His Convenient Mistress (2 page)

Sara heard the car long before she spotted it. Something to do with the utter absence of noise in the place, she supposed.

Yes, peace and silence had been things she had predicted weeks previously when she had sat at her glass kitchen table in her lavish apartment in Fulham, rereading the letter she had received from a solicitor whose name she had never heard, about a house in the wilds of nowhere willed to her by an uncle whose existence she had only dimly been aware of. Peace and silence that had seemed so alluring and were now proving to be unnerving, even after three days. Just something else unnerving to add to the list already mounting in the back of her mind. And unnerving was a kind way of putting it.

She waited by the kitchen window, watching the shimmering landscape and waiting to see the car that was almost certainly heading in her direction.

‘Everyone will want to meet you,' she had been told slyly by Freddie's lawyer, when they had finally met face to face over a cappuccino in one of the trendy London cafés. ‘They all pretty much expect the place to be sold.
As far as everyone was concerned, Freddie was alone in the world. No wife, no children, no family.'

Fool that she was, she had actually, six weeks ago, looked forward to the country life full of people who would know her name, had pleasantly anticipated walking into shops and chatting with the people inside them. Bliss, she had idiotically thought, after her time in London, where life had been lived at breakneck speed and smiling at the shop assistants was regarded as a form of lunacy.

Her three days of isolation and peace had put paid to her illusions. She hated it here, hated the lack of noise, hated the horizon-less countryside, hated the utter stillness and had avoided heading into the town with something approaching obsession.

Naturally, sooner or later, the town, she now thought, would come to meet her. One by one. And there, approaching in a blue vehicle, was visitor number one.

Oh, heavens, but she had made a dreadful mistake. She had dared to think that the grass was going to be greener on the other side, and greener it was here, yes. Literally. But that was as far as it went.
How on earth was she ever going to survive?

The car trundled through the fields, wending a lazy and inexorable path towards the Rectory, and Sara fleetingly contemplated hiding.

Where was Simon? She listened, heard him in the snug across the landing from the kitchen, happy as a lark, setting up his bricks on the low wooden table no doubt, a handy, child-friendly piece of furniture, precious few of which had previously cluttered his life.

She only turned away from the window when the car was entering its final swing towards her circular courtyard. Then she breathed a little sigh of resignation, glanced
briefly in the direction of the snug with an expression of longing and reluctantly opened the kitchen door.

She looked a mess. She knew that. In London, now a lifetime away, she had always been impeccably groomed. Had had to be, to compete in the heavily male-dominated world she had inhabited. Her long red hair had always been tamed away from her face, securely pinned up, her make-up had been the armour of the top businesswoman, as had her assortment of sober-coloured, extremely expensive designer suits. Snappy, fashionable, but not ostentatious. In the City, success was always subtly dressed.

Here, though, in the space of only a few days, her grooming had slowly but surely unravelled. No make-up for starters and certainly nothing approaching work clothes. Just jeans and T-shirts and flat loafers.

It was what she was wearing now. Faded jeans, snug-fitting dark green T-shirt that almost but not quite matched the colour of her eyes, and her brown loafers.

She stood by the kitchen door, squinting into the sun, barely able to make out the driver of the car.

Her hair was plaited back, one thick braid that fell almost to her waist, from which escaped the usual rebellious tendrils. An inelegant hairstyle but practical for the thousand and one jobs she had to do around the house.

Her visitor was a man. Sara shaded her eyes, waiting and watching as the man killed his engine, pushed open the door and emerged from his car in one easy movement.

He was tall. Very tall and dark. Her green eyes took him in with a quick stirring of surprise. He didn't look Scottish. His skin was olive and his hair was dark and thick, curling into the nape of his neck. Nothing about him looked local. From his physical appearance to the angular lines of his face that spoke of power, self-assurance and worldly-wise experience.

