Книга - Outsider

Outsider
Sara Craven


Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades and made her an international bestseller.OUTSIDERHer own father had betrayed her!When Natalie Drummond’s father was told by the doctor to "take it easy," she expected him to give her a partnership in his training stables. After all, she'd been running it successfully while he was in the hospital.But when he came home her hopes were completely dashed – he had sold the partnership to Eliot Lang, the notorious playboy of the horse-racing world.Despite the immediate and unwanted attraction Natalie felt for Eliot, her resentment continued. Especially when Eliot seemed to think that she was part of his purchase!









Outsider

Sara Craven







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.




Table of Contents


Cover (#u38d88e91-ec83-5abf-8100-3853500657fc)

Title Page (#ub5e7944d-b319-538f-842e-085455f5b01e)

About the Author (#u111eb07a-4d54-5e25-a2fc-7485684c5cad)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u1293e7cf-52a0-5751-8d18-68e81968c7eb)


OUTLINED ON THE hillside against the morning sky, horse and rider looked as if they had been carved from stone. Only the errant breeze, ruffling the mare’s mane, and blowing a tress of copper hair across the girl’s cheek, revealed that the silhouette was composed of flesh and blood.

Below, in the valley, it was business as usual at the Wintersgarth racing stables. From her eyrie, Natalie Drummond could see the second string going out for exercise. It was a world in miniature, operating as if by clockwork. She drew a swift, satisfied sigh.

My world, she thought. My world as it’s never been before.

She would have been down there, riding out with the horses, under normal circumstances, but today she had begged off, told Wes Lovett the head lad to handle the exercising himself. She was too excited, too much on edge to be around highly strung and volatile thoroughbreds. Some of her unease would undoubtedly have communicated itself to them, and caused problems.

She ran an affectionate hand down the mare’s neck. Whereas dear old Jasmine, of course, was too mature and too equable to care, she thought, smiling, as she glanced at her watch.

It was time she was getting back. They might already have phoned from the clinic to say her father was on his way back, and she wanted to be there when he arrived. It would probably be tactful to change out of her riding gear too, she acknowledged wryly. They would have a leisurely lunch to celebrate the fact that Grantham Slater’s heart attack had only been a mild one—a warning shot, Doctor Ellis had called it—and that he was home and safe again, and afterwards, when he was feeling warm and mellow with her stepmother’s incredible cooking, she would talk to him about what the consultant had said.

I can do it, she thought, as she turned Jasmine on to the track which led back to the stables. I’ve proved I can over these past weeks. Grantham can’t just dismiss me as an office clerk any more.

Somehow she would make him see that his absurd prejudice about making her his full partner had to be abandoned.

The consultant had been forthright when he’d talked to Beattie and herself. ‘He’s made an excellent recovery.’ He flicked his pen against the blotter on his desk. ‘But, inevitably, there are going to have to be some changes in his regimen, changes which he won’t like. He’s a determined man, and a successful one—a brilliant trainer of steeplechasers, they tell me. Well, I’m not suggesting he retires, but he has to find a way of taking life very much more easily than he has been doing if he wants to avoid a recurrence of his problem.’ He looked at Natalie. ‘You’re his only child, Mrs Drummond?’

She nodded. ‘My mother died when I was small. She was expecting another baby, but there were complications.’

‘But you do work for your father?’

‘Yes, but up to his illness, I was only a secretary. I did the correspondence, manned the phone, and did the bookkeeping and accounts.’ She looked down at her hands, tightly clasped together in her lap. ‘Grantham’s rather—old-fashioned. He’s never allowed me to be involved in the training side at all. He never even encouraged me to ride—I had to have lessons at school.’ She gave a constricted smile. ‘But you can’t be born and brought up in a racing stable without absorbing a certain amount of expertise. I’ve managed to put mine to good use while my father’s been ill.’

He smiled at her. ‘I’m sure you have.’ He turned to Beattie. ‘And you, Mrs Slater. Are you involved in the running of the stables as well?’

If she hadn’t been so worried, Natalie could have collapsed in gales of giggles at the look of sheer horror on Beattie’s face. Her stepmother was a warm and lovely lady, but she regarded all horseflesh with acute misgivings, and never went anywhere near the stables if she could help it.

Beattie accompanied her husband to race meetings, knowing that her elegant, expensively clad presence beside him was an affirmation of his prosperity, but she usually stayed away from the paddock.

Now she said weakly, ‘I’m afraid not. Do—do you think I should be?’

‘I think someone will have to be,’ the consultant returned. ‘It’s essential that your husband starts to share some of his responsibilities.’ He looked again at Natalie. ‘It would seem, Mrs Drummond, that you’re in the ideal position to do this—your family commitments allowing, of course.’

Natalie lifted her chin. ‘I’m a widow,’ she said quietly. ‘Apart from Beattie and my father, I have no family. I’ll be glad to do whatever I can to help Grantham.’

‘If he’ll let you,’ Beattie observed frankly as they drove home.

‘“If” is right,’ Natalie agreed, her fine brows drawing together as she slowed for a traffic light. ‘Ever since they allowed him access to a phone, he’s been calling Wes with instructions each morning.’ She grimaced. ‘Fortunately they’ve invariably been the same instructions that I’d already issued, so Wes just agrees to everything—and on we go.’ She sighed. ‘One of these days I’ll have to tell Grantham I’ve been running things while he’s been away, but I’m not looking forward to it.’

‘I don’t suppose you are.’ Beattie was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve never been able to understand why Grantham keeps you chained to that office desk. Doesn’t he realise you have the same feeling for those four-legged monsters that he has himself?’

‘He knows.’ Natalie let out the clutch and they moved off again. ‘I thought at first when he refused point blank to let me work with the horses that it was just plain sexism. He’s never employed girls in the stables in any capacity, after all. But it seems to go deeper than that.’ She paused. ‘I hoped—when I married Tony—that his attitude might soften, but he seemed more determined than ever to keep me out of things. It took me quite a while to realise that he saw in Tony the son he’d always wanted—an heir apparent for Wintersgarth. All I was needed for was to—carry on the succession.’

‘Nat, my dear!’ There was shock as well as compassion in Beattie’s soft voice.

‘Do I sound bitter?’ Natalie asked ruefully. ‘Well, I was, even after Tony was killed. Father seemed to blame me for not being pregnant.’ She forced a smile. ‘If I’d been a mare, I think he’d have sold me.’

‘Or found a better stallion,’ said Beattie thoughtfully.

Natalie nearly stalled the car.

‘Or even that,’ she agreed, her voice quivering a little. ‘As it is, there’s no one left but me, and somehow I have to persuade him to make the best of it, and take me into full partnership. My God, good women trainers aren’t exactly unknown in steeplechasing! And I could be good—I know it.’ She sighed. ‘It isn’t my fault I was born female.’

Beattie shot her a dry look. ‘Some people might regard it as a distinct advantage.’

‘But then you’re prejudiced,’ Natalie returned affectionately.

The memory of the exchange made her smile as she rode Jasmine sedately under the archway into the stableyard, glancing around her as she did so. Everything as far as she could see had been honed to its usual pristine state. The boxes were gleaming, the gravel had been raked, and there was a busy, excited hum round the place.

All the lads, she knew, were looking forward to seeing her father restored to health, and back where he belonged. Grantham Slater had the reputation of being a hard man in many ways, and an exacting employer, but he was also fair, and paid good wages for good work.

‘We know where we stand with the boss,’ Wes had once explained it simply to her.

