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Morelli's Mistress
Anne Mather


A forbidden affair…Five years ago Abby Laurence would have given anything to be Luke Morelli's mistress. The taste of his lips and the burn of his touch offered a safety and sanctuary she craved more than anything. But Luke's love was off-limits, because Abby was married to another man……no longer denied?Now Luke is back. He's never forgotten Abby's betrayal and he's determined she will pay for her lies. Finally free of her husband, there is only one way that she can make amends… An affair might have been illicit once, but she's Luke's for the taking now!









Abby stared at him. ‘So—you seriously expect I would be willing to be your mistress?’


‘Why not?’

Luke spoke succinctly, and she clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

‘Just because I let you make love to me the last time you were here it doesn’t mean I’ll do it again!’ she retorted angrily, despising herself and him in equal measure.

‘Well, forgive me,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Only it’s hard to feel sympathy for a woman who’s cheated on her husband in the past.’

‘You know nothing about my marriage to Harry.’

‘And I don’t want to know,’ he retorted, reaching for his jacket. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should get out of here.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ said Abby, striving for indifference.

But before Luke could grab his jacket and leave he trailed his strong fingers down her sleeve and flipped them beneath the hem of her shirt. She tried to back away from him, but the temptation of Luke’s touch was too much for her.

And when his hand spread against her bare midriff, warm and possessive against her soft flesh, every nerve in her body went on high alert. She wanted him to touch her, she admitted despairingly. Her limbs were melting in anticipation of his caress.

Without giving her a chance to break his hold, he pulled her down onto the sofa again and, pressing her back, covered her body with his.


ANNE MATHER and her husband live in the north of England in a village bordering the county of Yorkshire. It’s a beautiful area, and she can’t imagine living anywhere else. She’s been making up stories since she was in primary school and would say that writing is a huge part of her life. When people ask if writing is a lonely occupation, she usually says that she’s so busy sorting out her characters’ lives she doesn’t have time to feel lonely. Anne’s written over 160 novels, and her books have appeared on both the New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller lists. She loves reading and walking and browsing in bookshops. And now that her son and daughter are grown, she takes great delight in her grandchildren. You can email her at mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com).




Morelli’s

Mistress

Anne Mather







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


To Sally Fairchild, for her encouragement, and to my editor, Joanne Grant, for making the book live.


Contents

Cover (#u5ff74f45-93e4-57d9-8fcb-9a247598c32b)

Introduction (#ue3028aaf-708a-50e8-bea1-a549878cc3bd)

About the Author (#uf2011d88-0c94-52cd-a782-3a172e27d685)

Title Page (#u6f75c1bc-fbb6-5ffc-9257-dd93d5418915)

Dedication (#uf69df4cb-1664-56fb-9120-939bb91f45d4)

PROLOGUE (#ufc4b8777-8b77-528f-a698-1d5e9e231938)

CHAPTER ONE (#u6ccff728-69b9-5420-a9d5-5705934d0ffb)

CHAPTER TWO (#u70415a96-0f9e-5d0c-8326-be5dd997ebe2)

CHAPTER THREE (#u6a320f76-971d-5be0-8d32-c8ad4219665b)

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 NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#ulink_fd228af3-f545-548e-9775-eeb192ec5f4a)

LUKE NOTICED HER as soon as he went into the wine bar.

She was anchored to a stool next to the bar, a cocktail glass with slices of fruit curving over the rim and a tiny coloured parasol propped inside beside her hand.

She didn’t appear to have drunk much of the liquid in the glass. She was simply sitting there, staring into space, ignoring the loud voices and even louder music that filled the overcrowded room.

‘Oh, man, she’s hot!’

Ray Carpenter, who had followed Luke into the bar, was instantly attuned to what had drawn his partner’s attention. Coming abreast of the other man, he threw an arm about Luke’s shoulders.

‘Do you think she’s on her own?’ He paused. ‘Nah, she’s too good-looking to be buying her own drinks.’

‘You think?’

Luke didn’t want to have this conversation. For the first time that evening, he wished Ray weren’t with him. But they’d been finishing up the plans for their latest development project and it would have been churlish not to accept the other man’s invitation to go for a drink.

The choice of wine bar had been Ray’s, of course. Luke would have preferred to go to the pub across the street from their offices in Covent Garden. But Ray had insisted they deserved a celebratory cocktail, so here they were.

And just then, the girl turned her head and saw them. Or at least Luke was fairly sure she had, anyway. He didn’t think her eyes moved beyond his heavy-lidded gaze, and for a heart-stopping moment they simply stared at one another. Then Luke threw off Ray’s arm and moved towards her.

She was good-looking, and fairly tall, judging by the long slender legs that crossed at the knee. Her face was oval and she had a rather attractive nose. Above the kind of mouth most girls could only dream of.

Her hair was silvery blonde and she was wearing a gauzy wrap over a black vest. Her skirt was short and red, black tights ending in high-heeled pumps, one of which dangled enticingly from one swinging foot.

Luke halted beside her and then said quietly, ‘Hi. Can I buy you a drink?’

The girl, who had resumed her contemplation of the room, lifted her glass without looking at him again. ‘I have a drink.’

‘Okay.’

Luke wished there were a free stool beside her that he could casually score. But the guy who was sitting next to her was evidently on a bender, huddled over a clutch of beer bottles on the bar.

‘Are you alone?’

It wasn’t the most original thing to say, and the girl glanced up at him, her lips turning down. ‘No,’ she said flatly.

‘I’m with them.’ She indicated a group of women gyrating around the tiny dance floor. ‘It’s a hen party,’ she added, with a dismissive shrug.

‘And you didn’t want to dance?’

‘No.’ She moved the parasol to the other side of her glass and took a sip. ‘I don’t dance.’

‘Don’t—or won’t?’ Luke queried softly, and she blew out a rueful breath.

‘I’m not in the mood for dancing,’ she replied, concentrating on her glass. ‘Look, don’t you have someone else to talk to? I’m afraid I’m not very good company.’ She grimaced. ‘Go and ask the bride-to-be. She’ll tell you. I’m just the skeleton at the feast.’

Luke pulled a wry face. ‘If you say so.’

He flicked his fingers to get the attention of the bartender and ordered a beer for himself and a mojito for Ray. ‘That guy over there.’ He indicated the other man, who had apparently already found himself a willing companion. Then, when his beer was delivered, he swallowed half the bottle in one gulp. ‘I needed that.’

The girl ignored him, but the guy on the stool next to her uttered a loud belch and got to his feet before stumbling away. Luke hooked his hip over the stool he’d vacated. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked mildly, and the girl at last turned to give him an old-fashioned look.

‘It’s a free country,’ she said. And, as if regretting her earlier attitude, she added, ‘Thank goodness, he’s gone.’

Then, with a change of heart, ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

‘I think so.’ Luke grinned, and to his surprise the girl grinned back. ‘Are you sure you won’t have another drink?’

‘Well, maybe a white wine,’ she said, pushing the cocktail glass aside, and Luke noticed she was wearing a ring on her left hand. But on her middle finger. ‘Liz got me this, but it’s not really my thing.’

‘Liz being?’

‘Oh, the bride-to-be.’ The girl frowned. ‘That’s her over there wearing the rabbit ears and the tutu over her pants.’

Luke grimaced. ‘How could I miss her?’ Then when the bartender reappeared, he ordered a glass of chardonnay. ‘I’m Luke Morelli, by the way. What’s your name?’

