An Affair to Forget
Read An Affair to Forget Online
Authors: Evelyn Hood
© Evelyn Hood 2014
Evelyn Hood has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 2001, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2000 by Severn House Publishers Ltd
This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd
Rain rattled at the windows with agitated fingertips and the wind hurled itself across the wide, shallow valley to batter against the grey stone walls of the house.
The
doors and windows were all locked against the stormy night, the fire glowed and the kitchen was softly lit by a few candles that Morrin had found in the cupboard when the lights first went out. The room was cosy and all she had to do, she told herself as the trees in the garden croaked and rustled ominously, was sit tight and wait. The storm would pass, and if the worst came to the worst she could always spend the night in Mrs Plover’s comfortable armchair by the fire.
She
wished that the elderly housekeeper hadn’t decided to visit her new grandchild on that particular day, but when Mrs Plover went off to catch her bus, overnight bag in hand, there had been no storm and Morrin hadn’t intended to work so late.
Normally
the house was filled with noise – the dogs barking, the phone ringing, Mrs Plover singing in the kitchen, Gareth’s presence crackling through every room. Now, with the place silent and the wind moaning outside, Morrin was so nervous that even her own reflection in the dark window as she filled the kettle was enough to make her jump. Setting the kettle hurriedly on the gas cooker, she went back to pull the curtains closed, then paused, staring at her reflection in the dark glass. Candlelight brushed her long, softly curling hair with gold, framing her oval face softly and giving her usually serious dark blue eyes a sparkle. For a moment she looked, then twitched the curtains together, saying aloud, “Don’t get any ideas, my girl… you’re very ordinary when the electric light’s working!”
The
sound of her own voice was cheering, but as she went back to her seat by the fire silence crowded in on her again. It was her own fault… she shouldn’t have decided to type the final chapters of her employer’s latest novel before driving back to her bedsit in the nearby town. But with Gareth and Mrs Plover both away for the night there had been nobody to remind her of the time, and she had worked on, unaware of the approaching storm until sudden, strong gusts of wind slammed against the sturdy stone house, the computer screen went blank, and the lights flickered and died. It was only then that she realised how lonely the house was, with its nearest neighbours almost a quarter of a mile away.
In
the few months since she had started working for Gareth Sinclair, Morrin had come to love his home in the Yorkshire Dales, a solid stone two-storey structure built into a wooded hillside with large front windows overlooking the valley below and the magnificent sweep of hills opposite. There was only one problem – as well as loving the house, she had come to love its owner with a passion that could never, ever, be resolved, for she was not the sort of woman who appealed to Gareth Sinclair.
It
was part of Morrin’s job as Gareth’s secretary to book tables in the best restaurants, organise cosy weekends for two, and order flowers for these escorts who, like Sinclair himself, were cool and sophisticated, adult enough to indulge in affairs then say goodbye gracefully when the time came, as it always did.
It
hurt, being a conventional love-and-marriage person in love with someone like that. In her fantasies Morrin pictured herself dining and dancing with him, sharing a secluded hotel room with him – but her dreams always floundered then foundered when it came to the sophisticated goodbye. Gareth wasn’t a forever man.
Wrenching
her mind away from the yearning that only depressed her, Morrin heard rain spattering against the curtained windows and the boom of the wind rushing across the valley to throw itself against the back of the house. As it retreated, thwarted, the trees sighed and bushes near the back door shushed them nervously.
All
at once the sturdy, safe stone walls of the house seemed to be a prison, trapping her within its depths. If only Gareth hadn’t taken the dogs with him, if only…
“
Oh, stop moaning,” she said aloud, half to herself and half to the wind. She reached for the little transistor radio Mrs Plover kept on the window sill, then froze. Above the noise of the storm she could hear another sound, a scratching and scuffling from the big front hall.
She
swallowed her fear, fingers tight against her mouth. She could jam a chair beneath the front door knob, she thought, though it was probably just a window rattling anyway. Then, realising that her fear of the unknown was worse than anything she might have to face in real life, she picked up the heavy hearth poker and eased herself silently through the kitchen door.
As
she inched her way through the dark hall, trying to remember where its few pieces of furniture were situated, the noise came again. This time there was no mistaking the sound of someone trying to get in through the front door. Morrin’s mind worked frantically, but it was difficult to work out a plan when her heart was hammering against her ribs and the breath was catching in her throat.
There
was a telephone in Gareth’s study and another in the sitting-room, but none in the hall. She was trying to decide which phone was the nearest, and wondering if they were still working, when the door crashed back on its hinges and a gust of wind surged in. Morrin scarcely had time to register its icy touch on her cheek before the hall was filled with movement and panting and the skitter of claws against the parquet flooring. The poker flew from her hand as a muscular tail whipped against her legs. As it clattered to the floor a torch beam flicked on and found her.
“
Who the… Morrin? Polly, Daniel – get out of the way!” Gareth Sinclair roared, then, as the dogs obeyed, “What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”
“
Oh Gareth, thank goodness it’s only you!” She flew to him, clutching at the sleeve of his wet coat for comfort.
“
Well now. Mrs P never throws herself into my arms when I come home to her. I could grow to like this, with a little encouragement,” Gareth said, sliding his arm about her with an ease born of years of practice. For a luxurious moment she allowed herself to relax against him, then common sense jangled alarm bells through her mind and she pulled back. As far as girls like Morrin were concerned, men like Gareth Sinclair wore ‘Don’t Touch!’ notices.
He
gave a dramatic sigh. “I thought it was too good to be true. Where did we go wrong?”
“
The lights have all gone out – the storm – ” As he released her she tugged her sweater straight and smoothed her skirt.
