escape from either drugs or alcohol—were evidence that his brother wasn’t here to make amends for his behaviour. He probably wanted something, thought Oliver bitterly. That was usually why he’d come to him in the past.

Subsiding into his own chair behind the desk, Oliver leaned back and steepled his fingers, regarding the other man speculatively. Tom looked older, he decided without prejudice. But then, so did he. Trauma—particularly emotional trauma—did that to you.

‘How’s Sophie?’ he asked at last, deciding to get it over with, and was surprised at how little emotion he felt. For months after the divorce, even hearing her name could arouse the destructive desire for oblivion. But now he felt only a trace of regret for what might have been, a rueful reminder of the gullible fool he used to be.

Tom looked surprised at the question. ‘She’s okay, I guess,’ he answered offhandedly. ‘Why don’t you ring her and find out?’

It took an effort but Oliver managed not to look as stunned as he felt. ‘I think not,’ he said, his hands falling away to the arms of his chair as he sat forward. Then, as Mrs Clements reappeared with a tray he managed to summon a smile for her benefit. ‘Thank you.’ He viewed the plate of biscuits with feigned enthusiasm. ‘This looks good.’

‘If you need anything else, just let me know,’ the older woman declared warmly. Her eyes flicked briefly over his visitor, and Oliver could practically tell what she was thinking. Mrs Clements was intensely loyal and she had been shocked and angered by his brother’s betrayal.

‘We will,’ Tom answered now, deliberately bringing a flush of pink to her cheeks. He, too, had to be aware of the woman’s feelings and it was his way of reminding her that her opinion meant less than nothing to him.

The door closed behind her, but Oliver made no attempt to touch the tea tray. If Tom wanted tea, he could help himself, he thought, once again leaning back in his chair. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, with a resigned sigh. ‘If it’s money, you’re wasting your time. Apart from the fact that my ex-wife did her best to clean me out, there’s been a downturn in the housing market.’

‘Don’t pretend your business relies on domestic contracts,’ retorted Tom with some energy. ‘I happen to know you’ve just made a deal to design the shopping complex they’re going to build at Vicker’s Wharf.’ He scowled, his fair features losing much of their attraction. ‘In any case, I haven’t said I want money, have I? Since Sophie invested most of her divorce settlement in the garden centre, it’s going from strength to strength.’ He paused, as if reluctant to continue, but eventually he went on. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve just bought the smallholding that adjoins the centre and I’m hoping we can sell conservatories, too, in the future. They’re the accessory of choice these days, as you probably know.’

‘Good for you.’

Oliver was glad to hear his brother’s business acumen was paying off. He had no problem in applauding his success. The Ferreira garden centre had been their father’s business before his retirement, but Tom had been the only one of his sons to share his love of the soil. Since Tom had taken over the centre, the interest in gardening generally had enabled him to practically double the profits. That and Oliver’s ex-wife’s contribution, of course.

‘Don’t patronise me,’ muttered his brother now, evidently hearing something other than simple approval in Oliver’s voice. ‘We can’t all be academic geniuses. Some of us have fairly modest ambitions.’

Oliver refrained from arguing with him. This was an old grievance and one he had no wish to revisit. Tom knew full well that he was no genius, nor was he particularly academic. But he’d been good at maths at school and working with computers had been an automatic progression. The fact that his degree in computer science led to a career in design engineering had been just as natural to him as working in horticulture had been to his brother.

‘So,’ he said at last. ‘If it’s not money, what do you want? I can’t believe you’ve come here to enquire after my health.’

‘Why not?’ Tom’s response was swift and resentful. ‘You’re still my brother, aren’t you? Just because we’ve had our differences in the past—’

‘Seducing my wife and breaking up my marriage cannot be dismissed as “differences”,’ retorted Oliver curtly.

‘I know, I know.’ Tom looked sulky now. ‘Like I say, we’ve had our problems. I’m not denying it. And I’m not denying that I was to blame.’ He sniffed. ‘But, dammit, I couldn’t have seduced Sophie if she hadn’t been willing, could I? You were always hell-bent on becoming a partner in Faulkner’s. You neglected your wife, Oliver. Admit it.’

Oliver’s jaw clamped. ‘I have no intention of admitting anything to you, Tom. And if this is your way of justifying what you did—’

‘It’s not.’ Tom interrupted him quickly, leaning forward in his chair, his expression rueful now, appealing. ‘Look, would it make you feel any better if I told you that—that what happened was a mistake? It should never have gone as far as it did.’ He chewed on his lower lip. ‘I was a fool, a selfish, arrogant fool. You can’t regret it any more than I do.’

Oliver’s chair slammed back against the wall behind him as he got to his feet. ‘I think you’d better go,’ he said, the muscles in his jaw jerking furiously. Then he gave a short, mirthless laugh and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘You really are priceless, do you know that? You actually thought that coming here and telling me you’d made a mistake—made a mistake, of all things—would be some consolation to me!’

Tom’s chin jutted. ‘I thought it might be,’ he muttered peevishly. ‘We all make mistakes, don’t we?’

Oliver shook his head again. ‘Just go, Tom. Before we both say something we’ll regret.’

Tom hunched his shoulders then, but he didn’t move, and Oliver glanced down wearily at the narrow watch on his wrist. It was half past three, he saw, half incredulously. Had it only been fifteen minutes since Tom appeared?

He blew out an impatient breath, regarding his brother’s hunched figure with some ambivalence. What now? he wondered. Was the other man going to make him throw him out? He could, if he wanted to, he knew that. Although Tom was broad and bulky, Oliver was fitter and had at least four inches over him in height.

Yet he baulked at the prospect. The idea of propelling his brother through Mrs Clements’ office and along the corridor that was flanked by other offices on either side was not something he relished. It had been hard enough suffering his colleagues’ sympathy when Sophie left him and his subsequent dependence on alcohol that had ended with his sojourn at Blackstone Abbey. He had no wish to revive those memories, or give anyone the impression that he still cared enough to want to do his brother some harm. He didn’t, he realised incredulously. All he felt was contempt that Tom should imagine he was fool enough to believe his lies.

‘Look, I’ve got an appointment shortly,’ he said, realising that getting angry wasn’t going to do him any good. For some reason, Tom was determined to stick it out until he’d said what he wanted to say. And Oliver had the uneasy suspicion that the worst was yet to come.

‘I know,’ said Tom now. ‘I heard what old Clements said.’

‘Then you’ll realise that you can’t stay here,’ declared Oliver crisply. ‘I suggest you go before you make a complete ass of yourself.’

Tom looked up at him with accusing eyes. ‘You don’t care about me at all, do you? You don’t care what happens to me?’

‘What happens to you ?’ Oliver stared at him. ‘Is that what this is all about? You expect me to somehow put things right between us?’

Tom gave a shrug. ‘Not exactly.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

Tom scowled. ‘You’re so smug. Why did I never realise it before? You don’t care about anybody, do you, Oliver? God, no wonder Sophie was desperate for affection. She never got it from a cold bastard like you!’

