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The Millionaire's Rebellious Mistress
CATHERINE GEORGE


Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.He’ll make her his – for business and pleasure! Alex Merrick is rich, handsome, and one of the most successful property developers in the country. His power and influence are renowned. But to Sarah Carver the arrogant multimillionaire is her worst enemy: his business destroyed her family! When Sarah gets the chance to take one of Alex’s business deals away from him, she relishes her moment of triumph. But the glory doesn’t last long – because the gorgeous Alex has an ace up his sleeve.He’ll propose a deal Sarah just can’t refuse – and make her his mistress as part of the bargain!







Alex kissed her mouth, taking so much time over it Sarah’s heart was pounding by the time he raised his head. ‘You know, I’m not so sure about this friend thing after all,’ he said huskily, his eyes glittering.

She heaved in an unsteady breath, trying to damp down the heat his expert, hungry mouth had sent surging through her entire body. ‘You don’t want that any more?’

‘Yes, of course I do. But I have a problem.’

‘What?’

‘The way you look tonight any normal guy would want to be more than just your friend, Sarah. But don’t worry,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll stick to the rules.’

‘What rules?’

‘Yours: friendship with the enemy, but no sleeping with him.’


Catherine George was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading which eventually fuelled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the UK. And, instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera and browse in antiques shops.

Recent titles by the same author:

THE MILLIONAIRE’S CONVENIENT BRIDE

THE RICH MAN’S BRIDE




THE MILLIONAIRE’S REBELLIOUS MISTRESS


BY

CATHERINE GEORGE




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




PROLOGUE


ALEXANDER MERRICK achieved the vice-chairmanship of the Merrick Group before he was thirty, but no one who worked for him was in the slightest doubt that his appointment was due to ability rather than nepotism. They soon found he ran as tight a ship as his father and his grandfather before him, but with a more humanist approach. He had made it clear from day one that the door of his top floor corner office would always be open to any member of staff with a problem, and this particular morning he sat back, ready to listen, when his assistant came in looking gloomy.

‘What’s up, Greg? Girlfriend stand you up last night?’

‘No, Alex.’ Not long out of college, Greg Harris still got a buzz from being on first-name terms with his dynamic young boss. ‘I just had a phone call. Bad news. Our bid was unsuccessful.’

‘What?’ Alex Merrick shot upright. ‘So who the hell got them?’

‘I don’t know that yet.’ Greg cleared his throat. ‘I asked my—my friend to let me know the result of the sealed bid right away, as a personal favour, which is why I’m ahead of the game, but no other details yet.’

Alex swore volubly. ‘It must be some local builder with friends in high places. He’ll probably demolish the Medlar Farm cottages and build God knows what in their place—’ He broke off, eyeing his assistant speculatively. ‘Is your friend a girl?’



Greg nodded, flushing.

Alex gave him the crooked smile that few people could resist. ‘Excellent. Take her out to dinner; charm her into finding out who got the bid. I’ll pay.’


CHAPTER ONE

THE VIEW of the sunset over sweeping lawns and tree-fringed lake was so perfect the dining room could have been part of a film set.

Sarah’s escort smiled at her in satisfaction. ‘You obviously approve of my choice, darling?’

‘Of course. Who wouldn’t?’ But she was surprised by it. Oliver normally wined and dined her in more conservative restaurants, where the cuisine was less haute than Easthope Court. ‘Is this a special occasion?’

His eyes slid away. ‘Let’s leave explanations until later. Our meal is on its way.’

The waiter set Sarah’s entrée in front of her, and with a hint of flourish removed the cover from an offering of such culinary art she looked at the plate in awe, not sure whether she should eat it or frame it. But instead of sharing that with someone who took his food as seriously as Oliver, she asked about his latest triumph in court.

Sarah listened attentively as she ate, made appropriate comments at intervals, but at last laid down her knife and fork, defeated. Artistic creation or not, the meal was so substantial she couldn’t finish it.

‘You didn’t care for the lobster?’ asked Oliver anxiously.

‘It was lovely, but I ate too much of that gorgeous bread before it arrived.’



He beckoned a waiter over. ‘Choose a pudding, then, while I excuse myself for a moment. Cheese as usual for me, Sarah.’

She gave the order and sat back, eyeing her surroundings with interest. The other women present—some young, others not—were dressed with varying success in red-carpet-type couture, but their male escorts were largely on the mature side. Though a younger man at table nearby caught her eye, if only because his head of thick, glossy hair stood out like a bronze helmet among his balding male companions. He raised his glass in smiling toast, and Sarah looked away, flushing, as Oliver rejoined her.

‘So what are we celebrating?’ she demanded, as he began on a wedge of Stilton.

‘Now, you must always remember, Sarah,’ he began, ‘that I have your best interests at heart.’

Her heart sank. ‘Go on.’

Oliver reached out a hand to touch hers. ‘Sweetheart, there’s a vacancy coming up in my chambers next month. Make me happy; give up this obsession of yours and take the job. With your logical brain I’m sure you’d enjoy legal work.’

Sarah’s colour, already high, rose a notch. ‘You mean you brought me here just to pitch the same old story? Oliver, I love you very much,’ she said with complete truth, ‘and I know you care about me, but you really must let me live my life my own way.’

‘But I just can’t believe it’s the right way!’ Oliver sat back, defeated. ‘I hate to think of you messing about with plaster and paint all day in that slum you bought.’

‘Oliver,’ she said patiently, ‘it’s what I do. It’s what I know how to do. And I love doing it. I’d be useless—and miserable—as a legal secretary, even in illustrious chambers like yours.’

‘But you’re obviously not taking care of yourself or eating properly—’

‘If you just wanted to feed me before I go back to starving in my garret you needn’t have wasted money on a place like this,’ she informed him.

‘I chose somewhere special because it’s my birthday tomorrow,’ he said with dignity. ‘I hoped you’d enjoy helping me celebrate it.’

‘Oh Oliver!’ Sarah felt a sharp pang of remorse. ‘If you’re trying to make me feel guilty you’re succeeding. I’m sorry. But I can’t take the job. Not even to celebrate your birthday.’

He nodded, resigned. ‘Ah, well, it was worth a try. We won’t let it spoil our evening. Thank you for the witty birthday card, by the way, but you shouldn’t have bought a present.’

‘Didn’t you like the cravat?’

‘Of course I liked it. But it was much too expensive—’

‘Nothing too good for my one and only godfather!’

Oliver smiled fondly. ‘That’s so sweet of you, darling, and of course I’ll wear it with pride. But you need to watch your pennies.’ He leaned nearer and touched her hand. ‘You do know, Sarah, that if you’re in need of any kind you only have to ask.’

‘Thank you, Oliver, of course I do.’ But she’d have to be in dire straits before she would.

As they got up to leave, the man Sarah had noticed earlier hurried to intercept them.

Oliver beamed as he shook the outstretched hand. ‘Why, hello there, young man. I didn’t know you were here.’

‘You were too absorbed in your beautiful companion to notice me, Mr Moore.’ He turned to Sarah with a crooked smile. ‘Hello. I’m Alex Merrick.’

Quick resentment quenched her unexpected pang of disappointment. And as if his name wasn’t enough, something in his smile made it plain he thought Oliver was her elderly—and wealthy—sugar daddy.

‘Sarah Carver,’ she returned, surprised to see comprehension flare in the piercingly light eyes in an angular face that was striking rather than good-looking.

‘Sarah is helping me celebrate my birthday,’ Oliver informed him.



‘Congratulations! It must be an important one to bring you down from London for the occasion.’

‘Not really—unless you count each day as an achievement at my age. I’ll be sixty-four come midnight,’ said Oliver with a sigh, and made a visible effort to suck in his stomach.

‘That’s just your prime, sir,’ Alex assured him. ‘Are you from London, too, Miss Carver?’

‘She is originally.’ Oliver answered for her. ‘But Sarah moved to this part of the world last year. I’ve been trying to persuade her to return to civilisation, but with no success. She’s in property development,’ he added proudly.