“
So I gathered as I drove along the road. Not a light to be seen anywhere. Hang on,” he said as rain spattered through the open doorway on to the polished wooden floor.
Once
the door was closed, the storm, denied entry, beat sullenly against the walls and rattled at the letter box for admission. Gareth, ignoring it, returned to Morrin.
“
What are you doing here at this hour? Where’s Mrs P? Don’t we have cand– Good Lord, what’s that doing there?” he interrupted himself as the torch beam teased an answering gleam from the heavy ornamental poker. “So that’s what caused all the noise? You weren’t really going to hit me with it, were you?” There was a note of awe in his voice.
“
I thought you were a burglar.” She rushed to justify herself. “You weren’t supposed to be coming back tonight and I was alone with all the lights out–”
“
I decided that a long drive was better than spending the night as my brother’s guest.” He picked up the poker. Even in his large hand it looked menacingly heavy. “Do you realise the damage you could have done with this? And don’t bother explaining anything until we’ve got some light – and some food.”
“
There are candles in the kitchen,” she volunteered, and the torch was thrust into her hand.
“
You take that and I’ll keep the poker. I feel safer that way,” said Gareth. “Lead on.”
In
the kitchen the two dogs, an Old English sheepdog and a black poodle, were already settled before the fire. Gareth took off his coat, dropped it on to a chair, and ran a hand through his storm-tossed hair. “Sit down,” he commanded, then, as Morrin sank into Mrs Plover’s chair, “Where’s Mrs P – and why are you here at this time of night? Begin at the beginning.”
Her
earlier fears seemed ridiculous now that he was here, filling the house with life, making it friendly and safe again. As she explained the housekeeper’s absence he unbuttoned his pale grey suit jacket, pulled off the green tie that matched his eyes and opened the top button of his white shirt. Gareth hated formal clothes.
“
You idiot,” he said in the indulgent older-brother voice that made her squirm. “Didn’t you see the storm coming?”
“
I was too busy.”
His
shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I don’t know – most secretaries go off on a spree when they’re left on their own, but not you. I thought you’d have wanted to go shopping or get your hair done or meet someone. That’s what most women like to do, isn’t it?”
The
implication that she was like his empty-headed girlfriends stung a sharp note into her answer. “I’m not most women. And your book’s supposed to be finished and sent to the publisher this week.”
“
It will be,” he said easily. “Still plenty of time. What would you have done if I hadn’t decided to come home tonight?”
“
I’d have spent the night in here.” She felt more foolish by the minute, especially when he threw his head back and laughed.
“
Oh yes? Curled up in a chair with the poker clutched in your little fist? Lucky for the burglars that I came home when I did,” he said, then, “Can you cook as efficiently as you can type?”
“
As long as you don’t want anything elaborate.”
“
Good. We’ll eat in the sitting-room and let those two have this fire.” He nudged the dogs with the toe of his polished shoe and the sheepdog raised his head, yawned, thumped his tail on the carpet, and settled down again.
“
Lazy beasts,” Gareth said affectionately, and picked up his torch. “I’ll find more candles and get changed. By the way–” He turned at the door and grinned, his green eyes mocking her in the candlelight, “If you think you hear intruders just scream and let me deal with them. I don’t want you to go splashing their blood all over the house.”
Camilla,
Morrin thought with resentment as she gathered eggs and cheese and milk and butter together, wouldn’t have made an idiot of herself. Camilla, a leggy, lovely blonde, was Gareth’s current escort. Whipping eggs into a froth, she decided smugly that Camilla probably couldn’t even boil water.
“
I found plenty of candles,” Gareth said cheerfully from behind her.
“
Does Camilla cook?” Morrin asked without thinking, then blushed.
“
Like a dream; she took some special course in Paris. What made you ask?”
“
She phoned today – several times.” It had only been twice.
“
Why?”
Morrin
began to grate cheese. “I don’t know. She wants you to call back.”
“
She can wait until tomorrow. Right now I’m hungry. What still needs doing?”
Setting
him to making the toast, Morrin thought to herself that Gareth’s indifference to his latest girlfriend’s phone calls was a clear indication that whether she knew it or not, Camilla was on her way out of his life.
When
the food was ready he led the way into the living-room, carrying a loaded tray. He had already coaxed the fire into a blaze and arranged candles so that the hearth rug, one sofa and a chair were in a pool of golden light, with the rest of the room in shadow. Setting the tray down on a coffee table before the fire he dropped to the rug, propping his shoulders against the sofa, and proceeded to open a bottle of wine. He had towelled his damp hair and left it to curl about his face, and had changed into a bulky black sweater and jeans.
Morrin,
unused to being alone with her employer in such an informal setting, perched on the edge of the armchair. “How did your meeting go?”
He
wrinkled his nose. “Same as always. Brother Tom reported on t’mill, sister Kate tried to argue with him on every point that was raised, and I signed a few things. Try this.” He handed her a glass of wine.
Gareth
always referred to the family business as ‘t’mill’ and he always, when speaking about it, lapsed into a Yorkshire dialect, though years in boarding school had left him with only a faint touch of the Dales where he had grown up and still lived. He and his sister were sleeping partners in the business, which was controlled by an older brother who had worked his way up through every department.
Morrin
sipped at the wine. “It’s nice,” she ventured, then flushed as Gareth said, “I’m glad that moddom approves. It’s one of my best bottles.”
“
No sense in wasting it on me, then,” she said defensively. “I hardly ever drink wine.”
“
If you like it, it’s not wasted,” he told her briskly. As they ate, the wind continued to moan outside, but to Morrin it had lost its mournful wail, and the tapping of the rain’s skeletal fingers on the windows sounded almost cheerful now that Gareth was there.