The Innocent's One-Night Confession. Sara Craven

parcel and when I wrote to thank her, I mixed up the last two letters of Grandma and it stuck.’

      ‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘I think it’s charming.’

      ‘Well, don’t think in terms of lavender and lace,’ he said. ‘She still goes out on her horse each day before breakfast, summer and winter.’ He paused. ‘Do you ride?’

      ‘I did,’ she said. ‘Up to the time I left home to go to university and my parents decided to downsize to a cottage with a manageable garden, instead of a paddock with stabling.’

      ‘Bring some boots,’ he said, his surprised smile widening into a grin. ‘We can fix you up with a hat and I’ll give you a proper tour of the area.’

      Alanna smiled back. ‘That will be marvellous,’ she said, and meant it in spite of a growing conviction that the soon-to-be eighty-year-old Niamh Harrington was one formidable lady.

      And then, of course, there was the rest of the family.

      ‘Gerard’s mother is a widow and his late father was Mrs Harrington’s eldest child and only son,’ she told Susie over a Thai takeaway at the flat that evening.

      She counted on her fingers. ‘Then there’s his Aunt Caroline and Uncle Richard with their son and his wife, plus his Aunt Diana, her husband Maurice and their two daughters, one married, one single.’

      ‘My God,’ Susie said limply. ‘I hope for your sake they wear name tags. Children?’

      Alanna speared a prawn. ‘Yes, but strictly with attendant nannies. I get the impression that Mrs Harrington doesn’t approve of modern child-rearing methods.’

      She added, ‘She also had a third daughter, her youngest, called Marianne, but she and her husband are both dead, and their son apparently is not expected to attend the festivities.’

      ‘Just as well,’ said Susie. ‘Sounds as if it will be standing room only as it is.’ She paused. ‘Is it this Marianne’s son who owns Bazaar Vert?’

      Alanna shrugged. ‘I guess so. Gerard hasn’t said much about him.’ She picked up a foil dish. ‘Share the rest of the sticky rice?’

      ‘Willingly,’ said Susie. ‘But I’m glad to be missing out on the sticky weekend,’ she added thoughtfully.

      The stickiness, in fact, began early at the Friday morning acquisitions meeting.

      Alanna walked from it into her cubbyhole of an office, kicked the door shut behind her and swore.

      ‘Oh, Hetty,’ she said quietly. ‘Where are you when I need you?’

      Well, on maternity leave was the answer to that, which was why Alanna had been temporarily promoted to head up romantic fiction at Hawkseye Publishing during her boss’s absence.

      Initially, she’d been thrilled at the opportunity, but now the rose-tinted spectacles were off and she realised she was in a war zone, the opposing foe being Louis Foster who produced the men’s fiction list, mainly slanted towards the ‘blood and guts’ school of thought, but also including some literary names. And others, as Alanna had just found out.

      She had gone to the meeting to sell a new author with a fresh voice and innovative approach, who was her own discovery.

      She had spoken enthusiastically and persuasively about acquiring this burgeoning talent for the Hawkseye stable, only to find herself blocked by Louis’s suave determination.

      He could not, he said, having studied the figures, recommend such a high-risk investment in a total unknown.

      ‘Especially,’ he added, ‘as Jeffrey Winton told me over lunch the other day that he was very keen to extend his range, and what he was suggesting sounds very similar to what this young lady of Alanna’s is offering. And, of course, we’d have the Maisie McIntyre name which sells itself.’

      Jeffrey Winton, thought Alanna, her toes curling inside her shoes, the bestselling creator, under a female pseudonym, of village sagas so sweet they made her teeth ache.

      Also Hetty’s author, so what the hell was he doing being wined and dined by Louis, let alone discussing future projects?

      Not that she wanted to go within a mile of him, she thought, recoiling from the memory of her one and only encounter with the rotund, twinkling author of Love at the Forge and Inn of Contentment. And, even worse, what had followed...

      Everything she had done her best to erase from her consciousness was now suddenly confronting her again in every detail, rendering her momentarily numb.

      And while she was still faltering, Louis’s powers of persuasion convinced the others round the table and she was faced with telling an author she believed in that there was no contract in the offing after all. Adding to her bitter disappointment twin blows to her negotiating skills and her pride.

      And possibly moving Louis a definite step towards his ultimate goal of uniting men’s and women’s commercial fiction under his leadership.

      All this, she thought wearily, and, in a few hours, her first encounter with the extended Harrington family, for which she probably needed all the confidence she could get.

      She looked at her weekend case waiting in the corner, holding jeans and boots, together with the expensive tissue-wrapped dress and the hand-crafted silver photograph frame she’d chosen as her hostess’s birthday present.

      For a moment she considered assuming the role of victim of a forty-eight-hour mystery virus, then dismissed it.

      Having let her author down, she would not do the same to Gerard, mainly because she sensed he was anxious about the weekend too.

      I must make sure it all goes well for his sake, she thought. And for the possibility of a future together—if and when liking grows into love.

      A cautious beginning to a happy ending. The way it ought to be.

      That was what she needed. Not a passionate tumultuous descent to guilt and the risk of disaster. That, like all other bad memories, must be locked—sealed away to await well-deserved oblivion.

      Which would come, in spite of the recent unwanted reminder, she assured herself. It had to...

      * * *

      It was an uneventful journey, Gerard handling his supremely comfortable Mercedes with finesse while he chatted about the abbey and its turbulent history.

      ‘It’s said that the family who acquired it in Tudor times bribed the King’s officials to turn the monks out and the abbot cursed them,’ he said ruefully.

      ‘Whether that’s true or not, they certainly fell on hard times in later years, largely due to the drink and gambling problems of a succession of eldest sons, so my great-great-grandfather Augustus Harrington got it quite cheaply.

      ‘Also being eminently respectable and hard-working, the restoration of Whitestone was his idea of recreation.’

      ‘Is much of the original building left?’ Alanna asked.

      ‘Very little, apart from the cloisters. The Tudor lot simply pulled the whole thing down and started again.’

      ‘Vandals.’ She smiled at him. ‘I suppose upkeep is an ongoing process.’

      He was silent for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very much so. Maybe that’s the real meaning of the abbot’s curse. He said it would be a millstone round the owners’ necks for evermore.’

      ‘I don’t think I believe in curses,’ said Alanna. ‘Anyway, even a millstone must be worth it—when it’s such a piece of history.’

      ‘I certainly believe that.’ He spoke with a touch of bleakness. ‘But that isn’t a universal view. However you must judge for yourself.’ He accelerated a little. ‘We’re nearly there.’

      And he was right. As they crested the next hill, Alanna saw the solid mass of pale