The Last Woman He'd Ever Date (Mills & Boon Modern Tempted) Page 5

  ‘She wouldn’t…’

  Hal’s eyes were dark blue, she realised, with a fan of lines around them just waiting for him to smile. That bitten off “wouldn’t,” the snapping shut of his jaws, the hard line of his mouth, suggested that it wasn’t going to happen if she gave way to her curiosity and asked him why a fit, handsome woman would choose to live like that.

  ‘Sir Robert would only let me have the cottage on a repairing lease.’

  ‘Cheapskate.’

  ‘There was no money for renovations,’ she said, leaping to his defence.

  ‘So he got you to do it for him.’

  ‘I had nowhere to live. He was doing me a favour.’

  The cleaning, decorating, making a home for herself and Ally had kept her focussed, given her a purpose in those early months when her life had changed out of all recognition. No university, no job, no family. Just her and a new baby.

  Cleaning, stripping, painting, making a home for them both had helped to keep the fear at bay.

  ‘We both got a good deal, Hal. If the cottage had been fixed up, I couldn’t have afforded the rent. He did get the materials for me at trade,’ she said, ‘and he replaced the broken glass and gutters himself.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she asked. ‘Why aren’t you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Are you ticklish?’

  ‘What? No… What are you doing?’ she demanded, confused by the sudden change in subject.

  He didn’t bother to answer but got down on one knee, soaped up his hands and picked up her foot.

  She drew in a sharp breath as he smoothed his hand over her heel. ‘Does that hurt?’

  ‘It stings a bit.’

  She lied.

  With his fingers sliding over the arch of her foot, around her ankle, she was feeling no pain.

  ‘Ally has started moaning about the wallpaper in her room,’ she said, doing a swift subject change on her own account in a vain attempt to distract herself from the shimmer of pleasure rippling through her, an almost forgotten touch-me heaviness in her breasts, melting heat between her legs.

  ‘Ally?’

  ‘Alice Louise,’ she said. ‘After her grandmother.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said, and she knew he’d seen the photographs, put his own interpretation on her daughter’s name.

  ‘Apparently she’s grown out of the fairy stage. It’s hard to believe that she’ll soon be eight.’

  ‘Is eight too big for fairies?’

  ‘Sadly.’

  ‘So, what comes next?’ She was mesmerised by the sight, the feel of his long fingers as they carefully teased the grit from between her toes. They were covered with small scars, the kind you got from knocks, scrapes, contact with hot metal. A mechanic’s hands… ‘Ballet?’ he asked, looking up, catching her staring. ‘Horses?’

  ‘Not ballet,’ she said quickly. ‘She loves horses, but I can’t afford to indulge her. To be honest, I don’t care what she chooses, just as long as there is a stage between now and boys. They grow up so quickly these days.’

  ‘They always did, Claire.’

  ‘Did they? I must have missed that stage. Too much homework, I suppose.’ And not enough freedom to hang around the village, giggling with the other girls, dressed to attract the boys. Not that they’d have welcomed her. The girls, anyway. She’d received sideways looks from the boys, but no one had been brave enough to make a move… ‘The local girls my age seemed so much more grown up.’ So much more knowing.

  ‘You appear to have caught up.’

  She shook her head. ‘You never get that back.’ She’d still been hopelessly naïve at eighteen, believing sex and love were the same thing. Not wanting to think about that, she said, ‘I’m taking Ally to the DIY store at the weekend to look around, see what catches her eye.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you wait and see what the new owner has in mind before you part with more hard cash on a house you don’t own?’

  ‘A few rolls of wallpaper won’t break the bank.’ And decorating would keep her mind off it. ‘When he sees what a great tenant I am,’ she added, ‘he’ll probably beg me to stay.’

  He didn’t comment, but instead turned another chair to face her, covered it with a towel and rested her dripping foot on it.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ she asked, as he tipped the dirty water down the sink and rinsed the bowl before refilling it with clean water to which he added antiseptic. Anything to stop thinking about the way his hands had felt on her foot, her ankle. How good it felt to be cared for.