Well, the boss would have nothing to complain of when he did his round at evening stables, as he undoubtedly would, thought Natalie as she rode Jasmine into the second, smaller yard and dismounted.

Beattie was talking optimistically of persuading her husband to take it easy, but Natalie was sure he’d have other ideas.

She led Jasmine into her stall and began to unsaddle her. It had done her good to ride out, helping her to get things into perspective, see how best to tackle her father.

He was a logical man, she thought, as she began to brush Jasmine down. When he realised how well she’d coped in his absence, he’d change his mind about having her as a partner. Besides, what real choice did he have? For once in his life, Grantham Slater would have to bow to circumstance, instead of bending it to his will as he usually did.

‘Excuse me, Miss Natalie.’ The voice behind her made her jump. She’d been too preoccupied with her own thoughts to hear Ben Watson’s approach. ‘Mrs Slater’s been on the phone, asking for you. I can finish off Jasmine if you want to get up to the house.’

Natalie forced a smile. ‘It’s all right, I’ll see to her myself, thanks.’

Watson lingered. ‘I thought you might be in a bit of a hurry. It’s a great day, after all.’

She nodded, and concentrated her attention on Jasmine, hoping he would take the hint and go. She’d no idea why she didn’t like Ben Watson. He was quiet and polite, and Wes had no complaints about his work, but there was something … something about the way he looked at her which had made Natalie wish more than once that she was several inches taller, and a couple of stone heavier, and looked like one of the horses. At the same time, she told herself she was probably imagining things. His attitude to her was always respectful—even deferential.

I’ve just taken agin him, she thought ruefully, and knew by the sudden slackening of some inner tension that he had departed.

When she got to the house, Beattie was rushing into the dining room with a vase of flowers.

‘Would you believe it?’ she flung at Natalie. ‘Grantham’s just rung to say he’s invited two extra people to lunch. Bang goes our quiet family party!’

‘Oh, Beattie!’ Natalie was taken aback. ‘That’s too bad of him, it really is! Did he say who they were?’

Beattie flapped an agitated hand. ‘Well, there’s Andrew Bentley, for one—and he did mention the other name, but I’ve forgotten.’ She paused. ‘I just hope there’s enough food.’

Natalie sent her an affectionate grin. ‘Of course there will be. Judging by last night’s preparations, you could feed the entire membership of the Jockey Club, if they turned up, let alone Dad’s solicitor and some unknown quantity. Is there anything I can do?’

‘Not really.’ Beattie secretly revelled in domestic crises, her stepdaughter suspected. ‘Although—darling, you might put on a dress.’

‘I’d already planned to.’ Natalie grimaced. ‘I don’t want to give Dad any cause for complaint, today of all days.’

She was thoughtful as she went up to her room. It seemed odd that Andrew Bentley was coming to lunch on Grantham’s first day out of the clinic. Was he coming as legal adviser, or family friend? she wondered. If it was purely a social visit, then Liz would probably be coming with him, and that would explain the extra person. But that can’t be, she thought rather restively. Beattie and Liz are friends. She wouldn’t forget the name of Andrew’s wife, no matter how much of a flap she was in.

She showered swiftly, then dressed in a simple navy shirtwaister—a compromise, she thought as she tugged a comb through her tangle of copper hair, between the ultra-feminine clothes Grantham preferred her to wear, and the businesslike exterior she wished to present. She toyed with the idea of putting her hair up, but decided that would be carrying the new efficient image too far.

Excitement always made her pale, so she added a judicious amount of blusher to her cheeks, and a modicum of shadow to emphasise the lustre of her green eyes under their sweep of dark lashes.

Daddy’s pretty little daughter, she thought with irony as she surveyed the results of her labours. Only not a cipher any more, but a force to be reckoned with.

She heard the sound of a car on the drive, and flew to the window. It was the hired vehicle Grantham had insisted on, having explosively turned down his wife and daughter’s offers to drive him home themselves.

‘Women drivers!’ he’d snorted. ‘I’m not in line for another heart attack, thank you!’

‘Chauvinist,’ Beattie had teased, squeezing his hand with love, but Natalie found her own smile rather fixed.

Now she hung back a little, waiting for her father and his wife to enjoy their reunion in a certain amount of privacy. Or was that an excuse, because the thought of facing Grantham on his own ground was suddenly a daunting one?

Natalie squared her shoulders and went downstairs.

Grantham was ensconced in his favourite chair in the drawing room. He was a big man still, although he had lost weight since his illness. Here and there in his thick grey thatch of hair, a few streaks of copper like Natalie’s own still lingered. He had a strong face which could look harsh, but was now relaxed in the pleasure of seeing his home, and his wife again. His smile widened for Natalie.

‘Well, my girl?’

‘Very well, thanks.’ She stooped and kissed him. ‘And you look fine yourself.’

He gave her a derisive look. ‘A dramatic improvement on last night, eh?’

‘A dramatic improvement every day from now on,’ she told him steadily. ‘As long …’

‘As long as I do what the doctor tells me,’ he finished for her, his tone quite amiable. ‘Well, I intend to, lass, I intend to. I’ve had a shock, and I don’t mind admitting it. I didn’t think it would happen to me. So there’ll have to be some changes.’ He gave her an enigmatic look. ‘And they’ll involve you.’

Natalie’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her voice level. No girlish excitement, she told herself fiercely, and no grovelling gratitude either. I’ve worked for this moment, and I’ve deserved it. ‘I thought perhaps we might talk after lunch,’ she said.

‘I can say what I’ve got to say now.’ He paused. ‘I suppose Beattie told you I’ve asked Andrew to lunch.’

‘Yes, she did.’ Natalie ruffled his hair. ‘Bit of a dirty trick, landing her with last-minute guests.’

‘She can manage,’ said Grantham calmly. ‘And I wanted to get things settled—put on a proper footing without delay. Owners are queer folk. They don’t like uncertainty.’

Don’t I know it! Natalie said silently. The hours I’ve spent on the phone reassuring a whole list of them that it’s business as usual, and that there’s no need to take their horses away so close to the start of the jumping season.

Aloud, she said, ‘There haven’t been any real problems.’

‘I should think not,’ he said with a touch of his old asperity. ‘They know when they’re well off, most of them. I train winners in this yard, not also-bloody-rans.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Where’s Andrew? I told him to be here by twelve. It’s these damned motorways—they’re always digging them up.’

Natalie’s brows shot up. ‘But Andrew doesn’t have to use the motorway,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘He’s coming from Harrogate.’

‘I know he is. It’s t’other one, driving up from Lambourn. Andrew’s bringing him here.’ Grantham’s tone was short.

‘From Lambourn?’ echoed Natalie, frowning. ‘Who in the world’s coming all that distance?’

‘Eliot Lang.’

‘Good God,’ Natalie said slowly. ‘The playboy of National Hunt racing, no less! And why is he venturing this far north?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Is he going to ride for us?’

Grantham snorted. ‘Of course not. He’s retired. It was all over the papers two months since.’

She remembered now. It had caused quite a sensation—one of the country’s top steeplechase riders and a former champion jockey retiring in his early thirties. She’d absorbed the information and then discarded it as having no significance to her.

Now, suddenly, she wasn’t so sure.

She said, ‘Then what is he coming for?’

