The Forbidden Mistress. Anne Mather

his brother some harm. He didn’t, he realised incredulously. All he felt was contempt that Tom should imagine he was fool enough to believe his lies.

      ‘Look, I’ve got an appointment shortly,’ he said, realising that getting angry wasn’t going to do him any good. For some reason, Tom was determined to stick it out until he’d said what he wanted to say. And Oliver had the uneasy suspicion that the worst was yet to come.

      ‘I know,’ said Tom now. ‘I heard what old Clements said.’

      ‘Then you’ll realise that you can’t stay here,’ declared Oliver crisply. ‘I suggest you go before you make a complete ass of yourself.’

      Tom looked up at him with accusing eyes. ‘You don’t care about me at all, do you? You don’t care what happens to me?’

      ‘What happens to you ?’ Oliver stared at him. ‘Is that what this is all about? You expect me to somehow put things right between us?’

      Tom gave a shrug. ‘Not exactly.’

      ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

      Tom scowled. ‘You’re so smug. Why did I never realise it before? You don’t care about anybody, do you, Oliver? God, no wonder Sophie was desperate for affection. She never got it from a cold bastard like you!’

      Oliver was around the desk, with his hand fisted in a handful of the other man’s shirt, hauling him up out of the chair before he could stop himself. ‘You—misbegotten sonofabitch,’ he growled, his fist drawing back to deliver the punch his brother so rightfully deserved. But when, instead of trying to defend himself, Tom merely closed his eyes and prepared to take his punishment, Oliver found he couldn’t do it. With a stifled oath, he flung him back again and strode across to the windows, struggling to regain his composure.

      There was silence in the room for several minutes after that. Oliver took the time to regulate his breathing, raking his fingers across his scalp, rumpling the thick mass of dark hair that brushed his collar at the back. He straightened the jacket of his light grey suit, checked that his tie fell smoothly against the pearl buttons of his white shirt. And did his best to remember that he was the victim here, not the apparently humbled man who still sat, unspeaking, in his chair.

      Finally, he was forced to turn round again. It was almost twenty minutes to four and he had to get Tom out of there before Sidney Adler arrived. Adler was a local politician who had been instrumental in Faulkner’s being given the contract to design the new shopping complex. He was also a close friend of Oliver’s partner, Andrew Faulkner, and unlikely to be impressed by Oliver bringing his personal problems into the office.

      Expelling another heavy sigh, he walked back to his desk and stood for a few moments looking down on Tom’s bent head. Then he said wearily, ‘What do you want, Tom? I can’t give you absolution. And I doubt if Sophie will appreciate hearing that you’ve been here, talking to me.’

      ‘She won’t care,’ said Tom, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and making a great play of blowing his nose. ‘I’ve probably beaten her to it, actually. She wanted out of our relationship just as much as me.’

      Oliver’s jaw almost dropped. ‘What?’ he exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘Did you come here to tell me you and Sophie have split up?’

      ‘What else?’ muttered Tom, with an indifferent gesture. ‘At present, she’s staying with her mother. Like I said before, it was all a terrible mistake.’

      It was almost six o’clock when Oliver left the office.

      Adler, he’d found, behaved like an old woman, and he’d spent at least half the time they were together gossiping about other local bureaucrats. There’d been little discussion of a useful nature and Oliver suspected he shouldn’t have shown the old man the bottle of Scotch he kept for visitors. Adler had accepted more than one glass to lubricate his ramblings, and Oliver felt significantly hyper now with the amount of Diet Coke he’d had to consume for courtesy’s sake.

      His car was parked in the basement garage. A twelve-year-old Porsche, it had been Oliver’s gift to himself when he’d first gone to work for Faulkner Engineering. It had also been the only luxury he’d refused to sell when Sophie left him. The house they’d shared had gone and most of his possessions. A necessity, in any case, as the loft apartment he’d moved into just didn’t have room for most of them.

      Before the divorce, he and Sophie had lived in an exclusive housing development north of Newcastle. It hadn’t been far from the garden centre, which was also situated in a village north of the city, and they had seen quite a lot of his parents and brother then. However, since his father’s retirement, his parents spent at least half the year abroad. They’d bought a villa in southern Spain, where his father’s ancestors had originated, and the old man always boasted he was returning to his roots.

      Now, reminiscing about his parents inevitably brought Oliver’s thoughts back to his brother. It hadn’t been easy persuading him to leave quietly, and even now Oliver wasn’t entirely clear what his visit had been about. What had Tom anticipated? he wondered. That he’d be so delighted that Tom and Sophie had parted, all would be forgiven? It was the most naïve kind of reasoning and Tom wasn’t that stupid.

      So why had he come? What motive had he had for making the trip? Oliver doubted they could ever be friends again. Not after all that had happened. And if Tom was expecting a different reaction, he was going to be disappointed.

      It briefly crossed his mind that Sophie might have sent him. If they’d separated, as he’d said, perhaps she had some idea of resurrecting their relationship. Which was equally ludicrous. Besides, he was flattering himself if he imagined she was hedging her bets.

      In any case, he had no desire to rekindle his relationship with his ex -wife. Whatever she thought, whatever interpretation she’d put on the emotional trauma he’d suffered when she left him, he was over it now. And it had never been wholly about Sophie. His brother’s betrayal had meant equally much, he realised now.

      Nevertheless, he’d had to agree to see Tom again. It had been the only way to get him out of the office before Adler turned up. Considering Adler’s penchant for gossip, Oliver had had no desire to learn that he’d provided juicy fodder at the next party conference.

      They’d agreed to meet the following lunchtime at The Crown in Tayford. It was years since Oliver had visited the pub, which was just a short distance from his parents’ home. Fortunately, his mother and father were away at the moment so there’d be no question of them getting involved. He knew his mother worried about his estrangement from his brother, and she was bound to think they were healing their differences if she knew.

      On impulse, Oliver turned in the opposite direction to his quayside apartment. A desire to see the garden centre again had him driving north out of Newcastle, heading towards the airport. But before then, he turned west towards Belsay on the road that delved deep into the Northumbrian countryside.

      Although Oliver had been born in the area, it was some years since he’d enjoyed making this journey. But with the rain giving way to the watery sunshine of a May evening, he felt an unaccustomed sense of well-being.

      Before reaching Belsay, he turned left yet again onto a narrow country road with high hedges on either side. The garden centre had been signposted from the major road and it was only about a quarter of a mile farther on, on the outskirts of Ridsgate, the nearest village to Tayford itself.

      Ferreira’s Plant World looked an impressive place viewed from the road. It had built up a fair reputation in recent years and people came quite a distance to wander round its gardens and greenhouses. As well as the usual ranks of hothouses, there were a shop, a café, a florist and a play area for children. And, although it was already after six o’clock, it was still doing a thriving business.

      There were several cars in the parking area and, although he hadn’t intended to stop, Oliver found himself easing the Porsche into a convenient space. He sat for a few minutes, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel, wondering what the hell he was doing here. And then, deciding he couldn’t