The Forbidden Mistress. Anne Mather
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salad. Perhaps she could excuse herself before they offered coffee. She could always get a taxi back to the garden centre.
But she should have known better, she reflected. ‘So you’re determined not to help me out,’ Tom demanded, his jaw set in a belligerent scowl. He pointed a stubby finger at his brother. ‘I just hope you can sleep nights when the business goes to the wall.’
‘Hold it right there.’ Oliver had apparently had enough, and although the glance he cast in Grace’s direction was impatient, he didn’t hesitate before going on. ‘You chose the life you have now, so get over it. It’s not my fault if it’s kicked you in the b—teeth!’
Tom grunted then and pushed his plate aside, almost knocking his water over as he did so. ‘I’m going to the loo,’ he announced loudly and Grace guessed that everyone in the room must have heard what he said. ‘You speak to him, Gracie. Try and get it through his thick head that I’m not the bastard he thinks I am.’
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