He looked like a city-dweller, she thought with a rush of disdain. The usual high-powered type she had spent years dealing with. A mover and a shaker who did deals and transformed the whole process of money-making into a number-one priority. She had spent many a long business lunch with types like this one, men in love with themselves and casually indifferent to anything that stood in the way of them getting what they wanted. In fact, she had made the irreparable mistake of actually doing more than just business with one of these types and look where that had got her.

It was only after an inordinately long time that she realised that the man was watching her watching him, his expression cool, calculating and utterly unruffled by her curiosity. Irritating, considering that he was on her property.

‘Yes?' she asked, not moving, her hands still shading her face from the glare of the sun. ‘May I help you?'

‘Now, that's a big question,' the man drawled, slamming his car door and walking lazily towards her.

He was at least six feet three, Sara realised a little nervously. He towered over her in a way few men did. She was five-ten in bare feet and quite used to looking down on a great number of the men she had come into contact with over the years. There was also something a little scary about him. Was it the way he moved? Or his eyes? Deep blue, she could see now that he was closer, and strangely contained.

‘Who are you and what do you want?' Sara demanded quickly, realising for the first time just how isolated this damned Rectory was.

Jumpy, James thought now that he had got over his astonishment at seeing the net-twitching spinster in the flesh. She was nothing like what he had expected. What the hell was a woman like this one doing out here? The
mild curiosity he had experienced during the drive to the Rectory had crystallised into something pleasurably invigorating.

Jumpy and defensive. Why? Shouldn't she be flinging out the welcome mat and hustling to make tea for the friendly local visitor who had come to make her feel right at home and show her how warm her neighbours could be?

‘So you're the new girl in town,' James drawled when he was finally standing in front of her. ‘You picked the best month to move up here, I must say. June is usually kind. Lots of sun and blue skies.'

His blue eyes never left her face. Sara could feel his inspection and it was an uninvited intrusion into her space.

‘You haven't told me your name,' she said flatly, edging slightly so that she was positioned in front of the kitchen door, making it quite clear that there was no automatic invitation to step inside.

‘Nor have you told me yours. And I'm James Dalgleish.' He extended his hand and Sara found hers enclosed in long, strong fingers.

‘Sara King.' She pulled her hand politely free and resisted the urge to massage it.

‘Freddie's…niece perhaps?'

‘That's right.'

‘Funny, he never mentioned having any relatives,' James said thoughtfully, ‘and I certainly don't recall any coming to visit.' He gave her a smile that didn't quite conceal the lazy challenge that seemed implicit in his comment.

Sara flushed and remained silently uncooperative. Did he, she wondered, think that she was some kind of opportunist? Would that be the general reaction of everyone in the town who had probably been discussing her furiously
while she had holed herself up in her house and spent her time trying to work out why on earth she had come to this far-flung place?

‘Mum!'

Her head whipped around at Simon's shout.

‘My son,' she said, by way of explanation.

‘You're married?'

‘No.' She heard the scramble of footsteps heading towards the kitchen and gave a little sigh of irritation at her visitor, who continued to stand with implacable resolve by the door. ‘Look, I'm rather busy at the moment.'

‘I'm sure you are. Moving house is always a headache.' James watched as she raised one slender hand and pushed some flyaway red hair away from her face. ‘You need to sit and relax. I'll make you a cup of coffee.'

‘I—'

‘Mum, I'm thirsty. Can you come and see my garage?'

‘This is Simon,' Sara introduced reluctantly as her five-year-old son appeared next to her and proceeded to stare unblinkingly at their visitor. ‘Simon, how many times have I told you that you should wear your slippers around the house?' By way of reply, he popped his thumb into his mouth and continued to inspect James curiously. ‘Being barefoot is so much easier, isn't it?' James said, stooping down until he was on the same level as the boy.

What was the story here? he wondered. Having planned to call on this woman so that he could find out how serious she was about living in the Rectory and how much he would be prepared to give her to buy her out, had even planned on suggesting other parts of the town where she could live if she wanted, he now found himself holding back on stating the reason for his visit in preference to discovering more about the red-haired woman and her child.

