His Convenient Marriage. Sara CravenЧитать онлайн книгу.
she possessed had formed into a sullen lump in the bottom of its little jar. Jenny had some make-up, she knew, purchased from her scanty and infrequent earnings delivering leaflets round the village, but, under the circumstances, a request for a loan would go down like a lead balloon, so she just used powder and her own dusky coral lipstick.
As a final touch, she unearthed her precious bottle of ‘L’Air du Temps’ from the back of her dressing-table drawer, and applied it to her throat and wrists. When it was gone, there would be no more, she thought, re-stoppering the bottle with care.
The salary she was paid was a good one, but there was little money left over for luxuries like scent.
Jenny had won a scholarship to the school in the neighbouring town where she was a day girl, so Chessie had no actual fees to find. But there was so much else. The only acceptable sports gear and trainers had to come with designer labels, and the school had a strict uniform code too, which had been a nightmare while Jenny was growing so rapidly.
But her sister was going to have exactly the same as all the other girls. She’d been determined about that from the first. No ridicule or snide remarks from her peers for Jenny.
But no one said it was easy, she thought, grimacing, as she picked up her all-purpose jacket and bag.
She paused to take a long critical look at herself in the mirror.
Did she really look the kind of girl a best-selling novelist would ask out? The answer to that was an unequivocal ‘no’, and she found herself wondering why he hadn’t sought more congenial company.
Because, no matter what cruel comments Jenny might make, there was no doubt that Miles Hunter was an attractive and dynamic man, in spite of the scar on his face. And she wondered why it had taken her so long to realise this.
But then, she’d hardly regarded him in the light of a human being, she thought wryly. He was the man she worked for, and his initial rejection of her compassion had barred any personal rapport between them. He’d become a figurehead, she thought. A dark god who had to be constantly placated if she and Jenny were to survive.
She found herself thinking about the girl he’d told her about—the fiancée who’d ditched him because of his scars. Was he still embittered about this? Still carrying a torch for the woman who’d let him down when he’d most needed her support?
Could this be why, apart from the fan mail, which she dealt with herself, there were no phone calls or letters from women—apart from his sister, and his agent, who was in her late forties?
And could it also be why there was no love interest in his books—not the slightest leavening of romance?
He was a terrific writer, and the tension in his stories never slackened. Each book went straight into the bestseller lists after publication, yet if Chessie was honest she found his work oddly bleak, and even sterile.
But that’s just my opinion, she told herself ruefully as she let herself out through the side door. The thriller-reading public who snapped him up had no such reservations.
Besides, she didn’t know for sure that Miles had no women in his life. He was away a great deal in London, and other places. He could well be having a whole series of affairs without her being aware of it. Maybe he just liked to keep his personal life private—and away from the village.
He was waiting by the car. He was wearing beautifully cut casual trousers, which moulded his long legs, and a high-necked sweater in black cashmere. A sports jacket was slung across one shoulder.
He was staring at the ground, looking preoccupied and slightly cross, failing to notice her soft-footed approach.
He didn’t seem to be looking forward to a pleasant evening, thought Chessie, wondering if he was regretting his impulsive invitation. If so, she was sure she would soon know, she told herself philosophically.
She found herself hoping that Jenny hadn’t eaten the entire chicken casserole, because she might well be joining her.
She said, ‘Good evening,’ her voice shy and rather formal.
He looked up instantly, his eyes narrowing as if, for a moment, he had forgotten who she was. Then he nodded abruptly.
‘Punctual as always,’ he commented, opening the passenger door for her.
Well, what did he expect? Chessie wondered defensively as she struggled with her seat belt. She was hardly going to hang about coyly in the house, keeping him waiting.
As he joined her she caught a hint of his cologne, slightly musky and obviously expensive.
‘I thought we’d try The White Hart,’ Miles said as he started the engine. ‘I hear the food’s good there, if you don’t mind the village pub.’
‘Not at all.’ Neither Chessie’s clothes nor her confidence were up to a smart restaurant. ‘Mrs Fewston’s a marvellous cook. Before she and her husband took over the Hart, she used to cater for private dinner parties. In fact, I think she still does, sometimes.’
‘I shall have to bear that in mind. It’s time I did some entertaining.’ He sent her a swift, sideways glance. ‘Well, don’t look so astonished. I can’t go on accepting hospitality without returning it.’
‘Er—no.’ Chessie rallied. ‘And Silvertrees is a great house for parties.’
‘It’s also a family house,’ he said laconically. ‘As my sister never fails to remind me.’ He paused. ‘I think that’s a hint that I should invite her and her blasted kids to stay.’
‘Don’t you like children?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve never had much to do with them. Actually, Steffie’s are great, although she calls them the monsters,’ he added drily.
If it hadn’t been for that land-mine, he might have been married with a family of his own by now, Chessie thought. She tried to imagine it, and failed.
But that was so unfair, she reproached herself. She was behaving just like Jenny. Because she’d never known the man he’d once been. The man who’d enjoyed everything life had to offer—who’d played sport, and laughed, and made love.
And the chances were she’d never have encountered him anyway.
Miles Hunter, the award-winning journalist and hard-hitting television reporter, would have been based in London. He wouldn’t have been interested in a large, inconvenient house on the edge of a sleepy village. He’d have been where it was all happening—where he could pack a bag, and be off whenever a story broke.
He would probably never have contemplated becoming a novelist until circumstances had forced him to rethink his life completely.
Yet, here they both were. And together …
The White Hart was a pleasant timbered building, sited near the crossroads outside the village. A former coaching inn, it was always busy. Jim Fewston was as knowledgeable about wine as his wife was about cooking, and that kept the people coming. Tonight was no exception, and the car park was almost full when they arrived.
‘Just as well I booked a table,’ Miles commented as he slotted the car with expertise into one of the few available spaces. ‘Although it would seem that not everyone’s here for the food,’ he added drily.
She followed his glance, and saw movement in a car parked on its own under the shelter of some trees. Glimpsed shadowy figures passionately entwined, and hurriedly looked away.
‘What an odd place to choose.’ She tried to match his tone.
‘Not if you’re having an illicit affair.’ Miles shrugged. ‘Presumably any corner will do.’
In the bar, Chessie drank an excellent dry sherry, and Miles a gin and tonic as they studied their menu cards.
Many of the people already there were local and known to her, and she’d been greeted cordially when she’d arrived, although a few of the greetings had