Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | No More Secrets

No More Secrets
CATHERINE GEORGE


Friend–or husband?It seemed to everyone in Pennington that Ben Fletcher had met his match in Kate Harker and was ready to settle down. But Kate didn't see it that way at all. Though Ben was tall and handsome, she was determined not to fall for him!Kate couldn't believe that Ben shared her deep, loving feelings–not since she'd learned that secret about him….Was Kate right to be convinced that Ben could be only her friend and never her husband?PENNINGTONA place where dreams come true







“I’m asking you to the theater because it’s a good play and I’d like your company. (#ubf61d393-e1d1-50ea-a09b-3953762004bc)Letter to Reader (#u1cca928c-9623-5ae9-b9fe-382a4e326eef)Title Page (#u79b725b7-51cf-5b06-9c6a-598eb4780fa8)CHAPTER ONE (#ue6dda66b-0e12-584a-9ff3-d4d1daa61a6d)CHAPTER TWO (#ue3bd01c2-4983-5980-8436-26d0f74123be)CHAPTER THREE (#u84ed9dd3-01c8-54e1-9d83-726ead2d21d2)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“I’m asking you to the theater because it’s a good play and I’d like your company.

“Do you want to come or not?”

“Yes,” said Kate, and he kissed her square on the mouth.

“I’ll pick you up just before seven and feed you after the show.” Ben laid a finger on her lower lip, smiled at her, then leaned across to undo her seat belt.

Kate shrank back in her seat, away from the warmth and scent of his body, afraid he’d realize how his nearness affected her.

“Stop it,” he said, sitting upright. “You’re in no danger from me, I promise.”

That’s the trouble, she thought ruefully. I wish

I were.


Dear Reader,

Pennington, my favorite location, is my own creation. My serene fictional town lies in the lush, green English countryside, and has wide streets, tea shops, public parks ablaze with flowers, irresistible stores with elegant clothes and jewelry, others with antique furniture and porcelain. Pennington is a place of delightful people, prosperity and picturesque charm—a place where dreams come true....

Sincerely,

Catherine George









No More Secrets

Catherine George







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


CHAPTER ONE

A SUDDEN squall of wind sent the yellow wool hat spinning across the road like a discus, and its small, hurrying owner dived after it in hot pursuit through a hail of sleet, blind to the oncoming car until it was almost on top of her with an ear-splitting squeal of brakes. Kate leapt away in fright, stumbled and fell on her hands and knees with a screech as the car swerved to avoid her and slewed sideways to a halt across the quiet backstreet.

The driver shot out and came running to pull her to her feet, his face haggard with shock. ‘Are you hurt? You gave me one hell of a fright! I came round the corner and there you were, right in the middle of the road. Did I hit you?’

Kate shook her head, half-blinded by wind and sleet and the strands of dark hair whipping across her face, speechless not only from shock but also from confrontation with the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on in her life. ‘Sorry—my fault entirely,’ she gasped. ‘Wind blew my hat off. I ran into the road after it. The car didn’t even touch me. Must dash.’

He retrieved the hat and handed it back to her. ‘Look, let me drive you —’ he began, but Kate backed away, shaking her head vigorously.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine! Really. My apologies again. Goodbye.’

She gave him a brief, embarrassed smile and raced off round the corner into the Parade before the man could do anything to prevent her.

When Kate arrived, panting, at the bookshop she felt more than a little shaky. What a start! Especially on an important day like this. But she just had to pull herself together, put the incident from her mind. She rummaged for her keys with unsteady hands, making herself concentrate on the display in the largest window. She took a few deep breaths and gave a nod of approval. The display was definitely eye-catching, bound to bring the punters in. The publicity stills of Quinn Fletcher, best-selling crime novelist and local celebrity, were good. Beauty and crime were a great combination for selling books. And books might be Kate Harker’s passion, but selling them was her job.

Luckily for her wind and limb she had set out a good hour earlier than usual, determined to make sure everything was perfect for the book-signing later on. Rush-hour traffic could have turned an embarrassing little incident into a nasty accident, but, thankfully, the quiet backstreet had been deserted. And now, she thought irritably, she’d have to utilise some of the time to make herself look more presentable. She was a mess. She shivered suddenly. If the car had been speeding round the corner, or if the driver’s reactions had been slower, she could have been looking far more of a mess than she did now.

When all the lights in the store were on Kate started up the electronic point-of-sale system at the till, took the money and till drawers from the safe in the office and installed them at the sales desks. By the time the rest of the staff arrived both the new floor manager and the shop itself were in readiness for the day. Kate had replaced muddied jeans with a skirt, and restored face and hair to the severe, businesslike look she kept to during working hours.

Teased about her early start, Kate smiled cheerfully, glad of the camaraderie. She’d arrived in Pennington to take over the post of floor manager only a few weeks before, and to her relief her new colleagues were a pleasant crew, with no hint of hostility from one or two who might have expected promotion to her job.

Her career with Hardacres had begun as a junior bookseller at their Kensington branch a year after gaining her English degree. After leaving university she’d worked at whatever job she could until winning the post with the successful chain of specialist bookstores. Kate’s promotion to senior bookseller had been gratifyingly rapid, but in the Kensington flagship branch further promotion to floor manager would have been slower. So when the opening in the Pennington branch came up Kate had applied, eager to make a move she welcomed in more ways than one.

At first, in a town where the architecture was beautiful but everyone was a stranger, Kate had missed her life in London badly, and regretted her decision. Then she’d found a permanent place to live, made some successful decisions about new titles, contacted Quinn Fletcher’s publishers about the book-signing opportunity, and begun to enjoy her new life. Pennington was a less expensive place to live for a start, which made her salary go further. And the slower pace rather suited her. The other girls at Hardacres were friendly, the job was interesting and varied, and no one made demands on either her time or her emotions. It was surprisingly restful. The move, she’d decided eventually, had been a good idea.

Kate tidied the fiction shelves, checked to see if any titles needed re-ordering, made sure someone was at the till in her department during the break period, then went for coffee herself once Gail, who was so pretty that male college students crowded the store when she was on duty, was back at the till.

‘I brought some scones my mother made,’ said Gail, flicking back a lock of glossy blonde hair. ‘I saved one for you, Kate.’

Kate, perpetually struggling with one diet or another, thanked her ruefully. In the staffroom she poured herself some coffee from the machine, scowling at the buttered scone.

‘Eat,’ said Clare, the language specialist. ‘You seem a bit edgy.’

Kate described her near-miss with a Range Rover that morning, pulling a face as she admitted it was all her own fault in her hurry to get to work. ‘I wanted an hour to myself to make sure everything was perfect. It’s the book signing. I’ve never actually organised one before.’ Succumbing to temptation, Kate bit into the scone and sighed with pleasure. ‘I just wish Gail’s mother wasn’t such a cracking cook!’

‘A fright like that probably burned up enough calories to account for one scone! Heavens, Kate, you were lucky.’ Clare patted her arm. ‘And don’t worry about Quinn Fletcher. She sells like hot cakes—amazingly gory stuff, too.’

‘I know. I’ve read them all. This last one’s the best yet. I gather she’s married?’

Clare nodded. ‘I’m almost as new in town as you, so I don’t know him, but he’s gorgeous, according to Gail. Some people get all the luck.’

‘You’ve got a gorgeous husband yourself!’ retorted Kate.

‘But I don’t write best-sellers.’

‘True.’ Kate jumped up. ‘I’d better tidy myself up—again—and make sure everything’s ready. Make sure there’s a fresh pot of coffee on the go for Ms Fletcher, there’s a dear.’