‘A—Annabel,’ she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, and Luke suspected she had been going to say something else. The wine was delivered and she took a sip from the glass, her eyes lighting with pleasure. ‘Hmm, this is nice.’

Luke thought so, too, only he wasn’t talking about his beer. It was months since he’d felt such an immediate attraction to a girl. The women he met in the course of his work were as interested in a man’s bank balance as what he had in his pants.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘Do you work in London?’

‘I do research. At the university,’ she said. ‘How about you?’ She studied his lean, muscular frame, his dark navy suit and his matching shirt.

He’d removed his tie, as a gesture to informality, but that was all. ‘Do you work for the Stock Exchange? You look as if you do.’

‘I—work for the local authority,’ said Luke, defending himself with the knowledge that their latest commission was building a new set of offices for the district council. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Oh, you don’t.’ She smiled. ‘I’m quite relieved. So many people think the Exchange is hallowed ground.’

‘Not me,’ said Luke staunchly.

‘So what do you like to do when you’re not working?’ she asked, and for a while they discussed the merits of playing sports over attending the theatre. In actual fact, Luke liked both, but it was more fun to present an argument than to agree.

* * *

By the time the hen party had drunk enough, and exhausted themselves enough, to come and see what she was doing, Abby was almost disappointed.

She’d been enjoying herself for the first time in she didn’t know how long. She seldom went out these days, unless Harry needed a chauffeur, preferring to avoid the kind of places he chose to go.

She’d met Harry Laurence at a friend’s wedding, and when they’d first started going out together, Abby had felt she was the luckiest girl in the world. Harry had made her feel special, spoiling her with expensive gifts, taking care of her in a way that, being the only child of a single parent, she’d never experienced before.

But after their marriage things had changed. She’d realised that the character he’d adopted when other people—particularly her mother—were around was totally different from the man he really was.

She’d learned, almost from the start, not to question his whereabouts. She suspected he saw other women, but when she’d been foolish enough to challenge him on it, he’d flown into a rage.

She knew she should get a divorce. She used to tell herself that if he ever laid a hand on her, she would leave. But then, two years ago, when Abby was seriously thinking of filing for a divorce, her mother fell ill.

Annabel Lacey had developed a serious physical condition that required twenty-four-hour nursing. She needed the professional services of a comfortable nursing home, one which only Harry with his stock-market salary could provide.

And Abby had known then that, until her mother was well again, her life was on hold...

‘We’re leaving,’ Liz Phillips said now, bringing Abby back to the present. She looked admiringly at Abby’s companion. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Um—this is Luke,’ murmured Abby awkwardly, as he got politely up from his stool.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Luke said, smiling in Liz’s direction.

‘Likewise.’ Liz gave him a flirtatious look. ‘Well, we’re going on to the Blue Parrot. Do you two want to come along?’

‘Oh...’ Abby slipped down from her stool, too, smoothing the short skirt down over her hips as she did so. ‘I don’t think so. I might just call it a night, if you don’t mind?’

Liz’s eyes drifted irresistibly back to Luke. ‘I don’t blame you,’ she said as one of the other girls pushed to the front of the group. ‘He’s gorgeous!’

‘Liz!’ said Abby in embarrassment, but she wasn’t listening.

‘Hi. I’m Amanda,’ said the other girl eagerly. ‘No wonder Abs has been keeping you to herself.’

‘I haven’t—that is—’ Abby looked at Luke in some consternation. ‘We’ve only just met.’

‘What she means is, she didn’t know I was coming,’ Luke amended lightly. ‘But in the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll understand that I’ll be taking—Abs—home.’

‘Oh, sure. Lucky Abs,’ remarked a third girl with a knowing grin. ‘But if you ever need a shoulder to cry on.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ he said, ignoring Abby’s expression, and, after a few more embarrassing quips, the half-dozen or so members of the hen party departed.

After they’d gone, Abby glanced anxiously about her. ‘Why did you let them think we were together?’ she demanded, bending to pick up her handbag, which she’d wedged beside the stool when she sat down. ‘We hardly know one another.’

‘That can be remedied,’ he replied, helping her extract the strap of her bag from the footrest. His hand brushed hers as he did so, and Abby felt an electric shock of awareness shoot up her arm. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s the least I can do.’

‘How do you know I don’t have a car?’ she countered, knowing she should refuse his offer, and he arched a lazy brow.

‘Do you?’

‘No.’

‘So why are we arguing? I promise I’m not a thief or a pervert.’

‘And I’m expected to take your word for that?’

Abby looked up into his lean dark face. Liz was right, she thought. He was gorgeous. Tall, with a lean yet muscular body, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with curiously tawny eyes that were presently assessing her with a certain amount of amusement as well as interest.

‘You could ask my friend over there,’ he said, indicating the man he’d bought a drink for.

‘And he’s going to disagree, isn’t he?’ said Abby drily.

Then, with a fatalistic shrug, she said, ‘Okay. I’ll get my coat.’

‘Give me the ticket and I’ll get it for you,’ said Luke. And Abby, who had been seriously considering slipping out the back way, expelled a resigned breath.


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ce5a05a2-9884-5ad3-9e6a-c9fb16675e5c)

ABBY TOOK THE last batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven, inhaling their delicious fragrance as she set the tray on the counter nearby.

She unloaded the muffins onto a cooling tray and checked that the coffee machine had been filled that morning. The scones she’d baked earlier were just waiting to be transferred into a basket.

She still had to fill the small pots with jam, but the creamers could wait until she had her first customer of the day.

She also had cupcakes to bake, but they were mixed and ready. She had only to separate them into their cases before popping them in the oven.

She wondered when she’d developed such a love of baking. Not while she was married to Harry; that was for sure.

In those days, she’d spent all her free time working, saving for the day when she could support both her mother and herself.

Unfortunately that day had never come.

She sighed.

Nevertheless, she felt a pleasant sense of satisfaction as she looked about her. The small café, with the bookshop she’d introduced, was everything she’d hoped it would be. Her mother would have loved it, she thought wistfully. But she’d died of motor neurone disease just two years after entering the nursing home.

Abby had discovered the small café, which had previously been run by two sisters, now retired, when she’d been trawling the Internet. Until then the idea of moving out of London had only been a pipe dream. But the café in Ashford-St-James had been available for rent, and it had seemed an inspiration. When she’d learned it also had living accommodation, Abby hadn’t hesitated before applying for the tenancy.

Then, when her divorce from Harry had been made final, she’d bought herself a bottle of Pinot Noir and had a private celebration. Before packing up the bedsit, where she’d been living since she’d left Harry, and moving herself and Harley, her mother’s golden retriever, to this small Wiltshire town.

She supposed she must have always dreamed about running her own café. And the owner, an elderly man called Mr Gifford, had had no objections to her desire to modernise the interior to suit her needs. She’d used what little money she’d saved to give the place a makeover. It looked much different now from the rather dingy tearoom she’d first encountered.

To begin with, she’d bought the cakes and pastries she served with the coffee from the wholesalers. But then, one day she’d tried her hand at making muffins, and the results had been so good, she’d never looked back.

But she’d also discovered that the café on its own didn’t generate a huge income. Which might have been why the sisters who’d run it before her had had to give it up. Although it had a steady clientele, they didn’t get a lot of tourists in Ashford-St-James.