‘He’s coming because I’ve asked him to,’ said her father. ‘It isn’t a decision I’ve made lightly. If I were still on my own in life, I’d probably have said hang the doctors, and carried on as usual. But there’s Beattie to think of now.’ His face softened. ‘We’ve only been married two years, and I don’t reckon on making her a widow quite yet, so I’m going to behave myself, and take the advice I’ve been given as if I was grateful for it—which I’m not. These are my stables, and I built them up from what your grandfather left, and I’d no thought to share them with anyone except my own kith and kin. But with Tony gone, and no grandchild to think of, I had to reconsider. And they tell me I need a partner to take the weight of this place off my shoulders.’

Natalie knew what was coming, and was terrified by it. She said urgently, ‘Dad, I could …’

‘That you couldn’t.’ One brief phrase smashed her dreams to smithereens. ‘You know my views, and they haven’t changed. I need a man—someone who knows jump racing, and can stand shoulder to shoulder with me. Lang’s never ridden for me, but I’ve always respected him, even if he did get his name into the gossip columns more than I care for. Well, a lad must sow his wild oats, I suppose. Anyway, the papers said he was thinking of going into training, so I got Andrew to contact him, and we’ve agreed terms. He’s buying a half share in Wintersgarth.’

She felt numb. There was a fold of her dress between her fingers, and she was pleating and unpleating it endlessly as she tried to assimilate what he had been saying.

The weeks of struggle, of trying to prove herself, had all been in vain. While she’d been working her guts out through all the hours God sent to keep Wintersgarth together, Grantham had been making his own plans. Plans which totally excluded her, she realised.

She ran the tip of her tongue round dry lips. ‘And what’s going to happen to me?’

Her father looked at her as if the question surprised him. ‘Well, you’ll do your normal job, same as always. He’s quite amenable to that.’

She said thickly, ‘How good—how very good of him.’

‘And you’ll be provided for in the long term, naturally, if there’s need.’

If there was need … Natalie’s head reeled. All her life she’d been totally dependent on her father. At school, she’d opted for a commercial course rather than pursue an academic career so that she could work in the stables office. Because in those days, naïvely, she’d thought that might be a foot in the door to better things.

And marriage had changed nothing. She had met Tony shortly after her father had employed him as stable jockey on a retainer, and the wedding had taken place two months later, which meant there were two of them dependent on Grantham Slater instead of one. Tony had been a more than promising jockey, and he had enjoyed the fruits of his success, living for the present. After he had been killed, she discovered he’d been living on overdraft. She had paid it off, but the way the debts had been incurred still rankled … She closed her mind abruptly, and focused on what was happening here in this room, right now.

‘I suppose I must be grateful for small mercies. At least I still have a roof over my head.’

‘There’s no need to take that tone.’ His voice was repressive. ‘And don’t tell me you’d thoughts of filling my shoes here, because I know it already. And you know my opinion on the subject. Or did you think a heart attack would soften my brain as well? The stables are no place for you, Natalie. They never were, and they never will be, so make your mind up to it. And keep off the backs of my thoroughbreds,’ he added. ‘A time or two I phoned here to be told you were out with one of the strings. That stops as of now, although I won’t deny you the exercise you need. Maybe old Jasmine’s bit tame for you. I’ll find you a good hack …’

‘No, thanks.’ Natalie shook her head. ‘Jasmine suits me very well.’

An hour ago, barely more, she had sat on that hill with the world at her feet. Now, everything she had ever wanted had been snatched away from her and given to a stranger, although that was surely a misnomer applied to Eliot Lang. His career and lifestyle had been described so often in the newspapers as to make them totally familiar.

Unlike Tony, who had been an apprentice, Eliot Lang had started his racing career as an amateur. He’d enjoyed a meteoric success, which hadn’t prevented his wealthy family protesting volubly when he became a professional. And he had been making headlines ever since. He’d spent several seasons riding for Kevin Laidlaw, and then had left in a blaze of publicity and innuendo which said that Laidlaw had dismissed him because he couldn’t keep his hands off his wife. The Laidlaws had vehemently denied the rumours, but Eliot Lang had said ‘No comment’ and gone to ride for Duncan Sanders, who was divorced. At least from then on he’d seemed to keep away from married women, perhaps because of the horsewhipping Kevin Laidlaw was alleged to have threated him with. But he had never maintained a low profile. The good life was there, and he enjoyed it, in the company of a succession of models and actresses, few of them distinguishable from their predecessors. And at the same time, he took more winners past the post than his rivals thought decent. His cottage in Lambourn had been the subject of a colour spread in a Sunday supplement.

Her mouth curling in distaste, Natalie thought, He’ll find Wintersgarth dull.

Aloud she asked, ‘Does Beattie know what you intend?’

She was thankful when her father shook his head. If Beattie had known, and not told her, that would have been another betrayal, and she felt bruised enough.

She got to her feet. ‘I’ll go and see if we’ve got any of Andrew’s favourite sherry.’

‘That’s a good lass.’

That was what he approved of, she thought bitterly as she went out into the hall—her ability to deal with small domestic details, to shelter him from unwanted phone calls from querulous owners.

In the kitchen, Beattie was stirring a pan of soup on the Aga. She said over a shoulder, ‘Have a look at the dining-room, and tell me if it’s all right.’ Then she saw Natalie’s white face and blazing eyes, and her tone sharpened. ‘Nat darling, whatever’s the matter?’

‘Eliot Lang,’ said Natalie. ‘The man whose name you forgot.’

‘Why, so it is.’ Beattie shook her head. ‘I knew it was something familiar. He’s some kind of jockey, isn’t he?’

‘He certainly was,’ Natalie said grittily. ‘Now he’s going to be some kind of trainer—here.’

Beattie’s lips parted in a soundless gasp, then she turned back to her soup. There was a prolonged silence, then she said, ‘But where does that leave you?’

‘Back at square one, where I apparently belong. Only I now have two bosses.’

Beattie said half to herself, ‘He told me he had a surprise, but it never occurred to me …’ She stopped. ‘Oh, my dear child, I’m so sorry! It’s so cruel—so unnecessary.’

‘So unacceptable,’ Natalie completed. ‘If I’m going to be a dogsbody, I can find another office somewhere—preferably as far from racing as possible.’

Beattie transferred her pan to the simmering plate. She said, ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Oh, but I do,’ Natalie said bitterly. ‘I’ve had enough. I’ve tried my damnedest for Dad, but I’m never going to measure up to the standard he wants—because I don’t even know what his criteria are, and I suspect he doesn’t either.’

‘All the same,’ said Beattie, ‘you mustn’t leave.’

‘You think I’d stay and watch that—that racetrack Romeo help himself to my inheritance?’ Natalie asked fiercely. ‘Over my dead body!’

Beattie said quietly, ‘If you leave now, like this, it could be over Grantham’s.’ She sat down beside Natalie at the kitchen table. ‘We’re not supposed to expose him to any kind of upset—the doctor said so.’

‘He probably wouldn’t even notice I’d gone—until he wanted his letters typed, or found the owners weren’t paying their bills on time.’

‘That isn’t true, and you know it,’ Beattie said roundly. ‘He loves you, Nat, although I admit he has a very strange way of showing it. He has this—fixation about women working with horses.’ She paused. ‘I think one of the reasons he fell in love with me is that I know nothing about the beasts except that they bite at one end, and kick at the other.’ She smiled at Natalie. ‘There were a lot of women after him, you know, who had strong connections with racing, who’d have been able to talk to him about horses in an intelligent manner. Coral LeFevre, for one.’

In spite of her wretchedness, Natalie felt her lips curve in the ghost of a smile. ‘The Black Widow? What makes you think that?’

