A Forever Family: Falling For You. Shirley Jump

Ms Webb planned to use it to hold shooting and fishing parties for business contacts she’d need someone who knew what he was doing to run the place. Take care of the game birds, the trout stocks.

      Someone like Hal.

      A tiny flutter of anticipation invaded her stomach and she grabbed a chocolate-chip cookie in an effort to smother it. The man was a menace and she had enough on her plate without getting involved.

      Involved! That was a joke. Hal North was never going to be interested in a buttoned-up woman with a sharp tongue. The hot imprint of his lips on hers meant nothing.

      ‘The rumour in the post office on Monday was that it’s going to be converted into a hotel and conference centre,’ Penny said.

      ‘There are all kinds of rumours flying around,’ Claire said, ‘but that wouldn’t be such a bad thing and you have to admit that the Hall has got everything going for it. The location is stunning and there’s probably room for a golf course on the other side of the Cran.’

      ‘Really? How much room does a golf course take?’

      She grinned. ‘I’ve no idea, but look on the bright side. Whatever the future, a new owner means that there’s going to be work for local builders, craftsmen, grounds men and that has to mean work for Steve.’

      ‘Maybe Gary, too,’ Penny said, cheered. ‘There might even be more hours for me.’

      ‘Absolutely.’ Then, as casually as she could, she asked, ‘Is Gary at home today?’

      ‘According to him it’s a study day although the only thing he’s studying is how to cast a fly.’

      Which answered that question. ‘Well, if he could spare the time, I wonder if he’d pick up my bike for me. It’s still on the footpath.’

      ‘When he comes home to raid the fridge I’ll ask him.’

      The minute she’d shut the door on her Claire picked up the phone and dialled the number for the Hall.

      ‘Cranbrook Hall.’

      The unfamiliar voice was rich and plummy. ‘Miss Webb?’ On being assured that it was, she said, ‘Welcome to Cranbrook Park. I’m Claire Thackeray—’

      ‘Yes?’

      No ‘how can I help you?’ No easy way in.

      ‘—from the Maybridge Observer. I understand that Cranbrook Park has a new owner,’ she said, pausing briefly. Nothing. ‘As you can imagine, there are all kinds of rumours flying around at the moment and, inevitably, there are concerns about jobs.’ The few that there were. ‘The hope that if the Park is going to be developed commercially there will be work for local people,’ she prompted.

      Still no response.

      ‘There has always been a very close relationship between the town and estate,’ she continued, despite the lack of encouragement. ‘Charity events, that sort of thing?’ Good grief, this was like drawing blood from a very dry stone. ‘I wondered if you could spare me half an hour to talk about the future of the estate? Maybe fill in some background detail for our readers?’ she added hopefully.

      ‘Don’t you people talk to one another?’ she replied, impatiently. ‘Your editor called half an hour ago and I told him what I’ll tell you. Mr North does not speak to the press.’

      Ouch.

      ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t been in the office this morning and while the editor would be looking for facts, something to fill in the gaps in the announcement about the sale, I’m more interested in the human-interest angle. As I said the Park is a big part of the local community…’

      And then the name sank in.

      North.

      No. She must have misheard. Or it was a coincidence. There was another North. It couldn’t be…

      ‘Did you say North?’ she asked.

      ‘Ask your editor, Miss Thackeray. He has all the details that are being released to the press.’

      ‘Yes… Thank you,’ she added belatedly as the dialling tone kicked in.

      No…

      No, no, no, no, no…

      She repeated the word with every step as she ran upstairs to the office and turned on her cranky laptop. Kept saying it as it took an age to boot up. Even as she searched on the internet for Hal…no, Henry North.

      It. Could. Not. Be. Him.

      There was no shortage of hits—there were, apparently, a lot of Henry Norths in the world—and rather than plough through them, she switched to ‘images’ to see if she recognised any of them.

      There were dozens of photographs, but one leapt out at her and it was the shock of seeing Hal face to face in the ditch all over again. That stop-the-world total loss of breath where the only thing moving was her mind, and that was spinning like a top. Seeing it in front of her she refused to believe it even when she clicked on the image to bring up the document it was attached to; a company report.

      She knew it couldn’t be true. But there he was. Hal North. In full colour.

      The Hal North she’d knocked off his feet a couple of hours ago was, apparently, the Henry North who owned a freight company. Make that an international freight company.

      The one with the sleek black-and-silver HALGO livery familiar to anyone who’d ever stood at a bus stop by a busy road watching the traffic thunder by.

      Vans, trucks, eighteen-wheelers, not to mention air cargo and shipping.

      Hal North, her Hal North, was the chairman of a household-name company with a turnover in billions.

      * * *

      ‘Hal! At last. Where on earth have you been?’ Bea Webb rarely got agitated, but she was agitated now. ‘I’ve organised the staff meetings for Monday, but I have to get back to London and so do you.’

      ‘Sorry. I was looking around the Park and got sidetracked.’

      ‘Collecting junk left by fly-tippers more like,’ she said, as he lifted Claire’s bike off the back of a Land Rover.

      ‘I couldn’t just leave it there,’ he said. Easier than telling her what had really happened.

      ‘Well, don’t. The consultants have arranged for a contractor to come in and do a thorough clean-up of the estate, clear the outbuildings. Do you want me to organise someone to take a look through all this junk before they start?’ she asked, with a dismissive wave in the direction of the ornate, eighteenth-century stable block. ‘Just in case there’s a priceless Chinese vase tucked away in a box of discarded china?’

      ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘Cranbrook had experts go through it all with a fine-tooth comb in the hopes of finding buried treasure.’ Anything to save him bankruptcy. Anything to save him from being forced by his creditors to sell to him.

      It was knowing that Sir Robert Cranbrook wouldn’t see a penny of his money that had made paying the price almost a pleasure. Once the tax man had taken his cut, the remainder would go to the estate’s creditors; the small people Cranbrook had never given a damn about so long as he continued to live in luxury.

      That and the fact that Robert Cranbrook knew that every moment of comfort left to him was being paid for by the son he’d never wanted. Whom he’d always refused to acknowledge. Knowing how much he’d hate that, but not having the moral fibre to tell him to go to hell, was the sweetest revenge.

      ‘What I do need is a front loader. The public footpath running beside the stream has been seriously undermined and is in danger of collapse. We can use some of this stuff to make a temporary barrier. The last thing I need is for someone to get hurt.’

      ‘Terrific,’ she said. ‘Tell me again why you bought this place?’

      ‘The