Sara Craven was born in South Devon and grew up surrounded by books in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.

Don’t miss Sara Craven’s exciting new novel, The Santangeli Marriage, available in January 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

CHAPTER ONE

HELEN had never been so nervous in her life.

The starkness of her surroundings did not help, of course.

This was, after all, the London headquarters of Restauration International—an organisation supposedly devoted to historical conservation projects.

She’d expected panelled walls hung with works of art, antique furniture, and possibly a Persian carpet. Something with the grace and charm of the past.

Instead she’d been greeted by a receptionist with attitude, and dumped in this glass and chrome box with only a water cooler for company as the long, slow nerve-racking minutes passed.

And although she had to admit that the arrangement of canvas slats that formed her chair was surprisingly comfortable, it couldn’t make her feel at ease mentally.

But then, in this life or death situation, what could?

Her hands tightened on the handle of her briefcase as she ran a silent check on the points she needed to make once she came face to face with the directors of Restauration International.

They’re my last hope now, she thought. Every other source has dried up. So I need to get it right.

Suddenly restless, she walked across to the cooler and filled a paper cup. As she moved, she saw the security camera become activated, and repressed a grimace at the idea that unseen eyes at some control point might be watching her.

‘Look businesslike,’ her friend Lottie had advised her. ‘Get out of those eternal jeans and put on a skirt. Remember you’re making a presentation, not mucking out the ruins. You’ve had a lot of help over this,’ she added with mock sternness. ‘So don’t blow it.’

And Lottie was quite right, Helen thought soberly. So many people had rallied round with quite amazing kindness. Checking the draft of her written report and making suggestions. Providing quick facelifts to the outside buildings and grounds with painting and weeding parties, in case the committee came to see the place for themselves. And even offering films of various events held at Monteagle over the past couple of years to use in the video, itself the result of a favour that had been called in by Lottie.

But now, at last, it was all down to her. She’d taken her friend’s advice and put on her one good grey skirt, teaming it with a demure white cotton blouse and her elderly black blazer. Hopefully they wouldn’t look too closely and see the shabbiness of her attire, she thought.

Her light brown hair—which badly needed cutting and shaping, when she had the time and the money—had been drawn back severely from her face and confined at the nape of her neck by a black ribbon bow, and there were small silver studs in the lobes of her ears.

Not much there for the hidden spectator to criticise, she thought, resisting the impulse to raise her cup in salute.

She made the trip back to her chair look deliberately casual, as if she didn’t have a care in the world and there was nothing much riding on the coming interview.

Only my entire life, she thought, as her taut throat accepted the cool water. Only everything I care most about in the world now at the mercy of strangers.

Apart from Nigel, of course, she amended hastily.

Somehow I have to convince them that Monteagle is worth saving. That I’m not going to give up the struggle like my father and Grandpa and watch the place slide into total oblivion. Or, worse still, into the hands of Trevor Newson.

She shuddered at the memory of the fleshy, complacent face awaiting with a smile the victory that he thought was inevitable. Counting the days until he could turn Monteagle into the gross medieval theme park he’d set his heart on.

It had been those plans, as outlined to her, that had sent her on this last desperate quest to find the money for the house’s urgently needed repairs.

All the other organisations that she’d doggedly approached had rejected her pleas for a grant on the grounds that Monteagle was too small, too unimportant, and too far off the normal tourist trails.

‘Which is why it needs me,’ Trevor Newson had told her. ‘Jousting on the lawns, pig roasts, banqueting in the great hall…’ His eyes glistened. ‘That’ll put it on the map, all right. The coach parties will flock here, and so will foreign tourists once I get it on the internet. And don’t keep me waiting too long for your answer,’ he added. ‘Or the price I’m offering will start to go down.’

‘You need not wait at all,’ Helen said with icy civility. ‘The answer is no, Mr Newson.’

‘And now you’re being hasty,’ he chided in the patronising tone she so resented. ‘After all, what choice have you got? The place is falling down around you, and it’s common knowledge your father and grandfather left little but debts when they died.’

