A Summer of Secrets (26 page)

***

This was not how things were supposed to go, Jed seethed, as he took his leave of Buttersley Manor. The first rule in guru Tony’s rulebook had been never to mix business with pleasure. But Jed had not only torn up the book, he’d shredded it, burnt it, and distributed the ashes to the four corners of the globe.

Because visiting Portia Pinkington-Smythe
was
a pleasure. A pleasure he couldn’t resist. Everything about her fascinated him. During his daily visits he’d discovered she was far from the pampered princess he’d first imagined. As well as a killer bod and the face of an angel, she shared his wicked sense of humour, had a heart of gold, and had forged a successful career, reporting from parts of the world he hadn’t even heard of.

In fact, the total package was so impressive, it made him feel completely inadequate. No, as much as he liked her, the sad truth remained that she was way out of his league. And probably only tolerating him so he would increase his offer for the manor.

***

‘Your friend, Len, is very nice,’ remarked Annie when Jenny called into Crumbs on Wednesday afternoon.

‘Yes, he, er, is,’ agreed Jenny, slightly taken aback that Annie should even remember bumping into her and Len, let alone comment on him.

‘He told us you met at the History Society.’

Jenny furrowed her brow. She couldn’t remember that information being exchanged during their brief encounter in the street. ‘Oh. Did he?’

‘Yes, Portia and I had a nice chat with him in the pub the other evening. It was a real shame you weren’t there. How’s Harriet? Len said you had to take her home.’

Ah ha. So that was it, was it? The evening she’d transported a very stubborn Harriet back to the cottage, Len had obviously gone to the pub by himself, where he’d joined Annie and Portia.

‘He’s very into his history, isn’t he?’ Annie ploughed on. ‘And he seemed fascinated with Buttersley Manor. He talked to Portia for ages about it.’

‘Did he now?’ muttered Jenny, having a niggling suspicion that the charming Mr Ratner wasn’t quite all he seemed.

***

Portia felt much better.

Physically.

Mentally she’d suffered a serious setback. All her previous optimism for her new-found plan had evaporated with the realisation that not one part of it could take place without the refurbishment of the building.

And the building could not be refurbished without a serious cash injection.

Cash she’d need to persuade the banks to loan her.

The thought of subjecting herself to that demoralising process again made her not only nauseous, but had caused her several sleepless nights.

As had her feelings for Jed.

Many a sleep-deprived hour had been spent imagining her hands exploring every contour of his handsome face, every inch of his firm body. But she really needed to get a grip; stop swooning about like a love-struck teenager.

The only reason Jed had shown any interest in her was because he wanted to get his hands on the manor. So today she planned on telling him he could take a running jump.

Preferably somewhere with a very hard landing.

But Portia had forgotten one very scary fact: the uncanny way Jed Carr seemed to have of reading her mind.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he announced, the moment he bowled into the room that morning.

His lack of greeting irritated her, particularly as she’d affected her loftiest expression in preparation of telling him exactly where he could get off.

‘About fudge,’ he continued, her haughtiness evidently bypassing him.

Despite herself, Portia furrowed her brow. ‘
Fudge?
’

He nodded. ‘Loads of people love fudge. So how about you offer courses here on making it? And you could branch out into all sorts of other areas. Cookery, wine-tasting, murder-mystery. There’s a million things you could do.’

Portia shook her head in amazement. ‘I know. I’ve thought about them all. But I can’t do anything without the cash to refurbish the place.’

‘I’ve got the cash. And I’d be more than willing to lend it to you for a share in the business.’

Portia’s jaw dropped to the floor. ‘B-but I thought you wanted to buy the house. To transform it into luxury apartments.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, firstly, if you recall, the house isn’t for sale. And secondly, I’ve changed my mind.’

Portia’s head began to reel. ‘Changed your mind? But why?’

He sat down beside her and took her hand. Portia’s heart rate soared.

‘Because,’ he explained. ‘I’ve taken a shine to the owner of the property and, having discovered how important it is to her to keep it in the family, have decided I’d like to help.’

Portia’s heart now skipped a couple of beats. ‘But you’re a property developer. They don’t do sentimentality.’

‘This one does,’ he said.

