Darkness Into Light. Carole Mortimer

      Darkness into Light

      Carole Mortimer

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘WHAT do you think you’re doing?’

      Danny looked blankly at the man who had stepped out of the night shadows, sure that above the din she was making she had heard him ask that question. And yet she couldn’t have done; it must surely be obvious what she was doing, the lawn-mower moving smoothly in front of her, the sweet smell of newly cut grass fresh in the air.

      His appearance in her garden surprised her even more, his wide chest and shoulders bare, the dark hair there disappearing in a vee over the taut stomach and down beneath body-hugging black underwear, his long legs and feet bare too. She had no idea where he had come from and thought she should be the one to be asking that question. She was in her own private garden, mowing her own lawn, and this almost naked man had invaded that privacy.

      She suddenly realised how very much alone she was here, her nearest neighbour up at the main house, and as she rarely saw anyone from there since Henry Sutherland had bought the house and grounds and moved in with his entourage she didn’t think she would get any help from England’s answer to Howard Hughes! Her denim cut-offs and halter-necked yellow top were little covering for her generous curves, and she sought the man’s face in the darkness, hoping to read his intent there.

      What did he look like? What was he thinking? Who was he?

      ‘I said—–’ he repeated, raising his voice.

      ‘I heard what you said,’ Danny assured him as she switched off the motor to the mower, wiping her hands down her denim-clad thighs. ‘But I think you have that the wrong way around.’ She looked at him with eyes that glowed the colour of deep sherry. ‘What are you doing here?’

      The man stepped forward into the light streaming from the lounge window of her cottage behind them, and Danny caught her breath at the raw savage beauty of that harshly lean face. Dark, slightly overlong hair fell forward over his forehead, his eyes a curious light colour, neither blue nor grey, but somewhere in between, his nose a harsh slash, his mouth thinned in a straight line, deep grooves etched beside his nose and mouth. He looked coldly arrogant, and somehow Danny knew he offered no threat to her, that those icy eyes could never deepen with the emotion it would take to physically attack her, that his power was all of the will rather than the body.

      ‘I suppose you do realise it’s after eleven o’clock at night?’

      Her eyes widened at the question; it had been the last thing she had expected. She was as aware of the time as she was of what she was doing!

      ‘And that mower is damned noisy,’ he added hardly at her lack of response.

      Her brows knit together. ‘What does that have to do with you?’

      His mouth thinned. ‘It’s a still summer’s night, the sound carries.’

      ‘Well I—Oh dear.’ Contrition darkened the brown glow of her eyes. ‘Could it be heard at the main house?’ she asked with dread.

      ‘Would you care?’ He derided her lack of concern so far in the conversation.

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to disturb Howard Hughes—sorry, I meant Mr Sutherland.’ She blushed at the slip.

      ‘You consider him a recluse?’ The man frowned.

      Danny shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t think of any other name for a man who lives behind a ten-foot wall most of the time, has a couple of guard-dogs patrolling the grounds, surrounds himself with numerous bodyguards—can you?’ She quirked mischievous brows at him a shade darker than her straight red-gold hair, now secured in a single braid to just below her shoulders.

      The man’s mouth twisted. ‘When you put it that way, no. And to answer your other question, I was at the main house when I heard the mower.’

      ‘Oh dear.’ She chewed on her bottom lip, her expression suddenly brightening. ‘He isn’t there, is he?’ She grinned her relief. ‘I remember I heard the helicopter leave earlier.’ She had been most disgusted when part of the grounds of the main house had been taken and turned into a helicopter-pad for the new owner, the comings and goings of the machine a noisy irritant. Old Mrs Prendergast, the previous owner, would turn over in her grave if she knew what they had done to her precious manor house. ‘Where’s he gone this time?’ Danny asked interestedly.

      ‘You have yet to tell me what you’re doing mowing the lawn at this ungodly hour.’ The man sounded more irritated than ever.

      ‘I always mow the lawn when I’m upset,’ she confided. ‘I think better then, you see.’

      Grey eyes snapped with impatience. ‘And couldn’t you have done this thinking at a more reasonable time?’

      ‘I didn’t know at a more reasonable time that I had something to think about,’ she explained. ‘I need to think now, and it never used to disturb Mrs Prendergast. Although that could have been because she was as deaf as a post,’ she added thoughtfully.

      ‘I see.’ The beautifully moulded lips twitched as if in humour, although no smile actually materialised. ‘Well, I’m not, and it was disturbing the swim I was taking.’

      ‘Swimming!’ she said with some relief. ‘You’re wearing swimming trunks!’

      ‘Well, of course I … What did you think I was wearing?’ he asked drily. ‘No,’ he drawled. ‘Don’t answer that.’ He looked over at the cottage. ‘Doesn’t the mower disturb your grandfather?’

      ‘I hope not.’ She looked surprised. ‘He’s been dead ten years!’

      The man looked taken aback. ‘But I understood this was the head-gardener’s cottage.’

      Danny grinned at his perplexity. ‘You understood correct.’ She nodded.

      ‘Then he’s your father?’

      ‘Nope,’ she laughed lightly. ‘I live here alone.’

      ‘But you can’t be Danny Martin.’ He shook his head in denial of that fact.

      She frowned at his emphatic tone. ‘Why can’t I?’

      ‘Because I’ve seen him about the grounds,’ the man said tersely. ‘He’s about seventy years old, with grey hair, and a stooped back!’

      ‘Zacky Boone.’ She instantly recognised him by the description. ‘And you would have a stooped back, too, if you had been gardening as long as he has!’

      ‘You’re the head-gardener?’