Morelli's Mistress

Then, when he’d added cream and sugar to his liking, he said, ‘So you haven’t heard that old man Gifford has died and his son is selling this row of businesses to a developer.’

Abby’s jaw dropped. ‘No.’ She stared at him disbelievingly. ‘When did he die? Why weren’t we informed?’

‘Apparently, it was quite recently. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? I saw the old man in town about three months ago.’

Abby shook her head. ‘But can his son do this? I mean, I’ve got a lease.’

‘And when does your lease run out?’

‘Um—in about six months, I think. But I was hoping to extend it.’

‘As we all were,’ said Greg grimly. ‘But it’s not going to happen.’

Abby’s heart sank. ‘But this is my home as well as my business.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Greg took a generous mouthful of his coffee, smacking his lips with pleasure. ‘Hmm, that’s good.’

Abby couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘But what can we do?’

‘I haven’t given it a lot of thought yet,’ said Greg, swallowing more of his coffee. ‘We need to speak to the other shopkeepers first. I suppose we could contact Martin Gifford and ask him if he’d consider a raise in the rents instead.’

Abby frowned. ‘Do you think he might?’

‘No.’ Greg grimaced. ‘It’s about as likely as the developer withdrawing his offer.’

‘Like that’s going to happen.’ Abby looped her hands behind her neck, walking agitatedly about the room. ‘Developers don’t do that sort of thing.’

‘You said it.’

Greg finished his coffee and pushed his cup across the table towards her. But if he hoped she might offer him a refill, he was disappointed. Abby was already thinking she would have to conserve what few assets she had. She knew Mr Gifford’s son was unlikely to pay her for the improvements she’d made to the café when he intended on demolishing it.

Turning back to Greg, she said, ‘Do you know who the developers are?’

‘Why? Are you seriously thinking of appealing to their better nature?’

‘Of course not.’ Abby was impatient. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s not as if Ashford-St-James is a hive of industry.’

‘No, but it lacks a decent supermarket. According to the solicitor, whose letter I read this morning, the plan is to build a block of rental apartments above the retail area.’

Abby expelled a weary breath. ‘I wonder if they’ll offer us accommodation in the new apartments, at a reduced rate, of course.’

‘Well, I don’t need accommodation,’ said Greg a little smugly. ‘I bought my modest bungalow when property was cheap.’ He paused. ‘And you could always stay with me until you find yourself somewhere else to live, Abby. I doubt if you could afford the rents the Morelli company is likely to charge.’

Abby’s breath stalled. ‘Did you say—Morelli?’ she asked tensely.

‘Yes.’ Greg frowned. ‘Do you know them?’

‘I know—of them,’ admitted Abby, a feeling of nausea invading her stomach.

And with it came another thought. Dear God, did Luke Morelli know she was renting one of these properties? Was this an attempt on his part to take his revenge?

* * *

Abby lay awake, staring dully at the light from the street lamps outside filtering through the curtained windows. Harry was snoring peacefully beside her, having completed his masculine domination of her in the usual way.

All the same, his anger had been totally unexpected. He’d known where she was going; known who she was with. Yet he’d still managed to ruin her evening when she’d got home.

Her first indication of his mood had come as soon as she’d walked into the living room of the apartment.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he’d demanded, snagging the strap of the bag Abby had had slung over her shoulder. She’d staggered a little when he’d used it to haul her towards him.

‘You know where I’ve been,’ she’d said, refusing to let him see he’d shocked her. ‘It was Liz’s hen night. You said I should go.’

‘Only because I didn’t want your mother getting on my case again about me neglecting you,’ he’d retorted, pushing his face close to hers. ‘You stink of alcohol. How many drinks have you had?’

‘Just one,’ Abby had said defensively. She’d refused to count the cocktail, which she’d only tasted. ‘A glass of wine. Hardly in your league, am I?’

She’d barely avoided the hand Harry had raised towards her. ‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ he’d snarled, and she’d wondered how much longer she could live like this. ‘I asked you a civil question and I expect a civil answer. Or would you like Mummy to hear what an ungrateful girl you are?’