‘Don’t worry. Tray all ready with best cups and luxury biscuits. But no scones. Young Harry scoffed the last one and had to be forcibly prevented from thieving yours.’

‘I wish he had!’ Kate smoothed her long grey flannel skirt over hips too curvy for her taste, brushed a stray strand of hair into her severe pleat of hair and replaced the horn-rimmed glasses she wore during working hours. She renewed her lipstick, tucked her striped grey and white shirt in more securely, and buttoned the grey waistcoat bought to hide the opulence of her upper half. ‘There. How do I look?’

‘Frighteningly efficient,’ Clare assured her, chuckling. She stood up, stretching, long-legged and slim in jeans and navy jersey. And tall.

It was Kate’s misfortune to have joined a team where every other member, male and female, were well over average height. Her own five feet and a bit was no match for Clare and Gail, and certainly not Harry, who was a gangling six-footer and still growing. Even Mrs Harrison, the manager, was a head taller.

‘I didn’t realise you had such great legs,’ commented Clare, attending to the coffee-pot. ‘Never seen them before.’

They all habitually wore trousers or jeans, with shirts and jerseys of various descriptions, because the work entailed a lot of kneeling and hefting around of boxes by all the staff. But today Kate felt the occasion called for a skirt. Which, though long and narrow, with a rather dashing split to the knee, felt dowdy alongside the leggy Clare and tall, slender Gail.

‘I’ll change back into my usual gear once our celebrity’s departed,’ she said, and went out into the store, glad to see several customers browsing in all sections of her department. By the time she’d found various titles for some of them, directed Harry to help Gail when necessary, and checked that the table and chairs for the signing were in a prominent place, ready for the author, it was almost eleven.

Clocks in the town were chiming the hour when a car drew up outside. Kate went to the door, her smile ready in welcome, then caught her breath in dismay as a tall man with an unmistakable shock of blond hair leapt out to help his companion to her feet. The woman’s brown curls and laughing, flushed face were equally recognisable from the photographs in the display; but with one noticeable difference.

‘Oh, crikey,’ breathed Clare. ‘She’s pregnant. Very pregnant.’

Kate braced herself and went forward, hand outstretched. ‘Ms Fletcher? I’m Kate Harker. Welcome to Hardacres.’

‘Thank you. You’re new.’ Quinn Fletcher shook Kate’s hand, smiling warmly. ‘Charlie’s left?’

Kate nodded. ‘Mr Walters went to manage the Oxford branch.’

‘You’re much prettier than Charlie Walters!’ The man grinned down at her, then narrowed his eyes, frowning, and Kate turned away hurriedly.

Behind her calm, efficient exterior she felt depressed. So her rescuer was married. And even more handsome than she’d remembered from the fleeting episode in the pouring rain. But he was years younger than his wife—which, of course, was absolutely nothing to do with Kate Harker. ‘Please come inside,’ she urged, smiling brightly. ‘There’s a very cold wind today.’

‘Better than the sleet earlier,’ he returned with a grin, and turned to shepherd his companion inside with care. ‘You all right, love?’

‘Fine.’ Quinn Fletcher smiled at him reassuringly. ‘You can pop off now, Ben, if you like.’

He shook his head as he helped her to settle in the chair behind the small table used for signings. ‘No way. I’m here to keep an eye on you. Don’t worry, if I get bored there’s plenty to read!’

Quinn Fletcher smiled up at him lovingly. ‘Fusspot!’ She turned to Kate. ‘Take no notice. The baby’s not due for weeks yet.’

Kate, up to then convinced that the baby’s arrival was imminent, relaxed a little. ‘Before you start would you like some coffee?’

The attractive author shook her head regretfully. ‘Later, if that’s all right. If I have one now I’ll be making more trips to the bathroom than signing books—always supposing someone wants to buy—’ She broke off with a smile as she realised a line was already forming. ‘Oh, how lovely. Look at all these people! Let’s get started.’

Quinn Fletcher was kept busy with her fountain-pen as she smiled and chatted to each customer eager for her signature, most of them fans eagerly awaiting the latest best-selling thriller from a novelist who was popular worldwide, as well as in her home town of Pennington.

‘Mr Fletcher, would you like some coffee?’ asked Kate.

‘Thanks, I would.’ He turned away from a display of paperback novels, smiling down at her. ‘I skipped breakfast.’ He paused, one surprisingly dark eyebrow raised. ‘How do you feel? None the worse for your adventure this morning, I hope?’

‘No, not in the least,’ said Kate, resigned. ‘I thought perhaps you hadn’t recognised me.’

‘It took a while,’ he agreed, his smile deepening. ‘The disguise is good.’

‘No disguise.’ Her hackles rose at the hint of intimacy in the dark, dancing eyes. ‘This is how I normally look.’

‘Why?’ he countered. ‘I preferred you the other way.’

Kate, longing to give stinging set-down to Quinn Fletcher’s husband, was forced to give him a polite little smile instead before going off to fetch the coffee. She felt oddly let down, she realised, irritated with herself. And not just because Ben Fletcher was married, either. She strongly disapproved of a man ready to indulge in a spot of flirtation right under the nose of his heavily pregnant wife.

‘Crumbs,’ said Clare, following her in. ‘Can I give Mr Fletcher the coffee, boss? He’s seriously gorgeous.’

‘And you’re married,’ retorted Kate.

‘But not blind.’ Clare smacked her lips as she hefted a small tray. ‘Besides, I’m more his size than you are.’

Kate grinned, yanked her waistcoat straight, and returned to the fray, where a gratifyingly long line was still snaking through the front of the store. Leaving Clare to supply the spectacular Mr Fletcher’s needs, she went to the till to give Harry and Gail a hand as they took the money for The Letting of Blood. She felt a glow of satisfaction as she packed books into smart black bags with a plain gilt H. Most of the customers had bought other books as well as the new thriller. She glanced over at the author. Half-hidden behind the table, in a loose white coat, Quinn Fletcher’s condition wasn’t evident to the waiting fans. Somehow one didn’t expect a writer of frankly gory thrillers to be pregnant. Or to have such a young Adonis of a husband, either. One who apparently had nothing to do other than to escort his wife to a book-signing, chat up every female in sight—and laugh all the way to the bank when he deposited her royalty cheques, no doubt. Kate put on hasty mental brakes. None of her business.

She beckoned to Clare. ‘Would you take over from Gail for ten minutes, please? Gail, see if Ms Fletcher needs a drink yet, then take a break.’

Gail relinquished her place to Clare eagerly, and went over to Quinn Fletcher, who shook her head, smiling, apparently quite unconcerned when her husband turned the full battery of his charm on the pretty blonde bookseller.

Kate turned away to deal with a customer, deeply sorry for Quinn Fletcher. The husband was a menace to anything young and female, obviously, pregnant wife or not.

After an hour Kate went over to the table.

‘Time for a break? You look tired.’

‘I think she’s had enough,’ put in Ben Fletcher, ‘though she won’t admit it while there’s someone brandishing a book at her.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Quinn firmly, and smiled across the table at the elderly lady holding out a book. ‘Hello; how nice of you to come.’

It was another half-hour before the last fan had gone happily away. Ben Fletcher helped the author to her feet with a solicitude which set Kate’s teeth on edge. Hypocrite!

‘Honestly, Cass,’ said Ben Fletcher, frowning, ‘you look done in. Come on, I’ll take you home.’

