Alison Fraser was born and brought up in the far north of Scotland. She studied English Literature at university and taught maths for a while, then became a computer programmer. She took up writing as a hobby and it is still very much so, in that she doesn’t take it too seriously! She currently lives with her husband, children and dogs in Birmingham and is in her early forties—she doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up!
THE MOTHER AND THE MILLIONAIRE
BY
ALISON FRASER
Sexy Romance
First Published 2001
ISBN 0 733 53415 5
THE MOTHER AND THE MILLIONAIRE © 2001 by Alison Fraser
Philippine Copyright 2001
Australian Copyright 2001
New Zealand Copyright 2001
CHAPTER ONE
It was one of those life-changing moments. For Esme, anyway. She opened the door and there he was. Not so different. Older, of course. Better-dressed, too, in dark suit and silk tie. But essentially the same.
‘Midge?’ He half smiled, uncertain whether it was her.
She didn’t smile back. She was sick with shock. It was as if he’d just risen from the dead.
‘Jack Doyle.’ He identified himself.
Quite unnecessary. A towering six feet two, dark-haired and grey-eyed, with razor-sharp cheekbones and a wicked smile, he wasn’t easy to forget.
She struggled to collect her thoughts, only to find herself stammering. ‘I—I—I...’
All her hard-won composure out of the window. A decade’s worth. Back to the gawky teenager, cursed with puppy fat and the awful nickname Midge.
Speech proved impossible. Just as well or she might have said, Go away. I have a life now.
And he wouldn’t have understood.
He took advantage of her silence to do an inventory. Heavy-lidded grey eyes travelled from her coiled blonde hair and fine-boned face to her slim figure in an A-line dress, and back again.
‘Who would have thought it—little Midge all grown up?’ His voice was teasing rather than mocking.
Midge knew that—no, Esme; that was her name—knew that, but it didn’t help. Still, it rescued her from incoherence.
‘No one calls me that now.’ She finally spoke and, looking down her nose, added, ‘May I help you?’
Polite veneer barely masking condescension.
He got it, of course. She’d expected him to. Doyle had always been quick on the uptake. Brilliantly so apart from when it concerned her sister, Arabella.
‘Scary,’ he commented.
‘What?’ she demanded, unable to help herself.
He shook his head but a smile played on his mouth. He was laughing at something.
She remembered that of old, too. Jack Doyle watching her family as if they were interesting curiosities, unable to comment because of their respective positions, but commenting all the same with the curve of his lips or the lift of a brow.
‘You haven’t changed!’ she accused.
‘You have,’ he accused in return. ‘Very lady of the manor.’
Esme glowered but was unable to argue, considering she had just borrowed her mother’s airs and graces to try and put him down. Unsuccessfully.
‘Better than being mannerless,’ she threw back at length.
He looked surprised, as well he might. He might have been the cook’s son, educated at the local county school, but Jack Doyle had always known how to behave.
His eyes narrowed slightly before he responded, ‘Well, you’ll know how that feels soon. Being manorless yourselves, I mean.’
So he’d heard. The manor was to be sold.
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘No.’
She hadn’t thought so. More a cruel remark. That surprised her. She didn’t remember that side of him.
‘Is your mother about?’ he added. ‘Her ladyship, should I say?’
‘No, actually you shouldn’t,’ she corrected. ‘My mother remarried.’
‘Of course,’ he concluded, ‘and presumably lost the title. Poor old Rosie. That must have been traumatic for her.’
It had been. In fact, her mother, Rosalind—who had never allowed anyone to call her Rosie in her life—had been very slow to take a second walk up the aisle. Only an ultimatum from her new husband had forced the issue.
‘Is she around?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Arabella?’ he added casually.
But Esme wasn’t fooled. Jack Doyle had never been casual where Arabella was concerned.
‘No, she’s in New York,’ Esme relayed, then, after a pause, ‘With her husband.’
She watched for a reaction but there was none. Jack had always kept his emotions under wraps. Well, almost always.
‘She lives there?’ was all he said.
‘At the moment,’ she confirmed.
It wasn’t a lie. Arabella would be there for some time yet. Just as being with her husband wasn’t a lie. No need to tell this man that the two were sitting on opposite sides of a divorce court.
‘Well, I’d really love to chat—’ she curled her hand round the doorknob ‘—but I’m expecting someone.’
‘Yes, I know.’ The amused look was back on his face.
It was a moment or so before Esme caught on. ‘You’re it—the man from Jadenet?’
He gave a nod. ‘I’m it—or he, to be more precise.’
Jack watched her changing expression, but found he couldn’t interpret it. Initially he’d been pleased when Esme had been the one to appear at the door. He had always liked her. The best of the Scott-Hamiltons. Now she was so much prettier—beautiful, even—but had also grown disappointingly similar to her mother.
‘Phone the estate agent,’ he suggested, ‘check my credentials if you like.’
He proffered her his mobile phone.
Esme ignored it, her uncertain look turning into a positive scowl. She believed him but his whole attitude riled her.
