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.

Wicked Caprice
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of 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 CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHE didn’t look like the kind of woman he had expected.

Julian’s description of her had been fairly explicit, and it was hard to match up her portrayal of a vicious, self-seeking seductress with the slim, pale creature facing him across the counter.

‘Can I help you?’

Her voice was attractive, certainly, low and slightly throaty, and probably inclined to a breathless huskiness when her sexual needs were being met. Was she the kind of woman who just moaned her pleasure, or did she whisper erotic words of approval in Richard’s ear? Either way, it was hard to imagine his brother-in-law being interested in such a colourless female. In the past, his tastes had run in an entirely different direction.

‘Hmm...? Oh, yes.’

Patrick glanced quickly about him, realising that apart from himself the shop was empty. He had spent so long studying her appearance that the other customers had all been dealt with, and her question caught him unawares, his mind empty of the reason why he’d purportedly come into the shop.

‘Shells,’ he said hastily as the excuse he’d adopted to enter the establishment popped back into his mind. He’d seen a necklace of shells in the window and it had seemed a suitable item to select.

‘Shells?’ she echoed pleasantly. ‘You’re a collector of shells? Do you mean shells that have just been polished and are otherwise in their natural state? Or perhaps you like these abstract collages? They’ve proved very popular, actually.’

The square frame she had selected from the display behind the counter made Patrick cringe. The childish daubings of paint on shells, whose haphazard arrangement on a wooden backing looked more abstracted than abstract, appalled him, and he couldn’t imagine anyone finding its composition attractive.

‘Um...it was a necklace, actually,’ he said, casting a doubtful glance over his shoulder. ‘In the window. I thought it might suit my niece.’

Though he could never give it to her, he reflected ruefully. He could picture Jillian’s outrage if he turned up with a necklace bought from that woman’s shop. No matter that Susie might like it. Even considering doing such a thing would constitute a betrayal of the highest order in his sister’s eyes. Besides, there was always the possibility that Richard might recognise it, and Jillian would prefer her husband not to know she’d interfered.

‘Oh, yes. I know the one.’

With a smile, she came out from behind the counter and crossed the sales area to approach the window he’d indicated. As she passed, Patrick was assailed by the delicate aroma of her perfume, an odour that mingled what he thought might be lily of the valley and rosewater with the feminine warmth of her body.

He was also made aware of the fact that she moved with a distinctive grace for such a tall young woman, her hips swaying rhythmically as she strode across the floor, her full skirt swishing softly about her ankles. Her hair was plaited, a thick, glossy, toffee-coloured braid that bobbed about between her shoulderblades. It was almost the exact same colour as her eyes, he mused reluctantly, though her brows were darker, her lashes thick and straight.

She was also wearing boots, he saw as she bent to remove the necklace from the window—thick-soled boots, which Patrick would have considered more suitable for going hiking. Or perhaps mountaineering, he amended drily. Whatever else Richard had seen in her, he couldn’t have been attracted by the way she dressed.

‘Here we are,’ she said, straightening, and Patrick dragged his eyes away from the provocative cleft that had been revealed when she’d bent over. For all his dismissal of her charms, he had to admit there was something about her. Despite the shapeless clothes, she did possess a sensuality that wasn’t immediately apparent.

‘Thanks.’

He took the necklace from her, and was surprised by the jolt of awareness he felt when her slim hand brushed his. Concentrating his attention on the necklace, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d felt it too, though when he permitted himself a quick glance through his lashes she appeared to be as cool and composed as before.

‘It’s the last one,’ she said, and for a moment he couldn’t for the hell of him think what she was talking about.

‘The last...?’

‘Yes, the last necklace,’ she clarified smoothly. ‘I think people have mostly bought them for children. As you can see, the string isn’t very long.’

‘Yes.’

Patrick felt curiously perplexed. He was used to being in control of most situations, but for a moment there he had felt at a distinct disadvantage. It was the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, he told himself, and of this young woman, who seemed to bear little resemblance to the promiscuous hussy his sister had described. She could be everything Jillian had accused her of being—God knew, appearances were often deceptive—but had Richard succumbed to her wiles, or had she succumbed to his?

‘Do you like it?’

Once again, her question aroused a most unsuitable response inside him, and he felt a faintly amused impatience with himself for allowing his instincts to govern his head. For God’s sake, the woman wasn’t even pretty, and in those clothes she wouldn’t attract a second glance. Yet, for some strange reason, he was aware of her, in a way he hadn’t been aware of a woman for years.

If ever..

‘It’s pretty,’ he said now, the word springing obviously to mind, and she nodded in agreement.

‘I think so,’ she agreed. ‘These fan-shaped shells are so delicate. I love that shade of pink. It would be impossible to produce it artificially.’

‘Mmm.’

Patrick was noncommittal, aware that by admiring the necklace he was making it doubly hard to reject it later. After all, he hadn’t come here to admire the merchandise; he was supposed to be finding out what she wanted from Richard. In Jillian’s opinion, she had to have a price. Richard’s women always did.

‘You don’t like it?’

His doubts, albeit of a different nature, had communicated themselves to her, and she tilted her head to look up at him. Immediately, he was aware of the purity of her profile, of the cheekbones that gave her face such a good basic structure, and the mouth, which had parted slightly in enquiry.

He wanted to taste that mouth, he realised in a horrifying revelation. He wanted to crush it, and shape it with his tongue, and suck the full lower lip into his mouth. He wanted to see if she tasted as good as she smelled, and if that delicate pink tongue, presently trapped between two rows of white teeth, was as moist and juicy as it appeared...

He drew a steadying breath. For God’s sake, he chided himself as his trousers felt uncomfortably tight all of a sudden. What the hell was the matter with him? He hadn’t realised he was so desperately in need of sex.

Assuming an interest in a colourful display of quilts, he succeeded in putting some space between them. ‘It’s not that,’ he said, realising he hadn’t answered her question. ‘I just don’t know if Susie...if she would like it.’

‘Susie?’ She’d latched onto the word, and he cursed himself for using his niece’s name so thoughtlessly. ‘A colleague of mine’s daughter is called Susie too. It’s a nice name, isn’t it? Is it short for Susannah?’

‘No.’ It was, but he wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Um... it’s just Susie, actually. Not an abbreviation. Her... parents chose it. Her grandmother’s name is the same.’

‘I see.’

He wondered if she did. He hoped not. Nevertheless, he had gone over the top with the explanations, and if he’d regretted using Susie’s name before he felt doubly impatient with himself now.

Something had to be done to divert the conversation, and, smoothing the fabric of one of the quilts between his thumb and forefinger, he cast what he hoped was a casual glance over his shoulder. ‘Is this what you call patchwork?’

‘That’s right.’ His enquiry had achieved what he least wanted; it had brought her after him, and he was intensely aware of her now, hovering at his elbow. ‘Actually, they’re made by an old lady who’s almost crippled with arthritis. But her needlework is exquisite, don’t you agree?’

As Patrick had no idea what was required to make one of the padded spreads, he merely nodded his approval, and moved on to a table piled with soft toys. At least here he could be more knowledgeable; the stuffed menagerie was obviously attractive, the prices mirroring the small-shop status, yet in no way diminishing the toys’ appeal.

‘They’re handmade too,’ she murmured as Patrick admired a pair of rabbits. ‘In fact, everything we sell is handcrafted. We provide an outlet for people who wouldn’t otherwise have anywhere to sell their goods.’

Jillian hadn’t told him that. But then, why would she? She wasn’t interested in the aims of the business, just in its proprietor... or was that proprietrix? Anyway, just because this young woman was doing her bit to help the independent producer it didn’t make the situation any more acceptable. She might be regarded as a saint by her suppliers and still live an execrable private life.

‘Has the shop been open long, Miss—Miss—?’ He stopped, as if he didn’t already know her name by rote.

‘Herriot,’ she inserted quickly. ‘Isobel Herriot. And I opened the shop almost five years ago.’ She paused. ‘Why?’

‘Just curious,’ he answered smoothly, a smile erasing any suspicion. ‘You’ve got quite a choice of items. I wondered how you managed to sustain your stock.’

