The White Dress

My new book coming soon from eternal Press

Pictures taken at a family party

Pictures this Christmas. Why only the men, Juliet?

News

It is almost Christmas.













My latest Linda Sole saga from Severn House.




I will be putting some Christmas stories up on my story blog, which you can access at storiesfromlindasole.blogspot.com. I still have lots of competitions running, one at my website and others on various groups.

Happy Christmas to all my readers.











Cassie's Sheikh has been in the top ten list under Desert Sheikhs for a couple of weeks. The Rake's Rebellious Lady/Anne Herries/HMB has been number two in the Harlequin Historical list at amazon, and Her Dark and Dangerous Lord has been at number seven in the HH list at Harlequin so all the new books are doign well










Three of my Red Rose Publishing books are coming out in print soon. Chateau Despair is the first to be published and this should be before Christmas. I am very pleased that this book will be in print. It is already available in ebook at several places on the web but a lot of people who enjoy my books want it in print. It won't be long before they can buy it at amazon.com and it is usually available at amazon.co.uk too once it is up and running. I recently bouth some copies of A shameful Secret/Anne Ireland, which is already in print.









all the grahics have been credited somewhere on the blog. They are yuleloveit.com or Pat's Graphics

A Kind Of Loving

A Kind Of Loving/Linda Sole/Red Rose Publishing
available in ebook from www.redrosepubling.com
www.amzazon.com
www.mobipocket.com
www.fictionwise.com
and other outlets in ebook

Soon to be available in print.
Enjoy!


