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CHAPTER ONE
She had never seen him before in her life and she didn't think she wanted to see him again.
He looked dangerous, Annie Ross thought sharply, instinctively stepping aside to avoid a collision as the dark-haired stranger closed the ancient, silvery oak door in the garden wall.
As she stood there, her feet planted wide on the broad pavement, staring at him with an unwilling gaze, she decided hazily that her velvety brown eyes must have registered something of her wild inner apprehension, because the slow, sexually assessing smile that had warmed the stranger's startling blue eyes and quirked the austere lines of his mouth gave way to a kind of laid-back query. And then he turned with a slight inclination of his head, his long, easy stride taking him to the gun-metal Ferrari parked in the quiet, tree-lined street.
Only when the roar of the exhaust shattered the warm afternoon silence did Annie release her pent-up breath. For some reason she was shaking.
But, stiffening her spine, she mentally dismissed the man she had almost collided with, dismissed his immediate and uncomfortable effect on her. Dangerous, indeed! she nagged at herself. She was being fanciful, and that wasn't like her. She pushed the door open, the sun-bleached wood warm and grainy beneath her fingers, and then rooted briskly in her soft leather shoulder-bag for the house key, her generous mouth twisting wryly. The key was on permanent loan from Chris Howard, Seabourne's only estate agent, and he had told Norman, 'You might as well give in gracefully, old chap. Annie's obviously set her heart on Monk's Hall, so you might as well start packing now.' And the three of them had laughed, knowing Chris was joking because Norman was set in his ways; he didn't like change.
But Annie hoped to alter all that. Surely she could be allowed some say in the matter of where she and Norman lived after their marriage? Her mouth, above a small rounded chin, took on the determined line that reflected her character, her eyes lifting to sweep over the elegantly proportioned Queen Anne house.
As always, when she closed the garden door behind her, there came the familiar feeling that she was coming home, entering a world within a world, an enclosed and secret place found only when one passed through the silvery oak door in the high garden wall. All around her the garden was wild and lush, hints of early autumn colour showing in leaves just turning gold and bronze.
'That you, Annie?' The male voice startled her, intruding as it did in this enchanted place, and she paused on the mossy path, pushing her tanned fingers through her stylishly layered, rich, Titian hair, a half-smile beginning to soften her coral-tinted mouth as she saw Chris Howard pocket his keys and advance slowly down the path towards her.
Chris was one of Norman's closest friends and had been the first to know of their engagement two months ago, and now he grinned. 'I might have known you couldn't keep away from the place!'
Annie thought that his grin looked strained today and she said, almost accusingly, 'You've been showing someone around,' which was childish of her because, after all, it was part of his job.
'That's right.' His light blue eyes avoided hers. 'The auction's only a week away—interest is bound to escalate sharply.'
From time to time she had encountered others who had been viewing the property. Some had been merely curious, others interested but apprehensive about the price the house could command at auction. The stranger she had seen coming through the garden gate would not be a time-waster, nor would a little thing like the possibly high price of a desirable property worry him. If she hadn't known that instinctively, then the car he drove, the clothes he wore, the easy aura of supreme self-confidence that clung to him like a second skin would have told her that much. He would be a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. And the wretch had taken up residence inside her head, spoiling her day.
She was about to ask 'Who is he?' then decided she didn't want to know and remarked instead, 'I'm going to have to twist Norman's arm over this.'
She was only half joking because, when they'd decided to marry, Norman had said, 'We'll live here. There's no point in moving when we have a ready-made home.' He and his first wife had moved into The Laurels on their marriage, and after her untimely death Norman had stayed on, employing a housekeeper, Joan, who was with him still.
'What is it about this place, for you?' Chris asked earnestly, sitting down on one of the stone benches that flanked the main door. 'You've been haunting the place ever since old Miss Jennings moved out and put it in my hands.'
'I know,' Annie agreed, a reluctant smile pulling at her mouth as she sank resignedly on to the sun-warmed stone beside him. She didn't like people digging into her motives—not even those as well known and well liked as Chris. But putting her feelings for Monk's Hall into words might make it easier for her to understand them herself.
'Just instinct, I suppose,' she began with a wry shrug of slender shoulders. She elaborated slowly, 'In the whole of my life I've never had a proper, settled home. Mother and I were always moving around.' Idly, she traced a pattern on the mossy path with the toe of one leather walking shoe, her deep brown eyes reflective. 'When I was a little girl I used to dream about having a real home, a beautiful house with my own room, a place where I could keep all my treasured possessions—the sort of things that give a child security and identity, the sort of things I was never allowed to keep for long because we were always moving on.'
'Were you an insecure, lonely child?' Chris questioned softly, and Annie gave a quick bright smile.
'Not at all. I was using general terms.' She had never lacked for material things. Her childhood had been one many an outsider would have envied. And there had always been plenty of people around.
'And Monk's Hall became an embodiment of those childhood dreams?'
'I suppose it must have done.' Annie's eyes were sparkling now. 'Three years ago, when I first set eyes on the house, I fell in love with it. It was shortly after I'd come here to work for Norman. I knew it was the type of house I'd always wanted. I knew I could live happily here for the rest of my life.
'
'But not at The Laurels,' Chris stated, and Annie shrugged, not knowing, her eyes fixed on her hands as they lay curled together in her lap. The glint of the diamond Norman had given her made her feel like a traitor.
At thirty-nine Norman Welling was an historian of some repute, and when she had gone to work for him as his research assistant and secretary she had moved into The Laurels with him and his housekeeper. She had been invited to do so and it had seemed the sensible thing to do. And Annie was nothing if not sensible.
But she had disliked the unimaginative bungalow on sight, whereas the old Queen Anne house, overlooking the coast, had stolen her heart. And lately, each time she had come to wander through the achingly beautiful empty house, she had felt as if she were coming home.
But Chris said warningly, 'I wouldn't set my heart on it, if I were you. For one thing, it would take a bomb to get Norman to agree to move out of The Laurels, and for another—' he spread his hands '—there could be other bidders, just as keen as you.'
Meaning, Annie supposed acidly, the self-confident bastard she'd seen at the garden door.
'We'll see.' She gathered herself together, standing up in an unconsciously graceful, fluid movement. And, as Chris took his leave and she watched him walk away, she vowed to make one final, concerted effort to get Norman to agree to make the move.
With that unexpected legacy from a father she couldn't remember she could make an untoppable bid for Monk's Hall. She would willingly pay well over the odds. All Norman had to do was agree to leave The Laurels. It was as simple—and as dif—as that.
Not that she would make a serious issue of it, though, she decided sensibly. Monk's Hall was the first thing they had ever even mildly disagreed about, and surely a house wasn't worth quarrelling over? On the other hand, she'd never made demands in all the time she'd known him, and Monk's Hall wasn't a shell of bricks and mortar. It could be the home she'd always longed for.
Quickly, she pushed aside that unbidden, half-angry thought and moved towards the main door. But the anticipation of again wandering through the house, planning how she would like to see it decorated, furnished, failed, for the first time ever, to give her the usual uplift of intense excitement. The dark stranger and his unwanted interest in the house still occupied her mind, haunting it almost. The indefinable and quite probably fanciful aura of danger she had detected around him had imprinted itself on her mind. Just thinking of him made her skin sprout goosebumps! It was a stupid reaction, she told herself. But very real…
