The Reluctant Groom

It’s a start, Abby, she assured herself. It was definitely a start. Opening her bag, she zipped the ring inside, with the letter her father had left—and that she really must do something about. She couldn’t keep putting it off with the excuse that she didn’t have time.

Irritated, unsettled, she walked to the window, stared down at the grounds. Late October, and yet the sun was as warm as a summer’s day. The house must be sold. Must. But how to persuade her mother? She didn’t want to hurt her more. She wasn’t an unkind girl, despite the impression she continued to give. Especially to Sam Turner, who thought she was into heel-grinding. Maybe she was. Not that it mattered what he thought. Sam Turner was an irrelevance.

So why did he persist in staying in her mind?

The next morning she dressed in elegant tailored trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. It was not, she insisted to herself, because she was trying to impress Sam Turner. She simply didn’t have casual clothes. The image she presented to the world didn’t permit it, and that, she thought, as she let him in, was one of the most absurd aspects of the whole charade. You took it too far, Abby. Way, way, too far.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked quietly as he entered the house.

‘No,’ she denied automatically, and then paused, because it would have been nice to have laughed at her absurdities with him, told him what she had been thinking, but the moment was lost as he strolled into the study.

‘Coffee?’ she asked him.

He turned, raised an eyebrow in mocking surprise, and she thought she could have cried for his disbelief at her common courtesy. A courtesy that would not have been extended last week. Would she only be able to change with people who did not yet know her? People she had not yet met?

‘Well, do you or don’t you?’ she asked, reverting to type.

‘Please. I have it black.’

Walking out, she went to make it.

Own fault, Abby. Yes. But then, he wasn’t a man to make things easy, was he? If she had been a sweet, simple soul, he would probably still have mocked, and that simple soul would have been embarrassed.

Scowling, she made his coffee and took it through.

Half the books were out of the bookcase and piled haphazardly on the desk. Hands braced, he was staring at a map that was spread out on top of them. ‘I hope you’re intending to put them back,’ she reproved as she found a place for his coffee.

He didn’t bother to answer, for which she could hardly blame him, but for some reason needing to goad, because he was at her father’s desk, because he was an intruder—because he had blue eyes, for all she knew—she extended an elegant finger and rested it on the map. ‘Sevastopol. The site of the siege.’

He looked up—and the most alarming thread of tension leapt between them.

Startled, she looked quickly back at the map. ‘I always think it such a shame,’ she said quickly, ‘that everyone focuses on the Charge of the Light Brigade and not on the reasons behind it all. On the pretext of a quarrel between Russia and France over guardianship of the Holy Places in Palestine, a war was started.

‘And the fact,’ he stated softly, ‘that Turkey invaded Moldavia.’

‘Yes.’ She needed to get out of here.

‘You’re being unusually forthcoming,’ he continued, in the same mesmerisingly soft voice.

‘Oh, I’m always forthcoming,’ she heard herself say, ‘Just not usually in the direction people expect. Enjoy your coffee.’

Without waiting for a reply, she walked out. He followed.

Heart hammering against ribs that suddenly felt too fragile to enclose it, shoulders tense, she quickened her pace.

‘Do you have a lover?’

Shocked, she halted, took a deep breath, and walked on. ‘No,’ she managed. ‘Do you?’

‘No. You forgot the biscuits.’

She halted again. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Biscuits,’ he repeated. ‘Your mother always gave me biscuits.’

‘Did she?’ she asked stupidly. Feeling the heat of him at her back, she hastily moved on and pushed into the kitchen. ‘How very kind of her.’

‘Mmm.’

Turning, she warily watched him open the cupboard and remove a packet of chocolate chip cookies. He opened the packet and held it towards her.

She shook her head.

Eyes on hers, he took out a biscuit and began to slowly eat it. She couldn’t for the life of her take her eyes away from his mouth. A small crumb clung to his lower lip and she shuddered, turned quickly away.

‘It can be arranged,’ he said softly.

Heart thumping, a shiver of awareness tingling her nerves, and not even pretending to misunderstand, she shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Why? You’re attracted.’

‘You’re an attractive man,’ she agreed, and couldn’t believe that her voice didn’t even quiver. No man had ever spoken to her like this. Men had always given her a wide, wary berth. Except for Peter, who was very much like her. Did he wear a mask? she suddenly wondered.