It had been warmer than this earlier in the year but there was a definite bite in the air that morning and it was already the second week of May. Perhaps the cool weather was the reason she was feeling a bit out of sorts with herself, because she was down and there was no real reason for it. She ought to be feeling on top of the world, Verity thought as she parked her car in the yard at the back of the shop.
The gravel crunched beneath her feet as she took a large bunch of fragrant lilies and roses and her cumbersome shoulder bag from the boot, before going through the narrow alley from the yard into the main street. This past year had seen the realisation of one of her dreams, something that gave her great personal satisfaction. But there was a problem, a dark shadow that hovered at her shoulder.
It was in her mind as she unlocked the door of her small shop, lingering like a bad smell as she keyed in the number to cancel the alarm and walked through to the back room, which she used as her office. She removed her warm red jacket and fluffed out her chestnut brown hair in front of the mirror; her eyes were that greenish brown that some call hazel. Underneath her jacket she was wearing a slim-fitting black dress. There was only just over another two months to her fortieth birthday but she didn't look too bad. She'd kept her figure well after Jane's birth and there hadn't been any more children. She'd been sorry about that, and for a while she'd hoped that she would have another baby, but somehow it hadn't happened; though there was no medical reason why it shouldn't.
Was that what had gone wrong between her and Michael? Had they grown apart instead of bonding into a family unit? Would it have been different if they'd had a son? She knew that Jane was very much her daughter and thought that perhaps Michael sometimes felt a bit left out.
She puzzled over it as she arranged her flowers in two old and rather beautiful cut-glass vases. One she stood in the little room that was fairly private but which, through a window, gave her a view of the shop interior, and the other she carried out to replace some dead roses standing on the desk that took centre stage of her window display. She stood for a moment to admire them, pleased that she'd taken time to stop and buy the flowers on her way in. Perhaps it was an extravagance to spend so much on fresh flowers, but she did love to see them about the place.
Verity was frowning as she returned to her office, picked up a tin of the special beeswax she always used for her antique furniture and took it into the shop. She had made it a practice to polish a couple of pieces of furniture each morning, to keep the place smelling of fresh polish and the potpourri she had in bowls set at various points about the shop. Her customers always remarked on the beautiful smell; it relaxed them, and her friendly manner encouraged them to trust her enough to buy. Her trade had started slowly at first, but people came back and her reputation had grown this past year.
Usually the very fact of being here amongst these beautiful things was enough to make her relax herself. She loved the feel of the silky finish of old wood, the way her cloth glided over the surface of a beautiful antique table or an elegant desk. Looking at them gave her a sense of permanence, of satisfaction, and knowing these things were hers to sell gave her a purpose. She was doing something she wanted to with her life at last.
Verity stood with the cloth in her hand as she considered. Had she wanted to marry Michael Lovelace nearly twenty years ago? She'd been pregnant with Jane, and it had seemed the natural thing to do – but had she really wanted to be his wife? She supposed that she must have done. There must have been a time when his smile had made her feel good, when his jokes had made her want to giggle, his touch had sent the blood racing through her veins. Yes, of course there had! It was just that it was hard to remember these days. He spent so little time at home. His business demanded attention six days of the week, and on Sundays he often played golf in the mornings. After lunch he cut the lawn if it needed it, otherwise he cleaned the car or fell asleep in front of the television.
She knew that Michael wasn't the only man to follow the same dull routine every weekend. Her friend Susan Edwards was always complaining that her husband Bill did the same thing, but she said it with a smile on her face, and a look in her eyes that told a different story. The magic was still there for Bill and Susan, but Verity knew that it had gone missing from her life, though she wasn't sure whose fault it was.
For a long time, while Jane was still a small child, she'd been happy enough; they had still shared a small joke or an intimate smile, but of late even those things had vanished. They hadn't had sex for weeks – they hadn't made love for more than two years, and there was a difference.
Verity hadn't forgotten what it felt like to make love, to know the warmth and satisfaction, the sharing that comes from being close to the man you care for. She had loved Michael once, perhaps she still did deep down. He was still undoubtedly an attractive man with his thick, slightly wavy hair, which was a darkish blond in colour, his blue eyes and rather heavy brows. But his character had changed of late and there were times now when she felt she was living with a stranger, and someone she didn't always like very much.
