Buch lesen: «The Bachelor's Bargain»

CHAPTER ONE

MERREN tried to look on the bright side—or even find a bright side. By nature she was a cheerful person, but just lately there had been little to cheer about.

Looking on the bright side, however, she had the money in her bag which would take the look of strain from the face of Robert, her brother. It had been extremely disappointing that the sale of her mother’s sapphire and diamond ring hadn’t fetched anywhere near its insurance valuation. But the two thousand pounds she had been forced to accept was just enough to keep the bailiffs from Robert’s door. Though since six weeks ago Robert, his wife and their three children had moved into the house she already lived in, it was her door too.

Not that he and his family didn’t have a right to live there as well, Merren reminded herself as, having delivered an envelope in the area, she made her way past elegant and expensive houses en route to public transport.

It had to be today that Robert had wanted to borrow her car to go for a job interview. Though, she acknowledged, in the last six weeks it had become more like the family’s car, rather than belonging exclusively to her. But Robert’s need was greater than hers, and if he was successful at his interview, a company car, as in his old job, went with the territory.

Just as it had to be today that Robert’s need of a car was greater than her own, it had to be today that her boss, Dennis Chapman, ‘up to his eyes in it’, to use his expression, had asked if she’d mind dropping some urgent documents off to one of his business associates on her way home. She had done so once before, and Dennis had obviously assumed she’d had her car outside today.

Merren’s thoughts went back to her brother as she reflected on the mess he was in. If only he’d told someone a year ago that he’d been made redundant they might, collectively, have been able to find some way out of his problems. But he hadn’t told anyone—not even his wife!

True, Carol, a terminal worrier at the best of times, had been four months pregnant with their third child then. But even so, though Robert had thought he’d get another job straight away, Merren felt sure that, had Carol known, she would have pulled with him rather than against him, as was happening now.

A year ago they could have…Merren’s breath caught, the sadness she was having to come to terms with coming over her. A year ago her mother had been alive. A year ago she and her mother had lived happily together in the house Merren’s father still owned. Ten months ago her mother had been out walking when a car coming round a sharp bend had gone out of control. It…

Merren turned her thoughts away from the shock and horror of that devastating time after her mother’s death. She had valued Robert’s support in the background then. But, aside from her love for her brother, Merren saw it as only right and natural that now, in his time of need, she should support him.

Their father lived in Cornwall, but, since he hadn’t stirred himself to attend his estranged wife’s funeral, they hardly expected any help from him in this financial crisis. Although before Robert had told Carol that their small savings were gone, that he hadn’t been paying the mortgage and that they were soon to be homeless, he had written a number of times to his father for help—so far, he had received no reply.

Merren was deep in thought, and was passing one of the tall, imposing houses, when a young man in his early twenties came galloping out down the steps, a travel bag in his hand, and only just avoided cannoning into her.

‘Sorry!’ he called, his eyes appreciative of her face and figure.

He was soon from her mind and Merren walked on. She must get home. She didn’t think Robert had told Carol that she was going to try to sell their mother’s—and, before her, their grandmother’s—ring. But he would be waiting. She must get home. She must…

All thought suddenly ceased when what happened next happened so fast she could hardly believe it was happening at all. One moment she was stepping purposefully out on the hard pavement; the following she was being pushed violently from behind—and the pavement was coming up to meet her.

Even while it was dawning on her that she was being mugged, three adrenalin-activated youths were pushing and shoving and hitting and generally making short work of her grim determination to hang on to her shoulder bag at all costs, and were escaping pell-mell down the road with it.

Feeling stunned and winded, it was the violence of the assault that shocked her. She had never ever been hit before and she just sat there dishevelled and decidedly crumpled for ageless seconds, dazed, sickened, a cross between tears and fury.

She did not cry, and there was no one there on whom she could vent her anger. How could she have been hit, pushed, knocked over in this salubrious area? Why not? What better place for a mugging than this well-to-do district? What better place for rich pickings.