Abby had wrenched her bag away from him. Her mother was too ill to be upset by their troubles. When Abby had seen her the previous day, she’d been shocked by how frail she had become. And Harry knew that. That was why he always used her mother’s health as a lever to get his own way.

Whatever, there was no point in trying to reason with him in this mood. And, in all honesty, she had been feeling guilty. She shouldn’t have let Luke Morelli drive her home.

But for heaven’s sake, she’d done nothing wrong. And it had been so nice for once, just to talk to a man who seemed to enjoy her company; who didn’t treat her like his servant, or worse.

‘So where did you go?’

Abby had been heading for the door, but she should have known Harry wasn’t finished with her yet.

‘Just the Parker House,’ she’d replied, identifying the wine bar. ‘You knew where we were going. I told you before I left.’

‘So you didn’t go on anywhere else?’

‘Um—no.’ But Abby had hesitated, and that had been a mistake.

‘So you did go on somewhere else.’ Harry had been on her in an instant. ‘And you weren’t going to tell me. Why?’

Abby had prayed the heat she could feel in her bones wasn’t filling her cheeks. ‘I didn’t go anywhere else,’ she’d insisted wearily. ‘The others were going on to the Blue Parrot, but I didn’t want to go.’

‘Why not? Had you found someone more interesting at the Parker House?’ Harry’s eyes had bored into hers. ‘If you’ve been with another man—’

‘I haven’t.’ But Abby had felt herself trembling even so. ‘I was tired, that’s all. I wanted to come home.’

‘So how did you get home? I thought they’d hired a minibus.’

‘They did.’ Abby had swallowed. ‘I just—called a taxi.’

‘Good idea.’ Harry had grasped her wrist then, and pulled her into his arms. His own breath had smelt suspiciously sweet, his thick lips nuzzling her neck. ‘I’m tired, too, baby,’ he’d whispered, his hands roaming possessively over her breasts. ‘What say we both go to bed?’

* * *

Luke Morelli sat staring at his laptop computer, studying the webpage that listed all the London universities.

God, there were dozens of them, he saw frustratedly. And he had no idea what kind of research the girl he was looking for had been doing.

He scowled. It was almost a week since he and Ray had visited the wine bar where he’d met Annabel; almost a week since he’d driven her home. He didn’t know why, but he hadn’t been able to put her out of his mind, and it bugged the hell out of him that, although he’d given her his number, she hadn’t bothered to call.

All he knew for certain was that she worked at one of the universities. And that her name was Annabel, although that was open to question, too. The other girls had called her Abs, which was surely short for Abigail. Or Abby, if he wanted to confuse the situation even more.

There was always the chance that if he went back to the wine bar, he’d see her. But she hadn’t struck him as the kind of girl who frequented bars on a regular basis. He knew the building where he’d dropped her off, but there must have been about forty apartments in the block, and he didn’t have a clue as to her surname.

He sighed. He honestly didn’t know what it was about her that intrigued him. She was an attractive girl, yes, tall and slim, with silvery blonde hair that she wore straight to her shoulders. But he’d known a lot of beautiful women, so that wasn’t it.

She had been excessively slim, he mused, remembering how the bones of her shoulders had jutted through her vest when he’d helped her on with her jacket. Yet she hadn’t struck him as the kind of girl who was overly concerned about her looks.

Ray Carpenter came into the office at that moment, pausing to glance over Luke’s shoulder at the computer. ‘What’re you doing, man?’ he asked, peering at the screen.

‘Do you mind?’ Luke cast an impatient look up at his partner. ‘I’m checking something out, that’s all.’

‘Checking something out, or checking someone out?’ suggested Ray shrewdly. ‘You’re looking at a university website, right? Didn’t you tell me that girl you took home the other evening worked at a university?’

Luke’s jaw compressed. ‘What if I did?’

‘Well, I’d say you’re trying to get in touch with her. Where does she work?’

Luke’s scowl deepened. ‘I don’t know.’

Ray gave a snort. ‘But you know where she lives.’

‘I know the block of apartments, but I don’t know which one.’

