The Deserving Mistress

‘What bodies?’ she prompted warily.

He was smiling when her gaze returned to his face, as if perfectly able to read her last, disturbing thought. ‘Which one are you? May? March? Or January?’ he prompted curiously.

Her wariness increased at his knowledge of her own name and those of her two sisters, too. An escapee from a lunatic asylum probably wouldn’t know such things, but that didn’t mean this man wasn’t still dangerous.

‘I’m May,’ she answered brightly, forcing herself to an alertness she really didn’t feel. ‘But I’m expecting March and January back at any moment,’ she lied.

One of her sisters was still in the Caribbean with her fiancé, and the other one had just gone to London with her fiancé to meet his family. But until she knew who this man was, and what he was doing here, she certainly didn’t want him to know how completely alone she was here.

His mouth twisted into a humourless smile. ‘Somehow I don’t think so,’ he murmured softly, that silver-grey gaze intent on the paleness of her face. ‘So you’re May,’ he murmured consideringly.

‘I just said so,’ she confirmed defensively, shoulders tensed as she faced him across the table. ‘And you are…?’

‘I am.’ He nodded unhelpfully, obviously enjoying her discomfort now.

May stood up forcefully, somehow feeling a little more in control of this situation once she was higher than he was—but at the same time knowing how quickly that would change if he were to stand up, too. ‘Look, I didn’t ask you here—’

‘Ah, but you did,’ he cut in softly, his voice almost a purr now, at the same time that his eyes glowed with challenge. ‘In fact, I have it from two very reliable sources that you expressly wished to meet me face to face,’ he assured her dismissively.

‘I did?’ May repeated slowly, suddenly becoming very still, looking at him with new eyes now, that mention of ‘two very reliable sources’ setting off alarm bells inside her head.

Mid to late thirties, very self-assured, obviously wealthy now that she took a good look at his leather jacket and designer-labelled jeans. More to the point, he had obviously already known she was one of the Calendar sisters when he arrived here.

Those alarm bells began to jingle so loudly they threatened to deafen her!

She knew who this man was—

‘Jude Marshall,’ he introduced confidently even as he stood up and held out his hand, knowing by the shocked look on her face seconds ago that the introduction was unnecessary.

Under other circumstances, that look of horror on her face at exactly who he was might possibly have been amusing. Possibly… Although he doubted it. It wasn’t the usual reaction to his identity that he experienced from beautiful women. And May Calendar, despite her tired state, was an exceptionally beautiful woman.

She still stared at him, making no effort to shake the hand he held out to her. ‘But—but—you’re English!’ she burst out accusingly.

Jude’s hand dropped back to his side as he once again sat down on one of the chairs. ‘Ah, now that is a debatable point,’ he drawled, amused now by her stunned expression.

‘Either you are or you aren’t,’ May Calendar snapped dismissively, at the same time obviously making great efforts to regain her equilibrium after the shock of realising he was the man who had been trying to buy this farm for the last two months.

He shrugged. ‘My mother is American, but my father is English,’ he explained dryly. ‘I was born in America, but educated in England. I visit America a lot, socially as well as on business, but my base is in London. So what do you think?’ He quirked dark brows.

She gave him a resentful glare. ‘I doubt you would want to hear what I think!’

‘Probably not,’ he drawled ruefully.

She was taking her coat off now, revealing that the bulky garment had hidden a curvaceous slenderness, her green jumper the exact colour of her eyes, denims fitting snugly over narrow thighs and long legs.

‘Tell me,’ Jude murmured softly. ?

??Do your sisters look anything like you?’

‘Exac— Why do you want to know?’ she amended her initial confirmation to a guarded wariness.

He shrugged. ‘Just curious.’

‘No, you weren’t,’ May Calendar said confidently. ‘Those bodies you mentioned a few minutes ago, you wouldn’t happen to be referring to Max Golding, your lawyer, and Will Davenport, your architect, would you?’

Bright as well as beautiful, Jude mentally conceded. The Calendar sisters—the one he had met so far, at least—were absolutely nothing like the three little old ladies he had assumed them to be several weeks ago when he’d first initiated the buying of their—this!—farm.

‘What do you think?’ he prompted unhelpfully.