Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed
Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed
NATASHA OAKLEY
Nick Regan-Phillips: a millionaire, whom the world assumes has it allbut he's got a secret that he's kept from the worldhe's a single dad. Nick's daughter, Rosie, is deaf. Nick missed the first five years of Rosie's life, but now she's come to live with him he's struggling to communicate with her.Lydia Stanford: beautiful, courageous, award-^nnning journalist. And seemingly the only person who can help Nick forge a bond with his daughter"But when their fragile relationship is tested, will , Lydia realize how much this millionaire dad really means to herand needs herbefore it is too late?
Dear Reader,
Who was it who said You make your plans and then life happens? Certainly thats true of my life.
Its also true for Nick and Lydia in this story. By the end of this book theyve learned a great deal about themselvesand each other. For Nick, full-time parenting is something of a challenge. And Lydiawell, she has to sort out what her dreams really are before she finds her happy ending. Just like all of us!
The British sign language Nicks daughter, Rosie, uses to communicate is a particular passion of mine.
It all began for me when I was in an open-air production of Much Ado About Nothing, which was signed once a week. Sitting in the bushes waiting for my next entrance, I had a perfect view of the interpreterwho was amazing. I fell in love. Not with the man himself, although he was quite gorgeous, but with the language.
Im now a qualified communicatorand in a few years Im sure Nick will join me.
With love,
Natasha
NATASHA OAKLEY
told everyone at her primary school she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mum bring her coffee at regular intervalsa drink she didnt like then. The coffee addiction became reality, and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing, or needed for crowd control, she loves to escape to antiques fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her Web sitewww.natashaoakley.com (http://www.natashaoakley.com).
Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed
Natasha Oakley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Silhouette Romance is thrilled to bring you
a sparkling new book from British author
Natasha Oakley
Her poignant and emotional writing
will tug on your heartstrings.
Her words shoot straight to your heart just like Cupids
arrow. Ms. Oakley has a special talent for making you
fall in love with her characters.
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One of the best writers of contemporary
romance writing today!
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Emotional, romantic and unforgettable,
Natasha Oakley aims straight for your heart with
richly drawn characters, powerfully intense emotions
and heart-stopping romance!
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u324bf15f-b8ed-5390-a7c2-be0db0a5d902)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua531d21b-d01d-56a2-a890-26a18e32b7f5)
CHAPTER THREE (#u60b55bc4-f10e-5b64-a29d-08577cf6fe12)
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 ONE
THERE was no one there.
Lydia Stanford set her heavy briefcase down and banged again on the dark blue front door of the cottage, stepping back to look at the top floor windows that peeked sleepily out of a roof of handmade tiles.
It was picturesque, but she wasnt here to admire the view and it all looked ominously quiet. There was no glint of movement in the upstairs rooms. No sound of radio or television in the background. Nothing.
Well, nothing except the half-open window above the ramshackle single brick addition at the back. She lifted the brass plate covering the letterbox and peered inside. Ms Bennington? Are you there?
Total silence.
Ms Bennington? Its Lydia Stanford. We have an appointment at ten.
Had an appointment at ten, she corrected silently. It was now nearly twenty past. Damn and blast the woman. Where was she? Lydia straightened and shook back her hair. What exactly was she supposed to do now?
Was it possible Wendy Bennington had forgotten their meeting? Lydia wrinkled her nose and stared at the closed door as though it held all the answers. It didnt seem likely shed have forgotten. The woman was in her late seventies but had a mind so sharp she made politicians quake at the knees the minute she opened her mouth. Shed lay money on her not forgetting a thing. Ever.
Which was why shed grabbed at the chance to write an authorised biography of Wendy Bennington. It was the kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity which meant shed broken off her first holiday in five years. Why shed got the first flight back to London and had immersed herself in researching the inveterate campaigners astonishing life.
So where was she? Lydia peered round the empty garden as though she expected to see Wendy Bennington walk up the path. Just yesterday the older woman had sounded so enthusiastic about the project; surely she wouldnt have gone out? And leaving a window open? No one did that any more.
Lydia sucked in her breath and considered her options. She could, of course, get back in her car and drive back up the motorway to London. Or she could go and get a coffee in Cambridge and come back in an hour or so. Either one would be an irritating waste of her time.
She pushed the bell and rattled the letterbox. Even though it didnt seem worth doing, she bent down and shouted loudly, Ms Bennington? Through the narrow opening she could see the green swirly patterned carpet, but nothing else. The cottage seemed completely deserted.
She half closed the plate, her fingers still on the brass. It wasnt a voice or even a definite noise that made her pause. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that something was wrong. She called again, Ms Bennington, are you there?
Silence. And then a soft thud. Almost.
Hello? Hello, Ms Bennington?
She couldnt be absolutely certain, but she thought she heard the sound again. Not a footstep or someone fallingnothing that obvious. But something. She was almost sure of it.
Lydia straightened and shifted her briefcase into her other hand. Of course it could be nothing more exciting than a cat knocking over a waste-paper basket, but
But if that soft noise had been the elderly ladys attempt to attract attention she wouldnt thank her for walking away and leaving her. Would she? Shed expect her to use her initiativeand do something. Which meant
What?
Lydia chewed gently at the side of her mouth. It had to be worth a try at getting into the cottage through the open window. If Wendy Bennington had been taken ill
It was possible. She might have fallen. Accidents in the home were very common, after all. If anything like that had happened, trying to get into the cottage would be the right thing to do. She glanced down at her watch, now showing twenty-five minutes past the hour.
With sudden energy, Lydia quickly walked round to the back of the cottage and stared at the small upstairs window. It was tantalisingly open. If she could just climb on to the flat roof, reaching the window would be childs play. It didnt look that difficult.
She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one around. No one to ask if theyd seen Wendy Bennington that morning.
There was no choice
Lydia carefully concealed her briefcase beneath a large rhododendron and stood back to consider her options. It really wasnt going to be difficultas long as the flat roof was strong enough to take her weight.
She took a moment to pull a black velvet scrunchie from her jacket pocket and twist her long hair into an untidy topknot before pulling the dustbin up against the wall. Then, holding on to the drain pipe, she hoisted herself up the first few feetjust high enough to get a grip on the roof.
Easy. Well, perhaps, not easybut easy enough. And if Wendy Bennington wasnt home it would be just as straightforward getting out again. No one need know.
With the dexterity of the county-level gymnast shed once been, Lydia swung her leg up and pulled herself on to the roof. If nothing else she could tell the elderly woman her home was a security disaster. Anyone could break in. Where she lived in London no one would dream of doing anything as foolish as going out and leaving a window open. You didnt even leave your car unattended in Hammersmith for five minutes without careful thought.
What the hell do you think youre doing?
A mans voice shot through the silence. Lydias hand paused on the open window, her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.
Get down! Now.
Startled, she turned and looked at the man standing below on the crazy paving. Tall. Handsomein a scruffy, rough kind of a way. Mid-thirties, maybe late. It was difficult to tell.
And angry. Definitely angry. No doubt about that at all.
What the hell do you think youre doing? he repeated.
Lydia moved away from the open window. Getting in. I thought I heard a noise.
Really?
Yes, really, she fired back, irritated by the heavy sarcasm in his voice. How many burglars did he know who went out on a job dressed in a genuine Anastasia Wilson jacket? It was time he took a reality check. I had an appointment with Wendy Bennington at ten
It didnt occur to you to wait until she answered the door? he asked with dangerous politeness, his accent at odds with his very casual clothes. Lydia looked at him more carefully. Whoever he was, he certainly wasnt the farm labourer shed thought he might be.
And he wasnt as handsome, either. He had a hard face and an arrogant stance that made her want to explain the principles of feminismvery slowlybecause hed probably never grasped the concept of equality.
It occurred to me, yes
So, what changed your mind? he asked, still in that same supercilious tone of voice.
Lydia struggled to hang on to her temper. Forty minutes standing about in the garden is probably what did it. Im going to climb in and see if shes hurt. If thats all right with you? she added, turning her back on him.
It isnt.
She looked round. Pardon?
I said, it isnt.
Dont be sostupid. I had a ten oclock appointment. Im sure Wendy wouldnt have forgotten, it was too important. She might be lying hurt inside. Have you thought of that? Lydia turned and pushed the tiny window open.
Id rather you used the key.
What? She swung round in time to see him open the back door. H-How did you do that? The door was locked. I checked
She keeps a spare key under the pot.
Lydia watched him disappear inside with a sense of disbelief. Damn it! This couldnt be happening to her. It had been a very long time since anyone had managed to make her feel so completely foolish.
Logically she knew there was no reason for her to have known Wendy Bennington kept a key hidden. The idea that a formidable campaigner of human rights would keep her back door key under a terracotta flowerpot seemed, frankly, incongruous. But clearly she didand the local populace all knew about it.
At least this particular member of it did. Who inblazes was he anyway? Arrogant, sarcastic, superciliousThe words flowed easily. It didnt help knowing she might have reacted in a very similar way herself if shed discovered someone about to break into a neighbours upstairs window. Presumably he was a neighbour?
Gingerly Lydia lowered herself down, careful not to scrape her jacket on the brickwork. She brushed herself down and picked up her briefcase from under the rhododendron.
Tall, dark and sarcastic had left the door open, no doubt expecting her to follow him. She wiped her feet on the worn doormat and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. The small cottage window ensured the kitchen would always be dark, but the situation was made so much worse by the heavy net curtain hung on plastic-coated wire.
Lydia let out a low whistle. Even though the outside of the cottage was looking frayed around the edges and the garden was hopelessly overgrown, she honestly hadnt believed anyone lived like this any more.
The kitchen looked like something out of a nineteen-forties movie. There were no fitted kitchen units at all. Just a freestanding gas cooker that looked as if it ought to be consigned to a museum and a thickly painted cupboard with bakelite handles. The orange and cream marmoleum floor tiles had begun to lift and the whole room was dominated by a floor-standing boiler.
It was, frankly, grim.
She hadnt been aware that shed had any preconceptions about what shed expected Wendy Benningtons home to be likebut, clearly, shed had many. She stepped over the twin bowls of water and cat food respectively and tried to ignore the faint odour of animal and stale cigarettes.
This had been a mistake. She should have stayed in Vienna, marvelled at the Stephansdom, eaten sachertorte and enjoyed the opera like any other sensible person. What the heck was she doing here?
Shed given up her holidayfor this. Crazy. She was crazy.
And there was still no sign of Wendy Bennington. The house was completely quiet except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the further recesses of the cottage. She placed her briefcase down by the rusting boiler and looked across at the man as he flicked through the mail on the kitchen table.
Im Lydia Stanford, she said with pointed emphasis, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge she was there.
I know.
You know? He said nothing. And you are?
Nick. His eyes were still on the sheaf of letters in his hand. Nick Regan.
Which told her absolutely nothing.
Do you live nearby? If hed looked up hed have seen her head indicate the direction of the only other house within a mile or so of the cottage.
No.
No? Youre not a neighbour?
He looked up at that. Very briefly. The expression in his brown eyes made it absolutely clear hed no intention of assuaging her curiosity. No.
Nick Regan.
Had she read his name anywhere in connection to Wendy Bennington? She was fairly sure she hadnt. All those hours on the Internet? All those pages of notes? Was it possible shed missed something vital?
His accent spoke of an expensive private school education and his assurance indicated he was very used to being in the cottage. Comfortable, even.
Her eyes took in the expensive watch on his wrist and the soft leather of his shoes. Her mother had always sworn you could tell everything about a man by looking at his shoes. If she was right, this one had a bank account to be proud of, despite the worn jeans and faded jumper.
So who was he?
Someone Wendy Bennington had hidden from the public spotlight for over thirty years? A secret son?
She half smiled and pushed the thought aside. It didnt seem likelywhich was such a shame because it would have made a great story.
It didnt fit, though. From all shed learnt of Wendy Bennington so far, shed have been more likely to announce it proudly. Her whole life had been characterised by a complete disregard for social conventions, so the absence of the father wouldnt have deterred her. Shed have told the world that her sons father was an irrelevance and no more than a biological necessity.
Should your name mean something to me?
He looked up and then back at the letters in his hand. No.
Lydia frowned, irritated. What was the matter with the man? This kind of information was hardly highly classified. His behaviour was bizarre, to say the least. And rude.
How do you know Wendy Bennington? she persisted, moving closer.
He threw the pile of letters back on the kitchen table. Ive known her all my life.
Really? Hows that?
His dark eyes flicked momentarily across to her and then he walked out of the room.
Lydia let out her breath in one long stream and just about managed to bite down on the expletive which was on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps he hadnt fully understood that she was the one with the appointment.
Pausing only to shut the back door, she followed him out into the narrow hallway.
Wendy? Nick Regan opened the door immediately to his left and glanced inside.
Is she there?
He brushed past her. Ill check upstairs.
Lydia gave in to temptation and swore softly as he took the stairs a couple of steps at a time. Even allowing for the possibility that he was genuinely worried, there was really no excuse for his attitude towards her. Much more of it and he was going to get the sharp edge of her tongue.
