The Boss's Forbidden Secretary. Lee WilkinsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
generous to a fault…’
‘How well do you know him?’ Cathy asked.
‘He stayed here in the autumn when his car broke down. Charlie and he got talking and discovered they had some mutual friends. He promised to call in and see us next time he was passing.’
‘Do you know exactly where he lives?’
Looking somewhat surprised at the question, Mrs Low answered vaguely, ‘The name of his house just escapes me, but it’s on the edge of the Cairngorms, a few miles from Luing, I believe…
‘Oh, excuse me, I think I hear the phone ringing. In case I’m not around when you leave, I’ll say goodbye now. Have a safe journey…’ She hurried away and a moment later the ringing stopped.
As soon as Cathy had drunk her coffee, she went along to her room and packed her night things and toilet bag, before taking the ring she would need to wear from her handbag.
It was her mother’s wedding ring—Neil had taken Cathy’s when he’d left, along with everything else he could lay his hands on. Because of the distinctive engraving it had been amongst the pitifully few belongings that had been returned to Cathy and Carl after the plane crash.
Slipping the wide gold band chased with lover’s knots onto the third finger of her left hand, she discovered it was quite loose. Which meant she must be careful not to lose it before she could find some way to make it a better fit.
With a sigh, and one last look around the room that held such happy memories, she pulled on her coat and hurried out to the four-wheel drive.
Though the damp air felt chill, the snow had melted and slid off the roof and windscreen, and a watery sun was trying to shine. She stowed away her bag, climbed into the car and started the engine.
The drive was still slushy, and the car slid a little on the humpback bridge, but as soon as Cathy reached the main entrance she found the road was clear in either direction.
It proved, in many ways, to be an enjoyable journey. She was making reasonably good time and the scenery en route was picturesque.
Towards lunchtime she looked for somewhere to have a sandwich and a hot drink, but, unable to find anywhere suitable, she pressed on.
Then just north of Blair Brechan she took the wrong road, and it was late afternoon when, with fresh snow falling, she neared her destination.
Luing turned out to be a tiny hamlet with a backdrop of wonderful scenery. It was made up of a hill farm, five whitewashed cottages and an old grey kirk huddled together at the junction where three narrow roads converged.
The rotting remains of what had obviously once been a signpost lay forlornly on its side, one arm in the air and partially covered by snow.
Uncertain which road to take, Cathy was hesitating when a man wearing a heavy mac and a deerstalker appeared with a spaniel at his heels.
Rolling down the window, she called, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Beinn Mor.’
‘You’ll be wanting the road straight ahead, lassie, and it’s a mile or so farther on.’
She thanked him gratefully and set off on the final lap of her journey.
On her left the road—little more than a lane—was edged with pine trees, and soon on her right an old stone wall came into view and began to meander alongside the road.
After about a mile and a half she came to a pair of massive stone gateposts topped with snarling lions that seemed to forbid entrance. In contrast, the black wrought-iron gates were drawn back, open wide in welcome.
Alongside the entrance a dark green board with gold writing announced that she had reached Dunbar Estate and the Beinn Mor Hotel and Ski Lodge.
Snow was falling softly, gently drifting down as if it were in no particular hurry, as she drove up the winding drive. It was starting to get dark, and the long, low building that came into view was a blaze of lights.
Though she had been warned that the Scots celebrated New Year more than Christmas, it was a lovely Christmassy scene that met her eyes.
Yule tide lanterns on long poles had been placed at intervals, swags of greenery adorned the porch, and a tall, beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in a massive pot to one side of the entrance.
When she drew up on the forecourt, the heavy oak door opened and Carl—who had obviously been watching for her—appeared, a tall, slim woman with blonde hair by his side.
As Cathy got out into the cold, crisp air that smelt of frost, he hurried over.
For the first time since Katie had left him he looked excited and happy, and, despite the difficulties she knew lay ahead, Cathy rejoiced at the sight of him.
‘Darling, it’s great to see you.’ He gave her a hug and, his lips close to her ear, whispered, ‘Everything’s going wonderfully well. I hope you remembered the ring?’
‘Yes, I’m wearing it,’ she whispered back.
Giving her another grateful hug, he said in his normal voice, ‘Come and meet Mrs Bowan… I’ll do the unpacking later.’
An arm around her, he escorted her to where the blonde woman waited beneath the shelter of the porch.
At close quarters Cathy could see that, though she wasn’t strictly speaking beautiful, she was very attractive, with good features, light blue eyes and naturally blonde hair. She was also much younger than Cathy had expected.
Carl introduced the two of them. ‘Darling, I’d like you to meet Mrs Bowan… Margaret, this is my wife, Cathy.’
‘It’s very nice to meet you…Cathy.’ Then, with an apologetic smile, Margaret added, ‘I’m so sorry, but I’d got it into my head that your name was Katie.’
So, at some time, no doubt during his first interview and before the break-up, Carl must have mentioned that his future wife was called Katie.
Feeling horribly guilty that she was deceiving this nice, friendly-looking woman, Cathy murmured, ‘How do you do, Mrs Bowan?’
‘Oh, call me Margaret, please. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Now, come on in out of the cold and we’ll have a nice cup of tea before Carl takes you over to your flat.’
Pushing open the door, on which a holly wreath entwined with scarlet ribbons hung, she ushered them into a warm, nicely decorated lobby-cum-lounge.
Two soft leather couches, several armchairs and a couple of low tables were grouped in front of the blazing fire.
On the left at the far end was a semicircular bar with a scattering of high stools, and on the right a polished reception desk.
Behind the desk, going through a sheaf of papers, was a pretty young woman with dark curly hair.
‘This is Janet Muir,’ Margaret said. ‘She helps to run the place. I don’t know what I’d do without her… Janet, this is Cathy, Carl’s wife…’
Once again Cathy cringed inwardly, but, murmuring an acknowledgement to the friendly greeting, she returned Janet’s smile.
‘Have you time to join us for a cup of tea?’ Margaret asked the other woman.
Janet shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d better finish what I’m doing.’
Opening a door to the right that said ‘Private’, Margaret led the way into a small but cosy room where a teatray had been set on a low table in front of the hearth.
‘This is our sitting room, and through there is our bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen. As you can guess, it’s a bit cramped.
‘My brother, who owns the Dunbar Estate, would be only too happy for us to live in the main house, but when the lodge and the log cabins are full, as they are at the moment, we feel that we need to be here on the spot, just in case