‘Oh...’She shrugged her slim shoulders, and against his will his eyes were drawn to her chest. For such a slim young woman she had rather full breasts, and the way they moved beneath the gauze shirt she was wearing made him wonder if she wore a bra. ‘It was a struggle to begin with. But we’re getting there now, I think.’

So was he, thought Patrick irritably, wishing he had never agreed to come here. Dammit, the girl was screwing his brother-in-law, and he was acting as if that circumstance turned him on. It didn’t. He despised Richard and he despised her for putting his sister’s marriage in jeopardy. Not to mention risking their children’s happiness. Ten-year-old Susie and her brother Nigel, who was six, didn’t deserve to be treated as if their lives were of no account.

His eyes hardened. ‘Do you own the shop, Miss Herriot?’ he enquired, keeping his tone neutral, and she gave a rueful sigh.

‘In such a prime position?’ She grimaced. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. No, my new landlord is the colleague I was telling you about. The one who has a daughter called Susie—Susannah.’

‘Ah.’

Patrick acted as if he didn’t already know that Shannon Holdings had recently acquired the lease on the row of small businesses that fronted this side of the high street in Horsham-on-the-Water. Situated almost midway between Stratford-on-Avon and Stow-on-the-Wold, the little Cotswold village of Horsham attracted a lot of passing trade. But it was also true that many people came to Horsham for its own sake, visiting the old Norman church, and the monastery, where a delicious foaming mead had been made for more years than anyone could remember.

‘Of course,’ she went on, almost absently, ‘there’s going to be an increase in the rents. Old Mrs Foxworth, who used to own the Foxworth estate, let the tenants rent these properties for a pittance, so long as the buildings were kept in good repair. It was a kind of noblesse oblige, I suppose, and we’d all begun to think it would go on indefinitely. But the people who’ve bought the estate—some London company, I believe—obviously won’t feel so charitable. How could they? They don’t know us. Richard says he’ll do his best to put our case forward, but we don’t hold out much hope.’

Patrick endeavoured not to show his true feelings. ‘Richard?’ he echoed politely. He bit into the inner flesh of his lower lip. ‘Your new landlord—I remember.’

‘Well, he isn’t exactly our new landlord,’ she explained, and the faintly terse edge to her tone seemed to indicate that she had realised she was discussing private matters with a stranger. ‘Rich—Mr Gregory, that is—is just an employee of the company.’ Her nostrils flared in sudden impatience. ‘And I don’t see what he or anyone else can do.’

Patrick found himself resenting the way Richard had represented himself to her, but that was the least of his troubles. How well did she know his brother-in-law? And what exactly had Richard promised to do?

Choosing his words with care, Patrick laid the shell necklace on the counter. ‘You sound as if you have a champion, at least,’ he remarked guardedly. ‘Have you known this Mr—ah—Gregory long?’

‘Not long.’ Her tone was clipped now, and he was very much afraid he’d overplayed his hand. She lifted the necklace, cradling it in fingers that were long and vaguely artistic. ‘Have you made a decision?’

Patrick blinked. ‘Oh—about the necklace,’ he said, aware that she was looking at him a little warily now. ‘Um—yes. Yes, I’ll have it.’ He examined the price tag and pulled out his wallet. ‘Perhaps you could wrap it for me. I’ll be back this way in a couple of days and I’ll collect it then.’

‘I can wrap it now,’ she said, and he was racking his brains for a suitable excuse for her not to do so when a group of elderly American tourists entered the shop.

‘Thursday,’ he said, throwing a couple of notes onto the counter. ‘I can see you’re going to be busy, and I can wait.’

With the door closed behind him, Patrick breathed a little easier, though why he should imagine that by returning to the shop two days hence he might learn any more about her relationship with Richard he didn’t know. He could hardly come right out and ask her, even if that was what Jillian would have him do. But then, Jillian wanted him to threaten the girl with God knew what kind of retribution if she continued to have an affair with her husband, and she was aware of the kind of leverage he could bring to bear if Isobel Herriot refused to do as he said.

His car was parked further along the high street, and, opening the rear door, Patrick slid into the back of the Bentley with some relief. ‘Let’s go, Joe,’ he said, when the impassive Muzambe turned to give him a questioning glance. ‘Portland Street first, and then home.’

Joe Muzambe put the big car into gear, switched on the indicator, and pulled out into a gap in the stream of traffic passing through the village. ‘You don’t want to stop at Mrs Gregory’s?’ he asked, with the familiarity of long service, and Patrick, dragging a file of papers from his briefcase, gave him a retiring look.

‘No, I do not,’ he replied, aware that the chauffeur was referring to the fact that they’d pass within a couple of miles of Jillian’s house on their way back to town. ‘I don’t have anything to tell her,’ he added, with an irritation that was directed as much at himself as at his sister. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, can we get going? I want to do some work.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘BUT who was he?’

Christine Nelson perched on the edge of the counter and regarded her friend and employer with impatient eyes. There were times when Isobel’s other-worldliness really bugged her, and her lack of interest in the dishy male Christine had seen coming out of the craft shop was positively infuriating.

‘I’ve told you, I don’t know,’ replied Isobel, examining the figures in the cash book which she was trying to balance with the contents of the till. ‘He didn’t say, and I could hardly ask him. It’s not as if it matters, after all.’

‘Of course it matters.’ Christine was frustrated. ‘Do you want to live in this old backwater all your life? For heaven’s sake, you should have seen the car he got into. If it wasn’t a Rolls-Royce, I’ll—’

‘Chris, please!’

Isobel was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate with her young assistant prattling on about a man they were unlikely to see again. For all he’d paid for the necklace, and for all he’d said he’d be back, Isobel was chary. She had the feeling he’d been looking for something she didn’t sell.

But what?

‘Well...’ Christine wasn’t daunted ‘...it’s time you realised you’re not getting any younger. The old body clock is ticking, Issy. And you are almost thirty. I wouldn’t be so blasé, if I were you.’

‘But you’re not me, are you?’ retorted Isobel, stung into her own defence. ‘And I’m not a seventeen-year-old girl who still believes in fairy stories. If he is as—as good-looking as you think, and rich enough to drive a Rolls-Royce, he’s not going to be interested in me, is he—an ageing spinster, with a mid-life crisis?’

‘Now you’re exaggerating,’ declared Christine, getting down from the counter and scuffing her toe against the worn vinyl flooring. ‘Just because I mentioned your age doesn’t mean I think you’re middle-aged. But you have to admit you’re not getting any younger, and, knowing how you dote on those children of your brother’s, I’d have thought you’d like a baby of your own.’

Isobel pressed her lips together. She was tempted to make some scathing retort, but she knew that anything she said could be misconstrued as sour grapes. Nevertheless, she resented Christine’s assumption that all women must necessarily want to get married. She wasn’t at all sure that that was an option she wanted to consider. She was quite happy being her own mistress, and although she didn’t dislike men she’d never felt the slightest inclination to submit her will to that of some nebulous male.

Until today...

But that was ridiculous, and she knew it. As she secured the roll of notes with an elastic band and added them to the jingling coins already in the leather bag she used to carry the money to and from the bank, she acknowledged that Christine would have a field-day if she knew what her employer was really thinking. Because, far from being able to dismiss the attractive stranger from her mind, Isobel had hardly known a moment’s peace since he had departed. To say that he had disturbed her was a vast understatement; it would be more accurate to compare an earthquake to the minor tremors they had felt in Wales.

‘You would like to get married, wouldn’t you?’ Christine persisted, and Isobel wondered how they’d ever got onto this topic. A schoolfriend of Christine’s had recently found herself pregnant and was having to get married, and since then Chris had become decidedly broody. Her own parents had produced seven children, and, since she was the daughter of a local farmer, she was well-versed in animal husbandry.

‘I don’t know,’ Isobel answered now, collecting her cardigan from the room at the back of the shop. ‘If you’re finished, can we get going? I want to go to Stoddart’s before they close.’

Christine had no choice but to precede her employer out of the shop, and Isobel set the alarm and then joined her. As she locked the door she couldn’t help casting a faintly apprehensive look about her. But there was no sign of her intriguing visitor, or the expensive car that Christine had said he drove.

Leaving the younger girl to go her own way, Isobel went to the bank first, stowing the day’s takings in the night safe before turning back to the local supermarket. She felt in need of some extra sustenance, and she put a bottle of white wine into her basket. At least she could afford to live reasonably comfortably, she reflected. Her grandmother’s legacy had enabled her to do that.