Before pulling her to him and kissing her with such passion that Portia suspected whatever her future nights might be filled with, it certainly wouldn’t be nightmares.

***

Jed chuckled as he drove away from Buttersley Manor. Of course, Tony would claim he was losing it; going soft. But Jed didn’t care. He was head over heels in love with Portia Pinkington-Smythe and he’d do anything in his power to make her happy. Her determination to keep the house in the family had impressed him. And nobody knew more about family loyalty than Jed.

‘But what about the other women in your life?’ Portia had asked, when they’d eventually broken the most amazing kiss of his entire life.

He screwed up his nose. ‘What other women?’

Portia rolled her gorgeous dark eyes. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t have a stream of fudge-loving girlfriends.’

Jed burst out laughing. ‘For your information, I don’t have any other girlfriends. And the only other woman I know who loves fudge as much as you, is my mother.’

The look of relief on her face had contracted his heart.

‘To be honest,’ he’d continued, deciding now was as good a time as any to come clean, ‘she’s actually a big part of why I changed my mind about buying the house. My dad deserted us when I was young, so my mum is my only family. And now your parents are gone and your brother sounds like … well, to be honest, a waste of space, I feel like the house is your family. Which is why you should keep it.’

Portia shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it. You, Mr Carr, must be the only property developer with a heart.’

‘Either that or I’m going soft,’ he chuckled, nuzzling her hair. ‘But you know what? I really don’t care. This may not be the best business decision I’ve ever made,’ he said, tilting up her head to look directly into her eyes. ‘But there are plenty of other properties around. Whereas, Miss Pinkington-Smythe, there is only one of you.’

***

A lovely, warm, fuzzy feeling swept over Jenny as she stood at the kitchen door watching Harriet hare around the garden chasing the Frisbee Rich Stevens’ daughter Candi was throwing for her. Jenny had had no idea who the girl was when she’d approached her in the street that fateful day with her collection tin and flyers. The same day Jenny had scuttled off to the kennels to meet Harriet. What a lovely girl Candi was, though. And the fact that Harriet knew her so well from her kennel days, and totally loved her, had gone a long way in shifting the dog’s mood from one of uninterested lethargy to one more associated with a six-month-old puppy.

And Harriet wasn’t the only one who’d experienced a revelation. It hadn’t taken Jenny long to discover everything she needed to about Len Ratner. Thanks to the power of the internet, she’d found out that he and the glamorous Ria were business partners, specialising in large-scale developments of old stately homes. Their last project had involved transforming one such previously idyllic property into a tacky funfair. Needless to say, public opposition had been huge, but, according to newspaper reports, Len had allegedly wined and dined the necessary movers and shakers in order to achieve his desired result.

Jenny could only assume that his wining and dining of her had been similarly motivated: a way of ingratiating himself with the residents of the village in order to minimise opposition for whatever he had planned for Buttersley Manor.

She didn’t bother pressing him on the matter. She’d simply refused to see him again. And now she had the added satisfaction of knowing he’d never get his hands on the house. Portia had, thankfully, decided to keep it and had all sorts of exciting plans to make it earn its keep – including guided tours, which she’d asked Jenny to help with.

‘Wow. That’s fantastic,’ Peter gushed, when Jenny told him her news. ‘That’s right up your street. You’ll be brilliant at it.’

Jenny burst out laughing. She and Peter had been dating for a few weeks now and she could scarcely believe how well it was going. She’d never laughed so much in her life. And not at all when she’d been out with Len. Peter, with his scruffy clothes and easy-going demeanour, couldn’t have been more different to the property developer. Plus, he was a fantastic baker and, for some bizarre reason, seemed to think she was brilliant at everything.

Unlike Phyllis.

‘Well, don’t think I’m looking after that dog while you’re flitting about,’ had been her response to Jenny’s tour guide news.

‘You won’t have to, Mrs Rutter,’ chipped in Peter. ‘I’m more than happy to help out where I can.’

‘Oh.’ For once, Phyllis appeared lost for words.

‘And I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you some of my homemade lemon-meringue pie,’ he went on. ‘It’s the first time I’ve made it so you’ll have to forgive me if it’s not very good.’

