The Reluctant Groom

By Emma Richmond

Mission: marriage!

Abby Hunter wasn't very experienced at the flirting game. She was probably the only twenty–eight–year–old virgin in the history of the planet! But she didn't want to be. Especially after she'd met sexy tycoon Sam Turner.

He was a walking temptation and he'd made her an offer she knew she should refuse. Sam Turner didn't believe in love or marriage; all he'd offered Abby was a temporary affair no strings attached! Could she ever persuade this reluctant groom to take a chance on love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460859797

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE gardener wore a suit, the chrysanthemums their paper hats, her mother called, and Abby came running. Nothing changed. But it must, Abby thought with a sigh. It must. If her mother was to have any sort of life at all, things must change radically.

A crisis, her mother had said. Another one. In a moment of inattention, as she’d put it, she had let a man into her house to look at her late husband’s books. He’d made an appointment and everything, had had letters of reference, but he’d made her nervous. Abby must come home at once.

And so Abby Hunter had come home. She’d taken a week’s leave—much to the firm’s annoyance—and driven up straight from the office.

Climbing from the car, still dressed in her high heels and a suit as elegant as the gardener’s, she walked slowly up to the front door. Tall, slim, always immaculate, she had a cool, insolent beauty that most people found intimidating. Clear grey eyes surveyed a world she appeared to find wanting. Wavy blonde hair tied tidily at her nape, she looked the epitome of the modern woman. Although she wasn’t entirely sure, she thought with a dry smile, that modern women always came running when their mothers called. Her sisters were never summoned, only Abby. Admittedly Helen and Laura were both married and had very high-powered jobs, but even so...

The front door opened as she reached it, and her thoughts were abandoned. Examining her mother’s face for signs of renewed stress, and finding her no worse, she gave a small contained smile. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello, darling,’ her mother greeted her nervously. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘You aren’t,’ Abby denied gently. ‘But I do wish you wouldn’t look at me as though you think I’m about to smack you. It’s so very bad for my image.’

Irony entirely lost on her, her mother murmured apologetically, ‘Because you make me feel such a failure. Always in control, always efficient.’

‘Yes,’ Abby agreed quietly, and didn’t say, as she could have said, had so very many times wanted to say, that this was how she’d wanted her to be. Always responsible for her actions, always sensible and in control—which was why there was such a barrier between them. A barrier they had both made.

Stepping inside, she asked with the brisk efficiency she’d trained herself in, ‘So, where is he?’

Her mother’s face crumpled. ‘Don’t say it like that, Abby. Please don’t. I’ve been trying so hard.’

So had she. ‘I know,’ she sighed. Curbing her impatience, because she knew that most of her mother’s behaviour stemmed from grief, she gave her a quick hug, removed the feather duster she was carrying like a baton before her mother poked her eye out, and gently sat her on the hall chair. ‘Now, tell me.’

‘He came a few days ago,’ she began, ‘and he’s perfectly polite and everything, but—oh, Abby, I just can’t cope with him! I had to tell him about Daddy, and he didn’t know, and I really can’t stay home all day just to make sure he doesn’t steal the silver!’ she completed distressfully.

‘No,’ Abby agreed, knowing that it had absolutely nothing to do with silver. She knew her mother couldn’t bear to talk about her husband just yet, not even to Abby, and certainly not to a stranger who had obviously asked questions she was in no fit state to answer. But then, Abby wasn’t sure she was either. Her mother seemed to think that she was the only one grieving, but Abby was hurting too. She was also worried sick about the debts her father had left. And a letter that was beginning to give her nightmares.

Eyes lowered, hands twisted together, her mother continued quietly, ‘You’ll deal with him, won’t you, darling? You’re so much stronger than me, so much more—capable. You always deal with things so much better than I do.’

Yes, because she’d forced herself to. ‘Does he want to buy the books?’

‘I don’t know, but I really couldn’t sell them, Abby—’

‘No,’ she broke in, before her mother could make herself even more distressed, but she would have to force the issue soon. Something had to be sold to pay off the debts. The house, preferably, which was far too big for one person. But her mother wasn’t ready for that yet. ‘So, what, exactly, is he doing here?’

‘Just looking at books. He said he was a war historian—or something,’ she added vaguely.

‘You should have told him to come back later, when you were better. There surely can’t be any rush about it.’

‘I tried, Abby! I did try, but he has that look about him,’ she defended fiercely. ‘One of those people you find yourself promising things to!’

Vaguely alarmed, Abby demanded weakly, ‘What have you promised?’

‘Nothing! Truly. Well, only that he can stay as long as he likes.’

With a deep sigh, she asked fatalistically, ‘And how long did he say he would like?’

‘A week. Perhaps a week. He kept asking about your father!’

Oh, God, not another one, she thought in defeat. ‘Asking what, specifically?’ she ventured carefully.

‘I don’t know! Just about him, what he was like...’

‘Did he know him?’

‘I don’t know, he didn’t say.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Turner, Sam Turner.’

Mouth pursed, eyes slightly unfocused, Abby murmured, ‘I’ve been through all Daddy’s papers, and there definitely wasn’t a mention of anyone with that name.’

‘Where is he now? In the study?’

‘No, he went out for his lunch. He makes me nervous, Abby.’

And when her mother got nervous, life became very, very complicated. Abby envisaged a very fraught week.

Eyes worried, her mother continued to stare up at her. ‘You will stay, won’t you? Oh, that will be my cab,’ she added in relief. Flustered, she got to her feet, hurried to pick up the suitcase that Abby hadn’t seen resting by the front door.

‘Cab?’ Abby echoed hollowly.

‘Yes. Didn’t you hear it? Just a soft toot, you know how they do.’

