Weddings Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

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      She instantly recognised the hand that had worked the exquisite engagement ring Mike had given her. A wide, misted band of platinum with a diamond at its heart. Why hadn’t he brought her here, let her meet the person who had made her ring? What was he hiding?

      Willow turned to confront the mystery.

      The far side of the courtyard was totally occupied by Michael Armstrong Designs, housed in what had once been the carriage and stable block, high enough for a hayloft and quarters for the groom above.

      The entrance was through enormous double doors, with a smaller, personnel door, set into it. Both parts were shut, with a ‘Closed until further notice’ sign hanging lopsidedly from a horseshoe mounted on the smaller door.

      She crossed the yard and, standing on tiptoe, pressed her face against the high windows, feeling excluded, shut out.

      ‘Can I help you?’ Willow turned guiltily to find herself facing a tall young woman, her fairness accentuated by her black clothes. Her green eyes indescribably vivid. ‘I saw you from over there. I’m Amaryllis Jones,’ she said, waving in the direction of the aromatherapy centre. Then, perhaps used to disbelief, she added, ‘Most people are kind and just call me Amy. You’re looking for Mike,’ she said. Not a question.

      ‘Yes. I am.’ Not his body, but his soul. His spirit.

      ‘I’ve no idea when he’ll be back. I dropped by to say hello when I saw the lights on a few days ago, but he wasn’t in the mood for company. He’s closing up the workshop.’ Amy shook her head. ‘He had go home and run the family business when his father was taken ill. And he’s getting married. Maybe his new wife will expect something a bit grander than this?’ That did sound like a question. One that went straight to Willow’s heart. Amy had made it sound as if any woman who wanted more than this wasn’t truly worthy of him. Maybe she was right. ‘Sarah—she has the clothes shop—said she saw him yesterday when he stopped by to pick up some stuff from the flat.’

      ‘Flat? He lives here?’

      ‘You didn’t know?’ She looked up at the row of long, narrow windows that ran horizontally just below the roof. ‘It was just a hayloft when he moved in. He converted it himself.’

      ‘It’s to let, you say?’ Willow crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘It could be just what I’m looking for. Does anyone hold a key?’

      ‘You really should go through the agent. There was a sign, but it seems to have disappeared—’

      ‘But I’m here now,’ she pointed out. ‘No point in bothering the agent if it isn’t what I’m looking for. Is there?’

      ‘None whatsoever.’ Amy Jones smiled, fetched a key and unlocked the door, pushing it open and standing back to let Willow through. ‘I think you’ll fit in here very well.’

      Willow’s forehead wrinkled in the slightest frown but, before she could ask why Amy thought that, she saw the drawing and took a step forward. It was pinned to a corkboard over the workbench, a sketch and a working drawing. It was the design for the table Mike had given her.

      She crossed the workshop, reached out, touched it, traced the lines he’d drawn.

      ‘That was the last piece Mike made. I saw it the other day when he was putting the finishing touches to it. The man is a poet in wood.’

      ‘Yes. Yes, he is.’ And she wanted to weep. How could he have made something like that and given it to her and never told her that he had made it with his own hands?

      ‘He’s got a waiting list for anything he cares to make. Of course it takes him weeks to turn out one piece of furniture.’

      ‘Yes, I can see that it would.’ What was it he’d said? Something about it not being a business for a family man. Maybe not. No man who worked like this would ever be rich. But he’d never be poor, either—not in spirit. She looked around. This was his dream and he’d been prepared to give it up for her.

      No wonder, when she’d told him about the job she’d been offered, he’d seemed so cool. It must have seemed to him that she was giving nothing, just demanding more and more.

      If only he’d told her.

      If only she’d seen.

      ‘This is the workshop and there’s a small office at the end. It’s pretty big. Would you need this much space? What do you do?’

      ‘Do?’

      ‘She paints.’ Mike’s voice jolted her from a deep and lonely pit of regret and she spun round. ‘Isn’t that right, Willow?’

      ‘Mike…’

      Amy laid the key on the table. ‘I won’t be needing this any more. Will I?’ She stepped out through the door and closed it behind her.

      Mike was leaning, arms crossed, against the door frame. He was waiting for an answer, too. The difference was, Mike wasn’t going anywhere.

      For a moment Willow’s mouth opened and closed, as her brain freewheeled. Then, as the penny dropped, she demanded, ‘Did you follow me?’

      ‘You lied about meeting your cousin,’ he countered. ‘Have you seen enough down here?’ Then, while she was still trying to gather up her mouth, chivvy her thoughts into line, he unlocked the door to the upstairs apartment, exposing a spiral timber staircase to the upper floor, and stood back to let her go first.

      She wanted to go. Curiosity was clawing at her insides, but she stayed where she was.

      ‘How did you know that I wasn’t meeting Crysse?’

      ‘I’m psychic.’

      ‘You did follow me.’ She couldn’t believe he could be so sneaky. ‘Why?’

      ‘Because Crysse and Sean are in St Lucia.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘After we talked at the motorway services, I couldn’t quite bring myself to claim the cancellation insurance. It didn’t seem exactly ethical under the circumstances.’ He smiled. He really shouldn’t do that. It went to her head like champagne and stopped her thinking straight. ‘I thought perhaps Crysse might need to get away. Do you mind?’

      Mind? She was stunned, but mind… ‘No. No of course not. It was a wonderful thing to do.’

      ‘So why did you say you were meeting her?’

      ‘For a psychic you ask a heck of a lot of questions.’

      ‘Humour me.’

      ‘You wanted to come shopping with me. I wanted to…’ She did a quick mental word search for an alternative to ‘snoop’.

      ‘Do a little research?’ he offered, perceiving her difficulty.

      That sounded better, but there was no hiding the fact. ‘I think probably snooping says it better.’

      ‘I see.’ And he smiled again. ‘Willow Blake, Investigative Journalist.’

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