Bridegroom On Loan
Emma Richmond
Carrie Dean had fallen for Andrew Beckford–Beck–the first moment she'd set eyes on him. She thought her new boss was attracted to her, too, but Beck already had a girlfriend–the blond, petite and glamorous Helena. What could he possibly see in plain old Carrie?Only, now Helena has left. And Beck is technically single, definitely sexy and Carrie's for the taking! But she's afraid that Beck is only temporarily hers until Helena returns. Carrie is determined to keep her bridegroom-on-loan–but when will Beck realize that she is the one most worthy of his love…?
“I’m not free, Carrie.”
“She left you…. And I want to kiss you. Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you? I need you,” Carrie cried. “All my life I’ve waited for someone like you! It can’t be wrong! How can it be wrong, Beck?”
Moving toward him, body shaking, she touched her hands to his rigid shoulder.
He watched what she was doing, unmoving, and then he turned his head toward her. He was so close, her mouth a bare inch from his, and his eyes looked as if they were smoldering in the flickering light. She parted her lips as though unable to help it, and so he kissed her. And restraint shattered.
Emma Richmond was born during the Second World War in north Kent, England, when she says, “farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”
Books by Emma Richmond
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE
3505—ONE BRIDE REQUIRED!
3580—A HUSBAND FOR CHRISTMAS
Bridegroom on Loan
Emma Richmond
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u82e280a3-b6a2-56fb-8694-cf0ea4e4e1b6)
CHAPTER TWO (#uf273436b-ebb1-5eb8-9289-3e4d8f335d51)
CHAPTER THREE (#udc46510c-4401-55ea-8a4a-d3a936da9a20)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
THE M23 was coned off all the way to Gatwick, or had been—the wind was playing absolute havoc with the presumably once tidy contraflow arrangement which forced everyone to drive on the hard shoulder. Everyone? There was only herself and that lunatic lorry driver behind her. Well, if he thought she was going to speed up, he was mistaken. Driving in the dark was bad enough. Driving in the dark on a narrow, coned-off lane with the strong wind nudging the car sideways every few seconds and the lorry’s headlights dazzling her was the stuff of nightmares. And if he got any closer he would be in her boot!
Maniac, Carenza muttered to herself. What had happened to knights of the road? Once upon a time drivers had been kind, thoughtful, helpful. Not this idiot. As she neared the airport turn-off, the coning ended and the lorry thundered past her with a whoosh of displaced air. Watching his tail-lights disappear, she felt suddenly abandoned, and gave a disgruntled smile. Perverse, Carrie. Very perverse. And if she hadn’t forgotten her notebook she wouldn’t have needed to drive in the dark. Or in a hurricane, which was what it felt like.
Hastily over-correcting as another strong gust punched the side of the car, she was so busy concentrating on keeping straight, she missed the turn-off, and, like a fool, took the next one, stupidly assuming that it would take her back to where she wanted to go. It didn’t, and she drove on too long, searching for a familiar sign instead of turning round and going back. But the road must come out somewhere.
Calm down, she adjured herself. Relax. Just take it slow. This was West Sussex, not some forgotten outpost, and all roads must eventually lead to a town. Horsham wasn’t that far away. Not that anyone would ever have known it, because there were no lights to be seen at all, which seemed crazy when she was in striking distance of at least two motorways and a busy airport.
Turning left at the next junction for the simple reason that it felt right, she drove into the forest. Glancing nervously at the trees that surrounded her, trees that were being thrashed into a frenzy, she really did begin to think that she should go home, and ring Beck in the morning. The wind was definitely getting worse. Small branches began to litter the road ahead, swept along in a crazy dance, and the car that always felt so comforting now began to feel very fragile. She remembered all too well the last storm to hit Britain, the damage it had caused, but surely, surely, the weathermen would have been more on their toes this time?
You didn’t watch the news, Carenza. And although it had been windy when she’d left home it hadn’t been anything like this. A bit late now to berate herself for a fool…Her headlights washed over an old building and she hastily braked to a halt. She couldn’t tell whether it was empty, or abandoned, but it was certainly closed up. An old pub. The Muted Dragon. And absolutely no help to her at all.
Driving on, she reached a crossroads, and, thankfully, a sign. Horsham was to the right, and so the best thing would be to drive there. She knew her way to Beck’s place from Horsham.
Feeling more confident, she picked up speed, passed tall gates with the words Dragon’s Rest picked out in gold, and she gave a small smile. What was with the dragons?
A small animal ran across the road in front of her, startling her. A fox maybe, or a rabbit—and then, over and above the noise of the engine and the wind, she heard a roaring, like an express train thundering out of control.
Frightened, she glanced frantically round—and didn’t believe what she was seeing. Trees, magnificent old trees that had been standing for hundreds of years, were being toppled like wheat.
And she was right in their path.
Realising that she had eased her foot off the accelerator, she hastily jammed it back down, but it was too late. The roaring became a shriek, as though all the furies of hell were chasing her. Then the tree to her right, just a little way in front of her, didn’t merely topple, it was viciously uprooted. She knew that accelerating wouldn’t save her, braking wouldn’t save her, but she tried anyway.
It hit just behind her head and she frantically threw herself sideways, tucked her upper half into the well of the passenger seat as the giant trunk slowly, and inexorably, crushed the flimsy metal above her.
CHAPTER TWO
BENT in half, eyes screwed shut, arms outstretched, breath held, she waited. She could almost feel the weight of it, almost hear the settling of tortured metal, but not quite. Not above the howling of the wind that was now not only outside the car, but in.