Oliver was around the desk, with his hand fisted in a handful of the other man’s shirt, hauling him up out of the chair before he could stop himself. ‘You—misbegotten sonofabitch,’ he growled, his fist drawing back to deliver the punch his brother so rightfully deserved. But when, instead of trying to defend himself, Tom merely closed his eyes and prepared to take his punishment, Oliver found he couldn’t do it. With a stifled oath, he flung him back again and strode across to the windows, struggling to regain his composure.

There was silence in the room for several minutes after that. Oliver took the time to regulate his breathing, raking his fingers across his scalp, rumpling the thick mass of dark hair that brushed his collar at the back. He straightened the jacket of his light grey suit, checked that his tie fell smoothly against the pearl buttons of his white shirt. And did his best to remember that he was the victim here, not the apparently humbled man who still sat, unspeaking, in his chair.

Finally, he was forced to turn round again. It was almost twenty minutes to four and he had to get Tom out of there before Sidney Adler arrived. Adler was a local politician who had been instrumental in Faulkner’s being given the contract to design the new shopping complex. He was also a close friend of Oliver’s partner, Andrew Faulkner, and unlikely to be impressed by Oliver bringing his personal problems into the office.

Expelling another heavy sigh, he walked back to his desk and stood for a few moments looking down on Tom’s bent head. Then he said wearily, ‘What do you want, Tom? I can’t give you absolution. And I doubt if Sophie will appreciate hearing that you’ve been here, talking to me.’

‘She won’t care,’ said Tom, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and making a great play of blowing his nose. ‘I’ve probably beaten her to it, actually. She wanted out of our relationship just as much as me.’

Oliver’s jaw almost dropped. ‘What?’ he exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘Did you come here to tell me you and Sophie have split up?’

‘What else?’ muttered Tom, with an indifferent gesture. ‘At present, she’s staying with her mother. Like I said before, it was all a terrible mistake.’

It was almost six o’clock when Oliver left the office.

Adler, he’d found, behaved like an old woman, and he’d spent at least half the time they were together gossiping about other local bureaucrats. There’d been little discussion of a useful nature and Oliver suspected he shouldn’t have shown the old man the bottle of Scotch he kept for visitors. Adler had accepted more than one glass to lubricate his ramblings, and Oliver felt significantly hyper now with the amount of Diet Coke he’d had to consume for courtesy’s sake.

His car was parked in the basement garage. A twelve-year-old Porsche, it had been Oliver’s gift to himself when he’d first gone to work for Faulkner Engineering. It had also been the only luxury he’d refused to sell when Sophie left him. The house they’d shared had gone and most of his possessions. A necessity, in any case, as the loft apartment he’d moved into just didn’t have room for most of them.

Before the divorce, he and Sophie had lived in an exclusive housing development north of Newcastle. It hadn’t been far from the garden centre, which was also situated in a village north of the city, and they had seen quite a lot of his parents and brother then. However, since his father’s retirement, his parents spent at least half the year abroad. They’d bought a villa in southern Spain, where his father’s ancestors had originated, and the old man always boasted he was returning to his roots.

Now, reminiscing about his parents inevitably brought Oliver’s thoughts back to his brother. It hadn’t been easy persuading him to leave quietly, and even now Oliver wasn’t entirely clear what his visit had been about. What had Tom anticipated? he wondered. That he’d be so delighted that Tom and Sophie had parted, all would be forgiven? It was the most naïve kind of reasoning and Tom wasn’t that stupid.

So why had he come? What motive had he had for making the trip? Oliver doubted they could ever be friends again. Not after all that had happened. And if Tom was expecting a different reaction, he was going to be disappointed.

It briefly crossed his mind that Sophie might have sent him. If they’d separated, as he’d said, perhaps she had some idea of resurrecting their relationship. Which was equally ludicrous. Besides, he was flattering himself if he imagined she was hedging her bets.

In any case, he had no desire to rekindle his relationship with his ex -wife. Whatever she thought, whatever interpretation she’d put on the emotional trauma he’d suffered when she left him, he was over it now. And it had never been wholly about Sophie. His brother’s betrayal had meant equally much, he realised now.

Nevertheless, he’d had to agree to see Tom again. It had been the only way to get him out of the office before Adler turned up. Considering Adler’s penchant for gossip, Oliver had had no desire to learn that he’d provided juicy fodder at the next party conference.

They’d agreed to meet the following lunchtime at The Crown in Tayford. It was years since Oliver had visited the pub, which was just a short distance from his parents’ home. Fortunately, his mother and father were away at the moment so there’d be no question of them getting involved. He knew his mother worried about his estrangement from his brother, and she was bound to think they were healing their differences if she knew.

On impulse, Oliver turned in the opposite direction to his quayside apartment. A desire to see the garden centre again had him driving north out of Newcastle, heading towards the airport. But before then, he turned west towards Belsay on the road that delved deep into the Northumbrian countryside.

Although Oliver had been born in the area, it was some years since he’d enjoyed making this journey. But with the rain giving way to the watery sunshine of a May evening, he felt an unaccustomed sense of well-being.

Before reaching Belsay, he turned left yet again onto a narrow country road with high hedges on either side. The garden centre had been signposted from the major road and it was only about a quarter of a mile farther on, on the outskirts of Ridsgate, the nearest village to Tayford itself.

Ferreira’s Plant World looked an impressive place viewed from the road. It had built up a fair reputation in recent years and people came quite a distance to wander round its gardens and greenhouses. As well as the usual ranks of hothouses, there were a shop, a café, a florist and a play area for children. And, although it was already after six o’clock, it was still doing a thriving business.

There were several cars in the parking area and, although he hadn’t intended to stop, Oliver found himself easing the Porsche into a convenient space. He sat for a few minutes, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel, wondering what the hell he was doing here. And then, deciding he couldn’t leave without satisfying himself that Tom really wasn’t in financial difficulties, he switched off the engine and got out of the car.

He saw her as he was locking the Porsche. She was standing near one of the greenhouses, apparently supervising the loading of sacks of compost onto a flatbed utility truck that she obviously intended to drive to another part of the site.

She was tall, easily five feet nine, and he told himself it was her height that had attracted his attention. But with long legs encased in the tightest jeans he’d ever seen and a trim yet shapely body, she was instantly noticeable. And that without taking into account her warm, luminous beauty and a mane of red-gold hair, secured in a single fat braid that had an impact all its own.

Perhaps it was the intentness of his stare that made her aware he was watching her. Eyes fringed by long, dark eyelashes turned in his direction and for a moment a quizzical expression crossed her face. Then one of the two men loading the truck spoke to her and she looked away, but not before a faint smile of inquiry—invitation?—touched her generous mouth.

Deciding he was definitely letting his imagination run away with him, Oliver pocketed his keys and strolled towards the gardens. By avoiding the shop, he was hoping to avoid being recognised by the older members of Tom’s staff.

There was no sign of Tom, however, and he couldn’t decide if he was glad or sorry. Now he’d have no excuse for not keeping their appointment tomorrow. At the bottom of him he supposed he’d hoped he could find out what was going on without wasting a couple of hours in futile discussion.

