No More Secrets

“I’m asking you to the theater because it’s a good play and I’d like your company. Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE Copyright

“I’m asking you to the theater because it’s a good play and I’d like your company.

“Do you want to come or not?”

“Yes,” said Kate, and he kissed her square on the mouth.

“I’ll pick you up just before seven and feed you after the show.” Ben laid a finger on her lower lip, smiled at her, then leaned across to undo her seat belt.

Kate shrank back in her seat, away from the warmth and scent of his body, afraid he’d realize how his nearness affected her.

“Stop it,” he said, sitting upright. “You’re in no danger from me, I promise.”

That’s the trouble, she thought ruefully. I wish

I were.

Dear Reader,

Pennington, my favorite location, is my own creation. My serene fictional town lies in the lush, green English countryside, and has wide streets, tea shops, public parks ablaze with flowers, irresistible stores with elegant clothes and jewelry, others with antique furniture and porcelain. Pennington is a place of delightful people, prosperity and picturesque charm—a place where dreams come true....

Sincerely,

Catherine George

No More Secrets

Catherine George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

A SUDDEN squall of wind sent the yellow wool hat spinning across the road like a discus, and its small, hurrying owner dived after it in hot pursuit through a hail of sleet, blind to the oncoming car until it was almost on top of her with an ear-splitting squeal of brakes. Kate leapt away in fright, stumbled and fell on her hands and knees with a screech as the car swerved to avoid her and slewed sideways to a halt across the quiet backstreet.

The driver shot out and came running to pull her to her feet, his face haggard with shock. ‘Are you hurt? You gave me one hell of a fright! I came round the corner and there you were, right in the middle of the road. Did I hit you?’

Kate shook her head, half-blinded by wind and sleet and the strands of dark hair whipping across her face, speechless not only from shock but also from confrontation with the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on in her life. ‘Sorry—my fault entirely,’ she gasped. ‘Wind blew my hat off. I ran into the road after it. The car didn’t even touch me. Must dash.’

He retrieved the hat and handed it back to her. ‘Look, let me drive you —’ he began, but Kate backed away, shaking her head vigorously.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine! Really. My apologies again. Goodbye.’

She gave him a brief, embarrassed smile and raced off round the corner into the Parade before the man could do anything to prevent her.

When Kate arrived, panting, at the bookshop she felt more than a little shaky. What a start! Especially on an important day like this. But she just had to pull herself together, put the incident from her mind. She rummaged for her keys with unsteady hands, making herself concentrate on the display in the largest window. She took a few deep breaths and gave a nod of approval. The display was definitely eye-catching, bound to bring the punters in. The publicity stills of Quinn Fletcher, best-selling crime novelist and local celebrity, were good. Beauty and crime were a great combination for selling books. And books might be Kate Harker’s passion, but selling them was her job.

Luckily for her wind and limb she had set out a good hour earlier than usual, determined to make sure everything was perfect for the book-signing later on. Rush-hour traffic could have turned an embarrassing little incident into a nasty accident, but, thankfully, the quiet backstreet had been deserted. And now, she thought irritably, she’d have to utilise some of the time to make herself look more presentable. She was a mess. She shivered suddenly. If the car had been speeding round the corner, or if the driver’s reactions had been slower, she could have been looking far more of a mess than she did now.

When all the lights in the store were on Kate started up the electronic point-of-sale system at the till, took the money and till drawers from the safe in the office and installed them at the sales desks. By the time the rest of the staff arrived both the new floor manager and the shop itself were in readiness for the day. Kate had replaced muddied jeans with a skirt, and restored face and hair to the severe, businesslike look she kept to during working hours.

Teased about her early start, Kate smiled cheerfully, glad of the camaraderie. She’d arrived in Pennington to take over the post of floor manager only a few weeks before, and to her relief her new colleagues were a pleasant crew, with no hint of hostility from one or two who might have expected promotion to her job.

Her career with Hardacres had begun as a junior bookseller at their Kensington branch a year after gaining her English degree. After leaving university she’d worked at whatever job she could until winning the post with the successful chain of specialist bookstores. Kate’s promotion to senior bookseller had been gratifyingly rapid, but in the Kensington flagship branch further promotion to floor manager would have been slower. So when the opening in the Pennington branch came up Kate had applied, eager to make a move she welcomed in more ways than one.

