Morelli's Mistress

Abby stared at him. ‘So—you seriously expect I would be willing to be your mistress?’

‘Why not?’

Luke spoke succinctly, and she clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

‘Just because I let you make love to me the last time you were here it doesn’t mean I’ll do it again!’ she retorted angrily, despising herself and him in equal measure.

‘Well, forgive me,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Only it’s hard to feel sympathy for a woman who’s cheated on her husband in the past.’

‘You know nothing about my marriage to Harry.’

‘And I don’t want to know,’ he retorted, reaching for his jacket. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should get out of here.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ said Abby, striving for indifference.

But before Luke could grab his jacket and leave he trailed his strong fingers down her sleeve and flipped them beneath the hem of her shirt. She tried to back away from him, but the temptation of Luke’s touch was too much for her.

And when his hand spread against her bare midriff, warm and possessive against her soft flesh, every nerve in her body went on high alert. She wanted him to touch her, she admitted despairingly. Her limbs were melting in anticipation of his caress.

Without giving her a chance to break his hold, he pulled her down onto the sofa again and, pressing her back, covered her body with his.

ANNE MATHER and her husband live in the north of England in a village bordering the county of Yorkshire. It’s a beautiful area, and she can’t imagine living anywhere else. She’s been making up stories since she was in primary school and would say that writing is a huge part of her life. When people ask if writing is a lonely occupation, she usually says that she’s so busy sorting out her characters’ lives she doesn’t have time to feel lonely. Anne’s written over 160 novels, and her books have appeared on both the New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller lists. She loves reading and walking and browsing in bookshops. And now that her son and daughter are grown, she takes great delight in her grandchildren. You can email her at [e-mail].

Morelli’s

Mistress

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Sally Fairchild, for her encouragement, and to my editor, Joanne Grant, for making the book live.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

LUKE NOTICED HER as soon as he went into the wine bar.

She was anchored to a stool next to the bar, a cocktail glass with slices of fruit curving over the rim and a tiny coloured parasol propped inside beside her hand.

She didn’t appear to have drunk much of the liquid in the glass. She was simply sitting there, staring into space, ignoring the loud voices and even louder music that filled the overcrowded room.

‘Oh, man, she’s hot!’

Ray Carpenter, who had followed Luke into the bar, was instantly attuned to what had drawn his partner’s attention. Coming abreast of the other man, he threw an arm about Luke’s shoulders.

‘Do you think she’s on her own?’ He paused. ‘Nah, she’s too good-looking to be buying her own drinks.’

‘You think?’

Luke didn’t want to have this conversation. For the first time that evening, he wished Ray weren’t with him. But they’d been finishing up the plans for their latest development project and it would have been churlish not to accept the other man’s invitation to go for a drink.

The choice of wine bar had been Ray’s, of course. Luke would have preferred to go to the pub across the street from their offices in Covent Garden. But Ray had insisted they deserved a celebratory cocktail, so here they were.

And just then, the girl turned her head and saw them. Or at least Luke was fairly sure she had, anyway. He didn’t think her eyes moved beyond his heavy-lidded gaze, and for a heart-stopping moment they simply stared at one another. Then Luke threw off Ray’s arm and moved towards her.

She was good-looking, and fairly tall, judging by the long slender legs that crossed at the knee. Her face was oval and she had a rather attractive nose. Above the kind of mouth most girls could only dream of.

Her hair was silvery blonde and she was wearing a gauzy wrap over a black vest. Her skirt was short and red, black tights ending in high-heeled pumps, one of which dangled enticingly from one swinging foot.

Luke halted beside her and then said quietly, ‘Hi. Can I buy you a drink?’

The girl, who had resumed her contemplation of the room, lifted her glass without looking at him again. ‘I have a drink.’

‘Okay.’

Luke wished there were a free stool beside her that he could casually score. But the guy who was sitting next to her was evidently on a bender, huddled over a clutch of beer bottles on the bar.

‘Are you alone?’

It wasn’t the most original thing to say, and the girl glanced up at him, her lips turning down. ‘No,’ she said flatly.

‘I’m with them.’ She indicated a group of women gyrating around the tiny dance floor. ‘It’s a hen party,’ she added, with a dismissive shrug.

‘And you didn’t want to dance?’

‘No.’ She moved the parasol to the other side of her glass and took a sip. ‘I don’t dance.’

‘Don’t—or won’t?’ Luke queried softly, and she blew out a rueful breath.

‘I’m not in the mood for dancing,’ she replied, concentrating on her glass. ‘Look, don’t you have someone else to talk to? I’m afraid I’m not very good company.’ She grimaced. ‘Go and ask the bride-to-be. She’ll tell you. I’m just the skeleton at the feast.’

Luke pulled a wry face. ‘If you say so.’

