Harlequin Presents January 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: The Secret His Mistress CarriedTo Sin with the TycoonInherited by Her EnemyThe Last Heir of Monterrato

by Lynne Graham

  ‘Obviously not, but I’m learning fast.’ Ginny got up. ‘I think I’ll have a hot bath.’

  In the hall, she encountered the housekeeper. ‘I won’t want dinner, Mrs Pel. I’m planning an early night.’

  Closing my eyes. Blotting out this awful day...

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Pel said with faint asperity. ‘You look washed out. But you’re not going to bed hungry,’ she added firmly. ‘I’ll bring you something on a tray.’

  The ‘something’ turned out to be a steaming bowl of Scotch broth, accompanied by crusty bread, a hunk of cheese and an apple, and this, allied with the hot-water bottle Ginny had discovered in her bed, made her throat tighten with the threat of tears.

  But I can’t cry, she thought. Because if I start, I may never stop, and I need to be strong.

  ‘You’re spoiling me, Mrs Pel,’ she said with an attempt at lightness.

  ‘It doesn’t happen so often.’ The older woman set the tray across Ginny’s lap. ‘Besides, it may be my last chance to do so. Mrs Charlton wants me gone by the end of the week.’

  ‘The end of the week,’ Ginny repeated numbly. ‘But that isn’t even proper notice.’

  ‘Oh, hush now,’ Mrs Pel said robustly. ‘She’s been trying to get rid of me for long enough, as well you know. And I’ve no wish to stay on here without the master, not with my beautiful cottage waiting for me.’

  She paused. ‘And you should do the same, my dear. Spread your wings and fly.’

  She gave a brisk nod and left Ginny to her supper. And to her thoughts—which, although confused and unhappy, were still not proof against the delicious soup, thick with chunks of lamb, vegetables and pearl barley, and spreading its beguiling warmth through every inch of her. She found she was finishing every last drop and scraping the bowl.

  She finished off the bread with the cheese, then, leaning back against her pillows, began to eat the apple, juicy and slightly tart, just as she’d always liked them. Like the ones on the tree in Aunt Joy’s garden at the big comfortable house in Fulham...

  She hadn’t thought about that for years, and but for Andre Duchard’s hateful insinuations, she wouldn’t be remembering any of it now. Yet some of their exchange had set alarm bells ringing. And taken her unwillingly back to the time when she was eleven years old and her life had changed for ever.

  Taking her back to Lorimer Street. A terraced house like all its neighbours with a small paved area in front and a yard at the back.

  A house her mother had always hated, although Ginny could recall her father explaining quietly and patiently that on his present salary as a primary school teacher, it was all they could afford. That when he got promotion, they could, perhaps, think again.

  Instead he’d become ill, and while Ginny had been too young to understand what leukaemia was, some instinct had told her that it was taking her gentle, humorous father away from her, all too quickly and with a terrible finality.

  A trained beautician, Rosina had been working part-time at a local salon but switched to full-time when she became a widow. The wages, bolstered by tips from a wealthy clientele, weren’t generous, but the family survived, with the help of neighbours in term time and Aunt Joy in the school holidays.

  She could remember taking Cilla to the salon each day after school, keeping her quiet in the cramped staffroom with crayons and colouring books until it was time to go home.

  ‘She’s your little sister,’ her mother had told her. ‘It’s your job to look after her.’ And she’d obeyed.

  Aunt Joy and her husband, who owned a successful garage chain, were childless, but they were always genuinely delighted to see Rosina and her daughters, although Ginny had noticed that her mother was often quiet—almost brooding—on their return to Lorimer Street, as if she was making comparisons between their differing lifestyles, and finding them odious.

  Just as she did when the clients at the salon talked about their villas on the Mediterranean and showed off their new jewellery and designer dresses.

  Then one day Rosina was suddenly the one with carrier bags full of clothes from Oxford Street and Knightsbridge.

  ‘I’ve had a surprise,’ she told them airily. ‘A little windfall.’