‘Snap. That’s partly my bag, too,’ Alex told her.

Oliver laughed comfortably. ‘Not exactly on the same scale,’ he informed Sarah. ‘Alex is the third generation of his family to run the Merrick Group.’

‘How interesting,’ she said coolly, and smiled up at Oliver. ‘Darling, it’s past my bedtime.’

‘Right,’ he said promptly, and put his arm round her to lead her away. ‘Nice seeing you again, young man. My regards to your father.’

Alex Merrick’s eyes travelled from Oliver’s arm to Sarah’s face with a look that brought her resentment to boiling point. ‘I hope we meet again.’

‘You weren’t very friendly,’ commented Oliver in the car park. ‘You might do well to cultivate young Alex, darling. The Merrick name carries clout in these parts.’

‘Not with me,’ Sarah said fiercely.

The journey home was tiring. Oliver returned to his proposition, and argued all the way, but when he paused to draw breath Sarah told him it would turn her life upside down again to move back to London.

‘I did all that in reverse not so long ago, Oliver. I don’t fancy doing it again for a while, if at all. I like living in the wilds, as you call it—’



‘But what do you do with yourself in the evenings, for God’s sake?’

Glossing over the weariness which more often than not sent her early to bed with a book, Sarah said something vague about cinema trips and concerts, hoping Oliver wouldn’t ask for details.

‘A lot different from London,’ he commented, as they reached Medlar House.

‘Which is entirely the point, Oliver. Would you like some coffee?’

‘No, thank you, darling. I’ll head straight back to Hereford. I’m meeting with a local solicitor first thing in the morning.’

She leaned across and kissed him. ‘Thank you for the wonderful dinner, and for the job offer. But do stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine.’

‘I hope so,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

‘I do.’ She patted his cheek. ‘Happy birthday for tomorrow, Oliver.’

Sarah waved him off, and with a yawn made for her ground-floor retreat in a building which had once housed an elite school for girls. Advertised as a studio flat, when the school had been converted into apartments, she’d agreed to take a look at it without much hope. It had been the last on the list of remotely possible flats shown her by the estate agent, who had rattled through his patter at such speed he’d been unaware that the moment she’d walked through the door Sarah fell in love.

The agent had given her the hard sell, emphasising that it was the last available in her price range in the building, and offered interesting individual touches.

‘If you mean a ceiling four metres high and one wall composed entirely of windows,’ Sarah remarked. ‘Heat loss must be a problem.’

Crestfallen, the young man had informed her that it had once been a music room, which explained the lofty dimensions, and then he’d pointed out its view of the delightful gardens and repeated his spiel about the building’s security. Sarah had heard him out politely, and when he’d eventually run out of steam, he saw her back to her car, promising to ring her in the morning with other possibilities.

She’d forced herself to wait until he rang, praying that no one had beaten her to it overnight with the flat. When his call finally came he’d given her details of a riverside apartment. Way out of her price range, she’d told him, and then as an apparent afterthought mentioned that since there was nothing else suitable on his current list she might as well take another look at the Medlar House bedsit. He’d uttered shocked protests at the term for such a picturesque studio flat, but once they were back in the lofty, sunlit room again Sarah had listed its disadvantages as her opening shot, then begun haggling. At last the agent had taken out his phone to consult a higher authority, and agreement had been reached on a price well below the maximum Sarah had been prepared to pay to live in Medlar House—which, quite apart from its other attractions, was only a short drive from the row of farm cottages she was about to transform into desirable dwellings.

All that seemed a lifetime ago. Feeling restless after her unaccustomed evening out, Sarah loosened her hair, then sat at the narrow trestle table that served as desk, drawing board, and any other function required of it. She booted up her laptop, did a search, and gave a snort of laughter. To say that Sarah Carver and Alexander Merrick were both in property was such a stretch it was ludicrous. These days the Merrick Group also had extensive manufacturing interests, at home and abroad—and the biggest buzzword of all—it was into recycling on a global scale. She closed the laptop in sudden annoyance. It was irrational to feel so hostile still. But the look the man had given her had annoyed her intensely. Oliver was sixty-three—she glanced at her watch—sixty-four now. She was almost forty years his junior. So of course Merrick Mark Three had jumped to the wrong conclusion about Oliver’s role in her life. Her eyes kindled. As if she cared.

She went through her night-time routine in her minuscule bathroom, then climbed up to her sleeping balcony and hung up the little black dress she hadn’t worn for ages. She got into bed and stretched out to gaze down through the balustrade at the moonlight streaming through the shutters, hoping the lobster wouldn’t give her nightmares. She had to be up early next morning, as usual. The first of the cottages was coming along nicely, and once furnished it would function as a show house to tempt buyers for the others in the row. Harry Sollers, the local builder who worked with her, would be there before her, in case, as sometimes happened, he knocked off half an hour early to do a job for a friend.

When the row of cottages had gone up for sale by sealed auction Harry’s circle of cronies at his local pub had fully expected some big company to demolish them and pack as many new houses as possible on the site. When the news had broken that a developer from London had snaffled the property there had been much morose shaking of heads in the Green Man—until the landlord had surprised his clients by reporting that the property developer was a young woman, and she was looking for someone local to work on the cottages. At which point Harry Sollers—semi-retired master builder, committed bachelor and misogynist—had amazed everyone in the bar by saying he might be interested.

Sarah never ceased to be grateful that, due to Harry Sollers’ strong views on the demolition of perfectly good living accommodation, he’d agreed to abandon semi-retirement to help her turn the one-time farm labourers’ cottages into attractive, affordable homes. Gradually Harry had helped her sort out damp courses, retile the roofs, and deal with various basic faults shown up by the building survey. He had been openly sceptical about her own skills until he’d seen proof of them, but openly impressed when he first saw her plastering a wall, and completely won over the day she took a lump hammer to the boards covering up the original fireplaces.

But from the start Harry had drawn very definite lines about his own capabilities, and told Sarah she would need to employ local craftsmen for specialised jobs. He’d enlisted his nephew’s experienced help with the cottage roofs, recommended a reliable electrician to do the rewiring, and for the plumbing contacted his friend Fred Carter, who soon proved he was top-of-the-tree at his craft. The houses had begun to look like real homes once the quality fittings were in place, but to his surprise Sarah had informed Fred that she would do the tiling herself, as well as fit the cupboards in both bathrooms and kitchens.

‘I’m good at that kind of thing,’ she’d assured him, without conceit.

This news had caused a stir in the Green Man.

‘You might have to put up with a few sightseers now and again, boss, just to prove Fred wasn’t having them on,’ Harry had warned her.

He was right. Harry’s cronies had come to look. But once they’d seen her at work they’d agreed that the city girl knew what she was doing.

But much as she enjoyed her work there were days when Sarah felt low-key, and the next day was one of them—which was probably due to Oliver and his coaxing about the vacancy in his chambers. It was certainly nothing to do with the lobster, which had not, after all, given her nightmares. Nor, she assured herself irritably, was it anything to do with meeting Alex Merrick. She’d slept well and risen early, as usual. Nevertheless her mood today was dark. She would just have to work through it. Fortunately Harry was never a ray of sunshine first thing in the morning either, and wouldn’t notice. But for once she was wrong.

‘You’re early—and you don’t look so clever today,’ Harry commented.

‘I was out socialising last night,’ she informed him, and went on with the cupboard door she was hanging.

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Who was the lucky lad, then?’

Sarah sometimes joined Harry for a ploughman’s in the Green Man at lunchtime, where the clientele was mainly male. Some of the regulars were retired, and came out for an hour’s chat over a pint, but the younger set were mainly tradesmen of varying kinds on their lunch-breaks. Harry had put up with a lot of teasing from the old hands about his pretty young boss, but some of the new ones tried to chat Sarah up. The more enterprising among them had even asked her out, and it had taken all the tact she possessed to refuse in a way that made no dent in local egos, so she could hardly blame Harry for being curious about her night out.