He flicked his fingers to get the attention of the bartender and ordered a beer for himself and a mojito for Ray. ‘That guy over there.’ He indicated the other man, who had apparently already found himself a willing companion. Then, when his beer was delivered, he swallowed half the bottle in one gulp. ‘I needed that.’

The girl ignored him, but the guy on the stool next to her uttered a loud belch and got to his feet before stumbling away. Luke hooked his hip over the stool he’d vacated. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked mildly, and the girl at last turned to give him an old-fashioned look.

‘It’s a free country,’ she said. And, as if regretting her earlier attitude, she added, ‘Thank goodness, he’s gone.’

Then, with a change of heart, ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

‘I think so.’ Luke grinned, and to his surprise the girl grinned back. ‘Are you sure you won’t have another drink?’

‘Well, maybe a white wine,’ she said, pushing the cocktail glass aside, and Luke noticed she was wearing a ring on her left hand. But on her middle finger. ‘Liz got me this, but it’s not really my thing.’

‘Liz being?’

‘Oh, the bride-to-be.’ The girl frowned. ‘That’s her over there wearing the rabbit ears and the tutu over her pants.’

Luke grimaced. ‘How could I miss her?’ Then when the bartender reappeared, he ordered a glass of chardonnay. ‘I’m Luke Morelli, by the way. What’s your name?’

‘A—Annabel,’ she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, and Luke suspected she had been going to say something else. The wine was delivered and she took a sip from the glass, her eyes lighting with pleasure. ‘Hmm, this is nice.’

Luke thought so, too, only he wasn’t talking about his beer. It was months since he’d felt such an immediate attraction to a girl. The women he met in the course of his work were as interested in a man’s bank balance as what he had in his pants.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘Do you work in London?’

‘I do research. At the university,’ she said. ‘How about you?’ She studied his lean, muscular frame, his dark navy suit and his matching shirt.

He’d removed his tie, as a gesture to informality, but that was all. ‘Do you work for the Stock Exchange? You look as if you do.’

‘I—work for the local authority,’ said Luke, defending himself with the knowledge that their latest commission was building a new set of offices for the district council. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Oh, you don’t.’ She smiled. ‘I’m quite relieved. So many people think the Exchange is hallowed ground.’

‘Not me,’ said Luke staunchly.

‘So what do you like to do when you’re not working?’ she asked, and for a while they discussed the merits of playing sports over attending the theatre. In actual fact, Luke liked both, but it was more fun to present an argument than to agree.

* * *

By the time the hen party had drunk enough, and exhausted themselves enough, to come and see what she was doing, Abby was almost disappointed.

She’d been enjoying herself for the first time in she didn’t know how long. She seldom went out these days, unless Harry needed a chauffeur, preferring to avoid the kind of places he chose to go.

She’d met Harry Laurence at a friend’s wedding, and when they’d first started going out together, Abby had felt she was the luckiest girl in the world. Harry had made her feel special, spoiling her with expensive gifts, taking care of her in a way that, being the only child of a single parent, she’d never experienced before.

But after their marriage things had changed. She’d realised that the character he’d adopted when other people—particularly her mother—were around was totally different from the man he really was.

She’d learned, almost from the start, not to question his whereabouts. She suspected he saw other women, but when she’d been foolish enough to challenge him on it, he’d flown into a rage.

She knew she should get a divorce. She used to tell herself that if he ever laid a hand on her, she would leave. But then, two years ago, when Abby was seriously thinking of filing for a divorce, her mother fell ill.

Annabel Lacey had developed a serious physical condition that required twenty-four-hour nursing. She needed the professional services of a comfortable nursing home, one which only Harry with his stock-market salary could provide.

And Abby had known then that, until her mother was well again, her life was on hold...

‘We’re leaving,’ Liz Phillips said now, bringing Abby back to the present. She looked admiringly at Abby’s companion. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Um—this is Luke,’ murmured Abby awkwardly, as he got politely up from his stool.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Luke said, smiling in Liz’s direction.

‘Likewise.’ Liz gave him a flirtatious look. ‘Well, we’re going on to the Blue Parrot. Do you two want to come along?’

‘Oh...’ Abby slipped down from her stool, too, smoothing the short skirt down over her hips as she did so. ‘I don’t think so. I might just call it a night, if you don’t mind?’

Liz’s eyes drifted irresistibly back to Luke. ‘I don’t blame you,’ she said as one of the other girls pushed to the front of the group. ‘He’s gorgeous!’

‘Liz!’ said Abby in embarrassment, but she wasn’t listening.

‘Hi. I’m Amanda,’ said the other girl eagerly. ‘No wonder Abs has been keeping you to herself.’

‘I haven’t—that is—’ Abby looked at Luke in some consternation. ‘We’ve only just met.’