He walked to the far end of the site, noticing that his brother had been as good as his word. Already work had started on digging up the land immediately adjoining the garden centre. An excavator was residing amid a clutter of other machinery, and in the distance what used to be the home of the previous owner was being levelled to the ground.

‘It looks pretty ugly, doesn’t it?’ remarked a husky voice behind him. Oliver turned quickly to find the girl he had seen earlier relaxing against one of a pair of stone sundials abandoned beside the fence. Closer now, Oliver could see that her skin was creamy soft, like a peach, her nose straight and not too prominent, wide eyes an incredible shade of green.

Gathering his wits, he said, ‘I guess it does.’ He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and tried to dilute his gaze. ‘But all building projects are like that in the early stages.’

‘And you’d know,’ she said, surprising him. ‘You’re a design engineer.’ And at his raised eyebrows, she added easily, ‘You’re Tom’s brother, Oliver, I think. He said he might be seeing you today.’

Oliver sucked in his breath. ‘Did he?’

‘Yes. He didn’t say you were coming here, though.’ She smiled, revealing a row of even white teeth. ‘I’m Grace Lovell, by the way. I know he’ll be pleased to see you,’ she went on, returning to her earlier theme. ‘Mrs Ferreira said you’ve been estranged for some time.’

‘Mrs Ferreira?’ Oliver frowned. He hadn’t realised Sophie was still calling herself by that name.

‘Your mother,’ explained Grace, apparently sensing his confusion. ‘I know your parents quite well. They spend a lot of time in San Luis.’

Oliver revised his original opinion. ‘You’re Spanish?’ he asked incredulously, but she shook her head.

‘Not at all, I’m afraid. My father’s an American, actually. But he works for the British government, so I’ve spent most of my life in England.’

‘I see.’ Oliver paused. ‘And the San Luis connection?’

‘My parents own a villa in San Luis, too. That’s where I met Tom, actually. And how I persuaded him to give me this job.’

Oliver absorbed this. ‘And do you like it? The job, I mean?’

She shrugged, straightening away from the sundial, and he was once again struck by her height. But unlike a model, she was built on more generous lines, and, despite the fact that she didn’t appear to be wearing a bra, her breasts were firm and high—

And where the hell had that come from? he wondered, arresting himself instantly. He was getting far too interested in her altogether. Dammit, it was years since he’d noticed a strange woman’s breasts. It was no excuse that the cold air had made them more noticeable. She was probably frozen, he decided, aware of the hard peaks against her thin tee shirt. It was also obvious that the heat he was feeling was definitely not climate-induced.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, and it took him a minute to realise she was answering his question and not excusing his too-personal appraisal. ‘I thought I wanted to teach when I left college, but after six years working in an inner-city comprehensive I decided I needed a change of scene.’

Oliver made a gesture of assent and they started back towards the main building, Grace falling into step beside him with a lithe, easy stride. As he walked he realised he had to revise his estimate of how old she was as well. He’d guessed twenty-two or twenty-three, but now thirty didn’t seem so far off the mark.

Not that it mattered. Just because she was older than he’d imagined didn’t change his own position at all. He, after all, was thirty-four, with a history no one would envy and a current girlfriend. Besides, she probably had a boyfriend. She was far too attractive to remain unattached for long.

‘Have you been here long?’ he asked now, wishing he had an excuse not to go into the shop. He hadn’t corrected her when she’d assumed he hadn’t seen his brother yet, and it was going to be bloody awkward if Tom turned up.

‘Seven months, give or take,’ she said. She grimaced. ‘All through one of the worst winters on record! Two of the greenhouses were flooded. We had to come to work in wellington boots!’

Oliver managed a faint smile. ‘A baptism of fire.’

‘Well, of water,’ she remarked humorously. Then she laughed. ‘What an idiot! Baptisms are usually in water, aren’t they?’

Oliver grinned, and he was just about to ask her what she thought about the north of England when her face changed. Her cheeks turned a little pink and he thought at first how charmingly unaffected she was. But then another female voice spoke his name and he stifled a groan as he turned to acknowledge his ex-wife.

CHAPTER TWO

S OPHIE —Sherwood now, he assumed—was striding towards them from the direction of the car park. ‘Oliver,’ she said warmly, before her gaze shifted to his companion, dismissing her. ‘I thought I recognised the car. Oh, Oliver, it’s so good to see you.’

It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. And the most incredible. They’d hardly parted on friendly terms. Oliver had been disgusted by the fact that her affair with Tom had been going on for months before he’d learned of it. And Sophie herself had been eager to blame him, to accuse him of neglecting her and thinking more of his rotten business than he did of his wife.

To meet her now, to have her announce it was good to see him again, was ludicrous. He’d hoped never to have to meet her again. He wouldn’t have come here today if he’d suspected his ex-wife might be on the premises.

With a sideways glance at the young woman beside him, he realised he couldn’t speak freely in front of her. Instead, suppressing his irritation, he inclined his head. ‘Sophie,’ he greeted her noncommittally. Then, because he couldn’t think of anything else to add that wouldn’t be construed as contentious, ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’

‘I don’t.’ Sophie’s scornful denial was revealing. ‘But your brother owes me some money. Did he tell you?’ She cast another look at Grace. ‘What are you waiting for? I’d like to speak to my husband in private.’

Husband? Oliver winced, but Grace seemed unperturbed by Sophie’s implied rebuke. Turning to Oliver, she said, ‘Perhaps I’ll see you later. Tom shouldn’t be long.’

‘If he can drag himself out of the pub, you mean?’ remarked Sophie coldly. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

‘Tom’s not at the pub,’ Grace retorted evenly. ‘He had an appointment at the bank, as you probably know. Besides, he won’t be long when he knows his brother is waiting for him.’

But Tom didn’t even know he was there, Oliver reflected, though he was unwilling to admit it. He didn’t want to say anything to give his ex-wife more ammunition. He didn’t know what was going on here, but it was obvious Sophie didn’t like the younger woman. Why? Was she jealous of her? He decided he’d prefer not to pursue that thought to its obvious conclusion.

‘Whatever,’ Sophie said, now moving forward and slipping her arm though his. And, although he carefully detached himself, she insisted on staying close to his side as she edged him towards the pools that exhibited tropical fish. ‘That’s better,’ she murmured with satisfaction as a glance over his shoulder saw Grace look after them for a moment and then walk away in the opposite direction. Her tone grew suddenly venomous. ‘I don’t know how that woman has the nerve to speak to me!’

‘Why? Don’t you like her?’ Oliver halted abruptly, refusing to go any further without an explanation. ‘What’s going on, Sophie? What has Grace done to you? And why the sudden urge for my company? I know you and Tom have split up so, please, don’t pretend it has anything to do with me.’

Sophie stared at him. ‘You’ve seen Tom?’

‘This afternoon.’ Oliver’s tone was flat.

‘Then he must have told you about Grace.’

‘Told me what?’ But Oliver suspected he already knew. Sophie wasn’t particularly subtle when it came to personal matters.

She sniffed and shook her head, looking at him appealingly. ‘You don’t know what it’s been like for me,’ she exclaimed. ‘Since that woman came to work at the garden centre, things have gone from bad to worse.’

