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His Pretend Mistress
Jessica Steele


Thank goodness for charming, suave and handsome city hotshot Harris Quillan! Mallon had thought she was stranded and homeless until Harris came along. After hearing her story, he didn't hesitate to offer her a job as his housekeeper.It all seemed too good to be true–Mallon had found work she really enjoyed, in a beautiful country house. But then she discovered that it was too good to be true. She was quite happy being mistress of Harris's home, but not of his heart…. Whatever was Harris thinking of when he insisted she pretend to be his girlfriend?









“Should your sister call, I would most definitely let her know that I’m not her husband’s mistress….”


“You won’t have to,” Harris interrupted. But, oddly then, he paused for a moment before he added, “I’ve already convinced her of that.”

“And she believed you? Just like that? How did you convince her?”

“Ah,” Harris murmured, and Mallon instinctively knew she was not going to like his answer, whatever it was. “As I mentioned, Faye was close to being hysterical. The only way I could think to calm her down was to tell her that you were not his girlfriend—but mine.”


Jessica Steele lives in a friendly English village with her super husband, Peter. They are owned by a gorgeous Staffordshire bull terrier called Florence, who is boisterous and manic, but also adorable. It was Peter who first prompted Jessica to try writing and, after the first rejection, encouraged her to keep on trying. Luckily, with the exception of Uruguay, she has so far managed to research inside all the countries in which she has set her books, traveling to places as far apart as Siberia and Egypt. Her thanks go to Peter for his help and encouragement.


Sit back and relax with Jessica Steele’s latest novel. Set in the pretty English countryside, it overflows with laughter, tears and romantic magic as Mallon, a beautiful young woman down on her luck, meets Harris Quillan, the man of everyone’s dreams, and changes his life forever!




His Pretend Mistress

Jessica Steele





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#ub0edb7bc-c49c-505c-b24d-40e1f614cba2)

CHAPTER TWO (#uf19d6cf5-e414-5edb-903d-c815b3c11255)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


SHE was panicking so wildly she could barely manage to turn the knob of the stout front door.

Her employer—soon to be her ex-employer—coming into the hall after her gave her extra strength. ‘Don’t be so…’ he slurred, but Mallon was not waiting to hear the rest of it. With shaking hands she yanked the door open and, heedless of the torrential rain deluging down, she went haring down the drive.

She did not stop running until her umpteenth glance behind confirmed that she was not being followed.

Some five minutes later Mallon had slowed to a fast walking pace when the sound of a motor engine alerted her to the fact that Roland Phillips might have decided to pursue her by car. When no car went past, panic started to rise in her again.

There was no one else about, nothing but acres and acres of unbuilt-on countryside so far as she knew. As the car drew level she cast a jerky look to her left, but was only a modicum relieved to see that it was not Roland Phillips.

Had she been hoping that the driver would be a female of the species, however, she was to be disappointed. The window of the car slid down, and she found herself staring through the downpour into a pair of hostile grey eyes.

‘Get in!’ he clipped.

Like blazes she’d get in! She’d had it with good-looking men. ‘No, thank you,’ she snappily refused the unwanted offer.

The grey eyes studied her for about two seconds. ‘Suit yourself!’ the mid-thirties man said curtly, and the window slid up and the car purred on its way again.

Though not at any great speed, Mallon noticed as, shock from Roland Phillips’s assault on her starting to recede a little, she also noticed that, with a veritable monsoon raging, only an idiot would drive fast in these conditions.

She trudged on with no idea of where she was making for, her only aim to put as much distance as possible between her and Roland Phillips at Almora Lodge. So far as she could recall there was not another house around for miles.

Her sandals had started to squelch, which didn’t surprise her—the rain wasn’t stopping; the sky was just emptying about her head.

That she was soaked to her skin was the least of her worries. She hardly cared about being drenched. Though she did begin to hope that another car might come by. If its driver was female Mallon hoped she would stop and give her a lift.

More of her shock receded and, feeling cold, wet, and decidedly miserable, Mallon half wished she had accepted a lift with the grey-eyed stranger.

A moment later and she was scoffing at any such nonsense. She’d had it with men; lechers, the lot of them! She had known some prime examples in her ex-stepfather, her ex-stepbrother, her ex-boyfriend, without the most recent example of that ilk, her ex-employer.

The rain pelted down, and, since she couldn’t possibly become any more sodden, Mallon stopped walking and tried to assess her situation. She supposed she must have put a distance of about a mile or so between her and Almora Lodge. She had sprinted out of there dressed just as she was, in a cotton dress—too het up then to consider that this was probably the wettest summer on record—and without a thought in her head about nipping upstairs to collect her handbag. Her only thought then had been to put some space between her and the drunken Roland—call me Roly—Phillips.

Mallon resumed walking, her pace more of a dejected amble now as she accepted that, new to the area, she had no idea where she was going. Her only hope was that someone, foolhardy enough to motor out in such foul weather, would stop and offer her a lift.

Surely no one with so much as a single spark of decency would leave a dog out in such conditions, much less drive on by without offering her a lift?

Perhaps that was why the grey-eyed man had stopped? He hadn’t sounded too thrilled at the notion of inviting her drenched person to mess up his leather upholstery. If, that was, his sharp-sounding ‘Get in!’ had been what you could call an invitation.

Well, he knew what he could…Her thoughts broke off as her ears picked up the purring sound of a car engine. She halted—the rain had slackened off a little—and she turned and watched as the car came into view.

She eyed the vehicle warily as it drew level, and then stopped. The window slid down—and at the same time the heavens opened again. Solemn, deeply blue eyes stared into cool grey eyes. He must have driven in a circle, she realised.

The man did not smile, nor did he invite her into his car, exactly. What he did say, was, ‘Had enough?’

Mallon supposed that, with her blonde hair plastered darkly to her head, her dress clinging past saturation to her body and legs, she must look not dissimilar to the proverbial drowned rat.

She gave a shaky sigh. It looked as though she had two choices. Tell him to clear off, when heaven alone knew when another car would come along, or get into that car with him. He looked all right—but that didn’t mean a thing.

‘Are you offering?’ she questioned jerkily.

His answer was to turn from her and to lean and open the passenger door. Then, as cool as you please, he pressed a button and the driver’s window began to close.

Feeling more like creeping into some dark corner and having a jolly good howl, Mallon hesitated for only a moment or two longer. She still felt wary, but she also felt defeated.

She crossed in front of the vehicle and got in beside the stranger. When he stretched out his hand nearest her she jumped nervously. The man gave her a sharp glance, her wariness of him not missed, she gathered. Then he completed his intention of turning on the heater and directing the warmth on to her.

Instinctively she wanted to say she was sorry—but for what? She roused herself—all men were pigs; he would be no exception, and she would be a fool to think otherwise.

They had driven about half a mile when he asked, ‘Where are you going?’

The car had a good heater and she supposed she could have thanked him for his thoughtfulness. But she didn’t want to get into conversation with him. ‘Nowhere,’ she answered tiredly.

He gave a small snort of exasperation. ‘Let me put it another way. Where would you like me to drop you?’

He was exasperated? Tough! ‘Anywhere,’ she replied. She hadn’t a clue where she was going, where she was, even—none of the area was familiar territory.

He turned his head, grey eyes raking her. ‘Where have you come from?’ he questioned tersely.

She was feeling warmer than she had been, and while she was still wary, she felt a shade more relaxed. To her ears this man was sounding a touch fed up because he had bothered to act as any decent human being would to a fellow person and had bothered to pick her up at all. But she had a feeling that if she didn’t soon answer he would open the door and tip her out. It was warm in the car. Somehow she felt too beaten to want to squelch out in the rain again.

