Mendez's Mistress. Anne Mather

plans.

      That was why he’d suggested that the kid could travel with him. Surely her mother could have no objections to that? He and Steve had known one another for over five years, ever since Carlyle had come to work for Mendez Macrosystems in London, and since his move to Miami last year they’d become friends.

      But evidently Steve hadn’t chosen to tell his ex-wife of the arrangements. Despite what he’d been told about her, Joe didn’t think Rachel’s shock at learning that Daisy wouldn’t be flying on a commercial airline was simulated. She hadn’t known. He’d bet his life on it.

      He shook his head. Which begged the question: why hadn’t Steve told her? Okay, he was prepared to accept that their relationship must have suffered when they’d got a divorce, but she could hardly blame Steve for that. According to the account he’d heard, there’d been faults on both sides, not least the fact that Rachel had done everything she could to sabotage her husband’s career. Ted Johansen had told him that Lauren would never have got involved with Steve if he and Rachel hadn’t been having problems. According to him, his daughter wasn’t that kind of girl.

      Something Joe had reserved judgment about.

      Nevertheless, Steve should have explained what was happening. Just because he found Rachel difficult to reason with didn’t excuse him entirely, and Joe had every intention of giving him a piece of his mind when he got back to the States.

      Now he pulled the Lexus into Eaton Court Mews and drew up outside the house he’d bought on one of his frequent trips to London. He’d liked it because of its character and antiquity, its wisteria-clad walls a far cry from the busy thoroughfare that passed just a few feet beyond the arched entrance to the mews.

      He entered via an oak-studded door to one side of the ground-floor garage and took the stairs to the next floor, where the first level of living rooms was situated. It had taken him some time to get used to not calling this the ‘second floor’, as they did back home, but Charles Barry, his English housekeeper, was gradually educating him.

      Charles himself appeared as Joe walked into a comfortably furnished sitting room. Furniture, which Charles had helped him choose, gave the room an attractive authenticity, with lots of polished wood and distressed-leather sofas beneath the narrow-paned dormer windows.

      ‘Mission accomplished?’ he asked, referring to his employer’s undertaking to deliver Daisy back to her mother, and Joe pulled an amused face.

      ‘I guess so,’ he said, without conviction. He shook his head. ‘I just wish I didn’t have the feeling that I’m the bad guy here.’

      Charles, a slim, prematurely grey-haired man in his fifties, arched an enquiring brow. ‘Mrs Carlyle doesn’t appreciate your consideration, I gather?’

      ‘You could say that.’

      ‘Something of a harridan, is she?’

      ‘Hell, no.’ The words were out before Joe could stop them. But they were true. No way could Rachel Carlyle be described as a harridan. And that was possibly one of the reasons why he was feeling so frustrated now.

      Charles frowned. ‘I detect a note of ambiguity here,’ he said. ‘Do I take it you’re having second thoughts about delivering the girl to her father?’

      Joe’s jaw compressed. ‘Steve didn’t bother to tell his ex-wife that Daisy would be travelling with me,’ he explained flatly. ‘On the Jetstream, I mean. She assumed we’d be using public transport.’

      ‘I see.’ Charles considered this. ‘And that’s created a problem?’

      Joe gave a curt nod. ‘You got it.’

      ‘Ah.’ Charles was thoughtful. ‘But surely, now that she’s met you for herself, Mrs Carlyle must be reassured?’

      ‘You think?’

      ‘She’s not?’ Charles looked taken aback. ‘So what kind of woman is she? Didn’t Mr Carlyle say that she’s a writer?’ He cupped his chin in one hand. ‘I’m imagining a rather…overweight lady, all flowing scarves and Birkenstocks. Am I right?’

      Joe couldn’t prevent the laugh that erupted from him then. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong!’ he exclaimed, picturing Rachel as he’d first seen her in her cotton vest and shorts. ‘No, she’s not overweight, Charles. She’s not skinny, you understand? She’s got some shape. But she’s not fat.’

      Charles regarded him intently. ‘But not young? Not like the second Mrs Carlyle?’

      ‘No.’ Joe conceded the point. Steve had definitely gone for looks over intelligence the second time around. It had also helped that Lauren’s old man was one of the directors of the company, he reflected, before adding, ‘But Rachel’s okay. Quite attractive, actually.’

      Charles’ brows ascended again. ‘Well…’He didn’t appear to know how to answer that so, changing the subject, he asked if his employer would like something to drink before he left for his meeting. ‘You did say you had a luncheon appointment,’ he reminded him politely, and Joe glanced somewhat impatiently at his watch.

      ‘Oh, yeah,’ He blew out a breath. Then, ‘No, that’s okay.’ He nodded towards the built-in bar hidden behind a wall of bookshelves. ‘I’ll get myself a soda, if I want one.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Charles withdrew and Joe moved across to the windows, staring out unseeingly onto the mews below. He found himself wondering what exactly had gone wrong with the Carlyles’ marriage. Sure, he’d heard Steve’s—and Johansen’s—interpretation of events. But having met Rachel personally, he found it harder to believe that she would neglect her home and family in favour of her career. A woman like that would hardly put up any opposition to exactly how her daughter was to travel to Florida. Indeed, she’d probably be glad of the break from teenage angst, however it was going to be achieved.

      Still, he had to factor in the probable resistance she had to Daisy spending any time with her father and stepmother. If Steve was to be believed—and until the last couple of days he’d had no reason to doubt that he was—she’d done her best to turn Daisy against him and Lauren.

      His scowl returned. He could so do without this, he thought irritably. Do without this damned lunch with the company’s British executives, too. If he hadn’t promised his father to follow in his footsteps, and keep all branches of Macrosystems in the frame, he’d have scrubbed any and all business meetings and spent the rest of the day at the nearest race track.

      Still, this evening he had his date with Shelley Adair to look forward to. She’d been most put out when he’d cried off the party she’d been giving the evening before. But after his altercation with Rachel Carlyle, he hadn’t been in the mood for the kind of noisy reception Shelley favoured. Besides, if he was perfectly honest, he’d expected Rachel to have second thoughts and ring him to apologise and, when she hadn’t, he’d gone to bed feeling decidedly aggrieved.

      So why was he wasting more time thinking about her? He’d been downright astounded when Daisy had turned up at his door this morning. It had been the last thing he’d expected, and at first he’d thought she’d come because her mother had asked her to. Finding out Rachel hadn’t even known she’d left the house had soon disabused him of that notion, and he’d been half inclined to blame Daisy’s behaviour on her mother. But bringing up a teenager like Daisy on her own couldn’t be easy. That was why he’d reined in his own irritation when Rachel had reacted as she had.

      He sighed. Were Steve’s complaints about her justified? The way Rachel was acting made him inclined to think again. He just wished he wasn’t involved in the situation, wished he didn’t have these suspicions that she was the victim here.

       CHAPTER FOUR

       O N S ATURDAY morning Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking her third cup of coffee of the day and trying to make sense of the