‘Much as he’d love to hear himself referred to as a lad,’ she said, with her first smile of the day, ‘we were celebrating my escort’s sixty-fourth birthday. He’s in Hereford on business for a couple of days so he drove over to take me to dinner at Easthope Court last night.’

He whistled, impressed. ‘I hear it’s pretty fancy there since it was done over—pricey too.’

‘Astronomically! I could have fed myself for a week on what Oliver paid for my meal last night. He comes down to check up on me now and then, convinced I’m starving myself to death, but usually all he asks of a restaurant is a good steak and a glass of drinkable claret.’ Sarah sighed, feeling a sudden need to confide in someone. ‘He’s a barrister by profession, Harry. He wants me to work in his chambers.’

‘Does it need building work, then?’

‘No.’ Sarah explained about the office job.

‘He thought you’d like that?’ Harry said, scratching his head. ‘Can you do typing and all the computer stuff?’

She nodded. ‘After I left college I ran the office at my father’s building firm.’

‘You did a whole lot more than that, I reckon. Your dad taught you his craft pretty good.’

‘Thank you!’ Coming from Harry, this was high praise indeed. ‘By the way,’ she added casually, ‘I met someone called Merrick last night. Do you know him?’

Harry grunted. ‘Everybody knows the Merricks. Old Edgar started off in scrap metal. A right old villain he was; so slick at making money you’d think he’d found a way to turn scrap into gold. His son George made an even bigger packet when he took over and started expanding. The family’s got a bit gentrified since Edgar’s day, with college education and all that. Easthope Court was one of their jobs. Lot of publicity at the time. Was it George you met?’

‘No. This one’s name was Alex.’

‘George’s son. Don’t know the lad myself, but word has it he’s a right ball of fire now he runs the show up here. I hear George is at the London branch these days.’ Harry’s lined blue eyes gave her a very straight look. ‘I hear a lot of things in the pub, boss, but I just listen. Nothing you say to me will go further.’

‘No need to tell me that, Harry!’

He nodded, satisfied. ‘I’ll get on with the window frames in number four, then. You’re doing a good job there,’ he added gruffly, eyeing the cupboards.

‘Thank you!’ Sarah smiled at him so radiantly he blinked. ‘How about a snack at the Green Man at lunchtime? My treat?’

‘You’re on! Betty Mason bakes pasties on Wednesdays.’

Sarah felt a lot better as she went on with her cupboard doors. She worked steadily throughout the morning, with only a short break for coffee, and got to her feet at last, back aching. She went to the door, put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing whistle.

‘Ready, Harry? I’m starving.’

Harry chuckled as she scrambled into his pick-up.

‘What’s up?’ she demanded.

‘You don’t look much like a city girl these days, boss.’

Sarah grinned as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘The great advantage of the Green Man is not having to prettify myself to eat there. But if you’re ashamed to be seen with me in my working clothes, Mr Sollers, I can always eat my pasty in the pick-up.’

He guffawed. ‘Get away with you.’

The knot of regulars in the bar greeted Sarah with their usual friendly acceptance, which put paid to the last traces of her blue mood.

‘Your boss let you out, then, Harry?’ called some comedian.

‘Reminded her it was Betty’s day for pasties, so I hope you lot left some for us.’ Harry hoisted Sarah up on a stool at the bar, and gave their order. Fred came to join them, to ask about their progress, and Sarah willingly obliged as she tucked into flaky pastry wrapped round a savoury mixture of meat and vegetables. When it struck her that she was enjoying it far more than the elegant meal of the night before she sighed in such remorse that Fred peered under the peak of her cap.

‘Something wrong with your pasty, my dear?’

‘Nothing at all—it’s delicious.’ She explained about the meal with Oliver.

‘The man must have deep pockets if he took you to eat at Easthope Court,’ put in another man.

‘It was to celebrate his birthday, Mr Baker,’ said Sarah, and looked at him speculatively. ‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here today—’

‘He’s here every day,’ someone shouted.

‘But I’m not, so I must grab him while I can,’ she called back, grinning. ‘I hear you’re a very keen gardener, Mr Baker.’

‘I do a bit,’ he admitted warily.

‘When you can spare the time, would you come along to the cottages and give me some advice on planting?’

‘Any time you like,’ he assured her. ‘Let me get you another half.’

‘No, thanks—too much to do this afternoon,’ she said regretfully.

There was immediate interest in exactly what, and the conversation was general for a moment, until a voice with the accents of expensive education rose above the hubbub to make itself heard to the landlord.

‘I’m looking for a Miss Carver, Eddy. Has she been in here today?’



Sarah winced, wishing vainly she could make herself invisible. Resigned, she let Fred help her down from the stool and turned to face Alex Merrick. ‘You were asking for me?’

His formal dark suit looked out of place in the homely environs of the Green Man’s public bar, but it was his look of blank astonishment that amused Sarah. Last night, because Oliver adored being seen with a ‘pretty young thing’, as he put it, she’d been tricked out in her best babe outfit, clinging black dress, killer heels, full warpaint and hair swept up in a knot of curls. Today the hair was rammed under a baseball cap, her face was as nature had made it, her overalls and trainers were covered in streaks of paint and glue and without her heels she was four inches shorter. She couldn’t blame the man for mistaking her for a boy apprentice, and felt grateful when Harry and Fred ranged themselves alongside her in protective, burly support.

Alex glanced round the watchful faces in the bar, lips twitching. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Carver. I didn’t recognise you for a moment. My apologies for interrupting your lunch.’

She shrugged. ‘Not at all. I was about to get back to work. What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like a word—in private. Today, if possible.’

Sarah eyed him speculatively. ‘I generally finish about six. I can see you then, if you want.’

‘Thank you. Where?’

‘At the site. I’m sure you know where it is.’

‘I do. Until six, then. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ He gave a comprehensive nod all round and walked out, leaving a brief lull in the conversation behind him before everyone started talking again.

‘You want to watch that one,’ said Harry.

‘Why?’ she asked, downing the last of her cider.

‘He’s a Merrick, for a start.’

No need to remind her of that!

‘Besides, you’ve only got to look at him,’ said Fred. ‘Fancies his chance with the ladies.’



‘Not one dressed like this,’ she said, laughing.

‘Don’t you be too sure of that,’ said Fred darkly.

Harry grinned, and drained his glass. ‘No need to worry. One swing of her lump hammer and he’ll be done for.’

They left the pub to a burst of laughter, but Harry looked thoughtful as he drove back to the site. ‘Just the same, boss, I think I’d better stay behind out of sight in one of the cottages tonight. Just in case.’

Sarah stared at him, surprised, ‘The man wants to talk to me, that’s all.’

‘Yes, but what about?’ said Harry grimly. ‘Word is that the Merricks were none too pleased when you got those cottages.’

‘Because they’re on land adjoining theirs?’

He nodded. ‘So be warned. I reckon young Merrick’s going to make you an offer.’

‘So he can knock them down?’ Sarah’s mouth tightened in a way her father would have recognised only too well. ‘Not a chance.’

It took work, but she finally persuaded Harry that she would be perfectly all right alone when he left.

‘Just the same,’ he said, as he got in his pick-up, ‘you be careful.’

‘I shall keep my trusty hammer close to hand,’ she assured him, only half joking.

Once he’d gone, Sarah almost wished she’d asked Harry to stay after all. Which was ridiculous. It was broad daylight on a summer evening. What could happen? She thought about tidying herself up but couldn’t be bothered. Mr Alex Merrick would have to take her as she was. She leaned back against her car, arms folded and ankles crossed, blocking out the site’s building gear as she studied the cottages objectively. Harry had replaced the gingerbread trim over each front door, and soon he’d begin painting the exterior walls creamy white. The front gardens were just bare patches of earth as yet, but she would plant them up after some advice from Mr Baker. She’d lay some cobbles on the paths, get the waist-high dividing walls repointed, and once the lawns had been sown with seed…

She turned her head as a Cherokee Jeep cruised down the lane.

Alex Merrick sprang down from it, but instead of jumping to attention Sarah stayed leaning against her car.