Her hand was on the newel post as he shouted down to her, Get an ambulance.
Ambulance?
Quickly.
Dear God. No.
Despite everything, she hadnt really expected that. For all her dramatic attempt at breaking and entering, she hadnt anticipated anything other than the elderly woman had popped out to get some milk.
Her mind played havoc as she pictured Wendy Bennington lying bleedingor dead, evenShe reached into her handbag and fumbled for her mobile phone while she ran up the short flight of stairs. Whats happened?
In the doorway she saw a figure, instantly recognisable despite the flamboyant caftan and grey flowing hair, slumped in the doorway. It wasnt the way shed imagined shed meet Wendy Bennington.
Every picture shed ever seen had shown Ms Bennington to be a highly capable and formidable woman. Her energy and strength had radiated from each and every image. This woman looked simply old. Her face was filled with fear and complete bewilderment.
Lydia flicked open her mobile and glanced across at Nick, for the first time grateful she hadnt made this discovery alone. Presumably he would know whether Wendy Bennington was prone to bouts like this and whether she was on any kind of medication.
I think she may have had some kind of stroke, he said quietly, his long fingers smoothing back a lock of grey hair. Wendy?
Lydia watched as the woman on the floor frowned and struggled to articulate what she was feelingbut what came out of her mouth was incomprehensible. Her words were slurred and her frustration mounted as she realised she was communicating nothing.
Wendy, can you touch your nose for me? Nick asked.
Again that frown, two deep indentations in the centre of her forehead, and yet there was no discernible movement. Nick looked over his shoulder. Have you rung?
Lydia tapped out the emergency number and waited for the operators voice. It was only a matter of seconds, but it seemed an age before there was an answer. Her hand gripped on to the mobile until her knuckles glowed white and she forced her mind to stay in the present.
The last time shed telephoned for an ambulance it had been for Izzy. Lydia felt her eyes smart with the effort of holding back the emotion those images unleashed. Shed never been so frightened as shed been then. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive had been the longest fifteen minutes of her life.
It had seemed like every minute, every moment, had been stretched out to maximum tension and it was etched on her memory. The feeling of complete helplessness. The guilt. The regret. The panic. And the mind-numbing fear. A whole hotchpotch of feelings she hadnt even begun to unpack yet. All there. All reaching out towards her like fog in a nightmare.
But this was different, she reminded herself. The circumstances were completely different. She forced her breathing to slow and tried to focus on the questions she was being asked.
Nick looked over his shoulder. Tell them to take the left hand fork at the top of the lane. Its a confusing junction. They could lose five minutes or more if they take the wrong turn.
Lydia gave a nod of acknowledgement and reached into her jacket pocket for the piece of paper on which shed written the directions to the cottage. Wendy had been very thorough.
She watched Nick disappear into one of the bedrooms and return with a pillow and satin eiderdown. He used the pillow as a cushion and wrapped the elderly woman gently in the apricot-coloured eiderdown.
Yes, the last cottage on the right. The voice on the other end was precise and calming. About half a mile out of the village. Yes. Thank you. Lydia finished the call and clicked her mobile shut.
Well? Nick turned to look at her.
An ambulance is on its way.
Is there anything I need to do while I wait?
Lydia shook her head. Youve already done it. She said not to move her and to wrap her in something warm as she might be in shock.
He smiled grimly and settled himself back down on the floor, taking Wendys hand between his own. It wont be long now.
Lydia watched the shadow pass across the elderly womans face as she struggled to speak. She seemed so confused. Frightened. So unlike anything shed been expecting to find in such a formidable womanand yet would anyone be otherwise?
Her knowledge of strokes was woefully scanty, but she knew the consequences of them could be devastating. It didnt seem right. A woman of Wendys courage couldnt be struck down like this. It wasnt fair.
But life wasnt fair, was it? It wasnt fair that her parents had died when they were so young. Or that her sister Izzy had miscarried her baby. Life had a way of kicking up all kinds of unpleasant surprises. She ought to know that by now.
Lydia put her phone back in her handbag, taking more care than usual to fasten the stud. Do you want me to put together an overnight bag? Or s-something? Her voice faltered as he looked up, his expression conveying exactly what he thought of her suggestion.
Ill do it later, Nick said curtly, and take it when I go to the hospital.
What was his problem? He looked as though shed told him shed ransack the entire room instead of offering to gather together a few toiletries and a nightdress. Her eyes shifted to Wendys hugely swollen ankle, visible beneath the eiderdown. Ill get some ice.
Sorry?
For her ankle. Whether its broken or just sprained, ice will help it.
He followed the line of her gaze. Right.
Lydia turned and started down the stairs before she thought to ask, Does she have a freezer?
In the old scullery. She keeps a chest freezer out there.
Lydia continued down the stairs. As she reached the bottom she jumped as a warm furry shape twisted round her legs. Hello, she said softly. The cat mewed loudly and pushed that little bit closer. Lydia stooped and ran her hand across the sleek black fur.
Stepping to one side, Lydia carried on to the kitchen. Two concrete steps led down to the old scullery, the ancient copper wash tub in one corner. The freezer stood, large and white, on the far wall. Spots of rust discoloured the surface and the lid seemed to have slightly bowed.
There was so much about Wendy Benningtons house that made her feel unutterably sad. It was as though the elderly woman did no more than camp here. Shed certainly made no effort to make the place feel comfortableor even like a home.
The freezer was in desperate need of being defrosted and Lydia struggled to lift the lid. She chipped off huge chunks of ice and lifted out the top basket.
Inside there were countless boxes of pre-prepared meals for one, half-opened packets of stir-fry and frozen vegetables. Surely more than enough to feed a single person for several months? Lydia lifted out a small packet of peas and headed back upstairs.
Nick turned as soon as she got there. Have you found something? Her ankle seems to be bothering her now.
Youll need to wrap this in a towel. Its very cold.
But even as she spoke hed pulled out a pillow from its pillowcase and tucked the frozen packet inside. She watched as he carefully held it up against the swelling and heard Wendys small moan of pain.
Is there anything else I can do? Id like to help.
Nick glanced up. If you want to be useful you could take your car down to the village and point the ambulance in the right direction.
Im sure theres no need for that. I found my way here without a problem.
But its a single track road and if they miss the junction theres nowhere to turn for a couple of miles.
Lydia frowned, uncertain what to do. What he was saying about the junction was truebut it was more than that. He so clearly wanted her to leave.
She heard the elderly woman mumble incomprehensibly and wondered whether he wished her to go because he knew how much Wendy would hate being seen this way. If the situation was reversed, if she were the woman lying on the floor, she would prefer there were no strangers to see it.
And there was no doubt that Wendy trusted Nick implicitly, not once had she glanced across in Lydias direction. Her eyes searched out his as though they would be her salvation.
It felt intensely private. His strong hand calmly held Wendys frail agitated one in his. Lydia didnt think shed ever seen a man so gentle or so eminently capable of managing a situation alone.
Ill wait in the village.
Nick scarcely noticed shed spoken; his mind and energy were focused entirely on Wendy Bennington.
As it should be, she reminded herself. Of course, he should be totally concerned about the sick woman.
Lydia reached inside an inner pocket of her handbag and pulled out a business card. Would you call me? Id like to know how Ms Bennington is doing.
He turned, his expression unreadable. If he wasnt a poker player, he ought to be. She couldnt tell whether he thought it reasonable that she wanted to know what happened to Wendy or whether he thought it an intrusion.
Please?
His face didnt change, but after a short pause he reached out and took her card. Make sure you leave the front door open, he said, tucking it in the back pocket of his jeans.
Lydia supposed she had to take that as an agreement that he would call her. Whether he would remember to actually do it or not was a different matter.
Quietly she walked down the stairs and into the oppressively gloomy kitchen. Her briefcase was still by the rusting boiler where shed left it. Lydia bent and picked it up, before taking a last opportunity to glance about her.
Sad. It was a truly sad place.
Slowly she walked along the hall and carefully put the front door on the latch. It was strange that Nick Regan let Wendy Bennington live in such a way. He so obviously loved her. It was in the way hed brushed her hair off her forehead and held her hand.
So who was he? Why was he so concerned about Wendy Bennington? It surely went beyond being a mere friend, but his name hadnt appeared in her research. As far as shed been able to ascertain, Wendy had no family at all. Not even a nephew. An only child of only children.
She walked down the narrow front path, mulling over the possibilities. At the gate she stopped, mouth open in disbelief. His car was parked immediately in front of her ownand her mothers wealth barometer had been spot on. Nick Regan drove a top of the range sports car. So who the heck was he?
Lydia opened her car door, feeling vaguely ashamed. There was something in her which made it impossible to switch off the journalist. Why couldnt she merely be pleased that Wendy had someone who loved her? Wendy had lived her life entirely for other people; it was right that when she needed help herself there should be someone to give it. Someone who cared because they chose to, rather than doing so out of a sense of duty.
She tipped the front seat of her more modest car forward and slid in her briefcase. Perhaps she hadnt been so far adrift in thinking he was behaving like a son? It had to be a possibility because what else was there?
The engine purred into life and Lydia took a last glance back at the cottage through her rear-view mirror. He was the right kind of age. Thirty-four, maybe as much as thirty-eight. Certainly no more.
Perhaps he was the result of a passionate affair? She let her imagination soar. An affair with a married man? Or the husband of a friend? Or was he a sperm donor baby? Or
She was getting ridiculous. If Wendy Bennington had ever been pregnant someone somewhere would have written about it. She glanced up again at her drivers mirror and groaned at the image she presented. Her hair was still bunched up in a childish topknot. Hardly the look of an award-winning journalist.
Damn.
She ripped out the scrunchie and let her hair fall softly around her shoulders. Nick bloody Regan probably thought she was some kind of tea girl rather than the woman hisfriendhad chosen as her biographer.
It shouldnt matter. Lydia crunched her car into first gear. It didnt matterat all. Butbut this was not turning out to be a good day.
Nick heard her leave. First her footsteps on the stairs and then the sound of her car pulling away. He let out his breath in a steady stream and tried to settle himself into a more comfortable position on the floor.
He hadnt expected Lydia Stanford would give up so easily. Her kind always stayed to the last. They circled overhead, waiting for the kill, like the scavengers they were. The wonder was that she hadnt whipped out her camera and taken some photographs as background colouror whatever she called it to salve her conscience.
Nick rested his head against the wall. There were other journalists, with far better credentials than Ms Stanford, who would have been more than anxious to write an authorised biography. Some he would have trusted to do a fair and balanced job of it.
But Lydia Stanford
No. He wouldnt trust her as far as he could spit. What Wendy had been thinking of to insist on a woman capable of building her career by using her own sisters tragedy he couldnt imagine. You had to be an automaton to do what Lydia had done.
Any normal person would have been overcome by grief at her sisters attempted suicide. Theyd have hung by her bedside, too traumatised to do anything else.
But not Lydia Stanford. Ms Stanford had launched an exhaustive vendetta against the man at the centre of the scandal. Shed meticulously collected information on his fraudulent business dealings, making sure she had enough to ruin him.
And in the process shed made her own fortune. Not bad going. But what about the sister? How did she feel about being a stepping stone in her sisters career?
Even his ex-wife, Ana, wouldnt have been so coldly calculating. He rubbed a hand across the spike of pain in his forehead. Or just not as overt? But that made precious little difference to the people around them. They still got hurt. Collateral damage in a game they didnt know they were playing.
One thing was certain; Wendys decision to choose Lydia Stanford had nothing to do with the mane of honey-brown hair which she wore in that half up, half down sexy thing women did. Nor would Wendy have noticed the amber flecks in her brown eyes, or her long legs, or, he altered his position slightly, her unfortunate taste for his ex-wifes jacket design. Presumably Ms Stanford thought it worth selling her soul to be able to afford an Anastasia Wilson jacket. Now Ana would most certainly have approved of that.
Nick shifted uncomfortably on the floor, listening out for the sound of the ambulance. He stroked the hand in his lap. It cant be much longer, Wendy. Hang on in there for me.
He watched the frown of concentration and heard the quietly determined, Apple.
He leant closer. What about an apple?
With total concentration she carefully repeated, Apple.
It made no sense. Nick kept stroking her hand and tried to sound calm and reassuring. The minutes ticked by interminably slowly.
He tried to picture Lydia Stanford at that crucial junction making sure the ambulance crew didnt waste precious minutes. Shed do that, he decided. She might have ambition running through her veins where lesser mortals had blood, but he believed shed take a few moments to help the woman whose biography shed agreed to write.
Even Ana would have spared a few minutes from her hectic schedule. His smile twisted. Or perhaps not. Ana spared no thought for anyone but herself.
The garden gate banged and he sat a little straighter. Thank God. Up here, he shouted.
He heard the mumble of voices as they came into the hall; seconds later a face appeared at the top of the stairs. Wendy Bennington, is it? the woman said, taking in the slumped figure on the floor.
Nick nodded, standing up and brushing down his jeans.
Your friend made sure we didnt miss the turning. She knelt down and spoke to Wendy. Im Sarah. Well soon have you sorted, my love.