  Not so little, thought Ginny. Several thousand pounds from the Lottery. Enough to pay for a cruise in the sun and more while she and Cilla stayed with Aunt Joy.

  They’d known exactly when their mother was returning by the days crossed off from the kitchen calendar. Ginny watched them mount up, longing to go back to Lorimer Street and their usual life.

  But when Rosina returned, it was not to Lorimer Street. Instead she’d taken a short-term rental on an attractive flat in a modern block. And after Aunt Joy had delivered them there, they’d heard the sounds of her quarrelling with their mother and then the distant slamming of a door.

  Even then she hadn’t moved, just waited until her mother came, flushed and tight-mouthed, her voice brittle as she said, ‘Let’s explore our new palace.’

  Holding Cilla’s hand, she trailed obediently in Rosina’s wake through the spacious sitting room, the beautiful ivory and aqua master bedroom, the sumptuous bathroom with its pink and violet tiles, and the chrome and marble kitchen, and all she could think was how much she hated it.

  ‘When are we going back to Lorimer Street?’ she’d asked at last.

  ‘We’re not,’ her mother said shortly. ‘There is no Lorimer Street. I don’t want to hear you talk about it again. Ever.’

  And she meant it, thought Ginny, feeling the same little shiver drift down her spine. She made it seem as if that other life had never existed. Just as we never heard from Aunt Joy and Uncle Harry again. And I was not allowed to mention them either.

  Then, one afternoon, Rosina had taken them out to tea in a big department store.

  Ginny could remember how Rosina had gripped their hands as if she was nervous as they emerged from the lift, until a tall grey-haired man, at a table on his own, stood up smiling, when she’d relaxed and smiled back.

  ‘Darlings,’ she said. ‘This is a very special friend of mine.’

  And that, thought Ginny, was our first meeting with Andrew.

  Frowning, she transferred her supper tray to the bedside table and sat up, hugging her knees.

  It was clear that Rosina had improved on her employment status and rented the flat to impress the new man in her life.

  Not strictly ethical perhaps, she thought defensively, but hardly federal offences. Or enough to make her husband feel cheated, if he’d ever found out.

  Besides, to set against all that, Rosina, in her thirties, had been and even now continued to be a beautiful woman, her hair still fair—admittedly with assistance these days—and her skin flawless.

  Small wonder that Andrew had been sufficiently attracted to offer marriage.

  And even if their life together hadn’t been perfect, it was surely better than a lot of marriages.

  So Andre Duchard had no right to imply anything different. No right at all.

  The best thing I can do, she told herself resolutely, is put the whole business—especially him—out of my mind. And concentrate instead on whatever the future holds for me.

  And tried not to think how bleak that sounded.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  OVER THE NEXT couple of days, Ginny’s misgivings over her prospects at Miss Finn’s began to multiply, with Iris Potter talking openly about the changes she was planning.

  But at least Andre Duchard had not returned, to Ginny’s relief, although she was aware that every time the bell tinkled on the café door to signal a new arrival, her heart seemed to do a kind of somersault, which made no sense at all.

  For all she knew, he might be back in Burgundy and good riddance to him. The last person she needed to have around was someone who caugh
t her so consistently off her guard. Who’d forced her to remember things much better forgotten. And, even worse, who’d made her aware of feelings she’d infinitely have preferred to have ignored. He was altogether too disturbing.

  But much as she wished him gone, some instinct told her that he was still around. And still able to push her towards some unsuspected edge...

  Stop it, she adjured herself, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. Don’t think like that. In fact, don’t think about him at all.

  Rosina was still hunting obsessively on the telephone for the legal advice she wanted to hear, and not even the start of the improvements to Keeper’s Cottage was able to divert her.

  On the contrary, Ginny told herself grimly, Rosina still seemed hell-bent on staying exactly where she was.

  And her attitude to Barney had not softened either.

  ‘Have you done anything about finding him a new owner, Virginia? If not, at the end of the week—he goes.’