He ticked off on his fingers. ‘You’ve got the rent from the grazing land and a bit of income from the handful of visitors who come when you open the place up each summer, and that won’t get you far. In fact, it’s a wonder you’ve hung on as long as you have.’

He gave a pitying shake of the head. ‘You need to sell, my dear. And if you really can’t bear to leave and move away I might even be able to offer you some work. These tournaments used to have a Queen of Love and Beauty presiding over them, apparently, and you’re a good-looking girl.’ He leered at her. ‘I can just see you, properly made-up, in some low-cut medieval dress.’

‘It’s a tempting offer,’ Helen said, controlling her temper by a whisker. ‘But I’m afraid the answer’s still no.’

‘Ghastly old lech,’ Lottie had commented. ‘Better not tell Nigel, or he might deck him.’ She’d paused. ‘Is he going with you to confront this committee?’

‘No.’ Helen had resolutely concealed her disappointment. ‘He’s incredibly busy at work right now. Anyway,’ she’d added, ‘I’m a grown up girl. I can cope.’

As Nigel himself had said, she recalled with a pang. And maybe she’d simply taken too much for granted in counting on his support today. But they’d been seeing each other for a long time now, and everyone in the area presumed that he’d be fighting at her side in the battle to save Monteagle.

In fact, as Helen admitted to no one but herself, Nigel had been pretty lukewarm about her struggles to retain her home. He wasn’t a poor man by any means—he worked in a merchant bank, and had inherited money from his grandmother as well—but he’d never offered any practical form of help.

It was something they would really need to discuss—once she got the grant. Because she was determined to be self-sufficient, and, while she drew the line at Mr Newson’s theme park, she had several other schemes in mind to boost the house’s earning power.

Although lately they hadn’t had the opportunity to talk about very much at all, she realised with a faint frown. But that was probably her fault in the main. Nigel’s work had kept him confined to London recently, but she’d been so totally engrossed in preparing her case for the committee that she’d barely missed him.

What a thing to admit about the man you were going to marry!

But all that was going to change, she vowed remorsefully. Once today was over, win or lose, it was going to be permanent commitment from now on. Everything he’d ever asked from her. Including that.

She knew she was probably being an old-fashioned idiot, and most of her contemporaries would laugh if they knew, but she’d always veered away from the idea of sex before marriage.

Not that she was scared of surrender, she thought defensively, or unsure of her own feelings for Nigel. It was just that when she stood with him in the village church to make her vows she wanted him to know that she was his alone, and that her white dress meant something.

On a more practical level, it had never seemed to be quite the right moment, either.

Never the time, the place, and the loved one altogether, she thought, grimacing inwardly. But she couldn’t expect Nigel to be patient for ever, not when they belonged together. So why hold back any longer?

She was startled out of her reverie by the sudden opening of the door. Helen got hurriedly to her feet, to be confronted by a blonde girl, tall and slim, with endless legs, and wearing a smart black suit. She gave Helen a swift formal smile while her eyes swept her with faint disparagement.

‘Miss Frayne? Will you come with me, please? The committee is waiting for you.’

‘And I’ve been waiting for the committee,’ Helen told her coolly.

She was led down a long narrow corridor, with walls plastered in a Greek key pattern. It made her feel slightly giddy, and she wondered if this was a deliberate ploy.

Her companion flung open the door at the far end. ‘Miss Frayne,’ she announced, and stood back to allow Helen to precede her into the room.

More concrete, thought Helen, taking a swift look around. More metal, more glass. And seven men standing at an oblong table, acknowledging her presence with polite inclinations of their heads.

‘Please, Miss Frayne, sit. Be comfortable.’ The speaker, clearly the chairman, was opposite her. He was a bearded man with grey hair and glasses, who looked Scandinavian.

Helen sank down on to a high-backed affair of leather and steel, clutching her briefcase on her lap while they all took their places.

They looked like clones of each other, she thought, in their neat dark suits and discreetly patterned ties, sitting bolt upright round the table. Except for one, she realised. The man casually lounging in the seat to the right of the chairman.

