The Forbidden Innocent. Sharon Kendrick
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to get as many different kinds of work experience as possible. Because if the truth were known she wouldn’t really have opted for a post which took her away from all her friends, to a deserted part of a bleak, northern moorland in the middle of January.
‘I need the money,’ she said starkly.
He raised his eyebrows by a fraction—because most people hid this kind of truth behind a casual lie or exaggeration. ‘Why?’
Ashley shrugged, wondering whether it was the directness of his question or that searching onyx stare which made her want to tell him. Or was it simply the realisation that here was not a man who could be fobbed off with flimsy excuses? Would he be shocked by the truth? ‘I’m in debt.’
‘Oh, dear.’ There was a pause. ‘By much?’
She supposed it wouldn’t be much to him. ‘Enough.’
‘I see.’ Thoughtfully, he sipped at his coffee. ‘So what caused it—was it extravagance, or necessity?’
This time, Ashley chose her words carefully—because what would someone like Jack Marchant know about the realities of her life and trying to manage a budget when money was tight? When an unexpected bill could send your bank balance plummeting and then other expenses showered in on top to add to the mounting pressure. That was the trouble with debt—somehow you never quite caught up with yourself. It happened to other people her age but most of them had parents they could turn to if they were desperate. Someone who might be able to help them out with a short-term loan. But she’d never had anybody to run to.
‘Necessity,’ she said. ‘Too many bills arrived all at the same time—and then a couple of unexpected ones only added to the burden.’
‘I see,’ said Jack.
‘I mean, it wasn’t shoes or a designer coat,’ she added quickly. ‘I didn’t have an urge to go off on an exotic foreign holiday, or anything like that.’
‘No. I can’t imagine that it was,’ he concurred, because somehow he couldn’t imagine her having expensive tastes or lusting after fine clothes. Not judging by what she wore—rather plain and ordinary clothes, which nonetheless did little to hide the fact that there was a very nubile body beneath them. He wondered what it must be like to have to count and account for every penny as he acknowledged how difficult it must be for someone like Ashley Jones to survive. And unexpectedly, he felt a sudden pang of compassion. ‘Well, you should be able to save most of your salary here,’ he said gruffly. ‘Since there’s not really a lot to spend it on in the middle of the moors.’
‘No, I guess there isn’t,’ she said quietly, his attitude surprising her—making her think that perhaps he wasn’t all he seemed. He might be a powerful and wealthy landowner who’d never had to worry about bills, but he wasn’t being judgemental about her situation. In fact, he had sounded really quite kind, she realised, with a small glow of pleasure.
‘Anyway,’ he said hastily as he became aware that he’d made her blush and that her cheeks were flaring rose-pink. It was a long time since he had made a woman blush and the last time it had happened had been in very different circumstances. Feeling another unwanted jerk of desire, he felt a stab of irritation. What he did not need was for her to start coming over all girly. For her face to start colouring every time he spoke to her, drawing attention to the fact that she was young and firm and that, despite the relative plainness of her face, he had seen her lips tremble. And didn’t nature make young women’s lips tremble to make you wonder what it must be like to kiss them? ‘Help yourself to breakfast,’ he said hurriedly. ‘And by the time you’ve eaten, we’ll be ready to start work. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ she agreed, her eyes following him as he walked out of the kitchen.
She nibbled at some toast and marmalade and when she’d finished she stacked the dishwasher and stopped to freshen up on her way to Jack’s office. Usually, Ashley didn’t have a trace of vanity in her nature, but this morning something made her linger for a moment by the mirror in the cloakroom. As if she wanted to see herself as he had seen her—but not wanting to wonder why.
The unremarkable oval of her face was reflected back at her as she pushed her hair back behind her ears. It was easy to be critical of her looks—as so many people had been over the years—and the foster mothers who had been looking for a doll-like accessory had been the worst. Little girls were supposed to be cute and pretty, but Ashley had never been that. Her skin was too pale and her mouth much too wide for her face. Yes, she’d been blessed with thick hair, but she realised that the neat, restrained style she wore for work gave her a rather stern
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