‘Hello,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m a few minutes late. Thank you for waiting. I got held up.’

‘I didn’t notice the time,’ Sarah said with complete truth.

‘Because you were lost in rapt contemplation of your work. Understandable,’ he said, looking along the row. ‘The houses look good.’

‘Thank you. So why do you need to speak to me, Mr Merrick?’ she asked, cutting straight to the chase.

The smile vanished. ‘I could have done this officially, requested a meeting at my office, but it’s probably better to talk here on site. What are your plans when the houses are finished?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Professional interest,’ he said briefly.

She eyed him warily. ‘I shall put them up for sale to first-time buyers, or city dwellers with a fancy for a bolthole in the country.’

‘I can save you the trouble.’ He took in the cottages with a sweep of his hand. ‘On behalf of the Merrick Group I’ll buy all six from you—if the price is right.’

She stood erect at last, eyeing him with suspicion. ‘What for, exactly?’

Alex Merrick frowned, as though he couldn’t believe she wasn’t overwhelmed with delight. ‘The usual reasons, Miss Carver.’

‘I’d like to know exactly what they are, just the same. Because the land they stand on borders yours you might have demolition in mind—in which case nothing doing.’

His eyebrows snapped together. ‘I assure you that provided they meet with Merrick standards I want them as they are. May I take a look?’

‘Of course. Follow me.’



Sarah felt rather like a new mother showing off her baby as Alex followed her inside the first house. She’d done nothing about her own appearance, but she’d gone on a whirlwind tour of all the houses with broom and cleaning rags, determined to present them at their best in the evening sunlight pouring through the windows.

She found she was holding her breath as Alex inspected the kitchen in the first cottage, but in the sitting room she relaxed a little as he nodded in approval at the horseshoe fire-grate gleaming like ebony under its creamy marble mantle. ‘Original feature, Miss Carver?’

‘Yes, but not the genuine Victorian article, of course. It’s a copy, dating from the twenties, like the houses. The fireplaces were boarded up before I rescued them,’ Sarah told him. ‘The sitting rooms were a bit dark, so we replaced the original windows with French doors to give access to the back courtyards. Some of the flagstones out there were already in situ, and I found more in a reclamation yard. After a check with building regulations I removed the dividing walls between the kitchens and dining rooms. Fortunately they were neither party walls nor load bearing, so I achieved more space and light, and at the same time catered to the current preference for combined cooking/eating areas.’

‘Good move.’ He followed her upstairs to inspect the small bathroom Sarah had created by stealing a sliver of space from the main bedroom.

‘There were no bathrooms in the houses originally, of course, just the downstairs lavatory I replaced with a small cloakroom,’ she told him, finding his silence oppressive.

‘You’ve utilised all the space very cleverly,’ he said at last, ‘and installed high-end fittings. Very wise. Which firm did your plumbing?’

‘When I embarked on the project I made a conscious decision to use local craftsmen, and I had the most enormous stroke of luck when master builder Harry Sollers agreed to work with me. He knows all the local tradesmen. He recommended an electrician for the wiring, and introduced me to his friend, Fred Carter, a semi-retired plumber who installed the fittings. But I did all the tiling, and I installed the cupboards in the kitchens and bathrooms myself.’

He shot her a startled look as they returned to the kitchen. ‘This is your work throughout?’

She nodded. ‘I stripped and sealed the wood floors, and plastered all the inside walls, too, but I asked Harry to paint them because his finish is so superb.’

‘But you did the plastering?’ he repeated blankly.

‘Yes. Next I’m going to tackle the gardens.’

‘You found someone local to help you with those, too?’

Sarah nodded. ‘But only to do the digging once all the building site gear is cleared away. I need advice on what to plant and where, but I’ll do the rest myself.’

When they were outside in the lane Sarah could tell that Alex Merrick looked back at the row of cottages with new eyes.

‘So what do you think?’ she couldn’t help asking.

‘I’m impressed. Congratulations on your achievement.’ His manner suddenly changed. ‘So, Miss Carver, I repeat my offer. If your terms are realistic I’ll buy the lot, but I want the houses ready to inhabit on the day of completion, also cleared parking space at either end of the row. So name your figure.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Impossible right away. I can’t say to the day when the cottages will be completely ready, and costs may increase before I can get them valued.’ And, much more important than that, no way would she sell to a Merrick.

‘If you hang about too long, Miss Carver, the offer may no longer be on the table.’ His eyes, which had opalescent grey irises with dark rims, which gave them an unsettling intensity, held hers. ‘Have a chat about it with Oliver Moore. I assume he’s your financial backer?’

Her jaw clenched. ‘No, he’s not, Mr Merrick. His sole involvement in my project is on legal matters.’



He raised an eyebrow. ‘A bit minor league for a Queen’s Counsel!’

‘But not for the local solicitor Oliver found for me.’ She turned away. ‘Now, I’d like to get home, Mr Merrick. I’m tired and dirty—’

‘And hungry? In that case let’s discuss the deal in more detail later over dinner,’ he said promptly.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Another time, maybe? Contact me when the houses are finished.’ He reached for his wallet and took out a card. ‘Here’s my office address and my various phone numbers.’

Sarah tucked it into a pocket without looking at it. ‘I’m surprised you came yourself, Mr Merrick. Surely you pay people to do this kind of thing for you?’

‘True. But after meeting you last night it seemed best to sort it myself.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘Though I confess I didn’t recognise you in the pub today.’

‘I could tell.’ She walked round the car and got in.

His eyebrows rose as he glanced down at the passenger seat. ‘Do you always carry a lump hammer round with you?’

‘Only when I’m meeting strange men.’

‘Nothing strange about me,’ he assured her. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Medlar House,’ she said, and started the car. ‘Goodbye.’

Sarah drove up the lane and out on to the main road, grinding her teeth in frustration when a look in the mirror confirmed that Alex Merrick was following her home. When he’d parked the Cherokee on the forecourt beside her car he jumped out, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

‘I come in peace! But seriously, Miss Carver,’ he added, ‘forget the deal for a minute. I would very much like to take you out to dinner. Unless Oliver Moore would object?’ he added, then cursed his mistake as her eyes flashed under the peak of her cap.

‘Nothing doing,’ Sarah said flatly.

He frowned. ‘Why not?’



‘Last night, Mr Merrick, your thought processes were insultingly obvious, just because I was dining in an expensive restaurant with a man old enough to be my father.’ Her chin lifted. ‘But in the unlikely event that I did socialise with you Oliver would actually approve, because he knows you—or knows your family. I’m not Oliver Moore’s bit of fluff, Mr Merrick. He’s my godfather.’


CHAPTER TWO

ALEX cursed under his breath as he watched the small figure march into the building. He’d noticed her the moment she entered the restaurant last night. Big dark eyes, and a full-lipped mouth just a shade too wide for her face had attracted his attention early on. And not only because her companion was a barrister his father knew. The age gap between the pair had convinced the cynic in Alex that she was Oliver Moore’s trophy girlfriend, whereas in actual fact Sarah Carver was something of a surprise package. How she’d managed to pull a fast one with the sealed bid was still a mystery.

Greg Harris’s useful girlfriend had soon learned who’d acquired the Medlar Cottages site, and passed on the information that the unknown Miss Carver intended renovating and restoring the cottages instead of demolishing them to build on the land. At which point Alex had instructed a manager in one of the group’s subsidiary firms to make an offer for the site and cottages as they were. When it was turned down flat Alex had decided to sit back and let Miss Carver do exactly what he’d intended for the houses in the first place. Regular checks would be made on their progress, and then, when they were nearing completion, he would simply step in and make his bid for the lot. Decision made, the small, relatively unimportant venture had been relegated to a back burner—until he’d run into Sarah with Oliver Moore at last night. At which point it had shot straight to the top of his priority list.