To a casual observer, Verity was the very essence of Today's Woman. Efficient, well groomed, with an air of confidence, a friendly manner and a look in her eyes that warned she meant what she said. Dealers liked her because she was businesslike and they knew where they stood with her. She didn't lie about her stock and she'd become known for having good, genuine pieces. But she had something more, a vitality that made her eyes shine and her laughter was infectious, though she wasn't aware of it herself.
Verity was brought out of her reverie as the shop bell pinged and two men came in. She had seen one of them several times before, a dealer in his fifties who bought things from her occasionally, but she was sure the younger man hadn't been in before. He was tall and well built with soft brown hair that waved slightly back from his forehead and greenish blue eyes, and he towered over his rather short and chubby companion.
'Mrs Lovelace,' Harry Barton said and grinned at her. Harry always wore a suit and his shoes were highly polished. He was a cheerful, confident man who loved his work and Verity rather liked him. 'You're looking gorgeous as usual, and this shop smells like a dream.' Harry was part Irish and known in the trade as a charmer.
'It's the potpourri,' she said with a smile. 'That sunshine is nice. It was rather cold when I came in this morning but I should think it's getting a bit warmer out now, isn't it?'
'Summer is on its way, slowly but coming,' he replied and gestured to his taller companion. 'This is my sister's boy, Joshua Roberts. He was working as a carpenter for a furniture business but the firm went bust last month, nothing to do with Josh here.' He gave his nephew a jovial poke in the ribs. 'I've taken him on with me. He's a craftsman, and I think he deserves better than to be a carpenter. He could be a restorer of fine furniture, and he'll be good at it.'
The younger, good-looking man pulled a wry face as he looked at Verity. 'What my uncle means is that I'm useful to carry things, but if I take the right classes I might make a restorer of antique furniture one day.'
'Good restorer's are few and far between,' Verity told him. 'I hope you stick at it, Mr Roberts. I was disappointed with the last piece I had done.'
'Next time give me a buzz,' Harry said. 'I can probably point you in the right direction. I know a couple of good men in the area.'
Verity gave him one of her dazzling smiles. 'That is kind of you, thank you, I shall.'
'Well, we'd best get down to business,' Harry said. 'Got the rounds to make and there's a local sale I want to attend this afternoon. Are you coming, Verity?'
'It depends whether my friend Susan can cover for me for a few hours,' Verity said. 'She told me she would ring later if she can fit it in. There isn't very much I want, but I'll leave a bid with the auctioneer if I can't manage to get there.'
'It makes a break from the shop,' Harry said. 'A chance to meet and talk, hear what's going on in the trade. By the way, look out for a woman dressed very smartly buying antique porcelain with a fake credit card – she's caught a couple of dealers in the south of the country and they think she has come east now.'
'I probably don't have much worth her while,' Verity said, glancing round. She had some quality furniture, a few pieces of blue and white Delft, a collection of nice old glass, lace and dolls in a cabinet and also some copper and brass. 'I expect she targets the specialists.'
'Yes, I dare say but you never know.' Harry had been looking at a copper water jug that had a lovely worn, slightly battered sheen to it, but she knew he wasn't interested in the jug, and was waiting for him to tell her what he had really come in for. 'That little oak stool in the window,' he said at last, looking at the open display, which was set up on a little platform and accessible from the shop. 'Is it old or a repro?'
'Have a look at it yourself,' Verity invited. 'I was told in good faith that it had been in the family of the woman who sold it to me for years, her great grandfather's apparently. I believe it to be sixteenth century and there is certainly lots of wear on the bottom of the legs – but you decide, Harry. You know a good piece of oak when you see it.' And it was a good piece; an original, worn, well loved thing that shouted its quality at you. There was no need to push it at him, because she knew it wouldn't stay with her long.
He picked up the stool, turned it over, looked at the price tag and nodded. 'I think it's more seventeenth than sixteenth, Verity, but it's definitely genuine, and the price isn't bad. I'll give you eight hundred and fifty for it.'
Verity had paid six hundred and fifty and she would have to pay VAT on the difference. 'Sorry, Harry. I need nine to make it worthwhile. I never overprice my things, you know that. I bought it privately and I gave my customer a decent price for it.'
'It did come privately?' Harry seemed to hesitate, but she knew he wanted it. He would haggle for a while, but in the end he would pay what she asked, because it wasn't expensive, even though there was some slight damage.
'Yes, of course. Most of my stuff does, and I always say if it is a trade piece.'
'All right, I'll have it,' Harry said, surprising her. She knew at once that she had underpriced it in the first place, but it didn't matter. It had brought her a profit and that was all she needed.
'Thanks,' she said and fetched her duplicate book from behind the small counter to make out the invoice. 'Yes, a cheque is fine from you,' she said as he waved the book at her.
Harry wrote it out for her, then hesitated again. 'I noticed that you have a flat over the top of the shop. Someone said you were thinking of letting it out. It might suit Josh…' He glanced at his nephew. 'What do you think?'
Joshua had been standing silent for most of the time, looking round the shop at various pieces of furniture. Verity had noticed that he seemed to have an eye for the best things.