Oliver looked about him critically. ‘I’d have said the place was thriving,’ he remarked, and she uttered a most unladylike expletive.

‘In our relationship,’ she corrected him tersely. ‘Tom and I were already having problems before she came along. I’ll admit it. But I never dreamed he’d already found my replacement.’

Oliver felt a depressingly familiar sense of déjà vu. Not that he’d been seriously considering getting involved with someone who worked for his brother, he assured himself, but the news that Grace Lovell was Tom’s latest conquest wasn’t what he wanted to hear. She was too good for his brother, he thought grimly. Tom had already wrecked his marriage. He wouldn’t like to see him wreck her life as well.

He should have known, he grumbled silently. When Tom came to see him that afternoon, he should have guessed there was someone else involved. From the age of puberty, Tom had slept with countless women. He’d never married any of them, of course. Not even Sophie. So why should he, Oliver, have imagined that their relationship was any different?

‘He met her in Spain last year,’ Sophie was going on now, evidently under the mistaken impression that Oliver might be interested. ‘He’s gone out there before, when I’ve been unable to go with him. Not that your mother and father really want to see me, in any case. I’m persona non grata where they’re concerned.’

‘Sophie—’

‘He used to make the excuse that he needed to talk business with your father,’ she went on seamlessly. ‘I had no reason to doubt him. He and George often have their heads together when your father’s at home. I admit, he did seem a bit detached this time when he got home, but I put it down to his health. He’d said he was feeling a bit under the weather before he went away.’

Oliver held up both hands now, palms out to silence her. ‘Is this going somewhere, Sophie?’ he asked. ‘Because if not, I’ve got other things to do.’

Sophie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t be unkind to me, Oliver. I couldn’t bear it if you abandoned me. I know I’ve behaved abominably in the past, but you have to believe I regret it now.’

‘Sophie—’

‘No, listen to me. Perhaps it’s partly my fault that Tom found someone else. I kept comparing him to you. Yes, I did.’ This as Oliver gave her an incredulous stare. ‘It’s true. Tom and I were never meant to be together. I don’t know why I ever listened to his lies.’

‘That’s it. I’m out of here.’

Oliver had heard enough. Any minute now, she was going to say that she’d never stopped loving him and that she hoped he’d take her back.

As if.

Oliver scowled. When he’d had the—what he now acknowledged was a crazy—notion to make this diversion, he’d had no idea he’d be opening this can of worms. He’d wanted to see the garden centre. He’d half hoped he’d encounter his brother and get it over with. Now he didn’t know what to think. What did Tom really want from him?

Sophie had burst into tears at his words, her pale, delicate features stark and drawn. She’d aged, too, Oliver mused, resisting the comparison to Grace Lovell. But he knew his ex-wife well enough to realise that most of her distress was just an act.

‘Don’t go like this, Oliver,’ she begged now. ‘Please. You’ve got to help me. Tom says he can’t give me back the money I invested in the business, and I can’t support myself on what I earn at the charity shop.’

The money she’d invested in the business was her divorce settlement, but Oliver didn’t remind her of that. ‘Get another job,’ he said carelessly, heading towards the car park. He’d had enough of other people’s problems for one day.

‘I can’t,’ said Sophie desperately, trailing after him. ‘I don’t have any qualifications. You surely wouldn’t like to see your wife working behind the tills in some supermarket?’

‘Why not? Other women do it.’ Oliver paused when he reached his car. ‘And you’re not my wife, Sophie,’ he added, and for the first time it felt good to say it. ‘I’m sorry if things haven’t worked out the way you wanted, but that’s life. Get over it.’

Sophie’s chin wobbled, a tactic that would have tugged at his conscience years ago. But no longer. With a brief, ‘Tell Tom I couldn’t wait,’ he coiled his length behind the steering wheel, aware that he burned rubber as he accelerated out of the car park.

Grace saw Oliver leave from the window of the coffee shop. The small café was closing and she was helping Lucy Cameron clear the tables so the older woman could get away on time. Lucy had a family, four kids, all of school age, and Grace knew she didn’t like them being alone in the house after dark.

‘Was that who I think it was?’ Lucy asked now, joining Grace at the window as the Porsche peeled away off the site.

‘Who did you think it was?’ asked Grace, reluctant to sound too knowledgeable, and Lucy stepped back to give the younger woman a considering stare.

‘Well, it looked like Tom’s brother,’ she said. ‘I’d know that old Porsche he drives anywhere. I don’t know why he doesn’t get himself a new car. It’s not as if he couldn’t afford it.’

Grace eased her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. ‘Do you know him well?’ she asked, careful not to sound too interested, and Lucy shrugged before returning to her job of stacking the dishwasher.

‘Fairly well,’ she replied now. ‘Though it’s some time since I’ve seen him around here.’ She paused. ‘Did I see you talking to him? Didn’t he tell you who he was?’

Grace coloured, turning away so that Lucy couldn’t see her face. ‘I recognised him,’ she said. ‘He looks a bit like Tom, don’t you think? He’s darker, of course. And taller. But their features aren’t dissimilar.’

Lucy gave her a wry look. ‘It sounds to me as if you gave him a thorough once-over,’ she remarked. She frowned. ‘I always liked Oliver. I was really sorry when he and his brother fell out over—’

But she didn’t finish her sentence, and Grace guessed at once why she’d suddenly acquired an unexpected interest in the contents of the till. The clatter of heels on the tiled floor had warned her that they were no longer alone, and she was hardly surprised when Sophie Ferreira came purposefully towards her.

‘Where’s Tom?’ Sophie fairly spat the words, her bristling personality making up for what she lacked in height. ‘You can tell me now. I realise you were trying to protect him from Oliver, but he’s gone.’

‘I know.’ Despite the fact that she knew what Sophie thought of her, Grace refused to be intimidated. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She and Tom were friends, nothing more. ‘And I don’t know where Tom is. Perhaps he is at the pub. Why don’t you go and find out?’

‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do.’ Sophie’s angry response was out of all proportion to the offence. Clearly something hadn’t suited her and Grace was being made the scapegoat. ‘Anyway, when he does come back, tell him I want to see him. I’ll wait at the house. I’ve still got my key.’

Grace shrugged. ‘Okay.’ But she knew Tom wouldn’t like it. She didn’t like it much herself. The possibility that Sophie might take the opportunity to check out where Grace was sleeping now that she’d left had her hands balling into fists. But there was nothing she could do about it.

‘Right.’

If Sophie had expected an argument, she didn’t get one, and after a brief assessing glance in Lucy’s direction she turned and left the café. The two women saw her cross the yard to the car park and pull open the door of a late-model BMW. Then, following Oliver’s example, she drove out of the yard, turning in the opposite direction from the one he had taken.

‘Bitch,’ said Lucy succinctly, passing Grace on her way to the door to turn the sign to ‘Closed’. ‘That woman is a grade one bitch! I don’t know what Oliver ever saw in her.’

‘Or Tom,’ murmured Grace, but Lucy only grimaced.

‘Tom deserved her,’ she muttered, stomping back to the till. ‘I hope Oliver realises how lucky he’s been.’