Taking a deep breath, she turned—and found him gone. Nerves unstrung, she let all her breath out on a sigh. It could be arranged, could it? Arranged for him to kiss her...? No. Shutting off a thought that thoroughly unnerved her, she walked out to see if the post had arrived. But for the rest of that day she was troubled by uncertainty, feelings of—longing.

The next day was worse. For her, anyway. Probably because she’d spent half the night thinking about him, she thought disgustedly. And why on earth did it feel as though it was taking enormous courage just to take his coffee and biscuits in? She could almost taste the tension in herself.

Shoving open the study door, she found him standing at the bookcase, idly running his finger down some of the titles.

She gave a quick glance at his broad back, and turned to leave.

‘I imagine he travelled a lot, he said casually without turning.

‘My father? I don’t know about a lot,’ she denied. ‘Certainly he went to Russia.’

‘Perhaps before you were even born.’

With no idea where this was leading, she shrugged. ‘Maybe. I know very little about his early life.’

He still didn’t turn, merely continued his idle perusal of the bookcase. ‘He was a solicitor, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Who’d foolishly speculated on the stock exchange, and then taken out a massive loan to cover his debts.

‘How old was he when he died?’

‘Sixty-two. Helps with your research, does it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘To know his background?’

‘Thanks for the coffee.’

‘And biscuits,’ she added as she walked out. ‘Don’t forget the biscuits.’

What had all that been about? Feeling unsettled, she returned to the kitchen. There had been far too many men of late arriving at the house asking questions about her father. She didn’t need Sam Turner joining the list. How could such a kind, caring, efficient man as her father have left things in such a muddle? Admittedly he presumably hadn’t known he was going to have a heart attack, but even so she would never have said he was a fool. Then there was the letter he’d left instructions for her to deliver. To Gibraltar, of all places. She hoped that wasn’t another debt, but she suspected it was, which was why she’d been putting off delivering it. She would wait until the house was sold, then she would go to Gibraltar.

Sick to death of thoughts and worries that wouldn’t leave her alone, and needing something to do, she walked into the village to get something for her dinner.

She didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon, and he left without telling her. Perhaps he was avoiding her. Certainly it would be best to avoid him. It didn’t stop her from thinking about him though. And wondering.

The next morning when she let him in, he was terse. No familiar mockery in his blue eyes, just a nod of greeting and straight into the study. Tension drifted in his wake.

Pulling a face, she went to make the coffee, and then left it on the desk without comment

He was filling up her mind to the exclusion of everything else, she thought distractedly. And for why? He was derisive, mocking, not at all the sort of man she liked or felt comfortable with. So why couldn’t she get on with anything? She’d been going to clear out the kitchen cupboards, clear out her bedroom, throw away all the years of accumulated rubbish. No, not rubbish; she’d cleared that out fourteen years ago. But there were still clothes there that no longer fitted. Books. All the things she’d really needed she had moved to her flat in London. So do it, Abby! But she wasn’t in the mood.

She heard him go out at lunchtime, and without meaning to, without a plan, she found herself walking into the study. Found herself thinking about his offer. Which had probably now been withdrawn.

She wasn’t very experienced with this flirting business, if indeed he had been flirting. In fact, she wasn’t experienced at all. All those years pretending to be Miss Cool hadn’t left any opportunity for flirting. She was probably the only twenty-eight-year-old virgin in the history of the planet! And she didn’t want to be. Not that she was ashamed of it or anything; there had never been anyone she’d wanted to make love to until now. He would probably make a very good lover... Yes, she agreed thoughtfully. But not for her. The man was ruthless.

She rested her hand on one of the books that still littered the desk; it came away covered in dust. How long since anyone had cleaned properly in here? And if the books were dusty, what on earth was the bookcase like?

Without stopping to think, she dragged the stepladder in from the hall cupboard and stood it next to the tall bookcase. She could get it done before he came back. He was usually gone an hour.

Collecting a duster, she climbed up and promptly sneezed. Muttering to herself as she slowly swept the dust into a pile, she didn’t hear the door open, and so when he spoke, asked her what on earth she was doing, she gave a little scream of surprise, and lost her balance.