‘Almora Lodge,’ she said. ‘I’ve come from Almora Lodge.’

She wondered if he knew where Almora Lodge was, but realised he probably did when he asked, ‘Do you want me to take you back there?’

‘No, I don’t!’ she answered sharply, tartly. She drew a very shaky breath, and was a degree more in control when she added. ‘No, thank you. I don’t want to go back there—ever.’

Again she felt grey eyes on her, but was suddenly too tired and too emotionally exhausted to care. He said nothing, however, but motored on for a couple of miles, and then started to slow the car down.

Alarm rocketed through her. Apart from a large derelict-looking building to the right, which stood in what looked like the middle of a field, there seemed to be no other dwelling for miles.

He slowed the car right down and steered it to what appeared to be the only respectable part of the derelict property—mainly the stone pillars either side of a gateless entrance that declared ‘Harcourt House’.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she cried fearfully, her imagination working overtime. She could lie buried for years in the rubble hereabouts, or in one of those about-to-fall-down-looking outbuildings, and no one would be any the wiser!

In sharp contrast to her panicking tones, however, his tone was calm and even—if a shade irritated. ‘Like Sinbad, I appear to be lumbered,’ he answered, which—recalling the tale of the old man of the sea who refused to get off Sinbad’s back—she didn’t think was very complimentary. ‘You don’t know where you want to go, and I’m not in the mood to play guessing games. I’m stopping off here to pick up some of my gear and…

‘You live here!’ she exclaimed in disbelief.

‘I live in London. I’m having this place rebuilt,’ he said heavily, going on, ‘I hadn’t intended to come down this weekend, but with this rain forecast I came down last night to check if a bad part of the roof had been made sound.’ That, it appeared, was all the explanation he had any intention of making. Because he was soon going on, ‘I’ve a couple of things to do inside that may take some while—you can either stay in the car incubating pneumonia until I can drop you off at the first shelter for homeless persons I come to, or you can come inside and dry off what’s left of your frock while you wait for me in a heated kitchen.’ So saying, he drove round to the rear of the house and braked.

Mallon stared at him for several stunned seconds, the homeless persons bit passing her by as her glance went from him and down over her dress.

With horrified eyes she saw that her dress was torn in several places. The worst tear was where the material had been ripped away in her struggle, and her bra, now transparent from her soaking, was clearly revealing the fullness of her left breast—the pink tip just as clearly on view.

‘Oh!’ she cried chokily, her cheeks flushing red, tears of humiliation not far away.

‘Don’t you dare cry on me!’ he threatened bracingly, about the best tone he could have used in the circumstances, she realised. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside,’ he said authoritatively and, taking charge, was out of the car and coming round to open the passenger door.

She did not immediately get out of the car. She’d had one tremendous fright—she was not going to trust again in a hurry. Thankfully the rain had, for the moment, abated. The stranger was tall and he bent down to look at her as stubbornly, a hand hiding her left breast, she stayed where she was, refusing to budge.

‘You won’t…?’ she questioned, and discovered she had no need to complete the sentence.

Steady grey eyes stared back at her and every bit as though she had asked, did he fancy her enough to try and take advantage? his glance skimmed over the wreck she knew she must look, and ‘Not in a million years,’ he said succinctly. Which, while not being in the least flattering, was the most reassuring answer he could have given her.

He left her to trail after him when she was ready, opening up the rear door and entering what she could now see was a property that was in the process of undergoing major rebuilding.

Mallon stepped from the car and, careful where she walked, picked her way over builders’ paraphernalia. The rear hall was dark and littered with various lengths of new timber. It was a dull afternoon. Up ahead of her an electric light had been switched on. From this she knew that, electricians having been at work, Harcourt House was no longer as derelict as it had once been and, if the front of the house was anything to go by, it appeared still to be.

Holding her dress to her, she followed the light and found the grey-eyed man in the act of switching on an electric kettle in what, to her amazement, was a superbly fitted-out kitchen.

‘Your wife obviously has her priorities sorted out,’ Mallon commented, hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

‘My sister,’ he replied, opening one of the many drawers and placing a couple of kitchen hand towels on a table near Mallon. ‘I’m not married,’ he added. ‘According to Faye…’ he paused as if expecting the name might be familiar to her—it wasn’t— ‘…the heart of the home is the kitchen. With small input from me, I left her to arrange what she tells me is essential.’

As he spoke, so Mallon began to feel fractionally more at ease with the man, though whether this was his intention she had no idea. She found she had wandered a few more steps into the room, but her eyes were watchful on him while he made a pot of tea.

‘There’s an electric radiator over there,’ he thought to mention. ‘Why not go and stand by it? Though, on second thoughts, since you can’t stand there nursing your wet frock to you the whole time, why don’t I go and find you a shirt to change into while you drink your tea?’

Mallon didn’t answer him but, discovering a certain decisiveness in him, she moved out of the way when he came near her on his way out. She was still in the same spot when he returned, carrying a shirt and some trousers, and even a pair of socks.

‘There’s a drying machine through there—that will eventually be a utility room,’ he informed her, and added, ‘There’s a lock on the kitchen door. Why not change while I go and check on a few matters?’

Mallon was in no hurry to change. She felt this man was being as kind as he knew how to be, but she wasn’t ready any longer to take anyone at face value. Eventually she went over to the kitchen door and locked it, presuming that, since the place was uninhabited apart from work hours Monday to Friday when the builders must traipse in and out of the place, it had been a good idea to be able to lock in the valuable kitchen equipment.

Quickly, then, Mallon made use of the towels. She was past caring what she looked like when, not long afterwards, her dress tumbling around in the dryer, she was warm and dry in the garments the man had brought her. She was five feet nine inches tall, but he was about six inches taller. She rolled up the shirt sleeves and to prevent the trousers dragging on the floor she rolled the legs of those up too—but she was stumped for a while as to how to keep them up. That matter was soon resolved when, her brain starting to function again, she vaguely recalled that some of the timber in the hall had been kept together by a band of coarse twine.

By the time she heard the stranger coming back, she had the largest of the hand towels wound around her now only damp hair, and was feeling a great deal better than she had.

She found a couple of cups and saucers, discovering in the process of opening various cupboards until she came to the right one that his sister, Faye, had not only organised the kitchen but had stocked it with plenty of tinned and packet foods as well.

Mallon had unlocked the kitchen door, and as the man came in she informed him, half apologetically for taking the liberty, ‘I thought I’d pour some tea before it became stewed.’

‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked by way of an answer, taking up the two cups and saucers and carrying them over to the large table. He pulled out a chair for her, but went round to a chair at the other side of the table and waited for her to take a seat.

‘Warmer, dryer,’ she replied, trusting him enough to take the chair he had pulled out for her.

‘Care to tell me your name?’ he asked when they were both seated. She didn’t particularly—and owned up to herself that she had been so thoroughly shaken by the afternoon’s happenings she didn’t feel at her sunniest. ‘I’m Harris Quillian,’ he said, as if by introducing himself it might prompt her to tell him with whom he was sharing a pot of tea.

‘Mallon Braithwaite,’ she felt obliged to answer, but had nothing she wanted to add as the silence in the room stretched.

He drained his cup and set it down. ‘Anything else you’d like to tell me?’ he enquired mildly.

Not a thing! Mallon stared at him, her deep blue eyes as bright as ever and some of her colour restored to her lovely complexion. She drew a shaky breath as she began to realise that she owed this man more than a terse No. He need not have stopped and picked her up. He need not have given her some dry clothes to change into. She acknowledged that it was only because of the kindness of Harris Quillian that she now felt warm and dry and, she had to admit, on her way to having a little of her faith in human nature restored.