CHAPTER TWO
IZZY put a plate of spicy crab cakes and salad in front of her sister. So, tell me. Whats the matter? She sat down opposite Lydia and flicked back her softly waving hair. I might have overdone the chilli in the dipping sauce, so go careful.
Lydia took a mouthful of the crab cake. This is fantastic.
I know. Its the Tobasco.
Youre getting good.
Im a genius, Izzy said, smiling over the top of her glass of wine, but thats not why youre here, is it? Whats happened?
You mean apart from Wendy Bennington having a stroke?
Izzy nodded. Apart from that. Although its horrible for her, of course. I dont mean it isnt, but
The silence hung between them.
Youve seen far worse things than an elderly woman having a stroke, Liddy.
Which was true.
So, whats bothering you?
Lydia sighed and looked across at her younger sister, uncertain as to what it was that was nagging at her. It seemed to be a whole mixture of things twirling about in her head making her feel discontented. Irritated. That wasnt the right word either.
It was as though shed been travelling happily in one direction only to have it violently blocked off. Like a train being derailed, if you liked. Normally shed have worked out a way to make it an opportunity, but
Lydia winced. It didnt feel like an opportunity. It felt
She didnt know what it felt like. There was something about seeing Wendy Bennington slumped in that doorway that had affected her deeplyand in a way she found difficult to understand. Instead of driving back to Hammersmith shed rung Izzy and begged a bed for the night.
But why? Her sister was absolutely right when she said shed seen and experienced so much worse.
In her nine years as a journalist shed witnessed many terrible things. Not just death and injury, but mindless violence and examples of sadistic cruelty that defied description. Some days it was difficult to maintain any kind of belief in the innate goodness of human nature, but shed trained herself to cope with it. She was inured against it all.
Almost.
Certainly detached. Lydia picked up her wineglass and sipped. It was as if a steel screen came down and kept her objective. It was the only way it was possible to do her job. She imagined it was similar to the way a surgeon worked. You could care, really deeply, but not so much that it prevented you from thinking clearly.
She looked across at Izzy, patiently waiting, her hands cradled around her wineglass. The only time in her life when shed felt completely out of control was when shed found Izzy unconscious. There would never, could never, be any event more terrible than finding her sister had taken an overdose.
She hadnt felt detached then. That night shed experienced emotions she hadnt known she was capable of feeling. Shed believed Izzy would die and fear had ripped through her like lightning in a night sky. Thered been the sense of being utterly alone and desperately frightened. Not even the unexpected death of her parents had inspired such an extreme reaction.
The only thing that had kept her functioning, on any level, was the passionate hatred she felt for Steven Dalythe man responsible. Bitter anger had uncurled like a serpent within her. It had driven her. Had demanded retribution.
Looking at Izzy now, little more than two years on, it could almost have been a dream. She looked so youngand hopeful. Time was a great healer.
Well? Izzy prompted.
Lydia forced a smile. I think it was the house, she said at last, trying to put words on thoughts she couldnt quite catch hold of. Youve never seen anything like it. She lives in a cottage that times all but forgotten. All alone in the middle of nowhere.
Perhaps she likes solitude? Some people do.
Its not thatIts Lydia frowned. The cottage smells of damp and cat urineand then there are all these frozen meals for one in the freezer. Its so incrediblysad. Theres no other word for it She broke off. Oh, no!
What?
Id forgotten about the cat. Lydia put down her wineglass. Shes got a cat.
Its not your problem, Liddy.
But whos going to feed it?
Probably the irritating Nick Regan. It really isnt your problem, Izzy repeated, taking in her sisters expression. If not him, therell be a neighbour.
You think?
Theres bound to be.
Lydia relaxed. Of course there was. Wendy Bennington went abroad for long stretches of time. There were bound to be structures in place to take care of her pet. Lydia picked up her knife and fork. Youre right. I know youre right. Its just
Izzy smiled. You really like this Wendy Bennington, dont you?
I hardly know her. Lydia cut a bite-sized piece off her crab cake. Weve spoken on the phone half a dozen times, no more. Id never met her face to face. Until todaywhen shed been confused and frightened. Nothing like the woman shed been expecting. The image of her slumped in her bedroom doorway hovered at the front of Lydias mind.
But you like her. I can tell you do.
Lydia paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Did that explain it? She certainly admired Wendy. Had been flattered and very excited at the prospect of writing her biography.
Izzy seemed to follow her thoughts. Theres no reason to think you wont still write the biography. Give it a few days and see how serious her stroke was. You might be surprised.
I might, she conceded.
Perhaps that Nick Regan will phone you.
Lydia pulled a face. Id be surprised at that. He didnt like me at all.
Why?
No idea. Lydia thought for a moment. It didnt help that he found me standing on a flat roof, trying to get into the cottage through an upstairs window, but she looked up as Izzy gave a sudden spurt of laughter I dont think it was that.
I cant think why. Most people would think it odd.
Lydia shook her head, a reluctant twinkle in her eyes. It probably didnt help, she conceded, cutting another mouthful off her crab cake, but he really didnt like me. At all. You know, eyes across a crowded room, instantaneous dislike. No mistaking it.
Is he handsome? Izzy sat back.
Thats irrelevant.
Its never irrelevant.
Lydia ignored her.
Well, is he?
No. Even without looking up she could feel Izzy smile. She put down her fork. Not exactly.
Which means he is.
It does not!
And then Izzy laughed again. He is, though. I searched for his name on the Internet while you were having your shower. Hes gorgeous. A bit likewhats the name of that actor inOh, stuff it, I cant remember. Regency thing. You used to have him as your screensaver.
The actor from Pride and Prejudice? Nick Regan looks nothing like him! Lydia protested.
Not exactly, but a bit. Hes got the same brooding, intense expression. At least, this Nick Regan does. Hes an inventor. I think. She waved her hand as though it didnt matter in the slightest. Basically, he is Drakes, if you get what I mean. He owns the company and came up with the idea of the electrical component in the first place. Worth millions.
Lydia frowned. He cant be. Thats Nicolas Regan-Phillips. She closed her eyes. Damn it! It couldnt be.
Could it? And, if so, what had he got to do with Wendy Bennington?
Ive bookmarked it for you to see.
Ill look later.
Could Nick Regan be Nicolas Regan-Phillips? Izzy must have made a mistake. A multimillionaire corporate businessman and a human rights campaignerwhat could possibly link the two together?
The cottage had been securely locked up. Lydia moved the terracotta pot with very little expectation of finding the key beneath itbut there it was.
She clutched the small tin of cat food and bent to pick up the key. If the almighty Nicolas Regan-Phillips had anticipated she might return to the cottage he might not have put it back there. So much for his apparently awesome ability to read character, but at least the cat wouldnt starve.
The back door opened easily. Izzy had laughed at her for deciding on making the thirty minute detour, but it felt like the right thing to do. How could she return to London knowing she could have done something to help Wendy but had chosen not to? And this was little enough.
Cat, she called softly. She set her handbag on the stainless steel draining board. Cat, where are you? Breakfast time.
The bowl of leftover cat food on the floor looked revolting. Lydia picked it up with two fingers and carried it across to a plastic swing-bin. Why do people keep pets? she mumbled softly to herself, turning back to the sink and giving the bowl a swill out. This is disgusting.
To keep them company?
Lydia gave a startled cry and whipped round.
Because they love them? Nicolas Regan-Phillips said, leaning against the kitchen doorway, looking much more like the photograph Izzy had found than he had the day before. He wore a sharp and very conventional pinstripe suit. Power dressing at its most effective.
And he was handsome. Her sisters words popped into her mind and she silently cursed her. The resemblance to her favorite actor was really very superficial, but it was there all the same.
II came to feed the cat. Lydia turned away and pulled back the loop on the tin, irritated at the slight nervous stutter. Where had that come from? And, more importantly, why?
So did I. He placed a brown paper bag down on the draining board.
I hope you dont mind that I She stopped herself, swinging round to look up at him as a new thought occurred to her. How did you get in?
He held up a key. Front door.
Oh. Lydia cursed herself for the inanity of her reply. Of course he would have Wendys key. He would have needed it to lock up the cottage. What was the matter with her?
She carefully scooped out the contents of the tin with a spoon, aware that Nick continued to watch her. He made her feel uncomfortable, as though, perhaps, shed been caught out doing something he considered wrong rather than the good deed shed intended. I suddenly remembered Id seen a cat. I couldnt leave it to starve, she said, glancing up.
He really did have the most inscrutable face. Normally she was good at picking up emotional nuancesbut Nicholas Regan-Phillips seemed to short circuit some connection and she was left uncertain.
On balance he didnt seem as angry as hed been yesterday. More suspicious. She looked away. It probably wasnt anything personal. He had a reputation for avoiding journalists and for protecting his privacy. Lydia swilled out the empty tin under the tap. Does Wendy have a recycling bin?
I imagine so.
Lydia looked up in time to catch his swift frown. If she puzzled him she was glad. He certainly puzzled her. What had he to do with Wendy Bennington? She hadnt managed to discover any connection at all. It was a mysteryand mysteries really bugged her.
Shall I leave this on the side then?
Im sure thatll be fine.
Lydia carefully placed the tin at the back of the draining board and rinsed the spoon. Hows Wendy?
There was a small beat of silence while, it seemed, he evaluated her right to ask the question. Better than she looked yesterday.
Lydia glanced over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.
Shes had a TIA. A mini-stroke, if you like. Shell be fine. His mouth quirked into a half-smile. It was a nice mouth, firm and sensual. No permanent damage, but shes been told to make some life changes.
Thatsfantastic.
His smile broadened and something inside her flickered in recognition. Id love to hear you try and convince her of that.
When will she be home?
Well he stretched out the word that depends on who you speak to. Shes broken her ankle. Its a fairly simple break, apparently, and doesnt need surgery, but
Lydia looked around her and then down at the uneven floor levels.
Nick followed her gaze. Exactly. Shes not going to manage here for a few weeks, however much shed rather be in her own home.
No, Lydia agreed. She placed the clean bowl back on the floor and picked up the other one. So, whos won?
The cards are stacked in my favour. Im here to pick up Nimrod. Hopefully lure him in with food.
Lydia emptied the water into the sink and put in some fresh. Thats the cat?
Nimrod, the mighty hunter, Nick agreed, moving away into the hall, his voice slightly muffled. I gather his namesake was Noahs great-grandson. He reappeared moments later, carrying a cat basket.
Great name, she said, smiling at the incongruous sight of a city gent with rustic cat basket.
Certainly appropriate. Hes something of a killer cat. Wendy picked him up as a stray a couple of years ago, only he turned out not to be so much a waif as a con artist. If it moves, Nimrod will hunt it. There never was a cat more suited to life in the wild.
Lydia laughed. Good luck getting it into that thing then, she said with a gesture at the cat basket.
So Wendys warned me, he said, setting it down on the kitchen table.
She rinsed her hands under the tap. Im glad its all sorted. It suddenly occurred to me, after Id left, that you might forget aboutNimrod. I was going to contact you today.
How?
She looked up, surprised by the abrupt single word question. It wouldnt have been too difficult. A call to your company
His nod was almost imperceptible, but she could see his attitude towards her change. I thought you didnt know who I was.
I didnt, but you have an Internet presence
And you checked.
Lydia thought of Izzy and smiled, deciding that she wouldnt tell him that her description of him had inspired her sister with a burning fascination to discover who had managed to rile her so much. Thered been little enough information to find, nothing he could object to.
He was thirty-six and divorced. His only child, a daughter, lived with her mother and he was hugely successful at what he did. Nothing particularly unusual in any of that.
Do you always pry into other peoples business?
Pretty much. She looked about her for a towel on which to dry her hands. Its an occupational hazard. But, this time, youve got to acknowledge I was invited to pry.
Not by me.
By Wendy. She turned to face him. Though I dispute the use of the word pry.
His eyes narrowed. Do you?
Shes led an amazing life. Dont you think its in the public interest to have that properly chronicled? What shes achieved, particularly for women, is amazing.
I think whats deemed to be in the public interest is stretched beyond belief, he said dryly, but thats not to undermine what Wendy has achieved.
Cant argue with that, I supposebut Im not here as a representative of any tabloid paper. Wendy will have complete control over what I write about her and, as long as its truthful, Ive no problem with that.
No?
Absolutely not.
She sounded aghast, but Nick knew better. Confronting Lydia Stanford was like coming up against a snake in the grass. You could never trust her. Never.
Very early in her career shed worked undercover to highlight the ill treatment of the elderly in care homes and, while you couldnt question the validity of her findingsyou had to be suspicious of her ability to lie. And lie convincingly enough for colleagues to trust her.
Wendy might be impressed by her ability to stick to her purpose, of owning a cause and staying with it, whatever the personal costbut he suspected a different motivation lay at the heart of it. He suspected her only cause was herselfLydia Stanford. And where was the virtue in that?
She carefully folded the towel and threaded it back through the loop. So how do you know Wendy?
You dont give up, do you?
Lydia smiled, her eyes the colour of topaz. Warm and beguiling. Its usually easier to give in and tell me what I want to know.
He turned away as though that would stop him being drawn in. Shes my godmother.