‘You have no idea, have you?’ she accused.
Doyle frowned. He imagined he’d been trying to help her. ‘Obviously not.’
‘Do you know how many years there’s been Scott-Hamiltons in this house?’ she demanded with atypical arrogance.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he drawled back, ‘since the Magna Carta?’
Having never been a great history student, Esme hadn’t the first idea when that was, but it was scarcely relevant, as he was laughing at her.
He always had, only in the past there had been a degree of fondness in it.
‘What’s the point?’ she dismissed at length. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Being of simple peasant stock, you mean?’ he concluded, an edge behind the banter now.
Esme was left wishing she hadn’t started this. She was coming over as the snob of the century, and that wasn’t really her at all. Jack Doyle had just thrown her off balance.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. I know what your family thought of me. I heard it from the horse’s mouth, remember?’
Esme coloured. She remembered. She was unlikely to forget, having her own memento from that day.
‘I always thought you were different, though, Midge.’ Dark grey eyes studied her once more.
Esme wanted to say, I was different. I am different. But it seemed so much safer to hide behind the class barrier.
‘Don’t call me Midge,’ was all she eventually muttered. ‘I’m not ten any more.’
‘No.’ Jack underlined the word as he noted once again the new Esme. Slim and long-legged but shapely where it counted, at breasts and hips. ‘I can see that.’
His eyes stopped j
ust short of undressing her. One of life’s ironies. Ten years ago she had longed for him to look at her this way. Now it was anathema to her.
‘Papers,’ she almost barked at him, ‘I assume you have some.’
‘Papers?’
‘To prove you have a viewing appointment.’
Jack’s mouth tightened as he wondered who Miss High and Mighty Scott-Hamilton thought she was—or who he was, for that matter.
He reached a hand into the inside pocket of his suit and took out his wallet. From it he withdrew a business card.
It was extended with a thin-lipped smile and Esme didn’t need clairvoyance to know she’d annoyed him. She took the card but, without her reading glasses, the small print danced in front of her. Perhaps it would have with her glasses on, thrown back as she had been to her past.
She screwed up her eyes and the print started to come into focus, but not before he suggested, ‘I’ll read it for you if you like.’
This time his tone was milder, less sarcastic, but it still sliced through her. Midge wasn’t the only nickname bestowed on her by her big sister Arabella when they were children, only she’d confined the use of Dumbo to outside parental range.
‘I’m not that thick, you know!’ she snapped back.
He looked surprised, as if such a thought had never crossed his mind. ‘Have I ever suggested you were, Mi—Esme?’
In fairness, no. He was the one who’d suggested otherwise. ‘I just remember you wearing reading glasses,’ he added.
She cringed a little. Was she forever printed on his mind as a plump, bespectacled teen? At the time she’d longed for him to look her way, to notice. It seemed he had. She just hadn’t measured up.
She stared back down at the card until the bold lettering came into focus:
Jack Doyle
Managing Director J.D. Net
She didn’t bother scrutinising the telephone number. She was too busy absorbing the rest. He was MD and it wasn’t Jadenet as she’d heard her mother say—but J.D. Net. As in, Jack Doyle Net?
What else had her mother said about their prospective buyer? Some American internet entrepreneur worth mega-bucks. Had her mother been in the dark or was she too proud to admit the truth?
‘Does my mother know J.D. Net is you?’ she asked bluntly.
He shrugged. ‘Possibly not. I didn’t arrange this viewing in person.’
No, he would have lackeys to do that. Go buy my childhood home, he’d probably said. Only technically it wasn’t. The cottage in the grounds where he’d lived was the one thing held back in the sale. She assumed he knew that.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said finally, and left him to follow her into the hall.
It was stark and bare. What furniture her mother hadn’t wanted had been auctioned off. She had tried to auction the house, too, but it hadn’t made its reserve price and now they were struggling to find a buyer.
The chequered marble on the floor was worn but still magnificent. Jack Doyle looked up towards the sweeping staircase and the galleried landing above.
Esme watched him assessing, measuring, perhaps trying to picture it with his own taste of decor and furniture.
Eventually he walked towards the drawing room, his footsteps echoing in the hall, and opened the double doors to glance inside. He seemed to be taking brief mental snapshots, repeating the process for each of the main rooms until he reached what had been the dining room.
There he lingered. The room was bare but Esme wondered if he remembered how it was the night he’d barged in, looking for Arabella. Esme had sat at the window end of the long table, Rosalind Scott-Hamilton at the other. No Arabella. She’d left their mother to act as go-between, a task the older woman had seemed to relish. Esme had burned with humiliation on his behalf.
She was brought back sharply to the present as he finally turned to face her, his expression neutral. ‘I’d like to look round upstairs.’
Esme shrugged her permission. She knew she should be trying to sell the house and its good points but she couldn’t bring herself to do it—not to him, anyway.
Jack started to climb the stairs and she followed automatically. When he paused at the landing window where the stairs forked into two, Esme ventured, ‘Was it always an ambition—to come back and buy this place?’
