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Then he smiled, very slow, very sure of himself. 'There's a pretty potent brand of chemistry between us—immediate and undeniable. And you know it. I saw the recognition in your eyes the first time we met, outside Monk's Hall. You panicked then and you're panicking now.'
CHAPTER TWO
Annie buckled the belt of her jeans and pulled on a lightweight wool sweater. She had never felt so tense. Although she had carefully avoided Luke for the past few days, he was still getting to her. The mere knowledge that he was under the same roof, breathing the same air, was enough to make her skin prickle, her stomach churn with awareness of him. Pushing her fingers through the silky fire of her hair she took several deep, relaxing breaths.
On the whole she was pleased with her performance. Never by word or look had she allowed her dislike and distrust of Luke to show through. During mealtimes, when she had had no option but to endure his hateful company, she had devoted her entire attention to Norman. Fortunately, Norman always worked in the mornings and she worked with him, and in the afternoons he liked to potter in the garden. He took quiet satisfaction from his neat lawns, his productive vegetable patch.
Normally Annie would spend her afternoons helping Joan around the house, shopping, catching up on her typing. But since Luke's arrival she had clung very close to Norman, feeling safe with him, although why she should feel under very real threat in Luke's comp
any she didn't altogether know. She would be glad when he was gone.
The knowledge that he was a firm rival for the ownership of Monk's Hall was bad enough, but the way he had told her that in his warped opinion she was marrying Norman for financial security had been rudeness of the most objectionable kind.
She refused even to consider his effrontery in stating that they had some kind of sexual chemistry going for them. The wretched man didn't know what he was talking about! Instant sexual attraction didn't exist for her. Surely it didn't? It couldn't! She was far too level-headed.
Norman was waiting for her in the kitchen and his eyes lit up. 'Ready for work?' He pushed his stockinged feet into gardening boots and Annie's features softened in a fond smile. Dressed in heavy brown cords and a chunky zipped cardigan Joan had knitted for him years ago, he looked like a cuddly teddy-bear.
Joan, taking pots from the dishwasher, remarked tartly, 'If you're getting the beetroot up, bring a few roots to the kitchen. I'll make that pickle you're so fond of.'
'Will do!' Norman rubbed his hands together. He and Joan shared the same squirrel-like instinct, never happier than when they were storing or preserving the products of summer against the bleak, unproductive months ahead.
Outside, Norman took deep gulps of the sparklingly fresh autumn air. 'I'm glad you're taking an interest in the garden, Annie. It was the one thing I didn't think we had in common.' She smiled faintly, not liking to tell him that she would have clung on to his company, whatever he had been doing, because she needed him as a buffer against his cousin.
Instead she told him, 'I'm looking forward to next week.'
He answered slowly, 'So am I, in a way. It's a new departure, though.'
'I know.' She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. Norman's books were heavily factual, every detail researched, checked and cross-checked. When she had half-jokingly suggested that he indulge in a little light relief—do a book based on historical legend as apart from historical fact—she hadn't really expected him to agree. But perhaps her enthusiasm had fired his. She sometimes felt, though, that she had pushed him into the project. Now she said, 'Two days in Wales with Professor Rhys should be stimulating.' But what she really meant was that by then the auction would be over and she would be able to relax, secure in the knowledge that she and Norman were the new owners of Monk's Hall and that Luke Derringer had left Seabourne, with luck never to return.
Norman nodded. 'Rhys is a reputable and highly respected source on the Merlin legends. Coupled with our own research into the Arthurian fantasy, his contribution will be invaluable.'
She took the tools he was handing her from the garden shed and was about to agree with his statement when she heard the unmistakable roar of the Ferrari's exhaust. Her head jerked up, her nostrils flaring as she breathed the crisp air, like an animal scenting danger, only relaxing when she realised that the powerful car, with its daunting driver, was leaving, not arriving.
'That cousin of mine never did learn how to relax,' Norman offered, watching the Ferrari exit between the gateposts. 'He's always going somewhere in a hurry—got to be head of the pack. Oh, and by the way' —his eyes had fallen on the heavy teak garden seat, set beneath the solitary tree— 'we'll move that seat on Saturday afternoon. Put it on the terrace; it will get more sun there.'
The auction was to be held on Saturday morning, so Annie didn't think the position of the seat relevant. After all, by next summer she and Norman would be beginning their married life together at Monk's Hall—of that she was very sure. So she said nothing, following as he trundled the wheelbarrow down the path, and when Norman said, 'What do you think of him?' she didn't know whom he was talking about. Her mind had been on that auction and the sense of glorious achievement that would be hers after she had made her successful bid.
'I haven't given him much thought,' she lied as soon as she'd decided Luke was the subject under discussion.
Norman said sourly, 'Then you must be a one-off. Women have been thinking of nothing but him ever since he reached eighteen!'
'He never married?' Annie queried, unwilling to be drawn into any conversation centred around Luke, yet perversely fuelling it.
Norman shrugged. 'Ten years ago he was too busy making his first million to have time for thinking of settling down. Too busy to want to make a serious commitment. And later, well…' his mouth drooped distastefully '…I suppose he realised he was on to a good thing. He'd been used to having affairs—a succession of sophisticated women moving through his life the way the seasons move through the year.' He tugged on his gardening gloves, his expression disgusted. 'I can't approve of that kind of shallow behaviour.'
'No,' Annie nodded, tight-lipped. That made two of them! 'So you don't think he'll ever settle down?'
'Pigs might fly!' Norman grunted. 'He long since discovered he could take his pleasures as and when it suited him, no regrets—no strings. Having to remain faithful to one woman for the rest of his life would bore him mindless.' He drove the fork into the ground, lifting a clump of prize-sized beets. 'His values are not ours, Annie, my dear. He's a bit of a cynic, too; he likes to travel light, far and fast, and, most of all, alone.'
'And his job?' Norman's information came as no surprise. She had already, intuitively, had him pegged as a loner, a hard man, sufficient unto himself. A shallow womaniser—hadn't his blatant sexual overture to her, his own cousin's fiancée, given her proof of that? She quite expected Norman to tell her, He's a wheeler-dealer. Something in the world of high finance, just this side of the law. But what he did say shook her, rooted her feet to the ground.
'He's in the hotel business in a big way. He's got strings of them—the sort that cost an arm and a leg just to walk through the foyer. Not my cup of tea.' He was dismissive. 'They're mostly situated abroad, where the very rich go to play, but lately— so he tells me—he's moving into the UK, buying up period property and—' He bit his words back, as if only just realising he'd said too much. Then he added, quickly and gruffly, 'Let's get a move on. It looks as if we'll have a good crop of beets this year, even better than last.'
Silently, she watched him work for a few moments. Her body was rigid, as still as if it were carved from stone. But her mind was racing.
So that was it. Luke Derringer wouldn't be wasting his time in a quiet backwater like Seabourne if cash registers weren't pinging in his ears! He liked to travel, fast and light. He wouldn't be interested in Monk's Hall as a home. Oh, no, it was to be one of his first UK projects! A gracious, select hotel for those who preferred a luxurious, peaceful holiday? A prestigious retreat for those of the very rich who had outgrown the glitz and glamour of jet-set playgrounds?
She raised her delicately curved chin, her nostrils dilating. Not if she could help it!