Jenny held her breath. Her mother, as far as she was aware, had never touched lemon-meringue pie. It was yellow. And, as anyone in Buttersley knew, Phyllis couldn’t abide anything yellow. She awaited a scathing response.

None came.

‘Lemon meringue pie,’ Phyllis echoed, her mouth twisting into what Jenny thought might possibly be a smile. ‘My favourite.’

If you loved
A Summer of Secrets
then turn the page for an exclusive extract from
An Autumn Affair
, the irresistible first story in the
Countryside Dreams
series by Alice Ross!

Chapter One

In her car, outside Primrose Cottage, Julia Blakelaw sucked in a deep breath and willed her racing heart to slow. Its worrying pace had continued the four miles home from the supermarket. Hopefully, though, she didn’t look as guilty as she felt. She adjusted the rear-view mirror and examined her reflection. Flushed cheeks, glazed eyes, and mussed-up hair met her gaze. She looked like she’d spent the entire afternoon having wild debauched sex. Which, of course, she hadn’t. In Julia’s routine life, Friday afternoons did not include wild debauched sex. They included the weekly shop at Waitrose, procuring all the necessary items to sustain a picky husband and even pickier seventeen-year-old twins.

Well, she couldn’t sit out here forever, she concluded, looking despairingly about the chocolate-bar-wrapper strewn interior of her ten-year-old Fiat Punto. Perhaps if she just breezed in and acted normally, no one would suspect a thing. After all, only the twins would be home, plugged into some electronic device, cocooned in their own little worlds. She could strip down to her undies, paint herself lime-green and stick a traffic cone on her head, and the chances of them awarding her anything more than a cursory glance would remain minimal. And even if she did fess up to having just bumped into an ex-boyfriend in the middle of the cereal aisle, it would elicit no more than a disbelieving snort or, more likely, a bout of hysterical laugher at the notion of Julia ever having had a Life Before Twins.

But, as distant as it now seemed, Julia had had a Life Before Twins. Granted, it was a bit short on the ex-boyfriend front. In-between the carrot-topped Nigel Clark when she was six years old – whose attempt to impress her by skewering worms had brought about an abrupt end to that relationship – and her husband Paul there had been only one significant other. One man who had swept her off her feet, made her laugh until she cried, made her feel like the most special, most desirable female on earth. And that man was Max Burrell.

It was almost twenty years since Julia had last seen Max but, as she’d trundled her trolley into the cereal aisle and spotted his profile, studying the line-up of healthy bran options, she’d recognised him immediately. She’d come to a juddering halt, stomach flipping over, legs turning to jelly as her eyes had carried out an involuntary physical inspection. He’d looked amazing, his lean frame clad in faded blue jeans and a grey V-necked sweater, the sleeves of which had been pushed up to reveal muscular, tanned arms. His dark-blond hair was shorter than she remembered, cut in a trendy, dishevelled style that displayed his killer bone structure. He really hadn’t changed at all. Unlike Julia. Her previously athletic form now languished under two stones of excess fat. And her once silky mane of flowing chestnut hair had somehow transfigured into an uninspiring mousy bob through which several strands of silver now lurked. Add baggy leggings, a washed-out oversized pink shirt, and not a scrap of make-up to the equation, and panic had blasted to smithereens the raft of other emotions that had skittered through her.

She’d been on the verge of orchestrating a nippy about-turn, when Max dropped the packet of healthy-something-or-other into his trolley and started up the aisle towards her. Rooted to the spot, Julia’s heart commenced a furious bout of hammering. Then he’d spotted her. His gaze snagging on hers. His mouth stretching into a devastating smile. And Julia’s head began to whirr as a barrage of memories assaulted her.

‘My God. Julia.’ Max’s grey-green eyes twinkled in the way that could always – and apparently still did – turn Julia’s insides to mush. ‘I can’t believe it.’

Before Julia could say a word, he abandoned his trolley and wrapped his arms around her.

Her nose pressed against his broad chest, Julia closed her eyes and drank in his male scent which, despite the subtle aftershave – and the twenty-year interval – was still as familiar as his profile.

He stepped back, his hands still clasping her upper arms. ‘How are you?’