Which was why she’d had the idea of adding a bookshop. There were a lot of older people living in the area, who found visiting the bookshops in Bath just too much trouble. How much easier it was to come out for a coffee and browse the bookshelves when you’d finished. Abby was sure that many of the single men who used the café wouldn’t have done so without the added attraction of choosing a bestseller.

And in the last four years, she’d made a good life for herself here, she thought contentedly. She was happier than she’d been since before her marriage. She and Harley suited one another.

Okay, her friends in London thought she was a fool to settle in a backwater like Ashford. But after working every hour God sent when she was employed in the English department at the university, Abby appreciated being her own boss. She was able to set her own schedule, with no one looking over her shoulder and checking her work.

Leaving the huge Italian coffee machine, which had been her biggest and most successful outlay, bubbling away behind her, Abby walked through to the small bookshop.

A young mother who lived in the town, and wanted employment to fit in with her six-year-old’s needs, worked with her. But Lori didn’t turn up until nine o’clock, after delivering her daughter to the local primary school.

At present, everywhere was quiet, and Abby wandered happily amongst the shelves, restoring books that had been misplaced, and generally admiring the result.

Her peaceful reverie was broken by someone hammering on the outer door. Glancing at her watch, Abby saw that it was barely seven o’clock and she didn’t open the café until half past.

It had to be an emergency, she thought, though what kind of an emergency she couldn’t imagine. Unless Harley had somehow got out of the flat upstairs and had been found roaming the streets of the small country town.

That would be an emergency!

* * *

Luke Morelli stepped out of his current girlfriend’s basement apartment, and climbed the steps to the street above.

It was cool in Grosvenor Mews, but he breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told the young woman he’d been seeing for the past couple of weeks that he had meetings planned for this morning. And, as a consequence, he wouldn’t be able to drive her to the photo shoot in Bournemouth as she’d hoped.

Besides, their association was getting too serious. Luke seldom, if ever, continued a relationship beyond a couple of weeks. Occasionally, when he indulged in a little introspection, he put it down to the fact that his mother had walked out on his father when he was just a boy. Oliver Morelli had been shattered at this betrayal, and Luke had determined then never to suffer the same fate.

And he’d never been tempted. Except on one less-than-memorable occasion.

He strode out of the Mews now and along the Embankment. It was a beautiful morning; spring was definitely in the air. It was surprisingly warm, even at this early hour, and he decided to walk for a while before heading to his office.

The headquarters of the Morelli Corporation were in Canary Wharf, a far cry from the pokey premises in Covent Garden where he and Ray Carpenter had started the company. Of course, Ray was long gone these days. He’d decided to take his share of the business and move to Australia. He appeared to be doing pretty well, Luke had thought, when he’d visited him last year. But as Ray had said, not without a certain degree of good-natured envy, he was no longer in Luke’s league.

Jacob’s Tower, where the Morelli offices were situated, occupied a prominent position in Bank Street. There were several other companies leasing property in the building, with a branch of a well-known string of luxury hotels occupying the first three floors.

Luke’s office was on the penthouse floor, with an adjoining apartment that he used on occasion. But he also owned a house in Belgravia, an elegant Georgian property, that he’d invested in before the price of houses in London had hit the roof.

Luke attended the weekly board meeting and then informed his secretary that he was leaving for the rest of the day. ‘I’m going to drive down to Wiltshire, to take another look at those properties in Ashford-St-James,’ he told her, gathering the necessary files from his desk. ‘And I promised my father I’d call in on him. I haven’t seen him since we met in the solicitor’s office when Gifford died.’

‘Very well, Mr Morelli.’ Angelica Ryan, an efficient middle-aged woman in her fifties, who had been with him for the past ten years, nodded in agreement. ‘Will you be back tomorrow?’

‘I expect so.’ Luke pulled a wry face. ‘I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’

* * *

Responding to the uncompromising summons, Abby left the area devoted to the bookshop, and hurried across the café to the door. It was a reinforced glass door, although recently, on the advice of the local police constable, Abby had had an iron grill installed inside. But she could still see who her visitor was, and her heart sank at the sight of Greg Hughes.

Greg Hughes owned the photography studio next door. Abby assumed it had once been a thriving business, but these days, with amateur photographers and cameras in mobile phones, she wondered how he made a living.

To her regret, she didn’t like Greg. She’d tried to when she’d first moved into the café, but he’d instantly struck her as a smarmy character, always wanting to know all her personal details.

Harley didn’t like him either. The retriever, always such a placid animal, usually growled when Greg came onto the premises. Harley wasn’t permitted to have the run of the food area, of course, but just occasionally he managed to hide away behind the shelves of books.

‘Greg?’ Abby said now, the inquiry evident in her voice. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Damn right something’s wrong,’ declared her visitor irritably. ‘Haven’t you read your mail today?’

Abby frowned. ‘The mail hasn’t arrived yet,’ she said, feeling obliged to invite him inside. His breath smelt strongly of garlic and it wasn’t pleasant this early in the morning.

‘Well, did you read yesterday’s mail, then?’ demanded Greg, his chubby frame fairly quivering with indignation. ‘As you probably noticed, I was away at a craft fair yesterday, and I didn’t bother checking my post until this morning.’

Abby sighed. She refrained from telling him that she hadn’t noticed that his shop was closed. He got so few clients, it was difficult to tell when he was open and when he was not.

Besides, in all honesty, she rarely bothered reading through the pile of bills and circulars that came through her door on a daily basis. She saved them for when she was feeling confident that this month she’d make a profit.

‘I’m afraid I must have forgotten,’ she said, unable to imagine what might have got him so steamed. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Oh, thanks.’

Taking her at her word, Greg appropriated one of the tables in the window, leaving Abby to bring his coffee to him.

Then, when he’d added cream and sugar to his liking, he said, ‘So you haven’t heard that old man Gifford has died and his son is selling this row of businesses to a developer.’

Abby’s jaw dropped. ‘No.’ She stared at him disbelievingly. ‘When did he die? Why weren’t we informed?’

‘Apparently, it was quite recently. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? I saw the old man in town about three months ago.’

Abby shook her head. ‘But can his son do this? I mean, I’ve got a lease.’

‘And when does your lease run out?’

‘Um—in about six months, I think. But I was hoping to extend it.’

‘As we all were,’ said Greg grimly. ‘But it’s not going to happen.’

Abby’s heart sank. ‘But this is my home as well as my business.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Greg took a generous mouthful of his coffee, smacking his lips with pleasure. ‘Hmm, that’s good.’

Abby couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘But what can we do?’

‘I haven’t given it a lot of thought yet,’ said Greg, swallowing more of his coffee. ‘We need to speak to the other shopkeepers first. I suppose we could contact Martin Gifford and ask him if he’d consider a raise in the rents instead.’

Abby frowned. ‘Do you think he might?’

‘No.’ Greg grimaced. ‘It’s about as likely as the developer withdrawing his offer.’

‘Like that’s going to happen.’ Abby looped her hands behind her neck, walking agitatedly about the room. ‘Developers don’t do that sort of thing.’

‘You said it.’

Greg finished his coffee and pushed his cup across the table towards her. But if he hoped she might offer him a refill, he was disappointed. Abby was already thinking she would have to conserve what few assets she had. She knew Mr Gifford’s son was unlikely to pay her for the improvements she’d made to the café when he intended on demolishing it.

