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Saul seemed to be doing a fair amount of ‘going out’ at the moment. On business connected with the house perhaps? As yet they had not talked about the Manor and Saul’s plans for it—they had been far too busy talking about more important things. He would have to sell it, of course, and finding a buyer might be difficult. The thought of the house going out of the family did cause her a faint pang, but it was only faint. Houses as large and old as this one was were too much of a burden for anyone less than a multi-millionaire to own and run. However, no doubt Saul would be anxious to settle his affairs and get back home to his job.
Ridiculously they hadn’t even discussed what he did for a living. A small smile touched her mouth. Whatever it was it was scarcely important as long as it made him happy. Everything he had said to her implied that when he did return to America he would ask her to go with him, and she knew that she would have some hard thinking ahead of her if he did. She had a responsibility to Oliver and Tara from which she could not wholly abdicate, but she was no suffering martyr and had no intentions of sacrificing her own happiness to assume the duties which should by rights be Fanny’s.
No, something could be worked out. It would have to be, she decided grimly, her full lips tightening briefly as she dwelt on the scenes that were likely to occur with her emotional stepmother. It didn’t matter what scenes Fanny caused; her love for Saul came first.
Love! The taste of the word made her go dizzy with pleasure. Her feelings for Saul had transformed her from a level-headed young woman into a starry-eyed child, full of wonderment and joy. Her hitherto sedate view of what happiness was had been totally overthrown. It was like discovering that the rare, shimmering mirage was real after all and moreover could be reached out to and touched.
Reluctantly she dragged her mind away from Saul and on to her work, and yet, as she concentrated on the outline for her second book, with maddening insistence her central male character kept appearing to her as Saul.
In the end she gave in to her desire to paint a verbal portrait of him, knowing when she had finished and read through what she had just written that she had breathed so much life into the character that no one could ever believe he was simply a work of fiction.
True to his promise Saul was back for twelve and she was out of her seat and halfway towards the library door the moment she heard his footsteps outside.
The phone rang while he was kissing her and he disengaged reluctantly, holding her within the curve of his arm as he picked up the receiver.
As she watched his mouth grew taut, his eyebrows drawing together in a faint frown.
‘OK Ma, I get the picture,’ he said abruptly at last. ‘But it’s impossible for me to get back right now.’
He was silent again, listening to whatever it was his mother had to say. His mother! Lucy had never met her father’s sister. Were they alike at all? What would she think of Saul’s involvement with her? Was she one of those impressively organised American matriachs who already had a suitable partner picked out for her son?
‘No, I don’t know how long I’ll be—as long as it takes.’ He listened again briefly, and then replaced the receiver.
‘Problems?’ Lucy asked him worriedly.
Her weight was supported against his body and she liked that, liked the feeling of permanence and safety that emanated from him. He felt as steady as a rock—and as hard. The thought briefly made her feel cold. Saul would be a dangerous man to cross, she recognised, seeing in the way he was frowning the irritation of a man used to making his own decisions about his life, without having them queried or crossed.
‘A hiccup in my stepfather’s business affairs and my mother wants me to return home to sort them out.’
He saw her faint frown and explained, ‘I work for him.’
That explained how he was able to take so much time off, Lucy realised, wondering again what it was that he did.
‘I’m an accountant—of sorts,’ he added curtly, and she realised that his work was not something he wanted to discuss.
‘Will you have to go back?’
‘Not right away.’
The tension in the muscles of his arm where it lay against her body comforted and yet alarmed her. He didn’t want to upset her by saying he might have to go, but she sensed that it was quite possible.
It was still too soon for him to ask her to go with him—at least as his lover—and she prayed feverishly that whatever the problem was at home, it would be solved without the necessity of him having to rush back.
‘Are you any closer to finding a buyer for this place?’ she asked him, trying to change the subject. Disposing of the Manor must be a burden to him when he obviously had so many responsibilities at home.
