Lee Wilkinson - Running From the Storm

She smiled dreamily and turned her face up to his, giving a sigh of pleasure as his mouth brushed hers.

Her lips parted beneath the light pressure of his, and when he deepened the kiss her arms went around his neck. Her whole body melting, she kissed him back.

Then, suddenly scared by her own reaction to that kiss, she drew back, demanded raggedly, ‘Why did you do that? You had no right to kiss me. Don’t ever do it again. I hated it!’

As soon as the words were out she knew she’d made a bad mistake.

She sat still as any statue as his hands moved to cup her chin and tilt her head back, so that she found herself looking up into his handsome face, intriguingly inverted.

‘So tell me,’ he said silkily, ‘if my kiss is such anathema to you, why did you kiss me back?’

LEE WILKINSONlives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy travelling, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going round the world ‘on a shoestring’ while their son looked after Kelly, their much loved German shepherd dog. Her hobbies are reading and gardening, and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

Recent titles by the same author:

CLAIMING HIS WEDDING NIGHT

CAPTIVE IN THE MILLIONAIRE’S CASTLE

THE BOSS’S FORBIDDEN SECRETARY

MISTRESS AGAINST HER WILL

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Ned

THE twelfth-century, lichen-covered church was filled with the fragrance of roses and lilies and the strains of Mendelssohn’s traditional and well-loved Here Comes The Bride .

Bright sunshine slanted through the stained-glass windows and, as the trees in the churchyard moved in the breeze, made changing kaleidoscope patterns across the backs of the polished pews and the grey stone slabs of the floor.

Nothing seemed quite real as Caris walked slowly up the aisle on the arm of her Uncle David. Her father, still angry with her, had refused to give her away.

A man, presumably the best man, was waiting by the chancel steps. He had his back to her and she couldn’t see his face.

There was no sign of her groom.

On both sides of the aisle the congregation turned their heads to look and smile at her as she passed in a froth of white tulle that, even then, she knew was all wrong for her.

She did her best to smile back, but her face felt set and stiff, as though it was made from wax, and she couldn’t.

As she reached the chancel steps she was aware that her bridegroom had joined her and was standing by her side. She didn’t look at him.

The elderly priest stepped forward, gathered the congregation’s attention with a glance and began with the traditional words, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together …’

While the wedding service solemnly progressed, Caris stared straight ahead and asked herself what she was doing here.

When they reached the point where she and her bridegroom needed to make their vows and she still refused to look at him, he took her upper arms and turned her to face him.

His green eyes were cool, commanding; his blond, well-shaped head had that slightly arrogant tilt she knew so well.

‘Say it, Caris.’

But she couldn’t. This was all wrong! She couldn’t, wouldn’t , marry Zander!

Dropping the bouquet of pale-pink roses she carried, she turned and, gathering up her full skirts, fled down the aisle between the rows of gaping guests, tears pouring down her cheeks.

She could hear him calling after her, ‘Don’t go, Caris … Don’t go …’

But she had to. No matter how much she loved him, she wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t love her, who could well suspect that he had been trapped into marriage.

Gasping for breath, sobs rising in her throat, she reached the gloomy inner porch of the church and flung open the heavy door.

Stumbling through into the outer porch, she was met by bright sunshine and a brisk breeze that blew the folds of the fine silken-net veil over her face.

The dreamer was endeavouring to tear off the suffocating veil when she awoke and, sitting bolt upright, found she was in her own bed, the uncertain light of a rainy, late-spring morning filtering in.

Even so, it was a few seconds before the panic subsided and the sight of her familiar room, with its pastel walls and pretty, flowered curtains, steadied her a little.

Somewhere nearby a car door slammed and she could hear the unmistakable sounds of the quiet, tree-lined street coming alive—Billy Leyton’s motorbike being kicked into life, the shush of tyres on the wet road, next door’s dog barking.

Right on cue, the bedside alarm-clock announced with a loud jingle that it was seven-thirty.

‘It was a dream,’ Caris said aloud as she brushed a hand over her wet cheeks and reached to switch off the alarm. ‘Just a dream.’

But a haunting, reoccurring dream that had disturbed her sleep and, like some earthquake, shaken her world, causing the ground beneath her feet to open into a gaping chasm.

Since coming to England almost three years ago, she had fought hard to push all thoughts of Zander and the past out of her mind, and over the last six months she had started to believe she was succeeding.

