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Secret Things and Highland Flings
Tracy Corbett
Lexi Ryan’s ex-husband has squandered their money and run away to Spain with his PA, leaving Lexi to deal with the fallout. Determined to keep her beloved art gallery afloat, Lexi doesn’t tell anyone about the bag of cash she found in their basement. But when Martin returns demanding his money, she doesn’t know who to turn to…Olly Wentworth seems to have it all. He’s carefree and travelling the world – but he’s running from an old family secret. And, when his father dies and he suddenly finds himself the Earl of Horsley, his life is turned upside down. Now he has to find the money to fund his family estate – and fast.When their two paths cross in the Scottish highlands, Lexi and Olly are instantly drawn to one another. But how long can it last, when they both have secrets to hide?
Secret Things and Highland Flings
TRACY CORBETT
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Tracy Corbett 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock
Tracy Corbett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008299491
Version: 2019-03-22
For Simon, thank you for helping me find my smile again. x
Table of Contents
Cover (#u8a54b074-5af2-5cd0-9edd-6b3441e2ea00)
Title page (#udf8f53ce-f74c-5c84-be39-dc8894804750)
Copyright (#ub4a05154-bbf1-52de-9bd5-ede99ff05301)
Dedication (#u5a1628d5-df48-5d84-ac6c-c5ced0810a97)
Chapter One (#u7098e94d-d619-5f9e-ab87-69a169d7bb07)
Chapter Two (#ubb7e5712-26f2-5235-b9d4-01ef1048ce17)
Chapter Three (#u4fc4a485-e8ec-5bfe-8b67-509b7d720cc9)
Chapter Four (#u38b352c3-c475-5abf-8ae3-3f7c2f675f83)
Chapter Five (#u3c150de3-a300-527b-88f2-dbf217334125)
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)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_8bf4e3aa-ed33-5462-b314-6934f9c8aaa6)
Tuesday 29th May
Lexi Ryan wasn’t having the best of mornings. She’d managed to slice open her finger while chopping apricots for the muffins she’d baked first thing, and then she’d torn a contact lens and spent the next thirty minutes trying to locate the broken pieces in her eye. By the time she’d recovered and rushed down from the flat to open up her art gallery below, her finger was throbbing and her eye was bloodshot. Not exactly the composed and professional look she was aiming for.
She’d hoped wearing her favourite emerald-green fifties wrap-around dress might cheer her flagging spirits, but not even her love of vintage clothing was working today.
It was now lunchtime and things hadn’t improved. She had a pile of bills that needed paying and insufficient funds in her account to cover them. She’d phoned a few long-standing clients, hoping to encourage them into settling their accounts, but it had proved a fruitless exercise. Exceeding her overdraft limit this month was looking highly likely.
Concealing her agitation, she returned her attentions to her waiting clients. After all, she had a business to run. Stressing over her finances wouldn’t save her precious gallery from foreclosure, or prevent her from inflicting GBH on the annoying businessmen who couldn’t make up their mind between Livemont’s Scent of a Rose and Munch’s The Scream. Professionalism was called for.
‘Original?’ the older of the two said, pointing to the post-Impressionist masterpiece.
She joined them by the glass cabinet. Of course it’s an original, she was tempted to say. The Munch Museum grew tired of generating millions from displaying the Norwegian’s best-known expressionist work and decided to loan it to a small independent gallery in Windsor.
Except she didn’t say it, of course. She fought the urge for sarcasm, kept her smile in place and pointed to the index card. ‘All of the paintings displayed along this wall are copies,’ she said, refusing to catch the eye of the Woman at the Window in case she gave the game away.
‘Very good.’ He nodded manically, gesturing to the painting again. ‘Very good.’
‘I agree. They might not be originals, but they’re all exquisite works of art in their own right, painted by some of the country’s leading artists.’ She tried to dazzle them with a winning smile and brushed her blonde hair away from her face … except the plaster on her finger got stuck in her fringe, ruining the effect.
As she attempted to disentangle herself, the gallery door opened.
She glanced over, momentarily distracted by the sight of a huge bouquet of pink roses being carried through the doorway. And then she realised who was carrying the flowers and her day went from ‘mildly irritating’ to ‘catastrophic’ in an instant. It was her ex-husband.
The throbbing in her finger increased … until she realised she was gripping her hair.
