Sara Craven - Inherited by Her Enemy

‘So,’ he said. ‘The polite little girl has spirit. And what else, I wonder?’

Andre jerked her forward, his other arm going round her, pulling her against him, and as her lips parted in furious protest his mouth came down hard on hers.

Ginny couldn't struggle, or cry out. She could scarcely breathe. He was holding her too closely, her hands trapped between their bodies. Nor could she resist the practised movement of his lips on hers, or the slow, sensual exploration of his tongue as he invaded the innocence of her mouth, tasting her sweetness. Drinking from her. Draining her as she swayed in his arms, her mind reeling from the shock of it. And yet—in some incalculable way—not wanting it to stop …

SARA CRAVENwas born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills and Boon ®in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.

Inherited by Her Enemy

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Eve, with love and thanks.

Contents

Cover

Introduction ‘So,’ he said. ‘The polite little girl has spirit. And what else, I wonder?’ Andre jerked her forward, his other arm going round her, pulling her against him, and as her lips parted in furious protest his mouth came down hard on hers. Ginny couldn't struggle, or cry out. She could scarcely breathe. He was holding her too closely, her hands trapped between their bodies. Nor could she resist the practised movement of his lips on hers, or the slow, sensual exploration of his tongue as he invaded the innocence of her mouth, tasting her sweetness. Drinking from her. Draining her as she swayed in his arms, her mind reeling from the shock of it. And yet—in some incalculable way—not wanting it to stop …

About the Author SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills and Boon ® in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.

Title Page Inherited by Her Enemy Sara Craven www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication To Eve, with love and thanks.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EXTRACT

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

GINNY MASON SENT a wave and grateful smile to the last of the departing well-wishers, then closed the heavy front door against the raw chill of the late January afternoon with a deep sigh of relief.

That, she thought wryly, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe as she listened to the car draw away, was the worst part of the day over. At least she hoped so.

The crematorium chapel had been full, because her stepfather Andrew Charlton was popular in the locality and well respected as an employer too, being the recently retired head of his own successful light engineering company. But only a handful of those present had accepted Rosina Charlton’s invitation to return to the house for the lavish buffet she’d arranged and few had stayed for very long.

They still think of us as interlopers, Ginny told herself, pulling a face, and they probably feel that Andrew should have been buried next to his first wife after a church service.

Or, maybe, word of Mother’s plans has probably got around. Today Rosina had been the wistful, gracious chatelaine, fragile in black. Last night she’d declared peevishly that she couldn’t wait to sell Barrowdean House and get away from all these stuffed shirts, to somewhere with a bit of life.

‘The South of France, I think.’ She nodded. ‘One of those really pretty villas in the hills, with a pool. So nice for the grandchildren when they come to visit,’ she’d added with an arch look at her younger daughter.

‘For God’s sake, Ma,’ Lucilla had said impatiently. ‘Jonathan and I have only just got engaged. We won’t be thinking of a family for absolutely ages. I want some fun too.’

Nothing new there, then, Ginny had thought to herself. Although she supposed Cilla could hardly be blamed. She was ‘the pretty one’, whereas Ginny, as her mother often pointed out, took after her father. Her creamy skin and neat figure did not compensate for the fact that her hair was light brown instead of blonde, and her eyes were not blue but grey. And her face could best be described as unremarkable.

Cilla on the other hand was a true golden girl, spoiled since birth by everyone.

Even Andrew had not been immune, because, when she’d returned from completing her education at an expensive establishment in Switzerland, while he might have muttered about her doing some proper training and getting a job, he’d never insisted that she become gainfully employed.

And when she’d caught the eye of Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn’s only son, and courtship had proceeded rapidly to engagement, he’d nodded in a resigned way, as if weighing up the probable cost of the wedding.

An occasion he had not lived to see, thought Ginny, her throat tightening as she remembered the tall, thin kindly man who’d provided such safety and security in their lives for the past ten years.

As she began to recover from the immediate shock of Andrew’s death, she was already wondering why they hadn’t been warned about his heart condition.

But, as yet, she’d had no real opportunity to grieve. Her mother and Cilla’s hysterical reaction to their loss had demanded all her time and attention to begin with, and then had come the bombshell of Rosina’s decision to sell Barrowdean and move as soon as a buyer could be found, which had knocked her sideways all over again.