  ‘I’ve put a card in the newsagent’s window,’ Ginny said quietly.

  ‘You think you’ll be inundated with replies?’ Rosina gave a short laugh. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I’d settle for one person who really wants him,’ Ginny returned. And, if it was humanly possible, that would be me, she thought now with a pang, deciding she would pop up to the shop during her meal break to check.

  But it was after two o’clock before Ginny was able to hang up her apron, fling on her coat and sprint up the High Street to Betts Newsagents.

  Only to meet with another disappointment.

  ‘It’s a bad time of year to be taking on a dog, what with Christmas bills coming in, and nasty weather for walking,’ said Mrs Betts. ‘I’d hang on for spring, Miss Mason, and try again.’

  If only, thought Ginny as she turned away, with a word of thanks and a forced smile.

  As she emerged from the shop and caught sight of the timbered façade of the Rose and Crown directly opposite, rising anger fought her initial sense of defeat.

  There he was, she thought, fiercely. The man who’d appeared from nowhere, been given everything yet seemed to value none of it.

  She was turning to go back to the café when her eye was caught by a splash of colour and she saw a figure in a familiar quilted jacket the colour of violets emerge almost furtively through the archway which led to the hotel entrance, pulling her fur-trimmed hood forward as if to shield her face as well as cover her blonde hair.

  Ginny stood, her breathing as laboured as if she’d been punched in the chest, watching Cilla, head bent, pick her way carefully down the slushy pavement towards the turning for the car park, and disappear from view.

  No. The word echoed in Ginny’s head with such force that for a terrible moment she thought she’d shouted it out loud. But no passers-by turned to stare, so she stayed where she was under the shelter of Mrs Betts’ awning, trying to pull herself together.

  Telling herself there had to be a dozen innocent reasons for Cilla to visit the Rose and Crown, but unable to think of one. It was just the village local, and her sister’s preference was for upmarket country pubs with interesting menus and an expensive wine list.

  The kind of places Jonathan took her to...

  She swallowed, remembering the dinner party. Andre Duchard leaning towards her sister, dark gaze intent, murmuring heaven knows what. And Cilla smiling, lapping up the attention. Maybe thinking she had him eating out of the palm of her hand. And all the time, oblivious to Jonathan’s irritation and resentment.

  But surely—surely—it had stopped there. It must have done, she argued to herself. Because Cilla couldn’t possibly have arranged to meet Andre secretly—could she?

  Did she have some hare-brained idea that she could persuade him somehow to arrange for her to use Barrowdean House for the wedding after all?

  Persuade him somehow...

  Ginny felt sick under the force of the emotions churning inside her—the predominant one, she told herself, being anger.

  Didn’t Cilla see that if Jonathan, already jealous, even suspected she’d been slipping off to meet Andre Duchard on the quiet, there would be no wedding? She must be crazy to take such a risk.

  So, whatever was going on had to stop right there before Cilla made an irretrievable ruin of her life.

  She’s still my little sister, she thought, swallowing. And I have to look after her.

  Almost before she realised what she was doing, she’d crossed the road and walked into hotel reception. There was no one at the desk but one glance at the board where the keys hung told her that only Room 3 was missing.

  Unseen and unheard, she went up the stairs two at a time. The room she wanted was at the end of the corridor, and a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung from the door handle.

  No prizes for guessing why, Ginny thought savagely, clenching her fist and rapping loudly on the wooden panels. Oh, Cilla, you fool...

  And with that, the door was flung open and Andre Duchard confronted her. Apart from a towel knotted round his waist and a scowl, he was wearing nothing. And the scowl intensified as he looked down at her.

  ‘You,’ he ground out. ‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’ His hair was wet and tangled and his shoulders, torso and long muscular legs also gleamed with the sheen of water. Stubble darkened his chin.

  Aware that there was altogether too much of him on show, Ginny, pulses hammering, elected for safety and looked him in the eye. She said with stinging emphasis, ‘I want you to leave my sister alone. Non-negotiable.’