But as she walked home, exchanging greetings with many of the other shopkeepers who were closing up for the night, she couldn’t help wondering if that was why she hadn’t got married before now. Being independent had its advantages, but it also made one more inclined to think things out. Her usual criterion, when some man began to show too close an interest in her, was to ask herself what she had to gain from the liaison. If the answer was nothing, as it invariably was, she ended the relationship. In consequence, she had remained detached from any emotional entanglements.

Her own parents were hardly a good example of married bliss. Although she was sure they cared about one another, they each lived their own lives. Her mother ran a fairly successful interior decorating business in Stratford, and her father was the local doctor, and therefore absorbed in his work. Isobel was their only daughter, but they had never put any pressure on her. She supposed they would appreciate a couple more grandchildren one day, but her brother’s three seemed more than enough to be going on with.

Isobel’s cottage was situated off the high street, in a narrow lane that backed onto the church. It was another of the advantages that her grandmother’s legacy had given her. Until her grandmother died, she had been living and working in London.

Of course, she had been a part of the so-called rat race in those days. Leaving university with a double first in art and history, she had joined a well-known firm of auctioneers, with a view to becoming one of their in-house experts. The salary had been excellent and the work interesting, but the kind of social life she had been expected to enjoy had made her realise she was not really cut out for such political manoeuvring. She was basically a country girl who found life in the city rather shallow and specious. She was happiest with people who were not desperate to further their ambitions, and to whom an invitation to supper possessed no hidden agenda.

The crunch had come when her immediate superior had been dismissed because, according to her boss, she couldn’t handle it. It had not been until Isobel, promoted in her place, had discovered what the ‘it’ was that he had been talking about that she had given in her notice. The fact that her grandmother had just died had seemed just an unhappy coincidence until the solicitor had informed her of the legacy the old lady had left her. With it she had been able to buy the cottage, and take her time looking around for an alternative occupation.

The idea of opening the craft shop had been an inspiration, and it had been amazing how quickly the advertisement she had placed in the local newspaper had borne fruit. Until then, the many amateur craftsmen and women in the area had not had a shop window in which to display their wares. They’d been obliged to offer their work at fairs and jumble sales, often accepting less than the articles were worth to obtain a sale. With the opening of Caprice, they had their opportunity, and Isobel was always amazed at how the standard of the merchandise she was offered just went up and up.

The past five years had been the happiest of her life, and it was only the vague apprehension she was feeling about the coming increase in the rent for the shop that was looming like a cloud on the horizon now. It depended how much it was, of course, but it wouldn’t be easy absorbing the increase without putting up the cost of the goods she sold, and while she had great faith in the quality of the workmanship people often wanted designer names these days.

Still, she reflected, opening her front door and stepping into the cool, scented shadows of her hallway, Richard had promised to do his best to limit the increase. If he could persuade his employers not to be too greedy, he would, and the shopkeepers had little choice but to wait and trust his judgement.

Once again, an old lady’s death was proving decisive in determining the direction that her life was going to take. Old Mrs Foxworth, whose estate had once encompassed all the land and property in and around Horsham, had died a little over a year ago, and since then the majority of the estate’s remaining assets had been sold to Shannon Holdings. A public company, with dealings in many of the developed countries of the world, it was a world away from Mrs Foxworth’s agent, with whom they had had an almost intimate association. Barney Penlaw was retired now—compulsorily, some people said—and in his place they had Richard Gregory, who, for all his smiles and old-world courtesy, was still the face of capitalism, she supposed.

When he’d first appeared, about three months ago, Christine had made the same comments about him as she had made about the man who’d bought the shell necklace, and in Richard’s case Isobel had to admit they were not so misplaced. He had made no secret of the fact that he was attracted to her, and although she hadn’t encouraged him she knew his frequent visits to Horsham were not just to report on the expected increase in the rents.

But Isobel remained indifferent to his overtures. He was married, for one thing, and although he maintained that he and his wife were having problems the very fact that there were children proved that this hadn’t always been the case. Besides, she had no wish to get involved with him and possibly jeopardise the rights of her fellow shopkeepers, should their relationship come to grief. She liked Richard: he made her laugh. But she had yet to find a man who satisfied all her needs. Sometimes she thought she never would.

It was a warm evening. June had been a rather wet month so far, but for the past couple of days the weather had improved, and Isobel couldn’t wait to get the cottage windows open. In spite of the pot-pourri she’d brought from the shop and kept in dishes about the cottage to keep the air sweet and flowery, the heat had made the atmosphere a little musty, and dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that swept through an opened blind.

But, for all that, the cottage still charmed her in much the same way as it had always done. Perhaps it was because it was hers, her first real home of her own. The flat she had shared with two other girls in London had never been that, and returning to live with her parents would have created difficulties she could see more clearly in retrospect.

In any event, she had been glad not to have to test that relationship, and in the five years since she’d moved in she had made many small improvements. Not least the installation of an adequate heating system, she reflected wryly. The first winter at Lime Cottage, she’d shivered in her bed.

But now the cottage welcomed her, its oak beams and funny inglenook fireplace gaining in character now that its shortcomings had been dealt with. It wasn’t big, just a living room and breakfast room-cum-kitchen downstairs, and two bedrooms—one of which was little more than a boxroom—and a bathroom upstairs. She’d added an Aga and a shower, and both the kitchen and bathroom had needed modernising, of course. But she had retained the cottage’s harmony, and visitors always remarked on its feeling of warmth.

Isobel put the things she had bought on the kitchen table, unloading perishable items into the fridge before going upstairs to change and take a shower. It was one of her idiosyncrasies that she liked to bathe and change her clothes before sitting down to supper. Then she could look forward to a pleasant evening ahead, with good food, a glass of wine, and possibly some music on the radio.

She had a television, but she seldom watched it, preferring the radio or her own choice of music on compact disc. She wasn’t particularly highbrow in her choice of listening: she enjoyed a lot of modern music, particularly jazz. But her favourite composer had to be Chopin, his sonatas filling the cottage with beauty whenever she felt depressed.

Because it was a warm evening, she didn’t bother getting dressed again, but came downstairs wearing a dark red silk kimono with orchids appliquéd along the satin lapels. It was hardly her sort of thing, but her mother had brought it back from a buying trip to Tokyo, and although the colour was more vivid than she was used to there was no doubt that it was superbly comfortable to wear.

She was stir-frying some vegetables to go with the omelette she intended to have for her supper when someone knocked at the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone, and although it wasn’t late she had hoped to spend the evening alone. Neither of her parents was likely to call without prior warning, and there’d been no messages on her answering machine from either them or her brother and sister-in-law.

For a heart-stopping moment, she thought of the man who had come into the shop earlier. Was it possible he had decided he wanted to take the necklace tonight after all? But no. That was ludicrous. He didn’t know where she lived, and in any case she never brought other people’s purchases home.

Removing the pan from the heat, she wiped her hands on a paper towel and surveyed her appearance with some misgiving. She had washed her hair in the shower, and although she’d used the drier on it she’d left it loose about her shoulders, and her image now wasn’t at all the one she preferred others to see.

The knocker was rapped again, and she heaved a sigh. With all the windows in the cottage open, she could hardly pretend she wasn’t at home. No, there was nothing for it but to see who it was, and hope she could get rid of them. She grimaced. It might be the vicar, after all.

The idea of the fairly sanctimonious Mr Mason being confronted by the scarlet kimono made her smile, and she was attempting to straighten her expression as she opened the door. But it wasn’t the Reverend Mason, it was Richard Gregory, and he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.

‘Hello,’ he said, his eyes darkening. ‘You look nice. Are you going somewhere special?’

‘In this?’ Isobel was mildly sarcastic. ‘I don’t think so somehow.’ She paused. ‘How did you know where I live?’

‘Oh, Chris told me ages ago,’ responded Richard without hesitation. ‘Can I come in?’ He lifted his hand. ‘I’ve brought a bottle of wine.’

Isobel’s tongue circled her lips. ‘It’s very kind of you, but-’

‘You’re not going to turn me away, are you?’ His face assumed a mournful expression. ‘I’ve driven all the way from Oxford. I thought you’d be glad to see me.’