Despite the gloomy economic climate, the estate agency she ran kept her so busy that, immersed in work, she could sometimes go for days on end without thinking of him, days on end without picturing his face.

In consequence she had gradually gained some kind of shaky equilibrium. She was able, at last, to look back and put their relationship into perspective.

It hadn’t been all bad.

Though it had ended in tears and heartache, for a while she had enjoyed the kind of happiness that she had never known existed.

And hadn’t it been said repeatedly that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Pleased that she was able to think that way, she had congratulated herself on her newly found emotional stability.

Now, all because of a dream, that had been swept away. She was once again off-balance and Zander was back in her head, his handsome, strong-boned face clear in her mind’s eye.

All at once she felt cold and bereft. Churned up and desolate. All the old bitterness back.

But she wouldn’t let a dream throw her into emotional chaos again. She was no longer the vulnerable, inexperienced, round peg in a square hole she had been when they had first met.

The painful three years she had just lived through had made a great deal of difference. Now, to all intents and purposes, she was a self-possessed, successful businesswoman in her own right.

If the assurance—the air of confidence, the polish—was only a veneer, these days she didn’t allow anyone to get close enough to even scratch the surface, so who was to know?

To outsiders, she was what she appeared to be.

Partly reassured by this restored vision of a calm, secure, well-ordered life, Caris made her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and shower.

When she was dried and dressed for the day—in a grey, lightweight business suit, discreetly made-up, her long dark hair taken up into a knot, small gold studs in her ears—she went through to the kitchen to make herself some toast and coffee.

It was the Saturday morning of a bank holiday weekend, a busy, working Saturday as far as Caris was concerned, in spite of the weather.

After a cold, wet spring and almost a week of heavy and prolonged rain, everyone had been hoping that, with the prospect of a warm front moving in, the bank holiday would stay dry.

But it was raining yet again, and the latest forecast had been for continuing heavy rain and severe thunderstorms.

In spite of the inclement weather and the continuing recession, Carlton Lees, the estate agency Caris now owned, was doing quite well.

After the death of her aunt, finding it almost impossible to run the agency single-handed, she had taken on a local girl, a cheerful eighteen-year-old named Julie Dawson.

Julie, who did the secretarial work and held the fort while Caris was out with clients, had proved to be an absolute godsend.

Sensible and mature for her years, when sales had started to pick up she had been quite willing to come in early and work late whenever it had proved to be necessary.

Properties in and around the quiet market town of Spitewinter, though moving relatively slowly, were at least moving, and just at present there was no lack of interested clients.

This was due partly to the only other estate agent in town closing down, and partly to the fact that several of the more sought-after properties had recently come on to the market.

The most notable of these was a small manor house dating from the fifteen-hundreds. It had been owned by a famous writer who, at ninety-eight, had recently died and left it to a distant cousin.

The cousin, who lived in Australia, had no desire to keep it. Wanting a speedy sale so he could buy his own ranch, he had put Gracedieu onto the market, causing a buzz of excitement and interest in the property world.

An article about the sale—lavishly accompanied by pictures of the house, estate and the ‘sole agent, Miss Caris Belmont’—had appeared in one of the most prestigious magazines:

Gracedieu, a unique example of a small, sixteenth-century manor house, is an absolute gem. It stands in its own delightful estate which is complete with an old water-mill and a hamlet of picturesque, period cottages,especially built in the late seventeen-hundreds to house the estate workers …

This coverage had caused even more interest and, despite the astronomical asking price and the fact that it had been somewhat neglected by its previous owner, there were several potential buyers waiting to view the place.

The first of these had an appointment for that afternoon, and Caris knew her attention should be focused on getting a quick sale at the asking price.

But, though she tried her hardest to banish all thoughts of Zander, she found it impossible to get him out of her mind.

The Old Vicarage, bequeathed to her by her aunt, along with what had then been a struggling estate agency, all at once seemed too big and too empty, with nothing but regrets and ghosts from the past to keep her company.

Impatient with herself, anxious to get away, she jumped to her feet, grabbed her bag and mac and headed for the door.

Beaded with raindrops, her modest car was waiting on the driveway, and in a moment or two she had left the house behind and, with wipers clicking rhythmically, was heading into town.

Passing the library, she joined the light stream of traffic flowing through Spitewinter’s High Street and across the old humpbacked bridge that spanned the willow-hung river, brown and swollen now because of all the recent rain.