Morelli's Mistress (Harlequin Presents) (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

A
BBY
TOOK
THE
last batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven, inhaling their delicious fragrance as she set the tray on the counter nearby.

She unloaded the muffins onto a cooling tray and checked that the coffee machine had been filled that morning. The scones she’d baked earlier were just waiting to be transferred into a basket.

She still had to fill the small pots with jam, but the creamers could wait until she had her first customer of the day.

She also had cupcakes to bake, but they were mixed and ready. She had only to separate them into their cases before popping them in the oven.

She wondered when she’d developed such a love of baking. Not while she was married to Harry; that was for sure.

In those days, she’d spent all her free time working, saving for the day when she could support both her mother and herself.

Unfortunately that day had never come.

She sighed.

Nevertheless, she felt a pleasant sense of satisfaction as she looked about her. The small café, with the bookshop she’d introduced, was everything she’d hoped it would be. Her mother would have loved it, she thought wistfully. But she’d died of motor neurone disease just two years after entering the nursing home.

Abby had discovered the small café, which had previously been run by two sisters, now retired, when she’d been trawling the Internet. Until then the idea of moving out of London had only been a pipe dream. But the café in Ashford-St-James had been available for rent, and it had seemed an inspiration. When she’d learned it also had living accommodation, Abby hadn’t hesitated before applying for the tenancy.

Then, when her divorce from Harry had been made final, she’d bought herself a bottle of Pinot Noir and had a private celebration. Before packing up the bedsit, where she’d been living since she’d left Harry, and moving herself and Harley, her mother’s golden retriever, to this small Wiltshire town.

She supposed she must have always dreamed about running her own café. And the owner, an elderly man called Mr Gifford, had had no objections to her desire to modernise the interior to suit her needs. She’d used what little money she’d saved to give the place a makeover. It looked much different now from the rather dingy tearoom she’d first encountered.

To begin with, she’d bought the cakes and pastries she served with the coffee from the wholesalers. But then, one day she’d tried her hand at making muffins, and the results had been so good, she’d never looked back.

But she’d also discovered that the café on its own didn’t generate a huge income. Which might have been why the sisters who’d run it before her had had to give it up. Although it had a steady clientele, they didn’t get a lot of tourists in Ashford-St-James.

Which was why she’d had the idea of adding a bookshop. There were a lot of older people living in the area, who found visiting the bookshops in Bath just too much trouble. How much easier it was to come out for a coffee and browse the bookshelves when you’d finished. Abby was sure that many of the single men who used the café wouldn’t have done so without the added attraction of choosing a bestseller.

And in the last four years, she’d made a good life for herself here, she thought contentedly. She was happier than she’d been since before her marriage. She and Harley suited one another.

Okay, her friends in London thought she was a fool to settle in a backwater like Ashford. But after working every hour God sent when she was employed in the English department at the university, Abby appreciated being her own boss. She was able to set her own schedule, with no one looking over her shoulder and checking her work.

Leaving the huge Italian coffee machine, which had been her biggest and most successful outlay, bubbling away behind her, Abby walked through to the small bookshop.

A young mother who lived in the town, and wanted employment to fit in with her six-year-old’s needs, worked with her. But Lori didn’t turn up until nine o’clock, after delivering her daughter to the local primary school.

At present, everywhere was quiet, and Abby wandered happily amongst the shelves, restoring books that had been misplaced, and generally admiring the result.

Her peaceful reverie was broken by someone hammering on the outer door. Glancing at her watch, Abby saw that it was barely seven o’clock and she didn’t open the café until half past.

It had to be an emergency, she thought, though what kind of an emergency she couldn’t imagine. Unless Harley had somehow got out of the flat upstairs and had been found roaming the streets of the small country town.

That would be an emergency!

* * *

Luke Morelli stepped out of his current girlfriend’s basement apartment, and climbed the steps to the street above.

It was cool in Grosvenor Mews, but he breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told the young woman he’d been seeing for the past couple of weeks that he had meetings planned for this morning. And, as a consequence, he wouldn’t be able to drive her to the photo shoot in Bournemouth as she’d hoped.

