‘Do cats come when you call?’
He looked over his shoulder. ‘No idea.’ Lydia was smiling, bright eyes ready to laugh and, God help him, he wanted to laugh back.
‘Look, why don’t you let me try and catch Nimrod? I can stay until he comes in for food.’
‘I couldn’t ask you to do that. I—’
‘Why ever not?’ She shook back her hair. ‘You’re obviously busy and I’m on holiday.’
‘On holiday?’
Her smile twisted. ‘I should be in Vienna. I flew back when I heard Wendy wanted me to write her biography.’
‘You broke off your holiday?’ He couldn’t quite believe it. What a pointless gesture. His godmother would have been more than happy to wait. There was nothing so important about the precise timing of this meeting which meant it couldn’t have been postponed.
‘Guilty as charged. Over-developed work ethic.’ She smiled, but this time it didn’t have the same effect. Nick could see a different face.
It was none of his business whether or not Lydia Stanford chose to curtail her holiday, but it reminded him of Ana. Still, four years after she’d left, he thought about her most days. There were reasons for that, of course. Good reasons.
In the three years they’d been married Ana had never taken a holiday. Had never turned off her cellphone. It was a price she’d been prepared to pay to achieve her goals. He couldn’t deny she’d been totally honest about that from the very beginning, and at the start he’d admired her for it.
Presumably Lydia Stanford would agree that that kind of commitment was necessary. They were wrong.
‘I’ve got the laptop in the car. I can work here and drive Nimrod over to you later.’ She looked across at him. ‘It’s not a problem.’
Nick glanced down at his watch. It was tempting to accept her offer. He had back-to-back meetings scheduled for the morning and paperwork that really needed looking at after that, besides squeezing in a visit to the hospital. But to accept meant…
She seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t take it as an endorsement of your godmother’s choice of biographer.’ She met his eyes. ‘By the way, what is your problem with me?’
‘Have I said there’s a problem?’ he countered.
‘You haven’t needed to. It’s obvious.’
He hesitated. ‘Wendy is capable of making her own decisions. In fact, she would strongly resent my interference in what doesn’t concern me.’
Even in his own head his reply sounded pompous and formal. Famed for his ‘tell it like it is’ approach to business, how had he become so verbally challenged when confronted by a beautiful…?
What was she? Not a blonde or a brunette. Richer than a blonde and lighter than a brunette.
‘I don’t believe that for a minute.’
He looked up.
‘Oh, I believe Wendy doesn’t like interference in her business. I’m like that myself, but—’ her eyes met his ‘—but I don’t believe you don’t tell her what you think. I’ve seen you two together, remember.’
He felt a small muscle pulse in his cheek. ‘I don’t want her hurt.’
‘I won’t.’
And, strangely, he believed her. There was an innate honesty in those rich eyes that made him want to trust her. Was that how she worked? Was it a highly cultivated technique which persuaded the unsuspecting to share their innermost secrets?
‘If you slander her in any way I’ll sue you.’
She didn’t flinch. ‘An authorised biography is just that—authorised.’ Then her face softened. ‘You really love her, don’t you?’
‘She’s a special lady.’
‘So I gather.’ Lydia slipped her arms out of her jacket and placed it over the chair by the table. ‘You can trust me. Where do you want me to take Nimrod to? Do you have a housekeeper to receive him?’
A housekeeper. A nanny. A daughter.
He didn’t trust her. Not with one atom of his body. If he left Lydia in the cottage she would, no doubt, look around. She’d open drawers and search through Wendy’s possessions. But then, Wendy herself had argued that she’d nothing to hide.
Let her search.
‘My housekeeper is Mrs Pearman. Christine Pearman.’ It felt as if he’d lost some unspoken battle. ‘Did your research on me extend to knowing where I live?’
As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted his phrasing of them. Lydia Stanford was doing him a favour. Even if she did have an unacknowledged agenda of her own.
‘You weren’t that much of an interest, but I’m sure I can find out with a couple of phone calls if you want to make it a game.’
He’d deserved that, Nick thought as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his card case. ‘It’s a ten, fifteen minute drive from here. No more.’ He scribbled down the address. ‘I’ll ring Christine and let her know to expect you. You’ll need to phone up to the house when you arrive and they’ll open the gates.’
Lydia took the card and looked down at it.
‘If you need to leave before Nimrod puts in an appearance, I’d be grateful if you’d leave a message with my secretary and I’ll come back this evening. The number’s on the front. It’s a direct line through to her. I don’t want you to feel you have to sit here for hours.’
She turned the card over. ‘It’s not a problem.’
‘No, well…thank you.’
Her eyes flashed up. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘I’ll lock the front door. If you leave the key beneath the flowerpot…’
‘No problem,’ she said again.
There was nothing left to do. ‘The cage is here.’ He pointed at the cat basket.
‘Yes.’
It was just leaving that was the problem. It was walking back down the hall and shutting the door.
Trust. This was about trust. About leaving her alone in Wendy’s cottage.
Or was it? There was the suspicion that this was about more than that. There was something about her golden aura that touched him. He knew it—and he was almost certain she did.
Danger. Fire. And Lydia Stanford. Like the Holy Trinity they belonged together.
‘Thank you.’
‘Give Wendy my…’Love. She’d been about to say love. Hardly appropriate for a woman she didn’t know. ‘Best wishes.’
His hand went to his tie. ‘I’ll do that.’
Lydia made herself smile. She didn’t know what was going on here. There were undercurrents she didn’t understand. ‘Perhaps she’ll ring me when she feels…ready?’
‘I’m sure she will.’
And then he left. Awkwardly—and she had no idea why. Why was it she felt so uncomfortable round Nicholas Regan-Phillips? It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to men with influence and money. She was.
She heard the front door click shut and gazed about Wendy Bennington’s tired kitchen. What the heck was she doing? And, more importantly, why was she doing it?
It was true, what she’d told Nicholas Regan-Phillips, she did have the time. This was her holiday.
Nicholas