‘Oh, you poor thing!’ So dazed and in shock was she, Merren hadn’t heard the sound of running feet; feet running towards her, not away. She looked up and recognised the young man who’d been carrying the travel bag out to his car. ‘Can you stand up?’ he asked, his face showing his concern.

Merren, with his aid, got to her feet; it was incidental that there were great gaping holes in her tights. Everything seemed to spin about her for a second, so she was glad when the man held on to her.

‘Oh, you poor, poor thing,’ he crooned. ‘Those thugs will be miles away by now. Come on,’ he urged. ‘A cup of tea’s what you need.’

With his hand under her arm supporting her he took the short way to a house where the front door still stood open. He helped her up the steps and Merren went with him.

A few minutes later she came a little out of her shock to find she was seated in someone’s plush drawing room with barely any idea of how she had got there.

Her head had started to pound when a voice, somewhere to the back of her, started to penetrate. ‘Not another of your waifs and strays, Piers!’ It was rather a nice voice. Piers, whoever he was, apparently went in for collecting waifs and strays.

‘Aw, don’t be like that, Jarad, the poor girl’s just been mugged!’

Merren jerked upright on the sofa she found herself on. They were talking about her! Waif and stray! Indignantly she went to stand up—her legs were wobbly; she sat down again. ’So had the last one been mugged, if I recall correctly.’

‘It’s true this time. Honestly, it is.’

‘You haven’t time to plead your case. You’ll miss your plane.’ The voices were moving away, the Piers voice mumbling something, then the Jarad voice answering, ‘Yes, yes, I’ll look after her—don’t I always?’

Merren made a more determined effort to get herself together. Huh, waif and stray! Look after her—he could go take a hike. But her head hurt, her shoulders hurt, and she had an idea she’d have a few bruises by tomorrow. In fact her head felt a bit muzzy, but she’d stand up in a minute and get out of there.

She could hear some sort of a conversation going on, then silence. Then she heard a car start up. Good, they’d gone out somewhere. She heard the front door close, and, as a second or two afterwards someone came into the drawing room, Merren decided it was time to leave.

Just as she went to struggle to her feet, though, a tall man with night-black hair, somewhere in his mid-thirties, came and stood in front of her, and she found herself pinned by what she could only describe as a pair of cool grey eyes. He certainly wasn’t going to believe a word she said, she could tell that, and that was before she so much as opened her mouth.

Which was why she decided that she wasn’t going to bother saying anything. Though, since he was standing so close, she had to amend that decision. ‘If you wouldn’t mind getting out of my way, I’ll leave.’

She hated his cynical right eyebrow that lifted at her haughty tone. ‘You’re different; I’ll say that for you,’ he drawled.

‘I’m certainly no “waif or stray”!’ she told him snappily. Though if she’d hoped to embarrass him by tossing back at him the words she’d overheard, she could have saved herself the bother.

He did not look a scrap embarrassed, nor in the slightest apologetic when he apologised dryly, ‘Forgive me. I find it a trifle tedious being left to care for the lame dogs my brother constantly brings home—then, when his Samaritan impetuosity wanes, leaves me to deal with his problems.’

Problems! Lame dogs! Of all the insufferable… ‘You miserable worm!’ she flared. ‘I was mugged!’

The epithet about the miserable worm didn’t touch him, either. ‘Very conveniently mugged on my doorstep,’ he drawled, giving no quarter for her ruined tights and dishevelled appearance.

But she’d had it with him. Abruptly, too abruptly, she shot to her feet. She took one step, and as waves of dizziness assaulted her she needed something to hang on to. She stretched out her hands and held on to him until her world righted itself.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled from a proud somewhere, dropping her hands from his arms as if burned, going to take another step. Only this time he held both of her arms and pushed her back to the sofa.

‘Stay there,’ he ordered, and, while every instinct in her urged her to tell him what he could do with his orders, she was feeling too drained just then to do anything other than obey.