'It might be all right,' he said now. 'But perhaps Mrs Lovelace hasn't made up her mind what she wants to do yet.' He glanced at her, brows raised. 'I am looking for a place to live, but I don't want to push myself on you. I can manage where I am for a while.'
'Do you have a flat of your own?'
'No, just a room,' he said. 'I'm not keen on sharing with the people I'm with at the moment, but it isn't desperate.'
'I am thinking of letting it,' Verity said. 'But it isn't ready yet and I haven't decided. Come and see me again in about a month – if you're still looking.'
'Great, I'll do that,' he said and gave her a brilliant smile that lit up his whole face. It was strange but she hadn't thought much to him until he smiled like that, despite his good looks, imagining him to be perhaps a bit sullen or reserved. Now she saw that he had merely been polite, letting his uncle conduct his business without interruption. 'My uncle will give you a character reference, and I can get a bank reference if you want?'
'Well, I'm making no promises,' she said but couldn't help warming to him all at once.
She watched as they went out, putting the stool in the back of Harry's estate car, before returning to her polishing. It was nice that she'd sold the stool so quickly, though it was something she would have kept for herself if Michael didn't detest antiques, especially oak.
'I can't stand the smell of that stuff,' he'd told her once when she'd dragged him into an antique shop on their honeymoon. 'It smells of death and decay, and makes me feel old.'
'But it's so beautiful,' she'd said. 'I don't think of death, but of the lives people had, the history that is tied up in those things – all the loving and living they must have seen.' That was the thing about antiques; they had been handed down, passed on for generations, a part of so many people's lives. And the care and love that had gone into making them; you just didn't find that these days. 'Just think of the stories that old dresser could tell if it could talk.'
He'd looked at her as if she were mad. She had known then that she could never have her dream cottage, never fill it with antiques and the warm colours of browns, oranges, and creams that would make it glow. Michael liked modern things, bright light colours, and preferably magnolia walls with everything. He wouldn't even watch an old-fashioned film on the television with her, decrying it as idiots dressed up in long clothes.
Verity felt a chill at the nape of her neck as she put her cloths away and washed her hands. Was it then, at the very beginning that they had started to drift apart? No, it couldn't have been, she thought. They had shared most things, and her dream cottage had remained just that; she had put it away in a small corner of her mind, as she had all the other small things, the tiny hurts, the little disappointments that had come her way these past twenty years. She mustn't make too much of it now.
She put the coffee on. What she needed was a good dose of caffeine to drive the blues away. She was letting a small incident get to her and that was silly.
Michael had been a good husband in most ways. She had never had to worry about money. His business of a gentleman's outfitters had survived the trend towards large store shopping and continued to flourish, perhaps because Michael kept abreast of modern needs. His father had traded in good suits and shirts, and Michael still had a small section devoted to good quality formal clothes, but a lot of his stock now was of designer jeans, jackets and tea-shirts, which sold very well.
The bustling market town of Downham market thrived because it was close enough to Kings Lynn, and not too far from Norwich and the popular coastal resorts that attracted so many visitors in the summer. Most of Verity's own trade came from dealers who included her shop on their regular trawl, taking what they bought back to sell in smart London venues, but she had begun to sell quite a few small things to passing trade, especially in the summer months. People loved visiting antique shops; it was a form of recreation and you had to be prepared for lots of people who were just looking. But if you had the right things they bought now and then, though of course the main part of her income came from dealing with other traders.
Her lace was reasonably priced, and so was the blue and white china, which she picked up in auctions, or sometimes at boot fairs if she was lucky, and sold as individual pieces. Not many people wanted to buy the whole dinner or desert set, but a nice plate on its own made a focal point in a room, and was popular with people who liked to spend a few pounds on a day out. They were the kinds of things she sold to private customers, and she loved handling them, talking about antiques in general and people's collections. It was surprising how many people spent half an hour or more telling her about their private lives.
Her thoughts returned to her problem. She had had some happy years with Michael, and there were good memories. So if it wasn't right at the beginning, when had things begun to go wrong? Verity's mind went over her life as she tried to put her finger on a particular time, a moment that defined when Michael had stopped loving her, and she had started to withdraw.
Things hadn't been right for quite a while, but when had they started to fall apart? It might have been when she decided to invest her grandmother's legacy in this place. Verity frowned as she recalled his reaction to the news that she was going to open a shop of her own. No, he hadn't liked that at all, and they had argued over it several times.