Grace didn’t feel qualified to answer her. Sophie’s and Oliver’s divorce had been final long before she came on the scene. She’d heard the gossip, of course. How Tom had had an affair with his brother’s wife. But she’d also heard, from Tom admittedly, that Oliver had neglected Sophie in favour of his work. And no one could deny Sophie’s part in the breakup. Once again, according to Tom, it had been Sophie who had encouraged him, not the other way about.

Grace decided it was not something she wanted to get into a discussion over. Her own position, as a paying guest in Tom’s house, was open to enough speculation as it was. But when she’d come to work at the garden centre, Sophie and Tom had been living together. It had seemed a logical solution to her accommodation problem to accept Tom’s offer of the spare room.

Now, however, things were different. Sophie and Tom had split up and Grace didn’t know how to get out of staying in the house. The trouble was, it was so handy for the centre. On the outskirts of Tayford, not far from his parents’ home.

Mr and Mrs Ferreira had been instrumental in her accepting Tom’s offer in the first place. Grace wondered now if they’d had some intimation that all was not going well with their son and his lady friend—who just happened to be their other son’s ex-wife—and had hoped her presence might act as a calming influence. If so, it hadn’t worked. Sophie had never liked her, and Tom had attempted to compensate for her rudeness.

The upshot was, Sophie had got jealous and had started accusing her of having designs on Tom herself. Grace shook her head as she left Lucy to lock up the café and made her way to the offices that adjoined the main building. She liked Tom. Who wouldn’t? He was easy to get along with. But he’d never given her that hot, melting feeling in the pit of her stomach that she’d experienced when she’d encountered Oliver Ferreira’s dark gaze.

Just for a moment she wondered how she’d feel if she were sharing a house with Oliver. His lean, dark-skinned face and tall athletic body were so different from his brother’s bland good looks. Oliver wasn’t good-looking in the formal sense, but he was very attractive. And sexy, she conceded tensely. No wonder Sophie wanted him back.

And she did want him back, Grace would bet her life on it. There’d been so much pent-up aggression in her tone when she’d told Grace to get lost. Oh, not in so many words, of course, but Grace knew her well enough now to know what she was thinking. Sophie needed a man to lean on, and Tom hadn’t come up to scratch.

She shivered then, wrapping her arms about herself and rubbing the bare flesh below the tight sleeves of her tee shirt. But it wasn’t the cold that was making her antsy. The shiver she’d felt was purely anticipation. Despite what Sophie wanted her to think, she hoped she saw Oliver again.

She wasn’t sure how she felt when she discovered Tom was in his office, working at the computer. He must have known Sophie was on the premises, and deliberately kept out of her way. If so, he’d missed seeing Oliver as well. Or was that deliberate, too?

He looked round with a smile when he saw who it was in the doorway. ‘Hi,’ he said, subjecting her to a far too familiar appraisal. ‘How are things?’

‘Things are okay, I guess,’ said Grace slowly, propping her shoulder against the jamb. ‘Sophie’s at the house. Did you know?’

‘Sophie?’ He tried to sound surprised, but to her ears he failed abysmally. Then, as if realising he couldn’t fool her, his mouth pulled down at the corners. ‘I knew she was here,’ he confessed with a grimace. ‘I suppose she’s still agitating on about her money?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ Grace refused to get involved in the ongoing saga. ‘Anyway, I just thought I’d warn you. In case you’d just got back.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Have you been drinking? Sophie told Oliver you’d be at the pub, but I defended you.’

‘Oliver!’ Tom looked genuinely taken aback now. ‘Oliver was here?’

‘As you’d know for yourself, if you didn’t spend so much time hiding from your girlfriend,’ retorted Grace with feeling. ‘Anyway, I’m leaving. I’m meeting a friend for a drink and I don’t want to be late.’

Tom frowned. ‘What friend?’ he asked, and she was tempted to tell him to mind his own business. But she didn’t.

‘A friend from the gym,’ she said. She spent a lot of her spare time at the leisure centre in Ponteland. Initially, she’d joined to give Tom and Sophie some time on their own. But lately, she’d been glad of a reason to avoid spending whole evenings alone with Tom. ‘You don’t know her,’ she added, straightening. ‘I’ll get something to eat while I’m out.’

‘Hey.’ Tom got up from his chair. ‘You still haven’t told me what Oliver was doing here. Did he want to see me?’ Then he grimaced impatiently. ‘Of course, he must have done. Why else would he come here?’

‘You tell me.’ Grace would prefer not to discuss Oliver right now. ‘Anyway, Sophie collared him as soon as she saw him.’

‘Sophie?’ Tom scowled now. ‘Goddammit, why didn’t you say so? She would have to turn up here today.’

‘Does it matter?’ Grace didn’t understand his agitation. ‘You said you were seeing him today. I assumed you must have arranged for him to visit.’

‘Well, I didn’t. I went to his office this afternoon, as a matter of fact.’ Tom glanced at his watch now, and Grace decided it was time to beat a tactical retreat.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said, deciding she would go to the cinema after her date with Cindy. The last thing she wanted was for Tom to have another row with Sophie and then expect her to provide a shoulder to cry on. ‘Don’t wait up.’

Tom swore. ‘Do you have to meet this woman tonight?’ he demanded irritably. ‘After the day I’ve had, I could do without an undiluted diet of Sophie’s complaints. Come on, Grace, you know what she’s like. This will be another attempt to get her money. And I can’t stand knowing she can sink this business if she chooses.’

Grace sighed. ‘Surely things aren’t that bad?’

‘They’re that bad,’ Tom insisted. ‘I wish I’d never encouraged her to invest in the first place.’

‘But you did.’ Grace frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘Was that why you wanted to see Oliver today? Surely you don’t expect him to bail you out?’

‘No!’ Tom’s tone was sharp. Then, as if realising there was no point in lying to her, he lifted his shoulders in defeat. ‘Well, okay,’ he conceded. ‘Maybe I did entertain the thought that he might help me. He’s family, isn’t he? And it’s not as if he couldn’t afford it.’

Grace gaped at him. ‘You can’t be serious, Tom. Oliver has every reason to hate your guts!’

‘Why? Because I took that hag away from him?’ Tom snorted. ‘He should be thanking me. He doesn’t know when he’s well off.’

‘I don’t think Oliver will see it that way,’ said Grace honestly. Despite his initial interest in her, he’d abandoned her soon enough when his ex-wife had turned up. And it was obvious Sophie had her sights set on rekindling that relationship. The way she’d gushed all over Oliver had made Grace feel physically sick.

‘He will,’ said Tom confidently. ‘I know Oliver. This was his father’s business, too, remember? He won’t want it to close. Just think how many people would be out of work.’

Grace conceded he might have a point. ‘So why don’t you ask your father for help?’ she asked curiously. George Ferreira couldn’t wait to get back to the garden centre when he came home.

‘Dad doesn’t have that kind of money,’ Tom protested. ‘Sophie put two hundred thousand into the business. How do you think I was able to buy the smallholding next door?’

Grace pulled a face. ‘And you think Oliver will cover her investment?’ she exclaimed incredulously. ‘Tom, that’s a pipedream and you know it.’