She tried to regain her composure, but the sight of Marcus made that impossible. He was wearing a fitted shirt with black tailored trousers, looking tanned and relaxed, his beguiling smile enhanced by straight white teeth and deep brown eyes. He made quite an impact standing there, grinning, holding the flowers aloft like he was God’s gift. It didn’t stop her wanting to scream and throw a sharp object at his head, though.
She didn’t, of course. She hid her ensuing panic, smiled at her customers and said, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ then darted over to the doorway, her four-inch heels clicking on the tiled floor in time with her accelerated heart rate.
She hadn’t seen Marcus for over a year and although his sudden appearance in her gallery should be a complete shock, in truth she’d been expecting him.
It was hard to compute the range of emotions racing through her. He was as handsome as ever and looked younger than his thirty-four years. He smelt delicious too, a mixture of lemon and pine. Her heart ached a little at the reminder of what she’d lost.
Thankfully her head came to the rescue, absorbing the sight of his enticing smile but refusing to be taken in by it.
There’d been a time when he’d charmed her with his persuasive persona, showered her with gifts, and promised her a life filled with love, laughter and adventure. But that was before she’d discovered he wasn’t a decent, hardworking man but a prized rat who rarely told the truth. He’d played her one too many times for her to be fooled by his ‘charming-rogue’ routine. She was older and wiser now. A tougher nut to crack.
His opening gambit of, ‘Baby, it’s good to see you,’ was accompanied by him reaching for her like she was the answer to his prayers.
She lifted her hand, stopping him from hugging her. Breathing in his scent might tip the balance in favour of her hormones, derailing her motivation to draw blood.
It helped that his smile faded as he took in her attire. He’d never liked her in green. Tough. Unlike him, she couldn’t afford fancy new clothes and had to make do with items from her existing wardrobe.
‘Your hair’s shorter,’ he said, his eyes grazing over her appearance. ‘And what have you done to your eye?’
His disapproval helped to relax her. She’d almost forgotten how picky he could be. ‘What do you want, Marcus?’
A grin appeared. The glint in his eye was a reminder of all the times he’d tried to swindle her. ‘I wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.’ He offered her the flowers.
She refused to take them. ‘How’s Cindy?’
Mentioning his twenty-two-year-old PA had the desired effect. His smile instantly faded.
‘She’s still in Spain.’
‘Staying at the Finca, I presume?’
It still annoyed her that under Spanish law, their villa was excluded from UK insolvency laws. As such, his dodgy solicitor had managed to secure him ownership in the divorce. They’d purchased the place shortly after they’d married and spent two summers holidaying there – before his shady business dealings came to light and he ran off with his PA.
‘Lucky Cindy. Andalucía’s lovely in the spring.’
‘I didn’t come here to talk about Cindy.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’ But Lexi needed to feel more in control and reminding him of his girlfriend helped to do that. If she showed any weakness, he’d only take advantage. ‘Now, what is it you want? I have customers.’
He lowered the flowers. ‘I think you know why I’m here.’ He held her gaze. ‘You have something that belongs to me.’
‘And what would that be, Marcus?’ God, she hoped her left eye wouldn’t start twitching. She was a terrible liar. ‘Are you referring to your belongings following the house repossession? The bailiffs took most of it. As for the rest, I donated it to charity. I didn’t have room to store anything upstairs in the flat. Sorry.’
She wasn’t sorry at all. The bastard had buggered off and left her to deal with his mess. He should be grateful she hadn’t burnt his stuff.
‘What about my clothes?’
‘They’re boxed up in the storage basement below. Give me a forwarding address and I’ll send them to you. If you want them shipped to Spain you’ll have to pay yourself. My funds are somewhat depleted since the bankruptcy.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second.’ His gaze settled on the Woman at the Window. The sultry Italian temptress was hanging on the far wall, her astute dark eyes watching their exchange with interest. ‘You can still afford to buy valuable paintings.’
Trust him to notice. ‘Marcus, as you well know, I specialise in replicas, not originals. It’s a copy.’ Her eye immediately started twitching.
‘It doesn’t look like a copy.’
‘None of my paintings do, that’s why my business is so successful. A business that was severely jeopardised by your shady dealings.’ Attack was the best form of defence, she’d learnt.
He placed the flowers on the counter and went over to the painting. She watched him study the signature, which she’d carefully concealed behind a display card.
