The Millionaire's Rebellious Mistress

He raised an eyebrow. ‘A bit minor league for a Queen’s Counsel!’

‘But not for the local solicitor Oliver found for me.’ She turned away. ‘Now, I’d like to get home, Mr Merrick. I’m tired and dirty—’

‘And hungry? In that case let’s discuss the deal in more detail later over dinner,’ he said promptly.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Another time, maybe? Contact me when the houses are finished.’ He reached for his wallet and took out a card. ‘Here’s my office address and my various phone numbers.’

Sarah tucked it into a pocket without looking at it. ‘I’m surprised you came yourself, Mr Merrick. Surely you pay people to do this kind of thing for you?’

‘True. But after meeting you last night it seemed best to sort it myself.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘Though I confess I didn’t recognise you in the pub today.’

‘I could tell.’ She walked round the car and got in.

His eyebrows rose as he glanced down at the passenger seat. ‘Do you always carry a lump hammer round with you?’

‘Only when I’m meeting strange men.’

‘Nothing strange about me,’ he assured her. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Medlar House,’ she said, and started the car. ‘Goodbye.’

Sarah drove up the lane and out on to the main road, grinding her teeth in frustration when a look in the mirror confirmed that Alex Merrick was following her home. When he’d parked the Cherokee on the forecourt beside her car he jumped out, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

‘I come in peace! But seriously, Miss Carver,’ he added, ‘forget the deal for a minute. I would very much like to take you out to dinner. Unless Oliver Moore would object?’ he added, then cursed his mistake as her eyes flashed under the peak of her cap.

‘Nothing doing,’ Sarah said flatly.

He frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘Last night, Mr Merrick, your thought processes were insultingly obvious, just because I was dining in an expensive restaurant with a man old enough to be my father.’ Her chin lifted. ‘But in the unlikely event that I did socialise with you Oliver would actually approve, because he knows you—or knows your family. I’m not Oliver Moore’s bit of fluff, Mr Merrick. He’s my godfather.’

CHAPTER TWO

ALEX cursed under his breath as he watched the small figure march into the building. He’d noticed her the moment she entered the restaurant last night. Big dark eyes, and a full-lipped mouth just a shade too wide for her face had attracted his attention early on. And not only because her companion was a barrister his father knew. The age gap between the pair had convinced the cynic in Alex that she was Oliver Moore’s trophy girlfriend, whereas in actual fact Sarah Carver was something of a surprise package. How she’d managed to pull a fast one with the sealed bid was still a mystery.

Greg Harris’s useful girlfriend had soon learned who’d acquired the Medlar Cottages site, and passed on the information that the unknown Miss Carver intended renovating and restoring the cottages instead of demolishing them to build on the land. At which point Alex had instructed a manager in one of the group’s subsidiary firms to make an offer for the site and cottages as they were. When it was turned down flat Alex had decided to sit back and let Miss Carver do exactly what he’d intended for the houses in the first place. Regular checks would be made on their progress, and then, when they were nearing completion, he would simply step in and make his bid for the lot. Decision made, the small, relatively unimportant venture had been relegated to a back burner—until he’d run into Sarah with Oliver Moore at last night. At which point it had shot straight to the top of his priority list.

At Easthope Court Sarah Carver had appealed to him strongly in that sexy black dress, yet today, minus make-up and plus a layer of dust, she’d somehow managed to look equally appealing in her working clothes. She’d made no attempt to tidy up to meet him tonight, not even to wash her dirty face. His mouth tightened. He was accustomed to women who polished themselves to a high gloss for him, while Sarah Carver obviously didn’t care a damn what he thought of her. Suddenly he felt an urge to strip those grubby overalls from her curvy little body and—His mind stopped dead as his hormones prodded him. Watch it, Merrick. Stick to the rules. Never mix business with pleasure.