He was younger than his colleagues—early to mid-thirties, Helen judged—with an untidy mane of black hair and a swarthy face that no one would ever describe as handsome. He had a beak of a nose, and a thin-lipped, insolent mouth, while eyes, dark and impenetrable as the night, studied her from under heavy lids.

Unlike the rest of the buttoned-up committee members, he looked as if he’d just crawled out of bed and thrown on the clothing that was nearest to hand. Moreover, his tie had been pulled loose and the top of his shirt left undone.

He had the appearance of someone who’d strayed in off the street by mistake, she thought critically.

And saw his mouth twist into a faint grin, as if he’d divined what she was thinking and found it amusing.

Helen felt a kind of embarrassed resentment at being so transparent. This was not how she’d planned to begin at all. She gave him a cold look, and saw his smile widen in sensuous, delighted appreciation.

Making her realise, for the first time in her life, that a man did not have to be conventionally handsome to blaze charm and a lethal brand of sexual attraction.

Helen felt as if she’d been suddenly subjected to a force field of male charisma, and she resented it. And the fact that he had beautiful teeth did nothing to endear him to her either.

‘Be comfortable,’ the chairman had said.

My God, she thought. What a hope. Because she’d never felt more awkward in her life. Or so scared.

She took a deep breath and transferred her attention deliberately to the chairman, trying to concentrate as he congratulated her on the depth and lucidity of her original application for a grant, and on the additional material she’d supplied to back up her claim.

They all had their folders open, she saw, except one. And no prizes for guessing which of them it was, she thought indignantly. But at least she wasn’t the object of his attention any longer. Instead, her swift sideways glance told her, he seemed to be staring abstractedly into space, as if he was miles away.

If only, thought Helen, steadying her flurried breathing. And, anyway, why serve on the committee if he wasn’t prepared to contribute to its work?

He didn’t even react when she produced the videotape. ‘I hope this will give you some idea of the use Monteagle has been put to in the recent past,’ she said. ‘I intend to widen the scope of activities in future—even have the house licensed for weddings.’

There were murmurs of polite interest and approval, and she began to relax a little—only to realise that he was staring at her once again, his eyes travelling slowly over her face and down, she realised furiously, to the swell of her breasts against the thin blouse. She tried to behave as if she was unconscious of his scrutiny, but felt the betrayal of warm blood invading her face. Finally, to her relief, the dark gaze descended to her small bare hands, clasped tensely on the table in front of her.

‘You plan to marry there yourself, perhaps, mademoiselle?’ He had a low, resonant voice which was not unattractive, she admitted unwillingly, still smarting from the overt sensuality of his regard. And his English was excellent, in spite of his French accent.

She wondered how he’d taken the section of her report which stated that the fortified part of Monteagle had been built at the time of the Hundred Years War, and that the Black Prince, France’s most feared enemy, had often stayed there.

Now she lifted her chin and met his enquiring gaze with a flash of her long-lashed hazel eyes, wishing at the same time that she and Nigel were officially engaged and she had a ring to wear.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I do, monsieur. I thought I might even be the first one,’ she added with a flash of inspiration.

Of course she hadn’t discussed this with Nigel, she reminded herself guiltily, but she didn’t see what objection he could have. And it would make the most wonderful setting—besides providing useful publicity at the same time.

‘But how romantic,’ he murmured, and relapsed into his reverie again.

After that questions from the other committee members came thick and fast, asking her to explain or expand further on some of the points she’d made in her application. Clearly they’d all read the file, she thought hopefully, and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.

The door opened to admit the tall blonde, bringing coffee on a trolley, and Helen was glad to see there was mineral water as well. This interview was proving just as much of an ordeal as she’d expected, and her mouth was dry again.

When the blonde withdrew, the Frenchman reached for his folder and extracted a sheet of paper.

‘This is not your first application for financial assistance towards the repair and renovation of Monteagle House, mademoiselle. Is this an accurate list of the organisations you have previously approached?’

Helen bit her lip as she scanned down the column of names. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘But none of your efforts were successful?’ The low voice pressed her.

‘No,’ she admitted stonily, aware that her creamy skin had warmed.