Quinn Fletcher’s smile was warmly reassuring, despite the smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes. ‘What I need first is a visit to the loo, then a sit down in a comfortable chair. Then you can drive me home.’

Kate led her to the staffroom, showed her the Ladies’, checked the coffee was fresh and hot, then waited until Quinn Fletcher emerged, and pulled forward a solid leather chair. ‘We all fight over this one, it’s so comfortable. Coffee?’

‘I shouldn’t, but I will.’ The novelist sat down, leaning back with a sigh.

‘I hope all this wasn’t too much for you,’ said Kate, pouring out. ‘I didn’t know you were pregnant.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. A book-signing session won’t do me any harm.’ She smiled. ‘My small son wears me out far more. Angus is three and gorgeous, but lord is he energetic! How I ever got this book finished I’ll never know. Luckily I’ve got a brilliant girl who comes in for a few hours a week to give me a hand with young Angus after nursery-school hours, otherwise I’d never have made my deadline.’

‘Ms Fletcher—’

‘Call me Cassie. Quinn’s my pen name.’

Kate smiled warmly, very taken with the author’s charm. ‘I just wanted to say I’m one of your fans. I’ve read all your books, but I left my copy of this one at home. I read it over the weekend. Some time, when you’re in town, would you mind calling in to sign it for me?’

‘Of course; I’d be glad to.’ Cassie Fletcher finished her coffee and got to her feet carefully. ‘Right, then, Kate Harker, I must be off. Could you round up Ben for me?’

Ben Fletcher was discovered in a far corner of the store, handing up books for a very excited, pink-faced Gail to stack on a high shelf.

‘Incorrigible,’ said Cassie, looking resigned rather than annoyed.

Kate, annoyed for her, moved over to the industrious pair, who were so absorbed with each other that neither noticed her arrival. ‘Ms Fletcher is ready to leave now,’ she said crisply. ‘Gail, if you’ve finished there the children’s corner could do with some tidying.’

‘Yes, Kate,’ said Gail, and went off precipitately, blushing to the roots of her hair.

Ben Fletcher watched her go, frowning. ‘I hope I didn’t get her into trouble. I was just giving a helping hand.’

‘Not at all. Very kind of you,’ said Kate politely, and walked ahead of him to the signing table, where the author was taking leave of the manager and the other members of staff.

‘Ah, there you are, Ben,’ said Cassie Fletcher. ‘Sorry to keep you hanging round so long.’

‘My pleasure, love.’ He grinned. ‘I found ways to pass the time.’

There was a chorus of farewells as the writer promised to come back the following year when her next novel came out. Ben Fletcher bestowed his dazzling smile on everyone except Kate, who won an oddly wry, questioning glance before he escorted Cassie to the car parked outside.

Mrs Harrison congratulated Kate on a very successful signing session, and the others returned to their various tasks—except for a rather wary Gail.

‘Kate, I’m down for early lunch today, but could I go late instead, please?’

‘I’ll swap,’ offered Harry promptly. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Yes, fine,’ said Kate rather coolly. ‘Stay at the till until one, then, Gail. Harry, put the table and chairs away first, then off you go.’

The staffroom was a comfortable, untidy place where all of them were glad to rest their tired feet, eat sandwiches and drink coffee, chat, read the paper, or just relax for the hour’s break. Harry usually went out to join cronies for a pizza, but the female section of the staff tended to congregate together, glad to sit down.

Today Kate was not glad to sit down. For some reason she felt restless. Gail went out shopping, Mrs Harrison and Clare were grappling with The Times crossword, and after swallowing a sandwich and half a cup of coffee Kate excused herself to dash out and buy some shampoo. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say she just needed to be out in the open air, though the sleet showers had given way to chilly sunshine by this time. She walked briskly, guilty enough about her excuse to walk to the other end of town and buy shampoo she didn’t need. On her way back past public gardens bright with early daffodils, Kate eyed the tempting cakes in the corner coffee-shop with longing, wishing she had Clare’s metabolism. Suddenly her eyes widened. At one of the tables inside the coffee-shop, clearly visible through the shelves of Danish pastries and cream buns, sat Gail, her eyes like stars as she gazed at the man with her. His back was turned to Kate, but it was all too easy to see that Gail’s companion was Ben Fletcher.

The louse! thought Kate fiercely. Cassie Fletcher was at home, pregnant, coping with a boisterous toddler into the bargain, and here was Ben Fletcher chatting up young Gail, who, seemingly, was so taken with him she was prepared to overlook his married status.

Kate turned away sharply. It was none of her business. Not even Gail. Unless the girl’s work suffered because of it her private life was her own affair, however she chose to conduct it. Kate cut across the gardens, taking the longest route possible back to the shop to calm down. It was Cassie she felt for. A warm, lovely lady like Cassie Fletcher deserved something better than a blond Romeo who reacted to every woman in sight. Well not every woman, amended Kate with painful honesty. She was the only one he hadn’t smiled at on leaving, so it was obvious she didn’t merit the Ben Fletcher gold seal of approval.

The afternoon was busy, as usual. Kate spent a large part of it with a publishing rep, discussing new titles for the summer list, then did some chasing up on book deliveries to make sure they arrived for various special displays she was organising. In between she helped customers find titles they were looking for, tidied up the children’s corner after the usual post-school surge of mothers and offspring and kept a general eagle eye on everything going on in her department. By the time her shift ended just before seven Kate had managed to push thoughts of the Fletchers to the back of her mind, even able to bid Gail a fairly affable goodnight instead of wringing her neck, as she’d wanted to earlier.

It was almost dark and raining again when she set out to walk to the older part of Pennington. Kate pulled the stitched brim of the now dry wool hat low over her eyes, buttoned her raincoat to the neck and set off at a brisk pace.

Shortly after her arrival in Pennington she’d answered an advertisement which required ‘a young professional lady for a small flat in a house off Waverley Square’. Kate had gone to inspect it without much hope, but had been charmed by the house, which was small, flatroofed, and one of a pair in a quiet cul-de-sac tucked away behind a row of imposing Georgian mansions. Waverley Lodge had a small front garden with shrubs and a lilac tree, and the flat, Kate had learned, was the entire upper floor of the house. Mrs Beaumont, the owner, was a sprightly lady in her late seventies, with curly white hair and shrewd dark eyes. She leaned heavily on a stick and could no longer manage stairs, she’d explained.

‘My son and his wife want me to move into a modern flat, but I like it here. In common with that lilac tree I’m too old to transplant. But I would like some company in the house so I decided to let the upper floor.’ Mrs Beaumont waved Kate upstairs. ‘Look around all you want, my dear. Mrs Gill, my daily, assures me it’s all spick and span up there. Come down when you’re ready and I’ll make some tea.’

Kate thanked her and went off to inspect the upper floor of Waverley Lodge. A bright, airy sitting room, with comfortable, chintz-covered furniture, lots of lamps, bookshelves and small tables, looked out over a quiet square with a lawn and trees softening the view of tall, aristocratic houses on the far side, a view shared by the pleasant double bedroom. A pretty bathroom, plus a small kitchen converted from what must once have been a boxroom, looked out on the small garden of the Lodge.

As she hurried in the direction of Waverley Lodge now it seemed hard to realise it had been her home for less than a month. Kate and Mrs Beaumont had taken to each other on sight. Which, as the old lady had explained, was why Kate was served tea that first day. None of the other applicants had qualified for it.

‘I agree with George—my son—that it’s a shame to leave the rooms empty,’ Mrs Beaumont had said, ‘but I couldn’t share my home with someone I didn’t—well, fancy. And some young people dress very oddly these days.’