Isobel suppressed a sigh. ‘Now why should you imagine that?’ she asked, vaguely resenting his presumption. ‘I’m sorry. I—I should have explained at once. I am going out this evening, actually. I was just getting ready.’ She crossed the fingers of one hand behind her back, and gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

Richard’s features suffused with a rather unbecoming colour. He was very fair, his hair so light that it appeared almost white sometimes, and the redness that entered his cheeks gave his face a hectic look. He was obviously disappointed, but there was something more than disappointment in his manner. If she hadn’t known he was such a good-humoured man, she’d have said he was angry. There was something almost aggressive in his stance.

‘And that’s it?’ he said, revealing a side of himself that hitherto she hadn’t encountered, and Isobel felt a momentary twinge of fear. After all, the cottage was at least a dozen yards from its nearest neighbour, and the elderly couple whose property adjoined hers were away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, and something—perhaps an awareness that he was in danger of destroying their friendly association—seemed to bring him to his senses.

‘Yes,’ he said, in an entirely different tone. ‘Yes, I should have phoned first; I realise that now. Well—’ he handed her the bottle ‘—there’s no point in wasting this. Have it with my blessing, and I’ll see you next week.’

Isobel wanted to refuse the wine. The way she was feeling at the moment, she wanted nothing of his to mar the peaceful ambience of the cottage. But it was easier to accept it than risk creating another confrontation, and she thanked him very politely as she bid him farewell.

It was only as she closed the door that she wondered if by chance he could have smelt the stir-fried vegetables. It seemed likely, which might account for his sudden aggressive mood. If he’d thought that she was lying to him, he could have felt resentful, but, either way, she was extremely glad he had gone.

CHAPTER THREE

‘HE WENT to see her on Tuesday night. I know he did.’ Jillian’s voice was filled with outrage. ‘I thought you were going to speak to her, Patrick. You promised me you would.’

Patrick expelled a resigned breath. ‘How do you know he went to see her?’ he asked, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Did you follow him?’

‘Of course not.’ Jillian sounded indignant now. ‘But I did check the milometer like you told me to, and there was over a hundred miles more on Wednesday morning.’

Patrick cast the towel he had been using to dry himself aside and bent closer to the mirror to examine his overnight stubble. He had hardly got out of the shower when his housekeeper had come to tell him that Mrs Gregory was on the telephone. He’d half expected her to ring him last night, but it had been fairly late when he’d got back from Basle.

‘Well?’ Jillian was impatient. ‘Did you speak to her or didn’t you? For heaven’s sake, Pat, I’m getting desperate. Rich has never been so indifferent to my feelings before.’

‘Don’t you mean he’s never been so reckless before?’ suggested her brother drily, wishing he’d never agreed to get involved in this. ‘The very fact that you use the word “before” proves it. How many times does he need to be unfaithful to you before you come to your senses?’

Jillian sniffed. ‘I love him, Pat. You know that. I know he has his faults, but deep inside he loves me too.’

Patrick stifled a groan. In his opinion, Richard Gregory didn’t love anyone but himself. At present, he was enamoured of the rather colourless young woman Patrick had visited on Tuesday afternoon, but Patrick had no doubt that Isobel Herriot was just a passing fancy and that pretty soon there’d be some other contender for his brother-in-law’s affections. It wasn’t as if she was a raving beauty, or possessed any outstanding attribute that Patrick could see. She was simply a village shopkeeper, with a personal axe to grind.

Or at least that was what he’d told himself as Joe Muzambe had driven him back to town. His own unwelcome reactions to the woman he’d put down to a hormonal imbalance. He hadn’t seen Joanna in over a week, due to this problem with Richard and pressure of work. What he needed was an evening with his girlfriend, and time to expunge his sexual frustration. What he didn’t need was an aberrant attraction to Richard’s mistress, who was simply not his type.

‘Then why don’t you speak to him about it?’ he asked now, unaware that he was still avoiding answering her question until she repeated it. Then, ‘Yes. Yes, I saw her. You don’t have anything to worry about, believe me.’

Jillian’s hesitation was expressive. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked at last, and Patrick took another restraining breath.

‘I mean that I can’t imagine what—if anything—Rich sees in her,’ he declared at last. ‘She’s—insipid, Jill. A nonentity. I can only assume he’s in the mood for dowdy spinsters these days.’

Jillian uttered a cry. ‘Do you think that makes me feel any better?’

‘It should.’ Patrick was growing impatient. ‘Believe me, Jill, if you can just close your eyes for another couple of weeks, it’ll all be over.’

‘No!’

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I mean I can’t close my eyes to what’s going on right under my nose. You don’t know Rich as I do, Pat. This time I think he’s serious. He doesn’t have any time for me; he doesn’t have any time for the children. Susie’s beginning to notice. Just last night she asked me why Daddy doesn’t play games with them any more.’

Patrick closed his eyes. ‘You’re exaggerating.’

‘I’m not.’ Jillian sniffed again. ‘Anyway, what did you say to her? Did you tell her Rich was married? That he has a family who depend on him?’

‘I think she knows,’ admitted Patrick unwillingly, recalling that she’d mentioned Susie’s name. ‘As far as speaking to her goes, I’m not sure that would be an advantage. You could exacerbate the situation, if you see what I mean.’

‘I don’t see what you mean!’ exclaimed Jillian resentfully. ‘And it’s not as if you don’t have any power. What you’re really saying is that you don’t want to help me. That as far as you’re concerned she holds all the cards.’

‘No.’ Patrick’s jaw clamped, and he knew an uncharacteristic urge to hang up on her. This wasn’t his problem, he told himself grimly. God, why couldn’t she have married someone else?

‘Well...’ Jillian was obviously making no effort to hide the fact that she was upset—and disappointed in him. ‘I suppose I shall have to go and see her myself—’

‘You can’t do that.’ Patrick spoke through his teeth. Then, with great reluctance, he went on, ‘All right, all right, I’ll go and see her again. But I’m not making any promises. I’ll just put your point of view across and see what she says.’

‘You won’t put her out of the shop?’

Patrick gasped. ‘Put her out of the shop?’ he echoed. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Well, Shannon Holdings do own the leases on all those shops, don’t they?’ Jillian pointed out silkily. ‘If she wasn’t one of your tenants, Rich would have no excuse to go and see her.’

Patrick’s jaw sagged. ‘And you think that would stop him?’

Jillian gulped defensively. ‘It might.’

‘Forget it,’ said Patrick harshly. ‘Just leave it with me. As I say, I’ll see what I can do.’

With the phone safely returned to its hook, Patrick turned angrily towards the handbasin. Groping for his razor, he avoided meeting his eyes as he applied lather and scraped savagely at his beard. For God’s sake, he thought frustratedly, Jillian was sometimes more trouble than all his overseas operations put together. Or, perhaps more accurately, Richard was. He wondered what she’d say if he suggested getting rid of his brother-in-law instead.

He knew he couldn’t do it, of course. For all his faults, Richard was still family, and because, soon after he and Jillian had got married, he’d lost his position with a Japanese company due to their relocation to Taiwan Patrick had offered him the job.

It had been either that or suffer Jillian’s recriminations. She had been pregnant with their first child at the time, and any idea of moving to the Far East had been out of the question so far as she was concerned. She’d wanted to stay in England; she’d wanted to keep her home and be near her family. It would have been a hard man indeed who could have withstood her pleas.

And, although Patrick was regarded in some quarters as a hard man, he had accommodated her. Since their father had died some years ago, he’d been regarded as the head of the family, and it was a responsibility he hadn’t accepted lightly. Outside Shannon Holdings, it was the only responsibility he was prepared to shoulder. His ex-wife’s greedy machinations had convinced him of that.

He cut his chin with the razor, the blood welling crimson over his jaw. Dammit he swore angrily, swabbing it with a towel and scowling at the stain on the pure white cotton, why couldn’t Jillian solve her own problems? He had no desire to go back to Horsham, no desire to see Isobel Herriot again.

As luck would have it, he had a free morning. He hadn’t been expected to arrive back from the conference in Switzerland until today, and although his managing director would expect to see him at this afternoon’s meeting he had more than enough time to drive to Warwickshire and back again. All he had to do was pick up the phone and call Joe. In a little under an hour, he could be on his way.

