The Forbidden Mistress Read online

  ‘Want some company?’ she asked, edging the neckline of her sweater off one plump shoulder.

  Tom grinned. He always liked it when women showed they were attracted to him. ‘We wouldn’t get much work done if I did,’ he responded slyly, and Grace kept her eyes firmly focussed on the computer screen in front of her.

  As if sensing her withdrawal, Tom said, ‘Everything okay, Grace?’ and she was forced to assure him that it was. ‘Think any more about lunch?’ he continued, and she gritted her teeth. Just the sort of comment Gina wanted to hear.

  ‘Not really,’ she said now, looking up. ‘Why don’t you take Gina instead?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ He managed to sound suitably regretful as he apologised to the disappointed teenager, though the look he cast in Grace’s direction wasn’t friendly. ‘Grace is the financial genius around here, Gina,’ he said. ‘I need her expertise. Believe me, you’d be bored out of your skull.’

  Gina looked as if boredom would have been the last thing on her agenda and she gave Grace a sulky glare. It probably meant she wasn’t going to get much work out of her later, thought Grace irritably. Why couldn’t Tom keep his big mouth shut?

  ‘I’ll speak to you later, Grace,’ he announced, and she resigned herself to the fact that she would have to go with him now. If she didn’t, Gina would be offended, and she didn’t want to undermine Tom’s authority.

  At coffee time, when Gina went over to the florists’ workroom to gossip with the girls who were preparing the displays, Grace slipped out and drove back to the house. She borrowed Tom’s car to speed things up as she’d walked to work as usual.

  Parking outside the detached cottage Tom had bought when he and Sophie got together, Grace grabbed her bag and hurried inside. If she was quick, she could be back before anyone missed her.

  But what to wear? Surveying her limited wardrobe, Grace was undecided. She seemed to have a predominance of jeans and tee shirts and sweaters, with not much between them and a couple of skimpy dresses more suitable for the evening. Most of her clothes were still at her parents’ home in London. She hadn’t expected to need power suits for this job.

  She eventually plumped for a V-necked black sweater and narrow-legged khaki trousers that flared slightly at the ankle. Teamed with a pair of heeled boots, they would look reasonably smart. Smart enough for The Crown, anyway, she decided, stripping off her tee shirt and jeans and regarding her hips critically. Why did she always think her bottom was bigger than anyone else’s?

  Did she have time for a shower? She glanced at her watch and assured herself that she did. She could leave what little make-up she wore until later. She’d pop her eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara into her bag.

  She was drying herself after her shower when she thought she heard something. Or someone, she reflected nervously, wrapping the towel sarong-wise under her arms. Despite the fact that Tayford was a fairly safe place, Grace had spent enough time in New York and London to feel an immediate sense of anxiety. Had she locked the door when she came in? She suspected she hadn’t. But, dammit, surely a thief would see the car and realise that someone was at home.

  Opening the bathroom door, she stepped out into her bedroom. Her clothes were still laid out on the bed where she’d left them, together with a clean set of underwear she’d taken out of the drawer. She wanted to put on her bra and panties, but she was loath to shed the towel. She felt absurdly vulnerable without clothes and she was considering dressing in the comparative safety of the bathroom when she heard footsteps on the landing.

  Immediately, her heart leapt into her throat. There was somebody else in the house. But who? Could it possibly be Mrs Reynolds, Tom’s housekeeper? she wondered hopefully. She didn’t usually come in on Fridays, but perhaps Tom had asked her to. He didn’t discuss his cleaning arrangements with her.

  There was only one way to find out and, deciding that clothes were unlikely to deter a confirmed attacker, she opened her bedroom door a crack. And caught her breath weakly. Tom was outside, on the landing, gazing at her with obvious satisfaction.

  ‘So you are here,’ he said, smiling, and she knew at once that this was no coincidental encounter. He must have returned to the office and discovered that both she and his car were missing. It would have needed no great leap of intelligence to guess where she’d gone.

  Anger overcame her previous apprehension. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, and he was left in no doubt she resented his intrusion.