‘So how did you become aware of us?’

‘A friend of mine found you on the internet. She said you seemed to be interested in smaller projects. So—I thought I would try.’

‘Because you were becoming desperate.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Yes.’ Helen looked at him defiantly. Her consciousness of her surroundings seemed to have contracted—intensified. There might just have been the two of them in the room, locked in confrontation. ‘By this stage I will explore any avenue that presents itself. I will not allow Monteagle to become derelict, and I’ll do whatever it takes to save it.’

There was a silence, then he produced another sheet of paper. ‘The surveyor’s report that you have included in your submission is twenty years old.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I felt that the recommendations made then still apply. Although the costs have obviously risen.’

‘Twenty years is a long time, mademoiselle. Having commissioned such a report, why did your family not carry out the necessary works at that time?’

Helen’s flush deepened. ‘My grandfather had every intention of doing so, but he was overtaken by events.’

‘Can you explain further?’ the smooth voice probed.

She took a breath, hating the admission she was being forced to make. ‘There was a crisis in the insurance industry. My grandfather was a Lloyds’ name in those days, and the calls that were made on him brought us all to the edge of ruin. He even thought Monteagle might have to be sold.’

‘That is still a possibility, of course,’ her adversary said gently, and paused. ‘Is it not true that you have received a most generous offer for the entire estate from a Monsieur Trevor Newson? An offer that would halt the disintegration of the house, mademoiselle, and in addition restore your own finances? Would that not be better than having to beg your way round every committee and trust? And deal with constant rejection?’

‘I find Mr Newson’s plans for the estate totally unacceptable,’ Helen said curtly. ‘I’m a Frayne, and I won’t allow the place that has been our home for centuries to be trashed in the way he proposes. I refuse to give up.’ She leaned forward, her voice shaking with sudden intensity. ‘I’ll find the money somehow, and I’ll do anything to get it.’

‘Anything?’ The dark brows lifted mockingly. ‘You are a most determined champion of your cause.’

‘I have to be.’ Helen flung back her head. ‘And if achieving my aim includes begging, then so be it. Monteagle is well worth the sacrifice.’

And then, as if a wire had snapped, parting them, it was over. The Frenchman was leaning back in his chair and the chairman was rising to his feet.

‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frayne, and we shall consider your proposals with great care—including the additional information and material you have supplied.’ He picked up the video, giving her a warm smile. ‘We hope to come to our decision by the end of the month.’

‘I’m grateful to you for seeing me,’ Helen said formally, and got herself out of the room without once glancing in the direction of her interrogator.

In the corridor, she paused, a hand pressed to her side as if she had been running in some uphill race.

What in hell had been going on there? she asked herself dazedly. Were they running some good cop/bad cop routine, where the upright members of the committee softened her up with their kindly interest so that their resident thug could move in for the kill?

Up to then it had been going quite well, she thought anxiously, or she’d believed it had. But her audience might not appreciate being regarded as the very last resort at the end of a long list of them, as he’d suggested.

God, but he’d been loathsome in every respect, she thought vengefully as she made her way back to the reception area. And to hell with his charm and sex appeal.

Quite apart from anything else, she knew now what it was like to be mentally undressed, and it was a technique that she did not appreciate. In fact, she thought furiously, it was probably a form of sexual harassment—not that anyone whose spiritual home was obviously the Stone Age would have heard of such a thing, or even care.

All the same, she found herself wondering who he was exactly and how much influence he actually wielded in Restauration International. Well, there was one quick way to find out.

The blonde was in the foyer, chatting to the receptionist. They both glanced up with brief formal smiles as Helen approached.

She said coolly, ‘Please may I have a copy of the organisation’s introduction pack?’

Brows rose, and they exchanged glances. The blonde said, ‘I think you’ll find you were sent one following your original enquiry, Miss Frayne.’

‘Indeed I was,’ Helen agreed. ‘But unfortunately it’s at home, and there are a few details I need to check.’ She paused. ‘So—if it’s not too much trouble…?’

There was another exchange of glances, then the receptionist opened with ill grace a drawer in her large desk, and took out a plastic-encased folder, which she handed to Helen.