Cautiously opening her eyes, she squinted sideways. From what she could see, which wasn’t very much, the tree had crushed the door and the back of the seat and now lay at an angle above her. Not touching her, but an inch or so above her hunched back. The car roof had been crumpled, the windscreen and side windows were gone and glass was showered across her thighs. The odd thing was, she felt quite objective about it all. Not panicky, or hysterical, just objective. She wasn’t hurt—at least, she didn’t think she was. Cramped, lying awkwardly, but not hurt. It was also like being in a wind tunnel. Dust and grit were whirled about her and she had to squint her eyes shut to avoid damage.
She was an independent girl, used to fending for herself, and it didn’t even occur to her that she might wait until someone came along to help.
Cautiously raising her head, she encountered metal, and lowered it again. The gear lever was digging into her hip. She shifted slightly, the car groaned, and she lay still.
The tree was heavy, she told herself, so the car wasn’t going anywhere. She also thought that the tree had done all the crushing it was going to do. So…
She tried to lever her feet up on what was left of the driver’s seat, and couldn’t. Tried to wriggle out from under the crushed metal, and couldn’t. Curved over like a bow, face down, she was effectively stuck—unless she could push the seat back.
Her long dark hair hanging over her face, shoulders hunched, she groped under the seat to locate the lever, pulled—and the seat shot back with the force of a rocket. Dumped head-first on the floor, she cursed, then swore as the car alarm went off.
This was silly.
And why was it, she wondered, that the English always considered how they looked before considering how they felt? Weird.
She managed to get her upper half on to the cushion, managed to lower the seat back—and then wondered whether you could actually open a hatchback from the inside. Well, she decided crossly as she struggled to free herself, if she couldn’t she would just have to wait until someone came! Which probably wouldn’t be until it got light, or the storm blew itself out. Which didn’t sound imminent, although that terrifying roaring and shrieking had gone. A tornado? That was how it had seemed in those few jumbled impressions she’d had before the tree struck. Not that she’d ever seen a tornado first hand, only on news reports, and certainly never in England.
‘And will you shut up?’ she yelled at the car alarm.
She was wearing herself out with the effort to get free, a temper tantrum imminent, when light flickered across her and was gone.
Startled, she flung up her head. ‘Hello?’ she called.
‘Carenza?’ A torch was shone in the crushed side window and she twisted towards it.
‘Can you see me?’ she shouted stupidly.
‘I can see you. Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m stuck!’
Beck, she thought in relief, and if there was one person you needed in a crisis it was someone like Beck. His jacket was being whipped and snapped like rigging on a yacht, hair blown every which way as he reached in to remove the ignition key, and the alarm thankfully stopped its strident call.
Moments later, the rear of the car was lifted, the back seats shoved flat, and the car dipped alarmingly as he crawled into the small space.
‘Which part of you is stuck?’
‘My hips; I don’t have enough leverage.’ And she was definitely going on a diet when she got out of this.
He put down the torch, grasped her upper arms, braced his feet, and pulled. One foot against the splintered dashboard, she pushed, ignored the pain of being squashed like a sausage, and eventually came free.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Just let me get my breath…’
‘No time.’ He sounded terse, urgent, and for once she didn’t argue, just allowed him to drag her free. Into mayhem—and another tree that looked in imminent danger of toppling.
He grabbed her arm and dragged her away from danger. Eyes shut to protect them from the whirling dust and debris, fingers clutched into his coat, she stumbled blindly where he led. Speech and coherent thought were impossible; they needed all their energy for walking, or staggering, to safety. Impossible to stand upright, hair almost tugged from its roots by the force of the gale, they could only go in the direction the wind was blowing. She fell twice and was ruthlessly dragged to her feet, but without Beck she would never have managed.
Power lines were down and were shooting blue sparks across the grass. Avoiding them, detouring round so many fallen trees, climbing over those they couldn’t, virtually blind in the pitch-darkness, he forced her on, until thankfully, blissfully, they were in the lee of a building. Exhausted from the battle, they remained there a few moments to catch their breath.
‘All right?’ he shouted.
She nodded against his shoulder.
‘Ready?’
She nodded again, and he urged her along the side of the stone wall, then round the corner where the full force of the wind hit them again. Anchoring her against his side, he halted again, fumbled in his pocket for his keys, unlocked the door and thrust her inside. It took all his strength to shut the door behind them, and the transition from violence to calm left her almost uncomprehending.
She found that she was shaking. Untangling her hair with her fingers, she tucked it behind her ears, savoured the ability to breathe normally. She still couldn’t see a thing. But she was aware of him beside her. More aware than she had any right to be.
She heard him flick a switch, but nothing happened. He didn’t say anything further, and neither did she. He took her arm and led her blindly across the room and into another one. Low burning coals in the fireplace gave some illumination and he steered her towards an armchair.
His shadow was huge, unreal as he bent to toss a log on the fire, stir it into life, and then he said quietly, ‘I’ll make some coffee.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was as quiet as his.
The wind sounded somehow worse from inside, as though it were angry that its prey had escaped. And I’ll huff and I’ll puff, she thought tiredly, and I’ll blow your house down. Leaning back, jumping nervously at every crash from outside, she stared at the fire. Flames were beginning to lick round the log. Hungry, devouring, but she was alive, safe, and in the house of Andrew Beckford, known to his friends as Beck. Her employer. A man she’d been avoiding for the past few weeks of working for him. Because it was best.
The first time they’d met, last November, she had thought it would be just another job, another client. She hadn’t expected to like him. From the little she had known about him—that he was a marine archaeologist, respected mountaineer, explorer, a crewman in one of the Tall Ships Races—she had expected him to be arrogant, condescending, and he hadn’t been like that at all. A tall man with steady grey eyes and brown hair, he exuded a quiet confidence. There had also been an air of sadness about him, of hurt, and, like the fool she sometimes was, she’d allowed her heart to rule her head and agreed to work for him. She should have refused, because when she had discovered that he was engaged to the beautiful Helena it was too late.
