The Millionaire's Rebellious Mistress

‘Much as he’d love to hear himself referred to as a lad,’ she said, with her first smile of the day, ‘we were celebrating my escort’s sixty-fourth birthday. He’s in Hereford on business for a couple of days so he drove over to take me to dinner at Easthope Court last night.’

He whistled, impressed. ‘I hear it’s pretty fancy there since it was done over—pricey too.’

‘Astronomically! I could have fed myself for a week on what Oliver paid for my meal last night. He comes down to check up on me now and then, convinced I’m starving myself to death, but usually all he asks of a restaurant is a good steak and a glass of drinkable claret.’ Sarah sighed, feeling a sudden need to confide in someone. ‘He’s a barrister by profession, Harry. He wants me to work in his chambers.’

‘Does it need building work, then?’

‘No.’ Sarah explained about the office job.

‘He thought you’d like that?’ Harry said, scratching his head. ‘Can you do typing and all the computer stuff?’

She nodded. ‘After I left college I ran the office at my father’s building firm.’

‘You did a whole lot more than that, I reckon. Your dad taught you his craft pretty good.’

‘Thank you!’ Coming from Harry, this was high praise indeed. ‘By the way,’ she added casually, ‘I met someone called Merrick last night. Do you know him?’

Harry grunted. ‘Everybody knows the Merricks. Old Edgar started off in scrap metal. A right old villain he was; so slick at making money you’d think he’d found a way to turn scrap into gold. His son George made an even bigger packet when he took over and started expanding. The family’s got a bit gentrified since Edgar’s day, with college education and all that. Easthope Court was one of their jobs. Lot of publicity at the time. Was it George you met?’

‘No. This one’s name was Alex.’

‘George’s son. Don’t know the lad myself, but word has it he’s a right ball of fire now he runs the show up here. I hear George is at the London branch these days.’ Harry’s lined blue eyes gave her a very straight look. ‘I hear a lot of things in the pub, boss, but I just listen. Nothing you say to me will go further.’

‘No need to tell me that, Harry!’

He nodded, satisfied. ‘I’ll get on with the window frames in number four, then. You’re doing a good job there,’ he added gruffly, eyeing the cupboards.

‘Thank you!’ Sarah smiled at him so radiantly he blinked. ‘How about a snack at the Green Man at lunchtime? My treat?’

‘You’re on! Betty Mason bakes pasties on Wednesdays.’

Sarah felt a lot better as she went on with her cupboard doors. She worked steadily throughout the morning, with only a short break for coffee, and got to her feet at last, back aching. She went to the door, put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing whistle.

‘Ready, Harry? I’m starving.’

Harry chuckled as she scrambled into his pick-up.

‘What’s up?’ she demanded.

‘You don’t look much like a city girl these days, boss.’

Sarah grinned as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘The great advantage of the Green Man is not having to prettify myself to eat there. But if you’re ashamed to be seen with me in my working clothes, Mr Sollers, I can always eat my pasty in the pick-up.’

He guffawed. ‘Get away with you.’

The knot of regulars in the bar greeted Sarah with their usual friendly acceptance, which put paid to the last traces of her blue mood.

‘Your boss let you out, then, Harry?’ called some comedian.

‘Reminded her it was Betty’s day for pasties, so I hope you lot left some for us.’ Harry hoisted Sarah up on a stool at the bar, and gave their order. Fred came to join them, to ask about their progress, and Sarah willingly obliged as she tucked into flaky pastry wrapped round a savoury mixture of meat and vegetables. When it struck her that she was enjoying it far more than the elegant meal of the night before she sighed in such remorse that Fred peered under the peak of her cap.

‘Something wrong with your pasty, my dear?’

‘Nothing at all—it’s delicious.’ She explained about the meal with Oliver.

‘The man must have deep pockets if he took you to eat at Easthope Court,’ put in another man.

‘It was to celebrate his birthday, Mr Baker,’ said Sarah, and looked at him speculatively. ‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here today—’

‘He’s here every day,’ someone shouted.

‘But I’m not, so I must grab him while I can,’ she called back, grinning. ‘I hear you’re a very keen gardener, Mr Baker.’

‘I do a bit,’ he admitted warily.

‘When you can spare the time, would you come along to the cottages and give me some advice on planting?’

‘Any time you like,’ he assured her. ‘Let me get you another half.’

‘No, thanks—too much to do this afternoon,’ she said regretfully.

There was immediate interest in exactly what, and the conversation was general for a moment, until a voice with the accents of expensive education rose above the hubbub to make itself heard to the landlord.

‘I’m looking for a Miss Carver, Eddy. Has she been in here today?’

Sarah winced, wishing vainly she could make herself invisible. Resigned, she let Fred help her down from the stool and turned to face Alex Merrick. ‘You were asking for me?’

His formal dark suit looked out of place in the homely environs of the Green Man’s public bar, but it was his look of blank astonishment that amused Sarah. Last night, because Oliver adored being seen with a ‘pretty young thing’, as he put it, she’d been tricked out in her best babe outfit, clinging black dress, killer heels, full warpaint and hair swept up in a knot of curls. Today the hair was rammed under a baseball cap, her face was as nature had made it, her overalls and trainers were covered in streaks of paint and glue and without her heels she was four inches shorter. She couldn’t blame the man for mistaking her for a boy apprentice, and felt grateful when Harry and Fred ranged themselves alongside her in protective, burly support.

Alex glanced round the watchful faces in the bar, lips twitching. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Carver. I didn’t recognise you for a moment. My apologies for interrupting your lunch.’

She shrugged. ‘Not at all. I was about to get back to work. What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like a word—in private. Today, if possible.’

Sarah eyed him speculatively. ‘I generally finish about six. I can see you then, if you want.’

‘Thank you. Where?’

‘At the site. I’m sure you know where it is.’

‘I do. Until six, then. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ He gave a comprehensive nod all round and walked out, leaving a brief lull in the conversation behind him before everyone started talking again.

‘You want to watch that one,’ said Harry.

‘Why?’ she asked, downing the last of her cider.

‘He’s a Merrick, for a start.’