Of course, it was a silly thing to ask. He was hardly likely to confess such cupidity.
His lips twisted slightly. ‘I see your reading taste hasn’t altered.’
Esme looked blank at this non sequitur. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Jane Eyre?’ He raised a quizzical brow. ‘Or was it Wuthering Heights? The one where the uncouth stable boy returns a rich man to wreak havoc on the family.’
‘Wuthering Heights,’ she responded, although she suspected he knew the answer.
He nodded to the view outside, stone terraces and cultivated lawns leading down to disused tennis courts, the maze and a small lake beyond. ‘Not exactly Heathcliff territory, is it? Don’t think I’ll hear Cathy calling for me out there.’
He was laughing at her. What else?
Esme knew how to wipe the smile from his face and did so, saying, ‘Don’t you mean Arabella?’
‘Arabella?’ His mouth thinned slightly. ‘As the Great Love of my life, you mean?’
She hadn’t expected him to be so upfront about it. Nor had she expected it to still hurt—his preference for her big sister. But it did.
Then he added, ‘Well, sorry to disappoint but I’ve moved on from there. I’ve had at least two or three Great Loves since then,’ he informed her, very much tongue-in-cheek.
Esme answered in kind, ‘How wonderful for you—and them, of course,’ hiding her real feelings behind sarcasm.
What else could she do? Tell him what a pig of a time she’d been having while he was living the life of Reilly? It wouldn’t be true, anyway. She and Harry were happy enough.
Jack was taken aback for a moment—this new Esme really had grown claws—but found himself amused despite the fact.
‘I’ll take that as a vote of confidence,’ he said as she began leading the way to the first-floor gallery.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Esme muttered under her breath but loud enough for him to hear.
Jack chose to ignore the comment but, wanting to set the record straight, continued, ‘Anyway, it’s more a coincidence, us buying this place.’
Us? Esme picked that up and pondered over it. Us as in his business, or us as in significant other?
‘We need a base near London. Sussex is well-placed for the Continent and Highfield is one of three possibilities the location agency came up with,’ he relayed as she showed him the first of the twelve upstairs rooms. ‘Unfortunately our first choice was sold off before we were in a position to move on it and the other place has no permission for business use, so that leaves Highfield.’
He made it sound as if he might settle for the house. Her beloved home. One of the finest Georgian manors in the area.
‘Never mind,’ she rallied, striding in and out of bedrooms like a demented estate agent, ‘it has at least one point in its favour.’
‘Which is?’ Jack followed in her wake and, leaning against a door jamb, forced her to come to rest.
‘Well, you could always claim it’s your family seat,’ Esme volunteered recklessly, resentfully. ‘Impress your other nouveau riche friends.’
She knew she’d gone too far even before she said it. She just didn’t care.
She wanted to pierce that seamless confidence. Hurt him as he’d hurt her, however unknowingly. Because suddenly it seemed worse that he didn’t know, had never known, hadn’t the first idea of the tears she’d cried for him, the pain she’d endured.
For a moment Jack didn’t react at all. The truth was he wasn’t sure how to. It was as if the family terrier, cute and loveable, had suddenly turned into a teeth-baring Rottweiler, guarding her territory.
Only it wasn’t hers for much longer, whethe
r he bought it or someone else did. He’d gathered that much from the location agent. And, yes, though it held some appeal—the idea that Rosalind Scott-Hamilton would eventually discover it was the cook’s son who had bought her stately pile—it wasn’t part of some grand master plan. He would pass on it if it proved unsuitable.
‘You may have something there,’ he replied in dry tones. ‘Crest of arms on the door and my portrait above the mantelpiece—what do you think?’
Esme thought he was laughing at her again.
‘I’ll give you the commission if you like,’ he added.
‘Me?’
‘You were something of an artist, as I recall.’
‘That was in the past.’
‘But you went to art college?’
That had been Esme’s intention but reality had intruded.
‘No, I did other things,’ she dismissed.
Jack waited for her to expand on that statement but she remained tight-lipped. He guessed she’d probably gone down the finishing school-debutante route that her sister her taken. Was that what had changed her?
‘Do you want to see the other rooms?’ she asked offhandedly.
It drew the response, ‘Do you want to sell the house?’ She flushed. Did she want to sell the house? No. Did they have to? Yes.
‘I’m sorry.’ Somehow she gritted out the words. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were still interested.’
‘Well, I won’t be if I don’t see it all,’ he pointed out.
‘Right.’ Teeth clenched, Esme continued the guided tour.
At each room, she became increasingly conscious of how bare and decaying the whole house looked. Only her old sanctuary still had furniture. A bed, washstand, bookcase and chest of drawers were earmarked for her new home but she had been slow in arranging for the pieces to be moved.
‘Your room?’ Jack guessed, seeing the book titles on a shelf.
She nodded.
‘Are you still living here?’ he added, frowning a little.
‘No,’ she replied shortly. ‘Everything will be gone by the time the house is sold on.’
‘Where are you based now?’ It was a natural enough question.
She gave a deliberately vague, ‘Locally.’
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