Mrs Joyce had breakfast waiting for him, but apart from two cups of coffee and a slice of toast he barely touched it.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Mrs Joyce fussily, knowing that he usually enjoyed her blueberry pancakes, and Patrick gave her an apologetic smile.

‘I’m afraid I’m not hungry this morning, Mrs Joyce,’ he said, folding his copy of the Financial Times and getting up from the table. ‘Offer them to Joe when he gets here. I know he won’t turn you down.’

‘And have him suffering from indigestion all morning because he’s had to hurry them?’ Mrs Joyce rejoined tartly. ‘If he’s coming to pick you up, you know you’ll be waiting. And Mr Muzambe is nothing if not conscientious.’

‘Aren’t you all?’ murmured Patrick in an undertone, striking his thigh with the rolled-up newspaper as he walked out of the morning room. He didn’t have time to massage Mrs Joyce’s feelings. Right now he was fighting Jillian’s battles, and he still had a business to run.

A couple of hours later, as they approached the turn-off for Banbury and Stratford, Patrick put away the papers he had been working on since they’d left London and applied his mind to the interview ahead. He grimaced. Not that it hadn’t been on his mind ever since he’d spoken to Jillian, he admitted to himself irritably. His efforts to work on the journey were proof of that. He had read the last balance sheet at least half a dozen times.

‘How much further?’ he asked, more for something to say than anything else, and Joe Muzambe looked into the rear-view mirror and fixed him with a thoughtful look.

‘Ten—twelve miles, maybe,’ he answered, transferring his attention back to the road. ‘Is this another fleeting visit, or will you be having lunch with the lady?’

Patrick scowled. ‘How do you know it’s a lady I’m going to see?’

‘I heard,’ replied Joe impassively, slowing for a roundabout. ‘Mrs Gregory isn’t always fussy about keeping her voice down.’

‘No.’ Patrick conceded the point, aware that whatever was said between them would go no further. ‘Let’s hope I have some success this time. I don’t want to make this journey again. I’ve got to go to the States on Monday, and I’m not going to have any more time.’

Joe bowed his bullet-shaped head. In common with a lot of young men of his age, he wore his head shaved, and that, combined with his broad shoulders and powerful physique, was enough to deter any would-be kidnapper. Patrick had had his share of threats, like any man in his position, and Joe served as both chauffeur and bodyguard—and confidant, on occasion.

‘Does that mean you won’t be having lunch in Horsham?’ Joe ventured, accelerating past a pair of cyclists, and Patrick gave him an impatient look.

‘Yes, it does,’ he said shortly, aware that Joe was bearing the brunt of his ill humour. ‘Dammit, this isn’t a social call.’

Joe shrugged, too used to his employer’s moods to be put out. Besides, normally Patrick Shannon was an excellent employer, and it was only when his sister got on his back that other people suffered.

Meanwhile, Patrick was brooding over what to do about the shell necklace. All right, he had bought the damn thing, but he had never intended to return to collect it. OK, Isobel Herriot hadn’t been what he had expected, and just for a few moments there she had briefly laid siege to his senses, but that was all it had been—a momentary aberration. The very idea of him and his brother-in-law sharing the same taste in women was ludicrous—apart from the very real emotions Jillian would feel if he told her he had been attracted to the woman too.

There wasn’t a space to park in the high street this morning, so Patrick had Joe drop him off near the craft shop, and arranged to meet him outside the shop in fifteen minutes.

‘In the car?’ asked Joe, pushing his luck, and Patrick’s eyes narrowed.

‘In the car,’ he agreed, stepping out onto the pavement. ‘If you can find somewhere to park, get yourself a cup of coffee, right?’

‘Right, boss,’ agreed Joe sardonically, and Patrick’s lips twitched at his attempt at humour. Bloody hell, he thought irritably, this was an impossible situation. He should have spoken to Richard first, not his mistress.

The trouble was that speaking to Richard was a little like trying to catch raindrops in your hands. Just when you thought you’d caught one, it slipped away through your fingers. Patrick had spoken to Richard before, and his brother-in-law had made promises he’d never had any intention of keeping. He knew that so long as Jillian wanted him Patrick didn’t stand a chance.

Caprice.

As he’d done on that other occasion, Patrick looked in the shop window before venturing inside. Apart from a child and its mother, who appeared to be talking to someone behind the counter, the shop was empty.

Oh, well, he thought, he didn’t have time to wait any longer. When Joe brought the car back, he intended to be waiting, whether his mission was accomplished or not.

A bell rang as he pushed open the door, and a handful of wind chimes rustled in the breeze. His entry attracted the attention of both the women by the counter, and the child regarded him solemnly, its thumb pushed into its mouth.

It only took a moment to realise that neither of the women was Isobel Herriot. He had hardly expected her to be the young mother anyway, but the girl behind the counter looked like a teenager. His spirits plummeted, the determination that had driven him through the door bringing a resigned droop to his mouth. He might have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing ever was.

‘Hello.’ The girl behind the counter was regarding him with a rather avid interest, and although he wasn’t a conceited man he suspected that there was a certain covetousness in her gaze. ‘Are you looking for Issy?’ she asked, desecrating what Patrick had previously thought of as a very attractive name. ‘She’s in the back. I’ll get her. She was just about to go for lunch.

‘I—well—’

She was gone before he could stop her, and the young woman hanging onto the toddler gave him a reassuring look. ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘If only we could get rid of that wind. Still, it dries the clothes, and saves the electricity. That’s what my husband always says.’

Patrick smiled, and only someone who knew him rather better than she did would have known that his smile wasn’t genuine. ‘At least it’s fine,’ he managed smoothly, wondering why the English always talked about the weather. He looked down and saw that the little girl had snatched what looked like a handful of dried leaves out of an open barrel and was about to stuff them into her mouth. He nodded. ‘I think your daughter’s trying to tell you something. It’s lunchtime for her too, I guess.’

‘What? Ooh, Tracy!’ The young woman bent down and tipped the crushed debris out of her hand. ‘That’s pot pourri,’ she added, pronouncing it so that it rhymed with ‘hot fury’. ‘Aunty Chris will get into trouble if you’re naughty like that again.’

Patrick was turning away to prevent himself from grinning at the youngster, when Isobel came out of the room at the back of the shop. The other girl was following her, smiling and quirking her eyebrows at the woman with the toddler. He supposed Isobel must have told her assistant that he had come back to collect the necklace, but he couldn’t believe they got so few customers that his purchase was unique.

She was wearing a floral print today, a dress this time, but with a similarly long hem. As she came around the end of the counter and handed him a package, he saw that the heavy boots were still in evidence, together with a denim haversack over one shoulder, which added to her outdoor appearance.

‘There you are,’ she said, apparently undisturbed by the stares from the other women. ‘I’ve put a ribbon on it. I thought she might like it to look special.’

‘She?’

For a minute, Patrick was confused. The delicate aroma of her perfume had surrounded him again, and he was intensely conscious of the nearness of her body. The dress had short sleeves and a V neckline, and in the opening he could see the dusky hollow between her breasts. He could smell the faint heat of her skin, too, as she turned aside from him, her mission apparently completed.

‘Your niece.’

Her response drifted over her shoulder, and he struggled to pull himself together as what she had said suddenly made sense. ‘Oh, yes, my niece,’ he agreed mechanically, weighing the gift-wrapped package between his fingers. ‘Um—thank you,’ he added lamely. ‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’

Liar.

He knew, just as he’d known when he’d bought the necklace two days ago, that Susie would never see it. He supposed he could pretend he’d bought it elsewhere, but it was too big a risk to take. Besides, it wasn’t as if it had been expensive. He could have been stuck with a bill for a piece of jewellery if Isobel had worked for a goldsmith. As it was, he had his parcel and no further need to stay.

Or so she thought.

But what the hell could he do with the other two women watching his reactions so closely? What were they expecting? he wondered. What had she told them about him? He found that he resented the thought that she had apparently been discussing him with her young assistant. Had they been speculating about his identity? Or was it something more personal than that?

There was nothing for it but to leave. Even if he’d been inclined to ask to speak to her privately—in the back room, perhaps—he found the idea repulsive. He had no way of knowing how soundproof the walls of the room might be, and the thought of their discussion being overheard in the shop was too abhorrent to consider.

