Wicked Caprice

He drew a steadying breath. For God’s sake, he chided himself as his trousers felt uncomfortably tight all of a sudden. What the hell was the matter with him? He hadn’t realised he was so desperately in need of sex.

Assuming an interest in a colourful display of quilts, he succeeded in putting some space between them. ‘It’s not that,’ he said, realising he hadn’t answered her question. ‘I just don’t know if Susie...if she would like it.’

‘Susie?’ She’d latched onto the word, and he cursed himself for using his niece’s name so thoughtlessly. ‘A colleague of mine’s daughter is called Susie too. It’s a nice name, isn’t it? Is it short for Susannah?’

‘No.’ It was, but he wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Um... it’s just Susie, actually. Not an abbreviation. Her... parents chose it. Her grandmother’s name is the same.’

‘I see.’

He wondered if she did. He hoped not. Nevertheless, he had gone over the top with the explanations, and if he’d regretted using Susie’s name before he felt doubly impatient with himself now.

Something had to be done to divert the conversation, and, smoothing the fabric of one of the quilts between his thumb and forefinger, he cast what he hoped was a casual glance over his shoulder. ‘Is this what you call patchwork?’

‘That’s right.’ His enquiry had achieved what he least wanted; it had brought her after him, and he was intensely aware of her now, hovering at his elbow. ‘Actually, they’re made by an old lady who’s almost crippled with arthritis. But her needlework is exquisite, don’t you agree?’

As Patrick had no idea what was required to make one of the padded spreads, he merely nodded his approval, and moved on to a table piled with soft toys. At least here he could be more knowledgeable; the stuffed menagerie was obviously attractive, the prices mirroring the small-shop status, yet in no way diminishing the toys’ appeal.

‘They’re handmade too,’ she murmured as Patrick admired a pair of rabbits. ‘In fact, everything we sell is handcrafted. We provide an outlet for people who wouldn’t otherwise have anywhere to sell their goods.’

Jillian hadn’t told him that. But then, why would she? She wasn’t interested in the aims of the business, just in its proprietor... or was that proprietrix? Anyway, just because this young woman was doing her bit to help the independent producer it didn’t make the situation any more acceptable. She might be regarded as a saint by her suppliers and still live an execrable private life.

‘Has the shop been open long, Miss—Miss—?’ He stopped, as if he didn’t already know her name by rote.

‘Herriot,’ she inserted quickly. ‘Isobel Herriot. And I opened the shop almost five years ago.’ She paused. ‘Why?’

‘Just curious,’ he answered smoothly, a smile erasing any suspicion. ‘You’ve got quite a choice of items. I wondered how you managed to sustain your stock.’

‘Oh...’She shrugged her slim shoulders, and against his will his eyes were drawn to her chest. For such a slim young woman she had rather full breasts, and the way they moved beneath the gauze shirt she was wearing made him wonder if she wore a bra. ‘It was a struggle to begin with. But we’re getting there now, I think.’

So was he, thought Patrick irritably, wishing he had never agreed to come here. Dammit, the girl was screwing his brother-in-law, and he was acting as if that circumstance turned him on. It didn’t. He despised Richard and he despised her for putting his sister’s marriage in jeopardy. Not to mention risking their children’s happiness. Ten-year-old Susie and her brother Nigel, who was six, didn’t deserve to be treated as if their lives were of no account.

His eyes hardened. ‘Do you own the shop, Miss Herriot?’ he enquired, keeping his tone neutral, and she gave a rueful sigh.

‘In such a prime position?’ She grimaced. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. No, my new landlord is the colleague I was telling you about. The one who has a daughter called Susie—Susannah.’

‘Ah.’

Patrick acted as if he didn’t already know that Shannon Holdings had recently acquired the lease on the row of small businesses that fronted this side of the high street in Horsham-on-the-Water. Situated almost midway between Stratford-on-Avon and Stow-on-the-Wold, the little Cotswold village of Horsham attracted a lot of passing trade. But it was also true that many people came to Horsham for its own sake, visiting the old Norman church, and the monastery, where a delicious foaming mead had been made for more years than anyone could remember.

‘Of course,’ she went on, almost absently, ‘there’s going to be an increase in the rents. Old Mrs Foxworth, who used to own the Foxworth estate, let the tenants rent these properties for a pittance, so long as the buildings were kept in good repair. It was a kind of noblesse oblige, I suppose, and we’d all begun to think it would go on indefinitely. But the people who’ve bought the estate—some London company, I believe—obviously won’t feel so charitable. How could they? They don’t know us. Richard says he’ll do his best to put our case forward, but we don’t hold out much hope.’

Patrick endeavoured not to show his true feelings. ‘Richard?’ he echoed politely. He bit into the inner flesh of his lower lip. ‘Your new landlord—I remember.’

‘Well, he isn’t exactly our new landlord,’ she explained, and the faintly terse edge to her tone seemed to indicate that she had realised she was discussing private matters with a stranger. ‘Rich—Mr Gregory, that is—is just an employee of the company.’ Her nostrils flared in sudden impatience. ‘And I don’t see what he or anyone else can do.’

Patrick found himself resenting the way Richard had represented himself to her, but that was the least of his troubles. How well did she know his brother-in-law? And what exactly had Richard promised to do?

Choosing his words with care, Patrick laid the shell necklace on the counter. ‘You sound as if you have a champion, at least,’ he remarked guardedly. ‘Have you known this Mr—ah—Gregory long?’