At first, in a town where the architecture was beautiful but everyone was a stranger, Kate had missed her life in London badly, and regretted her decision. Then she’d found a permanent place to live, made some successful decisions about new titles, contacted Quinn Fletcher’s publishers about the book-signing opportunity, and begun to enjoy her new life. Pennington was a less expensive place to live for a start, which made her salary go further. And the slower pace rather suited her. The other girls at Hardacres were friendly, the job was interesting and varied, and no one made demands on either her time or her emotions. It was surprisingly restful. The move, she’d decided eventually, had been a good idea.

Kate tidied the fiction shelves, checked to see if any titles needed re-ordering, made sure someone was at the till in her department during the break period, then went for coffee herself once Gail, who was so pretty that male college students crowded the store when she was on duty, was back at the till.

‘I brought some scones my mother made,’ said Gail, flicking back a lock of glossy blonde hair. ‘I saved one for you, Kate.’

Kate, perpetually struggling with one diet or another, thanked her ruefully. In the staffroom she poured herself some coffee from the machine, scowling at the buttered scone.

‘Eat,’ said Clare, the language specialist. ‘You seem a bit edgy.’

Kate described her near-miss with a Range Rover that morning, pulling a face as she admitted it was all her own fault in her hurry to get to work. ‘I wanted an hour to myself to make sure everything was perfect. It’s the book signing. I’ve never actually organised one before.’ Succumbing to temptation, Kate bit into the scone and sighed with pleasure. ‘I just wish Gail’s mother wasn’t such a cracking cook!’

‘A fright like that probably burned up enough calories to account for one scone! Heavens, Kate, you were lucky.’ Clare patted her arm. ‘And don’t worry about Quinn Fletcher. She sells like hot cakes—amazingly gory stuff, too.’

‘I know. I’ve read them all. This last one’s the best yet. I gather she’s married?’

Clare nodded. ‘I’m almost as new in town as you, so I don’t know him, but he’s gorgeous, according to Gail. Some people get all the luck.’

‘You’ve got a gorgeous husband yourself!’ retorted Kate.

‘But I don’t write best-sellers.’

‘True.’ Kate jumped up. ‘I’d better tidy myself up—again—and make sure everything’s ready. Make sure there’s a fresh pot of coffee on the go for Ms Fletcher, there’s a dear.’

‘Don’t worry. Tray all ready with best cups and luxury biscuits. But no scones. Young Harry scoffed the last one and had to be forcibly prevented from thieving yours.’

‘I wish he had!’ Kate smoothed her long grey flannel skirt over hips too curvy for her taste, brushed a stray strand of hair into her severe pleat of hair and replaced the horn-rimmed glasses she wore during working hours. She renewed her lipstick, tucked her striped grey and white shirt in more securely, and buttoned the grey waistcoat bought to hide the opulence of her upper half. ‘There. How do I look?’

‘Frighteningly efficient,’ Clare assured her, chuckling. She stood up, stretching, long-legged and slim in jeans and navy jersey. And tall.

It was Kate’s misfortune to have joined a team where every other member, male and female, were well over average height. Her own five feet and a bit was no match for Clare and Gail, and certainly not Harry, who was a gangling six-footer and still growing. Even Mrs Harrison, the manager, was a head taller.

‘I didn’t realise you had such great legs,’ commented Clare, attending to the coffee-pot. ‘Never seen them before.’

They all habitually wore trousers or jeans, with shirts and jerseys of various descriptions, because the work entailed a lot of kneeling and hefting around of boxes by all the staff. But today Kate felt the occasion called for a skirt. Which, though long and narrow, with a rather dashing split to the knee, felt dowdy alongside the leggy Clare and tall, slender Gail.

‘I’ll change back into my usual gear once our celebrity’s departed,’ she said, and went out into the store, glad to see several customers browsing in all sections of her department. By the time she’d found various titles for some of them, directed Harry to help Gail when necessary, and checked that the table and chairs for the signing were in a prominent place, ready for the author, it was almost eleven.

Clocks in the town were chiming the hour when a car drew up outside. Kate went to the door, her smile ready in welcome, then caught her breath in dismay as a tall man with an unmistakable shock of blond hair leapt out to help his companion to her feet. The woman’s brown curls and laughing, flushed face were equally recognisable from the photographs in the display; but with one noticeable difference.

