The Forbidden Mistress. Anne Mather

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      Before reaching Belsay, he turned left yet again onto a narrow country road with high hedges on either side. The garden centre had been signposted from the major road and it was only about a quarter of a mile farther on, on the outskirts of Ridsgate, the nearest village to Tayford itself.

      Ferreira’s Plant World looked an impressive place viewed from the road. It had built up a fair reputation in recent years and people came quite a distance to wander round its gardens and greenhouses. As well as the usual ranks of hothouses, there were a shop, a café, a florist and a play area for children. And, although it was already after six o’clock, it was still doing a thriving business.

      There were several cars in the parking area and, although he hadn’t intended to stop, Oliver found himself easing the Porsche into a convenient space. He sat for a few minutes, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel, wondering what the hell he was doing here. And then, deciding he couldn’t leave without satisfying himself that Tom really wasn’t in financial difficulties, he switched off the engine and got out of the car.

      He saw her as he was locking the Porsche. She was standing near one of the greenhouses, apparently supervising the loading of sacks of compost onto a flatbed utility truck that she obviously intended to drive to another part of the site.

      She was tall, easily five feet nine, and he told himself it was her height that had attracted his attention. But with long legs encased in the tightest jeans he’d ever seen and a trim yet shapely body, she was instantly noticeable. And that without taking into account her warm, luminous beauty and a mane of red-gold hair, secured in a single fat braid that had an impact all its own.

      Perhaps it was the intentness of his stare that made her aware he was watching her. Eyes fringed by long, dark eyelashes turned in his direction and for a moment a quizzical expression crossed her face. Then one of the two men loading the truck spoke to her and she looked away, but not before a faint smile of inquiry—invitation?—touched her generous mouth.

      Deciding he was definitely letting his imagination run away with him, Oliver pocketed his keys and strolled towards the gardens. By avoiding the shop, he was hoping to avoid being recognised by the older members of Tom’s staff.

      There was no sign of Tom, however, and he couldn’t decide if he was glad or sorry. Now he’d have no excuse for not keeping their appointment tomorrow. At the bottom of him he supposed he’d hoped he could find out what was going on without wasting a couple of hours in futile discussion.

      He walked to the far end of the site, noticing that his brother had been as good as his word. Already work had started on digging up the land immediately adjoining the garden centre. An excavator was residing amid a clutter of other machinery, and in the distance what used to be the home of the previous owner was being levelled to the ground.

      ‘It looks pretty ugly, doesn’t it?’ remarked a husky voice behind him. Oliver turned quickly to find the girl he had seen earlier relaxing against one of a pair of stone sundials abandoned beside the fence. Closer now, Oliver could see that her skin was creamy soft, like a peach, her nose straight and not too prominent, wide eyes an incredible shade of green.

      Gathering his wits, he said, ‘I guess it does.’ He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and tried to dilute his gaze. ‘But all building projects are like that in the early stages.’

      ‘And you’d know,’ she said, surprising him. ‘You’re a design engineer.’ And at his raised eyebrows, she added easily, ‘You’re Tom’s brother, Oliver, I think. He said he might be seeing you today.’

      Oliver sucked in his breath. ‘Did he?’

      ‘Yes. He didn’t say you were coming here, though.’ She smiled, revealing a row of even white teeth. ‘I’m Grace Lovell, by the way. I know he’ll be pleased to see you,’ she went on, returning to her earlier theme. ‘Mrs Ferreira said you’ve been estranged for some time.’

      ‘Mrs Ferreira?’ Oliver frowned. He hadn’t realised Sophie was still calling herself by that name.

      ‘Your mother,’ explained Grace, apparently sensing his confusion. ‘I know your parents quite well. They spend a lot of time in San Luis.’

      Oliver revised his original opinion. ‘You’re Spanish?’ he asked incredulously, but she shook her head.

      ‘Not at all, I’m afraid. My father’s an American, actually. But he works for the British government, so I’ve spent most of my life in England.’

      ‘I see.’ Oliver paused. ‘And the San Luis connection?’

      ‘My parents own a villa in San Luis, too. That’s where I met Tom, actually. And how I persuaded him to give me this job.’

      Oliver absorbed this. ‘And do you like it? The job, I mean?’

      She shrugged, straightening away from the sundial, and he was once again struck by her height. But unlike a model, she was built on more generous lines, and, despite the fact that she didn’t appear to be wearing a bra, her breasts were firm and high—

      And where the hell had that come from? he wondered, arresting himself instantly. He was getting far too interested in her altogether. Dammit, it was years since he’d noticed a strange woman’s breasts. It was no excuse that the cold air had made them more noticeable. She was probably frozen, he decided, aware of the hard peaks against her thin tee shirt. It was also obvious that the heat he was feeling was definitely not climate-induced.

      ‘It’s okay,’ she said, and it took him a minute to realise she was answering his question and not excusing his too-personal appraisal. ‘I thought I wanted to teach when I left college, but after six years working in an inner-city comprehensive I decided I needed a change of scene.’

      Oliver made a gesture of assent and they started back towards the main building, Grace falling into step beside him with a lithe, easy stride. As he walked he realised he had to revise his estimate of how old she was as well. He’d guessed twenty-two or twenty-three, but now thirty didn’t seem so far off the mark.

      Not that it mattered. Just because she was older than he’d imagined didn’t change his own position at all. He, after all, was thirty-four, with a history no one would envy and a current girlfriend. Besides, she probably had a boyfriend. She was far too attractive to remain unattached for long.

      ‘Have you been here long?’ he asked now, wishing he had an excuse not to go into the shop. He hadn’t corrected her when she’d assumed he hadn’t seen his brother yet, and it was going to be bloody awkward if Tom turned up.

      ‘Seven months, give or take,’ she said. She grimaced. ‘All through one of the worst winters on record! Two of the greenhouses were flooded. We had to come to work in wellington boots!’

      Oliver managed a faint smile. ‘A baptism of fire.’

      ‘Well, of water,’ she remarked humorously. Then she laughed. ‘What an idiot! Baptisms are usually in water, aren’t they?’

      Oliver grinned, and he was just about to ask her what she thought about the north of England when her face changed. Her cheeks turned a little pink and he thought at first how charmingly unaffected she was. But then another female voice spoke his name and he stifled a groan as he turned to acknowledge his ex-wife.

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