I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Dangerous Sanctuary
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Cover

About the Author

Title Page

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

CHAPTER ONE

‘I THINK that’s all for today, Jaime.’ Felix Haines got up from his desk to flex his aching shoulder muscles, grimacing when he saw his secretary’s sympathetic smile. ‘You can laugh,’ he added, ‘but playing squash twice a week is going to do me good. As soon as I master it, that is.’

‘So long as it doesn’t master you first,’ responded Jaime drily, folding her shorthand notebook, and slipping her pencil into the metal spiral that secured the pages. ‘Honestly, I can’t see the sense of beating yourself to death just to prove you’re still active! I’m sure you’d find it simpler to join a golf club.’

‘Perhaps so.’ Felix was a little irritable. ‘But Lacey would think I was taking the easy way out—and I would be. As she says, forty-six isn’t old. I’ve just let myself get lazy, that’s all.’

Jaime reserved judgement on Lacey Haines’s opinion. Since she’d broken up Felix’s first marriage, and married him herself eighteen months ago, Lacey seemed bent on changing him from the easygoing middle-aged man she claimed she had fallen in love with to one of those ultrafit sporting types you frequently saw on television. Men with trim figures, and sharp, hungry faces, men who Jaime privately thought were striving desperately to hang on to their youth. Talk about women being the vainer sex, she mused, watching Felix, as he endeavoured to throw off the stiffness of over-worked muscles. Still, Lacey was more than fifteen years his junior, so perhaps he felt compelled to make the effort.

‘Haven’t you ever thought of joining a keep-fit group?’ Felix asked now, as Jaime rose from her seat and began walking towards the door that led into her office. ‘Lacey goes to an aerobics class every Wednesday. You should join her.’

‘Oh, I—don’t think so,’ said Jaime finally, softening her refusal with a rueful smile. She could almost hear Lacey’s reaction to a suggestion like that. Lacey had never forgiven her for taking Margaret Haines’s side during the divorce proceedings, and if there had been any way she could have persuaded Felix to find another secretary she would have done it. But happily for Jaime, Felix was fond of her, and their twelve-year partnership had stood the test. ‘I—er—I don’t really have that much time,’ Jaime appended now, realising belatedly that Felix might misunderstand her motives. ‘I mean—what with Tom, and everything. I—just never seem to have a moment to myself.’

Felix regarded her a little dourly now. ‘You don’t like Lacey, do you?’ he exclaimed, out of the blue. ‘Oh—–’ he lifted a hand to silence her, as she opened her mouth to protest ‘—you don’t have to say anything. I know. I’m not entirely without perception, Jaime, whatever you think. I just wish it weren’t so.’

Jaime’s tongue circled her lips. ‘Felix, I—–’

‘You still see Maggie, don’t you?’

‘Occasionally.’ Jaime nodded.

‘And she’s poisoned your mind about Lacey, I suppose.’

‘No!’ Jaime was dismayed. ‘We never discuss your marriage, Felix.’

He snorted then. ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’

Jaime stiffened. ‘I think you flatter yourself, Mr Haines,’ she retorted, reaching for the handle of the door. ‘If that’s all—–’

‘Oh, Jaime!’ Felix sighed and came towards her, shaking his head. ‘Don’t look at me like that. All right. Perhaps I was out of line in suggesting you and Maggie spend your time pulling me to pieces. But you have to admit, it’s not unreasonable to assume my name is mentioned!’

Jaime hesitated. ‘Felix, my associating with Lacey—or rather the lack of it—has nothing to do with your ex-wife. Lacey and I just don’t—get on. It’s as simple as that. I’m sure, if you asked her, she’d say the same.’

Felix frowned. ‘I suppose you know she’s jealous of you.’

‘Jealous of me?’ Jaime was staggered. ‘You’re not serious!’

