by Ally Blake
‘I think you’ve offended her. You must make a mental note to show more appreciation,’ Lydia teased. She picked up her soup spoon. ‘What do you plan to do here? With the garden?’
‘Actually I’m still undecided.’ Nick picked up the bottle of wine which sat in an elegantly twisting silver coaster. ‘Wine?’
‘A very little.’
‘You’re driving,’ he said with a smile. ‘I remember.’
He made even that seem sexy. This was beginning to feel like a date. It was so strange. Yesterday she’d have said he wouldn’t have given her the time of day. Well, he hadn’t.
He’d been rude, arrogant and supercilious. She was almost beginning to forget that.
‘Currently I’m working on creating a traditional kitchen garden inspired by the one at Audley End. In Essex.’
Lydia nodded. ‘I know it.’
‘I’ve put in some espalier trees and I’m currently building some raised beds.’
‘You are?’ she said, surprised. ‘You’re doing the work yourself?’
He smiled again. ‘No enjoyment if you don’t. That’s what I’d intended doing yesterday, only I spent most of it at the hospital with Wendy.’
Lydia looked at him. That explained the scruffy clothes when she’d first met him. She would never have suspected he’d be a gardener. Somehow that didn’t quite fit with a man who’d made millions from electrical components.
But then nothing about him really fitted with her idea of a man who’d devoted his life to electrical components. Nick had the kind of voice you’d listen to even if he was reading you the telephone directory and a body … that a nicely brought-up girl would do better not to think about.
And he was a gardener. She smiled. As far as her father had been concerned, that automatically put someone on the side of good, whatever indications there might be to the contrary.
‘Actually, I agree.’ Her dad had never been able to understand why anyone would spend a fortune on having a garden designed for them when the whole pleasure was in getting involved, actually getting your hands dirty.
She saw Nick’s gaze move to her manicured nails and laughed. ‘Not that I’ve done much gardening recently, I admit.’
His smile broadened and Lydia looked away quickly. She had to stop this. The slightly uneven tilt of his mouth and the glint in his eyes had really started to do something to her. Izzy had said he was ‘her type’ and, despite all her protestations to the contrary, Lydia was beginning to wonder whether that was true.
Only physically, of course. She liked successful men, but she preferred them to be entirely self-made success stories. There was a hint of the silver spoon about Nicholas Regan-Phillips which meant she could have nothing in common with him. No one in her state comprehensive had had a double-barrelled name and, if they had, they’d quickly have pretended they didn’t.
Which reminded her. Nick had done just that. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’
She fancied his eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Not if I can reserve the right not to answer.’
‘Deal.’ Lydia picked up her soup spoon. ‘Why did you tell me your name was Nick Regan?’
‘Because it is.’
‘Evasive. Why did you drop the Phillips part?’
His eyes crinkled in an acknowledgement of a hit. ‘Your reputation went before you. I didn’t want you to do what you did.’
‘What did I do?’ she asked, bemused.
‘Find out who I was. Search me out on the Internet.’
Lydia sipped her soup. ‘You were unlucky. There wasn’t another Nick Regan so you were the closest match I could find. There was nothing much there, though. I’d have to go to much greater trouble to unearth any really interesting information. So far I’ve not found a skeleton in the closet.’
There was a small beat of silence and Lydia wondered whether she’d offended him. As ever it was difficult to tell. His face gave so little away as to what he was thinking. She’d meant the ‘skeleton in the closet’ bit to be a harmless quip, but perhaps it hadn’t been the most sensitive thing to say. Particularly since one of the few things she did know about him was that he valued his privacy.
She took another sip of soup and was relieved when he said mildly, ‘My turn to ask a question.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘What stopped you gardening?’
Lydia put down her spoon and picked up her wineglass. It was a simple enough question, but there were so many ways of answering it. The completely honest answer would be that her parents had died and the family house had been sold. She’d driven past it a year ago and her father’s lovingly cultivated flower garden had all but vanished.