‘Wh-what do you want to know?’ she asked.

He shrugged, as though he wasn’t all that much interested anyway, but summed up, ‘You’re a young woman obviously in some distress. Apparently uncaring where you go, apart from a distinct aversion to return to your last port of call. It would appear, too, that you have nowhere that you can go.’ He broke off to suggest, ‘Perhaps you’d like to start by telling me what happened at Almora Lodge to frighten you so badly.’

She had no intention of telling him anything of the sort. ‘Are you a detective?’ she questioned shortly.

He shook his head. ‘I work in the city. I’m in finance.’

From the look of him she guessed he was high up in the world of finance. Must be. To have this place rebuilt would cost a fortune. She still wasn’t going to answer his question, though.

He rephrased it. ‘What reason did you have for visiting Almora Lodge in the first place?’ Stubbornly she refused to answer. Then discovered that he was equally stubborn. He seemed set on getting some kind of an answer from her anyhow, as he persisted, ‘Almora Lodge is almost as out of the way as this place. You wouldn’t have been able to get there without some form of transport.’

‘You should have been a detective!’ She was starting to feel peeved enough not to find Mr Harris-financier-Quillian remotely kind at all!

‘What panicked you so, Mallon, that you shot out of there without time to pick up your car keys?’

‘I didn’t have time to pick up my car keys because I don’t have a car!’ she flared.

He smiled—he could afford to—he had got her talking. ‘So how did you get there?’

She was beginning to hate this man. ‘Roland Phillips picked me up from the station—three and a half weeks ago!’ she snapped.

‘Three…’ Harris Quillian broke off, his expression darkening. ‘You lived there?’ he challenged. ‘You lived with Phillips at Almora Lodge? You’re his mistress!’ he rapped.

‘No, I am not!’ Mallon almost shouted. ‘Nor was I ever!’ Enraged by the hostile suggestion, she was on her feet glaring at the odious Harris Quillian. ‘It was precisely because I wouldn’t go to bed with him that I had a fight with him today!’ A dry sob shook her and at the instant Harris Quillian was on his feet. He looked about to come a step closer, perhaps to offer some sort of comfort. But Mallon didn’t want any sort of comfort from any man, and she took a hasty step back. He halted.

The next time he spoke his tone had changed to be calm, to be soothing. ‘You fought with him?’ he asked.

‘Well, in truth, I don’t think he actually hit me.’ Her tone had quieted too. ‘Though I shouldn’t be surprised if I’m not nursing a few bruises in a day or two from the rough way he grabbed me,’ she admitted. ‘It was more me fighting him off, fighting to get free of him. He’d been drinking but he’d lost none of his physical strength.’

‘You managed to get free before…?’

‘Y-yes.’ Her voice was reduced to a whisper—she felt quite ill from just remembering. Then realised she must have lost some of her colour when her interrogator said, ‘It might be an idea if you sat down again, Mallon. I promise I won’t harm you.’

Whether he would or whether he wouldn’t, to sit down again suddenly seemed a good idea. Some of her strength returned then, sufficient anyway for her to declare firmly, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

Harris Quillian resumed his seat at the other side of the table, then evenly stated, ‘You’ve had a shock. Quite an appalling shock. It will be better if you talk it out.’

What did he know? ‘It’s none of your business!’ she retorted.

‘I’m making it my business!’ he answered toughly. Just because he’d picked her up in a monsoon and given her shelter! He could go and take a running jump! ‘Either you tell me, Mallon,’ he went on firmly, ‘or…’ Mallon looked across at him, she didn’t care very much for that ‘or’. ‘Or I shall have to give serious consideration…’ he continued when he could see he had her full attention ‘…to driving you to the police station where you will report Roland Phillips’s assault…’

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort!’ Mallon erupted, cutting him off. While it would serve Roland Phillips right if the police charged him with assault, there were other considerations to be thought of. A charge of assault, and its attendant publicity, was something Mallon knew, even if she was brave enough to do it for herself, would cause her mother grave disquiet. But her mother, after many years of deep unhappiness, was only now starting to be happy again. Mallon wasn’t having a blight put on that happiness.

Obstinately she glared at Harris Quillian. Equally set, he looked back. ‘The choice,’ he remarked, ‘is yours.’

Mallon continued to glare at him. He was unmoved. What was it with him? she fumed. So he’d given her a lift, given her dry clothes to put on—she took her eyes from him. Her dress—albeit torn—would be dry by now. Her glance went to the kitchen windows, despair entering her heart—the rain was pelting down again with a vengeance!

‘I worked for him,’ she said woodenly.

‘Roland Phillips?’

‘He advertised for a live-in housekeeper, clerical background an advantage,’ she answered. ‘I needed somewhere to live—a live-in job seemed a good idea. So I wrote to apply.’

‘And he wrote back?’

‘He phoned. He works as a European co-ordinator for a food chain. He said he was seldom home, but…’

‘You agreed to go and live with him, without first checking him out?’ Harris Quillian questioned harshly.

‘Hindsight’s a brilliant tool!’ she exploded sniffily, and started to feel better again—it was almost as if this determined man was recharging her flattened batteries. ‘He said he needed someone to start pretty much straight away. Which suited me very well. He said he was married and…’

‘You met his wife?’ Quillian clipped.

‘She was abroad. She works for a children’s charity and had just left to visit some of their overseas branches. I didn’t know that until I’d arrived at Almora Lodge, but it didn’t bother me particularly. Roland Phillips works away a lot too. In fact I’d barely seen anything of him until this weekend.’

‘Is this the first full weekend he’s been home?’

Mallon nodded. ‘He arrived late on Friday. He…’

‘He?’ Quillian prompted when her voice tailed off.

‘He—well, he was all right on Friday, and yesterday too,’ she added. ‘Though I did start to feel a bit uncomfortable—not so much by what he said, but the innuendo behind it.’

‘Not uncomfortable enough for you to leave, then, apparently!’ Quillian inserted, and Mallon started to actively dislike him.

‘Where would I go?’ she retorted. ‘My mother remarried recently—it wouldn’t be fair to move in with them. Besides which I hadn’t worked for Roland Phillips a full month yet. Without a salary cheque I can’t afford to go anywhere.’

‘You’re broke?’ Quillian demanded shortly, and Mallon decided that she definitely didn’t like him. It was embarrassing enough to have to admit to what had happened to her, without the added embarrassment of admitting that, since she couldn’t afford alternative accommodation, she had nowhere to rest her head that night. ‘He forgot to leave any housekeeping. I used what money I had getting in supplies from the village shop a mile away.’

‘You never thought to ask him for some housekeeping expenses?’

‘What is this?’ she objected, not liking his interrogation one little bit. But when he merely looked coldly back at her, she found she was confessing, ‘It seemed a bit petty. I thought I’d leave it until he paid me my salary cheque and mention it then. Anyhow,’ she went on abruptly, ‘Roland Phillips had too much to drink at lunchtime and—and…’ she mentally steadied herself ‘…and seemed to think I was only playing hard to get when I told him to keep his loathsome hands to himself. It was all I could do to fight him off. It didn’t occur to me when I managed to get free to hang around to chat about money he owed me! I was through the door as fast as I could go.’ Mallon reckoned she had ‘talked out’ all she was going to talk out. ‘There!’ she challenged hostilely. ‘Satisfied?’

Whether he was she never got to know, for suddenly there was such a tremendous crash from above that they both had something else momentarily to think about.