Turning back to Greg, she said, ‘Do you know who the developers are?’

‘Why? Are you seriously thinking of appealing to their better nature?’

‘Of course not.’ Abby was impatient. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s not as if Ashford-St-James is a hive of industry.’

‘No, but it lacks a decent supermarket. According to the solicitor, whose letter I read this morning, the plan is to build a block of rental apartments above the retail area.’

Abby expelled a weary breath. ‘I wonder if they’ll offer us accommodation in the new apartments, at a reduced rate, of course.’

‘Well, I don’t need accommodation,’ said Greg a little smugly. ‘I bought my modest bungalow when property was cheap.’ He paused. ‘And you could always stay with me until you find yourself somewhere else to live, Abby. I doubt if you could afford the rents the Morelli company is likely to charge.’

Abby’s breath stalled. ‘Did you say—Morelli?’ she asked tensely.

‘Yes.’ Greg frowned. ‘Do you know them?’

‘I know—of them,’ admitted Abby, a feeling of nausea invading her stomach.

And with it came another thought. Dear God, did Luke Morelli know she was renting one of these properties? Was this an attempt on his part to take his revenge?

* * *

Abby lay awake, staring dully at the light from the street lamps outside filtering through the curtained windows. Harry was snoring peacefully beside her, having completed his masculine domination of her in the usual way.

All the same, his anger had been totally unexpected. He’d known where she was going; known who she was with. Yet he’d still managed to ruin her evening when she’d got home.

Her first indication of his mood had come as soon as she’d walked into the living room of the apartment.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he’d demanded, snagging the strap of the bag Abby had had slung over her shoulder. She’d staggered a little when he’d used it to haul her towards him.

‘You know where I’ve been,’ she’d said, refusing to let him see he’d shocked her. ‘It was Liz’s hen night. You said I should go.’

‘Only because I didn’t want your mother getting on my case again about me neglecting you,’ he’d retorted, pushing his face close to hers. ‘You stink of alcohol. How many drinks have you had?’

‘Just one,’ Abby had said defensively. She’d refused to count the cocktail, which she’d only tasted. ‘A glass of wine. Hardly in your league, am I?’

She’d barely avoided the hand Harry had raised towards her. ‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ he’d snarled, and she’d wondered how much longer she could live like this. ‘I asked you a civil question and I expect a civil answer. Or would you like Mummy to hear what an ungrateful girl you are?’

Abby had wrenched her bag away from him. Her mother was too ill to be upset by their troubles. When Abby had seen her the previous day, she’d been shocked by how frail she had become. And Harry knew that. That was why he always used her mother’s health as a lever to get his own way.

Whatever, there was no point in trying to reason with him in this mood. And, in all honesty, she had been feeling guilty. She shouldn’t have let Luke Morelli drive her home.

But for heaven’s sake, she’d done nothing wrong. And it had been so nice for once, just to talk to a man who seemed to enjoy her company; who didn’t treat her like his servant, or worse.

‘So where did you go?’

Abby had been heading for the door, but she should have known Harry wasn’t finished with her yet.

‘Just the Parker House,’ she’d replied, identifying the wine bar. ‘You knew where we were going. I told you before I left.’

‘So you didn’t go on anywhere else?’

‘Um—no.’ But Abby had hesitated, and that had been a mistake.

‘So you did go on somewhere else.’ Harry had been on her in an instant. ‘And you weren’t going to tell me. Why?’

Abby had prayed the heat she could feel in her bones wasn’t filling her cheeks. ‘I didn’t go anywhere else,’ she’d insisted wearily. ‘The others were going on to the Blue Parrot, but I didn’t want to go.’

‘Why not? Had you found someone more interesting at the Parker House?’ Harry’s eyes had bored into hers. ‘If you’ve been with another man—’

‘I haven’t.’ But Abby had felt herself trembling even so. ‘I was tired, that’s all. I wanted to come home.’

‘So how did you get home? I thought they’d hired a minibus.’

‘They did.’ Abby had swallowed. ‘I just—called a taxi.’

‘Good idea.’ Harry had grasped her wrist then, and pulled her into his arms. His own breath had smelt suspiciously sweet, his thick lips nuzzling her neck. ‘I’m tired, too, baby,’ he’d whispered, his hands roaming possessively over her breasts. ‘What say we both go to bed?’

* * *

Luke Morelli sat staring at his laptop computer, studying the webpage that listed all the London universities.

God, there were dozens of them, he saw frustratedly. And he had no idea what kind of research the girl he was looking for had been doing.

He scowled. It was almost a week since he and Ray had visited the wine bar where he’d met Annabel; almost a week since he’d driven her home. He didn’t know why, but he hadn’t been able to put her out of his mind, and it bugged the hell out of him that, although he’d given her his number, she hadn’t bothered to call.

All he knew for certain was that she worked at one of the universities. And that her name was Annabel, although that was open to question, too. The other girls had called her Abs, which was surely short for Abigail. Or Abby, if he wanted to confuse the situation even more.

There was always the chance that if he went back to the wine bar, he’d see her. But she hadn’t struck him as the kind of girl who frequented bars on a regular basis. He knew the building where he’d dropped her off, but there must have been about forty apartments in the block, and he didn’t have a clue as to her surname.

He sighed. He honestly didn’t know what it was about her that intrigued him. She was an attractive girl, yes, tall and slim, with silvery blonde hair that she wore straight to her shoulders. But he’d known a lot of beautiful women, so that wasn’t it.

She had been excessively slim, he mused, remembering how the bones of her shoulders had jutted through her vest when he’d helped her on with her jacket. Yet she hadn’t struck him as the kind of girl who was overly concerned about her looks.

Ray Carpenter came into the office at that moment, pausing to glance over Luke’s shoulder at the computer. ‘What’re you doing, man?’ he asked, peering at the screen.

‘Do you mind?’ Luke cast an impatient look up at his partner. ‘I’m checking something out, that’s all.’

‘Checking something out, or checking someone out?’ suggested Ray shrewdly. ‘You’re looking at a university website, right? Didn’t you tell me that girl you took home the other evening worked at a university?’

Luke’s jaw compressed. ‘What if I did?’

‘Well, I’d say you’re trying to get in touch with her. Where does she work?’

Luke’s scowl deepened. ‘I don’t know.’

Ray gave a snort. ‘But you know where she lives.’

‘I know the block of apartments, but I don’t know which one.’

‘So go look at the list of tenants. They always have lists of tenants in the lobbies of these places, you know that.’

‘Yeah.’

Luke cleared the webpage and closed the laptop. He had no desire to tell Ray that he didn’t even know the girl’s surname.

He’d been so eager not to offend her, he hadn’t even kissed her goodnight.

But he’d wanted to. That luscious mouth of hers had been an almost irresistible temptation. And she’d smelled so good, too; soft feminine scents that had lingered in his car long after he’d dropped her off. Dammit, he thought, he was smitten. And that was something that had never happened to him before.

Thankfully, Ray dropped the subject and their discussion turned to the projects they were currently working on. Ray had spent the day in Milton Keynes. He liked the hands-on approach of checking on the site managers, while Luke had had a meeting with a real-estate agent concerning a property they were interested in buying north of the city.

The Covent Garden office was no longer big enough to accommodate the business. Their team of architects and designers, accountants and sales personnel, and all the usual administrative staff who made up Morelli and Carpenter Development, needed room to expand. It was an intoxicating prospect and Luke was soon distracted by describing the run-down building he’d seen, which they could renovate to their own design.