Grand Christmas Contest

Just to announce that there will be a Grand Christmas Contest on Red Rose Publishing blog. It will go up on 5th/6th December and there will be four contests. Each contest will have eight prizes and one winner will win each contest. So there will be four winners of eight prizes each.

Don't miss your chance to enter this fabulous contest!

Cassie's Sheikh Coming Soon in Print

Cassie's Sheikh /Linda sole/ Red Rose Publishing
Cassie's Sheikh is available in ebook from www.redrosepublishing.com and www.fictionwise.com and will soon be available from www.amazon.com in print!

Kasim hates scandal magazines and people who work for them so what chance does Cassie have of convincing him that her father's racign stables is the right place for him to bring his horses?
Enjoy the excerpt!


"If she's the bitch I imagine she must be, there is no way I shall let my uncle place his horses at her father's stable," Kasim said. "It would be the worst thing he could do."
"But you don't know that," Ben Harrison, his friend, constant companion, and lawyer told him. "She may be a perfectly pleasant woman for all you know."
"A woman who writes for one of those filthy rags?" Kasim's eyes flashed with scorn. His face had the proud, regal lines of his ancestors, the bones angled beneath his olive-toned skin, but his eyes told another story. They were a deep brilliant blue, testimony to his mixed parentage, for he was the son of a desert Sheikh and the beautiful blonde and blue-eyed daughter of an American millionaire.
"Maybe she just does it for a living."
The angles of Kasim's face hardened. "Don't try to make excuses for her, Ben. I've had experience with her kind, remember?"
"Yes, of course I remember," Ben replied. "But you shouldn't jump to conclusions. You were all set for this deal until you found out that Josh's daughter worked for that magazine."
"My uncle thinks it is the best place available," Kasim said. "So I shall keep an open mind, but I want to see what they're like on a normal working day, not when everything is cleaned up for inspection."
"Shall I come with you?"
"Not today." Kasim's face relaxed into an affectionate smile, the angles softened as he looked at the man he trusted more than any other. "If I decide to go any further, we'll keep our appointment tomorrow—but today will be my little surprise."
*****
Cassie rushed out into the hall as she heard the commotion, feeling concerned as she saw everyone gathered about her father. Her mother turned to look at her anxiously.
"Your father thinks his ankle may be broken, Cassie."
"Oh, Dad," Cassie said. "Does it hurt badly?"
"Pretty bad," Josh Livingston said, grimacing. "It may mean I'm stuck in hospital for a few days, and you know who's coming tomorrow, don't you?"
"An important client," Cassie and her mother echoed each other.
Cassie understood what was going through his mind. Josh ran a small but successful racing stable in Newmarket, but the owner who had kept a string of horses with them for the past several years was about to retire from the business.
"Maybe they will let you out, Josh," Helen Livingston said, without really believing it. "You may not have to stay in hospital."
"But what if I do? Who is going to explain the way we work here to our visitor? Joe is great with the horses, but he hates getting involved with owners. It's the reason he doesn't work for himself."
"I suppose I could try…" Helen said doubtfully. "If you helped me, Cassie?"
Cassie hesitated for a moment. She was meant to be back in London the next day, and they had a magazine to get out—but she was due a few days leave and she could email her stuff through to the office.
"Yes, of course. If Dad thinks I'm up to it?" She grinned, tossing back her long pale hair, her greenish-blue eyes sparking with mischief. "You know I'm a walking minefield, Dad—dare you risk it?"
"It looks as if I may have to. This ankle is pretty awful, Cas. Try not to say or do anything daft when Mr. Ahmed comes, won't you?"
"You mean like calling him the Sheikh of Araby and wearing my harem costume?"
"Cassie!" her mother cried, horrified. "Please don't joke about this, darling. Your father has enough to worry him."
"It's all right, Cas doesn't mean it. I know you'll both do your best, but you're too like me, Cas—you'll probably fall flat on your backside just as you go to shake his hand," her father said.
"Shake the Sheikh's hand," Cassie said irrepressibly. "I think I could make up a little song about that…"
"Please spare me," her father begged. "That sounds like the ambulance outside, love." He looked at his wife. "I think I shall need a chair."
"Yes, of course. Stay where you are, Josh."
As his wife hurried out, he looked at his daughter. "You know your mother hates horses, Cas, always has. She can't bear to go near them. I sometimes wonder how she has managed to live with me all this time."