‘Not long.’ Her tone was clipped now, and he was very much afraid he’d overplayed his hand. She lifted the necklace, cradling it in fingers that were long and vaguely artistic. ‘Have you made a decision?’

Patrick blinked. ‘Oh—about the necklace,’ he said, aware that she was looking at him a little warily now. ‘Um—yes. Yes, I’ll have it.’ He examined the price tag and pulled out his wallet. ‘Perhaps you could wrap it for me. I’ll be back this way in a couple of days and I’ll collect it then.’

‘I can wrap it now,’ she said, and he was racking his brains for a suitable excuse for her not to do so when a group of elderly American tourists entered the shop.

‘Thursday,’ he said, throwing a couple of notes onto the counter. ‘I can see you’re going to be busy, and I can wait.’

With the door closed behind him, Patrick breathed a little easier, though why he should imagine that by returning to the shop two days hence he might learn any more about her relationship with Richard he didn’t know. He could hardly come right out and ask her, even if that was what Jillian would have him do. But then, Jillian wanted him to threaten the girl with God knew what kind of retribution if she continued to have an affair with her husband, and she was aware of the kind of leverage he could bring to bear if Isobel Herriot refused to do as he said.

His car was parked further along the high street, and, opening the rear door, Patrick slid into the back of the Bentley with some relief. ‘Let’s go, Joe,’ he said, when the impassive Muzambe turned to give him a questioning glance. ‘Portland Street first, and then home.’

Joe Muzambe put the big car into gear, switched on the indicator, and pulled out into a gap in the stream of traffic passing through the village. ‘You don’t want to stop at Mrs Gregory’s?’ he asked, with the familiarity of long service, and Patrick, dragging a file of papers from his briefcase, gave him a retiring look.

‘No, I do not,’ he replied, aware that the chauffeur was referring to the fact that they’d pass within a couple of miles of Jillian’s house on their way back to town. ‘I don’t have anything to tell her,’ he added, with an irritation that was directed as much at himself as at his sister. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, can we get going? I want to do some work.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_58bdc793-9d83-564a-a207-6c3e4f6ccb56)

‘BUT who was he?’

Christine Nelson perched on the edge of the counter and regarded her friend and employer with impatient eyes. There were times when Isobel’s other-worldliness really bugged her, and her lack of interest in the dishy male Christine had seen coming out of the craft shop was positively infuriating.

‘I’ve told you, I don’t know,’ replied Isobel, examining the figures in the cash book which she was trying to balance with the contents of the till. ‘He didn’t say, and I could hardly ask him. It’s not as if it matters, after all.’

‘Of course it matters.’ Christine was frustrated. ‘Do you want to live in this old backwater all your life? For heaven’s sake, you should have seen the car he got into. If it wasn’t a Rolls-Royce, I’ll—’

‘Chris, please!’

Isobel was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate with her young assistant prattling on about a man they were unlikely to see again. For all he’d paid for the necklace, and for all he’d said he’d be back, Isobel was chary. She had the feeling he’d been looking for something she didn’t sell.

But what?

‘Well...’ Christine wasn’t daunted ‘...it’s time you realised you’re not getting any younger. The old body clock is ticking, Issy. And you are almost thirty. I wouldn’t be so blasé, if I were you.’

‘But you’re not me, are you?’ retorted Isobel, stung into her own defence. ‘And I’m not a seventeen-year-old girl who still believes in fairy stories. If he is as—as good-looking as you think, and rich enough to drive a Rolls-Royce, he’s not going to be interested in me, is he—an ageing spinster, with a mid-life crisis?’

‘Now you’re exaggerating,’ declared Christine, getting down from the counter and scuffing her toe against the worn vinyl flooring. ‘Just because I mentioned your age doesn’t mean I think you’re middle-aged. But you have to admit you’re not getting any younger, and, knowing how you dote on those children of your brother’s, I’d have thought you’d like a baby of your own.’

Isobel pressed her lips together. She was tempted to make some scathing retort, but she knew that anything she said could be misconstrued as sour grapes. Nevertheless, she resented Christine’s assumption that all women must necessarily want to get married. She wasn’t at all sure that that was an option she wanted to consider. She was quite happy being her own mistress, and although she didn’t dislike men she’d never felt the slightest inclination to submit her will to that of some nebulous male.

Until today...

But that was ridiculous, and she knew it. As she secured the roll of notes with an elastic band and added them to the jingling coins already in the leather bag she used to carry the money to and from the bank, she acknowledged that Christine would have a field-day if she knew what her employer was really thinking. Because, far from being able to dismiss the attractive stranger from her mind, Isobel had hardly known a moment’s peace since he had departed. To say that he had disturbed her was a vast understatement; it would be more accurate to compare an earthquake to the minor tremors they had felt in Wales.

‘You would like to get married, wouldn’t you?’ Christine persisted, and Isobel wondered how they’d ever got onto this topic. A schoolfriend of Christine’s had recently found herself pregnant and was having to get married, and since then Chris had become decidedly broody. Her own parents had produced seven children, and, since she was the daughter of a local farmer, she was well-versed in animal husbandry.

‘I don’t know,’ Isobel answered now, collecting her cardigan from the room at the back of the shop. ‘If you’re finished, can we get going? I want to go to Stoddart’s before they close.’

Christine had no choice but to precede her employer out of the shop, and Isobel set the alarm and then joined her. As she locked the door she couldn’t help casting a faintly apprehensive look about her. But there was no sign of her intriguing visitor, or the expensive car that Christine had said he drove.