Strong hands circled her waist and she was lifted down. He didn’t release her. Just stared into her up-tilted face—and tension didn’t just shimmer between them, it positively glowed.

‘You’re usually gone an hour,’ Abby accused breathlessly.

‘I wasn’t hungry,’ he answered simply. Eyes direct and bright, he searched her face. ‘So, what were you doing?’

‘Looking for hidden treasure.’

‘Find any?’

‘No.’

‘No,’ he agreed. Idly fingering a strand of hair, aware of the shiver she gave, he gave a slow, self-mocking smile. ‘Your mother said you were clever,’ he pronounced quietly.

Her mother said too much.

‘An ice maiden, cool and in control—with a silky soft voice to make a man grovel.’

Grovel? Oh, boy. ‘But not you,’ she pronounced huskily.

‘No. Not me.’ Eyes riveted on hers, he asked intimately, ‘How cool are you, Abby?’

He was going to kiss her, she thought in panic. Almost in panic. But she didn’t struggle free, didn’t do any of the things she would have expected herself to do. The opposite, in fact. Moving her eyes to his mouth, feeling almost unable to help herself, she kissed him—and the most enormous rush of emotion whirled through her. Nothing in her life had ever prepared her for that. Nothing.

Disorientated, almost uncomprehending, she whispered dazedly, ‘Not cool at all. I want everything.’

Everything was what she almost got. His own kiss, without a murmur, without preliminaries, was searing. He dipped his head and kissed her with a harsh, bruising intensity that wrenched the world out of kilter. He wasn’t gentle. She didn’t want him to be. Excitement laced through her as he turned her, held her against the bookcase, and continued to kiss her with a mastery that left her light-headed and dizzy.

Clutching him tight, she kissed him back with a desire she found as astonishing as it was exhilarating. His arms were strong, and hard and tight, his mouth practised. A kiss to remember for the rest of her life. She could feel his heart against hers, the strength of his thighs, the spiralling, mounting feeling of utter belonging.

And then he thrust her away.

Hands gripping her shoulders hard, fingers digging into her flesh. She was shocked to awareness by eyes as brightly blue as a summer sky that, astonishingly, held a blazing anger.

‘Sam?’ she whispered in alarm.

‘No,’ he denied raggedly.

Uncomprehending, body aching, needing more, eyes fixed desperately on his, she slid her hands to his warm chest.

‘Abby!’

With a little jerk, not in the real world at all, she turned her head, stared at her mother standing in the doorway.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she demanded. She sounded absolutely scandalised. ‘You’re engaged!’

‘Engaged?’ she queried dazedly.

‘Yes! Where’s your ring?’

Glancing at her left hand as though she didn’t know what her mother was talking about, she murmured, ‘I took it off. Sam and I—’

‘No,’ he broke in. Lifting his hands, breaking all contact, he stepped back. ‘No,’ he repeated.

‘Sam?’ Confused, bewildered, she held out one hand to him.

He ignored it. Snatching his document case off the desk, he walked out.

‘Sam!’ She would have run after him, but her mother caught her arm, held her back.

‘I knew he was trouble. I just knew it! I shouldn’t have left you. Abby! You can’t go after him!’

‘Yes, I have to...’ Trailing off, barely aware of her mother’s grip on her arm, she stared at the closed front door, then back to her mother. ‘Why was he so angry?’ she whispered.

‘You were kissing him,’ her mother exclaimed, as though she had never encountered such a thing before.

‘Yes.’ And he would be back, she reassured herself. Of course he would.

‘He isn’t what I want for you,’ her mother wailed despairingly. ‘Peter...’

‘Not now, Mum,’ Abby interrupted distractedly. ‘I’ll take your case up.’

Grabbing her mother’s case, she hurried upstairs. Dumping it on the bed, she just stood there, eyes almost blank. Why? she wondered. Why had he been so angry?

Needing a few minutes on her own, unable to face her mother just yet, she walked to the window, stared blindly down. Why? But he would be back. Of course he would. Unconsciously rubbing her fingers over her mouth, eyes still blank with shock and disbelief, she closed her eyes to recapture the moment he’d kissed her. She could feel it still, the urgency, the need... And if her mother hadn’t come home just then, would he still have left?

