The Reluctant Groom. Emma Richmond

inflexion.

      ‘And it’s mandatory that you wear gloves when touching any of the old documents. What hours do you keep?’ Without giving him a chance to reply, she glanced at her watch, because it was a great deal easier than looking at him, and announced, ‘It’s two-thirty now; shall we say nine until six?’

      When he didn’t answer, she glanced up, and the expression in his eyes made her feel decidedly un-Abby-like.

      ‘Why the hostility?’ he asked mildly.

      ‘Caution,’ she corrected.

      He inclined his head without taking his eyes from hers. ‘What was he like?’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Mr Hunter.’

      ‘Kind. What are you like?’ she asked with remote hauteur.

      His mouth twisted. ‘Not kind. I’ll let you know when I leave.’

      Dismissed, she turned on her heel and walked out She felt ragged, routed, and a fool.

      Not kind? Yes, she could believe that. And you promised yourself you would change Abby. That you would be nice to people. She knew she was acerbic when she was nervous, but that hadn’t been acerbic, she thought disgustedly, that had been venomous. Because she’d felt threatened.

      Absently shoving the feather duster into the cupboard, she continued on and into the kitchen. ‘You’ll deal with him,’ her mother had said. And she would; of course she would. So why was her heart beating far too fast? Why did she feel—mangled?

      Filling the kettle, because it was a usual thing to do, a normal thing to do, she put it on the gas to boil, and wondered what to do next. Never in her life had she not known what she was doing. No, that wasn’t strictly true. Once she hadn’t known.

      Oh, for goodness’ sake pull yourself together, Abby, she berated herself. He’s only a man! You’ve been dealing with men all your adult life! Yes, only a man—with blue eyes to strip a soul bare.

      Which might not be a bad thing. Her soul hadn’t seen the light of day in fourteen years.

      Mask slipping, elbows cupped for comfort, she stood at the window and stared blindly into the garden. Miss Cool. Miss Efficiency. And it was all a lie. A great, big, whopping lie. Not that anyone would have known that. Not that anyone would have cared, she thought with a humourless smile. And only yesterday she’d promised that she would take a long, hard look at herself. Only if she did that, she thought, almost despondently, she didn’t think she would like what she saw.

      Eyes unfocused, she thought back over her life, or at least the last fourteen years of it. She had known for a long time now that she was living a life she no longer wanted, a life that didn’t belong to her. A life that was as unsatisfactory as it was sterile. Engaged to a man who was suitable, but unloved, employed as a junior member of a law firm, which she hated. So why had it taken her so long to admit it? She had no idea.

      Fourteen years ago she’d deliberately made herself into someone she wasn’t meant to be, whether from pride, or anger, or lack of self-worth didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she had done it. Herself. Deliberately. And fourteen years in anyone’s book was far too long to live a lie. She had defended her vulnerable heart with a false image until that image was no longer false. And people believed it. Believed what you wanted them to believe. As Sam Turner was believing it. But how did you go back? She wasn’t even sure she could remember who she had been, only that it had been the antithesis of what she was now.

      Glancing down at her engagement ring, she slowly removed it and put it in her pocket. She would telephone Peter tonight and tell him it was over. And when she went back to work she would give in her notice.

      ‘You couldn’t afford a sauna?’ a dry voice asked from behind her.

      Whirling round, she stared at Sam Turner, and only then became aware that the kitchen was full of steam—and now tension. She would not let this man unstring all her new-found resolves. He was capable of it; she knew that instinctively. ‘No,’ she agreed with cool derision. ‘The plantation failed this year. So sad, there were so many things we wanted.’

      ‘Bananas?’

      ‘Nuts. You wanted something?’

      His lips twitched. Infinitesimally. ‘Coffee. Mrs Hunter said to make myself at home,’ he informed her with dry mockery as he took two cups from the cupboard. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

      ‘Both,’ she murmured, because telling him she could make her own would make her look the fool, not him. Feeling a fool was one thing. Looking one was entirely another. Face kept carefully expressionless, she queried silkily, ‘And what other home comforts have you adopted, Mr Turner?’

      He slanted her a look over his shoulder, and smiled. ‘Which would you like me to adopt?’ he parried.

      ‘None,’ she denied, and refused to look away from blue eyes that seemed positively glacial. She had always treated men as tools. Useful tools. Her behaviour and attitude had been honed to perfection over the past fourteen years. Don’t think, don’t feel, just act. She was doing it now, and perhaps that was just as well. Now was not the time to revert to what she had once been, even if she knew who that person was. This man offered a definite threat to her peace of mind, and threats, right now, she certainly did not need. Anyway, you couldn’t change your personality in a few moments of reflection, she decided. She needed peace and time to do that. She would change gradually; the only need now was to be careful. This wasn’t a man to be cowed, or threatened. Her wits were sharp; his, she suspected, would be sharper.

      ‘Which one are you?’ he asked, with an indifference that was maddening.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      Taking his time, taking milk from the fridge and adding it to the coffee, he replaced the milk before he answered. ‘I merely wondered which one you were. It’s of no consequence.’

      Assuming he was talking about daughters, she said shortly, ‘The youngest. Thank you,’ she added as he handed her her coffee.

      ‘You’re welcome. Like to grind men beneath your high heels, don’t you?’

      ‘Always,’ she agreed without pause. ‘Do you wish to be ground, Mr Turner?’ she was horrified to hear herself asking.

      He merely smiled, and mockery rode his features like a horse on a fairground ride.

      Trying to get control back into her own hands, she asked abruptly, ‘Where do you come from?’

      ‘Not far,’ he answered unhelpfully as he leaned back against the sink to sip his coffee.

      Eyes on his face, refusing, utterly refusing, to look away, she borrowed some of his own mockery. ‘And you work with this Professor Wayne at Oxford?’

      ‘You didn’t ask him?’ he mocked.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Tsk, tsk.’

      Eyes like flint, she warned, ‘Be very careful, Mr Turner. The decision to let you work here can easily be revoked.’

      He looked as though he couldn’t care less one way or the other. At ease, unruffled as he continued to survey her. She had an almost overwhelming desire to throw her coffee at him.

      ‘How long had your father been collecting war memorabilia,’ he asked casually.

      ‘Since he was a young man, I believe.’

      ‘It’s a very extensive collection.’

      ‘It’s also very valuable.’

      She badly wanted to sit, but that would put her at a disadvantage, and that she didn’t want. ‘How did you meet? He never mentioned you before he—died.’

      He lowered his lashes, stared down into his coffee, and said quietly, ‘We didn’t.’

      ‘But you