‘I am.’ Felix pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and rocked back on his heels. ‘You’re a beautiful woman. I’ve always thought so. And—who knows?—if you’d ever given me the slightest encouragement—–’

‘Felix!’ Jaime stopped him there. She couldn’t believe this conversation was actually happening, and she had no wish to complicate an already difficult situation. ‘I think I’d better go…’

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Felix was amazingly casual about it. ‘It’s a few years now since I got over my infatuation. You made it abundantly clear, consciously or otherwise, that you weren’t interested. Not in so many words, perhaps. But subtly. When you told me about Tom’s father, for instance.’

Jaime felt as if she was totally out of her depth here. ‘Felix, I told you about Tom’s father because—–’

‘I know. To explain that Tom wasn’t your ex-husband’s son,’ Felix assured her tolerantly. ‘And I sympathised, didn’t I? I never liked Philip Russell myself. But I also realised you were unlikely to let another man into your life for quite some time. Maybe not ever. And I didn’t want to lose the best secretary I’d ever had.’

Jaime tried to keep calm. ‘I—don’t know what to say,’ she murmured, aware that the idea of Felix—shy, bespectacled, sober Felix—nurturing some unrequited passion for her seemed totally unbelievable. He had always struck her as being such a moderate man. But, she acknowledged drily, he had left his wife of some twenty years for a much younger woman, so who could tell what went on behind that bland façade?

‘There’s no need to say anything,’ Felix reassured her, turning away from the evident confusion in her face. ‘I knew you were unaware that I existed—in a sexual way, that is. You were too wrapped up with your own affairs to notice anything—or anyone—else.’

Jaime felt the hot colour invading her cheeks. So far, she had succeeded in controlling her intense embarrassment, but now she could hide it no longer. ‘I’m—sorry,’ she mumbled, jerking open the door, wishing he had never brought the subject up. Goodness, it resurrected too many other memories she would rather not think about, and she was glad to escape to the comparative sanctuary of her own office.

However, Felix’s voice followed her. ‘Anyway,’ he called, and somehow she sensed his casual tone concealed a covert curiosity, ‘talking of the Russells, did you know the old Priory had been sold?’

Steeling her nerves, Jaime came back to the open doorway. ‘The old Priory?’ she said, with commendable composure. ‘What does the old Priory have to do with the Russells? Except that Philip stayed there years ago.’

‘Wasn’t it where you met your ex-husband?’ Felix probed innocently. ‘I seem to remember—–’

‘I met Philip in the bar at the Raven,’ retorted Jaime levelly, feeling a sense of disquiet she had not felt for years. What was Felix up to now? Surely Philip hadn’t bought the Priory.

‘So, it wouldn’t bother you, meeting him again,’ her employer suggested mildly, shuffling some papers on his desk, and Jaime sighed.

‘I suppose not,’ she responded tightly, even though the prospect filled her with alarm. ‘What are you saying? That Philip is the new owner of the Priory?’

‘No.’ Felix lifted his head, and Jaime had the distinct suspicion that he was enjoying this. Maybe he still resented her attitude towards Lacey, whatever he said. ‘No, Philip hasn’t bought the Priory, Jaime. His brother has.’

How Jaime managed to remain standing, she never knew. Felix’s words had struck her with all the force of a body blow, and the desire to double up under its onslaught was overwhelming.

‘You did meet Ben Russell, didn’t you?’ Felix continued, his expression mirroring none of the horror Jaime was feeling. She must be more skilful at hiding her reactions than she had imagined, she thought faintly. But on no account must he guess how she was feeling at this moment.

With her mouth dry, and her heart beating heavily in her chest, even the word ‘Yes’ required an immense amount of effort, but Jaime managed it. She even added, ‘How interesting,’ just for good measure, before stepping weakly back to her desk.

Then, Ben! she mouthed disbelievingly, propping herself limply against the scarred wood. Ben was coming to live in Kingsmere! Oh, God, it couldn’t be true, could it? Fate couldn’t be so cruel!

And yet, remembering the way it had treated her in the past, Jaime knew it could. In life there were no guarantees, no limits to the pain and frustration any one person could suffer. Even after all these years, it still wasn’t through with her. She pressed a trembling hand to her throat as a wave of dizziness swept over her.