Besides, their association was getting too serious. Luke seldom, if ever, continued a relationship beyond a couple of weeks. Occasionally, when he indulged in a little introspection, he put it down to the fact that his mother had walked out on his father when he was just a boy. Oliver Morelli had been shattered at this betrayal, and Luke had determined then never to suffer the same fate.

And he’d never been tempted. Except on one less-than-memorable occasion.

He strode out of the Mews now and along the Embankment. It was a beautiful morning; spring was definitely in the air. It was surprisingly warm, even at this early hour, and he decided to walk for a while before heading to his office.

The headquarters of the Morelli Corporation were in Canary Wharf, a far cry from the pokey premises in Covent Garden where he and Ray Carpenter had started the company. Of course, Ray was long gone these days. He’d decided to take his share of the business and move to Australia. He appeared to be doing pretty well, Luke had thought, when he’d visited him last year. But as Ray had said, not without a certain degree of good-natured envy, he was no longer in Luke’s league.

Jacob’s Tower, where the Morelli offices were situated, occupied a prominent position in Bank Street. There were several other companies leasing property in the building, with a branch of a well-known string of luxury hotels occupying the first three floors.

Luke’s office was on the penthouse floor, with an adjoining apartment that he used on occasion. But he also owned a house in Belgravia, an elegant Georgian property, that he’d invested in before the price of houses in London had hit the roof.

Luke attended the weekly board meeting and then informed his secretary that he was leaving for the rest of the day. ‘I’m going to drive down to Wiltshire, to take another look at those properties in Ashford-St-James,’ he told her, gathering the necessary files from his desk. ‘And I promised my father I’d call in on him. I haven’t seen him since we met in the solicitor’s office when Gifford died.’

‘Very well, Mr Morelli.’ Angelica Ryan, an efficient middle-aged woman in her fifties, who had been with him for the past ten years, nodded in agreement. ‘Will you be back tomorrow?’

‘I expect so.’ Luke pulled a wry face. ‘I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’

* * *

Responding to the uncompromising summons, Abby left the area devoted to the bookshop, and hurried across the café to the door. It was a reinforced glass door, although recently, on the advice of the local police constable, Abby had had an iron grill installed inside. But she could still see who her visitor was, and her heart sank at the sight of Greg Hughes.

Greg Hughes owned the photography studio next door. Abby assumed it had once been a thriving business, but these days, with amateur photographers and cameras in mobile phones, she wondered how he made a living.

To her regret, she didn’t like Greg. She’d tried to when she’d first moved into the café, but he’d instantly struck her as a smarmy character, always wanting to know all her personal details.

Harley didn’t like him either. The retriever, always such a placid animal, usually growled when Greg came onto the premises. Harley wasn’t permitted to have the run of the food area, of course, but just occasionally he managed to hide away behind the shelves of books.

‘Greg?’ Abby said now, the inquiry evident in her voice. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Damn right something’s wrong,’ declared her visitor irritably. ‘Haven’t you read your mail today?’

Abby frowned. ‘The mail hasn’t arrived yet,’ she said, feeling obliged to invite him inside. His breath smelt strongly of garlic and it wasn’t pleasant this early in the morning.

‘Well, did you read yesterday’s mail, then?’ demanded Greg, his chubby frame fairly quivering with indignation. ‘As you probably noticed, I was away at a craft fair yesterday, and I didn’t bother checking my post until this morning.’

Abby sighed. She refrained from telling him that she hadn’t noticed that his shop was closed. He got so few clients, it was difficult to tell when he was open and when he was not.

Besides, in all honesty, she rarely bothered reading through the pile of bills and circulars that came through her door on a daily basis. She saved them for when she was feeling confident that this month she’d make a profit.

‘I’m afraid I must have forgotten,’ she said, unable to imagine what might have got him so steamed. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Oh, thanks.’

Taking her at her word, Greg appropriated one of the tables in the window, leaving Abby to bring his coffee to him.