‘Well …’ her fingers moved along the stem of her wineglass ‘… I suppose university. Then work.’
‘You don’t have a garden in London?’
‘I have a balcony.’ Lydia smiled. ‘And I’m the proud owner of two hanging baskets. You can’t judge me by that, though. I assure you I do know my Choisya ternata from my Campanula lactiflora.’
‘I’m impressed.’
He seemed to watch her from behind his wineglass. It was actually quite unnerving to be so unsure of what someone was thinking of you. And he was thinking something. Lydia returned to her soup and let the mild celery flavour of the celeriac swirl about her mouth for a moment, then looked up. ‘I had a gardening childhood.’
Nick said nothing. It had the effect of making her want to fill the silence. Lydia pulled off a piece of the bread roll and carefully smeared on some butter. ‘My father was a gardener. Professionally, I mean. He loved it. Some of my earliest memories are of helping him prick out seedlings.’
Lydia looked back fondly through the years. She’d loved being with him. Had loved the magic way he’d taught her to watch for the seasons. The Saturdays spent at his allotment and the joy of bringing home freshly dug new potatoes. One day, she promised herself, one day she’d move out of London, have a garden again.
‘Loved? As in past tense?’
‘He … died when I was eighteen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Lydia shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘It was a long time ago.’ But it still hurt. The suddenness of it. ‘My parents were hit by a lorry while crossing the road. My father died instantly, my mother a week later in hospital from internal injuries.’
Why was she saying this? She never told people this. Never tried to describe what it had felt like to be eighteen and have the police tell you your parents had been involved in a fatal accident. Or how responsible she’d felt taking her twelve-year-old sister to the hospital, the days of waiting for their mother to die.
She never spoke of how much she’d resented missing her school leavers’ ball and how ashamed she was of that feeling. Or of her decision to go to university and break up what was left of her family unit. No amount of success, it seemed, could ever assuage the guilt of that.
Nick tore a mouthful off his own roll and said nothing. Why didn’t he say something? He should say something, if only to be polite.
‘They were deaf,’ she stated baldly, filling the void. Wanting to provoke some kind of real reaction. ‘The road markings had changed and they were looking the wrong way … and, of course, they didn’t hear the lorry approaching.’
‘And you’re still angry?’
His question brought her up short. Angry? Was she? ‘I don’t blame the lorry driver … I just think it was a meaningless waste.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘My mum wasn’t even forty when she died.’
‘That’s young.’
‘Too young.’
Nick watched the colour of her eyes change, almost as if they really did have fire in their depths. There was anger there, he was sure of it. His own mother had died at twenty-three. But from illness. Did that make it better or worse? He wasn’t sure.
He didn’t have a single memory of his mother. Not one. It would have been nice to have remembered something. Nice, too, to have felt he’d known his fat
her.
Nick watched as Lydia brushed her hair off her neck. She often did that, it seemed, but it was completely unconscious—and that made it so much harder to resist. It drew his eyes to the soft skin of her neck before her hair fell back in a soft cascade of rich honey-coloured silk.
He looked away and was grateful when Christine returned to take away the empty soup bowls. ‘Has Rosie woken at all?’
The housekeeper’s face almost stretched into a smile. ‘There’s not been a peep out of the little mite. It looks like she might have settled for the night.’
‘Does she normally wake up?’ Lydia asked, the haunted look in her eyes vanishing like morning mist.
It was Nick’s turn to shrug. It was the kind of question he’d no intention of answering because of where it might lead. ‘She’s not used to the house.’
‘Doesn’t she stay with you often?’
Nick looked up and met her eyes. He could read the criticism in hers easily enough, but he wasn’t prepared to bare his soul to this woman. This was touching on very personal ground and he’d no intention of being newspaper fodder again.
He moved to top up her wineglass, but Lydia forestalled him. ‘No more, or I’ll be over the limit.’