But later that evening, leaving the office, he couldn’t prevent himself from turning towards Chelsea. It occurred to him, as he drove across Vauxhall Bridge, that the block of apartments where Annabel lived could be categorised as luxurious. Was she wealthier than he’d imagined? Was that why she hadn’t bothered giving him a call. Or did she simply share the apartment with one or two of the girls he’d met the other night?

Which might make finding her address even more difficult.

* * *

Abby was standing at the living-room window, watching the rain trickling down the panes. It was early evening, but it was already getting dark, the overhanging clouds drenching the neat box hedges that surrounded Chandler Court.

Harry had called to say he might be late, but Abby never took anything for granted. He’d been known to make such a statement before, and then turn up half an hour later.

He’d suggested she should have her supper, but the chicken casserole was still sitting, untouched, on a low heat in the oven. Abby wasn’t hungry. She was seldom hungry these days. She knew her mother worried that she was getting too thin, but food had become something of an anathema to her.

She’d intended to go and see her mother tonight, but the nurse had called earlier to say Mrs Lacey had had a bad day and was now resting. Which meant she’d been sedated, guessed Abby uneasily. There were few days now when her mother was strong enough to conduct a conversation for more than a couple of minutes.

She saw the car as soon as it turned into the grounds of the complex.

It was a distinctive vehicle, sleek and powerful like its owner. Its dark green bodywork was only visible because it had stopped beneath one of the floodlights that switched on as soon as a car entered the grounds.

How did she know it was Luke Morelli’s car? It was just a feeling she had, a sixth sense, that warned her this could mean trouble.

Pressing her fingers to her lips, Abby wondered what she should do. There was no need to panic, she told herself. He didn’t even know her name. But what if, after leaving her the other evening, he’d gone on to the Blue Parrot, and someone there—another member of the hen party, perhaps—had given him that information? It was a long shot, sure, and she was probably flattering herself that he’d been that interested. But could she take the risk?

No!

Glancing behind her, at the steel and chrome furnishings of the living room, Abby wondered if Luke would believe how much she hated living here. Would he understand why she had to stay, at the mercy of a man who didn’t love her, but who enjoyed controlling her? That she stayed to give her mother the treatment Abby couldn’t afford herself?

She doubted it. And right now, she needed to get rid of him.

She grabbed her jacket as she passed through the foyer, hauling out a pair of boots and shoving her feet inside. Then she cast a swift glance at her reflection. The black velvet lounging suit she was wearing wasn’t really warm enough to go outside on an October evening. Particularly when it was raining and she didn’t have an umbrella. But she didn’t have time to change.

The apartment was on the sixth floor, and she took the lift down, praying that Harry wouldn’t decide to call it a night and come home early. She could imagine his reaction if he caught her talking to a strange man in the lobby.

To her relief, there was no sign of Harry or Luke Morelli. Was she wrong? Were Luke’s reasons for being here nothing to do with her, after all? It might not even be Luke, she reminded herself optimistically. The car he drove was probably duplicated a dozen times throughout the metro area.

She decided she would just peek outside and see if the car had gone. It meant passing the desk of the doorman, but happily McPhelan was ensconced in the back room, watching the TV. Only visitors to the apartments apparently warranted a once-over from him.

Thank God!


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_175aebd9-1b50-5eb1-8d93-d710941d475a)

LUKE HAD DECIDED to leave his visit to Ashford-St-James until the next morning.

When he’d arrived at Oliver Morelli’s home in Bath, he’d discovered that his father expected him to stay the night, and he hadn’t wanted to disappoint him.

Besides, his visit to the properties in South Road was intended to be anonymous. How much easier it would be to browse the small shops his agent had described to him in the morning, without arousing any protests from their occupants.

Luke himself had never been to Ashford-St-James before. He’d only learned of the possible opportunity for developing the site from his father.

Charles Gifford, the owner of the properties, had been an old golfing partner of Oliver Morelli’s. When he’d died, Gifford’s son had wasted no time in informing his father’s solicitor that as soon as probate was granted he was going to sell the row of shops in Ashford.

Prior knowledge had given Luke an advantage. And, although it was a small development compared to the work the Morelli Corporation undertook these days, Luke had sensed that Oliver Morelli wanted to feel he was contributing to his son’s success.

Which was why the five businesses in question had been given six months’ notice. It had also been Luke’s father’s suggestion that the tenants be given a decent interval of time to find themselves other accommodation.

Not that that was going to be easy, thought Luke, deciding to park his car in the centre of town and explore the place on foot. From what he’d heard, the shops in South Road were small concerns, more suited to the last century than this.

As far as he could see, the stores in High Road were upmarket clothes shops and jewellers. There were one or two phone outlets and a couple of coffee shops, but nothing along the lines of the businesses his father had described to him.

Conversely, there appeared to be few food shops. He could quite see why the local council were in favour of building a supermarket.

Nevertheless, it was an attractive place, the mellow stonework of a church with its bell tower providing a focal point. The church stood beside a park, where a small lake provided a home for a family of ducks. Although it was early in the season, there were flowers already blooming in the planters that edged the market square, and the trees in the park had most of their foliage.

It was all very old English and very civilised. The kind of place that was attracting newcomers from London. People who were eager to escape the rat race; who wanted a slower pace of living, without losing all the benefits of the city.

Luke left his car near the town centre and strolled along the main street to where South Road ran at right angles to the high street. His father had given him directions and it was easy to find the row of properties Luke had taken an option on.

According to the details Luke had been given, there was a gift shop, a shop that sold woollens, a photo studio, and a bridal outfitters. The fifth property was a café-cum-bookshop, which the solicitor had told him was probably the most successful, financially speaking.

Luke crossed the road at the lights and strolled past the first of the shops. This was the bridal shop, with an extravagant lace wedding dress occupying the central position in a window full of bridal gear.

The photo studio was next door, its window draped with a purple backdrop in front of which resided a single digital camera.

At least it was a digital camera, thought Luke, wondering if people still sat for formal portraits these days. Maybe the photographer made his living filming weddings or christenings. Perhaps he teamed up with the bridal outfitters, and they kept each other informed.

He grinned to himself, and moved on to the next business. This was the café, with the gift shop beyond. The gift shop appeared to have a window filled with an array of soft toys and knick-knacks that any serious shopper would call junk. But obviously some people liked it or the shop would have closed before now.

Luke wasn’t much interested in the woollen shop, so he paused outside the café-cum-bookshop.

He glanced at his watch. It was after ten. He supposed he could legitimately call in for a coffee. The place was called Harley’s, and there was an appetising array of scones and cakes visible on trays at the counter.

There was also a number of bistro tables and chairs, several of which were already occupied. Clearly, despite the chain coffee shops in the high street, some people preferred a more intimate café. Or perhaps it was the fact that it sold books that attracted them here.

The bell made a muted sound as he opened the door. Clearly it was in need of attention. But Luke quickly found an empty table and subsided onto a chair. The smell of cakes and pastries was appetising, and, picking up the menu, he used it as a shield as he surveyed the interior of the café.

It was tastefully decorated, one wall covered with a mural of muffins and cupcakes that fairly oozed with fruit and cream you could almost taste. A huge Italian coffee machine bubbled away in the background, giving the place a contemporary feel, and away to the right an archway led into the bookshop.