Really?
I have the rattle to prove it.
She laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made him wish she was a different womanand they were in a different situation. He ran an irritated hand through his hair. Hed been celibate for far too long. That rich throaty chuckle was exactly what could make him forget who and what she was.
Actually, thats a lie. She didnt give me a rattle. I received two engraved napkin rings and a boxed china bowl and plate set from the other two.
And from Wendy?
A copy of the Bible, the Koran and the complete works of William Shakespeare.
He watched the way her eyes crinkled into laughter. She was dangerous. You could easily relax in her company, forget that she used anyone and everyone near her to further her careereven a vulnerable sister.
People often described him as ruthless, but he would never have taken something so intensely personal and used it to advance his career. Lydia Stanford might claim that her sister had made a complete recovery, but he doubted it.
Betrayal was painfulacutely painfuland when it came so close to home it was difficult to ever recover from it. He had personal experience of it and her Anastasia Wilson jacket was a visual reminder.
Better to remember how that betrayal had felt. Better to remember how much pain the woman whod decreed that jacket should be in precisely that caramel colour had inflicted. It didnt matter that it exactly picked out a shade in Lydia Stanfords long hair. Or that it accentuated a narrow waist and visually lengthened her legs.
It was a warning. And only a fool would ignore it.
Have you read them?
What? He brought Lydia back into focus. Her lips parted into a smile, showing her even teeth. The woman was stunning. Like a sleek lioness. A mixture of sunshine and fire.
Have you read them all yet? The Bible, the Koran and the complete works of Shakespeare?
By the age of thirty-two.
Im impressed.
Ive never used the napkin rings, though, he returned and was rewarded by the same sexy laugh. Hell, it did something to his insides that didnt bear thinking about.
He closed his hand round the handle of the cat basket. Have you seen Nimrod?
Not yet, but Im sure hell come in for food some time. He cant have had anything to eat since yesterday morning.
Nick glanced down at his wristwatch. Hell have to do it in the next twenty minutes or Ill be out of time. He strode over to the back door and called.
Do cats come when you call?
He looked over his shoulder. No idea. Lydia was smiling, bright eyes ready to laugh and, God help him, he wanted to laugh back.
Look, why dont you let me try and catch Nimrod? I can stay until he comes in for food.
I couldnt ask you to do that. I
Why ever not? She shook back her hair. Youre obviously busy and Im on holiday.
On holiday?
Her smile twisted. I should be in Vienna. I flew back when I heard Wendy wanted me to write her biography.
You broke off your holiday? He couldnt quite believe it. What a pointless gesture. His godmother would have been more than happy to wait. There was nothing so important about the precise timing of this meeting which meant it couldnt have been postponed.
Guilty as charged. Over-developed work ethic. She smiled, but this time it didnt have the same effect. Nick could see a different face.
It was none of his business whether or not Lydia Stanford chose to curtail her holiday, but it reminded him of Ana. Still, four years after shed left, he thought about her most days. There were reasons for that, of course. Good reasons.
In the three years theyd been married Ana had never taken a holiday. Had never turned off her cellphone. It was a price shed been prepared to pay to achieve her goals. He couldnt deny shed been totally honest about that from the very beginning, and at the start hed admired her for it.
Presumably Lydia Stanford would agree that that kind of commitment was necessary. They were wrong.
Ive got the laptop in the car. I can work here and drive Nimrod over to you later. She looked across at him. Its not a problem.
Nick glanced down at his watch. It was tempting to accept her offer. He had back-to-back meetings scheduled for the morning and paperwork that really needed looking at after that, besides squeezing in a visit to the hospital. But to accept meant
She seemed to read his mind. Dont worry. I shant take it as an endorsement of your godmothers choice of biographer. She met his eyes. By the way, what is your problem with me?
Have I said theres a problem? he countered.
You havent needed to. Its obvious.
He hesitated. Wendy is capable of making her own decisions. In fact, she would strongly resent my interference in what doesnt concern me.
Even in his own head his reply sounded pompous and formal. Famed for his tell it like it is approach to business, how had he become so verbally challenged when confronted by a beautiful?
What was she? Not a blonde or a brunette. Richer than a blonde and lighter than a brunette.
I dont believe that for a minute.
He looked up.
Oh, I believe Wendy doesnt like interference in her business. Im like that myself, but her eyes met his but I dont believe you dont tell her what you think. Ive seen you two together, remember.
He felt a small muscle pulse in his cheek. I dont want her hurt.
I wont.
And, strangely, he believed her. There was an innate honesty in those rich eyes that made him want to trust her. Was that how she worked? Was it a highly cultivated technique which persuaded the unsuspecting to share their innermost secrets?
If you slander her in any way Ill sue you.
She didnt flinch. An authorised biography is just thatauthorised. Then her face softened. You really love her, dont you?
Shes a special lady.
So I gather. Lydia slipped her arms out of her jacket and placed it over the chair by the table. You can trust me. Where do you want me to take Nimrod to? Do you have a housekeeper to receive him?
A housekeeper. A nanny. A daughter.
He didnt trust her. Not with one atom of his body. If he left Lydia in the cottage she would, no doubt, look around. Shed open drawers and search through Wendys possessions. But then, Wendy herself had argued that shed nothing to hide.
Let her search.
My housekeeper is Mrs Pearman. Christine Pearman. It felt as if hed lost some unspoken battle. Did your research on me extend to knowing where I live?
As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted his phrasing of them. Lydia Stanford was doing him a favour. Even if she did have an unacknowledged agenda of her own.
You werent that much of an interest, but Im sure I can find out with a couple of phone calls if you want to make it a game.
Hed deserved that, Nick thought as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his card case. Its a ten, fifteen minute drive from here. No more. He scribbled down the address. Ill ring Christine and let her know to expect you. Youll need to phone up to the house when you arrive and theyll open the gates.
Lydia took the card and looked down at it.
If you need to leave before Nimrod puts in an appearance, Id be grateful if youd leave a message with my secretary and Ill come back this evening. The numbers on the front. Its a direct line through to her. I dont want you to feel you have to sit here for hours.
She turned the card over. Its not a problem.
No, wellthank you.
Her eyes flashed up. Youre welcome.
Ill lock the front door. If you leave the key beneath the flowerpot
No problem, she said again.
There was nothing left to do. The cage is here. He pointed at the cat basket.
Yes.
It was just leaving that was the problem. It was walking back down the hall and shutting the door.
Trust. This was about trust. About leaving her alone in Wendys cottage.
Or was it? There was the suspicion that this was about more than that. There was something about her golden aura that touched him. He knew itand he was almost certain she did.
Danger. Fire. And Lydia Stanford. Like the Holy Trinity they belonged together.
Thank you.
Give Wendy myLove. Shed been about to say love. Hardly appropriate for a woman she didnt know. Best wishes.
His hand went to his tie. Ill do that.
Lydia made herself smile. She didnt know what was going on here. There were undercurrents she didnt understand. Perhaps shell ring me when she feelsready?
Im sure she will.
And then he left. Awkwardlyand she had no idea why. Why was it she felt so uncomfortable round Nicholas Regan-Phillips? It wasnt as if she wasnt used to men with influence and money. She was.
She heard the front door click shut and gazed about Wendy Benningtons tired kitchen. What the heck was she doing? And, more importantly, why was she doing it?
It was true, what shed told Nicholas Regan-Phillips, she did have the time. This was her holiday.
Nicholas Regan-Phillips. What a mouthful of a name. Nick Regan. His Nick Regan suited him far better.
Lydia filled the old limescale encrusted kettle and set it on the gas hob. It was just so out of character for her to have agreed to kick her heels in such a place.
Why would she do that? This wasnt her problem.
But Nick Regan was, that little voice that sat some way to the left of her shoulder whispered. He was arrogant, rude, superciliousand sexy. Lydia searched around for a coffee mug. Bizarrely, Nick Regan was very, very sexyand he was probably the reason shed agreed to stay.
Now, if Izzy knew that
CHAPTER THREE
SOME decisions just werent good ones. Lydia glanced over at the cat basket, ridiculously pleased to see that Nimrod was safely locked inside.
There was no man, or woman, on earth who warranted the kind of self-sacrifice shed endured today. Wendys cottage was an unpleasant place to kick your heels for the best part of a day and Nimrod was the kind of cat who should be certifiedand she had the scratches to prove it.
Lydia changed gear to negotiate a particularly tight bend. Shed gone wrong at the moment when shed said it would be no problem to stay. She should have cited a mountainous pile of laundry and the possibility of a phone call from her former editor as reasons she had to be back in London.
Instead, shed endured hours sitting on an uncomfortable sofa with a laptop perched on a melamine tray before beingwell, hereand on her way to Nicholas Regan-Phillipss domestic empire. Though that part didnt bother her. She had to admit she had a rabid curiosity to see what it would be like.
Thered been any number of Internet articles about Drakes but Nicholas Regan-Phillips the man had emerged as something of a mystery. It was pure nosiness, of course, but when fate landed you an opportunity like this one she was not the woman to let it go to waste. She was just dying to see what kind of place he called home, considered it reparation for an otherwise completely wasted day.
Another four miles and an unexpected sharp bend and the gates of Fenton Hall loomed impressively out of a quiet country lane. Lydia pulled the car to a gentle stop. The house itself was completely hidden from view. The gates were well over six feet high, tightly shut and were edged by equally high stone walls. It was taking a desire for privacy to rather extreme lengths.
She reached into her jacket pocket for his business card and came out empty. Where had she put the blasted thing? She leant over to pull her handbag off the back seat and flipped open the soft leather. His card was tucked in the small front pocket.
Lydia keyed in the number hed written on the reverse and within seconds she was answered. Hello. IerI need she searched for the name on the business card I needChristine Pearman. Im delivering Nimrod, Wendy Benningtons cat. Mr Regan-Phillips said hed phone?
Oh, yes. Yes, of course. The voice on the other end sounded distracted and agitated. Ill let you in. Can you tell me when you are inside?
Okay. Lydia tossed the mobile on to her lap as the wide gates started to swing open. Okay, Im through, she said moments later.
You havent seen anyone, have you? No ones gone out?
No.
No one at all?
Good grief! This was getting rather ridiculous. Lydia looked doubtfully at the receiver. If the voice at the other end belonged to Christine Pearman it sounded as if the other woman ought to be more careful about the films she watched. Theres no one here but me.
If you follow the drive up, Ill meet you at the front.
Lydia shrugged. How bizarre. The drive meandered gently until she stopped in front of a spectacular house. It was the kind that had been designed along the established order of what was considered beautiful. There were just the right number of windows either side of an impressive entrance. Wide steps curved up to a front door that would have made Izzys artistic heart drool.
Conservative estimate: upwards of two million pounds worth of Arts and Crafts real estate. She leant across to speak softly to Nimrod. Not a bad holiday pad. Quite a contrast from home.
Lydia unfastened her seat belt and climbed out, catching sight of a beautifully manicured lawn stretching out to the side of the house. It was a stunning place. Which made it strange, surely, for such a wealthy man to leave a godmother he loved with so little?
She lifted out the cat basket. Why not set her up with a little cottage in the grounds? There was bound to be one. Probably more than one.
Lydia Stanford?
Lydia spun round. Yes. I haveNimrod.
Mr Regan-Phillips did telephone, the other woman said with a nod. Her eyes looked past Lydia and seemed to scan the bushes behind her.
It was strange, preoccupied behaviour. Shed expected to be asked in for a cup of tea or somethinga chance to see inside the inner sanctum of Nicholas Regan-Phillipss impressive home. A chance to glean some snippet of information she could regale Izzy with.
Instead the housekeeper seemed completely distracted. Her face was agitated and her eyes were continually darting around as though she were searching for something.
Are you all right? Lydia asked abruptly.
Yes, I the other woman broke off that is
There was the sound of tyres on gravel and the housekeeper looked round. Thank heaven!
Lydia turned round in time to see Nicholas Regan-Phillipss dark green Jaguar twist up the drive. She watched as he climbed out of the drivers seat and slammed the door shut.
Actually, she thought dispassionately, he was sexier than shed first thoughtif that was possible. He was taller, sharper. He looked as though he was used to the world working exactly as he wished it would. And there was something incredibly attractive about that.
She watched as his housekeeper surged forward, stopping him, the hapless Nimrod still imprisoned in the cat basket. Lydia caught no more than snatches of their conversation, words carried back to her on the breeze. We thought she was sleeping
Nick looked past her and his eyes locked with Lydias. He crossed towards her, his feet scrunching on the gravel. Im sorry. It seems my daughter, Rosie, has gone missing, he explained quietly.
Instantly Lydias mind flew through possible options. Was it possible shed been kidnapped?
Something of that must have shown on her face because he added, Its something she does quite frequently. The grounds are fully enclosed; Im sure theres nothing to worry about.
.
.
