Date With a Single Dad

by Ally Blake

  He really did have the most inscrutable face. Normally she was good at picking up emotional nuances—but Nicholas Regan-Phillips seemed to short circuit some connection and she was left uncertain.

  On balance he didn’t seem as angry as he’d been yesterday. More suspicious. She looked away. It probably wasn’t anything personal. He had a reputation for avoiding journalists and for protecting his privacy. Lydia swilled out the empty tin under the tap. ‘Does Wendy have a recycling bin?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  Lydia looked up in time to catch his swift frown. If she puzzled him she was glad. He certainly puzzled her. What had he to do with Wendy Bennington? She hadn’t managed to discover any connection at all. It was a mystery—and mysteries really bugged her.

  ‘Shall I leave this on the side then?’

  ‘I’m sure that’ll be fine.’

  Lydia carefully placed the tin at the back of the draining board and rinsed the spoon. ‘How’s Wendy?’

  There was a small beat of silence while, it seemed, he evaluated her right to ask the question. ‘Better than she looked yesterday.’

  Lydia glanced over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.

  ‘She’s had a TIA. A mini-stroke, if you like. She’ll be fine.’ His mouth quirked into a half-smile. It was a nice mouth, firm and sensual. ‘No permanent damage, but she’s been told to make some life changes.’

  ‘That’s … fantastic.’

  His smile broadened and something inside her flickered in recognition. ‘I’d love to hear you try and convince her of that.’

  ‘When will she be home?’

  ‘Well—’ he stretched out the word ‘—that depends on who you speak to. She’s broken her ankle. It’s a fairly simple break, apparently, and doesn’t need surgery, but …’

  Lydia looked around her and then down at the uneven floor levels.

  Nick followed her gaze. ‘Exactly. She’s not going to manage here for a few weeks, however much she’d rather be in her own home.’

  ‘No,’ Lydia agreed. She placed the clean bowl back on the floor and picked up the other one. ‘So, who’s won?’

  ‘The cards are stacked in my favour. I’m here to pick up Nimrod. Hopefully lure him in with food.’

  Lydia emptied the water into the sink and put in some fresh. ‘That’s the cat?’

  ‘Nimrod, the mighty hunter,’ Nick agreed, moving away into the hall, his voice slightly muffled. ‘I gather his namesake was Noah’s great-grandson.’ He reappeared moments later, carrying a cat basket.

  ‘Great name,’ she said, smiling at the incongruous sight of a city gent with rustic cat basket.

  ‘Certainly appropriate. He’s something of a killer cat. Wendy picked him up as a stray a couple of years ago, only he turned out not to be so much a waif as a con artist. If it moves, Nimrod will hunt it. There never was a cat more suited to life in the wild.’

  Lydia laughed. ‘Good luck getting it into that thing then,’ she said with a gesture at the cat basket.

  ‘So Wendy’s warned me,’ he said, setting it down on the kitchen table.

  She rinsed her hands under the tap. ‘I’m glad it’s all sorted. It suddenly occurred to me, after I’d left, that you might forget about … Nimrod. I was going to contact you today.’

  ‘How?’

  She looked up, surprised by the abrupt single word question. ‘It wouldn’t have been too difficult. A call to your company …’

  His nod was almost imperceptible, but she could see his attitude towards her change. ‘I thought you didn’t know who I was.’

  ‘I didn’t, but you have an Internet presence—’

  ‘And you checked.’

  Lydia thought of Izzy and smiled, deciding that she wouldn’t tell him that her description of him had inspired her sister with a burning fascination to discover who had managed to rile her so much. There’d been little enough information to find, nothing he could object to.

  He was thirty-six and divorced. His only child, a daughter, lived with her mother and he was hugely successful at what he did. Nothing particularly unusual in any of that.

  ‘Do you always pry into other people’s business?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ She looked about her for a towel on which to dry her hands. ‘It’s an occupational hazard. But, this time, you’ve got to acknowledge I was invited to pry.’