Kate, it seemed, had passed the test on sight. And she was glad of it. The rent for the rooms in Waverley Lodge was steeper than she’d hoped, but with care, and some cutting down in other directions, she could manage it. The only drawback was the lack of a separate entrance.

‘I do like to go out at night sometimes,’ Kate had warned. ‘I’m doing a course in business studies two nights a week, and I like the cinema and the theatre. Won’t it disturb you when I come in?’

Mrs Beaumont had assured her that it would not. She would like having someone young about the house. If Kate had any doubts they would give it a month’s trial and see how things went. So far things had gone so well that Kate hated the idea of finding another place. At first she’d been sure she’d miss the untidy flat she’d shared with three other girls in Putney. But to her surprise this wasn’t the case at all. She found she enjoyed her newfound privacy and orderliness more than the previous casual companionship. She could choose what programmes she liked on the radio and television, and read in peace whenever she wanted, which was a vital part of her job, since the fiction section of the store was her own particular responsibility. There was no race for the bathroom, or unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink, and, best of all, no embarrassing little encounters with strange young men on the landing first thing in the morning.

Kate was so lost in thoughts of her former existence, head bowed against the wind, that she cannoned straight into the man emerging from the indoor car park she passed on the way home every night.

‘Sorry!’ she gasped, pushing her hat out of her eyes, then stiffened, pulling away from the hands holding her by the elbows.

‘Miss Harker again, no less,’ drawled Ben Fletcher, releasing her. ‘You don’t suffer from a death-wish, by any chance? Or are you blind without those enormous glasses?’

‘Neither — I’m just in a hurry to get home. I’m afraid I didn’t notice you,’ she said coldly.

His grin surprised her. It was very different from the one he turned on like a light to charm. ‘Which puts me in my place. I’m not very vain, but people usually notice me.’

Wasn’t that the truth, thought Kate, remembering the scene in the coffee-shop, and tried to pass him, but to her annoyance he caught her wrist.

‘Wait. Have we met before today?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Then why do I get the feeling you disapprove of me? Do you bear a grudge because I almost ran you over? I thought perhaps you knew me from somewhere, and felt annoyed because I’d forgotten.’

Kate looked pointedly at the fingers on her wrist and Ben Fletcher dropped his hand. ‘You’re mistaken on both counts, Mr Fletcher. I don’t know you.’ And don’t want to, implied her tone so clearly that his eyes narrowed for a moment, then danced in a way which made her long to hit out at him.

‘I hear you loud and clear, Miss Harker. Pity. Cassie liked you very much, incidentally. And just in case you were wondering,’ he added, ‘she suffered no ill effects from the signing.’

‘Good; I’m very glad. Goodnight, Mr Fletcher.’

Ben Fletcher gazed down at her thoughtfully, making it impossible to dash off as Kate wanted.

‘By the way,’ he said casually, ‘how long have you lived in Pennington?’

Kate frowned. ‘Just under a month.’

‘Ah. New kid on the block.’ He raised his hand in salute. ‘Well, can’t hang about enjoying myself like this—got someone to meet. Goodnight.’

Kate nodded coldly and walked off at a furious rate, fairly sure he was watching her go. At last she gave in to temptation and risked a peek over her shoulder. And then wished she hadn’t. Far from watching her out of sight, Ben Fletcher was striding towards the girl waiting outside Hardacres. A girl with hair as bright as his own, who rushed to meet him. Gail again.

Kate turned on her heel, almost running in an effort to put as much space between herself and the happy pair who were obviously about to spend the evening together. Did Cassie Fletcher know what the man was doing while she was putting their son to bed, or cooking dinner, or whatever she was likely to be doing at this time of night?

Kate arrived precipitately at the door of Waverley Lodge, glad to reach her flat without encountering Mrs Beaumont. As she peeled off her wet raincoat and hung it up in the bathroom to dry she felt very out of sorts. The Fletchers were none of her business. Before this morning she’d never met either of them. But, as a firsthand witness to Ben Fletcher’s infidelity, Kate felt horribly responsible in some way. Which was ridiculous. Besides, she was unlikely to meet Cassie Fletcher again. And even if she did Kate knew she’d never tell Cassie her husband was cheating on her. No way was she ever getting involved in anyone else’s affairs again.


CHAPTER TWO

KATE forced herself to say nothing to Gail on the subject of married men. Gail might well misconstrue her motives, put it down to jealousy, and the girl knew Ben Fletcher was married anyway, so it was useless to point out something so obvious. And Gail was so patently moonstruck about him that she’d never believe Kate preferred dark, lean, witty types, whose attraction was a lot more cerebral than the up-front charms of Cassie Fletcher’s husband, damn the man.

How could a clever, mature lady like Cassie be attracted to someone like Ben Fletcher? Kate was haunted by the thought for a day or two, until two evening classes added to a very busy working week tired her out so much that there was no room in her thoughts for anything other than the exam she must pass fairly soon.

‘You work hard,’ observed Mrs Beaumont as they drank coffee together the following Sunday morning.

‘But I love it. One day I’m going to manage one of the big London bookshops,’ Kate confided.

‘Good for you. Life in Pennington must be a bit slow after London.’

‘No. Oddly enough it isn’t. Different, of course, but I find I like life in a shire town—the change of pace is rather welcome.’

‘Good. Oh, by the way, dear,’ said Mrs Beaumont, ‘I’m going away to my sister’s in Bath for a few days tomorrow. Mrs Gill will be in to clean as usual. She keeps a key.’

Mondays were demanding for Kate. After her stint at the shop she hastily ate a sandwich and went straight on to her evening class. By the time she arrived home that night it was oddly dismaying to find the house in darkness. She unlocked the door and ran upstairs to her flat, turning on lamps everywhere, careless for once of the electricity bill. She put cottage cheese, tomatoes and a thin slice of ham on a plate, added a couple of crisp-breads and an apple, and went to curl up on the sofa in the sitting room to eat her frugal meal in front of the television news.

Afterwards, still hungry but determined to ignore it, Kate took the pins out of her hair, ran a bath and sank into it with a sigh of relief as she settled down to read. This was another advantage of having a flat to herself. In Putney someone had always banged on the door if she took longer than a few minutes over a bath.

Eventually, yawning, she washed her hair, wrapped herself in the new yellow towelling robe her mother had given her for Christmas, and went back to the sitting room to dry her hair while she finished the newest best-seller on display at Hardacres.

By eleven Kate’s long dark hair was dry enough to let her go to bed. She fell asleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow, then woke later with a start, her heart beating rapidly. She lay still, hardly daring to breathe. Someone was moving about downstairs. Her instinct was to pull the covers over her ears and hope the burglar would go away. But he was stealing Mrs Beaumont’s treasures. Worse still, he might come upstairs for more.

She slid stealthily out of bed, took a heavy wooden book-end from a shelf, then tiptoed out onto the landing. The burglar was making no attempt to be quiet, she noted, shivering, and, taking a deep breath, she crept down, missile at the ready. As she reached the bend in the stairs a man emerged from Mrs Beaumont’s sitting room, and, giving herself no time to think, Kate let fly with the book-end and caught him fair and square on the temple. The man dropped like a stone to the Persian carpet, and lay still.

Kate gave a squawk of horror and ran to him, falling on her knees beside the motionless figure. She seized his wrist, searching wildly for his pulse. Relief flooded her as it throbbed reassuringly against her fingers. She stared down at him in dismay, wondering what on earth to do. He was young, dark and sharp-featured, and remarkably well dressed for a burglar. And he wasn’t dead. Something he confirmed by opening dazed dark eyes to stare into her tense face.