At Easthope Court Sarah Carver had appealed to him strongly in that sexy black dress, yet today, minus make-up and plus a layer of dust, she’d somehow managed to look equally appealing in her working clothes. She’d made no attempt to tidy up to meet him tonight, not even to wash her dirty face. His mouth tightened. He was accustomed to women who polished themselves to a high gloss for him, while Sarah Carver obviously didn’t care a damn what he thought of her. Suddenly he felt an urge to strip those grubby overalls from her curvy little body and—His mind stopped dead as his hormones prodded him. Watch it, Merrick. Stick to the rules. Never mix business with pleasure.

Alex strolled over to the imposing front door of the school he’d known quite well when he was a teenager. He’d come here for dances in the old days, and had fond memories of some hot and heavy necking in concealed corners when the chaperones weren’t looking. And, because the Merrick Group had converted the building into pricey flats, he was in a position to know that Miss Sarah Carver could hardly be penniless if she owned one of them. Unless Oliver Moore had bought it for her. Alex found her name on the row of doorbells, considered pushing it, then shrugged and went back to the Cherokee. To hell with it. He’d ring Sarah’s bell some other night. One way or another.

Sarah cursed herself and Alex Merrick in the same breath once she was safe in her flat. In her rush to escape him she’d forgotten to shop on the way home. Even more annoying, she’d half expected him to ring the bell the moment she was inside, and felt an irritating sense of anti-climax when it didn’t happen. She shrugged angrily. Forget him and think supper. It was a long time since her pasty with Harry. But first on the agenda, as always, she needed a shower.

After that she rang Oliver to wish him happy birthday, thanked him again for the meal at Easthope Court, and finally made for her narrow, high-ceilinged kitchen. She concocted a rarebit from an elderly piece of cheese and the last of her bread, and carried the tray over to the window seat she’d built with her own hands to curve round the bay which formed half the windows. The materials had come from the building supply merchant who’d put her in touch with Harry Sollers; a stroke of luck she gave thanks for daily.

Sarah looked out on the gardens as she ate—something she did every evening when the sun shone, and most times when it didn’t. A double row of white-painted shutters controlled the flood of natural light, and even just watching the rain pour down on lawns and trees was relaxing. Her mother had done the gardening in their North London house, but after Louise Carver died her grieving husband had been too involved in comforting his inconsolable daughter while trying to keep his failing business afloat to maintain the garden to his wife’s standard. Sam Carver had been adamant about fulfilling his wife’s wish to send their daughter to college, even when Sarah had fought tooth and nail against the idea and pleaded to work for her father straight from school. In the end she’d given in, but had taken a Business Studies course instead of her original intention to study art and design. And after classes and at weekends she’d worked with the construction crew and pulled her weight.

To please her father she’d socialised with girls from college occasionally, but had felt happier in the company of the bricklayers and carpenters, electricians and plumbers she’d known all her life. The old hands had treated her like one of the boys, but when nature had finally added curves to her shape, some of the newer, younger ones had begun treating her very much as a girl. It was a new phase which had added considerably to her father’s worries, as Sarah had gone out several nights a week with one young man or another.

‘It’s all right, Dad, safety in numbers,’ she’d assured him when he had commented on it. ‘I’m having fun, nothing heavy. They’re just friends.’

‘They’re also men,’ he’d warned her. ‘So watch your step.’

But once she’d left college to manage the firm’s offices, it had been Sarah’s turn to worry when Sam Carver had grown older and greyer before her eyes, losing contracts to bigger outfits. She had put her social life on hold to stay home to cook proper meals every evening, and to share them with her father to make sure he ate them. Eventually, it had been during one of those meals that Sam had faced Sarah across the table and told her he’d had an offer from Barclay Homes for the firm.

‘No! You’re selling it?’ she said, appalled.

‘Yes, I am, Sarah,’ he said heavily. ‘At least this way we’ll salvage something out of it.’

Horrified, Sarah argued that they should carry on, must carry on, but Sam was unshakeable.

‘I’ve made up my mind, pet. I had a chat with the Barclay Homes manager, and there’s a job for you in their local branch if you want it. Though if you don’t you should find a job anywhere now, with your experience in the building trade. But I’m jacking it in.’

She swallowed her tears and clutched him tightly. ‘But, Dad, what will you do?’

‘Retire,’ he said, patting her. ‘I’ve been running on empty for a while now, my darling, I need a rest.’

‘But I don’t want to work for someone else,’ she cried, then, shamed by her whining, managed a smile. ‘But of course I will. And a job with Barclay Homes means I can live at home with my dad.’ And look after him.

Within days the contract was signed and Sarah was given an interview with the manager of Barclay Homes. The night before her start in the new job she made a special dinner to share with her father, and tried not to worry when he ate so little. Afterwards she drank coffee with him in the garden in the warm twilight, relieved to see him looking relaxed for the first time in months as he stretched out in a deckchair.

‘I’ll be able to get your mother’s garden in proper shape now,’ he said later, yawning. ‘You should have an early night, pet, to make sure you’re on top form in the morning. I think I’ll stay out here in the cool for a while.’

Knowing it was where he felt closest to her mother, Sarah bent and kissed him, told him not to be too late, then went up to bed. When she woke in the night and found his bed hadn’t been slept in Sarah ran downstairs, panicking, and raced barefoot into the garden to find Sam Carver still in his deckchair, fast asleep. Scolding, she hurried to shake him awake, then let out a cry of raw anguish when she realised he would never wake again.

The following period remained a blur in Sarah’s mind. The only thing constant had been the solid presence of her mother’s cousin, Oliver Moore. Like a rock in her sea of grief, he had seen to all the arrangements, and supported her through the well-attended funeral. Sam Carver had been a popular employer, and it had seemed to Sarah that anyone who had ever worked for her father had turned up to pay their respects. Financially Sarah was well provided for. Her mother had left a sum of money in trust for her, and this security, together with the proceeds from the sale of the business and the sum expected for the large, well-maintained house in a sought-after North London location, had given Sarah breathing space to consider her future.

But constantly keeping the house up to inspection standards had been tiring on top of a day’s work, and living alone in it had been hard. Keeping strictly to office work in her new job had been even harder. She’d missed the camaraderie of the building site. The final blow had come when the family home had finally been sold and she’d had to find somewhere else to live. When two office colleagues had offered her a room in their flat she’d jumped at the chance, glad of their friendly company, but her Sundays had usually been spent with Oliver. He liked to drive her into the country and feed her substantial meals at some inn he’d seen reviewed in the Sunday papers, and during one of their trips they’d come across the Medlar Farm cottages. At first glance she’d thought they were part of a Merrick Group hotel site, but when she’d found they were up for sale by auction Sarah had known at once how she wanted to spend her inheritance. Oliver had objected strongly at first, but eventually bowed to the inevitable by paying a building surveyor to value the houses and confirm that they were worth buying. When Oliver had been informed that the cottages were sound and the auction was to be sealed bid, he’d advised Sarah that if she were really determined she should bid slightly more than the properties were considered worth.

Sarah had taken his advice, confident that her father would have approved. Her euphoria when her bid was successful had gone a long way to reassuring Oliver, but he’d had serious qualms when she’d immediately resigned from her job. His reaction to the one-room ‘studio’ flat had been equally gloomy, but Sarah had been adamant that it was a good investment. The former school building had charm, and she’d assured him that she was more than capable of making the flat so inviting she would make a tidy profit on it when she came to sell.

But now she’d knocked it into shape she didn’t want to sell it. Sarah frowned as she looked round her lofty, uncluttered space. After working on the flat practically every evening since she’d moved in, she was at a loose end now it was finished. But the cure for that was easy enough. She’d spend the long, light evenings working in the cottage gardens instead, and at night pore over gardening magazines instead of the building manuals and style publications she’d studied while doing up the cottages. And maybe, just maybe, she’d say yes some time if one of the likely lads at the Green Man asked her out.

Having fully expected Alex Merrick to hound her over the purchase of Medlar Cottages, Sarah was surprised—and rather nettled—to be proved wrong. She heard nothing more from him, and assumed that the offer from the Merrick Group, just as he’d warned, was no longer on the table. Not that it mattered.