Nick filled up his own glass as Christine put plates of fish in front of them and a serving dish of lightly cooked vegetables in the centre. ‘Thank you.’
‘Yes, thank you. This looks completely wonderful, Christine.’
Lydia reached out and spooned a selection of vegetables, the long scratch on her hand very noticeable.
‘That looks nasty,’ Nick observed.
She pulled her hand back and looked at her injury. ‘Wendy was quite right when she told you Nimrod didn’t like going in his cat basket. He fought like a mighty hunter.’ Nick watched her run her finger along the length of the scratch and then she looked up and smiled. ‘I haven’t seen him since I delivered him. I hope you haven’t lost him.’
He forced an answering smile. ‘He’ll be around.’
She was completely beguiling. The way she moved, spoke, laughed … Hell, her laugh ripped through him so he didn’t know whether it was morning or evening.
What was it about him that made him fall for completely the wrong woman—always? He’d built a multimillion-pound business on recognising talent and building a team. His contemporaries rated his judgement, but when it came to women …
‘How is Wendy?’ she asked suddenly, giving him something concrete to focus on.
He watched the way she pulled her hand through her shining hair and saw it splay out on the black cotton of her blouse. He had read something about what it meant when a woman touched her hair. The trouble was he couldn’t remember whether it meant she was or wasn’t attracted to the person she was talking to.
Of course, it could just mean she didn’t like her hair across her face. When he’d first seen her she’d had it tied up in that sexy waterfall-type thing. On balance, he thought he preferred it loose.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to visit her in hospital today,’ Lydia continued. ‘Do you know when she’ll be out?’
‘Actually, I’d been to visit her before I came home tonight.’ Nick picked up his wineglass and sipped, trying to concentrate on what she was saying rather than the way her mouth moved. He had to stop this. Concentrate on the facts. Focus on something entirely matter-of-fact.
‘So, how was she?’
‘She’s made a complete recovery from the TIA. Scans show nothing to be concerned about.’
‘That’s good.’
Nick let himself smile. ‘But she’s to consider it a warning. They want her to cut down on her unhealthy fats and … give up smoking.’
He loved the way her smile broadened, the sexy glint that coloured her brown eyes. ‘Does Wendy have a bad habit?’
‘Again—’ he paused to cut into his fish ‘—it depends on who you’re speaking to. Wendy says not. She says she smokes for relaxation and it’s not an addiction. Her doctor, on the other hand, considers twenty cigarettes a day something to be concerned about.’
Lydia’s nose wrinkled in an attractive look of concentration. ‘That’s quite a lot.’
‘Most worrying of all, she’ll be staying here while she’s trying to give up.’
And then Lydia laughed her low, husky chuckle. ‘I gather she’s a determined woman.’
‘Like steel, though in this case it could work either way. Currently, I’m not convinced she thinks it’s something she needs to do.’
‘And her ankle?’ Lydia speared a softly glazed baby carrot with her fork before looking up at him.
‘They managed to persuade Wendy that the risk of arthritis if it didn’t heal properly was significant enough to warrant surgery. Someone there must have a silver tongue because she was adamant she didn’t want that.’
‘Is it painful?’ Her eyes clouded with sudden sympathy.
‘It’s a fairly standard practice, though I imagine it’s not comfortable for the patient. They’ve made an incision on one side of her ankle and held the bone together with screws and plates.’
‘Is she in plaster?’
He nodded. ‘She’s in a cast up to her knee.’
‘How long for?’
‘Approximately six weeks. But, obviously, she’ll be able to go home before then. She’s agreed to spend two weeks here and after that it’s negotiable.’
Lydia smiled, gave another flick of her incredibly rich hair. ‘This topping on the haddock is amazing. I’ve never thought of making a pesto with anything other than basil, but coriander works fantastically well.’
‘Are you a keen cook?’
She pulled a face. ‘Yes and no. I dabble, but I don’t usually have much time for it. The genius in my family is Izzy. She’s as passionate about cooking as you are about your garden.’
