Stolen Summer. Anne Mather
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Название: Stolen Summer

Автор: Anne Mather

Издательство: HarperCollins

Жанр: Современные любовные романы

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СКАЧАТЬ answered Sarah at once, seemingly enjoying the reversal of their positions. She lifted the tray and set it across Shelley’s legs. ‘Shall I pour this for you, or can you manage it yourself?’

      ‘I think I can do it,’ murmured Shelley evenly, refusing to be drawn by the girl’s pertness. And, as Sarah tossed her head carelessly, and marched towards the door, Marsha herself put her head around it.

      ‘Oh, you are awake!’ she exclaimed, coming into the room as the maid departed, revealing she was still in her dressing gown. ‘I asked Mrs Carr to send you up some tea, just in case you were awake. But, as you are, perhaps you’d like breakfast as well.’

      ‘Oh, no.’ Shelley put the tray of tea aside and threaded long slim fingers through her hair. She refrained from mentioning that she hadn’t been awake until Sarah chose to disturb her. If it was half-past-eight, it was late enough. ‘Honestly, Marsha, I’m not an invalid. And I’m not going to spend my holiday lying in bed. I’ll come downstairs and have some coffee and toast, if I may. Just give me fifteen minutes to take a shower and put some clothes on.’

      ‘Don’t bother to dress!’ Marsha waved a dismissing hand. ‘My dear, there’s only the two of us, and I rarely put my clothes on before ten o’clock—unless I’m feeling very virtuous, which isn’t often.’ She smiled. ‘Mrs Carr sets the table in the morning room, and I usually spend an hour or so going over the papers. I get half a dozen delivered. It’s the only way to keep up to date with the news.’

      ‘All right.’ Shelley was not prepared to argue. As soon as Marsha had gone, she intended to take a couple of headache capsules, and it would be rather pleasant just to take things easy for once.

      ‘Good.’ Marsha was pleased. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to wash your hands.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘See you downstairs in five minutes.’

      After her friend had gone, Shelley slid out of bed and padded across to the window. She had left her bag on the window seat, and she perched there as she rummaged for the small carton that contained the paracetamol capsules. Swallowing two, she looked out of the window, thinking how ironic it was that even in these idyllic surroundings she was still a prey to her nerves. But it would pass, she told herself firmly. The psychiatrist had said that all she needed was a complete rest, away from the petty jealousies she had never really learned to live with, and away from Mike, whose emotional blackmail simply wasn’t going to work.

      After rinsing her face and cleaning her teeth in the bathroom, Shelley picked up her kimono-style wrapper from the end of the bed, and slid her arms into the sleeves. Made of jade-green satin and appliquéd with white flowers around the wide sleeves and the hem, it was her favourite robe, not least because Marsha herself had bought it for her in Tokyo almost five years ago.

      A brief appraisal of her appearance necessitated that she take a brush to her hair, and she grimaced at her reflection as the thick coarse strands resisted her efforts. She had often been tempted to have her hair cut, but although she had it trimmed from time to time, it still hung well below her shoulders. Usually, she wore it in a loose coil at the nape of her neck or occasionally, as the day before, she wound it into a knot on top of her head, which made her look even taller.

      Abandoning the task, she pushed heelless mules on to her feet, and opened her door. Marsha had briefly explained the lay-out of the house to her the night before, and Shelley easily made her way to the head of the stairs, and descended slowly. The balustrade was smooth, after years of use and Mrs Carr’s polishing, and a warm red carpet underfoot gave colour to the panelled wall that mounted beside her. Some of Marsha’s paintings had been hung to provide their own illumination, and someone had filled a copper urn with armfuls of white and purple lilac, that scented the air with its perfume.

      Downstairs, she found the morning room easily. The door was standing ajar, and she could see a round table spread with a white tablecloth and smell the delicious aroma of coffee. Marsha had evidently gone to tell Mrs Carr that her guest would not be requiring breakfast in bed, and Shelley entered the room without hesitation, halting abruptly at the sight of a man, lounging at the side of the table which had been hidden from the door. He had a newspaper propped in front of him, and all Shelley could initially see was one leg, encased in cream denim, the foot resting carelessly on the leg of the chair beside him, and one arm, which revealed he was wearing a matching denim shirt. The sleeve of his shirt was rolled back almost to his elbow, exposing a lean brown arm, and his wrist was encircled by a slim gold watch which, in spite of its leather strap, looked rather exclusive. It was the sort of present Marsha would buy, Shelley suspected, guessing who it must be. But she was unwilling to face anyone else in her present state of undress, and she would have withdrawn unseen had he not chosen that moment to lower the newspaper.

       ‘You!’

      Shelley’s instinctive embarrassment at being caught out gave way to blank astonishment at the sight of the man, who was now withdrawing his foot from its resting place and getting to his feet. It was the man from the Land-Rover—Ben Seton—and for several seconds she forgot her appearance in the numbness of disbelief.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Hoyt—or can I call you Shelley?’ he enquired, evidently deriving as much amusement from her reaction today as he had from her frustration the day before, and Shelley fought to regain her sense of balance. What was he doing here? she asked herself abstractedly. How had he found her? And how did he know her name, when she herself hadn’t told him. Marsha! she thought intuitively. Marsha must know he was here. And with that awareness, came another sickening realisation …

      As if her sudden, dawning knowledge was written in her eyes for him to read, he put the newspaper aside, and came easily across the room to stand in front of her. Without her heels, he seemed much taller than he had done the day before, and she knew an ominous feeling of presentiment when he put his hands upon her shoulders.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and she knew now why his eyes had briefly seemed so familiar. ‘I know I should have told you yesterday, but when you didn’t recognise me, I decided you deserved all you got.’ His lips tilted, and his teeth were very white against his dark skin. ‘I was going to come over last evening for dinner, but I took pity on you, after all. I guessed—after the day you had had—you might not be able to stand any more shocks.’

      Shelley didn’t know which emotion she felt strongest—anger, at his deliberate deception; resentment, that he should still be treating her with the same mixture of good humour and tolerance he had displayed the day before; or panic, at the fact he had come back into her life and overthrown her resolution not to think of him again.

      ‘Are you angry with me?’ he asked softly, and aware that Marsha could come upon them at any time, and she was in no state to deal with that, Shelley gave a helpless shake of her head.

      ‘I—why—you were only about seventeen, when I saw you last,’ she stammered, looking up at him and then wishing she hadn’t. He really had the most fantastic eyes, dark grey at the moment, and fringed with thick silvery lashes, that accentuated their beauty. A person could drown in those eyes, she thought unwillingly, unable to drag her gaze away, until his tightening fingers on her shoulders brought her quickly to her senses. ‘W-where is your mother?’

      ‘In the kitchen,’ said Marsha’s son flatly, allowing her to step back from his hands, and Shelley, reminded of her unwelcome state of undress, wrapped the folds of her kimono closer about her. Even so, she was intensely conscious of the revealing thinness of her garments, and of the fact that her nipples were standing taut against the material.

      ‘I should get dressed,’ she said distractedly, half turning towards the door, but his hand about her wrist prevented her from leaving.

      ‘Don’t,’ СКАЧАТЬ