Wildest Dreams. Carole Mortimer

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      Those deep blue eyes narrowed even more. ‘You do?’ He sounded sceptical.

      Didn’t she look the part? She had checked her appearance very carefully before she’d left the house this morning to drive down here. Admittedly, the jacket of her dark grey pinstriped suit was still in the car at the end of the driveway, but, even so, the smart white blouse and straight skirt that reached just above her knees, the neutral-coloured tights and moderately heeled black shoes were surely quite businesslike? Her hair was in its usual bun at her nape, her glasses rested firmly on the bridge of her nose; in what way didn’t she look the part?

      ‘I do,’ she assured the younger man briskly, recovering a little now from the shock of actually meeting the real, live Palfrey; after all, she wasn’t here to see this man at all, but the elderly one seated behind him. Having got this far without actually being thrown out, she intended to make the most of her opportunity. Especially since she had been so angry with her father and Stephen two days ago; it would be too humiliating if she ended up being treated the same way. ‘I wrote to him and told him of my arrival this afternoon,’ she added pointedly, wishing he would get out of the way so that she might speak to Merlin himself.

      The younger man scowled frowningly. ‘You did?’

      Much as she had initially been bowled over by this man’s devastatingly good looks, she was now starting to find this conversation with him irksome. After all, it was Merlin she had come here to talk to, not his gardener! ‘If I could just have a few private words with Merlin.’ She tried to look around the younger man to where his elderly employer sat listening to them unconcernedly.

      ‘Concerning what?’ the young man prompted tersely.

      There was something very odd going on here. Merlin hadn’t spoken a word since her arrival, and the blond man was distinctly hostile; surely the gardener was overstepping his duties by speaking for his employer in this way? Unless he also acted as security guard to the older man? But even so...! ‘My name is Atherton—’

      ‘It’s the publisher, boyo.’ The elderly man spoke for the first time, his voice gravelly, as if he didn’t use it very often. He stood up, moving to stand beside the younger man, the two of them looking slightly ridiculous together, one so tall and golden, the other shrivelled with age. ‘Is that right, miss?’

      ‘Quite correct.’ She nodded in confirmation, at last feeling as if she was making some sort of progress. ‘I wrote to you—’

      ‘You’re A. Atherton?’ Again it was the younger man who spoke to her.

      Irritation flickered in her eyes as she gave him a brief glance. ‘Arabella Atherton, yes,’ she dismissed impatiently, looking at Merlin with some surprise as he began to chuckle throatily. The chuckle soon became a fully fledged cackle.

      What was so funny about her name? Admittedly it sounded as if it came from another century, but her mother had loved to read historical novels, her father often saying he thought his wife would rather have been born in earlier times. But, even though Arabella had found her name a bit of an encumbrance when she was younger, she now found it rather attractive. It was certainly different.

      ‘I realise the two of us have never been formally introduced.’ She held out her hand, taking a couple of steps closer to Merlin, careful of the dogs as they began to growl low in their throats. ‘But we have been writing to each other for the last five years.’ She smiled warmly. ‘I’m Arabella Atherton. And you’re—’

      ‘Andrew, the gardener.’ The chuckling had stopped, although the elderly man still grinned his amusement. ‘The aged family retainer,’ he added pointedly.

      ‘Your age only comes into it when it comes to uprooting stubborn tree stumps,’ the younger man said dryly. ‘The rest of the time you take pleasure in telling me how fit you are!’

      ‘But I am, boy.’ Andrew grinned at him before turning back to Arabella. ‘He’s Merlin.’ He nodded in the direction of the man Arabella had come to regard as Palfrey.

      This young man, his muscular body still glistening and golden after the exertion from his efforts with the tree stump, a man who might have posed for the Palfrey book covers himself, was actually the author of those books? Merlin was Palfrey? No, Palfrey was Merlin! The two were one and the same person?

      The elderly gardener chuckled again as Arabella and Merlin stared at each other. ‘I think you may have come as much of a surprise to her as she has to you, boy,’ he murmured wryly.

      Merlin’s mouth tightened, his gaze flinty as it swept scathingly over her businesslike appearance. ‘I had assumed A. Atherton was a man,’ he finally acknowledged contemptuously.

      He wasn’t pleased to discover his editor was actually a woman, Arabella realised, her cheeks becoming flushed.

      ‘I think the two of you made some erroneous assumptions concerning each other.’ The elderly gardener still sounded amused by the situation.

      Merlin shot him a look of irritation. ‘Go and ask Stella to put the kettle on, and we’ll all have a cup of tea.’

      ‘Certainly, sir.’ Andrew pulled on an imaginary forelock. ‘Right away, sir.’ He nodded before turning to walk around the side of the house, disappearing into what Arabella assumed must be the kitchen.

      Merlin’s irritation had deepened to a scowl. ‘I think I’ve allowed him too much familiarity over the years,’ he muttered with a shake of his head.

      Familiarity breeding contempt? Somehow she didn’t think so. The two men obviously liked and respected each other very much; an easy affection existed between the two.

      ‘A cup of tea would be very welcome, thank you,’ she said, smoothly changing the subject. And it wasn’t a lie either; she had been driving for several hours and a cup of tea certainly wouldn’t come amiss.

      He frowned across at her and then reached down to the ground to pick up a pale blue denim shirt, pulling it on over the wide width of his shoulders before buttoning it up the front.

      Arabella’s breath left her in a gentle sigh. She hadn’t even been aware she was actually holding it until that moment, able to breathe a little easier now that Merlin was more formally attired. Although she was still stunned at his physical likeness to his character. She was always advising would-be authors to write about what they knew, but it was the first time she had actually found that the author and the hero of his books were one and the same person!

      ‘I told your husband the other day that we have nothing to talk about,’ he bit out coldly.

      It took Arabella a couple of seconds to realise exactly whom he was referring to. ‘Stephen is my brother,’ she corrected him, smiling at the thought of someone like Stephen being her husband; there were only two years’ difference in their ages, but to her Stephen had always been a child. He had done nothing since joining the company to make her think any differently of him.

      Merlin regarded her thoughtfully, head tilted to one side. ‘There’s no family resemblance,’ he finally murmured ruefully.

      She knew that, had always been aware of the fact that Stephen had inherited their father’s undoubted good looks, whereas she—well, she wasn’t sure who she resembled! She wasn’t like her tiny, beautiful mother. She wasn’t exactly plain, but she certainly wasn’t a beauty either. She seemed to fall short, somewhere in the middle of the two, not ugly, but having nothing remarkable about her features.

      More than one man in the past had assumed that, as in the movies, if her hair were loosened and her glasses removed she would suddenly be transformed into a beauty. Those men had been bitterly disappointed! Her red hair was indeed a beautiful colour, but released about her shoulders it took on a will of its own, becoming completely unmanageable. And without her glasses her eyes ceased to be big, blue and intelligent, surrounded by dark lashes, and simply became myopic; it was obvious at a glance that she was as blind as a bat. So much for the transformation!

      ‘I can assure you,