  The big hole that was missing not just from Ally’s life, but her own.

  ‘Not until I’ve dealt with this,’ he said, washing her foot again, but this time when he lifted it up, he sat on the chair and set both towel and foot on his knee so that he could take a closer look at the damage.

  It was one of those ‘clean knicker’ moments—except for clean knickers substitute nail polish.

  ‘Never go out without painting your toenails in case you have an accident and some good-looking man decides to wash your foot…’

  Who knew?

  ‘No glass, it’s just a nasty little cut,’ he said, patting the heel dry before working the towel through her toes. She was really regretting the lack of nail polish… ‘If you’ll hand me a dressing?’ he prompted.

  She tore the cover off a big square dressing and handed it to him, shivering slightly as his fingers brushed against hers.

  ‘You’re cold. Drink your tea,’ he said, as he placed the dressing over the cut, smoothed it into place and continued to hold her foot.

  ‘It’s too sweet,’ she said, shuddering as she took a sip.

  ‘Think of it as medicine,’ he said as the phone in his pocket began to ring. He glanced at it. ‘I have to go,’ he said, without bothering to answer it, transferring her foot from his knee to the chair as he stood up. ‘Keep an eye on that. Any redness, don’t hang about, straight to the surgery for some antibiotics.’

  ‘Yes, doc.’

  He picked up the bowl, emptied it in the sink, dried his hands and was gone.

  ‘Thank you, doc,’ she said to herself, and the sound of his footsteps crunching on the gravel grew fainter and the silence returned.

  She didn’t move.

  While she hadn’t used her imagination in a long while, it was, apparently, still in full working order and if she kept still, concentrated very hard, she could still feel his hands on her foot, the sensual slide of his fingers between her toes.

  *

  Claire had just stepped out of the shower when a rap at the door sent her heart racing.

  ‘Claire? It’s Pen.’

  Not Hal with her bike, her shoe, but a neighbour. She opened the window and called down, ‘Hold on, Penny, I’ll be right there.’

  She threw on a sweatshirt, wincing as her shoulder reminded her that it, too, had been in the wars, and a pair of comfortable jeans.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Pen watched her limp across to the kettle and switch it on. ‘I was in the village shop and Mrs Judd said she saw some man helping you home.’

  Life in Cranbrook might have changed out of all recognition in the last decade but the impossibility of doing anything without everyone knowing in ten minutes flat remained a constant. Which meant that Hal North couldn’t be living in the village. He wasn’t a man you would miss when he pitched up in your neighbourhood and Penny, who was always urging her to get out and find someone, would have been full of it.

  ‘Earth to Claire…’

  ‘Sorry, Pen. I fell off my bike.’

  ‘I wonder who he was?’ Penny said, ten minutes later when, hands clutched tightly around a warm mug, she’d heard the severely edited highlights of her accident.

  ‘You haven’t taken on anyone new?’ Claire asked. ‘I hear the estate has been sold.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ she demanded. ‘It’s not being announced until Monday.’

  ‘So who’s bought the pla
ce? Don’t worry, I won’t say a word before it’s official. I just want a chance to dig up some background details.’

  Something to add a bit of sparkle to the two-page spread of the history of the house and the Cranbrook family that she’d been working on since it was evident that the estate would have to be sold. Without some background on the new owners, it was just that. History.

  ‘Well…’ Penny stretched the word like a piece of elastic as she helped herself to a chocolate-chip cookie and propped her elbows on the table. ‘According to the solicitors’ clerk it’s been bought by a millionaire businessman.’

  ‘Well, yes. Obviously.’ Who else could afford it? ‘He’ll need millions if he’s going to live there.’ Spend millions to bring it up to modern specifications. That had to be good news for the local economy. ‘What kind of business, do you know? Is he married? Does he have children?’ They were the details that the Observer readers would want.

  ‘Sorry, but I did have a call from a Ms Beatrice Webb this morning, who wants to discuss my future with the estate on Monday.’

  A woman? Well, why not…

  ‘I should have asked for more information but to be honest I was too shocked to do anything other than say I’d be there.’