A split second later and Harris Quillian was out in the hall and going up the stairs two and a time. Mallon followed. There was water everywhere. He had one of the bedroom doors open and Mallon, not stopping to think, went to help. Clearly the roof was still in bad shape somewhere, and with all that rain—that crash they had heard was a bedroom ceiling coming down.

‘Where do you keep your buckets?’ she asked.

An hour later, the mopping up completed, the debris in the bedroom confined to one half of the floor space, Mallon returned to the kitchen. In the absence of abundant floor cloths, she had used the towel from around her head to help mop up the floor.

Fortunately her hair was now dry, and she was in the act of combing her fingers through her blonde tresses when Harris Quillian came to join her. Whether it was the act of actually doing something physical, she didn’t know, but she was unexpectedly feeling very much more recovered. Sufficiently, anyhow, to realise she had better assess her options more logically than she had.

‘Thank you for your help,’ Harris Quillian remarked pleasantly, his grey eyes taking in the true colour of her hair. ‘You worked like a Trojan.’

Mallon couldn’t say he had been a slouch either, tackling all the heavy lifting, fetching and carrying. ‘It was a combined effort,’ she answered. For all she knew she looked a sketch—tangled hair, any small amount of make-up she had been wearing long since washed away, not to mention she was wearing Quillan’s overlarge shirt and trousers, and, thanks to paddling about in water upstairs, was now sockless. ‘I’d better start thinking of what I’m going to do,’ she commented as lightly as she could.

‘So long as you don’t think about going back to Almora Lodge!’ Quillian rapped, at once all hostility.

Oh, did he have the knack of instantly making her angry! ‘Do I look that stupid?’ she flared. But, knowing she was going to have to ask his assistance, had to sink her pride and come down from her high horse. ‘I was—er—wondering—um—what the chances were of you giving me a lift to Warwickshire?’ she said reluctantly.

‘To your mother’s home?’ he guessed.

‘There isn’t anywhere else,’ she stated despondently.

‘But you don’t want to go there?’

‘She’s had a tough time. She’s happy now, for the first time in years. I don’t want to give her the smallest cause for anxiety. Especially in this honeymoon period,’ Mallon owned. ‘But I can’t at the moment see what else I can do.’

There was a brief pause, then, ‘I can,’ he replied.

Mallon looked at him in surprise—wary surprise. ‘You can?’

‘Smooth your hackles for a minute,’ he instructed levelly, ‘and hear my proposition.’

‘Proposition!’ she repeated, her eyes darting to the door, ready to run at the first intimation of anything untoward.

‘Relax, Mallon. What I have to suggest is perfectly above board.’ She was still there, albeit she was watching his every move, and he went quickly on. ‘You need a job, preferably a live-in job, and I, I’ve just discovered, appear to need—a caretaker.’

‘A caretaker!’ She stared at him wide-eyed. ‘You’re offering me a caretaker’s job?’

‘It’s entirely up to you whether you want to take it or not, but, as you know, I’m having the place rebuilt. I could do with someone here to liaise with plumbers, carpenters, electricians—you know the sort of thing. Generally keep an eye on everything.’ He broke off to insert, ‘Someone to mop up when the roof leaks. I’ve just witnessed the way you’re ready to pitch in when there’s an emergency. Later on, I’ll need someone here to oversee painters and decorators, carpet fitters, furniture arrivals.’

He had no need to go on; she had the picture. But she had just had one very big fright with one employer and, while it would suit her very well to caretake for a short time—it would give her the chance to have a roof of sorts over her head while she looked for another job—she had been gullible before.

‘Where’s the catch?’ she questioned, trying not to think in terms of this being a wonderful answer to her problems. If she accepted this caretaking job it would mean that she wouldn’t have to go and intrude on her mother and John Frost at this start of their married life together. She…

‘Apart from the fact that this kitchen is about the most comfortable room in the house, there is no catch,’ Harris Quillian replied. ‘You and I have a mutual need…’

‘Where would I sleep?’ Mallon interrupted him suspiciously.

Grey eyes studied her for a second or two. ‘You don’t trust men, do you?’ he said quietly.

‘Let’s say I’ve had my fill of men who seem to think that I just can’t wait to get into bed with them!’

‘You’ve had bad experiences apart from Phillips?’

Mallon ignored the question. Her experience with Roland Phillips was the worst, but she had no intention of telling Quillian of her ex-stepfather, ex-stepbrother nor her fickle-hearted ex-boyfriend.

‘Where would I sleep?’ she repeated stubbornly, vaguely aware that she must be seriously considering the job offer.

‘At the moment there are only two bedrooms habitable—and they’re not yet decorated. One should be sufficient for you,’ Quillian stated. ‘Though at present only one of the bedrooms has much furniture. Obviously it’s my bedroom for when I stay weekends.’ Again she darted a quick look to the door. ‘But I’ll be returning to London this evening, so it would be all yours until I can get another bed sent down—probably tomorrow or Tuesday.’ She relaxed slightly, and he asked, ‘You wouldn’t mind being here on your own?’

‘I’d welcome it!’ she answered bluntly, truthfully, hardly able to believe this sudden turn of events.

‘Good,’ he said, and she warmed to him a little that he appeared not in the slightest offended that she had just as good as said that she wouldn’t mind if he left her on her own right now—that she’d rather have his space too, than his company. ‘Should you accept, I’ll get my PA to arrange some furniture first thing in the morning. By the end of the week you would be comfortably set up in your own bedroom.’

‘You’ll be—here again next weekend?’ she questioned stiltedly, and found herself on the receiving end of his steady grey-eyed look.

‘Are you always this cagey?’

‘Apparently not—or I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m in now!’

He took that on board, then documented, ‘So you’re worried about me staying overnight in the same house with you?’ Mallon made no answer, and after a moment he informed her, ‘The reason I bought this place was so that, eventually, I’d have somewhere away from London to unwind at the weekends. Harcourt House is obviously far from finished, but if you’d agree to stay on, ready to contact me or my PA with any problems—more ceilings coming down, builders needing chasing, that sort of thing—then, should I come down on a Friday evening, or on a Saturday, I’d undertake to drive you to a hotel and come and collect you shortly before I go back to London again. How does that sound?’

‘How long would it be for?’ she enquired, realising she should be snatching at his offer, but traces of shock from the terrible fright she’d had were still lingering. ‘When I get my head back together I shall want to look around for something more permanent,’ she explained.

‘I can’t see the builders being finished in under three months. Though I wouldn’t hold you to that length of time if you find the right job sooner.’

Mallon took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to accept,’ she said, before she could change her mind. And, the die cast, she suddenly again became aware of the way she was dressed. ‘My clothes!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t go around wearing your shirt and trousers for the next three months!’

‘Then I suggest I drive you to Almora Lodge to collect your belongings,’ Harris Quillian said coolly.

‘You’d come with me to…?’ she began fearfully.

His jaw jutted. ‘I wouldn’t contemplate letting you go on your own,’ he grated positively, and took his eyes from her to glance at his watch. When he looked at her again, Mallon could not help noticing that there was a steel-hard glint in his eyes all at once. Then, to her absolute amazement, he icily announced, ‘Apart from anything else, I think it’s more than high time I went and had a word with my brother-in-law.’

Mallon stared at him speechlessly, her brain refusing to take in what it was he was saying. ‘Brother-in-law?’

Harris Quillian moved to the kitchen door, all too obviously keen to be on their way. ‘Roland Phillips,’ he stated quite clearly, ‘happens to be married to my sister Faye.’

Mallon looked at him open-mouthed. She could not remember just then all that she had said to Harris Quillian. But what she did know was that she had told him, exceedingly plainly, that his sister’s husband had assaulted her with violating, adulterous intent!

