The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy. Katie Oliver

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      When had she and Ian last made love? She couldn’t remember. Ages… She couldn’t blame him, really. Who’d want to make love to a woman as big around as Brixton?

      Not for the first time, she wondered if he was having an affair.

      His mobile lay on the hall table. She picked it up, one ear cocked to make sure the shower still ran, and scrolled down the list of recent calls to the last one.

      Natalie Dashwood.

      Alexa’s frown deepened. Why would Natalie call Ian so late on a Sunday night? Surely it could wait until morning, at work. And why hadn’t he answered?

      The shower stopped. She tossed the mobile back on the table and returned to their bedroom, sliding under the covers just as the door opened. Light spilled into the room.

      “Alexa? I thought you were asleep.” Ian, a towel wrapped round his hips, regarded her from the doorway.

      “I was. Your mobile woke me, so I got up to take a wee. Who was it?” she asked, keeping her voice casual.

      “Oh, it was just a message from Gordon.” He dropped the towel to the floor and rummaged in his dresser for a pair of boxers. “We’ve a meeting at four and he warned me it’ll most likely run long.”

      What an accomplished liar he is, Alexa realised suddenly. What else has he lied about? “Is it the website again?” she managed to ask, hoping her voice didn’t betray her thoughts.

      He nodded. “Final review and then hopefully we’re done with the damned thing.”

      “I hope so. You’ve worked late, a lot.” She stretched. “Well, bed for me. Maybe this time I’ll actually sleep.”

      “Goodnight.” He turned away. “I’ll be in soon. I need to check my emails.”

      “Goodnight.” Although she was tired, as she turned off the bedside lamp, Alexa couldn’t stop thinking about Natalie’s phone call. Why had she called Ian? Were they having an affair? How long had it been going on?

      And just what, exactly, was going on?

      There was no possible way that Nat and her husband were involved. The very idea was ludicrous. She and Natalie had known each other for yonks; they’d bonded over Enid Blyton and gobstoppers, and later over music and boys and clothes. Nat would never do something like this to her, or to their long-standing friendship.

      Yet why else would she call Ian so late on a Sunday night?

      Exhaustion finally caught up to her, and Alexa fell into a restless, troubled sleep.

      Cherie found the photo albums in a basket on a bottom shelf of the sitting room bookcase. She knelt to pick one up and flipped idly through the pages.

      She studied pictures of Hannah and Holly, their faces alight with excitement as they sat in front of the Christmas tree; Alastair, holding newborn Hannah with a look of equal parts adoration and terror on his face; Holly balancing unsteadily on her first two-wheeled bicycle.

      She took an armful of albums and sat on the sofa, flipping the pages until she found photos of her wedding day. Her throat tightened. She and Alastair had been madly, crazily in love.

      They had two lovely daughters and a pleasant, privileged life. Yet they’d become two strangers sharing the same house.

      When had things gone so wrong between them?

      “Hello, darling,” Alastair said as he arrived with two cups of tea. He handed her one and sat down beside her. “Looking at wedding photos?”

      Cherie nodded. “You were so handsome in your morning suit. I couldn’t wait to get you out of it.”

      Alastair lifted his brow. “And here I thought you were so innocent.”

      “Oh, I was. But I wanted to sleep with you from the moment we met at that garden party at St. Anselm’s.”

      “It seems I married quite a hussy,” he murmured, and leaned forward to kiss her.

      The album slipped from her fingers as Cherie kissed him back, and a photo came loose and fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up.

      She studied the picture of an attractive young woman seated at a desk. One perfectly groomed brow was lifted, her lips curved in a slight, knowing smile. Her dark blonde hair was twisted into a chignon at the nape of her neck.

      “Who is she?” Cherie asked, curious. “She looks familiar.”

      Alastair took the photo and studied it. “Oh, yes, of course. That was Fiona, my secretary. You remember, darling — she quit just after you and I got married.”

      Cherie cast him a curious glance. “Why? Were you two an item?”

      “Yes…but not for long. I remember she quit on a Friday, left her notice on my desk while I was at lunch, and never came back. No idea why she left. Hard to believe it was almost thirty years ago.”

      “You must’ve upset her when you married me.” Cherie smiled, only half joking. “She couldn’t bear it, so she flew the coop to nurse her broken heart.”

      He stared at the half-forgotten face of his secretary. She’d had eyes of such a deep and penetrating blue.

      Something about those eyes niggled at him. What, exactly, he couldn’t say. It lurked now at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put a finger precisely on what ‘it’ was.

      Whatever it was, Alastair decided, there was something about Fiona Walsh that gnawed at his memory.

      “What’s wrong?” Cherie asked him. “You’ve got an odd look on your face.”

      “Nothing.” Alastair put the photo aside. “Feeling my age, I suppose. It was a long time ago. Let’s look at some more of those wedding pictures.”

      They spent a pleasant hour flipping the pages and passing the albums back and forth. As he enjoyed the rarity of relaxing at home with Cherie, Alastair’s glance strayed once again to the photo of his secretary, tossed aside on the coffee table.

      Although he didn’t mention her again, Fiona Walsh remained in his thoughts for the rest of the evening.

      Rhys arrived at work at eight a.m. on Monday morning. He’d slept restlessly – no thanks to Natalie’s abrupt departure after the phone call she’d got – but at least he knew how to handle Ian Clarkson.

      “Natalie’s running late,” Gemma said as he stopped at her desk. “She’ll be in soon. Oh – and the breakfast has just been delivered for Sir Richard’s meeting with the buyers. Shall I pay the boy out of petty cash? I’m skint at the moment, or I’d take care of it myself and expense it later.”

      With a nod and a brief stop to pick up his messages, Rhys went into his office and picked up the phone.

      “Clarkson, Gordon here. I want to see you in my office, please. Immediately.”

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