Morelli's Mistress (Harlequin Presents)

by Anne Mather

  The Covent Garden office was no longer big enough to accommodate the business. Their team of architects and designers, accountants and sales personnel, and all the usual administrative staff who made up Morelli and Carpenter Development, needed room to expand. It was an intoxicating prospect and Luke was soon distracted by describing the run-down building he’d seen, which they could renovate to their own design.

  But later that evening, leaving the office, he couldn’t prevent himself from turning towards Chelsea. It occurred to him, as he drove across Vauxhall Bridge, that the block of apartments where Annabel lived could be categorised as luxurious. Was she wealthier than he’d imagined? Was that why she hadn’t bothered giving him a call. Or did she simply share the apartment with one or two of the girls he’d met the other night?

  Which might make finding her address even more difficult.

  * * *

  Abby was standing at the living-room window, watching the rain trickling down the panes. It was early evening, but it was already getting dark, the overhanging clouds drenching the neat box hedges that surrounded Chandler Court.

  Harry had called to say he might be late, but Abby never took anything for granted. He’d been known to make such a statement before, and then turn up half an hour later.

  He’d suggested she should have her supper, but the chicken casserole was still sitting, untouched, on a low heat in the oven. Abby wasn’t hungry. She was seldom hungry these days. She knew her mother worried that she was getting too thin, but food had become something of an anathema to her.

  She’d intended to go and see her mother tonight, but the nurse had called earlier to say Mrs Lacey had had a bad day and was now resting. Which meant she’d been sedated, guessed Abby uneasily. There were few days now when her mother was strong enough to conduct a conversation for more than a couple of minutes.

  She saw the car as soon as it turned into the grounds of the complex.

  It was a distinctive vehicle, sleek and powerful like its owner. Its dark green bodywork was only visible because it had stopped beneath one of the floodlights that switched on as soon as a car entered the grounds.

  How did she know it was Luke Morelli’s car? It was just a feeling she had, a sixth sense, that warned her this could mean trouble.

  Pressing her fingers to her lips, Abby wondered what she should do. There was no need to panic, she told herself. He didn’t even know her name. But what if, after leaving her the other evening, he’d gone on to the Blue Parrot, and someone there—another member of the hen party, perhaps—had given him that information? It was a long shot, sure, and she was probably flattering herself that he’d been that interested. But could she take the risk?

  No!

  Glancing behind her, at the steel and chrome furnishings of the living room, Abby wondered if Luke would believe how much she hated living here. Would he understand why she had to stay, at the mercy of a man who didn’t love her, but who enjoyed controlling her? That she stayed to give her mother the treatment Abby couldn’t afford herself?

  She doubted it. And right now, she needed to get rid of him.

  She grabbed her jacket as she passed through the foyer, hauling out a pair of boots and shoving her feet inside. Then she cast a swift glance at her reflection. The black velvet lounging suit she was wearing wasn’t really warm enough to go outside on an October evening. Particularly when it was raining and she didn’t have an umbrella. But she didn’t have time to change.

  The apartment was on the sixth floor, and she took the lift down, praying that Harry wouldn’t decide to call it a night and come home early. She could imagine his reaction if he caught her talking to a strange man in the lobby.

  To her relief, there was no sign of Harry or Luke Morelli. Was she wrong? Were Luke’s reasons for being here nothing to do with her, after all? It might not even be Luke, she reminded herself optimistically. The car he drove was probably duplicated a dozen times throughout the metro area.

  She decided she would just peek outside and see if the car had gone. It meant passing the desk of the doorman, but happily McPhelan was ensconced in the back room, watching the TV. Only visitors to the apartments apparently warranted a once-over from him.

  Thank God!

  CHAPTER TWO

  LUKE HAD DECIDED to leave his visit to Ashford-St-James until the next morning.

  When he’d arrived at Oliver Morelli’s home in Bath, he’d discovered that his father expected him to stay the night, and he hadn’t wanted to disappoint him.

  Besides, his visit to the properties in South Road was intended to be anonymous. How much easier it would be to browse the small shops his agent had described to him in the morning, without arousing any protests from their occupants.

  Luke himself had never been to Ashford-St-James before. He’d only learned of the possible opportunity for developing the site from his father.

  Charles Gifford, the owner of the properties, had been an old golfing partner of Oliver Morelli’s. When he’d died, Gifford’s son had wasted no time in informing his father’s solicitor that as soon as probate was granted he was going to sell the row of shops in Ashford.

  Prior knowledge had given Luke an advantage. And, although it was a small development compared to the work the Morelli Corporation undertook these days, Luke had sensed that Oliver Morelli wanted to feel he was contributing to his son’s success.

  Which was why the five businesses in question had been given six months’ notice. It had also been Luke’s father’s suggestion that the tenants be given a decent interval of time to find themselves other accommodation.

  Not that that was going to be easy, thought Luke, deciding to park his car in the centre of town and explore the place on foot. From what he’d heard, the shops in South Road were small concerns, more suited to the last century than this.