There was, her mother had claimed defiantly, nothing to keep her here, because Cilla, marrying darling Jonathan, would be well taken care of.

‘While you have your job at that funny little café, Virginia,’ she’d added. ‘I’m sure someone in the village will have a room you can rent.’

It had been on the tip of Ginny’s tongue to say that the café was no longer just a job, but a prospect for the future, and accommodation might not be an issue. However, on second thoughts, she decided to keep quiet.

She moved away from the door and stood, irresolute for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices and chink of china and cutlery from the dining room, where Andrew’s elderly housekeeper Mrs Pelham, and Mavis from the village were clearing away the remains of the buffet.

Which we’ll probably be eating for the rest of the week, she told herself ruefully.

Mrs Pel, of course, was another problem for her to worry about. Not that the old lady was under any illusions. She knew quite well that Rosina had been trying to get rid of her ever since she’d come to live at Barrowdean House, using Mrs Pel’s age and growing infirmity as her excuse. But Andrew had ignored all hints.

Apart from his personal fondness for her, he said, Mrs Pelham was part of Barrowdean, and ran the house like clockwork. When she decided to retire, she would tell him. Until then, no change would be made.

Now, of course, there was no such curb, and the housekeeper’s dismissal would be high on the list of Rosina’s ‘things to do’.

Ginny knew she ought to lend a hand with the clearing, as she did with most of the household chores these days, out of regard for Mrs Pel’s arthritis, but instead she headed for Andrew’s study to make sure everything was ready for the formal reading of the will.

‘What a ridiculous performance,’ Rosina had said scathingly. ‘When we’re the sole beneficiaries.’

I hope it’s that simple, thought Ginny, aware of a brief and inexplicable pang of anxiety.

However, Mr Hargreaves, the solicitor who’d always handled Andrew’s affairs had been quite adamant that in this, at least, his client’s wishes should be observed, and had arranged to call at five o’clock.

The study had always been Ginny’s favourite room, probably because the walls were lined with books, and she’d enjoyed curling up in a chair by the fire, silent and engrossed, while Andrew worked at his desk.

She hadn’t been in here since his death, and she had to brace herself to open the door, hardly believing that he would not be there to look up and smile at her.

But there was still a living presence in the room. Barney, her stepfather’s five-year-old Golden Labrador was stretched out on the rug in front of the fire.

As she entered, he raised his head, and his tail beat a brief tattoo on the rug, but he didn’t jump up and come over to push his muzzle into her hand. That was a privilege still reserved solely for the beloved master who would not return.

‘Poor old boy,’ Ginny said softly. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten you? I promise I’ll take you out again once this will-reading business is sorted.’

Although Barney, of course, was another problem. Her mother who disliked dogs—the mess, the smell—was already talking about sending him to the vet to be put down, and Ginny felt sick at the prospect.

She would take him herself like a shot, but until she knew for certain what her own prospects were, her hands were tied.

She added logs to the fire, switched on the lamps, made sure there were enough chairs, then walked across to draw the curtains over the French windows. As she did so, she saw the flash of car headlights approaching up the drive, and glanced at her watch, verifying that Mr Hargreaves, usually a stickler for punctuality, was in fact early.

Probably because this is undoubtedly going to be his least favourite appointment of the day, and he wants to get it over with, she thought, with a sigh.

When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Barney accompanying her across the hall, whimpering with excitement.

He must think Andrew’s simply been away and has just returned, she told herself, her throat tightening again. But it’s the sound of his key that he’s always recognised in the past.

She tucked a hand into his collar, knowing that not everyone relished being hit amidships by a large and exuberant Labrador, and opened the door.

She began, ‘Good evening,’ then stopped with the words ‘Mr Hargreaves’ freezing on her lips.

Because the man standing in front of her was certainly not the family solicitor. For a moment, he seemed part of the darkness, his black trench coat hanging open over a charcoal grey suit, with a leather satchel on a long strap hanging from one shoulder. His hair was dark too, and glossy as a raven’s wing, even if it was over-long and slightly dishevelled.

For the rest of him, he was tall, with a lean tanned face and heavy-lidded dark brown eyes. Not good-looking, was her overriding impression. Not with that thin-lipped, uncompromising mouth, nor that beak of a nose, which looked as if it had been broken at some point, and a chin that by contrast seemed to threaten to break any fist which dared approach it.