‘So go look at the list of tenants. They always have lists of tenants in the lobbies of these places, you know that.’

‘Yeah.’

Luke cleared the webpage and closed the laptop. He had no desire to tell Ray that he didn’t even know the girl’s surname.

He’d been so eager not to offend her, he hadn’t even kissed her goodnight.

But he’d wanted to. That luscious mouth of hers had been an almost irresistible temptation. And she’d smelled so good, too; soft feminine scents that had lingered in his car long after he’d dropped her off. Dammit, he thought, he was smitten. And that was something that had never happened to him before.

Thankfully, Ray dropped the subject and their discussion turned to the projects they were currently working on. Ray had spent the day in Milton Keynes. He liked the hands-on approach of checking on the site managers, while Luke had had a meeting with a real-estate agent concerning a property they were interested in buying north of the city.

The Covent Garden office was no longer big enough to accommodate the business. Their team of architects and designers, accountants and sales personnel, and all the usual administrative staff who made up Morelli and Carpenter Development, needed room to expand. It was an intoxicating prospect and Luke was soon distracted by describing the run-down building he’d seen, which they could renovate to their own design.

But later that evening, leaving the office, he couldn’t prevent himself from turning towards Chelsea. It occurred to him, as he drove across Vauxhall Bridge, that the block of apartments where Annabel lived could be categorised as luxurious. Was she wealthier than he’d imagined? Was that why she hadn’t bothered giving him a call. Or did she simply share the apartment with one or two of the girls he’d met the other night?

Which might make finding her address even more difficult.

* * *

Abby was standing at the living-room window, watching the rain trickling down the panes. It was early evening, but it was already getting dark, the overhanging clouds drenching the neat box hedges that surrounded Chandler Court.

Harry had called to say he might be late, but Abby never took anything for granted. He’d been known to make such a statement before, and then turn up half an hour later.

He’d suggested she should have her supper, but the chicken casserole was still sitting, untouched, on a low heat in the oven. Abby wasn’t hungry. She was seldom hungry these days. She knew her mother worried that she was getting too thin, but food had become something of an anathema to her.

She’d intended to go and see her mother tonight, but the nurse had called earlier to say Mrs Lacey had had a bad day and was now resting. Which meant she’d been sedated, guessed Abby uneasily. There were few days now when her mother was strong enough to conduct a conversation for more than a couple of minutes.

She saw the car as soon as it turned into the grounds of the complex.

It was a distinctive vehicle, sleek and powerful like its owner. Its dark green bodywork was only visible because it had stopped beneath one of the floodlights that switched on as soon as a car entered the grounds.

How did she know it was Luke Morelli’s car? It was just a feeling she had, a sixth sense, that warned her this could mean trouble.

Pressing her fingers to her lips, Abby wondered what she should do. There was no need to panic, she told herself. He didn’t even know her name. But what if, after leaving her the other evening, he’d gone on to the Blue Parrot, and someone there—another member of the hen party, perhaps—had given him that information? It was a long shot, sure, and she was probably flattering herself that he’d been that interested. But could she take the risk?

No!

Glancing behind her, at the steel and chrome furnishings of the living room, Abby wondered if Luke would believe how much she hated living here. Would he understand why she had to stay, at the mercy of a man who didn’t love her, but who enjoyed controlling her? That she stayed to give her mother the treatment Abby couldn’t afford herself?

She doubted it. And right now, she needed to get rid of him.

She grabbed her jacket as she passed through the foyer, hauling out a pair of boots and shoving her feet inside. Then she cast a swift glance at her reflection. The black velvet lounging suit she was wearing wasn’t really warm enough to go outside on an October evening. Particularly when it was raining and she didn’t have an umbrella. But she didn’t have time to change.

The apartment was on the sixth floor, and she took the lift down, praying that Harry wouldn’t decide to call it a night and come home early. She could imagine his reaction if he caught her talking to a strange man in the lobby.

To her relief, there was no sign of Harry or Luke Morelli. Was she wrong? Were Luke’s reasons for being here nothing to do with her, after all? It might not even be Luke, she reminded herself optimistically. The car he drove was probably duplicated a dozen times throughout the metro area.