  As far as he could see, the stores in High Road were upmarket clothes shops and jewellers. There were one or two phone outlets and a couple of coffee shops, but nothing along the lines of the businesses his father had described to him.

  Conversely, there appeared to be few food shops. He could quite see why the local council were in favour of building a supermarket.

  Nevertheless, it was an attractive place, the mellow stonework of a church with its bell tower providing a focal point. The church stood beside a park, where a small lake provided a home for a family of ducks. Although it was early in the season, there were flowers already blooming in the planters that edged the market square, and the trees in the park had most of their foliage.

  It was all very old English and very civilised. The kind of place that was attracting newcomers from London. People who were eager to escape the rat race; who wanted a slower pace of living, without losing all the benefits of the city.

  Luke left his car near the town centre and strolled along the main street to where South Road ran at right angles to the high street. His father had given him directions and it was easy to find the row of properties Luke had taken an option on.

  According to the details Luke had been given, there was a gift shop, a shop that sold woollens, a photo studio, and a bridal outfitters. The fifth property was a café-cum-bookshop, which the solicitor had told him was probably the most successful, financially speaking.

  Luke crossed the road at the lights and strolled past the first of the shops. This was the bridal shop, with an extravagant lace wedding dress occupying the central position in a window full of bridal gear.

  The photo studio was next door, its window draped with a purple backdrop in front of which resided a single digital camera.

  At least it was a digital camera, thought Luke, wondering if people still sat for formal portraits these days. Maybe the photographer made his living filming weddings or christenings. Perhaps he teamed up with the bridal outfitters, and they kept each other informed.

&n
bsp; He grinned to himself, and moved on to the next business. This was the café, with the gift shop beyond. The gift shop appeared to have a window filled with an array of soft toys and knick-knacks that any serious shopper would call junk. But obviously some people liked it or the shop would have closed before now.

  Luke wasn’t much interested in the woollen shop, so he paused outside the café-cum-bookshop.

  He glanced at his watch. It was after ten. He supposed he could legitimately call in for a coffee. The place was called Harley’s, and there was an appetising array of scones and cakes visible on trays at the counter.

  There was also a number of bistro tables and chairs, several of which were already occupied. Clearly, despite the chain coffee shops in the high street, some people preferred a more intimate café. Or perhaps it was the fact that it sold books that attracted them here.

  The bell made a muted sound as he opened the door. Clearly it was in need of attention. But Luke quickly found an empty table and subsided onto a chair. The smell of cakes and pastries was appetising, and, picking up the menu, he used it as a shield as he surveyed the interior of the café.

  It was tastefully decorated, one wall covered with a mural of muffins and cupcakes that fairly oozed with fruit and cream you could almost taste. A huge Italian coffee machine bubbled away in the background, giving the place a contemporary feel, and away to the right an archway led into the bookshop.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  He’d been so intent on studying his surroundings, Luke hadn’t heard anyone’s approach. Putting the menu aside, he looked up at the young woman standing beside the table.

  ‘Um—an Americano, please,’ he was beginning, and then broke off in disbelief. ‘Abby!’ He got automatically to his feet. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  * * *

  ‘I own the business,’ Abby said, feeling amazingly calm.

  She’d gone through the whole gamut of emotions in the last few weeks since she’d read the solicitor’s letter, but at no time had she ever imagined that Luke might come into the café.

  Alone.

  She moistened her lips. ‘I don’t have to ask you why you’re here, of course. I assume you’re evaluating your latest acquisition.’

  Luke stared down at her. He hadn’t changed at all. Tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, he was just as attractive as ever. Dangerously so, she acknowledged, wishing she were able to put the past behind her.

  As he had evidently done.

  She’d changed a lot, she was sure. An aborted love affair and a bitter divorce could do that to you. Not to mention discovering that what little money she’d invested in the café was now lost.

  ‘You run this café?’ he asked, as if he hadn’t believed her the first time. ‘I assumed you were still working in London. I had no idea you’d moved out of town.’

  ‘Hadn’t you?’ Abby wondered if she believed him. If that were so, then the Morelli Corporation buying these shops was not the vindictive action on his part she’d thought it was.

  ‘Of course, I hadn’t,’ muttered Luke, as if aware of her scepticism. ‘I wouldn’t have thought your husband would give up his job so easily. The stock market, wasn’t it? Not much use for an investment broker around here.’

  ‘Harry and I are divorced,’ said Abby, aware that their prolonged conversation was attracting the attention of her other customers. ‘I’ll get your coffee.’

  ‘Wait.’ As she would have moved away, Luke’s low voice arrested her. ‘How long have you been divorced?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s anything to do with you,’ replied Abby, glad there was no tremor in her voice. ‘Is that all?’

  Luke scowled. ‘Is this how you treat all your customers? Because if so—’

  ‘You’re not really a customer, Mr Morelli, are you? You’re on a fact-finding mission. And I can always refuse to serve you. I have that right.’