Then, realising that Felix could appear at any moment and find her in this state, Jaime struggled to pull herself together. It was quite late—almost four o’clock already. If she could just manage to get through the next half-hour, she would have a whole weekend to recover from the shock. Besides, she told herself fiercely, it wasn’t as if they were likely to run into one another. If it hadn’t been for Philip, she would never have met the other members of the Russell family. No, she and Tom were safe. Ben was unlikely to seek her out after all this time.

Even so, it had been a blow, and, despite the way he had phrased it, Jaime was pretty sure Felix had intended to disconcert her. But even he could have no idea of the emotional turmoil into which his careless words had thrown her. She guessed his only intention had been to get his own back.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the papers she had been about to file when Felix summoned her, and was apparently calmly slotting them into their individual compartments in the filing cabinet when Felix put his head round the door.

‘I’m leaving now,’ he said, coming more fully into the room. ‘When you’ve finished what you’re doing, you can go, too, if you like.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re not mad at me, are you?’

‘Mad at you?’ Once again Jaime called on all her reserves of strength to face this new challenge. ‘Why should I be mad at you?’

‘Well…’ Felix shrugged ‘… that business over the Priory. Teasing you about Philip, and so on. I haven’t upset you, have I?’

Jaime forced a smile. ‘Don’t be silly, Felix,’ she declaimed, closing the filing-cabinet drawer with careful precision. ‘Where any member of that family chooses to live is no concern of mine.’

‘No, but—–’

‘Honestly. It’s OK.’ Jaime made a play of examining the remaining documents in her hands. ‘Have a good weekend, Felix. And don’t overdo the exercise. Remember the old adage: moderation in all things.’

Jaime suspected she ought to take her own advice later that afternoon, as she drove home through the fading light of a chilly November day. A brief stop at the supermarket had done little to ease her tension, and after fighting her way through the maze of shopping trolleys she was in no mood to face the delays caused by the roadworks in Gloucester Road. Why did they always start digging up the road at weekends? she wondered uncharitably, ignoring the fact that a burst water-main earlier in the day had flooded the road during the morning rush-hour. All she could think was that Tom would be home and waiting for his evening meal, while she was stuck here wasting valuable time—and petrol.

It was half-past five when she reached Dorset Road, and the small terrace house she shared with her fourteen-year-old son. Parking the car in the road, she got out and locked the doors, then collected the bag of groceries from the boot before letting herself into the house.

‘Tom!’ she called, as she slammed the front door behind her. ‘Tom? Where are you?’

‘I’m up here, Mum.’ Her son’s voice came from the top of the stairs and, looking up, Jaime saw him silhouetted against the light streaming out of his bedroom behind him. ‘Angie’s helping me with my homework.’ He paused, and then added innocently, ‘Did you have a good day?’

Jaime beat back the retort that sprang to her lips, and grimaced. ‘It was OK,’ she acknowledged tautly, aware that Tom’s question had more to do with her reaction to finding Angie Santini in the house than any real interest in her occupation. He knew her feelings about his friendship with the Italian girl, and he was effectively blocking any protest she might be about to make.

‘Your meal will be on the table in fifteen minutes,’ Jaime said now, continuing down the hall. It was a tacit request that Angie be out of the house in the same length of time, and Tom turned back into his room, evidently understanding her unvoiced command.

Unpacking the things she had bought on to the table in the kitchen, Jaime endeavoured not to allow her own feelings of anger and resentment to exaggerate the importance of finding Angie Santini in Tom’s bedroom. It wasn’t as if they were doing anything wrong, she argued to herself. She trusted Tom, and it was true he was having some trouble understanding the complicated problems the maths masters were presently giving them. It was also true that Angie, for all her promiscuity, was good at maths. And, if it had been anyone else, even another girl, she doubted she would have given it a second thought. But it wasn’t. It was Angie Santini, and Jaime didn’t like it.