‘Um,' Simon agreed, still sucking on his thumb.

‘So you've built a garage? Anything I would want to send my own cars to?'

‘Do you have children, Mr Dalgleish?'

James glanced up at her. ‘Child-free.'

Now, I wonder why I'm not surprised at that, Sara thought. Lord, but how long would it take for her to get over the bitterness that still burned the back of her throat at the thought of Simon's father?

‘How about that cup of coffee?' He stood up with a questioning look and Sara felt a little shiver race along her spine. It was almost as though he could read her mind and was calmly determined to stay his ground in the face of her reluctance. And she had to stop being reluctant. She knew that. She would have to go into the town sooner rather than later, if only to buy provisions for herself and Simon, and she would have to meet her new neighbours. Hiding was not an option.

‘Come in.' She smiled another tightly polite smile while he headed through the door with the familiarity of someone who knew the place.

As he would, she thought. In a place of this size, everyone would know everyone else. From the looks of him, he was probably the local professional. A banker or a lawyer of some sort who fancied himself a cut above the rest.

She poured juice for Simon, who hovered by the table and ignored his slippers, which were by the chair. His baggy, long shorts made his thin legs seem even thinner and she reminded herself that he was the reason she had moved up here.

‘Now, shall I come and put on a video for you, Simes? Your favourite cartoon, perhaps?'

‘Can you play with me?' he asked hopefully, and she shook her head with a grin.

‘Nice try. I'm just going to have a quick cup of coffee with Mr Dalgleish and then maybe we can go out and do some gardening. I'll let you use the watering can.'

‘The big one?'

‘If you can handle it.'

‘I have some soil.' Simon turned gravely to James. ‘For planting vegetables.'

‘Really?' He didn't know much about children but this boy was so serious and so
thin
. He looked as though one wisp of a Scottish breeze would blow him off his feet, never mind the harshness of winter. ‘Any in particular?'

‘Beans.'

‘Would those be baked beans?' James grinned and for the first time Simon smiled, a wide smile that brought a light to his face.

‘With sausages and chips,' he said, giggling.

Sara felt something uncomfortable tug inside her and she frowned at James. ‘Come on, Simes. Let's go and see what video we can put on for you.' She held out her hand and curled her fingers around her son's little ones.

When she returned to the kitchen it was to find that coffee had been made and was waiting for her. James was sitting at the kitchen table, his body turned away from her as he looked out of the French doors, which were sprawled open on to the front garden that rolled down towards the lane at the bottom and open countryside beyond that.

It was funny, but the house had felt so damned hollow since she had moved in. Now his presence filled it, making her edgy and defensive and for the first time turning her thoughts away from herself and the enormity of the mistake she had made.

‘There was no need for you to make the coffee.' Sara stepped through into the kitchen and he turned slowly in his chair until he was looking directly at her. Those eyes,
she thought, a little confused. Midnight-blue and thickly fringed with black eyelashes. Seriously disconcerting eyes.

‘No problem. It won't be the first time I've made coffee in this kitchen.'

‘You knew my uncle.' She willed herself to get her legs together and moved towards the opposite end of the kitchen table, pouring herself some coffee from the percolator
en route
, and sat down, cradling the mug between both hands.

‘Everyone knew Freddie.' He gave her a long, measured look. Feeling out the land, he thought. How long had it been since he had last done that with a woman? Or anyone, for that matter? ‘He was something of a local character. As you might know…or do you?' He raised his cup to his lips, sipped some of the coffee and regarded her over the rim of the cup.

‘Is that why you came here, Mr Dalgleish? To try and pry into my life and find out what I'm doing here?'

‘The name is James. And of course that's why I came here.' That, amongst other things, though those can wait for the moment, James thought. ‘So…what
are
you doing here?'