He went away, but returned in seconds with a glass of medicinal brandy. ‘Drink that,’ he commanded, and, at her belligerent look that said, Why should I? he flicked a glance over her shoulder-length natural blonde-streaked pale reddish hair, over her fine features and porcelain skin, and commented, ‘It could be that you’re naturally pale, but…’

‘Don’t bust a gut giving me the benefit of the doubt!’ Her spirit was returning—she felt better sitting down.

‘Just as it could be that you’re naturally lippy.’

‘It’s not every day I get mugged and then, while I’m coping with that, get accused of pretending to be mugged, for some reason my head’s in too much of a fog just now to be able to work out why.’

‘Drink the brandy.’

She tossed him a malevolent look, but, since it seemed the brandy might make her feel better, she took a sip, determined not to choke on the unfamiliar spirit, and took another couple of sips—whereupon her determination not to choke let her down. But only so far as a lady-like splutter.

She did, however, acknowledge, albeit reluctantly, that she was starting to recover from the shock and humiliation of being set upon by a trio of thugs.

‘Drink the rest of it and I’ll get a taxi to take you home,’ the man Jarad said.

A taxi—to Surrey! ‘I haven’t the money for a tax…’ Aghast, she stopped, fresh shock hitting her as, looking round for her bag, suddenly she fully remembered that the last time she had seen it some young thug was making off with it. ‘The money!’ she gasped in horror, she’d had two thousands pounds in that bag!

‘Here we go!’ drawled the man Jarad nastily. And, as Merren stared blankly at him, ‘Would it be very impolite of me, do you suppose, if I enquire what money?’

Merren had grown up loving her fellow man, but she had just come across one that she most definitely hated. She, who hadn’t a violent bone in her body, and maybe because of the violence recently done to her, felt she wanted to thump him, to hit him and keep on hitting him. But she had been better brought up than that. But her tone was full of loathing when she placed the brandy glass down on a nearby table and told him coldly, ‘Never, have I ever met a more odious creature than you.’

‘My heart bleeds—how much will it cost me?’

You’d have thought someone would have bashed that good-looking face in before this! ‘You—nothing.’

‘Let me try again. How much did the muggers get away with?’

Merren doubted that he’d decided to believe she’d been mugged after all. But pride about letting him know that she wasn’t the penniless ‘waif and stray’ he seemed so convinced she was made her answer, ‘Two thousand pounds, actually.’

‘In cash?’ She refused to answer. ‘You usually carry that amount of cash around with you?’ he questioned sceptically.

‘It was to pay some bills!’ Why did she feel she had to defend herself? She was going—getting out of there.

‘You don’t have a chequebook?’ he asked, before she had moved an inch.

She didn’t have two thousand in her account, nor even a quarter of that. Nor was she likely to tell him that Robert’s creditors had point-blank told him that a cheque would be unacceptable. Merren could only suppose he had tried to stave off the evil day by previously writing cheques that had not been honoured.

‘So either you don’t have a bank account or your creditors know your cheques are worthless.’ Oh, aren’t we the Smarty Pants! ‘Where did you get this two thousand?’ he wanted to know.

‘It’s nothing to do with you!’ she snapped, part of her wondering why she was still sitting there. Had that hard pavement addled her brain? Had the shock caused her to move in slow motion? Anyone would think she was enjoying having a slanging match with him.

‘Since it looks a certainty that I’m going to be two thousand pounds out of pocket, I’d say it has everything to do with me!’ he answered crisply.

Merren stared at him, totally perplexed. ‘You’re going to be two thousand pounds out of pocket?’

He clearly had no belief in her puzzlement, but astonished her when he replied mockingly, ‘I just know it’s going to cost me that much to keep my word to my brother that I’d look after you.’

‘You’re suggesting you’d lend me the money?’ she questioned, more to check that she’d got it right, that her brain wasn’t so addled she was beginning to believe.

‘I’m stating, not suggesting,’ he began, but, waking up fast, Merren was butting in.

