Second Chance with the Millionaire

Over lunch he told her a little more about his stepfather, explaining that he was in his seventies and in rather poor health. ‘My mother adores him, although you’d never realise it. He has two daughters from his first marriage and five grandchildren; my mother’s always complaining that it’s time I produced some, too.’

‘And your father,’ Lucy pressed. Do you see much of him?’

‘A little. He lives in Boston now. He married the daughter of a newspaper magnate and he has a second family. Everything’s very amicable but in many ways I feel closer to Harry. After all, he was the one who was there during the time I was growing up. He paid for me to go to college and later on to qualify as an accountant—housed and fed me, gave me a job. In fact he was far more of a father to me than my own ever was—and made a better job of it, I suspect, when I see my two half-brothers. My father’s a workaholic. Always was and always will be. That’s what led to my parents’ divorce in the first place.’

He went on to tell her about the old winery his parents had bought in California and the lifestyle they lived there, and when he excused himself after lunch, explaining that there were some phone calls he had to make, if only to set his mother’s mind at rest, Lucy made her way back to the library feeling that she now knew far more about him.

At two o’clock he put his head round the door and announced that he had some papers he wanted to catch the post and that he intended to drive into Winchester to make sure they did.

‘Mrs Isaacs is leaving us something cold for supper and I’ll bring some steaks back with me,’ he told her, coming into the room to draw her up into his arms and kiss her thoroughly.

‘You know,’ he muttered seconds later, sensually nuzzling the tender skin of her throat, ‘in view of the developments at home, I’m beginning to wonder if a long, slow courtship’s such a good idea after all… particularly when there’s nothing, but nothing, I’d like more right now that to take you to bed.’

She couldn’t control the quiver that ran through her and knew when he laughed softly that he had felt it, too, and knew its origins.

‘Very flattering,’ he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. ‘I’m almost tempted not to bother with the post.’

‘Mrs Isaacs is still here,’ Lucy pointed out demurely, but her eyes were a deep sparkling brown, her skin flushed with colour, her body melting, eager for all that he was promising.

‘Later,’ he growled mock-threateningly as he released her. ‘Later I’ll make you sorry for that—when she isn’t here to protect you.’

They kissed again lingeringly and then he was gone, leaving her to pick up the remnants of her shattered control and try to work.

At three o’clock, long before she had expected Saul back, Lucy heard a car.

Curiosity drove her from her chair to the window, her mouth compressing slightly as she saw Neville extricating himself from the driver’s seat of his sports car.

At thirty-one his face showed the manner of man he had become: greedy, grasping and selfish in the way that only the weak could be. Lucy knew that her uncle was bitterly disappointed in his son. Not so much in the way he ran the business—Neville was an astute businessman although his methods weren’t those of his father; no, it was his inner moral code—or lack of it—that most hurt her uncle. Sometimes Lucy felt that Neville almost enjoyed hurting others.

He smiled as he saw her, the calculating ingratiating smile that told her he must want something. Neville had wanted many somethings from her over the years, but now she was immune to the shallow charm he turned on so effortlessly, tolerating him only for the sake of her uncle.

He came in via the drawing-room french window and would have embraced her if Lucy hadn’t adroitly avoided him.

‘Our colonial cousin nowhere in evidence I see?’

The sarcastic twist to his lips as he referred to Saul infuriated Lucy but caution urged her to hold her tongue. Neville had always been remarkably clever about recognising weakness in others and then turning it to his own advantage.

‘Have you come down to see him?’ She kept her voice carefully neutral, noting that Neville had left the french windows open.

‘Sort of. But I wanted to have a chat with you first.’

Again that winning smile. Once she had made the mistake of aligning herself with Neville against Saul, and she would never totally forgive herself for that mistake, but she was careful not to allow any of her distaste to show in her face, saying lightly instead, ‘I’m flattered.’

‘Oh no you’re not,’ Neville told her softly. ‘You hate my guts.’ He smiled coldly at her stunned expression. ‘Whatever else you might be you’re no actress, cos, but you do owe me a favour and I’m calling it in.’