She sighed. Angie—or Angela, to give her her proper name—always seemed so much older than Tom. Even though they were both in the same year at the local comprehensive, Angie never acted like Jaime’s idea of a fourteen-year-old. Perhaps Italian girls matured that much sooner, Jaime reflected, turning on the grill, and spreading two thick slices of gammon on the tray. And Tom, who was so young and immature in some ways, was tall for his age. He was the natural choice for someone with Angie’s undoubted sensuality: thin, and athletic, and physically attractive. He had always inspired interest, even when he was younger. Like his father, thought Jaime bitterly, viciously jabbing a fork into the skins of the potatoes she was putting into the microwave oven. He had his father’s unique air of individuality, his lazy charm, and physical grace. But thankfully not his colouring, Jaime appended grimly. In fact, Tom didn’t even look like his father. His silky blond hair and sensitive features were peculiarly Jaime’s, a circumstance for which she never ceased to be grateful. Because of that, she had been able to return to Kingsmere secure in the knowledge that no one could point a finger at either of them.

‘Angie’s leaving now, Mum.’

Lost in thought, Jaime had been unaware of the two young people descending the stairs, but now Tom’s voice alerted her to the fact. ‘What—oh, yes. Goodbye, Angie,’ she said, fighting her dislike. And added, for Tom’s sake, ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘Nice to see you, too, Mrs Russell.’ Angie’s English was perfect, due to the fact that her parents had moved to England soon after she was born. ‘You look tired. Did you have a hard day?’

Jaime’s smile was thin, but determined. ‘Something like that,’ she murmured, immediately convinced she must look as harassed as she felt. Angie, on the other hand, looked as fresh and exotic as an orchid, the dark hair tumbling about her shoulders accentuating her alien beauty. The jeans and jacket she was wearing only added to her voluptuous appearance, and Jaime was reluctantly aware of how flattered Tom must feel to be the object of her attentions.

‘I thought you said it was OK,’ Tom put in now, and it took Jaime a minute to realise he was talking about her day.

‘Oh—you know me,’ she demurred, smelling the gammon and using it as an excuse to turn back to the grill. ‘Hurry home, Angie.’

‘I’ve said I’ll walk her to the corner,’ said Tom, lifting his parka from the row of hooks behind the front door, and sliding his arms into the sleeves.

Jaime bit her tongue on the protest she wanted to make, and merely nodded. You were young once, she reminded herself severely, taking a pack of frozen peas out of the freezer. You were only eighteen when you married Philip Russell, and no one could stop you. But all the same, fourteen still seemed awfully young, and she had hoped that Tom wouldn’t make her mistakes.

By the time Tom got back Jaime had the meal on the table. They usually ate in the kitchen when they were alone, and in winter it was a definite advantage. The central heating boiler was in the kitchen, and although Jaime turned off the radiators while she and Tom were out of the house the kitchen always retained its heat. Tom was generally home first, and he turned the radiators on again when he came in. Consequently, by the time they had eaten, the rest of the house was comfortably warm.

‘What did you mean when you said you’d had a hard day?’ Tom asked, smothering his baked potato with melted butter, and Jaime, who had hoped to avoid this particular discussion, considered a moment before answering him.

‘Oh—my day was all right,’ she declared at last. ‘It—it was just something Felix said that—well, annoyed me, that’s all.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t speak with your mouth full!’ Jaime used the reproof to reconsider her options. ‘It wasn’t important. Get on with your meal.’

‘Well, if it wasn’t important, why did you get angry?’ asked Tom reasonably, wiping a smear of butter from his chin, and Jaime decided there was no point in prevaricating. Tom would find out soon enough. Someone was bound to tell him that his uncle was moving to Kingsmere.

‘Apparently Ben Russell is negotiating to buy the old Priory,’ she said, her offhand tone a warning not to pursue the subject, but Tom was too surprised to be perceptive.

‘Uncle Ben?’ he exclaimed, his jaw dropping, and Jaime wished she had just let him find out after all.

Now, she adopted an indifferent air. ‘How many Ben Russells do you know?’ she asked, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Tom—eat your meal. It’s getting cold.’

Tom frowned, but he wasn’t diverted. ‘Why is Uncle Ben coming to live in Kingsmere?’ he demanded. ‘I thought you said he lived in Africa, or somewhere like that.’