‘Why should you?’ she asked, starting to realise she must have landed in either a most generous or most crackpot family.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he questioned back, his steady grey glance on her improved colour. ‘Piers, whom I promise you has cost me more than forty pounds a week just lately with his lost causes, is about to leave the country to work abroad for a year. I think I’ll be getting off lightly by making a final two-thousand-pound contribution to his waifs and strays fund.’

Insults she didn’t need. Merren got to her feet, glad to find her legs were steady and that her dizzy spell was a thing of the past. ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ she told him proudly, and, taking a few steps away from him, ‘As for your money, I wouldn’t dream of touching a penny of it.’

Grey eyes locked with deeply blue eyes. ‘Fine,’ he said, and, his glance flicking over her, ‘You won’t want to go through the streets looking like that.’ And then, a decision made, ‘I’ll drive you home.’

Had she any other choice, Merren would have taken it. But, aside from the fact she knew she looked a wreck, she didn’t so much as have the price of a twopenny bus ticket—if there was such a thing—and she certainly wasn’t going to borrow from him. ‘I live in Surrey,’ she stated.

He didn’t bat an eyelid, but escorted her out to where his beautiful-looking black Jaguar was parked.

They were silent for most of the drive. What was there to say? She didn’t want to talk to him—she certainly had no intention of answering any of his questions—and he, likewise, didn’t seem to want to talk to her.

In any case, she had a lot on her mind. Robert would be in despair when she told him she’d had the money but had lost it. She tried to think what else she could sell. There was her car, which was in good working order, but it was so old she’d be lucky if they got five hundred for it. Besides which, they seemed to need that car. In the six weeks since Robert and his family had moved in there had been countless visits en masse to the supermarket, and she’d taken her nieces, eight-year-old Queenie and six-year-old Kitty, out several times when Carol had been particularly edgy with them.

Merren wished her father would reply to Robert’s letter. She knew her father didn’t have a lot in the bank, but occasionally in the past, when her mother had hit hard times, she’d overcome her pride and accepted money he’d sent to tide them over.

Merren was just deciding that she would write to her father herself that night, when the man Jarad pulled up outside the detached house her father owned.

Jarad turned to her. ‘You’re looking better.’

‘I’m a good actress,’ she returned airily.

‘So, I may have been wrong, and you may have been mugged.’

‘Don’t strain yourself!’ she tossed at him, but belatedly remembering her manners, added politely, ‘Thank you very much for bringing me home.’

‘I’ll bet that hurt!’ Merren made to get out of the car. ‘Will there be someone in to look after you? You’re probably still in shock.’

She was more likely to have to look after them than they look after her. ‘I live with my family,’ she replied, and again made to get out of the car, when he stopped her.

He took out his wallet and extracted a business card. ‘If you change your mind about the money—give me a ring.’

She took the card from him, but, knowing she wouldn’t be phoning him, she didn’t so much as look at it. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. His car was purring away before she was halfway up the garden path.

Ignoring the general clutter of family life when she went in, Merren picked up a note from the kitchen table. ‘Gone to supermarket,’ she read. Heartily glad that she had the chance to make herself more presentable before her brother and his family arrived home, Merren had a quick shower and changed into a cotton frock. The weather was sunny—she wished she felt the same.

She mourned the loss of her mother’s ring—it had been so difficult to part with, and she felt quite dreadful that she had. Despite all her trials and tribulations her mother had always hung on to the ring, and had kept it safe for Merren, telling her that one day it would be hers.

And what had Merren done? Not only had she sold it but she’d lost the money she had received for it. Merren just didn’t know how she was going to face her brother and confess what had happened.

Knowing she should go downstairs and try to restore some order into the chaos of school bags, odd plimsolls, socks and a half-eaten sandwich she’d seen lying about, for once Merren squashed down her tidy soul and instead got out her writing pad. It was an age since she had last written to her father, and, much though she disliked asking him for money, she just didn’t know what else she could do. And he was family.