Izzy must be Isabel. Nick felt his muscles tense at the mention of her sister’s name. He hadn’t expected that Lydia would mention her. Certainly not with a voice that rang with affection.
Lydia looked up, blithely unaware. ‘She’s my sister. You know how some people can make pastry and it’s just lighter than anybody else’s? Well, that’s Izzy. I gave up competing.’
‘Are you close to your sister?’
‘Very.’ Lydia stretched out her hand for the jug and poured herself some water into an empty tumbler. ‘We weren’t always. There’s six years between us, which was too big a gap when we were children, but when Izzy was … oh, I don’t know … about seventeen, the age-gap ceased to matter.’ She sipped her water. ‘How about you? Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘No.’
Lydia looked up over the rim of her glass. That didn’t surprise her. If anyone had had ‘only child’ stamped on his forehead it had to be Nicholas Regan-Phillips. ‘Did you want any?’
‘It was never an option.’ His hand clenched slightly on the stem of his wineglass, an outward sign that he hadn’t liked her question.
When it came to Wendy or, more specifically, Wendy’s physical condition, Nick spoke freely—but touch on anything remotely personal and he clammed up. She looked at him speculatively. There were so many things she wanted to know about him, but it didn’t seem worth upsetting him. Not when she still hoped to talk to his godmother about her life.
‘Well,’ she said brightly, bringing her knife and fork together in the centre of her plate and sitting back, ‘I’m very glad to have my sister. Particularly since she gave me a bed for the night yesterday.’
‘She lives near here?’
Lydia nodded. ‘Reasonably. After I’d pointed the ambulance in the direction of Wendy’s cottage, I decided to drive over and see her.’
His fingers moved ceaselessly on his wineglass. It was quite distracting. ‘Doesn’t she work?’
She forced her eyes to look up. ‘Pardon?’
‘Your sister? I asked if she worked. It’s mid-week …’
Lydia suddenly clicked. ‘Not during the school holida
ys. She’s a teacher. I don’t know what she’d planned for yesterday, but she took me in with good grace and we had a chance to gossip.’
Mostly about him. Lydia let her smile broaden. It was tempting to tell him that Izzy thought he bore a strong resemblance to the actor who’d played Fitzwilliam Darcy in the recent film. It would have been fun to have seen his reaction.
Mentioning Izzy, though, had reminded her why she’d been invited to stay for dinner. Rosie. She mustn’t waste this opportunity to do something useful.
‘How often does Rosie stay with you?’ she asked him as Christine came in the room with an empty tray to clear the table. Lydia saw the glance that passed between the housekeeper and her employer, but couldn’t fathom why.
‘This is her permanent home.’
‘With you?’
‘Yes.’
His answer came as a complete surprise. She’d read that his daughter lived with her mother. There was some excuse for his inability to communicate with Rosie if she only made bi-weekly visits. But if this was her permanent home … there was no excuse at all.
Lydia waited while Christine brought in apple and pear tart as dessert and placed a jug of double cream on the table. Nick reached out and touched his housekeeper’s arm. ‘Thank you for keeping an ear out for Rosie. I’m grateful.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’
‘But you’re off duty now. I’ll check on her from now on so you can watch your Agatha Christie programme in peace.’
Christine smiled. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, sir.’
Lydia toyed with her spoon, waiting for the moment when Christine shut the dining room door behind her. ‘Then why don’t you sign?’ she asked quietly.
She watched the muscle in the side of his jaw pulse, but he didn’t answer. ‘It isn’t difficult to learn,’ she offered, thinking perhaps he was nervous for some reason.
Nick glanced across at her briefly and then looked away. Clearly he was searching for the words he wanted to say. ‘Her living with me is … a recent development.’
That fitted in with what she’d read, but she needed more information before she could understand what Rosie’s needs were. ‘Where did she live before?’ It was like chipping away at granite. ‘Nick?’