Morelli's Mistress. Anne Mather

      ‘You think?’

      Luke didn’t want to have this conversation. For the first time that evening, he wished Ray weren’t with him. But they’d been finishing up the plans for their latest development project and it would have been churlish not to accept the other man’s invitation to go for a drink.

      The choice of wine bar had been Ray’s, of course. Luke would have preferred to go to the pub across the street from their offices in Covent Garden. But Ray had insisted they deserved a celebratory cocktail, so here they were.

      And just then, the girl turned her head and saw them. Or at least Luke was fairly sure she had, anyway. He didn’t think her eyes moved beyond his heavy-lidded gaze, and for a heart-stopping moment they simply stared at one another. Then Luke threw off Ray’s arm and moved towards her.

      She was good-looking, and fairly tall, judging by the long slender legs that crossed at the knee. Her face was oval and she had a rather attractive nose. Above the kind of mouth most girls could only dream of.

      Her hair was silvery blonde and she was wearing a gauzy wrap over a black vest. Her skirt was short and red, black tights ending in high-heeled pumps, one of which dangled enticingly from one swinging foot.

      Luke halted beside her and then said quietly, ‘Hi. Can I buy you a drink?’

      The girl, who had resumed her contemplation of the room, lifted her glass without looking at him again. ‘I have a drink.’

      ‘Okay.’

      Luke wished there were a free stool beside her that he could casually score. But the guy who was sitting next to her was evidently on a bender, huddled over a clutch of beer bottles on the bar.

      ‘Are you alone?’

      It wasn’t the most original thing to say, and the girl glanced up at him, her lips turning down. ‘No,’ she said flatly.

      ‘I’m with them.’ She indicated a group of women gyrating around the tiny dance floor. ‘It’s a hen party,’ she added, with a dismissive shrug.

      ‘And you didn’t want to dance?’

      ‘No.’ She moved the parasol to the other side of her glass and took a sip. ‘I don’t dance.’

      ‘Don’t—or won’t?’ Luke queried softly, and she blew out a rueful breath.

      ‘I’m not in the mood for dancing,’ she replied, concentrating on her glass. ‘Look, don’t you have someone else to talk to? I’m afraid I’m not very good company.’ She grimaced. ‘Go and ask the bride-to-be. She’ll tell you. I’m just the skeleton at the feast.’

      Luke pulled a wry face. ‘If you say so.’

      He flicked his fingers to get the attention of the bartender and ordered a beer for himself and a mojito for Ray. ‘That guy over there.’ He indicated the other man, who had apparently already found himself a willing companion. Then, when his beer was delivered, he swallowed half the bottle in one gulp. ‘I needed that.’

      The girl ignored him, but the guy on the stool next to her uttered a loud belch and got to his feet before stumbling away. Luke hooked his hip over the stool he’d vacated. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked mildly, and the girl at last turned to give him an old-fashioned look.

      ‘It’s a free country,’ she said. And, as if regretting her earlier attitude, she added, ‘Thank goodness, he’s gone.’

      Then, with a change of heart, ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

      ‘I think so.’ Luke grinned, and to his surprise the girl grinned back. ‘Are you sure you won’t have another drink?’

      ‘Well, maybe a white wine,’ she said, pushing the cocktail glass aside, and Luke noticed she was wearing a ring on her left hand. But on her middle finger. ‘Liz got me this, but it’s not really my thing.’

      ‘Liz being?’

      ‘Oh, the bride-to-be.’ The girl frowned. ‘That’s her over there wearing the rabbit ears and the tutu over her pants.’

      Luke grimaced. ‘How could I miss her?’ Then when the bartender reappeared, he ordered a glass of chardonnay. ‘I’m Luke Morelli, by the way. What’s your name?’

      ‘A—Annabel,’ she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, and Luke suspected she had been going to say something else. The wine was delivered and she took a sip from the glass, her eyes lighting with pleasure. ‘Hmm, this is nice.’

      Luke thought so, too, only he wasn’t talking about his beer. It was months since he’d felt such an immediate attraction to a girl. The women he met in the course of his work were as interested in a man’s bank balance as what he had in his pants.

      ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘Do you work in London?’

      ‘I do research. At the university,’ she said. ‘How about you?’ She studied his lean, muscular frame, his dark navy suit and his matching shirt.

      He’d removed his tie, as a gesture to informality, but that was all. ‘Do you work for the Stock Exchange? You look as if you do.’

      ‘I—work for the local authority,’ said Luke, defending himself with the knowledge that their latest commission was building a new set of offices for the district council. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

      ‘Oh, you don’t.’ She smiled. ‘I’m quite relieved. So many people think the Exchange is hallowed ground.’

      ‘Not me,’ said Luke staunchly.

      ‘So what do you like to do when you’re not working?’ she asked, and for a while they discussed the merits of playing sports over attending the theatre. In actual fact, Luke liked both, but it was more fun to present an argument than to agree.

      * * *

      By the time the hen party had drunk enough, and exhausted themselves enough, to come and see what she was doing, Abby was almost disappointed.

      She’d been enjoying herself for the first time in she didn’t know how long. She seldom went out these days, unless Harry needed a chauffeur, preferring to avoid the kind of places he chose to go.

      She’d met Harry Laurence at a friend’s wedding, and when they’d first started going out together, Abby had felt she was the luckiest girl in the world. Harry had made her feel special, spoiling her with expensive gifts, taking care of her in a way that, being the only child of a single parent, she’d never experienced before.

      But after their marriage things had changed. She’d realised that the character he’d adopted when other people—particularly her mother—were around was totally different from the man he really was.

      She’d learned, almost from the start, not to question his whereabouts. She suspected he saw other women, but when she’d been foolish enough to challenge him on it, he’d flown into a rage.

      She knew she should get a divorce. She used to tell herself that if he ever laid a hand on her, she would leave. But then, two years ago, when Abby was seriously thinking of filing for a divorce, her mother fell ill.

      Annabel Lacey had developed a serious physical condition that required twenty-four-hour nursing. She needed the professional services of a comfortable nursing home, one which only Harry with his stock-market salary could provide.

      And Abby had known then that, until her mother was well again, her life was on hold...

      ‘We’re leaving,’ Liz Phillips said now, bringing Abby back to the present. She looked admiringly at Abby’s companion. ‘Who’s this?’

      ‘Um—this is Luke,’ murmured Abby awkwardly, as he got politely up from his stool.

      ‘Nice to meet you,’ Luke said, smiling in Liz’s direction.

      ‘Likewise.’ Liz gave him a flirtatious