‘The way she still looks at him,’ said Beattie simply. ‘I know that a lot of your father’s friends and colleagues were horrified when he married me, when there were so many more suitable wives around.’ She thought for a minute. ‘But my attraction for your father was my unsuitability, somehow. We met at a concert he’d been dragged to, and he didn’t mind that I thought the Derby and the Grand National were the same kind of race. He’s never minded it. In a way, I’m part of the same fixation. I’m happy with my music and my cooking, and that makes Grantham happy too. I can’t explain it.’ She gave Natalie a level look. ‘I sympathise with you, every step of the way, but I love Grantham, and I won’t have him upset for any reason, however good. If you really want to leave, wait a few weeks until he’s stronger, and feelings have cooled. You can’t quarrel with him, Nat. I won’t allow it.’

There was a long silence, then Natalie said dully, ‘Very well. You’re right, of course. I’d never forgive myself if there was a row, and it caused—problems.’ She shook herself, and stood up. ‘But I can’t sit at that table with Eliot Lang and eat lunch as if nothing has happened. Make some excuse for me, Beattie, please. Tell them I’ve got a headache, or bubonic plague, or something.’

Beattie groaned. ‘I’ll do my best—but, Nat, your father won’t be pleased.’

Natalie opened the kitchen door. She said, ‘I promise you he’d be even less pleased to hear me tell Eliot Lang to go to hell.’

That, she thought, was relatively mild compared with what she’d really like to say to him, so why was Beattie sitting there looking as if she’d been frozen?

She turned to walk into the hall, and cannoned straight into six foot of bone, sinew and muscle, standing there on the threshold. As unusually strong arms steadied her, she thought confusedly, Andrew? and realised in the same moment that it couldn’t be. Andrew was only medium height and distinctly pudgy. Whereas this man, she thought as she took a hurried step backwards, hadn’t a spare ounce of flesh anywhere.

Her face burning, she looked up to encounter hazel eyes regarding her with no expression whatever.

‘Now, why should you tell me any such thing?’ said Eliot Lang.




CHAPTER TWO (#u1293e7cf-52a0-5751-8d18-68e81968c7eb)


NATALIE WANTED THE floor to open and swallow her, but it remained disappointingly solid, so she rallied her defences.

‘I think that’s my business,’ she retorted, her chin tilted dangerously. ‘Perhaps you should remember what they say about eavesdroppers, Mr Lang,’ She realised his hands were still gripping her upper arms, not too gently, and she stiffened. ‘And will you kindly get your hands off me!’

He released her so promptly it was almost an insult. Then he was walking past her, the thin, tanned face relaxing into a smile.

‘Mrs Slater?’ He held out his hand to Beattie. ‘I’m sorry for this apparent intrusion, but your husband thought you might not have heard Mr Bentley’s car arrive, so I volunteered to find you.’ He looked round him, his smile widening. ‘Not that it’s any hardship,’ he added appreciatively. ‘Something smells absolutely fantastic!’

‘It’s just ordinary home cooking,’ said Beattie with modest untruthfulness, as she shook hands with him. Her candid grey eyes looked him over. ‘You look as if you could do with some.’

He laughed. ‘You could be right. I’ve spent so many years living on starvation rations to keep my weight down, that it’s hard to believe I can now eat as much as I want.’

There was a pause, then Beattie said with slight awkwardness, ‘And this, of course, is my stepdaughter Natalie.’

He turned back towards Natalie. ‘How do you do,’ he said with cool civility.

The swift charm which had bowled over Beattie, it seemed, could be switched on and off at will, Natalie thought with contempt.

She returned a mechanically conventional greeting, then excused herself on the grounds that she had to see to the drinks.

Her retreat was in good order, but when she was safely alone, she found her heart was pounding as if she’d taken to her heels and fled from him.

It was infuriating to realise she had been betrayed into such a schoolgirlish piece of rudeness, but at least Eliot Lang now knew quite unequivocally where he stood where she was concerned, she thought defiantly.

Andrew’s greeting was rather less ebullient then usual, she realised as she took the drinks into the drawing-room. He knew, none better, how desperately keen she’d been to join Grantham as his partner, and she thought she saw a measure of compassion in his gaze, as he swapped genialities with her about how good it was to have her father back again, and how well he was looking.

Gradually she recovered her composure, and by the time Eliot Lang accompanied her stepmother into the room, she was able to meet the rather searching look he sent her with an appearance, at least, of indifference.

She found, to her annoyance, that she was stationed opposite him at the dining-table, although the conversation was general enough to enable her to avoid having to address him directly. Her father was in his most expansive and relaxed mood, making no secret of his delight at the success of his plans.

Naturally, as the meal wore on, the talk turned to racing, and Eliot Lang’s past triumphs, although in fairness Natalie had to admit the subject wasn’t introduced by him, and he seemed reluctant to discuss them, commenting instead with open wryness on his failure ever to ride a Grand National winner.

‘It’s only one race,’ Grantham leaned back in his chair. ‘And that last Gold Cup of yours must have made up for everything.’

Eliot Lang laughed. He had good teeth, Natalie noticed, white and very even. ‘It was Storm Trooper’s race. All I had to do was sit tight.’

‘Don’t denigrate yourself, lad. He nearly went at that last fence, thanks to that damned loose horse. You held him up, and took him on.’ Grantham shook his head. ‘A great win —a truly great win.’

Natalie stole a covert look at Eliot Lang under her lashes, trying to visualise him sweat-streaked and mud-splashed. In the dark, elegant suit, its waistcoat accentuating his slim waist, the gleam of a silk tie setting off his immaculate white shirt, he looked more like a successful City executive.

And he was undeniably attractive, she thought resentfully, if you liked that sort of thing, his good looks only slightly marred by the slanting scar that slashed across one cheekbone.

It was a tough face, the cleft in his chin, and the firm line of his mouth emphasising the ruthlessness and determination which had always been a hallmark of his riding. ‘Fearless’, she recalled unwillingly, had been one of the adjectives most often used by the sports writers.

With a faint shock, she realised he was watching her in his turn, a faintly cynical smile playing round his lips. Natalie transferred her gaze hastily back to her plate, trying to control her confusion.

He probably thought she was another potential conquest, she thought scornfully. Well, he would soon discover his mistake.

Beattie was speaking. ‘After all the success and the excitement, Mr Lang, aren’t you going to find training rather—mundane?’

He smiled at her. ‘Won’t you please call me Eliot? And the simple answer to your question is—no, I’m sure I won’t. I’m looking forward immensely to joining you here at Wintersgarth.’

‘But you’re still quite young to have retired from National Hunt racing,’ persisted Beattie. ‘Grantham says you still had years of winning in front of you.’

He shrugged ironically, ‘Perhaps.’

‘So how could you bear to turn your back on it, when you were still at the peak?’

He was silent for a moment, the straight dark brows drawn together. ‘I suppose it was a question of motivation,’ he said at last. ‘I had a couple of bad falls last season.’ His hand went up and touched the scar. ‘They rather brought home to me that I was over thirty now, and that letting horses stamp you into the mud was not the way I wanted to spend part of the next decade. I had to start thinking about a new career, and as I want to stay with horses, training seemed the ideal answer.’ He smiled. ‘Once I’d made up my mind, it really wasn’t that hard to walk away.’

Natalie said, ‘And will you find it just as easy to walk away from us when you’ve had enough?’

His brows lifted. ‘This isn’t a whim, Miss Slater. It’s strictly business. I’m investing in Wintersgarth.’

‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful,’ she said. ‘Not that we need your money—we’ve always made out financially. But it’s natural I should be concerned about your—er—motivation. After all, you don’t exactly have a reputation for fidelity.’

‘Natalie!’ It was a bark from her father, his face thunderous. He turned to Eliot. ‘I must apologise for my daughter. Sometimes her tongue runs away with her.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Eliot, ‘If she has misgivings, it’s best that they’re aired now.’ He leaned across the table, his hazel eyes boring into Natalie’s. ‘My partnership with your father isn’t just a flash in the pan, Miss Slater. I’m coming to him to learn from his genius, and maybe contribute some skills of my own, and it’s for the rest of my life.’ He added drily, ‘I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit the image you seem to have of me.’

She was furiously aware she’d been cut down to size by an expert.

She said, ‘That’s—reassuring. But you live in the South. Your life has been based there, near the bright lights. Aren’t you going to find Yorkshire quiet and dull?’

‘Even the brightest lights can pall.’ He looked amused. ‘And I was born here, you know, although admittedly it was more by accident than design. My parents were staying with friends during the hunting season, and had totally misjudged the possible time of my arrival.’

Everyone was laughing with him, enjoying the slackening of tension, although the glance Grantham bestowed on Natalie was minatory, promising a tongue-lashing later.

She wished now she’d kept quiet. There was obviously nothing to be gained from confrontation.

‘What will you do about your lovely cottage?’ Beattie asked. ‘Keep it for weekends?’

‘No.’ Eliot shook his head. ‘I’ve already told one of the local agents to put it on his books.’ He paused. ‘But you’re not going to be lumbered with a lodger, Mrs Slater. I’m quite self-sufficient, I promise you, and your husband mentioned something about a self-contained flat over the garages that might be suitable, at least on a temporary basis.’

Natalie said sharply, ‘The flat? Dad, you didn’t!’

Grantham’s florid face adopted a moderately apologetic expression. ‘Maybe I should have talked it over with you, lass, but I’ve had other things on my mind.’ He turned to Eliot. ‘My daughter’s name is Drummond, actually. She was widowed three years ago, but the flat in question was built to accommodate Nat and her husband originally.’

Eliot’s eyes surveyed Natalie’s bare hands briefly, then he said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. Naturally if it’s going to cause Mrs Drummond any distress, I’ll willingly look for an alternative.’

‘Nonsense,’ Grantham said robustly. ‘The flat’s there, and it’s empty. Nat never goes near the place. Anyway, have a look at it, and see what you think.’

Natalie didn’t want to hear any more. She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I won’t have coffee, Beattie. I have to telephone the feed merchant.’ She sketched some kind of smile round the table. ‘If you’ll excuse me …?’

The office was a big, cluttered comfortable room, and it seemed like a sanctuary to Natalie as she sank into the chair behind her desk. She had letters to reply to, messages on the answering machine to listen to, as well as the call to the feed merchant, but for a moment she could deal with none of it. The thought of Eliot Lang taking over the home where her marriage to Tony had started out with such high hopes sickened her. Although she might have felt differently if she’d liked him, she admitted, biting her lip. Or would she?

When she had moved out, to resume life in her old room in her father’s house after the funeral, she’d turned the key in the lock as if she was closing off a part of her life. It had never occurred to her that it might have to be re-opened. They had never needed the flat. The lads had their own block, and Wes had a cottage in the village.

She supposed she should have seen it coming, but she hadn’t …

She shivered, then drew the phone towards her and began to dial the feed merchant’s number. In deference to Beattie’s wishes, she would carry on here until Grantham’s health was assured, but then she would be off and running, she told herself grimly. And she would start looking round to see what jobs were available without delay. Grantham would find he was not the only one who could hold his cards close to his chest.

Her father came into the office half an hour later. She had half expected Andrew and Eliot Lang to be with him, but he was alone. He walked past her into the inner office, which was far smaller, and more luxuriously appointed, and which he kept for entertaining favoured owners.

‘Come through, will you,’ he said over his shoulder, as he disappeared through the door.

Oh, hell, Natalie thought, as she rose to her feet. Now I’m for it! And I swore I wouldn’t upset him.

She picked up the ledgers, and carried them through with her. She said meekly, ‘I thought you might like to see the accounts, Dad.’

‘All in good time,’ he returned. He reached for the big silver cigar box, drew it towards him, then with a resigned air pushed it away again. ‘I feel undressed without them, damn it,’ he muttered, then focused sharply on his daughter. He said grimly, ‘Disappointment is one thing, Natalie, although it’s fair to say you built your own hopes up. I never did. But bloody rudeness and cussedness is another, and it has to stop. Do I make myself clear?’ He paused. ‘I was at fault over the flat business, and I admit it, although I didn’t know you had any sentimental attachment to it. But it’s standing empty, and I’m paying rates on it, so it might as well be let or sold. And there’s no reason why Eliot shouldn’t use it while he looks for his own place. Is there?’

He waited, while she shook her head, slowly and reluctantly.

‘That’s settled then.’ he leaned back in his chair. ‘Eliot’s joining us here, Natalie, whether you like it or not, my girl. We signed the papers after lunch, so you’re going to have to make the best of it, and if you’ve any sense, you’ll get on with him.’ He gave her a dry look. ‘A lot of lasses seem to take to him. No reason why you can’t too, even if he has put your nose out of joint.’

‘Do you really think it’s that simple?’ she asked bitterly.

‘I think you’re making difficulties where there are none,’ he retorted calmly. ‘I’ll tell you something. Eliot’s more than ready to meet you half-way. He’d probably be glad of some company—someone to show him the countryside round here.’

Her lips parted in disbelief as she looked down at him. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘I’m not joking either.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve been living like a nun for the past three years, Natalie, and don’t tell me any different. But you can’t grieve for ever, lass, so why not get out a bit—live a little?’ He smiled. ‘You never know, you might …’

‘No!’ Natalie exploded. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking, and if wasn’t so nauseating, it would be ridiculous. Your first attempt at matchmaking worked, so be content with that. There’ll never be another. Eliot Lang is the last kind of man I’d ever want to be involved with. His—type revolts me. If he ever touched me—I’d die!’ She stopped with a little gasp, looking anxiously at her father, but he seemed perfectly composed.

‘Well, if that’s how you feel, I’ll say no more.’ He picked up a paperweight carved in the shape of a horse, and began to toy with it. ‘But there’s no accounting for taste, I must say. He’s got my Beattie eating out of his hand already,’ he added with a faint grin. ‘But you’re going to be civil to Eliot, and you can start by showing him round the yard—and the flat.’

‘Is that an order?’ she asked huskily.

‘If it needs to be,’ he said genially. ‘Now, off you go.’

Eliot was waiting by the tack room. Leaning against the door, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun, he looked relaxed and very much at home.

‘Ah,’ he said lazily. ‘My guide.’ He looked at the bunch of keys dangling from her hand. ‘Shall we have a look at the flat first?’

She was taken aback. ‘But don’t you want to see the yard—the horses?’

‘I’ve done my homework,’ he said drily. ‘I know what horses are in training here, what they cost, and what the next season’s hopes are. Any more I want to know on that score, I can ask Wes Lovett, when he comes back for evening stables. I don’t want to intrude on his time with his family.’

‘I can tell you anything you want to know.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Mrs Drummond, what makes you tick. And why I’m so clearly not the flavour of the month.’

Natalie looked past him, remembering Grantham’s strictures, and measuring her words accordingly.

