The Millionaire's Rebellious Mistress - By Catherine George Page 0,2
her to return to civilisation, but with no success. She’s in property development,’ he added proudly.
‘Snap. That’s partly my bag, too,’ Alex told her.
Oliver laughed comfortably. ‘Not exactly on the same scale,’ he informed Sarah. ‘Alex is the third generation of his family to run the Merrick Group.’
‘How interesting,’ she said coolly, and smiled up at Oliver. ‘Darling, it’s past my bedtime.’
‘Right,’ he said promptly, and put his arm round her to lead her away. ‘Nice seeing you again, young man. My regards to your father.’
Alex Merrick’s eyes travelled from Oliver’s arm to Sarah’s face with a look that brought her resentment to boiling point. ‘I hope we meet again.’
‘You weren’t very friendly,’ commented Oliver in the car park. ‘You might do well to cultivate young Alex, darling. The Merrick name carries clout in these parts.’
‘Not with me,’ Sarah said fiercely.
The journey home was tiring. Oliver returned to his proposition, and argued all the way, but when he paused to draw breath Sarah told him it would turn her life upside down again to move back to London.
‘I did all that in reverse not so long ago, Oliver. I don’t fancy doing it again for a while, if at all. I like living in the wilds, as you call it—’
‘But what do you do with yourself in the evenings, for God’s sake?’
Glossing over the weariness which more often than not sent her early to bed with a book, Sarah said something vague about cinema trips and concerts, hoping Oliver wouldn’t ask for details.
‘A lot different from London,’ he commented, as they reached Medlar House.
‘Which is entirely the point, Oliver. Would you like some coffee?’
‘No, thank you, darling. I’ll head straight back to Hereford. I’m meeting with a local solicitor first thing in the morning.’
She leaned across and kissed him. ‘Thank you for the wonderful dinner, and for the job offer. But do stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine.’
‘I hope so,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’
‘I do.’ She patted his cheek. ‘Happy birthday for tomorrow, Oliver.’
Sarah waved him off, and with a yawn made for her ground-floor retreat in a building which had once housed an elite school for girls. Advertised as a studio flat, when the school had been converted into apartments, she’d agreed to take a look at it without much hope. It had been the last on the list of remotely possible flats shown her by the estate agent, who had rattled through his patter at such speed he’d been unaware that the moment she’d walked through the door Sarah fell in love.
The agent had given her the hard sell, emphasising that it was the last available in her price range in the building, and offered interesting individual touches.
‘If you mean a ceiling four metres high and one wall composed entirely of windows,’ Sarah remarked. ‘Heat loss must be a problem.’
Crestfallen, the young man had informed her that it had once been a music room, which explained the lofty dimensions, and then he’d pointed out its view of the delightful gardens and repeated his spiel about the building’s security. Sarah had heard him out politely, and when he’d eventually run out of steam, he saw her back to her car, promising to ring her in the morning with other possibilities.
She’d forced herself to wait until he rang, praying that no one had beaten her to it overnight with the flat. When his call finally came he’d given her details of a riverside apartment. Way out of her price range, she’d told him, and then as an apparent afterthought mentioned that since there was nothing else suitable on his current list she might as well take another look at the Medlar House bedsit. He’d uttered shocked protests at the term for such a picturesque studio flat, but once they were back in the lofty, sunlit room again Sarah had listed its disadvantages as her opening shot, then begun haggling. At last the agent had taken out his phone to consult a higher authority, and agreement had been reached on a price well below the maximum Sarah had been prepared to pay to live in Medlar House—which, quite apart from its other attractions, was only a short drive from the row of farm cottages she was about to transform into desirable dwellings.
All that seemed a lifetime ago. Feeling restless after her unaccustomed evening out, Sarah loosened her hair, then sat at the narrow trestle table that served as desk, drawing