‘What can I get you?’

He’d been so intent on studying his surroundings, Luke hadn’t heard anyone’s approach. Putting the menu aside, he looked up at the young woman standing beside the table.

‘Um—an Americano, please,’ he was beginning, and then broke off in disbelief. ‘Abby!’ He got automatically to his feet. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

* * *

‘I own the business,’ Abby said, feeling amazingly calm.

She’d gone through the whole gamut of emotions in the last few weeks since she’d read the solicitor’s letter, but at no time had she ever imagined that Luke might come into the café.

Alone.

She moistened her lips. ‘I don’t have to ask you why you’re here, of course. I assume you’re evaluating your latest acquisition.’

Luke stared down at her. He hadn’t changed at all. Tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, he was just as attractive as ever. Dangerously so, she acknowledged, wishing she were able to put the past behind her.

As he had evidently done.

She’d changed a lot, she was sure. An aborted love affair and a bitter divorce could do that to you. Not to mention discovering that what little money she’d invested in the café was now lost.

‘You run this café?’ he asked, as if he hadn’t believed her the first time. ‘I assumed you were still working in London. I had no idea you’d moved out of town.’

‘Hadn’t you?’ Abby wondered if she believed him. If that were so, then the Morelli Corporation buying these shops was not the vindictive action on his part she’d thought it was.

‘Of course, I hadn’t,’ muttered Luke, as if aware of her scepticism. ‘I wouldn’t have thought your husband would give up his job so easily. The stock market, wasn’t it? Not much use for an investment broker around here.’

‘Harry and I are divorced,’ said Abby, aware that their prolonged conversation was attracting the attention of her other customers. ‘I’ll get your coffee.’

‘Wait.’ As she would have moved away, Luke’s low voice arrested her. ‘How long have you been divorced?’

‘I don’t think that’s anything to do with you,’ replied Abby, glad there was no tremor in her voice. ‘Is that all?’

Luke scowled. ‘Is this how you treat all your customers? Because if so—’

‘You’re not really a customer, Mr Morelli, are you? You’re on a fact-finding mission. And I can always refuse to serve you. I have that right.’

Luke blew out a breath. He glanced about him, as if recognising there was no privacy here. ‘Well, tell me a good place to eat and I’ll buy you dinner this evening instead.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr Morelli.’ Abby refused to allow any trace of the temptation his words offered to show. With some relief she saw that two of her other customers had moved towards the till. ‘I’ll get your coffee.’

Luke had no choice but to let her go, and Abby hurried across to the counter. She had a few words with her departing regulars, rang up their tab, and then set about preparing the Americano Luke had asked for.

Her hands were shaking a little, but the machine did most of the work. She set his cup on a tray, added a small jug of cream and a sugar bowl containing both real and artificial sweeteners, and then turned back to deliver his coffee.

But Luke had gone. The table where he’d been sitting before their exchange was empty.

Setting the tray on the counter, she couldn’t deny a sinking feeling in her stomach. Although she’d been shocked to see him, she’d never expected him to leave so precipitately.

So what? Did she want to see him again? After everything that had happened, was she fool enough to believe anything good could come of this encounter?

The day stretched endlessly ahead of her. It was an effort to think of anything but how unnerving it had been to see Luke again.

She’d thought about him many times, especially after her divorce was made final. But she’d known that, as far as he was concerned, she was still a liar and a cheat.

So why had he offered her dinner?

The café—and the bookshop—closed at four o’clock most days, and Abby wasn’t usually eager to return to her flat upstairs where Harley was waiting for her.

Today, however, she couldn’t wait to put on her coat, grab Harley’s leash, and escape from the building. Luke’s appearance had been a damning confirmation that his plans were going ahead.

Until then, she’d clung to the hope that they might not get planning permission, or they’d discover the ground was too damp for a development of that kind. But those hopes had now been shattered.

At the back of the row of shops, there was a stretch of open land, and Greg Hughes had said that that was another reason why Gifford’s son was selling the properties. His father had owned the land, too, and, together with the shops that faced the street, the developers would have room for not only a car park, always useful in a town, but possibly a movie theatre, as well.

Still, for the moment, the land was unoccupied, and Harley really appreciated the opportunity to be let off the leash.

He wasn’t a young dog, but he still had plenty of energy and Abby bent and picked up a twig and threw it across the grass.

Straight into the path of a man who was coming from the opposite direction.

Luke Morelli.

* * *

Abby reached the outer door and peered outside. Fortunately the floodlights were still on and she could see the dark green Aston Martin standing in a pool of light.

To her relief, its occupant didn’t appear to have got out of the car. No doubt the rain—or perhaps the fact that he didn’t know the address he wanted—was giving him pause.

Was it Luke Morelli? The rain made it difficult to see clearly. It certainly looked like him, so she had to take that chance. She couldn’t allow her husband to come home and find him here.

She remembered too well the bruises on her breasts and stomach Harry had inflicted weeks ago when he’d discovered she’d had lunch with one of the professors from the university.

The fact that she could no longer wear her wedding ring, because he’d twisted her fingers so badly that the swelling was taking ages to go down, was another reason to turn on her. He was absurdly possessive. Particularly as God knew how many times he’d been unfaithful to her in the past.

Something she’d never even thought of.

Until now.

And she wasn’t really interested in Luke Morelli, she insisted to herself as she ran across the gravel car park to where the car was waiting. He’d brought her home from the hen party a week ago. That was all. He hadn’t even kissed her goodnight.

Although he’d wanted to. She was fairly sure of that. There’d been a moment, before she’d thrust open her door and hurriedly said goodnight, when she’d thought he was going to lean across the console and touch her. And she’d wanted him to, she acknowledged. Just for a moment, she’d wanted to feel like a desirable woman again.

It was Luke, and without hesitation Abby pulled open the car door and got inside. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked, indicating the rain. ‘It’s an awful night.’

‘It just got a whole lot better,’ said Luke with a grin. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘Oh, you know...’ Abby waved an airy hand. ‘I was just looking out of the window, and I thought I recognised your car.’

‘And you thought you’d come down and apologise for not ringing me,’ suggested Luke drily. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been to find you?’

Abby’s lips parted. ‘You’ve been looking for me?’ She hoped the alarm wasn’t evident in her voice.

‘Well, I’ve been trawling through the university webpages,’ he admitted. ‘But as I didn’t know your surname or what the hell subject you were researching, I was just wasting my time.’

‘Oh.’ Abby’s relief was almost palpable.

‘So Ray, the guy I was with at the wine bar, suggested checking out your apartment.’ He looked up at the apartment building. ‘This is a classy place, isn’t it?’ His eyes darkened. ‘I don’t know whether I can afford you.’

‘Oh—don’t be silly. I—I share the apartment with—with a friend,’ she stammered, not wanting him to think her job was anything special. ‘Um—she’s expecting me back. We were just going to have supper.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go.’

Luke hesitated. ‘You don’t feel like going out for a meal instead?’

‘I can’t.’ Abby knew she was tempting fate, even sitting here in Luke’s car. ‘I’m sorry. Some—some other time, perhaps.’

Now why had she said that?

‘Okay.’ Luke seized on the compromise. ‘How about tomorrow night? I could pick you up here about eight. We could have dinner and then maybe a movie. What do you say?’