‘Oh, crikey,’ breathed Clare. ‘She’s pregnant. Very pregnant.’

Kate braced herself and went forward, hand outstretched. ‘Ms Fletcher? I’m Kate Harker. Welcome to Hardacres.’

‘Thank you. You’re new.’ Quinn Fletcher shook Kate’s hand, smiling warmly. ‘Charlie’s left?’

Kate nodded. ‘Mr Walters went to manage the Oxford branch.’

‘You’re much prettier than Charlie Walters!’ The man grinned down at her, then narrowed his eyes, frowning, and Kate turned away hurriedly.

Behind her calm, efficient exterior she felt depressed. So her rescuer was married. And even more handsome than she’d remembered from the fleeting episode in the pouring rain. But he was years younger than his wife—which, of course, was absolutely nothing to do with Kate Harker. ‘Please come inside,’ she urged, smiling brightly. ‘There’s a very cold wind today.’

‘Better than the sleet earlier,’ he returned with a grin, and turned to shepherd his companion inside with care. ‘You all right, love?’

‘Fine.’ Quinn Fletcher smiled at him reassuringly. ‘You can pop off now, Ben, if you like.’

He shook his head as he helped her to settle in the chair behind the small table used for signings. ‘No way. I’m here to keep an eye on you. Don’t worry, if I get bored there’s plenty to read!’

Quinn Fletcher smiled up at him lovingly. ‘Fusspot!’ She turned to Kate. ‘Take no notice. The baby’s not due for weeks yet.’

Kate, up to then convinced that the baby’s arrival was imminent, relaxed a little. ‘Before you start would you like some coffee?’

The attractive author shook her head regretfully. ‘Later, if that’s all right. If I have one now I’ll be making more trips to the bathroom than signing books—always supposing someone wants to buy—’ She broke off with a smile as she realised a line was already forming. ‘Oh, how lovely. Look at all these people! Let’s get started.’

Quinn Fletcher was kept busy with her fountain-pen as she smiled and chatted to each customer eager for her signature, most of them fans eagerly awaiting the latest best-selling thriller from a novelist who was popular worldwide, as well as in her home town of Pennington.

‘Mr Fletcher, would you like some coffee?’ asked Kate.

‘Thanks, I would.’ He turned away from a display of paperback novels, smiling down at her. ‘I skipped breakfast.’ He paused, one surprisingly dark eyebrow raised. ‘How do you feel? None the worse for your adventure this morning, I hope?’

‘No, not in the least,’ said Kate, resigned. ‘I thought perhaps you hadn’t recognised me.’

‘It took a while,’ he agreed, his smile deepening. ‘The disguise is good.’

‘No disguise.’ Her hackles rose at the hint of intimacy in the dark, dancing eyes. ‘This is how I normally look.’

‘Why?’ he countered. ‘I preferred you the other way.’

Kate, longing to give stinging set-down to Quinn Fletcher’s husband, was forced to give him a polite little smile instead before going off to fetch the coffee. She felt oddly let down, she realised, irritated with herself. And not just because Ben Fletcher was married, either. She strongly disapproved of a man ready to indulge in a spot of flirtation right under the nose of his heavily pregnant wife.

‘Crumbs,’ said Clare, following her in. ‘Can I give Mr Fletcher the coffee, boss? He’s seriously gorgeous.’

‘And you’re married,’ retorted Kate.

‘But not blind.’ Clare smacked her lips as she hefted a small tray. ‘Besides, I’m more his size than you are.’

Kate grinned, yanked her waistcoat straight, and returned to the fray, where a gratifyingly long line was still snaking through the front of the store. Leaving Clare to supply the spectacular Mr Fletcher’s needs, she went to the till to give Harry and Gail a hand as they took the money for The Letting of Blood. She felt a glow of satisfaction as she packed books into smart black bags with a plain gilt H. Most of the customers had bought other books as well as the new thriller. She glanced over at the author. Half-hidden behind the table, in a loose white coat, Quinn Fletcher’s condition wasn’t evident to the waiting fans. Somehow one didn’t expect a writer of frankly gory thrillers to be pregnant. Or to have such a young Adonis of a husband, either. One who apparently had nothing to do other than to escort his wife to a book-signing, chat up every female in sight—and laugh all the way to the bank when he deposited her royalty cheques, no doubt. Kate put on hasty mental brakes. None of her business.