Having penned a very difficult letter—which had started along the lines of ‘as you know, Robert and his family have, in straitened circumstances, come to live with me here in your house’—she had gone on to tell him of his lovely grandchildren, which she thought might interest him, and ended with the crunch line, which had been the most difficult of all to pen—if he could see his way clear to send something to help pay off some outstanding bills. She signed her letter ‘With love, Merren’, and went downstairs to tidy the cluttered sitting room and kitchen.

Most probably they had all eaten dinner, but in case they hadn’t she began to peel a large panful of potatoes. If they had eaten, the potatoes would do for tomorrow. Now what was she going to tell Robert?

Merren knew she could only tell him the truth, but she was feeling all stewed up inside about having to confess when she heard her car on the drive.

She looked up as first her two nieces charged in. ‘Hello, Aunty Merren.’ They raced each other to the bathroom, followed by her depressed-looking sister-in-law, who was carrying a grizzling seven-month-old Samuel. Robert, laden with shopping, followed on behind.

‘Shall I have the baby?’ Merren asked, drying her hands and, while wanting to have what she had to tell her brother said and done with, found she also wanted to delay that dreadful moment when the expectant look on his face would die.

‘He needs changing,’ Carol answered, finding a smile, and disappeared to leave her alone with Robert.

‘How did your job interview go?’ Merren asked. Oh, how could she tell him?

‘I didn’t get it,’ he said glumly, and, dropping the shopping down on the kitchen table, ‘How about you—did you get it?’

He meant the money, she knew. ‘N-no, actually, I…’

‘Merren!’ he exclaimed hoarsely. ‘You couldn’t sell Mother’s ring? Oh Lord, this is the end!’ He collapsed on to a kitchen chair, his head in his hands, his despair total. ‘That’s it—I’ll go to prison, Carol will divorce me, I…’

‘Robert!’ Merren cried. Prison! This was the first she’d heard of the mention of prison! ‘You’re just being dramatic.’

‘You don’t know the half of it!’

‘You’ve been in trouble before? Financial trouble?’

‘You try bringing up a family—and maintaining a wife with expensive tastes,’ he said bitterly.

As she looked at him, Merren saw for the first time that her big, dependable brother didn’t seem so big and dependable after all. For the first time she noticed a certain weakness around his mouth. But that didn’t make her love him less. He had their father’s mouth. In fact he suddenly seemed a lot more like her father than her warm, generous-hearted mother.

‘You have a lovely wife and a lovely family,’ Merren reminded him, not liking at all that he seemed to be taking a snipe at his wife.

‘And I’ll have the not so lovely bailiffs hammering on the door if those outstanding bills aren’t settled by Monday,’ he retorted sullenly. ‘Are you sure you haven’t got that money, Merren? You promised you’d sell that ring; you know you did.’

‘I did sell it,’ she confessed, but before she could tell him how the money had been stolen from her, his face was lit by a tremendous look of relief.

‘You little terror!’ he exclaimed, his face all huge smiles suddenly. ‘You’ve been winding me up, Merren Shepherd! How much did you get for it?’

‘T-two thousand, but…’

‘Two thousand. Great!’ He beamed. ‘You were robbed, of course,’ he said of the jeweller, Merren winced at the accuracy of the remark. ‘But two thousand, as you know, will settle the blighters. Oh, Merren, it feels as if a ton of weight has been lifted off my shoulders. For a while there, you wicked imp, I felt quite suicidal.’ Oh, heavens. Merren quailed at the enormity of what he had just confessed. ‘Where is it?’ he asked.

Good question. She felt tears prick the backs of her eyes. She turned away from him, knowing that, suicidal or not, she was going to have to douse that look of tremendous relief. ‘I w-was…’ she began, and half turned. It was a mistake to look at him. She loved him; he was her family. ‘I’m—er—getting it tomorrow,’ she heard herself state.