‘That’s a ferocious frown, lass,’ said Harry, as he climbed down a ladder. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I haven’t put the cottages up for sale yet, but I can’t help wondering how well—and how soon—they’ll sell when I do.’

‘Don’t you worry. You’ll have no trouble selling this lot,’ he said with certainty. ‘They’re attracting a lot of attention locally. Mind, it doesn’t hurt that the developer’s a pretty young female—’

‘Harry, are you by any chance being sexist?’ she accused.

‘If I was you’d sack me,’ he said, chuckling, then shook his head as a van came cruising up the lane. ‘More visitors,’ he grumbled. ‘I reckon we should start selling tickets.’

Sarah’s eyes lit up. ‘It’s Mr Baker.’

Charlie Baker heaved himself out of the van and came to look at the houses in approval. ‘Morning, Miss Carver, Harry. I’ve brought the plants you wanted, my dear, and a few bags of compost to get you started.’

Sarah rushed to inspect the plants, and helped the men carry everything to the parking space cleared at the end of the row. ‘Lavender for fragrance and buddleia for butterflies,’ she said, delighted. ‘My mother’s favourites.’

‘I brought you some viburnums and a couple of hollies, too,’ he told her. ‘No point in putting in bedding plants, otherwise you’d be down here every night watering.’

‘I’m not really clued up about gardening. I wish now I’d helped my mother more in our garden at home,’ said Sarah with regret. ‘I was always making a nuisance of myself on one of Dad’s building sites instead.’

‘It paid off,’ Harry reminded her. ‘Now, we’d better get back to the real work. I want to finish painting number six today.’

‘Thank you so much, Mr Baker,’ said Sarah as she paid him.

He handed her a receipted bill in exchange. ‘Come down the pub some time and I’ll buy you that drink.’



‘Done,’ she said, as they walked back to his van, ‘By the way, I was wondering about some trees.’

Harry grinned as he waved at the tree-lined lane. ‘Plenty of those here already, boss.’

She made a face at him. ‘I meant a smallish flowering tree in the courtyard, and maybe another in the front. What do you think, Mr Baker?’

‘I’ll bring some catalogues to the pub and you can have a look,’ he promised.

Later, when Harry had finished for the day, Sarah waited until his pick-up was out of sight, then, feeling ridiculously furtive, took her mother’s garden tools from the boot of her car. It wouldn’t take long to plant some of the shrubs in front of what would be the show house. Now that the machinery and skips of rubbish had been hauled away and the parking spaces at either end of the row were clear, the site was beginning to shape up as a very attractive proposition. It was also a mere half a mile to the bus stop on the main road, and only another five to Hereford; a selling point Sarah intended to stress when the houses were advertised.

When her doorbell rang later that evening Sarah’s eyes widened as she heard Alex Merrick’s voice on the intercom.

‘It’s very late, Mr Merrick,’ she said coldly.

‘I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t important,’ he assured her. ‘I need a word.’

Thankful she’d bothered to get dressed after her shower for once, Sarah pressed the release button for the main door, then opened her own as he strode across the hall, hand outstretched.

‘Thank you for seeing me.’

Sarah touched the hand briefly, but, startled by the contact, dropped it like a hot coal. ‘You’d better come inside,’ she said—with reluctance, he acknowledged with a twitch of his lips.

Looking disturbingly tougher and more formidable in jeans, and a sweatshirt which showed off impressive shoulders, Alex walked into the room and stood stock still, his eyes wide instead of showing their usual narrow gleam. ‘I don’t remember anything like this!’

‘You mean when your company did the makeover?’

He gave her the crooked smile Sarah felt sure he practised in the mirror.

‘I was thinking more of the old days, Miss Carver. My school socialised with the Medlar House girls. I used to come here to dances.’

Of course he had. ‘I believe this was a music room.’

‘Is that why you have a balcony?’

‘No. It’s a sleeping platform I built myself. The flight of steps as well. Once I’d sanded and sealed the floor I built the window-seat, too, and installed the shutters,’ Sarah couldn’t help adding. ‘The room was originally just an empty shell with huge windows—plus a tiny kitchen and bathroom, of course, or I wouldn’t have bought it.’

Alex looked round slowly, taking in the art nouveau chandelier, the trio of antique mirrors on the wall and the framed family photographs hung between them. ‘It’s a uniquely attractive room,’ he said, with gratifying respect. ‘I congratulate you.’

‘Thank you. Perhaps you’d like to sit down and tell me why you want to see me?’ She returned to her perch on the window-seat.

Alex sat on the edge of the small sofa, his expression grave enough to worry her. ‘I took a detour past the cottages tonight on my way home.’

Sarah stared at him in surprise. ‘Do you often do that?’

‘I do sometimes, to get away from traffic. But tonight I had a different reason. As you know, we’re building a spa-type hotel on the site of the old Medlar Farm, a couple of miles from your project. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘it’s not high-rise. It’s designed to look organic, blend into the environment. It won’t affect your property—particularly if you agree to sell me your cottages.’

‘I see. So is there a problem?’

He nodded. ‘Security. Late this evening someone got into our night watchman’s cabin at the hotel site while he was on his rounds. He heard a car drive off, and got back to find the Portakabin vandalised.’

‘Did they get away with anything?’

‘One small television—the solitary thing worth taking. The place was probably trashed in frustration, or just for the sake of it.’ Alex looked grim. ‘From now on two men with dogs will be on permanent night duty at the site. I drove back via Medlar Cottages, to see if you’d arranged any security there.’

‘No,’ she said unhappily, ‘I haven’t.’ She brightened. ‘But the problem’s easy enough to solve. The first house is ready to live in, so I’ll move in there until the others are finished.’

Alex gave her a patronising look. ‘And what if someone decided to break in one fine night?’

‘I’ll spread the word in the pub that it’s inhabited,’ she said promptly. ‘Then with the security lights and burglar alarms functioning I’ll be fine.’

He shook his head. ‘Your decision. But I don’t like it.’

‘You don’t have to like it,’ she pointed out.

‘I know,’ he said morosely, and stood up. ‘Give me your mobile phone.’

‘Why?’

He held out an imperative hand.

Sarah took the phone from her holdall and handed it to him. ‘It’s charged and working,’ she assured him.

He keyed in some numbers. ‘Ring me anytime if you need me, or just feel worried,’ he ordered, handing it back. ‘Make sure you lock up behind me. Goodnight.’

Sarah glared, incensed, at the door he closed behind him. What earthly right did the man have to come ordering her about? Being fast-tracked to group vice-chairman so young had obviously gone to his head. Damn him for disrupting her life. The last thing she wanted was to move into one of the cottages. Until Alex Merrick had shown up tonight she’d been quite pleased with herself. The cottages were well on schedule, and she was likely to make a sizeable profit on the sale. But now she would have trouble sleeping tonight.

Next morning Sarah was waiting in the lane when Harry arrived. ‘Good morning. Could you do me a big favour?’

‘Depends, boss,’ he said, with a smile which would have surprised his cronies at the pub. ‘What do you want?’

She told him about Alex’s visit, and the reason for it. ‘I haven’t given much thought to security,’ she said, depressed. ‘So I’ll just have to move into number one for the time being. Will you cart my sofabed down here in the pick-up, please?’

‘No,’ said Harry, so flatly Sarah eyed him in dismay.

‘But, Harry, I’ll never sleep at the flat for thinking someone might be breaking in down here and wrecking the place.’

‘And you’ll sleep better here on your own? What good would a little thing like you do if someone did break in?’ he growled.

Sarah pushed her cap back on her head. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Harry, I can’t afford a security firm.’

He gave it some thought. ‘I’d offer to move in myself,’ he said at last, ‘but better I get Ian to sleep here, bring his dog.’

Her eyes lit up at the thought of the young giant who’d helped with the roofing. ‘Would Ian do it?’

‘Slip him a few quid and he’ll jump at it. He shares a bedroom with his kid brother at home, so he’ll be glad of some space for a bit. And he’s nearer to his current job here. You’ve got a kettle, and the fridge is working, so with his portable telly and Nero for company he’ll be in clover.’