‘Was there something else?’

Isobel was waiting for him to go, and with a terse shake of his head Patrick strode towards the door. So much for his hopes of dealing with the matter swiftly, he thought.

Now he was going to have to think of an excuse to come back again.

He was stepping out into the sunlight when he realised she was behind him, and he suddenly remembered that the girl—Chris?—had said Isobel was just about to go for lunch. Which explained the ugly haversack, he supposed. Why couldn’t she use a handbag like anyone else?

He moved aside to hold the door for her, and although he sensed she didn’t welcome his assistance she was too polite to ignore the courtesy. ‘Thanks,’ she said, with a tight smile, and started off along the pavement. And, before common sense could prevent the gesture, Patrick caught hold of her arm.

‘Excuse me...’

‘Yes?’

Her response warned him she was not in the mood for any prevarication, and Patrick said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Um—I don’t suppose you’d consider having lunch with me? I’ve—got a business proposition I’d like to put to you.’

CHAPTER FOUR

ISOBEL sucked in her breath. ‘A business proposition?’ she echoed sceptically. ‘What kind of a business proposition?’

The man glanced up and down the high street. ‘Well, I’d prefer not to discuss it here,’ he remarked, his eyes returning to her face. ‘Your—assistant said it was your lunch break. It would seem to kill two birds with one stone if we ate together.’

Would it?

Isobel moistened her lips with a nervous tongue. ‘But—I don’t even know your name,’ she protested uneasily. ‘And, honestly, Mr—er—well, I don’t really think you’re interested in Caprice.’

Which seemed to imply he was interested in her, she realised unhappily as soon as the words were spoken. And she was fairly sure that that wasn’t the case at all. Whatever he had on his mind, it wasn’t the seduction of her rather too generous body. She’d seen him looking at her breasts, and she doubted he was attracted by their wholesome exuberance. Besides, like Richard, he was wearing a ring on the third finger of his left hand. His wife was probably one of those elegant clothes-horses, with angular bones and a narrow chest.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said firmly. ‘And my name’s...Hiker—Patrick Riker.’ He held out his hand, and she was obliged to take it. ‘There, now,’ he added, with a wry smile, ‘we’re properly introduced.’

Isobel managed a brief smile in return, but as soon as she could she pulled her hand away. It wasn’t that she didn’t like touching his flesh; on the contrary, his skin felt disturbingly intimate gripping her damp palm. But it was this, more than anything, that made her wary. She’d never felt so aware of another individual before.

‘So...lunch?’ he reminded her, holding her gaze with eyes that were green in some lights and hazel in others. The wind lifted a lock of dark hair and deposited it on his forehead. Patrick Riker—if that really was his name—pushed it back with long, olive-skinned fingers, drawing her attention to the length of the hair that brushed the virgin whiteness of his collar.

Only she suspected there was nothing remotely virgin about him. There was too much knowledge—too much experience—in that lean, intelligent face. He wasn’t strictly handsome; his features—high cheekbones, a narrow blade of a nose, a thin, almost cruel mouth—were too strong for that. But there was no doubt that he was attractive; she was sure that women must fall over themselves trying to capture his attention.

‘Well, I don’t usually eat lunch,’ she said at last, having no intention of telling him that she usually went home during her lunch break. All the same, it was quite pleasant to have to look up at a man. At five feet eight herself, it wasn’t usually the case.

‘Make an exception,’ he persisted, casting another swift glance along the length of the high street. ‘Oh—excuse me a moment. I have to speak to someone. Just wait here. This won’t take very long.’

Isobel sighed. This was becoming ridiculous. Why couldn’t he just accept that she didn’t want to have lunch with him? Just because he was used to getting his own way it was no reason for her to bolster his ego.

Her awareness of eyes boring into her back made her turn her head. Christine and her sister were peering around the tastefully designed pyramid of scented candles she’d just arranged that morning. Evidently they had seen him talking to her, and were watching eagerly to see what happened next. Well, they were going to be disappointed, she decided. She was not going to provide a peep-show for anyone.

Patrick Riker had crossed the pavement, and was presently leaning in the window of a large green limousine that was parked at the kerb. The driver of the limousine was a black man, she noticed unwilling. Was that the car Chris had spoken about—the swish vehicle she’d thought was a Rolls-Royce?

She wasn’t interested.

Jamming her teeth together, Isobel strode quickly to the first intersection. It had occurred to her that, as Patrick Riker didn’t know his way around Horsham, if she could disappear into a side-street she could very likely give him the slip. She might even be able to make her way home, if she used a roundabout route. It was annoying that she was having to do this, but she didn’t believe he wanted to speak to her about her business at all.

So what did he want to speak to her about? She tapped her foot impatiently as a delivery wagon took an inordinate amount of time to clear the junction. She wasn’t absurdly modest, but she wasn’t credulous either. He hadn’t bought the necklace because he fancied her. He was far too sophisticated for that.

‘Isobel—Miss Herriot!’

He had seen her. Even as she contemplated pretending she hadn’t heard his call, the powerful limousine swept by her, with only the driver on board. Already Patrick Riker’s powerful strides were eating up the ground between them. She could wait for him, or she could run. Somehow the latter seemed vaguely childish.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked when he reached her, and she looked at him with irritation in her eyes.

‘I thought I’d explained—I don’t have time to eat lunch,’ she said, preparing to cross the street. ‘Thank you for your invitation, but I’ve got more important things to do.’

‘More important than expanding your business?’ he asked, taking her breath away with the scope of his suggestion. ‘I’m in a position to offer you another outlet. In—Stratford, let’s say, if that appeals to you.’

Isobel swallowed. ‘Why?’

He looked a little taken aback at that, but he recovered quickly, and moved his shoulders in a dismissive gesture. ‘Why not?’ he countered. ‘It seems a worthwhile proposition.’ He paused. ‘We could discuss it at more length if you’d agree to join me for lunch.’

Isobel tried to think. ‘I—I can’t.’

‘Why can’t you?’

‘Because—’ she consulted the rather mannish watch on her wrist ‘—I’ve got to be back at the shop in half an hour. Chris—my assistant—only works part-time. I promised I wouldn’t be long.’

Which was at least partially true. Chris did only work part-time, and she had said she wouldn’t be long. But she had no doubt that Chris would understand if she was late. Particularly if she thought her employer was having lunch with him.

His hesitation was only momentary. ‘Dinner, then,’ he said, his lips thinning as if the idea was as alien to him as it was to her. ‘Have dinner with me this evening. I’d very much like to talk to you.’

Isobel hesitated now. Common sense advised her to refuse his invitation, but, deep inside, some rebellious instinct was urging her to accept. What did she have to lose, after all? It wasn’t as if she was in any danger of falling for him. She should take the opportunity to be wined and dined by an attractive man at its face value. At the least, she’d probably enjoy the meal, and it was always possible that he did mean what he said.

‘All right,’ she said, her tongue once again acting several seconds ahead of her brain. ‘Um—where shall we go? I’ll meet you.’ She cast her mind around. ‘There’s pub at Swalford called The Coach House. It’s only about a mile away. How about that?’

‘Sounds good.’ His expression softened. ‘But why don’t I pick you up? That way we can both have a drink.’

‘It’s all right. I don’t drink much anyway,’ declared Isobel hurriedly. She had no desire for him to find out where she lived. ‘I’ll meet you there at—at half past seven. Or is that too early for you? I can’t make it any sooner because the shop doesn’t close until six o’clock.’

‘No problem.’ The wind ruffled his hair again, and he swept it back with an impatient hand. ‘Until half past seven, then. I’ll be looking forward to it.’

Isobel smiled, but she didn’t make a similar claim. Now that the arrangements were made, she was suffering the usual feelings of doubt about her decision. Why had she agreed to meet him when she believed his motives were suspect? Somehow, the justification that she had nothing to lose no longer convinced her.

Isobel got home that evening later than she had anticipated. Several Japanese tourists, who had been visiting the monastery, had discovered the shop on the way back to the coach, and because of language difficulties their purchases had taken rather longer then she would have liked. Of course, they were charming people, and unfailingly polite, but by the time Isobel had ushered the last pair out of the door it was already quarter past six.

