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‘I imagine it will be served exactly when Grandam ordered, just as usual,’ Gerard returned, unruffled. ‘Now, let me introduce Ala
Slightly thrown by the unexpected endearment, Ala
‘Everyone is waiting in the drawing room,’ said Mrs Healey. ‘Leave your case there, Miss—er—Beckett. The housekeeper will take it up to your room.’ She turned to Gerard. ‘We’ve had to make a last change to the arrangements, so your guest is now in the east wing, just along from Joa
‘I’m used to it.’ Ala
Mrs Healey absorbed the information without comment and returned to Gerard. ‘Now do come along. You know how your grandmother hates to be kept waiting.’
It occurred to Ala
Or—preferably—return to London, on foot if necessary.
Gerard bent towards her. ‘Don’t worry about Aunt Caroline,’ he whispered. ‘Since my mother went off to live in Suffolk, she’s been taking her role as daughter of the house rather too seriously.’
She forced a smile. ‘She made me wonder if I should curtsy.’
He took her hand. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise you.’
She found herself in a long, low-ceilinged room with a vast stone fireplace at one end, big enough, she supposed, to roast an ox, if anyone had an urge to do so.
The furnishings, mainly large squashy sofas and deep armchairs, all upholstered in faded chintz, made no claim to be shabby chic. Like the elderly rugs on the dark oak floorboards and the green damask curtains that framed the wide French windows, they were just—shabby.
A real home, she acknowledged with relief, and full of people, all of whom had, rather disturbingly, fallen silent as soon as she and Gerard walked in.
Feeling desperately self-conscious, she wished they’d start chatting again, if only to muffle the sound of her heels on the wooden floor, and disguise the fact that they were staring at her as Gerard steered her across the room towards his grandmother.
She’d anticipated an older version of Mrs Healey, a forbidding presence enthroned at a slight distance from her obedient family, and was bracing herself accordingly.
But Niamh Harrington was small and plump with bright blue eyes, pink cheeks and a quantity of snowy hair arranged on top of her head like a cottage loaf in danger of collapse.
She was seated in the middle of the largest sofa, facing the open windows, still talking animatedly to the blonde girl beside her, but she broke off at Gerard’s approach.
‘Dearest boy.’ She lifted a smiling face for his kiss. ‘So, this is your lovely girl.’
The twinkling gaze swept over Ala
Then Mrs Harrington’s smile widened. ‘Well, isn’t this just grand. Welcome to Whitestone, my dear.’
The distinct Irish accent was something else Ala
She pulled herself together. ‘Thank you for inviting me, Mrs Harrington. You—you have a very beautiful home.’
Oh, God, she thought. Did that sound as if she was sizing the place up for future occupancy? And had Gerard warned his grandmother that they’d only been dating for a few weeks rather than months.
Mrs Harrington made a deprecating gesture with a heavily beringed hand. ‘Ah, well, it’s seen better days.’ She turned to the girl beside her. ‘Move up, Joa
Gerard was looking round. ‘I don’t see my mother.’
‘Poor Meg’s upstairs having a bit of a lie down. I expect she found the journey from Suffolk a great burden to her as I always feared she would.’ Mrs Harrington sighed deeply. ‘Leave her be for now, dearest boy, and I’m sure she’ll be fine, just fine by di
Ala
‘So,’ said Mrs Harrington. ‘My grandson tells me you’re a publisher.’
‘An editor in women’s commercial fiction.’ Ala
‘Now that’s a job I envy you for. There’s nothing I love more than a book. A good story with plenty of meat in it and not too sentimental. Maybe, now, you could suggest a few titles that I’d enjoy.’
‘Can you recommend a book for an elderly lady who loves reading?’
Almost the same request she’d heard in a London bookshop nearly a year ago, but spoken then in a man’s deep drawl. And the start of the nightmare she needed so badly to forget, she thought, trying to repress an instinctive shiver.
Which was noticed. ‘You’re feeling cold and no wonder, now the evening breeze has got up.’ Niamh Harrington raised her voice. ‘Will you come in now, Zandor? And close those windows behind you, for the Lord’s sake. There’s a terrible draught, and we can’t have Gerard’s guest catching her death because you’re wandering about on the terrace.’
Ala
‘Zandor,’ she repeated under her breath in total incredulity. Zandor?
No, it couldn’t be. Not possibly. She was nervous so she’d misheard. That’s all it was.
‘I apologise, Grandmother. To you and my cousin’s beautiful friend. We must all take care that no harm comes to her.’
Not just the name, she thought dazedly. But the voice—low-pitched and tinged with that same note of faint amusement. Instantly and hideously recognisable. Shockingly, horribly unmistakable.
As, God help her, she must be to him.
She forced herself to look up and meet the gaze of the tall figure, dark against the setting sun, framed in the French windows.
The man from whose bedroom she’d fled all those months ago, leaving her with memories that had haunted her ever since.
And for the worst of all possible reasons.
CHAPTER TWO
HE CLOSED THE French windows behind him with elaborate care and strolled forward, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, long-legged in close-fitting black pants, his matching shirt casually unbuttoned halfway to the waist, affording Ala
He said softly, ‘Perhaps we should properly introduce ourselves. I am Zandor.’ He paused. ‘Zandor Varga, and you are...?’
She produced a voice from somewhere. A husky travesty of her usual clear tones. ‘Ala
He nodded, those astonishing, never forgotten pale grey eyes studying her, hard as burnished steel.
‘It is a delight to meet you, Miss Beckett...’ He paused, and she swallowed, waiting for him to say ‘again’ and for the questions to begin.
His faint smile told her he had read her thoughts. He said silkily, ‘But then my cousin Gerard has always had exquisite taste.’ And turned away.
She felt limp with relief, but knew that was only transitory. That she was by no means off the hook.
And that the day which had started badly had just got a hundred—a thousand times worse.
She realised now that it hadn’t been her imagination playing tricks that day in Chelsea. That as the owner of the Bazaar Vert chain, he’d been visiting the King’s Road branch and must have just left when she caught that brief but dangerous glimpse of him. And that Gerard had been seeing him off the premises when he came to her rescue.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Extract
About the Publisher