‘We need to fetch my sofabed just the same, then.’

Harry laughed. ‘Ian’s six foot five in his socks, boss. He’d have your sofa in bits. He can bring his camping gear.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll give him a ring when he’s on his break.’

‘And while you’re at it could you ask Peter Cox to spare us a minute some time today, to make sure the security lights and alarms are all working?’ said Sarah.

‘Stop worrying, boss. I’ll see to it all.’

Ian Sollers was only too happy to do a bit of easy moonlighting, as long as Miss Carver didn’t mind Josie coming round of an evening to watch telly with him.

‘The girlfriend,’ said Harry, reporting. ‘Nice kid, Josie.’ His lips twitched. ‘And if the youngsters get a bit wrapped up in themselves there’s always Nero to keep watch for intruders. He’s a German Shepherd, and a big lad—like his master.’

Once the security lights and alarms had been checked and confirmed in perfect working order Sarah finally relaxed enough to laugh when Harry teased her about her clandestine gardening.

‘You must have started before I was down the lane.’

‘I was dying to see how the plants would look.’

‘They look good.’ He shook his head. ‘But it doesn’t seem right, a lass like you with nothing better to do with her evenings than grub about in the garden.’

‘It makes a change from the carpentry and painting I did every evening until I got my flat sorted—’ She broke off as her phone rang.

‘I’ll make some tea while you answer that,’ said Harry, getting up.

‘Miss Carver?’

‘Yes.’

‘Greg Harris here, personal assistant to Alex Merrick. He asked me to let you know that one of our security men will take a drive out to the Medlar Farm Cottages at regular intervals tonight, so there’s no need for you to sleep there.’

Sarah rolled her eyes. No use losing her cool with the monkey, she’d wait until she met the organ-grinder again. ‘Thank Mr Merrick for me, but I’ve made my own arrangements. Please pass the message on to his security people.’

‘Are you sure about this, Miss Carver?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.

‘I mean, after what happened last night I hope you’re not going to sleep there yourself after all—’

‘I repeat, Mr Harris,’ she snapped, ‘I’ve made my own arrangements. Goodbye.’



Mindful of Harry’s words about young people getting wrapped up in themselves, Sarah took time to hang curtains at the windows of the show house to give them some privacy. Her plan for decorating a cottage of this era was to keep it simple, with quality curtain material and a rug in muted colours on the gleaming wood floor in the sitting room. When the house was ready for the public she would transfer some of the furniture she’d put in storage, hang a picture or two, and the cottage would look so good she would hate to part with it.

Sarah stood in the doorway of the sitting room, which looked different already with just the addition of curtains and a few things she’d brought from the flat. Much as she resented his high-handedness, Alex Merrick’s warnings had given her a wake-up call. It was only common sense from a security point of view to make the house at least appear inhabited.

She heard Harry coming down a ladder and went out to beckon him inside.

‘What do you think?’

He whistled. ‘Very cosy!’

‘Will it con a would-be intruder?’

‘No matter. Nero will start barking long before anyone gets near enough to take a closer look.’

Sarah drove back to the flat that evening in high spirits. Ian had turned up in his van with his handsome dog before she left. After a few rapturous minutes spent in making Nero’s acquaintance, Sarah had talked money with Ian, and assured the young giant that his Josie was welcome to join him any time.

‘Thanks, I appreciate that Miss Carver. But she’s at her kickboxing class tonight so I just brought my telly for company.’ Ian had looked round with deep approval. ‘Josie will love it here. I wish we could afford one of these.’

When Sarah’s doorbell rang very late she pulled on her dressing gown and climbed down from her platform, stiffening when she heard the angry, clipped tones of Alex Merrick over the intercom. She buzzed him in, and smothered a snort of laughter as he came storming across the hall in his shirtsleeves, hair on end, and a great tear flapping in one expensive trouser leg.

‘I’m glad you think this is funny! Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’ he demanded, advancing on her with such menace Sarah had to force herself to stand her ground.

‘Good evening, Mr Merrick. Come inside before you wake my neighbours. What should I have told you?’

‘That you’d sold one of the cottages,’ he snapped.

‘I haven’t. Harry Sollers’ nephew Ian is doing me a favour by sleeping there, that’s all. I made it perfectly clear to your Mr Harris that I had my security arrangements in hand,’ she added frostily.

Alex controlled himself with obvious difficulty. ‘He relayed the message, but it obviously lost something in translation. I took it for granted you were sticking to your plan of sleeping there yourself. I was at a charity dinner earlier, and went home by way of Medlar Cottages to check on you. I got savaged by a bloody great monster of a dog for my pains.’

‘That was just Nero, doing his job. Did he bite you?’ she asked solicitously.

‘No. I fought him off.’ Alex glared at the ragged tear. ‘I was fond of this suit.’

‘If you’ll tell me how much it cost I’ll reimburse you,’ she said promptly, and won a look of such blazing antagonism she backed away a little.

‘I didn’t come here for money,’ he snapped.

‘What, then?’

The angular, good-looking face hardened. ‘I should think that’s obvious,’ he snapped, and started towards her.


CHAPTER THREE

SARAH BACKED away in such knee-jerk rejection Alex glared at her, incensed.

‘For God’s sake, I’m not in the habit of hitting women!’ He controlled himself with obvious effort. ‘My sole aim was to make sure you came to no harm, alone in one of those cottages. If you’d had the courtesy to let me know what you’d arranged all this nonsense could have been avoided.’

She took in a deep breath. ‘I suppose you feel I made a fool of you?’

‘Not at all. I made a fool of myself,’ he said bitterly, and turned to go.

‘Have some coffee first,’ she offered, surprising herself as much as Alex. ‘You look a bit shaken.’

‘Is it any wonder?’ he demanded morosely. ‘I’ve never thought of myself as a coward—dammit, I love dogs. But that one scared the hell out of me.’

She felt an unexpected pang of remorse. ‘Please have some coffee. Sit there for a minute and relax while I make it.’

When she got back with a couple of mugs Alex was looking round the room, frowning.

‘It seems emptier in here tonight.’

‘I took a few things down to the cottage for Ian. He provided his own bedroll, plus a couple of garden chairs and a television.’ She smiled demurely as she sat on the windowseat with her mug. ‘On future evenings his girlfriend Josie will be keeping him company, but tonight she was at her kickboxing class.’

‘Kickboxing?’ Alex stared at her in horror. ‘Then thank God I missed her, if she’s as big as the boyfriend.’

‘I don’t know. I hope not.’

‘Frightening thought,’ he agreed, and drank deeply. ‘This is wonderful coffee. Thank you.’

‘The least I could do. Though a shot of caffeine is probably the last thing you need right now.’

‘It hits the spot just the same.’ He yawned suddenly. ‘Sorry. I don’t suppose I could have a refill?’

Sarah eyed him doubtfully. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Probably not.’ He heaved himself up, but she waved him back and took his mug.

When she returned with the coffee Alex gave her a speculative look. ‘This is a very attractive flat, but it’s obviously the home of a single woman.’ His eyes followed her as she crossed to her windowseat. ‘That must surely be from choice?’

Her chin lifted. ‘It is.’

‘And you obviously think it’s none of my business! Though I already know you don’t lack for male admirers, Miss Carver,’ he added wryly. ‘The day I came looking for you it was like trying to detach Snow White from the Seven Dwarfs—only you’re the small one. Those pals of yours may be getting on a bit, but they’re a hefty bunch.’

Sarah unbent a little. ‘I’m a constant source of entertainment to them. In the beginning they were thunderstruck, because I was doing some of the work myself. They kept popping round to check up on the city girl.’

Alex laughed, his eyes dancing in a way which put her on her guard. This man was dangerous.

‘I suppose they think it’s an unsuitable job for a woman?’ Alex commented. ‘How did you get into it?’

‘My father was a building contractor. I was brought up on building sites, so I’m doing what I like best and hopefully making a living out of it.’