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NATASHA OAKLEY
Nick Regan-Phillips: a millionaire, whom the world assumes has it allbut he's got a secret that he's kept from the worldhe's a single dad. Nick's daughter, Rosie, is deaf. Nick missed the first five years of Rosie's life, but now she's come to live with him he's struggling to communicate with her.Lydia Stanford: beautiful, courageous, award-^nnning journalist. And seemingly the only person who can help Nick forge a bond with his daughter"But when their fragile relationship is tested, will , Lydia realize how much this millionaire dad really means to herand needs herbefore it is too late?
Dear Reader,
Who was it who said You make your plans and then life happens? Certainly thats true of my life.
Its also true for Nick and Lydia in this story. By the end of this book theyve learned a great deal about themselvesand each other. For Nick, full-time parenting is something of a challenge. And Lydiawell, she has to sort out what her dreams really are before she finds her happy ending. Just like all of us!
The British sign language Nicks daughter, Rosie, uses to communicate is a particular passion of mine.
It all began for me when I was in an open-air production of Much Ado About Nothing, which was signed once a week. Sitting in the bushes waiting for my next entrance, I had a perfect view of the interpreterwho was amazing. I fell in love. Not with the man himself, although he was quite gorgeous, but with the language.
Im now a qualified communicatorand in a few years Im sure Nick will join me.
With love,
Natasha
NATASHA OAKLEY
told everyone at her primary school she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mum bring her coffee at regular intervalsa drink she didnt like then. The coffee addiction became reality, and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing, or needed for crowd control, she loves to escape to antiques fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her Web sitewww.natashaoakley.com (http://www.natashaoakley.com).
Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed
Natasha Oakley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Silhouette Romance is thrilled to bring you
a sparkling new book from British author
Natasha Oakley
Her poignant and emotional writing
will tug on your heartstrings.
Her words shoot straight to your heart just like Cupids
arrow. Ms. Oakley has a special talent for making you
fall in love with her characters.
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One of the best writers of contemporary
romance writing today!
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Emotional, romantic and unforgettable,
Natasha Oakley aims straight for your heart with
richly drawn characters, powerfully intense emotions
and heart-stopping romance!
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u324bf15f-b8ed-5390-a7c2-be0db0a5d902)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua531d21b-d01d-56a2-a890-26a18e32b7f5)
CHAPTER THREE (#u60b55bc4-f10e-5b64-a29d-08577cf6fe12)
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 ONE
THERE was no one there.
Lydia Stanford set her heavy briefcase down and banged again on the dark blue front door of the cottage, stepping back to look at the top floor windows that peeked sleepily out of a roof of handmade tiles.
It was picturesque, but she wasnt here to admire the view and it all looked ominously quiet. There was no glint of movement in the upstairs rooms. No sound of radio or television in the background. Nothing.
Well, nothing except the half-open window above the ramshackle single brick addition at the back. She lifted the brass plate covering the letterbox and peered inside. Ms Bennington? Are you there?
Total silence.
Ms Bennington? Its Lydia Stanford. We have an appointment at ten.
Had an appointment at ten, she corrected silently. It was now nearly twenty past. Damn and blast the woman. Where was she? Lydia straightened and shook back her hair. What exactly was she supposed to do now?
Was it possible Wendy Bennington had forgotten their meeting? Lydia wrinkled her nose and stared at the closed door as though it held all the answers. It didnt seem likely shed have forgotten. The woman was in her late seventies but had a mind so sharp she made politicians quake at the knees the minute she opened her mouth. Shed lay money on her not forgetting a thing. Ever.
Which was why shed grabbed at the chance to write an authorised biography of Wendy Bennington. It was the kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity which meant shed broken off her first holiday in five years. Why shed got the first flight back to London and had immersed herself in researching the inveterate campaigners astonishing life.
So where was she? Lydia peered round the empty garden as though she expected to see Wendy Bennington walk up the path. Just yesterday the older woman had sounded so enthusiastic about the project; surely she wouldnt have gone out? And leaving a window open? No one did that any more.
Lydia sucked in her breath and considered her options. She could, of course, get back in her car and drive back up the motorway to London. Or she could go and get a coffee in Cambridge and come back in an hour or so. Either one would be an irritating waste of her time.
She pushed the bell and rattled the letterbox. Even though it didnt seem worth doing, she bent down and shouted loudly, Ms Bennington? Through the narrow opening she could see the green swirly patterned carpet, but nothing else. The cottage seemed completely deserted.
She half closed the plate, her fingers still on the brass. It wasnt a voice or even a definite noise that made her pause. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that something was wrong. She called again, Ms Bennington, are you there?
Silence. And then a soft thud. Almost.
Hello? Hello, Ms Bennington?
She couldnt be absolutely certain, but she thought she heard the sound again. Not a footstep or someone fallingnothing that obvious. But something. She was almost sure of it.
Lydia straightened and shifted her briefcase into her other hand. Of course it could be nothing more exciting than a cat knocking over a waste-paper basket, but
But if that soft noise had been the elderly ladys attempt to attract attention she wouldnt thank her for walking away and leaving her. Would she? Shed expect her to use her initiativeand do something. Which meant
What?
Lydia chewed gently at the side of her mouth. It had to be worth a try at getting into the cottage through the open window. If Wendy Bennington had been taken ill
It was possible. She might have fallen. Accidents in the home were very common, after all. If anything like that had happened, trying to get into the cottage would be the right thing to do. She glanced down at her watch, now showing twenty-five minutes past the hour.
With sudden energy, Lydia quickly walked round to the back of the cottage and stared at the small upstairs window. It was tantalisingly open. If she could just climb on to the flat roof, reaching the window would be childs play. It didnt look that difficult.
She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one around. No one to ask if theyd seen Wendy Bennington that morning.
There was no choice
Lydia carefully concealed her briefcase beneath a large rhododendron and stood back to consider her options. It really wasnt going to be difficultas long as the flat roof was strong enough to take her weight.
She took a moment to pull a black velvet scrunchie from her jacket pocket and twist her long hair into an untidy topknot before pulling the dustbin up against the wall. Then, holding on to the drain pipe, she hoisted herself up the first few feetjust high enough to get a grip on the roof.
Easy. Well, perhaps, not easybut easy enough. And if Wendy Bennington wasnt home it would be just as straightforward getting out again. No one need know.
With the dexterity of the county-level gymnast shed once been, Lydia swung her leg up and pulled herself on to the roof. If nothing else she could tell the elderly woman her home was a security disaster. Anyone could break in. Where she lived in London no one would dream of doing anything as foolish as going out and leaving a window open. You didnt even leave your car unattended in Hammersmith for five minutes without careful thought.
What the hell do you think youre doing?
A mans voice shot through the silence. Lydias hand paused on the open window, her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.
Get down! Now.
Startled, she turned and looked at the man standing below on the crazy paving. Tall. Handsomein a scruffy, rough kind of a way. Mid-thirties, maybe late. It was difficult to tell.
And angry. Definitely angry. No doubt about that at all.
What the hell do you think youre doing? he repeated.
Lydia moved away from the open window. Getting in. I thought I heard a noise.
Really?
Yes, really, she fired back, irritated by the heavy sarcasm in his voice. How many burglars did he know who went out on a job dressed in a genuine Anastasia Wilson jacket? It was time he took a reality check. I had an appointment with Wendy Bennington at ten
It didnt occur to you to wait until she answered the door? he asked with dangerous politeness, his accent at odds with his very casual clothes. Lydia looked at him more carefully. Whoever he was, he certainly wasnt the farm labourer shed thought he might be.
And he wasnt as handsome, either. He had a hard face and an arrogant stance that made her want to explain the principles of feminismvery slowlybecause hed probably never grasped the concept of equality.
It occurred to me, yes
So, what changed your mind? he asked, still in that same supercilious tone of voice.
Lydia struggled to hang on to her temper. Forty minutes standing about in the garden is probably what did it. Im going to climb in and see if shes hurt. If thats all right with you? she added, turning her back on him.
It isnt.
She looked round. Pardon?
I said, it isnt.
Dont be sostupid. I had a ten oclock appointment. Im sure Wendy wouldnt have forgotten, it was too important. She might be lying hurt inside. Have you thought of that? Lydia turned and pushed the tiny window open.
Id rather you used the key.
What? She swung round in time to see him open the back door. H-How did you do that? The door was locked. I checked
She keeps a spare key under the pot.
Lydia watched him disappear inside with a sense of disbelief. Damn it! This couldnt be happening to her. It had been a very long time since anyone had managed to make her feel so completely foolish.
Logically she knew there was no reason for her to have known Wendy Bennington kept a key hidden. The idea that a formidable campaigner of human rights would keep her back door key under a terracotta flowerpot seemed, frankly, incongruous. But clearly she didand the local populace all knew about it.
At least this particular member of it did. Who inblazes was he anyway? Arrogant, sarcastic, superciliousThe words flowed easily. It didnt help knowing she might have reacted in a very similar way herself if shed discovered someone about to break into a neighbours upstairs window. Presumably he was a neighbour?
Gingerly Lydia lowered herself down, careful not to scrape her jacket on the brickwork. She brushed herself down and picked up her briefcase from under the rhododendron.
Tall, dark and sarcastic had left the door open, no doubt expecting her to follow him. She wiped her feet on the worn doormat and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. The small cottage window ensured the kitchen would always be dark, but the situation was made so much worse by the heavy net curtain hung on plastic-coated wire.
Lydia let out a low whistle. Even though the outside of the cottage was looking frayed around the edges and the garden was hopelessly overgrown, she honestly hadnt believed anyone lived like this any more.
The kitchen looked like something out of a nineteen-forties movie. There were no fitted kitchen units at all. Just a freestanding gas cooker that looked as if it ought to be consigned to a museum and a thickly painted cupboard with bakelite handles. The orange and cream marmoleum floor tiles had begun to lift and the whole room was dominated by a floor-standing boiler.
It was, frankly, grim.
She hadnt been aware that shed had any preconceptions about what shed expected Wendy Benningtons home to be likebut, clearly, shed had many. She stepped over the twin bowls of water and cat food respectively and tried to ignore the faint odour of animal and stale cigarettes.
This had been a mistake. She should have stayed in Vienna, marvelled at the Stephansdom, eaten sachertorte and enjoyed the opera like any other sensible person. What the heck was she doing here?
Shed given up her holidayfor this. Crazy. She was crazy.
And there was still no sign of Wendy Bennington. The house was completely quiet except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the further recesses of the cottage. She placed her briefcase down by the rusting boiler and looked across at the man as he flicked through the mail on the kitchen table.
Im Lydia Stanford, she said with pointed emphasis, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge she was there.
I know.
You know? He said nothing. And you are?
Nick. His eyes were still on the sheaf of letters in his hand. Nick Regan.
Which told her absolutely nothing.
Do you live nearby? If hed looked up hed have seen her head indicate the direction of the only other house within a mile or so of the cottage.
No.
No? Youre not a neighbour?
He looked up at that. Very briefly. The expression in his brown eyes made it absolutely clear hed no intention of assuaging her curiosity. No.
Nick Regan.
Had she read his name anywhere in connection to Wendy Bennington? She was fairly sure she hadnt. All those hours on the Internet? All those pages of notes? Was it possible shed missed something vital?
His accent spoke of an expensive private school education and his assurance indicated he was very used to being in the cottage. Comfortable, even.
Her eyes took in the expensive watch on his wrist and the soft leather of his shoes. Her mother had always sworn you could tell everything about a man by looking at his shoes. If she was right, this one had a bank account to be proud of, despite the worn jeans and faded jumper.
So who was he?
Someone Wendy Bennington had hidden from the public spotlight for over thirty years? A secret son?
She half smiled and pushed the thought aside. It didnt seem likelywhich was such a shame because it would have made a great story.
It didnt fit, though. From all shed learnt of Wendy Bennington so far, shed have been more likely to announce it proudly. Her whole life had been characterised by a complete disregard for social conventions, so the absence of the father wouldnt have deterred her. Shed have told the world that her sons father was an irrelevance and no more than a biological necessity.
Should your name mean something to me?
He looked up and then back at the letters in his hand. No.
Lydia frowned, irritated. What was the matter with the man? This kind of information was hardly highly classified. His behaviour was bizarre, to say the least. And rude.
How do you know Wendy Bennington? she persisted, moving closer.
He threw the pile of letters back on the kitchen table. Ive known her all my life.
Really? Hows that?
His dark eyes flicked momentarily across to her and then he walked out of the room.
Lydia let out her breath in one long stream and just about managed to bite down on the expletive which was on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps he hadnt fully understood that she was the one with the appointment.
Pausing only to shut the back door, she followed him out into the narrow hallway.
Wendy? Nick Regan opened the door immediately to his left and glanced inside.
Is she there?
He brushed past her. Ill check upstairs.
Lydia gave in to temptation and swore softly as he took the stairs a couple of steps at a time. Even allowing for the possibility that he was genuinely worried, there was really no excuse for his attitude towards her. Much more of it and he was going to get the sharp edge of her tongue.
Her hand was on the newel post as he shouted down to her, Get an ambulance.
Ambulance?
Quickly.
Dear God. No.
Despite everything, she hadnt really expected that. For all her dramatic attempt at breaking and entering, she hadnt anticipated anything other than the elderly woman had popped out to get some milk.