Abby hesitated. She knew she should refuse. For God’s sake, if Harry even suspected she was considering going out with another man, she didn’t like to think what he might do.

And some people might say that she’d deserve it, whatever it was. But heaven knew, she was desperate to spend an evening with someone who treated her with a little respect.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said now, twisting her hands together in her lap. ‘I—well, I don’t know you.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘Can it?’ God forgive her, she was actually considering it.

‘So you do want to see me again?’

Abby hesitated once more. And this time, before she could even think of denying it, Luke looped a hand behind her head and brought her mouth to his.

‘Let me persuade you,’ he said huskily, and his tongue slipped silkily into her mouth.

Abby thought it was just as well she was sitting down at that moment. The hungry urgency of his kiss was robbing her of her sanity. Heat surrounded her, enveloping her in its sensual embrace. She found herself clutching the lapels of his leather jacket and arching towards him.

His mouth hardened, the kiss lengthening into a drugging seduction that showed no sign of ending. It was just as well the console was between them or she was fairly sure Luke would have hauled her onto his lap, and continued his sensual exploration below her waist.

As it was, he was cupping her breasts through the fine fabric of her velvet suit and she could feel her nipples peaking against his hands.

‘Annabel, come with me,’ he said roughly, lifting the hem of her top to find the warm flesh of her midriff. And Abby was sorely tempted to give in.

And then another car accelerated into the lot and Abby’s blood ran cold. She’d recognised that car over Luke’s shoulder, and it was as she had anticipated upstairs: Harry had come home earlier than he’d said.

Dragging her mouth away from Luke’s, she reached again for the handle of the door. ‘I—I can’t. I’ve got to go. H-Harriet’s waiting for me.’

‘Wait!’ Before she could get the door open, Luke had grabbed her arm. ‘At least agree to go out with me tomorrow evening,’ he said. ‘What’s your name? I don’t even know your surname. Let me give you a ring. What’s your number?’

‘No.’ Abby wasn’t that crazy. ‘I—I’ll ring you.’

‘When?’

Abby could see Harry parking his car now and panic made her reckless. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ she said, aware that she was feeling breathless. ‘Please, I have to go now.’

‘Okay. But take my card.’

He handed it to her as he released her, and she stuffed it into her pocket before scrambling out of the car and running quickly across the car park to the apartment building.

Hopefully, Luke would put her haste down to the rain, Abby thought as she ducked into the lift, grateful that the doorman was still ensconced in front of his TV. And with a bit of luck, Harry wouldn’t even notice that she’d left the apartment.

* * *

Luke’s phone rang late in the evening. He’d been reading some official documents prior to a meeting the following day and the unexpected sound brought a scowl to his face.

He was inclined not to answer it. The girl he’d been seeing in recent weeks wouldn’t take no for an answer, and he couldn’t think of anyone else who might ring him after eleven o’clock.

The screen indicated that it was an unknown caller, and it could be his father. He hadn’t seen Oliver Morelli for weeks. Still, unless there was some emergency, even he was unlikely to ring at this time.

Cursing himself for being a fool, Luke picked the phone up from his desk and accepted the call.

‘Luke?’

Luke blew out a startled breath. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was Annabel, the girl who’d said she would ring him three weeks ago and who hadn’t kept her promise.

Until now.

‘Annabel?’ he said warily, wondering if he was so pleased to hear from her that he was mistaking someone else’s voice for hers. ‘It is Annabel, isn’t it?’

She gave a nervous laugh. ‘You’ve forgotten me so soon?’

‘No.’ Luke ran his tongue over his dry lips. ‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.’

‘Not likely,’ she said, but there was a distinctly nervous tremor in her voice. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’ Luke hesitated. ‘But it’s a little late to be making a social call, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry.’

He was afraid she was going to ring off, and he continued hurriedly, ‘But I am glad to hear from you.’ He paused. ‘Does this mean you’ll agree to a date?’

‘Sort of.’ He heard her blow out a breath. ‘What are you doing right now?’

‘Right now?’ Luke was taken aback. ‘I’m working. How about you?’

‘Oh...’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve not been doing much.’ Another pause. ‘I wondered if you’d like to go for a drink.’

Luke almost gasped. ‘Now?’

‘If you’d like to.’

But it’s so late, was on the tip of Luke’s tongue, and he had to bite it back. ‘Um—I guess so,’ he said instead, wondering what the hell he was letting himself in for. ‘Do you want me to pick you up?’

‘No.’ Her response was immediate. ‘I’ll meet you.’

‘Where?’

‘I—how about the Parker House? We both know where that is.’

‘O-kay.’ Luke dragged the word out. ‘If you’re sure you don’t want a lift.’

‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘In about half an hour, yes?’

Luke shook his head perplexedly. ‘I’ll be there.’

Deciding the black sweater and matching jeans he was wearing would do for the Parker House, Luke grabbed his leather jacket and stowed his wallet and his phone in his pockets.

Outside, it was cold, but at least it was fine, a three-quarters moon adding its silvery light to the dark streets. Luke lived in north London and at this time of night he had little difficulty driving into the West End.

But his mind was buzzing with questions. What in God’s name was Annabel doing, phoning him at this time of night and suggesting they should meet for a drink? Had she been drinking already? She hadn’t struck him as the kind of girl to go on a binge, but who knew?

He managed to park in a side road not far from his destination and he strode quickly along the street towards the wine bar. There were quite a few people in the vicinity, some of them just hanging about outside.

Having no idea where Annabel wanted to meet, Luke entered the wine bar, scanning the busy bar area for any sign of her. It didn’t look as if she was here yet, and he stopped at the bar and ordered a beer.

‘Hi.’

The voice came from close by and he turned to find Annabel hovering behind him. She looked as lovely as ever, but paler than he remembered. She was wearing a black coat, the collar tipped up around her ears, and her hair was in an untidy knot on top of her head. She was wearing very little make-up, and Luke wondered again what she’d been doing before she made that call.

‘Hi,’ he said, relieved at least to see she’d made it okay. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Oh—do you think we could go somewhere else?’ she asked, glancing behind her. ‘This place is awfully noisy, don’t you think?’

It was, but Luke was tempted to ask why she’d asked him to meet her here if she didn’t like it. So, ‘Where?’ he asked, paying the bartender for the bottle of beer he’d been handed. ‘It’s going to be noisy everywhere at this time of night.’ He paused. ‘Look, there’s an empty booth over there. Why don’t we sit down and talk about it?’

She shrugged, but he could tell she wasn’t happy. Still, she agreed to the glass of wine he suggested, and Luke commandeered the booth before anyone else could take it.

‘That’s better,’ he said, sliding onto the banquette beside her. His hip nudged hers and he thought she caught her breath.

She smelled incredible, a sensual, exotic scent that filled his nostrils and fired his blood. God, he wanted her, he thought unsteadily. What were the chances of him persuading her to come back to his apartment?

‘Why don’t you take off your coat?’ he suggested. ‘It’s warm in here.’

‘Oh, I...’ If anything, she wrapped the collar of the coat more closely about her, and Luke sighed.

‘It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, you know,’ he told her gently, bending to nuzzle his face against her soft cheek. ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again. I was seriously thinking you’d decided to write me off.’