  ‘This is my house,’ he said mildly, his smile slipping into a sickly sort of cajolery. ‘Come on, Grace. Don’t be like that. I’m entitled to come home if I want to.’

  Grace’s lips tightened. He had a point. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘But I got a shock when I heard someone else in the house.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Did you forget something?’

  ‘I thought I might take a shower, too,’ he said, and Grace’s feelings of frustration stirred anew.

  ‘You had a shower this morning,’ she reminded him, and Tom shrugged.

  ‘Now I need another,’ he said. ‘It’s dusty at the site. You know that. I don’t want to turn up at the pub smelling of cement.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Okay.’ She withdrew back into her own room. ‘I’ll see you back at the office.’

  ‘Or we could drive back together,’ he suggested as she was closing her door. But Grace chose not to answer him.

  It took her exactly four minutes to get dressed. It wasn’t until she’d snapped the fastener on her trousers that she felt able to breathe easily again. It was ridiculous, she knew. She slept in the house, for God’s sake, and Tom had never intruded on her privacy in the past. Perhaps he did feel grubby after visiting the site. There was a lot of brick dust flying around.

  Her hair took slightly longer. She hadn’t washed it, but she did brush it out and plait it again. Then, content that she looked as neat as possible, she put her make-up in her bag and left the room.

  She was hurrying down the stairs when the doorbell rang. Now what? she wondered grimly. She wanted to get back to the garden centre before Tom reappeared. Wrenching open the door, she prepared to give whatever salesman was on the threshold short shrift, and then felt a hollowing in her stomach at the sight of the man who was standing outside.

  Why Oliver Ferreira should have this effect on her, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he’d shown any particular interest in her. After all, as soon as his ex-wife had appeared, he’d forgotten all about her.

  Yet, just the sight of his lean dark face and muscled body and she was struggling to control feelings she hardly recognised. A navy blue shirt under a dark blue suit complemented his brooding sensuality, and she knew the craziest need to reach out and touch him, as if she couldn’t quite believe that he was real. But he was real enough, she knew, as dark eyes shaded by sinfully long lashes appraised her in a way that made her nerves tingle. Oh, God, she thought, feeling her skin moisten in response, he was even more attractive than she remembered.

  ‘Grace,’ he said, in obvious surprise, and although she was flattered that he remembered her name, the frown drawing his dark brows together was hardly encouraging. And, instantly, she knew what he was thinking. Thank goodness he hadn’t arrived any sooner and found her only half dressed.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. She sounded breathless, she thought unhappily. She hoped he wouldn’t attribute that to his sudden appearance. ‘Um—have you come from the garden centre?’

  ‘I was looking for Tom, actually,’ he said, without really answering her. Then his eyes moved past her to the stairs behind her.

  ‘And you’ve found him,’ declared Tom, and she glanced almost disbelievingly over her shoulder. Tom was coming down the stairs, clad only in a towel. ‘Come in, Oliver,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did Bill tell you we were here?’

  Grace perched on a stool at the bar sipping her iced tea through a straw. Tom and Oliver were standing nearby, each holding a glass. Tom’s lager, Oliver’s Diet Coke. Oliver had hardly touched
his, she noticed. He’d only agreed to have it to be polite, she was sure.

  For her part, Grace would have loved to order a Bacardi and Coke, just to lift her spirits. The day had been going downhill ever since she’d made that crack about Tom bringing Gina to the pub. Now she was here at The Crown, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow her. Oliver had hardly spoken a word to her since Tom’s embarrassing entrance. And who could blame him? The implications of that ‘we’ and the fact that she and Tom had been at the house in the middle of the day were too gruesome to contemplate.

  She hunched her shoulders, feeling humiliated. She’d had no conception that Oliver might come to the house looking for his brother. Or that Tom would appear, half naked, giving weight to any suspicions Oliver might have. He probably hadn’t known she was still sharing Tom’s house. Though that was one little titbit Sophie would have loved to share.

  Perhaps she had, Grace reflected gloomily. Perhaps she was only kidding herself that Oliver had seemed taken aback when she’d answered the door. And on top of everything else, why should he care? She was sure he hadn’t been lonely for female company since Sophie walked out.