She said abruptly, ‘You were—a shock. I had no idea Grantham was planning to take on an outsider as a partner.’

‘Then what did you think he’d do? Carry on as if nothing had happened? As if that attack had been a figment of his imagination?’

The note in his voice stung her, and she flushed. ‘No, of course not. But there was an alternative.’

‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘As a matter of academic interest, of course.’

She said baldly, and ungrammatically, ‘There was me.’

There was a long silence. Then Eliot said, ‘Everything suddenly becomes much clearer. Well, well. So you see yourself as a trainer of champion ‘chasers, do you, Mrs Drummond?’

‘Yes, I do. For years I’ve been begging my father to give me a chance—ever since I left school. When he was ill, I thought it was an opportunity to show him that I wasn’t—a useless female, but prove I could run things here.’

‘I see.’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘I’m glad to hear natural concern for his well-being wasn’t allowed to stand in the way of your ambition.’

Her voice shook. ‘You’re deliberately misunderstanding me. Of course I was worried—worried sick. But it wouldn’t have improved Grantham’s chances of recovery if I’d simply—sat back and let the yard go to pot.’

He nodded. ‘And on the strength of that, you expected to be made a partner in equal standing with your father in these stables.’ He gave her a long look. ‘Lady, you’re living in a dream world. You should know, none better, just how many million pounds you have on the hoof in this place. Do you imagine, in the long run, the owners are going to entrust their treasures to the care of an inexperienced girl, however eager to learn? How old are you, by the way?’

‘I’m twenty-three,’ Natalie said stormily. ‘And you couldn’t be more wrong. When Dad was first taken ill, a number of the owners got edgy and started talking about removing their horses, and I talked them out of it. I persuaded them I knew what I was doing. So some people were prepared to have faith in me, even if you and Grantham want to—shut me out.’

He said quietly, ‘Calm down, Mrs Drummond, and take a firm grip on yourself, because I’m afraid I’m going to have to shatter another illusion. No amount of sweettalking from you kept those horses here. Grantham gave me a list of those most likely to waver, and I made it my business to ring them, and tell them what was in the wind. That was what convinced them, darling. Not your well-meaning intervention.’

She tried to speak, to say something, but no words would come. At last she said hoarsely, ‘I don’t believe you.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish, but Grantham will confirm what I say.’

There was a pause, then he added more gently, ‘But there’s no question of wanting to shut you out, on my part at least. Now, shall we take a look at the flat?’

Natalie felt humiliated to her very soul as she walked in front of him. If her attitude to Eliot had wounded his delicate male pride, then he’d had his revenge in full, she thought wretchedly. At the time, she had thought it was next to a miracle when one owner after another had phoned her back to say that perhaps they’d been hasty …

The flat entrance lay round to the side of the big garage block. Natalie unlocked the front door and stood back. ‘I’ll wait here,’ she said.

Eliot gave her a wry look, seemed as if he was about to speak, then thought better of it, and went up the internal staircase.

Natalie knew an ignominious urge to run away and hide somewhere, while his back was turned. He’d robbed her of everything now, not just the partnership which she recognised would probably never have been hers anyway, but also of her pride in what she had considered her achievements while Grantham was ill.

Oh, it had been cruel of him! Cruel, she thought, her teeth savaging the soft inner flesh of her lower lip. ‘Cruel to be kind’ was one of Grantham’s favourite maxims. Clearly Eliot Lang belonged to the same school of thought.

He was gone a long time. She was thankful that everything had been removed, every stick of furniture, every ornament and keepsake. She would have loathed the idea of him touching her things, using her chairs and table—her bed.

The thought struck her like a blow, her mind flinching from the images it presented, reviving memories she’d thought were dormant.

Tony, she thought wretchedly. Oh God—Tony!

Footsteps coming down the stairs gave sufficient warning for her to compose herself before Eliot rejoined her.

He said flatly, ‘You don’t leave many clues. That place is totally—empty.’ He sent her a narrow-eyed stare. ‘Are you Tony Drummond’s widow?’

‘Yes, what of it?’

He shrugged, still staring at her. ‘I should have made the connection before,’ he said, half to himself.

‘Are you—going to live there?’ She had to know.

‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ he said almost casually. ‘As I’m clearly not desecrating some private shrine. And it’s big enough to take some of the furniture I want to bring up from Lambourn.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then everyone’s happy.’

‘A slight exaggeration, wouldn’t you say?’ he drawled. ‘Now I’d like to see the kind of accommodation the lads use. Is that possible?’

‘Of course,’ Natalie said ironically. ‘You’re the boss, after all.’

Eliot Lang shot her a sideways glance, but made no reply.

He was silent too as she showed him the block Grantham had built a few years before, with its big kitchen and recreation area on the ground floor, leading up to small, economically fitted single bedrooms upstairs.

‘Each room has a handbasin, but there’s a communal shower block at the end,’ Natalie told him, niggled that he wasn’t more openly impressed.

‘Just showers?’ he asked. ‘No bathrooms?’

‘Yes, there are two, leading off the shower room.’

‘Do they lock?’

Natalie shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Is it important?’

‘I think privacy can be very important. The bedrooms all have locks, I see.’

‘Yes, and they can be opened from the outside by a master key in case someone’s taken ill.’ Natalie stared at him. ‘Why this obsession with locks and bolts?’

‘I’m thinking of offering someone a job,’ he said shortly. ‘So I want to make sure certain standards are observed.’

‘My God!’ she exclaimed derisively, ‘What are they used to—the Hilton? Let me tell you my father spent a fortune on this block, and it’s regarded as a model.’

‘Oh, I’ve no real criticism to make. All too often lads are allowed to shift as best they can while the horses get the five-star treatment.’

‘You don’t approve of that either?’ she demanded tartly.

‘I think there’s reason in all things,’ he returned.

She glanced at her watch. ‘Perhaps we should move on. The lads usually go down to the snooker club in the village this afternoon, and they’ll be back shortly. With your passion for privacy, you’ll understand they may not care to find us snooping round their sleeping quarters.’

His mouth twisted slightly. ‘Then let’s go on with the tour.’

‘You mean you’re actually going to let me tell you about the horses?’ she marvelled. ‘I’m honoured!’ She paused, a small frown puckering her brow. ‘But I don’t usually go into the yard empty-handed.’

‘We won’t today,’ he said. ‘I begged some carrots from your stepmother. I left them in the tack room.’

As they walked back under the arch, Natalie was bitterly conscious of Eliot’s presence beside her, looming over her, a shadow in her personal sun. He must have gone very hungry a lot of the time to keep his weight to a reasonable level for his height, she thought vindictively.

She hated the way he looked around him as they walked along. It was—proprietorial, as if he’d already taken charge.

Well, he could be in for a shock. He was only the junior partner, and he would find, unless she missed her guess, that Grantham had every intention of remaining firmly in the saddle.

Eliot said, as if he’d broken in somehow on her thoughts, ‘Your father has made quite a name for himself in schooling difficult horses.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘He’s fantastic with them.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ he said. ‘What a pity one can’t apply the same techniques to difficult women.’

He opened the tack room door and motioned her ahead of him with a faintly mocking gesture. He was smiling.

But not for long, she thought.

‘Tell me, Mr Lang,’ she said, poisonously sweet, ‘are those teeth your own?’

‘Indeed they are, Mrs Drummond,’ he said gravely. ‘Would you like me to prove it by biting you?’