‘Don’t move,’ she ordered in a shaking voice. ‘Stay where you are. I’ve called the police.’

‘What the hell did you hit me with?’ he demanded irritably, struggling up despite her efforts to prevent him. ‘Have I been out long?’

‘Ten minutes,’ lied Kate. ‘Stay where you are!’

To her astonishment he began to laugh.

‘You won’t find it so funny when the police come!’ she snapped furiously. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, trying to rob an elderly lady —

‘I wasn’t robbing her—I’m trying to find her glasses,’ he said unsteadily, taking the wind out of Kate’s sails. ‘My name’s Daniel Beaumont. Grandson of your landlady,’ he added.

‘How do I know?’ she demanded fiercely, then picked up the book-end menacingly as he put a hand in his breast pocket.

‘Don’t hit me again — please,’ he pleaded, putting up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m unarmed, I swear. If you’ll let me take out my wallet I can prove my identity.’

‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘But no tricks.’

‘Would I dare?’ He winced, fingering his temple with one hand as he withdrew his wallet and tossed it over to her.

Kate flipped it open, and saw an identity card for the firm of Beaumont Electronics, with a photograph of the intruder, and the name Daniel Beaumont underneath it. Since there were also several credit cards and a business card for confirmation, she put the wallet down on the hall table and placed the book-end beside it, furiously embarrassed.

‘You can get up now,’ she said tartly.

Daniel Beaumont scrambled to his feet, a hand to his head. ‘I really am very sorry for giving you a fright. I clean forgot Grandma had let the upper floor. The house was in darkness so I just used Dad’s key and came to search for her glasses. I’m to post them on to Bath in the morning.’

‘Did you have to come here at this time of night?’ demanded Kate, unappeased.

‘I had dinner with a friend and saw her home first.’ He swayed a little. ‘Look, would you mind if I sat down for a bit?’

Kate, secretly filled with remorse, took his arm and helped him into Mrs Beaumont’s sitting room. ‘All right. Sit down on the sofa there for a minute.’

‘Brandy?’ he said hopefully.

‘Certainly not. You might be concussed.’ She eyed him uncertainly. ‘In fact, perhaps you ought to see a doctor, or go to the local casualty department.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘A hot cup of tea would be nice. Then I’ll drive home and leave you in peace.’

Something in his bright, dark eyes reminded Kate that her only garment was a nightgown—dark green, winter-weight and modestly voluminous, but still a nightgown.

‘Sit still,’ she ordered, and ran upstairs, put a kettle on to boil, and wrapped herself in her yellow robe. More shaken by the episode than she wanted to admit, she thrust her feet into espadrilles then set a tray with cups and for once made tea properly in a pot. She added sugar, milk, then took the tray downstairs to Mrs Beaumont’s sitting room and put it down on a small table. Daniel Beaumont watched her, his eyes bright in his pale face, one of them showing signs of a bruise, courtesy of the book-end.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have a black eye,’ said Kate without sympathy. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Both, please.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘No one will believe I was mugged by a girl.’

She handed him a cup and saucer, then poured tea for herself and perched on the edge of an armchair opposite him. ‘Mr Beaumont—’

‘My name’s Dan,’ he interrupted. ‘Won’t you tell me yours?’

‘Kate Harker. I’m sorry I hit you, but under the circumstances —’

‘You had every right,’ he assured her. ‘You’re a plucky girl, Kate Harker. But next time just ring the police. Don’t come investigating yourself.’

‘I lied about the police,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t have time to call them.’

‘I know. I looked at my watch. I was only out for a second or two.’ He drained his cup, looking rather better. ‘Is there more, please?’

Kate refilled his cup, then sat back. ‘Your grandmother talks about you. But I took it for granted you were a schoolboy.’

The corners of his wide, expressive mouth went down, ‘Grandma tends to forget I’m a responsible adult now—’

‘I wonder why,’ said Kate drily, and he grinned.

‘Touché.’ He looked up as the clock in the hall struck one. ‘Hell, I’m sorry. You must be tired. I’ll go.’ He stood up, swayed, then smiled bravely. ‘There. Steady as a rock.’

Kate shook her head. ‘Sit down again. I’ll ring for a taxi.’

Dan Beaumont sat down so promptly that Kate suspected he felt far less chipper than he was making out. Annoyed because she felt guilty, she went to the telephone in the hall and rang an all-night taxi firm.

‘Ten minutes,’ she announced, returning to her uninvited visitor, who used the time profitably by telling her that he worked in his father’s electronics firm.

‘Dad runs the shooting match but I sell the product. I’m the marketing man.’

Kate could well believe it. Even on such short acquaintance Dan Beaumont was plainly the type to sell snowballs to an Eskimo.

‘So reciprocate,’ he demanded. ‘What do you do, Kate Harker?’

‘Sell books at Hardacres,’ she replied, looking up with relief at a ring on the doorbell. ‘Right, here’s your lift home.’

Dan Beaumont rose to his feet, swayed a little, and Kate rushed to take his arm. He leaned on her heavily as she supported him to the door, then took her breath away by planting a swift kiss on her mouth before sprinting down the path with no trace of unsteadiness. She glared from the doorway as he saluted smartly, grinning all over his thin, confident face as he jumped in the cab.

Kate slammed the door and collected the tray, took it upstairs, washed up and climbed into bed with a groan. Only six hours to go before she had to get up again. And to make it worse the incident had left her wide awake and nervous. So much so that in the end she went downstairs again to make sure the front door was safely locked and bolted. At which point it occurred to her that Dan Beaumont’s key had to be to the back door, which had no bolts, as she knew from Mrs Beaumont, so that her daily, Mrs Gill, could gain entry at any time. Kate turned the key in the back door, pushed a chair under the handle, and for the third time that night climbed wearily into bed.

Inevitably Kate slept late next morning, and had to skip breakfast to get to work on time.

‘Crumbs, Kate,’ said Harry as she let him in. ‘You look terrible.’

‘Thanks,’ said Kate drily, and turned to greet Gail, who looked anything but terrible. So blooming, in fact, that Kate found it hard to be civil.

A few minutes later Mrs Harrison, having called Kate up to her office to discuss the day’s expected deliveries, eyed her with concern. ‘Not coming down with something, dear, are you?’

Kate shook her head. ‘Bad night. Which is unusual. normally sleep like a log.’

‘Take it easy today, then. Get Harry to do the heavy stuff. And go and drink some coffee before you make a start.’

Kate obeyed, glad often minutes’ breather in the staff room before she coped with the day.

Clare came in, eyebrows raised at Kate’s heavy-eyed pallor. ‘Hangover or flu?’

‘Disturbed night.’ Kate got up. ‘I’m fine. I just needed a shot of caffeine to get me going. I slept late this morning—no breakfast.’

‘Go easy on the dieting today—give your blood sugars a chance,’ advised Clare, with the confidence of someone who could eat three cream buns at once and never gain an ounce. She eyed Kate closely. ‘What disturbed you?’

Kate had no time to explain. ‘Long story. Tell you a lunch.’

Halfway through the morning Kate was called to the phone.

‘Miss Harker? Kate? Quinn Fletcher here—Cassie I’m coming down your way later. Perhaps we could have a sandwich lunch together—and I’ll sign that book for you.’

Kate went pink with pleasure. ‘How very nice of you I’d love to. I’m on late lunch today—where would you like to meet?’

‘How about that coffee-shop on the corner near you—the one with the gorgeous cakes?’