"Because she adores you," Cassie said and smiled at him affectionately. "And because you treat her as if she were special, Dad. Not many women are lucky enough to find a man like that, and Mum knows a good thing when she sees it."
"Bless you, love. I'm relying on you to charm Mr. Ahmed, Cas. He can be a pleasant chap, but they say he is hard to please when it comes to business and we need his horses. Tell him that we shall be able to devote ourselves to his string by next month, and that we are very stringent about security, also discreet—that is important to him. He hates newspapers and magazines…"
"Pity about that," Cassie said. "I might have gained Brownie points with Maggie if I'd been able to get an interview for our rag."
"Mr. Ahmed wouldn't be seen dead in your rag," her father said. "Whatever you do, don't tell him you work for Stars & Their Lives or he will be gone so fast we shan't see the dust."
"I was only teasing, Dad," Cassie said, and for once her famous grin was missing. "I do know how much this means to you, and I promise I shall do my best to pull it off for you. I won't breathe a word about the magazine, and I shall tell him what a wonderful trainer you are. Not that I have to with your record. You had six winners last year and that surely speaks for itself."
"I haven't won a Classic for three years," her father said with a grimace. "That could all change with Mr. Ahmed's string—if he placed them with us."
"Yes, I know." Cassie looked at him curiously. "Why doesn't he like to be addressed by his title?"
"He is a very private man. He never allows photographs, and is furious if the press catches him anywhere but at a race meeting. He can't prevent that, of course, nor being addressed as Sheikh Ali bin Ahmed in public, but he prefers to keep a low profile in private."
"He's extremely rich, isn't he?"
"One of the richest of them all. The thing is that he…" Josh broke off as two ambulance men came in carrying a chair.
Cassie watched as her father was helped into the chair by the paramedics and taken outside, followed by his wife. Helen Livingston cast an agonized glance at her daughter as she left.
"You can manage, can't you, love? I may be with your father for the rest of the day. There are a few letters that need typing. You will find them on the desk in the office."
"Yes, of course," Cassie said. "Don't worry about anything here. I'll be all right until you come home, I promise."
And that was quite a promise, Cassie acknowledged after her parents had left in the ambulance. She had columns to write for the magazine, those letters for her father, and a routine tour of the yard, just to make sure she knew anything she ought to know before the arrival of the Sheikh of Araby the next day. A little giggle escaped her as she pictured him, looking much like Rudolph Valentino, the star of the silver screen in the twenties.
"That's enough of that, Cassandra," she told herself severely. She had no idea what Mr. Ahmed looked like. He could be thin and dashingly handsome or fat, boring, and ugly. And that wasn't important either. He was her father's one hope of keeping the stable going, because without him Josh would probably have to sell everything and that would break her father's heart. He had put so many years into this business.
A determined look came over Cassie's face. If she had anything to do with it, Mr. Ahmed was going to run straight to his lawyers and sign the contract even if she had to—what? Oh no, there were limits, she decided. She'd heard about some of these rich playboys, and the one thing she wasn't about to do was fall into bed with him!
But if Mr. Ahmed was the private businessman he claimed to be, he probably wouldn't be interested in her as a woman. Why should he? Cassie glanced at herself in the mirror and giggled. She wasn't exactly Miss Glamourpants, was she? Wearing her oldest jeans, a faded sweatshirt, her hair decidedly in need of a wash, she wouldn't exactly drive any man to madness with lust for her. That wasn't important. Tomorrow she would be wearing smart jodhpurs, her best riding boots, and her hair would be gleaming. But for the moment she had too much to do to worry about what she looked like!
She walked into her father's office and switched on his laptop. She was just about to insert a disc with the details of the articles she had prepared for The Stars & Their Lives when she heard a loud crunching sound and a car come to a screeching halt in the gravel outside her window. Now who on earth is that? she wondered, getting up to investigate. The car was a very expensive Mercedes sports model in metallic silver with a black leather interior, and the hood had been rolled back, which made it appear even racier.
