Picking her way down to the first floor, she stood for a while listening to the silence. She had the house to herself.
Sharon’s boyfriend had picked her up as soon as they’d finished supper. She’d been dressed in a purple mini skirt and a glittery black sweater, neither garment doing anything to disguise her bountiful lumpiness. Mrs Partridge, rising from the table to stack the dishwasher, had reminded her, I lock up at eleven and, no, you can’t have a key, Sharon, so don’t bother asking. If you’re not back by then you’ll be locked out.’ To Rosie, when the other girl had swung out of the room with a defiant toss of her startlingly red curls, she’d added, ‘Feel free to watch television and make yourself a hot drink if you want one. I’m off to my own quarters to put my feet up.’
And, in spite of the Spaniard’s saying that he was here to oversee the mammoth spring cleaning exercise, Rosie hadn’t clapped eyes on him since that encounter in his bedroom. From what she could gather, from Sharon’s gossipy chattering and probing over the meals they’d shared with Mrs Partridge, Sebastian Garcia had had a call from the London head office of Troone and Garcia and had made a swift exit.
Which was just as well, Rosie thought, with a wry smile for the sheer immensity of her folly. He had just about knocked her for six at that initial, brief meeting and she wasn’t here to embarrass herself by mooning over someone so completely unattainable and show herself up for the naive and foolish creature that she was by blushing and stammering whenever he was around.
So she had her father’s unnervingly large, rambly and upper-crusty home to herself. It was the sort of place whose interiors she’d seen in the quality magazines she’d flicked through in the dentist’s waiting room. Her legs beginning to shake because she was feeling like a sneak thief all over again, she turned her back on the narrow stairs that led down to the kitchen regions and headed for the main polished oak staircase.
Creeping down, she had to remind herself very sternly that she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She had a right to be here—well, a sort of right, surely? And all she wanted to do was soak up the atmosphere and see if she could find out from the books he read, family photographs, maybe, what kind of man her father really was.
The main hall was lit by a solitary table lamp and the glow from the dying fire, and just as she set her feet on the massive flagstones a grandfather clock chimed the hour of eight from a dim and shadowy corner and made her jump out of her skin.
She’d been about to scurry back to her attic room, and her hand shot up to steady her bumping heart. It was the shape of the pendant beneath her T-shirt that gave her the courage to go on. To stiffen her spine and cross the floor to open doors and flick on lights. Large rooms led to much smaller, tucked-away ones, the furniture shrouded against the depredations of the departed and unlamented decorators.
At last, descending two worn stone steps, she thrust open an ancient door of highly polished broad oak planks and found herself in what had to be Marcus Troone’s work room. Her eyes widened as she took in the book-lined study with its low, heavily beamed ceiling. It had been brought into the twenty-first century by the addition of a long custom-built desk which housed a computer system, fax machine, a bank of files and two telephones.
The book-filled shelves drew her. Beautifully bound classics—both ancient and modern—tomes devoted to viticulture, the poems of Wilfred Owen, masses of biographies, three yards worth of paperback whodunits and a whole tranche of gardening books. And, what she’d been looking for, right at the far end of one of the lower shelves: a bulky photograph album.
Her mouth going dry, Rosie carried it to the desk. Her hands shook as she opened it to a series of wedding photographs. Her father? A blond, craggily handsome young man with a beautiful dark-haired girl wearing a dream of a wedding dress, posing outside a small weathered stone church. Lots more—she flicked through the pages, met the smiling eyes of the dark-haired girl holding the reins of a pony, a small grinning boy on top. The same girl in a wheelchair, apparently directing operations while a middle-aged man was planting a tree. Could it be her grandfather? It was difficult to tell.
So far there were no more photographs of Marcus Troone: presumably he’d been behind the camera, she decided frustratedly. Until, right at the back of the album, a threesome standing in front of a huge greenhouse. Her grandfather, the stern features she remembered from her childhood relaxed and happy, her mother, a slender slip of a girl, clad in a checked shirt and old corduroy trousers, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze, her smile radiant. And Marcus Troone—her father— standing at her side, smiling down at the vitally lovely young Molly Lambert. Her mother.
Rosie felt sick.
Her mother had looked so happy back then. She would have had no idea what the future held for her on that long-ago summer’s day.
Hands shaking, her heart thumping, she closed the album and carried it back to where she’d found it. But putting it back proved a problem. It just wouldn’t go!
Biting her lip, she got down on her hands and knees and pulled out a book that seemed to be obstructing progress. That last photograph had really upset her; the album seemed to be burning her unsteady hands. She wanted rid of it.
She dropped it and could have screamed her head off when a few loose pictures fluttered to the floor. She shouldn’t have touched the wretched thing. She wished she hadn’t!
Passing through the hall, Sebastian paused to throw more logs on the dying fire. He was tired and hungry. The place felt deserted. Madge would have retired to her rooms. He guessed he could stretch to making himself an omelette and wind down in front of the fire with a glass of wine. Or two.
His tense features began to relax just a little. Driving back had been a nightmare of roadworks and clogged motorways. He should have spent the night in town and now he wondered why he hadn’t. At least he’d sorted out the head office panic over a planning permission hiccup concerning the new hotel complex in Greenwich. And, barring more cries for help from a business manager who should have looked at things more logically instead of flapping, he should be able to get the Troone Manor show on the road.
Just one more chore—checking Marcus’s fax machine—then he could fix himself something to eat.
Heading for his partner’s study, he wondered how the new recruits were settling in.
Sharo
n Hodges had quite a reputation in the village. Bone idle and no better than she should be, so the gossips said. Grinning wryly to himself, he decided she was either lying on her bed eating chocolates or dyeing her hair a new and startling colour and trying to decide which of her current boyfriends was most likely to come up to scratch, whisk her away to the bright lights and keep her in the manner to which she would like to become accustomed.
And the other one, Rosie Lambert. Hadn’t Madge mentioned that today was her birthday? Was she out celebrating with friends? A special boyfriend, maybe? From what he recalled from their brief meeting she was quite a looker. But vulnerable, too. Fragile.
The idea of some callow youth sniffing around her brought his brows down as he opened the door to his partner’s study. Then he held his breath just before his scowl fled and was replaced by a grin that threatened to split his face.
‘This is getting to be a habit.’
On her hands and knees, Rosie froze. She knew that voice. Her slender body was suffused with pleasure, it wriggled with sharply sweet sensations all over her. But, oh my goodness, what would he be thinking? That she had no business being in this room?
‘I’m sorry.’
She had to grit her teeth and force herself to her feet, clutching at one of the loose photographs she’d been scrabbling around to retrieve. Her face felt hot and she felt such a fool, especially when he gave her that slow, sexy smile and said, ‘Don’t be.’
He could get used to opening doors to be met by the sight of that curvy little backside, clad tonight in shape-hugging worn denim!