Kate returned to her fiction section, a smile on her face as she helped a customer find the latest offering from a favourite author. The woman bought two other books, thanked Kate for her help, then went to the cash desk to hand her money to Gail. Kate bit her lip, frowning. Gail!

She waited until the girl was free. ‘You’re taking early lunch today, Gail,’ she stated rather than asked.

The girl smiled warmly. ‘That’s right, Kate. Unless you want me to swap?’

‘No, no,’ said Kate in relief. ‘That’s fine.’ Having routed the spectre of running into Cassie’s husband flirting with Gail over lunch, Kate relaxed a little, and went off to join Clare for mid-morning coffee.

‘You look better,’ the other girl commented as she poured.

‘Quinn Fletcher’s asked me to lunch,’ said Kate. ‘I’ve got my copy of her book ready for her autograph.’ She eyed her jeans and navy jersey without pleasure. ‘I wish I’d worn something else.’

Harry popped his red head round the door, grinning. ‘Miss Kate Harker, you’re wanted.’

Kate shot to her feet and followed Harry’s lanky figure into the shop. ‘Who?’

Harry waved to a tall, familiar figure immersed in a book of modern paintings.

‘You asked for me?’ Kate enquired, and Ben Fletcher turned, putting down the book with care.

‘Good morning, Miss Harker. I had an appointment in town, so I volunteered to bring a message from Cassie. She’s running a bit late. Could you make it one-fifteen? ’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll wait for her in the coffee-shop.’

‘Keep an eye on her, will you?’ he asked soberly. ‘She tends to overdo things. Nag her to go home and have a nap.’

‘I can hardly do that, Mr Fletcher,’ said Kate stiffly.

‘It might come better from an outsider,’ he said gloomily, apparently unaware that Gail was smiling with rather frenzied animation at a group of young male students at the cash desk. Suddenly he grinned all over his face as a man strolled into the shop with a large bouquet of flowers. ‘Dan? What the hell are you doing here? Don’t tell me you can read!’

Kate swallowed hard as Dan Beaumont stared at her blankly for a moment, then marched up to her and presented her with the bouquet, ignoring Ben Fletcher.

‘With my apologies for last night,’ he said, eyeing Kate’s glasses and tightly coiled hair. ‘You look — different.’

‘So do you, old son,’ said Ben Fletcher. ‘I like the shiner. Someone’s husband caught up with you at last?’

‘Actually,’ drawled Dan Beaumont, ‘it was Miss Harker here who gave me the black eye. Totally undeserved, of course.’

Hideously aware that Harry, Clare and not least Gail were looking on with varying degrees of curiosity, Kate took the flowers, thanked Dan Beaumont punctiliously, said goodbye to both men and hurried off to the staff-room to put her unwanted tribute into water.

Fortunately the shop was too busy for some time for explanation, and it was only when Harry and Gail had gone out to lunch and she was helping Clare man the till that Kate was able to give her colleague a brief, edited version of the previous night’s adventures. Clare was fascinated.

‘You actually went downstairs and faced this man, thinking he was a burglar? You idiot, Kate. Anything could have happened.’

‘But it didn’t. Because Dan Beaumont wasn’t a burglar.’

‘True. Or things could have been a lot worse.’ Clare grinned. ‘His manly pride obviously wasn’t hurt by being felled by a pint-sized little thing like you. Those flowers were expensive.’

‘Unnecessary extravagance,’ said Kate, and smiled at a customer. ‘Biographies, sir? If you’ll just follow me...’

Kate was sitting with a cup of black coffee when Cassie Fletcher arrived for lunch. Her big brown eyes lit up as she spotted her lunch guest.

‘Sorry I’m a bit behind, Kate. My hospital appointment was a bit delayed.’

‘I’ve only just got here myself. Busy morning.’ Kate eyed her companion anxiously. ‘Was everything all right?’

‘Oh, yes. Emily and I are both in the pink.’

‘Emily?’

‘We know it’s a girl. My husband’s delighted, because he wants us to call it a day after this one.’ Cassie pulled a face. ‘He’s right, of course. I’m nearly thirty-nine. Not that motherhood in the forties is the danger it used to be.’ She picked up the menu. ‘Let me treat you to something sinful.’

Over smoked salmon sandwiches and some wicked French pastries Kate found it very easy to talk to Cassie Fletcher, confiding that the staff at Hardacres were easy to work with and her landlady was a dear.

‘But no boyfriend,’ said Cassie bluntly.

‘No. But in a way that’s oddly restful.’ Kate chuckled. ‘In London I shared a flat with three other girls and we all had boyfriends and there was never a moment’s peace. It was a madhouse.’

‘But don’t you miss that?’

‘I did at first. But now I can read as much as I like—which I need to for my job and my business course. I’ve got to do my homework. I go to the cinema with Clare, one of my colleagues at the shop. Her husband is away a lot with his job and she’s new here too and glad of an evening out. I like my life very much.’

Cassie looked thoughtful as she stirred her coffee. ‘It all sounds a bit, well, quiet for a girl of your age. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-seven.’

The brown eyes moved over Kate’s severely coiled hair and the plain navy jersey. ‘At least you’re not wearing those owlish glasses today.’

Kate’s lips twitched. ‘You mean I’m a bit of a turnoff in the appearance department.’

Cassie laughed. ‘How rude I am. Sorry. Only when I was young I used to scrape my hair back and try to look older too. I feel a certain kinship, I suppose.’

‘My hair’s long because it’s cheaper to wear it that way than keep getting it cut, but I can’t leave it hanging about in working hours. And the clothes are part of the job. I do a lot of kneeling and carrying books about, so my working clothes tend to be serviceable.’

Cassie nodded, looked at Kate contemplatively for a time, then reached for the book beside Kate’s plate. ‘Right. I’ll sign this on one condition. Will you come to lunch on Sunday? Just a family roast; nothing formal. Please say yes.’

Kate said yes very promptly, then bit her lip at the thought of Cassie’s husband.

‘Now you’re trying to think of some forgotten appointment so you can back out,’ said Cassie percipiently.

‘No. I’d love to come.’ Kate rose. ‘Sorry to dash off but I’m due back.’

‘I’ll just hang on here for a few minutes. My husband’s collecting me.’ Cassie grinned. ‘I can’t get behind a driving wheel very comfortably these days. About one on Sunday, then.’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Kate with sincerity. ‘Perhaps you might spare a minute to talk about your work. I’d love to hear how you construct those complex plots of yours. Today all I’ve done is talk about me.’

‘I enjoyed it,’ said Cassie firmly, and handed over a card. ‘That’s my business card, but my home address is on it. We’ll look forward to seeing you—Angus adores having guests.’

Kate hurried back to the bookshop, deep in thought. She very much doubted that Ben Fletcher would be equally delighted to welcome her to lunch. But she would go because she really liked Cassie. Besides, Sundays tended to drag unless the weather was fine and she could go out walking. An invitation to lunch wasn’t to be sneezed at.

It was almost seven that evening before Kate locked up the shop. As she checked everything was secure, and took a last look at the ‘Book of the Month’ display in the window, a figure appeared beside her, reflected in the glass, and Kate swung round in surprise. ‘Mr Beaumont!’

‘No. That’s my father. I’m Dan.’ He grinned at her, the black eye giving him a disreputable air that was at odds with his designer tailoring. As the wind blew along the street he drew the collar of his dark overcoat up and took her arm. ‘I thought I’d walk you home, not only to collect my car, but also to cast myself at your mercy again.’