‘Yes—well, he did.’ Jaime endeavoured to speak casually. ‘I don’t know why he’s coming to live at the Priory. Perhaps he’s not. Perhaps he’s just buying it as an investment.’

‘The old Priory?’ Tom looked sceptical. ‘Mum, it’s falling to bits. No one would buy that as an investment. It’s been on the market for over two years!’

‘Well, that’s not our concern, is it?’ said Jaime evenly, making a valiant effort to look as if she was eating her own meal. ‘So did you get your homework done? I hope Angie’s parents weren’t worried about where she was.’

‘Oh, they don’t worry about her,’ declared Tom airily. ‘They know she’s all right if she’s with me. Besides, they’re too busy.’

‘Hmm.’

Jaime thought he was probably right, though she refrained from saying so. The Santinis were unlikely to worry about Angie in the same way she worried about Tom. Angie had half a dozen brothers and sisters, and besides, they had a thriving business to keep their interest. Jaime had been into the shop the Santinis owned on the precinct only once, but she had been left with an impression of orderly chaos. The place had been filled with customers, all wanting to buy the rich hams and aromatic cheeses that the Santinis imported from their home country, and the idea of Caterina Santini fretting because her eldest daughter was late home from school didn’t seem likely.

‘Anyway, do you think he’ll come and see us?’ Tom asked now, and Jaime realised her attempt to distract him hadn’t worked.

‘I hope not,’ she replied, attacking her steak with renewed vigour. ‘Is your gammon all right? Mine seems a little tough.’

‘Oh—yes.’ Tom dismissed that diversion without effort. ‘I suppose it’s not very likely, is it? Not after the way Dad’s treated us all these years.’

Jaime stifled a groan, and got up from the table to dump most of her meal into the waste-bin. ‘Do you want any dessert?’ she asked, without answering him. ‘There’s apple pie. Or cheese.’

‘Can I have both?’ Tom scraped his plate clean, and handed it to her with an angelic smile. Then, just when she thought it was over, he added, ‘Did you know him well?’

Jaime’s breath escaped with a gulp. ‘I—met him,’ she temporised, taking refuge in removing the apple pie from the fridge. ‘Do you want cream?’

‘Just cheese, please,’ he responded irrepressibly. Then, ‘Go on about Uncle Ben. Did he come to the wedding?’

Jaime made a helpless gesture. ‘What does it matter?’

‘Well, you told me my grandparents didn’t come,’ pointed out Tom, picking up his spoon. ‘Dad’s parents, that is. Why didn’t they approve of you?’

‘Because they had someone else in mind,’ retorted Jaime tightly, unwilling to allow any thoughts of that kind to add to her frustration. ‘We’ve talked about this before, Tom. You know the story. Now, can we change the subject?’

But he didn’t know the story, Jaime chided herself, as she filled the washing-up bowl with water, and added a soapy detergent. And for some time she had been pondering the wisdom of letting Tom go on thinking that Philip Russell had been his father. But the alternative had always seemed so untenable, and, because he had been denied so much, did she have the right to deny him his legitimacy as well?

Now, however, the choice had been made for her. There was no way she was going to unsettle her son now that Ben Russell was moving back to Kingsmere. She wondered if his wife was moving back with him. Thank God there was no reason for them to see one another.

Tom finished his pie and brought the empty dish to the sink, watching as his mother submerged it in the water. ‘I know you don’t like talking about it, Mum,’ he ventured, dipping his finger into the suds, and drawing an elongated circle. ‘But it was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Don’t you think it’s time you could talk about it without getting upset?’

‘I’m not upset.’ Jaime stiffened defensively. ‘I just don’t see why you want to labour the point. I was just the publican’s daughter, and your—your—the Russells—wanted their son to marry someone from their own level of society. Someone with money, and position. It’s a common enough story, goodness knows. Philip soon realised his mistake, and—and so did I.’

Tom grimaced. ‘Leaving you holding the baby!’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Jaime thrust a tea-cloth into his hands, and indicated the draining dishes. ‘Come on. Make yourself useful.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ muttered Tom, taking the tea-cloth and starting to dry the plates. ‘If he was planning on leaving us, why did he wait until you were expecting a baby?’