‘One per application is the norm, Miss Frayne,’ she said. ‘Please look after it.’

‘I shall treasure it,’ Helen assured her. As she moved to put the pack in her briefcase, she was suddenly aware of footsteps crossing the foyer behind her. And at the same time, as if some switch had been pulled, the haughty stares from the other two girls vanished, to be replaced by smiles so sweet that they were almost simpering.

Helen felt as if icy fingers were tracing a path down her spine as instinct told her who had come to join them.

She turned slowly to face him, schooling her expression to indifference.

‘Making sure I leave the building, monsieur?’

‘No, merely going to my own next appointment, mademoiselle.’ His smile mocked her quite openly. He glanced at the pack she was still holding. ‘And my name is Delaroche,’ he added softly. ‘Marc Delaroche. As I would have told you earlier, had you asked.’

He watched with undisguised appreciation as Helen struggled against an urge to hurl the pack at his head, then made her a slight bow as upbringing triumphed over instinct and she replaced it on the desk.

She said icily, ‘I merely wanted something to read on the train. But I can always buy a paper.’

‘But of course.’ He was using that smile again, but this time she was braced against its impact.

‘A bientôt,’ he added, and went, with a wave to the other two, who were still gazing at him in a kind of dumb entrancement.

‘See you soon’, Monsieur Delaroche? Helen asked silently after his retreating back. Is that what you just said to me? She drew a deep breath. My God, not if I see you first.

She was disturbingly aware of that same brief shiver of ice along her nerve-endings. As if in some strange way she was being warned.

* * *

Marc Delaroche had said he had an appointment, but all the same Helen was thankful to find him nowhere in sight when she got outside the building.

She’d thought her nervousness would dissipate now that the interview was over, but she was wrong. She felt lost, somehow, and ridiculously scared. Perhaps it was just the noise and dirt of London that was upsetting her, she thought, wondering how Nigel could relish working here amid all this uproar.

But at least she could seize the opportunity of seeing him while she was here, she told herself, producing her mobile phone. Before she got her train back to the peace of the countryside and Monteagle.

He answered at once, but he was clearly not alone because she could hear voices and laughter in the background, and the clink of glasses.

‘Helen?’ He sounded astonished. ‘Where are you ringing from?’

‘Groverton Street,’ she said. ‘It isn’t too far from where you work.’ She paused. ‘I thought maybe you’d buy me lunch.’

‘Lunch?’ he echoed. ‘I don’t think I can. I’m a bit tied up. You should have told me in advance you were coming up today, and I’d have made sure I was free.’

‘But I did tell you,’ Helen said, trying to stifle her disappointment. ‘I’ve just had my interview with Restauration International—remember?’

‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course. I’ve been so busy it completely slipped my mind.’ He paused. ‘How did it go anyway?’

‘Pretty well, I think—I hope.’ Helen tried to dismiss the thought of Marc Delaroche from her mind.

One man, she thought. One dissenting voice. What harm could he really do?

‘They seemed interested,’ she added. ‘Sympathetic—for the most part. And they said I’d know by the end of the month, so I’ve less than ten days to wait.’

‘Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ Nigel said. ‘And maybe—under the circumstances—I could manage lunch after all. Celebrate a little. It’s certainly the most hopeful result you’ve had.’ He paused again. ‘I’ll need to pull a few strings, change things around a little, but it should be all right. Meet me at the Martinique at one clock.’

‘But I don’t know where it is,’ she protested.

‘But the cab driver will,’ he said with a touch of exasperation. ‘It’s new, and pretty trendy. Everyone’s going there.’

‘Then will we get a table?’ Helen asked, wondering, troubled, whether she could afford the price of a taxi.

He sighed. ‘Helen, you’re so naïve. The bank has a standing reservation there. It’s not a problem. Now, I must go. See you later.’

She switched off her phone and replaced it slowly in her bag. It sounded rather as if Nigel had gone to this Martinique place already. But then why shouldn’t he? she reminded herself impatiently. Entertaining the bank’s clients at smart restaurants was part of his job. It was all part of the world he inhabited, along with platinum cards, endless taxis, and first-class tickets everywhere.