  She tried to tune into what Oliver and Tom were talking about. It seemed they were discussing the weather, ludicrous as that was. She wondered when Tom was going to get round to the real point of this meeting. If she were Oliver she wouldn’t buy Tom’s air of bonhomie for a minute.

  ‘Your table’s ready, Mr Ferreira.’

  The waitress from the pub’s dining room appeared just as Grace was considering making an excuse and leaving, and Tom nodded his thanks before emptying his glass. Oliver, meanwhile, put his untouched Coke on the bar and held out his hand to help her down from the bar stool. For a moment, his cool fingers gripped her arm and her eyes darted to his. But he wasn’t looking at her and he clearly felt none of the heat that spread along her veins at his touch.

  The dining room wasn’t busy. It was early yet, barely half past twelve, but it had been obvious from the start that Oliver had wanted to get this meeting over and done with. Grace guessed that was why he’d come to the house when Tom wasn’t at the garden centre. Perhaps he’d hoped to avoid a formal gathering at somewhere public like The Crown.

  Whatever, Tom had been having none of it and he’d insisted Oliver come back to the centre and see for himself how successful it was. Consequently, Oliver had driven Tom back in his car, while Grace had taken the Volvo, as before.

  But for the remainder of the morning the situation had not been ideal. Oliver had renewed his acquaintance with the members of staff who’d been there since his father’s tenure, and Tom had done his best to behave as if he weren’t facing financial ruin. Grace, meanwhile, had tried to concentrate on the web site she was designing. The idea was to expand Ferreira’s mail-order business by advertising online.

  They were seated at a table in the window. Menus were produced and Grace regarded the choice of entrées with a heavy heart. She wasn’t hungry. Indeed, if she was honest she felt physically revolted at the thought of food. She couldn’t bear to look at Tom’s deceitful face and not remember the deliberate way he’d tried to mislead his brother.

  ‘What are you having?’ To her annoyance, Tom leaned towards her and examined the menu over her shoulder. ‘The steak and kidney pie is good,’ he said. ‘I can recommend it. Or the rack of lamb. It’s locally produced, you know.’

  Grace managed to control the urge to put some space between them and gave a shrug. ‘I just want a salad,’ she said. ‘I’m used to just having a sandwich at lunchtime.’

  ‘All the more reason to splash out today,’ declared Tom, clearly not getting the message. ‘Go on. The business can afford it.’ He paused, and then added significantly, ‘Or it could if Oliver’s wife wasn’t trying to bankrupt me.’

  Grace cast an agonised look in Oliver’s direction. But although she’d expected him to say something, even if it was only that Sophie was his ex-wife, he continued to study the menu without commenting.

  ‘I think I’ll have a burger,’ he said at last, and now his dark gaze did meet Grace’s briefly. But there was no liking there, no warmth at all. Just a dismissive contempt that chilled her to the bone.

  ‘Oh, but, hey, is nobody going to have a starter?’ Tom protested. ‘This is supposed to be a social occasion. You’re both behaving as if we’re eating at the local fast-food joint.’

  ‘Perhaps we should be,’ remarked Oliver, speaking at last, though clearly not saying what his brother wanted to hear. ‘If, as you’re implying, you’re on the verge of bankruptcy—’

  ‘The business isn’t on the verge of bankruptcy,’ Tom snapped angrily. ‘And you know it. If you’d just look at the books—’

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to have?’

  The waitress who had shown them to the table was now standing beside them, her notepad raised expectantly, and both men were forced to abandon their discussion in favour of choosing what they wanted to eat. Grace picked a ham salad and Oliver did as he’d said he was going to do and ordered a burger. It meant that Tom had to choose something similar in deference to his guests.

  ‘Would you like anything to drink?’

  The waitress clearly handled the drinks order, too, and Tom looked reflectively at Oliver and Grace. Then, with an impatient exclamation, he said, ‘Just a bottle of sparkling mineral water, Stacey, thanks.’ His lips twisted sardonically. ‘Must keep a clear head for business.’