She could hear the soft movements he made in the kitchen. With no electricity, he must have gas, or an Aga if he was able to boil a kettle, but it was an absent thought.
When he returned carrying two mugs, she turned her head to watch him. He handed her one, and went to stand by the fireplace, staring down into the fire. The flickering shadows curved his face into a mask, made it unfamiliar, stark; only the eyes seemed alive, bright, intelligent.
‘Were you coming to see me?’ He spoke quietly, gaze still on the fire.
‘No, I’d left my notebook at the centre. I tried ringing you…’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘No. I should have left it until tomorrow, but I needed to check some figures.’
‘And being an impatient sort of person…’ he murmured.
‘Yes. I didn’t know a gale was imminent. I didn’t see the weather report. I knew March was supposed to be windy, but…’ She felt awkward. Nervous of being alone with him. ‘And then I missed the turning,’ she continued with false brightness. ‘What’s with the dragons?’
‘Dragons?’
‘Mm. The Muted Dragon, Dragon’s Rest. St Maxim’s Forest known for them, is it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A local legend, I expect.’
‘I should have asked the one I met. If I’d had time, that is. Trees falling on you tend to limit conversation somewhat. Sorry,’ she apologised with a wan smile. ‘I always ramble when I’m tired. It’s been one hell of a day.’ And was liable to get worse. Her awareness of him in the intimacy of the darkened room was ten times worse than it normally was. Unable to sit still, she put her coffee on a nearby table and got to her feet. Hands shoved into her jacket pockets, she walked across to the window. ‘What were you doing out? Looking for damage?’
‘No, I was on my way home. The road was blocked. I left the Land Rover and walked.’
‘Lucky for me.’
‘Yes.’
Turning, she gave him a small smile that he probably couldn’t see in the dark room. ‘I loved that car. Stupid, isn’t it? I mean, get a life, Carenza…’ Tailing off, she returned her attention to the darkened window. All she could see was herself. She was never at a loss for words. Never. And now she couldn’t think of one.
‘Are you hungry?’
She shook her head. ‘I had something earlier.’
‘Then if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’d better empty the freezer.’
‘Yes, of course.’
When he’d gone, she returned to the chair and picked up her mug. Both hands wrapped round it for warmth, she stared at the fire. Miss No Brain, she scolded herself. All it needed now was for the beauteous Helena to come wafting in. Even an idiot could have sensed the tension between them—not that she thought Helena an idiot—she didn’t know her, didn’t want to know her—but she couldn’t have failed to miss the fact that Beck was as aware and tense as she was. Which naturally begged the question, why? If he was in love with Helena, why would he be attracted to herself? Because he was. She knew he was. The pair of them had been as inarticulate as teenagers. And Beck wasn’t a man for inarticulateness. He wasn’t a shy man.
Resting her mug on her knee, she continued to stare into the fire. Continued to think about him. Speculate. As she had been doing since the first time she met him.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, only remembered waking. Opening her eyes, she stared blankly at the fire. It was freshly banked, warm and cosy. A blanket covered her, and the wind had stopped. Silence. Complete and utter silence. Grey light filled the room, and she turned to look at the window. A window framed by expensive curtains. It was raining, she saw.
Allowing her gaze to roam, she pulled a face, partly envious, partly wry. The whole room was expensive. Being an interior designer, she could tell, almost to the last penny, how much it had all cost. Not entirely to her taste with all those small tables holding lamps, too much like something out of a magazine, but tasteful, she supposed. The only thing she really liked was the fire.
She’d never been in the house, never been alone with him. On the few occasions when they had met, it had always been in the centre when other people were present—and she couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep. Too many late nights, she supposed, and a weekend spent chasing clients who owed her money. And the day-to-day tension that she might see Beck, of course. Who was engaged to Helena. And women knew, didn’t they? When another woman was attracted to their man?
You can sometimes be very silly, Carenza. Masochistic even. Yes.
With a deep sigh, a wide yawn, she pushed the blanket aside. The knees of her tailored trousers were torn and muddy, her boots caked with God only knew what. Her jacket was creased. And she ached. Stretching to ease her cramped muscles, she went to peer at her reflection in an ornate mirror, and tried to smile. Something the cat wouldn’t have brought in. Her long hair was tangled, her mascara smudged. Wetting a finger, she wiped away the worst of it and then turned away, because there was absolutely nothing she could do about how she looked. She didn’t even have a comb with her.
Walking into the large kitchen, she halted with another dented smile. It was also expensively decorated. A blue enamel Aga stood proudly against one wall; a matching blue hood with a brass rail hovered protectively above it. The stone flags were cold beneath her feet. The oak cupboards and units matched the long table and chairs, the tiles matched the floor, the walls the curtains. Someone’s idea of a country kitchen. Except it wasn’t. She’d been in a great many country kitchens, and they didn’t look like this. There should be muddy wellington boots, raincoats, a dog basket…Where did poor Spanner sleep? Not here, obviously.
There was no sign of Beck, or Helena, but a kettle steamed gently on the Aga. Milk, sugar and coffee had been left on the work surface. Taking a cup from the mock Welsh dresser, she made herself a hot drink and went to stare from the window. The rain was falling heavy and straight. Noisy. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, menacing sound, and she spared a thought for the poor clear-up crews who would be working out in this. She could see a lot of the damage from here. White, ugly scars on the trees where branches had been ripped off, those that were left standing, that was. There were scattered bricks across what looked like a dug-up lawn. Perhaps that was the next item for renovation.
Sipping her coffee, lost in her thoughts, she started when she heard the back door open. Turning, heart beating over-fast, she found a faint smile as Beck walked in. Drowned rat wasn’t in it. Hair plastered to his head, jacket and jeans soaked through, he gave a small smile back, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke,’ he apologised quietly. ‘I just wanted to check for damage.’