Yet she’d travelled up on a cheap day return, needed to count her pennies, and most of her entertaining involved cheese on toast or pasta, with a bottle of cheap plonk shared with Lottie or another girlfriend.

Nigel belonged to a different world, she thought with a pang, and it would require a quantum leap on her part to join him there.

But I can do it, she told herself, unfastening the constriction of the black ribbon bow and shaking her hair loose almost defiantly. I can do anything—even save Monteagle. And nothing’s going to stop me.

Her moment of euphoria was brought to a halt by the realisation that lack of funds might well prevent her from completing even the minor mission of reaching the restaurant to meet Nigel.

However, with the help of her A to Z and a copy of Time Out, she discovered that the Martinique was just over a mile away. Easy walking distance, she decided, setting off at a brisk pace.

She found it without difficulty, although the search had left her hot and thirsty.

Its smart black and white awning extended over the pavement, shading terracotta pots of evergreens. Helen took a deep breath and walked in. She found herself in a small reception area, being given a questioning look by a young man behind a desk.

‘Mademoiselle has a reservation?’

‘Well, not exactly—’ she began, and was interrupted by an immediate shake of the head.

‘I regret that we are fully booked. Perhaps another day we can have the pleasure of serving mademoiselle.’

She said quickly, ‘I’m joining someone—a Mr Nigel Hartley.’

He gave her a surprised look, then glanced at the large book in front of him. ‘Yes, he has a table at one o clock, but he has not yet arrived.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to enjoy a drink at the bar? Or be seated to wait for him.’

‘I’d like to sit down, please.’

‘D’accord.’ He came from behind the desk. ‘May I take your jacket?’ He indicated the blazer she was carrying over her arm.

‘Oh—no. No, thank you,’ Helen said, remembering with acute embarrassment that the lining was slightly torn.

‘Then please follow me.’ He opened a door, and what seemed like a wall of sound came to meet her, so that she almost flinched.

Nigel had not exaggerated the restaurant’s popularity, she thought. She found herself in a large bright room, with windows on two sides and more tables crammed into the rest of it than she would have believed possible. Every table seemed to be occupied, and the noise was intense, but she squeezed through the sea of white linen, crystal and silver after her guide and discovered there were a few remaining inches of space in one corner.

She sank down thankfully on to one of the high-backed wooden chairs, wishing that it were possible to kick off her shoes.

‘May I bring something for mademoiselle?’ The young man hovered.

‘Just some still water, please,’ she returned.

She had no doubt that the Martinique was a trendy place—somewhere to see and be seen—but she wished Nigel had chosen something quieter. She also wished very much that it wasn’t a French restaurant either. Too reminiscent, she thought, of her recent interrogation.

She wanted to talk to Nigel, but the kind of private conversation she had in mind could hardly be conducted at the tops of their voices.

He clearly thought she’d enjoy a taste of the high life, she decided ruefully, and she must be careful not to give him a hint of her disappointment at his choice.

Besides, they would have the rest of their lives to talk.

He was already ten minutes late, she realised, and was just beginning to feel self-conscious about sitting on her own when a waiter appeared with a bottle of mineral water and a tumbler containing ice cubes. The tray also held a tall slender glass filled with a rich pink liquid, fizzing gently.

‘I’m afraid I didn’t order this,’ Helen protested, as he placed it in front of her. ‘What is it?’

‘Kir Royale, mademoiselle—champagne and cassis—and it comes with the compliments of monsieur.’

‘Oh,’ she said with relief. Nigel must have phoned through the order, she thought, as a peace offering for his tardiness. It was the kind of caring gesture she should have expected, and it made her feel better—happier about the situation as a whole.

She drank some water to refresh her mouth, then sipped the kir slowly, enjoying the faint fragrance of the blackcurrant and the sheer lift of the wine.

But she couldn’t make it last for ever, and by the time she’d drained the glass Nigel still hadn’t arrived. She was beginning to get nervous and irritated in equal measure.

12 3 İz.

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