Anger started to surge up in her—anger against Quillian. How dared he allow her to tell him all she had? He must have known that she would never have said a word to him about Roland Phillips had she know he was Roland Phillips’s brother-in-law!

More, she realised, Harris Quillian had deliberately kept that information to himself to get her talking. Must have! He’d purposely…He…How dared he?




CHAPTER TWO


MALLON felt angry enough to bite nails in half. ‘You should have said!’ she erupted furiously. ‘You let me tell you everything I did, while all the time…’

‘It wasn’t the truth?’ he cut in sharply, entirely unmoved by her anger. ‘You’re saying now that you were lying?’

‘I wasn’t lying. You know full well I wasn’t lying!’ she retorted—did he think she went out walking in a cloudburst wearing only a cotton dress just for the fun of it?

‘Then what the blazes are you getting so stewed up about?’ Quillian demanded.

‘Because, because…’ She faltered. Then she rallied. ‘I wouldn’t have told you anything of what I had if I’d known you were related to him!’

‘Only by marriage!’ he gritted, the idea of being related by blood to that worm plainly offensive to him.

‘You won’t say anything to your sister?’

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.’

Mallon stared at him angrily. ‘If you can’t see that to tell her might do irreparable harm to her marriage…’

‘Harm has already been done. My sister and that apology for a man separated three months ago.’

Mallon’s anger went as swiftly as it had arrived. ‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘H-he never said. He let me think she, his wife, had only recently left on an overseas trip to do with her work.’

‘Did you see any evidence of Faye being around?’

‘We’re back to hindsight again,’ Mallon muttered wearily. ‘Now, now that I know, I can see that there hadn’t been a female hand about the Lodge for some while.’

‘It was in need of a clean and tidy-up when you arrived?’

Understatement. ‘Let’s say it was fairly obvious he hadn’t advertised for a housekeeper a minute too soon. Are he and your sister legally separated?’

Harris Quillian shook his head. ‘It’s a trial separation as far as Faye is concerned. She’s hoping that, once they’re through what she terms a cooling-off period, they’ll get back together again.’

‘Oh, grief!’ It amazed Mallon that anyone with a grain of intelligence should fall for, let alone want to marry and stay married to, a man like Roland Phillips. ‘It won’t help if you tell her about me,’ Mallon said.

‘You’re suggesting that I don’t tell her? You think it would be better for her to go back to him without being aware of what he’s capable of?’ Harris questioned grimly.

‘She may well know, but love him enough to forgive…’

‘What he tried to do to you is unforgivable!’ Harris chopped her off harshly.

Mallon let go a shaky breath. ‘I—w-wouldn’t argue that,’ she had to agree.

The subject seemed closed. ‘Ready?’ he said. ‘We’ll go and get your clothes.’

Mallon suddenly had an aversion to putting on the dress that Roland Phillips had tried to tear from her. She knew then that she would never wear it again. She wouldn’t have minded borrowing a comb, but Harris wasn’t offering, and she wouldn’t ask. ‘I look a sight,’ she mumbled.

‘Do you care?’

It annoyed her that he too thought she looked a sight! He needn’t have agreed with her. ‘Not a scrap!’ she answered shortly, and, delaying only to put on her sodden sandals, she joined him at the door.

The nearer they got to Almora Lodge, though, and nerves started to get the better of her. So that by the time Harris had pulled up outside the house, she had started to shake.

‘You’ll come in with me?’ she questioned jerkily when all those terrible happenings began to replay in her head, refusing to leave. Suddenly she felt too afraid to get out of the car.

‘I’ll be with you most every step of the way,’ he replied, his expression grim.

The front door was unlocked. Harris didn’t bother to knock but, tall and angry beside her, he went straight in. There was no sign of Roland Phillips.

‘I’ll be one minute,’ Harris said. ‘If you see Phillips before I do, yell.’

Mallon waited nervously at the bottom of the stairs while Harris headed in the direction of the drawing room. She waited anxiously when he went from her sight. Then she thought she heard a small short sound that might have been a bit of a groan, then a thud—but she had no intention of venturing anywhere to find out what it was all about.

And, true to his word, barely a minute later Harris appeared. He was with her every step of the way too as they went up the stairs. He stayed close by while she packed her cases and retrieved her handbag.

She had been all knotted up inside, certain that at some stage Roland Phillips would appear, if only to find out who was invading his property. But she was back in the car sitting beside Harris Quillian—and had seen nothing of her ex-employer. She started to feel better.

‘Thank you,’ she said simply as they left Almora Lodge behind.

‘My pleasure,’ he replied, and at some odd inflection in his tone, almost as if it had been a pleasure, Mallon found her eyes straying to his hands on the steering wheel. The knuckles on his right hand were very slightly reddened, she observed.

‘You saw Roland Phillips, didn’t you?’ she exclaimed as the explanation for that groan and thud suddenly jumped into her head. ‘It wasn’t very nice of him to mark your hand with his chin like that!’ The words broke from her before she could stop them.

‘Worth every crunch,’ Harris confirmed.

Mallon turned sideways in her seat to look at him. Firm jaw, firm mouth, steady eyes; she was starting to quite like him. ‘You didn’t need much of an excuse to hit him,’ she commented, guessing that because, at heart, his sister wanted to get back with her husband, Harris had previously held back on the urge to set about Roland for the grief he had caused Faye. However, Roland’s behaviour today had given him the excuse he had been looking for.

‘True,’ Harris answered. ‘Unfortunately he was still half sozzled with drink, so I only had to hit him once.’ She had to smile; it felt good to smile. By the sound of it, Roland Phillips had gone down like a sack of coals.

Harris carried her cases up the stairs when they arrived at Harcourt House. The two habitable bedrooms were side by side. He placed her cases in the room as yet without a bed, and showed her the other room.

‘Faye has seen to it that there’s plenty of bed linen, towels, that sort of thing, so I’ll leave that side of it to you.’ And, when Mallon stood hesitantly in the doorway, he went on casually, ‘I’ll arrange for locks to be put on both these bedroom doors tomorrow.’ Then, taking up what was obviously his overnight bag, he announced, ‘Now I should think about leaving.’

Mallon began to suspect he had a heavy date that night. She wished him joy. She went downstairs with him, looking forward to the moment when he would be gone and she could change out of his clothes and into her own.

‘You’ve been very kind,’ she began as he accompanied her into the kitchen. ‘I don’t quite honestly know what I would have done if you hadn’t done a circle round and picked me up.’

‘You’re helping me too, remember,’ he said, and, taking out his wallet, he handed her a wad of notes. ‘In view of your past experience, I think it might be as well if you accepted your salary in advance rather than in arrears.’

‘I don’t want…’ she began to protest.

‘Don’t give me a hard time, Mallon. I’ve an idea you’re going to earn every penny—if only by keeping an army of builders supplied with tea and coffee.’ He smiled then, about the second time Mallon had seen him smile. This time it had the strangest effect of killing off all thought of protest. ‘While we’re on the subject of sustenance, fix yourself dinner from anything you fancy in the cupboards. It’s there for your use, so eat heartily.’ His glance slid over her slender figure, her curves obvious even in her baggy outfit. Mallon stilled, striving to hold down a feeling of panic. Then her large, deeply blue and troubled eyes met his steady grey ones, and he was no longer smiling. ‘You have a beautiful face, Mallon, and a superb figure.’ He brought out into the open that which she was panicking about. ‘And you’ve had one hell of a fright today. But, trust me, not every man you meet will be champing at the bit for your body.’

She swallowed hard. This man, while sometimes being curt with her, sharp with her, had also been exceedingly kind. ‘As in—n-not in a million years?’