  The waitress left and Grace assumed an intense interest in her place-mat. She really didn’t want to be here, she thought, wondering why she’d ever agreed to come. Somehow, appeasing Tom had lost its imperative. She didn’t even know why he wanted her here. Not when his brother obviously resented her company.

  ‘Have you heard when Mum and Dad are coming home?’ asked Oliver into the awkward silence that had fallen, and Tom gave him a brooding look.

  ‘Dad can’t bail me out, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he said shortly. ‘We’re not all money magnets like you. He’s had a few dodgy investments lately. You know what the share market’s been like. Last I heard, he was thinking of selling the villa in San Luis and buying a condo in one of those holiday complexes instead.’

  Grace saw Oliver’s brows draw together. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Why not? Lots of people do it. Especially people who’re getting on like Mum and Dad.’

  Oliver’s jaw tightened. ‘Dad would hate living in a condo, and you know it. Half his pleasure in owning the villa is the land it stands on. He’s a gardener, Tom, not a beach bum!’

  Tom shrugged. ‘That’s not my problem.’

  Oliver stared at him. ‘He’s your father!’

  ‘And you’re my brother, and a lot of good that’s done me.’

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying this is my fault?’

  At last Tom had the decency to hang his head, but his words were grudging. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘Not exactly. But you should have warned me about Sophie. Goddammit, you must have known what she was like.’

  Grace didn’t know where to look. It was bad enough being present at what was, essentially, a family meeting. It was much worse having to listen to Tom discuss his brother’s personal affairs in public.

  Whatever he thought, however he felt, Oliver had been married to Sophie for six years. And judging by the way he’d behaved the day before, he still cared about her.

  Oliver was regarding his brother almost humorously now, a look of mild amazement on his face. ‘So I was supposed to warn the man who’d been screwing my wife that she wasn’t to be trusted,’ he remarked thoughtfully. ‘Have you forgotten where she got the money to invest in the business, or did you think I sold my house because I couldn’t bear the unhappy associations it held?’

  Tom flushed then, his fair features looking older suddenly. ‘You could afford it,’ he muttered, glowering at the waitress who had arrived with the bottled water. ‘I can’t.’

  Oliver w
aited until the woman had filled everyone’s glass and left again before responding. ‘I couldn’t afford it,’ he told Tom forcefully. ‘She took half of everything I had. Why do you think I live in a loft apartment? It taught me never to trust a woman again.’

  Tom gave a scornful sniff and Grace, who had hoped that would be an end of it, closed her eyes. She dreaded to think what Oliver must be thinking at that moment. If Tom had intended to pay her back for what she’d said earlier, he had certainly succeeded.

  ‘We all know that’s no ordinary apartment,’ Tom persisted, and she stifled an inward groan. ‘I wish I could afford to live on Myer’s Wharf.’

  Oliver’s expression hardened. ‘Where I live isn’t relevant,’ he said as the waitress returned with their burgers and salad. ‘I’m sure Grace is fed up with listening to us arguing.’ He looked down at his plate with apparent enthusiasm. ‘Mmm, this looks good.’

  Grace flashed him a grateful smile, but she wasn’t sure he noticed, or that he particularly cared what she thought. Still, she desperately hoped the food would keep Tom’s mouth occupied long enough for her to eat a little of her salad. Perhaps she could excuse herself before they offered coffee. She could always get a taxi back to the garden centre.

  But she should have known better, she reflected. ‘So you’re determined not to help me out,’ Tom demanded, his jaw set in a belligerent scowl. He pointed a stubby finger at his brother. ‘I just hope you can sleep nights when the business goes to the wall.’

  ‘Hold it right there.’ Oliver had apparently had enough, and although the glance he cast in Grace’s direction was impatient, he didn’t hesitate before going on. ‘You chose the life you have now, so get over it. It’s not my fault if it’s kicked you in the b—teeth!’

  Tom grunted then and pushed his plate aside, almost knocking his water over as he did so. ‘I’m going to the loo,’ he announced loudly and Grace guessed that everyone in the room must have heard what he said. ‘You speak to him, Gracie. Try and get it through his thick head that I’m not the bastard he thinks I am.’