‘That’s all right. How bad is it?’
‘Bad. The “front”, as it’s being called,’ he murmured humorously as he shrugged out of his jacket, shook it and draped it over a chair, ‘cut a swathe through the south of England about a mile wide. Anything in its path was either uprooted or destroyed. Fortunately, it seems to have missed any major towns. I don’t suppose the true extent of the damage will be known for a few days. Certainly the electricity won’t be on for a while. Did you sleep all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Never one to pussy-foot around, she said bluntly, ‘I haven’t seen Helena.’
He looked away, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘No,’ he agreed quietly. ‘She isn’t here.’
‘Oh.’
Sounded like a sensitive subject, best avoided, perhaps, and she was disgusted with herself for the rush of hope she felt that they might have split up. Returning her attention to the garden, she observed lightly, ‘The storm will have put your landscaping plans back.’ When he didn’t answer, she turned to look at him, curiosity in her dark eyes. ‘No landscaping?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
One hand on the back of the chair where he’d tossed his jacket, he said quietly, ‘I tried to keep it separate.’
‘Sorry?’ she asked in confusion.
‘The house and the conference centre. I tried to keep them separate.’ His back to her, he walked across to the Aga and put the kettle back on to boil.
Thoroughly bewildered, she asked lamely, ‘Why?’
‘Because it was easier.’ Turning to face her, he gave a grim smile. ‘Helena is missing.’
‘Missing?’
‘Yes. She walked out one day and didn’t come back.’
‘Didn’t come back?’ she echoed in amazement. ‘But why on earth didn’t you tell me? No,’ she corrected herself with a little grimace. ‘Why should you? It wasn’t any of my business, was it? And you wanted to keep the conference centre and your private concerns separate.’ Which was why he’d never invited her to the house. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was because something was between them that wasn’t allowed to be between them.
‘Yes.’
‘She left without telling you she was going?’ Just because it was none of her business, that didn’t stop her being curious.
‘Yes.’
‘Because of the row?’
‘No,’ he denied simply.
‘Because of a lover?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And no one knows where she is?’
‘No.’
‘How long…? I mean, when did she…?’
‘Leave? Two months ago. She didn’t take anything with her. Not her passport, her clothes, any money. Or her car.’
When he said nothing further, she persisted, ‘And?’ Because there had to be an ‘and’, didn’t there?
‘And the police dug up the garden.’
Flicking her eyes to the window, then back to him, a very hollow feeling inside, she whispered in shock, ‘They think you—killed her?’
‘Probably not, but her father insisted that she wouldn’t have just walked out. And the police have to cover all possibilities, don’t they?’
‘That’s what they said?’
‘Yes.’
A frown in her eyes, she returned her attention to the garden. ‘Why would her father think she wouldn’t walk out?’
‘He doesn’t like me, and he didn’t think I was good enough for her. He thinks me cruel.’
‘No,’ she denied without hesitation. Whatever else he might be, she would have staked her life on the fact that he wasn’t a cruel man. And how on earth could she not have known that all this was going on? People gossiped, started rumours… ‘Does everyone believe it?’ she asked. ‘That you killed her?’
‘I don’t know if they believe it or not, but mud sticks.’
‘But there’s no evidence—is there?’
‘No.’
‘But until she’s found…’
‘I’m under suspicion, yes.’
Genuinely concerned, she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Beck.’
With a deep sigh, he finished making his coffee. ‘I’ll see if I can find you somewhere else to stay until the roads are open.’
‘Why?’
‘I just told you why.’
Watching him, she gave a disturbed smile. ‘For my reputation, or yours?’ she asked softly.
‘Yours.’
‘Oh, I think my reputation can stand it. More to the point, does anyone else have a wood-burning stove?’
His mouth smiled. His eyes didn’t. ‘No, but you can’t stay here.’
End of discussion? He spoke so quietly, impassively, with no sign of the strain he must be under, and her staying here had nothing whatever to do with reputations.
‘Afraid I might ravish you?’ she asked huskily.
‘No, Carenza, I’m not afraid you might ravish me.’
‘I’d like to…Sorry,’ she apologised hastily, her face pink. ‘I sometimes have a very big mouth.’
‘To go with being a big girl?’
‘Yes.’ Being tall and rather generously made was the bane of her life. She’d always yearned to be tiny. Like Helena. No, not like Helena. Sigh deeper, she continued her contemplation of the ruined garden. ‘She was very beautiful,’ she murmured, and she had been. She’d only seen her the once—and once had been enough, she thought with a twisted smile. And no greater contrast to herself could ever have existed. Helena had been small and slender, perfection personified. Shoulder-length blonde hair that waved in exactly the right places. Wide blue eyes, a perfect nose…She’d watched from the window of the conference centre as Helena had tucked her hand into Beck’s arm, smiled at him. A woman sure of her own attraction. Sure of being loved. Carenza was statuesque, and her thick dark hair didn’t wave at all.
‘Is there anyone you need to let know where you are?’ he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
‘Just as well,’ he said with slight wryness, ‘because I have no way of contacting them for you. I don’t have a mobile.’
‘And I left mine on the hall table. I wasn’t going to be gone long: drive down and collect my notebook, drive home.’
‘Yes. The Aga doesn’t have a back boiler, but there should be enough hot water left if you want a shower,’ he continued. ‘Bathroom’s the first door at the top of the stairs.’ Hesitating a moment, he added, ‘Helena left all her clothes here, and although you might not want to wear her things there are whole drawers of new underwear, things she’d bought and never used. There’s no easy way to offer this, but you’re very welcome to take anything you need. It might take a while to find you somewhere else to stay. Her bedroom is next to the bathroom.’
