Passion & Pleasure. Julia James

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СКАЧАТЬ gates that hung rather optimistically from them, gave access to a drive that definitely required some maintenance. Fliss’s father’s elderly hatchback bumped rather resentfully over the holes in the tarmac, and Fliss realised she would have to make sure the rabbit hutch didn’t bounce out again as she was driving home.

      Tall poplars lined the drive, framing the house with greenery. The rhododendron bushes that flanked them had been a mass of colour a couple of weeks ago, but now they were shedding their brilliant petals onto the grass verge. They made Fliss feel sad. Colonel Phillips had loved those rhododendrons.

      There was a car parked at the foot of the shallow steps that led up to the terrace, one of those expensive off-roaders, much favoured by people who wanted to make a statement about their financial status. It was not the sort of car Fliss would have expected Matthew Quinn to drive—if he was the Matthew Quinn her father had been talking about—but what did she know? She was a humble single mother who had to serve bar meals and clean other people’s houses just to make ends meet.

      And how pathetic did that sound?

      Parking the Ford beside the BMW, Fliss turned off the engine and opened her door. Sliding her legs out of the car, she wished she’d taken the time to change before coming back. Her sleeveless vest and canvas shorts were all very well for taking Amy to school, but they hardly created an impression of responsible motherhood. But then, she reflected, if she had changed, her father might have wondered why and that might have opened another can of worms.

      Taking a deep breath, she rounded the car and mounted the steps to the heavy oak door. She couldn’t help noticing that no one had polished the brass work recently, or swept the terrace, and she pulled a wry face. It was true. She was developing a servant’s mentality. Go figure!

      Dismissing such thoughts, she lifted the knocker and let it fall, wincing as it echoed around the building. There was no way anyone could ignore that.

      There was silence for a few moments and Fliss was just considering knocking again, when she heard the sound of footsteps crossing the hall. They didn’t sound like a man’s footsteps, however, and she steeled herself for the ordeal of identifying herself to Matthew Quinn’s wife. She just hoped he’d clued her in to what had happened. She was going to feel such a fool if he hadn’t.

      She straightened her spine, drawing herself up to the full five feet six inches she’d been blessed with. Squaring her shoulders, she looped back several strands of bright coppery hair behind her ears. As if that would improve her appearance, she thought wryly. She looked what she was; a slightly harassed woman in her mid-twenties, with a little too much weight both above and below her waist.

      ‘I’m sorry to disturb you—’ she was beginning as the door opened, and then broke off in surprise. ‘Diane,’ she exclaimed, recognising the girl she had used to go to school with. ‘Diane Chesney!’ She hesitated as the obvious thought struck her. ‘Or should I say Mrs Quinn?’

      ‘Diane will do,’ retorted the other woman shortly. She arched an enquiring brow. ‘Can I help you—Felicity, is it?’

      Great!

      Fliss blew out a breath. It was obvious that whatever the circumstances of Diane’s being here, she had no desire to rekindle old friendships. Fliss couldn’t believe she’d forgotten how much she hated her name, or that there was any doubt about her identity.

      But it was also obvious that her—husband? Boyfriend? Whatever—had conveniently forgotten to mention the uninvited visitors he had had earlier.

      ‘Well…’ She murmured now, feeling even more inadequate in the face of Diane’s cool sophistication. ‘I’ve come to get my daughter’s rabbit.’

      ‘Your daughter’s rabbit!’

      Clearly Diane had no idea what she was talking about. Her contemptuous tone proved it and, unwillingly, a memory surfaced of Diane using that tone to her before. It was when Fliss had first confessed to her friend that she was going to have a baby. She’d been seeking advice, understanding. But all Diane had done was urge her to have an abortion.

      ‘You’re too young to have a sprog!’ she’d exclaimed scornfully. ‘Do yourself a favour, Fliss. Get rid of it. I would.’

      With hindsight, Fliss had to admit that Diane had had a point. She had been too young, too innocent, too infatuated with the boy who had taken advantage of her to know exactly what she wanted to do. She’d been afraid to tell her parents; scared of what they might say; desperate for a way out.

      In the event, it was her mother who had come to her rescue. Lucy Taylor hadn’t thought twice. Fliss should have the baby, she’d said. She’d help her. Both her parents would help her. They’d also supported her decision to have nothing more to do with the father of the child. Terry Matheson had denied everything, of course, and thankfully he’d left the district long before Amy was born.

      Nevertheless, Fliss’s pregnancy had driven a wedge between her and Diane. She’d had to postpone taking her higher-level exams for a year and, by then, Diane had moved on.

      They could have resumed their friendship, of course, but Diane hadn’t been interested. She was having too good a time at university in London to care about a girl who, in her opinion, had as good as ruined her life.

      By the time Diane graduated, her parents were telling everyone that she was an art expert, that she was going to be running a gallery in the smartest part of town. The fact that she rarely visited her parents was always conveniently forgotten. Diane was soooo in demand; soooo busy. They were soooo proud of her.

      And now, here she was, apparently living with the man who, either with or without his consent, had become a minor celebrity in his own right.

      No surprise there, then.

      ‘Amy’s rabbit,’ Fliss continued, trying not to let the other woman’s attitude faze her. ‘I spoke to your—er—?’

      ‘My fiancé?’ suggested Diane condescendingly, and Fliss nodded.

      ‘I guess,’ she said. She moistened her lips. ‘I gather he didn’t mention it.’

      ‘Why would he?’ Diane rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Fliss, but Matt and I have more important things to talk about than a bloody rabbit, for God’s sake!’

      So she did remember her name, thought Fliss smugly. But Diane was annoyed about something. That was obvious. And it was evidently nothing to do with her and Amy.

      ‘OK.’

      Fliss was trying to decide how to explain the situation in the briefest terms possible when Matthew Quinn himself appeared behind Diane. He was still barefoot, Fliss noticed unwillingly, his expression only marginally less hostile than his fiancée’s.

      ‘What’s going on?’ he asked impatiently, and then he saw Fliss. ‘Oh—Mrs Taylor.’

      Diane snorted at this and he paused a moment to give her a curious look. Then, with a shrug, he went on, ‘Did you want something else?’

      Fliss’s cheeks had flushed at Diane’s scornful reaction to her name, but she refused to be daunted. ‘It’s Miss Taylor, actually,’ she said, telling herself she didn’t care what he thought of her. ‘I’ve come to collect the rabbit.’

      ‘Ah.’ Matthew Quinn glanced again at СКАЧАТЬ