‘With no distractions allowed.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Once you put me right about your relationship with Oliver Moore, I wondered if you’d shut yourself away in your ivory tower here to mend a broken heart.’

Sarah gave him a scornful look. ‘Even if I had it would be none of your business, Mr Merrick.’

But damned interesting, thought Alex, wondering just what there was about this girl that got under his skin. Right now her narrow face was scrubbed and shiny, her hair—the colour of bitter chocolate instead of the blonde he normally preferred—was a tangle of unruly curls. And her pink dressing gown was elderly and faded, and a shade too small, even for someone of her size, which probably meant she’d had it for years but couldn’t bear to part with it.

Sarah decided to give him a hint by relieving him of his coffee cup, and he promptly stood up.

‘Time I was leaving.’

‘I’m sorry about your near-death experience with Nero,’ said Sarah, on her way to the door. Though she wasn’t in the slightest.

He paused, giving her the crooked smile she was surprised to find she was beginning to find attractive, whether he practised it or not. ‘You may laugh, but it wasn’t at all funny at the time.’

‘No, indeed. And you ruined your suit—or Nero did.’

‘No point in sending him a bill, either. Nor,’ he added quickly, ‘will I send one to you, Miss Carver. I shall write tonight off to experience. Thanks for the coffee.’

‘The least I could do after you’d risked life and limb to make sure I was safe,’ she assured him, and eyed him curiously. ‘But why did you feel you had to?’

‘Because I want the cottages. I had to make sure they wouldn’t be vandalised,’ he lied.

‘I see. By the way, did Nero actually hurt you?’



Alex shook his head and raised a muscular leg to show her an unmarked shin through the rip. ‘I had a fight to detach him from my bespoke suiting, but he stopped short of actually savaging me.’

‘So no worry about rabies, then?’

He blenched. ‘Good God! I hadn’t thought of that.’

She eyed him with derision. ‘You’re in no danger from an aristocrat like Nero.’

‘Just the same,’ he said with feeling, ‘I’ll give your property a wide berth from now on—at night, at least.’

‘Very wise.’ She opened the door, but Alex seemed in no hurry to leave.

‘How about changing your mind?’ he asked casually.

‘About what, exactly?’

‘Having dinner with me one evening. We could just talk business, if that would make the idea more attractive.’ He listened to himself in disbelief. This kind of persuasion wasn’t his style. Probably because he’d never had to use any.

‘No—thank you,’ she said distantly.

His jaw clenched. ‘Why not? Do you find me repulsive?’

‘No.’

‘Then have you sworn off men as some kind of vow?’

Instead of saying Just you, Alex Merrick, as she yearned to, Sarah shook her head. ‘I’m just not socialising with anyone right now.’

‘Except Oliver Moore,’ he reminded her.

‘That’s right.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘After all, he is my godfather.’

‘So you said.’ Alex moved closer, struck by sudden compassion. ‘Are you still in mourning for your father? Surely he would want you to get on with your life?’

Sarah’s smile vanished. ‘As I keep pointing out, my life is my concern, and no one else’s, Mr Merrick.’

‘Message received,’ he said stiffly. ‘Goodnight, Miss Carver.’

Sarah felt very thoughtful as she climbed back up to bed later. If she were honest, and she tried hard to be most of the time, she knew she should have told Greg Harris that she’d arranged a night watchman for the cottages. But Alex’s high-handed message had really ticked her off. Though he’d certainly paid for it. Sarah grinned at the thought of the vice-chairman of the Merrick Group fighting off a large German Shepherd.

But what had actually sent Alex storming round here afterwards? He’d been so blazingly angry when she’d opened the door to him Sarah had felt a thrill of apprehension, afraid for a split second that he’d throw her on the floor and take his revenge in the time-honoured way. He’d certainly been hot to vent his rage in some way on the person responsible for his clash with Nero. But she hadn’t known he’d check up on her himself—had she? Sarah thought about it, and reluctantly admitted that she’d been aware of the possibility. Visiting the cottages to make sure she was safe had been a chivalrous gesture, and maybe—just maybe—she’d hoped that he would do it. But she would have expected Nero just to bark, not launch himself at Alex in attack mode. She would have a word with Ian on the subject. Injury to innocent visitors was something to be avoided. But, chivalrous or not, she reminded herself tartly, Alex’s name was still Merrick. And her reaction to it was still the same as the first time she’d heard it.

On her very first day at Barclay Homes she’d found that the firm was actually a subsidiary of the Merrick Group, which had swallowed up other building firms in the area. A small outfit like her father’s had never stood a chance. Sarah knew with the logical part of her that the Merrick Group had not caused his death. But the illogical, emotional side of her still held them accountable.


CHAPTER FOUR

SARAH SAW no more of Alex Merrick after their midnight encounter. But to her surprise—and disgust—she kept wondering if he’d ring, or call in again. To counteract this she worked like a demon on the last touches to the cottages while Harry painted the exteriors, and Ian moved into number two at night, rather than spoil any of Sarah’s work on the show house. When she ran out of indoor jobs she repointed the waist-high walls dividing the front gardens, and when she’d finished those Charlie Baker drove her to a local nursery to choose a flowering cherry for the back courtyard of the show house, and a Japanese maple for the front. It was only sensible to go the extra mile to make the properties as attractive as possible to prospective buyers.

‘Is something worrying you?’ asked Harry, as he helped her plant the trees one evening.

‘Yes. I’m wondering what on earth I’m going to do with myself when this lot goes up for sale.’

‘What are you doing this weekend?’ he asked, surprising her.

‘Nothing much. Why?’

‘How do you feel about barns?’

Sarah straightened, eyes gleaming. ‘Are we talking barn conversion?’

He smiled as he trampled the earth in round the cherry tree. ‘Could be.’



‘Tell me more—’ Her face fell. ‘But if they’re up for sale I can’t do a thing about it until I sell this lot.’

‘These barns are not for sale. Leastways, not yet.’

She wagged a dirty finger at him. ‘Stop teasing, Harry!’

He chuckled. ‘My sister’s married to a farmer. When I was there for dinner last Sunday Bob told me he’s had to cut back a bit, so he’s got three smallish barns he doesn’t use any more. He’s got planning permission to do them up, but not enough cash to do it with. If you offered to buy them for development I reckon he’d jump at the chance.’ He nodded in approval as Sarah’s eyes sparkled. ‘That’s better. You’ve been a bit down in the mouth lately.’

‘Have I? Sorry. Anyway, when could I have a look at the property?’

‘I’ll talk to Mavis when I get home and let you know.’ He looked up as a van came up the lane. ‘Here comes the nightshift.’

Sarah bent to hug Nero as he came bounding to greet her. ‘Hello, my lovely boy. How are you today? Hello, you two,’ she added, as the others came up the path.

‘Hi, there,’ said Josie, eyeing the newly planted Acer. ‘Gosh, it looks better and better here every time I come. Don’t you dare go lifting your leg on that tree, Nero.’

‘Don’t worry, Miss Carver, I’ll tell him not to, and he doesn’t need telling twice,’ said Ian proudly.

‘Of course you don’t, you clever lad,’ said Sarah, giving the dog a last stroke. ‘Right, then, time I went home and got cleaned up. See you tomorrow, Harry.’

‘I’ll give you a ring later, boss.’

Sarah felt weary as she drove back, conscious of a sense of anticlimax now the cottages were ready to sell. Tomorrow three estate agents were coming at different times to view.

When the phone rang while she was eating her supper Sarah seized it eagerly. ‘Harry—’

‘Afraid not. It’s Alex. Alex Merrick,’ he added, in case she was in any doubt.



The unexpected pleasure of her reaction struck her dumb for a moment. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said at last.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m very well.’

‘Glad to hear it. Are the cottages finished?’

‘Just about.’

‘Then let’s meet to discuss the sale. Friday would be good for me.’

He still wanted them, then. ‘Sorry. I can’t make Friday.’

‘When then?’

Never, for a Merrick, if she followed her instincts. But it would be interesting to see how high Alex would go with his offer.




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