She saw the bag of carrots on a shelf, and was glad of an excuse to move away from him. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘Because it’s time someone made a mark on you, sweetheart.’ He’d followed her, and as she reached for the carrots, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, picking up her slim, ring-less left hand and studying it, brows raised. ‘Because the unfortunate Tony doesn’t seem to have left much of an impression, in any way.’

Outraged, Natalie tried to pull away from his grasp. ‘Let go of me!’

‘Why?’ he jeered. ‘Because you’ll die if I touch you?’ He mimicked a falsetto, and smiled cynically as her lips parted in a soundless gasp. ‘Well, let’s risk it and see.’

She tried to say ‘No’, but her protest was stifled as his mouth descended on hers. He was thorough, and not particularly gentle. All the antagonism between them was there in the kiss, but charged, explosive with some other element she could neither recognise nor analyse.

When at last Eliot released her, flushed and breathless, she took a step backwards, leaning against a cupboard, aware that her legs were trembling so much she was in real danger of collapsing on the floor.

Eliot’s hand reached out, half cupping her breast, his fingers seeking the place where her heart hammered unevenly against her ribs.

‘You see?’ he said drily. ‘You survived, after all.’

Was this survival, Natalie thought dazedly, this crippling confusion of mind and body? This strange quivering ache deep inside that she had never known before? And all this for a kiss that hadn’t been a kiss at all, but some kind of punishment.

Mutely she stared up at him, seeing the mockery fade suddenly from the hazel eyes, watching them grow curiously intent as his hand moved with new purpose on the swell of her breast, his fingers seeking the tumescent nipple through the thin dark blue cotton of her dress.

And was as suddenly removed. He said, ‘I think we have company.’

In a disconnected part of her mind, Natalie heard the sound of voices, the crunch of boots on gravel. Wes, she thought, and the others coming back for evening stables.

Eliot reached past her and retrieved the bag of carrots. His arm brushed against her, and her body went rigid. He was aware of the reaction, and smiled sardonically down into her white face.

‘A piece of advice, Mrs Drummond,’ he said lightly. ‘In future when you want to slag me off, keep your voice down—unless you want to suffer the consequences.’

He walked away, leaving her still leaning against the cupboard as if she had neither the strength nor the will to move.




CHAPTER THREE (#u1293e7cf-52a0-5751-8d18-68e81968c7eb)


AS SOON AS she had pulled herself together, Natalie went up to the house and straight to her room, bypassing Beattie who could be heard humming happily to herself in the kitchen.

And in her room she stayed, until a couple of hours later Andrew’s Jaguar pulled away, with his passenger safely on board.

When she ventured downstairs, Beattie was alone in the drawing-room, sipping a sherry, and putting a few stitches in a piece of embroidery with an air of satisfaction that was almost tangible.

‘I’ve persuaded your father to have a rest before dinner,’ she told Natalie happily. ‘I asked Andrew and Eliot to stay, but they had to get back.’ Her eyes twinkled, and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Andrew told me that Eliot didn’t travel up here alone. Apparently he has a lady companion, booked into the International Hotel.’ She pursed her lips with mock primness. ‘Blonde hair, apparently, and a figure like a Page Three girl. I think Andrew was quite envious, poor old thing!’

Natalie forced a smile, as she poured herself a drink. ‘I suppose voluptuous blondes are going to become part of the scenery from now on.’ She tried to speak lightly, but the words sounded stilted, but fortunately Beattie seemed unaware.

‘One thing’s certain,’ she said. ‘Nothing will ever be the same round here.’

To Natalie, the words sounded like a prophecy of doom.

That night, as she was brushing her hair, she found she was studying herself in the mirror, almost clinically. Her face, naturally pale under the cloud of copper hair, was like a small cat’s with its green eyes and high cheekbones. Not the face of a woman at peace with herself, but there was little wonder about that. For the rest of her—medium height with a figure on the thin side of slender.

About as far removed from a Page Three girl as it was possible to get, she told herself in bitter self-derision. And as that was where Eliot’s tastes lay, that would seem to guarantee her immunity in the future as long as she behaved herself.

He had things to settle in Lambourn, so he wouldn’t be returning to Yorkshire immediately, which would give her a breathing space to come to terms with the change at Wintersgarth.

He had commissioned Beattie to engage a local decorating firm to repaint the flat, and would be sending up a list of the exact colours he wanted on the walls. The quiet neutrals she had chosen were being banished for ever, it seemed.

Over dinner, listening to Grantham and Beattie discussing their immediate plans, Natalie had broken in abruptly.

‘Did you know he might be bringing some extra staff with him?’

‘He mentioned it, yes,’ Grantham nodded.

‘You didn’t mention we were up to strength?’

He smiled broadly, ‘At the moment, lass, maybe. But an extra pair of hands won’t hurt—and there’ll be more horses to see to.’

‘Oh, of course,’ she said, heavily sarcastic. ‘We’re going to be deluged with owners wanting us to take their horses now that the great Eliot Lang is coming amongst us. No doubt he told you so himself.’

‘He’s had a couple of approaches from people he’s ridden for,’ Grantham said mildly. ‘What’s odd about that?’

She bit her lip. ‘Approaches are one thing, firm offers are another.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘Dad, don’t go overboard, will you?’

He shook his head. ‘I had a heart attack, my girl, not a brain seizure!’

Natalie wasn’t particularly reassured. She said, ‘If—and I mean if—these extra horses come, where the hell are we going to put them?’

‘In the new extension.’

‘But that’s only at the outline planning stage,’ she protested.

‘Not any more.’ He poured himself some more coffee. ‘I set the architect on preparing detailed drawings last week. Permission’ll be a formality.’

‘And financing?’ she asked huskily. ‘We’re still paying off the accommodation block and …’

‘And I’ve got a partner now. A partner with money.’ He gave her a genial wink. ‘This is going to be his pigeon, not mine, so stop panicking.’

The conversation had only served to bring home to Natalie with increasing emphasis how potent a force Eliot Lang was going to be at Wintersgarth.

Oh God, she thought savagely as she got into bed, why can’t there be some sort of time slip? Why can’t we go back to the time before Grantham had his heart attack, when everything was normal—and safe?

She switched off her light and settled herself for sleep, but it proved elusive. She found she was being tormented by vivid mental images of Eliot Lang locked together with his voluptuous blonde in some Harrogate hotel room.

When she did at last fall asleep, for the first time in many months she dreamed of Tony, and woke in the morning to find tears on her face.

The internal phone in the office rang and Natalie answered it, her mind still fixed on the farrier’s bill in front of her. ‘Yes, Beattie?’

‘The removal van’s arrived,’ her stepmother announced triumphantly. ‘Do you want to join me in a good pry?’

Natalie stifled a sigh. ‘I—I haven’t really got time.’

‘Well, never mind.’ Beattie sounded disappointed but cheerful. ‘He’s going to ask us to dinner when he’s sorted himself out a bit, so we can see everything then.’

Hurrah, Natalie thought bleakly, as she replaced her receiver. The date on the calendar had been circled in red for quite some time now. There was no way she could forget that today was the day Eliot finally moved into Wintersgarth.

He’d been up several times in the intervening period, staying at the pub in the village. He had attended the planning hearing when permission for the stabling extension had been given, without problems as Grantham had predicted. He had checked on the progress of the decorators, and the firm he’d employed to install a new kitchen.

‘I’ve seen the drawings,’ Beattie had disclosed, awed. ‘It looks more like the deck of a space ship than a kitchen!’ She’d given the Aga an affectionate pat. ‘I’d be afraid of pressing the wrong button!’