He laughed then, and suddenly she relaxed and even smiled at him. She knew he had recalled without effort that he had answered ‘Not in a million years’ when she had earlier delayed leaving his car in fear that he too might have wicked intent. ‘Something like that,’ he answered.

‘Then go,’ she bade him, but, remembering he was now virtually her employer, ‘Sir,’ she added.

And he, looking pleased that her spirit seemed to have returned, was unoffended. Handing her his business card, ‘Contact me if you need to,’ he instructed. ‘You’ll be all right on your own?’ he questioned seriously. ‘No fears?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she answered. ‘Actually, I’m suddenly starting to feel better than I have in a long while.’

Harris Quillian stared down at her, studying her. Then, nodding approvingly, he took up his overnight bag and his car keys. ‘I may be down on Friday,’ he said, and was gone.

Her sleep was troubled by dark dreams that night. Mallon awoke a number of times, feeling threatened and insecure, and was awake again at four o’clock, although this time dawn was starting to break. And, with the light, she began to feel a little more secure.

She lay wide awake looking round the high-ceilinged uncurtained room. As well as not having curtains, the room was as yet uncarpeted, but there was a large rug on the floor and, against one wall, a large oak wardrobe.

Mallon could tell that, once the building work was completed, furniture and furnishings installed, Harcourt House would revert to what had once been its former glory. She liked big old houses—she had been brought up in one.

Her eyes clouded over. She didn’t want to dwell on times past, but could not help but think back to her happy childhood, her loving and loved parents and the plans they had made for her future—all of which had turned to dust nine years ago.

She had been thirteen when she and her mother were wondering whether to start dinner without waiting for Mallon’s father. He’d been a consultant surgeon and worked all hours, so meals had often been delayed. ‘We’ll start,’ her mother had just decreed, when there had been a ring at the doorbell. Their caller had been one of his colleagues, come to tell them that Cyrus Braithwaite had been in a car accident.

The hospital had done everything they could to try and save him, but they must have known at the start from the extent of his injuries that they were going to lose him.

Mallon had been totally shattered by her adored father’s death; her mother had been absolutely devastated and completely unable to cope. With the help of medication, her mother had got through day by day, but Mallon could not help but know that Evelyn Braithwaite would have been happier to have died with her husband—that perhaps it was only for her daughter’s sake that she’d struggled on.

Some days had been so bad for her mother that Mallon would not consider going to school and leaving her on her own. The first year after her father’s death had passed with Mallon taking more and more time off school. Her studies had suffered and, having been at the top of her year, her grades had fallen; but she’d had higher priorities.

Her father had been dead two years when her mother had met Ambrose Jenkins. He was the antithesis of Mallon’s father: loud where her father had been quiet, boastful where her father had been modest, work-shy where her father had been industrious. But, at first, he’d seemed able to cheer her mother, and for that Mallon forgave Ambrose Jenkins a lot. She’d found she could not like him, but had tried her hardest to be fair, recognising that because she had thought so much of her father she could not expect any other man to measure up.

So when, within weeks of meeting him, her mother told her that she and Ambrose were going to be married, Mallon had kissed and hugged her mother and pretended to be pleased. Ambrose had had a twenty-seven-year-old son, Lee. Mallon had found him obnoxiously repellent. But, for her mother’s sake, she’d smiled through the wedding and accepted that Ambrose would be moving into their home.

What Mallon had not expected was that Lee Jenkins would move in too. By then she was a blossoming fifteen-year-old, but, instead of being proud of her beautiful blonde hair and curvy burgeoning figure, Mallon had been more prone to hide her shape under baggy sweaters and to scrape her hair back in a rubber band. For never a day had seemed to go by without her stepbrother making a pass at her.

To say anything about it to her mother, after the most unhappy time she had endured, was something Mallon had found she just could not do. Though she had to admit that she’d come close that day Lee Jenkins came into her room just as she had finished dressing.

‘Get out!’ she screamed at him—a minute earlier and he would have caught her minus her blouse!

‘Don’t be like that,’ he said in what he thought was his sexy voice, but which she found revolting, and, instead of leaving her room, he came further into it and, grabbing a hold of her, tried to kiss her.

She bit him—his language was colourful, but she cared not. Once he let her go and she was free of him, she wasn’t hanging about.

She was badly shaken, and wanted to confide in her mother. But, somehow, protective of her still, Mallon could not tell her. Instead she took to propping a chair under the knob of her bedroom door at all times whenever she was in there on her own.

Then, horror of horrors, her mother had been married for only a year when her stepfather cast his lascivious glance on Mallon. At first she couldn’t believe what her eyes and instincts were telling her. That was until the day he cornered her in the drawing room and, his eyes on her breasts, remarked, ‘Little Mallon, you’re not so little any more, I see.’ Coming closer, his slack mouth all but slobbering, he demanded, ‘Got a kiss for your stepdaddy?’

She was revolted, and told him truthfully, ‘I’m going to be sick!’

She was sick, and later sat on her bed and cried, because she knew now, more than ever, that she could not tell her mother. Her parent would be destroyed.

Mallon sorely wanted to leave home. It wasn’t home any more anyway. But money, which she had never had to particularly think of before, had been tight for some while. She knew that her father had left them well provided for, but only a few days ago her mother had suggested she might like to take a Saturday job, and Mallon had asked if they were having some temporary financial problem. Her mother had replied, ‘I’m afraid it isn’t temporary, Mallon, it’s permanent,’ and had looked so dreadfully unhappy Mallon had been unable to bear it.

She knew without having to ask where all the money had gone. Ambrose Jenkins had been spending freely, too freely, the money her father had invested. Incredibly, there was little of it remaining.

Lee Jenkins was as work-shy as his father, and had to be a constant drain on what resources her mother had remaining. Determined not to be a drain on those resources herself, Mallon left school and got herself a job.

As jobs went it wasn’t much: a clerical assistant in a large and busy office. But, for her age, it didn’t pay too badly. Though it wasn’t sufficient to pay rent as well as keep her should she attempt the enormous step she wished to take and leave home.

The following two years dragged miserably by, and when she saw how badly her mother’s marriage was faring, Mallon was glad she had not left home. Her mother started to realise what a dreadful mistake she had made in marrying Ambrose Jenkins, but did not seem to have the strength to do anything about his by then quite blatant philandering ways. Mallon knew her mother was suffering. But, feeling powerless to do anything about it, Mallon wanted to be there to support her when she finally did cry Enough!

While Mallon was doing everything she could to cold-shoulder both father and son without her mother being aware—which would only make her even more wretched—it was not her stepfather’s habit of staying out nights and weekends, and coming home only to be fed and laundered, that brought things to a head. But money.

Both the Jenkins men were out that Wednesday when Mallon came home from work and found her mother in tears. ‘Oh, darling!’ Mallon cried, going over to her. ‘What’s the matter?’

Plenty, she learned in the next five minutes. Ambrose and her mother were splitting up, but that, it seemed, was not the reason for her mother’s despair. But, as she explained, because she had foolishly listened to Ambrose Jenkins eighteen months ago when as near penury as made no difference, he had told her of a business venture that would almost immediately earn them double. It would, however, mean a quite substantial investment.

Evelyn Jenkins was not used to working with money, she had never needed to. But, aware that something needed to be done to get them solvent once more, she had been persuaded to borrow, using their lovely home as collateral.

It had all ended in tears. The upshot being that now, eighteen months later, the business venture had folded. With no more money forthcoming, Ambrose was leaving, and even the house no longer belonged to her mother. ‘We’ve got to leave here,’ her mother wept. ‘This lovely house your father bought for us!’

