CATHERINE GEORGE - Husband For Real

“There’s a snag,” said James in a tone that quickened her pulse. “Now I’ve seen you again it doesn’t feel like a long time ago.”

“Nevertheless,” Rose said woodenly, “it is.” It was impossible to behave or sound natural when the mere touch of James Sinclair’s hand on hers was rousing feelings she had never experienced in the most passionate of lovemaking with anyone else. And James knew it, she realized, as she met the blaze of triumph in his eyes.

“Rose.” He smiled slowly, and brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “Surely a kiss goodbye is permissible in the circumstances?” He drew her resisting body into his arms and kissed her, taking his time over it, the shape and taste and touch of his lips so frighteningly familiar she had no defense against the hot, consuming pleasure of the kiss.

CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years of living in Brazil, but on her husband’s later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera and browse in antique shops.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHEN a crimson envelope arrived among the morning post she was amused at first. But her smile faded when she took out an unsigned Valentine card painted with a single red rose. Frowning, she examined the typed envelope, but the postmark was so illegible it gave no clue to the sender’s identity.

Rose stood lost in thought for a moment or two, then took her usual stack of mail into the small office at the back of the bookshop and propped the card up conspicuously as something to joke about. Which it had to be. She dismissed it with a shrug, switched on lights, computer and point of sale, chose some Schubert for background music and unlocked the door, ready for the first customers of the day.

As usual these were mostly mothers straight from the school run, needing books for their young. For the first half-hour Rose was kept busy looking out the required titles, or ordering them for delivery next day, at the same time exchanging conversation and offering opinions on the newest craze in children’s stories or the latest paperback fiction. Interest in her customers, coupled with pleasant personal service, which came easy to Rose, were a necessary asset for a privately owned bookshop, even if in Chastlecombe only the supermarket and the various newsagents offered anything by way of competition.

When Rose’s friend arrived for her part-time stint at the shop she crowed with laughter when she spotted the card.

‘Lucky old you! I’m envious, boss. My beloved isn’t the sentimental kind.’ Bel Cummings’s eyes sparkled as she made the fresh pot of coffee they tried to share before she started. ‘I suppose it’s from Anthony. Though I would have expected something more impressive—’

‘In the unimaginable event of his sending me one at all at his age,’ Rose finished for her.

Bel smiled in full agreement. ‘So who’s the secret lover, then?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Then it must be Anthony,’ said her friend, disappointed. ‘Get the thumbscrews out and make him confess over dinner. You are seeing him this weekend?’

‘Yes, but tonight for a change. He’s tied up with Marcus tomorrow.’ Rose finished her coffee quickly. ‘Right. I’d better get on with this lot before the day’s book consignment arrives.’

After Bel went off to greet a customer Rose began to sort out bills and invoices from the usual heap of junk-mail, feeling out of sorts as she worked. And, though the anonymous card was mostly to blame, some of her mood was reluctance to break her routine. She preferred Friday nights on her own. After an hour or so’s paperwork she liked to linger in the bath, eat something easy on a tray in front of her television and get to bed early with one of the latest additions to stock. But this weekend Anthony’s teenage son would be home alone. Marcus had stayed in Chastlecombe with his mother after the divorce. And because Liz Garrett was spending this weekend away, her ex-husband, determined to keep his son happy at all costs, would devote Saturday as well as his usual Sunday to him.

Rose liked Marcus well enough, and from the little she knew of him didn’t think he actively resented her. It surprised her that a young teenager preferred his father’s company to going out with friends, but she was perfectly happy for Anthony to spend Saturday night with his son. Tonight, too, if she were honest. Her week had been gratifyingly busy, and by the time she finished work she wouldn’t feel like dressing up and dining out. Her original offer of supper for two upstairs in her flat—a first in their relationship—had been turned down in favour of a table at Chastlecombe’s most fashionable restaurant.

Rose had known Anthony Garrett by sight when she was in her teens, but she met him again socially just after his divorce came through. He was an accountant promoted from a small Chastlecombe branch to the London head office of his company. And since the divorce he came back to stay at the King’s Head on some weekends, to see his son and spend all the Saturday evenings with Rose that she would allow. She was well aware that Anthony’s choice of someone local to wine and dine was deliberate. The injured party in his failed marriage, he’d remained firmly entrenched in a circle of friends only too ready to inform the ex-Mrs Garrett of every known detail of his connection with the new young manager of Dryden Books. Anthony was openly proud of his relationship with an attractive woman so much younger than himself. And if Rose sometimes felt like a trophy, it amused more than annoyed her.