‘Oh, Tom, things happen that way sometimes.’ Jaime’s nerves were beginning to stretch. ‘If I’d known telling you about the Priory was going to provoke this kind of discussion, I wouldn’t have said anything.’

‘I bet Grandpa knows,’ said Tom shrewdly, and Jaime caught her breath.

‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly understanding all the little worried glances her parents had exchanged the previous weekend. ‘Yes, I imagine he does,’ she added, realising that as landlord of the Raven and Glass, which wasn’t far from the Priory, it was virtually impossible for him not to have done so.

‘I wonder if he’ll come into the pub,’ persisted Tom, thoughtfully. ‘The way my father used to.’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Jaime was short. ‘Public bars are not Ben Russell’s sort of place.’ Or they weren’t, she amended silently. She walked briskly across the room, and opened the door. ‘I’ll be in the living-room, if you want me. By the way, you didn’t say—did you finish your homework?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Tom’s grin was infectious. ‘We finished it. Angie’s a real brain when it comes to figures.’

‘Hmm.’ Jaime was unimpressed. ‘Well, just remember, Angie won’t be around when you have to sit your examinations.’

‘I know.’ Tom’s tone was faintly resentful now. ‘I’m not a complete idiot!’

Jaime shrugged. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it will give you more time for other subjects.’

‘Not tonight.’ Tom was indignant.

‘Why not tonight?’

Tom finished drying the dishes, and hung the tea-cloth over the rim of the sink. ‘Well,’ he said, and Jaime could tell he was searching for the right words, ‘I thought I might go to the disco at the youth club. It’s only fifty pence, and all the gang will be there.’

‘All the gang?’ echoed Jaime drily, silently amending the word ‘gang’ to Angie Santini. ‘Oh—–’ she gave a dismissive gesture ‘—if you feel you can afford the time, go ahead. But don’t be late back. I want an early night.’

‘Oh, Mum!’ Tom’s young face mirrored his disappointment. ‘It is Friday night. How early?’

Jaime considered. ‘Ten-ish.’

‘Ten-ish!’ Tom groaned. ‘It doesn’t get warmed up until half-past nine!’

Jaime wanted to be strict, but she knew half her impatience stemmed from her reaction to the news of Ben Russell’s imminent arrival in Kingsmere. ‘All right,’ she relented, realising it wasn’t fair to make Tom the brunt of her frustration. ‘Half-past ten, then. But no later. And I shall expect you to do some work tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Tom’s relief was fervent, and he came to kiss her cheek with unexpected affection. ‘You put your feet up, and take it easy,’ he added, causing Jaime to pull a wry face. ‘I’ll help you with the housework in the morning.’

It wasn’t quite the work Jaime had in mind, but she didn’t argue with him. Nevertheless, it was only eighteen months until his important examinations, and she hoped this infatuation with Angie Santini was not going to jeopardise his chances of success. It was important that he do well. Important that he go into the sixth form, and eventually gain a place at university. It was what she wanted for him. What she needed to rectify the mistakes she had made.

But after he had left the house Jaime found she couldn’t relax. Even the gloomy economic forecasts on the evening news could not dislodge the feelings of apprehension that gripped her, and the televised comedy shows that followed had little appeal. Was it just a coincidence? she wondered. Was Ben’s intention to buy the old Priory just an innocent development, or did it have a deeper significance?

But what? What deeper significance could it have? It was fifteen years since she had last seen her ex-husband’s brother, and she had no reason to believe he ever wanted to see her again. Indeed, he had probably forgotten she still lived in Kingsmere. And if he hadn’t, it was obviously of little importance to him. After all, he had lived in Africa for the last twelve years anyway, initially working for the news agency’s overseas service, and then writing—both factual articles and novels—equally successfully. She was deluding herself if she thought this move to the basically rural surrounds of Kingsmere had anything to do with her—or Tom. Wiltshire was a big county. It was just pure bad luck that Ben had chosen to buy the old Priory.

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Dangerous Sanctuary

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