Alex strolled over to the imposing front door of the school he’d known quite well when he was a teenager. He’d come here for dances in the old days, and had fond memories of some hot and heavy necking in concealed corners when the chaperones weren’t looking. And, because the Merrick Group had converted the building into pricey flats, he was in a position to know that Miss Sarah Carver could hardly be penniless if she owned one of them. Unless Oliver Moore had bought it for her. Alex found her name on the row of doorbells, considered pushing it, then shrugged and went back to the Cherokee. To hell with it. He’d ring Sarah’s bell some other night. One way or another.

Sarah cursed herself and Alex Merrick in the same breath once she was safe in her flat. In her rush to escape him she’d forgotten to shop on the way home. Even more annoying, she’d half expected him to ring the bell the moment she was inside, and felt an irritating sense of anti-climax when it didn’t happen. She shrugged angrily. Forget him and think supper. It was a long time since her pasty with Harry. But first on the agenda, as always, she needed a shower.

After that she rang Oliver to wish him happy birthday, thanked him again for the meal at Easthope Court, and finally made for her narrow, high-ceilinged kitchen. She concocted a rarebit from an elderly piece of cheese and the last of her bread, and carried the tray over to the window seat she’d built with her own hands to curve round the bay which formed half the windows. The materials had come from the building supply merchant who’d put her in touch with Harry Sollers; a stroke of luck she gave thanks for daily.

Sarah looked out on the gardens as she ate—something she did every evening when the sun shone, and most times when it didn’t. A double row of white-painted shutters controlled the flood of natural light, and even just watching the rain pour down on lawns and trees was relaxing. Her mother had done the gardening in their North London house, but after Louise Carver died her grieving husband had been too involved in comforting his inconsolable daughter while trying to keep his failing business afloat to maintain the garden to his wife’s standard. Sam Carver had been adamant about fulfilling his wife’s wish to send their daughter to college, even when Sarah had fought tooth and nail against the idea and pleaded to work for her father straight from school. In the end she’d given in, but had taken a Business Studies course instead of her original intention to study art and design. And after classes and at weekends she’d worked with the construction crew and pulled her weight.

To please her father she’d socialised with girls from college occasionally, but had felt happier in the company of the bricklayers and carpenters, electricians and plumbers she’d known all her life. The old hands had treated her like one of the boys, but when nature had finally added curves to her shape, some of the newer, younger ones had begun treating her very much as a girl. It was a new phase which had added considerably to her father’s worries, as Sarah had gone out several nights a week with one young man or another.

‘It’s all right, Dad, safety in numbers,’ she’d assured him when he had commented on it. ‘I’m having fun, nothing heavy. They’re just friends.’

‘They’re also men,’ he’d warned her. ‘So watch your step.’

But once she’d left college to manage the firm’s offices, it had been Sarah’s turn to worry when Sam Carver had grown older and greyer before her eyes, losing contracts to bigger outfits. She had put her social life on hold to stay home to cook proper meals every evening, and to share them with her father to make sure he ate them. Eventually, it had been during one of those meals that Sam had faced Sarah across the table and told her he’d had an offer from Barclay Homes for the firm.

‘No! You’re selling it?’ she said, appalled.

‘Yes, I am, Sarah,’ he said heavily. ‘At least this way we’ll salvage something out of it.’

Horrified, Sarah argued that they should carry on, must carry on, but Sam was unshakeable.

‘I’ve made up my mind, pet. I had a chat with the Barclay Homes manager, and there’s a job for you in their local branch if you want it. Though if you don’t you should find a job anywhere now, with your experience in the building trade. But I’m jacking it in.’

She swallowed her tears and clutched him tightly. ‘But, Dad, what will you do?’

‘Retire,’ he said, patting her. ‘I’ve been running on empty for a while now, my darling, I need a rest.’

‘But I don’t want to work for someone else,’ she cried, then, shamed by her whining, managed a smile. ‘But of course I will. And a job with Barclay Homes means I can live at home with my dad.’ And look after him.

Within days the contract was signed and Sarah was given an interview with the manager of Barclay Homes. The night before her start in the new job she made a special dinner to share with her father, and tried not to worry when he ate so little. Afterwards she drank coffee with him in the garden in the warm twilight, relieved to see him looking relaxed for the first time in months as he stretched out in a deckchair.