Oh, no, it couldn't be! Cassie's heart sank as the man got out of the car, standing there in the sunshine for a moment. He was tall but not too tall, strong-looking with powerful shoulders and an air of assurance that made Cassie's heart plummet all the way down to her white, wedge mules. It had to be Mr. Ahmed! He was turning towards her now and her breath caught as she saw that he was better looking than any Sheikh she had seen in old movies on the TV screen. His hair was jet black with a bluish tinge in the sunlight and his eyes—were hidden behind his designer shades. His suit shouted Saville Row at her, his shoes obviously handmade and expensive.
What the hell was he doing here today? She felt like exploding as she glanced down at herself. She looked like something the cat had dragged in and felt worse. Oh, why couldn't he have kept to his appointment as arranged? There was no help for it, Cassie realized. She had to meet him as she was and grovel.
She went swiftly through to the front door, opening it seconds before he could ring the bell. He removed his glasses and looked at her, his eyes going over her slowly in a measured way that made her want to die. This man was used to having the best of everything—and no doubt that included women!—what must be going through his mind? He must think her a poor specimen.
Hang on a minute! Those eyes were blue, bright, clear and devastating. She had always thought men from the Middle Eastern countries had dark eyes—but his were startling. And she was staring like an idiot!
"I am so sorry," she said, offering her hand and smiling. "We weren't expecting you until tomorrow, sir. I'm afraid I'm not properly dressed for showing you round the yard, but I can find a pair of Wellington boots and then I'll be with you."
"And you are?" he asked, his brows rising. He did not immediately take the hand she offered, and she let it drop, feeling rejected. His voice had the quality of cut glass and Cassie shivered, her knees suddenly feeling as if they had the consistency of jelly. He was clearly a man of authority, and none too pleased by being met by someone who looked as if she'd been pulled backwards through a hedge. "I was expecting to meet Mr. Joshua Livingston—the owner of this stable I understand?"
"My father, yes, of course, sir," Cassie said, but her head went up and she refused to be cut down by the slash of his tone. His manner was sending shivers along the entire length of her spine, but she wasn't going to fail at the first fence. "Unfortunately, he had an accident this morning and had to go to hospital. Actually, there must have been some mix-up, Mr. Ahmed. I am so sorry to seem at a loss, but we weren't expecting you until tomorrow."
"So, you are Miss Livingston?" he said and appeared to be considering, his eyes surveying her with a calculating coldness. "And you are offering yourself in your father's place?"
"It might seem a poor substitute," Cassie admitted. "I'm not a trainer, but I've been around horses all my life and I love them. I don't have my father's expert knowledge, but I know a great deal about the way he runs the stable—and his head groom, Joe Green, will be glad to tell you anything that I can't, sir."
"Mr. Ahmed will do," he said, and his mouth relaxed slightly. She thought he might have been laughing at her, and for a moment her heart did a giddy somersault, but he had replaced his glasses and it was impossible to tell. "Do you think you could find those boots, Miss Livingston? I shall be calling on you officially tomorrow, but I decided to drive myself down early and take a quick look round this morning. I like to see things as they are, not specially tidied up for my benefit."
"Yes, of course, sir," Cassie said and opened the door of the hall cupboard, taking out the Wellingtons her mother used for gardening. They were a bright turquoise, and really little bootees rather than the sensible boots she would have chosen given time, but at least they fit. "I hope you won't allow this little misunderstanding to put you off my father's stable. He really is an excellent trainer."
"If I didn't know that I should not be here." He glanced at his watch—gold, fabulously expensive—and then at her. "I have just thirty minutes before I have to fly back to a meeting in London."
"You came all this way for half an hour?"
Cassie couldn't help being fascinated. There was something about him that she found stimulating, a raw masculinity that she had seldom met with in the men she knew, his mouth curiously sensual despite his aura of power and disdain.
"I assure you it was nothing. I would go much further on…important business. Indeed, I often do, and few of my meetings last longer than thirty minutes. I am a busy man, Miss Livingston."
"Yes, of course."