She beckoned to Clare. ‘Would you take over from Gail for ten minutes, please? Gail, see if Ms Fletcher needs a drink yet, then take a break.’

Gail relinquished her place to Clare eagerly, and went over to Quinn Fletcher, who shook her head, smiling, apparently quite unconcerned when her husband turned the full battery of his charm on the pretty blonde bookseller.

Kate turned away to deal with a customer, deeply sorry for Quinn Fletcher. The husband was a menace to anything young and female, obviously, pregnant wife or not.

After an hour Kate went over to the table.

‘Time for a break? You look tired.’

‘I think she’s had enough,’ put in Ben Fletcher, ‘though she won’t admit it while there’s someone brandishing a book at her.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Quinn firmly, and smiled across the table at the elderly lady holding out a book. ‘Hello; how nice of you to come.’

It was another half-hour before the last fan had gone happily away. Ben Fletcher helped the author to her feet with a solicitude which set Kate’s teeth on edge. Hypocrite!

‘Honestly, Cass,’ said Ben Fletcher, frowning, ‘you look done in. Come on, I’ll take you home.’

Quinn Fletcher’s smile was warmly reassuring, despite the smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes. ‘What I need first is a visit to the loo, then a sit down in a comfortable chair. Then you can drive me home.’

Kate led her to the staffroom, showed her the Ladies’, checked the coffee was fresh and hot, then waited until Quinn Fletcher emerged, and pulled forward a solid leather chair. ‘We all fight over this one, it’s so comfortable. Coffee?’

‘I shouldn’t, but I will.’ The novelist sat down, leaning back with a sigh.

‘I hope all this wasn’t too much for you,’ said Kate, pouring out. ‘I didn’t know you were pregnant.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. A book-signing session won’t do me any harm.’ She smiled. ‘My small son wears me out far more. Angus is three and gorgeous, but lord is he energetic! How I ever got this book finished I’ll never know. Luckily I’ve got a brilliant girl who comes in for a few hours a week to give me a hand with young Angus after nursery-school hours, otherwise I’d never have made my deadline.’

‘Ms Fletcher—’

‘Call me Cassie. Quinn’s my pen name.’

Kate smiled warmly, very taken with the author’s charm. ‘I just wanted to say I’m one of your fans. I’ve read all your books, but I left my copy of this one at home. I read it over the weekend. Some time, when you’re in town, would you mind calling in to sign it for me?’

‘Of course; I’d be glad to.’ Cassie Fletcher finished her coffee and got to her feet carefully. ‘Right, then, Kate Harker, I must be off. Could you round up Ben for me?’

Ben Fletcher was discovered in a far corner of the store, handing up books for a very excited, pink-faced Gail to stack on a high shelf.

‘Incorrigible,’ said Cassie, looking resigned rather than annoyed.

Kate, annoyed for her, moved over to the industrious pair, who were so absorbed with each other that neither noticed her arrival. ‘Ms Fletcher is ready to leave now,’ she said crisply. ‘Gail, if you’ve finished there the children’s corner could do with some tidying.’

‘Yes, Kate,’ said Gail, and went off precipitately, blushing to the roots of her hair.

Ben Fletcher watched her go, frowning. ‘I hope I didn’t get her into trouble. I was just giving a helping hand.’

‘Not at all. Very kind of you,’ said Kate politely, and walked ahead of him to the signing table, where the author was taking leave of the manager and the other members of staff.

‘Ah, there you are, Ben,’ said Cassie Fletcher. ‘Sorry to keep you hanging round so long.’

‘My pleasure, love.’ He grinned. ‘I found ways to pass the time.’

There was a chorus of farewells as the writer promised to come back the following year when her next novel came out. Ben Fletcher bestowed his dazzling smile on everyone except Kate, who won an oddly wry, questioning glance before he escorted Cassie to the car parked outside.

Mrs Harrison congratulated Kate on a very successful signing session, and the others returned to their various tasks—except for a rather wary Gail.

‘Kate, I’m down for early lunch today, but could I go late instead, please?’