  ‘Not by me.’

  ‘By Wendy.’ She turned to face him. ‘Though I dispute the use of the word pry.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you?’

  ‘She’s led an amazing life. Don’t you think it’s in the public interest to have that properly chronicled? What she’s achieved, particularly for women, is amazing.’

  ‘I think what’s deemed to be “in the public interest” is stretched beyond belief,’ he said dryly, ‘but that’s not to undermine what Wendy has achieved.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that, I suppose—but I’m not here as a representative of any tabloid paper. Wendy will have complete control over what I write about her and, as long as it’s truthful, I’ve no problem with that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  She sounded aghast, but Nick knew better. Confronting Lydia Stanford was like coming up against a snake in the grass. You could never trust her. Never.

  Very early in her career she’d worked undercover to highlight the ill treatment of the elderly in care homes and, while you couldn’t question the validity of her findings … you had to be suspicious of her ability to lie. And lie convincingly enough for colleagues to trust her.

  Wendy might be impressed by her ability to stick to her purpose, of owning a cause and staying with it, whatever the personal cost—but he suspected a different motivation lay at the heart of it. He suspected her only cause was herself—Lydia Stanford. And where was the virtue in that?

  She carefully folded the towel and threaded it back through the loop. ‘So how do you know Wendy?’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

  Lydia smiled, her eyes the colour of topaz. Warm and beguiling. ‘It’s usually easier to give in and tell me what I want to know.’

  He turned away as though that would stop him being drawn in. ‘She’s my godmother.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I have the rattle to prove it.’

  She laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made him wish she was a different woman—and they were in a different situation. He ran an irritated hand through his hair. He’d been celibate for far too long. That rich throaty chuckle was exactly what could make him forget who and what she was.

  ‘Actually, that’s a lie. She didn’t give me a rattle. I received two engraved napkin rings and a boxed china bowl and plate set from the other two.’

  ‘And from Wendy?’

  ‘A copy of the Bible, the Koran and the complete works of William Shakespeare.’

  He watched the way her eyes crinkled into laughter. She was dangerous. You could easily relax in her company, forget that she used anyone and everyone near her to further her career—even a vulnerable sister.

  People often described him as ruthless, but he would never have taken something so intensely personal and used it to advance his career. Lydia Stanford might claim that her sister had made a complete recovery, but he doubted it.

  Betrayal was painful—acutely painful—and when it came so close to home it was difficult to ever recover from it. He had personal experience of it and her Anastasia Wilson jacket was a visual reminder.

  Better to remember how that betrayal had felt. Better to remember how much pain the woman who’d decreed that jacket should be in precisely that caramel colour had inflicted. It didn’t matter that it exactly picked out a shade in Lydia Stanford’s long hair. Or that it accentuated a narrow waist and visually lengthened her legs.

  It was a warning. And only a fool would ignore it.

  ‘Have you read them?’

  ‘What?’ He brought Lydia back into focus. Her lips parted into
a smile, showing her even teeth. The woman was stunning. Like a sleek lioness. A mixture of sunshine and fire.

  ‘Have you read them all yet? The Bible, the Koran and the complete works of Shakespeare?’

  ‘By the age of thirty-two.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘I’ve never used the napkin rings, though,’ he returned and was rewarded by the same sexy laugh. Hell, it did something to his insides that didn’t bear thinking about.

  He closed his hand round the handle of the cat basket. ‘Have you seen Nimrod?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll come in for food some time. He can’t have had anything to eat since yesterday morning.’

  Nick glanced down at his wristwatch. ‘He’ll have to do it in the next twenty minutes or I’ll be out of time.’ He strode over to the back door and called.

  ‘Do cats come when you call?’

  He looked over his shoulder. ‘No idea.’ Lydia was smiling, bright eyes ready to laugh and, God help him, he wanted to laugh back.

  ‘Look, why don’t you let me try and catch Nimrod? I can stay until he comes in for food.’

  ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that. I—’

  ‘Why ever not?’ She shook back her hair. ‘You’re obviously busy and I’m on holiday.’

  ‘On holiday?’

  Her smile twisted. ‘I should be in Vienna. I flew back when I heard Wendy wanted me to write her biography.’

  ‘You broke off your holiday?’ He couldn’t quite believe it. What a pointless gesture. His godmother would have been more than happy to wait. There was nothing so important about the precise timing of this meeting which meant it couldn’t have been postponed.

  ‘Guilty as charged. Over-developed work ethic.’ She smiled, but this time it didn’t have the same effect. Nick could see a different face.

  It was none of his business whether or not Lydia Stanford chose to curtail her holiday, but it reminded him of Ana. Still, four years after she’d left, he thought about her most days. There were reasons for that, of course. Good reasons.

  In the three years they’d been married Ana had never taken a holiday. Had never turned off her cellphone. It was a price she’d been prepared to pay to achieve her goals. He couldn’t deny she’d been totally honest about that from the very beginning, and at the start he’d admired her for it.

  Presumably Lydia Stanford would agree that that kind of commitment was necessary. They were wrong.

  ‘I’ve got the laptop in the car. I can work here and drive Nimrod over to you later.’ She looked across at him. ‘It’s not a problem.’

  Nick glanced down at his watch. It was tempting to accept her offer. He had back-to-back meetings scheduled for the morning and paperwork that really needed looking at after that, besides squeezing in a visit to the hospital. But to accept meant …

  She seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t take it as an endorsement of your godmother’s choice of biographer.’ She met his eyes. ‘By the way, what is your problem with me?’

  ‘Have I said there’s a problem?’ he countered.

  ‘You haven’t needed to. It’s obvious.’

  He hesitated. ‘Wendy is capable of making her own decisions. In fact, she would strongly resent my interference in what doesn’t concern me.’

  Even in his own head his reply sounded pompous and formal. Famed for his ‘tell it like it is’ approach to business, how had he become so verbally challenged when confronted by a beautiful …?

  What was she? Not a blonde or a brunette. Richer than a blonde and lighter than a brunette.

  ‘I don’t believe that for a minute.’

  He looked up.

  ‘Oh, I believe Wendy doesn’t like interference in her business. I’m like that myself, but—’ her eyes met his ‘—but I don’t believe you don’t tell her what you think. I’ve seen you two together, remember.’

  He felt a small muscle pulse in his cheek. ‘I don’t want her hurt.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  And, strangely, he believed her. There was an innate honesty in those rich eyes that made him want to trust her. Was that how she worked? Was it a highly cultivated technique which persuaded the unsuspecting to share their innermost secrets?

  ‘If you slander her in any way I’ll sue you.’

  She didn’t flinch. ‘An authorised biography is just that—authorised.’ Then her face softened. ‘You really love her, don’t you?’

  ‘She’s a special lady.’

  ‘So I gather.’ Lydia slipped her arms out of her jacket and placed it over the chair by the table. ‘You can trust me. Where do you want me to take Nimrod to? Do you have a housekeeper to receive him?’

  A housekeeper. A nanny. A daughter.

  He didn’t trust her. Not with one atom of his body. If he left Lydia in the cottage she would, no doubt, look around. She’d open drawers and search through Wendy’s possessions. But then, Wendy herself had argued that she’d nothing to hide.

  Let her search.

  ‘My housekeeper is Mrs Pearman. Christine Pearman.’ It felt as if he’d lost some unspoken battle. ‘Did your research on me extend to knowing where I live?’

  As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted his phrasing of them. Lydia Stanford was doing him a favour. Even if she did have an unacknowledged agenda of her own.

  ‘You weren’t that much of an interest, but I’m sure I can find out with a couple of phone calls if you want to make it a game.’

  He’d deserved that, Nick thought as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his card case. ‘It’s a ten, fifteen minute drive from here. No more.’ He scribbled down the address. ‘I’ll ring Christine and let her know to expect you. You’ll need to phone up to the house when you arrive and they’ll open the gates.’

