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She was hot and out of sorts by the time she'd walked the two miles to the opposite side of town, to the quiet, modern suburb where she lived and worked with Norman. Her beige designer jeans and oyster cotton shirt were sticking to her and that made her feel uncomfortable.
Seabourne was an old fishing town, the small stone houses clinging like limpets to the sides of a shallow ravine, the narrow streets winding, steep in places.
The first time she'd seen Norman's home had been when she'd come for the job interview. She hadn't liked the large, functional bungalow then, and she didn't like it now. It was too neat, too lacking in character; it said nothing to her. And as far as Norman was concerned, he didn't seem to mind where he lived so long as he was comfortable, she thought, her straight, elegant nose wrinkling affectionately. Atmosphere didn't matter to him, but he disliked change. But if she could make him understand how she longed to own Monk's Hall, how easily she could make it a comfortable home, a home to be proud of, then surely he would agree to the move—for her sake?
Turning from the wide pavement to pass between The Laurels' gateposts, the hot autumn wind buffeting her, making her hair fly about her face, she stepped on to the short gravel drive and stopped dead in her tracks.
The gun-metal Ferrari parked directly in front of Norman's front door was unmistakable. Her stomach churned and, for a moment, she forgot to breathe. She couldn't imagine what that lean, dark stranger was doing here. The thought of him on her home territory made her hackles rise.
Hurrying now, which perhaps accounted for her breathlessness, she skirted the building and let herself in by the kitchen door. Joan was slicing bread, her smooth round face red and flustered, and the kettle was boiling its head off.
Annie unplugged it and tried to read Joan's mood. She had been Norman's housekeeper since his wife had died. In her late thirties, she could have been attractive if she had bothered about what she wore, how she did her hair. And until Norman had put the diamond ring on Annie's engagement finger she and Joan had rubbed along well. But recently Joan's moods had been unpredictable, to say the least, and Annie said lightly, 'There's a Ferrari parked outside. Visitors?' not voicing her real thoughts, which were, What the hell is that man doing here? Who is he? What's his game?
Joan would never have understood if she'd told her that something about the stranger's body chemistry had sparked off a bristling gut reaction deep inside her. No one would have understood it. She didn't even understand it herself.
'Some sort of distant cousin, I'm told.' Joan slapped butter on bread. 'Requiring tea and sandwiches.'
'Can I help?'
Annie didn't know if the extra chore was the cause of the housekeeper's ill humour or not. She was difficult to read these days, and Annie didn't know whether or not she was relieved when Joan said drily, 'No. Norman's been fussing because you're late. I suppose he wants to introduce you to this Luke Derringer. He'll be the first of the family to meet the prospective Mrs Welling.'
It was acidly said, but Annie had too much pride to let herself react. Her back straight, she walked out of the kitchen door and closed it gently behind her. Joan had been acting out of character ever since the engagement had been announced. Joan probably thought Annie wasn't good enough for their distinguished joint employer.
Mentally shelving the problem, Annie walked the length of the L-shaped corridor to the neat oblong bedroom that had been hers since she had come to work for Norman.
Reluctant to meet Luke Derringer face to face for the second time that day, she didn't hurry over making herself look more presentable. Norman hadn't many relatives, just a few distant cousins, and a spiteful fate had decreed that the Derringer man was one of them! She tucked a rust-coloured tailored silk shirt into the waistband of a classically styled, cream worsted skirt and wondered why the mere thought of him set her teeth on edge.
It could have nothing to do with the man personally, she informed herself with grim logic. It must be because she had instantly and instinctively recognised him as an achiever, a man who coolly and deliberately set out to get what he wanted. And if he wanted Monk's Hall he would do his damnedest to get it. Chris had as good as warned her of that, hadn't he? And that had to be the reason she had felt threatened when their eyes had met and held outside the garden door. Anything else was unthinkable.
Feeling unaccountably hot, Annie stared at herself in the mirror, wondering if the unusual inner turbulence showed through the cool outer veneer. She was tall and slim, self-possessed, her silky Titian hair skilfully layered around her oval, even-featured face. She had had years of practice in presenting the world with a face that kept its secrets, years of schooling her emotions. Ever since she could remember she had been trying to be as unlike her over-excitable mother as it was possible to be.
Satisfied that she presented her normal, poised image, she fished the car keys out of the pocket of her discarded jeans and went to find Norman.
'Sweetheart—you took your time!' There, was reproof in Norman's voice, but only mild, and he was smiling as he got up from his chair behind the big leather-topped desk where he always worked.
A burly man, he would be forty next birthday, but his pale hair and stocky frame made him look older by much more than the six or seven years that must separate him from the tall, whippy stranger who was leaning against the broad windowsill, half sitting.
'I know.' Annie faced him, holding his eyes, her smile very cool, her voice light. Deliberately, she did not look D
erringer's way. She was aware of him, though, terribly aware. And there was safety in the known; the respect and companionship she and Norman had built up over the years was comfortable, like an old, soft glove.
She put the keys she had been holding down on the desk.
'After I delivered the car for servicing I dropped by Monk's Hall,' she explained, cueing him into the conversation that would come later, when they were alone, and he grinned suddenly, his blunt, good-looking features looking almost boyish.
'That old place again!' His eyes twinkled, looking beyond Annie to the dark, silent man near the window. 'My fiancée's got a fixation lodged inside her pretty head—Annie, sweetheart, meet Luke Derringer—a kind of cousin, umpteen times removed.'
'We met earlier, outside Monk's Hall.' The deeply drawled statement set her teeth on edge, and Norman chuckled, his broad hands resting on Annie's slender shoulders, turning her round to face the stranger.
'That figures!' Norman's hands stayed on Annie's shoulders, holding her close, his fingers gently kneading the fine bones beneath the silk. Annie might have wondered at this unprecedented public display of affection had her mind not been on other things.
She was looking at Luke Derringer now, and he was looking at her, and the effect of those vivid blue eyes was catastrophic. He seemed to be asking silent questions—coming up with the answers, too—and when derision stared out at her from between thick black lashes she turned her head quickly, only just resisting the impulse to bury her face in Norman's comforting, sweater-clad chest.
Norman's arms tightened around her, almost as if he knew she needed protection, and as he questioned his cousin there was a strangely apologetic note in his voice which she sensed was for her benefit.
'Are you here for the auction, or just passing through?'
'For the auction.' Luke Derringer sounded very slightly amused as he pushed himself away from the windowsill. 'What else?'