‘What she means is, she didn’t know I was coming,’ Luke amended lightly. ‘But in the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll understand that I’ll be taking—Abs—home.’

‘Oh, sure. Lucky Abs,’ remarked a third girl with a knowing grin. ‘But if you ever need a shoulder to cry on.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ he said, ignoring Abby’s expression, and, after a few more embarrassing quips, the half-dozen or so members of the hen party departed.

After they’d gone, Abby glanced anxiously about her. ‘Why did you let them think we were together?’ she demanded, bending to pick up her handbag, which she’d wedged beside the stool when she sat down. ‘We hardly know one another.’

‘That can be remedied,’ he replied, helping her extract the strap of her bag from the footrest. His hand brushed hers as he did so, and Abby felt an electric shock of awareness shoot up her arm. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s the least I can do.’

‘How do you know I don’t have a car?’ she countered, knowing she should refuse his offer, and he arched a lazy brow.

‘Do you?’

‘No.’

‘So why are we arguing? I promise I’m not a thief or a pervert.’

‘And I’m expected to take your word for that?’

Abby looked up into his lean dark face. Liz was right, she thought. He was gorgeous. Tall, with a lean yet muscular body, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with curiously tawny eyes that were presently assessing her with a certain amount of amusement as well as interest.

‘You could ask my friend over there,’ he said, indicating the man he’d bought a drink for.

‘And he’s going to disagree, isn’t he?’ said Abby drily.

Then, with a fatalistic shrug, she said, ‘Okay. I’ll get my coat.’

‘Give me the ticket and I’ll get it for you,’ said Luke. And Abby, who had been seriously considering slipping out the back way, expelled a resigned breath.

CHAPTER ONE

ABBY TOOK THE last batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven, inhaling their delicious fragrance as she set the tray on the counter nearby.

She unloaded the muffins onto a cooling tray and checked that the coffee machine had been filled that morning. The scones she’d baked earlier were just waiting to be transferred into a basket.

She still had to fill the small pots with jam, but the creamers could wait until she had her first customer of the day.

She also had cupcakes to bake, but they were mixed and ready. She had only to separate them into their cases before popping them in the oven.

She wondered when she’d developed such a love of baking. Not while she was married to Harry; that was for sure.

In those days, she’d spent all her free time working, saving for the day when she could support both her mother and herself.

Unfortunately that day had never come.

She sighed.

Nevertheless, she felt a pleasant sense of satisfaction as she looked about her. The small café, with the bookshop she’d introduced, was everything she’d hoped it would be. Her mother would have loved it, she thought wistfully. But she’d died of motor neurone disease just two years after entering the nursing home.

Abby had discovered the small café, which had previously been run by two sisters, now retired, when she’d been trawling the Internet. Until then the idea of moving out of London had only been a pipe dream. But the café in Ashford-St-James had been available for rent, and it had seemed an inspiration. When she’d learned it also had living accommodation, Abby hadn’t hesitated before applying for the tenancy.

Then, when her divorce from Harry had been made final, she’d bought herself a bottle of Pinot Noir and had a private celebration. Before packing up the bedsit, where she’d been living since she’d left Harry, and moving herself and Harley, her mother’s golden retriever, to this small Wiltshire town.

She supposed she must have always dreamed about running her own café. And the owner, an elderly man called Mr Gifford, had had no objections to her desire to modernise the interior to suit her needs. She’d used what little money she’d saved to give the place a makeover. It looked much different now from the rather dingy tearoom she’d first encountered.

To begin with, she’d bought the cakes and pastries she served with the coffee from the wholesalers. But then, one day she’d tried her hand at making muffins, and the results had been so good, she’d never looked back.

But she’d also discovered that the café on its own didn’t generate a huge income. Which might have been why the sisters who’d run it before her had had to give it up. Although it had a steady clientele, they didn’t get a lot of tourists in Ashford-St-James.

Which was why she’d had the idea of adding a bookshop. There were a lot of older people living in the area, who found visiting the bookshops in Bath just too much trouble. How much easier it was to come out for a coffee and browse the bookshelves when you’d finished. Abby was sure that many of the single men who used the café wouldn’t have done so without the added attraction of choosing a bestseller.

And in the last four years, she’d made a good life for herself here, she thought contentedly. She was happier than she’d been since before her marriage. She and Harley suited one another.

Okay, her friends in London thought she was a fool to settle in a backwater like Ashford. But after working every hour God sent when she was employed in the English department at the university, Abby appreciated being her own boss. She was able to set her own schedule, with no one looking over her shoulder and checking her work.

Leaving the huge Italian coffee machine, which had been her biggest and most successful outlay, bubbling away behind her, Abby walked through to the small bookshop.

A young mother who lived in the town, and wanted employment to fit in with her six-year-old’s needs, worked with her. But Lori didn’t turn up until nine o’clock, after delivering her daughter to the local primary school.