  Claire curbed her impatience. ‘That sounds hopeful.’

  ‘Does it? With Steve on short time and Gary without a hope of a job, my few hours in the estate office and the money you give me for taking care of Ally after school is all that’s keeping us afloat at the moment.’

  ‘The estate will still need managing, Penny. The new owner, whoever he or she is, is going to need you.’ She didn’t mention her appeal to Hal on Gary’s behalf. No point in raising false hopes.

  Penny pulled a face. ‘Ms Webb sounded capable of running the whole shebang with one hand tied behind her back.’

  ‘She’s probably got more than enough work to keep her busy in London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘I imagine that’s where the millions are made. A country estate is a plaything. A weekend retreat,’ she added.

  If Ms Webb planned to use it to hold shooting and fishing parties for business contacts she’d need someone who knew what he was doing to run the place. Take care of the game birds, the trout stocks.

  Someone like Hal.

  A tiny flutter of anticipation invaded her stomach and she grabbed a chocolate-chip cookie in an effort to smother it. The man was a menace and she had enough on her plate without getting involved.

  Involved! That was a joke. Hal North was never going to be interested in a buttoned-up woman with a sharp tongue. The hot imprint of his lips on hers meant nothing.

  ‘The rumour in the post office on Monday was that it’s going to be converted into a hotel and conference centre,’ Penny said.

  ‘There are all kinds of rumours flying around,’ Claire said, ‘but that wouldn’t be such a bad thing and you have to admit that the Hall has got everything going for it. The location is stunning and there’s probably room for a golf course on the other side of the Cran.’

  ‘Really? How much room does a golf course take?’

  She grinned. ‘I’ve no idea, but look on the bright side. Whatever the future, a new owner means that there’s going to be work for local builders, craftsmen, grounds men and that has to mean work for Steve.’

  ‘Maybe Gary, too,’ Penny said, cheered. ‘There might even be more hours for me.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Then, as casually as she could, she asked, ‘Is Gary at home today?’

  ‘According to him it’s a study day although the only thing he’s studying is how to cast a fly.’

  Which answered that question. ‘Well, if he could spare the time, I wonder if he’d pick up my bike for me. It’s still on the footpath.’

  ‘When he comes home to raid the fridge I’ll ask him.’

  The minute she’d shut the door on her Claire picked up the phone and dialled the number for the Hall.

  ‘Cranbrook Hall.’

  The unfamiliar voice was rich and plummy. ‘Miss Webb?’ On being assured that it was, she said, ‘Welcome to Cranbrook Park. I’m Claire Thackeray—’

  ‘Yes?’

  No ‘how can I help you?’ No easy way in.

  ‘—from the Maybridge Observer. I understand that Cranbrook Park has a new owner,’ she said, pausing briefly. Nothing. ‘As you can imagine, there are all kinds of rumours flying around at the moment and, inevitably, there are concerns about jobs.’ The few that there were. ‘The hope that if the Park is going to be developed commercially there will be work for local people,’ she prompted.

  Still no response.

  ‘There has always been a very close relationship between the town and estate,’ she continued, despite the lack of encouragement. ‘Charity events, that sort of thing?’ Good grief, this was like drawing blood from a very dry stone. ‘I wondered if you could spare me half an hour to talk about the future of the estate? Maybe fill in some background detail for our readers?’ she added hopefully.

  ‘Don’t you people talk to one another?’ she replied, impatiently. ‘Your editor called half an hour ago and I told him what I’ll tell you. Mr North does not speak to the press.’

  Ouch.

  ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t been in the office this morning and while the editor would be looking for facts, something to fill in the gaps in the announcement about the sale, I’m more interested in the human-interest angle. As I said the Park is a big part of the local community…’

  And then the name sank in.

  North.

  No. She must have misheard. Or it was a coincidence. There was another North. It couldn’t be…

  ‘Did you say North?’ she asked.

  ‘Ask your editor, Miss Thackeray. He has all the details that are being released to the press.’

  ‘Yes… Thank you,’ she added belatedly as the dialling tone kicked in.