  ‘Your sister?’ he repeated. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Oh, don’t pretend.’ Looking past him, Ginny could see the tumbled bed in the light of the shaded lamp on the night table. Her throat tightened uncontrollably, making her voice husky. ‘She was here this afternoon. At the hotel. I saw her leaving.’

  ‘And from that you deduce—quoi?’ He seized her wrist with one hand, drawing her forward into the room, and slammed the door with the other. Shutting them in together.

  She wrenched free. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Her voice quivered.

  ‘I think it is called conversation,’ he said. ‘In private.’ The dark gaze pinned her like a butterfly to a cork. ‘So you think she has been with me, and we are lovers?’

  Ginny swallowed, trying to control the flurry of her breathing. The room, not large at the best of times, seemed to be humming with anger, which closed round her oppressively, making her want to step back, away from him.

  Away, too, from the frankly enticing scent of soap and shampoo emanating from his cool, damp skin. But that would take her nearer to the bed, so she stood her ground. Because she was the one with the right to be angry. And she needed to stay angry.

  She said defiantly, ‘You find her attractive. Your behaviour the other night made that perfectly clear. And she hasn’t had a great deal of experience of men, so she’ll have been flattered. But she’s engaged—in love.’ She added with energy, ‘And I won’t let her screw up her life just so that you can satisfy a passing fancy.’

  ‘Engaged, certainement. At least for the present. In love?’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I think you are the one who is naïve, Virginie.’

  He paused.

  ‘But let us be frank. Would it not make you happy if the young Monsieur Welburn, the rich and worthy, was no longer your sister’s fiancé and could, peut-être, return for consolation to the girl he chose first—toi-même.’

  He added harshly, ‘Now you are the one who must not pretend. Or did you think your so tender and half-dressed embrace with him that night had been unobserved?’

  She remembered the sound of the closing door. She said hoarsely, ‘You—were there?’

  ‘I had been saying goodnight to Marguerite. When I saw that I intruded, I left another way.’

  Ginny lif
ted her chin. She said with cool clarity, ‘There was no intrusion. What you saw was perfectly innocent. He’d had a wretched evening, and was—upset, that’s all.’

  His mouth twisted cynically. ‘And when they are married, he and your sister, and all his evenings become wretched, who will he turn to then? Because la belle Lucille, she requires a stronger man than the unfortunate Jonathan. Someone who will not indulge her foolishly, but give purpose to her life each day, and teach her to be a woman in his bed at night.’

  She stiffened. ‘I suppose you’re referring to yourself with all this macho nonsense.’

  The dark brows lifted. ‘And if so, why should you care? I would be doing you a favour, n’est ce pas? Is that not what you want?’

  Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She touched her lips with the tip of her tongue, as she searched for a reply. Any reply, as the silence in the room lengthened. Tautened. Began to spark with emotions that had nothing to do with the anger which had brought her here like an avenging Fury. And which scared her.

  She thought with swift desperation, What am I doing—challenging him like this? I should have spoken to Cilla instead. I must be crazy...

  In a voice she did not recognise, she said, ‘I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. I—I have to go...’

  To get out of here while I still can...

  She took a step towards the door, but he remained where he was, blocking her path.

  ‘Not,’ he said, ‘until you have answered my question. And told me the truth.’ The dark eyes bored into hers. ‘So, say it to me—what do you most want, Virginie?’

  She looked away, trembling. ‘I—I can’t tell you.’ She moved her hands almost helplessly, as she faced the shocking truth he had demanded. ‘Because I—I just don’t know any more.’

  ‘Then I, moi-même, shall tell you.’ His voice was a harsh whisper. He reached for her, pushing her coat from her shoulders, letting it tumble to the carpet, then pulled her close, his mouth seeking hers with a hunger that would not be denied.

  She knew a moment of blind panic, telling herself to fight. To kick his bare legs with her heavy shoes. Rake his face and chest with her nails. Anything to get free—to be safe again.