Oddly then, though maybe because having reached rock bottom the only way was up, and perhaps aided by thinking of her gentleman former husband, Evelyn Jenkins seemed to gather some strength. Mallon could only guess at the inner torment her parent must have been through before she had confided in her. But the next morning, before Mallon could say she intended to take the day off work and start to look for somewhere to rent, her mother was telling her how she intended to contact a firm of lawyers that day to see if there was anything to be done.

Mallon hurried home that night to hear that John Frost, the head of the firm her father had always used, and who knew the family, had initially dealt personally with her mother. After a detailed check of all the paperwork he had passed the opinion that she had been criminally advised, had put a doubt on the fact that the money had been invested anywhere but in Ambrose Jenkins pocket, and had concluded that Evelyn Jenkins had a case for suing him.

Since, however, that man appeared to not have any money, there seemed no point whatsoever in taking that route. ‘I think I would rather divorce him,’ she decided. Mallon could only applaud her decision.

There followed months and months of upset. Ambrose wanted to behave like a single man, but didn’t want to be divorced, apparently, and so was as obstructive as he knew how to be; which was considerably.

Although divorce was not John Frost’s speciality, and he had handed the case over to someone whose subject it was, John Frost was always there to smile and encourage when her mother went to his offices to pursue the matter of the protracted proceedings.

Mallon and her mother moved into a tiny flat, the rent of which took quite a chunk out of Mallon’s salary. She was not complaining—it was a joy not to have to live under the same roof as the Jenkins duo. A joy not to have to continually be on her guard against the loose-moralled, lascivious pair.

Her mother’s divorce was finalised on Mallon’s twentieth birthday. John Frost, by now something of a friend, took them to dinner to celebrate.

Finances were extremely tight and her mother did try to support herself, but she had never had to work outside of the home, and it was all too apparent that she neither enjoyed nor was cut out to stand in a shop serving all day, or to sit in an office trying to get to grips with a computer. Mallon couldn’t bear it—her father would have been utterly distraught that life should have treated his beloved Evelyn this way.

‘You don’t have to go out to work, you know,’ Mallon insisted. ‘We can manage.’

Her mother looked uncertain. ‘I have to contribute something. It isn’t fair…’

‘You do contribute. You’re a wonderful homemaker.’

‘But…’ Evelyn Jenkins tried to argue, but Mallon could see that her heart wasn’t in it. And eventually, with Mallon using every persuasion she could think of, her mother gave in—and for about eighteen months more they limped along on Mallon’s salary.

Then suddenly everything started to improve. Mallon and her mother went out to dine with widower John Frost a few times, and invited him to their small flat in return. It didn’t take much for Mallon to see that John was keen on her mother, and Mallon liked how protective he was with her.

The next time he asked the two of them to dine with him Mallon found a convenient ‘work’ excuse at the last minute, and left it to John Frost to persuade her mother that he would be equally delighted to take her out without her daughter.

On the work front matters were looking up too. Mallon had made steady progress and was rewarded with promotion to another department. With the move came a very welcome raise in salary which meant that she and her mother could begin to renew the odd item here and there that had worn out. While not riches—they still had nothing in the bank—her pay rise made life just that little bit easier.

With her move to a new department Mallon met two people she would be working with. Natasha Wallace, a pleasant if plain girl of about her own almost twenty-two years, and Keith Morgan who was three years older.

Mallon became friends with both of them. And, with John Frost and her mother seeing just a little more of each other—John taking care not to rush Evelyn—Mallon started to go out and about with Natasha; sometimes Keith would go with them.

Mallon had been well and truly put off men by the behaviour of Ambrose and Lee Jenkins, and while it did not particularly bother her she just could not see herself entering into any kind of a relationship with any man.

Which was why it came as something of a surprise to her that, four months into her friendship with Natasha and Keith, she began to realise that she had some quite warm feelings for Keith. Feelings which, to her further surprise and pleasure, she discovered were returned.

They did not always go out as a threesome. When Natasha started to put in some extra practice for a violin exam she was about to take, Keith and Mallon went out more and more as a twosome.

Even now as she lay wide awake in Harris Quillian’s bed Mallon felt sick in her stomach as she recalled how, only three months ago, their feelings for each other starting to take over, she had been on the brink of committing herself to a very intimate relationship with Keith Morgan.

It had started on a Saturday when Natasha had been busy with her music and Mallon and Keith had been to the cinema. Keith had been kissing Mallon goodnight when he’d suddenly begged her to go away with him. ‘I want to go to bed with you—you must want the same,’ he urged. Oh, help—it was such a big step! ‘You know you want me as much as I want you.’

She said no, but week after week for the next two months he again and again urged her to go away with him. Then one Saturday he told her he loved her. It was what she needed to hear.

She agreed, albeit, it was with a rather shaky ‘Y-yes,’ that she answered.

Keith didn’t waste any time and told her on Monday that he had arranged their romantic tryst for the coming weekend, and would pick her up from her home on Saturday morning.

Why couldn’t she tell her mother? Her mother had met both Keith and Natasha and would have understood. Mallon later wondered—could it be that at heart she had known that something was not quite right? But just then she managed to convince herself that, after the dreadful years her mother had endured, and with everything going so right for her just now—she seemed to be spending more and more time with John Frost—she did not want to give her parent the smallest cause to worry about her.

Mallon made her way home from work on Friday and made up her mind to tell her mother that night. For heaven’s sake, Keith would be calling for her in the morning!

Her mother wasn’t in but had left a note saying that John had phoned and had particularly wanted to discuss something with her, so could she meet him later that afternoon? She didn’t think she would be late back.

Mallon hoped not. She was on edge, and knew that feeling wouldn’t go away until she had told her mother her plans. When each hour ticked away and her mother didn’t appear, Mallon guessed that John had taken her mother to dinner.

Which proved correct when, just after ten, John Frost brought her mother home. ‘Um—we’ve got something to tell you,’ Evelyn Jenkins said, but didn’t have to—Mallon could see the joy they shared with each other.

‘We’re going to be married,’ John could hardly wait to tell her. ‘Is that all right with you, Mallon?’

She hadn’t seen her mother looking so happy in years. ‘You know it is!’ Mallon beamed, and forgot all about Keith Morgan when she went over and the threesome embraced.

John had brought some champagne in with him and they talked for an age as the newly engaged couple shared with Mallon that they had steadily got to know each other over the years, and saw not one single reason to wait. They would marry next month and Mallon would give up the flat.

‘Give up the flat?’

‘Your mother will be moving into my home, Mallon,’ John answered. ‘It’s my wish that you move into my home too.’

‘Thank you,’ she answered, not wanting to blight this happy time for them. But she somehow knew, much as she liked John and much as she would miss her mother dreadfully, that her place was not in her mother’s new home. This, after all she’d been through, was a special time for her mother.

‘That’s settled, then.’ John smiled, and went on to outline how he’d telephoned his married daughter in Scotland and she was flying down tomorrow for a family celebration dinner.

‘Oh!’ Mallon exclaimed. Oh, grief, she had forgotten all about Keith Morgan!

‘Don’t say you can’t make it, darling. Did you have some other arrangement?’

‘Keith—er…’

‘I’m sure he’ll understand. This is a family occasion, after all.’ Evelyn Jenkins beamed.

‘Of course. I’ll give him a ring,’ Mallon said with a smile and realised, perhaps because of her mother’s lovely news, that she didn’t feel unduly upset that her weekend with Keith was off.

He did not understand when she rang him. Instead, he was furious. ‘I’ve booked the hotel!’ he protested angrily. ‘Your mother’s been married before—what’s so special now?’ If he couldn’t see, Mallon wasn’t about to try and explain.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I’ll see you on Monday.’