Since Kate was holding his spectacular flowers in the crook of her free arm it seemed rude to refuse. ‘What’s your problem this time?’

‘The same one. After all the drama last night I forgot my grandmother’s glasses. For pity’s sake find them for me so I can send them off at first light, or she’ll cut me out of her will!’

‘I doubt it,’ said Kate, shaking her head. ‘But please hurry—I’m cold and hungry and I’ve got a lot of work to do.’

‘Tonight?’ he said, crestfallen. ‘I was hoping you’d have dinner with me.’

‘Sorry. Exams looming.’

‘What are you studying?’

Kate explained. ‘Which doesn’t give me much time,’ she concluded. ‘When I took my English degree I was younger—and I wasn’t working. This time it’s more of a struggle. But I’ll get there.’

Dan expressed his admiration in extravagant terms. When they arrived at the Lodge he unlocked the door for her, switched on the light and stood leaning in the doorway of the sitting room while Kate ran the spectacle case to earth.

‘Eureka!’ she said, finding it behind a pile of books on one of the tables. ‘So your finances are safe after all.’

‘I was joking about the will,’ he said stiffly.

‘Of course.’ Kate smiled. ‘And now I must put these gorgeous flowers in water. Thank you again. I hope the eye mends soon.’

‘Let’s talk about dinner again. Surely you don’t work every night?’

‘No. Two nights I go to classes, one night I go to the cinema, and the others I either study or read, or even watch television.’

‘Dinner on Saturday, then,’ he said firmly.

Why not? thought Kate. ‘All right, I will. Thank you,’ she said, and ushered him to the door.

‘I’ll pick you up here. About eight.’ Dan looked around him. ‘And by the way, leave a light on in the day to come home to, Kate. My grandmother’s security needs scrutiny. I’ll talk to the old man.’ He leaned down suddenly and kissed her cheek. ‘Goodnight, Kate.’

Kate closed the door on him and went upstairs with her flowers, oddly pleased with life and better disposed towards her homework than usual. Which, she admitted to herself, was due more to Cassie’s invitation than Dan Beaumont’s. She finished sooner than expected, ate a virtuously meagre supper to offset the indulgences of lunch, and was about to run her bath when the phone rang.

‘Miss Harker?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ben Fletcher. I gather Cassie’s bidden you to family lunch on Sunday. I’ll pick you up just before one.’

‘Please don’t trouble yourself—I can walk.’

‘It’s a fair hike if it’s raining. I’ll give you a lift.’

‘How kind,’ said Kate coolly.

‘Not in the least. And have no fear — I’ll be the perfect gentleman. I saw Dan Beaumont’s black eye, remember. It filled me with respect.’

‘A pity it doesn’t extend in other directions,’ said Kate impulsively, and could have bitten her tongue.

There was a pause. ‘I haven’t a clue what you mean,’ said Ben Fletcher rather grimly. ‘I’ll pick you up on Sunday.’


CHAPTER THREE

DURING the week Kate tried hard to think of some excuse to avoid lunch with the Fletchers, but in the end couldn’t bring herself to lie to Cassie. At least she had Saturday night to look forward to first. Dan Beaumont was irritatingly sure of himself, but he came with impeccable references, since Mrs Beaumont was his grandmother. However, the moment she got home on Friday evening Dan rang her, his voice almost unrecognisable.

‘I hoped this blasted flu would clear up,’ he croaked, ‘but it obviously won’t before tomorrow night. I’m an aching, coughing misery. Sorry, Kate. Can we get together next week instead?’

‘Of course,’ Kate assured him. ‘Get well soon.’

‘You needn’t sound quite so cheerful,’ he complained, wheezing. ‘I hoped you’d be devastated with disappointment.’

‘Oh, I am, I am. I’ll curl up with a good book instead.’

‘That makes two of us,’ said Dan bitterly, then went into a paroxysm of coughing before he gasped goodbye.

The extra Saturday staff made it an easier day for Kate, and she arrived home to find the lights blazing downstairs and Mrs Beaumont back in residence, waiting to buttonhole her about Dan’s nocturnal intrusion.

‘Idiot boy,’ she said severely, her smile belying the words. ‘Just like Dan to forget I share the house now. He should have come in during the day, not crept in at night, scaring you to death. Splendid black eye you gave him,’ she added with satisfaction. ‘Served him right.’

‘I thought I’d killed him,’ said Kate, grimacing.

‘No fear. His skull’s too thick,’ said Mrs Beaumont, then spoiled it by saying, ‘Lovable rascal, though, young Dan.’

‘A very poorly one at the moment.’

‘Yes. I gather he’d coaxed you to spend the evening with him. But he’s caught this bug that’s going round. He’s gone home to mother for some tender loving care.’

‘Sensible man. I shall catch up on some reading for Monday’s class instead.’

‘See you for coffee in the morning?’ said Mrs Beaumont.

‘Yes, please. Then I’m going out—bidden to lunch with Cassie Fletcher and her family. The one who writes thrillers.’

‘How splendid for you, dear. You’ll enjoy that.’ Mrs Beaumont smiled. ‘You like books so much it’s a wonder you don’t write a novel yourself.’

Kate was in agreement as she made supper for herself later. The incidents of this week alone would provide her with enough material, not to mention her experiences in Putney in her previous existence.

After mid-morning coffee with her landlady next day Kate went back upstairs to do rather more to her face than usual. Cassie Fletcher, pregnant or not, was one of those long-legged people who wore clothes well. When one was short of inches—vertically, anyway—dressing needed care. Kate, yearning to be ten pounds lighter, finally put on well-polished brown boots, a cream silk shirt, a full, ankle-length skirt in brown needlecord and a long waistcoat in oatmeal mohair. Her hair, thick and straight, and gleaming from its recent shampoo, she caught behind her ears with tortoiseshell barrettes and let the rest hang down her back for once. Five minutes before Ben Fletcher was due she went down to display her sartorial splendour to Mrs Beaumont, glad she was being collected when she saw that the rain was now flattening the shrubs outside in a steady downpour.

‘What a day!’ said Mrs Beaumont, eyeing Kate up and down. ‘And what a transformation. You look lovely, my dear. What have you done to your face?’

‘Gilded the lily a bit,’ said Kate, smiling, then looked up as a horn hooted outside. ‘That’s my lift. See you later, Mrs B.’

Kate shrugged into her raincoat, collected the azalea she’d bought for Cassie and put up her umbrella to race down the path to the Range Rover backed into the cul-de-sac. As she reached it the door was flung open and a hand extended to help her up. Kate put the azalea into it, collapsed her umbrella and leapt up into the front seat unaided. Ben Fletcher put the plant on the back seat, looked at her for a moment, then said, ‘Good afternoon,’ with no trace of his usual smile.

‘Good afternoon. Filthy day,’ said Kate brightly. ‘It’s very good of you to collect me.’

‘Not at all.’ He put the vehicle into gear and nosed it out of the narrow road. ‘It’s not far, but in this weather you’d be drenched long before you got there.’

They continued in silence, Kate finding it impossible to think of anything to say. At this rate, she thought gloomily, the lunch party was likely to be hard work.

‘Did you enjoy yourself last night?’ said her companion abruptly.

Kate frowned. ‘Last night?’

‘Dan told me you were dining with him.’

‘I was, but he’s ill. Flu.’

‘Really? I was away on Friday. I didn’t know.’

‘You work with him?’

‘I work at his father’s firm, yes.’

‘Oh.’

‘You look very different today,’ he commented as they drove past the pump rooms.