‘Thank you. Clean underwear would be nice.’
‘Then help yourself. I’ll get us some breakfast.’
Nodding, she walked out and into the hall, and then up the stairs. She felt ragged and weak. And the strain of being alone with him until however long it took for him to find her somewhere else to stay was going to be enormous. And yet she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Halting outside Helena’s room, she hesitated. She’d have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t curious about the other woman’s bedroom. Not theirs, Helena’s. Maybe they didn’t sleep together, but in this day and age it was usual for engaged couples to do so, and Beck didn’t look like a man who was celibate. He looked as though he would be a very competent and gentle lover. Innovative, perhaps…And she really rather despised herself for wanting a man who belonged to someone else. For wanting a man who could be attracted to another woman when he was involved with someone else.
Feeling like an intruder, she pushed open the door. White. Everything was white. Drapes, bedlinen, carpet, even the furniture was white. The only colour was an ornate, and probably very expensive, turquoise glass lamp. Taking a deep breath, she slowly opened one door of the fitted wardrobe—except it wasn’t a wardrobe, it was a small, walk-in closet. Clothes hung neatly to either side, all covered in plastic. Evening clothes, day clothes, smart, casual. Shoe racks held all her footwear. All neatly paired. Handbags were tucked beside them. Her own wardrobe looked as if the army might have been holding manoeuvres in there. To actually find a pair of shoes involved taking everything out from the bottom of the wardrobe and then stuffing it all back in. Shoes she never wore, shoes that no longer fitted…Looking at all this, she was embarrassed, and vowed that never, ever would she let anyone else look in her wardrobe. Best clear it out in case she disappeared.
Don’t tempt fate, Carenza.
Backing out, she closed the door. She would just borrow some underwear, she decided. Helena’s clothes wouldn’t have fitted her anyway. Opening each drawer in the tall cabinet that stood by the window, she stared at all the tiny frilly triangles that seemed to constitute Helena’s underwear. Glancing down at her own ample proportions, she laughed. She might just get into a thong. Selecting one, she shut the drawer and escaped from all this glamour.
Removing her jacket, she hung it over the rail at the top of the stairs and walked into the bathroom, which was a great deal more than functional. White granite had been moulded to form the basin, flow smoothly into the bath, and then up to form the shower. A vision in white modernity, as though it had been carved from snow. An ice sculpture. Gold fittings, bottle-green tiles and floor. Almost a shame to use it, really.
A curved groove in the granite allowed the glass door for the shower to be slid easily into place, and with a wry smile for all this sybaritic luxury she stripped off. There was no sign of Helena’s toiletries on the glass shelves, so she used Beck’s.
Had the relationship been in trouble? she wondered as she rubbed her hair as dry as she could and then dressed. Had her disappearance come as a surprise? It wasn’t something she felt she could ask because she really didn’t know him all that well. Only knew that he had the ability to make her heart beat faster, induce fantasies, even after she’d known he was engaged. Her infatuation had been extraordinarily foolish considering the contrast between herself and Helena. Beck obviously went for the pocket Venus type…So why, then, was he attracted to herself? As unlike Helena as it was possible to be? Tall, with brown hair and eyes, legacy of a Greek great-grandmother, busty, definitely hippy—exotic, someone had once said, but she couldn’t see it. Never saw her own quicksilver smiles, or the flashes of amusement in her dark eyes.
Tilting her head to one side, she wondered what she was really like. A contrary sort of person, she decided, one moment serene, the next a flurry of energy and enthusiasm. She also tended to say what she was thinking, which wasn’t always wise. Neither was it wise to stay in the house of a man you were very strongly attracted to. A man you wanted to touch. Constantly. And she’d lingered too long.
Quickly washing out her own underwear and hanging it on the towel rail, she gave a wry smile. Her underwear was pretty but definitely big. Big knickers, big bra, not something Beck would be used to.
With a little shake of her head for thoughts that really didn’t matter, she walked out. The smell of frying reached her as she descended the stairs, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
He turned as she entered the kitchen, eyes sombre. ‘Hungry?’
‘Very.’
‘Good. The tea’s made, only needs pouring.’
Whilst she poured the tea into the two mugs, he dished up eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato and fried bread.
‘Tuck in,’ he ordered as he placed the meals on the table.
They ate mostly in silence, and when they’d finished both sat, staring down into their tea. She couldn’t think of anything to say, nothing that might not have thorns on it, anyway.
‘I’m not much good at small talk,’ he eventually apologised quietly.
She smiled. ‘Neither am I. Did I thank you for rescuing me?’
‘No thanks were needed.’
She lapsed back into silence, and then asked quietly, ‘Where’s Spanner? I never see him around.’
‘Spanner?’ he echoed softly. ‘He died.’
‘I’m sorry. Shall you get another dog?’
‘No.’
Because his life was still unsettled? Because he might have a murder charge hanging over his head? ‘Why Spanner?’ she asked curiously. ‘It seems an odd name for a dog.’
‘Because when I found him as a tiny, abandoned puppy he was trying to chew a nut off a piece of scrap metal.’
‘Oh.’
‘And you? Is business good?’
‘So-so. I’ve just finished a large commission. Barn conversion. I opened a small shop in Croydon.’ She grinned, then qualified, ‘I’m renting out a small area in a wallpaper and fabric shop. I persuaded the owner that it would be good for his business. When people came in to buy decorating materials, he could steer them in my direction. Or, alternatively, if they came to see me, I could make my selections from his stock.’
‘Sounds a good arrangement.’
‘Mm, seems to be working OK. And your days of inactivity will soon be over,’ she teased. ‘A few more weeks and the conference centre will be finished. You’ll be able to go to work.’