Then, when he’d added cream and sugar to his liking, he said, ‘So you haven’t heard that old man Gifford has died and his son is selling this row of businesses to a developer.’

Abby’s jaw dropped. ‘No.’ She stared at him disbelievingly. ‘When did he die? Why weren’t we informed?’

‘Apparently, it was quite recently. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? I saw the old man in town about three months ago.’

Abby shook her head. ‘But can his son do this? I mean, I’ve got a lease.’

‘And when does your lease run out?’

‘Um—in about six months, I think. But I was hoping to extend it.’

‘As we all were,’ said Greg grimly. ‘But it’s not going to happen.’

Abby’s heart sank. ‘But this is my home as well as my business.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Greg took a generous mouthful of his coffee, smacking his lips with pleasure. ‘Hmm, that’s good.’

Abby couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘But what can we do?’

‘I haven’t given it a lot of thought yet,’ said Greg, swallowing more of his coffee. ‘We need to speak to the other shopkeepers first. I suppose we could contact Martin Gifford and ask him if he’d consider a raise in the rents instead.’

Abby frowned. ‘Do you think he might?’

‘No.’ Greg grimaced. ‘It’s about as likely as the developer withdrawing his offer.’

‘Like that’s going to happen.’ Abby looped her hands behind her neck, walking agitatedly about the room. ‘Developers don’t do that sort of thing.’

‘You said it.’

Greg finished his coffee and pushed his cup across the table towards her. But if he hoped she might offer him a refill, he was disappointed. Abby was already thinking she would have to conserve what few assets she had. She knew Mr Gifford’s son was unlikely to pay her for the improvements she’d made to the café when he intended on demolishing it.

Turning back to Greg, she said, ‘Do you know who the developers are?’

‘Why? Are you seriously thinking of appealing to their better nature?’

‘Of course not.’ Abby was impatient. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s not as if Ashford-St-James is a hive of industry.’

‘No, but it lacks a decent supermarket. According to the solicitor, whose letter I read this morning, the plan is to build a block of rental apartments above the retail area.’

Abby expelled a weary breath. ‘I wonder if they’ll offer us accommodation in the new apartments, at a reduced rate, of course.’

‘Well, I don’t need accommodation,’ said Greg a little smugly. ‘I bought my modest bungalow when property was cheap.’ He paused. ‘And you could always stay with me until you find yourself somewhere else to live, Abby. I doubt if you could afford the rents the Morelli company is likely to charge.’

Abby’s breath stalled. ‘Did you say—Morelli?’ she asked tensely.

‘Yes.’ Greg frowned. ‘Do you know them?’

‘I know—of them,’ admitted Abby, a feeling of nausea invading her stomach.

And with it came another thought. Dear God, did Luke Morelli know she was renting one of these properties? Was this an attempt on his part to take his revenge?

* * *

Abby lay awake, staring dully at the light from the street lamps outside filtering through the curtained windows. Harry was snoring peacefully beside her, having completed his masculine domination of her in the usual way.

All the same, his anger had been totally unexpected. He’d known where she was going; known who she was with. Yet he’d still managed to ruin her evening when she’d got home.

Her first indication of his mood had come as soon as she’d walked into the living room of the apartment.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he’d demanded, snagging the strap of the bag Abby had had slung over her shoulder. She’d staggered a little when he’d used it to haul her towards him.

‘You know where I’ve been,’ she’d said, refusing to let him see he’d shocked her. ‘It was Liz’s hen night. You said I should go.’

‘Only because I didn’t want your mother getting on my case again about me neglecting you,’ he’d retorted, pushing his face close to hers. ‘You stink of alcohol. How many drinks have you had?’

‘Just one,’ Abby had said defensively. She’d refused to count the cocktail, which she’d only tasted. ‘A glass of wine. Hardly in your league, am I?’

She’d barely avoided the hand Harry had raised towards her. ‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ he’d snarled, and she’d wondered how much longer she could live like this. ‘I asked you a civil question and I expect a civil answer. Or would you like Mummy to hear what an ungrateful girl you are?’