‘My Sunday best,’ agreed Kate.

He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘It’s the hair. You look years younger with it down like that.’

Kate eyed him suspiciously, but he went on to discuss the weather.

‘You must regret your move to Pennington when it rains like this.’

So Cassie had mentioned her transfer from London. ‘It rains everywhere.’

He drew up before a tall Georgian house in a row of others of equal elegance in a square on the outskirts of the town. ‘Right. Here we are. I’ll get out first and put your umbrella up, then I’ll come back for the plant. I assume it’s for Cass?’

‘Yes. It’s very kind of her to invite me.’

‘She likes you,’ he said, in a tone which implied he felt rather differently. He leapt lightly from the vehicle, looking so good in a waxed jacket and heavy sweater, his long legs in well-worn cords, that Kate gave a little sigh, wishing he weren’t quite so overpoweringly good-looking. It was hard not to respond to the sheer perfection of his face, especially now, when he was in repose, without the smile which raised her hackles so easily.

Ben Fletcher reached up and put a hand at either side of her waist to lift her down, handed her the umbrella, then reached for the azalea and locked the car. ‘Right, then, Miss Harker, let’s dash.’

They sprinted up the steps to the door, which opened at their approach, and a small boy hurled himself at Ben, who scooped him up, laughing. Kate raised a mental eyebrow. Ben Fletcher was obviously fond of his son.

‘Quiet, you monster. Hello, Caroline; this is Kate Harker.’

A tall, fresh-faced girl shook hands with Kate. ‘I help with Angus,’ she said, with a friendly smile.

‘And with everything else,’ put in Cassie, coming along the beautiful, elegantly furnished hall. She wore a voluminous dress in finest wool the colour of almond blossom, and looked elegant despite the bulge. ‘Welcome, Kate. Come on, everyone, upstairs so we can have a quiet drink before lunch. Mrs Hicks says half an hour.’

Kate handed her the plant. ‘What a lovely house!’ Cassie exclaimed with pleasure over the delicate pink and white striped blossoms. ‘How very sweet of you. I adore azaleas. Angus, have you said hello to Kate?’

‘Hello,’ said the little boy, beaming. ‘I had chickenpox. ’

‘Goodness,’ said Kate with suitable awe. ‘Did you really? How nasty. I bet you itched a lot.’

Angus nodded, deeply pleased, then tugged at Ben’s hand. ‘Come on. I did painting.’

Kate, enveloped in warmth and welcome, felt oddly homesick for a moment. This might be a very impressive house, but it was also very much a home. They went upstairs and delicious scents of cooking wafted towards them on their way along the hall to what was obviously the family sitting room. No formal drawing room, this, like the room glimpsed downstairs, but a place where people read papers and books, watched television and played with Angus, whose toys were strewn all over the floor.

‘Sorry about the obstacle course,’ said Cassie, and went over to a drinks tray. ‘What would you like? We’ve got the usual things, plus some rather delicious white wine.’

‘A glass of that would be perfect,’ said Kate, choosing a corner of a big sofa. ‘What a comfortable room.’

‘And messy,’ chuckled Cassie. ‘I work upstairs on the top floor, and leave this place to the others. Though I’m off work at the moment. Can’t sit at my computer.’

‘I should hope not,’ said Ben, looking up from a complicated structure he was helping Angus make from plastic blocks.

‘Beer, love?’ said Cassie.

‘Yes, but sit down. I’ll get it.’

Ben uncoiled his long legs, then held out a hand to Angus. ‘Come on, champ. Let’s see what Mrs Hicks has made for pudding.’

When the two women were alone Cassie complimented Kate on her appearance.

‘Better than the other day, then,’ said Kate, grinning.

‘Much better. I was rude.’

‘No. I admit I don’t make the best of the basic material much. So today I thought I’d make an effort. How are you and little miss Emily today?’

‘She’s gone a bit quiet,’ admitted Cassie, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. ‘Only a fortnight to go, though sometimes I wonder if she’ll hang on that long. Angus arrived sooner than I thought. Still, the hospital’s just up the road, thank goodness.’

Thank goodness indeed, thought Kate.

‘So what’s been happening in your life since I saw you last?’ asked Cassie, and rather to her own surprise Kate found herself describing Dan Beaumont’s break-in and her own part in it.

Cassie roared with laughter. ‘Goodness, poor Dan! Ben told me he had a black eye, but I didn’t realise you gave it to him.’

‘It was pure fright coupled with luck,’ said Kate, grinning. ‘I let fly and managed to make contact.’ She pulled a face. ‘I thought I’d killed him at first.’

‘Serves him right for creeping around at night like that,’ said Cassie without sympathy, then smiled as Angus came running back into the room. ‘Hello, darling; is lunch nearly ready?’

‘Ten minutes,’ said Angus importantly, and fixed Kate with bright blue eyes. ‘Can you read?’ he asked hopefully.

‘What he means,’ said his mother, ‘is will you read.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Kate promptly. ‘What story would you like?’

Angus was a handsome little boy with a mop of brown curls like his mother and bright blue eyes which shone with pleasure as he fetched a book about trains. He was dressed very simply in a sweater, jeans and small suede boots, and Kate had to restrain herself from hugging him as he sat beside her on the sofa listening to the story. Cassie sat quietly, watching them, a smile on her face. There was no sign of Ben or Caroline, and Kate lost herself in the story, suitably dramatic when the occasion demanded, her performance obviously meeting with approval as Angus drank in every word. When the story finished he thanked Kate without being prompted, then looked at his mother.

‘Is it ten minutes, Mummy?’

Cassie consulted her watch. ‘Oh, yes. It is. Will you run upstairs and call Daddy?’

Angus nodded happily and scampered off, then Caroline popped her head round the door.

‘First course ready and waiting, ladies.’

‘Right you are, Caro. Give me time to heave myself up.’

Kate leapt to give Cassie a hand, then followed her from the room to a dining room. The table was laid for five with gleaming crystal and silverware and a flat centrepiece of miniature daffodils and freesias.

Caroline cast a glance over the table, checked the soup tureen on the hotplate at the end of the sideboard, then smiled at Cassie. ‘Right, then, I’ll be off now. See you in the morning. I’ll get my kiss from Angus on the way out.’

‘Enjoy yourself,’ said Cassie, then looked up with a smile as a tall, dark man entered the room with Angus. ‘Hello, darling; finished your paper? This is Kate Harker, the lady who organised my signing session the other week. Kate, this is my husband.’

‘Alec Neville,’ said the distinguished newcomer, shaking hands with Kate. ‘I gather you’re new to Pennington. Thank you for looking after my wife. I had to get Ben to deputise for me that day. I was operating.’

‘Alec’s a plastic surgeon,’ explained Cassie to a temporarily speechless Kate. ‘Angus, can you find your uncle, please? Tell him lunch is ready. Alec, will you open more wine?’

Kate ate delicious vegetable soup in a daze, trying to pull herself together and behave like a guest. One who might even be asked to visit this delightful household again if she was very, very lucky. Angus was seated between his parents, Ben next to Cassie, and Kate next to Alec Neville, who was an attractive man in his mid-forties and very obviously devoted to his wife. Cassie gave Kate a few searching glances, but once they’d embarked on the roast, and Mrs Hicks, the cheerful cook, had been paid sincere compliments and bidden an affectionate goodbye before she went off for the day, Kate had come to terms with her mistake and was able to contribute to the conversation.

Both men were amused when Cassie told how Dan Beaumont got his black eye.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/catherine-george/no-more-secrets/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.