He gave a small, rather cynical smile. ‘I already do go to work. The restaurant is doing very well.’
‘Restaurant?’
‘Yes. Why the look of surprise? Don’t I look as though I could run a restaurant?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t know,’ she denied lamely. ‘Just that…Well, I don’t know,’ she laughed. ‘I assumed you were waiting to run the conference centre.’
‘No, neither will I run it when it’s finished. I shall put in a manager.’
‘Oh,’ she murmured inadequately. She didn’t know him at all, did she? She’d made a lot of assumptions about him, about his lifestyle, daydreamed a lot of exciting possibilities, but the simple fact remained that his life was none of her business. Nor ever could be whilst he was still engaged to Helena. Realising the silence had gone on too long, she murmured, ‘And it’s doing well, you say?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed, his cynicism more marked. ‘Ever since Helena disappeared, bookings have rocketed. Everyone wants to get a glimpse of the murderer.’
‘Except you aren’t.’
‘No, but people believe what they want to believe. And it’s very good for business. At the moment, to get a table, you would have to book three months in advance.’
‘And you have no idea where she might be?’
He shook his head.
Still picking idly at the rim of her mug, and without looking at him, she blurted, ‘Are you still engaged to her? I mean, were you, before she left?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Oh, no reason, I just…was trying to think of a reason why she might want to disappear. I wasn’t being nosy…Yes, I was,’ she corrected honestly, because she wanted to know about the impossibly beautiful Helena, about their relationship. Wanted to know why he had seemed so sad in November. Wanted to make it right. And how women did tend to fool themselves, she thought wryly, into thinking they were the only ones who could comfort. ‘You don’t think she’s dead?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘No concrete reason,’ he said as he got to his feet and collected their plates. ‘You will need to contact your insurance company.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were fully insured?’
She nodded.
‘But you will need a car to conduct your business, won’t you? Does the insurance cover for hire?’
‘Don’t know.’
He gave her a look of reproof. ‘Well, if it doesn’t, you can use the Land Rover,’ he offered as he scraped the plates into the bin, rinsed them off and put them into the dishwasher, and then he halted, gave a wry smile, and took them out again. ‘You get so used to the little luxuries of life,’ he murmured. ‘Like electricity.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, because she hadn’t considered it either.
‘The perishables from the fridge I’ve put in the garage where it’s colder. So, if you need milk when the current bottle’s finished, that’s where it is.’
She nodded and got up to dry the dishes he was washing. She felt almost stifled by his nearness, needed speech to cover the fact. ‘Won’t you need your car?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t go out much.’
‘Because of Helena?’
‘No, by inclination. And if I do need transport I can use Helena’s car.’ When he’d finished washing up, he walked across to the Aga. Using an oven glove, he bent to open one of the doors. Lifting the lid on something, he peered inside, stirred it, then closed the door again. She smiled. He didn’t look prissy, or silly, doing it, just like a very masculine man doing something he did rather a lot of.
‘Even when I find you somewhere else to stay, you might not be able to go home for a few days,’ he added quietly as he turned. ‘The road isn’t just blocked with one or two trees—whole stretches of the forest have come down. I don’t even think it’s a possibility that you would be able to walk into Horsham and hire a car. Or get the train. I have no idea if they’re running. In the meantime, if you need some privacy, there’s a spare room you can use.’ Putting down the oven gloves, he indicated for her to follow him and then showed her into the room next to Helena’s.
Now, this she liked, she decided. Navy blue walls and carpet, light plum-coloured paintwork that was picked up in the bedspread and curtains, and wooden furniture.
‘You can see the restaurant from here,’ he murmured as he walked across to the window.
You can also see the bed. Stop it, Carenza. She didn’t want an affair with a man who was engaged to someone else, even if he wanted it, which she didn’t think he did. She was quite sure that it was a reluctant attraction. And he was a man of strong will otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to stand in a bedroom with her and stare from the window.
Joining him, because there didn’t seem any other option, she felt the blood begin to pump in her veins as his arm brushed hers. ‘What’s your blood doing?’ she asked without thinking, and cursed her unruly tongue.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Nothing. Is that it?’ she added hastily.
‘Yes, the roof just beyond the trees.’
‘Not far to travel.’ Amazing how you could hold a conversation when your whole body was screaming. ‘I assume you go there every day?’
‘Every weekend; I only open Friday, Saturday and Sunday. And yes, I go there, because I do the cooking.’
‘A man of many parts. I didn’t know you were a chef.’ And if she didn’t get out of here right now she was going to touch him.
‘Self-taught.’ He sounded strained, and she jerked her head round to look at him. Found that he was watching her. His eyes had the grey luminescence of sunshine through cloud, she thought whimsically, and she wanted to reach out and trail her fingers along that determined jaw, touch her lips to his well-shaped mouth…
‘Don’t,’ he reproved huskily.
‘No.’ Snatching her eyes away, she stared determinedly out of the window. Forcing her voice to neutrality, she murmured, ‘I thought you were a marine archaeologist.’ There didn’t seem to be very much she could do about her pulse rate. This really was masochism.
‘I am.’
‘Lots of different hats. What else can you do?’
‘Whatever you want. No,’ he denied hurriedly. Hands curled into fists on the window sill, his voice sounded like metal strained through glass.
Fighting to maintain her own equilibrium, she leapt hastily into the breach left by his words. ‘You must be a very good cook, if it’s doing so well. People wouldn’t keep coming just to see a possible murderer if the food was lousy. You wouldn’t believe what I want.’
‘I would.’
Oh, God. Staring blindly at the roof of the building just visible through the trees, she stated determinedly, ‘Lucky the tornado didn’t cut through here.’
‘Tornado?’