Her mind played havoc as she pictured Wendy Bennington lying bleedingor dead, evenShe reached into her handbag and fumbled for her mobile phone while she ran up the short flight of stairs. Whats happened?
In the doorway she saw a figure, instantly recognisable despite the flamboyant caftan and grey flowing hair, slumped in the doorway. It wasnt the way shed imagined shed meet Wendy Bennington.
Every picture shed ever seen had shown Ms Bennington to be a highly capable and formidable woman. Her energy and strength had radiated from each and every image. This woman looked simply old. Her face was filled with fear and complete bewilderment.
Lydia flicked open her mobile and glanced across at Nick, for the first time grateful she hadnt made this discovery alone. Presumably he would know whether Wendy Bennington was prone to bouts like this and whether she was on any kind of medication.
I think she may have had some kind of stroke, he said quietly, his long fingers smoothing back a lock of grey hair. Wendy?
Lydia watched as the woman on the floor frowned and struggled to articulate what she was feelingbut what came out of her mouth was incomprehensible. Her words were slurred and her frustration mounted as she realised she was communicating nothing.
Wendy, can you touch your nose for me? Nick asked.
Again that frown, two deep indentations in the centre of her forehead, and yet there was no discernible movement. Nick looked over his shoulder. Have you rung?
Lydia tapped out the emergency number and waited for the operators voice. It was only a matter of seconds, but it seemed an age before there was an answer. Her hand gripped on to the mobile until her knuckles glowed white and she forced her mind to stay in the present.
The last time shed telephoned for an ambulance it had been for Izzy. Lydia felt her eyes smart with the effort of holding back the emotion those images unleashed. Shed never been so frightened as shed been then. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive had been the longest fifteen minutes of her life.
It had seemed like every minute, every moment, had been stretched out to maximum tension and it was etched on her memory. The feeling of complete helplessness. The guilt. The regret. The panic. And the mind-numbing fear. A whole hotchpotch of feelings she hadnt even begun to unpack yet. All there. All reaching out towards her like fog in a nightmare.
But this was different, she reminded herself. The circumstances were completely different. She forced her breathing to slow and tried to focus on the questions she was being asked.
Nick looked over his shoulder. Tell them to take the left hand fork at the top of the lane. Its a confusing junction. They could lose five minutes or more if they take the wrong turn.
Lydia gave a nod of acknowledgement and reached into her jacket pocket for the piece of paper on which shed written the directions to the cottage. Wendy had been very thorough.
She watched Nick disappear into one of the bedrooms and return with a pillow and satin eiderdown. He used the pillow as a cushion and wrapped the elderly woman gently in the apricot-coloured eiderdown.
Yes, the last cottage on the right. The voice on the other end was precise and calming. About half a mile out of the village. Yes. Thank you. Lydia finished the call and clicked her mobile shut.
Well? Nick turned to look at her.
An ambulance is on its way.
Is there anything I need to do while I wait?
Lydia shook her head. Youve already done it. She said not to move her and to wrap her in something warm as she might be in shock.
He smiled grimly and settled himself back down on the floor, taking Wendys hand between his own. It wont be long now.
Lydia watched the shadow pass across the elderly womans face as she struggled to speak. She seemed so confused. Frightened. So unlike anything shed been expecting to find in such a formidable womanand yet would anyone be otherwise?
Her knowledge of strokes was woefully scanty, but she knew the consequences of them could be devastating. It didnt seem right. A woman of Wendys courage couldnt be struck down like this. It wasnt fair.
But life wasnt fair, was it? It wasnt fair that her parents had died when they were so young. Or that her sister Izzy had miscarried her baby. Life had a way of kicking up all kinds of unpleasant surprises. She ought to know that by now.
Lydia put her phone back in her handbag, taking more care than usual to fasten the stud. Do you want me to put together an overnight bag? Or s-something? Her voice faltered as he looked up, his expression conveying exactly what he thought of her suggestion.
Ill do it later, Nick said curtly, and take it when I go to the hospital.
What was his problem? He looked as though shed told him shed ransack the entire room instead of offering to gather together a few toiletries and a nightdress. Her eyes shifted to Wendys hugely swollen ankle, visible beneath the eiderdown. Ill get some ice.
Sorry?
For her ankle. Whether its broken or just sprained, ice will help it.
He followed the line of her gaze. Right.
Lydia turned and started down the stairs before she thought to ask, Does she have a freezer?
In the old scullery. She keeps a chest freezer out there.
Lydia continued down the stairs. As she reached the bottom she jumped as a warm furry shape twisted round her legs. Hello, she said softly. The cat mewed loudly and pushed that little bit closer. Lydia stooped and ran her hand across the sleek black fur.
Stepping to one side, Lydia carried on to the kitchen. Two concrete steps led down to the old scullery, the ancient copper wash tub in one corner. The freezer stood, large and white, on the far wall. Spots of rust discoloured the surface and the lid seemed to have slightly bowed.
There was so much about Wendy Benningtons house that made her feel unutterably sad. It was as though the elderly woman did no more than camp here. Shed certainly made no effort to make the place feel comfortableor even like a home.
The freezer was in desperate need of being defrosted and Lydia struggled to lift the lid. She chipped off huge chunks of ice and lifted out the top basket.
Inside there were countless boxes of pre-prepared meals for one, half-opened packets of stir-fry and frozen vegetables. Surely more than enough to feed a single person for several months? Lydia lifted out a small packet of peas and headed back upstairs.
Nick turned as soon as she got there. Have you found something? Her ankle seems to be bothering her now.
Youll need to wrap this in a towel. Its very cold.
But even as she spoke hed pulled out a pillow from its pillowcase and tucked the frozen packet inside. She watched as he carefully held it up against the swelling and heard Wendys small moan of pain.
Is there anything else I can do? Id like to help.
Nick glanced up. If you want to be useful you could take your car down to the village and point the ambulance in the right direction.
Im sure theres no need for that. I found my way here without a problem.
But its a single track road and if they miss the junction theres nowhere to turn for a couple of miles.
Lydia frowned, uncertain what to do. What he was saying about the junction was truebut it was more than that. He so clearly wanted her to leave.
She heard the elderly woman mumble incomprehensibly and wondered whether he wished her to go because he knew how much Wendy would hate being seen this way. If the situation was reversed, if she were the woman lying on the floor, she would prefer there were no strangers to see it.
And there was no doubt that Wendy trusted Nick implicitly, not once had she glanced across in Lydias direction. Her eyes searched out his as though they would be her salvation.
It felt intensely private. His strong hand calmly held Wendys frail agitated one in his. Lydia didnt think shed ever seen a man so gentle or so eminently capable of managing a situation alone.
Ill wait in the village.
Nick scarcely noticed shed spoken; his mind and energy were focused entirely on Wendy Bennington.
As it should be, she reminded herself. Of course, he should be totally concerned about the sick woman.
Lydia reached inside an inner pocket of her handbag and pulled out a business card. Would you call me? Id like to know how Ms Bennington is doing.
He turned, his expression unreadable. If he wasnt a poker player, he ought to be. She couldnt tell whether he thought it reasonable that she wanted to know what happened to Wendy or whether he thought it an intrusion.
Please?
His face didnt change, but after a short pause he reached out and took her card. Make sure you leave the front door open, he said, tucking it in the back pocket of his jeans.
Lydia supposed she had to take that as an agreement that he would call her. Whether he would remember to actually do it or not was a different matter.
Quietly she walked down the stairs and into the oppressively gloomy kitchen. Her briefcase was still by the rusting boiler where shed left it. Lydia bent and picked it up, before taking a last opportunity to glance about her.
Sad. It was a truly sad place.
Slowly she walked along the hall and carefully put the front door on the latch. It was strange that Nick Regan let Wendy Bennington live in such a way. He so obviously loved her. It was in the way hed brushed her hair off her forehead and held her hand.
So who was he? Why was he so concerned about Wendy Bennington? It surely went beyond being a mere friend, but his name hadnt appeared in her research. As far as shed been able to ascertain, Wendy had no family at all. Not even a nephew. An only child of only children.
She walked down the narrow front path, mulling over the possibilities. At the gate she stopped, mouth open in disbelief. His car was parked immediately in front of her ownand her mothers wealth barometer had been spot on. Nick Regan drove a top of the range sports car. So who the heck was he?
Lydia opened her car door, feeling vaguely ashamed. There was something in her which made it impossible to switch off the journalist. Why couldnt she merely be pleased that Wendy had someone who loved her? Wendy had lived her life entirely for other people; it was right that when she needed help herself there should be someone to give it. Someone who cared because they chose to, rather than doing so out of a sense of duty.
She tipped the front seat of her more modest car forward and slid in her briefcase. Perhaps she hadnt been so far adrift in thinking he was behaving like a son? It had to be a possibility because what else was there?
The engine purred into life and Lydia took a last glance back at the cottage through her rear-view mirror. He was the right kind of age. Thirty-four, maybe as much as thirty-eight. Certainly no more.
Perhaps he was the result of a passionate affair? She let her imagination soar. An affair with a married man? Or the husband of a friend? Or was he a sperm donor baby? Or
She was getting ridiculous. If Wendy Bennington had ever been pregnant someone somewhere would have written about it. She glanced up again at her drivers mirror and groaned at the image she presented. Her hair was still bunched up in a childish topknot. Hardly the look of an award-winning journalist.
Damn.
She ripped out the scrunchie and let her hair fall softly around her shoulders. Nick bloody Regan probably thought she was some kind of tea girl rather than the woman hisfriendhad chosen as her biographer.
It shouldnt matter. Lydia crunched her car into first gear. It didnt matterat all. Butbut this was not turning out to be a good day.
Nick heard her leave. First her footsteps on the stairs and then the sound of her car pulling away. He let out his breath in a steady stream and tried to settle himself into a more comfortable position on the floor.
He hadnt expected Lydia Stanford would give up so easily. Her kind always stayed to the last. They circled overhead, waiting for the kill, like the scavengers they were. The wonder was that she hadnt whipped out her camera and taken some photographs as background colouror whatever she called it to salve her conscience.
Nick rested his head against the wall. There were other journalists, with far better credentials than Ms Stanford, who would have been more than anxious to write an authorised biography. Some he would have trusted to do a fair and balanced job of it.
But Lydia Stanford
No. He wouldnt trust her as far as he could spit. What Wendy had been thinking of to insist on a woman capable of building her career by using her own sisters tragedy he couldnt imagine. You had to be an automaton to do what Lydia had done.
Any normal person would have been overcome by grief at her sisters attempted suicide. Theyd have hung by her bedside, too traumatised to do anything else.
But not Lydia Stanford. Ms Stanford had launched an exhaustive vendetta against the man at the centre of the scandal. Shed meticulously collected information on his fraudulent business dealings, making sure she had enough to ruin him.
And in the process shed made her own fortune. Not bad going. But what about the sister? How did she feel about being a stepping stone in her sisters career?
Even his ex-wife, Ana, wouldnt have been so coldly calculating. He rubbed a hand across the spike of pain in his forehead. Or just not as overt? But that made precious little difference to the people around them. They still got hurt. Collateral damage in a game they didnt know they were playing.
One thing was certain; Wendys decision to choose Lydia Stanford had nothing to do with the mane of honey-brown hair which she wore in that half up, half down sexy thing women did. Nor would Wendy have noticed the amber flecks in her brown eyes, or her long legs, or, he altered his position slightly, her unfortunate taste for his ex-wifes jacket design. Presumably Ms Stanford thought it worth selling her soul to be able to afford an Anastasia Wilson jacket. Now Ana would most certainly have approved of that.
Nick shifted uncomfortably on the floor, listening out for the sound of the ambulance. He stroked the hand in his lap. It cant be much longer, Wendy. Hang on in there for me.
He watched the frown of concentration and heard the quietly determined, Apple.
He leant closer. What about an apple?
With total concentration she carefully repeated, Apple.
It made no sense. Nick kept stroking her hand and tried to sound calm and reassuring. The minutes ticked by interminably slowly.
He tried to picture Lydia Stanford at that crucial junction making sure the ambulance crew didnt waste precious minutes. Shed do that, he decided. She might have ambition running through her veins where lesser mortals had blood, but he believed shed take a few moments to help the woman whose biography shed agreed to write.
Even Ana would have spared a few minutes from her hectic schedule. His smile twisted. Or perhaps not. Ana spared no thought for anyone but herself.
The garden gate banged and he sat a little straighter. Thank God. Up here, he shouted.
He heard the mumble of voices as they came into the hall; seconds later a face appeared at the top of the stairs. Wendy Bennington, is it? the woman said, taking in the slumped figure on the floor.
Nick nodded, standing up and brushing down his jeans.
Your friend made sure we didnt miss the turning. She knelt down and spoke to Wendy. Im Sarah. Well soon have you sorted, my love.
CHAPTER TWO
IZZY put a plate of spicy crab cakes and salad in front of her sister. So, tell me. Whats the matter? She sat down opposite Lydia and flicked back her softly waving hair. I might have overdone the chilli in the dipping sauce, so go careful.
Lydia took a mouthful of the crab cake. This is fantastic.
I know. Its the Tobasco.