Annabel gave a husky laugh. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘So—what? You’d let me know if I was wasting my time, right? Because I have to tell you, Annabel, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do.’ Luke cupped her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. ‘I’m not saying I’ve led a monk-like existence. What man has?’ He brushed her lips with his. ‘But this is different. You’re different.’ He kissed her again, more thoroughly this time. ‘How would you feel if I asked you to come back to my apartment?’

Annabel caught her breath. ‘Your apartment?’ she breathed, drawing back when he would have kissed her again, and as she did so the collar of her coat fell away, revealing an ugly bruise on her neck. ‘Where do you live?’

‘North London. Camden.’ But Luke was more interested in how she’d got that bruise on her neck. Although she drew back, he touched it with gentle fingers. ‘How did this happen?’

‘Oh...’ She pulled her collar up again, and shook her head. ‘I fell. In the bathroom. Stupid, huh?’ She changed the subject. ‘Do you live alone?’

‘Well, I don’t have a partner, if that’s what you’re asking,’ he said humorously. ‘Do you?’

‘Funny you should ask that.’

Two things happened in quick succession: the man who had spoken, a man Luke had never seen before, slid into the booth opposite them; and Annabel said, ‘Harry!’ in a shocked voice, and shifted away from Luke, proving she did know who the newcomer was.

He was a heavy man, not particularly tall, but broad and muscular, with the kind of self-satisfied confidence Luke encountered in the boardrooms of the companies he dealt with every day.

If he had to guess, and judging by the cut of the suit the guy was wearing, Luke would say he probably worked in the City. So who was he? Annabel’s boyfriend? Her partner? Surely not.

The guy cast Luke a contemptuous look. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your companion, Abby?’

Abby?

Luke remembered his earlier suspicion that that might be her name.

Abby shifted a little nervously. ‘Um—this is Luke. Luke Morelli,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘He’s—he’s just a friend.’

‘With benefits, if I’m any judge,’ said Harry, his eyes not leaving Abby’s face. ‘Isn’t it lucky that I decided to come looking for you here?’

Abby took a steadying breath, or that was how it seemed to Luke, and seemed to gain some resolution. ‘You said you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow,’ she exclaimed accusingly.

‘And you said you were going to have an early night.’ Harry arched a mocking brow. ‘What a lying little bitch you are!’

‘Take that back!’

Slamming his hands down on the table, Luke got to his feet and reached for the other man’s collar. Hauling him up out of his seat, he said savagely, ‘Who the hell do you think you are, speaking to her like that? I’ve a good mind to...’

‘No, Luke!’

Abby was on her feet now, reaching for his arm as he was thinking of ramming his fist into the other man’s face. And Harry, if that was his name, gave a harsh laugh.

‘Listen to her, Luke,’ he said, raising a hand to his throat and easing himself away. ‘Ask her what gives me the right to expect a certain measure of loyalty from her. I bet she hasn’t mentioned me, has she?’

Luke scowled. ‘Well, if you’re her boyfriend, you should show her more respect,’ he said harshly. He turned to Annabel—Abby—and waited for her to speak. ‘Who is this loser? Do you know him?’

Which even he knew was a stupid question in the circumstances. But, Goddammit, he felt as if he’d suddenly stepped into an alternative universe.

It was the man who answered, his expression as smug as the words he uttered.

‘She’s my wife, Luke. Has been for—let me see—three years. And if she wants a divorce, she only has to ask for one. Isn’t that right, Abby? Go on, Luke, ask her if she wants a divorce. But I think you’ll find she doesn’t. My wife has expensive tastes that I doubt you could satisfy. What do you say, Abby? Tell your—friend—that I’m right.’

Abby didn’t answer him and Luke felt the bottom drop out of his world. But he wouldn’t ask her if she wanted a divorce. It was obvious, he’d been a fool to believe her. She had no intention of leaving her husband. She’d played them both for fools.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c642aeba-784d-526a-ab21-6b4c8f9a1dff)

HARLEY SAW THE man coming towards them and raced excitedly towards him. Clearly, Luke didn’t inspire the same reaction in him as Greg Hughes. Considering the muddy ground, Abby hoped Luke wasn’t thinking of suing her for a new suit.

Harley’s paws could be lethal.

The dog fussed about the man, wagging his tail. Oh, Harley, you Judas, Abby intoned silently as Luke bent to scratch the retriever’s head.

She’d thought he might not have heard her approach, but, as if on cue, Luke straightened to face her. ‘Your dog?’ he asked as Harley bounded back to his mistress, and Abby nodded.

‘Mine,’ she agreed, half wishing she’d chosen another route for their walk.

‘He’s a beautiful animal.’ Luke came closer as she struggled to find the clasp of the leash. ‘Hey, don’t bother fastening him up on my account. I like dogs, and fortunately they usually like me.’

Why was she not surprised? Finding the catch, she fastened the leash to Harley’s collar, anyway. He whined a little plaintively, but she refused to be deterred. ‘I didn’t think anyone else was about or I wouldn’t have let him run free.’

Luke shrugged, glancing about him. ‘I was just familiarising myself with the area. It’s a beautiful part of the country.’

‘It is.’ What else could she say? That was why she’d moved here, for heaven’s sake. ‘Do you know it well?’

Luke shrugged again. ‘My father lives in Bath these days, but I don’t know Ashford-St-James very well.’

So how on earth had he found out about the properties? wondered Abby curiously. Or had he been searching the Internet and come upon them, much as she’d done herself four years ago?

As if reading her thoughts, he said, ‘It was my father who alerted me to the sale. He used to play golf with Charles Gifford, the father of the present owner.’

‘Yes. I know who Charles Gifford is—was,’ said Abby flatly.

‘So I guess you knew that I was involved before I walked into the café a few hours ago?’

Abby nodded. ‘I got a letter, the same as everybody else.’

‘And you’ve been cursing me ever since,’ remarked Luke cynically. ‘Don’t look like that. I can tell.’

Abby sighed. ‘As a matter of fact, my first thought was that you knew I owned one of the businesses, and you’d bought them as—as a kind of revenge,’ she said honestly.

Luke snorted. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No.’ Abby was defensive. ‘We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, did we?’

‘No.’ Luke conceded the point. ‘But you must have quite an opinion of yourself if you think I’m still stressing over something that happened, what? Four years ago?’

‘Five,’ said Abby shortly, wondering if he’d really forgotten. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I left no lasting scar on your life.’

* * *

If she only knew, thought Luke grimly, looking down at the retriever again so she wouldn’t see the hostility in his eyes.

She’d only been responsible for his break-up with Ray Carpenter, who hadn’t been able to stand the bitter way Luke had come to regard his life.

And she’d also been the reason he’d married Sonia, the girl he’d been seeing in the weeks before Annabel—Abby—had come on the scene. The marriage had been a mistake from the outset and a year later, it had been over.

Now he made a dismissive gesture, amazed the lie came so easily. ‘I’d forgotten all about it,’ he said carelessly. ‘Like you, I’ve moved on with my life.’

‘Well, I’m glad.’ Abby gazed up at him, rather guiltily, he thought. ‘It was all my fault that—well, what happened, happened,’ she said.

That had been Luke’s take on it certainly. Nothing could alter the fact that she’d been married when she’d agreed to meet him. He should have felt sorry for her husband, instead of threatening to sock him on the jaw.

He knew he shouldn’t be having this conversation with her. As soon as he’d walked into the café and discovered who the owner of the business was, he should have left it there. Instead, he’d spent the last few hours hanging around Ashford, trying to think of a reason to go back.




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