She decided she would just peek outside and see if the car had gone. It meant passing the desk of the doorman, but happily McPhelan was ensconced in the back room, watching the TV. Only visitors to the apartments apparently warranted a once-over from him.

Thank God!

CHAPTER TWO

LUKE HAD DECIDED to leave his visit to Ashford-St-James until the next morning.

When he’d arrived at Oliver Morelli’s home in Bath, he’d discovered that his father expected him to stay the night, and he hadn’t wanted to disappoint him.

Besides, his visit to the properties in South Road was intended to be anonymous. How much easier it would be to browse the small shops his agent had described to him in the morning, without arousing any protests from their occupants.

Luke himself had never been to Ashford-St-James before. He’d only learned of the possible opportunity for developing the site from his father.

Charles Gifford, the owner of the properties, had been an old golfing partner of Oliver Morelli’s. When he’d died, Gifford’s son had wasted no time in informing his father’s solicitor that as soon as probate was granted he was going to sell the row of shops in Ashford.

Prior knowledge had given Luke an advantage. And, although it was a small development compared to the work the Morelli Corporation undertook these days, Luke had sensed that Oliver Morelli wanted to feel he was contributing to his son’s success.

Which was why the five businesses in question had been given six months’ notice. It had also been Luke’s father’s suggestion that the tenants be given a decent interval of time to find themselves other accommodation.

Not that that was going to be easy, thought Luke, deciding to park his car in the centre of town and explore the place on foot. From what he’d heard, the shops in South Road were small concerns, more suited to the last century than this.

As far as he could see, the stores in High Road were upmarket clothes shops and jewellers. There were one or two phone outlets and a couple of coffee shops, but nothing along the lines of the businesses his father had described to him.

Conversely, there appeared to be few food shops. He could quite see why the local council were in favour of building a supermarket.

Nevertheless, it was an attractive place, the mellow stonework of a church with its bell tower providing a focal point. The church stood beside a park, where a small lake provided a home for a family of ducks. Although it was early in the season, there were flowers already blooming in the planters that edged the market square, and the trees in the park had most of their foliage.

It was all very old English and very civilised. The kind of place that was attracting newcomers from London. People who were eager to escape the rat race; who wanted a slower pace of living, without losing all the benefits of the city.

Luke left his car near the town centre and strolled along the main street to where South Road ran at right angles to the high street. His father had given him directions and it was easy to find the row of properties Luke had taken an option on.

According to the details Luke had been given, there was a gift shop, a shop that sold woollens, a photo studio, and a bridal outfitters. The fifth property was a café-cum-bookshop, which the solicitor had told him was probably the most successful, financially speaking.

Luke crossed the road at the lights and strolled past the first of the shops. This was the bridal shop, with an extravagant lace wedding dress occupying the central position in a window full of bridal gear.

The photo studio was next door, its window draped with a purple backdrop in front of which resided a single digital camera.

At least it was a digital camera, thought Luke, wondering if people still sat for formal portraits these days. Maybe the photographer made his living filming weddings or christenings. Perhaps he teamed up with the bridal outfitters, and they kept each other informed.

He grinned to himself, and moved on to the next business. This was the café, with the gift shop beyond. The gift shop appeared to have a window filled with an array of soft toys and knick-knacks that any serious shopper would call junk. But obviously some people liked it or the shop would have closed before now.

Luke wasn’t much interested in the woollen shop, so he paused outside the café-cum-bookshop.

He glanced at his watch. It was after ten. He supposed he could legitimately call in for a coffee. The place was called Harley’s, and there was an appetising array of scones and cakes visible on trays at the counter.

There was also a number of bistro tables and chairs, several of which were already occupied. Clearly, despite the chain coffee shops in the high street, some people preferred a more intimate café. Or perhaps it was the fact that it sold books that attracted them here.

The bell made a muted sound as he opened the door. Clearly it was in need of attention. But Luke quickly found an empty table and subsided onto a chair. The smell of cakes and pastries was appetising, and, picking up the menu, he used it as a shield as he surveyed the interior of the café.