‘Mmm. Where are you going?’

‘To stay with Lena for a few days. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘No,’ Abby denied drily.

‘Oh, I thought I had. You will be nice to him, won’t you?’ she pleaded. ‘If he was a friend of Daddy’s...’

Bewildered, Abby asked, ‘I thought you said he was a stranger?’

‘Yes, but if Daddy wrote to him, he must have known him, mustn’t he?’

‘I suppose.’

‘I’ll ring you when I get there, just to let you know I’m safe.’ Pressing a hasty kiss on her daughter’s cheek, she opened the front door and hurried out.

Slowly following, still holding the feather duster, a small frown in her eyes, Abby watched the driver help her mother into the cab. James, the gardener, had now started on the front lawn, she noted absently. His jacket was draped carefully on a hanger suspended from the apple tree, a striped apron covered his pristine white shirt and knife-edge creased trousers.

Sam Turner must be something pretty exceptional if he could fluster her mother into leaving! Both she and her sisters had tried to get her to go away for a while after her husband had died, and she’d flatly refused. So, what was it about Sam Turner that could send her mother packing in such haste? she wondered as she watched her depart. And discovered the answer all too soon. As the cab drove out a man walked in. And, for the first time in her adult life, her heart leapt. Alarmed, she watched him walk towards her.

His shirt wasn’t pristine, and his trousers didn’t have a knife-edge crease, but then he could probably have worn a sack and not one woman on the planet would have cared. Tall, raw-boned, brown hair bleached by the sun, a proud nose, and cheekbones to hang your hat on. Mesmerised, Abby continued to watch him, and as he got closer she saw that he had piercing blue eyes that could probably stop an elephant in its tracks. Certainly she thought they might be able to stop her. She didn’t think she had ever met anyone so blatantly masculine in her entire life.

Defensive, on guard, she watched him glance at the gardener, and then back to Abby, who was still holding the feather duster. His face was quite expressionless.

She hoped hers was too.

‘And I suppose you’re the housekeeper,’ he stated mockingly. His voice was low, deep, and slightly husky. Like syrup over cobbles, she decided with a bewilderment that was entirely foreign to her nature. She could understand all too well why her mother had found herself promising things.

‘No,’ she denied, ‘the daughter.’ Fighting for the casual nonchalance that was her shield, her security blanket, she continued coolly, ‘But I will grant that a gardener wearing a suit is a little bizarre. You’re Mr Turner?’

His eyes narrowed slightly at her tone, and then he nodded.

Staring into blue, blue eyes, unable to look away, she thought she detected a sneer there. That, if nothing else, stiffened a decidedly weakening backbone. With the insolent smile that had been practised assiduously for over fourteen years, she queried, ‘You have identification?’

He gave a small derisive smile. ‘Mrs Hunter has already seen my papers.’

Irritated by his lethargy, she said sweetly, ‘I’m not Mrs Hunter.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘You are not Mrs Hunter. My papers are in the study.’

Arrogant and selfish, she decided, without any evidence to support it. A man used to getting his own way. A man who found common courtesy a waste of time. A man who put her heart at risk. Absurd. With a dismissive little gesture, she stepped back and invited him in. Closing the door behind him, she followed him into the study. He had the easy, fluid grace that some men are born with. Unhurried, precise.

Unzipping the document case that lay on the wide desk, he removed some papers and handed them to her. His face showed nothing of anything he might be feeling. Leaning back against the desk, he waited.

Tucking the duster under her arm, she slowly unfolded the papers, and was extraordinarily aware that he was watching her, that he made her as nervous as he had made her mother. Forcing herself to concentrate, she quickly perused the letter of introduction from a Professor Wayne at Oxford, and then at a letter from her father inviting him to come. A wave of sadness washed over her as she stared at her father’s decisive signature, a stark reminder of the vigour he had once shown. Masking the pain, she reproved, ‘Not very comprehensive proof of your identity. They could be stolen. Don’t you have a current passport?’

‘Not with me.’

With no sign of the irritation she was feeling, she said, ‘Then you must at least see my need for caution. One can’t be too careful nowadays.’

‘No,’ he agreed. His eyes still held that hateful amusement, and a rather shrewd intelligence.

‘You won’t object if I check with this Professor Wayne?’

‘Feel free,’ he urged expansively.

She gave him a sweet smile. Perching elegantly on the edge of the desk, she picked up the phone and punched out the number at the top of the headed paper. Lethargic, at ease, tall, he watched every move she made.

Refusing to be intimidated, refusing to look away from eyes that burned, she spoke briefly with the person who answered the phone, and was put through immediately to Professor Wayne. She asked questions, he answered, and when he’d described Sam Turner she thanked him and replaced the receiver.

Blue eyes still clashed with grey.

‘Interested?’ he drawled.

‘No,’ she denied. ‘You aren’t my type.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Nor you mine. I imagine you like your men biddable, and not to answer back, Ms Hunter.’

‘Miss,’ she corrected. ‘And you would always answer back, Mr Turner. Wouldn’t you?’

He didn’t answer, merely continued to watch her, and then his gaze moved beyond her, and she refused to admit the relief that gave her. Following his glance, she saw that James was now pruning some bushes, and wearing his bright yellow rubber gloves. Bizarre he might be, but he was an excellent gardener. And if the house was sold, which it must be, eventually, then James would be out of a job. Unless the new owners took him on.

With a barely registered sigh, she got to her feet. ‘I’ll let you get on,’ she stated, with an abruptness that was almost insulting, ‘Please don’t touch anything else in the room. The desk is, naturally, out of bounds.’

‘Naturally,’ he agreed without inflexion.

‘And it’s mandatory that you wear gloves when touching any of the old documents. What hours do you keep?’ Without giving