To Have A Husband. Carole Mortimer
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glanced up at his face beneath lowered lashes. It was a hard, indomitable face, with a touch of ruthlessness if it should prove necessary to his plans.
No, she decided, that lack of a ring did not, in this man’s case, mean that he was unmarried; he was just a man who would resist any show of ownership, even that of a wedding ring.
But while he obviously didn’t do physical labour with his hand, it was nevertheless a strong hand. The nails were kept deliberately short; if he was a musician he certainly wasn’t a guitar player. She remembered quite vividly from her youth having to keep the nails on one hand long so that she could pluck at the guitar strings!
Well, she had decided what he wasn’t—now all she had to try and work out was what he was!
Quite honestly, she didn’t have a clue. Wealthy, from the cut of his suit, and the silk material of his shirt. And, as she knew from his entrance, he was possessed of a mocking arrogance that spoke of a complete confidence in himself and his capabilities. Wealthy, then, she decided.
But that only made his presence at a small village fête all the more an enigma!
Or did it…?
Perhaps not, if her guess was correct.
She moved further over his hand, frowning down as if in deep thought. ‘I see a meeting,’ she murmured softly.
‘That tall, dark, beautiful stranger?’ he taunted mockingly.
She shook her head slowly. ‘This is with another man. Although he is a stranger to you,’ she continued, frowning. ‘This meeting will take place soon. Very soon,’ she added as she felt the sudden tension in the hand she held in hers.
‘And?’ he prompted harshly.
Yes—and? She had worked out by a process of elimination who this man might possibly be, and it seemed from his reaction to what she was saying that she was probably right, but what did she say to him now?
At this moment she felt, with the rain teeming down outside, as if only the two of them existed, that the rest of the world were a long, long way away. It was almost as if—
She blinked dazedly as the tent-flap was thrown back suddenly to admit the light—and a young lady who looked very like a drowned rat at this moment, with her red hair plastered over her face from the deluge of rain still falling outside.
She glared at the man sitting opposite ‘Gypsy Rosa’. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she muttered accusingly, pushing the wet hair from her face.
The man stood up, smoothly taking his hand back as he did so. ‘Well, now you’ve found me,’ he drawled unconcernedly, although his eyes—now identifiable as aqua-blue—were narrowed coldly.
The young woman nodded. ‘I’ve come to take you up to the house.’ She indicated the umbrella in her hand—something she obviously hadn’t taken the time to use on herself on her run over here! ‘If you’ve finished here, that is?’ she added with a derisive twist of her lips.
The man glanced back at ‘Gypsy Rosa’, those strange-coloured eyes gleaming with mocking humour. ‘Yes, I believe I’ve finished here,’ he said dismissively.
They’d barely begun, but as ‘Gypsy Rosa’ really had nothing else to tell him, perhaps it was as well this particular fortune-telling had been interrupted!
She stood up, holding out his pound coin. ‘I believe you’re a man who makes his own fortune,’ she murmured dryly.
He gave an acknowledging inclination of his head, although he made no effort to take back the money she offered him. ‘Keep it to put in the fête’s funds; I believe it goes to a good cause.’
A party for the village children, where great fun was had by all. But she was surprised he’d bothered to find that out…
‘Thank you.’ She dropped the money into the jar with all the other pound coins she’d collected through the afternoon.
He turned back to the young woman standing near the entrance. ‘Then I’m ready whenever you are,’ he prompted.
The young woman with the red hair nodded tersely, turning outside to put up the umbrella, her impatience barely contained as she waited for the man to precede her out of the tent.
Uh-oh, ‘Gypsy Rosa’ winced inwardly as she watched the pair hurry across the lawn through the rain to the house. From her sister Danie’s behaviour towards him just then he had already done something to upset her this afternoon, and Danie certainly wouldn’t have kept that rancour to herself!
Which boded ill for the meeting that was about to take place inside the house…!
Talking of which, it was time that Harriet went back to being herself, and for ‘Gypsy Rosa’ to retire…
CHAPTER ONE
QUINN’S fingers tapped restlessly on the arm of the chair he sat in. Quite frankly, he was tired of waiting for the arrival of his host for the afternoon, Jerome Summer. Justifiably so, in his book.
He’d been flown in by helicopter to the Summer estate earlier this afternoon. After landing on the smooth lawn that backed onto the impressive manor house, he’d been informed by the pilot that the man he had come here to meet, Jerome Summer, had been called away elsewhere, but would hopefully be back later on this afternoon.
It had been that ‘hopefully’ that had rankled him the most about that statement. Jerome—Rome—Summer was obviously a busy man, hence this Saturday afternoon appointment in the first place, but Quinn’s time was no less valuable, and hanging around at the country fête that was being held on the estate, for most of the afternoon, was not using that time effectively as far as he was concerned.
Besides, it was one of the most boring afternoons he had spent for a very long time!
Well…except for the fortune-teller; she might have proved interesting. But he’d hardly begun to talk to her before being interrupted—by the red-haired virago he was quickly learning to dislike!—with instructions that he was wanted up at the house—now.
Well, he had been up ‘at the house’ for fifteen minutes now, and Jerome Summer still hadn’t put in an appearance. Quinn should have realised that the tea tray waiting for him in the sitting-room was rather ominous!
He would wait for another five minutes, he decided coldly, and then he would ask to be flown back to London. Which wasn’t in any way going to help solve the problem he’d come here to talk over with Jerome Summer, but at the same time Quinn refused to be treated offhandedly.
‘Ah, my dear Mr McBride, so sorry to have kept you waiting!’ greeted a jovial male voice seconds after Quinn had heard the door open behind him.
The man who’d entered the sitting-room was recognisable on sight as his host, Jerome Summer. The man’s photograph as often as not adorned the pages of the newspaper Jerome owned, admittedly usually on the financial pages, about one successful business feat or another. He was tall, blond-haired, with a still boyishly handsome face despite his fifty-odd years—those photographs in no way portrayed the sheer power of the man, both physically and charismatically.
He smiled cheerfully as Quinn slowly stood up, holding out his hand in greeting. ‘Estate business, I’m afraid,’ Rome excused his tardiness dismissively. ‘With a place this size, it’s never-ending.’ He shrugged good-naturedly.
Quinn knew something of the other man; he never liked to meet adversaries without being at least partially briefed. Jerome Summer had bought this estate, comprising the house and extensive grounds, including a deer-park, and half the cottages in the village itself, some twenty years ago. A widower for some years, he now lived here with his three children.
But, as Quinn also knew, those facts only told half the story. Jerome Summer was a self-made man. As the youngest son of a country doctor, he’d built up a financial empire over the last thirty years