Lunch-hour was busy, as usual, and it was late before Bel could be persuaded to go out for something to eat. During the post-lunch lull Rose finished checking the consignment of books newly arrived that morning, sorted out customer orders to file on the shelves kept for the purpose, then went into the office to eat the sandwich Bel brought for her when she got back.

It was Rose’s habit to catch up on reading from new stock over lunch, and she was chuckling over one of the latest children’s books when Bel popped her head round the door.

‘Delivery for you, boss.’

‘I’m not expecting anything—’ Rose stared in surprise when Bel handed over a long, beribboned package. Then swallowed convulsively when she took out a long-stemmed crimson rose.

‘Hey, are you all right?’ said Bel in alarm.

‘Ate my lunch too quickly.’

‘I think the rose was meant to be romantic, not give you indigestion,’ teased Bel. ‘Who’s it from?’

‘Let’s find out.’ Rose picked up the phone to ask the local florist.

‘No idea, sorry,’ was the response. ‘Your secret admirer pushed a typed note through the door this morning, with instructions and the exact amount of money.’

When Rose rang off Bel patted her shoulder in concern. ‘Are you all right, boss? You’ve been a bit abstracted all day.’

‘I’m fine.’ Rose eyed the flower with dislike. ‘But I detest mysteries. If all this Valentine nonsense is Anthony’s idea I’ll have words with him tonight.’

‘But surely he would have phoned the order through in the usual way?’

‘He’s got plenty of contacts in the town. Anyone could have put the money through the door of the flower shop for him.’

‘Well I think it’s very romantic,’ declared Bel, then left to deal with an influx of customers, and Rose shut the door on her mystery tribute and went off to help.

After Rose locked up for the night she scanned through the pile of invoices and school orders waiting to be dealt in the office, hesitated, then abandoned her Friday routine. She would be alone for Saturday evening this week. The paperwork could wait until then.

The phone rang when she arrived upstairs, but when she picked up the receiver the only sound on the line was heavy breathing.

‘Who is this?’ she demanded angrily. A voice whispered her name, raising the hairs on her neck, then the line went dead. Shaken and furious, Rose punched in the numbers to identify her caller, but the number had been withheld. Some stupid fool playing a prank, she assured herself, and made herself some lethally strong coffee to calm herself down.

She filled an empty milk bottle with water, thrust the rose in it and put it on the window-sill of her small kitchen, her eyes brooding as she gazed at the beautiful, perfect bloom. A rose for Rose, said a voice in her mind. A male voice. With the merest hint of Scots. Odd. She could hear the voice so plainly its owner could have been in the room with her. But normally she flatly refused to allow herself the indulgence of thinking about him. The wretched Valentine card was to blame, reminding her of things best forgotten. The phone-call hadn’t helped, either. But the rose was the real culprit. Its relentless, heady scent brought memories rushing back like persistent ghosts determined to haunt her. And, as she got ready for the evening, for the first time in years Rose let them stay.

Rose Dryden had gone off to university just after her eighteenth birthday. Eager to embrace everything student life had to offer, she’d been a little wary at first when she’d found she was to share a college flat with two girls who’d been to school together. Cornelia Longford and Fabia Dennison, both a year older than Rose, possessed an aura of self-confidence she envied. But they were warm, friendly creatures who had taken their younger flat-mate under their combined wing, and from the first had seen to it that Rose took full advantage of every social diversion college life had to offer.

Rose, grateful to be accepted as part of a trio, had quickly become accustomed to evenings spent in the students’ union with a boisterous, rowdy crowd of both sexes. Envious at first of Con’s blonde, thoroughbred looks, or the brain Fabia kept hidden behind a flippant manner, even their names, which were so much more glamorous than her own, Rose had quickly blossomed in their company. By the end of term she’d attended every possible festivity available, including the Christmas ball, and had been as ready as any of her peers to contribute to heated discussions on how to improve the world.

Determined to get a good degree, Rose had worked hard. But at the same time she’d learned how to make half a pint of lager last all evening, how to flirt, and how to avoid danger when some importunate male misread the signals.

‘It’s common-sense,’ Con assured her. ‘If you fancy a bloke you go out on a twosome. If you don’t, stick with the crowd.’

Rose never let on that the only men in her life up to that point had been friends of her unmarried aunt, plus one or two brothers of girls from school. Nevertheless, she had enough common-sense to know that a twosome might involve a lot more than just a pizza and a trip to the cinema. And, because she wasn’t attracted to anyone enough to risk finding out, her attitude challenged those among the male student body who considered themselves irresistible.