She didn’t understand. Had he left because he thought she was engaged? Well, she could tell him tomorrow, explain...

‘Abby?’ her mother called tentatively up the stairs.

‘Coming,’ she answered automatically.

Walking away from the window as though in a dream, she went downstairs, found her mother in the kitchen.

‘I’ve made some tea...’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Abby . . .’

‘How was your trip?’ she asked quickly, to forestall any questions about Sam.

‘Eventful,’ she sighed. Eyes worried, she watched her daughter. She’d never seen her like this. ‘Don’t get involved with him, Abby,’ she pleaded. ‘He isn’t safe.’

‘Safe?’ she echoed.

‘Yes. I knew someone like him once. All energy and excitement. But it doesn’t last, Abby. Peter’s the right one for you.’

‘No,’ she denied gently. ‘He isn’t.’

‘But you don’t know this man!’

‘No, but I want to,’ she admitted quietly. ‘How was Lena?’

‘Fine.’ Carrying the teas over to the table, she sat, waited until Abby had sat opposite. ‘She thinks I should sell the house.’

Attention finally captured, she stared at her mother, tried not to hope too hard. ‘And?’

‘And I think so too. Oh, Abby,’ she exclaimed tiredly, ‘I thought your future was secured. I was so pleased when you got engaged.’

‘I don’t love him,’ Abby said quietly.

‘Well, you can’t love Sam! You barely know him!’

‘No. What happened to the man you were in love with?’

Her mother flushed, fiddled with her spoon. ‘He went off with someone else. It was a long time ago.’

‘But you still remember the hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t you love Daddy?’

‘Of course I loved him!’

‘But it wasn’t the same, was it?’ she asked silently. Because you never forgot your first love. Perhaps that was all it was with her. Sam could have been, could still be, her first love. If he came back. ‘Do you really feel you can sell the house?’ she asked gently.

‘Yes. It’s too big for one, and we need to pay the debts, don’t we? The loan companies won’t wait for ever, and the interest is crippling.’

‘Yes, but...’ Reaching for her mother’s hand, she gently squeezed it. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ Taking a deep breath, she continued bravely, ‘I’ve seen a bungalow, and it’s near to Lena... Best to make a new start. And it will solve all our problems, won’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Some of them. And Sam would be back. Of course he would.

They sat up talking long into the night, making plans, and in the morning, when Sam didn’t come, Abby tried to be philosophical about it, and failed. She went to the estate agents, put the house up for sale, went with her mother to look at the bungalow she liked, prayed that Sam wouldn’t turn up in her absence. She never knew whether he did or not. Certainly he didn’t come the next day, or the one after that.

There had been no note, no explanation; he’d just left as he had arrived. Abby didn’t know his address, didn’t know how to contact him. Professor Wayne didn’t know where he lived, barely even knew him, and the Vehicle Licensing Authority, who had presumably issued his driving licence, wouldn’t tell her.

A man from nowhere. A man she couldn’t get out of her mind. One kiss wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

CHAPTER TWO

MONTHS passed, the house was sold, her mother ensconced in her new bungalow, and slowly, slowly, Abby came to terms with the fact that Sam wasn’t coming back. That she would never see him again. Apathy turned to anger, and then acceptance, a determination not to let him change her life. But she didn’t forget him.

Touring the house for the last time, her footsteps echoing, his image was clear in the kitchen, where he had leaned against the work surface mocking her. In the study, the hall, and she wanted to cry. Not only for him, but because she suddenly realised how much this house meant to her. She’d grown up here. Arrived here as a small child, presumably bewildered, upset, and then happy, laughing, getting into mischief... Until the age of fourteen.

With a deep sigh, she crossed the empty lounge and hall, and walked into the study. All the furniture was gone, the smaller pieces to her mother’s bungalow, the large either sold, or to her sisters. All Abby had wanted was her father’s desk and chair. The chair he had sat on to write his last instructions. In pain, already in the throes of the heart attack that would kill him, he’d rung the ambulance, and then taken time to write to his youngest daughter, asking her to deliver a letter to a Nathan Tabiner. In Gibraltar. Personally. He hadn’t said it was urgent, or imperative, which was probably just as well, seeing as she hadn’t done anything about it yet. Or not much. She had found out who he was—the head of a fund management company—which had given her no comfort at all. Fund management sounded like ‘debt’ to her. Although, she’d tried to reassure herself, if it had been a debt, surely they would have written by now, sent an invoice or something. Well, she would soon know; as soon as she’d finished here she was intending to go out and see him. She was a free agent, she assured herself. No job to worry about, no need to rush back. She could take a little holiday after she’d seen Tabiner.