At present, everywhere was quiet, and Abby wandered happily amongst the shelves, restoring books that had been misplaced, and generally admiring the result.

Her peaceful reverie was broken by someone hammering on the outer door. Glancing at her watch, Abby saw that it was barely seven o’clock and she didn’t open the café until half past.

It had to be an emergency, she thought, though what kind of an emergency she couldn’t imagine. Unless Harley had somehow got out of the flat upstairs and had been found roaming the streets of the small country town.

That would be an emergency!

* * *

Luke Morelli stepped out of his current girlfriend’s basement apartment, and climbed the steps to the street above.

It was cool in Grosvenor Mews, but he breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told the young woman he’d been seeing for the past couple of weeks that he had meetings planned for this morning. And, as a consequence, he wouldn’t be able to drive her to the photo shoot in Bournemouth as she’d hoped.

Besides, their association was getting too serious. Luke seldom, if ever, continued a relationship beyond a couple of weeks. Occasionally, when he indulged in a little introspection, he put it down to the fact that his mother had walked out on his father when he was just a boy. Oliver Morelli had been shattered at this betrayal, and Luke had determined then never to suffer the same fate.

And he’d never been tempted. Except on one less-than-memorable occasion.

He strode out of the Mews now and along the Embankment. It was a beautiful morning; spring was definitely in the air. It was surprisingly warm, even at this early hour, and he decided to walk for a while before heading to his office.

The headquarters of the Morelli Corporation were in Canary Wharf, a far cry from the pokey premises in Covent Garden where he and Ray Carpenter had started the company. Of course, Ray was long gone these days. He’d decided to take his share of the business and move to Australia. He appeared to be doing pretty well, Luke had thought, when he’d visited him last year. But as Ray had said, not without a certain degree of good-natured envy, he was no longer in Luke’s league.

Jacob’s Tower, where the Morelli offices were situated, occupied a prominent position in Bank Street. There were several other companies leasing property in the building, with a branch of a well-known string of luxury hotels occupying the first three floors.

Luke’s office was on the penthouse floor, with an adjoining apartment that he used on occasion. But he also owned a house in Belgravia, an elegant Georgian property, that he’d invested in before the price of houses in London had hit the roof.

Luke attended the weekly board meeting and then informed his secretary that he was leaving for the rest of the day. ‘I’m going to drive down to Wiltshire, to take another look at those properties in Ashford-St-James,’ he told her, gathering the necessary files from his desk. ‘And I promised my father I’d call in on him. I haven’t seen him since we met in the solicitor’s office when Gifford died.’

‘Very well, Mr Morelli.’ Angelica Ryan, an efficient middle-aged woman in her fifties, who had been with him for the past ten years, nodded in agreement. ‘Will you be back tomorrow?’

‘I expect so.’ Luke pulled a wry face. ‘I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’

* * *

Responding to the uncompromising summons, Abby left the area devoted to the bookshop, and hurried across the café to the door. It was a reinforced glass door, although recently, on the advice of the local police constable, Abby had had an iron grill installed inside. But she could still see who her visitor was, and her heart sank at the sight of Greg Hughes.

Greg Hughes owned the photography studio next door. Abby assumed it had once been a thriving business, but these days, with amateur photographers and cameras in mobile phones, she wondered how he made a living.

To her regret, she didn’t like Greg. She’d tried to when she’d first moved into the café, but he’d instantly struck her as a smarmy character, always wanting to know all her personal details.

Harley didn’t like him either. The retriever, always such a placid animal, usually growled when Greg came onto the premises. Harley wasn’t permitted to have the run of the food area, of course, but just occasionally he managed to hide away behind the shelves of books.

‘Greg?’ Abby said now, the inquiry evident in her voice. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Damn right something’s wrong,’ declared her visitor irritably. ‘Haven’t you read your mail today?’

Abby frowned. ‘The mail hasn’t arrived yet,’ she said, feeling obliged to invite him inside. His breath smelt strongly of garlic and it wasn’t pleasant this early in the morning.

‘Well, did you read yesterday’s mail, then?’ demanded Greg, his chubby frame fairly quivering with indignation. ‘As you probably noticed, I was away at a craft fair yesterday, and I didn’t bother checking my post until this morning.’

Abby sighed. She refrained from telling him that she hadn’t noticed that his shop was closed. He got so few clients, it was difficult to tell when he was open and when he was not.

Besides, in all honesty, she rarely bothered reading through the pile of bills and circulars that came through her door on a daily basis. She saved them for when she was feeling confident that this month she’d make a profit.

‘I’m afraid I must have forgotten,’ she said, unable to imagine what might have got him so steamed. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Oh, thanks.’

Taking her at her word, Greg appropriated one of the tables in the window, leaving Abby to bring his coffee to him.