Morelli's Mistress. Anne Mather
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to their own design.
But later that evening, leaving the office, he couldn’t prevent himself from turning towards Chelsea. It occurred to him, as he drove across Vauxhall Bridge, that the block of apartments where Annabel lived could be categorised as luxurious. Was she wealthier than he’d imagined? Was that why she hadn’t bothered giving him a call. Or did she simply share the apartment with one or two of the girls he’d met the other night?
Which might make finding her address even more difficult.
* * *
Abby was standing at the living-room window, watching the rain trickling down the panes. It was early evening, but it was already getting dark, the overhanging clouds drenching the neat box hedges that surrounded Chandler Court.
Harry had called to say he might be late, but Abby never took anything for granted. He’d been known to make such a statement before, and then turn up half an hour later.
He’d suggested she should have her supper, but the chicken casserole was still sitting, untouched, on a low heat in the oven. Abby wasn’t hungry. She was seldom hungry these days. She knew her mother worried that she was getting too thin, but food had become something of an anathema to her.
She’d intended to go and see her mother tonight, but the nurse had called earlier to say Mrs Lacey had had a bad day and was now resting. Which meant she’d been sedated, guessed Abby uneasily. There were few days now when her mother was strong enough to conduct a conversation for more than a couple of minutes.
She saw the car as soon as it turned into the grounds of the complex.
It was a distinctive vehicle, sleek and powerful like its owner. Its dark green bodywork was only visible because it had stopped beneath one of the floodlights that switched on as soon as a car entered the grounds.
How did she know it was Luke Morelli’s car? It was just a feeling she had, a sixth sense, that warned her this could mean trouble.
Pressing her fingers to her lips, Abby wondered what she should do. There was no need to panic, she told herself. He didn’t even know her name. But what if, after leaving her the other evening, he’d gone on to the Blue Parrot, and someone there—another member of the hen party, perhaps—had given him that information? It was a long shot, sure, and she was probably flattering herself that he’d been that interested. But could she take the risk?
No!
Glancing behind her, at the steel and chrome furnishings of the living room, Abby wondered if Luke would believe how much she hated living here. Would he understand why she had to stay, at the mercy of a man who didn’t love her, but who enjoyed controlling her? That she stayed to give her mother the treatment Abby couldn’t afford herself?
She doubted it. And right now, she needed to get rid of him.
She grabbed her jacket as she passed through the foyer, hauling out a pair of boots and shoving her feet inside. Then she cast a swift glance at her reflection. The black velvet lounging suit she was wearing wasn’t really warm enough to go outside on an October evening. Particularly when it was raining and she didn’t have an umbrella. But she didn’t have time to change.
The apartment was on the sixth floor, and she took the lift down, praying that Harry wouldn’t decide to call it a night and come home early. She could imagine his reaction if he caught her talking to a strange man in the lobby.
To her relief, there was no sign of Harry or Luke Morelli. Was she wrong? Were Luke’s reasons for being here nothing to do with her, after all? It might not even be Luke, she reminded herself optimistically. The car he drove was probably duplicated a dozen times throughout the metro area.
She decided she would just peek outside and see if the car had gone. It meant passing the desk of the doorman, but happily McPhelan was ensconced in the back room, watching the TV. Only visitors to the apartments apparently warranted a once-over from him.
Thank God!
LUKE HAD DECIDED to leave his visit to Ashford-St-James until the next morning.
When he’d arrived at Oliver Morelli’s home in Bath, he’d discovered that his father expected him to stay the night, and he hadn’t wanted to disappoint him.
Besides, his visit to the properties in South Road was intended to be anonymous. How much easier it would be to browse the small shops his agent had described to him in the morning, without arousing any protests from their occupants.
Luke himself had never been to Ashford-St-James before. He’d only learned of the possible opportunity for developing the site from his father.
Charles Gifford, the owner of the properties, had been an old golfing partner of Oliver Morelli’s. When he’d died, Gifford’s son had wasted no time in informing his father’s solicitor that as soon as probate was granted he was going to sell the row of shops in Ashford.
Prior knowledge had given Luke an advantage. And, although it was a small development compared to the work the Morelli Corporation undertook these days, Luke had sensed that Oliver Morelli wanted to feel he was contributing to his son’s success.
Which was why the five businesses in question had been given six months’ notice. It had also been Luke’s father’s suggestion that the tenants be given a decent interval of time to find themselves other accommodation.
Not that that was going to be easy, thought Luke, deciding to park his car in the centre of town and explore the place on foot. From what he’d heard, the shops in South Road were small concerns, more suited to the last century than this.
As far as he could see, the stores in High Road were upmarket clothes shops and jewellers. There were one or two phone outlets and a couple of coffee shops, but nothing along the lines of the businesses his father had described to him.
Conversely, there appeared to be few food shops. He could quite see why the local council were in favour of building a supermarket.
Nevertheless, it was an attractive place, the mellow stonework of a church with its bell tower providing a focal point. The church stood beside a park, where a small lake provided a home for a family of ducks. Although it was early in the season, there were flowers already blooming in the planters that edged the market square, and the trees in the park had most of their foliage.
It was all very old English and very civilised. The kind of place that was attracting newcomers from London. People who were eager to escape the rat race; who wanted a slower pace of living, without losing all the benefits of the city.
Luke left his car near the town centre and strolled along the main street to where South Road ran at right angles to the high street. His father had given him directions and it was easy to find the row of properties Luke had taken an option on.
According to the details Luke had been given, there was a gift shop, a shop that sold woollens, a photo studio, and a bridal outfitters. The fifth property was a café-cum-bookshop, which the solicitor had told him was probably the most successful, financially speaking.
Luke crossed the road at the lights and strolled past the first of the shops. This was the bridal shop, with an extravagant lace wedding dress occupying the central position in a window full of bridal gear.
The photo studio was next door, its window draped with a purple backdrop in front of which resided a single digital camera.
At least it was a digital camera, thought Luke, wondering if people still sat for formal portraits these days. Maybe the photographer made his living filming weddings or christenings. Perhaps he teamed up with the bridal outfitters, and they kept each other informed.
He grinned to himself, and moved on to the next business. This was the café, with the gift shop beyond. The gift shop appeared to have a window filled with an array of soft toys and knick-knacks that any serious shopper would call junk. But obviously some people liked