Turning her head, she stared at the empty bookcase. The contents had been sold. She stood before it for a long time, thinking of her father, of Sam, wondering, and was then angry with herself. How foolish to keep thinking of a man who didn’t want her. Ironic, wasn’t it, that as soon as she’d allowed her vulnerability to show, someone had come in and stamped all over it? But at least the debts were paid. As far as she knew.

Forcing herself to leave, she closed the front door behind her for the very last time, glad, at least, that James was being kept on by the new owners. She walked round to the estate agents to leave the keys.

She’d decided to drive instead of fly, because she’d thought that the long journey would give her time to think, plan her future, allow her to see sights she’d only read about. Which she did, but she must also have eaten or drunk something that didn’t agree with her, because by the time she reached Gibraltar’s border, and the queue that stretched for miles, she felt extremely ill.

She should have found a hotel, rested first, but foolishly didn’t, and by the time she found Tabiner’s offices she was forced to sit for some time trying to quell the uneasiness in her stomach. Or maybe it wasn’t food poisoning, she tried to tell herself, maybe it was nerves.

Just do it, Abby. It doesn’t have to be a debt.

Taking a deep breath, she climbed out of the car, and, head held high, she walked slowly into the offices.

Chaos greeted her: dust sheets, ladders, two painters, one of whom was talking to the receptionist. It was left to the doorman to ask her business.

‘I’m here to see Mr Tabiner,’ she pronounced, with all the appearance of quiet confidence.

‘I’d better take you up to Greg Hanson; I’ll get Sally to ring through and tell Mr Tabiner you’re here.’

It was that easy.

After Greg Hanson’s initial surprise at her entrance, and a lengthy silence, because he looked as though he didn’t know what to say to her now, she stared from the window, and waited. A shy man, she guessed, but she was in no fit state to offer him comfort. Not so long ago she would have taken his behaviour for granted, because she knew the effect she had on most men. Had deliberately sought those reactions, and squashed them. All he would see was a tall blonde, with cool grey eyes; he would have no knowledge of the turmoil within. Despite feeling like death warmed over, she knew she looked totally in command of herself. Dressed in an elegant lightweight, thankfully uncrushable suit that matched her eyes, she stared at the yachts in the marina below.

‘He shouldn’t be much longer,’ he murmured. The poor man sounded almost desperate.

Turning her head, she gave a faint smile.

‘I could get you a cup of coffee—or something.’

‘No, I’m fine. Really. Have you worked here long?’ she asked, merely for something to say.

‘Five years,’ he said cautiously.

Her smile enigmatic, she returned her attention to the view, wished Tabiner would hurry up. Wished it were over. ‘Tell me about him,’ she encouraged. When he didn’t answer, she turned towards him again, forced amusement into her eyes when all she really wanted to do was run away. ‘Not allowed?’

‘No. Yes. I mean...’ Flustered, he muttered inarticulately, ‘What’s to tell? He’s a private man, self-contained. He’s always polite, always remembers people’s names, their families—’ Breaking off, he gave an embarrassed shrug, ‘I don’t know what he’s like! I’m his legal adviser, friend; he’s terrifyingly clever—and I can sometimes surprise him into a smile.’

She wondered if she would be able to. It sounded very much as though Greg Hanson didn’t know him at all. Not a good sign. She didn’t much like the sound of ‘terrifyingly clever’ either. If he didn’t hurry up, she was definitely going to run away.

The door opened behind them and they both turned. Greg with a nervous start, because he hadn’t heard him coming, and Abby with nervous relief—until she saw who it was. Sam Turner.

Tension leapt between them, immediate and stifling. She didn’t speak, didn’t think she could have spoken just then, just continued to stare in blank shock at the man standing in the doorway. Disbelief turned her bones to jelly.