Youre getting good.
Im a genius, Izzy said, smiling over the top of her glass of wine, but thats not why youre here, is it? Whats happened?
You mean apart from Wendy Bennington having a stroke?
Izzy nodded. Apart from that. Although its horrible for her, of course. I dont mean it isnt, but
The silence hung between them.
Youve seen far worse things than an elderly woman having a stroke, Liddy.
Which was true.
So, whats bothering you?
Lydia sighed and looked across at her younger sister, uncertain as to what it was that was nagging at her. It seemed to be a whole mixture of things twirling about in her head making her feel discontented. Irritated. That wasnt the right word either.
It was as though shed been travelling happily in one direction only to have it violently blocked off. Like a train being derailed, if you liked. Normally shed have worked out a way to make it an opportunity, but
Lydia winced. It didnt feel like an opportunity. It felt
She didnt know what it felt like. There was something about seeing Wendy Bennington slumped in that doorway that had affected her deeplyand in a way she found difficult to understand. Instead of driving back to Hammersmith shed rung Izzy and begged a bed for the night.
But why? Her sister was absolutely right when she said shed seen and experienced so much worse.
In her nine years as a journalist shed witnessed many terrible things. Not just death and injury, but mindless violence and examples of sadistic cruelty that defied description. Some days it was difficult to maintain any kind of belief in the innate goodness of human nature, but shed trained herself to cope with it. She was inured against it all.
Almost.
Certainly detached. Lydia picked up her wineglass and sipped. It was as if a steel screen came down and kept her objective. It was the only way it was possible to do her job. She imagined it was similar to the way a surgeon worked. You could care, really deeply, but not so much that it prevented you from thinking clearly.
She looked across at Izzy, patiently waiting, her hands cradled around her wineglass. The only time in her life when shed felt completely out of control was when shed found Izzy unconscious. There would never, could never, be any event more terrible than finding her sister had taken an overdose.
She hadnt felt detached then. That night shed experienced emotions she hadnt known she was capable of feeling. Shed believed Izzy would die and fear had ripped through her like lightning in a night sky. Thered been the sense of being utterly alone and desperately frightened. Not even the unexpected death of her parents had inspired such an extreme reaction.
The only thing that had kept her functioning, on any level, was the passionate hatred she felt for Steven Dalythe man responsible. Bitter anger had uncurled like a serpent within her. It had driven her. Had demanded retribution.
Looking at Izzy now, little more than two years on, it could almost have been a dream. She looked so youngand hopeful. Time was a great healer.
Well? Izzy prompted.
Lydia forced a smile. I think it was the house, she said at last, trying to put words on thoughts she couldnt quite catch hold of. Youve never seen anything like it. She lives in a cottage that times all but forgotten. All alone in the middle of nowhere.
Perhaps she likes solitude? Some people do.
Its not thatIts Lydia frowned. The cottage smells of damp and cat urineand then there are all these frozen meals for one in the freezer. Its so incrediblysad. Theres no other word for it She broke off. Oh, no!
What?
Id forgotten about the cat. Lydia put down her wineglass. Shes got a cat.
Its not your problem, Liddy.
But whos going to feed it?
Probably the irritating Nick Regan. It really isnt your problem, Izzy repeated, taking in her sisters expression. If not him, therell be a neighbour.
You think?
Theres bound to be.
Lydia relaxed. Of course there was. Wendy Bennington went abroad for long stretches of time. There were bound to be structures in place to take care of her pet. Lydia picked up her knife and fork. Youre right. I know youre right. Its just
Izzy smiled. You really like this Wendy Bennington, dont you?
I hardly know her. Lydia cut a bite-sized piece off her crab cake. Weve spoken on the phone half a dozen times, no more. Id never met her face to face. Until todaywhen shed been confused and frightened. Nothing like the woman shed been expecting. The image of her slumped in her bedroom doorway hovered at the front of Lydias mind.
But you like her. I can tell you do.
Lydia paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Did that explain it? She certainly admired Wendy. Had been flattered and very excited at the prospect of writing her biography.
Izzy seemed to follow her thoughts. Theres no reason to think you wont still write the biography. Give it a few days and see how serious her stroke was. You might be surprised.
I might, she conceded.
Perhaps that Nick Regan will phone you.
Lydia pulled a face. Id be surprised at that. He didnt like me at all.
Why?
No idea. Lydia thought for a moment. It didnt help that he found me standing on a flat roof, trying to get into the cottage through an upstairs window, but she looked up as Izzy gave a sudden spurt of laughter I dont think it was that.
I cant think why. Most people would think it odd.
Lydia shook her head, a reluctant twinkle in her eyes. It probably didnt help, she conceded, cutting another mouthful off her crab cake, but he really didnt like me. At all. You know, eyes across a crowded room, instantaneous dislike. No mistaking it.
Is he handsome? Izzy sat back.
Thats irrelevant.
Its never irrelevant.
Lydia ignored her.
Well, is he?
No. Even without looking up she could feel Izzy smile. She put down her fork. Not exactly.
Which means he is.
It does not!
And then Izzy laughed again. He is, though. I searched for his name on the Internet while you were having your shower. Hes gorgeous. A bit likewhats the name of that actor inOh, stuff it, I cant remember. Regency thing. You used to have him as your screensaver.
The actor from Pride and Prejudice? Nick Regan looks nothing like him! Lydia protested.
Not exactly, but a bit. Hes got the same brooding, intense expression. At least, this Nick Regan does. Hes an inventor. I think. She waved her hand as though it didnt matter in the slightest. Basically, he is Drakes, if you get what I mean. He owns the company and came up with the idea of the electrical component in the first place. Worth millions.
Lydia frowned. He cant be. Thats Nicolas Regan-Phillips. She closed her eyes. Damn it! It couldnt be.
Could it? And, if so, what had he got to do with Wendy Bennington?
Ive bookmarked it for you to see.
Ill look later.
Could Nick Regan be Nicolas Regan-Phillips? Izzy must have made a mistake. A multimillionaire corporate businessman and a human rights campaignerwhat could possibly link the two together?
The cottage had been securely locked up. Lydia moved the terracotta pot with very little expectation of finding the key beneath itbut there it was.
She clutched the small tin of cat food and bent to pick up the key. If the almighty Nicolas Regan-Phillips had anticipated she might return to the cottage he might not have put it back there. So much for his apparently awesome ability to read character, but at least the cat wouldnt starve.
The back door opened easily. Izzy had laughed at her for deciding on making the thirty minute detour, but it felt like the right thing to do. How could she return to London knowing she could have done something to help Wendy but had chosen not to? And this was little enough.
Cat, she called softly. She set her handbag on the stainless steel draining board. Cat, where are you? Breakfast time.
The bowl of leftover cat food on the floor looked revolting. Lydia picked it up with two fingers and carried it across to a plastic swing-bin. Why do people keep pets? she mumbled softly to herself, turning back to the sink and giving the bowl a swill out. This is disgusting.
To keep them company?
Lydia gave a startled cry and whipped round.
Because they love them? Nicolas Regan-Phillips said, leaning against the kitchen doorway, looking much more like the photograph Izzy had found than he had the day before. He wore a sharp and very conventional pinstripe suit. Power dressing at its most effective.
And he was handsome. Her sisters words popped into her mind and she silently cursed her. The resemblance to her favorite actor was really very superficial, but it was there all the same.
II came to feed the cat. Lydia turned away and pulled back the loop on the tin, irritated at the slight nervous stutter. Where had that come from? And, more importantly, why?
So did I. He placed a brown paper bag down on the draining board.
I hope you dont mind that I She stopped herself, swinging round to look up at him as a new thought occurred to her. How did you get in?
He held up a key. Front door.
Oh. Lydia cursed herself for the inanity of her reply. Of course he would have Wendys key. He would have needed it to lock up the cottage. What was the matter with her?
She carefully scooped out the contents of the tin with a spoon, aware that Nick continued to watch her. He made her feel uncomfortable, as though, perhaps, shed been caught out doing something he considered wrong rather than the good deed shed intended. I suddenly remembered Id seen a cat. I couldnt leave it to starve, she said, glancing up.
He really did have the most inscrutable face. Normally she was good at picking up emotional nuancesbut Nicholas Regan-Phillips seemed to short circuit some connection and she was left uncertain.
On balance he didnt seem as angry as hed been yesterday. More suspicious. She looked away. It probably wasnt anything personal. He had a reputation for avoiding journalists and for protecting his privacy. Lydia swilled out the empty tin under the tap. Does Wendy have a recycling bin?
I imagine so.
Lydia looked up in time to catch his swift frown. If she puzzled him she was glad. He certainly puzzled her. What had he to do with Wendy Bennington? She hadnt managed to discover any connection at all. It was a mysteryand mysteries really bugged her.
Shall I leave this on the side then?
Im sure thatll be fine.
Lydia carefully placed the tin at the back of the draining board and rinsed the spoon. Hows Wendy?
There was a small beat of silence while, it seemed, he evaluated her right to ask the question. Better than she looked yesterday.
Lydia glanced over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.
Shes had a TIA. A mini-stroke, if you like. Shell be fine. His mouth quirked into a half-smile. It was a nice mouth, firm and sensual. No permanent damage, but shes been told to make some life changes.
Thatsfantastic.
His smile broadened and something inside her flickered in recognition. Id love to hear you try and convince her of that.
When will she be home?
Well he stretched out the word that depends on who you speak to. Shes broken her ankle. Its a fairly simple break, apparently, and doesnt need surgery, but
Lydia looked around her and then down at the uneven floor levels.
Nick followed her gaze. Exactly. Shes not going to manage here for a few weeks, however much shed rather be in her own home.
No, Lydia agreed. She placed the clean bowl back on the floor and picked up the other one. So, whos won?
The cards are stacked in my favour. Im here to pick up Nimrod. Hopefully lure him in with food.
Lydia emptied the water into the sink and put in some fresh. Thats the cat?
Nimrod, the mighty hunter, Nick agreed, moving away into the hall, his voice slightly muffled. I gather his namesake was Noahs great-grandson. He reappeared moments later, carrying a cat basket.
Great name, she said, smiling at the incongruous sight of a city gent with rustic cat basket.
Certainly appropriate. Hes something of a killer cat. Wendy picked him up as a stray a couple of years ago, only he turned out not to be so much a waif as a con artist. If it moves, Nimrod will hunt it. There never was a cat more suited to life in the wild.
Lydia laughed. Good luck getting it into that thing then, she said with a gesture at the cat basket.
So Wendys warned me, he said, setting it down on the kitchen table.
She rinsed her hands under the tap. Im glad its all sorted. It suddenly occurred to me, after Id left, that you might forget aboutNimrod. I was going to contact you today.
How?
She looked up, surprised by the abrupt single word question. It wouldnt have been too difficult. A call to your company
His nod was almost imperceptible, but she could see his attitude towards her change. I thought you didnt know who I was.
I didnt, but you have an Internet presence
And you checked.
Lydia thought of Izzy and smiled, deciding that she wouldnt tell him that her description of him had inspired her sister with a burning fascination to discover who had managed to rile her so much. Thered been little enough information to find, nothing he could object to.
He was thirty-six and divorced. His only child, a daughter, lived with her mother and he was hugely successful at what he did. Nothing particularly unusual in any of that.
Do you always pry into other peoples business?
Pretty much. She looked about her for a towel on which to dry her hands. Its an occupational hazard. But, this time, youve got to acknowledge I was invited to pry.
Not by me.
By Wendy. She turned to face him. Though I dispute the use of the word pry.
His eyes narrowed. Do you?
Shes led an amazing life. Dont you think its in the public interest to have that properly chronicled? What shes achieved, particularly for women, is amazing.
I think whats deemed to be in the public interest is stretched beyond belief, he said dryly, but thats not to undermine what Wendy has achieved.
Cant argue with that, I supposebut Im not here as a representative of any tabloid paper. Wendy will have complete control over what I write about her and, as long as its truthful, Ive no problem with that.
No?
Absolutely not.
She sounded aghast, but Nick knew better. Confronting Lydia Stanford was like coming up against a snake in the grass. You could never trust her. Never.
Very early in her career shed worked undercover to highlight the ill treatment of the elderly in care homes and, while you couldnt question the validity of her findingsyou had to be suspicious of her ability to lie. And lie convincingly enough for colleagues to trust her.
Wendy might be impressed by her ability to stick to her purpose, of owning a cause and staying with it, whatever the personal costbut he suspected a different motivation lay at the heart of it. He suspected her only cause was herselfLydia Stanford. And where was the virtue in that?
She carefully folded the towel and threaded it back through the loop. So how do you know Wendy?
You dont give up, do you?
Lydia smiled, her eyes the colour of topaz. Warm and beguiling. Its usually easier to give in and tell me what I want to know.
He turned away as though that would stop him being drawn in. Shes my godmother.
Really?
I have the rattle to prove it.
She laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made him wish she was a different womanand they were in a different situation. He ran an irritated hand through his hair. Hed been celibate for far too long. That rich throaty chuckle was exactly what could make him forget who and what she was.