  Luke blew out a breath. He glanced about him, as if recognising there was no privacy here. ‘Well, tell me a good place to eat and I’ll buy you dinner this evening instead.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr Morelli.’ Abby refused to allow any trace of the temptation his words offered to show. With some relief she saw that two of her other customers had moved towards the till. ‘I’ll get your coffee.’

  Luke had no choice but to let her go, and Abby hurried across to the counter. She had a few words with her departing regulars, rang up their tab, and then set about preparing the Americano Luke had asked for.

  Her hands were shaking a little, but the machine did most of the work. She set his cup on a tray, added a small jug of cream and a sugar bowl containing both real and artificial sweeteners, and then turned back to deliver his coffee.

  But Luke had gone. The table where he’d been sitting before their exchange was empty.

  Setting the tray on the counter, she couldn’t deny a sinking feeling in her stomach. Although she’d been shocked to see him, she’d never expected him to leave so precipitately.

  So what? Did she want to see him again? After everything that had happened, was she fool enough to believe anything good could come of this encounter?

  The day stretched endlessly ahead of her. It was an effort to think of anything but how unnerving it had been to see Luke again.

  She’d thought about him many times, especially after her divorce was made final. But she’d known that, as far as he was concerned, she was still a liar and a cheat.

  So why had he offered her dinner?

  The café—and the bookshop—closed at four o’clock most days, and Abby wasn’t usually eager to return to her flat upstairs where Harley was waiting for her.

  Today, however, she couldn’t wait to put on her coat, grab Harley’s leash, and escape from the building. Luke’s appearance had been a damning confirmation that his plans were going ahead.

  Until then, she’d clung to the hope that they might not get planning permission, or they’d discover the ground was too damp for a development of that kind. But those hopes had now been shattered.

  At the back of the row of shops, there was a stretch of open land, and Greg Hughes had said that that was another reason why Gifford’s son was selling the properties. His father had owned the land, too, and, together with the shops that faced the street, the developers would have room for not only a car park, always useful in a town, but possibly a movie theatre, as well.

  Still, for the moment, the land was unoccupied, and Harley really appreciated the opportunity to be let off the leash.

  He wasn’t a young dog, but he still had plenty of energy and Abby bent and picked up a twig and threw it across the grass.

  Straight into the path of a man who was coming from the opposite direction.

  Luke Morelli.

  * * *

  Abby reached the outer door and peered outside. Fortunately the floodlights were still on and she could see the dark green Aston Martin standing in a pool of light.

  To her relief, its occupant didn’t appear to have got out of the car. No doubt the rain—or perhaps the fact that he didn’t know the address he wanted—was giving him pause.

  Was it Luke Morelli? The rain made it difficult to see clearly. It certainly looked like him, so she had to take that chance. She couldn’t allow her husband to come home and find him here.

  She remembered too well the bruises on her breasts and stomach Harry had inflicted weeks ago when he’d discovered she’d had lunch with one of the professors from the university.

  The fact that she could no longer wear her wedding ring, because he’d twisted her fingers so badly that the swelling was taking ages to go down, was another reason to turn on her. He was absurdly possessive. Particularly as God knew how many times he’d been unfaithful to her in the past.

  Something she’d
never even thought of.

  Until now.

  And she wasn’t really interested in Luke Morelli, she insisted to herself as she ran across the gravel car park to where the car was waiting. He’d brought her home from the hen party a week ago. That was all. He hadn’t even kissed her goodnight.

  Although he’d wanted to. She was fairly sure of that. There’d been a moment, before she’d thrust open her door and hurriedly said goodnight, when she’d thought he was going to lean across the console and touch her. And she’d wanted him to, she acknowledged. Just for a moment, she’d wanted to feel like a desirable woman again.

  It was Luke, and without hesitation Abby pulled open the car door and got inside. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked, indicating the rain. ‘It’s an awful night.’

  ‘It just got a whole lot better,’ said Luke with a grin. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Oh, you know...’ Abby waved an airy hand. ‘I was just looking out of the window, and I thought I recognised your car.’

  ‘And you thought you’d come down and apologise for not ringing me,’ suggested Luke drily. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been to find you?’

  Abby’s lips parted. ‘You’ve been looking for me?’ She hoped the alarm wasn’t evident in her voice.

  ‘Well, I’ve been trawling through the university webpages,’ he admitted. ‘But as I didn’t know your surname or what the hell subject you were researching, I was just wasting my time.’

  ‘Oh.’ Abby’s relief was almost palpable.

  ‘So Ray, the guy I was with at the wine bar, suggested checking out your apartment.’ He looked up at the apartment building. ‘This is a classy place, isn’t it?’ His eyes darkened. ‘I don’t know whether I can afford you.’

  ‘Oh—don’t be silly. I—I share the apartment with—with a friend,’ she stammered, not wanting him to think her job was anything special. ‘Um—she’s expecting me back. We were just going to have supper.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go.’