‘So,’ he said. ‘The polite little girl has spirit. And what else, I wonder?’
Andre jerked her forward, his other arm going round her, pulling her against him, and as her lips parted in furious protest his mouth came down hard on hers.
Ginny couldn't struggle, or cry out. She could scarcely breathe. He was holding her too closely, her hands trapped between their bodies. Nor could she resist the practised movement of his lips on hers, or the slow, sensual exploration of his tongue as he invaded the innocence of her mouth, tasting her sweetness. Drinking from her. Draining her as she swayed in his arms, her mind reeling from the shock of it. And yet—in some incalculable way—not wanting it to stop …
SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills and Boon® in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.
Inherited by Her Enemy
Sara Craven
To Eve, with love and thanks.
Contents
GINNY MASON SENT a wave and grateful smile to the last of the departing well-wishers, then closed the heavy front door against the raw chill of the late January afternoon with a deep sigh of relief.
That, she thought wryly, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe as she listened to the car draw away, was the worst part of the day over. At least she hoped so.
The crematorium chapel had been full, because her stepfather Andrew Charlton was popular in the locality and well respected as an employer too, being the recently retired head of his own successful light engineering company. But only a handful of those present had accepted Rosina Charlton’s invitation to return to the house for the lavish buffet she’d arranged and few had stayed for very long.
They still think of us as interlopers, Ginny told herself, pulling a face, and they probably feel that Andrew should have been buried next to his first wife after a church service.
Or, maybe, word of Mother’s plans has probably got around. Today Rosina had been the wistful, gracious chatelaine, fragile in black. Last night she’d declared peevishly that she couldn’t wait to sell Barrowdean House and get away from all these stuffed shirts, to somewhere with a bit of life.
‘The South of France, I think.’ She nodded. ‘One of those really pretty villas in the hills, with a pool. So nice for the grandchildren when they come to visit,’ she’d added with an arch look at her younger daughter.
‘For God’s sake, Ma,’ Lucilla had said impatiently. ‘Jonathan and I have only just got engaged. We won’t be thinking of a family for absolutely ages. I want some fun too.’
Nothing new there, then, Ginny had thought to herself. Although she supposed Cilla could hardly be blamed. She was ‘the pretty one’, whereas Ginny, as her mother often pointed out, took after her father. Her creamy skin and neat figure did not compensate for the fact that her hair was light brown instead of blonde, and her eyes were not blue but grey. And her face could best be described as unremarkable.
Cilla on the other hand was a true golden girl, spoiled since birth by everyone.
Even Andrew had not been immune, because, when she’d returned from completing her education at an expensive establishment in Switzerland, while he might have muttered about her doing some proper training and getting a job, he’d never insisted that she become gainfully employed.
And when she’d caught the eye of Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn’s only son, and courtship had proceeded rapidly to engagement, he’d nodded in a resigned way, as if weighing up the probable cost of the wedding.
An occasion he had not lived to see, thought Ginny, her throat tightening as she remembered the tall, thin kindly man who’d provided such safety and security in their lives for the past ten years.
As she began to recover from the immediate shock of Andrew’s death, she was already wondering why they hadn’t been warned about his heart condition.
But, as yet, she’d had no real opportunity to grieve. Her mother and Cilla’s hysterical reaction to their loss had demanded all her time and attention to begin with, and then had come the bombshell of Rosina’s decision to sell Barrowdean and move as soon as a buyer could be found, which had knocked her sideways all over again.
There was, her mother had claimed defiantly, nothing to keep her here, because Cilla, marrying darling Jonathan, would be well taken care of.
‘While you have your job at that funny little café,