One way and another, it had been a frustrating day, she thought tensely, and it wasn’t over yet. She still had to decide what she was going to wear tonight, and the prospect of the evening ahead filled her with unease.

Still, she was committed to going, and according to Chris, who had insisted on hearing all the details, she should make the most of it. Whatever his motives, her young assistant had told her, Patrick Riker was the most exciting man she had ever met, and if Isobel wanted a substitute she’d happily go in her place.

Of course, that was out of the question, and Chris knew it. But that hadn’t stopped her offering Isobel advice on everything from the clothes she should choose to the make-up she should wear.

‘Put on some of that Champagne perfume,’ she’d suggested, mentioning the expensive Yves Saint Laurent fragrance her parents had bought her for her birthday. ‘And for goodness’ sake don’t put your hair in that braid. Leave it loose, for once. It suits you.’

Now, half an hour later, Isobel surveyed the pile of discarded garments lying on the bed with raw impatience. It was no use; she had nothing suitable for spending an evening with a man like him. She had thought her navy suit would do, but that looked incredibly formal, and her dresses were all cotton, and most of them had seen better days.

All she was left with were the full skirts and loose shirts she usually wore for working in. Most of the time, when she wasn’t wearing her long skirts or cotton dresses, she wore jeans and sweaters. But, like everything else she’d pulled out of her wardrobe, the jeans were worn and shabby. Her mother was right; she should spend more time on herself. But that wasn’t going to help her now.

With an irritated gesture, she snatched up the least boring item on the bed and put it on. As a matter of fact, it was also her least favourite garment, which was probably why it didn’t look as tired as the rest. It was a sleeveless pinafore, made of fine black cotton jersey, which she’d previously only worn with a T-shirt underneath. But tonight she allowed the spaghetti straps to rest on her smooth bare shoulders, the button-through bodice moulding the curves that she tried so hard to ignore.

She sighed. It was a warm evening, and despite her misgivings the dress was not unsuitable. But it was far more revealing than anything she had owned before, and she was about to tear it off again when someone knocked at her door.

‘Oh, damn!’ she groaned, hoping against hope that it wasn’t Richard. After the way she’d sent him away on Tuesday evening, it would be typical of him to turn up unannounced. She didn’t want to have to tell him she was going out with another man, particularly a man she hardly knew, and for whom she was making such a fuss.

She stood by her bed, hoping whoever it was would get the message and go away again, but, as before, the knocker was rapped once more. Of course, it could be her mother, she thought. It was almost a week since she’d seen either of her parents, and they were unlikely to hold her up, particularly if they thought she had a heavy date. Not that it was heavy, she reminded herself, but her mother wasn’t to know that.

Deciding she would have to see who it was, she ran hastily down the stairs. Because of the angle of the eaves, it was impossible to spy on the porch from the bedroom, and she could hardly peer through the living-room window and risk coming face to face with a stranger. She could have looked out of the window upstairs to see if there was a strange car parked in the lane. But as she had no garage herself she had to park at her gate, and visitors to the church sometimes used what free space was left.

Of course, she acknowledged as soon as she opened the door, she would have recognised Patrick Riker’s car if she’d seen it. Its width alone was making it very difficult for any other car to pass along the narrow lane, and its dark green elegance. was unmistakable. The man, too, was fairly unforgettable, propped rather indolently against her porch. He was still wearing the dark blue suit he had worn that afternoon, and in light of the fact that she’d arranged to meet him later on her lips tightened impatiently at his presumption.

‘Hi,’ he said, not at all put out by her obvious annoyance. ‘I was early, so I thought I might as well come and fetch you after all.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You look nice. And ready, too, if I’m not mistaken.’

Isobel knew a childish impulse to stamp her foot. He had no right to come here, no right to know where she lived—though she could guess who had given him her address. No wonder Chris had looked so smug when she’d announced she was having dinner with him. She probably already knew.

‘Well, I’m not quite,’ she stated now. ‘Ready, I mean.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you go on ahead? I can give you directions from here.’

‘Without you?’ he protested. ‘I’d rather wait.’ He looked beyond her, into the sun-dappled hall behind her. ‘I don’t mind.’

Isobel pressed her lips together. ‘As you like,’ she declared tersely, and shut the door in his face.

It was rude, perhaps, but she didn’t know him, she defended herself as she went back upstairs. Women were always being advised not to invite virtual strangers into their home. Besides, his—what? Chauffeur? Bodyguard?—was bound to get impatient. They could keep one another company. It wasn’t her fault he had changed the arrangements.

But the black dress would have to do, she conceded, with a sigh. She had no intention of changing again and giving him the impression she was fussy about what she wore. Some eyeshadow, a little mascara and a caramel-coloured lipstick achieved the effect she was seeking, and she finally picked up her hairbrush to try and subdue the sun-streaked tangle of her hair.

Chris had said not to put it in the braid, but she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to give her young assistant credit for anything. In the event, she secured it at her nape with a velvet scrunch band, aware that curling tendrils would soon escape the constriction and cluster about her temples and her neck.

It was daunting to emerge from the cottage and lock her door with Patrick Riker’s eyes upon her. And his companion’s eyes, she appended tersely. She wasn’t used to being watched, and she didn’t like it. She was glad she had wrapped a black and white Paisley scarf about her shoulders. Although it was a warm evening, it didn’t make her feel so exposed.

However, when she approached the car, she discovered that Patrick was alone. He emerged from behind the wheel to open the front passenger door for her, and she realised that for all her caution they were still to spend some time alone.

‘Where’s your—er—?’

She faltered over the designation, and Patrick helped her out. ‘Joe?’ he asked. ‘His name’s Joe Muzambe. And I’ve given him the evening off.’ He closed her door and walked around to fold his length in beside her. He looked her way. ‘Is it a problem?’

Put like that, it would have sounded rather churlish to object. Besides, it was less than a mile to Swalford. She could always get a taxi home if she thought he’d had too much to drink.

She shook her head, feeling the recalcitrant strands of hair squeezing out of the band already. ‘I—assumed he’d be driving,’ she said, hoping that didn’t sound as if she’d expected it. It wasn’t as if she was used to riding around in expensive cars, with or without a chauffeur at the wheel.

‘Don’t you trust me?’ he asked, and she realised he had not been deceived by her reticence. ‘I know I can’t prove it, but you’re perfectly safe with me.’

Of course she was.

‘I didn’t—that is, I hope you don’t think—’

‘What?’ His eyes were narrowed now. ‘What are you trying to say? That you don’t like me?’ He started the engine, his mouth curling into an ironic smile. ‘That’s all right. It’s not a prerequisite for doing business with someone.’

Isobel took a deep breath. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘No?’

His answer was hardly satisfactory, but the lane was clear of traffic, and he pulled away before she could say any more. Beyond the cottage the lane narrowed, before turning right into another lane that eventually intersected with the high street. It was not a well-known route, but Horsham was not a large village, and most roads ultimately led back to where you’d started. Nevertheless she had the feeling that he’d already checked it out before he even knocked at her door.

‘No,’ she said now, and added with a faint edge to her voice as he turned left along the high street, ‘You seem to know your way around.’

The look he gave her was slightly wary, and she wondered what she’d said to arouse his distrust. It was a free country, for heaven’s sake, and for all she knew he might know the area better than she did. But she had the feeling he was a stranger. She was sure she’d have heard about him if he’d moved into the district.

‘I just follow the signposts,’ he remarked after a moment, and she had to admit there had been an arrow pointing towards Swalford at the junction.

There was silence for a few moments after that, Isobel struggling desperately to think of something suitable to say. It wasn’t that she wanted him to think her particularly clever, but she didn’t want him to think she was stupid either. The trouble was, the men she usually went out with were locals, and she doubted Patrick Riker would be interested in the fact that they were having a drought.

He drove fairly slowly through the village, but once out of the restricted area he allowed the car to find its own speed. The roads around Horsham were inclined to be a little twisty, so there was no question of racing, but he covered the three-quarters of a mile to Swalford in an amazingly short time.

‘I guess this is it,’ he remarked finally, turning into the car park of the The Coach House and parking beside an old Mercedes that had seen better days. For all it was quite early in the evening, there were quite a few cars already occupying the inn’s forecourt—an indication of the popularity of its bar food.