Cassie felt like a wilting rose under his withering stare. She was babbling like a fool, and that wasn't really like her. In her real life, apart from the odd accident, like knocking over her diet drink and ruining her copy, she was confident, vibrant and one of the best journalists on Maggie's staff. But she mustn't even think the word. This man could probably read her mind—oh, she did hope not, and not just because she was a journalist. She couldn't help thinking that Maggie would drool over this one, if only she could get photos—preferably of him wearing something less than his smart silk suit. She watched as he bent to remove his own shoes and replace them with a pair of riding boots that had seen a certain amount of wear, noticing the way his jacket pulled tight across his shoulders for a moment. The body under that suit had to be something special!
"Shall we go then?"
His abrupt question broke into her thoughts, bringing her sharply to heel. Stop dreaming of sunlit beaches, iced drinks, and fabulous men in bathing shorts, Cassie Livingston, and get on with the job at hand.
She switched into professional mode as they walked from the house to the yard. It was a matter of only a few minutes, but the walk was pretty with the blossom trees just beginning to drop their flowers, and the sound of birdsong all around them. She told him of her father's love of horses, the way he could often tell what was the matter with a sick horse just by looking and watching, and how he had saved his previous owner thousands of pounds by working with one particular horse they had all adored.
"The vet said we ought to have Jester put down," Cassie said, her voice warm and enthusiastic, "but Dad wouldn't hear of it. He nursed Jester himself, slept there every night for weeks until my mother threatened to divorce him—but it was worth it in the end."
"Why—did the horse win a race for you?"
"No, but it sired a colt that won for someone else," Cassie said. "Besides, the very fact that Dad made Jester well again was worth all the trouble, wasn't it?"
"Was it?" His voice was clipped, precise, slashing at her like a scimitar. "It would probably have been more economic to have the horse put down in the first place."
"But totally cruel!" Cassie cried, infuriated that he could suggest such a thing. "I hope my father would never think that the better option."
"I was merely putting the point," Mr. Ahmed said coldly, his eyes raking over her. "There is no need to jump on me as if I had suggested murder."
Cassie took a deep breath, counting to ten before speaking. Had she been free to behave as she wished, she might have turned on her heel and left him standing there. He might be the most totally fascinating man she had ever seen, but he was also infuriating. Unfortunately, her father was desperate for a new owner, and the only one to profess an interest was this man. She swallowed her pride.
"Forgive me. I did not intend to be rude."
"Did you not? I would not like to hear you when that was your intention, Miss Livingston."
Cassie clamped down on a sassy retort, giving him what she hoped was a conciliatory smile. "It was just that we all loved Jester so very much."
"I had thought you meant that your father would do as much for any horse if it was sick?"
"Yes, of course he would!"
"I am relieved to hear it. I should not consider placing my…horses with anyone who was not prepared to put themselves to extra trouble to nurse a horse that needed it."
Cassie did a quick stock-take of her thoughts. Just what was he doing here? Had he deliberately set a trap for her? She paused for a moment, giving him one of her Cassandra looks. A look that her work colleagues knew well, though her parents and friends had rarely seen it.
"I hope you don't think I am a silly, sentimental woman, Mr. Ahmed. I assure you that I have my wits about me. I care for all animals, not just horses, but if I loved an animal that could not be helped I should immediately send for a vet to put it down."
"Indeed? How practical you are," he said and the look he gave her was deliberately provoking. "I thought for a moment that I had discovered that rare thing these days—a tender-hearted woman."
Oh, damn him! He was determined to turn everything she said on its head, and she had a dawning suspicion that he was laughing at her. Not that there was a trace of it in his expression, his mouth firmly set in disapproving lines, and of course his eyes were hidden.
"Tenderness should be reserved for the right moment, Mr. Ahmed."
"Yes, I believe that is very true," he replied. "I have very little use for it myself—except at the right moment."
If only she could see his eyes! Cassie was sure that he was thoroughly enjoying himself at her expense, and she was quite certain that she knew exactly what he meant by the right moment. Thinking about what he would feel was a moment for tenderness was making her knees go wobbly again. Oh, hell, this wasn't the time to start having fantasies about a man with beautifully tanned skin and a body to die for!

New Mills & Boon

This is my latest Regency with Mills & Boon. To be published in November!