His scowl reappeared and he strode restlessly about the office. ‘He’s got to,’ he muttered. ‘It’s a good investment.’

‘And did you tell him this?’ asked Grace. ‘Were you up front with him? Is that why he came here today, to check out how we’re doing?’

‘No, no and no,’ muttered Tom, hunching his shoulders. ‘I didn’t get around to it. He threatened to throw me out of the building.’

‘And this is the man who’s going to help you?’ Grace shook her head. ‘Get real, Tom. It’s not going to happen. You’re going to have to go to the bank again.’

‘He came here, didn’t he? I didn’t ask him to.’

‘Curiosity,’ said Grace dampeningly. ‘I got the impression he was curious, that’s all.’

‘Well, I’ll find out tomorrow,’ said Tom, forcing a note of optimism into his voice. ‘He’s meeting me for lunch at The Crown.’

‘Okay.’ Grace turned towards the door. ‘Well, good luck with Sophie. I wouldn’t keep her waiting any longer than you have to, if I was you.’

‘So you won’t change your mind?’

‘I can’t.’ Grace was definite. ‘I’m sorry.’ She paused and then added encouragingly, ‘Perhaps if you were nice to her, she’d reduce her demands.’

‘Not a chance.’ Tom was gloomy. ‘She wants her pound of flesh and she’s determined to have it.’ He hesitated a moment and then rounded his desk again, flinging himself into his chair. ‘Just spare a thought for me when you’re slurping spritzers with your friend.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘I’ VE got a favour to ask.’

Tom cornered Grace in the kitchen of his house the next morning as she was hurriedly swallowing a cup of tea before leaving for work. She had hoped to avoid Tom and an inevitable discussion of what had gone on the night before. But for once he was up as early as she was, coming into the kitchen in his bathrobe, bare feet squeaking on the tiled floor.

‘What is it?’ she asked, keeping the width of the pine-blocked table between them. ‘You’ll have to be quick. I have to open up this morning.’

‘I haven’t forgotten.’ Tom’s tone turned a little testy. ‘I prepare the schedules, don’t I?’ Then, as if deciding being short with her wouldn’t achieve his ends, he forced a smile. ‘I want you to join Oliver and me for lunch.’

Grace almost choked on the last dregs in her cup. ‘You have to be joking!’

‘No, I’m not.’ Tom pushed his hands into the pockets of his robe, apparently uncaring that only a loosely tied belt protected what Grace was sure was his nude body from her gaze. ‘I’m not sure he believes me when I say that Sophie and I are finished. If he sees you and me together—’

‘No.’ Grace was horrified. She really would have to find a place of her own, she thought. Tom was definitely getting the wrong impression of why she’d stayed on after Sophie walked out. ‘I don’t want to be a party to any deal you make with your brother. And as far as Sophie is concerned, I’m sure she’ll see he gets the message for herself.’

Tom’s jaw jutted sulkily. ‘I notice you haven’t asked how I got on last night.’

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ said Grace desperately. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. It’s nearly eight o’clock.’

‘She’s given me a couple of weeks,’ he said, as if Grace hadn’t answered him. ‘She’s as keen as I am to get Oliver involved. That way, she gets her money and possibly the man as well.’

Grace shook her head. ‘I don’t want to know,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Think about lunch,’ Tom advised, not giving up. ‘I’d have thought you’d want to save the garden centre as much as me.’

That was a low blow, and Grace’s lips tightened for a moment before she said, ‘How on earth do you think my presence can make a difference?’

‘I’ve told you.’ Tom was encouraged now. ‘If he sees us together, he’ll think we’re an item—’

‘But we’re not!’

‘He needn’t know that,’ said Tom carelessly, but with the kind of smug expression she most abhorred. He really did think she was interested in him, she thought helplessly. He was so confident of his sex appeal, he assumed it was just a matter of time before she fell into his arms and into his bed.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she murmured, despising her cowardice but deciding she could always cry off later in the morning and avoid a confrontation now. The trouble was, deep down, she was tempted to accept the invitation. It might be the only chance she had of seeing Oliver again.

Apart from helping out around the centre, Grace’s main job was in the office. Her degree in maths and her computer skills had enabled her to reorganise the firm’s finances, and she was hoping to produce a web site to expand their mail-order sales.

Her fellow workers, a teenage girl who did all the typing and filing, and an older man who had been there since Tom’s father was in charge, were gradually beginning to accept her. It occurred to her that if Tom’s pursuit of her became unmanageable, she might be forced to leave and she’d be sorry to do that.

The morning was busy. Because of the speed of their turnover, at this time of the year some of their stock had to be brought in from abroad. A huge container truck from Holland arrived with a load of seasonal flowers, and several girls were employed preparing bridal wreaths and bridesmaids’ posies for weddings to be held the following day.

Tom arrived about half past nine, smartly attired in a navy suit and crisp white shirt. Obviously for Oliver’s benefit, Grace reflected, glancing down at her own jeans and cotton tee shirt with some regret. If she did change her mind and accompanied Tom, she would have to go back to the house to change. The Crown was a fairly casual place, but it wasn’t like the coffee shop at the garden centre. There the patrons were mostly older couples and families with young children. They just wanted a snack or a hot drink before heading home.

‘I’ll be at the site, if anyone wants me,’ Tom announced to the office in general, and Gina Robb, who had a crush on him, gave him a provocative smile.

‘Want some company?’ she asked, edging the neckline of her sweater off one plump shoulder.

Tom grinned. He always liked it when women showed they were attracted to him. ‘We wouldn’t get much work done if I did,’ he responded slyly, and Grace kept her eyes firmly focussed on the computer screen in front of her.

As if sensing her withdrawal, Tom said, ‘Everything okay, Grace?’ and she was forced to assure him that it was. ‘Think any more about lunch?’ he continued, and she gritted her teeth. Just the sort of comment Gina wanted to hear.

‘Not really,’ she said now, looking up. ‘Why don’t you take Gina instead?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ He managed to sound suitably regretful as he apologised to the disappointed teenager, though the look he cast in Grace’s direction wasn’t friendly. ‘Grace is the financial genius around here, Gina,’ he said. ‘I need her expertise. Believe me, you’d be bored out of your skull.’

Gina looked as if boredom would have been the last thing on her agenda and she gave Grace a sulky glare. It probably meant she wasn’t going to get much work out of her later, thought Grace irritably. Why couldn’t Tom keep his big mouth shut?

‘I’ll speak to you later, Grace,’ he announced, and she resigned herself to the fact that she would have to go with him now. If she didn’t, Gina would be offended, and she didn’t want to undermine Tom’s authority.

At coffee time, when Gina went over to the florists’ workroom to gossip with the girls who were preparing the displays, Grace slipped out and drove back to the house. She borrowed Tom’s car to speed things up as she’d walked to work as usual.

Parking outside the detached cottage Tom had bought when he and Sophie got together, Grace grabbed her bag and hurried inside. If she was quick, she could be back before anyone missed her.

