Wicked Caprice. Anne Mather
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he had to admit there was something about her. Despite the shapeless clothes, she did possess a sensuality that wasn’t immediately apparent.
‘Thanks.’
He took the necklace from her, and was surprised by the jolt of awareness he felt when her slim hand brushed his. Concentrating his attention on the necklace, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d felt it too, though when he permitted himself a quick glance through his lashes she appeared to be as cool and composed as before.
‘It’s the last one,’ she said, and for a moment he couldn’t for the hell of him think what she was talking about.
‘The last...?’
‘Yes, the last necklace,’ she clarified smoothly. ‘I think people have mostly bought them for children. As you can see, the string isn’t very long.’
‘Yes.’
Patrick felt curiously perplexed. He was used to being in control of most situations, but for a moment there he had felt at a distinct disadvantage. It was the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, he told himself, and of this young woman, who seemed to bear little resemblance to the promiscuous hussy his sister had described. She could be everything Jillian had accused her of being—God knew, appearances were often deceptive—but had Richard succumbed to her wiles, or had she succumbed to his?
‘Do you like it?’
Once again, her question aroused a most unsuitable response inside him, and he felt a faintly amused impatience with himself for allowing his instincts to govern his head. For God’s sake, the woman wasn’t even pretty, and in those clothes she wouldn’t attract a second glance. Yet, for some strange reason, he was aware of her, in a way he hadn’t been aware of a woman for years.
If ever..
‘It’s pretty,’ he said now, the word springing obviously to mind, and she nodded in agreement.
‘I think so,’ she agreed. ‘These fan-shaped shells are so delicate. I love that shade of pink. It would be impossible to produce it artificially.’
‘Mmm.’
Patrick was noncommittal, aware that by admiring the necklace he was making it doubly hard to reject it later. After all, he hadn’t come here to admire the merchandise; he was supposed to be finding out what she wanted from Richard. In Jillian’s opinion, she had to have a price. Richard’s women always did.
‘You don’t like it?’
His doubts, albeit of a different nature, had communicated themselves to her, and she tilted her head to look up at him. Immediately, he was aware of the purity of her profile, of the cheekbones that gave her face such a good basic structure, and the mouth, which had parted slightly in enquiry.
He wanted to taste that mouth, he realised in a horrifying revelation. He wanted to crush it, and shape it with his tongue, and suck the full lower lip into his mouth. He wanted to see if she tasted as good as she smelled, and if that delicate pink tongue, presently trapped between two rows of white teeth, was as moist and juicy as it appeared...
He drew a steadying breath. For God’s sake, he chided himself as his trousers felt uncomfortably tight all of a sudden. What the hell was the matter with him? He hadn’t realised he was so desperately in need of sex.
Assuming an interest in a colourful display of quilts, he succeeded in putting some space between them. ‘It’s not that,’ he said, realising he hadn’t answered her question. ‘I just don’t know if Susie...if she would like it.’
‘Susie?’ She’d latched onto the word, and he cursed himself for using his niece’s name so thoughtlessly. ‘A colleague of mine’s daughter is called Susie too. It’s a nice name, isn’t it? Is it short for Susannah?’
‘No.’ It was, but he wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Um... it’s just Susie, actually. Not an abbreviation. Her... parents chose it. Her grandmother’s name is the same.’
‘I see.’
He wondered if she did. He hoped not. Nevertheless, he had gone over the top with the explanations, and if he’d regretted using Susie’s name before he felt doubly impatient with himself now.
Something had to be done to divert the conversation, and, smoothing the fabric of one of the quilts between his thumb and forefinger, he cast what he hoped was a casual glance over his shoulder. ‘Is this what you call patchwork?’
‘That’s right.’ His enquiry had achieved what he least wanted; it had brought her after him, and he was intensely aware of her now, hovering at his elbow. ‘Actually, they’re made by an old lady who’s almost crippled with arthritis. But her needlework is exquisite, don’t you agree?’
As Patrick had no idea what was required to make one of the padded spreads, he merely nodded his approval, and moved on to a table piled with soft toys. At least here he could be more knowledgeable; the stuffed menagerie was obviously attractive, the prices mirroring the small-shop status, yet in no way diminishing the toys’ appeal.
‘They’re handmade too,’ she murmured as Patrick admired a pair of rabbits. ‘In fact, everything we sell is handcrafted. We provide an outlet for people who wouldn’t otherwise have anywhere to sell their goods.’
Jillian hadn’t told him that. But then, why would she? She wasn’t interested in the aims of the business, just in its proprietor... or was that proprietrix? Anyway, just because this young woman was doing her bit to help the independent producer it didn’t make the situation any more acceptable. She might be regarded as a saint by her suppliers and still live an execrable private life.
‘Has the shop been open long, Miss—Miss—?’ He stopped, as if he didn’t already know her name by rote.
‘Herriot,’ she inserted quickly. ‘Isobel Herriot. And I opened the shop almost five years ago.’ She paused. ‘Why?’
‘Just curious,’ he answered smoothly, a smile erasing any suspicion. ‘You’ve got quite a choice of items. I wondered how you managed to sustain your stock.’
‘Oh...’She shrugged her slim shoulders, and against his will his eyes were drawn to her chest. For such a slim young woman she had rather full breasts, and the way they moved beneath the gauze shirt she was wearing made him wonder if she wore a bra. ‘It was a struggle to begin with. But we’re getting there now, I think.’
So was he, thought Patrick irritably, wishing he had never agreed to come here. Dammit, the girl was screwing his brother-in-law, and he was acting as if that circumstance turned him on. It didn’t. He despised Richard and he despised her for putting his sister’s marriage in jeopardy. Not to mention risking their children’s happiness. Ten-year-old Susie and her brother Nigel, who was six, didn’t deserve to be treated as if their lives were of no account.
His eyes hardened. ‘Do you own the shop, Miss Herriot?’ he enquired, keeping his tone neutral, and she gave a rueful sigh.
‘In such a prime position?’ She grimaced. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. No, my new landlord is the colleague I was telling you about. The one who has a daughter called Susie—Susannah.’
‘Ah.’
Patrick acted as if he didn’t already know that Shannon Holdings had recently acquired the lease on the row of small businesses that fronted this side of the high street in Horsham-on-the-Water. Situated almost midway between Stratford-on-Avon and Stow-on-the-Wold, the little Cotswold village of Horsham attracted a lot of passing trade. But it was also true that many people came to Horsham for its own sake, visiting the old Norman church, and the monastery, where a delicious foaming mead had been made for more years than anyone could remember.
‘Of course,’ she went on, almost absently, ‘there’s going to be an increase in the rents. Old Mrs Foxworth, who used to own the Foxworth estate, let the tenants rent these properties for a pittance, so long as the buildings were kept in good repair. It was a kind of noblesse oblige, I suppose, and we’d all begun