  Lydia took the card and looked down at it.

  ‘If you need to leave before Nimrod puts in an appearance, I’d be grateful if you’d leave a message with my secretary and I’ll come back this evening. The number’s on the front. It’s a direct line through to her. I don’t want you to feel you have to sit here for hours.’

  She turned the card over. ‘It’s not a problem.’

  ‘No, well … thank you.’

  Her eyes flashed up. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I’ll lock the front door. If you leave the key beneath the flowerpot …’

  ‘No problem,’ she said again.

  There was nothing left to do. ‘The cage is here.’ He pointed at the cat basket.

  ‘Yes.’

  It was just leaving that was the problem. It was walking back down the hall and shutting the door.

  Trust. This was about trust. About leaving her alone in Wendy’s cottage.

  Or was it? There was the suspicion that this was about more than that. There was something about her golden aura that touched him. He knew it—and he was almost certain she did.

  Danger. Fire. And Lydia Stanford. Like the Holy Trinity they belonged together.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Give Wendy my …’ Love. She’d been about to say love. Hardly appropriate for a woman she didn’t know. ‘Best wishes.’

  His hand went to his tie. ‘I’ll do that.’

  Lydia made herself smile. She didn’t know what was going on here. There were undercurrents she didn’t understand. ‘Perhaps she’ll ring me when she feels … ready?’

  ‘I’m sure she will.’

  And then he left. Awkwardly—and she had no idea why. Why was it she felt so uncomfortable round Nicholas Regan-Phillips? It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to men with influence and money. She was.

  She heard the front door click shut and gazed about Wendy Bennington’s tired kitchen. What the heck was she doing? And, more importantly, why was she doing it?

  It was true, what she’d told Nicholas Regan-Phillips, she did have the time. This was her holiday.

  Nicholas Regan-Phillips. What a mouthful of a name. Nick Regan. His Nick Regan suited him far better.
r />   Lydia filled the old limescale encrusted kettle and set it on the gas hob. It was just so out of character for her to have agreed to kick her heels in such a place.

  Why would she do that? This wasn’t her problem.

  But Nick Regan was, that little voice that sat some way to the left of her shoulder whispered. He was arrogant, rude, supercilious … and sexy. Lydia searched around for a coffee mug. Bizarrely, Nick Regan was very, very sexy—and he was probably the reason she’d agreed to stay.

  Now, if Izzy knew that …

  CHAPTER THREE

  SOME decisions just weren’t good ones. Lydia glanced over at the cat basket, ridiculously pleased to see that Nimrod was safely locked inside.

  There was no man, or woman, on earth who warranted the kind of self-sacrifice she’d endured today. Wendy’s cottage was an unpleasant place to kick your heels for the best part of a day and Nimrod was the kind of cat who should be certified—and she had the scratches to prove it.

  Lydia changed gear to negotiate a particularly tight bend. She’d gone wrong at the moment when she’d said it would be no problem to stay. She should have cited a mountainous pile of laundry and the possibility of a phone call from her former editor as reasons she had to be back in London.

  Instead, she’d endured hours sitting on an uncomfortable sofa with a laptop perched on a melamine tray before being … well, here … and on her way to Nicholas Regan-Phillips’s domestic empire. Though that part didn’t bother her. She had to admit she had a rabid curiosity to see what it would be like.

  There’d been any number of Internet articles about Drakes but Nicholas Regan-Phillips ‘the man’ had emerged as something of a mystery. It was pure nosiness, of course, but when fate landed you an opportunity like this one she was not the woman to let it go to waste. She was just dying to see what kind of place he called home, considered it reparation for an otherwise completely wasted day.

  Another four miles and an unexpected sharp bend and the gates of Fenton Hall loomed impressively out of a quiet country lane. Lydia pulled the car to a gentle stop. The house itself was completely hidden from view. The gates were well over six feet high, tightly shut and were edged by equally high stone walls. It was taking a desire for privacy to rather extreme lengths.