The celebratory dinner went wonderfully well. John’s daughter, Isobel, was as thrilled as Mallon that the two had finally decided to marry.

By Monday, feeling uncomfortable that she had let Keith down, Mallon went to seek him out to apologise again and to try and make him see how important it had been to her mother that she had been there.

‘Keith,’ she began, going over to his desk.

‘Mallon, I…’ he said at the same time, for no reason she could think of, looking almost sheepish.

“Morning, Keith!’ They both turned to see Natasha standing there, looking more animated than Mallon had ever seen her. Natasha grinned at them both but addressed Keith when she said, ‘I thought you’d like to know I didn’t get into trouble when I got in last night.’

Mallon stared at her, and then smiled. What was more natural? She had let Keith down and Natasha was an old chum. ‘You were out with Keith last night?’ she commented, still feeling a touch uncomfortable, but glad that Keith hadn’t had a totally dull weekend. Though…Suddenly some instinct in Mallon started to quiver. She knew she was feeling uncomfortable, but what the Dickens was Keith looking so uncomfortable about? ‘You’ve been out with Keith on a Sunday before,’ Mallon commented slowly. ‘What was so different about last night?’

Keith found his shoes worthy of inspection, while Natasha answered, ‘Only the fact that I didn’t go home at all on Saturday night.’

Something inside Mallon froze. ‘Now that is different.’ Somehow she managed to make her tone light. ‘You went away with Keith?’ she asked, a very personal question she knew, but she needed some answers here.

Natasha’s eyes sparkled. ‘It was wonderful, wasn’t it, Keith?’ He didn’t answer.

There was only one other question which, in normal times, Mallon would not have dreamed of asking. ‘Did you sleep together?’ she asked, her light tone gone.

Natasha looked a shade put out but, possibly because of their past friendship, answered honestly, if a shade coolly, ‘We did. That was rather the whole point of going.’

Mallon looked at Keith. He did not deny it. ‘We’d better get on with some work.’ She left them and went to her desk. She was deaf to Keith Morgan’s entreaties when he explained he had been so very angry with her for letting him down, but that it was her, Mallon, that he loved.

Mallon knew then that she was at a crossroads in her life. She no longer wanted to work in the same department with Keith and Natasha. She felt deeply, instinctively, that she should not live with her mother and John Frost when they married, but knew if she insisted on staying on in the flat alone that her mother would be upset. And she had endured more than enough upset already.

Over the next few days Mallon figured it out. She still wasn’t any happier working with Natasha and Keith—but no one was going to know it. What she needed, Mallon decided, was a clean break, a new job, a…

Suddenly she had it. The only excuse her mother was likely to accept for her not moving in with her and John would be if she said she had applied for a job in another area.

Mallon looked at the state of her finances. She wanted to treat her mother to a really lovely outfit to be married in. More genius arrived. How about if she found a live-in job? Brilliant! She could then spend her final month’s salary on something really gorgeous for her mother. And living in, board and lodgings obviously taken care of, she could limp along quite well on any money left over until pay day.

Mallon got out of Harris Quillian’s bed, musing how she had thought everything through. Then, opting for the job advertised for housekeeper, clerical background an advantage, in preference to one for a hotel receptionist because of her lack of training in that area, she had acted. Had she made a mistake! She had still been feeling very much let down by Keith Morgan’s behaviour when, on top of it, she had met that reptile Roland Phillips. Grief, was she ever off men—permanently!

Mallon went to one of the bedroom windows and stared out. The rain had stopped, thank goodness. If it stayed dry perhaps the roofers could come and take a look at…Harris Quillian had been kind, she suddenly found herself thinking. When she came to think about it, more than kind. Her mother would have been overwrought had Harris given her a lift to her mother’s new home.

She had a lot to thank him for, Mallon knew. Not least his generosity in giving her all that money. Salary, he’d called it. But he had trusted her not to do a flit at the first opportunity. Though, from his point of view, he could afford to trust her not to run off with the family silver. She turned to look back into the uncarpeted room, and found she was smiling—there was hardly anything worth pinching.

Mallon decided to investigate the water heating system. She had been weary enough last night and had endured sufficient water on her body from her drenching to think it wouldn’t matter if she went to bed without first showering. But it wouldn’t surprise her to find that brand-new shower in the bathroom was not yet functional.

It was functional, she discovered, and she had a lovely time standing under the warm-to-hot spray. Harris Quillian thought she had a beautiful face and a superb figure, she found herself idly musing—and abruptly stepped out from the shower. For goodness’ sake—as if she cared!

Not that there had been anything ‘personal’ in his remarks. She put his comments from her—she was sure he’d had a heavy date last night. No doubt with some luscious sophisticate. He certainly wasn’t the least bit personally interested in the likes of one Mallon Braithwaite. He couldn’t have made it plainer that he wanted the place to himself at weekends. Which, she sighed, unsmiling, couldn’t suit her better.

She had unlocked the front and rear doors and was investigating the refrigerator, glad to see that Faye Phillips had stocked her brother up with cartons and cartons of the sort of milk that kept for months, when Mallon heard the first of the builders arrive.

Shortly afterwards there was a knock at the kitchen door. ‘Miss Braithwaite? It’s my firm that’s doing the rebuilding. I’m Bob Miller,’ he introduced himself. ‘Mr Quillian’s been on to us. We had a bit of rain yesterday, didn’t we?’ he understated.

She took to Bob Miller, a muscly sort of man of about fifty. He didn’t seem to question who she was or why she was there, but just accepted it. ‘You could say that,’ she agreed.

‘All right if I come in and take a look at the ceiling that came down yesterday?’

‘Of course. Er…’ She remembered Harris’s remark yesterday about keeping an army of builders supplied with tea and coffee. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

Bob gave her a wide grin. ‘Now that’s the way to start the week,’ he accepted.

It was a busy week too. Had she at any time wondered what she would do all day, then she had no difficulty in filling those hours. Throughout the week she met Cyril, the carpenter, who as well as doing his other work fitted locks on two bedroom doors and put security catches on all bedroom windows. She also met Charlie, Dean, Baz and Ron, who were excellent with plumbing stonework, and electrics. And Ken, who was something of an intellectual, and who liked working out in the open air. There was Del too, who had a lovely tenor voice, and who sang throughout most of the day. And lastly Kevin, the ‘gofer’.

It was Kevin who gave her a lift in ‘the van’ when he had to visit the building suppliers in town. ‘Take as long as you like,’ he offered cheerfully as he dropped her off at the supermarket. ‘I’ll be ages.’

Mallon purchased fresh fruit and vegetables and other provisions, and also bought a newspaper, plus stationery and postage stamps. She studied the situations vacant column when she got back, but there was little there of interest to her. Still, Harris had suggested that the builders would be there for three months, so there was no particular hurry. And anyway, this time, she didn’t want to rush into the first likely job she saw.

Apart from the bed Harris had promised, several other items of furniture arrived that week. Mallon directed the sofa and one of the padded chairs to the drawing room, which was, as yet, like the bedrooms uncurtained and uncarpeted. The wardrobe, desk and another padded chair were carried up to her room, and, since she more or less lived in the kitchen, she had another easy chair put in there.

She found that as well as thinking frequently of her mother and John Frost, and trying not to think of the likes of Keith Morgan and Roland Phillips, she thought a good deal of Harris Quillian too.

Contrary to his comment about her incubating pneumonia, she had not so much as sneezed. In fact, given that she was still having the most ghastly dreams, and had once or twice had to leave her bed to go and sit in the safe haven of the kitchen until she was more at peace, she had never felt better.




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