Wicked Caprice. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
just put your point of view across and see what she says.’
‘You won’t put her out of the shop?’
Patrick gasped. ‘Put her out of the shop?’ he echoed. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Well, Shannon Holdings do own the leases on all those shops, don’t they?’ Jillian pointed out silkily. ‘If she wasn’t one of your tenants, Rich would have no excuse to go and see her.’
Patrick’s jaw sagged. ‘And you think that would stop him?’
Jillian gulped defensively. ‘It might.’
‘Forget it,’ said Patrick harshly. ‘Just leave it with me. As I say, I’ll see what I can do.’
With the phone safely returned to its hook, Patrick turned angrily towards the handbasin. Groping for his razor, he avoided meeting his eyes as he applied lather and scraped savagely at his beard. For God’s sake, he thought frustratedly, Jillian was sometimes more trouble than all his overseas operations put together. Or, perhaps more accurately, Richard was. He wondered what she’d say if he suggested getting rid of his brother-in-law instead.
He knew he couldn’t do it, of course. For all his faults, Richard was still family, and because, soon after he and Jillian had got married, he’d lost his position with a Japanese company due to their relocation to Taiwan Patrick had offered him the job.
It had been either that or suffer Jillian’s recriminations. She had been pregnant with their first child at the time, and any idea of moving to the Far East had been out of the question so far as she was concerned. She’d wanted to stay in England; she’d wanted to keep her home and be near her family. It would have been a hard man indeed who could have withstood her pleas.
And, although Patrick was regarded in some quarters as a hard man, he had accommodated her. Since their father had died some years ago, he’d been regarded as the head of the family, and it was a responsibility he hadn’t accepted lightly. Outside Shannon Holdings, it was the only responsibility he was prepared to shoulder. His ex-wife’s greedy machinations had convinced him of that.
He cut his chin with the razor, the blood welling crimson over his jaw. Dammit he swore angrily, swabbing it with a towel and scowling at the stain on the pure white cotton, why couldn’t Jillian solve her own problems? He had no desire to go back to Horsham, no desire to see Isobel Herriot again.
As luck would have it, he had a free morning. He hadn’t been expected to arrive back from the conference in Switzerland until today, and although his managing director would expect to see him at this afternoon’s meeting he had more than enough time to drive to Warwickshire and back again. All he had to do was pick up the phone and call Joe. In a little under an hour, he could be on his way.
Mrs Joyce had breakfast waiting for him, but apart from two cups of coffee and a slice of toast he barely touched it.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Mrs Joyce fussily, knowing that he usually enjoyed her blueberry pancakes, and Patrick gave her an apologetic smile.
‘I’m afraid I’m not hungry this morning, Mrs Joyce,’ he said, folding his copy of the Financial Times and getting up from the table. ‘Offer them to Joe when he gets here. I know he won’t turn you down.’
‘And have him suffering from indigestion all morning because he’s had to hurry them?’ Mrs Joyce rejoined tartly. ‘If he’s coming to pick you up, you know you’ll be waiting. And Mr Muzambe is nothing if not conscientious.’
‘Aren’t you all?’ murmured Patrick in an undertone, striking his thigh with the rolled-up newspaper as he walked out of the morning room. He didn’t have time to massage Mrs Joyce’s feelings. Right now he was fighting Jillian’s battles, and he still had a business to run.
A couple of hours later, as they approached the turn-off for Banbury and Stratford, Patrick put away the papers he had been working on since they’d left London and applied his mind to the interview ahead. He grimaced. Not that it hadn’t been on his mind ever since he’d spoken to Jillian, he admitted to himself irritably. His efforts to work on the journey were proof of that. He had read the last balance sheet at least half a dozen times.
‘How much further?’ he asked, more for something to say than anything else, and Joe Muzambe looked into the rear-view mirror and fixed him with a thoughtful look.
‘Ten—twelve miles, maybe,’ he answered, transferring his attention back to the road. ‘Is this another fleeting visit, or will you be having lunch with the lady?’
Patrick scowled. ‘How do you know it’s a lady I’m going to see?’
‘I heard,’ replied Joe impassively, slowing for a roundabout. ‘Mrs Gregory isn’t always fussy about keeping her voice down.’
‘No.’ Patrick conceded the point, aware that whatever was said between them would go no further. ‘Let’s hope I have some success this time. I don’t want to make this journey again. I’ve got to go to the States on Monday, and I’m not going to have any more time.’
Joe bowed his bullet-shaped head. In common with a lot of young men of his age, he wore his head shaved, and that, combined with his broad shoulders and powerful physique, was enough to deter any would-be kidnapper. Patrick had had his share of threats, like any man in his position, and Joe served as both chauffeur and bodyguard—and confidant, on occasion.
‘Does that mean you won’t be having lunch in Horsham?’ Joe ventured, accelerating past a pair of cyclists, and Patrick gave him an impatient look.
‘Yes, it does,’ he said shortly, aware that Joe was bearing the brunt of his ill humour. ‘Dammit, this isn’t a social call.’
Joe shrugged, too used to his employer’s moods to be put out. Besides, normally Patrick Shannon was an excellent employer, and it was only when his sister got on his back that other people suffered.
Meanwhile, Patrick was brooding over what to do about the shell necklace. All right, he had bought the damn thing, but he had never intended to return to collect it. OK, Isobel Herriot hadn’t been what he had expected, and just for a few moments there she had briefly laid siege to his senses, but that was all it had been—a momentary aberration. The very idea of him and his brother-in-law sharing the same taste in women was ludicrous—apart from the very real emotions Jillian would feel if he told her he had been attracted to the woman too.
There wasn’t a space to park in the high street this morning, so Patrick had Joe drop him off near the craft shop, and arranged to meet him outside the shop in fifteen minutes.
‘In the car?’ asked Joe, pushing his luck, and Patrick’s eyes narrowed.
‘In the car,’ he agreed, stepping out onto the pavement. ‘If you can find somewhere to park, get yourself a cup of coffee, right?’
‘Right, boss,’ agreed Joe sardonically, and Patrick’s lips twitched at his attempt at humour. Bloody hell, he thought irritably, this was an impossible situation. He should have spoken to Richard first, not his mistress.
The trouble was that speaking to Richard was a little like trying to catch raindrops in your hands. Just when you thought you’d caught one, it slipped away through your fingers. Patrick had spoken to Richard before, and his brother-in-law had made promises he’d never had any intention of keeping. He knew that so long as Jillian wanted him Patrick didn’t stand a chance.
Caprice.
As he’d done on that other occasion, Patrick looked in the shop window before venturing inside. Apart from a child and its mother, who appeared to be talking to someone behind the counter, the shop was empty.
Oh, well, he thought, he didn’t have time to wait any longer. When Joe brought the car back, he intended to be waiting, whether his mission was accomplished or not.
A bell rang as he pushed open the door, and a handful of wind chimes rustled in the breeze. His entry attracted the attention of both the women by the