It was tastefully decorated, one wall covered with a mural of muffins and cupcakes that fairly oozed with fruit and cream you could almost taste. A huge Italian coffee machine bubbled away in the background, giving the place a contemporary feel, and away to the right an archway led into the bookshop.

‘What can I get you?’

He’d been so intent on studying his surroundings, Luke hadn’t heard anyone’s approach. Putting the menu aside, he looked up at the young woman standing beside the table.

‘Um—an Americano, please,’ he was beginning, and then broke off in disbelief. ‘Abby!’ He got automatically to his feet. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

* * *

‘I own the business,’ Abby said, feeling amazingly calm.

She’d gone through the whole gamut of emotions in the last few weeks since she’d read the solicitor’s letter, but at no time had she ever imagined that Luke might come into the café.

Alone.

She moistened her lips. ‘I don’t have to ask you why you’re here, of course. I assume you’re evaluating your latest acquisition.’

Luke stared down at her. He hadn’t changed at all. Tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, he was just as attractive as ever. Dangerously so, she acknowledged, wishing she were able to put the past behind her.

As he had evidently done.

She’d changed a lot, she was sure. An aborted love affair and a bitter divorce could do that to you. Not to mention discovering that what little money she’d invested in the café was now lost.

‘You run this café?’ he asked, as if he hadn’t believed her the first time. ‘I assumed you were still working in London. I had no idea you’d moved out of town.’

‘Hadn’t you?’ Abby wondered if she believed him. If that were so, then the Morelli Corporation buying these shops was not the vindictive action on his part she’d thought it was.

‘Of course, I hadn’t,’ muttered Luke, as if aware of her scepticism. ‘I wouldn’t have thought your husband would give up his job so easily. The stock market, wasn’t it? Not much use for an investment broker around here.’

‘Harry and I are divorced,’ said Abby, aware that their prolonged conversation was attracting the attention of her other customers. ‘I’ll get your coffee.’

‘Wait.’ As she would have moved away, Luke’s low voice arrested her. ‘How long have you been divorced?’

‘I don’t think that’s anything to do with you,’ replied Abby, glad there was no tremor in her voice. ‘Is that all?’

Luke scowled. ‘Is this how you treat all your customers? Because if so—’

‘You’re not really a customer, Mr Morelli, are you? You’re on a fact-finding mission. And I can always refuse to serve you. I have that right.’

Luke blew out a breath. He glanced about him, as if recognising there was no privacy here. ‘Well, tell me a good place to eat and I’ll buy you dinner this evening instead.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr Morelli.’ Abby refused to allow any trace of the temptation his words offered to show. With some relief she saw that two of her other customers had moved towards the till. ‘I’ll get your coffee.’

Luke had no choice but to let her go, and Abby hurried across to the counter. She had a few words with her departing regulars, rang up their tab, and then set about preparing the Americano Luke had asked for.

Her hands were shaking a little, but the machine did most of the work. She set his cup on a tray, added a small jug of cream and a sugar bowl containing both real and artificial sweeteners, and then turned back to deliver his coffee.

But Luke had gone. The table where he’d been sitting before their exchange was empty.

Setting the tray on the counter, she couldn’t deny a sinking feeling in her stomach. Although she’d been shocked to see him, she’d never expected him to leave so precipitately.

So what? Did she want to see him again? After everything that had happened, was she fool enough to believe anything good could come of this encounter?

The day stretched endlessly ahead of her. It was an effort to think of anything but how unnerving it had been to see Luke again.

She’d thought about him many times, especially after her divorce was made final. But she’d known that, as far as he was concerned, she was still a liar and a cheat.

So why had he offered her dinner?

The café—and the bookshop—closed at four o’clock most days, and Abby wasn’t usually eager to return to her flat upstairs where Harley was waiting for her.

Today, however, she couldn’t wait to put on her coat, grab Harley’s leash, and escape from the building. Luke’s appearance had been a damning confirmation that his plans were going ahead.