But what to wear? Surveying her limited wardrobe, Grace was undecided. She seemed to have a predominance of jeans and tee shirts and sweaters, with not much between them and a couple of skimpy dresses more suitable for the evening. Most of her clothes were still at her parents’ home in London. She hadn’t expected to need power suits for this job.

She eventually plumped for a V-necked black sweater and narrow-legged khaki trousers that flared slightly at the ankle. Teamed with a pair of heeled boots, they would look reasonably smart. Smart enough for The Crown, anyway, she decided, stripping off her tee shirt and jeans and regarding her hips critically. Why did she always think her bottom was bigger than anyone else’s?

Did she have time for a shower? She glanced at her watch and assured herself that she did. She could leave what little make-up she wore until later. She’d pop her eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara into her bag.

She was drying herself after her shower when she thought she heard something. Or someone, she reflected nervously, wrapping the towel sarong-wise under her arms. Despite the fact that Tayford was a fairly safe place, Grace had spent enough time in New York and London to feel an immediate sense of anxiety. Had she locked the door when she came in? She suspected she hadn’t. But, dammit, surely a thief would see the car and realise that someone was at home.

Opening the bathroom door, she stepped out into her bedroom. Her clothes were still laid out on the bed where she’d left them, together with a clean set of underwear she’d taken out of the drawer. She wanted to put on her bra and panties, but she was loath to shed the towel. She felt absurdly vulnerable without clothes and she was considering dressing in the comparative safety of the bathroom when she heard footsteps on the landing.

Immediately, her heart leapt into her throat. There was somebody else in the house. But who? Could it possibly be Mrs Reynolds, Tom’s housekeeper? she wondered hopefully. She didn’t usually come in on Fridays, but perhaps Tom had asked her to. He didn’t discuss his cleaning arrangements with her.

There was only one way to find out and, deciding that clothes were unlikely to deter a confirmed attacker, she opened her bedroom door a crack. And caught her breath weakly. Tom was outside, on the landing, gazing at her with obvious satisfaction.

‘So you are here,’ he said, smiling, and she knew at once that this was no coincidental encounter. He must have returned to the office and discovered that both she and his car were missing. It would have needed no great leap of intelligence to guess where she’d gone.

Anger overcame her previous apprehension. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, and he was left in no doubt she resented his intrusion.

‘This is my house,’ he said mildly, his smile slipping into a sickly sort of cajolery. ‘Come on, Grace. Don’t be like that. I’m entitled to come home if I want to.’

Grace’s lips tightened. He had a point. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘But I got a shock when I heard someone else in the house.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Did you forget something?’

‘I thought I might take a shower, too,’ he said, and Grace’s feelings of frustration stirred anew.

‘You had a shower this morning,’ she reminded him, and Tom shrugged.

‘Now I need another,’ he said. ‘It’s dusty at the site. You know that. I don’t want to turn up at the pub smelling of cement.’

Grace shrugged. ‘Okay.’ She withdrew back into her own room. ‘I’ll see you back at the office.’

‘Or we could drive back together,’ he suggested as she was closing her door. But Grace chose not to answer him.

It took her exactly four minutes to get dressed. It wasn’t until she’d snapped the fastener on her trousers that she felt able to breathe easily again. It was ridiculous, she knew. She slept in the house, for God’s sake, and Tom had never intruded on her privacy in the past. Perhaps he did feel grubby after visiting the site. There was a lot of brick dust flying around.

Her hair took slightly longer. She hadn’t washed it, but she did brush it out and plait it again. Then, content that she looked as neat as possible, she put her make-up in her bag and left the room.

She was hurrying down the stairs when the doorbell rang. Now what? she wondered grimly. She wanted to get back to the garden centre before Tom reappeared. Wrenching open the door, she prepared to give whatever salesman was on the threshold short shrift, and then felt a hollowing in her stomach at the sight of the man who was standing outside.

Why Oliver Ferreira should have this effect on her, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he’d shown any particular interest in her. After all, as soon as his ex-wife had appeared, he’d forgotten all about her.

Yet, just the sight of his lean dark face and muscled body and she was struggling to control feelings she hardly recognised. A navy blue shirt under a dark blue suit complemented his brooding sensuality, and she knew the craziest need to reach out and touch him, as if she couldn’t quite believe that he was real. But he was real enough, she knew, as dark eyes shaded by sinfully long lashes appraised her in a way that made her nerves tingle. Oh, God, she thought, feeling her skin moisten in response, he was even more attractive than she remembered.

‘Grace,’ he said, in obvious surprise, and although she was flattered that he remembered her name, the frown drawing his dark brows together was hardly encouraging. And, instantly, she knew what he was thinking. Thank goodness he hadn’t arrived any sooner and found her only half dressed.

‘Hi,’ she said. She sounded breathless, she thought unhappily. She hoped he wouldn’t attribute that to his sudden appearance. ‘Um—have you come from the garden centre?’

‘I was looking for Tom, actually,’ he said, without really answering her. Then his eyes moved past her to the stairs behind her.

‘And you’ve found him,’ declared Tom, and she glanced almost disbelievingly over her shoulder. Tom was coming down the stairs, clad only in a towel. ‘Come in, Oliver,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did Bill tell you we were here?’

Grace perched on a stool at the bar sipping her iced tea through a straw. Tom and Oliver were standing nearby, each holding a glass. Tom’s lager, Oliver’s Diet Coke. Oliver had hardly touched his, she noticed. He’d only agreed to have it to be polite, she was sure.

For her part, Grace would have loved to order a Bacardi and Coke, just to lift her spirits. The day had been going downhill ever since she’d made that crack about Tom bringing Gina to the pub. Now she was here at The Crown, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow her. Oliver had hardly spoken a word to her since Tom’s embarrassing entrance. And who could blame him? The implications of that ‘we’ and the fact that she and Tom had been at the house in the middle of the day were too gruesome to contemplate.

She hunched her shoulders, feeling humiliated. She’d had no conception that Oliver might come to the house looking for his brother. Or that Tom would appear, half naked, giving weight to any suspicions Oliver might have. He probably hadn’t known she was still sharing Tom’s house. Though that was one little titbit Sophie would have loved to share.

Perhaps she had, Grace reflected gloomily. Perhaps she was only kidding herself that Oliver had seemed taken aback when she’d answered the door. And on top of everything else, why should he care? She was sure he hadn’t been lonely for female company since Sophie walked out.

She tried to tune into what Oliver and Tom were talking about. It seemed they were discussing the weather, ludicrous as that was. She wondered when Tom was going to get round to the real point of this meeting. If she were Oliver she wouldn’t buy Tom’s air of bonhomie for a minute.

‘Your table’s ready, Mr Ferreira.’

The waitress from the pub’s dining room appeared just as Grace was considering making an excuse and leaving, and Tom nodded his thanks before emptying his glass. Oliver, meanwhile, put his untouched Coke on the bar and held out his hand to help her down from the bar stool. For a moment, his cool fingers gripped her arm and her eyes darted to his. But he wasn’t looking at her and he clearly felt none of the heat that spread along her veins at his touch.

The dining room wasn’t busy. It was early yet, barely half past twelve, but it had been obvious from the start that Oliver had wanted to get this meeting over and done with. Grace guessed that was why he’d come to the house when Tom wasn’t at the garden centre. Perhaps he’d hoped to avoid a formal gathering at somewhere public like The Crown.