‘I hope you won’t find it a disappointment,’ murmured Isobel, barely audibly, as she acknowledged the incongruity of the limousine in these surroundings. But he’d heard her, and his lips twitched at the back-handed compliment.

‘I doubt if anything could disappoint me this evening,’ he assured her with equal ambiguity. Then, more gently, he asked, ‘Shall we go in?’

CHAPTER FIVE

A HAZE of tobacco smoke hung over the bar, but the dining area adjoined a flagged patio, and the doors had been flung wide to admit the evening air. There were tables on the patio, too, and Patrick allowed her to choose where she wanted to sit. Isobel opted for a table that was near the open doors but not actually on the patio, and Patrick went to get them a drink while she perused the menu.

She had chosen white wine to drink, and he came back with a glass for her and a bottle of imported beer for himself. Pulling out the wooden chair opposite her, he sank into it, accepting the menu she passed him and glancing carelessly at its contents.

‘I suppose this isn’t what you’re used to,’ she said a little awkwardly, despising herself for caring what he thought. She hadn’t instigated this meeting; he had. If he didn’t like her choice of venue, hard luck.

‘You don’t know what I’m used to,’ he countered, lifting his eyes from the menu. ‘Am I allowed to ask what you’re eating? Or is that a state secret?’

Isobel expelled her breath. ‘Lasagne,’ she said. ‘With a green salad to start.’ She licked her lips. ‘They make it on the premises. The owner’s wife comes from Siena.’

‘Ah.’ His eyes dropped back to the menu. ‘You don’t fancy a fillet steak, or anything carnivorous like that?’

‘Well, I’m not a vegetarian,’ she retorted, ‘if that’s what you’re implying. It’s not a vegetable lasagne. It does contain meat.’

‘All right.’ His tone was amused now. ‘I’ll have that too. And a bottle of claret, just to prove I’m not a cheapskate. I can imagine what my chauffeur would say if he knew I’d turned down the steak.’

Isobel looked up at him through her lashes, not quite sure what to make of that, and he grinned. She’d thought he was attractive before, but when his face creased into that infectious smile her heart seemed to skip a beat. Dear God, she thought uneasily, picking up her glass of wine and taking a rather unwary sip, Chris was right—he was devastating.

And dangerous.

He left to order the meal, which would be brought to their table when it was ready, and Isobel wondered when he’d get around to the reason why they had come. It was pleasant to delude herself with the thought that he found her company enjoyable, but, whatever else, he was married, and she had to remember that.

‘This is very nice,’ he said a few moments later, resuming his seat, and Isobel made the usual response.

‘It’s busier than this when the children break up for the summer holidays,’ she said, indicating the few empty tables. ‘There’s a caravan site not far from here, and the pub attracts a lot of evening visitors.’

Patrick nodded. ‘At the risk of sounding trite, do you come here often?’

‘Not often,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe half a dozen times a year.’ She wondered if she should go on, and then continued carefully, ‘I don’t go out a lot. I’m not a night person.’

Patrick’s eyes were too intent. ‘There’s no regular boyfriend, then?’

She caught her breath. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘And if I wanted to make it my business?’

‘You can’t.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘You’re married.’ She held up her head. ‘Don’t you think we ought to talk about why you’ve brought me here? Or was that just a ploy?’

‘How do you know I’m married?’ he probed, choosing the least appropriate thing she’d said, and Isobel looked down at her glass.

‘Does it matter?’ she asked uncomfortably, wishing she’d just made a simple refusal. ‘Oh—thank you,’ she said as the waitress appeared with their salads. ‘No dressing for me. This is fine.’

Patrick refused the dressing too, she noticed, and then moved immediately back into the attack. ‘It matters,’ he said softly, and she was aware of his eyes upon her. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m curious. Humour me.’

Isobel sighed. ‘You’re wearing a wedding ring,’ she said at last, tersely. ‘Now, can we get on with the food?’

‘It’s not a wedding ring,’ he insisted. ‘It was—once. But not any longer. I’ve been divorced for almost six years.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ He touched her hand as it rested on the table. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘If—if you say so, then of course I believe you. But, as I said before, I don’t think it matters either way.’

He caught his lower lip between his teeth. ‘Does that mean you wouldn’t go out with a married man?’

‘I—’ Isobel was essentially honest, and she had to admit that if he asked her she’d be tempted. ‘I—suppose not,’ she finished lamely, and he looked suddenly grim.

They ate the rest of their salad in silence, and she had the feeling that once again she’d said something he didn’t like. Did that mean that he was lying? Was he really married, after all? Or had her doubts communicated themselves to him, and he was shocked?

But no. She didn’t believe that. She sensed that she’d have to say something pretty outrageous to shock this man. So what was he thinking? What was causing that sudden darkness to etch his features? And why did she care anyway? She’d probably never see him again.

‘Did—er—did your niece like the necklace?’ she asked, eager to change the subject, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer her.

But then, after a pregnant pause, he said, ‘I haven’t given it to her yet. She—er—she doesn’t live in London.’

‘Is that where you live?’ she asked, deciding she had the right to ask some questions of her own, and after a moment he gave a resigned nod.

‘That’s right,’ he said, without expression. ‘But it’s good to get out of the city now and again.’

‘To Warwickshire?’ she prompted, and his features grew less tense.

‘Among other places,’ he agreed easily. ‘Do you travel much, Miss Herriot? Or do you prefer the rural life?’

Isobel found she resented his assumption that Horsham must encompass her whole world, and, as if glimpsing the conflicting emotions she was trying hard to suppress, he added gently, ‘It wasn’t a criticism. If you’re happy here, I envy you. I’ve been striving all my life to find true peace of mind.’

Isobel gave him a retiring look. ‘I think you’re patronising me.’

‘I assure you I’m not.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘Why not? It’s the truth.’ He paused. ‘As you get to know me better you’ll find I almost always speak the truth.’

‘Almost always?’

‘I’m in business,’ he said mildly. ‘There have to be exceptions. It wouldn’t do for me to reveal all my secrets.’

Isobel couldn’t resist a small smile. ‘What kind of business are you in?’

‘What kind of—?’ He broke off abruptly, before continuing rather less incredulously, ‘Um—this and that. I—buy and sell things, mostly. Here and overseas.’

‘Here?’ She frowned. ‘As in Horsham?’

‘I meant here in England,’ he replied. ‘But you didn’t answer my question: do you prefer the country life?’

‘I suppose I must.’ Isobel hesitated, and then went on reluctantly, ‘I lived in London for a time. After I’d got my degree. But it didn’t work out, and I came back here.’

She guessed he was curious about what she had done while she’d been living in London, but the return of the waitress with the wine forestalled any questions. ‘The lasagne is just coming,’ she said, removing their salad plates, and Patrick poured two glasses of the rich dark liquid and took a sip.

‘Mmm, that’s good,’ he said, pushing Isobel’s glass towards her, and she wondered if she was only imagining the condescension in his tone.

‘For a village pub, you mean?’ she suggested tartly, and he gave her a resigned look.

‘No. By any standards,’ he retorted, watching as she tasted hers. ‘Don’t be so defensive. I’m not an expert.’

‘Is that supposed to be a vindication?’ she exclaimed, though she couldn’t hide her enjoyment of the wine he’d chosen. ‘Are you one of those people who justify their—well, who say, “I know what I like”?’

‘Justify their ignorance?’ he countered at once, disconcerting her now. ‘Let’s stop insulting one another, shall we? Tell me where you worked in London.’

Isobel sighed. She had hoped not to have to discuss her job in London, or the reason why she had left. ‘As a matter of fact, I worked for Aychbourn’s,’ she admitted at last. ‘But I didn’t like it, so I left.’

‘Aychbourn’s? The auctioneers?’ He was impressed.

‘Mmm.’ Isobel wished they could get off the subject. ‘I’m not such a country bumpkin after all.’

‘I never thought you were!’ he exclaimed. ‘Aychbourn’s, eh?’ He frowned. ‘Did you ever meet a man called Charlie Ankrum?’

Isobel moistened her dry lips. ‘Mr Ankrum was my boss,’ she declared stiffly. She might have known Patrick Riker would know him. They were probably two of a kind.

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