‘I’ll swap,’ offered Harry promptly. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Yes, fine,’ said Kate rather coolly. ‘Stay at the till until one, then, Gail. Harry, put the table and chairs away first, then off you go.’

The staffroom was a comfortable, untidy place where all of them were glad to rest their tired feet, eat sandwiches and drink coffee, chat, read the paper, or just relax for the hour’s break. Harry usually went out to join cronies for a pizza, but the female section of the staff tended to congregate together, glad to sit down.

Today Kate was not glad to sit down. For some reason she felt restless. Gail went out shopping, Mrs Harrison and Clare were grappling with The Times crossword, and after swallowing a sandwich and half a cup of coffee Kate excused herself to dash out and buy some shampoo. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say she just needed to be out in the open air, though the sleet showers had given way to chilly sunshine by this time. She walked briskly, guilty enough about her excuse to walk to the other end of town and buy shampoo she didn’t need. On her way back past public gardens bright with early daffodils, Kate eyed the tempting cakes in the corner coffee-shop with longing, wishing she had Clare’s metabolism. Suddenly her eyes widened. At one of the tables inside the coffee-shop, clearly visible through the shelves of Danish pastries and cream buns, sat Gail, her eyes like stars as she gazed at the man with her. His back was turned to Kate, but it was all too easy to see that Gail’s companion was Ben Fletcher.

The louse! thought Kate fiercely. Cassie Fletcher was at home, pregnant, coping with a boisterous toddler into the bargain, and here was Ben Fletcher chatting up young Gail, who, seemingly, was so taken with him she was prepared to overlook his married status.

Kate turned away sharply. It was none of her business. Not even Gail. Unless the girl’s work suffered because of it her private life was her own affair, however she chose to conduct it. Kate cut across the gardens, taking the longest route possible back to the shop to calm down. It was Cassie she felt for. A warm, lovely lady like Cassie Fletcher deserved something better than a blond Romeo who reacted to every woman in sight. Well not every woman, amended Kate with painful honesty. She was the only one he hadn’t smiled at on leaving, so it was obvious she didn’t merit the Ben Fletcher gold seal of approval.

The afternoon was busy, as usual. Kate spent a large part of it with a publishing rep, discussing new titles for the summer list, then did some chasing up on book deliveries to make sure they arrived for various special displays she was organising. In between she helped customers find titles they were looking for, tidied up the children’s corner after the usual post-school surge of mothers and offspring and kept a general eagle eye on everything going on in her department. By the time her shift ended just before seven Kate had managed to push thoughts of the Fletchers to the back of her mind, even able to bid Gail a fairly affable goodnight instead of wringing her neck, as she’d wanted to earlier.

It was almost dark and raining again when she set out to walk to the older part of Pennington. Kate pulled the stitched brim of the now dry wool hat low over her eyes, buttoned her raincoat to the neck and set off at a brisk pace.

Shortly after her arrival in Pennington she’d answered an advertisement which required ‘a young professional lady for a small flat in a house off Waverley Square’. Kate had gone to inspect it without much hope, but had been charmed by the house, which was small, flatroofed, and one of a pair in a quiet cul-de-sac tucked away behind a row of imposing Georgian mansions. Waverley Lodge had a small front garden with shrubs and a lilac tree, and the flat, Kate had learned, was the entire upper floor of the house. Mrs Beaumont, the owner, was a sprightly lady in her late seventies, with curly white hair and shrewd dark eyes. She leaned heavily on a stick and could no longer manage stairs, she’d explained.

‘My son and his wife want me to move into a modern flat, but I like it here. In common with that lilac tree I’m too old to transplant. But I would like some company in the house so I decided to let the upper floor.’ Mrs Beaumont waved Kate upstairs. ‘Look around all you want, my dear. Mrs Gill, my daily, assures me it’s all spick and span up there. Come down when you’re ready and I’ll make some tea.’

Kate thanked her and went off to inspect the upper floor of Waverley Lodge. A bright, airy sitting room, with comfortable, chintz-covered furniture, lots of lamps, bookshelves and small tables, looked out over a quiet square with a lawn and trees softening the view of tall, aristocratic houses on the far side, a view shared by the pleasant double bedroom. A pretty bathroom, plus a small kitchen converted from what must once have been a boxroom, looked out on the small garden of the Lodge.