Alien Wife. Anne Mather
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upstairs. The panelling of the staircase was continued along the landing. There were several doors, and a half frosted glass one which Mrs Tully explained was the bathroom.
‘There’s a wash basin in your room, sir,’ she said, opening one of the bedroom doors and preceding him inside, ‘but I’m afraid we only have the one bath.’
Luke assured her that he didn’t mind, and after she had departed, he walked to the low windows which overlooked the loch. It was quite a view, and he turned back to face the room with resignation. It was reasonably large, but chilly after the warmth of his apartment, and although the bedroom suite was large and old-fashioned, the bed was a modern divan, and singularly ungenerous in its proportions.
He left his room and used the bathroom, amused at its antiquated fitments. The bath had claw feet, and the cistern made peculiar noises when one turned on the taps. Back in his room again, he washed his face and hands, ran a rueful finger over his roughening jawline, and then deciding that shaving could wait until later, he went downstairs.
He let himself out of the house, and stood for a moment, bracing himself against the cold evening air. Perhaps he should have put on his overcoat. The leather jacket was little protection against the mist that was now rising from the loch. Still, he wouldn’t stay out long, he decided briskly, and ran lightly down the steps.
As he did so, a figure straightened from the far side of the Lamborghini, and used to the ever-present menace of car thieves in London, Luke checked and turned about, reaching the youth before he could get away. ‘What do you think you—– Good God! Ella!’
The girl turned to face him and he saw at once he had made a mistake. This girl was tall but slimmer than Ella, and her long silky black hair had none of the chestnut lights he was used to. Her eyes were different, too—dark, instead of blue, her mouth wider and more generous. Besides, she was casually dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a red wool sweater, the kind of attire Ella would never dream of assuming. Nevertheless, there was more than a resemblance.
She frowned at his recognition, and said flatly: ‘My name is Abby Rodriguez. Should I know you?’
Luke stared at her helplessly, and then shook his head. ‘I’m—sorry. I thought you were someone else. You have a definite—look of someone I know. But I realise now, you’re younger than she is.’
And more attractive, he realised incredulously, his senses stirring. How Ella would dislike the knowledge that there was someone else with her particular brand of beauty, someone with youth and innocence on her side.
The girl’s face cleared. ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘You must be Mr Jordan. You—know my aunt.’
‘Your—aunt?’ Luke was confused.
‘Yes. Aunt Ella—Ella McKay.’
‘Ella McKay is your aunt?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you know she had a niece?’
‘I—why, no.’ Luke could not have been more astounded. Why hadn’t Ella ever mentioned the girl?
‘I was admiring your car,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘It’s beautiful! How fast can it go? Over a hundred?’
Luke endeavoured to grasp his thoughts. ‘Well over a hundred,’ he agreed dryly. ‘Do you drive, Miss Rodriguez?’
‘Call me Abby, everyone does. And yes, I can drive. Uncle Daniel taught me.’ Her expression was rueful. ‘You look as if you could do with a drink. I think Uncle Daniel has some fire-water, as well as the sherry he keeps for his parishioners. Shall we go inside?’
Luke was perplexed. ‘Daniel McGregor is your uncle?’
‘My adopted uncle,’ she amended quietly. ‘My parents are—dead. Uncle Daniel made himself responsible for me.’ She paused. ‘Aunt Ella didn’t tell you, did she?’ Luke shook his head, and she went on: ‘I’m not really surprised. A film star with a sex image doesn’t want a twenty-year-old niece hanging around, does she?’
Luke supported himself against the bonnet of the car. ‘I didn’t even know Ella had a sister.’
Abby shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Oh, well …’ She smiled again. ‘I must say, you’re not what I expected either. Uncle Daniel told me you were coming, but I expected someone old—forty-five or fifty, at least.’
‘Thank you.’ Luke half smiled. ‘I am nearing forty, and strange as it may seem to you, I don’t consider that old!’
She laughed, revealing even white teeth. ‘Well, you don’t look it,’ she conceded lightly. ‘Are you staying long?’
‘Two—maybe three days.’
‘Is that all? Uncle Daniel will be disappointed. He expected you to stay a week, at least.’
Luke straightened. ‘We’ll see.’
She put her foot on the bottom step. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘Actually, I was going to walk down to the loch,’ he replied, although that idea was not so attractive as it had been.
‘Shall I come with you?’ she suggested. ‘I can point out our famous landmarks.’
‘All right.’
Luke was willing, although he wondered that she didn’t feel the cold in her thin sweater. She walked easily beside him, matching her steps to his long strides, exchanging a smile of shared enjoyment.
‘Do you live in London, Mr Jordan?’ she asked, as they climbed over a low wooden fence and crunched across the shingle to the water’s edge.
Luke nodded. ‘Have you been there?’
Abby shook her head. ‘I’ve only been away from Ardnalui once, and that was on a holiday to Madrid. My grandparents used to live there, but they’re dead now, too.’
Luke was amazed. ‘So you’re half Spanish?’
‘Mmm.’ She laughed softly. ‘Not so like Aunt Ella after all.’
‘But how did your parents meet?’
‘My father was working in a hotel in Glasgow. He used to come up here for holidays.’
‘I see.’ But Luke was curious. She was very young to be an orphan. ‘Did your parents have an accident?’
A flicker of pain crossed her face and he realised how tactless he had been. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Don’t answer that. I had no right to ask. It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘That’s all right.’ She had herself in control again. ‘No, they didn’t die together, if that’s what you mean. My father—went away with another woman. It broke my mother’s heart. Later, when she learned he had died, she just didn’t want to go on living.’
From anyone else, the words might have sounded over-dramatic, but she spoke quietly, without emphasis, relating the events as they had happened.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘It must be very painful for you to talk about it.’
‘It used to be. But it’s five years since my mother died. I’ve got over the worst.’
‘And now you—live with Daniel McGregor?’
She nodded. ‘He’s been like a second father to me.’
Luke wondered how much of this Scott Anderson had known. He must have known Ella had a sister, of course, yet he had never mentioned it. Why? And even when he had arranged for Luke to stay at the presbytery, he had not said a word about its other occupant. Scott and Ella only tolerated one another, Luke knew that, but had it some other deeper significance that the conflict of artistic temperaments Luke had imagined?
‘Do you see that mountain across the loch—the one that’s almost obscured by the mist? That’s our