Mistress On Loan. Sara CravenЧитать онлайн книгу.
dial it rang, making her jump and swear under her breath.
She said crisply, ‘A to Z Design. Good morning.’
‘Is that Miss Lander?’ It was the boss of the building firm she was using. ‘It’s Gordon Arnold here.’
She gave a sigh of relief. ‘I was just about to call you, Gordon. No one’s turned up yet. Is there some reason?’
‘You could say that.’ His voice was slow and deliberate. ‘We’ve had a bit of a problem.’
Not another vehicle breakdown, Adrien thought with a faint irritation. Gordon should get himself a van that worked.
She said briskly, ‘Well, try to get it sorted quickly. There’s still plenty to do here.’
‘That’s it, you see, Miss Lander.’ He sounded odd, embarrassed. ‘We did the work, and you paid us for it, same as always. Except this time the bank sent the cheques back.’
Adrien was very still for a moment. This was a room that caught the early sun, yet she felt suddenly deathly cold.
Rallying herself, she said, ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘That’s exactly what I said.’ He sounded almost eager. ‘A mistake. So I got on to the bank, but they wouldn’t talk to me. Said I had to refer to you.’
Adrien groaned. ‘I’ll get on to them myself,’ she said. ‘It’ll probably be a computer error,’ she added confidently.
‘Dare say it will,’ he said. ‘Generally is. I’ll leave it with you, then, Miss Lander. Only, we can’t really do any more work until we know we’re going to be paid, and there’s other jobs waiting.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll have it put right by this afternoon, Gordon. Cheers.’
But she didn’t feel very cheery as she switched off the phone and put it back on her belt.
Something had gone badly wrong, she thought, as she went to her room to retrieve her bag and, because she was still feeling cold, a jacket.
It was a mistake. It had to be. Yet somehow she kept getting an image of that dark, silent figure standing unmoving in front of the house, like some symbol of ill omen.
Don’t be silly, Adie, she reproved herself, using the childish version of her name she’d coined when she was small. Just go to the bank and get it sorted.
It was a simple enough system that she and Piers had devised. He’d opened an account at a local bank, with a chequebook in her name, and each month she sent him an itemised account of her spending and he deposited sufficient funds to cover it.
‘You’re too trusting,’ she’d told him.
‘I love you,’ he’d returned. ‘Love can’t trust too much.’
For the past four months the system had worked like a charm. But this time, when some of the heaviest bills had to be paid, a hiccup had developed.
I suppose it had to happen eventually, Adrien thought, as she set her Jeep in motion. Nothing’s perfect, especially when it’s automated. But why did it have to be this month?
The bank was busy, but as Adrien waited at the enquiry desk she had the curious feeling that people were watching her. That a couple of the cashiers had exchanged glances as she walked in.
They probably realise they’ve screwed up in a big way and are wondering how to apologise, she decided, with an inward shrug.
The enquiry clerk looked nonplussed when she saw her. ‘Oh—Miss Lander. The manager has been trying to contact you at home, but we only got your answer-machine.’
‘That’s right.’ Adrien’s brows lifted in slight hauteur. My God, she thought, she sounds almost accusing. ‘I’m staying at the Grange so that I can oversee the final stages.’ If it’s any business of yours.
‘Oh—that explains it. Will you take a seat for a few moments? Mr Davidson needs to talk to you urgently.’
Adrien was glad to sit down, because her legs were trembling suddenly and her stomach was quaking.
Because those were not phrases that indicated grovelling on the bank’s part. On the contrary…
She wished that she’d taken the trouble to change, to put on a skirt and blouse, or even a dress, some heels, and some make-up. Because she had the oddest feeling she was going to need all the help she could get. She was also aware that in her present gear she looked about sixteen.
‘Miss Lander?’ Mr Davidson was standing beside her. ‘Come into the interview room, won’t you?’ His smile was pallid and his gaze slid away. A very different reaction from his enthusiasm when the account was being set up.
She wished, not for the first time, that Piers had used her own bank, where she was a known and valued customer.
While he closed the door, Adrien took the chair he indicated. ‘Mr Davidson, I understand you’ve returned some of my cheques.’
‘I’ve had no choice, Miss Lander. There are no funds to meet them.’
Her throat tightened, and her heart began to pound. She heard herself say with unbelievable calmness, ‘Then payment must have been delayed for some reason. Perhaps you could give me a little leeway here, while I contact my fiancé.’
‘I’m afraid not, Miss Lander. You see, we’ve been notified that no further deposits will be made. Did Mr Mendoza not warn you of his intentions?’
‘No more deposits?’ Her lips felt numb. ‘But that’s impossible.’
‘I fear not.’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘I have some other bad news which I must pass on to you. I have just learned that Mr Mendoza is no longer the owner of Wildhurst Grange. That he has sold it to a property development company.’
There was a strange buzzing in Adrien’s ears. The room seemed to be swimming round her.
She said hoarsely, ‘No—it’s not true. It can’t be. He—he wouldn’t do that. Not without telling me—discussing it…’
‘I’m afraid it is perfectly true. I have the head of the company in my office now, and…Miss Lander—where are you going?’
The metal handle slipped in her damp grip, but she wrenched the door open and ran out.
The door to the manager’s office had been left slightly ajar. She pushed it wide and went in, knowing what she was going to see. Fearing it…
A man was standing by the window. He was tall, and dressed in beautifully cut black Italian trousers and a matching rollneck sweater in fine wool. The long overcoat had been discarded, and was lying across a chair. His dark blond hair, expertly layered, reached the collar of his sweater. His face was lean, with a beak of a nose and strongly marked mouth and chin. The eyes that met hers across the room were as grey as a northern sea, and about as warm.
And at the edge of one cheekbone there was a small triangular scar.
Adrien recognised that scar, because she’d put it there. She’d been just nine years old, and she had been cold, hungry, and hysterical. Because he’d deliberately left her on a flimsy platform in a tall tree for hours. To punish her. To make her think that she’d be left there for ever. That she’d die there.
So she’d picked up a stone, and flung it at him. He’d gasped and thrown back his head, but it had hit him, and she had seen a small trickle of blood on his face and been glad, because she’d hated him. She’d wanted to hurt him.
He’d looked at her then with those cold grey eyes just as he was looking at her now. With contempt and a kind of icy arrogance. And without pity.
She’d been frightened then, and she was frightened now. Too scared to speak or to run. Although she was no longer a child. Or an eighteen-year-old whose birthday had