Actually, thats a lie. She didnt give me a rattle. I received two engraved napkin rings and a boxed china bowl and plate set from the other two.
And from Wendy?
A copy of the Bible, the Koran and the complete works of William Shakespeare.
He watched the way her eyes crinkled into laughter. She was dangerous. You could easily relax in her company, forget that she used anyone and everyone near her to further her careereven a vulnerable sister.
People often described him as ruthless, but he would never have taken something so intensely personal and used it to advance his career. Lydia Stanford might claim that her sister had made a complete recovery, but he doubted it.
Betrayal was painfulacutely painfuland when it came so close to home it was difficult to ever recover from it. He had personal experience of it and her Anastasia Wilson jacket was a visual reminder.
Better to remember how that betrayal had felt. Better to remember how much pain the woman whod decreed that jacket should be in precisely that caramel colour had inflicted. It didnt matter that it exactly picked out a shade in Lydia Stanfords long hair. Or that it accentuated a narrow waist and visually lengthened her legs.
It was a warning. And only a fool would ignore it.
Have you read them?
What? He brought Lydia back into focus. Her lips parted into a smile, showing her even teeth. The woman was stunning. Like a sleek lioness. A mixture of sunshine and fire.
Have you read them all yet? The Bible, the Koran and the complete works of Shakespeare?
By the age of thirty-two.
Im impressed.
Ive never used the napkin rings, though, he returned and was rewarded by the same sexy laugh. Hell, it did something to his insides that didnt bear thinking about.
He closed his hand round the handle of the cat basket. Have you seen Nimrod?
Not yet, but Im sure hell come in for food some time. He cant have had anything to eat since yesterday morning.
Nick glanced down at his wristwatch. Hell have to do it in the next twenty minutes or Ill be out of time. He strode over to the back door and called.
Do cats come when you call?
He looked over his shoulder. No idea. Lydia was smiling, bright eyes ready to laugh and, God help him, he wanted to laugh back.
Look, why dont you let me try and catch Nimrod? I can stay until he comes in for food.
I couldnt ask you to do that. I
Why ever not? She shook back her hair. Youre obviously busy and Im on holiday.
On holiday?
Her smile twisted. I should be in Vienna. I flew back when I heard Wendy wanted me to write her biography.
You broke off your holiday? He couldnt quite believe it. What a pointless gesture. His godmother would have been more than happy to wait. There was nothing so important about the precise timing of this meeting which meant it couldnt have been postponed.
Guilty as charged. Over-developed work ethic. She smiled, but this time it didnt have the same effect. Nick could see a different face.
It was none of his business whether or not Lydia Stanford chose to curtail her holiday, but it reminded him of Ana. Still, four years after shed left, he thought about her most days. There were reasons for that, of course. Good reasons.
In the three years theyd been married Ana had never taken a holiday. Had never turned off her cellphone. It was a price shed been prepared to pay to achieve her goals. He couldnt deny shed been totally honest about that from the very beginning, and at the start hed admired her for it.
Presumably Lydia Stanford would agree that that kind of commitment was necessary. They were wrong.
Ive got the laptop in the car. I can work here and drive Nimrod over to you later. She looked across at him. Its not a problem.
Nick glanced down at his watch. It was tempting to accept her offer. He had back-to-back meetings scheduled for the morning and paperwork that really needed looking at after that, besides squeezing in a visit to the hospital. But to accept meant
She seemed to read his mind. Dont worry. I shant take it as an endorsement of your godmothers choice of biographer. She met his eyes. By the way, what is your problem with me?
Have I said theres a problem? he countered.
You havent needed to. Its obvious.
He hesitated. Wendy is capable of making her own decisions. In fact, she would strongly resent my interference in what doesnt concern me.
Even in his own head his reply sounded pompous and formal. Famed for his tell it like it is approach to business, how had he become so verbally challenged when confronted by a beautiful?
What was she? Not a blonde or a brunette. Richer than a blonde and lighter than a brunette.
I dont believe that for a minute.
He looked up.
Oh, I believe Wendy doesnt like interference in her business. Im like that myself, but her eyes met his but I dont believe you dont tell her what you think. Ive seen you two together, remember.
He felt a small muscle pulse in his cheek. I dont want her hurt.
I wont.
And, strangely, he believed her. There was an innate honesty in those rich eyes that made him want to trust her. Was that how she worked? Was it a highly cultivated technique which persuaded the unsuspecting to share their innermost secrets?
If you slander her in any way Ill sue you.
She didnt flinch. An authorised biography is just thatauthorised. Then her face softened. You really love her, dont you?
Shes a special lady.
So I gather. Lydia slipped her arms out of her jacket and placed it over the chair by the table. You can trust me. Where do you want me to take Nimrod to? Do you have a housekeeper to receive him?
A housekeeper. A nanny. A daughter.
He didnt trust her. Not with one atom of his body. If he left Lydia in the cottage she would, no doubt, look around. Shed open drawers and search through Wendys possessions. But then, Wendy herself had argued that shed nothing to hide.
Let her search.
My housekeeper is Mrs Pearman. Christine Pearman. It felt as if hed lost some unspoken battle. Did your research on me extend to knowing where I live?
As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted his phrasing of them. Lydia Stanford was doing him a favour. Even if she did have an unacknowledged agenda of her own.
You werent that much of an interest, but Im sure I can find out with a couple of phone calls if you want to make it a game.
Hed deserved that, Nick thought as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his card case. Its a ten, fifteen minute drive from here. No more. He scribbled down the address. Ill ring Christine and let her know to expect you. Youll need to phone up to the house when you arrive and theyll open the gates.
Lydia took the card and looked down at it.
If you need to leave before Nimrod puts in an appearance, Id be grateful if youd leave a message with my secretary and Ill come back this evening. The numbers on the front. Its a direct line through to her. I dont want you to feel you have to sit here for hours.
She turned the card over. Its not a problem.
No, wellthank you.
Her eyes flashed up. Youre welcome.
Ill lock the front door. If you leave the key beneath the flowerpot
No problem, she said again.
There was nothing left to do. The cage is here. He pointed at the cat basket.
Yes.
It was just leaving that was the problem. It was walking back down the hall and shutting the door.
Trust. This was about trust. About leaving her alone in Wendys cottage.
Or was it? There was the suspicion that this was about more than that. There was something about her golden aura that touched him. He knew itand he was almost certain she did.
Danger. Fire. And Lydia Stanford. Like the Holy Trinity they belonged together.
Thank you.
Give Wendy myLove. Shed been about to say love. Hardly appropriate for a woman she didnt know. Best wishes.
His hand went to his tie. Ill do that.
Lydia made herself smile. She didnt know what was going on here. There were undercurrents she didnt understand. Perhaps shell ring me when she feelsready?
Im sure she will.
And then he left. Awkwardlyand she had no idea why. Why was it she felt so uncomfortable round Nicholas Regan-Phillips? It wasnt as if she wasnt used to men with influence and money. She was.
She heard the front door click shut and gazed about Wendy Benningtons tired kitchen. What the heck was she doing? And, more importantly, why was she doing it?
It was true, what shed told Nicholas Regan-Phillips, she did have the time. This was her holiday.
Nicholas Regan-Phillips. What a mouthful of a name. Nick Regan. His Nick Regan suited him far better.
Lydia filled the old limescale encrusted kettle and set it on the gas hob. It was just so out of character for her to have agreed to kick her heels in such a place.
Why would she do that? This wasnt her problem.
But Nick Regan was, that little voice that sat some way to the left of her shoulder whispered. He was arrogant, rude, superciliousand sexy. Lydia searched around for a coffee mug. Bizarrely, Nick Regan was very, very sexyand he was probably the reason shed agreed to stay.
Now, if Izzy knew that
CHAPTER THREE
SOME decisions just werent good ones. Lydia glanced over at the cat basket, ridiculously pleased to see that Nimrod was safely locked inside.
There was no man, or woman, on earth who warranted the kind of self-sacrifice shed endured today. Wendys cottage was an unpleasant place to kick your heels for the best part of a day and Nimrod was the kind of cat who should be certifiedand she had the scratches to prove it.
Lydia changed gear to negotiate a particularly tight bend. Shed gone wrong at the moment when shed said it would be no problem to stay. She should have cited a mountainous pile of laundry and the possibility of a phone call from her former editor as reasons she had to be back in London.
Instead, shed endured hours sitting on an uncomfortable sofa with a laptop perched on a melamine tray before beingwell, hereand on her way to Nicholas Regan-Phillipss domestic empire. Though that part didnt bother her. She had to admit she had a rabid curiosity to see what it would be like.
Thered been any number of Internet articles about Drakes but Nicholas Regan-Phillips the man had emerged as something of a mystery. It was pure nosiness, of course, but when fate landed you an opportunity like this one she was not the woman to let it go to waste. She was just dying to see what kind of place he called home, considered it reparation for an otherwise completely wasted day.
Another four miles and an unexpected sharp bend and the gates of Fenton Hall loomed impressively out of a quiet country lane. Lydia pulled the car to a gentle stop. The house itself was completely hidden from view. The gates were well over six feet high, tightly shut and were edged by equally high stone walls. It was taking a desire for privacy to rather extreme lengths.
She reached into her jacket pocket for his business card and came out empty. Where had she put the blasted thing? She leant over to pull her handbag off the back seat and flipped open the soft leather. His card was tucked in the small front pocket.
Lydia keyed in the number hed written on the reverse and within seconds she was answered. Hello. IerI need she searched for the name on the business card I needChristine Pearman. Im delivering Nimrod, Wendy Benningtons cat. Mr Regan-Phillips said hed phone?
Oh, yes. Yes, of course. The voice on the other end sounded distracted and agitated. Ill let you in. Can you tell me when you are inside?
Okay. Lydia tossed the mobile on to her lap as the wide gates started to swing open. Okay, Im through, she said moments later.
You havent seen anyone, have you? No ones gone out?
No.
No one at all?
Good grief! This was getting rather ridiculous. Lydia looked doubtfully at the receiver. If the voice at the other end belonged to Christine Pearman it sounded as if the other woman ought to be more careful about the films she watched. Theres no one here but me.
If you follow the drive up, Ill meet you at the front.
Lydia shrugged. How bizarre. The drive meandered gently until she stopped in front of a spectacular house. It was the kind that had been designed along the established order of what was considered beautiful. There were just the right number of windows either side of an impressive entrance. Wide steps curved up to a front door that would have made Izzys artistic heart drool.
Conservative estimate: upwards of two million pounds worth of Arts and Crafts real estate. She leant across to speak softly to Nimrod. Not a bad holiday pad. Quite a contrast from home.
Lydia unfastened her seat belt and climbed out, catching sight of a beautifully manicured lawn stretching out to the side of the house. It was a stunning place. Which made it strange, surely, for such a wealthy man to leave a godmother he loved with so little?
She lifted out the cat basket. Why not set her up with a little cottage in the grounds? There was bound to be one. Probably more than one.
Lydia Stanford?
Lydia spun round. Yes. I haveNimrod.
Mr Regan-Phillips did telephone, the other woman said with a nod. Her eyes looked past Lydia and seemed to scan the bushes behind her.
It was strange, preoccupied behaviour. Shed expected to be asked in for a cup of tea or somethinga chance to see inside the inner sanctum of Nicholas Regan-Phillipss impressive home. A chance to glean some snippet of information she could regale Izzy with.
Instead the housekeeper seemed completely distracted. Her face was agitated and her eyes were continually darting around as though she were searching for something.
Are you all right? Lydia asked abruptly.
Yes, I the other woman broke off that is
There was the sound of tyres on gravel and the housekeeper looked round. Thank heaven!
Lydia turned round in time to see Nicholas Regan-Phillipss dark green Jaguar twist up the drive. She watched as he climbed out of the drivers seat and slammed the door shut.
Actually, she thought dispassionately, he was sexier than shed first thoughtif that was possible. He was taller, sharper. He looked as though he was used to the world working exactly as he wished it would. And there was something incredibly attractive about that.
She watched as his housekeeper surged forward, stopping him, the hapless Nimrod still imprisoned in the cat basket. Lydia caught no more than snatches of their conversation, words carried back to her on the breeze. We thought she was sleeping
Nick looked past her and his eyes locked with Lydias. He crossed towards her, his feet scrunching on the gravel. Im sorry. It seems my daughter, Rosie, has gone missing, he explained quietly.
Instantly Lydias mind flew through possible options. Was it possible shed been kidnapped?
Something of that must have shown on her face because he added, Its something she does quite frequently. The grounds are fully enclosed; Im sure theres nothing to worry about.
.
.
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NATASHA OAKLEY
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Nick Regan-Phillips: a millionaire, whom the world assumes has it all…but he′s got a secret that he′s kept from the world–he′s a single dad. Nick′s daughter, Rosie, is deaf. Nick missed the first five years of Rosie′s life, but now she′s come to live with him he′s struggling to communicate with her….Lydia Stanford: beautiful, courageous, award-^nnning journalist. And seemingly the only person who can help Nick forge a bond with his daughter…"But when their fragile relationship is tested, will , Lydia realize how much this millionaire dad really means to her–and needs her–before it is too late?