  No…

  No, no, no, no, no…

  She repeated the word with every step as she ran upstairs to the office and turned on her cranky laptop. Kept saying it as it took an age to boot up. Even as she searched on the internet for Hal…no, Henry North.

  It. Could. Not. Be. Him.

  There was no shortage of hits—there were, apparently, a lot of Henry Norths in the world—and rather than plough through them, she switched to ‘images’ to see if she recognised any of them.

  There were dozens of photographs, but one leapt out at her and it was the shock of seeing Hal face to face in the ditch all over again. That stop-the-world total loss of breath where the only thing moving was her mind, and that was spinning like a top. Seeing it in front of her she refused to believe it even when she clicked on the image to bring up the document it was attached to; a company report.

  She knew it couldn’t be true. But there he was. Hal North. In full colour.

  The Hal North she’d knocked off his feet a couple of hours ago was, apparently, the Henry North who owned a freight company. Make that an international freight company.

  The one with the sleek black-and-silver HALGO livery familiar to anyone who’d ever stood at a bus stop by a busy road watching the traffic thunder by.

  Vans, trucks, eighteen-wheelers, not to mention air cargo and shipping.

  Hal North, her Hal North, was the chairman of a household-name company with a turnover in billions.

  *

  ‘Hal! At last. Where on earth have you been?’ Bea Webb rarely got agitated, but she was agitated now. ‘I’ve organised the staff meetings for Monday, but I have to get back to London and so do you.’

  ‘Sorry. I was looking around the Park and got sidetracked.’

  ‘Collecting junk left by fly-tippers more like,’ she said, as he lifted Claire’s bike off the back of a Land Rover.

  ‘I couldn’t just leave it there,’ he said. Easier than telling her what had really happened.

  ‘Well, don’t. The consultants have arranged for a contractor to come in and do a thorough clean-up o
f the estate, clear the outbuildings. Do you want me to organise someone to take a look through all this junk before they start?’ she asked, with a dismissive wave in the direction of the ornate, eighteenth-century stable block. ‘Just in case there’s a priceless Chinese vase tucked away in a box of discarded china?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘Cranbrook had experts go through it all with a fine-tooth comb in the hopes of finding buried treasure.’ Anything to save him bankruptcy. Anything to save him from being forced by his creditors to sell to him.

  It was knowing that Sir Robert Cranbrook wouldn’t see a penny of his money that had made paying the price almost a pleasure. Once the tax man had taken his cut, the remainder would go to the estate’s creditors; the small people Cranbrook had never given a damn about so long as he continued to live in luxury.

  That and the fact that Robert Cranbrook knew that every moment of comfort left to him was being paid for by the son he’d never wanted. Whom he’d always refused to acknowledge. Knowing how much he’d hate that, but not having the moral fibre to tell him to go to hell, was the sweetest revenge.

  ‘What I do need is a front loader. The public footpath running beside the stream has been seriously undermined and is in danger of collapse. We can use some of this stuff to make a temporary barrier. The last thing I need is for someone to get hurt.’

  ‘Terrific,’ she said. ‘Tell me again why you bought this place?’

  ‘The Cran is a great trout stream. I thought I’d take up fishing,’ he said, removing Gary Harker’s rod from the back of the Land Rover.

  Her eyebrows suggested she was not convinced, but she confined herself to, ‘Not today. You’ve got a board meeting at two-thirty and if we don’t get moving you’ll be late.’

  ‘I gave Angus a call and asked him to stand in for me.’ Her eyebrows rose a notch. ‘He can handle it and right now I’m needed here.’

  ‘In other words you want to play with your expensive new toy.’

  ‘Every man needs a hobby.’

  ‘Renting a stretch of someone else’s trout stream would have been a lot cheaper,’ she pointed out. ‘Besides, I thought you were going to leave all this to the experts. Keep a low profile.’

  ‘This is the country. No chance of that.’ Not when you’d just had a close encounter with the local press. ‘Front loaders?’ he prompted, picking up Claire’s bike then, as Bea called up an app on her phone to search for a local hire company. ‘Any messages?’