‘I’ll be able to get your mother’s garden in proper shape now,’ he said later, yawning. ‘You should have an early night, pet, to make sure you’re on top form in the morning. I think I’ll stay out here in the cool for a while.’

Knowing it was where he felt closest to her mother, Sarah bent and kissed him, told him not to be too late, then went up to bed. When she woke in the night and found his bed hadn’t been slept in Sarah ran downstairs, panicking, and raced barefoot into the garden to find Sam Carver still in his deckchair, fast asleep. Scolding, she hurried to shake him awake, then let out a cry of raw anguish when she realised he would never wake again.

The following period remained a blur in Sarah’s mind. The only thing constant had been the solid presence of her mother’s cousin, Oliver Moore. Like a rock in her sea of grief, he had seen to all the arrangements, and supported her through the well-attended funeral. Sam Carver had been a popular employer, and it had seemed to Sarah that anyone who had ever worked for her father had turned up to pay their respects. Financially Sarah was well provided for. Her mother had left a sum of money in trust for her, and this security, together with the proceeds from the sale of the business and the sum expected for the large, well-maintained house in a sought-after North London location, had given Sarah breathing space to consider her future.

But constantly keeping the house up to inspection standards had been tiring on top of a day’s work, and living alone in it had been hard. Keeping strictly to office work in her new job had been even harder. She’d missed the camaraderie of the building site. The final blow had come when the family home had finally been sold and she’d had to find somewhere else to live. When two office colleagues had offered her a room in their flat she’d jumped at the chance, glad of their friendly company, but her Sundays had usually been spent with Oliver. He liked to drive her into the country and feed her substantial meals at some inn he’d seen reviewed in the Sunday papers, and during one of their trips they’d come across the Medlar Farm cottages. At first glance she’d thought they were part of a Merrick Group hotel site, but when she’d found they were up for sale by auction Sarah had known at once how she wanted to spend her inheritance. Oliver had objected strongly at first, but eventually bowed to the inevitable by paying a building surveyor to value the houses and confirm that they were worth buying. When Oliver had been informed that the cottages were sound and the auction was to be sealed bid, he’d advised Sarah that if she were really determined she should bid slightly more than the properties were considered worth.

Sarah had taken his advice, confident that her father would have approved. Her euphoria when her bid was successful had gone a long way to reassuring Oliver, but he’d had serious qualms when she’d immediately resigned from her job. His reaction to the one-room ‘studio’ flat had been equally gloomy, but Sarah had been adamant that it was a good investment. The former school building had charm, and she’d assured him that she was more than capable of making the flat so inviting she would make a tidy profit on it when she came to sell.

But now she’d knocked it into shape she didn’t want to sell it. Sarah frowned as she looked round her lofty, uncluttered space. After working on the flat practically every evening since she’d moved in, she was at a loose end now it was finished. But the cure for that was easy enough. She’d spend the long, light evenings working in the cottage gardens instead, and at night pore over gardening magazines instead of the building manuals and style publications she’d studied while doing up the cottages. And maybe, just maybe, she’d say yes some time if one of the likely lads at the Green Man asked her out.

Having fully expected Alex Merrick to hound her over the purchase of Medlar Cottages, Sarah was surprised—and rather nettled—to be proved wrong. She heard nothing more from him, and assumed that the offer from the Merrick Group, just as he’d warned, was no longer on the table. Not that it mattered.

‘That’s a ferocious frown, lass,’ said Harry, as he climbed down a ladder. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I haven’t put the cottages up for sale yet, but I can’t help wondering how well—and how soon—they’ll sell when I do.’

‘Don’t you worry. You’ll have no trouble selling this lot,’ he said with certainty. ‘They’re attracting a lot of attention locally. Mind, it doesn’t hurt that the developer’s a pretty young female—’

‘Harry, are you by any chance being sexist?’ she accused.

‘If I was you’d sack me,’ he said, chuckling, then shook his head as a van came cruising up the lane. ‘More visitors,’ he grumbled. ‘I reckon we should start selling tickets.’

Sarah’s eyes lit up. ‘It’s Mr Baker.’