Besides, their association was getting too serious. Luke seldom, if ever, continued a relationship beyond a couple of weeks. Occasionally, when he indulged in a little introspection, he put it down to the fact that his mother had walked out on his father when he was just a boy. Oliver Morelli had been shattered at this betrayal, and Luke had determined then never to suffer the same fate.
And he’d never been tempted. Except on one less-than-memorable occasion.
He strode out of the Mews now and along the Embankment. It was a beautiful morning; spring was definitely in the air. It was surprisingly warm, even at this early hour, and he decided to walk for a while before heading to his office.
The headquarters of the Morelli Corporation were in Canary Wharf, a far cry from the pokey premises in Covent Garden where he and Ray Carpenter had started the company. Of course, Ray was long gone these days. He’d decided to take his share of the business and move to Australia. He appeared to be doing pretty well, Luke had thought, when he’d visited him last year. But as Ray had said, not without a certain degree of good-natured envy, he was no longer in Luke’s league.
Jacob’s Tower, where the Morelli offices were situated, occupied a prominent position in Bank Street. There were several other companies leasing property in the building, with a branch of a well-known string of luxury hotels occupying the first three floors.
Luke’s office was on the penthouse floor, with an adjoining apartment that he used on occasion. But he also owned a house in Belgravia, an elegant Georgian property, that he’d invested in before the price of houses in London had hit the roof.
Luke attended the weekly board meeting and then informed his secretary that he was leaving for the rest of the day. ‘I’m going to drive down to Wiltshire, to take another look at those properties in Ashford-St-James,’ he told her, gathering the necessary files from his desk. ‘And I promised my father I’d call in on him. I haven’t seen him since we met in the solicitor’s office when Gifford died.’
‘Very well, Mr Morelli.’ Angelica Ryan, an efficient middle-aged woman in her fifties, who had been with him for the past ten years, nodded in agreement. ‘Will you be back tomorrow?’
‘I expect so.’ Luke pulled a wry face. ‘I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’
* * *
Responding to the uncompromising summons, Abby left the area devoted to the bookshop, and hurried across the café to the door. It was a reinforced glass door, although recently, on the advice of the local police constable, Abby had had an iron grill installed inside. But she could still see who her visitor was, and her heart sank at the sight of Greg Hughes.
Greg Hughes owned the photography studio next door. Abby assumed it had once been a thriving business, but these days, with amateur photographers and cameras in mobile phones, she wondered how he made a living.
To her regret, she didn’t like Greg. She’d tried to when she’d first moved into the café, but he’d instantly struck her as a smarmy character, always wanting to know all her personal details.
Harley didn’t like him either. The retriever, always such a placid animal, usually growled when Greg came onto the premises. Harley wasn’t permitted to have the run of the food area, of course, but just occasionally he managed to hide away behind the shelves of books.
‘Greg?’ Abby said now, the inquiry evident in her voice. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Damn right something’s wrong,’ declared her visitor irritably. ‘Haven’t you read your mail today?’
Abby frowned. ‘The mail hasn’t arrived yet,’ she said, feeling obliged to invite him inside. His breath smelt strongly of garlic and it wasn’t pleasant this early in the morning.
‘Well, did you read yesterday’s mail, then?’ demanded Greg, his chubby frame fairly quivering with indignation. ‘As you probably noticed, I was away at a craft fair yesterday, and I didn’t bother checking my post until this morning.’
Abby sighed. She refrained from telling him that she hadn’t noticed that his shop was closed. He got so few clients, it was difficult to tell when he was open and when he was not.
Besides, in all honesty, she rarely bothered reading through the pile of bills and circulars that came through her door on a daily basis. She saved them for when she was feeling confident that this month she’d make a profit.
‘I’m afraid I must have forgotten,’ she said, unable to imagine what might have got him so steamed. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘Oh, thanks.’
Taking her at her word, Greg appropriated one of the tables in the window, leaving Abby to bring his coffee to him.
Then, when he’d added cream and sugar to his liking, he said, ‘So you haven’t heard that old man Gifford has died and his son is selling this row of businesses to a developer.’
Abby’s jaw dropped. ‘No.’ She stared at him disbelievingly. ‘When did he die? Why weren’t we informed?’
‘Apparently, it was quite recently. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? I saw the old man in town about three months ago.’
Abby shook her head. ‘But can his son do this? I mean, I’ve got a lease.’
‘And when does your lease run out?’
‘Um—in about six months, I think. But I was hoping to extend it.’
‘As we all were,’ said Greg grimly. ‘But it’s not going to happen.’
Abby’s heart sank. ‘But this is my home as well as my business.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Greg took a generous mouthful of his coffee, smacking his lips with pleasure. ‘Hmm, that’s good.’
Abby couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘But what can we do?’
‘I haven’t given it a lot of thought yet,’ said Greg, swallowing more of his coffee. ‘We need to speak to the other shopkeepers first. I suppose we could contact Martin Gifford and ask him if he’d consider a raise in the rents instead.’
Abby frowned. ‘Do you think he might?’
‘No.’ Greg grimaced. ‘It’s about as likely as the developer withdrawing his offer.’
‘Like that’s going to happen.’ Abby looped her hands behind her neck, walking agitatedly about the room. ‘Developers don’t do that sort of thing.’
‘You said it.’
Greg finished his coffee and pushed his cup across the table towards her. But if he hoped she might offer him a refill, he was disappointed. Abby was already thinking she would have to conserve what few assets she had. She knew Mr Gifford’s son was unlikely to pay her for the improvements she’d made to the café when he intended on demolishing it.
Turning back to Greg, she said, ‘Do you know who the developers are?’
‘Why? Are you seriously thinking of appealing to their better nature?’
‘Of course not.’ Abby was impatient. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s not as if Ashford-St-James is a hive of industry.’
‘No, but it lacks a decent supermarket. According to the solicitor, whose letter I read this morning, the plan is to build a block of rental apartments above the retail area.’
Abby expelled a weary breath. ‘I wonder if they’ll offer us accommodation in the new apartments, at a reduced rate, of course.’
‘Well, I don’t need accommodation,’ said Greg a little smugly. ‘I bought my modest bungalow when property was cheap.’ He paused. ‘And you could always