‘That was what it felt like. A roaring, shrieking dervish that, if it hadn’t been for the tree anchoring me in place, might have taken me to—Oz. Beck?’
‘No.’ He responded fiercely to her unasked question and rapidly changed the subject. ‘You mentioned a dragon?’
‘What?’
‘Last night, you said…’
‘Oh.’
‘You were right in its path?’
‘Yes. I was terrified.’ Explaining quickly all that had happened in a voice that was too fast and really rather breathless, she added, ‘And my reactions were far too slow.’
‘Your reactions saved your life,’ he corrected.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. This was madness. ‘Was anyone killed, do you know?’
He shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard any news, and Doug…’
‘Doug?’
‘Local police, and he wasn’t telling, even if he knew. All I know with any certainty is that it cut a great swathe through the forest towards Handcross. I told him you were here.’
She nodded, gave a little shiver.
‘Come on, you’re probably still in shock. Why don’t you go and sit by the fire?’
No, she wanted to deny, I’m not in shock. But then, he knew that, didn’t he? Knew she was fighting her feelings for him. Feelings that hurt. Because they were futile. She knew that. She really did know that. Following him out, she grabbed her jacket off the banister. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk. Go and look at your restaurant. I can get my notebook from the conference centre at the same time.’
‘I don’t have an umbrella…’
‘It doesn’t matter. Rain won’t hurt me.’
‘It will make you very wet.’ Walking across the kitchen, he opened a cupboard and removed a raincoat. ‘Use this.’
Reluctantly taking it, she asked hesitantly, ‘Was it…?’
‘Helena’s, yes. She hardly ever wore it.’
With a meaningless smile, she put it on. The sleeves were too short, the back too narrow, but she supposed it would keep the worst of the wet off. Pulling up the hood, she walked out.
Feelings were the damnedest things, weren’t they? Hit you without warning, scrambled you up…And she didn’t want to be wearing Helena’s raincoat.
Automatically circumnavigating fallen branches, whole trees, she sighed. She felt exhausted. And don’t, don’t, she cautioned herself, read anything into the fact that they had separate bedrooms. Lots of couples slept apart for one reason or another; it didn’t mean they weren’t in love. Didn’t mean he didn’t miss her dreadfully.
‘Not that way, miss…’
Turning with a start, she gave a lame smile to the young policeman behind her.
‘Electricity cables are still down,’ he explained.
Remembering the blue sparks of the night before, she nodded.
‘Although the power has been turned off. And there are a lot of unstable trees. Where were you headed?’
‘Nowhere,’ she denied. ‘Just having a look. My car’s somewhere around. Grey hatchback,’ she added helpfully. ‘Was a grey hatchback.’ And stupidly, idiotically, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘Only just hit me, I suppose…Sorry,’ she apologised again as she realised the unintended pun.
‘The grey car with the tree across it?’ he asked in astonishment.
‘Yes.’
‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘You were lucky to get out.’
‘Yes, but not unaided. A Mr Beckford rescued me.’ And the policeman’s face changed. Because he was a suspected murderer? she wondered. She couldn’t think of any other reason. Unless he didn’t have a licence for his restaurant; or tax for his car. ‘I’m staying with him,’ she added defiantly, ‘until the roads are clear.’
‘You’ll be Miss Dean, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘He asked me to see if I could find alternative accommodation for you. He’s…’
‘I know what he is,’ she interrupted. ‘And I know what you think he is. And you’re wrong. I’d better get back. How long before the road is open? Do you know?’
‘Won’t be today…And I don’t think he’s anything,’ he reproved, ‘and he knows as well as I do that it isn’t wise for a young lady to stay with a gentleman who—might be vulnerable.’
‘Sorry,’ she apologised for the third time. ‘But I work for him…’
‘And you’re naturally protective,’ he finished for her. ‘All I’m saying is, be careful.’
‘I will.’
Turning away, she was aware of him watching her, and felt despair wash through her. If she was going to leap to his defence every time someone said something even slightly suspect, it wouldn’t be long before the whole area would know she was in love with him. No, not in love, she denied forcefully to herself. She didn’t know him. You couldn’t be in love with someone you didn’t know. Could you? But she did know he hadn’t killed his fiancée. Do you, Carenza? How very clairvoyant of you. Kicking irritably at a tree branch, she pulled the wide hood back in place and held it with both hands.
Coming out on to a small slip-road, she turned along it. Branches littered the surface, together with sundry other rubbish. A car hub-cap, a black plastic sack, a child’s woollen glove, and a sieve, all blown there by a capricious wind, she supposed. A few yards further on was his restaurant. And this she liked. No fancy name or sign, just a long stone building that had been left as it was meant to be. A plaque by the main door said simply, ‘The Barn.’
There was no menu board, nothing at all to say what it was. A no-frills establishment with excellent food? A small red car was parked to one side, with, thankfully, no damage.
Hands still holding her hood in place, she walked along the side and peered in one of the leaded windows. No fancy tablecloths, no fancy lamps, just good quality wooden tables and chairs. It was too dim inside to see very much else and so she walked round to the other side, and saw Beck. Hands shoved into his pockets, he was staring rather grimly at the wall to one side of the small terrace that presumably, in the summer, allowed diners to eat outside.
Moving quietly to join him, she too stared at the wall. ‘Mur’ had been sprayed in black paint. A discarded aerosol can lay below it.
He glanced at her, then returned his attention to the wall.
‘Not very nice,’ she commented quietly. ‘There’s only one word I can think of off hand that begins with “mur”.’
‘Yes.’
‘And either they were interrupted or the storm frightened them off.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t seem very surprised, or shocked.’
‘No, it happens with rather boring frequency.’
Turning to look at her, he said almost sombrely, ‘You look like a very wet pixie.’