And Robert opined, ‘Honestly, you’d think a jeweller of all people would have two thousand in cash on the premises, wouldn’t you?’

‘You would,’ she agreed, and found she was taking up Robert’s notion that she was going to have to go back to the jeweller’s tomorrow because they normally paid via cheque and didn’t deal much in cash. ‘It’s a security thing apparently.’

The conversation came to an end then, when Queenie and Kitty raced down the stairs and into the kitchen chorusing, ‘I’m starving.’

Robert looked at Merren, who would normally have seen to their appetites, but she was reeling under the enormity of what she had done—and what she was panickingly realising she was going to have to do now.

‘I’ve a letter I need to post,’ she excused, and, finding a stamp in the bureau, went upstairs to collect the letter she had written to her father.

She stayed in her room some minutes, contemplating her options while the words ‘prison’, ‘suicide’, ‘divorce’, ‘family break-up’ whirled around in her head. She couldn’t allow any of that to happen. So what options were there?

She’d post her letter to her father, though since he hadn’t even bothered to reply to Robert’s letter, she saw little hope that any plea from her would fare any better.

As if trying to avoid thinking of the man whose parting words had been, ‘If you change your mind about the money—give me a ring,’ she dwelt on the eldest member of their family, Uncle Amos.

Amos Yardley lived a ten-minute drive away, was her mother’s brother, and Merren thought the world of him. He had been more of a father to her than her own, even before her parents had separated.

Dear Uncle Amos. ‘Are you all right for money?’ he’d asked when her mother had died. Merren had determined he would never know how the funeral had nearly cleaned her out; only the best had done for her mother.

‘Absolutely!’ she’d assured him. His two up and two down cottage was collapsing about his ears—he was poorer than they were.

It was partly because she hadn’t wanted him to worry, when she knew he could do nothing to help, that she hadn’t told him the true reason Robert and his family had moved in with her. She had let Uncle Amos believe it was because it was so quiet and empty with her mother gone that she had asked Robert to move back to the family home.

But Uncle Amos, who was an inventor and often quite vague about matters outside his work, had given her a shrewd kind of look, as if suspecting she was doing a little inventing herself. To her mind, though, hers was a necessary invention. For, while Uncle Amos’s inventions earned him nothing—he seemed to subsist by writing articles for clever magazines and barely scraped a living for himself—so Merren knew she would not be approaching him to help Robert out.

Which left her with the one option she was trying to avoid. She flicked her glance to the dressing table where, without so much as bothering to read it, she had dropped the man Jarad’s card. A sick feeling entered her stomach. She didn’t want to do it; she didn’t.

Merren went over to the dressing table and picked up the card, and read it, and, oh, grief! She worked for an electronics company herself—only a tiny one by comparison, but large enough for her to be familiar with the name Roxford Waring, one of the biggest and most highly respected multinationals in the electronics field. The man Jarad had given her his personal business card, which also listed his home number. Oh, heaven’s above, Jarad Montgomery was a director of Roxford Waring! Was she really contemplating contacting one of their board members with a view to borrowing some money from him?

Merren needed to think, so she escaped from the house and posted her letter, and, knowing the utter futility of it anyway, called in at the police station and reported having been mugged. She thought it unlikely they would catch the criminals, and knew she would never see her bag again.

Which, as she bowed to the inevitable and searched for a telephone kiosk—no way could she make this call from home—reminded her that she didn’t even have the price of a phone call with her.

She didn’t want to make that call; she didn’t, she didn’t. What she wanted to do was to go home, go to bed, and stick her head under the bedclothes—and stay there.

But there wasn’t only herself to think of here. By reminding herself she had a deeply stressed brother, a deeply depressed sister-in-law, two young nieces and a baby nephew, Merren located a phone box.

She went in, grabbed at what courage she could find, quickly dialled the operator and asked the operator for a transfer charge call. And, even while she knew her name wouldn’t mean a thing to Jarad Montgomery, she gave it to the operator—and waited.