Natalie wasn’t the world’s greatest cook, and the culinary arrangements at the flat had been basic to say the least, but it still galled her that he was making such sweeping changes. But then everything he did seemed to find some raw spot, she thought ruefully, particularly as so far he hadn’t seemed to put a foot wrong. She was ashamed to acknowledge that she’d harboured a secret hope that Wes and the lads would resent him, had looked forward to seeing him cut down to size in some subtle way. But it hadn’t happened. He seemed to have hit the right note with them, as with everyone. Except herself.

She went back to the farrier’s bill, but she couldn’t concentrate. All she could think of was that the flying visits were over. Eliot was moving in, for good. And she would have to start thinking seriously about moving out.

She had dreaded having to face him again, after those few searing minutes in the tack room. She’d expected some pointed reminder, a look, a drawled remark. She’d been on edge waiting for it. But it hadn’t happened—yet.

Perhaps Eliot had also had time to come to terms with a few things too. His attitude to her was polite, but briskly businesslike. He still, to her father’s amusement, addressed her as Mrs Drummond.

‘You’re very formal, the pair of you,’ he’d chided jovially. But it hadn’t changed a thing. Natalie was as much a thorn in his flesh as he was in hers. But she wasn’t driving him out of the only home he’d ever known, she thought bitterly.

At half past twelve, she closed the office and started up towards the house for lunch. The furniture van had gone, she saw, and Eliot’s Porsche was parked outside the flat.

As she approached, a girl got out of the passenger seat and stood obviously waiting to speak to her. A mass of curling blonde hair hung to her shoulders, framing a full-lipped smiling face. She wore a ribbed wool dress, tightly cinched at the waist with a leather belt, thus drawing attention to well-shaped breasts and rounded hips. Her long legs were encased in high-heeled patent leather boots.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Sharon Endicott. Do you think you could show me where my things are to go? Eliot was going to, but he went up to the house to speak to Mr Slater, and he hasn’t come back.’

Natalie swallowed. She said feebly, ‘How do you do. I’m Natalie Drummond.’

The other girl nodded. ‘I thought you would be.’ She looked around. ‘It’s nice here.’

‘Thank you,’ Natalie managed feebly. She still couldn’t assimilate that Eliot had actually brought his mistress with him. It seemed so—so blatant, somehow. And it would go down like a lead balloon with the locals, who were a pretty staid lot.

‘Can you show me, then?’ asked Sharon. ‘I’d like to get unpacked, before everything creases.’

‘Yes, of course. But wouldn’t you prefer to wait for Mr—er—Lang?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ The girl shrugged shapely shoulders, grimacing slightly. ‘He’s probably forgotten all about me,’ she confided without rancour. ‘I wasn’t supposed to be coming with him today, but I was free, so I thought I might as well, and save on the train fare later. I suppose I’m a bit of a surprise.’

You can say that again, Natalie muttered under her breath. Aloud she said, ‘Have you just the one case? Then you go up here.’

Making no attempt to conceal her reluctance, she led the way up to the flat. It was like stepping into a different world from the one she remembered.

The big sitting-room was russet now, and the woodblock floor had been sanded and polished. There were no easy chairs as far as she could see, but two large sofas, deeply cushioned in cream hide. She noticed an antique writing desk, and a tall cabinet, beautifully inlaid, before she turned towards the bedroom.

The walls here were gold now, a warm shimmering colour that seemed to fill the room with sunlight, even though it was overcast outside. There was gold embroidery too on the predominantly cream quilted bedspread which had been flung over the wide bed. That, and the fact there were curtains hanging at the windows, revealed that Beattie hadn’t been able to restrain her curiosity.

Natalie said, ‘This is where you’ll—sleep.’ She despised herself for stumbling slightly over the word.

Sharon looked as if she’d been sandbagged as she gazed round her. She said slowly, ‘Bloody hell.’

Perhaps their relationship had been confined to the impersonality of hotel rooms up to now, Natalie thought. Sharon was clearly shaken to see the kind of style Eliot enjoyed at home. She was rather taken aback herself.

She said, ‘Well, make yourself at home. The kitchen’s just down the hall.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been forgotten. If I see—Mr Lang, I’ll jog his memory.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ Sharon still sounded dazed. ‘The horses come first with him, I know that.’

She didn’t sound as if she minded either, Natalie thought, as she went back downstairs and emerged into the air. She stood for a moment drawing deep gulps of it into her lungs. She felt curiously at cross purposes with herself, and told herself it was seeing the home she had created with Tony so totally changed.

If Eliot was up at the house, she would go back to the office, she decided rather feverishly.

She turned the handle and walked in, stopping dead, as Eliot got up from the edge of her desk where he’d been sitting, and walked towards her.

‘So there you are,’ he observed. ‘I thought perhaps you’d gone to lunch.’

‘No.’ Natalie lifted her chin. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been seeing your—friend safely bestowed.’

‘Oh.’ He looked faintly surprised. ‘Well, that was good of you. Has she settled in all right?’

‘I’d have thought that was your concern rather than mine,’ Natalie said shortly. ‘Why don’t you go and see? The bed’s made up and waiting for you.’ She saw the dark brows snap together ominously, and clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry! Pretend I never said that. It’s none of my business anyway what you do.’

‘I’ll second that,’ he said coldly. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me what the hell you’re talking about.’

‘Sharon.’ Natalie picked up a sheaf of papers and looked at them as if they were important. ‘I—found her hanging round waiting for you, so I took her up to the flat. She—er—she goes very well with the décor,’ she added desperately into an increasingly icy silence.

Eliot said, ‘You took her up—to my flat? In God’s name, why?’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. She’s female, under fifty, no hump, no squint, therefore I must be having an affair with her. Is that how it reads?’

She felt herself beginning, hatefully, to blush, and turned away. ‘As I said, it’s really none of my business. This is the nineteen-eighties, after all …’

‘Oh, but Sharon’s very much your business,’ he said, with a kind of awful calm. ‘That’s why I was looking for you—to give you these.’ He handed her an envelope. He said savagely, ‘Sharon’s insurance card, Mrs Drummond. Her P45, and her references. Beddable though she undoubtedly is, I draw the line about sleeping with employees.’ His voice lengthened into a sarcastic drawl. ‘Sharon’s a stable lad, Mrs Drummond, and a bloody good one. She was with a trainer I rode for regularly near Newbury. The horses she looked after there, however, are coming here next week, so I offered her the chance to come with them. I made her no other kind of offer, although heaven only knows what she’s thinking now.’ He took the envelope from Natalie’s nerveless fingers and tossed it on to her desk. ‘And now I suggest you get her out of my bedroom, offering whatever explanation seems good to you, and over to the blockhouse, where she belongs. And later, you and I will have a little talk.’

Natalie pressed her hands to her burning face. ‘I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. It was just—she was there, and Andrew said you’d brought this blonde to Harrogate …’ She broke off, staring at him imploringly.

‘Then Andrew wants to be a damned sight more discreet,’ said Eliot shortly. ‘Now on you way, and let’s see if you’re as good at repairing damage as you are at causing it.’

In the end, it was easier than she could have hoped. Sharon good-naturedly accepted her stumbling excuses about ‘a mistake’ and was willingly shepherded to her rightful habitat.

‘I knew it was too good to be true,’ she said, as she put her case down on the narrow single bed with its colourful patchwork cover.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sara-craven/outsider/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.