‘Troll,’ she corrected. ‘I’m too big for a pixie.’ Turning abruptly away, she said over her shoulder, ‘I’ll go and get my notebook.’
She was aware of him following her as she walked in the general direction of the conference centre. There was a separate road she used when she came, and so she’d never been in this part of the grounds before.
‘This way,’ he indicated quietly, and she turned and followed him along a small track that eventually came out on the road. A hundred yards further on was the conference centre. It had once been a dower house on what had been a large estate, and she was now helping to convert it to hold conferences.
He unlocked the front door before she could get out her own keys, and led the way inside.
On her own ground, so to speak, she looked quickly round with a critical eye, then nodded in satisfaction. The plasterers had finished the walls, as they’d promised.
Throwing open the door on the left, she walked inside to retrieve her notebook.
‘Is there anything you need to check?’
‘Upstairs bathroom, and one of the bedrooms in the new extension. I like your restaurant,’ she murmured as she headed for the staircase. ‘Were you open last night?’
‘No, lunch only on Sundays.’
‘Someone left their car behind.’
He nodded. ‘One of the waitresses. It wouldn’t start and so I ran her home. That’s why I was out. What did the law want?’
‘Oh, just some stupid policeman being officious,’ she muttered as she began climbing. ‘The kitchen equipment is being delivered next week.’
‘Yes. What did he do? Warn you off?’
‘No.’
‘Liar.’
With a disturbed smile, she sighed. ‘Not really; he just said it might not be wise for me to stay here. That you might be—vulnerable.’
‘Ah.’
Are you? she wanted to ask him. But didn’t. She did halt to look back at him, and this time he didn’t look away, just held her gaze for long, long moments. She wanted to smile at him, but smiling could be dangerous. Wrenching her eyes away, she trod carefully across the littered landing. He was watching her, she knew he was, but she dared not look back again.
‘What will happen if they don’t ever find her?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t allow myself to think too far ahead.’
No, well, you wouldn’t, would you?
‘I only hope that your reputation doesn’t suffer because of me.’
‘Is that why you stay away from me when I’m here?’ she asked as she pushed open the bedroom door. ‘Because of my reputation?’ And knew it wasn’t true. ‘I know you didn’t kill her,’ she stated confidently as she walked across the bedroom and into the bathroom.
‘No, you don’t,’ he reproved as he followed her. ‘How many times have you read in the papers that neighbours of murderers had thought them the nicest, quietest of people?’
‘That’s different.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘But you didn’t kill her!’ she persisted.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I didn’t. But on the off chance that I did people here will keep their distance, just in case, by association, they get mixed up in this mess.’
‘They don’t keep their distance from your restaurant,’ she pointed out as she stared with a critical eye at the fittings. ‘You said it did very well.’
‘It does, but that’s voyeuristic, dicing with danger—I don’t know, but if those same customers saw me in the street they would cross over, ignore me.’
‘Well, I don’t intend to ignore you! And if you ever need a character witness…’ Turning, she waited for him to move so that she could return to the landing. Tension rippled between them. Tension and something else. But he still didn’t move.
‘And what could you say?’ he asked pointedly. ‘That you’ve worked for me for a few weeks? But that we very rarely meet? And what did you learn about him? the lawyer would ask. Oh, not much—that he seemed very fond of his dog, liked walking in the rain…’
‘Do you?’
‘Carrie! What do you really know about me?’
‘That you have the ability to make me ache,’ she whispered. ‘Fantasise. And that although we don’t very often meet I watch for you. Hope, like an adolescent, to catch a glimpse of you walking in the grounds. That I’m violently attracted to you and that if I stay standing close to you for much longer I’m going to do something really stupid. Like kiss you.’
He moved quickly to one side, and she escaped. Hurrying, despairing, not looking where she was going, she trod on a piece of wood that had been left lying on the floor, lurched, and he caught her, held her safe.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered.
When he didn’t release her, she turned her head to look up into his rather bleak face—and couldn’t look away. The first time they’d met, the look they’d shared had been one of warmth, possible friendship, and that little leap of attraction that was so exciting, so—hopeful. The look they exchanged now was one of wariness, want and an aching despair that it wasn’t going to happen. That nothing was going to happen. Because of Helena.
‘It won’t work,’ he said quietly.
‘I know.’
‘I have to find her, Carenza.’
‘Yes.’ Both were tense, both holding back, and then he opened his hands and released her.
‘Come on, back to the house—if I can give you nothing else,’ he added almost inaudibly, ‘I can at least offer you a warm fire.’
The least? she wondered bleakly. Or all?
CHAPTER THREE
LOOKING away, she said neutrally, ‘I just need to check something in one of the bedrooms in the extension. I’ll join you outside.’ Walking quickly away, she ran down the staircase, pushed open the door to the annexe that ran at right angles to the main building, and cursed herself for a fool. Hands clenched, she strode blindly along the narrow, glassed-in passageway to the room at the end.
She should never have agreed to work for him. Not after she’d known about Helena. Was honour more important than happiness? she wondered. Helena had left him, and that surely broke the engagement, didn’t it? Unless she’d been kidnapped, or worse…But how could he be attracted to herself if he loved Helena? Some men did. Some men were incapable of fidelity. But not Beck.
You don’t know him, Carenza. Don’t know what sort of man he is. And hearts weren’t the most reliable organs for judgement. ‘What else can you do?’ she’d asked. ‘Whatever you want…’ Face troubled, she checked the light fitting, and quietly closed the door behind her. Hands shoved into her pockets—Helena’s pockets—she stared out at the small courtyard beyond the windows. The paving had almost been finished. With tubs of flowers, tables and chairs, it would make a nice place for the delegates to sit.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/emma-richmond-2/bridegroom-on-loan/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.