Whatever, Tom had been having none of it and he’d insisted Oliver come back to the centre and see for himself how successful it was. Consequently, Oliver had driven Tom back in his car, while Grace had taken the Volvo, as before.

But for the remainder of the morning the situation had not been ideal. Oliver had renewed his acquaintance with the members of staff who’d been there since his father’s tenure, and Tom had done his best to behave as if he weren’t facing financial ruin. Grace, meanwhile, had tried to concentrate on the web site she was designing. The idea was to expand Ferreira’s mail-order business by advertising online.

They were seated at a table in the window. Menus were produced and Grace regarded the choice of entrées with a heavy heart. She wasn’t hungry. Indeed, if she was honest she felt physically revolted at the thought of food. She couldn’t bear to look at Tom’s deceitful face and not remember the deliberate way he’d tried to mislead his brother.

‘What are you having?’ To her annoyance, Tom leaned towards her and examined the menu over her shoulder. ‘The steak and kidney pie is good,’ he said. ‘I can recommend it. Or the rack of lamb. It’s locally produced, you know.’

Grace managed to control the urge to put some space between them and gave a shrug. ‘I just want a salad,’ she said. ‘I’m used to just having a sandwich at lunchtime.’

‘All the more reason to splash out today,’ declared Tom, clearly not getting the message. ‘Go on. The business can afford it.’ He paused, and then added significantly, ‘Or it could if Oliver’s wife wasn’t trying to bankrupt me.’

Grace cast an agonised look in Oliver’s direction. But although she’d expected him to say something, even if it was only that Sophie was his ex-wife, he continued to study the menu without commenting.

‘I think I’ll have a burger,’ he said at last, and now his dark gaze did meet Grace’s briefly. But there was no liking there, no warmth at all. Just a dismissive contempt that chilled her to the bone.

‘Oh, but, hey, is nobody going to have a starter?’ Tom protested. ‘This is supposed to be a social occasion. You’re both behaving as if we’re eating at the local fast-food joint.’

‘Perhaps we should be,’ remarked Oliver, speaking at last, though clearly not saying what his brother wanted to hear. ‘If, as you’re implying, you’re on the verge of bankruptcy—’

‘The business isn’t on the verge of bankruptcy,’ Tom snapped angrily. ‘And you know it. If you’d just look at the books—’

‘Have you decided what you’re going to have?’

The waitress who had shown them to the table was now standing beside them, her notepad raised expectantly, and both men were forced to abandon their discussion in favour of choosing what they wanted to eat. Grace picked a ham salad and Oliver did as he’d said he was going to do and ordered a burger. It meant that Tom had to choose something similar in deference to his guests.

‘Would you like anything to drink?’

The waitress clearly handled the drinks order, too, and Tom looked reflectively at Oliver and Grace. Then, with an impatient exclamation, he said, ‘Just a bottle of sparkling mineral water, Stacey, thanks.’ His lips twisted sardonically. ‘Must keep a clear head for business.’

The waitress left and Grace assumed an intense interest in her place-mat. She really didn’t want to be here, she thought, wondering why she’d ever agreed to come. Somehow, appeasing Tom had lost its imperative. She didn’t even know why he wanted her here. Not when his brother obviously resented her company.

‘Have you heard when Mum and Dad are coming home?’ asked Oliver into the awkward silence that had fallen, and Tom gave him a brooding look.

‘Dad can’t bail me out, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he said shortly. ‘We’re not all money magnets like you. He’s had a few dodgy investments lately. You know what the share market’s been like. Last I heard, he was thinking of selling the villa in San Luis and buying a condo in one of those holiday complexes instead.’

Grace saw Oliver’s brows draw together. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘Why not? Lots of people do it. Especially people who’re getting on like Mum and Dad.’

Oliver’s jaw tightened. ‘Dad would hate living in a condo, and you know it. Half his pleasure in owning the villa is the land it stands on. He’s a gardener, Tom, not a beach bum!’

Tom shrugged. ‘That’s not my problem.’

Oliver stared at him. ‘He’s your father!’

‘And you’re my brother, and a lot of good that’s done me.’

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying this is my fault?’

At last Tom had the decency to hang his head, but his words were grudging. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘Not exactly. But you should have warned me about Sophie. Goddammit, you must have known what she was like.’

Grace didn’t know where to look. It was bad enough being present at what was, essentially, a family meeting. It was much worse having to listen to Tom discuss his brother’s personal affairs in public.

Whatever he thought, however he felt, Oliver had been married to Sophie for six years. And judging by the way he’d behaved the day before, he still cared about her.

Oliver was regarding his brother almost humorously now, a look of mild amazement on his face. ‘So I was supposed to warn the man who’d been screwing my wife that she wasn’t to be trusted,’ he remarked thoughtfully. ‘Have you forgotten where she got the money to invest in the business, or did you think I sold my house because I couldn’t bear the unhappy associations it held?’

Tom flushed then, his fair features looking older suddenly. ‘You could afford it,’ he muttered, glowering at the waitress who had arrived with the bottled water. ‘I can’t.’

Oliver waited until the woman had filled everyone’s glass and left again before responding. ‘I couldn’t afford it,’ he told Tom forcefully. ‘She took half of everything I had. Why do you think I live in a loft apartment? It taught me never to trust a woman again.’

Tom gave a scornful sniff and Grace, who had hoped that would be an end of it, closed her eyes. She dreaded to think what Oliver must be thinking at that moment. If Tom had intended to pay her back for what she’d said earlier, he had certainly succeeded.

‘We all know that’s no ordinary apartment,’ Tom persisted, and she stifled an inward groan. ‘I wish I could afford to live on Myer’s Wharf.’

Oliver’s expression hardened. ‘Where I live isn’t relevant,’ he said as the waitress returned with their burgers and salad. ‘I’m sure Grace is fed up with listening to us arguing.’ He looked down at his plate with apparent enthusiasm. ‘Mmm, this looks good.’

Grace flashed him a grateful smile, but she wasn’t sure he noticed, or that he particularly cared what she thought. Still, she desperately hoped the food would keep Tom’s mouth occupied long enough for her to eat a little of her salad. Perhaps she could excuse herself before they offered coffee. She could always get a taxi back to the garden centre.

But she should have known better, she reflected. ‘So you’re determined not to help me out,’ Tom demanded, his jaw set in a belligerent scowl. He pointed a stubby finger at his brother. ‘I just hope you can sleep nights when the business goes to the wall.’

‘Hold it right there.’ Oliver had apparently had enough, and although the glance he cast in Grace’s direction was impatient, he didn’t hesitate before going on. ‘You chose the life you have now, so get over it. It’s not my fault if it’s kicked you in the b—teeth!’

Tom grunted then and pushed his plate aside, almost knocking his water over as he did so. ‘I’m going to the loo,’ he announced loudly and Grace guessed that everyone in the room must have heard what he said. ‘You speak to him, Gracie. Try and get it through his thick head that I’m not the bastard he thinks I am.’

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